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...