So today I attended this, which featured one of my longtime favourites (idols) and one of my newest discoveries who has written one of the most perfect picture books I’ve seen in a long time, and now I am taking time to reflect.
Sometimes I am guilty of being too Barthesian in my reviews. I judge the book as the book. The medium is the message. I will never ever have a personal attack in what I write, even if I hate the book. (And if I do? Pull me up on it. Please. That’s not how I want to write). I write, and I review because I want to. I enjoy it. Love it. The day this blog becomes a chore to me, is going to be the day that I have to have a serious think about things.
But the thing about blogging – reviewing – about reading - is that you’re the final moment in a very long journey. And I was thinking about that journey, how images painted lovingly whilst resting on a kitchen table, end up in our hands. In my hand. (Please sign this. It’s for me. And it’s a privilege to hear you talk. To be here, just – with you and listen to you talk. A privilege).
Stories are magic. Stories are magic, magic things.
I was sat next to a child who dozed off, snoring quietly throughout the talk. But before he went to sleep, his finger traced the roundness of Alfie’s cheeks and followed Martha springing across the page.
Reader, I almost cried.
This is what I want. This is why I do what I do. This is what I believe in.