G.S. Johnston's Blog, page 4
March 17, 2012
Within the limits of history
March 4, 2012
Leda and the Mind
February 4, 2012
The Baz Gatsby
January 20, 2012
Should you teach a Rainbow Lorikeet to fly?
December 30, 2011
On Starting a New Novel
December 24, 2011
Returning to Hejira
November 7, 2011
A Gift of Time
Of course I'd seen it before but never really thought about it. A fob watch, not much bigger than a penny, worn by my grandfather while he fought in WWI thrown in a box of medals. It's impossible now, with the remaining minds around me curetted with age, to tear fact from fiction. All there really is, is the fob watch.
The casing metal is long dulled, a greenish tinge, nothing else gives away the type of metal. It's not gold, not silver, not even plated. The clasp post, where presumably it was chained to the wearer, is torn apart, the metal severed at the transecting hole, the post twisted.
There looks to be two hinges, lines against the circle below the six o'clock point. The face would have been glassed. The hollow frame pops open and shut. Why the rear would need to open on a hinge, revealing the workings, I don't know.
The remaining face is white, crazed, with tall, thin Roman numerals. The hands are long gone, one for the hour, one for the minute, a smaller circle, at the sixth position, scribed out the sixty seconds. The numbers between eleven and three thirty are blown away. Below the face is copper, the watch's bedrock, oxidised dull but a smooth sea of tranquillity. There's no mark upon the watch but I suspect it's good British engineering, perhaps made by the skilled Jewish smiths of his home, Manchester.
What a pity the hands are not there so I'd know the time of the day it was hit.
Nearly a hundred years ago, he wore it in his heart pocket. A bullet struck the watch instead of his heart, part shattered the face, veered off, sprays of shrapnel missing jugulars and flesh, eyes and chest. The heat of the bullet melted the copper coloured bedrock which set smooth. What luck. He was meant to continue. My mother was born and so was I. And all that followed and ends was meant to be, to the end of the line. Some sixty years later he died of a heart attack. His heart ceased. But not this day, not from this stray bullet. Thanks to this watch that stopped and started time.
October 25, 2011
Walking the Dog – an occasional blog about people we meet out walking.
One afternoon, Miss Mia shot off across the oval. I was on the phone to an expensive solicitor and attempted a vexed whisper to call her back but short of blasting the solicitor and no doubt paying for it I let her go. She was heading towards another black and white dog, working the ball on the far side of the oval. He was breathtaking, much taller than Miss Mia and taking these vast strides that seem propelled by springs in all four of his paws. His long haired coat undulated with him. While he was off fetching the ball, Miss Mia flirted around the dog's owner's feet.
Fortunately Rosalin liked Miss Mia but when Lachie returned with the ball he dropped it and then moved to a bit of a distance. He's a two year old, Border Collie. His very tall and quite passive but highly focused on the ball.
Lachie in the background – Miss Mia in the foreground
Miss Mia is a very mild dog, more than happy for other dogs to watch her do her thing with the ball but get between her and that ball and she spits like Alexis on Dynasty. Lachie and Mia started doing ball work in opposite directions, giving each other space.
Rosalin worked as a violinist in the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra after having returned to Hobart from Glasgow where she'd played for 20 years with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. But with the change of hemispheres she had a change of career and now works orchestrating the sale of real estate. She has a constant throaty laugh.
Apart from the black and white dogs, we found many things in common – we're both vegetarian, both played music, both had been away from Hobart for years. And she sold houses and I had one to sell. Well chosen, Miss Mia.
October 18, 2011
Rebecca and me and POV
Starting an idea for a novel precipitates the same issue; Point Of View. What emerging character has the best POV to tell the story from? It's a hard question. In the early planning, characters haven't even become fixed. All I have is a dramatic idea. So as I walk the dog and throw her ball, I pitch the fragments of characters and story high into the air and consider each one.
The major consideration is – which character can be a detective? Not that the novel's a mystery, but in a great sense in all novels, the POV needs to be from the character who's finding things out. So, who finds out the most in the story? Conversely, who has the most to reveal? Maybe the character with the most to reveal should NOT be the POV.
And then there's the consideration of multiple POVs, changing from character to character with the ease of a juggler. This is all too much to think of at this point.
Another questioning ball in the air is who is the target audience for the book and which character will they identify with the most? If I can make the target audience the main POV character, then the target audience will live the adventure.
To help solve this problem I'm always drawn back to some favourite movies to watch how they play out POV. One of these is Hitchcock's Rebecca. The POV of the movie is faithful to the book, from the perspective of the nervy ingénue, the new Mrs Dewinter. She's the detective as she seeks out and uncovers the hidden facts of Rebecca.
But imagine if the story had been told from Mrs Danver's POV – what a completely different story it would be. Imagine how delicious it would be to hear all her inner-thinking and machinations and the vile things she would have thought of the new Mrs Dewinter? And what she really thought of Rebecca. She's great fun and I'd love her to come and work for us! She'd give us a run for our money.
So, I still haven't made up my mind. I have four characters, a man, a woman, another man and a child. The only one I can say the POV is NOT is the woman. She holds the secrets. But maybe she could take Mrs Danvers POV… Lots more dog walking and pitching.
October 14, 2011
Who is in Kindred, Tasmania?
A few month ago I was a social media virgin, but now I've been touched for the very first time. The hits to my CONSUMPTION: A Novel website have given me wings to fly all over the planet to locate these exotic locales. Places such as Mansfield, Massachusetts, USA – Bagenalstown, Carlow, Ireland – Amsterdam, Noord-Holland – Central District, Hong Kong, China and places in Cyprus, Italy, Russia and Ukraine. Certain places recur again and again. Tucson, Arizona comes up daily – West Des Moines, Iowa also.
But there's one that amazes me more than all the others – Kindred, Tasmania. Kindred is a small place in the north of Tasmania, Latitude. -41.25°, Longitude. 146.2333333° I did a quick twirl on the web and can't find the population. But Google maps reveals it as a small crossroad, nestled in a grained patchwork of paddocks, part of a series of small English-like hamlets that pepper the north west of Tasmania. I've never been there.
Maybe it's someone with a wireless connection. A friend has one and she comes up as Melbourne, Australia when I know she's in Orford Tasmania. So maybe Kindred is some station in a relay for a wireless device and the person is actually a long way from here, maybe in the lakes district.
But still my intrigue is piqued. Who is in Kindred, Tasmania? – I hope you like my writing – many greetings to you
