Showing Instead of Telling in The Middler by Kirsty Applebaum

 Kirsty Applebaum, the author of one my current favourite reads 'The Middler' (definitely a 5 star rated book - read my review here), give this advice to young writers:

One of the most amazing things about story is that it has the power to skip past the time-consuming ‘learning and memorising’ part of our brain and go straight to the ‘just knowing’ part. We don’t need to pause and rewind halfway through Toy Story, for example, to work out whether Buzz Lightyear is over-confident in his flying ability, or remind ourselves that Woody is jealous of this dashing interloper. We just know. And the reason we just know is that we’ve been skilfully shown.

‘Show don’t tell’ (i.e., demonstrate rather than explain) is a rule often cited in the writing world. I don’t 100% agree - a writer should show or tell, I think, according to the effect they wish to achieve. In The Middler, however, I did try to show rather than tell, because I wanted to achieve an immediate, plunged-into-Maggie’s-world sensation for the reader. I wanted them to just know.

Take Maggie’s dad. If I was to tell you about him, I’d say he was a family man - clean, tidy and prone to becoming slightly overwhelmed in stressful situations. But I don’t say any of those things in The Middler. Instead, I show him - cooking dinner for his children, wiping the table, and stumbling over his words when confronted with difficult issues.

Middle grade readers can learn to spot this technique. For example, ask them to focus on chapter one of The Middler, where Maggie, Jed and Trig leave the house and go to school (available here: https://nosycrow.com/product/the-middler/). Can they answer some questions about the differences between the three siblings? For example: who is the least organised? Who is more careful with their possessions? Who is the most outspoken? Who is the quietest?

Next, ask them to identify exactly which parts of the text enabled them to answer to these questions. They might reply, for example, that Trig speaks up in assembly, while Maggie hardly says a word out loud through the whole chapter.

Students can then go on to show in their own writing. Ask them to make up a character of their own (or perhaps choose a character from a fairy tale) and jot down a few words to describe (or tell) what their character is like. Friendly? Mean? Easy-going? A worrier? Next, ask them to write a short piece about this character leaving the house and going to school/work, just like Maggie, Jed and Trig. BUT – no one is allowed to use the describing words they jotted down. Can they show these things, rather than tell them?

Soon they will have a deeply powerful writing technique under their belts, plunging their own readers into a whole story-world of just knowing. To infinity … and beyond!

The Pearl

It crept towards her, out of the pages of her diary. Those empty rectangles of nothing. And from where there were entries and to-do lists it swaggered out across the pages, parading past her, jeering. When she did manage to shut out the noise, it whispered derisively instead. Not into her ear, but directly from the centre of her head, engulfing all else, like backwash on a beach rattling her logic, dragging all order away and into the deep.

It wasn’t as if she had nothing to do, and it definitely wasn’t because she wanted to do nothing. It was just that what she did have to do felt like nothing. The sense of urgency and fear that she relished did not make residence in the items on her schedule. It didn’t even really feel like her schedule, and definitely not her agenda. Someone else’s, perhaps. Maybe no one’s in particular. Just a schedule.

Things to do, things to do. Busy, busy. No time. The familiar phrases taunted her. She had once felt that way; she felt that absence keenly. It left a vacuum, now perforated and being slowly inhabited by the swirling grey of a winter North Sea, carrying sand and seaweed, grating and tangling with her thoughts.

When had she last been on the beach? Too long ago. The stretching sands and undulating water reminded her that, despite how she felt, the tumult in her head was only… not imaginary, but… something that could be controlled more easily than she could control the heaving mass of water rushing to meet her feet.

King Cnut. He had been demonstrating that he couldn’t stop the tide coming in. So misrepresented these days. He knew he didn’t have divine powers, and that only God did. She pondered this. Then she pondered her train of thought, wondering why she was now sitting at her desk with her organiser open in front of her thinking about God.

She flipped it shut, decisively. Although, she knew not what she’d decided. Only that she would shut it and that somehow, perhaps, that would change the course of her thoughts. Then she realised actually, that in imagining the events going on inside of her head as something more tangible, she had spent a blissful few untouched minutes – she had fought back, stemmed the tide.

She got up. She knew she should do it more often. She should get out there. The nothing must become something. And it would only become something if she made it so. If she found the purpose in it all.

Feeling the sand between her toes she headed to the shoreline, the retreating surf beckoning. The tide was turning taking with it that which had filled the void. The emptiness returned, but it was welcome – it could be filled. And this time she would curate its contents. The sea was back where it belonged and the pages of her diary remained closed.

Something winked up at her, its lustrous shell reflecting the moonlight. The world had its order – tides would come and go. She didn’t have divine powers, but she knew someone who did. Nothing is nothing, everything is something, she realised. The last sounds of the sea washed away, the corridor seemed a brighter place and a pearl began to form around the last remaining grain of sand.

#OptimisticEd: An Analogy

The storm rolls in. Skies darken. Seas toss and turn; sleepless, restless. Ships flounder in the squall, doing all they can not to founder. White-crested waves prey on sailors who are all too aware of their possible fate. Winds whisper threats and the ocean bed cries out for destruction. Peril lurks just beneath the surface too: rocks lie in wait, ready to rent asunder any vessel unfortunate enough to stray there.

Yet in the darkness, piercing formidable clouds, shines a light. A beacon of hope. A promise of safe haven; a place to drop anchor and to set foot on solid ground. And the lamp atop its tower guides weary mariners, not quite home, but to a place of security. A harbour in which to weather the storm. Sailors who know their voyage must go on amidst the tempest, find courage and strength in the knowledge that though the gale, somewhere over the raging waters, warmth and rest will be found. The lamp, as it cuts through the gloom, serves as a reminder that there is a way and indeed, it shows the way.

Captains, spirits buoyed by the light its prospect of shelter, radiate confidence and crews unite to bring ships safely in with their precious cargos intact. And there, amidst the howling deluge, there is calm. The familiarity of the tasks stills inner turmoil, and the necessity to improvise stirs passions and hardened seafarers and cabin boys alike work patiently but passionately to reach sanctuary. A peacefulness extends to every deck on which the lighthouse casts its watchful and friendly eye. A peacefulness that says "There is yet hope."

And when the gleaming radiance of the lighthouse has guided them safely through treacherous shallows, and when the ship is moored, lashed safely, docked securely, then the crew will know that the hope they held, promised by the light, was justified. That their confidence, born of the experience of many-a nightmare passage, and of the knowledge of adequate preparation, was rational. Then songs will be sung, and drinks will be drained in memory of those less fortunate; the ones who saw the light yet scuppered, convinced that to swim for shore, or to drown and have it over with, was all there was to be done.

Photo Credit: y.caradec via Compfight cc

Reading for Pleasure

Today we are roughly 14% of the way through this year. I am currently at 12% of my way through reading the fifty books that I've challenged myself to read this year. I love reading, and as a child I remember myself to be voracious when it came to books, but as an adult I've allowed all sorts of other things to push books out of my routine. I've always liked reading but for about two thirds of my life I have not been actively enjoying books. There has been a gradual ascent as I began to realise that I should just read the books that I want to read rather than attempting to read the books that I thought I should read. Now I truly read for pleasure and I really enjoy it.

And it has been my attempts to generate those same feelings in ten and eleven year olds that have simultaneously kindled them in me. I'm not ashamed to say that I read a lot of books intended for children or young adults. Two series of books particularly grabbed me: Philip Reeves' 'Mortal Engines' books and Rosemary Sutcliff's trilogy of books about Roman Britain (beginning with 'The Eagle of the Ninth'). Out of all those books I only read one to my class yet it was the start of something good for me.

Last year, at school, we invested heavily in class sets of 'real' books and, as such, the beginning of this academic year saw me and my class reading the excellent 'Noah Barleywater Runs Away' by John Boyne (of 'The Boy In the Striped Pyjamas' fame, a book which I subsequently devoured because I loved 'Noah Barleywater...' so much). 'Noah...' was a triumph ("sick book, innit, sir?"). After reading one magical novel my children were hooked ("What we reading next, sir? I bet it's not as good as 'Noah Barleywater'"). We picked up 'Tom's Midnight Garden' which they couldn't get into (I think largely on account of the fact as city-dwellers they don't understand the concept of having a garden) so we exercised our right as readers not to finish a book - something I do regularly ('We Need To Talk About Kevin', Jo Nesbo's 'The Redeemer'). Then, after reading it myself (in an evening, no less), we started 'Hitler's Canary' by Sandi Toksvig, and once again they're captivated (I've caught them trying smuggle copies home, and even worse, trying to skip to the end); it's their new favourite book. I read 'Carrie's War' last week, and whilst I love the book, I don't think it's for my class - they need their next favourite book, not just the next book. As teachers we need to make wise choices (which to pick up, which to put down) and to do that we need to know the kids in our class(es). I'm hoping to get a class set of 'The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas'; they've been enamoured by World War Two, of which they knew very little about, and I'm keen for them to find out more without actually having to teach a topic on it: the beauty of a good novel.

Now, the children in my class, after years of disinterest, are in the initial stage of what I hope will be a life-long relationship with books. They're discovering new words, new worlds, new ideas, new people and old history. I've seen it clearly impact on their writing; vocabulary, idioms and other turns-of-phrase magpied and used as their own. I use these books to teach whole class sessions, but the less I say about that the better, although I'm a strong advocate of it and a disliker of traditional guided reading. If we want children to love reading, then the first step in my experience is to read to them - speak aloud the thoughts and questions you have, the links you're making and the delight you find in particular phrasings. Read with expression; bring the book alive. Starting the day in this way does as much for me as it does the kids: win/win.

This week my wife, who is beating me in the Fifty Book Challenge, gave me a copy of John Green's debut YA novel 'Looking for Alaska' and whilst it's definitely not one I'll be reading to my class, it's such an amusing read - definitely more appealing than most of those a Penguin books the government want to flog to secondary schools. I suppose reading is rather a personal thing - I don't usually read based on recommendation - a well-designed cover, a familiar author or a decent bit of blurb is enough to pique my interest. Many of the books I've read on recommendation are ones I've not finished.

If there's any point to this post it is this: everyone can enjoy a book, but a book won't be enjoyed by everyone.

The Orangery

As with the impressive glass roof, the people were long gone. The barren orange trees that once grew there prophesied the eventual end of the family. With no heir the once-impressive gothically-styled house fell into disrepair. Now, all that was left, lying forgotten in woodland, was the orangery.

It was a place for the landed gentry to stroll once they had tired of the paintings hung in the house. A place for guests to experience the wealth of the family, and for the family to quietly congratulate themselves on their own success. Ill-gotten gains. Those four walls, through vast glass panes, saw finery, laughter and scandalous stolen moments between lovers who never should have been.

These days though, occasional dog walkers and teenage couples aside, the crumbling brickwork witnessed very little life, its eyes long ago put out. The straggling ivy, intent on survival, like a poor relation; a taunting reminder of the building's history of exotic flora. But the orangery didn't seem to mind. It stood upright like a proud old military man still living his life as if on parade despite his ailments. And it knew. It knew the secret so often overlooked by its infrequent visitors.

For in one corner, one tree remained. Two if you looked closely: the trunk of a lemon tree intertwined with that of a pomegranate tree. And, looking closer still, you would see their faces pressed together in one final kiss, eyes closed in blissful ignorance of the power the orangery held over them. The power of knowing what was meant to be unknown, the power of seeing what was supposed to go unseen. The power to ensure the family's downfall.

Of course it could have allowed the scandal to come to light, as inevitably they all do. But then, where was the satisfaction in allowing nature to take its course? No, it knew the one remaining successor must not survive to continue committing the family's atrocities. Even its own grandeur and ornate stonework told of the abominations carried out by them. It had heard their conversations. It knew of the ships, the trade, even the transport conditions. Its own rows of fruit trees, hibiscus plants and other foreign wonders were a constant and stark reminder of what the family were doing. Forcefully taken. Yes, the next-in-line had to be the last in line.

And the orangery shows no remorse. It stands innocently, only eliciting rose-tinted imaginings of times gone by. For if it reminded us of what really went on, then it would be giving away its secret. And we'd like to forget all about it, thank you very much. 

Photo and inspiration courtesy of @abbiemann1982