Lara Zielin

Because my next book is called PROMGATE, I thought it only fair that I dredge up photos from the year (the one year) I went to prom. Junior year, to be exact. Can I just say? Nice white flats. Were the early 90s good to anyone? Seriously.

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: My thanks to Evan for sharing this wilderness survival video. Move over Bear Grylls, there’s a new sheriff in town.

One of the other things I’ve been able to pilfer from my time in my homeland of Wisconsin is my childhood copy of WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS. There’s not much of a spine left on it, and the pages are pretty yellow, but I love it.

The cover art is especially good on this version, because the dogs are actually red-bone hounds. In Borders, a friend and I stumbled across the updated cover and noted one of the dogs looks like a a blue-tic, the other a blood hound. You can see the new cover here.

In a recent blog interview, I was asked “If you had to pick one author as your favorite, who would it be?”

Here is the answer I gave:

Wilson Rawls, author of WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS. He grew up poor without much of an education, and didn’t consider himself a writer, even though he loved the craft. He let his spelling and grammar errors keep him from showing his work to anyone for a long time. It wasn’t until his wife, who had editing experience, helped him with his work and encouraged him to show it to others that he became serious about publication. I read and re-read WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS countless times growing up. The lessons of faith, hard work, and loyalty still stick with me.

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: This epic Kindle vs. book smackdown. Kindle, you’d better figure something out, you’re getting your eBooty handed to you!

Okay, one more gem from deep, deep storage. Yes, it’s another note. From a boy.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that a birthday cake and a single red rose weren’t waiting for me when I stopped over after school. I don’t remember who this came from, but I do wonder if he was still dressed in his hunting fatigues when I got to his house. You think he offered me venison? Probably we just watched Yo MTV Raps.

Please feel free to follow me over to Crap I Used to Write, a site dedicated to making fun of all the junk I penned as a kid. Ever wanted to see an aardvark-beagle pooping on a guy? It’s totally over there.

Turns out I’m not really great at throwing stuff away. And much of the stuff I’ve saved from my early years is at my parents’ house (which is where I’m at now). So last night my mom poured me a glass of wine, shut the door to the storage room, and didn’t let me out until I’d gone through all my old shizzle, determining what was trash and what was gold.

My people, it is ALL GOLD.

I give you Exhibit A. This is me, all soft and tender and butterball-like. Oh and yes, that’s a polariod.

Never fear. My adorable roundness did not last. I present to you, the Internet Jury, Exhibit B, which is my school picture from … um, fifth grade?

See the feathered hair? Note how the shirt is buttoned all the way up. It looks like I tried to pop the collar, maybe just a bit, but failed. And hellloooo braces. They look kinda spitty, actually. Om thnomp nomsh nomsh.

The sweet score of the century is this Goonies trading card. Um, hello? Goonies made its own trading card? Word freaking up.

I will probably be eBaying this later to pay off my Macy’s charge — I bet it’s worth at least a dollar. I wish it had Chunk on it or that Throw Momma From the Train lady, but whatever. It’s still awesome. Here is the back. I know it’s a bad picture. Whatevs.

Okay, and then?

And then and then and then?

I FOUND A LOVE NOTE! From a boy! Who loved me oh so, so much! I kinda had to crop it so you couldn’t see his name or any revealing details about him. Cuz he’s famous now so I didn’t want to embarrass him (hi, Joss!). Just kidding. It’s not Joss Whedon. You will know this when you realize this very smitten boy had grammar and spelling problems and can’t really write, like how Joss can. But this sweet boy? He made up for it with a little something called TOP GUN.

Oh, how my fourteen-year-old self must have swooned when I read this!

If you havn’t noticed yet I’ve got a major crush on you. Or however you say, or what ever you say when you’re seriously in love.

God, I know, right? Because what DO you say when you’re seriously in love? Well, you maybe don’t say anything. You let a song say it for you.

And when you hear that “Top Gun” song “take my breath away,” think of me will ya babes.

Oh, he called me babes! That must mean he thinks I’m hot — or at least capable of going to the kitchen and getting him a beer when we’re 21 and married and have babes jr. on the way.

Well, I thank you, dear boy, for being smitten enough with me to put your feelings on paper. And thank you, Berlin, for writing an awesome song that I will now have in my head the rest of the day.

Now on to eBay to offload my trading card ….