Draw for me

Continuing with The Author journal, and my time travel, I found several good articles in the Summer issue. One of them was by Sarah McIntyre, who illustrates, but also writes. The odd thing was that as I absentmindedly stared at the double spread lying open in front of me, I saw the writing in the middle of the illustration, and thought ‘that looks like Sarah McIntyre’s writing’. And it was. It would have been even more immediately obvious if I’d read the byline or looked at the picture.

It seems – although I knew this already – that wannabe authors contact illustrators and ask them to do their picture book. Because obviously this is what artists in the book world do; hope some amateur will come along and their fortune will be made. Just like that.

Whereas they work hard, because a book takes a long time, and they have contracts and deadlines to stick to, and usually the publishers are the ones who will know who will suit which story.

Sometimes an illustrator has to choose between answering these emails [politely], or spend time with their families. Hard choice, yes?

But you know, it’s an irresistible thought. Who would I want to illustrate for me? The answer is most of them.

Again, as you know, I have no real book plans, and certainly not picture books. But there is that thought at the back of my mind. If I had a book, it would at least require a cover image. And so my mind goes. I like a lot of illustrators, and their work. My solution is to ask a new person for each book I publish. Or, more likely, my imaginary publisher will in their infinite wisdom commission new cover art for every book I have coming out.

The Tracy Beaker look, maybe. Kate Leiper would make my heart leap. Debi Gliori. Sean Tan. Mairi Hedderwick.

What the pages inside these lovely books would have on them is anybody’s guess. I have no idea. But just as some people begin with having the perfect book title, so I have a great cover coming. I just know it.

Time travel

I’ve revisited the past. Some time ago four copies of The Author arrived chez Bookwitch. It’s the journal of the Society of Authors, and I suspect Son of having posted them on to me.

They are good journals. And the thing about publishing once a quarter means it takes time to ‘get out there.’

The first one was Spring. It was a world without Covid. It was like some other place completely. I’d almost forgotten I’d been somewhere like that. OK, there was a brief mention of the postponing of Bologna. Remember that? People believed it’d soon be back to normal.

The articles written by a number of authors mentioned their plans for the coming year. It’s perfectly normal, and they were modest plans. But, you know, it felt a bit weird.

I’ve now moved on to Summer and it’s more realistic, albeit still expecting normality to kick back in.

I enjoy them. They are well written, as you’d expect from professionals of this kind. There are also quite a few names of people I know or have met, making it more personal than, say, Good Housekeeping.

And this time effect is the strangest thing. Who’d have thought?

A new home for the Edinburgh International Book Festival

‘What sort of place is this meant to be?’ said one Swede to the other, as the four of them settled down with coffees at my table in Charlotte Square one August. ‘I think it’s some sort of book fair’, said the second person. They all looked around and seemed to find it wanting (because it wasn’t exactly the Gothenburg Book Fair, was it?). I refrained from letting on that I could understand what they were saying and didn’t rise in defence of the Edinburgh International Book Festival. I suspected they wouldn’t get it.

I have had ten lovely years in Charlotte Square, missing it badly last August, but certain we’d all be back one day. And we will be. Though from summer 2021 it will be a togetherness somewhere else. They are moving house, so to speak. From the open square to an actual building; the Edinburgh College of Art.

We discussed this at Bookwitch Towers when the news reached us yesterday, and I believe we are all in favour. I carefully went over every book festival or fair I’ve frequented over the years, and came to the conclusion that indoors is good. At least if there can be a little bit of outdoors when you are overcome by the beautiful, balmy evening and want to sit out under the string lights and talk about literature with nice people. (Daughter says I am crazy, but I will request the lights specially.)

There will be less need to worry about one’s outfit; will it rain, or will it be too hot? Less need for wellies. I imagine the seats in a building will be somewhat comfier than in the tents, and there will be fewer screeching buses going round and round. The toilets may be of the more permanent kind.

But then, where will I be? And where will the authors be? We’ll find out. Will there be a good photo corner for the paparazzi? And can the ducks come?

It will be different. It will be fine. I just have to find out which bus I need to get there.

If there is to be any getting this year. I hope so. But if there isn’t, they will broadcast online events from their new home, which is better equipped to do that sort of stuff. After which it will be the next year again. I hope.

The Morning Gift

I 95% adored this adult novel by Eva Ibbotson. It came highly recommended by several people whose taste I respect, and my knowledge of Eva Ibbotson’s children’s books backed this up.

To begin with I sat back and basked in the way Eva put her words together, how she described the background to what happens in The Morning Gift. The plot is good and the characters loveable and interesting and the setting in prewar Austria/Vienna was enough to make me want to go back there.

We meet the family of the heroine, Ruth, who is 20 when the real action begins in 1938. Prior to that we’ve learned how her parents met and how the well off Viennese intelligentsia lived. We also meet the British hero, Quin, who is everything you want from the romantic, but also kind, intelligent, rich man in your life.

When the Germans take over in Austria, the family flees to England, but due to a technical mishap Ruth does not manage to leave. Enter Quin, who obviously wants to help, and in the end this help has to take the form of a marriage of convenience.

If you’ve read romantic fiction before, you will know what to expect, except here you can expect it in a wittier and more intelligent shape than average. This is Eva Ibbotson we’re talking about.

You know it will end well, even though we are just coming up to the beginning of the war. You know that London in 1938/39 will lead to six years of a very bad time, and these are Jewish refugees we’re talking about. Added to which is the lack of acceptance by white English people who are not too keen on foreigners.

So the war is perhaps 2% of my ‘negative rating.’ The other few percent, well, this is set – fairly realistically, I would say – in the 1930s, and the book was published in 1993, written by someone who had experience of prewar London. Had I read it back then, I’d not have seen much of a problem when Ruth and Quin finally ‘get together’ properly. But now, in 2021, this is #metoo territory. And, well, I felt uncomfortable.

It quickly returns to most of its charm again, and all is well. Only, the degree Ruth worked so hard to get, is no longer needed once there is a happy ending. Not even in this modern version of a time when that would have been the norm (or so I imagine).

On the other hand, how can you not love a heroine who knows herself; ‘Would you like me to stop talking? Because I can. I have to concentrate, but it’s possible.’ So is reciting poetry – in German – to a sheep.

The Penguin Random House Highlights Presentation

I got up bright and early, by which I mean I set my alarm clock, for a change. I was looking forward to an event that I’ve not been able to attend for far too many years owing to the distance, to get there and back in a day. It was time for the Penguin Random House Highlights Presentation, zoom version.

While I lamented the fact that I’d only actually heard of one of their advertised authors, Malorie Blackman, I still believed I’d learn something new. I did. It was that there was no zoom link forthcoming.

Though to be fair, when after half an hour I emailed the person who had invited me and also reminded me of said invite, there was an automated response, with the actual link enclosed. But I don’t believe I should have worked that one out on my own.

I was able to listen in on about 25 minutes of the presentation, which was well enough done. Less of the embarrassing pauses and delays one gets used to in cyberspace. But by then I was rattled enough not to take notes, so I took no notes. Let’s simply agree that there will be books in 2021, and they will be nice and just right for some children of various ages. The authors all came across as very pleasant people.

But there was none of the reminiscing by one [live] author to another, regarding who had been drunk at the last publishing party. (Which I’m obviously too discreet to mention, even now.) There were no freebies or piles of new books to help yourself to. I don’t care about the wine. But meeting people, be they the famous author over there, or the PR assistant over here, doesn’t matter. It’s networking. And this stood me in good stead for many years.

To remind myself of what used to be, I looked up the previous live occasions, a long time ago. Those days when I could pretend I was as important as Nicholas Tucker, or Nicolette Jones.

The unaddressed haggis

I’ll just give you the first verse of the Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns, or we’d be here all night.

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

I’ll also just give you the first verse in translation, or we’d be here all night.

Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

Our dinner did not involve any of this poetry (we were hungry), nor did it involve intestines, seeing as we went to ‘Butchers Corner’ and got their veggie version. The haggis was very nice, if a bit dry. Can’t fault the flavour at all, and I’m fairly picky when it comes to haggises.

The tatties were Golden Wonder, which was partly because that’s what they had at Butchers Corner, and partly for the fun of it, remembering the Grandfather. He spoke of Golden Wonder potatoes All The Time.

Finally, there was me, the swede, or neeps as they call me here. (Rutabaga if you live on the other side of the Atlantic.) Daughter mashed me, I mean the swede, well and good, and I don’t know why, but this was the best mashed swede I’ve ever had. Could be that Butchers Corner know where to get their neeps.

Then we talked about Gay Gordons and Dashing White Sergeants. And the haggis was neither addressed nor piped in. Life can be rough sometimes.

The Silent Stars Go By

This new book by Sally Nicholls is everything you’d want it to be. It tells the story of 16-year-old Margot who becomes pregnant just as her fiancé Harry goes off to fight in WWI in 1916. Harry doesn’t know, and when he’s reported missing in action, Margot eventually has to tell her parents about the baby. Her father is a vicar, and it’s not welcome news.

Three years later, Harry – who is not dead – returns home, and wants to see Margot, who is back for Christmas, and she has to decide what to do, what to tell him.

Set at a time when unmarried mothers were much more frowned upon than today, and also at a time when prospective future husbands were far fewer than some years earlier, this is not an easy problem to solve. Added to which is the fact that Margot’s parents adopted her son, so she can’t very well ‘take him back’.

Margot is lovely, and so is Harry. The whole village is pretty lovely. But there is still a problem to be solved. And there was a fact about adoptions I didn’t know before reading Sally’s book.

As the reader, you want everything to work out perfectly, but you can’t see how it can be done. Or which part of almost perfect it will end up having to be.

But take it from me, Sally Nicholls just gets better and better.

An inspiration lost

I don’t quite remember why Lars Westman was talking to the postbox. But it was the kind of thing he was wont to do.

I’m thinking it had to do with no stamps or not enough postage on something he had just posted, and he was trying to persuade the postbox to give the letter back, so it could be rectified. It’s obvious, you put your face close to the opening and say what you need to say.

In this case, the most interesting thing was that there was a reply. I believe there was a postal worker the other side of the hole where you post your letters, which probably means it was one of those postboxes inserted into a wall, or there would hardly have been room for a man inside the box. Certainly, my own postal background does not incorporate talking postboxes, however crazy we might have been.

It was a hilarious tale, the way many of Lars’s columns in Vi Magazine were. I read him for decades and he was always good. He was one of the people who made me want to write.

And now he’s dead. Retired for some years, he was 86. But his entertaining columns, and longer articles are ones I still remember. Except when I’ve half forgotten, like the talking postbox. (I was fully expecting Lars to get stuck, or something. Not that there’d be an actual response from within.)

The Humiliations of Welton Blake

Alex Wheatle knows how to write about black 12-year-old boys; especially the ones who are secretly in love with the prettiest girl in school, hoping that she will see past all their awkwardness and lack of experience.

Welton finally picks up the courage to ask Carmella out, only to find his day, possibly his whole life, collapsing into a pile of unfortunate mishaps, one after the other. And with a dead mobile phone, how can he contact her? (There’s obviously the actual speaking to her at school, but apart from that.)

It’s slapstick with realism; vomiting over a girl at school (no, not that girl), being threatened by the dangerous boy, running into a brick wall, wondering what to do when your mother’s new boyfriend looks so old he won’t last longer than 15 years.

This is all very general, proving that we are mostly the same on the inside. It’s a book that will show boys that everyone else isn’t necessarily that much better off in the social stakes. You just think that others have no problems. Although, not running into brick walls would obviously be a start.

But what is it with sowing the idea that dentists live in virtual palaces? Better off, yeah. But palaces, not so much.

Still, a great book for boys and girls, with and without dyslexia.

Give it a Dent

‘Do you feel like lying down in front of the tree-cutters next week?’ I asked the Resident IT Consultant. He did not wish to channel his inner Arthur Dent, so I suspect neither of us will demonstrate our displeasure with Stirling Council (and yes, I’m sure those plans have been there for anyone to see for a long time. I mean, we do know about them, so…) in the near future.

But we ought to. Do it. Wanting is saying too much, but why would we want them to spend £3m on something really stupid and unnecessary, when at the same time they need to cut down on services because they need to save £8m. If they were to ask me, I could show them how they would only need to find a way to not spend £5m.

We’re not activists. But even if we were, can one afford to engage in physical protest at a time like this? Fear of covid means no one is likely to get up close to any workers, to prevent the council from chopping down a dozen huge trees to make way for a road no one needs.

What I suspect might happen is that it’s too late to save the trees, so they will go. And then someone has second thoughts or discovers they don’t actually have the money after all, and nothing much happens. But let’s start by demolishing a wooded green area near the town centre.

I’ve often wanted to believe I was an Arthur Dent, slightly ridiculous, but a little bit brave, standing up for my rights. Not this time.