Fay Sampson is the author of 16 books for young people. For many years she has combined teaching and writing in England, winning awards from the South West Arts regional council for her work. She is currently a full-time writer and an adult education tutor in writing.
Fay Sampson
Interactive Fiction: An E x p e r i e n c e of the 'Writers in Education' S c h e m e
The idea o f bringing children, students, a n d teachers into contact with living writers was initially implemented by the Literature Panel o f the Arts Council of Great Britain in 1969, but since 1980 the scheme had devolved upon the Regional Arts Associations, embracing single visits, workshop sessions, talks, readings, a n d short-term a n d long-term residences a n d "attachments" o f variou~ kinds, with the Regional Arts Association generally bearing h a l f the cost o f fees, plus travel. The scheme n o w operates in a wide range o f venues in addition to schools a n d colleges, incorporates in-service a n d residential courses, a n d includes illustrators, storytellers, dramatists, a n d 'performance poets' alongside novelists, poets, a n d short-story writers.
W h y d o I d o it? W h y d o I l e a v e b e h i n d t h e c o s y s e c u r i t y o f m y s t u d y f o r a l i t e r a r y l u n c h e o n w i t h t h e English L i t e r a t u r e s i x t h f o r m , f o r n i n e t y f i r s t - y e a r s s q u a t t i n g o n t h e f l o o r o f t h e library, f o r h a l f o f b r e a k s p e n t a n s w e r i n g m o r e q u e s t i o n s a r o u n d t h e b o o k table, f o r t h e o t h e r h a l f p a r r y i n g t h e r e s p e c t f u l c u r i o s i t y o f t h e P. E. d e p a r t m e n t o v e r tea in t h e s t a f f r o o m , f o r a n o t h e r d o u b l e l e s s o n , a n o t h e r s i x t y c h i l d r e n , f o r t h e l o n g d r i v e h o m e ? I exaggerate. S o m e t i m e s it is j u s t a d o u b l e p e r i o d w i t h a s i n g l e class. But n o t o f t e n . I d o n ' t b l a m e t h e m f o r w a n t i n g to g e t t h e i r m o n e y ' s w o r t h . Is it t h e m o n e y ! d o it for? I t ' s n o t a f o r t u n e , a n d I p u t o n a g o o d show. It affects m y c o n c e n t r a t i o n , b o t h b e f o r e a n d after. Still, t h e s a d fact is that, h o u r f o r hour, I c a n s o m e t i m e s e a r n m o r e f o r b e i n g a w r i t e r t h a n f o r a c t u a l l y w r i t i n g . Yet I d o t h e s a m e t h i n g f o r n o t h Children's Literature in Education
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185 ing at m y local village school, and still feel i have gained by it. Perhaps it's the flattery, then. I ' m not being flippant. It's more important than you think. S o m e o n e out there has heard of me, k n o w s about m y books, may even have read some. I need that periodic reassurance. I like w o r k i n g o n m y own, I like the e m p t y house, the peace o f the surrounding fields and w o o d s with just the pregnant sheep and a passing deer or fox for interest, but I find it difficult to settle d o w n to w o r k until the post has come. And then I ' m disappointed if there is nothing in it that relates to my trade as a writer. I need that lifeline to the outside world. I am like one of my n e w b o r n books. I want to be noticed and loved. The best publishers u n d e r s t a n d this and cosset their authors. Writing for publication is a c o n f i d e n c e trick. I must have confid e n c e in myself, in w h a t I have to say, and in my ability to find the right w o r d s to say it. Self-confidence is one of my most precious assets. In the past I have written successful b o o k s in o d d hours at the reference library with one eye o n the clock and during a period of intense pain. But I can't keep writing with the same energy t h r o u g h depression. Anything that damages m y c o n f i d e n c e diminishes m y writing. This invitation to speak makes me feel good. It reminds me that I am, yes I really am, a writer. Even with sixteen b o o k s on the shelf, I find that image still needs reinforcing. All the same, I c o u l d accept the recognition but regret that I ' m too busy to come. So w h a t do I think I ' m going to gain by going? A mirror? Myself reflected in the eyes of all those children o n the library floor? Perhaps I h o p e to see myself and my w o r k as they see me and it. Well, yes. But to be really useful I should be able to take the experience h o m e with me and study it afterwards. A photograph, perhaps? Better still, an X-ray photograph. I want it to reveal something of the structure of what I am doing. I d o n ' t m e a n the structure of a particular book. For a clinical o p i n i o n o n that I go to m y editor. What is going o n here is something less rigidly defined, more vital: It is the form of the c o m m u n i c a t i o n b e t w e e n me and my readers. Or will it be n o n c o m m u n i c a t i o n ? And nonreaders? That t h o u g h t ought to scare me as I drive into the car-park. Have they read the books? If they have did they like them? And even if they did, w h y should they want to meet the writer? But I ' m not panicking. I ' m looking forward to it. You have to be arrogant to be a writer. You are claiming that what you have to say is so important or so well put that it's w o r t h other people laying out g o o d m o n e y and time to read. Never mind those patches o f depression. At rock
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Children's Literature in E d u c a t i o n b o t t o m there's no self-doubt. Self-criticism, yes. D o u b t about particular directions I ' m thinking o f taking. But writing is a high-risk profession, like sailing the Atlantic single-handed. You w o u l d n ' t attempt it if y o u didn't believe y o u could do it. I am a spell-binder. That is m y professional occupation. Right, let's get in there and weave some magic. I may be interfering too much. There are those w h o say the magic lies solely in the b o o k and that it is the writer's duty to stay at h o m e and write, resisting all invitations. But n o n e o f us are w h o l l y writers. We w o u l d n ' t be interesting if we were. I ' m a compulsive teacher. I have this irresistible urge to explain things to people and encourage them to try it for themselves. Already this is showing me something about m y writing. It's there in the heavy bag o f materials I ' m h u m p i n g out of the car. The need to explain. Sometimes I get an idea for a gripping first line. But hard on its heels comes the c o m p u l s i o n to dig m u c h further back. H o w did they get into this situation? What made them do that? What might a different character have d o n e in those conditions? Most o f my books are explorations o f such a question. The fun is that I d o n ' t k n o w the answer w h e n I start the act o f creation. There is also the " N o w you t r y " element. It makes me not want to wrap up a story completely. Exploring the question raises further ones. I d o n ' t want to suggest that the action finishes o n the last page, w h e r e I stopped writing. I am the sort of writer I am. Analysing it isn't going to make me change the way I write. But perhaps it helps to calibrate a yardstick by w h i c h to measure the success of my w o r k in my o w n terms. The children are in front o f me now, and clearly I haven't just c o m e to read to them. I love reading aloud. I even think I do it rather well. But I have been surprised to find h o w little time I spend actually reading from m y b o o k s or even plugging them. It's the w h o l e creative process that I've c o m e to talk about. All the same, I need one b o o k to build the session around. And b o o k s are personal. I can hold the class silent and listening. But I d o n ' t expect a single extract from one novel, h o w e v e r carefully selected, to excite everyone in the class. What am I going to choose? The most obviously p o p u l a r one, with the f u n n y bits? Or the one that gives me the deepest satisfaction? Or the one w h o s e stages of d e v e l o p m e n t will be most interesting to illustrate? It raises a large question. Should a children's a u t h o r even be aiming at the mass audience w h i c h a school visit implies? Do the standards by w h i c h writers o f adult fiction are judged apply here? But I d o n ' t start by sitting d o w n quietly and reading, trusting the
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18 7 w o r d s to speak for themselves. T h e teacher instinct makes m e stride up and d o w n the classroom, scattering n e w s p a p e r cuttings, p h o t o g r a p h s , m a p s , scribbled m a n u s c r i p t s , r e f e r e n c e sources, f l o p p y discs, typescript, publishers' contracts, proofs, jackets and, o f course, books. T h e tidied classroom is r e d u c e d to the chaos o f m y study. H o w is a b o o k made, f r o m the first shining idea to the glossy artefact? I recognise a p a r a d o x here. I am an old-fashioned writer, turning out sheaves o f unalleviated text day after day. But w i t h the o t h e r side of myself, that teaching side, I k n o w that children, all of us, like to have things they can touch, handle, smell, examine. T h e y like to engage w i t h the material. W h a t does that realisation m e a n for me? Is it just the n e e d for the vivid realisation o f the w o r l d I a m creating o n the page? Should I express b o l d e r opinions a b o u t the b o o k as a physical object, the typeface, layout, illustrations, binding, jacket? (Why d o e s n ' t the glue smell like it used to?) Should I explore creatively the relationship of pictures to story, the w a y they can add to, or even contradict, the text? Should I be m o v i n g into the fashion for interactive fiction? H o w can the novelist m a k e creative use o f the c o m p u t e r ' s possibilities, and I d o n ' t just m e a n w o r d processing? Never m i n d that m a n y early e x p e r i m e n t s are of dubious merit. Is the potential there? Is it m y job to explore it, or s o m e o n e else's? Anyway, isn't all fiction interactive? T h e story is a different e x p e r i e n c e for each reader. B o o k reviews tell you m o r e a b o u t the reviewer than a b o u t the b o o k . All the same, stay light o n y o u r feet. The children m a y be teaching y o u something. Store it away for the future. That's really w h y I ' v e come, isn't it? To learn, m o r e than to teach. After all, h o w m u c h can I do, talking to one class, w h e n the same a f t e r n o o n ' s w o r k on a b o o k w o u l d be read by thousands? It's a day out. I ' m enjoying it. But I ' m h o p i n g for s o m e t h i n g m o r e lasting than that. I ' m looking for clues. W h a t excites them? W h a t makes t h e m laugh? W h a t w o u l d they like m o r e of? I d o n ' t go away and write the next b o o k to order. I just fork in the ]knowledge, like compost. I n e e d n ' t c o m e in person. I could ask their teachers. I ' m not even listening yet, a m I? I ' m still p r o w l i n g around, talking like mad, distributing goodies. " H a s e v e r y o n e got something? Take a closer l o o k at that one. This is h o w the b o o k started." Teachers have m o r e time. T h e y can read the w h o l e b o o k . T h e y can invite detailed responses. T h e y can set it against their e x p e r i e n c e w i t h o t h e r books. But w h a t c o m e s b a c k to m e will be filtered t h r o u g h an adult mind, c o l o u r e d by personal p r e c o n c e p t i o n s , like
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getting y o u r e x p e r i e n c e o f life f r o m television d o c u m e n t a r i e s that have already b e e n edited by s o m e o n e else. Children's writers are always up against this adult screen. The editors, booksellers, librarians, teachers, parents, all imposing their o w n well-meaning censorship. It can m a k e the c o m m u n i c a t i o n b e t w e e n writer and children s e e m a long and uncertain journey.
Fay Sampson, E67 Chris and the Dragon
Writers d o n ' t always get it right, but n o r do their minders. Like the reviewer w h o c o m p l a i n e d because a character, in a dire situation, spent too m u c h time w o r r y i n g a b o u t a lost teddy-bear, c o m p a r e d w i t h the small d a u g h t e r of a psychologist, w h o c o m m e n t e d , " I ' m sorry, Daddy, but if it c a m e to a choice b e t w e e n you and Teddy, y o u ' d have to go." Or the editor w h o said o f a final chapter, "I think y o u ' v e b e e n a bit hard on him. Couldn't you m a k e it lighter?" C o m p a r e these responses w i t h the p r i m a r y class w h o w r o t e their own, m o r e fiercely m o r a l ending. I n e e d a refresher class to k e e p m y eye at the right level. But first I have to involve the audience. Creative writing is a doing thing. T h e b o o k d o e s n ' t spring fully f o r m e d into the world, like Athena f r o m the head of Zeus. It needs m o t h e r i n g . It is n o u r i s h e d in the w o m b , b o r n in labour, h e l p e d by understanding h u m a n s and m o d e r n technology. Forget the m e t a p h o r s . T h e y ' r e m o r e interested in the p r o o f r e a d e r ' s c o d e in the Writers a n d A r t i s t s Year B o o k and the m a k e and m o d e l of m y computer. There's a lesson there. The danger is that I will get carried away w i t h m y o w n enthusiasm and talk too long. I'll fail to leave e n o u g h time for the really important part, listening to them. After all, that's w h a t I do all day, obsessively talking on the page. Another lesson? Am I leaving e n o u g h spaces in the story, inviting the reader into the creative process? Am I explaining too much? It's a delicate balance. You n e e d a g o o d editor to point out w h e n y o u ' r e being too obscure. I haven't finished, but I ' v e decided to stop talking. It's the fundamental p r o b l e m of selection. What to put in, w h a t to leave out. N o w the m o m e n t of truth. Will there be any questions? The magic never fails. Only o n c e have I m e t blank unresponsiveness, and that was in a different setting w i t h a g r o u p o f university students. In schools the last questioners have to be physically hauled away to break or a E E. lesson. I r e m i n d myself, it's not a response to m e as an individual. It's just part of their marvellous, irrepressible curiosity a b o u t life. The sad fact is that as I m o v e f r o m the sixth f o r m d o w n w a r d s the questions get m o r e penetrating. By the time they reach A-level Eng-
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lish Literature they have been taught that there are writers and there are ordinary people. That a b o o k is a finished w o r k to be accepted, not attempted. We are talking to each other across a great gulf. They ask polite questions, with their faces metaphorically t u r n e d up to mine. It d o e s n ' t o c c u r to t h e m that they might hawe something to tell me. They follow the well-worn lines, "Have y o u always wanted to be a writer? . . . . What are y o u w o r k i n g o n now? . . . . W h o is your o w n favourite a u t h o r ? " Like g o o d hosts, their attention is all o n me. They reveal nothing o f themselves. They are charming. The buffet lunch they have c o o k e d themselves for me is excellent. But their deferential conversation is not nourishing.
Fay Sampson, Pangur Ban, the White Cat sus
Lower d o w n the s e c o n d a r y school they k n o w more clearly that writing arises out of experience. Literature d o e s n ' t exist in a sealed c o m p a r t m e n t . I can't invent anything. All I can do is collect little c o l o u r e d fragments of memory, shake t h e m up, and w a t c h the kaleidoscope settle into a n e w pattern. However fantastic the b o o k seems, I can only write about what I know. They like the idea of my learning to drive a scurry r o u n d an obstacle course and chainharrowing a field behind a horse to get something of the feel of chariot warfare. One b o y starts to tell h o w he p l o u g h e d a field with a heavy horse. I ' m envious. He tells us more. A ,group o f elevenyear-olds in rural D e v o n startle me by their avid response to m y teenage son's experience with the police. Their indignation bristles, girls as well as boys. "Yes! That happens to us all the time." The gap b e t w e e n us is m u c h narrower here. These are participatory readers. Books are not just something to be admired or eriticised, t h o u g h they can do that too. They are an experience to be entered into, another w o r l d to live in, a way of living in their o w n w o r l d and seeing it fresh. They are more demanding. They are saying, " T h e s e are our lives. These are our interests. These are our fantasies. Please write about them." They want to feel that I ' m writing out of reality, o u t w a r d or inward. But they are still looking to me as the provider. I am the author. They are the readers. One boy, owl glasses, obviously not bright, asks a question that I have already answered. The teacher m u r m u r s restrainingly. But it is important that he asks it, that he is listened to, that he is answered. He d o e s n ' t have the social c o n f i d e n c e of the sixth form. He d o e s n ' t k n o w the questions you are s u p p o s e d to ask authors. He d o e s n ' t want to look a fool. So he listens to the questions a r o u n d him. Ah, that's w h a t y o u say, is it? And then y o u d o n ' t get laughed at. So he says it too. He gets a serious answer. He's pleased. A little later, he repeats another child's question. He's having a g o o d day. He's sharing the experience.
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But it is in the p r i m a r y school that I can really relax. N o w I a m a m o n g equals. These are not students of literature. T h e y are not even responsive readers, first and foremost. These are fellow-writers. T h e questions f r o m the top class of infants s h o w it best. " D o you ever start out thinking y o u k n o w w h a t ' s going to h a p p e n , and t h e n o n e o f y o u r characters says, 'I d o n ' t w a n t to do t h a t ' ? " It h a p p e n s all the time. " W h a t do y o u do w h e n y o u write t w o or three pages in a rush and t h e n you d o n ' t k n o w w h a t h a p p e n s next?" Take the dogs for a walk. " H a v e y o u ever w o k e n up in the night w i t h a brilliant idea, and t h e n in the m o r n i n g w h e n you write it d o w n it's c o m p l e t e rubbish?" Oh, yes, they know. T h e y ' v e b e e n there. T h e y have no misplaced respect for m e as a writer. W h y should they? The only difference b e t w e e n us is the size of our readership. And the relationship b e t w e e n reader and story is always one-toone. One reader, ten thousand. It's not a qualitative difference. In the s e c o n d a r y school they r e s p o n d e d to the d e s c r i p t i o n of m y experiences w i t h fellow-feeling. "So it's not just m e ! " In the p r i m a r y school, I am the o n e w h o is having m y e x p e r i e n c e c o n f i r m e d by others. Perhaps I s h o u l d n ' t be too hard on those incurious university students. After all, I write children's books. T h e y think t h e y ' v e left that behind. T h e y see children's b o o k s and adult b o o k s as disjoint sets, not as overlapping ranges o n the same c o n t i n u u m . Age will teach t h e m better. But the infants w o u l d n ' t m a k e the mistake. T h e y d o n ' t divide b o o k s by publishers' categories. There are just " B o o k s I like" and " B o o k s I d o n ' t like." Their glorious self-centredness is just w h a t I need. This isn't the place to ask w h a t goes w r o n g b e t w e e n the infant school, w i t h its s p o n t a n e o u s writers, and the literary criticism students. What I n e e d to do n o w is take the e x p e r i e n c e h o m e w i t h m e and s t u d y its lessons. Or p e r h a p s not. Writing is like playing golf. You lift y o u r eyes to the distant p o i n t w h e r e y o u w a n t the ball to arrive. You plan the shot. You select the a p p r o p r i a t e club. But o n c e you have m a d e the decision it w o u l d be fatal to k e e p y o u r eye o n the destination. The only thing that matters n o w is the ball at y o u r feet and the w a y you address it. All the same, as I leaf through the first draft I find m y s e l f asking, " W h a t w o u l d it be like if I were reading this aloud in that class?" And just for a m o m e n t I see rows of bright eyes t u r n e d up to me, waiting expectantly.
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References
Sampson, Sampson, 1987. Sampson, Sampson,
Fay, E67. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1975. Fay, Chris and the Dragon. London: Gollancz, 1985. Penguin, Fay, Pangur Ban, the White Cat. Tring: Lion, 1983. Fay, Sus. Durham: Dobson, 1982.