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Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

-David Almond

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Then What Shall I

David Almond

...

Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

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Sometimes We Just Have To Accept There Are Things We Can’t Know. Why Is Your Sister Ill? Why Did My Father Die?…sometimes We Think We Should Be Able To Know Everything. But We Can’t. We Have To Allow Ourselves To See What There Is To See, And We Have To Imagine.

We Have Each Other, And Our Stories Twist And Mingle Like The Twisting Currents Of A River. We Hold Each Other Tight As We Spin And Lurch Across Our Lives. There Are Moments Of Great Joy And Magic. The Most Astounding Things Can Lie Waiting As Each Day Dawns, As Each Page Turns.

Anything Seems Possible At Night When The Rest Of The World Has Gone To Sleep.

Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

And What Is Wrong With Playing With Words? Words Love To Be Played With, Just Like Children Or Kittens Do!

We Have To Allow Ourselves To See What There Is To See, And We Have To Imagine.

They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where Your Wings Were, When You Were An Angel," She Said. "they Say They're Where Your Wings Will Grow Again One Day.

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

The Dead Are Often Known To Eat 27 And 53

My Work Explores The Frontier Between Rationalism And Superstition And The Wavering Boundary Between The Two.

Sometimes We Just Have To Accept There Are Things We Can’t Know. Why Is Your Sister Ill? Why Did My Father Die?…sometimes We Think We Should Be Able To Know Everything. But We Can’t. We Have To Allow Ourselves To See What There Is To See, And We Have To Imagine.

Writing Will Be Like A Journey, Every Word A Footstep That Takes Me Further Into Undiscovered Land.

My Work Explores The Frontier Between Rationalism And Superstition And The Wavering Boundary Between The Two.

Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

We Come To A Lamp Beside The Pathway, And Suddenly We Stop Walking, And We Start To Dance, And We Glitter In The Shafts Of Light, Like Stars, Like Flies, Like Flakes Of Dust.

Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

Books. They Are Lined Up On Shelves Or Stacked On A Table. There They Are Wrapped Up In There Jackets, Lines Of Neat Print On Nicely Bound Pages. They Look Like Such Orderly, Static Things. Then You, The Reader Come Along. You Open The Book Jacket, And It Can Be Like Opening The Gates To An Unknown City, Or Opening The Lid Of A Treasure Chest. You Read The First Word And You're Off On A Journy Of Exploration And Discovery.

There's Light And Joy, But There's Also Darkness All Around And We Can Be Lost In It.

Maybe We're All In Somebody's Dream. Maybe Everything's A Dream, And Nothing Else.

When You Grow Up", I Said, "do You Ever Stop Feeling Little And Weak?" "no," She Says. "there's Always A Little Frail And Tiny Thing Inside, No Matter How Grown-up You Are.

They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where Your Wings Were, When You Were An Angel," She Said. "they Say They're Where Your Wings Will Grow Again One Day.

Books. They Are Lined Up On Shelves Or Stacked On A Table. There They Are Wrapped Up In There Jackets, Lines Of Neat Print On Nicely Bound Pages. They Look Like Such Orderly, Static Things. Then You, The Reader Come Along. You Open The Book Jacket, And It Can Be Like Opening The Gates To An Unknown City, Or Opening The Lid Of A Treasure Chest. You Read The First Word And You're Off On A Journy Of Exploration And Discovery.

Writing Will Be Like A Journey, Every Word A Footstep That Takes Me Further Into Undiscovered Land.

The Best Tip For Writing Is Just To Write; To Sit Down And Write, To Begin Doing It And Not To Be Scared By The Blank Page.

This Is Our World. Aye, There's More Than Enough Of Darkness In It. But Over Everything There's All This Joy, Kit. There's All This Lovely, Lovely Light.

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.

This Is Our World. Aye, There's More Than Enough Of Darkness In It. But Over Everything There's All This Joy, Kit. There's All This Lovely, Lovely Light.

We Come To A Lamp Beside The Pathway, And Suddenly We Stop Walking, And We Start To Dance, And We Glitter In The Shafts Of Light, Like Stars, Like Flies, Like Flakes Of Dust.

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Making A Difference

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

Anything Seems Possible At Night When The Rest Of The World Has Gone To Sleep.

Its Always Been The Case That Politicians Want Different Things From Children Than Good Educators Do. Good Educators Want Imaginative, Exploratory Beings, But Politicians Just Want Economic Units.

We Have To Allow Ourselves To See What There Is To See, And We Have To Imagine.

A Good Bookshop Is Not Just About Selling Books From Shelves, But Reaching Out Into The World And Making A Difference.

Making A Difference

I Don't Want To Be Little Again. But At The Same Time I Do. I Want To Be Me Like I Was Then, And Me As I Am Now, And Me Like I'll Be In The Future. I Want To Be Me And Nothing But Me. I Want To Be Crazy As The Moon, Wild As The Wind And Still As The Earth. I Want To Be Every Single Thing It's Possible To Be. I'm Growing And I Don't Know How To Grow. I'm Living But I Haven't Started Living Yet.

And What Is Wrong With Playing With Words? Words Love To Be Played With, Just Like Children Or Kittens Do!

Everybody's Got The Seam Of Goodness In Them, Kit," Said Grandpa. "just A Matter Of Whether It Can Be Found And Brought Out Into The Light.

Its Always Been The Case That Politicians Want Different Things From Children Than Good Educators Do. Good Educators Want Imaginative, Exploratory Beings, But Politicians Just Want Economic Units.

I Don't Want To Be Little Again. But At The Same Time I Do. I Want To Be Me Like I Was Then, And Me As I Am Now, And Me Like I'll Be In The Future. I Want To Be Me And Nothing But Me. I Want To Be Crazy As The Moon, Wild As The Wind And Still As The Earth. I Want To Be Every Single Thing It's Possible To Be. I'm Growing And I Don't Know How To Grow. I'm Living But I Haven't Started Living Yet.

We Have Each Other, And Our Stories Twist And Mingle Like The Twisting Currents Of A River. We Hold Each Other Tight As We Spin And Lurch Across Our Lives. There Are Moments Of Great Joy And Magic. The Most Astounding Things Can Lie Waiting As Each Day Dawns, As Each Page Turns.

Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

Maybe We're All In Somebody's Dream. Maybe Everything's A Dream, And Nothing Else.

I Thought How You Can Never Tell Just By Looking At Them What They Were Thinking Or What Was Happening In Their Lives. Even When You Got Daft People Or Drunk People On Buses, People That Went On Stupid And Shouted Rubbish Or Tried To Tell You All About Themselves, You Could Never Really Tell About Them Either... I Knew If Somebody Looked At Me, They'd Know Nothing About Me, Either.

I Sit In My Tree I Sing Like The Birds My Beak Is My Pen My Songs Are My Poems.

Yes. But Sad's Alright. Sad's Just Apart Of Everything

I Thought How You Can Never Tell Just By Looking At Them What They Were Thinking Or What Was Happening In Their Lives. Even When You Got Daft People Or Drunk People On Buses, People That Went On Stupid And Shouted Rubbish Or Tried To Tell You All About Themselves, You Could Never Really Tell About Them Either... I Knew If Somebody Looked At Me, They'd Know Nothing About Me, Either.

Everybody's Got The Seam Of Goodness In Them, Kit," Said Grandpa. "just A Matter Of Whether It Can Be Found And Brought Out Into The Light.

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.

The Best Tip For Writing Is Just To Write; To Sit Down And Write, To Begin Doing It And Not To Be Scared By The Blank Page.

There's Light And Joy, But There's Also Darkness All Around And We Can Be Lost In It.

When You Grow Up", I Said, "do You Ever Stop Feeling Little And Weak?" "no," She Says. "there's Always A Little Frail And Tiny Thing Inside, No Matter How Grown-up You Are.

Yes. But Sad's Alright. Sad's Just Apart Of Everything

I Sit In My Tree I Sing Like The Birds My Beak Is My Pen My Songs Are My Poems.

The Dead Are Often Known To Eat 27 And 53

Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

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