Writing

Naming – a short story

October 12, 2018 by Karen Comer 4 Comments

A couple of years ago, I had an adult short story published by Stringybark Press in one of their anthologies. It’s part of the collection of modern fairy tales I’m working on. I thought I’d share it here for you to enjoy!

Naming

I watch them every morning from my bedroom window at the front of the house. I kneel on my bed and pull the blind up a little bit so I can see them. They stand between the two cars parked in their driveway. Rob wears a suit with a shirt and tie. Julie wears a pretty dress. Sometimes her hair is in a ponytail, sometimes she wears it loose. They reach towards each other, and he puts his hand on her back and she puts her hand around his neck and they kiss. Kiss, kiss, kiss, for a really long time. Sometimes they say goodbye in a slightly different spot and I can’t see them properly through the bushes between our house and theirs. But I always hear Rob’s car drive off first down the street, then I hear Julie’s car leave. Then I open my blind all the way.

They are so nice, our neighbours. Julie works at the office for a big bakery and always leaves a cardboard box full of bakery sweets, like jam donuts and apple scrolls and custard tarts at our front door on Friday evenings. So now Friday is dessert night. It used to be Saturday, but now it’s Friday.

Fridays are a good day now. They used to be a bad day, because we had sport at school. Well, I have sport at my school. My younger brother, Dan, has sport at his school on Monday and Wednesday. I go to a different school. The sign at the front of my school says it is a special school for children with special needs, so all children can reach their potential. I know this is not true. Because some of the children here have already reached their potential. Sam, for example, is never going to learn any more about maths. He knows some maths, but he’s never going to learn any more and he’s fourteen already. I am only twelve, but my potential for maths is still growing. I heard Mr Tallin tell Mum that I have great potential for maths, maybe up to Year 10. But my potential for sport is not good – I can only catch the ball three out of ten times, and not every sports day. Just a good sports day.

This Friday, when Julie comes over to give Dan and me the box of bakery treats, she tells us she has some news. Some exciting news. She and Rob are going to have a baby. Mum gives her a big hug and makes her come inside to sit at the table and tell us all about it. Dan goes outside to play basketball – he always practises after school until Mum tells him it is homework time – but I stay inside.

‘Is this Julie’s potential, Mum? Is this the best she can do? Is this why it is really exciting?’

Mum and Julie smile a special sort of smile at each other. ‘Well, Pat, having a baby is an amazing thing to do,’ says Julie, folding her hands on our scratched kitchen table. ‘But I think I can have a baby and still do some of my work potential at the same time.’

I open the bakery box to see what Julie has given us today. Lemon tarts, jam donuts and fruit buns. I like the donuts best.

‘Actually, it’s Paddy today. My name is Paddy.’

Julie nods politely but I know she doesn’t understand. My name is very important to me. It’s Patrick David Lamond. Sometimes I like to be called Pat, sometimes Paddy and some days Patrick. Sometimes Boy-o, but only by Dad. Patrick is for a bad day, Pat is for an ok day and Paddy is for a good day.

And I can’t quite work out what Julie means. So I put it in the box in my head marked ‘Adults’ – it’s for things that adults say that I don’t understand. There are a lot of things in that box. But I do know one thing – kiss, kiss, kiss does mean a baby. Lisa in my class told me that. She knows a lot about babies because she has three younger brothers and sisters at her house. And she is always playing with dolls in the home corner. Sometimes she makes me play too. I have to be the dad, and hold the baby while she cooks dinner. She even showed me how to change the baby’s nappy and pat it gently so it would fall asleep. Lisa can’t write very well because she doesn’t hold her pencil properly but she knows how to hold a baby.

‘What about names, Julie?’ asks Mum, bringing two cups of tea to the table.

Julie shrugs her shoulders and laughs. ‘Oh, Rob and I have a list of girls’ names we like, so that’s sorted. But we like completely different boys’ names. So we are just calling the baby Rumplestiltskin for now!’

After Julie has her baby boy, she stays at home and doesn’t go out to work any more and doesn’t give us boxes of bakery treats on Fridays. So Fridays are bad days again because there is sport and there are no treats. Dan thinks Fridays are bad too, because he has no sport and no treats.

Rob goes back to work but Julie doesn’t kiss him between the cars any more. Sometimes I see Julie in her dressing gown holding the baby at the front door, making the baby wave his little hand. Sometimes the curtains are still closed in their bedroom window after I come home from school, and Mum says that Julie might be very tired because the baby might have cried in the night. Julie often comes over to our house with the baby, and sometimes she cries a bit and sometimes the baby cries a bit, and Mum makes her a cup of tea and holds the baby so Julie can go back home and have a shower. She doesn’t wear her pretty dresses any more. Usually, she wears tracksuit pants and a t-shirt.

One day after school I hear Julie’s baby crying and crying. Mum is in the middle of cooking something complicated in the kitchen so she can’t help Julie. I go next door and open the back door. Julie is crying on the couch and the baby is crying, too. She cries even more when she sees me.

‘I can hold the baby for you while you have a shower,’ I say. This is what Mum says.

Julie cries some more.

I walk over to the couch and put my hands out, and Julie gives me the baby. She needs two hands to find the tissues and blow her nose. The baby cries some more but I pat it gently just like Lisa at school showed me. I even sing the traditional lullaby Mrs Blackwell taught us last year.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
Thy father guards the sheep,
Thy mother shakes the dreamland tree,
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep.

The baby stops crying. Julie stops crying.

‘I think I have good potential to make the baby stop crying.’

‘I think you do, too, Pat,’ says Julie, and she smiles.

‘Paddy, are you in here? You shouldn’t be bothering Julie.’ It is Mum, standing at Julie’s back door.

‘Oh, no, Catherine, he’s fine. Pat’s helping me out – he’s just stopped all the tears!’

‘Well, as long as he’s helping and not bothering,’ says Mum. She uses her strict voice but she smiles at me. It always confuses me when she does that. And usually she does this when there are other people around. Is she happy with me or cross with me? I can never work it out. Something else to go in the ‘Adults’ box in my mind.

Julie rummages around in the pantry and finds me a chocolate biscuit.

It is a good day.

After a week, I go over to visit Julie to see if I still have my baby potential. The baby is lying on a blue and green rug on the floor, and Julie is waving a rattle in front of him. She lets me hold the rattle and I make a jingling noise for the baby.

‘Hi, Rumplestiltskin,’ I say to him. I know Rumplestiltskin isn’t his name but I don’t like his name so that’s what I call him.

‘See? I still have my baby potential,’ I tell Julie.

She smiles at me and starts to say something but the phone rings. When she answers it, she says lots of words like ‘I agree,’ and ‘Mmm,’ and ‘That all sounds possible.’

I don’t say anything because Mum has taught Dan and me that you don’t talk while someone is on the phone. I just sit next to Rumplestiltskin to teach him that you don’t make a lot of noise when someone is on the phone.

When Julie says, ‘Bye,’ and puts the phone down, she sits opposite me on the rug and touches the baby’s cheek.

‘Gosh, that was someone from my work on the phone, Pat. They want me to start work soon, maybe some work from home next week.’

I just keep waving the baby’s rattle in front of him. Sometimes adults talk like this, and I don’t know what to say. I only know what to say because I say what Mum or Dad or my teachers say.

Rumplestiltskin says nothing too but he smiles at me.

‘You will make an excellent babysitter one day, Pat, you are just so responsible.’

‘Thank you. Can I have another chocolate biscuit, please? And can you please call me Paddy today? Today, I am Paddy.’

Julie doesn’t have any chocolate biscuits today but she gives me a lamington. A lamington is even better than a chocolate biscuit because it is bigger and still has chocolate in it.

Later that week, I visit Julie and Rumplestiltskin again. Julie smiles when she sees me.

‘Come in, Pat, come in. I’m guessing you want to see my little man? He’s just lying on his rug, all wrapped up, ready for his sleep. You can have just a little look at him while I check something on the computer, and then he can have his sleep.’

Julie walks into the study and I look at Rumplestiltskin lying on the blue and green baby rug, then I pick him up to make sure I still have my baby potential. He looks at me and does not cry. Then I wonder if he has potential. Will he be a maths potential baby like me or a catching the ball potential baby like Dan or will he have looking after babies potential like Lisa?

I decide that all babies have the potential for walking. Well, except for Olivia and Bella and Luka who come to school in wheelchairs and can’t walk at all. Maybe I should check if Julie’s baby has the potential for walking.

I hold up the baby by his arms and let him dangle down. He is all wrapped up and I can’t see his feet. I lie him down again on the floor and unwrap him – there is a lot of material that is tucked around him. Once it is off, I can see his little feet, sticking out of the bottoms of his tiny white suit. I can hear Julie in the study, talking to someone on the phone.

‘That’s better, Rumple. Now you can walk.’

I stand over him, holding him under his arms, his feet just touching the floor.

‘Come on, Rumplestiltskin,’ I say in a gentle voice. ‘You can walk.’

He starts to cry. I move him around a bit and hold his hands with mine so his little arms are stretched over his head. He is so little, his head doesn’t even reach my knees.

I bend down over him, still holding his tiny hands. I use my really encouraging voice, the voice that Mrs Breen uses with me when she really, really wants me to catch the ball. ‘You can do it, Rumple, I believe in you. You can walk.’

But he doesn’t walk and cries louder.

His hands start to slip from mine. Too late, I remember that catching things is not my potential.

Julie comes rushing in from the study as Rumplestiltskin crumples onto the floor.

‘Oh, what the hell are you doing, Pat? Oh, precious one,’ she cries, scooping the baby into her arms. ‘Mummy’s here, it’s ok, you won’t get hurt.’

‘You’d better go, Pat. You can’t stay here any more.’

‘Actually, it’s Patrick, my name is Patrick today.’

Different ways of thinking

October 5, 2018 by Karen Comer 4 Comments

There are so many different types of creativity and different ways to harness it. There’s also different ways to be logical and methodical and as many permutations as there are people for combining creativity and practicality.

I am a blend of inspirational and practical thinking – I do love to be organised because it means there’s more head space for creativity. So my pantry is ~~a little~~ obsessively neat and organised because that allows me to be more creative in the kitchen. But creativity comes first – this week, I forgot to put petrol in the car – yes, again!

In the children’s writing workshops I presented over the school holidays, the kids came up with many different ways to plan their stories. I offered both a linear approach and a more free-flowing, visual way to map out their stories in their writers’ notebooks.

Some kids naturally turned to the page with a list of questions and answered them chronologically. Others were drawn to the round diagram of the hero’s journey to generate ideas. Others drew pictures of their characters, created a flow chart or used a combination of stick figures and words to plan their story.

Our world needs diverse thinkers and doers, and encouraging kids to map out their stories creatively – both fictional and real-life – is an important life skill.

Quest writing workshops

September 28, 2018 by Karen Comer Leave a Comment

A vial full of unicorn tears, an old book with a hand drawn map, a pack of potion recipes, a feather, a baby dragon … these were just a few of the treasures found in my quest box for our writing workshops.

But really, the treasure was the dozen or so kids I taught writing to this week. They were enthusiastic about the writing activities and dedicated themselves to their stories with imagination, passion and skill. One of the workshop participants even came dressed in her unicorn onesie!

I felt I was doing exactly what I was put here on this earth to do – inspire kids to write with a blend of creativity and technique.

We looked at different quest books, we drew story maps in colour, we planned our stories with questions, we made up hilarious verbal quest stories about a marshmallow dragon who wanted to be a rainbow unicorn and a good wolf looking for a magic peacock feather, we used shadow puppets to tell a story and we wrote our own quest stories in writers’ notebooks.

I have so much hope for future adults when I observe the creativity, innovation and persistence of these children.

We had the perfect creative space at Side Door – lovely tables inside to write our stories and a light-filled courtyard for activities and breaks.

Next week, we are focusing on contemporary stories with everyday heroes. There are still spaces left on Tuesday and Thursday if you’d like to book your children into a workshop. No unicorn tears for next week but there will be plenty of courage and determination – within both the writers and their characters.

KidLitVic opportunities

May 25, 2018 by Karen Comer 6 Comments

There’s something about the way we measure ourselves from one year to the next by going to the same place at the same time of year.

I’ve only been to two KidLitVic conferences – this year and last year – but it’s enough to make me reflect on what has changed in the twelve months between conferences. The conferences are for emerging writers who write picture books, junior fiction, middle-grade fiction and young adult fiction.

Last year I left KidKitVic feeling euphoric. I had met with an editor who ‘loved’ my writing! She wanted to read more! She wanted me to submit it to her! She told me it was publishable, if not by her publisher, then by another publishing house.

But after sending it to that editor towards the end of last year, I found out recently that she didn’t want to publish it. There was so much to like about it, she wrote, but it wasn’t for her.

This year at KidLitVic on the weekend, I met with another editor from a different publishing house. She read the first chapter, told me it was well-written but said I needed to raise the stakes and work on the dialogue. All her feedback resonated with me, but it’s disheartening to know there is yet more revising to be done.

The panels at the conference were inspiring, particularly the opening address by Leigh Hobbs, where he talked about his many rejections. The creative energy at the conference was palpable – hundreds of attendees at the Melbourne Town Hall, along with a bunch of publishers, editors and agents. The illustration folios on display were amazingly breathtaking – such a talented group of creatives. There were quite a few breaks, including a cocktail party, which meant that I talked to friends and met other writers, as well as editors and agents.

Jack Canfield, an American motivational speaker, writes that there is never a ‘no’, only a ‘next’. I guess I was hoping that KidLitVic would be my ‘yes’ but it turns out it was only a ‘next’. But ‘next’ is a stronger word than ‘no.’

A couple of days ago, I met with two of my writing friends and had a strategy session. Who do we send our next query letter to? Which course would be most beneficial? Which book launch should we attend? Which publisher would be most receptive to our writing? What is our ‘next’?

And really, the ‘next’ means going back to my manuscript and revising it. Next!

Waiting and writing, then waiting and writing some more

February 16, 2018 by Karen Comer 6 Comments

While I’m waiting to hear news about my first book which is under submission to a publisher, I’m working on my next book.

My first book has taken about five years to write, starting from when it was initially a picture book. I will never, ever, ever write a book like that again! I had an idea, wrote it in two sittings as a picture book. Then I grew it into a middle-grade book by writing 500 words a day at 5.30 in the morning before the kids woke up. I had no idea where it was going, I didn’t know anything about my characters before I started and I had no knowledge about how to structure a book at all.

So this time, I’m doing the complete opposite! I’m spending months daydreaming and planning. I’m going through my writing books, answering prompts on theme and setting and secondary characters. I’m drawing mindmaps and taking long baths. I’m writing lists about the things I do know and lists about the things I don’t know.

I’m hoping to finish my planning by the end of the month, then start writing. The writing is the easy part – when you know where you’re going!

This is both a daydreaming and a planning stage. The daydreaming comes about when thinking about the main character and what he wants most in the world, who will stop him and how all that will unfold.

The planning part is thinking about where all the events will fit into the structure of the book. What happens that disturbs the protagonist from his usual life and propels him into action? What happens in the middle of the book to turn everything around and surprise both the protagonist and the reader? Will the protagonist triumph over the antagonist at the end?

I’m having a great time because it’s so creative. Some days I write pages and pages of notes, some days I reread a writing book. Every single time I move my story forward because I have a flash of insight about why a character is behaving a certain way or I have an idea about where I could place a particular scene. And even though at times it seems like I haven’t achieved anything – I can’t say I’ve written 1,743 words today – this book is starting to take shape, even if it’s all in my mind and notebook at the moment.

Character arc – in fiction and life

October 13, 2017 by Karen Comer 6 Comments

Although the word ‘journey’ has become synonymous with reality television shows, it’s an important part of stories.

The journey a character goes on during the course of a novel is often what attracts us to the book. How does a man who has lost his memories reconnect with the people in his old life? What does it take to climb a mountain or move cities or open a cafe? We urge friends on in real life, and in a similar way we want the protagonist to overcome all obstacles. We want to support them in the hard times, and celebrate with them during the good ones.

In most novels, the character will change during the book. Donald Maass in his book, The emotional craft of fiction, defines character arc as ‘the change or changes that a character goes through over a novel’s length.’

I’m sure we all know someone going through an awful patch now. Perhaps it’s a divorce that involves betrayal, children, selling the family home and negotiating childcare access. Maybe it’s a loved one’s unexpected death or terminal illness. If this were a book, her life would be at the midpoint of the book – right when things seem worse.

And yet, we all know, after reading many books, that the dark night of the soul is yet to come, about 80-90% in, when the character really hits rock bottom. She has to make some tough choices, gather all her courage, bring together all her inherent skills and talents in order to become her true self and overcome the antagonist.

I’m working on the character arc of my story now. At the beginning of the book, my twelve-year-old protagonist, Freya, had her normal world disrupted. At the beginning of the book, she’s hurt and vulnerable – which she covers up with anger. She’s also curious and sporty and competitive. At the end of the book, she’s still curious and sporty and competitive but she’s lost her anger and she’s gained more confidence in overcoming her greatest fear.

Actually, like most characters, she has two greatest fears. (That doesn’t sound grammatically correct but bear with me!) Freya has an outer, physical, nameable fear. But underneath, she has an inner fear which she’s not even conscious of at the beginning of the novel. In her character arc over the course of the book, she moves forward to overcome both her physical and inner fear.

So easy to analyse a character’s arc or journey in a book, isn’t it, like dedicated English literature students? It’s a bit harder in real life, when we can’t flick ahead to the end of the book to see if the protagonist moves to Paris with her long-forgotten love or reread a chapter to make sure we’ve understood the symbolism of the red umbrella in chapter three!

Writing act three

July 28, 2017 by Karen Comer 16 Comments

I’m about ten thousand words away from finishing my book. It’s not the actual writing which worries me – I could write that ten thousand in a week. But to write those words, I need to feel crystal clear about what’s going to happen in the last act. And I’m not quite there yet.

Many writers use a screenplay or play structure to divide their story into three acts. The first act sets up the characters, the setting and the premise. The second act continues these elements. The third act wraps everything up nicely, so that the audience can breathe a sigh of relief that everything turned out so well or wipe their eyes. (This is SO unlike the grand final of Australian Ninja Warrior where no one won and there’s no sense of a satisfactory ending!)

I’ve rewritten the first two acts of my book, and am now working on the third act. I already know my climax – the most dramatic part of the story which places the protagonist right in the middle of trouble. She’s on a rooftop balcony, late at night and she’s the only one who can save the day, and she has to face her greatest fear – and she’s only twelve. (I told you – dramatic!) But until last week, I wasn’t sure how to get my protagonist there.

Living with uncertainty is part of a writer’s lot in life but it does wear a little thin after a while. I did lots of brainstorming exercises but nothing worked. But then I talked to my writing friend and she offered a few ideas, one of which was so obviously perfect. So now I have my idea, but I need to flesh it out a little more to make it work. Fingers crossed that this is all possible within a month, my self-imposed deadline.

In the third act, everything has to count and the pace must be faster. If your reader has followed your story so far, the least you can do is give them a reason to turn the page. All the loose ends need to be tied up, and the ending must seem inevitable but not predictable. To write an ending that is satisfying and seems as if there’s no other way it could end, yet can’t be predicted by an astute reader is no mean feat.

The American writer, James Scott Bell, describes it like this in his book Plot and structure:

Because the novelist is like the plate spinners I used to watch on the old Ed Sullivan Show. These guys would have seven or eight plates spinning at the same time, sort of like a wild Act II, and then they’d have to come up with a big finish that got all the plates off safely and with a little flourish.

Your plot will have lots of plates spinning by the time you get to the end. You need to get them off safely. You need a little flourish. And you need to do it in a way that is not predictable.

Like I said, no mean feat. Wish me luck!

PS. Saturday 12th August is National Bookshop Day. You have just over two weeks to save your dollars or plan your time so you can show your local bookshop a little love!

Van Gogh – ‘arrive at the truthful’

July 7, 2017 by Karen Comer 4 Comments

Last weekend – because there was no sport in the school holidays – hooray! – we all went to the Vincent van Gogh exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria.

It was beautiful and crowded. Beautiful because the paintings were amazing. I loved seeing the brush strokes and the vivid colours.

I must admit, I didn’t enjoy hearing the commentary from all the other people looking at the same paintings. ‘Oh, that’s a nice one!’ seems a little banal when discussing van Gogh.

I didn’t take any photos of the paintings but I did take a photo of the following quote from van Gogh.

One must work long and hard to arrive at the truthful. What I want and set as my goal is damned difficult, and yet I don’t believe I’m aiming too high. I want to make drawings that move some people … Whether in figures or in landscapes, I would like to express not something sentimentally melancholic but deep sorrow. In short, I want to reach the point where people say of my work, that man feels deeply and that man feels subtly.

As a writer, it’s one of the hardest things to ‘arrive at the truthful’, to create fiction that tells the truth about how we feel about things and what matters. It’s an odd dichotomy that art can reflect ourselves better than reality sometimes.

We have a picture book called Camille and the sunflowers written by Laurence Anholt. The story is told from Camille’s point of view. He’s a young boy, who with his father, a postman, befriends Vincent. Vincent paints portraits of Camille’s family and a wonderful painting of sunflowers, based on a bunch which Camille gave him.

There’s a brief animation and a reading of this book here, if you have kids who are interested.

There’s also a book by Laurence Anholt called Anholt’s artists activity book about a few artists, with ideas for kids to create their own artwork based on these artists’ techniques. The van Gogh one is about painting a portrait.

The van Gogh exhibition closes tomorrow – hurry!

Singing my sister down and other stories by Margo Lanagan – book review

June 30, 2017 by Karen Comer 4 Comments

I had goosebumps when I read Margo Lanagan’s short story, ‘Singing my sister down’. It’s a combination of her evocative language, believable worlds and her unique characters and the situations they find themselves in.

This story is also the title of her collection of fantasy short stories, some of them written almost twenty years ago. If you’re looking for a collection of short stories that will take your breath away, this is it. It’s been marketed for young adults but also fits into the adult literary fiction category.

‘Sweet Pippit’ is a story about a group of elephants. But Lanagan doesn’t ever mention the word elephant. Yet you understand by her choice of words that Gooroloom and Booroondoon are elephants. And if elephants could talk, this is what they would sound like.

But our bearing is the sort that soothes others; we move with inevitability, as the stars do, as the moon swells and shrinks upon the sky.

Let’s unpack that sentence for a minute as if we were literature students.

our bearing – instead of saying ‘the way we hold ourselves’ which is a little clunky – we have our bearing which implies regency
soothes others – elephants, by their very presence, calm others – both humans and animals
move with inevitability – the word inevitability has a sense of certainty and destiny about it
as the stars do – she has linked heavy, earth-grounded elephants to the stars – tiny pricks of light
the moon swells and shrinks upon the sky – a lovely way of describing the moon waxing and waning.

And all of that in one sentence!

Here’s another beautiful line –

And our spirits, which had been poised to sink with Gooroloom’s worry, lifted as if Booroondoon’s words were buoyant water, as if her song were breeze and we were wafted feathers.

Again, the pairing of unlikely elements – elephants and wafted feathers – creates lyrical, contrasting images in our minds.

In her interview with Charlotte Wood, in the book The writer’s room, Lanagan talked to her about the craft of writing.

When you’re writing the sentences you’re also thinking about the paragraph, and beyond that to the entire scene, or the entire story. And then you feel the rhythm faltering – so you put square brackets around the blundery bit and you keep going so you don’t lose that sense of the rhythm. Then you come back and find the right word or phrase to fill the gap. Sometimes you’ve got the sense of it but you don’t have the perfect word. You know there is one – it’s on the tip of your tongue, but it’s not there. But you know it means roughly this, so you put down that meaning in square brackets and go on, and you come back and find your way to the perfect word when you’re fresher.

Even if you’re not usually a short story reader, read Margo Lanagan’s book and become one!

In the margins

June 16, 2017 by Karen Comer 4 Comments

I stared at the file in dismay. My words from my middle-grade manuscript had been kindly and meticulously edited by my friend Renee. There were almost 5,000 words in four chapters. Renee’s comments were in purple. She’d given me quite a few ticks, but there were more suggestions and deletions than ticks.

Out of the four chapters, the one she liked the best was the one I wrote in a café the day before. I had suddenly realised I needed a scene where my protagonist apologised to someone she had hurt. (Because it’s good to make twelve-year-old characters do things they don’t want to do, and no one likes to admit they’re wrong!) A chai latte, an hour, about 1,000 words – done. Renee gave me lots of ticks for that one.

At first I was really disappointed. I knew the chapters weren’t singing yet but I didn’t think they were THAT bad. Then I became analytical. Why was my fresh, raw new chapter better than the ones I’d spent hours crafting?

It’s partly because the olds ones had been written about a year ago and I’m a better writer now. I’ve absorbed all the many books on writing I’ve read, and the many writing podcasts I’ve listened to and the hours spent discussing the finer points of writing with friends.

And it’s partly because we think that it’s easier sometimes to work around the edges, polish a few sentences and it’ll do. But sometimes a blank page and an hour offers no limits and no preconceived ideas.

I spent some of last weekend editing grade four stories for a writing workshop, and went into their class this week to talk to them about their stories. I showed them a few of my pages which had been reviewed by an editor – all the comments scrawled in the margins, the lines crossed out, suggestions written in between the lines.

‘This is a good thing!’ I told these nine and ten-year-old students, when I gave them their edited pages. ‘It means someone is responding to your work, and that’s what you want as a writer.’

I think I need to listen to my own advice. Sometimes illumination happens in the margins.