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Maggie Steele, the storybook heroine who vaults over the moon, has been attracting thousands of visitors from around the world. So many visitors, in fact, that she’s using a time zone map to keep track of them all.* People are … Continue reading →

img src="http://img2.imagesbn.com/images/63580000/63581291.JPG" align="right" hspace="5">On my latest trip to the library, I scored their copy of the Sibert honor book, Ballet for Martha: Making Appalachian Spring by Jan Greenberg and Sandra Jordan, illustrated by Brian Floca, which tells the story of the creation of Appalachian Spring - the original ballet created by Martha Graham in the 1940s.

Graham wrote the story that she wanted the ballet to tell and sent it to Aaron Copeland, so he could write the music. He rejected her first story, so Graham rewrote it until Copeland was happy. He then created an entirely original score for the ballet based around the story Graham had written, keeping in mind her style of dance and choreography. Graham then started to work out the choreography with a small group of dancers, asking the artist Isamu Noguchi to design the set for her - which included structures and something resembling furniture (a stylized rocking chair).

The book describes Graham's creative process, often using simple declarative sentences. It provides tremendous detail along the way, including the exact composition of the orchestra that played at the first performance in Washington, D.C. It describes the dances within the ballet and the music that accompanies it.

In many cases, I might have questioned whether I really needed to know that the orchestra was composes of "[a] piano, four violins, two violas . . . and a bassoon", but to be truthful, that recitation precedes the entry of the dancers onto the stage, and although there is nothing poetic or complex about how the text on the page is written, I distinctly had that feeling that Emily Dickinson once mentioned in a letter when describing poetry: I physically felt "as if the top of my head were taken off".

A gorgeous book, both text and images. I leave you with this quote from the introduction, which applies to the book as well as to the ballet it describes:

Such a coincidence – I am currently reading Marguerite van Geldermalsen’s enthralling Married to a Bedouin (Virago, 2006), when what should I come across, with Raymond Briggs uppermost in my mind, following Corinne’s post a couple of days ago, but the heading “The Elephant and the Bad Baby”. This classic illustrated by Briggs and written by Elfrida Vipont is one of our family favourites and I loved Marguerite’s description of reading it with her daughter:

Soon after dinner I made our bed ready against the back wall of the cave and cuddled up to read with Salwa from the treasures Mum sent [from New Zealand]. I didn’t always speak to her in English, and she spoke mostly Arabic, but through the stories she learned the language.

‘And the elephant went…’ I read.
‘Rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta,’ she recited.
‘All down the road with the…’
‘Ice-cream man…’

The Elephant and the Bad Baby had arrived in the most recent parcel and she already had half of it off by heart. She got me to read it over and over again, but now and then I had to read The Hungry Caterpillar or Mr Magnolia to keep me sane.

What a lovely picture this conjures up (as well as bringing back memories of similar dialogues with my own two). Married to a Bedouin is the story of Marguerite’s life from when she first visited Petra in Jordon and fell in love with a Bedouin souvenir-seller – I simply couldn’t put it down.

When I was a child, our house was littered with drawings, on used, opened-out envelopes, or old wallpaper, and even drawing-pads. My brother drew dinosaurs or battles (and battling dinosaurs), my sister drew swimming seals or people, and my father's drawings were usually of aeroplanes or birds.

They all had one thing in common: there would be repeated attempts at the drawings. My Dad, for instance, would do a sketch of the whole plane, and then, underneath, another drawing of its undercarriage, and another of its wings. He hadn't been happy with the first drawing, so he practiced the bits he felt needed improving. Turn the paper over, and there would be another, larger, better drawing of the whole plane.

These sketches taught me something without my ever realising I'd learned anything at all - 'You won't get things right the first time, so repeat them until you do'.

My own drawings were usually of people. As a child, I drew far more than I wrote; in my early teens, I drew and wrote about equally. After my first book was accepted, when I was sixteen, writing took over from drawing (and I haven't seriously drawn anything for about thirty years now). But the lesson that I never knew I'd learned moved with me from drawing to writing. If I wasn't happy with something I'd written, I rewrote it – and if I still wasn't happy, I rewrote it again, and again, many times if need be, until I thought I couldn't improve it any more.

I didn't think I was doing anything noteworthy. Rewriting was part and parcel of writing. It was just what you did; as much a part of writing as using a pen.

Years passed, and, in the way of impoverished writers, I started teaching Creative Writing. But between you and me, gentle reader, I was puzzled as to what 'Creative Writing' was exactly. And even more puzzled as to what I could teach my students. If I had ever stopped to think about what I did when I wrote a book, I couldn't remember doing it.

I consulted a few 'How to Write' books, to find out what those authors told their students, and it was enlightening. “Oh, I do that! Who'd have thought it?” I resolved only to steal those 'creative writing' tips that I could honestly say I used myself. (So you'll hear only a perfunctory mention in my classes about keeping notebooks, or meditating, or doing ten minutes of 'automatic writing' every morning.) My classes were about setting scenes, writing dialogue, building plots. It never occurred to me to tell anyone to rewrite, because to me rewriting was writing. I didn't think anyone would need to be told that.

Slowly, over weeks, it became apparent to me that the idea of rewriting had never, ever occurred to many – not just a few, but many – of my students. A lot of them seemed to think it was cheating. A real writer, they seemed to think – Thomas Hardy, let's say – just sat down and wrote Tess of the D'Urbervilles straight off, from beginning to end, never blotting a word; and then he packed it off to his publishers who printed it without asking for a single change. That's the kind of genius he was. That's the way a real writer works.

If my students wrote a story, and found themselves dissatisfied with it, they concluded that it was another failure, put it away, and tried to forget about it. The next thing they wrote, that might be perfect.

“Couldn't you,” I suggested nervously, not at all sure I was on firm ground here, “couldn't you rewrite it?”

They were astonished. But they'd finished it! And it wasn't any good. What was the point of wasting more time on it?

“But nothing I've ever written,” I said, “was much good in its first draft. But if I like the idea – if there are bits that are good – I rewrite it, and improve it. I've rewritten some things dozens of times over. I rewrote the whole of GHOST DRUM six or seven times, and I rewrote the ending many more times than that.”

Some of the class were quite excited by this revolutionary idea. Others were as plainly horrified, reminding me of a little girl in Year 4 of a school I once visited. Her story was so good, I told her, that she should rewrite it. The look she gave me would have reduced a lesser writer to a pair of smouldering boots.

But having belatedly realised that rewriting was actually a tool of the writer's trade that I'd never before suspected I was using, I became evangelistic about it. “Rewrite!” I cried to each new intake of students. “You must rewrite!”

And then one of my students stopped me in my tracks by asking, “But how do I know what parts I have to rewrite? How do I know which words I should change?”

Well – er – quite. Obviously, these are the technical complexities Jordan was referring to when she spoke of her ghost writer 'putting it into book words'. When a writer, like wot I am, takes the raw first draft and puts it into book words, what exactly is it I are doing?

I hadn't a clue. Look, I only write the stuff – I don't waste my time thinking about it, any more than a ditch-digger thinks much about ditch-digging. She just heaves another shovel-ful of mud.

But there were my students, waiting for an answer. So I gave thinking about it a try. And boy, did my brain hurt...

To be continued....