Writing Update.

Today finds me well on the way to 80,000 words and a feeling that the novel is about half way through. Having written two books before I am surprised at how this one is becoming both more interesting and difficult to keep the pacing right.

My initial plan was to aim for around 100,000 words forty or so chapters and about four or five plot lines, not so. The characters are more interesting as the novel develops and I introduce more frailty and evil in a couple of them. The main character in Kundela, Joe Gillespie, has had a minor role to-date, but in the last few chapters his character has become dominate. He is central to the story, always was but it has taken me forty chapters to get there. An editor may want to dump a few, but if I play this right, every plot twist will keep you wanting more. I'm sure Kundela readers will love the relationship between Tilly and her nemesis Sam Lewis. I had called Sam Millie originally, but when writing parts for Millie and Tilly, it was silly to read, and change was needed.

As the story builds more characters weave in and out of the narrative,  I have character sheets for my main protagonists that I refer to often. I will need to complete more for a sprinkle of new ones.

At our Wordsmiths of Melton last week my chapter twenty four was being critiqued and I am pleased the first draft received the following comments:

Terry,

This is good writing. The characters are building well and the plot is developing nicely. I enjoyed it very much. I read it aloud and it sounded good. Other than one small comment I have no other concerns.
Les (Stillman)

I enjoyed this chapter and you're moving the story along nicely, showing mixed feelings between Tilly and Sam and also the aggression between Gino / Sam. Good chapter look forward to reading more.
Sonia (Doherty)

(Sonia had five small concerns that can be addressed in the re-write)

Terry,
From a copy/edit perspective this piece is very good, just one typo that might prove correct, I'm not sure. It's developing well. the finished story should satisfy the most discerning reader. Next chapter please.
Frank Ince

Frank was concerned about the following phrase: 'She tell you that?'

Tilly's friend Fiona is asking her about Sam. As it is dialogue I'll probably leave it, but if it were in the narrative I'd use, told, instead of, tell.

Here is that part of the chapter"

‘No, not really, what I can tell you is; she is definitely a size eight. Not an ounce of fat on her and her hair is natural.’

‘No way, she tell you that?’

‘Nope, saw for myself.’

‘How?’

Well I have more words to write, plots to follow, murders to solve and villains to catch.

More later.

Terry

Trying to find the meaning of: Mooldarbie

When we were kids, my brother David and I were helping our father tidy up a hole on the Orroroo Golf Course. As usual we were mucking about, throwing clods of dirt at each other that may, or may not have morphed into stones as our battle progressed.

    Tired of that and probably because we ran out of suitable material, or Dad had had enough of our fighting, we decided to explore the creek behind the hole. I think at that time it was the eighth. We were climbing down the rock face and into the deep gorge, considering our age at the time, it is probably more of a ravine. Acacia bush clung to the sides where clay gave their roots a chance to take hold and they were full of insect nests that we thought were filled with the itchiest of crawlies.

   We only had a few steps to go until we sunk into the reeds that protruded from the narrow creek bed. A grey scrubber kangaroo burst from under a rock ledge and bounded up the path toward us. we dived for cover and our screams echoed down the gully. The smell of sheep manure mixed with dust and a mob of newly shorn wethers shot up the hill on the other side.

   Dad's voice boomed louder than I'd ever heard him. 

   'Get back up here now, before the Mooldarbies get you.'

   I had never heard anything like it and the word has always haunted me and what is a mooldarbie?

I used the word, in Kundela, when Joe is rescuing the girl from the bikies. I wrote it again in chapter Thirty Eight of Les Gillespies Gold and needing to check the spelling searched the internet. It seems I have spelled it wrong in Kundela, so apologies are in order and if I have offended anyone, I'm sorry.

  Today I found the word in a letter to the editor from the Adelaide Advertiser, 17th August, 1871. Mooldarbie means devil as I suspected, but the way it rolled from Dad's tongue and echoed across the valley and down the plain still makes the hair on my neck prickle.

Check the article from 1871 here: http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/28603868 

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.

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.

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

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.

Les Gillespie's Gold Update

This book is taking longer to write than I first expected. As I understand the process better now, the more I have tried to craft a better tale. I hope that everyone who enjoyed Kundela will be blown away by Les Gillespie's Gold. I believe I have broken the back of the story now and am ready to draw all of the plot lines together.

I hope to have the manuscript ready for editing soon.

Cheers,

Terry

Les Gillespie's Gold Excerpt.

I am having a bit of trouble with the young women in this novel. They are forcing their way into bigger roles, here Tilly's nemesis, Sam, is being intimidated by a colleague.

Sam couldn’t wait to change and kicked her boots off outside the door; by the time she reached the bathroom she was naked. Carrying her clothes over an arm, she didn’t seen Gino sitting on a stool in the kitchen. He bided his time and waited until he heard the shower running. He poured himself another scotch and a dropped ice into a glass. He took another tumbler, poured in two fingers of Vodka and dropped in a wedge of lime for Sam. Sam was humming and he smiled. He had her right where he wanted her. Gino sauntered into the bathroom and put the drinks on the basin. Pleased she hadn’t heard him, he closed the toilet lid covered it with a towel and sat down. He reached across, picked up the Vodka and held it toward the shower. Sam had her back to him and he supposed the water had helped prevent her from hearing him come in.

Gino liked to think of himself as a cat, stealthy and composed, he stifled a smirk. ‘Drink?’ he said.

Sam knew the voice and wanted to scream, but knew it would do her no good. She had never felt so vulnerable and yet her nakedness gave her power. Men were week, if she managed this right he would leave her in peace. If she judged it wrong, she could be in danger.

Sam took shampoo from the shelf and lathered it in her hands. She turned to face him and stood there; her feet apart. Sam could feel his eyes taking all of her in; her hands worked the shampoo into her hair. To her surprise she found she didn’t mind him ogling her, in fact it made her feel stronger and knew he was weakening. Suds washed from her hair onto her shoulders and she watched his eyes track it all the way to her feet.

‘A drink'll be nice, just let me freshen up here and I’ll catch up with you in the kitchen.’