So, my eldest child, aka Dino-Boy, trotted off to Canada back in December to work with wildlife, and in exchange reports came back via Skype on Sundays – his day off. Daily life seemed to be along the lines of: prepared the feeds, cleaned out the cages, mended a fence, went to town to fetch the donated food, ate stir-fry.
The content started to vary dramatically as, having learnt how to handle wild animals, Oscar was given responsibility for his first creature – a snow hare with a limp, AND allowed to go out on 'rescues' – what a word!
The most dramatic was catching two skunks, stuck at the bottom of an eight-metre well. There’s a video of him dangling on a rope, more Mr Bean than Ethan Hunt, and being bitten and sprayed before he can grab the skunk. The scent was so strong that people turned and stared for a few weeks afterwards.
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| Oscar and Meisce |
When a beaver was spotted swimming in salt water in Vancouver, Oscar was given the job of detoxifying the very sick animal. They don’t name the newcomers – too distressing if they have to be euthanised. Happily, Oscar called him Meisce after he responded to the treatment. He’s now back in the wild. Check out the feet!
More animals arrived at the centre and more bites. I only found out that an angry raccoon had taken a lump out of my boy when someone else tagged him – hand wrapped in ice, on Facebook. I demanded a close-up – it didn’t look too bad.
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| This raccoon is back in the wild |
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| This adorable cub will be released next year |
Oscar was due home last weekend, but at the end of March he texted saying he thought he might stay – he’d been offered the chance to look after the 2013 bear cubs, about to wake up after the winter but needing care until their release in summer 2014. No brainer, as Kevin Bacon would say. No surprise either, that April saw me boarding a plane with my daughter, Honor, to go and visit him.He was big.
The same size, but bigger.
We had an amazing holiday, spending days off with Oscar and the rest of the time doing tourist stuff, but the best part was seeing him at the wildlife rehabilitation centre. It wasn’t the fabulous animals, or even the lovely people he works with, as much as the sense that he was in his element, absolutely.
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| White Rock B.C. |
Wandering one evening along the beach at White Rock with Oscar and Honor, a bald eagle flew over. Further along a blue heron lazily flapped a few times to move out of our path. Ten years earlier, there’d been a similar scene. That time we were in Tofino, on Vancouver Island, as part of a six-week escape prompted by my husband losing his job. Bald eagles were as common as pigeons, black bears were everywhere – one crossed the road as we were walking to the beach, whales were blowing, seals collapsed on rocks.
I wonder whether that once-in-a-lifetime trip, Oscar aged nine, tipped the scales, turning the little boy fascinated by dinosaurs into the one living the life in Canada, where wildlife is truly wild (and let’s face it, bigger).
And the raccoon bite, well . . . the photo he sent was of an entirely different finger with an old wound. This one swelled up like a pumpkin, leaked pus, was as shiny as Downton silver, and had to be sliced open by one of the supervisors.
'Didn’t want to worry you, Mum.'
Me, worry?
My son currently goes into the bear den, picks up the poop, feeds them and jangles about to keep them wary of humans. The bears are around a hundred pounds each. There are four of them. Who’s worrying?
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| Halo - turning blacker as she sheds her winter coat |
Tracy Alexander
www.tmalexander.com
My first post on this site,
Sliding Doors, told the tale of how I started writing, thanks to a poster in a bookshop. So for my World Book Week post, I’m going to describe the journey from winning a short story competition to my name on the spine of a paperback. It’s in shorthand, because it took some years! Along the way I got into the habit of collecting ‘ticks’ , because the odds against me seemed so huge it was the only way I could stay motivated. ‘Crosses’, I tried to bury.
I started writing a ‘book’ almost as soon as I heard that I was a PWA. (Prize-Wining Author – my family’s idea of a joke.) The idea was easy to come by because like all experienced marketers I ran a brainstorming session, inviting my kids, then 10, 8 and 6. (Interestingly I didn’t make a conscious decision to write for children, that was taken for granted somehow.) Two sides of scribbled-on sheet of A4 later I began my summer 2005 project. And loved it. I wrote every morning from about 6 to maybe 11, and the kids watched non-stop telly. Brill. Then we ate our bodyweight in three-course breakfasts. As the word count grew so did my determination for it not to languish on slush piles. (I’d bought the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook by then so knew the jargon.) Keen to speed up the learning curve, I applied for a place on the University of Bristol Creative Writing Diploma.
Tick!
I shared my enthusiasm with a stranger at a party. The wrong person as it turned out. She said, ‘I’m a librarian and my husband works at Waterstones, but I can’t get a children’s novel published so you’ve got no chance.’
Cross.
I shared my enthusiasm with a published children’s author. She said, ‘everyone thinks they can write.’
Cross.
I submitted my first assignment at Uni.
‘Unvarying in prose style. No sense of time or place and some format problems.’
Cross.
Sometime around then the marvellous Show of Strength – a Bristol theatre company, announced a competition to write a monologue for a show of rolling performances. Wonderful idea. My monologue, It’s My Party’ was brought to life by Lynda Rooke (most recognised from Casualty). I stood in the audience and as the piece drew to a close I noticed the grey-haired man next to me was crying.
Tick!
Excellent, because more crosses were on the way.
I sent the first three chapters of my finished children’s book to an agent.
‘I love it, rush me the rest,’ she said.
I could see my future – hardback, paperback, film, Oscar ceremony . . .
Tick!
‘It’s got everything – drama, pathos . . . Can you come and see me in London?’
Tick!
She wanted a few changes. I obliged.
Time passed.
I let it – not wanting to be annoying.
Eventually I chased her.
She appeared to have forgotten about me, sending an email the essence of which was - ‘I didn’t like it that much after all.’
CROSS!
(In retrospect, approaching several agents at once might have been sensible, but I was terribly optimistic, so only contacted one at a time.)
The next response was something like, ‘it’s a ludicrous idea . . .’
Cross!
The next.
‘Too like Percy Jackson.’ (It really wasn’t.)
Cross!
Surely time for some good news? Yes!
Bruce Hunter at David Higham invited me for a cup of tea and agreed to represent me.
Tick!
Now, it would all fall into place.
Not.
The book was rejected by everyone.
Umpteen crosses over ten months (he too sent things sequentially).
In summer 2007 I wrote another book, which my agent loved. Was this the one?
No.
The book was rejected by everyone.
Umpteen crosses over eight months.
Cue Piccadilly Press, inviting me for a meeting.
I didn’t know what to wear. What do authors look like? Stupid thought.
They loved my book.
Tick!
But didn’t want to publish it – too quiet.
Cross!
Did I have any other ideas?
That morning (just in case) I’d had another brainstorm with the getting-older kids (12, 10 and 8). I regurgitated the rough idea of a gang of children called Tribe – who they were, what they did.
I was dispatched to write a short synopsis.
‘A paragraph will do,’ the publisher said.
Three paragraphs later (I didn’t want to under deliver), I had a contract.
TICK!
This October my fifth book will hit the fresh air. It’s about how one small act changes everything that follows. We’re back to Sliding Doors.
It’s four years since my first author visit, but I remember the afternoon very well. I was terrified. I’d stood in front of conferences of adults, but the idea of children, that get bored easily, was on another scale. I practised my spiel on my own kids. The feedback was vanilla. I did it with the mirror as my audience, noticed how wrinkly I am when I smile. Didn't sleep the night before. To my credit, I was prepared. Overly. I started my one-hour session at half-past one, ran seamlessly through the three different sections - introduction and warm-up (ideally with laughter), making up characters together (using flipchart), putting them in a story (using props I'd brought.) Perfect, apart from the sweaty armpit mark on my dress and the fact I had no watch, and there was no clock in the room. I galloped through the afternoon like it was the Grand National. My mouth was so dry I had to tear my tongue off the roof. I daredn't stop, even to ask the time, in case I lost a child's attention. Eventually the bell rang. Oh joy! I'd run a two-hour marathon. It was over. I went home and someone else had to make tea.
So, am I any better now?
Yes.
I wear a watch.
If I forget I choose a child and ask them to tell me when it's whatever o'clock. The downside of this is that the child ends up staring at its watch and can't participate but hey.
I don't pack so much in.
Simply putting on a wig does the warm-up job. I have large and curly, bright blue and Barbie wigs.
I occasionally stop talking.
As my confidence has grown I get the children to do more and me less. They write on the flipchart, they choose the props. If I get some proper little stars in the group I've even had an impromptu singing session, karate demos and a playfight (that got a little less playful.)
I get them off their chairs.
I know now to ask for the kids to be on the carpet, hall floor, anywhere but at their desks. That way they can't fiddle so easily and there's no barrier between us.
I take my props in a large dustbin and change them all the time.
Skulls are marvellous. What school event can't go swimmingly if you have a light-up skull?
I don't get them too excited.
In the early days I just wanted the children to look interested so I did pretty much anything that would keep them laughing. That's fine, until you actually want them to listen. I have found the brakes. I also now appoint a child to be on my side and use them as a policeman. Marvellous tactic. But I don't know what happens to them in the playground afterwards.
I spot the lively ones.
And give them jobs. There are any number of ad hoc positions available for children who like to talk.
I try not to catch the eye of any member of staff.
I can be a bit noisy, and I wear wigs, and dance and make faces, and shout sudden alarming things. The presence of the adults can make me feel self-conscious, so I pretend they're not there. When I find myself saying something that a teacher might not like I close down all peripheral vision and that works a treat.
If I lose my thread, I tell them.
I used to think I had to perform like an actress - know my words, never stutter or show any nerves. It was a revelatory moment when I started to just be myself (wigs, dancing, shouting). Now, if the workshop takes a dive I explain how it's mirroring the writing process. Up, down, sprinting, stopped dead, wrong, irretrievable. The children particularly like anything I say that exposes the truth of how often adults also have no idea what they're doing.
Talking of truth, it's 8.03am on my blog day. This week I've been writing, writing, writing, trying to finish the nth draft of my latest book to send it to my agent. And I forgot to prepare the blog. Sorry. So any of you who looked early - I was dreaming of moving house. And any of you reading now - this is an unedited flow of stuff from my head.
So before I make porridge I'll share my favourite piece of feedback (from a child, of course.)
'I liked it when you was a goose.'
p.s. Please excuse the formatting. Beyond me . . .
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ha,ha!!! That wig..(and must see the goose impression sometime)
Sounds brilliant! When can you come to my kids school?!
Hey, your events sound great! Good luck with that rewrite, too. x
Sounds fantastic - especially the goose.
Brilliant and funny as always!