A Fisherman's Bay Memory

I went to her again this morning. What should I do I asked? Her back was to me, and she neither saw, nor heard. Even if she had, she would remain quiet; it has always been this way. Dew seeped through what remained of the yellow dress that covered her. Rainbow drops glistened on her exposed ribs, and she rested silent among the leaf litter. As always, she waited and I let my mind wander.

I close my eyes and conjure the same feelings that I experienced the first time I saw her. Palpitations only an adolescent boy could know, my mouth was dry, and blood pumped through me like I’d never felt before. She teased me, exposing a little nakedness as she appeared before our art class. We sat there holding our breath, tantalised by her form. Even the new chalk sounded delighted, and it squeaked under Mr Howland’s right hand. He took his time, and this lesson we savoured. First he traced her outline, and almost to a boy we were agog as he drew the detail.

This has never left me. We were drafting a kayak/canoe.

Over a few days, sketches morphed from patterns on the blackboard to bulkhead outlines on marine ply. My father and I would build her at home. He hoped the canoe would strengthen a bond between brothers competing for parental attention. A canoe, that has watched without complaint as I have gone brotherless, from boy to grandfather. Would it be easier for me now if we had given her a name? We didn’t, she always was, the canoe.

A few months before, our small yacht had capsized. My young brother, trapped beneath the sail, panicked and struggled for air. He was unwilling to sail again. I told my craft teacher of Dad’s plan to build a canoe for Christmas. Swept along by my enthusiasm, he agreed to make it a design project for our class.

‘You will help me build it.’ Dad said. ‘Not a word to your brother now. We’ll make it a surprise.’ Forty two years on, I still feel the pride those words gave me, yet they conjure sadness too. David never did work with Dad like this.

The kitchen of our old home became a boathouse.Bulkheads lay beside maple spars on the work bench. The scent of wood shavings filled the room. Sharpened chisels, planes and spoke-shaves rested on a shelf above the bench. Wrapped in yesterday’s news, copper tacks, marine nails and screws waited for their place in the frame. Clamps held the keel to sawhorses we made from old packing crates.

Our only power tool was a drill Dad bought after the war, and now he let me use it. I’d earned his trust. Over the next two weeks we shaped, nailed, screwed and tacked everything into place.

Two coats of blue marine undercoat picked out the frame. She glistened, the colour matched Dad’s eyes and the shape of her spars followed the crease of his smile. I can still hear him now, telling me to work with the grain. I see wood shavings curl, break, and drift to the floor. I smell the perfume of maple again, and it takes me back to a simpler time.

I stood at the stern, and with Dad at the bow we draped canvas over the keel. Together we tacked it into place, working from the centre, taking care to eliminate creases. Folding and stretching it, smooth canvas cloaked her. Battalions of copper tacks shone against the green of the fabric. The canvas gave her form, and she giggled as her timbers tensioned as the first coat of yellow paint dried.

Dad flicked it with his finger. ‘A-flat’ he said. ‘Better try it again after another coat.’ A couple of coats, and the dry paint had tensioned everything. Her frame no longer twisted and we achieved Dad’s A-sharp.

‘You did well son’ he said and I felt his arm close on my shoulders. ‘Now, David will have something to keep him out of your hair these holidays.’

‘Ta’ I said. ‘But, I didn’t do it for David, I did it for me.’ Sure, the canoe was his and I could use it too, but I’d had three great weeks working with my father. I learnt from his experience, I discovered new methods, and I had spent time doing something for my kid brother. I felt good.

Today I feel different emotions tearing at me. After a few years we began to get along, gone was the jealousy we had of each other. Unfortunately we lost David in a car accident before we could exorcise all of our demons. A heart attack snatched Dad ten years later.

I flick at a piece of curling paint from a spar, and run my hand along her gunnels. I gaze at the curve of her bow, and my mind is back to that first year, and a soft January evening. I feel salt water drying on my face and lick my lips to taste it. My mate, Trevor sits in front of me and his paddle dips with mine. A put-put fishing boat motors ahead of us, her white hull mixes with reflections of sunset. We are heading east. A cormorant wheels inches above the water between us. White water churns and boils behind the fishing boat. We make a race of it now. If we stay to the starboard side, and get onto the boat’s bow wave, we can surf in to shore. The fishermen urge us on, even though they are unwilling to slow. Three kilometres from shore now and the tide ebbs, eddies swirl around each dip of our paddles.

Seagulls dive for fish scraps in front of us as the fishermen clean their catch. They laugh, bombarding us with fish guts, we laugh too, but maintain our beat, and we are gaining on them. Their boat follows the channel; our shallow draft lets us cut across cockle flats. A blue swimmer crab rears at our shadow. Drenched from paddling, we level with them now. More cormorants streak from the other side of the bay, across our bow and to their nests on Shag Island. I am squinting and imagine their reflections, saltwater burns my eyes, but their calls tell me they’re there. Trevor is singing a shanty now, it helps keep our rhythm. I start singing faster, I see his back bend, and his paddle digs deeper.

‘We are on top of the wave now.’ Trevor yells. ‘Let’s surf it for a while.’

We slow our paddling and glide along, allowing gravity to hold our speed. I drag my blade and steer the canoe up on the stern wave’s curl. Closer to the boat now, the wave is higher and the canoe surges.

‘Get away out of it, you, crazy buggers’ One of the fishermen yells and a fish head bounces off our bow. A gull dives and clips Trevor, he grabs at his glasses sliding off his nose. We wobble and lose momentum.

‘Snooze, you lose.’ The fisherman calls. ‘Race you to shore.’

Trevor starts the shanty again, and they join in too. Our paddles slash faster now and we draw ahead, we set our sights on another boat one hundred metres ahead.

‘This one too?’ I pant between the bars of: Drunken Sailor.

Trevor nods, ramps up the rhythm, and we devour the glassy surface. Dodging between moored boats we power toward shore, the canoe bumps on the sand as waves from the ski-boats carry us through the shallows.

We slump on our paddles, not moving, waiting to get our breath back. We had raced several fishing boats home that night, and our legs wobbled as we carried our craft up the beach. We collapsed on a bank of seaweed and laughed. Friends joined us, and ribbed our singing.

Tonight I touch her again and flinch. The prick of a splinter stings my finger. Is it her way of telling me she needs care? Should I be angry? No, how can I be angry with this piece of my past. She holds many fond memories.

The canoe always brought people to David, Dad and me. She introduced us to people from all over the state. Many paddled her, but no one mastered her like David or me, her round bottomed hull made sure of that.

Stay a little longer old girl. I’ll spruce you up nice, and one day you will play with our grandchildren too.

Happy Birthday Isabella

Twenty one years ago today you burst into the world and made your presence known. I have to say it was one of the best days of my life and way back then I made up this rhyme for you.

Isabella, Isabella, Isabella Rose,
Tiny little fingers
Tiny little nose.
Big brown eyes
and a little button nose
Isabella, Isabella, Isabella Rose.

Happy Birthday from Ruth and I, just thinking about you makes us smile.

Toby Farrier Excerpt

This is one of the pieces in Toby Farrier I enjoyed writing, it is about halfway into the story and Tracy is confronting her guilt about sending Toby away.

Tracy put a finger to his lips. ‘You know John Evans came to see me and Darren tonight and he let me in on what happened just before I dumped all this on you at the hospital. Only then, did I learn how much stuff you’ve had going on, and I think I’ve been a bit unfair. For too long Darren and I have tried to put what we did to one side, not think of how we failed you and we didn’t know how much we need your forgiveness.’ Tracy felt her tears stream down her cheeks. ‘Everyone sees me as this hardnosed business woman without feelings, yet every day the little girl inside me wants to hide until a good fairy comes along and makes everything right.’ She dug around in her bag and produced a tattered long haul driver’s log book. ‘This is your dad’s. From the day you left he folded the pages a different way. Most truckies fold forward but your dad folded them back. You might wonder why, but I think you’ll find the answer in there somewhere. I know I did.’ She passed it to him. ‘You know, Sarah, John’s sister, your Mum Shellie, and me we were all mates, right through school. When Michelle contracted breast cancer that was the just the pits and we all cried for days. When we found out she was having you, she was over the moon until they told her the therapy would harm your chance of survival. Our friend told them she would go full term and then have the treatment. She was so brave, Toby and so strong willed, we couldn’t talk her out of it. Maybe you remember the perfume because she wore it too, we all did. She gave it to us for being her bridesmaids.’

Toby picked up a box of tissues and passed them to his stepmother.

‘You should hate us for what we did and yet here you are passing me bloody tissues.’

‘Pop taught me that holding a grudge is hard work and I reckon he’s right.’ Toby turned away, he didn’t need tears and if he looked at Tracy he knew they would have the box empty in a minute. ‘I was angry, and my moods made me quite a handful for a long time, but he never pressured me. Sure I had to go to a new school, but nobody there knew how bad I was and some of the kids who were there, were worse. I soon saw that I was lucky to have someone who loved me unconditionally. I couldn’t say it like this at the time, but I knew what I wanted to say, I just couldn’t make out the words. When I looked at what the teachers wrote on the boards to me it looked like alphabet soup, letters everywhere. Old Charlie got me sorted. He told Pop he’d heard someone talking about ADHD and disruptive kids on the radio. One appointment, a couple of hours of watching Shrek and we walked out with a prescription for new glasses and in a few days I could see how the letters formed words and even numbers made sense.’

‘Clever old you, eh?’ Tracy tried to hide her guilt by attempting to laugh. ‘There was so much bitterness between Darren and his Dad, what could we do?’

‘Yeah.’

Les Gillespies Gold: Exerpt - Chapter 15

I'm back to writing Les Gillespies Gold again and thought I would share this exerpt, which I had a lot of fun writing. As with everything, it may not make it into the final draft of the story, but it felt good to write such an exchange. Let me know what you think.

Emily had squeezed between him and the table cuddling into him for warmth.
         ‘Good morning little one, why are you out of bed?’ Tilly had asked if she could stay with Joe and Laura overnight.
         ‘Couldn’t sleep.’
         ‘Hungry?’
         Emily shook her head and stared at the changing sky. ‘Pop, you know how Mum and Jeff are getting married.’
          ‘Yep.’ Joe said. ‘Why, don’t you want them too?’
          ‘It’s not that. I like Jeff, but do I have to call him Dad?’
          ‘Not if you don’t you want too?’Joe wondered how Emily would take the changes. He would sooner have Tilly and Jeff answer these questions, but he loved that his granddaughter could come to him for counsel. ‘What do you want to call him?’
         ‘Jeff, it will seem funny to call him, Dad now, but he’ll be like a dad, won’t he? I just want to call him, Jeff, like before, that’s all.’
         ‘I think he’ll be fine with that too.’
         ‘And do you think Mum will love him more than me?’
         ‘Hmm, what do you think?’
         ‘Well, I don’t think she will stop loving me, maybe she will love us the same, but different. You know, she will love him grown up ways.’
         ‘Yep, that’s what I would have said. You are one smart young lady.’
         ‘I heard Mum tell Jeff, that if you said he couldn’t marry her, to tell you, it’s a shottie. What does that mean?’ Emily screwed her face around, trying to squeeze the same inflection her mother put into the word she didn’t understand.
        Joe struggled to hold his composure, Emily was serious and these were questions, he’d rather not answer. What would she ask next?
       ‘How about some pancakes with whipped butter and maple syrup?’ Joe said.
       ‘I don’t think so, not yet anyway.’ She snuggled in, shivered, and dragged his flannel shirt around her. ‘If mum has a baby, then it will be theirs won’t it, hers and Jeff’s. Do you think they will love it more than me?’
       ‘How could anybody love anyone, more than your Mum loves you? You should have seen her the day you came into the world, a little wrinkled up red bundle of arms and legs. She had a bit of trouble and was in a lot of pain, but the moment you arrived she was complete. Her world was right again, but you, Emily Beatrice Gillespie, you screamed the hospital down.’
       ‘Did I, did I cry a lot?’
       ‘Cry... I think they heard you in the next town. You were louder than that old rooster over there. The hospital told us you had the strongest set of lungs they’d ever heard.’ He placed a hand on her tummy and tickled her. She writhed and giggled in time to his touch. ‘You settled down once you had a feed, but boy that day was special. And well, you let everyone know you had arrived.’
       She loved his storytelling, and he knew a flood of questions would burst from inside her. ‘Was I quiet from then on?’
      ‘Only until you started to talk and we haven’t been able to shut you up since. Just like now questions, questions, questions.’ He turned away. ‘Look, if they do decide to have a baby, and who’s to say they will. I reckon there will be more love in your house, than in any other place in town, in the State, or even the whole of Australia maybe. Things’ll be fine. Do you reckon you can love Jeff too? What do you think?’
      ‘Yep, if he doesn’t make Mum sad.’
      ‘Do you think he will?’
      ‘Sometimes she’s cross with him.’
      ‘Sometimes she’s cross with you too, and sometimes Granny’s cross with me. In the end though, it’s only a little thing and the love is bigger than that. You’ll see, we’ll all be fine.’
     ‘You sure?’
     ‘Yep, as sure as I am that I make better pancakes than Jeff Rankin.’ Joe cuddled her; his big arms covered her tiny frame. ‘Let’s eat. You can get the butter and syrup out of the fridge.’
     ‘Pop?’ Emily put the margarine on the table.
     ‘Yep’
     ‘What’s Chanel No5?’
     ‘Why?’
     ‘Before we left the pub, they were whispering, and I heard Mum ask Jeff what pyjamas she should wear. And he said Chanel No5.’
     ‘Come on, I’ll need some help with the batter.’ Joe said. ‘That’s a question for your grandmother.’

JENNY: First draft of a song lyric.

Jenny’ 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 spent the day in bed

And food came to their room

Making love all through the morning

She thrilled with his inner movements

And glowed there in his spoon

 

Dinner at the restaurant

of 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 wondering about the pill

Wondered why he thought he needed 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 on card

 

They danced until the small hours

They 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

Them somewhere between

The darkness and the light

He swallowed what the dealer sold him

And believed he could take flight.

 

Now Jenny’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 Jenny’s staring at the pavement

Toby Farrier - Update.

I have been going over the draft of my first manuscript and fixing many of the punctuation and plot errors before I look at attempting a structural edit. I should have this second draft completed by the end of the week and I am looking fro five volunteers to offer an opinion on the story.

I have aimed the story at the same age group who read Harry Potter. This is a contemporary story set in modern Melbourne. Middle school kids are on a quest to unravel the mysteries hidden in documents Toby has found in an old desk. An evil professor stands between them and the key to the mystery. Will Toby and his friends prevail, or will the evil professor toss them into the lost underground strongroom.

If you are interested please leave me a message or comment. Thank you.

Fascio Scapulo Humeral Muscular Dystrophy

F.S.H.D. 

I have a little illness

And it knocks me about you see

I find it just a bit harder now

That I have this F.S.H.D.

Four little letters to tell me why

My shoulders droop

My calves are sore

And my smile is all awry

Purse you lips she said to me

And I tried the best I could

Now can you whistle

I puffed my cheeks

And pursed my lips

And blew quite hard you see

There you go your symptoms show

You have F.S.H.M.D.

A diagnosis I had at last

But, it sounded like a whistle to me

I love the sound those letters make

And I often wonder why

Of this grand lottery that I would win

When cash seems to me a better prize

My legs feel like lead all day

My neck and shoulders too

It took a while to diagnose

It grinds away my energy

And saps at my strength too

It’s fair to say that F.S.H.M.D.

Is not a gift I’d want for you.

Today you’ll see me leaning on a stick

Soon a walker for my need

And then a chair with two big wheels

Cause I’ll need them for speed

Till then I have to some things to say

While my mind’s still strong

I’ll share with you a story or a song

I have a little illness

And it knocks me about you see

I find it just a bit harder now

That I have this F.S.H.M.D.

https://www.facebook.com/musculardystrophyUK/videos/10153835179423692/

WHAT A MESS

During one of our Wordsmiths of Melton, workshops. Our facilitator, Beverley Eikli asked us to write up to ten lines beginning with, what a mess. It didn't have to be a poem or anything specific but the words just sang to me and I heard a rhythm to them.

 

This is my effort. 

 

What a mess I’ve made of life

Gone my home, my kids, my wife

At twenty three I found the booze

So much to win I could not lose

Came the cards and pokies too

I put an end to me and you

Oh what a mess I’ve made of life

No house no car no loving wife

My kids they have no time for me

I stand here now, old at forty three

I know that I could lick the booze

There is nothing left for me to lose

Banned from clubs for counting cards

I ache to here our children in the yard

Oh what a mess I’ve made of life

No home no kids no loving wife

 

I wander to my squat alone

Nobody here to share my home

I brought this sadness down on me

A foolish man who would not see

The damage selfish acts would do

It brought an end to me and you

 

Oh what a mess I’ve made of life

No hope no home no loving wife.

Minnie

Andy has a picture, right there on her phone

A dog sits in a pusher, with her muzzle going grey

And in the morning sun it warms her

She wriggles round and wants the pain to go away

Minnie has a bit of trouble; it’s arthritis in her hip

So Pop and Nan her owners, spent ten dollars

And got a pusher from the tip

Now when they go walking, Minnie’s riding up the front

She’s looking at the traffic watching people in their cars

And town kids stop to pat her and their mothers like to chat

Minnie she just sits there, like she’s waiting for the stars 

Sometimes when she’s sleeping she’ll bark

Chasing rabbits in her dream, working sheep or moving cattle

Down the paddock cross the road and through the stream

Pop drops down his hand, and rubs her head

They watch a bit of footy, and he takes her out to bed 

She’s been a close companion right down through her years

Listened to their troubles listened to their fears.

Minnie has a bit of strife now; it’s arthritis in her hip

So Rod and Gwen her owners, spent ten dollars

And bought her a pusher from the Swan Hill tip

Terry L Probert: Stories in progress

Terry L Probert: Stories in progress: It is halfway through May already and I need to take stock of the things I am working on at the moment. Like a lot of writers if I'm hav...

Stories in progress

It is halfway through May already and I need to take stock of the things I am working on at the moment. Like a lot of writers if I'm having trouble getting past a problem with one story, I begin writing another. It may start with the question, why am I blocked and then develop into another short story or a poem. Therefore my hard drive is full of unfinished work. I have made a list below as a reminder to me to  'ged-on-wid-it'.

Take a look at these and feel free to crack the whip on me to finish the ones you like the sound of. Anything I have given a percentage to is in second draft or more.

Novels:

• Toby Farrier:
• Manuscript completed and requires editing.
• Find a mainstream publisher
• Les Gillespie's Gold (2nd book in Kundela series)
• 30% written need to get past the couples engagement dilemma
• get Joe and Laura to England and into conflict.
• Rhino Horne
• Story concept complete
• Chapter outlines 20% complete
• Cast of characters 20% complete
• Character Profiles to do
• Wurrugi the Warrior Without Ears:
• Requires complete rewrite and dividing into a series of childrens' stories.

Memoirs:

• Letters to my Children
• Four chapters drafted
• Set out book segments
• Select photos to begin each story/chapter

Anthology of Short Stories and Poems:

This will be a book to show the development of my story ideas and a project to support my novel writing. I work on improving these stories whenever my mind is away from the novel I am writing.

• The canoe:
• 90 % complete
• Banib the Bunyip: (Runner up in the 2013 City of Melton Short Story Competition)
• Rewrite to tighten it for the reader.
• Honey Hush:
• 50% complete
• Feral Utes and Borrowed Boots:
• 90% complete, requires a final edit.
• Al Zheimer's Christmas:
• Good little story for the memoirs, but requires more editing.
• Heading Home:
• 60% Needs a rewrite.
• The American
• First draft of a Kundela themed short story.
• Zombies
• Almost ready for printing, needs a final edit.
• Stinky Jones
• In first draft form. Children's story
• How Zach made a difference
• Almost ready for printing, needs a final edit.

Anthology:

• Stories of Australia's Agricultural Sales and Service People.
• Begin collecting photos to support info on the AgList Blog.
• More stories required, may have to do personal interviews to get enough data.

Self Help Books:

• So You Want to Sell Tractors
• Training manual needs converting into a readable format directed at sales people.
• Business Planning Workbook
• Rewrite and formatting required.

Peaches Pengelly - Super Hero

Having finished one children’s manuscript it is now time to plan another. For Toby Farrier I used a bus to get my story started. In this case I’ll use the food court of a shopping centre. I’ll pretend to conduct interviews with likely characters and cast them into the plot.

This story will be a crime mystery and the protagonist I need is a girl who is about fourteen. I am working on a few names but I like, Peaches Pengelly. Frumpy in her appearance and shy, even with the people she knows. Peaches is invisible. She is awkward around boys. Now I need a title, and a plot.

I read Elizabeth George’s book about writing recently and became captured by the method she uses to develop her characters. Subscribing to often quoted phrase that character builds plot, I will construct a setting in which I meet and interview Peaches for the role.

I like my character’s name now having typed and said it aloud a few times, so stay tuned as I develop her story. I am not big into fantasy or historical sagas, so in the planning stage the story will be contemporary and set in an industrial city ravaged by crime.

The things I need in the plot:

·         A crime/murder/kidnapping or all of them that only Peaches can solve.

·         A sidekick every hero needs a sidekick and this one should be reluctant. Possibly a boy with issues.

·         An arch enemy or apocalyptic event. Either will work for me.

·         Her superpowers come from her ability to think and problem solve.

Well there is a start.

I will begin my character interviews in the food court of a shopping centre near you soon.

Toby Farrier has a new sub title

Toby Farrier and the Gypsy's Curse

 

Towards the end of the story I found I needed to know who my villains were. They had to be wealthy with a past that was hidden from the public. Evil had to visit them and colour their judgement through the generations. Here is the back story of Banker Bill Ryan and his descendants.

 

Banker Bill Ryan was not such a mean man more of a calculating one. He’d watched his father and uncles fail at the diggings and as much as they followed the gold by the end of the nineteenth century they were still penniless. On the diggings five year old Bill witnessed the futility in shifting dirt for little reward and wanted something more. A rudimentary education in a shanty school house showed him how to count, read and write. Good tools for someone in the city but wasted as a digger.

William Ryan however found a way to begin building his fortune on the diggings. Men would pay him to run errands and by the time he was twelve he had enough money to follow the example of Sidney Myer and set up his own store to cater more for the whims of the diggers and their wives.

Smart enough to understand compound interest a lesson learnt when he defaulted on an account in Mr Myer’s store young Bill Ryan started to sell goods on credit and each day he would total his ledgers. If the client’s account was outstanding Bill would add a percentage, a late payment fee he would call it. No more than a boy he had control over many men.

One night a digger unhappy with the way his account had blown out over a month, and spiteful that Bill had accosted his wife for payment gave the young entrepreneur a beating. The beating prompted Bill to move on his plans and he sold the business to one of the late arriving diggers for a tidy profit.

Pickaxe Jack a rough hard drinking digger, who owed Bill plenty of money and with no hope of settling his account, became Bill’s debt collector. When a debt was too far overdue Jack was there, he took part of his fee in cash and the balance reduced his account. Jack too was becoming wealthy.

Bill had seen enough of the squalor, dirty men with uncouth habits. He knew the gold would peter out and though it would be wise to leave before it did, at the news of the next big strike he’d sell. He didn’t wait long, Patrick Long hauled out a twenty ounce nugget and the camp went wild. Bill found a buyer and broke camp. From the lessons he had learnt from lending decided now was the time to set up his own bank. Pickaxe Jack would accompany him on his new adventure.

During the evenings in the camp he hadn’t drank with the others in the saloons and gambling halls, he had studied, reading everything he could on banking law. Bill was ready moving to Melbourne and letting a shopfront on Collins Street opened the Investment Bank of Ireland and Victoria. He’d learnt much about the benefits of interest and he loved the foreclosure laws of the time. Jack had sobered up and bought a nice property on the Maribyrnong River. Collection served him well and the small farm became a model for horse breeders of the area.

Bill took note of Jacks success and offered loans to would be farmers, at the first sign of default he would withdraw the loan and foreclose. Bill only lent to those who farmed where the city would expand too. He leant to business too, Shipbuilders being a favourite. A Steam engine manufacturer and a steel mill in New South Wales over extended and Bill moved quickly. He restructured and extended more capital. Always holding a controlling share he offered inducements for workers to take loans and become share holders. Bill’s empire grew. He paid small but secure interest to depositors and set up trusts for women and orphans.

On the surface Bill looked as upstanding and moral as anyone of the time and his wealth and influence grew.  Married to socialite Esther Porteus-McBride they had two children William and Lois, William followed his father into banking and Lois died in her late teens. She drowned when she fell into Port Phillip Bay from the family yacht.

Bill and Bill courted government ministers and government officials, at the first hint of Victoria entering a war they would move on a woollen mill, shipyard, or farming property. Having secured the assets they would tender for supply to either army or navy. It was lucrative and the family’s wealth grew.

William learnt fast and with the rise of gangsters and stand over men in Melbourne saw another way to increase his fortune. He offered a safe house for their extortion racketeering and stand over money.

Considered by the police of the time as ruthless but petty criminals, history never thought of Squizzy Taylor and his like as being organised like Capone in the United States. William Ryan ensured their money was safe and he kept it that way until in nineteen twenty nine he disappeared without trace. Widowed not long after the death of his daughter Bill the banker had died five years before his son.

William’s twelve year old son, Young Bill inherited, but had little or no knowledge of the background to the business. He stayed with it until his twenty first year. Attaining the age of majority, he instructed the family solicitors to dispose of the industrial investments and consolidate most of the family assets into a trust. He personally negotiated the sale of the working assets of the bank, taking cash and shares as payment.

Demolished to make way for an electrical substation, the original building disappeared and Melbourne grew. By the end of the thirties the family had ensconced themselves in Melbourne society, but rumour still plagued the family.

Shamus O’Toole worked for a disgruntled group of stockholders who wanted to find out why a bank that had been dispersing good dividends and had a solid, borrowings to equity ratio, sold so cheaply. They felt dudded by the Ryans and wanted him to gather enough evidence to support challenging the Banker Bill's family through the courts.

More than once Young Bill mounted his own investigations to ensure the dispelling of the rumours. He went to his deathbed not knowing the truth about the family fortune. Like most family legends this began with truth and had an open ending. Bill spent a fortune but much of the evidence was lost or destroyed. Banker Bill took much care recording who owed him money. Not so careful with those he owed money to.

Young Bill a trained solicitor was more suited to running the country estates and developing Melbourne. A suburb of post war homes in the east, followed by a shopping strip development in Brunswick. These were the attractions for him. By the late seventies shopping centres in the expanding suburbs made sense and the Ryan money made it happen. Income from rent and leasing doubled the family fortune each year.

Shopping Centre Bill as his friends now called him now lived in leafy Toorak, his wife provide the couple with two sons, William and Phillip. Phillip flashy and gregarious always wanted more and worked to excel at everything he tried. A risk taker he gambled and loved the yacht club. Frustration would find him when whispers would start about his fortune and often the Ryan name found itself bandied around with the less scrupulous of Melbourne’s families. His desire to prove society and its matrons wrong grew.

A professor of history provided a perfect opportunity to research his family but in fifteen years he had unearthed nothing new. Then this Farrier kid shows up with the journal desk and other paraphernalia. Stuff that could lead to the truth and he had to have it. He had to know why his family was laughed at.

Thoughts and Lessons of an Aspiring Writer

As a writer I am always looking for tips and advice to help with both creativity and learning the craft of the storyteller. The workshops I have attended over the past two years have given me a better understanding of applying a more crafted technique when planning structure, dialogue and pacing to my work. One thing I gained from these inspirational people was the ease and confidence they imparted when they talked to us about writing. The passion they shared as they talked about their process for taking an idea they had conjured and applied it to a storyline. The wonderment we shared when they opened a new door for us. Merely by listening to the techniques these artists used to shift focus, and control pace in their writing habits we were enlightened.

Some of these things we as rookie writers had already unwittingly applied to our story telling, but now we had descriptions for these tricks successful writers employ. More than that we could sit back, nod sagely and think I've done that, or wow I didn't understand before but today I do.

The one theme that rolled through all of these educational events was to read and read widely. Now, I am someone who spent most of my time with technical journals and stuffy training manuals, so reading fiction was somewhat foreign to me. Don't get me wrong, I love fiction but have always watched it on the screen rather than pick up a book, I’ve been busy or lazy I guess.

In trying to write fiction, I have learnt that the movie maker's perspective for telling the story is their point of view only. Although enjoyable, it is not be the same point of view I'd have if I'd read the book. A reader sees their own pictures unfold with each line in a well written novel, and they consume the pages. During the reading the reader owns their view of the characters, and they create their own images of place. By reading some great stories, many unpublished yet, I have learnt that good writers always leave enough space for the reader. Space to create their own vision of the tale.
 

Description sets the scene and draws the characters, but each reader visualises them differently. To illustrate this point, after seeing the movie, The Lorax by Dr Seuss, my daughter said that the voice used for the character of the Lorax was all wrong for her. She was comfortable with the animated pictures as they were taken from the book, but the voice chosen was different, it wasn't mine. It wasn't the same voice she had heard as a toddler when we shared this tale before her bedtime. Dr Seuss left room in his story for the reader and in her case, the listener to interpret their own vision. A movie no matter how great the production, will struggle to do that.

I hope for my writing, I too have learnt to leave room for the reader.

Another common piece of advice shared, was to read work by some of today's icons of the literary world and ponder about their practice of writing. Read writers biographies to learn about their fears and hopes. More important though, our tutors wanted us to discover how these writing gods approached a blank screen when they sat down to create their next blockbuster.

Two books suggested were:

On Writing by Steven King

Write Away by Elizabeth George.

I am not going to give a review of either author other than to say these books were like a beacon in the night for me, and I suggest reading them to anyone wanting to enjoy success as a writer.

If you're struggling when trying to plan, develop characters, or produce realistic dialogue, then you should stop what you are doing right now and read both of these books. We can learn much from the masters, but the one big thing I took from these books is that both authors craft their story. They do their research, they plan their chapters and have a structured idea of the story they want to write before they start typing.

At the begininig of this year I resolved to finish two novels, Toby Farrier and Les Gillespies Gold. I knew it was important to set another goal to read at least two books a month and include a couple of classics too. It has been years since I sat in the Orroroo Town Hall and watched a movie production of the Old Man and the Sea by Earnest Hemingway. I remember the gist of the yarn and the Cuban coastline but that was all. However I found an online copy and read it yesterday. This may be a short novel, but the words are powerful and convey beautiful imagery. This man knew how to leave space for the reader, no wonder it was a Pulitzer Prize winner.

Take it down from the shelf and read it again, he will amaze you.

Oh, and read some poorly written stuff too. These books may be good stories poorly edited or just a bad story but they do serve to remind us that completing our first draft while a big acheivement is only the beginning. A side benefit to a bad book is as you read it you feel your self esteem grow, because you know you can do better. Reading bad books can build confidence in your own ability.

 

Links to Workshop Lecturers:

 

             Kirsty Murray:        http://kirstymurray.com/

 

             Merlene Fawdrey:  https://www.blogger.com/profile/08318707687125028987

 

            Archie Fusillo:        http://bookedout.com.au/find-a-speaker/author/archie-fusillo/