{"id":42179,"date":"2024-06-10T06:30:08","date_gmt":"2024-06-09T18:30:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/?p=42179"},"modified":"2024-06-10T09:28:40","modified_gmt":"2024-06-09T21:28:40","slug":"victoria-m-adams-the-house-at-the-end-of-the-sea-qa-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/2024\/06\/10\/victoria-m-adams-the-house-at-the-end-of-the-sea-qa-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Victoria M Adams & “The House At the End of the Sea”: Q&A #1"},"content":{"rendered":"

Today I’m featuring Post #1 of a feature series with Victoria M Adams<\/a>—also known as my good friend and fellow author, Mary—which takes and indepth look at her newly released novel, The House at the End of the Sea<\/em><\/strong>.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Art Credit: Sharon King-Chai<\/p><\/div>\n

The House at the End of the Sea<\/em> is officially Middle Grade fiction, i.e. roughly aimed at the 9-13 age group, but I believe it’s one of those books that older readers may also enjoy.<\/p>\n

If you have questions for Mary, please post a comment. I know she’ll be more than delighted to answer.<\/p>\n

~*~<\/p>\n

Victoria M Adams & “The House At the End of the Sea”: Q&A #1<\/span><\/h3>\n

Helen:<\/strong> Saffi, your main character, and her family are dealing with bereavement, as well as intergenerational tensions. What is the role of fantasy in helping children confront and discuss very real traumas, historical or otherwise?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Victoria M Adams:<\/strong> During a recent Insta event, I had the privilege of chatting to Nashae Jones<\/a> and Jenna Lee-Yun<\/a> about middle grade storytelling and this question came up. Jenna had an interesting take on the issue. She said that fantasy gives children a safe space to understand difficult and traumatic experiences. Not only private grief and family problems but also systemic injustice, historical traumas and other issues. I think she’s absolutely right. Fantasy is a space where we collectively chew over tough questions, where children can grapple with certain feelings or realities and work through them. We look at the past and ask: ‘How was it for people back then?’ We look at now and ask, ‘why are things so difficult, how can I help myself and others?’ We look at the future and say, ‘what if we make this choice, or that choice as a society? What happens?’<\/span><\/p>\n

Personally, I was and still am interested in the experience of not-belonging, of dual heritages and complex family histories. In my case it was British and Iranian, but there are any number of ways of experiencing this, including the not-belonging that comes of moving around a great deal, or poverty, or neuro-diversity, or other forms of difference. Many of us have multiple loyalties, which are occasionally at loggerheads – they fight a little on the psychological level. It’s interesting to see these experiences represented in stories.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I wrote Saffi’s story, I found myself asking: what if it wasn’t a problem, or more accurately wasn’t JUST a problem to have several identities? What if the process of being ever so slightly at odds with oneself was actually useful? If it gave an unusual capacity – that of seeing both sides of an issue, or looking beyond the obvious, or avoiding simplistic answers? In that sense, a degree of discomfort is welcome. It opens our eyes to a whole new world.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Art Credit: Frank Victoria; Click for the book trailer: https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/reel\/C6dsoQDroRI\/<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

An Excerpt from The House at the End of the Sea<\/em><\/span><\/h3>\n

” \u2018There\u2019s a boy spying on us from the beach,\u2019 said Milo.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi didn\u2019t turn around. She fixed her gaze on her brother seated opposite her at the picnic table, and waited. Behind him, southwards along the town\u2019s promenade, waves rushed almost to the sea wall. Milo seemed too small to her in his green shirt with a T-rex on the front, poking at the dregs of his milkshake with a straw. A picture of innocence.<\/span><\/p>\n

Except, he was lying. She knew that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He\u2019s got something.\u2019 He had a worried look. \u2018I think it\u2019s a gun.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

She held his eye. \u2018Stop it, Milo.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Turn around. You\u2019ll miss it.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Just once, I\u2019d like to sit quietly and wait for Dad.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s true, I swear.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t. Milo\u2019s tales had started right after the funeral and showed no signs of stopping. The grief counsellor said: Your brother<\/em> lies because he doesn\u2019t want to accept a reality without his mum. <\/em>Saffi wished it was that easy to change reality.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Please.\u2019 He was squirming with frustration. \u2018Look!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

He sounded so desperate that she finally glanced over her shoulder. All she saw on the beach was a slim figure in a brown jacket. There was no way of knowing if he had been \u2018spying\u2019. Otherwise, the shore was deserted apart from birds. There were a great many of those, wheeling and turning over the bay.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Too late,\u2019 said Milo.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sun, kids crying over dropped ice cream, the burnt-sugar smell of candyfloss. That was how a seaside town should be, Saffi thought. But not this one. This one couldn\u2019t even manage a summer. It was August but the breeze felt more like October. The promenade had one post office that sold crisps and cards, one tea shop named Betty\u2019s where the owner hung sad, useless sun-catchers in the window. The lines of groynes on the sand resembled grinning teeth. And they were going to live here. They had to leave London and everything they knew behind, move in with Grandma and Grandad in this nowhere place at the edge of the sea, all because Mum was gone and Dad couldn\u2019t manage Milo alone. Anger sat in a lump in Saffi\u2019s throat.<\/span><\/p>\n

Just then, a gull landed on a nearby table with a scrabbling thud. Milo watched it jab at the wood with its yellow beak.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Seagulls evolved from velociraptors,\u2019 he said. \u2018Know that?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The gun was forgotten. He had on his serious I read this in a book <\/em>face. Saffi fought the urge to scream.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Careful,\u2019 said a voice from behind. \u2018They can be mardy, those ones.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi looked round to find a boy her own age, about twelve or thirteen, watching them from the terrace. Freckled and blond-haired, he could have sprung up out of the grey stones for all she knew. She hadn\u2019t seen him arrive. His hands were thrust in the pockets of a leather jacket; the t-shirt underneath might once have had a Leicester City logo. His trainers were tied with nylon string, pale green. He lifted his chin to indicate the gull.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Snatch chips right off your plate,\u2019 he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi shrugged. \u2018He hasn\u2019t bothered us.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

But she wondered if the newcomer would. He was edging towards them, hands still in his pockets, an eye on the gull. The bird stared at him sideways as if it didn\u2019t think much of him, either. Then it heaved itself in the air and flapped off. The boy relaxed a little.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Weren\u2019t you the one spying on us from the beach?\u2019 asked Milo.<\/span><\/p>\n

It might have been. But Saffi didn\u2019t see how the boy could have reached the terrace, if so. There were no stairs. He didn\u2019t deny it but withdrew one hand, holding it out to her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m Birdy,\u2019 he said. \u2018Birdy Lythe. You here on holiday?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi wasn\u2019t used to talking to strangers in the street. She hesitated before getting up to shake his hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m Saffi. This is Milo. We just moved here.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, aye?\u2019 That surprised him. \u2018Where from, London?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi nodded. \u2018And you?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Breakwell, born and bred.\u2019 He pointed across the bay to a line of white bluffs. \u2018My dad runs a park up by Flamborough.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

That was where Grandad and Grandma lived, in a B&B at Flamborough Head. Saffi realised that Birdy\u2019s \u2018park\u2019 must be nearby. She wasn\u2019t sure if she should say so.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Sounds nice.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Well.\u2019 He scuffed the pavement with his foot. \u2018I guess. I mean, there\u2019s lots to see round these parts. Stacks, arches, smugglers\u2019 caves . . . \u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Caves?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Milo\u2019s question was breathless. He had scrambled up from the bench to peer at the boy, hooked by the tourist pitch. Even Saffi felt a reluctant tug of interest.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Heaps.\u2019 Birdy warmed to his theme. \u2018Big ones at North Landing. But you can find \u2019em all over. And shipwrecks.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Shipwrecks?\u2019 Milo\u2019s eyes grew round.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll show you if you like. I know places.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi was suddenly afraid this boy with green laces would offer his tourist-guiding services, then ask for money. Or just ask for money.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s kind of you,\u2019 she said in her most formal London voice. \u2018We\u2019ll be fine.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

An instant later, she felt mean for saying it. Birdy only smiled, as if he didn\u2019t care one way or the other.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Saf.\u2019 Milo turned to her. \u2018D\u2019you think Dad\u2019ll take us to see a shipwreck?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018You know Dad. If it was an Iron Age dig, maybe . . . \u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

But Milo wasn\u2019t listening. \u2018My grandma and grandad have a B&B in Flamborough,\u2019 he told Birdy, eager.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi realised, too late, that he had spilled her secret. Birdy didn\u2019t miss it. A frown settled on his face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018What d\u2019you say your last name was?\u2019 He was staring hard at her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I didn\u2019t.\u2019 Here we go<\/em>, she thought. \u2018It\u2019s True.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Birdy must have recognised the name, for he seemed bewildered. \u2018True? But you don\u2019t look\u2013\u2019 he began, before biting his tongue.<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi felt a familiar weariness. People always saw Mum\u2019s Iranian side in her, never Dad\u2019s English one. It annoyed her because she couldn\u2019t even speak the language. She had no idea what Mum\u2019s aunts and uncles and fleets of cousins were saying when they pinched her cheeks and cooed in Farsi. She opened her mouth to make a sharp rejoinder. But Birdy spoke first.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Trues. Figures.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Saffi could tell he didn\u2019t mean it as a compliment. \u2018Why?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Before he could answer, she felt the air move. With a great flap and flurry of wings, a seagull \u2013 she didn\u2019t know if it was the same one \u2013 swooped down on them from above, so close that its webbed feet almost grazed Birdy\u2019s face. Instinctively, he raised his arms. There was a breathless moment as the gull hovered over him, an angry grey-white blur, yellow beak agape. Then, as quickly as it came, it went. Birdy didn\u2019t look surprised. He flicked a downy feather off his jacket.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Told you. Mardy,\u2019 he said.”<\/span><\/p>\n

from \u00a9 The House at the End of the Sea<\/em> — produced here with permission.<\/p>\n

~*~<\/p>\n

\"\"

Victoria M Adams<\/p><\/div>\n

About The Author<\/span><\/h3>\n

Victoria M. Adams spent her childhood bouncing between Cyprus, Canada and the US with her Iranian mother, trying to achieve first place in the \u2018Most Visas Acquired Before Age Eighteen\u2019 sweepstakes. As an adult, she carried on the nomadic family tradition by adding France and New Zealand to the mix, where she worked as an animator, copywriter, tutor and story coach, in no particular order. She currently shares her London home with two humans and a feckless cat.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Today I’m featuring Post #1 of a feature series with Victoria M Adams—also known as my good friend and fellow author, Mary—which takes and indepth look at her newly released novel, The House at the End of the Sea. The House at the End of the Sea is officially Middle Grade fiction, i.e. roughly aimed […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13,19,42,14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-42179","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-friends","category-funstuff","category-guest-interviews-on-anything-really-2","category-other-writers"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42179","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=42179"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42179\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":42247,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42179\/revisions\/42247"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=42179"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=42179"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/helenlowe.info\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=42179"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}