Dan Smith's Blog, page 15

Strangling Imagination

The summer holiday is one of those difficult times for parents. People have busy lives, work to do. But, the way I see it, children have busy lives too and they need the holiday as a bit of down time.

I reckon being a little 'un can be tough.

So many parents have to send their children to this afternoon club or that afternoon club. Some children go to these clubs every night after school because Mum and Dad are busy at work. Tennis, football, ballet . . . if you're a parent, you'll know the score. And when the summer holiday comes along, there are numerous holiday clubs available for busy parents to send their children to.

I'm not knocking it. Not judging. It's just the way it is.

I joke that I can't get much work done during the holidays because I work from home, but really I wouldn't have it any other way. I like it that my children are at home instead of at a club. And while I understand the need for clubs, and I understand the opportunities and experiences it can give children, I wonder if there's something missing. And I wonder if it strangles their imagination.

My brother and I used to get up to all sorts and I have lots of good memories. But then, we lived in places without TV and in the days when 'clubs' meant cubs or scouts. Yesterday, though, I was watching my two playing together in the garden. They giggled. They fought. They shouted at each other. They made friends again. They invented games. They . . . well, they did whatever they liked. Admittedly, they were constrained to the garden rather than allowed to roam further – we live in the city and roaming probably isn't a great idea for a five year old – but they were imagining. They were making their own entertainment rather than watching TV or playing computer games or being told what to do, and it was great to see.

I understand the benefits of clubs, but as long as the children are instructed, they're not making their own decisions. If they're being told where to stand, how to kick a ball, what game to play, how to play the game, then they're not using their imaginations.

That said, my son did keep running in to ask if he could check how his Smurfs village was doing on the iPad.

Authors in bed.

Read Regional and the Durham Book Festival are coming together with the Durham Radisson Hotel to . . . well, I don't know if I'm allowed to let the cat out of the bag yet. Suffice to say that there was a photoshoot yesterday afternoon and it involved hotel rooms, beds, and authors in dressing gowns.

That's all I'm saying for now. Let your imaginations do the rest.

Oh, and you'll just have to wait if you want to see the pictures.

 

 

The south is a foreign country: they do things differently there.

You know what really surprises me?

This whole north/south divide thing.

At least, it did surprise me until just last week.

Now, maybe this is because I'm a northerner – and everyone knows we live in semi-dark, freezing conditions up here; I mean, we all wear flat caps and mumble into warm beer 'n' stuff – but when I was in London recently (Covent Garden) I walked into a shop and asked the assistant where the nearest cash machine is. She looked at me with a vague expression, shrugged, shook her head, and replied in broken English that she didn't know. I'm not sure if she meant she didn't understand my question or if she didn't know where the nearest ATM was but . . . well, I'm pretty sure if I did the same thing in Newcastle, the assistant would reply in a Geordie accent and tell me exactly where the nearest cash machine is.

And then I asked a security guard outside a shop in Piccadilly Circus if he'd point us to the right street for Fortnum & Mason, and what did he do? He shrugged, shook his head and replied in broken English that he didn't know where it was.

And then (yup, I could go on), after a long meeting with my agent, we went to the pub. When I asked for a large Bombay Saphire with tonic . . . guess what? Yep. The guy behind the bar shrugged, shook his head and replied in broken English that he didn't know what it is.

Blimey. It really IS a foreign country down there.

Summer Reads

North Tyneside is launching their 'Summer Reads' campaign this week and guess what? DRY SEASON is one of the two books they've chosen.

So I'll be at North Shields Library on Thursday 21st at 7pm to talk about DRY SEASON and read a few passages from it – to encourage people to pick it up and give it a go. I'm pretty sure people won't be disappointed if they invest a little time in reading my book and it's great to have another opportunity to spread the word.

The idea is that over the summer, people will read DRY SEASON or THE GUARDIAN ANGEL'S JOURNAL by Carolyn Jess-Cooke (or, even better, read both) and then in September there'll be an opportunity to talk to us about the books at greater length. Of course, if anyone wants to contact me before then, they're more than welcome – I always like to hear from readers and there are plenty of ways to contact me via this blog, twitter, facebook etc.

Anyway, if you're around, why not come along? There's a £3 admission charge, but it includes a glass of wine, and there will be discounted books on sale.

summer reads pdf

No Workshop Will Change That

So, I'm going to do a workshop. A creative writing workshop.

Oh, and when I say 'do' I don't mean . . . you know . . . 'do' a workshop. I'm not going to shoot it, or shag it, I'm going to stand at the front and lead others in writing exercises and talk about writery things. And this is something I never imagined myself doing.

I've attended quite a lot of workshops. I have a Masters in Creative Writing which involved quite a few. I even had to show that I could organise, plan and run a workshop, so I'm not too much of a stranger to this. However, (and don't shoot me) I really do believe that you can't teach people to write.

Wait, let me explain; I do think there is value in talking about style and form, about character development and plot development and all the other stuff. I also believe there's value to be had in going through the kinds of exercises workshops advocate. Whether you write only for personal pleasure, with the goal of being published, or as a published author, all of these things can help a writer to be better at what they do. But if you're not a story teller, then you're not a story teller, and no amount of workshops will change that. Then again, there's nothing to stop you from having a go, having some fun – you never know, you really might have a writer hiding in you.

Anyway, this is an interesting experience for me, because I've never analysed (that's such an awful word when you break it up) the way I write. I just . . . write. I'm not a heavy plotter. I don't really plan much more than making a few notes. I get an idea, I have the barebones of a character, and when I start writing, the characters go their own way and take over. Y'know, I sometimes interfere, throw something unpleasant in their path, give them a treat and then take it away, but other than that, those guys are pretty much on their own.

But now I am giving it some thought and it's confirming to me how much I love writing (and reading) and I'm really starting to look forward to this workshop.

But the part I'm most excited about? The bit where I make everyone squirm when I put them on the spot and ask them to 'tell us 'a little bit about yourself'.

That's gonna be great.

Back to School

I sarted this week by going back to school. I don't mean that in an American Frat Movie kind of way. No beer guzzling or pretending to be a teenager again (please, God no). What I mean to say is that I went to my son's school to talk to his class about writing.

When asked if I would do it, my initial reaction was close to horror. One five year old boy is tough enough, but seventeen of them? All in one place? First thing on a Monday morning? And, besides, I write books for grown-ups; books that have sex 'n' death 'n' sweary stuff  'n' all that. But, you know, teachers can be very persuasive (aren't we all programmed to do what they tell us?) and there wasn't an opt out clause, so I went along – as instructed.

I told them a little bit about fiction/non-fiction, in easy-to-understand terms, and we talked about where ideas come from, and about characters. And the first question one little boy asked?

'How long does it take to write a book?'

Well, I thought that was a pretty good question; the kind of question I'm asked when I do events with adults. Mind you, this little boy reckoned it shouldn't take more than about three days, so the expectations were different even if the question wasn't. But, with that question I was caught off-guard, expecting too much, and when we got to generating idea for characters – which, I said, 'could even be an animal such as a dog, if you like'  – the fun started. We had dogs drinking wee, dogs playing football, dogs going for a walk, dogs eating poo, some stern looks from the teacher, some surprised looks from me, a bit of nose picking from the boys . . .

Actually, it was good fun. There was a lot to smile about, there were some great children, they were very well behaved and pretty much exactly what I expected. And they're five year old boys – what kind of world would we be living in if they didn't think bodily functions were funny?

And do you know what? If they ask me to go back, I reckon I could be persuaded.

The Three Plagues

In Indonesia, there was a papaya tree outside our bedroom window. The fruit was big and tasty, not like the tiddlers they sell in Tesco for a quid. We had a rambutan tree, too, a durian tree, a jambu tree, and we grew all kinds of things in the garden, from sweetcorn all the way down to the humble peanut. The sun was hot, the rain was nourishing and everything thrived.

In Brazil, we grew sweetcorn and bananas and one or two other things that could survive the dry season. It was primitive – we were remote – so we kept chickens for their eggs and their meat. If we wanted pork, we bought a pig and did what had to be done. If we wanted beef, we bought it fresh from the fazenda. Fish came right out of the river and onto the barbecue.

So, with a background like that, I'd like my own children to see and experience that food doesn't just come wrapped in plastic from the supermarket. Vegetables grow in the dirt. So for the past few years we've set aside a small patch that we dig over and plant. We've done potatoes and peas and raspberries and strawberries and . . . every bloody year we're battered by pests. Every year. Without fail.

Last year the snails came like a biblical plague. They were everywhere. At night they appeared from their damp daytime hideaways, crawling across the lawn in their hundreds (seriously); an evil horde that devoured everything in its path. Slug pellets controlled them to a certain degree but . . . well, coupled with the crappy weather last year, not much survived in our vegetable patch.

This year it's the pigeons. Yep. Pigeons. I had no idea that pigeons would sit in my garden and feast on the leaves of the cauliflowers my children planted, but that's what they've done. They are, officially, the second plague.

The third plague is ever-present and it is the worst of the three. It is the annual problem of kitty crap. If you put a trowel in the soil in my garden I can almost guarantee it'll be no further than a metre from the nearest  buried cat shit. I've tried every deterrent imaginable but still they come. Like stealth ninjas in the night leaving their terrible packages of stench and horror for my children to unwittingly stick their fingers into.

So imagine my surprise when, despite the three plagues, the carrots grew this year. They're small, admittedly, but they grew. There are raspberries, too, and even one or two of the califlowers might just survive.

So what happened when we pulled up the carrots in triumph?

My 5 year old son tookone look at them and said 'Yeuch, they look DISGUSTING.'

So, I guess it's off to the supermarket for vegetables, then?

 

 

Not Nearly Famous

I was at Morpeth library last night to talk about my books, and you wouldn't believe the queues to get in. I mean, they were lining up around the corner, pitching tents, lighting barbecues . . . no, wait, that's not right.

Actually, the turn out was small, just a handful, but I'm pretty used to that. Publishers use whatever marketing budgets they have to promote certain books/authors, and the rest of us are left to forge our way through the gloom, trying to promote ourselves. I'm lucky and grateful to have the support of New Writing North and Read Regional behind me, but there are many other authors who don't even have that.

So the reality is that no one knows who I am, and without any kind of national or international promotion, it's just a case of doing whatever I can to make people aware that my books exist – and then trying to persuade them to pick them up.

I know I'm not alone in this.

Anyway, the library staff at Morpeth were very welcoming – there was even complimentary wine and food which was great – and the handful of people who came along were interested, interesting, and good company. Now there are a few more people out there who have heard of me and who have copies of my books, and if they tell other people . . .  well, yesterday Morpeth, tomorrow THE WORLD  (*cue evil laughter* Mwa ha ha ha ha).

But you know what? The intimate events are fun and I'd rather have a small group of people who are keen than a large group of people who look like they'd rather be somewhere else.

The Morning Star

Just spotted this review of DARK HORIZONS in The Morning Star and thought I'd share it. That's all.

 

Rites of Passage

I feel as if I've now been through an important rite of passage. You see, I've lost my bookshop signing virginity and now I've emerged from the experience as a more rounded and knowledgeable . . . ach, who am I kidding? I'm no different.

But I DO have a better idea of what to expect from a signing. That's not to say I had no idea before I plunged in. I'm a person who likes to be prepared. I'm a toe-dipper; I like to test the water, so I'd done a little investigating and knew not to expect queues of people lining up to buy my books and have them signed. After all, I'm not Katie Price. Or Lee child, for that matter.

So, for the lowly author struggling to make a name and persuade readers to try something new, a 'book signing' is actually a 'book selling'. Which means not sitting at a table, hiding behind a pile of books hoping someone will come to you – it means taking your book, putting it into people's hands, chatting with them, being polite, professional, friendly, engaging, smiley, persuasive, not too persisitent and  . . . well, you get the picture. You don't need to be Stuart 'The Brand' Baggs and make an arse of yourself, but you do need to approach people. They don't come to you.

I imagine that for many authors, like me, this is not a natural state, but it's surprising how many people are receptive and stop to take the time for  chat. Turns out it was actually pretty good fun. I ended up selling quite a few books I wouldn't have sold otherwise, and telling a lot of people about my books who wouldn't have known about them. Yeah, you get the occasional grump who snubs you but, hey, we all feel a bit grumpy from time to time don't we?

So that's it done. My first signings. And thanks to all the staff at Waterstone's Newcastle and Waterstone's Morpeth for all their help – everyone was very friendly and welcoming.

Oh yeah, and Graham came in to get his books signed (you know who you are, Graham) and it was great to see you.

Aside: my blog software scans my posts and suggests links. It's suggested links to Katie Price and Lee Child, but I'm not going to link to their sites. They don't need it. So there.