L.E. Truscott's Blog, page 34

What I Meant To Say – Song Lyrics

I starting writing song lyrics after completing my Advanced Diploma of Professional Writing and Editing, reasoning that there was no money in poetry (which I studied for two years) and plenty of money in music. The only problem, of course, is that I can’t write music or sing. They’re probably too complex to be song lyrics and some of the pieces I have converted into poems but some don’t make the transition well.

Anyway, here’s a piece that I don’t feel too badly about all these years later.

What I Meant To Say

Verse One

Remember the man I loved at the start

Caught my eye but stood well apart

I let you stand closer than all before

Remember the name I called in the dark

The bench we slept on in the park

I let you talk about what it was for

Remember the plan I thought was mine

But I was the only one on the line

What I should have asked was why

Remember the game I lost every time

The words you didn’t see me mime

What I meant to say was goodbye

Chorus

What I meant to say became a lie

What I meant to do was go

What I meant to do was pass you by

What I meant to say was no

No became never then maybe forever

Forever turned into hello

Hello became always then let me rephrase

The phrase turned into a lie

And even though it still seems to grow

What I meant to say was goodbye

Verse Two

Remember the day I stood in the rain

Bags packed and waiting for the train

I let you talk me back into your life

Remember the night I sat in the dark

Eyes down as your lies found their mark

I let your words cut me like a knife

Remember the way I searched for your soul

Refused the pain and fought for control

What you should have asked was why

Remember the fight I said I forgot

The silent words as I stood on the spot

What I meant to say was goodbye

Chorus

What I meant to say became a lie

What I meant to do was go

What I meant to do was pass you by

What I meant to say was no

No became never then maybe forever

Forever turned into hello

Hello became always then let me rephrase

The phrase turned into a lie

And even though it still seems to grow

What I meant to say was goodbye

Coda

My eyes wouldn’t see

My voice didn’t call

My skin couldn’t feel

My back on the wall

My fist wouldn’t close

My feet turned to clay

But goodbye was

What I meant to say

Chorus

What I meant to say became a lie

What I meant to do was go

What I meant to do was pass you by

What I meant to say was no

No became never then maybe forever

Forever turned into hello

Hello became always then let me rephrase

The phrase turned into a lie

And even though it still seems to grow

What I’m saying now is goodbye

Gone – A Poem

There’s a shirt on the rug

Fell off with a hug

It’s been there since last year

There’s space under the stairs

Caught me unawares

So far and yet so near

There’s a book on the bed

One you’ve never read

Guess it must be mine

There’s a heart on the floor

One you never saw

To you things still seem fine

There’s a picture in the frame

Some girl – what’s her name?

Forgotten in the dark

There’s a crack in the glass

Just a phase – it’ll pass

Without leaving a mark

There’s a cup in the sink

Did it make you think

Someone had been around?

There’s a hole in the wall

Yes, it’s quite small

But large enough to be found

There’s a coat in the hall

I’m walking out tall

I can only smell your fear

There’s a bag by the door

A little less, a little more

Might have kept me here

There’s a note on the bench

Written in French

It’s all the same to you

There’s no one by your side

Something to do with pride

Guess this means we’re through

2016 Text Prize Shortlist Announcement

Um, okay, so this happened to me today:

Yeah, that’s my picture in the top left corner…

Because, um, yeah, my unpublished book, Black Spot, has been shortlisted for the 2016 Text Prize, run by Text Publishing in Melbourne, Australia. It’s a competition for unpublished manuscripts written for children and young adults.

This is kind of embarrassing to admit for a writer… but I have no words!

Except… yay! And *happy dancing* that no words can describe!

Book Review: Postcards from Planet Earth

I’ve decided to make May a month of poetry and song lyrics (mine and others) so instead of the traditional book review you’ve come to expect on a Monday, today and all the Mondays in this May will be devoted to books of and about poetry. I’ve selected collections and poets that have struck me and stayed with me long after I read them and if you haven’t read or heard of them before, I hope you’ll find something new that strikes and stays with you.

Today’s selection is a collection of poems called Postcards from Planet Earth. If it sounds familiar, it might be because it made it onto both My Top Ten Books –Then list and My Top Ten Books – Now list.

This was the poetry book I studied in Year 12 and at the time of constructing My Top Ten Books – Then list, I wrote: “This is one of those rare books of poetry that just keeps getting better. Every time I read it I get something different out of it. I’m not sure exactly what I love about it but the variety is extraordinary, the viewpoints fascinating and the beauty is limitless. As soon as one poem from the collection loses its shine, another is there to take its place.”

Here are a few extracts:

From “Protest Poem” by Vernon Scannell:

(on being unable to use the word “gay” in its original meaning anymore)

A good word once, and I’m disconsolate

And angered by this simple syllable’s fate:

A small innocence gone, a little Fall.

I grieve the loss. I am not gay at all.

From “Star-Gazer” by P.K. Page:

The very stars are justified.

The galaxy

italicized.

I have proof-read

and proof-read

the beautiful script.

There are no

errors.

From “A Martian Sends a Postcard Home” by Craig Raine:

(this is a Martian description of humans going to the toilet – I love it!)

Only the young are allowed to suffer

openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.

They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt

and everyone’s pain has a different smell.

From “Love Song for Words” by Nazik Al-Mala’ika:

And why do we fear words?

They are the friends that come to us

From distant spaces in the soul

They surprise us, catch us unaware,

And sing for us, and a thousand ideas are born

Ideas that were dormant in us, never before expressed

But the friendly words, the words

Offer them as gifts:

Why should we not love words?

From “The Examination” by Roger McGough:

Realizing finally that I would never be published,

That I was to remain one of the alltime great unknown poets,

My work rejected by even the vanity presses,

I decided to end it all.

Taking an overdose of Lyricism

I awaited the final peace

When into the room burst the Verse Squad

Followed by the Poetry Police.

From “After I Am Dead” by Chaim Nachman Bialik:

There was a man and he exists no more.

His life’s song was broken off halfway.

He had one more poem

And that poem is lost,

For ever.

Honestly, I could include an extract of every poem in the book. If you’re not someone who can sit and read a book of poetry straight through, here are some poems to search out if you need some guidance in its exploration:

“Two Haiku” by Roger McGough

“Interview with a Poet” by Miroslav Holub

“Lessons in Parsing” by Rashid Husain

“Planning a Time-Capsule” by Bruce Dawe

“anyone lived in a pretty how town” by e. e. cummings

“Do Not Despise Me” by Konai Helu Thaman

“Sonnet CXVI” by William Shakespeare

“Love Story” by Wendy Cope

“Not My Best Side” by U. A. Fanthorpe

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas

A terrific additional extra is all the explanatory notes (because sometimes poems are difficult to understand if you don’t know the subtext) and at the end are several versions of the same poem, showing the process of creation, as well as several poems translated from their original language into English by different people, showing the differences that can be created when two people interpret the same piece of writing.

I highly recommend this book of poetry, particularly if you are someone who struggles with the flowery poems written hundreds of years ago. So much of it has a modern voice, despite the occasional William Shakespeare and Dylan Thomas (although these are so perfect and so well known that there is a sense of modernity and currency about them). If you’re looking for a book of poetry as a first step to delve into the genre, this is a great one to start with.

The Evolution Of The English Language Since The Elements Of Style

In preparation for an upcoming blog, I was leafing through my copy of The Elements of Style, which is generally considered a writer’s bible. It was originally written as a textbook for a Cornell University English course by Professor William Strunk Jnr in 1919. In 1957, the author EB White (who coincidentally took that course) was commissioned to revise it for general publication. Yes, that EB White. The one who wrote Charlotte’s Web.

As I leafed, I was struck by how much of the advice is now irrelevant or ignored. Plenty of it is still important and even now I recommend it to anyone who is serious about writing well. But nearly one hundred years has passed since its advice was first committed to paper and all languages evolve. Not just new words coming into usage and old ones falling by the wayside but the meaning of words changing and rules being completely subverted.

So I thought it would be interesting to explore the advice in The Elements of Style that is no longer as definitive as it once was.

Contact

The Elements of Style advice on the word contact: “As a transitive verb, the word is vague and self-important. Do not contact people; get in touch with them, look them up, phone them, find them, or meet them.”

Well, I’m sure it’s much to the distress of Professor Strunk and Mr White that we contact people all the time now. In fact, the act of contacting someone has taken on a formal air while the suggested alternatives all sound very informal to the ear of someone writing or reading these days.

Customise, Finalise, Personalise, Prioritise, Utilise, Etc (AKA Customize, Finalize, Personalize, Prioritize, Utilize, Etc)

The Elements of Style advice on –ise (AKA –ize – after all, The Elements of Style is an American book) words: “Many good and useful verbs do end in –ize: summarize, fraternize, harmonize, fertilize. But there is a growing list of abominations: containerize, prioritize, finalize, to name three.” And a little later: “Why say ‘utilize’ when there is the simple, unpretentious word use?”

Tell us how you really feel. Uncomfortable, I suspect, as the authors roll over and over in their graves. Because the verbs are out of the bag and refusing to get back in.

Data

The Elements of Style advice on the word data: “Like strata, phenomena and media, data is a plural and is best used with a plural verb.”

The book then provides an incorrect example (“This data is misleading.”) and a correct example (“These data are misleading.”) And then it begrudgingly admits, “The word, however, is slowly gaining acceptance as a singular.”

That slow gaining of acceptance is complete and most readers feel the first example is correct and the construction of the second example is awkward.

Enthuse

The Elements of Style advice on the word enthuse: “An annoying verb growing out of the noun enthusiasm. Not recommended.”

Well, we enthuse about plenty of things these days, even the use of the word enthuse.

Insightful

The Elements of Style advice on the word insightful: “The word is a suspicious overstatement for ‘perceptive’.”

Yet when I right click on the word perceptive, one of the synonyms Microsoft Word gives is the word insightful. And when I open my Macquarie International English Dictionary to the word insight, the first definition opens with the word perceptiveness. If the dictionary has succumbed, I think the rest of us should have no qualms about doing the same.

Literally

The Elements of Style advice on the word literally: “Often incorrectly used in support of exaggeration or violent metaphor.”

I’m still with them on this one but we hear it so often that the dictionary now includes both the original definition and the incorrect definition. But every time I hear a teenage girl exclaim, “My head literally exploded,” I will continue to hope this is accurate according to the Strunk and White rules.

Meaningful

The Elements of Style advice on the word meaningful: “A bankrupt adjective.” The ill-advised usage is demonstrated with this sentence: “His was a meaningful contribution.” And the preferred option: “His contribution counted heavily.”

I don’t know about you but I know which one I prefer. And it’s not their preferred option.

Ongoing

The Elements of Style advice on the word ongoing: “Newfound adjective… to be avoided because [it is] inexact and clumsy… Select instead a word whose meaning is clear. As a simple test, transform the participles to verbs. It is possible to upset something… But…to ongo?”

Yet another argument that might have been perfectly reasonable except for one thing: people use it all the time. So much so that its meaning is no longer unclear (if it ever was). We should all be prepared for the word ongoing to be an ongoing presence in the English language and its modern evolution.

Prestigious

The Elements of Style advice on the word prestigious: “Often an adjective of last resort. It’s in the dictionary, but that doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

According to the Macquarie International English Dictionary, the word prestigious comes from the Latin praestigiae, which means “illusions” or “juggler’s tricks”. So perhaps given the word’s origins, Strunk and White might have some justification. But if English is good at anything, it’s repurposing words from other languages. After all, that’s pretty much all English is.

Additionally, why anyone would object to or disagree with the statement “The Nobel Prize is a prestigious award” is beyond me.

Split Infinitive

According to The Elements of Style, the split infinitive has been torturing pedants since the fourteenth century. The advice given is to avoid it “unless the writer wishes to place unusual stress on the adverb”.

I think we might need to call this battle lost. And after all, any broken rule that gives us something as memorable as “to boldly go where no man has gone before” can’t be all that bad.

My advice is to consider each usage on its merits. While some, as the Star Trek example above demonstrates, work very well, others do not flow. It’s up to the writer to be able to recognise which is which.

Very

The Elements of Style advice on the word very: “Use this word sparingly. Where emphasis is necessary, use words strong in themselves.”

Consider this conversation between someone running a temperature and an English pedant.

“Are you warm?” asks the pedant.

“Very,” responds the patient, wiping his brow.

“So you’re not warm then, you’re hot?”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is in the treatment – whether I open a window to let in a cool breeze or give you a cold water enema.”

“The window will be fine. Stop reading that damn book!”

The word very is in very common usage these days and I suspect there is no winding it back or indeed a need to wind it back. I’m not just very sure of it, I’m certain.

*First published in Project December: A Book about Writing

 

Chapter One: Stevie and Alex

This is one of the old practice novels I started writing when I still thought I was going to be the next queen of romance fiction and I’d considered posting it before and dismissed it as just too awful.

But then as I was researching names for my 200 Thank You’s on the Occasion of my 200th Blog Post post (because I’m terrible with names if you’re someone I’ve met personally – you’ll have to become famous if you want me to remember your name for all time), I pulled out a bunch of amateur publications from when I was at Holmesglen TAFE. And there, amongst them, was a collection of first chapters from my Novel 2 class. And this was in it.

I shuddered. But I figured if it was already out there, it might as well be out here, too.

It’s way too long for a first chapter of a category romance novel and it’s unnecessarily complex because both the main characters have men’s names even though one is a woman. But aren’t these exactly the kinds of things in relation to which we insist on sticking to our guns when we’re young and learning to write and don’t know any better?

*****

‘Stephanie Bailey, will you marry me?

Stevie Bailey, as she was known to her friends, struggled to retain her neutral expression as the impact of the question hit her with all the force of a fist. Inside, however, she was abuzz with emotions and questions of her own. Why was this man calling her Stephanie when he knew she only responded to Stevie? Why was he asking her to marry him when they weren’t even dating? And what the hell was going on? That was the most prominent thought in her mind at that exact moment. In fact, she had been silently asking that question all night.

Gatherings at the Bailey family home were routinely formal affairs without being completely over the top. And while everyone in attendance tonight was attired as per usual, Stevie had been noticing the tiny details that denoted difference. The regular domestic staff, who could normally handle the cooking requirements for a dinner party, were being assisted by an outside catering company. There were perhaps only twenty people attending – all family and close friends – but no more than normal.

Another fact that had not escaped Stevie’s notice was the wine being served; it was part of her father’s private and very special collection, and along with the numerous bottles of champagne she had seen chilling, the tally of suspicious events had begun to grow.

Added to the secretive glances her parents had been exchanging with the parents of the prospective groom all night, and her mother’s uncharacteristically youthful exuberance, everything seemed to be falling into place.

Of course, it was far easier to see in hindsight. But at least Stevie now knew why she had been abruptly abandoned by her cousins at the stroke of ten o’clock. Seeing their decisive departure, Stevie had attempted to rise herself but had been forced by Rose and Verity to sit down again. At the sight of the big half circle surrounding her while she sat meekly on a chair in the sitting room, she had wondered if this were some sort of family intervention. But for the life of her she couldn’t think of one addiction she had that would require this.

The proposal had dismissed those thoughts from her mind; most thoughts, in fact. But she now realised that the semi-circle behind the man who had proposed to her was meant as some sort of road block, stopping her from making a getaway, if as they anticipated that was what she may have intended. But she intended nothing of the sort. She wasn’t moving until she discovered exactly what was going on.

Stevie forced a smile and looked at the man in front of her, who as tradition demanded, was on bended knee. And as tradition also demanded, he was holding out a sparkling engagement ring, although unlike most, the gold band carried on it one of the most beautiful diamonds Stevie had ever seen. But she supposed it should have been expected when the man holding it out to her was Alexander King, the son of her father’s business partner and a man of impressive proportions in his own right, financially and physically.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered so that only he could hear, while trying desperately to maintain her apparent smile.

‘I think I’m proposing,’ he whispered back, and from what she could tell, he seemed deadly serious.

‘Why?’ was the only thing she could think of to say. But perhaps it was the right thing. Alex’s sober expression disappeared momentarily, replaced by a discreet flash of white teeth.

‘Not for any of the normal reasons,’ he clarified quietly without really clarifying anything. ‘Just give the same answer you would always give me, regardless of the circumstances.’

‘Okay,’ Stevie murmured, then raised her eyes to the crowd to see if they had heard her exchange with Alex, but none of them seemed to have. She could sense the rising uneasiness and a glance at her mother’s anxious but excited face told her what was expected. Clearing her throat, she gave her response in a loud and unmistakable tone.

‘No.’ The uproar was instantaneous. Her mother began to feign her infamous illness, the one that only Stevie tended to bring on. Her father and Alex’s faltered, their hands in mid-air as they prepared to shake on what they had considered a done deal. Everyone else was so shocked they could barely utter the words of condemnation. But when they did, there were only a few phrases of astonishment and displeasure that were not voiced.

Amongst all this uproar were the two most important players, Stevie and Alex, who remained exactly where they were, surveying the commotion they had just caused. Alex then rose from his kneeling position, snapping shut the lid of the engagement ring box and sitting beside Stevie to wait for their respective families to calm down and regain their usual poise. It did not take long. Everyone present bore either the name Bailey or King and had grown up in the public eye, necessitating the ability to quickly mask true feelings. The talent was coming in handy now, Stevie could see.

Sitting in silence with Alex, she decided an explanation was in order, especially since she sensed he had received the expected and desired answer.

‘What was that about?’ Stevie asked pointedly, turning her back on the confusion of the room.

‘I’d love to explain but it’s going to have to wait,’ Alex deferred, distracted by something over her shoulder. She opened her mouth but got no further with her interrogation before her mother and a selection of female relatives accosted her, dragging her off by the arm into the privacy of the parlour.

‘Stephanie Bailey, what on earth do you think you are doing?’ Helen Bailey cried, pushing Stevie down onto an available couch and collapsing beside her only daughter. ‘How can you even dare to refuse Alexander? How could you not want to become a part of the King family? Imagine. My daughter could be Mrs Alexander King, but no! She considers herself too good for him.’ She leaned back in her chair and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, demonstrating just how draining her disobedient daughter’s behaviour was. Helen’s sister-in-law, Moira, and nieces, Rose and Verity, made up the contingent determined to force a reversal of Stevie’s rejection.

Stevie could barely contain herself. Apart from her irritation at being referred to as Stephanie, which she had informed her family did not suit her at all and from now on she was to be called Stevie – a decision she had made at the ripe old age of eight – she was appalled that her mother could think she would ever marry a man she didn’t love. Alex was a good friend, her best friend in fact, but a husband? A partner? A lover? Never!

Well, she reminded herself, there had been that one night, the night they had celebrated the twentieth anniversary of their respective fathers’ partnership. It had been a flashy get-together of Sydney’s who’s who and Stevie had spent the evening drinking far too much and poking fun at most of the guests, although never to their faces. The occasion might have been proclaimed social but she knew that business was never far from the minds of either Benjamin Bailey or Lloyd King.

Alex, who by then had already started working for the family company, had done his duty by mingling before his own efforts at consuming too much liquor.

That night had marked a turning point in their relationship. After being assured by Helen that they would not be missed by anyone, especially in their drunken state, they had escaped to the guesthouse and settled down to watch an old late night movie. But they weren’t more than fifteen minutes into the film when the television and all the lights flickered off. And judging by the music that continued to blare from the main house, it was only their plans that were affected.

They hadn’t even intended kissing each other; at least, Stevie had never intended kissing Alex and he had never shown any inclination towards kissing her. Their relationship had never been like that at all.

‘Um, Alex?’

‘Yes, Stevie?’

‘Shouldn’t you go check the fuse box?’

‘Why should I do it?’

‘Because you’re the man. Don’t men do those sorts of things when the lights go out?’ she queried, not wanting to admit she didn’t know where the fuse box was.

‘Men do all sorts of things when the lights go out but so far I haven’t demonstrated any of them for you,’ Alex said boldly. The remark was typical of Alex, despite his drunken state. Typical of the uncensored dialogue he exchanged with her, at least.

‘You haven’t wanted to,’ she pointed out, crossing her legs and turning to face him, the absent electricity all but forgotten. His outline was still visible in the muted light flowing down from the main house where the party continued.

‘I still don’t. Not really. I don’t think.’

Stevie sighed dramatically, hiding a smile. ‘Well, as long as you feel that way, go ahead. But just for clarification, how drunk are you?’

‘Pretty drunk,’ he offered, slurring the adjective.

‘Won’t-remember-this-in-the-morning drunk?’

‘Very close.’

‘Okay. Well, this should be memorable,’ she muttered, offering up her face and waiting for him to find her lips in the dark. It took some effort. First he kissed her ear, then her cheek and her chin, before finally finding his intended target. But by that time, Stevie was already laughing.

‘This is like kissing a mime artist,’ she managed to get out between giggles.

He locked lips with her after gaining a degree of control, delivering one of the funniest kisses Stevie could remember being the recipient of. She managed to endure it for a moment before starting to laugh again.

‘I was wrong. This is like kissing my grandmother,’ she sputtered, shrugging Alex off the shoulder he was resting his forehead on, only to have him fall back against her.

The lights came back on then and Stevie’s eyes had to adjust to the brightness before she could focus on Alex. When she did, she realised he was slumped against her because he was asleep.

It had certainly been memorable, if only for her. Alex had maintained that he remembered it all except for the falling asleep part.

‘Of course, you don’t; you were asleep!’ she had joked. But for Stevie that had been the most unforgettable part of all.

And how had the evening been a turning point? Well, Stevie considered, it had rid them of possible complications. They had both realised that the future held nothing more than friendship for them, and it had made them the best of friends. That had been over eight years ago.

‘Stephanie, are you even listening to a word I’m saying?’ Guiltily, Stevie looked up and, realising that she was smiling at the memory of Alex, schooled her features into a more serious expression. ‘Well, what do you have to say for yourself?’

‘Mother, the first thing I have to say is do not call me Stephanie.’

‘Stephanie!’ her mother cried.

‘The second thing I have to say,’ she continued more seriously despite her mother’s outburst, ‘is that I have no intention of marrying a man I am not in love with, and regardless of how fond I am of Alex, I am not in love with him.’

‘We know you’re not in love with him,’ her cousin Rose agreed, too quickly for it to be backdown. Nevertheless, Stevie’s determination was transformed into confusion.

‘You do?’

‘Of course. But we also know that you do love Alex,’ her other cousin, Verity, insisted.

‘I do?’

‘Of course. In the best way possible without actually being in love with him,’ Helen said coaxingly, raising a hand to ensure no strands of hair had escaped from her stylish French roll; none would have dared. ‘And what better base for a marriage to begin from?’

‘I can think of a number of better bases,’ Stevie muttered. ‘Actually wanting to get married would be one of them.’

‘But you and Alexander would be perfect for each other, dear. Can’t you see that?’ Moira put in. Stevie surveyed the women looking at her and decided they had all succumbed to some form of temporary insanity.

‘I’m sorry, but Alex and I will never be anything more than friends. You will all just have to accept that.’ Stevie defiantly crossed her arms over her chest.

‘I’m sorry, too, Stephanie,’ her mother said without elaborating, then yanked Stevie up from the couch and dragged her out of the room into the hall. Alex was standing there surrounded by his family, although Stevie doubted that he had been dragged by anyone.

‘Oh, Alexander, I’m so sorry about this. I’m sure that Stephanie didn’t mean to say no to your proposal. I’m sure that she would be ecstatic to be your wife,’ Helen babbled on, trying to suppress the objections that Stevie was attempting to raise.

‘Mother, stop it. I’m not going to marry Alex.’ Her mother was horrified but Stevie couldn’t let her go on with her wild assertions. ‘I’m not sure how you convinced him to ask me but I know that he doesn’t particularly want to marry me either.’

‘Stevie, how could you doubt my feelings?’ Alex questioned dramatically, and Stevie was the only one to notice the roguish gleam in his eyes. Damn him, she thought to herself. He was enjoying this as much as she hated it. She only wished she could take the wind out of his sails by declaring she would marry him. But she knew that any positive declaration she made, even in jest, would be one her family would never let her go back on. No, it was better that she stand firm, she decided, no matter how much she appeared to be an ungrateful and hostile recipient opposite Alex’s façade of a seemingly devoted yet unrequited suitor.

‘I don’t doubt your feelings. That’s why I know you don’t want to marry me. We’re not getting married.’

‘Oh, no,’ Helen whimpered, and everyone rushed to her side in anticipation of her fainting.

‘Don’t worry, Helen,’ Alex said, striding past the crowd towards Stevie, then sweeping her up into his arms and walking determinedly to the base of the stairs. ‘I’ll make her change her mind if it’s the last thing I do.’ And at that, with her struggling in his arms, demanding to be put down, he marched up the steps towards Stevie’s bedroom.

She gave up her struggle as soon as they reached her room, knowing he would put her down. He did this, then closed the door.

‘Are you insane?’

‘Are you doubting my sanity?’ Alex questioned back.

‘Yes! I began to doubt it the minute you proposed.’ She started pacing the room, infuriated by the progression of events that had led them to this moment in time, events that had been mostly of his making. She had no illusions about the fact that it was both their parents’ wish to see them married, to each other no less, but Stevie had been certain that the issue would never seriously arise because Alex was as amused by their desire as she was. Or so she had thought!

‘Just calm down,’ Alex soothed, watching her progress back and forth.

‘Calm down?’ The pacing stopped and she faced him directly. ‘Calm down? I’m definitely missing something here. What possessed you?’

‘Nothing possessed me. I just decided it was time to make them all realise that our marriage was never going to happen.’

‘Oh, but you didn’t see fit to let me in on tonight’s little stunt?’

‘Your mother would have known in an instant if I’d told you what was happening,’ Alex pointed out.

‘It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’d have been gone in an instant if you’d told me what was happening?’

‘That might have played a part,’ he agreed. ‘I mean, the demonstration would hardly have been effective if you weren’t even here to refuse me.’

Stevie was becoming annoyed by his backward sense of logic. ‘What about the part where you carried me up the stairs?’

‘What is conflict without a little drama?’ he parried, seeming to have all the answers.

‘And the rest?’

Alex quirked an eyebrow.

‘I’ll make her marry me if it’s the last thing I do,’ she mimicked poorly, imitation giving way to irritation.

‘To be fair, I think my exact words were “I’ll make her change her mind if it’s the last thing I do”.’

Stevie quirked her eyebrows back at him. ‘Semantics.’ His explanation was merely fuel for the fire burning fiercely inside her. Wisely, he didn’t say anything for a long moment and when he finally spoke, Stevie could tell he had deliberated quite thoroughly.

‘I thought if we were going to go through with this plan as a means of getting them off our backs, it would have to seem spontaneous, at least to you. And there was no better way to ensure your reactions would be real ones. As for the rest, well, I didn’t want to seem too eager to accept your refusal. Besides, I think your mother appreciates a little drama now and then.’

‘How much do you think she’ll appreciate it when I go downstairs and tell her we’re not getting married?’

‘It’s the nature of being disappointed. She’ll just have to deal with it.’

‘She never should have had to deal with it.’

He was silent. Stevie had finally out-argued him.

‘I only proposed because I knew you would never accept.’ Alex found his voice, but it was a smaller, quieter version of the one Stevie was used to. Far from winning this argument, she realised they were both losing it. She had not come to visit from another state so that she could argue her way out of this friendship.

‘I understand that. What I don’t understand is why you ever thought proposing would resolve this issue.’

‘I’m not sure I can tell you why I thought that. But I can tell you that your mother was damn convincing. And your father. And my parents as well. It seemed like a very concerted effort,’ he explained as if it were suddenly just dawning on him.

‘I should have known they would be behind this,’ Stevie said. ‘It’s always been a hope. It seemed more like a demand tonight, though. You should have heard my mother telling me why we should be getting married. Rose and Verity, too.’ More items to add to the list of bizarre behaviour, she thought, shaking her head.

‘Your father?’ Alex was still thinking about his own remarks. ‘This is weird.’

‘They could never be accused of repetitive ploys. Or should I say plays? Sometimes it feels like a game. I just wish they’d pick someone else to play it with.’ Stevie sank onto the bed, suddenly tired of it all. She studied the carpet at her feet, not looking up when another pair of shoes moved into her line of vision.

Taking the moral high ground was terribly draining and, she suspected, depressingly pointless. She had never known her mother to lose a single campaign. Campaigns were there to be won, not abandoned. And despite the fact that this campaign was entering its tenth year, her mother’s eyes were still on the prize.

‘Hand it over,’ she ordered without looking up. The shoes in front of her own splayed in a silent question. ‘The ring.’

Alex dug in his jacket pocket for the jewellery box and placed it in her outstretched hand. She opened it and took the ring out, sliding it onto her left hand ring finger and holding up her hand to study the stone.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll have a decent marriage,’ she said without expression, handing back the box and closing her fist as if to seal the placement of the ring on her finger.

‘What?’ Alex’s hand faltered around the ring box and he dropped it before rescuing it in mid-air. Using his other hand, he forced Stevie’s chin up so he could look into her eyes. They were strangely dull but he could still see the accusation glinting there.

‘See? It’s not funny if I do it either.’

Alex breathed a huge sigh that encompassed both relief and regret, and sat down beside her on the bed. He wound an arm about her waist, trying to perk her up but she remained slouched, her head having returned to its previous angle.

‘My mother’s going to think you want to marry me now. I bet you didn’t think about that.’

‘The way I imagined it, I would ask, you’d say no, I’d persist briefly, you’d say no again and that would be the end of it. I guess I didn’t think it through properly. Just add it to my list of completely unthought-out relationship decisions. I never claimed to be any sort of emotional genius. I am an accountant, after all.’ He held his hands up and tried to look sheepish. He failed. But Stevie felt the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

‘You’re not an accountant; you’re an account executive. Hardly the same,’ she argued, keeping her head down, but even she could hear the smile in her voice. The arm about her waist tightened slightly but she still didn’t look at the man the arm was attached to. The anger was easy to rid herself of. The depression always lasted longer. And all the talk of marriage and life partners and love had made her consciously aware of the fact that she didn’t have any of those things.

‘There’s enough negatives coming from tonight,’ she relented, speaking the words aloud to pacify both Alex and her inner thoughts. ‘Let’s look at the positives. At least my mother now thinks somebody wants to marry me. I think she may have spent the last ten years wondering if anyone actually wanted her little girl.’

‘Oh, there have been a boatload who would have married you in an instant if you had given them the proper encouragement. Your mother knows that only too well.’

‘Like who? And you can’t count any of the ones who just wanted me for my money,’ she qualified, voluntarily looking up from the carpet for the first time.

‘Oh. Um, well, let’s see.’ Alex removed his arm from her waist and cushioned his head as he lay back and contemplated. ‘What about Gareth?’

‘Ew! You’re not serious,’ Stevie hoped, twisting around to look at him as he reclined in the middle of her bed. ‘Our relationship was entirely in his head. Besides, Gareth is my third cousin. You don’t seriously expect me to marry someone I’m related to?’

‘Apparently not. What about Wesley?’ Alex suggested.

‘Wesley was even more blue-blooded than my mother. And no matter how many times I told him I hated being called Stephanie, he still insisted on using my full name.’ She shuddered at the memory.

Alex didn’t offer up any more suggestions and the silence drew Stevie back to that dark place where she shared her mother’s worries of never finding someone she would want to spend her life with. She hated this place.

‘Alex?’

‘Hmmm?’ He was still thinking about marriage candidates she had spurned.

‘Do you really think you’ll find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with?’ The question was out before she could stop it. Usually she could stop it but then again Alex was usually a thousand miles away.

‘Sure. I mean, I assume so. I’m not in any great hurry, though.’

‘Of course, you aren’t. Men never hurry until it’s too late,’ Stevie responded, bringing her feet up and resting her head against his shoulder. She could feel his chin against her forehead as he looked down at the top of her head. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find what my parents have.’

‘You’re not going to suggest we jump off the harbour bridge together if we haven’t found our perfect matches by the time we’re thirty-five, are you?’

‘No.’ She turned onto her side, tugging her skirt out from underneath her.

‘You’re not going to suggest we get married after all if we haven’t found our perfect matches by then?’

‘No. My mother would probably have pushed me off the bridge if it ever got to that.’ Alex laughed, covering the hand that lay on his chest. Stevie managed a small laugh of her own, the veil of depression lifting. He always brought out the humour, if not the best in her.

‘Are you ready to go back downstairs?’ he asked.

‘I suppose,’ she agreed without enthusiasm. ‘What are we going to say to them?’

‘We’ll say we’ve seriously discussed the possibility of getting married but think it won’t benefit anybody, least of all us. I’ll say I rushed into the decision, confusing friendship for love, and allowing myself to become wrapped up in the enthusiasm of members of the family who are in favour of the arrangement. You’ll say you’re flattered but not nearly ready to get married, especially not to someone you think of more as a brother than a potential husband. How’s that?’

‘Very eloquent. I knew you’d be useful eventually.’ Stevie studied the ring on her left hand which was resting on Alex’s chest. ‘I guess you want the ring back,’ she said regretfully. Well, it was a beautiful ring regardless.

‘Yes, please. I might have to break some more hearts later in the year.’

‘You wish. You’re not that eligible,’ she lied, sitting up and tugging at the ring. And that was when the disaster really began. ‘Um, Alex? I can’t get the ring off my finger.’

He sat up immediately.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll come off with a bit of effort.’ He grasped the ring and tried to pull it off as gently as he could, but it remained where it was. It was stuck.

‘Oh, fantastic! This is just what we need. The ring firmly positioned on my finger while we go downstairs and tell everyone that we’re not getting married.’

‘Don’t worry! It’ll come off,’ Alex reiterated, though it seemed he was reassuring himself as much as he was her. His efforts to get the stubborn ring off her finger were becoming desperate.

‘Ow! Alex, you’re hurting me!’

‘Sorry,’ he said, loosening his hold but continuing. They both knew she couldn’t leave the room until the ring came off.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Before either of them could move, the door flew open to reveal Eleanor, Alex’s youngest sister. Eleanor took one look at Stevie and Alex sitting on the bed, their heads close together, the ring lodged firmly on Stevie’s finger and Alex’s hand on the ring, and ran back down the hall, yelling, ‘Everybody! Everybody! She’s said yes. They’re going to get married. Stevie and Alex are engaged.’

Book Review: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and Other Pieces by James Thurber

I bought this book because I’m embarking on a reading challenge, which is to read a series of books that have been made into movies that I’ve already seen and thought were pretty good. Usually I find it hard to read a book if I’ve already seen the movie of it because I spend a lot of time doing comparisons. “That’s not what happened in the movie.” Or anticipating what’s about to happen. “This is the part where he gets shot.”

This is a book of James Thurber’s short stories, one of which is “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”. It was probably a good book to start this challenge with because the titular short story is only five pages long. It’s hard to get caught up with comparisons on such a short piece of text. In fact, apart from his name and the fact that Walter Mitty gets caught up in daydreams to alleviate the boredom of his life, there aren’t too many similarities between the short story and the movie starring Ben Stiller. But it’s a good short story.

There are some other obvious highlights in the collection. “The Catbird Seat”, a how-to guide on getting annoying colleagues fired. “The Macbeth Murder Mystery”, reinterpreting the classics of Shakespeare by looking at them as if they are crime novels. “A Ride with Olympy”, one man who speaks French poorly teaching another man who speaks even less French and no other common languages to drive a car with predictable and hilarious results. “The Kerb in the Sky”, about a woman who drives her husband mad by finishing all his sentences and correcting all his stories. And “The Greatest Man on Earth”, about the first man to fly solo around the world, who won’t accept adulation for his achievement with grace, denigrates the efforts of others who tried before him and ultimately meets a fate that many would wish on those who have no humility.

Thurber’s writing is wonderful, elegant and unhurried. His characters are fantastic and varied; we spend only as much time with each of them as we need to, as we could probably stand to before each story ends. And the plots are drawn from tiny moments and details that in anyone else’s hands might have seemed uninspiring or uninspired. But in Thurber’s, they become sophisticated windows into the lives of ordinary others.

I’m not generally a fan of short story collections because I like novels, I like getting to know characters in depth, I like plots that unwind languidly, I like themes running through chapters, I like poetic endings. But pretty much all of those things exist in this book. I really wanted to give it 3.5 stars because although subjectively I was tugged more in the direction of 3 stars because of my abovementioned preference, objectively I can recognise the 4 star worth of it.

Of course, either of these ratings show it’s not perfect. There are a lot of hen-pecked husbands, frustrating wives, miserable writers and delusional types, maybe a few too many. But there are moments of perfection. “Two is company, four is a party, three is a crowd. One is a wanderer.”

Also included in this collection are a number of short stories that were memoirs of the author’s life. I suspect reading James Thurber’s memoirs in their entirety would be like reading Roald Dahl’s. They are both just so readable.

It’s good to remember every now and then that short stories and novellas are great for movie adaptations because the length is more workable, the stories less convoluted and the plots often just as poignant. Imagine how many short stories and novellas an author could write in the same time it would take you to write one novel. Imagine how many different movies could be made from the one collection of short stories.

If you’re a short story fan, then I think you’d enjoy James Thurber’s work, even more than I did, even more than I am able to. If you’re not, limiting yourself to reading the stories I picked out above should help you to realise that Thurber was a master of this medium.

3 stars

*First published on Goodreads 15 January 2016

I’m Running Out Of Ideas For Blog Posts…

Over the past year and a bit since starting this blog, I’ve written a lot. At the beginning it was easy. I had so much material that had never been seen anywhere except writing classes and quite a bit more that had never been seen at all. Bit by bit, I would dole it out along with whatever else I came up with along the way.

I still have plenty of novel chapters, poems, song lyrics, creative pieces in reserve. But posting them all would be indulgent. So I try to sprinkle them sparingly throughout blog posts that offer something more to others who also write.

And I always have opinions, so a steady stream of articles and advice on writing and editing was the inevitable result. Until this month. The ideas boards were starting to get empty. The remaining ideas on them were starting to get less inspiring. I had to admit a hard truth. I was running out of ideas for blog posts…

It happens to everyone, not just those with blogs. You simply get to a point where you feel like you’ve exhausted all your options for content. Because surely every subject has a finite amount of topics that can be covered. That’s probably true but the likelihood that you’ve explored them all is very remote.

My solution? I went online and started reading the websites of published authors. Not as an answer to my problem but because I was bored and frustrated and wanted to distract myself, take a break and hopefully come back to the task at hand feeling less so. I was also sick or injured or whatever you want to call it that week after having a tooth out and barely being able to eat.

Funnily enough, it was those websites themselves and my miserable state of health that gave me a multitude of ideas. I read a piece of advice that said writers shouldn’t post book reviews. Well, I had an opinion on that. There’s one blog post. I read another piece of advice that writers should only use “said” to attribute dialogue and occasionally “asked” but never anything else. I had an opinion on that, too. Another blog post idea. And because I didn’t write a word for nearly a week after I had my tooth pulled – so much pain, so hungry, so miserable, hurting even to talk – there was another blog post. Advice on when it’s best to take a break from writing (for the sake of your health and the quality of what you produce).

And, of course, there’s this blog post on running out of ideas for blog posts.

There is always another blog post topic right around the corner. Sometimes it’s just a matter of waiting for it, of looking for inspiration, of taking a break, of uttering the words “I’m running out of ideas for my blog” to another writer or reader or editor or your mother, which in turn results in a conversation or an interaction or an opinion that has you running for the ideas board in order to get them all written down.

So here are a few hints on how to get the content juices flowing again:

*Stop writing and read. Read what others are saying, what others are writing in your field of interest. You might learn something. But you might also come across something you realise you have something to say about.

*Read something outside your field of interest. You might have something to say on that, too. My very first blog post was a political piece and it’s the only political piece I’ve ever written (with a focus on communication aspects of politics) but it was something I wanted to write at the time.

*Ask someone else to write a guest post. I asked my little sister to write a guest post and it inspired me to write a follow-up piece. So that was two blog posts filled in the schedule when I previously had none.

*Ask your readers if there’s something they’d like you to write about. Audience interaction can be terrifically inspiring.

*Think about events on the calendar. Earlier this month, I had to write a blog post that I knew was going to fall on April Fools’ Day so I made up an article with a fictional university and a fictional academic study identifying the tongue-in-cheek secrets to writing a bestseller. In December, I wrote a Christmas-themed poem for writers. In January, I wrote about New Year’s writing resolutions. There’s always something happening that can become the basis for a new blog post.

*Go to an industry event and then write about it. Write about the event itself. Write about issues raised by the event. Write about the people involved. That’s three potential blog posts.

*Go out. Take a walk. Play a round of golf. Go see a movie. Just take a break. Forcing it is never going to result in anything you are happy with.

If anyone else has suggestions on how to come up with new ideas, let’s have them. No doubt I’ll be running out of ideas again in a few months…

*First published in Project December: A Book about Writing

200 Thank Yous On The Occasion Of My 200th Blog Post

Thank you to my sister Liz Holmes-Truscott (1), the soon to be Dr Mrs Elizabeth Mawson, for letting me pick your brain about blogging (read Sewn by Elizabeth here), reading the first draft of Black Spot and providing important feedback, such as to remove “Louise” words.

Thank you to my sister Natalie Campbell (2), the former Natalie Truscott, for reading the first draft of Black Spot and providing important feedback, such as to remove the peeing scene.

Thank you to my dad, Alan Truscott (3), for trying to read my first novel, Enemies Closer, even though you fall asleep when you try to read anything, even the newspaper.

Thank you to my mum, Jill Davey (4), for believing that I was always meant to be a writer and telling me not to be afraid when I was contacted by a commissioning fiction editor and started to worry I wasn’t ready for whatever it was that was about to happen.

Thank you to my stepmother, Patricia Truscott (5), for reading Enemies Closer in its entirety on a laptop because I only released it as an ebook.

Thank you to my nan, Elizabeth Harrison (6), and my pa, Alfred Harrison (7), for trusting me with the story of how you got pregnant after you were engaged but before you were married in 1947 when it was something to be ashamed of, even though my Writing History tutor suggested I was “too removed from the subject matter” when I submitted it as my major assessment piece.

Thank you to Jane Gao (8), also known as Jie Gao, for letting me steal your name for the first character to appear in Enemies Closer and translating dialogue into Mandarin in the same novel.

Thank you to Reece Agland (9) for reading early drafts of early chapters of Enemies Closer and providing advice when I was worried my main male character who wasn’t supposed to be gay sounded like he was.

Thank you to Jessica Vigar (10) for reading Enemies Closer (even though you keep mistaking entirely fictional scenes in it for real moments of my own history), for creating the book cover for Enemies Closer, for suggesting I should write a young adult/mainstream crossover series to take advantage of the appetite for them, for reading the first draft of the resulting novel, Black Spot, and providing important feedback, for being my unofficial manager (which will be official and paid one day) and for celebrating all my small achievements with me.

Thank you to Kelli Teitzel (11), a former manuscript assessor, for reading the first draft of Black Spot and providing professional feedback for free, even though you didn’t know me except as the writer of whatever it was Jessica Vigar kept reading during lunch breaks at ARB.

Thank you to Kate Roberts (12) for reading Enemies Closer within a week of its release and telling me you couldn’t wait for the sequel (and sorry that it’s over three and a half years later without a sequel in sight).

Thank you to Tara Moss (13) for liking my 5 star review of The Fictional Woman and inspiring with that book the idea for what I hope will be the book I will be remembered for if I ever get around to writing it.

Thank you to Kasey Edwards (14) for writing a book that made me rethink my career and then thanking me on Twitter when I recommended it as one of three books every woman in their thirties should read.

Thank you to Clementine Ford (15) for writing articles that I wish I could write and thank you to Daily Life (16) for publishing them.

Thank you to LinkedIn (17) for providing a platform for me to publish articles and promoting one of them so it got over 9,000 views and nearly 650 likes.

Thank you to WordPress (18) for making blogging so easy and providing a platform for me to do it.

Thank you to my blog followers – K.L. Register (19), cloudedthinker (20), John White (21), darkyblue (22), skeletonwithaspade (23), Rohan (24), Nicholas Gagnier (25), denniscardiff (26), Luke Otley (27), Elan Mudrow (28), kellyteitzel again (29), kaisywmills (30), Kendall F. Person (31), kelzbelzphotography (32), the alchemist (33), Man of many thoughts (34), Book Guy Reviews (35), Alysha Kaye (36), Kurt Brindley (37), Magdalena (38), deepthinker321 (39), Josbons (40), Timothy Pike (41), Dr. Joseph Suglia (42), Ben Broenen (43 and 44 because he seems to be following me twice), bribruceproductions (45), takingthemaskoff (46), gradypbrown (47), Meghan Miramontes (48), Once Upon a Book (49), Jack Binding (50), wlloydjr (51), M. Talmage Moorehead (52), Stuart M. Perkins (53), brittanymariereads (54), dcpassion2009 (55), Cristian Mihai (56), Q’s Book Blog (57), arganise (58), Libby Cole Author (59), writingblissfully (60), Michelle Kim (61), jbsnow (62), Joe Warnimont (63), Reece Agland (64), Ana Spoke (65), pbbpb (66), Marc-André (67), tracycembor (68), JenAcideByBibliophile (69), Jezabel Jonson (70), Valancy (71), DirtySciFiBuddha (72), violaswift (73), The Farrago Post (74), Crime Time Podcast (75), natalieslovelyblog (76), sophiawhite (77), nuggettales (78), Barnaby Taylor (79), 0000beheadallsatans6 (80), The Historical Diaries (81), A (82), deathofrelatitytv (83), saracroethle (84), theaudiojournalist (85), Soren (86), criticaldispatches (87), Short Tale Shrew (88), Austin Wiggins (89), samanthajaithereader (90), Abbie Lu (91), sunnysleevez (92), Justin Clarke (93), shewritesoflife (94), Morgan Bradham (95), Hayden Coombs (96), SBolithoe (97), Julia (98), patrickwmarshauthor (99), Byford’s Books (100), amylubooks (1010), Laissez Faire (102), hayleybreean (103), Andrew Toy (104), tvfestival (105), aManNotAtHisBest (106), brontespageturners (107), Mary (108), chloebooksblog (109), 1stscenescreenplay (110), leahsamantha (111), timehonoredclassicalliteratureandmusings (112), StoriesforSophie (113), Philip Elliot (114), Bee Ordiway (115), David Snape (116), tstonelonergan (117), darklandpoetry (118) and anthonymize (119).

Thank you to Jeffrey Archer (120), Patricia Cornwell (121), Francine Pascal (122), Mo Hayder (123), Matthew Reilly (124), Stephen J Cannell (125), John Birmingham (126), Michael Connelly (127), Jack Kerley (128), Jane Curry (129) and Minette Walters (130) for writing books I read during my formative writing years. (Although, do we ever really bid goodbye to formative writing years? I think I’ll be forever forming.)

Thank you to Matthew Klein (131), Edward Monkton (132), Lionel Shriver (133), Yann Martel (134), Stieg Larsson (135) and Max Barry (136) for writing books that blew my mind.

Thank you to JD Salinger (137), Peter Carey (138), Samantha Shannon (139), Bret Easton Ellis (140) and Hugh Howey (141) for writing books I hated (not Wool, Silo and Dust, Hugh, the other one, you know it, the one that pretended to be about the environment but instead turned out to be a really bad romance).

Thank you to Gordon Cleary (142) who taught me proper English in grades 3, 4 and 5 and thank you to Anne Calvert (143) who taught me how to use that proper English to edit professionally while at Holmesglen TAFE.

Thank you to Glenice Whitting (144) for letting me practise my editing on what would go on to be your debut novel, Pickle to Pie.

Thank you to Mrs Tuck (145), Sister Ellen (146), Mrs Driscoll (147), Mrs Rosewarne (148) and Mr Norman (149) for teaching me high school English and despite your best efforts at making it extremely tedious not being able to dull my enthusiasm for reading and writing.

Thank you to Alan Wearne (150) and Kristin Henry (151) for teaching me poetry at Holmesglen TAFE.

Thank you to Ray Mooney (152) and Jennifer Dabbs (153) for teaching me novel at Holmesglen TAFE.

Thank you to Josie Arnold (154), Laurent Boulanger (155) and Carolyn Beasley (156) for lecturing and tutoring me in the Master of Arts (Writing) program at Swinburne University.

Thank you to Swinburne University (157) for offering an online master’s program back in 2004 when I wanted to study but also had to work full time.

Thank you to Joss Whedon (158), Aaron Sorkin (159) and James Cameron (160) for being first and foremost writing geniuses but not being constrained by it.

Thank you to Lynne Truss (161) for writing Eats, Shoots and Leaves and giving it the best blurb ever as well as making me realise I wasn’t alone in wanting perfection in spelling, punctuation and grammar.

Thank you to Samuel Johnson (162) for writing the first dictionary because it’s still my favourite book ever.

Thank you to Amazon (163) and Smashwords (164) for enabling me to self-publish my debut novel.

Thank you to Emma Darcy (165), Alison Fraser (166), Miranda Lee (167), Carole Mortimer (168) and Sally Wentworth (169) for writing Mills & Boon books that didn’t read like every other Mills & Boon book I’d read (and I’d read plenty).

Thank you a second time to Emma Darcy (170) for writing The Secrets of Successful Romance Writing and telling me it was okay not to write sex scenes (which I am truly terrible at).

Thank you a third time to Emma Darcy (171) for successfully transitioning to writing crime after being so successful at writing romance and giving hope to all of us who don’t want to be pigeonholed as only writing one genre.

Thank you to the unknown person (172) who gave Enemies Closer a 5 star rating on iBooks and said it was worth a read.

Thank you to the person I won’t name (173) who gave Enemies Closer a 1 star rating on Goodreads without saying why; it’s good for my humility and keeps me wondering.

Thanks again to Jessica Vigar (174) who upon hearing the news of my 1 star rating on Goodreads logged in and gave it a 5 star rating to even things out.

Thank you to the Ampersand Project (175), which – although I didn’t win – gave me my biggest OMG moment when one of the judges, who was also a commissioning fiction editor, emailed to say she thought Black Spot was terrifically well written.

Thank you to that commissioning fiction editor (176) who I can’t name because I promised I’d keep her communications confidential (a half-kept promise, I guess).

Thank you to all the filmmakers (177) who adapt books into movies.

Thank you to Writers Victoria (178) and the Australian Society of Authors (179) for accepting me as a member and providing interesting and informative insights into the professional writing world.

Thank you to Stella Young (180 – RIP), Waleed Aly (181), Raphael Epstein (182) and Clementine Ford again (183) for being intelligent and dedicated to change for the better while being challenged by stupid, racist, sexist people long on passion but short on logic well after people like me can no longer be bothered with the confrontations, the agitations, the frustrations and the fury.

Thank you to Tracy Cembor again (184) for asking me to review her novella, Gaslight Carnival, and exposing me to the steampunk genre, which I’d never read before.

Thank you to my cats, Kiwi (185), Jock (186) and Mia (187),  for understanding when I ignore you while I write and reminding me at least twice a day that I have to take a break because you want your breakfast and dinner.

Thank you to Cadbury (188) for making the world’s best chocolate, an essential tool for writers (and women in general).

Thank you to the Red Cross Blood Service (189) for making me feel so special when I donate blood, especially because being a financially challenged writer I can’t give monetary donations to all those charities who constantly call me and that I no longer answer the phone for.

Thank you to Microsoft (190) for developing Word and making it difficult enough for most people to master but logical enough for me to be the Word expert in every job I’ve ever had. And thank you to Microsoft again (191) for being the blank page that stares back at me every time I start a new writing project.

Thank you to Goodreads (192) for giving me a platform to publish my book reviews.

Thank you to Twitter (193) for sticking to the 140 characters limit because anything worth saying should be short and sweet.

Thank you to lol cats (194) and Salon.com (195) and The Age online (196) and news.com.au (197) and ABC online (198) and Google (199) for informing, amusing, refreshing and distracting me when I’m bored, curious, frustrated or suffering from writer’s block.

And lastly, thank you to you (200) if you’re still reading this because I can’t imagine too many people would have read through to the very end (after all, if it was an Oscar’s speech, the orchestra would have started playing over the top of me a long time ago). You and the fact that you read are the reason I get to keep doing this.

Book Review: Her Version by Leigh Cato

I picked this book up in a second-hand store simply on the basis of the title on the spine. I couldn’t see the front cover, I hadn’t heard of it before, I didn’t know anything about it other than what the title implied – a book that told “her version” about an unknown story.

When I read the blurb, I realised it wasn’t fiction, which is what I was primarily looking for but I thought it might be useful as research for a book I want to write in the next few years. Written and published in the mid-1990s (making it more than twenty years old now), Leigh Cato started with a simple concept as she watched “perfect” marriages disintegrate around her (her own included) and friends becoming involved with married men. How did the women being left and the women they were being left for see the two sides of the same story?

Perhaps the greatest achievement of this book is the fact that the author was able to convince so many women whose only commonality was a relationship with the same man to be interviewed for the book. There are seven sections in which interviews with similar stories are grouped together (“Where did I go wrong?”, “History repeats itself”, “Obsession”, “Coming to terms”, “Strange bedfellows”, “Happily ever after?” and “Have him back? You’ve got to be kidding!”). The first interview is usually the wife left behind and the second is usually the “other woman”.

I think I should say clearly, loudly and upfront that this is not the book to read if you are looking to have your faith in men affirmed or restored. It is a collection of some of the worst relationship behaviours ever perpetrated by the male of the species. Some of the stories also encompass the worst relationship behaviours ever perpetrated by the female of the species. But it’s a fascinating insight into why relationships break down and why others start up before their predecessors have come to a proper and respectful conclusion.

Some of the themes running through the stories are understandable. People who married too young and who never should have been married to each other in the first place. People who settled because they thought it was the best they could hope for despite a lack of genuine feelings. People who married because it was expected of them by family, friends and society.

But many are just too awful to ever be able to be understood. Men who marry for money and then disappear, moving onto the next target. Men who don’t actually want children and leave when their wives fall pregnant. Men who only want perfect children and can’t or won’t cope with disabilities, health challenges or the wrong gender. Men who cheat while their wives are giving birth and recuperating and whose main concern is how long it will be before they can get some at home again.

And then there are the stereotypes that are so obvious it makes you embarrassed for the men succumbing to them: mid-life crises, the thrill of the chase, their wives’ sisters.

At first I thought that it would have been interesting to read the men’s version of what went on, too. But most of the men the women are talking about were clearly emotionally stunted and I doubt they would have been able to talk openly in the same way the women did. After all, some of the men actually convinced the “other women” in their lives that their wives were house-bound invalids or lunatics who should have been locked up in asylums, making their affairs okay. When the wives turned up as healthy (both physically and mentally) as the average person, it often turned out to be a great shock. I’m not sure how those men would have explained away such epic lies.

This is one of those books that you read all while thinking to yourself, “I would never let that happen to me.” But when a man is showering you with flowers and champagne and telling you how much he loves you while neglecting to mention he’s already married with children, you can understand how he might slip under the radar. We want to trust. Not just women, men as well. But there are some people in this world who knowingly take advantage of that. Because they are gathered together in this book, it might seem like this kind of man is everywhere but I suspect (and hope) they are a small percentage of the population. And once they are exposed and confronted, they shrink and we realise how powerless they are. In fact, the only power they ever had derived from stealing it from those around them.

I hope to God no one is in the kind of relationships that this book describes but if you are, or if you think you might be, reading the interviews and comparing your own situation might be a good way to figure it out. If you’re not in a relationship, these are some terrific cautionary tales. And if you’re in a good relationship, this is a voyeuristic peek into how the other half lives that will make you glad you’ve got it as good as you do.

It’s also a terrific sociological contribution. Yes, it lacks the stuffy academic analysis but that’s what makes it so readable, so interesting. And because the author makes few judgements of her own, the reader can think what they want. I thought I was going to hate all the “other women” for their complete lack of respect and bimbo-like qualities but it’s not quite as simple as that. Each story has to be considered on its own merits.

The women, and I suspect the men, are well disguised to prevent law suits and public humiliation. There are a couple of people in the book who I think might be identifiable if they weren’t. It just goes to show that it doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor, famous or ordinary, nothing can be taken for granted and almost nothing is ever what it seems. And the truth is almost always stranger than any fiction that can be created.

5 stars

*First published on Goodreads 4 January 2016