Childrens Book Synopsis and Excerpts
Patrick’s Problem
Patrick has a hobby. He collects things – all kinds of things. Soon, his bedroom is a disaster area, but Patrick can’t give up his prized possessions. Then, one day he gets the surprise of his life. His hobby has suddenly gotten out of control. And now, he has a problem. A big problem that’s getting bigger with every minute. And there’s no one to turn to.
See how Patrick deals with an accidental situation, and turns potential disaster into a positive experience.
Excerpt:
Patrick was a small boy with a big problem. But it wasn’t always this way.
In fact, life had been quite ordinary, and sometimes even boring, until Patrick decided to collect things.
At first, he wasn’t sure what he should collect and, since he didn’t know if there were any rules to collecting, he just began to collect all sorts of different things. Every time Patrick saw something he thought was neat, he would bring it home and start another collection.
Soon his bedroom was quite full.
On his desk he kept his bottle caps, elastic bands, wooden spools, baseball cards, bits of tar from when they were patching the road, and jars of snail shells and acorns and old discarded nuts and bolts that didn’t fit anything or each other.
His bookshelves were overflowing with rocks and stones, seashells and bird feathers, and sticks that resembled animals. Or at least to Patrick they did.
His walls were plastered with flags, posters, pizza advertisements, pictures clipped from newspapers and magazines, stamps, souvenir trinkets from places he had never been to, and ticket stubs from events he had never seen and from buses he had never taken.
His closet was full of broken hockey sticks, tennis racquets without strings, soccer balls with no air, toy soldiers, stuffed animals and at least a million pieces of Lego that he never played with anymore.
Finally, the only place left to put things in Patrick’s room was under the bed. This was where he kept his collection of unusual weed pods, insect cocoons and bird eggs, which was just as well, because it was a very large collection.
“Patrick, you’ve got to get rid of this rubbish,” his mom told him.
“I can’t!” Patrick protested. “This is my hobby. I need all this stuff!”
Pretty soon, his mom refused to go into his room anymore. Which, as it turned out, was a good thing.
What About Me?
Sally is convinced that her very large family isn’t even aware she exists. Unless she’s doing them a favour, that is. One day, deciding she may as well be completely invisible, she takes things into her own hands. In doing so, but without meaning to, her family learns a lesson in sharing and caring, and that people should never, ever take anybody for granted.
Excerpt:
Sally lived in a big house with her mum and dad, two big sisters, two big brothers, three dogs, two cats, a rabbit and several gerbils. There were so many people and animals and things going on that it was a good thing it was such a big house. But sometimes, because of all the people, and all the animals, and all the things going on, Sally felt invisible.
At mealtimes Sally sat sandwiched between her sisters, across the table from her brothers. All she ever saw was elbows as bowls of food were passed around the table and all she ever heard was the sound of voices as everyone talked around, across and over her.
No one ever talked to Sally, except to ask her to please pass the salt, or to eat with her mouth closed. No one ever asked Sally if she had had a good day or if she wanted some more peas or rolls or fruit salad.
When they were watching television no one ever asked Sally if she wanted to play baseball or soccer or skipping or tag.
When Sally’s mum and dad weren’t at work, they were always too busy driving Sally’s brothers and sisters to music lessons and dance classes and soccer practice and baseball games and birthday parties to take much notice of Sally.
In fact, it seemed that no one took much notice of Sally at all.
Not even the pets. The dogs were always sleeping on the porch or under the trees in the backyard. The cats were always sleeping on the windowsills or in the empty birdbath. The gerbils were always sleeping during the day, and the rabbit seemed content to stay in its cage. And sleep.
Sally didn’t know what to do about this.
Jeremy Gets a Job
Seven year old Jeremy is fed up with school and ready to move into the real world – the one with no rules, no boring routines and, best of all, no homework. His family, with quiet wisdom and unfailing patience, help him realise that school is not the only place that you can learn life’s lessons.
Excerpt:
Jeremy hated school.
Well, not all of school. He liked art and computer class and recess, and even gym. But he hated math, and reading, and writing, and especially homework.
“Work, work, work,” he grumbled to himself. “That’s all I ever do. And then they make me bring it home! Not fair!”
Jeremy wanted to play on his computer, watch television, and do stuff with his friends. And he wanted to do it whenever he decided to.
“I’m not going to school anymore,” he announced to his parents. “I don’t need to.”
His mom was washing the supper dishes, and his dad was fixing a broken drawer. Jeremy wished he were an adult. They never had homework.
“But you’re only seven!” his mom protested.
“I know everything I need to know,” Jeremy insisted. “I don’t need school anymore. It’s boring.”
“Well,” said his dad thoughtfully, “I suppose if you’re finished with school, then it’s time to get a job.” He put down his screwdriver and scratched his head. “Now, let’s see… what could you do?”
“Anything!” Jeremy told him.
“Well then, I guess you could work with me tomorrow,” his dad said. “I have a tight deadline. I could use some help.”
Jeremy’s dad was an artist. He illustrated children’s books and designed logos for big companies. And the best part was that he stayed home all day drawing pictures! Jeremy was excited about his first day as a grownup. Almost as excited as he was about not having to go to school anymore.
He got out his paper and pencils and markers. He was ready for anything. He was an artist.
“First,” said his dad, “We need to come up with character designs for this new manuscript. You do that while I work on the page layouts.”
“Sure!” Jeremy picked up his pencil. “What do they look like?”
“That’s for you to figure out after you read the story,” his dad told him.
Jeremy looked doubtfully at the pages in front of him. There were some words he couldn’t read. And there were a lot of pages.
“Er…yeah, okay,” Jeremy said. “No problem.”
All morning, Jeremy read. And drew. And yawned. After a while he put down his pencil.
“I’m bored,” he thought to himself.
He looked at his drawings. Everything looked the same. He couldn’t tell which character was which. He had almost stayed inside the lines when he coloured them. But somehow they just didn’t look as good as when his dad did it.
This wasn’t fun. This was hard.
This was work.
Uncle Jeremy
Seven year old Jeremy faces another situation he’s not sure he likes very much. This is the very real conundrum presented when suddenly you’re not the youngest in the family anymore. Is anybody really listening? So they even know that you’re still there? Does anybody care? Jeremy does.
Excerpt:
Ordinarily, Jeremy didn’t hate babies. He didn’t even really dislike them. He just didn’t even think about babies. And he certainly never said, “Ooh, what a cute baby!” the way his Mom did.
He couldn’t see what all the excitement was about. What was the point?
“What good are babies?” he complained. “What can they do?”
But this was no ordinary baby.
This was his brother, Josh’s, baby. And Josh’s wife, Sun-Li’s, baby. And somehow this was supposed to make him like it.
“You’re an uncle, now!” everyone told him. They sounded both pleased and excited when they said it, as though he should be also. “What do you think of your new nephew?”
Jeremy didn’t know what to say. He looked at the baby. Or what he could see of the baby. It was wrapped in a blanket and its face looked all scrunched up. It looks like E.T., he thought. That made him feel better. Not everyone had their own E.T.
“It’s okay,” he said at last. “I guess.”
But no one was listening anymore. They were all back looking at the baby and making dumb noises. Jeremy scowled, If he made dumb noises, his Mom would tell him to be quiet, he just knew it. He decided to test his theory.
“Whooeeee!” he yelled.
“Jeremy – shhh!” his mother said. “Be quiet, you’ll wake the baby!”
Now everyone was looking at him, but they didn’t look pleased, the way they did when they looked at the baby.
Just then, it woke up and began to cry and everyone turned back. Sun-Li picked the baby up and rocked it, making more dumb noises. And suddenly everyone joined in, all of them making even more dumb noises. They all ignored Jeremy.
Not fair! Jeremy thought to himself. Everyone gets to make dumb noises but me!
Now he was starting to dislike babies. Maybe not all babies, though. Maybe just this one.
Adult Short Story Synopsis and Excerpts
(First published in Miss Chatelaine Magazine)
Hello, Pleased to Meet You
As if dating didn’t come with its own set of problems, Kendra finds herself ambushed by a matchmaking dinner. But she’s not alone. Staring blankly across the table at her is Bernie, a guy she would never have anything in common with. And what’s worse, he looks just as uncomfortable and disenchanted as she is.
Excerpt:
“You’ll like Bernie.” How often had I heard that? “You’ve just got to meet him.. You’ve got so much in common!” Short red hair that won’t lie flat? Four cats? A lousy job? “He has a terrific personality!” There’s the tip-off. They only say that when they’ve run through every friend, distant cousin and acquaintance they can think of. Come to think of it, I don’t fit into any of those categories, so I’m the logical choice. “I just know you’ll love Bernie!”
Now, glaring across Honey’s dinner table at him, I not only didn’t love Bernie, I didn’t even like him. I was sure this feeling was mutual. I had the sinking suspicion that, just as I’d been promised Burt Reynolds, he must have been promised Raquel Welch. In fact, the only vague similarity I could find between this Bernie and the promised mythical Bernie is that they both had moustaches. And after all, walrus have moustaches too, don’t they?
“... pickles,” Honey Love was saying. Honey just naturally repeats everything 25 times in the course of a conversation, not because she doesn’t think people are intelligent enough to have understood her the first time, but because she knows that people rarely listen to her. “Have some, won’t you Kendra? You know,” she said, turning to Bernie, who was glaring at his wine glass, “Kendra makes her own pickles. She’s a real wonder!”
Yeah, a real little cook, I thought, grimacing inwardly. Bernie looked noncommittal and blinked at Honey over the candle flame.
So far, the only conversation between Bernie and me could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and that included, “Hello, pleased to meet you.” Which I’m sure neither of us was. Maybe he too was wondering how to plead a headache.
(Winner of the Toronto Star Short Story Contest)
The Dawning of Joanna
Joanna, housewife, mother, and everyone else’s dogs body, is sick and tired of her humdrum life, dreaming of taking the plunge into fame, fortune and everything they bring. And then, one night her husband tells her about a short story contest the newspaper is running. This, she knows, is her ticket out of drudgery and into the new life she sees for herself. If only she could just find the time, the means, and the motivation.
Excerpt:
Once, when Joanna was younger, she had wanted to be a writer. Not just a writer, or journalist, scribbler of unimportant events that no one would read until they had scoured the entire newspaper, complete with want ads and the stock reports (despite the fact that they didn’t really want anything, and hadn’t a clue what the stock reports were on about anyway – they were just there), and decided to give it one more shot before surrendering the whole works to the cat box. No, somehow she had always managed to imagine herself as something entirely different, a writer of importance, an author of note, a raconteur extraordinaire.
Even now, standing with her arms wrist deep in tepid, barely sudsy dishwater, fishing around for those last few spoons that she knew just had to be there somewhere, she could envision her future self accepting acclaim for her work, marathon sessions of autographing copies of her latest novel for adoring fans on a nationwide tour, co-chairing panels on the relevancy of Modern Fiction at major universities, accepting with grace and modesty the Pulitzer Prize for literature.
The Meaning of Life
Nothing in Elise’s life seems to be going right. She’s still single, lonely, unemployed, unhappy, and desperately looking for the meaning of her life. There are some things that don’t come with roadmaps, hints, or missives from God and that’s one of them. Fortunately, for Elise, things are about to change.
Excerpt:
It seemed that as far back as she could remember, Elise had been searching for the meaning of life. Not just any life – her life. Nothing had ever seemed to fit right, like a roadmap improperly refolded, or an item of clothing that looked terrific on the store dummy, and even on the hangers for that matter, but which developed a radical, unflattering style of its own the minute she put it on.
She couldn’t discern if it was hiding, lurking in shadows beyond the periphery of her consciousness, waiting to one day reveal itself to her, lunging from the darkness of ignorant obscurity into the light of day and proclaim, “Here I am! This is what you’ve always been looking for!”; or lost, like the city of Atlantis, a fabled creation of over-imaginative, disconcertingly errant and rather self-indulgent mythologists; or merely evading the truth. Whatever, it never seemed to be what she thought it might be, which led her to believe that perhaps she simply wasn’t looking in the right place, and if she put her mind to it she would eventually be able to roust it from its lair, beat the bushes until at last she could flush it out, claim it for her own. But where to begin? Somehow it didn’t seem that simple.
Being of a practical nature, she tried to define herself according to those elements that comprised her existence – family, career and social status. Being single, unemployed, and lodged firmly on the social ladder somewhere between nonentity and inconspicuous didn’t seem to her to be a good starting off point. After all, if life was a T.V. dinner on yet another lonely Saturday night, then the meaning was certainly lost on her, for surely, if this was life, it would at least come with instructions, neatly packaged and perhaps a party favour or two thrown in from time to time. If this was life, for Elise it meant endless Lean Cuisine with no dessert, but thank God for reruns.
Being of a methodical nature, she resorted to dictionaries, lexicons of knowledge, which she felt certain held a vast array of secrets if one was clever or determined enough to breach their portals. Life, according to Webster’s, was many things, none of which, either individually or amassed, seemed to satisfy the nagging impression that she still was in the dark, hadn’t quite gotten to the root of the dilemma.
Being of a studious nature, she consulted Bartlett’s, figuring that if anyone knew the secret of the meaning of life, it would be revealed in the quotes of famous authors and poets. For surely, if they hadn’t discovered it, then perhaps it didn’t exist. But that wasn’t much better. Everyone seemed to have a different idea, a slightly abstruse concept, but nothing terribly concrete, nothing you could really put your finger on and say, “Aha! That’s life!” Being a student of literature was no more enlightening, it seemed, than reading bubblegum cards.
What could this mean? Elise asked herself, slightly disappointed, as though she’d opened a surprise present to find the box empty. It looked as if she’d have to search it out herself, holding every experience, every thought, every perception up to the light, turn it this way and that, examine, peruse, dissect, compare, until she was convinced she had it, held it in the palm of her hand like the small fluttering body of some rare, nearly extinct bird. Only then would she be sure.
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