And I'm Out The Other Side...

          ...Of World Book Day, that is - or rather, the week it takes

Guess which Urban Myth I told...

place in.
          Over ten days, I went into three schools. I know some writers do much more, but these three visits involved long drives, overnight stays - and I get old, I get old. It was enough for me.
          The first school was Arthur Mellow's Collegiate, near Peterborough. So that was a 200 mile drive and an overnight stay. In a chilly B&B, which wasn't quite as freezing as the one I stayed in during December, but still far from comfortable. B&B owners seem to think that England is a suburb of Melbourne, where December through to March is the hottest time of the year.
          I spent the entire day at Arthur Mellows working with the same group of 'gifted and talented' pupils, presenting a Creative Writing Workshop. It's unusual, in my experience, for a school to be as bold as this, and I applaud it.
          First I told the group a short story, an Urban Folktale.
          Then I showed them how the suspense in that story was created, that it's not so much what happens in a story that creates the interest, but largely down to the way it's told. It doesn't matter, in fact, whether a story is about someone's life being endangered by a serial killer, or an old teddy-bear trying to find his lost owner - the story will follow the same pattern, and whether the story works or not will largely depend on how it follows that pattern.
          I gave them copies of the story I told them, and had them identify the 'building blocks' of the story. Then I set them the task of inventing their own story, in brief outline. It could be any kind of story - provided it included all the building-blocks we'd looked at. In this way, I hoped to get them to invent a complete story, with a satisfactory ending - and not, as so often happens, to charge off into their first idea, and then be dissatisfied and disappointed because they couldn't find an ending.
          They worked on their stories for an hour, while I went round finding out about them. There was an age-range from 11/12 to 14/15, and a wide range of subjects. I encouraged them all to start thinking about their ending. Who did they want to 'win'? Was it to end happily or sadly? With others, I discussed re-arranging their story's elements, to achieve a better structure.
          In the hour immediately before lunch, we held a 'writer's surgery' where they heard each other's stories - which were wonderfully varied and imaginative - and gave each other feedback. How well had the building blocks been handled? What worked well about the story? What could be improved?

          In the afternoon, we took a look at building character, and setting scene. I enjoyed the day enormously.  One student wrote on her feedbac form (and entirely without coercion from me, as I'd left my knuckledusters at home): 'I want to be an author when I’m older and workshops like this one are inspiring and helpful. THANK YOU!'

The Sterkarm Handshake

          At Cardinal Griffin, I've just been appointed their 'Patron of Reading,' and this was a first visit, a 'getting to know you' day. I saw several classes, for an hour each time, and told them something of my life, and about the ideas and research behind my book, The Sterkarm Handshake.
          And there was cake for lunch - baked by the lovely librarian, Jacqueline Biddle. Some senior students came along to join us - but had all eaten their packed lunches at break!
          It was a fun day, with some very acute questions from the students, and I look forward to working with Griffin again.
          Griffin was a mere hour's drive from home - but good lord, the traffic! At roughly 3-45pm, the traffic on Birmingham's car-park (the M6) was so horrendous that I pulled off and drove home through the urban sprawl of the Black Country, where, if you can credit it, the roads were quieter, and I was able to get out of second gear.
          A pit-stop at home that night, and then next day I set out for Salisbury and my B&B.
          I thought I was never going to get there. I drove and drove and drove, but the roads seemed to keep unwinding on an endless spool. I think I drove, that day, on every kind of road that exists in the UK (with the possible exception of the roads on the Isle of Mull and the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, whose unique roads sometimes take a break and disappear from view altogether.)
          But after three hours and 120 miles (only 120? It felt like much more) I arrived at my B&B, which was on a farm, Swaynes Firs Farm. There were ornamental ducks, a very warm welcome from the charming landlord, and a good breakfast the next morning.
          I was away at 7-30 am, to drive to the school, Godolphin, an independent girls' boarding school, founded in 1726. I spent the

morning in the Prep school, where first I told the girls about myself in assembly - and then had a hugely enjoyable time until about half eleven.
          First, I read my books, The Runaway Chapati, and How The Bear Lost His Tail, to the youngest. They chanted out the choruses, were afraid for the chapati, and sorry for the bear, and a good time was had by all.
          Then I used the wonderful StoryWorld cards by John and Caitlin Matthews. Each card has a very detailed and beautiful picture on it, with questions to prompt ideas. The children were split into groups, and I gave each group a character card. When they'd had a moment to think about it, I gave them another card,

One of the StoryWorld cards

which featured a place or an object. I asked them to find the link between their character and the subject of the new card.
          If you want to see the power of story in action, use these cards. We tell stories about everything, we think in stories, we teach with stories - and the excitement and glee of the children as they spot some detail in the card and 'discover' some new twist in their story, is beautiful to see. And I, as ever, was amazed and delighted by the ideas they came up with - things I would never have thought of, and never expected.
          I gave them a little guidance - asked them to think about their endings.
          At 11-30, I was fetched to the Senior School and there, immediately before lunch, I began the Creative Writing Workshop by telling, and breaking down, an Urban Myth. After lunch (which was very good) the girls divided into two groups and worked on their own stories. Again, I went round, seeing as many as I could, advising them to think about what kind of ending they wanted, so they knew where their story was heading.
          At the end of the afternoon, we had a writers' surgery - all gathered in the lovely old school hall. We dragged chairs and benches into a big circle, and I grabbed the headmaster's throne.
         The girls' teacher feared that they might be hesitant to criticise each other's work, and there'd be nothing but praise - but the girls had not only come up with very different stories - all complete with endings which ranged from happy to doom-laden - but gave each other excellent feedback on what had worked, and what was confusing, and what defied belief.
          I stressed that this kind of criticism is an ordinary part of a writer's working life - that if someone said their story wasn't believable, they shouldn't be crushed. It simply meant that you rewrote the story, changing details, until it was believable.
          And then I was out the door for a three hour drive home. After two hours, stopped at a Little Chef, for a coffee and bacon and eggs. The glamorous writer's life.
          I wouldn't change it, though.

And have you guessed what the Urban Myth was yet?

 Photo: Wikimedia Commons, Pato Garza

So What Do You Do In Schools Anyway?

In full story-telling flow: 'Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum!'

          A friend asked me this the other day.  It’s not the first time I’ve been asked it.  My friends seem deeply puzzled by the amount of time I spend in schools.

          I can understand, I suppose.  After all, unlike many other writers, I’ve never been a teacher.  I have no qualifications.  I know lots of little bits of odd things, but I can’t claim to be an expert in any one subject.

          My partner, Davy, who phoned while I was writing this blog, insists that I put in here that my education came from ‘voracious reading’ (his words.)  He insists that I add this, with his usual relentless Scottish persistence, in case people think that I’m "thick and only managed to write a book by a fluke. You shouldn’t keep telling people you’re unqualified, you should stop that now."

          Sixty-odd books, Davy?  Some fluke.  But now, when he reads this (and he will read it, just to check, I ken the cheukster) here is his correction, [almost] as dictated over the phone.

          Despite being thick and flukish, I’m always telling friends that I’m off to some school in Yorkshire, or South Wales, or Scotland.  I’ve even been into schools in Germany, where one boy asked me breathlessly (in beautiful English) whether I’d met the Queen.  He and his classmates gasped with shock when I replied, “No: and I don’t want to. I think Britain should be a Republic.”  Seeing astonished expressions on all sides, I added, “Not everybody in Britain adores the monarchy.”

Soon to be available for download

          The head thanked me later, saying that was exactly why he wanted British visitors – to counter the impression of Britain that his pupils received from television and magazines. (The ever protective and vigilant Davy doesn’t like this part either.  He thinks I’ll lose my monarchist readership: as if I ever had one.  Honestly, love the man, but if I listened to him, I’d never open my mouth or write a word. And when Davy reads this, he will cry – his constant refrain – ‘Suzzie, you never do as you’re told, Suzzie!’)

         Countering impressions received… That’s pretty much the answer to my friends’ question.  As a writer in school, I – and other writers, such as my SAS friends – are giant teaching aids. There are thousands of children who’ve never given much thought to where books come from, or who think they’re only written by – well, by people like the Queen, perhaps: distant, rich people with private educations and plummy accents. And then I turn up – an ordinary woman, with a Black Country accent, and read from the books I’ve written.

Tales of the Underworld on Amazon

          It makes writing a book suddenly seem like something ordinary people can do - something that living people you can talk to can do.  I tell them about the slum I was born in, and the council estate I was raised on, the comprehensive I attended.

          I tell stories, which I love – and because I read an exciting story aloud from one of my own books – well, suddenly, books are exciting and worth investigating.

          And that’s what writers are doing in schools near you.

          Here, you'll find SAS members, including me, reading from their books.  And I daresay one or two might two might pop up in the comments.

          Blott's come down from the roof....

 

STOP, START, SWOP, SWITCH

          I forgot Davy’s birthday.

          After fourteen years during which he has never once forgotten my birthday – I forgot his.

          He took me out to lunch yesterday.  When I offered to chip in, he said, “Oh, this is on Auntie – she put a note in my card.”  Somewhere at the back of my head I noted that he cocked an eye at me pointedly as he said this, but even then I didn’t make the connection.

          On the way back, he said, “So I take it that you really have forgotten my birthday?”

          This was when I clapped my hands over my face and put my head on my knees.  Luckily, he was driving.

          My excuse is that, like most writers, my life is made up of bits.  It’s constantly stop, start, swop, switch – and presently I’m stopping, starting, swopping and switching more than ever.

          I’m currently Royal Literary Fund Fellow at De Montfort University.  For one to two days a week, I get up at 5-30, drive there, and get home about 8pm.  I have to keep appointments in order and updated, keep up with paperwork and answer all the numerous e-mails.

Vikings did NOT have horned helmets!

          Between now and Christmas, I also have to make five visits to a primary school to ‘time-travel’ with the children back to the Viking Age.  This is going to be huge fun, but it means planning the sessions and doing research.

          I’m my own secretary, answering emails from other schools who want me to visit, updating my calendar, discussing plans with the school, working out charges, travel plans etc.

          At the same time, I’m Admin on the Do Authors Dream of Electric Books? blog, and we’ve just sent out a press release – so more emails and blog updating.

          Then I’m publishing my own e-books.  I’m trying to get ten e-books on sale, which means hours of scanning, editing and proof-reading: then adding labels to Amazon.com and co.uk

          I even write, occasionally.  I’m struggling with the third Sterkarm book.  It isn’t easy to find time for it.  Just as I’m getting to a crux, there’ll be a knock on the door as another student arrives, or the phone rings.

          The book isn’t easy to write either.  It is, as Davy would say, ‘a heid-nipper’.   I feel like I’ve been fighting the Sterkarms hand-to-hand for months – and they never fight fair.

          On top of all this, because I don’t have a wife, I have to make sure I have a clean outfit for University and schools, I have to shop, cook, wash-up – keep accounts, send out invoices, bank…

          I’ve run out of head-space.  It’s so crammed in there that something had to fall out of my ears – and unfortunately, it was Davy’s birthday.

          He’d like to have some friends over this weekend.  At my place.  He’d like me to cook.  I groaned, I protested – but I forgot his birthday.

          So agenda for the next few days: frenzied cleaning of house’s more public areas. Choosing of menu. Straight from Viking Age and primary school to supermarket. Cooking. While not forgetting anything needed for school and University the following week.

          I'd only do it for him.  Venison casserole and pannecotte?

          And here's a very apt Blot - 

CEILIDH!

‘Harken!’ cried the bard, and struck the strings of his lyre.  The mead-hall fell silent and listened.

          ‘With a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you,’ said Philip Sidney, in surprise, ‘ with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner.’

          It wasn’t only in the halls of the rich that people fell silent to hear a story.  In small towns and villages people gathered together in one house, to save on fuel and candles, as they sewed, knitted, repaired or made tools. The visitors brought food and drink with them, and to pass the time they told stories.  The Scots called such a gathering a ceilidh.  Growing up in the industrial Midlands, I never knew the word, but knew the concept: “Dad – tell us how you gave Gran’s best sheets to the rag-and-bone-man… Mum, tell us about the shop with the parrot…”

          The storytellers knew their audience, because they were part of it.  They picked up from the air whether the company wanted – even needed – a merry tale, an encouraging tale, an eerie tale, or a sad one, to let the tears flow.

          Words have power – I found myself writing about their power in my Ghost World books.

Some people believe this is only true of the past.  People now don’t want story-tellers, they think – now people have television and YouTube.

          I often go into schools and tell stories, and I can tell you authoritatively that this isn’t so.

          I have told stories to crammed rooms of 60 children, all of them sitting open-mouthed and round-eyed, holding their breaths.  You can feel the story buzzing in the air.

          I’ve told ‘Mr. Fox’ and had a group of technicians stop work to listen, and applaud at the end.

          I’ve watched as children with unfocussed eyes, unconsciously acted out the story, lost in their own heads.

          Words, and stories, have power.  When I describe Ambrosi’s listeners in Ghost Song helplessly acting out his stories, I described what I’d seen.

Cruikshank's storyteller

          A story springs to life when you tell it.  I’ve several times told what I thought was a mildly scary tale to a class, only to find that somewhere in the space between us, the tale took on ferocious strength.  I think: I can’t tell anymore of this!  It’s too scary! – But I can’t stop either, because of all those avid, listening faces.  A story has the onward power of a train.

          Story-tellers and listeners – story-tellers and readers – it’s a tight bond.

          Increasingly, publishers have been intervening, saying, 'this writer’s  last book only sold X amount.  We won’t publish any more.'

          Saying, 'Your central character’s a woman, so you must have pink and sparkly marketing.'

          Saying, 'Love the book, but you must make the gay character straight – readers don’t want short stories – don’t want novellas don’t want to mix sci-fi and romance – don’t want heroines over 20.'

          Story-tellers know what their audience wants because they are part of that audience.  The Marketing Department doesn’t, because they aren’t, and only read spread-sheets.

          One of the many things I love about the internet is that it’s putting story-tellers and story-lovers in touch again, with comments flying back and forth.

          Try ReVamp

          Try Authors Electric!

          Try ABBA

          The publisher is being shoved out the door, while storytellers and listeners crowd round the fire again – albeit a virtual fire on a computer screen.

          Ceilidh!  Pass the scones and whisky.

Website - www.susanpriceauthor.com 

          I'm afraid Blot is still asleep from last week...