Wendy McClure

Author and Professional Obsessive.

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When a stranger calls

October 30, 2007 by Wendy

Things I am looking forward to: 1. Dinner this week with Weetabix! 2. The COMEDIANS OF COMEDY show at the Vic on Thursday. 3. Slightly colder weather. 4. Having stuff in two anthologies to be published sometime late next year. 5. Getting this last book I’m editing at work off to press. 6. The holidays and all the dippy stuff I will do to enjoy them, savoring them like fat schmoopy sugarplums. Are you with me on this?

Things you should not do: Call me at work. Really it’s just the one thing, but it’s a big thing. I mean, if you are actually part of my life you can call me at work, because of course I gave you the number and we have to figure out what time we’re going to Pequod’s for lunch. Obviously, if you’re someone I work with, you can call me at work. And if you happen to be one of the idly curious souls who randomly call my company with questions about the big weird confusing world of children’s book publishing, questions like, uh, do I need to draw the pictures and stuff? (FYI: no), I tend to forgive you on the premise that you don’t know me and therefore don’t even know not to call me, because of course you don’t know anything; you’re like a lumpy little baby at the beginning of time, and your head is all soft, and you’re usually friendly and harmless enough that I don’t mind taking five minutes to tell you to check out SCBWI or The Purple Crayon.

(And now that you’ve just read this and know not to call? That still means you should not call. Just so you know. Your innocence is over.)

But here I haven’t even gotten to when you should really really not call me at work, so I will tell you now: Do not call me at work if you know who I am and think I can help you get your children’s book published. I don’t know how to stress this enough. This doesn’t happen very often, but each time it’s happened it’s been awkward and disastrous and traumatic, both for me and the Person Who Thought I Could Help Him/Her Get Published. Because Person always wants to take me out to lunch or coffee so that I can see what a totally nice person Person is, and then he/she can tell me his/her idea and I can give a few pointers. But see, this never works, because a.) explaining how to become a published children’s book writer is just too complicated and involved to attempt in the timespan of “coffee,” much less in pointerly fashion; b.) Person invariably isn’t interested in becoming a children’s writer anyway and instead has just an Idea—This One Idea, from which at least three books can be made, and probably also an animated series and a line of interactive toys; and c.) nice gets you nowhere, especially when you’re in truth being kind of pushy.

Because the kicker here is that I work for a publisher where you can actually just send your manuscript, unsolicited and without an agent, and I will read it. Thus when people call at work and try to pitch me something it’s doubly uncomfortable, because either they have no idea their whole weird Glengarry Glen Ross schtick is totally unnecessary—or else they do know, but think that those guidelines we post are for chumps and not for People-with-Ideas like themselves. And if you feel this way, DO NOT CALL ME AT WORK, because, like I said, it will not go well. Like I can’t even bring myself to tell the story of the last Person who called me at work, because it was just that horrible for both of us.

(Well, maybe I will, but another time, with many details changed.)

At the same time, I realize that I do know some stuff about writing and publishing—both from my children’s book job and my own experience with the memoir, and for the past couple years people have been writing me (not calling me at work) with questions, and I actually like to be helpful. So in order to make karmic amends for the rage I feel towards People Who Call Me at Work I think I’ll be posting any advice I may have here on the blog. I know I won’t be able to answer every question, but feel free to ask away about children’s publishing, adult publishing, blog-to-book stuff, whatever. And I’ll give it my best shot. (Tip#1: do not call me at you-know-where.)

Filed Under: misc, personal, writing advice

Slowly ascending

October 16, 2007 by Wendy

Early colors

If you’ve been looking on my Flickr account you’ve noticed I’ve been off frolicking among big jolly hot-air balloons somewhere. Last week I was visting my dad in Albuquerque, and one morning we attended the Balloon Fiesta, which I believe is Spanish for “Party of the Swellings.” And swell it was! We got up at dawn during the first Sunday of the festival to watch the mass ascension. Apparently you can go right up to the balloons as they’re inflating, and touch them, and pull on their ropes and stuff, and they will not collapse into Hindenburgish balls of flame. Who knew? (Oh, everyone there except me.) It was one of the most awesome things I have ever seen, and I don’t mean awesome the way I usually mean “awesome.” I mean I watched those things and my mind emptied out, and propane torches roared in the void, and whoa. For about two hours of whoa. There were also plenty of specially-shaped novelty balloons (bees, an elephant, a Darth Vader head, etc.) and I tried to think up freaky new novelty balloon shapes of my own (anvil, giant Vicodin tablet, Black Power fist, etc.), but I never got tired of seeing the regular old balloony balloons take off. It was just what I needed after the past couple of weeks at work, which were, hard, like weird back -of-the-eyes-headache hard. I’m cutting back on my hours in a couple weeks, but there are many things to finish first.

So I’m back, and I’m still trying to catch up on job and life and all this new stuff going on. Chris got a new job and it’s close enough to my workplace that we drive in together. I’m trying to work on all these new writing projects. The days have changed their shape and feel and color. I’m slowly getting hooked on Diet Coke again. I’m hanging in there, baby, like that damn cat in the 70s poster.

Oh, and speaking of Friday (which is really what we’re all hanging-in-there-baby for, isn’t it?), I’ll be reading at the Book Cellar with Stacey Ballis, Elizabeth Crane, Jen Lancaster, and Claire Zulkey. Come see us! You can get wine! Maybe we’ll even braid each other’s hair and prank call Witty Male Writers at their readings.  BE THERE.

Filed Under: bookstuff, misc, personal

All that sweet green icing flowing down*

September 30, 2007 by Wendy

Early colors

I’m in the beginning stages of a couple of writing projects, and in the middle of production at work, and at the end of a month full of out-of-town visitors and weekend trips, and somewhere in between all that I had a shitload of laundry which I’ve just now done. How are you? Don’t mind me; I’m trying to catch the hell up.

Really, I sort of feel like I left my life out in the rain (yes, like the MacArthur Park cake) and now that I’ve brought it back in to dry out (which, no, you wouldn’t do with a cake), I’ve forgotten how to wear it (and okay, now I’m making a sort of sweater analogy here) and lost track all the little places where I stretched it to make it fit right (because of course it’s a fat girl’s sweater), and things are a little itchy and uncomfortable at the moment but I’m sure I’ll break it back in eventually.

One of the stretchy things I haven’t been able to figure out is how we went to the gym all these months. Apparently the mornings used to be longer and I used to be not so tired. I know from experience that when you actually do start working out regularly,things sort of amazingly take care of themselves so that you do have more energy, and time expands, and your molecules totally rearrange themselves so that you are cuter and smarter. I know this, and yet still I wait for the perfect gym-going opportunity to appear in the mist like Brigadoon. Still, I’ve been biking to work whenever I can. Which is well, about once a week. Whatever. Brigadoon. I’ll let you know when I find it.

*Seriously, I forgot that the lyrics to that song were that demented. Donna Summer needs to be commended for her non-enunciation skills in her version.

Plug #1 for the day is for the Photo Project at Elastic Waist. I’ve got a photoset up, where the only Before shot is of me as a 4-year-old (because that really is Before lots of things). Plug #2 is for the new issue of BUST hitting the newsstands this week, because in addition to my usual Poptart column, there’s an interview with Debbie Harry conducted (via very long-distance phone call) by yours truly. BUY IT. And if it’s not at your newsstand yet and the previous issue is still there, the one with my column about Olivia Newton-John in it, you should buy that one, too. I’m just saying.

Filed Under: misc, personal, popcult, this thing I'm doing

Britney, the morning after

September 10, 2007 by Wendy

It’s not like me to watch this sort of thing, but in the BUST column I just finished I found myself writing an awful lot about Britney’s butt cellulite, so I guess I’m a little more invested than usual. And so, here is my reaction in list form:

1. Why did they make her even dance? Why did MTV think she could anything even remotely complicated, now that she no longer has a dedicated cadre of dungeonmaster managers and trainers to smack and pinch her through all the rehearsals? Why couldn’t they have just stuck her on a big swing or something?

2. I have a sinking feeling the weave was her idea.

3. SHE IS NOT FAT.

4. No, seriously: why did they make her DANCE? They could have just stuck her on a hydraulic lift. Or had her fly out on a zip line. Or wheeled her out on a dolley. They could have put her on a trampoline. They could have made her play a robot so that her shuffling and awkwardness wouldn’t have been so tragic. She could have driven out in a little car a la Gary Numan, so she wouldn’t have had to even walk. For the love of God IT DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY.

5. They could have stuck her on a giant turntable. A bungee cord. A catapult. ANYTHING.

Filed Under: misc, popcult

Toy story

September 5, 2007 by Wendy

Happy

We really did think twice about stealing the air hockey equipment. No shit, the game room at the Bunny Hutch Novelty Golf And Batting Cage Recreation Extravaganza is the place to go to be scared straight and also to get your sex tested. I recommend it wholeheartedly. But okay, I think we’re done with the weekend trips and with all our kitschy cavorting for the moment. No kidding, it was getting to be like the Monkees opening credits around here. It is time to take off the dorky legionnaire hats and focus, people. Or at least clean stuff. I did a lot of that this weekend, too.

And since I’m cleaning out my closet, let me tell you about my thing with McDonald’s and how I went there for the first time in forever last week. Because I still crave McDonald’s sometimes: these days I go for months and months without going there, but when it comes down to it, I still seriously dig the stuff. O McDonald’s food, you taste so red and yellow and awesome. I love how the cheeseburgers are not “cheeseburgers” so much as they are warm soft ketchuppy pickle pillow pies; I love the fries, even though I read Fast Food Nation and know they’re made from potato starch and holograms. I understand, and yet I want; so once in a great while I give in and answer the clowny call of Clan McDonald. So the other day I went to the drive-thru.

I used to do this a lot more often. Back when I did Weight Watchers, I learned that the contents of a McDonald’s Happy Meal amounted to something like eleven POINTS (not too bad, considering), so I ate Happy Meals. Though it should be said I would have also eaten endangered baby pandas braised in orphan tears if Weight Watchers had told me they were twelve POINTS or less, and this is one reason why I had to stop doing Weight Watchers. But never mind that: there was a time when I ordered a lot of damn Happy Meals. Enough to get over the dopey irony of the enclosed toy. Like at first when I’d order and they’d ask if the toy was for a boy or a girl, I thought it very whimsical and joie de vivre of me to yell “I’m a GIRL!” at the drive-thru speaker box. La la la! But then I’d have this shitty little gender-informed trinket, a Bratz doll or a tiny copy of Cosmo or whatever, and it would sit in my car until I threw it out. And try giving a friend’s kid a cheap toy from a Happy Meal he/she didn’t eat. It’s awkward and poignant. The bad kind of poignant. I suppose I could’ve just ordered the hamburger and the small fries and soda without ordering the Happy Meal, but that would’ve broken the sacred and pathetic contract I had with myself wherein I was allowed to eat at McDonald’s as long as it wasn’t a fully grown-up decision. Yeah, I know.

Eventually I made a point to just avoid getting the toy. But this is harder than you’d think, especially when most of my McDonalding consisted of furtive drive-thru visits. “Boy or girl for the Happy Meal?” the speaker box would ask. I tried saying, “No toy, please,” or, “I don’t need a toy,” or “You can leave out the toy,” but it almost never worked. Maybe it’s because the McDonald’s drive-thru employees expect to hear one of only two answers and don’t really know what to do when presented with a None of The Above, so they either ignore it or mishear “no toy” for “boy.” Oh, and then another problem was that I was going to McDonald’s too fucking much, so I stopped going.

I’d pretty much forgotten all about the toy problem until the other day, when I ordered a Happy Meal out of old habit. This time, I decided, I would really put my foot down about the toy thing. Because, really, it was bad enough that I was eating McDonald’s and the last thing I wanted was another creepy souvenir. “Is that Happy Meal for a boy or a girl?” the drive-thru voice asked.

“Okay, look, I don’t need the toy. It’s just for me. Please don’t put one in. I’ll just throw it out. No toy. None. Okay?”

There was a long pause. “Oh, okay,” the drive-thru box said. Some odd code came up on the LCD screen, something like B/G: N/A. I’d gotten through to them at last. I drove around and paid at the cashier window. Then I drove to the food window, which had a different employee than the one who’d take my order. The guy was holding an open bag and staring at a printout slip in his hand.

“Um, this order is blank? For where it says what kind of toy for the Happy Meal?” he said.

“Yeah, no toy,” I told him. “Because it’s not for a kid. It’s just for me. You know?” He peered into the car as I pointed to myself. I wanted to make sure he noticed I was driving and everything. He nodded slowly and turned back to fill the bag.

As I was driving away I felt something at the bottom of the bag. It was a teddy bear in a plastic baggie. A pink bear. For fuck’s sake.

Filed Under: Chicago, misc, popcult

Weathering

August 26, 2007 by Wendy

Hot dog! Hot damn! Summer is almost over, and I’ve been trying to make the most of it. Last weekend we went out to a drive-in theatre out in the boonies to see Superbad, partake of freaky dancing concession stand food, and take unauthorized photos. Did you know that you can’t take pictures at a drive-in, even when it is fabulously vintage and filled with all kinds of baffling retro curiosities? I guess the no-camera rule is to prevent people from recording bootleg video to sell to Armenia or wherever, but jeez, what a shame. Nobody busted on me back when I was taking (very bad) pictures of the screen during the free Tuesday night movie in Grant Park a few weeks ago, but I suppose there isn’t much of a demand for Douglas Sirk melodramas on the pirate DVD market, is there? Oh, and I also realized during our time at the drive-in that I do not know how to fully turn off the headlights on my car. Karen Black (my Subaru Forester) has “daytime running lights” that automatically click on when the car is in gear, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to disable them. This means I’ll never be able use my car to conduct nighttime espionage operations, and it also means that everyone who was watching The Bourne Ultimatum at the drive-in last weekend totally hates me for leaving halfway through. Er, sorry about that. But really, that movie was just a tad too intricate to watch through a windshield. I require broad comedy and garish camp classics for all my outdoor cinema needs, please!

We fared okay during the big storms on Thursday night. We were pretty lucky in that we didn’t lose power and we managed to avoid getting fried by lightning or flattened by falling trees. It was a hell of a night to do a reading, though. I slogged my way home from work through broken traffic lights, and then Chris drove me to the coffeehouse, which involved driving around downed branches and changing course several times in order to avoid those extra-fun flooded viaducts along Ravenswood Avenue. (I don’t know if they got as bad as this, but we weren’t going to take our chances.) My reading was decidedly enhanced by the chainsaw noise from outside as workers tried to dismantle a downed tree across the street.

It was a strange night. I’d heard some neighborhoods were hit pretty hard, but it wasn’t until this weekend that I found out that my friend Jenni Prokopy and her husband lost their home on Thursday when the roof of their building was torn off. I met Jenni about a decade ago at some networking event thingy that was pretty awful except for the fact that I got to smoke cigarettes with her, and I subscribed to her zine, and then years and years later we found ourselves at the same party. She’s done some great things with Chronic Babe, a site worth supporting even in non-disaster times, and any help or good energy you can send her way right now will be appreciated.

Now for more coffee. And really, if anyone knows how to shut the lights off in a damn Forester, let me know. I mean, it’s not that important, but what if I want to go on stakeout? Or what if I’m in a teen movie and need to commit elaborate late-night car-related pranks or other shenanigans? It sure would come in handy.

Filed Under: Chicago, misc, personal, popcult

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The Wilder Life on Flickr

Recent Press and Links

  • Essay: A Little House Adulthood For the American Masters documentary on Laura Ingalls Wilder, I contributed a piece to the PBS website about revisiting the Little House books.
  • Essay: The Christmas Tape (At Longreads.com) How an old audio tape of holiday music became a record of family history, unspoken rituals, and grief.
  • Q & A With Wendy McClure Publishers Weekly interview about editing, Wanderville and more.

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Where else to find Wendy

  • Candyboots Home of the Weight Watcher recipe cards
  • Malcolm Jameson Site (in progress) about my great-grandfather, a Golden Age sci-fi writer.
  • That Side of the Family My semi-secret family history blog
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