The Official S. J. Bolton Blog

If there's one enquiry guaranteed to send me into orbit at this time of year it's: "Are you ready for Christmas?"

The next time I talk to my mother on the phone I know she's going to ask me exactly that; other parents at school pick-up will start slipping it in too; passing acquaintances will accost me in the street, enquiring cheerfully as to the state of my Yuletide readiness. Round about the 15^th of the month it will get shortened to: "Are you ready yet?'

Why do they do it?

Not only is it jaw-clenchingly annoying, it's meaningless to the point of being moronic (it's OK, mum doesn't read my blog) in its assumption that there's a point to arrive at in the next couple of weeks when every preparation has been made and we can sit, in smug and expectant idleness, waiting for Christmas to happen to us.

Seriously now, when can that point possibly be reached? Once we have presents wrapped, cards posted, tree trimmed, menus planned, etc?  Or do we have to buy the food, cook the dinner, plate it up and stick it in the freezer ready to be micro-waved back to edibility? At what stage does the effort stop and the Christmas begin?

And running alongside the list of chores are the build-up events, the carol concerts, drinks parties, nativity plays that I think, way back in history, were intended to be enjoyable but have long since become a series of hurdles to leap before we can reward ourselves with Christmas. It's as though the entire month of December has become a sort of virtual advent calendar with each day bringing along a pre-Christmas trial to be endured. Just a glance at the diary right now is enough to give me the jitters:

Dec 1^st - Advent Service

Dec 2^nd - School Christmas Fair

Dec 3^rd - Wedding (Wedding? Don't they bloody well know we have Christmas to get ready for?)

In one short, annoying sentence. 'Are you ready for Christmas yet?" embodies one of the deepest problems with my life and, I suspect, with quite a few others as well because it implies that the life we are living at the moment is nothing but a series of tiresome but unavoidable chores that we have to work our way through for the promise of the distant reward. Asking people if they are ready for Christmas in the first few days of the month puts the emphasis on moving as quickly as possible to a desired end, at the expense of enjoying the process.

I've fallen into exactly the same trap with my latest book. End of December is an important deadline for me, the date by which I aim to have finished the first draft. Agent Anne Marie and Mr B give me their initial thoughts early in January (never complimentary but I'm used to it) and I can spend the following six weeks refining and polishing before it has to go to Transworld at the end of February.

I've known for several weeks now that the first draft will not be done by end of December and with that knowledge has come a gradually increasing sense of panic. My priority now is building the word count, getting closer to the desired 110,000 as quickly as I can. It is not where it should be, and that is on making each chapter or scene as impactful as possible. I'm skipping research, glossing over characterisation, leaving out atmosphere and, most importantly of all, I'm not particularly enjoying the process.

This is wrong, because there were many times in the early days of this novel when I genuinely thought it could be my best yet. I was loving what was unfolding before me. I'm not now. Now, every hour at my keyboard is a trial to get through.

How did it happen? How did a job I love to bits become a chore?

It got Christmassed, is what happened. In my desperation to get to the finish line, I lost sight of the joy of the race. Which was both stupid and unnecessary. Book six will not hit the bookshops until Spring 2013. I have plenty of time. And no one will enjoy reading a book that I haven't enjoyed writing. So, tomorrow I will turn off my word count tool and concentrate on writing a scene in which my young hero, Barney, talks to two adults whom he likes and trusts, both of whom could be cold-blooded killers. I have to make it sad, touching and bone-chillingly scary.

As for Christmas, well the advent service made me cry sweet, sentimental tears, as it always does and the Christmas Fair, as usual, is the nicest event the PTA runs all year. The wedding was delightful: cold, beautiful and glittery. We sat on a table of people who have known each other for decades and who greeted us, perfect strangers, as old friends. Yesterday I wrapped presents, which I always enjoy because I'm good at it and tomorrow I'm going out for a Christmas meal with a dozen other mums from the village. On Wednesday Mr B is going to watch Handel's Messiah at St Paul's cathedral and, God I wish I was going with him, but I'll enjoy hearing all about it all the same. On Thursday my book-club are coming here for dinner. What a fabulous month this is!

So I'm begging you now, stop worrying about Christmas and, instead, chill out and enjoy December. And, please, wish me luck with that ruddy book!

I discovered last week that the scariest audience possible is a couple of hundred 14 - 17 year olds. Not, particularly, because they're mercilessly unforgiving of the slightest mistake, not even because they can't imagine a woman of my age having anything of interest to say, but because they were accompanied by their parents, most of whom knew me when I was 14 years old.

I was a special guest at the Awards Evening at my old school, invited to present an award to the most promising young writer and asked to say a few words about my own time at the school, and how my school experience had helped me in later life.

And there was the problem, because I'm not sure it did. When I went to Darwen Moorland High School at the age of 11, it was the year the town's educational system became comprehensive. It was a massive shake up. Lots of people were very unhappy and everyone: teachers, parents, pupils, were finding their way.

This was the prosperity proof north-west of England in the 1970s. We were all equal, because nobody had anything. And one thing we weren't allowed was ambition. Looking back, I think Moorland High School saw it as its business to churn out a semi-educated workforce who would neither want nor expect too much out of life. Getting above yourself was one of the worst sins you could commit back then and achievement was frowned upon. There were a couple of stellar brains in my year (not mine, I hasten to add) but whilst they'd have walked the entrance exams, Oxbridge was never mentioned. Only five of our year went to university, only three of us lasted beyond the first term. I believe to this day that that had nothing to do with the capabilities of the others in my year, and everything to do with the expectations (or lack of them) put upon us.

And yet, in this temple of the humdrum, we were continually told that these were the best days of our life. I tell you what, when you're thirty five minutes into a maths lesson, with nothing to look forward to but soggy vegetables for lunch and an hour hanging around in the cold, trying not to be hit in the face by a football, you really don't want to be told that this is as good as it gets.

I honestly couldn't tell that group of teenagers last week how school life had inspired me, but I could tell them what I wish someone had told me back then; which is that through hard work, passion and a belief in yourself, life can get better and better.

So instead, I talked about how one's teenage years are when you begin to understand who you are, what makes you tick and what it is you were put on this earth to do. I encouraged them to take every opportunity that comes along, that it doesn't matter if they fail many times over, because in the process they will find what it is that they excel at.

And then I got onto my own pet subject, which is the pursuit of excellence. I told them to work their socks off. That those who aim to be the very best that they can be, quite often find themselves the best that anyone can be. When I was their age, my English teacher introduced me to the sayings of Confucius and my favourite was always: "Aim for the moon, and you might just hit the top of a high tree." At the time I loved it, now I'm not sure it's quite good enough. Now, I think if children aim for the moon, every once in a while, they'll hit the moon.

I told them all of this but - you know what - I think they knew it already. Because Darwen Moorland High School is long gone and in its place is the Darwen Aldridge Community Academy. The Academy, in a glitzy, multi-million-pound new building in the town centre is revolutionizing the way young people are educated in my home-town. And thank God for that! Under the joint leadership of its inspirational sponsor and head-teacher, this has truly become a school that encourages and celebrates individuality, entrepreneurship and achievement. I don't remember a single award being given when I was at school, but last Thursday night I watched youngsters being rewarded for risk-taking, creativity, determination and passion. Passion! It would have been unheard of in my day. I saw children with talent, drive and self-belief, who were being encouraged by committed and motivated teachers to be the very best that they can be. Some of them, without doubt, are exceptional already. And things can only get better for this wonderful school, with which I'm proud, beyond words, to be associated.

A couple of special mentions before I close. The first to David Nairn, not just because he held us all spellbound with his beautiful voice and musicianship, but because thirty years ago, I remember his father, Peter, doing exactly the same thing. And the second to the first ever recipient of the SJ Bolton award for the most promising young writer. I'll be following this young lady's career with close interest and looking for her on the publishing lists in years to come. She certainly has the right name for it. Many congratulations, Kierney Hemingway.