tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77801821745770951972024-03-19T07:56:57.794+00:00An Awfully Big Blog AdventureChildren's authors from the UK discuss books, writing, reading and more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger4856125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-50281416510699788622024-03-18T01:00:00.378+00:002024-03-18T08:16:46.311+00:00Rising like the phoenix<p> Recovery from surgery takes time, and I've used this as excuse to spend much of this last month simply researching pieces for my patreon account, <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Writingthemagic">Writing the Magic</a>, rather than writing any new fiction. I feel a bit like I've been given a second chance at life, and to celebrate, this is a post all about the magical phoenix, one of my favourite mythical creatures.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1dW42Ng1geq_GgIPHythyphenhyphenWUpFE1qSjoSGqVFWUEHGUyxQGgGVJ8Sj3OYDV_tJIl76hTlxCb7jCx-Aee7dgklch_8RM7nHIxoNGC_2Hkc_2tRn4MJJHpQ18hvsUM1vUwAy7_gAiT8c0SkZZXK0Q_cZKo4kNISqzW6CVqtsZ9uuSg4WvNVzzNK52CB1Umw/s311/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1dW42Ng1geq_GgIPHythyphenhyphenWUpFE1qSjoSGqVFWUEHGUyxQGgGVJ8Sj3OYDV_tJIl76hTlxCb7jCx-Aee7dgklch_8RM7nHIxoNGC_2Hkc_2tRn4MJJHpQ18hvsUM1vUwAy7_gAiT8c0SkZZXK0Q_cZKo4kNISqzW6CVqtsZ9uuSg4WvNVzzNK52CB1Umw/s1600/images.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: inherit;">According to legend, the phoenix comes from Arabia, where it lives alone in a sacred wood, surviving on nothing but pure air. There is only ever one phoenix alive in the world at any one time, though their lifespan is very long. The earliest mention of the bird is attributed to the Greek poet Hesiod, writing in the 8th century BC. In this extract, the centaur Chiron is instructing the young Achilles:</span></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><em>A chattering crow lives now nine generations of aged men,<br />but a stag's life is four time a crow's,<br />and a raven's life makes three stags old,<br />while the phoenix outlives nine ravens...</em></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Depending on how old you reckon an 'aged man' is, this makes the phoenix's life span very long indeed (my maths isn't good enough to work it out) - though a later 5th century BC account (from Greek historian Herodotus) makes it a mere 500 years:</p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><em>[The Egyptians] have also another sacred bird called the phoenix which I myself have never seen, except in pictures. Indeed it is a great rarity, even in Egypt, only coming there (according to the accounts of the people of Heliopolis) once in five hundred years, when the old phoenix dies. </em></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif44Q9JZ6NLhXahusGFCbbg1kYNPFW_aiADGJh9onJaw5VyY0wmeiIkb-jv6xt3tdgrLPzrDoArufSPuheuUj3fNTnf-wPFY9sCvNntqnS1NTcK-fFRiLqvvUa1IJuC86sym_9pD2BZ1ExwQZVIeGTGRhPz43JVuKSXjFxdhqpNRBaFKnHehWcduFJp-A/s272/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif44Q9JZ6NLhXahusGFCbbg1kYNPFW_aiADGJh9onJaw5VyY0wmeiIkb-jv6xt3tdgrLPzrDoArufSPuheuUj3fNTnf-wPFY9sCvNntqnS1NTcK-fFRiLqvvUa1IJuC86sym_9pD2BZ1ExwQZVIeGTGRhPz43JVuKSXjFxdhqpNRBaFKnHehWcduFJp-A/s1600/download.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><span style="font-size: inherit;"><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><span style="font-size: inherit;"><br /></span></p>As big as an eagle, and far more graceful, the phoenix is reputed to have glittering purple feathers (the word 'phoenix' translates from ancient Greek as 'purple') with a golden band around its neck. Other writers have variously described it as having red, blue and gold feathers. This is Herodotus's description:</span><p></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><em>Its size and appearance, if it is like the pictures, are as follows: The plumage is partly red, partly golden, while the general make and size are almost exactly that of the eagle. </em></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">In alchemy, the phoenix corresponds to the colour red, symbolising the regeneration of universal life, and the successful completion of a process. Whatever its true colour, phoenix feathers are said to have the magical property of healing any wound they touch. </p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">When the phoenix reaches the end of its life, it collects myrrh, laudanum, nard, cassia and cinnamon in its wings, and flies to Phoenicia. Once there, the bird selects the tallest palm tree (interestingly, an alternative translation of 'phoenix' is 'palm tree') and builds a nest from the ingredients it's collected. Settling itself into the nest, the phoenix sings its final, hauntingly beautiful song, until the rising sun sets the nest alight and burns the bird to ashes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0SgTzibISdyywlMcCviFv5LhPzpzOE7Ge_AHSMy6POvTToNftyRPHonvFCyoItp-v6PiQoojuDZkycrEJaxmKBQBet5ZkiyJrfacZHAgFaUMv6LDY02cwvsBTSMmsBsD20Einde5YCqW3lrP46_jm5QPf37vuZ9AmYogZDRve02Mj9fsYULqdf061Tg/s233/images-5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="216" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0SgTzibISdyywlMcCviFv5LhPzpzOE7Ge_AHSMy6POvTToNftyRPHonvFCyoItp-v6PiQoojuDZkycrEJaxmKBQBet5ZkiyJrfacZHAgFaUMv6LDY02cwvsBTSMmsBsD20Einde5YCqW3lrP46_jm5QPf37vuZ9AmYogZDRve02Mj9fsYULqdf061Tg/s1600/images-5.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><span style="font-size: inherit;">However, as we know, this can never be the end of the phoenix, which is an immortal bird. A tiny grub creeps from the ashes, and grows into a young phoenix. The reborn phoenix then takes the ashes of its previous incarnation and pushes them into a ball of myrrh. Carrying the ball in its beak, it flies to Heliopolis in Egypt, the city of the sun, where it places it on an altar. Having completed this task, the fledgling flies back the sacred wood for the cycle to begin again.</span></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Unlike the phoenix, I won't get to enjoy a new 500 year lifespan - but it's probably time to step out of the ashes and start writing that next book...</p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Lu Hersey</p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Patreon: <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Writingthemagic">Writing the Magic</a></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Twitter/X: <a href="https://twitter.com/LuWrites">@LuWrites</a></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;">Threads: <a href="https://www.threads.net/@luwrites">@luwrites</a></p><p style="font-size: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin: 10px 0px;"><br /></p>LuWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793378306766981247noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-58039321041427185012024-03-15T00:30:00.001+00:002024-03-15T00:30:00.133+00:00Writing process health warning: Here Be Metaphors – by Rowena House<p><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />Metaphors. They’re great, right? Our first port of call when grappling with complexity. <br /><br />Soz, but seriously... <br /><br />How can we describe something as multifaceted as our writing processes without resorting to metaphor? My favourite: writing techniques are tools in a toolbox (Stephen King) which we select at need; as we develop as writers, we build up our available toolkit. <br /><br />Brilliant. However... <br /><br />This past month I’ve been looking back at my own process/es and found King’s confident, positive toolbox metaphor more of a comfort blanket than a guiding light [soz, again] since the idea we can confidently grasp the right tool at the right moment demands a) total recall and b) an extraordinary level of objectivity about our own creative practice.<br /><br />For example, the lens that focussed my debut novel more than any other was defining a binary question to create a spine for the story and keep it on track. (No more apologies, okay, I’m just gonna let the mixing rip.) For The Good Road, that question was: ‘Will Angelique save the family farm for her brother, yes/no?’ At the end of every scene, ‘saving the farm’ was more or less likely. The yes/no question = a perfect guiding light, maintaining coherence and linearity throughout 80K words.<br /><br />[Apologies to whichever writing guru came up with this binary question storytelling technique. Your name is lost in time to me, but the idea is very much appreciated.] <br /><br />With the seventeenth-century witch trial work-in-progress, however, I wasted months trying to define such a question and years worrying that I couldn’t – did I have an actual story or nothing more than a dreaded situation? The horror! – then, this week, HUZZAH, a get out of gaol card was delivered by George Saunders straight into my inbox. <br /><br />As it’s free advice from his public ‘Office Hours’ emails, I’ll quote it freely, too. FYI, I think it will be well worth subscribing to his full Substack and plan to do so when cash is less strapped. [How is cash strapped?] Link below. <br /><br />Anyway, here he is. How to get out of the self-imposed prison of one's own writing process: <br /><br />‘Sometimes my ideas about my writing don’t work for me either and have to be scrapped or re-understood. And I really mean that. No matter how confidently I talk about some writing-related concept, they’re all just metaphors. <br /><br />‘Likewise, when someone offers up a writing metaphor, even if it’s a good one, and rings a bell for us – it’s not the thing itself. It’s not the state one is actually in, when revising well... Reality is reality and concepts are concepts: inadequate word-wrappings, generated out of need, always insufficient.’ <br /><br />If the current method isn’t working, move on, he says. Writing techniques must serve the work; if you’re stuck, if the work isn’t working, then maybe you’ve become a slave to your own – or someone else’s – technique. <br /><br />‘Part of our job as artists is to always be asking: “Is the metaphor (method) I’m currently using still actually helping me?” <br /><br />‘How do we know? <br /><br />‘Well, I try to ask myself, now and then (openly, honestly): “Am I making progress? (Is the work, roughly speaking, longer and better than it was three months ago? Or, even: is it, though shorter than it was three months ago, is it better?)” <br /><br />What fabulous, practical advice. Thank you, Mr Saunders. </p><p>As I’m pushed for time [?] again, I’ll stop now, but here’s the link to subscribe to George Saunders’ Story Club. It’s £40 pa or £5 a month for full access, with a free option for his regular public posts. <br /><br /><a href="https://georgesaunders.substack.com/subscribe?utm_source=email&utm_campaign=email-subscribe&r=j482m&next=https%3A%2F%2Fgeorgesaunders.substack.com%2Fp%2Foffice-hours-a9c&utm_medium=email">https://georgesaunders.substack.com/subscribe?utm_source=email&utm_campaign=email-subscribe&r=j482m&next=https%3A%2F%2Fgeorgesaunders.substack.com%2Fp%2Foffice-hours-a9c&utm_medium=email</a> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3vhuIyEUSFMBMHnXAbtLMWMvmZfda1TgBRRvAfLjg9PmPDZBUIf4sHP5yfQjT9wT9dePSI4nEMG78v573rD8s1pXOybGW60IE9HXi3qoCOhhjnvnPgh6C2zzLZY1TwJMBeaVN79biyj4HlnwgzR0jsl-9e2zY9GSafAXCJz6KazHGkbUA4eBN3zA5QI/s500/51Q-xh0Rt3L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3vhuIyEUSFMBMHnXAbtLMWMvmZfda1TgBRRvAfLjg9PmPDZBUIf4sHP5yfQjT9wT9dePSI4nEMG78v573rD8s1pXOybGW60IE9HXi3qoCOhhjnvnPgh6C2zzLZY1TwJMBeaVN79biyj4HlnwgzR0jsl-9e2zY9GSafAXCJz6KazHGkbUA4eBN3zA5QI/s320/51Q-xh0Rt3L.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><p><br />@HouseRowena X/Twitter <br /><br />Rowena House Author on FB <br /><br />Lots about The Goose Road on rowenahouse.wordpress.com <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> </p>Rowena Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11548957772863528477noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-30840512588192541312024-03-14T02:30:00.001+00:002024-03-14T02:30:00.248+00:00Hope in a Garden by Lynne Benton<p> In the spring we start to look for signs of new growth,
better weather, new hope. And where
better to look than in a garden? At the
moment in England it’s a treat to see snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils pushing
their way into the light, giving us hope that somehow things in this
increasingly difficult world might improve.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMy3mAJWYuXGtzR3G3N5ut9XeFH9wwhoEuiDv3S4zSxRJL7qCI9YxPBSj-nLS87h8L4LP_YJwqFIg5O4AUmj_y866xWqf1U_6VKQbKYALS7T8ZRzhJ-piHRLyeoKOh8Mf5WnFstfW6azeXzEhQN1WcRA8Of9SDkLLsN40r2-N-ysi3Itihfj9fNvzXn8/s853/640px-Yellow_daffodils_-_floriade_canberra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="640" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikMy3mAJWYuXGtzR3G3N5ut9XeFH9wwhoEuiDv3S4zSxRJL7qCI9YxPBSj-nLS87h8L4LP_YJwqFIg5O4AUmj_y866xWqf1U_6VKQbKYALS7T8ZRzhJ-piHRLyeoKOh8Mf5WnFstfW6azeXzEhQN1WcRA8Of9SDkLLsN40r2-N-ysi3Itihfj9fNvzXn8/w151-h202/640px-Yellow_daffodils_-_floriade_canberra.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><br /><p>And in each of the three books I want to mention today it is
a garden which signifies hope for the child who finds it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the first book, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, written
in 1865 By Lewis Carroll, Alice has fallen down a rabbit-hole into a strange
and rather scary world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only when
she opens a tiny door and sees through it a wonderful garden that she wants
more than anything to go through into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unfortunately at that moment she is way too big to go through the door,
but she spends the rest of the book trying to make herself the right size to
get into the garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her mind it
signifies somewhere safe that she can understand.<o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgus8t5U1FYyEN9fFQvg4Gj2Pfuj3TBmLkhxs_JqrXQ40Bbblsd8eBInnPAsiXWESUM9hA3plYAMixnGAu1O_23Rz65UI6hc0BsJw6y4Wddvka-qSD5AtPhSkzwzjsm_rV9pBX0iPylIub3F2Hcndpdw1gRsSCzCTshuhZ1hU40SfyvUgR-UsT6FtlUhbA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="207" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgus8t5U1FYyEN9fFQvg4Gj2Pfuj3TBmLkhxs_JqrXQ40Bbblsd8eBInnPAsiXWESUM9hA3plYAMixnGAu1O_23Rz65UI6hc0BsJw6y4Wddvka-qSD5AtPhSkzwzjsm_rV9pBX0iPylIub3F2Hcndpdw1gRsSCzCTshuhZ1hU40SfyvUgR-UsT6FtlUhbA" width="155" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">In the next book, The Secret Garden, written in 1911 by
Frances Hodgson Burnett, newly-orphaned Mary Lennox is sent away from
her home in the sunshine of India to stay in a big house in Yorkshire with a
strange uncle and his formidable housekeeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She resents this and is angry and rude, until she discovers a peaceful hidden
garden. It's only then that she begins to realise there could be some hope of a better life here
after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when she meets Dickon and
her bedridden cousin Colin things definitely start to improve for her, all
thanks to the secret garden.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHW-BonGmmnoXpk3MXa_uN9C_FPitATj6vkJRHvaLReRc1RZrBOIX2X0wC4jeYJvo7S_F0iVvMK2sgZSVqM2MyBAUVWhxdl5OwvYQON4RddG3d1dn_O3Vvpnl4aCzieWHkVeKDiQXTp2oFrnPlC4vHADQRGPl3wIOuuIsNgKRn1PksSd-jhRM7ApE3C3E/s293/download%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="192" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHW-BonGmmnoXpk3MXa_uN9C_FPitATj6vkJRHvaLReRc1RZrBOIX2X0wC4jeYJvo7S_F0iVvMK2sgZSVqM2MyBAUVWhxdl5OwvYQON4RddG3d1dn_O3Vvpnl4aCzieWHkVeKDiQXTp2oFrnPlC4vHADQRGPl3wIOuuIsNgKRn1PksSd-jhRM7ApE3C3E/w181-h277/download%20(2).jpg" width="181" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The third book, Tom’s Midnight Garden, written in 1958 by Philippa
Pearce, is another story of a child sent away from all that is familiar to a
strange place.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Tom resents being sent to
stay with an aunt and uncle while his brother has measles, especially
when he discovers that his aunt and uncle live in a small flat with no garden,
but a tiny back yard where there is nothing to play with and nothing to
do.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Then one night, when he hears the grandfather
clock in the hall strike thirteen, Tom opens the back door and discovers that the
ugly yard has turned into a wonderful garden, and better still there is a girl
there to play with.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Her name, she says,
is Hatty.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Next morning the garden has
disappeared, but the following night when the clock strikes thirteen again, the lovely garden is back, and
Hatty is there again, only a little older this time.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">And so his stay continues, giving Tom hope
that all will be well, for Hatty as well as for himself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvlsPhxbEyUWcBWuaxwUX3E1TaNfn1KJWtjHCdw_n0so6nSAzeUL6LOdq2Z_bXSnZs8TA_VCyihyphenhyphen7_O7ixPhNwET6KQ4Oyrxx_x-q1bo1RHkKoOw2A9eyQ6ZUfBUXha6Antzpr5hmfyvvjBotu3ppC1dpluN0wOZwP8zWbwjbbN7R83EPU0iS-dopIUU/s116/71AtHAYgVjL._AC_UL116_SR116,116_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="116" data-original-width="116" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvlsPhxbEyUWcBWuaxwUX3E1TaNfn1KJWtjHCdw_n0so6nSAzeUL6LOdq2Z_bXSnZs8TA_VCyihyphenhyphen7_O7ixPhNwET6KQ4Oyrxx_x-q1bo1RHkKoOw2A9eyQ6ZUfBUXha6Antzpr5hmfyvvjBotu3ppC1dpluN0wOZwP8zWbwjbbN7R83EPU0iS-dopIUU/w241-h241/71AtHAYgVjL._AC_UL116_SR116,116_.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Although there is nearly a hundred years between the first
and last of these three books, they all show the lasting fascination a garden
can hold for a child, especially one in need of a little hope.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Website: <a href="http://lynnebenton.com" target="_blank">lynnebenton.com</a></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Lynne Bentonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903089900604404075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-88614635088533397272024-03-13T04:00:00.001+00:002024-03-13T04:00:00.141+00:00Playing with our Sindies by Sheena Wilkinson<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Sometimes, like many writers, I get so bogged down in publishing industry STUFF that I forget about the pure joy of <i>making</i> things. Keren David, in her gorgeous recent post about collages, reminded me of some non-writing creative fun I'd had lately. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">My friend Susanne and I say, when we're making up stories, that it's like 'playing with our Sindies'. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I never came across Barbie as a child; it was her slightly more demure English cousin Sindy who captured my heart. Susanne and I </span><span style="font-family: arial;">didn't know each other as children, but both loved investing our dolls with personalities and taking them on adventures. It was an early version of story-making and we both experienced frustration with other children who didn't know how to 'make it up'. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhb9BJT4M9kQf9N4LTqnQPP6xTrNGFuid-V3s-6PCChY7iTFnp40I_JHa-kHnTlnUK0OhaHA7jAAmwkt7hdHVJRH_IG9k2VMIoY2e0e4krD2TDSmhz2gmVlbwi7lr-luC8CwTM0B3p7LnwyTqOYyi32DRid6yfuoMrPIqjCYgleDQ0BEzhHSrI-v0XkQssR" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhb9BJT4M9kQf9N4LTqnQPP6xTrNGFuid-V3s-6PCChY7iTFnp40I_JHa-kHnTlnUK0OhaHA7jAAmwkt7hdHVJRH_IG9k2VMIoY2e0e4krD2TDSmhz2gmVlbwi7lr-luC8CwTM0B3p7LnwyTqOYyi32DRid6yfuoMrPIqjCYgleDQ0BEzhHSrI-v0XkQssR" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frieda all kitted out</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Recently, I decided to try to rekindle some of that joy by finding an old Sindy doll to give Susanne as a gift. I bid for several dolls, cursing the day I got rid of my own, some four decades ago (yes, I did play with them into my teens: what of it?) and finally secured a fair-haired doll of, to my mind, particularly sweet expression. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiFN3dvPU_QG3r-L0GXkMFgSrMkV31TNlwVBD_-ujCo6QAkbMxzC_Mk30D10TuWLZFNo7IRzsQHEV7_fje-gxZFc6xcU6TpHcdTFOw7F091iX_HBrZ7LAIKRMzF1bjIL35bghlu8ISSmZK5CVfvflifC0CtGHfGQ56FgqOUmeY5itaAhj6tHy8PEhHYow8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiFN3dvPU_QG3r-L0GXkMFgSrMkV31TNlwVBD_-ujCo6QAkbMxzC_Mk30D10TuWLZFNo7IRzsQHEV7_fje-gxZFc6xcU6TpHcdTFOw7F091iX_HBrZ7LAIKRMzF1bjIL35bghlu8ISSmZK5CVfvflifC0CtGHfGQ56FgqOUmeY5itaAhj6tHy8PEhHYow8" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">with her books and chocolate </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">But she was dressed in the tackiest, most ghastly 1980s outfit you've ever seen. I blushed for her. I would have to give her a new outfit. It wasn't hard to decide on the perfect one -- a Chalet School uniform. We're both fans of the Chalet School and I knew Susanne would love it. From the beginning I thought of this doll as Frieda, one of the Chalet School's first pupils, a peace-loving Austrian girl.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I made the tunic first, which involved knitting for the first time since I was a child. I didn't think I would remember how, but in fact my muscles and brain settled into the rhythm quite easily. As a child I used to knit lots of dolls' clothes and I have never, child or adult, been able to follow patterns, so it was very much a case of making it up as I went along. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiecIEo4VaWHr582-40XBv-72Ax6FSGj_Rbj4KbyAsaUtelp2kRnGLozPCjI4SYHmTUD-whMR0zPUhElES8NbjJ7JPz3ZSKZMx77kA1Mnc3dCSsL0m6vnAsoe7pjMRFnhjvH4c9y1OtPPVTB8jWY2nagyUUbUlUOuwjDbdFVAWF2e131KM9sWHt26JQT9PY" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiecIEo4VaWHr582-40XBv-72Ax6FSGj_Rbj4KbyAsaUtelp2kRnGLozPCjI4SYHmTUD-whMR0zPUhElES8NbjJ7JPz3ZSKZMx77kA1Mnc3dCSsL0m6vnAsoe7pjMRFnhjvH4c9y1OtPPVTB8jWY2nagyUUbUlUOuwjDbdFVAWF2e131KM9sWHt26JQT9PY" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stockings, not tights, for that authentic 1920s touch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Then she needed a blouse. An old pair of white knickers provided most of that, with an Irish linen tray cloth providing the collar (and, eventually, for decency, underwear). A blazer. A beret. Oh -- and what about shoes and stockings? The latter were easy to make out of old tights, but the former -- I used the faux-suede jacket she had arrived in, were as tricky as the most recalcitrant plot I have ever tried to wrestle into shape. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnI8VfL__tEo42yG9Mn0kcbMALOD9rvZ9I9th7SfyMlBV9JhFU_9ipndSvMKWJoqjc1SoYz7QDpz4N9ajQ3_REzk-EVD2Okg91LUEBtn6plrNVIuY6xfjDfWf1_0Q_RpFyLgBzXMak4TF-RXAekzMA72HV0ooD_a9D1OgyaD40I9Mg76Ah45wjYIaRNKzK" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnI8VfL__tEo42yG9Mn0kcbMALOD9rvZ9I9th7SfyMlBV9JhFU_9ipndSvMKWJoqjc1SoYz7QDpz4N9ajQ3_REzk-EVD2Okg91LUEBtn6plrNVIuY6xfjDfWf1_0Q_RpFyLgBzXMak4TF-RXAekzMA72HV0ooD_a9D1OgyaD40I9Mg76Ah45wjYIaRNKzK" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the shoes caused me actual pain</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">She looked the part now, but a schoolgirl needs a schoolbag. And books. I decided that it was the late 1920s so her books were by Angela Brazil and Elsie Oxenham. And pencils and notebooks -- oh, and she might get peckish. What about a bar of chocolate? 1920s-style of course. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBqZsizo-Amo9NidUpm6l09sEhrfIRRonm9AsD4-jldqB3zX3Nbp2IB7LyczWSRdwxGVnnhHZ7gC6-gC88mmY-VdsCybybxrBWYdur090Tbr95y7A5TVVyTDnQDCh2jXUaO_FvaPYobP-2uP2RfnFzlSkXL0mmKUKOp3A5I0OBE6uQkiuu2aN6kAY0aD3M" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBqZsizo-Amo9NidUpm6l09sEhrfIRRonm9AsD4-jldqB3zX3Nbp2IB7LyczWSRdwxGVnnhHZ7gC6-gC88mmY-VdsCybybxrBWYdur090Tbr95y7A5TVVyTDnQDCh2jXUaO_FvaPYobP-2uP2RfnFzlSkXL0mmKUKOp3A5I0OBE6uQkiuu2aN6kAY0aD3M" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had the most fun with the accessories. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Yes... like a haiku that decides it wants to be an epic, the Sindy project grew until the doll I gave Susanne was better kitted out than I am myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It was the greatest, greatest fun. It was so wonderful to be creating, but not to worry about deadlines, or the market, or reviews. Yes, there was a lot of nostalgia involved, both in entering the beloved Chalet School world and in just handling a doll whose contours and details were were once so familiar to me. Susanne loved her, and as soon as she saw her, said, 'That's Frieda!'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It was so much fun I'm planning to kit out another one. Only not quite yet. There are stories to write first, and other Sindies, less tangible to play with. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Sheena Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13847659993713606837noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-62566579381080659442024-03-09T08:31:00.003+00:002024-03-09T08:31:41.494+00:00"These bits don't matter" (Anne Rooney)<p> I loved <a href="https://awfullybigblogadventure.blogspot.com/2024/03/chaos-and-collage-by-keren-david.html" target="_blank">Keren's post yesterday</a> on making collage and how it reflects aspects of her narrative-making. I don't make actual collages (though I would love to, if it were safe to leave scissors, glue and cut up things around in a house with a toddler). Instead I make cartoons in PhotoShop based on old images and transposing my current problems and issues into them. This week I have a problem with the window installers, and spent most of Friday morning committing it to PhotoShop. (I've doctored this one to de-identify the company involved to avoid legal problems. It's just a van from the Internet, so please if anyone owns this van, it's not aimed at you!)<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghp664xoFD5DvkQkO63pYM18lNpf6fesaI0IZomMp_c_j5Py1UruAmrtaKvlfGGMQySUyZYZrzEj3drgp6qpbDBePaIpAxCKxUASmJOjdnvl8icSmuCJXg4zzs-WW6MlC1VgHTwIOMU1Dy0JNC4kH1PZT2cjD0hQK7gdkWUOj2ut2zQHDWSqgE3RN_Ao/s1386/anglia%20cartoon%202%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1386" data-original-width="1272" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghp664xoFD5DvkQkO63pYM18lNpf6fesaI0IZomMp_c_j5Py1UruAmrtaKvlfGGMQySUyZYZrzEj3drgp6qpbDBePaIpAxCKxUASmJOjdnvl8icSmuCJXg4zzs-WW6MlC1VgHTwIOMU1Dy0JNC4kH1PZT2cjD0hQK7gdkWUOj2ut2zQHDWSqgE3RN_Ao/w354-h385/anglia%20cartoon%202%20copy.jpg" width="354" /></a></div><p>I use medieval images a lot for this as I was originally a medievalist and find it comforting to slip back a few decades/centuries. It puts things in perspective, somehow. These problems that trouble me now have troubled people in a different form just about forever. Will my house fall down? Probably not. People have occupied far worse-maintained houses than mine over the centuries. Is a problem with workmen new? Absolutely not. There were probably similar disputes over pyramid-building 'You've left a gap big enough for cockroaches to get in and eat all the grain he will need in the afterlife!' It's all the same-old same-old.</p><p>Like Keren, I can see how this uses the same kind of techniques as my writing, which is largely non-fiction. I find things people have already discovered and repurpose them, making them appropriate for a new audience, adding a light touch or humour, getting readers to see them in a new way, making unexpected connections and juxtapositions.</p><p>It's much more satisfying and relaxing than ranting about frustrations. And if it all goes horribly wrong and my house falls down, I can post the undoctored cartoon on TwiX.</p><p> </p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Anne Rooney</span></p><p><a href="http://www.annerooney.com" style="color: #800180;" target="_blank">website </a></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Out now:</span> <b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>Story of Science</i>,</span></b><span style="color: #800180;"> November 2023; illustrated by Paula Zamudio</span><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6pj4Vo9MDMZDXPkCuMqCLHdLbsqtdgtLk5bnz5A04S-lVatBhSStG8mdBnJFpWJdLFJUqeYF9uPoXQs5_t-RIG_8Dw3JTPaQWH1C4I7wwK9uE65n1fIe_jweCnvInXazLoRV8ONQtwTZ818BZME2tVDHXrci2-qylvJVxBYp0HUnTvrIXrOkKlkD_lg/s656/Screenshot%202024-03-09%20at%2008.27.45.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="528" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6pj4Vo9MDMZDXPkCuMqCLHdLbsqtdgtLk5bnz5A04S-lVatBhSStG8mdBnJFpWJdLFJUqeYF9uPoXQs5_t-RIG_8Dw3JTPaQWH1C4I7wwK9uE65n1fIe_jweCnvInXazLoRV8ONQtwTZ818BZME2tVDHXrci2-qylvJVxBYp0HUnTvrIXrOkKlkD_lg/w132-h164/Screenshot%202024-03-09%20at%2008.27.45.png" width="132" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Stroppy Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16560035800075465845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-91002658171795803562024-03-08T00:00:00.001+00:002024-03-08T00:00:00.137+00:00Chaos and collage by Keren David<p> Well! Months have gone by and I have failed you. I have thought and thought, what can I write - what can I say - and then the chance goes whooshing past and this blog is sadly silent on the eighth of the month.<br /><br />I apologise. Times are hard. I have never known such difficult days, and I am supporting a lot of people through it. It is draining and distressing, <br /><br />I am not going to write about the state of the world, because it's all too much. But I did think I'd say something about my new hobby of collage (still LOVING it) and how it fits my philosophy of life. And how that fits with creative writing. <br /><br />Here it is: life is chaos. And much of what we do (or what I do anyway) is about bringing order to chaos.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLEDxzIoDyv2rrHQN5j872LO7fz6hvbx1EHOqi7upFeEu5lous6F1olQ0YvBL9fEYBDix7y_UEEFVnrP1FZfcnthJldovUEcJTzLZrHkjGdS0am-KNXPvYsxMWsqboPMWEC1eTIjCQjvdielMSVG43fC8XKObTyeeWBQ2WQOk6xL1sbJXX61LvO_Fn8Z-/s640/COLLAGE%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLEDxzIoDyv2rrHQN5j872LO7fz6hvbx1EHOqi7upFeEu5lous6F1olQ0YvBL9fEYBDix7y_UEEFVnrP1FZfcnthJldovUEcJTzLZrHkjGdS0am-KNXPvYsxMWsqboPMWEC1eTIjCQjvdielMSVG43fC8XKObTyeeWBQ2WQOk6xL1sbJXX61LvO_Fn8Z-/s320/COLLAGE%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I started out as a news reporter. I was 18 years old. I thought I was discovering the truth, writing the 'first draft of history'. But later I began to think that what we think of as news, or journalism, is just a way of fitting messy life into neat boxes. How much easier is it to deal with the enormity of war or murder or disease if you can issue a brisk instruction '400 words, make it snappy.' I loved being a news editor. Life is less scary if you pack it into columns topped with headlines. <br /><br />Writing books was a way of freeing myself - the joy of fiction, the freedom to make stuff up, breaking free of word counts and headlines and working out 'what's the news line'? But with success came a realisation - a narrative, a plot, is sort of pretty much like news. It's another way of stirring the pot. It's taking elements and snippets and stitching them together. Making patterns, wrapping things together. Finding a start and a finish. How reassuring to think that life can be contained between the covers of a book. How satisfying to make my very own ordered way from start to finish, from once upon a time, to they lived happily ever after.<br /> And now, I have found comfort and escape in a more abstract form of art - but still one which takes bits and pieces and puts them together to make some sort of satisfying whole. Having pictures and shapes and colour and texture to play with offers me something new - and yet somehow it's not new at all. Somehow it's all about the same thing. Order from chaos. Beauty from mess. <br />I guess my hope now is that somehow, somewhere there's order to be found in the chaos of the universe. That the darkest of patterns baked into history can be transformed and healed. <br /> And if not, that our little patterns and pictures and stories can bring light to the darkness, pinpricks of stars in the night, a patchwork of meaning from the scraps of existence. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWDNdYMikgzH5pMymfHzrEXfxFExG4K9T56muKAF43xkNFSoFhKygOl2rlMrq7BlHc6edhvtsXZbuV2qIX8Q7IypQ7AcK58tYP9EfUsxng1pi-qcKjQ4Dg_3vI8PuphlcZ35tqgwA7tzPiDBmq1x9-Va36Euvjq31i4K-NetlIuChXp5x40Wht-7fPNIy/s640/COLLAGE%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="640" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWDNdYMikgzH5pMymfHzrEXfxFExG4K9T56muKAF43xkNFSoFhKygOl2rlMrq7BlHc6edhvtsXZbuV2qIX8Q7IypQ7AcK58tYP9EfUsxng1pi-qcKjQ4Dg_3vI8PuphlcZ35tqgwA7tzPiDBmq1x9-Va36Euvjq31i4K-NetlIuChXp5x40Wht-7fPNIy/s320/COLLAGE%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Keren Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13121027210783177857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-48067587972147143552024-03-06T06:00:00.132+00:002024-03-08T08:57:09.100+00:00Death and the Carnegie Medal by Paul May<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAStV6WaafOVKxNZh59wiQakkaT5TJGh3ZYrS97BKTbGzL390Ibzu1w2hxpnIMi-3yDd0bbAYLgomTcTU_A4ySxOikZr_R_InzMCFhf3VJZjF7AOPh53R_lD24v6J9iQNmbIUhgEli_6OusxmLc365-pvR2ul37JMTH_kH2BxQmZjQf61VPnz7F-q/s4032/IMG_9406.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAStV6WaafOVKxNZh59wiQakkaT5TJGh3ZYrS97BKTbGzL390Ibzu1w2hxpnIMi-3yDd0bbAYLgomTcTU_A4ySxOikZr_R_InzMCFhf3VJZjF7AOPh53R_lD24v6J9iQNmbIUhgEli_6OusxmLc365-pvR2ul37JMTH_kH2BxQmZjQf61VPnz7F-q/w300-h400/IMG_9406.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />Death has always been a presence in Carnegie Medal winning books. The third winner, Noel Streatfeild's <i>The Circus is Coming</i> begins like this: "Peter and Sarah were orphans. When they were babies their father and mother were killed in a railway accident, so they came to live with their aunt." This is an extreme example of how children's authors get rid of the parents to allow the children some agency. Roald Dahl did a very similar thing in <i>James and the Giant Peach</i> although he waited until the second paragraph to dispatch James's parents by means of an angry rhinoceros.<p></p><p>Both Streatfeild and Dahl are just clearing the ground before they start their stories, cutting the protagonists free from those pesky parents. Books like <i>The Lantern Bearers</i> and <i>Tulku</i> do the same thing in a more organic way, but although people die in both these books, death is not central to the stories. There are other winners with high body-counts, like Ronald Welch's <i>Knight Crusader</i> or Garfield and Blishen's <i>The God Beneath the Sea</i>, and there are books like Philip Pullman's <i>Northern Lights</i> or Susan Price's <i>The Ghost Drum </i>(now available in a shiny new edition by the way!)<i> </i>where visits are made to the worlds of the dead, but in none of these does death take centre stage the way it does in Siobhan Dowd's <i>Bog Child</i> or in Neil Gaiman's <i>The Graveyard Book</i>, the winners of the Carnegie in 2008 and 2009. Both these books are <i>about </i>living and dying and although they are very different they are both outstanding examples of what is possible in a children's book.</p><p>(Spoilers!<i>) Bog Child</i> starts with the discovery of the body of a young woman buried in the peat on a mountainside. She is small, and at first those who examine her think she's a child, perhaps recently killed and buried. It turns out she was buried nearly 2000 years before and has been preserved by the bog.</p><p>This is a story about death as sacrifice. We hear the story of the girl in the bog (the protagonist, Fergus, names her Mel) through the dreams of Fergus. If indeed they <i>are </i>dreams. The device is very effective. It is essentially a parallel story to the one told in the present but a kind of supernatural empathy across 2000 years enables Fergus to experience it. This kind of thing is hard to pull off, because if you think about it for two seconds you know it's nonsense, but Siobhan Dowd makes it work, partly because the modern-day story is so strong that it carries you along, and partly because archaeologists always speculate about what might have happened—make up stories in other words.</p><p>This is Northern Ireland in the 1980s and Republican prisoners in Long Kesh are on hunger strike. The IRA bombing campaign is at its height. Fergus's dad is an IRA sympathiser though not, as far as we know, an active member. Sacrifice is very much in Fergus's mind because his brother has joined the hunger strike, willing to sacrifice his life for the cause of . . . well, here's how Joe explains it to Fergus and his mum:</p><p>"See, Mam, it's like this. I'm not a common criminal. What I did was fight for freedom. (I don't think we ever know why Joe has been sentenced to 10 years in prison) I'd rather die free in my own head than live like the dregs of the earth. And that's how they treat us in here, I swear to God.'</p><p>Earlier, before they've learned that Joe has joined the hunger strike, we've seen the McCann family around the kitchen table, eating a 'fry' and discussing the body Fergus has found, and the hunger strikers:</p><p>'Thank God Joe's not part of it,' Mam said.</p><p>Da nodded. 'It's an odd thing when you thank God for your son not having to make a sacrifice like that.'</p><p>Mam grunted. 'Sacrifice? Some sacrifice.' She reached over to Cath and forked a grilled tomato from the plate's edge towards the centre. 'Eat up, Cath.'</p><p>And then: 'Sacrifice is what Jesus did. He saved us all. Who did Bobby Sands save?'</p><p>Back in AD80 food is scarce and Mel's father, it later turns out, is starving himself to save his family. You could have called this book <i>Hunger </i>and it would have made perfect sense. Fergus agrees with his mam about sacrifice, but none of Fergus's arguments have any effect on Joe when Fergus and Mam visit him in prison. 2000 years earlier Mel also sacrifices herself, but she sacrifices herself to save her family. </p><p>We also see that Joe is the protegé of Uncle Tully, and Uncle Tully is revealed to be a bomb-maker. His bombs kill innocent people, including the young British soldier who has become Fergus's friend, though Tully would regard the soldier as a 'legitimate target.' So is that what Joe is sacrificing himself for? There is a lot to think about here.</p><p>Even the short extracts I've quoted demonstrate that this is a rich and complex text, this despite being written in plain, economical language. There's not room to do it justice here but it's a remarkable book that I'd urge anyone to read, adult or child. There's also plenty of in-depth academic style discussion of the book that you can find on the internet. I was very curious to know how the book is perceived in Northern Ireland so I resorted to Google and discovered that the then Ulster Unionist leader, James Nesbitt, had called for it to be banned in schools. You may remember that Melvin Burgess was amazed that many of the critics of <i>Junk</i> hadn't bothered to read the book, so I was amused to find this:</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"<span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">Let me be clear, this is not an attack on the book,” said Mr Nesbitt. “I have not read</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"> </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">Bog Child, so have no opinion on its value as a piece of literature. But I have read the </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">teaching notes, as endorsed by the Department of Education and I am stunned by what I</span><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"> </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"> read,” he added.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVt2QNHLXOiCCXN9kYjdy_KDlalafwYonuEVTj1rqILwgALJ_yNGbMl9kgcL8Kk-ZaZtEpLUouDL2nqntIsHueotiU5Q2ZkAQ4XhQznmQh7y5b8gu-241Wh3cBvoDVPCQipdVYLV7cijFf5JBrU1QrwxZmYpg9bAEpux9Rli3nKCx6VAvjxOVFnJ7/s4032/IMG_9407.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVt2QNHLXOiCCXN9kYjdy_KDlalafwYonuEVTj1rqILwgALJ_yNGbMl9kgcL8Kk-ZaZtEpLUouDL2nqntIsHueotiU5Q2ZkAQ4XhQznmQh7y5b8gu-241Wh3cBvoDVPCQipdVYLV7cijFf5JBrU1QrwxZmYpg9bAEpux9Rli3nKCx6VAvjxOVFnJ7/w300-h400/IMG_9407.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><i>The Graveyard Book</i> begins with a brutal murder. The killer murders a mother, a father, and a child, but an eighteen-month-old toddler escapes. The toddler enters a graveyard where he's taken under the protection of its inhabitants, dead and undead. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">I'm a fan of toddler bids for freedom and I've witnessed quite a few in real life. I was cycling along a busy country road in Norfolk on a summer's day in 1977 when I saw a two-year-old on one of those tricycles you propel with your feet approaching me on the other side of the road. I could see the entrance to a small housing estate a couple of hundred metres ahead so I turned the toddler around and ushered him back along the road (there was no pavement). Moments later a distraught-looking dad emerged from between the houses and swept his son away. He'd only turned his back for a few moments, he said, and the boy was gone.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">Anyway, Neil Gaiman's toddler is named Bod, short for Nobody. The mysterious Silas agrees to be his guardian. Silas is neither dead nor alive and doesn't venture out in daylight, so the informed adult and no doubt many children know what Silas is (though it turns out he is reformed). And Bod is fostered by a Mistress and Mr Owens, who have been dead for several hundred years. One of the joys of this book, and there are several, is Neil Gaiman's knack of creating fully rounded and engaging characters with a few well-chosen words. I nearly said he brings them alive, but most of them are dead.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">There is a proper plot in this story, that involves a secret organisation of killers rather like the historical Order of Assassins, or like the mysterious underworld organisation in the John Wick movies. They call themselves the Jacks of all Trades. The existence of Bod is a threat to the very existence of this organisation, and that's why his family have been targeted. Bod survives a number of dangers, including a trip to the underworld of the ghouls, but he is remarkably brave and resourceful, even while making very human mistakes. The book is dark and funny, and even has a bit of romance thrown in, and at the end, and this isn't really a spoiler, a teenage Bod walks off into the rest of his life in much the same way as Fergus does in <i>Bog Child.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">Both books have great endings, and I do love a great ending. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;">Siobhan Dowd died far too young in 2007, before <i>Bog Child</i> was published. The Siobhan Dowd Trust was set up in her memory and there's a link below to its website, but I see that the site hasn't been updated since about 2017.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><a href="http://siobhandowdtrust.com" target="_blank">Siobhan Dowd Trust</a></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://maypaul.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Paul May's blog/website</a>. I repost all these Carnegie posts on my blog so that anyone who's interested can find them easily and in chronological order.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #191919;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.2px;"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p class="default__StyledText-sc-1nhbny4-0 gVsmvl body-paragraph paywall" style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(25, 25, 25); color: #191919; font-family: "Noto Serif JP", serif; letter-spacing: -0.2px; line-height: 2.125rem; margin: 0px 0px 1.5rem; padding: 0px;">.</p><p><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></p><p><br /></p>Paul Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499442738041701791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-72082530276092423172024-03-03T01:00:00.001+00:002024-03-03T01:00:00.247+00:00A HISTORY OF MYSTERY (part 1 - picture books). by Sharon Tregenza<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> Mystery stories can excite, engage and encourage reluctant readers and mystery fiction is one of the most popular genres of children's literature.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjJ4GW66qa6Vmj_jtrDpB9Nh5BwoAqORMuf5EAEBuOoW3I_glTSR2RS4WdkeysNx3iC_NKCgLTNmVCj8NHH7TwGnG4t2FXWfhg27-yZSpxIbk9ZXokGKwEaCNKQF1XAnP9JXkdVy_L2_UyAhVISb8ts2I-EkiczTOAvWU9MV7TcEiRg1NwCxJW1Zi2GyT/s299/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjJ4GW66qa6Vmj_jtrDpB9Nh5BwoAqORMuf5EAEBuOoW3I_glTSR2RS4WdkeysNx3iC_NKCgLTNmVCj8NHH7TwGnG4t2FXWfhg27-yZSpxIbk9ZXokGKwEaCNKQF1XAnP9JXkdVy_L2_UyAhVISb8ts2I-EkiczTOAvWU9MV7TcEiRg1NwCxJW1Zi2GyT/s1600/download.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>When kids hunt for mystery clues they are reading the books analytically and searching for patterns. Mysteries cover a wide range of settings and subject matter, so they can be easily integrated into different countries, cultures and interests. Even the youngest child can be drawn in by a good mystery. The best books in the genre are original and exciting. Here are three of my favourites...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> <i> </i></span><i>'Tuesday'</i> by David Wiesner is a picture book example of puzzles and crime mystery, although you may not have thought of it in that way. It's a book of very few words but here the flight of the frogs is the puzzle, how and why did it happen. The detective aspect comes in at the end when the town is trying to solve the puzzle of the lily pads scattered everywhere. There's plenty of opportunity after reading this book to discuss funny options with a four year old.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbRIGkpaKG6UtDT3A9xzmPP3FbvvBrxUgaZ4WEH3gFiVnj0gMf4xyfgO0yufegl6Ny2pTtamhIEDP9LJnw-UwY4QAP0GOZAor7TazTzE-lrWiH5GEF6YFMm7T6-j3n70HhZScUEmY0-tLEBT18ChExoY3CZq0R2ietvj0qrvLgTDnDh3Wz0UdjjPjiiQnU/s265/91d82tV+ENL._AC_UY218_-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="265" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbRIGkpaKG6UtDT3A9xzmPP3FbvvBrxUgaZ4WEH3gFiVnj0gMf4xyfgO0yufegl6Ny2pTtamhIEDP9LJnw-UwY4QAP0GOZAor7TazTzE-lrWiH5GEF6YFMm7T6-j3n70HhZScUEmY0-tLEBT18ChExoY3CZq0R2ietvj0qrvLgTDnDh3Wz0UdjjPjiiQnU/w400-h329/91d82tV+ENL._AC_UY218_-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> <i> </i></span><i>'Piggins'</i> by Jane Yolen and illustrated byJane Dyer. This is a lovely pastiche of a classic British mystery, complete with butler, jewels, and plenty of Agatha Christie type cosy mystery elements.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> The understated humour provides a gentle read for young children and the classic structure makes a good picture book example to share with older kids. </span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLo7Sd9kO5qaVzA0PW2lxnnd_sc21uXK2TBTd21fxL-3bjygrnmWYK-dAooKAdx417nvqowIyAbuoN8gzdI1Ei1bhJ52r7hs5fVwcDyUYQoz-ThpuuvJpmNEAL4IAQCcQQqt53MvYrChkEx8k0TcPyoeDDcUqcS4Xer0GXj-U4UyCeSKTYf6mm_FFqH0NZ/s218/411ibuCVkCL._AC_UY218_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="183" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLo7Sd9kO5qaVzA0PW2lxnnd_sc21uXK2TBTd21fxL-3bjygrnmWYK-dAooKAdx417nvqowIyAbuoN8gzdI1Ei1bhJ52r7hs5fVwcDyUYQoz-ThpuuvJpmNEAL4IAQCcQQqt53MvYrChkEx8k0TcPyoeDDcUqcS4Xer0GXj-U4UyCeSKTYf6mm_FFqH0NZ/w336-h400/411ibuCVkCL._AC_UY218_.jpg" width="336" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>And my all time favourite picture book: <i>'Black and White' </i>by David Macaulay. It's won a stack of awards and I think it deserves every one. This is a stunning illustration-based book in which four separate stories happen simultaneously on each page. Or are they separate? Kids get really excited at finding connections and they can surprise you with details you hadn't even noticed. Maybe this isn't a traditional mystery story but it exercises the same open-minded, analytic collecting of clues and searching for patterns. I love its originality. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3UqI3sakzAKiTv5Nrr0WTu4AAzr9TH4j3eVIRsjwOEPiq2g5rBzf715Hc16rExJJ5tNzha-ybpEUUIHkUkbnUhtwX8rlml_YhAC2Q0sujpw461b-_PQ3XA3L2T8SJBP_XhHwxVugQUCLcn0cHJWO1vHHDWaSZWawkJFxZmPIOgZubTu-Qlgkf4LH_VIX/s218/6138ZSHjepL._AC_UY218_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="149" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3UqI3sakzAKiTv5Nrr0WTu4AAzr9TH4j3eVIRsjwOEPiq2g5rBzf715Hc16rExJJ5tNzha-ybpEUUIHkUkbnUhtwX8rlml_YhAC2Q0sujpw461b-_PQ3XA3L2T8SJBP_XhHwxVugQUCLcn0cHJWO1vHHDWaSZWawkJFxZmPIOgZubTu-Qlgkf4LH_VIX/w273-h400/6138ZSHjepL._AC_UY218_.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><p><br /></p><a href="mailto:sharontregenza@gmail.com">sharontregenza@gmail.com</a><p></p><p><a href="http://www.sharontregenza.com">www.sharontregenza.com</a><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Sharon Tregenzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16416280455028255181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-26834934558094694872024-03-02T04:00:00.001+00:002024-03-02T04:00:00.127+00:00I've told you a million times not to exaggerate by Steve Way <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Musing about things literary, well sort of literary, I
wondered whether ‘Dad Jokes’ would count as unique genre. What do you think? In
doing so I remembered making embarrassing dadness a feature of one of the
stories the first volume of the ‘Spell binding Stories’ series I’m working on,
aimed at (hopefully!) making the teaching of spelling as required by the good
old National Curriculum more creative and interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The title of the story is, I acknowledge, not the most
arresting but ‘The key to -ey words’ largely, as it were, explains what’s in
the tin. Sanita and her friend Margaret are setting up a stall to sell items
for charity but are struggling with how to write the plural of words ending in
-ey as they suspect it’s not done in the same way as words such a baby. Sanita’s
dad, Paul, arrives on the scene and along with embarrassing Sanita with a dad
joke, embarrasses her still further before leaving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It ends thusly;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">There was silence for a moment
when Paul had proudly finished explaining the solution to the girls’ problem.
Sanita was actually wondering if you could disown your own father but then
Margaret said; “Thank you Mr Powell that was very helpful,” and then began
changing the poster to show that the stall would shortly be selling donkeys,
monkeys and ‘Magic Keys’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Sanita looked up at her
smiling embarrassing dad. “Yes thank you dad,” she said in her unmistakeable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes-alright-you-helped-but-can-you-go-now </i>voice.
As long as he doesn’t call me ‘Honey-Chicken’ in front of one of my friends I
may not have to kill him later she thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“Ok good luck with your stall
girls… bye Margaret… see you later Honey-Chicken…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Sanita was about to scream but
then their first customer arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Sanita would get her revenge.
Soon she would become a teenager…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If Dad Jokes and related parental embarrassment potential could
slip into children’s stories I was considering whether ‘Partner Jokes’ could
count as a sub-genre that could also be utilised, of which maybe Jan and my ‘Partner
Jokes’ could be a sub-sub-genre.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We live in a quiet rural town more or less in the middle of
France. If it takes me a while to return from a trip to the pharmacie or
boulangerie I would find it mildly odd if Jan didn’t ask me if there had been
‘a queue of one’. Here it’s not so much service with a smile more service with
a long chat. I’ve sometimes spent longer behind the person being served here
than in a queue of ten or more back in Blighty. Though as an eavesdropper it’s
given me a chance to practice my French and of course on the whole we
appreciate the calmer pace of life. (Even the teenagers say hello to you – well
‘bonjour’ of course – though they seem to be doing so slightly more grumpily
than when we first moved here. Still maybe that’s progress for you.*)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On the other hand, if there is no queue of one and I’m back
within a couple of minutes – the boulangerie after all is at the end of the
street – on Jan declaring ‘that was quick’, I need only reply ‘They call me…’
the unspoken ‘speedy Gonzales’ now being unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When in a fluster Jan deems herself indecisive, bemoaning, ‘I
can never make my mind up!’ As you’ve probably guessed, I can’t help chipping
in, ‘Are you sure about that?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On other occasions, such as the other day when unasked I
brought her favourite crisps from the supermarket, she is wont to declare, ‘you
must be psychic’, ‘I knew you were going to say that’ is the automatic reply.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To my delight I’ve just started to teach one of my grandson’s
maths and the poor boy has already had a taste of my (could this genre be ‘Grandad/Teacher
jokes’) tried and tested quips.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We’ve already encountered a question demanding him to ‘simplify
fully’, so I asked if he’d already had dinner. He was also equally befuddled
when I asked if he had any exercise equipment but then pointed out that the
question asked him to ‘work out’. It won’t be long until we encounter a
question telling him to ‘expand’ as in ‘Expand 3(x + 4)’ so I’ll insist he take
a deep breath before embarking on the calculation. No doubt, like everyone else
I’ve taught, he’ll tell me that he doesn’t know anyone called Potenuse, which I’ll
declare a shame as he therefore won’t be able to greet him by saying, ‘Hi
Potenuse!’ Of course every maths teacher refers to the noble knight Sir Cumference.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Please forgive me for inflicting you with my daft humour but I
would be delighted to know of any Dad/Teacher/Partner/Grandad jokes you would
be generous enough to share and to know if you would be prepared – or have done
so already - to incorporate embarrassing grown up humour into your stories!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">~~~~~~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The rivetingly titled ‘The key to -ey words’ appears in ‘Spell
Binding Stories KS1’ ISBN: 978-1717984562 ASIN: B07G49YMT5<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Also in the series so far: ‘Spell Binding Stories LKS2 with
Grammar Supplement’ ISBN: 979-8378008919 ASIN: B0BW7FBPBM <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">*Like the supermarket opening on a Sunday morning! Phew!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Steve Wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14732531368216927208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-68076996678093936832024-03-01T09:29:00.017+00:002024-03-05T12:03:06.025+00:00WELL-FILLING TIMES by Penny Dolan <table cellpadding="0" class="cf gJ"><tbody><tr class="acZ xD"><td colspan="3"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf adz"><tbody><tr><td class="ady"><div aria-haspopup="true" aria-label="Show details" class="ajy" data-tooltip="Show details" id=":20" role="button" tabindex="0"><img alt="" class="ajz" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif" /></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><div id=":1k"><div class="qQVYZb"></div><div class="utdU2e"></div><div class="lQs8Hd"></div><div class="wl4W9b"></div></div><div><div class="aHl"></div><div id=":21" tabindex="-1"></div><div class="ii gt" id=":2y"><div class="a3s aiL" id=":2z"><div dir="auto"><i><b>It's the first of March, already? </b></i></div><div dir="auto"><i><b> </b></i><br /></div><div dir="auto">Looking back, this last month has been a quiet re-filling of the well: the getting of experiences - smaller or greater - that can help mind and imagination when too, too much has drained away. None exotic or far from home, some alone, some not, some unexpected but useful even so. <br /></div><div dir="auto"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><img alt="Wishing well - Wikipedia" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.mM0LBplu7qvFF1ocstcyswAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=29fe88d907696af0e3ad5c2402c948e7b7001918754efb482eeec75325c6291c&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.mM0LBplu7qvFF1ocstcyswAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=29fe88d907696af0e3ad5c2402c948e7b7001918754efb482eeec75325c6291c&ipo=images" width="240" /></div><div dir="auto"> <br /></div><div dir="auto">A piano recital dazzled with powerful pieces by Bartok and Ligeti; an EoS film about Michelangelo showed the huge weight of his life and work and then, at this year's first Salon North, three speakers talked about life and happiness - and the books they had just written on these themes. I am now learning about Aristotle who, when banished, did not drink hemlock and leave his family to whatever destitution followed like Socrates, but went quietly away from fame and lived his last couple of years attending to his own family and farm in the country: there's public life and there's real life.</div><div dir="auto"><br /><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><span> </span><img alt="Aristotle - Wikipedia" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.L-jSSKNwlyPIxfhQGZ-V7AAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=49a15515a79c8462735afa035590b7b7f6d3278baab8431634ad4e86c408a058&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.L-jSSKNwlyPIxfhQGZ-V7AAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=49a15515a79c8462735afa035590b7b7f6d3278baab8431634ad4e86c408a058&ipo=images" width="239" /><br /> </div><div dir="auto">Then came a smaller delight, but usefully timed, in the form of a couple of Joanna Trollope's novels that saw me through some insomniac nights. One was a book group choice, the other suggested by a librarian, so both
titles were a given not a selected pleasure. Trollope's calm, competent storytelling matched my three-in-the-morning need, along with their sunshine and comfortable lifestyles, and a bit about family troubles not my own. Her writer's skill
certainly improved my night's watch, and though other books are available, for this time and place, these novels just fitted.</div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><img alt="File:Wine grapes.jpg - Wikipedia" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.explicit.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.xzJsFNF6jaLRjg2NOUsxngHaFV%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=432fe283891476ce3da137f980a10388c6070d68afd46fcc7f65d2a0f5f46bed&ipo=images" height="230" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.explicit.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.xzJsFNF6jaLRjg2NOUsxngHaFV%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=432fe283891476ce3da137f980a10388c6070d68afd46fcc7f65d2a0f5f46bed&ipo=images" width="320" /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br />More excitingly, there was a trip across to York Theatre Royal to see<b> Bluebeard.</b> the latest production from Emma Rice's 'Wise Children' company. Though her dark fairytale links into recent violence against women, the performance is a joy: fiercely full of movement, music and song, dramatic stage effects and wry and angry humour. Sometimes the notes, voices and scenes that you need are full of noise. lights, action and even an array of theatrical stage traditions, such as that wierd sawing-a-woman-in-half trick. Here's a pretty pink Bluebeard image, very unlike last night's show.<br /></div><div dir="auto"> <br /></div><div dir="auto"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span> <img alt="Bluebeard - Wikipedia" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.M6Z9wBQtxrzuDDz1fg5E5wAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=7b2e7efd63456f1adfd0f973b24fbf46d102b0ec5438f596e1daf6f27bac0b33&ipo=images" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.M6Z9wBQtxrzuDDz1fg5E5wAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=7b2e7efd63456f1adfd0f973b24fbf46d102b0ec5438f596e1daf6f27bac0b33&ipo=images" /></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"></div><div dir="auto"><br /> </div><div dir="auto">Most of all, maybe, there was the NTLive <b>Vanya,</b> a new version of the Chekhov play, co-created by the actor Andrew Scott, writer Simon Stephen, producer Sam Yates and Rosanna Vise, stage designer. <br /></div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> <span> </span><img alt="Uncle Vanya: A Play by Anton Chekhov | eBook | Barnes & Noble®" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.MSNcGM3mLSykMea_MkfhKQAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=fac291086e17ef3d6737737cad13368608160234f5d739bd1f0ffc908a9d763e&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse3.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.MSNcGM3mLSykMea_MkfhKQAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=fac291086e17ef3d6737737cad13368608160234f5d739bd1f0ffc908a9d763e&ipo=images" width="210" /></div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"> Scott plays every role, lightly moving between characters, using subtle changes of voice, telling gestures and a few props to reveal the different energies of each person. He became Vanya, keeping the estate going; Michael, the despairing doctor; Sonia, the housekeeping daughter, desperate for love; Alexander, the vain, elderly, ailing film director; Helena, his beautiful second wife, and a couple more. Scott was amazing, moving between one portrayal and another. In one scene, where two hands wrestle over an emptying bottle, I felt I 'saw' two people, as well as scenes between Michael and Helena. <br /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><img alt="File:Empty Wine bottle.jpg - Wikipedia" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse2.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.Z2mFQHeiqJDsm19XbfgpMAHaK3%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=9df57f8d0b4cd4a25e2b658219efbabd10ce58a0e63e8496ee25b26adf180a65&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse2.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.Z2mFQHeiqJDsm19XbfgpMAHaK3%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=9df57f8d0b4cd4a25e2b658219efbabd10ce58a0e63e8496ee25b26adf180a65&ipo=images" width="218" /></div><div dir="auto"><br />For a moment, as I saw Scott move, alone, through all these characters on screen, I thought about all the writers who do this trick too. </div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto">Alone in their minds, writers shift their focus from one character to another, secretly changing the sets and scenes and lighting in their heads as they work on, as it comes into their mind. Not as astonishing or as noticeably as Scott, of course, to anyone, but definitely not a nothing of a skill.</div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto">So, if you are a writer, keep acting on inside there, in your own quiet way - pen to paper or key to screen - and I hope your march will be a useful one.</div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto">Penny Dolan</div><div dir="auto"> </div><div dir="auto"><i>ps Apologies! A draft section of this post appeared below. I am hoping that it is now fully removed.</i></div></div></div></div><br /><div><br /></div>Penny Dolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386668303428008498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-81461959023682390972024-02-29T06:27:00.002+00:002024-02-29T06:27:00.138+00:00The Endless Maze<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m
three-quarters of the way through a first draft and I have a rough outline of
the final chapters. I know the key incidents. But as I get closer and closer to
actually writing them, I’m beginning to realise that there are lot of
‘logistical’ problems with the plot. Why is one character hiding where he’s
hiding? What made him hide? How does another character realise he’s missing. Why can’t the fire
brigade come to the rescue? </span></p><p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3Mp-GuBq6gTO-W7lhJmQaAl7WTToG4mkBhlzWUlgINiaNPdPdnjzY48WRpZme-xhhfMNESBZHPtl_iKPkfH_D-PWSgMJM5MDnn8rONt9AvO52GJsR-q5hGsBUUBBH-O3FCA_KqFtGdvD3WncW8j-xZJnHoxumB8RKwiixh5_Nwg8cDl0fGza5MiQFB_l/s528/Maze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="528" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3Mp-GuBq6gTO-W7lhJmQaAl7WTToG4mkBhlzWUlgINiaNPdPdnjzY48WRpZme-xhhfMNESBZHPtl_iKPkfH_D-PWSgMJM5MDnn8rONt9AvO52GJsR-q5hGsBUUBBH-O3FCA_KqFtGdvD3WncW8j-xZJnHoxumB8RKwiixh5_Nwg8cDl0fGza5MiQFB_l/w297-h211/Maze.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When
such questions come up, my initial elation at having worked out the <i>basic</i>
plot points begins to fade as this sea of <i>practical</i> considerations rises. Which
is why I’ve never yet been able to plot a book all on my own; there are simply
too many problems to be solved. I can cover acres of paper in notes and ideas
but I always end going round and round in circles, growing more and more
frustrated. And <i>not</i> writing.</span></p><p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIEe_PMaDgPul_ocStjZpn4iSOG0lxBxPL9SCQz5W7jxXo8lSLjyMjxO0ZbPfDlhLTHcKXVl_x-l0kge8tmI6wmGjKiRf9kXUhCy7q4RO_wpy-qac1WA9VE4xkg2iGGDMFidH37YCQjwduVgQ4eSYxuVuyNJZunU4xLWr064i5pCcJo8eikyMP_INU8Ng/s3993/Cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2653" data-original-width="3993" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIEe_PMaDgPul_ocStjZpn4iSOG0lxBxPL9SCQz5W7jxXo8lSLjyMjxO0ZbPfDlhLTHcKXVl_x-l0kge8tmI6wmGjKiRf9kXUhCy7q4RO_wpy-qac1WA9VE4xkg2iGGDMFidH37YCQjwduVgQ4eSYxuVuyNJZunU4xLWr064i5pCcJo8eikyMP_INU8Ng/s320/Cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>What breaks the jam is telling my wife the story. It’s only then that I start to untangle all
the knots. Because she will ask questions. She’ll point out that an action
doesn’t seem believable. (I want a flooded ford to stop the fire brigade; she
says it’s the fire brigade – they’ll <i>find</i> a way through. So I realize I
have to do better than a mere flood.) Or she won’t laugh at a joke I think is a
rib-tickler, which makes me understand – eventually - that it isn’t so funny
after all. (She is absolutely 100% reliable in this!) Without her, I wouldn’t have
finished any of the stories I’ve written.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvZwHE73uFciNX95xuLKt80GkiBTzwCWttgcGKX8has-0Iy-KFHDS6G8GYgCZ4XiGf0EEuLYRPjQ1tqnsvw0EdEErGFU78Ledz8Wzh3itiggTM3cEJJ_F7Iv9byOoJqluEuI0ptgPJjE3mPcbaK9-ucxrKsJDyFDklawRukIzFr5mjKLeINdch1TueiTY/s376/Bulb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="375" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvZwHE73uFciNX95xuLKt80GkiBTzwCWttgcGKX8has-0Iy-KFHDS6G8GYgCZ4XiGf0EEuLYRPjQ1tqnsvw0EdEErGFU78Ledz8Wzh3itiggTM3cEJJ_F7Iv9byOoJqluEuI0ptgPJjE3mPcbaK9-ucxrKsJDyFDklawRukIzFr5mjKLeINdch1TueiTY/w215-h216/Bulb.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><p></p><p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What I’m
curious about, and why I’m writing this, is how others manage such a situation.
Do you talk to someone? Use software programs? Tough it out on your
own, just chipping and chipping away until the final form emerges? I find
plotting hell. Is it so for others?</span></p>
Nick Garlickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15148555462561533966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-7971506711740191572024-02-26T06:00:00.001+00:002024-02-26T06:00:00.131+00:00Lord Byron - 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know'?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXLOoF9iVbKcPMV5UeSNnNJTqOJHJSy5pzwBhy7UXcxQnDSpx8FaIQQxU9jJqQxOPLwzxc7cyqXZZ3fZnTeAIkKSVlG4_Z-0waaD7N01NaMFb6qXGcRmgTP4tqthD5dMUBFCMxKxSxe486OCYaBvkBPanBYgdDL2VbTEAYA5zYE1YLj6r23_X8eLpL8sy/s1200/George_Gordon_Byron_6th_Baron_Byron_by_Richard_Westall.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXLOoF9iVbKcPMV5UeSNnNJTqOJHJSy5pzwBhy7UXcxQnDSpx8FaIQQxU9jJqQxOPLwzxc7cyqXZZ3fZnTeAIkKSVlG4_Z-0waaD7N01NaMFb6qXGcRmgTP4tqthD5dMUBFCMxKxSxe486OCYaBvkBPanBYgdDL2VbTEAYA5zYE1YLj6r23_X8eLpL8sy/w400-h266/George_Gordon_Byron_6th_Baron_Byron_by_Richard_Westall.webp" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The very Romantic Lord Byron</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I read somewhere this morning that in April, it will be 200 years since the death of Lord Byron at the age of thirty six. I was immediately reminded of a very beautiful collection of Byron's poems which I have had for a very, very long time: since, in fact, 1970.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was about to head off to Durham University to begin an English degree. My sister and I were the first in our family to go to university, and I had little idea of what to expect. I'd applied to Durham on the basis of a newspaper article I'd read: it looked like a very pretty place, and I wanted to live somewhere nice. Luckily, I got in. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The course was taught in two separate departments, English Language and English Literature (which, it turned out, were often at daggers drawn). English Language was mainly about Anglo-Saxon. The literature department aimed to cover everything from Chaucer to 1900; the older professors were pretty sniffy about anything after 1900, though a few revolutionary young things dared to offer optional courses in things like American Studies, and some 20th century stuff sneaked into the Drama course.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, the central course was on a rolling programme, and the year I started, it had reached the late eighteenth century. So in the first term we were to cover the Romantic Poets, plus Jane Austen, and were accordingly sent a reading list. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So off I went to see what I could find in Derby.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVaARDFOpE4jTHyDIDcPq4RSZ7DlPL2YsYV-qSuqf_uYsq1heSae_ezZ3EKk6HwFTfFci_xTLYPqgRpP7z7Vir9xVV-b9jQ43Z-x81pfeEFQFWHIrNRSutitlIH5-yUCR1EIITbQMOzzZmH0CFT3q5JVOcohrhoNHnA-4_86KcP8oCFKF_K8ha2W-_I-Mh/s640/IMG_7896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVaARDFOpE4jTHyDIDcPq4RSZ7DlPL2YsYV-qSuqf_uYsq1heSae_ezZ3EKk6HwFTfFci_xTLYPqgRpP7z7Vir9xVV-b9jQ43Z-x81pfeEFQFWHIrNRSutitlIH5-yUCR1EIITbQMOzzZmH0CFT3q5JVOcohrhoNHnA-4_86KcP8oCFKF_K8ha2W-_I-Mh/w300-h400/IMG_7896.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Isn't it splendid?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVaARDFOpE4jTHyDIDcPq4RSZ7DlPL2YsYV-qSuqf_uYsq1heSae_ezZ3EKk6HwFTfFci_xTLYPqgRpP7z7Vir9xVV-b9jQ43Z-x81pfeEFQFWHIrNRSutitlIH5-yUCR1EIITbQMOzzZmH0CFT3q5JVOcohrhoNHnA-4_86KcP8oCFKF_K8ha2W-_I-Mh/s640/IMG_7896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, you must remember, there was no Amazon then, and no Waterstones. Derby wasn't a university town, so there were no academic bookshops. There must surely have been other bookshops, but I don't remember them. Even so, I somehow got hold of the collected works of Shelley, Wordsworth and Keats: but for some reason - probably to keep the cost down - I went to a second-hand stall on Derby market to find Byron - and I did. It cost fifteen shillings - 75p - and it had gold-sprayed pages, beautiful illustrations, and apparently every poem that Byron ever wrote. (The illustrators were Kenny Meadows, Birket Foster, Hablot K Browne, Gustave Janet and Edward Morin. Marvellous names, aren't they?)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We must have had two or three lectures on his lordship, but I never wrote an essay. I took notes, and I did try to read the poems referred to, but in all honesty, they were heavy going. And most of them were long - really, really long. All the others - yes, I could see why they were such big names, and at least some of their poems spoke to me, and still do. But Byron? No, not so much.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But the thing about Byron, it seems to me, wasn't really his poetry. It was his life. One of his lovers, Lady Caroline Lamb, famously described him as 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know', and that seems about right. Mind you, if you look up his life on Wikipedia, you'll soon see where he got it from him: his father was an absolute bounder, and his mother found young George really too much to cope with. He spent a lot of his rather short life rampaging over Europe, having affairs with both sexes, breaking up marriages, abandonning lovers - and writing masses of poetry in between. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBG8lS4rpVhQhlWHlbzVlkb49_2xw4HJogQ98EBjNQbFOYIAGBUzksztgyT0qnYX0LdnHPYKiVGTZ-rbo4v_s9z8P01l9vjhauH4qi0Q8xLs9qNE6sOfMEhipwvHAGvJigXkPbGf9b_hhf_P43kYcsRcgvtiregorYF4E3i42bWQnHB0GhazO-Tv8g-JZh/s640/IMG_7900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBG8lS4rpVhQhlWHlbzVlkb49_2xw4HJogQ98EBjNQbFOYIAGBUzksztgyT0qnYX0LdnHPYKiVGTZ-rbo4v_s9z8P01l9vjhauH4qi0Q8xLs9qNE6sOfMEhipwvHAGvJigXkPbGf9b_hhf_P43kYcsRcgvtiregorYF4E3i42bWQnHB0GhazO-Tv8g-JZh/w300-h400/IMG_7900.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Waltz. I do like this illustration.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">His break-out work was a lengthy poem called <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,</i> with the publication of which he became an overnight sensation, and was much-feted until he had a scandalous affair with his half-sister, Augusta, which resulted in an illegitimate baby: even for Regency London, this was too much to stomach, especially as his affair (and others) continued even after his marriage. It was at this point that he fled London for Europe, never to return; at one point he met up with Shelley and co, and was there when Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, and when Shelley himself tragically died in a boating accident.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Byron himself died in Greece - not in battle, but from illness - where he had gone to help the Greeks fight for their freedom from the Ottoman Empire: he poured money into the cause, selling his estates in England, and is still revered as a hero in Greece to this day. I wonder if anyone will have thought of making a TV series about him, to be released in this anniversary year? If not, a trick has been missed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The only lines of his that echo in my memory are these below, from a collection called <i>Hebrew Melodies</i>. No doubt there must be other good stuff, but I confess I've never taken the trouble to track it down. Yet still, I treasure the book. It really is very lovely.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RTJHPQytdl3OlxbDreyhyphenhyphenIvuvY-O95h1JW6va6dH0p1tk85UAc5ZlOAMF-ZtcOOkVA9d_HyPCxoUqQgCd6YFFk-fUmqmb-GhHyGZTUsKT4i184JJT4wWFsGKiiFN_fFW7agH02uJKY9oyjNlBriy1gXm0mHkd4NoSqgVxunAFRPbmdzI-_c1JGTvsLeW/s640/IMG_7901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RTJHPQytdl3OlxbDreyhyphenhyphenIvuvY-O95h1JW6va6dH0p1tk85UAc5ZlOAMF-ZtcOOkVA9d_HyPCxoUqQgCd6YFFk-fUmqmb-GhHyGZTUsKT4i184JJT4wWFsGKiiFN_fFW7agH02uJKY9oyjNlBriy1gXm0mHkd4NoSqgVxunAFRPbmdzI-_c1JGTvsLeW/w300-h400/IMG_7901.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">'She walks in beauty, like the night<br />Of cloudless climes and starry skies:<br />And all that's best of dark and bright<br />Meet in her aspect and her eyes...'</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Sue Purkisshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09084528571944803477noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-17976809273219702052024-02-22T00:30:00.001+00:002024-02-22T00:30:00.140+00:00Lottie the Little Wonder, written by Katherine Woodbine, illustrated by Ella Okstad, reviewed by Pippa Goodhart<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZ-GBM2JBTBytnwl6r-nnUlcypD9mRA07gu-Vq118BpWIbeYKZs9j-SeE1YaR8TkQ7M4PgfAYUXX3ipZ41Qty9ULwCplGoWYx6d5qrXb9I1a8UPEBkRWgthNF4jvu4R2hUWNiTbttXSvRoPqO37e2lLvZgm6J6EnNqjwIIj2LMRO9sr90K7eAwC3L40Y/s3425/IMG_8025.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3425" data-original-width="2670" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZ-GBM2JBTBytnwl6r-nnUlcypD9mRA07gu-Vq118BpWIbeYKZs9j-SeE1YaR8TkQ7M4PgfAYUXX3ipZ41Qty9ULwCplGoWYx6d5qrXb9I1a8UPEBkRWgthNF4jvu4R2hUWNiTbttXSvRoPqO37e2lLvZgm6J6EnNqjwIIj2LMRO9sr90K7eAwC3L40Y/w273-h351/IMG_8025.heic" width="273" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A fun simple read rich in colour illustrations, bringing to life little Lottie Dod from more than a hundred years ago. The youngest child in a very wealthy one parent family whose passion was sports of all kinds, this ‘little girl’ wanted to prove herself against older siblings, boys, adults, and then the world, and, my goodness, she did. At fifteen, Lottie become Wimbledon tennis champion. She went on to win at the 1908 Olympics, making the story topical in this current Olympics year. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Adding a further layer of interest to this real story, there is a final chapter About The Real Lottie Dod. It tells how she went on to triumph in archery and golf and tobogganing down the Cresta run, and more. And it also tells where the vast wealth that allowed a mother and four children to live in a large house with its own tennis court, looked after by servants, and never in their whole lives have to work for money, enabling them to focus on their sporting passions, came from. Lottie’s father, who died when she was very young, had made a fortune importing cotton from America to Liverpool, supplying Manchester’s cotton mills. That cotton was grown and harvested by enslaved people. Food for thought for child readers at a core age for feeling a natural instinct for something being ‘not fair’. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Altogether, a small book that offers a lot, very attractively and accessibly served in pictures and short chapters of lively action. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Pippa Goodharthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17709422048047155208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-19364411293897676732024-02-20T01:30:00.040+00:002024-02-20T01:30:00.130+00:00Taking Home a Message/Stick - Joan Lennon<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A blog post needs images - that's blogging 101 - but I don't have a picture of what I want to blog about. What happened was, I saw but I didn't feel I could take a photo without asking permission and the subject had its mouth full and couldn't reply. So I'll have give you the elements and leave it to your imaginations to put them together.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">First, you'll need to imagine a very small dachshund, like this:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/36/Giacomo_Balla%2C_1912%2C_Dynamism_of_a_Dog_on_a_Leash%2C_oil_on_canvas%2C_89.8_x_109.8_cm%2C_Albright-Knox_Art_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="800" height="330" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/36/Giacomo_Balla%2C_1912%2C_Dynamism_of_a_Dog_on_a_Leash%2C_oil_on_canvas%2C_89.8_x_109.8_cm%2C_Albright-Knox_Art_Gallery.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Giacomo Balla </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> (1912)</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">(wikicommons)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then you'll need to imagine a stick. No, bigger than that. Bigger. Still bigger. We're talking a branch here, a good 2 metres long and not straight.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Put the two images together and that is what I saw. Somehow this minute animal had found the balance point of this ridiculously outsized cumbersome piece of tree and was walking it down the pavement, purposeful, proud, head held high (well, he had to, physically, but it was also psychological).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The take home message for writer me was Be That Dog. Don't be afraid of looking silly. Don't say, I'm not sure I'm up to this. Just grab that book/story/blog in my teeth, grapple with it till I find the balance point, and then be on my way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Look out world - here I come! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Joan Lennon <a href="https://joanlennon.co.uk/">website</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Joan Lennon <a href="https://www.instagram.com/joan.lennon.359/">Instagram</a></span></p>Joan Lennonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15763862159032836768noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-70464991828042845502024-02-18T01:00:00.489+00:002024-03-17T10:49:25.685+00:00Back from the Underworld - by Lu Hersey<p> There's nothing like a brush with death to help change your perspectives on life. I don't recommend it, as there must be far easier ways - but if it ever happens to you, you might also see things very differently afterwards. </p><p>Following open heart surgery three weeks ago, I look like something Dr Frankenstein created in his lab. I've been split apart and sewn back together. It was a struggle clawing my way back from the underworld, and in my nightmares my feet still stick in Stygian mud from time to time. But I really don't care - I'm alive, and life has never seemed so sweet.</p><p>The problems started the day after my birthday, when I found I could hardly breathe. In the end, I got my partner to take me to A&E, thinking I must have pneumonia. Actually, I did. But far worse, the hospital discovered I also had a prolapsed heart valve which required emergency surgery. </p><p>Before this happened, I'd been worried about my father, who is 96 and kept falling over and ending up in hospital. He needed care, but was so stubborn he was refusing to accept the help he needed. Apart from that, I was looking forward to my youngest daughter's wedding next year, and idly wondering if anyone would be interested in the cosy crime novel I'd recently completed - a departure from my usual writing for children. Basically just normal, everyday concerns. </p><p>The kind of surgery I needed is usually done as elective surgery, to ensure the patient is as fit as possible before they proceed. I was fighting pneumonia, which didn't improve my chances. The surgeon was careful to explain the 20% possibility of death or stroke having the operation (the alternative was certain death, so not much of a contest), and suggested that if I had anything important to say to my family before surgery, I needed to do it, in case I didn't make it. </p><p>That was the most difficult thing. I wanted all of them to know how much I loved and cared for them, in case I never saw them again. Talking to them for what might have been the last time was so heart-breaking, I was still fighting back the tears as they wheeled me off to the operating theatre. </p><p>To cut a long story short, I'm still here. I came round. I've experienced first hand how wonderful the NHS is, and have nothing but respect for all the lovely people who took care of me in the hospital. My family are amazing and I love them more than ever. While I was out of the picture, they finally managed to persuade my father he needed to be in a care home, at least for the time being. He's so stubborn, that's close to a miracle. And now I'm looking forward to my daughter's wedding again, and thinking about writing another book. </p><p>A few days after surgery, I looked at my emails for the first time in weeks, and found one from an agent I'd contacted about my cosy crime, a couple of months earlier. A nice, polite rejection - she didn't like my main character. </p><p>Was I upset? </p><p>No. That's what I mean about changing perspectives. Before this happened, I might have dwelt on the rejection, going over the same old ground - thinking the fact she didn't like my main character was a reflection on me, that I was a failure and should probably give up writing. </p><p>Instead, I read the email, laughed and took another bite of my chocolate ice cream. I couldn't have given fewer fucks.</p><p> What difference would it have made if she'd loved my book? Ok, the ice cream might have tasted even better. But it would have been the same book. Admittedly I should have done at least two more edits before I submitted it to anyone, but if she'd liked the idea and the character, she'd have seen beyond that anyway. </p><p>All I'm saying is, as writers, we're often far too harsh on ourselves. Can't believe it took a journey to hell and back for me to realise that. </p><p><br /></p><p>Lu Hersey</p><p>Patreon: <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Writingthemagic">Writing the Magic</a></p><p>twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/LuWrites">LuWrites</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOCYmEakvkZvzIyV8Z3apAxjxQUeKRYbC7IaMtY-XHs70KbE-U7ieiUqGPT9BW61V_fZWdt7RmSsY1RHIsPTUoA8DksJO3fvewjIOzvzMpwh5qD_zcGUPRb8jcIcM-m_NBg6-2hRr3Slz-Jq4FtLS52kK7XocgNc777tjjfgAnhjVBIsTGOd1JtwlK3c/s1500/TWITTER_BANNER_Frontv2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1500" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOCYmEakvkZvzIyV8Z3apAxjxQUeKRYbC7IaMtY-XHs70KbE-U7ieiUqGPT9BW61V_fZWdt7RmSsY1RHIsPTUoA8DksJO3fvewjIOzvzMpwh5qD_zcGUPRb8jcIcM-m_NBg6-2hRr3Slz-Jq4FtLS52kK7XocgNc777tjjfgAnhjVBIsTGOd1JtwlK3c/s320/TWITTER_BANNER_Frontv2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>LuWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06793378306766981247noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-74007963607330939222024-02-15T09:09:00.006+00:002024-02-15T09:09:59.389+00:00The river banks of story - Rowena House<p><br /><br /> <br /><br />I’ve a memo on my phone with a commercial pitch line for my work-in-progress which I edit regularly, often first thing in the morning or last thing at night, circling around twenty words or so which express the essence of what I think I’m writing. <br /><br />According to some writing gurus, the pitch line is your lodestone, giving direction to your writing through the twists and turns of the plot. My latest version: ‘A young pamphleteer discovers why tyrants are hunting witches, a truth that threatens his life’ (15 words). <br /><br />Unfortunately, it’s useless as a lodestone. It’s what happens in the plot, without any sense of the drivers of the narrative, either for me as the author or for my protagonist. If I engraved it on a fancy background and stick it up on a wall above the computer, it would achieve precisely zilch, which may be why this story is taking forever to write. [Another explanation for the slowness is, do I really want to finish it when getting publishing is a soul-suck? But that’s another blog.] <br /><br />The current academic version of the pitch line – the WIP being the body of a creative writing PhD – is rather more useful in terms of a reminder about what I think I’m up to. That is, ‘The novel is an exploration of self-delusion and societal group-think grounded in the unreliable historical record of a witch trial’ (21 words). <br /><br />It’s taken nearly three years collecting research material and writing two spiked drafts (neither completed) to get to this point – huzzah – but I now believe this academic pitch to be ‘true’ to my intention. It is an expression of why this subject – witch trials – appealed to my subconscious. <br /><br />Essentially, I’m looking into the intersection between the psychology and the ‘sociology’ of how and why we lie to ourselves, using the historical record as a particular – and extreme – example. <br /><br />Thus when I arrived at the latest Break into Act 2 scene, I both am but also am not writing about an impoverished, persecuted, long-dead boy who got beaten up in his cell – even if he is the most dramatically 'alive' character on those pages. Instead, I was (meant to be) writing about the protagonist’s reactions to evidence of torture, including his conformist, religious denial of empathy for someone accused of witchcraft. It is here in the psychology of everyday immorality that I hope to find the universal within the particular, that magical core we’re all meant to be writing about at some level. <br /><br />Another way I'm trying to articulate the central driver of the story (mine and the protagonist's) is by adapting John Truby's concept of a central, defining, necessary action by the protagonist that unites the story. In Truby’s Anatomy of a Story, this one action - "Luke fighting the enemy" in Star Wars - creates a ‘cause and effect pathway’ that coheres the story. As an idea, it is well worth looking up, imho. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiWUfMBePvfS8zALX3XE-13bmqIuACv3_eAcaGbZYuNKfD_qbtnnpvnk1Nr-maZUprAPHk4G3oIWoUzP4rBq3Km36_Jbx8bki0ya8obvFgoaAcOtrhdmZN0vE8RgBA2iuaL8cuNoxD3Le7yQFlHTZhbFE_sbljOf2f5qzQrvOSW2aHdx-GnRskBiQ73M/s500/51Q-xh0Rt3L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiWUfMBePvfS8zALX3XE-13bmqIuACv3_eAcaGbZYuNKfD_qbtnnpvnk1Nr-maZUprAPHk4G3oIWoUzP4rBq3Km36_Jbx8bki0ya8obvFgoaAcOtrhdmZN0vE8RgBA2iuaL8cuNoxD3Le7yQFlHTZhbFE_sbljOf2f5qzQrvOSW2aHdx-GnRskBiQ73M/s320/51Q-xh0Rt3L.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><p>I’m still coy about sharing my cause and effect pathway as a) it’s the USP of the WIP, and b) because I forgot to finish this post amid a bunch of life stuff this week and I’m writing this last bit on the morning of the 15th and don’t want to share stuff that later I'll wish hadn't. Silly, I know, but...<br /><br /> Anyhow, during last night’s insomnia, when I realised I hadn't posted this blog, I had a mini-epiphany about all this and came up with the following image which sort of explains my current framework for long-form storytelling. It is based on a bunch of stuff gleaned from various gurus over the years and my experience of analysing the writing process during the PhD and previously on the Bath Spa MA. <br /><br />This story-in-progress is a river, with the historical record one bank and the structural beats of a contemporary novel the other. The flow between them is the cause-and-effect pathway of the narrative. At the denouement, the protagonist will work out how and why their central action wounds themselves (the psychological self-revelation) and hurts others (the immoral consequences of their wrong behaviour). The final image is the flow of this one life entering the universal sea. That is, bringing their life lesson to humanity. This may be utter tosh, but it’s been a tough week. </p><p>In any event, here’s hoping our stories bring us relief if no one else. </p><p>@HouseRowena on X/Twitter where I can be found bringing reputational risk to something or other (see current ACE advice controversy) <br /><br /> Rowena House Author on Facebook where I blather (aka moan) about writing this C17th witchy WIP. <br /><br /> <br /><br /> </p>Rowena Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11548957772863528477noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-53778588249369136862024-02-14T02:30:00.003+00:002024-02-14T02:30:00.260+00:00Valentine's Day by Lynne Benton<p> </p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="background-color: white; margin: 20px 0px 0px; position: relative;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #333333; line-height: normal;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, Trebuchet, sans-serif"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I apologise for repeating the Blog I posted last year - strangely enough, St Valentine's Day always falls on the day of my post, so just in case anyone missed it last year, here it is again!</span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;">Since today is Valentine’s Day, I thought I might investigate how the day dedicated to the spirit of romance first came about.</span></h3><div class="post-body entry-content" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 580px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB47kQNd0t2TRGJho6ILfBA0cOB_glAE51PDCuV95SKNbhFxsK8MxwOpgjvFe3XBYSIf_YJD_WlK4hECj3SC5ZFZBbEi0pCInUcrJG9Kop5CLEhlhCuchcFtW80akmgjYOKdR-VJXBKgtxLH-5I0RmPO6m3E0-8yjtmCyZyjKqKTASGcFVDTUjV6Pz/s599/02021_0555_(2)_valentine's_day_cake.jpg" style="color: #d4534e; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="457" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB47kQNd0t2TRGJho6ILfBA0cOB_glAE51PDCuV95SKNbhFxsK8MxwOpgjvFe3XBYSIf_YJD_WlK4hECj3SC5ZFZBbEi0pCInUcrJG9Kop5CLEhlhCuchcFtW80akmgjYOKdR-VJXBKgtxLH-5I0RmPO6m3E0-8yjtmCyZyjKqKTASGcFVDTUjV6Pz/w115-h150/02021_0555_(2)_valentine's_day_cake.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="115" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Valentine’s day, also called St. Valentine’s Day, is the day when, traditionally, lovers express their love with greetings and gifts. One suggestion is that the holiday was inspired by/originated in the Roman festival of Lupercalia, which was always held in mid-February to celebrate the coming of spring. <span style="color: #1a1a1a;">Lupercalia, however, was something of a wild celebration, known for its excessive merriment and such distinctive fertility rituals as the lashing of women by men using the hides of sacrificed animals. At the end of the 5<sup>th</sup> century Pope Gelasius 1, perhaps in an effort to end such pagan festivities, inaugurated a feast day to commemorate Valentine on the saint’s execution date.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Valentine’s day wasn’t celebrated as a day of romance until about the fourteenth century, when scholars believe it came about from Geoffrey Chaucer’s poem "The Parlement of Foules", which he wrote in 1380-90, since the earliest letters between lovers referring to St Valentine’s Day began to appear soon after the poem’s publication.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So who was St. Valentine? There were several Christian martyrs named Valentine, but the day may have been named after a priest who was martyred in around 270 CE by the emperor Claudius II Gothicus. Valentine, while in prison, allegedly befriended (or in some versions of the story, fell in love with) his jailer’s daughter, whom he also miraculously cured of blindness. The night before his execution, he is said to have written her a farewell message and signed off with “Your Valentine.”</span><span face="Trebuchet MS, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Or the holiday could have been named after St Valentine of Terni, a bishop, It is also possible that the two saints were actually one person. There is another common legend about St Valentine defying the emperor’s orders and marrying couples in secret to spare the husbands from going to war. This could be why his feast day is associated with love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Valentines themselves, or messages of love, appeared in the 1500s, and by the late 1700s commercially printed cards were sent between lovers. The first commercial valentines in the United States were printed in the mid-1800s, commonly depicting Cupid, the Roman god of love, along with hearts, traditionally supposed to be the seat of emotion. Birds too became a symbol of the day, following the belief that the birds’ mating season begins in mid-February. Traditional gifts include chocolates and flowers, particularly red roses, a symbol of beauty and love.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCyFzEtZUhoniiMgj-Dy5IoQL3-STvsYZZafcYZGhXRqjt1HVKzKcl5_J9u2C_iRa9s6JrpKOrnr4vDXfb-2-rAmUiwt93ejbPu8nVMVH46nIAc5up5-ZWKbk5Dx2w-7DAw6FKJYogAavgA1cGSYAHs0vdqnODFYEwicuxx-3sd-EagJKIFbpStHf/s800/Hearts_warmed_on_Valentine's_Day_DVIDS36015.jpg" style="color: #d4534e; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="800" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCyFzEtZUhoniiMgj-Dy5IoQL3-STvsYZZafcYZGhXRqjt1HVKzKcl5_J9u2C_iRa9s6JrpKOrnr4vDXfb-2-rAmUiwt93ejbPu8nVMVH46nIAc5up5-ZWKbk5Dx2w-7DAw6FKJYogAavgA1cGSYAHs0vdqnODFYEwicuxx-3sd-EagJKIFbpStHf/w307-h184/Hearts_warmed_on_Valentine's_Day_DVIDS36015.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="307" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><p style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The day is popular in the US, where one of the most enduring traditions is the classroom card exchange. Each year, typically, elementary school children choose a box of valentines featuring their latest favourite superhero, princess, snack or Internet Meme, fill out a card for each of their classmates, and distribute the cards among their peers’ decorated shoeboxes during class time. While a fun diversion for kids, especially if they persuaded their parents to splurge on cards including stickers or glow sticks, parents have complained about the custom for years, and wonder how a holiday ostensibly meant to celebrate romance was usurped by children. More importantly, though, they may ask: why do we give Valentine cards anyway?</span></span><span face="Trebuchet MS, Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAseMIN92mxuRubDLU-wRC3j-XrV7Oou4bBV8Pyp5pVmoqBAAmKbrDnvCBpkdTgi6Gokorj2kfK6zmM9ET5oksBq85Bfk34neRHjFpaP4JYlB5HcupAwdJx0juUS1owXBCpuacw0eeMd7h-CTASZS9O09eyLCku3Y9M0rp1wBetryBR2T3iWUswjT-/s600/443px-Remember_Valentine's_Day_1952_-_Elizabeth_Taylor_-_Whitman's_Chocolates.jpg" style="color: #d4534e; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="443" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAseMIN92mxuRubDLU-wRC3j-XrV7Oou4bBV8Pyp5pVmoqBAAmKbrDnvCBpkdTgi6Gokorj2kfK6zmM9ET5oksBq85Bfk34neRHjFpaP4JYlB5HcupAwdJx0juUS1owXBCpuacw0eeMd7h-CTASZS9O09eyLCku3Y9M0rp1wBetryBR2T3iWUswjT-/w154-h209/443px-Remember_Valentine's_Day_1952_-_Elizabeth_Taylor_-_Whitman's_Chocolates.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="154" /></a></span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><p style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;">As well as the UK and the US it is also celebrated in Canada, Australia and other countries including Argentina, France, Mexico and South Korea. In the Philippines it is the most common wedding anniversary, and mass weddings of hundreds of couples are not uncommon on that date. The holiday has expanded to expressions of affection among relatives and friends. Many schoolchildren exchange valentines with one another on this day. And in February of this year the</span><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> Indian government appealed to citizens to mark Valentine’s Day this year as “Cow Hug Day” to promote Hindu values, rather than a celebration of romance.</span></span></p></div><h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; margin: 20px 0px 0px; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-weight: normal;">But I think I'd settle for a card. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!</span></h3><h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; margin: 20px 0px 0px; position: relative;">website: <a href="http://lynnebenton.com" target="_blank">lynnebenton.com</a></h3>Lynne Bentonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02903089900604404075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-19869596859468670222024-02-13T05:00:00.001+00:002024-02-13T05:00:00.143+00:00Retreating Again by Sheena Wilkinson<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I’m off on my travels – not</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">far</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">, but hopefully</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">deep</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">into my novel-in-progress, which at the moment is a very rough first draft. Thanks to the generosity of Children’s Books Ireland and the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig, I’m the lucky recipient of a bursary to spend a week at the TGC in the company of several other Irish children’s writers -- you can read more <a href="https://childrensbooksireland.ie/news-events/recipients-2024-tyrone-guthrie-centre-bursary-awards-announced">here:</a></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUbtwIuffYeQpus6x22l-4pXpaKNVe_O9-xpG70juXwTOMWtmmqwHd-qhjVTXvrz8NYenQoy6G0THd89UeWqzyFKWP5fZ6t0pHzQtBGpETGWS6HCjIsnB_Bn2h6zeh-n5EF25wd1Jh_Pa3kOhuEehKn9zpx2vXBeH_-kvBh4cA6ZOVd2dD7gSfAOy81Mu8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="302" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUbtwIuffYeQpus6x22l-4pXpaKNVe_O9-xpG70juXwTOMWtmmqwHd-qhjVTXvrz8NYenQoy6G0THd89UeWqzyFKWP5fZ6t0pHzQtBGpETGWS6HCjIsnB_Bn2h6zeh-n5EF25wd1Jh_Pa3kOhuEehKn9zpx2vXBeH_-kvBh4cA6ZOVd2dD7gSfAOy81Mu8" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Before Covid I used to go on retreat a couple of times a year. </span><span style="background: rgb(254, 255, 250); font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Supporting </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">myself through a range of writing-related activities – the usual freelance portfolio – made the occasional escape indispensable. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">It was never cheap, but I always justified the expense by saying that a month’s work could be done in a week with nothing to think about except your story. And living alone I had nobody to miss or feel guilty about leaving.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwy1MpMYJE40lf8cQhu4095qjjso-FO7bjZzCfw2I9koIjS1NRTJhv29kC4cCP0yiyTmq8Fe0JnrbEqjzSMrp9bnP8FHdJ0Nka3E5d-mq19nfpwiHoRJVlQwKhD6tyLHWJRt8JHd8XZHYc8LXsJ4HrCIH5m1PvlTTNGzT7hGkYr-LIWkh0PsCGZhpQgu8d" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwy1MpMYJE40lf8cQhu4095qjjso-FO7bjZzCfw2I9koIjS1NRTJhv29kC4cCP0yiyTmq8Fe0JnrbEqjzSMrp9bnP8FHdJ0Nka3E5d-mq19nfpwiHoRJVlQwKhD6tyLHWJRt8JHd8XZHYc8LXsJ4HrCIH5m1PvlTTNGzT7hGkYr-LIWkh0PsCGZhpQgu8d" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">But Covid, and the closing down of all my habitual sanctuaries, interrupted that routine, and I haven’t been on retreat since a wonderful week at the Arvon Hurst in Shropshire in April 2019, redrafting my 2020 novel, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Hope against Hope</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">. My last novel, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Mrs Hart’s Marriage Bureau</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">, and my forthcoming one, a 1920s girls’ school story, were my first books where not one word was written or edited somewhere at a retreat.</span><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiuXvA5bDkPwFW994SJkDSsDype8cZWInjyV36rBx9dHNXqQW5-uxdjAGAznIH3NF99ZLRVf298xz5uZe6SU41ya82z2xkXiACl8W38AZzgHIaMUw1Pk1s6ssQ-cWMKUjuj5tsgF5QxIGdsrgZdtyEKfE7qVFW3HHZqCD-ekr7NTprRfyVUjD2OZNs__1T" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="182" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiuXvA5bDkPwFW994SJkDSsDype8cZWInjyV36rBx9dHNXqQW5-uxdjAGAznIH3NF99ZLRVf298xz5uZe6SU41ya82z2xkXiACl8W38AZzgHIaMUw1Pk1s6ssQ-cWMKUjuj5tsgF5QxIGdsrgZdtyEKfE7qVFW3HHZqCD-ekr7NTprRfyVUjD2OZNs__1T" width="158" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Marrying a widower in 2021 I experienced for the very first time some of the challenges faced by many other women. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I have more emotional and practical support than I’ve ever had, but also many more responsibilities, running a busy home and adjusting to being a stepmother as well as carrying on with all my usual work commitments. Life resembles one of my own gritty YA novels rather more closely than I anticipated, and juggling domesticity, creativity and earning a living is ever more challenging, even though I am lucky enough to have a very supportive husband. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">So I am very excited about – not exactly escaping! – but recapturing the intense focus I used to take for granted. And of course I have someone to miss now, not to speak of my two lovely dogs, so I know I’ll be looking forward to coming home too – but hopefully with a big fat complete second draft.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcyNGq2fqYiF0JZxLoUqbRMX6i9_g5OWkbEBVKNiZ082-lCxpNOk1tEVAkboFX0M7OB_RwJLhHH3H1FKTrhsJZeKWHEIbqbCrHyD24GzyNIg13EWkhd4HE6tsVwTwjllAWX6ZKs4XPE-vi1YSTLti1zm8biVeciE115X2snH8ZkA31pOXcJbtJlgHgRmZY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcyNGq2fqYiF0JZxLoUqbRMX6i9_g5OWkbEBVKNiZ082-lCxpNOk1tEVAkboFX0M7OB_RwJLhHH3H1FKTrhsJZeKWHEIbqbCrHyD24GzyNIg13EWkhd4HE6tsVwTwjllAWX6ZKs4XPE-vi1YSTLti1zm8biVeciE115X2snH8ZkA31pOXcJbtJlgHgRmZY" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Thanks so much to the lovely people at Tyrone Guthrie Centre and Children’s Books Ireland for making this possible. I’ll report back next month. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p></div>Sheena Wilkinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13847659993713606837noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-31087503222214351792024-02-12T07:00:00.002+00:002024-02-12T07:00:00.131+00:00Mildred the Gallery Cat, text and illustration by Jono Gantz, review by Lynda Waterhouse<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1F15Ezqa045RhFPXhUSlW1yPTieqLhXe68orFX0-5WbRMHrTxMmY6D7qveStfemqIt6F1LWDdA62l3mFkfZDeylhMcNVx3FGbjWlaC-quBe853y4Ac5NS4J16T1HX60K-A44cCfmqdNjbLpuv7i1YQZaY9C-Z-7ublnojttO39qCVbuwb7a8gUNjDGiE/s556/mildred-the-gallery-cat-26323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="556" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1F15Ezqa045RhFPXhUSlW1yPTieqLhXe68orFX0-5WbRMHrTxMmY6D7qveStfemqIt6F1LWDdA62l3mFkfZDeylhMcNVx3FGbjWlaC-quBe853y4Ac5NS4J16T1HX60K-A44cCfmqdNjbLpuv7i1YQZaY9C-Z-7ublnojttO39qCVbuwb7a8gUNjDGiE/s320/mildred-the-gallery-cat-26323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’m a sucker for cat stories, particularly ones that contain
black and white cats. Tuxedo cats have a habit of finding their way into my
life. First of all there was Tim, who aged 10 came into our lives and stayed
for eleven years. We now have Mimi who moved in with us when her owner went
into a care home.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Mildred, who inspired
this story, was the much loved resident cat at Tate Modern.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">So, naturally, I was instantly attracted to this story when
I encountered a shiny black and white cat with the twinkling eyes and enigmatic
grin on the bright cover of Jono Ganz’s debut picture book. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">By day, Mildred is to be found happily napping in her cosy
bed and everyone thinks she is so lazy. At night time Mildred is free to
explore the gallery when there is no-one else around.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>‘She thought some of
the art was a bit confusing, but she liked finding the pictures that had
animals in them.’<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Mildred encounters many
different kinds of art and each experience makes her feel something different:
happiness, introspection, hunger.<i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">Mildred ponders what it would be like if she too could create
a work of art, something that would make other people feel the kinds of things
that she had felt in the gallery. Her adult introspection, ‘<i>And is being an artist doomed to be the
privilege of the special few…?’</i> is undercut by her realisation that there
is also a mouse in the gallery enjoying the art. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A classic cat and mouse chase ensues with all the inevitable
slapstick humour culminating in a double page SPLAT. Mildred does not catch the
mouse but, in the midst of all the chaos, she has created a fantastical
sculpture, a self-portrait that astounds the visitors. She has found a way to
become an artist.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Mildred is a delightful character who demonstrates how looking
at art can be confusing at first but, once you start looking and finding points of interest, it can make you make you feel so many different things. It can also
inspire you to create.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As befits a work commissioned by the Tate, the book itself
is a well-crafted physical object. The font is clear and appealing with a beautiful
colour palate.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jono’s illustrations flow and dance across the pages and
have a delightful cut out and collage feel. Mildred’s (and the mouse’s)
character shines through on every page and the text has warmth, humour and a
gentle poetic flow. It is no surprise that this picture book has been
shortlisted for the 2023 Klaus Flugge prize.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I would have liked a list of the art works that Mildred
encountered in the gallery (e.g. Dal<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT Condensed",sans-serif;">i</span>,
Matisse, Lichtenstein, Kusama, Calder, Kenoujak, and the aptly named Elizabeth
Catlett) so that I could retrace Mildred’s paw prints and seek the artworks out
in the gallery or look at them online. Although the picture book has a more general
appeal by not being site specific, <i>’In a
big building in a big city there was an art gallery.’<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">ISBN 978-1-84976-871-9<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">www.tate.org.uk<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p>Lynda Waterhousehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04880769618542325268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-52148060445060349452024-02-09T07:42:00.001+00:002024-02-09T14:27:23.647+00:00Hey, look at me! (Pease don't) - Anne Rooney<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBnyjOQ06l03gDRTE7WduN_Tpp5ML2UJn7PriU97dXYs6yLZHGduIK3VcDy71PEbCLsoe6WOgrMs9bt6C6HQnIAlt80DHQDvnRe8xs4ZktCbFrszewfomfgPeN2FO4Tsmvv4Cp4fDmGdET_S_1Q_XbrNlyQ2pdlIyPK9NWg3WHiRIOQYgdcGtIJoA5ig/s1454/performing%20panda%20copy.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1454" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBnyjOQ06l03gDRTE7WduN_Tpp5ML2UJn7PriU97dXYs6yLZHGduIK3VcDy71PEbCLsoe6WOgrMs9bt6C6HQnIAlt80DHQDvnRe8xs4ZktCbFrszewfomfgPeN2FO4Tsmvv4Cp4fDmGdET_S_1Q_XbrNlyQ2pdlIyPK9NWg3WHiRIOQYgdcGtIJoA5ig/s320/performing%20panda%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not a performing monkey</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Self-promotion. Some people are good at it, some people love it, some people are bad at it and some people hate it. Yet publishers seem to think writers should do it, like it and be good at it. Or do they? And are they right?</p><p>Articles like <a href="https://www.vox.com/culture/2024/2/1/24056883/tiktok-self-promotion-artist-career-how-to-build-following" target="_blank">this</a> suggest all creatives — and it seems, even accountants and bus drivers — now need a personal brand if they are to succeed and that everyone (especially publishers and record labels) expects it. For a publisher, if you have an active TikTok presence, they can rely on that to bring in sales of your book, or so the argument goes. They can piggyback off your own publicity work instead of doing theirs. For some types of book, this might be true, but certainly not for all. No one is on TikTok looking for engineering textbooks. Or are they?<br /></p><p><i>If</i> you have a large following on TikTok for something you already do, it <i>might</i> help you sell books. If you go onto TikTok (or whatever platform your publisher currently likes) in order to sell books, I doubt it will work. Think about how you respond to people self-promoting. I unfollow or silence them. It's just advertising. (I don't mean people excitedly announcing they have a new book. I mean people going on and on and on about their one new book for weeks.) We are not all performers. When it was just 'write a blog post', that was OKish as it's just more words. I can do words. But performing monkey with an iPhone? No thanks. A lot of us became writers precisely because we want to sit in our shed/office/bedroom hiding from the world and talking to ourselves or imaginary beings. Indeed, I suspect if I did a load of self-promotion videos it would reduce sales rather than increase them. Perhaps this is, after all, a use for AI and deep fake. I could deep fake myself for TikTok and rely on its not being very good to cancel out my own not being very good, two negatives making a positive. But I really don't think it makes any difference anyway and <b>none of my publishers has ever pressured me to do this</b>. (I can't speak for all publishers/writers/books, obviously.)<br /></p><p>The thing about pressure to do something is that it's usually a bad idea to fall into line. There doesn't need to be any pressure to do something that's good for you or you want to do. 'Peer pressure' is generally seen as a bad thing that drives young people to smoke, wear trousers that are too baggy, or other things their elders disapprove of. Pressure from an employer to answer your emails out of hours is seen as exploitative. Pressure from a publisher to do their job of promoting your books works only to their benefit unless you are that rare creature who actually enjoys it. Really, do what you enjoy. If that's TikTok, brilliant. If it's writing stuff online, brilliant. If it's lying on a branch doing nothing — just don't roll off!<br /></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Anne Rooney</span></p><p><a href="http://www.annerooney.com" target="_blank">website </a></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Out now from OUP</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht3Mc1yVVvPcGbJcgpPC-NEG1I0shv1cMlBAy4HM7qI-gazvTtqzUVfp9BspEMLxYI7EQ4C0mJTGEoytjWJbEHLreR-aLFjEbRu8kAWn8YnsJu5sQ1aw9VS7FuqAN1t76iM1xdvhBdW75A0bfCtrbRvNNMB0v4p2CT35yx1SCeFWtD3lVrbKJ0AXKq1A/s1500/monkey%20and%20tadpole.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1500" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiht3Mc1yVVvPcGbJcgpPC-NEG1I0shv1cMlBAy4HM7qI-gazvTtqzUVfp9BspEMLxYI7EQ4C0mJTGEoytjWJbEHLreR-aLFjEbRu8kAWn8YnsJu5sQ1aw9VS7FuqAN1t76iM1xdvhBdW75A0bfCtrbRvNNMB0v4p2CT35yx1SCeFWtD3lVrbKJ0AXKq1A/s320/monkey%20and%20tadpole.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Stroppy Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16560035800075465845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-2116307667592062022024-02-06T06:00:00.023+00:002024-02-06T06:00:00.132+00:00Believability by Paul May<p>All fiction is a kind of conspiracy between author and reader. The author pretends that what they are writing is true and the reader pretends to believe them. I know there's a lot more to it than that—the author probably has something they want to say through shaping the events and characters in their story and the reader may be searching for some kind of truth, or a new way of looking at things, and what is truth anyway? But for the whole thing to work the reader has to be able to convince themselves while they are reading that what they are reading is true. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Kd23Wp10ApD0jrZnZC3DkVextsciJ8p55PdL6NV5CAWbPG7IoDXEnyZxfAfK6jdT8Rr-ONCU5ALe7Zr2P8CRtv3hxxBfIRg7INSx45xxow6gTAlkYZ-rUmWTV2ftAXWpTHRlkGfCWbYl45yEUR6TCq6BW8czRsSZBrN8lxNeerCJCCFM3tq0RG-J/s3975/IMG_9368.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3975" data-original-width="2713" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Kd23Wp10ApD0jrZnZC3DkVextsciJ8p55PdL6NV5CAWbPG7IoDXEnyZxfAfK6jdT8Rr-ONCU5ALe7Zr2P8CRtv3hxxBfIRg7INSx45xxow6gTAlkYZ-rUmWTV2ftAXWpTHRlkGfCWbYl45yEUR6TCq6BW8czRsSZBrN8lxNeerCJCCFM3tq0RG-J/w271-h400/IMG_9368.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>So when I started reading Meg Rosoff's Carnegie Winner<i> Just in Case</i> and discovered that the central character is named Justin Case, that contract between the writer and this particular reader was immediately undermined. I mean, Justin's parents seem quite ineffectual, but I couldn't believe that <i>any</i> parents would deliberately do that to their child.</p><p>Justin lives in a weird world. It's a world where toddlers have complex thoughts well beyond their years and where Justin's imaginary dog is mysteriously visible to other people. It's a world where Justin reacts to a close shave—the little brother he's meant to be looking after nearly falls out of a window—by deciding that Fate is out to get him (Justin) and he's no longer safe anywhere. Fate in this book is a disembodied character who speaks in bold type. A lot of bad things happen to Justin, but who knows whether Fate has anything to do with it? Is he mentally ill? Is he imagining everything? I have no idea. I did not believe in Justin Case for a single second so that, despite the assured and often very funny writing, I found it a real struggle to finish this book. </p><p>You, of course, may well love it! These days when I go to the cinema or the theatre I'm astonished to hear people guffawing at things I don't think are remotely funny. Maybe there's a limit to how much laughing we can do in our lives and I used up too much watching Marx Brothers movies when I was a student. Of course, I'm not the intended audience for this book, but should that even make a difference? I'm also starting to think I must have been a very odd teenage boy because almost none of the teenage boys I've read about in Carnegie winners and elsewhere seem to be like any teenage boy I've ever known, and certainly not like me. I'd have to look to Jan Mark, maybe, and Robert Westall for characters I can relate to.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgNHePk9Ip58OoS_RJPmdwLGqtW8wHx8ofyq_p0VkaTqyBPM-Gzfvb9iJ47P-MO-151hZm67xqaOtoSA4NnA4yGzqTLPd0UwIKH1THRXqmORya19Mgek4Fu_svyRoYgwWFbNP-KILu98-0qtJv05NO8p4iBZ7zPKGBouH0UmmEvJhlSfD6880-Q9f/s4032/IMG_9369.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2591" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgNHePk9Ip58OoS_RJPmdwLGqtW8wHx8ofyq_p0VkaTqyBPM-Gzfvb9iJ47P-MO-151hZm67xqaOtoSA4NnA4yGzqTLPd0UwIKH1THRXqmORya19Mgek4Fu_svyRoYgwWFbNP-KILu98-0qtJv05NO8p4iBZ7zPKGBouH0UmmEvJhlSfD6880-Q9f/w256-h400/IMG_9369.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And then—Oh, wow!—I read Philip Reeve's <i>Here Lies Arthur</i>. It was almost like the clock had been turned back to the late 1950s when historical novels from OUP won the Carnegie almost every year. Except that Philip Reeve begins his <i>Author's Note</i> by saying: '<i>Here Lies Arthur</i> is not a historical novel, and in writing it I did not set out to portray"the real King Arthur", only to add my little thimbleful to the sea of stories which surrounds him.' </p><p>But this is an utterly believable story, even though it's all made up. I love the tag line on the cover: <i>Everyone's heard of Arthur. But no one's heard the truth . . .</i></p><p>Well, this is Philip Reeves's truth. Merlin is a storyteller, conman and chancer who attaches himself to a minor leader of a war band in the aftermath of the Roman departure from Britain. He plans to make Arthur into a great leader by spreading stories about him, creating a myth. He's a kind of sixth century spin-doctor for Arthur. So in one way this is a book about the power of story, and about people believing what they want to believe when they're given a little prompting by an expert manipulator. Merlin, or Myrddin as he's called here, is more of a conjurer than a magician. He loves tricks and illusions and so when he finds a young girl who is fleeing from a Saxon raid and who is a brilliant swimmer he sees a chance to create the illusion of a sword rising out of a misty lake.</p><p>Crisp, clear narrative with real drive, vivid scene setting, great dialogue. I felt an enormous sense of relief when I started reading, knowing at once that this was a book I could sink into and truly enjoy.</p><p>The girl, Gwyna, is the narrator of the story, and she spends a large part of the book disguised as a boy. As a boy she sees all the rough brutality of the lives of Arthur's soldiery, and then as a girl she is in the confidence of Arthur's wife, Gwenhwyfar. Another character, Peredur, has been brought up by his mother as a girl to prevent him being taken as a soldier. A lot of people are fooled in this book, in one way or another, which nicely underlines the point that nobody really knows anything about Arthur. In his <i>Author's Note</i> Philip Reeve recommends Kevin Crossley-Holland's <i>Arthur</i> trilogy and Paul White's <i>King Arthur—Man or Myth</i>. He also says his interest in Arthur was inspired by John Boorman's film <i>Excalibur! </i>But there's another book that's much closer in feel to <i>Here Lies Arthur</i> and that's Rosemary Sutcliff's <i>Sword at Sunset</i>.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesETqM5DMx1Zt_fX9P1n28y8w5IPBnjVQbGrxjqS2_I9Fbr1c5wJGgICJFhLCUt5JhMHHSKv0j5AhUYTe8y6oUOy1ySiyoZcCNJHaa2ozR3EJRrZkFtP-7rPW6r1Tu5tjif6gIU4teILgRVZxLVL3tUoQjp_tnSkF0Fze7kTkoP6kT4VP3NuYnnbd/s4029/IMG_9370.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4029" data-original-width="2768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesETqM5DMx1Zt_fX9P1n28y8w5IPBnjVQbGrxjqS2_I9Fbr1c5wJGgICJFhLCUt5JhMHHSKv0j5AhUYTe8y6oUOy1ySiyoZcCNJHaa2ozR3EJRrZkFtP-7rPW6r1Tu5tjif6gIU4teILgRVZxLVL3tUoQjp_tnSkF0Fze7kTkoP6kT4VP3NuYnnbd/w275-h400/IMG_9370.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Sutcliff's book also attempts to imagine what a real Arthur might have been like. <i>Sword at Sunset</i> follows on from the action of <i>The Lantern Bearer</i>s, and this Arthur, too, is the leader of a band of mounted cavalry trying to keep the Saxon invaders at bay. It is a long and incredibly detailed account of a military campaign lasting for years. It deals with the procurement and breeding of war horses capable of bearing armoured warriors; it deals with the logistics of keeping a band of 300 men (and camp followers) fed and watered. There is extreme violence, rape, murder and treachery (Philip Reeve's version has most of this too), and at its heart is a portrait of a damaged man. Many of Sutcliff's heroes are physically damaged, but Arthur is mentally scarred after he is seduced by his half-sister who bears him a child that she rears in hate to betray Arthur. She may or may not be a witch, but she is bitter and revengeful at her mother's abandonment by Arthur's father.</p><p>That encounter at the start of the book leaves Arthur impotent, unable, save on one occasion, to consummate his marriage to Guenhamara. Sutcliff is interested in bitter misunderstandings between men and women, which reflect her own experiences, but while that element of the plot does make Arthur a more complex character, it isn't the plot that makes this such a great book. A lesser writer might have made Arthur's betrayal by his son the whole reason for Arthur's downfall, but what Sutcliff shows is a gradual erosion of the power and willingness to fight of the British; a gradual dawning of the awareness that the Saxons are not going to go away and that larger historical forces are in play. In the end, as in Philip Reeve's book, it is the myth of Arthur, not his force of arms, that will carry the dream of Britain through the Dark Ages.</p><p>Of course, you do have to buy into the 'Romano-British (and Celts)= good, Saxons, Angles, Scots and Jutes = bad' idea, and, indeed, into the concept of 'The Dark Ages'. You also have to not mind Sutcliff's occasional archaism: 'Sa, sa. It is in my mind that the Saxons will attack at dawn.' I made that up, but there's quite a bit of that kind of thing. But on the whole I felt I'd been immersed for 450 pages in a completely believable world, and as for Sutcliff's descriptions of nature, landscape and weather, they are second to none.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvlT_tjaF4geyI4TVPnIDvyKTJB7tG1du00OsEG32TYavdETMYnbKsmpaF2sgjaTY-6JVpYYMyHYCFWDm8QZcKrm-THW3FuGuYt061HlwzWeTSkqzl30KUcxmL4JJrA5VYnhAA9aFXtH3KkWLTeHIIT8ayebfDPcnRFxfqmS28_69pUyUSI8hxEGm/s3805/IMG_9372.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3805" data-original-width="2496" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuvlT_tjaF4geyI4TVPnIDvyKTJB7tG1du00OsEG32TYavdETMYnbKsmpaF2sgjaTY-6JVpYYMyHYCFWDm8QZcKrm-THW3FuGuYt061HlwzWeTSkqzl30KUcxmL4JJrA5VYnhAA9aFXtH3KkWLTeHIIT8ayebfDPcnRFxfqmS28_69pUyUSI8hxEGm/w263-h400/IMG_9372.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><i>Sword at Sunset</i> and <i>Here Lies Arthur</i> both try to imagine a version of what the real Arthur might have been like. Kevin Crossley-Holland's <i>Arthur</i> trilogy does something rather different, imagining the mediaeval world out of which the legend of Arthur arose. So it shows us, in great and vividly depicted detail, life in late twelfth century England and then in Europe as Crusaders gather in Venice. In these books, twelfth century Arthur is first a page, and then a knight who 'takes the cross' and goes off on a crusade. He's able to look in a 'seeing stone' given him by Merlin to see events in the court of the mythical Arthur, with his round table and all the acoutrements of the Arthur who Malory invented a couple of centuries later. <p></p><p>The final book in the series, which I just re-read, is very dark in many ways, but in different ways to Sutcliff and Philip Reeve. There is murder, rape and treachery here, too, but there is also the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. With Reeve and Sutcliff we see Christianity in its infancy in Britain, and both books show how the old Roman and Celtic religions still have power. In Kevin Crossley-Holland's books, priests condemn love, banish women and children from the Crusade and endorse the slaughter of Infidels, and, really, anyone who gets in the way of retaking the 'Holy Places'. The Church takes almost as thorough a beating here as it does in Philip Pullman's <i>Northern Lights</i> trilogy. I remember writing a while back that I felt Kevin Crossley-Holland's <i>Storm</i> was a bit slight for a Carnegie winner. Perhaps I can make up for that by saying that if I'd been making the decision in 2003 I'd have given the award to <i>Arthur—King of the Middle March.</i></p><p>As Philip Reeve says, these books are a good way in to the world of Arthur. Kevin Crossley-Holland also wrote an excellent compilation of stories and information about Arthur full of lovely illustrations by Peter Malone called <i>The King Who Was and Will Be.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZ6-sPfjncARob9ycwKzMRkOoFpJ6LzaAL_IiSt_e5wAyl1DnsiwAY1TYwG4EZ2be53YdKfBQl0H1LgGWkFxM1h8fMHIHomX3Se8_qEGJXl0zsJxlrA8fZelmeQlrXtEhW0n-bOIVZepxpSs0MuQDk0oEIaFOrzLdIeQ_N9iMEX6t6pqolxrYpqLS/s3697/IMG_9371.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3697" data-original-width="2712" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZ6-sPfjncARob9ycwKzMRkOoFpJ6LzaAL_IiSt_e5wAyl1DnsiwAY1TYwG4EZ2be53YdKfBQl0H1LgGWkFxM1h8fMHIHomX3Se8_qEGJXl0zsJxlrA8fZelmeQlrXtEhW0n-bOIVZepxpSs0MuQDk0oEIaFOrzLdIeQ_N9iMEX6t6pqolxrYpqLS/w294-h400/IMG_9371.jpg" width="294" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p><p>One last thing—my copy of <i>Sword at Sunset</i> is a horrible book club edition with small blurry type on browning paper, and it has NO MAPS! Can anyone tell me which is the best edition of this book? The American one? The original Hodder one? I can't tell looking at them online.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Paul Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09499442738041701791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-24357502556154214472024-02-03T14:21:00.000+00:002024-02-03T14:21:12.845+00:00A COFFEE CUP QUIZ. by Sharon Tregenza<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Try this quiz while you're having your cup of coffee (or tea)</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi877MJFeUcnTCxuYDqQvzXy92aBromRMOHc8Gb-DwjFjMc47PYD3KCsd7lmyKUK5h_jH0iGF_i-LKs0k8c78roVGRB_V4NReBLqGjpZgyA09Xsao5_0giwIziaC-PurceD04HQknaRAZ-DkM9_pIu5zm17nq4tqyZNVFlwlyCjQfAZQJX5fETRqzwGIVIy/s1500/71dOHil7tJL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="1500" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi877MJFeUcnTCxuYDqQvzXy92aBromRMOHc8Gb-DwjFjMc47PYD3KCsd7lmyKUK5h_jH0iGF_i-LKs0k8c78roVGRB_V4NReBLqGjpZgyA09Xsao5_0giwIziaC-PurceD04HQknaRAZ-DkM9_pIu5zm17nq4tqyZNVFlwlyCjQfAZQJX5fETRqzwGIVIy/s320/71dOHil7tJL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">1. What children's author and poet was also a cartoonist for Playboy and wrote folk songs in the 1960s?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">2. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was an animal created by Rudyard Kipling - what type of animal?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">3. Which author also published books under the name Theo LeSieg and one book under the name Rosetta Stone?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">4. The name of which punctuation mark is Greek for together?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">5. In the classic 1957 children's book "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," what is the name of the town the Grinch steals presents and decorations from?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoADI6X48K21ILYyADb2fosbE1oQDKpvbYfMhYQKVbMRCgQVwGnX_uIhiAxwuS-jYjnnSilK24R8T__8BFia7uuOTpmrUrS0QdjDPUXkbfePmfv2XgkDeTedOSvQ7eKVf5Z8UARdifR080tSSQXszgmtRGeBgbGo6lx0fCqQhRKcV7HYC38XRUSBR2f80Y/s300/51CftoSoN2L.__AC_SY300_SX300_QL70_ML2_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="300" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoADI6X48K21ILYyADb2fosbE1oQDKpvbYfMhYQKVbMRCgQVwGnX_uIhiAxwuS-jYjnnSilK24R8T__8BFia7uuOTpmrUrS0QdjDPUXkbfePmfv2XgkDeTedOSvQ7eKVf5Z8UARdifR080tSSQXszgmtRGeBgbGo6lx0fCqQhRKcV7HYC38XRUSBR2f80Y/s1600/51CftoSoN2L.__AC_SY300_SX300_QL70_ML2_.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">6. The Berenstain Bears live in what unusual type of home?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">7. The Imagination Library is a free children's book gifting programme started by which famous singer?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">8. Where does the Wizard of Oz live?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">9. Jack, Simon, Piggy, and Roger are four boys that make up the cast in what 1954 novel?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">10. In Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" which child was described as a "great big greedy nincompoop"?</span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_M0d9x_OycDo1cuMUbzcgnvIaR-AzzuMVC1ZKccTb7oFvz4WouSFgReBWXSZMGWyLkfKgZ8GJWN7Q1bj9lei7jjDcISVx7xaJI_nj_u9CIUjOU1zZuAFWy4nP0d0RCm8Y1LfHkHMKb1fKwnzPDZbKQvXfVlhy6gOX4B3BvFaz8LuyE-mXVf_8Nix6kdJ/s410/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="123" data-original-width="410" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_M0d9x_OycDo1cuMUbzcgnvIaR-AzzuMVC1ZKccTb7oFvz4WouSFgReBWXSZMGWyLkfKgZ8GJWN7Q1bj9lei7jjDcISVx7xaJI_nj_u9CIUjOU1zZuAFWy4nP0d0RCm8Y1LfHkHMKb1fKwnzPDZbKQvXfVlhy6gOX4B3BvFaz8LuyE-mXVf_8Nix6kdJ/w400-h120/download.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p>Answers: 1, Shel Silverstein, 2, Mongoose 3, Dr. Seuss. 4, Hyphen 5, Whoville. 6, Treehouse 7, Dolly Parton. 8, The Emerald City. 9, Lord of the Flies. 10, Augustus Gloop</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="http://www.sharontregenza.com">www.sharontregenza.com</a></p><p><a href="mailto:sharontregenza@gmail.com">sharontregenza@gmail.com</a></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p>Sharon Tregenzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16416280455028255181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-72272868740170487242024-02-02T04:00:00.002+00:002024-02-02T04:00:00.264+00:00Yorkshire twinned with France by Steve Way<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Partly
because I am doing my best to teach English to some French, Spanish and Mexican
students, I was thinking about discussing the use of incorrect, though commonly
used, English in writing. Should we gently steer our young readers towards more
accurate English… or not?*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s
difficult enough teaching second language learners the difference between
‘lend’ and ‘borrow’ without having to explain that most people, particularly
teenagers, consciously or otherwise reverse the meanings. Feeling a bit
pedantic one day – and of course being a penniless writer – when one of my
teenage step-daughters asked, “Steve can I lend a fiver?” I responded with
perhaps unexpected enthusiasm. “Certainly! Of course you can… I could really do
with a fiver, would you lend it to me?” To her credit Charl responded with
relatively amicable teenage humour. After only gazing skywards briefly she
said, “<i>Borrow</i>…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve noticed
people and characters saying ‘them’ in a number of TV programmes, when they
actually mean ‘those’, as of course many people do. The scriptwriters in case
of dramas are of course simulating real speech though curiously by contrast as
well as noticing this happening in Corrie, regularly all the characters make refences
to the classics that make it seem that all the residents of Weatherfield have
graduated in English Lit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The reason why
I’m burbling on clumsily about this no doubt controversial issue, is that my
musings about the correct use of language led me to a revelation that I’m
amazed has eluded me so long. Namely that I should teach my French students to speak
Yorkshire English! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Neither in
France nor in Yorkshire do they use the letter h in pronunciation. I’m a soft
southerner mainly brought up in the curiously named Wiltshire town of
Chippenham** and even more oddly, given its location, a Leeds United fan. By a convoluted
route I ended up wedding a Leeds girl and marrying into a family of Whites
fans. One of my brothers-in-law was intrigued from the start that I actually
sounded my ‘aitches’. It was almost as though it seemed to him that I possessed
some obscure superpower. Dave in his turn horrified me on one occasion when
relating a story about looking after his son, Tom, in which it sounded to me as
if Tom had nearly been asphyxiated. But it turned out that he was only suffering
from a lack of hair and not oxygen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Having not
previously made this significant connection between God’s favourite country and
La Belle France, I had been making huge efforts to help my French students succeed
in sounding their aitches, particularly at the beginning of words. It’s perhaps
sadly reassuring that the style of language teaching is as unfit for purpose in
France as it is in the UK. After working hard with one teenage student, she
read a short piece, packed with words beginning with h, perfectly. “That was
brilliant!” I enthused. “You’ve improved so much… they must have noticed that
at your school! They must be so pleased with you!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Lucie
replied with an empathetic ‘no’ I felt completely deflated. How could her
teachers not have noticed such a marked improvement? On questioning her further
it turned out that she and her classmates <i>never </i>actually spoke in
English in their lessons. I suppose I should have realised that from having
seen the homework she was given.*** It was even more formalised, boring and
mechanical than that encouraged by the UK National Curriculum. (The situation
for my Spanish teenage students appears to be nearly the same, though it does
seem that they do actually speak in English occasionally.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So, although
they may be twinned already, I suggest Bordeaux be twined with Bradford, Lille
with Leeds and Sheffield with Cherbourg, particularly for the exchange of
language students! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">*I realise a
question like this might stir up a hornet’s nest… or maybe more appropriately
in this case a wasp’s nest!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">**Apparently
there’s a rational historical reason for this – but as you can imagine many of
us living there speculated why the place was not called something equally
random such as Potatopencilpork instead?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">***A survey
of French adults showed that the vast majority of them were embarrassed to
speak in English – little wonder if they have never done so!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">~~~~~~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One last
little anecdote regarding the idiosyncrasies of Yorkshire English. In the days
of the steam train the authorities in Yorkshire were concerned and bemused by
the habit of the local not crossing the rail tracks when it was safe but
queueing up and crossing dangerously when the train was in the station, soon to
leave. It turns out the sign at the crossing read ‘Do not cross while the train
is in the station’. In Yorkshire ‘while’ means until. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Steve Wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14732531368216927208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-54231015636834413092024-01-31T23:48:00.000+00:002024-01-31T23:48:33.042+00:00ASKING THE BOOK PICKER by Penny Dolan<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i><span>February greetings! With a February fib to confess as well. <br /></span></i></span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">Reading a variety of texts is good for writers, isn't it? And I certainly do have lots of books to
choose from home here. </span></span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">However, when</span> my local library emailed, inviting
me to sign up to<i> ‘choose books in a different way’</i> I could
not resist. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">De</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">spite all the To Be Read books home here, </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I slightly fibbed and signed up to <b>ASK</b>foraBook.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The introduction on the website promised <i>‘We’ll show you
book covers instead of subjects. We’ll show you intriguing themes,’</i> so <span style="font-style: normal;">I was driven by a mix of
writerly curiosity, suspicion of algorithms and pure personal
nosiness. </span></span>I was also informed that <i>'</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i>Real library people will use
their expertise to email you recommendations that match your
preferences’.</i></span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">My next<span style="font-style: normal;"> instruction was to click on
the <i>three</i> book-covers from a panel of twelve that I’d be most likely to read,
as a way of indicating my most-favoured genres. Then
came the response: ‘</span><i>Thank you for using Ask for a Book. We have
received your request and your Book Picker will be in touch with the
books they've chosen for you within 2 working days.’ </i></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span>Real books from county book stock and real people from the
library! </span></span></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span>I was even more pleased</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> when</span> ‘my Book Picker’ turned out to be a librarian whose name <span style="font-style: normal;">I
knew: within two days,</span> my ASK titles were ready for collection. </span>
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">While at the library, I asked how the titles were chosen. How did the 'suggestion' system<span style="font-style: normal;">
work? Once a </span>‘genre’ page has been selected, another dozen book-cover images op up on the screen, with information about each title. The 'library
person', using those, and maybe other knowledge, chooses the best match, repeating the process for each genre. </span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I was concerned about the extra work that a flourishing ASK system
could put on library staff and book stock in the future, as well as<span style="font-style: normal;"> the range of books needed for each genre </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">in particular</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">, which could shape future library purchasing patterns. All unknown, as yet, so the
experiment might prove interesting.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">ASK<span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;"> was partly inspired by how libraries operated during the Covid era. Then, borrowers would email or phone, asking for their next loans, leaving the librarians (and volunteers?) to choose their actual titles. After three days, the borrowers (masked) collected their labelled books from the loan tables, returning other titles to be quarantined before
re-issue. Working like that, in an almost empty </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">building, must have been</span></span> a very<span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;"> lonely task. ASK, now, with its personal contact, can only be a more satisfying experience.<br /></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">There must be</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">options
and routes I have not met yet, and nor do I know how non-fiction fits within the scheme. </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">Of course, any choice will depend on what is meant by that particular
genre; for example, the ‘Adventure’ genre I glimpsed seemed to
offer what I'd call ‘contemporary personal travel journeys’ rather than wider
geographical exploration I'd expected. </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">No doubt, the library people will be able to refine or widen any search and customer feedback should certainly shape the</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;"> system as it grows. <br /></span></span></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">So
what titles did the system choose for me? One read already, one pleasing and one completely unknown.<br /></span></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><img alt="The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.fu_WI3j8s2qOoh7JbkCccAAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=677ec530e35fe46abccf11ddc94344bf7fd9436746640db1bd3fcf8203230123&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.fu_WI3j8s2qOoh7JbkCccAAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=677ec530e35fe46abccf11ddc94344bf7fd9436746640db1bd3fcf8203230123&ipo=images" width="213" /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;"> <br /></span></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The <i>‘crime/mystery’</i>
category came up with <i><b>THE NAME OF THE ROSE by UMBERTO ECO.</b></i><b>
</b><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">A</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
good choice, although one I’d already read. </span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">A
trail of m</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ediaeval
murders in an oppressive</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ly
scary</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> monastery
</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">solved by</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
a charismatic </span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ex-crusader
brother.</span></i></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span><img alt="Mum & Dad By Joanna Trollope (Paperback) | Jarrold, Norwich" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.My4ndHA7R-vUBIl7LUmVkgHaHa%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=1671d56f52fdee3a3f2b3ce498cfb8f0282e1feb46010256f8ccee95ed4b1da1&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.My4ndHA7R-vUBIl7LUmVkgHaHa%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=1671d56f52fdee3a3f2b3ce498cfb8f0282e1feb46010256f8ccee95ed4b1da1&ipo=images" width="320" /></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The <i>‘family &
relationships</i>’ category brought <i><b>JOANNA TROLLOPE’S ‘MUM
& DAD’. </b></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Probably a</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
good ‘insomniac’ read </span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">to
enjoy, with family problems</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
I can understand without </span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">actually
knowing much about a</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
large house, Spanish vineyard </span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">or
</span></i><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">wide artistic life
myself. </span></i></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></i></span><img alt="Amazon.com: To Calais, In Ordinary Time eBook : Meek, James: Kindle Store" class="tile--img__img js-lazyload" data-src="//external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.NRl9-ueAfjGxV1Zgb6Jp4AAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=22442829ba3297cc0c41a9379de6c87ce7373cb5cf65c5b1033365e5527f5c55&ipo=images" height="320" src="https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Ftse4.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOIP.NRl9-ueAfjGxV1Zgb6Jp4AAAAA%26pid%3DApi&f=1&ipt=22442829ba3297cc0c41a9379de6c87ce7373cb5cf65c5b1033365e5527f5c55&ipo=images" width="209" />
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">The <i>‘historical’ novel</i>
choice was definitely the most intriguing: <b>‘</b><i><b>TO CALAIS
IN ORDINARY TIME’ by JAMES MEEK</b></i>, set in 1348, at the time
of the Black Death. <i>Three characters, from three classes of
society, are travelling to the port of Calais</i>. </span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We are used to h<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">istorical novels, such as Hilary Mantel’s Cromwell trilogy, creating an ‘everyday, everybody’ style where the characters feel almost like us. Meek,</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> however, through voice and
vocabulary, creates</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">
characters who live unfamiliar lives in an era very much not our own. The young gentlewoman escaping marriage echoes Norman-French speech; the proctor on his way to a monastery in Avignon thinks and speak with Ecclesiastical Latin phrasing and vocabulary, and the words of the rough ploughman trying to join a company of archers</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> reflect the Anglo-Saxon of his position as barely above serfdom.<b><i>'T</i><i>o
Calais, </i><i>In Ordinary Time</i><i>’</i></b> deserved its ‘widening
reading’ label and at the moment, I am enjoying the challenge. </span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Will I love it? Will I finish it? I
don’t know, but the novel certainly fits ASK’s promise of ‘intriguing.’ <br /></span></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-style: normal;">These ASK titles could widen my reading and, as a library project, would certainly tick the box
labelled Reader Development. </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Looking at the website, now the scheme has begun, the customer responses so far sound genuinely positive, and a little surprised; rather how I feel. ASK for a Book could
be a Good Thing!</span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Hmm. I wonder if </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">ASK reaches into junior or Young Adult fiction? Must investigate<br /></span></p><p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Penny Dolan.</span></p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
Penny Dolanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386668303428008498noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7780182174577095197.post-51592888880995424792024-01-29T07:59:00.000+00:002024-01-29T07:59:08.780+00:00Inspiration?<div><p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I’m
writing a first draft, I know that I’ll be returning to it later and that I’ll
– very probably - throw most of it away and come up with a whole new set of
words. That’s okay. I know that putting those words down on paper is just the
first stage, and that often it’s a way of ordering my thoughts and finding out
where I really want to go.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmgNHgDzEE30EIEVdAJYvOz0h7QP4u5L-ef3ROCZ0CuJ9Pi4s7ZKMRQFjuSvbQFJWSLqllwf8AB2XoayXIE_37E02TZM_7ehevGxw9NjXOBvCB9wGOzgLp1hoJ6nTMM61WZ84PlQDjvXRkGrUWaFbhSDbaf-8u5ugdCBusjfi0cYAcBMa3WJRk4SiQhbO/s846/Bookcase%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="564" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmgNHgDzEE30EIEVdAJYvOz0h7QP4u5L-ef3ROCZ0CuJ9Pi4s7ZKMRQFjuSvbQFJWSLqllwf8AB2XoayXIE_37E02TZM_7ehevGxw9NjXOBvCB9wGOzgLp1hoJ6nTMM61WZ84PlQDjvXRkGrUWaFbhSDbaf-8u5ugdCBusjfi0cYAcBMa3WJRk4SiQhbO/w156-h234/Bookcase%202.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At least I’ve
made a start.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What puzzles
me are the times when I <i>know</i> what I want to say, sit down at my desk and
write with little or no hesitation. Out come the words, the way I want them to,
and when I finish I’m more than happy, knowing that I’ve done some good work.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksBuN_pUEZfY1Q_V1_J5Gkyt07pfrYmCWWwodYvzbX_Df8JHp5X2h0a6f9p1tC_XX3Bl-Y5TCKaL8gTOTtSE6AcINUlrjf-MtgVqSxcCJABMgdho0n3u10xSAnlLQSFzzTN0nvU7c4jFGBsOC7lI_oGCZDZYaZgf29jnmG9B7JrRHq5QJRwJhhhMSzVGo/s960/Bookshelves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksBuN_pUEZfY1Q_V1_J5Gkyt07pfrYmCWWwodYvzbX_Df8JHp5X2h0a6f9p1tC_XX3Bl-Y5TCKaL8gTOTtSE6AcINUlrjf-MtgVqSxcCJABMgdho0n3u10xSAnlLQSFzzTN0nvU7c4jFGBsOC7lI_oGCZDZYaZgf29jnmG9B7JrRHq5QJRwJhhhMSzVGo/w158-h198/Bookshelves.jpg" width="158" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Except that
I haven’t.</div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When I look
at them again, usually the next day as I’m warming up for a new session, they often
turn out to be – not always but often - rubbish. Long-winded, vague and repetitive.
Not what I wanted to say at all. So I rewrite them, and they get better, and
that’s fine and on I go… but just always a little puzzled at the gap between perception
and reality.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I suspect I’m
not alone in this.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4vwJIRfOX3yCfgsm8NX4LhYDZKD05ZDP0v0HQB7Sv5Mce1khnRq59VCIdOiuL9tMw9OLA1RlTS6iP8tH_04jNJAO1Ecxz-OVlQRMwtffPpLLKO8uueZn4zbIwvQpWXsMV99MwwOEzwAQ7FzPgeDeVsif6KkIWqsCM0QgjHgRNI7hccR1CtUG8OYPolov/s5312/Charlie%20Bubbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="5312" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4vwJIRfOX3yCfgsm8NX4LhYDZKD05ZDP0v0HQB7Sv5Mce1khnRq59VCIdOiuL9tMw9OLA1RlTS6iP8tH_04jNJAO1Ecxz-OVlQRMwtffPpLLKO8uueZn4zbIwvQpWXsMV99MwwOEzwAQ7FzPgeDeVsif6KkIWqsCM0QgjHgRNI7hccR1CtUG8OYPolov/s320/Charlie%20Bubbles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></p>
Nick Garlickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15148555462561533966noreply@blogger.com2