The fifth Finchley Literary Festival - we're aiming high.

Once upon a time two writers decided to hold a literary festival...

It started as a half day event aimed at promoting the work of members of our writing group, Greenacre Writers. But we knew we had to have speakers with a bit more clout too and so FLF - then called Greenacre Writers Mini Lit Fest - was born in 2012.

We had such great feedback from participants as well as the audience we did it again the following year and included two writing workshops and an Open Mic event. Again, we had positive feedback from our invited authors. Indeed, two from the previous year were in our audience and speaker Alex Wheatle, aka The Brixton Bard, was pleased to be asked to join a panel discussion.

Alex joined us again for the following year in 2014 when we rebranded the event as Finchley Literary Festival. This was to give it an identifiable location and also reflected the participation of other members of the Finchley writing community. Alongside Alex, Emily Benet from the first festival also took part. We were getting something very right!

That year we managed to secure some funding from local sponsors and the festival expanded - 20 events in total. It was a great success, but whew, it was hard work. We vowed the following year would be smaller.

It was three events smaller. We had terrific authors and enthusiastic audiences. We were on a roll. Finchley shines at the end of May! Even if the sun doesn't.

Not quite a hat...

This year owing to something very exciting, for which I needed to go hat shopping, we weren't going to be able to hold the festival in May. I wondered whether we could even give this year a miss. No, we couldn't. FLF is in demand. So we shunted it to the end of June. 24th to 26th June to be precise.

So what makes FLF different or special? Firstly there weren't many (or any) literary events going on in Finchley area so we filled a huge gap. Since FLF's inception, Barnet libraries have two weeks of special literary events in February and the Middlesex University lit fest is now held in nearby Hendon during March. But we were the first lit fest in the borough!

Secondly we aim to support and highlight local authors - from Finchley and nearby, and have found a number of very talented people within a short distance. Some have even included Finchley in their novels. Highgate and Hampstead, our near neighbours with a long literary tradition, need to keep on their toes. But of course we open our doors to authors from further afield too - just not ones who need to be flown in on Business Class!

Thirdly, we're not about focusing on big names, although we have nothing against them - and indeed did try to persuade one such writer by offering him chocolate but he was busy, or didn't like chocolate - but we do attract brilliant authors. Miriam Halahmy and C.J. Flood were both nominated for the Carnegie medal, and Alex Wheatle's first YA novel, Liccle Bit, was on the 2016 Carnegie long-list. Not something to be sniffed at. Tasha Kavanagh, who read last year, from Things We Have in Common is on the Desmond Elliot Prize long-list and was also shortlisted for the Not the Booker Prize (which in my opinion selects far better books than the other lot). Joanna Campbell who is speaking this year was also long-listed on NTB with her debut novel, Tying Down The Lion, (both in my top ten reads of 2015). A number of speakers' books have been listed for worthy prizes including Jemma Wayne who read last year.

Fourthly, FLF embraces diversity in all its gloriousness. I don't think we ever said 'oh let's invite diverse authors,' we simply open our doors to good writers who happen to be a pretty diverse bunch. This gives FLF a wide range of topics, ideas and viewpoints. I know my reading has broadened since reading our authors - and I aim to read something from each one. My pile of books grows ever larger during each festival. (Pity I can't claim new books and a bookcase from expenses but I am not an MP.)

I have read genres I hadn't been especially attracted to previously and have been wonderfully surprised (Mike Carey's Finchley zombies for example.) I've travelled to places and cultures I knew little about, which always excites me.

This year's authors are a wonderful bunch: Local writer Amy Bird, Harry Parker, Allen Ashley, another Finchleyite,  Irenosen Okojie, who we are thrilled to welcome back to Finchley, Yvvette Edwards, Catriona Ward, Joanna Campbell, who is judging FLF & Greenacre Writers short story competition; Antonia Honeywell, back for a second visit, our own Rosie Canning, Sunny Singh, Vaseem Khan and Katharine Norbury. Wow!

We're not forgetting future authors for whom there are two writing workshops and a Dragon's Pen - the first of which I was lucky enough to win two years ago. As a result, I have completed a major re-write of my novel! And even if you don't like reading, preferring the outdoors, there's a green walk - so good weather please! And to round it all off there's performance poetry and music in our favourite Finchley cafe, Cafe Buzz.

And that is what makes Finchley Literary Festival well worth a visit! Plus, we're really nice and there will be cake!

For more information see Finchley Literary Festival.

Giving away books. World Book Night 2016

World Book Night is here again for its sixth year. I'm proud to say I've been a 'giver' for each of those years. But after all, what can be better than giving away books? 

I've blogged about WBN before so I'm not going to say much here, except that this year I'm giving away Last Bus to Coffeeville by J. Paul Henderson. If you are interested, read more about it here.

Knowing my penchant for a good cup of strong freshly brewed coffee one of my colleagues laughed and said I'd picked the right book! She's not a great reader so she'll be having a copy thrust at her with orders to read it pronto! I think she'll like it and while it's lighthearted it is about serious matters.  

I've never been to Coffeeville, and if I decide to add it to my travel destinations, I have a choice of four Coffeevilles; one each in Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi and Texas. The one in the book is the Mississippi one. And yes, I did check I'd spelled that right. Now I have to go an see a man about a bus... 

Around the world in two months.

One of the few good things about February,
 which never fails to cheer me.

The first two months of the year are already past but in those two months I have visited India, Chile, Australia (twice), USA, (twice) France, Italy and embarked on a voyage to three countries in East Africa: Kenya; Tanzania and Zimbabwe, interspersed with four short stays back in UK. I've also managed some time travel - pretty impressive for an outlay of  less than £20.00.

Of course this was literary travel and even for the full price of twelve books it would still have been a bargain, but I bought only two at the full price. One was a gift, a couple were from the library, one was borrowed, another was a prize and the others were bought secondhand!

January and February are my least favourite months, with their cold dark days so to escape them I travel. Some years I actually board a plane to fly to sunnier places. Last year I enjoyed the experience of Laos and Cambodia during February. This year, so far, I've had to make do with daffodils and literary travel but what travels they were!

I have met a Mormon family in the throes of grief, an American woman researching her family history in France with some time travel back the the seventeenth century, visited a sleepy mid-west American town, uncovered the tragic events in a sleepy East Anglian village of the eve of the second world war, taken sides with a custody battle in India, been scared by unstable politics and organised crime in Chile and met a professor with Asperger's. I also met some awful people I hope never to encounter again at a barbecue, played with a couple of youngsters in the carefree days of the 30s in south Wales and observed a man trying to come to terms with the death of his mother when he was a child.

While these were all fiction I have also read an account of travels in colonial East Africa and lastly the heartbreaking autobiography of a hugely talented neurosurgeon who died at the age of 37 from lung cancer.

Curiously, these last two very different books both mentioned an exploit which one would not encounter in many thousand books, namely the Dreadnought Hoax, when Virginia Woolf and her cronies dressed up as the Emperor of Abyssinia and his entourage and boarded the pride of the British Navy's battleship, HMS Dreadnought, and were received with much ado and gracious hospitality. I love it when these coincidences occur in my reading - or are they coincidence? What guided my choice of these two books one after the other?

I'm now deciding which books to take with my next real travels (which are costing a lot more than £20.00).

Lit Ward 10 - the latest outcomes for Literature Therapy.

The chief exec of Storyville Hospital was in a tizzy. The Minister for Health had been admitted to A&E with cuts and bruises and a dislocated finger. Eye witnesses had confirmed that he had had a nasty fall from a window. 

Someone on Twitter had suggested that junior doctors had pushed him but they were soon silenced by common-sense. No doctor would behave in such a loutish manner off the rugby field and obviously none would wish to create more work for themselves. Especially on a Friday afternoon which, as everybody knows, is just before A&E gets horribly busy. 

The minister’s memory seemed rather patchy – he couldn’t remember the incident and neither could he recall having been in the House of Commons for several important debates. He also seemed to be displaying some delusional behaviour. It was deemed that he should be admitted for observations.

A brain scan revealed an alarming absence of brain but no other defects therefore the neurological team argued they couldn’t admit him to their ward as there was nothing to work with and the psych team felt his presence on their ward would cause serious problems so Dr Read was persuaded to admit him to Lit Ward 10 where he had had a good night’s sleep and was now ready for Lit Therapy.

Nurse Gorgeous had to think hard. A book that would keep the minister busy and out of harm’s way while helping him become a better person. She hefted Middlemarch and Bleak House off the shelf and took them to the side room. They should keep him out of mischief for a while. Possibly months or even years. Doctor Read would ensure he had to take time off work too after he had been discharged.

They had put him in side room because Lit Ward 10 was exceedingly busy and the sight of him might have resulted in the resuscitation team being called to several other patients. Nurse Gorgeous made him a nice cup of tea and set it on his bedside table and adjusted his reading lamp. She went back the nursing station where a nurse said she’d just had her five-minute meal break and had logged on to Twitter. There were pictures of the Minister for Health flying through the air having fallen from his Ivory Tower.

He had fallen on a group of American tourists and while he was hardly hurt, two of them were also admitted A&E. (They had praised the NHS for the courteous and timely treatment allowing them to resume their holiday, albeit one with his arm in plaster, without delay.)

Nurse carried out a swift ward round. Dr Read was run off his feet – yes, he, a consultant, was working this weekend. A large number of people had been admitted with high blood pressure having read ridiculous newspaper accounts about the junior doctors’ dispute. The incinerator was going full blast burning copies of papers and magazines that distorted the facts. At one point Nurse Gorgeous had had to administer to Dr de Licious after he read the idiotic claims of junior doctors doing nothing but swigging champagne and having the audacity to take foreign holidays. Like a number of doctors, he volunteered in third world countries and had set up Lit wards all over the place to great acclaim.

Luckily most of the patients admitted that weekend were able to go home within a matter of hours with normal blood pressure after some restorative reading. None of them died even though it was the weekend. Nurse Gorgeous thought it wise to lock away murder mysteries in case it gave people ideas and all references to Guy Fawkes and blowing up of Houses of Parliament were removed from the reading material. 

Comedy novels were in high demand. Several had asked for The Confederacy of Dunces under the mistaken impression that it was about MPs, but they enjoyed it anyway. Numerous copies of Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop, an apposite choice, was devoured within hours, closely followed by Vile Bodies. Again, a few patients thought this was referring to members of the government. Catch-22 was another popular choice. The only unfortunate incident was a patient who laughed so much at the antics of Three Men in A Boat that he burst his stitches. He was just out of surgery and was full of praise for all the doctors and nurses. When he read scurrilous claims about the NHS in a rag he was so upset that his pulse went wild. Reading restored it to normal and Dr de Licious managed to sew him back up while Nurse Gorgeous read out some of the lovely cards they had received from former patients.

Lit Ward 10’s outcomes for the week were all excellent. The chief exec was happy even though the side room would be occupied for some time. Once again, Lit Therapy had triumphed.  

My best reads of 2015

As with previous years, I have chosen the ten books I most enjoyed that I read during the year. They are not all recently published, as you will see. I base my decisions on enjoyment and what I gained from them as much as literary merit. I list them in the order I read them. They include books from well known established authors but also four debut novels.


The Girl with All the Gifts - Mike Carey

I never thought I would enjoy a book featuring zombies but this one is, I suspect, in a class of its own. Mike Carey came to Finchley Literary Festival where he talked about it and read extracts. He even got some of us reading a little of the screenplay. I can truly say I read the part of Miss Justineau. I can't understand why they didn't choose me for the film. (OK, yes, I can, and after all I didn't exactly read for the part of Miss J.)

The Memory of Love - Aminatta Forna

Borrowed from the library, this was a fascinating read and gave me some insight into the aftermath of the appalling civil war in Sierra Leone.

Still Alice - Lisa Genova

A hauntingly sad portrayal of early onset dementia. I recall many years ago when, as a fairly newly qualified speech and language therapist, I had to assess the language of a lady with E.O.D It was one of the saddest assessments I have ever had to carry out, witnessing her despair and desolation at knowing she was no longer able to communicate and be the person she was, a highly intelligent and educated head-teacher.

Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn

This one kept me turning the pages. Psychopaths come in all guises.

The Things we Have in Common - Tasha Kavanagh.

Another Finchley Literary Festival book. Tasha's book was understandably nominated for the Not the Booker Prize. A story of Yasmin, a teenager who is an outsider and has a crush on her class mate. Yasmin sets out to keep her safe from the man she assumes is a stalker and a danger. Is she right? Does she make a catastrophic mistake?

The Ship - Antonia Honeywell.

A third FLF book which was a most thought-provoking read. Lalla might be annoying but she is the only person to question the reason the selected 500 passengers are on the ship, and whether that reason is valid.

Tying Down the Lion - Joanna Campbell.

I loved this story of the Bishop family driving to Berlin in 1967. It's funny but has a very tender and serious aspect. Joanna's writing is so vibrant that I felt as if I was in the car with the Bishops. The era of 1967 is brilliantly evoked.

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood.

I'm not sure how I managed not to read this book before, as it has, rightly, been lauded for the last 30 years. I'd read others of Atwood's but this one had escaped me. I'm glad I put that right.

A God in Ruins - Kate Atkinson

I read  Life After Life last year so was intrigued to read this, the companion book. I was not disappointed.

The Good Son - Paul McVeigh.

Also shortlisted for Not The Booker Prize, I'd read about Paul's debut novel on his blog as well as number of terrific reviews. I was attending the NTB event at Big Green Bookshop, so intended to buy a copy. After hearing Paul read an extract I was well and truly hooked. An original and authentic voice that took me there, to Belfast in the 80s, spending a troubled summer with Mickey - wanting him so very much to achieve what he hoped for.

Rae's blog....

Thank you to Rae Stoltenkamp, who invited me to be a guest blogger, following in the lofty footsteps of Emily Benet.

I met Rae at the first writing group I attended, run by Stewart Permutt, where I found the standard of its members was scarily good. Rae was therefore one of the first people to hear my early writing efforts and along with the rest of the group gave critical feedback in a useful and supportive way. 

Rae has published several books: Rae's fiction as well as poetry.

Take a look at my post and all the others on her blog here: Rae Stoltenkamp.

Sapper Dorothy Lawrence.

Dorothy Lawrence

I wrote and presented this piece at Finchley Literary Festival 2014. The event took part in Friern Barnet Community Library which is situated over the road from the former Colney Hatch Hospital, later renamed Friern Hospital. It was a flagship Victorian asylum, housing up to 3,500 patients. It closed in 1993 after which it was converted into luxurious apartments.

This is the story of a patient who died there in 1964 - but 50 years earlier she had done something quite remarkable. This is her story. I thought today was a fitting day to post it.

My name is Dorothy Lawrence. I think it’s 1964. Living in Colney Hatch Hospital – the loony bin – makes it hard to keep track. I’ve been incarcerated for 39 years. The warders see me as a mad old woman, someone who’s done nothing. I doubt they’d believe my story. Will you?

It’s fifty years now since the war broke out. I wanted to be a war correspondent. I was making my way in journalism – yes that surprised you didn’t it, but I’d had articles published in The Times, so I approached the Fleet Street papers but they sneered "do you suppose we're going to send a woman out there when even our own war-correspondents can't get out for love or money."

Well, I’d be hanged if I wouldn’t prove them wrong: "I'll see what an ordinary English girl, without credentials or money can accomplish. If war correspondents can’t get out there, I will."

So the summer of ‘15 saw me cycling to the war zone 15 miles from Paris on a ramshackle contraption that cost £2 plus another £3 to get it over to France. I made it to a French base camp just as the mudguard fell off.

From there I headed for Paris where there were plenty of English soldiers. I saw a couple of khakis and just had that instinct they’d be the ones to help me. ‘Hello, boys,’ I said and soon we were chatting like old friends. When they heard my plan, bless them, they gave me all the help I needed.

They got me kitted in out in uniform complete with cap, badge, puttees the lot. Bit by bit they brought it to me disguised as parcels of washing. I’ll tell you something - men’s trousers weren’t made to fit women and of course there was the top half. I had to flatten that lot  by bandaging myself like an Egyptian Mummy. Then I added padding for muscles! I ended up looking rather stout, but like a stout boy.  They taught me how to walk like a man and to march.

As Pt Denis Smith

Later I got my hair cut in the military style and even got the barber to run the razor over my face to encourage bristles but none grew. I used diluted Condys fluid to make my skin look manly – but actually it just looked like dirt.

I looked like a boy but I had to have proof. Those lads did me proud and soon I had my identity. I was Private Denis Smith. No 175331 1^st Leicestershire Regiment.

They even got me the paperwork to get me to Bethune. I travelled as a woman – wearing a hat to hide my short hair but I left my corsets behind!

It was meeting Sapper Tom Dun that made it happen though. After hearing my plan, he got me joined up – drafted into the Royal Engineers, complete with RE badge. We found a deserted cottage for me to hide in. As Tom went off I changed into my uniform – I was soon itching all over – no wonder, the place was alive with fleas.

The first night I discovered why the place was abandoned. It was under constant enemy bombardment. Tom smuggled some rations to me. The next evening remembering Tom’s exact instruction, I went under cover of darkness to the yard where the men gathered and mingled for the night shift. I was one of them. I helped lay mines in the trenches. Ten nights I did that - under fire 400 yards from the enemy front line. Sleeping poorly by day in the damp cottage didn’t do me much good though and the rheumatics soon began to affect me as did my irregular rations.

Fainting fits bring disgrace on the King’s uniform and I knew if I ended up in hospital my cover would be blown. I couldn’t risk it because my kahki accomplices would be at risk too. So I turned myself in.

I told them who I was and just didn’t say much about those khakis.

They arrested me of course – saying I was a spy. They interrogated me but eventually I managed to convince them I was no spy but an English woman. We spoke at cross purposes for a while because I didn’t know what they meant when they asked me if I was a camp follower. I’d said yes.

They were furious that a woman could penetrate that most masculine of worlds and I had to promise to write nothing of my experiences to the papers for the duration of the war at the risk of imprisonment. But the fact is, I was the only woman to serve on the front line in that terrible war.

Years later when I told my doctor about what had happened to me as a child, when I was a ward of a churchman, I wasn’t believed. And because he knew my story of the trenches, he knew I had been a most effective liar. My insistence decided my fate: men of God did not violate young girls. To say otherwise proves I must be mad so here I am, imprisoned in Colney Hatch, and here I will be until my death.

Dorothy was buried in a unmarked paupers' grave in New Southgate Cemetery.