Over the past few months my manuscript has stalled. Other story ideas have come and gone, some became short stories others poems and others are plans for a new book. In reality if I don't approach writing as work I become distracted and swayed by the things, people around me, see as important. It is not them saying don't write, or you spend to much time in the office, it is my desire for distraction.
We are all tempted by social media and I hide this distraction under the guise of 'Maintaining My Platform', all of which is wrong. I need to be honest with myself and own up to being lazy, procrastinating or bored with the project.
This week I attended my local writers group and after listening to the others describe the many ways they manage to steal opportunities to write, I felt disgusted with my recent lack of purpose. The only way I can finish this book is to sit here and do it.
I have the character profiles in place, I have the story outlined on paper and I know the way the plot lines need to work, so it should be easy to bash out the next thirty thousand odd words. Well it should, but then I often find my research is incomplete and have to chase those rabbits down their holes. More time taken and another plot twist or story emerges and I write it down and build another story outline with basic character profiles. Is this distraction or planning? I will use it one day if I live long enough.
It is not all bad news as I have written several short stories and completed many writing assignments our tutor Matthew Naqvi has set the writing group. A few of these can be developed further as short stories and entered into competition or submitted to journals and magazines in hope of publication.
Les Gillespie's Gold is the second in a trilogy of novels beginning with Kundela. Sometimes making sure I am writing only one book and planning the third gets in the way too, but I keep writing and if the passages don't fit, I save and file them in the new novel's folder. So in a way I am writing my out out of my problem. This week has been productive and good chapters are beginning to appear before me without any real effort. For Kundela readers, I think you will enjoy the mystery and intrigue as the Gillespies are drawn into another web of intrigue and deceit. No-one has been murdered yet and I'm not sure if, or when there will be a killing, the story is yet to reveal it self completely.
That's my report on writing for this week, I wish you all a nice weekend and a very Happy Mothers Day tomorrow.
Terry L Probert is a novelist and shortstory writer. His debut novel KUNDELA earned a commendation in the 2013 FAW Christina Stead Award. Currently looking for an agent/publisher to bring any of his novels to print, Terry is a member of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, Writers Victoria and SA Writers. Terry is active in his local literary community. His Short Story Banib the Bunyip placed second in the City of Melton Short Story Competition 2013.
Saturday, 9 May 2015
Thursday, 30 April 2015
The start to finding the twist I need in Les Gillespie's Gold
Mad Charlie did not
like his last hand and called for a new pack.
The mood in the Imperial Hotel was sombre.
Over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds of tokens sat between them on the table. Only four hours ago John Billings’ lost the deed to his dairy farm. John sat in the corner drained, he could not go home. He had no home.
Bald Bill Simpson too, had folded a broken man and the title to his engineering shop added to the pot. Together these two upstanding citizens owned only the clothes they stood in. Only Charlie, three other players and the dealer remained.
There was still a lot to play for.
The mood in the Imperial Hotel was sombre.
Over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds of tokens sat between them on the table. Only four hours ago John Billings’ lost the deed to his dairy farm. John sat in the corner drained, he could not go home. He had no home.
Bald Bill Simpson too, had folded a broken man and the title to his engineering shop added to the pot. Together these two upstanding citizens owned only the clothes they stood in. Only Charlie, three other players and the dealer remained.
There was still a lot to play for.
Wednesday, 29 April 2015
How does a writer get lost when he is the author of the story?
I am struggling, not from a lack of inspiration, but from too much of it and it is downright annoying.
For the past few weeks I have been trying to wrestle Les Gillespie's Gold into the mystery / crime / Aussie-adventure, that I want it to be be. Unfortunately I find myself introducing new plot-lines that are not pushing the story forward, nor building tension between the characters. At the moment my writing is too tame and I know I have to be ruthless in my approach. Every time I find a nice picture in my head of Tilly or Jeff in a romantic setting, I will imagine them up to their knees in blood. I think it is the only way to stop all of this romantic writing bleeding from my fingers.
So today I am increasing my character backgrounds by writing stories about the people who have influenced my character's lives. The evil ones will have a troubled history and that will make them bloody nasty. the Heroes will lose their nice side and be flawed, some may lose their life, or at least an arm, or similar. Certainly their temper will go. I sure it is time for Jeff and Joe to punch someone or each other.
Even writing this post has helped me get on track. Who should I murder in the next chapter, friend or foe.
When the books finished, I guess you'll be able to let me know if it worked.
For the past few weeks I have been trying to wrestle Les Gillespie's Gold into the mystery / crime / Aussie-adventure, that I want it to be be. Unfortunately I find myself introducing new plot-lines that are not pushing the story forward, nor building tension between the characters. At the moment my writing is too tame and I know I have to be ruthless in my approach. Every time I find a nice picture in my head of Tilly or Jeff in a romantic setting, I will imagine them up to their knees in blood. I think it is the only way to stop all of this romantic writing bleeding from my fingers.
So today I am increasing my character backgrounds by writing stories about the people who have influenced my character's lives. The evil ones will have a troubled history and that will make them bloody nasty. the Heroes will lose their nice side and be flawed, some may lose their life, or at least an arm, or similar. Certainly their temper will go. I sure it is time for Jeff and Joe to punch someone or each other.
Even writing this post has helped me get on track. Who should I murder in the next chapter, friend or foe.
When the books finished, I guess you'll be able to let me know if it worked.
Friday, 10 April 2015
Remember Richie
If I had a bat I’d put it out
For the voice of cricket
And there’s no doubt
I listened as he made a ton
Or spin a ball or saved a run
As kids in summer
We would take his name
Tip and run
Our backyard game
When World Series took the field
Talking skills and knowledge
Were revealed
For generations
He called our game
Tonight the world of cricket
Is not the same
So I’m asking all
No I’ll just shout
Get your bats and put them out.
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Les Gillespie's Demons
This is a first draft of a chapter that never made it into Kundela, after talking to a mate I thought I would put it on the blog for all to see. Most of the story is fiction but the action on the airfield came from a true story told to me by an old digger.
I hope you like it.
Terry
Long after the war had finished, the horror of it all still visited him daily. Vivid images, mates around him cut down instantly, dying on the spot. Others screaming in pain as bullets from a Jap machine gun strafed and ripped the steamy airfield.
This morning belonged to the brave. Their sights adjusted to two hundred yards and trained just above the position of the battle hardened Japanese fighters, the tension built. Each young Aussie filled with frightened enthusiasm, sharpening each of their senses. Their adrenalin surged, excitement replacing their fear. Now, the signal they were waiting for, Les yelled, ‘One, two, three!’
I hope you like it.
Terry
Not yet twenty-one and conscripted into the Army in
1942, Les Gillespie was a complex individual. He too had seen the nightmare of
battle but unlike his father or his son, the Second World War had caused a
devastating effect on Les’s life. The scars from his war were ever close to the
surface of his agitated mind.
****
Les first saw action in
New Guinea. As with many others dragged from the peace of a country farm, Les
and his mates were much unprepared. Thrust into battle in the jungles of a
country they didn’t know, to fight an enemy they couldn’t see, by a government for
whom they had not voted.Long after the war had finished, the horror of it all still visited him daily. Vivid images, mates around him cut down instantly, dying on the spot. Others screaming in pain as bullets from a Jap machine gun strafed and ripped the steamy airfield.
****
The groaning Dakota had
left Port Moresby in darkness. Hoping he could land these raw conscripts on an
abandoned enemy airstrip, the young pilot wanted to land and leave before the withdrawing
Japanese would know. Delayed by poor weather their advantage had been lost.
Hearing the droning
engines, a few retreating enemy soldiers returned to the badly damaged airstrip.
Diving into a gun post as the war-weary aircraft touched down into the wind,
the Japanese were ready. Turning to unload, the pilot noticed a movement in a
machine gun nest about 200 yards away. ‘We’ve been spotted! Get everyone out
now! I have got to get this thing back into the air.’ He ordered.
Two out of the three men landed that day were slain
or injured. The ten who made it alive were gritty and determined to survive.
Stuck in a compromised position they used their dead comrades for shelter to regroup.
Their commanding
officer was dead. Nobody knew what to do next and panic raced through the
ranks. Quickly summing up the situation, Les knew to survive, someone needed to
bring this decimated group together. A couple of minutes passed before Les took
charge. An attack on the Japanese machine gunners pinning them down was their
only chance.
Les yelled, ‘We have to shove as much fire as you
can muster on those yellow bastards so I can get close enough to put a grenade
or two up their arse’
The Japanese had
limited ammunition and sensing their advantage stopped firing. The airfield
grew quiet and the next few minutes dragged like hours, for the surviving
Australians. Looking around his mates, Les counted ten men fit to fight and
another five who, although wounded could return fire. ‘On the count of three
throw as much shit as you can at them,’ Les commanded.
He knew each man
carried an army issued Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Although these bolt action rifles
were no match for the machine gun firing at them. Les reasoned if they directed
volley on volley toward the enemy position, the Japs would be unwilling to
creep above the safety of their sandbagged dug out to return fire.
The young diggers may have a slender chance.
Now ready, each soldier,
with his rifle butt pulled back hard into a young shoulder. Les quickly toted
up their odds, ‘ten in the magazine and one in the breech’ it wasn’t an
assuring count ‘only one hundred and sixty five bullets, boys we are really up
shit creek’ he thought.
‘Okay, keep the fire constant, on the count of
three, start firing and keep doing it until we get a result.’
This morning belonged to the brave. Their sights adjusted to two hundred yards and trained just above the position of the battle hardened Japanese fighters, the tension built. Each young Aussie filled with frightened enthusiasm, sharpening each of their senses. Their adrenalin surged, excitement replacing their fear. Now, the signal they were waiting for, Les yelled, ‘One, two, three!’
As he heard the second
volley of shots, Les leapt out from behind the human barrier and into full view
of the Japanese. His comrades concentrated their fire at the target. His
200-yard sprint seemed to take forever as Les scouted around to the blind side
of the open machine gun nest.
Now and within in range
he could see his enemy. An over-arm action and the first of his grenades sailed
toward its target, in an instant a second was on its way. Les managed to get a
third and fourth away and he dropped to the ground covering his ears with
cupped hands.
Shrapnel began falling around the battleground as
dirt and dust filled the air. Looking up, Les could see that the enemy were
dead and for now, his troop was safe. Still in danger, Les knew they should get
away and find a secure area to regroup.
‘We had better move out He barked, ‘get as many of
the wounded who can walk onto their feet. We will come back for the others when
we can.’
Leaving their dead and
wounded in the open was the only option open to them.
Secure in their jungle
hideout, Les shivered as he heard each single shot from a Japanese pistol echo
toward him. Its owner laughing as he repeatedly emptied life from each of the
wounded Australians. This scene lived in Les’s memory forever. Images of
that day played repeatedly in his mind and for the duration of the war,
created a wanton recklessness within him.
Les started taking
extraordinary risks, living a most dangerous and hateful war.
****
When victory came, others were able to put the
terror behind them. His mates were excited about coming home and building a new
life. Les however, carried home a few physical reminders and a tormented mind.
Pains from the few pieces of a Japanese grenade lodged in his body were a
constant reminder of his hatred for his enemy.
Les didn’t settle
easily into his life after the war. Sleeping in his mind and always close to
the surface were dangerous thoughts of an agonising past. He was no longer the
gentle soul who had left Wanooka’s Well for war, War had changed him, losing
all sense of compassion and any happiness he felt soon dissipated. Always angry
he became increasingly hard on his wife and their only son Joe.
Thursday, 5 March 2015
CRYSTAL
Last year I was reading a paper while waiting for my wife when a headline prompted me to scratch down the following few lines. Today with the action happening in Indonesia and the penalties imposed on drug dealers there, I thought it might be topical if I posted this poem / song lyrics.
It is a first draft and I'd love to hear your comments.
It is a first draft and I'd love to hear your comments.
Crystal’s staring at
the pavement
Of the Grand Paradise
Hotel
Where police tape
flickers
before the morning
breeze
And she’s lost in the
bloodstain
Left where the victim
fell
Second night of a two
week honeymoon
They’d spent the day
in bed
And food came to
their room
Making love all
through the morning
She thrilled with inner
movements
And glowed there in
his spoon
Dinner at the
restaurant
at the Grand Paradise
Hotel
Then dancing in the
ballroom
With the man she knew
so well
The music pumped the
pulsing light
And the world could
go to hell.
Now she’s staring at
the pavement
Of the Grand Paradise
Hotel
And thinking about that
pill
Wondered why he
thought he’d need it
Was it just another thrill?
The dealer was the
devil
And he pushed a
little hard
Toby palmed two
hundred
You can’t put that stuff
on a card
They danced until the
small hours
And made it quite a
night
Then in the elevator
He held her really
tight
She kissed him in the
lift
He caressed her in
the hall
And when he laid her
on their bed
She offered him her
all
Then somewhere in between
The darkness and the
light
He swallowed what the
dealer sold him
And believed he could
take flight.
Now Crystal’s staring
at the pavement
Outside the Grand
Paradise Hotel
She’s staring at the
bloodstain
Where her Toby fell
The dealer was the
devil
And he pushed a
little hard
Toby palmed two
hundred
You can’t put that on
card
Now Crystal’s staring
at the pavement
Outside the Grand
Paradise Hotel
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
The Value of Children Stories
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 being with my own children, sitting on their beds and reading Dr Seuss, Enid Blyton, Rudyard Kipling and Australia’s own Colin Thiele.
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, while Anne of Green Gables helped my girls discover the enjoyment of reading. While they read 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 Cyrus 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 and write. Helping them to understand the stories they see or hear helps them to craft their own presentations. We are assured this century will be remembered as the, Information Revolution, in the same way as we speak about the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century. If that is to be the case then reading and importantly , understanding what has been read is important. Reading is the best way anyone can learn how to craft their own story. Therefore we need to help our children see the subtleties of good writing.
I spent some time last year with a three year old, her grandmother and I were on duty to entertain for three hours. We put Chitty Chitty Bang Bang into the DVD player, and who doesn’t like one hundred and forty minutes of Dick Van dyke. The story written about the same time as Ian Fleming was creating James Bond has his style all over it.
Granny who hadn’t seen it before was entertained too.
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, while Anne of Green Gables helped my girls discover the enjoyment of reading. While they read 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 Cyrus 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 and write. Helping them to understand the stories they see or hear helps them to craft their own presentations. We are assured this century will be remembered as the, Information Revolution, in the same way as we speak about the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century. If that is to be the case then reading and importantly , understanding what has been read is important. Reading is the best way anyone can learn how to craft their own story. Therefore we need to help our children see the subtleties of good writing.
I spent some time last year with a three year old, her grandmother and I were on duty to entertain for three hours. We put Chitty Chitty Bang Bang into the DVD player, and who doesn’t like one hundred and forty minutes of Dick Van dyke. The story written about the same time as Ian Fleming was creating James Bond has his style all over it.
Granny who hadn’t seen it before was entertained too.
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