James Howe is the author of more than ninety books for young readers. Bunnicula, coauthored by his late wife Deborah and published in 1979, is considered a modern classic of children’s literature. The author has written six highly popular sequels, along with the spinoff series Tales from the House of Bunnicula and Bunnicula and Friends. Among his other books are picture books such as Horace and Morris but Mostly Dolores and beginning reader series that include the Pinky and Rex and Houndsley and Catina books. He has also written for older readers. The Misfits, published in 2001, inspired the nationwide antibullying initiative No Name-Calling Week, as well as three sequels, Totally Joe, Addie on the Inside, and Also Known as Elvis. A common theme in James Howe’s books from preschool through teens is the acceptance of difference and being true to oneself. Visit him online at JamesHowe.com.

Howie's Writing Journal I am so upset I can't write! Well, okay, I can write, but I can't write a book! I owe my editor another book soon, and I don't even have an idea. I don't think my editor would be very happy to get a book about how I just had my third bath in three days!You would think -- what with his being a college professor and her being a lawyer and all -- that Mr. and Mrs. Monroe would be smart enough to figure out that a dog isn't a dog without certain smells in his life.But do they say, "Oh, Howie, what is that delightful aroma -- a new aftershave?"Nooooo. They say, "P. U.! Howie, you stink! Have you been rolling around in the compost heap again? Now you're going to have to have another bath."Then they tell me that the pile of garbage and rotting food and smelly weeds in the far corner of the yard is there to make fertilizer for their garden. Fine. I have nothing against fertilizer. In fact, I'm all for fertilizer. But how come they get to enjoy it and Uncle Harold and I don't?Life is so unfair.Especially when you're a dog.I'm going up to Toby's room to sulk. Maybe a good sulk will clear my head so I can come up with an idea for my next book.Oh, the curse of the writer's life! Readers demand more books. Editors give you contracts, then insist that you actually write the books you promised you would. But what of the poor writer? Is he a machine, churning out books as if they were nothing more than chew bones or squeaky toys? (Not that I have anything against chew bones or squeaky toys.) Or is he a living, breathing creature made of flesh and blood who can't be expected to create when he's been scolded (again) for rolling around in the compost heap and made to suffer the indignity of three baths in three days!?Life is so unfair.Especially when you're a dog.And a writer. Howie's Writing Journal The best thing just happened! Toby was in his room, reading this big stack of comic books, and he must have known how I was feeling because he said, "Come on up here, boy, and let me read to you."So I did, and he did, and now I know what I'm going to write! The Amazing OdorousAdventures of Stinky Dog By Howie Monroe CHAPTER 1: "TROUBLE IN CENTER CITY" Things were bad in Center City. Gangs roamed the streets, knocking little old ladies down and running off with their handbags. Signs were posted everywhere: WANTED:GANGS CARRYING HANDBAGSMAY BE DANGEROUS No one was safe. Not even dogs. Dogs were not allowed to be smelly. If they were, they were locked up in the jug. The can. The cooler. The hoosegow.People kept their little old ladies indoors and gave their dogs baths every day. Sometimes more than once.It was a terrible time.Howie Monroe, a decent, mild-mannered, and law-abiding citizen of Center City, worried about the safety of his family, the Monroes, even though they gave him too many baths and would not let him roll around in their compost heap. Why have a compost heap, he wanted to know, if you can't roll around in Howie wished there was something he could do to make life better in Center City, but what could he do? After all, he was only one small dachshund in a world gone mad, one tiny voice in a sea of voices, one pebble in a field of boulders, one itsy-bitsy minnow in a school of sharks! He didn't even dare leave his house for fear that, unable to resist the lure of the compost heap, he would be picked up for unlawful stinkiness and tossed into the clink where he'd have to share a cell with gangs of criminals armed with handbags.One day he was sleeping under the coffee table when he was awakened by a loud KEERASHHH from outside. Harold and Chester, the other decent, mild-mannered (except Chester, sometimes)