Children's Writing

 by Ashley Lister

 I spent a good chunk of last year lecturing on the subject of Children’s Writing. It was a lot of fun because I was working with some very talented writers and we were discussing classic children’s literature as well as contemporary material.

Classic titles will undoubtedly be important to all readers but it’s the contemporary stuff that I’d like to recommend here today.

Obviously the Harry Potter books deserve a recommendation. They’re too good and too iconic in their representation of contemporary British children’s literature to be missed.

I’d also say that The Hunger Games trilogy (by Suzanne Collins) should be read because they’re exciting and fun in their narrative construction. (I need to put in a small note here and admit, by the end of book three, I wanted President Snow to shoot Katniss Everdeen and maybe hack her corpse into small pieces – but I’m probably not the ideal reader that Suzanne Collins envisioned when she wrote these books).

However, my favourite series at the moment has to be Derek Landy’s Skulduggery Pleasant books.  According to Wikipedia:

“Skulduggery Pleasant is a series of fantasy novels written by Irish author Derek Landy. The books chronicle the adventures of the skeleton detective, Skulduggery Pleasant and a teenage girl, Stephanie Edgley along with other friends.”

And, if this sounds too childish and surreal to be of any interest, consider the following examples from the first book in the series:

He put on his hat and wrapped his scarf around his jaw, but did without the wig and the sunglasses. He clicked his key chain and the car beeped and the doors locked.
"That's it?"
He looked up. "Sorry?"
"Aren't you afraid it might get stolen? We're not exactly in a good part of town."
"It's got a car alarm."
"Don't you, like, cast a spell or something? To keep it safe?"
"No. It's a pretty good car alarm.”

Derek Landy, Skulduggery Pleasant

“It's really not as bad as it sounds. I was attacked by a shark once, back when I was alive. Well, not so much a shark as a rather large fish. And not so much attacked as looked at menacingly. But it had murder in its eyes, that fish. I knew, in that instant, if our roles had been reversed and the fish had been holding the fishing pole and I had been the one to be caught, it wouldn't hesitate a moment before eating me. So I cooked it and ate before it had a chance to turn the tables.” 

 Derek Landy, Skulduggery Pleasant

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Dear God

My name is Ashley and I’m a writer. Although, with you being omnipotent, you probably knew that already. That said, looking round the world today, I’m beginning to suspect that you’re far from omnipotent. If anything, you’re probably more short-sighted than Mr Magoo with his eyes closed and a bad case of conjunctivitis, during a fog, at night.

So, keeping that in mind, I suppose it would be best if I write this letter, rather than letting you omnipotently read my thoughts.

I have to start by saying there are many things that are working well. I like the internet, I like my BlackBerry and nature, and I thought the Harry Potter books were very good. Especially Hermione. Well done God.

But not everything is quite as good as the aforementioned pinnacles of achievement.

And, whilst there are lots of things I could whine about, because this week’s theme on the blog refers to war, I figured it would be appropriate to ask you some questions and possibly offer some advice.

Why do these wars keep happening, God? Most often they happen in your name. One group of religious tosspots will decide that they pray better than another group of religious tosspots. We’re then overwhelmed by genocide, tragedy and heartbreaking stories of dulce et decorum est. Worse still, we get news footage on the TV with all the shaky camerawork of the Blair Witch Project and all the explosions of a Michael Bay film. That’s not a good combination. These are all potential triggers for epilepsy.

Now I know that not all wars are your fault, God. I appreciate that many of the modern ones are due to certain countries wanting to steal oil from certain other countries.

But a lot of the really crap stuff in this world happens because one group of morons believes they have a God-given right to kill another sect of morons. And as so much of this is being done in your name, I think it’s time you took responsibility with the following 5 Point Plan to bring about world peace:

1. Stop creating morons who believe in God. I really don’t think it helps the situation having a slowly growing number of moronic believers filling up the planet. I don’t think there has wever been a situation where someone cries, “Quick! It’s urgent! I need a believer.” We have enough sheep. It’s time to create a few more shepherds.

2. Issue a new set of commandments that explicitly state: Thou shalt not fight in wars. You can lose one of those pointless commandments from the original list such as the stuff about honouring parents, coveting asses, or not taking Your name in vain. Personally, I think those were only there as fillers and just got carried through to the final draft as printer’s errors. In the grand scheme of things, I think it’s fair to say that not having wars would be more indicative of a good way of living rather than not coveting asses etc.

3. Smite a few of the warmongers. Nothing stops war faster than a good bout of smiting. Word would get round pretty quickly. Those world leaders involved in genocide, mass murder and the control of oil-rich countries would quickly understand that God was unhappy with their actions and I suspect they would cease and desist with surprising alacrity.

4. Don’t let good things happen to bad people. Crap like that reinforces a sense of injustice. Sit through King Lear. Read some of those news stories about lottery winners with ASBOs. Have a look at the wealth bestowed on the leaders of these warring countries and compare it to the poverty facing all those others who’ve never waged a war on anyone. Honestly, you need to get a grip on crap like that. To those of us with only a marginal interest in these things, it makes it look like you don’t know what you’re doing.

5. Ask J K Rowling to write Hermione De Jour. I appreciate that this has little to do with wars and violence, but I figured I’d mention the idea whilst we were exchanging correspondence.

Seriously, God. It’s a good planet with the internet and nature and Harry Potter books. Stop screwing it up with these unnecessary wars.

Yours sincerely,

Ashley Lister

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The Ritual.

For reasons unknown, the theme this week is Ghost Stories. Well, it is coming up to the end of October- ghouls are a big thing this season and vampires are just so, whatever. Honestly, if I hear another schoolgirl swooning over bloody Cedric Diggory (whom is still dead, by the way... Vampire my arse.) I'll probably lose it.

This being a 'poetry blog' though, I decided to go with my newly refreshed enthusiasm (thanks, Lancaster LitFest) and write something new. Trawling the mind for childhood memories- the ones I feel are always the scariest, the one moment of fear I remember most from those days is quite clear still- waking up to catch children being dragged through a door on TV (I believe, Poltergeist). I was sleeping out, away from home at a friend's house over the way.

I was quite surprised it was a different story that came from within me then. I spent a lot of years in the Scouts as a kid, learnt a lot about myself in the process but, like all the other kids, was only really there for the holidays. A few mates, some tents and several liberated miniature spirit bottles did me for a weekend just nicely, thank you very much. Some of the memories, it seems, weren't quite as jolly. I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Ritual

Trudging with socks sodden from the track

we smelt the air- caught ear of crackling wood over

bleating sheep and rushed towards flickering light.

It was there, with Pendle Hill still fresh in mind

you showed your stripes- pulled rank and asked,

Do you believe in ghost stories.

Our legs trembled below fire flushed faces

as marshmallows bloomed and dripped their mess

into the spitting hearth. You snapped.

On the tops things change- new variables

with every breath of the wind. You must obey.

Do as you are told, pull together.

That was the night he danced.

Took to the pole for tuck shop

twenty-ps he gathered, cap in hand.

And boy, did he dance. Shed his shell

crab like as he scuttled fleshy and nude-

woggle half covering his pubescent penis.

We soon saw his face- caught it in the torch

as you hoisted damp pants up the flagpole.

I'd never seen a ghost before-

and we just sat there, trembling.

Thanks for reading, S.

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There was an old man from Blackpool…

By Ashley Lister

My father was a music hall comedian. I’m not saying his material was bad but, on the night variety died, his act was held for questioning.

Actually, that’s unfair.

He was very good at making people laugh. I remember his last words to me. “Don’t turn the machine off. Please. Please, for the love of God. I’m sure I’ll recover. I don’t want to die.” How we all chuckled.

But I’m not sure if it’s because of father’s influence that I’ve developed my lifelong passion for humour.

“Do I make you laugh?” I asked my wife.

“Not when you’ve got your clothes on,” she replied.

I think that’s what she said. It’s difficult to tell what someone’s saying when they’ve always got a pie in their mouth. Not that I’m saying my wife’s fat, but her patronus is a cake. (A mysognistic northern joke there for all the Harry Potter fans reading this. Talk about aiming at a niche market).

Humour is such a personal thing that it’s probably encoded in our DNA. Freud talked about humour in terms of the tendentious and the innocent, although why we listen to a German talking about humour is a mystery to me. It’s like listening to a Frenchman talk about bravery, or a Canadian sing about irony, or a Spaniard talk about compassion for animals… (Have I offended enough stereotypes yet with this postmodern humour?)

In poetry the form most commonly associated with humour is the limerick. And, whilst Shaun was singing the praises of Edward Lear at the start of this week, I have to admit I find him annoying. (Lear not Shaun. I think Shaun is perfectly lovely). Too often Lear’s final rhymes merely reiterate the sentiment expressed in the opening line. Here’s an example:

There was an Old Man of the Wrekin
Whose shoes made a horrible creaking
But they said, 'Tell us whether,
Your shoes are of leather,
Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?'

To me, the final line in this Lear limerick seems like a weak conclusion to a potentially stylish verse. Lear could have had the final rhyme of squeakin’, leakin’, Peking or a myriad other alternative rhymes that would be superior to the reiteration of the Old Man of Wrekin.

However, rather than write a limerick to conclude this post, I’d like to see regular readers contributing limericks in the comments box below. For those who are unsure how to start, I’d suggest you begin with the words:

There was an old man from Blackpool…

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