The navy was at its most generous on Anzac Days, and was enormously solicitous in regard to returned servicemen. They brought their own rum with them, and brought it in quite large quantities. They didn’t bring it just for themselves—they brought it to share. One rum, maybe two, after a freezing cold dawn service is understandable and somewhat necessary. But they didn’t really like you to stop at just one or two, and it really wouldn’t look good to offend the sensibilities of those who had the Freedom of the Borough. No matter the generous quantity of bacon, eggs, sausages, fries, tomatoes, mushrooms—all well fried—by eight in the morning I was simply unfit to face the rest of the day, and most particularly the civic Anzac service and wreath-laying later in the morning. I might have been OK had the rum been restricted to pre-breakfast. However, it never was. It flowed pre-breakfast, during breakfast, and post-breakfast.
I endured the ritual for seven years, and with superhuman effort donned the magnificent mayoral gold chain, did all the right things, and never let down the old soldiers, the Royal New Zealand Navy, the community or myself. Afternoons on Anzac Day were a complete write-off for me. I don’t remember any of them…
My father, Ivan, then in his eighties, had an aversion to Anzac Days and the remembrance of things he would rather forget. However, he did turn out and parade with other old soldiers for a couple of mine. I think he came for the rum. Whatever, bless his heart, he honoured me by being there. As did his grandson Robin, who in his senior year at Ruapehu College placed the Anzac wreath on behalf of his school.
Tots of rum aside, the only other bugbear I had to endure for seven years was the wearing of the mayoral chain. Thank God there wasn’t an ermine-trimmed robe to go with it! Thin people are not built to wear mayoral chains. The Ohakune chain was a rather lovely piece of work, created by the Birmingham Mint, and a generous gift to the borough of a former mayor. I was expected, indeed almost ordered, to wear it for all full meetings of the council. ‘Pray be upstanding for His Worship the Mayor,’ the town clerk would call, and in would toddle His be-chained Worship. Unless the chain was pinned to my suit jacket, and anchored to my chest, the weight of the damn thing would mean it sort of dripped down in a distinctly unmayoral fashion. It was valuable and insured for quite a significant amount. The primary medallion bore the borough crest in enamel mounted in an ornate gold surround. Mini-medallions, bearing the names of all former mayors of the place, were attached to the corded silk ribbons in a sort of necklace. Indeed, thinking about it, ‘Hang the Mayor’ could have appropriately been achieved by using the mayoral chain. Most of the weight was in the main medallion and, no matter how well anchored, it would sort of clunk disconcertingly against my chest. This treasure—nestling in a purpose-made, blue silk and velvet-lined little leather case—was normally kept secure in the borough safe. There were times when it came home with me after some function, and unless I quickly hid it away it would be worn around the house by my boys—and occasionally by others who fancied it did something for them!
I hoped, indeed I asked, that when the borough as such ceased to exist the chain would be put on permanent display in the public library. As a gift to the town it was worthy of such attention. My suggestion was ignored. At some later point it was mislaid, lost or stolen. I think the latter to be more likely. Every effort was made to find the thing, but it has never been found. It is hard to think of any use it would be to whoever nicked it. It is somewhat distinctive, and I’ve certainly never noticed it being worn around the district.
I left the school finally in 1986 and finished with local government in 1988. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to all of those whom I taught with—particularly at National Park and Ohakune, many of whom have become friends whose friendship I cherish. They did not stint in their support of my work, nor did they stint in helping out with my two sons whenever I needed to go away for a few days or a week on school or council business.
If there is one thing that sets children’s writers apart from all others in the business of writing, it is the audience. No writer could ever hope for a better or more honest audience; often a brutally honest audience.
A few years back I was speaking to the senior pupils of a local primary school—the eleven- and twelve-year-olds. ‘William Taylor, what do you think you’ll be doing in twenty years’ time?’ a very pleasant and earnest girl enquired.
A loud snort erupted from a hoonish young male sitting next to her. ‘He’ll be dead,’ he said, a cheerful grin spreading across his ape-like features.
I have yet to oblige him.
Our audiences are many and varied. They may be minuscule in number, my nearby local school being a case in point. When I last spoke at Kaitieke School, far down in the valley from my home up in the hills, I spoke to the whole school—all seven pupils. At the other end of the scale it is not uncommon to speak to hundreds of kids in one sitting, and I think I topped out at a festival somewhere—1,500 bussed to a central venue. Most frequently, of course, we get to speak to a class, maybe two classes at a time. Sometimes they have been well primed and very well prepared. Occasionally nothing has been done, and speaker and audience are completely at cross-purpose.
My favourite of these came very early on in my career of writing for kids. It was at a school in Taihape, and the teacher had fled for some reason and left me to my own devices and the mercy of her class. Such desertion can be a bit of a bugger for most writers, but I wasn’t long out of the classroom myself and it didn’t really faze me. I launched into my spiel. In significantly less than five minutes, though, I realized something was awry. I looked at the small sea of vacant, although accepting, faces, and said, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you? Who can tell me why I’m here?’ There is always one hand that shoots up. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re the man who’s come to fix the drains in our field and stop the floods, eh?’
If I remember rightly, I think we got things straightened out, but, disappointingly, I wasn’t much help with the flooded field.
Sometimes we can be left with a suspicion that we have been invited for no better reason than to give the teaching staff a break or to provide a babysitting, childminding service. In the way of things, it is always those of the teaching staff who have done the least to prepare their charges for a writer’s visit who are anxious to take a gratuitous break. My favourite anecdote here doesn’t involve me at all, but rather my dear friend Gaelyn Gordon. Gaelyn was visiting a large area school in order to speak about her books and her writing to the secondary school classes—a fair number of pupils. For many years head of the English department at Hamilton Girls’ High School, she found this prospect in no way daunting. It was near the end of the school term—a time when secondary school kids can be a mite obstreperous, and even more so if those responsible for them all take off into the sunset or the staffroom or down the pub! To where the staff disappeared, Gaelyn never found out. ‘It seems to me,’ she proclaimed to the pupils in her stentorian head-of-English tones and after enduring ten minutes of mayhem, ‘it seems to me that you want to be here even less than I do. I am leaving now, and’—I can imagine her beatific beam—‘you may all go home.’ The staff miraculously reappeared when they spotted the departing throng, but nothing would persuade Gaelyn from leaving, too, as they bleated on about what would happen with the school-bus kids. ‘Not my problem,’ said Gaelyn, and sailed out, very likely still smiling.
I have endured similar visits. Fourth Form boys, two classes of them, draped over tumbling mats in a gymnasium, not a teacher in sight. Fortunately, I managed to send half of them to sleep! Not quite as successfully as on the afternoon I spoke to all fifty or so senior students in a very remote area school. Almost all slept, sprawled across the comfortably carpeted floor of the school library: ‘We thought you’d rather have them in the afternoon when they always come back stoned.’ Some teachers can be amazingly considerate!
These may be the times that stick in the mind. Far outnumbering these infrequent aberrations are the terrific occ
asions when whatever you have to say is absorbed by your audience, and the rapport between the kids and the speaker, and also the teachers, makes the whole exercise worthwhile. While the financial reward for your effort may not be great, the feedback you get from what is, after all, your intended audience is worth its weight in gold. Indeed some visits to schools can be over far too quickly.
Sustained contact with a school or group of children has an even greater reward. For several years, fairly recently, I spent a month or six weeks annually as writer-in-residence at Whakatane Intermediate School—a form of very generous patronage on their part that took some organizing. I was given time to write, but also enjoyed significant contact with all the pupils of this fine school. I trust it proved of benefit to the kids. It certainly was to me, as I worked with them on aspects of their own writing and shared with them my experiences as a writer.
Often kids will write to me after one of my visits, sometimes at greater depth than simply ‘Thank you for coming…’ A group of senior pupils at Nelson Girls’ College had clearly been required to report on my visit—clearly a very good one!—at greater depth:
Who is this tall slender man come among us today? He smiles at us and his sharp blue eyes twinkle as he takes off his expensive brown leather jacket and drapes it elegantly across the back of his chair. Why, it is William Taylor, the well-known writer of many books and one of my favourite authors. He begins to speak in his lovely deep voice and we all lean forward to catch every word…
An innate modesty prevents my continuing. In all truth, though, it’s not often a visiting writer can expect such sensitivity, sincerity and deep perception in a letter of thanks! Who can be blamed for thinking ‘Jesus’ when you read that opening line?
My most assiduous correspondent, whom I now count as a friend, is not even one of our own. It is Lillian of Texas, who has been writing to me for a good fifteen years since first reading Possum Perkins (the Paradise Lane version) at her middle school/junior high aged around twelve. She is now at graduate school, studying law in preparation for becoming yet another American attorney. I think she will make a good one. Over the years I have sent her a fair few of my books, photographs and bits and pieces, and she has reciprocated. It would be nice to think that one day we may meet. Whatever, I certainly know that we will stay in touch and I will watch her career with interest.
It is certainly true that I have done my best to reply to every letter written to me by a child or young person—and adults, too. Postage has cost me a small fortune. Sensibly, should I receive a bundle of letters from a whole class, they will generally get just the one back from me. For years I would get hundreds of letters from kids asking for information about my books and my reasons for writing, my way of life and so forth. The same old questions over and over: Why do you write? Do you like being an author? How many books have you written? How old are you? How much money do you make? What is your favourite book? Do you have pets? Do you have children? Where do you get your ideas? What do you like to eat? Who is your favourite author?
These days I am largely off the hook—and for two valid reasons. The first: I haven’t had a book for younger readers published for a few years now. The second: the information they seek is now readily available on the internet. Thank God for technology! It may be a pity that there are likely many young people out there who are labouring under the misapprehension that my favourite food is lasagne. You will probably be able to find that out on the internet for eternity—or until the World Wide Web collapses from an excess of its own success.
These days we read much about the decline of education standards in general, and literacy in particular in our country. Well, I have received many letters from young readers of my books that prove the opposite. I think it is fair that I quote one here in its entirety. I received it four or five years ago.
To William Taylor,
Hi. I’m a 16yr old female, and have just finished reading two books of yours. They are both excellent, and you deal with real-life issues so well. I first read The Blue Lawn when I was in Form 1, and it totally opened my eyes. I couldn’t put the book down, it was that captivating. It made me realise it was OK to be yourself, and to do something you feel comfortable in doing. I loved The Blue Lawn so much I read it again yesterday—and it was still as good as when I first read it. I also loved the way you made Theo and David come across as sensitive, despite their tough appearances. It’s nice to read something told in the perspective of a guy for once. It must be amazing to view the thoughts that go on in a teenage boy’s mind, so reading through a male’s voice is pretty close.
But I have some questions regarding The Blue Lawn and its characters.
1) In your view, do you think that Theo and David would have remained gay? Do you think they would have remained partners with each other? In my view I think they would both still be gay, but would find others to be partners with. What do you think?
2) Are the characters fictional or non-fictional in the story? And the town? And the blue lawn, is that real? I could just about imagine it. Why did you call the story The Blue Lawn? Is there some hidden meaning in the title?
OK, well the second book I read of yours that I absolutely loved was Jerome. I had no idea what I was getting myself into—I didn’t realise it was another story about gay teenagers! To tell the truth it was a bit of shock because I read them both in the same day. Double Whammy! But this story totally blew me away—I cried when I finished it, then read the last 10 pages or so and cried again. I had kind of figured that Marco was gay because he asked Katie seriously what she thought loving someone was like. Once again, he’s a tough guy on the outside, but sensitive on the inside. It seems so cruel that both Jerome and Marco loved each other, but they couldn’t show it. I’m still upset over what happened. You sure had me fooled. I thought Katie and Marco would end up liking each other, but then Katie said she was gay, and later that Jerome was gay. The suicide bit is a real thing in this country. Last year there was a guy at my school (in the form below me) who was rumoured to be gay. He got hassled a whole heap, then he got so depressed he killed himself. Although I was not connected to him in any way it did make me think how sensitive guys can be, although they try not to be. I think gay and lesbian people are normal people and it’s cruel to criticise them. As I said, Jerome was awesome. I think it’s damn good, and it gets you so emotional. I’d love to be able to write like that.
So, I think I am your number 1 Jerome and Blue Lawn fan. I’d love to know how to write stories as powerful as that. I love writing, reading and English, so look out for my name in the bookstores in a few years’ time. Thank you for writing such great stories.
Yours sincerely
(signed)
When you receive a letter like that, you know exactly why it is you persist in doing what you do! It makes up for whatever brickbats may come your way. Of course I replied. I sent her a book, and also a suggestion that she may care to read one or two less-controversial works of mine. It turned out that, earlier, she had been equally enthusiastic about The Worst Soccer Team Ever. She also said in her letter that, ‘All my friends are amazed and think I sucked up to you big-time and I hope it didn’t sound that way.’ Of course it didn’t. I hope she is still a reader and, equally, a writer. In each of her long letters I received, the teacher in me spotted only one spelling error!
The teacher and parent in me also thought—but did not express—that maybe she had been a wee bit young to tackle The Blue Lawn in Form One!
A current guru in the field of young adult fiction has said that the readers of the stuff tend to be eleven- to thirteen-year-old kids and middle-aged women! I don’t know about the latter, but do think there is a grain of truth in the former. Today’s more avid young readers do tend to choose titles where the central characters are a couple of years older than themselves. By that token, maybe Form One (Year Seven) is OK for The Blue Lawn. It’s often thought that the ‘Young Adult’ genre is a relatively modern phenomenon. If by ‘modern’ yo
u choose to include back to the 1930s, then that’s OK, because it was back then, in the United States of course, that it first became labelled as such. Whatever, there certainly wasn’t much of the ‘purpose-built’ stuff around when I was a ‘young adult’. I can remember moving from children’s books of the Arthur Ransome, Ian Serraillier, Captain WE Johns brigade at around age thirteen—almost overnight—to Agatha and Ngaio, Alistair MacLean and the lurid Canadian ‘Jalna’ romance saga of Mazo de la Roche…
Frequently there is a heartfelt tone to many of the letters I have been sent, particularly those written under at least a slight degree of either duress or stress. I quote my favourite lines from a very few:
Dear William Taylor
You are a very exciting and enjoyable author and your books are exciting, challenging and new. One day I’m going to read one.
I found your workshop very informative—and also a very good way of getting out of class…
I know I couldn’t write a book as good as you, so I won’t try.
You must go through a lot writing a book because I find it very hard to sit down and write just one word.
William, why are you so skinny?
Your book was the best thing I’ve read since sliced bread.
X
In late 1988, almost recovered from my Himalayan misadventure and with Agnes the Sheep out of the way, I enjoyed a brief flirtation with television. I worked as a scriptwriter, part of a team of three, on what would become one of South Pacific Pictures’ less-memorable ventures: an animated series for children in which King Arthur and his cohort are transported into space. They asked me, I didn’t beg them for the privilege. SPP gave me a very nice flat in Ponsonby Road, above their then production offices. Free accommodation and a splendid pay-cheque—every writer’s dream!
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