Author diaries

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22 March 2009 Entry: "Mother's Day"

What a strange month March is with it’s two celebrations of Women at each end: 9th International Women’s Day and then 22nd Mother’s day. What would a Martian make of that? Every other day is Men’s day? Discuss.

Went to see Live’s presentation of a reading of Taxi Driver’s Daughter, adapted extremely well by Carol McGuigan, who also performed. Jim Kitson was the Taxi Driver, and three very good young actors were the two sisters and the boyfriend: Josie Hepplewhite, Andrew Neale and Christina Whitehead. It was directed by Tess Denman-Cleaver, who I thought was a young school friend, so youthful is she (showing my age). It had verve and believability, it was wonderful to see it brought to life, but also quite upsetting too. It felt like hearing Julia’s voice, as we discussed afterwards ‘which character was the Julia character?’

Of course, they all are, in one facet or another. Vicky Darling, Julia’s mother was invited to officially open the Julia Darling Writing Room at Live, which was a happy and moving moment. There was a miniature shoe tree in a pot, and we were invited to write a note on a label and tie it on. It was soon covered .

I had an exciting moment this month as well - I was Archived by Seven Stories. I wasn’t sure what the archivist might want, so I took scraps of paper, my writing notebooks, press cuttings and discs of interviews that I’d conducted when I was writer in residence at the Centre for the Children’s Book. All background evidence of the writing process of ‘Wall’. They were happy to have it all, and had kindly got out some other material for my interest. So it was I spent a fascinating morning at The Design Works in Felling, looking at the hand-written pages of Northern Lights by Philip Pullman, and Edward Ardizzone’s dummy book with drawings and writing. Anyone can visit by arrangement; it’s extraordinary that in the future, someone might come along and ask to see my material.

I think I’d better get going and write some more before I’m consigned to history’s rubbish bin. I am currently working on a prose novel, for older children. I decided two verse novels that couldn’t be categorised was enough. I’m discovering what a lot of words are needed for prose. It’s daunting but fun. Writing is my escape and my raison d’etre.

My teenage son has signally failed to acknowledge Mother’s Day, am I bothered? Not really, I got to enjoy his (rare) company when I took him and his girlfriend to see Slumdog Millionaire last night. As we were going in, we overheard a child coming out saying something, that led me to expect a different ending(I realise I can’t put what it was in case I spoil it for anyone else!). It wasn’t at all as I expected it to be. We all enjoyed it, and I realised as it finished that it was really a fairy story, and none the worse for that.