A good little publisher

So, this cutting from the Guardian has been sitting on my desk for over a month and I was worried it might become stale. And then it turns out it fits right in with what I’ve been saying this week.

I was so charmed by this small publisher – Oneworld – who apparently have managed to pick two recent Man Booker prize winners. (I know. I said ‘bad’ stuff about the Booker only yesterday…) I loved the way they were interviewed and how they work. In fact, they are the kind of publisher I would obviously be if I wasn’t a) so lazy, and b) not in the slightest talented that way.

They mainly seem to like the kind of books I don’t go for, but that’s all right. They do seem to know what makes a good book, though, and then they give that book all it deserves. None of this ‘he/she is a comedian so I can hear the tills rattling and I will be rich’ syndrome. (I obviously don’t know where they stand on trade unions, but I’m hopeful they do the decent thing for all 23 staff.)

Oneworld likes foreign books. This is far too unusual. And in general it would appear that they are talented at sourcing new books and authors that might not be the new Harry Potters or J K Rowlings, but that do really very well. Winning awards and that. I could be wrong, but I understand they do this simply by reading books, and buying them if they like them. Not this celebrity thing, or ‘will the buyer from Waterstones like it?’ that is far too common.

When the Resident IT Consultant and I bought our Amstrad 30 years ago, we didn’t do what Oneworld’s Juliet Mabey and Novin Doostdar did; starting a publishing firm. Maybe we should have.

And I like the way they have no wish to be bought or merged or anything.

That’s funny

Much as I don’t enjoy the trend of famous comedians suddenly discovering that they need to write a children’s book, and doing very well and getting plenty of publisher attention for their efforts, it has caused one improvement to the state of things. Humour is now seen as something worth considering.

I have always liked humorous fiction. I have long felt there’s not enough of it, and also that it’s been so wrong to look down on it. As though humorous fiction is to children’s fiction as children’s fiction is to Booker prize type fiction; i.e. inferior.

It’s not. In fact, I’d suggest that just like writing for children requires more skill, and not less, to write good humour means you have to be really excellent at what you do. Not everyone can do it, or do it well, but when they can, the results can be spectacular.

A couple of weeks ago Adrian McKinty blogged about his twenty funniest novels and it’s an interesting list. I agree with his choice, about the ones I’ve read. I might have picked others, and it could be Adrian doesn’t find them funny, or that he’s not read the same books I have. These things happen.

I do agree with him about this, though: ‘It’s got be funny throughout too. One really funny scene as in Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim for example just doesn’t cut it. I’m also not allowing anything that people say is funny but which actually isn’t or perhaps used to be funny but isn’t anymore. I’ve read Gargantua and Pantagruel and they are not funny. Shakespeare’s comedies are not funny. Dickens is not funny.’

There’s a lot in life that’s not funny. But there’s also a lot that is. And yes, I hated Lucky Jim the first time I read it. Loved it on the second read. But Adrian is right; one funny scene isn’t enough. (Apart from The Vicar Of Nibbleswicke, I don’t reckon Roald Dahl is funny. Not in that way.)

I’ve not thought this through enough so I can give you my own list, but Terry Pratchett is obviously on it. Would be, I mean, if there was a list. And even if I stick to children’s books, I reckon Douglas Adams has to be on it. From there it is a quick jump to Eoin Colfer and from him to many other Irish authors (it must be the water?), and then jump again, to Frank Cottrell Boyce, Joan Aiken, Morris Gleitzman, Debi Gliori, Barry Hutchison, Hilary McKay, Andy Mulligan, Kate DiCamillo. And last but not least, my fairy blogmother Meg Rosoff. She doesn’t only kill goats.

My apologies to anyone not mentioned. I didn’t go about this scientifically, but merely wanted to mention that being funny is a good thing. A good read is good for your wellbeing, and a funny read is even better. Go on, find something to make you laugh! Preferably until you cry. The hankies are on me.

Is that even a word?

Derecognising? There’s been a lot of talk about this in the last few days, and whereas I could immediately understand what it meant, I feel both the word and what it stands for is awful.

Shame on Penguin Random House for deciding unions are not their thing!

I was naïve enough to believe when Penguin and Random House merged a few years ago that they ‘had to’ because times were tough. But it appears they were doing well enough, and continue to do so. In which case they can afford to behave decently towards the people who are involved in making their books, which in turn make their profits.

There is the added feeling that Penguin is a nice company, somehow. I might be wrong, but there has been some special goodwill towards the publisher who came up with the idea of books for the masses at a price almost anyone could afford. And those birds makes you feel all warm inside.

It would be great if – when times are hard – some companies behaved well, and treated those who work for them fairly. And who better than a publisher? Free speech and the like. It’s not as if they must do what small and brave publishers are doing in Hong Kong; risking their lives and the safety of their families in order to bring forbidden books to new readers. Just publishing and paying up would go a long way.

In the Land of Broken Time

This was actually a rather sweet and fun little story. In the Land of Broken Time: The Incredible Journey, by Maria and Max Evan and translated from Russian by Helen Hagon, is a picture book. I think. I have read it on the Kindle as that is the only format so far, and generally I find ebooks and picture books don’t work so well.

Hence a certain reluctance on my part to read them. Except in this case I felt there was something there, so I gave it a go, and I’m glad I did, as I really enjoyed the book.

The story is about Christopher who is ten, and who sneaks out to see the circus even though he is unwell. Doing so he comes across another sneaky child, the lovely Sophie, and they end up having an adventure, in the company of a speaking dog. As you do.

There is an air balloon involved and somehow it travels in time, and the children land somewhere different, where there is a time mystery for them to solve.

It’s old-fashioned and modern all at once. It’s like a typical fairy tale, but one where the children have mobile phones and access to Skype. And a talking dog.

Dangerous book covers

And possibly dangerously murderous contents as well.

I rarely pay all that much attention to the more salesy emails I receive. No time, and no interest in buying lots of books. Especially if I don’t get round to reading them.

But there was this one yesterday, from the big bookshop chain. I have deleted it for my own safety, but I will admit to having looked more than once at the books they offered for Christmas.

I mean, they weren’t actually suggesting I buy these books to give to others, were they? I was more thinking I’d love the books for myself. But that’s a most selfish way of looking at Christmas.

What they had were a handful of crime novels, all with the most enticing covers. That’s the thing really. Some of the books may easily have been bad inside, but oh those dark, snow covered, often retro style houses, where murder is about to happen or has happened – in style, obviously – well, it’s just too hard to resist. Hence the email-deleting. Or else…

It’s the faux Agatha books, or perhaps even some real ones, that are so dangerous. Sometimes it feels as if I could sit and do nothing else but read snowy Christmas murders (as though that was a nice thing).

One Christmas, when I was 17 or thereabouts, I received The Secret of Chimneys (Hemligheten på Chimneys). I have no recollection whether Christmas featured in the story, or if it was my Christmas, all mixed up with a fancy house and all the people therein, murdering each other and stuff, but I so wanted to pack a suitcase right then and simply pop over to England.

Because that’s what it’s like, yes? All that snow, the pretty lights and the red of the holly berries. And the blood.

The sorting

‘Don’t forget Ness comes between Nesbit and Newbery,’ I said to the Resident IT Consultant. (That’s of particular interest, as Linda Newbery used to look at the shelves in bookshops before she was a published author, thinking she’d fit in nicely next to Nesbit. We didn’t know about Patrick Ness at the time.)

We were sorting the bookcases. Again. I have done bits of it on my own, but if any serious work was going to happen on the top shelves, especially forming a second row behind, then I needed the Resident IT Consultant. And I’m sure he was pleased to be needed. Climbs well, and can hug a larger pile of books in one go than I can.

My job was to tell him what to do and where, and to choose a few books that would be put up for adoption.

The Ns happen to live on the second top shelf, the one to the right of the As and Bs, and not having been a double row before, on account of stability, they were all out front. ‘Here are some Newberys,’ he said. ‘And some more. Oh, there are a lot of Newberys,’ he said as the full range of Linda’s books hit him. Not literally, I hasten to add.

The very awkward Gs improved a lot with our work the other day. I may have mentioned before that there are many Gs in my book world. There were McMacs coming at us from all directions, but they are more orderly now.

In some instances he had me worried when saying he thought there’d be more of someone’s books. I thought so too, until I recalled that this is what my bedside special bookcase is for. The bestest of the favourites live there.

It also turned out we were both alphabetically challenged. We discovered several books that needed to move left. And then a bit more left, before going furher left where they belonged. We must be getting old.

This was the kind of job you put off and put off because it strikes you as hard work. In actual fact, we only needed a couple of hours, and some of it was me sitting down to think about my books.

And then, of course, I had to go and do my best of list and I wanted a photo of the selected books of 2016, so I had to pull them out again, on my own, and put them back. But at least the sorting meant I knew where to find them, even if it was the top shelf.

The 2016 best

Yes, there were good books, even in a year like 2016. Let’s not lose [all] hope, shall we? In fact, after careful consideration, there were more serious contenders than I could allow through to the final round. Sorry about that.

During 2016 I seem to have read and reviewed 154 books. Before you gasp with admiration, I should mention that 40 of those were picture books.

And here, without me even peeping at other best of lists, are my favourites, in alphabetical order:

Beck, by Mal Peet and Meg Rosoff

Broken Sky + Darkness Follows, by L A Weatherly

Crongton Knights, by Alex Wheatle

Five Hundred Miles, by Kevin Brooks

Front Lines, by Michael Grant

Knights of the Borrowed Dark, by Dave Rudden

More of Me, by Kathryn Evans

The White Fox, by Jackie Morris

I believe it’s a good list, and I’m glad that two of the books are dyslexia friendly; one at either end of the age spectrum.

And, you are human after all, so you want to know who just missed this list. I’m human enough to want to mention them. They were Hilary McKay, J K Rowling, Malcolm McNeill, G R Gemin, Jonathan Stroud, Kate DiCamillo and Philip Caveney.

Two dozen more on my longlist, and we mustn’t forget; if a book has been reviewed on Bookwitch at all, it has passed quite a few quality tests. So there. You’re all winners. But some are more winners than others.

I love you.

Crongton Knights

Gritty always scares me, and I’m never a fan of diving in to read the second book about a group of characters, and in the case of Alex Wheatle, whose award winning novel Crongton Knights is the subject of this review, I’d never heard of him until this summer. I felt left out.

But a Bookwitch can face all of the above if necessary, and I am so glad I did. Crongton Knights is a masterpiece. I’m not in the slightest surprised Alex won the Guardian Children’s Fiction prize for this book. And it may be the second book set in South Crongton, but it’s easy to jump right in and you will get it. You don’t actually need to know about Liccle Bit from the book by the same name, as this one is about Bit’s friend McKay, and Bit plays only a, well, Bit part…

And what a great pleasure to find a slightly chubby hero who likes to cook. A black chubby hero, living on a council estate, in a book featuring gangs and riots, which nevertheless ends with a few recipes for some of the food McKay enjoys.

Bit is in love with V, and she needs help. Bit gets McKay and Jonah to assist him, and Saira, the girl they both fancy, comes along as does someone who is the odd one out, the boy no one wants for a friend. They are only fourteen years old, so are bound to get things wrong, and they do. But what matters is friendship and carrying through your promises.

This is a funny story, and a sad one. They have known grief in their short lives and there is plenty of violence on an everyday basis. Money is short. Parents are unemployed. Outsiders are viewed with deep suspicion. McKay’s brother is up to something, but McKay is always kept in the dark.

I loved this!

Second class children

Did I ever tell you about the restaurant somewhere in the Highlands? The Resident IT Consultant and I had dinner at a highly recommended restaurant somewhere almost in the middle of nowhere. It was 1984. (A bit ominous, that.) It was a lovely meal and the place was full. As we exited we discovered a parked car, with three children inside, in their pyjamas, eating crisps. The parents were dining in the restaurant.

Fast forward to last week’s Guardian recommendations of what food to buy [not make] for Christmas. Their baking expert Ruby Tandoh picked Betty’s Classic Mince Pies. ‘They’re wonderful, but coming in at a tenner for a dozen, they’re maybe not ones to waste on the kids.’

No. Quite. Wouldn’t want the children to have quality, or anything expensive. (Personally I wonder how many children really want to eat mince pies, but that is another matter.) When they are grown up they will automatically morph into people with taste. People who in turn will discriminate against children.

I’d like to think that her comments just sort of slipped off the keyboard while she wasn’t looking, or thinking. But as it said elsewhere in the same paper, ‘bias may be unconscious – but that does not make it excusable.’ That was about a black person, but bias against children works too.

Is that why our society is the way it is? Because children don’t merit ‘the real thing?’

As a child I was occasionally treated to a restaurant meal. About as often as the Mother-of-witch. Money was in short supply and she was the one paying, and she always took me. We ate good food in those restaurants, with silver service and the lot. (Mostly because there weren’t really the more casual eateries we have now.)

I was never discriminated against, by her. If she could afford it, both of us had whatever it was.

(This neatly reminded me of another childhood treat; chivalry.)

In the bleak midwinter

Had hoped for more sun yesterday. We were visited by Once New Librarian and Pizzabella. They looked round the castle. Not mine; Stirling Castle. Though I suppose if it’s grey it’s more atmospheric among all those old – royal – ghosts.

I had made my best burnt macaroni cheese, and as a special treat for Pizzabella there was dry [but cooked] pasta with slices of cucumber. Each to their own, I say. The ice cream was turned down because it’s winter. What’s wrong with people? It’s why central heating was invented, so you can pretend it’s warmer than it is.

Luckily we had some odd – and as it turned out, very tasty – melon bought by the Resident IT Consultant.

After dinner the others headed out to tour a distillery. I sacrificed myself, as there wasn’t room in the car, staying at home, nibbling on cucumber and blueberries as I stacked the dishwasher. They go surprisingly well together. And I pondered the weirdness of all these [former] babies now taking an interest in whisky, and doing it legally.

And because I needed to relax, I put aside all other chores and sat by the Christmas tree and finished the book I had been reading. You really can’t beat a good book if you want to feel better.