Thomas W. Devine's Blog, page 28
November 17, 2013
Bumper Sticker
There are probably plenty around like it but, a few days ago, I saw a bumper sticker for the first time that read:
“If it’s too loud you’re too old.”
I chuckled at first then realised it was a sign of the times. It pushes the message that if it’s okay with me I don’t care if it’s not okay with you. And it’s saying that old people don’t matter.
It encourages selfish attitudes.
And it’s not so funny after all.
“If it’s too loud you’re too old.”
I chuckled at first then realised it was a sign of the times. It pushes the message that if it’s okay with me I don’t care if it’s not okay with you. And it’s saying that old people don’t matter.
It encourages selfish attitudes.
And it’s not so funny after all.
November 11, 2013
Critics
It’s upsetting to see a well known and established writer being savaged in a review of her latest novel. But that was Elizabeth Knox’s fate in a recent review by Frances Adank (Dominion Post Your Weekend, November 2, 2013) of “Wake”.
Adank wrote that the book would “...not cheer everyone. Knox oversells and undersells, stuffs it with adjectives, tells us the same thing three times then leaves us starved asking ‘What?’” Adank goes on, “I liked only two characters by the end.”
Another reminder for novelists that literary rules have created expectations.
Adank wrote that the book would “...not cheer everyone. Knox oversells and undersells, stuffs it with adjectives, tells us the same thing three times then leaves us starved asking ‘What?’” Adank goes on, “I liked only two characters by the end.”
Another reminder for novelists that literary rules have created expectations.
November 4, 2013
Aging & Travel
How does one reconcile to the fact of becoming too old or infirm to travel like one used to?
With my wife (who can no longer drive) I’ve just spent 4 days travelling by road to enjoy a 6 night visit with family members.
I could have taken a commercial plane, and had about the same financial outlay, but I’ve always enjoyed the journey on land. The scenery of New Zealand, even in the North Island, is so diverse and it changes so often over a journey from Wellington to Northland.
This time, though, I found the journey more gruelling than ever before and I came back from the trip feeling exhausted, with no taste for further travel by road over that sort of distance.
I’m finding it very hard to accept that my state of health may mean I never do that drive again.
I guess it's all part of coming to terms with the fact that being young at heart does not defeat every aspect of age or ill health.
With my wife (who can no longer drive) I’ve just spent 4 days travelling by road to enjoy a 6 night visit with family members.
I could have taken a commercial plane, and had about the same financial outlay, but I’ve always enjoyed the journey on land. The scenery of New Zealand, even in the North Island, is so diverse and it changes so often over a journey from Wellington to Northland.
This time, though, I found the journey more gruelling than ever before and I came back from the trip feeling exhausted, with no taste for further travel by road over that sort of distance.
I’m finding it very hard to accept that my state of health may mean I never do that drive again.
I guess it's all part of coming to terms with the fact that being young at heart does not defeat every aspect of age or ill health.
October 20, 2013
Early Signs of Author Inclination
I guess a lot of mothers keep their children’s school reports. My high school ones were recently passed down to me through my older sister, now sadly deceased.
They reminded me of what an affinity I had at an early age for the English language, though somewhat to the neglect of other academic subjects.
In my third year at high school my teacher rightly remarked: “It is a pity his linguistic ability has led him to be satisfied with mediocre works in other subjects.”
Maybe she was a little harsh as I got a pass mark in all subjects.
Anyhow, I guess it was a good start to depending on my writing skills and moving on to creative writing which I took up seriously over a decade ago.
They reminded me of what an affinity I had at an early age for the English language, though somewhat to the neglect of other academic subjects.
In my third year at high school my teacher rightly remarked: “It is a pity his linguistic ability has led him to be satisfied with mediocre works in other subjects.”
Maybe she was a little harsh as I got a pass mark in all subjects.
Anyhow, I guess it was a good start to depending on my writing skills and moving on to creative writing which I took up seriously over a decade ago.
October 15, 2013
Thoughts from a Book Read
Forever Odd by Dean KoontzMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Items from a Book
I read a lot of thrillers and, in my experience, this one has considerable originality, most of all for its first-person narrative built on the lead protagonist’s internal dialogue which fills most of the book.
Koontz has created an interesting, possibly unique, character in “Odd Thomas” with his paranormal faculties. The book hints at darker things being possible though my imagination could not fill the gaps.
This thriller also stood out for little sayings I thought were memorable. They were:
“The joys of life can be found anywhere. Far places only offer exotic ways to suffer.” I wonder how many travellers can relate to that? It’s always nice to return home, though sometimes to daydream about living elsewhere.
“...spent his life killing himself with food ... without the solace and refuge of food, he would have been dead long ago ... books and excess poundage are his insulation against pain”. It says a lot about how many of us use food as a harbour from the difficulties of life and become obese as a result. At least book-reading doesn’t add on any fat.
“threnody” – a new word to me, meaning a lamentation, especially of a person’s death.
“She says that what holds their marriage together is that she feels too damn sorry for him to ask for a divorce.” Rather clever and amusing, I thought, and a reminder that there are so many reasons why marriages last.
I also liked Koontz’s ideal of marriage, expressed by his character, “Odd Thomas”, as:
“What really holds their marriage together are mutual respect of an awesome depth, a shared sense of humour, faith that they were brought together by a force greater than themselves, and a love so unwavering and pure that it is sacred.” I can’t help thinking that this so beautifully describes the marital holy grail that a couple should pursue.
View all my reviews
Trying Out a Book Blurb
I’ve written a semi-final draft of the book blurb for the sequel to "Green Expectations". It goes like this:
“A heart-felt promise from Mike Simmiss, President of the Save Our Forests Association (SOFA), did not stop Vanessa Denton from giving her life for Gaia and Mathews Bush.
“The promise drives Mike to revive a flagging campaign against logging the forest. Time is running out and the chance of success seems against the odds but, not compromising, he grasps every last opportunity.
“SOFA goes up against big business, the new owner of the forest, Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd. SOFA has to contend with the company’s successful Managing Director, John Baron, and its unscrupulous board member and stroke survivor, Ed Somerville.”
Would this interest you enough to read the book, which I’ve tentatively titled ‘Green Machinations’)? See any scope for improvement?
www.thomaswdevine.com
“A heart-felt promise from Mike Simmiss, President of the Save Our Forests Association (SOFA), did not stop Vanessa Denton from giving her life for Gaia and Mathews Bush.
“The promise drives Mike to revive a flagging campaign against logging the forest. Time is running out and the chance of success seems against the odds but, not compromising, he grasps every last opportunity.
“SOFA goes up against big business, the new owner of the forest, Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd. SOFA has to contend with the company’s successful Managing Director, John Baron, and its unscrupulous board member and stroke survivor, Ed Somerville.”
Would this interest you enough to read the book, which I’ve tentatively titled ‘Green Machinations’)? See any scope for improvement?
www.thomaswdevine.com
October 6, 2013
Discrimination Against NZ Residents
There has been a fuss in the news media lately about so called welfare discrimination against New Zealand citizens living and working in Australia.
The emotion around the controversy isn’t helped by the new Prime Minister of Australia, Tony Abbott, being reported (The Dominion Post October 3 20132) as saying he is “very happy with the situation as it stands” despite his calling New Zealand “family”. That does not, in his book, mean you have to treat all family members equally.
Since 2001, New Zealanders moving to Australia to live and work (and pay taxes) have been denied access to unemployment and sickness benefits.
Now that sounds unfair but the fact is (The Dominion Post October 4 2013) the government of New Zealand acquiesced to a trans-Tasman welfare agreement with those provisions.
New Zealanders who choose to go to Australia and work, since 2001, and then fall on hard times (out of work or sick) should have known what they were getting into before they immigrated.
They have the option of coming home.
The emotion around the controversy isn’t helped by the new Prime Minister of Australia, Tony Abbott, being reported (The Dominion Post October 3 20132) as saying he is “very happy with the situation as it stands” despite his calling New Zealand “family”. That does not, in his book, mean you have to treat all family members equally.
Since 2001, New Zealanders moving to Australia to live and work (and pay taxes) have been denied access to unemployment and sickness benefits.
Now that sounds unfair but the fact is (The Dominion Post October 4 2013) the government of New Zealand acquiesced to a trans-Tasman welfare agreement with those provisions.
New Zealanders who choose to go to Australia and work, since 2001, and then fall on hard times (out of work or sick) should have known what they were getting into before they immigrated.
They have the option of coming home.
October 4, 2013
Author Milestone
I’ve just sent the manuscript of my 7th novel to a professional manuscript assessor who has assessed some of my earlier books. She’s a woman so, among other things, she gives me a reality check on my female characters though, generally, I don’t seem to get too much wrong in creating them.
You can never read your own novels in the way you read novels written by someone else. Your own is either a work in progress, and you might not know where it’s going except in skeleton form, or it’s finished and you know it so well that you can no longer tell whether your story surprises are real surprises or not or whether the suspense you’ve tried to create is effective or not. Then there are the blind spots you have to story flaws - those you haven’t picked up or those you suspected but could not quite come to grips with in revision.
That’s where the assessor will straighten you out.
At first read, I’ve found, most assessment reports are disheartening. You've put in months of work on the manuscript yet the assessor thinks there's still a lot to do.
I’ve usually got to get over my wounded pride and read an assessment two or three times - often with a long gap between - before I get down to the hard work of deciding what advice I’ll accept or (with adequate reason) reject. Sometimes there’ll be compromises where, for better or worse, I’ll find a different way of dealing with the assessor’s point.
Anyhow, I think manuscript assessments are well worth the cost and a sensible pre-requisite to presenting a revised version for editing.
Manuscript assessment and editing are, in my opinion, complementary.
You can never read your own novels in the way you read novels written by someone else. Your own is either a work in progress, and you might not know where it’s going except in skeleton form, or it’s finished and you know it so well that you can no longer tell whether your story surprises are real surprises or not or whether the suspense you’ve tried to create is effective or not. Then there are the blind spots you have to story flaws - those you haven’t picked up or those you suspected but could not quite come to grips with in revision.
That’s where the assessor will straighten you out.
At first read, I’ve found, most assessment reports are disheartening. You've put in months of work on the manuscript yet the assessor thinks there's still a lot to do.
I’ve usually got to get over my wounded pride and read an assessment two or three times - often with a long gap between - before I get down to the hard work of deciding what advice I’ll accept or (with adequate reason) reject. Sometimes there’ll be compromises where, for better or worse, I’ll find a different way of dealing with the assessor’s point.
Anyhow, I think manuscript assessments are well worth the cost and a sensible pre-requisite to presenting a revised version for editing.
Manuscript assessment and editing are, in my opinion, complementary.
September 25, 2013
Worth Ethic
As a tail-ender from the Silent Generation, I’m shocked when I hear young people blithely talking about taking off a “mental health day” from work.
As a grandfather, I’m starting to see a correlation with the way the current generation of parents let their children miss a day at school for the lamest of reasons.
Is the work ethic going to get even weaker when those children grow up and find employment?
As a grandfather, I’m starting to see a correlation with the way the current generation of parents let their children miss a day at school for the lamest of reasons.
Is the work ethic going to get even weaker when those children grow up and find employment?
September 22, 2013
Sharing a Work in Progress
I want to give you a sneak preview of the opening of my next novel, as yet unpublished. The draft title is “Green Machinations”.
The novel is a sequel to “Green Expectations” (2013) and is set in the late 1990s. An environmental thriller, it dramatises the fate of a fictitious tract of privately-owned indigenous forest in New Zealand’s Horowhenua. The forest, while much-loved by some of the characters, is seen by others as a sustainable logging resource.
Comments would be welcome on this extract from the draft opening chapter:
Chapter 1
Mike Simmiss did not know what obstacles he would have to overcome when he turned his car off the highway and headed up towards the hills on a country road in the Horowhenua. He was just determined to achieve his objective.
The narrow road started climbing, the surface turning from asphalt to gravel just before the car headlights picked up road-making machinery on the verge. Expecting road-works ahead, he braked to a lower speed.
At the next bend he found, as expected, that contractors had begun widening the tight corners to enable logging trucks to operate. The works continued almost half way up the gorge. Driving became easier beyond that point, though the route that led to Maungakaramea Farm was still tortuous for a distance.
A short time later the road straightened out onto a plateau and he increased speed towards the farm homestead. Lit or not, he could not see it yet because of intervening shelter-belts of trees. He would have to keep following the road past it unless he walked across the intervening paddocks instead. He did not, however, want to face a climb over numerous fences in the dark, even though there might be a Jackson-Halberd night watchman at the homestead.
The Mathews family had moved out weeks ago and the company would be certain to be using it as a base for its forestry operations, though Mike had no idea how far the planting of exotic Pinus radiata had progressed on the abandoned farm land.
He passed the small paddock where the Save Our Forests Association had held its last annual summer camp then slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a copse of native trees that ran down into a narrow gully beside the road. He stopped when he came to the spot, got out, and used a torch to inspect the road verge. He found a place where he could drive behind some bushes that were covered in frost. The foliage would not totally conceal the car but make it less obvious.
Afterwards, he turned off the motor then the lights and, repressing his emotions, gathered up the urn from the passenger seat. He locked the doors then stuffed the car key into a pocket of his fleecy-lined jacket. He was glad he had worn woolen gloves, though it made the urn harder to hold. He tucked it under his arm.
The night was starlit as he headed up the road on foot. He could not help recalling how he had followed the same route hand in hand with Justine Mathews on the second night of the SOFA camp. But he did not want to feel or think. He preferred mental numbness to block the pain in his heart.
The homestead came into view. A light glowed at the front door but all the windows were dark. There were no vehicles outside, though there might have been round the back. In case a night watchman was in residence, or a guard dog patrolling the grounds, Mike took the precaution of turning off his torch and walking on the road verge rather than the gravel, keeping his eye on the buildings on his right. They remained quiet.
In the rough grass on the roadside, in the dark, his footing was less sure and he stumbled a few times. He had to concentrate hard on keeping the urn safely gripped and on not falling on his face. When he thought he was safe from detection, he stepped back onto the road, turned his torch on again then, after a few paces, stopped and listened for any sound behind him.
Stock had been taken off the farm and the night was totally silent – eerie after the city noise he was more accustomed to. He shivered then continued walking.
Seeing the homestead again brought back memory of the night he and Justine had disturbed an unknown intruder in Bridget Mathews’ veranda bedroom and saved her from being raped. Mike’s attempted heroics had resulted in a permanent scar on his shoulder. The knife-wielding intruder had gotten away and no arrest had been made.
The slope of the roadway gradually steepened and he came to a gate that had not previously been padlocked. There was a sign on it now. In one corner, the logo of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd stood out in the torch beam. The sign read KEEP OUT Trespassers will be prosecuted.
It was the first indication of their intention of blocking public access to Mathews Bush and the summit of Maungakaramea. Mike had, however, expected they would, sooner or later. It was a public road but the local authority had probably colluded with the company in allowing the gate across it to be locked.
Those forestry bastards have truly taken possession of the property, he thought as he mounted the obstacle.
The roadway petered out after a short distance, turning into a less well formed farm vehicle track. Knowing it led first to a grassed ridge crest (now obscured in the dark) and then to the forest on the other side, he assumed for a moment that a logging road would have to be built in its place. Then he recalled provision in the forestry management plan (leaked to SOFA) for short-haul helicopters to be used. Avoiding earth movement in the bush had been an environmental protection measure. Mike thought it likely it was also intended to save the company the cost of new roading on steep terrain
When he reached the foot of the farm track on the far side of the ridge, and paused on the bank of the stream that ran beside the bush, his eyes blurred with tears for a moment. He had camped alone at the spot just before the Mathews family moved out. Justine had brought him the tragic news about Vanessa.
It was also the place where he had vowed to continue the fight that she had sacrificed her life for.
Mist shrouded the canopy of native trees above Mike’s head but it was daylight by the time he was half way to the summit of Maungakaramea. It was still too early for forestry workers to be on the mountain so he anticipated no interference.
He kept plodding up the familiar walking trail, glad it was no longer dark. If it had not been for what was in the urn under his arm he would have enjoyed being outdoors and in the bush again. In a way, Vanessa’s fate was cruelly ironic. She had committed suicide by fire and a crematorium had completed the process of destroying her body. He was carrying all that remained.
Awhile later, he reached the upper bush edge and, out of respect for Vanessa’s memory, followed the example she had always shown and took off his boots and socks. Even though winter snows had not yet accumulated on the peak, the temperature on his bare skin felt below zero as he stepped out of the stunted trees into an open area of low native shrubs and grasses. Buffeted by wind, a thick mist swirling around him and obscuring any outlook, he felt as if he was in the clouds.
He would have liked to climb to the rocky point that marked the summit but he decided the risk of hypothermia was too high. Besides, Vanessa had always enjoyed being in the herb field.
Only his partner, Justine, knew of his intention. He had considered inviting the other members of SOFA’s National Executive Committee but decided it was something he wanted to do alone.
Turning his back to the wind, he opened the urn, inclined it forward, and tossed Vanessa’s ashes into the air. They scattered and disappeared. He tried to feel no emotion, just relief at finishing his mission.
He moved back into the shelter of the native trees and stood for a moment looking out onto the mountaintop. Celebration of Vanessa’s final union with Mother Earth – Gaia – would be more appropriate than grief, he thought, though his heart felt heavy. Vanessa had given her life for a cause they both believed in and her final remains would now rest in one of her favourite natural places.
All the same, he could not stop tears welling in his eyes. He and Vanessa had once been in a kind of relationship and he had loved her in the only way she would let him.
The novel is a sequel to “Green Expectations” (2013) and is set in the late 1990s. An environmental thriller, it dramatises the fate of a fictitious tract of privately-owned indigenous forest in New Zealand’s Horowhenua. The forest, while much-loved by some of the characters, is seen by others as a sustainable logging resource.
Comments would be welcome on this extract from the draft opening chapter:
Chapter 1
Mike Simmiss did not know what obstacles he would have to overcome when he turned his car off the highway and headed up towards the hills on a country road in the Horowhenua. He was just determined to achieve his objective.
The narrow road started climbing, the surface turning from asphalt to gravel just before the car headlights picked up road-making machinery on the verge. Expecting road-works ahead, he braked to a lower speed.
At the next bend he found, as expected, that contractors had begun widening the tight corners to enable logging trucks to operate. The works continued almost half way up the gorge. Driving became easier beyond that point, though the route that led to Maungakaramea Farm was still tortuous for a distance.
A short time later the road straightened out onto a plateau and he increased speed towards the farm homestead. Lit or not, he could not see it yet because of intervening shelter-belts of trees. He would have to keep following the road past it unless he walked across the intervening paddocks instead. He did not, however, want to face a climb over numerous fences in the dark, even though there might be a Jackson-Halberd night watchman at the homestead.
The Mathews family had moved out weeks ago and the company would be certain to be using it as a base for its forestry operations, though Mike had no idea how far the planting of exotic Pinus radiata had progressed on the abandoned farm land.
He passed the small paddock where the Save Our Forests Association had held its last annual summer camp then slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a copse of native trees that ran down into a narrow gully beside the road. He stopped when he came to the spot, got out, and used a torch to inspect the road verge. He found a place where he could drive behind some bushes that were covered in frost. The foliage would not totally conceal the car but make it less obvious.
Afterwards, he turned off the motor then the lights and, repressing his emotions, gathered up the urn from the passenger seat. He locked the doors then stuffed the car key into a pocket of his fleecy-lined jacket. He was glad he had worn woolen gloves, though it made the urn harder to hold. He tucked it under his arm.
The night was starlit as he headed up the road on foot. He could not help recalling how he had followed the same route hand in hand with Justine Mathews on the second night of the SOFA camp. But he did not want to feel or think. He preferred mental numbness to block the pain in his heart.
The homestead came into view. A light glowed at the front door but all the windows were dark. There were no vehicles outside, though there might have been round the back. In case a night watchman was in residence, or a guard dog patrolling the grounds, Mike took the precaution of turning off his torch and walking on the road verge rather than the gravel, keeping his eye on the buildings on his right. They remained quiet.
In the rough grass on the roadside, in the dark, his footing was less sure and he stumbled a few times. He had to concentrate hard on keeping the urn safely gripped and on not falling on his face. When he thought he was safe from detection, he stepped back onto the road, turned his torch on again then, after a few paces, stopped and listened for any sound behind him.
Stock had been taken off the farm and the night was totally silent – eerie after the city noise he was more accustomed to. He shivered then continued walking.
Seeing the homestead again brought back memory of the night he and Justine had disturbed an unknown intruder in Bridget Mathews’ veranda bedroom and saved her from being raped. Mike’s attempted heroics had resulted in a permanent scar on his shoulder. The knife-wielding intruder had gotten away and no arrest had been made.
The slope of the roadway gradually steepened and he came to a gate that had not previously been padlocked. There was a sign on it now. In one corner, the logo of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd stood out in the torch beam. The sign read KEEP OUT Trespassers will be prosecuted.
It was the first indication of their intention of blocking public access to Mathews Bush and the summit of Maungakaramea. Mike had, however, expected they would, sooner or later. It was a public road but the local authority had probably colluded with the company in allowing the gate across it to be locked.
Those forestry bastards have truly taken possession of the property, he thought as he mounted the obstacle.
The roadway petered out after a short distance, turning into a less well formed farm vehicle track. Knowing it led first to a grassed ridge crest (now obscured in the dark) and then to the forest on the other side, he assumed for a moment that a logging road would have to be built in its place. Then he recalled provision in the forestry management plan (leaked to SOFA) for short-haul helicopters to be used. Avoiding earth movement in the bush had been an environmental protection measure. Mike thought it likely it was also intended to save the company the cost of new roading on steep terrain
When he reached the foot of the farm track on the far side of the ridge, and paused on the bank of the stream that ran beside the bush, his eyes blurred with tears for a moment. He had camped alone at the spot just before the Mathews family moved out. Justine had brought him the tragic news about Vanessa.
It was also the place where he had vowed to continue the fight that she had sacrificed her life for.
Mist shrouded the canopy of native trees above Mike’s head but it was daylight by the time he was half way to the summit of Maungakaramea. It was still too early for forestry workers to be on the mountain so he anticipated no interference.
He kept plodding up the familiar walking trail, glad it was no longer dark. If it had not been for what was in the urn under his arm he would have enjoyed being outdoors and in the bush again. In a way, Vanessa’s fate was cruelly ironic. She had committed suicide by fire and a crematorium had completed the process of destroying her body. He was carrying all that remained.
Awhile later, he reached the upper bush edge and, out of respect for Vanessa’s memory, followed the example she had always shown and took off his boots and socks. Even though winter snows had not yet accumulated on the peak, the temperature on his bare skin felt below zero as he stepped out of the stunted trees into an open area of low native shrubs and grasses. Buffeted by wind, a thick mist swirling around him and obscuring any outlook, he felt as if he was in the clouds.
He would have liked to climb to the rocky point that marked the summit but he decided the risk of hypothermia was too high. Besides, Vanessa had always enjoyed being in the herb field.
Only his partner, Justine, knew of his intention. He had considered inviting the other members of SOFA’s National Executive Committee but decided it was something he wanted to do alone.
Turning his back to the wind, he opened the urn, inclined it forward, and tossed Vanessa’s ashes into the air. They scattered and disappeared. He tried to feel no emotion, just relief at finishing his mission.
He moved back into the shelter of the native trees and stood for a moment looking out onto the mountaintop. Celebration of Vanessa’s final union with Mother Earth – Gaia – would be more appropriate than grief, he thought, though his heart felt heavy. Vanessa had given her life for a cause they both believed in and her final remains would now rest in one of her favourite natural places.
All the same, he could not stop tears welling in his eyes. He and Vanessa had once been in a kind of relationship and he had loved her in the only way she would let him.
