Tuesday 8th September is International Literacy Day 2015 and I’m going to spend it thinking about how much I love books.
I’ve pretty much loved reading since the age of 6 when I first made it the whole way through a reading book. It wasn’t a hard book and it had lots of pictures, but I still remember the sense of achievement I felt in not having given up.
I was lucky. As the child of literate parents, I grew up in a house full of books and with someone to support me with my reading. I was also lucky to have been born in a country which provides free education for its children.
According to the World Literacy Foundation’s 2015 report on the economic and social cost of illiteracy –
- around 67 million primary-aged children and 72 million adolescents in the world have no access to education, and
- more than 796 million people globally can’t read and write.
Illiteracy is linked to higher rates of unemployment, crime, poor health and poverty. The ability to read and write is life-changing, yet too many young people never get the chance to learn.
We’re very lucky in the UK. Education is a basic right here and we don’t often think about what it’s like to live without it – unless we happen to see otherwise for ourselves.
Visiting schools in Bangladesh and seeing the pride young learners took in their education was one of the best experiences of my life. Seeing the crowds of children hanging around outside the schools and unable to pay to go in was one of the worst.
That’s why I’m chuffed that my writing for children course supports the cause of global literacy. For every course sold, a donation is made to the World Literacy Foundation.
Why not find out about the World Literacy Foundation and how you can help them help the world receive a quality education?
Read about International Literacy Day and activities you can do to celebrate it.
Have a wonderful International Literacy Day celebrating the marvellousness of the written word.
Yesterday we had a lovely Bank Holiday Sunday walk on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.
This, despite me worrying that we’d not allowed ourselves enough time and would be caught in the tide as we left. The fires of anxiety were stoked by a story the guys told of a friend of a friend who’d ignored the ‘do not proceed when water reaches causeway’ signs and had to be rescued by the coastguard, ruining a new, very expensive car in the process. I needn’t have worried – we’d left enough time to eat delicious ice cream and buy some excellent locally-produced honey before joining the convoy of cars heading for the mainland.
We last visited Holy Island some seven or eight years ago when our children were still children, and we shared memories of that visit as we walked with our friends. We talked of the history we knew of the place, too, and of other people we know who’ve been there. Lindisfarne, it seemed to me, is awash with stories.
I was intrigued by some odd looking structures on the edge of the beach beyond the castle. These turned out to be towers of stones, placed there, it seems, by visitors. I’ve no idea what the structures are meant to mean, but I decided to add a stone or five to one of them. One of those stones looked remarkably like a cheerful face and I considered, momentarily, taking it home. It was heavy and impractical to carry, though, so I put it on the tower.
And for as long as it’s mine, it’ll also hold the story of the day we ambled in the Bank Holiday sunshine on Holy Island.
Click here for a Story Stones Writing Activity.
Basically, I really, really love writing. I used to write for fun all the time as a child (my first full-length work – ‘Adventures of the Dolls’ House’ – handwritten in an exercise book at the age of ten and complete with illustrations, back-cover blurb and reviews from friends – is currently on tour in my attic).
Sadly, the possibility of a working as a writer was never mentioned at school and over the years, this thing I thought of as a hobby was squeezed out by the need to earn a living, run a home and raise a family.
Thankfully, word-crafting and storytelling clung stubbornly on, leaking into letters to friends and family as well as resources I made for my teaching job.
Eventually I realised I couldn’t ignore the stories knocking for attention on the inside of my skull. They’re part of who I am, of what makes me me, and the need to share them and have them validated by others became unbearable. Luckily, at around this time I found a good, part-time creative writing course and it changed my life.
I’ve felt happier and more complete since I began writing regularly again. And when I’ve worked on something and shaped it into a piece people connect with and respond to, there really isn’t a feeling like it. Life makes so much more sense when I can put my experiences into words, and learning the skills needed to do that effectively has given me a new career as a writer.
I’m a very lucky woman indeed.
Last Monday I was lucky enough to be invited to a meeting to mark the Ladybird, Ladybird centenary project and its fantastic new exhibition area at Charnwood Museum.
There were a number of reasons why I was lucky, not least because the organiser – a lovely, chirpy lady named Tatty – had remembered I’m a coeliac and ordered me a beautiful lunch of salad with feta cheese.
Another reason was that I had the pleasure of spending two hours with a group of people who, rather unusually, overlapped three of those areas of my life which make my brain tingle: my creative self, the self which catches fire at the thought of history and heritage, and the self – and I surprise myself a little in admitting this – which is passionately interested in the education of young people.
I say I’m a little surprised because when I was made redundant from teaching, I swore I’d never engage with the education system again. And yet here I am, almost three years later, employed by a University and increasingly involved with schools through my work as a governor.
One of the topics at Monday’s meeting was the importance of creativity and culture to our happiness and well-being. I agree whole-heartedly with that. Having lost my place in the world of work and freed briefly from the need to earn a living (thank you, redundancy money!), I took the opportunity to do something I’d been wanting to do for some time. I developed my writerly self. I read books, attended writing workshops, joined classes. I networked with other writers, joined a writing group.
And it wasn’t just writing: when offered the chance to do something ‘different’, I took my lead from Danny Wallace and said ‘Yes!’ Which is how I came to train as a local tour guide, how I came to work with the local youth service and why I went on so much excellent training about what makes young people tick. As well as how I came to hop on trains, visit museums, listen to lectures, apply for jobs I’d never have considered before, meet people from all different spheres of life, have sooo much fun.
Basically, I had the time and financial freedom to experiment for a while, to try out new things and question who I am. I’m really pleased with the answers I came up with, as well as surprised to remember how many of these new interests existed within me as a child.
Childhood should be about experimenting, about having the time, freedom and opportunity to try out new things and find out who you are. That point was made several times on Monday and is one of the reasons I’ve become interested in education again. There’s an awful lot about the current education system that I don’t approve of and I can be very vocal about that when prompted. But it’s all we have for now, and the best hope for the young people within it is to work with what’s there and make it the best it can be.
So that’s what I’m trying to do, to do my bit to help make things better. But I’m still hoping someone, soon, will make bigger, lasting changes, to give our young people the childhood they deserve.
‘All facts, however microscopic, are important in the building of real history.’
Crouching uncomfortably over the bucket, her hand gripping into Dick’s shoulder and her body bent forward, Stella turned her tear-stained face away in shame.
Stella groaned suddenly and throwing her head forward, vomited onto the floor. That decided him.
The walk through the dark streets to the infirmary was a difficult one, though the distance was short and Stella such a slight thing that Dick had no trouble supporting her tiny body. But every few yards Stella’s stomach clenched in spasms of pain and she’d stop and tense herself against it, waiting for it to let her free. By the time they entered the porter’s lodge of the old workhouse, their hands had been numbed by the bitter wind, their faces stung by the sharp, icy rain.
“Are you the father?” Glancing quickly from Dick to Stella’s hand and back to the ledger, the duty nurse wrote down the particulars with a stern, efficient manner. She moved round the table and, putting one hand under Stella’s elbow and another on her back, began to shepherd her along the dim, sterile corridor. “Dick? Dick!” Stella looked over her shoulder, her eyes pleading with her brother to follow. “He can’t come any further,” the nurse’s clipped tones bounced back off the walls. “Let’s not have any fuss. We’re to take care of you, now.”
I’d like to thank Mrs Chirp and the many others who’ve had a hand in my son’s education, for the part they’ve played in developing the wonderful, witty and knowledgeable young man that he is.