Joanne Harris's Blog

Imagine if Carrie White had suppressed her paranormal ability.
Imagine she had a normal life - a husband, a son, a house, a job in her local bookshop - not an especially happy life, but hey, you can't have everything.
Now imagine her powers emerged, not with puberty, but with MENOPAUSE....

That's it. That's my book. BROKEN LIGHT, coming out May '23.

When my daughter was eight years old, I began to write a crime novel about the death of a child. Nine pages in, I abandoned it. The thought of losing a child like that, even in fiction, was so viscerally upsetting to me that I ditched the idea permanently. Or so I thought.
Twenty years later, I wrote Orfeia, the story of a woman, Fay, who loses her adult daughter Daisy through suicide, and of her journey through the different levels of London, through Faërie, and finally to the Land of Death, where she must face the Hallowe’en King, and enter a battle of wits with him for her daughter’s return. It is a battle she cannot win, as she is losing her memory; and yet I like to think that victory, like love, is in the eye of the beholder.
Why I decided to write this story then, and in that fairytale genre, I didn’t ask myself at first, except that it seemed right, somehow, and because somehow the story wanted – needed – to be told.
In some ways Orfeia closely follows The Strawberry Thief, in which Vianne Rocher has to come to terms with her beloved Anouk growing up, getting married and moving away. At the time of writing it, my own daughter was embarking on the same journey, and it was inevitable that some of my own experience would make it into my fiction. I know it isn’t the same sort of loss, but for a parent, there is a kind of bereavement when a child leaves home, along with a sense of questioning their purpose and direction, now that the child’s upbringing is no longer at the centre of their life. But Fay’s real story comes from elsewhere, and has taken me a long time to process.
We often find in fairy tales accounts of people who die of grief. But I saw it happen first-hand, and it was anything but fantasy. My great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister, had been living as a cleaner in Paris. Her only son, whom she adored, but with whom she was estranged, had been living abroad for years. From time to time she would hear news of him and his family, but he never wrote to her. She had a single – very old - photograph of him with his wife and their daughter, which she always proudly showed me when I came to visit.
One day a friend, assuming that she already knew, made a casual reference to her son’s suicide. My great-aunt found out in this dreadful way that her son had died some years before. The shock of the news sent her into a sudden, dramatic decline. The tough Parisian resilience that had helped her survive a war, an acrimonious divorce and near-financial ruin just collapsed almost overnight. In only a few months, she became completely unable to function, or even to remember who she was. She would look at herself in the mirror and complain that “an old woman” - or sometimes a “witch” - was spying on her through a secret window. She died in a retirement home, less than six months afterwards.
That memory has stayed with me, and I used it in Orfeia. I wanted to take a familiar story (the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice) and use it as a metaphor for a woman’s journey from grief to a kind of acceptance. The fairytale and fantasy details act as a reflection of Fay’s mental state, as her life (and maybe her sanity) begins to unravel. I also wanted to hint on some level that her growing confusion and memory loss might be something to do with grief-induced dementia.
If that sounds a little bleak, it is - which is why I also wanted to give Fay some kind of resolution. It’s also the reason I chose to tell this story through the lens of fantasy; because the truth underlying it – the raw grief of a mother robbed of her child – was still too much for me to explore within a real-world setting. But fairy tales are dark tales; in spite of attempts to make them into harmless stories for children, they deal with the darkest of issues – grief, loss, murder, abuse, monsters both human and inhuman, and of course Death, that ultimate monster, and our constant struggle with him – which is why they speak to us on a deeper, more intuitive, more primal level than stories of the real world.
In pre-Freudian times, fairy tales were the only means to express deep and unspoken feelings that could not be otherwise expressed. Now that we understand more about the workings of the human mind, they emerge as a kind of counterpart to the human subconscious; a direct conduit to what we feel; the secret language of Humankind.
During my time as a Languages student I fell into the rabbit-hole of German psychoanalysis. During that time I came to believe that there’s a direct parallel between the levels of the conscious and unconscious mind and the different narratives that we use to express our identity. History is the ego; the conscious, rational, factual mind and the official identity of a culture. Story – that is, fantasy, folklore and fairytale - reflects the human subconscious; its needs, fears, and dreams throughout the centuries; the secret, hidden identity running alongside the official version. So the further we look into ourselves, and the more we explore our cultural identity, the more likely we are to find value in these “fantasy” narratives, which are in fact the truest expressions of our collective unconscious.
In Orfeia I wanted to challenge the distinction between what we think of as “reality” and “fantasy.” Just as Fay slips from one state of consciousness into another, the story slips between both worlds, from the familiar ego-London to the World Below of London’s subconscious and its secret, forest heart.
The framework of existing folklore is surprisingly receptive to this. The two Child Ballads I chose as the foundation of the story lead naturally to each other. King Orfeo – the Celtic adaptation of the Orpheus myth - already contains many fairytale elements, which made it easy to incorporate the further elements from The Elphin Knight. And the idea of riddles as a means of communicating with Death (the unknown, the unconscious mind, etc) just seemed like the next logical step. To expand my theory of the conscious and the unconscious mind as a universal analogy, I was trying to introduce the idea that fantasy and reality are all part of the same world, just as the conscious and the unconscious mind are all part of the same brain. Anything that can be imagined is real on some level of existence. That means that all my books – including the ones not generally seen as fantasy - are actually part of the same extended multiverse. Whether I’m writing fantasy as Joanne M. Harris, or literary fiction as Joanne, I like the symmetry of that - and also how much it will annoy those among the literary community who refuse to acknowledge fantasy as the legitimate art form it undoubtedly is.

Everyone knows Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Most people could name at least half a dozen of them, although they may not be as familiar with the original versions as they are with the Disney adaptations. Most people know the stories of The Little Mermaid; Hansel and Gretel; The Red Shoes; The Snow Queen; Rapunzel; Snow White; Rumpelstiltskin. These European folk tales form an important part of our literary heritage, and writers and artists have found themselves returning to them again and again. And yet, our own Child Ballads, arguably as rich and important a resource as Grimm, remain largely unknown to the general public, except in the world of folk music, and among academic circles.
That’s one of the reasons I chose to draw inspiration for my three illustrated novellas – A Pocketful of Crows, The Blue Salt Road, and more recently, Orfeia - from Child’s Ballads, rather than choosing a more familiar tale. Child’s Ballads are particular to the British Isles. They speak directly to the history and geography of these islands. They are our Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and we ought to know them better.
So, what are the Child Ballads? They are a collection of 305 traditional ballads, collected and anthologized by a man called Francis Child during the second half of the 19th century. The lyrics and Child's studies of them were published as The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, and they exist now as a record of the folklore, language and dialects of the British Isles over more than five centuries. Some of the ballads deal with familiar themes. Some are versions of Biblical tales; some tell the stories of folk heroes like Robin Hood and King Arthur – although people who have been brought up with the Hollywood versions of these may be in a for a surprise. Some of the ballads are historical, some fantasy; some are darkly humorous, and some are murder ballads – the folk equivalent of true crime. Most date from the 17th century or later, but some date back to the 14th century; and most exist in multiple variants, changed by region, dialect or simply over the passage of time.
Like Grimm’s Fairy Tales, the Child Ballads are often very dark. Gruesome murder, monsters both human and inhuman, sexual assault, grief, guilt and betrayal feature heavily. Some of the ballads are long and detailed; others exist only as fragments. But as a body of work, they have a definite character of their own, and although Child’s selection of what to include or not to include is perhaps a little eccentric, they form an important link to our shared past, and our shared dreaming.
These are the histories, not of kings and queens, but of the common folk, passed down through generations, not through writing, but through song. They are songs designed to be sung at work; in the home; in the alehouse. Their humour is rude; their view of the world is both bleak, and strangely hopeful.
What they are not is childish, or fanciful, or trivial. Even at their most surreal, they serve as a means of expressing thoughts too subversive, or taboo, or painful to explore without the use of metaphor. They are the songs of revolt against oppression; of anger at the unfairness of life; of hope for a better future; of love and loss and laughter and grief. They are the soundtrack of our shared humanity, depicting the struggle of ordinary folk; their dreams, and sometimes their nightmares. These nightmares are not so different from ours. Monsters of all kinds abound - murderers, rapists, seducers, abusers – and most of their victims are women and girls, crying out for justice.
In choosing Child’s Ballads as the basis for my three folklore-inspired books, I’ve given those women a story outside of their roles as victims. In A Pocketful of Crows, a betrayed woman takes back her power and agency. In The Blue Salt Road, I’ve flipped the traditional narrative of the selkie woman enslaved by human beings, and made it a story of gender and race, seen through the lens of folklore. And in Orfeia, I’ve taken the Orpheus story (told in Child’s Ballads as King Orfeo) and made it the tale of a woman’s grief, a woman’s emotional journey.
And although I quote the original text, I have deliberately chosen to subvert, rather than remain faithful to the original. Anyone who has read The Gospel of Loki will know that I’m interested in retellings that challenge, rather than confirm, the world of the source material. Stories that cannot change are doomed to die and to be forgotten. The Ballads themselves, with their many variants, show how stories mutate and change to suit different times and surroundings. By adapting our stories, we keep them alive. In this way we learn from the tales of our past. In this way we try to correct the mistakes made by our ancestors. And no, they are not comfortable. And no, they are not escapism. And no, in spite of the misleading name, they are definitely not for children.

Recently I’ve found myself looking hard at the role of women in folklore. It’s not as if there aren’t any: our fairytales are filled with captive princesses, lovelorn mermaids, persecuted beauties. Then there’s the next generation: the jealous Queen. The wicked stepmother. The evil witch. The old crone. But these are never the heroines; they’re always the villains, the scapegoats, the ones with the poisoned apples. It seems that folklore and fairytale is not unlike the modern world: young women are valued by men for their looks; the older ones are mostly just jealous.
In a world of magic, as in the world around us, the one superpower older women share is that of invisibility. The young go on quests and journeys; the older ones plot against them, fatten them up to be eaten, lock them in towers, or sometimes just die on the first page, leaving the young hero or heroine conveniently orphaned, and free to begin their journey.
But where is the mother’s journey? Where are the stories of women with agency and experience? Don’t bother looking; they’re not there. The same goes for diverse love stories; unless you’re young, straight and cis, forget it. And what about all the different kinds of love outside of youthful, romantic love? What about platonic love, or love in old age, or the love of a parent for a child? Don’t go looking for those either. Romantic love is most commonly at the heart of the fairy tale, and thus is generally portrayed as the only love that matters. And once that love has been secured, the happily ever after ending is only a formality, dismissing those later decades in a single, well-worn phrase.
And yet there are so many different kinds of love - the Greeks had at least eight varieties. There’s new love; love in old age; passionate love; playful love. There’s the love one has for a friend; the love of a parent for a child. But Eros, the god of romantic love, is the one who gets by far the most press. He even managed to claim for himself the statue on the south-Western side of Piccadilly Circus, although the statue actually represents his brother, Anteros.
But it has always been thus. Eros is pushy and selfish; Anteros, self-effacing and gentle. So why does the brash and offensive twin always land the best stories? And how would a story with Anteros, not Eros, at its heart unfold?
These were the questions I had in mind when I started writing Orfeia. The original Orpheus legend is very much a story of love; but although there’s no denying the devotion of Orpheus, who travels to the Kingdom of Death to bring back his Eurydice, he is also very much an Eros guy; impulsive, passionate, brave, but also selfish and immature. I wanted my version to look at another side of love. That’s why my version of Orpheus is not a young hero, but an older heroine; and her journey is not a simple rescue mission, but an exploration of memory, motherhood, grief, fantasy, temptation - and ultimately, self-sacrifice.
How different is this story from the traditional source? In some ways, not so different. It’s still a story of love and loss; but it’s more of a song of experience than a song of innocence. And instead of giving the love story to the passionate Eros, it goes to his gentler twin Anteros, so often – like those older women – overlooked and underestimated.
Because mothers, too, have stories to tell. They too have their journey. They too are capable of courage and defiance, passionate love or dreams of romance. Age does nothing to change that. Feelings are universal, and do not lose their potency with time. The heroine of Orfeia is the mother of a young woman in her twenties. It is no accident that I am also the mother of a young woman in her twenties. The experience of motherhood is at the heart of this tale – the love, and also the fear of loss. In Orfeia, Fay loses her child to mental illness and suicide. Thus begins her story; not with the death of the parents, as so many fairy stories begin, but with the death of a daughter; and it takes her on a journey through the real world, Faërie, Dream, and finally to the land of Death, where she must fight for the one she loves, and make an almost unthinkable choice. It’s a story that tells of a battle between Eros and Anteros; between youth and experience. By reshaping it as I have, I wanted to make the original myth a more universal story. I wanted a woman at its heart, not as a trophy to be won, but as an adventurer in her own right. Most of all, I wanted to rebel against that happily-ever-after ending that writes off the stories of later life as unworthy of being told.
Tales of magic and transformation are not just for children. At the heart of the fairytale lies the belief that we can all change our lives, our situations and our world; that we can all fight monsters; find love; experience transformations. Magic in its purest form is just a metaphor for change; and in these times of trouble, we need to believe in our power to change our world; just as we need Anteros, the god of compassionate, selfless love, far more than we need Eros, his selfish twin, who flits from one love object to the next with no thought of the consequences.
Most of all, in a world run by men, we need to tell women’s stories – and not just the stories of those women whose value lies solely in their erotic appeal, or their need to be rescued. I want to tell the stories of those women who rescue themselves; who see further than a Hollywood wedding or a happily-ever-after; who want more from life than just to stay young or to feed poisoned apples to the next generation. Those are the women that interest me most. Those are the unsung heroines. Because a woman who refuses to settle for the traditional role is a woman who can fight monsters; have adventures; go on quests. She is the wielder of magic; of change; and Eros is no match for her.

The literary world is often somewhat contemptuous of children's books, those who write them and the adults who still enjoy reading them. This sentiment is both unfair and misplaced. Here's why.
1. Children's books are often far more difficult to write successfully than books for adults. Therefore, you're more likely to find them well-written, well-crafted and thoughtful. The reason? Children vote with their feet. They're incapable of being taken in by literary snobbery, trends or the recommendations of critics. If they don't like a book, they won't read it.
2. Children's books will never rely on "fine writing" as opposed to plot. Without a strong, compelling plot, children will just stop reading.
3. The same goes for characters. The characters in children's fiction are often among the most memorable in literature.
4. Anyone who has an interest in children- be it one's own children, or as a teacher, educator or author - needs to read children's fiction. It gives a unique insight in how children think, and what concerns them most.
5. Children's books are often as thematically complex and as challenging as any other kind of fiction.
6. Children's fiction is not a genre. It spans all genres. There's something there for everyone.
7. Children's books take us back to a time when our lives were less fraught, and our minds were sharper and more curious. That makes them both enjoyable and therapeutic.
8. They allow us to recapture some of what it means to be a child: the enthusiasms, the humour and the freshness of new experiences.
9. Children's books often provide us with a means of connecting with our own children, and a valuable opportunity to share stories with them, read to them and discuss what ideas crop up in the work - whilst enjoying ourselves, too.
10. Most of all, children's books are fun. And isn't that what reading is for?

The other day I was with my daughter in a restaurant near King’s Cross. The Asian family sitting next to us had clearly been to the Harry Potter store: the little boy (who was no older than seven) had a stuffed Hedwig under one arm, a copy of HARRY POTTER AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS under the other and a wand in his hand, and babbled happily (and adorably) throughout the meal about Patronuses, Horcruxes, Hogwarts houses and all manner of Harry Potter lore.

It struck me then how long it has been since I heard a child talk about Harry Potter. Over the last ten years or so, nearly all the conversations I’ve had on the subject have been with adults – many of them fans, many of them passionate. Books, films, a mountain of merchandise; a play – not to mention Pottermore, with all its recent controversies - and eighteen years after its birth, the Harry Potter phenomenon shows no sign of abating.

But where have all the children gone? Where is their place in Potter’s world?

I remember reading my early copy of HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE to my daughter when she was six. She loved it –even writing a fan letter to J.K. Rowling, to which she received a charming, handwritten reply, which she still treasures.

Later, when I promised her the audiobook of the new Harry Potter for Christmas, and found, too late, that it wouldn’t be available until the following spring, I recorded the whole thing myself onto cassette tapes – a labour of love that took me over fifty hours’ recording time, but which turned out to be worth every minute.

I remember her reaction, aged seven, to the casting of the first Harry Potter movie. Having followed the story with immense interest, when Daniel Radcliffe’s casting was finally announced, she ran into her bedroom and burst into tears. When I asked her why, she said; “Because I wanted to be Harry.” When I pointed out that Harry really had to be a boy, she sniffed and said: “That’s just sexist.”

When she was nine, I remember getting her a day pass onto the set of the second movie (a birthday treat, wangled, with some difficulty, from one of my film contacts). We met Daniel Radcliffe (I’ve never seen my child so wide-eyed and star-struck) and Jason Isaacs (that was my turn to go weak at the knees), and although I wasn’t supposed to take any photographs of the set, I do have a single picture of Anouchka, on the Night Bus: long plaits and dungarees, and an expression of sheer delight.

Later, we went to first screening, a week before the première: the audience was almost entirely made up of happy, excited children.

Since then, over the years, I’ve watched the rise and rise of J.K. Rowling’s boy hero with great admiration. Never before has a children’s book attracted such a following. The Harry Potter books, with their clever marketing (a “serious” jacket for older readers, a brightly-coloured one for children) transcended genre and challenged the boundaries between “adult” and “children’s” fiction. For the first time, many adults felt they had been given permission to enjoy reading children’s books; and children, after years of schools imposing worthy and improving (but often quite dull) reading lists, had something of their own, that was definitely not on the curriculum.

The benefits to literacy were immense. Boys have always lagged behind girls where reading fiction was concerned: but with Harry Potter, boys too were reading and enjoying books. Adults, too, experienced the benefit. I’ve written extensively about this elsewhere, and I’ve been outspoken in supporting the right of adults to read and enjoy fiction intended for children. The same “Get a life”-ers who are now deriding the adult players of Pokémon Go were vocal about Harry Potter: they sneered at grown adults getting excited at the adventures of a boy wizard; they sneered at the cosplayers and the fanfic writers and the people who stayed up till midnight to buy the new books as soon as they came out. But the fans didn’t care. They kept going. Not just children, but adults deserved to enjoy the world of Potter.

To a certain extent, J.K. Rowling became a victim of her own success. The woman who had once sent handwritten notes to her young admirers soon found that she was being mobbed everywhere she went. It was alarming; especially when it became clear that in such crowds, the children were often being pushed aside by adults who wanted to get close to her. She almost stopped appearing in public altogether, except on occasions when she could ensure an audience of children.

The films expanded the fan base. Merchandising grew out of control. At first J.K. Rowling tried to curate the Harry Potter merchandising, but with hundreds of new designs and products being suggested daily, it became impossible. Online, the forums went crazy. Cosplay went crazy. Reading groups went crazy. Fanfic abounded. It was amazing; magical, but it must have been a little frightening, too. Like Disney’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice, J.K. Rowling had started something no-one could stop, not even the magician herself.

But where were the children among all this? Where were the children’s voices? Little boys like the one at King’s Cross? Little girls like my daughter?

Nowadays, the shop in King’s Cross is mostly filled with adults. The people queuing up to be photographed at Platform 9 ¾ are almost always adults. My daughter (still a Potter fan) currently happens to be a spot operator at the Palace Theatre, where THE CURSED CHILD is opening. There too, the audiences consist overwhelmingly of adults; many of them Americans; many of them having flown over expressly for the performance. And the online presence – articles, reviews, controversies, fanfic archives, discussion groups – is also, overwhelmingly adult.

Following the controversy over THE HISTORY OF MAGIC IN NORTH AMERICA, the term “cultural appropriation” has been much used.

Wikipedia defines the term like this:

“The… adoption of …. cultural elements in a colonial manner: elements are copied from a minority culture by members of the dominant culture, and these elements are used outside of their original cultural context—sometimes even against the expressed, stated wishes of representatives of the originating culture.”

And yes: I can totally sympathize with those affected. A story, or series of stories, originally belonging to one group of people, has been appropriated and used to promote the agenda of another group of people, thereby taking power from the first group and giving it to the second. It has happened before: many times. In every case, the source material has mostly been lost, corrupted, and even outright claimed by those appropriating it.

Norse myths were appropriated by Christian scholars in the 12th century, and re-interpreted with a Christian agenda. The Victorians bowdlerized Greek and Roman myths to remove all mention of “immoral” sexual practices, and rewrote them to suit their own culture. The Arabian Nights were traditional stories appropriated from sources in the Middle East, and given an increasingly European slant.Grimm’s and Perrault’s and Andersen’s fairy tales were all appropriated from ancient sources - and often given a moralistic, patriarchal bias.

Ironically, these fairy tales were originally meant for adults. Only recently have these tales been thought of as stories for children. And now, we have come full circle: adults, without meaning to, have somehow appropriated one of the most successful children’s stories ever written, and, with the best of intentions, are making it all about them. Their ideas; their fandom; their agendas; their concerns.

Which isn’t to say that we, as adults, don’t have the right to these books, or to the ideas within them. But we don’t own them. We have to remember that. Ours is not an exclusive right. These stories were not meant for us, even though a story can – and should – be read by anyone who wants to. But not at the expense of the children for whom they were written; the children who were elbowed out of the way by adult fans in 2013 when the Hogwarts Express set off from King’s Cross; the children who were unable to pay the enormous ticket prices for a handful of author readings, held in sports stadiums and concert halls instead of bookshops and libraries.

I’m not saying adults should feel bad about loving Harry Potter. But adults are the dominant group. Children are the minority. When I was a child, there was very little contemporary literature expressly written for children. Harry Potter changed all that. It gave power to a generation. The power to choose what they wanted to read; the power to own their story. To take that power away from them - to the benefit of the dominant group - seems like another kind of appropriation.

So, adults, please: enjoy the show. Enjoy the books; write the fanfic; cosplay your favourite characters. Share fan theories; write blog posts to your heart’s content: after all, that’s what stories are for.

But don’t forget; you’re visitors in the world of Hogwarts. And if, while you’re there, you find yourself standing in the way of a child, step aside. If you ever find yourself silencing children’s voices, shut up. It’s still their world. Remember that. And without them, it wouldn’t exist at all.

Ever wanted to be an author? Don’t worry: you’re not alone. With the ranks of “aspiring authors” growing by the minute, with creative writing courses booming, and with “author” at the top of the list of the nation’s “ideal jobs”, it seems as if most of the population is desperate to join the ranks.

Why? It can’t be money. According to figures recently released by the Society of Authors, the average income for a professional author is about £11,000 a year, and dropping all the time. That’s well below the minimum wage, and frankly, there are easier ways of staying poor and frustrated.

Nor can it be about respect, given that authors are widely undervalued, taken for granted and misunderstood – that is, if they’re not being plagiarized, pirated, exploited or otherwise ripped off by people who don’t quite believe that what they do counts as work.

So what is it about writing for a living that makes people go all starry-eyed? It’s very simple, really. Some people write because they love writing. These people would probably keep on writing whether or not they were published. If you are one of these people, then there is nothing I can say to put you off, or to make you see sense. Join the club. Pull up a chair. Maybe have a cup of tea.

Then there are the people who write because they want to be writers. These people have a particular idea about what being a writer entails. It’s a highly romanticized idea, filled with dangerous nonsense. My advice to these people is: if the idea of being a writer is more important and attractive to you than actually writing, then run. Run like the wind. Maybe take up a hobby.

See, here’s the thing. Being an author is a bit like being a ninja. You don’t get to be a successful ninja if all you really want is to be seen to be a ninja. Being a ninja is a covert activity. Ninjas don’t go around going: “LOOK AT ME, DUDE, I’M A NINJA!” They just get on with being ninjas, and no-one is any the wiser.

Now you’re probably thinking that my analogy is pretty tenuous. But authors and ninjas have something else in common. Both have become creatures of legend. Both have been exoticized beyond reason or possibility. Ask a kid what a ninja does and they’ll probably say something about throwing stars, powers of invisibility or hanging out with turtles. Ask an adult what an author does, and unless they’re in the book trade, they will probably trot out something equally far from the truth – except that instead of ninja throwing stars, they’ll be talking about movie options, launches, festivals and book prizes. Because that’s what we tend to do with things we don’t have direct experience of: we take the things we like the sound of and build them into fantasies. And although there’s nothing remotely wrong with people having fantasies, if those fantasies turn into stereotypes that harm or diminish others, or cause us to have false expectations that will lead to disillusionment, then we have a problem.

So, here are some myths about authors, stripped of all their silly romance. Besides, I personally like to believe that the real thing is better anyway…

1. Authors are Different to Normal People.
Wrong. There is no “author type.” Authors come in pretty much all the same types that any other people do – except that they write books. And yes, they’re just as weird, normal, honest, lazy, strong, clever, brave, foolish, weak, obsessive, boring (insert any adjective here) as the rest of humankind. Othering isn’t cool. Don’t do it with authors.

2. Real Authors Create Art – it Isn’t Really a Job to Them.
Er… yeah. Yes it is. That’s just a myth invented by cheapskates who don’t want to pay authors for the work they do.

3. Anyone Can Be An Author.
No they can’t: just as not everyone can be a doctor, or a marathon runner, or a ballerina, or a politician, or a monk, or a footballer, or an undertaker, or a taxidermist, or that guy who taste-tests Haribo. (also see: Everyone Should Write a Book. Why on earth should they want to?)

4. Authors Should Suffer For Their Art.
Nope. Try breaking your ankle; see if it makes you better at your job.

5. Authors Are Somehow Better, Finer, Nobler Individuals Through Their Art.
Wrong. All of them still fart in bed; have bad days; screw up. You’re doing them no favours by assuming they’re superhuman.

6. Authors Enjoy Their Job All The Time. Wrong. No job is all roses. Sometimes being a writer can be frustrating, dull, or depressing. We mostly keep on going in spite of those things, not because of them.

7. Authors Are Intellectuals.
Wrong. Some are; some not. But an academic background is by no means a guarantee of success as an author.

8. Authors are Part of a Special, Secret Author Club, a Bit Like The Freemasons, But More Literary.
A persistent myth among unpublished writers, this one presupposes that authors get published via a secret handshake, or sinister Old Boy network, rather than a publisher’s hope that they’ll make money for them. Needless to say, it isn’t true.

9. You Get to Be an Author By Believing In Yourself.
Sadly, not. It sometimes helps, but persistence and self-belief alone are no guarantee of success. Sometimes, and for a variety of possible reasons, you never get where you want to be. This is no reason not to try, however.

10. Being an Author Makes You Somehow Better Than Other People.
Wrong. And if you think it does, you’re probably a bit of a dick.

If, like me, you happen to take an interest in book sales, you’ll probably have noticed how prominently colouring books feature in the bestseller charts. You may also have noticed the number of people shaking their heads over these colouring books, accusing people of wasting time; sometimes even saying, “Grow up.”

Okay, so you don’t like colouring books. You may never have been the kind of child who enjoyed the feel of a brand-new colouring book or the joy of a pack of brand-new pens, who stuck out their tongue in concentration as they tried to keep within the lines. You may be the kind of adult who thinks that childish things should be set aside at a certain age, and never again revisited. You may even be the kind of adult who believes passionately about art, and who thinks that staying within the lines is somehow antagonistic to creativity.

Let’s think about that for a minute. Creativity is a broad concept. We’re all creative, in our own ways, but most people prefer to be consumers, not creators. That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy participating in the process. Consuming art is by no means a passive activity. We sing along to the radio. We lose ourselves in music. We read books by other people, even though we may also write them ourselves. Reading a book is not the same as writing as book for oneself, and yet we all value reading, even though it’s a more passive form of exploring a story. The reader brings their own ideas, their own perspective to the task - and yet they stay within the lines of the creator’s narrative.

Why? Because art – be that painting, writing, playing music, reading, or anything else requiring creative thought – takes us to a different place, a slightly altered state of consciousness. There’s nothing particularly esoteric about this. The human brain functions in more or less the same way for most individuals. There’s a left-hand brain, that processes information,; and a right-hand brain, that deals with abstract thought; feelings; imagination; the subconscious. The left brain tends to think in ways most of us think of as “adult.” The right brain is childlike, suggestible; it processes reality in a more abstract way, through the creation of symbols and dreams, rather than the assimilation of facts and figures.

Okay, yeah, whatever, you say - but what has this got to do with colouring books? Bear with me for a moment. Most of us - especially those who live in the West - exist in a state of perpetual – and mostly unconscious - anxiety. Bombarded by the stresses of our daily lives - work, money, family, health - and with the media (social media included) constantly providing us with ever-increasing sources of anxiety and rage, many people find it hard to turn off the perpetual inner white noise – the questions, contradictory messages, fears. Many people spend their lives permanently hopped up on this rush of adrenalin, unable to let go or relax.

This is where some of us begin to think that “growing up” isn’t always an ideal state. Living in the real world is hard. But denying the imagination is fraught with even greater risks. That right brain we were discussing, with all its abstract thought processes, has needs we don’t fully understand. We need to dream – it’s a well-researched fact that sleepers deprived of REM sleep will function less efficiently, suffer more stress and are more likely to suffer mental problems than those allowed to dream normally. And during our waking moments, we also sometimes need to let go – to turn off the questioning, active, analytical part of our brain and allow the dreaming, intuitive, passive half to take over.

We all have our own ways of doing this. Some practise meditation or yoga. Some listen to soothing music. Some look at pictures, or watch clouds, or do complicated jigsaws, or look into the flames of a log fire. Some even like to spend hours colouring in complex patterns in colouring-books. In each case, it isn’t so much about the activity being performed, but about the state of mind it induces: that quiet, contemplative state that reduces anxiety, slows the heart rate, allows a person to relax. Far from being “mindless,” this kind of activity is essential to our physical and mental health. It encourages the imaginative part of our brain to expand; it is the friend of creativity. When the pernickety left-hand brain is concentrating on some repetitive, “mindless” activity – such as keeping inside the lines - the intuitive, right-hand brain is freed to create and dream.

So get out the colouring books and the pens. Stick your tongue out as far as you can. And spend some time with your childhood self. Your childhood self is worth listening to. And your childhood self still remembers that time spent day-dreaming, colouring or staring at clouds is very far from wasted.

Recently, I’ve come across a lot of people, online and off, discussing diversity in books. What it means; who should be writing it; whose voices ought to be heard; which people should be listening. And rightly so; diversity is at the heart of storytelling. We are all different and unique, whatever our race or culture, and we can only benefit from hearing different voices; looking at different points of view; encountering different perspectives.
However, it seems to me that some of the voices promoting (or opposing) diversity in fiction have quite a narrow understanding of what “diversity” really means.
This is the definition of diversity taken from this academic website: http://www.qcc.cuny.edu/diversity/def...
The concept of diversity encompasses acceptance and respect. It means understanding that each individual is unique, and recognizing our individual differences. These can be along the dimensions of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, age, physical abilities, religious beliefs, political beliefs, or other ideologies. It is the exploration of these differences in a safe, positive, and nurturing environment. It is about understanding each other and moving beyond simple tolerance to embracing and celebrating the rich dimensions of diversity contained within each individual.
So how can writers (and readers, of course) celebrate diversity? Diversity isn’t about tokenism. It’s not about inserting a stereotypical black or Asian or trans or disabled character into your narrative, and declaring yourself a friend of diversity. Nor is it about refusing to read or write anything that doesn’t reflect your personal experience. To appreciate diversity, we first have to think outside the boxes society forces us into, and stop reducing people to a single set of characteristics. We are all more than our skin colour; more than our social background; more than our ideologies; more than our physical ability; more than our gender orientation. We are all multi-faceted beings, and to reduce us to a single aspect of ourselves (be that gender, colour, or anything else) is to deny the many things that bring us together as human beings. Diversity in literature is a means of proving, not just how different we can be, but how essentially alike we are under our differences; and for that, we need many voices, all telling their own stories within a kind, receptive community.
There is often a curious blindness within the writing community. The ardent campaigner for diverse books, whose idea of diversity stops outside of North America; the YA blogger whose Twitter timeline is filled with ageist slurs; the Indian writer who counters a racist comment with an explosion of misogyny – do they really imagine that they’re fighting for diversity? Diversity is inclusive. It’s not about you; it’s not about me. Diversity is about us – people from all backgrounds and races, all with different stories to tell, respectfully sharing perspectives.
So, let’s hear it for diverse voices. But let’s make it real diversity. Not just US diversity, or YA diversity, or LGBT diversity. For every mirror we seek out in books, let’s also seek out a window into a place we’ve never been. Some of those places may not be easy to inhabit. Going there may be a challenge to our preconceptions. But that’s the reason we should try - be that as readers or writers.
Here are some examples of under-represented voices.
1. People with Disabilities.
Disabilities, illnesses and congenital conditions are rarely portrayed positively in literature. When did you last read a book about someone blind or partially sighted? Someone deaf? Quadriplegic? Someone with hydrocephalus? Someone with congenital defects due to the use of Thalidomide? How many books have you ever read about someone with a club foot, a hare-lip, or someone suffering from Parkinson’s Disease? How many literary protagonists are amputees, or stroke victims? How many have Down’s Syndrome, or Cri-du-Chat, or Prader-Willis Syndrome? Outside of the one in Notre-Dame, where are the literary hunchbacks? The fact is, that in spite of a spate of YA books about (young, Western, attractive) people dealing with cancer, illness and disability aren’t considered appealing in the publishing world. And yet, doesn’t everyone deserve to tell their story? Or is physical imperfection still such a taboo that no-one wants to address it?

2. People Who Fail To Conform To Mainstream Ideals of Beauty.
And it’s not just disability. Last week, a new edition of CHOCOLAT came out in the US. The blurb on the back twice describes my heroine as ”beautiful.” I was curious; nowhere in the book had I ever said that Vianne was beautiful – in fact, I’d gone out of my way to suggest that she wasn’t – at least, not conventionally so. So why put it in the book blurb? Probably for the same reason that Maddy, the heroine of my Rune books, has been consistently portrayed on all my book jackets as being quite strikingly beautiful, even though I went out of my way to describe her as unattractive. Ugly is still a dirty word to most people in the industry – but don’t the ones of us who don’t conform to those narrow Hollywood ideals deserve to have mirrors of our own?

3. People of Colour Living Outside America.
Now I’m not suggesting that African-Americans or Native Americans are getting anything like fair or equal treatment when it comes to diverse books. But face it – compared to much of the rest of the world, to be an American is still the definition of privilege. Where are the stories about Africans living in African countries? Where are the Polynesians? Where are the stories from India, Pakistan, Syria or Bangladesh? Where are the Native Australians? Where are the Inuit voices, the voices of Indonesia, Haiti, China, Israel, Palestine? They, too, deserve attention. Because, whatever your ethnicity, being an American citizen confers its own kind of privilege, and to assume that the experience of merely having a certain heritage is the same all over the world is surely dangerously naïve.

4. Old People.
When I first tried to sell CHOCOLAT to publishers, it was rejected several times. One of the recurring complaints was that too many of my characters were old. Old is unattractive, they said. People don’t want to be reminded that one day, they too, will be old. But truly inclusive and diverse books, like diverse societies, understand the importance of representing all the generations. And guess what? The book did just fine. I even got Judi Dench in the film...

5. People With Mental Issues.
Mental issues are still taboo, and not just in society. But one in five people will at some times develop mental issues. Their stories are important, too, and need to be more widely told.

6. People Whose Ideas or Values We May Fundamentally Disagree With.
While books are vehicles for ideas, we may not always share them. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t read (or even tell) the stories of those with differing views: even if the only reason for doing so is to better learn to disagree. Books should be a source of debate; and we should not be afraid of characters who seem to represent values that we ourselves do not share. To shy away from apparently unsympathetic, difficult, morally suspect or otherwise challenging characters is not to support diversity.

7. People of Your Own Social or Ethnic Group Who Don’t Conform To your Idea Of What They Should Do, Or How They Should Identify.
This is especially tricky. But we don’t always agree on what our social and cultural identities should reflect, even within our own communities. However, to be truly diverse, we have to acknowledge that we don’t all hold identical views, or react in the same way, even within our own groups. That means that: not all white people agree on what it means to be white; not all feminists agree on what it means to be a feminist; not all Muslims or Jews agree on what it means to be a Muslim or a Jew. It doesn’t mean you have to change any of the things you believe – but what it does mean is that those who don’t agree with you have exactly the same rights as you do, when it comes to determining who they are and what they believe, and, like you, they too, have the right to tell their stories however they choose.

And so, go forth and be diverse. Tell stories from all over the world. Allow your characters to be real; that means, to be imperfect. That means sometimes not conforming to your comfortable ideas of self. That means looking hard at yourself as well as at other people. But isn’t that a writer’s job? And isn’t this what our stories are for?

This is a provocation piece I wrote for the National Conversation, and discussed last night with a panel of writers at the Manchester LitFest. Thanks to the Guardian's pre-released and heavily digested version, with its decidedly clickbaity headline, some people got the wrong idea about the content of the piece.
Here it is, unedited, exactly as I delivered it.

In a world in which the internet, with its forums and discussion groups, has blurred the line between readers and writers almost to invisibility, the relationship between one and the other now seems increasingly difficult. Online review sites and book blogs are overtaking print reviews - with a predictable effect on publishers and marketing departments. Online fandoms are shaping the development of TV shows. Fanfiction is a booming industry. And audience participation in the creation of art is considered by many to be not only legitimate, but desirable.
Both on and offline, everyone has an opinion. And everyone has a platform from which to disseminate their opinions. Much of the time, this is a good thing. It allows a potential dialogue to exist between readers and creators. It allows readers to get in touch with the authors of work they have enjoyed. It allows writers to understand where and how they might have gone wrong, and how they can improve and grow. However, this breaking-down of barriers has also created a false sense of entitlement, giving some readers the impression that artists and writers not only inhabit a privileged world, in which there are no bills to pay and in which time is infinitely flexible, but that they also exist primarily to serve the public, to be available night and day, and to cater for the personal needs of everyone who contacts them.
This is partly due to the fact that there are so many more writers than there were fifty years ago. The rise of self-publishing, e-books and fanfiction means that far more people are now able to identify as writers. And although this is a good thing in many ways, it does also help perpetuate the idea that anyone can write a book, and that the people who actually do so are simply luckier, wealthier, or blessed with more spare time than those who do not.
The truth is, not everyone can – or should - be a writer, in the same way that not everyone can or should be an accountant, or a ballet dancer, teacher, pilot, soldier, or marathon runner. The same combination of aptitude, experience and acquired skills apply to being a writer as to any other job. We would never think of telling a doctor that we were thinking of taking up medicine when we retired. We would never expect a plumber to work for free – or a plasterer, for publicity. We would never expect to hear the word “privilege” of a teacher who has spent their career working hard to earn a living. We would never expect a lawyer who has paid to go through law school to tutor aspiring lawyers for free.
And yet, writers hear these things all the time. Perhaps it’s because the value of writing is such a difficult thing to quantify. Everyone dreams. Not everyone gets to dream for a living. But are we writers expecting too much? Can we keep artistic control, whilst expecting to earn a living? And, in a world in which the consumer increasingly calls the shots, can we still hope for a relationship with our readers that transcends that of mere supply and demand?
Not long ago, I was involved in the debate around an app. called CleanReader, which contained an algorithm that picked out and replaced “offensive words” in e-books by “acceptable substitutes.” Thus, “breasts” becomes “chest,” “bitch” becomes “witch” and any kind of profanity was reduced to a series of American euphemisms, making nonsense of the text, its rhythms, style and meaning. Writers rallied round to combat the distribution of this app, which was swiftly withdrawn from sale. But the designers of the app, a Christian couple from Idaho, wrote to me several times to protest that readers, having paid for my books, should have the right to change my words if they disapproved of them. Readers are consumers, they said. Therefore, just as a person ordering a salad in a restaurant should have the right to ask the chef for a different dressing, readers should also have the choice to enjoy a story without being exposed to language they deem offensive, or ideas that challenge their perceptions. After all, they said; isn’t that why writers exist in the first place? Are they not there primarily to serve the needs of the public, and does it not make sense that they should take those needs into account?
Well, of course our readers do have a choice. And of course, we owe them a great deal. But a novel isn’t a salad with interchangeable ingredients. Nor is the reader entitled to order from a menu. As writers, we are always grateful when a reader chooses one of our books. We hope that they will enjoy it. And most writers value feedback and dialogue with their readers. But ultimately, a reader’s role is different to that of a writer. And a writer’s role is to try to convey a series of ideas as honestly and as well as we possibly can, with minimal interference, and most of all, without being distracted by heckling from the audience.
The fact is that the writer cannot please everyone all of the time. We shouldn’t even aim to try – fiction, by its nature, should present a challenge. Books allow us to see the world in different ways; to experience things we might never encounter – or wish to - outside the world of fiction. Fiction is not by its nature a design for living, nor an imaginary comfort zone. Although it can be both those things, its range goes much further than comfort or escapism. Fiction is often uncomfortable; often unexpected. Most importantly, fiction is not democratic. It is, at best, a benign dictatorship, in which there can be an infinite number of followers with any number of different ideas, but only ever one leader. Like all good leaders, the writer can (and should) take advice from time to time, but where the actual work is concerned, they, and no-one else, must take final responsibility.
I love my readers. I love their enthusiasm, their willingness to engage. I enjoy our conversations on Twitter and at festivals. I love their diversity, and the fact that they all see different things in my books, according to what’s important to them, and according to what they have experienced. Without readers, we would have no context; no audience; no voice. But that doesn’t mean we’re employees, writing books to order. We, too, have a choice. We choose what kind of relationship we want to have with our readers – whether to interact online, go to festivals, give interviews, tour abroad, teach pro bono creative writing sessions or even live in seclusion, without talking to anyone. Writers are as diverse as readers themselves, and all of them have their own way of operating. What may work for one author may be hopelessly inappropriate for another. But whatever our methods of working, the relationship between a writer and their readers should be based on mutual respect, along with a shared understanding of books, their nature and their importance.
On the internet I’ve seen a growing number of sites and blogs enumerating what readers expect of writers. Requests for increased diversity, increased awareness of current issues, requests for time and attention, gratis copies of books for review, interviews and guest blog posts - or simply demands to work faster. Readers have numerous spaces in which to discuss author behaviour, to analyse their politics, lifestyle and beliefs – sometimes, in extreme cases, to urge other readers to boycott the work of those authors whose themes are seen as too controversial, or whose ideas do not coincide with their own. Authors are expected to respect these reader spaces, whatever the nature of the discussion. To comment on a bad review – or even to be seen to notice it – is to risk being labelled an “author behaving badly”. Authors whose work is deemed to have problematic content are expected to analyse the cause – and in some cases, to apologize. There is an increasing call for trigger warnings; profanity warnings; age guidelines – in order to help the reader choose amidst a bewildering number of books. The demands on authors are numerous; often even daunting.
But do readers ever ask themselves what authors want of them? Do authors ever ask themselves what they want of their readers?
I think that for most authors, it comes down to two deceptively simple things.
The first and most prosaic is: we want to make a living. This fact is at the same time obvious, and fiercely contested, not least by many authors, who rightly see their work as something more than just a means of paying the rent.
That’s because, many authors find it hard to talk about money. It’s considered vulgar for artists to care about where the next meal is coming from. And many authors are driven to write: would probably write whether or not they had an audience; or whether they were ever published or paid, just for the joy of writing. This is at the same time their strength, and also their downfall; with the exception of a canny few who treat art as a business, writers are often reluctant to think of their work as just another product. We do not like to think of our books as units, to be bought and sold. And yet, to the publishing industry, that’s exactly what they are; the product of thousands of hours of work: of editing; copy-editing; design; marketing; proof-reading; promotion. Publishers spend most of their time thinking about the readers – the consumers of our work - but for an author, thinking about the readers (or, even worse, the pay-check) while trying to write a novel is like thinking about the drop when performing a high-wire act; dangerous, counterproductive, and likely to lead to failure.
But if, as Samuel Johnson maintains, no man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money, there must be a lot of blockheads in the writing community. I’ll admit I’m one myself. Nevertheless, however much we may cling to society’s romanticized views of art for art’s sake, authors and illustrators need to pay their bills like everyone else.
That’s where the readers come in. Many readers seem to believe that authors are earning millions. The reality is that most authors earn rather less than the minimum wage, and when touring, attending festivals, blogging, giving interviews, holding readings, writing guest posts for bloggers, too often give their work for free. That’s why it’s important for readers to show appreciation for the work of the authors we love; firstly by buying their books (as opposed to downloading them illegally); by borrowing them from libraries (because authors are paid for borrowed books, a sum which, though small, adds up and can often provide a welcome annual windfall); and most importantly, by supporting their work; by attending festivals and readings, by writing reviews and joining in discussion groups, and generally promoting awareness of their writing, and of books in general.
Because what authors really want (and money provides this, to some extent) is validation of their work. We write because we want you to care; because we hope you’re listening – that we can make a connection, somehow; that we can prove we are not alone.
Because stories – even fairy stories - are never just entertainment. Stories are more important than that. They help us understand who we are. They teach us empathy and respect for other cultures, other ideas. They help us articulate concepts that cannot otherwise be expressed. Stories help us communicate; they help eliminate boundaries; they teach us different ways in which to see the world around us. Their value may be intangible, but it is no less real for that. And stories bring us together – readers and writers everywhere – exploring our human experience and sharing it with others.
So this is my manifesto, my promise to you, the reader. From you, I ask that you take it in good faith, respond in kind, and understand that, whatever I do, I do for the sake of something we both value - otherwise we wouldn’t be here.
1. I promise to be honest, unafraid and true; but most of all, to be true to myself – because trying to be true to anyone else is not only impossible, but the sign of a fearful writer.
2. I promise not to sell out - not even if you ask me to.
3. You may not always like what I write, but know that it has always been the best I could make it at the time.
4. Know too that sometimes I will challenge you and pull you out of your comfort zone, because this is how we learn and grow. I can’t promise you’ll always feel safe or at ease – but we’ll be uneasy together.
5. I promise to follow my story wherever it leads me, even to the darkest of places.
6. I will not limit my audience to just one group or demographic. Stories are for everyone, and everyone is welcome here.
7. I will include people of all kinds in my stories, because people are infinitely fascinating and diverse.
8. I promise that I will never flinch from trying something different and new - even if the things I try are not always successful.
9. I will never let anyone else decide what I should write, or how - not the market, my publishers, my agent, or even you, the reader. And though you sometimes try to tell me otherwise, I don't think you really want me to.
10. I promise not to be aloof whenever you reach out to me – be that on social media or outside, in the real world. But remember that I’m human too – and some days I’m impatient, or tired, or sometimes I just run out of time.
11. I promise never to forget what I owe my readers. Without you, I’m just words on a page. Together, we make a dialogue.
12. But ultimately, you have the choice whether or not to follow me. I will open the door for you. But I will never blame you if you choose not to walk through it.