Down Under Dunder

CAL Scribe Fiction Prize 2011

2011-03-10T14:26:00.000+10:00

Scribe Publications announced the winner of the 2011 CAL Scribe Fiction Prize last week. No luck for me this year. Maybe in 2012.

Winner
Lesley Jørgensen, ‘Cat & Fiddle’ (SA)

Runner-up
Sally Bothroyd, ‘A Cocoa Jackson Mystery’ (NT)

Highly commended
Courtney Collins, ‘The Burial’ (NSW)

Congratulations, Lesley, and best of luck with 'Cat & Fiddle' when it's published in early 2012.

Turning Tides?

2011-02-20T08:19:00.001+10:00

A JP (Justice of the Peace) in Scotland resigned last week, so that she could take up the fight against knife crime. Seems she's as fed up as the rest of us at the namby-pamby sentences handed down by the courts.

Good on her, I say - not before time. I wonder how long it'll be before an Australian in the same position has the courage to take a similar stand.

Read the story here.

Shortlist for the HarperCollins Varuna Awards 2010

2011-02-10T09:19:00.003+10:00

According to Varuna there were over 200 entries for the 2010 HarperCollins Varuna manuscript development award. The program provides five new or emerging writers each year with the experience of working closely with a senior in-house editor from HarperCollins Publishers to develop a book-length manuscript.

Fifteen shortlisted applicants will be awarded a discounted Writing Development Program with a member of the Varuna Creative Team.

Congratulations to all on the shortlist.

THE SHORTLIST FOR THE HARPER COLLINS AWARDS 2010

Sally Bothroyd: "A Coco Jackson Mystery"
Bill Collopy: "The Hope"
Katherine Delaney: "Miss Kitty's Ghost"
Tim Denoon: “Wilson Turner” (Fiction)
Kathleen Epelde: “The Weight of Love” (Memoir)
S J Finn: “Moral Inconvenience” (Fiction)
Lisa Foley: “Doing Something Marvellous” (Young Adult Fiction)
Peter Fraser: “Through the Heads” (Fiction)
Susanna Freymark: “Sex, love and losing February” (Fiction)
Anne Hedigan: "Psychomachia"
Heather Taylor Johnson: "Pursuing Love and Death"
Wendy Joyce: "Rue du Calvaire"
Jayne Kader: “Mrs Morris for Beginners”
David Kelly: “State of Origin” (Memoir)
Simon Luckhurst: “A Lonely Business” (Biography)
Dave Olsen: "Contagion"
Helena Pastor: “Iron Men” (Memoir)
John Pitt: “Dirty Money” (Fiction)
Robert Szostakiewicz: “The Pendulum” (Memoir)
Greg Woodland: “Pangs” (Fiction)

The five winners will be announced 28 February 2011.

A Thousand Cuts

2011-02-07T09:51:00.000+10:00

Each cut that's announced by Government may seem like a small cut, but a thousand of them will kill the nation eventually.

Recent research by the UK's Labour Party suggests that as many as 10,190 front-line police officers will see their jobs disappear by the end of 2012.

This may sound like political scare-mongering by a disaffected opposition, but some forces have already announced plans to massively reduce staffing levels and, taken in the context of the government's public commitment to cut police budgets by up to 20% by 2014, it shouldn't be dismissed out of hand.

A reduction of over 10,000 officers will, without doubt, lead to a far less effective police service. The people of the UK can expect call response times to increase, detection rates to fall, and the general disincentive presented to criminals by the presence of police officers on the beat to diminish.

Every employer has a duty of care to its employees, and a police officer's employer is no exception. Yet, police officers' lives will be put at risk by these cuts, because any reduction in police numbers will inevitably lead to more incidents being approached by officers acting alone. (The obvious dangers aside, other issues associated with single-officer patrols include lack of corroboration / proof, which leads to a fall in detection / conviction rates, which leads to a fall in morale. None of that seems to matter to most politicians, however.)

Not only will those problems manifest themselves in double quick time, but the UK's national security will be placed at risk - or does the government expect each police authority to maintain the current level of specialist police teams? I think that would be an unrealistic expectation.

Policing minister, Nick Herbert, says it's the effectiveness of individual officers that matters, more than simple numbers.

And I say: there speaks a man who has never policed a picket line, or a student demo, or a city's streets at pub closing time.

By his argument, it matters not how many politicians the UK squanders its hard-earned money upon. What matters is the effectiveness of each politician.

Let me repeat that: It is not the number of MPs that matters, it's what they can achieve with less resources, and for less reward, that counts.

Not surprisingly, there hasn't been one word spoken by Mr Herbert's cronies in government about reducing the burden placed upon the UK taxpayer by that tarted up doss-house we call 'Westminster'.

But here's the rub: I (and I'd bet I'm not alone) would rather see an immediate reduction in the number of MPs - let's start at, say, 50% - than see the number of UK police officers reduced by even one. I'd rather see each MP take on double the work, than see even one library close its doors to the reading public.

The money saved could be spent on maintaining the level of service our cops can provide for us, and keeping our libraries staffed and stocked, and on keeping a five-day school week in North Ayrshire, and in every other council area that's been forced through under-funding to contemplate that unthinkable option of reducing the school week to only four days.

Let's not allow our children - the lifeblood of our great nation - to suffer a lack of education. Let's cut the money that funds Westminster instead, and see how many fat rats jump from the ship.

Brogan's Crossing Reviewed

2011-01-25T08:38:00.002+10:00

Maine-based writer Karen Bessey Pease has posted a review of my crime thriller Brogan's Crossing on her blog. I'm tickled pink that Karen, a respected American writer, holds my novel in such high regard. It's the stuff that keeps us writers writing.

Thank you, Karen.

I mentioned in a blog post a few weeks ago that Brogan's Crossing is on the longlist for this year's CAL Scribe fiction prize. I can't over-emphasise how happy I am to be in the running. It means that my work is being read by three of Australia's most highly-regarded industry professionals: Aviva Tuffield, Fiction Acquisitions Editor at Scribe Publications; Blanche Clark, Books Editor at the Herald Sun newspaper; and Mark Rubbo, CEO of Readings bookstores in Melbourne.

I'll keep you posted on whose work goes through to the shortlist as soon as I find out.

A Tragedy Down Under

2011-01-14T11:10:00.004+10:00

My name is Kazza and today, I am posting on Jack Ramsay’s blog. Jack and his family are at the epicenter of the devastating floods in Queensland. What follows is a posting I made to my own blog a couple of days ago. Jack and Ali--and those many others who have been or are in harm’s way--are in my heart and on my mind.
***************************

I have many dear friends in Australia.

Pete and Naomi, Ali g and KK, and Dozy in New South Wales.

Crookedpaw in Victoria.

Jack and Ali and Larry in Queensland.

Of these, Larry is the only Aussie friend I have actually laid eyes on—the only one I have hugged and kissed, poked and prodded, eaten and drank with. Napped nearby, cut grass with (well, I cut--and he directed the operation) gotten lost on a dirt road with. Larry bought me lunch, I bought him supper. Larry cooked for me, I washed dishes for him. I built a big bonfire and went swimming in the moonlight, while he crabbed at me for doing something so foolish. Larry brought me jewelry from Laos and gave me his Drizabone coat. I handled his car rental, gave him a place to stay for a month, and put two bullets through his cell phone for him.

But even though I have never held the hands of my other Aussie friends, or leaned against them while laughing, or shared a timid bite of Vegemite, that does not mean that I love them any less. I have been incredibly blessed. These far-away friends have enriched my life more than I ever thought possible.

That’s why I am worried, tonight.

Australia, and especially Queensland, is experiencing a terrible tragedy. Flooding there is the worst on record. This land which was recently experiencing a terrible drought is now inundated with water. The rain won’t stop. The ground is saturated. The rivers are over-flowing and the dams are taxed. I am watching and listening. This girl who shuns the television can’t seem to keep away from it.

I am very, very worried. And I’m ten thousand miles away.

I can’t hug, or hold, or poke or prod. I can’t give them a place to stay, if they need one, or rent them a car to get to high ground. I can’t share Vegemite with them or build them a fire to help them dry out and get warm. I’m helpless. And I don’t like the feeling, at all.

My heart goes out to all those thousands of Aussies who are affected by this terrible event. And my thoughts are prayers are with my wonderful friends who at the epicenter of the Australian flood.

God Bless you. And please… be safe. Please.

Friends in Dry Places

2011-01-10T08:53:00.000+10:00

It's at times like this I'm glad I have friends. I wanted to blog about writing today, but the weather's had its say and I have more pressing (and far less pleasant) tasks to see to.

Instead, I thought I'd link back to a review of an excellent novel written by a good friend of mine, Corinne Van Houten.

Though Corinne lives on the west coast of America and I'm here in soggy Queensland (the "sunshine state"... pah!) in Australia, we met on that oft-decried website for writers, authonomy, and we've found many things we share in common - not least of which is a desire and willingness to improve our writing.

So, thanks to Corinne's great novel, I have a blog post today. Thank you, Corinne :)

The Picnic's Off

2011-01-02T09:02:00.001+10:00

Such a disappointment for a man with an esky full of beer and sausages. Never mind - could be worse. I'm counting myself lucky, in fact, and my thoughts go out to everyone affected by Queensland's devastating floods, but especially to my cousins in Rockhampton.

Good luck, and God bless.

Photo: Kookaburra Park, inundated by the Brisbane river, new year's eve, 2010.

Cuts, Slashings and Charitable Donations

2010-12-27T12:19:00.000+10:00

It’s been a depressing week. Not that I don’t enjoy Christmas; I most certainly do. But this extra time off affords me the chance to catch up on news-worthy events around the globe.

I read on the BBC website the other day that the Indian space program (sorry, I’m a Brit... do you mind if I spell it programme?) suffered a set-back when their latest launch resulted in an in-flight explosion. In just a few seconds, an expensive rocket and satellite system checked out in a cloud of smoke off the Indian east coast near Chennai.

Ah, well. These things are sent to try us, no? If there’s one thing I know about the Indians it’s that their strength of character will see them prevail.

Another depressing story concerned the imminent funding cuts to the NHS budget in England. Cuts, indeed. Perverted, callous, merciless slashings, more accurately describes what’s going on.

20 billion pounds worth of ‘savings’ must be made over the next four years, according to the UK Treasury. It’s rhetoric such as this which leads me to believe that the word ‘compassion’ has been banished from Westminster.

Research -- statistics, dare I say? -- has proven that the higher the nurse:patient ratio, the greater the patient recovery rate. Up to 26% more patients make successful recoveries in hospitals where staffing levels are higher. If, as the Royal College of Nursing fears, these looming cuts lead to a staffing reduction of up to 27,000 posts, it is nothing more than common sense to predict that lives will be lost in Britain as a result of cutting the NHS budget.

Let me be clear: British lives will be lost thanks to the UK government’s abominable decision to cut the NHS budget. Add in the imminent cuts to the budgets for policing, ambulance cover, roads maintenance and social services (to name but a few), and the outlook is grim for the people of the UK over the next decade or longer.

I also read, with some dismay I might add, about the UK government’s decision to cease funding of the Booktrust scheme. The Booktrust scheme provides free books to children in England, with the intention of fostering a love of reading from an early age.

From April 2011, the charity will lose 13 million pounds of funding, and there can be no doubt that this decision will, in the short term, adversely affect the quality of life of British children. In the longer term, of course, the damage caused by the UK government’s Scrooge-like mentality towards its own citizens is immeasurable.

I admit to having a vested interest in people reading (and buying) books: I’m a writer; why would I not care about issues regarding literacy? Notwithstanding that, I think it’s nothing more than common sense to say that if we, as a society, allow our next generations to turn exclusively to some other medium for education or entertainment, we’ll be giving ourselves a kick in the pants down the slippery slope to illiteracy. And a society that is illiterate can never stand on its own two feet, let alone help out its friends in their time of need.

Now, that brings me to the notion of ‘standing on your own two feet’. It’s quite an apt turn of phrase, given the content of this post, and my other posts related to spending cuts.

Another article I had time to read this holiday period focused on one of the few budget increases announced in the last few months: UK foreign aid.

I’m no expert on the ins and outs of spending UK tax-payers’ money on funding development projects in far-flung corners of the globe. Please read that sentence again.

But I cannot let it pass without comment that, when a perilous situation is developing in its own back yard, the UK government remains committed to an INCREASE in its spending in foreign countries.

George Osborne, the UK Chancellor, announced on 20 October 2010 that the UK’s overseas development assistance (ODA) budget will increase in 2011 to 0.56% of the UK’s Gross National Income (GNI). By 2014, it will increase to 0.7% of GNI, as the Conservative party promised prior to this year’s general election.

Fair enough, the original decision was made by the out-going Labour chancellor, but to refuse to cut this budget is an idiotic decision made by an idiotic government. This is one spending spree that must be curtailed until such times as the people of the UK are more able to afford such luxuries.

Part of this increased ODA budget is destined for India, a country which recently announced plans to spend 124 billion rupees on a manned space mission by 2016 (BBC website, 27 Jan 2010). They’ve already set up a fully-fledged (and expensive, no doubt) spaceflight training facility in Bangalore, and in 2009 launched an unmanned space mission as a prelude to manned flights. Mars is also a target of the Indian space programme, by 2030 apparently.

A document obtained from the House of Commons library (Standard Note SN/EP/5578) reveals that the total of UK aid to India in 2008 was 29% of all worldwide aid received by that country, or about 613 million USD.

In 2009, India boasted the world’s 11th largest economy. They’re a nuclear-equipped power, with missiles (tested recently off the coast of Orissa (Odisha) province) that are capable of hitting targets in Asia and much of the middle east. In 2007, India’s TATA motor company bought that most British of icons, Landrover.

You know, a friend of mine back in Scotland slipped on ice and broke her hip last week. Her local council couldn’t afford the salt that would have made the pavements less slippy. Budget cuts, you see. And what with those NHS cuts, and the cuts to social services, things look grim for the poor old biddy’s recovery. But, enough digression...

It’s not just India the British government is ‘helping out’. Take the Chinese, for example - another world nuclear power. Although UK aid to China (sorry, that phrase still flabbergasts me when I see it in writing) is due to end next year, in 2011 the UK will still send them a bundle of cash from the British taxpayer.

The Chinese economy is bigger than the UK's. There are 128 Chinese billionaires. Only America has more. Care to guess which country has the third highest number of billionaires?

Yup. India. Britain lags way behind with 29, compared to India's 69.

Worldwide, there are 90 countries which currently receive aid from the UK taxpayer. While I don’t advocate a complete stop to UK support for these countries, I do want to see cuts to this budget, commensurate with the level of cuts being forced upon the UK’s local councils and government-funded bodies (the NHS, arts, universities, etc).

I see it as crass arrogance that Mr Cameron expects the people of the UK to bear the brunt of these ‘bad times’ while accepting the same level of spending on foreign aid. If it were the same level, that would be bad enough. But to tell us you’re increasing the sum, Mr Cameron, is to kick us in the guts when we’re down.

You’ll be glad to hear I’m coming to the end of my rant. I’ve no doubt many who read this will decry me for being selfish, for having no compassion, or for being a short-sighted racist.

Feel free to think what you want of me - I admit to being myopic. But I am not selfish; neither am I a racist (two of my closest friends are Indian); neither am I short of compassion for my fellows when they are in need.

It is precisely because of my compassion, in fact, that I urge David Cameron and his government to remember the old proverb: charity begins at home.

Do not allow the UK to become the sort of place where justice no longer matters.

Do not allow the UK to degenerate into such a state that we cannot afford to provide even the most basic of social services to people who have paid good money to receive those services.

And do not allow the UK to fester into the sort of place where our children do not know how to read. If you do, very soon the British people will be so illiterate and uneducated that we will not be able to look after ourselves, let alone help out a friend in need.

Reverse these cuts by cutting the UK's foreign aid budget. Do it now, Mr Cameron, before it’s too late and you’re remembered as the man who ruined Britain.

Statistics

2010-12-15T12:11:00.002+10:00

The trouble with statistics is that they’re easily skewed and seldom reveal a complete picture.

For example, government statistics reported in the Scottish press today reveal a significant fall in the country’s homicide rate - down 20% on last year - to levels not seen since 1979.

Knife crime, the ugly smudge on Scotland’s copybook, is also down, with homicides involving a ‘sharp instrument’ accounting for 35 of the nation’s 78 homicides last year.

This is excellent news: Scotland now ranks alongside Bulgaria and Romania on the European ‘homicides per head of population’ league table.

The Scottish government was quick to pat itself on the back. Justice secretary, Kenny MacAskill, said the success was thanks to the government’s drive to put a thousand extra Scottish police officers on the beat since 2007.

While I agree with the commitment to provide more cops at street level, I dispute Mr MacAskill’s assertion that homicide rates are falling because of his government’s commitment to fighting crime.

Common sense dictates that the gradual reduction in homicide rates over, say, the last hundred years is as much to do with advances made in medicine during the corresponding period. We’ve become much more competent at repairing stab wounds; it’s not necessarily the case that we’re less violent towards one another.

When collating the number of assaults involving knives and ‘sharp instruments’, is the degree of surgery the victim needs recorded? Surely that’s a significant factor in determining whether someone lives or becomes another homicide stat, but I doubt it’s being recorded or analysed.

In my opinion, it's our doctors, paramedics, nurses and surgeons who deserve our thanks, not some spineless politician.

A run of bad luck in theatre - or idiotic funding cuts to the NHS budget - and those homicide rates can skyrocket.

Government statistics? I seldom believe them. They’re too easily manipulated and only slightly more trustworthy than the average politician.

Libraries, Funding Cuts and Diabolical Politicians

2010-12-04T10:14:00.000+10:00

Many of you have read my previous posts regarding the disastrous cuts being made to Britain's police forces, prisons and education budgets.

I read Nicola Morgan's post on the proposed cuts to library services today, and it turns my stomach to think of Britain degenerating to such an extent.

If you value your local library, use it. Use it to write to the UK government, expressing your outrage that these so-called leaders are taking us back to the dark ages.

The Patience of a Writer

2010-11-27T07:27:00.002+10:00

I'm sure that'll replace the original, at some point in the future.

Patience is a virtue, some say. It's also an absolute 'must have' for a writer.

And so is persistence.

I remember when I was just starting out - I thought, quite honestly, that it'd take me a few months to establish myself.

What a loon! A few months??

I found out the hard way that writers need patience. It takes years, decades even, to establish a niche, a market, a presence - call it anything you like. But it doesn’t come easily. And so many good writers give up far too soon.

That's why I admire guys like Peter Watt. He plugs away for hours on end, day in, day out, to meet publisher deadlines and self-set goals. He achieves his objectives, and his hard work pays off. Just last month he released a new instalment of his Duffy and Macintosh saga. If it’s even half as good as the previous novels in the series, it’ll be a cracker of a read. My copy's sitting on my lampstand, waiting patiently to be read. (See how he puts so much of himself into his work?)

And I can’t imagine anything more satisfying than having someone read my stories, interact with the characters I’ve created, or gaze about (in their minds, of course!) at the settings I’ve crafted - and the best way to achieve that goal is to be patient and persistent.

I know it’s easy to become despondent in this business. A few weeks ago I emailed an agent I’d queried with a cover and partial a few months ago. They’d come back quite quickly, asking to see the full ms, and I sent it the same day. Months passed with no word, so I to sent them a polite ‘ahem’ asking if they’d received my full submission. Yes they had, was the speedy reply - but it had been filed in the wrong place.

Am I annoyed?

Hell, no.

I know some people who’d be livid, but I understand these things happen. We’re all human. And, I swear, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve lost a file, I’d be writing this blog from the study of my gleaming white yacht in the Whitsundays.

Do I still want that agent to represent me? Of course I do - one wee mistake doesn't change the fact that this agency ticks all the right boxes as far as maximising my manuscript's potential is concerned.

But it does lead me back to the ‘patience & persistence’ thing.

So, don’t be put off by having to wait - few things happen quickly in publishing.

Don’t stop querying - you only have to get your work in front of the right reader once.

And don’t stop entering competitions.

Yes, that last one will keep me paddling along for a while :)

There's pink, and then there's PINK!

2010-09-17T12:41:00.000+10:00

Okay, so no one should laugh when they’re watching a report about homes being resumed. I get that. But is the Aussie sense of humour really on its last legs?

I was watching Nine News the other night and there’s this item about the Queensland State government’s plan to ‘resume’ - compulsory purchase, the Brits call it - about 60 properties in the Yeerongpilly area of southern Brisbane, to make way for a new railway station.

The camera zoomed in close on a few poor unfortunates who’ll be worst affected (I’ve come to expect that when my heart strings are being tweaked for me), such as the hair-dresser who’s worked hard to build up her clientele in the area, and a property developer with a half-built apartment complex who doesn’t know if he’s Martin or Martha any more. I could feel the emotion.

But I kinda lost it when the mature (for want of a better phrase) lady resident blasted onto my screen. Don’t get me wrong – I feel for her, too. Honestly, I do. She’s just finished refurbishing her home and this announcement couldn’t come at a worse time for her.

But she’s wearing her hair bright pink, almost in a punky ‘what-the-hell-are-you-lookin-at?’ style. It goes with her bright pink top, though, and her bright pink lippy.

‘She likes her pinks bright,’ I say to myself.

And there’s nothing wrong in that – she can wear anything she likes, and adopt any look she wants.

Here’s what killed the interview for me, though. The reporter asked her what she thought of the government’s announcement. And she said...

‘It’s shocking.’

But nobody else laughed. Absolutely no one. Not the cameraman. Not the reporter. Not the couple of anchors back in the news room. Not even the weatherman.

Now, I feel for these poor Yeerongpillyites, I really do. But, come on. There’s more than enough bad stuff going on in this ugly big world that’ll depress us. I reckon we should all take every opportunity God sends us to have a good going belly laugh.

Unless you work for Nine News, of course. Very professional.

Not even a smirk.

Recipe for Disaster

2010-09-14T12:26:00.002+10:00

Today, the Down Under Dunder focuses on the cuts to public spending that are about to ravage the UK, in particular the proposed cuts to police funding.

The last reports I read from a my favourite UK news web sites said that 40,000 front-line police jobs (that’s actual cops on the beat) are to be lost in the UK over the next four years.

Forces across the country are faced with having to make cuts of up to 25% of their annual budgets. Inevitably, that will result in cuts to actual numbers of on-patrol police officers, as well as police equipment and civilian staff. In other words, the service that each force area provides to the tax-payer is destined to diminish.

Strathclyde Police already have a recruitment freeze in operation. That means each cop who retires or is killed in the line of duty isn’t replaced, resulting in a net reduction in the number of officers available to do the job we demand of them: protecting our lives and property, preventing crime and, where crime has been committed, detecting offenders. Every other police force in Scotland is already doing likewise, or is about to.

As it stands, pitifully few crimes committed in Scotland are detected; roughly 49% of all reported crimes are solved, according to Scottish government figures released on 7 Sept 2010. Any less and ‘...we may as well just put the lights out and walk away...’ to quote Perth Sheriff Lindsay Foulis, the Scottish equivalent of an Australian magistrate. (In fact, Sheriff Foulis was decrying the automatic early release of prisoners, but automatic early release and poor detection rates are issues which are closely related; both can trace their roots directly to the biggest problem facing the Scottish criminal justice system today: under-funding.)

All manner of police services and initiatives will also suffer.

Community policing, for example. Fewer cops on the beat will mean each ‘bobbie’ has less time to foster good community relations and build the respect that a community must have in its officers.

Requests for information under ‘freedom of information’ legislation will go unanswered, because there won’t be enough civilian staff to attend to those requests.

Crime prevention initiatives will fall by the wayside, abandoned as ‘non-essential’.

Inter-force investigations (of alleged police misconduct or incompetence, for example) will be compromised.

Hey, Amnesty International, are you watching that one?

You name it, it’ll be cut.

Fewer firearms officers, yet more criminals turning to guns, since the deterrent of being caught and convicted is diminished.

Fewer police helicopters, yet more criminals prepared to endanger the public as they careen along our streets at idiotic speeds in the hope of evading justice.

Fewer police dogs, yet more criminals encouraged to violate the sanctity of a stranger’s home and sneak off under cover of darkness.

Bad enough. But the real problem, as I see it, is the dystopia that must surely fester in such a sour melting pot of injustice. I see the UK turning into a nation of vigilantes – victims of crime, their families and friends, who let nothing stop them from exercising their God-given right to justice. Worse, any Tom, Dick or Harry who wants to throw his weight around will jump on the vigilante bandwagon faster than you can say ‘Nice bullets, Mr Kersey’.

Kangaroo courts; no right to a fair trial; punishments that grossly outweigh the severity of the crime committed; no right of appeal.

Defence solicitors should also be concerned by these cuts – where will their bread-and-butter business come from if the detection rate plummets?

It isn’t a pretty picture. In fact, we’re witnessing a disaster in the making.

When the crime rate spirals because our courts can’t cope (surprise, surprise, court funding is also under review), and when violent criminals who should be locked up wander freely among us because there’s no room to incarcerate the fewer and fewer who are convicted (prison budgets...care to guess?), the public will take only so much before they fight back against those who would steal their freedoms.

I don’t think it’s a question of ‘if’; more a question of ‘when’. And as soon as a community heads down the path to vigilantism, that community is ruined for all time.

These cuts will permanently scar the face of British society. They’ll turn a once-beautiful part of the world ugly.

It doesn’t have to be so, but it’ll take a far stronger government than the one we have now to steer Britain away from the brink of ruin.

One positive will come from these budget cuts, as far as the Tory / Lib. Dem. UK government is concerned: the reported crime rate will fall.

Of course it will; it’s inevitable. The ‘reported’ crime rate (not to be confused with the ‘actual’ crime rate) will fall because, in the not-too-distant future, days or even weeks will pass before some over-worked, under-valued, demoralised and ill-equipped plod turns up to log your crime report; and there’ll be little or no chance of tracing, let alone convicting, the perpetrator of that crime. The public won’t bother calling the cops to report ‘petty’ crime, and the reported crime rate will fall.

[Aside: what is ‘petty’ crime? Is it when some splendid example of adolescence and his trusty screwdriver cause thousands of pounds of damage to the side of my car? Or is it when someone less fortunate than me breaks into my home and shits on every photograph I have of my dear departed mother. I’m curious to know what the government’s spin merchants define as ‘petty’.]

Three years from now, if indeed it takes that long, the UK government will quote this drop in reported crime figures and laud its achievements in delivering tough policies on criminal justice while still reining in the costs of policing the nation. They’ll ask for another term in government and promise us better times ahead.

And the Mad Hatter will be nothing short of delighted, because everything will be what it isn’t. Finally.

He’d be delighted now, in fact, since I’ve come to the end and stopped.

Lockerbie

2010-08-23T09:37:00.067+10:00

There’s been a heck of a lot of press coverage about the release last year from a Scottish prison of Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi, “the Lockerbie Bomber”. And quite rightly so. It seems everybody has an informed opinion, one way or the other, on the wisdom of setting this convicted murderer free, and it’s comforting to know there are still some people out there who are capable of rational argument.

I’ve held off passing comment because I’m living in Australia these days, and my feeling up till now has been that what goes on in Scotland doesn’t really affect me. But I’ve come to realise that’s a misguided philosophy since I will inevitably return there one day, to live or to die, and because I still speak with a brogue that identifies me as Scottish wherever I go, despite the Australian bushman’s hat sitting atop my head.

So, friends, I want to use this blog to make my position clear for all time: I believe it was fundamentally wrong to release Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi before he paid full price for his crime. In fact, I believe it's fundamentally wrong to release any convicted criminal before he or she completes the full sentence handed down by the trial court judge.

And, just so you know, it irks me when people – complete strangers, mostly – decry me, as a Scot, for the additional pain the Scottish government has caused the families of the victims of the Lockerbie atrocity.

I was sitting in front of the fire at home that cold night in Scotland in December, 1988, enjoying a beer with some friends. It was a quiet Wednesday evening in Perth, and we’d just begun our Christmas holidays. We were watching a video – can’t remember what was on it – but when it finished the TV brought us back to the real world with news coverage of the carnage that had rained down on Lockerbie, a relatively peaceful village in the Scottish borders.

The pictures we saw were horrendous. Flames. Twisted metal. Demolished houses. Papers and possessions scattered in the now infamous crater. I was a cop at the time, and I know from bitter experience of house fires and vehicle collisions – small bones by comparison – that the rescue crews and police officers on the ground will have witnessed something unspeakable that night, and for many days and nights afterwards.

The enormity of al-Megrahi’s crime must never be understated. Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi’s victims were human beings. Most were ordinary people, just like you and me, making the long journey home to be with their loved ones at Christmas, a sacred time of year for us Christians. But that didn’t matter to al-Megrahi. He had his agenda, and that was what was important to him.

That man denied his involvement. Even after an impartial court convicted him, he appealed his conviction, rubbing salt into the wounds he inflicted on the families of his victims yet again.

He has shown no remorse. He’s shown no empathy for those upon whom he heaped indescribable suffering. He should have died in prison, cancer or no.

Yet, the Scottish government saw fit – apparently without consultation with the families of the victims of the bombing (or with anyone else for that matter) – to ‘show compassion’ and release him from prison. And they cite a medical report from some source that now refuses to even explain itself to the people who most need to know how and why this decision was reached: the families who lost their loved ones at the hands of Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi.

You may have guessed that I have a passionate viewpoint on the subject of crime and punishment. I admit right here and in public that I’m a hardliner – commit a crime and you’ll pay the full price for it. No remission or time off for good behaviour. No access to TV. No access to telephones. One meal a day. If you’re sentenced to 30 years, you’ll serve 30 years and break rocks while you do it.

Yeah, I know – I’m an animal.

Or am I?

Inspired by what I see as the inadequacies of most modern-day criminal justice systems, I wrote a novel speculating on how close the public is to revolt over the matters of crime and punishment – that was long before Scotland’s Justice Minister Kenny MacAskill gaily pranced to front and centre of the world stage and showed up the Scottish criminal justice system as the pussycat it really is.

But here’s the rub: if you read just about any newspaper in Australia or Scotland (my points of reference) you won’t have to search too hard to find an article somewhere exposing the softly-softly approach to modern ‘justice’. And if you read the online editions in particular, the chances are you’ll come across a readers’ comments section – what the public have to say about the level of punishment handed down in our courts.

The comments can get quite alarming at times, even for me, but the gist of what the public has to say is this: the vast majority of us want stiffer sentences; we want prison to be a horrible place, not a holiday camp, such that it serves as a genuine deterrent; but most of all, we want to feel safe to walk the streets.

Rapists often serve two years when they should (in my opinion) be locked up for life – hard labour, no remission.

Child molesters are smacked on the wrist and told to stay away from kids. (Here’s a rhetorical question: how many kids’ lives does a child molester have to ruin before he’s (or she’s) considered a threat to society?)

A murderer generally goes to prison for a lot less time than someone who steals $10 million from a bank – assuming the prosecution decides to pursue the charge of murder, and isn't enticed to settle on the easy option of accepting a guilty plea to culpable homicide.

Is that justice? Real justice? If you answered ‘yes’, come the hell on! Have you asked the victims of crime what they think? Have you asked their families?

So here’s my recommendation to Kenny MacAskill and Alex Salmond: stand up and be men about what you’ve done. You made an appalling decision. Sure, you have no legal obligation to travel to America to justify your actions; but your obligation to the families of al-Megrahi's victims goes far deeper than legality – it reaches into the very heart of this thing we call 'morality'.

Get yourselves over to America, meet with Senator Menendez and his colleagues, and with the families of every victim of Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi if they want to meet you, and look them in the eye. Tell them why you did the unthinkable. Show them your reports. Justify yourselves. Prove that you have just as much compassion for them as you do for this convicted murderer.

Then, when you genuinely understand their hurt, their anger and their despair at what you’ve done, apologise to them, and to the people of Scotland for the embarrassment you’ve cause us, and resign from the Scottish government.

One Thing Australian...

2010-06-17T07:43:00.008+10:00

All things Scottish, all things Australian, and all things literary… that’s what DUD is all about. That’s what Jack is (mostly) all about. And this is Jack’s blog, so that is as it should be.

However, once in awhile, Mr. Ramsay lets me pop Down Under to play on DUD. But I hesitate, sometimes. After all, I’m neither Australian nor Scottish. And, while I AM a writer, I’m not sure just how ‘literary’ I am. For sure, I know I’m not in Jack’s league when it comes to literarability.

However, I do have an Aussie connection. I have several good Australian friends, and I am going to have the pleasure of meeting one of them very soon. Larry arrives in Maine on Sunday night, and I will be picking him up at the airport. How exciting!

I am SCARED TO DEATH!

What if he doesn’t like me? What if I am far, far less impressive in person than I am online? After all, how much trouble can I get into when all I have are my words to make an impression? But once Larry meets me in person, he gets to see and experience the full deal. The real McCoy. Me, live and in color. Holy smokes.

This could be bad.

I once sneezed a pea out through my nose while dining in a restaurant.

I walked though the supermarket with a mashed and melted chocolate Rollo stuck to my butt.

I drove through town with a live chicken stuck in the grill of my car.

I drove through the same village with my groceries on the roof of my truck.

A customer introduced himself to me as Mr. Derbogosian, and I responded, “God Bless You!” (No peas were forthcoming, thank heavens…)

I bragged about getting a good deal on a piece of property by saying “I jewed them down to $25,000.00.” The man I was speaking to was named Steinberg. (Someone should shoot me and put me out of my misery.)

I got nervous when meeting a politician, so I licked my hand and slicked down his rooster-tail. (I feel a migraine coming on…)

I even broke wind in church (but made a remarkable save by scowling at the old man sitting one row behind me. It was a spectacular ploy, and the poor gent even apologized for it, afterwards. [I'm going to Hell, aren't I?])

And all that… well. That was just last week.

With luck, my Aussie friend Larry will be a big buffoon. He’ll lack grace, finesse and style, and he’ll be homlier than a stump fence, too. If that is the case—if he’s kinda like me—then we will have the time of our lives.

But if he’s cool, and suave, and polished… I think I’m doomed.

When he comes home-- when he flies the 10,000 miles back to Brisbane and Russell Island-- I hope you’ll not give his stories too much credence. If he’s as awesome as I think he is, my plan is to keep him drunk for the four weeks that he’s here.

And really… you can’t believe a single thing a drunk Aussie says, now, can you?

Grammar Pet Hates (a.k.a. Boy Him Card Read Good)

2010-04-30T08:49:00.009+10:00

Warning: this is a rant. Look away if you're not in the mood for rantings :-)

Clarity. That’s all writing’s about. Well, okay - not all. But, without clarity in what we’re saying to people, there will never be complete understanding between human beings. That’s an important point to remember about why we need grammar; why grammar’s important to get right.

As a writer, I tend to pay particular attention to the structure, grammar and punctuation of anything I read – there’s an incorrigible editor locked away inside me, I suppose – and when I come across one of my pet hate grammar mistakes, I almost always throw a Trussie and correct the mistake with a big black permanent marker pen. What can I say – I’m human and some things just get under my skin. And just like everyone else, there’s one thing in particular that sets me a-fizz.

I was catching a train the other week, and right on the wall three feet from my face, surrounded by some Troglodyte’s best graffiti ‘art’, was something that that Trog would have sprayed over if he’d known it was stealing his thunder. I don’t want to risk infringing on some advertising exec’s copyright, so I won’t reproduce the error here, but here’s another very similar example from a well-known UK TV cookery show:

Whoever wins, it’ll change their life forever.

It’s on pay TV. It’s played right at the start of every show. It must be right, right?

Wrong.

What’s the problem? Bad grammar. The sentence has an agreement issue. It starts off singular (whoever), changes to plural (their), then sods off back to singular again (life).

Clarity? No chance. How many winners are we really talking about here? One, or many? You may think it doesn’t matter, but I’m asking myself: ‘How many chefs can win this competition? Can there be only one winner, as the sentence starts off suggesting, and which would be far more exciting? Or, will there be many, as the middle of the sentence seems to predict?

Bad grammar = no clarity = lazy speaker = no respect for me as a listener/viewer/reader.

If the presenter really wanted to ‘card read good’, he would have said (for example): We’re about to change someone’s life forever.

What alarms me most is that this obviously incorrect (and often confusing) way of speaking / writing is becoming increasingly acceptable in media – newspapers, TV, radio; and in publishing.

A while back I flirted with a website called authonomy – writers upload their works, whether finished or in progress, and others read and comment. I remember pointing out a very similar agreement issue to one chappie who’d uploaded a sample of his novel, and who wrote for a big-time newspaper. He also claimed to have a qualification in journalism. Good for him – no, seriously; I admire him for caring so much about the art and craft of writing (communicating) that he’d dedicate time and effort to formalising his qualifications.

But this chap almost knocked me off my seat when he said that I was the one who was wrong; that modern teachers actually tell their students that it’s okay to write sentences like that.

What absolute rot. It’s never okay to allow standards to slip. It’s never okay to turn a blind eye to laziness – or encourage it, for that matter - and claim it’s the modern way.

We’re writers. We work to a given set of high standards and we must always maintain those standards. If we don’t, no one will know what the hell we’re raving on about.

If you’re a writer, aspiring or otherwise, read Lynne Truss’s excellent book Eats, Shoots & Leaves. It’s probably the most cathartic text I’ve read in years, and it sets the bar very high. Please, aspire to achieve those high standards.

Oh, and for all the purists out there, I apologise for starting so many of my sentences with conjunctions. Here’s what to do: scroll back to the top of this article so that it fills your computer’s screen, then take a big black permanent marker pen...

Viewpoint Writing

2010-04-29T11:12:00.004+10:00

Viewpoint

I mentioned in a previous blog posting that I’d come to talking about viewpoint in fiction one day. That day is here. I don’t intend to delve into the real nitty-gritty of what is one of the biggest (and heaviest) subjects in the world of writing novels. Instead, I’ll give an outline, and I’ll conclude by pointing you in the direction of my favourite reference material.

Viewpoint – or point of view – refers to the eyes through which the reader ‘sees’ a story unfold.

If I told you a story about a trip I made to town to buy shoes with my wife (don’t get me started), I’d be telling you that story from my point of view. In literary parlance, that’s called ‘first person viewpoint’ (FPV): the person who is relating the story is the person who experienced it first hand.

There are a couple of other ways to relate a story, though. One is called ‘second person viewpoint’, (SPV) and the other is ‘third person viewpoint’ (TPV). Just like FPV each has its advantages and disadvantages, and I’ll discuss these briefly.

First Person

We drove to the store, the same store we were in last week, and the week before that, hunting for those God-awful shoes. Sparkly, spangly, patently heeled and winkled. Shoppers jostled me, unaware I was on a knife edge. Just one more pair, one more pair and I’ll...

The big advantage with FPV is that the reader gets into the character’s head almost immediately. That brings the reader closer to the character, and empathy with that character (the holy grail of the fiction writer) follows on pretty quickly. For example, when we read David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, we’re reading the story from young David’s point of view – first person. Almost as soon as we start reading, we begin to get a real feeling of sympathy for David’s plight, and we start rooting for him. Bingo! Dickens has his readers onside and they’re easy meat after that major hurdle is overcome. We care about what happens to David, so we keep reading to find out how he fares.

One major disadvantage with FPV, however, is that writing style is more noticeable. Because you’re getting more personal with your readers, they’ll pay more attention to your ‘voice’ and be less forgiving if they find they don’t like it.

Another major disadvantage with FPV is that the writer must find some credible means by which to keep relevant information from the reader without having that reader exclaim in frustration, ‘But how could this character not know that?’ For example, in a murder-mystery it would be inconceivable to have a scene from the murderer’s first person viewpoint – for where would be the mystery in that? A writer could, technically, keep information back from the reader to increase and maintain the mystery to the end, but would you really want to read another book by that author if your bubble of anticipation was burst with some fact that must have been known earlier on? I doubt it.

Second Person

You drive to the store, the same store you drove to last week, and the week before that, hunting for those God-awful shoes. Sparkly, spangly, patently heeled and winkled. Shoppers jostle you, unaware you’re on a knife edge. Just one more pair, one more pair and you’ll...

SPV is an ‘in-your-face’ way to write, I find, and it really packs a punch when it’s done right. That’s the biggest advantage of writing in SPV – your writing stands out from the crowd... a bit like the stinky kid in the high school playgrounds.

And therein lies the problem. A huge slice of your readership pie won’t like reading this kind of writing because they’ll probably feel like they’re being dictated to by Moses or some snotty TV chef (actually, cook books are a great example of second person viewpoint writing). If you want to write like this – if you really, really enjoy the challenge that’s inherent in writing SPV - then go for it. Be aware, though, that just because you make direct short addresses to the reader (you’ll do this, and you did that...) doesn’t make your writing SPV.

Third Person

Jack drove to the store, the same store he drove to the week before, and the week before that, hunting for those God-awful shoes. Sparkly, spangly, patently heeled and winkled. Shoppers jostled him, unaware he was on a knife edge. Just one more pair, one more pair and he’d...

TPV is where the story is narrated by someone who wasn’t present as a character. There are a couple of ‘sub-modes’ in relation to TPV: omniscient (where the narrator knows and can relate anything that goes on in any character’s mind at any time); and limited (where the narrator narrows what information is divulged by keeping thoughts, feelings and attitudes to one viewpoint character in each scene or chapter.) And in limited, there are even more divisions – referred to a levels of penetration (i.e. how deeply into a character’s mind we can penetrate.)

The great advantage of third person viewpoint is that the narrator can more directly control what information is available to the reader. For example, in first person viewpoint, unless you’re Lwaxana Troi, you can’t usually tell with any great accuracy what’s going on in people’s minds when you walk into a room. But with TPV (omniscient) the narrator can get into those minds and let the reader know what’s relevant. Equally, with careful planning and execution, the writer can hold back information with a higher degree of credibility – and that can lead to increased tension and suspense.

That’s why TPV limited is the viewpoint of choice for writers of mysteries, thrillers and horror stories: readers find out what the writer wants them to find out, exactly when the story needs them to, for best effect. What’s behind the scratched wooden door? What will happen if our main character doesn’t jump off the train right now? Who was it who really planted the bomb? All of those questions can be answered after drawing out the maximum tension and suspense from the story, and TPV limited gives the greatest flexibility towards that end. Better still, in TPV writing style takes a back seat and lets the reader concentrate on the story.

There are disadvantages, of course, to writing in TPV. There’s a temptation to ‘head-hop’ – start a sentence or paragraph telling the story from one character’s viewpoint and end up telling it from another’s. That leads to confusion in your readers’ minds – never good.

The biggest disadvantage, however, is common to both first and third person limited viewpoint: controlling what your characters do and do not know at any given time. For example, if you’re narrating a TPV story using limited point of view, you can’t have that character thinking or talking about something he can’t possibly know about.

Conclusion

Whatever viewpoint you choose to write your story in, make sure it works best for the story you're telling. Try out a few paragraphs, or even a whole chapter, in each viewpoint that takes your fancy and go from there. Some viewpoint modes work best for certain story types – first person for comedy, for example, and third limited for thrillers and suspense. The big question is: what works best for the way I want my readers to enjoy this story?

Reference Materials

I found Characters and Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card (ISBN-10: 0-89879-927-9) to be very helpful in demystifying the subject of viewpoint.

Approaching Our Dotage--by KazzaBP

2010-04-07T11:52:00.008+10:00

I’ve been pondering age, lately. My age. And I’ve come to realize something.
I’m getting old.

There are all kinds of clues. Wrinkles where there never used to be any. Gray hair that re-sprouts exponentially every time I pluck one. Arms that aren’t quite long enough to allow me to read the newspaper. A child who is approaching thirty.

One of the most telling signs, though, is how I am perceived by others. Young men never, ever flirt with me anymore. Instead, they call me Mrs. Pease. And old men flirt with me all the time. They call me honey, darlin’ and my favorite, which just came my way today: baby doll.

Hehehe. I am so far from being a ‘baby doll’, it’s not funny. Well, it is. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. He was eighty if he was a day…

Yep, I’m getting old. There’s no denying it. But I find comfort in many things--the first of which is–-my friends are getting older too. In fact, one of my dearest friends is about to catch up with me, once more. Jack Ramsay–-brilliant blogger, author extraordinaire, husband, builder, brother and best friend–-is having a birthday this week. For the next five months, he will be every bit as old as I am.

And I intend to rub it in.

Jack is a strange combination of mature, responsible man, and pain-in-the-ass kid-at-heart. He is full of sage advice one minute; giving words of wisdom and citing common-sense snippets designed to improve the world around him… and the next, he’s spouting potty-mouth and tee-heeing over the asinine and ridiculous.

It’s a combination I love, and one that is bound to keep him mentally healthy for years and years to come.

And that’s a good thing, for his body is falling apart all around him.

Now that Jack is approaching his dotage, there are subtle changes in his life and his life-style. He used to play rugby and tussle with the staunchest of adversaries. Now he watches the game from an easy chair and shakes his fist petulantly when he takes umbrage at a call. His grocery bags used to contain items such as curry chicken, beer and even the occasional bottle of Scotch. Now, he unpacks antacids, prune juice and—dare I say it?

You know… I really don’t! Because Jack–-even as he gets decrepit and stooped, even as his eyebrows begin to resemble thatched eaves and his whiskers get all gray–-is still a spirited son of a gun. He still gets wrathy, still gets wild, still gets EVEN! I’ve learned my lesson there! No way am I going to mention his incontinence pants! No way in hell!

Oh, I could go on and on about the not-so-graceful aging of one of my best friends. I could mention the hemorrhoids, the corns and the bunions and the bi-focals. But I won’t, because that would be mean, and I’ve a strict policy against elder abuse. Besides, I’m about to sneeze. And at Jack’s and my age, that can have disastrous consequences.

Happy birthday, Boy. And welcome. It's not so bad...

The Incredible Collapsing Man (meets Lee McGowan)

2010-03-31T09:34:00.001+10:00

It's not often I fall in a heap with shock. It's even less frequently I'm left speechless (och, weesht - ye know Ah like tae gab). Today, both of the above happened. See, I've just checked the Tuesday night football scores, and I'm going to have to take back everything I've ever said about my beloved St Johnstone.

How timely for an example to appear right now: see, in years gone by I would have interjected there that the club's full name is actually St Johnstone-Nil.

I've suffered long and hard at their hands over the years. Every die-hard Saints fan has. But, lo! Lo and behold! St Johnstone 4 Rangers 1

I said St Johnstone 4 Rangers 1

Good God - the world's buggered. Someone restore some order again soon, I beg you.

Speaking about football, a great new writer by the name of Lee McGowan - a fine Scotralian, just like me, who's just as mad on the beautiful game - will be reading his work in the meeting room of the Brisbane Central Library on Saturday 10 April, starting at 3pm. For more details go here

I'm going to try to pop along, and I'm sure Lee and everyone else on stage will make everyone very welcome.

Quick Pic

2010-03-29T09:27:00.000+10:00

Strelizia. Yesterday. 4pm. Enjoy (the ants sure are!) :-)

Tense

2010-03-17T10:21:00.009+10:00

In the interests of getting the balance of this blog just right (‘...all things Scottish, all things Australian and all things literary...) I’d like to talk today about something related to ‘writing’, and there’s nowhere better to start than at the beginning of the writing process.

Choosing the tense you use to craft your essay, poem, narrative prose, etc is one of the biggest decisions a writer has to make. It’s also one of the first. Get it wrong and your piece can fall flat. Worse, you could turn readers off your writing for good. But if you get it right, you can add tension, win reader empathy and really make your work stand out from the crowd.

Let me start by clarifying what I mean by the word ‘tense’. Tense is defined in the Oxford English dictionary as ‘a set of forms of a verb that indicate the time or completeness of the action expressed by the verb.’

Take the simple verb, ‘walk’. I walked to my office this morning. I like walking in the morning. I’ll walk again just as soon as I’ve finished this piece - to the coffee pot, perhaps.

Those are the three tenses: past (I walked); present (I like walking); future (I’ll walk).

Choosing the most appropriate tense for the article you’re writing is crucial. Although you can write in one tense and edit for another at some later stage, that kind of edit can be huge and almost always involves a complete rethink followed by a complete rewrite followed by divorce and litigation. Making the right decision early on saves that rework (and all those ugly legal fees).

The question is, which tense is right for your project? Well, that depends entirely on what you’re writing.

Let’s look at narrative prose. As an example, I’ll use the opening sentence of my crime thriller Brogan’s Crossing to illustrate the obvious differences between tenses. (Forget viewpoint at this stage – I’ll discuss that in a later post.)

Sam Brogan let the doors swing shut and flicked a glance at every conceivable hidey-hole as he limped into the thickening stench of beer and vomit.

The handling of the verbs ‘flick’ and ‘limp’ are the clues that this is written in past tense. Past is the writers’ favourite and almost always works best for fiction. If you consider that most stories are told after the event, it makes sense to relate those stories in the past tense. Brogan’s story unfolds as we read, and there’s a certain feeling of comfort and security that comes from knowing that these events have already happened. It’s a safe bet, too, because many publishers prefer novels written in this tense.

But I could have written it differently, using present tense, for example.

Sam Brogan lets the doors swing shut and flicks a glance at every conceivable hidey-hole as he limps into the thickening stench of beer and vomit.

Straight away you can see there’s much more immediacy, and more intimacy between the reader and the character. We’re with Sam as things happen to him, and that often works well for action-based fiction.

So, why didn’t I choose this tense to write Brogan’s Crossing? There are a few reasons, but it really comes down to wanting this story to have as much credibility as possible. Many readers, when confronted with present tense narration, find it difficult to ignore the fact that a character is relating story when he/she should be minding events as they unfold.

Now let's look at future tense.

He’ll let the doors swing shut and flick a glance at every conceivable hidey-hole, then limp into the thickening stench of beer and vomit.

This mode of writing can certainly make your work stand out from the crowd, mainly because not many writers use it. But be warned: it takes a great deal of skill to master future tense, and a great deal of discipline to stay focused. You may also be limiting your audience because it reads so differently from the norm.

That’s a quick and relatively simple overview of the differences between the three tenses, (with an absolute body swerve around the topic of pluperfects, past progressives and past perfect progressives. Maybe, one day...)

Past and present are more commonly used than future. It’s not illegal to mix past, present and future together, as long as you do it consistently and with care (e.g. when combining past tense action with present or future tense interior monologue – ‘She sat and watched him drink another beer. I’ll show him, she thought. One day I’ll teach him, and he’ll never talk to me like that again.’)

Choosing the right tense can be a tough decision for a writer to make, often because it’s made in conjunction with a decision concerning point of view. And viewpoint is the next subject I’ll tackle.

For now, though, I’m about to walk to the coffee pot.

Update 20100319 -

Remember I said you could turn readers off your writing for good if you pick the wrong tense? Well, here's an example of what I mean, from a newspaper I was reading this morning:

'Once Ului crossed the coast, it was forecast to weaken quickly into a rain depression.'

The reporter is telling us about an event which is yet to happen, but has incorrectly chosen to use the past tense ('crossed the coast' and 'was forecast'). If you're talking about events that might come to pass at some future date, use future tense.

'Once Ului crosses the coast, it is forecast to weaken quickly into a rain depression.'

See the difference? Readers instinctively know that what you're talking about is yet to happen. And that means you've achieved clarity in your writing.

Wisdom

2010-03-16T09:37:00.008+10:00

I went out shopping the other day, and as I was driving into the car park of one of Queensland’s biggest malls, I rounded a corner and found my path blocked by a couple of young lads and their spangly cars, boom boxes ... booming, paint jobs of orange and purple flames, strobe strips flashing away on the dashboards impatient for Saturday night. They were going at it hammer and tongs: shaking fists, shouting insults, each claiming that last available parking space for himself – and I couldn’t help quipping to Princess Spendalot, ‘They remind me of me when I was young and stupid.’

Of course, the memory flood gates opened, and even as I manoeuvered our behemoth around the tacky obstruction and headed to the next level (I’m happy to report that neither of the Stupids was adorned with those Carlos Fandango flared trousers I used to wear) I’d started my journey and was travelling back to the Eighties at an alarming speed.

Welcome aboard the Moronic Express, stopping only at Young, Stupid and Idiotsville.

The human mind’s a mystery to me, so I won’t try to analyse why or how I ended up at The Night of the Pistachios, but there I was, eighteen years old and walking into my first wine bar in Perth city centre, pockets stuffed with pound notes and condoms and my new-found sophistication tripping me.

I wasn’t alone. Dick, my best mate at the time, was with me – he’d recommended the place because his father had taken him there the week before to celebrate his eighteenth birthday – and I naturally followed his lead, up the disinfected marble stairs and through the wide glass doors. The carpet was plush, the seats red velvet, and the intimately-lit bar had that look of sanctuary about it that draws in the unwary.

We moseyed on up to the penguin who was busily polishing his wine glasses, eyeing the elegantly dressed table of beauties to our right and trying our best to broaden our shoulders that crucial few millimetres. I, at least, had the required amount of designer stubble, but Dick hadn’t quite started shaving and could best be described as fluffy... But that worked in my favour, right? I mean, girls prefer that manly, semi-rough appearance over the ‘Mum says I have to be home by ten’ look, right?

No matter.

We reached the bar. We leaned. We ordered sophisticated cocktails. We leaned some more, nodded knowingly to each other, eyed the girls, turned and sipped our drinks, eyed the girls again, smiled and I (forgive me, I was a novice – if I’d been in my car I probably would have hooted my horn like the stupid prick I am) winked at the least frowny one, sitting pretty in red, hair piled high and curly (the eighties, remember), shoulder pads to rival mine.

She smiled in response and I leaned back so far I would have toppled over if my shoes hadn’t been so heavy with polish. I couldn’t think of anything I could do that would make me look more cool, more ‘sophisticated’, more worthy of her flirtations – until Dick suggested I help myself to some of the weird-looking complimentary nuts from the bar.

‘Never tried them, but I’m game for anything,’ I said, gazing at my Lady in Red and grabbing a handful from the bowl. With the dexterity and confidence of a Starsky or a Hutch, or a Doyle or a Bodie, I chucked a few of these new nibbles into my mouth and crunched down, chewing and crunching, crunching and crunching and crunching.

And the more I crunched, the more that red goddess and her hench-goddesses laughed.

Pfft. Pistachios my backside.
But, like all semi-intelligent creatures, I learned from my experiences that evening. I learned PDQ where the rest rooms were, thanks to all that crunching. I learned that some cocktails pack a punch like Ali. I learned that one red wine tastes pretty much the same as any other after three or four bottles. And I learned that dentists are worth every penny they fleece from us. Fleece on, dear dentists, fleece on!

But the biggest thing I learned that night is that it’s just plain lazy to serve those bloody nuts in their shells.

Pic courtesy of AllenS.

Racist? Moi?

2010-02-25T09:11:00.012+10:00

I’ve got a few minutes, so I thought I’d do a wee blog this morning. I had a long think, came up with nothing, so decided to have a sup of coffee and a gander at the paper while my cogs finished their union meeting and got back to work. And, hey presto, a subject. A glorious, ripe, bulbous subject that’s just perfect because it gets my blood boiling.

Now, some of you who have read this blog (has anyone read this blog? hello? hello? did I just see tumbleweed?) know that I tend to go for the easy, self-deprecating stuff, with a smidgeon of chucklage thrown in to excercise the old laughing tackle. But today – and please feel free to look away if you don’t like the swearies – I’m going to break with that tradition because I’m so fucking over the pile of shite this world is festering into.

See, I’m a Scotsman. I’m an Aussie too, but we can set that aside for a wee while. And because I’m a Scotsman, and a football fan (in my spare time I take a rest from that particular torture by stabbing myself in the thigh with poisoned cat claws), so because I’m a football fan I couldn’t help but take an interest in the article on the BBC news website today – Police Fears Over ‘Anyone But England’ T-shirt.

Apparently, the cops in Aberdeen have taken it upon themselves to wander into a guy’s kilt shop on George Street and warn him about displaying these ‘ABE’ t-shirts in his window. It could ‘cause offence’, they say. Because it’s ‘racist’, they say. They have a duty to ‘preserve the peace’, they say.

I know what their bloody duties are – I was a cop in Tayside before hopping a plane out here – and sending a beat cop to pressure some guy into changing an inoffensive and purely ironical window display ISN’T what they have a duty to do.

Let me reiterate: they’re advising the owner of Slanj (the shop – great looking website, by the way) that his window display could be deemed ‘racist’. And then they go on to point out that Aberdeen, like other parts of Scotland, ‘...has recorded incidents relating to nationality...’ Hm. Is that so?

First, race and nationality are not one and the same. Go check out the English cricket team if you’re in doubt. And the Scottish one, too, if you really must. Didn’t find what you were looking for? Check out the British Army.

Second, this has absolutely FUCK ALL to do with race, and everything to do with HISTORY. See, since 19666 (yes, El Diablo was involved) – the year when almost all of Scotland was shrouded in the smoke of smouldering TV sets...my father told me our old brick shithouse valve-bustin' Baird took three kicks before it coughed out sparks (ah, they don’t make ‘em like they used to) us Scots have had to put up with ‘racism’ from the English.

Which takes me to point three. It isn’t fucking racism! It’s light hearted BANTER between one and a half great footballing nations. Nothing more. The English expect it of us. They have a laugh about our blinkered approach to the world and our inability to reach the finals of ANY sporting event (tennis excepted – thanks Andy), and we laugh when anyone they play at football knocks the swagger out of them. That’s why us Scots support anyone but England. Not racism. Jealousy. See, we're fed up of our World Cup campaigns stalling at every red traffic light...

But how could anyone be so desperate for confrontation as to call it racism? Or nationalism? Or any colour of ism you care to think up?

Another thing: exactly where do we draw the line as we struggle to define the term ‘race’? As far as I’m concerned, I’m with Ross Lyle from Slanj: us Scots and them English are one and the same race. We’re British. And we all have a British sense of humour.

What we’re seeing here is another example of the world (or is it just those who are connected in any way shape or form with the justice system?) gone mad. So, my message to the cop who thought trying to throw his weight around in a kilt shop would be a great way to spend a few minutes of his shift on a cold shitty day is this: fuck off and catch a mugger, ya mug.

P.S. If I wasn’t such a tight-arsed Scot, I’d buy one of those t-shirts and wear it every game England played. After all, and as usual, it’s the only connection I’ll have with the world cup. Oh, wait...no. No it isn't...where's my Australia kit? :)

PPS Anyone who doesn't see the irony that's inherent in this article (the owner of a kilt shop being told he's being racist against the English) doesn't know the history of the kilt.

I'm done - end rant.

Pic courtesy of David Lodge. Thanks, Dave.

Book Review: A Feast of Small Surprises (Corinne Van Houten)

2010-02-21T10:04:00.005+10:00

I love it when I pick up a book and find an hour has passed in the blink of an eye. Not all books grab my attention that way – far from it, in fact – but I had the pleasure of reading Corinne Van Houten’s masterful mystery A Feast of Small Surprises just recently and I think she’s got the recipe just right.

A wise reviewer / literary critic once said ‘...you only get out of a novel what you put in...’ and I can tell you A Feast of Small Surprises proves that assertion beyond question: invest, and you will reap high rewards.

Set in Italy (Florence and Rome, to be precise) Feast sets its tone in the first few pages and sticks with it throughout. A newly discovered piece of baroque artwork claimed by some in the know to be a masterpiece by a long-dead bad boy of the seventeenth century; a vicious car bombing meant to kill; and a cast of self-centred characters each with hidden and not-so-hidden agendas makes this novel an absolute joy. Worried that there might be insufficient sub-text? Don’t be – it’s a cracker.

Now, I won’t debase Corinne’s novel by peppering this review with spoiler alerts, but let me just say as far as plot is concerned that everything hangs together and you won’t be disappointed. That’s down to the amazing balance of believable characterisation, believable use of the principles of cause and effect, and believable depictions of where the story takes place. Mix all three elements together as Corinne Van Houten has managed to do and the result is a joy to become a part of, however temporarily. The thing is – and this is the gauge by which I measure true quality in fiction – Anne Langlais and all her idiosyncrasies are still with me weeks after reading the novel, as are Maya Kelly and Edward Donant. And just about every one of the supporting cast of characters, each with their human strengths and human weaknesses.

I doubt there’s a woman alive who won’t recognise part of herself in Maya, or in Anne. Every person is flawed, after all, thanks to what has shaped us in our lives, and these two women silently demand that we ask ourselves – ‘what’s she going to do now?’ (actually, as far as Maya is concerned, I often found myself asking who’s she going to do now...but that’s perhaps giving away too much – read it yourself!)

When I think of ‘page-turners’ I generally gravitate towards the Bond novels, or Dan Brown’s offerings, or something along the lines of Matthew Reilly’s Ice Station. Imagine my ‘surprise’ then, when I caught myself at 3am one morning (and I’m an early-to-bed kinda guy) turning yet another page of Feast. The least likely looking page-turner it may be, but it’s that, nonetheless.

Clearly, Corinne Van Houten has travelled; I’d bet she’s been to Italy many times, visiting galleries, sitting by the fountains that she so expertly describes and taking dinner under the stars on the fringe of just about every bustling piazza. But her descriptions of place go far beyond the travelogues in which many writers of fiction find themselves mired. Somehow she manages to give meaning to each location, and I think that’s due in part to her knowledge of the art history of each place she describes, and also because of her ability to relate that history to the people of the present day. I’ve never been to Italy, but after reading A Feast of Small Surprises I’m planning to make amends on that score. I just hope I find as many delights in the real thing as I found in Corinne Van Houten’s brilliant novel.

One last thing to wrap up: I must pay homage to her choice for the cover of her novel. Irene Belknap’s Continuum (oil on canvas, 1990) is not only stunningly beautiful to look at, its thought-provoking themes relate closely to those of the novel – focusing on character, heritage and the often absurd nature of humanity.

Corinne Van Houten grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. She holds a PhD in Art History, Women’s Studies and Literary Criticism and now lives in Oregon. To buy a copy of Feast visit Corinne's website, or get it on amazon.

Cover photograph reproduced here by kind permission of Corinne Van Houten.

A Minute's Silence Please...

2010-02-18T09:03:00.006+10:00

For the passing of the portavac.

For three weeks, Porta, our faithful little friend from Beijing, has been coughing and groaning and spluttering, thanks to #name removed to protect the guilty# defying instructions not to involve him in the last tri-annual Great Dusty Shed Cleanup. A turn for the worse was observed this morning (pardon my passives), and Dr Jackypoohs performed open belly surgery under general anaesthetic in the midst of a spilt box of cereal. An hour of sweating over the operating table - the one beside the stove top, not that it matters - couldn't prevent the inevitable, and Porta's little heart finally gave out at 09:07 hours.

Sadly, next of kin have rejected all organs donated.

Funeral at the end of our driveway on Monday 22nd at noon, or whenever Reverend Recycle-Truck shows up.

Sad days.

The Coincidence Conspiracy

2010-02-16T10:02:00.008+10:00

I was reading the paper this morning when I saw an article about some meteorite that landed in Australia 40 years ago having finally given up some secrets. Amazingly, a boff or two had found that it contained ‘millions of different organic compounds’, whatever the hell that means. But the really, REALLY amazing thing about the article was that this meteorite was called the Murchison meteorite...and it landed in an Australian town called...Murchison! Freaky or what? I mean, what are the chances?!

Okay, so I’m having a larf mate (for anyone who’s still scratching his baldy bit, they named the damned thing after the town, for Pete’s sake) but in real life coincidences slacken our jaws almost every day.

Example: I went to Scotland on holiday a few years back. Had a great time and the weather was fantastic. Yeah, I know...who’d’a thunk it. But there I was at Jura House gardens on the island of Jura (another coincidence? too damned spooky, if you ask me...) poking my nose into some flowers (them flowers, in fact -->) while Alibal went off to get us some tea from the marquee, when a polite and educated elderly lady of the ‘have-gaiters-must-walk’ persuasion approached and started chatting to me. Her opening gambit was, of course, about the sunny weather – it must have been 28ºC (about 82ºF) – and my new chum had a good old rave about the heatwave. I said it was just perfect temperature for me, since I’d lived in Australia for a few years and was used to temps much higher than 28. (Aside: yesterday it was 37ºC here, or 98.6ºF – just right for demolishing a garden shed.)

So we chatted some more and she asked what brought me back to Scotland and I told her I was taking the chance to research my family history – I’d been over to the Isle of Skye looking for Bruces, down to Fife looking for Ramsays, and up to Aberdeenshire looking for Eastons, and now I was taking a wee break on Islay, checking out the distilleries and just enjoying being home.

Then Catriona – we’d introduced ourselves by that stage – asked where in Australia I was from, and I told her I have a place on the western outskirts of Brisbane, in Queensland.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a cousin in Queensland. Up north.’

‘Really?’ says I. ‘Me too. I’ve never met her though, since I’ve only just found out about her.’ (I’d spent time just a few days before with my cousin, Tony, who’s mad for the family tree stuff and can tell you which Fitzgerald married which Bruce, and which Ramsay married which Mitchell, where and when, and what they all did for a living way back in Umpteen Oatcake.)

‘Well,’ says Catriona, ‘my cousin’s from a sugar town called Sarina.’

I almost choked on the tea Alibal had brought over from the marquee. ‘That’s a coincidence. My cousin’s from Sarina.’

Our faces may have taken on the same thoughtful look at this point, I don’t know – but after a pause, and almost in perfect unison, we said, ‘Cath Hutton.’

If you’d told me before I set out on my trip home that I’d chance upon a relative of a relative in a remote but beautiful part of Scotland’s west coast, on the sunniest, hottest day of the year, I wouldn’t have believed you. But it happened. Of course it happened – in real life coincidences happen all the time.

Since that encounter with Catriona, I’ve met up with our cousin Cath many times, and we still have a good old head-shaking session when we talk about that chance meeting on Jura.

I just wonder if some fluke of timing ever inspired Jane Austen, who loved to pepper her plots with amazing, entertaining (and often convenient) coincidences. No matter, because it’s obvious to me that life imitates art, just as much as art imitates life.

Possum Death Knell

2010-02-06T08:50:00.005+10:00

The thing that’s surprised me most about Australia since I came to live here ten years ago is how easy it is to get used to the beasties. The stories I’d heard before coming out here weren’t enough to put me off, but they did make me wonder about how I’d react to my first huge spider incident, or to finding a scorpion in my boot or having a billion flies land on my Chicko roll. I was reasonably sure I’d cope okay, but a man never really knows until it happens. As it turns out, I was fine with all of the above. But one incident lives with me to this day as the singularly most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen in Australia. If you’re squeamish, better look away now...

Alison’s brother and his wife came out from Scotland to visit us in April one year, and brought their four-year-old twins, Ethan and Tamzin, with them. We had a great time visiting the theme parks down the Gold Coast, taking a trip over to Stradbroke Island and driving along the beach (which the kids loved), going to South Bank parklands to swim and generally enjoying each other’s company over too much rich food.

But the thing that brought the biggest smiles to the twins’ faces was when it grew dark outside and the possums came down from their beds in the palm fronds to feed on the bananas and nuts we treat them to on the patio every few nights. Tamzin stood at the lounge window, mesmerised by their fluffy tails and cute little cat-like faces, so much so that she named the cutest of them Hush – ‘...because that’s what you do when the possums come down to feed’ (she was only four, remember).

A few days from the end of their holiday, Adam, Michelle and the kids went off on a pre-planned trip to Sydney to visit some friends of theirs. While they were away, Alison and I kept up the routine of occasionally feeding the possums, partly so that they’d be there for the kids to gawp at when they got back from Sydney.

The night before our guests got back, Alison and I were snuggled up watching Monarch of the Glen on telly (which, twee as it is, always makes me homesick enough to pour myself a Scotch). Hush the possum was down on the patio, feeding on a banana, and when she’d had her fill she jumped onto the trunk of a palm tree and disappeared up into the shadows.

I turned my attention back to the telly, but a few minutes later Hush crashed to the ground. I’ve seen possums fall out of the trees before, and they’ve always taken a few seconds to compose themselves before running off or starting a fresh fight – they’re very territorial. But Hush was dead. Lying on her side with her eyes shut, not breathing, not even twitching.

Alison and I looked at each other – the last thing we wanted was for her brother and his family to come home and see a dead possum in amongst the bromeliads.

‘If she’s still there in the morning I’ll go out and bury her,’ I said.

‘What the hell’s wrong with her?’ Alison asked, but she’d no sooner finished speaking when a four-metre python clattered onto the pergola roof and fell to the ground beside Hush.

After a few minutes of lying absolutely still (during which time I was really confused – what was up the tree that would kill a possum and a python?) the snake started to flick his tongue in and out, then uncoiled himself and moved towards Hush.

Over the next hour or so, Alison and I stood hypnotised as the python unhinged his jaw and slowly enveloped Hush’s body, a mere two metres from our lounge window. When he was done, he just as slowly eased his belly up onto the edge of a flowerpot to push Hush just a little further down, then slithered off into the darkness.

Maybe one day I’ll log on to YouTube and post the video I took. Or maybe I won’t. That was the first time I’ve ever not finished a glass of whisky. Know what I’m saying?

Anyhoo, the next day we picked up our guests from the airport, took them home and pretended for the kids’ sakes that some imposter was Hush. And I prayed like mad that the python (who I later named Malfoy) had enough in his belly to see him through hibernation and wouldn’t be back for seconds before our house guests left for Scotland.

Yes, we resorted to a little white lie, and I see no reason why it can’t be...wait for it...Hushed up for all time to protect the innocents.

Who groaned?

Pop Goes the...Stick Insect

2010-02-05T08:41:00.006+10:00

Warning: I still find this disturbing, in a Gawd, I'm an idiot kind of way.

A few weeks ago I wrote about how I arrived in Australia, green as grass and a committed scaredy-cat as far as the local wildlife is concerned. Have a look at Snakes Alive! if you feel you’ve missed something.

It didn’t take me long, however, to realise that even living in suburbia, as Alison and I did in the first few months after we arrived in Western Australia, the wildlife quite literally on our doorstep was magnificent to behold.

One evening we arrived home after working in Perth, and there, on the screen door, was the biggest stick insect I’ve ever seen. I swear the thing must have been at least nine inches long, maybe even a foot.

We stood gawping at it (he/she? Who can tell these things just by looking?) for a good five minutes and then gently eased the door open and slipped inside.

That stick insect was the instigator of much refreshed enthusiasm for our new homeland that night. Everything we spoke about centred on its mammoth proportions, its subtle colouring, its brazen refusal to budge even when we were standing just a few inches away (I got closer as I got bolder, as men do), and its surprising cuteness – it’s an insect; it shouldn’t be classed as cute, but this little (big) guy (guyess?) was cute as cute can be.

Another day dawned and our routine – alarmingly, very like the routine we followed back home in Scotland – kicked off again. After a quick breakfast we headed to the front door, but I stopped myself from barging out with my usual bluster. I wanted to see if Twiggy was still there (yes, because of her stubborn refusal to move from the door we decided that she must be female and we named her accordingly - sad, isn’t it, how grown adults with university degrees will regress to the level of five-year-olds when cuteness is introduced to a situation. Actually, there is a pattern to observe here, as I'll demonstrate in a later post.)

There was no sign of her. Not on the screen door, not on the bricks of the wall, and not on the inner door, although why I was checking there I have no idea.

“Musta buggered off last night,” I called over my shoulder to Alison as I stepped out onto the porch...

WeeeeeeeePOP!

I looked at my feet, and there was Twiggy. All nine or so inches of her. Flat as a flounder, and very, very dead.

I’ve never felt so low. I’m still not over it. But it’s only been ten years.

Labels (a.k.a. How to Look Like a Complete Nutcase, Part II)

2010-02-04T08:36:00.005+10:00

In an earlier blog post I suggested to novice writers (and I include myself in that category) that taking time to participate in some writing courses might be a good idea. Now, I like to practice what I preach, so I contacted Queensland Writers Centre and booked myself on a course – Creating Narrative Suspense, run by the great Peter Watt (Cry of the Curlew, Eden, Papua, The Stone Dragon, The Frozen Circle, to name just a few.)

On the day of the course, I slapped on my sticky name badge, picked the seat at the front – the one with the biggest pile of chewy mints on its desk (my favourite ‘lollies’, as the Aussies call them) – and had a fabulous Saturday. I networked about a dozen other writers, and I learned from one of the best about how to keep a reader reading my work. If you haven’t yet thought about what techniques you can use to make sure someone who picks up your book finds it very hard to put down, I recommend you contact Pete and ask when he’s next running that course.

Anyhoo, when the course was over I popped the last chewy mint into my mouth, said my goodbyes and trotted off between Edward Street’s late afternoon shoppers to meet HRH Princess Alibal, who I knew would be hunting the vast plains of Brisbane for just the right...well, I can’t really recall, but it’s usually shoes.

The first thing I noticed was that some of the older women I passed weren’t so much glancing at me as giving me those long, sympathetic looks – the kind of look you’d give a cockatoo that’s cooped up in a cage. Odd, I thought, but I wiped the slavers from my mouth (the last mint wasn’t done yet, and mints always gets my juices flowing like mad) and trotted on at pace. A few more women gave me that look, and at one point I was sure one of the older dears was about to reach out to take my arm.

“Bunch of bloody weirdos,” I muttered to myself, causing a fresh dribble of slavers to cascade down my chin. I stopped to check my reflection in a perfume shop window, just in case my drool had pooled somewhere that might embarrass me, and there, big bold and bloody obvious on my chest was my nametag, not quite soggy...but getting there.

Okay, so imagine you’re walking down the street on a sunny Saturday afternoon and you see a bearded drooling idiot trotting towards you with his name emblazoned across his chest, glistening with some kind of goo. Wouldn’t you feel sympathy? Wouldn’t you want to help this poor nutcase called ‘Jack’?

Of course you would.

To all who received my very best scowl that day, I thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. Honestly. And I promise I’ll never grow a beard again. It’s great for scaring babies, but it also tends to mask the sensation of drool, and that’s never a good thing.

Sharing Secrets with Phantoms (a.k.a. How to Look Like a Complete Nutcase, Part I)

2010-02-03T10:17:00.010+10:00

My wife (Princess Spendalot, She of the Shoes) came home from work the other day. I knew she was home because she stood at the door to my study doing her little ‘cough, cough’ routine. So I greeted her with the usual ‘Nice to see you’re home; fancy a foot massage and a glass of wine?’ stuff, and she rather pointedly asked me who I’d just been talking to.

I realised I’d been at it again.

See, when I’m writing, I need to ‘meet’ my characters, so that I can understand them; so that when I commit them to paper, I can show them doing what nature intended them to do, not what I or my plot needs them to do.

I’ve found that, for me, the best way to do that is to start a conversation with them. Unfortunately, that can make me look like a nutcase. Meh...if the glove fits...

I imagine myself out and about with them, at a football match, or having dinner, or (my preference) walking in a quiet forest with a stream running beside us. I listen to what they tell me (although, of course, it’s me who’s doing all the talking...hence the nutcase thing) and I make mental notes of how they talk to me, because that’s how I get to feel not just their unique speech patterns, but their attitudes to certain things. And with attitude comes depth – we start asking deeper questions about why a character feels a certain way about something.

Take Gaby Dunbar, for example. Gaby’s a supporting character in my crime novel, Brogan’s Crossing, but when I ‘walked and talked’ with her, I started to realise that she’s probably one of the strongest characters I’ve created. We went for a walk in the countryside – I chose Birnam Wood in Perthshire, because I used to walk the softly sprung pine needle paths there when I was younger, and because I find its fresh forest smells and cooing wood pigeons relaxing – and we spoke about her early years, and her relationship with her mother, and how her father died and the effect that had on her, and about her sister and how there’s always been animosity there and what's causing it.

I asked her why she chose law enforcement as a vocation, what her career aspirations might be, why she feels so strongly about meting out justice on behalf of those who can’t claim it for themselves, and how she sees the future: how governments are changing their attitudes towards crime and punishment, and what needs to be done to restore the deterrent element of any punishment. Gaby’s answers surprised me, but gave me a chance to go back over the character sketch I’d drawn for her and add detail; detail that (I hope) brings her to life and makes her someone who readers can respect and identify with.

Don’t get me wrong: you don’t need to mash everything you know about your characters into your manuscript (in fact, please don’t, because there’s only so much backstory a novel – and a reader, however patient – can take); but you do need to know how your characters will react to, say, a waiter spilling a drink over her, or her mother chiding her about still being single and childless at 35 years of age. If you know these things and more about your characters, you’ll not only make them realistic, consistent, flawed and believable, you might just create a spin-off character or two who can stand on her own as a protagonist in a future novel.

I was having dinner with Gaby Dunbar when my wife walked in on us. Embarrassing but, no, I don’t feel cheap – I’m a happily married man. Besides, Gaby let me into a few secrets I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t tell anyone else – not even her mother.

Never Name Your Baby 'Cumbernauld'

2010-02-02T07:53:00.005+10:00

I splurged a whole load of guff yesterday about how I go about getting a novel from 'I've got an idea...' to 'I'm finished!' But I didn't really go the whole hog. See, every novel needs a tag to identify it. A title. And, for me, the process of picking that tag always brings on one of my biggest nightmares.

There are writers out there who can pluck earth-shattering titles from nowhere, and God how I envy them. They hack away for a month or three creating a masterpiece, then tag their babies with names like 'Angels and Demons', 'Deathwish' or 'The Empire Strikes Back'. Lucky ****ers.

I, on the other hand, tagged one of my works 'Pretence and Palliation'. Yup, I did. Notwithstanding the obvious limitations (one day I hoped to market this novel to the Americans, who spell it 'pretense'), it just sucks. Big time. I know it sucks because I lost count of the number of people who read my work on authonomy and said, 'Jack, this is a cracker of a page-turner, but what's palliation mean?' I had another go. 'Beyond Reasonable Doubt'. Better...but I still hear sucking.

I knew then that getting the title right was going to take a horrific few months, and I knew there would be sleepless nights, sweaty brows and much scoring with that blood-red pen. After all, I'm the man who once wrote a short article about constipation and called it 'Winnie Won't Poo'.

What the hell was I thinking?

Now, I could start a list here of all the crappy book titles I've come up with (imagine Eddie Izzard and his renaming Gerry Dorsey to Engelbert Humperdink sketch - Zingelbert Bembledack, Tringelbert Wangledack, Slut Bunwalla, Klingybun Fistelvase, Dindlebert Zindledack, Gerry Dorsey, Engelbert Humptyback, Zengelbert Bingledack, Engelbert Humperdinck, Vingelbert Wingledanck…wait, wait, wait - go back one...), I could do that, but all it would do is annihilate any self esteem I have left as a writer. Let me just say that I think I'm learning what it takes to name my babies. When I'm conversing with friends about my latest novel and they bowl the inevitable 'So what's it called?' question, I no longer mumble 'Cumbernauld' and change the subject. I beam and say 'Brogan's Crossing' - and almost instantly I see them put a name to my lead character and begin thinking about what changes must be taking place in this guy's life to make him 'cross' to some other path. (Either that or I've bored the buggers speechless.)

And that's the secret to naming your work: knowing your work. Know it inside out. Focus on your theme, the underlying message that you're trying to get across to your readers.

Look again at those titles up in paragraph two. Each one tells you exactly what the novel is about. More than that, it tells you that the writer knows how to focus on what the story is about. But 'Pretence and Palliation'? Sheesh.

I'm not saying 'Brogan's Crossing' is the best title I could come up with, and I'm sure if I ever hook an agent or publisher she'll have (I hope) a few words to say. But it's a step in the right direction.

And if you're struggling to find the perfect title for your manuscript and you're about to turn to the Scotch, try The Random Book Title Generator. It's an excellent website for getting started.

Good luck.

Giving Something Back

2010-02-01T11:32:00.004+10:00

Some Writing Tips (from a novice)

Many new writers don't have a clue where to start finding things out; everything from how to get started writing a book; how to keep going when all you want to do is trash the thing you've spent months creating, who to turn to for help, finances, resources, blah-blah-blah. I thought I'd try to help, because I've had so much help from others in the industry. I'm no expert, believe me, but I do have a passion for writing. Knock yourselves out with this, and good luck with your writing. By the way, this is Australian-centric, since that's where I live :)

OVERVIEW

* Forget about getting rich quick. That's unlikely to happen. It might, but it's unlikely. But if it does, good for you. Uh, spare some change?

* Read self-help books (see list below for my favourites) and find out what makes a good book (and a reader) tick.

* Attend courses on writing technique, as many as you can afford

* Meet up with other writers, join on-line forums, blogs, etc - don't work in isolation.

* Know your subject.

* Sit down and write!

* Put your work aside, let it stew for at least a month. (get rid of the dead goldfish that's been staring at you for the last month, bond with the kids (or are they now young adults?), try your hardest to remember your wife's name...assuming she hasn't divorced you)

* The serious editing stage. Edit for everything you can think of. Aim to put out the best work you can. Polish, polish and polish some more!!

* Make the decision: do you want to try getting it published? Or is your manuscript destined for the bottom drawer?

* Sit down with a bottle of your choice and pat yourself on the back (no one else will do it for you) and think about how you'll reward yourself for your hard work.

THE MYTH ABOUT GETTING RICH

Let's be honest, it's not likely to happen, is it? Most novelists in Australia earn less than the minimum wage each year, so the chances are you won't be able to rely on your literary skills to pay the rates bill. There are those who make a lot of money, of course. The headline-grabbing book deals are what get our attention, after all. But for every rich writer there are a thousand on the breadline. There are many reasons why publishers, editors and agents say 'Don't give up your day job!' and that's one of them.

READ SELF-HELP BOOKS

Like any trade, few people are born with the writing skills and industry knowledge necessary to create a competitive product that publishers will feel comfortable taking a gamble on. I started by reading the 'Idiot's Guide', and worked my way through textbooks on plot, dialogue, character and viewpoint. Here's a list of my favourites, but some may be out of print:

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing / Laurie E. Rozakis, Ph.D. / Alpha / ISBN:1-59257-206-5 (excellent starting point)

The Everything Guide to Writing a Novel / Joyce and Jim Lavene / Adams Media / ISBN: 1-59337-132-2 (again, a good starter)

Novel Writing / Evan Marshall / A&C Black / ISBN: 0-7136-6852-0 (this is my bible, and you can't fail to get your novel finished using Marshall's method)

Plot and Structure / James Scott Bell / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN (13): 978-1-58297-294-7 (planning a novel? Read this...)

Twenty Master Plots / Ronald B. Tobias / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN: 1-58279-239-7 (twenty? There's really just forda and forza!)

Creating Unforgettable Characters / Linda Seger / Owl Books / ISBN: 0-8050-1171-4 (everything from paradoxes to dialogue and stereotyping)

Characters and Viewpoint / Orson Scott Card / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN (13): 978-0-89879-927-9 (great in-depth study guide)

The Author's Toolkit (a step-by-step guide...) / Mary Embree / Seaview Publishing / ISBN: 0-9700682-0-4 (how to get started, avoid the pitfalls, etc)

The Art of Dramatic Writing / Lajos Egri / Touchstone S&S / ISBN: 0-671-21332-6 (the daddy of them all, although biased towards the playwright)

The First Five Pages / Noah Lukeman / Fireside / ISBN (13): 978-0-684-85743-5 (how to avoid the rejection pile by presenting your most professional work)

Give 'Em What They Want / Blythe Camenson & Marshall J. Cook / Writer's Digest Book / ISBN: 1-58297-330-X (enter the lion's den of publishers and agents...and keep your head)

The Oxford Style Manual / R.M. Ritter/ Oxford Uni. Press / ISBN: 0-19-8605641 (grammar, style, punctuation...it's all here)

The Oxford English Dictionary / Catherine Soanes / Oxford Uni. Press / ISBN (13): 978-0-19-860454-9 (good enough for me, but try the web if you want the biggest)

Roget's Thesaurus / Susan M. Lloyd / Longman / ISBN: 0-582-55635-X (you'll never be stuck with a weak noun or verb again)

ATTEND COURSES ON WRITING TECHNIQUE

Various writer's centres and course providers can help you here. I recommend the Queensland Writers Centre as an excellent resource, and Varuna has a great reputation, too. In addition, some manuscript appraisal agencies will offer mentorships. Flood Manuscripts in particular offers a service which I consider to be second to none.

Many universities offer full-time courses on creative writing, and some offer part-time or distance learning options. Browse the web for the most up-to-date offerings.

DON'T WORK IN ISOLATION

How can you write a story about people (the crux of all tales, after all), if you shut yourself away from the rest of the world? Answer: you cannot. This is another of the reasons a publisher or agent will say 'Don't give up your day job.' Get out and about. Meet people. Watch how your friends and colleagues interact. Pay attention to the detail of their speech patterns, hand movements, eye movements, and anything else you can stare at without getting yourself arrested. It's called 'observation', and without good skills in this department you'll miss a lot as a writer and your writing will suffer for it. Even if you think you have those skills - and who am I to argue? - if you have nothing to observe, your writing will suffer.

Join a writers' group. Join a blog. Contribute, make friends and be sociable. The side-effect of that is this: you'll probably find other writers who are of the same experience level as you; they may well be keen to critique your work in return for your critique of theirs. A search of the web should trawl up some great writer's blogs.

DO YOUR RESEARCH

Research is something that can be your friend, and your worst enemy. When you've done your research, you can write with authority, write with more passion,and more confidence. Your writing takes on a believable feel to it and every reader will appreciate it.

When research takes over your project, however, it's your worst enemy. Background research can become an excuse not to write anything for days or months on end, because 'I'm researching at the moment...' Yeah, right. Many writers do just enough background research to get them started on their stories. As they write they leave 'stubs', little marks on the page (I use three question marks in square brackets - [???]) to tell them they need to do some follow-up research on some small detail, also known as 'spot research'. When you start writing your draft, do not stop. If you need to check something out, do it later, if you can, and leave yourself a note on the page that you need to follow up.

SIT DOWN AND WRITE

The tautologists among you will be tisking and tutting - sit down and write...Okay, so lesson 1 is: keep your writing tight! But whatever you do, before you've got anything to edit, get it down on paper first. And that takes a hard slog. Most fiction comes in somewhere between 50,000 to 300,000 words (drat those fantasy bricks), but even 50,000 words takes a bit of doing. I write crime thrillers, so I'm aiming at the 90,000-110,000 word market.

One thing's for sure: if you don't get yourself in front of your computer (please, don't use a typewriter...or a chisel and sandstone, it's so passé) you'll never get anything written.

I know it's hard sometimes. Hard to get started. Hard to keep going. Hard to stop, for some folk. I get round those problems by working to a plan. It's an organic plan that changes a little as my story matures, but it's still a map of where I'm going. In builder speak, 'I need to know roughly where to erect my trusses'), Usually, I aim at a specific milestone. I don't have to achieve that milestone in a day, or any particular time frame, but I make myself sit at my computer for a given amount of time each day. You can do the same. If nothing comes, go over something you've already written - it'll probably spur you to write something else.

Another thing I do is get something under my belt before I have breakfast - even if it's only 350 words (about a page). It helps me because I see that I've already started on my day, and my goal is that little bit closer. Someone I read once, called it the 'nifty three-fifty'. That works for me.

On a good day I aim to write 1,500-1,700 words. Sometimes it's more, sometimes it's less. If I complete those words (let's take the average i.e. 1,600) in, say, eight hours, it will take me about an hour to write 200 words (this is drafting). At that speed, it'll take me 550 hours to complete the discovery draft (first draft) of a 110,000-word novel. That's a long time. It's a long time to be looking forward to having a completed draft that I can start to polish. It takes resolve, commitment, patience. But if I can do it, you can do it. WRITE!

EDITING YOUR DISCOVERY DRAFT

Note: it's called the 'discovery draft' because this is where you discover all your plot holes, weak characters, poor dialogue, etc

Sort the obvious spelling mistakes - running spell checker as you write the draft just doesn't work for me because it slows me down, gets in my way.
Sort the obvious grammar mistakes - again, grammar checking now will help.
Think about your chapter breaks - you'll want to prompt your readers into reading on to your next chapter, so start thinking about how you can heighten the tension.

STEW IT

Now, put the thing away and have a break from it. Get some distance between you and your characters, your plot, your writing style. Go to Corfu. Visit the Himalayas. Take some chocolate to the guards outside Buckingham Palace. Whatever you do, take your mind off your novel and have a break. For at least a month.

SERIOUS EDITING

Like it or not, editing is essential if you're to send out your best work. And why would anyone send out anything less than the best? Printouts work best for me at this stage. I need to see what's on the page from a reader's perspective. Print it double-spaced, so that you can annotate without being too cramped. This editing procedure is iterative. I may take you ten edits, it may take you forty. Don't give up. It's all about sending out your best work - either to publishers and agents, or to your friends and relatives. Whoever you intend showing your work to, surely it's also you that's on show. Don't be scruffy.

My first edits are usually for plot holes - the ones that can't be fluffed around and shouldn't be there in the first place. I rework from there, add anything that expands the story or clarifies anything that's confusing to read.

It's up to you how you edit, of course, but I go on to look at the quality of my writing: tautology; sentence structure; paragraph and chapter structure; overuse of adverbs and adjectives; wild and wonderful metaphors and similes that just don't work (my personal downfall); showing, telling, and showing and telling; dialogue that's ordinary, hard to follow or too informative. The list is almost endless for this edit. If you're writing suspense, your hook, intensity and prompts (how you hook the reader into your sentence or paragraph or chapter; how your scenes increase in intensity from beginning to end; and how you leave the reader wanting to read more - either another sentence, another paragraph or another chapter).

Once I think I'm happy enough o have someone else read my work, it's over to my good mate, Steve. I'm lucky that I have someone who I can call on to give frank, honest and knowledgeable feedback. If there's no one in your circle of friends who can (or is willing to) do that for you, it's time to check the web and get yourself into a writer's circle.

MAKING THE DECISION

It's a nerve-jangling moment, the first time you let your work out of arm's reach. I know some writers who are content to create a 90,000-word novel and let only family and friends read it. That's up to them.

I want people to read my stories. It's a personal choice for each of us. And only you can make it.

THE PAT THE BACK MANOEUVRE

The slog is over. Or is it? Depends on whether you want to try getting your work published or not. Most writers work alone (notwithstanding what I said above about getting out and about). Few non-writers recognise the hard labour involved in creating a novel - from concept to research to planning to drafting to editing to guaranteed rejection from agents and publishers who are so over-worked they don't even have time to write a polite acknowledgement of your existence (they're not all like that, of course.)

So, sit back and pat yourself on the back. You've finished a novel. You're happy with it. You've done something that few people have done.

THE WRAP

That's a very rough and ready overview of how I write, and the sub-text of it tells you why I write. You'll find ways to improve on my methodology, no doubt, so don't be afraid to do what comes naturally to you. Write the way that works best for you.

If you decide to sit and write a novel (or stand and write it...it's up to you), or a book of non-fiction - good luck. Stick with it, knuckle down and it'll be finished in no time. And the chances are you'll have something you can be proud of.

Go write it. And good luck!

Daffith - The Idiot's Apprentice

2010-01-31T16:42:00.006+10:00

I told you a while back that I’m an idiot. But just in case you’re under the impression I’m the only idiot from my village, here’s a story about my greatest rival for the post of Village Idiot.

I was out with some friends a few weeks back, at a place called Manly, a suburb of Brisbane way out on Moreton Bay – seafood, sand, swaying palms, kids chucking footballs at pelicans – and there’s a marina full of all kinds of boats (that's a picture of it.) Looking across at the masts and gel coat gleaming in the sunshine, I supped a few coldies and thought of a summer sailing trip I took with a couple of mates when I was a younger man back in Scotland. Let’s just call these guys Daffith and Norbert. That’s their names, after all, and us idiots like to keep things simple.

Norbert came up with the idea of ‘the boys’ heading away for a weekend on his yacht, while ‘the ladies’ went off and did whatever it is ladies do. So we packed provisions (beer and a bottle opener) and drove across to the west coast where Norbert had The Wee Beastie moored at Dunstaffnage marina, near Oban. There are lots of uninhabited islands around there, and the marina has a pub called The Wide Mouthed Frog – a great combination of facilities if you like beer and sailing.

We arrived in Dunstaffnage just after seven on Friday night. The plan was we’d spend the evening sailing down the coast to Kerrera, a small island just south of Oban, anchor there for the night, then on Saturday morning sail to Tobermory, the hip-swinging razzmatazz and gambling capital of the island of Mull (population: three sheep and a retired school janitor).

Norbert parked the car and I nipped round to the trunk to pick up our stuff, under the assumption that we were heading down the gangplank to the yacht. Not so. Norbert had amended the plans and led Daffith and me straight into the pub (to collect his winnings on a bet, he said.) We’d have a couple of pints, then lug the gear down to the boat and head off while the light was still good.

Eight ales and six hours later, it’s pitch black and we’re singing at the tops of our voices, staggering down the nine-inch wide gangplank with five fathoms of cold Atlantic ocean a few inches either side of us – three blind idiots with no sense of balance (thanks to that beer), no sense of direction (yup, the beer again), each with a bag over his shoulder and a crate of warm beer in his hands.

Now, I can’t really recall what I’d expected from Norbert’s boat, but it fell a good few feet short of those expectations. I spent the night with Daffith’s stinky foot by my nose, and the strong pong of diesel coming from the engine compartment did nothing to ease my suffering. I craved water, but unable to find a light switch or a torch I resorted to popping a warm beer to quench my thirst. (Because? Yup – I’m a fully qualified idiot.) I was all beered out by the time the sun came up just after 4am (Scottish summers can be so unforgiving to the afflicted), but believe me when I tell you I was positively sprightly compared to Daffith.

Norbert’s insistence that we stuff a hearty breakfast into us before getting under way was probably what caused Daffith to barf. Frankly, I found the gentle swell of the harbour quite therapeutic, especially so since it was mingling with the aroma of bacon and eggs sizzling away on the stove. But Daffith turned his back and chucked an imperial bucketful all over the boat next door – much to the displeasure of the retired couple only a few feet from us who were, at that very moment, washing down their decks.

I don’t know what all the fuss was about – they had their bucket out anyway; and no real harm was done. Maybe they were peeved that we’d woken them at 2am with our inglorious rendition of ‘New York, New York’. In any case, Daffith started to get some colour back on his cheeks after our neighbours’ swearing had blown itself out. Then we were off to Tobermory.

Norbert manoeuvred us out of the harbour about noon and I suppose that’s just about when I realised I had some genuine competition for the title of Village Idiot. Our Captain handed out life jackets (the type that come with a gas canister that inflates the thing when you pull a rip cord – the asthmatic’s delight) and insisted we put them on – the sea was rough. Rough enough to set Daffith off again.

Feel free to picture the scene: Daffith draped over the gunnel, chundering into the grey Atlantic ocean, which is doing its best to slam the boat hard enough to make him fall in. After a while he takes a break and joins us up at the tiller, making light of his condition but studiously avoiding the word ‘beer’. The sails are whipping something fierce, the boat’s bucking like a bronco with fleas and the salt spray has us all soaked. Even Norbert’s turning a bit limey, so I look at Daffith - and that’s when I notice his life vest is on back to front. I’m just about to tell him when a wave knocks us sideways. Daffith falls backwards, almost toppling over the side and into the water, and in his blind panic to grab something to steady himself he pulls his rip cord and inflates his back-to-front life jacket.

I realised three things that windy afternoon on the Atlantic ocean halfway to Tobermory. First, if the wind changes its mind and says you ain’t going to Tobermory, then you ain’t going to Tobermory. Second, Daffith’s eyes bulge like footballs when he’s choking. Third, I have some serious competition for the title of Village Idiot.

Haggii and Their Addresses (by KazzaBP)

2010-01-24T02:34:00.017+10:00

When I first met Jack Ramsay, I was a naive girl. I knew little about Scotland... or Australia, for that matter. Befriending a man 'from away' has been a very interesting experience. Educational, to say the least.

Way back then I asked Jack what, exactly, a haggis was. If you've read his blog posting, 'The Idiot', you have an an idea of the tale he told me. And, like the trusting girl I was, I believed him. It wasn't until some time later that I discovered the truth; that haggii are NOT snorkle-nosed pond dredgers with ferocious attitudes, but rather, they are mild-flavored plants that grow on an island off the coast of Scotland. The same island where Scotch tape was invented, in fact! If you're not familiar with the succulent plant, it is similar to a cactus. (Two or more of them are called cactii, of course. Haggis, haggii. Cactus, cactii.) I can't believe it took me so long to figure out he was pulling my leg! Snorkle-nosed pond dredger, indeed! Who, in their right mind, would eat one of those??

Jack thinks he's so smart! But he can't fool me... I always discover the truth!

Below is Burns' famous Address to a Haggis. I love this poem. I've memorized it, even though I know that my pronouciations are off and I don't have a Scots accent. I am The Butcher of Burns, no doubt about it. In celebration of Burns Day, which Jack has told me is January 25th, and to commemorate the publication of Jack's 'The Idiot' in my hometown newspaper, The Irregular, I've written my own poem about haggii. For even though I now know the truth, I will forever think of haggii as fierce little Scottish critters who dredge their pond bottoms with their snorkley noses. Sheesh. I used to be so gullible!

Address To A Haggis
by Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

Address of a Haggis (i.e. The FARM, 252 Spruce Pond Road, Territory 2 Range 1, Bingham-Kennebec Purchase, West of the Kennebec River, Maine, USA)
by Kazza for Jack

A Scotsman told this girl from Maine
That haggii roamed our hills and plains,
Our Highlands split, the clansman claimed
In times long past.
And when they rent t’was left behind
A dredger fast.

This Highlander had honest face.
Alas, in Maine there is no space
For haggii to take o’er the place.
Not at The FARM!
Their snorkel-nose does cause disgrace!
(T’is long’s my arm!)

Now Scotsmen on their wee small isle
Believe the haggii can beguile
Large men who find the kilt in style
(Like Scotsmen do)
And then, a peek makes this girl smile,
(Yup, they’ve got two!)

These clansmen cinch their armor up
To hunt the haggii for their sup
(I think that they should wear a cup
While on the quest.
For haggii, fierce, will always lunge
At groin or chest!)

These hairy Scots are not afraid
They capture dredgers when they raid
The pond; through thigh-high water wade
To snare the beast.
With nets and ropes, they make the grade
And have their feast.

While over ‘cross the Pond, in Maine
This native girl has made it plain
She’d rather all the ponds to drain,
She learned a lesson.
From on the shore she takes her aim…
Fires Smith and Wesson.

Not only does she have her prize,
The bullets, they did tenderize
The haggii, which are bigger size
Than Scotsman’s beast.
(Of course they are! We feed them well
Herein, Down East!)

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
Remember Scots, and how they fare,
Those kilted men still use the snare
But it’s not fun.
Wee sleekit coorin timorous beasties
Die best by gun!

Happy Robbie Burns Day, Jack.
**************************************
Photo of Loch Katrine in Scotland copyright by Tina and Andrew Thomson. Photo of Flagstaff Lake, Territory 4 Range 4, BKP WKR Maine (USA) by Chuck Bessey

The above photo was taken in Gray (note: spelled with the proper 'a', instead of 'e') Maine. The emblem on the uniform is like an old friend to me: My father wore that same one for the first 19 years of my life. The large-sized gentleman to the right is a bull moose, and as you can see, I could not possibly confuse him with a Scottish haggis. He might be 'sleekit' and a 'beastie', but 'wee coorin tim'rous' he's not!

The Idiot (by Jack Ramsay)

2010-01-07T10:03:00.007+10:00

I’m Jack Ramsay, and I’m a gullible idiot.

There. I thought I’d best start with honesty. I’m also a husband, a writer of the most frustrated kind, a pen-pal to Maine’s very own magnificent Karen Bessey Pease , and an immigrant to Australia. But, back to the idiot thing, if you’ll indulge me.

An idiot, if dictionaries are to be believed, is a layman; a stupid person. But some definitions go further and describe me – sorry, ‘idiots’ – as having an intelligence quotient of less than twenty-five. Okay, so I might have an IQ slightly higher than that, but having the combined brainpower of six idiots, in my book at least, still makes me a lot of idiots. The word ‘gullible,’ of course, isn’t in any dictionary. Check it out if you don't believe me...

Such claims are all very well, in a ‘Saturday night after a few beers with the boys’ kind of way, but I have irrefutable evidence stretching over many years to corroborate my assertion. The examples are many, and the good Lord knows they’re varied in the extreme, but let me take you back to the day I first realised just what it takes to secure the title ‘idiot of all he surveys.’

I grew up in Scotland, on a farm that nestles in the foothills of the Ochil Mountains near Perth, gateway to the Highlands. Okay, truth time again, they’re Hills. But if you stand at the bottom and look up, knowing you have to get to the top, they’re pretty daunting in a grassy, rounded, picnic-on-a-Sunday kind of way.

After school I’d hang around the smoky little bothy where my dad and a few of the farm men retreated to fix their machinery when it broke, as it often (rather conveniently) did in winter when it’s too cold and rainy and mucky to be outside.

One afternoon at the end of March I was sitting on my favourite five gallon drum, ignoring the wrestling rats in the corner and trying my hardest to emulate my peers – drinking overly sweet tea that had been stewing on the fire since breakfast, laughing at the right times and nodding at the wisdom spouting forth from such admirable fellows – when something Grieg the Grieve said made my ears prick up. The ‘Grieve’ is the foreman, incidentally.

He was planning a haggis hunt. The very next day!

Sure, I’d eaten haggis before, many times – I’m a Scot, and there isn’t a Scot alive who doesn’t incessantly crave the succulently meaty flesh and sweet wood fired flavour of the most cunning prey on the moors – but I’d never been on a hunt. Platefuls of haggis had always magically appeared from my mother’s kitchen, surrounded by the ubiquitous guard of honour of mashed tatties and chappit neeps (also known as ‘mashed turnips’ in the English-speaking world.)

When I questioned the origins of our national dish the shepherds and drovers laughed at me, then I sat listening in awe as they told of the last great Perthshire haggii hunt (‘haggii’ is the plural of haggis, just for reference – say hag-eye) which had claimed the lives of four novice hunters in a netting gone wrong. The more they divulged of that fateful morning some ten years before, the more I found myself compelled to claim my right to hunt the haggii. I saw my chance to prove myself.

I, Jack Ramsay, would become the youngest haggii hunt champion in living memory!

And so, after one or two well-placed hints from me, the anvil played host to a whispering confab, and when the huddle broke up I was invited along to what promised to be something extra-ordinary: we were to stalk the (apparently) infamous snorkel-nosed pond-dredging mountain haggii – a very dangerous species, but the tastiest of them all. Barely able to contain myself, I leaned closer as Grieg the Grieve outlined in hushed tones the equipment we would need, and his plan of attack.

We were to leave for the ponds by sun up. My dad agreed to call the school and inform them of my absence – it wasn’t every day that a boy became a man, so a day out of class was acceptable, even laudable.

Next morning I rose before dawn, taking care to follow Grieg the Grieve’s instructions to the letter. After all, what idiot would squander his chance at infamy by failing to rendezvous at the meeting place or bring the essential tools of the haggii hunt or wear every last item of protective clothing necessary to tackle an amphibious horde of such devious beasts?

Not I! I’m Jack Ramsay!

In the next room I heard my father preparing himself for the hunt, talking in whispers with my mother and enjoying his first joke of the day – he was always such a considerate, jovial man – but my tasks were pressing and I had no time to share in that particular hilarity. I made a few final checks, zipped myself up and struggled the half-mile to the school bus stop, where I was to be collected by Grieg the Grieve in his Land Rover. Then to the hills, where we’d meet my father.

So it was that I found myself waiting impatiently by the side of the road in the farm manager’s holey old wetsuit, his lead weights around my waist and his snorkel by my ear, ready to dredge every pond in Perthshire in search of my quarry. So it was that my knees came to buckle under my burden of fishing nets, wooden stakes, sledgehammers and oxygen tanks, a combination which, even on that cold April morning, brought sweat to my brow and a desert to my throat.

And so it was that, as the school bus rounded the corner and headed towards me, its occupants’ mouths agape, their fingers pointing, I realised without a shadow of a doubt – I’m a gullible idiot.

But, like I said, the word 'gullible' isn't in any dictionary...

NB: No haggii were harmed in the telling of this story.

First published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA – June 2009

Trapped Between the Slats (By KazzaBP)

2009-11-27T09:09:00.009+10:00

I'm trespassing here on DUD without my pal Jack's prior knowledge. Jack is a dedicated writer, and he's been busy lately doing some serious writing and editing. I, on the other hand--while a writer--have been doing nothing but flubbing off. Twiddling my thumbs while I wait for the inspiration to create the next great American novel. It's a good thing I'm a patient woman, that's all I can say.

Anyhoo, don't blame Jack for the content of this blog entry. The man can't be held responsible for this woman's wayward mind and sometimes uncouth sense of humor. He'll either forgive me when he reads this, or he'll quickly delete. I'll chance it, and see. I'm not working on an amazing novel like Jack is...but I AM brave. And just a little bit foolish, too.

Okay, gals and guys, grumblers and grinners! Have you read it? Have you scanned down through this article? Have you paused--lingered, perhaps--as the image seared itself in your mind, like it did mine?

Get it out!!! By all that’s hairy, shrunken, and shriveled, get it out! And I don’t mean get what’s hairy, shrunken and shriveled out of the CHAIR! That’s HIS problem! I mean get the image out of my mind!

Oh, for Pete’s sake! For MARIO’S sake!

Good Lord.

There is so much wrong with this picture, this story, this newspaper article! First off, the question must be asked…what makes ‘news’. Hmmm? Seriously, is this ridiculous episode worthy of being memorialized in print? Distributed to thousands of unsuspecting readers? Will this man—this naked swimmer/sun-bather—ever be able to show his face in public, again? For, as sure as the sea is salty, the poor fellow’s nether regions will forever be associated with his name! Mario Visnjic! Is it fair to do that to someone who is, quite obviously, not all ‘there’. (Because some of him was trapped between chair slats, you see…)

Heh. What an idiot. And Mario, if you are a reader of DUD or GAG, I would say that to your face, too. I’d hug you while doing it (if you were dressed, that is), but I’d tell you true.

You’re a dipstick.

How long have you had those things? Most of your life, I would assume. Certainly long enough to recognize your little buddies’ vagaries and propensities! Holy smokes…

I’ve simply got to say this. IF I was a man, and IF I was brazen enough to go swimming in the nude at a public beach, and IF I was then so dim-witted that I’d sit in a SLATTED chair afterwards…well. There’s no doubt about it. If my Joe Fridays got wedged (good Lord!) between two pieces of wood, I would never—and I repeat, NEVER!—call Beach Maintenance for help. No way, no how!

Could the discomfort of being trapped in my chair ever compare to the humiliation factor involved when total strangers then have to cut me out of it? Because, of course, they couldn’t cut me out without LOOKING at me! Arrgh! I can picture it, now! And I shouldn’t! No! I should never have that image seared into my brain.

And what follows the looking, Mario? The LAUGHING!!! The rolling on the ground. The gasping for breath, the side-splitting shrieks. The cell-phone calls to REPORTERS who print your humiliation in the newspaper! Maybe, even, the photographs! Because, trapped like that, I would be powerless to stop them, right? Short of lunging at them with a heavy wooden chair swinging from my…gah!!! Holy moley…no way in the world would I suffer through that humiliation. No way!

Nope. What I would do is sit still. Wait for sunset. Pass the time until the dark of night brought--not only cold temperatures--but DARK! So no one would see me!! With my private parts (for they SHOULD be private, Mario) smooshed between the slats of a chair on a public beach! A chair where other people sit!!! Did you ever think about THAT, Mario? That other people might want to recline in the sun in the very same chair that your naked, hairy bum was plastered into? Hmmm?

Aw, man…have a care for the rest of us! That’s just gross.

So…my plan of action, if I was a man who had shown a tendency to be as numb as a pounded thumb, would be to WAIT. Until the night grew cold or hell froze over--whichever came first. I’d sit there anticipating the time when those little fellows shrunk back up again. Shriveled, withered, ascended. Slipped through those wooden slats all on their own, thlupp, and released me from my confinement and my mortification.

Problem solved. Chair in one piece. Dignity intact. (All right, all right… I’m trying to be generous, here. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to hold your head up in public again, but I’m a kind woman and don’t wish to add to your humiliation. Anymore than I already have, that is…)

Chances are good that this kind of thing will never happen to the men up here in Maine. For one thing, we have no nude beaches. For another, our men tend to have more common sense than our good friend, Mario, displayed. And lastly--and most importantly—we are hardy folk, and impervious to the cold.

Mario, my friend, don’t do that again. Ever. Learn from your mistakes. But if you simply can’t help yourself, if you just can’t swim on a public beach in a suit or sit on a towel like the rest of the civilized population does, then please, man. Please.

Disinfect the chair before you leave.

American Football--What a DUD! (by Karen Bessey Pease)

2009-10-18T11:16:00.012+10:00

I think I’m in love.

And the best place I can think of to gush about this new-found adoration is here on Down Under Dunder, my pal Jack’s blog.

I’ve been in love before. The first infatuation I can recall was with Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man. Then, as a teenager, I was enthralled with horses--most particularly, McDuff, my blue roan Appaloosa. Into my twenties, I had the hots for Thomas Magnum, of Magnum, P.I. And as I matured towards my thirties, I flipped for Mr. Bessey Pease. (By the way, my husband does not come when he’s called by that name, so you’d be wasting your breath to try. At fifty years old, he’s barely housebroken, and rarely even lays down on command.)

Now… here I am in my forties. Middle aged. Like old McDuff, I’ve gotten long in the tooth. My days of fantasizing that I could run off into the sunset with my bionic dream man are a thing the past. (I still like to make that distinctly bionical, percussion-like sound when I run, though…)

What?????? Aw, c’mon!

Anyway, my new-found love is not for a man, or even a large and noble animal. (And those were, of course, completely different kinds of love. Just thought I should be clear on that…) Nope, my most recent fancy is for a game. A game where there is not just one handsome man to look at…but a whole slew of ‘em! Well-built men…men who are dressed in short shorts and have thighs like those of a Greek god.

Ah, RUGBY!!!

You understand that I am a Mainer, from the United States. The most north-eastern state in the Union. Baseball, hotdogs, apple pies and Chevrolets…that’s what little American girls are made of.

We have our own version of football up here, which is all I was acquainted with until recently. I am a fan of the New England Patriots. I’ve been known, on occasion, to have the patience to watch—for four hours straight--a game that should only last a little more than one hour. I’ve even managed to do so without screaming in frustration. Without cancelling my satellite dish subscription, or cussing too loudly, or swearing off the game forever. But see….American football was all I’d known.

Not so, anymore!

I’ve just had the pleasure of watching some awesome DVDs. Wallaby Wonders. A Decade of the Super 12s. Rugby League’s Greatest Tries of the Century. And I’ve gotta say….Rugby beats the socks off American football! And without a doubt, Rugby uniform socks are MUCH prettier than their American counterparts, too!

Naturally, I’m feeling a bit of guilt, here. Feeling like a traitor to all men with massive shoulder pads, heavy helmets and over-sized cups. But I’m an honest woman—usually to my detriment—and there is no doubt about it-- Rugby makes football look like a game for sissies.

I did NOT just say that!!! Not, not, not!!! I am a loyal American, and would never utter such blasphemous words! This is Jack Ramsay’s blog, and he must have snuck in here and tinkered with the intent of my statement, and censored my words before publication…

What I said is this: Those pro football players need to shuck some clothing and accessories!! To keep my interest from now on, they need to slide along the turf on the skin of their knees instead of the padded upholstery they currently protect themselves with. They need referees who aren’t dropping flags right and left, but who let the game be played despite the potential for bone-crushing boo-boos or slight infractions of the rules. Football players need to doff those huge helmets and let their fans see the agony on their faces when they’re tackled, or the euphoria that lights them when they’ve made a touchdown. (I know, I know…it’s called a ‘try’ here on DUD. Excuse me…I’m still a novice to the game.) Yup, to ensure my enthusiasm for the sport, the NFL players need to toughen up, and they need to undress! Grrr!

Of course, that’s just one American woman’s opinion. But I’m an honest American woman, and I think I’m in love.

Ah, rugby!

Snakes Alive! (by Jack Ramsay)

2009-10-02T07:50:00.012+10:00

One tub of lard and I'm anyone's.

I'm no stranger to snakes. I come from Scotland, after all, where the adder still rules the moors. Nah, that's crap - I walked the hills of Perthshire and beyond for years and years and years, and never once saw an adder. I think they're related to the pond-dredging haggii - they're certainly just as rare. Still, a few of my friends claim to have seen one, and that's good enough for me.

Yes, I'm from Scotland, where snakes rule.

Then I came to Australia. But I didn't just rack up here and expect to fit in. I did my homework. I found out what could sting, bite, nip, paralyse, hypnotise or even kill me. I'd list them here for you - from ants to ticks, to wasps, spiders, caterpillars (that's just taking it too far!!!), dingoes, kangaroos (they fight dirty...gouging little so-and-so's), crocs and of course snakes - but it'd take too long and I've got tea brewing. Oh, there are more. And all are in the 'most dangerous in the world' category, or 'the most poisonous...' or 'just one bite can kill a million elephants...'. You get the picture.

So, when I arrived in Australia in April 2000 with my dear lady Alison, I was alert. I was prepared. Nothing would sneak up on me and bite my bahoochie (bum). No red-backed critter would nip my cheek while I contemplated the state of the Chinese economy in the dunny at the end of the garden. Nuh-huh.

We rented a place in Perth in Western Australia, moved in, and after the removalists had gone we sat outside with a 'coldie' or three and breathed a big sigh of relief - we'd arrived in Australia at long last. The sun went down, the cloudless sky turned purple and eventually we clambered over boxes and cartons to get to the bed, exhausted from the stress of moving home from one side of the planet to the other.

I didn't get much sleep. All those documentaries I'd watched; all those natural history museums I'd visited (and all their gift-shop books I'd bought) came back to haunt me. I'd visions of huntsmen - like the one I found in my new garden shed a few minutes after picking up the keys - marauding over us as we slumbered with our mouths agape (I've seen Alison sleep like that all night - all night!) I tried to relax, thought of haggis hunting on the Perthshire moors, and was soon drifting off...

And that's when the hissing started.

It wasn't even one of those 'is it, isn't it?' moments - it was loud, unmistakable hissing. A bloody snake was in the house! Already!! I knew it sometimes happened in Australia, if screen doors had been left open. We'd had the removalists at work all day, and every door had been wide open. And I knew that snakes here are viscious, deadly, pure evil and nasty for the sake of it...

I sat up, straining for some indication that I was imagining the noise (hoping I was imagining it.) But no. It was clear as clear can be; so I poked Alison in the ribs and she confirmed I wasn't hearing things.

"Go get rid of it," she said.

I can't tell you what I said in reply - I have a reputation to uphold - but after about twenty minutes of lying there (no, I wasn't quaking, even if Alison says I was...pfft!) the noise stopped. No hissing.

Only dripping.

Well, I had to get up and have a look, didn't I? Snakes don't 'drip', do they?

Ah, it's wonderful moving to a new country. See, in Scotland we never once had to water our garden. Installing a bore water irrigation system was a home improvement project that had never crossed my mind.

The thought of killing my land lord did cross my mind, however. I mean, who the **** (thanks to Anonymous for the correct spelling of **** there) sets an irrigation system timer to come on at 4am? Eh? Who?!

Yes, I come from Scotland where snakes rule the moors, and men never have to dodge those invisible, pop-up-when-you-least-expect-it watering heads when walking on someone's lawn. Pfft. 4am.

It's been almost ten years since we arrived in Australia, and it's true what some people say - you do become used to the heat, and the mozzies...and the snakes. In fact, it's snake season now and the slithering from the rafters tells me that Malfoy the python (it's so handy having a name for each snake, I find) will be out sunning himself in a few minutes. I might just go get that tub of lard, grease myself up and see if he fancies a wee wrestle.

Here he comes now...

Published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA - November 2009

Bullying - Victims and Aggressors

2009-08-24T07:52:00.004+10:00

Ah, holidays! Vacations...call them as you see fit. I love them. There just aren't enough of them, I'd say. But, as enjoyable as they are, they must always come to an end. Sad, but true. The worst thing about the end of any holiday, imho, are the aftershocks - the work that should have been done but hasn't been...

So, while I've been away, sunning my puny body and stocking up on the vitamin D, the work's been piling up. But I'm back and ready to go again...for a while, at least :-)

Before I left off, some friends very generously wrote some articles on a topic that's close to my heart: bullying. I'd like to introduce a 'new chum' of mine (as we say here in Australia) - Kara Tamanini, author and therapist, and founder of Kids Awareness Series. Kara's a licensed therapist who works with children and adolescents with a variety of childhood mental disorders, so I'm more than ready to listen to her advice and insights on the subject of bullying. Here's Kara's article, and I think you'll find it very interesting - I know I did; so, thank you, Kara.

Bullying-Who are the Victims and the Aggressors?
Bullying has become a very widespread problem in a number of countries and is usually not reported for fear of further reprisals for the victims. First, I think we should start with exactly what bullying is and where bullying typically occurs. Bullying, by definition is a repeated, harmful act and it involves an imbalance of power. Bullying involves either verbal, physical, or a psychological attack on a victim and usually involves an aggressor trying to intimidate someone that is perceived to be weaker than them and the victim usually does not fight back. Victims also tend to be either smaller, younger, or at some disadvantage when compared to their aggressor.

The act of bullying involves physical assault, attempts to intimidate the victim, spreading rumors about the victim throughout the school, demanding that the victim give money, or tripping them. There are a number of other acts of bullying, however these acts appear to be the most common. Those individuals that bully also tend to not only be aggressive in some way to the victim but also to his/her teacher, parents, and in most of their surroundings. In addition, most bullying will occur in the school setting and not to and from school, which is a common misconception.

A question that is often asked of me as a therapist is, “why would someone bully another person”, “what happened to him/her to make him act like that?” That is a question, for which there is no clear or easy answer. What research does show us is that children that bully others tend to be those children that have parents that use physical aggression or physical means in the home for discipline. The parents of the bully tend to be disconnected or “too busy” and are usually not an active participant in the child’s day to day life. The bully tends to what to be in complete control of others and feels happy and satisfied when they are able to belittle others and make those around them suffer. These are children that usually have parent’s that do not show them a lot of affectionate and modeling of appropriate social behaviors towards other children has not been taught to them. Bullies often have poor anger control and often are children that exhibit oppositional behaviors and are also often rude; disrespectful to adults and those that they perceive to be an authority figure. Unfortunately, these are children that have not been taught the proper tools at home in order to deal with their own anger, fears, and proper social mores and skills.

The victim, on the other hand, tends to be a child that is quiet; reserved and is an easy target. These are children that usually have poor social skills and have a difficult time “blending in” at a school setting. Other children usually perceive the victim as a child that is a “nerd” or that is very awkward and the victim rarely fights back or speaks up for themselves. The victim usually has parents that are very overprotective and as a result the victim has been isolated socially from their peers and does not know how to interact easily with others. These are children that are usually smaller and physically weaker than their aggressor and are anxious; very insecure children that tend to be very unsure of themselves on most levels. From a therapeutic standpoint, the victim is usually the individual that is seen in the treatment setting due to the significance of the symptoms of depression, anxiety, etc.. that the victim suffers. Unfortunately, most victims are not seen in treatment as a result of their reluctance to report the bullying behaviors and this does not usually occur until they are adults.

Awareness of this particular widespread problem is growing and research has shown that this problem has long-term effects on the victims. Children that have been bullied tend to grow up to be anxious; insecure adults that also have unresolved feelings of anger as a result of being victimized in their youth. The victim often suffers from low self-esteem and feelings of depression that can occur long into their adult years. In addition, children that have been the aggressors often feel tremendous anxiety and guilt as adults due to their bullying behaviors as children. Most bullies also tend to continue their bullying behaviors into adulthood and their aggressive and oppositional behaviors seem to last into their adulthood. Most of society, does not want to associate with a “bully” and those individuals often have difficulty maintaining appropriate and lasting relationships.

Sadly, most bullying behaviors go unreported by the victim for a variety of reasons. Most children that are victims fear that the bully will retaliate and make their lives “even worse than it already is” (a child I saw recently in therapy told me that). In addition, the victim does not want to tell their parents because they are ashamed and do not want “to worry” their parents. Most victims have been bullied so long that they think that reporting it would not change the bullying behavior and often they do not feel that the teachers or the principal of their school would take care of the problem for them.

Kara T. Tamanini, M.S., LMHC
Author and Therapist
Founder of Kids Awareness Series
www.KidsAwarenessSeries.com

Kara T. Tamanini is a licensed therapist that works with children/adolescents with a variety of childhood mental disorders.

Old Friends Welcoming New

2009-07-20T12:38:00.003+10:00

I'd like to join Jack in welcoming Lynne Kenney! Without knowing more than the barest details about me, she accepted my request to write an article for Jack's blog. She trusted me, took me at face value, and donated her time and effort to helping parents and children learn to cope in a world that can be frightening. Bullying is a problem, and it is a BIG problem. It's not going to go away over night. If we are to be realistic, we know that some forms of bullying will always be around. And so, it is important that we teach our children (and learn, for ourselves) how to exist in a social setting. Better yet, how to thrive! What follows are some words of advice from Lynne, followed by links to some excellent resources on this serious subject. In a day or two, others will be contributing their input on the issue of bullying, from slightly different perspectives. Look for Kara Tamanini, Children's Psychotherapist from http://www.kidsawarenessseries/, and Vanessa Van Petten, teenage advocate from http://www.onteenstoday/.

FROM LYNNE KENNEY:

Making and keeping friends is a central part of entering school. Teaching your child prosocial friendship skills is a valuable part of your relationship with your children. When you teach your children friendship skills early on you can help prevent social isolation, bullying and social cruelty.

Where do you begin?

A. A few great books have been written on friendship skills. Ones from the American Girls library include: Friends: Making them and keeping them; The Feelings Book, and Stand Up For Yourself and Your Friends. For middle school children and teens, Queen Bees and Wanna Bees is a good read for parents. For parents who wish to coach their teens to health and wellness, The Parent as Coach by Diana Sterling is great for parents of teens. Michele Borba's Building Moral Intelligence is a must-read for all parents and teachers.
B. Healthy friendship skills begin with confidence and self-respect. Children who have self-esteem are able to be kind, share, and include others in their friendship circles.
C. Knowing your child's social style and what is unique about your child is another fine starting point. Emphasizing that everyone is different and we are all special in our own ways enhances acceptance and tolerance among children. Celebrate the differences!

Here are a few, little discussed, tips on helping your children develop their friendship skills.
1. As young as age four you can begin to help your child discover his or her personal style. What kind of child is yours? Help her see that she is bright, funny, articulate, caring or thoughtful. Teach her how to recognize positive social skills in others so she chooses skillful friends who are likely to share her values.
2. In order to help your child see when she is using prosocial friendship skills, comment specifically on what your child does in her friendships that shows she cares.
“When Jose hurt his arm and you offered to sit with when he could not play, that was a kind thing to do.”
“Offering your sister your sweater at the skating rink when she was cold was a thoughtful thing to do.”
3. Teach your child to observe the behavior of others non-judgmentally in a manner that helps her to see how other people behave. Talk with her about how other people respond to that behavior.
"I heard you trying to help Jane and Macy work together after they had an argument, that was loving of you."
4. As your child gets older help her develop the ability to observe the impact of her behavior on others.
How does what your child says or does impact how other respond to them. Look at it, talk about it, notice it, be kind about it. Help your child develop the skill to make choices about what they say or do.
5. Giving your children the words and actions to: a. enter into and exit social groups, b. include other people in their group and c. recognize what characteristics your child wants in his or her friends is invaluable.

Talk with your children about what makes a good friend. Write a short story or a book on what one does to show respect, integrity and honesty. If there is a school-mate who criticizes others or mocks others, that is not a friend you wish for your child to choose as a close mate. Draw distinctions between kids who are willing to lift one another up and those who desire to feel powerful by cutting others down.

Here are some sample social skills you might wish to introduce to your children one skill as a time. Role-play with your children, create positive conversations with your children and teach them the importance of learning these skills.

Sample List of Skills
• Accepting "No"
• Accepting Consequences
• Apologizing
• Arguing Respectfully
• Asking a Favor
• Asking Questions
• Being a Good Listener
• Being in a Group Discussion
• Conversational Skills
• Declining an Invitation
• Expressing Empathy
• Following Rules
• Good Sportsmanship
Developing friendship skills can be fun. So practice, play and enjoy with your children. Friendship will follow.

Lynne Kenney, PsyD
Author of the forthcoming book The Family Coach Method: Raising Good Kind Ethical Kids in a Complicated World, St Lynn's Press.

-- Lynne Kenney, PsyD
The Family CoachNorth Scottsdale Pediatrics
Author of The Family Coach Method, Oct 2009
St Lynn's Presshttp://www.lynnekenney.com/
www.twittermoms.com/profile/LynneKenney

Other helpful links:
www.bullycide.org/
www.overcomebullying.org/bullycide.html
http://www.bullycide.blogspot.com/
www.charityguide.org/volunteer/fifteen/bullying.htm
http://bullying.suite101.com/writers.cfm

A Warm Welcome

2009-07-19T10:31:00.007+10:00

A few weeks ago, my good friend Karen Bessey Pease let me read her magnificent YA novel, Grumble Bluff. The messages and themes in Karen's novel really struck a chord with me, and after searching within myself I came to realise that Karen and I share a common view on the subject of bullying.

My loathing for that type of behaviour stems from personal experience as a youngster in school, but also from stories my mother related to me, of what life was like growing up in a small village in Perthshire during the Second World War. Times were tough, thanks to food rationing and the influx of school children from Glasgow and Edinburgh. But for my mother things were even tougher. She was the eldest of a fairly large family, and two of her younger sisters were born with learning difficulties. That made them 'different' and they soon became targets for the school's bullies. Of course, as the eldest, my mother had to stick up for her little sisters.

So, having established a common bond, Karen suggested that she, and some of her friends who also have an interest in the subject, should write a column or two for the Down Under Dunder, and I'm delighted to say that very soon I'll be extending a warm welcome to Karen, to Lynne Kenney, PsyD - author of the forthcoming book The Family Coach Method - and (hopefully) many other writers who can offer support or links to online resources.

If we can ease the pain of being bullied for even just one child, it's a start.

Thunder from the bleachers...

2009-06-30T20:53:00.001+10:00

Hey, Jack! Thanks for the show of support. :o)

We Americans don't have 'bike sheds' but I think I know what you mean. We'd probably say 'meet me behind the bleachers'. Little of anything with scholastic value happens behind the bleachers. But you CAN get 'an education'.

Which reminds me, you being a Scotralian, and an opinionated one, at that (after all, you're the 'dunder' while I'm more of a 'drizzler'...)

I read an article last December which reported that bullying in Australian primary schools is in the worst category in the world! Only Kuwait, Qatar, Taiwan and New Zealand schools fared worse than Australia in this particular survey, 'Trends in International Mathmatics and Science Study'.

According to this article, Aussie school students suffer bullying at a rate almost 50% above the international average, with more than 1/4 of 'year 4' students reporting having been bullied in at least three different ways in the month before this research was conducted.

Makes me wonder what's UP, Down Under?

Still drizzling down under

2009-06-26T14:31:00.002+10:00

My thanks to Karen, there. And if anyone thinks she doesn't know what she's talking about, see me behind the bike sheds after class :)

Down East Drizzle- A Maine Author Ponders Authonomy

2009-06-26T10:53:00.010+10:00

As an author on Authonomy since the end of January, I’ve had ample time to ponder the convolutions of the site. I believe—I HOPE—that the premise behind the creation of this HarperCollins website was a just and honorable one. That it was what it touted itself to be: a traditional publishing house looking to track down new talent in a non-traditional way. By having new authors submit samples of their work, by asking them to make public a portion of the products of their talent, the folks at HC aspired to have five almost-ready-to-be-published manuscripts handed to them at the end of each month. Manuscripts that had already been reviewed by other gifted writers; and then tweaked, proof-read, and edited by the authors themselves.

It seemed like an excellent idea. It certainly sounded good to me, on that very first day when I uploaded my YA novel, Grumble Bluff .

And then I took a look around.

I’ve been a writer for most of my adult life. In the traditional manner of query letter to agent, or cover letter to publisher, I’ve submitted articles, short stories, anecdotes, and novels countless times over the years. I’ve played by the rules every time. I have the rejection letters and cards to prove it. My badges of courage, I call them. For it takes a whole truckload of willpower and nerve to continually offer up these pieces of my heart and soul to a callous and over-worked publishing industry employee. I understand that there are thousands of other authors just like me, who are waiting for the chance to tell their story. Hoping for their shot at a lucky break. I know the chances are slim-to-none that anyone in the industry will ever take the time to read my most excellent endeavor. And so, Authonomy seemed like a terrific alternative to the traditional route I’d been taking.

But, you see, we aren’t just conjurers of words. Writers are people, too. Human beings. Imperfect creatures who desire to have that end-of-the-rainbow title: Published Author. And because we ARE human, we sometimes act in ways that are not flattering to our race. Authonomy, because of the hope it tenders, has become a miasma where anticipation wars with integrity. The concept seemed sound. Have authors read manuscripts and honestly review and judge those books-in-the-making! Encourage them to make helpful suggestions and give thoughtful opinions. And if the reader truly, sincerely believed that the manuscript was publishable and/or showed great promise, then the reader would ‘back’ the book, thereby propelling it upwards towards the coveted Editor’s Desk.

Every author wants the same thing. A chance. Just one opportunity to be offered the deal of a lifetime. But, sadly, not all manuscripts are publishable. Not every story written is written well. And perhaps most importantly to a publishing house, very few of them have a commercial value. Regardless of these facts, books are very often ‘backed’ or ‘placed on a shelf’ simply to reap a return backing or to get a ‘favor’ from another member. Some members on Authonomy have literally placed their lives--and their writing--on hold while they stare at a plasma screen for hours on end, reading one t0 three chapters of a manuscript. They write a comment (or sometimes, they don’t!) often not longer than a sentence or two, and frequently with no useful words of advice—then ‘back’ the book, and move on to another. And yes, I’ve been disappointed to observe that some authors ‘back’ a book simply to make a ‘statement’, or out of spite for another author, or to receive a backing for their own book—and NOT because they believed the manuscript they placed on their shelf had what it takes to make it all the way. This ‘you back me, and I’ll back you’ negates the whole purpose of the site. And may very well snatch a publishing opportunity from a very talented writer who has too much integrity to sink to those same levels.

This is not ‘sour grapes’. I do not have a manuscript in the running for the ED. I’m not in this competition anymore, as I was fortunate enough to have a literary agent pick up Grumble Bluff. I’ve been reading for the pleasure of it, for the networking, and for the delightful experience of meeting other authors who are just like me. Men and women who have a story to tell. Kindred spirits who are facing the same struggles as I am, and who hope and pray for the same outcome that I do.

I understand frustration. I identify with desire. But this system is flawed, in my opinion. If HC truly wants to ferret out the freshest talent, this is not the way to do it. With the current Authonomy system, all HC will discover is who, exactly, is willing to bend and break the rules to get what they want. They’ll learn which authors have the ability to abandon all semblance of a ‘normal’ life, in order to devote every waking hour to promoting their books. Perhaps that is what they are looking for. A fellow Authonomite recently suggested that HC might very well be looking for those authors who are willing to give the marketing of their manuscript everything they’ve got--regardless of whether or not that manuscript exhibits great talent, imagination, mechanics or magic-making ability. Because an author who will promote a novel with religious fervor (which can be tweaked and re-worked by an expert until it is a viable money-maker) is an extremely valuable asset. I hope that’s not the case. I hope we all aren’t part of an anthropological experiment.

Because if we are, I think we’ve failed the test.

PP (premier posting)

2009-06-22T13:39:00.008+10:00

As a writer I often ponder what makes the human mind tick. What, for instance, compels obviously intelligent human beings to sit at their computers every day, often for hours on end, posting comments on other writers' work? I'm referring to the HarperCollins website authonomy.com which gives writers the chance to submit a sample of their work in the hope that it will rise to the surface and win a coveted place on the ED - the Editor's Desk. The fate of the sample thereafter would appear to be disastrous, for at the end of each month the top five samples are 'reviewed' by said 'editor' and the pattern hasn't wavered thus far: the writer spends months completing a manuscript; said manuscript is submitted to authonomy; the writer spends months schmoozing with like-minded writers; makes it to the ED; waits with baited breath for the offer of a publishing contract...only to receive a review suggesting revision.

What's the point?

Well, authonomy can lead to publishing contracts. It can lead to a writer securing a contract with an agency. But none of that good stuff has - as yet - resulted from winning a place on the ED. All that hard work, hours and hours of mutual backslapping and fake plaudits, leads to nothing.

The sad fact is that unless a sample is picked from the pile before it gets to the ED, it's destined to go nowhere.

Is that a bad thing?

Well, no - not as long as the writer is aware of the fact, and is prepared to draw the line when the sample isn't picked up.

My sample of Brogan's Crossing has been available since the middle of February, and although it's received mostly positive reviews, it hasn't been picked up by an agent or by a publisher. That tells me it won't be picked up off the ED, either. And that's why I'm giving it a few more weeks before I make it 'private' - dead horses and flogging, etc.

Updated 20100107: the horse lives! A new version will be sent out to agents soon.

Good luck to those who are still content to spend all day every day reading, commenting and backing (or just backing, as some authonomites are doing.)