Gisted.

My nine-year-old is writing a book. It's a paranormal. (Hmm. How does the child know what the hot market is right now?) She's told me the gist of the story--that's what they're working on in her fourth grade classroom. Instead of a summary, they create gists. "Here's the gist of it," they say.

Doesn't that sound less scary than "a two minute pitch outlining the GMC of the protagonist" or whatever we tell ourselves as we ready ourselves to meet an editor at a conference? Next year, I'm thinking gist instead of pitch.

Anyway, that's not the gist of this blog entry. Not really. What is the gist is--I'm afraid my nine-year-old is going to get published before I do.

For one thing, she maps out her stories ahead of time. It's not unusual to find one of her story outlines on my desk, usually a simple but effective list. Something like: Chapter One--Lindsay Finds a Horse. Chapter Two--Lindsay's parents don't want her to keep the horse. Chapter Three--Lindsay wins the National Horse Show...and so on. The point is, she knows her conflicts for each chapter (or as she says, "the problems") and manages to find ways to solve them. She knows where she's been and where she's going in her stories.

Damn.

For another--she's enthusiastic about her stories. She can talk about them and not lose steam. In fact, the more she talks (and talks and talks and talks) about her ideas, the more excited she gets about them. And then, she actually sits down--and writes.

Damn.

Here's chapter one of her current book. I could say it's got too much backstory, and she could make better use of her pronouns, but--waah. She's nine. She really is going to be published before I am. Lord knows, she'll be able to gist it to an editor with no problem. :)

Chapter One

Saying goodbye to the small house, Tamara got into the car. She and her family were moving from Ohio to Providence, Rhode Island in a larger house. Tamara wasn’t sure about the idea of moving to Rhode Island, she didn’t really know where it was, she knew that it was one of the first states found in America, but only that. She did a little research on the little place two weeks before she moved and found that it was the smallest state otherwise known as "Little Rhody".

As the car screeched to a stop, Tamara almost jumped out of her seat. Although she wasn’t too happy about it, she still wanted to see the house. She hoped that it was a good house to live in, not ugly and uncomfortable. The moving van shortly followed and the movers shuffled out of the truck and began to unload it.

"Isn’t it just lovely, Tam?" Tamara’s mom, Samantha rested a loving hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Tamara turned around and looked up at Samantha.

"It’s better than I expected it to be, it looks like it’ll be a really nice place to live," Tamara smiled, although she didn’t have the time to study the house. She stood motionlessly and stared in awe at the big house. It was tall and very pretty. It was on the quieter side of Providence, not as busy as the bustling, chaotic parts. The house was white with green shutters. Vines stretched all the way from the ground to the roof on the right side of the house. Stairs led up to the front door. But they were an oval-like shape, they were extremely pretty. A plaque stood in the front of the house.

"Dad, what’s that plaque right there say?" Tamara tapped her dad’s shoulder, getting his attention. He was standing and staring at the house in awe as well as Tamara did. His name was Roger, he worked as a loan officer and got paid well. He was one of the reasons they moved to Providence, the could now afford such a nice house.

"Go on and read it," he made a gesture with his hands.

Tamara rushed to the plaque. It read:
Built in 1825
The Birming Mansion
Right Side of Building Rebuilt in 1833

Tamara read it over and over again. On the front steps was a box with a paper tucked under it, the end of the paper flapping against the breeze. Tamara snatched up the note from under the box and read it carefully. It was a little hard to read because of the cursive handwriting but she managed to make out what it said.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow,
I have put together this little scrap book for you about the house’s history. Take a good look at it and save it if you want to know a little about it. Read the plaque in the front, it tells you a little bit . I’m sure you will like what I’ve put together for you and you will find it interesting.
I am a historian and I know a lot about this house. I am sure you will enjoy living in it. Although, I don’t know you well, I’m sure you will anyway.
Historian Kenny McGrath

Tamara opened the box and pulled out the book. She jumped out of the way quickly as the movers trudged in with heavy furniture. She opened it. The first thing she saw was a portrait of the Birming family. There was a paragraph under it that read:

The famous Birming family portrait. They lived in the house in the early 1800s. They moved there on July 2, 1826. The family was made up of four children and two adults. The youngest was Mary, the next youngest was George, the next oldest was Benjamin and the oldest of them was Sarah. The man that lived with them was Charles and the woman was Laura.

Tamara flipped the next page to find a portrait of Charles. Under his picture, it said 1795-1865. Tamara looked to the next page and found Laura’s portrait. Under it the picture, it said 1800-1891. Tamara flipped the page to find Sarah, 1822-1832. "Only ten years! What happened to her?!" Tamara said aloud. Tamara’s parents had already gone inside, but Tamara didn’t notice, she was too absorbed in the book to even look inside the wide open door. On the next page was Benjamin, 1824-1905. Then was George 1825-1907. Then was Mary, 1828-1914. Tamara flipped to the next page. There was a picture of the house with the right side burnt badly. The paragraph under it said:

A fire occurred on October 6, 1832. The house was repaired 1833 and updated in 2000. All of the Birming family got out safely except for Sarah who went back into the building, searching for young Mary. Mary managed to get out herself, but Sarah didn’t come out with her. The ten- year- old girl did not survive the fire. The family moved again to another home after the fire with a terrible feeling for young Sarah.

Just thinking that thought made Tamara’s mouth dry.

"Tamara! Come see the new house! It’s just beautiful! Tamara’s called.

Tamara rushed inside. It was bright and beautiful. The floor was a cherry hardwood, hard and smooth and shiny as glass. Tamara just had to touch it. The dining room had many windows and the same wonderful floors and a chandler hanging above the table. In the living room, there was a deep red colored carpet. Tamara noticed that on the wall a portrait of the Birming hung on the wall. Tamara’s eyes widened. She saw a small name in the corner.
"It’s a beautiful painting, it’s the original copy of the Birming family that lived here long ago," Tamara’s dad explained. The name in the corner was Sarah Birming, October 5, 1832.

Tamara couldn’t believe it! Sarah Birming actually made that famous portrait! She must have been an amazing artist!

Tamara and her parents hurried up the stairs. "This will be your new bedroom," Tamara’s mom opened a wooden door that led into a beautiful bed room. A teal blue wallpaper covered the walls and the same cherry hardwood floor was there. Tamara’s puppy, Rusty bounded up the stairs and into Tamara’s new bedroom. He yipped excitedly at her and wagged his tail. Tamara’s parents went back down the stairs and Rusty followed them as he heard his dog food in his bowl being placed on the ground. Tamara left as well. She closed the door behind her. As she stepped on the first step going down the stairs she heard something banging on her bedroom door. "HELP ME! ANYBODY! I’M IN THE BEDROOM! HELP ME! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASE!" Tamara turned and looked at the door. A voice came from the room, sounding like it was coming from a girl about Tamara’s age. She heard a high pitched scream like someone was in pain. She opened the door to find nothing. Who-- or what-- was making that noise!