Kid Humor at Author School Visits

School Visit in Ohio

I've done my share of school visits since my first book was published in June of 2000.

I was thinking this morning about the funny things children have said, or asked me, during some of those school presentations.

They're just too cute not to share some of them with you ...

"Can I call you Miss CJ?  I don't think my mom would let me say your last name.  It's a bad word, right?"

"My teacher told us we had to guess what C.J. stands for, before you came today -- only she didn't tell us if you were a boy, or a girl, so I guessed it was Carl Jim.  Sorry."

(wildly waving hand in the air, when I asked if anyone had a question at the end of a presentation) "I do, I do!  Where did you buy your boots?"

"Can I come to your house?"

"You write about stuff kids think about.  How old ARE you?   I mean really?"

No, dont!

"I love your poem, Barking Spiders.  My dad will laugh when I tell him about that.  He always tells me to pull his finger and then he farts and laughs, but he says it was an invisible elephant that did it."

"Did your dad really tell you the stuff between your toes is toe jam?  I would never put that on my peanut butter sandwich either ..."

"Do you have a poem about a mom sitting in the toilet 'cause the dad left the seat up?  My mom always does that and then she yells."

"I love your books.  Do you like being rich?"  (ahhhh, the naivete of a child ...I wish)

"I want to write books, too, but my sister says my writing stinks."

"I forgot to bring my paper.  Can you sign my shirt?"

First Lost Tooth

(take a deep breath before trying to say this one ...) "You know your poem about a tooth?  Well, I lost my tooth one day and mom had to write a note to the tooth fairy because I swallowed my tooth and I couldn't put it under my pillow and I didn't think the tooth fairy would come and leave me any money and I cried, but you know what?  She did!  So, I'm not going lose any more teeth 'cause I might swallow those too."

And my favorite ...

"Yeah, I have a question!  (pointing)  See that guy over there, the one in the blue shirt, by my mom?  (proudly)  He's my dad.  That was him laughing when you read the poem about your brother's stinky feet.  That's 'cause mom says his feet smell like he stepped in dog poop."  (oh dear, poor dad ...)


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Miss Amy's Story Time at the Library

A Library is Full of Books and Adventures

I get all warm and fuzzy when I'm in a book store, or a library these days.

For me, it began a long time ago, when mama took us to the children's room of the Coshocton Public Library for the Saturday morning book readings by Miss Amy.

I remember feeling the anticipation start to build, the moment Mama opened the heavy oak door and herded all of us into the enormous entrance lobby.

In my imagination, this was a revered ceremony.  The opening of the huge door was our grand entrance to a castle of suspense and mystery, and we held the keys to its treasure, the books themselves.

The last and most sacred part of the ceremony was when Mama finally cautioned, "Shhh, remember, only our quiet voices, please." 

With each step up to the main room, past the formidable librarian at her desk, there was even more expectation, as I tried to envision what adventure Miss Amy would take us on that morning.

Walking through the library, the towering shelves rose to the ceiling on either side of me. Rows and rows of books were visible in every direction I turned and the vision always filled me with awe and wonder. Stories and adventures were everywhere, and I wanted to hear them all!

In the children's book room, Miss Amy sat, waiting, in her usual rocking chair. The chosen book was in her lap and her hands rested upon it, as she waited for the oval rug in front of her to fill with children. I sat quietly, struggling hard to contain my excitement.

Miss Amy's Story Time

What book had she chosen to read? Where would this new adventure take me? Would it be sad, or funny, or maybe even filled with ... DANGER?

I knew it didn't really matter.  I would ride on Miss Amy's words to anywhere and everywhere the author took me, until the very last page.

Then suddenly, it was time. Miss Amy welcomed us to Story Time, watching our eager faces, as she slowly opened the book to the first page.

With the very first sentence, I was captured.  As the magic unfolded, I was no longer me, sitting on a rug in the children's room of the public library. I was inside the book, living through her words, and transported to another time and place.

That's when I knew ... I wanted to be an author and write books.

Realizing my Dream

In June of 2000, I finally realized that dream.  But I still remember the wonder and awe I found as a child, every time I'm in a library, or bookstore.  (And it's always special, when some of the books I'm surrounded by are mine).

Now I know the joy Miss Amy felt, while doing her Story Time readings. I've grown addicted to seeing that same magic in the faces of children when I do a school visit, as they live within my words.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: The Unopened Letter

Table in the Foyer

"What do you do when the only one who can make you stop crying is the one who is making you cry?" --Anonymous

The Unopened Letter

by CJ Heck

The letter came on Monday, over a week ago. Maggie had been absently wading through the morning's harvest of mail, as usual, on her lunch hour.

Predictably, it reaped the usual bills, flyers, and grocery store ads.  Suddenly she spotted the familiar masculine scrawl. Maggie was stunned.

After years of checking the mail, here was (just maybe) a pearl among the cow pies.

She marveled at how the letter felt as she held it in her hand and then wiped at a tear that was threatening a slow getaway down her cheek.

The letter sat on the cherry table in the foyer for nearly a week, mutely resting between the potted ivy and car keys, marking time, waiting for her.

It remained unopened, of course, but Maggie didn't need to open it. She already knew what it said. She just couldn't make herself open it and read the words. She knew they were angry -- that was a given.  She also knew they were probably written to demand, in yet one more way, her whole future and one more chance.  Frankly, she was flat out of last chances.

Maggie tried so many times to tell Jonathan he needed help. Abuse was abuse. It didn't matter whether it was emotional, physical, psychological, sexual or verbal (he had been proficient in all of them), he had hurt her and it had been unnecessary.

She had loved him, but she also loved herself and valued her safety even more -- and now this letter. Well, it's too late, she argued. By moving away, she was finally free and that's the way it's going to stay, she thought -- and now this damned letter! Then again, what if he wrote to tell me he got help and therapy?

Maggie walked through the foyer a thousand times and stared at the letter. She even picked it up and held it close to her heart once, as if her heart could tell by sheer divination that the words didn't say what she knew they did.

She thought, maybe if don't read it, the words will somehow change and say what I need to hear, but then, Jonathan was never into apologies, or admissions of wrongdoing, or forgiveness either, for that matter. "Damn it to hell and back, what a sorrowful waste of a stamp!" Maggie shouted into the empty foyer, creating an eerie echo.

For a solid week, even Maggie's nights were plagued by the letter -- open it, don't open it, open it, don't open it.

By the following Wednesday, Maggie had had enough. She marched angrily into the foyer and grabbed the offensive letter. She folded it in half, then quartered it, and finally, she stuffed it roughly into the back pocket of her blue jeans.

Ha! There! Now it would be safe from misbehaving hands and with it out of sight, her mind wouldn't be tempted to breach its ceremonial rule and grant her permission to touch, or want to open it.

Within a few hours, Maggie found herself in a quandary. She was unable to ignore the letter, or throw it away. She wasn't sure how long she walked around with it in her back pocket. She only knew it began to burn her heart, blister her mind, and then it slowly started to scorch her self-control.

But it wasn't until she saw her jeans in the washer, twisting and turning in the soapy water, letter and all, that she was even aware of what she'd done -- unconsciously cleansing and purging the past.

It really was the only way ... maybe now, she would find some peace at last.


[from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Happy Birthday, America!

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "Yardsticks"

"Yardsticks" of Life

by CJ Heck

It was late autumn, but a day still warm enough to make Kathryn sweat and she smiled, remembering her mother's words. "Always remember, Kathryn, ladies never sweat, they perspire."

The salty air wafting over the water felt good as it teased the corners of the tablecloth up and out, like checkered wings. It also mercifully cooled the, (ahem), per-spi-ra-tion that had glued wisps of hair to her forehead.

From somewhere nearby, cicadas in love were calling each other in the trees. Their haunting chirp mixed curiously with the waves, the soft clinking of silverware, and the distant laughter of children playing in the dwindling daylight on the beach below.

Kathryn was celebrating her last full day of vacation with a hot fudge sundae. Both were few and far between and justly savored -- the vacation, day by lazy day, and the sundae, spoonful by decadent spoonful.

The best hot fudge sundae she had ever eaten had been in San Francisco, down near the water at the Chocolate Manufactory in Ghirradelli Square. That had been back in the early seventies, now nearly a lifetime ago, she thought, with a sigh.

Through the ensuing years, whenever she allowed herself this treasure, a comparison took place in her mind. Each hot fudge sundae from a new place was measured against The Ghirradelli Square Yardstick.

Of course, there were very few of these indulgences -- she wanted to maintain her figure, but the time between them built up a delightful anticipation, which made the stretches between easier to handle. Funny, until now, she hadn’t realized just how many of these invisible yardsticks she actually carried around with her.

Katheryn had just turned fifty-nine. Admittedly, she had arrived at that age kicking and screaming -- after all, no one ever consciously decides to be middle aged. Ultimately, thoughts of the alternative to getting older washed over her and, with a feeling of resignation, she bathed in all the positives of actually being allowed to live that long.

Kathryn had a sudden epiphany. She just realized that she even looked at other women around her who were her age, or near it, with yet another invisible "yardstick".

While never model-beautiful, she supposed she could have been considered a striking woman. She still had her figure and she worked hard to keep it, although admittedly, gravity was beginning to coax some things a little lower ...

Her hair had recently begun to silver at the temples with a few others twinkling here and there, as if in afterthought. She smiled, deciding that the total effect could be considered attractive. Besides, she felt she had earned the silver -- after all, she was a grandmother several times over.

Kathryn still noticed, and secretly welcomed, when a masculine head turned in her direction for a second look. She wasn't aware, (and would have denied it had she been told), that their attraction to her came from a puzzling enigma, one that only surrounded her in public -- she seemed mysterious.

Her child-like naiveté contradicted the sensual, at times even haughty, self-assurance she exuded in her walk and manner. However, if you were to ask Kathryn, she would tell you she was merely aloof.

Men thought, now here was a woman who drew your attention. She could walk into a room and own the room. Here was a confident woman who looked comfortable in her clothes -- and a woman they enjoyed imagining even more comfortable out of them, thus, the enigma.

Kathryn wasn’t aware of those things. What she did know was, the heads that turned in her direction were divinely better than looking in a mirror -- and more flattering, too.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair, not wanting this last vacation day to end. The sea breeze still felt wonderful. Maybe she would sit here just a little while longer.

The sun was making its descent into the distant trees and she was suddenly struck by the silence. When had that happened? The laughter of the children, even the drone of the cicadas, had disappeared sometime during the reverie about her various yardsticks.

Comparing hot fudge sundaes, or other women her age, was one thing, but she felt guilty, when her mind eased on over to compare the men she had known in her life. She knew she shouldn’t -- each deserved to be separate and unique -- still, she rationalized, everyone did it and she couldn’t help doing it either.

It wasn’t that she had a huge number of men to compare.  She didn’t, but she felt safe saying that the ones who had been in her life, had been there for a damn good reason.

It took years, but she eventually came to see that each had played a specific part in who she now was. Each unknowingly brought a valuable lesson, or lessons, that she was to learn. After all, aren’t we all products of our environment? Everything that happens to us changes us, making us who we were destined to become.

No, she decided.  She would save her yardsticks to think about at another time. God knows, there were many nights when sleep wouldn't allow her in.  That's when she should think about her silly yardstick comparisons about life.

With that decided, Kathryn stood and adjusted her skirt. Then she lifted her chin for maximum effect and walked proudly and confidently to her car.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Playing "Mind Candy"

Try it, it works!

Like most writers and authors, I often hear this question: 

 "Where do your ideas and inspirations come from?"  

For inspiration, I've always found it easier to write about what I know.  

When I'm writing for children, I think of my childhood or my children and grandchildren, and even students from school visits. 

Then, to remind myself of "what I know", so I can start writing, I play a mental game that I call "Mind Candy".  

How to Play Mind Candy:

Take a pencil and paper and make five headings: the five senses. Then list what you like about each of them under its heading.  

When you have several in each column, draw a line across the paper and, under that, list what you dislike about each of them.

The list should be very literal. What tastes, feels, smells, sounds, or looks good, or bad? 

By the time I'm finished with my lists, I usually have several ideas and I can begin to write.

Touch:

What feels good?

kitten fur; sun on face; velvet; a hug

What feels bad?

mosquito bite (itchy); tangles in my hair; a headache

Smell:

What smells good?

flowers; perfume; gasoline; cookies baking

What smells bad?

skunk; feet; broccoli; Swiss cheese

Sound:

What is a good sound?

music; a waterfall; the recess bell; wind chimes

What sounds bad?

fingernails on a chalkboard; baby crying; a bear growling from behind you

Taste:

What tastes good?

warm cookies; popcorn; hot chocolate; bubble gum

What tastes bad?

medicine; liver; vinegar; sucking on a lemon

Sight:

What do you like to see?

rainbow; sunrise; sunset; hot air balloon

What do you not like to see?

spiders; a shark fin when you're in the ocean; a house on fire; blood

[You can also use feelings. What feelings make you feel good, or bad?]

Okay, that's how to play "Mind Candy".  Where do your ideas come from for writing?  

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

To Realize True Value ...

To Realize True Value, Look Within

“Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we did get sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful.” ~Buddha

To Realize

[AuthorUnknown]

To realize the value
of a sister or brother:
ask someone
who doesn't have either.

To realize the value
of a mother and father:
ask an orphan.

To realize the value
of ten years:
ask a newly
divorced couple.

To realize the value
of four years:
ask a graduate.

To realize the value
of one year:
ask a student who
has failed a final exam.

To realize the value
of nine months:
ask a mother who
gave birth to a stillborn baby.

To realize the value
of one month:
ask a mother
who has given birth to
a premature baby .

To realize the value
of one week:
ask an editor of
a weekly newspaper.

To realize the value
of one minute:
ask a person
who has missed a train, bus or plane.

To realize the value
of one-second:
ask a person
who has survived an accident.

To realize the value
of one life:
visit the Vietnam Wall in DC

To realize the value
of a friend:
lose one.

To realize the value
of a family member:
visit Ground Zero
in New York City

Time waits for no one.
Treasure every moment you have.
You will treasure it even more when
you share it with someone special.


The origin of this poem is unknown, but its value is priceless.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

A Kid in Rock Land ...

Climbing Rocks in Rock Land

I was thinking, why is it that a hot summer day feels hotter when you're an adult?

Hot is hot, no matter how old you are ... it's the same heat.  But somehow, hot didn't matter, when I was a kid.

It was summer and summer was supposed to be hot.  Besides, there were so many things I loved to do and they were more important than a few sweat beads running down my face.

There were six of us kids and we used to love going to Grampa and Gramma Shannon's in the summer.  It was a ten-mile drive and the whole way there, we planned our day ...

We could go splashing in the river, or fishing on the river in Grampa's boat, or ... we could go to the one special place we all loved more than anything else. We called it 'Rock Land'.  I'll tell you about it, but first, you have to picture in where it was.

Grampa and Gramma's house sat just above the river and the dirt road that wound along the river, and it was nestled right at the bottom of a huge hill.

The hill was nearly straight up and covered with huge trees and house-size boulders and rocks for climbing.  Mother Nature had situated them in such a way that caves had been formed under some of them.

Rock Land days were full of pretending.  We were Indians, or pioneers, living in caves and my brothers were Daniel Boone and Jim Bowie, hunting for deer and bears.

One day, we noticed thick grape vines hanging from the trees above us. We climbed to the top of a rock, grabbed a vine with both hands, and swung out over the hill below -- there was no greater thrill.

Swinging on a Grapevine

All the way home in the car, we talked and laughed, and planned more adventures for our next visit to Grampa and Gramma's.

As I remember, we only had one accident there. My cousin, Bill, who was like a big brother, swung out on his vine one day and right into a hornet's nest.

All of us learned first-hand what the expression, 'mad as a hornet', really meant.  They bombarded poor Bill from every direction.  He promptly let go of the grapevine, fell head over heels down the hill, and broke his arm.

We boycotted Rock Land for a few weeks after that ... but only for a few.

Yeah, summer is hot, no matter how old you are.  But when you're a kid and it's summer and school is out, hot doesn't matter -- it's just great to be alive.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck