Auf Deutsch

Earlier this year I was contacted out of the blue by a publisher in Germany, who had discovered the Eoin Colfer interview from Cheltenham last October. It’s the one where I had Charlie to do the actual work, and it is a good interview, if I say so myself.

Anyway, they wanted permission to put part of it in some educational book about Eoin Colfer (great education, I’d say) that they were doing. Charlie’s Mum and I decided it would be OK, and we also asked for a copy of the finished book.

Then we heard no more until the other week, when the parcel from Germany turned up. It’s more of a collection of tasks for students to do, based on Eoin’s The Wish List, discussing everything from Eoin himself to bullying, with wordsearches and quizzes and stuff. I think it’d be good to see something like it in British schools, too.

Quite weird to read Eoin’s answers in German…

A Little Love Song

It was the oranges that did it for me. A few years ago Offspring had some friends round for a sleepover, and the witch was feeling depressed. Not because of the sleepover, but I was left with that kind of feeling where you need comfort of some kind. So I got out Michelle Magorian’s A Little Love Song, which was waiting to be read. Once the young people were busy with whatever they were busy with, there was a whole evening in which to read.

So I read. And I read. When I got to the part where Rose goes to the dance, and is offered oranges, and said oranges gather momentum due to the jitterbug, I began to laugh. Soon I was laughing so much I could barely contain myself. So I stopped feeling depressed. Ever since, when I think of this book, I think of sleepover, and then oranges, and then of the explosion of laughter.

This is the story about two sisters in the second world war, who by accident end up living by themselves in a cottage in the country. They don’t know anything about looking after themselves, cooking and the like, but they learn. The opportunity to live alone seems so great to them, that they grasp it when their chaperone suddenly becomes unavailable.

Both girls meet love, although it’s not straightforward for either of them. There is also a mystery to do with the cottage, which is linked to someone Rose meets in the village.

A Little Love Song is the perfect romantic war story, with the same authentic war atmosphere which all Michelle’s novels have. In a country where television companies are crazy about period series and films, this book would be a very suitable one to adapt. Instead of a new version of Austen every five years (or is it every three years now?), it’d be a really good idea to take on all of Michelle Magorian’s books for a change.

Meeting Michelle Magorian

The importance of Goodnight Mister Tom is such that I have long had Michelle Magorian on my top level of ‘really good authors’. The kind you need to worship from afar, someone who is unquestionably great. So meeting her in person at last year’s launch for Just Henry wasn’t a case of your everyday garden variety of a book launch. Having found Michelle reassuringly kind and friendly and normal, I came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be out of the question to consider interviewing her. Would it?

When by happy coincidence Michelle turned out to have an event on my home ground, I simply had to ask to meet her again. So you could say that I waited as eagerly to meet her, as I did for Just Henry after I’d read Michelle’s first five novels. I’d been so happy when I discovered her, and my assumption that readers can expect a new book, if not every year, then at least every two or three, meant that my patience wore very thin over the ten-year wait. But as you can read in this interview, it was for a good reason, and it was worth waiting for.

I just ‘happened’ to bring along my copy of the anthology War, edited by Michael Morpurgo, which contains a story by Michelle. It seems we have a lot to be grateful to Michael for, since it was he who got Michelle writing again after her long break.

In her talk at the Imperial War Museum Michelle told us how she first wrote Goodnight Mister Tom, and after that she decided to attend a writing course, which may be an unusual way round to do it. And when she has to write horrible and upsetting scenes, she goes for calming walks in between.

There is another book on the way, but read my interview with Michelle while you wait. And then any book of hers that you have inadvertently overlooked. Perhaps between us we can have a late run on A Little Love Song?

(Photo D Giles)

Michelle Magorian in Manchester

Well, that could make me cry. Almost, anyway. Happy tears, you understand.

As the witch started negotiations with the Manchester Literature Festival people about an interview slot with Michelle Magorian, it felt like a good idea to say that Michelle might remember me from last year’s launch of Just Henry. I was told she did, but people can be polite, you know.

So, when we met in the Imperial War Museum’s café for our chat on Sunday afternoon, the first thing Michelle does is rummage in her bag, saying she’s got something for me. Nice, but what? I’ll tell you what. Only a lovingly signed copy of Just Henry in Swedish, which is just out. We did talk of translations last year. We did. But it was in a room full of people at a busy launch, and I was a complete stranger. What a memory!

Anyway, once we had been supplied with cups of tea, we got going with the interview. Not that Michelle felt there was anything interesting that she could tell me. The Resident IT Consultant attended, armed with a camera, since Daughter had taken herself and her camera off for half term. As a matter of fact, he didn’t do too badly at his first interview.

Michelle’s son George wandered off to look at the museum, while our twenty minutes somehow ended up being 45 (sorry, Alistair!). So we obviously must have found something to talk about.

Afterwards it was time for Michelle’s event, as the crowning glory of this year’s Literature Festival. They closed the museum, and us fans settled down in the main exhibition hall. As an author talk it rates as one of the best. Well delivered, as you’d expect from an actress, and very well chosen selection of readings from several of her books, with anecdotes in-between.

Michelle provided an interesting thread between all her stories, and the readings benefitted from a variety of accents. Good questions from the audience, with interesting answers. And I love a woman who can admit to waiting with her career, because she wants to spend time with her sons, even when they are as old as Michelle’s two. But with some luck, we’ll have a new Magorian novel some time next year. Yay!

(Photos by A Giles and D Giles)

The Meg Rosoff interview

Some of you may have cottoned on to the fact that I’m quite fond of Meg Rosoff. I like her books, obviously, but I also like her as a person – a lot. Our acquaintance began with me writing Meg as level headed a fan letter as I could manage, just prior to her winning the Guardian prize five years ago. Then I believe I went on to tell her I’m a witch, and that I knew she’d win the Costa, too.

That’s why Meg knows not to trust my predictions one hundred percent, but as you will see in the interview, she does believe in witches. Thank goodness.

When we first met, I fully intended to buy her a coffee or something, but she insisted she was buying. Meg searched her jacket pockets to see how much money she had, as she’d come out without her handbag. ‘Let’s see what we can get for £6’, she said. Afterwards she drove Daughter and me to Euston, almost getting us involved in some road rage on the way. Let’s just say that it was a novel experience for us country bumpkins.

The reason I’ve delayed asking Meg for an interview has been that when you have an on-going, intermittent email discussion about anything you happen to think of, it’s actually quite hard to work out what to ask in a more structured meeting. So I kept putting it off, but when The Bride’s Farewell was published I felt now was a good moment. We turned out to be very incompatible for time, so in the end Meg seemed to decide she would be free when it suited me, which was very kind of her, as we were able to meet when I was in London anyway.

Very kind.

Meg’s books are dangerous. I looked through Bride while searching for questions, but found myself just sitting there reading it, again, with no thought of interview questions.

What we have in common, apart from age, is that we are both immigrants, so in the end I felt that was a good point to start our conversation. One thing I didn’t get round to, was seeing how our paths almost crossed as early as 1977-78, when we both ran around London having fun.

Oh, well.

How to buy books

I really should learn not to say these things! A week after my latest, but by no means last, moan about having too many books to read, I had to kick myself. Hard.

When discussing reading with Meg Rosoff on Wednesday, we both agreed that we prefer not to pay for our books. (That’s not us you see sidling out of the shop with books in our poacher’s pockets.) What was I thinking?

So, having to – no, wanting to – read Mal Peet’s Exposure before the prize event on Thursday evening, I decided that two return trips to London was more than ample time to read it in. It was. I should have heeded the ‘more than ample’ thought, however. Minutes after arriving at Euston on the second day, I finished the book.

Then a thought struck me; what do I read now? As the slice of Jamaica cake would testify, I had eight more books in my bag. But of course, I’d read all of them. They had just come along for the ride, so to speak.

I would simply have to actually buy a book. But which one? Luckily, I had just been thinking that Son in his exile needed more Terry Pratchetts to read. So to kill two books with one purchase, I phoned him to check which books he’d not already got or even read. Thus we decided on Moving Pictures, which had somehow escaped him, and I had something to read on the way home. Home where hundreds of new books waited for me.

Midweek trek 1b – or Professor Dame Jackie

Yesterday’s second event was the grand launch party for Hetty Feather, where Jacqueline Wilson celebrated in the company of friends, plus the witch and Daughter. This wonderful affair took place at the Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury, which is a thoroughly nice venue for something like this.

The various lovely Random ladies helped look after us all, and the dainty little canapés were so nice that even Daughter could eat them. She snapped a lot, but primarily with her camera. She made me throw myself at Nicholas Tucker, at long last, to introduce myself. The poor man didn’t know what hit him, but was most charming and polite, while being given the megastar treatment from my own paparazza.

It being a Nick sort of day, we also launched ourselves at Nick Sharratt, who was the one to make Daughter a Jacqueline Wilson fan, many years ago. She ‘read’ his Tracy Beaker pictures for a long time before any other reading could take place.

And, needless to say, we tackled Professor Wilson herself. Jacqueline looked beautiful in a black dress with colourful embroidery round the neckline. Being a true professional she kept a signing pen in her pocket for those of us who were sufficiently overcome to beg an autograph. All we needed to do was hold her champagne.

Grand speech from Philippa Dickinson and another from Jacqueline, and flowers changed hands. There were thanks to Bob, Jacqueline’s driver, but we didn’t see him anywhere. And a most well deserved thanks to Naomi, doer of all things.

Then we fled, Cinderella style, on account of the trains running funny, and witches do need to get home.

—-

Before all this, we had a great time with Meg Rosoff, who turned the tables and interviewed me, made the loveliest meringues with cream and berries, gave Daughter a DVD, made a fire (of the intentional kind), was patient with the neighbourhood children, let the dogs in and out and in and…

Then she insisted on driving us to the Hetty Feather launch, which we survived. No road rage tendencies this time. And we didn’t get lost. Or wet.

(Photos by H Giles)

Midweek trek 1a

Having adhered to an almost normal timetable for several weeks, it’s time for some gallivanting. Daughter’s services in the blogosphere have been requested by me, and her college said that it sounded like a very good idea (yes, really), so she isn’t skiving off. It just feels like it. Must learn not to be so incredibly law abiding.

A witch should learn to go places without a photographer occasionally, but it’s hard when you know how much better it is with illustrated travels. So today we head south to meet up with Meg Rosoff. This is long overdue. I know why I haven’t made this trip earlier. I’m scared. Maybe that’s why having a little witchlet along seems good. OK, so she is taller than me, but still little.

I hope we won’t cause too much interruption to the writing of There Is No Dog. (There will be two, I imagine, if we’re to be literal.) I’ve been so much of a pain that Meg simply had to say she was free. Last time I did this, Meg came up with this really weird idea that I should start a blog. So what might happen today I can’t even begin to speculate on. (Virgin Trains running late is a good bet.)

Once we have ruined the Rosoff routines, we’re off to another literary event, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what. The eagle eyed among you will be able to make an intelligent guess.

More Graveyard

I generally skip the spoken word tracks on iTunes when I shuffle, which means that the other day I was really quite surprised at myself for letting it run. So I had Neil Gaiman reading his chapter Danse Macabre live in Edinburgh from a year ago, while I cooked dinner. It’s so wonderful! Both the reading and the chapter and the whole book. Unlike normal audio books you get audience reactions with laughs and applause, as well as brief pauses while Neil drinks some more water.

When I first read  The Graveyard Book I did so with no pictures at all. That’s because I read a proof, so at least I got to it earlier than other people. Mustn’t grumble.

And then in time for the above event last October and my interview with Neil, I did get a proper copy, complete with illustrations. Mine was the ‘children’s’ edition with pictures by Chris Riddell, which are very good. Only, then I caught sight of the ‘adult’ version which Julie Bertagna bought, because she likes Dave McKean, who did the pictures for it.

Wishy-washy that I am, I thought that looked really good. Too.

Well, now the paperbacks are out, yet again in both versions. My quandary is over, as some very generous soul has furnished me with both. So at the last count I must have four Graveyards. Small wonder the house is feeling a little on the tight side.

‘This boy will never amount to anything’

Well, he did. Last week he received the Medal of Freedom from President Obama, accompanied by his daughter whose ‘charm is no substitute for hard work.’ I’ll get back to this father-daughter team later.

I will never ever get teenagers. Ever. Given the choice between seeing Jacqueline Wilson or Steve Cole on Sunday morning, Daughter went for Steve’s talk about his Astrosaurs. She enjoyed it a lot, although she felt she was the oldest child there. Wrong thinking I said; she was the youngest adult. Steve was so noisy I heard him through the walls. The press people apparently wondered what was going on next door to their yoghurt pod.

Meanwhile, the witch went to see Jacqueline, along with a vast number of girls and mums, and a sprinkling of dads. Jacqueline wore black jeans and a black and turquoise top, and the famous rings shone along with the bangles on her arms. She talked mainly about her teens, because the subject for the day was My Secret Diary which was out in the spring. And she did say that she might write a third autobiographical book about her time in Dundee, writing fake horoscopes and readers’ letters, as long as she can censor her diary notes a little. Sounds good to me.

As I raced along to the talk by the ‘lazy’ girl from paragraph one, Daughter was anything but lazy. Her task was to shoot Per Wästberg, part of the Meeting Sweden programme (How did they know I was going to be there this year?), when he emerged for his photo call. Except he didn’t, so when she saw a likely Swede she inquired, in Swedish, if he was Per. The poor man said he wasn’t, but took her all the way into the authors’ yurt ( a real no-no) and put her in front of this famous Swedish writer, who was even more confused with the idea of the Bookwitch blog, but posed anyway.

When the witch goes back to school, she wants to have Lucy Hawking for her science teacher. I can’t think of anyone who can talk so well and so sensibly on physics and space and anything else related. Lucy kept the attention of her roomful of children, while explaining dad Stephen’s ideas, which they have turned into two books for children. George’s Cosmic Treasure Hunt is new this year, and there will eventually be a third book about George. Lucy and Stephen are, of course, the people mentioned above. I think they turned out OK in the end.

We got to see how (not) to gargle in space. Asparagus will be a suitable crop on Mars, when the time comes. Comet’s go ‘very fast’. Robots don’t get homesick in space. The questions from the children were really very good, but not many people can say what went before the Big Bang or why it happened. Not even Lucy. And look out for the toothbrush in orbit round earth, if you happen to be up there. I asked Lucy if she wants to travel in space, and she does. Preferably to the moon. I was too shy to ask for the phone number for her co-writer for book one.

Lunch was gulped down fast, in order to catch Henning Mankell’s little publicised signing in the childrens’ bookshop. In fact, there was hardly a soul there, but I don’t think that was why he was pleased to see me. (Anyone would be pleased to see me, wouldn’t they?) He looked so morose that I addressed him in his own language, though his English is very good. The ‘mini interview’ went something like this:

‘Hello, we’ve met a few times in Gothenburg.’ ‘ Yes, I remember you.’ ‘Uh-oh, that sounds ominous’, said Daughter. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Henning. ‘Only that you may remember me for all the wrong reasons. I could be one of those bl***y old women you get everywhere.’ ‘I don’t think so. I’d have remembered. But there are a few of them around.’ ‘Yes, and I’m often one of them.’ He looked remarkably happy after this exchange. But you would, wouldn’t you, when ‘one of those’ leaves him in peace.

Next victim for a photo shoot was Klas Östergren, except he didn’t show, initially. Just as we were leaving for our next rendez vous he turned up in the rain, and as we departed he had someone’s lens half an inch from his nose. The man’s quite good looking, but that’s ridiculous.

The two witches had been invited to afternoon tea at the Roxburghe Hotel by the very, very kind Theresa Breslin, so the road was crossed, and the comfortable lounge was found. Daughter has clearly been deprived, and was very excited by the posh surroundings. Thank you Theresa, it was wonderful. The perfect respite to a busy day. And I’m not averse to similar offers, if anyone is feeling generous. Not all at once, though.

Back across the road to see Adèle Geras, and photograph her. We enticed her round the back, where all the big names get shot. As she left again, Theresa turned up, so we all trotted back to the ’studio’, whereupon the paparazzi fell out of their little pod and descended on Theresa big time.

Resting in the yurt, Klas Östergren appeared, looking for a place to be interviewed, so we offered our seats. He was also quite grateful to be encountering Swedes in a Mongolian tent in the middle of Edinburgh. He’s been brought up properly, so we shook hands.

In case nobody has noticed, my social calendar for Day 5 was quite full, really. We met up with Clare from Random (a really Randomy weekend), and apart from the fact I thought she’d have blond hair, it was as good to meet her as I’d thought. Clare brought out Bali Rai for a short chat. And more photos round the back. Predictably the paparazzi emerged again, just needing reassurance that Bali was indeed a real writer and a little famous. Even my copy of his book, City of Ghosts, was photographed. Don’t think Bali knew what hit him.

We breathed for a few minutes before trotting off to the talk by Adèle Geras and Jonathan Stroud. Really liked the way the two of them had planned it, with short introductions, followed by a reading, and ending with them asking each other questions, before letting the audience loose. Good way of doing it.

Our final port of call for the day was back in the same tent again, for the much awaited discussion with Rachel Ward, Melvin Burgess and Anne Fine. Daughter said she didn’t want to miss the Anne-Melvin encounter for anything. I wanted to see if they’d both survive it, and I think Melvin had wondered the same thing. There were one or two references made to the blasting Anne did of Melvin’s Doing It some years ago.

They were all alive and well when we left for the day. And the discussion was good.

(Photos by H Giles)