Today billions of things will happen to billions of people, birth, life, death, which just about says it all. On this day, Tuesday 1st August 2017, I have officially launched my blog. For me, going from Private to Public is a momentous occasion but one which will hardly make a teeny tiny blip in the history of the universe. It is a pleasure to be part of the WordPress world, to write in such a creative environment. As my home page says, my thoughts and words can fly!
Fleur was sick and tired of the competition rules, regulations and conditions which surround the submission of a manuscript. She decided to cheat the system. But one of the worst things is to think you are going to get caught, that you are double-dealing the system, that you’ve done something you shouldn’t have done. Be self-assured?
“Sure, you justify it to yourself that you aren’t going to win a prize in that writers competition anyway so what the heck, give it your best shot, enter four competitions with the same short story under 3,000 words.” Fleur finds her handbag and house keys. “And who cares? First world problems, right? They can only disqualify me. They’ll get an entry fee without the hard slog. What hey, they will do the hard work first. Judges will find out later that I’ve cheated. Well, not exactly cheated, more bent the rules.”
Fleur submitted the exact same story to four different organisations in the hope that one would succeed. Of course, deep down she knows that the story will not succeed. But there’s that tiny little glimmering hope that one entry will win. “Ha,” snaps Fleur’s psyche, ‘you’ll win first, second or third place in each competition and cause a furore.” There will be a lot of huffing and puffing, but Fleur says “I don’t care! Keep the entry fees, frankly I don’t care!” There will be tedious emails pointing out her indiscretion and how naughty she’s been – she don’t care! They can sort it out by themselves. Go ahead, eliminate her, but questions sneak through before the front door closes.
Fleur’s shoes pound the pavement as her rant continues “At the time I think I said to myself that I had not submitted to another competition, however, by the last entry I had. And I didn’t change a word. But here’s two questions for you. How come books and authors can win the Pulitzer Prize, Nobel Prize, Ned Kelly Award, Prix Goncourt, Man Booker Prize, etc, even though they have already won another prize? Or magazine articles which have been reprinted elsewhere with author permission? Like I said, I don’t care!”
“Please, please,” Fleur takes a breath “don’t let me win a place in any more than one competition. I couldn’t stand the hassle. As a matter of fact I don’t quite understand why I did it. Well, in the case of the smaller organisation, I think I did it out of pity to bolster their entry numbers. And in the case of the larger organisation, I think I did it out of spite to prick their egotistical speech bubbles.”
Fleur is expounding this tirade now because three of the organisations have announced their cut-off date, entries have closed. The minor one is still struggling on. “Oh,” she says, her pace slowing “I forgot to mention that I have submitted another manuscript, quite a different story but the same copy to two interstate writing competitions. Their game plans are miles apart, one laidback and one stiff and starchy. The story is rather laidback itself so I will be interested to see if it gets anywhere, I do like it.”
On the subject of slightly ignoring their instructions on the grounds of “get over yourselves, bloody gatekeepers” Fleur couldn’t help adding “If they don’t like it then that’s tough. I don’t care!” She knows she will have second thoughts after formal announcements are made in a few months’ time, and she voices the unsettling assumption that she may be victimised. Fleur has heard tales of editors, indeed publishing houses, blacklisting people and the writing fraternity shunning one of their own for not following the guiding principle of “doing it the right way”.
Fleur stops walking. “Publishers want unusual, they want different, but mostly they are just as rigid as the public service, any spark of individuality snuffed before it ignites. Death to the formula!” She hears her bulky envelope fall into the metal post-box and slams the flap shut. The guidelines stated that all entries must be submitted by email attachment.
It’s 1987 and things are still nasty in riot-torn Northern Ireland. The Troubles in Ulster won’t go away. A dreaded mercury tilt bomb causes a fatality in the Royal Ulster Constabulary ranks when least expected. In fact, many things happen when least expected. The old ‘dead body in the locked room’ scenario rears its ugly head again. The unassailable Carrickfergus Castle location is picturesque but the freaky circumstances are not. Pretty reporter Lily Bigelow’s body is found sprawled in the snowy courtyard at the base of the castle keep. The castle is locked. Nobody went in and nobody came out, so what’s the deal? The facts don’t add up and it’s a case of did she fall or was she pushed?
Without much to go on, DI Sean Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC uses dogged police work, video tape footage, and many repeat suspect interviews, until small pieces slowly emerge. There is an outline to this puzzle but can it be filled in? Convincing evidence is hard to come by. Much in all as I love Sean, I do think he took two matters at face value even though I was shouting at him to double check. And he does appear to be maturing, perhaps a little bit more circumspect, managing to curb his anger when insulted by hostile Larne CID Chief Inspector Kennedy at a horrific crime scene.
We are left to wonder what part Sean’s old friend and ex-cop Tony McIlroy has to play in his role as protector of the visiting Finnish delegation Mr Laakso Mr Ek & Company. They are on a tight schedule, which involves finding a suitable factory location to manufacture Lennätin mobile phones, so these dignitaries are unhappy when Mr Laakso’s wallet is stolen. Sean is unhappy too. More so later when he has to interview them on the ice-road island of Hailuoto near Oulu in Finland.
The series regulars appear, solid unattractive Sergeant McCrabban and intelligent handsome DC Lawson who steals the limelight with a couple of excellent ideas. Some of my favourite cameos are from vague Chief Inspector McArthur and major irritant Sergeant Dalziel (gotta wonder about that name) and Sean’s lady love Beth plus the ever-delightful Mrs Campbell from nextdoor, married with kids but oh-so-smouldering. The only thing which grated on me was the dead giveaway of the chapter titles. I like them a bit more esoteric.
It seemed to be the year for paedophilia in crime fiction; the RUC Sex Crimes Unit at Newtownabbey gets involved and Jimmy Savile puts in an appearance. On a different note, Belfast has a visit from world heavyweight boxer The Champ, Muhammed Ali. I do enjoy Adrian McKinty’s diversions, these little re-writings of history. I wouldn’t class Rain Dogs as a scary thriller but in a gripping scene, Sean knew he ‘was afraid and fear releases power. Fear is the precursor of action’. McKinty also writes the dread and tedium of everyday life in succinct wording (without me needing grim online images) and Sean’s days are peppered with music and references. Which incidentally are where the titles of the books are derived.
Now living in Australia, Irish-born author Adrian McKinty has again worked his magic with Sean, maybe with a little help from St Michael (or St Francis de Sales) and no doubt book six in the Sean Duffy series Police At The Station And They Don’t Look Friendly is equally as good. At least I hope so because I don’t think readers are ready to kiss this Carrickfergus detective goodbye just yet. I can recommend Rain Dogs if you want to sink your canines into a distinctively styled crime novel.
Books in the Sean Duffy series:
The Cold, Cold Ground 2012
I Hear the Sirens in the Street 2013 – my first favourite
In the Morning I’ll be Gone 2014
Gun Street Girl 2015 – my second favourite
Rain Dogs 2016
Police at the Station and They Don’t Look Friendly 2017
Angus shuffled through a pile of bills and sent one fluttering to the floor. His son Steve stood beside the dining room table, arms folded, watching him. Every week Angus misplaced an important piece of paperwork.
“Told you it wasn’t far away.” Angus held up an electricity account.
“You should have a proper filing system, Dad,” Steve said. “One day the electricity will be cut off and you’ll wonder why you’re in the dark.”
“It’s you who’s in the dark, my lad.” Angus tapped his nose, an obscure family joke.
Steve gave a brief smile. “Let me buy you a three-drawer filing cabinet with suspension files and alphabetical tabs.”
“My manila folder is just fine,” said Angus, holding up a battered cream folder with various names crossed out and a succession of dates which finished at 1998.
“You’re damn lucky I haven’t forced you into owning a computer,” said Steve, stacking old invoices, “otherwise I’d make you pay bills online.”
“The only line I like is a fishing one,” said Angus, his mouth twitching at the corners. He couldn’t resist adding “Just ‘cos you program computers doesn’t mean I have to like ‘em.”
Steve gave a good-natured harrumph and went in search of his mobile phone. He gave a whistle and his dog Fancy raced in from the garden with her tongue lolling and eyes gleaming. “Come on, girl, it’s time to take the old bloke shopping.”
Angus knew that Fancy had been foraging in the garden by the dirt clinging to her paws. “Glad someone likes my little courtyard,” he said. She placed a paw on his bony knee and he ruffled her ears. “No treats yet.”
Before they left, Angus surreptitiously swallowed a blood pressure tablet.
They took Steve’s car and drove into town, parking on a broken two-hour meter. At the shopping centre, Angus went straight to the rawhide-smelling pet store and bought a packet of dog treats.
“One hundred percent pure beef,” he read.
“You spoil the dog,” said Steve.
Angus jutted his jaw but said nothing.
At the next stop, Angus purchased postage stamps and talked with the postmaster.
“Steve’s going to make me a grandfather in a couple of week’s time.” His thoughts strayed and he said quietly, “That will certainly change things.”
Steve tapped his watch and mouthed the word “Coffee”. Angus knew he had just two minutes to pay the electricity bill. He said to the postmaster, “Can’t miss out on my Café Bijou treat.”
Leaving the post office, they walked a short distance to the café, pausing once for Angus to catch his breath.
“When can we eat at a healthy place?” Steve sounded like a five year old child.
“When I’m gone,” said Angus, taking off his sweaty Akubra and fanning himself. The steps going into the café were uneven and he tripped.
“Steady.” Steve offered his arm but Angus shook his head.
Café Bijou served a wide range of high fat, carb-loaded meals and well sweetened desserts. Angus enjoyed the never-ending cups of coffee served by the eighty year old waitress Dita. Her hands had started to shake but she didn’t spill their coffees.
“Dita, you’re a living treasure,” said Angus. He took a swipe at her apron bow as she ambled away.
“Ah, ha,” Dita crowed, “you never could hit me backside.”
“Don’t know why––it’s broad enough,” said Angus in an aside to Steve, who hung his head and started tapping on his phone. Angus handed the menu to him. “I bet you’ll check which sandwiches have the least amount of red meat.”
“Do you have the slightest idea what cholesterol is?” asked Steve.
Angus ignored him and leaned over to take a newspaper off the top of a bundle. “Same stories, just a different way of writing ‘em. If sporting heroes stopped screwing up their lives, the media would be stumped for ideas. Look, one of them died from a health-nut overdose.” Steve rolled his eyes.
As they were leaving, the treasurer of the bowls club halted Angus in the doorway, asking for a donation for their sponsored charity. Angus obliged but the chitchat got to him. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he said “I’m going shopping with my boy Steve. He’s pretty busy these days. Every moment counts.” With apologies, he pursued Steve’s figure down the street, heading in the direction of the supermarket, his least favourite place.
Fancy had been asleep in the car but woke when she heard their voices returning. They loaded the grocery bags into the boot.
“We’ve got time to look at a new filing system,” said Steve.
“Let’s do it another time.”
“It would help keep your records more organised, Dad.”
“It’s just how I like it,” said Angus and slipped a dried treat to Fancy.
Once on the road, they travelled in silence until Angus saw Steve glance at him in a melancholy way.
“The doc said my new pills are working just fine,” said Angus, aware that his illness hung between them, an unseen yet active enemy. “I don’t have another appointment until next month.”
Steve nodded. “Good.”
Angus didn’t add that the surgeon had said he may not be allowed to drive again.
He watched Steve negotiate a corner. “You’re a good driver, Steve. Shame I never taught you how to drive a ute across a furrowed paddock.”
“I was too young. Then the farm was sold.” Steve toyed with the digital controls on the dashboard. “You did more for me in other ways.”
After awhile, Angus said, “Can we take a different route home?”
“That sounds ominous,” said Steve but obliged by turning off the main highway.
The rural landscape was sparsely treed with very few farm buildings.
Without warning, Angus said “Stop!” He asked Steve to pull over outside an old barn-like warehouse with an adjoining timber yard.
“I reckon we could make our own filing cabinet, don’t you?” said Angus.
It is going to be an uncomfortable meeting. The aluminum-lined tin roof of the old scout hut has Christmas lights still hanging from the beams but no ceiling fans. In the slowly increasing heat, city council employees stand around fanning themselves with official paperwork, sweat running into the collars of their creased jackets.
A gathering of various ages and nationalities, husbands, wives, old friends milling about, young children already fidgeting, and teenagers comparing notes about being awake so early on a Saturday. And me, taking notes for a writing class.
My brief: Go to an unusual place and observe people and surroundings then write about it.
I tread the worn linoleum flooring, past bare walls, seeking a vacant chair. Instead being lured by chilled water jugs, beaded with droplets. The moisture runs onto trestle tables covered with plastic cloths and neatly stacked glassware. On a corner table, ignored, a tea urn, china cups and sugar. “Too hot for a cuppa,” hisses a woman “but a biscuit would be nice.” No such luck, it looks like it will be all business.
I chose this council meeting, billed as a Community Centre Public Consultation, hoping for a good cross-section of individuals. The focus is an old disused council depot just up the street from the scout hall which is ripe for redevelopment. Possibly a venue for arts and crafts, retired folk or out-of-work men with carpentry skills. Doesn’t sound too threatening but you never know with hot tempers and hotter weather.
There are not enough white plastic chairs so a frantic search gets underway to find more seats for late arrivals. By now, attendance hovers around 45 humidity-affected people. Craggy old veterans, highly-perfumed women, groups in casual shirts and shorts, retired types perhaps looking forward to the proposed construction. One woman commands attention with a loud voice, passionate about protecting her home from noise and extra traffic. A male voice tells her “It hasn’t started yet so shut up.”
Registration sheets are handed around and duly completed, information leaflets handed out, a welcome speech, introductions all round and the meeting starts. The Councillor and various council departments take turns talking about the proposed community centre site and how it will benefit the general public. A white board and black pens are used to draw proposed plans, stressing that existing trees will remain and more planted.
I put my reading glasses on as a slide presentation illuminates but some gruff local residents butt in with irrelevant queries. A young, flushed council assistant is hassled by senior homeowners out to protect their land values, citing added burdens on the already strained infrastructure. “Traffic is bad enough now, this street can’t cope with extra cars.” And “If an event was on, numbers would treble and we couldn’t get out of our driveways!” There is a smattering of applause and a red-faced toddler starts to cry.
The Councillor is getting agitated, stern faced and unhappy about these interruptions to her pet project. She rises, retorts in a firm, concise manner “Questions and answers will be held at the end of this session. Please refrain from interrupting” then she sits down and furiously scribbles a note.
Feeling overheated and drowsy as the meeting drags on, I’m shaken from my lethargy by an unusual break in the proceedings. Oh dear. A plus-size young lady on a wobbly plastic chair is starting to slip. Slowly, her chair sinks as the legs buckle and she gracefully slides to the floor. Plop! The Council officials gasp as one. Embarrassed, she rolls over and stands up. Everyone is fussing, offering her sympathy and cold water. The weakened chair is quickly replaced and a sturdier one supplied.
More words, blurring in, old ground is covered then comes audience input time. An outpouring of emotion from local residents, more fervent than factual, practical comments are overruled by zealous objections. Limp council staff organise the tables and chairs into groups and hand out sheets of butcher’s paper and pens for the audience to scrawl down comments about traffic, parking issues and the type of structure they would like to see near their homes. I don’t attempt a drawing, unlike the person next to me who is lavishly embellishing a castle-like structure. Hardly acceptable but she is about six years old. My hand melts the thin paper and the felt-tip pen smudges as I write a couple of comments.
The Councillor stands, looking strained, and addresses the gathering with a formal thank-you. Her politeness is wasted. It’s time to go and already people are moving towards the rear doors. Outside the air is heavy with the smell of eucalyptus. I fold my notes, not looking forward to my hot car and a long drive home.
AFTERWORD: Jump ahead in time, eight years to be precise, and the derelict sheds are revitalised and re-purposed into a community centre, a thriving hub for group activities. Men’s Shed displays are held yearly, artisans can be commissioned for special projects. The perceived threat to peace and tranquility did not materialise due to sensible planning and a carpark. Feathers were hardly ruffled … unlike the storm brewing over old homes being demolished and their sites redeveloped for high density box-like dwellings. Now that really will affect their suburban infrastructure …
Correct thinking and clear vision are applied to wunderkind Ariel Panek, a computer scientist and associate professor but he is powerless when heavy fog sees him stranded overnight in the rambling, dilapidated Cliffs Hotel on the Suffolk coast. Without connectivity, Ariel is tormented by the “no network” signal because he is overdue to talk at a conference in Geneva where he will meet his undergraduate girlfriend Zeva Neely.
Meanwhile the odd hotel staff and weird guests are making Ariel feel uncomfortable. A bizarre set of circumstances conspire to prevent him leaving the hotel. He must fend off unwanted attention, cut through the Borgia family secrets and subterfuge, and try to battle his way back to normality.
Reclusive, modernist Booker prize-winning author DBC Pierre has loaded this eerie Hammer Films-inspired novella with his trademark blend of social, scientific and spiritual matters. Gradually the layers are peeled back to reveal the chilling truth behind this unsettling tale.
♥Gretchen Bernet-Ward
Reviewer Notes:
1. The woman in the story who shares my first name is definitely not me!
2. If you are reading this, Peter, I’d love you to autograph my copy of the above.
3. My review of “Release the Bats: Writing Your Way Out Of It” by DBC Pierre.
4. Synopsis quotation: “You can be insecure and be a writer. You can be unsuccessful and be a writer. You can be a bad person and be a writer … You just have to write. That’s where it gets tricky”.
Historical romance author Jessica Blair was unmasked as 93 year-old British grandfather Bill Spence. In the past, female writers like Charlotte Brontë had to adopt male pen names in order to get their books published. But the tables were turned for former war hero Bill Spence after he wrote a series of romance sagas.
The grandfather from Ampleforth, North Yorkshire, was told his books would need to be printed under a feminine moniker if he wanted them to sell – and so his pseudonym Jessica Blair was born.
Bill has various genres published under another name but has written 26 novels under the female pen name. In 1993, his first book was “The Red Shawl”. In 2017 his current title is “The Life She Left Behind” about a young widow, with futures to secure for her two daughters, who is torn between remaining at her beloved estate Pinmuir in the Scottish Highlands or following the plans her deceased husband made to join his brother in America. Hmm, that outcome could go either way.
My congratulations, Bill, on longevity in both writing and living!
Millie knows that everything must die and keeps a record of assorted creatures in her Book Of Dead Things. Sadly someone close to her becomes a dead thing too, which causes her mother to do something wrong.
Since Agatha’s husband died, she never leaves the house and shouts at people in the street as they walk by her window. Until she sees Millie across the street.
Karl has lost his beloved wife and just moved into an aged care home. He feels bereft as he watches his son leave. Then he has a light-bulb moment and walks out in search of something.
All three are lost until they find each other and embark on a very unusual journey of discovery, reconciliation and acceptance. A book with sadness, humour and eye-opening revelations as seven year old Millie Bird, eighty-two year old Agatha and eighty-seven year old Karl slowly but surely reveal what lies deep within their hearts.
Lost And Found is the debut novel of Australian author Brooke Davis which caused a literary sensation at the London Book Fair and sparked a bidding war overseas. Davis, who suffered a deeply personal loss, said her ideas coalesced during a long train trip to Perth “A lot of the plot in my novel is based around that trip across the Nullarbor,” Davis said. “The whole novel I think became a process of me trying to work through that loss.”
It is not written in the conventional manner, it does take a couple of pages to assimilate, but then this is half the book’s charm. The funny bits are outrageous, the sorrowful times brought tears to my eyes especially reading about the older characters, and the outback backdrop is superb. Millie is a delight throughout the road trip, a trip which is illogically undertaken yet surprisingly exciting.
The trio endure a bumpy ride but it comes out loud and clear that You Are Never Too Late and You Are Never Too Old. I give it 5-star rating and hope you agree.
I was a huge fan of the Brontë sisters, Emily, Anne and Charlotte. Now I’m older, wiser and had a couple of love affairs, I see that their work, in particular Emily Brontë’s novel “Wuthering Heights”, reflects their own thwarted love lives.
Due to society, etiquette, the parsonage, limited opportunities for women in 1847, and through no fault of her own, Emily Brontë was greatly restricted when it came to writing about doomed male/female relationships. To me, “Wuthering Heights” mirrors a lack of follow through, this inability to write a believable mental and physical connection between two people doesn’t come about because there’s no inherent knowledge behind it. Although it could be argued that it’s a fictitious story, even in her sheltered life as a clergyman’s daughter, I think the themes of domestic upheaval, male aggression and marrying for prestige was something she may have encountered. One man I almost felt sorry for in the novel is Edgar Linton, the second-best husband with good prospects. To quote from Catherine “Whatever our souls are made of, his (Heathcliff) and mine are the same, and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning or frost from fire.”
Nevertheless, I have re-read this novel and could just about smack the protagonists heads together and say “get real, guys!” If I were Catherine I would have stayed well away from Heathcliff, walked off without a backward glance. Either that or suggest he has counselling; obsessive and vengeful man that he is. No, wait, they both needed counselling! Catherine certainly had issues. She says of Heathcliff “I’d as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter’s day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him!…He’s not a rough diamond, nor a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic; he’s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man” but she doesn’t heed her own warning. To add to the angst, her brother Hindley is a nasty fly-in-the-ointment with his uppity treatment of adopted Heathcliff. Gotta have someone to abuse, hey Hindley, especially Heathcliff with his uncontrollable gypsy blood, right?
The sense-of-place is strong for me, dark, brooding Yorkshire, and I shiver when reading some of the almost poetic descriptions. But from my viewpoint, to say Catherine and Heathcliff were passionately in love is overstating their affair when they caused each other so much misery. Their families are destroyed and their agonising love does not redeem them in the end. This novel is billed ‘romance’ but for me, from my modern perspective, it seems a turmoil of mixed emotions between two foolish individuals who should have known when to call it quits.
It’s a pity that Emily Brontë died young and this is the only book she wrote, published under the pseudonym of Ellis Bell. Today we know that she could have elaborated and perhaps gone beyond the ill-fated Earnshaw family.
Dales
I want to rate “Wuthering Heights” highly but even allowing for the fact it was written in another time, another era, I can’t bring myself to go past three stars. Don’t let me put you off, if you are into Gothic torment and unrequited love, this is the book for you!
Without much to go on, DI Sean Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC uses dogged police work, video tape footage, and many repeat suspect interviews, until small pieces slowly emerge. There is an outline to this puzzle but can it be filled in? Convincing evidence is hard to come by. Much in all as I love Sean, I do think he took two matters at face value even though I was shouting at him to double check. And he does appear to be maturing, perhaps a little bit more circumspect, managing to curb his anger when insulted by hostile Larne CID Chief Inspector Kennedy at a horrific crime scene.
Thoughts Become Words 