On Tuesday, my novel Ordinary Boy will hit bookstores (you can pick it up on Amazon as of today). It’s been a long time coming. About twenty-four years, give or take.

Let me explain. The story behind the book goes back to early 1991, when the news hit the hallways of my high school that two of our former classmates had been murdered by their stepfather. We had something like eight people die my senior year—car accidents, overdoses, the usual teenage fare—and I was getting a little tired of all the dying going on. But there was one detail about this spectacularly awful death that bothered me. According to the high school rumor mill, the boy my age (we’ll call him “K”) had been shot while hiding in his closet.

It was a detail that bothered me for years. So much so that twenty years later, when a paramedic at my old job mentioned his hobby was researching—ancestry, court cases, that kind of thing—the first thing I asked him was if he could find out what had happened to K’s killer. I knew the guy had been caught, but didn’t know much past that.

My paramedic came through. Besides reporting that the murderer had been sentenced to four consecutive life terms, he mentioned one small, monumentally important detail. K hadn’t been hiding in his closet at all. The rumor mill had gotten it wrong.

The weight of the world lifted off my shoulders that day. Wonderful news! I mean, sure, K was still dead, but no longer did he haunt my mind, crouching in the closet, holding his breath, hoping his stepfather’s wrath would pass him by. What a relief! All those years, I thought that poor kid was hiding . . . hmm. You know, that would make an interesting twist in a . . . oh, book, or something.

 So I started outlining a story about a kid growing up in the ’80s, trying to navigate his way through puberty, avoiding the school bully, making a friend and finding a girlfriend. I knew where it was heading. As much as I adored my main character, Curtis Price, his sense of humor and his vulnerability, things would not end well for our friend Curtis.

I didn’t know K well—I knew nothing about his hobbies, his friends, whom he dated, what kind of music he listened to, or what kind of car he drove. I’m certain Curtis resembles him not at all. The town, the details of his life, the neighborhood where he lived, the number of siblings he had, none of these remain the same in Ordinary Boy. But still, that sense of being an ordinary boy in an ordinary New England town who wasn’t really noticed until this one horrible thing happened—that came from K.

I can only hope I did all right by him.

“Reading Stacey Longo's Ordinary Boy is like opening presents on Christmas morning: the excitements of pathos, humor, terror, and surprise keep coming in this touching and relentlessly honest tale of growing up in small-town America. Longo is an original, and Curtis Price, the protagonist and narrator of her novel, is an inspired and wholly believable creation. Ordinary Boy sounds the depths of youth, adolescence, and young adulthood in a voice at once deft and ghostly and heartbreaking. Huck Finn, Nick Adams, Holden Caulfield—they all would've ‘got’ Curtis Price perfectly.” ~ David Daniel, author of Reunion and White Rabbit

Ordinary Boy is out now! You can buy it here: http://tinyurl.com/ordinaryboy

I love to read.
This should come as a surprise to exactly nobody. I think all writers should have an innate passion for the written word (and if you're a writer, and don't love to read, I'd recommend a new career, like accounting). My first word--scratch that, my fourth word, after "mama," "dada," and "doublestuforeo"--was "book." Early classics of my life as a reader include such fine tomes as Big Dog, Little Dog and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. And who could forget that fine literary masterpiece found in only the most expensive and elite of preschools, Hop on Pop? Yes, even from my youngest, diapered days, I was something of a book snob.
As I got older, I became acquainted with an unpleasant sensation that would stay with me my whole life. As a kid, I first chalked up this unpleasantness to spoiled milk or an especially sour pickle. Eventually, I recognized it for what it really was: book envy. Why did the other third grade class get to read Freckle Juice while I was stuck slogging through the uberdepressing Bridge to Terabithia? How was THAT fair? Why did my cousin Lori have more comic books than I did? And in fifth grade, I had it on good authority that Miss Bennett's class sometimes got to go to the library twice a week, while those of us stuck in the dregs of Mrs. Gustafson's class were only allowed one precious library visit a week, and only if we didn't throw a temper tantrum about how Miss Bennett's class got to go more than us. It felt like I never got to go!
I formed friendships based on book-swapping potential. In our younger years, the Bouchard twins had a fine selection of Sweet Pickles stories; as I headed to middle school, it was Carrie down the road who had an impressive collection of Sweet Valley High books. (My mother thought they were not worth the paper they were printed on, which made the adventures of the Wakefield twins all the more precious to get my hands on.) (Update: Mom was right.) Laura had a formidable stash of Dean Koontz, Meghan had an impressive true crime library, and if my friends were mad at me (fights that arose sometimes when they suspected I was using them for their books--fights I ignored because I was too busy reading) I could always raid my sister's stash of Stephen King. Hey, these friendships weren't all one-sided: I held the distinct honor of being the gal to go to if you were hankering for some steamy Harold Robbins. Even then, though, I was a terrible snob. If you wanted to read The Adventurers or A Stone for Danny Fisher, I'd hook you up, but if you wanted something dumb, like The Lonely Lady, I had no time for you. It's a good thing I had books, because I went through a lot of friends during those years.
As an adult, I decided it was time to refine my interests: you know, select just a few authors or series or genres to call my favorite. So I finally announced it to the world: I did not care for sci-fi or fantasy. Except Harry Potter. Oh, and the first few Outlander series books weren't bad. Plus, I really enjoyed books 1 -32 of the Star Wars novelizations. But that's it. Otherwise, I won't touch it. Except Neil Gaiman. Ooh, and the Dune series. But otherwise, sci-fi leaves me clammy.
It turns out there's nothing I won't read (including cereal boxes, ketchup packets, and mattress tags). Sure, I have my favorites: I tend to devour anything about any member of the Kennedy family; anything by Wally Lamb, John Irving, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, or Michael Crichton; true crime in small doses (I wept when I heard Joe McGinniss passed away earlier this week) and anything about Manson; English history and historical fiction; and anything and everything by Erma Bombeck or Berkley Breathed (both conveniently located in the humor section). And yes, I've even been known to pick up a romance or two, but remember, I'm a book snob: I won't read a romance novel unless it has a bare-chested Scotsman in a kilt on the front. I have my standards, after all, and objectified Scotsmen are de rigueur.
I once met a man who told me he loved to read, but never had the time. I knew he was a liar--he didn't love to read. True readers know you make the time, even if it means you wind up asleep with inkprint on your cheek, your slack face marking the page where you left off. I dumped that guy. Then I met one who took me out on romantic dates to used book stores and library book sales. I married him.

It's not always easy to come up with blog entries each week. I often write about something funny that struck me during the week, but let's face it, there are weeks where nothing amusing happens at all. Like this week.

On Monday, the most exciting thing that happened to me was when I went to my nephew's baseball game (he's on the all-star league, thankyouverymuch) and it started thundering. They didn't call the game, but I high-tailed it out of there pretty quickly, leaving my sister, brother-in-law, parents, aunt, and of course, my nephew and his teammates there to get struck by lightning while I sat in the comfort of my own home, eating grilled cheese sandwiches. It turned out nobody was hit with lightning after all, so there's really nothing funny to tell there.

On Tuesday, I had to clean up dog poop on the pathway to our store. Our landlords have these tenants who are truly vile and disgusting people, and see no reason why feces might need to be cleaned up. We've complained several times. We've strategically relocated the poop back on their front steps. Nothing helps. I suppose I could write a funny blog post about how repulsive it is to leave dog poop lying around, or perhaps the most effective way to clean it off of one's flip-flops after stepping in a warm pile of it, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very whimsical about the topic. At all. (Excuse me while I go fling some poo at the tenants' door.)

On Wednesday, I started reading The Book Thief by Mark Zusak. Big mistake. If you haven't read it, let me set the scene: it takes place in Nazi Germany, and Death is the narrator. I couldn't put it down, and I cried a lot. It's kind of hard to write something amusing and lighthearted after your soul has been trampled on by a book. I crawled into bed and stayed there until Friday.

(I did make myself to get out of bed a couple of times on Thursday to make coffee and eat some cookies. I felt a little better.)

Today, I forced myself to rejoin the world. I opened the store and went through some recently-donated books. There were a couple of books I would have normally set aside to read later, like one on Jack the Ripper, and another on JFK, but after what I just went through (Death is the narrator--during the Holocaust!) I thought it might be better to just put them on the shelves. Then I watched some Animaniacs cartoons and read some Erma Bombeck to cheer myself up.

To finish off the week, Jason and I rented Venom, a movie about a woman and her daughter who hit a snake in the desert, and now every snake within a 100-mile radius is chasing them to get their revenge. Of course, their car breaks down, they lose their phone, and drug dealers are scouring the desert  looking for lost drug money (as they do), and overall, it was a real stinkeroo. It only served to remind me that my blog writing would be just as terrible as this movie if I couldn't find something ridiculous to write about, and fast. But what? If only something would strike me, much like an angry coral snake intent on revenge!

Alas, it was not to be. No banana cream pies hit me in the face; I didn't step on any rakes or bees which might have resulted in a hilarious post about an emergency room visit. Nothing. Nada. Just thunderstorms, dog poo, a book that left me emotionally drained, and a movie about vengeance-seeking snakes with a score to settle. Nothing funny to see here, folks.

Hopefully, something witty will strike me next week. Maybe this copy of The Lovely Bones will inspire me to write an extended funny anecdote or something. Hey, it's got "lovely" in the title, right? How bad could it be?

I love to read. I don't think there's anyone who has ever met me that isn't aware of this. If I had a choice between bathing in chocolate, getting a hot stone massage from Vin Diesel and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, or reading a really good book, I'd pick the massage with Vin and Rock, but it would be a reallydifficult decision. Maybe. How did I get off topic here?

As an avid reader, I have been quite vocal about my love for the book itself. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the smell of a new book or an old musty classic, and the ability to take a book anywhere with me. I have the Kindle app on my iPad, but I never use it. I blame this on the irresistable temptation that my 'Plants vs. Zombies' app dangles in front of me on the iPad, plus my unwillingness to take a $500 tablet to the beach or the bathroom.

My only teeny, tiny problem with books is that our house is rapidly running out of room to store them all. If I really like a book, I own a copy, and if I loveit in an "if you love it so much, why don't you marry it?" kind of way that makes you answer "okay," like how I feel about Cider House Rules by John Irving, I buy it in hardcover. We have bookcases lining the walls of our office, and books in between the cases; towers of books precariously balanced in the spare room; novels crammed on the shelves and in the drawers of the hutch in our dining room. I can't help it. It's impossible for me to leave a library book sale without giving myself a hernia from my purchases.

While gushing about the joy that is reading with some co-workers this week, one of them (who shall, from this point forward, be known as my BFFandever Damian,) offered me his extra Kindle. Could I really go against everything I've ever ranted about, the changing publishing industry and the dying breed known as the book store...all of which I blamed on the Kindle? You bet I could. I accepted Damian's offer before he even finished his sentence, because at my very core, I am a sell-out.

To say I love my Kindle is an understatement. I downloaded a ton of books for free and some for a couple of bucks each, and I haven't let it out of my hands since. (Jason knows there's a Kindle in the house, but I haven't even let him breathe on it yet.) I take it everywhere I go, and use it when I'm brushing my teeth, cooking dinner, or even painting my toenails. The red polish and my lack of attention made my toes look like an autopsy, but I didn't care, because my Kindle was there with me. Now I know what's been missing all of my life—more books, without the storage problem. I don't bother conversing with people anymore, because I don't have to. My nose is buried in my Kindle. In fact, I'd love to tell you more about it, but writing this blog has already taken up too much precious reading time.

The only place the Kindle can't go with me is the shower. But really, how important is good hygiene, anyway?

We all have guilty pleasures. Some of us are just braver than others and will admit that we enjoyed the movie Frogs and hated—hated!--E.T. (You are not going to change my mind on this, so don’t even try. It was too sad and too sappy. Frogs, however, featured a cheesy death scene when a bunch of amphibians attacked a man in a wheelchair. That’sentertainment!) Here are some of my other guilty pleasures:

I really enjoy staying in bed all day watching crappy television while eating string cheese and pop chips. I don’t get to do it often, but man, it’s heavenly when I do. My afternoon lineup might include Dr. Drew’s Celebrity Rehab, Forensic Files, and re-runs of theFacts of Life.

I think Kentucky Fried Movie is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Sometimes, I drive to the gas station down the road early in the morning because I just don’t feel like making my own coffee, and they carry that tasty wild blueberry flavor. But I am too cheap to drive two blocks further to the Dunkin’ Donuts, because their coffee is more expensive than the Citgo Food Bag.

I hate wearing office-appropriate clothes. My ideal fashion role model is Stevie Nicks.

If I had my way, Jason and I would eat macaroni and cheese every night for dinner. In fact, when I was single, this is exactly what I did.  Every night.

I will admit that I found Rob Lowe’s autobiography,Stories I Only Tell My Friends, to be one of the best books I’ve read all year. Not because it was an inspiring glimpse into the life of a man who has faced adversity and overcome it, but because it gave me all the gossip behind the scenes during the filming of TheOutsiders.

Yes, I most certainly would tune in if Roseanne Barr decides to do another television show.

I own a CD of Kenny Rogers’s Greatest Hits. Because you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em…

Boy, that was liberating.  I’ve been keeping that Kenny Rogers CD hidden in the console of my car for years.  Go ahead. What are your guilty pleasures? Go ahead and confess them right here.  You’ll be glad you did!