Category: blogging

Writing a book in 365 days – 193/194

Days 192 and 194

Early childhood memories

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From Mordialloc, we moved to Dandenong, a new house, 1 Bess Court.  It must have been around the time I started school, because the early memories of living there were going to Dandenong State School No. 1403.  Amazingly, the school number sticks in my mind all this time.

I remember thinking at the time that it was like a castle.  That might have been in 1958 or 1959 when I was 5 or 6 years old, and in pre-school. 

Where we lived was quite new, just up from the Dandenong Creek, and those fields from the bottom of our street were our playground.  We made friends and we all played together.

My father, at the time, worked at General Motors in the Dandenong factory, where they built cars.  For our holidays, he used to get a truck to deliver big wooden box sides, which we, in turn, with the other kids, built a large cubby house.  One caught the eye of the council building inspector, and we had to pull it down.  Why?  It was nearly three stories high!

That was some holiday project.

It also became what might be called a house of horrors.  We were always poor, my mother did not work, and we survived on what my father earned.  There were not enough bedrooms, and to make ends meet, we took in boarders. I know, for a while, I had to live outside in a tent until a bungalow was built onto the back of the house, when the outside toilet was moved inside.  I remember coming home from school one day and one of the male boarders was drunk after losing his job, and when my father came home, he sent him packing.  Another boarder we had, a lady named May, was with us for a while and once went on holiday with us.  For some reason, I always remember her being in a dressing gown.

My father, at one point, suffered a mental breakdown, but I had always believed it was a resurgence of malaria he caught when he was serving in New Guinea during the war.  There were also the memories of being sexually assaulted by my uncle for a period while living here.  It is a memory I have tried hard to forget.

There was also a period of domestic violence where my father would direct his anger at my older brother, and my mother tried to get between them and received some harsh treatment at his hands. And I remember hiding under my bed to get away from it.  We had no idea why he was like this, not then, but after his breakdown, things got better.

Oh, and every year, at Easter, we would paint the whole outside of the house.  As a six- or seven-year-old, I don’t think I was much of a help.

Other times we would go on holidays, packing the tent and ourselves into the car and taking off at short notice to places like Queenscliff, Adelaide, Lakes Entrance, and Wilson’s Promontory.

At some point, things must have got better.  I got to live in the bungalow, school proceeded to grade six, where I remember the teacher distinctly, Mr McPhee, a hard taskmaster, but he taught us well.

We got a bottle of milk every morning, I got lunches made by my mother that were inedible, and several classes and fellow students stuck in my mind, but curiously were forgotten for many years until now.  One, a boy named Andrew Stroud, who was English, I remember because he talked funny, and a girl, Elizabeth Llewellen, because she was nice to me.  I also remember skipping a grade, but I don’t know why.

But that didn’t last long. We moved, and it was a whole new, but not necessarily better world.

…

Those memories will always be hazy. I was told once that what I remembered would not be the same as anyone else in the same house, and it is true. My brother’s memories of the same period are completely different. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

In a word: Can

Yes, another three letter word with a multitude of meanings, like

I can do this, it’s what we tell ourselves when faced with an impossible mission

You might want to carry a can, perhaps of drink, once made out of steel but now from aluminium.  It can also hold food, like baked beans

You might have a jerry can, which holds petrol, mighty handy if you are driving and run out.  It’s happened to me once

There’s the can-can, but that’s a dance

Can you do this, can I have a drink, you can park over there, it seems we can seek or be given permission

It is an informal name for either prison or a toilet, though it depends on where you are

And in the United States, a ‘tin can’ can also be used to describe a navy vessel

If you get canned from your job, it really means you got fired

In the can means the film has been completed

Of course, there is always a trash can which makes both a mess and a loud noise when they tip over, particularly at night

And, which also make a good set of wickets, painted on, when playing backyard cricket with your friends

Plots ripped from newspaper headlines

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

I’ve been reading about an anomaly in Google Maps where people are looking at maps that display weird objects in places where they shouldn’t be,

For instance, one of the recent occurrences of this places a plane, either an Airbus A320 or a Boeing 737, is on the ground, in the middle of a clearing of a dense forest with trees all around it.

No one is missing a plane so where did it come from, and how could it possibly get there?

Another occurrence was a car at the bottom of a lake, though there has been more than one occurrence of this. 

But, sometimes those objects actually are there, like, for instance, one of those cars where the body of a man who had been missing for 20-odd years was discovered.

There is a rational reason why people are seeing what are objects that cannot be explained.  It is an instance where two images have been taken, and one is a ‘ghost’, and in the case of the aeroplane, it could have been flying very low over the area in question when the photo was taken.

So.

What if …

Someone was using the map program to look at various places, places that did not get the usual public scrutiny, or perhaps not at all.

After all, what does one do with the leisure hours when there’s nothing else to do?

Mick was a tramper, one of those people who liked to trail blaze, find new paths through forests and make odd discoveries, one of which, several years before, had uncovered a lost village of some archaeological value.

He sees what seems to be wreckage dispersed in the forest, notes the date of the photograph, nearly a year before, and checks newspapers and media sources for any news of missing small lanes, but discovers none.

But just in case his mind is playing tricks, he asks a friend to come and verify the discovery, and, lo and behold, it is no longer there.

Perhaps it was his imagination, wanting to find something.

Until he checked the date of the photograph and notes it’s been updated to another, a year later.

With nothing else to do, perhaps it was time for another walking holiday, and to see what was there.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 91

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

The aftermath and goodbye

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No one in the room, of those who had been forced to remain, could quite comprehend what just happened.

You could read about it in a newspaper, or hear about it on television during the news hour, and think, well, I wasn’t there but it must have been traumatic for those who were, but traumatic didn’t even begin to describe what I just witnessed.

It took everyone more than a few minutes to process those last few seconds before they could move, let alone think about what they were going to do.  With the threat incapacitated, there was no reason to, at least, not straight away.

I was surprised then, that after however long it had been since those events, I heard Charlene’s voice cutting through the fog.

“Are you alright?”

She was shaking me by the shoulder, sitting on the floor next to me, and she looked, and sounded, visibly upset.  I was surprised she was still in town much less anywhere near here.

“I wasn’t the target,” I said, and then realized that was hardly relevant to anything; it was just the first response that popped into my head.

I could then suddenly hear everything as if someone had turned up the volume, and the first background sound was Benderby’s daughter crying.

“You were almost in the line of fire for one of the marksmen.  I thought he’d misaimed. For a moment there, when I saw you fall…

She still cared, which was something I should appreciate.  I took a moment before lifting myself off the floor to sit beside her.

“This was a disaster.  Your father should have realized a woman with a gun would be hell-bent on revenge and wasn’t going to be talked down.  She probably used the time it took to get me to mentally prepare so she could kill the pair of them.  And I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

“It might not have come to this if she hadn’t known Alex and Vince were suspected of killing her son.  Did you tell her about Alex and Vince?”

It was a meaningful look, one that conveyed disapproval because she was right, it had to come from me because I was only one of a very few who knew the actual facts of the matter.”

Better then, to admit it.  “No.  But I told my mother, while I was in hospital before I had time to consider the ramifications.  That was some deal Benderby pulled off, to have Vince strung up and a signing a confession to get Alex off the hook.”

“He didn’t exactly get away scot-free.  He still has a string of minor charges to face, and there will be jail time, one way or another.”

I glanced over at Mrs. Boggs spread out on the floor where she had collapsed after being shot at least twice.

Almost before she hit the floor, two deputies were beside her, removing the gun, and checking if she was still alive.  I imagine the sheriff, by the door, phone to his ear, had called for medical assistance, perhaps out of deference to a woman who was a friend, or because he had to show all care and respect for her so a good defense attorney didn’t find a reason to have the case dismissed for lack of respect.  There had been problems handling perpetrators in the past, perpetrators who got off on technicalities.

But all that was moot if she was dead.  She seemed to be alive when she hit the floor, and then hadn’t moved in the last few minutes.  My first thought was that they had killed her, but I saw her hand move, which meant she was still alive, incredibly good shooting on the part of the marksmen considering the obstacles, and the inclination to stop the perpetrator permanently.

Around us, several other deputies were escorting the remainder of the patrons out of the room, now officially a crime scene designated by the ‘do not cross’ tape lines going up.

The sheriff had made it his job to escort Mrs. Benderby, and her daughter, out of the room, and, no doubt get a statement after being checked out by a paramedic.

I could hear sirens in the distance, so they would be arriving imminently.

A. Minute or so later, I was the last civilian in the room. 

I turned to Charlene, “You do realize that both Boggs senior and Ormiston were in that cave, before Alex and Vince cleaned up.”

She smiled.  “Actually, as a matter of fact, I do.  I took a forensic team back to see if we could find either of Alex’s or Vince’s DNA, and not only did we fund it, but the skeletal remains of what appears to be four individuals.”

“Boggs, Ormiston, and two pirates.  One had a sword through the rib cage so I suspect there was a little dissent when the treasure was being divvied up.”

“I’m sure that will be confirmed soon.  I wanted to nail Alex’s ass to the wall, now it appears we might have enough evidence to put old man Cossatino away too.  He was picked up at the airport trying to leave the country.  An all-around good day for team justice.”

“Except for Mrs. Boggs”

“I’m sure she’ll plead temporary insanity, overcome by the grief of losing her son.”

Flippant, perhaps, or just cynical?  It was a bit early in her career to be like that, so perhaps that might be a little of her father rubbing off.

“Perhaps she was hoping the police would kill her.  After all, she has very little left to live for.  I doubt pleading insanity was her first thought when she walked into this room.  You might want to study up on the human condition a little before you start labeling people, and especially if you are thinking of continuing on this detective thing.”

That came out wrong, more a rebuke than an observation, and judging by her expression, she took it as the former.

“There will always be a lot of things we could do better.  You might consider next time to dissuade your friends from doing stupid things, like Nadia kidnapping Alex and Vince in the first place.”

“If you had done your job…”

Neither of us had seen the sheriff come over, and he was there long enough to be privy to the last comments.  “I’m sure at the end of the day, justice will prevail despite the convoluted route it took us to get there.  But for argument’s sake, neither Alex nor Vince would press charges against Nadia, so it was not kidnapping, and since the mall belongs to the Benderbys, neither wanted to press for trespass, so, all in all, no harm done.”

He glared at his daughter.  “I asked you to get his statement, not debate the legalities of the situation. Get it done and get back to the station.”

With that said, he left.

Charlene stood up, glared at me, then said, “no good deed goes unpunished.  Do you want to give it here, or at the station?”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 30

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160903_123228

This is Chester.  Waiting impatiently.

I’ve asked him to stay by the front door and let me know when the deliveryman comes.

What is it we’re waiting for?

It’s a surprise.

For who?

If I told you that, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.

That, of course, sets his mind racing, because now he thinks I’ve got a surprise for him.  And the memories of that don’t sit well, because the half dozen practice mice I got him didn’t get used.

Why do I need to practice chasing mice that don’t move? he asked.

It was an interesting question, which led to another surprise, a half dozen clockwork mice.

He wanted to know why I was winding them up, and then, when I put them down, he simply watched them crash into the wall.

I shake my head as I walk away.  Why did I say anything?  All I had to do was open the door, and he would have come, sat and waited for no reason at all.

 

 

Short story writing – don’t try this at home! – Part 3

Where is this story going to start?

Let’s forget about the what and the who and the when for the moment, and figure out the location.

After all, we couldn’t make a movie unless we have somewhere to shoot it.  Those places are called locations, and before a film begins someone has to go out and find locations.

Sometimes it’s easy, because you know where the story is based.

New York, London, Singapore, Moscow.

It’s more likely it will be somewhere you’ve been, or where you live.

I live in Brisbane, in Australia.  Not a lot of people overseas know of it.  Oddly enough before I moved here over 30 years ago, it was just a name on a map.

But the point is, now that I’m here I could write a story based in Brisbane.  Or as easily, in Melbourne, where I also used to live.

Or I could select a place I’ve travelled to, perhaps not once, but a few times, and each time taking photographs and notes about that place, thinking one day I could used it as a location.

I have, and I do.  It’s one of the reasons why I like to travel.  I’m always on the lookout for someplace new.

Several of my books are based in New York, several in London, and various parts of the story find the characters in places like Paris, Rome, Florence, Tuscany, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Moscow.

Then, sometimes when my knowledge is lacking in some of the finer points of the city, Google maps, and Google itself are there to fill in the gaps.  I have virtually driven down streets in London, especially near Kew Gardens and in Knightsbridge, checking locations.

Suffice to say, I know some parts of London like the back of my hand, and recently, before COVID, visited and did a spot check just to be sure.

With COVID 19 causing havoc with travel plans, virtual travel is all I can do at present.

Then there’s building, like houses, apartments, any sort of building which may require some knowledge.

I guess what I’m saying is that there’s more to locations than just saying something is there, it had to fit the area.  Yes, the story is a work of fiction, but sometimes it’s better to have an idea of what’s there, or readers will be disappointed.

Especially if they live in that city, town, village, house or tent.

I actually use the real estate advertisements in a city of town where I want to have a house, because it gives you a map, exterior views, how to get there, and best of all what it looks like inside.

Still can’t afford that $12,000,000 apartment in New York, but the views, there were to die for.

But I, as always, digress…

Now it’s starting to sound like a lot of hard work.

It is.

Even if you go down the ‘pantser’ road, there’s still lot of research to be done.

More confusion tomorrow.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 27

More about my story – The story within the story

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Scattered throughout the main story are the threads that are picked up at the end and cover betrayal.

Betrayal is always a possibility, and sometimes an inevitability in being a spy.  This story is no exception, and the betrayal comes from within.

There are many types of betrayal, that someone knows your secret and tells the people whom you are spying on.

That someone is informed beforehand that you are coming to them and why, and your cover is blown before you get started, and/or

You are the victim of an internecine war between heads of intelligence services that are in competition with each other for results and, therefore, funding.

Or, perhaps, it’s just two old men, one jealous and the other trying to get work done while the jealous one goes about sabotaging his best efforts.

That wouldn’t be so bad except it’s not the bosses who pay the ultimate price.  It’s the agents on the ground.

The question then has to be why?

Politics?

It has a good deal of say in most matters because governments are run by political parties and politicians.  First rule: politicians generally have no idea how to run the departments they are responsible for.  Spies do not get to run intelligence agencies, by and large. 

Perhaps the spies might be the administrators, or private sector heads of departments, but they generally have to do as they are told.

Except what if they defy the minister?

And would the minister know, and if he did, would he tell anyone fo fear of losing that portfolio?

Tricky question.

And for our agent in the field?

He has absolutely no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, just that some of the chess pieces have been rearranged, and he only knows this when a group of bad agents come to kill him.

Well, sabotage the mission and nearly kill him.

Damn!

Searching for locations: Old Shanghai, China

The old Shanghai refers to a small area of Shanghai that used to be walled in and remained that way until about 1912 when all but a small section of the wall was demolished.  With the advent of the concessions, Old Shanghai became the administrative center until later when it became a shopping complex.

Now it has many restored historical buildings as well as new buildings in a somewhat traditional style that has become one of Shanghai’s main tourist attractions, housing many shops and restaurants.

The “Old Town” is not exclusively old, as you still have a chance to take in the atmosphere if you wander into the quaint side streets.

But, on first viewing walking down the street towards the complex, I’m not sure I’d go as far as to say this is in reality old Shanghai, except for what appears to be a true representation of it architecturally. 

The buildings, which are shops and restaurants, are set out symmetrically, with streets, alleyways, and squares which may prove that it was specially built for the tourists, and no mechanized traffic.

Anyway…

The buildings are magnificent, and a photographer’s delight, and you’d finish up having hundreds of photos by the time you leave.  All the buildings are exquisite representations of traditional Chinese architecture. 

As for buying stuff, remember if you’re not Chinese you have the sucker tourist stamp on your forehead, so be prepared to walk away if the vendors will not bargain.  

Nothing here is worth the price tag and in our group discounts like from 130 RMB to 50 RMB and from 1 for 1,200 to 2 for 950 RMB are common.

Here common t-shirts that we can get for 3 dollars back home start at 150 RMB which is roughly 35 dollars.  It’s that kind of market.

We end up is a tea room, on the third floor of the meeting point below, and discover all the tour guides sitting around a table counting money, and I have to say it’s the most $50 notes I’ve ever seen in one place.  
It is, we were told, where they discussed ‘strategy’.