We are honoured to welcome Laurence Anholt to the blog.  Laurence is the author and illustrator of Small Stories of Great Artists.  He was longlisted for the Carnegie Medal with The Hypnotist and has had books published in over 30 languages.  In this poignant guest blog, Laurence considers the impact personal grief has played on the creation of his own work.

When my daughter died, I thought about libraries. This is how it came about…

In the spring of 2023, life seemed easy for my wife Cathy and me. It would be hard not to find contentment on this Devon hilltop overlooking the sea. In the wildflower meadows below the house, gentle long-horned cattle graze, while our grandchildren run amongst the trees.

After 35 years as a writer and illustrator, a golden opportunity had been presented to me – I received an invitation from the legendary art publisher, Taschen to launch their children’s list. They proposed a super high-quality 336-page anthology called Small Stories of Great Artists, based on my series about great artists and the real children who knew them. What a privilege it was to collaborate with the enthusiastic and efficient editors and designers in London and Cologne.

Together we created fresh layouts, and Taschen employed their expertise in Art publishing to obtain licences for dozens of high-quality reproductions of the artists’ work. I set about creating new illustrations and writing child-friendly biographies of the artists. The book would be translated into several languages and would even have a silky ribbon bookmark, they promised me! Our aim was to create a gorgeous object for a child to handle. Something that would provide a springboard into a lifetime’s love of art.

When things are going well it’s as if we inhabit a bubble in which health and happiness will last forever. It’s easy to forget how perilously thin the skin of a bubble may be.

In her own studio Cathy was lost in her work, putting together a one-woman show of her lovely paintings in Seoul. Our grown-up children were well and happy; and best of all, our daughter Maddy and her new partner came to live just half an hour away.

Maddy was a powerhouse – a fearless standup comedian, an actor, an activist and a Women’s Aid Ambassador. When Covid thwarted her run at the Edinburgh Fringe, Maddy didn’t grumble, she sat down, reimagined the stage show as a book; found an agent; got published by Pan MacMillan.

Now pregnant with her first child, she and her partner managed to scrape together a deposit on a romantic tumble-down chapel, which they set about converting into a family home, just in time for the arrival of their first child.

When our granddaughter was born our happiness seemed complete. I have never met a child quite like her – from the very start that kid had a sense of independence and easy contentment. Basking in love, she slept well, rarely cried and laughed easily. After all, that girl is Maddy’s child.

There was only one small cloud of worry in our bubble world - Maddy began suffering from headaches, which her doctor put down to postnatal anxiety.

And then, late one night and very quietly… the bubble burst.

At home in the chapel, Maddy collapsed in the kitchen. Within an hour we were propelled into a vortex of blaring ambulances, glaring hospital corridors and CT scans. Within a fortnight, Maddy had undergone a traumatic ten-hour operation for a brain tumour. Within months, the long drive to Bristol for radio and chemotherapy had become almost routine. By the time the superb NHS consultant took us to one side and told us, with tears in her eyes that it was all over, we were burnt-out shells.

Declining the offer of a hospice bed, my wife and I brought our daughter to our home above the sea, where we created a different kind of bubble – a sanctuary of tranquillity and love.

The 13^th of September 2023 was a golden, dappled day. Through the open doors and windows, you could hear boundless birdsong, as our beloved 35-year-old daughter died in our arms.

There are no words to describe that kind of pain. In the dark days that followed it was all we could do to put one foot in front of another, let alone organise a traditional funeral. In any case, Maddy wasn’t one for Onward Christian Soldiers. Church services made her giggle.

In a moment of insight, we realised that we had a choice - we could do whatever we pleased. We decided to create something extraordinary to honour that vivacious, rebellious, compassionate, funny and beautiful woman. Huddled together in grief, we began to plan a kind of mini mid-summer festival. We would call it Maddy’s Full Moon Celebration.

The mammoth task of organising the event became a welcome distraction. Our friends rallied around. We erected a huge marquee in our fields. There would be delicious homemade food, a huge firepit and flowers everywhere. Some kind neighbours promised miniature ponies for the children. Twenty or more friendly musicians offered to play for free.

There would be speeches of course, and rashly, I promised to speak. But with the stultifying grief and the sheer effort of organising that event I prevaricated and failed to prepare, beating myself up for letting everyone down. The truth is, I was lost for words.

And then on the morning of the celebration, 22^nd June 2024, something magical happened. I woke before dawn, and discovered an odd phrase had lodged in my mind like an earworm: ‘Life is a Library.’ The words seemed meaningless and bizarre.

I dressed and wandered into the fields where a lone fox returned from a night of villainy. I spotted our resident pair of twin deer – particularly poignant as Maddy is a twin. In the half-light I entered the huge, empty marquee. Walking past bare tables I came to the shrine we had set up beside the stage. There was that magnificent photo of our girl, shining like a flame. And in my mind, I heard that stupid phrase again: ‘Life is a Library.’

The sun rose like a golden ball above the sea. Around midday, more than 200 of Maddy’s friends rocked up from far and wide. Dressed in colourful clothes, they represented every walk of life; every age; every race; every gender; united by love and tears and laughter. It was beautiful. It was sad. It was dappled.

As we assembled in the marquee, I felt anxious. Very shortly it would fall on me to speak and still I had no plan. As I clutched the microphone, I peered through my grief at these wonderful, expectant humans. I spotted Maddy’s angelic daughter, blissfully unaware on the lap of her big cousin. I glanced at the huge photo of Maddy who beamed at me. “Go on dad. Own the marquee!” she seemed to say.

Someone made a recording of my speech, and I swear those words were not mine, and that was not me talking. “Life is a library,” I began. “Everything is on loan. We don't own anything at all.

“When our children were small, I came across the famous words about parenting by Kahlil Gibran: ‘Your children are not your children, they are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself’. I had always thought of that as a caution against helicopter parenting, or a platitude about letting go - like when a child takes their first steps, when they begin at school, or when they have their first relationship. What I didn't know… what I had never wanted to contemplate, was the true immensity of this concept: we literally cannot hold on to a thing. Everything must be returned in the Library of Life -our youth, our property, and all we love.”

I heard myself expound on the Buddhist teaching of Impermanence - nothing is fixed; nothing lasts except spirit. Nothing lasts except love. Everything is in a state of flux and flow and the more we try to cling on, the more we suffer. Happiness and sorrow are inseparable. Health and sickness are two sides of the same coin. Birth and death are twins. Peace comes from acceptance of the dappled quality of life.

“When Maddy left us, we were faced with the brutal reality of this fact,” I continued, “I would give anything to extend the return date on our precious girl.

“And I should acknowledge that there is nothing unusual or singular about our grief. I fully realise that we are always in the presence of people who are mourning the loss of a loved one. Death is an everyday catastrophe.

“But if nothing lasts, what is the point of it all? Well, I won't lie to you, there were moments in those early days when we felt as if we were stumbling through a dark labyrinth and life seemed utterly futile. All we can do is find a way of accommodating the pain. To make some kind of meaning of it all.

“What I am learning is that I am closer to Maddy when I'm creative; or when I'm in Nature. And here's another thing - whenever you think of Maddy, she's smiling or laughing, am I right? Hard as it is, we must relearn happiness. We're closest to her when we're with laughing with friends. That’s why I feel she's truly with us now.

“So the answer to the question, what's the point of it all if nothing is permanent? is that we are custodians. We are Life’s Librarians. All we can do is take the book home. All we can do is enjoy it as fully as we can and learn from it.

“I learnt so much from Maddy about forgiveness and tolerance and humour, and I continue to learn from her now more than ever. Life is so fleeting and unbelievably precious; all we can do is feel gratitude for what we have, and then return it graciously to the Library of Life.”

The other speeches were better than mine. My god there was some talent in that tent - young actors and comedians who sung, recited poems, told hilarious stories about crazy times with our girl. Her mum, her sister and twin brother spoke tenderly. Her younger cousins celebrated her lustrous hair, her banter, and more than anything, her kindness. Late into the night we sat around a fire as a full Strawberry Moon rose in the starry sky.

And in the coming days, when everyone had gone, and the marquee was dismantled, I went back to my studio to work on this book - Small Stories of Great Artists. Somehow the events of this year made me want to work with more love and care than I ever had before. When the bubble bursts we reevaluate. We appreciate the truly important things in life: family, friends, nature, art, books, and children… especially the children. I hope Small Stories of Great Artists brings joy to many. I’ve dedicated it to my grandchildren, ‘with a starry night of kisses.’

Heartfelt thanks to Laurence Anholt for the blog and to Dannie Price for the opportunity.

We are delighted to welcome Justin Somper, bestselling author of the Vampirates novels to the YLG blog to talk about his recent trip to Australia, his wedding, the challenges that he faced with the unravelling Covid-19 and how this fed the idea of devising a series of creative challenges.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Saturday March 14^th 2020. I’m standing barefoot on Redgate Beach in Margaret River. This glorious region of the Western Australian coast is celebrated in equal measure for its surfing beaches and wineries. Alongside me, also barefoot, is my partner PJ. Before us are arrayed a gaggle of family and close friends. To our left is Anita, our celebrant. After fourteen years together, eleven as civil partners, PJ and I are “upgrading” (now that it’s legal) to marriage.

This isn’t entirely the Australian beach wedding I was promised! Beach – tick. Barefoot – tick. A select gathering of our nearest and dearest - tick. But where’s the afternoon sun? It’s been raining on and off for most of the day. As we drove to the beach - in our friend’s uncle’s vintage Jag! - the rainfall became more persistent. We’ve all got umbrellas – several of them borrowed in haste from the reception of our guest house. Anita has brought her own - a rainbow one.

As the brief but beautiful ceremony progresses, the rain becomes heavier. By the time we are signing the wedding certificate, on a nearby rock, we’re deploying multiple umbrellas to keep the paper dry. We sip locally produced fizz to the sound of Kylie singing All the Lovers from a tiny speaker, then throw our umbrellas – and caution – aside, and allow the heavens to thoroughly drench us. It feels like we’re in a movie – an Aussie spin on Mamma Mia. Anita tells me that the rain is a good omen. It means the marriage knot will be tighter.

The morning after the wedding, reality hits like the heaviest hangover and the movie we’re living in – along with the rest of the planet – is suddenly something far more dystopian. It’s now clear that we’re not going to be able to fly out the next day to Tasmania, to see my father-in-law, nor from there to a weekend of friend catch-ups in Melbourne – in case we get stranded in either location. A more fundamental question looms as we drive back to Perth. What if we aren’t going to be able to get back to the UK?

The question hangs over us throughout the next week. Now that we’ve cut out the week of interstate travels, we find ourselves with time on our hands in Perth – and, surreally, the freedom to move around WA. Australia is well behind the UK in terms of cases of Covid-19 and there aren’t even social distancing measures in place yet – simply scrums in the supermarkets to secure loo roll and liquid soap, pasta and porridge oats.

That week, we drive up the coast to Cervantes (I love a town named after a writer, don’t you? *), to the Pinnacles and Nambung National Park, to Scarborough and Hillarys Boat Harbour. With the brilliant revamp of my Vampirates books by UCLan Publishing in March, it was always our intention to capitalise on the sun-drenched Australian coast to record some short films to deploy on social media at a later date. Now we have time and space to do this, but it feels oddly frivolous to record the standard Q&A about characters and inspiration.

I’m aware of the brilliant resources illustrators including Steven Lenton and Rob Biddulph are creating for kids on social media – and now in these unprecedented circumstances, it feels all the more vital for parents, librarians and teachers. I begin thinking about what I can offer in a similar vein. The answer comes to me while we’re out and about. How about I issue some bite-sized creative challenges to young people which they can engage with, whether or not they have read my books? Buoyed on this wave of positive energy, we spontaneously film three challenges that day at Hillarys.

The next day is a tough one. The UK is about to go into lockdown. My sister texts me, “come home now!”. My brother simultaneously texts, “stay there!”. We can’t get Trailfinders or Qantas on the phone. We start drawing up lists of contingencies. Can our dog-sitter continue to care for Bella, our beloved black lab? Can we get a mortgage holiday if necessary? What items would we need retrieved from our home office if we had to set up remote working from here?

PJ suggests I take a break from this and focus instead on a list of Vampirate Challenges, which rather than being random will work in a coherent sequence. I’m hot. My brain is frazzled. My emotions are see-sawing. But I really want to do this. I want to make the most of the amazing location and I really want to make a positive contribution to the daily lives of children and parents entering this incredibly odd and scary set of circumstances. I pull it together over lunch and confirm there will be a sequence of 15 challenges! That very afternoon, we head to one of our favourite spots – City Beach. There, to my amazement, we record four of the short challenge films. I had a cry earlier and I’m wondering if that’s noticeable. It’s not the mood I want to project through these short films. I want them to be fun, inspiring and maybe, as a result of the locations, a tad soothing too. PJ assures me that I don’t look upset, just maybe a bit hot and red!

When we finally get Trailfinders on the phone, they strongly advise us to stick with the flight we always planned to return home on – the flight everyone wants – direct from Perth to London, departing Friday evening. But what if they cancel all flights by then? It’s a risk but, at this point, we realise that it’s a risk we’re going to have to take.

Within all the craziness of the following 5 days – trying not to dwell on the ‘what ifs?’, contending with increasingly stressful calls home and the beginnings of the goodbyes to our family and friends here – I find that making these short films is grounding me. My writing has always been a place of escape for me and I guess with my Vampirates books, it’s a world where readers and I can escape together. I’m relishing being back in that world. I’m enjoying this sense of connecting directly with my readers. I’ve always loved going into schools and festivals, whether to talk or conduct workshops, and what I’m doing here - in the dunes, at the harbours, in the searing heat around the Maritime Museum in Fremantle – feels like it’s harnessing that same impulse. I just hope people won’t be irked by the sight of me moving around freely in the Australian sunshine.

Friday March 27^th – late afternoon. Perth airport is surreal, silent and largely empty. Every other seat is covered in black and yellow hazard tape like a crime scene. The few passengers are edgy. Many sport face masks. After a couple of eleventh hour scares, we are sitting in our seats on flight QF09. This will be the last direct flight out of Australia. The air crew are professional and upbeat despite the pervasive fraughtness. One of the stewardesses learns we have just got married and brings glasses of fizz to our seats. Our seventeen-hour flight commences. Before you know it, we’re eating cottage pie, watching Jumanji 2 in perfect synchrony, trying to make out like everything’s normal. But it isn’t. But you know that.

* In the interests of full accuracy, I have to acknowledge that the town of Cervantes was named after a ship, which was wrecked nearby. The ship, in turn, was named after Miguel de Cervantes, author of Don Quixote.

You can find Justin Somper’s #Vampiratechallenges every Monday, Wednesday and Friday on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook (all @JustinSomper) and the full sequence of challenge videos at vampirates.co.uk/videos.

Whilst in Australia, Justin was also able to record a “Ten Minute Writing Challenge” for Authorfy, which you can find along with a host of other resources at authorfy.com.

New editions of the first three Vampirates novels - Demons of the Ocean, Tide of Terror and Blood Captain – are available now from UCLan Publishing. They each contain bonus content including new stories, new artwork and Reading Group Questions from Jake Hope.