Bookwitch

I just couldn’t resist this book by Sonya Hartnett. The Silver Donkey is an attractive little book (would have been even better without an ugly orange sticker in the middle, the kind that does not come off very well), and it’s got some wonderful illustrations by Laura Carlin.

It says that Sonya was inspired to write the story after seeing a programme about Dunkirk, but I trust it’s set during World War One, or else I’m totally lost.

Two little French girls find a blind British soldier in the woods one day. He tells them stories and they help him get home. Very simple, and very touching. And rather like Private Peaceful, where the adult reader might see more in the ending than the younger reader. Very sad.

Here, briefly, is the shortlist for the Carnegie, announced today. It looks very respectable, but I’ll have to start reading quickly. One of them has been lying around in the piles for ages, so this will have to be the spur.

KEVIN CROSSLEY-HOLLAND: GATTY’S TALE Orion (Age range: 10+)

LINZI GLASS: RUBY RED Penguin (Age range: 12+)

ELIZABETH LAIRD: CRUSADE Macmillan (Age range: 10+)

TANYA LANDMAN: APACHE Walker (Age range: 12+)

PHILIP REEVE: HERE LIES ARTHUR Scholastic (Age range: 12+)

MEG ROSOFF: WHAT I WAS Penguin (Age range: 12+)

JENNY VALENTINE: FINDING VIOLET PARK HarperCollins (Age range: 12+)

What do people think?

There really must be something about children’s books that turns even quite pc journalists somewhat less pc. And I don’t think it’s all right.

Congratulations to Francesca Simon and Horrid Henry for winning the Children’s Book of the Year in the Galaxy British Book Awards this week. Unfortunately the Guardian seemed to think that Horrid Henry’s only achievement was beating Katie Price’s Perfect Ponies. It’s time for grown-ups to stop sneering at Henry as though the Horrid Henry books aren’t real books. Henry is lovely. The books about him are real, and fun.

And Henry’s older pal Harry Potter did well, too. Again, no reason why he shouldn’t. You can be too cool and literary when commenting on children’s books. Or did I already say that?

I found to my great surprise that I never wrote a proper review of Mary Hoffman’s The Falconer’s Knot when it was published a year ago. Very remiss of me, for such a wonderful story. Now it’s out in paperback, with a great new cover, so anyone who missed it can have a go at an excellent read.

The Falconer’s Knot has everything. It’s beautifully romantic, with more than one loving couple encountering obstacles along the path to true love. There is a good crime story as well, with the main teenage male character being suspected of murder and having to go into hiding. I never knew 14th century monks could be so interesting.

And if love and sudden death (lots of it) isn’t enough, Mary has added some fresco artists as background, who are interesting, while never getting boring. There are some good examples of girl power as well.

I do like Mary’s Italian settings. It’s nice with someone who has an interest and can use it so well for their fiction.

This is Romeo and Juliet, but it’s not a tragedy.

This is the first Sonya Hartnett I’ve read. I asked her publisher where I ought to start, and was told Thursday’s Child. But since that wasn’t among the books they sent, I started with Surrender.

I can see why so many of you have praised Sonya’s books, and I can see why she was given the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award. Surrender is described as a psychological thriller, a dark and delicate suspense novel.

That about sums it up, I’d say. The story focuses on Gabriel, a twenty-year-old young man who is dying, and on his only friend Finnigan, and his dog Surrender.

Gabriel is an outsider, with seriously odd parents, and Finnigan is a wild boy who lives by his own rules. There are horrible accidents, small town prejudice, and then there’s Finnigan’s revenge on whoever he feels deserves it.

Creepy, but not scary, I’d say. I look forward to reading more of Sonya’s books.

The witch rarely makes it to such exalted neighbourhoods as Mayfair, but there are exceptions, and Wednesday night was one. I was about to say that it was that nice man David Fickling who invited me, but it was more the lovely Nina Douglas. Anyway, it’s rare to be invited to anything, and that’s quite understandable, really. This time we got together to mark the publication of Siobhan Dowd’s third novel, Bog Child, and also to be reminded of Siobhan’s trust to help children read. I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating; send some money to Polly Nolan at the trust. Please!

David Fickling, Polly Nolan, Geoff Morgan, Rachel Billington and Tony Bradman

The venue was very elegant, and the drinks and nibbles were wonderful. As you know, or have long suspected, the witch is next to useless at mingling and stuff, but it went surprisingly well. I talked to people I know and was also introduced to new and interesting book people. Also at last got to talk to Siobhan’s husband Geoff in person.

I arrived too early, which is unacceptable even to a Swede, and a hasty manouvre to the ladies room brought me face to face with Fiona Dunbar, and I have insulted her in some pink way, but we will work on this. I hasten to add that Fiona was as friendly as always. Lee Weatherly was there, too. Not in the ladies, though. Anthony McGowan even recognised me, and Meg Rosoff made a late appearance after traipsing round Mayfair for a bit.

To prevent this looking like a shopping list, I will refrain from mentioning everyone else. Some of the conversations will no doubt be useful here later on. My head is buzzing with ideas and gossip, but with a memory like a grapefruit (or should that be goldfish?) you can never be certain it won’t get forgotten.

You can always hope.

I’ll just go shoot myself. The Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award has just been given to Sonya Hartnett. I have no problem with this at all, except as is so often the case with the Nobel Prize, I have not read a single book by her. Of course.

Let this be a lesson to people who say I read a lot. I don’t. All the time, maybe, but that’s not enough.

Congratulations, Sonya. I’ll be there when you receive the award, if that helps.

Daughter and I have this joke we call the White Darkness. It’s also the name of a book by Geraldine McCaughrean, and it’s a very good book. That’s the problem with Daughter. I tried to push the idea of her reading it so hard and for so long, that she will obviously never go near the book. And whenever she suspects I’m trying to do the same again, she mutters “The White Darkness”. So I’m afraid I’m a bit of a failure when it comes to getting my nearest and dearest reading. Sometimes.

I’d already planned writing about it here, when I saw a mention of the book on the lowebrow blog last week. It seems The White Darkness has won the Printz Award. And it’s not the first award it’s won, either. I then clicked on the title in the blog and found myself transported to that big online bookseller, where I read some of the reviews of Geraldine’s book. Some of them were quite negative, but most were glowing.

I can understand the shock of the negative reviewers, because partway through reading it myself, I felt very uneasy. There’s a very sick uncle figure, taking advantage (though not in “that” way) of the 14-year-old Sym, and carting them both off to the Antarctic. Sym herself has private conversations with Titus Oates, of Scott fame, and somehow this works very well in the story.

In the end it’s Sym’s courage and vast knowledge and common sense, which save the day for her. For me the word crevasse sets off an unpleasant chain of nightmare thoughts, and makes me think of a lovely friend, who’ll never come back. Even the wrong episode of Pingu will leave me feeling a bit sick.

But setting that aside, The White Darkness is a great adventure.

I see on Francesca Simon’s website, that when her son was born in 1989 she started writing books. Why didn’t I think of that? My son was also born in 1989, and all I did was wipe projectile vomit off everything. Just think - I, too, could have sold ten million books by now! Or maybe I couldn’t. I suspect it takes something special to come up with someone like Horrid Henry, or the world would be full of multi-millionaire authors. More than now, I mean.

On Thursday night Francesca had a big party, to celebrate ten million books. I only have a very short list of some who were there. Meg Rosoff reports having chatted to Sally Gardner, Graham Marks, Eleanor Updale, Joanna Briscoe and Susy Boyt. And I understand Meg and Nicolette Jones discussed that excellent bookwitch blog.

I expect a few of those who were there would have liked to be in Francesca’s shoes (I wonder if the shoes were nice?), but authors being so lovely, I think they also felt her success is well deserved. It was probably only Meg who offered to trade her Carnegie for five million sales.

Would you? If you had a Carnegie to trade, that is.

Hmm, this is turning out to be slightly less quick and easy than I had imagined. The favourite authors for normblog, I mean. It will be a struggle, or I will simply have to throw my towel in some sort of direction. The only thing I’m sure about is that I’ll not count someone where I have only read one book. Even if it’s very good. But do I go for authors I read today, only? Or do I go back in time to old favourites.? The kind where as a young un-encumbered reader I could read a book again and again. Agatha Christie is probably all right. But Alistair MacLean? Snobbery v wisdom? Taste?

I’ll go get that towel.

Some good news in the email bag this morning, from Nick Green. The Cat Kin has been shortlisted for the Bolton children’s book award. Lots of fingers crossed.