Les Gillespie's Gold Update

I thought I would let everyone know that the novel is flying along at the moment and I'm inspired with the way it's trundling along. Here is a passage from about half way through the book. Jeff and Joe are looking over Wanooka's Well for the first time since Joe and Laura have returned for overseas.

Things were going well between them for a while.

The bolt cutters lay below a steel box, it too had 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, I’m curious.’

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

‘Got a licence for it.’

‘Not only that, but I am cleared to use it in any situation that demands it.’

‘Your old employer?’

‘We can never be free of them, it’s better if you don’t know.’

‘I’m a copper too, Joe.’

‘Not anymore,’ He turned and glared into Jeff’s eyes. ‘You don’t want to know Jeff. Just leave it okay. I don’t want to get into it with you, Tilly, or anyone.’ He threw the bolt–cutters at Jeff’s feet and took him by the shoulders. ‘Let it go. The last thing I want to do is make life harder for you, and Tilly, and Emily. Don’t get any of your copper mates poking into it okay. It will only bring a shitload of trouble to all of us.’

‘Whoa, I’m on your side Joe, I get the message loud and clear.’

‘Good.’

Writing Exercise (first draft)

This is an exercise set by Matthew Naqvi, our Wordsmiths of Melton tutor for 2015. I haven’t give it the amount of respect I should and this is very much a first draft.

·         The exercise:

o   Show Not Tell - A Disability

Pick a disability; it can be a physical or mental illness, a wheelchair condition, or simply a common cold.

In five hundred words or less, through the art of writing, without telling us what it is, show your reader the disability. Use dialogue and inner thoughts to help.

The Dog’s Tail                                                 

God, he’s just pursed his lips and whistled; I hate it when he does that. Means I’ve got to look pleased; he wants to get his paper and read about his glorious football team. If I stay low he mightn’t find me, yeah that’s the go, I’ll pretend I’m deaf. It seems to work for him.

Damn, here he is. I could pretend I’m dead but that would just make him tickle me and I can’t stand being tickled, not the way he does it anyway. Yep, he has that damn harness; I’d better make it look like I’m excited.

Agh, the neighbour’s cat is sitting on the roof of our car, one back leg in the air and licking its butt. You’re a smug little pussy with a little pink tongue dragging cat spit over your coat, how gross. Jump down here, Furball, you can meet your ancestors, my treat.

Bloody cat thinks it is so superior and just because it can leave the yard whenever it wants. You’re no different to me pal. The vet has your nuts in a jar on the shelf too, right alongside mine, but mine are bigger. At least they were.

Steady on fella, you’re making that harness tight, what do you want to do cut off my circulation?

Okay I’d better pretend I’m keen to do this. A bit of tail wag after a stretch, a few pants and a couple of circles to show I’m excited and listen to him wheeze up to get the paper.

I stop to sniff the geraniums; Saliba’s mongrel has stopped to pee over my scent. I feel the lead tug and tug again. I don’t care about the bloody paper. I have to piss on this until I’m happy I’ve washed that mongrel’s scent away.

Jeeze, ease up. He is dragging me and I feel the arthritis in my old bones begin to ache. The cat is tripping along the top of O’Riley’s fence now, it leans out and Rob strokes its back. Bloody cat will just sit on the gate post and wait until we get back.

I see a dog coming and feel the lead strain, I just want to sniff butt and let her sniff mine. Humans have no idea how much you can find out about each other with a little bit of butt sniff. They think they are so clever and yet they haven’t worked this one out yet.

The harness snaps and it lifts me off the ground. Steady on, I’m coming. Bugger, now we are tangled, but it feels good to be close to another canine.

‘Sniff, sniff.’

We unwind and are away. The oxygen bottle makes his trolley rattle and the plastic tube connecting the gas to his nose sways, while his newspaper heroes wait.

Rob’s steps are shorter now, a shuffle and his breathing is faster too. His foot catches a raised chunk of pavement and he stumbles. The noise of the crash and all of the dust startle me. I pull, pull away but his grip doesn’t fail. Cripes who cares if Collingwood won or lost? I don’t want him to cark it, my mind wanders, if he did, I wonder if the players wear armbands for him?

A crowd mills around us, then lights flash. People with a stretcher and that open door slams behind him.

I feel my lead loose and Rob is gone. Who will feed me?

Write your way out of the problem

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.