Let’s face it. It’s the winter vacation. I know I am meant to be having some sort of holiday, where I don’t even so much as lay eyes on pen and paper, let alone write whole pieces of literature.
However, I do have to draft an essay for Poetry, which involves going through all the lecture slides from the lectures of last semester, which I missed because I was originally in Scriptwriting. I also have to write three or more short stories for my Creative Project, which is basically going to be an anthology of creative work sold to students and lecturers alike to raise money for the National Autistic Society. Therefore we wish to write pieces involving the issues faced by people with AS, such as isolation, being accepted by other people, being different, that kind of thing. I will probably have to write an author bio, and find someone of significance to write a foreword for it, before we go to print. We’ll have to pay for the anthologies to be printed, and bound, out of our own pockets. But it ought to be worth it.
But, I also want to start another novel. I did attempt the chic lit piece, but it didn’t feel right. So I want to try something different.
You see, I was watching the latest Hobbit movie with Josh for our date night on Monday, and was watching the scenes involving the dragon very closely. After all, The Hobbit was originally a set of spoken tales by Tolkin to his young children, before he wrote it up as a novel for children. Considering the movies are being marketed to adults, it’s incredible the way that the original audience for the story was for children.
I used to say that I never wanted to write children’s fiction. But I’ve been in some wonderful lectures with children’s writers, including David Almond, who wrote Skellig, which I need to get my hands on when I get a chance to. I love it that children get more involved with the stories, with the writers too. I know that this sounds mad, but I love the idea of spending time at my desk, with posh paper and a fountain pen, and a bottle of perfume, and writing handwritten responses to all my readers who write in to me, and slip in a bag of sweets just for the extra thrill. I know how much children rely on stories. I know I did when I was a little girl. I remember climbing up to a low branch in a tree where the bullies were to scared to climb, and curled up with a battered old book. I also remember reading The Phantom Tollbooth when I was fourteen, and being able to escape into the crazy world of edible words and talking numbers, because the real world filled with mean students and cruel foster carers wasn’t as fun.
So, I want to write a children’s book.
Itchy fingers, man…