Cliques

Over on Genreality, Lynn Viehl has a post about writer's groups and her experiences with them.

As I read, I tried to recall whether there were any writer's groups around here - I live in the country, on the coast, where retirees spend their kids' inheritance by buying over-priced near or above million dollar homes. Blech.

Anyway. I riffled around in the dungeons of my memory and came up with a weird recollection. I was editor of a country newspaper at the time. Most of my staff were the advertising side of the paper, with a sports journalist, a news journalist, a cadet and me.

Everyone was busy so I sent myself out to cover a kind of coastal writer's gathering. They got together once a year to chat, to read from their works and to discuss it. But promote it? Hell, they invited me!

A more recalcitrant bunch of writers I never want to meet.

I walked in with camera and notebook. Every head turned to glare at the interruption - not that they were doing much. I tried my most charming smile and announced who I was and what I'd be doing, but would keep my intrusion to a minimum. I didn't see any welcoming gestures. In fact, I heard some distinct sniffs.

Gamely, I did my job: taking photos, asking a few questions which mostly went unanswered or were dealt with in the vague way embarrassed people replied. People turned away from the camera, spoke in soft voices to each other, but not to me. Me, they mostly ignored.

It's the kind of job every journalist hates: talents who prove extremely difficult.

As I left, it occured to me that these writers, um poets actually, didn't want publicity. They were happy within their clique; content with the trust and accolades of their fellows - no critiqueing here. They published, yes, but self-published and only gave the booklets to their comrades or family. And that was enough for them.

Not for them them any popularity outside the clique - that would be bad - happy are these big fish in a small pond. And good luck to them, they got their wish: the story was so thin it went from a proposed page three to less than a quarter of page ten.

I suppose they're still at it. Retirees, taking the plunge to write some truly awful poetry and having polite friends applaud them (though probably for bravery rather than content).

In the end, Lynn is correct: the internet provides a much more useful medium for writing - the hows and whys and whats and whos. You can always find someone with whom you share skill level, genre and hopes.

I really, really hope that in my Autumn years, I shan't find myself in a group of people listening to bad poetry or works of fiction and have to applaud.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple...

Lust

Fill-'em Up Day.

Oh, yea, it's Good Friday and the beginning of the School Holidays so teeming throngs of tourists have descended. All the camping areas, caravan parks, hotels and rental houses are stuffed to overflowing.

Many of them have brought... boats. Well, I suppose they would given it's the coast and on the shores of Jervis Bay. And I have to note that on the way back from work today I saw a car parked outside one of the rental homes. A yellow car, low-slung, sexy, sitting with a come hither look about it. A car that rarely graces this area - a Lambourgini.

Around holidays, we get Beemers, Mercs, Jags, Porche, the occasional Rolls Royce or Ferrari, but Lambourginis? This is the first I've seen. I hoping to see a lot more of it... I wonder if the owner will mind if I just... touched it a little, drooled a bit, gazed longingly into the front seat and dream of it (with me in it)?

Makes me ask: Crisis? What financial crisis?

Choices, choices

Since the Story-a-day marathon isn’t too far away, I thought I’d zip over to the Seventh Sanctum to check out the generators.

I discovered… the History Scrambler! I may have to use this, I’m afraid. It takes figures of history and changes their… character. Here are ten that I generated:

Jane Austen – Witch (It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be bespelled into choosing whomever I please as a wife.)

Carl Jung - Computer Simulation (So that explains it!)

Ulysses S. Grant - Sexy Bishounen (Uh, oh, that creates all manner of possibilities.)

Boudica - High Priestess (Well, as leader of the Iceni…)

Cleopatra - Action Heroine (I figured she was already, but a different kind of action what with Marc Antony and Julius Caesar all over her like white on rice.)

Beatrix Potter - Stereotypical Romance Novel Heroine (Um… Her life’s story already reads like a romance novel.)

Eleanor Roosevelt – Biker (Yo! Ted! Show us yer wheelie!)

Saint Dominic – Wizard (Bwahaaha! Oh, the irony!)

Agatha Christie - Vampire Hunter (Whoa, cool! Agatha would thump Anita and slaughter her hisem!)

Paul Revere - Exotic Dancer (Lends new meaning to “The British are coming!” Oh, wow, did I say that out loud?)

There are many more generators that can inspire a short story. The problem is what to choose.

Change out

And it is with a sense of relief that Daylight Savings time is now over. I don't object to a change in time, but I do object to it being six months long! And so does my dog. Anyway, it's the perfect time to check the smoke detectors and change out the batteries.

But now the cooler weather is beginning to settle in and the creative juices are stirring. Hot weather just makes me go 'blah'.

It also means that the Forward Motion story-a-day marathon is coming up in three, short weeks. Woo hoo! Along with the Nano, this is when the muse cranks up and spits out some real gems. And since I missed it last year due to being out of the country and having a damn good time, I'm really ready for some obscure prompts to puzzle out.

The best part is the store of shorts I'll have in first draft format. The worst, or ferociously challenging part is the total concentration the marathon needs because you have to write a complete story. That's beginning, middle and end, with character development, plot, dialogue, twist, everything a book has except in miniature. And do it every day during May.

The best place to find prompts is The Seventh Sanctum. It has some marvy eras mixed with odd ideologies, philosophies and people, in any number of genres. It's pure challenge.

Thirty stories in thirty days. Kind of like a manic Nano really, so how can I resist?

Escape

The on-going war with the mice took a... weird turn this morning.

The trap I set earlier on in the week went off, and when I looked, there was a mouse, struggling for freedom. I know I should have dispatched the little beggar... but I didn't. And yes, I felt guilty about that.

This morning, when I went to remove the remains, no mouse could I find. I spoke with the aged parent and she said 'what mouse'? Nope, she didn't move it.

Before you think the mouse escaped, it couldn't given the metal bar across it's back. The traps I use are uber-strong - as my swollen thumb can testify after being caught when I accidentally set the thing off.

Oh, did I forget to mention the trap is missing too? Yeah. I have searched high and low, moved furniture around but there is no sign of the mouse or the trap. I am running out of places to look. The mouse must be dead, but I cannot, for the life of me work out how it moved the trap as well, caught as it was.

I'm guessing it's one of life's little mysteries - until the scent of death permeates the house, that is...

Judge and jury...

It's been a stressful week, and it's not over yet. I'm not talking about it either. So there. Nyah.

This afternoon, I have the dubious honour of judging a local photography exhibition on local photographers favourite holiday snaps. I know what I like, but I'm not sure that should be the only criteria for making a decision and it's been a long, long time since I did a visual arts unit at University.

I suppose I should look at the subject - whether it's framed or not - the colours, or not, contrast, shading, emotional response, the artistry, any blurring (deliberate or not), whether I recognise the place of the photo and other stuff, in conjunction with meaningful discussions with my fellow judges.

I'm totally impartial in this. I don't know the photographers, but I have travelled. Maybe I won't be so impartial if someone's been where I have...

Anyway, I'm hoping it will cheer me up.

There's also a new story over on The Takeaway.

Memorable characters

With the release of David Weber's Storm from the Shadows this month, I found myself drawn back into the Honor Harrington Universe. Much as I'd like to grab this book, it's $60 Aussie bucks I don't have.

But, Baen has a website to torture fans of the series and other Baen authors. Collected Driblets serves as a kind of testing ground for Baen authors where readers can make comments on the work posted.

I finished the significant excerpt and decided to revisit the beginning of the series, On Basilisk Station (I need a new copy; the one I have is falling apart).

Of course, once read, I had to carry on with For the Honor of the Queen, The Short, Victorious War and currently, Field of Dishonor. I can't help myself. These initial books are brilliant; the latter books get a little mired in politics, diplomacy and info-dumps rather than epic space battles and wholesale slaughter.

The question is, why is Honor Harrington such a compelling character? What makes her so attractive that Weber has sold over three million books in this series, two spin off series and other series? Me, I'd like to shrug and say 'dunno', but there is something about the character that draws readers in.

Honor Harrington is a commoner (which scores highly in a country founded by convicts and commoners under the yoke of British Imperialism). She fights her way to a peerage whether she wants it or not. She has a cast of villians who hate her because of what she is; and that is someone who will do her duty regardless of the consequences. She does, in fact, demonstrate how corrupt certain parts of the government truly are.

But don't make the mistake that she's a Mary-Sue (unlike another character I could name). Doing her duty gets thousands killed when a temporary tactical withdrawal would have lost a system but cost less in lives and equipment to regain. She also has a barely-contained violent streak that rears it's head every now and then with nasty consequences for at least three characters.

The character grows - not just in professional stature - but in personality; from shy, gawky teenager (told in back story) to woman confident enough to take on a whole new society, and win.

At the core is an indestructible morality of integrity and self-belief. A core wrapped in duty to the Queen, the people and the crews of the ships she regularly gets shot up. And that's the clue: to keep a solid, unbreakable core to a character. For Honor Harrington, it's 'to do my duty, regardless'. Another example of this is S.L. Viehl's Cherijo, it's 'do no harm, regardless'. Even romance has it's core: 'follow your heart'.

If your character has this... 'stability', then you can throw everything at them, torture them, even kill them, but they'll always be memorable.

Couch potato

I spent most of yesterday on the couch - and enjoyed it.

The morning was for Anime - Ghost in the Shell, Cowboy Bebop, Black Lagoon and Blood Plus - but the afternoon? Oh, yeah, baby! A Battlestar Galactica marathon that went into the night and finished with the direct-via-satellite final movie-length episode.

I freely confess I watched the original series as a kid and to see Richard Hatch as a... well, was he a villain, or was he simply representing a lot of people in the fleet? Sure, his methods sucked and he was a master manipulator, but he'd fought the Cylons for a long time. I guess what mattered was the way in which he tried to enforce his ideology. With Zarek and Adama so set in their ways, conflict - major conflict - was bound to happen and end with one of them dead.

What I liked about the series was the continuity in the personalities. Not one deviated. Action, reaction. They were who they were. Some characters grew, some did not - just like real life.

And the end suited the series: well planned in advance and a well executed finish. No, oh-the-series-is-ending-we-must-think-of-something! The seeds were well sown in the previous series.

I'm gonna hafta watch it again.

So. Say. We. All.

Touch, pause, engage!

Anyone who knows these words understand they are spoken by a referee about to mediate between two teams in a rugby union scrum.

But they've taken on a whole new meaning with the release of Mills & Boons new eight part series involving a swell gal and a rugby player.

Romance embraces Rugby

Given that a Mills & Boon book is sold every three or so seconds, I can only see success for the series, and perhaps an increased increased in rugby union.

I just wonder how they're going to get around the usual stereotypical description of a rugby player, the cauliflower ears, the scarred features, the tape around the brow to hold the ears in, the scent of Denco-rub or magic spray.

All I can think of are our own rugby players, and there are some fine specimens of manhood representing Australia. England? Not so much.

Questions must be asked:

Will the heroine find herself rucked out or tearful at the break-down? Will anyone intercept the pill and show a clean pair of heels? If the lineout turns into a maul, will she be able to identify the mauler? Will she be penalised for hands in the ruck? Can she stay on her feet, run the angles and make a long pass?

I guess, since it's an M & B that it will be up to him to keep possession and avoid the turnovers.

The next time I watch a rugby match and listen to the ref say: "Touch, pause, engage." I'll be thinking of an alternative meaning...

Real and Imagined

It's interesting how life imitates art.

I'm working on a free sequel to Huntress called, Hunted. It's about the hunt for a serial killer on an alien world. Excalibur Jones killed quiet a few people, but let one go, the protagonist, because he has a special affection for her.

Now, you might be wondering how this compares with real life. Well... you'll recall I spent a few days away in Canberra, whooping it up with the rellos. In our absence, mice moved in from the garage. Lots of 'em. More than I thought, anyway.

Before we left, I caught two in traps; when we returned, two had died of... something, and I spent some quality time cleaning out cupboards.

In two weeks, the total mouse kill stands at two dead from, let's say, natural causes, and eight - count them - eight! in traps. And one... I let him go. He was so cute with his bewhiskered nose poking out of my computer bag, black eyes curious. I zipped up the bag and took him outside, released him away from the house.

These mice are half the size of what you see on the teev. They're brown, small, incredibly fast and remarkably smart (though you might not think so given they're now dead). I set and reset the traps around the house with peanut butter or honey as the lure. A lot of the time, the bait vanished and the trap still set.

Eleven of the beggars! Ten now gone to their reward and one tasting freedom in a wood pile - or he's snuck back into the house.

Excalibur Jones has a similar kill or release count. Will the free mouse succeed where so many have failed? Take the bait and win or be caught in the trap and lose?

I guess I'll have to write it to find out... but the parallels are eerie.

Lexicon

When I think about it, yeah, I'm busy. I'm letting one trilogy sit for a week before a final lookie, I've got two books bubbling away on a back-burner and making notes as they occur, I'm considering expanding two long short stories and making a book to post and I'm writing the sequel to Huntress.

None of the above are far from my thoughts. But it is Hunted that's taking up my attention.

For the past two days, I've not written much - but I'm working on the piece. I had a translator fail on an alien world and so... have to create a new language for my protagonist to not understand.

I tried LangMaker, and while I'm sure it's perfect for some, I'm more of a perfectionist. For example, no comes out as 'gik' but not came out as 'rekshash'. Obviously, the two words bear no resemblance to one another and I think they should. Of course, it may be I'm being too 'English' in my approach.

So I set up my own little database and tried to sort out the basis for a language - not so easy. You really have to dig in to the basis structure of a language and develop it from there. I've done some research, including J.R.R. Tolkien's languages. He, of course, spent years on his languages which are spoken today by Tolkien fans.

I have no hope of getting close to that mark, nor do I want to; I just want my new language to sound and look like a real language.

It also seems like a lot of work for a couple of sentences, but to be convincing, you - as a writer - must go that extra mile. When you write fiction, you must sound as if you know what you're writing about and that means learning about the subject. You don't have to drop an infodump into your work, just give enough information to sound as if you know your subject.

Language, creating a new one, is the same, so I'm working on it. Twenty words. That's what I need, but I have to maintain the integrity of the piece otherwise, it won't work and I doubt making it up as I go along will succeed.

Sigh. If it was easy, everyone would be doing it...

Space, now and then

Space... the final frontier... yada, yada.

I'm making some notes for one of two books I'm thinking of writing. The second one is about a woman who can see past lives and, since she works for the Justice Department, decides whether a murder was revenge for one in a previous life.

But the first... a group of astronauts (ours) are intercepted by aliens who give warning of another species stripping the populace of their futures - it's a life force thing. One species have human elements; the other does not. Who are the bad guys?

Anyway, with Discovery blasting off and space junk causing problems (why don't they clean it up? Jeez, isn't it enough we pollute our own planet, now we're littering space?), the interest in space is rising again.

But I'm wondering: do astronauts have weapons?

I know, I know. Idealogues would say 'space isn't for conflict; it's for friendship', and that's nice for them. The reality? I don't know. I can think of many reasons why they should bear arms - landing in unfriendly waters, for one. I can also think of reasons why they shouldn't - and I don't suppose a bullet through the shell of the ISS is a good thing.

Are weapons a part of military survival kits? Of any spacefaring nation? Is there even a protocol for astronauts if someone from outside the Solar System drops in for a cuppa?

And the big question: how do I find out? Anyone?

Maybe I'll let it simmer and work on the more terrestrial story. I mean, how hard can revisiting past lives be?

Jaye needs...

Ah, games. Something to take your mind off what ever it is you need taking off your mind. This one comes from Marina who filched it from somewhere else and so on.

The idea is to use Google to find what you need. Put in your name and 'needs' and do a search. Use the first ten.

Here's what I got:

Jaye needs...
1. You!
Give me some time and I'll come up with why.

2. to sneak back over the border.
The border's a long, long way away. Ohh, you mean in my current WIP? Neat!

3. it the most.
Well, spare my blushes! I don't think I should comment on this.

4. a photo to post.
Mmm... No.

5. 2 more or gain 30 more Slayer points to reach the next level.
Woo hoo! What? Slayer points? Okay...

6. to help an old nemesis plan a reunion.
Again, no. Yes, there's a reunion coming up, no I'll not be attending.

7. an exorcism.
Eh? You mean my head isn't supposed to do that three-sixty business? Green vomit isn't acceptable human behaviour? Well, hell, who knew?

8. a connection.
Ah, so that's the problem: I'm not plugged in!

9. to finish her sentences.
But it's... I think... You can't mean... Surely...

10. her morning fix of caffeine.
Oh, yeah. Absolutely.

And what does everyone else need? Or is this a virus thing that needs to be purged from the internet? What's this "Wonderfalls" program and why does the lead character have my name?

Surprise deaths

The last couple of days have been relaxing after the excitement of the weekend. Sigh. I should have paid more attention, not gone the quick and easy route for meals.

Last night, I figured I'd cook something nice and opened one of the cupboards.

DEAR GOD!!!

While away, a mouse had crawled into the cupboard... and died. So I spent some time clearing out the baking dishes and cake tins, the wok and electrical devices searching for the remains. Found 'em. I also spent some significant time washing and scrubbing and rubbing and wondering if I should just chuck the whole lot out.

Now, I have a sparkly clean and disinfected cupboard and stuff.

Once done, I noticed the dog at the back room door. It's been closed since we went away. I do that, you know: close every door, turn off as many appliances and power points as possible, close curtains, the works.

So, yeah, I opened that door, too.

DEAR GOD!!!

I shut the door. I'll look for the remains tomorrow.

My question is why now? Why are we being invaded like this? It's not Summer and it's not Winter. Never have we had so many! They have got to go! I'm thinking one of those electronic devices to shoo them out, otherwise, my Karma is going to take a beating.

Anyway. I've posted another story on The Takeaway. Have at it.

On the way

Okay, the last scene is done on Autumn's Fall.

One more read through of all three Season books and the first gets sent out, probably next week, though I think that might be wishful thinking.

The toughest part about writing a book or two... or three, is to determine when it is good enough to go out into the wide world. Is it grown up enough, or does it still have teething problems? Maybe it's still trying to work through the up and downs of teenagerhood. Does it read well, flow, engender emotional responses?

Will it make an editor or agent sit up and pay attention? Demand more or drown in the slush pile?

I'm guessing my next job is to put together a synopsis. I have a few examples to draw from so I'm not completely in the dark. Once that's done, it's seeking out an agent...

Phew. Just had an attack of nerves. Well, I'll never-never know, if I never-never show. I've set the deadline at the 31st of March. Out it goes, it's sponged off me long enough. There. Set in stone, out in public. Damn. I'm going to write some notes on a new book, try and shake the nerves.

Medical triumphs

Ah, me. Doing a happy dance and a little shimmy and a minor jig, followed by a subdued 'woot'!

Did the First Aid course this morning, followed by an exam - practical and theory - in the afternoon. Yes, I passed... okay, I kicked butt, with a final mark of, wait for it: 100 per cent! Yay! Toss those wounded bodies at me! I'll fix 'em!

Right. I'm no doctor, it's true, but I now know what to do in emergencies and that can't be a bad thing. Any medical training is useful.

* * *

I finished Lynn Viehl's Stay the Night this evening - eschewing Star Trek: Voyager, mind you - and the series doesn't feel finished. I'm guessing when I read it again, I'll see it, but at the moment... I'll have to think on the ending. I don't, at this stage, see what happened as a solution; but then I want the Brethren to pay a high price for their misguided, evil ways.

Alex Keller continues to search for a cure to the pathogen, an FBI agent is kidnapped by Robin of Locksley - and there is irony in that - Nottingham returns as a man still open to manipulation by the evil of others and his own conscience, and a nasty little psychopath seeks revenge on them all.

Like the others in the series, I enjoyed it, but Lynn presented some tantalising glimpses and leads that could be future books, as if she's keeping the option open to write more should fans demand it. There's so much more that could happen.

I like series to end on an absolute: Cardinal D'orio dead (he so needs killin'), the Brethren dead, scattered or finally see how they were manipulated... but perhaps that's for the new series of Kyndred. The first, Shadowlight, comes out in November and the excerpt at the end of Stay The Night is a temptation I want, nay, need to indulge.

With all the vampire novels out there today, the Darkyn series is a breath of fresh air blowing through the genre with medical reasoning written with absolute conviction to be believable. This is a series I'll be re-reading. It's a stand out in a genre that is both becoming tired as it is popular.

Bring on the next series.

Busy week

Woo hoo! Can my cousins party or what?

I'm back after an extended long weekend. It was good to catch up with the cuzzes, even those I haven't seen in... mumble, mumble... years! It's amazing the changes those years have wrought. Everyone was relaxed and cheerful and chatty, but worse, most have a similar sense of humour so eruptions of laughter echoed around the neighbourhood.

I managed to do some shopping in the big smoke: picked up Lynn Viehl's pink-covered Stay the Night, Rachel Caine's Undone and a classic copy of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Do you think I had a chance to read any of them?

Nope.

We went out on Friday night, had the party on Saturday night, lunch on Sunday to clear up any fabulous left overs, home baked pizza-oven pizzas on Monday night, shopping and baby sitting in between. And so... I am worn out.

I've yet to finish the final scene on two books, read what I've purchased and make notes on a book I had a scathingly brilliant idea for on the three-hour drive back to the coast.

It all has to wait until Friday when I have a day off my current obligations.

Oh, and we arrived home to find a few mouses running rampant. I am, however, relieved I didn't catch any. I had driven... maybe two hours before I remembered I'd set traps - and forgot to unset them. Can you imagine the stinkiness of bodies trapped for four days? Hmmm? In late Summer? HMMM? So. They got to party too, and defeated the traps anyway.

Tomorrow I'm off to do a Senior First Aid course. Should be interesting and worthy of some note-taking.

Family tree-d

I've been trying to get to the last scene of my current WIP... and failing. Real life keeps getting in the way.

This weekend, I'm taking the maternal influencer to Canberra for the 60th anniversary of her family arriving in Australia from England.

I'm working on organising photographs and printing out that side of the family tree for those who know nuffink about their origins. Some, we rarely see or hear from.

But that's the way with families. They came out as children, grew up here and wandered off to different parts of the country - and Australia is a rather big land. The grapevine, however, is alive and kicking and various cousins, second cousins, aunts and uncles have promised to turn up. It will be great to see them all: a generation of English and two generations of Aussies, all mingling.

What I find interesting is that no matter how long they've been in Australia, they still retain an English accent. I'm thinking it's because of the household they grew up in. Although... when my brother came back from a year in New Zealand, he had a New Zealand accent, and when I came back from a year in England, I had an English one. I'm guessing it's the people we're constantly with that gives us the speech patterns. (While in England, I was also mistaken for being Swedish or South African. What's up with that?)

It's something to think about - especially with the latest WIP *hurries off to make a note* - um, where was I? Oh, yes. I can't recall any books I've read that has someone returning home after a long absence with a different accent; attitude, personality and looks, yes, but accent? No. I wonder why that is? I'll have to rummage around my bookshelves, I think, and seek out any books that have this change.

Spartans

I'm guessing that because we're good cable customers, Austar gave us the Movie channels to play with for a while.

Today, I watched 300 wif dat bi' 'o eye-candy, Gerald Butler... actually, there were plenty of rrr-rippling abs. But all perving aside, I enjoyed it. I'm assuming certain... disturbing... parts were edited out from the television version. But I don't recall studying (I did ancient history all through school, but modern at uni) that Xerxes was a debauched meglomaniac.

Yes, I know it's from a Frank Millar graphic novel, but that struck me as... odd. Meglomaniac, sure, given his father Darius tried the same thing and got his ass kicked, but a messianic hedonist? Hmmm.

Anyway, I was impressed by the history of the piece. The Spartans epic defence at Thermopylae has echoed down the centuries as an example of the determined few against the overwhelming might of the many. And the Spartans may have succeeded in defeating the Persians militarily at Thermopylae if not for the betrayal. As it was, the 300 died, but Xerxes's army was destroyed by the Greeks.

I've read the criticisms of this film, and all I can say is "they missed the point". Sparta was a city-state based on militarism - from birth to death and including women. Yes, it was brutal, but it encompasses what the Spartans were willing to do to keep their city as a regional power. It was a society much revered and much reviled.

'With shield, or on it.' There is no other choice for a Spartan Hoplite. King Leonidas and his men live on through history, achieving the glory they knew would be theirs. It's a mindset we see today in... certain, more radical elements of society. A mindset that is as difficult to understand today as it was for Xerxes then.

It is a piece of history more people should consider; it is the story of the few against the many, fighting for a noble cause while other sit back and watch. If news of the Spartan fight hadn't reached the rest of Greece, I imagine history, world history, would be very different.

Flash, crack, boom

Howling storm last evening, and I'm not a fan of them. It isn't the noise, or the crackling of the air, I just don't like 'em.

There I am, in the middle of editing - and having a right time of it too - and I can hear the rumbling come ever closer. When I looked out the window, one, then a second jagged bolt of white light streaked down.

I didn't want to shut down the computer, but, you know... lightning strike, fried circuits, destroyed work.

So I took myself upstairs, made myself some coffee and leaned against the door to the balcony to watch. Sure as eggs, flash, crack, boom, a streak of pure white hit the house across the street.

I think it took out their electricity, because when one of lads got home, he couldn't get the electronic garage door to open.

We don't usually get storms coming right over the house - the last one was some years ago and hit the house next door; saw that, too. Fried everything in the neighbour's house.

Saxon, mah faithful hound, was near havin' a panic attack. She stuck right by my leg; where I went, she followed and touched. I could feel her tremble and shudder. She didn't settle down for hours.

I think there was another strike on one of the boats in the harbour. It was close by, I know that.

The result is that I backed everything up.

Mother Nature can be pissy and the randomness of lightning strikes means if I hear a storm coming, everything goes onto thumb drives then electrical devices are turned off and unplugged. It doesn't take much, but if the worst happens, I won't lose my work, nor any other device I absolutely need - like the coffee machine (that's essential).

So. Go and back up your work. Right. Now. While you remember.

Back to the edits

I've spent the weekend reading through - and making notes on - the first two books of the Season trilogy. Oh, okay, and perving on the buff bods in their body-hugging shirts and bike pants... mmm...

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Editing. Sometimes, when you're pounding away at the keyboard, getting those words down, an event seems like a good idea at the time. (This is the stuff I wrote for the 2006 Nano.)

Summer's Rule reads well enough, but I got tripped up at one particular scene and had to ask the question: can you really have sex between prison bars? I'm thinking... maybe. Awkward and less than satisfying... probably. I'll have to do some research. Academic research, thank you very much! Things like how far apart the bars have to be (it's a private prison cell, think old Western cells), where is the horizontal bar, body width, muscle strength, and... well, stuff like that.

I need to put in more imagery. I don't think I need to boost the emotional side - two scenes near brought me to tears - but on the whole, this book is nearly read to go out there into the big wide world.

Winter's Heart is actually the better of the two - editing-wise. I didn't find anything major to fix - although I'm sure somebody will.

Today, I'm working on Autumn's Fall. I know this one has problems; not the least that it's unfinished, so there'll be writing involved.

My goal, when I send the first out, is to say that the trilogy is complete; no waiting around for the rest.

So it's back to make sure the characters haven't changed in appearance, that the ongoing sub-plot is maintained and the action continues - oh, and if it is possible to have sex through prison bars or if I'll have to change it...

Running

There's a triathalon on this weekend around the neighbourhood. Yep, buff bods on display right out in front of the house... sigh.

They're doing a practice run for tomorrow's race. It can't be pleasant, it's raining and there's a haze, the scent of wet, burned wood in the air.

I've finally got my act together and posted another story on the The Takeaway. And there I was thinking the beginning of the year meant a fresh attitude and to hit the ground running. Silly me. I'll try to post more regularly, but things happen, ya know?

Rewind

I see a major rewrite coming up - at least for the first book.

The problem is the goal, oh, and I think I've made it a leedle too easy for the characters.

I'm not saying late 16th Century living was laid back and worry free, but for those with money, it sure beat being a labourer or servant or farmer, or anything else. It was hard then.

So I'm going to give the main protagonist - Isabella - a significant shift in... occupation. No longer will she be lady of the manor, but a serving girl. No more the fine clothes, the good wine and excellent food, but coarse cloth, water or mead, and scraps from the main table. I'm going to shift the time-frame back a hundred years or so, too, and the country, since there was lots of fighting and bitching about who was the king of France at that time.

This is going to affect a number of other characters and to avoid throwing the whole book, it's going to take some sneakiness.

After all, who wants to read a book where life is easy? What writer doesn't enjoy torturing their characters? We're an odd bunch...

Splits and danglings

Well. That was embarrassing. Here I am, with a degree in professional writing and an advanced certificate in editing and proof reading and I still managed to screw the pooch.

Natalie, over at What Time is it Again? has a link to the University of Bristol's Improve your writing.

In particular, Natalie went for the split comma exercise. I figured, "hell, I know commas" and duly did the exercise.

Two out of ten, people. I managed to get two out of ten right. Ohh... the shame.

I'm going to have to redeem myself; maybe with dangling participles. It remind's me of a teabag ad catch phrase: "Are you a jiggler or a dangler?"

These exercises are great. Even when you think you know the answer, you might just be wrong. Go and try them out.

Meaty bits

Nope, that scene didn't work either. It looks like I'm going to have to do the dreaded... *gulp* back-plotting.

Yes, peeps, back-plotting; that slow, laborious task to test the continuity of your book. The scene-by-scene dismemberment of the story line to make sure everything is in its place and the characters haven't suddenly disappeared or changed appearance or personality.

It's the part of writing I least like, a necessary eee-vil. But if the whole thing is to stand up and be counted, the internal structure has to be solid enough to support the flesh of action and dialogue. If not, then all you've got is a body laid out for autopsy: all the bits are where they're supposed to be, but it ain't movin'.

It's what well-adjusted writers do before they start writing. Me, I'm a maelstrom of tangential thought when it comes to writing. I do the plotting after - but only if I'm having trouble; which I am. Buckets of it. Meaty, bloody, gobs of it.

The saving grace is that I'll be able to spot inconsistencies that an atypical read-through misses...

To get this trilogy done, I have to start at the beginning, wallow in what I've written and be schizophrenic about it: one part reader - one part editor; or, if you will, half patient and half doctor.

Maybe I need to look up some technical manuals to diagnose the problem. Ah, well, time to create a database...

Let's try this...

I've been a little distracted this week. So distracted, I've had to re-write one scene five times and it still doesn't seem right.

Technical reasons, continuity reasons, cliche reasons, men-in-black reasons and just plain dumb-ass reasons. My characters are getting a little tired of trying different routes to get to the end point. I don't blame them, they want to wrap everything up and live happily ever after. Me, I gotta torture them one last time to reach the word count and the ending.

I need to crack the fundamental barrier to my two protagonists getting together. And it's not so easy when the scene that brings them together is, well, sucky. Maybe the sixth re-write will be the one...

* * *

On the subject of the Victorian fires, the people of Australia have raised more than $AUS 75 million. It's an incredible total and I hope the money not only goes to those who need it, but towards paying for the burn-offs of bush debris during the Winter so this doesn't happen again. (But that's a button I really don't want to push at the moment, except to say that burn-offs aren't "a threat to bio-diversity".)

Okay, back to work...

National mourning

As you can imagine, we're all in shock here in the Land of Aus. We have fires across four states, with the weather about to deteriorate again, and sixty percent of Queensland is flooded, with more rain on the way. The lower half of Australia is praying for rain to douse the fires; the northern part praying for sunshine to dry them out.

That's what this country is about - extremes; but this has been more extreme than we've had in decades, nay, ever.

At this stage, 126 have perished with over 750 houses lost. The death toll is expected to rise as rescue operations reach areas currently too dangerous to enter.

It wasn't as if people were unprepared; they were. It was the fire moved so fast. As one survivor said: "I could see the smoke a couple of kilometres away; then I got to my car and I could see flames."

The media have stopped mentioning the more awful of stories. Censored stories like the couple who could hear screaming up the street but could do nothing but save themselves. The survivors who drove past cars on fire with the knowledge of people trapped inside. Of blast furnace conditions that evaporated water before it hit the ground. Of the firefighter, trying to save homes and then discovering he'd lost his own home... and family. Of the couple who put all their valuables in the shed, knowing they would lose the house only to return to a safe house, but destroyed shed. The journalist who was on the phone to his wife as all around her burned, of the shock and tears in his voice as he described her screaming and hearing an appalling rushing noise. She survived where most did not. And of a beloved newsreader and his wife who perished in their home. The horror and grief is unimaginable.

There are so many tales of survival, of tragedy and loss. And it's not over. There are still more fires burning in Victoria, in South Australia, in Western Australia and here, in New South Wales.

I can smell the scent of wet, charred wood from the fire a couple of hundred kilometres to the south of here. But it's been raining along my part of the coast, dampening everything down. I feel a bit guilty complaining about the heat when it could have been much worse, and was devastating in Victoria.

Most citizens are pitching in to help, be it with skills, equipment or donations. People are coming together to assist those who have lost so much; the mobilisation of army units, the Red Cross and Salvation Army and ordinary people being there for the victims.

When it's all over, the houses and towns will be rebuilt. The bush will regenerate. But the tragedy will remain with us always.

Firestorm

We consider Australia the 'lucky country'. Where you can do or be anything, if you work hard enough. Sure, it's a land of extreme. During Spring, for example, you can snow ski in the morning and be swimming in the sea in the afternoon. The weather can be perfect or atrocious. Bucketing with rain - as it still is in northern Queensland, or brutally hot, like yesterday in Victoria where in some areas, the temperature rose to 47 degrees Celsius or 116 Fahrenheit.

With those hot temperatures and 100kmh winds, the inevitable happened: bushfires.

North and north-east of Melbourne, the landscape is dotted with beautiful valleys and hills - and townships. As of now, twenty-five people are dead and more than a hundred homes destroyed. The death toll is expected to rise as authorities search through ash and ruins.

Tales of remarkable bravery and escape are all over the media, as is the unspeakable tragedy of people in cars over-run by flames.

Even as I watched the events unfold on the news, the cameraman caught sight of a small fire tornado. Witnesses speak of forty metre tall walls of fire, of homes destroyed in minutes and fire fighters saying that no matter how well prepared, the magnitude of the fire couldn't be prepared for.

One news story about the devastated town of Kingslake:

Kinglake, north of Melbourne, has been among the hardest hit in the Victorian bushfire emergency with six people in the township confirmed dead.

Resident Peter Mitchell told ABC Local Radio the town was at the mercy of fires which swept through it after a wind direction change.

Mr Mitchell said there was no-one to fight the fire because fire crews were already fighting other fires across the state.

He was forced to leave his home to shelter at the local fire station.

"The whole of Kinglake is ablaze, I live a couple of [kilometres] out of town, I heard explosions, by the time I got to the road there were fires everywhere," he said.

"[There is] flame everywhere, trees exploding, gas tanks exploding, buildings on fire, it's very, very, very serious.

"I can't quite see down into the main stretch of town, but there's a lot of flame coming up from there, so I presume most of the town is going up.

"It's worst-case, it's like Cockatoo back at Ash Wednesday."

Mr Mitchell said he feared for the safety of other Kinglake residents.

"We'll be fine, there'll be others trapped, poor souls I don't know."

Denise was heading home from her mother-in-law's house just outside Kinglake when she was forced to turn back as fires bore down on the town.

She was spared, but others were not so lucky. "The whole town is gone," she said.

She said her mother-in-law's house was surrounded by flames. "Everything around us is burning.

"Trees are burning, things are blowing up, there are a lot of houses burnt to the ground. A lot of houses ... It's pretty devastating actually." ABC News

And the headlines go on. I'd like to say I can't imagine what's it like for them in Victoria, but I can. I was in Canberra, 2005, the day a fire took 500 houses in the southern suburbs. My own village lost a dozen houses in 2003. I watched the trunk of a tree in front of our house smoulder with a spot fire before a sibling doused it...

Bushfires are a part of this land, even devastating fires. But the tragedy in Victoria is appalling.

Today, the heat continues in my State of New South Wales and living on the coast is no guarantee of safety. We're as prepared as we can be, though no fires threaten our area - it doesn't stop some asshole from thinking how nice the flames look...

Phew... done.

I shall not speak of the weather; I shall not speak of the heat... except to say tomorrow will be hotter.

I've finally finished the 0th draft of the Nano books - nope, the titles still remain a mystery to me.

So, the 0th draft. The draft read through before you get tough with it and man-up to do the second draft (first draft is writing the thing).

These three books have been marinating for two months and while it's true I still suck at first pages, the more I read the fewer the problems - fountain pens notwithstanding. I've got to find a solution for that, because it's an important part of the story.

The work is still in one piece, 476 single spaced pages of one piece. I now have to separate them and finish writing the third book. I left it at a cliff-hanger, damn it, and I want to know how it ends!

I'm guess that's a good thing. The 0th draft is the draft you read through making minor corrections and notes of where to change what; just like you picked the book up in a book store.

Tomorrow, I'll start finishing the piece and next week, separate and bring in the internal editor. The internal critic? Why, she's still in a box where Sven and Oleg put her and I can't hear her any more.

It's the little things...

As you know, I'm editing my Nano books - all of which are still without titles (what's up with that? I'm usually pretty good with titles).

Yeah, it's taking time but 200+k can't be done overnight.

Anyway... fountain pens. Yes, indeedy-do, fountain pens, the current bane of my existence. Why? Well, I've got a character writing with one. I have him in my mind, in a lantern-lit library (hey! Alliteration!) surrounded by tall bookcases, sitting at a slightly tilted desk, busily making notes on medieval feasts. The scent of old books permeates the room, the creak of the chair as he shifts position. This is early Victorian England.

I even highlighted the year, 1845, as a marker for research. In this year, Congress approved the annexation of Texas, Florida became a State, the Flagstaff Wars in New Zealand were on, Annapolis opens, the British defeat the Sikhs in Punjab. Rubber bands were invented in England, the Great Irish Potato Famine, Scientific American begins publications. All sorts of neat stuff happened, and I had to resist the temptation to find out more. History, thy name is distraction!

But fountain pens? Nope, they don't come into popular use until the 1850s. Oh, they were around, and have been for centuries, but they weren't so... useful. The modernising of ink flow, the application of air pressure, the development of a more appropriate nib, these didn't happen until later.

Now I know - do not use fountain pens; quills, that's the thing. All is not lost though, it's certainly interesting to find these problems and discover the history behind the invention. Such a small thing to have greater consequences.

And one last small question: Why do mosquitoes wait until you are just about to slip over the edge into sleep to dive bomb, whine and generally piss you off?

No... debate?

I am feeling much better today, except for a simmering outrage. There's a bit of a rant coming up, so be warned.

Last night, our Prime Minister, the esteemed Kevin Rudd, announced a further stimulus package to stave off the impending affects of the so-called 'Global Financial Crisis'.

This is the second of such packages - the first, 10 billion dollars, was handed out just before Christmas. Of this package, one result is in on its effectiveness: a forty percent rise in... gambling. Yep, gambling. Still, the money goes into the economy.

Now, forty-two billion is up for grabs. It's for upgrading schools, roads, trains and infrastructure with cash payments to Joe-public to boost spending. None for hospitals, even though they have been in crisis for years.

My current outrage is sparked by the demand by the Prime Minister that the Bill be passed in two days. No debate, no study of the documents and no inquiry into it's long term consequences.

Eighteen months ago, the economy was in surplus. Billions of dollars in surplus. Now, we'll be in deficit, billions of dollars in deficit.

It took the previous Liberal government eight years to pay off the $AUS96 billion dollar debt the Labour government racked up and another two to create the 'Future Fund' that would ensure spending for superannuation and education. Fifty billion dollars set aside for the future. That's all gone now. Gone because this government has the idea of spending its way out of perceived trouble without studying any data or projections. It's mass hysteria on a global scale.

Has anyone, in any particular country done a study on the effects? Or is it just because the U.S., Britain, Germany and Japan have announced they're in recession that everyone else has to be too?

The GFC makes an excellent excuse for fiscal irresponsibility.

Without expecting debate on this second stimulus package, the Labor Government is making another poor decision. It's hoping that with the flood of money, the people won't look too closely at its lack of transparency. Who doesn't like money thrown at them? All the interviews I've seen say it's a great thing, but what of the future? This deficit will be with us for years and the government has decided it's okay and will deal with it later - kind of like a patronising pat on the head, really.

It's said in this country that when people are tired of 'tightening the belt', they elect a Labor government. But I can think of no Labor government that has spent so much, so fast, so soon after taking power.

It does not bode well for the rest of their term, nor for the people of Australia.

Not so good

Yes, it's been a few days - sorry about that - but I'm still hacking up some gruesome stuff (I don't think I'll go there, it makes me slightly nauseous thinking about it).

The good news is the joint aches have gone, I don't have a sniffle (didn't get one, in fact), but there's still the wicked cough. From my research (the internet can be a dangerous thing), I have a lower respiratory tract infection - in the bronchials.

With lots of fluids and rest, I should be fine in a couple of days. This heat and humidity doesn't help - who wants to dress warmly to keep away the draft at night when all you wanna do is run around nekkid to keep cool? And there's an image I'm sure you didn't need!

Oh, and antibiotics won't help because it ain't that bad. Death's door I tell you... Death's. Door! Yeah, you guessed it: I don't do 'sick' very well. But, jeez, I want to hunt down that mongrel who coughed on me!

More fluids, more paracetamol, and suckin' on lozenges. Should be as right as rain in a coupla days.

The rule of three

As we all know, disasters come in threes. You have doubts? I present to you the evidence:

Yesterday, I broke the garden trimmers - it's now in two pieces; maybe it's fixable and maybe it ain't. Blew up the lawn mower, too. I understand that the belch of blue smoke does not bode well for repairing. The fates are obviously in a winter of discontent. I switched on the teev to watch the news with my morning coffee today and lo, the Red Screen of Death!

Yep. No picture and only the voice of a newsreader reading the Russian news... in Russian. Killed the television somehow. It's deader than the road kill up the street that's been lying squished under the summer sun for two days. (It remains unidentified - maybe Cletis knows.) Mmmm... fragrant...

But, with all things bad, sad or disappointing, there's a positive side. Er... I can't quite think of one for the trimmers; it means the lawn will go without a hair cut for a few more days (with the weather peeps predicting the heatwave to continue for another ten days I figure long grass will protect the roots - that's my story and I'm sticking to it!) and the television? Why, I guess a new one is in order. High Definition, digital, large. Definitely large.

As for the road kill... nope, can't think of anything good, especially for the beastie now pancaked on the road and cooking fast.

I'll think positive about tomorrow; maybe three interesting things will happen. Fingers crossed!

Well this sucks!

I've got a touch of 'flu. I know this because I have the achin' bones, the stab of pain every time I cough and I generally feel like a bucket 'o shit without the bucket.

I also figured I'd sweat the bug out - we are at the beginning of a four day heatwave - and decided to work in the garden before the temperature rose too high. First up, a bit of trimming off some... plant or other. (I'm botanically challenged so I've no idea what it was.) Somehow, I managed to break the long bladed snipper things. It wasn't as if the dead sticky-things were that thick! Right. Okay. I'll mow instead.

I worked up a nice sweat as I did row after row until... zzzt, pop, flash and a gout of blue smoke rose from the mower. Of course, it wouldn't start again and the lawn now looks like a failed attempt at writing something rude for the satellites.

Obviously, I wasn't meant to work in the garden today, but there's no way I'm taking to my bed and mope; I just can't do it. I do feel better for the effort in the garden though, not so... achy. Maybe there's something to this sweat cure.

So I sat in front of the computer and edited the Nano book - for which I still don't have a title! I discovered it's not a good idea when you're feeling under the weather. I suck at first pages.

I thought it was a good idea at the time, but nope. Sucks. Alot. Even the new pages I wrote aren't going to reach the luminary heights of literature - or pass my own strict protocols. sigh.

I think I'll just take some more medication and mooch in front of the telly before I have to go to work. Someone there gave me this heinous bug, but I'll be careful not to pass it on.

Australia Day!

Australians all let us rejoice
For we are young and free
We've golden soil and wealth for toil,
Our home is girt by sea:
Our land abounds in nature's gifts
Of beauty rich and rare,
In history's page let every stage
Advance Australia fair,
In joyful strains then let us sing
Advance Australia fair.

When I was a kid, we sang this before starting our school day. For special assemblies, we sang the 'second' verse too. (The original version has five verses; the official version only two.) I'm guessing not many of our newest citizens know it because it's rarely belted out any more. But here it is:

Beneath our radiant Southern Cross,
We'll toil with hearts and hands,
To make this Commonwealth of ours
Renowned of all the lands,
For those who've come across the seas
We've boundless plains to share,
With courage let us all combine
To advance Australia fair.
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia fair.

Sigh... makes an Aussie go all warm and fuzzy. By the end of the day, 13,000 people will be raising their glasses and celebrating their new citizenship.

It's all about celebrating who we are - whether indigenous or migrant - getting down to the white sandy beaches, throwing prawns, lamb or beef on the barbie or watching the cricket or tennis holding a cold one. It's the ferry races on Sydney Harbour, the Tall ships under full sails and sparkly fireworks. It's buying a beer for the bloke next to you, saying 'G'day' to a stranger and just being thankful you live here.

Whatever you're up to today, have a good one!

What do I like?

I love memes. You have to think carefully on your answers and thinking is an excellent way to start the day's writing or editing.

So. Jason, over at Scribblings of a Madman sent me this one:

The Rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Write down six things that make you happy
3. Post these rules
4. Tag six others (I'm tagging whomever wishes to play)
5. Notify me that you've tagged others - or that you're having a brain freeze...

Six things that make me happy:

1. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee on a cold morning;
2. The taste of Parmesan chicken;
3. Discovering something new while researching;
4. The smell of the rain after a hot day;
5. Watching the dolphins frolic in the Bay;
6. Writing 'The End' on a manuscript.

Now that I'm thinking on this, there are other things that make me happy, but we'll leave it at six.

What makes you happy?

Wildlife

Gah...!!! I'm am so not a fan of hot weather!

I know some people are, those who revel in the prickling heat, the slickness of sweat, the burn of the sun... me, I'm all for air conditioning. But me 'ouse ain't got none.

The local wildlife, though, are emboldened by it. This afternoon, I sat watching Band of Brothers and out from behind the book case comes a mouse, small and brown with twitching ears. It wandered around for a while and ducked back. Next thing, it was atop the wing-back chair across from me give me a right looking over. No point in trying to catch it and it zipped off with a sniff.

Downstairs, I continued editing the Nano novel - for which I still don't have a title - and I see movement out of the corner of my eye: a blue tongue lizard. The beggar wanted in, where it is marginally cooler.

I picked his warm body up and settled him behind some pot plants - then realised lizards are cold-blooded. Give you an idea of the heat here. Five-thirty in the p.m. and it's still 35 degrees celsius and no hint of the promised storms or cool breeze.

The dog, I should say, just lies there; I don't think she's interested in moving at all. I think I'll join her...

It's all new

There's a lot of 'rah-rah' today, what with the new President an' all, so I thought I'd post some new words to go along with the new guy in the Big House, renewed hope and all the other new stuff:

New Words for 2009

* SALAD DODGER.
An excellent phrase for an overweight person.

* SWAMP-DONKEY
A deeply unattractive person.

* TESTICULATING.
Waving your arms around and talking bollocks.

* BLAMESTORMING.
Sitting round in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed, and who was responsible.

* SEAGULL MANAGER.
A manager who flies in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything, and then leaves.

* SALMON DAY...
The experience of spending an entire day swimming upstream only to get screwed and die.

* CUBE FARM.
An office filled with cubicles.

* PRAIRIE DOGGING.
When someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm, and people's heads pop up over the walls to see what's going on. (This also applies to applause for a promotion because there may be cake.)

* SINBAD.
Single working girls. Single income, no boyfriend and desperate.

* AEROPLANE BLONDE.
One who has bleached/dyed her hair but still has a 'black box'.

* PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE.
The fine art of whacking the crap out of an electronic device to get it
to work again.

* OH - NO SECOND.
That minuscule fraction of time in which you realize that you've just made a BIG mistake (e.g. you've hit 'reply all').

* GREYHOUND.
A very short skirt, only an inch from the hare.

* JOHNNY-NO-STARS.
A young man of substandard intelligence, the typical adolescent who works in a burger restaurant. The 'no-stars' comes from the badges displaying stars that staff at fast-food restaurants often wear to show their level of training.

* MILLENNIUM DOMES.
The contents of a Wonderbra, i.e. extremely impressive when viewed from the outside, but there's actually naught in there worth seeing.

* MONKEY BATH .
A bath so hot, that when lowering yourself in, you go: 'Oo! Oo! Oo! Aa! Aa! Aa!'.

* MYSTERY BUS.
The bus that arrives at the pub on Friday night while you're in the toilet after your 10th pint, and whisks away all the unattractive people so the pub is suddenly packed with stunners when you come back in.

* TART FUEL.
Bottled premixed spirits, regularly consumed by young women.

* TRAMP STAMP
Tattoo on a female

* PICASSO BUM.
A woman whose knickers are too small for her, so she looks like she's got 4 buttocks.

Thanks to my sister, C., for sending this.

Choices, choices

Last week, Trooper Mark Donaldson was award the highest honour for courage under fire: the Victoria Cross.

Trooper Donaldson of the SAS was awarded the medal (you don't 'win' combat medals because the action ain't no game to 'win', there is no competition other than to stay alive) after drawing enemy fire away from wounded soldiers and the rescue of a wounded Afghan interpreter left behind. The story is here.

He did Australia proud - as do all our serving troops; he had a choice of continuing to fight, or to expose himself to machine gun fire and rescue a wounded colleague, to be more than another soldier following orders.

Well done, Trooper Mark Donaldson, you are an inspiration to us all.

* * *

Ahem... yes, well, I did pick the Eagles and they should have rolled the Cardinals. Obviously, no-one told Arizona they were supposed to lose. But I also picked the Steelers! (Although I didn't tell anybody - maybe that's the secret of my succ...er, failures.)

It presents a problem. Former Aussie Rules star Ben Graham punts for the Cardinals and he becomes the first Aussie to play in a Superbowl. I should support them - I know the rest of Australia will be - but the way the Steelers played today... I'm keeping my mouth shut on who I'm supporting; it's better that way.

And now, onto the big one: the Superbowl. I shall make ready with popcorn, hotdogs and a caffeinated beverage. Sure, it will be about 10.00 in the morning, but who cares?

Lists

Well, wow! There's hope for us wanna be writers yet!

I read in the weekend paper of an online Canadian bookstore, AbeBooks, who posted an interesting list: The most expensive books they sold in 2008.

Of interest is that all but two are 19th century works - as you'd expect. Number three on the list is: "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by JK Rowling - $12,874
Rare first edition signed by JK with the dust wrapper panels signed by the cover artist Cliff Wright. The first issue has a misaligned block of text which was corrected in the subsequent issues."

Might be an idea to check your own copy.

$12,000. I'm shaking my head because it outsold a 1949 first edition, first printing copy of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four which went for $6,780.

All manner of comparisons just pop up, don't they. Which is has more literary value? Will HP still be read sixty years from now? Will it be considered a classic like George Orwell's masterpiece? How much will a signed, first edition of HP be then? And so on. I consider George Orwell a more insightful social commentator, but JK a more readable one.

If you look further down the page, there's a list of three HP books that were signed and sold for between five and twelve thousand dollars.

I guess the good news is, if you're fortunate enough to write something that has universal appeal and hits the market at just the right time, you don't have to be dead for your signature to be worth a lot of money - even if you don't see one red cent of it. And a signed book - a signed anything, really - is only worth as much as what another is willing to pay for it.

How much will you be worth once you're in print?

What's my custom worth?

You know, I'm all for supporting local businesses, but not when they try to hose me. In evidence:

I went to the local bookstore (who shall remain nameless) to order Lynn Viehl's Stay the Night. I knew I could order it from a Sydney bookstore and it would arrive on Monday, but I figure, support local businesses. Not on your Nellie!

"Yes, we can order that in for you, madam." Madam? Who's he calling 'madam'? "It will cost between 15 and 20 dollars..." He continued. "And we charge an eight dollar postage fee."

"Excuse me?"

"Fifteen to twenty dollars and an eight dollar postage charge. It comes from America you know."

"Yes. But I'll get it from Sydney thanks."

To give you a comparison, the book from Sydney will cost $18.95; the cost from the local store: $28.00. For a paperback. In American dollars, that's $18.47 (I checked). I don't care who the author is, I'm not paying that much to support a local business.

So, by next week I'll have the book in my hot little hands. (Bit of a pun there, for two days the temps been over a hundred fahrenheit.)

Finally, my sister sent me this:

Dear Dogs and Cats: The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Racing me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort, however. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other, stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out on the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is no secret exit from the bathroom! If, by some miracle, I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge in an attempt to open the door. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years - canine/feline attendance is not required.

The proper order for kissing is: Kiss me first, then go smell the other dog or cat's butt. I cannot stress this enough.

Finally, in fairness, dear pets, I have posted the following message on the front door:

TO ALL NON-PET OWNERS WHO VISIT AND LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT OUR PETS:

(1) They live here. You don't...
(2) If you don't want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture. That's why they call it 'fur'-niture.
(3) I like my pets a lot better than I like most people.
(4) To you, they are animals. To me, they are adopted sons/daughters who are short, hairy, walk on all fours and don't speak clearly.

Remember, dogs and cats are better than kids because they
(1) eat less,
(2) don't ask for money all the time,
(3) are easier to train,
(4) normally come when called,
(5) never ask to drive the car,
(6) don't hang out with drug-using people,
(7) don't smoke or drink,
(8) don't want to wear your clothes,
(9) don't have to buy the latest fashions,
(10) don't need a gazillion dollars for college, and
(11) if they get pregnant, you can sell their children...

After reading this, I found my happy place again...

Unexpected consequences

Well, who knew being environmentally friendly could be so dangerous?

The waters off the east coast of Australia are much cleaner thanks to the efforts of the government and individuals. This has lead to an increase in fish! Yay! But... it's also given rise to an increase in bait fish close in shore. And what follows bait fish? Why dolphins... and sharks.

There have been three shark attacks in two days: one off Tasmania and two off New South Wales. Shark sightings have increased, too. Big sharks, giant sharks and today a hammerhead cruised off a popular Sydney beach, fat and happy.

Most swimmers and surfers aren't concerned, it is, after all, the sharks' natural habitat and if you go in... you take your chances.

Me, I don't go in at all. Yes, I'm a wuss, but for good reason. Some years ago I did dip a toe in, swam around and stood up to look around. There, swimming between me and the beach was a long, dark shadow, indolently gliding through the water.

Did I panic? Nah, I was too frozen with fear and I watched until I thought it was far enough away. Then I moved and moved fast since exploding into action turned the shark around.

I got to the beach before it got to me. I think the damn thing scared my suntan away I was so white - or so my sister said.

So no, I don't go into the water anymore. That's not to say this area is dangerous, it's not.

The problem I have is when news organisations (not pointing any fingers Channel Ten) call it a 'shark plague'. Sharks are an endangered species; there aren't enough to make a 'plague'. With more people in the water, a cleaner environment and shark breeding season, of course there'll be more sharks sited!

I'd like to say 'if you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone', but all three attacks were sudden and unexpected with the sharks disappearing soon after. And a shark isn't going to leave you alone if it thinks you're food.

So, I'll say that, statistically speaking, you're more likely to have an accident on the way to the beach than get bit by a beastie.

Me, I'd rather not tempt fate and to hell with statistics. I'm staying on terra firma.

Modern vamps

So there I sat, depressed at the football results; ye-es, I picked the Giants and Chargers... sigh... and at the end of the latter game, channel surfed.

I came across the History Channel and the program, Vampire Secrets. It deals with the history of vampires, from the 12th century and earlier, right up to the romanticising of the vamp as an object of irresistible lust. It covered myths, forensic science and fact: Vlad Dracule of Romanian (a local hero there) and Hungarian Baroness, Elizabeth Barthory, who bathed in the blood of virgins (ick!). The last hour of the program was of interest to me because it mentioned 'psychic vampires'.

Most people know someone who is 'toxic' or an 'emotional vampire', ie, those who seem to suck us dry of energy with passive-aggressive tendencies or sensitivities too easily offended.

But the psychic vampire... the more I watched, the more I felt my interest peak, and I grabbed for a notebook. Why? Because the parallel with my Nano novels was too close to miss.

Yeah, I had an idea and ran with it, never knowing something similar was a current description of a vampire. During further research, I came across Sanguinarius, a web site for modern day vampires.

The information is fascinating. Within the archives are articles like, Donor Courtesy, Aftercare for Donors and The Ethics of Psi-Vampirism. All genuine articles for the modern day vampire. Some of the information, I suspect, has been taken from Wicca and blended into the Vampire mythos to make it more acceptable.

So now, I've got articles to read and information to absorb. I'm thinking it's going to lend an air of authenticity to my work with the books. Yay!

It's been a big weekend for family - that is, they're here.

I don't care what anyone says, I cannot write/edit with children looking over my shoulder, demanding "what'cha ya doin'?" I get resentful if I'm only checking my e-mail. I think it's to do with the uninvited invasion of my space. I love them all dearly, but sometimes....

Anyway, I did nufink. Tomorrow, I may be more fortunate given most have now gone home.

In more... odd... news, this week the Elvi descended. The what? I believe 'elvi' is the collective noun for a group of Elvis impersonators. Four hundred are currently whooping it up in Parkes, in central New South Wales. I can only imagine what the locals think!

Sadly, my record with the American Football continues with the defeat of Okalahoma, Tennessee and Carolina. What's up with that? How can I be wrong on so many occasions? With the next two games, I'm not going for any team, that way, I shan't be disappointed!

Here I am!

Yes, it's been a week since I posted. Between various family members and a trip to Canberra, little of my time has been my own. But I'm back now.

My rellos got a Wii and I couldn't resist playing it, although saying I won the boxing by knock out over a seven year old kind of weirds me out a little. But the little tyke beat me at tennis. Almost every game. What's up with that??? But I worked up a sweat. I have got to get me one!

It's also been stinkin' hot; the kind of heat where you just don't want to move or you'll be swimming in your own sweat. Yes, I live near the beach, but no, I don't go near it or the sun - not since I had a skin cancer removed and not since the water off the coast is cleaner than it has been in years that the sharks are moving closer to shore. Nup. No. Way. I'm happy not to move thanks ever so much. Where's that chocolate?

Next week, I genuinely hope to be back at the keyboard editing a book or two or three. It's got to be done and I've spent enough time wallowing in holiday cheer and family. Time to move on with the yearly plan.

Football!

For the past week, I've been enjoying the College football Bowls. I've no idea why they are called 'bowls', I just like watching them (and let's not mention the Dallas Cowboys ever again!)

It's a good thing I don't bet on the games, every single team I've been going for has lost. Every. Damn. One. Even when I changed allegiance. So I'm not going to mention who I'll be cheering in tomorrow's Rose Bowl. I have no wish to be responsible for the weepin' an' awailing of millions.

The whole situation reminds me of when I was first visiting the U.S. with my sister. The team of every city we went to, lost. Including the Washington Redskins who were 10-0 before we turned up! Man... we kept that record to ourselves! And said nothing when we arrived in Atlanta during the last game of the baseball world series...

I don't know what the fascination is with the game, I truly don't. Every year, I take a day off to watch the Super Bowl. I have my popcorn and soft drink and hot dogs, and the game is on mid-morning here. Most people I know are bored with it, especially the constant breaks. Two hours or more to play a game that's really only an hour long? What's up with that?

Anyway, tomorrow the Rose Bowl and the Orange Bowl are being televised, so good luck to... all teams! There, now the weeping won't be my fault.

Bon Voy-a-gee 2008

This has been an up and down kind of a year... and, gee, isn't that always the way?

On this day, people reflect on the year almost done. Some will sigh over it. Actually, most will sigh over it - the good, the bad and the downright appalling. But I'm not going to do that. Tomorrow, we start afresh and look to the future. Not necessarily have a strategic plan because something will come along to stuff it up, but goals to achieve.

The most important goal, for me, is failure. Yeah, you heard me right failure, or more precisely, the lessons learned from failing. Once upon a time, it was a crushing blow, a rejection of time and effort and of me, personally. After my first rejection slip, I didn't write for more than a year. I only returned to writing when I couldn't not write.

I don't think failing is something that needs a lot of hand wringing and regret any more, but it does require thought on what can be learned.

Rejection for publication can be a good thing if you look carefully at why the piece was rejected and improve it, or seek an alternative outlet.

So, for the year coming up, I'm spending more time editing and more time sending stuff out. As for the rest, well, whatever comes my way, comes my way and I'll deal with it then. No more worrying about the might-have-beens and the things I cannot change.

It's not a so-called resolution, merely an attitude adjustment.

What thoughts do you have on the coming year?

Loot

I hope everyone had a good Christmas; me, I'm dripping in smug.

I'm typing on my brand spankin' new curved keyboard. It's more ergonomically correct, the keys are smooth, it's spill-proofed and it's black. Oh, yeah. Got lots of added buttons - gotta love lotsa buttons.

In fact, I could sit here, typing away munching on chocolates (everyone deserves chocolate at Christmas) and sipping bourbon (my eldest sister is good to me). I could, but that would be ba-ad. Plus other loot... er, gifts.

Family have come and gone, are here, or will turn up in the next week so it's all good. Of course, that means mucho over indulgence for seven days more. Then I suppose I'll have to get some exercise to compensate.

Nah. I have a Tess Gerritsen to read first... and then January will be editing month. I plan to deal with the first book of the trilogy I wrote for Nano, and it's been an exercise in patience not to have at it early. It will be better for the wait.

I've also been working on a short story, but I'm having a spot of trouble with motivation. I have to have a reason for the alien intervention and I'm coming up blank. It will come to me - I hope - but I don't want it to be a metaphor, political or otherwise and that's what I've got so far. Nope, not going to do it.

Ah well, I'd best get back to the guests...

It's good for you

Why red wine is so important at Christmas:

Trial and error

So I'm still trying out desserts for Christmas Day.

Today, I tried a recipe that looked delish from the beginning of construction to the very end: chocolate mousse.

The plan is to keep it in lined ramekins overnight, then pop the mousse out when it's set and place it in pre-baked brandy baskets and top it all with berry fruits and a Cointreau sauce.

Heating the cream went well, as did the blending of dark chocolate, a coupla egg yolks and butter into the slightly cooled cream. Folding in egg whites just made the stuff look ready to eat right out of the bowl.

sigh. The recipe didn't call for sugar; I'm guessing it - usually - doesn't need it. The problem? It said "70% dark chocolate or better." I chose the better... as in 85%. Yes, I see that wince. And you'd be right. A little too bitter.

Ice cream eased it, as did cream mixed with icing sugar and a small splash of vanilla, but nothing would save it for Christmas. Back to the drawing board and this time, I'll be using 50% or even milk chocolate...

Good thing I trialled it now rather than Christmas Day.

Long ago...

Ah, yes. I remember it well; lying on the couch reading a book… when a knock on the door broke me out of Patrick Tilley’s world.

My sister came in, all bright eyed and eager. “You wanna puppy?”

I thought about it for a few minutes and her expression slowly dimmed.

“Yes.” Was barely out of my mouth when she grabbed my arm and off we went. “What’s the hurry?”

“I don’t want you to change your mind.”

I wasn’t going to; it seemed… right.

So she drove me to a friend of a friend’s house. And there, in the backyard, were half a dozen puppies gambolling around their mother. Some were white with red splotches and bits of black; some were more black with white patches. Two were black with tan highlights.

As I stood there, looking at the six-week-old cuties, one black and tan puppy came up and sat on my feet, stared up at me. Nothing for it, then. I crouched down and stroked the soft fur. The mother, mostly white, came over and gave the pup a damn good licking, as if to say, ‘now, you behave’. She then licked my t-shirt, gave me a look only a mother can give… and walked back to her brood.

Well, what could I do?

That was Australia Day, 1992.

I bedded my new companion down in a cardboard box in the laundry. To make her more comfortable, I wrapped the mum-licked t-shirt around a hot water bottle and tucked in a clock. She was fine, for a while, and then hours later set up to crying. Puppy. Crying. A heart-wrenching sound. I leapt out of bed at bugger o’clock in the morning. She was sitting on the cold tiles. I fixed her another hot water bottle and settled her again. Nope. Not fifteen minutes later, she was howling again.

At a loss, I opened the back door – in case she wanted to… go to the bathroom. Out she shot, into the darkness of the backyard. Remember, she’s a black puppy, so the night hid her. Once my heart settled back down I went out and called for her. Not a peep. Had she escaped? Decided she didn’t want me anymore? Wanted her mother who was miles away?

Nah. She came trotting back, a happy puppy from the side of the house. To this day, she’ll do her business out of sight of people, or turn her back – if she can’t see you, you can’t see her and she’s okay with that. It’s nice to get a house-trained puppy.

Right now, Saxon’s yet to arise for the day. As a grand dame, she takes her time; as a grand dame should. She still enjoys her walks up the street – albeit slowly – still bravely comes to me when I’m feeling pissed off and can still look at me as if to say ‘well?’ (…it’s my dinner time, it’s time for bed, for a walk, for you to scratch mah belly…)

She’s a little blind, has a bit of Arthur-itis, which I manage with medication, and follows me around the house. When guests come, she’s a little mournful at sharing, but bears up stoically. She also has the ‘hey, I’m sleeping here’ look if you wake her up before she’s done (so cat-like, but you didn’t hear it from me!)

And so, I wish Saxon a very happy birthday; she’s been with me a long time and I hope for time yet. She’s stays out of love for me and I try not to give her cause to reconsider. Saxon is the last of the litter. A gorgeous mixed breed pup with eerie intelligence, who can still makes me laugh at her antics.

I’m grateful my sister dragged me away from that book. My life would be very different if not for Saxon steadying my ship.

Coming around...

Some years ago, I studied history at University; it was, in fact a minor in my degree. For one semester, I did the Industrial Revolution and found it fascinating. There was plenty of information on how the Revolution changed the world - politically, socially, technologically... For my final essay though, I decided to write on how it affected the ordinary person and their way of life. It was a time, remember, when people walked off the land and into factories.

Unfortunately for me, my tutor downgraded the paper for 'being too specific' - he wanted something more general.

I've always thought myself as an 'old school' journalist; that is, I write just the facts without the colourful language of tabloid journalism Murdoch and owners of his ilk have introduced over the past few decades. To me, a journalist gives the facts, the reader makes their own conclusion and it is not the journalists responsibility to give them either a slanted story or an opinion.

I began writing press releases for a government department, and felt rather proud of myself for issuing information, not editorialising. Enter my boss who asked: "Do you have a personal objection to using adjectives?" So I had to add them in.

Cue today. I'm busily volunteering at the local maritime museum writing articles for the local paper. I did three today on well known ships of the area. And so I duly gave them to my boss. She had two things to say:

"Could you make them more specific?" and,

"I think you should put more colour into them, make them more story-like."

So it all collides, years later. I get to write specific stories about the local history of where I grew up. Can't ask for more than that.

12 hours

What a difference 12 hours make!

After bemoaning the rain and wind and cool conditions of yesterday, this morning dawned hot with gale-force winds from the Outback! But, the winds are late. Windy weather usually arrives in October, not December, and then calms down for hot days.

The birds aren't having much luck flying - unless it's sideways - and I think some of my laundry is now gracing the shores of New Zealand. Bark from the tree out the back is stripping away like a peeled banana.

Some years ago we had winds so strong it took down power lines... and we were barbecue-ing for about four days. It was a convenient time to defrost the fridge.

So far, no brown-outs; the local electricity company has kept trees away from the lines. Ah well, if it happens, it happens.

Time to wrap prezzos for the prezzie run tomorrow - if it can all fit into the boot! A scenic drive to the highlands, lunch with sisters and a car stuffed with love; what could be better?

Santas

Summer? What Summer?

It's raining here again, which isn't a bad thing really. Although I would like to get out and mow the lawn. Ah, well. I'll just get to some writing instead.

Yesterday, two hundred plus people donned their Santa suits for the Santa bicycle ride... to the local pub. The rain held off, though it was overcast. The ride raises money for the area's bushfire brigade and I think they did well this year. Maybe next year, there'll be even more riders.

At the sound of the siren, warning of their approach, I grabbed the camera only to discover the batteries had died and I couldn't find any fresh ones in time. Funny how rechargeable batteries aren't as good as fresh ones. sigh Anyway, here's one from last year:



The kids along the road love it, especially the sweets tossed to them. The local economy loves it too. Can you imagine it? Two hundred Santas. In the pub for the afternoon!

I'd like to join them but... I don't have a Santa suit, nor do I have a bike. Maybe next year.

Connected

I think it's time the Government announced that Christmas shopping two weeks from the day, be declared a contact sport.

Fortunately, I'm done. Now for the wrap and prezzo run to deliver.

* * *

I've been climbing the family tree again, and woe, discovered an alleged criminal. Why alleged? Because Abraham died in jail before fronting court of 'natural decay'. His son, Jesse, was acquitted of the crime of sheep stealing, of which they were both accused. However, Jesse got himself nicked by the plods the following year and transported to Australia for life. That was in 1832. He'd already spent six months in the pokey for stealing a shovel (six months - for a shovel).

By 1855, when Jesse died, he had land near the Lachlan River, cattle and horses. Back in England, Jesse's remaining sibling, Matthew was too old for a journey to the colony and sent his son instead to sort out the problem of Jesse dying without out a will.

Edwin arrived in 1860 with his wife and the few children who hadn't married - including my great grandmother. He decided to stay and so one connection to how we arrived is made. All because of a coupla dudes who couldn't keep their hands off a neighbour's sheep.

Now I'm going to hunt down the connections with the other side of the family. Will there be as much drama or simply a need for change?

Soul Keeper

Or...righty then.

To replace the short stories I didn't post during Nano, Soul Keeper is now up on Scribd.

Blurb:

Det. Kate Saxon is hunting her partner's killer. But in Kate's world, the line between life and death are about to be blurred.

It's longer than a short story and wa-ay shorter than a novel. Novelette, maybe? Novelling?

Defrag

After a month - and a bit - of writing, I figured it was time to do some computer maintenance. I usually do it every week or two, but for November I didn't.

And woe... defragmentation took hours, hours I tell you! Once upon a time, I had a computer that had a whopping 25 megabyte hard drive. I could not imagine needing more and the defrag zipped through like a rat on crack.

But with the advancement of technology, hard drives became larger. I now have a 40 gig hard drive and the defrag is more like a rat on Prozac.

Before, I had no excuse not to write; yesterday I did. And what did I do with my new found time? I watched Mamma Mia! Finally. It's a bit of a giggle - who knew Meryl Streep could sing and Pierce Brosnan... not?

The effect was that I felt a desire to put on one of my Abba CDs. Yes, I have a four CD set from years ago, when they were considered daggy.

Now the beast that is my computer should be back to it's natural zippy self.

The hordes

I braved the ravening hordes today to finish off my Christmas shopping... and failed.

Mothers with their small children were out in force, with hard edged strollers and kids whose screams rivalled any police, ambulance or fire siren.

I even started early, but to no avail. Normally polite people suddenly developed fangs and demonic expressions and children showed off their dark sides by yelling at the top of their lungs because they wanted something off the shelves. When denied, they dragged the aforementioned item down anyway.

Feral eyed staff darted for cover, lest they be hunted down and questioned at length. And don't think the men were anything other than determined hunter-gatherers, with their lowered brows, protruding jaws and eyes that dared you to get in the way of their objective.

Nope. I'm never going into a toy store again.

Not that the others stores I visited were any different: mothers ignoring the plaintive cries of their offspring, staff in hiding, children running amok between shoppers, fathers doing their best to escape the family unit...

But when I dragged myself home three hours later, I discovered now have three, maybe four gifts to get.

I realise now that today was punishment for starting early, for not joining the human wave of panic a week before Christmas. One more day. One more day and I'll be done.

The next time, though, I'm filling up on red meat; raw. Then we'll see who has the baddest at-it-toode.

Nano ends

So, Nano is done for another year.

I stayed up until midnight to watch the countdown and to keep my nose in front.

This morning, I woke up late and felt like I had a hangover - aching head, dry mouth, eyeballs feeling too large for the sockets... and not a drop of alcohol involved. Damn it!

Today, I'm relaxing. I've watched American football for most of day, and loved it.

Tomorrow I'll throw myself back into it and post the story I failed to post in November (ba-ad Jaye, very ba-ad!) and finish the last of the Nano books.

I got jammed up on how the French dispose of nuclear waste... In January, I'll go back and edit it all, that will be close to 250,000 words.

But for now, rest, relaxation and a good shot of Sean Bean in Sharpe.