Warning: This blog post contains pictures of both Michael Gove and Toby Young

 

There are two weeks left  in the UK's school year and, for me, these two weeks will be my last. After ten years in the job, I'm leaving teaching. I've taken time off in the past (I had a year's sabbatical two years ago, which probably marked the beginning of the end) but I'll soon be completely out of the educational loop, except as a supply teacher, tutor and (I hope) a visiting writer.



 How does that feel?

Fantastic!

There are many things I will miss about teaching (OK, let's make that "some things") and there are some things I won't miss (OK, let's make that "many").

Right wing? Moi?

But now that anyone with the proper right-wing credentials can get state funding to open their school, and many parents think they can do a better job at educating their children than teachers, and the current education secretary has decided to re-make British schools according to his whims andd fanciful notions, I might as well throw in my comments about education, too.




 So, here are some of the things that teaching has taught me...

1) Teachers (at least every one I've worked with or met) are dedicated to their students and are good at their jobs.  

2) Teachers work harder than anyone who's not a teacher will ever know. The UK holidays do not compensate for the extra hours and the unrelenting stress. They don't even come close.

 3) Most of this hard work is unneccessary. The crippling workload serves no purpose.

4) Before I started teaching I thought that schools were like prisons. I still feel that way, although much of the "imprisonment" is internalised by both jailers and jailed (as a teacher, I felt that I was both). In such a pressurised (and politically volatile)  environment, it's almost impossible to think creatively or imagine a more effective way of doing things. At least it was for me.



5)Teachers who work in difficult or challenging schools should be rewarded with smaller class sizes and higher pay, not derision.

6) Everyone involved in education should be part of the national "debate" on education--students of all ages and abilities, teachers, TAs, SEN co-ordinators, admin staff, libarians, technicians, parents.

Know-nothing? Moi?

 Leaving important decisions to experts and academics alone is silly; leaving them to know-nothing politicians who use education as a convenient stopping point on their path to world domination is criminal. 








7) League tables have caused immense damage to education, and warped educational priorities so that results have become the only things that matter. This has set school against school, parent against teacher, teacher against student.


 More importantly, the very existence of league tables suggests (and not too subtly) that a student who isn't an academic high flyer is less valuable or important than one who is.    


8) Every year when GCSE and A level results are announced, there is an outcry about standards and dumbing down and blah blah blah. There will be one this year, too. I think some newspapers just run the same item with the percentages tweaked slightly.

 
They print the same picture every year, too. Those girls who are jumping into the air with glee? They are actually 38 years old now and are getting tired of this cruel reminder of their more energetic and agile youth.








7) Everyone over the age of 25 thinks that they were much cleverer and hard-working than the students of today. They weren't.

 And finally...

8) Having children dress up in suits and ties to go to school is creepy. Wrong on SO many levels. What's wrong with you people?

The Launch!

A massive thanks to the wonderful friends, family and colleagues who were at my launch on the 19th!

Maurice Lyons and Emily Sharratt, editors par excellence!

 

I really do wish that it could have lasted all night (I wanted to carry on reading, but everyone else had gone to the pub!)

I'd also like the thank the people of Paris, who helped me celebrate my actual publication date by posing for pictures with my copy of At Yellow Lake (sorry to disappoint you people, but it's not yet a global publishing phenomenon!). 

Everyone was good-humoured about it. 

 Some actually seemed pleased!













This was an exhilarating culmination of an unforgettable year! Thank you everyone.

After the Launch Party--What Comes Next?

By  this time next week At Yellow Lake will be a published book. Two weeks from now and I'll probably just be getting over my At Yellow Lake launch party hangover...

So what wll happen next?

The road to publication has been exciting, but very long and (as long journeys often are) somewhat exhausting and even disorientating. But now, this journey  is almost over and another one will begin. As a newly published writer I have very little understanding of where this will lead. For some (all right, a few...)  writers, publication is the first stop on a journey to fame and fortune! Think JK Rowling and Suzanne Colliins! For others, it's the beginning of a thrilling  (so it seems to me) cycle of awards, events, festivals. For most writers, though, the pre-  and post-publication worlds are probably very similar. There are still day-jobs to work at, children to take care of, dogs to walk, houses to clean.

I don't have a dog, my children are reasonably able to look after themselves and I never was much of a house-keeper, but I still assume I'll fit into this latter category. I doubt that my life will change substantially. I'm going to the Edinburgh Festival this summer (!) and count this as a thrilling honour. I'll also be attending a CILIP event in Ireland in November. Unbelievable! But, like most writers, my day to day life will be largely untouched, except that I'll write blog posts for other people, try to arrange school visits,  hope for solid sales and respectful reviews.

And then?

I'll write some more. Hope some more. Brace myself for some more disappointments and discouraging times.

So nothing's really changed?

Well, I wouldn't say that. My dreams have come true--being taken seriously as a writer, seeing my book in shops, knowing that whatever else happens in my life, I've achieved something rather special--that's a change!

And looking back on the past two years of working with brilliant editors, of forming working relationships and solid friendships with so many wonderful writers--that's a change!

What's unchanged, though, is the desire to write, and the determination to carry on regardless of what happens next. At this year's London Book Fair, Patrick Ness said that writing is such hard work and being published is such a privilege...

I couldn't agree more. I'm very grateful for the privilege of being published and am looking forward to more hard work! 

At Yellow Lake--How Lucky Am I? Very!

A few months ago, I launched my first book in the US. It was an absolutely joyous occasion, as I was on home turf, and in the company of my immediate family and many lifelong friends. I was able to launch at one of the US's most celebrated children's bookstores, Wild Rumpus, and hold an additional event at a leading regional independent bookseller. The good will and support, the enthusiastic turnout, the amazing cakes--it was more than any writer could ask for.

But I've always been greedy.

So, less than 2 weeks from now, I'm doing it all again!

I'll be celebrating the UK launch (which should have come first, anyway, as the US date was re-arranged due to my travel plans) of At Yellow Lake. Again, there will be many long-time friends in attendance, as well as my husband, children and other family members. Again the venue will be a highly-celebrated children's bookstore--Independent Children's Bookstore of the Year 2012, the delightful Book Nook in Hove.

   
Again, there will be cake....

And this time there will be wine, too!







Yes, I am very, very lucky. I'm  very, very grateful, too.

At Yellow Lake and the Beer Bottle Sized Tree

This beer-bottle sized tree is one of many that my sister and brother-in-law have recently planted at Yellow Lake. It's a sign of hope to me. A symbol of the way we move on after the shocks and surprises that life and nature can spring on us. The way we pick ourselves up, buy some trees, plant them in the ground, wait for them to grow.

Many of you are aware that some of my fellow writers and I received a different kind of  shock recently--the news that Frances Lincoln Children's Books' children's fiction list is to be discontinued.

Other Frances Lincoln authors have already blogged about this: Chris Westwood, Zannah Kearns and
Keren David have all written eloquent posts about a corporate decision that has led to heart-breaking disappointment for many talented writers, and created a sense of frustration and anger among people who value the kind of unique list that Maurice Lyon and Emily Sharratt were developing.

Chris, Keren, Zannah and other Frances Lincoln writers have also, of course, expressed their determination to carry on--to continue creating unforgettable characters, spell-binding plots, thrilling stories.

As for me, I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work with the wonderful team at Frances Lincoln. At Yellow Lake would not have been published without Maurice's enthusiastic support and would not be the book that it is without Emily's skill and insight as an editor. I know that anyone who's lucky enough to work with either of them in the future will feel as lucky as I do.

So, it's almost time to launch At Yellow Lake and I'm determined that the event it will be a great celebration--not just for my book or for me, but for all of us who've been able to work with such magnificent people.

So let's drink some beer, my friends. And then let's plant some more trees!

At Yellow Lake--A Final Look at Last Summer

Last week I wrote about the terrible windstorm that hit Northern Minnesota and Wisconsin last summer and created a wide swathe of destruction that travelled from Minneapolis to the Great Lakes. .

Today I want to write about the aftermath. I’m not talking about the immediate mess—the smashed roofs, the flattened buildings, the 100 year old trees that were uprooted or sheared in two. I’m talking about what was left behind after the effects of the initial carnage had been cleared away. The sandy, chewed-up earth. The tree-stumps. The craters. The desolate… nothing.

I haven’t looked at these pictures (taken by my sister at the end of the summer) for awhile. When I opened the file this morning I expected to be reminded of the long, hot and stressful summer of 2011: of waiting weeks for electricity (and therefore, water) to be restored; of hauling away brush, wood, and debris; of dealing with bids for reconstruction and tree clearance; of coping (or not coping) with the overwhelming shock and heartbreak of seeing such a beloved landscape destroyed.  

And so I was….

But looking at these pictures nine months after the event, I’m reminded of good things, too.

 

I’m reminded of the lake’s beauty, how that can never be changed. 

I’m reminded of the care and craftsmanship my grandfather used to build our cabin—and how strong and solid it is, many years later, both inside and out.

I’m reminded of the friends and family members who came to our aid straight away, donating their time, expertise and equipment to help.

I’m reminded of the workers who were contracted to repair the cabin’s walls, roof and chimney, and who spent days clearing away the logs and digging out stumps. These workers were the heroes of the summer, labouring in temperatures that were often reached  38C/100F. They also cared about the cabin, sensing how important it is for my family, and treating it with real respect. .

 Buba, the Ojibwe mason who rebuilt the fieldstone chimney that had been toppled by trees, included among in the modern processed stones, several of my grandfather’s original stones as a way of honouring his memory and his workmanship. When Ryan the roofer came back to work after a short break on another job, I gave him such a massive hug that my brother-in-law thought Ryan was a visiting friend.

There were occasional Bobcat wheelies, too...

So, looking at these pictures has actually brought back a flood of happy memories. Of how my sister and I got through the many tense moments by using our shared sense of humour (let’s just say the word “wood” was often used in a way that didn’t necessarily relate to making fires or building homes…) Of the way everyone in my family rallied around each other, quickly forgetting any squabbles, keeping an eye on what really mattered.

So there we are.

My sister and brother-in-law are now planting new trees, and I'm looking forward to seeing Anne's photos of the new babies.  It will take an awful long time for them to get to the size of the trees we lost.

But they will grow, because that’s the way these things go. Change comes. Things are renewed. We just have to wait...

Last Summer at Yellow Lake

At Yellow Lake's publication date is 6 weeks away, so it's probably time I mentioned the book itself, or rather, its setting....

Most of this post consists of something I wrote many months ago--on the second of July, 2011. I wrote it while sitting at the dining room table of my family's lake cabin in Wisconsin, the fictionalised setting for At Yellow Lake.

Here it is:

2^nd July 2011

There is a real Yellow Lake, and a cabin in the woods, that was built by my grandfather on land that has been in my family since the 1930’s. The experience of spending all my summers in a place that was home-but-not-home, a place that I loved more than any other plot of land, was part of the seed that led to At Yellow Lake being written.

The story of At Yellow Lake’s long and tumultuous journey to publication is another story.

Today, I’m writing about the real Yellow Lake, the real cabin. Last night, after the day I e-mailed final changes to the layout copy of At Yellow Lake to Emily, my editor, a tornado hit the cabin. (Note: It turned out that a tornado didn’t hit us: 100 mph straight line winds did). Not an imaginary tornado, not a metaphorical one, but a real one that sounded like a freight train, turned the sky green, ripped up every single tree on our large, forested lot and pummelled the poor cabin (and its sole inhabitant—me—who cowered in a closet under what I think what I think is my mother’s old sewing cabinet) in a merciless onslaught.

The tornado hit without warning. My mother called from 200 miles south saying that she’d heard there might be severe weather in Northern Wisconsin and that I should check with the local news for information and warnings. After quickly rolling my eyes at her over-reaction (how many severe weather warnings had we toughed it out over the decades? My lack of concern seemed justified when the Minneapolis TV news station issued a “severe thunderstorm watch” for Burnett County. A watch is a pretty low-level warning, meaning that the weather conditions are such that a severe thunderstorm (heavy lighting, torrential rain, high winds, hail, etc) is possible. Despite being completely unconcerned by the “watch” I thought (after the electricity, and the satellite TV went out) that closing a few windows would be a good idea.

I made it as far as the kitchen. In the 20 seconds it took me to walk from my chair in the living room, the wind came out of nowhere and something had struck—a porch window smashed, and through the kitchen window I saw a massive tree branch crack and crash to the ground. Ten seconds later I was in the upper bedroom, barricading myself into a closet by shoving a dresser in front of the door as best as I could, and burrowing into a corner.

I am not exaggerating the suddenness or the ferocity of the storm. Thankfully, I heard none of the carnage that was happening outside the cabin. I did not hear the snapping in two of dozens of 75 feet high pine trees. I didn’t hear the 100 year old oak trees crashing around the cabin, onto the roof. I didn’t hear the neighbour’s pontoon boat being flipped into the air, and being swept out onto the lake  (I did discover the lid to his boat’s chemical toilet while on my first post-storm swim). I didn’t hear the detached garage collapse into a flat pile of  shingles and splintered timbers. 

I heard nothing but the ear-shattering noise at the centre of all the havoc: I can only describe this as sounding like very, very large engine or motor wrapping me up in an aural cocoon.  The classic description of noise a tornado makes that it sounds like a freight train.  As I cowered, I asked myself: “Does that sound like a train?” My panic-addled thought brain was actually trying determine what type of train it was—freight or passenger, diesel or coal. Well, it was a freight train, but it wasn’t too close. Seriously. That was the answer I came up with. I also remembered that trains could travel at break-neck speeds and I had no way of knowing whether this train was moving closer to me and the cabin or away from us.

Curled up in a little ball (well, as little as I could make myself....) I could only wait it out. Most people, when describing a relatively brief yet utterly terrifying experience say of their ordeal that “it seemed like it lasted forever."  I felt the opposite. I felt that the winds would last forever, and I was actually surprised when they didn't.  Hunkering, swearing and praying in a closet seemed not an aberration, but the new normality. It was as if this is how I would stay forever. On the floor, curled up, waiting...

I was shocked at how quickly it was all over.

  

  

That sounds odd, I know, but I feel a similar thing now, writing several days later about the changes I’m observing outside the window that looks out over the lake. It seems a long tme ago that the cabin was sheltered from the summer’ sun’s searing rays by a thick canopy of branches and leaves. It feels as if these fallen trees that are now obscuring the view of the lake have always been here, and another lifetime ago that things were “normal” and I felt safe and secure.     

2 July, 2011  Yellow Lake