Remember Me To The Bees – Drops of Wax

Posted on May 8, 2014 by Judy

The 17th story in my debut collection Remember Me To The Bees is Drops of Wax. I wrote it while visiting Cyprus with my family, thinking about how powerfully location can match or contrast with our emotions, and how a single moment can change everything in your life.

The artwork is by Louise Boulter.

A short excerpt from Drops of Wax

At the nearby tavern I order a strong shot of Cypriot coffee, no sugar. The shock of bitter caffeine helps to keep me in place, preventing me drifting inwards to replay that night again and again.

To the left of the harbour, rock pools glint. Michael loved rock pools. I remember him hunting for hours beneath sea- weed fronds for crabs and small quicksilver fish.

I pay for my coffee and skitter down the road to the pools, pretending Michael is skipping along beside me. I even imagine his voice, nattering away about some sea beastie he intends to hunt down and capture with his small blue net. But the rock pools, when I reach them, are oddly still. No seaweed wafts in this salt water; no crabs scuttle for shelter as my foot descends. It’s like stepping into a warm bath.

I wade in the water, disconcerted by the jagged volcanic rocks surrounding them. Nothing seems to live here at all.

“Karen? How are you?”

I turn and see Nola, Gigi by her side wearing a pink swim- suit and a pair of jelly shoes. They both beam at me.

“Nola,” I manage. “Kalimera, good morning.”
“Oh, you speak Greek.”
“Just a few words.” I’m self-conscious suddenly. “What are you doing here?”

“Gigi likes to look for crabs. They don’t live in the pools though – we find them in the sea, where it is cooler.” She says something to Gigi who holds out a small plastic bucket to me. Several miniscule white shells lie inside, spiralled into sharp points. The child picks one up, showing me the thin spiky legs that poke out. Look, I want to say, Look at that, Michael.

“Lovely,” I say, and Nola laughs.
“I think they’re horrid,” she says. “More like, what is the word? In Spain we call them araña. Oh yes, spider. I think these are more like spider than crab.”
“Spain?” I ask. “You’re on holiday here?”
“Georgios, my husband, is Greek Cypriot. Gigi and I just flew back from visiting my family in Madrid.”
The word husband makes me swallow hard. “You must miss your family when you’re here.”
“And I miss my husband when I’m there,” she shrugs, accepting the situation with a matter-of-factness I crave.

Hiding out in Bloom & Curll

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Judy

Independent bookshops seem few and far between these days, but if you know where to look and what to look for, you’ll discover they’re far from extinct.One of the finest I know totters on a sweep of road just above Bristol’s Christmas Steps. Currently sans signage, it’s easy to spot thanks to the heaps of books piled inside and out.

This is Bloom & Curll, owned and run by Jason, though occasionally ‘babysat’ by his mum (her words). What a treasure trove this is. Modern classics nestle alongside works be emerging local authors, shiny new volumes next to previously own and beloved texts.

Lanterns hang from the ceiling, toy trains sit ready on tracks (in the adult department, no less), and clocks show a random assortment of times, as though to remind you that inside this shop the only times that truly exist are those mentioned in the passages of the books.

And should you need sustenance to fuel you through your literary treasure hunt, there’s almost always a plate of Jaffa cakes near the till.

My short story collection Remember Me To The Bees recently took up residence at Bloom & Curll, and I find myself both proud, and a little jealous that it gets to spend its days there, waiting to be discovered by some reader seeking a few short stories to transport them in the way Bloom & Curll does me.

Bloom & Curll, 74 Colston Street, BS1 5BB Bristol, United Kingdom.

Remember Me To The Bees – Hedgehog

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Judy

The 16th story in my debut short fiction collection Remember Me To The Bees is Hedgehog.

I wrote this story in a bid to examine the challenges we can face when trying to identify right over wrong. When does it become acceptable to poke your nose into someone else’s family life? What gives you the right to draw judgement on their home life?

To explore these questions I created a protagonist in the form of a young school teacher whose life seems to be a quagmire of querulous and often inconsistent ideals of morality, and the bullied pupil she wants to rescue.

The artwork is by Louise Boulter.

A short excerpt from Hedgehog

The estate is at the far end of the town from Kiran’s own smart rented flat, line after line of little terraced houses with square scrubby lawns sprouting sofas, armchairs, old television sets – like impromptu open air living rooms. A silver-grey Alfa Romero is parked outside – incongruously posh for the area. Other than that, Timothy’s house is like so many others, the discoloured curtains twitching when she rings the bell. She’s seen his mum just once before, and it’s a shock to be greeted by her narrow, suspicious face, see the deep lines burrowing into her cheeks. She’s only a few years older than Kiran, yet resentment and uneasiness hang over her like the cloud of cigarette smoke she seems to exude through her pallid skin.

“What you want?” She keeps the door half-closed behind her, as though trying to prevent the young art teacher seeing inside.

“Mrs Hedginstall? I’m from Hedgeh… Timothy’s school. He leant me some items of school uniform for a project on Guy Fawkes. I’m just returning them.”

The air smells of milk on the turn, a faint tang of old nap- pies. She looks at the skinny woman in front of her, trying to assess whether it’s possible she’s recently had a baby. There’s no sign of one in the crack of room visible behind her – just a lot of old magazines, ashtrays, general detritus, and a glimpse of a man’s bare arm: strong-looking, densely haired. “Guy Fawkes?”

“Yes, yes,” Kiran tries to refocus on the task in hand. “He tried to burn down parliament. We were building Guys, some of the children supplied uniforms to dress them in.”

She hands over the bag quickly, anxious to be out of there, away from the resentment and the sorrow and the disconcerting stink of outright fear. She all but runs down the front path to her car, all but breaks the speed limit on her way back to the school, and back towards the safety of Ben’s bungalow.

We wordbombed a flea market

Posted on April 25, 2014 by Judy

There’s a particularly fine flea market that rocks up not far from me each month. By fine I mean eclectic – packed with eccentric folks selling unexpected wares from storefront dummies to diving bells, to extraordinary arrays of colourful hats. It always fills me with the urge to try to capture the scene, give so much ephemera a sense of permanency.

So we decide to wordbomb it – and had a ball.

How to wordbomb

It’s a perfect simple premise. Just take a few scraps of blank paper and some pens along with you. Browse at your leisure, and when you feel moved to, scribble down a few thoughts inspired by what you see. I’d advise stepping away to do this – the idea is to act as fast as possible so that there’s less chance of you being spotted in the act – hence the ‘bombing’ or ‘storming’ part.

Now the tricky part – surreptitiously place your scrawled words with the items that inspired them. If you have the chance, snap a quick photo of it in place, but this is less important than managing to leave your words.

Of course, you ought to ask permission, but then it wouldn’t be wordbombing, it would be, um, word leaving. As in yarnbombing, the illicit element is an intrinsic part of it.

And the aim is to scatter your words so that they can surprise, bemuse and possibly even inspire others.

Note: You will receive varying response to your words and actions – but the man selling the crocodile suitcase smiled as he read my spur-of-the-moment poem, which made it all worthwhile.

Remember Me To The Bees – The Beast

Posted on April 24, 2014 by Judy

The 15th story in my debut short fiction collection Remember Me To The Bees is The Beast. I wrote it in response to a call for submissions from bi-annual journal of new fiction Riptide for their Cornwall-themed issue, and was really chuffed that it was selected for publication in Riptide Volume 7.

I wanted to write a story blending together urban myths, in this case the Beast of Exmoor, along with the taboos and secrecy thrust upon us by society, as with regards to domestic violence, and then explore these through a child’s eyes who may not fully differentiate between the two.

The artwork at the top of this post is by Louise Boulter. The others are my own.

A short excerpt from The Beast

The school day was long and achy and boring. Especially at break-time when the other kids watched him and whispered together as he shuffled outside to sit while they played footie. He hated the fact that they hadn’t known him before, when he could run and kick as hard as any of them. As far as they were concerned, he’d always been damaged, and always would be. Through their eyes he could only see himself as he was now. The real him was nowhere in sight.

Mrs Braithwaite had got his mind whirring, wondering about the creature that was too terrible for her to risk telling him about. Back in the classroom he toyed with the idea, trying to imagine what it could be.

‘Tyler Clarkson, I’ve been calling your name!’ The teacher’s voice made him jump, but she sounded more worried than cross. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘The Beast,’ he said, without meaning to. He hunched down in his chair as the class erupted into giggles.

‘Hush, class,’ the teacher said firmly. ‘Do you mean the Beast of Exmoor, Tyler?’

The note of kindness in her voice made him brave enough to nod. ‘Yes, Miss. What is it?’

She smiled, seeming pleased. ‘Well, class, here we have a newcomer who doesn’t know our local legend. Who can help?’

A dozen hands shot up, some waving furiously. Tyler blinked around at them. It had to be something good to get such a response.
‘A giant cat, Miss.’
‘A puma, Miss!’
‘Loads of hikers have been attacked by it, torn limb from limb.’
‘My great-uncle was a farmer and in the 1980s he lost more than 100 sheep to the Beast!’
‘My granddad once saw its footprints. He said they were bigger than dinner plates!’

The teacher clapped her hands, making them fall silent. ‘Well, most of you are right, in one way or another, but perhaps the most important thing is that it’s a myth, which means what?’

‘That it might not be true, Miss?’

She nodded, pleased again. “It probably isn’t true. If there ever was a Beast, which I doubt, it’s long gone from Exmoor now. So there’s nothing to be afraid of at all.”

Remember Me To The Bees – Otters

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Judy

The 14th story in my debut short story collection Remember Me To The Bees is Otters. It came to me in a flash one day as I considered that disconcerting moment when you realise your parents actually aren’t immortal after all, and find yourself worrying more about them than they do about you.

It’s a curious time of transition, and one I wanted to explore through two characters, a grown woman and her ageing father, who, despite his advancing years, still has a thing or two to teach her.

The artwork is by Louise Boulter.

A short excerpt from Otters

At the reptile house he seemed to find an affinity with the giant tortoise, one wrinkled face gazing at another. “Says here he’s over 80 years old!” he said, peering at the notice.

“Wonder what keeps him going in there. Reckon he’s got an Enrichment Programme of sorts?”

They moved quickly through the insect house, passing the cockroaches and ants with barely a glance before coming to a halt in front of a beehive, where you could see the worker bees returning with their loads of pollen. “Never get to grow up, these ones,” he told her. “Never get to reproduce, poor things.” He touched her shoulder when he said that and she had the feeling he meant it as a compliment, a way of saying he was glad he’d produced her.

He led the way outside, pausing at one of the benches adorned with a plaque commemorating someone who’d apparently loved the zoo till the end of their days. Perhaps she could get one for him when he died, Rachel thought, then felt sick that it had crossed her mind so easily.

“Lunch,” he said, opening his backpack and bringing out a bottle of juice and two fat packets of greaseproof paper. “Tuna sandwiches!”

“Shall we save one for the seals?” she suggested, regretting her comment the moment she saw him seriously considering it.

Rachel was keen to see the seals being fed, to recapture another childhood memory, this one of sitting on his shoulders for a better view in a similar zoo thirty years before. She led him through the crowd, hoping the other visitors might notice his now narrow and sloping shoulders, his shrunken frame, and make space for them. At last the glinting water was right there before her, the stench of fish strong in the air, but when she turned he was gone.

“Dad?”

The keeper began the show, and she had to force her way back through the wall of people to the entrance. “Dad!” She scanned the hordes, hoping desperately, and spotted the flock of yellow-hatted youngsters.

“Have you seen an old man? He was with me earlier. Wearing a red jacket and a grey backpack.”

They shook their heads and she moved on, retracing her steps, past the insect house, the ancient tortoise, the ape enclosure. Panicking she ran to the map on the wall of the gift shop and tried to guess what could have caught his attention. Perhaps he was hungry again, had gone to the café. Then she saw it, between the signs for the marmosets and the meerkats: Otters.

Laments in Lisbon

Posted on April 11, 2014 by Judy

A hush falls as an elegantly dressed woman stalks among the crowded tables, coming to a halt into the centre of the room. A guitar is gently strummed, then the laments begin.

I sit in near-darkness in a room crammed with Portuguese Fado aficionados, all listening intently. Not a single fork scrapes against a single plate. I haven’t experienced Fado before. Part of me was expecting something akin to the explosiveness of Spanish Flamenco, but Portugal’s national song is far more contemplative. I don’t understand the words, but the sentiment is clear, and shivers race up and down my spine.

“Fado translates as fate,” Carmo tells me when the performance ends. “Many of the songs are about beloveds who never returned home from sea.”

I’ve only been in Lisbon a matter of days, but the area around Clube de Fado, the Alfama district, is already one of my favourites. When we return in the morning, only a little the worse for wear, Carmo reminds me that it survived the great earthquake of 1755, so retains a sense of the small city as it would have been long before then, with washing hanging haphazardly between wrought iron balconies and steep, narrow streets. “Many homes here still don’t have their own bathrooms,” she comments, an note that could equally be horror or pride in her voice.

The streets are stacked one above the other another, giving the impression they were built in haste, yet it’s hard to imagine anything here ever being done in a hurry – even the trams amble like commuter-crammed caterpillars.

There’s a curious beauty about the Alfama, with some of the houses beautifully tiled. Most feature at least one small painted tile paying homage to a saint, and keeping the homeowners’ family safe from harm. This is a place where fate is taken seriously – anything you can do to safeguard your family is done.

Above all this sits Castelo de São Jorge, where we wander through dappled sunlight and drink in panoramic views that showcase the city like a painted tableau. Despite the tourists, it is peaceful here – people murmur as they pose beside cannons, and cameras whir gently. Terracotta roofs are stacked above creamy buildings, and the strong, rectangular towers of churches rise above all else.

Far to my left I glimpse a crimson bridge that seems oddly familiar. “It was designed by the same company as San Francisco’s iconic Golden Gate bridge,” Carmo says.

Ah, that explains it. The river it spans is the Tagus, a thread of water that broadens at times into an estuary lake so wide it resembles a sea, yet it narrows as it nears the sea – seeming reluctant to leave.

It’s an impulse I can relate to. I wonder how Portugal‘s explorers could bring themselves to head out to the unknown, knowing they might never make it safely home.

“This is my favourite place in Lisbon,” Carmo says, eyes half closing in bliss. “You know, don’t you, that the city was founded by Ulysses?”

I ask her to repeat herself. Surely Ulysses, the one I’m thinking of, is a fictional hero.

She shrugs, either uncertain or not caring. “I like to imagine him standing here on this hillside and saying, yes, this is good, this is home.”

Discover Barcelona.

Remember Me To The Bees – the launch

Posted on April 11, 2014 by Judy

I’m a great believer in doing the things on your wishlist, your bucket-list, if you get the chance. A book launch was on mine, though I hadn’t dared look it straight in the eye.

So when the opportunity came to have my short story collection, Remember Me To The Bees, published, that was exciting, but glimmering at the edge of my vision was the launch.

But I almost didn’t do. Almost lost my nerve. Almost let the idea of ‘what if no one comes’ fright me into inaction.

I pushed past the fears – started planning the night.

And one excellent piece of advice from Mike French on throwing a successful book launch made it work – plan it not as a selling exercise, but a celebration, as a party.

Here are the ingredients of my book launch

1. The venue

I thought about what I would do if money was no object and set my heart on my dream venue, The Birdcage – a coffee shop cum vintage clothes shop cum bar cum music and lit night hosts.

I had a few chats with them about what I wanted to do, and they agreed to let me have the space free of charge on a Monday night. And that was that, preparations in motion.

2. Live music

Having achieved this, I had the courage to come up with a dream list, and a pretty clear picture of the kind of tone I was going for – going with the party theme and the vibe of the venue, I was keen to have live music…

I asked around a discovered that a friend of a friend, Anders aka Rabbit City, is an extremely talented musician and singer/songwriter. I listened to some of his sets on SoundCloud and realised his music would work really well with the stories in my collection, create the vibe I was after and was exactly what I was after.

3. Original artwork

Art was always my vision for the night. Bournemouth-based artist Louise Boulter created the cover for Remember Me To The Bees and artwork for each of the twenty stories in the collection. I checked with the venue and then asked Louise if she fancied holding a one-night exhibition of her work at the Birdcage on the launch night. She was keen – so that was the décor sussed, if a way that matched the feel of the book, the music and the venue.

4. An outfit for the author

Okay, this one may feel pretty frivolous, but for me the right clothing can help to put me in the right frame of mind, and I wanted a fancy frock. I opted for a vintage-look silky navy blue number with a wonderfully flowy skirt and lacy back, and felt like a literary princess all night long. It helped give me an extra boost of confidence, and added to the party feel for me.

I also wore a gold bee pendant my hubla had given me, just in case people weren’t aware this was a book of stories smattered with bees.

5. The readings

I prepared four excerpts to read at the launch, only around ten minutes in total, and just enough to whet people’s appetites. My reasoning was that a full story demanded too much attention from attendees – I wanted everyone to be intrigued by what they heard, and be left wanting more. It seemed to work!

I practised diligently in the weeks before the launch so that I almost knew the snippets off by heart. It definitely helped to be so well prepared when I took to the stage and saw quite how many people had turned up!

Which takes us to…

6. The invitations

I invited people I loved, people I liked, people I respected and people who I simply thought might be interested.

This included members of my family, local publishers, authors, journalists I’ve worked with, and just a lot of people I’ve enjoyed the company of at one time or another. The majority of the people I hoped would come did, and a few more besides. The place was packed!

7. A compère

I was happy to go up and introduce myself, but my hubla wisely pointed out that it would look far more professional if someone introduced me and then Rabbit City, and he kindly offered to take on that role, and did a grand job!

8. The signings

The Birdcage is a curious l-shape, with a main room that has the bar at one end and the stage at the other. A slightly smaller space spills off this and we took over a large table in there to pile up the books onto. I sat there and signed copies of the book and chatted to my fans (!) while Rabbit City played. It was utterly exciting, but when I felt overwhelmed it definitely helped to have a friend come and sit with me, or get lovely Louise Boulter to come and sign a few books too!

9. The photography

Last but not least, the gorgeous photographs that will helped me remember this night till the end of my days. Pete Gettins turned out to be the perfect man for this – unobtrusive and keen-eyed. Pete took all the photos published in this post. He captured many moments I hadn’t seen and many that made me exclaim as I laid eyes on them for the first time. Working in low-lighting and a party atmosphere he managed to take a collection of images that feel to me part art, part reportage.

And on the night everything went swimmingly – there was a golden glow to the evening that brought to mind weddings, birthdays, the gladdest of times.

I shared excerpts from Girls in Windows, Stalagmite, On The Ledge and Singing For Seals, signed and sold a lot of copies of Remember Me To The Bees, basked in the shimmer of a job well done, saw the pride on the faces of family and friends, revelled in having my own, one-person house band, posed for photos, forgot to pose for photos (those ones turned out better, I think), made contacts, had some jolly chats, felt like a literary star, and floated home feeling like moonlight was seeping from every pore.

So this is my advice. If you publish a book, even if your publisher has no publicity budget, have a launch. It raises awareness of your work, but more importantly it marks a pretty special achievement, and you’re bound to have a fantastic night.

Remember Me The Bees – On The Ledge

Posted on April 10, 2014 by Judy

The 13th story in my debut collection Remember Me To the Bees is one of my stranger ones. It’s called On The Ledge.

It began to form in my mind the day I walked down a particularly unpleasant, narrow pavement to the office I then worked at, and passed the body of a pigeon.

I walked past it day after day, and found it really disconcerting. What could have happened to it? And, more bizarre, why was nothing feasting on its remains? An odd preoccupation, for sure, but when I raised it in polite company, someone suggested it must have been poisoned, by rat poison, most likely, and other animals could sense the toxins in its systems.

My imagination took hold.

The artwork is by Louise Boulter.

A short excerpt from On The Ledge

The next morning, I saw something ahead of me on the road that resembled a discarded glove. It was a sunny warm day, so this seemed unlikely, and as I neared the slumped grey shape I realised it was the body of a pigeon. Poor thing seemed asleep, nestled into the narrow shade cast by a lamppost, but its head had fallen back, revealing the vulnerable feathered throat, and I knew it was dead.

The next day it was still there, untouched by the beetles or spiders or flies who skittered along that stretch of road. The whole thing struck me as rather odd and I mentioned it to Old Dave, who nodded wisely.

“That’ll be the rat poison,” he commented. “Oh, well, they’re vermin and all, just with wings, eh? And plenty more where that came from.”

The following day, as I walked towards the train station, the poor creature was still lying there, wings tucked in neatly, chest feathers ruffled fetchingly by the breeze. Glancing around at the empty road, I picked up the corpse with both hands and slipped it into my handbag.

All the way home, I thought about the dead animal I was carrying along with my glasses’ case and mobile phone, and imagined how horrified my fellow commuters would be if they only knew. The thought made me smile to myself and as we passed briefly through the small tunnel that opens out into south Bristol, I saw myself reflected in the window, grinning like crazy person.

How to write picture books

Posted on April 4, 2014 by Judy

Author and commissioning editor Mara Bergman shares her secrets for writing successful picture books.

Although I started writing from a very young age, it was only when my three children were growing up that I thought about writing picture books. I read to the children all the time and knew what worked – for them and for me – and thought it would be fun to have a go at writing one.

It took quite a while to get my first book published though, and there was a gap of a few years between my first book and my second. Even now, after having had quite a few books published, when my editor tells me that one of my stories has made it through an acquisitions meeting and has been accepted, I’m absolutely over the moon with excitement!

Make your language concise, rhythmical and playful

When writing a picture book you have to remember that the language needs to appeal to young children but also to whoever is reading to them, and it should never talk down to the child or be patronising.

For me language is paramount, something which became evident when I was reading all those picture books aloud to my young children.

If I didn’t enjoy reading a certain text, if the rhythms or words were flat, I would simply reach for another book. I think it’s important for language to be concise, rhythmical and playful.

Keep your form tight and your emotions real

The picture book certainly presents many challenges. First of all, the form is extremely tight and has to encompass so much. I enjoy the economy and the challenges of working in a tight form.

The story should be about 300 words long and have a beginning, middle and end, with a climax falling about two-thirds of the way through.

It’s important to make sure pieces are targeted to the right ages, but I don’t think of a particular age of child when I write, though my work is primarily aimed at three- to six-year-olds. I think it’s important to write what comes naturally to you.

I love the simplicity of picture books, or rather the pared-down-ness of them, and how they can get to the heart of emotions.

Think of your picture books as a puzzle to solve

The picture book is often likened to a piece of theatre, with each spread a stage set and the drama occurring at the turning of the page.

I’ve also heard it compared to a hugely condensed novel! But when I’m working on a story I find it’s more like one of those puzzles made up of little tiles that you have to shift around on a square to create a picture. You often have to move many pieces to get one piece in the right place.

Changing a phrase often means reworking several lines, and when one thing is wrong, the whole story has to be rethought. I love the simplicity of picture books, or rather the pared-down-ness of them, and how they can get to the heart of emotions.

Unless you can draw, leave that side of things to the illustrator

I wish I could write and illustrate, but as I can’t I’m extremely fortunate to work with some wonderful illustrators. My publisher Anne McNeil at Hodder paired my text for Snip Snap! with Nick Maland. Lively Elizabeth, illustrated by Cassia Thomas, is a completely different sort of story and required a completely different style of artwork. Both are extremely gifted artists.

For my newest book, Best Friends, Nicola Slater’s fantastic bright, bold and slightly retro illustrations make me laugh each time I read it.

There are lots of wonderful illustrators out there and therefore publishers’ expectations for the look of a book are extremely high. And they have to be, as it’s the artwork that catches your attention and makes you pick up the book in the first place. No matter how good a text might be, if someone isn’t attracted to the illustrations they are not going to read or buy the book.

Take time to understand the picture book market place

Publishers are leaning towards commissioning series, which tend to be character- based, so this is something you may want to keep in mind. The characters have to appeal to the children being read to, and children must be able to relate to them.

The picture book market isn’t an easy one, and it’s becoming ever more difficult, but no matter what, I sincerely believe that if your work is really good it will eventually find a home.

Know the market – visit bookshops and libraries and read magazines and websites geared to children’s books.

Most importantly keep writing, and keep submitting your work, and don’t be discouraged when your stories are rejected at first: they will be. You have to be serious about your writing and develop a thick skin – and stick with it.

About the author

Mara Bergman is Senior Commissioning Editor at Walker Books, an independent publishing house focusing on children’s books and young adult fiction. In addition, Mara writes picture books and her many books include Snip Snap! and Lively Elizabeth, both published by Hodder Children’s Books. Best Friends will be published by Hodder in July. “It’s the story of three very different dogs who are each chasing their own ball in the park, causing havoc as they run from their young owners. I hope this is a book that will be equally enjoyable for parents and children.”

SkyLightRain

For writers, daydreamers and innovators

Remember Me To The Bees – Drops of Wax

Hiding out in Bloom & Curll

Remember Me To The Bees – Hedgehog

We wordbombed a flea market

Remember Me To The Bees – The Beast

Remember Me To The Bees – Otters

Laments in Lisbon

Remember Me To The Bees – the launch

Remember Me The Bees – On The Ledge

How to write picture books