Christchurch

It's a tough time to be a Kiwi, even if you're not in Christchurch (and how tough it is for those people just isn't imagineable). I'm spending half the day in tears watching the news, wishing there was more I could to help ... ANYTHING I could do in a practical sense to help, while wondering why I didn't do something sensible like train as a nurse instead of becoming a writer.

All I've been able to do so far is check on the couple of people I know in Christchurch (they're okay), donate to the Red Cross, and list a couple of bedrooms on TradeMe should anyone need or want to get out of Christchurch for a few days or weeks. It's not enough, and yet we know that more direct 'assistance' only causes more problems for everyone.

But boy oh boy, just how much is being done to solve all those problems - as many problems as possible, at once, in circumstances beyond the most horrific of our nightmares. And the half-a-day I'm not glued to the screen, sobbing, I am spending feeling incredibly, enormously proud of this wonderful nation, and so honoured and humbled to be able to count myself as a New Zealander (oh man, I'm crying again).

There are so many people doing so many wonderful things, it's hard to single anyone out, but my special hero awards would go to:

Bob Parker, Christchurch's mayor. He's been a tower of strength, a true leader, an eloquent, persuasive and reassuring communicator. Bob Parker for PM. Bob Parker for President. Bob Parker for head of the UN, and if in the meantime he could adopt me I'd be very grateful.

Joy Reid. This young reporter (and I was amazed how young she was when I saw rather than heard her reports) was on the spot in the minutes after the quake had struck. With her own home in dubious condition, not knowing about her own family and friends' safety, she poured forth a continuous stream of incredible description, filling in details as she went along without pause, showing the world what was happening to her home town. Brilliant.

The Rangiora Earthquake Express - neighbouring towns amassing water and sausages and comfort in their public carparks and then ferrying it through the buckled Cantabrian landscape to press it into the hands of people in the Christchurch suburbs, even drafting in chopper pilots to get to those who are unreachable by other means. I guess they're doing what we'd all like to be doing - making a difference, being human, bringing what's needed. But they're not just talking about it; they're doing it.

The Student Army. 12000, no, 135000, no - 15000 students who have used Facebook to great, to the best effect and gathered themselves into a massive, youthful, able and willing volunteer labour force. And they're not hanging around waiting to be organised - they're out there with buckets and wheelbarrows, digging up silt from the roads and, I'm sure, just improving the spirits of everyone around with their vigour and big open hearts. We have a lot to say about students and youths, not much of it good, but these are great, great people.

So these are people doing stuff. Doing amazing stuff, alongside Search and Rescue and the armed forces and the Red Cross and the police/fire/ambulance and the medical teams and the people manning the welfare centres. Doing what they can. Doing it brilliantly.

So if all we can give is money, then we have to do it. It might just mean that one of these wonderful, wonderful people can go that bit further, and we will be making a difference. Go to www.redcross.org.nz/donate.

Great stories, well written

Publishers have always claimed that all they're looking for is a 'great story, well written.' This is what they plough through their slush piles for; this is what they live in hope of finding. That's all - just a great story, well written. Supply one of those, and you have a good chance of publication.

Easy, yes? Well, without wishing to come across all Carrie Bradshaw, the other day I found myself wondering this:

Is it still true that all you need to get published these days is a great story that's well written?

More and more regularly I see such offerings turned down, over and over and over until the author has no faith left in either their story-telling or their writing.

What they often don't realise (and which I have learned over the last year at some considerable cost) is that publishing seems to have been turned on its head. It's not the publisher looking for something wonderful that consumes them entirely, it's the bookseller looking for something to rival Dan Brown before considering giving you shelf space. It's the marketeers who look for titles and covers and concepts that might garner a little of that shelf space, and then it's the editors trying to shape whatever great-story-well-written they might have up their sleeve to fit market forces. The publishing pyramid seems to have been completely subverted, and dangling off the dangerous pointy bits are the two sets of people that seem to be most ignored - the reader, and the author.

A case in point is this response from a publisher to the submission of one of my books - and I quote: thank you so much for sending me this lively and entertaining book, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I think Jill has a wonderfully engaging and distinctive narrative voice and I wish I could take this further. However, we are publishing into such a difficult market at the moment that we can only really take on authors with a strong library track record in both the UK and US, whose hardcover success we can then build on.

Bear in mind that this is a book that's already publshed elsewhere, so it's not an unknown quantity, and I have many books in the libraries, just not in hardback. Just how do you compete with that? And I'm not a new author; how does someone with no track record at all manage to get published?

It's all rather sad. It feels hopeless, somehow.

On the other hand, it does drive one back to basics. When I first started writing - in fact, for the first several books - I wasn't thinking about territories and libraries and hardback covers versus paperbacks. I was just enjoying the writing. The fact that anyone else in the world wanted to share these stories with me was succour to me, and the relationship between author and reader was the most important element to it all.

So now, that's me again. Back to basics. Writing because I love it; writing perhaps because I do know my readers love it and I have hope that I'll still be able to reach them somehow, someday; writing because I can't stop myself.

And I still have some pride in my work. I'm sure that for the most part, they're great stories, well written, and perhaps one day in the near future that will once more be enough.

For the record, if the 'great stories, well written' tag does still lead to publication, then here are my hot tips for some new fiction authors who deserve to be published very soon: Stina Kornfeld, Geoff Vause, Anaru Bickford, Glenn Wood, Phillip Simpson, Julie Scott ... I know there are many more, but I haven't seen all their work. Good luck, you guys.

New versions of myself

I've spent the last few weeks updating my websites in an attempt to embrace all this modern technology and stuff. Heck, I may even Tweet soon.

In the process of my updating, I've installed two walking, talking versions of myself onto the sites courtesy of the marvellous chaps at Personal Web Presenter (www.personalwebpresenter.co.nz).

Only when I looked at them afresh did I realise how many versions of myself actually exist. To begin with, there is Marketing Savvy Jill ), the version who decides that putting video clips of oneself onto a website is going to increase one's Google rating. Or something like that. Look, I'm trying, okay?

Then there's Children's Entertainer Jill, in obligatory bright clothing and doing strange 'come closer' gestures to my imaginary audience (www.jillmarshallbooks.com). I'm hoping the readers I'm trying to entertain appreciate me making an idiot of myself, yet again.

And now, in the attempt to convince my adult writer clientele that I am, in fact: 1, a genuine author; 2, a genuine adult and 3, not an idiot at all, there's Calm Consultant Jill on www.writegoodstuff.co.nz .

They're all me, and they're all real, which leads me once more to the multi-faceted life of the author. Or schizophrenic, to give it its proper name.

Now I'm starting to get a little worried. People are always asking me if Jane Blonde is my daughter, and I always tell them that no, Jane Blonde is me as a child. Well, not marvellous Jane Blonde, but shy and awkward Janey Brown. Jean Brown, her mum, is probably me. G-Mamma? Mad Me.

When I come to think of it, most of my female characters are based to a greater or lesser extent on ... yes, me.

So now I'm thinking ... hmmm, what if I just write a rich version of myself? A staggeringly beautiful version of me whose age is magically reversing? A fascinating chat show host version of me who interviews all the other versions of me and gets Oprah-like ratings ... oh, think of the book club!

Can I write myself real? Or is that just another book in the making?

Anyway, the human just-walked-the-dog-and-made-tea-for-my-daughter version of me (which is the most prevalent of the Mes) needs a cup of tea and a session in front of the television to stop me worrying about it. Why not get the curious-and-what-is-the-mad-woman-on-about version of you to have a look at my websites.

SEE YA, BOYS AND GIRLS!
Bye for now, fellow writers.
The kettle's boiled, gotta go, buddy.

x

The madness of writers

I just read a fabulous article in The Author - the UK Society of Authors' mag - about links between creativity and psychoanalysis (CAN YOU FACE IT? Psychotherapy and writing, by Edward Marriott).

Apparently Freud believed there were many similarities between creative writers and healthy children at play, and he pinpointed five common characteristics: both create an imaginary world; both take it seriously; both invest it with considerable emotion; enliven it with material from external reality; and manage to keep it separate from reality.

I often tell kids when I'm talking at their schools that I love my work because I am allowed, or even required to day-dream for a living. Isn't that just like the best job EVA?

Although more and more, these days (as witnessed by me suddenly breaking out into incidents of tween/teen-speak), the lines are getting rather blurry, particularly on that last point - keeping the day-dream separate from reality. For instance, I'm now blogging in character (http://www.g-mammaraps4u.blogspot.com). Try doing that for a while and then zipping off to the supermarket. It can make for some very strange exchanges with other customers, not to mention some odd choices in the shopping trolley ...

Anyway, I don't care. It's what I do; I love it; and I'm not quite ready for an institution yet. And if Freud says it's okay, then who am I to argue?

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to run barefoot through some paint and then trail it through the house and see what kind of shapes it makes. L8r.

The author in public

Rccently a friend of mine, a screenwriter writing his first novel, asked me what I enjoyed about writing books. I told him that I love the writing itself, and I love it when someone tells me that my book has affected them in some way, and that I could really do without all the stuff in the middle (the editing, the packaging, the marketing and promotion etc).

Last week, however, which I spent in the company of eight other writers and illustrators touring the schools of the Taranaki, I realised anew that you don't reach that point of meeting a beaming, tongue-tied fan without going through all those other parts of the process too. And that, really, promoting children's books in this way is an absolute joy.

Much of that pleasure came from talking to the kids themselves. We all spoke to three schools a day for three days, with audiences ranging from 16 kids who made up the entire school, to 60 odd students who were just some of the classes in a bigger school. It was exhausting, but I couldn't fail to be energised by the enthusiasm, talent and brilliant questions that those children brought to the discussions, though some were barely five years old and some already teenagers.

The other element in that fun-filled five days, however, was the other adults: the fabulous librarians who organised and chauffeured and chaperoned; the teachers and school library staff who pass on their love of books and reading to their pupils, and the other writers and illustrators on the tour. I felt honoured to be in their company, and in this wider appreciation of the world of children's books.

Check out the books, websites and personal appearances of those I was lucky enough to share a bus with: Gabrielle Lord, Michelle Osment, Nikki Slade-Robinson, Ben Galbraith, Katz Cowley, Trudy Nicholson, Tim Tipene, and Craig Smith. All different, all talented, all excellent. The only downside of being on this tour was that I had to speak myself and didn't get chance to hear what they were all up to. Next time I'll be in their audience, and I'll look forward to reading their books along with all those Taranaki kids they inspired.

The reason I write is ...

Okay, I'll admit it. Just occasionally I do forget why it is that I write in the first place. On those rare occasions - like when I have a deadline due, or I'm in debate with an editor or a publisher or basically anyone who might not completely agree with me over something to do with my books - it can feel like a job. Then, because it's become a job, you suddenly get cross about all the things that would work properly if this was a real job: getting paid on time, getting paid at all, having someone to talk to over a coffee in the lunchbreak ...

And then there are weekends like last weekend, when I remember with a bolt to my heart why it is that I write. Other than just a burning desire to do it, like many authors I write because I want an audience. Then when you meet your audience face-to-face, and those faces are beaming and bashful and alight with brilliantly intelligent questions, you are truly humbled. How could I be so base as to care about filthy lucre when the Taylors, Katjas, Yanas, and Zoes of the world drag their parents out of bed early on a weekend morning just so that they can come and meet you, and greet you with such awe and gratitude and fantastic new ideas?

Last week it was the Storylines children's lit festival. I was lucky enough to run a workshop on plotting with 17 of Manurewa's most creative children, and between them they came up with a fabulous story - A Sticky Situation - which I'm going to post on my website as soon as I've written it up.

Then on Sunday it was the family day in the Aotea Centre, and that's where all these wonderful girls and boys appeared at my side, so knowledgeable about the contents of my books that they put me to shame, and so thrilled to meet me that I could only disappoint them in the flesh. I hope I didn't. They deserve - indeed, I hope they feel they have - the very best of me.

Love and respect and G-Mamma raps and Bone-type mimes to all those lovely young readers and writers I met last weekend. And this week it's the Taranaki Children's Lit Festival, so here's to the many more I shall meet over the next few days. You're all gorgeous. xx

The Pursuit of Happiness

Crikey. Over a month since I last posted a blog. And it's not as if I've done very much of any other kind of writing either ...

It's been a funny month, with the burglars mentioned below revisiting three weeks later to clear out what they'd missed before; My Girl having some troubles at school; finding myself constantly treading that tightrope in my career, stretched taut between doing what I want to do, and trying to make a living.

All in all it hasn't been the most perky of times. Last week, however, saw an upward curve which became exponential as the days progressed. First of all, I decided we couldn't let this burglary business get us down too much, so I convened a 'Beat the Burglary Blues' party, invited all the neighbours including the many I hadn't yet met, along with lots of friends, and we ate comfort food washed down with comfort wine. It put a whole different spin on your home being invaded. Here it was, invaded again, by lovely people this time. New friends and old. Ha, burglars. You may take our TVs, our laptops, and our Bobbi Brown make-up, but you may never take our spirit ...

Then came a series of events towards the tail end of the week that saw my smile brightening ever more.

Thursday night: comedy class, where several would-be comedic actors/writers are tutored by the sparkling and generous Fiona Edgar. We had an end of year performance for an audience of two - Fiona herself, and Jacob's dad. It was plenty: we made each other laugh, felt proud of ourselves for being brave enough to act stupid and make each other laugh, and then we retired to the bar and made each other laugh some more. My friend and I were so inspired by all the laughter that we're going to commit our sketches to print and send them off to some TV show or other - maybe they'll make other people giggle too.

Friday morning: I went along with my lovely friend, Catherine Milford of Woman's Day mag, to the book parade at her kids' school. Her daughter, Jess, was dressing up as Jane Blonde, so I could hardly resist going to see that, and I offered to talk to some of the school while I was there.

Well, it was a thing of joy. Jess was a sensationally triumphant spylet, and Charlie her brother was the most adorable knight (and while I didn't get to talk to him, I was party to one of those gorgeous skull-type smiles kids do when they can't smile for the camera properly, so they sort of bare their lower teeth and gurn, like Wallace of Wallace and Grommet fame). The talk with years 4,5 and 6 was properly rowdy with lots of great questions and a foot-stomping G-Mamma rap in the middle. That's what it's about, really, this writing lark - eyeballing some readers and reminding yourself that this is why you do it. What made me smile the most, however, was at the end of the book parade, when the 71 year old caretaker took to the stage as Bob the Builder and danced the length of the catwalk with 'Wendy', to the raucous applause of the whole school. I actually had tears in my eyes. That's a school that loves its pupils.

Friday afternoon: I trudged into my dancing lesson, a little tired and even more hoarse from rapping over 150 shouting children, still a bit worried about the events of the last few weeks. And then ... the magic of dance chased it all away. I swear, my teacher is a shining creature put on this earth by God or Richard Dawkins to spread light. (He's also, I discovered somewhat belatedly, a most courageous soul for what he's been through and what he's doing about it). A dance lesson with Aaron Gilmore is like a game of LaserQuest with light-beams. After just a few minutes your feet are light, your heart is light, your eyes start to glimmer with it. Forty five minutes later, I sashayed out of that studio, zapped with happy, troubles forgotten and a full three-quarters of an inch taller. And I could cha-cha a bit more, too.

So, re-energised with my three blasts of joy, I set about running a workshop on Saturday, on writing picture books. As I erected my flip-chart, I pondered on the stages of happiness I'd gone through the previous few days, and those generous people who pass on their passion so the rest of us can experience it. Suddenly I remembered that writing used to feel like that, all the time. I'd just get that hit of energy in the sternum, open up, and start channelling. Much of the time it's still like that, but sometimes these days it's also about deadlines, and getting a cheque, and not really wanting to but having to ...

Well, I don't think it's any coincidence that I got that shot in the solar plexus again, on Saturday, in the middle of my training course. I always love running workshops, but this time I got more out of it than ever before: namely, a whole book. I'd just been running through a plotting technique with my enthusiastic delegates, when suddenly all the pieces gelled. The roof above my head opened up with the sound of singing angels; seraphim clustered around the edge, giving me a thumbs-up while directing a ray of light onto the table; the beam swirled into a story vortex that suddenly flung all the words onto the page in the right order and with all the right emphasis.

It's good, this little book. I know it's good. It has to be, because it came from on high, from somewhere called Joy. We'll have to watch this space on how good other people think it is, of course. But whether or not it leads to anything, it's nice - no, great - to have that feeling back. In spades. And it's made me think a great deal about what brings us happiness, and how lucky we are that there are people who pass on their passion (and I never noticed before the similarity between those words - 'pass on' is 'passion' with 'I' taken out of it. ...).

So I'm on the lookout now, for joy. If I find it, I'll let you know, and I'll pay it forward. And I'm back to full-on, passion-induced writing, right now. It started with a blog ...