Poetry is always a stretch for me but, inspired by a great workshop by Ed Wright from The Creative Word Shop, this emerged!
‘When I’m not writing, I’m knitting’
My mind is tangled yarn.
I rip my knitting off its needles.
Wool trails from the bin onto the floor,
where lie the fragments of paper from unfinished drafts,
where the vacuum cleaner can no longer go.
If I leave,
If I close the door,
Will my mind unravel?
(Alison Ferguson, 11 June 2022)
It’s always nice to be mentioned in dispatches, isn’t it? Here is the judge’s report for the Marjorie Barnard Short Story Award 2021 (run annually by the Fellowship of Australian Writers). My story, ‘Carpeted‘ made the top three!
The books I read in print form last year were a disappointment so I won’t share the pain. On the other hand, 2021 brought me some fabulous listening pleasure with the following audio books. As usual, I flit between genres so it’s hard to present them in any particular order. Let me know if you enjoyed any of these too!
Slow Horses: Slough House, book 1 (2010, John Murray Publishers) by Mick Herron
(audio book narrated by Sean Barrett)
In the first book of the series, we meet British MI5 agent River as he is bungling an important training mission. For this, he gets sent to the sad and miserable dumping ground for failed spies, Slough House. However, it is River’s boss, Jackson Lamb, who captures our attention for the series. Fat, farting, swearing, smoking, and without a politically correct bone in his body, Lamb torments River and his fellow failures. The plot is intriguing and the writing witty. Best of all, the BBC is currently filming some of the series, with the wonderful Gary Oldman as Jackson Lamb, in a cast that includes Kristen Scott-Thomas and Jonathan Pryce.
Best light fare for 2021—two contenders
(audiobook narrated by Lesley Manville, Richard Osman, Marian Keyes)
Having seen Richard Osman being amusingly knowledgeable on British television game shows, I was intrigued to hear that he’d written a few cosy crime novels. The setting is a retirement village where (shock and horror) the residents are anything but sweet senior citizens. With a ‘Midsomer Murders’ sort of plot, this novel was very much in the style of the author’s personality: clever, warm, with a few unexpected twists and turns.
(audiobook narrated by Zara Ramm)
This is a continuation of a consistently amusing series that is among my favourites. The Time Police were the bad guys in the original ‘Chronicles of St Mary’s’ Series, which is all about historians who ‘investigate major historical events in contemporary time’ (i.e., time travel, but don’t let our heroes hear you say that). In the Time Police series, we follow three raw recruits who don’t fit the usual tough guy Time Police mold. In this book, they’ve graduated and are doing things in their own hilarious way.
Best Young Adult fiction for 2021
The Rest of Us Just Live Here (2015, Quill Tree Books) by Patrick Ness
(audiobook narrated by James Fouhey)
What happens if you’re the teenagers in the background while the superhero kids go head to head with zombie monsters and mysterious blue lights? This novel uses this fun premise to explore sadder themes that are all too real for adolescents. The writing is tight and the characters are compelling—definitely worth a look.
Best dystopia for 2021
Metro 2033 (2005, English edition Gollancz) by Dmitry Glukhovsky
(audiobook narrated by Rupert Degas)
The novel, originally written in Russian, inspired a widely popular video game. Translated into English, I loved how ‘Russian’ it still felt. Basically, the world above ground has been destroyed and contaminated by nuclear fallout. Our hero, Artyom, lives in the Moscow Metro system where every train station has evolved into its own State while subjected to the ever present threat of the mutant monsters that lurk above. Artyom is entrusted with a quest to deliver an important message. His journey is a post-apocalyptic odyssey where new characters emerge to help or hinder the battles he must fight as he navigates his way through the underground. Warning: it is long, but then—it is Russian!
Best non-fiction for 2021
Educated (Windmill Books, 2018) by Tara Westover
(audiobook narrated by Julia Whelan)
This memoir tells how the author grew up in the back blocks of Idaho, raised in a Mormon family which was dominated by her father whose survivalist ideology became increasingly bizarre and damaging to his wife and children. It’s a grim tale, but written evocatively in a way that allows us to sense the inner resilience that burned within the author who eventually found her way out to engage with formal education and a wider world view.
And finally,
Best re-read for 2021
The Lord of the Rings (1955, Allen & Unwin) by J.R.R. Tolkien
(audiobook narrated by Andy Serkis)
Really, what is there to say? I’ve listened to a couple of versions of Lord of the Rings, but I think Andy Serkis (aka Gollum) is the best narrator. My only complaint is the songs….I confess I skip these when reading LoTR, but I can’t do that in an audiobook very successfully, and Serkis’ singing isn’t up to his voice acting level. Still, good on him for being authentic, I guess!
Just wanted to share my good news — I’ve been offered a publishing contract for my sci-fi novel, ‘Grey Nomad’! It’s with Booktopia Publishing (who have expanded from being mainly an online book retailer to publishing as well). After getting a legal contract consultation, I signed on Friday — so lots of champagne this weekend!
I’ve put up a few posts about this story before, and I’ve kept working on it, encouraged by earlier drafts being shortlisted for the Brio Books Fantastica Prize in 2019, and for the Queensland Writers’ Centre Adaptable program in 2020. Lots of revising and great editing advice has got it to the stage it is now. I know that there’s still a whole lot more polishing to go, but what a joy to be able to undertake revisions knowing that sometime soonish (maybe toward the end of next year????) I’ll be able to share the story itself.
You’ll Thank Me One Day
Version 1 – John, the father’s point of view (written in 3rd person)
‘Let me hear you one more time.’ John took one hand off the steering wheel to wipe the sweat off against his trousers.
‘Jesus, Dad, not again. We’re nearly there.’
John glanced up to the rear-view mirror. ‘For Christ’s sake, Andrew. I told you to put it away.’
Andrew made a show of putting his smart phone in his blazer pocket.
‘And the earphones.’ John waited till Andrew, scowling, complied. ‘Right then. Periodic table. Off you go.’
‘They’re not going to ask me things like that.’
‘Oh, so you’ve done a private school entrance exam before then, have you?’
Silence from the backseat.
‘Well, have you? No. And if you get one of their scholarships, then you’ve got it made, boy. You’ll thank me one day, you know.’
Version 2 – Andrew, the son’s point of view (written in 1st person)
[PING: koolkukumber WTFRU]
Kobe knows where I’m going. He’s just taking the piss because that’s what best mates do. I text back.
[handyandy Crap exam thing]
‘Let me hear you one more time,’ the old man says.
‘Jesus, Dad, not again. We’re nearly there.’
Dad’s eyes squint at me in the rear-view mirror. I know what he’s going to say.
‘For Christ’s sake, Andrew. I told you to put it away.’
See, right again.
[PING: koolkukumber WAJ]
I’d like to think Kobe’s calling my dad a jerk, but I know he means me. But, shit, it’s not my fault Dad wants me to go to a private school. Besides, there’s nothing Dad can do about it once I’m in the interview. All I’ve to do is look like I’m as thick as Kobe.
I quickly text back.
[handyandy FU]
I take my time stowing the phone in my pocket.
‘And the earphones. Right then. Periodic table. Off you go.’
‘They’re not going to ask me things like that.’
‘Oh, so you’ve done a private school entrance exam before then, have you? Well, have you? No. And if you get one of their scholarships, then you’ve got it made, boy. You’ll thank me one day, you know.’
Blah, blah, blah. The only thing I’d thank him for is if he STFU.
_______
I wrote these short pieces back in October 2020, when I participated in a great course on ‘Writing Conflict’ led by Cate Kennedy (see my earlier post inspired by this course on Conflict & Dramatic Irony). Another exercise that Cate set us was to write about a scene she described as, “A father and son argue in a car as the father is dropping off the son at school before an important exam”. Then she challenged us to re-write the piece but boost the conflict through altering one or more elements (e.g., changing point of view, increasing time pressure, restricting sentence length). I chose to play around with point of view, and I think it radically changed the power dynamic in the exchange. Which version do you like best?
I am very excited to announce that my historical fiction trilogy, The Sisters’ Saga, is now officially released from the confines of my desk drawer to make its own way in the world.
Back in 2015, a box of my husband’s family history records sat staring at me from the kitchen table. The first folder I opened was the lively memoir of Harriet Dowling and it sent me on a journey of research into colonial Sydney and British India. While I stopped on the way to corral what I’d learned into a short biography of Harriet, I knew from the start that she was a heroine to inspire historical fiction, and so that was my destination.
Like all journeys, I’ve lost my way several times, been sidetracked to other places, and struggled to find a way forward at times. My biggest dilemma involved handling the historical ‘truth’ of people’s lives while letting the narrative develop. This is an old chestnut in the world of writing historical fiction, with some writers landing on the truth is paramount side, and others favouring the story. The turning point was when I came to understand that, in fact, I did not know the internal thoughts and motivations of the people who inspired my characters, and that it was a more ‘truthful’ representation to render them as fictional characters with a life of their own.
The practical consequence of this understanding was that I gave all the central characters and some places new names, and this small step was immensely freeing. I did, however, keep the names of well-known historical figures about whom we have a considerable range of of primary and secondary sources of information. Also, in line with common practice in the world of historical fiction, at the end of each volume, I have provided details of the fictional departures from the sources which provided my initial inspiration.
Here’s a short 4 minute audio ‘taster’ of the result, from Volume 1 Maiden Manoeuvres!
A story told across four decades, in three volumes.
Maiden Manoeuvres is the first of three in The Sisters’ Saga, which tells of three sisters and the compromises they must make to reconcile love’s delusions with the demands of reality. This historical fiction novella focuses on the eldest sister, Henrietta Burbridge in the early 1800s in colonial Sydney and Calcutta. Henrietta’s sisters collect flowers to catalogue and make detailed drawings. But Henrietta is not like them. She lets the petals scatter where they may.
Dearest Daughter is the second of three in The Sisters’ Saga, which tells of three sisters and the compromises they must make to reconcile love’s delusions with the demands of reality. In this short historical fiction novel, the lives of the younger sisters, Rose and Beth Burbridge are turned upside down by Henrietta’s return from India. In colonial Sydney between 1825-35, Henrietta asks why, if matrimony is the bedrock of the family, is it so hard for love to survive marriage? But her sisters must answer a very different question: How much would they trade for matrimony?
Widow’s Wake is the last of three in The Sisters’ Saga, which tells of three sisters and the compromises they must make to reconcile love’s delusions with the demands of reality. In this short historical fiction novel, over the course of a single voyage from Sydney to London in 1847, Henrietta must reconcile the regrets of her past in order to truly cast aside her widow’s weeds and embrace the adventures ahead. She is the heroine of the colourful tales she shares with young Mr Morgan Mayhew. However, their 1847 voyage from Sydney to London will be one tale neither will ever divulge.
Here’s the beginning of something that might grow up one day! I’ve been polishing it for a while now–perhaps I need to keep writing?
Recruited
Kyle squinted through a rusted hole in the corrugated iron. The street lay empty in the predawn darkness. Trucks rumbled like distant thunder. Perhaps the Recruiters had met their quota and would go past them.
‘See anything?’ Kegan leant on his shovel; his face hidden in the flickering light from the candle stub. The trench he was digging lay deep in darkness.
Kyle shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’ He took hold of the shovel, intending to help.
‘Get out of it.’ His father tossed a hessian sack at him. ‘You’d as well use a teaspoon for all the good you’d do digging. Get rid of all this.’ He nodded to the pile of excavated dirt before starting to dig again. He resumed his muttered chant with each thrust into the soil–‘Not my son, they won’t take him, not my son‘–a mantra, lest harm should befall his precious Kegan, whose digging kept pace alongside.
Only a year older than Kyle, Kegan looked to be a man grown. But Kyle’s build came from their sparrow of a mother and, like her, he’d been a victim of the first wave of the Canker. Unlike her, he’d survived, though not untouched. Kyle didn’t need to wonder if his father would go to such lengths to save him from the Recruiters if he was the elder of his sons. He knew the answer.
Shoulders aching, he scooped the loose dirt into the sack on the ground. He carted it out the back, stumbling under its weight. He scattered the dirt in caches among the rusted wire, in between the lumps of broken concrete, desperately trying not to disturb the silence. Every neighbour posed a threat when information was the only currency.
(“Shanty town in Soweto” by eugene is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)
If the Recruiters found Kegan and took him–Kyle’s breath caught in his throat and his head spun–then it would be just him and his father. He didn’t know which he feared more–his father abandoning him, as he almost certainly would without Kegan to look after him, or his father staying with him.
He shut his eyes, feeling the cold damp of morning dew on his skin. Slowly, his chest relaxed and the air slid gently down into his lungs. He savoured the sensation, knowing how hard it would be to recall the coolness once the day began its relentless climb into baking heat.
‘Where’s that idiot?’
Jolted back to awareness by his father’s voice, Kyle checked the rubble and dirt one last time in the dim grey of the dawn. The noise of the Recruiters’ trucks growled only streets away.
Back inside, Kegan lay in the trench, his arms crossed corpse-like, and slipped him a wink. Kyle tried to grin back as best he could. The Canker had a vicious sense of humour. Its scars left Kyle’s face a rigid mask, incapable of smiling.
Kegan gave the thumbs-up sign to their father who nodded grimly and slid a flimsy piece of fibro over the top. As fast as his father shovelled on a thin layer of dirt, Kyle frantically patted the earth down. Staggering back to his feet, Kyle threw over their thread-bare rug. The approaching trucks reverberated in the next block.
It was a poor hiding place but it was all they could do. Their hut had only the one room so, if the Recruiters looked in from the doorway, then maybe that would be enough to satisfy them that Kegan had done a runner. He wouldn’t be the first to evade Service. They must be used to it by now.
Kyle stationed himself back at his peep-hole. His father paced.
Seconds later, the trucks turned into their street. Like a bee-hive facing invading wasps, the street instantly swarmed with people rushing from shanty to shanty. Everyone knew the Recruiters preferred dawn raids, but it always came as a shock when the harvesting of eldest sons began.
The engines roared closer. The packed earth beneath Kyle’s bare feet shuddered. A screech and the hiss of pneumatic brakes–only metres from their door.
The back doors of the truck flew open and a ramp thudded to the ground. Helmeted men stamped their way down and fanned out in military formation. The Recruiters’ uniforms were as patched as the city they patrolled. Their headgear was still full faced to hide their identity, even though many of them now resorted to using motorbike helmets.
One of them raised a megaphone, though he could have spoken without it and still been heard through the flimsy walls of the huts lining the street.
‘By order of the Provincial Government, and under the Ordinances of the Recruitment Act of 2063, all people turning 18, are instructed to report for Service. Anyone known to have failed to report will be placed on the Register of Treasonous Persons and, when found, will be shot without trial. Those eligible for Service are hereby called for duty immediately.’ With these last words, the Recruiter tossed the megaphone into the truck. This gesture, more than any words he said, communicated that there would be no second chances.
‘J.M. Abrams,’ he barked, looking at his list.
There came a scraping as a hingeless door was hefted open, and the sound of a woman weeping. From up the street came Jimmy, a scrawny beanpole of a young man wearing only a ragged pair of shorts. He’d left behind his shirt and shoes for his younger brothers, Kyle surmised.
‘D. A. Meecham.’
The tap of Debbie’s stick came down the alley, as she used the soundings to find her way between the rows of shacks into the street. Like Kyle, she was one of the few to survive the Canker, but her eyes had been eaten away.
Kyle almost expected the Recruiters to reject her. When he was younger, they only recruited the fit but, for the last few years, it seemed that they’d take anyone.
Two of the other Recruiters conferred over a list on a clipboard. Kyle drew back from his spy-hole as one of them approached the door.
‘K.G. Zimmer,’ he called out, reading from his list.
Inside the stifling hut, Kyle’s father stared at him. Normally, his father’s gaze skimmed over him as if he were one of the mangy dogs that slunk along the alleyways for scraps. For one mad moment, he thought that his father was asking Kyle what he should do.
As it turned out, his father knew exactly what he was about to do. Without uttering a word, in one long reach of his arm, his father grabbed him, manhandling him toward the door.
‘No,’ Kyle whispered hoarsely, digging his heels into the dirt floor. He glanced back to where Kegan lay imprisoned, unable to help him–as no doubt his father had planned. ‘No,’ he gasped.
‘Yes,’ his father said through gritted teeth.
Kyle’s mind seethed with outrage and fear. ‘It won’t work. What will you do next year when they come looking for me?’
‘That’s next year, son,’ he said.
It would come to him, years later, that was the first and last time his father had called him son.
_____
I’m approaching the end of my long journey to craft a fictional account of Harriet Blaxland. Over the course of 2021, my plan is to self-publish three novellas which chart the course of her life. In dramatising from the relatively limited sources available, I have necessarily strayed into imagination and, on occasion, downright confabulation (!). See below for a fun extract to whet your appetite.
Note that in the fictional version, I’ve changed the names to make it clear that the story is more ‘inspired by’ than ‘true’: Blaxland/Burbridge, Dowling/Wood, Harriet /Henrietta, Newington estate/Aylesford estate. This extract is written from the point of view of ‘Henrietta’ who is regaling her fellow passengers with the tale nearly twenty years later.
(as reported on page 2, The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, Thursday 22nd April 1830.
‘I am so longing to reach London.’ Mrs Sapsford sallied forth with another conversational topic to engage the attention of Mrs Berkeley.
Mrs Berkeley, kind as ever, obliged. ‘Yes, indeed. I’m looking forward to being able to take a carriage ride through the countryside.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Green pastures, hedgerows … won’t that be something?’
‘And no bushrangers. Papa said,’ piped up the Owens’ boy.
Morgan wondered if he should mention highwaymen but decided not to.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Mrs Berkeley said to the boy indulgently. Her hand automatically reached out to pat his head, but she rapidly withdrew it. The lice plague was ever in their minds. ‘Why, Lady Wood has first-hand experience of them.’
‘No, not at all,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My sisters were the heroines of the hour.’
‘It’s not like you to miss all the fun, Lady Wood,’ said Mrs Sapsford. ‘Where were you when the robbery was going on?’
Lady Wood ignored her. ‘It is indeed a most amusing tale. Have you not heard about it already, Mr Mayhew? Wasn’t it in the papers, Mrs McPhail?’
‘Oh, yes. Poor Mr Burbridge.’
‘Well, I wasn’t there, of course. I was in the house with my dear mama who had one of her headaches,’ Lady Wood said with a nod to Mrs Sapsford. ‘But I have all the details from my maid, who got it directly from the coachman—’
They all laughed and Morgan wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Lady Wood, the most demanding of servants’ time and energy, could reliably tap that rich vein of gossip.
‘Well, there was our dear papa quietly returning from a day at the races when, shortly after he’d turned into the Aylesford estate, four men sprang out from the bushes and, waving their guns, hauled the coachman down and bound him. Then, holding a pistol to our father’s head, they demanded all the money he had on him. So what do you think our father said to that?’
‘No doubt, not something that could be repeated in present company,’ said old Mr Quigley, clearly drawn into the tale from his corner.
‘Well, my father said he had none about him.’
‘That would’ve earned him a cuff about the ears at the very least,’ said Morgan, in admiration.
‘Well, of course, since it was race day, they’d be sure that a wealthy gentleman would be carrying more than usual. So then, they said.’ And here Lady Wood affected a rough man’s accent. ‘You’d better ’ave a care about wot you’re saying, ’cos we gonna search you and, if we find so much as a sixpenny bit more on ya than wot you said, then we’ll blow your brains out on the spot.’
Even Mrs Sapsford began to laugh.
‘But, no, does my father alter his story?’ Lady Wood continued.
‘No,’ her listeners cried in answer.
‘No, he doesn’t. He says he had a bad day at the races and had not a penny on him. So then, they tell him to strip to the skin. But then he pleads; he is an old man and in very infirm health, and to do so might kill him. And he must have been convincing, because then they fell to arguing with each other about what they should do. All this time, what they didn’t know,’ Lady Wood said, lowering her voice, ‘was that Jack, our stable boy, had hitched himself a ride home on the back of the carriage and he’d hopped off the moment the bushrangers sprang out, and he raised the alarm up at the house.’
Miss McPhail spoke up, asking, ‘But then how did—?’
Lady Wood smiled. ‘Luckily, for my father, we three sisters are all proficient horsewomen. With all the men of the estate yet to return from the races, my sisters rode out to the rescue, and the robbers, intimidated by such a force of gorgons, cravenly decamped post-haste.’
Tea being served meant that the conversation turned to other more mundane matters for a while.
Miss McPhail looked puzzled by the story. ‘I’m still a little confused. Did Mr Burbridge, in truth, not have any money on his person? Is he a gambling man?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Oh, I’m sure his pockets were bulging with money,’ said Lady Wood. ‘It would be so like him to plead poor while all the time secreting a fortune away. I think it’s actually why I liked the coachman’s tale so much. It sums up my life’s experience with my dear papa.’
2020 was a good year for reading (when we weren’t glued to our screens). Looking back, I find that I chewed through over forty books, either by reading or listening to an audiobook. I confess that I abandoned a few half-way (life in the times of COVID is potentially too short to be bored). However, here are some I’d recommend if you’re looking for something to read during a snap hotspot lockdown.
(judged on both story and narrator)
(alphabetically by author surname)
Ben Aaronovitch, Tales from the Folly: Short Stories from the world of the Rivers of London series – read by multiple narrators
Anne Brinsden, Wearing Paper Dresses. If you liked The Dressmaker by Rosalie Hamm, then you’ll love this story of rural hardship.
Tiny Fey, Bossypants – read by Tina Fey. Finding out what makes comedians tick is always fascinating.
CS Forester, Mr Midshipman Hornblower – read by Christian Rodska. A rollicking tale on the high seas.
John Le Carré, Agent Running in the Field – read by John Le Carré, who turns out to be a dab hand at accents, as well as a riveting writer.
Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (book). I never thought I could be so interested in marsh wildlife. Intensive botany lesson embedded in a compelling story.
Michelle Paver, Wolf Brother – read by Sir Ian McKellen. This is an old-fashioned tale of an American Indian boy coming to manhood and I loved every minute – entranced by McKellen’s ‘tell me a story’ voice.
Andy Weir, The Martian – read by Wil Wheaton. Seen the movie? Now read the book. Originally, I planned to read it in print, but I’m glad I opted for the audiobook. I think I would have skimmed the technical details in print, but they form a mesmerising rhythm that builds the believability of events when read aloud.
