Bookwitch

Many of my colleagues in the book blogging world got to this before me, but better late than never, I hope. Frank Cottrell Boyce reviewed his fellow competitor for the Guardian children’s fiction prize Patrick Ness’ book, The Knife of Never Letting Go, in the Guardian on Saturday. And much as we were all interested in the book, it was Frank’s opinions on young adult fiction that has got everybody flapping.

Never mind age-banding, it was all ruined by whoever invented the young adult concept. Instead of going from good classic children’s books to adult books, albeit to a “young” variety, readers are now kidnapped by YA books and end up stuck in some awful ghetto for years.

Frank reckons Patrick’s book should count as adult. At least as adult as Huckleberry Finn. Or The Catcher in the Rye. They may have been written as adult books, but even in my youth they were YA books, although we didn’t know it then. In fact, I consider Huck Finn to be a children’s book, and I thought Catcher in the Rye was something 16-year-olds read.

The only reason I’m sitting here blogging away like a mad witch, is that I got caught by what Frank calls demographic. I found I liked YA books so much, that I don’t have to waste my reading days with adult books. Not unless I particularly want to, anyway. Why do we have to assume that the YA tag will put people off?

Sonya Hartnett’s latest book feels very old fashioned in a nice, comfortable sort of way. It’s described as a fable, and maybe that’s what it is. It starts intriguingly enough: “One damp silvery afternoon an old lady came home from walking her dog and found a boy sitting in her lounge room on the floral settee.”

That’s the kind of beginning which gets me interested. Plus the boy doesn’t know if he takes sugar in his tea.

Most of the book is the old lady reminiscing about her life to the boy. Not very child friendly, in a way, for a children’s book, but it works. It’s hard to know what is real and what can’t possibly be, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a story that makes you think about life and what’s important.

Nine on a Sunday morning is very early for a panel on the importance of psychics. No, sorry, that should be sidekicks. But for the 20+ who had staggered out of bed, it was very interesting. It was hot, too, and one day I will learn to carry a fan round with me. The semicircular kind.

Next after the psychics came the comedians, and it worried me slightly that I had had dinner with three of the four on the panel. The losers, I have to point out. Those who didn’t win The Last Laugh Award, which went to Ruth Dudley Edwards. Naturally I felt the need to sample one of her books, too. The authors very carefully pointed out that they were not funny in real life. Could be, but they were a lot funnier than many others.

Humour is contagious, and I spent some of the time writing down notes of very funny stuff. I’ll probably throw it away tomorrow.

The witch had time for half of the last panel of the CrimeFest, which had a very wide subject area to cover. Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll, and Great closing lines. Laurie King moderated excellently, and dealt with the first three at great speed.

Authors really are very nice people. The thing to remember about this bunch, though, is that they have killed more people than most.

It will take me a lot of the week to recover, I suspect.

Now, I obviously don’t mean that all these illustrious writers are my friends. I’m thinking more along the lines that I’ve had my eyes opened, and my interest has been awakened, and all that. And there are many more that I won’t list here, to avoid boring you as much as one of Saturday’s moderators bored me.

Managed to have a gap Saturday morning, that fitted in well with Stephen Booth, and we had a long fruitful conversation, which only fleetingly dealt with goats. Ruth Downie continues to be very friendly, and so does Kate Ellis. My foreignness caused a temporary obstacle with Declan Hughes yesterday morning, but never mind that I came across as an idiot. I am an idiot.

Ian Rankin was wonderful, and thankfully he refrained from singing to us. I was very taken with Rhys Bowen on Friday, and reluctantly revisited Blackwell’s to buy two of her books, for which they proceeded to overcharge me by £8. Will not buy from them again. But anyway, Rhys was lovely when cornered by the witch, and I’m really looking forward to reading her books.

Saturday night offered the big gala dinner, which I felt might be a bit iffy, but I was wrong as usual. Shouldn’t advertise hotels here, but the Marriott Royal have done a good job this weekend, and the dinner was no exception. The dessert could have been smaller, if I must complain. Not all dinners have speeches by Karin Fossum, Jeff Lindsay and Ian Rankin, but this one did.

My new Argentinian granny sat next to me at dinner, and through her I was introduced to a very interesting forensic scientist, and I heard a lot about the mud in Hay.

And whoever it was that did all that drinking in the cocktail bar on my behalf on Friday morning; I hope you enjoyed it. The receptionist was willing to tell me what I’d drunk, but after the first glass the teetotal witch felt dizzy and stopped her. Skål!

Daughter and the witch are off on a trek to Lund today to hear Sonya Hartnett in conversation with one of the ALMA judges. It’ll be interesting to see the judge’s hair, as each year she changes it dramatically, and since I recognise people from their hair, that’s always awkward. Intelligent guess; she’ll be the one talking to Sonya.

It’s Daughter’s first visit to this venerable University town, and we need to check out its shoe shops and pizza restaurants.

This business of “good” universities reminds me of the time at Son’s playgroup, when his new pal’s father inquired whether I’d been at Uppsala or Lund! This is like asking “Oxford or Cambridge?”, and the witch sank lower in her chair and whispered “Gothenburg”. But then, I had very nearly asked this retired professor if he was his son’s grandfather. A witchy feeling prevented me from uttering the words at the last moment.

But for a technical hitch, you’d have had this yesterday when it was fresh. It’s staler today, but still safe to consume. And even though Abba couldn’t make it, the ALMA award ceremony at Skansen in Stockholm on Wednesday was still good.

Crown Princess Victoria was there as usual, sitting next to Sonya Hartnett and the Minister for Culture. The weather was good and I didn’t see much use of the blankets provided. But then, Sonya is young and Victoria is a hardened veteran, as well as young.

The teenagers in the audience were there to scream when the various entertainers appeared. There was dancing, singing, drug free rap, plus a group of former shrubs (don’t ask).

They should really rehearse how to deal with the too large framed certificate and the flowers which Victoria hands the winner each year. The logistics are awful. You have to shake the royal hand, but what to do with the winnings? This time the nearby government minister was put to good use. According to tradition, the chat between Victoria and Sonya was private and we don’t know what was said. Will have to ask.

Winning was “weird and great” said Sonya, and her thank you speech was pretty good, and those weeks of practicing Swedish in the park with the dog paid off.

When pressed, Sonya said her favourite childhood book was Charlotte’s Web, and poor Victoria had to mumble something about liking Astrid Lindgren, again. She praised Emil this time, and he’s as good a role model for a future monarch as any.

Abba may have been unavailable, but Benny sent an autographed something (photo?, CD?) for Sonya. And then everyone sniffed the flowers they were handed, all to the tune of Pippi Longstocking.

Luckily Daughter insisted we buy the Guardian yesterday as we boarded our plane, which means I can now let you know the longlist for the Guardian children’s fiction prize, rather than having to concentrate on Daughter’s artistic rearranging of sickbag into flower, while bored on the flight. I think it may have been her way of sorting out Mother’s Day, which is only my second one this year.

Anthony McGowan, The Knife That Killed Me

Frank Cottrell Boyce, Cosmic

Jenny Downham, Before I Die

Patrick Ness, The Knife of Never Letting Go

Rhiannon Lassiter, Bad Blood

Siobhan Dowd, Bog Child

Tanya Landman, The Goldsmith’s Daughter

Good list, but unfortunately one where I have yet again failed to read enough of the books to know what’s what. I’ll go home and catch up as best I can. It’s definitely a list of knives and death, which when you think about it is not very “child friendly”. As for my famous predictions, I can only see one outcome, and that’s for Bog Child to win. The shortlist will feature books 3, 4, 6 and 7.

I’m very pleased I didn’t read Sonya Hartnett’s Thursday’s Child first, as suggested. If I had, I’m not sure I could have helped but feel a bit let down when I read Sonya’s other books afterwards. That doesn’t sound right, does it? The other two books I’ve read so far are very, very good, but Thursday’s Child is that much more special. Not quite sure how to describe it or rate it. It has something very unusual about it.

It’s possible Sonya was born in the wrong age. Thursday’s Child is not only about the Depression, but it feels like it came from that period as well. I’m not often all that observant when it comes to style and language, but with Sonya you can’t help but notice. And I just wonder how she knows all these things. (And don’t say research and imagination.)

Thursday’s Child is about a family living in barren countryside during the 1920s, and by 1930 things haven’t exactly improved for them. The story starts with the birth of their fifth (live) child, and the effect that day has on the child before him, Thursday’s child. It’s all seen through the eyes of the child before him in turn, the girl Harper who is seven at he time.

I didn’t know you could live for so long on rabbits and dust, but that’s what the family does. The subject matter could be quite dreary, but somehow the book is very uplifting, all things considered. I did have a witchy feel about how it might end, somewhere at the beginning, but soon forgot about that thought. It stopped being important, and it was simply interesting to see how they lived. And it’s good to have Australia as the backdrop. We should read more foreign books.

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?