Short Story: The leap not taken

The wintry twilight was closing in and the ferry to Manly heaved and rolled past the Heads. Back when Ned was a junior clerk, he had stood with the other fellows, feet astride, balancing on the outer deck as the ferry dipped and rose through the swell. It had been a matter of pride not to hold on to anything. Older now, he still took the ferry from the city and his cronies from the office still congregated outside, their hats and caps jauntily tipped back on their heads. But Ned sat inside, his winter overcoat buttoned up, his fedora hat tilted low, to keep the worst of the chill off his exposed ears.

As the ferry approached the wharf, the wind was rising and the waves pitched and tossed. Anxious to get home, passengers folded their newspapers and rose to gather close to sliding doors, packed in so tightly they swayed as one.

All eyes were fixed on the ferrymen standing outside on the deck. Broad shouldered, cigarettes lodged in the corner of their mouths, they looped the sodden rope through their hardened hands, ready to lasso the bollards on the wharf. The tide was low and the wharf loomed high above them, casting the outer deck into gloom. The echo of the seething waves rushed through the pylons barely visible in the darkness under the wharf. Until the ferrymen secured the boat, they couldn’t heave the gangplanks into position. The young lads waited, one foot stretched up to the rail, ready to leap up to the wharf, too impatient to wait for the gangplanks. Over the grinding chug of the engines, they called out, urging each other on, one eye calculating the distance, the other on the women still inside. ‘See, I’m not just a boring office clerk in the city’ their actions boasted.

As the boat rose, the ferrymen cast their ropes.

Missed. With a thwack the sodden ropes fell back against the gunnel.

The ferrymen cursed, coiling back the heavy ropes.

Behind the sliding door, Ned checked his watch. The 144 bus would be leaving any minute. He peered through the salt-misted window, watching his fellow clerk Frank jostle for position with the young lads on the outer deck. He tutted under his breath. When he got home he would tell his wife about Frank’s delusions of youth. That might liven her up a little. Marjorie seemed—he didn’t know quite how to describe it—a bit down. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Or the last time she’d cooked something other than macaroni cheese. A chap wasn’t asking too much was he, to have some variety in his dinner?

Marjorie used to like taking a trip on the ferry. From their back verandah they could see out toward North Head. If the water was rough they’d see the ferry rolling and heaving its way into Manly and they’d walk for half an hour to get down to the wharf and buy a return ticket just for the fun of it. How her face had lit up when they’d done that. She’d tuck her arm in his and chatter the whole way home, sharing her thrill at her new life by the sea, so far from her life back on the family property in the dry flat plains.

Perhaps Frank felt him staring, for he turned to look back, grinning and lifting his briefcase by way of a wave. Or was he mocking him? Everything was a joke to Frank. It made the hours in their office cubicle very tedious.

Nettled, Ned set his jaw and edged forward between the other passengers. Stepping outside, the wind blasted him full in the face threatening to lift his hat. He clamped one hand on top. It wouldn’t do to lose it. That wasn’t the sort of story that would make Marjorie smile, not when the cost of a new hat would cut even further into the housekeeping. They’d hoped he’d have been promoted by now, but old Simmons had intimated that perhaps at the end of the financial year, but the financial year had come and gone, and nothing had been said.

Again the ferrymen threw.

Again they missed.

Again they swore.

Silhouetted in the lights from the wharf, Frank was up on the rail, one hand on the floor of the upper deck for balance. ‘Watch me’, said his grin.

The ferry lifted with the next wave and Frank teetered for a moment, as the lads jeered, ‘Come on grandad, show us what you’ve got.’

Ned watched as Frank—a suited, hatted Nureyev—hung suspended mid-air.

‘He’s not gonna make it!’ shouted one of the onlookers.

With a crash, the waves sucked back and the distance between the ferry and the wharf doubled.

Ned, along with the other passengers, leaned over the rail, searching for any sign of Frank in the churning foam.

Then the water surged again and the ferry rolled towards the wharf.

He held his breath waiting for the boat to roll back away. For one dreadful moment, only Frank’s bowler hat was visible in the foam. But then his briefcase followed, still gripped tightly in his hand. And then his head emerged, spitting a spume of water from his mouth.

The lads bent double laughing and the other passengers cackled in relief.

Once more the ferry yawed away from the wharf and Ned leaned over the railing, trying to catch sight of Frank.

The ferryman gave him a shove. ‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, heaving the rope up to the wharf to loop the iron bollard at last.

Ned waited, heart pounding, as the ferrymen roped and made the ferry fast. The gangplank thudded into place at his feet, and he was pushed forward by the press of passengers. Even now, with the ferry tied up, the rise and fall of the water skewed the gangplank this way and that. He fought to stare down to the water as the gangplank groaned and creaked under their feet. There! Behind the barnacled pylon, a hand. Then in the shadows, bowler hat back on his head, Frank emerged, clumsily swimming his way to the next pylon.

Reaching the safe stability of the wharf, Ned picked up his pace. Wouldn’t want to miss his bus – Marjorie would have dinner waiting.

A sploshing sound from behind caught him mid-step. Frank had made it to the beachside pool and climbed the stairs to the street. His suit was sodden and his wet footprints tracked along the concrete but, with a flourish, he lifted his dripping bowler in acknowledgement of the scattered applause of his fellow passengers.

When Ned arrived home, he told Marjorie all about it as he forced down the macaroni cheese. He’d thought to amuse her. When he finished, she didn’t comment, just rose to clear away the dishes.

He made one last attempt. ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me doing such thing, now would you?’ he snorted.

Her hand brushed his shoulder. ‘No, you would never do such a thing,’ she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

________

Short Story

This short story was tucked away in a drawer for a long while but I figure it’s time to drag it out into the light of day. Hope you like it!

The Essentials

Miss Solly locked her bag into the lower drawer of her desk and clipped the key on the chain about her neck. She removed the dustcover from her computer and folded it into three before tucking it out of sight. She exhaled slowly. Mr Alexander Svaric, today’s applicant, would be here any minute—or should be, if he had any chance of being appointed. Brandon & Co Detective Agency had to find someone suitable soon or they’d be out of business and thirty years of her working life would disintegrate to a one-line resumé item.

Three floors below, Alex Svaric pushed his way past piles of uncollected mail by the doorway. He had heard glowing reports of the agency—all the biggest clients and the best jobs—so he’d expected lots of chrome with piped music in the elevators. Instead, he gasped his way up three flights of narrow unrenovated stairs. The musty smell increased with each level. Fresh air hadn’t filtered its way into this office block since last century.

Outside the door to the agency, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. Mentally he rehearsed his pitch. His police training had been cut short when he was head-hunted for an elite unit in the armed services. Now it was time for fresh challenges. That was it—snappy tone, positive, forward looking—it didn’t do to dwell.

On entering, Alek’s second disappointment was the receptionist. He’d pictured a chatty blonde who’d appreciate a break and would give him some ideas about what might go down well with the boss. Women thought him handsome—though he knew that was mainly to do with his height and build. His nose had been broken so many times that, these days, he shot for rogue-like charisma instead of pretty boy. The job would be his in a heartbeat. Nice of him, really, to give Brandon & Co the opportunity to have him.

The woman behind the desk would have been fifty on a good day and, by the look on her face, today wasn’t that day. She peered over her bifocals by way of a greeting.

“Alek Svaric’s the name.” He flashed a grin. “You’re looking at the agency’s next best detective.”

The gargoyle surveyed him for a long moment. “Our next detective, or the next best one?”

“Ha.” The smile slid off his face. “I’m due to meet with your boss, Mr Brandon, at nine.” He emphasised ‘your boss’. Put the bitch back in her box.

She inclined her head toward the chairs.

He sat.

And sat.

Rapid-fire clicks came from the old dragon’s keyboard. Every so often, the clicking would stop, only to be replaced by the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty, then ten o’clock came and went.

Might as well check his emails while he waited. He foraged in his pocket for his phone. The damn suit must’ve shrunk; he didn’t know why he’d bothered getting it cleaned. He slid his butt forward on the seat of the wooden chair, sucked his stomach in and eased his hand into the pocket. The tips of his fingers fumbled with his phone—it was chunky and heavy. He needed to update—if he got the job, that is.

He stabbed at the screen. No signal.

No internet reception? How did this place get its reputation?

Perhaps the office was shielded in some way. He stared at the stony-faced woman—when she wasn’t tapping like some demented woodpecker, she was sliding the mouse. Then she’d pause and flick her thumb, slip and slide, another pause, another flick—right-click this time, her wrist jerk barely perceptible. Yes, she was on the net, all right. So that made sense—security conscious, with restricted internet access only.

He put his phone away.

Eleven o’clock. Had she even let the boss know he was there?

He cleared his throat. Before he’d uttered a word, the beady eyes were upon him.

“Mr Brandon has been delayed.”

“I’ll come back another day,” he said, standing. Why didn’t she tell him this two hours ago?

Her stare lasted for what seemed like a full minute.

“You could try that.”

It was a dare. Leave now and kiss the job goodbye. Well, he’d show her; he would wait. He’d been in a lot of waiting rooms over the last twelve months. Maybe it’d be for nothing, but he’d be damned if he’d give up.

With each tick of the clock, the sides of the room pressed in further. No paintings on the walls. Just wood panelling, interrupted by mottled glass partitions. Gold lettering on the door to the right of the reception desk— probably Mr Brandon’s office. The office on the other side was unoccupied. Behind the glass he made out the blurred shadows of cardboard boxes piled in a discarded heap. An office of his own, that’d be the way to go. But a job in an agency this well-known would have a shed load of applicants. Most private investigators only got casual work—that was the way of things these days, but the advert had said permanent full-time and it had appeared for weeks now. So, were they being picky, or did the other applicants think better of the deal after they’d seen the place?

One o’clock. What he’d give for a drink. He was parched. Dehydrated, no doubt, from last night. God, he’d put a few away. He’d settle for water now though. He ran his furry tongue across his teeth, imagining how it would feel to stick his head under a tap and let the water flow into his open mouth.

With the image, came a responsive twitch from his bladder. Don’t think about it. He wasn’t going to put his hand up like a kid in class and ask the schoolmarm to be excused to take a leak. Think about something else.

The typing stopped. The woman removed a plastic container from behind the desk. She snapped the lid open, took out a small plastic fork and speared a lettuce leaf. The leaf disappeared into her jaws, two crunches and the fork dived again. He was almost grateful for the diversion. Finished, she rose and walked briskly through a small doorway at the far end of the office.

There’d be a toilet in the office washroom, he thought. This was his chance—he’d duck out and be back before she knew he’d gone. He was half-way to his feet when she returned.

Fed and watered, the snow-queen seemed—or perhaps he was imagining it—marginally less ice-bound. It was worth a shot.

“So, how would it be,” he asked—no grin this time, keep things respectful, “if I left my resumé for Mr Brandon to look at when he’s free?”

Her expression was placid.

Encouraged, he continued. “I’m sure he’s eager to fill the position, given the time it’s been vacant.” He paused, indicating the empty office with the cardboard boxes. “You could give me a call or email and let me know when he’d be sure to be available.”

She nodded, picked up the phone and pressed a button.

The door to her right opened a crack. Mr Brandon was the sort of man who would pass unremarked in a crowd. He had lips so thin that, when he talked, his mouth movements were only visible by a wandering line like an old cartoon character.

“Come in, Mr Svaric. At last, we meet.”

When five o’clock came around, Miss Solly could still hear the men’s murmured voices from behind the partition. She draped the dustcover over the computer, unclipped her key and retrieved her bag.

The selection of candidates took a long time, she thought, but, as Mr Brandon always said, there were three criteria that made a good detective and every one of the criteria had to be met to meet the agency’s standards. Punctuality and persistence, of course. Third, there was flexibility—things didn’t always go according to plan in following a case.

The handle turned and Mr Brandon ushered the candidate out of his office. Mr Brandon’s thin lips creased into an upturned crescent moon.

“Mr Svaric will be joining us from tomorrow, Miss Solly. I leave the arrangements to you,” he said and disappeared back into his office.

Despite the news, Svaric’s body was tense.

Miss Solly jerked her head toward the door. “Conveniences on the ground floor; first left down the hall. We’ll see you tomorrow—nine o’clock sharp.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Walking fast with his thighs clamped together, he bolted for the door.

Mr Brandon’s three criteria for selecting a detective were all very well. But, Miss Solly mused, stakeouts were often long, and people being followed could not be relied upon to stay in one place long enough to allow for comfort stops. It was her fourth criterion that was the clincher.

Listening to read

For most of us, the first way we experienced the written word of was listening to someone read aloud to us. By the time we were ‘reading for ourselves’ we were experienced language users – we knew how to tell a story, we knew how to tell a lie, and we even knew how jokes worked, even if we weren’t very good at them yet. But the joy of listening to someone read to us never disappears. The skilful narrator provides a pathway into our imagination that allows us to ‘see’ the text in different ways, picking out subtleties by their tone of voice, intonation and pausing.

These days, over the course of any year, I read as many books by listening to audiobooks as by reading them for myself. On those occasions when I can’t bear to stop reading to do some less-than-exciting task, I’ll switch to the audiobook version, e.g., when driving or ironing thanks to the ability to sync between devices, and then happily switch back again when the task is done.

Another layer to reading is provided by listening to dramatised versions. If you grew up before the age of television then you’ll remember listening to radio plays such as the Blue Hills by Gwen Meredith, which ran for 5,795 episodes in Australia.  Radio plays were as vivid as if played out film (so vivid that apparently in 1938, the Orson Welles’ dramatic adaptation of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds caused considerable panic in USA).

As much as I enjoyed radio plays, I usually avoid dramatised versions of audiobooks, mainly because often they have abridged or edited the original text to make the play ‘work’.  This meant that I was not enthused when I heard that Audible were releasing full-cast dramatisations of the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. After all, I thought, how could they beat the stellar narration of Stephen Fry (my go-to audiobooks when life needs a lift)?

Well, I was wrong. I am thoroughly enjoying the dramatised versions. Hearing child voices in the Harry, Ron and Hermoine parts has been delightful, and it is clear there was a queue of fabulous British actors vying for the opportunity to read the adult characters. For example, Hugh Laurie is Dumbledore, Mark Addy is Hagrid, Kit Harington is a spot-on Gilderoy Lockhart, Iwan Rheon is Remus Lupin, and Matthew MacFadden is Voldemort – just to name a few.

Underpinning their voices is the narration of Cush Jumbo, with it all produced so that it is a seamless audio experience. In the accompanying interview in Audible, she describes how her narration is intentionally neutral in providing the scaffold for the dialogue. I confess I do miss the hint of J.K. Rowling’s authorial voice that Stephen Fry lets slip into his audible version and the way it provides that sly wink to the reader. I know this feature will draw me back to the original versions. In the meantime, however I’m enjoying the full-cast dramatisations.

These versions are being released monthly, so the first three books (Philosopher’s Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban) are already available, and this month (February) will bring Goblet of Fire, and the child voice roles will be taken by older voice actors from here on. The rest of the year’s fix for Harry Potter looks to be taken care of, and then of course there will be the new Harry Potter TV series due to begin on HBO/Max in 2027.  Not that I’m a fan or anything ….

Jane Austen – Never out of fashion

In case you missed it, last year was 250 years since Jane Austen was born and yet her novels continue to be a source of delight. Most readers of Austen have a favourite novel. In my twenties, my favourite was Pride and Prejudice, but later I grew to love the spoof quality of Northanger Abbey. Now I’d have to say my favourite is Persuasion for its glimpse into her writing process – we have both her draft ‘sensible’ ending and the final published ending and can only applaud the high romantic drama of the ending she chose.

Which novel is the best is always contested but not as fiercely as which screen adaptation. The 2022 movie of Persuasion had Austen fans outraged by its anachronistic dialogue, for example. More commonly, the fashion choices in adaptations can be challenging. Who can forget the wardrobe of the 1940 Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier movie of Pride and Prejudice which could have come directly from the set of Gone with the Wind?

My interest in fashion in Austen’s time was piqued by a small collection of Austen family heirlooms and Regency fashion which were displayed at a picnic co-hosted by the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation and the National Trust of Australia (Victoria), held at historic home of ‘Invergowrie’ in Hawthorn, Melbourne. The display was fascinating for its homespun quality of breakfast crockery and hand sewn garments. The items were provided by the special guest at the event, Caroline Jane Knight, 5th great-niece of Austen, who grew up at Chawton House where Jane lived and wrote. Caroline has written about her Austen connection in her book ‘Jane & Me: My Austen Heritage’ (available in paperback and ebook versions from all major online retailers).

To get a more detailed look at the fashion of the era I’m heading to an event at the National Gallery of Victoria, ‘Dress in the age of Jane Austen with Hilary Davidson’ to be held this coming Saturday 10th January. Although live tickets are sold out, apparently there are still online tickets available.

Hilary Davidson is described as a leading fashion historian and author whose work looks how fashion influences and expresses social and cultural changes. Her most recent book is ‘A Guide to Regency Dress from Corsets and Breaches to Bonnets and Muslins’ was published in December 2025 – illustrated and available in hardcover from online retailers.

We can only hope that the latest screen adaptations have consulted similar experts. There’s a new production of Pride and Prejudice underway as a six-part Netflix series with Emma Corin as Elizabeth Bennet, Jack Lowden as Mr Darcy, and Olivia Colman as Mrs Bennet, and Rufus Sewell as Mr Bennet. I confess that Rufus Sewell as Mr Bennet strikes me as a bit of a stretch, but at least the early photographs of the female cast look hopeful.

There’s no word on when that series will be completed but, in the meantime, we can look forward to a new movie of Sense and Sensibility due for release in September 2026. The cast includes Daisy Edgar-Jones as Elinor Dashwood, Esme Creed-Miles as Marianne Dashwood, Caitriona Balfe (of Outlander fame) as Mrs Dashwood, Herbert Nordrum as Colonel Brandon, and Frank Dillane as that cad John Willoughby. I’m particularly looking forward to seeing what actress Fiona Shaw will do with the wonderful gossipy character of Mrs Jennings.

Only nine months to wait …

Thought provoking reading

As much as I love reading fiction, sometimes you crave something that gives your brain more to chew on. Here are three non-fiction books I enjoyed during 2024.

Wifedom by Anna Funder, Penguin, 2023

Anna Funder has the gift of transforming highly detailed research into a readable whole. Her thesis in this work is that the writer George Orwell and his biographers have largely overlooked or discounted the important contribution of his first wife, Eileen O’Shaughnessy.

As a well-educated women Eileen worked in a variety of jobs during their marriage while at the same time working on Orwell’s drafts, typing and retyping, proofreading, and providing feedback. In particular, Funder argues that one of Eileen’s poem (‘End of the Century, 1984’) written in 1934 dealt with a similar futuristic vision as Orwell’s novel ‘1984’, and that the writing style of his novel ‘Animal Farm’ can be seen as reflecting Eileen’s own wit and humour.

There are of course contrary opinions to that of Funder and, while it’s hard by the end of the book to have much sympathy for Orwell as a man, I think his quality as a writer is undiminished. For me the most compelling parts of the book were the descriptions of Eileen’s courage during their time in Spain during the civil war, and her physical labours and deprivations during their time living in the cold countryside. For a clever and skilled woman who could have taken other life paths, it was hard to understand how she could throw herself on the pyre of his success. He was indeed very fortunate to have her.

Into the rip by Damien Cave (‘How the Australian way of risk made my family stronger, happier … and less American’), Scribner Australia, 2021

I ran across this book through a short YouTube clip from an interview with the author.

The book is part memoir, part commentary on the author’s experience on moving to Australia from America with a young family. Since the family lived near the beach, they were intrigued by the Nippers program run by Surf Lifesaving Australia. Risk, particularly with regard to their children, was something to avoid in their previous life. In Australia, risk was the very thing that their children were being introduced to. The book is a quick and easy read, and offers a fascinating glimpse into ways our distinctive Australian way of viewing the world.

The only plane in the sky: The oral history of 9/11 by Garrett M. Graff  (full cast recording (15 hrs), Octopus Publishing Group, 2019

Every September since the events of 9/11 we are provided with documentaries and memorials. Each year I swear I’m sick of it, but I find myself drawn to it. I think many of us remember where we were when it happened. Watching the events unfold on live television broadcasts seared these distant events into our consciousnesses.

‘The Only Plane in the Sky’ (2019) is an audiobook collection of 500 oral accounts collected in interviews by author, journalists, and researchers on a two year project. The interviews were condensed and edited for clarity, but remain uninterpreted: pure oral history. For the audiobook, in order to achieve the highest audio quality production, the accounts are narrated by actors selected for similarity with the original speaker.

The collection is large and too much to absorb in a continuous way. I still haven’t listened to them all, but the chapter segmentation is easy to follow and I found I could dip in and out to follow where my interest lies. This collection isn’t for everyone, but it is a fascinating resource.

Reading not writing

2024 has been a year of way more reading than writing (hence the year lag in making this post!). However, as my head turns back to writing, I thought I’d give you a taster of the reading that piqued my interest over the last twelve months. Here are three recommendations if you’re interested in fiction. (I’ve also picked three non-fiction ones to talk about in my next post.)

In no particular order, they are … (drum roll) …

  1. Here one moment by Liane Moriarty, Macmillan Australia, 2024

The premise of Liane Moriarty’s book was so interesting I was prompted to make an impulse purchase. The story opens on a plane flight as a seemingly ordinary older woman moves along the aisle, telling passengers at random how and when they’ll die.

Unusually for a  mystery by this author, this isn’t an interconnected series of threads that culminates with an ‘aha’ ending. Instead, the novel asks how hearing these revelations will shape the future decisions of the characters, including their effect on the life of the woman who found herself making the predictions. It took me a little while to let go wanting a whodunnit but, once I did, I enjoyed the explorations of each character as a reality-bound way to think about deeper philosophical questions (‘who am I?’, ‘why are we here?’).

Of course, as you’d expect from Liane Moriarty, the prose writing is crisp and a pleasure to read. If you’re prepared for something on the more reflective side, I can recommend it.

I’ve recommended the Slow Horses series by Mick Herron before, and it’s great to see so many people enjoying the television adaptation. Herron’s latest book is ‘The Secret Hours’ and the press associated with it spent a lot of time trying to tell us that it was a standalone publication. Don’t believe a word of it. I don’t want to spoil the plot twists but perhaps knowing that the story is set in Berlin before the wall came down might point to the two Slow Horses characters you’ve always wanted to know more about. The writing is tight yet poetically evocative (as is always the case with Herron), and the audiobook is read by Sean Barrett, whose dry gravelly voice catches every nuance.

Yes, I’m obsessed with Philip Pullman’s two series about the nature of ‘Dust’, i.e., the development of human consciousness. I’ve read the three volumes of ‘His Dark Materials’ in paperback, ebook, and listened to the audio book recordings read by the author.

However, as much as I enjoy his writing, I don’t think Pullman’s reading stands up to the wonderful reading of his ‘Book of Dust’ by the actor Michael Sheen on the first two volumes currently available in that series (‘La Belle Sauvage’, ‘The Secret Commonwealth’). I’d secretly wished that Michael Sheen might be asked to do another audiobook version of ‘His Dark Materials’.

Lucky for me, Audible have gone one further with a fresh audiobook version of ‘His Dark Materials’ by the inimitable Ruth Wilson, whose acting as the evil Mrs Coulter in the television series was outstanding. So far only ‘Northern Lights’ is available for purchase (which the other two volumes expected in 2025).  Ruth Wilson’s reading breathes life into Lyra’s character and provides a layered performance of all the other characters, including the fascinating Mrs Coulter.

Reading ‘Emergency Skin’

My favourite reading experience of 2023 was catching up with Emergency Skin (a ‘novelette’) by N.K. Jemsin (audiobook narrated by Jason Isaacs), published by Amazon Original Stories, 2019

Jemsin is an award-winning science fiction writer and this story (only one hour’s listening in audiobook form) shows her at her most skilful. Most stories are written in either the third person (he, she, they, it etc) or the first person (I, we, us), however Jemsin has tackled this story in the second person (you). Unlike other attempts I’ve read doing this, she’s got it to work brilliantly for the purposes of this tale.

We are following a man from another planet who has been sent back to Earth to collect the cell cultures that are needed to keep manufacturing the synthetic skin used to protect the humans on the other planet. However, the story unfolds as the AI implanted in the man’s brain tells him what to do as he goes about fulfilling the mission.

‘We should begin with a briefing, since you’re now authorized for Information Level Secret. On its face, this mission is simple: return to the ruined planet Tellus, from which mankind originates. When the Founders realised the world was dying, they …. Fled to a new world circling another sun, so that something of it – the best of it – would survive. …How brave you are to walk in your forefathers’ footsteps!

No, there’s no one left alive on Tellus. The planet was in full environmental collapse …when our people left. There were just too many people, and too many of those were unfit, infirm, too old, or too young. …so we did the only merciful thing we could: we left them behind.

Of course that was mercy. Do you think your ancestors wanted to leave billions of people to starve and suffocate and drown? It was simply that our new home could support only a few.”

N.K. Jemsin, ‘Emergency skin’, p.5 (… indicates ellipted words)

And so the story progresses. We never hear what the man thinks or says but, by the AI’s responses, we know what he is communicating. The AI responses also let us understand what the new world that the man has come from is like – a world where there is only one gender (people now being manufactured), and where a disposable man (like the man in the story) doesn’t have a ‘skin’, he has a ‘composite’ covering and his reward for making this journey to collect skin samples, is to have skin made for him – in the new world only those in power have skin.

My favourite quote is the protest from the AI to the man:

‘Only a few can have everything, don’t you see? What these people believe isn’t feasible. They want everything for everyone, and look at where it’s gotten them! Half of them aren’t even men.”

At one level, we see how the man’s views radically change through the increasingly petulant hysteria of his AI. At a deeper level, Jemsin invites us to realise that to care for each other and the world is not an impossible challenge.

Talk Fest!

In the last twelve months I have been talking about my sci-fi novel ‘Grey Nomad’ (Brio Books, 2023) non-stop (or so it seems). During the interviews, panel conversations, and interviews I have also learned all sorts of things about my book that I didn’t predict! For instance,

  • 30-something-year-olds love reading about an intrepid 70 year old
  • Knitters want a copy of the pattern for JT’s scarf (working on it!)
  • Satirical politics wins over non-sci-fi readers (who knew?)
  • Some readers come for the humour and some for the science. Lucky for me, the novel has both!

The world of writing festivals is filled with tireless committee members and wonderful interviewers who selflessly give their time to prepare and present these events. My thanks to everyone I had the good fortune to meet over the last year – it’s been a wonderful experience.

Here are a few more highlights to add to those I’ve talked about in this blog before:

Mudgee Readers’ Festival August 2023

At Mudgee Readers' Festival

This festival invites you to share the friendliness of the Mudgee community with food, entertainment, and of course reading. Sharelle Fellows, a retired history teacher, interviewed me in such an insightful and thorough way I really think she knew more about my book than I did.

The Book Lovers Club, Northern Beaches September 2023

This mega book club plays a large part in the community of the northern beaches of Sydney. My mum joined it back in the early 70s, so I was thrilled to be able to speak about her influence on me as a reader and writer when I talked there. Special thanks to Glenys Murray, librarian and beta-reader extraordinaire, for all her support.

Maitland Indie Festival October 2023

Whether it’s art or literature, if it’s independent and local then it fits the mission of this festival. I joined novelist Amber Jakeman (latest novel ‘Summer Beach’) to discuss the phenomenon of ‘cosy fiction’ with Meg Vertigan, author of ‘The Strong Dress’ (Puncher & Wattman, 2023). Our audience agreed with us that just because the story is ‘cosy’ doesn’t mean it lacks punch.

‘Pirate Purl’ – Katrina Kellett

What a legend! Katrina runs ‘Pirate’ Purl’, an independent hand dyed yarn business which produces a colour range that is both beautiful and environmentally sound. Throughout 2023, Katrina volunteered to host my book about knitting-mad Joyce on her sales tables at the many yarn and fibre festivals throughout NSW and Victoria.  I can’t thank her enough – though perhaps a sequel could include an indie dyer as a character??!! (stay tuned).

Post-Publication Fun

  • Launch at Toronto Library, NSW on 11th February 2023

Launching a novel turned out to be one of the best experiences I’ve ever had, and that was down to the enthusiasm radiating from everyone who came along.  There had been a huge gap between the time I sent the final, final, final version of my novel (Grey Nomad, Brio Books, 2023) and the date set for the official release of the paperback version. I had spent a lot of time telling people that it was on its way, so to finally be able to crack open the champagne was wonderful.

(Lots of chatting going on!)

GenreCon23 in Brisbane, 18-19th February 2023

After all the staring at the blank page, scribbling, and revising, it was a peak experience to have the opportunity to participate in a panel presentation at GenreCon23 in Brisbane on 18 February.

Most writing festivals are designed for readers (and, of course, for publishers to sell their authors’ books).  As such, we eagerly go along to hear directly from the writers of the books we enjoy as well as to be introduced to books we have yet to read.  However, GenreCon23 was a conference that was all about writing. 

GenreCon is run by the Queensland Writers’ Centre and held in Brisbane each year. It focuses on what have become known as ‘genre’ novels, e.g. crime, speculative fiction (including science fiction, fantasy), historical fiction, romance, and the many wonderful books that blend some or all of these.  Like other writing festivals, GenreCon invites selected published authors to present, or to be interviewed ‘in conversation’ with another writer, or to participate as panel members to discuss a topic, or to run workshops. However, for GenreCon, the focus is on the many and varied aspects of the writing process.

GenreCon23 attracted over 200 participants. I had been invited to participate in a panel discussing ‘Putting the Sci back in Sci-Fi’, hosted by another recently published author, Bryn Smith (Magnus Nights: The Helios Incident, Hawkeye Press, 2021).

With renowned authors Garth Nix and Jay Kristoff also on the panel, it wasn’t a surprise to see a large audience in the auditorium.

Garth Nix was the keynote speaker for the event and is a widely known Australian author of many young adult fantasy novels (e.g. the Old Kingdom series which commenced back in 1995 with Sabriel, Harper Collins).

Jay Kristoff is another Australian author with an international following in science fiction and fantasy (e.g. Nevernight series which began in 2016, St Martins Press). 

As daunting as it was to sit alongside these two authors, the upside was that they ably helped new writers like Bryn and me to sound knowledgeable! The audience asked lots of questions and later it was most gratifying to have people randomly tell me how much they enjoyed it.

As a newly published author, I was thrilled to see my novel (Grey Nomad, Brio Books, 2023) sitting on the bookstand for sale, let alone have the fun of people approaching me every so often during the event to ask me to sign their copy. As many of you know, my main character in the novel is 70 year old Joyce, keen knitter and CWA member, so it was fascinating to me that most of those buying the book were the many young twenty-somethings.

(Book sales of novels by authors who were presenting at GenreCon23)

In his keynote address, Garth Nix won many writers’ hearts by talking about preparation aka reading for pleasure and how, if you want to learn to use semi-colons, read Lord of the Rings! He was a constant supportive presence for all the writers, attending as many talks as he could, even when not a presenter.

Many of the sessions were held concurrently, so I couldn’t get to all of them but there was something for everyone, e.g. Nalini Singh (romance, paranormal), Natasha Lester (historical fiction), J.P. Pomare (crime), and R.W.R. McDonald (crime). I extended my boundaries and went along to the panels on fairy tales (which included an amazing retelling of Bluebeard!), and horror (in which writers of horror turned out to be exceptionally funny people).  

By the end of the two day event, I felt rejuvenated and was itching to get back to writing. Next year, GenreCon24 will feature an overseas keynote for the first time: Patrick Ness, an American-British author of Young Adult fiction (e.g. Chaos Walking trilogy, The Rest of Us Just Live Here, A Monster Calls). I can recommend the experience to anyone interested in writing.