J.D. Salinger the American writer has died at the age of 91. What a legacy he has left behind.  His seminal book, The Catcher in the Rye, was a classic that has influenced writers, playwrights, film directors and musicians ever since. I remember reading the opening page and being blown away by it. Published in 1951(I read it twenty years or so later, by the way!) it was perhaps the first ‘teen’ book of its kind. The main character, Holden Caulfield, is bolshy, defensive, angst- ridden, anti-establishment and so, so real. He disarms you from the start.

‘If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap.’

‘All that David Copperfield kind of crap.’ Fantastic! What a fishhook of a sentence. That’s exactly what an opening should do; draw you in, make you want to read on.

Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt (published in 1996 about growing up in Limerick in the 1930s) had the same impact, though it wasn’t a ‘teen’ book as such. ‘People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty, the shiftless, loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and their terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years. Above all - we were wet.’

‘Above all - we were wet.’ Ha! So we’re going to get humour too, the reader thinks. Excellent.

For pure pathos in an autobiography, though, Maxim Gorky’s My Childhood’s (published in Russia around 1914) introduction takes some beating.

‘Father lay by the floor, by the window of a small, darkened room, dressed in white, and looking terribly long. His feet were bare and his toes were strangely splayed out. His gentle fingers, now peacefully resting on his chest, were also distorted, and the black discs of copper coins firmly sealed his once shining eyes. His dark face had darkened and its nastily bared teeth frightened me.”

There’s no short, pithy phrase to repeat here but the description of the coins on his father’s eyes haunted me when we first read this in class in Year Nine.

But I digress. Back to The Catcher in the Rye. What was interesting about this book was the impact it had on Salinger. It became such a cult Salinger couldn’t deal with the fame that came with that. He shunned the limelight and became more and more of a recluse. Although he wrote other titles Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roof Beam included, it was Catcher in the Rye people continued to reference. I can see why it must have ticked him off. It’s like Robbie Williams being asked to sing Angels over and over again at concerts. ‘Come on you guys! I’ve done other stuff!’

Rumours are that Salinger had stacks of manuscripts that never saw the light of day. Watch out for the feeding frenzy that now takes place.

J.D. Salinger born January 1st 1919  died in Cornish, New Hampshire, January 27th 2010.

What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, writing was like pulling teeth, but today I managed to finish the first draft of Tabinda’s story and begin the final edits. I love this part. Although I use a word processor to write, when it comes to checking through the draft, I prefer having real sheets of paper on my desk to read through.  So, I print the manuscript off, sharpen my pencil and begin scything through the text, cutting out sentences, paragraphs and sometimes entire chapters without a qualm. I’m that hard, me.  ‘Murder your darlings’ as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch advised in his essay ‘On the Art of Writing’ delivered to Cambridge University in 1914 (thank you Google).

‘Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of finely executed writing, obey it - whole-heartedly - and delete it before you send your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.’

It is sound advice -  for the sake of pace, usually - and I have followed it throughout my writing career.  Would-be writers who can’t bear to cull their offerings tend to remain just that. Would-be.

After the pencil work I’ll return to the screen and make the changes, print the story off again (I never said it was an environmentally friendly method) and go through the same process. This time there should be fewer corrections; it’s more a matter of attention to detail this time - a better word here, a tightening of a sentence there.  Individual sheets are printed this time instead of the whole thing, although this can be annoying when the changes impact on the layout and. After that I leave it for a day or two before coming back to read it through again with fresher eyes. Finally, after a few more adjustments that I previously missed, it should be ready to post.

Today I could not write.

I tried.

I sat there and stared at the screen

Willing the words to come

Telling myself I was not to leave until I’d written something

Anything

Eventually a paragraph of sorts appeared

As truculent as a teenage boy being forced to go to school.

Present, but determined to contribute nothing of worth.

So, like a jaded teacher,  I gave up

and waited for that final bell.

I sought displacement

Like a contestant on the Crystal Maze

I did a physical

Raked dead leaves from the back lawn

Put a wash in the machine

Set the coal fire and stocked up on kindling

I checked my e-mails and was mocked by an empty inbox

Played Van Morrison

The Cure

And Jack Peñate

Peeled some spuds

Then read opening pages of some children’s books

To see what gripped and drew the reader in

Hoping for inspiration from them.

The Once and Future King

The Little White Horse

Ballet Shoes

Malice

and Jackdaw Summer

But that didn’t work.

I’d already got my opening and it was just fine.

It was the end I needed to crack

So I decided that I’d better stop all this self indulgent time-wasting lame excuse for laziness

and pull my finger out.

I’m sure that’s what Enid Blyton would have done.

Edinburgh

Today is Burns Night.  Robert Burns (1759 - 1796) is Scotland’s bard and the Scots traditionally celebrate his birthday by piping in a haggis on a silver platter and reciting Burns’ poems throughout the evening. There may or may not be whisky drunk by the gallon too.

Haggis is the national dish of Scotland. Here’s the recipe if you want to make one quick before supper time. You’ll need:

HAGGIS:

1 sheep’s stomach bag

1 sheep’s pluck (i.e. liver, lungs and heart)

3 onions

250g beef suet

150g oatmeal

salt and pepper

cayenne pepper

150mls stock

Don’t let the stomach bag and pluck thing put you off. Haggis is delicious, especially served with neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes).

Once the haggis has been piped in (by bagpipers, obviously) the Selkirk Grace is recited over the dish.

The Selkirk Grace

Some hae meat and canna eat

And some wad eat that want it

But we had meat and we can eat

And sae the Lord be thankit

****

Then there’s Burns’ own tribute to the haggis written in 1786:

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,

Great chieftain o’ the pudding race

Aboon them a’ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe or thairm

Weel are ye wordy o’a grace

As lang’s my arm

(for the whole poem, go to the BBC website, click on Burns Night and hear John Gordon Sinclair recite the whole poem. You’ll be none the wiser but it’s moving stuff)

Isn’t ’sonsie’ a brilliant word? It means cheerful.

I’m off now to write a poem to the real ‘chieftain of the pudding race’, the Yorkshire Pudding, though I expect the bard of Barnsley, Ian Macmillan’s already done one.

The Family from One End Street - published 1937. Just because it was my favourite book as a child doesn't mean I'd want to live in those days

I read something that shocked me last week. Rickets has returned. Rickets!  Rickets is a medical condition caused by an acute lack of vitamin D and exposure to sunlight. In this country it is usually associated with Victorian and Edwardian times. The last time I saw anyone with rickets (where the legs bow outwards from knees to ankles so that the person with it appears to rock from side to side as they walk) was when I was tiny.  I remember a few of the old ladies that went to my Great Grandma’s chapel had it. We’re talking almost fifty years ago, meaning the women would have been born, like my great grandma, around 1890.

And why has rickets made a resurgence? Through poverty? Malnutrition? Political Correctness?  No. Because kids aren’t getting enough exercise and sunlight. They’re too busy watching telly/ playing on their Nintendos indoors. If this is true then it is truly alarming. All human beings need sunlight on their skin and fresh air in their lungs for at least some of the day. Kids, get out more or you’ll end up like in the film Wall- E,  where humans have become so reliant on technology they’ve not got just bowed legs but they’ve lost the use of their legs altogether.  In Wall-E, humans have become so obese and braindead, they spend the day on hoverboards pressing buttons that endlessly feed them. Is Wall-E life and rickets really the future? I know the technical revolution is being blamed for us losing our ability to concentrate, for causing poorer face-to-face communication, for the breakdown of good manners (texting during meals etc) and a whole raft of woes. Rickets, though. Rickets! Seriously?  Man, that’s scary.

There’s a new links page on my website. Click on ‘links’ on the homepage and you’ll find a cute button on the letters page that links you to all sorts of amazing sites.  Check out Sonia Leong, the Girls FC illustrator, Tom Palmer the football writer, bookbag an amazing book review site and find out what’s new at Walker Books and OUP.You can also find out about the Griffins, the women’s football team that has helped me so much with Girls FC and, of course I had to add a link Huddersfield Town.

My blog will also have an RSS feed soon so that people can leave comments about my blogs. Watch this space….

I recently had some stats about my website in general. It’s amazing the variety of countries I’ve had ‘visits’ from. The USA, India, Slovenia, Canada, Australia, the United Arab Emirates … Hi ya’ll! G’day! Bismillahi rahrlani rahim and thank you. Call again soon!

on yer bike...

Writing is not the best occupation for keeping fit. Even pacing the floor trying to think of plot solutions doesn’t really burn up calories, especially if you are pacing the floor trying to think of plot solutions with a packet of garibaldi biscuits in one hand and a cup of builder’s tea in the other!

Hours spent at the computer can lead to a bad back, RSI, strained eyesight, lethargy and an empty biscuit barrel. Not good. There is a definite link between mental health and physical health. The fitter you are, the more clear thinking and alert you are.  It’s in a writer’s best interest to exercise, especially when that writer has written a book called ‘Who Ate All The Pies?’ The last thing I want is for kids on a school visit to nudge each other and go: ‘I think we all know the answer to that one, don’t we?’

I’ve been going to the gym for about five years now. I try to go three times a week but it’s more often twice. My target since New Year has been to burn off 400 calories every time I go. It’s very girlie, I know, but I understand calories. Challenging myself to row so many metres means nothing to me.

I start off on the bike in the photograph, if it’s available. I like the fact it has a view to the outside; it means i can pretend I’m cycling through the countryside. The irony is I could be riding through the countryside for real if I knew how to mend a puncture but that’s another story.

So I cycle away on the exercise bike either reading a book or looking at the view. As you can see it’s not a brilliant view but there’s plenty going on. See that little wooden bridge near the furthest tree? Yesterday there was a bunch of schoolkids larking around on the bridge. Four boys and a girl, all about fourteen. The girl was aggro-flirting - you know what I mean - punching and pushing the lads to get their attention. In the end one of them picked her up and held her over the bridge that spans a muddy stream full of water and crisp packets and threatened to drop her in.  He knew and she knew and I knew he wouldn’t drop her. While he was doing that a guy who’d just left the gym strode past, raised a warning hand and continued on his way. No words were exchanged but the boy righted the girl immediately. She gave him a thump and the whole thing started again.  Another mini adventure right there.

If its not people its grey squirrels. Three of them. They favour the tree nearest to the window, scampering up its trunk with such agility as if to mock me and the others on the other side of the window. ‘Call that exercise, lady?  Watch this!’

When I’m really bored  ( after six minutes and 35 calories) I test myself on the view. What colour are the cars in the car park?  How many windows in the building on the right. What variety of tree?  Writers. They never let up.

uncorrected proof copy©

‘Gram is worried about me. It’s not just because my sister Bailey died four weeks ago, or because my mother hasn’t contacted me in sixteen years or even because suddenly all I think about is sex. She is worried because one of her houseplants has spots.”

So begins The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson. In one short, opening paragraph Nelson does what only a skilled writer can do. She draws us in quickly and packs a punch. Already we know the key themes; death, abandonment, sex and humour.

In many ways, the story is familiar chick-lit territory. Lennie, the 17 year old narrator, in trying to make sense of her sister’s death, forms a brief, intense relationship with her sister’s boyfriend Toby. It confuses both of them; taboos are broken. Just as she’s trying to fathom what’s happening on that front, along comes Joe Fontaine, new kid on the block, gorgeous, kooky, musical like Lennie.  He shows up at the house, unafraid of the grief each member of the family exhibits (as well as the nurturing green-fingered and artistic granny, Lennie has an eccentric much married and divorced pothead Uncle living with them) . But all Joe wants is to play a duet with Lennie.  Of course, they fall in love. Cue triangle. Then there’s the goofy, trusty sidekick Sarah, unconventional (of course) and Rachel the rival for Joe’s affections, (spiteful, of course) . Plus page after page of the wisecracking dialogue we’ve come to expect from American teens.

What lifts The Sky is Everywhere above the genre is the sheer quality of the writing. Despite the same events occuring over and over again - Lennie starts to feel happy then is overwhelmed with guilt at daring to feel happy when Bailey is dead and can’t - I always wanted to read on. I liked the poems Lennie hastily scribbles and leaves everywhere that end every chapter. I liked the insights. ‘When someone dies a library burns.’ I loved the witty descriptions. Nelson is especially good at clothing: ‘Sarah floats in dressed like a fabric shop specialising in paisley.’ and ‘I turn to see Gram has put on a bright pink floral no-clue-what - a coat? A cape? A shower curtain? - over an ever brighter purple flowered frock. Her hair is down and wild - it looks like it conducts electricity.’ This is deft, skilled writing, perfectly pitched for its intended audience.

The Sky is Everywhere is published in June by Walker Books. It will do well.

Perfect for: fans of Stephanie Meyer, Sue Limb, Skins etc.

Having lunch in Daquise’s yesterday reminded me of bigos. Bigos is a traditional Polish winter stew made from sauerkraut, smoked sausage, pork, beef and bacon. When my husband was growing up, his mum would make this in a huge pot. It is eaten with rye bread. The beauty of it is that it keeps - you can just leave it on the stove and keep re-heating it.

Polish stew

Joshua Lacey, Catherine Johnson and Rudolf the red nosed writer in Daquise's

I had to go to London yesterday for a CWIG (Children’s Writers and Illustrators Group) meeting.  As the meeting didn’t begin until 3.00 pm I arranged to meet up with fellow writers Catherine Johnson, Joshua Lacey and Lily Hyde for lunch. Writing is quite an isolating occupation so it’s always good to meet with people who  can identify with what you do.

As the CWIG meeting is at the Society of Authors’ HQ in Kensington, Josh suggested we met near South Kensington tube station at a Polish restaurant called Daquise on Thurloe Street.  Daquise turned out to be a perfect spot - easy to find, not too busy, not too expensive and full of character. The food wasn’t brilliant;  my pierogi (meat patties similar to ravioli) was a little undercooked, as were Catherine and Josh’s fried potatoes but that didn’t matter. It was just cool being in such an authentic environment in such stimulating company.  Josh, we owe you five quid by the way!

pierogi

the meal I wish I'd chosen (and Lily did choose)