The Path To Publication? It's Written in the Stars, Sadly

Once upon a time fame was something that came after you published a fabulous book. Or at least, that was the plan. 

It was certainly the dream and desire of thousands of aspiring authors who sought fame not for its fan mail or feted awards as such (although those were not unwelcome, let's face it) but for its ability to enable them to keep on doing what they loved doing best—writing.

Well, not anymore folks. At least, not always.

"Did you hear about the great lineup in the kids' tent at the Byron Writers' Festival this year?" gushed one mum on the soccer sidelines the other day.
"Oh?" I replied, my pulse quickening at the thought of my son's favourite authors, past and present, littering the stage; people like Andy Griffiths, Mem Fox, and, dare I think it?— J.K. O. My God. Rowling?!
The woman nodded her head, deliriously. "Yes! They've got Richard Roxburgh and Peter Helliar!"
Huh?
Last time I looked, Richard was a famous actor better known for playing a philandering drunk and Pete a stand-up comedian with a TV news show for adults.
"In the kids' tent? Really? At the writers festival?"
"Oh yes," she squealed. "They've written books. I love those guys. Isn't it exciting!"
Like ordinary writers are so very dull. I didn't dare ask her if she'd read their books, I knew it was irrelevant. Who cares? They're famous!!!"

Now, at risk of sounding like a disgruntled and very unfamous author, let me just say, WTF?! How has it come to this?! How has infamy become the drawcard, not output? How do those bozos get a chair on the podium instead of so many kids' authors I've read whose books are probably just as worthy? Because, and here's the disclaimer, I haven't read Richard or Pete's books either and they're probably absolutely wonderful, but let's be honest here, that's not the point. Those blokes are in the much-sought-after program because of who they are not what they've written, and I defy anyone to argue otherwise.

The changing face of books

Today, it seems, fame is the precursor to scoring yourself a book deal. A prerequisite in fact. No name, no contract, no writing deal. And, I'm sorry, but it breaks my heart.

I don't write children's books, couldn't do it if I tried (and I did once, it was not pretty), but I can't help thinking of all the budding children's authors who attend my self-publishing classes with stars in their eyes not on their director's chairs. They've worked so long and so hard on their stories and, from what they've shown me, their material is often wonderful, their stories delightful, their illustrations exquisite.

But they will probably never see the light of day, let alone the inside of a book shop or the podium at a national book festival because they're missing that one vital factor—fame.

But maybe I'm just unkind. Maybe it's sour grapes. It's definitely not novel.
This move to celebrity started a long time ago, back when magazines stopped featuring 'ordinary' women on their covers and started plastering brushed up Hollywood stars. And it's not just kids books or my local writers festival that is enamoured of celebrity. Just ask any sports journalist whose job has been replaced by a thuggish looking ex-footy star who can barely read the words being fed to him like mashed banana from a teleprompter.

Today, fame comes first and the craft—the pure and utter devotion to words—well, that's an irrelevant second. A sidenote to a glittering resume. And that, my friends, is the real tragedy.

A forgotten calling

Call me old-fashioned, and many do, but I long for the days when writing was still considered a calling, a career that was respected and admired, albeit poorly paid, and that poor bastards devoted themselves to for decades upon decades, struggling to pay the bills, maintain relationships and retain their sanity—all in the name of art. Not something that's whipped together as a PR exercise between takes on a flood-lit sound stage.

Do I sound harsh? I have a right to be. I wrote my first 'novel' at the age of 13. It was tripe but it didn't matter. I couldn't help but write. I'd been telling stories to anyone who'd listen since I could talk. I had no choice. Writing was what woke me up in the morning and kept me awake long into the night. And it still does.

Did Richard Roxburgh conjure up adventure stories as a boy? Did Peter Helliar dream of publishing the Great Australian Novel? Maybe, maybe not. I suspect that came later. I suspect that came after a nudge from an antsy agent or after a brainstorming session in a publisher's office:

"Who can we get to write a kids' book? Who's hot at the moment? Oh, I know! Let's ask that chubby guy from that top-rating TV show! He seems like fun. Kids'll love him!"

I have no qualms with anyone wanting to tell their stories and everyone's entitled to do so—the famous, the infamous and the great unknown. But please don't expect me to drag my son to watch you chat about your book when the real reason you're sitting there, the main reason your book ever saw the light of day, is two simple words that you never even came up with yourself.

Your name.

What do you think? Am I being unfair? Please drop a comment below or get in touch via my email or twitter.

And happy reading everyone, even of the unknown!
xo Christina

Is ANY book better than NO book when it comes to kids?

Nobody likes a smug parent, let's be frank. There's really nothing more blood-boiling than a 'back-seater' telling you how to raise your own, but I have to confess I came scarily close to morphing into one at a doctors' surgery one summer's day.

I was flicking through a trashy woman's magazine, waiting patiently for my GP to finish up with an old bloke and his worrying cough, when a man walked in with a boy who looked about 10 years of age.

After taking their seats across from me, the boy began to fidget, then twiddle his thumbs and glance about. Within minutes he was up and helping himself to one of many books that had been piled high on a bright red, plastic side table just for kids. I recognised the book instantly, it was Tootle by Gertrude Crampton, an oldie, but a cherished childhood favorite of mine. I gave him a wide smile, which he returned as he settled back into his seat.

Not so his dad.

"What're you reading that for?" the man grunted. The boy looked up from the bright, inviting pages towards his father's dark frown. "That's a baby book. You're too old for that crap."

The light in the boy's eyes instantly extinguished. He glanced at Tootle, almost as though hoping the rebellious locomotive might whisk him off into the wild meadows beyond, then shrugged, closed the book and put it back where he found it.

Then he sat down, empty-handed, and began fidgeting again. And so he remained for the next 20 minutes, doing nothing, reading nothing, staring blankly at the wall.

Never before have I wanted to cry out with such anguish as I did that balmy summer's day. Never have I felt so aggrieved for a child. I couldn't believe what I had heard.

Did a father really belittle his child for reading a book?

Okay, sure, it's a Little Golden Book, and maybe his son was capable of reading War and Peace, I don't know. And yes, the moral of the story is questionable—who cares if a little train goes off the rails from time to time?—but here's something I do know: reading anything, even a 'baby book' about an anarchic choo-choo, has to be better than reading nothing but the disappointment on your father's face.

What kind of a person does that?

Sure, it's not child abuse, not in the textbook sense, but in my book it comes pretty damn close. Books are not just a dreamy concept for chardonnay-swilling bleeding hearts or vested-interest authors like myself. Endless studies have proven that books of any kind help create smarter, happier, more socially competent human beings. A 20-year Nevada University study, for instance, found that no matter what a parent's background—rich, poor, illiterate or an Oxford graduate—those who have plenty of books in their house help boost their own child's education levels.*1

It's a fact.

Other research shows that reading to your child not only increases their brain activity, wordless picture books can enrich a toddler's language while all books can help children struggling with genuine social issues.*2

Boys in particular need an extra nudge, and I could bore you senseless with even more studies that show how far boys lag behind girls when it comes to books and reading, the gap only widening when the hormones kick in.*3

The haves and have nots
We tend to take literacy for granted in Western society and often waste time waxing lyrical about the 'right kind of book' for growing minds, yet reading of any kind can make an enormous difference to a young child. This stuff matters! A new Grattan Institute report from Australian teachers revealed that there can be as much as a six-year gap in any one classroom between students' educational levels.*4 Six years! That's staggering.

I know from my own experience, that when my eldest son started Kindergarten, his teacher, a veteran of 30 years, told me she can always spot the child who lives in a house without books. Not only were they behind on all literacy markers, some, she said, had no idea what to do with a book, which way the pages turned or what those funny scribbles were all about.

That breaks my heart, and not just because I'm a bleeding you-know-whatsie. Books aren't just educational bellwethers, they're bloody good fun! As a mother who grew weary under the piles of books my sons insisted we get through before lights out, it astounds me that some houses don't actually own one.

What do they do at bedtime? 
How do they soothe a crying child?
How do they entertain, terrify, intrigue and delight?

At my place, you'll find books scattered in every room, including the kitchen and toilet, as well as stacked high in the garage, floating about in both cars, and on every digital device, because, yes, books don't even need to be of the paper variety. If your child refuses to visit the library for some freebies, try downloading a bunch of ebooks onto his iPod. You'll find some for under a buck. Call into your local charity shop, ask the empty nester living down the road. At the very least, the local school should have some. It might take a little bit of effort, but the rewards are exponential.

Something to laugh at

Books don't need to be award-winning, they don't even need to be appropriate. According to another expert, this one in children's literature at the University of Illinois, comic books are just as sophisticated as other forms of literature in providing all the same benefits.*4 It's all about providing stories in which your child can live, learn and get lost.

So the next time your child opens a Batman comic, thumbs through a surf mag, or, heaven forbid, a 'baby book', don't discourage or criticise. Be thankful they're improving their brain, having fun, and becoming better members of society. Surely that's better than blasting someone's head off on PlayStation or twiddling the thumbs doing nothing?

Looking back

I never did pull that father up that day, but I did go home and make a solemn oath to the tiny little being that was nestled in my womb that summer. I swore I would offer him a wide and wonderful range of stories to read, and never complain when he chose something else entirely—even if that 'something else' was not to my liking. Then I sought out my tattered copy of Tootle and read aloud to him in the womb while his older brother nestled in happily beside us. But this time I left Tootle lolling in the meadow with his new mates. (No-one says you can't improvise!)

That unborn child is now my vivacious 11-year-old, roughly the same age as the boy in the surgery that day, and his favourite thing—off a soccer field, that is—is books. I cannot satiate his desire. His library card is chockers, his iPad overloaded, the school librarian is struggling to keep up.

Am I a smug mother? You bet I am, but I can't really take any of the credit. I give that to the likes of Gertrude Crampton and Tootle. Sure, the story's not perfect—I mean, come on, people, let the poor train play!—but who knew a steam engine with training wheels could be so powerful?

And as I watch my son get lost in the latest book of his choice (which these days centres around wimpy kids and psycho bums, it has to be said), I often wonder about the little boy in the surgery that day.

I dearly hope he managed to find his own pathway back to books before he became a father himself, with a loathing for books and a very tiny mind.

Happy, guilt-free, reading everyone!

xo Christina

Sources
*1: May 21, 2010 Source: University of Nevada, Reno http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2010/05/100520213116.htm
*2: April 25, 2015 Source: American Academy of Pediatrics http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/04/150425215617.htm
April 29, 2013 Source: University of Waterloo
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/04/130429164821.htm
August 12, 2013 Source: University of Cincinnati http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/08/130812121457.htm
*3: http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/assets/0001/4056/Boys_Commission_Report.pdf
*4: http://www.sbs.com.au/news/article/2015/07/27/aust-lags-worlds-best-student-gap
http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/teachers-grapple-with-eightyear-gap-between-students-grattan-report-20150725-giki10
*5: November 6, 2009 Source: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, according to a University of Illinois expert in children's literature
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/11/091105121220.htm