On Christmas night I slept in my cabin in Highland Perthshire. This tiny wooden shed is where a whole number of my books have been written: my most recent novel, 2020, due to be published by Saraband here in Scotland in the spring, was written by hand in just four weeks within its walls. My short story The Ice, the title story of my collection of short fiction and published also on Smashwords, was written here in sub-zero temperatures. You can see images of the cabin on my website; if you look at the left hand side and the section Kenneth Writing, you can watch my walk in the rain to begin work there. There were no sub-zero temperatures this Christmas night: all across England people were being rescued from their homes because of the floods. But the rain kept me awake all the same, and I woke early, huddled and shivering in my sleeping bag.
Then I thought of the thousands, and the hundreds of thousands, coming into Europe day on day from the south. Most from Syria, having made it in perilous boats from Libya. They come in a seemingly unending stream, this greatest outpouring of people since the Second World War. And among them thousands of children who have no parents at all. And they face many different kinds of cold.
And that led me to thinking about the first Christmas and the whole reason for Christmas, and an awareness of the truth that the man and woman who arrived at the stable were refugees themselves. They were poor and doubtless hungry, and most likely they were shown some pity because of the need of the mother-to-be.
No wish to sound sanctimonious: simply to remember what I do have. Choosing to sleep in my cabin was for fun; a kind of reverting to boyhood and the joy of being able to go out to the garden at night, to see it under the stars. And a reason to say thank you.
www.kennethsteven.co.uk
Sunday 27 December 2015
Saturday 19 December 2015
A Dog's Nose
Writing is a strange and utterly unpredictable business. The things you write which you dearly hope may reach far corners and become special to others remain all but unread, and the pieces which you dashed off on the back of an old envelope and thought nothing about go far beyond your wildest dreams. It has proved rather like that with my newest book for children.
Many years ago I was living on the west coast of Norway. I read and spoke the language, and I worked in the local library, searching for something that might give me a good story. After long hours of hunting I found just one sentence in an old book. According to this particular legend, during the voyage of the Ark across the great seas, Noah's precious vessel had sprung a leak. And Noah, who had become good friends with the dog during the first two weeks of the voyage, used the dog's nose to plug the gap in the planks. And that is why ever since the dog has had a cold, wet nose. Just one sentence. But I knew that this was my story.
To begin with, I simply used it in primary schools to tell to children. I embellished it, of course, and after a time the rough edges were smoothed and it was ready to be written down. I then sent the story to unthinkable numbers of publishers and kept on believing the story was going to make it as a picture book for younger children. And always the publishers wrote back and said they had enjoyed it and been amused by it, but that it wasn't quite right for them....
But I didn't give up. I knew that story of Noah and the dog's nose had to find a place somewhere. And strangely enough, it was a Norwegian publisher that took the risk on it first. The illustrations were magnificent: the big pages held a dozen stories from that whole world of the Ark. The book went on to win that year's prize for picture books in Norway. And then the story was bought by a German publishing house, and by one in Italy, and in Spain, and so on.
Now, at the end of this year, Why Dogs have Wet Noses has appeared in 11 languages. The irony is that it was published most recently in English, by Enchanted Lion in New York. So that means it is available in the United Kingdom too, as well as in Russia, Japan and several other countries too.
It reminds me of what I was told by a famous American children's author many years ago, when I was determined to start writing. She said that her first book had been rejected 86 times. And the 87th publishing house said yes. If you truly believe in a piece of writing, you won't give up on it. Because there will be a home for it one day.
Many years ago I was living on the west coast of Norway. I read and spoke the language, and I worked in the local library, searching for something that might give me a good story. After long hours of hunting I found just one sentence in an old book. According to this particular legend, during the voyage of the Ark across the great seas, Noah's precious vessel had sprung a leak. And Noah, who had become good friends with the dog during the first two weeks of the voyage, used the dog's nose to plug the gap in the planks. And that is why ever since the dog has had a cold, wet nose. Just one sentence. But I knew that this was my story.
To begin with, I simply used it in primary schools to tell to children. I embellished it, of course, and after a time the rough edges were smoothed and it was ready to be written down. I then sent the story to unthinkable numbers of publishers and kept on believing the story was going to make it as a picture book for younger children. And always the publishers wrote back and said they had enjoyed it and been amused by it, but that it wasn't quite right for them....
But I didn't give up. I knew that story of Noah and the dog's nose had to find a place somewhere. And strangely enough, it was a Norwegian publisher that took the risk on it first. The illustrations were magnificent: the big pages held a dozen stories from that whole world of the Ark. The book went on to win that year's prize for picture books in Norway. And then the story was bought by a German publishing house, and by one in Italy, and in Spain, and so on.
Now, at the end of this year, Why Dogs have Wet Noses has appeared in 11 languages. The irony is that it was published most recently in English, by Enchanted Lion in New York. So that means it is available in the United Kingdom too, as well as in Russia, Japan and several other countries too.
It reminds me of what I was told by a famous American children's author many years ago, when I was determined to start writing. She said that her first book had been rejected 86 times. And the 87th publishing house said yes. If you truly believe in a piece of writing, you won't give up on it. Because there will be a home for it one day.
Sunday 6 December 2015
The Jay
By yesterday it had been hammering rain for two full days. I went down to look at the River Tay and knew I had never seen it so full in 15 years of living here in Dunkeld at the heart of Highland Perthshire. Parts of the village were flooded; greenhouses and the park were four feet under water.
This morning, Sunday morning, I looked out and saw there wasn't a cloud in the sky. There wasn't a breath of wind. It was still early and I decided to walk up out of the village into the woods to where there's a strange and special pond surrounded by rhododendrons and pines. When I walk like this in the early mornings I like to be as quiet as I can be. I want almost to become a part of the woods, to disturb as little as humanly possible. The streams were still gushing with water; the woods loud with rushing silver streams. But all I could hear aside from that were my own boot-steps as I walked up and up to turn into the woods and circle the pond. As I came round the far side I was facing east, into the low bonfire of the rising sun. And then I heard the shriek of a jay, and saw it flying low over the water into the sunlight. The mind and the memory took a picture. The blue flash and the beautiful nut-brown of the wings; the branches breaking the light of the sun. And when I was still remembering what I had seen, I began walking down the track and there were six young deer looking at me, waiting and watching. We stood, unafraid, blinking, as the rising sun shone over us.
Last night, before I went to sleep, I knew a poem had to be written. Of course I'm thinking of Christmas, and Christmas is all around me. In recent times I've wanted to write poems about the nativity, about the real reason for Christmas, just as simply as possible. That was my intention now.
When the miracle happened it was not
with bright light or fire,
but a farm door with the thick smell of sheep
and wind tugging at the shutters.
There was no sign the world had changed for ever
or that God had taken place -
just a child crying softly in a corner
and the door open, for those who came to find.
For more on all my work, please visit my website: www.kennethsteven.co.uk
or contact me by email: info@kennethsteven.co.uk
This morning, Sunday morning, I looked out and saw there wasn't a cloud in the sky. There wasn't a breath of wind. It was still early and I decided to walk up out of the village into the woods to where there's a strange and special pond surrounded by rhododendrons and pines. When I walk like this in the early mornings I like to be as quiet as I can be. I want almost to become a part of the woods, to disturb as little as humanly possible. The streams were still gushing with water; the woods loud with rushing silver streams. But all I could hear aside from that were my own boot-steps as I walked up and up to turn into the woods and circle the pond. As I came round the far side I was facing east, into the low bonfire of the rising sun. And then I heard the shriek of a jay, and saw it flying low over the water into the sunlight. The mind and the memory took a picture. The blue flash and the beautiful nut-brown of the wings; the branches breaking the light of the sun. And when I was still remembering what I had seen, I began walking down the track and there were six young deer looking at me, waiting and watching. We stood, unafraid, blinking, as the rising sun shone over us.
Last night, before I went to sleep, I knew a poem had to be written. Of course I'm thinking of Christmas, and Christmas is all around me. In recent times I've wanted to write poems about the nativity, about the real reason for Christmas, just as simply as possible. That was my intention now.
When the miracle happened it was not
with bright light or fire,
but a farm door with the thick smell of sheep
and wind tugging at the shutters.
There was no sign the world had changed for ever
or that God had taken place -
just a child crying softly in a corner
and the door open, for those who came to find.
For more on all my work, please visit my website: www.kennethsteven.co.uk
or contact me by email: info@kennethsteven.co.uk
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