Wednesday 12 December 2018

The Orb of Infinity, Second Rewrite

A few months ago my granddaughter India, who is eight and has a wild imagination began writing a Sci-Fi novel with me. For now, the main character whose name just happens to be the same as my co-author, has to save a far off planet. 
Between her inexhaustible love of adjective filled drama and my yarn-spinning skills, we hope to tell you the story of "The Orb of Infinity". 
Here is an excerpt from the first chapter in the second round of drafting.

'Cute and childish won’t work on me Princess, I haven’t time, besides we’ll be back before everyone wakes up.’ Waving her froggy finger she opened the closet, ‘now what have we got for you to wear?’ The envoy tut-tutted, saying, ‘No that just won’t do.’ pulling things out, one after another until a mountain of clothes covered the floor. ‘Stand still, we’ll need to kit you out and, Uniforms Online, are too ugly by far.’
Pointing at the mess in her room, India said. ‘Who’s going to put all of this back?’
‘It’s a little girl’s room, they’re always messy.’
Stamping her foot, India said, ‘Put all of it back now.’ and made a pointing motion toward the empty closet.
Xlora huffed and clicking her fingers, began ducking, stepping out of the way as India’s clothes flew back to where they came from. ‘You’ll just have to come in your pyjamas. We’ll pick up something on the way.’ She took India’s hand and snapped her fingers again. ‘We have to hurry.’
‘Why?’
‘Like I told you Princess.’ There was a huff of frustration to Xlora’s tone, ‘It is written and we have a planet to save.’ 

Tuesday 11 December 2018

COPYRIGHT CHANGES THAT MAY AFFECT YOU

Might be time to go through your archives and rustle through material and manuscripts lounging in hard-drives or filing cabinet drawers, because if you are a writer, film maker artist or musician, then these changes affect you.

Please log into the link below to find what is happening to Australia's Copyright Law on January the 1st 2019.

https://www.arts.gov.au/departmental-news/changes-copyright-duration



Saturday 8 December 2018

It's Been a While Since My Last Post

The Orb of Infinity

A few months back my granddaughter and I had an idea for a book that we should write together. India is eight years old and by her ninth birthday would like to have finished a 30,000 word manuscript where a character with her name is the hero. 

Here is just a taste and part of a rough first draft.


Chapter One
The soft green glow from the digits of clock on India’s bedside table had only blinked three am when a flash of silver and blue light filled the room. She woke to the feel of someone blowing softly on her cheek, stoking her hair and the soulful voice urging her to wake up.
‘Princess, it is written that you are the chosen one and you must come at once.’ A person no bigger than India’s arm was bending over her, repeating the plea.
Believing it to be a dream India tried pulled the bedclothes over her head and follow these visions until morning. The covers as if pulled by an invisible thread, rolled back.
Having gained India’s attention, she spoke, ‘My name is Xlora, special envoy to the Prime Minister of Astranada,’ then standing back, bowed. ‘and ten centuries ago it was written that one would come and free our people from the tyranny of Rahn.’ Xlora took her gloves off and hoping India would not fall back into sleep, slapped them against her thigh ‘You Princess India, are the chosen one and just as the ancients decreed. You will come.’
India started shaking, and fearing another nightmare sat on the edge of the bed. Her feet feeling for her slippers. Xlora used her frog like index finger and thumb to prise India’s eyes open, it was no use as India slipped back into a slumber. Taking a vial from the pouch on her belt and waved it under the girl’s nose. India looked around as an aura of calm washed over her.
She looked at the voice’s owner, a person no taller than her favourite doll was standing in front of her. Xlora wore a silver-blue flying jacket, an airman’s helmet, leather pants and flying boots with stiletto heels. Everything matching, only her navy-blue cravat broke the monotony of colour. Even her skin was silvery, her eyes and lips matched the cravat.
‘Go away, I have school tomorrow.’
‘You’ll have time for school later, tonight we have a planet to save.’
India reached for the light switch. ‘I’d better tell Mum.’
Xlora’s hand stopped her. ‘We have no time for that, quick we must go now.’
‘We’ll be back before they all wake up.’ She opened the closet, ‘now what have we got for you to wear?’ The envoy tut-tutted, saying, ‘No that just won’t do.’ pulling things out, one after another until a mountain of clothes covered the floor. ‘Stand still, we’ll need to kit you out and, Uniforms On-line won’t cut it.’
Pointing to the mess in her room, India said. ‘Who’s going to put all of this back?’
‘It’s a little girl’s room, they’re always messy.’
‘Put all of it back now.’ She managed through a yawn.
Clicking her fingers Xlora huffed, ducking and stepping out of the way as India’s clothes flew back to where they came from.
‘You’ll just have to come in your pyjamas. We’ll have to pick up something on the way.’ She took India’s hand and snapped her fingers again. ‘We have to hurry.’ And with that, she started rubbing the screen on India’s iPhone until a whirlpool appeared, took India’s hand and stepped into the swirling black hole of nothingness engulfing the room.

Sunday 3 September 2017

Father's Day

Lionel & Terry Probert 1949
Symes Home
Government Road Orroroo
South Australia





It takes awhile to appreciate
all the things that made you great
Meeting mum then the wedding
and making a home
Showing me through thick and thin
You'd be there
No matter the trouble I was in

I was nearly thirty the night you died
And the way I felt I could not hide
It was your funeral first
and things to do
A million things to fill my mind
all the tasks I took for granted
Blossomed in the seeds you planted

Now sitting here on Father's Day
To talk to you and the things I'd say
I'd show you photos of my family
Their homes their cars
But most of all
I'd show you photos of
My grandchildren growing tall

To young to die when you went away
Your values make me
The man I am today


Sunday 27 August 2017

A Marriage

 A MARRIAGE

The Pain You Bear, Is the Pain We Share


It’s that pleasure and pain time again
Her head will for days now thump
She lifts her hand to feel blood pump
It’s been with her a long long time
She smiles and says
“Long enough to call it mine”

I look at her and she at me
Pain was writ where her smile should be
She’s tried a vast array of pills
Pounded pavement round the doctors
And paid their bills
It’s not a migraine or so they say
Take this pill and it’ll go away

Another year and the pain’s still there
And silver streaks highlight her hair.
Her smile is still where it belongs
And she takes my hand and makes me strong
I find comfort in what she can do
She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze
And we turn our faces to the breeze

While the sun begins to set upon our life
I gaze at her and see all the wonder

And the beauty of you, my wife





EDNA PROBERT
Orroroo
1948

Friday 18 August 2017

Autograph books tell us a lot

This is an entry my father Lionel Probert wrote in his Sister in Law's Autograph Book, I'm led to believe that it's his work, but can't be sure. What it does do is express the loneliness Aussie servicemen felt when they were away fighting. I'm just thankful he made it home and met my mother.

Take a moment to put yourself on a Pacific Island in 1942 then read these words and reflect on our own situation today.



Tuesday 15 August 2017

Author's Lament (first draft)

My pride and joy from a former life has nothing to do with my yarnspinner's life today, but it reminds me of who and what I was, in the spring of yesterday


AUTHOR'S LAMENT


So I got a little story
And this much is what I know
Hours and hours of writing
Before it’s good enough
For the editor to go
Then back to me
And back to she
Edits by the score
Until at last it’s finished
In a package by the door.

Then off to beta readers
To tell us what they like
Or tell us what is wrong
And all the time
I wring my hands
And sing a simple song

Please oh please mister publisher
Take my letter from your pile
And please don’t
Consign it to the bin
For it took a lot of time to create
The character and plot
Just to drag you in

With my finger on the send button poised
The whole shebang has gone
To somewhere in an editor’s office
Where I hope you’ll take
Just a minute of your time
To read the cover letter
And synopsis of the plot
Because after months of writing

This is the best I’ve got