But I met a lot of fine editors (including two of my own each of whom I had never set eyes upon), executives, agents, publicists, bloggers, and even some authors. Heck, I met Neil Gaiman, who I learned shares the same editor as me. “Books are like buses,” Neil said. “They all tend to come at once.” I wanted to explain how, in my experience, buses usually just swoop in and hit me in the head with their side mirrors, but this was Neil Gaiman talking to me, so I just replied “Pff yeah. And then some!” or something like that. I made a joke about us both being ‘Rosemary’s puppies’ but then later kicked myself for not saying ‘Rosemary’s babies’ which would have impressed Neil infinitely more, I should think.

That was at the HarperCollins cocktail party, where I was appearing for the very first time as my alter-ego, Paul Blackwell. You know, it is fun to be two people, so long as you are only taxed as one. But something pretty amazing occurred just before that I thought I should relay. You see, I wanted to look sharp and have been enjoying the bow tie lately, so I brought one along to put on once in New York. Now, as everyone should know, pre-tied bow ties are about as cool as securing your shoes through the power of Velcro. So all this meant I had to get to a mirror and go through the often finicky operation of making a nice one. Working in the washroom of a restaurant, I wasn’t having much luck, and worse, was starting to sweat like a workhorse. Someone then began pounding on the door so I had to go with what I had.

Outside the party venue, my agent was running late, and had given me strict instructions not to enter without him (he knows the damage I can do unattended). So while waiting under the High Line, I tried fixing the tie in the reflection of a car windshield. But matters were only made worse. Unable to see, I tried the window of what I thought was a juice bar. Still no luck, and now people were watching me. So I went inside and asked to use the mirror in their washroom.

Unfortunately, it was a gym masquerading as a juice bar, and the washrooms were inside the workout area, I then learned. I said thanks anyway, and went to leave. I would just have to go to this really important party looking like a stooge.

But then I noticed someone standing at the counter beside me. Having just worked out, he was nevertheless a particularly well groomed looking individual. With a look of pain, he turned and said: “Um, I work for …” He paused, hardly able to admit it. “… Gentleman’s Quarterly. Do you want me to do your tie?”

“YES PLEASE!” I shouted. And then I stood there like an eight-year-old as the procedure was quickly performed.

“It shouldn’t be too neat, or it looks like a pre-tied,” he said. This, however, I already knew, perhaps even from reading it in GQ, but I pass it on for your edification. Finished, we both laughed and he went to leave.

“Wait!” I called after him. “So what do you at GQ anyway?”

“I am the fashion editor.”

I was saved; my tie was now superior to everyone’s in the entire city. I thought: Only in New York City could the most qualified person in the world randomly come to your rescue in the moment of greatest need. Here is a picture only moments after, of the most cunningly sloppy but perfect knot I have ever seen rendered. I had to take the picture myself, so it is from a rather unflattering low angle, but hey, it is the tie you should be looking at, not my fat face.

At first I just laughed at these visits, and greeted them with almost the same amusement that I enjoyed “girdle mature danger video” (for which I also rank high). But gradually, their frequency has increased to a point where I now receive a significant number of weekly visits purely from people searching for this piece of advice.

So if you, dear visitor, happen to be among these people, I now feel honor-bound to offer you some guidance; to at the very least send you off in the right direction so that your visit isn’t a complete waste of time.

The steps required to sign your name like a genuine celebrity are actually very straightforward. First, acquire an extraordinary amount of renown in the public pursuit of your choice; building this to a level where a large number of people want to take away proof-positive of having encountered you. Then, at each and every request, sign your name. Do it over and over and over again. On books, on scraps, on caps, on napkins and dollar bills, on bare skin and on bras; it really doesn’t matter. Just do this over and over, and before you know it, you will be signing your name like a celebrity.

Thanks for the visit. And take comfort that there are many, many of you out there.

Which means it’s a wrap! THE JOY OF SPOOKING trilogy has officially come to an end. Having spent the past four years working on it, I’m feeling both elated and deflated. Elated, I say, because my favorite part of working is of course being done working. But deflated, I say, because I will forever miss exploring the life and times of its heroine, the intrepid Joy Wells as well as her various friends and foes. Luckily, all these characters will live on in the imaginations of my readers for some time to come and for that I feel immensely grateful.

I don’t know. I still feel glum about it. But I guess that’s just the way I’m wired. Perhaps a party will cheer me up; a loud and raucous party celebrating the end of the series. Yes, I think I’ll throw one.

And guess what? You are invited. You’re invited, that is, if you read this in a timely enough fashion and have the means to make it to Montreal, Quebec. In that case, may I suggest you point yourself towards Shaika Café, 5526 Sherbrooke Street West, and proceed on that heading in time to arrive on Saturday September 17th at 7 pm? Unless your journey was long and fraught with considerable danger, I promise you will not regret it. Because books, drinks, and live music from Stroboscopica will be on offer.

Wow, I don’t know if it’s the bold-faced type, but I’m feeling less sad already!

If you have facebook (and let’s face it, you probably do), then head over here to make sure you’re nice and reminded. Or cooler still, press the right doohickey on your smart phone and then point its lens at the image below. You’ll be glad you did!

The place is a bit of an institution, I’m told, with its motif of stained old money and dangling bras (I am not making this up for once). The floor is completely strewn with peanut shells (which I helpfully contributed to) giving the joint the feel of a hillbilly’s secret nest. It got even better: with a secret nod to the barmaid from one of my companions, a rubber bat was somehow triggered to fall in front of my face. Luckily I don’t startle too easy, and managed to maintain the neutral expression held above.

But sadly, some if not all good things come to end. That said, I am happy to report some pretty exciting news that I received while crossing the channel to Vancouver Island on the ferry. We have a deal for my latest publishing project! It’s called CRYSTAL FALLS, which is being described as “a high-concept YA thriller surrounding a 16 year-old boy who survives going over a waterfall only to discover his town suddenly transformed and his reputation inexplicably sinister.” It’s a serious head-trip, but a bit more mature, so make sure to get parental permission before reading when it comes out…

It is scheduled for Fall 2012, I’m told, to be released by Doubleday Canada. For any and all fans outside of this country, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much just yet, but hold tight.

I can say this: I read the opening to hundreds and hundreds of kids and teens during book week, and their faces were quite literally melted in front of me. So I’m really excited. Things got quite ugly and uproarious actually when I refused to let them in on the secret… I did however enjoy entertaining their many theories however, only one of which came anywhere close. (That kid was pretty sharp actually, but I just scoffed in her face to throw everyone off.)

Anyway, it’s been a great couple of weeks. Thanks again to the Canadian Children’s Book Centre for sending me out to beautiful BC, and to Andrea and Carrie for all their work coordinating my visit. And a special thanks to everyone I met in Prince George; you were all so welcoming and delightful, and I hope to come back someday.

For now though, it’s back to work!

PG Man

This is the PG Man, who watches over the city of Prince George, British Columbia, just outside my hotel. He’s painted to look like he is made of wood (this is a serious pulp and paper town!), but he’s actually made of iron.

I’m in PG touring as part of the TD Canadian Children’s Book Week, an annual festival that sends authors all over the country. I was very lucky to get sent here, to this stunning province, for the very first time in my life.

After one day, I’ve done three presentations at three schools and seen hundreds of great kids. It’s been really fun with thunderous applause and a shout of ”EPIC!” in the case of at least one girl.

Yesterday while touring the town on my day-off, I also saw a Boston Pizza on fire. You know, it’s quite something to look into a restaurant and see all its tables aflame. A Blockbuster video store was also destroyed, I’m told.

That’s all the news from Prince George for now. Here’s the PG Man again, watching the Boston Pizza burning in the distance.

For it was a deliveryman, bearing the Advance Reader Copies of SINISTER SCENES!

And as was my delicious wish, their covers have been printed using the bloodiest ink available. As such, I thought a crime scene would best show them off.

For anyone unfamiliar, ARCs (as they are better known) are preview copies of an upcoming title that are given away to booksellers, librarians and a host of other wonderful freeloaders in an effort to create buzz. Considered utterly disposable, they are printed not upon the luxurious paper stock that will comprise the final bound product, but simply slapped upon swan skin in order to save costs.

Because ARCs are created from early printing proofs, they are also famously riddled with grammatical, typological, and/or factual errors which the author and editors subsequently address for the better enjoyment of the purchasing public. For example, in the ARC of SINISTER SCENES shown above, the character of Joy is often referred to as Jot owing to an injury I sustained to my right index finger midway through the work.

Okay, now I am just making things up, like I always do whenever I am overwrought. Which is always, I suppose, which incidentally may be why I chose this profession in the first place.

However the swan skin thing is true, I swear.

New Year’s Eve is called Hogmanay in Scotland, and is celebrated pretty uproariously as you might guess. In Edinburgh, they fire a massive barrage of fireworks from the castle at the stroke of midnight. This was the view around the corner from us.

The Scottish have lots of traditions for Hogmanay. First footing is a well-known example. This particular superstition demands that in order to receive good fortune for the coming year that the first person to cross your doorstep be a tall, dark-haired man. I remember being very confused my first time, being suddenly shoved out into the cold while everyone stayed inside hugging and cheering. But it is an honour, I’m told.

This year, someone taller beat me to it. But I did see something new that perhaps is a tradition in the making, or one imported from somewhere else that I have just never seen.

I first stumbled across it as we were heading outside just before midnight, spotting a strange floating light in the sky. A passing kid confirmed she saw the same thing, and like me did not for an instant buy her mother’s explanation that it was just an airplane. No way! It was moving much too slow and definitely a UFO of some sort, at least for the moment.

After the bells had gone and the fireworks over, we looked up again and then saw that the air was now full of them. Someone said they were large paper lanterns, which I then remembered seeing for sale in a shop earlier. Powered by a candle, they glowed a beautiful soft yellow and rose up like hot-air balloons to be carried away on the breeze.

There was something about these flying lanterns that startled me much more than the eye-melting spectacle and booming explosions that had just finished. I suppose it was just the simple beauty of the tiny drifting lights, making their slow but steady progress across the sky. Swept up by the wind, the glowing globes were all off on their own unknown journeys, each to end sadly and quietly somewhere far from view.

For the short moment I watched the simple lights sailing across the starry sky, they were somehow incredibly touching. They reminded me now so much of people’s lives, bright spots in the darkness, traveling boldly into uncertainty.

And I now find myself wondering where they all came back down to earth.

Actually I’m starting to wonder if writing novels is giving me a weird compulsion to use goofy similes and metaphors to explain just about everything in life. Yikes! For instance, the other day in a bit of a cheeky interview over at Literary Asylum, I was describing the process as being like building a house. The gist of what I said was this: to first assemble a basic structure without worrying about it looking like an ugly shack, because if you work too long and hard on making the front door look nice, it’s then horribly discouraging to discover it opens onto nothing.

Staying with that, how does an author know when they’re finished the job? With a house, it’s easy to tell: it’s when they start stuffing the mail slot with tax bills and realtor flyers. But with a novel, it’s not quite so obvious. Sure, the printout looks thick enough (on that note, why after a single read can you never ever get the stack quite square again, despite any number of karate chops to the edges?). But did you forget something? Did you make it the best it can be?

Now, my wife is an illustrator and whenever she thinks she’s finished a painting, she’ll stand back and take a good long look at it. If something bugs her, she’ll fix it; if something looks unfinished, she’ll give it a little more attention. Evaluating the state of a novel is exactly the same process, I always say — except that instead of standing back and seeing what you’ve got, you spend hours peering at the colors and composition of your supposedly finished picture through a drinking straw.

Eventually, perhaps after poking your eyeball one time too many, you’ll give up and pronounce it good enough. But is it really? You have no idea. You’ll only know when a bunch of friends, colleagues, and strangers start breaking out their own straws and having a good close look themselves.

Still, it’s always a relief to finish up. Just like it’s always a relief to find your way home and shake the snow off.

Later this week I’m having my official launch of UNEARTHLY ASYLUM here in Montreal (Oct 14, 7pm, Paragraphe Books, 2220 McGill). It’s a joint launch with Alan Silberberg, author of the hilarious and heartbreaking MILO: STICKY NOTES AND BRAIN FREEZE. Should be fun! If you want to say hi, I’ll be the guy drinking my wine through a well-worn straw.

A couple of years ago when FIENDISH DEEDS was first coming out, my publisher kindly brought me out to Toronto to attend the Canadian Children’s Book Centre gala party and participate in my first-ever signing at Book Expo Canada.

Naturally I was pretty excited. I remember meeting a chatty dude on the plane who for the first time in my very short literary career seemed genuinely thrilled to find out I was an author, even though he had unsurprisingly never heard of me.

Leaving the terminal on Toronto Island, my seatmate was even further impressed when a guy wearing mirrored aviators came up and somehow knew instantly that it was I, PJ Bracegirdle, and subsequently directed to me an awaiting black town car. And though I didn’t show it as I bid farewell to my traveling buddy, I was nevertheless impressed too, especially when it turned out that they fill the back of those cars with bottles of ice-cold water and free Werther’s Originals.

Adding to my excitement as I was borne away towards the hotel was that I was attending the gala with the amazing Jon Scieszka. Now, as most people connected in any way to kids books know, Jon is not only a bestselling author but the first (and now former) Ambassador for Young People’s Literature for the United States of America. Heck, the guy has sold 11 million books worldwide (which when parsed by my self-abusive brain probably means that more people have bought his books by accident than have bought mine in earnest. By a factor of ten).

Anyway, I’ve been a fan of Jon’s right from the very beginning, back when he first appeared at the Edinburgh Book Fair in the early nineties promoting his soon-to-breakout title THE STINKY CHEESE MAN AND OTHER FAIRLY STUPID TALES. In fact, I got a free button depicting the eponymous character out of the deal. So this was a big moment for me. But as always when meeting celebrities, I was a bit nervous. What if he was mean to me? Would I then have to flush my copy of the THE TRUE STORY OF THE THREE PIGS down the toilet and yank the first-edition TRUCKTOWN out of my little nephew’s hands?

Fortunately, such worries proved groundless. Meeting him in the lobby, he turned out to be the great guy everyone had always asserted (which makes sense since you don’t make prickly jerks ambassadors; unless you are looking to start a war, in which case it makes perfect sense). So introductions over, we jumped in a cab (no limo this time; Jon was crazy FURIOUS! No, no, just kidding…) and headed off to the gala party.

Just as we were arriving, my publicist reached into her purse and presented me with my new book, the first time I had ever held a copy. Oh happy day! Then it occurred to me  that I would be signing a pile of them tomorrow — not with my given name, Paul, but rather with my adopted author moniker P.J.! Not only had I have never thought about this once, but I had never even attempted it before.

Having himself signed 10 million of his aforementioned books, Jon of course told me not to worry. But that night back in the hotel room, I decided I should nevertheless practice. And despite what Jon said, it didn’t come easy; in fact it felt like I’d somehow gotten through life without having ever had the need to form a capital J! After what was almost certainly several minutes of effort, my hand began feeling like the arthritic talon of some ancient eagle, so I gave up and put out the light.

The next day I nevertheless shook off my nerves like the trooper I am and headed down to the convention center. As my signing immediately followed Jon’s, I was hoping to say hello before gleaning as many career-enhancing tidbits as humanly possible out of him in the brief interim.

But either I was late or the man simply doesn’t linger — probably the latter, since he is a big star as I’ve already explained. Because by the time I arrived, he was long gone.

What utter disappointment! However not for long. For it turned out that in a magnanimous gesture befitting of an ambassador, he had left me something. No, it was not a copy of one of his many wonderful books, personalized with my name and imparting some wisdom that I would treasure forever.

Instead it was my own book.

Signed by him.

Having just bought a fancy scanner that does negatives, my father has been recently sending me pictures from my childhood. The latest batch were from our family’s trip to Cancun in 1979, back when the island was little more than a dusty patch of bulldozed nothingness with a few hotels stuck on it. Now, of course, every square inch has been completely developed, with plans to start floating the island on a cloud well in the works.

Now this shot from our day trip to the ruins of Chichen Itza got my attention for a number of reasons. The first was the combination of my buck teeth and Terrycloth head visor, which makes me look like a gleeful Bugs Bunny wearing the beak and scalp of Donald Duck (in what I imagine as the bloody aftermath of some epic battle between the animated characters of Hanna Barbera and Disney).

But it also made me wonder: what ever happened to Terrycloth? Its disappearance from popular fashion is as much of a mystery as the decline of the Mayans themselves, upon whose statuary I am shown above lounging. I’m pretty sure my sister, pictured in orange behind me, is also decked out in the soft lovable fabric.

To this mystery, I have neither theories nor answers. But you have to feel bad for poor Terry though, who probably thought his cloth would set him up for life. Hey, who knows? Maybe Terry was a shrewd investor. Maybe he went on to invent fleece or something.

Anyway, pictured at the bottom of the pyramid, you can see the rest of my outfit, including some very short shorts (I am pretty sure they were Size 6X; everything was 6X back then…) and a limited-edition Jawa T-shirt.

Now this picture brings back a bit of a bad memory actually because shortly after ascending to the very top of the iconic pyramid (no easy feat), I found myself desperately in need of the toilet. After racing down those narrow stars and nearly killing myself, I then discovered that the signage directing one to such facilities was incredibly inadequate, and I ended up running around in incredible agony while joking site workers directed me to the leopard-infested jungle.

Come to think of it, that was only one of several bad experience that day. Later, whilst being shown some terrifying sacrificial well, the tour guide made a grab as if to toss me in, to the uproariously laughter of everyone including my parents. Then later still while perusing some crafts, I accidentally wandered into what I thought was part of the showroom but was actually a private residence and had its little Mexican occupant menace me with a series of kung-fu punches and a roundhouse kick.

Anyway, you can imagine my relief when we finally returned to the safety of the hotel, and the soothing sound of Push Push In The Bush as rendered by the house band that played out by the pool.