Ahem.
So, like so many makers of words on pages, I've been allowed out of the house of late, not least to stick my nose into Hay Festival. My second Hay was as good if not wetter, sorry, better than my first. I mainly talked about monsters and superheroes, so it wasn't that different from a normal day, except I wasn't at home and I wasn't talking to myself.
I also got to meet a few people who like my books. A couple even came quite a long way to see me. Not just me, you understand, but for the purposes of this blog and my ego, JUST. ME. It's massively humbling and slightly intimidating. But mainly, it's just plain wonderful.
I spent my childhood making up stories, knowing that only one person (my brother) would give two genuine hoots, if I was lucky. If he hadn't been bothered, I wonder if have kept making up heroes and villains and tall tales – at least as much as I did. Would creation in isolation have been as satisfying? Is it ever?
When I make up stories now, there's a reasonable-to-fair chance that some folk other than my brother will entertain the idea of being entertained by them. And a couple might even wonder what the person who wrote the books is like and go all the way to Hay Festival to watch in bemusement as he bounces around a stage like a howling, sweaty Zebedee. "We drove X hundred miles for this?" they ask. "I'm as baffled as you," I reply. "On the plus side, Jacqueline Wilson's on in a bit."
So this is a just a rambling way of saying a colossal, roaring, fire-breathing helicopter-swatting "Thanks!" to everyone who took the time to queue for a book or say hello or watch the bouncing. Blogging for myself, there is nothing more motivating for a writer than someone admitting, to your face, that they like your stuff.
I also met a giant rabbit.
Cheers all,
Guy
P.S. best thing I saw, Hay 2012:
I also got to meet a few people who like my books. A couple even came quite a long way to see me. Not just me, you understand, but for the purposes of this blog and my ego, JUST. ME. It's massively humbling and slightly intimidating. But mainly, it's just plain wonderful.
I spent my childhood making up stories, knowing that only one person (my brother) would give two genuine hoots, if I was lucky. If he hadn't been bothered, I wonder if have kept making up heroes and villains and tall tales – at least as much as I did. Would creation in isolation have been as satisfying? Is it ever?
When I make up stories now, there's a reasonable-to-fair chance that some folk other than my brother will entertain the idea of being entertained by them. And a couple might even wonder what the person who wrote the books is like and go all the way to Hay Festival to watch in bemusement as he bounces around a stage like a howling, sweaty Zebedee. "We drove X hundred miles for this?" they ask. "I'm as baffled as you," I reply. "On the plus side, Jacqueline Wilson's on in a bit."
So this is a just a rambling way of saying a colossal, roaring, fire-breathing helicopter-swatting "Thanks!" to everyone who took the time to queue for a book or say hello or watch the bouncing. Blogging for myself, there is nothing more motivating for a writer than someone admitting, to your face, that they like your stuff.
I also met a giant rabbit.
Cheers all,
Guy
P.S. best thing I saw, Hay 2012:
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