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Lorna Hoey: the day that I first saw the light

March 14, 2010

It’s a line from a corny old ballad that my father used to sing around the house: Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff. But although it’s my birthday this week, it’s not that light that I’m thinking of.

I’m thinking back to a summer afternoon in 1958. All of us – my brothers, parents and a couple of neighbouring farmers – were gathered in the kitchen with the curtains drawn tight, faces turned upwards to a brand-new lightbulb. We waited. The kitchen clock tick-tocked slowly. It must be soon, somebody muttered. They said it would be about now. And then all at once we were in the middle of an astonishing white glare. We screamed, whooped, clapped. I think somebody burst into tears.

The electricity had come.

My brothers and I ran from room to room. Everywhere was lit up with the same glittering brilliance. We saw cupboard knobs, keyholes, the crack in the fireplace that we’d never really noticed before. Now the possibilities were endless. My parents were talking excitedly of a pump that would lift the water from our well at the flick of a switch, putting an end to the hours of hand-cranking. My brothers and I looked at each other, our eyes shining, thinking only of the dazzling possibility of a television. We had never seen a television, but we had seen pictures of one. Wouldn’t that be grand, we whispered gleefully.
After a day or two we began to notice headaches. And how quiet it was in the evenings, doing our homework; there was no hissing of the old Tilley lamps. My mother began to fret. The wallpaper was grimy, curtains seemed drab and colourless, the carpet worn and dull. We too thought the walls looked different without the long flickering shadows from the fire.

Out of the blue we had a phone call from England. Posh Uncle and Auntie would shortly be travelling to a holiday place on the coast near us; could they call in on the way? My mother looked around the sitting-room in despair. On the day they were due to arrive she was in a panic. She had dusted and swept and tidied, but there was no denying it, the place didn’t look great. My father glanced around the room and then sprang up from his chair. He got out the step-ladder and solemnly climbed it to the meter-board. We watched in wonder as he pushed the big switch upwards to the OFF position. He put a finger to his lips. Shhh, he said.

That evening he and Posh Uncle sat in opposite armchairs, the softly-glowing room quiet except for a gentle background hissing. Posh Uncle leaned forward, warming his whiskey at the fire. Ah, it’s hard to beat the old Tilley lamps, he said, sighing contentedly.

Indeed, said my father.

And still no sign of the electricity coming?

No, said my father, stretching his legs towards the warm blaze, never a word.

 

Moment of the week- Marion Rose

March 10, 2010

I’m on a school visit for Book Week – obviously I’m here to excite kids about reading, writers, writing and books. We’ve talked about dragons and now I’m reading the picture book “Cassie and the Kiss Soldier” with Year 1s. I’m nearing the end of the story. Cassie has befriended the fluff dragon and overcome her bedtime fears: “She began to feel wonderfully warm and woozy, soft and safe, snuggly and snoozy; deliciously dreamy and drifty and dozy…” I read, softly. There’s a stillness in the room that’s very gratifying. I glance down at the bright attentive faces on the carpet. Oh dear. A small child in the front row has fallen fast asleep – and is being propped up on three sides by his still-listening mates!

Coincidentally, I see that ‘Supernanny’ Jo Frost is about to do a piece on children not getting enough sleep, on the ‘Extreme Parenting’ programme next week. I do hope that sharing a book with a child as part of their bedtime routine is given a big thumbs up .

Katharine Quarmby: on text and puppets

February 23, 2010

On text and puppetry

 

Transforming a story of just 700 words into a 40 minute show always seemed baffling as a thought. But the sketch is there, and to be performed tonight at the Little Angel Theatre, almost exactly a year since I first mentioned the idea to an old university friend, Caroline, who happened to be a very talented puppeteer.

Fussy Freya, my first picture book, was published almost two years ago – it has elements of the cautionary tale in it, but is, at bottom, the story of a loving family which gets into a little difficulty when one child refuses to eat. It’s the story about how children use food as a weapon in order to get what they want when things don’t go right for them in a family – for Freya, it’s the moment when she realises her baby brother isn’t going to go away and when she fears that he is going to replace her. So she stops eating – and her rather over-dramatic mum and dad panic – and send her away to her grandparents – where she is taught a fantastical lesson – and order is restored.

So how do you take a story, in verse, and transform it into a completely different medium? 

It’s already gone through several incarnations – a humourous take on a kitchen sink drama, with washing on a line, a gentle, magical food fantasy, a grotesque cautionary tale. Now, after a week of hard work at a residency,  in the safe hands of the Little Angel’s artistic director, Peter Glanville,  it’s different again – as if we’ve pared the story down to the bare essentials. Who is Freya? What’s her relationships with her mum? Could mum and dad have handled the arrival of baby Ravi better? Slowly, with many conversations, but also through seeing the emergence of Freya on stage, it’s coming into focus. I’ve known Caroline since I saw her on stage at Cambridge, when we were both students, and she was one of the three sisters in Chekov. She’s a wonderful actor, and she has recreated Freya in puppet form, and, in doing so, has inhabited her. When Caroline manipulates Freya’s head, you feel it’s Freya, when her hands move, it’s because Freya is alive, through Caroline. And of course, with the wonderful music of Tom Green, yet another layer has been added.

Freya is my other daughter, my third child, and so I argue on her behalf. We discussed whether the show should open with Freya on her own, eating, and I felt really strongly that wasn’t true to the essence of Freya and her family. I think the old saying “a family that eats together, stays together” is pretty true. So Freya lives in paradise – until a stranger – her brother – disturbs it and disrupts her universe. That feels right. But things could change, of course, that’s the essence of creating work in a group – it belongs to all of us now. I may have written the text, but what happens now is a complex interaction between all five of us – and the puppets, Freya and Ravi as well.

But the revelation I wasn’t expecting was the development of grandma Clare. Already, in the hands of the wonderful illustrator, Piet Grobler, who drew Fussy Freya, she had already become a most entertaining and wonderful character, but Claire Harrison Bullet has transformed her. I feel I understand Grandma Clare, the hippy chick from the 1960’s’ who can’t quite believe she’s a grandma and certainly isn’t ready to stop having fun. Once seen, she is an unforgettable presence. I look forward to seeing my mother meet her alter ego, Grandma Clare, and my father meet Grandpa, dressed as a chef, ready to serve Freya a feast she will never forget.

And the most wonderful thing, for me, at the risk of sounding soppy, is the love in the show. All the frustrations of family life are there – the wasted food, the panicky glasses of wine, the despairing phone calls from mum to gran, but so, too, are the rewards – love, affection and cuddles.

o

Writing about sensitive issues

February 15, 2010

I have just made a tentative beginning on a story for young children aged c. 6-8.  It deals with adoption of children who are no longer babies.  Someone in our critique group raised the question of whether this could be upsetting to a young reader.  Her reasoning was that a child in an unhappy home might fear that they would be adopted “away” from their birth family.

I thought that was an interesting reflection and it is making me extra careful in how I write the story. There are many adopted children in our society.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to write in a way that is entertaining rather than worrying.  If not, I might start something entirely different.

As I walked home from the critique group meeting, I remembered something that I’m sure I have said when giving a talk about picture books: ‘Even though the readership is young, there are a huge number of themes that can be dealt with in picture books’.  I was thinking of death, as in the story of Badger who died Badger’s Parting Gift by Susan Varley.  On a far less contentious theme, The Very Hungry Caterpillar is a much-loved classic, proving that one can write about something as “un-cuddly” as a caterpillar!

In Cloud Busting, Malorie Blackman has written a story in poetic format, seen through the eyes of the class bully.  It is a transforming experience reading this story.  It is clear that everything lies in the writing. And that is the challenge!

By Odette Elliott

Lorna Hoey: a valentine blog

February 12, 2010

There was nothing. Nothing on the doormat, nothing stuck in the letterbox. I checked twice. Of course I’d tell them at school on Monday that there’d been so many Valentines piled up that the door wouldn’t open. And that I’d even had a couple of those big ones that come in boxes.

I alone would know the truth. None.

It was 1969 and I was a first-year teacher, living in a first-floor bedsit in a tenement building in West Belfast. Saturday mornings meant freedom, but also chores, and so I stood at my window as usual, hands deep in the suds of my weekly washing. Launderettes hadn’t yet reached our neck of the woods.

The view was always the same: a square of grey concrete, a line of metal dustbins, a pair of ancient wooden stable doors, and a group of young teenage boys who played football there every Saturday. I studiously ignored them while they did their utmost to gain my attention, thudding the ball against the doors, crashing it into the dustbins, deliberately kicking it perilously close to my window and endlessly jeering and laughing as I ducked.

It had to happen one day. And it happened that day. The ball went over the wall into the tiny courtyard just below my window, a place we called ‘the cassie’. The boys vanished from view. I heard low voices, plans for how to scale the high brick wall. I waited, watched, but no heads appeared.

I dried my hands and ran downstairs. I picked up the ball, a bright blue sphere on the dull flagstones of the cassie. I turned it over in my hands, feeling the slippery plastic, examining the scuff marks of hundreds of boot-whacks. The ball was mine.

They had seen me leave the window, had heard the door open. They knew I was there. I listened as voices called, pleaded. I bounced the ball gently, and the voices grew louder. I kicked it a few times against the cassie wall. Then the voices stopped. I could hear only the quiet shuffling of their boots.

I threw the ball back over the wall. There was silence.

That evening, opening the front door to head out to the pub, I noticed something stuck in the letterbox and pulled out a crumpled envelope. It was addressed to ‘1st Floor Flat’. I tore it open. Inside was a thin, cheap Valentine card. A smiling owl said  Somebody loves you… and inside: Guess whoooo…

There was a pencilled message underneath. ‘Sory for anoying you’ it read. I put it in my bag.

I didn’t see the boys again. A week or so later there were even louder thuds and bangs around us, and a platoon of English soldiers had taken over the concrete yard. But by that time I had moved away to another part of town, taking my Valentine card with me.

And I have it still.

Elizabeth Hawksley on reviewing children’s historical novels

February 2, 2010

I review children’s books for the Historical Novel Society. Their quarterly review magazine reviews most historical novels published in the previous quarter. So who reads it? Members include not only fans of the historical novel, but also literary agents, librarians and school-teachers, together with many historical novelists, including children’s authors Theresa Tomlinson and Ann Turnbull.

So, what am I looking for? The same as any other reviewer: a strong plot, believable characters that children can identify with and a cracking pace. Added to this, the historical setting must be credible – no 21st century characters masquerading in fancy dress, for example. Too much description is out. Children nowadays want to get on with the story; they want something exciting to be at stake and they don’t want the author to pull his or her punches.

I also use a number of young cousins, ranging from six to sixteen-years-old, who review as well and I thoroughly enjoy reading their fresh takes on the books. If they don’t like a book, they will say so – with reasons – and they are more than capable of saying what could be improved.  

As a novelist myself, I have learnt a lot from my young reviewers about what they enjoy in a book. And that is the point, isn’t it? After all, we at buzzaboutbooks are aiming to write books which children want to read.

 www.historicalnovelsociety.org   www.elizabethhawksley.com

Odette Elliott’s My Big Brother JJ is a winner

January 26, 2010

Odette Elliott’s fifth picture book “My Big Brother JJ”, was published by Tamarind in September 2009. This is a warm, family story aimed at children aged five to eight. It reflects the children’s close relationship and is beautifully illustrated by Patrice Aggs.

It is the half term holiday. Jasmine’s and JJ’s mother has to go to work. Teenager JJ is in charge. He thinks of lots of fun things for him and Jasmine to do together. On the last day they decide to make something for Mum. Will it work? See the 5-Star review on amazon.co.uk!! Odette’s first picture book, “Under Sammy’s Bed”, was published in 1989 and books in this series appeared on BBC children’s programmes. Odette’s is a multi-racial family and this is reflected in her writing. She has also written a collection of school stories called Nightingale News.

Detective Dick Paws at your service: John O’Leary’s latest book is out

January 5, 2010

Can you solve the mystery in John O’Leary’s latest book?

Author, illustrator and paper engineer John O’Leary’s new picture book, Detective Paws and the Case of The Golden Cat, is now out.

The Golden Cat has been stolen from Mogworth Hall and private detective Dick Paws is on the case. Help him dig up the clues, sniff through the evidence and point the paw at the dodgy wrongdoers in this interactive who-done-it mystery.  Turn the wheels, lift the flaps, open the map, flick through the mini books and use the photofit as you work alongside Detective Paws to bring the investigation to a close and ensure that justice is done.

Originally from Ireland, John O’Leary now lives and works in North London.

This is his 10th picture book for Tango Books.  For more information about John click here and to buy the book, click here.