I wrote lots of stories while at school, and Enid Blyton's influence is right through them, although they are dull by comparison.
zaidi wrote: I just don't want to read any other writer but her people say me that your writing will not be good if you only read Enid
It may be the case that it would be better for your own writing skill to be exposed to a much wider range of books than those by Blyton; but I would disagree with anyone who said that Blyton was actively a *bad* influence.
On the positive side, she probably turned countless children into readers who may not have become, otherwise. I am probably one of these - although of course it's difficult to say whether I would have been triggered into an interest in book by some other author if Blyton hadn't come my way. But, as things happened, it was Blyton who started it for me.
izzy_1991 wrote:I can understand why one would not wish you to read Enid Blyton to an extent because the English within Enid's writing is not like that which is spoken today. You do not often here children exclaiming "gosh" or "golly" these days.
(* GULP! *) Even today, as a not-so-young adult, I catch myself using such expressions occasionally - not too often, but occasionally. I don't know if anyone finds it odd or not; at any rate, they haven't yet commented.
In Australia, I'm not sure these expressions were common amongst children even when I was a child myself. In many ways the habits I developed and the ways of thinking I adopted were more influenced by Enid Blyton's books than by my own peers, many of whom I disliked and didn't want to be influenced by anyway. This influence is probably still with me today to some extent.
izzy_1991 wrote:I hope people's comments have not meant you have not been able to read Blyton ... it would be such a pity for someone to come in between you and your books x
In my experience, people come between you and your books all the time when you're a child.
When I started a new school in Melbourne (Australia) in 1967, which was also my first entry into secondary school, I had what I realize now was a narrow escape from extreme, acute embarrassment that, even now, makes me cringe to think about, had it happened.
Shortly before moving to Melbourne from Adelaide, I came into possession of a thick exercise book with hard covers - quite a nice, very old-fashioned book, with a few hundred lined pages in it - and I decided to fill it with stories, and created a set of characters about whom to write; and I started writing the stories. By the time I started at my new school, a few of the stories (about 12 pages each) were complete.
Full of naive enthusiasm, I talked about this to my new English teacher, and I wondered whether he would like to read one of them out to the class during a lesson. I didn't know if such things were done, but it seemed appropriate because I recalled that in junior school at least things were sometimes read out - presumably for educational purposes. Reading out one of my stories would not be likely to be educational - but I didn't think about that, aged nearly 13.
The teacher seemed to agree and asked me to leave the book on his desk. I did that, and the lesson went ahead. He didn't do it though, but said nothing about why. I don't recall whether the teacher got a chance to look at what was inside or not. Perhaps he did, and decided not to go ahead with this after seeing what my stories were like, as a kindness to me - although he never said anything to me about why he hadn't done it. I just got my book back with none of the stories having been read to the class. I don't recall whether I tried another once or twice, because the whole episode is rather vague in my memory now. And I don't know what the teacher's thoughts or intentions were about this. Presumably he did intend to at least consider reading something out, at least at the beginning - otherwise surely he wouldn't have asked me to leave the book on his desk. It's all a bit of a mystery to me now; but certainly I know nothing ever came of it. (Read on to find out why I was to be infinitely glad about that.)
Probably only weeks or even days later I was teased by other boys who saw me reading Blyton books at lunch. I had thought nothing of this, because it seemed normal to me to do this, and I was making no attempt to hide it. Kids had read Enid Blyton at my previous school, and they were only a year or so younger than the kids I was with now. But obviously it was very uncool indeed, even daggy and childish, to read Enid Blyton now. I can only gather that the transition from primary school to secondary school caused some kids to think it was no longer acceptable to read certain things, despite their ages being almost the same - although this certainly didn't affect my own thinking in any way. After that, I didn't stop reading her books, but was very careful to keep the covers hidden.
I'm not sure if I realized it at the time - but I certainly do now - that, had my story been read to the class by the English teacher, I would have been subjected to a barrage of ridicule from the class, who would no doubt notice the resemblance to Enid Blyton. I am very thankful now that the teacher did *not* read the stories out to the class. Not only would the resemblance to Enid Blyton's writing be embarrassingly obvious; but my complete immaturity and lack of judgement (even for my age) would have been just as obvious and just as embarrassing. I like to think the teacher, having looked at the stories, realized all this, and did me a kindness by not proceeding - and (apparently) choosing not to embarrass me by even pointing all this out.
I used to write further stories in the same book in the school library, and later on some kid looked over my shoulder and saw the title of one of the stories: " The Adventure by the Seaside". And I got ridiculed and humiliated terribly over that title for some days or maybe weeks after that. The kids knew nothing about the content of the story; but the title itself was enough for them to poke fun at: about the most stereotypical Blytonian story title possible, even if she didn't use it herself (to my knowledge).
Oh yes - in childhood, *lots* of forces tried to come between me and my books.
Regards, Michael.
It's a bit dog eared now, but I still have it!
