7 Questions For: Author Lynne Reid Banks

Lynne Reid Banks is the author of ten acclaimed adult novels as well as many much-loved books for children. 

She was born in London in 1929, the only child of a Scottish doctor and an Irish actress. During WW2 she was evacuated to the prairies of Canada where she spent 5 years. After studying at RADA in the late 1940’s she became an actress and later joined ITN to become one of the first women TV news reporters in Britain. Her first novel, The L-Shaped Room, was published in 1960 and caused outrage in more conservative quarters for its portrayal of a an unmarried mother-to-be who is thrown out by her father and has to live in the L-shaped room of the title. The novel was later adapted for cinema by the legendary Bryan Forbes and brought great critical acclaim.

In the early 1960's she went to live in a kibutz in Israel with her husband where she taught English. In 1971 she brought her family back to London where she continued to write for adults and children including her classic children’s novel, The Indian in the Cupboard which has sold more than 10 million copies worldwide and was made into a highly successful feature film. 

Lynne Reid Banks has now written forty five books and lives with her husband in Shepperton, England. 

Click here to read my review of The Indian in the Cupboard or here to read my review of Tiger, Tiger.

After you've read this interview, check out another interview Lynne Reid Banks gave to herself or some video interviews.

Lynne Reid Banks is a hero of mine from childhood and one of my dream choices for the lunch date in Question 7. Few things have given me as much pleasure as posting this interview.

And now Lynne Reid Banks faces the 7 Questions:

Question Seven: What are your top three favorite books?

Well, of course they change.  Children’s books?  At the moment they’re “The Queen’s Knickers”. “Pets in Pants” and “The Wrong-Coloured Dragon.”   Yes, knickers are underpants (I’ll have more to say about Britishisms in a minute), and the ‘Queen’ is our queen.  Apparently she didn’t mind.  (I would.)  I’ve chosen these, not because they are, necessarily, my kind of books but because books like these sell like hot-cakes so I’m studying them.  (Perhaps I should just mention that the last-mentioned is by me.  Many of my favourite books are.)

Question Six: How much time do you spend each week writing? Reading?

Oh, none at all, if you mean creative writing.  I don’t have a blog, I don’t do Facebook and I certainly don’t do Twitter.  Imagine having to keep to 140 keystrokes or whatever ridiculous restriction they impose!  I think all these are killing conversation and face-to-face, or even telephonic, friendship.  I even think they’re damaging writing.  But email is wonderful. I do spend unconscionable hours writing emails to friends, fans and others.

Reading?  Ah well, that’s different.  Many many hours.  I’m currently reading three books at once, including one for teenagers.  And that’s not counting referring to Shakespeare so I can get him by heart, to have some good stuff to recite to myself while swimming lengths. It’s so boring otherwise.  I've just managed to memorise Henry V’s Crispin speech which is pretty long. It doesn't half go well with a good brisk overarm crawl.  I also read a posh newspaper every day. The Saturday Review of books fills in any spaces between the book-bricks.. 

Question Five: What was the path that led you to publication?

I was always quite good at writing at school (I had to be good at something) - such schooling as I had, which ended with WW2 when I was 15. But of course I was going to become an actress, and I did, so my first real writing was stage plays.  Then some short stories. Then some journalism, and eventually an adult novel called ‘The L-Shaped Room’ which did rather well, in fact it’s still in print 50 years later – I think I can be quite proud of that.  After that I decided I should maybe forget about acting and TV reporting and be a full-time writer, but first I went off to the Middle-East for a decade and became a farmer and then a teacher. In school hols (Britishism) I wrote another novel, or was it two, and then I came home (bringing a husband and three little boys) and after that I had to keep writing because we all liked to eat.

Question Four: Do you believe writers are born, taught or both? Which was true for you? 

You've got to have talent. And you've got to graft.  (That means work hard, you Americans - I know you’re good at that but you might not know the British for it. My U.S. publisher used to get after me about British words before Harry Potter came along. They used to put glossaries in my U.S. editions, telling Americans that ‘Toffo’ was a kind of candy and a ‘lorry’ was a truck. Now I guess you’re all bi-lingual like British kids have always been.)  I don’t think you can be taught to write. You can do it or you can’t, and you do do it, or you don’t.  But you can improve.  And the only way I know to do that is to read good books and talk to articulate people who keep quoting Shakespeare. Like me.

Question Three: What is your favorite thing about writing? What is your least favorite thing?   

When it’s really flowing, so you can escape your everyday life into somebody else’s world. And when you've just finished, and know what you've written is incredibly, world-beatingly brilliant. Before the editor gets her hands on it and tells you to re-write it or cut it by half.  This last has happened to me. (I turned it into two books and got paid twice.)

What is my least favourite thing?  

When your muse deserts you, or you find out that the zeitgeist (sorry, that’s not British, it’s German, so OK, try ‘the fashion’) has left you behind. When everybody’s reading books about dysfunctional families and post-apocalyptic societies, and horror, and violence, or bodily functions, and you don’t want to – and can’t – write like that.  Mind you. I wrote a book called ‘Angela and Diabola’ about good and evil twins, that was a bit horrific I admit, and I wrote ‘The Dungeon’ which was medieval and quite violent in spots, but I don’t feel like pushing the envelope any more. I just want to write about my childhood and nobody seems to want to know about that because it wasn't dysfunctional. I mean, my parents didn't die and leave me in the care of horrible people who were trying to kill me for my money or who made evil androids to look after me.  There was just a world war and being sent to Canada.

Question Two: What one bit of wisdom would you impart to an aspiring writer? (feel free to include as many other bits of wisdom as you like)

My watchword, given me by my wise mother, is Nil desperandum. No. No. Not British.  Latin. But that’s about life in general, not about writing. You might need to despair if nothing you write gets published, or rather, think it possible that you’re just not good enough. Or that publishing has become a closed shop. Or that the zeitgeist has passed you by. Or that you need a day-job. Or that you should keep it if you’ve got it.  But you can still write for pleasure and try not to mind that you’re the only one who thinks you’re a writer.  Miracles do occasionally happen, but I call them luck – sine qua non. (Heh heh.  Look it up.)

Question One: If you could have lunch with any writer, living or dead, who would it be? Why?

Well, it surely wouldn't be Dickens, or Shakespeare, or any of the other men who behaved so badly to women. In fact it wouldn't be any of the heavies (I mean geniuses) at all. None of the Russians or Germans, for certain. They would make me feel so insignificant and I can’t take that at my age and they’d depress me.  I’d like somebody fun, like P.G.Wodehouse, not that I read him but I bet he’d be good company. Or Salman Rushdie. Except I've read his memoir (620 pages) so there’d be nothing left to talk about,  Maybe a playwright?  NOT Harold Pinter, he’d want to quote his awful poetry to me all through the meal. Terence Rattigan? Too effete. Graham Greene? Too Roman Catholic. Eugene O’Neill? No fear, lunch would go on forever. Wait! I've got it! Rabelais! If he could be brought back by magic from the 16th century, he could talk English by magic. (Or better still, I could talk French). Yes! He’d be perfect! We’d drink a lot of excellent wine and he’d make me laugh, and I’d ask him a bit about the Renaissance and about how a monk can be so naughty. I bet he’d choose delicious dishes as well.  Those monks knew how to live well and enjoy themselves and that’s what I want to do with the rest of my life.

www.lynnereidbanks.com

Book of the Week: THE INDIAN IN THE CUPBOARD by Lynne Reid Banks

The Indian in the Cupboard is absolutely a classic and one of my favorite books from my own childhood. Having just told you that, I think you’ll agree that there’s little point in my bothering with a review. I loved this book as a kid, I read all  the sequels, and having only just rediscovered it as an adult, I found I loved it no less for having grown up (sort of). I've tried a couple of times to watch the movie version, but I just can’t get into it—probably because they cast American actors and this is very much an English story, despite its reliance on American western mythology.

If you haven’t read The Indian in the Cupboard and you’re still a kid, drop everything and read it right now! If you’re an adult and you haven’t read it, well, give it a look. You’ll still enjoy it, I guess, but it won’t be quite the same. Because there’s magic in The Indian in the Cupboard. There’s magic in a lot of books, but this one is special in that it really does help to be a kid.

Don't miss my interview with author Lynne Reid Banks, one of my biggest writing heroes.  

The premise of the Indian in the Cupboard is thus: on Omri’s birthday he’s given a magic cupboard, a magic key, and a plastic Indian. He puts the Indian in the cupboard overnight and in the morning he finds that the Indian has come to life. Why? Did you not read the part about the cupboard being magic?

What blew my mind in rereading this book is that the three inch tall Little Bear, Omri’s living Indian toy is introduced on page six, and keep in mind, one of those pages is taken up with an illustration! If this were a Stephen King book, we would read one hundred pages minimum about tales of ancient cupboards and hints and teases about what Omri’s cupboard might be capable of before the Indian is introduced.

But Banks is writing for children and knows she doesn't need to bother with much explanation. In fact, she wisely avoids most of the potential larger issues that a lesser writer might have worried over such as: What right does a boy have to keep a living, breathing person, even if they used to be a toy, cooped up in a room or carried about in a jeans pocket? As best I can tell, Little Bear isn't a metaphor for some social issue. He’s a toy come to life and here to have an adventure with Omri. And that’s it. Omri tries turning a couple of other toys real and concludes:

“It works,” breathed Omri. And then he caught his breath. “Little Bear!” he shouted. “It works, it works! I can make any plastic toy I like come alive, come real! It’s magic, don’t you understand? Magic!”

And there you are. Exposition complete. On to adventure! Oh sure, Banks concocts reasons for why Omri can’t tell adults about his magic cupboard:

The trouble was that although grown-ups usually knew what to do, what they did was very seldom what children wanted to be done. What if they took the Indian to—say, some scientist, or—whoever knew about strange things like that, who would question him and examine him and probably keep him in a laboratory or something of that sort? They would certainly want to take the cupboard away too, and then Omri wouldn’t be able to have any more fun with it at all.

And my favorite, Omri’s rationalization about how to deal with a sometimes violent Indian who has taken thirty scalps and who has stepped out of the past with a somewhat different sense of values and morality:

Even now, weren't soldiers doing the same thing? Weren't there wars and battles and terrorism going on all over the place? You couldn't switch on television without seeing news about people killing and being killed. Were thirty scalps, even including some French ones, taken hundreds of years ago, so very bad after all?

What I most admired about Banks’ craft is how quickly she was able to move, ignoring anything that is not story. If you’re sitting on a 500 page manuscript intended for children and are convinced you cannot cut a single word, study Banks. She, like Roald Dahl, could write War and Peace in about two hundred pages, and you probably wouldn't notice anything missing. 

By way of example, here is a transition between scenes Banks employed that blew my mind:

(in class--MGN)
“Omri and Patrick! Will you kindly stop chattering?”
They stopped.
At long last lunchtime came.
“I’m going. Are you coming?”
(at lunch--MGN)

In one line she changed the scene entire and it was not the least bit jarring. There is no need for additional explanation or description of scenery. What matters is that Omri and his friend Partick are talking and their school day is flying by so we can get back to the Indian, which is who we really want to read about. Later, Banks does it again:

On impulse he asked the shopkeeper, “Do you know what the maize is?”
“Maize, son? That’s sweet corn, isn’t it?
“Have you some seeds of that?”
Outside, standing by Omri’s bike, was Patrick.
“Hi.”

Oh dear. I see we’re out of time once again, Esteemed Reader. But I took lots of notes and I want to share them with you. So let’s change tone. In conclusion, The Indian in the Cupboard remains one of my most favorite books and I highly recommend it. 

It also breaks a lot of “rules” modern American publishers insist on for new fiction. There are several overly long sentences that would nowadays be cut in half or thirds, but with which I didn't have a problem. Here is my favorite long sentence:

Omri and Patrick watched, spellbound, as the little man in his plaid shirt, buckskin trousers, high-heeled leather boots, and big hat, scrambled frantically up the side of Patrick’s right hand and, dodging through the space between his index finger and thumb, swung himself clear of the horse—only to look down and find he was dangling over empty space.

Banks also writes in dialect so thick it might make Mark Twain blush. Many editors and agents eschew writing in dialect, but I think it works great. Here is a short speech from Boone the cowboy that lets Boone be Boone:

“You shet yer mouth!” shouted the little man. “Ah won’t take no lip from no gol-darned hallucy-nation, no, sir! Mebbe Ah do drink too much, mebbe Ah cain’t hold m’likker like some o’ them real tough guys do. But if’n Ah’m gittin’ the dee-lirium tremens, and startin’ in to see things, why couldn’t Ah see pink elly-fants and dancin’ rats and all them purty things other fellas see when they gits far gone?”

“—man to man, Injun! D’ja hear me? No weapons! Jest us two, and let’s see if a white man cain’t lick a red man in a fair fight.”

And last but not least, Banks upsets Elmore Leonard with her creative use of speech attribution. According to Leonard and most modern editors it is always best to use the word “said” when assigning dialogue, and I mostly agree, though I’m still partial to the occasional “he shouted.” 

By using only "said," a writer avoids writing, “I’m so angry,” he shouted angrily. I remain unconvinced that “I’m so angry,” he said, conveys the same meaning. Better, I think, is to use no speech attribution: The character slammed his fist against the table. “I’m so angry.”

In any case, a quick survey of agent and editor blogs as well as many writing manuals will convince the young writer that using any form of speech attribution other than "said," and only "said"--no adverbs--will destroy a work of fiction. Well, maybe. But here are some of the more colorful choices of speech attribution Banks employs:

He added accusingly.

“Omri’s friend, Little Bear’s friend,” said Little Bear magnanimously.

Breathed Patrick reverently.

He burbled.

It's true that "he burbled" jolted me out out of the story in a way that "he said" would not have. But then I'm a ninja and training to notice these things. But did it destroy the work that Banks used creative speech attribution? Absolutely not. And if I weren't looking for it, this slip in convention wouldn't have bothered me at all. And that's the last point I want to make. The Indian in the Cupboard is a classic work. If we try to frame it in terms of modern "correctness," it doesn't hold up.

But no matter! It's a great story well told and that works regardless of stylistic choices. And it makes you wonder what sort of style foibles we writers are making now, convinced we are superior, that some blogger will single out in a distant online review (we should be so lucky to achieve even a little of Banks' longevity).

UPDATE: I didn't address the topic of the depiction of Native Americans in this review. It's a touchy subject and as I only write about the positive aspects of each week's book, I left it alone. But if that's an aspect of the book that interests you, I recommend checking out the blog American Indians in Children's Literature.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Book of the Week is simply the best book I happened to read in a given week. There are likely other books as good or better that I just didn’t happen to read that week. Also, all reviews here will be written to highlight a book’s positive qualities. It is my policy that if I don’t have something nice to say online, I won’t say anything at all (usually). I’ll leave you to discover the negative qualities of each week’s book on your own.