My worlds collide today.
Recent emails and phone calls from editors about forthcoming stories have sent me scurrying back to read them again and recall how much I enjoyed writing and revising them. Consequently, I have neglected Mr Sheen and the lawnmower for higher thoughts.
Last night K brought home the reading SAT for 11 year olds from her school and we spent a good half hour ranting, which we like to do from time to time. A child may love reading books, may have read a book a week for most of their lives. Whether this test can sum up their experience and skills, I doubt. A good teacher could do it in a few sentences, but apparently ministers need a number instead. The writing SAT is yet to come, but you can bet your life it'll be a piece of functional writing. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you cry. No, but where's the fun gone in writing? I asked a child the other day when they'd last written a story or a poem and all I got was a blank look.
Which leads me on to the third aspect of my working week - teaching. It seems to me the idea that education can be a transformational experience has all but disappeared now. Government interference with the political football of education is so rife now that career politicians are telling us what to teach and how to teach it. Many schools, under severe pressure, have been forced to view education as only a necessary preparation for entering the working economy as an adult. And that means we risk stifling creativity, independent thought and innovation.
So this morning I planned an author visit to a primary school, determined to do my bit to inspire children to write because they enjoy it, not just because they have to do it.
OK. I've put it off long enough. Back to the Dyson.
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