Presents

It's a shite and briney morning here in the nation's capital; a little too shite and briney.

I've been looking after my sister's two kids while she and her husband and three other couples went on a long weekend to Adelaide. I'm hoping they'll bring something 'special' back from the wine tours they're doing.

For me, this weekend is getting longer and longer with kids out of sorts - bored, hungry or otherwise missing the primary care givers - dogs snarling at each other, schedules to meet, meals to cook, computer time to monitor, homework to supervise, shops to trash... hmmm, sounds like an ordinary parenting day.

I've had late nights and early mornings. Thankfully, C. left a rather nice Cab Merlot for me... she's a treasure... and after yesterday, I needed a glass or two.

Kid S. - 14 - wanted to see Stardust again - a terrific movie btw - and arranged to go with a friend, but could I pick her up and drop them off? Sure. Kid A - 6 - wanted to go shopping to 'buy things we don't need'. Sure. Mother - nope, not giving her age, sorry - arranged to visit her brother who was up from Victoria, could I...? Sure.

Okay, picked up friend, dropped off two at the movies, found parking, my parent didn't want to shop so she stayed in the car. I drag kid A. to the comic store (don't have one anywhere near me, so it was an opportunity) via the free face painting (aww... she soooo cuuttee!). I get Neil Gaiman's Stardust for kid S. Kid A. drags me away to the second-hand dvd store. Kid A. begs, pleads and otherwise cajoles and convinces me that buying Barnyard is a good idea.

"Now, you have to buy yourself a present." She says, beaming.

Right then. Since I have Miss A.'s approval for a presso, I go off to Borders and pick up two Vicki Peterssons.

"You have to buy me a present." A. says. "You have two now and presents have to be balanced."

"Ah." I replied. "I'm buying you lunch. Does that count?" She shakes her head. "Um... I bought you that little pendant in the comic store. Does that count?" She shakes her head. "I bought you a book yesterday." Again, the head shake. "That was yesterday, we started fresh this morning. You have two presents; you need to buy me and S. another one." Not bad for a six-year-old, but, being a cunning oldie, I successfully distract her with a Starbuck's hot chocolate.

I picked up kid S. and her friend, dropped said friend off and continued on to the visiting the uncle. He's a bit of a wag, with great stories. One day, I hope he'll write it all down. But, he's also a great cook too...

Stuffed to the gunnels, I drive the kids, the parent and me home. Dogs have been having disagreements and are in separate corners glaring at each other. My dog, Saxon, is sixteen; Maggie is eight and lives here. Quite a generous dog, is Maggie - for the first twenty-four hours, then it's jealousy all-round. Saxon is a gentle soul and will not fight unless forced into it. No injuries other than pride.

Kid A. rushes off to watch the movie, Kid S. simply has to catch up on-line with her friends. Mother takes herself off to read with a nice cup of tea and I sit outside with a glass of red and a sunset. Sigh.

It didn't last long; kids were hungry/thirsty/bored... dogs were hungry/thirsty/bored... Parent... happy with a book.

I finally got all responsibilities into bed by 11. Dogs didn't want to settle though and it wasn't until about 1 am that Saxon was finally, finally, happy that all the kids were abed - she checked their closed doors - the parent was abed - checked her door, too - all the doors were locked - checked them all, twice, and she huffed as if it was late and I should be in bed too.

Today is shite and briney.

"Aunty J.?" Miss A. has just woken up. "You still owe me a present."

AFK

I'm heading to Canberra tomorrow until Tuesday, so I might not be able to get to a computer to post. I'm going to give it a shot - if I can prise the kidlet off the internet.

But... there's a new story over at The Takeaway. Go, have at it...

Slow Countdown

I’m starting to think seriously about what to write for NaNo. To that end, I’m revisiting a number of ‘How to’ documents.

Yeah, it’s almost like being outside, in the dark on a snowy evening, cold and hungry, peering in a window to the happy and warm family sitting down to a sumptuous feast. I can’t help but look at this information and wonder why I can’t do it. Structured plots and outlines just don’t work for me as a whole, and yet, I’m still reading the ‘how to’s’.

Fantasy writer, Lazette Gifford’s Nano for the New and Insane, Crime writer, Lisa Gardner, Fantasy and romantic suspense author Holly Lisle’s Create a Plot, and multi-genre PBW are the one’s I have downloaded. Of all of them, the most comprehensive and humorous is Lisa Gardner’s series of eight lectures. Her lectures are for all genres, not just romantic suspense and crime.

At this time, I’m circling the drain that will suck me down into the maelstrom that is Nano. What does this mean? Well…

Every writer relies on inspiration, otherwise, no book – yeah, stating the bleeding obvious there. Once inspiration hits, you need to think about it, let it settle and make itself comfortable. A writer will make notes; I do, just not very many, only the main elements.

From there, a plotter will do everything else: write the outline to a satisfactory degree, worldbuild, character develop - throw in a few choice dialogue bits – nut out various conflicts and resolutions, identify problems, solutions and so on.

Me, I have a beginning and an end with vague ideas for what happens in the middle. If I have the start and the end (I’m atrocious at last lines, though), I can let my characters work their way through the story.

How the hell do I do that? By mowing the lawn, house cleaning, shopping, walking, cooking, anything other than writing everything down. The longer I let the main three characters (hero, heroine, villain) organise themselves in my mind, the better idea I have of who and what they are, what their motivations are. If I think of something spectacularly eee-vill, while I’m somewhere without paper, I repeat key phrases to myself so I don’t forget: ‘Nikos is a psychopath; kills on impulse’, ‘Bannister studied while incarcerated; make-up specialist’, ‘regenerative unguent fades’, ‘use of magic destroys cells’.

Once I’ve settled on the key phrases, issues like conflict arise. Characters must have two goals: one internal (needs the love or respect of someone, needs to forgive themselves, needs redemption) and one external (find the killer, save the missing child, defeat the aliens). Both take as long to resolve as the length of the book. Even villains have internal goals (revenge, greed, superiority) and external goals (defeat the man who killed his/her father, persuade, through force, the ‘hero’ to give up the talisman, rule the world for it’s own good). Even villains have motivation be they impulsive psychopaths or misguided, emotional wrecks.

If the reader can understand the villain, the line between good and bad blur. The question is whether your story needs such a villain.

An absolute must are the stakes: what do the protagonists and villain have to lose/win? And how far are they willing to go to achieve the goals? Also, each character must come with strengths and weaknesses otherwise they turn into Mary Sues – too perfect. Character flaws are great; everyone has them, and your characters should, too.

Lastly – so far – I think of humour. Joss Wheedon and George Lucas are terrific at this. Throw in some humour after a dire moment to relieve the pressure. Watch Indiana Jones, Firefly or Buffy the Vampire Slayer and you’ll see what I mean.

All of this is what I call ‘circling the drain’; not the usual interpretation, but when you’re into Nano, you’re sucked into the rush of the word stream. Dialogue, action, scenery are all swirling around you and you’re along for the ride. It’s a lot to think about, sure, but some how, it all comes together – as long as I have a starting point for the story and an end to work towards, the middle takes care of itself.

Um… well, that’s how I see it. The closer November 1 is, the more information the Muse is tossing up – and she loves a challenge as much as the inner athlete.

Blog Up

As you may have noticed, I've upgraded the blog. What you may not have noticed were the curses and creative swear words in doing so.

The books I read didn't come across, so I had to type them in again; nor did the stat counter move and I re-posted that too. Disappointingly, it won't let me have my coloured gradings of the books I've read - but I shan't give up, I'll find a way to post the icons.

The upgrade hasn't done much other than prettify the sidebar. I'm wondering if it was worth it; so far it's a 'no'. I'm sure there are some interesting widgets out there to put in, but I haven't had the time to search... yet.

One question is whether widgets distract from the content of the blog. I've visited a number of other sites and checked out the add-ons. I'm of the opinion that less is more. I'm also of the opinion that a blog space is for personal preference; like a house, the decorating is up to you. Although, coloured text on a black background is annoying, as is a multitude of photos.

I was watching a house renovation programme yesterday, and what struck me was the ideology that 'themed' rooms are no-no. I'm thinking your blog space uses the same idea. Fussy, over-the-top spaces throw me off, and I'm less inclined to visit again, no matter how interesting the host is. Plain, simple stuff with accessible archives is what I look for in a space. Of course, that's just me and I'm not up-to-date on all the fabbo stuff out there I can put up.

I think I'll keep it simple and easy to read. I'm not part of the blogging generation and I'm happy not to be; there are some things in your life, you really, really shouldn't be posting about. I'm sure you can think of a few. Things that defame, things that come under the heading of 'too much information' and things that are just plain ugly - racist, sexist, spiteful and generally unpleasant. You've also got to remember copyright issues. It might be a big world out there, but bloggers have friends that have friends, that have friends, and so on and the original blogger will find out if you've nicked someone else's work.

Still, it's a great exercise in writing, in finding like-minded people, and help when you need it. I think I'll keep the blog after all...

A new author is born

S. and I have worked diligently for the past couple of days, working on her English assignment. The book is now done, complete with cover and she is chuffed.

It was actually quite an entertaining project for me and an exercise in restraint. It's not a large tome, filled with complicated plots, fabulous world building or deep characters, just a twenty-page story of murder, theft and insanity - kids like that I understand.

The worst of it is waiting for a mark. The kidlet is on school holidays - which is why she's with me - and still has a week left before handing the piece in. Then there'll be the endless waiting. I can cope... I think.

As a reward - not that I use such methods, of course - she's off to the beach today with a couple of friends whose parents own property down here. It's a safe area, but she's taking the mobile with her, just in case. That means I get to clean house before her mother turns up for the weekend.

We've had a great week. No dvds, she's only surfed once to catch up on e-mails, and we've played games, like Mah Jhong (S. takes delight in beating me, like all teenagers, I suppose, playing an adult), chess (doesn't like it too much), checkers (yep, she likes that one) and an old 1980s game, Mastermind. Then there were the morning walks. I said she could sleep in since I go early, but nope, she wanted to come too.

S. is a testament to good parenting, I think. She's polite, rarely argues unless she has a point to make, smart, friendly, chatty and doesn't mind being without her friends. What more could an Aunt want? Oh, okay, cooking and cleaning... but I'm still teaching her and she's a willing student. I couldn't be more proud. S. is going to be a wonderful adult.

Now, if only her teacher gets back to us quickly...

Heat Wave

Jeez, I write one post on climate change and the climate changes.

It feels like we've skipped Spring and headed straight into Summer. It's currently a blistering 33C. I know there's something wrong with one of my temp gauge in the back yard because it's registering 46C! (Probably has something to do with it being in the sun and in a clear plastic tube.) Humidity is also down to 13 percent, which is drier than a burnt chip as far as I'm concerned.

I'm not putting the jumpers away just yet because October is notoriously fickle when it comes to weather. Cold in the mornings, hot in the afternoon, or just plain windy - okay, gale-force winds.

For anyone who wants to check out their carbon footprint Action Earth has a nifty little program. It's in metric so you'll have to do the calculations. For our house, the footprint is 4.8 tonnes a year. Hah! The average for an Australian household is 20, so we are doing rather well. We can do better, we're just a bit lazy...

Still, I have to note that, with all this brouhaha over climate change, I've yet to see the post-apocalyptic genre take off. There were so many in the 90s, what with the threat of nuclear devastation, bio-weapons and the like. Will we see books with climate change as a source for disaster? How would the human race survive? There are so many projections, which ones come close to being true - although any of them could work.

The best I know of so far, is the vignette program Afterworld, which is, I have to say, intriguing and addictive. Looks like I'll have to write something myself. Now there's a plan.

The Sky is Falling

Mother Nature, as we all know, can be sweet and generous, or a total skanky bitch.

The current panic over global warming is a case in point. Yet another report, this one released today suggests we're going to have significant climate changes: more drought, more cyclones, higher tides, the end of snow in the mountains, stronger winds, etc.

I don't disbelieve the scientists, but I don't quite believe them either. Sure, reducing your carbon footprint is good for the environment and yes, recycling water for the garden is great as is solar energy, electric cars, energy efficient light bulbs and faithfully doing your recycling every week leads to a reduction in the breakdown of the ozone layer.

It makes me wonder what type of world we'll have: Mad Max, Waterworld, The Day After Tomorrow or Demolition Man.

But, I wonder if these scientists have gone far enough back in history? Europe has had a history of the most atrocious winters, for example. Napoleon and Hitler were jammed up in Russia, the troops had an awful spring and summer during the First World War, the rye crops in Europe during the 1600s grew mould due to a wet summer and led to accusations of witchcraft when people fell ill. It's also rumoured that the Aztec, Incan and Mayan civilisations fell because of chronic adverse weather conditions - drought, in particular. Then there is the last ice age some 12,000 years ago and that we're overdue for another one by a couple of hundred years.

Mother Nature has a habit of correcting what is wrong with the environment. We humans could merely be advancing the next change - already the magnetic poles are shifting.

We dump millions of tonnes of chemicals into the air, oceans and land. Indonesian and Brazilian farmers think nothing of burning square miles of forest. Multi-national corporations think little of dumping noxious chemicals anywhere they can and in the past, the indigenous population here in Australia burned so much of the natural bushlands it changed the environment here (not that you'll hear them admit to such environmental vandalism); surely this has to affect the environment and I would agree that, yes, it does. But has two hundred years of industrialisation scuppered the natural balance? That I don't know, but when scientists use words like 'probably', 'most likely' and 'it's reasonable to assume' I get a little pissy. Words like 'definitely, here's the proof from five hundred years of records' would assure me that we're doomed by the end of the century.

Now I have a lot of respect for the CSIRO (Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation), they do a lot of good works, except for the rumours a couple of years ago accusing the hierarchy of slanting reports to support Ministerial opinion. Then, scientists were fired, forced to leave or do the bidding of the department, whether it be true or not. And there are certainly people high up in environmental portfolios who want/need Australia to sign the Kyoto protocol regardless of any follow on impact it might have. Including the financial and economic burdens it would impose on every citizen.

Australia doesn't need Kyoto, we're doing fine without out, especially when it comes to reducing emissions and recycling. Kyoto imposes ridiculous deadlines for such a large country, but that's another argument.

My point is that Mother Nature is going through yet another change of environment all on her lonesome. We are accelerating that change. Whether it comes this century or the next, it's going to happen. And one last thing: should terrorists get their filthy little mitts on some nuclear devices and use them, climate change is gonna happen a lot faster than current predictions.

This strident caterwauling isn't helping. Instead of predicting doom and gloom, I'd much rather see solutions. I want to know how I can help, like tree planting, composting, turning switches off, recycling, putting in a grey water system, useful stuff, because I am sick and tired of the doomsayers predictions without any positive solutions. I also want some real punishments for corporations - massive fines that will hurt, creative solutions for industrial waste, population control, you know, the bigger issues.

Whether it all happens is another matter. In the meantime, all we can do is await the next report of how we'll all be sorry by century's end for what we've done in two hundred years of progress.

Oh... the temptation

I'm looking after my 14-year-old niece this week. It's been a while, but we get to do stuff together, like go to the movies, the beach, simply talk.

Over-riding all this is one of her projects: to write a murder mystery with items in the story taken from a list. Yesterday, we sat down to write a kind of plot. Today, she started writing. I've just finished looking it over.

The temptation to write it for her is nigh overwhelming, but I've restrained myself. I need to also clamp down on the editor side. I'm there to help, not take over. It's gonna be tough because I want it to be the best. More importantly, I want S. to be satisfied it's her best. To that end, I'll just have to reign myself in and settle for advice.

I said I'd do a cover for her - full colour an' everything. Her mother, C., is going to print it all out and bind it for her, just like a book.

In the meantime, I have to teach her not to go off on tangents, to stick to the point and follow the plot. Hah! Me, an organic writer, teaching someone to follow the plot line. I think we're both going to learn something from this exercise.

We're taking a break until tomorrow. We're off to see Stardust. Then we'll get back to it, finish it by week's end without disrupting play time.

Sigh, I must not interfere too much... I must not interfere too much...

Four Seasons

I've got peeps coming this long weekend and have been buzzing around cleaning the house and making beds... well, okay, I did get distracted which has put me behind, but it was all in a good cause.

It's always nice to play music when cleaning, but I'm afraid when Vivaldi's The Four Seasons doco came on the Ovation channel, I had to sit and watch Nigel Kennedy rub the snot out of his violin.

I love The Four Seasons. It's quite simply the most perfect piece of classical music to me, full of passion and nuance. I'm not high-brow enough to regale people on why it's so perfect, it just attracts my ear and I have to listen, have to wallow in the music, be serenaded by it.

My copy is on vinyl with a few Stradivarius violins and conducted by Christopher Hogwood; it's beautiful and it's been too long since I've listened to it. In those strings, all stress seeps away leaving contentment.

I have other favourites, like Mussorgsky's Night on a Bald Mountain and Tchaichovsky's 1812, but Vivaldi is special. I don't know why - maybe it's something in the 'mathematics' of it. All I know is that I cannot do anything other than listen whenever I hear it.

Now I'm behind in my housework, but I'm not bothered, I'll just do it in an hour or so.

Bingle Jells, Bingle Jells

I took myself off on my weekly jaunt into town to do the shopping.

Once there, I went into K-Mart for some Aussie sweets to send to my brother in Denmark - sea mail closes next week. All thoughts of shopping shattered under the weight of what my eyes beheld: Christmas stuff.

Yep. I had to think of the date - September 27 - and there were the store clerks, loading up shelves with boxed plastic trees, chocolate-filled Santa stockings, gaudy decorations...

Personally, I think it is consumerism gone mad. We are three months away people! I don't need to see this now, it's Spring! The Wattle is blooming, all the flowers are blooming, the trees are waking up from Winter slumber, their leaves only just now poking through hardened protective husks and the night air still has a nip in it! I don't want to know about Summer heat, bushfires, sunburn, bushflies and prawns on the barby. Hell, we've yet to have the October long weekend!

What ever happened to stores setting up Christmas stuff on December 1? Huh? Huh? Well?

At the very worst, by the time the big day arrives, people are weary of it all, had all the joy sucked out of them by the constant onslaught of whiney kids demanding this, then changing their minds and demanding that. Then there's the Christmas music ad nauseum for three months; the hiding of presents bought in advance, the advertising campaigns that tell you if you don't spend a couple of thousand dollars on that new washing machine, lawn mower, vaccuum cleaner, push-bike, skate board, PS3, complete Barbie castle/house set, laptop, mobile phone, you don't really love your family.

Is it any wonder the crime rates skyrocket in December? People have maxed out their credit cards, got the wrong gift, forgot someone, opened the wrong present, the Christmas dinner sucked, the in-laws are assholes, the kids are obnoxious...

I'm ignoring it. I'm not shopping anywhere for pressies with their Christmas gear out already. Yes, I'll confess here and now that I started on the long list in August, tucking a few things away, but that is good economics. I don't need the irritating music, the pasted on smiles, false 'sales' or the trappings of Christmas - I'm Pagan, not Christian, and the Pagan Solstice is very much a low key event. The simple thankfulness for the harvest, not this all out money grab by retailers masquerading as 'seasonal good will'.

I have two words for anyone who thinks September is fine for Christmas junk to be out: Bah Humbug!

Nano Nano

I received an e-mail from Chris Baty.

As soon as I saw the name, I knew. Yes, it's near time to sign up for this year's National Novel Writing Competition. Or should it be International? Then it would be INO, so maybe not... It just doesn't have the same ring.

Anyway... after last year's effort, I wondered if I would give this year a miss. 184k of words, nearly three books took a lot out of me, especially since I was working full time. But I figured, why the hell not?

The problem, of course, is that this type of competition speaks directly to my inner athlete and she's never been able to resist a challenge. The first year, 2003, it was a challenge to make the 50k mark - I thought that if I had an idea I would do it and that idea turned up on the first of November; the second year my aim was to reach 100k after which I kind of ran out of steam. By the third year, it was more about keeping up with Lizette Gifford, the master of Nano, from the Forward Motion site. Last year, the challenge was the books: whether I could write a trilogy in the time available.

I'm not being arrogant here, I have the advantage of being able to type at near 100wpm. But all that speed is useless if I don't know what to write. In previous years, I've just thought about it a couple of days in advance - not the best way to approach the challenge - and thrown myself into it.

On the plus side, I've had to focus on the work, steep myself in the world I'm thinking of and directing it onto the keyboard - an exhausting way to write. On the negative side, I can't see any problems with the work until months afterwards, and there can be plot holes a planet could hang in and disappearing characters. The worst of it is that I have to stop writing in order to sleep, eat, make coffee, all that mundane stuff that gets in the way of a good time.

This year, I'm going to try and crush that inner athlete; take my time with the work. I'm even going to try and have some plot notes sorted and I'm determined not to stray too far from the path. I've got a month to do that, and then, come November, I can see how quickly I can reach the... oh, damn... the bloody athlete's awake and limbering up...

Sign up is 1 October for pre-Nano activities. It might even be an idea to post snippets one day a week. Anyone else going to join the mayhem?

Hill of Tara Doomed?

The Hill of Tara in Ireland is a place of myth and legend. It is also an archaeological, astronomic and cultural marvel; probably the best known monument of Ireland, like Stonehenge is Wiltshire. A most ancient monument.

It's a magical place, once thought to be the gateway to the world of the Faerie. It is an icon to fantasy writers, archaeologists, historians, mythologists, hell, the Irish. But it's now under threat. The Irish Government want to build a motorway through the Tara/Skyrne Valley to ease traffic congestion.

A group of well-known scholars are trying to stop this development and, according to Mythical Ireland, Charlize Theron is also on board to stop the development.

This group is trying to get the site on the World Heritage List and I'm amazed it isn't listed already.

I've been to Tara and it truly feels magical, like the warm standing stones at Avesbury, like Stonehenge, like the Field of Culloden before the damned-awful 'visitor's centre' was constructed and like the Rock of Cashel.

Even with the wind blowing and the sky spitting sleet, Tara felt... different as if it were encapsulated in a different world. And now, the Government want to destroy the very essence of Irish mythology.

To keep up-to-date on the fight to save Tara, go here. Tara is the most visible site under threat, but there are others in Ireland.

It would be a travesty to see such an historic and important site be affected by the trappings of modern society. The Irish Government need only seek an alternative route and a majestic, important site would be saved. Let's hope they see reason.

Moony

I must be moonstruck or something.

Yep, out in the garden again, ferociously attacking the bulbs of the White Ginger, clearing away roots and old leaves otherwise the stuff grows back. The dog - bless her communications skills - came over for a sniff, then widdled on a cleared patch. I had to agree, it's a shitty, back-breaking job and I'd been at it for a couple of hours. Time for a break?

The sun beat down, I was out of shade and it seemed like a good idea. But, no. I figured I'd just tidy up, oh, and tug out that last bit of root, cut off that last bulb, clear away the detritus, snip off a couple of branches of a tree whose name I don't know...

Good sense fails me sometimes. So here I sit, muscles hurting right down to my fingernails, face tingling with sunburn and paranoid I've picked up some tiny spider that's lightly brushing my skin under my shirt. I get manic about stuff like that; creeps me out and if I think about it too much, the job will only ever be half done.

Good news? I have a heap of greenery to cut down and a heap of busted bulbs - all off to the waste recycling at the dump. Bad news? I'm only half done and my zeal is waning in the face of physical torture.

It. Must. Be. Done. Or by Summer, I'll be back where I started with a large patch of White Ginger to cut down and dig out again. If I'd only left it alone...

Oi... I'm going for a long, long soak, and not think about bashing bulbs with the mattock.

In the garden

And so I have spent time in the garden. Yesterday I mowed the lawn because today we were expecting rain. Today, after the rain, I attacked the White Ginger. It grows like Bamboo (which is a noxious weed here in Australia because it has no natural enemy other than a good dose of Round-up and heavy labour to dig the *&%@ stuff out), spreading out and notoriously difficult to get rid of. The wet soil made it so much easier.

This is unlike me. I am, and freely confess to being, botanically-challenged. What looks to me like a weed, may not be; what I think is pretty, might be a weed. I can remember plants that I think are interesting – for any reason – but unlike my siblings who can remember even the Latin names, dull, run-of-the-mill names go in one ear and out the other.

I love Daffodils and Snowdrops and Freesias but can only remember Babianas by thinking of them as Babylonias.

This year, the McCartney Rose is splendiferous. We’ve been lucky: at this time of year, we get howling sea gales and the blooms can’t hold on, scattering like snow across the street. We also get people stopping by for a cutting; some ask nicely and chat for a while. Others simply break off a cane and run for it. There are plenty of blooms for everyone, and I’m happy to cut some. But. According to an uncle of mine, the best growing plants are the ones that are nicked.

I certainly don’t begrudge the nickers; I’m of the firm belief that flowers are to be enjoyed by all as long as you don’t offend the owner of the garden.

I remember when I first lived in Canberra and the Daffodils came out. I walked down the street, heading into the city, and admiring the spring blooms. I came across a beautiful garden, with a low fence. The Daffodils were gorgeous with full trumpets and an alluring perfume. I looked left and right to make sure no-one was looking and then hopped the fence for a sniff.

I hadn’t checked hard enough and a middle-aged woman popped her head up from across the garden where she’d been weeding. “Excuse me?” She called.

Me, I was barely out of my teens and flushed scarlet with guilt and pleasure. “Ahh… just admiring your Daffodils.” I said hesitantly, expecting a serve of vitriol.

She pointed a trowel at me. “Well, thank you for that, but could you admire from the other side of the fence?”

I can laugh about it now, but then, I was mortified, simply… gaahhh. So I don’t begrudge people admiring the rose; nor do I bitch and moan about them taking a piece. It’s a beautiful rose, why not spread the lurve?

Novelling

I haven't been cruising the blogosphere lately, I've been knuckling down and getting some writing done instead.

Over at PBW's site is a post called "Novel Outlining 101" that I thought I might try. Yes, I know I've constantly said I'm an organic writer, but it never hurts to try something new. Just to see if it works, or has elements that will help the sometimes rambling that I find in my work.

I have plenty of time to try it: Nano is still far enough away and October could be the test of this method if Lynn decides to go with the challenge. I've not had word on that yet, but it's a great exercise even if it doesn't go ahead.

Given that it's three weeks since the last shortie over at the Takeaway, I've taken the liberty of posting another.

Now, I'll get back the barbarian story...

Oh, how could you?

There’s been a bit of a kerfuffle over the past few weeks about endings. In particular, when the ending isn’t what the reader expected.

To name a few that I’ve read: Embraced by Darkness by Keri Arthur, For a Few Demons More by Kim Harrison and Rebel Ice, by S.L. Viehl.

My fundamental criticism with the pissy readers who hate those endings is: What? You didn’t see that coming? Read the book again and look closer!

With all these books, there are threads, carefully hidden, that lead to the end. None of these authors ever do something without giving clues; it’s up to the reader to find them, because they are there. So let’s get to the flammable arguments:

EBD: Look at who Riley Jensen is and the problems she’s facing – the choice Jack gave her - and then think of who would be an ideal soul partner for her. Anyone we’ve seen yet? The ending was inevitable

FAFDM: What I like about Rachel is that she makes mistakes; reasonable mistakes. Sometimes the consequences are small and sometimes, they are catastrophic. It’s as if Kim Harrison, in plotting the book, has thought, ‘what’s the best that can happen from this boo-boo? What’s the absolute worst? Okay, we’ll go with that.’

RI: The reasoning behind this came in an earlier book – a hypothetical comment becomes reality. How else were Duncan and Cherijo to handle the issue? Yes, it was a book that might not have been written as being too hard or too controversial, but it was also too much of a delicious ‘what if’ to pass up and I loved it.

The questions are, I suppose, how far can an author take a beloved character without the character becoming a Mary-Sue? What more can an author do to a character and keep the series fresh? I would say that once an author has to ask these questions, it might be time to end the series and go on to something new.

The first trilogy I read where a main character disappeared was W. Michael Gear’s Web of Spider. Shocked I was, shocked, I tell you. I didn’t want to read anymore. Books were supposed to have happy endings weren’t they? Well, no, and I read the other two books to see what happened. The trilogy didn’t quite have an atypical happy ending, either, but it was appropriate. And that is staying true to the reader; fulfilling the promise made at the start.

Real life has tragedy and trauma, mistakes that have dire consequences, quirks of fate that make us smile; novels have them too. They must or Mary-Suedom takes over – not a happy place to be.

Should readers have input into a series? No. Should authors listen to the complaints of readers? Only if those complaints are grounded in fact and fans have genuine concerns. Hating one book and bitching about it is not enough; there’s usually a good reason why the author wrote the book that way.

There are, of course, exceptions and we all know who I mean. That sort of arrogance and contempt for readers can only be dented via poor sales and even then I have my doubts.

We all know of characters whose demise has upset us. As long as the author gives clues, albeit hidden, the departure is solid and while readers can vent their spleen over it, nothing should change. Patricia Cornwell did that and readers were disgusted. Justifiably so.

Before readers jump on the band wagon and trash an author, or a series, for killing off a beloved character, they should think about why that character had to die. If you look at JK Rowlings’ Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, for example, the deaths of a number of well-loved characters was stunning, but I thought it represented the uncertainty, the randomness of war where heroes and innocents can die, regardless of how good a person they are, and enemies can escape without a scratch.

It’s ultimately up to the author to manage the series – not the reader. If done well, even those who bitch and moan will return… just to see what happens next.

Reading, Writing, Research

I'm trying not to use the internet on the weekends to try and reduce my broadband bill. With all the research (unpaid) I'm doing for this political organisation, the bill seems to go up and up.

Of course, if I'm on the computer, I have to check my e-mail, check out other weblogs and websites I like to go to, so the research is on top of that. There's so much interesting stuff out there, I can't help myself - I'm so easily distracted by new things...

On the plus side, staying off the computer gave me time to catch up on a leedle reading - and rugby union and rugby league and Aussie Rules and cricket and baseball - and generally relax.

Keri Arthur's Embraced by Darkness was just as good as the previous four and is stacked next to the others, though she mentions on her weblog that some readers are unhappy with the ending, I thought it appropriate. My personal opinion is that some readers should read books beyond the surface. Nope, no spoilers here. Maybe I'll write a post about that.

The only complaint I have about Rachel Caine's Thin Air is that I'll have to wait for next August for the next one! This series is such an interesting and refreshingly new concept. I already had an interest in weather, but this puts a new spin on how it happens and it's so well-crafted... sigh a year is a long time, damn it! I'll have to pick up the Morganville books to read.

Now I'm onto Kim Harrison's For a Few Demons More and the first chapter is a cracker! I'm aware of something... awful happening (see? No spoilers) but I'll wait and see if it's appropriate. Hmmm, I think it isworth a webpost on endings.

I'll have to finish it before I do the short story post this week; then there's the barbarian story I'm working on for the webpage - it's longer than I expected, but that's good - and, if PBW has her October Challenge, I'll need to jot down some plot points for that too, then, of course, it's Nano in November and I'll have to think of something to write for that.

Gee, who knew it was the busy season for writers?

I name thee…

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor;
Richman, Poorman, Beggerman, Thief.

As a child’s rhyme, it’s okay, but there is more to the words used in various games.

Ticker, Taylor, Soder, Saller;
Rickman, Perriman, Beggman, Theiss;

Tucker, Tyler, Schroder, Chalder;
Reichmann, Merriman, Bridgman, Weiss.

A list of occupations has segued into a list of names, which is entirely what can happen over history. In the nineteenth century, literacy skills were not as they are today and priests marrying couples rarely asked how names were spelt; thus corruptions of the original through phonetics.

Not all names were accidentally changed. As we know, many kept the names of their occupations because it was easier: John the Clarke, Eric the Forrester, James the Cartwright, Frederick the Gardener, Paul the Miller, Lucius the Priest, Richard the Walker, and so on.

What was easy then is not so easy now. How often have you struggled with what to call your magnificent, heroic and clever protagonist? What name would fit? How, out of the millions of forenames, do you fit one with the millions of surnames?

You don’t want a disaster like, Sunny (or variations thereof) Day, Penny Lane or and you don’t want to attach names to occupations like, Joe Death, the Undertaker, or Doctor Pirahna the dentist (this one is true, he was my dentist as a kid); you also don’t want names, that when taken with another – like in marriage – they’re humorous, for example: Jo Bannister marrying Mathew King: she becomes Jo King. So not funny. Even double names can get you into trouble: Marta Thicke marries into the chicken empire of Legge’s and she becomes Marta Thicke-Legge.

And never, ever, forget about contractions. Can you imagine some young, buff guy, by the name of Pitt, having a father called Cecil? What’s Cecil going to be shortened to? Hmmm?

Your names must reflect at least some of the character’s personality. I don’t mean like Ridge, Thorne and Brook Forrester – they’re not as natural as the names suppose (what were those writer’s thinking?). Male names should be strong, but not ridiculous; female names can also be strong, but not overpowering, and feminine.

The solution, if names don’t just spring from your forehead like Athena fully grown, is threefold: first, get yourself a baby name book, and second, find an old phone book. Both will solve your problems. The third is to go to name sites, like: Think Baby Names. The page will also give you links to other sites.

Spiteful hypocrits

I was going to do a post on character names, but I was so incensed at the news that I had to vent. Here goes:

Like a lot of people, I was looking forward to what General David Petraeus had to say about Iraq. And, like a lot of people, I was appalled, nay, disgusted at the mealy-mouthed criticism levelled before Petraeus or Ambassador Ryan Crocker had a chance to speak.

And that was nothing compared to what came after, with Hillary Clinton euphamistically calling Petraeus a 'liar', with her 'suspension of disbelief' comment.

It's bad enough that the Democrats used a decorated soldier for target practice, it's worse when a man who has only ever done his duty is used for political mileage and as a photo opportunity for certain candidates to further their ambitions.

It matters not what Petraeus' politics are; it matters that he's done what was asked of him, as have 160,000 plus other troops on the ground in Iraq, and to snarkily snipe at the General, snipes at them all.

There's no 'good job, we'll try and get you home soon', no 'you fight for the freedom of all', no 'we're gonna send you help', nor are there many news item on the construction of schools, hospitals, roads, infrastructure, security, good relationships with the locals. It's all about alleged and false atrocities, accidental killings, ineptitude, bad planning, needless casualties, poor decision-making and the fundamental wrongness of being there in the first place.

But what were these politicians thinking in the days immediately after 9/11? Did any of them say 'oh, well, that hurt, but we'll let it pass', or 'gee, I really think we need to reconsider our foreign policy'? Nope. It was 'who has done this?' and 'we need to kill the muthahs' and 'no one kicks our butt on home soil, we're gonna sort you out!'

What morally corrupt, self-aggrandizing, disrespectful and arrogant people they are! It is politicians who start wars, but it is the soldier who fights and maybe will die for the mistakes politicians make. To insult and demean a professional soldier when they demanded the report in the first place smacks of hypocrisy and spitefulness. Worse, I'm sure Petraeus knew what would happen when he presented his report, but he did his duty anyway; he took his responsibility to his troops and his area of command seriously, when Congress was determined to find fault with anything he had to say.

Any war that goes on longer than the public expect will be unpopular; but anyone who thinks an immediate withdrawal of troops will solve the problem will find they've lost the war and given victory to people who will see America's defeat as a mandate to wreak more murderous havoc on the West. Iran will invade and begin snatching up the satellite countries to create a nice big Islamic state.

The Democrats should think about that before they slap at the messenger and decide isolationism and xenophobia is better than being a good global citizen. To break trust with your own military, is to break trust with your allies.

Colour, texture, flavour

When it comes to food, I can be pretty squeamish: mushrooms (icky fungus), spinach (tastes like dirt, barf), oysters (gag, snot on a half shell), any kind of offal (oh… puke), asparagus (urk), beetroot (blech)… I know I’m not alone in finding some morsels too revolting to eat; it’s a personal taste thing. I just don’t like them.

Yeah, obviously I’m a philistine when it comes to gourmet which is probably why I have no plans to visit France.

Of course, there are the usual gastronomic reasons, like… frogs’ legs (shudder) or snails (OMG-hand-me-the-sick-bag!)

One person’s perfect meal is another’s ‘I’m getting a hamburger with fries’.

Now, at last, comes news from the aforementioned France, that they are finally banning the capture and consumption of ortolan because its been hunted to near extinction. Never heard of it?

Well! An ortolan is a small songbird that is cooked and eaten whole; bones an’ all. Just pop that little sucker in and crunch down, no gutting, or filleting necessary.

Gastronomes are furious at the French Government finally cracking down on legislation introduced eight years ago to protect the little bird. They’ve even brought in reinforcements to catch poachers and restaurants serving the meal.

Most famous of those indulging, is Francois Mitterrand who chowed down and concealed ‘his head beneath a napkin in the traditional manner’.

According to yesterday's Sydney Morning Herald: “Some say the napkin helps the diner savour the aroma, others that it is intended to conceal his greed from God.’ The more pragmatic say eating ortolan is a messy business and who needs to see that?

On the other side of the argument (gotta be fair here), one leading chef, Michel Rostang said: “I find it sad that we can no longer serve ortolan in France, or woodcock for that matter, while it is still possible to eat the latter in restaurants in Britain, Spain and Belgium.” Another chef – who remains nameless – said: “It is part of our culture which is disappearing”.

Me, I’m thinking it’s a good thing. Songbirds, for f*** sake!

Of course, it nicely segues into world building, don’ it, and the creation of what characters eat. Many a fantasy or science fiction writer creates what to eat, and how much of a squick factor to incorporate. I’m not that brave, yet, so I put in the usual meat and three veg – different colours, textures, flavours – or shipboard rations. I’m not a fan of ‘recycled’ food, though I can see its value and don’t dismiss the possibility of using the idea.

It comes down to what kind of an environment you’re writing in: what sort of atmosphere – is it rich in oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, methane - the geology – does the planet have a core of iron or not, is it a ‘new’ planet, how much water is there, land masses, ice mass - and soil composition –what microbes are there, is there grass or trees or moss mounds- that decides what food grows and flourishes.

While I’ve read a number of books where food is only referred to, I think it’s important when constructing your world that foodstuffs are written about. Not the history of the food… I mean, have you ever read of characters eating Lobster Thermidor and chatting about the rumour it was Napoleon who named it? Of course not. That’s not as important as the reader knowing what Lobster Thermidor is – and how tasty it is.

Just a reference is needed unless its origins come up in conversation. Why would it? Because some characters are going to demonstrate their superiority to a perceived lesser character – gee, doesn’t that sounds like the French.

Colour, texture, flavour. Kind of says it all.

Wrecked

And it's only the beginning of the Rugby World Cup. But... Mo-om I had to stay up late an' watch the Wallabies play Japan... I had to!

Yep. Saw the All Blacks (Lew... oops, New Zealand; damn those Muppets) spank Italy, 76-14 and then Ozralya put Japan through the blender, 91-3 (yes, that's ninety-one to three); after that, well, England, I have to say, played pretty poorly for their 28-10 win over the USA. To me, that was a win for the Eagles. England, after all, are supposed to be the defending World champions. Didn't look like it to me, no matter how scratchy my eyes felt.

Well, the games didn't finish until the wee small hours; tonight's no different with four matches. The last finishes at, oh-my-god-that's-early, 6.00am. Fortunately, from then, Fox Sports are repeating the games.

My quandary? South Africa versus Samoa at 9.00am and the New York Giants versus my Dallas Cowboys at 10.00am. What's a fan to do? Yeah, yeah, record one or t'other, except I don't have a recording device. Flicking over during commercials sounds good, as does flicking over between the NFL quarters and team changeover.

Sigh. I'm guessing I'm not going to get a lot of sleep while the World Cup is on; but... who needs it? I'll sleep when it's over. Bwahaha! I love my football!

Intruder

While out on my morning walk - sans mp3 because it went pfft, that's right, pfft - I thought about the submission I'm writing. I really need to get rid of it, but the volume of information and informational sources are daunting. It would take some organisation to meld into a coherent and Minister-worthy report.

I'm wandering along, admiring the Bay - as you do - when into my head popped a scene: smoothly muscled barbarian, chained and angry, forced to kneeling on a flagstone floor by some nattily dressed guards; the king, resplendent in royal robes and pissed at being interrupted sneering at the aforementioned barbarian.

All dark and sinister thoughts of politics fled from the light of creation. For the rest of my walk, I thought on the barbarian: why was he there? What was his name? How had he been caught? And the king: What would he do? Why was he sneering? Why was he so pissed? And yes, I answered those questions and more; built the scenario in my head, the motivations, the consequences, the hopes and intentions of all the characters.

Once home, I set to writing notes and the first page. Then I stopped.

The submission. Bah. I could do... it... later? Nope.

And with that, the intruder story was set aside. No-o-o-ooo! Yes. In re-reading what I'd composed, it occurred to me that while the story has merit, oh, yes indeedy, it has an initial element of sameness, of a lack in creativity in the crafting. It began like most of my stories, and, to my eye, showed absolutely no advancement in learning this craft; no intricate and imaginative thought to the word selection, nothing to lure the reader in. It began, in fact, in cliche; nothing to lure the reader into the rest of the story.

So, I'm back writing the submission and will continue on it until it's done early next week. Then, by golly, by crikey, by jingo, I'll get to the story and finish it, hopefully with more flair than it's showing so far.

Money or Love?

In the past two weeks, I think I’ve been offered a piece of about $500 million if only I’d hand over my banking details.

Today, three more arrived in my e-mail: one about the assassinated deputy governor of Baghdad, with a hidden account – $30 million – a deceased foreigner in Burkina Faso whose money can only be taken out under the radar of the UN - $15 million – and 850,000 euros in the London Million International Lottery though the office is, apparently, in Ouagadougou, Burkina Fasa with an e-mail address in France all because my e-mail address was selected in a world-wide lottery.

I must, of course, keep these financial dealings confidential, or risk losing it all. I think I can cope with that; it’s only fake money.

* * *

I went to a job interview a few weeks ago and had a good time of it – I don’t really stress out at interviews anymore (I’m looking for something, and they’re looking for someone suitable, no big).

So earlier this week, I got a phone call telling me that I was unsuccessful by one place. Regrets all round, ‘we’ll keep you on our file in case someone doesn’t want the job’, yadda, yadda…

Yesterday, I told my parent. She stared at me, outraged: “What? How could there be ten other people better than you?”

Sometimes, all it takes is one instinctive, off-the-cuff comment to make you feel the love and the disappointment vanishes.

No amount of money can buy that.

Time vacuum

The problem with being so busy is that I've not time to do any reading... and three more books turned up in the mail this week.

No time for reading also means no time for writing, either. Well... no fiction writing. Political stuff, yeah, but none for the sheer pleasure of putting words down from my imagination.

Next week, I'm hoping that will change. This submission I'm doing must be done by next week and I'm determined to meet that deadline - good practice, d'ya see.

On the downside, it's all a bit complicated with legislations, planning policies, LEPs, REPs and SEPPs, Council briefing papers, staff briefing papers, development applications, community consultation submissions... well, you get the picha. Gathering all the information into one document is, to be frank, daunting.

Ah, but next week... next week this will be done and I can relax and watch the footy, or read or write or, damnit, all three! (I'm such a crazy, wild person!)

It's all a matter of time management and in the future, I'll not be volunteering to do anything more than the media stuff. Someone else more familiar with the information stuff can do it; or our objective will be achieved. No sense in nagging the Ministers.

Rachel Morgan, Joanne Baldwin and Alicia DeVries will just have to wait a few days, I guess...

Foo'ball!

Ah, can't you just smell the linement?

Here in Australia, the Aussie Rules and Rugby League seasons are heading into finals time. I'm not that much interested since my teams, Richmond in the Rules, finished stone-motherless last and St George, in the League, finished a little further up the table. Either way, they ain't participating in the finals.

There's also the Premier League soccer in England, though I don't think I want to talk about that since Man U are having a less than stellar start.

The Rugby Union World Cup starts this weekend, and while I'm hoping for the best, I doubt the Wallabies will do very well given their idiot, blind and lazy head coach.

On the plus side, the American Football also starts next week. Yay! I'm looking forward to a cracker of season from my boys... the Cowboys that is. Go Dallas!

I love the uniforms, all those tight buns and muscled legs on display. Well, hey, I'm not dead yet, and I like a perv as much as the next woman, thanks.

In the meantime, I've been watching the pre-season games and the College football. As a pre-cursor to the season, it didn't give me much, but the College games were impressive, especially the size of the crowds.

While in the US a few years ago, I tried to get to an NFL game, only to be told that they were sold out...sigh. It was probably a good thing: every city I went to, the home team lost!

One day, when I grow up, I wanna see a live game.

A brave new world

I didn’t go near the computer yesterday: no surfing, no music, no writing, no editing, no research, no e-mailing, nothing.

Every time I saw the computer, I was tempted, but… no, not enough to make me turn it on.

Why? Because sometimes you need a break, be it enforced or not. I decided I needed a day off and sat down in the morning to a M*A*S*H* marathon on the teev. In the afternoon, I went to my niece’s, um… third birthday party and in the evening, I read more crime short fiction.

This morning, I’m more relaxed than I have been in a couple of weeks. It makes me wonder about the Internet and how much stress it contributes to daily lives.

Why, I recall [insert image of an oldie in a rocking chair, gazing off into the distance] the days before the web explosion. When I picked up a telephone to talk to someone, or wrote a letter or postcard. There was none of the immediacy of today; none of this ‘reply now’ business.

It gives rise to the question of how much technology influences our lives and how fast. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, it’s great, if in small doses.

I wrote a essay while at university on ‘Futurology’, that is, a prediction of future technology based on the evolution of current and past standards. When I look at it now – and I wrote this ten years ago or so – it is woefully inadequate. What I saw then for the future, is passé now, and my predictions were based on twenty and thirty years in the future from centuries past.

What does this all mean? Well, for sci-fi writers, it means their imagined creations are fast becoming fact and that will have to think harder on keeping the ‘fiction’ relevant, in keeping the fantastic away from the fact. It means technology is developing at a faster rate than ever imagined. What you buy today is obsolete tomorrow.

The consequences are far reaching in many arenas, from global warming, to bed warming. And it’s a constant source of amazement and intrigue for me; and also worry that I won’t be able to keep up.

Who knows where we’ll be in ten years or twenty? Or what we’ll be doing, what kind of toys we’ll have to play with, how fast communications can travel or on what, cars, aeroplanes, how you listen to music, watch entertainment, work?

It’s a brave new world every day.

Grrr…

I’ve spent today doing journalist work for this political organisation I’m involved with. So far, it’s been an exercise in frustration.

The ‘force’ behind this organisation, G, constantly second-guesses himself and allows for interference from a former member of Parliament.

Sure, J has a lot to offer the organisation, but so far, he’s succeeded in delaying important work until G agrees to do it his way. An important document to be sent to Parliament was put back to Monday, now, it’s unlikely to get to the Minister until later on in the week, regardless of the fact it was announced on television news that the Minister already had it! Worse, J keeps expressing his desire to keep himself at a distance.

For my part, this means everything I write has to be checked, double-checked, discussed, extra suggestions made, veted by all and 'improvements' made and then deleted, before it’s issued to the media. I really want to slap G and tell him to move on. Can’t though. But I can say nope, I’m no longer willing to help because you keep metaphorically hand-washing and won't let me do what I do on a professional level.

A four paragraph media story should not be turned into a bloody circus, nor take a good five hours to produce!

Now the submission I’m preparing is in jeopardy because G wants me to consult with someone else.

I don’t need this kind of stress, and I will not take a more active role when my advice is unilaterally discounted or open to discussion.

I’ll give them another month and if they haven’t got their act together by then, I’m out. O.U.T. out. I’ve got other things to do.

Ah, another beautiful day on the coast; seems a shame I've spent most of it indoors doing stuff on the computer or at a meeting. Still, I managed to finally mow the lawn; it was looking particularly green and junglely. Now, it's green and short and I'll be able to see the dog's little bombs, rather than finding them by feel- ew, squishy! - or smell once I'm inside. Heh, heh, like you needed that imagery!

But there is nothing like the scent of freshly mown grass on a spring morning. Well, okay, apart from coffee... and chocolate... and...

Anyway, there's a new story up over at The Takeaway. I'm off to enjoy the sunset and the scent of the sea.

Moonscape

You know I was out there last night taking photos of the lunar eclipse. It really was the blood moon astronomers describe it as.

I could only wish my sister had returned my tripod, but I improvised with the help of the step ladder, tilting the steps.

So, here you go; and yes, that little white dot is a star (I couldn't see it with a nekkid eye):















I'm hoping to get the short story done; if not today, then manyana.

MeMe... it's all about Me

It's been a while since I've done one of these; this one is from Paperback Writer's site.

Four jobs I've had or currently have in my life:

1. Journalist;
2. Carer;
3. Vegetable Grader;
4. Dining Room Manager.

Four countries I've been to:

1. Denmark;
2. United States;
3. Fiji;
4. United Kingdom.

Four places I'd rather be right now:

1. Thredbo (snow country);
2. Ireland;
3. Cashing in a winning lottery ticket;
4. At a convention discussing my work.

Four foods I like to eat:

1. Mocha self-saucing pudding;
2. Red wine casserole;
3. Beef roulade;
4. Passionfruit yoghurt.

Four personal heroes, past or present:

1. Both grandfathers;
2. The Duke of Wellington;
3. Joan of Arc;
4. Madam du Pompadour.

Four books I've read or are currently reading:

1. Embraced by Darkness, Keri Arthur;
2. Chronicles of Crime, the Second Ellis Peters Memorial Anthology of Historical Crime, ed. by Maxim Jakubowski;
3. High Noon, by Nora Roberts;
4. Night Lost by Lynn Viehl.

Four words or phrases you would like to see used more often:

1. I love you;
2. Ours;
3. Welcome;
4. I'll keep in touch.

Four reasons for ending a friendship:

1. Abuse;
2. Racism;
3. Peer pressure;
4. Manipulation.

Four smells that make you feel good about the world:

1. The sea;
2. A field of hay after a rainstorm;
3. Woodsmoke at night;
4. Freshly brewed coffee on a cold morning.

Four favourite activities you did as a kid:

1. Swimming at the beach;
2. Playing pretend in the garden;
3. Reading;
4. Watching TV with my family.

So, there you go. More about me. And I'm tagging anyone else who wants to give up some info.

Pressures

I've been busily working on this political stuff - admin work, media releases, letters, petition page counting, signature checking - and it's not left me a lot of time for my work. I haven't read a book for over a week! And how pissy am I about that?

I haven't been at this very long and I can already see a time when I'll have to say enough is enough. I want to help these people, but there is a limit and that limit is when it affects the other stuff I do.

The problem, of course, is that we're all a bunch of part-timers trying to do full time work. And that means, I'll have to create a strategy for recruitment so the work can be spread around. Isn't that a paradox! To have more time for what I want to do, I have to give up time to work on the strategy. Then again, I can always say 'nuh, don' wanna do this anymore' and that leaves it to others.

I won't do that; not yet.

Still, I'm determined to have a story done for Wednesday, regardless of the time pressures; and I know just the one. Now all I have to do is carve that twenty-fifth hour from somewhere...

Look! Up in the sky

I have all the movie channels free this week on cable; I’m not asking why, I’m simply enjoying them.

The second three of the Star Wars movies played; not the originals, but the 20th Anniversary ones from 1997. I watched them all with nostalgia and interest – since I hadn’t seen the digitally remastered versions.

My parents took me to see Star Wars when it was first released and I was enchanted. Can you imagine? Two adults and six kids sitting in the balcony seats without a murmur, without popcorn or Coke, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The drive home was silent, each of us enthralled by the adventure we’d just seen.

I even remember sitting by my window at home, staring up at the night sky and wondering ‘what if’. My imagination had already been stirred by Space 1999, Doctor Who, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century and Battlestar Galactica.

I was reading Ann McCaffrey and Andre Norton, along with JT Edson – books I still have on the shelf – listening to Yes, Rick Wakeman and Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds (that red weed bit really scared me; I still can’t listen to it at night).

As I grew older, I remained a fan of science fiction; it was the best. But I still didn’t know how to create my own worlds. My first fiction piece, in fact, was a spy novel – light on words, heavy on action – written before I’d ever heard of Ian Fleming.

What intrigued me about Star Wars is that it started at number 4. Like a lot of other people, I wondered what happened to the first three: did we miss them? Where they not released in Australia?

Now, I know different and there are a number of series that don’t start at the… well, start. Anita Blake is already scarred in Guilty Pleasures with relationships established and references to what came before. So, too, Honor Harrington had already commanded a starship before On Basilisk Station, Diana Tregarde, Rachel Morgan, all had adventures before the first books; even Bilbo Baggins had a life before he found the One Ring.

So where to start in a series? If your character has had adventures before hand, the first book is simply a part of a series, albeit an unwritten one. Is it simply a device to lure readers in to wanting more? To wanting to know what came before? To understand how a character came to be like they are?

Well, if readers are asking that, you’ve hit the jackpot, because what it means is that you’ve written a three-dimensional character; more importantly, it means you know more about your character than you need to.

I’m still working on that, but for now, Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country is on. One of the best lines in Wrath of Khan is Spock telling Kirk: “You forget, I am Vulcan; I have no ego to bruise.” I wish I’d written that; maybe one day I will.

Is it worth it?

Like most unpublished writers, I wonder if my work will ever be good enough to publish, if it will ever climb the thorny tree of bestseller lists, if it will stay in the minds of readers and make them think, want to revisit the worlds I’ve created.

Sometimes, I think it would be better if I simply wrote for myself and not be subjected to the sinister criticisms of those who think they know best; to keep my work to myself. I wonder if it is worth the nerve-trembling angst of wondering if anyone will like the stuff I produce or even if I should care.

Why should I bother exposing disguised inner truths to world? Why should I let people see into me and nod sagely with patronising understanding and gleeful knowledge? Why should I allow others to see the crushing uncertainty and doubt? Why should any newly hatched and vulnerable writer put themselves through it, when all they need do is write in the silence of their own making?

What value is there in exposing heart and soul to an uncaring and selfish world, where cruel rejection awaits?

It is all so depressing, so tragic and so… unimportant.

I’ll be slack when it comes to writing; there are so many other things to do. And yet, I always return to the keyboard, pound away trying to write what going in my head, trying desperately to put down the images, the dialogue, the scenery and all that is detrimental, the doubts and fears, fade away under the weight of creating something new and different.

What inspires me to continue? Other writers; those who succeeded. Those fabulous worlds and characters and dialogues and plots and resolutions I didn’t see coming. The authors whose words are magic, whose books I return to. Not to seek to write something similar, but to feel the emotion of ‘I wish I could write like that’ or ‘that was amazing; I wonder…’ or even ‘damn, that gives me an idea’.

It is a long apprenticeship, this writing gig, but with those authors sitting on my shelves for inspiration, no manner of doubt or fear can stop me from writing just that little bit more. To know that as long as I practice, one day I might have someone think those same thoughts about my work. It is that one small and lonely thought in the wilderness that keeps me going: to maybe teach, albeit at a distance, a young reader that they, too, can make a difference in their writing; to be open to new ideas and thoughts and creativity.

And that, above all else, makes it worthwhile.

Community Action

I've been going to meetings about protesting our local council's heavy-handedness in development applications, of which most are approved.

The main objectives are to get the council sacked and to have a number of applications rejected for various reasons.

Where I live is, I guess, a tourist area. Come Summer and the place swells with families and holiday-makers, here to enjoy the Bay and all the water activities they can handle.

The Council would take advantage of that to build apartments along the coast regardless of what the permanent residents want or need and regardless of any economic, social or environmental impact.

This one building we are protesting is set to be the benchmark for construction on any waterfront land in the Shire if it is approved.

We only have around fifty percent occupancy rate year round and yet this Council would build more residential facilities.

It burns my wick to see proposals for four storey buildings that will block views, shadow adjoining residences, are susceptible to flooding, will encourage road degradation, lack vision, will remain empty for most of the year, all manner of reason, all for the mighty dollars it will bring in from wealthy out of Shire purchasers.

All across this State, Councils are under investigation for less than optimum performance and yet the sheer, bloody arrogance continues.

Unless the citizenry become more vocal in protesting, a lot of the beautiful coast will be subjected to high-density, predominantly empty constructions and ruin what so many come to see.

The fight will continue, one ill-considered development application at a time.

AFK

Yep, like that’s a surprise. Actually, I’ve been sick for the past few days; as in horribly, gut-wrenchingly, muscle-strainingly, strength-sappingly, tear-producingly, awfully – is that enough yet? – sleep-deprivingly, on-death’s-door, mortifyingly, migraine-thumpingly – okay, you’re right – sick.

The worst is over, but, like most people who get sick, motivation to do anything is at zero and glowing self-pity, about 110 percent. A good wallow in front of the teev, bundled up warmly, is therapeutic in my book.

I think the worst of it is that I kept thinking about CSI and House in the physical aspects of being ill; how the muscles react, the endocrine system, what goes on in the stomach when it doesn’t like something... Too much information? Sometimes, an overactive imagination is a torturous thing.

I don’t get sick often; in fact, the last time I felt this bad was in 2000 after eating bad fish. Woeful, I was, positively woeful; a real misery guts.

Then, I missed a day of classes; this time, I missed my two-year anniversary for the blog. No big deal, because it reminds me of my objectives and how much I’ve failed in reaching those objectives. I have to do better. I have to get my shit together and do better.

Just because I’m still a bit wobbly, is no excuse. Tomorrow is a new day; maybe my motivation will improve. It reminds of that pithy little aphorism: I finally got my act together, and now I don’t know where I put it. Or: My get up and go, got up and left.

Around here

The past couple of days have been busy: a meeting, a political briefing - which sucked, the patronizing bastards, getting the car serviced - oh... joy, rummaging around for an 80s outfit for my niece's 21st - why the youth of today think those fashions are cool, I don't know.

So I've had little time for writing or surfing the gnarly web. I mean, I didn't turn the computer on yesterday, and ended up with twenty-five e-mails. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but it's a lot for me.

Two of them were from Africa wanting to give me a few million if only I could help the out; I'm guessing these people will never learn because some schmuck will be greedy enough to be lured in.

Half a dozen were in reply to the political meeting - blood boiling stuff, that. Another six or so were spammish - one in, I think, Greek, and another empty of text. But there was a gem in all this, from my sister, which I present to you:

"Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.

The winners are:

1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.) describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that,when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men."

I'm thinking that some people are too clever for their own good, or they need to get out more. Made me laugh anyway.

Werd up

I was reading the paper yesterday and came across something that would be amusing if it wasn’t so serious.

Initially reported in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and picked up by Australian media, the story is of an Australian woman arrested for saying ‘Fair Dinkum’ to a flight attendant when informed there were no pretzels on a Skywest Airline flight to Pittsburgh.

Sophie Reynolds, 41, of Queanbeyan (a metre or so outside of the capital, Canberra), said the words were out of frustration. An unnamed Skywest Airlines spokesman said: “When other passengers or crew members feel uncomfortable, it’s our standard procedure to contact law enforcement, just as a precaution.” And also suggested there’d been ‘aggressive behaviour throughout the flight’.

When asked about her custody, Ms Reynolds was told by Pittsburgh police that: “You swore at the hostess and there are federal rules against that.”

[Pause here for impact.]

In Australia, that’s like arresting someone for saying: “Well, gee, really?” Worse words are ‘crikey’, ‘strewth’ and ‘bugger’. Strewth is an old word abbreviated from God’s Truth and bugger, well, we all know what that means. Yet the words are a part of the vernacular here as much as Goddamn, son-of-a-bitch and Holy shit are in the U.S. A more innocuous epithet would be hard to find than Fair Dinkum.

Would Brits be arrested for saying ‘Codswallop’ or ‘Blimey’?

Does every passenger on air flights have to undergo sensitivity training so as not to offend the tender mercies of crew and other passengers?

And there are federal laws against using colloquialisms? Which idiot came up with that? Would Ms Reynolds have been safer saying “Goddamn son-of-a-bitch?” Or should she have said something like: “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that and please accept my heart-felt condolences on the loss of the pretzels.”

Down Under we’ve heard of the over-the-top excesses of airline staff when dealing with fractious passengers, from diverting to remove an argumentative passenger, to demanding absolute obedience. All of which cannot make a long flight any easier.

Yep, I shake my head and think of the oft-used expression: Only in America. If it happened here, there’d be bucket loads of embarrassment spread around.

‘Fair Dinkum’ is not swearing, nor is it aggressive behaviour to grumble about the lack of snack food when passengers pay for food via their overpriced tickets. Maybe we should call it ‘The Great Pretzel Fraud’. Economy class truly has become cattle class.

I think I prefer to catch Amtrak.

***

While over at Scifi.com, I saw a link to an article on The Secret To Selling SciFi by Jane Espenson. It’s a worthwhile read with some home truths.

One of many

In a recent interview, Australian recording artist Vanessa Amorosi confessed to having to write thirty to fifty songs for one good one. This told me three things: one, that the woman has music in her soul; two, that she perseveres with her craft and three, that the volume of work didn’t matter as long as she was satisfied with that one gem.

Writers, both superstars and unknowns, are rarely happy with their work. Something can always be said more concisely, with more emotional punch, better. The difference is perseverance and the knowledge of when to let go. A lot of authors have files of unsold, completed manuscripts.

I’ve been editing again. And yeah, I say that like it’s a sin, like it’s an addiction I’ve given into once more, like I can’t help myself… woe.

I read through and change minor things and wonder if the setting is wrong (could it be set in Australia rather than the U.S.), the dialogue is off (would they really say that?), the motivation isn’t really effective (why would they do that?), the characters aren’t deep enough (could the language be stronger?), the consequences are too light (would they get away with it?), the timing (with technology, surely the beasties would be seen?) and so on until I want to burn the damn thing, or delete it all.

But, I keep coming back to the story being able to stand on its own. That it’s a good story and there are only a few places that I think ‘huh, that doesn’t sound quite right’. And so I let it sit some more, tired of second-guessing myself.

I do this with nearly all the books I’ve written: good enough to revisit and tinker with; not good enough to send out.

To get away from that dilemma, I usually start work on another book. So here I sit, writing chapter outlines for book 24 (wow, that many) – ten are unfinished for one reason or another. Yeah, I know I’ve said I’m an organic writer, but I also wonder if the lack of confidence in my books stem from a doubt that they fit properly.

I’m trying a new way of plotting: write out the chapter synopsus, er, synopsii, synopsises(?)… ah, outlines… and then breaking it down into scenes - yahoo, I’m reinventing the wheel! – and trying desperately not to get bored with the process. If nothing else, the chapter briefs will be a guide even if I do toss the scenes. I’m expecting to keep on track for… maybe the first five chapters. After that, I’ll probably be back to the old stand by position of ‘and then…’ and start free writing again.

I live in hope that one of the many is good enough to be published. Maybe this one.

Bookstore betrayal

In a stunning blow to the publishing industry, Angus & Robertson, one of the largest retail outlets in Australia has demanded publishers pay for shelf space.

In the Herald Sun story, A&R general manager, David Fenlon, said “As a commercial business, we have the right to make decisions about which suppliers we do business with

"In our negotiations with suppliers, we are the customer. Unfortunately we cannot work with every publisher in Australia, particularly if the relationship is not commercially viable for us."

Few small and medium-sized book publishers will be able to afford the price of between $1500 and $45,000 for the book space. One book to suffer is the prestigious Miles Franklin Award winner, Alexis Wright’s Carpentaria. This isn’t just another award winner, but the literary prize in Australia. The book is published by Giramondo Publishing, a relatively new publisher.

In my local A&R, the majority – 90% - of Sci-fi and fantasy books are by Australian authors published by the Harper Voyager imprint, which is nice. But will Harper Voyager and A&R still do business? Not at the price A&R want to charge.

If this is the trend of retailers, we can kiss the local industry goodbye. Authors earn a pitiful amount here in Australia and to add the cost of buying shelf space will cripple them.

No wonder our authors prefer overseas markets, and no wonder these authors are rarely heard of here; they get little or no exposure and this attitude makes it worse.

I won’t be going into A&R stores again; there won’t be my favourite Aussie authors on the shelves, so there’s no point. I’ll support the other stores.

The question is: how much will this hurt the A&R bottom line when the majority of small book publisher go elsewhere to sell their books? I hope it stings. A lot.

Spring is sprung

Sadly, Winter appears to be over and the Spring winds have arrived. I wasn't done with Winter yet; no 'damn, I'm tired of the cold', no 'I want warmer weather' and no 'bring on Summer'. Nope. Just cold one week, and mild and breezy the next.

I'm a little cranky about the whole thing because Spring brings on hayfever... either that or I've a late winter cold. I'm thinking hayfever; no hacking cough, no headache, just that irritating nose tingle and sneezing. What that means is I'm going to be snotty for an important meeting next week; way to make an impression.

The hayfever I get is bad enough to be annoying, but not enough for the tough medication that dries everything out so badly you feel desiccated. I know I get vaguely disturbed when others have a cold or worse in a meeting.

Ah, well, maybe it will have gone by Wednesday. If not, I'll take the damn moisture-sucking stuff. I think I'll have a pity party in front of V for Vendetta - the language V uses is simply beautiful, so lyrical; I love it. Makes me think I can do so much better with my writing. Maybe I can learn through osmosis. Whatcha think?

Traveller

I'm getting my act together for a trip to Denmark and England next April/May, and I'm astonished at how much it's going to cost, just for the passport and visas. It's like ten times what it cost me the last time.

But, it's for my Godson's confirmation. The Danes seem to treat a confirmation like it's a twenty-first party. My sister and her family are going, and my other brother is thinking about it too - he's the Godfather, heh, heh.

I suspect it will be a lot of fun, and I might take a side trip to Sweden, or Germany, I'll have to check the finances on that.

Anyway, there's a new story up on the Takeaway.

Parents of a nation

Most little girls like to think of themselves as a princess – well, not me – usually when they’re playing. Fairy tales are littered with them. The reality is unlikely.

Except… my sister-in-law is actually descended from a Danish king, according to my brother’s research. Well, wow, I thought, genealogy turns up the most amazing things.

It’s not as special as you might think. Apparently the Danish royals had a lot of children born, shall we say, on the wrong side of the blanket? Yep, lots of kids born illegitimately to the king and just about every Dane has a royal in their background. Not such a burden then, but in doing the research, the mothers were paid off and kept their identities secret.

So, while we can trace the Danish royal family back, there’s no hope of researching the mother. That part of the tree comes to a full and complete stop, back in 1835, which is a shame. The best we can do is research the circumstances surrounding her coming to the attention of the King. That might be fun…

Skeletons, scandals and secrets make up every family tree, I think, if only you look hard enough. No one likes to think of themselves as ordinary, and no family is ordinary; there’s always something deliciously wicked somewhere.

For example, in my tree I have a number of ancestors who ‘had to’ marry – scandalous for the time – one who ran away from Scotland all the way to Australia to avoid an arranged marriage, and one who deserted during a time of war. I also think I have a convict ancestor sent to Australia. But I also have miners, farmers, innkeepers, tailors, teachers, a dairy maid – which isn’t what you think, blessed are the cheesemakers - wheelwrights, carpenters, a Household Guardsman, and others, hanging off the tree.

Some families simply stayed in one spot for a couple of hundred years, others were constantly on the move for work, a few travelled across oceans to help build a new nation, at least one who came to Australia didn’t have a choice.

So far, only Danish king is famous and rich and while there isn’t abject poverty, no one else made a significant mark – not that found yet.

It’s astonishing to think that I came from such a disparate group of people. Yet, here I am, and there you are.

One day, I might even write a book on some of them; an historical piece, but fictional and explore their time from mine.

Grrrist for the Mill

I haven’t been slacking off, not really, though some might think so.

I’ve been cutting and pasting and deleting and re-writing vast tracts of novel. But in the evenings, I’ve been reading.

Recently, I finished Marjorie M. Liu’s Soul Song - very entertaining - Lynn Viehl’s Night Lost - an excellent read – and Nora Robert’s High Noon - another well-crafted novel from La Nora.

All three are distinct in style. Soul Song follows an expected plot line that I’ve seen in other novels, yet Ms Liu brings her own talents to a story filled with mythology. Night Lost is more of the excellent Darkyn, but what makes this story terrific is the twist I didn’t see coming, and I should have. High Noon also follows an expected plot line, but what makes this different is the slow, inexorable rise in tension ending in the ‘will he’ or ‘won’t he’ questions and you know the villain has no reason not to. (Nope, no spoilers here, sorry.)

Of them all, it’s Night Lost that will stay with me, purely because of the clues I missed and the clever way those clues were hidden. I like books that lay down subtle clues.

Holly Lisle’s Midnight Rain is the same, though I knew the who, but not, quite, the how.

Good books are a pleasure to read; great books deserve re-reading. For writers, that re-reading involves a subconscious learning of how the author did it. I have found that I enjoy hiding those clues when I write, too.

But it’s not just the twists at the end. It can be the emotional punch, the OMG moment, the oh, no-oo scene. You want examples? Okay…

JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - when you read it, you’ll understand, but there is a suddenness of death that shocks.

David Weber’s Field of Dishonor - the emotional punch is from being told, not shown as we’re all instructed.

Elizabeth Moon’s The Deeds of Paksenarrion - there is tragedy in this that is exhausting in its stoicism.

Dean Koontz’s Intensity - left me breathless with its, yes, intensity. Tension from go to whoa.

Lisa Gardner’s The Perfect Husband - oh, the cruelty of a character’s demise, simply because the perp could.

S. L. Viehl’s Endurance - being traded into torture can only provoke intense feelings in the reader; it did for me. D, you bastard! I don’t care why you did it, you should have… yes, well. To continue:

J. T. Edson’s The Cow Thieves - begins with a murder as foul as it was historic.

Anne McCaffrey’s Dragon Flight - reading this as a kid opened my eyes to the wonders of the imagination; like Athena from the head of Zeus, new worlds, new creatures, new ideas erupted from my own imagination.

So, if you write - I believe Nora Roberts once remarked: reading is research – and no book is worthless. Even those you hate. At the very least, you learn how not to do something.

But the best are those books you love, for within those covers lies the genesis of your own great works.

Grama? What Grammuh?

As writers we have to be careful about our word selection, the order in which they appear… and any punctuation that might be vital to the understanding of sentences. Here are genuine examples - put together by a local newspaper - of why:

Lost: Small apricot poodle. Reward. Neutered. Like one of the family.

A superb and inexpensive restaurant. Fine food served by waitresses in appetizing forms.

Dinner Special – Turkey $5, Chicken or Beef $5, Children $4.

For Sale: An antique desk suitable for lady with thick legs and large drawers.

Four-poster bed, 101 years old. Perfect for antique lover.

Now is the chance to have your ears pierced and get an extra pair to take home too.

Wanted: Unmarried girls to pick fresh fruit and produce at night.

For Sale. Eight puppies from a German Shepherd and an Alaskan Hussy.

Great Dames for sale.

Mt Kilimanjaro, the breathtaking backdrop for Serena Lodge. Swim in the lovely pool while you drink it all in!

What more can I say?

Where is...?

It gives you a happy glow to know your characters, to understand the evil plot you’re going to involve them in, even to the point of smugness that you know how it ends, and no-one else does.

A slight creasing of the brow comes into play when you try and decide where you want all this action to take place.

The city you live in? One you’ve visited? Another country you’ve thought about? Another world?

The city you live in is easy: you just go to places your characters will. For one you’ve visited, you can drag out photos or dig into your memory. Another country… hmm, hard, but not difficult given the internet. Stephen King wrote a spot-on description of an Asian city he’d never been to from research. For another world, you’ve got to create it: Axial tilt, distance from a particularly classified sun, flora, fauna, seasons, weather, temperatures, whether other close celestial bodies are possible, minerology… the list is long. Of course, you can simply apply Earth-like categories and give your planet a new name, but then you’ve got to deal with the history of the place, politics, perhaps militarism.

For sci-fi writers, this is a part of their work; it’s assumed the story is futuristic so anything is possible. For fantasy writers, it doesn’t matter so much because most fantasies are medievalistic – if there’s such a word – and technology isn’t such an issue. Science Fantasy, however, creates unique problems all on its lonesome.

How do you reconcile fantasy creatures with modern technology? Alternative reality novels deal with it in two ways: accepting creatures of myth live amongst us openly and explain the ‘coming out’, or accepting mythological beings exist, but are hidden and intend to remain so for one reason or another.

Popular supernatural fiction maintains the latter: that ordinary Joe Public would panic if vampires and werewolves were real and so create a hidden world where the characters can play. The one major problem with this is technology, especially seeker technology: satellites, infra-red, sonar, forensics, a Mark 1 eyeball, digital cameras, all put the squeeze on the hidden worlds.

What will we do when someone, or a group, prove categorically, without question that supernatural beings do or do not exist? Does it matter?

Well, yeah, to me it does. Realism is important to me. If I’m writing about a modern world with myths running around, I want the reader to believe it’s possible. Flying beasties are obviously at the mercy of satellites; blood suckers leave victims and enough of them in one area will cause police to investigate the cluster; weres thundering through the forests risk hunters, campers, naturalists and scientists, especially if they leave something of themselves behind, like fur, to be examined.

It could be that I’m being too pedantic, but I’ve always thought that to make fiction work, you have to stick as close to the truth as possible – with a speculation thrown in. The reader will take that up and I think that’s what makes writers like Stephen King so successful: it could happen.

This brings me back to where a novel should be set, or, more precisely, the problem I’m having with one of my own pieces. Should my flying mythical beasties be vulnerable to modern technology in this world even as they struggle to stay hidden? Should I set it on another planet? Or should I ignore the possibility of detection all together and give the beasties stealth capabilities? Is ‘the ability to wrap shadows around them’ realistic?

Readers are canny people; I suspect I’m gonna have to be cleverer than I think I am to find an acceptable solution.