Old Story Ideas Brought Back to Life

When I first started to write I bubbled with ideas so much so it drove one of my contemporaries mad. She was struggling to make her novel happen at the time and I being new to a writing group was showing off, saying things like, "just get the words down and worry about the punctuation and sentence structure later."

It may have been of no use to my colleague, a woman who is perfect at creating a sentence and placing a comma, but to me it made sense because my ideas disappear as quickly as they come. However, I did realise that if I were to improve my writing, I would need to expand my author's toolbox and so over the last few years have taken notice of what an active sentence is, where a comma is needed and where to place a full stop. I still get it wrong, but the editing is now less of a chore than it once was.

Getting back to looking through some of my plans from those early days has unearthed some treasures though and by changing the detective’s names, this is one that should make its way into a Detective Voss novel.

The Desk Clerk’s Diary

Mario Modetti keeps secrets, many secrets. He is a desk clerk in an inner city Melbourne Hotel with an International and famous Australian clientele.

Among the regular guests are Pilots, cabin staff, Government officials and Casino high rollers.

Sunday morning a maid enters the room of a Kazakhstani business man to find him and two high price escorts bound and gagged. A Polaroid photo designed to shame is discovered fixed to the mirror with toothpaste.

Detective Inspector  Rose Nguyen is in charge of the investigation, but at every turn she is stymied by bureaucracy.

Chapter Outlines:

1.    The guests are discovered and no-one is talking

2.    DI Rosie Nguyen (Rosie) is on the case

3.    Across town a wholesale jeweler is found at his still locked safe with two bullet holes one in from the side of his chest the other in the back of his head. (was he alone? Where is his wife? Does his mistress know anything)

4.    Another murder in rural Shepparton, this time a known drug dealer with International connections.

5.    Are they random murders or connected.

6.    Journalist Rob Nugent is sniffing around and has picked up a connection

7.    Rosie, frustrated by Nugent pushes him away

8.    The trip to Shepparton for an exhumation finds another unknown body buried below the coffin of a drug boss just below the bottom of the same grave.

A novel length story will need more than eight chapters to wrap up this investigation but it does give me a start. Therefore, when the writing slows down on my current work in progress, I can duck over to this tale and create a much bigger yarn.

Wish me luck.

Bang

I knew my target and knew the time he would arrive. The Awards Presentation would be crowded and people lining the red carpet would work to my advantage.

Television crews were everywhere and it was easy to blend in, my only concern was the occupants of room five, fifteen. From there an easy shot, of four hundred metres and the carpet offered excellent alignment.

Checking the apartment mail boxes revealed Faith and Cindy McLeod lived in 515. I posted Logies tickets to them on a ruse that they had won an in-store competition. The girls would be out of their apartment by noon and not return before midnight. Once inside, all I had to do was wait.

Dressed as one of the hotel's handymen I found the fifth floor and picked the pocket of a housemaid for her pass to gain access, throwing the item into the passage near her trolley. At one o’clock the girls left via the lift at the end of the hall.

Once inside, I took a towel from my bag and laid it on the table. I  assembled the rifle and pulled a cleaner through the barrel. A quick look down the bore and attached the scope. I filled the five shot magazine and put a cartridge in the chamber.

I shifted furniture, to ensure I was comfortable, and opened a small gap in front window. There was nothing between my position and where the target would take his last breath.

I closed the window. At 2.30 the phone rang, I ignored it. By 3.30, I heard people in the hall, but they walked on. I kept the television muted and watched reporters accosting celebrities who were making their way to the ceremony.

At 5.00 pm I opened the window again and took up my position. Flags hung listless from their poles, no wind, that would help. I lined up a couple of guests who were about the same height as Finch.

A stretch Hummer arrived at 5.10 and he and his escort stepped out. I whispered a curse, the limo blocked my view. I cocked the rifle, slid the safety off and waited. The Hummer glided away. He was clear, I squeezed the trigger and watched the bullet take its mark.

My contract fulfilled. I packed the rifle, put the furniture back and sauntered out.

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.’ 

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

Honey Hush

When I wrote this poem a few years ago, I was thinking about the joy this little boat brought to me and my friends as we sailed the waters of Fisherman's Bay in South Australia. 

A Rainbow Class yacht Dad bought for David and me, David was caught under the sail in a capsize and never wanted to get in the boat again.

Brian Tiller, David Kent, Trevor Moore and many more mates terrified water skiers as we fought for space on the deep water in the small bay. 

Honey Hush, I loved you to bits.

SIXTEEN

It was a girl

She was sixteen

Her dad’s old guitar

And ripped blue jeans

She strummed old strings

We sang along

It was a boy

He was just fifteen

A red sailing boat

For his summer’s dream

His gaze she held all night

We watched on

It was a boat

As dawn broke golden

And soft white sails

Her name emboldened

Slow waves on morning tide

We did not see

It was new love

On summer breezes

Days just drifted by

Seaweed sand and evening breezes

No one he loved more than she

We saw it all

Old Symes Family Photos

Having all sorts of fun trying to edit the old black and whites from almost one hundred years ago, found one of Harold William Symes taking a bit of time out. I'm not too sure about his bed, even for 1940 those pine posts look a bit uncomfortable. This is taken alongside the house in Government road Orroroo, not long before he died.
Harold left behind a family who followed in his footsteps believing in his example of his hard work and Christian ethics.
A highly social man Harold loved his sport and did everything from Tent Pegging, Tennis, Clay Pigeon shooting, to organising athletic events.

Andrew William and his wife Doris Elizabeth Symes
 my great grandparents, cut a proud pose for the camera

This photo shows Edna and Beth Symes decked out in their Sunday finery, Mum still has he plaits here, but later at her sister Aileen's insistence, they were severed. She has always liked her hair and the amount of curlers and driers in her Fifth Street bathroom are testament to that.

Edna's life Story

Never too old to give it a try

January 2017
88 Year old Edna Probert of Orroroo ready for some slides 

While sorting through my mother Edna's photos and journals to help me build a chapter plan for her story, I thought about her many visits to Darwin and how easily she fitted in with Danny's friends. 

  For Mum fitting in with people always came naturally and she often did it without needing to be asked. In 1987 I found her volunteering for different duties to help our young motorsport community at the Black Rock Dirt Circuit Club.

 A few years later, and she was helping my son Danny to build his drift car in Darwin. This year she was surprised when he brought a car back to South Australia so he could show her what drifting was all about. 

 This is a picture of Gran buckled in and ready for a blast around the circuit at Mambray Creek.

Photo Courtesy of Xdrift Industries Drift Team

How do you decide whether to write a biography, or tell the story of some-one's life.

Edna Probert in her Fifth Street  home May 2017

Surrounded by mountains of memories in the form of notes, journal entries and photos I'm trying to find the best way to record my mother's stories. We have plenty of Stud Books as my Uncle Doug calls them, family trees that document our ancestral roots, but these are as dry as a vacuum cleaner repair manual. I want something more, more entertaining. Therefore I have started imagining my mother as a ten-year-old and working from the stories her sisters and brothers told me and used them as the base to paint a picture of her life just before the Second World War.

Below is an excerpt from the introduction.

Iris looked at her mother, pointed toward Edna and said. ‘What’s the chance that next week Dad can take both of them?’

Emily brushed at her dress again. ‘Absolutely none. If anyone needs to know their Bible, it’s Edna.’

‘What, who said my name?’ Edna was never one to be left out.

‘Mum said you’ll need a lot more Bible lessons yet.’ Aileen grinned at her, ‘just to keep you out of the Devil’s clutches.’

From the moment the visitor from the north took the pulpit, Edna always knew she wanted to be a missionary in New Guinea, so it did not matter what anyone said, God understood her and she knew he would help her resist any of Satan’s temptations. She thought about New Guinea and how she would look after unwanted babies. Along the way she would spread God’s word. While this was the world of many a scrawny country kid whose social life revolved around family church and school, it was how Edna saw herself. She still does.

A nice review about writing character

Melton Library

My writing colleagues and I often go on about the importance of plot and if one of our stories is strong or seems to lack something. As my Wordsmith's of Melton friends are a critiquing group, discussion can be quite robust and at times it becomes difficult to subject a piece for critique, then an unexpected review comes into our inbox. This is one of those.

I had passed out a few final drafts of my Detective Voss novel 'The Price of Innocence' for the members to read and identify strengths and weaknesses in the manuscript. To say I was chuffed with Sonia Doherty's review is an understatement and I have pasted it below.. Thank you Sonia.

I have started reading Voss and one thing you do really well is relationships and people. You create interesting characters and how they interact. You make us like them, flaws and all, and not like others. Some we watch grow throughout the story and some we laugh at how they behave. In all your books this is one thing that has stood out to me.

Sonia

For anyone interested in writing I would recommend working with other writers within a community based critiquing group similar to ours because your writing will grow from it. Check out Writers Victoria. S A Writers and your local library should be able to help direct you too.

A little bit from Les Gillespie's Gold

Coffee scene set in Maggie's in Orroroo South Australia.

‘No..., toys, stuff to tantalise tease and explore. You know the gear I mean.’ Fiona was laughing too.

Tilly raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll leave all that to your imagination, but I think you have offered me an insight into your seedy side.’

‘What can I say, some girls just want to have fun.’ She winked, as the police car pulled into the kerb in front of them. ‘Not a word to John now. Deal?’

‘Not sure I can keep all of that information to myself.’ Tilly laughed.

‘No afternoon babysitter if you squeal, girl.’ Fiona’s laugh had grown louder.

‘You drive a hard bargain, friend, but we have a deal.’

‘What are you two giggling about’ John said.

‘Just the things that little girls say, Em is a crack-up.’ Fiona said.

‘I was just on my way to the hospital when I saw you two out here, sunning yourselves and drinking coffee.’ He kissed his wife. ‘Just thought I’d let you know I won’t be home for lunch, love. After this I’m off to Port Augusta, should be home a bit after six.’ He bent over and kissed her again. She ran her hand through his hair and held his kiss longer than he expected.

‘Love you.’ She said.

John felt somewhat embarrassed, looked around and gave a low growl. ‘You hussy,’ he said. ‘I’ll attend to you after the kids are in bed.’ He winked at Tilly, waved and walked back to his car.

‘And that, ladies, is how it’s done.’ Fiona remained in her chair, put her arms out and bowed until her nose almost touched her cup. She laughed, and felt her mood lighten. ‘Now you get those legs polished and book a luxury suite somewhere in Adelaide. You’ve got your own love song to play.’ She drained her cup and stood up, Fiona’s chores were calling.

Stories, where does it all come from?

Well I know where this passage came from, it's a similar conversation that many of my friends had with our bankers during the eighties. Some businesses and farms didn't make it, some people couldn't take it and a piece of rope or a rifle was their choice of escape others like Ron persevered for as long as they could. This piece from Les Gillespies gold is some of my story.

A bit of  history from my Orroroo Days
Mk 1 Cortina trunk-lid Danny Probert's
Dirt Circuit Car

Ron Reardon pushed a hand through his greying hair, he and his banker were walking around the paint and panel shop. Grass had died between the back walls and the fences, everywhere between was cleared by the four, pet sheep laying in the shade of an abandoned four-wheel-drive. A few wrecks in a line against the back of the used car yard fence. Ron had never used the second-hand yard and to him it was useless real estate.

Two months ago, a major customer declared bankruptcy, Ron had hoped for thirty cents in the dollar, but after the tax office and the first mortgage holders, there was nothing left for creditors. Now he was in trouble and the banker had told him as much only a few weeks ago. He had to sell, his latest loan application could be approved, but only with more security and at a higher interest rate. The last thing they could afford was more interest.

‘I can’t do it to Polly, there’s no way I’ll put the house on the line.’ He said.

‘I’ve known you a long time now, mate and I know how much you’ve invested yourself into the business. If you don’t find the security, maybe it’s time to call it quits. Look, if it were me, I’d declare the business bankrupt and walk away. Ron, you’re not fifty yet, start again.’ The banker tried to keep their mood upbeat.

‘The house is freehold. If I did it, we’d still keep our home, yeah?’

‘I don’t think so.’ He shrugged, ‘personal guarantees...’ He rested his backside on the front tyre of a tractor. ‘I don’t expect you’d have much to pay creditors either.’

‘Just my debtors’ ledger?’

‘First mortgagee. There’s the personal guarantees too, so the bank ’ll take that too, I’m sorry.

‘Sorry bullshit, what your saying is, I’m fucked. Twenty years of slog down the drain. Got any good news.’

The Port Fairy Priest

Another novel is gelling in my mind, this morning I couldn't sleep and rather than try to finish a piece of poetry I have had in my head for days, I pulled out a short synopsis I was working on for my Voss series. I like seascapes and have an affinity with boats and the people who use them. So finding a setting was not so difficult.

How I feel trying to get the wrinkles out of my thoughts.

This story will feature the mentor who pointed Voss onto the straight and narrow by encouraging the police force to take him under his wing. Father John was more than a man of the cloth he was someone troubled kids could talk to. Secrets are safe with him. However, when Voss finds him in Port Fairy, he is no longer a priest and has become a loner in a town living with people who despise the retired priest.

Now using the name he was born with, Gunther Wiseman is a fisherman who can't swim with a fear of the sea and Voss is intrigued with the change in his nature.This man is aggressive and shows none of the trust he had when he served God.

Now to Visit Port Fairy and see where this detective story takes us. Wish me luck.

A New Work or my thoughts on writing

When I started to record my yarns and stories on the computer I gave little thought to the way they should look, or what made them easy or difficult to read. Many writing courses later and weekly meetings with my critiquing group have prepared me well. Now with four novels sitting around waiting to find a publisher I have started to make notes about my writing journey. This is not intended to be a step by step guide, more the memoirs of an author's addition. 

Over time I hope to make it an interesting read, but for now here's a little bit of back story to put somewhere in a longer work.

Since my children have blessed me with grandchildren I have gained a better perspective for the importance of good stories in a child’s life. I remember with my own children sitting on their beds and reading Dr Seuss, Enid Blyton, Rudyard Kipling and Australia’s own Colin Thiele to them.


It didn’t matter that Mr Percival was lost we knew Stormboy would save the situation. Noddy and Big Ears shared many scrapes and came out the other side better for their adventure. The Famous Five taught us courage and Anne of Green Gables helped my girls discover the enjoyment of reading. While they were reading they also watched movies and listened to music. Every piece a story told in its own way. Sure some of the stuff served up was trash, but over time they learned to differentiate between the two.

Who didn’t sing along to Achy Breaky Heart when it came out, Billy Ray had a story to tell too, and the song did very well for him. Everything we do has a story to it and hopefully we can teach our children to be confident when they speak. Helping them to understand the stories they see or hear helps them to craft their own presentations. We are assured this century will be spoken of as the, Information Revolution, in much the same way as we speak now of the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century. If that is to be the case then reading and understanding what has been read is important and the best way to understand is to learn how to craft your own story. Therefore we need to help our children see the subtleties of good writing.

Now it's time to find a publisher for one of my manuscripts, good luck with your own writing.

Just Who is D.I. Sam Voss?

Name’s Sam Voss and I catch killers.

Born sometime in the winter of 1968 at five days old I was left on the steps of a South Melbourne Police Station. All they had to identify me was the beer box that served as a bassinet, a Jack Daniels bottle full of formula or breast milk, no one bothered to test it and a copy of Patrick White’s Voss. Desk Sergeant Vaughn Samson took care of me until child services arrived, when the paper work was finished I’d been tagged Samson Voss, a Christian name I’ve hated ever since. Friends can call me Sam, but not often.

A weak and ugly child I was overlooked by many, loved by none. After years, living in an endless roster of foster homes, I became convinced I was always destined to be an outsider. This, the never-ending fights with teachers and Nuns, every one of them making me believe I was born of the Devil’s spawn. For years, those bastards made me feel despised and unworthy.

That was until the day I asked an old man in a cassock to describe evil. That old German priest dismissed that any notion I had of being the work of Satan, was rubbish. I remember him saying that every child is born innocent. However, he did point out that if I didn't sharpen up soon, I was headed for death or gaol.

Neither of those options held a lot of hope, or interest for me and for the next few years he kept an eye out for me, pushing, prodding me to do better. This old man in a worn and tattered clothes cared for people, street people, working girls and the wealthy. It didn’t matter, in his eyes everyone was the same. He taught me to care, he showed me it didn’t matter where people came from, they could fall or fly, the choice was up to them.

At seventeen, he passed me into the care of the police academy. I finally found a place I fitted into, something I was good and a career that interested me. I had somewhere to learn about the use of structure. Not just how a building is put together, or what makes men and women different, but everyday structure. Rules, the framework a free society is built on.

So here I stand on the page before you, a seasoned and accomplished police officer determined to put killers behind bars.

The Price of Innocence - What Kevin Said

Review – Voss - The Price of Innocence - Kevin Drum

Terry – Congratulations for completing your first (of many we hope) Voss adventures.

In keeping with the genre the language pace and plot moves along really well. It’s not difficult to stay with the plot despite the emergence of the many different characters as events unfold.

I haven’t bothered to edit as in punctuation etc. as I consider someone much better qualified and more proficient than I will accommodate your requirements in this regard.

Rather I have focused on the story as a critical reader.

I found this a very enjoyable read and relished the Canberra underground porn scene with all its jealousies and competition as the underlining reason for Estelle’s brutal murder. This is Australian fiction at its best.

In the final chapters it was still  ‘all bets off” as to who was doing all of the killing and made for a gripping read.

I have been attending Wordsmith for around 18 months, and I must say that of all the participants, you are the only one to have made a major change of direction in your writing, and some most significant progress.

From an ‘old truck seller’ to’ an old tractor seller’ from way back I couldn’t be prouder of you.

May Voss, Una, Lucy, Eddie and Donna live on and prosper.

Well done and I wish you every success and huge enjoyment with Voss.

Cheers!

Kevin Drum

03/2017