My Best Reads of 2013

My 2013 top ten reads, in no particular order, chosen for enjoyment as much as literary merit are:
 

Flight Behaviour - Barbara Kingsolver

Island Songs – Alex Wheatle

A Virtual Love - Andrew Blackman

On Holloway Road - Andrew Blackman

The Best of Everything – Rona Jaffe

Infinite Sky – C.J. Flood

Bring Up the Bodies – Hilary Mantel

Honour – Elif Shafak

The Road to Urbino – Roma Tearne

The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared – Jonas Jonasson

The Night Father Christmas Was Confused

As Father Christmas clambered into the sleigh he heard an ominous creaking.
‘Bloomin’ elves haven’t oiled the sleigh properly,’ he muttered before realizing it was his knees that were protesting. The horrible truth was Father Christmas was getting old. He’d been doing the Christmas rounds for over a hundred years now and he should be thinking about retirement. In spite of having to work so much harder these days, as children expected so much more in their Christmas stockings than when he began the job, he was reluctant to give up.

It would be his nephew, Nicholas, who would be taking up the reins, and let’s face it, Nick just wasn’t mature enough for the job. Only two weeks ago when Father Christmas asked Nick to take the reindeer and sleigh out for a run to get the deer limbered up and ensure the sleigh was in good working order, what did he do? Had them tearing along at top speed like some boy racer, careless of not only his charges but endangering the elves in the delivery sleighs coming in and out of headquarters with supplies. Luckily there hadn’t been a nasty accident, but the reindeer were exhausted and needed double rations that night to keep up their strength, which was a waste of fuel. Mrs Christmas had had to lecture Nick on the concepts of eco-Christmas, this year’s theme, and not wasting the earth’s precious resources.

Still, there was no time to waste pondering – he must get on. This year the first round (every child worth its salt knows the whole lot can’t be done in one go) was both his favourite and the one he disliked the most. He decided to call on Happyton first to put him in a good frame of mind before going on to the dreaded Greediville. He loved the village of Happyton, where the Victorian houses had proper chimneys that he could get up and down with no bother. Even the houses that had been divided into flats and had boarded-up fireplaces presented little difficulty. Greediville was a newish town with mean little boxes for houses, full of new-fangled gadgets and not a chimney in sight.

The Happyton children always asked for good old-fashioned toys: Lego, dolls and footballs. Puzzles and board games were still popular and Father Christmas’s favourite; books. Of course these new-fangled e-readers and smartphones appeared on the older children’s lists but the girls still liked the pretty silver jewellery and silk scarves that Mrs Christmas sourced from Traidcraft workshops. The boys liked traditional sports equipment as well as new technological things that Father Christmas didn’t really understand. Chocolate – always Fairtrade from Ghana, Belize and Cote d’Ivoire – was still an enormous hit with all ages. It was so different in Greediville where the kids demanded their own computers, endless computer games, I-pods, I-pads, and who knew what else. They needed new models every year. Goodness knows why, Father Christmas had had the same mobile for about ten years and it still worked absolutely fine. Mrs Christmas had hinted that he should upgrade but so long as she was able to check he was alright, she wouldn't press the issue.  

The elves used much more up to date gadgets and lately had been using strange things called Apps – it did make things easier now the goods could be ordered online, meaning he could avoid the tiring incognito reconnoitring trips he used to make. It saved fuel but he put his foot down at the idea that it could all be delivered to headquarters by air-freight and insisted on the traditional methods.

As the sleigh flew over Greediville, Father Christmas’s heart sank. The place was blazing with lights. Each house seemed to vie with its neighbours for the gaudiest display. Many of them were crude depictions of himself and the deer. Last year Blitzen had been most upset and handed in her resignation. Still, Happyton would be the same traditional scene. But wait… what was going on here?

Coming in to land Father Christmas could see the usual Christmas tree outside the church. It was shining brightly – those low-energy bulbs were jolly good – but the houses were all in complete darkness. It was quite irresponsible to keep tree lights blazing all night, both on counts of energy and safety but it was a bit of shame not to have a few of those twinkly lights. He wondered if people who had pet hamsters could rig up their little wheels to generate enough electricity to keep low-watt bulbs glowing. The only other light he could see was from a cluster of six flickering candles in jam jars near the church door.

He negotiated the first chimney and what was this? There was the decorated tree but no presents lay beneath it. This house belonged to a large family who gave generously to each other. Every year the grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all came to stay and lovely parcels always lay beneath the tree in anticipation of the special day.

Had they all gone away and forgotten to tell him? Or worse, had he made a mistake? Had he come a day too early? He was getting a bit forgetful lately. No, Mrs Christmas would never let him make an error like that. Then he spotted a plate of home-made mince pies – one for each of the deer and one for himself. He popped one in his mouth and placed his presents in the stockings hanging up and made his way to the next house. No brightly wrapped gifts in recycled paper here either. Every house was the same. What was happening – was Happyton no longer the generous, loving community he so admired?

Feeling rather shaken he pulled out his phone and dialled the number of the elf responsible for Happyton orders.

‘Is that Albert? What’s going on in Happyton?’

'Simples!’ said Albert. ‘Look out for the candles in jars. Must dash.’

Father Christmas made his way to the candles by the church door. Above them was a notice from the NHS Blood Doning Service. “Thank you, Happyton, for your gift of life. We collected 153 units at the special Christmastide session. Thank you also to those who gave drinks and refreshments for the donors, saving us money.”

He spotted the next cluster of candles a few yards away. Above them was another sign. “Thank you Happyton for your donations of bedding, toiletries, clothes and food. We will now be able to keep our town shelter for the homeless open for ten days over the Christmas period. Additional cash donations went to Crisis."

A third group of candles gleamed not far away and Father Christmas found another sign. This one proclaimed that Happyton’s energy saving drive throughout December had enabled the residents to Send a Cow to a family in Kenya along with several smaller gifts.

The fourth notice said “Thank you Happyton! The Time, Skills and Services Auction has raised over two thousand pounds for DEC's Ongoing Appeals. Your babysitting, gardening, computer trouble-shooting, cleaning and cooking will enable people to start rebuilding their lives in the face of disaster."

A fifth group of candles outside the school showed a poster of children from all around the world. Under the picture large multi-coloured letters spelled out “Happy Christmas and Peace on Earth to all. By not having Christmas presents from our parents this year we have funded five Shelterboxes for people in places where disaster has struck."

Father Christmas climbed back into his sleigh with a creak of his knees. He patted Prancer and Comet.

‘I’m a silly old fool,’ he told his faithful reindeer. ‘Of course the people of Happyton haven’t stopped giving. Not all gifts come wrapped in bright paper tied up with tinsel. The sleigh lifted off and Father Christmas went on his way calling his usual greeting,

                         "Merry Christmas and Peace on Earth to you all."

This an updated version of the story first published in The Greenacre Times December 2007. 

 

 

Is November NaNoWriMo or NoWriNoMo?

For me it's the latter. November is Not Writing a Novel in a Month. How anybody can even contemplate this is a mystery to me. I have always presumed these intrepid writers send the kids to Grandma, take the month off work and train partners to do all the housework and shopping and keep the caffeine coming at regular intervals.

But then I discover that plenty of these NaNoWriMo writers do have other things to worry about; they get the kids to school and do the shopping and many of them go to work for at least some of the time. And they still manage to bang out over 1,000 words a day.

They must be super-organised. They have probably filled the freezer with nutritious brain food meals and have organised stocks and supplies for snacks so they don't need an emergency trip to the supermarket for teabags or light-bulbs half way through chapter 3. Perhaps friends and grand-parents have been roped in to do a bit of childminding, but even so many writers are balancing on a tightrope between life and writing. They have my admiration and I wish them all success.

So, while I may not have aspirations to write a novel during November, I have set myself the goal of writing a short story in the next month  Not 50,000 words, 2,000 will do so that's 66.6 (recurring) words a day. Should be easy peasy. Except I'm taking ages to navigate my way round a new keyboard, to say nothing of Windows 8, which I didn't even know existed until 2 days ago, and Word 2013 (which will be out if date in 2 months' time). So it might have to be a very short story.

There's also a pile of washing, another of ironing and a fair bit of dust but I bet even NaNoWriMo writers don't do that, do they?

My second novel.

During a recent de-clutter, I came across my second, third and fourth novels. Unpublished, they have lain in the loft for many years. The reason why they are unpublished is because the writings of a 10, 12 and 15 year old tend not to be publishable! The first novel, written a year before this one, may still lurk in the attic. It was illustrated too, and received an excellent review from its only reader.

The second novel featured here was my first English project at secondary school. I began and completed it in the two weeks before my 11th birthday. At approximately 1,500 words calling it a novel might be stretching reality a little, but that was the task and the given subject was life on a desert island.


 




The third novel, written during my pony-mad phase, was about a girl in her first job at a riding stables and falling for one of the boys who also worked there. There was plenty of drama including a riding accident which in those far off days involved someone galloping off to phone the local doctor to attend the injured rider in a the middle of a moor. Now, of course, someone would just phone the air ambulance.

The fourth was an epistolary novel about a girl who went to work as a mother’s help in a large disorganized family and of course she falls for the oldest son. Inevitably there is a misunderstanding and she thinks he’s no longer likes her so goes out with a guy she’s known forever which makes the other one jealous! Containing a smattering of 15-year-old angst, it's riveting stuff.

After these crackers, it was a mere 45 years before I attempted the next one and that has taken a lot longer than 2 weeks. A lot longer. My writing has improved a little (although I think my hand-writing was better when I was 10) and I hope that it just might be publishable.

So all you novelists out there - when did you write your first masterpiece?

Sometimes spelling and grammar doesn't matter.

I stand by my last post about good grammar and spelling, but there are times when it doesn't matter at all - the message is what counts.

This note is from a little girl with significant language and literacy difficulties, who is mastering both and is revelling in her new found skills. We've read many stories together - I used to read to her, but now she reads to me and is beginning to write her own stories.  

She has a world of literature awaiting her.

Grammar With Mother.

The English language is evolving. Words come and go and pronunciation changes. This isn’t just the newer American pronunciations that have crept into English, it has been evident since there were records of our language. The Great Vowel Shift was probably the first major change in pronunciation to be studied and analysed.

A word of warning, should you ever write about this yourself, make sure you avoid typos. A fellow student on my Literature degree course handed in a beautiful essay entitled 'Causes of The Great Bowel Shit.'  He didn't even mention  Phaal as a likely candidate so was marked down.

Back to the point, grammar, too, is changing. Purists criticize what they perceive as incorrect grammar (and there is plenty of it about) but others claim that correct usage is current usage. But current usage by whom? Who or whom?

The teaching of grammar in schools seems to have disappeared years ago, but authors had a handle on it. Or perhaps it was the editors who had a handle on it. In recent years I have noticed numerous grammar and spelling errors in books. Is this because authors now have less ability in spelling and grammar or because fewer manuscripts are rigorously edited? Or perhaps modern editors haven’t learned grammar?

Six books I've read in the past couple of months, all by respected authors and published by well known publishers, have thrown up these little gems. (These have all been narrated in standard English rather than dialect.)

1. She didn't know how this would effect her.

2. He was bored of playing on the computer.

3. The class were put into teams…

4. He was laying on the unmade bed…

5. Compared to Jane’s results, she had done well.

6. He handed the letter to Peter and I.

7. None of them were going to say anything...

Readers may consider some of these acceptable but my mother, taught grammar in school 80 years ago, would have a fit. Her lessons have stayed with me far more successfully than anything I learned during my own school days where grammar was theoretical rather than practical.

Many claim the creativity of writing is more important than spelling and grammar. I recently saw a piece of flash fiction published online which conjured up a lovely picture but, for me, was spoiled by the author using 'lay' instead of 'lie.' I didn’t comment as the author's note said he hadn't written for a long time because of a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation. I have no wish to put someone off writing for life and if he wishes to pursue writing, the basic rules of grammar can be learned without, I hope, too much difficulty.

I’d be interested to hear your thoughts and comments.

PS. I use the Oxford spellings. The suffix -ize  was used in Britain before the English language hit America so it's not, as many believe, an Americanism

PPS. Regarding pronunciation you might like Shakespeare's pronunciation..

And now for something serious...a taster.

My last post was tongue in cheek but here is a taste of my more serious short fiction. 

Chocolate in Summer

Seated at the grand piano, Margot became the woman she might have been rather than the one she was. Gone was the carping woman craving her headache pills; in her place was a maestro.

‘Oh how wonderful. You’ll have some help,’ people cooed when I muttered through clenched teeth that my mother-in-law was coming to stay. How they thought it was helpful to be driving over a hundred and fifty miles to the airport, with a two-month old breast-feeding baby in tow, I couldn’t imagine.
   She spent the entire six weeks moaning. The bedroom was too hot, too cold, the baby cried, my cooking was terrible, I didn’t iron Patrick’s shirts properly.
   ‘She’s asking for Gentleman’s Relish,’ I said to Patrick. ‘What the hell is that? I’ve never heard of it.’
   ‘Oh yes, she used to love it on toast,’ he said, frowning over our bank statement. ‘She used to put a little jar of it in my school tuck box every term. I’d sell it to one of the older boys because I hated it, and bought sweets from the tuck shop with the money. She never packed sweets. You can probably get it at Fortnums.’
   ‘Are you insane? Do you really expect me to high-tail it to London to get a jar of something for her bloody toast?’
   But make the journey I did, for Margot must be appeased, although nothing would ever make me good enough for her son.

‘Have you put Toby’s name down for Patrick’s prep school yet?’ she asked one Sunday lunchtime while I was clearing the table.
   ‘Margot, he’s barely three months old,’ I said. ‘Rather premature, don’t you think?’
   ‘These good schools are subscribed years in advance,’ she said curtly.
   ‘Besides which,’ I said, ‘I do not intend for my son to be sent away to school, even if we could afford it, which we can’t.’
   ‘Patrick, surely you can’t want your son educated in a state school?’
   ‘I rather think I do, Mother,’ he replied. ‘I have no wish to put Toby through what I endured.’
   I didn’t hear the end of that conversation because Toby began to wail, much to my relief.  I hurried off to placate my son who would not be sent away at the tender age of eight when, I hoped, he would still be wanting a story, a teddy snuggled into his bed and a goodnight kiss.

Each year, two months of summer were utter misery. As he grew older, even Toby began to dread the visit from Grandma: her headaches that demanded his utter silence; the outings that were curtailed because she felt unwell; the meals that must be just so.
   ‘Give me a hand,’ Patrick yelled down the stairs one Saturday before the impending visit. ‘I need you to hold the ladder. It’s wobbling.’ I switched off the iron, glad to have respite from squirting steam over the curtains from the spare room, Margot’s room, and plodded up the stairs, pushing my damp hair behind my ears.
   I held the ladder while Patrick inexpertly painted the room in his mother’s favourite colour.
   ‘She’ll like this,’ he said as he rolled the paint on. ‘She found the greens too bright.’ He was being tactful; ‘nauseous’ was the word she’d used. My carefully chosen two-tone green room disappeared under a coat of magnolia-meets-mushroom. The curtains would look quite wrong now but at least they would be dust and crease-free.
   A month later, I heaved Margot’s luggage up to the room. She was already lying on the bed in the delicate pose of a dying martyr.
   ‘Pull the curtains,’ she ordered. ‘There’s too much sun. Where are my pills, I think a headache is coming on.’
   ‘Do you like the new colour?’ I asked as I slid the curtains closed, banishing the few rays of sun to have graced our summer that year.
   ‘It’ll do.’
   ‘I’ve made your favourite cake so pop down for tea when you’re ready.’
   ‘I couldn’t possibly eat cake. My digestion. Some cucumber sandwiches, I think.’
   ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any cucumber. How about tomato?’
   ‘Tomato? With my delicate stomach? Good gracious girl, you should know this by now. Just run out and fetch a cucumber. It’s hardly too much to ask.’

It was when we visited my new neighbour who had invited us for coffee, that the ground shifted. Standing in their airy living room was a grand piano. Enormous, shiny and proud, it took up most of the space. Margot drifted towards it and trailed her fingers on the keys.
   ‘Do try it, if you’d like to,’ trilled the neighbour.
   To my astonishment, Margot seated herself on the padded stool and began to play. Music rippled from beneath her fingers as effortlessly as breeze on water.

   That was the day I first saw her smile.


If you would like the read the whole story it is published in The Greenacre Writers Anthology Vol 2 available from Greenacre Writers

or for just 39p  from Alfie Dog Fiction