Since being home I’ve been lucky enough to be asked to go visit some of the local primary schools to talk to the children about writing, books and reading.
It’s been an immensely rewarding experience. I’ve mostly been seeing extension English children – Caucasian and Indigenous alike – in the upper grades of years 5 & 6. It’s been a real head trip to see just how little things change: when they say good morning, it’s “Goood morrrrning Mrrrss Andrews” in that drawn out, drawling way (and FYI, being called ‘Mrs Andrews’ is really, really weird!), and how hard it is for small children to sit cross-legged on their bottoms for any period of time, and how receptive they are to new sources of information. Some children in particular asked question after question, drilling me for information about publishing. This was all very flattering, but there was a part of me refusing to believe this was happening at all. I mean – ME?! I still pinch myself.
My incredulity possibly has something to do with the fact I am on holidays: this is ‘me’ time, and any ‘show’ I might’ve been tempted to put on when I go visit these schools has been forgotten; blinded by the beach stupor I seem to have fallen into. So I have turned up at these schools with not much more of a game plan than to read my story, explain its genesis and then turn it over to the kids for question time. And what questions I’ve had!
Where do you live?
Who are your favourite authors?
Did you really come from this town?
Who is your mentor?
Tell us about the different draft stages of your book?
How much money are you making?
Does all the money come back to you?
How do you get published?
Do you know or have met any famous writers?
How are movies made out of books? (That was a popular question – so I see now why movie rights are important when contracts are negotiated)
How old are you? (This made me groan on the inside)
I then asked the children who they liked to read, or what books were their favourites. Their answers were: the Harry Potters, the Eragon series (the biggest answer, actually), The Spiderwick Chronicles, Paul Jennings, the Twilight books (so said a bunch of tittering girls at the back of the room), C S Lewis’ Narnia books and lots others that have escaped my memory.
Then, quickly – too quickly! – my time was up and the children were excused to go to lunch or a different class. Once or twice a child lagged behind, wanting a quiet moment with me to say they liked my book, or to say thanks for coming.
“I want to be a writer,” one boy whispered to me. “Or a journalist.” He then jogged off, and I would’ve liked to talk to him more.
To say I want you to be one, too.
And never let anyone try to convince you otherwise.
