Growing up in Vienna during the Great Sausage Famine, it was out of pure necessity that my family developed a very strong tradition of telling stories around the fire. And, because we did not have a fireplace, most of those stories were about how to escape a burning building.

Still, it’s a rather substantive leap from coughing out a narrative as you crawl on your hands and knees toward the nearest exit to actually writing a book. And, thus, it took me years before I would finally get around to doing just that. I would first need both a good story to tell and the motivation to tell it.

The latter would come as I was lounging around my luxurious mansion taking account of what items I might like to purchase that day with some of the many millions of dollars I’ve earned over the years as founder and president of the National Center for Unsolicited Advice. I compiled a list of goods that included a pound of peanut butter nougat-flavored coffee beans, a new Mayan swimsuit calendar, and a boxed set featuring the best of Celtic banjo music. And where would I find all these items? Why at a bookstore, of course.

It was while strolling through my friendly neighborhood bookstore, searching through the calendar section, that I spied, high upon one of the many shelves of books, a very conspicuous empty slot. Needless to say I was appalled and it occurred to me rather immediately that someone needed to write something quickly in order to fill that awful black hole of booklessness. And that person, I decided, should be Nathaniel Hawthorne. I then remembered that Nathaniel Hawthorne is dead, so I quickly undecided and then redecided that I would be the one to step up and do all that was necessary to rid that poor shelf of its awful void.

I had my motivation but did I have a story to tell and, more importantly, would my story be worthy of that coveted slot between War and Peace and Wart Removal For Dummies? After all, the last thing I wanted was to write a book that would find itself lying on a table beneath a sign reading, “Books for under three dollars” or” Books: twelve cents a pound” or “Free kindling.” Actually the last thing I wanted was to be eaten alive by a swarm of larger-than-average ants. Still, authoring an uninteresting book was fairly high on the list of things I did not want to happen.

Before writing a single word I would have to make certain that I had a story that would grab readers by the throat and . . . shake them vigorously resulting in an arrest for assault and a lengthy prison sentence during which time it would learn a trade (metallurgy, let’s say) and eventually be released on parole and become a productive member of society and perhaps write a book of its own, which it would promote on talk shows all over the country. That’s the kind of story I needed. But where would I find such a tale?

Well, as fate would have it, fate intervened on that fateful day. I drove home from the bookstore, the delightful aroma of peanut butter nougat filling the car as Celtic banjo music tested the very limits of the sound system. Upon my arrival, I opened my mailbox. Tucked between yet another request for money from Rutherford, my evil step twin, and a coupon for $1 off on a pizza made entirely of cheese, I was delighted to find a postcard featuring a photo of the World’s Largest Hat. Flipping the postcard over to its non-giant-hat side, I saw that it was from my good friend, Ethan Cheeseman.

An old college chum from Southwestern North Dakota State University, I hadn’t heard from Ethan in many years. While I was building an empire of unsolicited advice, he and his lovely wife, Olivia, were busy having children and working on perfecting his many brilliant inventions.

As I read his words I soon realized that my good fortune was Ethan’s worst nightmare. I was shocked and devastated to learn that Olivia had been murdered by evil villains (for my money, the worst kind of villains), forcing Ethan and his three smart, polite, attractive and relatively odor-free children to go on the run. If something should happen to him or to the children, he wanted to make sure his story was told. I was honored that he had entrusted that duty to his old friend, Bertie, as I was known in those heady days at good old SWNDSU.

I began receiving postcards on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or five per week, each one relaying in detail Ethan’s desperate attempt to stay one step ahead of an ever-growing number of pursuers while he worked to perfect his greatest invention; one he hoped could be used to save the life of the woman he and his children loved so dearly.

And so I began the arduous task of turning a ton of postcards and letters (which may weigh the same as a ton of bricks but takes up a lot more room) into A Whole Nother Story. My progress was slow. You see, unlike most writers today, I do not use a computer. I write the old fashioned way; on the walls of caves. (Unlike computers, they rarely crash.) Using a blend of seven different berries smooshed together, the end result is, perhaps, the only book you will ever read that is made with 10% real fruit juice. In addition to being rich in vitamins A and C, it is my hope that it is also the story I had been looking for; one that will grab readers by the throat or, at the very least, tap them on the shoulder and say, “Psst, up here.”

Dr. Cuthbert Soup was born in Vienna, Austria at the height of the Great Sausage Famine. At 23 he dropped out of high school and moved to New York City where he landed a gig playing elevator music. He was soon fired, however, as his trombone kept smacking other people in the elevator. Six years later, with not a penny to his name, his changed his name to Delvin but quickly changed it back again and opened the National Center for Unsolicited Advice. Since then, he has served as an unofficial advisor to CEOs, religious leaders and heads of state and has given countless inspirational lectures to unsuspecting crowds. In his spare time he enjoys cajoling, sneering and practicing the trombone in crowded areas. Dr. Soup currently resides in a semi-secret location somewhere in the United States. A Whole Nother Story is his first book; its companion, A Whole Nother Whole Nother Story, will be released in January 2011. www.awholenotherbook.com

In 1962 I turned 14. It was the year that West Side Story won the Academy Award for Best Picture, the Beatles’ first record was released in England, astronaut Scott Carpenter orbited the earth three times in a space capsule, Marilyn Monroe died from an overdose of sleeping pills and James Meredith became the first black person to register at the University of Mississippi.

But for me, more than anything else, 1962 was about the Cuban missile crisis. On October 14 a U.S. spy plane flying over Cuba took photos of the installation of Soviet nuclear weapons. The United States demanded they be removed immediately; the Soviet Union would not back down. The administration of President John F. Kennedy did not make this news public until the evening of October 22, when JFK himself went on television to announce to the nation that warheads were being built in Cuba that could reach as far as Canada. In other words, the world was on the brink of a nuclear war.

For seven days we lived in a state of panic, listening for the sound of planes from nearby Scott Air Force Base, discussing who had bomb shelters and whether a hole in the ground would really protect you, picking at our dinners while watching somber television newscasters who seemed scared to death themselves. Finally, on Sunday morning we could breathe again: A deal had been brokered with Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev and the missiles were being dismantled. Looking back, I think of that week as the end of my childhood.

We were certain that the nuclear age meant we were the end of the line, the last children on earth.

One of my strongest memories from those days is walking downtown with two girlfriends after school. We had lost our usual interest in checking out record albums or new lipstick shades at Kresge’s and were just wandering aimlessly, talking about the bizarre fact that we no longer expected to grow up. We would not, we firmly believed, live to be old enough to marry and have children as the generations before us had done. We were certain that the nuclear age meant we were the end of the line, the last children on earth.

We spoke of it as a fait accompli, and I don’t think we were particularly emotional about it. Certainly there were no tears. But I remember feeling as if my head would explode with this new information I was being forced to accept. The possibilities that lay ahead were so terrible that I couldn’t claim them for myself. I couldn’t weep for my own loss when there might be no future for anyone.

There are moments like this for all of us when the knowledge of how brief and unpredictable human life is seems unbearable. We begin to ask ourselves, What is life for? As a teenager, my thoughts were more along the lines of, “Why did I spend every night this week studying for that algebra test? What difference does it make whether I go to bed at nine o’clock or stay up until midnight? I might as well eat as much ice cream as I want because nothing matters anymore!”

But the world did not end. A few weeks later my friends and I were once again practicing the Twist in our bedrooms, trying on lipsticks and giggling over boys we were afraid to speak to. And yet, as I recall it, our laughter was no longer so deep or so satisfying; it was loud and forced and sassy because we were no longer sure why we were laughing. The world didn’t belong to us anymore. We could pretend it did, but we knew the truth now, whether we wanted to or not. It was all beyond our control.

Growing up means understanding that the world affects you more than you affect the world. It’s not an agreeable lesson to learn, but if we are to leave behind the self-centeredness of childhood, it is a necessary lesson. After the Cuban missile crisis I began to question my parents, and then to question science, and then to question God. Because if 14-year-olds can be annihilated in the blink of an eye, they want to know why.

I had been thinking for a while that I wanted to write a novel that took place in the early 1960s, during the years I was in high school. Those years were full of poignancy for me: the missile crisis, the assassination of JFK, my own first disastrous attempt to fall in love. I wanted to set the novel in the very place I remembered, a small town in southern Illinois, near the Air Force base, behind the neighborhood grocery store that my parents owned.

But my best memories of life at the store seemed to be about my earlier years there, when a pack of neighborhood kids ran up and down the alley, played ball on the side street and rode bikes out into the countryside. Ten had been a perfect age for me. Boys could be friends, I could eat as many Fudgsicles as I wanted, and the highlight of the month was the day my new Mad magazine arrived.

So I decided that for This Means War! I would be both ages. Juliet, the main character, would be sort-of-me at age 10, and her sister Caroline would be sort-of-me at age 14. In fact, I lifted many truths from that old neighborhood, right down to the name of Mrs. Shepard’s dog, Boneguard. My father was a butcher and he did forbid me ever to go into a supermarket, and his store did eventually go out of business due to the competition down the block. My parents both worked long hours in the store and I resented it and felt lonely, but I loved being able to raid that candy counter as I walked out the door.

In my neighborhood there were often boys-against-the-girls spats, and that seemed useful to my story in terms of a metaphor for the larger war that threatened. The kids whose parents worked at Scott Air Force Base cycled in and out of our school system, staying only a year or two at a time, but bringing with them the mystery of foreign places and the slightly sad romance of having no real home. I had a friend like Juliet’s friend Patsy who I worshiped for her strength and confidence during the year she lived in town, and who I’ve never forgotten, though once she moved I never saw her again.

I am 62 now and my parents are gone. I don’t go back to Belleville, Illinois, much anymore. But I loved visiting it in the book, the alley owned by the neighborhood kids and their bicycles, the old dog pen where we kept the returnable soda bottles, the customers just the other side of the screen door from our house. I even liked remembering how real life sneaked up on us in our little town and made us part of a larger world. It was the beginning for me of looking life straight in the eye and not taking any of it for granted.

This book started out with a story my mom liked to tell about her childhood. She grew up in New Jersey with her mother and maternal grandparents. Her grandmother (Nana) was from Key West, Florida. During the summers, Nana would take my mom to Key West to visit relatives there. My mom didn’t really like going to Key West. It was a long drive by car, and Key West in July is hot and sticky and people didn’t have air conditioning back then like they do now. But strangest of all to my mom was what her mother told her to do in Key West: she was to “shake out her shoes” before she put them on. My mom didn’t know why her mother wanted her to do this, but she did it anyway. And then one day, she shook her shoes and out popped… a scorpion!

Writing Turtle in Paradise was a wonderful way to reconnect with my Key West heritage. My great-grandmother, Jennie Lewin Peck, emigrated from the Bahamas to Key West at the turn of the century. She considered herself a “Conch,” what the local Key West folks called themselves, after the native mollusk that so many fished for in the Bahamas. Nana was always talking about how she missed sugar apple ice cream and Spanish limes. When my editor, Shana Corey, started asking me about Nana and my Key West family, I just knew that there was a story somewhere in there.

Researching this book was also an interesting way to experience a different side of living through the Great Depression. While Key West suffered significant economic hardship (the town went bankrupt and the majority of the citizens were on economic relief), it didn’t have the same sort of feel as most of the depression stories I was used to hearing—soup lines, tent cities and the Dust Bowl. Key West was warm for one thing, and there was plenty of free food, courtesy of the sea; one man told me he ate lobster during the Depression! Key West was a freewheeling town full of characters and bygone industries—sponge fishing, rumrunners and, of course, pirates! It had all the ingredients for a fabulous setting.

The main character, Turtle, grew out of my fascination with Shirley Temple. To be blunt, I never really liked Shirley Temple, even when I was a kid. She was so perfect—those ringlet curls! That smile! And she could tap-dance! (Have I mentioned I was “asked” to leave ballet class when I was six?). Needless to say, Turtle shares my opinion of Shirley Temple. She’s tough and scrappy and has seen it all with her single mother.

Turtle’s mom gets a job as a live-in housekeeper and the new boss doesn’t like kids, so poor Turtle is sent to Key West to live with family she’s never met. Suddenly, Turtle is thrust into a hot, strange place full of rumors of pirate treasure and ornery boy cousins with funny nicknames. Does Turtle get a Hollywood ending like Shirley Temple? Well, you’ll have to read Turtle in Paradise to find out.

And if you happen to go to Key West, take my advice: shake out your shoes!

By Kristin Tubb

Growing up, I once told my father that I wanted to “own NASA.” Monetary and logistical issues aside, this seemed like an excellent career path to pursue. Space shuttles! Space stations! And, well . . . Space!

It was with much regret that I left this dream behind, and focused instead on the more realistic dream of studying to become an Aerospace Engineer at Auburn University. Alas, this was not to be my calling, either, as I consistently fell asleep during my classes and while reading my textbooks. (I took this as a sign. Rightfully so.)

Many years and numerous job changes later, I found myself nodding eagerly when editor Kathryn Knight at Dalmatian Press asked me to write an elementary-school-age activity book about space.

“It’ll be the universe, in 64 pages,” she said. I might’ve squealed.

I am terrible at arts and crafts. Seriously. When my daughter needed a toga for Roman Week, I outsourced it to a tailor. (She said, “But Michaela, I’m just sewing some armholes in a sheet.” I was too mesmerized by her skill to speak.) I lived in fear of my kids’ class projects. Dioramas—I’d rather die. Posters? Pose too many challenges for me. So when my third grader told me that she had to choose a famous person for “Living Biography Day,” my antenna went up. What exactly was required? Some research. No problem. A short paper, check. Oh and I have to dress up like that person—KLANG KLANG Warning Bells. I hate costumes (don’t even ask about Halloween).

“Hmm,” I said, “what about Amelia Earhart?” I knew I could manage a leather jacket, a long white scarf and goggles. “OK,” my daughter shrugged. But things are never that easy. She came home that night, looking very sad. “What happened?” I asked. “Five other kids wanted Amelia Earhart!” Ah, I thought, I am not alone! “So who did you get?” I asked. “Louis Braille,” she said in a wail. (I ended up dressing her in a white button-up shirt, sunglasses and a purple beret—she looked like Tom Cruise in Risky Business—but by that point I was past caring!)

A few weeks later I was visiting my mom. I told her the story, hoping for sympathy. She laughed and said, “You should have suggested she do Beryl Markham.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Don’t you remember?” She went unerringly to the spot on the bookcase where West With the Night was. (My mother is irritating that way—I could never put my hand on a specific book without a 20-minute fruitless search.) It looked familiar. I opened to the cover page and saw an inscription from me to Mom, “To the next famous aviator.”

I had given Mom the book in 1987 when she got her pilot’s license. My mom did stuff like that. When I was in high school she applied to NASA to be an astronaut. When she decided to fly, she got her license within a year and enrolled my little brother in the Civil Air Patrol (she’s a lieutenant colonel now). Beryl Markham’s exciting memoir was the perfect gift to celebrate her accomplishment.

I started reading it for the first time and was absolutely blown away. Beryl was amazing. I loved her matter-of-fact approach to risking her life and the wonderful language she used to describe it.

“You know,” Mom said, “Beryl would make a good book. Maybe a biography.”

I agreed, especially since I discovered that there were only two old biographies of Beryl for kids and both felt very dated. In my naïveté, I said, “How hard can it be to write a biography?”

As it turns out, biography is not easy at all. I thought with my research skills, it would be a snap. I thought I would tell her story in a nonfiction way but intersperse the narrative with stories from her life. Well, to my surprise, the nonfiction was a total dud. The only part I liked (and the only part that was any good at all!) was the stories. My writing teacher, Patricia Reilly Giff (a lady who knows more than a little about storytelling!), finally suggested I stop fighting the fiction. “Write the story you love,” she said.

It was good advice. And several years later Promise the Night is about to hit the shelves. I wrote the parts of Beryl’s life that were the most exciting: the lion hunts, the sadistic governess, sneaking out into the African night looking for adventure, not to mention the mean girls at boarding school. I started with a girl who was brave but vulnerable. I explored how she grew into herself and into the woman who would set records in a flimsy flying machine.

And it all happened because I don’t know how to sew a costume.

Once, several years ago, I went to listen to a lecture on writing children’s fiction. There I was told that main characters in children’s books should always be more special than those around them. Orphans must be plucky. Protagonists must have secret royal blood, be the long-lost heir to something-or-other, or be half elf, half Greek god or all alien. Even those that might seem rather normal at first must be destined for greatness, or at least have more gumption and be able to overcome greater odds than the average everyday type. They must be heroes ready to answer the call and start on a hero’s journey. Above all else, the main character of a children’s book must never ever ever be ordinary.

The implication of this is simple. Ordinary characters don’t have stories worth telling. And this bothered me for a very simple reason. I’m quite ordinary myself.

I’ve been ordinary ever since I was a short, plain and moderately dorky child. And my ordinariness was made to seem even more ordinary (if this is possible) by the fact that I had two older sisters who are utterly amazing. One (dubbed “the super genius” by my neighbor) speaks four languages fluently, is proficient in several others, and has the uncanny ability to practically absorb everything she’s ever read. I’ve never had any understanding of how she does what she does—and I’ve certainly never had any hope of doing it myself. If she were a main character in a book, she’d be a super spy, a beloved headmistress, or the solver of complex ciphers.

My other sister (dubbed “the supermodel” by the same neighbor) is tall, athletic, photogenic and indescribably cool. Once, when I was a freshman in high school, and she was a senior, she refused to let the student council (which she was a member of, naturally enough) count the votes that might have led to her nomination as prom queen. She didn’t want to be prom queen. She had better things to do with her time. It was in that moment (oh, who am I kidding—it was in that moment and many more just like it) that I realized just how impossible it would be for me to ever live up to the example she’d set. If she were a main character in a book, she’d be a duly elected queen, the leader of a revolution, or the romantic lead.

And then there is me—the ordinary one. I was a middle-of-the-road student who started my non-illustrious academic career by flunking kindergarten.  I was never particularly popular or unpopular. And I was involved in a number of activities (softball, volleyball, band, theater, mock trial and so forth), but I was never a standout at any of them. In short—according to the theories being put forth in that lecture on writing children’s literature—I wasn’t main character material.

But here’s the thing: We are all the protagonists of our own lives. I may have been a deeply mediocre child, but my childhood wasn’t dull, horrible or tragically lacking. It was filled with all of the wonderful elements of everyday drama. There was ordinary joy, heartbreak, frustrations and anticipation.  There was conflict, hope, disappointment and resolution. Ordinary doesn’t equal boring. And as for my sisters—I adore them—but not particularly for their extraordinary qualities. Instead, when I’m thinking of our best times, I think about a millions of ordinary moments I had with them—watching TV together, getting donuts after school, fighting over the bathroom, playing hide-and-seek with the other kids in the neighborhood, and going to the library together.

And I think that ordinariness is actually the element in fiction that is often overlooked and underrated. For example, it’s all well and good that Harry Potter is “the boy who lived,” a wizard and the only one who can save the world from Lord Voldemort, but I don’t think this is what most people love about the story. What makes Harry memorable is all of his ordinary characteristics: his friendship with Ron and Hermione, his frustrations with schoolwork and rules, his interactions with the other students at Hogwarts, his minor triumphs and his embarrassments. In short, it’s all of the ways he seems just like any ordinary kid you might know.

And all of this brings me to how I came to write Remarkable. After leaving the lecture, I decided it was high time someone wrote a story about an ordinary protagonist who doesn’t discover that she is deeply exceptional in some way. Instead, by the end of the story, this protagonist would learn to appreciate her own ordinariness. And since everyone else around her is exceptional (and some of them are struggling mightily with very qualities that make them exceptional), she’d start to realize that that extraordinariness isn’t a necessary quality to having a worthwhile life.

Not every story—real or imagined—has to have a heroic journey. Not every protagonist has to be exceptional. The fiction-writing rules that say otherwise aren’t rules we need to live by. There is enough delight and drama in the ordinary for millions of fantastic tales.

In Lizzie K. Foley's debut novel for young readers, Remarkable, young Jane Doe must find ways to make herself stand out in a town where everyone is extraordinarily talented or extraordinarily gifted. Foley, who holds a master's degree in education from Harvard and taught women's studies at Northeastern University, lives in Montclair, New Jersey.

On the heels of his multiple-award-winning 2012 release, Bomb: The Race to Build—And Steal—The World’s Most Dangerous Weapon, author Steve Sheinkin returns with another thrilling true-life story pulled from the pages of history. In Lincoln’s Grave Robbers, the former history textbook writer unravels the details of a 19th-century plot to steal Abraham Lincoln’s body from the grave and hold it for ransom. Sheinkin—who won the Sibert Medal, a Newbery Honor, a YALSA Award and a spot as a National Book Award finalist for Bomb—explains here why his latest true story of cops and robbers, counterfeiters, body-snatchers and the Secret Service is sure to catch the attention of young readers.

One of my recent school visits was not going well. The students hadn’t heard of me, hadn’t read my books, weren’t buying my whole “history is cool,” premise. I was losing them. So naturally I started talking about cannibalism.

One of my books tells the tale of the Donner Party. I read the section and asked kids to imagine themselves stuck high in the snowy Sierra Nevada, facing starvation, with no hope of rescue. Would they kill one of their fellow pioneers for food? If one died of cold and hunger, would they roast and eat the flesh to keep themselves alive? 

They all had opinions (most along the lines of “No way!). Best of all, I had their attention. And the experience gave me a great idea for testing potential subjects for future books. I picture myself standing in front of a room full of students. They’re staring at me. They’re waiting to see if I’m going to be boring. I imagine myself telling them the story in my book, and watch their reaction. Are they intrigued? Most of them, at least? If so, the idea has a chance.

As soon as I started researching the story behind my new book, Lincoln’s Grave Robbers, I knew it had a good shot to pass the test. Basically, it’s a true crime thriller about a bunch of Midwest counterfeiters who decide it would be a good idea to steal Abraham Lincoln’s corpse. This was 1876, eleven years after Lincoln’s death, and the gang was desperate to get their best engraver out of the state pen. Their plan: bust into the Lincoln Monument in Springfield, steal the body, stash it under a bridge, and refuse to give it back unless the government lets their partner out of jail. And the most amazing thing of all is how close this crazy-sounding scheme came to working.

It’s so bizarre, kids accuse me of having made it up. But on top of the priceless plot, what makes this story great from a nonfiction writer’s point of view is that the sources are so rich. The main lawman in the story, Secret Service agent Patrick Tyrrell, took extensive notes on all his cases. He was busy chasing counterfeiters (that’s what the Secret Service was formed to do) when he stumbled onto the Lincoln plot. You can almost see the plot unfolding as you read his detailed daily notes.

And there’s John Carroll Power, the 57-year-old custodian of the Lincoln Monument. He was hired to keep the place neat, but the man was obsessed with Lincoln, and created his own mini

Lincoln museum for tourists (his prized possession: a bloody strip of fabric from the dress of an actress who cradled Lincoln’s head moments after he was shot at Ford’s Theater). Protecting Lincoln was more than a job to Power, it was a calling. He was there night of the break-in, saw everything, and, wrote a whole book about it.

Many of the main characters (including the body snatchers) gave interviews to the newspapers, and, incredibly, there was even a Chicago Tribune reporter lurking around the monument the night of the attempted theft. He’d been tipped off that something big was going to happen, and was able to write an eyewitness account of the showdown between cops and robbers.

I should add, for anyone interested in recreating the robbery, Lincoln is no longer in the monument. After the 1876 attempt, his body was placed in a deep hole beside the monument and covered in concrete. But first—in another detail kids seem to love—his friends decided they’d better open the casket just to make sure he was still in there. They hired a Springfield plumber to carefully cut open the lead casket and peel back the soft metal. And there, inside, was the 16th president, looking, friends said, just “like a statue of himself.” Turns out the embalmers at the White House had done such an amazing job, the body was still perfectly preserved all those years later.

Okay, this whole Lincoln grave-robbing thing may not appear on any standardized test; it’s not something kids need to know. But it was a fun story to research and write, and I hope it’ll be fun to read. And besides, when school visits get tough, it’s good to be able to talk about stealing corpses.

Shirley Parenteau's new book for young readers tells the remarkable story of 11-year-old Lexie Lewis. It's 1926, and her class has been raising money to ship a doll to the children of Japan. Lexie dreams of accompanying the doll to the farewell ceremony in San Francisco. This warm novel is based on real events that occurred before World War II, when American children sent more than 12,000 dolls to Japan. In a Behind the Book essay, Parenteau shares the astounding and long-forgotten history of the Friendship Dolls program.

Imagine children all across 1926 America donating pennies to buy dolls for children in Japan. Imagine 12,739 dolls traveling with passports, visas and introductory letters, being greeted by children in Japan with celebration and ceremony.

The story is true, but was lost with most of the dolls in the tumult of World War II.

When I learned of the Friendship Dolls, I was looking for inspiration for a new picture book. I had written one called Bears on Chairs, adorably illustrated by David Walker, which is so popular in a Japanese translation that the bears in the book are now available there as plush toys and other items. I had a greater personal connection with Japan through my daughter-in-law Miwa, who is from Fukuoka.

When Miwa and my son took their daughter to the Girls' Day Festival, or Hinamatsuri, I was intrigued by their photos. Wondering if I could write a picture book about the festival celebrated with treasured dolls, I researched online. One source linked to this website and revealed an amazing story—the Friendship Dolls of 1926.

The project was the inspiration of Dr. Sidney Gulick, a teacher-missionary who had retired after working in Japan for 30 years. Fearing war might break out between the United States and Japan—two countries he loved—he urged American children to send dolls to children in Japan for Hinamatsuri.

All across America, children responded, emptying piggy banks and holding fundraisers. In return, donations from Japanese children allowed their finest dollmakers to create 58 large dolls to send to America. Each wore a kimono in a pattern designed by the empress’ own dressmaker and traveled with tiny accessories as examples of their culture.

Children in both countries continued to exchange letters, but sadly the Friendship Project could not prevent World War II. Fourteen years later, Japanese planes bombed U.S. ships in Pearl Harbor. The dolls became symbols of the enemy in both countries. In America, they were stuffed into storage. In Japan, they were ordered to be destroyed. Of those that survived, many were shattered during U.S. bombings.

I longed to tell this lost story through the eyes of an American girl and to set the book in Portland because I grew up on the northern Oregon coast. A second novel, Dolls of Hope (2015), will tell the story of the dolls from the viewpoint of a girl in Japan.

Happily, many of the surviving dolls have been recovered, beginning in the '70s. About 300 of the 12,000-plus dolls sent to Japan and hidden at great personal risk during the war years are on display. In America, 46 of the 58 Japanese dolls have been located. A list of 38 which can be seen in museums, along with their locations, is here.

In the past 15 years or so, children, communities and organizations in both countries have again begun exchanging dolls.

I wrote Ship of Dolls and Dolls of Hope to celebrate the unquenchable hope of children for international friendship and peace.

Science is far from serious in Frank Einstein and the Antimatter Motor, the first in a new series from Jon Scieszka and Brian Biggs. Take one kid genius, add two hilarious robots and an archnemesis with a doomsday plan, and you've got the perfect blend of imagination and invention. But with so much hilarity and adventure, how do you choose a favorite scene? We put Scieszka and Biggs to the test.

Jon Scieszka, author

Would it be cheating to say I have two favorite scenes from this first Frank Einstein book? Oh, good. I didn't hear anyone say no. So—my first favorite scene is when Frank first meets the self-assembled robots Klink and Klank. Because we, the readers, get to meet the robots with the same realization Frank has—that these two can help figure out/invent almost anything. Then Klank tells a pretty lame knock-knock joke. That drives Klink nuts. And Frank also realizes that these robots are a bit crazy too.

And my other favorite scene is when Frank and his pal Watson meet the evil kid genius, T. Edison, for the first time. They are all in Frank's Grampa Al's Fix It! repair shop. Edison introduces his sidekick and chief financial officer, Mr. Chimp. I don't want to give away too much, but Mr. Chimp's name is a pretty big clue that Mr. Chimp is . . . an actual chimpanzee. Mr. Chimp has taught himself sign language, accounting, jet engine repair and plenty more skills that we’ll find out about in books one through six.

Oh, and my other favorite scene is when Klank attacks Edison’s Antimatter Squirt Gun. This thing is powerful enough to destroy Einstein and Watson and both robots. And though Klank isn't the smartest robot in the world, he does have the biggest robot heart. And Brian's illustrations show exactly what happens.

Ooo ooo oooo and then every scientific diagram is a favorite scene of mine too! As part of the story, Brian and I get to show atomic structure, antimatter, fingerprints, eyeballs, E = mc² and cows producing methane gas . . .

Brian Biggs, illustrator

Being asked to describe my favorite scene from Frank Einstein and the Antimatter Motor is kind of hard. There are about a million really fun scenes in the book, and if Jon does one thing well (and he actually does eleven things well), it’s creating scenes in his stories that are fun to illustrate.

Would it be the scene at the beginning of the book where Frank and Watson are trying to build their first robot during a thunderstorm? The dramatic lighting, the maniacal laughter, the all-important introduction to the world of Frank certainly made this scene a good one.

Hmm. Maybe it was the scene at the end that takes place in a giant factory where one of the robots, Klank, has hugged a huge, pink Antimatter Squirt Gun until he and the Squirt Gun explode in a humongous, colorful BLAM! Or maybe it was the small diagram in chapter seven depicting a cow fart. It was sort of hysterical the day that I had to research this drawing and learn all I could about cow methane.

But actually, my favorite scene in the book, as well as my favorite scene that I got to draw, is none of these. When I read Jon’s description of the moment we meet Frank’s nemesis, T. Edison, as he hides behind the old phonograph (a Thomas Edison invention, natch!), and then his ape cohort, Mr. Chimp, climbs down and joins him, I knew that this scene was going to be a joy to compose and create. I’d done some creepy character sketches for T. Edison showing his shifty eyes, weird mouth, and matted hair, and I’d hoped I’d have a chance to use these, and I did. Mr. Chimp is creepy in his own evil-sneer and barefoot way. He’s actually my favorite character in the series, and I knew that this drawing had to get everything about Mr. Chimp and T. Edison across.

In addition to the characters in this scene, I loved drawing Grampa Al’s Fix It! repair shop in the background. You may not know this about me, but I love details. As Jon wrote the book, I often felt like he was writing it only for me to draw. Frank’s science lab and Grampa Al’s shop are full of old musical instruments, unused appliances, broken clocks, funny contraptions, nuts, bolts and unusual tools, and it was fun to both draw the stuff that Jon described but also add my own layer. The red fan on the left is actually a fan I have in my studio, for example.

Bringing all these elements together still would not have worked without getting the mood right in this illustration. T. Edison and Mr. Chimp are really mean guys. They’re threatening to repossess Grandpa’s shop here. The light is coming in from behind, casting a dark shadow across both characters. I hadn’t had the chance to work with light and shadow much before Frank Einstein, and it was a lot of fun to bring this into the drawings, setting the tone for these two characters and their conflict with Frank that will take place over the six books in the series.

Illustrations © 2014 by Brian Biggs. Reprinted by permission of Abrams Books for Young Readers.

In the summer of 1859, a recently orphaned girl named Nell arrives on the doorstep of her Aunt Kitty, whose "pickled onion" face offers her sorrowful niece a less-than-warm welcome. But when Nell discovers her aunt is a detective for Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, the two end up tracking down thieves and murderers in this fun historical tale.

The character of Aunt Kitty is based on real-life Kate Warne, the first female detective in the United States. Chicago author and former journalist Kate Hannigan shares more about the exciting real-life figure at the heart of her new book, The Detective's Assistant.

Researching and writing The Detective’s Assistant has been a giddy, wind-in-the-hair thrill since the moment I stumbled onto Kate Warne’s name. Really it was just a single sentence about her while researching another story from the same year, 1856, but the moment I read about her I knew I had to learn more. America’s first woman detective? And she had a role in thwarting an assassination plot against Abraham Lincoln?

Her story begins when, as a young widow, she walked into Allan Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency office in downtown Chicago and inquired about a job. Pinkerton wrote that he’d assumed she was there for a secretarial position, but that she gave excellent reasons why he should hire her as a detective.

“True, it was the first experiment of the sort that had ever been tried,” Pinkerton said, “but we live in a progressive age, and in a progressive country.”

He hired her the next day, convinced that she could go, as she said, where no male detectives could by befriending the wives and girlfriends of criminals and crooks and worming out their secrets.

One of the hazards of writing historical fiction is that records don’t always survive. Pinkerton was meticulous about documenting his accounts, his cases and his operatives, but Chicago’s Great Fire in 1871 wiped out much of his writings. So I relied on his detective books, penned later in his career and looking back on the agency’s early adventures.

Pinkerton described Kate Warne as a master of disguise and, along with Timothy Webster, one of the finest operatives he ever employed.

“As a detective, she had no superior,” Pinkerton wrote, “and she was a lady of such refinement, tact, and discretion, that I never hesitated to entrust to her some of my most difficult undertakings.”

Her most important case came in February 1861 after Abraham Lincoln was elected president and had to journey by train from Illinois to the White House. As the Lincoln Special chugged east, the nation was ripping in two. By the time the train was to pass through Baltimore, Pinkerton and his detectives had uncovered a plot to assassinate Lincoln before he could take the oath of office.

Pinkerton’s operatives had swarmed the Baltimore area, and Kate Warne assumed an alias and disguised herself as a Southern belle, befriending the wives and daughters of the Baltimore conspirators. Pinkerton called the information she gleaned “invaluable” and “of great benefit to me” as he made the case for President-Elect Lincoln to slip through Baltimore under cover of darkness rather than in broad daylight, as planned.

When Lincoln finally agreed to the plan, two operatives rode with him on the train, escorting him safely through Baltimore and into the history books: Pinkerton himself and Kate Warne.

This makes for gripping storytelling for history buffs and detective fans, but what about for young readers? I felt like Kate Warne’s story is one young girls should know. Too often it seems that tales of heroism and bravery are limited to one gender. In writing The Detective’s Assistant, I wanted to share the story of a real woman who was brave and bold, full of as much derring-do and confidence as the men of her time.

“Kate Warne felt sure she was going to win,” Pinkerton wrote. “She always felt so, and I never knew her to be beaten.”

Kate Hannigan writes fiction and nonfiction for young readers. She likes to think of writing as a bit like detective work, and she’s a great eavesdropper, though only occasionally is she full of derring-do. Visit her online at KateHannigan.com.

Author photo credit Warling Studios/Picture Day.