Secret Gardens, Literary Doors**AND A PRIZE GIVEAWAY!**

What is behind the door? Where might it lead? Who might lurk behind it? Another world? Another time? A faun with an umbrella? A robin? A garden full of wonders? Doors have a wonderful literary heritage in children's books. My grandmother bequeathed me her very own childhood copy of Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, complete with onionskin covered, handcoloured plates, and slightly foxed sepia endpapers with elegant, curving swirls drawn upon them. A valuable second edition? I didn't care about that, only for the words inside, which blossomed into pictures inside my head. As an only child, with much older parents, I could relate to the lonely Mary Lennox, and her grumpy moods, and her 'might I have a bit of earth?'. The scene where that bit of ivy swings back, and the robin shows her the door to the garden is, for me, one of the great moments of heart thrilling literary suspense. And what I love almost as much is that what is behind the door is not a disappointment, but a wonderful adventure composed not of another world (though it might almost be so), but of brown earth and the magic of growing things. I too, after I had read about Mary Lennox, asked for my bit of earth, in which I grew lettuces and chinese lanterns and nasturtiums. Since then, I have branched out a bit in the gardening line, but that is a tale for another day.

The wardrobe door leading to Narnia is possibly the most famous door of all--and which of us can say that they have not looked longingly at the back of a cupboard (though probably not one hung with furs) and wished for it to dissolve into nothingness with snow and a lamp post beyond? My own novel, Hootcat Hill, features its own magical door--the Door to Avvallon, through which the heroine, Linnet, has to go before she can find herself and save her world. A shut door is an adventure in itself. What lies beyond the door at the top of this page? Only I can tell you--but I choose to leave it to your imagination. I'd love to know what flights of fancy you come up with, and I will send a signed copy of the new paperback of Hootcat Hill, which comes out next month, to the person who comes up with the most original answer, in 50 words or less in the comments box. I look forward to your entries. Closing date 15th March 2009.

Observations on Walking in Snow

Even if the territory upon which you walk is familiar in the green grass light of a normal day, the snowed-upon land feels different under the feet. For one thing, new snow squeaks. The snowdrops are all covered, and there are odd, unrecognisable hillocks and hummocks disguising the terrain I thought I knew so well. The wimpy weasel is snuffling and snortling at this strange powdery stuff, and the dastardly dinmont has hurried inside in a huff, because he doesn't care for his manly parts acting as a snowplough. No walk for him today, then. The wretched rams are doing their smoke impressions again, and pawing and gnawing at the hidden grass. They would rather be reindeer, who are better equipped for this sort of thing. Crossing the lawn is an adventure--there are the blackbird tracks, there the robin's small marks, like unreadable hieroglyphics on a crisp white sheet. And here, oh, here, are the long, lollopy tracks of the rabid rabbits. I see they have tried to get into the vegetable garden again, but my hard heart rejoices to see that the chicken wire behind the beech hedge has foiled them yet again. My kale and leeks are safe.

The field by the stream is silent until I reach the bridge, and then the sluggish water turns to a millrace roaring, full of snowmelt, and frothing like angry lace. There is an earthbrown eruption on the bank, all out of place in this white desert--a mole has been digging his hill despite the weather. The trees are heavy with a burden of slipping snow, but the willows are starting to turn red with sap. They know that spring is coming, even if the weather says otherwise.

Demons of Creation--and a Few Angels too

Writers are prone to demon-trouble. You'll know the problem. That ugly, demonic monster which sits, gibbering on your shoulder, close to your ear. Mine says things like: 'Always knew you were useless. Of course you can't. Whatever made you think you could? The editor will hate it.' And so on. All deeply depressing stuff, and so discouraging to the creative flow. There is, however, a way of dealing with it, which I was taught when I did something called The Hoffman Process. I've adapted it a bit, to suit myself, but this is the basic idea. It helped me. Maybe it will help you.

Be alone in a closed-door room with a blank sheet of paper, some crayons and a heavy shoe. Sit on the floor. Close your eyes. Take some deep breaths. Ommmm if you like. Visualise that monster on your shoulder. Eyeball it. Really take a good look. Open your eyes, imagine ripping it off your shoulder, fling it down and DRAW IT on your sheet of paper. Doesn't matter if you can't draw. When you've finished, close your eyes again. Listen to all those terrible things it is saying. Open your eyes again. SCRIBBLE THEM ALL OVER THE MONSTER DRAWING. Then, when they are all written out in their ghastly glory, take up your heavy shoe. Start to hit the monster piece of paper. Really bash it. Shout at it. Tell it what you think. Don't hold back. No really. Don't hold back. Inform it that you are in charge, you are the boss, and that what it says are lies. Jump up and down on it. When the monster has dissolved into small pieces of scrap paper, gather them up. Now you can burn them, and as you do, say in your own words, something like, 'you'll never have power over me again. I CAN do (whatever it is you want to do), and YOU WILL NOT WIN.' If the monster returns (and sometimes it does), I find that lifting a metaphorical shoe in a threatening gesture does the job of sending it back where it came from. Think that no sane adult would do this? Trust me. It works. I've twice been in a room of 24 adults, all doing it, and thousands, maybe tens of thousands more would back me up.

If that demon on the shoulder exists, then it follows that so too do angels. Now, this is maybe getting into contentious territory. All I will say is that I have been thankful to find my own guardian angel at my other shoulder on many occasions. It is wonderful how, if I have to go into some difficult situation, summoning up this personage to walk behind me as back-up support can make me feel a whole lot stronger. The power of the imagination? Perhaps. But then imagination is one of the most powerful tools we humans possess. Without it, we would not have the strength to dream.

Hibernation and Other Writing Stories

Bears, I often think, are the luckiest of winter creatures. Oh! how much I should like to live my creative life as if I were the writer bear of my dreams.

Come October, having led a full and satisfying summer life of writing good prose and gorging my imagination on human sights and sounds and overheard snippets of conversation, I should settle down to rest, fat and full, wrapped in warm blankets of fur. In my dark and cosy den, the world would pass me by as I slept, dreaming of the plots of novels, intricate and intriguing page turners. As the cold and frost began to bite, my now-pregnant imagination would keep me warm, walking in otherwhere fields with mythical monsters, talking with Muses, skimming through the fascinating lives of new and never-before-seen characters. My unconscious mind would be a Dagda's cauldron of invention, bubbling and boiling with an ever-renewing and nourishing brew of Idea. Then, about March, I should begin to wake, having given birth to a litter of new writing projects. They would be demanding, of course, each distinct and different in their wants and needs. But each would also be full of possibility, growing each day a little more towards maturity. Soon they would emerge onto paper, small black potent words gambolling and basking in the hot light of another writing summer, sparking an abundance of signed contracts, co-editions, editorial enthusiasm and courting. And so, eventually, the writing bear's wheel would come full circle, and the cycle begin again.

Failing this delightful scenario, an afternoon nap is a sovereign remedy for almost all winter ills. And that's my Wisdom for the Day: If you can't be a bear, take a nap. Trust me. It does wonders for the writing mind.

Blogroll Amnesty Day--Travels to Unknown Places

Any blogfule kno that February 3rd is Blogroll Amnesty Day , according to US blogger Jon Swift, 'a day when we salute all of the great smaller blogs that don't get the recognition they deserve'. Well, I didn't know, but I do now, and in the spirit of this new but rapidly burgeoning tradition, I shall share with you some of the lesser-spotted blogbirds I have discovered in my travels over the wide expanses of the internet. The ecology of the blogsphere is rich in inanity and profanity, but there is also humour and wisdom. Forinstance, there is Simon Key, the man who opened a bookshop (what could possibly go wrong?). I did an author visit to his small but bijou premises in Wood Green, London, and met Simon's partner in crime, Tim, plus a load of lovely and intelligent kids. Simon didn't blog about it, but I won't hold that against him because he's very very funny and he makes me laugh.

Then there's Candy Gourlay's Notes from the Slushpile about trying to get published in children's books. Again funny, informative, and a good reminder of the perils of writing life. As I am a writer, naturally I gravitate towards other author blogs--perhaps as a sort of desire to remind myself that I am not alone in this world of words. Two more that are worth visiting are lovely novelist Emma Darwin at This Itch Of Writing and the inestimable and wondrous hellgoddess herself, Robin McKinley whose daily posts on handbell ringing, roses, writing, hellhounds and the vagaries of weather are a joy and a pleasure. Last but not least, comes the Bookwitch who educates and entertains, and with whom I have many short but meaningful comment conversations.

So, lovely readers, please support BRA day, broaden your horizons and travel to places you might never otherwise have discovered. Above all, have fun.

Celtic Spring--A Writer's Celebration

We writers need all the signs of encouragement we can get, so today, I am happy to tell you, is the first day of Spring in the Celtic calendar. Today is Imbolc, Candlemass, The Feast of St Brigid, (or, for my US readers, Groundhog Day). But the name I like best for 2nd February is The Feast Of New Ewes' Milk. Humour me here, and try to imagine yourself back a thousand years, in those far off druidical days.

The time of midwinter solstice is long past, and the celebrations and feasting are a distant memory. Food is scarce, and the weather miserable. Your hut (if you have one) lets in the wind however you plug the cracks. The fire smokes, and every day you have to find fuel to keep it going or you will die. But there is hope. Today there are signs of spring. The ewes are huddling and baaing, their breath a plume of smoky noise in the freezing air. Suddenly there is a new note amongst them, a high, plaintive mewling. The first lamb is here, and tonight there will be new milk to drink, rich and creamy and full of life.

Most of us, who live in warm and comfortable houses, many in urban settings, are blind to the small signs which mark the turning of the seasons. But to our ancestors, the rhythms of birth and death, new buds and falling leaves, planting and harvest, were the things that framed their lives. I lived in the town for a while, but I am a country girl by blood and breeding and inclination, and so today it pleases me that when I stand outside in the driving snow I can hear that plaintive sound coming from Farmer Haystack's barn over the way. The Feast of New Ewes' Milk is truly here--a time for me of new beginnings, growth, unfurling. And a perfect celebration for a writer in need of hope for the future.

Kerridwen the Tekel Goddess

I've always wanted a tekel. Heaven knows why, because they are disodedient hellhounds with minds entirely set on escape and killing innocent fauna. But there you are, no accounting for taste, and besides, they are also dogs of immense character and charm. Last year, having lost our ancient and loving elderly labrador, I set out on a search for one. Tekels are not easy to come by--at least not the sort I wanted, which was sporty, hairy, un-showdog, and not inbred. Then I saw an advert. Tekel pups for Sale. Sadly, that litter had gone (they are remarkably popular and rare enough that pups sell quickly). But the lovely German-breeder-from-Wales promised me a bitch from her next lot. Kerridwen was born at the beginning of the month, and I have just received the picture at the top of this post. I think I am already in love. The breeder's names all begin with K, so I chose Kerridwen, Welsh uber-goddess and shape-shifter. She will certainly be worshipped in this house!