niece.

has.

small.

ones.

x

-

I have been giving the issue of reviews some thought lately. Once you’ve moved past the delight of being reviewed at all, what is the best way to deal with reviews of your writing (or just as easily your music, your films, your art, your play, your restaurant)? I’ve been incredibly lucky with reviews so far and I am very grateful for that. But I expect it is only a matter of time and in preparation for the worst, I have been mulling over two pieces of often repeated wisdom that I think have a good deal of merit. They are:

1. Never read reviews of your work 

2. Never respond to reviews of your work

Point one is a truly brilliant strategy and my original plan was to adhere to it completely. That was before I actually had any reviews. I have since put it in the same mental file as ‘live without regret’ and ‘have no fear’. That is, I think of it as an admirably sane piece of advice that is unfortunately entirely at odds with the actual experience of being a person. I really struggle to imagine a time when I won’t care very deeply about how the world receives the work I pour my soul into, even if it may sometimes be ghastly to know.

The second piece of advice is a lot more workable and I have adhered to it so far, except to say thank you by email for some especially lovely reviews. Possibly my favourite writer ever, Alain de Botton, once broke this golden rule and for me, he was the perfect person to do it. I think the joy of his work is that it shines a warm, empathic light on the many deeply felt but largely unspoken anxieties, insecurities and miseries that we tend to imagine, quite erroneously, are our own private burdens. In breaking with the convention of silence around reviews too, perhaps his response spoke to and for all writers who have worked to create something of value, only to be faced with heavy-handed or mean-spirited reviewing. As nervous new writers like myself do our best to adhere to point two, I hope de Botton knows the sense of companionship and solace he provided for us by speaking his mind at the time.

Another author whose work I admire and who has kindly offered me some of his own thoughts about being reviewed is Caiseal Mor. Mor is best known as a writer of fantasy novels, though in my opinion his non-fiction is wonderful too. He told me about a review of one of his books in the literary pages of a major newspaper. The reviewer did his best to damn his genre, his work and even his character and was later revealed to have a specific (and non-literary) motive for doing so. Reassuringly though, Mor says, “actually the review worked in my favour. Two weeks after my first book had sold 18 000 copies and was in its third print run. Just being included in the literary pages was a huge boost. And it goes to show that most people ignore the reviews they read – often assuming the reviewer is being unfair, biased or rude.”

Knowing that these two thoroughly respectable writers have received the odd horrid review is something I find helpful in itself and it has inspired me to add my own point to the list of potentially useful approaches.

3. Read lots of other people’s reviews too

I think there are a few very good reasons for doing this. Firstly, you quickly discover that trampled writers are in excellent company. I sometimes look up reviews of books I love and would give my right arm to have written and find, almost without exception, that someone, somewhere has made a decent effort to pull them apart. It is sad but also a little bit reassuring. Secondly, keeping up with reviews helps a writer to maintain perspective on what reviews actually look like to the rest of the world.

I suspect Mor is right about readers seeing through reviewers who quite obviously have an axe to grind. But take, for example, a reasonably lengthy review that is largely positive. Perhaps it begins with an introduction of the themes of the book, then discusses the style of the writing in favourable terms, then points out the value of the ideas being expressed. Next will come what might usefully be termed the Inevitable Final Sentence. It could be:

Although the plot is slow-moving at times, this is a heartwarming tale destined to become a classic.

or

This story is fairly traditional in its approach, but it is guaranteed nonetheless to amuse and entertain.

or

While the ending is somewhat predictable, this book will engage and enchant the minds of young readers.

(These are not from actual reviews, I made them up.)

To anyone else, it all sounds very promising. After all, no book can be expected to do everything. If you were trying to select something to give your nephew for Christmas, you’d probably be persuaded. If you were reading the review because a friend wrote the book, you’d feel delighted on his or her behalf and perhaps even clip it out to send. But if you yourself are the author of the book, the difference is nothing short of astonishing. With that final sentence, the entire review collapses into that one key term – SLOW-MOVING, TRADITIONAL, PREDICTABLE. The letters rise up from the now blurry page, hovering above it like a row of nasty little insects.

As far as I can see, reading lots and lots of reviews is the best possible antidote to falling apart over an Inevitable Final Sentence and may also help to fortify a writer when actually faced with a really nasty review. I think this approach will help me to persist with point two, hopefully resisting the urge, if and when my time comes, to respond. And who knows. Perhaps if I live long enough (and reviewers are kind enough to go on even considering my work) I may eventually get to point one.

She says, “the number of women throughout history who never become mothers is so high (so consistently high) that I now suspect that a certain degree of female childlessness is an evolutionary adaptation of the human race.  Maybe it’s not only perfectly legitimate for certain women to never reproduce, but also necessary.  It’s as though, as a species, we need an abundance of responsible, compassionate, childless women on hand to support the wider community in various ways … My job is not merely to spoil and indulge my niece and nephew (though I do take that assignment to heart) but also to be a roving auntie to the world – an ambassador auntie – who is on hand wherever help is needed, in anybody’s family whatsoever.”

I love this.

Now that I have become an aunt-proper (I’ve enjoyed many years of being the roving sort and plan to enjoy many more) I have been thinking a lot about my own auntie brigade, mining my childhood memories for tips I can use myself. I am lucky enough to have three official aunts, though I have never lived in the same country as any of them, only got to know them a-bit-at-a-time, on holidays, in letters and phone calls.

From one aunt I learned a very good thing to say when you are giving a small person something a bit fragile to play with. She used to say to me, ‘This is quite breakable so try to be very careful with it. But if it does get broken, no one will be cross because we all knew it was quite breakable when we gave it to you.” It has always stuck in my head as a lovely, understanding way to speak to a child. The same aunt once gave my sister and me a whole extra (full) Christmas stocking each. Noted.

From another aunt I learned about the importance, when making up a story, of putting the child directly in it. E.g. It is not ‘a little girl’ or ‘Susan’ who flies up into the sky hand-in-hand with Father Christmas or a magical teddybear, it is YOU, the niece or nephew, slack-jawed with the amazement of hearing your own name in that context. This was also an aunt who understood the horror of a pile of gifts upon which that same name was conspicuously absent. She gave unbirthday gifts. Sweet.

And from another aunt I learned the joy of receiving  the odd grown up present. One year she gave all the adults in the family glorious big posh Christmas boxes of soap and bath salts from, I think, Crabtree and Evelyn. So often children are excluded from these glorious grown up luxuries and are presented instead with something they will ‘enjoy more’ like an educational puzzle. Ugh. But that year my sister and I were included with the grown ups. We loved our boxes and couldn’t have enjoyed anything more than the heavenly smells that wafted out of them. Done.

Do you have any good tips from your own auntie brigade? If you do, I would so love to hear about them and add them to my list.

Firstly, there is such a thing as perfection. I hadn’t realised, but it is real. It can be a person, a moment in time, a feeling, and it can be all of those things at once.

Secondly, I always thought all the love in me was poured out, to my family, to A, to my friends and to my cat. I guessed if anyone else showed up, it would just stretch out a bit further. But it turns out I’ve had more in reserve than I could ever have imagined in my wildest dreams.

Thirdly, all this time I have had, in my own inner circle, two of the bravest and best. I already knew they were incredibly special people, of course. But to bring their perfect child into the world, my sister showed more strength and courage than I knew people really had. And her husband was nothing short of a hero.

So now I am just a little bit wiser. And you know what else? I have a niece.

I started with a pair of clean disposable wooden chopsticks which I smeared with craft glue and wrapped round and round with rainbow wool (fun).

Both the tops and the bottoms of the wands are wool felt in two pieces, glued and also blanket stitched into place with silver thread.

The stars have a little bit of embroidery on each side. They too are blanket stitched together and stuffed loosely with soft wool.

I know from previous similar projects that it is best to get the chopstick right into the point of the star so it isn’t too floppy when magic is being done.

The pale purple ribbons (I wish I had pink – these were leftover from the hair dos we did at the first Violet launch!) were sewn onto the wool-wrapped chopstick which looks a bit messy but is then all covered up by the felt star.

I hope lots of small wishes are granted through the waving of these wands.

Did you ever see artwork so lovely?

Violet Mackerel’s Personal Space won’t be on the shelves here in Australia until April. April! That feels like forever to me.

So until then I will have to be content with opening the file now and again, whenever I need a burst of happiness and inspiration.

It holds my sewing things really, but I added felt balls for the picture so I could show it to you looking a bit nest-like.

In unrelated news a friend of mine R, who would like to be a hairdresser when she grows up, did my hair for me recently. My hair isn’t easy to put up because it is very fine but I think she did a beautiful job and will be an excellent stylist if that’s what she chooses in the end (R is good at a lot of other things too).

And in equally unrelated news, here is Florence ‘helping’ with the photographing of some crafty things. Her main method of helping me, regardless of the task, is to sit on whatever it is that I most need to use, wrap her tail delicately around her legs and settle there comfortably.

She is lucky she is so good-looking.

Happy Monday to you x

[I have linked this post to Natural Suburbia's Creative Friday. Even though it is Monday.]

One of the most interesting parts of writing a children’s book is seeing the illustrations for the first time. It is an extraordinary thing to see what your own innermost daydreams look like in the mind of another person – and not just any person, but a skilled artist.

I’ve hardly made a secret of the fact that I utterly love Sarah Davis’s illustrations for the Violet Mackerel books. (I must admit that as the books go on I particularly fancy her take on Vincent – fwor.) But Sarah’s kindred-spirit-like fondness for small things, her whole-hearted sensitivity to characters’ feelings, her inspiring appreciation of cosy family homes and private nooks and leafy outdoor places, plus her utterly hilarious sense of humour, have meant that her Mackerels are now the ones I see in my mind’s eye when I’m writing. I think I’ve been incredibly, incredibly lucky to have been paired with her.

So it was a slightly nervous-making surprise to discover that Walker Books UK had plans in place for a whole different edition of the Violet books and I did wonder a lot what it would be like to see the Mackerels in another incarnation. Usually I see things in e-copy first, but the covers for the UK edition came by snail mail. I opened the envelope and pulled out the pages, keeping one eye shut. (This is a method my sister and I used as children when watching something frightening on television, in the belief that it might halve the impact of anything scary we saw. It didn’t work then and it doesn’t work now but I still do it.)

I quickly felt at liberty to open my other eye…

…and smile rather broadly.

I love them. I love Violet’s cheery-but-a-little-bit-reserved smile, her upturned nose and the liberal scatterings of buttons and beads around her. I adore the way Sam Wilson incorporates lush little fabric designs into her line drawings. I wish so much that I had Violet’s spotty trousers and stripy socks and dainty black shoes! And I like her messy morning hair on the first cover, which looks rather a lot like mine right now even though it is actually 6.24 pm. If you would like to see some more of Sam’s beautiful work you can look here. Her site is worth quite a bit of nosing around, I think. It’s gorgeous.

The fifteenth century monk and poet John Lydgate and also my mum have observed that ‘comparisons are odious’. It is unlikely that both these wise people could be wrong and perhaps they suggest a very good way to approach new editions of books. Soon I will have the American edition to show you too – and that is completely different again! I have been so grateful to my own inner circle of family and friends whose sneak previews, on seeing the different covers, have been all about considering each Violet as a new small person in her own right. That is how I’m approaching the three separate editions myself, so I have felt very appreciative of their support.

And in that same spirit, I would love to hear what you think too x

But there is another sort of sad thought that is much more like a greyish cloud and if you just give it a bit of time, it will blow over and you will hardly remember it having been there. If you treat that sad thought as something very important to tackle, you might actually end up quitting a job you liked, or spoiling a home you loved, or writing a letter that really, really does not need to be written.

But how are you supposed to know the difference? That is the question.

Yesterday I woke up with what I suspected was a cold and today it is definitely a cold. And somehow, right alongside this small development in my life, all my thoughts seem a bit sad, even thoughts about things that were making me feel quite cheerful this time last week. A woolly head and a sore throat can tangle themselves like ivy around little sprouts of hope and cheer, I find.

So even though I am generally a big believer in getting-to-the-bottom-of-sad-thoughts, today I will not be making any life-changing decisions. I also will not be writing any important letters.

I am going to bed with a mug of lemongrass and honey tea and a copy of Wind in the Willows. And I am staying there.

It was quite fun so I felted three more.

That made four and I thought, what are there four of? And then because I have been reading lots of Steiner/Waldorf stuff over the last couple of weeks I thought of seasons, so I decorated the pebbles like this.

Then I made some small trees on pins.

And then I planted them in the four seasons.

Spring…

summer…

autumn…

and winter.

And now, because this was around the most enjoyable craft project I have ever undertaken, I think I will make some more.

[I have linked this post at The Magic Onions Friday's Nature Table.]