George Hamilton's Blog, page 6
January 3, 2012
Review of Pearl S. Buck's The Good Earth 4/5*
I love novels that help me to experience a new culture, and the Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck took me on a thoroughly entertaining journey through early 20th-c China. We follow the lives of the hardworking but poor farmer Wang Lung, who marries the plain and thrifty slave O-Lan. Together, they set out on an adventure to improve their lives. But if they succeed, will they inevitably change from simple, industrious farmers to ape the idle lifestyles of the country's Ladies and Lords? This is the ...
December 30, 2011
Author’s research: Secrets From The Dust – The denial of food and visits by Inspectors of Homes
In the second of a series of posts about how the research for Secrets From The Dust relates to certain scenes in the novel, I look at the denial of food and the scene which follows depicts how this was hidden from the Inspectors of Homes.
Research notes:
• It’s a wonder we all survived with the food we got. For breakfast we got a bit of porridge with saccharine in it and a cup of tea. The porridge was always dry as a bone. Lunch was a plate of soup made out of bones, sheeps’ heads and things like that, no vegetables. For dinner we had a slice of bread with jam and a cup of tea. After our dinner we were locked up in a dormitory for the night.
• Porridge with no sugar for breakfast. Not enough food, and some girls steal it off your plate.
• Sometimes go to nearest house and ask for something to eat.
• Dry bread, water and isolation as punishment for running away.
• There was three components of the punishment that you got. You could even be left without any food. Go without your meal. Stand in the middle of the dining room there while everybody else finished. Many times I stood there. Humiliation, because when you got your head shaved we were not allowed to put a beret or anything on our heads. Not allowed.
• There’s where food was scarce again. Hardly anything … night time we used to cry with hunger, y’know, lice, no food. And we used to go out there to the town dump… we had to come and scrounge at the dump, y’know, eating old bread and smashing tomato sauce bottles and licking them. Half of the time our food we got from the rubbish dump. Always hungry there.
• Started to think about the easiest way to have an accident to end it all.
• When the Protection Board Inspectors visited the homes, some girls would speak up: “We don’t get enough food,” but most wouldn’t. The men would say it couldn’t be true, because the food bill for the Home was enormous.
Scene:
The Inspectors from the Aboriginal Protection Board were supposed to visit and inspect the homes every few months, but they rarely did. Radley hadn’t been visited in more than a year. Mr Simmonds was a short, balding man with a pleasant round face who with nervous frequency removed and wiped his steel rimmed glasses. Like Matron Blythe, he was fond of taking copious amounts of notes in a diary he carried for the purpose. Matron Blythe led him around the vegetable garden and he was impressed at the variety of vegetables the girls had to eat, and expressed his wish that other homes were run to the same high standards. They wound their way through the orchard and past the chicken house, and Matron Blythe told him how they were buying in eggs now because for more than two months their hens hadn’t laid properly. Mr Simmonds kept chickens himself, and told her about a remedy for worms that might get them laying again, and she accepted his suggestion because it pleased him, not telling him that Mr Ralph had tried that but it hadn’t worked. Mr Simmonds insisted on seeing everything. He ran his hand along window ledges as they climbed the stairs, noting in his book that they were immaculately clean. Then they walked through the dormitory where he tested the firmness of the beds, and he took one of the girls’ frocks from a cupboard and examined it for cleanliness and any tears. But Matron Blythe had been nothing but thorough herself, and all was in order.
Last of all Mr Simmonds was shown to the dinning hall where the girls stood assembled like a choir. As she walked through the door Matron Blythe stopped and introduced him, “Girls, this is Mr Simmonds, the inspector from the protection board.”
“Goodday, Mr Simmonds,” they sang out in chorus.
“G-day, girls,” he replied. He took off his glasses and cleaned them again, as if to confirm what he was seeing. All four of the long dinning tables were overflowing with a sumptuous fare. A small pig sat at the centre of one table, and then all the tables had whole roasted chickens, a leg of lamb, potatoes, carrots and peas, fruits from the orchards, freshly baked bread, butter that had been churned that morning, pies and cakes and clotted cream. He licked the aroma from his lips. “I don’t want to keep you from this marvellous lunch, girls, so I will be brief.”
“We hope you will join us for lunch, Mr Simmonds,” Matron Blythe said.
He looked at his watch, “I wish I could, Matron, but I have another visit to make today.”
“Then you must make Matron Cook pack you some lunch.” She raised her hand in command and Matron Cook set about it.
“That would be most welcome, thank you,” he said, moistening his lips again.
He walked towards the girls assembled in a line away from the tables, Matron Blythe now making him lead. He stopped at the beginning of the line to ask the girls how they were doing? Did they enjoy the home? Were the Matrons good to them? He didn’t ask if they received enough to eat, as going by the fare on display that was patently obvious.
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” came a consensus of replies. The girls all knew what to say if they expected to partake of the feast, and he noted their answers in his book.
Margaret stood towards the end of the line. She wiggled her toes, clasped her jittery hands behind her back, and hoped the smiling man would walk past her, before she could ambush him with the truth, which was unfurling in her aching belly, to rob the others of the only good day that they would have for the next six months at least, until the next inspection. The inspector walked past her, to the next girl, and the other girls breathed a collective sigh of relief, like nervous game that had avoided being snared on their way to some succulent grazing, because they could now allow themselves to taste the aroma, it wouldn’t be long now.
“Margaret, you were asked a question,” Matron Blythe said, causing her to jump out of her wilful reverie.
“Do you get enough to eat?” Mr Simmonds directed his question to her again, from his position in front of the girl next to her. Even though he was satisfied by the evidence he had seen, it was on his list of questions and he wanted to put a tick next to a girl’s answer.
“No, Sir, we don’t.” The answer escaped before she had time to trap and strangle it.
“But look at all this,” Mr Simmonds gestured to the food on the tables.
“The worms out back eat better than us, Sir. All this fancy stuff is just for show.”
“Margaret has a problem with telling the truth, Mr Simmonds, don’t you, Margaret—? I said don’t you, Margaret?” Matron Blythe repeated.
Margaret bowed her head as if bearing shame, “Yes, Matron Blythe.”
Mr Simmonds ticked yes for the answer and finished his questioning. He collected his packed lunch, thanked Matron Blythe for showing him around her remarkable facility and swaggered away.
Matron Blythe waited until Mr Simmonds’ car had sped through the gates. Then she instructed all the girls to leave the dinning hall except Margaret. If one failed they all failed. There would be no sumptuous lunch. She ordered Margaret to pack the food away to be taken to town for sale. “I will deal with you personally tomorrow,” she promised. It probably meant more chicken shit spread on her tongue again, Margaret thought. She would wipe it off like the last time and eat a stolen carrot to get rid of the taste. But she knew the other girls would want their revenge.
Research notes:
• It’s a wonder we all survived with the food we got. For breakfast we got a bit of porridge with saccharine in it and a cup of tea. The porridge was always dry as a bone. Lunch was a plate of soup made out of bones, sheeps’ heads and things like that, no vegetables. For dinner we had a slice of bread with jam and a cup of tea. After our dinner we were locked up in a dormitory for the night.
• Porridge with no sugar for breakfast. Not enough food, and some girls steal it off your plate.
• Sometimes go to nearest house and ask for something to eat.
• Dry bread, water and isolation as punishment for running away.
• There was three components of the punishment that you got. You could even be left without any food. Go without your meal. Stand in the middle of the dining room there while everybody else finished. Many times I stood there. Humiliation, because when you got your head shaved we were not allowed to put a beret or anything on our heads. Not allowed.
• There’s where food was scarce again. Hardly anything … night time we used to cry with hunger, y’know, lice, no food. And we used to go out there to the town dump… we had to come and scrounge at the dump, y’know, eating old bread and smashing tomato sauce bottles and licking them. Half of the time our food we got from the rubbish dump. Always hungry there.
• Started to think about the easiest way to have an accident to end it all.
• When the Protection Board Inspectors visited the homes, some girls would speak up: “We don’t get enough food,” but most wouldn’t. The men would say it couldn’t be true, because the food bill for the Home was enormous.
Scene:
The Inspectors from the Aboriginal Protection Board were supposed to visit and inspect the homes every few months, but they rarely did. Radley hadn’t been visited in more than a year. Mr Simmonds was a short, balding man with a pleasant round face who with nervous frequency removed and wiped his steel rimmed glasses. Like Matron Blythe, he was fond of taking copious amounts of notes in a diary he carried for the purpose. Matron Blythe led him around the vegetable garden and he was impressed at the variety of vegetables the girls had to eat, and expressed his wish that other homes were run to the same high standards. They wound their way through the orchard and past the chicken house, and Matron Blythe told him how they were buying in eggs now because for more than two months their hens hadn’t laid properly. Mr Simmonds kept chickens himself, and told her about a remedy for worms that might get them laying again, and she accepted his suggestion because it pleased him, not telling him that Mr Ralph had tried that but it hadn’t worked. Mr Simmonds insisted on seeing everything. He ran his hand along window ledges as they climbed the stairs, noting in his book that they were immaculately clean. Then they walked through the dormitory where he tested the firmness of the beds, and he took one of the girls’ frocks from a cupboard and examined it for cleanliness and any tears. But Matron Blythe had been nothing but thorough herself, and all was in order.
Last of all Mr Simmonds was shown to the dinning hall where the girls stood assembled like a choir. As she walked through the door Matron Blythe stopped and introduced him, “Girls, this is Mr Simmonds, the inspector from the protection board.”
“Goodday, Mr Simmonds,” they sang out in chorus.
“G-day, girls,” he replied. He took off his glasses and cleaned them again, as if to confirm what he was seeing. All four of the long dinning tables were overflowing with a sumptuous fare. A small pig sat at the centre of one table, and then all the tables had whole roasted chickens, a leg of lamb, potatoes, carrots and peas, fruits from the orchards, freshly baked bread, butter that had been churned that morning, pies and cakes and clotted cream. He licked the aroma from his lips. “I don’t want to keep you from this marvellous lunch, girls, so I will be brief.”
“We hope you will join us for lunch, Mr Simmonds,” Matron Blythe said.
He looked at his watch, “I wish I could, Matron, but I have another visit to make today.”
“Then you must make Matron Cook pack you some lunch.” She raised her hand in command and Matron Cook set about it.
“That would be most welcome, thank you,” he said, moistening his lips again.
He walked towards the girls assembled in a line away from the tables, Matron Blythe now making him lead. He stopped at the beginning of the line to ask the girls how they were doing? Did they enjoy the home? Were the Matrons good to them? He didn’t ask if they received enough to eat, as going by the fare on display that was patently obvious.
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” came a consensus of replies. The girls all knew what to say if they expected to partake of the feast, and he noted their answers in his book.
Margaret stood towards the end of the line. She wiggled her toes, clasped her jittery hands behind her back, and hoped the smiling man would walk past her, before she could ambush him with the truth, which was unfurling in her aching belly, to rob the others of the only good day that they would have for the next six months at least, until the next inspection. The inspector walked past her, to the next girl, and the other girls breathed a collective sigh of relief, like nervous game that had avoided being snared on their way to some succulent grazing, because they could now allow themselves to taste the aroma, it wouldn’t be long now.
“Margaret, you were asked a question,” Matron Blythe said, causing her to jump out of her wilful reverie.
“Do you get enough to eat?” Mr Simmonds directed his question to her again, from his position in front of the girl next to her. Even though he was satisfied by the evidence he had seen, it was on his list of questions and he wanted to put a tick next to a girl’s answer.
“No, Sir, we don’t.” The answer escaped before she had time to trap and strangle it.
“But look at all this,” Mr Simmonds gestured to the food on the tables.
“The worms out back eat better than us, Sir. All this fancy stuff is just for show.”
“Margaret has a problem with telling the truth, Mr Simmonds, don’t you, Margaret—? I said don’t you, Margaret?” Matron Blythe repeated.
Margaret bowed her head as if bearing shame, “Yes, Matron Blythe.”
Mr Simmonds ticked yes for the answer and finished his questioning. He collected his packed lunch, thanked Matron Blythe for showing him around her remarkable facility and swaggered away.
Matron Blythe waited until Mr Simmonds’ car had sped through the gates. Then she instructed all the girls to leave the dinning hall except Margaret. If one failed they all failed. There would be no sumptuous lunch. She ordered Margaret to pack the food away to be taken to town for sale. “I will deal with you personally tomorrow,” she promised. It probably meant more chicken shit spread on her tongue again, Margaret thought. She would wipe it off like the last time and eat a stolen carrot to get rid of the taste. But she knew the other girls would want their revenge.
December 17, 2011
Carnival of Hope - Free Kindle ebook Sunday 18th Dec 2011
Carnival of Hope – the thriller from Brazil by George Hamilton, has been enrolled into Amazon Kindle Select, and will be available for Free download at Amazon on Sunday 18 December 2011 from 8am GMT (Midnight PST) until 7:59am Monday 19 December GMT (23:59 Sunday 18 December 2011 PST). Go on, give it a try, I’m pretty sure you’re going to enjoy it. I’d also love to hear your thoughts in a short review afterwards. Thank you. Download at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
What reviewers are saying:
I found this book extremely compelling and intelligently written. I highly recommend this book to all readers who want to be immersed in a story that will take you on a journey that you would otherwise never have taken. Marilou George's full 5* review at Goodreads.
As with his previous book Secrets from the Dust, this wouldn't have been one I would have looked at twice, but I'm so glad I did. I was thinking of Tomas and Thereza long after finishing the book. Joo's full 5* review at Goodreads
What reviewers are saying:
I found this book extremely compelling and intelligently written. I highly recommend this book to all readers who want to be immersed in a story that will take you on a journey that you would otherwise never have taken. Marilou George's full 5* review at Goodreads.
As with his previous book Secrets from the Dust, this wouldn't have been one I would have looked at twice, but I'm so glad I did. I was thinking of Tomas and Thereza long after finishing the book. Joo's full 5* review at Goodreads
December 16, 2011
Author’s research notes: Carnival of Hope – the women’s rich sexual banter
Another feature of the research was how common sexual teasing and banter is in the favelas. Here are some examples which I unearthed, and then a scene to depict how this aspect was used in the novel:
Erotic language is so linked to eating that after sex one can say appreciatively, “Foi gostoso” or “Foi uma delicia!” – “It was tasty” or “It was delicious!”
Male organ described as a banana, cucumber, sausage or stick of sugar cane.
A woman may tease she doesn’t want to be fed with a stick of sugar...
Author's research notes: Carnival of Hope – the women's rich sexual banter
Another feature of the research was how common sexual teasing and banter is in the favelas. Here are some examples which I unearthed, and then a scene to depict how this aspect was used in the novel:
Erotic language is so linked to eating that after sex one can say appreciatively, "Foi gostoso" or "Foi uma delicia!" – "It was tasty" or "It was delicious!"Male organ described as a banana, cucumber, sausage or stick of sugar cane.A woman may tease she doesn't want to be fed with a stick of...December 14, 2011
Author’s research: Secrets From The Dust – The capture of the children
This is the first of a series of posts about how the research for Secrets From The Dust relates to certain scenes in the novel. Each will highlight some of the information learned at the research stage, followed by a scene from the novel, which depicts how some of the information was used. Much of the research comes from work carried out at The Koori Centre, University of Sydney. In this post, I look at how some of the Koori (Aboriginal) children were taken from their families, and the scene which follows is the one where Margaret, the main character in the novel, is captured.
• Fair skinned babies were kept close to their mothers side for fear of being spirited away.
• The cunnichman (policeman) from the main town sometimes visited the settlement. Children would hide; adults would see and hear nothing.
• Every morning our people would crush charcoal and mix that with animal fat and smother that all over us, so that when the police came they could only see black children in the distance (the government were only interested in removing the mixed-raced children). And if the Aboriginal group was taken unawares, they would stuff us into flour bags and pretend we weren’t there. We were told not to sneeze. We knew if we sneezed and they knew that we were in there bundled up, we’d be taken off and away from the area.
• Mr Hill demanded that we three girls leave immediately with the police. The Aboriginal women were very angry.
• Mother… rushed out when she heard the car start up. My last memory of her for many years was her waving pathetically, as we waved back and called out goodbye to her, but we were too far away for her to hear us.
• Boys taken away trained as stockmen and other farm workers, girls as domestic servants.
Scene:
The pang pang gooks all laughed as their several tiny fingers raced over the bushes, plucking at the wild riberries, which were fat with juice. The girl that they sometimes called Snake-woman-child darted in and out of the scrub with an athletic ease, eager to reach the biggest fruit ahead of the others, with whom she would share them afterwards anyway. They were eating more than they saved for the elders, who were dancing and singing up some spirit back at camp, and the luscious red juice ran down mouths, across cheeks and added to the days old stains that had already accumulated on their T-shirts and dresses.
A cloud of red dust billowed and raced towards the berry pickers, even though the sun was sitting high in the belly of its expansive sky and there was no hint of a breeze. They first noticed that the flock of chattering budgerigar, which had waited patiently on the wing for their chance at the scrub, had flown off, and when they stopped listening to their own rowdy voices, they heard the roar of the truck towards them, and turned to see it at the head of the dust cloud. The little ones ran off as the truck careered closer, remembering the warning of their parents. But the Snake-woman-child stood still, in a game of dare, as she knew the elders had mostly warned them about cunnichmen—who could do more than arrest drunks and thieves for breaking ‘white-man’s laws’—and what they had called ‘smart dressed types’, driving big black cars.
The truck stopped in front of her, and two fellas, farmer types, jumped out of either door. The men’s skins were only lightly touched by the sun, and when one of them lifted his acruba, his head was bald and his ears white, like the colour of a dead man’s bones. “G-day. You know where we can get some water love; our radiator is as dry as this here track?” He kicked at the ground, and the dust landed on his shiny new boots. He appeared to ignore her when she didn’t answer, then he lifted the bonnet of the truck and stuck his head inside.
The younger man, who had a few days growth on his chin, waggled a water bottle over his gaping mouth to indicate it was empty, but still she said nothing, and didn’t attempt to close the twelve feet between them. Her narrow nose and translucent blue eyes looking out from behind her rusted gum tree skin mesmerised him. He pulled himself away from her spell, went back inside the car and brought out some candy which he held at arm’s length whilst gingerly closing the gap between them. All of the remaining berry pickers took a few steps back, but Snake-woman-child stepped forward, holding out a handful of berries for the exchange. She could feel the eyes of fear from her kin heavily on her back, but knew her actions would be sung and danced up when the others tasted these new treats. They would sing that the Snake-woman-child truly had the spirit of her totem serpent, and she would hide any hint of individual pleasure and sing them up too, so that no one person could take the glory for all that had gone on that day, and no one person would be without recognition too, because that was the way it had always been.
The men spoke to each other in hushed tones, but the one with the candy kept his hunter’s eyes on her just the same. She remembered a few of the words she could hear, like slowly and pretty blue-eyed one, because it was less than two years since her mother had liberated her from the settlement school to go walkabout with their mob. This way she would be able to parent her in their mob’s ways, and she could be closer to where her husband might find work as a sheep shearer or cattleman, as he was always on the move.
“Grab the little mulatto bitch!” the bald headed man shouted when the one bearing gifts was within a foot of the exchange. It was then that she noticed the coarse sack hanging from his back, and he pulled it out and threw it in an arc, like a whip. It was over her head by the time she had turned and taken two lithe strides in the other direction. The other children scattered like frightened rabbits. The girl kicked, clawed and screamed more violently than a hare caught in a trap, but the two fellas were too strong. They tied a rope around the sack, and one of them carried the writhing bundle on his shoulder to the back of the truck. He threw her into its empty belly real hard, and she hit her head and passed out.
When the girl came to, it was dark, like the deep caves at Walara, and she sniffed the oily air in the truck through two holes in the sack. The vehicle lurched over uneven ground, and its inners rumbled more ferociously than angry thunder. The fear woke in her, and she pushed her arms against her bindings, but it made breathing the already stale, hot air burn her lungs. So she lay still and sang to herself, and each time the fear in her rose, she sang louder, so as to block out the screams that were leaping from her heart.
• Fair skinned babies were kept close to their mothers side for fear of being spirited away.
• The cunnichman (policeman) from the main town sometimes visited the settlement. Children would hide; adults would see and hear nothing.
• Every morning our people would crush charcoal and mix that with animal fat and smother that all over us, so that when the police came they could only see black children in the distance (the government were only interested in removing the mixed-raced children). And if the Aboriginal group was taken unawares, they would stuff us into flour bags and pretend we weren’t there. We were told not to sneeze. We knew if we sneezed and they knew that we were in there bundled up, we’d be taken off and away from the area.
• Mr Hill demanded that we three girls leave immediately with the police. The Aboriginal women were very angry.
• Mother… rushed out when she heard the car start up. My last memory of her for many years was her waving pathetically, as we waved back and called out goodbye to her, but we were too far away for her to hear us.
• Boys taken away trained as stockmen and other farm workers, girls as domestic servants.
Scene:
The pang pang gooks all laughed as their several tiny fingers raced over the bushes, plucking at the wild riberries, which were fat with juice. The girl that they sometimes called Snake-woman-child darted in and out of the scrub with an athletic ease, eager to reach the biggest fruit ahead of the others, with whom she would share them afterwards anyway. They were eating more than they saved for the elders, who were dancing and singing up some spirit back at camp, and the luscious red juice ran down mouths, across cheeks and added to the days old stains that had already accumulated on their T-shirts and dresses.
A cloud of red dust billowed and raced towards the berry pickers, even though the sun was sitting high in the belly of its expansive sky and there was no hint of a breeze. They first noticed that the flock of chattering budgerigar, which had waited patiently on the wing for their chance at the scrub, had flown off, and when they stopped listening to their own rowdy voices, they heard the roar of the truck towards them, and turned to see it at the head of the dust cloud. The little ones ran off as the truck careered closer, remembering the warning of their parents. But the Snake-woman-child stood still, in a game of dare, as she knew the elders had mostly warned them about cunnichmen—who could do more than arrest drunks and thieves for breaking ‘white-man’s laws’—and what they had called ‘smart dressed types’, driving big black cars.
The truck stopped in front of her, and two fellas, farmer types, jumped out of either door. The men’s skins were only lightly touched by the sun, and when one of them lifted his acruba, his head was bald and his ears white, like the colour of a dead man’s bones. “G-day. You know where we can get some water love; our radiator is as dry as this here track?” He kicked at the ground, and the dust landed on his shiny new boots. He appeared to ignore her when she didn’t answer, then he lifted the bonnet of the truck and stuck his head inside.
The younger man, who had a few days growth on his chin, waggled a water bottle over his gaping mouth to indicate it was empty, but still she said nothing, and didn’t attempt to close the twelve feet between them. Her narrow nose and translucent blue eyes looking out from behind her rusted gum tree skin mesmerised him. He pulled himself away from her spell, went back inside the car and brought out some candy which he held at arm’s length whilst gingerly closing the gap between them. All of the remaining berry pickers took a few steps back, but Snake-woman-child stepped forward, holding out a handful of berries for the exchange. She could feel the eyes of fear from her kin heavily on her back, but knew her actions would be sung and danced up when the others tasted these new treats. They would sing that the Snake-woman-child truly had the spirit of her totem serpent, and she would hide any hint of individual pleasure and sing them up too, so that no one person could take the glory for all that had gone on that day, and no one person would be without recognition too, because that was the way it had always been.
The men spoke to each other in hushed tones, but the one with the candy kept his hunter’s eyes on her just the same. She remembered a few of the words she could hear, like slowly and pretty blue-eyed one, because it was less than two years since her mother had liberated her from the settlement school to go walkabout with their mob. This way she would be able to parent her in their mob’s ways, and she could be closer to where her husband might find work as a sheep shearer or cattleman, as he was always on the move.
“Grab the little mulatto bitch!” the bald headed man shouted when the one bearing gifts was within a foot of the exchange. It was then that she noticed the coarse sack hanging from his back, and he pulled it out and threw it in an arc, like a whip. It was over her head by the time she had turned and taken two lithe strides in the other direction. The other children scattered like frightened rabbits. The girl kicked, clawed and screamed more violently than a hare caught in a trap, but the two fellas were too strong. They tied a rope around the sack, and one of them carried the writhing bundle on his shoulder to the back of the truck. He threw her into its empty belly real hard, and she hit her head and passed out.
When the girl came to, it was dark, like the deep caves at Walara, and she sniffed the oily air in the truck through two holes in the sack. The vehicle lurched over uneven ground, and its inners rumbled more ferociously than angry thunder. The fear woke in her, and she pushed her arms against her bindings, but it made breathing the already stale, hot air burn her lungs. So she lay still and sang to herself, and each time the fear in her rose, she sang louder, so as to block out the screams that were leaping from her heart.
December 9, 2011
Author’s research notes for Carnival of Hope – How was the north-eastern shantytown depicted in the novel created?
I read several modern day anthropological studies (1980’s) of places in the north-east of Brazil to come up with the fictitious shantytown where the story begins. Some of the descriptions of these places included:
• Smoky, fly-infested huts, hungry toddlers and goats competing for left-overs in tin plates on dirt floors…
• Women squatting by their twig or charcoal fires
• Women taking over a younger woman’s child who they think is in danger from neglect
• The hunger madness afflicting people when...
Author's research notes for Carnival of Hope – How was the north-eastern shantytown depicted in the novel created?
I read several modern day anthropological studies (1980's) of places in the north-east of Brazil to come up with the fictitious shantytown where the story begins. Some of the descriptions of these places included:
• Smoky, fly-infested huts, hungry toddlers and goats competing for left-overs in tin plates on dirt floors…
• Women squatting by their twig or charcoal fires
• Women taking over a younger woman's child who they think is in danger from neglect
• The hunger madness afflicting people...
December 3, 2011
A short passage of prose in response to the charge that writers are only marketing and not engaging with their readers
I saw a thread recently on a kindle forum about writers not interacting with their readers enough. I forget which one it was—I'll have to remember to bookmark them in future. But my writing alter ego couldn't help but conjure up a short scene to illustrate the indie author's problem.
Ann-Marie packed her bags this morning and stomped out of the house, dragging the children behind her, for the final time she said. I ran outside in my pyjamas and stood in front of the car, pleading with her to s...
November 16, 2011
Carnival of Hope – due for publication 20 November 2011
Today, Brazil is one of the fastest growing economies in the world. But in the 1990s, only a few years after the book burning military dictators returned to their barracks, the country experienced severe economic stagnation with hyperinflation running at six thousand eight hundred per cent a month at its height (yes, that is 6,800% a month, there's nothing wrong with your eyes).
The Northeast of the country, which had long been poorer than the industrialised South, was worst hit. As in the...
