Thomas W. Devine's Blog, page 32
April 3, 2013
Reclaiming Peace and Quiet
Over the Easter holidays I felt the need to re-energise and, with my wife, took a 1 week road trip of 1,800 kilometres to, from and around the Bay of Islands in New Zealand’s Far North.
Staying in the back-country, on a dirt road, surrounded by semi-developed farmland, we avoided all media news, did not use a telephone or cell phone or connect to the Internet. It was bliss.
Each day, only 4 or 5 vehicles passed by the house where we were holidaying unlike the almost constant stream that daily passes along the arterial street on which we live in suburban Wellington.
The holiday was a welcome break from technology and the wider world – escapism of a gentle kind.
Staying in the back-country, on a dirt road, surrounded by semi-developed farmland, we avoided all media news, did not use a telephone or cell phone or connect to the Internet. It was bliss.
Each day, only 4 or 5 vehicles passed by the house where we were holidaying unlike the almost constant stream that daily passes along the arterial street on which we live in suburban Wellington.
The holiday was a welcome break from technology and the wider world – escapism of a gentle kind.
March 25, 2013
Now sharing...
Now Sharing...
A few blogs ago I shared with my readers an extract from the Prologue of my upcoming sixth novel "Green Expectations". I hope you enjoyed it.
I'm now sharing Chapter 1. Here goes:
In downtown Auckland, the six directors of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd were sitting round an oval table in the office boardroom discussing whether or not to postpone an announcement of the company’s land purchase from the Estate of David Mathews. The company’s managing-director, John Baron, had just made his oral recommendation.
“I’m inclined to agree with John,” the newest member of the board said. He put down the pen he had been fiddling with and laced his fingers together. “We can’t log Mathews Bush before we get resource consents from the local authorities, so let’s at least wait ‘til our application’s ready.” He shifted his attention from the Board Chair to his colleagues, “I think the longer it is before the tree-huggers catch wind of it, the better. Like John said, it’ll just make things harder for the company if there’s a furore.”
Ed Somerville, the oldest in the group, broke the momentary silence with his rasping voice, “Kow-towing to a bunch of greenies isn’t my idea of how to do business.” He glowered round the table. “I just want to see us cut through all the red tape and bullshit, get in there, and start taking logs out.”
The Chair reined him in, “We all knew what would be involved if we got into indigenous forestry here in New Zealand, Ed. You can’t just clear-fell, burn and re-afforest in exotics anymore.” He glanced at the other members, “Does anybody else have an opinion on this agenda item?”
Another member took the opportunity, “Our opponents will just have more time to dig up the dirt if we make a premature announcement.” He shifted uncomfortably. “We all know our joint ventures in South America aren’t squeaky-green and I reckon the native forest protection lobby here will suss it out pretty fast once they find out we’re going to log Maungakaramea…”
“That name had better be kept round the table,” the Chair cautioned sharply. “No point in reminding the Maoris it was their forest once. We need to be careful how we present this.”
“Now we’re worrying about bloody Maoris,” Ed snorted from the other end of the boardroom table. “I said Mathews Bush was a rash investment for the company when John brought the idea to the board in the first place... The whole thing is full of fishhooks, the pinko government and its goddamned logging restrictions not the least of them.” He paused for a wheezing breath. “Now – on top of likely opposition from the greenies – you raise the spectre of Maoris dragging us back to bloody 1840.”
John Baron tried to control his dislike as he glanced at the scrawny figure of the much older man. On Ed Somerville’s balding head, wisps of overly long white hair grew between patches of mottled skin. Strangers seeing him in the street could be excused if they took him for a withered superannuitant but he was actually among the wealthiest top hundred or so business people in the country. Though reclusive, he ruthlessly exploited opportunities to add to his fortune and was even rumoured to play dirty tricks if he did not get his way.
John backed up the Chair, “We identified likely problems right at the start, Ed.”
Ed snorted again, “Then by now you should be able to guarantee that the Maoris and greenies won’t be causing us any trouble. The shareholders elect us to make money, not have assets sit idle because we let freeloaders hold up our operations.”
“Let’s stick to the issue and not go over old business, Ed,” the Chair said.
Ed’s watery eyes had steel in them. He made a noise like a disgruntled draught horse and retorted, “This will be old business, still costing us money, five years from now.” Having said it, he sat back and appeared to withdraw from the discussion.
“I accept John’s advice on the matter,” Mary Evans, the one woman on the board, spoke up, “but I’d like to hear a little more about his intended timetable for the project.”
“John?” the Chair invited.
Baron made eye contact round the group. “As you know, the agreement to purchase Mathews Bush doesn’t become unconditional until we have resource consents from the local authorities. On top of that we have to get a forest management plan approved by the Secretary of Forests, so nothing’s going to happen on the ground before next year. Then there’s the issue of whether or not we should wait until we’ve sewn up a purchase of the Mathews’ farmland. So far, the board’s only given it approval in principle.”
Ed used John’s pause to interject, “It’s afforestation of the Mathews’ farm we should have concentrated on in the first place.”
“Either way, Ed,” John said with self-restraint, “it was the indigenous forest block that came up for sale, not the farm. Most of us agreed it would be a leg in the door with the Mathews family when the time was right.”
The Chair beat Ed to speak, “Is that it, John? We need to move on.” He looked meaningfully at the agenda in front of him.
John nodded. The Chair glanced at the other members of the board then put the motion to keep the purchase confidential for the time being. After unanimous approval, he turned to the company secretary, “The matter of going ahead with negotiating a purchase of the Mathews’ farmland should be included on the agenda for full discussion at the next meeting.”
Mary Evans preceded John Baron into his office. John looked younger than his forty-seven years. His dark hair had streaked at the temples but the greying process had petered out there. Six feet tall, with a strong build and large head, he cut an impressive figure whether on the site of a logging operation or in an office in the city.
The centrepiece of his spacious room at Jackson-Halberd was an imposing wooden desk, its natural glow brought out by reflected sunlight from a picture frame and other chrome objects on its top. To the right of the desk, a black and white photo on the wall showed Baron as a young forester. He was carrying a rifle and posed on a mountain slope with a dead trophy deer sprawled at his feet. On the opposite wall, sharing a recess with a liquor cabinet, there was a scene from a logging operation, a yellow Sikorsky helicopter hovering in the foreground.
John went over to the cabinet, mixed two drinks, served his fellow board member, and then sat behind his desk. He looked at Mary without saying anything, giving her the chance to sip her drink.
She returned a sociable smile. “How’s Leslie these days?”
“Finding it hard to let go of the apron strings. She’s in-between children growing up and the arrival of grandchildren.”
Mary reflected, “Now the twins are virtually adults she’s missing the opportunity to share your world more. She should take time out to get involved in non-family interests.”
“The twins have always been more important to her than a career or hobbies… Maybe we complement each other better the way it is.”
“I never thought of you as the type of man who liked his meals on the table when he got home.”
Baron hid his feelings and moved the conversation to business, “I wanted to talk to you about the Maori issue, Mary. I thought you could help if you had the time.”
“I can find the time, John,” she drawled, “but Ed isn’t going to approve, whatever we do.”
“Ed’s rather hard to take most of the time but that doesn’t diminish the contribution you can make.”
“With my Maori connections.”
“Mary, I’d sooner not ask for your help if you think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“What is it you want me to do exactly?”
He outlined his strategy. Then, after she left his office, he paused for a moment to reflect on the board meeting. Chillingly, it occurred to him that if the Mathews project failed his reputation would be irreparably damaged. That bastard Somerville would make sure of it.
He began to worry that his job, and even his career, might be in jeopardy. It was not a good feeling.
A few blogs ago I shared with my readers an extract from the Prologue of my upcoming sixth novel "Green Expectations". I hope you enjoyed it.
I'm now sharing Chapter 1. Here goes:
In downtown Auckland, the six directors of Jackson-Halberd (NZ) Ltd were sitting round an oval table in the office boardroom discussing whether or not to postpone an announcement of the company’s land purchase from the Estate of David Mathews. The company’s managing-director, John Baron, had just made his oral recommendation.
“I’m inclined to agree with John,” the newest member of the board said. He put down the pen he had been fiddling with and laced his fingers together. “We can’t log Mathews Bush before we get resource consents from the local authorities, so let’s at least wait ‘til our application’s ready.” He shifted his attention from the Board Chair to his colleagues, “I think the longer it is before the tree-huggers catch wind of it, the better. Like John said, it’ll just make things harder for the company if there’s a furore.”
Ed Somerville, the oldest in the group, broke the momentary silence with his rasping voice, “Kow-towing to a bunch of greenies isn’t my idea of how to do business.” He glowered round the table. “I just want to see us cut through all the red tape and bullshit, get in there, and start taking logs out.”
The Chair reined him in, “We all knew what would be involved if we got into indigenous forestry here in New Zealand, Ed. You can’t just clear-fell, burn and re-afforest in exotics anymore.” He glanced at the other members, “Does anybody else have an opinion on this agenda item?”
Another member took the opportunity, “Our opponents will just have more time to dig up the dirt if we make a premature announcement.” He shifted uncomfortably. “We all know our joint ventures in South America aren’t squeaky-green and I reckon the native forest protection lobby here will suss it out pretty fast once they find out we’re going to log Maungakaramea…”
“That name had better be kept round the table,” the Chair cautioned sharply. “No point in reminding the Maoris it was their forest once. We need to be careful how we present this.”
“Now we’re worrying about bloody Maoris,” Ed snorted from the other end of the boardroom table. “I said Mathews Bush was a rash investment for the company when John brought the idea to the board in the first place... The whole thing is full of fishhooks, the pinko government and its goddamned logging restrictions not the least of them.” He paused for a wheezing breath. “Now – on top of likely opposition from the greenies – you raise the spectre of Maoris dragging us back to bloody 1840.”
John Baron tried to control his dislike as he glanced at the scrawny figure of the much older man. On Ed Somerville’s balding head, wisps of overly long white hair grew between patches of mottled skin. Strangers seeing him in the street could be excused if they took him for a withered superannuitant but he was actually among the wealthiest top hundred or so business people in the country. Though reclusive, he ruthlessly exploited opportunities to add to his fortune and was even rumoured to play dirty tricks if he did not get his way.
John backed up the Chair, “We identified likely problems right at the start, Ed.”
Ed snorted again, “Then by now you should be able to guarantee that the Maoris and greenies won’t be causing us any trouble. The shareholders elect us to make money, not have assets sit idle because we let freeloaders hold up our operations.”
“Let’s stick to the issue and not go over old business, Ed,” the Chair said.
Ed’s watery eyes had steel in them. He made a noise like a disgruntled draught horse and retorted, “This will be old business, still costing us money, five years from now.” Having said it, he sat back and appeared to withdraw from the discussion.
“I accept John’s advice on the matter,” Mary Evans, the one woman on the board, spoke up, “but I’d like to hear a little more about his intended timetable for the project.”
“John?” the Chair invited.
Baron made eye contact round the group. “As you know, the agreement to purchase Mathews Bush doesn’t become unconditional until we have resource consents from the local authorities. On top of that we have to get a forest management plan approved by the Secretary of Forests, so nothing’s going to happen on the ground before next year. Then there’s the issue of whether or not we should wait until we’ve sewn up a purchase of the Mathews’ farmland. So far, the board’s only given it approval in principle.”
Ed used John’s pause to interject, “It’s afforestation of the Mathews’ farm we should have concentrated on in the first place.”
“Either way, Ed,” John said with self-restraint, “it was the indigenous forest block that came up for sale, not the farm. Most of us agreed it would be a leg in the door with the Mathews family when the time was right.”
The Chair beat Ed to speak, “Is that it, John? We need to move on.” He looked meaningfully at the agenda in front of him.
John nodded. The Chair glanced at the other members of the board then put the motion to keep the purchase confidential for the time being. After unanimous approval, he turned to the company secretary, “The matter of going ahead with negotiating a purchase of the Mathews’ farmland should be included on the agenda for full discussion at the next meeting.”
Mary Evans preceded John Baron into his office. John looked younger than his forty-seven years. His dark hair had streaked at the temples but the greying process had petered out there. Six feet tall, with a strong build and large head, he cut an impressive figure whether on the site of a logging operation or in an office in the city.
The centrepiece of his spacious room at Jackson-Halberd was an imposing wooden desk, its natural glow brought out by reflected sunlight from a picture frame and other chrome objects on its top. To the right of the desk, a black and white photo on the wall showed Baron as a young forester. He was carrying a rifle and posed on a mountain slope with a dead trophy deer sprawled at his feet. On the opposite wall, sharing a recess with a liquor cabinet, there was a scene from a logging operation, a yellow Sikorsky helicopter hovering in the foreground.
John went over to the cabinet, mixed two drinks, served his fellow board member, and then sat behind his desk. He looked at Mary without saying anything, giving her the chance to sip her drink.
She returned a sociable smile. “How’s Leslie these days?”
“Finding it hard to let go of the apron strings. She’s in-between children growing up and the arrival of grandchildren.”
Mary reflected, “Now the twins are virtually adults she’s missing the opportunity to share your world more. She should take time out to get involved in non-family interests.”
“The twins have always been more important to her than a career or hobbies… Maybe we complement each other better the way it is.”
“I never thought of you as the type of man who liked his meals on the table when he got home.”
Baron hid his feelings and moved the conversation to business, “I wanted to talk to you about the Maori issue, Mary. I thought you could help if you had the time.”
“I can find the time, John,” she drawled, “but Ed isn’t going to approve, whatever we do.”
“Ed’s rather hard to take most of the time but that doesn’t diminish the contribution you can make.”
“With my Maori connections.”
“Mary, I’d sooner not ask for your help if you think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“What is it you want me to do exactly?”
He outlined his strategy. Then, after she left his office, he paused for a moment to reflect on the board meeting. Chillingly, it occurred to him that if the Mathews project failed his reputation would be irreparably damaged. That bastard Somerville would make sure of it.
He began to worry that his job, and even his career, might be in jeopardy. It was not a good feeling.
March 19, 2013
Rebutting Bigotry
Featuring a letter to the editor about papal tradition (The Dominion Post 19 March 2013) was topical, I’ll give the editor that. However, the correspondent (Marg Conal) was simply, in my opinion, attacking the Catholic Church in a bigoted way.
She asserted that the new pope “will continue the traditions of his church that keep millions poor and powerless”. The tradition I am familiar with in my lifetime is one of the Church fighting for social justice, not repression. The Catholic Church gives aid to the poor through Caritas, encouraging those who are better off to contribute.
Conal also asserts in her letter that the Catholic Church is intolerant in matters of reproduction and sexuality. Perhaps she is being intolerant about the human right to religious beliefs.
Conal further asserted, as if there is some deliberate plan by the Catholic Church, that a disproportionate number of men who are paedophiles will continue to make it through the selection process and become priests. No selection process in any occupation (e.g. teachers) can totally rule out such a risk. To imply some current collusion between the Church and paedophiles is unfounded mischief.
She asserted that the new pope “will continue the traditions of his church that keep millions poor and powerless”. The tradition I am familiar with in my lifetime is one of the Church fighting for social justice, not repression. The Catholic Church gives aid to the poor through Caritas, encouraging those who are better off to contribute.
Conal also asserts in her letter that the Catholic Church is intolerant in matters of reproduction and sexuality. Perhaps she is being intolerant about the human right to religious beliefs.
Conal further asserted, as if there is some deliberate plan by the Catholic Church, that a disproportionate number of men who are paedophiles will continue to make it through the selection process and become priests. No selection process in any occupation (e.g. teachers) can totally rule out such a risk. To imply some current collusion between the Church and paedophiles is unfounded mischief.
March 12, 2013
Sharing part of a novel prologue
This week I just wanted to share part of the 3-part prologue to my soon to be released 6th novel - "Green Expectations". Here goes:
Vanessa Denton entered the bush on a trail widened over time by many footsteps. Trees and undergrowth closed around her and sunshine turned to shade below the canopy of greenery above her head. The air was warm and she was soon perspiring.
As she headed uphill, feeling at one with Gaia, she experienced a deep kinship with the living things around her. She suddenly wanted to throw off her clothing – the trappings of civilization – and move along the trail like Eve in Eden, but she laughed off the idea.
She could have identified any tree by its species; instead, her gaze darted from trunk to trunk, taking notice of their aesthetic differences in size and texture and colour. On impulse, attracted by a particular mottled bole, she stepped off the trail, wrapped her arms round it and pressed her body against the almost smooth bark. After a few moments of stillness she believed she could feel the tree’s vitality soaking into her and, in gratitude and sharing, willed a return flow from her own essence.
Aware of being away from the rush of the city and alone in a wild place, she let a peaceful languor spread over her body.
She savoured the sensation for a few moments then moved on to another trunk and embraced it with the same emotion as the first. Looking up into the branches, she urged the young tree to stay healthy and grow into a giant like others around it.
Resuming her walk, the trail still climbing, she continued deeper into the forest, encountering no one. It was midweek and most visitors, like her friends and acquaintances in SOFA, came at the weekends.
A fantail darted across her path and, delighted, she paused to watch it. The tiny bird flitted swiftly from perch to perch in the undergrowth near her, blending into the background briefly as it flew and then reappearing when it settled, but only for a few seconds. It seemed to be inspecting her from different angles as if trying to figure out what she was and what her intentions were.
She watched for the fantail to reappear but it had flown away. Perhaps the bird was satisfied that she, the interloper, intended no harm to its forest home.
She started walking again but her idea returned of going up the trail like a naturist. Knowing it would be unconventional, taboo really, gave her a thrill. So why not use the opportunity to thumb her nose at convention?
She halted on the trail and let her breathing slow. The risk of being seen by another person was slight, she told herself and, anyhow, if she heard someone coming – like a hunter for example – she could quickly hide in the bushes.
But what if she got no warning? She’d want to disappear into the ground with embarrassment if a stranger came across her walking naked up the trail.
Was it worth it? Her heart-in-mouth excitement said it was.
She undressed spontaneously, before she could talk herself out of it, and only her last two items of clothing – shields for her modesty – were hard to shed.
She folded the clothes and stuffed them in her daypack. Unencumbered by garments, feeling a sense of liberation, she resumed her climb, her tanned limbs moving freely.
There were butterflies in her stomach, and her heart was beating faster than simple exertion required, but Gaia would be approving of her deep communion with nature.
Later in the day, dressed and returning the way she had come, Vanessa emerged from the forest edge and approached the waterway that she would have to cross to get back to her car. Upstream, the unnatural colour and shape of a man-made object caught her eye. Lying partly submerged, out of harmony with its surroundings, was a red quad bike tipped on its side.
She assumed someone from the farm had had a misadventure and had gone to get help with righting the bike.
The stream was flowing high and the large stepping stones in front of her were under water, visible but treacherous. She exercised caution, a balancing act, and made it across to the opposite bank.
Now she only had to climb a gorse-clad slope to reach the pastureland on the other side of the ridge. She had no premonition of what she would see when she neared the top nor, as a result of what unfolded, of how values she held as dear as life itself were going to be threatened.
Note: "bush" means "native forest" in the NZ vernacular
Vanessa Denton entered the bush on a trail widened over time by many footsteps. Trees and undergrowth closed around her and sunshine turned to shade below the canopy of greenery above her head. The air was warm and she was soon perspiring.
As she headed uphill, feeling at one with Gaia, she experienced a deep kinship with the living things around her. She suddenly wanted to throw off her clothing – the trappings of civilization – and move along the trail like Eve in Eden, but she laughed off the idea.
She could have identified any tree by its species; instead, her gaze darted from trunk to trunk, taking notice of their aesthetic differences in size and texture and colour. On impulse, attracted by a particular mottled bole, she stepped off the trail, wrapped her arms round it and pressed her body against the almost smooth bark. After a few moments of stillness she believed she could feel the tree’s vitality soaking into her and, in gratitude and sharing, willed a return flow from her own essence.
Aware of being away from the rush of the city and alone in a wild place, she let a peaceful languor spread over her body.
She savoured the sensation for a few moments then moved on to another trunk and embraced it with the same emotion as the first. Looking up into the branches, she urged the young tree to stay healthy and grow into a giant like others around it.
Resuming her walk, the trail still climbing, she continued deeper into the forest, encountering no one. It was midweek and most visitors, like her friends and acquaintances in SOFA, came at the weekends.
A fantail darted across her path and, delighted, she paused to watch it. The tiny bird flitted swiftly from perch to perch in the undergrowth near her, blending into the background briefly as it flew and then reappearing when it settled, but only for a few seconds. It seemed to be inspecting her from different angles as if trying to figure out what she was and what her intentions were.
She watched for the fantail to reappear but it had flown away. Perhaps the bird was satisfied that she, the interloper, intended no harm to its forest home.
She started walking again but her idea returned of going up the trail like a naturist. Knowing it would be unconventional, taboo really, gave her a thrill. So why not use the opportunity to thumb her nose at convention?
She halted on the trail and let her breathing slow. The risk of being seen by another person was slight, she told herself and, anyhow, if she heard someone coming – like a hunter for example – she could quickly hide in the bushes.
But what if she got no warning? She’d want to disappear into the ground with embarrassment if a stranger came across her walking naked up the trail.
Was it worth it? Her heart-in-mouth excitement said it was.
She undressed spontaneously, before she could talk herself out of it, and only her last two items of clothing – shields for her modesty – were hard to shed.
She folded the clothes and stuffed them in her daypack. Unencumbered by garments, feeling a sense of liberation, she resumed her climb, her tanned limbs moving freely.
There were butterflies in her stomach, and her heart was beating faster than simple exertion required, but Gaia would be approving of her deep communion with nature.
Later in the day, dressed and returning the way she had come, Vanessa emerged from the forest edge and approached the waterway that she would have to cross to get back to her car. Upstream, the unnatural colour and shape of a man-made object caught her eye. Lying partly submerged, out of harmony with its surroundings, was a red quad bike tipped on its side.
She assumed someone from the farm had had a misadventure and had gone to get help with righting the bike.
The stream was flowing high and the large stepping stones in front of her were under water, visible but treacherous. She exercised caution, a balancing act, and made it across to the opposite bank.
Now she only had to climb a gorse-clad slope to reach the pastureland on the other side of the ridge. She had no premonition of what she would see when she neared the top nor, as a result of what unfolded, of how values she held as dear as life itself were going to be threatened.
Note: "bush" means "native forest" in the NZ vernacular
March 5, 2013
Of An Author Remembered
Those of you who have visited my website (www.thomaswdevine.com ) will know that I was influenced at the end of the 1950s by the Beatnik subculture. I was therefore delighted to come across an article by Ben Stanley (Sunday Star Times 24.02.13) about his visit to Jack Kerouac’s grave in Edson Cemetery, Lowell (near Boston) USA.
Ben says that discovering and reading Kerouac’s book “On the Road” had “a resonance that seemed to be as true [then] as it must have been in 1947” when it was written.
It influenced his life and perhaps more profoundly than mine. He was 21 when he read it and dropped out of university. I became spellbound by Kerouac’s literary works when I was a teenager but certainly never contemplated dropping out of high school for a more adventurous life. The most adventurous I’ve ever become is in writing thrillers.
Ben found a young Danish couple at Kerouac’s gravesite. Ben records the immortal words of the male thus: “Isn’t it awesome. It’s Jack, man. Shit!” His partner seemed more interested in her cellphone.
Now for a writer, after being dead for 40 years or so, that’s near immortal fame.
I have a modest collection of fiction, some bought new and some second-hand, but I seem to have parted company with my copies of Kerouac’s works somewhere along the way. It’s hard to believe now that he was born 22 years before I was. He felt like a contemporary back then.
Perhaps it’s lucky I never pursued a more adventurous life. Kerouac died at 47, a “fat alcoholic washout”, Ben says. Sad.
Ben says that discovering and reading Kerouac’s book “On the Road” had “a resonance that seemed to be as true [then] as it must have been in 1947” when it was written.
It influenced his life and perhaps more profoundly than mine. He was 21 when he read it and dropped out of university. I became spellbound by Kerouac’s literary works when I was a teenager but certainly never contemplated dropping out of high school for a more adventurous life. The most adventurous I’ve ever become is in writing thrillers.
Ben found a young Danish couple at Kerouac’s gravesite. Ben records the immortal words of the male thus: “Isn’t it awesome. It’s Jack, man. Shit!” His partner seemed more interested in her cellphone.
Now for a writer, after being dead for 40 years or so, that’s near immortal fame.
I have a modest collection of fiction, some bought new and some second-hand, but I seem to have parted company with my copies of Kerouac’s works somewhere along the way. It’s hard to believe now that he was born 22 years before I was. He felt like a contemporary back then.
Perhaps it’s lucky I never pursued a more adventurous life. Kerouac died at 47, a “fat alcoholic washout”, Ben says. Sad.
February 26, 2013
The Job Situation
Cartoonist, Tom Scott, turned his clever pen (The Dominion Post 26.2.13) to the spate of recent job redundancies in New Zealand, with the Prime Minister seeming to turn a blind eye to them when questioned by the media.
The Prime Minister keeps talking blithely about new jobs being created all the time and not getting the same publicity as doom and gloom does.
The PM skates over the thin ice of those new jobs not necessarily being in the same location as the redundant workers are living or the new jobs not fitting their existing skills.
Somewhere, I’m sure I read an idea by former NZ Greens MP, Sue Kedgeley, that employers should have to keep paying redundant workers until they get another job. That’ll never happen but it’s real lateral thinking on the job redundancy problem.
The Prime Minister keeps talking blithely about new jobs being created all the time and not getting the same publicity as doom and gloom does.
The PM skates over the thin ice of those new jobs not necessarily being in the same location as the redundant workers are living or the new jobs not fitting their existing skills.
Somewhere, I’m sure I read an idea by former NZ Greens MP, Sue Kedgeley, that employers should have to keep paying redundant workers until they get another job. That’ll never happen but it’s real lateral thinking on the job redundancy problem.
February 21, 2013
The Challenge of Getting Published
I felt immediate empathy with Julia Du Fresne who (NZ Catholic Feb.24 2013) talks about her novel “The Age for Love” having “the distinction of being rejected by every New Zealand publisher [she] could think of and several overseas...”
I think that puts her on a par with most other New Zealand novelists, rather than being distinctive, but I applaud her decision of “going indie” and wish her all the best, including greater success in social media than my beginner’s marketing skills have achieved for me.
I’ll read her blog www.juliadufresne.blogspot.co.nz and keep in touch with her progress.
I think that puts her on a par with most other New Zealand novelists, rather than being distinctive, but I applaud her decision of “going indie” and wish her all the best, including greater success in social media than my beginner’s marketing skills have achieved for me.
I’ll read her blog www.juliadufresne.blogspot.co.nz and keep in touch with her progress.
February 13, 2013
Random Thoughts Again
My sixth novel:
I’m still working hard on self-edits of "Green Expectations" and finding ways to deal with those niggling little bits that don’t sound quite right or might not be clear enough to the reader.
A pre-release reviewer (without payment) has said of the manuscript: “A great tale that will appeal to environmentalists and the mystery-thriller aficionado. Devine uses his knowledge of environmental management to weave a story exposing the strength of passions on both side of the ‘green’ argument.”
Stress:
When your life is full of stress anything new (illness, for example) almost tips you over the edge of feeling you can’t cope anymore. I’ve been sick but I’m recovering.
Same-sex marriage:
A law change allowing same-sex marriage is going through the Parliamentary process in New Zealand. I made a submission but the Parliamentary Select Committee did not choose me as one of the submitters who would be given the chance to speak to them on the subject. Briar Cornwall got that opportunity (NZ Catholic February 10, 2013), submitting that marriage between a man and a woman is a taonga (treasure) for Maori and deserving of protection under the Treaty of Waitangi. Good on her.
I’m still working hard on self-edits of "Green Expectations" and finding ways to deal with those niggling little bits that don’t sound quite right or might not be clear enough to the reader.
A pre-release reviewer (without payment) has said of the manuscript: “A great tale that will appeal to environmentalists and the mystery-thriller aficionado. Devine uses his knowledge of environmental management to weave a story exposing the strength of passions on both side of the ‘green’ argument.”
Stress:
When your life is full of stress anything new (illness, for example) almost tips you over the edge of feeling you can’t cope anymore. I’ve been sick but I’m recovering.
Same-sex marriage:
A law change allowing same-sex marriage is going through the Parliamentary process in New Zealand. I made a submission but the Parliamentary Select Committee did not choose me as one of the submitters who would be given the chance to speak to them on the subject. Briar Cornwall got that opportunity (NZ Catholic February 10, 2013), submitting that marriage between a man and a woman is a taonga (treasure) for Maori and deserving of protection under the Treaty of Waitangi. Good on her.
January 23, 2013
Sixth Novel
Among other things going on in my life I am hoarding time to spend on my sixth novel. It should be out early this year. The text is complete and the cover is being designed. I’m just doing some final self-editing run-throughs.
I completed the original manuscript in the late 1990s and that’s the period the story is set in.
The manuscript has received a lot of work since then – two literary assessments, re-writes, professional editing and numerous self-editing efforts, and has been exposed to selected readers.
Though not autobiographical in any way, the story is set in New Zealand and is drawn from my previous career in conservation management. I’ve titled the book “Green Expectations”. Dramatising has been the big challenge.
My literary assessor was of the opinion that the story is “ambitious and large in scope”.
It’s not quite a thriller or suspense novel, although it has elements of those genres. My editor says it has: “plenty for everyone – action, romance, and a plot that touches on deeper issues”.
I hope my readers will enjoy it when it goes on sale.
I completed the original manuscript in the late 1990s and that’s the period the story is set in.
The manuscript has received a lot of work since then – two literary assessments, re-writes, professional editing and numerous self-editing efforts, and has been exposed to selected readers.
Though not autobiographical in any way, the story is set in New Zealand and is drawn from my previous career in conservation management. I’ve titled the book “Green Expectations”. Dramatising has been the big challenge.
My literary assessor was of the opinion that the story is “ambitious and large in scope”.
It’s not quite a thriller or suspense novel, although it has elements of those genres. My editor says it has: “plenty for everyone – action, romance, and a plot that touches on deeper issues”.
I hope my readers will enjoy it when it goes on sale.
January 16, 2013
The Devil’s Sway
I’ve had the opportunity to read a couple of editions of the magazine Tomorrows World, put out by the Living Church of God and printed in the USA.
I don’t know anything about the organization but, judging from the magazine, it’s editor in chief seems rather possessed by the idea of End Times.
In the September-October 2012 edition, on the basis of Revelation 14.8, he writes that “...human attempts to save this world are doomed to failure because they are under Satan’s sway and are part of his system...”
Now that’s a very depressing thought and does not encourage practice of all the good values of Christianity.
I don’t know anything about the organization but, judging from the magazine, it’s editor in chief seems rather possessed by the idea of End Times.
In the September-October 2012 edition, on the basis of Revelation 14.8, he writes that “...human attempts to save this world are doomed to failure because they are under Satan’s sway and are part of his system...”
Now that’s a very depressing thought and does not encourage practice of all the good values of Christianity.
