Age-appropriate advice

Would you suggest to a proficient 14-year-old reader that they read The Witches by Roald Dahl?

It’s not the first thing that would come to mind, is it? Especially if the advisor is someone in publishing, who knows about books for young readers. I’m reminded of my Swedish teacher when I was that age. She kept suggesting books that were far too young for me, even if I hadn’t been permanently glued to Alistair MacLean. In English.

The magazine ViLÄSER arranged a meeting between a children’s publisher and a 14-year-old for a discussion on books, and I was appalled to find the Dahl being her first idea when the girl said she likes exciting books.

Even the previously mentioned Petrini crime novels are a little young, although the girl had enjoyed them. I could barely keep up when the next suggestion was Aidan Chambers, which is a huge jump. The girl’s current favourite is The Hunger Games.

In the end they produced a fairly good list of books, including Ink Heart, His Dark Materials, The Princess Diaries, The Diary of a Wimp, and Before I Die.

But why should it be so hard to give advice?

I found an interesting thought in an interview with a children’s author called Åsa Lind. I have no idea of what her writing is like, but like this quote: ‘You don’t need to write for everyone. It doesn’t have to be easy to digest or easy to buy. Better chewy than soft. But still enjoyable, rather like Romanian poetry.’

Last night I dreamed

that I sat next to Ann Pilling. My dream was set somewhere holiday-ish where the whole witch family had gathered, and there were loads of children’s authors. I ended up sitting next to someone by the name of Ann, but it took me ages to find out who she was.

I wouldn’t be telling you about my dream, if it wasn’t for what Daughter did next. She needed occupying, so being a bookwitch I suggested reading. Of course. I also suggested Michelle Magorian’s A Little Love Song, but sadly it has turned into one of these suggestions where Offspring have to say no, just to keep up tradition. So she went off to see what else there might be and came back with Vote For Baz, by none other than Ann Pilling. Witchy.

I don’t know the book myself, as it’s one of the review cast-offs from Librarian Husband of Cousin, which has been hanging around for a few years. But it was good enough to result in Daughter not doing anything else for a whole day. But she would like it known that the cover sucks.

When Son and Dodo arrived, they proudly mentioned they’d brought a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, with a view to reminding themselves what it’s about. I told them they were idiots, as it’s the only Harry Potter we already have here on holiday, so a waste of a kilo of luggage allowance. They remedied this by reading a copy each, side by side. Then they went to the library for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. The library had no other Harry Potters in English except The Deathly Hallows, and they even had two copies of it. So they have side-by-sided HP7 as well.

The library has been useful in other ways too. Daughter had to have some more audio books to listen to at night, so she found an Alex Rider and Philip Pullman’s The Scarecrow on CD. It’s free and you can keep them for four weeks.

Other than this, we have tidied the book collection a very little. Over the years we have carried spares and jumble sale books for those desperate days when you just have to have something else to read. But unless we are to hang on to lots of old books for any grandchildren we may have, we have quite frankly outgrown some of them. They are now sitting in the Salvation Army bag, waiting to go.

Daughter wanted to relieve the Salvation Army of a second-hand bookcase to put them in, but I felt we didn’t need more shelves. We need fewer books. I prune and re-order every now and then, and we have a passable collection by now. In fact, my former neighbour used to let herself in with the spare key and borrow books every winter. Well, I always wanted to be a librarian.

One book that is going nowhere, is I Am David, which Daughter read a few days ago, at long long last. She asked about the title, which she thought she had overheard when her brother listened to the audio book. They are the last words of the book, and just thinking about it made me want to cry a little. She finished the book and then told me she could find nothing sad…

What’s a witch to do?

Stop children reading, now

Well done to the powers that be, for finding another few nails to put in the coffin of how to make children readers. This new ‘pedophile’ thing, requiring children’s authors to part with £64 to register that they aren’t all a bunch of child molesters, before they visit a school, is an interesting one.

Some, like Philip Pullman, who doesn’t need to visit schools for a living, can just stop visiting. The rest will have to pay up. And if you don’t, for whatever reason, does that mean that there might just be some truth in the suggestion? It can be hard for former alcoholics to say no to a drink by explaining they are former alcoholics, but you can’t very well go round telling schools you’re not coming because you actually enjoy molesting children.

Seven years ago when I volunteered to help in the school library, I was never allowed to be alone with the children. Not because I think I was suspected of anything, but it made sense. Whether I could have had myself vetted, I don’t know. But I think vetted means that you’ve never been caught doing whatever it is; not that you’re definitely not into that kind of thing.

I met many authors at that school. And they would have been hard pushed to be alone a with a child or a group of children. What does the government think? That the author arrives in school, and is put in a classroom with the children and left? Some schools seem to think that authors can be used that way. ‘Free’ babysitting. But then you might want to worry about the school, not the poor visitor.

It was always very hard getting authors to come and visit. It will become a much rarer thing now. But it goes quite well with abolishing school libraries, doesn’t it? Soon nobody will have to do anything to do with books. Those computers schools swear by, that are taking over the LRCs, they don’t ever lead children into danger or into contact with child molesters, do they?

The 2009 Branford Boase photos

Many thanks to Paul Carter, who took these photos at the Branford Boase evening at Walker Books on Thursday, and to Mary Byrne for her dedication in sending them on to the witch so very early on a Friday morning. No thanks at all to the witch, who being seriously handicapped on dial-up has had to restrain herself to only a few photos, because it would have taken most of the holiday to access many more.

There is also the embarrassing fact that while looking over all the photos, there were an awful lot of well known faces – to me – but what are their names? I went completely blank, and can’t blame it on dial-up, so it will be age related… (But I did recognise you. Honestly. We have met. And you don’t remember me either, which is only fair.)

So, here are the two winners; B R Collins who wrote The Traitor Game, and Emma Matthewson, who edited it. I wonder what it’s like to do a job where the less you are noticed, the better? I rarely think of editors. (Sorry!) Because if they’ve done a good job, you can’t tell they were ever there. When they haven’t, or when it looks like they might have been on holiday that week, that’s when I moan about editors.

This lovely man is the lovely man who sent me The Traitor Game in the first place, and who then sent lots more to people on this blog who entered a competition to win a copy. Thank you Ian Lamb!

Here is Jacqueline Wilson, back in her own shoes. I hope Philip Pullman didn’t stretch them too much last year when he wore them. Jacqueline certainly looks very radiant in all the photos from Thursday, and this isn’t the first time now that I’ve seen her not wearing black. Nice! (Not that black isn’t nice.)

Speaking of big shoes I’ll move seamlessly on to Philip Ardagh, who not only has the same taste in ties as Philip P, but who wears big shoes. For a reason.

(Photos © Paul Carter)

Oxfordshire ramblings

The weekend could be described as having been vaguely literary, but only just. The Resident IT Consultant’s clan gathered near Oxford, though some gathered rather more than others. The ‘foreigners’ made it from Heathrow to a service area near that illustrious town before staging a major public obstruction, worthy of the Sword in the Stone. They clogged up the service area for a couple of hours before staff called in Arthur, who otherwise works for the local police. I believe the problem lay with a hired car, which simply would not go anywhere. Luckily this branch of the clan are used to minor disasters, so it was laughed off.

Me, I would have had a nervous break-down.

Once the sword situation had been sorted, we all met in Philip Pullman’s village for a bit of sitting around with lovely Indian food in an English country garden. As you do. The Resident IT Consultant was physically destroyed with some frisbee stuff, while all Daughter remembers is actually seeing the house of Mr Pullman.

The witch found a photo of Philip hanging over her bed at the youth hostel that night (bet you didn’t know I still count as a ‘youth’), which may be why she took Daughter on a short walk round Jericho after breakfast. (Daughter is still not awake, or I could have furnished you with photos…) (Ah, now she is.)

Some of our doings over the weekend are more culture than books, so later on (much, much later, I suspect) there will be more tales over on Culture.

He Was A Rat

The book is called I Was A Rat, of course, but I didn’t want to claim rathood in the heading, in case there were misunderstandings. It’s also time to remedy the fact that most of the time when we talk about Philip Pullman we automatically mean His Dark Materials. When Son next asks someone what they think of Philip, how I wish they would say that I Was A Rat is their most favourite. Sometimes I think the fairy tales, as Philip calls them, are his best. 

Considering that I Was A Rat is about Cinderella, the rattyness of the title can be off-putting. Even more so for the Swedish translation (Råttpojken), which when translated back is Rat Boy. Who is going to think ‘Cinderella’ after that? With great difficulty I sourced the Swedish paperback a few years ago, and then got it personally signed by Philip to the Retired Children’s Librarian. Did she appreciate it? She did not. It’ll be gathering dust somewhere. So, not everyone is a fan. Although to be fair, she is put off by the ‘fantasy’ label put on Philip and all his writing, which to my mind is one of the worst things to give a book, because it turns away prospective readers faster than any age-banding. What is Cinderella, if not fantasy?

Roger was a rat, until the fairy godmother came along and turned him into a human attendant for Mary Jane, aka Cinderella, the Princess who gets to marry the Prince. Only he doesn’t turn back into a rat afterwards, but remains a confused little boy. He’s a lucky little rat -sorry, boy – because he finds the nicest foster parents imaginable in Bob and Joan. They had always wanted a child of their own, and are old enough to tolerate Roger’s rattish behaviour.

Things would have been fine, had it not been for the strange people at Court, and strange people in general, and the really unpleasant people of the press.

But since this is a fairy tale, things work out in the end. And Mary Jane is a true Princess.

Hej och välkomna!

And in order not to confuse the regulars or to spoil any new readers, that’s likely all the Swedish I’ll offer today. The witch has been chosen as blogger of the month by that trusty old magazine Vi, which I mention every now and then, in their book magazine ViLäser. One has to admire their superior taste, and their courage in plumping for something so foreign as one of their own blogging in English. But Swedes are a linguistic lot, so I hope this will work out well.

I did realise the other day, that in my eagerness 28 months ago to remain fairly anonymous, I might have overdone things ever so slightly. No name (but by now most of you know what the civilian witch is called), no geographical clues as to where she stores her broomstick (much) and no way to contact me other than by commenting and ’screaming’ for help. Ever an unhelpful soul, I like it that way.

So, a few facts; I’m Swedish. I’ve lived in England for over a quarter century, and yes, that makes me really old. These days the broomstick cupboard can be found in Stockport, which I generally explain as Manchester’s Mölndal, if you think Göteborg. It’s famous for hats. Like Alice’s Mad Hatter, hat makers went mad because they were poisoned by something in the hat making process. Very nice.

I drive my family mad. They are the Resident IT Consultant, who despite being born in Scotland can say ‘koav’ which is halländska for korv (sausage). It’s Offspring, consisting of Son and Daughter, who these days are so old that I find myself borrowing other people’s children for author interviews whenever necessary. Their bookish exploits get milked for all that they are worth on these pages. Son is a Philip Pullman nerd on the highest level. Daughter loves several authors, and to prevent you all having a fight, I won’t mention names. But you know who you are.

I mostly write tongue-in-cheek comments about book related things, do reviews of books and interview many of my beloved authors. Bookwitch set out to be about children’s books only, but there is a fair amount of crime in these parts, too. My list of Aspie books has suggestions for books for readers with Asperger Syndrome.

Last but not least, little sister CultureWitch goes on and on about all sorts of things that are not books.

It’s never too late

I was scrolling along idly, looking for another author event, as I happened to notice that Omar Khayyam did a talk and a signing at the Lincoln book festival yesterday. It must have been sensational.

It can join that copy of Paradise Lost on Amazon, which was signed by the author. A bargain at around £30, if memory serves. Turned out it was signed by Philip Pullman, who was responsible for the foreword, rather than dear Milton himself.

Pullman news

It was worth waiting for, even if it took a long time. Philip Pullman has a new re-vamped website, which looks pretty good. Neater looks, but above all, easier to use. Though I would like to suggest one or two additions, perhaps.

There is also a new interview with Philip in the Times, which is worth reading.

The sudden demise of the DFC means that the story about John Blake that Philip started writing for David Fickling, needs to be finished by other means. Philip says he will write it as a film and as a graphic novel.

I just hope it won’t slow down the Book of Dust even more!

The case of the disappearing Pullman roar

This has already appeared on countless blogs, so I’m neither original nor providing breaking news. I’m hoping this link to what Philip Pullman wrote in the Times online the other day, is still working. If it’s not, call in on Julie Bertagna, who has another link to someone else. I believe that Philip published this, and then it was immediately taken off again, for whatever reason.

Bloggers everywhere searched for it and it was found (how?) and posted on their blogs.

More people should speak out.