tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38133703098069526842024-03-05T01:18:22.498-08:00Placing It Elsewhere . . .Occasional thoughts on writing, books, teaching and learning. Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-73443657456876036462013-12-03T12:07:00.000-08:002014-02-07T04:55:35.091-08:00(The Leaning Tower of) PisaFor me, one of the most startling aspects of todays House of Commons debate about the latest Pisa data - apart from the turgid mud-slinging, point-scoring and planted questions from the government benches - was the language that was used. Almost universally now, the debate around educational attainment centres on our children "falling behind" or being "left behind" in the "global race". I counted several uses of this kind of imagery, but it is ubiquitous among politicians and policy-makers on all sides.<br />
Education seems to have shifted its core purpose during my career as a teacher. Without for one moment denying the self-evident need to equip children and young adults with the skills and knowledge they need to succeed in the workplace, a vital part of education is being ditched, slowly but surely.<br />
<br />
We have made mistakes in education policy-making because we've allowed ideology to fashion it. There were ill-feted experiments like ITA spelling and teachers who took the 'real books' or 'whole language' philosophy to such ridiculous lengths that they refused to teach phonics at all, as though children would learn to read by osmosis. Sometimes, these failed education policies have been based simply on prevailing cultural aspirations. But the current trend for viewing education simply as a means for creating a suitable future workforce is the result of a much deeper, political consensus; one based on the assumption that neo-liberal market economics must direct our lives.<br />
<br />
I believe this is a profound mistake. Education has a deeper, more subtle capacity to alter our lives, to draw out of us what we might become. And we as a country must have higher aspirations for what we want to build. Whilst a significant majority of the UK electorate are in favour of nationalising (or mutualising, to put it another way) the railways and the utilities, the government presses ahead with the further de-mutualisation of the education system and the opposition have no real alternative vision. They would tinker, but they accept the consensus.<br />
<br />
A high-stakes accountability system based on test results will always cause a narrowing of curricular opportunities despite what some people might argue, simply because everybody wants to be seen to be 'successful'. If we really just want to ape other countries' educational systems then maybe we'll simultaneously have to give up the idea of education as a way of transmitting shared values and culture or as part of the way we look after our most vulnerable children.<br />
<br />
Of course, 'global races' have to have winners and losers. If we allow education to be seen purely through the prism of that kind of imagery, then we might as well tear up the 1959 United Nations Declaration of the Rights of the Child and accept that sub-standard or non-existent education is all right for the losers.<br />
<br />Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-77528838869702855432013-10-13T12:19:00.002-07:002013-10-21T12:12:42.850-07:00Manchester Fiction Prize 2013It was a complete surprise last week to receive a telephone call from the Manchester Writing School to let me know that my story <a href="http://www.manchesterwritingcompetition.co.uk/fiction/shortlist_richardknight.php" target="_blank">The Incalculable Weight Of Water</a> had been shortlisted for the 2013 Manchester Fiction Prize. The relatively new prize, worth £10,000 to the winner, was instigated by Carol Ann Duffy, the poet laureate and Creative Director of the school.<br />
<br />
I first entered a competition in 1998 when I picked up a leaflet in our local library for Arc Publications. In those days I didn't yet have the internet and sent off a short story in the post with a cheque for the small entry fee. My story was selected by Tibor Fischer and Sarah Dunant to be published in the anthology and I was invited to read the story at the Ilkley Literature Festival. I was paid £50 for the story, but I can't quite describe how it felt to see my name in print for the first time.<br />
<br />
In the fifteen years since then, I've occasionally entered competitions such as <a href="http://www.bridportprize.org.uk/" target="_blank">the Bridport Prize</a> and the <a href="http://www.fishpublishing.com/short-story-competition-contest.php" target="_blank">Fish International Prize</a> and along the way had some moderate success. If it wasn't for such competitions and the tireless work of enthusiasts such as the people at <a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/" target="_blank">Salt</a> and <a href="http://www.commapress.co.uk/" target="_blank">Comma Press</a> then it would be hard for writers of the short form in the UK to experience that early taste of success that helps to build confidence. It would also be difficult for readers to find new talent, as mainstream publishers rarely seem to publish short fiction other than by already established novelists. Indeed if a publishing house does accept unsolicited submissions (which is becoming increasingly rare these days) they often add a footnote of 'no short stories or poetry'.<br />
<br />
On Friday I'll be delighted to be there with many other people who share the same enthusiasm for short fiction, which <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/oct/11/sarah-hall-short-story-laureate" target="_blank">Sarah Hall</a> in the Guardian eloquently described as "a bastard to write." I hope that in another fifteen years these awards, competitions or prizes are still around, providing a foothold for emerging writers of the next generation.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-47115647350860673252013-04-16T03:25:00.004-07:002014-02-07T04:55:55.298-08:00Doubt<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 32px;">May 1983. I remember leaving the
station at Oxford and setting off on the mile walk to Hertford College. Sixteen
years old, still three months before I could begin driving lessons, I clutched
a copy of David Thomson’s ‘Political Ideas’ in my hand – at least figuratively;
it was probably in my rucksack – and walked down the long road towards the
dreaming spires.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
some point along that mile I made contact with a boy who had a map. He was a
candidate for a geography scholarship at the same college. In those days,
Hertford was alone in allocating a small percentage of places to state school
pupils nominated by their teachers, based purely on an interview. Or in my
case, three interviews. We eventually wound up at the lodge to the college. I
was already overawed and beginning to sense that feeling of being abroad, of entering
a culture that although recognisable, was not my own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
dinner I sat quietly at a long wooden table and answered the handful of
questions directed at me. I asked none of my own, not because I wasn’t curious
about the other candidates and their lives but because there were never any
pauses in the conversation. To be part of this world I would have to fashion my
own openings, make my own way, turn the light in my own direction. But at
sixteen I didn’t know how this was done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Late
in the evening, about nine-thirty as I remember it, I shifted along dark
corridors and up gloomy flights of steps to find the room of a don who was
going to interview me about politics. The room was softly lit and the shelves
predictably stacked with books. The man wore glasses and a tweed jacket, which
was somehow reassuring, and he smiled and chatted about my journey and school
work and which books I’d read. Remembering Thomson, I discussed Hobbes, Locke,
Mill and Marx. This wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps Oxford was full of kindly
souls like him. Maybe the worm that had grown fat on my doubt would wither and
die if I stayed here long enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning, feeling more confident, I made an attempt to talk about economics
to a more serious but nonetheless friendly man. Sensing the worm bulging, he
steered me onto economic history and I did well. Or at least I talked a good
deal and he nodded, which might not have been the same thing as doing well. In
the hour before my final interview I walked around the streets and colleges,
poking my head tentatively through the gates, watching the confident carriage
of scarves and bicycles and books, straining my eyes up to the windows of the
Bodleian library or the Bridge of Sighs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
eleven I pitched up at another room for the last interview, philosophy,
wondering if I could ever be that certain of my mind, of my learning, of my
character. At my school it was fairly easy to shine, but here it would be
difficult. Would I immediately be discovered as a fraud, a confidence-trickster
who had somehow managed to fool the dons into letting him in? I could already
picture them all, smirking with polite but embarrassed unease. My half-hearted
knock was finally answered by a man in full morning suit with tails and a wing
collar <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3813370309806952684" name="_GoBack"></a>(was he wearing a bow tie or is that too
far-fetched?) who lounged casually on a chaise-longue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Give
me an example of an ambiguous word,’ he clipped. In my writer’s memory ‘he
barked’, although surely nobody in real life would be so rude to a nervous
sixteen year-old?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sat still and drew breath, trying not to look at the strange and, quite
frankly, bored eyes that waited on my answer. I knew what ambiguous meant:
unclear, vague, uncertain, indefinite, indistinct. But my brain was home again
to the neurological worm of doubt who now slithered unchallenged through the
clouded synapses, feeding on what little rational thought available until it
found the only word stupid enough for that moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Bread?’
I mumbled. The man in the morning suit arched his eyebrows. Was that the
beginning of a smile at the corner of his lips? Was he about to laugh in my
face? ‘It can mean money in America,’ I stuttered, suddenly picturing Huggy
Bear from Starsky and Hutch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Mmm,
I was thinking more of a word like ‘many’,’ the man said cautiously,
metaphorically throwing me on to the ‘no’ pile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
that point I should have argued or given him ten other similar words, tell him
that most, maybe all, words are ambiguous in some sense. Thirty years on, I
could pretend that at that moment I stared out of the window into the May
sunshine which lit Oxford and decided it wasn’t for me. That somehow, I decided
for myself to take another path towards teaching and writing. But the truth is,
I can’t be sure that’s what I did. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Out
of politeness, the interview dragged on for a few minutes more at which point I
was released to the train station and the long journey home. I forgot about the
experience quickly and although I received a nice letter complimenting me and
asking me to take the entrance examination, I think I’d sensed that the place
was for people of certainty; the politicians, the journalists, the publishers
who years later would publish my writing. Perhaps they, too, have a tamed worm
of doubt kept somewhere safe. But at some point I must have decided to let mine
free. Maybe it was in that dark room in Oxford, sitting opposite a man in a
morning suit who wasn’t going to a wedding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
sixteen the world had been black or white, heroes or villains, left or right,
right or wrong, God or the devil, BBC or ITV, new wave or heavy metal, bitter
or lager. Yet these days I increasingly cherish my worm of doubt. My roles as a
partner, a parent, a teacher, and not least as a writer, have deepened its
value to such an extent that I’m fairly - but not completely - sure that every
human would benefit from a small one. Especially Mr Gove, Mr Osborne and Mr Duncan-Smith.
(Surely a seriously important man like IDS should be less ambiguous about his
real surname?) <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When humans doubt
themselves, they might be spurred on to improve something that they do. A
writer who writes and then sits back and beams with self-satisfaction will
become a lazy writer. A teacher who trots out the same lesson plans each year
will eventually let pupils down. A politician who is not for turning might come
to regret it, although I doubt they would agree with me. True, at some point
people have to make decisions, decide the right course, stick their necks out.
But the conviction that you are always right is . . . well, it’s too ridiculous
for words.</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
quite like grey, I occasionally watch ITV, I’m not averse to a little Led
Zeppelin although I prefer Joy Division, I drink lager on holiday and in Indian
restaurants. I haven’t yet worshipped the devil or voted Tory. I could combine
the two quite easily at the ballot box just to prove my point but there’s a
limit to what I’m prepared to do in the name of art. Or is it philosophy? I'm not sure.</div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
thing is for certain though. As my cursor hovers over the ‘publish’ button, you
can be sure that I’m doubting if this is good enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></span>Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-75174184387785374782013-01-13T14:24:00.002-08:002013-01-13T14:24:25.908-08:00Staying Within . . . .I'm getting there. It's slow and it's sporadic, but the story is coming to an end. And when I read it back it is - for the most part - the story I set out to write. At 70,000 words and at least another 15,000 to go, this is a 'big' book. I call it a book because that's how I see it in my head, with a beautiful cover and my name on the spine sticking out in a bookshop. In truth it's just a manuscript and it might never see the light of day.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you can read something that is so apt, so totally connected to the streams of your life that you half wonder if it was written for you. Of course, it couldn't have been (unless you know the author) but still . . . that's what a real writer is after: a connection between what he or she wants to say and what some stranger feels about it.<br />
<br />
After the first excitement of being published (on the cusp of a global recession in 2008/9) I quickly realised that writing would never make me wealthy. Although I would love to write full time, it is unlikely that this will ever happen. I once read a statistic that 90% of writers earn less than £10,000 a year in the UK. I wish. I earn 20p a copy of every book sold. And I write what I want to write, which isn't always fashionable.<br />
<br />
So it begs the question why do I (and many other writers) bother? Recently my dad sent me a link to an article in the New Yorker by a writer I admire, Jeffrey Eugenides. Well, Mr Eugenides expresses it better than I could, which is probably why he earns a decent living and I don't. You can read the article <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/12/jeffrey-eugenides-advice-to-young-writers.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-37470783314027356022012-12-02T14:29:00.004-08:002012-12-02T14:31:38.993-08:00Questions And AnswersOn Friday I was down in Oxford for the regional final of the <a href="http://www.kidslitquiz.com/" target="_blank">Kid's Lit Quiz</a>. As it's a 3 hour drive from my part of the world, I decided to make a day of it and visited the fantastic new <a href="http://www.barefootbooks.com/uk/" target="_blank">Barefoot Books</a> studio for lunch first. I wasn't sure what the quiz was all about really but by the time I left at 6 for the long drive home, I'd had a glimpse of a reality that the persistent critics of schools refuse to see.<br />
<br />
The event was brilliantly organised - 30-odd teams of 4 pupils from different schools competing to answer questions on all manner of children's and YA literature - and even as part of a team of authors we struggled to match the scores of most of the teams. The winners scored 90/100 on questions based around themes as wide-ranging as France and Aesop's Fables. The children were bright, knowledgeable and enthusiastic about reading and literature.<br />
<br />
This morning I tuned into the Andrew Marr Show briefly until Osborne mentioned how his government was 'transforming' a school system that was letting children down. Well, on Friday I saw at first hand children who were highly motivated and far more knowledgeable about literature than I was at their age (or am now, if you care to check the final scores). The constant peddling of doom about schools and 'standards' for the last twenty-five years has left a huge hole in our national self-confidence. Our elected leaders have hijacked the purpose of education. No longer is it seen as the 'drawing out' and building upon of talents and enthusiasms but merely as a means to produce economically useful adults.<br />
<br />
But Friday's experience galvanised my belief that if politicians stopped rubbishing teachers, schools and 'standards' (and by association, children's achievements) and placed some real trust in our schools and children, we'd do just fine without George's kind of 'transformation'.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-32517817519795509242012-10-19T12:59:00.001-07:002012-10-19T12:59:23.156-07:00My Nose Pressed To The Window . . .
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I've
taken to writing again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> There's
something about the summer, even a wet one, that gets in the way of my
imagination. On the other hand the summer is always my most productive period
for reading, being the farthest removed from teaching. And reading is at the
heart of good writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> This
summer I was also spent some time fretting over what to write next. I'd
finished a novel last spring and put it to one side as I struggled to develop
an idea for a commission. That I failed in my task at first dismayed me. I
couldn't take an idea, somebody else's idea, and make it work. But I
learnt something new from that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> I
remember reading an interview with Mark Haddon, the author of The Curious
Incident of the Dog In the Night-Time, a few years ago in which he was asked:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="color: #93c47d;">"You
said in an early interview that you'd always felt like you had your nose
pressed to the window of the House of Literature and they were all in
there – Ian McEwan was in the kitchen, and Jeanette Winterson was washing up.
Are you there too now, peeling the potatoes?"</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">His
answer resonates with me:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><span style="color: #93c47d;">"You
realise eventually there is no place like that. What keeps you writing is that
you don't ever enter a place that feels like home at last. You're still going
uphill. There's still a little glowing light in the distance that you're trying
to get to. I was writing something recently and I was chuckling at something
I'd written, and my wife looked across and said, "Do you think that real
writers do that?" And I didn't even notice it was funny at first, because I
still think, "Oh, one day I'll be a real writer." "</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Writers
come in all shapes and sizes but I suppose they all write for a reason.
They're maybe not fully at home in the world and maybe never will be. And
writing, at least for me, is an act of discovery which draws me away from that
feeling even if only for a time. Don't get me wrong. I'm not miserable. I like
a pint and a laugh. I'm happy enough. But I've always felt slightly off-kilter,
out of line, on the outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I
could never describe writing as a job because that implies I do it for money,
to occupy time or to soothe my ego. And none of those are true. So when I
sat down and planned out a new book today, it was because I was driven to do
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And
it's the book I want to write.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-40577772636027016352012-08-08T12:25:00.001-07:002012-08-08T12:34:17.245-07:00Reading For Writing . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilIeusAc7Q4jWrqima9Gz-hyNdILpghyphenhyphen_Sx6xHiJ5eLoMTgDd4e3raC5aPE_yw_U7ruwd-xRnP36aPWRDWtghwCRyob7ahSaVH9B5jdEV3zCQ1NmFB1y841p0EobHUOKdPNeSL_0oROk/s1600/8621462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilIeusAc7Q4jWrqima9Gz-hyNdILpghyphenhyphen_Sx6xHiJ5eLoMTgDd4e3raC5aPE_yw_U7ruwd-xRnP36aPWRDWtghwCRyob7ahSaVH9B5jdEV3zCQ1NmFB1y841p0EobHUOKdPNeSL_0oROk/s320/8621462.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
This week I find myself down in a pit of self-doubt, reminding me of that childhood feeling - the one that said I could never be as good as the writer of the great book I'd just put down. After a conversation with one of my editors about a submitted manuscript I'm now back to another undeveloped idea, a blank page and a bag of books to read. That part doesn't dishearten me too much. Editors and agents have very specific requirements and often a manuscript can be a good one but is rejected for either personal or commercial reasons. I love the story and if it's never published I'll still have the experience of the process of writing it, which will help.<br />
<br />
I've already read one of the books - <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Monster-Calls-Illustrated-Paperback/dp/1406339342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1344453821&sr=8-1" target="_blank">"A Monster Calls"</a> by Patrick Ness - in a single sitting. It reduced me to tears, which came as a surprise. Films can get me that way but books rarely do. It was beautifully conceived, immaculately structured, convincing, truthful and - above all - powerfully humane. I don't think a children's or YA book has ever affected me as deeply.<br />
<br />
That was yesterday. Today I write with that same feeling of "I could never write anything as good as that". But I'm trying to write myself out of that feeling here. It never stopped me as a child. It never stopped me as an unpublished writer. Why should it stop me as a published author? If I can somehow put myself back at school and see myself as a learner, I can reap something from the admiration and professional deflation I felt as I put "A Monster Calls" down. What was it that made the book so compelling?<br />
<br />
In school I find that the most creative writers are often children who are avid readers. They aren't necessarily the most competent writers, but their ideas and their ability to build them into a story set their work apart. I suppose that extra exposure to good writing just sinks into the sub-conscious somehow. I always encourage a bit of well-disguised 'stealing' from authors at that age because it builds confidence and cements an understanding of what makes some stories successful and others not so successful.<br />
<br />
After finishing "A Monster Calls", I went to the supermarket. Loading the boot of the car with the weekly supply of Cheesy Wotsits for the locusts, I moved aside a box containing books from my last school visit in July. Books by me. Books you can buy in a bookshop. I felt (a little bit) better.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I empathise with the British athlete who just came on the TV at the Olympics, knocked out in the first round of the hurdles. Like him, I need to get back to training, change something, do something better, ready for the next story.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-60375201762521039822012-05-16T12:42:00.003-07:002012-05-16T12:45:41.878-07:00Getting started . . .I'm currently in the middle of a term's residency at a school in Staffordshire. I visit every Wednesday to work with a class of year 5 children, some of whom have previously found it difficult to engage in the process of writing. My role, using drama as a stimulus, is to get them started on the road to seeing themselves as writers.<br />
<br />
They're brilliant kids, with plenty of life and stories to tell. They engage in the drama with enthusiasm and no little skill. They 'get' stories and characters and motivations in quite an adult way. Last week we had a 'village meeting' to discuss the issue of an abandoned wolf pup being allowed to stay with a character. One boy, a reluctant writer, was superbly articulate in role as a villager in a way he may find difficult still on paper.<br />
<br />
If we 'teach' speaking and thinking, through drama and the fantastic 'Philosophy For Children' developed by Sapere (google it) surely the skills to commit that thinking to paper will come much more easily? My conviction that this kind of active learning, married to core writing skills, stops kids becoming bored by prescriptive literacy lessons with their tedious targets and quick fix strategies for adding two adjectives or starting sentences with an adverb . . . yawn. It may get the school a level four but it won't turn their learners into writers for life.<br />
<br />
Back in the class, we make a book with a title page and they draft a killer opening paragraph. The results are promising. I talk about some of the relevant issues I have to deal with when trying to engage readers in my stories. They begin to realise the challenges but aren't daunted. There's no test at the end, I assure them.<br />
<br />
But the tests are there in the background in every primary school in the country. They skew the way learning is presented to children so that those who are difficult to engage are more likely to get less of what they need.<br />
<br />
When it's time for lunch, many of them want to show me stories they've written at home or ask me questions about writing. I show them my notebooks with scruffy handwriting and scribbles and drawings and stubs of ripped out pages. They seem impressed that I find writing a struggle too, but perhaps they're beginning to see why I stick at it.<br />
<br />
Who says children don't like writing?Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-90296367098604695002012-03-26T01:02:00.003-07:002012-03-26T01:08:32.546-07:00A Century Of Stories . . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYjEwZSAs2oEtnh3ZNgBIC4fUYSnK0d4b4IvioE5xziHiWAzN5J-f5t5jD_IAWrri0PITQm1NytGp5GMxujq1af91cHqx5M6Eg8X_uMDFpdxMlRORtznt_T8fcPseq1rYVXnue-qESg4/s1600/02092011130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYjEwZSAs2oEtnh3ZNgBIC4fUYSnK0d4b4IvioE5xziHiWAzN5J-f5t5jD_IAWrri0PITQm1NytGp5GMxujq1af91cHqx5M6Eg8X_uMDFpdxMlRORtznt_T8fcPseq1rYVXnue-qESg4/s320/02092011130.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Yesterday we travelled across to Grimsby to celebrate my grandad's 100th birthday. He was in good form and listened carefully to my dad's speech about the tumultuous changes of his century. When my dad said that in 1912 the first shaky aeroplanes might have been seen in the skies, he shouted out "Zeppelins!" But he hasn't been bewildered by these powerful changes. Only the other day he asked my brother-in-law if he should get broadband. I suppose with that kind of forward-looking mentality and an open-mindedness to change, he's watched the many stories of his century (including two world wars) unfold and still wants to know what will happen next.<br />
<br />
On the way home we drove into the setting sun on the M62 and I realised I'd grown up around storytellers; grandparents and parents and uncles and aunts who wanted to talk and make sense of the world through tales that were sometimes comic, sometimes slightly darker. My Nana had the ability to tell the same story - about the Sunday School teacher eating a sandwich into which a wasp had crawled - but in many different ways. My grandfather still remembers huge amounts of detail about his first job as a delivery boy in 1926, the year of the General Strike.<br />
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This is only one step away from writing fiction. The stories are mostly already present in the world when you come to write them. It's just a case of finding a way to make the break and set them down on paper or on screen, to reorganise them, to alter characters, mix stories together, change everything again until you arrive at something that works. My dad made that break, writing plays, novels and poetry on his typewriter in the front room after tea in the 1970s and 1980s. He still does it - like a compulsion to record what it feels like to be alive. <br />
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So when I'm asked where ideas come from, the answer is usually that for the most part they are already there. The only thing that separates a good joke or a long tale about an incident at work or a family saga told by your friend from a written story is the compulsion of the writer to set it down physically and work on it ( again and again ) until it does its job. I'm growing into the idea that writer's block is a myth. The ideas are always there. What might be lost though, is that compulsion to write and understand your own story.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-83489552754262908672012-02-13T10:21:00.000-08:002012-02-13T10:21:53.877-08:00A Sense Of An Ending . . .It's been seven weeks since my last post and in that time I've reached the downward slope towards an ending of my novel. At nearly 35,000 words I feel like I should be aiming to finish in another 10,000 or so words. But there is a problem; a good one, but a problem nonetheless. The ending which I originally planned has changed. That's not in itself unusual. But what is different now is that if I go on and tie up all the loose ends that a reader might demand, I'd write another 10,000 words and the climax of the story would be too far away from the end of the book. I feel that the characters have developed a new story beyond my sight, a story that could just make this novel into a 70 or 80,000 worder. Mmmm. Or is it just another story, another book? <br />
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Of course, we know there is no such thing as an ending. Stories in real life don't just end, even with death. We know fictional endings are a necessary illusion, but we still demand them. <br />
<br />
I recently read a snotty review of my latest book (most of them are favourable by the way!) by a blogger who said she/he thought the last two chapters were too clever for her/him and went over her/his head. Of course, writers shouldn't get precious about this kind of thing. People are entitled to an opinion. But it did make me think about the ending. But re-reading it, I still think it's just a case of lazy reading. The clues are there. I think a reader has responsibility for their reading as a writer does for their writing. If everyone said they couldn't understand the ending, then fair enough there's something wrong with it. But if you're the only one, then read it again . . .<br />
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So endings can be controversial. I prefer an ending where the reader has to interact with the text to decide how it 'ends' rather than be spoonfed the author's ideas. And with this novel drawing to a close now I have some big decisions to make to get it right.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-38573671026529946382012-01-01T10:25:00.000-08:002012-01-01T10:25:29.828-08:00New Year, New BookI stumbled out in the late afternoon today with Barney. The ground in the Pennines is water-logged after what seems like weeks of rain. We walked half way up the hill behind the house and down to a quiet little valley where the stream was roaring with water. Barney, as usual, paid no attention to the grim weather, continually chasing his mangled ball into the stream and bringing it back proudly for me. He lives in a constant state of optimism. <br />
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New Year's Day is traditionally full of hope, cold and crisp. But today, the weeks of poor weather and indoor living had got the better of me and all I could create in my head was the miserable premise for an adult short story that mirrors the pessimistic economic climate. Barney fetched the ball and wagged his tail and got excited about repeating the same game. Then the sky cleared in the west, the direction in which K had driven after lunch to see her mum. The clouds were stained with orange and it reminded me of a scene at the end of my new children's book, <b>The Court Painter's Apprentice</b> (Catnip, mid-January).<br />
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"<i>They stood there for a long time in comfortable silence, as the sunlight slowly dripped beyond the horizon like syrup. And each knew that the other was composing a new painting in his head.</i>" <br />
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In the hour since I'd left the house with Barney, everything had conspired to make me optimistic, to send me back to my desk to write. I remembered why writing for a young audience is such a challenge. Without ignoring the difficulties and hardships that everyone endures, children's books need a sense of hopefulness. Often adult literature can be at the same time brilliant yet leave you feeling despondent. And that's no way to be. One of my favourite adult books is the relentlessly bleak 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, but even in that difficult book, the orange boiler suit at the end is for me a symbolic image of hope.<br />
<br />
So, the weather, an animal and an hour of solitude and reflection did the trick, on an arbitrary day when you're supposed to buck your ideas up. And when I got home I found a lovely <a href="http://lizbankes.blogspot.com/2011/12/review-court-painters-apprentice-by.html#.TwCjR2Zhwms">review</a> by a reader who really "got" the ideas in the book. So now I'm really smiling . . .Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-89208556816158120502011-12-04T13:04:00.000-08:002011-12-05T02:52:10.910-08:00That sinking feeling . . .In between bouts of feverish hoovering and waiting around for plumbers to turn up I have recently managed to sink into my new novel. I use that phrase purposefully, as it seems like some stories take time to evolve in my head and its been a slow process with this one. But now I feel I'm beginning to get going, sinking into the world I'm creating and seeing characters and events fully. The interruptions for research are diminishing by the day with the help of my expert email contact, Tom, and my own improving knowledge. <br />
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Now I'm beginning to set myself little targets, like writing 5,000 words this coming week and another 5,000 the next week so that by Christmas I'm on about 20,000 words. At this rate I might have a first draft ready by the end of February.<br />
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This is when I'm happiest, when the story is beginning to flow out in a (largely) effortless way. The bit I'm still slowly learning is the self-editing, which is the hardest skill of all.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-6034097675159613292011-11-23T08:16:00.000-08:002011-11-23T08:16:31.168-08:00Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow . . .Two months since the last post. Something must be going on. Or maybe not.<br />
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Last time I talked about research, how difficult it can be. It takes time. I mentioned I'd decided to set the story in the middle ages in Galicia. <br />
'But I've never been to Galicia so I think I'll stick with Britain,' I said to a trusted editor.<br />
'You've never been to the middle ages either,' she replied. <br />
Brilliant answer. <br />
<br />
So, I changed it back (to Castile-Leon in the end) and off I went. Two months later, I'm nearly ten thousand words in. I love the concept of the book and although plotting is not a strength, I think I'm developing a plausible mystery story. But every time a thousand words spark through the keyboard to the screen, a historical point crops up and I can spend half an hour trying to find the answer.<br />
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So it's slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. <br />
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Today I got bold and emailed a university expert. And I got a reply on my first question. The floor in a 13th century abbey would have been earth, except around the high altar / chancel area where it might have been ornately tiled. And I can ask him more, he says. <br />
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I suppose the other option is to write the story and then do the research afterwards. Maybe next time I'll try that.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-73917185031578296422011-09-21T10:31:00.000-07:002011-09-21T11:59:41.499-07:00Research and other stuff . . .I spend today working on the plot for a children's/YA novel set in the middle ages. I've got a few cheap second-hand academic texts but they only get you so far. So then it's the internet and that's a writer's greatest time-thief. Before I know it I'm reading fascinating stuff of no relevance to the plot. <br />
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I turn it off and go back to the strange diagrams that are emerging on the blue paper I'm using, with arrows pointing everywhere and strange little notes that even I will struggle to understand this time next week. By mid-afternoon, I'm veering towards a decision to set the story in Britain, even though I'd thought about Galicia originally, somewhere on the Camino de Santiago. Trouble is, to write about that properly I feel I ought to go there. And we spent all our money this summer. I don't think I could persuade the family to walk the pilgrim road from the Pennines to Compostela.<br />
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This is a part of writing I know I'm going to struggle with; the intricate details of a plot for a mystery novel. It's the first time I've tried something like this, and setting it in the middle ages has only complicated the issue further. Still, challenge is the best way to learn. <br />
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No clues, but . . . there was a thriving trade in stolen religious relics during the middle ages.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-6993153608991318232011-09-07T11:47:00.000-07:002011-09-07T11:47:50.764-07:00It's been a long time . . .. . . since I posted anything. The summer has spluttered to a halt, though I'm surprised it made it as far as it did. The man who cleaned the carpets today told me Easter is the new summer, as we waited for the torrential rain to ease so he could load up his van.<br />
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Next week I'm getting a proof copy of <a href="http://www.catnippublishing.co.uk/">The Court Painter's Apprentice</a>, due to be published in the new year. It's been a ridiculously easy ride getting this out, compared to my previous experience. And I think that's largely down to the brilliance and energy of my editor, Non at Catnip. <br />
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When somebody says 'have you thought about this?' and you haven't, even though you've read the manuscript 100 times, then you know you're onto a good thing. She has the uncanny ability to inspire confidence. And she does what she says she's going to do, which is always welcome because writers sometimes live in a kind of hopeful space, waiting for the next email or rejection slip. <br />
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If I ever doubted the idea of a writer needing a good editor, that opinion is now a permanent resident in my mind.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-5718277188953710162011-06-07T12:21:00.000-07:002011-06-07T12:21:51.951-07:00In Between The Showers . . .Like the weather, nothing much seems settled in my writing head at the moment. I have two novels in desperate need of revision and keep attempting 'research' (ie. idling away an hour on the internet) for a new novel. Today I reread the opening to one of the finished novels, determined to strengthen the motivation of the main character, but ended up deleting large swathes of text instead. I don't seem capable of deciding what's the next best thing to do. Maybe I should take a break from writing for a couple of weeks?Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-70554848069466279612011-05-17T04:51:00.001-07:002011-05-17T10:34:58.626-07:00Driving Home . . .To North Wales yesterday to visit a school. A great time was had talking about writing and reading, getting children involved in drama activities and answering questions. They even invited me to open their library and tell a story at the end of the day. I came away full of enthusiasm. Thanks very much to the staff and children of Rydal Penrhos School.<br />
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Then, on the way home, driving on the coast road through rain coming in from the Irish Sea, I listened to a <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01132z8">programme</a> about newly qualified social workers and was struck by the sharp contrasts we have in childhood experiences in this country. An hour earlier I had spoken to a group of eager girls, who wanted to be writers, doctors, vets and a whole host of other professions. On the radio, I then listened to stories of children locked in their bedrooms to protect them from dangerous relatives. And governments still want to blame social workers and teachers for not radically changing the outcomes for these children because it deflects from the very real mess in some inner city areas where governments can make a difference. Like Sure Start nurseries, for example. A simple idea, well-executed, that worked and is now being cut severely.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-38002653430876194302011-05-10T05:31:00.000-07:002011-05-10T05:31:34.458-07:00Worlds colliding . . .My worlds collide today. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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OK. I've put it off long enough. Back to the Dyson.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-22507586246505105432011-04-19T00:58:00.000-07:002011-04-19T06:47:26.848-07:00Spring Cleaning . . .. . . and latch on to the affirmative<br />
don't mess with me and Mr Sheen<br />
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<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/elHnwjgrgS0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-55883575534086790322011-04-15T04:43:00.000-07:002011-04-15T12:45:47.787-07:00Going With The Flow . . .The locusts have been off school and college all week but they're late risers (some days it's barely worth their while) so I've managed three or four hours writing every morning before they rise and point to their mouths.<br />
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There are so many pieces of advice out there about writing. Some of them are useful, some trite, some so idiosynchratic that they're only of use to the people who offer them. But one of the ones generally accepted is re-writing.<br />
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Usually I re-read what I've written each day and edit it for style, punctuation, spelling and occasionally delete most of it. But this week I've barely read a word once it's passed my line of sight on the screen. Five days, 15,000 words, all in a rush. And I'm scared to read it now.<br />
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Why did this happen? Well, it's the first time it's happened, that's for sure. I write in fits and starts, usually about 3 or 4000 words a week. Sometimes it's easier than others, but this week it's been a piece of cake. I knew where the story was going, already knew the characters, had my research all around me. And it just flew out, unhindered, and felt exactly as I'd imagined it. But now I'm frightened to read it, in case it's a pile of rubbish. In case I have to rewrite it.<br />
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Oh, and another rejection letter in the post this morning . . . next to a proof copy of the lovely paperback edition of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Winter-Shadow-Richard-Knight/dp/1846861152/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1285538153&sr=8-1">Winter Shadow</a>.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-57623869963422003142011-04-05T03:26:00.000-07:002011-04-05T03:26:44.374-07:00Feeling rejected . . .After a few years of practice and a good few dozen rejection slips, I began to write more for children. Not because it's easier, or I thought it would be easier to get published. It's not. Unexpectedly though, my first attempt was picked up by <a href="http://store.barefootbooks.com/uk/winter-shadow.html">Barefoot</a> before I'd collected too many rejection letters.<br />
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That was it. Now the floodgates would open and I would get an agent and be free to publish whatever I wrote. Err . . . actually no. That didn't happen. True I have managed two new contracts since then, but finding an agent still seems almost impossible. The old chestnut of it being more difficult to get an agent than get published certainly rings true with me. In fact, I think I might give up trying . . . I've wasted a lot of time and paper and energy in research and submissions and although they do more often than not ask for the full manuscript these days, I'm still no nearer. I can't afford £300 to have a manuscript edited by a consultancy each time, either. Neither can most writers, so stop putting it on your form letters.<br />
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So, how does a writer deal with rejection? Well, first off I would suggest that anyone who writes for money would be better off getting a proper job ( not that there are many around at the moment). Writing is just something I've always done. I remember turning up to school early one summer morning just to finish my first chaptered story in junior school (Mr Hanson, thank you very much). If people told me my stories were awful I'd still do it in secret anyway. So when a publisher or agent rejects a manuscript my heart sinks, like anyone's does, but only for a few minutes. I've even had an agent say she loved one of my stories but couldn't see a place for it in the market. Another wanted me to rewrite a young adult novel more ''like Cornelia Funke''. Well, we live in thrall to the market now, don't we? Demand dictates supply, apparently, not the other way round. But I won't write about vampires or wizards (no offence to anybody who does - it's a personal thing).<br />
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If you feel destroyed by each rejection, you'll soon stop writing ( or at least submitting). I comfort myself with the thought that many more eminent writers from the past would never be published today because nobody would take the risk.<br />
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So just write. Send it off if you think it's good. Let people read it and offer you an opinion, especially people whose judgment you trust. But most of all, do it because you like doing it.Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-16734732772244135362011-03-30T08:43:00.000-07:002011-03-30T08:43:19.756-07:00A Change In The Weather . . .After several weeks of blue skies and spring sunshine it feels intensely gloomy today. Usually a change in the weather in a story prefigures a plot or character development of some kind or another, but in reality it makes little difference to people. Except . . . I do feel a bit miserable today, for no good reason.<br />
<br />
Today was a teaching day. Not a writing day. Or a cleaning day. This afternoon, we made circuits to power a motor attached to a chassis (previously constructed of wood) and connected to an axle. They worked, but were tricky to connect. One girl asked me to do hers.<br />
'No,' I said, 'but I'll show you how to do it.'<br />
She shrugged and walked away. Clearly, I hadn't given the answer she was looking for. Three minutes later I looked round to see she'd persuaded another pupil to connect her circuit to the chassis. Oh well . . .Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3813370309806952684.post-19156399669680904202011-03-29T14:10:00.000-07:002011-04-19T01:04:01.449-07:00Waiting For The Post . . .I've been meaning to start a blog for over a year. A blog about writing.<br />
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Not because I want to be noticed, although I'd be pleased for my books to be. I really don't want to broadcast my every movement and inane thought to the world (and there are plenty of those). But on the other hand I like the idea of having a place to communicate some of the thoughts and actions which may possibly, ever so slightly, be of some interest and use to other people interested in writing and reading stories.<br />
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So I've started. The post has just arrived. And as usual, it's another rejection slip . . . .Richard Knighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09665709160828398509noreply@blogger.com0