When will I get bigger
I wonder every day
WIll I still like to run and jump
And bound about and play?

Will I still love to Hide-N-Seek
Around with all my friends?
My mom and dad say probably
Though it really all depends

If I remember all the best stuff
Stuffed inside of me
Then I can pull it out
When I’m the person I will be

I must think to always laugh
Whenever something’s funny
And not forget that friends are worth
More than any sum of money

Imagination is a gift
That never goes away
But only when invited in
I should not send it away

Sharing toys and sharing time
Is what I’ll want to do
If I want to feel fulfilled
With who I grew into

So many days in front of me
Are keeping me a kid
It’s important I prioritize
So do it I just did

The best days of my life
Surely have not happened yet
But they’ll be even better
If the now I don’t forget

Buy Syllable Soup here for just $2.99

Syllable Soup is currently the #1 Children’s Humorous Poetry Book on Kindle!

Do you remember Schoolhouse Rock?

I love, love, LOVED Schoolhouse Rock when I was a kid. And by “when I was a kid,” I mean right now.

Wordplay, lessons, music, movement – I loved it all,  even bought a limited edition lunchbox with every song pressed onto a 4 CD set from Rhino Records when I was 24 and didn’t have children. I was married to a teacher, and gave her the box the day I bought it, but that was only an excuse and we both knew it.

Someday, I’d like to create something as amazing as Schoolhouse Rock.

Syllable Soup is my first stab.

I’ve been writing a lot of children’s poems lately, and am thoroughly loving the medium. David and I are putting the finishing touches on our first collection of fairytales this week, which is super exciting.

When he delivered this amazing video for Syllable Soup, it became immediately easier to dream about the many places some of our children’s work will go.

Check out the video, I’d love to hear what you think.

Buy Syllable Soup here for just $2.99

Syllable Soup is currently the #1 Children’s Humorous Poetry Book on Kindle!

A merchant and father, without any wife
And three lovely daughters; a wonderful life
“I’m heading to market, some time around dawn
I’ll swallow my coffee, and then I’ll be gone.”

He turned to his daughters, looked each in their eyes
Then smiled and whispered a special surprise:
“While I’m at market I’ll see many things
From pastries and pastas to bracelets and rings

We’ve had a great year, don’t mull over thrift
Each of you tell me what you’d love as a gift.”
The first daughter smiled, “I’d love a new dress
Maybe brocade since this old one’s a mess.”

The next daughter clapped, tickled pale red
“A long string of pearls,” she smiled and said
The last daughter, Belle, her dad’s greatest treasure
Gleaming with glee and pickled with pleasure

She flitted her eyes and pointed her nose:
“I think what I’d love is just one perfect rose!”
“Of course, girls!” he said, “I’ll buy all you desire
Plus plenty of fry bread, pulled right from the fryer

A great day at market, then gifts for his girls:
A flower, a dress, and a string full of pearls
Halfway to home, the sky turned to black
As serpents of lightning began to attack

Lost and alone, shivering and scared
Buckets of rain on a man unprepared
Fortune was fading as day bled to night
But the edge of his vision was hinting at light

The glow gradually grew as he slowly drew near it
It lit the interior of his terrified spirit
His horse giddy-upped at the big iron gate
He pulled on the reigns, told his filly to wait

The castle was massive, the size of a city
Old and abandoned, but no longer pretty
Outside it was wet, inside would be dry
Away from the horror which fell from the sky

The hallways were empty, walls were all large
“Hello!” he called out to the no one in charge
A mile long table was heaping with food
He certainly ate, although nothing was chewed

When his belly was bloated, his body grew beat
So he looked for a place he could get off of his feet
He found a large room and gargantuan bed
Then lay on the pillow and rested his head

He slept like a baby, in seconds was snoring
As buckets outside persisted their pouring
He opened his eyes when the outside was bright
At a beautiful bedroom now flooded with light

He couldn’t believe the amazing display
Pastries and coffee to start a great day
He ate like a king and then wandered around
Through a cavernous castle still empty of sound

He shuffled outside and swallowed real hard
At improbable beauty spread all through the yard
The grounds they were gorgeous – perfume in his nose
His green eyes were glinted toward one perfect rose

It bloomed well beyond beauty, like his baby girl Belle
He plucked it and stared as though under a spell
A bellow behind him, a thundering roar
Scared him inside, and then out of his core

He spun on his heels and his eyes opened wide
He was 10 metric tons of complete terrified
A beast stood before him: half monster, half man
He flew from the frier and into the pan

The demon was savage, a barbarian brute
Even though he was wearing a beautiful suit
His clothes were so splendid, and cape rather regal
He had the mane of a lion, but beak of an eagle

“You ungrateful vermin, you horrible thief!”
The man stood there shaking like a new fallen leaf
“I gave you my food, and surrendered my bed
And you thank me by stealing? I’ll rip off your head!”

“What did I steal?” The merchant man shook
“A rose from my garden, that’s what you took!”
The merchant man fell to the skin of his knees
Then opened his mouth to a shower of pleas

“Forgive me kind sir, I did not know
These roses are gorgeous, the way that they grow
The rose in my hand, it wasn’t for me
But for my daughter Belle, a beauty to see

The rose was for her, I meant no offense
I’m honest and upright,” he swore in defense
The beast placed a paw on the merchant man’s shoulder
Then spit out these words with a simmering smolder

“I’ll spare your life, only on this one term…
I’ll not negotiate, my condition is firm
“Bring me your daughter! That you must give
Then, only then, will I allow you to live

The merchant man nodded, with no other voice
Looking death in the eye left him no other choice
He swung on his horse, the gate swung behind
And he started toward home feeling out of his mind

He stepped in the house, his three daughters worried
Waves of words left his lips, every one of them hurried
He ended his story with a shake of his head
“I was so frightened that I’d end up dead

But worry not, Belle, my beautiful dear
You’ve nothing to fret of and nothing to fear
I won’t allow it to happen. No, not on my life
I’d rather swallow the sharp of a knife.”

Belle eased his mind with her beautiful smile
“Please sit down, Daddy. At least for a while
Then come tomorrow, we’ll get on the horse
And honor your word. I’ll go with you of course

I’d do anything for you, even stay in your place.”
Dad had to weep at Belle’s innocent face
Scared from her mind, Belle held her head strong
Through a ride through the forest, impossibly long

They stopped at the gates to a full unexpected
No anger or menace, just manners projected
The beast he was beastly, but didn’t seem mean
He looked mostly sad, like a trapped wolverine

“Welcome, my lady,” the burly beast said
As he took off his hat and he lowered his head
Beauty was frightened, gave her father a hug
The beast stood beside her, like mouse to a bug

Her dad left in sadness, she stepped forward brave
Though fear rolled right through in a tumbling wave
Trembling with terror, scared and afraid
Now second guessing the choice that she made

Her dad was an echo as she opened the door
Tears slid from her cheek and they fell to the floor
Four seasons faded, one year fell to two
The red of her life quickly cooled to a blue

A magnificent mirror, gilded with gold
Filled her with love from the stories it told
In the bed of its glass she could see her old life
Her two older sisters and a dad with no wife

She watched them each day as impossible grew
And a new set of feelings settled to brew
The beasts mood had softened, they became friends
Belle saw who he was through a whole different lens

Wonderfully kind, considerate and sweet
Though he had long angry fangs and fur on his feet
Belle missed her family and all of her friends
But loved lingering talks with their long-lasting ends

She enjoyed his perspective, he was funny and smart
He had a big brain and a much bigger heart
He asked for her hand, even begged for a YES!
Beast wanted Beauty, not a molecule less

She liked him a lot, but marriage? Not sure
A yes to forever, meant love must be pure
The beast’s heart was shattered, mashed into pulp
He shook and then sauntered, then left with a gulp

The air grew quite bitter, Beast’s feelings went brittle
At Belle’s refusal to meet his committal
She went to her room, then picked up the mirror
To look at her family and make them feel nearer

She drew in her breath, then swallowed a cry
Her heart started thudding, her face remained dry
Daddy was dying – the mirror displayed
And twisted the knife in the choice that she made

She had to find Daddy, had to head home right now
Had to do it that second, she didn’t care how
Beast entered the bedroom, upset on his lips
The silence between them like two passing ships

“What’s wrong?” he growled, in a rolling low rumble
“My father,” she gasped with a whispering mumble
She showed him the mirror, and her father in bed
Barely a breath and just inches from dead

“I must go to see him,” Beauty Belle pleaded
Begging for license that she truly needed
“NO!” the beast thundered in boiling rage
Reminding Belle of reality’s cage

She fell to her knees, shaking and sobbing
Her eyes were all wet and her insides were throbbing
“Just one week,” she swore, “and I never lie
But I have to be there if my dad’s gonna die”

Something inside Beast shattered to pieces
And flooded his brow in a bucket of creases
“Okay,” he said, with an animal sigh
“7 days only!” then left with no bye

Belle galloped back home, then ran to her dad
Trying to hide a face swollen with sad
“Daddy!” she cried. He met her embrace
His slow beating heart quickly started to race

Belle stayed by his side and nursed him to strong
7 days flew and then went all month long
Once her father was well, Beauty realized the truth
To her beautiful beast she’d surrender her youth

“I must return to the castle,” Belle blurted out loud
She stood to her feet and she solemnly vowed:
“I love that monster, and see him as a man
And I want to marry him, and hope I still can”

She arrived at the castle, Beast was near death
Twisted in agony and gasping for breath
Belle ran to his side, then cradled his head
She couldn’t imagine a life with him dead

“I love you, I love you,” she repeated in time
I want to get married, want you to be mine
Beast opened his eyes, then fixed them on Belle
Suddenly surrounded in a magical spell

His mane disappeared, his teeth shrank in size
He stared at beautiful Belle with a set of new eyes
“I’ve longed for this moment,” a silky voice said
From a new handsome face on a new handsome head

“I suffered in secret, kept the truth hidden
I could not tell you, it was forbidden
Once I was ugly, inside not out
I had to earn beauty that traveled throughout

Only a woman, who loved me as I am
A flower with no bloom and only a stem
“I love you!” Belle said, “I love who you are!
In my eternity’s sky you’re the shiniest star”

The prince and new princess that day were married
And the Beast’s faded beastness was forever buried
Masses of roses filled air like the weather
The beauty Beast found was their new life together

Click on the link to buy Beauty and the Beast (for just .99!)

It’s Halloween and I can’t wait
For a million things to celebrate
I love this one day of the year
When I walk the darkness without fear

Creatures may creep and crawl through the night
With witches on broomsticks and wizards in flight
Vampires and werewolves, green men from space
Nothing could send the smile from my face

Armed with my empties, I head for the streets
On a candy safari, I’m gathering treats
House after house, I knock on each door
Begging and pleading, I want even more

Chocolaty, sugary, crunchity snacks
Filling not one, but all three of my sacks
Once I’m back home, I plow through my mound
My parents are pleading, “Won’t you slow down?”

I can’t, no I won’t. I want one of each kind
Maybe two, three or four. “Mine, I said mine!”
No one can stop me, I’m an eating machine
Until two hours later, I’m sick and all green

My stomach is heavy, a large bowling ball
You may not believe it, but I ate it all!
Please someone stop it, this horrible ache
I’ll make every vow that I know I must make

I promise, I swear, I’m super sincere
And that’s how I’ll stay until this time next year

The Halloween Promise is just one of 100 awesome poems in Syllable Soup. Buy it here for just $2.99

Syllable Soup is currently the #1 Children’s Humorous Poetry Book on Kindle!

The skeleton was scary
“Would I lie to you?” he said
I stared at him, no flesh on bones
The dude was surely dead

I did not believe the voice, of course
Like daggers stabbing truth
He told me I was on the freeway
Flying past my youth

Beauty fades, vanilla skin
Can one day fade to gray
Live each hour knowing you
Cannot repeat a day

Don’t fly through your life
Too hyperactive to enjoy
The best of life is possible
For every girl and boy

Squander time, you’ll have a thorn
Beneath your being, it’s true
The skeleton said I could do it
His final words were, “I dare you!”

Writer Dad

The Skeleton Dared Me is just one of 100 awesome poems in Syllable Soup. Buy it here for just $2.99

Syllable Soup is currently the #1 Children’s Humorous Poetry Book on Kindle!

Every day I sit in school
Doodling drawings, dribbling drool
I stare outside at silent sky
And start a string of endless whys

Too much to ponder, countless are queries
So I wonder and wander and think up new theories
These are today’s, the ones tickling my brain
Endlessly dropping like buckets of rain

If you have some replies, really that’s great
But if you do not, well then I can relate
I don’t expect answers, the questions are fun
I’ll start at the top with today’s Number One:

When I say no to sleep am I resisting arrest?
Does a turkey taste better only when it is dressed?
When I daydream at dark, well what is that called?
If an eagle has feathers, then why is it bald?

I understand speed of light and I get speed of sound
But here’s a new thought I’ve been tossing around
Is there such a thing as momentum of stink?
I think that it’s possible, but what do you think?

And speaking of smell, well I’ve gotta ask
When there’s fragrance so foul that it begs for a mask
And it lingers about and you’re yelling, “P.U.!”
Well, I don’t know what that stands for. I wonder, do you?

If there were no sponges, would the ocean be deeper?
Do rabbits lay eggs only when it is Easter?
I know it’s my funny bone, but I’ve never laughed
If you write smooth when it’s warm, is it still a rough draft?

Can you cry underwater? How can new be improved?
Do fortune cookies expire? Can a mountain be moved?
Were there woodpeckers riding inside Noah’s Ark?
Why is the fridge so well lit if the freezer is dark?

If every rule has exception, is there exception to that?
If donuts were square, would they still make you fat?
How far east do you think one man could travel
Before his route would unwind and begin to unravel

And he found himself heading out westward instead
Half-way behind and half-way ahead?
If I soaked a raisin in water would it grapen right back?
Do all the colors together, do they really make black?

If an escalator gets broken, is it then only stairs?
Why isn’t honey sold in bees, yet always in bears?
Why are dogs noses wet? Would you prefer fortune or fame?
Which armrest is mine? What’s the devil’s last name?

Is there another word for thesaurus or only that one?
Do you see why these whys are such wonderful fun?
I love to ask questions, they make my mind bigger
Answers are fun to uncover and figure

Classrooms are nice, but exploration is key
There’s no better way to unlock the inside of me

Writer Dad

The Magic Key is just one of 100 awesome poems in Syllable Soup. Buy it here for just $2.99

Syllable Soup is currently the #1 Children’s Humorous Poetry Book on Kindle!

Syllable soup is not sour or sweet
No chunky vegetables, no floating meat
There are terms and expressions, from message to motto
Enunciated nouns and verbs with vibrato

There are plenty of adjectives and probably some slang
At least if you’d like your syllable soup to have tang
Would you care to make some? Anything goes
Gather ingredients and write them in rows

Mean what you say and say what you mean
To create quintessential communication cuisine
Let’s get our soup started, the syllables are hot
Decide on your words and then fill up the pot

Now start the stirring, let the flavors all change
A good hearty soup should have sounds that are strange
But you must be careful. Do not over spice
Words should enhance, invite and entice

Though all words are free, some have a cost
Sometimes they’re not simple, so your reader gets lost
The stovetop’s the page, the chef is the writer
Who chooses the words to make stories burn brighter

Syllable soup is a scrumptious delight
When the cook stirs in all the syllables right
Never too many and never too few
Make the syllable soup that’s inside of you

What’s that you say, you’d like a sample?
How about instead I just cook an example?
Seems fair enough – sometimes once we see
Then our hearts and our minds and our spirits agree

Let’s start with a word that’s been pummeled to pulp
Drop it into the soup and get ready to gulp
Your teachers have probably all said, “said is dead!”
But said is not dead, it’s like butter to bread

Or syllables to soup – I’ll explain what I mean
Your teacher just meant that “said” shouldn’t be seen
Said is a word which has only one sound
No matter how you inspect it or spin it around

Yet how many ways can you also say said?
There’s at least a bajillion bulging outta my head!
Speak, utter, voice; pronounce or reply
Your hero could exclaim, or opine or cry

Or maybe declare, recite or disclose
But a rose by another name is still just a rose
When you find yourself looking for a perfect ingredient
Don’t settle for the sound which seems most expedient

There is no substitution for that one perfect word
Which will get the page read and your stories all heard
There is music to language, each word has a beat
To get you nodding your head and tapping your feet

Each word has a sound, whether they run short or long
They are notes in the verse of a sentence’s song
Choose each one wisely, place them all in a group
Then share a savory spoon full of syllable soup

Buy Syllable Soup (and 100 other poems!) for just $2.99. 

Once upon a time, I wasn’t a writer.

My best friend and wife, Cindy, left her job at the school district, I left the family flower shop I’d loved for 12 years, and we opened a preschool together, so we could be with our two children, Ethan and Haley, for as much of their first five years as we possibly could.

We ran the preschool for several years. We had a blast in tandem. One of my duties as co-teacher, administrator, chef and resident clown was to read to the wee-ones. All day, every day.

Cindy had 17 years worth of teaching materials, and apparently a half dozen decades worth of books. Approximately 7,321 boxes were stacked in our attic and piled beside every shelf in the house. Yet, despite the abundance, I felt like I was reading the same thing over and over and over again.

I won’t say I’m easily bored, but I’ve heard that I’m pretty annoying when I am.

Cindy had been lovingly nagging me for nearly 10 years by that time, telling me I should start writing. It was her nice way of telling me I talk to much.

Of course she thought I was a good writer. The only thing I ever wrote were love letters to her. But that didn’t mean I had what it took to be a real writer. That wasn’t inside me.

It was the steady brewing of Cindy’s insistence and monotony of repetition which finally led me to try my hand at something I didn’t believe I could do.

Before I was writing blog posts, fiction, or sales copy, I wrote something to serve my day-to-day: children’s poetry. Though truthfully, I didn’t think of it as children’s poetry at all. Still don’t.

It’s the music I hear in my head, set to words.

The first rhyme I ever wrote was a cool little ditty called the Magic Money Tree. It was fun to write, and I did it mostly in my head while doing the dishes, then jotted what I could remember during rest time. I had no idea it was good until I saw the look on Cindy’s face.

She asked how long it took to write. Cindy would’ve called me a liar when I told her how long, but she knew me too well. She started calling the rhymes my magic tricks.

Though she always gives me plenty, I can never get enough of her attention. So I wrote more, a lot more. A few months later I had a couple dozen children’s rhymes that I was suddenly, and rather surprisingly, proud of.

I read the rhymes daily, and all our tiny students sat rapt for every word. Sure, some of their focus could be attributed to my familiar, friendly delivery, but that wouldn’t get the kids repeating my words in the front yard, something they did for no other book.

Perhaps it was because there were no pictures to distract from the words, or perhaps they picked up on a note in my voice that hinted at something special. Either way, I loved writing my rhymes. But even more, I loved how I felt when I read them out loud.

I found an agent. He loved them, too. Unfortunately, he said, he was tone deaf to children’s literature. He forwarded me to a New York agency that specialized in children’s literature.

I was happy. This would be my big break. I was about to be a published author and it had only taken three months.

Yes, I was exactly that naïve.

I queried the agent, but knew I had to stand out. The agency accepted a few new authors each year, and the market was flooded. I had to be clever. So I went online, bought my first domain, learned how to build a website, and put my portfolio online behind a password protected page.

Then I waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

For nothing.

When the agent finally got back to me, after an excruciating 13 weeks, she told me my work was good, great even, but that my vocabulary was “too rich for children.”

I was devastated.

I wasn’t upset at the agency, or the publishing world. A publisher’s job is to make money. They buy what they know they can sell, and they can only sell what is dictated by the marketplace. Yet, I found the rejection a cruel condemnation on our nation’s present, and a chilling harbinger of a humbled future, especially when I read to a tiny army of curious pre-schoolers who enthusiastically recited the rhymes, and were all the smarter for it.

Children do need simple language, but they also need nuance and complexity and rhythm and joy. They need their rubber band to get stretched, and the opportunity to learn all they don’t yet know.

I bought the Writer Dad domain the following weekend.

I would build my own audience, bypass the publishers, and sell direct.

It’s been a long road, and it’s taken three years, but I’ve come full circle.

Out of everything I’ve written, Syllable Soup, my new collection of children’s poems is Cindy’s favorite, by far. It’s been a beautiful ride getting it to Kindle together.

Fiction is ridiculous fun, and I love connecting with an audience online. But there is nothing like the pure music of language that surfaces through rhythm and rhyme.

I hope you love these songs as much as we have. You can get the Kindle version of Syllable Soup here. It’s only $2.99, but we’ll be running them regularly on the site as well.

Writer Dad

Leave a comment below.

My friend just had a birthday
Now he’s really, really old
His hair’s a shock of silver
And his insides filled with mold
He’s probably gonna die soon
He might not last the day
His breathing is so labored
It could simply fade away
Because he is decaying
(And mostly walking dead)
When he rises in the morning
He can barely leave the bed
The younger generation
(Those whipper snapping brats!)
All seem to surround him
Like a swirling swarm of gnats
I’m not sure if he has his teeth
(If memory serves, he don’t)
Regardless, by the year’s end,
We’re all sure that he won’t
His skin is getting bumpy
And his bones are full of loss
Hair is curling from his ear
Just like a wiry patch of moss
He can’t remember anything
There are cavities in his thought
Things he once could recall
Alas he now cannot
His skin looks like origami -
It’s folded, wrinkled creased
His saggy slabs are swinging
Like a super scary beast
Yes he’s getting ancient
But the battle’s just begun
Next year at this time
My friend will be 41!

Happy Birthday Dave, I’ve no doubt in my mind – your 40th year will be your best yet!!!

Today we had parent teacher conferences for Max and Mia. It was the first one for Max, and the first time Cindy and I have been able to attend as a couple. It was awesome to hold hands and sit across from our children’s teachers in tiny seats that made me feel even more Lurch-like than my 6’3” frame usually does. Neither conference held any surprises, but then again, they were more for confirming our thoughts than anything else. I only mention them because they serve as preamble to today’s story.

The writer’s workshop Cindy teaches to the fourth grade students fell an hour before our first scheduled conference. We drove in to school together. I sat in the library pretending to work while Cindy taught her lesson and pretended not to notice me watching.

Because of the conference schedule, the students had a minimum day. If you remember from your days in school as I remember from mine, this meant most of the students were counting the minutes until the final bell and strongly resenting any work preceding their early dismissal. This accounted for the few scattered moans and groans which loudened the library when Cindy concluded her lesson on Shel Silverstein and asked the class to finish the day with fifteen minutes of free poetry writing.

“Would you like me to do the assignment, Mrs. Platt?” I asked, raising my hand.

A few children chuckled. Cindy smiled. “Yes, Mr. Platt,” she said. “I would like that very much.” She handed me a sheet of paper.

I noted the army of curious eyes on me, scribbled for a few minutes, then laid down my pen and went back to the laptop. When time was called, Cindy asked if I would read my work out loud to the class.

The collective smiles plastered on the sea of little faces just two minutes later is a sight I can’t get out of my head. If this is what being a children’s author is going to be like, I’m fully on board and can’t wait to hand the conductor my ticket.

While writing, I thought little of audience reaction. I was merely trying to support Cindy while also showing the students that they should be listening rather than speaking, that writing can be both fun and powerful, and that there’s not much to it other than allowing your mind to start moving that pen across the paper. I certainly didn’t expect the response. Yet smile for smile, it might have been the best ten minutes of writing I’ve ever spent.

The children were enchanted. Even more, they were stirred. It wasn’t that they were impressed, necessarily, it was that at least a few of them were visibly inspired. Some of the children merely saw a magic trick and wore a “how did he do that?” sort of wonder on their faces. This delighted me, of course, as I love to think of my little ditties as verbal slights of hand, but what I truly loved in that moment were the other looks, the ones etched deeper into their expressions.

The ones that said, “I wonder if I can do that too?”

The answer is yes, absolutely. All it takes is a lot of practice, until familiarity with the words and their innate rhythm is an extension of instinct. Yet children do this already, whether it is with their feet anticipating the skip of a rope, their minds memorizing the levels of a video game, or their tongues tasting the sequence of words that will get them their way.

I hope the emotion wasn’t fleeting, and that at least a few of those children in the library will remember the moment and take it with them, wherever they may choose to go. I know for me, I found deeper purpose in my writing today.

Cindy stole my original, but she let me have it long enough to copy it here.

Enjoy!

4th graders are awesome, though best when they listen
Instead of the blah-blah-ing that gets them to missing
The info the teachers are spitting and spewing
To let the kids know what they’re supposed to be doing
Writing is fun – it’s like cake and balloons
On a Saturday morning spent watching cartoons
Except writing is better because you get to choose
What things you should keep and what things you should lose
You’re the creator – the world’s yours to build
Who gets to live there and how it is filled
Unicorns, dragons and men with red eyes;
Fairies and magic, an ending surprise
Fantasy’s fun if you break every rule
Decide what is dumb and decide what is cool
Be your best writer, place pen to the page
Write the best story, then be all the rage

Writer Dad