The Secret Story

At last. I’ve got my hands on the Cathy Hopkins book I wrote about during the World Book Day period. Well, this very minute I have my hands on the keyboard, but you know what I mean. The Secret Story is the story second time round for Tony and Lucy from Mates, Dates, and the WBD sampler left me wanting it all. Now.

Finally I’ve had the background to the white roses Tony got for Lucy. I know why he felt guilty. And jealous.

They are a nice couple, those two. It’s young love, which is on, then off, and on and off a few more times. But I think we know what might happen in the end. Unless it’s just the witch and her stupid fondness for happy ever after.

And Cathy, I’m expecting that visit from Tony you promised. He can chat to Daughter, because I seriously doubt he’d want to talk to me.

We want Tony!

Cathy Hopkins has a new Dates, Mates book out soon, and one of the WBD books lets keen fans have a brief preview of The Secret Story. Let me tell you, it’s not enough. I want more. Now.

Dates, Mates readers get the story of Lucy and Tony, re-told in the shape of alternate chapters from each of them. The WBD taster is just that. Tastes great, but it’s a smaller portion than we want. 

It’s a slightly weird feeling, reading a story we’ve already read, but with Tony’s side of the affair as well. According to Cathy, Tony is her most popular boy, and although the witch is no big fan of over-beautiful boys, he’s so lovely I’m seriously hoping she’ll let me have his address. That’s what the fans ask for, apparently.

Of all the girls, I also happen to want to be Lucy.

M is for Magic

It’s easy to forget the magic in short stories. I have a feeling they used to be more common years ago, or else it’s just me thinking I used to read a lot of story collections when I was a child. Cathy Hopkins was saying only last week that she finds short stories harder to write than full length novels.

Neil Gaiman is a master of short stories. It’s been a long time since I enjoyed a collection quite as much as M is for Magic. They’re not all brand new stories, but I almost think that makes them better. The first one from 1984, The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds, is a wonderful take on hardboiled crime, with nursery rhyme characters. The last story is an extract from Neil’s new book, which is out soon, and it will tempt you to read The Graveyard Book, too.

And just like the small books I was going on about the other day, a collection like this is another way of reading good fiction in smaller doses.

Is there more coming? Please?

Rennison rules

I kept thinking it was Tuesday. And of course by the time I got home it was. Three hours at Watford tends to have that effect on train travel. But I was back in time to send Daughter to school.

If you are like me and don’t know Godalming, I can tell you it’s very pretty, and so wealthy (I imagine) that the shops mainly sells things you don’t need. The Book People “live” in Godalming, and they were the ones behind the Queen of Teen award, which ended with a coronation and a great pink party in a marquee on the lawn. I was promised peacocks, but didn’t see them. Flamingos would have suited the pink theme better.

I have never seen three pink limousines all at once before. Plus a white one. The authors were driven round with a fan each in the limos, before being decanted onto the red carpet (why not pink?) by the marquee, in front of eager photographers. In the case of Sarra Manning and Grace Dent the drive lasted for hours, but at least they got to know their fans very, very well. Jacqueline Wilson said her neighbours got something to look at when her pink limo came to pick her up. Not an everyday occurrence, then. Someone, I forget who, said she was willing to pay not to go in a limo again. Ah well.

The marquee was a little pink. The carpet inside was totally pink, and so uneven that we didn’t need pink champagne to stumble every now and then. The food was pink, and very lovely. Even the portaloos were posh, if not exactly pink. It could have been a wedding, except there weren’t enough men there. It was all organised by Susie from the Book People, and she can do a party for me anytime.

The invited girls queued to chat to the authors, who signed books and leaflets like mad. The tables were groaning under free books, and once the fans cottoned on to this, they disappeared very fast. The books. Not the fans. There were also party bags at the end, filled with even more goodies and books. If that doesn’t encourage reading, I don’t know what will.

As this was a crowning of a queen, there were tiaras. And those bands that royals wear on posh occasions. Pink, naturally. The chosen girl for each author was invited onto the stage to put a tiara on the head of her favourite, and they all made a brief speech about why they like them so much. I was very impressed with how well the girls spoke. It must be the quality of the writers that produces such great fans.

I have not read all of them. I dipped into a few books on the way, and quite enjoyed Meg Cabot’s Princess Mia. Meg, by the way, was the only one not there, as she had some books to sign in South Africa. Had a brief look at Karen McCombie’s book, which I just happened to find on a shelf at home. As for Louise Rennison, she got to sign the strangest book of the day for me. She had to ask, but it was Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging in Swedish. I saw fit to use it for language lessons a few years ago. I remember the kissing lesson. Trying not to muscle in too much on the younger fans, I also added a few names to my quest for signatures in my anthology collections. Their stories, not mine. So, doing well on that front.

We all agreed that to have real, live authors makes a difference between today’s readers and the Enid Blyton generation. All the writers present felt honoured to share the pink chairs with their sister authors. Karen wanted her eight-year-old self to see her now, which would have been interesting if possible. Karen, as she is now, is very pretty, and the Scottish accent is a real bonus. Joanna Nadin’s fan was particularly wonderful, and she alone could tempt me to read Joanna’s books.

Lisa Clark’s hair is fantastic. It might not influence her writing, but looks great. Jacqueline Wilson was tanned from a recent holiday, and looked very well. And, she wore pink, a dreamy muted kind of pink. Cathy Cassidy had left her favourite green clothes, and was also pink for the day. Cathy Hopkins said she didn’t have anything pink, but the scarf did the trick, and Cathy looks so fantastic these days. Must be an author thing. We didn’t see so much of Sarra and Grace, as they arrived very late, after their enforced limo ride round most of Britain (I’m making it up), but check out Grace’s shoes! Louise is a born entertainer, and was really funny.

Two more authors in the shape of Fiona Dunbar and Sophie MacKenzie, who were ladies with a mission. They were the ones who had the envelope with the name of the soon-to-be Queen of Teen. It was nearly the Oscars, and as some of you may have gathered, the new Queen is Louise Rennison. She gave up her tiara for the much grander crown, and then had to learn to walk around without it falling off. The throne really suited her, and she was pretty good at cutting the ceremonial cake, as well.

With all the books gone, the cakes eaten and photos taken, we all trooped off home. Or tried to. Godalming was harder to leave than you’d think. The witch forced herself on a very kind librarian from York with two girls, and shared a taxi. The taxi driver was friendly, but I can’t say the same for his controller. They’re weird in Surrey. Some of them, I mean. The traffic jam had to be seen to be believed, and according to the driver he had never seen it before. Must have been us, then.

Lovely day, whether it was Monday or Tuesday, or both.

Queen of Teen

A number of very popular writers have been holding their collective breaths for some time now, and crossing fingers and things, in the hope that she will be the one to become Queen of Teen at the end of September. They have each egged their fans on to vote for them, so we’ll have to see who’s been more persuasive than her colleagues. If I’ve got this right, I believe that a group of fans who nominated their favourite author, will be invited to come and meet her, and hopefully see her crowned.

Will it be Jacqueline Wilson or Meg Cabot? Maybe one of the Cathys; Cassidy or Hopkins? Louise Rennison or Karen McCombie perhaps? Or pink lady Lisa Clark, or Grace Dent, Sarra Manning or Joanna Nadin?

I haven’t voted, I must admit. I want to remain as neutral as possible, though I understand Daughter had a go.

Author cats

I don’t mean that cats write books. At least I don’t think so. There’s no knowing how much input authors’ cats have where books are concerned. Let me know.

A while ago I was on a cat thread, and threatened to offer more on cats. While I’m searching for an elusive picture book (could it be we don’t actually own a copy?), I’ll have a go at those who make the books happen, instead.

I’ve noticed that writers very often write a lot about their cats on their blogs or websites or wherever. I feel I may know more about authors’ cats than authors’ children, which is as it should be. Children should be left alone, and not be embarrassed further, unless they are mine.

Authors are more cat people than dog people, or perhaps that’s just how it seems. There are the lurchers belonging to Cathy Cassidy and Meg Rosoff. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have known what lurchers are like at all, when one turned up in Linda Newbery’s Flightsend. I can’t recall any other literary dogs, right now.

Lurcher in her book aside, I believe Linda is a cat person. And Cathy Hopkins keeps her fans updated on her cats. As do countless others. Nick Green even seems incapable of being photographed without one. I get the impression that the cats are the bosses, and any writing of books has to be arranged around the cats and their comforts.

With Nick as the exception, I think it’s only female writers who talk about their cats. Or dogs. Why?

Please write in and tell me. And if you happen to own an axolotl or anything else interestingly different, do let me know. I’ll continue the search for that cat book.

And in the pink, again

Another newsflash, so to speak. You were so good with the pink comments last week, that we have moved across to the Guardian today.

Anthologies for charity

I mentioned the anthology Like Mother, Like Daughter the other day. I have a couple of other story collections too, that were both published in aid of charity. Unlike Amnesty International’s Click, which was one story written by different authors in a literary relay, these are simply short stories by well known authors.

Higher Ground is all about the 2004 tsunami, and was published only months after the disaster. Sixteen children’s authors each wrote a story based on what happened to a real child, somewhere in the world during that period. It’s very sad and very uplifting. Definitely worth having a few hankies standing by for when you read it. The authors are Melvin Burgess, Gillian Cross, Tim Bowler, Bernard Ashley, Eoin Colfer and many more, with foreword by Michael Morpurgo. Highly recommended.

Last year ten authors, hand-picked by readers of Cosmo Girl, wrote a short story each for Shining On, sold in aid of Teenage Cancer Trust. We’ve got Melvin Burgess again, as the lone boy, with girl writers Jacqueline Wilson, Anne Fine, Malorie Blackman, Rosie Rushton, Sue Limb, Meg Cabot, Cathy Hopkins, Meg Rosoff and Celia Rees. The stories are as good as you’d expect from the star-studded line-up.

The witch is slowly – very slowly – collecting her signatures in these two anthologies. It’ll take me years.

Who gets on with a Scorpio?

More book snatching around these parts, and as usual it’s the fault of Cathy Hopkins. The latest batch of two Zodiac Girls books arrived, and the witch found them removed from where she put them and devoured by daughter. So possibly one can deduce that the reading apathy has changed again, as it so often does when Cathy has a new book.

These new ones are Brat Princess, which does exactly what it says on the packaging, and Discount Diva. Both of them find that they are Zodiac girl of the month, though obviously not at the same time. And it can change their lives. Cathy is very much into this Zodiac stuff and knows a fair amount. I think.

Daughter’s complaints would be that she shouldn’t get on with either me (well, she really shouldn’t) or with one of her best friends. So, who to believe? We are now eagerly waiting for the next lot, where Scorpio appears and we might get some answers. It’s going to be called Double Trouble, and how apt is that? Hah.

Cathy is just back from some star spotting in Cheltenham, which I understand was hard work. But that might be because she’s a star herself. Keep your star signs coming, Cathy.

Dina day

Even if Adele Geras hadn’t so carelessly asked me to write about what I got up to yesterday, I would have bored you with it. Truth is, I’m so tired I can’t think of other things. It was a day of culture and fun. Not that culture can’t be fun, but you know, the less “worthy” stuff.

I have seen the crack. The Tate Modern crack. It was quite good, and no, I can’t work out how they did it either. Took a sledgehammer to the floor? Funniest sight, of course, are all the visitors slowly walking along, staring down at the floor and even filming it with their mobiles.

I returned to the Cottesloe after an absence of nearly thirty years, to see Victoria Benedictsson’s The Enchantment. Very good. I do so like an unhappy ending. (No, I don’t, but it was good anyway.) As a teenager I was very taken with this Swedish author, who like her heroine committed suicide. I’ve done some detective work this morning and come to the conclusion the play is called Den Bergtagna in the original. One of the nice things with the National Theatre is that you don’t necessarily have one actor playing four different characters. And they are always good actors, even when their names mean nothing to me.

Too much culture can be, well, too much, so I moved swiftly on to some shopping. The Resident IT Consultant will be surprised to hear I didn’t buy any shoes. I bought cheese at Neal’s Yard to bribe Daughter with on my return home. This meant I had my own Three Men in a Boat moment on the train home. My bag stank. In the nicest possible way, naturally.

Dinner at the Masala Zone after only ten minutes of queueing to get in. I find it rather reassuring to have a new food establishment to eat in that is situated in my old haunt Cranks, in Marshall Street. I virtually lived at Cranks in the olden days. The Masala Zone offers not only really good Indian food, but some charming staff. Hadn’t the heart to tell the nice young man last night that it wasn’t my first Thali and no instructions were necessary.

I finished another Cathy Hopkins Zodiac Girl (Recipe for Rebellion), which was fun as usual. Though possibly Cathy needs to sort out her ideas of half term holidays and nit nurses. Or that could be a message to the editor; it’s your job not to have half term at the end of November. On the other hand, a book that has Gods all over the place could possibly be allowed to have school holidays at funny times, too. Correct me if I’m wrong, but whereas I’ve seen plenty of nits, I have never come across a nit nurse in this century.

Before falling asleep on the last train north I started another Sara Paretsky. And all the witch’s activities meant she completely missed the Doris Lessing announcement.