I'm proud to be the publisher of Bog Child, Siobhan Dowd's astonishing but sadly posthumous novel, which won the Carnegie medal today. I've never known an author like Siobhan. When the typescript of her very first novel, A Swift Pure Cry, arrived at David Fickling Books, I read it with mounting excitement, in a single gulp. A great writer had materialised from nowhere, at the height of her powers. This wasn't promise; this was achievement.
Over the next two very productive years, Siobhan proceeded to deliver, one after another, three more full-length novels, all very different and each in its individual way equally assured and original. Siobhan's second book, The London Eye Mystery, was published to great acclaim, and Bog Child followed. If anything, it's even better than the first two, almost alarmingly readable. We hope her fourth book, Solace of the Road, will also take the world by storm.
A Swift Pure Cry was nominated for the Carnegie. I know just how thrilled Siobhan would have been to find that not only had she been nominated for a second time, but that her book had gone on to win. The Carnegie is a great literary prize, arguably the most important in our culture; I'd cheerfully back it against any adult prize you care to mention. It is voted for by that most hard-working and dedicated group of readers, children's librarians, and on behalf of the most important readers in the land: young readers, who form the basis of our future literary culture.
Siobhan was a literary phenomenon: she made words sing. Her writing required only the lightest editing; her prose was as cool and clear as a mountain stream, yet her books are warm, and wit ripples through them like laughter. She had the extraordinary ability to transport the reader into the minds of her characters (who could fail to fall for Fergus, the hero of Bog Child?) and – wonder of wonders – she was blessed with an almost pitch-perfect sense of story structure. Her combination of style, empathy and storytelling makes her ideal for younger readers, but reading a Siobhan Dowd novel is like breathing great pints of morning air: everybody should do it. We are deeply lucky to have four brilliant books from her, but it's impossible not to feel that this isn't enough.
Siobhan was seriously ill with cancer from the moment we met, but she was always very clear about one thing: it wasn't the cancer making her write. She'd always wanted to, way back from when she was a young girl, but other commitments had prevented her. She kept her sickness very quiet and even though I knew she was ill, I somehow managed to forget it. That was down to Siobhan – but it made the shock of her death in August 2007 even more terrible.
All the royalties from her books now go to the Siobhan Dowd Trust – a charity set up by Siobhan herself shortly before her death with the aim of bringing the delight of reading and stories to children (particularly those in care) who have little access to books. She was a woman – and a writer – of immense humanity, warmth and ability, already in the full measure of her talent. I'm honoured to have published her work, and my main aim now is to publish her posthumous books with the same vigour, vitality and enthusiasm we would give them were she still here. In 2007, Waterstone's voted her one of the 25 British writers for the future (only three were children's writers). I suppose what I would like most to say now is that Siobhan is still very much a writer for the future. Everybody should read her.
