Now, for some facts. ‘My Barsetshire Diary’ is written by Lord David Prosser [yes he is a real lord] and is set somewhere in England or Wales. All of the characters are based on real people living ordinary lives.  Nothing terrible or scurrilous happens. There is no gossip. There are no shocking scandals. In fact all the events in the book are so ordinary that you would think the book must be boring,  yet it is anything but boring because Lord Prosser finds the comic in the everyday and carries us along for the ride.

The style of this book reminds me of those stand-up comedians who make us laugh because they show us the funny side of our own lives. Of course Lord Prosser lives the life of those to the manor born but his humour shows us that ‘they’ are no different to ‘us’. We all have the same sorts of problems and we all have the same sorts of foibles. This is human scale humour at its best.

I would have to rate this little gem 11/10.

I took these pictures after I worked out that it was a) too short to be a snake and b) had some short little legs!  Blue tongues don’t move very fast as a rule but this guy had just been flushed out of his nice safe pipe with cold water from the hose so he was going top speed for a lizard with such short legs. The fact he was being stalked by a camera clicking human, a dog and two cats  probably helped as well. Not surprisingly he really didn’t want to stick around to have his photo taken!

Bluey made it into my neighbour’s paddock safe and sound and I for one breathed a sigh of relief. He did give me a bad scare but I wouldn’t have wanted him to come to any harm.

In case anyone else is interested, the difference between lizards and snakes [apart from the legs] is that lizards have fleshy tongues and snakes have thin, forked ones. Needless to say I learnt that from googling not from personal experience!

All’s well that ends well!

Not since the invention of the printing press has the world seen such a state of flux. The world of books is changing at an incredible rate and will continue to do so for some time to come. For readers this means that we have more choices than ever before and they cost less than a cup of coffee. Because of this we can dip and discard without feeling that we have blown the week’s budget on a lemon of a book. This is incredibly liberating and I for one am all for it. Since getting my ebook device I have discovered four new, good authors in three weeks and all for the combined price I would have paid for just one book in the past. I feel as if I’m part of a history making event and I love the sense of limitless possibilities that implies. I would not turn back the clock even if I could.

But such freedom has drawbacks as well. Technology has opened up  new frontiers but, like the wild, wild west, those frontiers now have no guardians. There are no sheriffs in tall white hats dragging the bad guys off the streets. Worse still the bad guys don’t wear hats either, so every time I take a chance on a new author I do so at my peril.

Now I’ve already said that price is not much of a consideration any more and that is true, however wasted time is still an issue. If I have to dip and discard nine books before I find one worth reading then I have wasted some of my limited and therefore precious reading time. I have also spent 9/10th of that time being frustrated.  And that is bad. Bad for me and bad for this new era because every not-good book chips away at my confidence in the rest of the books [and authors] out there.

No two people will ever completely agree about what constitutes a ‘good’ book so I’m not even going to try to define it. I will however give my definitions of the ‘bad’ and the ‘ugly’. To me an ugly book is one that has been dashed off, possibly by a very sincere, nice person, and then rushed into publication without even basic editing. These books are literally choked with typos, spelling mistakes, horrible punctuation, contradictions and the kind of grammar that would be poor if spoken aloud and absolutely awful when written down. Two pages of this and I just can’t keep reading, no matter how interesting the story might eventually become. These basic faults are the uglies and they stop the duckling from ever becoming a swan.

Bad is different. Bad can be quite well written in terms of the basics of language [see uglies above] but falls down in style. By  my definition, style is not the same as the author’s ‘voice’ which is always unique. Rather it involves having a master craftsman’s knowledge of the power and the limitations of the written word. A short story I recently read is a great example of these limitations. The author of this short story clearly wanted it to be punchy and funny but he wrote it as if he was telling the tale to his mates over a beer at the pub. It could have been funny but wasn’t. Why? Because his words could not convey the body language, spoken pauses, -nudge, nudge, wink, wink- facial expressions that would have been part and parcel of the verbal telling.  Without all those intangibles the written story was lifeless.

On the other end of the scale are the examples of the authors who do know the power of the written word but do not know how to exercise restraint. Just because you can write a sentence with multiple clauses does not mean that you have to do so. Sometimes simple sentences can be far more powerful than complex ones. Similarly, obscure vocabulary and screeds of flowery descriptions may illustrate an author’s breadth of knowledge but they rarely succeed in drawing the reader into the mood of the story. These faults can be overlooked if the story is very, very good but those kind of stories are rare. So far I have read one that was good enough to keep me reading and another two that were just too unpleasant to finish.

Back when we had traditional publishers acting like sheriffs,  most of these books would never have seen the light of an LED screen. Some few would have been sent to editors to be massaged into shape before printing but they would have been the exceptions rather than the rule. Now we just have a level playing field littered with the bodies of those who thought first, or even second draft quality was good enough. It never is. Sorry.

In time I hope that this new frontier of publishing will develop an infrastructure of reputable editors, designers, proof-readers and printers to help authors polish their work before publishing.  Once that happens we may know which authors are wearing the white hats and which the black. Until then we will just have to take our chances with the good, the bad and the ugly.

Did I enjoy it? Yes and no. Am I glad I read it? Absolutely. ‘The Village Wit’ is a beautiful story that takes a long, hard look at love. Not the wish-fulfillment fantasy love of a romance novel but the warts and all love that can grow between real people with real lives and real baggage. This book is about love ‘as it is’ rather than as we would like it to be.

The protagonists – Richard and Peggy – are forty-somethings who have both had long term relationships. Richard’s marriage ended in divorce. Peggy’s left her a widow. Neither one is in a hurry to replace the loves they have lost, yet a bookshop brings them together and a spark is ignited. This spark leads to a growing attraction that culminates in some beautifully written but fairly explicit sex scenes.  I was a little surprised but not at all offended because every word seemed appropriate and ‘right’. It would be wrong however to think that the consummation of sex was the climax [forgive the pun] of the story. The true climax is purely emotional and traces the demands and expectations we place on those we have come to love.

To be honest the climax and ending sent me back into my own past and made me question whether my perspective back then could have been a little skewed, a little wrong. That kind of introspection is rarely all fun and games, hence my ambivalence about whether I enjoyed the novel or not. In the final analysis, I think I did.

One thing I am certain about however is that Mark Beyer is a very good writer. He presents the story of this relationship from the point of view [pov] of both protagonists without bias. More importantly he does what few male writers are capable of doing – he gets inside Peggy’s skin and makes her real. The book would be worth reading for that if nothing else. As a fledgling writer myself I know how impossibly hard it is to create a believable character of the opposite sex. So hats off to Beyer for pulling off some rather extraordinary characterizations.

And now to a few small things that could have been perfect but were not. As a work of literature Beyer peppered his prose with a great many descriptive passages. Some worked, turning his words into  vivid, lyrical prose worthy of a great master but all too often the frequent descriptions and metaphors just fell flat, jerking me out of the story rather than drawing me deeper inside. I honestly feel that in this case, less truly would have been more.

For me, the most beautiful parts of the prose were often the simplest. In these passages, Beyer’s connection to his  characters shone through without artifice – pure, clean, honest. This man has a voice that will be heard more and more in the future.

Highly recommended.

I recently bought a book that falls into the ‘limp carrot’ category. It was well written in terms of basic requirements such as spelling, punctuation, grammar, structure etc but it missed the mark completely in terms of story.

The author of this unnamed book clearly knew the theory – tell a great truth through the eyes of a fictional character – but he/she obviously cared more for the truth than the character. [To avoid tying myself into knots here I am going to call this character John.] Because the author did not really care about John, the inevitable result was that I did not care about John either and because I did not care I could not empathize. I read the words of pain and suffering but they struck no chord; I could have been reading a shopping list for all the impact they made.

And here is where the truly sad part comes in. Despite being highly sympathetic to the ‘truth’ the author was trying to reveal, my complete lack of empathy with John diminished my sympathy for the ‘truth’ as well. And that made me feel terrible, so terrible in fact that I simply could not get past chapter 2.  I did try, a number of times because I hate leaving anything unfinished, but I simply could not do it. And that has made me angry enough to write this scathing non-review.

Please people! If you write fiction then please, please, please understand that the story and the characters must come first otherwise you give your readers no reason to CARE. And if we cannot care then your truths will wither and die.

<<end rant>>

In a nutshell, ‘Shades of Milk and Honey’ is a lovely fusion of fantasy and Jane Austen-esque period drama. The prose resonated with the era without being slavish or over-the-top, however it was the fantasy element that I enjoyed the most.

The plot hinges on the ability of ordinary humans to work glamour in their everyday lives. If you are familiar with the concept of faery and the glamour they can cast over their victims then you will begin to see what this common magic can do.

Do you have a crack in your wall? No problem, just weave some glamour over it, tie it off and no-one will see the crack any more – it is still there but it has been hidden. Is your nose too big? Do your teeth stick out? If you have the stamina to continuously weave the glamour to hide your imperfections then you too can have a pert nose or perfect, sparkling teeth! And if you are an artist as well as talented in the glamour you can create extraordinary beauty. Beware of over-doing the glamour though – too much can quite literally kill you.

So this is the world in which Kowal’s heroine goes about her very normal, rather uninteresting life. At twenty-eight, rather plain and still unmarried,  she is a dutiful daughter and a caring sister but Kowal’s heroine is not as placid as she appears. Intelligent, artistic and highly talented in the glamour she finds herself attracted to a man she cannot have and fascinated by one she does not like.

I’ll admit that at this point I had images of Mr Darcy running through my mind and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘Oh no, not a remix,’ I thought.  Luckily I thought wrong! I could not predict either the climax or the ending and for that I will be eternally grateful. Despite appearances this story is not what it seems. Quirky yes but most definitely not a rehash of an old theme.

I gave ‘For Want of a Nail’ five stars. ‘Shades of Milk and Honey’ gets four and a half. I subtracted  half a star for the Mr Darcy terrors.  Seriously though, if you enjoy Jane Austen and innovative fantasy then you will love this book as much as I did. Enjoy!

Now, to the real mulcher. It’s a 2400W thing that looks a bit like an old fashioned meat grinder on the inside. Apparently it works like one too except that this baby is going to be munching up all the branches carpeting my block after the big blow we had recently.

In my own defence I really didn’t race out to buy a new gadget straight away. I did make an effort to pick up those branches but after creating five big piles of KINDLING it suddenly hit me that I’d just spent a lot of effort preparing big bonfires during the worst of the fire season. Clearly I would have to come up with a better plan… but what? I couldn’t bury the stuff – the ground in Warrandyte is just too full of clay and shale, I couldn’t stuff it into the dinky green composting bin provided by Nillumbik shire council – much too small – and I didn’t want to have to hire yet another skip.

And that, my friends, was when inspiration struck [aided by some counting on fingers and toes that proved I could not afford to pay $200 for a skip every time the wind made my eucalypts shed like mangy cats]. So off I went to you-know-where to buy a mulcher.

I am now $319.00 dollars poorer but I figure the new beast will pay for itself before winter… if I can just get it out of the boot.  Two nice men from you-know-where put it in there for me but at 5’3″ [and a bit] I have buckleys chance of getting it out again.  So here I sit, dreaming about my mulcher and wondering which of my neighbours hasn’t had a hernia yet.

Oh well….

yWriter 5

Scrivener

Storybox

Grammarly

WriteItNow

Celtx

Movie Magic Screenwriter 6

Final Draft

The Screenwriter’s Workbook

Question : would links to reviews for each tool be useful? Please let me know!

That little exercise in futility cost me $150 but frankly I’m not complaining. If it had been a snake [as distinct from a lizard] and if it had still been hiding by the back door, I’m sure I would have paid twice as much to get rid of it. As it is I now know that a) snakes can move damned fast, b) they don’t respect boundary fences, c) snake repellers are a complete waste of money and d) snakes love my frog pond as much as my resident frog

After weighing up all of the snake catcher’s advice I’ve decided to keep the pond because getting rid of it is not going to keep my block snake free, it will just make  them thirsty while killing off a wonderful frog habitat. So the pond stays but I am going to do some clearing to make the rest of the block less appealing to snakes.

So that was Saturday. Sunday dawned overcast with little sign of the heat and wind that had been forecast. After the furkids and I did our normal morning inspection of the garden I went inside and checked the CFA website but there was very little activity so I relaxed  and got to work. At about 1:30 pm a friend rang to ask if I’d been listening to the emergency broadcaster on the radio. I hadn’t because I did not think that there would be much fire danger. Wrong Apparently while I had been beavering away being creative a grass fire had broken out to the north and was being hurried along towards Warrandyte by the very strong north wind that had sprung up while I was not paying attention.

I raced out to the pump house and got both pumps going. Raced back and pulled down all the fire resistant shutters. Rang the neighbours. Raced out again and started up all the garden hoses to wet down key parts of the garden. Raced back in again and did what I should have done sooner which was to bring in all the flammable crap on the deck and outside the back door. Then we moved the two cars away from the house – just in case. Decided that it might be a nice idea to test the sprinklers on the roof. Got rather wet turning the valves on but everything worked as designed. Phew. Left the sprinklers running for about five minutes on each zone, especially the north and west zones. Then I turned them off and did something really hard… I waited.

Thankfully the grass fire to the north was downgraded to ‘controlled’ fairly quickly but I continued to keep  watch like a nervous hound dog until the change came through, bringing with it a very welcome downpour.

Did I learn any lessons from Sunday? Oh yeah. I learned that all the safeguards in the world won’t save you if you are not paying attention. And I wasn’t.  Despite being paranoid about bushfires I did what most other residents of Warrandyte must have been doing – I closed the heat out and forgot about the outside world.

Was it complacency? In part, yes but I think ignorance played a bigger role.  I have not personally experienced a bushfire so while my head knows what to do my instincts don’t have a clue.  Having that dress rehearsal on Sunday was the best wake-up call I could have hoped for because it highlighted the fact that we could have been engulfed without even knowing what had hit us.

So the number 1 lesson I have learned is to listen to the damn radio [ABC 774] on any day for which a strong north wind is forecast.  Yes, listening to the cricket in between announcements bores me to tears. Yes, the programming distracts me from my work. And yes, 9 times out of 10 absolutely nothing will happen. But the 10th time is the killer. Literally.

There may be parts of Warrandyte that feel just like suburbia but anyone who thinks it is a safe place to be over summer is delusional. I shudder to think what might have happened if that grass fire had kept on coming. Some of the old timers would have known to take action but like me, most of the residents would have been taken by surprise. Followed by panic. Followed by having nowhere to go…

As I said, it was not a good weekend.

In theory, all of the best stories are supposed to fire the reader’s imagination and make them think but I’ve never before read a story that was so… interactive. Interactive is usually a word we reserve for video games but trust me, this book is nothing if not interactive because all the best bits occur inside the reader’s own mind. And that effect was deliberate. Therein lies the mastery.

On the surface, ‘For want of a nail’ is a very simple story told from the point of view of Rava, a twenty-something female protagonist who is the ‘wrangler’ for the family AI, Cordelia. It is her task to look after Cordelia. Cordelia’s task is to record the day to day lives of all the members of the extended family via the VR glasses they all wear. Why this recording is so critical is never explained. We are however told that this particular family is one of many on board a generation ship. That is never explained either but most sci-fi readers will know that generation ships are colony ships that can take scores of generations to reach their destination.

All is well until a silly accident in which Cordelia is  dropped. That accident causes her to lose connection with the main databases in which her long term memory is stored. To fix Cordelia, Rava must find a replacement socket – the metaphorical ‘nail’. And this is when the story becomes really interesting.

AIs are not only recording devices, they are also communications devices – again through the ubiquitous VR glasses – so with Cordelia only functioning on ‘short term memory’, Rava and her brother must physically interact with key characters in order to track down the elusive socket. This interaction exposes a secret that ends rather badly.

Those are the bare bones of the plot but the beauty of the story and the sheer mastery of MRK’s story-telling lie in the backstory she does not tell. Oh, she gives us clues, never fear, but they are all delivered in an off-hand, almost causal way that suggests there is more without ever spelling it out.

In some ways, reading this story was akin to peering at the negative of an old style photograph; all the bits are there but reversed so you have to work to make sense of the picture.

When I finished reading “For want of a nail’ I was disturbed without knowing why and bewildered that such a simple story could win the prestigious Hugo award. Why?

It was not until I woke up this morning that I realised how much MRK had done with so little. I can’t remember what I dreamt last night but I know it was a ‘working’ dream – the kind that makes you wake up feeling as if your brain has been wrestling with E=MC2 all night. And perhaps mine had because I awoke feeling a strange sense of wonder. As my conscious brain caught up with my dreaming brain I began to see the staggering backstory emerging from the hints and clues I’d read the night before. To be honest I’m still getting little ‘ah hah!’ flashes as I write this review.

Am I going to tell you what these ‘ah hah’ flashes were?

Nope, sorry. Reading ‘For want of a nail’ is an experience in the true sense of the word and spoilers would be criminal. I’ve probably already said too much. Just read it. Magic does happen.

I’ll leave you with the rhyme from which the story gets its name :

For Want of a Nail

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

For want of a shoe the horse was lost.

For want of a horse the rider was lost.

For want of a rider the message was lost.

For want of a message the battle was lost.

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.