At the Atkinson

I can’t quite let go yet. I need to show you some more of my holidays snaps. Sorry, I mean photos from my literary trip to Southport on Tuesday.

All I could remember from my one other visit was the long pier, with sand underneath it. Sand with no water on top. It was a disappointing seaside, as far as I was concerned.

But whereas the pier was the same as before, it came with a nice, traditional seaside town attached. Or possibly the other way round. For miles before we arrived there were those brown tourist attraction road signs, all mentioning Lord Street, as though I should have heard of it.

I should have. It was lovely. Wide and Victorian and with trees and ornaments and greenery and benches. I could have spent a long time there (but ‘unfortunately’ I had a book award to go to…), so I might have to return one day. Better prepared, for one thing.

The Atkinson is the town’s newly refurbished arts centre, and how lucky the Southportians are to have something like it. Theatre, library, museum and bakery, among other things. The bakery wasn’t open yet, so I can’t enlighten you as to exactly what it is.

It’s the best of both worlds. Nicely old with lots of original features, while feeling fresh, with a mix of old and new decorations. And new toilets. So important.

Wouldn’t your mood lift if you went to the library and could enter through this elegant foyer?

And who could look at books when there is a ceiling like this?

Forgetting about foyers and ornamental ceilings, it is good that someone still spends money on libraries. Not just tolerated, but improved on.

As for the theatre, I didn’t see the main one, but The Studio where we were was pretty impressive as studios go. We have smaller ones in Manchester…

Thanks, Siobhan!

Easter brought back my earliest memories of Siobhan Dowd, and of The London Eye Mystery. It was as we left the local bookshop just before Easter 2007 that Daughter grabbed the proof of this wonderful book, and once she had read it, she gave me permission to read it as well.

I’d like to think that this ‘illustrious’ blogging career of mine would have gone in much the same direction even without Siobhan and The London Eye Mystery. Hard to say. It made me do my fan email thing, which in turn meant Siobhan wrote back to me, opening up a more personal view of herself; one which I might never have encountered otherwise.

Looking back, it seems so dreadfully unreal that she would die just a few months later. And who would have thought that her work would just go on and on afterwards? I won’t be alone in blessing her strength, writing four novels in such a very short time, giving us her fantastic books to read after she was gone. And her trust, which she had time to plan, helping young people to read.

This was the very beginning of my moving in literary circles, and I marvel at how I dared get on that train to Oxford for Siobhan’s memorial service in November. I met so many people there, who I would probably have met at some point, but not quite like that. Would I have known that Siobhan’s friend Fiona Dunbar would make the perfect Bookwitch Profile as seen here last month?

The London Eye Mystery made more magic later with the stage version. Again, lots of people met up, and for me a lasting pleasure was meeting her best friend Helen who came over from New York, and who provided the photo above. (You could ask why it’s important to meet the American friend of an author you never met. I don’t know. But it feels good.)

When I think back to first meeting literary people – online or in person – I can link back to Siobhan surprisingly often. It’s not just Declan Burke of Irish crime fame who popped up. He brought with him all those Irish crime writers that I’d never heard of before. Other bloggers. And in turn, these writers have taken me further in many different directions. I find paths doubling back on themselves.

Rings on the water, is what it seems like. Once this idea had come to me, the rings just grew and grew. I am not going to bore you with long lists of authors and publishers (although the lovely David Fickling must be mentioned). I started counting how many facebook friends originated with Siobhan, but gave up…

There was something in the way my brief contact with Siobhan encouraged more mad behaviour on my part. It wasn’t only meeting people. It was learning other things I could do. Was allowed to do. I owe Siobhan a lot, and I hope she’s sitting up there looking down at all of us, having a bit of fun herself. Maybe with a fluffy dog by her side, and a glass of something.

(I know. This is very much a me, me kind of post. But whenever I think ‘how did that come about then?’ my inner detective notices footprints going all the way back to this great author and person.)

Dung beetles in Salford Quays

When the Resident IT Consultant heard that I’d asked another man out to dinner, I had to placate him by lending him a copy of Grk and the Phoney Macaroni. That’s because the man was none other than Josh Lacey, who is also Joshua Doder,* who writes about the adorable Grk.

I then added to my dinner guests by trawling through the shortlist for the Salford Children’s Book Award, and apart from those who were ill or otherwise indisposed, or who claimed to be telling 2000 people in Derry what to do, I found Dirk Lloyd (aka the Dark Lord, aka Jamie Thomson) and Gill Lewis, who both courageously sacrificed themselves to dinner with the witch. (I suppose it beats a dry sandwich alone in a hotel.)

Dining – and wining – authors is almost better than going to awards ceremonies. (Think Disney’s Snow White and a certain witch.)

Speaking of hotels; they shouldn’t be allowed to name and build them in such a way that authors don’t know where they are staying. We almost led someone astray after the meal.

I found Josh and the Dark Lord in the bar at the Lowry last night, where I had gone to warm up, and they for a glass of something. Before long I forced them to go out and search for Gill, who had abandonend the end of a very good book to dine with us.

We talked about a lot of things. The Dark Lord talked the most, and he is very keen on games. And similar stuff. He knows about smörgåsbord, and there was a rather unfortunate conversation about eating elk.

Some people go to awards nights away to sleep, when sleep is hard to come by at home. (On that basis, maybe there should be even more events away for the sleep deprived.) Gill, who is a vet, writes about animals, and the Dark Lord got busy thinking one up for her next book (which, if it mentions too much gamesy stuff is all his fault) to top ospreys, dolphins and bears. It seems dung beetles are the answer.

There was some speculation as to who will win today’s award. Most of our money is on Frank Cottrell Boyce, but I’m sure we could be wrong. It might be one of the dinner guests. Or Barbara Mitchelhill, David Logan or Lissa Evans. Who knows?

I gather Alan Gibbons is doing the talking again this year, so I wish I could be/have been there. But as usual, I’m happy for the children of Salford who have read and voted and hopefully generally enjoyed this year’s award work.

And my fellow diners might never have the same kind of bank balance as JKR, but they are great company, and only ever so slightly slow at ordering food. At least one of us was starving, and another very sleepy. Actually, that makes two of us.

There was some speculation on the feasibility of a Jacqueline Wilson sci-fi novel, and why not? The odds are better than for me getting the hang of modern mobile phonery. I tried texting my guests. I tried answering my phone. I’m pretty useless at it all.

Maybe it’s because I’m a foreigner that I don’t distinguish between more and longer. I meant longer. I never knowingly insult children’s authors.

Thank you, Gill, Josh and Jamie.

PS Gill Lewis and her Sky Hawk won!!!

* I am sorry to have to tell you (well, not that sorry, actually) that Joshua Doder is now dead. Kaput, as Josh Lacey put it. He is taking over his alter ego, and from now on Grk will belong to him.

Twelfth Night miscellany

Gargle.

One has been awarded the Gargie Award. It’s rather ugly, but one takes what one can get. It’s for outstanding services in one’s field, or some such thing. (One doesn’t actually know what a field is.) Thank you, dearest Gargoyle.

I really wouldn’t have minded getting a new dress for the occasion, however.

Bet Sally Gardner had a new outfit for the Costa award do. Bet she looked great. I would also like to bet that Sally will win the whole Costa, but I don’t know how to. Bet the Resident IT Consultant doesn’t want me to find out how to bet.

No betting needed as regards Mrs Pendolino, who achieved grandma status on New Year’s Eve. She feels very awarded, and I would too if I could cuddle a red and wrinkly baby like the one she held in her arms. Congratulations to Miss Pendolino, who did the hard work. (Note to Offspring: No need to copy Miss P just yet. One red, wrinkly, adorable baby is quite enough.)

It’s Twelfth Night. (I know you know that.) If it wasn’t also Borgen night, I’d be tempted to watch Twelfth Night, just to feel all cultured and proper. As it is we will go Danish. I have spent just under a week assisting Daughter in her catching up on season one of Borgen, just so she can watch it with us. You need some Danish in your life.

At least there were some children’s books

It’s the Guardian top 100 bestselling books of 2012 I’ve got in mind. Maybe I’m wrong to feel pleased there are 23, or 24 if you count The Hobbit, children’s books in the top 100. It’s children from the Hunger Games age group down to the Julia Donaldson age level, with The Wimpy Kid and David Walliams in the middle.

There are rather a lot of Wimpy Kids and David Walliams books on that list, at the expense of more individual fiction. But if the books have been bought, they have most likely been read too, because that’s the kind of books they are. And that has to count as A Good Thing, surely?

The Hunger Games film caused hundreds of thousands of books to be bought, and if the Bookwitch Towers experience is anything to go by, they were definitely read, and very quickly, too. Not by me. The film was enough. But I recognise that fervour, awakened by a cinema visit. I saw Five On a Treasure Island before reading the books. Almost before I could read, but that didn’t stop me. And look where it got me.

Even theatre can cause book buying, as evidenced by Michael Morpurgo’s War Horse. I would guess the books are bought by adults, but most likely read by children as well. Or was it ‘just’ the film effect again?

Whereas I am – reluctantly – conceding that it might be mainly adults who bought and read John Grisham’s latest Theodore Boone, simply because they are Grisham fans. Or possibly because they didn’t realise it’s a children’s book.

But what of Terry Pratchett’s Dodger? It comes in the top twenty children’s books in the 100 list, but has not made it into the children’s top twenty. Might that be the adult fan reading everything by their favourite author again?

The fact that Jacqueline Wilson is not in the top twenty, is an indication of how well the film industry sells books. (Did I just say that?)

What makes me happy, is that at least a couple of million readers benefitted from the top twenty titles. I hope they will also be reading other books, lower down in the sales league, and that they will continue reading. Always.

The literal link

As a small extra offering for today, you can find the ramblings of a proud mother here. (They never shut up.)

Tiresome, I know. But I can, so I did.

Bookwitch bites #92

Thank goodness for these bites where I can complain on a variety of subjects almost every week. Occasionally I have lovely news as well. Let’s see if I can find some.

I don’t often (like never, obviously) receive invitations from the Canadian High Commission in London, but this week I had to make myself say ‘no thanks’ to them. But as Disney’s Cinderella says, what could possibly be nice about a visit to Canada House? (Only all of it…)

Came across the programme for Book Week Scotland at the end of November. Can’t go, even though I can be found north of the border that very week. So no Frank Cottrell Boyce. No Debi Gliori and no Steve Cole. Nobody.

Offspring are my reasons for travelling, and Son had some news this week, relating to the literal translation he did earlier this year. We are finally able to say it was Strindberg, for the Donmar at Trafalgar Studios. The Dance of Death. Will get back to you on that.

Before leaving Scotland, let me just mention the Grampian Children’s Book Award 2013. Apart from Patrick Ness who is on every single shortlist these days, the shortlisted authors are Barry Hutchison, Cathy MacPhail, Mark Lowery, Dave Cousins and Annabel Pitcher. Tough competition.

South to Newcastle, where the good news is that Seven Stories can call themselves National Centre for Children’s Books, as the only ‘national’ place in the Northeast. Well done to a special place!

Actually, I am coping with the happy business, after all. We’ll finish with a decisive jump across the water to Ireland, where they have The Irish Book Awards. You can vote, but you might want to follow my example and only vote in categories (they have so many!) where you have read the books. Luckily I didn’t have to choose between Declan Burke and Adrian McKinty. Not quite so lucky with Eoin Colfer and Derek Landy, though.

A witch can always flip a coin.

Waiting for Gordon

I don’t have a handy quote to offer. But you know the play I’m thinking of, don’t you?

I suppose I was the tramp.

Bookwitch bites #72

Today will be mainly about what happens in toilets. And I’m relieved (no, not in that way!) that some of you love me a little. Thank you to all five who like me. I’m actually ecstatic to find I have more fans than Declan Burke on Crime Always Pays, who only has ‘three regular readers.’ Or so he claims. And I’m one of them. Not sure who the other two are.

My tale about the sweet singing in the Ladies at the Lowry caused the nice press person from the Theatre by the Lake in Keswick to send me a very kind email. This in turn made me aware of the theatre’s book festival, Words by the Water. I know, everywhere does them, but it feels rather special to have something bookish in that lovely theatre setting. I just wish I could go. It started yesterday, and whereas it mainly seems to be adult authors, I did notice Annabel Pitcher in the programme.

The next toilet ‘incident’ also involves a lovely email (perhaps I shouldn’t have asked for sympathy?), from a librarian I encountered in the toilet queue at the Philippines Embassy (as you do) at the launch of Candy Gourlay’s Tall Story a year and a half ago. Her school – where she does her librarian stuff – has a novel (to me) kind of book competition to encourage reading. And I’m proud that I inspired one of the books to be picked. (That would be the one I never finished reading.) I’d like to think I’m also partly to blame for the school’s newly started blog. I wish them the best of fun with their Battle of the Books.

I believe I will now move swiftly and virtually seamlessly from toilets to libraries. Blue Peter was broadcasting live from the John Rylands Library in Manchester on Thursday. (And I wasn’t there! Small sob.) Both their book awards had reached a conclusion, so Gareth P Jones was there as his werewolf mystery The Considine Curse was voted Blue Peter Book of the Year. He looked quite happy.

And the Best Children’s Book of the Last 10 Years was won by Jeff Kinney for his bestselling Diary of a Wimpy Kid. He looked quite happy too. And like me, he wasn’t actually there. He spoke to the assembled Blue Peter children in a recorded message.

I really need to remember that Blue Peter broadcast from Media City in Salford these days. And that is relatively close. Oddly enough, I had been to Manchester earlier on Thursday. And to end this post in a vaguely toilet related manner, I almost passed the John Rylands after stuffing envelopes for the Hallé, in the company of a volunteer from the Lowry who was enthusing about the Media City gardens, and the ‘celebrities’ one can see there. One of the stuffings was for Wonderful Town, the collaboration between the Royal Exchange Theatre, the Hallé and the Lowry. And it was the toilet from the launch which featured in my second paragraph above, and the volunteer also experienced a slight incident with the Bridgewater Hall’s facilities on Thursday. It was a mere misunderstanding, and she wasn’t in the dark for long.

I know. Things stopped making sense about 100 words ago. Sorry.

What the Strindberg are we celebrating?

2012. The year of Dickens. Or perhaps Strindberg. Possibly the year of many different people, famous or otherwise.

But what do we celebrate? Death? Birth? Or anything, as long as we can celebrate?

I always used to think it was one or the other, but could never decide which made the most sense. Birth is a more positive thing to remember, but when you’re born you have yet to become a great playwright or a president. At least the sad occasion of someone’s death happens when they’ve become that something for which we admire them.

This year we are remembering Charles Dickens’s birth date, 200 years ago. But we are also making a fuss over the fact that it’s 100 years since Strindberg died. Less fuss than over Dickens, at least in Britain, but even so.

I got so tired of the Dickens expectations before 2012 had even begun that I decided to ignore him. (Obviously not 100%, or I wouldn’t be writing this.) When I need to ‘do’ Dickens, it will be because I’m in a Dickensy mood, and not over some new peculiar Dickens related modern book.

The most interesting recent Dickens fact for me, was the connection between him and Sally Gardner, which I discovered when I interviewed her. And that’s good enough for me. I’ve read a few of his books. I may well read some more. But not now.

And Strindberg. Well. He was a miserable old thing, wasn’t he? Not even the television dramatisation of Hemsöborna did much for me. I enjoyed the early appearance by Sven Wollter, who went on to earn the epithet Most Beautiful Man in Sweden. But this was in the 1960s and the whole country watched. We had nothing better to do.

When I saw Miss Julie the first time I felt so depressed I could have joined them in doing away with myself. I’m sure it’s all very brilliant, but how depressing!

While in the middle of his translation course, Son has ended up translating another depressing Strindberg drama. Good for him. And rather him than me.

So, what else could we celebrate? I was a struck by the poor Queen having to celebrate her accession to the throne. Yes, it’s nice. Possibly. But not only was it because of the death of her father, but it meant the end to any normal family life she might have had.

Another slice of cake?

The translating Son also ended up with a piece on Raoul Wallenberg the other day. It’s 100 years since he was born. For Raoul Wallenberg we can’t ever do the death date thing, because we are not sure when ‘they finished him off.’ But at least the man’s been made an honorary citizen of the US, and has roads named after him.

However you celebrate, I personally want to draw the line at doing it prematurely. I think it’s next year that the University of St Andrews will be 600. They already have a shop selling stuff. Also read recently about some Scottish battle (I think), which we are talking about two years in advance.

I can only think that we are jinxing ourselves.