We are delighted to welcome Sita Brahmachari to the blog with a very special guest blog about libraries and their role in her books.  Throughout Libraries Week we will be posting special content each day so do check back!

Imagine a world in which libraries are closed, schools are closed, and those without books at home or the tech to access ‘digital libraries’ are denied access to books and learning. A world in which only children from certain backgrounds can thrive.

Surely such a vision belongs only in the dystopia I explored in Where The River Runs Gold? and yet…

Recently, when my local library building re-opened albeit on a partial basis, one of the things that most gladdened my heart was seeing the families waiting on the steps to enter the story hearth. In writing my latest novel When Secrets Set Sail libraries and librarians have been once again in my mind and heart.

When contemporary children Imtiaz and Usha hear the whispers of history in their Hackney home and go in search of the identity of the ghostly voice of a woman speaking to them through a conch shell, they head to the library.  Of course the first port of call for many children today is the internet…. But in my story and in real life not everything they need to discover about the voice in the conch that belongs to an ayah (one of many Indian nannies who used to live in the house) can be found online.

 A satellite local library at the end of their street, run by a professional retired librarian from Hackney, holds many treasures including an archive of local history - old photos and newspapers articles contributed over generations.

Charles and Dr Devi (the latter an archivist at V&A Museum) like so many librarians I have worked with on my writing way,  do so much more than most people will ever know to engender in young people a lifelong love of reading for pleasure. The children and families who are so eager to re-enter the beating heart of library buildings after the long closure, know and feel this deeply.

School and public libraries and librarians have been inspirations and helped me to write these stories.

It was a librarian in an East London school who set up a Somali girl’s writing group and invited me to work with  them for a year as I wrote Red Leaves in which Aisha,  a Somali refugee survivor, is a central character. These children are credited in the acknowledgements of the story and it would not surprise me at all if some of that group become writers one day. In publication week Imogen Russell Williams, then working in a school library, kindly sent me a copy of how many times the book had been taken out in one week.  I keep this well-thumbed one week old copy by my desk to remind myself of how hungry children are for stories that can speak to them.

Similarly in Tender Earth, while Patron of Reading at Archer Academy, I worked in the safe haven of the library with two children who have cerebral palsy because they told me they wanted me to represent a character in a wheelchair in my next story. Our work together led me to write the character of Kezia. It is so often in the library the space can be created for this precious work with young readers and potential authors of tomorrow. It can be no coincidence that so many of us authors credit our love of reading and writing to childhood libraries and librarians.

For my most recent novel When Secrets Set Sail, the scope of a story exploring different kinds of oral history testimony was first tested at Fortismere School when I was Patron of Reading there.  I was working on a creative writing project encouraging students to write ‘Letters to an Unknown Soldier’ – the nameless statue on Liverpool Street Station.  Librarian Gill Ward and I were overwhelmed by the students’ response and the objects and photos they brought in of their family histories. The experience led me to understand the impact that a story focusing on oral history might have.

When visiting Sheffield Libraries with Empathy Lab a librarian talked of how few depictions of Roma children there are in stories. Later at an Amnesty Conference I was shocked to discover that Roma children have a life expectancy on average of ten years less than any other group of children and the lowest literacy rates too. The character of Cosmo and his storytelling grandmother Valini began to grow… In homage to where the idea was seeded …. In When Secrets Set Sail we meet Cosmo for the first time as he is taking out a poetry book assisted by Charles at his library hearth!

In search of Hearths

‘Close the curtains. Good! Now imagine sitting there, plugging your earphones in and listening to people telling you their local history stories while watching all the photos and documents in those archive boxes  scrolling around the screen in front of you. Your very own personal experience in the passport booth of history!

(Page 141 When Secrets Set Sail)

Charles has had ambitions to place the diverse oral history of the area into an old passport photo booth he calls ‘The Passport to History Booth.’ It’s a kind of ‘Doctor Who’ Tardis of an oral history project through which he hopes to ignite the imagination of the community and creates a hearth for many children and families to contribute their stories to and gather around.

The library is one of several hearths in When Secrets Set Sail. The Joseph family also run a drop-in refugee centre in the bottom of the house they name ‘The Hearth’. I realise that in all the stories that I have written, no matter what challenges, past, present or near future dangers the children face, I am always seeking out  free creative – story hearths and hives -  for them to grow where hope seeds can be planted and  their spirits and imaginations nurtured.

Brent Library visit (2019) Shifa’s seed packets from Where The River Runs Gold have generated many more.

The refugee centre Hearth that forms the bottom layer of the magical ‘Ship House’ in When Secrets Set Sail  is homage to the art and writing class that Jane Ray and myself run at Islington Centre For Refugees and Migrants work together in. We have sometimes exhibited the work in Islington Libraries.  People are very often stunned to know that this book borrowing service is free to all. Sometimes one has to step outside one’s own reality to see how miraculous a free library service can look like for members of the centre. Through another lens it is moving to see how the local community respond to the art and writing of newly arrived refugee people. The library is the place where local meets global.

Public libraries and School Librarians have been working hard over lockdown to keep their online offerings, orders and collections open in this digital age and yet what is missing for the families in my local library is the physical building. This is what the families I saw sitting outside excitedly waiting to enter have been missing… the warm welcome around the story Hearth that libraries and librarians should be able to offer us all, whoever we are.

‘Culture n’ Stuff’ – What treasure is to be found in the library?

Young people use the library in many different ways in my stories. I think of Aisha and her friend Muna in Red Leaves using it as the space where they explore ‘Culture n’ Stuff.’ I have a game that I play as I write of imagining the child characters forward into adulthood and I pin point who planted in them the seeds that make them grow into who they will become.  For Aisha it will be the librarian who first nurtures her poetry telling voice.

In Tender Earth Pari and Aisha debate the kind of books that feed them.  Laila finds in I am Malala the most eye, heart and soul opening story she has ever read. By contrast, her friend Pari, a refugee survivor from Iraq, is in search of fantasy. In addition she resents being ‘a charity case’ for Laila’s hand me down stories. Pari prefers the library because as she sees it, here all students have equal access to books even if their parents don’t have bookshelves at home.

From Corey’s Rock Illustrated by Jane Ray

In Corey’s Rock - Orkney Libraries provides the dreaming space of soft cushions and beautiful children’s artwork. This story corner or ‘Hearth’ has been lovingly created by the librarians. It’s here that Isla finds solace and healing through reading.  Despite the fact that she has stories told to her and selected by her parents --- it is here in the library space that she seeks independence and solace. When Isla declares an interest in ‘Selkie Tales’ the librarian is able to locate and offer her a choice from which she hones in on just the one she needs. Here is where Isla’s own agency over her journey of recovery begins.

A place to dream

If the bottom deck of the Ship House in When Secrets Set Sail is is a hearth the ‘top deck’ is the place in which the children’s imagination is given space to roam… the room ‘more of ship than a bedroom’ contains an anchor and an enormous porthole that Usha’s Pops Michael created from old bits of wreckage collected from shipyards as he travelled around the world. If only each piece could tell its story… Along with the anchor a central feature is an enormous circular window named ‘The Globe Window,’ offering, Pop’s Michael once said, ‘our very own porthole onto the world.’

The children in my stories are seeking these spaces to dream, to explore their own histories and those of their globe-wide Diaspora families, friends and neighbours … they’re looking to see how ‘culture n’stuff’ connects them and to read themselves into these spaces. Some might seek stories to see how they are reflected through ‘The Globe Window’ and other readers and writers like my young narrators Imtiaz and Usha, are keen to push the porthole wide open to set sail on a quest to discover untold stories that will lead them from their home and hearth right across the globe.

From When Secrets Set Sail - a place to dream - The Globe window – illustrated by Evan Hollingdale

Who knows! Maybe Charles’ ‘Passport to History Booth’ dream to have an oral history project in ‘every library in the land!’ really can come true! I have already seen many wonderful displays when visiting libraries.

I hope this story will be a catalyst for many more.

Invitation!

The actual house in Hackney in which When Secrets Set Sail is set has been nominated for a Blue Plaque due to the work of Farahanah Mamoojee @ayahshome and Hackney Libraries and Museum. Librarians are invited to take part in an interactive project #WSSBluePlaqueProject and have readers and students enter their own nominations of buildings and people they would like to see commemorated. To find out more visit:

https://www.hachetteschools.co.uk/landing-page/when-secrets-set-sail-by-sita-brahmachari/

https://www.booktrust.org.uk/news-and-features/features/2020/september/why-sita-brahmachari-wants-you-to-discover-the-amazing-history-in-your-street/

Image gallery shows:

When Secrets Set Sail jacket image

Tender Earth back cover

Brent Library Visit (2019), Shifa's seed packets from Where the River Runs Gold

Illustration by Jane Ray from Corey's Rock

The Globe Window, illustration by Evan Hollingdale from When Secrets Set Sail

A huge thank you to Sita Brahmachari for this very special blog and for starting our Libraries Week week of content!

We are delighted to welcome Susan Martineau to the blog to talk about writing Question Everything! a fascinating book about critical literacy skills.  In this article, Susan discusses the importance of critical literacy, navigating fake news and some of the background to writing Question Everything!

We live in an information jungle. How can we help young readers to navigate safely through it to explore the world confidently and safely? They need to be armed with some essential critical literacy skills to find their way to reliable sources of information, to ask questions and to think for themselves.

I am not an expert on anything but, as a children’s information book author, I think I am good at digging out accurate facts. Question Everything! started out as a ‘toolkit’ for anyone interested in investigating further after reading two of my other books, Real-life Mysteries and Real-life Disasters. However, in this era of fake news, it quickly evolved into a more comprehensive travel guide to my fact-finding world, offering advice to all readers navigating the information jungle.

One place that needs especially critical antennae is the online world. The internet is the most amazing research tool, but I’ve seen so much rubbish, and convincing-sounding half-truths, along my fact-finding journey each time I write a new information book. I’ve certainly needed all the critical literacy skills I can muster. In Question Everything! I’ve shared my tips on how to travel safely online and watch for the trapdoors.

As well as finding my way around online, I love rootling in libraries. Libraries have always seemed a wonderful treasure trove ever since I was a child being left to roam our local one. I love looking for THE perfect fascinating facts that I think readers will love. Then I worry until I’ve been able to doublecheck them as I am always in fear of getting facts wrong or half-baked. ‘Corroborate and verify’ is my fact-finding mantra.

I like talking to librarians and booksellers about my ideas for new books, too. I’d always wanted to write a book about mysteries for children and was encouraged by a chat with one of the children’s booksellers in Blackwell’s, Oxford, my favourite shop of all time. (I also enjoy a bit of ‘guerrilla’ marketing by turning any of my books, if spotted, face out!)

I’ve tried to make Question Everything! entertaining along the way. I find fun things easier to remember so I think it’s a good approach, and I’m a massive fan of Vicky Barker’s illustrations which have done most of the work for me. All my books always include ‘big words to know’, because I’m always learning tons of new ones as I research and write and I really enjoy handing them on to readers. But in Question Everything! I’ve also encouraged the readers to question why certain words, some of them very big (and possibly scary-sounding), are used in news headlines.

My research and writing often takes me into weird and peculiar places, too. Real-life Mysteries includes the gruesome outlandishness of spontaneous human combustion, for example. However, I’ve given a few school talks and I know that young readers like spooky stuff as much as I do. It is also wonderful when a parent or teacher says a child ‘never’ reads but something intriguing in my books has really grabbed them.

My parents let me have free run of the books in our house and, like my father, I am now also a certified book hoarder. My grown-up children like to remind me that whenever they came home with a homework project I’d usually say ‘oh, I think I’ve got a book about that’, whether they wanted my help or not. But one of them is now a documentary film-maker so I like to think that I’ve passed on my fact-finding zeal.

It might be harder for all of us to keep feeling brave and adventurous at the moment, but children’s curiosity and exploration of the world of information still has to be encouraged and their questions to be answered. It can sometimes be a challenge if you are the parent of a child like one of mine who asked questions just at the trickiest and most inappropriate moment. ‘Mummy, I know how the baby gets out, but how did it get in?’ was a highlight in the supermarket.

It is also crucial for children to learn and practise their critical literacy skills so that they can imagine their own future path through the world around them. As a girl who grew up in an era when woodwork and metalwork at school was only for the boys (they even had a car workshop which looked like much more fun than sewing!) I want young readers to feel that there are no limits on what they can choose to do in their lives, no matter their background, race or gender. If Question Everything! can help them on their way, then I’m a very happy fact nerd.

Thank you to Susan Martineau for the blog piece and to B Small Publishing for the opportunity.

A M Dassu is a writer and magistrate based in the heart of England.  She is the Deputy Editor of SCBWI-BI's Words and Pictures magazine and is a Director of Inclusive Minds.  A. M. Dasu won the international We Need Diverse Books mentorship award in 2017.  She has used her publisihing advances for Boy Everywhere to assist Syrian refugees in her city and has set up a grant to support an unpublished refugees/recently immigrated writer.  Am Dassu can be followed on Twitter @a_reflective  or through her website.  We are delighted to welcome A M Dassu to the blog and are excited to be able to feature a preview of chapter one from Boy Everywhere which publishes in October.

Refugee week was founded in 1998 to encourage an understanding of why people seek safety and to celebrate the contributions of refugees. Unfortunately, over two decades later, xenophobia is still rife and the arrival of refugees and immigrants to this country is still questioned and frequently opposed.

The theme for this year’s Refugee Week is to Imagine and this is exactly what I did five years ago when I first began writing BOY, EVERYWHERE.

In 2015, I put myself in the shoes of a thirteen-year-old boy who lived a happy, normal life; who made plans with friends, had the potential to play for the school football team, an iPad, a PlayStation, a great school, weekends at the mall to look forward to, and I imagined what it would feel like to lose it all.

BOY, EVERYWHERE, was inspired by a news interview that showed refugees in muddy camps wearing Nike trainers and holding smartphones, and talking about what they’d left behind. Looking around my comfortable living room, I realised how similar their lives were to ours in the West and how easily a civil war could bring the same fate upon any of us. I had been supporting refugees by setting up fundraising campaigns to provide food and aid for many years but I knew this wasn’t enough. I wanted to do something long-lasting by sharing their incredible achievements, culture and backgrounds. So I started writing a story about a boy who once had everything.

I have been honoured to spend time with some of the most amazing people, who had been left with no choice but to leave Syria. Among them were English graduates, department store buyers, teachers, doctors and architects, and all of them had to start anew. Through BOY, EVERYWHERE I wanted to focus not only on the arduous journey a refugee takes to get to safety, but also what and who they leave behind and how difficult it is to start again. I wanted the focus to be on who they were and are, their identities as Syrians, not just the temporary political status attributed to them in their new country.

My hope is that this book helps to challenge stereotypes and break down barriers in our society. In a world where we are told to see refugees as ‘other’, I hope you will agree that ‘they’ are also ‘us’.

With love and hope,

A. M. Dassu 

Chapter 1

It all started going wrong during English. It was the last lesson on Thursday before the weekend, we’d just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird and Miss Majida stood at the whiteboard going through some comprehension questions. I was scribbling them down, my head resting on my arm, when Leila tapped me on my shoulder from behind and handed me a note.

Are you coming ice-skating tomorrow?

I’d started writing back when the door flew open and Mr Abdo, our principal, burst into the room.

I shot up from my desk the second he entered and straightened my shoulders. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mr Abdo, their faces blank.

‘Pack your bags. You’re all to go home,’ he said, rubbing the creases on his tired, worn face. ‘See you back here on Sunday morning.’

We didn’t need telling twice. Everyone slapped their books shut and the room erupted into noisy chatter. My best friend Joseph turned to me and our eyes locked in confusion. ‘Your parents and guardians have been called and are on their way to collect you,’ Mr Abdo added, loosening the knot in his tie, his lips thin and tight, lines deepening across his brow. ‘But why, Sir?’ asked someone from the back of the class. ‘There’s been a bombing. This is not a drill, eighth grade. We need to get you all home. You know the protocol.’

A collective gasp rose from the room.

Through the sash windows the sky was a clear blue. I couldn’t see any smoke. Everything looked  normal.  The old orange tree stood firm in the sunlit courtyard, the gold crescent moon on top of the mosque’s minaret gleamed in the distance. Behind it the red, white and black striped flag on top of the church tower fluttered gently in the breeze, cars were hooting their horns, the newspaper seller was still shouting out to people passing by his stall.

Where had the bomb gone off? Panic prickled through me as I thought of home. I wished phones were allowed in school so I could just call to see if Mum, Dad and Sara were okay. I grabbed my bag to get my iPad, but remembered it wasn’t in there. ‘Joseph, get your tablet out,’ I said. ‘Just want to check what’s happened – I forgot my iPad at home.’

‘They won’t have bombed anywhere near us, Sami. Don’t worry,’ said Joseph, pulling his tablet out of his bag and swiping to log in. ‘What shall I type?’ he asked, leaning in towards me.

‘Google ‘bombing in Damascus’.’

After a second, he pursed his lips and said, ‘Nothing’s coming up.’ He showed me the error message – the internet was down again for the second time that day. I felt my shoulders tense and quickly reminded myself that it was usually the outskirts of the city that were bombed. Most   of Syria was torn apart because of the war, but no one had gotten close to Damascus.

‘Your mum and dad are at work, right?’ Joseph asked, his eyes focused on my forehead. I realised I was sweating and wiped the back of my arm across my face.

‘Yeah, Dad’s at the hospital but Mum worked from home today because Sara wasn’t feeling well. They should be at the

mall now,’ I said, glancing at my Swatch. ‘She’s picking up my football boots before the trials.’

‘Well, no one’s ever bombed the centre. The government’s always on high alert – just chill, bro,’ said Joseph, lightly pushing his fist into my shoulder before turning to put his tablet away.

He was right. But every time there was a bomb alert,    I couldn’t help worrying. Damascus is safe, I told myself. I took a deep breath, gathered my books and packed them into my bag while Mr Abdo spoke to Miss Majida. She had her hand over her mouth and looked like she was about to burst into tears.

A backpack pushed past my arm, followed by another – everyone was already leaving.

‘They’re doing you a favour, Sami, you weren’t gonna pass the English test later anyway.’ I turned to find George grinning at me. ‘Neither were you, sucker,’ he said, pushing into Joseph. Even at a time like this, George couldn’t help being an idiot. Maybe it was his way of showing he wasn’t nervous like me, but it was so annoying.

‘You’re the one that’s gonna fail, loser,’ said Joseph, sticking his face into George’s.

‘Shut up! You’re so fat, the only English letters you know are K, F, C,’ George sneered at Joseph, then turned to me, raising his eyebrows and running his hands through his hair. So dumb, I thought. George still hadn’t got over Joseph coming from a non-English-speaking school. The class babble and sound of scraping chairs made it hard to think of a quick response but I had to stick up for Joseph, whose cheeks were now the colour of tomatoes. I rolled my eyes at

George. ‘We’ll see… K, F and C are still three more letters than you know. Did you stay up all week thinking of that one?’ His grin grew, so I added, ‘Shall I use smaller words to make sure you understand what I’m saying?’ It wasn’t the greatest comeback but I couldn’t think of anything else. ‘Loser,’ I muttered, as I watched him get tugged away by his mini fan club, which consisted of exactly two friends.

Joseph and I joined the stream of kids leaving the classroom. Mr Abdo was now speaking to Miss Majida at the door, but she stopped talking the second I drifted towards it.

Joseph clutched his backpack, his head lowered. He was unusually quiet. Ugh. George had got to him again.

‘You want to go to Damer’s for ice cream after the trials?’ I asked to cheer him up.

‘Yeah, of course, man!’ Joseph said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Then we can go again tomorrow after ice- skating.’ He grinned.

Mr Abdo marched past us. ‘Hang on,’ I said to Joseph and ran to catch up with him.

‘Erm, Sir, we’re supposed to be going to football after school, where shall we wait?’ I said, wondering if Mum had collected my football boots.

He picked up his pace and strode into the classroom next door to ours and started talking to the teacher inside. I shrugged my shoulders at Joseph as he caught up with me. We rushed down the central stairway of the school behind the swarm of students and flowed into the large reception area, where our physics teacher, Miss Maria, was ushering everyone out of the side exit. I slowed down as I spotted Joseph’s dad in a smart dark-grey suit, sitting on

the deep-buttoned green leather sofa with his head in his hands. No one else’s parents were inside, which was odd. The dark wood-panelled walls where the president’s portrait hung made him look even gloomier.

‘Baba?’ said Joseph. His dad looked up.

‘Ah, Sami, come here.’ Joseph’s dad stood up and reached out to hug me first. Weird. I went to him feeling awkward, and as he embraced me tightly I felt my heart begin to race.

He pressed my head against his shoulder and ruffled my hair, then released me and grabbed Joseph. I stepped back, feeling woozy from inhaling his strong aftershave.

‘Right, let’s get you both home,’ he said in Arabic, turning from Joseph.

‘But what about the football trials?’ I asked. ‘Our driver is bringing my boots. I have to wait for him!’

‘Your dad asked me to pick you up. It’s not safe to be out today.’

‘But, Baba!’ Joseph interrupted. ‘We were gonna get on the team today! This is so unfair!’

‘Joseph, I already told you, it’s not safe to be at the stadium.’

Joseph tutted, shoved his fist into the carved wooden door and walked out.

‘Thank you! I’ll keep you updated,’ Joseph’s dad shouted at the school receptionist as he followed Joseph out. I ran after him, my stomach lurching. Dad wouldn’t send Joseph’s dad to pick me up unless it was serious. Maybe the bombing was really bad. Dad would know because of the number of casualties coming in at the hospital.

The street outside school was a tangle of gridlocked cars and beeping horns. Cars were double parked across the pavement, leaving hardly any room to walk between them. The newspaper seller shoved papers and magazines into our sides as we walked past his stall, desperately trying to get them sold while the street was jammed with people. We    all got into Joseph’s dad’s Honda CRV and I pulled the seat belt over me slowly, looking out at all the parents frowning in their cars. Joseph glanced at me and then pulled out his tablet.

‘Can’t believe they dropped a bomb today of all days… been waiting ages for this,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘I know…’ I said. ‘I bet Avraham’s on his way with my boots as well. He’s probably stuck in all the traffic now.’

‘What did you end up ordering?’ he asked, pressing

Start on a game.

‘Can’t get the Nike Magistas in Damascus. So I got the Adidas Predators.’

‘Oooh, nice.’ He looked out of the window and then said, ‘Thanks for sticking up for me with George.’ His cheeks were flushed again.

‘No worries… I’d never leave you to face that thug alone.’ George and his stupid gang had bullied Joseph ever since we started middle school. They thought they could do or say anything they wanted because they were ulad masooleen

– kids of government officials. I’d never seen Joseph look so sad or alone as that first week, and I never wanted him to feel that way again. I’d always be there for him. It had always been Sami and Joseph. And it would be for ever.

‘Ignore him,’ I said. ‘He’s just jealous of your skills – still

hasn’t got over last semester, when you scored that penalty.’

Joseph smiled. ‘Yeah, that was awesome. Do you think they’ll rearrange the trials to next week now?’

‘Yeah, probably.’

As Joseph went back to his game, I stared out of the window, checking out everyone’s cars. Leila’s mum was in her space grey Lexus RX, but I couldn’t see Leila through the tinted glass. Oh man – I realised I’d totally forgotten   to reply to her note after Mr Abdo walked in. I’d message when I got home and tell her me and Joseph would be at the ice rink at 3 p.m. tomorrow.

It took twenty minutes to get out of the school street behind all the other cars, but when we got moving I could see the high-rise buildings were still intact, the roads were clear, traffic only building up near the checkpoints. There were a few fluffy clouds scattered in the sky. Something circled the blue far away, probably a helicopter. I still couldn’t see any smoke in the air. They probably bombed the outskirts of the city, I reassured myself again.

On the way to Joseph’s neighbourhood, a crowd of people were gathered outside a big villa, the men in smart suits and the women in dresses, some wearing headscarves. But I was more interested in the cars they were standing next to – a black Bentley and a white Rolls Royce parked on the road. Both Joseph and I sat up to get a better look, our mouths open, practically drooling.

‘Woah. What do you think they’re here for?’ I asked Joseph.

‘Probably a wedding… or a funeral,’ he said, showing me his game score and smirking. ‘I beat you, right?’

‘Oi! Give me that,’ I said, grabbing his tablet and pressing

Play. We’d been doing this for weeks.

Joseph’s dad parked outside their apartment building. As the car stopped on the smooth black tarmac, we heard what must’ve been gunshots in the distance. I always thought it sounded like rain hitting a tin roof. But it wasn’t raining. We jumped out, sheltered our heads with our arms and ran through their black front gates. We raced straight up to Joseph’s bedroom, throwing our bags down next to some dried orange peel he hadn’t bothered binning.

I sat on the end of his bed while Joseph switched on his PlayStation and small flat screen TV. ‘May as well play FIFA, if we can’t play the real thing, eh?’ he said, his second chin protruding more than usual because of his grumpy face.

‘Yeah, may as well,’ I said, wishing the trials hadn’t been cancelled and we were showing off what we’d been practising.

There was a small knock on the door and it opened. ‘Hi, you two. Do you want anything to eat?’ asked Joseph’s mum.

‘Nah,’ said Joseph, still facing the TV screen, waiting for the game to load.

‘How about you, Sami?’

‘No thanks, Aunty, but can I have a drink please?’ ‘Sure. What would you like? Coke?’

‘Yes, thanks. Shall I call my mum to get Avraham to pick me up? He’s probably waiting for me at school.’

‘No!’ she said quickly, in a strange high-pitched voice. ‘Your dad wants you to stay for dinner. Stay there – I’ll be right back with that Coke!’ She pulled the door tight and left.

I bit my lip and frowned as I grabbed the remote from Joseph’s hands and put it on TV mode.

‘Oi! What you doing?’ shouted Joseph.

‘Shhh, I just wanna check the news. See why Dad got us picked up. Don’t you wanna know?’

‘Not really. All they’ll show is more dead people.’ ‘Oh, come on, it’ll only take a minute.’

‘Go on then,’ said Joseph.

I flicked through the channels one by one. Kids’ cartoons, music, documentaries, news channel. My head started spinning as I read the headline flashing in red at the bottom of the screen.

DAMASCUS: CHAM CITY CENTRE MALL REBEL TERRORIST BOMB ATTACK

I sat staring at the image on the screen. The once-shiny glass building was now partly rubble. The glass half of the mall was a broken grey shell – the concrete half was just about standing. There were no windows or doors left in any of it and people in high-vis jackets rushed through the smoke, debris, rows of police cars and ambulances. I watched, but couldn’t move. My ears throbbed. I could see Joseph’s arms waving around next to me. Everything had slowed down, the noise from the TV and Joseph’s words muffled. I tried to say something, but nothing came out.

The mall had been bombed. Mum and Sara were there.  Buying my football boots.

The Youth Libraries Group is delighted to have a new writer or illustrator in residence programme.  Each individual will be in post for a three month tenure and will be selected on the basis of championing an under-represented form of writing or illustration, helping to shine a light upon this, or else because they champion an underrepresented community.  We are delighted that Emma Shevah has agreed to be our first electronic writer in resident.  If you have not come across her books, we can highly recommend these.  This electronic residency will form a part of our Raising Voices initiative more of which will be announced soon.

Hello. I’m Emma Shevah and I’m honoured to have been asked to be the YLG’s first electronic Writer-in-Residence. I’m the author of three Chicken House books for 8-12s (Dream on Amber, Dara Palmer’s Major Drama and What Lexie Did), and an early reader with Bloomsbury (Hello Baby Mo!). My fourth MG novel will be published in summer 2020.

As a Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) author writing about BAME characters, the findings of this week’s ‘Reflecting Realities’ CPLE report on Ethnic Representation in Children’s Literature have been interesting. They reveal that only 4% of UK children’s books published in 2018 had BAME main characters—up 1% from 2017 but still unpardonably low. Hopefully, my 2018 offering was included in that percentage, but Lexie is Greek Cypriot and the BAME acronym’s ‘minority ethnic’ definition is unclear (more on that next month).

Meanwhile, a PhD student interviewed me recently: her department at the University of Leicester is researching artists, writers and musicians, and how they manage - or don’t - to finance their creative lives. She asked about my writing process, my books, and whether I need to undertake other work. Four of her questions struck me. What percentage of your income is from writing? followed by what percentage of your time is spent writing? (face palm moment). Would you recommend writing as a career? And do you think it’s different for BAME writers?

Hmm. Writing about BAME characters can pose financial problems. The UK’s drive for diversity in children’s books is not necessarily shared globally, and contemporary novels about diverse characters and/or family situations can be difficult to sell internationally as they may not reflect the experiences and situations of cultures overseas. The reason there are more animal protagonists than BAME ones is that animals are generic and therefore translatable: a lion learning about his identity is likely to sell in many more territories than one about a mixed-raced child in Luton with same-sex parents. Publishing is an industry, and for authors and publishers, global markets matter.

Back home, there are issues, too. UK book buyers for the under 12s are predominantly (white, as that is the demographic) parents. While some are just relieved their children are reading and will buy any book they choose, others cherry-pick ‘literary’ books of ‘quality’ that will further their children’s schooling rather than ones that will widen their cultural and sociological understanding of modern Britain. Writing contemporary novels in the first person doesn’t help: I write in a style and vernacular that mirrors today’s eleven-year-olds, who tend not to talk in lyrical language rich in metaphors and similes. Historical, fantasy and third-person narratives free authors of this limitation.  A very small number of books scoop up the majority of sales, and once they sell well, more resources are put behind them from publishers and retailers so they sell even more, leaving little space and money for the rest. Celebrity authors are the new vogue, too, for the same reason. And while school librarians tweet photos of my dog-eared books, saying there’s a queue for them, which I love, those many readers are reading just one book.

These factors affect sales, and low sales negatively affect the ability of BAME writers to earn a living from writing. Of course, most writers share this problem. But without strong UK sales and foreign rights, generic stories about bears will continue to trump BAME characters and their specific experiences. There are further issues: with the BAME acronym, with the immigrant work ethos influencing/ dominating the career choices of first generation children where writing is not a valid career option, and the unconscious (or possibly conscious) collective bias that means books about young British Muslims have more chance of being published and promoted than ones about young British Jews.

What percentage of my income is from writing? Less than 5%. What percentage of my time is spent doing it? Oh God. 40%? Rising to 70-80% in the school holidays? Would I recommend writing as a career? No. See above. But this is also subjective: I’m a lone parent with four children living in an expensive part of the country. I have a demanding full-time job, and a part-time evening job, and when I should be gathering strength and enjoying my children, I’m exhausting myself by tapping relentlessly on a laptop keyboard. My books haven’t sold in forty territories – eight is the most so far, and this is good, especially as it includes the US and Canada, where—thanks to The Odyssey Honour award and New York Times, Wall Street Journal, People magazine and starred library journal reviews– my profile and sales are higher than they are here. But this still isn’t enough to provide me with more time and space for writing.

Are my BAME books getting out there, making a difference, changing the world and its shameful statistics? Who knows. I’m tired. I’d like to stop for a while because I value my health and my family, and need, really, to focus on my reliably-paid jobs. Is this experience shared by other BAME writers? No idea. Our experiences of writing are as personal as our stories.

Obviously, I’d love to see more BAME protagonists in UK children’s books. I wrote about the dearth of South East Asian characters in The Bookseller and write them myself to ensure they exist. But parents need to buy them, booksellers and librarians continue to promote, showcase and encourage readership of them, teachers use them in the classroom and add them to reading lists and curriculums, and the ‘canon’ adapt to incorporate them. BAME writers must have money and room if they are to write, and, importantly, to continue writing.

Is it different for BAME writers? I think it is. We’re in the peripheral vision, finally. But there’s still such a long way to go.