…
Do you have days when you feel like you’ve achieved nothing, even after getting through what might appear to be a lot? It’s the ancillary stuff that’s the bugbear of anyone who simply wants to get on with what’s important, and that’s writing.
You know, sit down in front of a blank page on the computer, for on your writing desk, if you have one, ready for the words to come.
Except there’s the email to check.
Then there are ads to be sent out on Twitter and the general Twitter feed to look at just to keep up with what’s happening out there.
Then there’s the news usually that arrives on my desktop computer, the feed from the major papers around the world, for me, the New York Times, in the US, the Times in The UK and the Australian, in my country.
And, dammit, each has a challenging crossword that I really don’t have time to do, well, not in the morning.
Then there’s the stuff that has to be done around the house, I’m home but my wife still works so there’s washing, cooking, and domestics to be done which eats into the day.
Sometimes it’s not until mid-morning before I get to sit down with a cup of tea.
The point is, it’s not conducive to writing during the day because you can’t get a run at it, time enough to think about what you’re going to write before committing it to paper.
That is, before the phone rings with another scammer, and breaks your concentration. Right, I hear you, cut the phone off.
So, three phone calls later, I’m about to give up. It’s time to get the dinner on with family coming. Perhaps I’ll have a few bottles of beer instead.
This is why I write at night, sometime after ten. No phone calls, no distractions. Well, that’s not necessarily true because what you didn’t get done earlier had a way of backing up if you don’t get through it in a timely manner.
Perhaps I’ll get a blog post or two done, another episode of the trip to China, upload another photo to Instagram and look at the current novel I’m in the middle of editing.
By that time it will be two am, way past anyone’s decent time to go to bed. In fact, it’s ten past two, and I’ve got an early morning.
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.
I never realized Boggs had this thing for treasure. Seems a long time ago one of his relatives was a diver, found a wreck, and with it gold bullion. He became rich, and the wealth in the family lasted till Boggs’ grandfather, who frittered away the last of the fortune on dodgy land schemes and supposed match tree forests in Ecuador.
It was up to him, Boggs told me, to restore the family fortune.
I couldn’t see how this was going to happen sitting in a bar that openly advertised treasure maps and an owner who was only too happy to tell the story of the Spaniard to anyone who’d listen.
The problem was, no two versions of the story were the same.
Whilst Boggs was taking in the fourth or fifth rendition of the story, I looked around at the clientele. They were certainly more interesting than the treasure.
Mostly here for the sun and surf, there were two notable exceptions, and if I was to guess, they looked Spanish.
Or was it my imagination working overtime.
They seemed very interested in Boggs, from time to time looking over at him, and then muttering to each other. Conveniently, they were along the path to the restroom, so I took a stroll, and lingering a moment near their table, I listened to the conversation.
In Spanish.
My Spanish was a little rusty but what I thought I heard, “Boy, map, find out what he knows, gold, and it’s in the hills somewhere.
The phrase, there’s gold in them thar hills came to mind.
But for the moment I think we had a problem.
When I came out of the restroom, the first thing I noticed was the two Spaniards had left. When I looked over towards the bar, where I left Boggs, I noticed he too, was missing.
All of a sudden I had a very bad feeling.
I ran outside, just in time to see the two men bundling Boggs into the back of a car, and drive off.
I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
It’s the halfway mark.
Checking the word count, I’m up to over 25,000 words so that’s around the halfway mark also.
But…
I’m simultaneously working on chapters 6 through 13 of part 3, and being partly written, and in outline, there are a few parts missing and I think I’m going to have to go back and, at the very least, read it again, and put in notes for the first edit.
Several tangents have caused issues going back, but it’s nothing major and if I have time before the month ends, I will fix it. Otherwise, it can wait until the first edit.
Otherwise, it’s not all doom and gloom.
Going forward, I have the outlines for chapters 14 through 20 and they follow along from those previous. And I still have to find a place for an interlude that will have a bearing later on.
Of course, in the meantime, all of it will run through the theatre of my dreams.
This is the famous clock tower of the Flinders Street Station (the main train station for suburban trains) in Melbourne.
We were staying in a hotel (The Doubletree) directly opposite to the station and our room overlooked the station and the clock tower. I took photos of it during the day:
and this one, at night. It came out better than I thought it would.
As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and say words rather than write them?
Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.
OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”
Damn.
My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.
The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”
It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.
Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.
If only I can settle the nerves.
I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.
The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. That usually sticks to a predefined format.
Here the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.
For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”
That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. It fascinated me that other people had the desire to be something more exotic in an alter ego.”
Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.
The trek from the car, along the red carpet, the flashing cameras, and reporters with microphones shoved in faces, was the longest 50 yards I’d ever taken.
To say I’d prefer to negotiate a minefield was an understatement. She was polite, smiling, answering questions, and doing the red-carpet thing if that was what it was.
I remained in the background adopting the bodyguard stance, not that of a partner or escort, guiding her on at the appropriate moment, and they left me alone.
Bodyguards were not news just an accouterment to the rich and famous. I was glad that I fitted into the suit and didn’t look out of place.
On the other side, in that magical land of peace and quiet, an area that was reserved for the VIPs, I got a momentary look into a world that few were ever privy to.
Being a Royal Command Performance, I also got the unexpected surprise of being introduced to members of the Royal family, scary stuff indeed. I’d only ever seen them in the papers and on TV, and oddly never in a good light.
How different they were in person.
Rodby seemed ill at ease, Martha in her element, and the countess took it all in her stride, perhaps showing that she was born into that life rather than acquiring it.
I’d found a quiet corner and Rodby it seemed had too.
“Another of your white lies comes home to roost. You ask why I won’t come back, and this evening is all the proof you need.”
“It wasn’t anything to do with me. Orders from above.”
“You don’t answer to anyone.”
The wry grin said otherwise. “We all have our masters.”
“Who is she?”
At the moment she was across the room deep in conversation with one of the Royal party.
“A woman with a problem.”
And then it all became clear. “This is low, even for you.”
“Not me. This is Martha’s doing. She has this unaccountable belief in you, which is surprising since I’ve never told her what it was you used to do.”
“And yet here we are.”
I was going to make a point of talking to Martha if only to dispute his account. He could have chosen any one of a hundred more qualified people and yet here I was. I had to believe it was not Martha’s intention for me to be here other than as a prospect for her friend the Countess.
“Indeed.”
The accompanying sigh was due to Martha making her way over to us. His brief moment of solitude was over. I doubted Rodby had any time for what he called schmoozing, nor would he suffer the protection types that were in abundance in that room. It reeked of wealth and privilege.
“There you two are.”
“I don’t like crowds,” I said. At least I had a viable excuse.
She glared at Rodby. “Go and make yourself amenable. I want a moment with Evan.”
His dismay was complete. I could tell he would rather face down a horde of enemy soldiers than face those people currently in the room.
After a moment where he might have considered an entirely different scenario, he thought the better of it and meandered off in the direction of the bar.
This was a Rodby I’d never seen before.
“Now, what are you doing with yourself these days? Alan tells me you are adrift now Violetta is not there.”
How kind of him to say so. Had I completely misjudged him, and this was going to be his pitch, by someone he knew I couldn’t say no to.
“I would not call in exactly adrift.”
“You know what I mean. I’m sorry that I haven’t managed to catch up but I’ve been working on getting him to decide it’s time to retire.”
“I’m not sure what I could do to help you in that regard.”
“You don’t have to. I have something else I would like you to do for me. Heidi is one of those formidable forces that have the ability to take on the world, and beat it, but not when it comes to handling problems of her own. The count, God bless him, used to take care of all that nonsense, but he’s not here, so, given what Alan has told me about you, nothing but glowing references I have to say, could you help her out?”
What could Rodby possibly say about me when he was sworn to secrecy? In fact, why would he mention me to Martha above anyone else? I was just an errand boy in terms of acquaintances.
“What exactly did he say?”
“Nothing of any importance other than to say you were a good man in a crisis.” She smiled. “And we both know that could mean almost anything from catching a mug of coffee before it splashed over a tetchy diplomat to saving a pilotless plane about to crash into a mountain. What I’m asking will not involve either of these scenarios or at least I hope not.” Perhaps she just saw my expression, a mixture of curiosity and dismay. “I’m not selling this very well, am I?”
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to sell.”
The bell rang to signify the audience to head for their seats, or in our case, a box. Opera was so much better from the boxes, particularly when those below looked up in awe, expecting to see a celebrity.
“We’re having drinks after the opera. We’ll talk more then.”
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Of course, it could easily be Collingwood depending on who you barrack for in the local football competition, as it is Fitzroy, but the map and my GPS tells me the street is, for all intents and purposes, in Fitzroy.
Not that there is a football team for Fitzroy any more, that moved north to Queensland a long, long time ago.
But…
Going for a wander up and down the street shows two or three very different sides to inner suburban living, and the effect that comes from a diverse range of cultures, the city has acquired over the past few decades.
Once viewed as almost the slums of Melbourne, these inner suburban areas have moved upscale to become havens for the more wealthy middle classes and a home for many diverse outlets, not the least of which are eateries.
And. In just this small section of Smith Street, there are a lot of eating establishments, from the Old Kingdom Peking duck restaurant to a small place selling Falafel, and then everything in between. It says a lot about how Australian eating habits have changed in a single generation, where back in those infamous old days you would be lucky to have a fish and chips/ hamburger shop and one or two Chinese restaurants.
Now, intermingled with gourmet bakeries and cozy coffee shops, there are a plethora of other eating establishments that cater to any cuisine you can imagine. In fact, it’s possible to dine out on a different cuisine every night for a fortnight and only traverse about half a kilometre up and down the street. It could be ideal if you lived in one of the small fronted houses just off the main carriageway in a leafy narrow side street or laneway.
And, as you would expect in an inner-city suburb, the streets are narrow and made more hazardous for traffic because of the trams, a familiar sight in many of the streets in this area, and a much-used form of transport for workers making the short trip into the city. It’s almost possible to take the extra half hour, and walk.
The street is lined with old buildings, some dating back to about 1868, there’s around the turn of the century, but most are not inhabited except for the street level where there is an eclectic mixture of furniture, haberdashery, and clothing stores catering to a particular group of people, what some call yuppies or upwardly mobile men and women who are between 25-35, with high paying jobs, and preferably no children.
Then there a subgroup walking there streets, homosexual men, some wheeling adopted children in pushers, others walking hand in hand out for a Saturday afternoon stroll where they can feel safe among many others. It’s very different from other places I’ve been, but one can imagine there are places like this in every city all over the world.
But as a backdrop to the appearance of wealth, the shopfronts that cater to those upwardly mobile upper middle classes, there’s that exact opposite in full view, the homeless, and beggars, sitting on the ground outside the more run down shops soliciting alms, asking for a spare dollar, and even one asking for a cigarette.
Everyone walks past them, imagining no doubt there are not there, or that if they ignore them, they will go away. I think not. And, I suspect, more will come out of their daytime hiding places and take up residence in Smith Street itself.
The only surprise is that the local council has not asked the police to move them on. It’s an interesting juxtaposition of inhabitants in an area that no doubt can only attract the upper middle classes, as anything and everything is relatively expensive, particularly real estate, and permit driven parking spaces.
Would I live here? No.
Would I come here to wine and dine?
Maybe, if I could get parking, which there appear to be very few spots or any other form of parking such as under the local supermarket which can be very expensive. And if you are lucky enough to find a spot, who has the time or the memory if continually feeding a parking meter every two hours, particularly if you’re having a good time.
Equally, it’s a place I would not feel comfortable, even if it was once a safe haven, which up to a few years ago, I’d probably think it not. In fact, at times I was not sure what to make of some of the people on the street, but I guess if I lived here, it would no doubt be the norm.
Would I recommend people to come here?
Of course. One of the more interesting places in Melbourne to experience grassroots cuisine that is incredibly diverse in it range and price, and even from a place with tables and chairs that may have seen better days, but you haven’t come to see the furniture.
And to my mind, the dining is definitely better, here than perhaps Carlton, which in itself is Mecca to a plethora of university types, both teachers and students alike, and the coffee culture that pervade that area of Melbourne.
I have no doubt you will come and leave with a very good opinion of the place.
As for me, I came here for an engagement party held at the Hotelito de Jesus, a Mexican restaurant, serving a variety of Mexican dishes. As I’m no expert of that particular cuisine, everything was going to be new.
It was. It’s spicy but not too spicy, the pork belly excellent, the canapés delicious, and both the mushroom-based and shredded beef based mini tacos were equally scrumptious.
All of this was washed down with two particular Mexican beers, two of several available in bottles, cans, or by the glass.
Oh, and you can get sangria by the jug too if you like. I would have, but my passion for trying different beers won out.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
It’s the halfway mark.
Checking the word count, I’m up to over 25,000 words so that’s around the halfway mark also.
But…
I’m simultaneously working on chapters 6 through 13 of part 3, and being partly written, and in outline, there are a few parts missing and I think I’m going to have to go back and, at the very least, read it again, and put in notes for the first edit.
Several tangents have caused issues going back, but it’s nothing major and if I have time before the month ends, I will fix it. Otherwise, it can wait until the first edit.
Otherwise, it’s not all doom and gloom.
Going forward, I have the outlines for chapters 14 through 20 and they follow along from those previous. And I still have to find a place for an interlude that will have a bearing later on.
Of course, in the meantime, all of it will run through the theatre of my dreams.
