Leave a Comment · Posted on September 5, 2017
I had a brilliant time on the radio last Wednesday (you can listen here on BBC Radio Sheffield’s website) but, as soon as I’d finished (after a quick hair cut) I jumped on a train to Leeds. I was at the most spectacular residential centre at Lineham Farm (it really is stunning) where I was working for Ilkley Literary Festival’s Summer School. And it was brilliant. We had fun. There was laughter and there were tears (all from fiction, of course) and there was some genuinely wonderful work produced by genuinely lovely people (and we all know that lovely people are the best).
Here’s their resident peacock.
This Saturday I’ll be in Doncaster for their DN weekend with Hive South Yorkshire. We’re there from 12-2 and we’ll be running drop-in workshops and one-to-ones for young writers (up to 24 yrs) so if you’ve anything you’d like to ask about your work or writing, or if you fancy a free workshop, come and find us. Full details here.
2 Comments · Posted on August 30, 2017
I’m writing this in a hotel a little way from Leeds city centre. Tomorrow I’ll be at Ilkley Literary Festival, running some workshops for their summer school and I really can’t wait.
I dashed here from Sheffield. I’d been on BBC Radio Sheffield, on Rony Robinson’s show, talking about The Game of Love and Death with Ciara and Lauren – two magnificent, funny, intelligent and super talented Hive Young Writers – and the lovely Martha Brockenbrough, the author of the book, joined us all the way from Seattle. And I really enjoyed the book – the premise is wonderful and I love when it’s set (it must be my inner Doctor Who fanboyness); the 1930s had enough going on (Spanish Civil War, the rise of the Nazis, the great depression, jazz, airships) without Love and Death playing games…
You can listen here. We’re about ten minutes in. And do. Lots of interesting words and thoughts and opinions…
And, as you’ll have heard (if you listened) I have been writing, which is good and something that makes me happy. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do right now…
5 Comments · Posted on August 29, 2017
Tomorrow I’ll be back on BBC Radio Sheffield with two brilliant Hive South Yorkshire writers, talking: books! Specifically, The Book of Love and Death by Martha Brockenbraugh. 88.6 FM, 104.1HM and on digital – we’ll be on from about half past one so do tune in. It was a brilliant experience last time, and we had a terrific discussion and I’m really looking forward to it.
After that I’ll be jetting off to Ilkley Literary Festival for a couple of events. I’ve never been to that festival before and, again, I can’t wait.
And now I have to finish my ironing; you’ve got to look your best for the radio…
Leave a Comment · Posted on August 2, 2017
I’ve just got back from the studios of BBC Radio Sheffield. I was on there with a couple of young writers I’ve had the absolute pleasure to work with over the past few years with Hive South Yorkshire (Eloise Unerman, fresh from winning the Cuckoo Young Writers Award for her ten poems) and the talented Abi. We were there to take about The Prince of Mist by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, and to recommend some summer reading. We’re on at around 20 minutes, and I’m on after the break (about ten minutes later), with the one book I’d recommend everyone read…
A huge thanks to Rony and to Kat for being welcoming and brilliant. And, of course, to Eloise and Abi for being insightful and interesting. As ever. It was fun!
Leave a Comment · Posted on July 26, 2017
It’s two in the morning and I’ve just finished writing. I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing lately and that’s something that’s making me happy. And then I spent about half an hour writing a blog post I’ll probably never publish. I think birthdays do that to me. They kind of throw me off. I’ve never liked my own.
But, here I am. 36 years old (as of a couple of hours ago), and thinking of the past twelve months. Blimey. Where did they go? And all I want to say is But they’ve been good. They’ve been hard and disappointing at times (but that’s life) but, mostly, I’ve a lot to be happy about. We’ll catch up properly soon but, for now, I wanted to say a I’m grateful for everyone who’s been lovely to me when I was 35. To everyone who’s helped, put up with, organised me. To everyone who’s been a friend and listened or told me off. To people who’ve given me lifts to train stations (Christine…) to people who’ve said nice things or asked me to do things, or been nice about my work. To those who’ve simply been kind – and not just to me. Because kindness is everything. Please don’t stop.
So, that’s it from me for now. I’m going to read for a little while. Let’s catch up properly soon.
Leave a Comment · Posted on July 12, 2017
A little under a month ago (seriously, where does the time go?) I set up camp at the Children’s Central Library in Sheffield for an evening for Empathy Day. It was good. No, it was brilliant. It was made up of young readers from Sheffield’s amazing Chatterbooks reading group network and they came from all over the city and beyond. It had sold out very, very quickly too, which is always a lovely thing.
So we looked at the books they’d been reading and we put ourselves the characters’ shoes and that made for some really interesting discussion and, ultimately, some really amazing work because the subject matter was so varied (and makes me love what’s happening in YA fiction (and what has happened – one of the books was a Judy Bloom novel)). We had characters with OCD, autism – we had bullying – all sorts. And I often say that one of most important things we can do as people is think about what other people might be feeling – it’s a sort of an essential kindness that we all deserve, and something we’d all want if we were struggling. Actually, we don’t have to be struggling – it can be just as important for us to appreciate why someone might be happy about something.
I loved the evening. It was something different and interesting and I met brilliant and talented and caring young people who made brilliant art and stories. And, once we were done, we converted the stories into word clouds for display (thank you Alexis and Tina).
And here they are… Stay caring, people. And be kind.
Leave a Comment · Posted on July 3, 2017
The very first piece of writing I was paid for appeared in Cheshire Life magazine. It was about myths and ghosts and things like that. If memory serves, I got the nod at the end of 2003 and the feature went into the April 2004 issue and I was paid £80. There’s still a copy of the cheque somewhere. I framed it because it felt like such an important thing – someone with a considerable readership was prepared to put their name and reputation to what I’d written – and pay me for it, and whenever someone I know, have taught, have edited or mentored gets their first thing published I always tell them how important it is that they mark the occasion because it’s a huge achievement and it only happens once. It’s one of the times in your life where you feel the proudest. And, for me, it was the beginning of, well, all of this. It meant a lot.
Last week (I think it was last week – the weeks are blurring together) I got a call letting me know that I was in another county magazine. This time it was Yorkshire Life and, aside from a quote, it wasn’t about my words. And I was delighted, and I still am, that they gave page space to cover the huge project I’d been involved with, for Hear My Voice and Barnsley Museums, for over six months – and even more pleased that it was about those who’d taken part in it.
And here it is. I hope it’s the start of very good things for others.
2 Comments · Posted on June 14, 2017
I’m sitting here at just after one in the morning and I’m feeling very proud. I’ve been wanting to post this for a couple of weeks but I’ve had website problems and work and life are often louder voices than the blog but the voices are sleeping now and the gremlins have been appeased.
So, a couple of weeks ago I was at The Ironworks – an enormous building at the Elsecar Heritage Centre – with around 250 primary school children and their teachers and the then mayor of Barnsley and it was one of the proudest moments of my career. Since November I’ve been working in schools for Hear My Voice – an amazing project for the Dearne Valley Landscape Partnership, and Barnsley Museums. We’ve been writing about home – and all that that means, and I know I’ve mentioned it on here a few times now so I’ll not go into too much detail but we looked at what home meant – it’s not just the buildings we live in, or the towns those buildings are in. Home can be anything. Where we feel dafe or happy. Where our friends are, or families. Or not, as the case may be.
I worked with eight schools: Dearne Goldthorpe, Ivanhoe, Holy Rood, Ladywood, Summer Lane, Cherrydale, Worsbrough, and Hoyland all over the Dearne Valley – from Barnsley to Doncaster, Grimethorpe, to Rotherham and we talked about home. And then we wrote about home. And not how we wrote! Poems, stories. And they were all amazing. And we made them into books. Over 50,000 words were written and typed up and the best thing was, the thing I was most proud of was that every single thing that every young writer produced was brilliant. That’s well over 200 children – over 200 individual voices – 800 pieces of literary brilliance.
The teaching side of being a writer is something I love – that’s why I’ve been doing it for so long. Because, for once, it’s not about me or my words. It’s about other people’s. And the best thing about teaching? Meeting people, hearing about how they see the world. Giving them the means and the confidence to write about it. Helping them to realise that we all have something to say and that we can all say it well and that what we want to say – our voices – all deserve to be heard. Or maybe it’s the opportunity to actually change lives for the better. I know there were writers there who wouldn’t have wanted to share their work before, or who might not have thought they were good enough, or doubted they had anything to say.
And so, back to The Ironworks. All the children, the teachers and assistants (it’s a shame the receptionists couldn’t have been there because they were brilliant with me too) – the team from Barnsley Museums (Alison, Jemma, Vicky – thank you!) – and everyone else. They were all there. And the writers received copies of their books and they received their Arts Award certificates and they read their work in an enormous venue to an enormous crowd and not one faltered or fluffed a single line. And that takes some doing when you’re a professional, let alone in Year 2, or 3, 4, 5, or 6. (And I’ll be honest, I’d love crowds that big when I read!)
So, yes. I am proud. And you, young writers, should be too. You were BRILLIANT. No – I got that wrong. You are brilliant. Don’t you dare stop.
Added: And you can read ALL of their AMAZING work here.
Leave a Comment · Posted on May 31, 2017
I am in a city for the first time since Friday. On Friday I was in Leeds and it was the first time I’d been in Manchester (I rode a train to Piccadilly to get there) since the bomb. It still feels weird saying it. There’s still some strange disconnection, some weird feeling of there’s this other world where kids and teenagers went see a show by a pop star and ended up dead.
When I heard, I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing. We’re a week further on and I’m still lost for words. I’m still devastated. I’m still reeling. I’m still upset. Yes, there’s anger, but that’s not a healthy thing to dwell on because anger doesn’t lead to redemption and it puts nothing right. People died. And it was only a matter of time before I heard that a friend of a friend was one of the victims.
I’ve often found it odd that people who grew up where I grew up say they’re from Manchester. They’re not. Manchester city centre is a twenty-five minute train ride from there. But there is a familiarity. Manchester’s a place I know well. It’s on my doorstep. I have been in that arena so many times before – I even saw my first gig there as a fourteen or fifteen year old (Pulp – a couple of days after Jarvis got his arse out at the Brits – they were wonderful and he was hilarious) so I can picture things. It’s a horrible thing to happen full stop and it’s affected an awful lot more people than me; but it has affected me and I think it’s always going to when it’s somewhere you know. Somewhere you’ve trod; laughed, danced – even felt slightly overwhelmed by the scale of the place and the amount of people there. So, while Manchester hasn’t been home – not like a brother or a sister, it’s felt like more of a cousin you really like and, after seeing the reaction of the people of Manchester this past week – it’s a cousin I’m so, so proud of and one I love more than I realised because they were brave in the face of something despicable. There was so much pulling together and help and support and blood being given and lifts home and shelter being provided (by ALL faiths and ALL creeds and races) and so much and so many amazing thing by our police and medical staff and, no-one, it seemed, lost their temper. And that’s the part I’m most proud of. Yes, I’ve read hate crimes have increased (STOP IT! PLEASE!) but, what I’ve seen the most of is unity. And that’s a good thing. It’s the best thing.
And I’m not really sure what I’m saying in this post, to be honest. I’m not sure I’ve got anything to say, or even if I had that it’d be worth listening to. I doubt I’ve got anything to say that’s going to change anything (if I could, I’d be saying vote Labour when it’s time because, among many other things, last Monday would have been one hell of a lot worse had the NHS’ systems been hacked while the incredible staff were dealing with that, which would have been avoided if Theresa May hadn’t decided it wasn’t worth investing in security for the system).
But I’m not saying that. (Well, I am, but that’s not the point.)
What I’m saying is I’m still coming to terms with what happened and it’s affected me a lot but so, so-so much less than so many other people. And I’m saying, keep your tempers, even when angry feels like the only thing to be or do or get. And I’m definitely saying I’m proud to be Manchester’s cousin. Manchester, our kid, my mate: you did good. You should be proud.