My Secret Diary (8 page)

Judging by the following diary entry my fashion-book
games and stories weren't childish at all –
quite the opposite: 'Yesterday I had a lovely
morning in bed with my fashion book. I discovered
a lovely new person, Carola.' I can
remember
Carola
– she had long hair, and as the fashion artist wanted
to show off the unusual waist on her tight skirt he
drew her without a blouse top. So there she was,
as bold as brass in her bra and skirt and high heels.
I obviously felt she was what Biddy called 'fast'.
So I wrote:

I've decided she can have an affair with John, and
I've given her Betty and Katy to look after.
[They
were small girls with very carefully cut-out pigtails.
Did I cast Carola as a single mum with two
daughters already?]
She goes around with Nicky
and Sherry's crowd. I spent three contented hours
with my fashion book.

The next day:

I bought myself a lovely hard 2H pencil, a thing
I've been wanting for a long time. I drew a picture
of Carola, Nick, Katy and Betty from memory. I
know you should use a soft pencil for drawing, but
I hate dark smudgy messy lines, and much prefer
neat precise lines. Also the children look much more
delicate with a hard line. I want to write about
Carola etc., etc.

The drawing and the story and the fashion books
were all thrown away but they've stayed indelibly
clear in my mind to this day.

I used my own life as inspiration as well as all
my paper girls. On 1 March Miss Pierce, our
English teacher, told us all about people who lived
on barges (in preparation for introducing
Maiden's
Trip
by Emma Smith as our class reader). I wrote:
'It was interesting and worth keeping in mind
for a story, except that I have just started one
about a co-ed school based on my many experiances
at Latchmere.'

I spelled experiences wrong and underlined it
heavily. I'm not sure what extraordinary
experiences I was thinking of. I'd obviously got fed
up with it five days later, because on Sunday 6
March I wrote: 'I started writing a story, but got a
bit fed up with it.' That could be a valid diary entry
nowadays, though now I just grit my teeth and
carry on writing – on and on and on – until six
months later the story is finished, polished, typed
out and sent off to my publishers.

At least now I can reassure myself that I've
produced a lot of novels that children enjoy reading.
When I was fourteen I was plagued with doubts
about my writing.

I wrote in March:

Is it just a form of escapism? Am I burying my head
in the sand like an ostrich, is my writing just an
adolescent craze? No, it can't be just a phase. Well,
I've settled it that at least I'm serious about my
writing. But is it any good? Is it? Oh, how I wish
I knew. I have a reasonable grasp of writing, but
am I any good? I mean really good? I just don't
know. I want very much to prove to myself that I
can write good material. I would like very much to
hold a finished story in my hands. So I am not
going to be weak-willed and sit here wishing, I'm
going to think of a plot and – START WRITING!
Blast homework, blast everything, I must prove it
to myself. Oh let me think of a good plot, some
realistic characters, and let me produce a really
good book.

I was so frantic, so earnest. It's a relief to flip
the page in my diary and read:

We had a really stinking sum to do for Geometry
homework. Chris and I just sat back and laughed
it got so complicated. I've now cooled off from my
writing outburst yesterday, but I am still determined
to write a good novel. Imagine the sheer bliss of
printing 'THE END' on the umpteenth sheet of
manuscript paper.

A week later I wrote:

Remember my writing outburst on Wed 9th? Well,
I have thought of a really good idea for a novel,
using my own experience – so that I can know what
I'm writing about. Now I must get on and – WRITE.

The next Sunday we went to visit my
godparents, Gladys and Sid, who had just adopted
three-year-old twins. I wrote that night:

Gladys says their mother is married, but the
children are from another man. How can she just
abandon them? They are such lovely pretty kids,
perfectly healthy, happy and normal
[obviously
not
little Tracy Beakers!].
The mother idea could be a
new angle for a book . . .

I was brimming with new ideas, new angles. On
Saturday 2 April 'I bought a red fat shilling exercise
book for my new story. It is coming along nicely at
the moment.'

I wasn't limiting myself just to novels:

Reading a good book has brought out the writing
urge in me again, but this time in a different form.
A book of short stories has given me the idea to try
writing for this medium. Besides in book form, short
stories are always needed for magazines – so now
I must study all my old copies of 'Woman's Own'
to see what type of story is most popular.

I usually only read the problem pages, although
in March Biddy had recommended that I read
an article in
Woman's Own
called 'The Way to
Healthy Womanhood'. I don't think it would
have been about eating lots of fruit and veg and
walking to school instead of getting the bus.
In those long ago days 'healthy womanhood'
meant sex education. I don't know how helpful
this was to me. I say, very limply for a would-be
writer, that the article was 'quite good'.

I was more interested in proper teenage
magazines. On 11 April I wrote:

I bought the new teenage magazine 'Honey'. Back
home I spent one and a half hours reading it solidly.
By the way, I disagree entirely with what the writer
of the article 'CONFIDENCE' has to say. I don't
think trying to be a writer will ruin my self
confidence. I am not going to say to myself that it
isn't important. IT IS! I'M GOING TO TRY AND
TRY AND TRY UNTIL I GET SOMEWHERE.

I knew perfectly well that I wasn't ready to write
for publication. I
did
enter the
Daily Mirror
Children's Literary Competition in 1960, sending
off my entry with fervent wishes and prayers. Jill
at school entered too. I didn't win, I wasn't a
runner-up, I didn't come anywhere – though I did
receive a note saying,
This is to certify that the
attached entry reached the final stages of selection.
I was pleased for Jill, if a little jealous, when she
received a
Highly Commended
certificate.

Jill was the only girl I knew who loved writing
too. She kept a fictional diary about two sisters called
Doffles and Bluebell and let a little group of us read
the latest entries. She was happy to share it with
us, even letting me contribute an entry or two.

I was still writing just for myself, taking it
terribly seriously. I worked pretty hard in English
lessons at school, trying to please Miss Pierce. I
wrote: 'I love Art, but English is still my first love.
Not English Grammar, of course, that's foul, but
English Essay is heavenly.'

Miss Pierce was an inspirational teacher with a
passion for English that was infectious. She had us
ordinary, not especially academic fourteen-year-olds
reading
Jane Eyre
and
Pride and Prejudice
with joy and enthusiasm, discussing the merits of
Rochester and Darcy as eagerly as if they were Elvis
or Adam Faith.

She was very exacting when it came to the art
of writing. She said that an English essay should
be like a perfect string of pearls, each paragraph
leading on to the next and the next and next until
it doubled neatly back to the very beginning.

'What's she
on
about?' Chris mouthed.

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my
shoulders, just to be companionable, but
I
knew. I
understood Miss Pierce's lesson on metaphors and
similes too. She quoted 'a squirrel sat on the lawn
like a coffee pot' – and I
saw
that squirrel and the
perfect spout of its paws and handle of its tail. It
was like discovering a glorious new game.

I wasn't very good at it at first. Miss Pierce told
us to form pairs and describe each other, using
metaphors and similes. I squinted long and hard
at Chris, gazing into her eyes until we both got the
giggles. Her eyes are pale blue – and I couldn't find
an original simile to save my life. As blue as the
early morning sky? Oh please! As blue as sapphires?
How many times has that been used? I ended up
with some appalling suggestion about paint water!
I'd thought about the first time you swizzle a
paintbrush thick with cobalt blue into a clean jug
of water and make delicate swirls of pale blue. Chris
thought I meant that awful grey sludge colour your
paint water becomes after a long painting session
and wasn't especially thrilled.

Miss Pierce wasn't either. I tried so very hard
with my essays, linking each paragraph together and
making my ending fit neatly into my beginning like
a clasp, but my essays were nearly always returned
with clipped annotations in red pen: 'Too colloquial!
Slang! I don't like your tone. This isn't suitable!'

I was always so down-hearted then. I didn't
understand that my natural writing style simply
wasn't appropriate for a school essay. I'm pretty
sure if Miss Pierce were still alive and I gave her
one of my books, she'd reach for her red pen after
the first paragraph (albeit beautifully linked to the
next) and repeat her comments. In fact she'd
probably underline them.

However, just occasionally she made my
heart leap.

Friday 4 March

In English I got 'Very good work indeed. Well done'
which raised my writing hopes as Miss P usually
gives mouldy remarks.

And on a golden night in June I wrote:

In the evening Mum went to a parents' meeting at
the school to discuss what subjects we are going to
take in the G.C.E. Miss Pierce told her that I was
very excellent at English and that she personally
would think it a crime if I didn't stay on to the 6th
form and take A level English Literature!!!! When
Mum told me I was so happy I nearly cried. I might
be good as a writer after all.

I had the determination. Then on 14 April I
became more focused: 'I bought a WONDERFUL
little book called 'Teach Yourself to Write' by
Kathleen Betterton. It is wonderfully encouraging
and has given me absolutely heaps of ideas.'

I still have my copy of that little book now, well
thumbed, with the cover in tatters. Kathleen
Betterton says:

No book can teach you how to write, much
less how to succeed as a writer. It can teach
you only how to teach yourself to write: the
rest depends on you. Literary success springs
from an unusual combination of originality,
luck and industry – especially industry.

I was an odd one out, a strange, shy, weird,
imaginative girl who seemed to think differently
from everyone else. Did that make me original?
I was prepared to be ultra industrious. All right, I
could hardly bear to open a school textbook and
I was pretty hopeless at helping Biddy with the
dusting and vacuuming – but I wrote for hour
after hour in my notebooks and diaries.

I wasn't so sure about the luck element
though. It's the one thing you can't really
control. You can do your best to make your
own luck, keeping an eye on literary trends and
always being one step ahead. You can force
yourself to write an artful letter, make a phone
call, approach the right person at a publishing
party (though it's agony if you're shy like me).
But it's still mostly a matter of luck whether
you get your manuscript accepted or not,
whether it wins awards and races up the bestseller
charts.

My
biggest best-seller has been
The Story of
Tracy Beaker
. It was a reasonably original idea to
choose to write a story about a fierce little girl in
a children's home, desperate to be fostered. I
certainly worked hard at it. There was no problem
with Tracy herself. She sprang to life the moment
I made up her name. It was as if she'd seized my
pen in her own hot little hand, determined to write
her story her way, in her own voice.

I needed to check my facts and find out about
fostering. This is where the first piece of luck
flashed forth. My friend Bryony works for the
Fostering Network and has very successfully
fostered children herself. I asked her if she had any
pamphlets about the whole procedure. She gave me
a handful, including a yellow booklet specially for
children called
My Book About Me
. As soon as I
opened it and saw: MY NAME IS . . . I AM . . . YEARS
. . . MONTHS OLD. MY BIRTHDAY IS ON . . . my heart
started thumping. This was the way to write my
book. I imagined my fidgety, stroppy Tracy being
sat down by an overly earnest social worker
and told to start writing her life story in her
special book. She'd start messing about almost at
once, telling fibs, going off into little flights of
fancy. She'd doodle little drawings all over the page
too. I knew I wanted those drawings in the
published book.

I nervously asked my then editor, David
Fickling, if I could have lots of black and white
illustrations throughout the text. This was quite
unusual in those days and I worried about it being
an extra expense.

David just beamed at me. 'An
excellent
idea,
Jacky,' he said. 'I tell you what, I think I know
exactly the right person.'

That right person was Nick Sharratt, now my
dear friend, who has illustrated every one of my
books for nearly twenty years now, and provided
each one with an imaginative, distinctive, colourful
cover. I am sooooo lucky to have Nick as my
artistic partner.

I've written around ninety children's books now
and people often ask me if I've ever thought of
writing for adults. I
did
actually write five dark
and depressing crime novels for adults long ago but
I'm not the slightest bit tempted to write for
adults now. I only ever want to write for children
and teenagers.