The audience laughed. Nathaniel merely smirked and picked up a pile of loose papers from the table. “Contrary to reports you might have read in the news, I have not spent the past thirteen years writing a large novel,” he said. “Since I have always struggled to come up with interesting ideas, tales of epic proportions have never been my cup of tea. But since I returned to Gatesweed nearly a month ago, I have had the privilege of meeting three amazing people who’ve not only rescued me from an exile of my own making, but who’ve also inspired me with their story.”
Eddie felt Harris poke him in the arm. Eddie couldn’t keep from smiling.
Nathaniel continued, “With their permission, I have begun working on a new book, based on their own recent experiences.” The audience gave another round of excited applause. “It is unfinished. I cannot promise that everything I read to you is true. I am a fiction writer, after all… but that’s not to say this story is a lie. All I can truly promise is a jolt or two, which, I believe, is all anyone really needs in order to remember he’s still alive.”
Nathaniel did not bother explaining to his first audience in over thirteen years that he used to write all of his books by hand. Only Eddie, Harris, and Maggie knew that after so many years, Nathaniel had a good reason to stop working that way. Since returning to Gatesweed, Nathaniel had purchased a computer for himself. Having recently buried his formerly favorite writing implement under a stone in his secret basement, like Eddie’s mother he’d decided to entirely type his stories instead.
These writers would be fine, Eddie knew. With a stone child or without, he had a feeling Gatesweed would always provide inspiration to anyone looking for it.
“Now, without further ado, I present to you The Secret of the Stone Child.” With a small bow, Nathaniel began. “‘The blue station wagon had just come around a sharp bend in the road when the creature stepped out of the woods,’” he read. “‘Eddie was the first to see it-a blur of black hair and four long, thin legs. It looked at him with red-rimmed yellow eyes and a gaping mouth full of sharp teeth. “Watch out!” Eddie cried from the backseat.’”
Sitting in the front row, Eddie closed his eyes and listened to Nathaniel’s story, his heart racing as he tried to picture what in the world would happen next. Secretly he knew, of course, but he could not admit it to himself. A true fan would never peek ahead to the end of a Nathaniel Olmstead book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Stone Child ’s journey to publication was long and twisted, and she might have been left somewhere along the road but for the support of several amazing people who eventually conjured her to life.
My writing group-Nico Medina, Billy Merrell, Jack Lienke, and Nick Eliopulos-supported and challenged this story, while giving me an excuse to eat bowls of endless pasta, salad, and breadsticks in the middle of Times Square. Thank you, Nick, for seeing “potential” in those first eighty pages, and for placing the unfinished manuscript into nurturing hands. This story really would not have been written without your help.
Through many drafts, my exceptional editor, Jim Thomas, continually picked me up by the scruff of my neck and plopped me back onto that somewhat overgrown forest trail whenever I lost my way in the darkness. Thanks also to Whitney Stahlberg, who, during the final round, provided her own invaluable perspective and direction.
For thoughtful early advice and conversation, I give great thanks to David Levithan, Brian Selznick, Rachel Cohn, and Joy Peskin. For finalizing the small print, thank you, Noel Silverman. The excitement and insight of my first-draft readers-Emily Poblocki, Kathy Gersing, Nic DeStefano, Joanna Ouellette, Josh Chaplin, and Greg Emetaz-is much appreciated. For enthusiasm and encouragement throughout various parts of this writing process, I must also thank Charles Beyer, Brendan Poblocki, Matthew Sawicki, Jack Martin, Andrew Begg, Scott Bodenner, Gary Graham, E. V. Day, Ted Lee, Leon Gersing, Caroline Fairchild, Donna Kay, Gail Roe, Bruce Roe, John Poblocki, and Maria Giella-Poblocki. Like the folks I’ve already mentioned, you have each made this experience so much easier that I wish I could invent a perfect word to fully express how much your support has meant to me. If ever I do, I’ll be sure to whisper it to you in secret.
Finally, I owe a great debt to my favorite childhood authors, whose books still keep me busy reading (and dreaming) late into the night. I am certain their stories shall continue inspiring, enchanting, and terrifying future generations. Dan Poblocki
DAN POBLOCKI grew up in Rhode Island and New Jersey and currently lives atop a tower in a magical place called Brooklyn, New York. He has always loved telling stories. Beginning in fifth grade, he gathered his friends after school, frightening them with tales of ghosts, monsters, and spooky places. When the author’s mother began to receive phone calls from neighborhood parents, warning that her son’s stories were giving their children nightmares, Dan decided to write the stories down instead.
The author requests that if The Stone Child, his first book, gives you nightmares, please refrain from contacting his mother, as she’s already heard enough complaints. Instead, you should visit his Web site, danpoblocki.com, where he may offer full apologies, as well as helpful advice for battling your own neighborhood monsters.
