Monday on Twitter, Movellas tweeted a fascinating question: how do you come up with names for your characters? We retweeted, and got a load of interesting responses. So in case you missed it (or you want to just file these away to have while you’re writing), here’s a run-down of the suggestions:

Maria Louise J (@MLJDK):Sometimes I look through pages with babynames. It’s a good thing, if your character is spanish for example.

Sophiesimplson (@screamsSkl): I think of names I really like and how they fit their characters. e.g: a bad boy- bad boy Darren/zak. good boy-antony

Matt Hutchinson (@matthwrites): I use English place names as surnames if I get stuck. Obscure ones though – I haven’t called anyone Jeff Wigan (yet)

Lou Morgan (@LouMorgan): I hung onto the baby names book I bought when I was pregnant!

Jesselle Villegas (@Villegas): I browse school yearbooks for names.

Judith Heneghan (@JudithHeneghan): I borrow them from librarians – they always have interesting names and they wear handy name badges…

Kim Curran (@KimeCurran): I steal them off gravestones and dedications on park benches.

Non Pratt (@catnipbooks): check top names lists for the year my character was born relative to the one I imagine I’ll finish writing the book.

Mark Thornton (@mostlybooksmark): Think of first names and last names from your favourite books, then mash up first names and surnames…

 Cethan Leahy (@CethanLeahy): I usually steal the first name from books and films I like.

James Dawson (@_jamesdawson): Best tip I heard was names of British monarchs or their spouses – they never date.

Laure Eve (@LaureEve): Tend to use something that shouldn’t be a name as a name, i.e. objects, colours, feelings, places. Or I homage.

John Fulton (@johnkfulton): If you use Scrivener, it has a built-in character name generator.

Any other tips we should add to the list? Write them below in the comments!

When people think of philosophy, they tend to think of dry, dense tomes that are full of more semicolons than sense. The sorts of books that are no doubt very important, that influenced society in some indefinably crucial way, but, y’know, you wouldn’t actually want to read them. And in many ways those people are right.

Philosophy can be dense. It can be pretentious, and reading it can often feel like unpicking a knot with the lights turned off. But at its heart philosophy is none of those things. It’s not about overly complex language; it’s about incredibly powerful ideas that make you see the world in a completely different way. The trouble is, though the ideas may actually be quite simple, they’re really very hard to express.

Now, you may be wondering why I’m waffling on about philosophy on Hot Key’s blog. Well it’s because I think YA and children’s fiction can be a brilliant way of exploring these big, philosophical ideas.

Take Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials – an obvious example I know, but also a good one – over the course of the trilogy Pullman precisely questions the role and influence of religion. Now, a lot of people might say that’s all well and good, but you could explore those ideas much better by reading Paradise Lost and Richard Dawkins. But I’d argue they don’t offer an inherently better way, just a different one. All too often I think we’re guilty of thinking that ideas can only be weighty if they’re also heavy. Whereas in reality a fast-paced, gripping narrative can be just as good at exploring big ideas as something that’s considered more high brow.

Anyone who isn’t convinced should read Lois Lowry’s The Giver. It’s a brilliant dystopian thriller set in a society where everyone has chosen to repress their memories and limit their experiences in order to live a life free from pain. Unfortunately, it also means they’re pretty incapable of dealing with threats so they elect one person to receive the memories and experiences they lack and act as a leader.

The novel follows 12 year old Jonas as takes on this role and in the process finds his coddled life blown apart. But what’s really fascinating is that Jonas doesn’t just get more knowledgeable, rather his fundamental experience of life begins to change. In one particularly powerful section he starts to see colours he’s never experienced before. Lowry seems to be suggesting that our minds aren’t just blank slates that the world imprints on; instead they’re more like filters that influence our experiences. More than this, if you change that filter in some way – by providing new fundamental knowledge – then your basic experience of the world can change too. And, as Kant will happily tell you, that’s a deeply philosophical idea.

Now, if that last paragraph has left you scratching your head, then in a funny kind of way I think I’ve sort of proven my point. Expressing these ideas in an article or blog is hard and sometimes it’s far more effective to express them in a story. In my opinion YA and children’s literature does that brilliantly. It can take these big, bold ideas and create a story that is illuminating, unpretentious, gripping and fun. It proves the point that big ideas aren’t just for dusty old men in ivory towers – they’re for everyone.

Can you think of other examples of this in YA books published today? Or do you remember having any philosophical epiphanies after reading a particular title when you were growing up?

This year, we have been working closely with the fantastic Platform youth hub in Islington to build a series of author-led creative writing classes for young people aged 13 to 19 called Write Ideas, which runs every Tuesday evening in term time.

As part of Word 2013, Islington’s month-long celebration of reading and writing, authors Sarah Mussi and Sara Grant have put together an event to showcase the young people’s writing from Write Ideas, and to chat about the books they enjoy reading and draw inspiration from for their own writing.

The event gives anybody interested in literature the opportunity to hear directly from young people about what inspires them and to engage in a lively and interactive discussion about teen reading habits. You’ll also get a chance to network a bit and meet other attendees. Here are the details:

Where: Platform, Hornsey Road Baths, 260 Hornsey Road, London, N7 7QT
Time: Tuesday 21 May 6.30 – 8pm
Ages: Everyone welcome
Price: free, just turn up.
More Info: http://www.platformislington.org.uk/express-yourself

And for 153 years his collection has been doing exactly that.

His travels took him to many fabulous destinations such as Egypt, Sri Lanka, Burma, China, Japan, Canada and the United States. He collected objects that ‘either appealed to his own fancy or that seemed to him likely to interest and inform those who had not had the opportunity to visit distant lands’.  Soon word of Mr Horniman’s interest as a collector spread and travellers also approached him to offer specimens and curiosities.

By the late nineteenth century, his artistic collection had accumulated to such an extent that he moved out of his house, and it was opened full-time as a museum. It is reported that the move was precipitated by his wife, who is claimed to have said,  ‘either the collection goes or we do’. The family moved to Surrey Mount, the grounds of which adjoined those of the former residence.

There are 350,000 objects in the collection and they all tell a marvellous story.  There are musical instruments, Ancient Egyptian mummies, a vast taxidermy collection, artefacts from the indigenous cultures of North America, fish hooks, arrows, a monkey skeleton . . . the list goes on and on.

Of particular interest to me is the African collection with some of the most wonderful masks to be seen anywhere.  There is the spectacular Igbo Ijele, one of a tradition that makes Africa’s largest mask, and the only one of its kind on display in Britain. This  sits alongside other impressive Dogon and Bwa masks from Mali and Burkina Faso, which are about 5 meters high. Then there are the beautiful Gelede masks from the Yoruba region of Nigeria. Much of the African collection has been put in place since the 1950s and it is accompanied by wonderful video and documentary footage. There are also sessions where the visitor can learn the stories behind the many exhibited pieces, and numerous fabulous activites and tours to join in with. All the information can be found on the Horniman’s website.

The museum is very focused on all its visitors, what ever their age (or height) and the museum’s aquarium in particular has been designed with children in mind.  Low-level viewing windows allow younger visitors to see directly into the wonderful aquatic world, offering a really enchanting learning opportunity.  The Horniman also undertakes and supports work around the world to preserve the types of habitats shown in the aquarium.

And there is more – the garden!  The Horniman gardens are home to a fine collection of trees, some of which existed before the museum, and formed the field boundary markers when Forest Hill was populated by farms. Other trees on the site were originally found in the gardens of the Victorian houses that were pulled down in the 20th century, and include a crazy monkey puzzle tree.  It is a perfect place for a picnic after the stimulation of the museum.

What I absolutely love about the Horniman Museum is the nature of the exhibited pieces.  This is not a collection of art created by artists.  This is a collection of art made by people to enhance their lives, to manifest their belief, to make tasks possible, to hold water, gather crops, catch fish, cope with the elements.  It is a life-enhancing collection of art that shows the visitor how ‘other’ people do things, and with that the collection communicates the normalcy of lives lived far away in very different environments. A visit to the Horniman museum is a truly an experience to treasure.

To keep up with all the exciting things happening at the Horniman Museum, follow them on Twitter, Tumblr, or like them on Facebook.

The weekend of our visit the palace was celebrating the marriage of King Charles II to Catherine of Braganza and his return from exile to take up the English throne (1662). Actors – I mean, the King and his retinue – were walking around the palace, engaging with the public, and at times breaking into short plays and skits. So, as you were wandering the palace you could come upon a duel or witness a raging argument between the king and his new wife. Immersive theatre for the whole family.

And I LOVED IT.

The live action wasn’t only entertaining and funny but the information went right into a sticky part of my brain – in precisely the way that stories are the best method of passing on information in a ‘sticky’ or enduring way.

Two examples:

Here is a duel between two lovers of a court lady, which we came across in the Cartoon Gallery. Duelling was banned under Charles II but that didn’t mean it didn’t go on. This sword fight was entertaining choreography for us the audience, and had a hilarious effect on the lady they were fighting over: once the winner had mortally wounded his opponent, the lady was so overcome with emotion she found comfort in yet another court gentleman – a somewhat passionate comfort.

I didn’t know dueling was banned then – but I didn’t really know what day-to-day life was like ‘at court’ either, and this episode brought both to life vividly for me – the relationships, flirtations, jealousies, humour.

Here are Charles and Catherine being introduced to some important characters of their new English court. Painter Peter Lely was invited over from Belgium to be court artist, as art had been banned under Cromwell. From Lely’s brief conversation with Portuguese Catherine I learned that they were tea drinkers – unlike the English at that time – and that the Queen was responsible for introducing it here. (Surely there’s never been a longer-lived trend?)

Charles II also enabled literature to flourish, and during this episode we also met writer Aphra Behn – the first professional female writer in England. I now know, from watching this play, to salute you, Aphra.

More than just a nice day out at an impressive royal palace, it was entertaining and – dare I say it – educational. The magic was woven through the telling of stories pitched just right for the whole family: action, comedy, funny costumes, adult overtones if you’re old enough to notice them, historic details for those who cared to note them.

Before visiting Hampton Court Palace, pretty much all I knew about King Charles II was that he was the King of Bling, who brought partying back. Horrible Histories taught me this, reinforcing my argument that there’s no better way of making your point memorable than by telling it in a thoroughly entertaining story.

As much as I’m obsessed with personal stories through history, I’m also extremely nosy when it comes to houses (who isn’t?) and I’m a sucker for a historic house to wander round. Seeing through the keyholes of houses through history has always fascinated me. How did people live without electricity? What was a parlour used for? What would it have been like to have a bath in a tin in the kitchen? No central heating? Please! Domestic history, for me, is almost more interesting than the big events.

So imagine my delight, when a few years ago I realised I had a wonder of a museum that allowed me to indulge my obsession, right on my doorstep, and see front rooms through history of everyday people like us.

Exterior of the Geffrye Museum – photography Richard Davies

The Geffrye Museum is (perhaps) a little-known museum in London, mainly because, until recently, it wasn’t part of the tourist trail. It is in East London, just down from Dalston and I used to peer at the building from the bus on an almost daily basis, never having been in, but when I finally did, it instantly became one of my favourite places.

By entering the building from one end, you start your journey from the 1630s “hall”, transition though to various “parlours” up to 1790, then into the “drawing room” and finally into the “living room” up to 1998. You see how furniture, decoration, wallpaper, art and even entertainment has changed in our front rooms and how the space has gone from being formal and private to being relaxed and social, also referenced in the evolving of the name more towards the “lounge”.

When I first visited it was December, and I was delighted to find that they had set each room up as it would have been for Christmas – showing the first room where Christmas trees had become widespread, leading right up to the tinsel period. I remember being inspired by the 1965 room with paper chains, and promptly went home and adopted a similar look in my own living room.

Who remembers this look?

What I love about this museum, is that it is showing normal lives, normal people, and how we are all, without realising it, part of history. The 60s room triggered memories of my own grandparents’ front room, of furniture that had then passed down to my parents, which in its time was the “height of fashion” – and then became part of my family history. And then, mirrored in a museum. How many other people had that table, that unit, that lampshade? How many other families shared the same memory of this particular “look” for their living room? It felt like a living museum, a shared history, telling a story through the most simple of things, the room in our houses that we now perhaps take most for granted.

I think it’s apt that I wrote this post last night, while staying with family and sitting in their living room (we are waiting to move into our own). With the TV on, a few us with feet up on the sofa, reading papers, being on phones and laptops. And I can’t help but think how many years until the living room setting I describe becomes part of history and we maybe adopt some other set up, or use for this familiar room. Who knows? And that’s why history and museums can be so exciting, as I’m already thinking, when will the Geffrye add a new room? What is the next living room marker deemed historic?

East London living room, circa 2013. (With cat included)

So, I urge you to make the trip East if you are in London and haven’t discovered this place yet. I hope you come away as inspired as I continue to be by this special little (totally free) museum about our very ordinary front rooms.

What? My brain cried, what sort of question is that? I’ll explicate the causes of the 1917 Russian Revolution! Expound on the limitations of the Great Reform Act of 1867 or deliberate on the role of women in the decline of the Liberal Party. But museums? What have museums got to do with history?

Where dates don’t matter!

After mumbling something about making history accessible to everyone I quickly moved on to firmer ground, weighted in dates, names and facts. Five years down the line and I can barely remember what I had for breakfast, let alone who the Chancellor of the Exchequer was in 1905 (oats and Asquith respectively…) but that question did stick. And, as with all the best historical theories, my thoughts have changed considerably over time.

I used to be someone who worked with history, and now I’m someone who loves stories –and I’ve realised that actually those two aren’t so far apart. Museums, stories, history – it’s all about getting under the skin of someone else. I spent most of my degree standing on the edge of yesterday and asking my brain to put together a kaleidoscope of stories to cobble together something approaching truth. And not much has changed. Michael Gove’s decision to move the curriculum away from the history as experienced by people, understood as a complex web of experience, lies, stories and great moments, towards something that can be drawn neatly along a ruler is at once astoundingly naïve and also, I believe, wrong.

History is as much about the stories as it is about the Bills, laws and coronations. When an archaeologist uncovers a piece of jewellery, a Roman wall or an ancient shoe, historians work in the realms of guesswork and creativity to connect the dots and make ‘history’ bigger. Museums are a great bridge from stories to fact, you have to use a touch of imagination to bring it altogether but underneath the guesswork and possibilities are the scavenged artefacts of truth.

A servant boy with Bill Spykes the hedgehog

The best museums (in my opinion) are the ones that encourage you to use your imagination to really understand the past. Some people think that history is something abstract and intangible that can be recited from books and learnt from timelines (*coughs* Gove. Ahem.). BUT…not so. I fell in love with the idea of history as a thing in its own right aged 7, sitting in an Andersen shelter listening to the bombs falling over London, and comforted by the kind cockney women telling me to keep my “chin up”. Granted this was in the confines of the Imperial War Museum and I’d only recently emerged from the trenches – but, down there with the benches shaking and the smell of smoke creeping through the walls, that history was as real and as valid, as any textbook or timeline might claim.

A (ghostly) foundling girl

There are many great museums that really let you get a first-hand taste of history. Recently we went on a Victorian themed tour of Bloomsbury, visiting The Dickens Museum and then The Foundling Museum.

Shortly after breakfast I was a maid making porridge on a huge iron stove. Quickly followed by a stint as a servant boy where I explored the wine cellars, jumped at a rat and realised I’d left the oats on to burn.

A restorative latte later and I was Thomas Coram, establishing the Foundling Museum, taking in waifs and strays from across London and transforming the face of British society. And then briefly a girl left by desperate parents with only a small ‘token’ as a clue to my true family. Segueing from an anonymous servant girl to a man whose name lives on as one of the great philanthropists of our time, and back to a life of hard graft- I was able to pick up stories, get a taste of history and really learn something (*cough*).

Thomas Coram – a very splendid coat

So the moral of this story? The imagined past is as good as any story. Museums can be the alchemists touch which turn numbers and names into history gold. Children are excellent at understanding the complexities of a history. Don’t take away the dressing up! Lastly – I look great in a wig.

Anyone for tea?

We LOVE museums here at Hot Key Books. Rarely a week goes by when someone isn’t gushing about a cool exhibit they saw, or some mind-blowing event they attended at a museum. So, to celebrate Museums at Night 2013, we’re going to spend this week talking about our favourite museums.

Today, I’m kicking off our week of museum blogs with a few videos from two museums that were instrumental in helping us put together THE HISTORY BEHIND THE QUIETNESS. The Foundling Museum and The Old Operating Theatre and Herb Garret are both holding their own amazing Museums at Night Events, so make sure you get those in your diary right now! Click here for info about the Foundling Museum event, and here for info about The Old Operating Theatre night.

Wondering what to expect at these museums? Here are a few videos from the curators to give you a taste of what’s inside:

Two drains, fine; three drains: some undefined bad luck would target you.

 When I moved to London, aged 19, I knew I had to adapt this draconian rule that worked for the pavements of my Midlands. London streets are busy and people walk fast down them, so I could be caught out walking over three drains without even knowing it. How would I protect myself from the bad luck then?

So I added sub-clauses to the rule:

Walking over three drains means bad luck

…unless you’re on a busy street:

            i) and you walk over them unknowingly

            ii) OR you walk over them knowingly but you cross your fingers for protection

Now, please don’t think I’m crazy for a) having these rules or b) adapting them. Because it’s nothing different from what we do with our language – both words and grammar.

One example: isn’t it. Innit.

Innit is the unruly adaptation of isn’t it. But by being adapted, its use is expanded and given a glorious extra world of meaning. I know many people abhor the use of ‘innit’, but look what it can do:

“Your essay is due in today, isn’t it?”
vs
“Your essay is due in today, innit?”

And in response you can say:

“I can’t write my essay today because I’ve got a match, innit.”

But if you say,

“I can’t write my essay today because I’ve got a match, isn’t it,” well, people would just look at you oddly. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

‘Innit’ is a functioning word in its own right: it gives a pause in speech, a rhythmic beat, and implies an invitation to reply. But it’s fine if you don’t reply, because it’s not really a question.

And another rule I blatantly flount adapt for my own means: the so-called ‘rule’ of never starting a sentence with ‘and’ or ‘but’. Look how many times I’ve done it in this blog post. It upsets my boyfriend – whose teachers taught the rule very strictly – but I think it helps give impact to different points in a stream of thoughts. And it’s easier to follow. But if you don’t like lots of full stops you won’t agree with me.

I like sentences that make sense and direct you in your thinking, which means I tend to use lots of full stops and semi-colons. But lots of writers are the opposite. Other writers prefer long, flowing sentences, broken up by nothing more than a series of commas, to separate small thoughts from each other, to keep each set of thoughts in one continuous sentence, a bit like what I’m trying to do with this one, if you think it has worked.

My point is that all of this adaptation is OK. Not just OK, but brilliant. You need to learn all the proper rules so that newspapers, text books and official reports are universally understood – and so you can pass your exams. But when it comes to fiction – or any writing with personality – it’s the ways that these rules are bent and adapted that gives the writing colour and voice.

Coming soon: pet rules that are NEVER broken…