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Michael Morpurgo - Author Study

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Rexana J

on 24 June 2013

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Transcript of Michael Morpurgo - Author Study

0 + - = 9 8 7 1 2 3 4 5 6 c Author's Next Book As most of Michael Morpurgo's books are about war or animals, I would like his next book to be maybe a background story of Michael. He could use his own life story and then create it into a fiction story.

Michael Morpurgo has seen the after-effects of what war created and it would be interesting to see what his point of view is. He could use many techniques (similes, metaphors, personification) that would help him describe what it feels, looks and hears like. My Imitation of my Author's Style Biography Michael Morpurgo was born on October the 5th in 1943 in Hertfordshire, England. In his childhood, he attended schools in London, Sussex and Canterbury. He finished his education in London University and began a job at a primary school in Kent.
He describes himself as, "Oldish, married with three children and a grandfather six times over."
Michael's father is the actor Tony Van Bridge and his mother is the actress Kippe Cammaerts. He only met his father when he was 19, while watching a movie his father starred in, with his mother.
What I believe inspires him, is his own memories which he expands on and develops them into a story. For example, one particularly horrible school inspired him to describe in 'The Butterfly Lion.'
Michael is presently living in Devon, England with his wife, Clare, and his three children. Justification Shadow deserved a 9.5/10 because it really delved into the character's thoughts and showed true feelings of that situation. The style it was written gives the reader a clearer view of the scene and it carries off the reader into a world of friendship.

I would've given Shadow a higher score but the vocabulary was quite simple and the ending was a bit predictable.

I would recommend it to a wide audience, from 9 years above. The developed plot is something that readers should take note of. Rating 8.5/10 Bibliography!!! http://michaelmorpurgo.com/
http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/contributor/michael-morpurgo
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0606190/
http://clubs-kids.scholastic.co.uk/clubs_content/1493
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/childrens-books/2011/mar/02/michael-morpurgo-interview-children
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9239452-shadow
http://literature.britishcouncil.org/michael-morpurgo
http://michaelmorpurgo.com/about-michael-morpurgo
http://www.teachersmedia.co.uk/videos/michael-morpurgo
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-17382092
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/michaelmorpurgo
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/childrens-books/2011/mar/02/michael-morpurgo-interview-children
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8545941/Hay-Festival-2011-Michael-Morpurgo-interview.html A Blurb - Shadow Aman and his frail mother fled to England when they realised that they could not stay in their home country; Afghanistan. On their journey, they meet Shadow, a bomb-sniffer spaniel dog, who immediately befriends them. When Shadow, Aman and his mother settle in England, Aman meets Matt and they become best friends.
However, Matt finds out that Aman has just been put in prison with his mother and will be sent back to Afghanistan. Determined to set Aman and his mother free, Matt and his grandpa set up a protest outside Yarl's Wood Prison.
Will the protest succeed? Will Aman and his mother be set free, with the help of Shadow?

Shadow is a book written by the best-selling author, Michael Morpurgo. Michael Morpurgo Features of Writing By Rexana Michael Morpurgo Independent Author Study Blurb And Justification Fellow Fans How do you decide ideas for your books?
From all around me. Places, people, stories I hear, little happenings, big happenings, history. I keep my eyes and ears open, my heart fresh.

Why do most of your books have some elements of war or animals?
I was born on a farm, which explains the animals, in 1943, just after the Second World War. I saw the sadness the war had created and inspired me to write books about war.

Are your stories true?
With each one there is an element of truth. I weave different truths into the same story to make another kind of truth. So with Kensuke’s Kingdom, there was a Japanese soldier who decided to stay behind on an island after World War 2.

What genre do you find easiest to write?
Does your writing style change while for different age groups?


THANK YOU FOR WATCHING!!! “Shadow is the perfect book for classroom teachers looking for a contemporary tale of the old, sad story: war’s devastating ramifications for everyone, including children,” Horn Book.
"Morpurgo humanizes the asylum story through one refugee boy’s viewpoint,” Booklist.
Dramatic Reading Red=Good Vocabulary Orange=Interesting Phrases Green=Originality Blue=Similes/Metaphors Metaphors Sentence Structure Imagery “If I learned anything in this life, I've learned that you can't cling on.” - Michael Morpurgo, Alone On A Wide Wide Sea Rating “It’s OK if you have to go, buddy,” I said, looking into those eyes that showed companionship and devotion. I knew what she was thinking: I have to get up, go home, be the farm dog, guard and train the new guy. I've got sheep to move, chickens to bark at. Who’s going to watch the place?
But she wasn’t coming home.
Lizzie was taking her last ride from a specialist in Sydney back to our farm. We had cut our holiday short and driven all night just to be with her for the last time. We couldn’t imagine doing anything else for this dog that had worked her way into a job on our small farm and found a place deep in our hearts.
She couldn’t get into the truck herself. The dog that could do anything, learn anything, the dog that always beat me to the truck, had to be lifted in. Her 40 kilos of muscle was down to a lot less, but her heart was still as big as ever.
Lizzie started out on the floor in back. But when we got close to home she jumped up, rested on the dashboard and leaned against me. Then she crawled, obviously aching, into the passenger seat where she used to always ride. For the entire ride home, she just looked out the window.
My first memory of Lizzie was as a 10-week-old pup, perched on the edge of the seat, head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind. She could have acted nervous or whined, but she just smiled and watched. “Aman said that to me once,” I told him, “about the stars being so close, I mean. We were on a school trip down on a farm in Devon, and we snuck out at night-time, just the two of us, went for a midnight walk, and there were all these stars up there, zillions of them. We lay down in a field and just watched them. We saw Orion, the Plough, and the Milky Way that goes on for ever. He said he had never felt so free as he did at that moment. He told me then, that when he was little, when he first came to live in Manchester, he didn’t think we had stars in England at all. And it’s true, Grandpa, you can’t see them nearly so well at home in Manchester on account of the street lights, I suppose. Back in Afghanistan they filled the whole sky, he said, and they felt so close, like a ceiling painted with stars.”
“Who’s Aman?” Grandpa asked me. I’d told him before about Aman. He’d even met him once or twice but he was inclined to forget things these days.
“You know, Grandpa, my best friend,” I said. “We’re both fourteen. We were even born on the same day, April 22nd, me in Manchester, him in Afghanistan. But they’re sending him back, back to Afghanistan. He’s been to the house when you were there, I know he has.”
“I remember him now,” he said. “Short fellow, big smile. What do you mean, sending him back? Who is?”
So I told him again I was sure I’d told him it all before about how Aman had come into the country as an asylum seeker six years before, and how he couldn’t speak a word of English when he first came to school.
Appreciation Letter Mr Morpurgo,
I have just finished reading a few books of yours and they were amazing. Thank you for providing such amazing stories for children around the world. All your books have entertained me through dreary days. I enjoy your uniqueness of using animals' perspective and your thoughts and experiences of war and how you base your stories on true perspectives or stories.
Your books, 'Shadow,' 'War Horse,' 'Born to Run,' 'Outlaw' and many more have interested and inspired me a lot. They are clear, expressive and really do capture the fine details of the novels. Thank you for these fine books.
I appreciate your devotion to all your books and your persistence to awe your fans.

Yours Sincerely,
Rexana Interview with Michael Morpurgo My Book I would write a book about a boy and he is at the beach with his stepfather. The boy cannot swim and is spending the day on the sand while, as the boy's mother thinks, he and his stepfather have 'bonding time.' His stepfather forces the boy into the waves. By then, the sunny weather will have changed into dark and stormy.

The boy struggles. That sense of hopelessness and dread weighs him down. His head goes underwater. During the period when he is underwater, he has flashbacks of when his real father was still here. Then he realises that it was fate that forced him to drown, fate that made his stepfather annoyed at him, which lead to him forcing the boy into the water. The book ends with the boy coming up for air.

The main character of the story would be the boy who drowns. Other characters would be the stepfather, mother and father. The father will not appear physically but only in flashbacks. The beginning of the book would start with the mother fussing over what to take to the beach, and apologising for being ill at such a time.

Since the boy already hates the stepfather before, he will make it very clear that he wants nothing to do with his stepfather. His mother takes him aside before they leave and tells him to be a good boy and take care of himself and his stepfather. She is already aware that his stepfather tends to get annoyed easily.

I would make this book suitable for 10 year olds and above. Vocabulary She was always wagging her tail and giving us that big wolfish grin, so we called her the world’s happiest dog. She was all business when there was work to do. Most of her duties consisted of riding in the truck, playing Fetch or lounging. But when needed, she was always there to load a cranky cow, or guard us, knowing she would protect her family with every last breath.
Lizzie was probably a once-in-a-lifetime dog. But her son Gordon was romping around in our backyard yesterday, and he had his first ride in the truck today. He sits in the same spot, has the same way of looking out the window and smiling with that big wolfish grin.
Gordon has some big shoes to fill. Right now he doesn’t know which end of the cow is supposed to be in front and which the behind, but he will learn.
Lizzie, however, will always be there for us. Still our guard. It’s OK, buddy. You had to go. My Imitation - Continued Grandpa started to hum, then to sing. “When the stars begin to fall… Can’t remember the rest,” he said. “It’s from a song Grandma used to love. I know she’s up there, Matt, right now, looking down on us. On nights like these the stars seem so close you could almost reach out and touch them.”
I could hear the tears in his voice. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing for a while. Then I remembered something. It was almost like an echo in my mind.
“Aman said that to me once,” I told him, “about the stars being so close, I mean. We were on a school trip down on a farm in Devon, and we snuck out at night-time, just the two of us, went for a midnight walk, and there were all these stars up there, zillions of them. We lay down in a field and just watched them. We saw Orion, the Plough, and the Milky Way that goes on for ever. He said he had never felt so free as he did at that moment. He told me then, that when he was little, when he first came to live in Manchester, he didn’t think we had stars in England at all. And it’s true, Grandpa, you can’t see them nearly so well at home in Manchester – on account of the street lights, I suppose. Back in Afghanistan they filled the whole sky, he said, and they felt so close, like a ceiling painted with stars.”
“Who’s Aman?” Grandpa asked me. I’d told him before about Aman – he’d even met him once or twice – but he was inclined to forget things these days.
“You know, Grandpa, my best friend,” I said. “We’re both fourteen. We were even born on the same day, April 22nd, me in Manchester, him in Afghanistan. But they’re sending him back, back to Afghanistan. He’s been to the house when you were there, I know he has.”
“I remember him now,” he said. “Short fellow, big smile. What do you mean, sending him back? Who is?”
So I told him again – I was sure I’d told him it all before – about how Aman had come into the country as an asylum seeker six years before, and how he couldn’t speak a word of English when he first came to school.
“He learned really fast too, Grandpa,” I said. “Aman and me, we were always in the same class in junior school and now at Belmont Academy. And you’re right, Grandpa, he is small. But he can run like the wind, and he plays football like a wizard. He never talks much about Afghanistan, always says it was another life, and not a life he wants to remember. So I don’t ask. But when Grandma died, I found that Aman was the only one I could talk to. Maybe because I knew he was the only one who would understand.”
“Good to have a friend like that,” said Grandpa.
“Anyway,” I went on, “he’s been in this prison place, him and his mum, for over three weeks now. I was there when they came and took him away, like he was a criminal or something. They’re keeping them locked up in there until they send them back to Afghanistan. We’ve written letters from school, to the Prime Minister, to the Queen, to all kinds of people, asking them to let Aman stay. They don’t even bother to write back. And I’ve written to Aman too, lots of times. He wrote back only once, just after he got there, saying that one of the worst things about being locked up in this prison place is that he can’t go out at night and look at the stars.”
“Prison place, what d’you mean, prison place?” Grandpa asked.
“Yarl’s— something or other,” I said, trying to picture the address I’d written to. “Yarl’s Wood, that’s it.’
“That’s near here, I know it is. Not far anyway,” said Grandpa. “Maybe you could visit him.”
“It’s no good. They don’t let kids in,” I said. “We asked. Mum rang up, and they said it wasn’t allowed. I was too young. And anyway, I don’t even know if he’s still in there. Like I said, he hasn’t written back for a while now.”
Grandpa and I didn’t talk for some time. We were just stargazing again, and that was when I first had the idea. Sometimes I think that’s where the idea must have come from. The stars.
Dramatic Reading - Continued Grandpa started to hum, then to sing. “When the stars begin to fall... Can’t remember the rest,” he said. “It’s from a song Grandma used to love. I know she’s up there, Matt, right now, looking down on us. On nights like these the stars seem so close you could almost reach out and touch them.”
I could hear the tears in his voice. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing for a while. Then I remembered something. It was almost like an echo in my mind.
“Aman said that to me once,” I told him, “about the stars being so close, I mean. We were on a school trip down on a farm in Devon, and we snuck out at night-time, just the two of us, went for a midnight walk, and there were all these stars up there, zillions of them. We lay down in a field and just watched them. We saw Orion, the Plough, and the Milky Way that goes on for ever. He said he had never felt so free as he did at that moment. He told me then, that when he was little, when he first came to live in Manchester, he didn’t think we had stars in England at all. And it’s true, Grandpa, you can’t see them nearly so well at home in Manchester on account of the street lights, I suppose. Back in Afghanistan they filled the whole sky, he said, and they felt so close, like a ceiling painted with stars.”
“Who’s Aman?” Grandpa asked me. I’d told him before about Aman. He’d even met him once or twice but he was inclined to forget things these days.
“You know, Grandpa, my best friend,” I said. “We’re both fourteen. We were even born on the same day, April 22nd, me in Manchester, him in Afghanistan. But they’re sending him back, back to Afghanistan. He’s been to the house when you were there, I know he has.”
“I remember him now,” he said. “Short fellow, big smile. What do you mean, sending him back? Who is?”
So I told him again I was sure I’d told him it all before about how Aman had come into the country as an asylum seeker six years before, and how he couldn’t speak a word of English when he first came to school.
“He learned really fast too, Grandpa,” I said. “Aman and me, we were always in the same class in junior school and now at Belmont Academy. And you’re right, Grandpa, he is small. But he can run like the wind, and he plays football like a wizard. He never talks much about Afghanistan, always says it was another life, and not a life he wants to remember. So I don’t ask. But when Grandma died, I found that Aman was the only one I could talk to. Maybe because I knew he was the only one who would understand.”
“Good to have a friend like that,” said Grandpa.
“Anyway,” I went on, “he’s been in this prison place, him and his mum, for over three weeks now. I was there when they came and took him away, like he was a criminal or something. They’re keeping them locked up in there until they send them back to Afghanistan. We’ve written letters from school, to the Prime Minister, to the Queen, to all kinds of people, asking them to let Aman stay. They don’t even bother to write back. And I’ve written to Aman too, lots of times. He wrote back only once, just after he got there, saying that one of the worst things about being locked up in this prison place is that he can’t go out at night and look at the stars.”
“Prison place, what d’you mean, prison place?” Grandpa asked.
“Yarl’s something or other,” I said, trying to picture the address I’d written to. “Yarl’s Wood, that’s it.’
“That’s near here, I know it is. Not far anyway,” said Grandpa. “Maybe you could visit him.”
“It’s no good. They don’t let kids in,” I said. “We asked. Mum rang up, and they said it wasn’t allowed. I was too young. And anyway, I don’t even know if he’s still in there. Like I said, he hasn’t written back for a while now.”
Grandpa and I didn’t talk for some time. We were just stargazing again, and that was when I first had the idea. Sometimes I think that’s where the idea must have come from. The stars.
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