The multi-award winning author of Skellig and now the Song For Ella
Grey tells the incredible story of the birth of Seven Stories, the
National Centre for Children’s books that towers above the Ouseburn
river in Newcastle
Find out more about A Song For Ella Grey in our Guardian children’s fiction prize longlistee special
I was a newcomer to the world of children’s books when I met the visionaries Elizabeth Hammill and Mary Briggs. I’d written a handful of novels, including Heaven Eyes, much of it set in an abandoned printing works in Newcastle’s Ouseburn Valley, and a collection of stories set in Felling-on-Tyne, where I’d grown up
We sat around a coffee table in an old school building and they outlined their extraordinary dream. Children’s literature must be properly celebrated. An archive of 20th century manuscripts and illustrations must be established. There must be a centre for exhibitions and readings, a place where children and their families could come to read, to write, to draw, to play, to meet the people who create books for them. There must be a focus for pioneering educational programmes. There must be a great bookshop dedicated to children’s books. The world must be shown that children’s literature is not some marginal art form, but that it lies at the beating heart of our culture. Mary and Elizabeth planned to find a building in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in which these dreams could be realised.
They paused. They asked me what I thought of that. Perhaps, I murmured, they were aiming a little high… They simply took no notice at all. They looked away for a moment and looked at me with shining eyes and asked the question again. It sounds brilliant, I said. And outrageous, I thought. I’m a writer. I put words onto paper and try to arrange them into lovely shapes. I thought of the energy, planning, commitment, willpower that it would take to bring such a centre into existence. It was surely impossible, I secretly thought. How wrong I was.
I never expected to become a children’s author. I was a grown-up educated adult and I thought my purpose was to write books for intelligent educated adults. But I’d been ambushed by a story called Skellig and my life and work had taken a totally unexpected direction. I found myself in a world where people really do believe that books and art can change people’s lives, that they can help to create a better world. I found young readers who, despite all the myths and mistruths, are active citizens, who really do read avidly and creatively, who are able to be both hilarious and deeply serious, barmy and profound. I found myself in a community of astonishingly talented and hardworking authors and illustrators. I found a literary home.
Around the same time as meeting Mary and Elizabeth, I’d come across an interview with a distinguished novelist, which helped me to understand how my ideas had changed, and helped to explain the nature of my new home. “All writers,” he said, “think that the world has reached its nadir, that innocence is irretrievably lost.” I recoiled from the idea. I did not believe that. I was with the great Ted Hughes: “Every new child is nature’s chance to correct culture’s error.” For every child, this ancient world is brand new and potent with possibility. Children, and the people who work alongside them, can lead us to a better future.
With astonishing speed, a fundraising plan was in action. A little set of offices was rented. A small staff of passionate and talented believers was hired. A Board of Trustees was established, which I was asked to join. I sat around tables with lawyers, businessmen, politicians, publishers and authors. We were guided and cajoled by Mary and Elizabeth. I was often bamboozled by discussions of strategy and finance, but was totally inspired by the shared commitment and sense of purpose, the belief that this was a dream whose time had come.
A building was discovered: a dilapidated, pigeon-shit-spattered, asbestos-tainted, seven-storied place towering above the Ouseburn. Weirdly, it had once been used as a printing works. This would be the place. It would be named Seven Stories. We trustees climbed the ladders between the floors. Could this really come to pass? Of course it could. Funds were raised. The building was renovated. And Seven Stories opened, 10 years ago, and became just what Mary and Elizabeth planned it to be: a celebration and exposition of the greatness and importance of children’s literature, a place which is open to all. It is now the National Centre for Children’s Books. The ever-growing and unique archive is housed in a separate building, in Felling-on Tyne.
Seven Stories is beloved by children and their families, by authors, illustrators, academics, teachers, librarians. It enthrals those who make long journeys to its doors and those who drop in as they wander through the quirky Ouseburn Valley. It is staffed by highly-qualified experts and dreamers. It is renowned and admired throughout the world. It is a shining example of how outrageous dreams, rejection of doubt, hard work and intelligent planning can bring about extraordinary results. Yes. Optimistic, creative, democratic visions really can help to create a better world.
Find out more about A Song For Ella Grey in our Guardian children’s fiction prize longlistee special
I was a newcomer to the world of children’s books when I met the visionaries Elizabeth Hammill and Mary Briggs. I’d written a handful of novels, including Heaven Eyes, much of it set in an abandoned printing works in Newcastle’s Ouseburn Valley, and a collection of stories set in Felling-on-Tyne, where I’d grown up
We sat around a coffee table in an old school building and they outlined their extraordinary dream. Children’s literature must be properly celebrated. An archive of 20th century manuscripts and illustrations must be established. There must be a centre for exhibitions and readings, a place where children and their families could come to read, to write, to draw, to play, to meet the people who create books for them. There must be a focus for pioneering educational programmes. There must be a great bookshop dedicated to children’s books. The world must be shown that children’s literature is not some marginal art form, but that it lies at the beating heart of our culture. Mary and Elizabeth planned to find a building in Newcastle-upon-Tyne in which these dreams could be realised.
They paused. They asked me what I thought of that. Perhaps, I murmured, they were aiming a little high… They simply took no notice at all. They looked away for a moment and looked at me with shining eyes and asked the question again. It sounds brilliant, I said. And outrageous, I thought. I’m a writer. I put words onto paper and try to arrange them into lovely shapes. I thought of the energy, planning, commitment, willpower that it would take to bring such a centre into existence. It was surely impossible, I secretly thought. How wrong I was.
I never expected to become a children’s author. I was a grown-up educated adult and I thought my purpose was to write books for intelligent educated adults. But I’d been ambushed by a story called Skellig and my life and work had taken a totally unexpected direction. I found myself in a world where people really do believe that books and art can change people’s lives, that they can help to create a better world. I found young readers who, despite all the myths and mistruths, are active citizens, who really do read avidly and creatively, who are able to be both hilarious and deeply serious, barmy and profound. I found myself in a community of astonishingly talented and hardworking authors and illustrators. I found a literary home.
Around the same time as meeting Mary and Elizabeth, I’d come across an interview with a distinguished novelist, which helped me to understand how my ideas had changed, and helped to explain the nature of my new home. “All writers,” he said, “think that the world has reached its nadir, that innocence is irretrievably lost.” I recoiled from the idea. I did not believe that. I was with the great Ted Hughes: “Every new child is nature’s chance to correct culture’s error.” For every child, this ancient world is brand new and potent with possibility. Children, and the people who work alongside them, can lead us to a better future.
With astonishing speed, a fundraising plan was in action. A little set of offices was rented. A small staff of passionate and talented believers was hired. A Board of Trustees was established, which I was asked to join. I sat around tables with lawyers, businessmen, politicians, publishers and authors. We were guided and cajoled by Mary and Elizabeth. I was often bamboozled by discussions of strategy and finance, but was totally inspired by the shared commitment and sense of purpose, the belief that this was a dream whose time had come.
A building was discovered: a dilapidated, pigeon-shit-spattered, asbestos-tainted, seven-storied place towering above the Ouseburn. Weirdly, it had once been used as a printing works. This would be the place. It would be named Seven Stories. We trustees climbed the ladders between the floors. Could this really come to pass? Of course it could. Funds were raised. The building was renovated. And Seven Stories opened, 10 years ago, and became just what Mary and Elizabeth planned it to be: a celebration and exposition of the greatness and importance of children’s literature, a place which is open to all. It is now the National Centre for Children’s Books. The ever-growing and unique archive is housed in a separate building, in Felling-on Tyne.
Seven Stories is beloved by children and their families, by authors, illustrators, academics, teachers, librarians. It enthrals those who make long journeys to its doors and those who drop in as they wander through the quirky Ouseburn Valley. It is staffed by highly-qualified experts and dreamers. It is renowned and admired throughout the world. It is a shining example of how outrageous dreams, rejection of doubt, hard work and intelligent planning can bring about extraordinary results. Yes. Optimistic, creative, democratic visions really can help to create a better world.
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