Footie in the Town Hall, and other crazy stuff

OK, so the ball was only foam, but my heart was in my throat during the penalty shoot-out in the Banqueting Room. Wonder what those old gents adorning the walls thought of it? (I’m guessing: ‘Finally something fun to watch!’) The children enjoying some impromptu football after Tom Palmer’s event certainly seemed to think so.

It was the Manchester Literature Festival Family Reading Day yesterday, and everything happened at the Town Hall. Very successful format for children’s books, I thought. Nice and central, refined (apart from the inflatable goal Tom brought), and well laid out with one room as the market hall with tables, and space for making Viking longships out of wrapping paper, and the Banqueting Room for the events.

Well worth getting up early for, even on a Sunday. But maybe – just maybe – I have attended too many of these if I recognise people’s piercings before the rest of them?

First out was Juliet Clare Bell (call her Clare) with her Kite Princess story. Clare made little girls balance books on their heads for better deportment, learning to glide. After which they blew bubbles. Ideas for books are like bubbles. Write them down before they pop. Clare also read Don’t Panic Annika (great name, that), and she talked about toys who brush their teeth. Of course they do…

I chatted to Clare afterwards, but forgot to compliment her on her princess-style floaty dress. Would you believe it was her first visit to Manchester? Good thing the city was on its best behaviour, almost meriting that sundress. Not a single fire alarm, thankfully.

Clare’s into reading for boys. Getting them to do it. Someone who knows how, is Tom Palmer, who was on later in the day. As with last year’s rugby event, this was great and absolutely perfect for boys. They read, you know. Football magazines and footballer’s biographies and such like. If it’s about sport, they know the answer, which was handy for the quiz Tom did with them.

And then they put MLF boss Cathy in goal and started the penalty shoot-out. She’s good. So were they. As is Tom when he talks to children. He is less condescending than most adults tend to be. He has a Russian billionnaire who murders football players in his new book series. And he travels to gather new ideas, because he likes writing about other countries, and getting it right. (Tom, about that Norwegian cathedral?)

No billionnaire himself, Tom was open with the children and told them how much he gets paid, and that he can’t support his family on what he makes on writing.

Earlier in the day we had a group of actors tell us about Narnia. The White Witch was there in all her splendour, but she’s not a terribly nice person, is she? Three actors and a wolfhund (might not have been real, actually) covered both the Witch and the Wardrobe, with help from audience volunteers. Not much of a Lion, however. Very popular, with a full room, and people sitting on the floor.

The day’s highlight for most of the children, and their parents, was Dinnertime Stories with Cerrie Burnell and Alex Winters. And before you ask ‘who?’ I will say CBeebies. These television presenters read We’re Going on a Bear Hunt and The Tiger Who Came to Tea, and two more stories. Famous people and well known books are a winning concept.

We sang The Wheels on the Bus, and discussed how many of us had arrived by camel. Or submarine. And we ran out of time.

So did Sita Brahmachari, who came to talk about her new book Jasmine Skies, but talked a lot about her award-winning first book Artichoke Hearts, as well. Due to some technical hitch (I can so identify with that) she borrowed Clare’s laptop for a while, before Clare had to rush home to Birmingham. But by then we had seen all the lovely family photos of Sita’s inspirational family.

I’m not quite sure how she did it, but before we knew where we were, her hour suddenly came to an end. Sita had some good volunteer strategies, and she read from both books, and then she spent a very long time folding and unfolding a sari. Interesting. Diaries and doodles have a lot to answer for. So does wearing orange. It could have been a trick. Or not.

Sita is off to Calcutta, to the bookshop where her late father used to sit and study, before he became a doctor. It’s rather nice to think of a bookshop allowing itself to be used as a library.

And then, I have to admit it; I went home. The day was not yet over, but the Bookwitch was very over. And five events out of seven is almost acceptable. I’m sure the Viking event with V Campbell was great. Especially for those who had built their own longships earlier in the day. (I wonder if the V stands for Viking?) The final event was Stanley’s Stick, an Oldham Coliseum Theatre production.

I am of the opinion that the MLF have got it just right. If they could just sell some energy for old ones, it’d be even better.

‘The biggest poo’

It was only seeing the Scottish Book Trust van parked out the back that convinced the Resident IT Consultant we were in the right place. I dare say we should have done more than give a cursory glance at the online map before we went looking for the Z-Arts centre. (There has to be a first time for everything.)

My chauffeur and I were attempting to attend the Manchester Children’s Book Festival/Scottish Book Trust’s Barry Hutchison event, and even after the van sighting we were unsure of where to go, so followed the line of blue sweatshirted children. They surely knew where they were going?

We sneaked in at the back, but not before one boy had queried the Resident IT Consultant about whether he was the author. He was not. Barry was. And he came up to chat, despite us hiding at the back, where we belong.

Barry asked the children if anyone didn’t like horror, and then suggested that the one child who didn’t, had better sit with their fingers in their ears for the next hour. Most of the children had had imaginary friends. Many have abandoned them by now, but I would guess by the time they got home they will have gone looking for their old friends to prevent what happens when you forget and abandon imaginary friends.

Read Barry’s Invisible Fiends books if you need help imagining your imaginary pal, a few years on. They turn into evil monstrous versions of their old selves. My own copies of the books had arrived when we returned home again. But after Barry’s brief reading from Mr Mumbles, I’m not sure I will be able to go anywhere near them. Gulp.

Barry used to believe books appeared at the library as if by magic. When he realised people actually write books, he knew that’s what he wanted to do. He wrote when other little boys played football, which is why his recent, forced moment of playing keepie-uppies with his son didn’t go well. He’s useless at all sports, except possibly basketball where the ‘big freak’ did OK.

He sold a couple of early screenplays, and on both occasions the film company went bust two weeks later. So he gave up before he singlehandedly put all film companies out of business.

Getting sacked from lots of jobs (see interview) for daydreaming about pterodactyls eating someone’s mum, the thing that finally got him kicked out of BT wasn’t not considering how to improve sales figures, but what might happen if a monkey came through the door, carrying a gun.

He used to be scared of everything. Dogs, cats, goldfish. (No mention of gun-toting monkeys.) And the very dead squirrels in Aberdeen when Barry was seven. What if they came back as squirrel zombies? Cue panic attack.

I didn’t really believe him about killing the old woman crossing the road because she might be nine squirrels in disguise. (But he clearly is crazy.) Asking the audience about what scares them, he reminisced about the Glasgow child who was scared of toast. ‘What about bread?’ he asked the boy. ‘Nah, that would be weird.”

It would.

We got the kitchen sink tale again. It’s always good. I’d been concerned what the Resident IT Consultant would make of the poo and pee stories, but mercifully he seemed to have fallen asleep by then. (It was very warm. It’s not that Barry was boring.)

The reason Barry went off budgies has now been explained, and I am fairly sure I’d not heard about the frenzied killing of his grandmother’s porcelain doll. Derek, the possibly imaginary friend with an imaginary friend, got a mention again. Invisible Fiends book no. four – Doc Mortis – has been banned in Germany.

Barry is a writer because as we heard he is rubbish at everything else. And possibly because he grew up near Fort William where there was nothing else to do but write. Having been chucked out of his study when it became a bedroom for his youngest child, Barry has found he can write anywhere. In corners. In the car (not while driving, apparently). Even in Fort William, one imagines.

An old git at the People’s History Museum

Those were his own words. Alex Scarrow is all of 46 years old, so the perfect exhibit for a history museum.

I crossed over into new territory (Salford) to take this photo of the People’s History Museum, which is situated just by the bridge as you leave Manchester. Which I did, but only to come back at once.

We – Alex, me and the good people from the Manchester Literature Festival and the Manchester Children’s Book Festival – were there to travel in time, and to launch another fantastic competition.

Former rock guitarist Alex now writes the Time Riders book series. His route to writing was twisty, but he got there eventually. Having left school 28 years ago he wasted the first two years, and then he got a job doing blood spatter effects for a computer games company. In the end he left, because his ideas were too weird for them (purple orcs, anyone?), and he started writing books for adults.

Some years ago Alex came to the conclusion that his weird ideas would be better as books than as games (although that trailer for the books is actually awesome) and he began his Time Riders books for children.

Unexpectedly many people in the audience had read the first Time Riders, but Alex still explained ‘where he got the inspiration’ to the series. Although I rather suspect he was making fun of the Titanic film; especially the romance. And he likes Nirvana. That might even be relevant to Time Riders, you know.

There are ‘timewaves,’ and Alex illustrated how history can be manipulated by accidentally allowing a girl in the audience to go and knock on Hitler’s door in 1941, advising him not to invade Russia.

Alex told us the backgrounds of the three New York agents and their ‘support unit’ Bob, before reading the first two chapters of book one. He’s very dramatic, and very noisy, but really quite compelling. His reading alone probably persuaded everyone they wanted to buy the books.

In the Q&A we learned Alex is tired of games, and there were many good time paradox type questions which he explained away. There was also a hint that explaining everything could be a spoiler, so maybe there is something still to come that we don’t know about.

He would love to go back to the moment the Mediterranean filled up with water from the Atlantic (some time ago, I imagine), but he wouldn’t want to travel into the future at all. It scares him. And I hate to report this, but Alex doesn’t like Doctor Who.

Alex finished by reading the postcard one of his characters sent to his mother from the Titanic, and this launched the Postcards from the Past competition. Write a postcard from someone in the near or distant past. Open to all age groups, so get your inspiration hats on and write!

Then there was book signing (the young man from Waterstones and I really need to stop meeting like this) and photographs for the various school groups. At one point it looked like they just didn’t want to leave.

James from mcbf arrived, accompanied by an oversize umbrella. He’d been able to hear Alex from well outside (rather like the Scarrow brothers in Edinburgh this summer). I introduced myself to Alex and reminded him that we met three years ago. He politely agreed.

I left to catch my train, and I would like to know how Alex managed to get to Piccadilly before me! He was looking at departing trains, and I was tempted to suggest he get on mine. But I suppose that would have been mean.

Emily Windsnap and the Land of the Midnight Sun

Mermaid goes Norse. I sometimes feel just a little embarrassed admitting to reading mermaid books. But why shouldn’t I read them, when they are both exciting and well written?

When Liz Kessler read an excerpt from her fifth book about Emily Windsnap at the Manchester Children’s Book Festival in the summer, she cunningly picked quite a good bit in the middle and, even more cunningly, she stopped at a really exciting moment. And then she asked me if I’d already had my copy, singling me out in front of all those people.

I hadn’t, but that was soon remedied. Not that I got to the book first. That honour belongs to Daughter who, despite being overage, remains faithful to her early favourite.

Neptune needs assistance, and Emily Windsnap is just the half-mermaid to step in to help. She has a boyfriend these days, and he also proves useful. As does best friend Shona.

It’s quite clear from the start that there is double crossing somewhere. But is it the obvious one, or do we have a case of more devious triple crossing on our hands? Perhaps Emily is simply overwrought and is imagining things?

Whatever it is, she and her friends (and foes) find themselves in the land of the midnight sun. And what a beautiful and deadly place that turns out to be!

‘My’ Pullman interview

It’s very easy to help yourself to other people’s stuff, especially within the family. What’s yours is practically mine. But that first Philip Pullman interview in 2005 was Son’s. I merely attended, and wielded the borrowed camera. Not very well, I might add.

From there grew the idea that one day I would do my own interview, and after some attempts at synchronising our diaries, I finally nailed Philip down when he came to the Manchester Children’s Book Festival.

I still suspected that Son might turn out to be the one with the most pertinent questions, so he came along to prop me up, and with the photographer we made it quite the family outing. We topped it by getting stuck on the train 30 seconds outside the station we were getting off at, rendering us late at the Midland Hotel.

We’ve paid attention to Philip’s socks and shoelaces in the past, and he never disappoints. As you can tell from our conversation, he is interesting in other respects too. While not having to worry about money for himself, he is concerned about what is happening in the world of books. He is a man who joins in, when there is a good cause.

What we want now is for Philip to have time to write all those books he talked about. So no more silly invitations to events, please! He came to Manchester. That’s enough.

Becoming a little retrospective about mcbf 2012

At the safe distance of nearly a week, I feel almost ready to re-visit mcbf. How about the rest of you? I guess that even James Draper might have finished sleeping by now.

There are things I didn’t do, apart from author events I just had no stamina to attend. I didn’t make it to Cornerhouse for a screening of The Witches. And it would have been so very suitable too. (Swedish witch, and all that.)

I still have the war books exhibition at the Imperial War Museum North in mind, and will do until it ends.

James had a hard eleven days of it. At one point I thought he would have to finish the festival wearing espadrilles, when his pointy shoes gave up the ghost. And was it tired eyes that caused the spectacles to emerge one day?

Kaye did all right, wearing some lovely outfits and still seeming to feel up to starting to plan mcbf 2014.

There were others who did a wonderful job as well. Claudia travelled all over Manchester, and Kevin smiled in the face of exhaustion whenever I met him. Duncan was elegant in his suit until the bitter end, and Iris continued with her bright spottiness. Anyone else I’ve omitted mentioning will just have to forgive a confused old festival-witch.

I’ll leave you with some more photos, chosen with no plan or reason whatsoever.

Mothers and daughters, and it’s goodbye from mcbf 2012

The double mother and daughter thing was too good an opportunity to miss. And a first time is always special, and no matter how many more times you do something, the first one is the only first one you get. So when Jodi Picoult returned to Manchester on Sunday, to sign new book Between the Lines, co-written with her daughter Samantha van Leer, I knew I wanted to be there, and I knew I wanted a chat with the two of them, and I knew I wanted my trusted photographer to make a better job of taking pictures than I have managed in the last two meetings with Jodi.

It all came true, including my weird dream from a few weeks back. (So don’t tell me I’m not a witch.) Basically there were no people waiting at the Arndale. In my dream it had to do with being Good Friday, but in real life the queue had to stand inside WHS, instead of outside. So the fans were all there. Phew. (And I know it’s not Easter.)

Glad to see the fans were as keen as ever, and happy to lay their hands on this great new fairytale-meets-real-life novel. Mum Jodi might have helped write it, but the idea was all Sammy’s. We watched as each fan (and there were a good number of men) sat down next to Jodi and Sammy for a photo and brief chat. Couldn’t help noticing Sammy is lefthanded like her mum, and no doubt she will soon be the second fastest signer in the west.

There was a cute baby, as always.

And then it was my turn. Jodi almost lied, saying it was nice to see me again. (It was obviously nice. It’s the again I don’t believe she remembers.) And at least I got my interview in before the BBC this time. If you’re up early, try Monday’s breakfast show for their version.

Sammy and Jodi had a tea engagement with another mother and daughter team, who had won a meeting with the two writers in a competition. (See, it is a marvellous idea.)

Our own luck held, and we finished in good time for the mcbf finale, which didn’t come a moment too soon. Any later and James would have expired. As it was, all major players were still upright when Carol Ann Duffy and her best friend John Sampson told the sad tale of The Princess’ Blankets. It was my third time, but it’s still good. And this time I was sitting in a great seat upstairs at the Royal Exchange, while my photographer had the time of her life, clambering all over the central space capsule.

Carol Ann issued orders not to tell her how the tennis was going. John played his unusual instruments and pretended to be Mozart again. We in the audience got to do our shouting, and this time I was Picasso. After the poor Princess had warmed up, Carol Ann read us a new book called The Gift.

And finally, James and Kaye could stand in the limelight and declare the last eleven days over, and John provided a classy trumpet solo to mark the moment. It has been really good. Rest a while now, and then get on with planning 2014! You know you want to.

We’ll be back.

The day I turned into Michael Rosen

Michael Rosen is the sort of person I’d like to have come round to my house. He simply helped himself to tea from one of the tables (I suspect they might have omitted laying out tea for the star of Afternoon Tea at the Midland) and then plonked himself in the empty space in the middle of the room and started being amusing. I.e. not where he was meant to be.

This had the effect of freeing up his original ‘high’ table, so three of us sat down there, and I had a slight inkling of what it’s like to sit at the signing table in the middle of ‘the stage.’

But since Michael probably won’t be popping round to Bookwitch Towers, it’s as well he came to the Midland to entertain a roomful of children. They were fairly small ones, with parents in tow. Like the born entertainer he is, he seamlessly chatted and made jokes and poetry, as though we had known each other for a long time.

It could have turned into a short acquaintance, seeing how he made the assembled fans hold their breaths. According to Michael you have to expect quite a few children not to make it. At least that’s what it was like during his schooldays in 3rd year juniors. (Yeah, they spoke funny in those days.)

I suspect what he did was teach/read us a poem while having people flap pretend school-desk lids in the air, breathing behind the non-existent lids. After his massive lie about the death toll at school, Michael opened the floor to questions, and I have never heard an author deal with the inspiration question better. Basically it’s got to do with standing under Hungerford Bridge and screaming, and then feeling the bridge supports.

You do get what he meant, I hope?

We found out how his Dad dealt with noisy children. (Apparently Michael and his fossil of an older brother were naughty and noisy and needed dealing with.) You rest your hand on your temple and say ‘The Noise’ in a longsuffering kind of way. While describing the antics of the little Rosens, Michael accidentally taught his audience lots of bad behaviour.

Maybe Michael is the only person to have discovered the Secretary of State for Education in Jabberwocky, but do have a look. He is in there. This worthy poem got a mention because Michael likes to make up new words. With his parents he was never quite sure if what they said was in English, Yiddish or plain made up. Neither did his mother.

Someone inquired about her names (strange questions are good), and as a bonus we learned that Mr Rosen’s middle name is Wayne. He is old for a British Wayne, but not the oldest. The oddest place he has ever written in was a headteacher’s toilet, and while we are on a plumbing theme, one embarrassing moment in Michael’s life happened at medical school when he was mistaken for the plumber, come in to fix a leak.

He likes raisins and chickpeas, and the person he envies the most is James Draper of the mcbf. (Because James has a school for writing children’s books, and gets to wear a suit, and because MMU has Carol Ann Duffy.) Michael was very nicely dressed in a purple V-neck, so there was no need at all to covet those three-piece suits.

Soon after mentioning a new book called Fluff the Farting Fish, Michael realised he might be preventing his audience from partaking of their afternoon tea, so he stopped talking. Sort of. He went round to individual tables and chatted instead.

(I have been forbidden to use the best photograph of the day. Apparently my photographer has her own blog where it will go. Hmph.)

The future is bleak

You need to be very afraid. The future looks bad, but the good news is that there will still be writers to inspire, and scare, us.

Two or three of you might recall there was a short story competition launched during the Manchester LitFest in October last year? Julie Bertagna came and talked about her futuristic writing and the idea was that Manchester’s young hopeful writers would come up with stories featuring their city in the future.

On Friday at the Museum of Science and Industry we saw the results of the competition, and it was impressive. Julie was back to meet the winner, and she and Saci Lloyd and Jane Rogers talked about their own writing, and read excerpts from their books to an audience of participating teenagers from various schools.

Julie felt the day was prophetic, with all the rain and floods everywhere. Her Exodus trilogy is all about flooding, and here we were, practically washing away. She had even travelled to Manchester a day early to make sure she’d arrive in time, while leaving behind a flooded kitchen at home. But we are the children of survivors (or we wouldn’t be here at all), so it’s good. She even managed to fit in Higgs Boson into her talk.

Jane Rogers had a scary story about humanity being wiped out, and I believe it’s set in Tameside, so is uncomfortably close to home. Saci Lloyd likes laughter, and feels her books are ‘quite nice stories.’

After the readings, there was a short panel discussion on science fiction. Julie feels that outdated science is all right (cf Mary Shelley), and knows of scientists who have been inspired in their work by fiction. Saci is worried that the young today have lost too much, and have little to look forward to.

It has to take time to write books. Jane said she needs four years for a book, and her last one took five. Turning off the internet is useful. Saci is simply very jealous of Suzanne Collins and the Hunger Games.

Then it was time for the 31 shortlisted teenagers to have their names read out, and the two runners-up were given signed copies of Julie’s and Saci’s and Jane’s books. There is an anthology printed, containing all 31 stories from the shortlist.

The overall winner was Josh Degenhardt, with When the Rain Falls They Talk of Manchester, which is a story about a very dry Manchester. Julie read it to us, and if there are more teen writers like Josh we needn’t worry about the future of fiction. His story was exceptionally good, albeit scary and frightening. And I always knew the Hilton building would fall down one day.

Philip Pullman x 2

He doesn’t do many events these days, but not even Philip Pullman can say no to Carol Ann Duffy. That’s why we could all pile into the large lecture theatre at MMU to hear him talk about, well, stuff. And a little Dust, although we were left fairly much in the dark about it. Literally too, until someone finally switched on all the lights, and stopped switching them off again. (James!)

Sherry Ashworth acted the fan-struck moderator who wanted to know what most of us wanted to know. It’s reassuring that even Philip first read and loved Noddy, almost like a normal small person. He loved Arthur Ransome’s books, but not the awful illustrations, and he read Moomin, whose creator Tove Jansson was a real artist. The sex in the Alexandria Quartet made him want to grow up to be just like the characters in the books.

Philip enjoys being a ‘totalitarian’ when he writes. ‘I kill people, I bring them back to life, and I like it.’ Whereas when people read, they can read as they like, with no one seeing into their heads. Writing books, and persuading readers they want to read them, should be like sitting in the market, telling a story. People can stop and listen if they want, and they can pay a little, if they think it’s good.

There is a Lyra in every school class, and it’s love that Lyra does best. What Philip does, or so he says, is write three pages of Dust every day. He maintains there will be a book, eventually.

But one of the things that kept him from Dust was the archbishop’s challenge to write about Jesus, so that’s what he did. Philip said he thinks about God all the time. He also had to write the two short books set in Lyra’s world. (So that sort of explains the last six years, then?)

While Philip took a break, Sherry collected questions from the audience. It was a surprisingly young audience for an author who appeals as much to adults.

He reckons his parents were mainly surprised that their dreamy son got a book published, but he is sad they didn’t live to see his real success. His advice to get published is to write a good book, and not to plan too much. He planned his second novel so carefully he got bored and had to write something else instead.

The armoured bears came as a surprise when he was writing Northern Lights, and he feels that if you’re writing things at school, you should write first and plan after. That way the two will agree and you will get much better marks. Philip doesn’t believe in writer’s block, and says you have to sit at your desk, because that’s where the ideas will come, and if you’re not there you will miss them.

His reasons for writing are to earn money, and because it’s therapeutic. It becomes a habit, it’s fun when all goes well and he likes getting language right. (Who or whom?) Page 70 is always the hard one, and he once gave up reading a book after two words. (That was the Booker winner.) Don’t start with a pronoun, or you’ll drive Mr Pullman crazy, and steer clear of the present tense. He loves The Magic Pudding and has re-read it many times.

When asked how he feels the Golden Compass film could be improved on, he suggested it would have been a good idea to put in the scenes actually filmed but not used. He’d also have preferred the real ending, instead of a resolution coupled with a cliffhanger. By now Dakota is too old and Daniel Craig too expensive.

Thursday evening finished with a signing in the next room, and it was good to see the stampede as the audience tried to get there first.

We didn’t need to, because we had our own appointment with Philip on Friday morning. We ran a little late in the downpour, with our train deciding to sit just outside the station for ten minutes. But Philip had checked out, and sat in the Midland’s lounge when we arrived, so all was well.

Greetings from shared friends were exchanged, and we reminisced about our last interview in Gothenburg seven years ago (and still no Book of Dust!). We did talk Dust a little, but you’ll have to wait to read what Philip said. There is another book that has sneaked in, and we talked about the various campaigns he’s involved in, and many other things. The advantage of doing it this way round is that we could concentrate on what wasn’t mentioned the night before.

Philip worried a bit about the possible cost of the tap water we had ordered, but I suggested he make a run for it, so he left to catch his train south through the floods. We stayed on, nursing our iced water for a while, reluctant to go back out into all that other water.