Thursday, 27 October 2016

Dreaded Lurgies! Lynn Huggins-Cooper

This will be a short blog post, as I have been ambushed by The Dreaded Lurgies. Full-on flu. It's filling my head with fluff, so my writing has ground to a halt. I have snuggled down by the fire, lit for the first time this year, today.

I have to get myself in gear though. I have a Halloween birthday and wedding anniversary to hopefully still enjoy - and then on 1st November, I have committed to NanoWrimo. I have been taking part for ten years now. In case you haven't heard of it, NanoWrimo is a special challenge, where participants undertake to write a novel in a month. 50,000 words. It sounds like a lot, but only breaks down into 1,677 words a day. That can be done in one chunk (I do this - getting up early and writing 'til it's done) but can also be shoe-horned into a day's activities - lunch and coffee breaks; in the evening - you get to choose.

Just think - by the time you read my next blog, we could both have a new novel in first draft. Are you with me? See you on the other side!

Wednesday, 26 October 2016

Wells and Welsh - Eloise Williams

Thrilled, delighted and over the moon that my novel ‘Seaglass’, as yet unpublished (hint, hint), has come in as Runner-up in the Wells Festival of Literature Children’s Novel Competition this year.

Please do a happy dance for me.

Wow! You really do have the moves!


So, I went to Wells – beautiful City of extraordinary eateries and superlative shopping opportunities and shook Camilla’s hand. Yes, the Camilla. As you do.

Hello there, security people. Yes I AM coming into the marquee in the Bishop’s Palace Gardens thank you very much. And so is my mum.


Anyway, a lovely day was had by all and I am so chuffed that my story is so liked.

On that note – a bugbear. Time to get something off my chest.

Writers in Wales are often told not to make their stories too Welsh. Or, to put it another way, make them less Welsh.

Just because our stories are set in Wales and have Welsh characters populating them, it doesn’t mean that they won’t have Universal appeal. *Pulls extremely cross teacher type face*

‘Seaglass’ is a ghost story set on the Pembrokeshire Coast. It uses the local landscape and history as its setting and its main protagonist is a Welsh Gypsy. I specifically chose to write about the place because it is a place that I love with all my heart and is also where I am lucky enough to live. I chose for Scarlett to be a Welsh gypsy because that’s how she was born in my head.  

There are loads of brilliant writers setting their stories in Wales because it is interesting here! Even some writers who weren’t even born in Wales! Shock! Horror! *Picks self up from fainting position.*

I’m not saying that I will never set a story somewhere else – N.B. I probably won’t because there are all those procrastinational jobs to do – but I see absolutely zero reason why I shouldn’t write about the people and land where I live and still be relevant.

Eloise… can you make you make your stories a bit less Welsh?

Erm… No.

Will you make your stories a bit less Welsh?

Erm… No.

Perhaps if you could…

I’ll stop you there.

And so to celebrate the success of ‘Seaglass’, I’m in a cabin in North Wales, overlooking the sea from the Llyn Peninsula, close to the mountains of Snowdonia, learning to siarad Cymraeg badly, discovering my next story and editing Gaslight, which is set in Cardiff and was written with support from Literature Wales.

Of course the Welsh word for Congratulations is Llongyfarchiadau. As you well know.

Llongyfarchiadau Seaglass! Da iawn.  

And just to get rid of the teacher face a spot more happy dancing if you please… I’ll just get put on some Tom of the Jones!

Tuesday, 25 October 2016

Letting Go by Tamsyn Murray

So I have a new book out next week.
An important, pour-your-heart-and-soul-into-it book.
One it has taken four years to wrestle and nurture into something I am hugely proud of.
My first YA for over five years.
A story I have hated and cried tears of frustration over, because I thought I would never get it right.
THAT kind of book.

Naturally, my life during the last few weeks has morphed into some kind of authorly Bermuda Triangle as I bounce between terror, excitement and panic, with everything else sinking in the middle. You need to let go, I've told myself. You've done all you can, whatever happens next is out of your hands.


Anyway, during my frequent late-night worry sessions, I got to thinking about how we (creators) might protect ourselves from feeling this way. The obvious answer is that once our work reaches a certain level of perfection (and I use that term loosely because who has ever created something artistic that they considered perfect? Not me...) or completion, then we need to love it in spite of its faults and learn to let go. If you can manage to detach yourself from your work enough, then maybe you will see its future and performance objectively. The trouble is, of course, that writing (and other art) is often so personal, which makes it harder to let go. And there are often practical reasons for not being able to let go - you need the work to do well so that publishers will find you an attractive business proposition in future, perhaps so that you can continue to feed your children. I cannot let go of Instructions for a Second-hand Heart because I feel it is my very best writing; it's intrinsically linked into my own confidence. So if it does not sell, that will impact on my perception of myself, as well as disappointing a lot of other people. Then I realised that I don't want to not care about this book: it IS important and I can't let it go. All I can do is hope that I have done enough.

Unless any of you have some tried-and-tested routes for escaping (or entirely avoiding) the Bermuda Triangle of Fear? Do you manage to let your work go? Or are you worse than me?

Instructions for a Second-hand Heart is out on 1st November 2016. I really love the cover.

Monday, 24 October 2016

Books, beer, belly laughs and bunk beds. Doing a book festival Cornish style - Liz Kessler

I’ve been to lots of book festivals in my years as an author. Generally speaking, they are absolutely wonderful affairs. But then, as an author, how could a gathering of writers and readers, brought together in a lovely place and surrounded by a passion for books not be a wonderful affair?

However, even in that context, the North Cornwall Book Festival was one of the loveliest events I have attended in years.

This festival began five years ago and is headed up by the rather wonderful Patrick Gale. I’ve never met Patrick before, but had heard of him, both – of course – as an author, and also by virtue of the fact that he is a fellow Cornwall-dweller.

Our first real-life meeting took place on Thursday evening. I was due to meet him and other authors and festival volunteers in a pub. Having managed to accidentally kill my car on the way there, our first meeting took place late in the evening, and halfway through the meal.

I had filled my car with petrol on the way to the festival. Sadly, two minutes after filling it, as I ground to a halt in the middle of a busy road, I remembered it’s a diesel car. After being rescued by guardian angel/AA man Martin, I finally arrived in the pub, two hours late, bedraggled and slightly stressed. Within seconds, I was given a chair, a beer and a menu, and made to feel like one of the family. The whole weekend continued in this way.

Accommodation was…interesting. I wasn’t sure if I felt like I was in a little cabin on the Paddington – Penzance night train, a prison cell or a boarding school dormitory, but it made for the cosiest experience of a book festival I’ve ever had. (Even with the intermittent snoring from a nearby bunk, no names mentioned.) And I have to say, there is no better way to bond with your fellow authors than having breakfast together in your PJs.

My events were on the ‘schools day’. This is where Cornwall schools are invited to bring groups of students in to listen to talks, attend workshops and meet some of their favourite authors. I met some fantastic young people who made me laugh, asked lots of great questions and bought loads of books!

The day ended with a brilliant marquee-filling talk from the wonderful Francesca Simon, and was rounded off with one of the most atmospheric musical performances I’ve ever been to. If you have ever walked through a sky so dark and clear that you can see the milky way spread out across thousands of stars, and crept across a spookily-lit graveyard to watch a Senegalese band performing inside a beautiful church – you’ll know what I mean!

If you like the idea of this, do check out Amadou Diagne and his Group Yakar.

Another high point of my weekend was meeting a novelist and poet who I have admired for many years but have never had the chance to sit down and have a good chinwag with. Scottish Poet Laureate Jackie Kay is as wonderful in real life as she is in the lines of her poetry. Although, word of advice, if she challenges you to a bet - beware. Her bargaining power is irresistible, and you'll probably lose.

All in all, this festival was utterly magical. From the technicians who supported my event perfectly, to the volunteers who took me on an evening excursion to the co-op as we’d run out of beer and an early morning run to the station when I had to leave; from the chef who made amazing meals for us, to the photographer who not only took wonderful photos but promised to spend a day teaching me some camera techniques when I’m next in London (and who took all the pics on this blog) from the beautiful surroundings to the belly laughs that accompanied every bit of it – this festival is a triumph.

Thank you so much Lisa, Patrick and all the team for letting me be part of it. I hope you’ll have me back next year. 

I’ll stock up on ear plugs, beer and diesel, just in case.

Find out more about the North Cornwall Book Festival

Sunday, 23 October 2016

Chaos, According to Plan by Steve Gladwin

For as long as I can remember I have had to think about an audience. I don ‘t mean I was followed around by one as Alan Titchmarsh clearly was by that brass band for most of the nineties, but because dear reader ,of my life in theatre and drama teaching. Whether it was my first appearance as Jemmy Twitcher in the Beggar’s Opera at the age of whatever, or my three years at Bretton Hall, or writing and directing productions for countless NNEB, A level Theatre Studies and BTEC Performing Arts groups, running my own theatre and storytelling companies and being a jobbing storyteller, the worry about that pesky audience has never been far away. Now as a writer on top of everything else, the audience is constantly on my mind and none more so than at the moment.

Years ago, when I had to start teaching A Level Theatre Studies from scratch, my experienced colleague started with a particular bit of advice, which was to teach the two great theatre practitioners Brecht and Stanislavski as if they were two great polar opposites and allow the rest to slot in between. It turned out to be wise advice.

Now never can there have been two more opposite approaches to theatre. On the one hand you have the serious and seriously rich Konstantin and the rather more casual and outrageous Bertolt, who hid his expensive silk shirts under a hair shirt exterior so that people thought he was at one with the peasant class. Where Stanislavski was all about analysis and intensity and the authentic and believable recreation of a real moment, Brecht didn’t give a toss about the real moment and did his best whenever he could to destroy any illusion of it, with placards, constant interruptions and good old fashioned storytelling.

So yes as a storyteller, give me Brecht’s epic theatre over Stanislavski’s realism any day. Of course for years Stanislavski - more than most - was mistranslated and changed his ideas and approaches far more than people gave him credit for.

Was it something Brecht said?

I still have great respect for Stanislavski, and much of what he suggested, but my admiration for Brecht  - outrageous rogue and con artist as he might have been – remains boundless, for it was Brecht more than anyone who brought storytelling into the 20th century theatre. It was Brecht who allowed people to say, ‘this is a story and I am telling it.’ I differ from Brecht in the actual thinking however because what he meant by that was to say, ‘don’t believe this – it’s all a story, all illusion and I can destroy it any time that I want. Look. I’ve stopped it.’

I on the other hand see storytelling far more in an ‘Let me take you far, far, away, and when you return, things will maybe never seem quite the same again,’ sense.

And Brecht in his own curious way, had far more respect for his audience than Stanislavski ever did, (who at his most extreme had actors imagine the fourth wall to block them out) – no matter how grudging that might have been – and maybe that’s one of the reasons his ideas have stayed with me.

One of the first influential books on Brecht was John Fuegi’s ‘Chaos According To Plan.’ A great title, because Brecht created what seemed like chaos, but he actually planned deliberately to ‘disrupt the spectacle’, to make people sit up, and challenge them.

Brecht plans more chaos!

And isn’t it fun to be able to do that and play our part as the enfant terrible of our particular profession, (or perhaps too often just the little boy peeing in the fountain!)

But how often can we do that as writers? Too often we have to follow an accepted formula, which has either worked for us before, or is the sort of thing that agents and publishers are ‘clearly looking for’. In extreme cases, if we dare to change our style, we end up being ‘hobbled’, not so much literally - in the sort of terrifying ‘dirty bird’ Misery scenario we would clearly care to avoid, but by losing precious stars on Amazon and being given scathing reviews in all manner of media.

In the last few weeks I’ve been working on something where the response of the audience is almost the only thing that matters. We recently completed a book called The Raven’s Call. This seeks to find a new way of dealing with loss and challenging change through the old ‘eightfold’ cycle of the year and the elements.

Did someone mention eyeballs!

At the same time, I am developing a series of workshops on the same theme for users and staff in mental health. And of late - as explained in my September blog - my life has become all about change and how I and those closest to me are able to respond to it.

The Raven’s Call was a wonderful collaboration between a few like-minded people, and much to my surprise I’ve found myself involved in a similar project over the last month, taking the ideas of one book and one age group and making them accessible for a completely different audience.But looking at the idea for Swallow Tales demanded that I ask very specific questions of my potential audience.

In 2009 I did an arts council funded pilot scheme in several primary schools in North Powys, to introduce the idea of change and loss to years 5 and 6, and in the case of that project, to literally move from having a laugh for half of the day to moving on to something more serious for the rest of it.

I used three tales in the afternoon session, all of them in some way about loss. The third tale was Kevin Crossley Holland’s wonderful adaptation of the very strange Norfolk tale of the Green Children. There comes a point halfway through the tale - where the two green children who have come out of the ground from a distant green land - react very differently to being away from their home. Whereas the older girl has eventually learnt to cope, her younger brother dwindles. Kevin’s adaptation has a very spare and raw way of expressing it, wonderful for the storyteller.

‘One day’, he says, ‘the green boy threw up his hands and died.’

And in every school there was the same reaction – a gasp of mixed shock and sadness from all who heard it, children and staff alike. For me it was one of the most magical and special moments in my life as a storyteller and performer. It felt as if somehow in that moment, both Kevin and I, had grasped a tiny essence of grief and held it there with the audience for just a while. And in school after school it happened, even the one where the head seemed not at all interested and just wanted me to be over, so they could go back to a normal school programme.

The project, ‘Are You Having A Laugh?’ very deliberately left it at just the stories. We talked briefly about the day we’d spent and the contrast between the two halves of it. We mentioned that these last three stories had been sad and very different from the ones in the morning. The children were encouraged to write and draw pictures about one of the stories. Everything else was left to the teachers and head for follow-up in assembly and elsewhere.

Was this the spot where the Green Children emerged?

Now, seven years later, I am creating a book which confronts the change and in many cases the sadness head on. Of my eight stories the first and last are actually about a death, gravitating from one about the loss of a pet at Halloween, to the loss of a grandfather the following autumn. And of course the losses of childhood, (which we would always pray were few) come in many forms. and not always in those that parents or teachers would readily understand. The friend - who we see every day - moving far away, can be just as much of a wrench, and in some cases might feel more of a bereavement than the loss of a relative we see once a week, or when we fall out with our best friend, or we find out are parents are going to separate.

In Swallow Tales, as in The Raven’s Call, we use the old farming calendar as our route-map through the year, as well as animals as our guides. So the sadness of a last family holiday in August before an inevitable separation is accompanied by the lonely Selkie, the seal wife who in the end had no choice but to leave her husband and children behind to return to the sea,  and the new and unwanted, (by the older sister) baby comes at the same time as Easter and the hare which of course is the real bunny.

The Wheel of the Year by Rose Foran from The Raven's Call

There are clues and wisdom in all of the season and strengths too, but there also has to be sensitivity. The book no longer leaves it to the teachers to introduce the topics gently, this is the real thing, where reactions - particularly from children going through one or more of these changes - have to be both anticipated and gentled into, while at the same time not being afraid to tackle the topic head on.  

I began this blog by talking about the very different theatrical approaches of Stanislavski and Brecht, and particularly of how they related to storytelling. Their ways of introducing the topic of death in particular were equally powerful in different ways, despite how Brecht might have sought to distance us from an emotional engagement with the subject, and Stanislavski to draw us as close to an emotional engagement as possible or a related memory to it. It is for example the writer's very lack of engagement with the tragedy of all three of Mother Courage's three children, that leads us to feel that tragedy even more. In  other words the same spare and matter of fact way that the death of the Green Boy is also dealt with.

As a writer, storyteller and director, if there's one thing I've been sure of, it's that less so often does mean more. Sometimes you need only to set down the cold facts and leave them to speak for themselves. In an age where the media continually tries to manipulate our responses, surely it is even more important to have good old fashioned storytelling where it is the facts and the honesty of a first reaction which count.

If you'e interested in The Raven's Call - a new way of exploring loss and change in peope's lives, you'll find more details below. Thanks


Saturday, 22 October 2016

How do you know when your book is any good? By Dan Metcalf

The question of 'How do you know when your book is any good?' cropped up on a discussion topic and I found myself feeling quite passionate about my answer. So here goes:

I think you know when your book is good when it excites you. When you can't wait to dive back in and go through it with a fine toothcomb and rewrite it. When you think about it all the time – in the shower, on the drive to work, during mealtimes and in a meeting when you really should be paying attention to what the other person is saying. When you find yourself sneaking a look at the manuscript during the time you're supposed to be letting it rest in a drawer. And when the characters play on in your mind long after you've put down the pen, chattering and arguing in their own unique voice.

If you hate writing the story, if you can't face another day in front of the keyboard, or if you plain old can’t stand your characters, then put it aside or try to reinvent the story so that it is fun for you to write. If you don't have fun writing it, then no one will have fun reading it. Be your own biggest fan, and write the story you want to read.

So don't rewrite something if you know it’s really good, unless you or your editor have a blinkin' good reason to find fault in it. And yes, if it doesn't excite you, cast it aside! You should be your own critic, but unfortunately I think most writers have a very loud internal critic already, poo-pooing their ideas before they hit paper. I'd just like to fly the flag for believing in your own work, and making sure that you love every last letter of it.

How do you feel about this? What safeguards have you got in place to ensure your writing doesn't suck? Let me know in the comments.

Dan Metcalf -

Friday, 21 October 2016

A good neighbour and the gentleness of donkeys by Anne Booth

I am writing a story which has a donkey in it. Now, this is not the first time. Last year I wrote  ‘Refuge’ which is the Christmas story, including the flight into Egypt, as told by the donkey who carried  first the pregnant Mary to Bethlehem, and then Mary and baby Jesus into Egypt.  It was illustrated by Sam Usher and published by Nosy Crow to raise awareness of and money for refugees. This year it is being re-issued in paperback format and Nosy Crow have  arranged that it will still raise money for refugees, which is wonderful.

So I am writing another story about a donkey, and I decided I would really actually like to see one in real life. I have always loved donkeys, and I remember happy holidays in Ireland as a child, and Jenny, my Uncle’s donkey. But I haven’t seen one for AGES. I have been reading about donkey sanctuaries online and watching YouTube videos, but that’s not the same.

So I asked a question on Facebook as to whether any of my neighbours knew of any donkeys nearby, and my lovely neighbour Emma messaged me and invited me to tea at a local cidery and tea rooms with farm animals. She was sure there were donkeys.

We got there and had a delicious cream tea served by very friendly staff. We saw llamas and chickens and horses and big guinea pigs called maras, but no donkeys. We were told that the donkeys had been re-homed as apparently the horses in the field kept kicking them and there wasn’t enough room for them to have separate fields. When my friend and neighbour heard where they had been re-homed, she  decided that we would drive there -  the Lord Whisky Animal Sanctuary, where, amazingly, the very kind ladies let us meet Snowdrop and Primrose, whose ears were very soft and with whom I fell in love.

What is the point of this story, apart from sharing pictures of donkeys and confessing to my longing to have some?

Well, this time last week I had to go to London to get my and my husband’s passports urgently renewed. We are going away to Ireland for two nights soon as a special wedding anniversary trip, and having booked the trip I realised our passports would run out before we left. So I had to go up to London to get them fast- tracked. I felt very nervous and irrationally sure that for some reason they would refuse me a passport. My nervousness wasn’t helped by my handbag setting off the alarms as I went through security and the man shouting ‘she’s got a scissors!’. 
But then suddenly everything was fine. The staff - who were white, asian and black, were a great example of multicultural Britain. They were quick to find and confiscate my nail scissors but were kind and understanding, whilst being reassuringly on top of security. When I went upstairs I saw people from all sorts of different cultural backgrounds waiting for British passports, and I suddenly felt really comforted that in spite of the many horrible headlines we read every day, that British people were still tolerant and kind. The man who processed my passport had a daughter at university where I live, and so we had a nice chat about his imminent visit to her.
That wasn’t the only nice thing which happened last Friday. A man working in the underground - a member of the station staff - complimented me on my coat and said it was very unusual, and when I said it was a Nomads fair trade coat he said ‘you’re speaking my language’. When I got the train home a man came and sat next to me eating cashew nuts, and very cheerfully offered me some. I told him that was very kind, and that lots of people had been lovely that day, and he said, ‘yes, you mustn't believe the headlines, people are much nicer than the papers say.’

I was so grateful to my kind neighbour today for taking me not only for a cream tea but for two trips to find donkeys. I was grateful to meet the kind people who look after the donkeys and other animals who need care, and the gentle animals themselves. I really needed that trip, as I have been feeling very depressed about the way our media have been talking about refugees. Today and last Friday reminded me that, like the family Sam Usher drew so beautifully at the end of ‘Refuge’ - we still have great capacity for welcome and kindness in big and little ways, and we need to tell and listen to stories which celebrate this and make our voices be heard above the vile headlines stirring up hate. I am glad that I am writing another story with a gentle donkey in - we can’t have too many of them in this world.