Post Script: Education, Education, Education...

I must be one of the few people who didn't study Of Mice And Men for O Level...(they didn't have GCSEs in my day.) I did read the book a very long time ago along with Cannery Row, and I have to confess to not being able to remember much about either of the stories, except a depressing lack of hope.
My son, as you may know from the previous post, has read the book for GCSE English and enjoyed it. And, as you also may know he has since had all that enjoyment squashed out of him by the very same GCSE method of study. I did however manage to persuade him to come along to the Royalty Theatre's production of it. He wasn't exactly a willing or enthusiastic conscript. "I got the feeling you weren't giving me the option to refuse" he admitted. His feeling was correct; I admit it!
He was pretty impressed by the play, liked the way they had tackled it. Enjoyed the humour. But he

did fidget as "that speech" drew closer. That's the problem for him. It wasn't just that he knew what was coming, it was that he knew by heart what was coming. Curley's wife's speech has been read and reread, discussed and dissected ad infinitem until it has come to be nothing more than a tedious requirement of course work and exams. The irony is not lost on me. Curley's wife suffers a not dissimilar affliction, a life of tedium and a lost dream. Hopefully the outcome of Mark's boredom will not be quite so catastrophic.
I take heart from the fact that he enjoyed the theatrical experience, was able to comment intelligently on the production, and also that he admitted he has allowed his classroom experience to negatively influence his enjoyment of the play.
He is much more self aware than I ever was at his age, so maybe the education system is doing something right...or maybe I am?


http://spikemikeisbreakingaleg.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/of-mice-and-men-review-royalty-theatre.html

A bit of fun, a poem and some astonishment

What do you do after a long week of setting up rooms, moving furniture, cajoling people to come along to meet an author, fretting in case no-one does come (sometimes they almost didn't), or your author doesn't turn up, or, god forbid, too many people turn up?

Obviously, you go to a poetry gig...one where you are in the audience, able to relax and enjoy it, because all the fretting and furniture moving has been done by someone else this time.

That's not quite true. I dragged my husband along, assuring him it would be fun because John Hegley is a nationally renowned poet. He's been on telly and everything. But the Other Half doesn't really do culture. He does sport. So there was an small element of fret. He hasn't really ever recovered from the last bit of culture I dragged him to at Washington Arts Centre

But, to John Hegley. Excellent. Funny. A natural showman. Not slick exactly, words sometimes got tangled and "photographed feet" came out as "potatoed feet"...but as he said, he covered that well. We barely noticed it (no really, it was all part of the act, wasn't it?).

The audience were cajoled (not by me this time) to participate, with singing, and French translation and guillemot arm actions.
And, during the interval with a poetry competition. Just a bit of fun with a copy of the book as the prize, and using something from the evening as a prompt...so maybe potatoes, or dogs, or feet, but also maybe linked to the place.

The room was pretty much full of local poets and writers. There were at least five at the table front of stage.

So for a bit of fun there'd be no shame in joining in and at least being able to say I'd entered into the spirit of the thing?
And as my group at the library know, I only ever manage three lines so a haiku it would have to be.  I shrank from scribing my paltry 18 (I couldn't quite get it to 17) syllables in the corner of the A4 sheets available. I wrote my 3 lines carefully, legibly in my bestest writing on a leaf from the very small notepad in my bag. Two inches by three. A white rectangle holding my tentative words.

I added it to the growing pile on the table. Laughingly admitting to having added the icon of a pair of specs in the top corner in the event of a tie break being needed. Not a chance in hell it would be needed but I liked to show solidarity with Mr Hegley as a fellow specs wearer.

And so it was done. And I felt slightly foolish and not a little unworthy to be placing my words among those of such talented people. I sat back, drank my drink and enjoyed the start of the second half. A couple of the poems were read out; dogs and potatoes featured. The rest were despatched with the judges (two guest poets Silvia Forest and Rowan McCabe, and Eileen, of who's precise role I am uncertain  other than as an impromptu translator of french potato poetry and purveyor of limerick competitions) to be judged and short-listed.
John assured us that even though not all would make it to the short-list or be read out that night, he would take them all and read them after the show. And if they did not make the short-list it was not because they were no good, it was simply that they were not good enough.

When the judges were called back, the pile of short-listed poems was handed to John. Several sheets of A4 and a small white rectangle - about 2 inches by 3.
I swear my heart stopped. Had these three people deemed my three lines good enough?
Then my natural cynicism kicked in and I thought "No way! That's not my piece of paper". Someone else had obviously used their own notepad too...

The three short-listed poems were read out. I heard two of them. I heard the funny dog poem. I heard the laughter. And then Rowan stepped forward and read:

Penshaw Monument
stands guard above the pitheads.
No miners end their shifts.

And I heard an intake of breath, and an "ah!" and an "oh!" and someone said something but I didn't really hear what because the blood was pounding in my ears and my heart was thumping in my chest and I was not actually breathing. And my husband was laughing at the expression on my face.

Three lines apparently can make an impression, even in a room full of proper poets.  They (I) created a "powerful image".

So much so that I now have a signed copy of New and Selected Potatoes by John Hegley that says to me that my poem was good enough. 

Education, Education, Education?

A while ago I found out my local amdram theatre was to stage a production of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. This is a GCSE text as I'm sure many of you know. A great opportunity then to enhance my son's experience of the book. He wasn't hugely enthusiastic, but not completely dismissive of the idea when I suggested it.. He actually quite likes the theatre, after I successfully dragged him along to the Pantomime at The People's Theatre. I even managed to persuade him to review it. You can read his review here, and though I may be biased, I think it clearly shows his wit and his love of words and language. I managed to drag him a little less reluctantly to a couple more shows after this, though I have never managed to wheedle another review from him.  At the moment, however, he has reverted to "reluctant teenager " mode, which means he has to be persuaded of the very  particular benefits to himself of any suggested activity before he will even consider taking part. And I had done a pretty good job. I had wrenched a tepid agreement out of him.
But now this proposed outing is under threat. His very mild enthusiasm has been quashed almost before it saw light of day. And it is a worry and a disappointment to me because the source of the quashing is school. The very place that should be nurturing his interest in, and love of, literature and its associated arts is in fact doing the complete opposite.
Today when I asked about booking tickets the reply I got was chillingly negative.. He said, and I quote, "To be honest, I think by that time I will have had more than enough of Mice and Men. I think I will be well and truly sick to death of it. Analysing and dissecting, and analysing some more is just about guaranteed to kill off any interest in, or enjoyment of, a book".
My son found his love of reading fiction from an enthusiastic English teacher, not from me, a former children's librarian and current reader development librarian. But hey, what do mams know anyway?

I find it incredibly saddening and disheartening that the process of passing GCSEs is destroying his interest in books. There is more to learning about literature and writing than this. If even the students who love reading are being systematically disengaged by the teaching methods used, then what hope is there for the others?

I didn't develop my love of reading at school. I have always had it. English at O Level did not thrill me, but it didn't turn me away from reading. Surely things are meant to be different now, teaching has moved on from learning and rote, students are encouraged to think and explore ideas for themselves...lessons are exciting and absorbing? Apparently not.

Of Mice and Men will be showing at The Royalty Theatre, Sunderland at the end of October. I hope to be attending it with my son, and I hope he will be there willingly. I suspect, however that a certain amount of emotional blackmail and a monetary incentive might be required. If not I may be going it alone!
.

No Love Lost

The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost

I have been reading this book over the last couple of weeks. The author, Gary Murning, very kindly sent me a pre publication copy, on the understanding that I reviewed it in time for publication day. So naturally I added it to my "Must Read Over The Summer" pile: the "high priority" sub pile of my mountainous "To Read Eventually" pile. And naturally, I didn't quite get to it over the summer...
I have a digital copy, but don't own a kindle so I rely on the Kindle App on my android phone. This poses problems as my preferred reading spots are in the bath - risk of damp - and in my mother in law's garden - difficult, on a small led screen in bright sunlight and sunglasses... and time limited this year (a whole other story, don't even go there!).
So, here I am desperately trying to read it in time for publication day so that I can uphold my end of the bargain.
My other problem while reading this book has been a growing awareness that it was going to be very difficult to review. How the heck am I going to be able to tell people about it without giving away all the fabulous surprises and developments? I hate spoilers in reviews. If I read a review that unveils those vital moments before I have had a chance to discover them myself, then I simply don't read the book. What would be the point, if that delicious journey of discovery has already been plotted for me?
And so Gary may get the shortest, most cryptic review for his lovely book. I will try to make it longer than the title. To be fair I won't be able to give the ending away, because I haven't got there yet (sorry, Gary ETA sometime early on Sunday morning). I'm expecting it to be sad, hoping it will be uplifting, utterly convinced it will not be disappointing.
The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost is out today. There's an on-line launch party going on on Facebook, Twitter and Good Reads. Anyone can join in - please do. And buy the book. It's beautiful and funny and sad...and Lorna is an almost too good to be true librarian (no, seriously, we librarians are exactly like her...)

Down load a sample to try before you buy, or just go for and buy the whole book - it's on a launch day special for Kindle The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost by Gary Murning. and it is also available in good old fashioned paperback (for those of us who don't really do the eBook thing). You'll be able to see my proper review on good reads and Amazon soon. So that just leaves one more thing to say...

Gary...well done, love!

Celebrating words - written, spoken, sung, or simply implied...

In November last year the central library where I work celebrated its 21st birthday.

This is, of course, the "new" library on York Road. The "old" library on Clarence Road had been around for considerably longer but we out grew it and so a replacement was conceived and finally born in 1991.

Of course the new building was a bit of a Marmite experience. People either loved it or hated it. The old library was well, old, and quiet, it had that musty book smell and the hushed restrained atmosphere. People whispered while they were in there...it felt like a library. 

The new building was new, bright and airy.  It was ugly and brash and modern, and it has to be said, noisy!  People who had never set foot in the old place came in and talked, noise carried. On top of all this the books had some new-fangled "categorised" shelving system. How were people meant to find what they wanted!? Where was the peace and calm, the quiet solitude that our borrowers expected from their library? In some circles the old building was mourned and the new usurper shunned. 

The Old Library

The old building was also situated at the edge of town, on a traffic island. You took your life in your hands some days crossing the road to get there. The new library was built smack bang in the town centre...nestled among the banks, building societies and wine bars. Right next to the bus-stop and the entrance to the shopping centre. A prime location! When it first opened we had to daft in extra staff to man the counters. We had queues of people waiting to join, waiting to bring books back and take books out, waiting to reserve the latest Catherine Cookson! It was fabulous and exhausting! One member of staff actually brought in a pedometer to measure how far she had to walk in a single day! 

The newly refurbished Central Library

Twenty one years later and it's quieter. We would give our eye-teeth to have those queues back. Well, I would. Not so sure the staff on the front line would appreciate it quite so much. Queueing is seen as a bad thing still. Possibly even more so now than back then. Today if there are more than ten people on a waiting list for a book it is regarded as unacceptable; people start asking why more copies haven't been bought. Back in the day we might have over a hundred waiting for Ms Cookson and there might be 20 copies in stock. Times change. And so do libraries. 

In 1991 we opened our lovely new library with one author event: Ken Follett came and cut the ceremonial ribbon, all the council dignitaries turned out for it. Not so many of the public. Having actual authors in a library rather than just books was a bit new to us back then.

Mari Hannah and Russ Litten 

Twenty one years later, after a much needed and long sought after refurbishment, we celebrated with 21 events over a six week period: authors, song-writers, poets, illustrators. They came, they talked, sang, recited and drew...and they were fabulous. They also said lovely things about libraries - and in particular ours. And they said they'd love to come back and see us again, which is good because we are doing it all again this year...without the 21 theme, obviously. 

Thanks to the following who helped us celebrate! 

Trisha Ashley    Guy Mankowski    

Beda Higgins  Malcolm Green   Elizabeth Gill   

 P A Morbid    Lee Maddison   Mari Hannah and Russ Litten    

Peter Brunton    Dan Smith    Pauline Rowson   Alexander Gordon Smith  

 Paul Torday   Andy Briggs   Valerie Laws    Steve Cole   Phil Dunn  

 Keith Robson  Jeff Price and Aidan Clarke   Sean Cooney