Survive and Thrive: The #YASurvivalGuide event

On Tuesday, I braved sunshine, sweat and the Oxford Tube to head down to Waterstones in Kensington for an event I’d been looking forward to for ages – A Young Adult’s Survival Guide, with the four fantastic authors Non Pratt, Holly Bourne, Lucy Ivison and Tom Ellen (who is too cool for Twitter). I’d been looking forward to the evening for ages – especially as I’d been lucky enough to be selected as a winner in the Walker’s Books giveaway, and had brought my shiny new Truth or Dare book and necklace along with me.The city outside was sweltering, but the shop itself was cool and air-conditioned. I grabbed a glass of water, found a seat, and watched the authors (and a visiting Barry Cunningham) gather at the front.

I couldn’t wait to hear from the authors – I’m already a big fan of Holly Bourne and Non Pratt’s work, and while I haven’t yet read any of Lucy Ivison or Tom Ellen’s books, their new novel Freshers is now on its way to my reservation shelf in the library. (It was so hard not to just buy everyone’s book on the night, but I’m moving house soon, and I already have more books than I know what to do with. No matter how beautiful they look…)

The talk was set up as a panel discussion, but it felt more like a chat between friends at the pub. The authors talked about their books, then moved on to their uni experiences (which involved swapping some stories that I’m not sure I should share, but let’s just say that kissing can be a risky business).

It wasn’t just talking, though – a first for any book event I’ve been to, there were also games, which were amazing. The first was a round where the audience read out real or made-up university societies, and the authors had to guess which. The last one in particular made me giggle, as they discussed whether the ‘Viking Society’ was real or fake – as a former member of Oxford’s equivalent re-enactment group, I knew full well that yes, there are some people who like to spend their weekends dressed up like it’s 800AD and hitting other like-minded people with blunt swords.

The society discussion turned to the presence (or absence) of feminism societies, and Holly Bourne passed around one of her resources that she uses for school visits – the Feminism Bingo card.

I got all but one of them, which would be great if it wasn’t actually completely terrible.

The final game – and my favourite – was Truth or Dare, involving pre-written truths and dares. As many of them had been written by seven-year-olds, they were largely quite adorable – one of the best being “What’s the hardest maths you can do?” The recurring “What do you think of Non Pratt?” also raised a lot of laughs, as did the dare ‘Become an egg’, which Non carried out with aplomb.

The evening ended with a signing, and with me gushing over Non Pratt and Holly Bourne in probably an extremely cringey way. I left the shop with the high that I always get when I’ve been to a really good story-focused event – and enough inspiration to write a good 700 words of Sigyn on the bus journey.

Truth or Dare is next on my to-read list, with Freshers following after. I can’t wait to get stuck in.

Two Kinds of Sprint

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. No real reason why – just work, life and writing taking up more time than I’d expected, as they do. Plus, I took up a new hobby, one I never ever thought I’d even try – running.

I hated running in school. Hated it more than I could possibly describe. The best thing about slicing the end off my finger while I was in Guides (it grew back) was that my injury meant I got out of cross-country running for the rest of the term, in case my elevated heart rate caused me to bleed through my full-finger bandage. After leaving school, my exercises of choice were swimming, fitness classes, dancing and walking – I even avoided running for buses if I could possibly help it.

But not so long ago, I got to a point in Sigyn where I realised the story I was writing was trying to tell me something. In the same way as my early fantasy stories told me that I secretly wanted to learn swordfighting, and Spider Circus told me that I really wanted to learn to climb (something that’s still on my list), Sigyn told me that, like my heroine, I really, really wanted to run.

I started Couch to 5K about ten weeks ago, feeling pretty sceptical about the whole thing. There was no way I could ever run for 30 minutes – me, who had been such a terrible runner in school that a PE teacher had explained to the rest of the class just how bad my times were. I’d probably just end up being able to run for slightly longer than never and build a tiny bit of stamina, right?

This shaky, sweaty picture is of me last week, when I finished my final 30min run in the Couch to 5K podcast series. I haven’t made it to five kilometers yet, but I can run for half an hour and not feel like I’m about to die afterwards, something I never ever thought I’d be able to do. Since then, I’ve been trying to boost up my distances and times – and on 9th July, I’m going to be running in the Oxford Race for Life (do sponsor me if you can!)

And, as if to match the real-world running, I’ve rediscovered writing sprints (thank you, MyWriteClub, you brilliant website). I’ve written more in the past couple of days doing writing sprints than I managed to write in entire weeks beforehand. With my heroine running on the page, and me running out here in real life, I feel like I’m finally making some progress.

Duck Duck Goose

There’s a certain danger in going back to places you loved when you were little. Sometimes they’ll have changed – either for the worse, or for a better that is still upsetting just because it’s so different – and a cherished memory will be pushed aside by disappointment.

This was a worry I had when I went back to Wigginton Waterfowl Sanctuary, where my grandparents used to take my brother and me when we were small. But I was willing to take that risk in order to cuddle ducklings.

As it turned out, there was no risk at all. Wigginton was exactly the same as I remembered. It was still small and friendly, still run by the same owner, and still filled with plenty of small, fluffy animals that you can pick up and cuddle.

I went with my boyfriend, my brother, and my sis-in-law. We were the only people there who hadn’t come along with small children in tow, which made us feel slightly self-conscious, but not enough to turn down the opportunity to hold some of the Sanctuary’s residents.

The ducklings were very lively, and needed to be swaddled in a blanket so they didn’t get too overexcited.

The chicks…not so much. This one fell asleep as I was stroking its head.

As you can see, being a resting spot for a chick was a real hardship.

I also got to make friends with this little chap, who kept headbutting me and trying to burrow under my hands.

After we’d done a good few rounds of cuddling, we went outside and met some of the sanctuary’s other residents.

Then it was time for one last duckling cuddle before we had to go. This little one ate a beetle and I had to wipe the remains off his beak, like he was my duckling baby.

In other news, I now plan to adopt a duckling as my baby.

Wigginton was a wonderful place to spend an afternoon, and I’m so glad that it was still as I remembered it. I can’t wait to go back.

Twice Upon a Time in Oxford

Recently, I went to two writing-reading-story-wonderfulness events in Oxford. The first was a talk held at Blackwell’s, the only shop I’ve ever been in that feels less ‘shop’ and more ‘home’. The talk was called How To Write YA Fiction, and featured two of my favourite authors, Melinda Salisbury and Kiran Millwood Hargrave. The third speaker was Samantha Shannon, who I can’t claim as a fave yet because I haven’t read any of her books – but she’s next on my list, and I’m sure I’m going to love her work as much as everyone else in the room. I won’t recap the talk too much, because it’s brilliantly broken down in the blog I linked above, but (even with an annoying bout of anxiety getting in the way) I can confirm that it was a fantastic evening. It was wonderful to sit there and soak up the thoughts and insights from three incredibly talented authors, all of whom have an unmistakable passion not only for writing, but for the whole world around it.

The second event was the total opposite of the first – OxCon. Instead of soaking up a writing atmosphere, I, along with my bestie and Footloose co-conspirator Emily Brady, were in creator-mode for the whole weekend, selling comics and talking to our fellow geeks about our work (as well as a whole load of other topics). The con didn’t seem to be as well-attended as last year, and there were a lot of very slow moments – but there were also some absolutely wonderful highlights. The best was when a young reader who’d bought some of our comics last year came up specifically to find us so that she could read some more – it was brilliant chatting to her and her mum about the story and hearing how much she loved it. We also sold a set of our ‘character archetype’ badges to two members of an improv team who were planning to use them for a game that they’d come up with on the spot – and, towards the end of the last day, we also got to chat with the Sixth Doctor himself, Colin Baker.

Story World is a hugely varied world, that works in ways far beyond the act of just sitting down and writing, but I wouldn’t trade being in that world for anything. Even if I do need about three flasks of coffee to get through a small local con.

Brave, Kind and Real: Teenage girls in Broadchurch

(This blog contains minor spoilers for Series 3 of Broadchurch)

I watched the final episode of Broadchurch last night. The three series have been compelling, with strongly-written mysteries and, mostly, interesting characters (the third series could have lost Mark and Beth Latimer without any significant change to the plot). Some of the most interesting and best-written of these characters were the three I’m going to talk about in this blog – Broadchurch‘s three teenage girls, Daisy, Chloe, and Leah.

Outside of YA novels, teenage girls often get terrible representation; we’ve all seen them portrayed as shallow, giggly, and stroppy, more likely to roll their eyes or scream “It’s not fair!” than be given any kind of character depth. Broadchurch could easily have fallen into this trap, and made its three significant teen girl characters stick to the stereotypes. Instead, though, it gave us three strongly-written individuals with the same kind of nuance as the rest of Broadchurch‘s cast.

Leah Winterman, whose mother Trish is brutally raped in an attack that forms the central plot of series 3, is shown as supportive and mature, being there for her mother during her darkest moments and mediating between her bickering parents even while she herself is still hurting from their separation. Even so, Leah isn’t written as ‘wise beyond her years’, but instead like many of the teenage girls I know – caring, kind, and strong even when vulnerable.

These traits are also apparent in Chloe Latimer. Still adjusting to life after the death of her brother Danny at the beginning of series 1, Chloe demonstrates an incredible level of unselfishness and empathy. Like Leah, she supports parents going through trauma, and does her best to hold her family together; she also steps up for others, helping Daisy Hardy in her time of need. Chloe’s strength doesn’t stop her from showing vulnerability; instead, her wavers and dips are a part of her strength, showing how she’s affected by the terrible things she’s suffered and how, nonetheless, she keeps on going.

Daisy initially seems closer to the mainstream media teen girl stereotype; her interactions with her father, DI Hardy, often seem antagonistic and petty. As series 3 goes on, however, we learn that Daisy isn’t being stroppy just for stroppiness’ sake; instead, she’s awkward, unhappy, and going through some traumatic experiences of her own – in this case, dealing with the aftermath of having private photos stolen and shared by boys at her school. The series not only refuses to victim-blame Daisy, placing responsibility squarely on the shoulders of the thieves themselves – it also shows her reaction as realistic, understandable, and sympathetic. If I could make a change to the series, I would have shown Daisy choosing to stay in Broadchurch for herself, instead of being made to stay by her father; however, the fact that Daisy isn’t demonised for any of the choices she makes is refreshing.

The teen girls in Broadchurch are given a freedom to be individuals, and a nuanced range of portrayals, that we don’t normally see in mainstream TV. On top of this, they’re set up alongside a cast of well-written and believable women; brave and cowardly, kind and cruel, funny and dour, the women and girls in the series are very different and very real. Broadchurch‘s girls and women sidestep the trap of the Strong Female Character, and instead show us women and girls as people, as flawed and individual as the series’ boys and men.

Aliens and Wine: A short story

This short story was written for the WineTourismSpain short story contest, with the brief of ‘how might aliens discover earth through wine?’

 

Tempranillo Smile

It was another rainy day in Oxford, and Julie was leaning on the wine shop counter. Next to her was a chalk board – today’s offer, a nice Tempranillo – and she flicked it with her fingernail in time with the ticking of the clock.

No-one had been in for the last half hour. She was fairly sure she could have curled up and fallen asleep under the counter, and no-one would have been any the wiser.

Julie glanced out of the window. The sun was shining weakly through the clouds. An ordinary April day. She would have given anything to be somewhere else.

She looked at the bottles of Tempranillo. Like Spain. She hadn’t been there for ten years, not since she was a teenager, but she could remember. Seventeen, sitting on the beach, with a stolen bottle and a warm breeze. And a smile in a tanned face that she’d never forgotten.

A smile twitched the corners of Julie’s mouth. David hadn’t been her first crush, but he’d been the star that shone out of her teenage years. He’d been on holiday, like her – she guessed with his parents, although she’d never seen them. He’d been the one who’d stolen the bottle of red. She remembered how he’d laughed as he’d taken the first sip, holding the glass up to the setting sun and staring at the colours.

The bell on the door rang. Julie looked up, straightened up, then stopped.

David. But it couldn’t be. A young man had walked through the door, his face exactly the same as the one she’d just been remembering. Exactly the same. The ten years that had changed her had had no effect on this face.

So it couldn’t be David. But the boy was identical. A son? No. A younger brother, maybe.

“Hello.” The boy was already smiling, but as he saw her, the smile grew wider. “Julie?”

No. Julie realised her mouth was hanging open, and shook her head. “How do you-?”

“I remember you.” The David who couldn’t be David stepped forwards, leaning on the other side of the counter. “You remember me too, don’t you?”

“But – you can’t be-” Julie shook her head again. “You’re too young.”

David frowned. “How old should I be?”

“My age!”

“Oh.” He stepped back. “Excuse me.”

Walking back across the room, he pushed open the door and stepped outside. Julie stared after him as the bell rang once, and then again, as David stepped back in.

Julie grabbed the counter. Her legs nearly buckled. Now David was the way he should have been; ten years older, even more handsome.

“Hello, Julie,” he said, with that same familiar smile. “Is this better?”

“It’s…what…” Julie stared at him. “What are you? Why are you here?”

For a moment, the smile flickered. Then it was back, as strong as ever.

“I’m a visitor,” David said. “And…well, I’m here for the wine.”

A Step Back: Visiting Chawton House

Some people spend their gap years trekking in Peru or Thailand, but not me. I’ve always been an enormous book geek, and so, instead of heading halfway round the world, I stayed a little closer to home, and did a volunteer stint at Chawton House.

Chawton used to be the home of Jane Austen’s brother (who was adopted by a very rich local family and became Edward Knight. Sounds dashing, but I think I’d rather be an Austen). Nowadays, it’s home to a research library and exhibitions, all focused around early women writers. Needless to say, like The Story Museum in Oxford, it’s one of those places where I immediately feel at home. Aged eighteen, I spent a chunk of my summer in the pre-opened Chawton House Library. I put together copy for the website, typed up photocopies of 18th century novels (many of which, I have to admit, weren’t quite up to Ms Austen’s standard), and generally wallowed in stories. (Metaphorically, of course. Most of the books were too old and delicate for literal wallowing).

Last weekend, I went back for a visit – my first since I was eighteen, unless you count a brief pop-in with a uni class when I was at Southampton, which I don’t, because the narrative works better that way. In many ways, it had changed beyond recognition – now open to the public, with a gift shop and a café, all the rooms restored – but it was still like going back in time; not to Austen’s era, but to my time as a volunteer. The place was just as friendly, homey and interesting as it was back then, and seeing all the books (especially the ones on Gothic literature) made me want to go back and study.

Not everything was familiar, though – I saw one new thing about Chawton that I’d had no idea was there, and which sent the story-writing part of my brain into overdrive:

A CREEPY WELL. What old manor house is complete without a creepy well? While the head gardener (who fixed the mechanism himself, with a little help from Google) showed us how it worked, I was staring down into the depths and planning potential stories about imprisoning someone down there, and how you might break out…

If you get the chance to go to Chawton House, definitely give it a visit – as well as feeling like you’re in an Austen novel, you’ll get the chance to learn about other early women writers and see one of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever visited. Just don’t fall down the well.