This is a book full of delightful characters in situations which demand inventiveness and determination. It is also a book filled with humour, kindness and understanding.
Jenny Sanders is a master at bringing characters and situations to life with imaginative detail. Some of her characters are cosy and approachable, yet delightfully eccentric. They often have names which link perfectly with the image we have of them. Dame Vera Wobblington is a famous soprano opera singer (of course). I think my favourite character is Shaun Scattergood, who tries so hard to save his grandfather’s reputation with impromptu wine-tasting session. This is hilarious, and what he puts into the mixtures would make a true wine-buff cringe.
I recommend this book to anyone who likes ‘leaning on gates and watching the sunset’, as Queen Adelaide of Slopingsideways said. 7-11 year-olds will be entertained and delighted by these stories, and adults will love them too.
Charlie Peach’s Pumpkins and other stories is Jenny Sanders’ second collection of six humorous tales. Both are published by The Conrad Press. The first collection is ‘The Magnificent Moustache…’
It’s the busyness, really. Yes, retired people like me can be unbelievably busy, too. That’s what stops me writing. It’s the magnificent weeds in the garden, jollying along together, sharing the soil , fighting it out sometimes. It’s the chilly mornings with the plates and dishes left from last night, and the bathroom to clean, and the washing to get dry, and the meals to plan, and the shopping to do. It’s the day I usually go to… and it’s always fun or interesting. The family will be round on Saturday, or friends have invited me to dinner. Amazingly lovely things for which I am very grateful. And let us not forget the articles I suddenly find myself reading on the web. I could go on… and I think you could, too.
Here’s a tiny piece of advice I’m giving myself, and possibly you, this morning.
Write something, even if it’s only in your mind.
Go outside and dig up the weeds, and find words to describe something you can see. The last rose of summer perhaps. The cheeky robin waiting patiently for a worm. Relax. One beautiful adjective is something to make you smile. And don’t stress if nothing comes. When you get inside, you might like to find that old notebook and read the kinds of things that used to pop into your mind.
You will write again. Even if it never leaves the computer, it will make you feel you still have something to say.
You are welcome to leave encouraging comments. I need all the help I can get.
Dear Beth, Katy, Daniel, and Jacob, and every other 8- to 11-year-old who loves spell-binding stories,
I have found a book I am sure you will find intriguing. This means that once you open it at the first story, you will not want to stop reading. You will even want to prop the book up on the dinner table and prove you can do two things at once, i.e. eat and read.
Thank you to Cliparts.co for this free image
If an adult is reading any of the six stories to you as you snuggle down for the night, you will not feel in the least bit sleepy. Your mind will be transported to another place, perhaps to a village where a rather pompous man wants to win the strangest competition you’ve ever heard of, perhaps to a far-away island where you’ll meet someone who has the longest name in the whole world, or maybe you’ll find yourself in the snow-covered hills of wintry Wales, where the red dragon has lived for a very long time.
This is the book I’m talking about:
I can safely say that if someone is reading you these stories, they will find themselves totally engrossed, probably chortling from time to time, and, once they have tucked you up and kissed you goodnight, they’ll be sneaking downstairs with your book under their arm, because they totally want to read just another story or two…. or three for themselves.
Now let me introduce you to the author. She’s called Jenny Sanders, and here she is:
It’s not every day you have the opportunity to ask an author some questions, but I’ve been lucky enough to do that today. Here are my questions followed by Jenny’s answers.
What inspired you to write these stories?
‘These are the sort of stories which I think I enjoyed reading when I was a child. I actually wrote the first one for my eldest daughter, just as a bit of fun. Bear in mind that my four children have all grown-and-flown! I felt she needed a bit of light relief from a very demanding and emotionally draining job. She enjoyed it and then I felt that maternal obligation to be thoroughly fair and write one for the other two girls and my son. They are as different as the stories. Those who know them well may try to work out which story was written for which one of them; that would be quite interesting to see how accurate someone could be.
So, it took a while because I was writing another non-fiction, adult book at the time in a totally different genre (Spiritual Feasting – Instant Apostle) which took a great deal of head-space and concentration.’
2. Have you always liked telling and writing stories?
I’ve been writing stories since I was a little girl. I just love the creative world where imagination can run riot and you can bend the rules of logic and reality. Words are so rich and wonderful. We have so many of them in the English language, when you write it’s like rolling in a pile of etymological leaves!
English was my favourite subject at school and, when I was taught, we were given space to write poems and stories on all sorts of topics. Unlike maths, where there was always only one right answer, English offered a whole spectrum of possibilities. Much more my cup of tea! As a competitive child, I always wanted to pick up as many ticks, or stars, or house points as possible and in this subject I could do that. Don’t ask too many questions about the maths…
3. Are you planning to do any school visits?
Yes, I am. I’m going to go back to a primary school in Wiltshire where I worked for a couple of years. I’m looking forward to seeing some of the staff who are still there and working with the children too.
I remember that having a visitor to school was always a treat. I’ll be reading one of the stories to a couple of year groups and then we’ll do some activities in smaller groups to stimulate using their imaginations. We may get to write some things down, but I want to focus on the elements that make a good story and encourage them to explore ways of prioritising those.
A big THANK YOUto Jenny for writing these stories for us,
With love from a fellow writer who loves great stories of any kind.
THINGS YOU MIGHT WANT TO KNOW
More info about The Magnificent Moustache and other stories
Published by: The Conrad Press
ISBN number: 9781914913853
Available as an e-book or as a paperback.
May be purchased on Amazon or order at all good bookshops.
Signed copies are available from Jenny Sanders directly for £9 +p&p
I was eight years old when Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen. My brother was five. We didn’t have a television, so our mother took us to the cinema after the event to watch the coronation on the screen. Wow! My first visit to ‘the pictures’.
There was a film showing before the Big Event. The only thing I remember vividly is that it was about a circus and a man doing stunt dives had to climb to the top platform and dive into a small pool. The end was tragic and traumatic because he died in his attempt. The lights came up and my mum found my brother and me sobbing piteously. It was no good Mum saying it was just a story, and don’t take on so.. To us it was all very real. I wonder if my brother remembers it as clearly as I do? Must ask him.
The coronation film itself was in colour, quite unusual I think in those days. I’m sure it was stunningly beautiful and massively impressive, but some memories blur and fade with time.
I do remember the coronation propelling pencil each child received at primary school. It was red and had a shiny gold crown on top. I still have mine in my Box of Important Treasures.
Those far-off days of childhood were so important for developing our imaginations. The games we played were mostly simple. We were mums looking after our babies. We were tightrope walkers using a chalked line on the pavement. We were shopkeepers and teachers. We were lucky to have a quiet road to play in, stopping our games of marbles, communal skipping with one very long rope, and ‘Queenie, Queenie, who’s got the ball?’, only to move aside for the coalman with his horse and cart.
In some small way we were and are all part of history, whatever our ages. And as writers we help to foster the imaginations of each new generation as they grow up. To me that’s quite a WOW! thought, too.
The story begins with a flower-bed in a corner of Trerice, a National Trust property near Newquay in Cornwall.
The fun starts here…
The writer has to catch the attention of her readers with more than a simple description of the white flowers. She has to guide them along the ancient flagstone path, to draw their eyes to the smoothness and the ragged unevenness of the stones bordering that path. She has to choose her words carefully. Will she suggest the fresh green of the grass and the darker shade of the foliage? Will she point out the orange lichen on the old granite wall, the shadows on the house? Is this a place of mystery or one of courage and love?
Ideas may be easy or hard to come by, but they are just the start. It’s the clever use of words which bring them to life, involving hours of trial and error. But every word, every paragraph, every completed page, are stepping stones in our growth, both as writers and as people.
The joy of a recent short break near Lydford Gorge in West Devon turned out to be both relaxing and challenging. There are a lot of very narrow lanes in the west country. You know the sort of thing. Vegetation almost brushing both sides of the car, plenty of bends, and grass growing happily in the middle of the lane. Our Sat Nav wanted us to enjoy them all.
This made me think of writers, The journey towards success seems to go on and on, and the destination (publication) is rarely in sight, except occasionally, except for the favoured few, we may think.
But, hey, wait a minute! Let’s talk about this.
The writers I know who are successful and prolific have worked for hours, days, weeks, and years. They are dedicated to
writing even when they don’t want to and it’s incredibly hard work,
they persevere and then persevere some more,
they edit their work until their eyes are tired and their brains are screeching at them to stop.
I’m talking to myself here, of course, because at the moment, the root of the matter is this: LIFE has thrown up difficulties, and is threatening to get in the way of writing. Has anyone any tips for getting down to work when the going’s tough? For squeezing an hour in when the whole day is full already? All advice considered, with grateful thanks.
Writers usually have something to teach other writers who read their work.
This morning I finished reading a gripping, well-written psychological thriller. Playing Nice by JP Delaney is compulsive reading. I am pretty sure I couldn’t come up with a plot as complex and compelling as this.
On the cover it says, ‘What if your child was really theirs?’ Turn the book over and you read , ‘Pete Riley answers the door one morning to a parent’s worst nightmare. On his doorstep is Miles Lambert, who breaks the devastating news that Pete’s two-year-old, Theo, isn’t Pete’s real son — their babies got mixed up at birth.’
From page one the writer grips the reader. There’s no let-up until the very end.
I looked the author up online, and found that JP is already a well-established author, who writes different kinds of books under different names.
Here’s something I read on PJ’s website that I want to keep reminding myself:
‘My relationship with the reader is always fundamentally the same. I never forget that I’m inviting them to come with me on a journey, and that as their host and guide it’s my duty to enthral them.’
My thoughts: I find it fascinating that fiction is stuff that’s made up, and yet it often exposes deep truths about being human.
In 2012 I took this photograph of a line of leafcutter ants in a Costa Rican jungle. I had no idea what exactly they were doing, why they were doing it, or where they were heading. There they were, purposefully carrying a weighty piece of leaf they had chomped off with their jaws. Did they carry these home like carpet samples, planning to make their colony cosy? Did they feast merrily on them, asking if anyone else had noticed the enormous two-legged strangers in the vicinity today? I don’t remember what our guide told us about these remarkable insects. What I do know is that I thought they were amazing.
Almost ten years later, in January 2022, I watched a TV programme called The Green Planet, where David Attenborough showed us a trail of ants, bringing leaf bits home for an enormous fungus which provides safety and nourishment for tiny baby ants. Without politicians and without the power of speech, the ants run a highly organised society where every individual has a place and a usefulness. Large fellows are defenders of the colony; smaller beings are caretakers of the young. Adventurous types are foragers and leafcutters. Even miniscule ants have a role. They ride on the backs of larger workers and defend them from carnivorous flies looking for a tasty meal. Everyone is valued. Figuratively speaking, no-one has to sit outside the Co-op and beg. No-one has to go without a meal because they’re too poor to eat.
Do the ants have a perfect society? Not quite. As far as I know, stop to hold their faces up towards the sun’s warmth and light; they don’t admire a sunset, or bury their noses in a rose. They don’t gather together to share stories, and they don’t write books or record their history.
Especially important is this. Ants don’t ask questions or seek answers.
Go to the ant you sluggard, consider its ways and be wise!
I ask myself, what is it God is saying to me personally here? Or to anyone working hard to do their best and to look after their family in a world plagued by turmoil, terrorism and hate?
Is your first instinct the same as mine, to feel a bit upset, to want to say, just a little resentfully, ‘Hey God, I’m not a sluggard,’ and sigh pitifully to make the point.
But then I think, OK, God knows I’m not lazy, and so what is He saying?
He’s telling me to wake up my brain, to rouse myself from complacency.
Go to the ant. Look at the ant. Observe the ant.
So let’s turn to the lowly and mighty leafcutter ants and ask ourselves what we can learn, because they actually do something we as people have only partially mastered. They look after their own, however large the colony grows. Everyone is fed. Everyone is contributing. Everyone has a value.
No-one is more important than anybody else. No-one is less than anybody else.
We humans must remain alert, and refuse to let our minds coast towards sluggardliness, towards accepting all things as they are, towards sinking into the belief that we can’t do anything about so many injustices in God’s beautiful world. As individuals we can do tiny things, and together we will make a difference in the world.
We all have our own way of making a difference in the world.
The year is ending. Hopefully its disappointments have been coped with and learnt from. We all berate ourselves sometimes, for not trying hard enough, for giving up too soon. Steep learning curves are good for us.
I wish my writer friends perseverance, courage, and lots of self-belief. Let’s aim high, and cheer each other on.
Frog: (Rather unwillingly);
I find myself on Happy New Year duty. Well, as we frogs say, ‘Ribbet, ribbet, ribbet.’
What do you mean, miserable? Actually, from here the view’s quite good.
Overcoming the monster—immediately I think of Jack and the Beanstalk, Beauty and the Beast, and Little Red Riding. Monsters definitely wave a flag in many novels for children and young adults too, tales where reader bite their nails to the quick and/or takes a torch under the bedclothes to keep the nasties out.
For some reason, the thought of monsters took me back to my primary school in the nineteen fifties. The children sat in order of cleverness, determined by the number of sums ticked and spellings remembered in the weekly tests. Every day we had to face Miss Woolcock. There’s almost a tremor in my voice as I say that. Oh, the cold fear she could inject into a class of nine-year-olds. Let me tell you about the day I made a blot on my book, and then, trembling, tried to rub it away. Grey-faced, I nearly lost control of my bladder in the abusive torrent, after which Miss Woolcock snapped at me to get to the bottom of the class. I am sure I almost died.
Now, years later, I can see what a tortured woman she must have been. Maybe she’d lost her fiancé in the war, or her parents; maybe she’d been trapped under rubble for hours on end. Maybe she was of a nervous disposition and spent years frightened of pain and death and loneliness. Being a teacher she had to deal with children, maybe knowing that she herself would never be a mother.
Perhaps we all have potential monsters waiting to get us when something goes wrong in our lives. Monsters like anger, jealousy, fear, pride, intolerance, meanness… shall I go on? Do you agree that It’s always easier to see the monster in other people than it is to identify and face our own? What if we love overcoming the monster stories so much because we want to overcome our own monsters?
I hope Miss Woolcock grew to understand herself as the years went by, and didn’t go to her grave still filled with bitterness and rage.
I think I might have a story coming on!
Frog: (gulps) Hiding? Well, a frog does have a vivid imagination, you know.