Sex and Swearing for Seven-year-olds

This week the BBC reported the flooding of YouTube with pornographic films.  ‘Flonty’ of 4Chan explained the raid as a protest. Revealing that this 21 year old and his colleagues would splice sexually explicit material into Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers videos – they were clearly targeting pre-pubescent girls who are not exactly in charge of the music download industry.

I was particularly interested by the subsequent comments. Some felt that it was no big deal because “kids need to learn how they get here” whereas others felt censorship was necessary to protect children. Now as a writer, and as a human being, I have a problem with censorship. I’m not happy about state or other control BUT just because you can doesn’t mean that you should. I’m an idealist I know, but I like more self-restraint, more discernment. There are better ways of explaining procreation.

As a true daughter of Seventies feminism (there, that’s me out of that particular closet) I  detest the exploitation of women’s bodies in porn. Teenage girls in the West seem to have won the right to look like tarts. It’s pure commercialisation and I loathe it: I have some sympathy with my Moslem compatriots.

So I’m not likely to write a sex-and-shopping bestseller  then. 

Back to the fecking swearing. I get annoyed, frustrated and eventually dissuaded from participating by inane comments on YouTube and anywhere else full of swearwords. I don’t want to see foul language printed on t-shirts stretched across some beer belly or on some moronic greetings card, never mind the kids. When did it become acceptable to eff and blind in front of people in the street? It’s the same in print on display.

 I know people have always done it. I was that teenager who thought it was cool and grown-up to let fly – but I’ve grown out of that now. Mostly. As for writing it, yes,  I had that adolescent idea that you should be realistic and it’s what people say and it’s OK.

Well, it isn’t.

As more and more coarseness becomes acceptable, it becomes necessary to go further to rebel. Then we seem to move the boundaries back, and our civilisation becomes debased. ‘Snob’ – that’s the accusation I have to answer. I was taught, and I still believe, that there are more creative ways of getting your message across, that resorting to swearing shows a paucity of vocabulary  and wit.

Now to children’s books. As a primary  teacher for well over a decade, I was often asked to recommend reading, in particular for able children. There was then and still is now , a dearth of books for young  children of very high reading ability. It’s no good putting them on older children’s books – they are not emotionally ready. I could not in all conscience recommend ‘Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging’ to a six year old no matter how advanced her vocabulary. There comes a point where they’ve read all the relevant classics – then what? Our lovely Mr Pratchett was handy for some – but with a lot of other material I’d have parents going ballistic. What a shame.

So finally, what I’m saying is that including swear words and explicit sex in children’s books can be a cheap way to ‘relate to the kids’. There are better ways to engage with your readership than writing like a MTV pop promo.

Though I reserve the right to swear like a squaddie on a Saturday night in Catterick if I trap my finger in the car door.

New plots for old

The first of an occasional series of writing ideas . These are stories which I don’t think I could do justice to – so I hope someone reading will. Please feel free to use and adapt them as you see fit.

1 A  Seal in our Stream  Based on a real event http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/8469537.stm

Elements to play with: the storm where the pup is separated from its mother, getting lost from  Belgium, being found in the stream by a family and their dog, fattening up and release. In my mind, I see a semi-factual picture book.

Shoes in her basket

A very elegant lady on York Railway Station, in a smart French navy suit wearing the palest pink kid gloves. Her glossy high heels were in a wicker basket  and  she clutched this to her side.

One stockinged foot was poised on the floor as though ready to run off at any moment. Who was she waiting for, why would she need to run?

3  Chalky and the Wax Crayon

Three elderly gentlemen discussing how to loosen a tank turret. 

“What’ll sort it then?” one asks, indignant his ideas don’t meet with general approval.

“Brute force and ignorance,” number two friend says.

 ‘If it comes to it, a dirty great lump hammer,” the third man says with great glee.

They talk with big gestures but use their fingers very precisely when demonstrating technique. There’s lots of sketching with a stubby pencil on the pack of stapled-together computer print outs. ‘Chalky’ has a triangular piece of green chalk in his breast-pocket. Apparently, his friend’s yellow wax crayon is used for counting track links.

What if it were not a restoration project for display-but for real? What uses might someone put their grandfather’s tank to!

4  My Special Day

A couple wed after being partners for twenty years. One has inherited a great deal of money and decides to blow it all on this  wedding. They have an expensive list at John Lewis, a trumpeter in the church, the bridesmaids have to  match down to their designer hand bags. Guests have their own corsages removed and replaced by co-ordinated ones for the photographs. J0 the bride is normally a bobbed redhead of a tomboy. She has had hair extensions, bleaching and curls. She is unrecognisable as this  meringue of a bride. Is it her? Why has she changed so much? What if it were one of your parents?

5 Overheard – imagination in overdrive

“He’s not a child. He knew what he was doing. ”

“So he is always been like it, then?”

She nods.

“But where did he get all that self doubt from?”

She shrugs then says, “It’s a good job she’s as laid-back as what she is. I couldn’t stand it!”

All art aspires …

… to the condition of music.

I have been puzzling over the Walter Pater quotation, and my take is that music speaks direct to the soul rather than needing explanation. There is craft, skill and interpretation in relaying music to the audience but finally, it communicates with your spirit, not your mind. Likewise with Turner’s ‘Fighting Temeraire’ or the nave of Durham Cathedral.

This led me on to considering writing in the same light. If our writing is too clever, too full of ornamentation- it may thrill the brain, the intellect – but it won’t reach deep inside. We need to write so cunningly our craft all but disappears.  What a strange craft to work so hard to remove all traces of its maker. “Ars est celare artem” – as Ovid put it – the art is to conceal art.

My old art teacher (Mrs. Wyles, God bless her, of WEGHS)  said that the second rate artists were good at the ruffles, the jewels, the things that people had about them but the best artists showed what was inside. That must be the same for writers.. at our best, we convey the essence of things in the way, for example, that the opening allegro non troppo of Beethoven’s Pastoral evokes awakening of cheerful feelings upon arriving in the country -” Gefühle bei der Ankunft auf dem Lande”. It isn’t a prettified Dresden shepherdess sort of of countryside he describes, but a consciousness. There would be no lambs gambolling with satin ribbons round their necks, if it were a poem.

Not that I aspire to the Old Radical’s level.

Yet think of the best craftwork you have ever seen; the humble Windsor chair as a f’rinstance.

It does the job, but, with such elegance and simplicity it is a thing of beauty. The best stories are like that: no fancy mouldings, drawing attention to themselves and poking you in the back, but smoothed and satisfying with a sense of rightness.

 I think this is really what is meant by the oft disparaged remark ; ” I don’t know much about Art but I know what I like “. What people respond to (unless they are taught to despise their own sensibilities) is Art which reaches them unmediated. I don’t need anyone to explain Andy Goldsworthy’s icicles any more than I need anyone to tell me what John Tavener’s ‘Protecting Veil’ means, or the point of Michael Morpurgo’s ‘War Horse’.

I  might find criticism and glosses interesting – but they are not necessary.

“All deep things are song.  It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls.”  ~Thomas Carlyle

MA Confidential

Oh dear, what have I done?   

I met some of the other MA students on Saturday 24th July – perfectly polite, normal people. Friendly actress Helen with her charmingly shy daughter, Mabel: Anita full of cat-like grace: Dana, so sophisticated yet warm; Olivia, elegant and outgoing, and quiet, thoughtful Davy. 
Nothing to be frightened of there. 
Ah, but now the emails have begun. 
Beneath those pleasant exteriors are scarily clever people. They know what a nested story structure is, they are not scared byachrony’ and ‘psycho narration’ and they write with cogency and force
Help. 

  

I can barely remember anything about ‘On Chesil Beach (though I know geographically its where Moonfleet’ takes place and I liked that much better) and I thought Sarah Waters Night Watch might be about Rembrandt. It isn’t.  
The not very hidden hippy in me really rather likes” The Artist’s Way” but I suspect these urbane and erudite types are not impressed. In fact I know jolly well Helen sees it on a prop for resting actors to pretend they’re not unemployed. Ive swallowed it hook, line and sinker:gung ho and naive as per usual. Doing my morning pages, having an artist date, all that New Agey stuff.  

 

I think ‘The Seven Basic Plots’ looks more like a thing you’d stand on to reach the top shelf than something you’d want to read. Crumbs.   

I like the look of the ‘tec stores – nice and short. And Tanglewood Tales was written for children. Hoorah.    

Oopsy – you need a dictionary just for that, I found.   

Seems I  haven’t done enough swotting to be teachers pet, looks like I’ll have to be class clown instead.Someone has to be Alan Davies.   

Brand New

or How to Get Noticed.

“…a prepossessing personality in an author is a great asset… “How to Get An Agent” by Philippa Milnes-Smith in  2010 A& C Black.

OK seems a good idea. I’d better get one. Let’s start off with interesting interests.

  1. Take up Belly Dancing like the  lovely Kathryn Evans. I suspect in my case the video would make people think of school blancmange and the little ditty beginning ‘Jelly on the plate…”
  2. Develop a musical talent – pace Jon Mayhew and his mandolin. I’m not sure three notes on the descant recorder’s really going to hack it on YouTube.
  3. Get clever with a puppet. Oh to work with the wonderful Woofy like Sue Eves. My poor old teddy has a squished nose where I used to stand on him to get at the book shelves. I don’t think he’s up to it.

Righto – how about developing a distinctive appearance?

  1. Grow a splendiferous beard like the lovely Mr Philip Ardagh. I do have the precedent of a fine hirsute lady relative but I lack the gravitas to pull it off, I fear.
  2. Sport magnificent and intriguing tattoos such as embellish Saviour Pirotta. Perhaps not. I never even liked peeling off the backing on the transfers as a child  – and it took me till I was 21 to get my ears pierced. Once.
  3. Become an all-round style icon like Sarah McIntyre of the Funky Glasses. Touch tricky for an unconstructed hippy, although I am quite good at dressing up. That’s if you count making a small tot cry when dressed up as a witch or having my picture labelled as a hobbit in the local paper when I thought I was Arwen Evenstar.

What about me? Perhaps I need to have a remarkable background.

  1.  Start at an interesting point in your life. Catherine Webb was only14 when first published ( I’m not sure that the ‘A Wet Windy Day in Wakefield’ featured in the Wakefield Express at 11 counts) and Mary Wesley started at 71.  I am 49 – ‘neither nowt nor summat ‘- as they say where I come from.
  2. Come from an intriguing culture. Candy Gourlay, that  fascinating Filipina, uses hers wonderfully in’ Tall Story’. Miriam Halahmy (what a cool name) has an Iraqi husband and all manner of family to call upon. Me – Wakefield in the Rhubarb Triangle of Yorkshire. Not the same, is it?

Oh dear. Perhaps I could hide behind other enticements?

  1. Bring out marketing goodies – let me see – a plush cuddly Giant Moray Eel? A wind-up Dave the Disastrous Diver: guaranteed to ruin any bathtime? Model of the Sinai Emperor – watch as it breaks up and sinks! Just not going to go with a Happy Meal.
  2. Feature really cool concepts. Oh dear,  I can’t nick off with  Sarwat Chadda’s kick-ass heroines and Templars or Nick Cross’s zombies. They wouldn’t all fit on my dive boat. Certainly not together.
  3. Promote Important Messages. Somehow “Don’t steal Ancient Egyptian artefacts, it will all end in tears” hasn’t got the moral integrityand pithyness of say The Lorax. Maybe ‘Be nice to fishes’. I could wear a badge. A very big badge.

I give up. I’ll just have to take a leaf out of all these brilliant people’s books  – and just write really, really well. And be myself.

Decisions, decisions.

Books in a mess

Beyond a joke

My books have reached a critical mass. They’re spilling over the carpet, lent on each other like the lintels  of Stonehenge and hiding in the spider space under the bookshelves. Some have even mounted a break- away movement, stacked like a siege engines beside the bed.

 Something has to be done.

 Him-in-the-Office has moved out into his glorified shed behind the garage. The old office was empty, abandoned, unloved. Bless him, he paints it, he varnishes the computer-chair-scuffed floor and best of all, installs three whopping great big bookshelves.

The Library

So inviting!

Utter delight.

 Simply move my books in and Bob’s your uncle, (or Charley’s your aunt or whatever). Ah. Which books to move?

Now the sitting room shelves largely consist of the sea collection. Hundreds of them: diving guides, sailing yarns,whales, shark-spotting guides, mermaids. Oh and Venice and the arty outsize jobbies. So I move Venice out to the new shelves and move some children’s books about the sea down from my study. Fine. Though I might need them.

 Still too many books upstairs.

 I move the loose canons, the stacked sets, the-slotted-in-sideways-on-top-ones. Good.

How to organise? By author – no chance. I’ve got a blog to write!

 Subject matter then. Promising:  plenty of genres – gothic spooky horror things, folklore and fantasy, maps and pub walks. Should I move ‘Mortlock’ into its section – or leave it on top of the bedside radio? Where does ‘Tall Story’ go? Odd bits. Hang on, I haven’t read all of these.

Mustn’t start reading – mustn’t look at Philip Ardagh’s Book of Absolutely Useless Lists – it’s a time machine. Discipline – stick to your brief, woman. And what was that exactly? Reorganise the  so-and-so books.

M. A. stuff, that needs to be in the study. Easy. And all the how-tos, and the other reference books I might just need. Oh – I put the folklore downstairs. Clump, clump, clump. Right – kids’ upstairs, adults down. Seems reasonable.  Not enough room – or rather the wrong sort of room. Some are outsize and won’t fit in the new shelves anyway.

 Read and unread? Possibly – but I’m not sure which ones Him-in-the-Office has read. And I am not having all his Sharpes downstairs. Bad enough seeing my Tolkien addiction revealed in all its Numenorean glory.

Odd Books

Jolly Mixtures

 I try grabbing random books and shoving them on the shelves any old how.

There aren’t many places you’ll see Meg Rossoff next to Stephenie Meyer.

 Aaargh. I give up.

I go down into the village. I buy some fresh bread, some little cork feet to stop the book ends scratching my shiny new shelves and pop in the charity shops.. and buy more books.

People and pebbles…

…an over-extended metaphor that amused me whilst up to my knees in the pond.

The Pond at Peacehaven

So there I am, navy shorts turning black with damp and fish nibbling round my toes in the soup of algae I’ve stirred up. I’ve tried rebuilding the collapsed pebbly edge of our Japanese pond from dry land and it has consistently resulted in tears and/or swearing. Lean on it a bit and it all collapses. No togetherness.

Thus I tear off my velcro, park my sandals and lower my cautious tootsie into the murk. Nice. Actually, it’s warmish, nowhere near as slimy as I feared and at least I amuse the fish. Sparrows chitter on the fence ( probably laughing like those winged and toothy monsters in Roobarb and Custard).  The sun sneakily fries  the gap between my shorts and teeshirt, and glimmers on a stone full of mica. So pretty, so eyecatching and so flaky. Celebrity silica. It starts my thoughts off on a ramble.

We have five sorts of stone around the pond. There is a fine rockery of large, rough slabs around the cascade, laid by my husband. Tough, a bit coarse and enduring – the sort that will withstand a lot. These take a fair old bit of organising but make an excellent group.

Then there is a motley collection of sizable waterworn boulders; artistic, smooth, individual but don’t work well too close to each other. They have to be spread out, considered by themselves as unique.

Next come the pebbles – hundreds of thousands of ’em. Wave upon wave that blend in the eye as one sea of shingle but if looked at closely, each has its own character. They’re the ones that tumble into the pond with the slightest provocation and cause me to fume.

Smallest in size is the gravel. It doesn’t even seem to match the others if left in patches. Little bits, seemingly insignificant – but so useful for the gaps, the awkward spaces. Self-effacing, easy to manipulate and ignore. Yet brings a lovely cohesion when spread about and integrated into the whole design.

Ah but that’s only four.

This last group really interested me when dealing with the edge. The big rocks are too hard to manoeuvre, the boulders too peculiar. The well-rounded pebbles and the tiny shingle collapse. It’s the awkward squad that do the job. The broken, the knobbly, the frankly ugly ones, that underpin the most difficult part of the construction. Rejects are strong and have their place in the scheme of things.

This week’s worries.

 

Thursday: try to edit the row about the open porthole scene. When will Occado come?The 9-10 slot passes. Go to yoga-I can’t empty my mind of ‘tomato puree, did I order any?’ and ‘too much passive voice’. Lunch – bus  – tutoring.

It dawns on me. 9-10pm.

Friday: Hooray, hooray -cleaning day! The world and his dog for a barbecue on Sunday. Usual dilemma- clean first, write later? I mop and manage a micro- edit.

Saturday:  Montezuma chocolates melting – bought for Steve’s Mum. The bus is late. I make buns and tinker with The Thirteenth Pharaoh.

Sunday: No worries on the writing part. I didn’t do any.

Monday: Greg Mosse has prompted me to think about the main part of my MA – serial monogamy or a bit on the side?

Tuesday: My editing – making things better or worse? At least some variant of each chapter’s now in version 3.  Son number three arrives – gives tutorial on website. So quick, so clever. Puts me on spot – do it in front of him. I chicken out.

Go to Chichester – borrow car, worry about reversing lanky estate into walls. Talk at Library. Which road? Arrive – no lights, no swishee swishee automatic door,  no sign of anyone.

Did I get the time right, the venue, the day? Go to box office – pairs and pairs of posh people in evening dress. No enlightenment. Steam out of ears, or tears from eyes threaten.

Today: Will I post this right? Will anyone read my stuff – ever?

Welcome to my Wonderful World of Worry.