Voss - The Price of Innocence, Manuscript Assessment

A few weeks ago I received the following from Merlene Fawdry, the editor who worked wonders with my novel Kundela. Reading this again made me feel a little chuffed and for aspiring writers an assessment like this is gold.

The manuscript has now had a copy edit and several proof reads, all it needs now is a publisher.

Wish me luck

MANUSCRIPT ASSESSMENT

Manuscript: Voss

Author: Terry L Probert

Genre: Crime

Word Count: Approx. 57,000

Date: 18 January 2015

Editor: Merlene Fawdry

Summary

The story is built on layers of intrigue that make it a compelling read. The quality of the writing is high and shows a crafting of all elements that make a complete whole. There are some areas requiring attention and these are listed under the relevant categories below.

Story Concept

This is a solid crime story that follows a series of murders through from detection to resolution. Along the way the lawmaker becomes a suspect law breaker, when a perceived conflict of interest is detected, sidelining him from the case. Determined to prove his innocence and bring the killer to justice he works behind the scenes with a reclaimed dropout from society, 

Plot

The plot has sufficient conflict and resolution, with carefully crafted rising action woven as subplots throughout the chapters, to keep the reader interested from first page to last. Most importantly, it is realistic and believable.

Characters

The characters are well developed, some more than others, with most evoking emotional responses from the reader. Although stereotypical to some degree, in terms of the setting, they manage to retain their own sense of uniqueness that is required to set this story apart from others in this genre. I have some difficulty with the relationship between Una and Voss. At times this is inappropriately flirty, considering their rank, even though they go back a long way. You get it right when he states he sees her as more of a sister and it would work better if she responded with this parameter. Consider revising last para on P 150.

Structure

There is a clear beginning, middle and end, with each component serving the story as a whole. It has a strong opening, which is well written, graphic and enticing to the reader. The middle, which is most of the book, is a marvel of plots and subplots that are believable and all relevant to the bigger picture.  The end, when it comes, is surprising, yet believable and satisfactory to the reader. Another strength of this ending is the sympathy and understanding it invoked in the reader. Well done.

Point of View

The first person POV is consistent throughout. It works well to give immediacy to the story while allowing the reader insight into the protagonist’s thought processes and actions. We hear Voss’s voice loud and clear and this helps the reader in the knowing of the man.

Pacing

The plot move at a pace fast enough to grasp and maintain the reader’s interest. There are a couple of places where it flags a bit due to a deviation from the story line and these are mentioned below.

Chaptering

Chaptering has been masterfully done, finishing each with satisfaction for the reader while propelling the reader into the next chapter.

Language

The use of language is fresh and appropriate to the characters or narrator most of the time, the dialogue is realistic and immediate and research into the subject adds authenticity to word choices.

 An example of ambiguity:

I dumped everything into my brief case and started to unplug the laptop.

‘Leave that and your car keys. I’ll need this for somewhere to drop in to check up on things and I’ll use your car too, at least until you get back.’ She turned and I opened the door for her. She leant in and whispered to me, ‘That’s if you do get back.’ And not for the first time, I watched Una Knight leave my office.

I’m not sure what this means or even why she would need to use his laptop and car when she would have her own. If her taking these things is important to the story then there needs to be a disclaimer in there somewhere, like maybe her own car is out of action – going in for a service or repairs and she’ll use his to save requisitioning another one from the pool her use. You would also need to have a concrete and believable reason for her to use his laptop instead of her own.

Fictional Dream

Writer and teacher John Gardner had a concept he called the fictional dream, which was the idea that fiction does its job by creating a dream state for the reader, and as long as the writer is doing a good job of maintaining that dream state, the reader won't "wake up" from it and will continue to read and believe in the fictional world the writer has created. Gardner argues that this fictional dream first happens in the writer's head, and the writer's job is to write it down for the reader.

I felt the Fictional Dream was established early in this work and maintained throughout through fast paced plotting and use of language to create imagery to enable the reader to step inside the story. Areas that detract from this are mentioned below.

Distractions and issues

A distraction for me was in the selection of names that dated the characters, giving the impression that either they, or the work itself, were older than intended. One older name might slip past the reader, conjuring an image of parents thinking outside the box or using a family name. Use too many, and the work and the writer become dated. Older names in this category include: Una, Baz (Barrie- even the spelling doesn’t save this one), Gerry (Roger), Ronald, Marion, Dulce, while names that work for this contemporary story are Estelle, Gabby, Lucy, Tamsyn, Patrice, Brigitte, Steph etc. and all the ethnic names, with Tony and Peter just scraping through.

I took on board your desire to keep her name and have taken the following approach on P21:

‘For Christ’s sake, Voss. I must have told you to call me Una, a hundred times.’

‘But these days, you’re my superior ma’am.’ Besides, I didn’t really like the name. It reminded me of a fusty great aunt and this Una was anything but. I remember her telling me once her parents choose the name for it for its Gaelic meaning, “she knows”, well they got that right. Someone just forgot to add “it all’ on the end of it.

When building characters, once their age has been established, one tip is to research names used in their year of birth and choose from these. This adds authenticity to the work, while not placing the writer into a particular age demographic. This can be quite challenging at times for the older writer as using contemporary names that we aren’t used to hearing can take us out of our comfort zone.

Regarding Gerry, apart from his name which puts him in the 60 + age range, I recommend you revisit a number of facts about this character.

1. If he had been living for several years as a homeless person with a penchant for drink, his habits would be established and it would be virtually impossible to make the rapid and almost seamless transition back to the world of the living.
   
   ‘Don’t you ever want your old life back?’ I had heard about him once in a police economics lecture, a bloke who’d had it all. An eighties entrepreneur who made it in property development. He’d ridden the crash out in the nineties, but the GFC smashed him. Seven years later and he’s living in my front yard.
2. If he had a problem with drink then one assumes he is an alcoholic, then having alcohol around him in any form would be a recipe for disaster, before or after he moves in.
3. Homeless people don’t live in suburban front gardens, particularly in the garden of a cop, as they usually hang closer to services for ease of access, so I think this needs to be reconsidered. A solution could be to have Voss living in a townhouse closer to the CBD or welfare service precinct.
4. No cop would have a homeless person living in the front yard so to make this believable you’d need to establish a former relationship. This doesn’t need to be complex, maybe consider Gerry as a former cop before moving into the world of finance, perhaps someone who was at the academy at the same time.

There is a section, pages 53 – 56 which does nothing to progress the story and I wondered why it was in there at all. It didn’t work for me and I suspect any reader from the LBGT community may find it offensive, which I know is not your intention.

There is some confusion around Estelle’s will. If she was divorced from her husband and had a legal will naming beneficiaries then the order of death is academic.

Other recommendations

P 46 reference to Voss collecting ex pursuit cars. This crops up later with the mini and the subject of garaging the collection hasn’t been broached. Also the mini isn’t mentioned when first the garage is first referenced in relation to setting Gerry up in there. You could take care of this by mentioning storage elsewhere.

I went to the police garage. Eddie the manager knew I collected pursuit cars and kept me informed about anything special that was coming out of service. I’d have to pull back on this at some stage though as my storage unit was almost at capacity.

P 107

‘Thanks, I think I might slink over to Patrice, see how she’s doing.’ I put another twenty on the bar. ‘Order up boys or leave the barman a tip, up to you.’ They ordered drinks and Beach counted the change, they had enough for a couple more.

$20 probably wouldn’t buy a glass of water in this place so maybe increase this to a fifty.

All in all Terry, this is an exceedingly well crafted story that only requires minor tweaks before the final edit, although it is always your choice as to whether you accept the suggestions for change. I look forward to hearing your views.

Merlene

18 Jan 2016

Two Engagement Rings Don't Make A Marriage

I'm a good way into the edits of the follow up story to Kundela, in this passage Jeff Rankin one of the supporting characters has asked Tilly to marry him, but she has a problem with the engagement rings. Check it out as she chats with one of her friends.

-------------

‘What do you mean you have two rings?’ Angela said. ‘You sure you’re not being a bit greedy there, girl?’

‘Ah, it’s not that. I wanted us to find a jeweller and choose the one we liked, that’s all. I don’t want to seem ungrateful and I can’t favour one family over the other, but if I’m truthful, neither of these is me. Do you know what I’m getting at, or am I just being a bitch?’

‘If, I ever get the chance,’ Angela her nodded head toward Andy and rolled her eyes. ‘If ever I get asked, I’d want to pick my ring too. Either that or...’

Tilly took a ring from her pocket and dropped it into Angela’s open hand.

‘My god girl, look at those stones? Your problem is one I’d like to share.’ She slipped a ring onto her finger and stretched her arm out. ‘Uhmm, no not really my style either.’

Tilly passed her the other ring and said. ‘I know, after lunch Jeff asked Em if she wanted to look at Ted’s cattle, chooks and horses.’ Tilly looked around to make sure Jeff couldn’t hear her and whispered. ‘Ted and I were in his kitchen talking, you know, trying to get to know each other better. Well, Ted said he’d spent almost three month’s wages on this ring. Imagine that, sitting on a horse tailing along behind cattle for all that time and knowing when you got home, you’d blow all your wages on an engagement ring.’

‘Wow, a fair bit to put into a ring?’

‘That’s why it’s so hard, he said, he picked it out and all. Told me it was the best move he ever made.’ Tilly heard her own voice crackle with the images Ted’s story conveyed. ‘I saw tears in his eyes when he gave it to me. God, I don’t want to piss him off or Jeff either, but just I don’t like it.’

Angela was rotating Ted’s ring around in her fingers, letting the light catch the diamond. She gave it back and Tilly passed her the other one. This was older and made of rose gold. A smaller diamond, mounted high on white gold and ringed with rubies, its style came from another era.

‘They are ugly, aren’t they?’ Tilly said.

‘Yep, what does Jeff say?’

A little bit from KUNDELA

To celebrate the finishing of my Detective Voss manuscript, I thought I'd like to share a little bit from my first novel Kundela. The setting is Port Augusta, at the cross roads from Pert to Sydney and Adelaide to Darwin. Regarded as the gateway to South Australia's outback Port Augusta has many attractions to interest the visitor.  

In this chapter Senior Constable Jeff Rankin has asked his superior about getting forensics to examine the remains of a dead steer clay panned (shot and dressed on its skin) on the Gillespie's property, Wanooka's Well. The sergeant has another plan.

Commended in the FAW Christina Stead Award 2013 

Kundela is available through the Kindle Store for less than $3.00 for another 2 weeks.

The Sergeant had stored an assortment of tools in the back of the patrol car earlier and now, with a frozen cow’s head riding alongside everything they needed, the two officers drove to the gliding club. Jeff unlocked the gate and swung it open, red dust powdered by the car’s wheels hung in the still mid-morning air as Jeff returned to the passenger seat.

‘What’ve you got planned?’

‘Watch and learn Jeffery boy. Watch and learn. When I was a kid, I was fishing out in the gulf and caught this big spider crab,’ He indicated its size by taking his hands from the steering wheel, stretching his arms across the width of the car, ‘My old grandad showed me how to keep it as a trophy and that’s what we’ll do with this one.’

Doug Simpson stopped the car and pointed to a bare patch of ground near a stand of acacias that defined a long established bull ant’s nest. He opened the boot and took out a toolbox. It contained a mix of spanners, knives, string, pliers and tape.

‘Here Jeff, put these shopping bags over your boots, use the rubber bands to seal them against your trousers. You won’t want any of those angry little buggers getting into your strides. I parked back a way, because I don’t want any of them riding back to the station with us.’

Jeff watched as his boss worked, setting up his bush laboratory. Ants reacted to the vibrations coming from movement near their nest and streamed out in angry lines, ready to attack the intruder. A deft hand sent the lid from a twenty-litre paint tin, frisbee style into the centre of the nest, stirring them up even more.

Jeff wondered what an onlooker would make of two police officers dancing around in the scrub. He looked at the ground, high stepping, trying to keep away from the insects, and then he worked it out. Studying his footprints in the sand more closely he yelled, ‘Modern day Kadaichi Man. That’s it Boss. Look at your footprints. They look the same as in the photos. Those buggers had their boots covered, but why? There was no ant nest close enough at the kill site.’

Doug unrolled his long shirtsleeves and, tucking them into the blue rubber gloves, placed the beast’s head onto the plastic lid. Battalions of soldier ants attacked, clambering onto the plastic protecting his shoes. Jeff burst out laughing as his boss danced and stamped his way back to the car, his jagged movements ensuring any remaining ants fell into the dry red dust, while he brushed at them savagely with his hand.

‘Now we have to protect it from eagles, foxes and crows. Pass me that old plastic rubbish bin and a few bits of wood’

Jeff stood back as Doug assembled his contraption. First, he placed the bin over the thawing head, then the woolpack Joe had given him to cover it last Friday and around the perimeter, he used the wood Jeff had collected to hold everything in place. Ants swarmed over Doug’s boots again, he started stamping and slapping at them, making sure none breeched his defences.

‘I should take a photo of you and put it up in the rec room,’ Jeff laughed.

‘After all I do for you. I don’t think so!’

Back at the car, Doug stripped off the plastic bags and pulled his trousers out of his socks, checking carefully to see if any ants remained on his clothing. Once satisfied he was ant-free, he removed his gloves, putting his and Jeff’s discarded protection into a zip-lock bag and sealing it.

A stop on our trip through the Oladdie Hills north of Orrooroo
searching for inspiration when writing Les Gillespies Gold

‘Now we can come back in a couple of weeks and they will have stripped that out, leaving any projectiles on the lid for us. What do you think?’

‘Should work I reckon. With those skills, you could have a bit of blackfella in you too.’

‘Don’t think so, mate.’

Take 2

Rain and hail beats a heavy tune

Wind's fingers rip at the walls of my winter room

And like a heard of scalded banshee it just wails

I’m trying hard to force the words to flow

But my tiny chapter just won’t grow

Yesterday I had the muse that precious gift

But now today, I just don’t know.

Words that tempted me when I was young

Haunt me now like songs we’ve sung

Today every sentence I’ve written just fails

So I tap the keys time and time again

I read margin notes I’ve scratched with pen

Where is that story tellers gift I’m sure I had

And why today are my words so bad

A ray of sunshine tries to sneak through

But rain and wind wipe away my sky of blue

Write something else I say to me

A song a rhyme to find the flow

My advice for others if their words were slow

But what’s it worth, this advice for free

Looking out at an angry day of stormy sea

Hail and rain still beat their tune

And wind still rips away at my writer’s room

And like a hundred banshees still does wail

Still trying hard to force the flow

Words still fail and the chapter doesn’t grow

Yesterday I had my prize a writer’s gift

And yet today I’m lost I just don’t know

Pining fo you

Gunna miss you Annie,
Gunna miss your smiles
Gunna feel your love shine through
Across those vacant miles
I saw your face reflected
In a great grandmother's tears
Happy happy tears.
We may have met but only once
And once again must do
So as you say goodbye
To Australia's shores
Our best wishes and lots of love
Go off to foreign shores with you.

Should you travel down to Cornwall
And walk among ancient stones
Look upon the names carved there
I'm sure you'll find a family name
or two there
It's where we our forefathers sailed from
where our genetics grew
So sing of your Australian links
When the flag of Australia's flown
With a foot in each hemisphere
You can call Australia home.

Gunna miss you Annie,
Gunna miss your smiles
Gunna feel your love shine through
Across those vacant miles
I saw your face reflected
In a great grandmother's tears
Happy happy tears.
We may have met but only once
And once again must do
So as you say goodbye
To Australia's shores
Our best wishes and lots of love
Go off to foreign shores with you.

A little bit from Chapter 28 of Les Gillespie's Gold

Within minutes she had set up an office, arranged a colour printer for her suite, ordered paper and arranged a temp for tomorrow. She perused the menu and wine list and arranged for room service. It was time to open the picture files from Spoggy’s phone. Her own phone kept beeping with messages. She set it to, silent and decided to look at them later, but now the geologist in her wanted to study the samples she’d collected from the creek.

She rummaged in her case and found a pair of pantyhose. Out of habit she sniffed them and screwed up her nose, better to wreck a pair she had worn, rather than cut up a good pair. A coffee cup would serve as the repository to catch anything small and heavy that washed through her sieve. Sam didn’t know what to expect, semiprecious stones would be great, diamonds a possibility, but gold would be better. Sam stretched the stocking over the cup and secured it with a rubber band. Using a finger to create a void and poured in half of her sample. She sealed the bag and dropped it into her briefcase.

Room service arrived and the waiter steered in a tray. Sam slammed the briefcase shut, closed the screen on her laptop and washed her hands.

‘An experiment,’ She said when the waiter looked at the cup, ‘for my thesis. Prof says it’s easy, but I’m not so sure.’

‘Better you than me, I was too interested in girls to put much stock in study. Now look at me, nearly fifty and still waiting tables. It’s a good job that one of those girls said yes and made me get a steady job, eh.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Want me to set out, or are you right to manage it.’

‘Thank you, I’m fine, I’ll do it. And tell that lady of yours, she picked good, yeah.’

‘Thank you, Miss.’ He pointed to the phone, give the desk a ring and I’ll come back for the tray, or you can leave it outside the door if you don’t wish to be disturbed.’

Ode to the Flinders Ranges

CJ Dennis was a poet we studied at school and last weekend while in Laura I took a photo of his statue.

They were having a country music festival there and I'm sorry I missed it. However, this morning prompted by photos one of my friends had posted on Facebook, a poem started forming in my mind. It's still rough, but in recognition of the Sentimental Bloke, here is my ode to the Flinders Ranges.

For you CJ


I hear your hills a callin'
Callin' me back home
To see my friends and family
And stop this ache in my heart
When I feel sad and alone
So somebody please
Write me a letter
Send me a card Sing me a song
When I feel lost
And times are hard
I feel your pull
You are the mighty Flinders
Place of my birth,
I'll keep missing you
And your people so badly
Until that sweet day
I’m returned to your earth.

Dave the Slave

I found a note I had scribbled onto a piece of paper when I was working on business names some time ago. I threw the paper out today and before I knew it, a few lines rolled themselves into a ball and came out of my fingers as a poem. It needs work, but here are a few rough first lines.

Dave, everyone thought he was slow

Because at school his grades were low

Teachers gave him extra work

Soon the target of the high school Jerk

But Dave was a thinker strong and kind

A Novel Writer's Blues

Rain and hail beats a heavy tune

The wind rips outside my winter room

And like a banshee does wail

I’m trying hard to force the flow

But my chapter just won’t grow

Yesterday I had that gift

But today I just don’t know.

Words that tempted me when I young

Haunt me now like songs we sung

Today every sentence written fails

I tap the keys time and time again

Read my margin notes scratched in pen

Where is this gift I’m sure I had

Why today are my words so bad

A ray of sunshine tries to sneak through

Rain and wind soon wipe away a sky of blue

Write something else I tell myself

A song a rhyme to find my flow

Advice for others if their words were slow

But what’s it worth, advice for free

Story of an angry day and stormy sea

Heavy the rain still beats its tune

And wind still rips outside my writer’s room

And like a hundred banshees does wail

Still trying hard to force the flow

But this chapter still won’t grow

Yesterday I had the writer’s gift

Yet today I’m lost, I just don’t know

Loneliness and Laughter

I  found this poem today and gave it a bit of a polish. I have posted it as Pop before, but have changed the title today to bring it more in line with the message.
If anyone wants to play with the rhythm and the beat to make it work better, please feel free to have a go.  



He was grey, he was old

And in the lines on his face

His story is told

Spotted with age and hands bony thin

His life’s story is written on him

His mind still holds his memories so sharp

Has no time for tears

For love beats his heart

On his front porch he sits all alone

Black tea cools a cup and he’s holding the phone

It rings and he answers and answers again

A smile crosses his lips, and it's hello old friend

He shuffles, he snuffles and sometimes he creaks

Says there's no time to grumble, 
When it's friendship he seeks

He starts in the morning, at a quarter to ten

You'll see him each day
He's out there again

Humming while he’s dialling

And phoning a friend

He’s laughing because of
Another story to tell

A group of old friends
All denying their Gods or the Devil

Swift passage to heaven or hell

Another day’s passed 
He wanders inside and thinks of his day
He smiles because 
It doesn't matter that little was done

Everyone, laughing and lying

About deeds that they’d done

The sun's set and changed into night

Is he lonely you ask him
And he says that he might

But only after he kisses her photo
And turns off the light

TED Talk

Today I watched an inspirational TED Talk from a young man who, with limited education and resources, decided to change his world.

Take a look at his story:

William Kamkwamba - How I Harnessed The Wind

First Synopsis --VOSS

Over the last couple of days and I'm 6,000 words into this novella. However as the new characters begin to take their part and the story forms I thought it best to rough out a synopsis to develop the story plan from.

Barry Voss might be frightened by death, but it’s murder when he’s at his best. 

The woman with her face blown off is his ex-wife. He knows once his superiors find out, he will be dragged form the case. For Voss to solve this he needs help from outside and it comes from an unlikely source of Gerry, a fifty-something, ex-entrepreneur and living on the street.

Estelle watched her husband die the death of a thousand cuts before being assassinated gangland style.

Canberra is a small city of itinerant politicians and lawmakers. It has an undercurrent of crime like all cities so in this town, the news is mainly political. However, this is one case that will be hard to keep out of the news, Estelle’s husband, now a political adviser to cabinet was tortured before she was killed and it appears, his tormentors left him to bleed out.

Voss only has to figure out why, because he knows the how, to find the killers.

Forensics turn up keys to a converted warehouse. It is a movie lot, not unusual, Canberra has a thriving porn industry, but not something someone would consider a person of Judge Tony Peters calibre to be associated with.

Voss is called to the scene of a random shooting on the A25. The driver of a silver Mercedes has been shot in the head while travelling at speed. Four murders in two days. Voss knows he has to work fast because this victim is connected to the warehouse.

Taken from the case with the body count is building, Voss is annoyed and feels betrayed by his boss. Detective Sergeant Lucy Nguyen knows better than involving him, but she is loyal and uses the medical examiner to pass on information.

Voss, determined to keep the promise he has made to Estelle’s mother, looks back through other unsolved murders  looking for a link. He knows if he finds it he can work outside his jurisdiction to bring the killers in.

After my nightmare I have a new character meet - VOSS

After a nightmare Sunday night I woke with the shivers, but it did give me an Idea for a character in a detective story. I'll let Barry Voss introduce himself in his own way.

I walked into the bathroom, Estelle my wife had just stepped out the shower, at first I wondered why she would be showering at this time of the day. She yelled at me to leave. I didn’t wait long for my answer to why. Tony Peters, defence lawyer and former schoolyard sweetheart met me at the bedroom door. All boxer-shorts and suspenders he looked like he’d been caught out by the head boy. I guessed this was not the first time, he had seen the colour of my sheets but it would the last.

‘Voss,’ He said.

I waited for him to search his gilt edged brain for something original and unscripted. There was nothing. Word around the court is that the slippery bastard needs a team of underlings making bullets for him to fire. I had been up against him more than once, he could twist and turn like a scalded snake, but he only won as half many as he lost. I would evil eye the crim during his cross examination of my testimony. My thing was to make faces at the bloke in the dock while Slippery Peters painted these pricks to depict something like a scene on the ceiling of the Cysteine Chapel. Gimme a break. Now here he is in my house, screwing my wife, in my bed and he’s lost for words. I want to grab him by the balls and twist.

‘God what’s that stink?’ He said.

‘Oh that’s me. Here hold this,’ He took my jacket. ‘Recyclers pulled a body out of the garbage exchange, looks like it had been in a wheelie-bin for weeks. Gut burst when the ME rolled it over, don’t know who she is yet, but your holding onto part of her now.’

It must have been instinct because he threw my jacket across the room. ‘Oh fuck he said it’s all over me now.’ He went to push past only I blocked his path. Estelle, come and ask your Neanderthal to move before I have to deal with him.’

He probably didn’t hear her answer because I hit him with a right cross to his solar plexus and caught his face with my knee as he doubled over. I wiped the gunk off my suit with his shirt and trousers, shoved all I owned into a suitcase and left. That was ten years ago.

Research into a bit of automotive stuff

Nice when someone in the auto industry remembers me, today I am trying to find photos of independent rear suspension assemblies and how the different designs control bump steer.

Bump steer happens when the car is loaded either across the lateral or vertical axis. The affected wheels can move forward or back depending on the loading. This movement makes the wheel move and steer that side of the car independent of steering wheel inputs. Most manufacturers accept some bump steer and even use it to assist turn in. However in a racing situation the drive needs these inputs to be predictable and try to eliminate it.

To check how much a wheel moves race teams have made tools to do the job. Check out this unit on an older Nascar.

Mothers Day and Writing

Each Mothers' Day the world spends billions of dollars on cards, in fact every occasion is celebrated by exchanging gifts, or cards, sometimes letters hold the message. Behind it all someone has written something, it might be short like, I love you Mum, I couldn't do it without you. Your loving son Bill.

    Now I know that's hardly original, but when you think that Bill set out to find a card with the right words to express his love, he had a connection with an often faceless author who penned the lines that captured his imagination. They said what he couldn't articulate.

   The card writers' skill is not to be underestimated, they are part poet, part philosopher and every one a literary genius. Song writers fill a world of emotion into the lines of a song, poets can keep us entertained with a hundred lines, but the person who penned the verse in that card you bought for your mother managed it in just over five to seven lines.

    Today when you pass over your gift with the card sticky taped to the top, give a silent thank you to the unseen writer who cranked out that message and many more to meet the quota his or her job demanded on the day.

I'll raise a glass and toast each one of them today, I challenge you to do the same.

My Anzac Day Tribute

Your Grandad’s medals sit in my drawer

Presented to him at the end of the war

And though he left us when you were young

I keep them to remind me of songs he sung

Like Waltzing Matilda and Danny Boy

Always lusty and sung with joy

On Anzac Day in Seventy Two

He beamed with pride when he first saw you

And so today my son I have them on view

To remind me of the terror that he went through

Believing his land would be safe from harm

If he shouldered a rifle over his arm

I hope like him the day will come

When there will be no need for a mother’s son

To be asked to make such sacrifice

And for our young country to pay such a price

And though you left us when you were young

Presented to you at the end of the war

Your medals sit safely in my drawer

We keep them to remind us of songs you sung

Good information hidden in here

I found this link through a comment I made on Linked in's Author U  pages.

Hope it's helpful:

http://buildbookbuzz.com/amazon-book-description/

Planning a Book Tour for 2017

Hi,

Starting to see the end in sight for Les Gillespie's Gold and beginning to think about a  book launch sometime  in 2017. So I need some suggestions for the following.

• Australian towns to visit.
• What would be better, a library, or book-store launch venue
• Best time of day.
• Would you prefer me to talk on my writing processes, or about the book itself.
• Contact details of the librarian or bookshop manager.

If you can help, Please message me via Facebook or leave a comment on the blog. 

I am looking forward too and will be thankful for your input.

Cheers,

Terry

Les Gillespie's Gold excerpt from Chapter 38

I put chapter thirty eight of my Les Gillespies Gold manuscript to our writing group for critique today. At this point we are about half way into the story and much is happening. 

 I loved writing the chapter and although long has added quite a bit of drama and intrigue to the tale. I particularly liked tapping out this exchange by three generations of Gillespie girls. 

I hope you enjoy it too.

Laura and Tilly nattered while they drove to the farm, in the back Emily put her iPod down. ‘Mum, you said Pop wanted to go to Wilson’s, right?’

‘That’s what he said. Why?’

‘Can we go skinny dipping like you and Samantha did?

Laura, her face full of question, turned to her daughter with palms upturned. Tilly said nothing.

Emily kept up.’ And what is skinny dipping anyway?’

Tilly felt her face flush, Laura’s hands paddled the air in slow circles. ‘Yes, Tilly, come on,’ She made exclamation marks with her fingers. ‘just what is skinny dipping?’

‘It’s a saying we use for having a swim, a swim in a water hole.’ Tilly turned to her mother. Laura watched as a rolled up tongue breached her daughter’s lips and slipped back as quick as it appeared. ‘And no, Em. Not today, we didn't bring any bathers.’

‘Robert says you don’t wear bathers, when you’re skinny dipping.’

Laura was still facing Tilly, she shrugged and mouthed the words ‘Who is Robert?’

‘Tell Granny about Robert, Em.’ Embarrassing moment avoided, she hoped.

‘He has to sit in the naughty corner at Fiona’s.’

‘And why does he do that?’ Laura asked

‘Because he pulls the girls hair and calls us names.’ Emily picked up her tablet. ‘Can you show me the waterhole?’

‘Maybe on a nice warm day when we have our bathers, you me and Jeff can all go swimming.’ Tilly said and put her hand up to high five her mother.

‘Not so fast, Tilly Gillespie.’ Laura said. ‘Samantha’s from the mining company, you’ve had dinner with her and now Emily says you have been out to Wilson's. When were you going to tell Dad?’

A little bit of Les Gillespie's gold

I'm looking at the finish line for my manuscript, so I thought I would share the opening of a chapter about three quarters the way through. Tell me what you think.

Darryl and Angela stared at the incident board.

‘Uniform tomorrow, Boss?’

‘Ah...’ 
Angela continued to post information from the Hammond Road murders on the board, Cassidy was lost in thought. He kept staring into the face of Joe’s attacker. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘What should I wear tomorrow? Uniform, or plain clothes.’

‘Plain clothes, let’s do our best to emulate our city cousins. Otherwise, they’ll brush us off as country hicks.’

‘Works for me, Sir.’ She thought about the suit she had bought at the beginning of summer and hadn’t worn yet. ‘Tomorrow, clothes will maketh the woman.’ She said.

‘Yeah... Okay.’ Darryl was deep within his mind again. He walked to the window and searched the streetscape, hoping for inspiration.

‘Boss,’ he didn’t hear her, ‘Boss?’

Cassidy didn’t look back. ‘You’re the computer whiz, overlay the photo of those tyre tracks,’ he tapped the board, ‘and the ones near the gate where Jeff found the ute. Can you do that?’ 

A few lines from Chapter 37 of Les Gillespie's Gold

Jeff rummaged behind the seat for a couple of minutes. He folded the back forward to gain better access. The bolt cutters lay below a steel box with a lock on it. The padlock was under the hasp and Jeff lifted the lid, a 9mm self-loading pistol lay encased in foam rubber. It was Army issue. He picked up the cutters and walked over to Joe. ‘Anything you want to tell me about the box under the seat?’

‘Nope.’

‘It’s not locked.’

‘And you looked?’

‘The policeman in me,’ Jeff said,’ I’m curious.’

‘That’s what got the cat killed.’ Joe said. He did not look at Jeff and worked the cutters on the chain.

‘Got a licence for it?’

Christmas Eve in Orroroo (first draft)

For Annie

I’m in love with a princess

In a faraway land

I imagine her home

And the places she’ll see

And hope that she smiles

If she’s thinking of me

This month it is Christmas

And the trees in her park

Are covered in snow

While here in the outback

A summer Christmas we know

And we have a tree in the corner

Trimmed with tinsel too

Carols come from all corners tonight

Children waiting for Santa

Will keep their eyes closed tight

I close my eyes and see in my mind

Stockings hang from a mantel

Above a fire in the grate

And for Santa too, they wait

Her cousins out here in the bush

Take their places in the Christmas parade

There’s clowns with coloured barrows to push

A tradition we keep where memories are made

Floats decorated in green red and blue

And Annie I hope it’s a sight

My words bring to you

Outside the shops they still pipe

Those old Christmas songs

And the floats might be corny

But the spirits still here

A street full of faces spreading good cheer

And right down the back

At the end of the parade

In a little green car

Santa arrives, always the star.

Old eyes become misty

When we remember the days

When we were once young

In this street where we played

Now cousin Geoff drives the car

And he does his best

Now Uncle Murray has gone to his rest.

So now my princess from over the sea

I hope you have a Christmas as merry can be

For I’m in love with you, Princess

In your faraway land

I imagine you home

And the places you see

And hope that you smile

When you’re thinking of me

Finding Gold in Characters

This is my third year of  writing Les Gillespie's Gold and while it has become a grind at times, there are moments when words cascade onto the page. Often the real world becomes a different place and I find myself immersed in the character's story, character either makes the story believable or destroys it by the end of the first chapter. Because the manuscript is ninety percent done and I am tying the plot lines together, I thought I would take time to revisit the characters from Kundela.
    Readers of my first novel will be familiar with the Gillespie family and in the second book I have introduced a few new faces. Some likeable and others are easy to detest.

Finding Gold in Characters:

For anyone ready to start writing, or established writers interested in how others do it, I thought I would share my method for finding the things that make my characters tick. This is not the best or worst way to go about a character profile, it is my way. And I have robbed ideas form other authors to get to this point.

Knowing how your sinners differentiate from the saints is key to making the story work, but how do we get to know those differences. This my way of putting flesh on the bones of black and white words that make up the character profile.
    Writing villains is always fun and developing their character can open the writer to hours of distraction as we try to find ways to justify their place in the novel or short story. So be warned, my method can cause you to procrastinate while you divert your attention to research and discovery that often make dedicated writing hours disappear.

Character is deeper than just a name in a novel. Once a name is decided they begin to develop shape and personality, names become people. As I flesh out their history, I give names to siblings, pets and parents. I attach relationships and before long I begin to know them as well as I would one of my friends. I may even know them better, because I have created dirty little secrets. I have pushed them into liaisons, and created their fears and fantasies.
    I start with a character chart as provided by Merlene Fawdry in her Longitudinal Writing Workshop. My chart is an expanded version and it serves me well. When completed I have a rough idea of what they look like and what motivates them. From the chart I know more than their eye colour and how they dress, but character has a major part to play I need to know more. I need to know why I needed to write them into the story. What I need is an understanding of their background, what happened to make them more than just a name in a book.

    In Les Gillespie's Gold, a fifty year old grudge lies behind the main plot-line, but how did that grudge come about and who were the players? How do they influence the characters in the novel? To find my way through this maze I write stories that will have no place in the novel, but I need them to help me understand how my characters interact. Copies of these stories can be found on this blog.

Researching personality takes time as I found with a character in Les Gillespie's Gold. Spoggy Sparrow has no history, to understand this type of character and personality, I spent days on research to learn it is not easy to disappear or create a new identity. However I found myself lost to the quest and discovered devices someone like Spoggy could use to hide from society. Research like this is a great investment, a knowledge bank to call on for later novels or short stories.
    By the end of these exercises, I find my characters justifying their part in the story to me. Arguing why they deserve more action, more profile and at times trying to push the leading man or lady off the page. When I first thought about a career as a writer, I found it hard to properly show hardship, joy and humanity in my characters. Using these techniques now I find the story lets me to write action and point of view from an enlightened position. Writing character has become easier for me because of Merlene's chart and my character story. Today if I prepare a chat and write a history, I have a sharp idea of how each character drives their part in the novel.
    I was pleased when, two years ago, I attended a writing workshop by noted children's writer, Kirsty Murray. Kirsty began one of the sessions with the statement that, Character drives Plot and Plot drives Character. It took me a while to understand what she was saying, but by the end of the session I knew what she meant and the way I was going about finding a depth to my characters was not as weird as I first thought.

    All authors have their own methods and this one works for me.

Good links: Kirsty Murray:                                 http://kirstymurray.com/

                    Merlene Fawdry:                              http://merlenefawdry.blogspot.com.au/

                    Writers Victoria:                               https://writersvictoria.org.au/

                    Fellowship of Australian Writers:    http://writers.asn.au/

Thanks for dropping by.
Terry