Background
"Those of us who set up the Book Council believed that if everyone involved in the world of books could work together, our ideals of improved literacy and a greater love of books and reading would be more readily achieved. Today, the Book Council’s success has fulfilled those ideals."
Dame Fiona Kidman, President of Honour and founding member of the New Zealand Book Council.
The New Zealand Book Council was established in 1972 in response to UNESCO's International Book Year. It is an independent, non-profit body dedicated to promoting and celebrating the love of books and reading. The Council is funded by grants from Creative New Zealand, one-off sponsorship and grants, and members' subscriptions.
The Book Council's first campaign in 1973, 'Operation Bookflood', gave books to South Auckland secondary schools. This practical assistance has continued over the years with schemes that have a direct and positive impact on the community.
Practical assistance is also offered to the writers, not only through the Book Council's promotion of their work, but also through the Council's policy of payment for public appearances and school visits. The Book Council considers writing to be a profession, and treats writers accordingly.
Increased membership would allow the Council to expand the number of schools covered by Writers in Schools, and increase the national coverage of writers' tours, resulting in more visits, to more regions, more often. Raising the profile of New Zealand literature is another important aim, particularly promoting New Zealand books internationally and developing the export market for New Zealand literature.
The energy, diversity and quality of New Zealand writing is continually growing. The Book Council is a dynamic organisation with a growing national membership. Former Book Council president Neil Plimmer noted in 1997:
"The Book Council at 25 years is still small relative to its potential, but it is engaged in widespread and highly constructive community activities. It is in good heart. It sees a world full of opportunities, and continues to seek ways to take these up."
History
In the early 1970s, many involved in the book trade wanted to enhance the book's place in the community without a commercial focus. The ideal became reality with the establishment of the New Zealand Book Council, whose initial funding came from Booksellers New Zealand.
30 Years – Many Words.
On 17 July 2002, the New Zealand Book Council brought together award winning writers Dame Fiona Kidman, Damien Wilkins and Kate De Goldi to celebrate the rich world of books and reading made possible by this unique organisation. The evening’s programme culminated with the launch of the New Zealand Book Council’s new logo and improved website.
For 30 years the New Zealand Book Council has successfully supported the language arts throughout New Zealand. Flagship programmes like Writers in Schools have made it possible for over a million school children to meet writers and their books. Words on Wheels has ensured that every part of New Zealand, no matter how remote, has had access to literary events. Meet the Author gives readers a chance to meet their favourite writers – past events have included Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Knox, John Ralston Saul and Michael King.
In an effort to meet ever increasing demand the New Zealand Book Council launched a newly improved website. www.bookcouncil.org.nz currently receives over 2 million hits a year, and is the most comprehensive site devoted to the language arts in New Zealand. As a national site dedicated to all aspects of the literary arts, our website is unique; one of only a handful of sites worldwide.
The New Zealand Book Council’s 30th Birthday Celebration was an exciting evening. Distinguished guests included the Governor General Dame Silvia Cartwright as well as Montana Book Award finalists, literary luminaries and, importantly, readers!
Speeches from the New Zealand Book Council Thirtieth Anniversary Celebrations 2002
Kia ora tatou. I don't believe that when the first meeting of the New Zealand Book Council took place, any of us thought we would be honoured by the presence of a Governor General at some future AGM. Governor Generals, in those days, were remote figures, and the new Book Council was a modest affair. Dame Silvia, thank you once again, for maintaining your constant support for books and writing in New Zealand..
So where did it all begin for me? Well, I was working as a fledgling script writer on a television series called Pukemanu, down in the old Waring Taylor Street broadcasting studios in1972, revelling in the excitement of life in television, and rueing the infrequency of pay cheques. Around about 3 o' clock in the morning, during a tea break in a shoot, -we used to work strange hours in those days - I said to my producer, I'm going to get a job that pays regular money, throw me the newspaper. And there in the Situations Vacant column, - the perfect job for a former librarian, it seemed to me. Part time job, 20 hours a week, inventing the New Zealand Book Council. Well, they didn't use the word invent, but they might as well. I was called the Secretary/Organizer. 1972 had been declared the International Year of the Book, by UNESCO. To mark it, a group of book interested people were setting up the Book Council. Leading the project was bookseller, Roy Parsons, with pointy beard, nicotine stained fingers and great vision, and the newly appointed chairman, Keith (later Sir Keith) Sinclair, Auckland historian, raconteur and bon vivant.
I got the job, and the first task I was given was to write to the other 95 applicants who didn't, and say how sorry Mr Parsons and Professor Sinclair were. I wasn't a bit sorry, because it was the job of my dreams, a job with books again, as in my library days, and yet one that allowed me to go on writing ,not only television scripts but to start work on my first books. I got lots of encouragement to be a writer - it makes me think of the way Kate Camp fully emerged as a writer during her time as an assistant in the more contemporary Book Council offices. Going on tour with Kate recently for the Book Council reminded how much the wheel really does turn round and around.
So what was my brief? Well, it was to promote books in the community. How was I to do that? Make it up. Ideas was what I was paid to produce. In a sense, I don't think that the director's role has changed very much. We still ask for ideas, and more ideas, from our splendid director Karen Ross, her team, and the Board. Books is a very provocative word to a thinker.
We started seriously the following year with a two day conference called 'The Changing Shape of Books' - one of the terrifying possibilities we were asked to confront was that books might not always be in hard cover.
This conference did supply me with a lot of ideas. The papers delivered by the educator WJ Scott and writer Noel Hilliard, were of particular significance. Noel gave a wide ranging talk about the life of a writer, the up sides and the down - one story I look back on with relish, was his account of being button holed by one of his communist associates when he was wearing a suit - his only, rather shabby suit, he reassured us, worn that day for some particular job related reason - that is, job other than being a writer, and his friend said. 'I see you're on the bloody gravy train Hilliard, now you've got the Authors' Fund.' Ah well, some of us continue to live in hope.
I could see that Noel's presence was a highlight of the conference, in the midst of all the academic presentations. People asked more questions of him than of anybody. As well, I was inspired by some of Scott's thoughts about the need for a living presence for books in schools. And yes, out of that conference was born two ideas - Meet the Author and Writers in Schools, and Noel became our first writer in schools, when he toured in Rotorua and the Bay of Plenty the following year. The schools were wildly enthusiastic.
We didn't have the resources to do a lot, and in those days, I wasn't a great fund raiser. Nor were many of my learned employers. We had some great parties though.
I've been given a lot of credit over the years for initiating these concepts. To be truthful, I wasn't the person who grew all of these ideas. There have been many people who have made vast contributions to the Book Council, people like Ann Mallinson, who saw the potential of Meet the Author events during her term as Chair, and developed the programme to a much wider audience, as did Kate Fortune. And there was the remarkable and quietly determined Jean Needham, a former director, who took the small floundering Writers in Schools scheme from a mere dozen or so visits a year, to hundreds.
Perhaps I can lay greater claim to the Words on Wheels scheme of touring authors nation wide, started during my term as president in the early 1990's. Although again, I couldn't possibly have done that without the help of people like Dr Robin Williams, Chris Pugsley, Elizabeth Alley, Lydia Wevers, Ro Griffiths, and a great many others- not forgetting Neil Plimmer, Ann Packer, Pat Quinn, to name just a few.
The Book Council has been part of my life for 30 years; I'm proud of the way it consolidates its place in the our literary life year after year; I admire the way the present administration, headed by Karen Ross has developed a savvy, for want of a better word, for working alongside many groups of people and its funding bodies, of which, of course, Creative New Zealand is the major player. You've carried the work far beyond the wildest dreams we had in 1972.
Ken, Sir Kenneth, thank you for continuing to lead the Book Council with such a sense of style. You were one of my best bright ideas. When nominations for a new president were being sought some years ago, it occurred to me that a distinguished and true book lover such as yourself was just what the Book Council needed. It seemed such a coup when you agreed. Thanks too, for yours and Jocelyn's immense hospitality.
To finish, on our theme quote from Janet Frame: 'In my family words were revered as instruments of magic'. My whole life has been founded on words; through their potent force, I first learned to communicate with the world and break down barriers imposed by isolation when I was young. But I should say, that families and words and their meaning change - when I was a child my family was an Anglo Saxon Gaelic mix- my family now is descended from that mix plus strong Maori, Spanish and Greek heritages. The language of all those cultures impact on our family, as does that of our many Cambodian friends, and that makes me think about change and the wider world I live in, and a subtlety of meaning in language, that I might never have imagined when I was growing up. I think there is some cross reference there to the role of the Book Council, changing, growing, and opening itself up to new experience day by day.
I was thrilled to be invited to speak this evening, as someone who’s benefited from the New Zealand Book Council programmes—I’ve been on a short writer’s tour around North Otago and South Canterbury, on a WOW tour (Words on Wheels) around the Far North and to the Sydney Writers Festival, and this October I’m off, with some help from the Book Council, to the Brisbane Writers Festival—so obviously these guys have my phone number and these are very pleasant calls to take.
I’d like to say something briefly about the relationship between writers and the Book Council.
Now I’m an occasional teacher of creative writing and a recent student of mine wrote a story in which a bunch of semi-employed, semi-charming young guys on the Kapiti Coast steal onto a golf course—handily out of sight of the clubhouse—and they play a round of golf for free and this involves some ducking behind bushes and trees whenever the greenkeeper or someone official-looking comes near—the story was plainly autobiographical—and when I read this story I suddenly thought, yes, this person writing it could be a writer now. Two things: first the fact that they’d jumped the fence—hadn’t fronted with their green fees— but also the notion that this act once recounted could bring pleasure to the reader. The student writer had understood something very basic: that the writer is a kind of informant and that writing is a sort of open secret. What we’re hoping for from every character is the story of the time when they played a round of golf for free . . . at Waikanae.
That’s a detour to this destination, I think: writers don’t especially like to belong. We like to jump the fence and duck behind small trees. And we fear capture. But. We also like to confess. One of the most curious and striking things about writers is that we combine furtiveness with public display. We don’t like to be disturbed but we rather enjoy being noticed . . . And it seems to me that the Book Council has a kind of genius for disturbing the writer in a way which makes sense to the writer.
So how does this work? There’s a talent in the Book Council to invent and improvise and to generally conceal its careful planning within structures that have a wonderful in-built freedom. The WOW Tour is one such improvised structure . . . what is it? a road trip in a hired van, with a bunch of writers who don’t necessarily know each other, with clashing personal habits, and venues that include riverfront picnic spots, cafés, huge halls and one-room libraries . . . beautiful old-fashioned afternoon teas waiting under lace netting . . . and then the audiences, the blushing third-formers when Kate Camp reads her motorbike sex poem, then the smutty forth formers who request. Kate Camp’s motorbike sex poem . . . you see the appeal.
The ‘sense’ these tours make is also there in the line-up of selected writers. You always feel in these tours a kind of menu has been worked out in advance, and you look around at the other writers and you wonder ‘Am I the ors d’hoeuvre? That guy’s definitely the salad . . . And her—she might be a main, entrée-size . . ." You feel an intelligence has arranged you on the school stage, in the local library, in the community hall. No matter how far you’ve been flung you feel connected to a mind or minds working in the Wellington office. But the real trick here is that all your own thoughts about how this group of writers work are rearranged on a daily basis, because the appeal and skills of each writer are acted upon by the changing audiences, the changing weather of their various wants, so the menu reads differently each night—and everyone gets to be a flop and everyone gets to be a star.
What happens on the road stays on the road of course—except when you put writers on that road. So let me finish with one story—and through this detour I’d like to get to Janet Frame, whose words hang over this event so promisingly.
At one stage on our Far North tour we were visiting a high school and we were detailed off to the appropriate classes. I went to a sixth form English class along with Tina Shaw and we read and talked and it was one of those moments when we failed utterly to connect . . anyway, there was a slightly rowdy table, the familiar naughty boys and girls all helpfully grouped together at the back of class, and one of these students—a big guy, an athlete, a sort of nightmare for a bookworm—put up his hand and asked the sort of question the literary crowd aged 16 are exercised by —"How much money do you make?" It was clear that this kid had been put up to it by his mates, for whom this question was just the end, and they collapsed in laughter and shoving. Our argument that it was literary excellence rather than market success driving us only earned us a fresh kind of incomprehension, a withering pity. Then the bell went. And I left that room with uncharitable thoughts, I suppose, about provincial life and reduced ambitions, and I was happy to be on the road and happy to think I’d never see that class again.
We did a couple more gigs that day and in the early evening we were returning to the same town when the van started behaving strangely. We seemed to have very little power and the van putted into the next service station. None of us had any idea at all about the mysteries of the combustion engine. One of our group suggested we’d been running out of petrol for the past hour which was why we hadn’t been able to go very fast – an idea of some appeal for a few moments. Anyway, it was dusk and we were tired and hungry and, with the petrol idea now almost fully discounted, we really despaired of ever getting to our motel.
And then striding out across the service station forecourt, in the beautiful green neon light that only forecourts can produce, across the oily glitter of puddles, came this figure—this tall, athletic figure—young guy, looking vaguely familiar—and he approached the van and saw me and said ‘Ah, the writer man". Yes, it was our tormentor from that sixth form English class earlier in the day. Now he was our mechanic. He was our saviour. He was specialising in diesel motors, studying after school and next year he was off to Auckland on an apprenticeship, he lifted the bonnet and went quickly to the problem . . . it really was one of those moments when you feel the smallness of literature, the rather narrow band of the calling—an insight which, seriously, I think is a kind of necessary tonic for the writer.
You see, by bringing writers to places they wouldn’t normally be seen in, you do two things: you shake the public’s complacency and you shake the writer’s complacency.
Janet Frame’s statement about the magic of words and the reverence we owe them expresses an ideal—an ideal which for 30 years the NZ Book Council has held close. We should also remember that Janet Frame, as outlined in her biography, can take apart and put together again a motorbike. And that if Janet Frame had been with us in that van in Northland, losing power, she surely would have launched her own mechanical theories from a firmer base than ours.
Which makes me think—finally—that what we should celebrate in the Book Council is the presence of book lovers who also happen to know how the world works—and who now have a history of making inspired guesses as to how the world might be persuaded in the direction of this great love.
Writer in schools
I come from a family of chronic non-joiners. My father used to say (a little smugly) that he belonged to two organisations only: the Catholic Church, because he wanted to; and the Law Society, because he had to. Until I emigrated to Wellington 5 years ago I, too, had faithfully non-joined; but that all changed when I met the Book Council - it’s been a steady and very happy cleaving-unto Council events and sub-committees and associated literary organisations ever since.
I’ve taken part in nearly every type of Book Council experience: as chair for Meet the Author events (whereat I’ve scored kisses from Thomas Keneally, Frank McCourt, and Margaret Atwood); as writer, and then, driver, on two remarkable WOW tours; as touring writer in NZ Post Children’s Book Festival Week; as speaker-cum-promotor on behalf of the Book Council at various conferences and meetings; and, above all, as a fairly regular writer-in-schools.
I say above all, because - even allowing for some of the truly rich and comic WOW moments - for me the writer-in-schools visits have been and continue to be some of the most comprehensively entertaining and edifying experiences in my working life.
There is no typical writer school visit. I have spoken about the life of a writer to 800 high school girls; to 600 co-ded students; to intimate groups of ‘extension’ students; to sundry mixes of primary school kids. I have read from my books to great, hairy 7th form boys and to smooth-skinned intermediate students. I’ve taken creative writing workshops in Decile 2 state co-eds and Decile 10 private single-sexers, in area schools where the kids come from the rural-urban interface, read books about dairy-farming for pleasure, and find a school visitor mildly exotic; in inner-city schools where the kids have determinedly sophisticated urban interests and whose ears it takes some effort and ingenuity to win. On one memorable occasion a school particularly wanted Paula Boock - but Paula was busy. Karen Ross - who can only ever see such a problem as a personal challenge - suggested I go instead, and talk about Paula’s books. Which I did - and so refreshing was it to discuss someone else’s work I proposed it become a new Book Council scheme.
Over the years I’ve learnt what works best with different ages. With High School students I talk about the genesis of my books and the recurring themes; I tell them about the publishing process and the ancillary activities writers are often involved in. They like hearing stories about the book covers. But, I like to emphasise the importance of reading in any writer’s - any person’s - life; I like to get them talking about what they read, and why. And I like to read to them - from my books, but also from other writers’ work. There is nothing quite so sweet as witnessing the analgesic effect story has on sardonic adolescents.
At primary school it’s more a case of writing’s hardware. You must have the books there to show them - your bona fides. And any hard evidence of work in progress - currently, I’m able to show them illustrations (not mine) from a picture book in progress, which is enormously satisfying (I’ve always envied picture book authors and illustrators their very winning hardware in schools.) Possibly my favourite activity is explaining to primary students that I write largely for teenagers - and then asking them if they can describe a teenager for me: ‘someone who talks on the phone and eats a lot;’ ‘they shout at your mother but they are nice to you sometimes;’ ‘they look in the mirror all the time and they always need money;’ these are just some of the explanations I’ve heard.
For the very smallest primary kids I reserve my best piece of hardware - my own Primer 2 writing book, with its wallpaper covering and endless short stories about witches and playing-with-my-cousins. New Entrants generally compose multiple variations of the same story when they are first learning to write - they are not much different, then, from adult authors. They yearn to tell you what their ‘story’ is. They love seeing that the beginnings were the same for a published writer. And they adore seeing what a pitiful artist that published writer was in her youth.
You can imagine how entertaining so much of this is. I find it difficult to identify the best moments because there are so many of them. I have often, while reading to little kids, looked down to find a couple of New Entrants playing with my shoe buckle or idly stroking my ankles as they listen. Some boys at an intermediate school recently asked me what kind of a car I drove. Regrettably, I couldn’t remember. Why did they ask? I wondered. Because they’d seen a fantastic Jaguar round the Hutt, with a licence plate saying KATE - and they thought it might be mine. Obviously I hadn’t quite sheeted home the often-limited earnings of an NZ author. Once, in Oamaru a freckled faced Year 6 told me quite earnestly that on the whole my visit had been better than PE (I think I was right in seeing this as a compliment). Probably my favourite visit - at least in retrospect - was to Tawa College where I spoke to two large consecutive groups of 4th formers - a notoriously unpredictable cohort, you’ll appreciate. The first bunch were dolls - attentive and appreciative, and they asked sharp questions. The second group had a wicked rump in the middle who kept up a steady subversive rumble and occasionally tipped over into outright anarchy. The librarian was mortified afterwards, despite my assurances that it really hadn’t worried me.
In any case, it was all worth it the next day - in the late afternoon a ream of handwritten apologies poured out of the fax. Written under duress, I don’t doubt - but the creative confabulation at work in these fictions! The assured voices. The colourful representation of the known world. The confident tonal shifts, the grasp of story architecture, the dramatic intensity. These are easily my best post-visit letters.
I said at the beginning that school visits were thoroughly edifying. I might add uplifting. I think the genius of this particular Book Council initiative is that its benefits are so completely reciprocal. Students enjoy seeing a writer made human, so to speak; they’re intrigued by the connection of the person to the text. The world of writing is demystified, perhaps; but more importantly, the students nearly always get an impassioned endorsement of literature in general, and reading in particular. They are briefly connected to someone for whom the primacy of story and language is a lived fact - and the presence of all of you tonight testifies to a fundamental belief in the importance of both those things to a healthy culture.
And for the writer in the school/writer equation, the experience is just as potent. I have never left a school feeling less than transformed by the connection with the students (and the teachers - and that’s another edifying story, for which there’s no time). I’ve been taken out of the office and walked in the real world, have been obliged, in a sense, to explain myself and why I do what I do - which is a good thing for a writer, I reckon. I’ve learned all over again why writing and promoting books for children is one of the most thrilling undertakings. I’ve got lost in the rabbit warren which is the archetypal NZ school, and been rescued by a nice kid. I’ve had yet another foul staff-room coffee. I’ve laughed and laughed, thought hard, people-managed - it’s been like anyone else’s day at the office (or how I fondly imagine it).
But here’s the real thing - and I won’t countenance cynicism - because why else does one do it? - the real thing is that, with luck, I’ve inspired, - one, maybe two, maybe a few kids. And maybe a teacher.
Certainly - and I don’t for a moment resile from the emotion inherent in this: certainly, the reverse has occurred.
To be a member of the New Zealand Book Council is to help it fulfil its potential; to ensure its programmes are as rich, wide-reaching and varied as the world of books it celebrates.
