Is this the way to write?

Is this the way to write a grabbing story, one that will grab where grabbing is needed, or not, depending on how hard one means to grab?

"It was Tuesday, raining, a wet Tuesday that made life rather wet, and damp, a dampness that made one eternally wet for the entire day, or for as long as it was wet, at least.  She was blonde, not the brunette from the bar but a blonde from another bar, the bar none bar where no one was ever barred."

I was using this as an example of some of the 'jerky' writing that is seen, mostly in stereotype detective yarns.

I wonder how much of this a reader could stand?

Things that we need to do.

Have someone explain something that is inexplicable.
Think of things that are unthinkable.
Pack up your troubles in an old kit bag.
And, pass them on to someone else.
Find out what nothing is, and do it.
Say something nice to someone you dislike...But not so they can hear it.

Notty - quite the character

An excerpt from Peter Rake's debut short story, Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero.

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Early mornings would see George leave his 'digs' dressed in his every day clothes of battered shoes, no socks of course, trousers that were three sizes too large and a coat that his brother had tossed out as rags ages ago, a coat now as filthy as the rest of the garb. This coat had one cuff burnt and shredded from being pulled down over a hand to retrieve a black billycan from a burning fire, for a cup of vicious looking brew that George called tea.

His trousers were pulled together at the waist and secured by a length of twine, the cuffs long gone to the constant dragging along footpaths and roadways. A shirt that had once, long ago, been white, but in line with the rest of his attire, was as filthy and foul smelling as the man himself.

Although Jack had allowed George to use the showers at the rear of the service station George declined this kind offer for most of the time. There were occasions that George would sneak into the amenities, have a quick shower and re-don the same clothes that he always wore. No one ever noticed that any ablutions had taken place, of course.

George showered when the urge took him, but it may be suggested that the slippery lather of the soap applied to certain parts of his scrawny anatomy was the attraction, rather than any sense of hygiene.

His 'home' depicted the man. A rough affair, scant furniture, but boasting an iron framed bed covered by a straw filled mattress that accommodated George in his nightly repose.

The dirt floor was a matter of safety for George as the open, often smoking fire, would throw sparks and coals onto the surrounding area, which lay smouldering to lifelessness without any concern from George.

One door and one unglazed window at opposite ends of the shack were the only ventilation that the building afforded, and in the summer heat and the cold of winter George suffered the deprivation without much complaint.

A wooden crate stood central in the one room building covered with spoilt food from many meals ago combined with the latest culinary delight that George had concocted for his repast of the moment.

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Animal

  What is this?

No one rushing to answer the question, so....http://australianmuseum.net.au/image/Port-Jackson-Shark-egg-Illustration

I'll eat me 'at

G'Day. I'd like ta' introduce ya' to a couple of old mates of mine. They come from the Akubra clan, and have been around for a good many moons.

They are a bit like me: a bit work worn, a bit rough around the edges but not bad in patches, and, of course, we is all still above ground.

This is Gramps. He has seen better days, but in them days he was the best mate I ever had. He went everywhere with me—the pub, out drovin', chasing cattle and helping out in general by being smacked on the back of an 'ornery 'orse or two.

I even took him to the annual ball, wot only happens once a year, in Longreach.

You could pick up a scalding quart pot with old Gramps and he wouldn't whimper one bit.

Old Gramps was the musical one in the family—you can see that he still has his band with him today.

Poor old bugga, all he wants to do these days is to lay about and dream of the good old days.

If ya' eckon that you have a few wrinkles, and a few bits of arty rightus, in the bones, look at old Gramps and think how he feels when he tries to lift his peak, and flatten his brim when a couple of flowery Sunday Bonnets walk by.

I got him out in the back paddock now, where he munches on the good grass, and dreams of the time when we rode the river together ... Sniff!!

I ended up having to retire old Gramps, but I kept him outta the way when the new bloke arrived. Also of the Akubra clan, he was a down right fancy 'Boss of the Plains', and didn't he know it.

Ya' can see by the sweat of the brow that this fella was no slouch when work came about, but that was the life of the true blue Akubra Clan.

He tried his darnedest to keep in shape, I mean, just look at that brim, even after all these years.

We had a few hic-cups in the early days, trying to get used to each other, ya' see, old Gramps knew what I needed and seemed to join in like most of the old blokes of the time.

Eventually the Gray with a bit of yard work, and a few bashings on a 'orses rump, decided to fit in as best as he could.

One thing he was good at was being a watering trough; Fair Dinkum, I wouldn't lie to ya'. Look I'll show ya'.

Now, ava' look at this. I bet ya' London to a Brick on that you haven't seen a better 'orse waterer than this, hey?

An' ifn' ya' go back to the first picture an' use a bit of imagination you can see that by pushing the crown down leaves a darn fine dog water dish.

After showin' ya' these two good old mates, I feel a bit tangle-footed at showing the new kid on the block. Time goes on, the old blokes pass away or just get sent to the back paddock and you are left with this......

Mates, and Matesses, it ain't even from the Akubra Clan. Apart from the 100 year centenary badge what happened after Wagga was a hundred years old, otherwise the badge woulda' been wrong, but I wuz born then, like in 1938, there is nothing that gives this hat any distinction at all ...

Apart from being on my auspicious head, hey?

Childbirth

It has been said that the only way a man could experience the pain of childbirth would be to have a hemorrhoid operation.

I can vouch for the pain of one of these incidents, twice, and if the mothers go through anything like it, I sincerely commiserate with them; however, after child birth is over, and the baby grows, the mother looks at the little darling, and is heard to say, "I would love to have another baby."

In all my 74 years, I have never, ever heard a bloke say, "I would love to have another hemmy operation."

I wonder why that is?

A Joy

My ever so clever publisher, Fiona, is doing a wonderful job of editing my novel, Freda.

I find it a real treat to re-read this story, as it is taken from many of my life's experiences, albeit I do give some different outcomes than actually happened. With my imagination I can, at least, dream that the outcome is real.

Everyone that feels that they have a story in them should write about their own life, but give it twists and turns that you may like to have happened, or even the same that you may not have liked to happen.  Does this seem foolish?  I don't think so, as you are only using your life as a basis for a story.

If you feel that your life is boring, don't ever write an autobiography. I won't, that's for sure.

I started writing Freda in 1988, and it was a different story then.  It started out in the first person dialog, and it concentrated on the township of Isisford.  I later changed it to second person narrative, as this gave me the chance to add insight into people's lives and personal feelings.

To have found a publisher, in Australia, that puts 120% into her work, and is most enjoyable to talk to, and I might be so bold to say, is now a friend.

This is more than this old bloke would have ever hoped for in my attempt to get my "stuff" out there.

Thank you "Boss Lady".

PS: The first edition of Freda will sell out in the first week, so be quick....I told you I had a good imagination.

This Koolie would have been called Fred, but he looks like he could have been my Freda's dad.

Wot did he say?

Politicians are very good educators, take these circumstances for example.
If you can't think of anything to say, just say anything, and
employing selective hearing and turning a blind eye will keep you out of most sticky situations.

Can't We All

Don't We All ... Can't We All

I was at the barrel bottom, it was either swim or drown,

Down an out, no job, no food, no hope and a stranger in the town.

I had made my bed of thorns, I blame no one for my distress,

And in my poor and stupid attitude I reckoned that no one could care less.

I sat dejected, down hearted, angry, feeling sorrow for my life's fate,

And through the depth of my moroseness, my sad and sorry state,

I heard the voice of someone close, a man I did not know who said:

“What's your trouble son? What are your needs?” as if my mind he'd read.

“I need help”, and I looked to see who had joined me on my misery seat.

I saw an older man and I heard the words that from his lips did speak.

I could see that he had been a worker, I could see he once stood tall,

And I felt the sound of his sorrow as he said “Mate, don't we all.”

I felt the need to let him speak for my cares seemed less somehow.

He told of the things that he'd lost, how fortune had often laid him low;

Of how he'd nursed and cared for his one true love, his own 'darlin' wife',

But she had gone, and she cried for leaving him alone in his remaining life.

And as he spoke he pointed to a woman passing by, a child in a pram,

“Look there my son, her babe is ill, and that poor lady, she has no man,”

He raised his hand in salute, and the woman returned his friendly call.

“This lad needs help” he told her and in answer she replied “Don't we all.”

“I see you have no boots, and I reckon you feel you are at life's dregs,

But have you thought of those out there, the ones that have no legs?”

I knew his words were true, I knew I'd turned the lamp out on myself,

And here I was a'wailing, a man still strong in perfect working health.

I rose from the seat of misery and I shook the man's rough hand,

And I started on the work to get myself back on to some dry land.

I knew it was in me, and feeling sorry was just a place for me to fall.

Yes, I had found some help this day, and really ... can't we all?

Note: A poem on an old adage theme.

On Love

Old Pete has been in love once, a long time ago now, but it was good, it was nice, it was warm and something good to remember now that it is gone.

this is how I felt at that time:

On love

There is no greater gift than the one that freely comes

To give your love, and receive in return the same

To feel the warmth and comfort of your companion.

The melding of heart and body, the exquisite pain.

The joy of knowing the thrill of finding the magic,

Soft caresses, t he gentle touch, the passionate kiss.

Neither man nor woman should pass this life alone.

No soul on earth should be deprived of this.

The early rush, the heady lust, the excitement,

The subtle change where words are not needed.

Feeling a oneness, a fulfilment of bonding hearts

Where the casual eye, the gentle touch is now heeded,

A look that others see and they smile knowingly.

Holding hands on a long and happy walk in the rain,

Laughing together at things you once never saw.

Not feeling, weariness or at times, any pain.

This joyful love conquers the ills of the world.

It causes differences to fade, selfishness die.

It changes the very meaning of your life's existence,

I brightly colours things that we see with the inner eye.

Once you have felt this love it never goes away,

Although partnerships dissolves for whatever reason,

One strong, passionate love is always in your mind to recall

Your personal shield against a bitter lonely season.

  Aw Gee!

A New era in the Campfire

No matter how hard we try to keep a happy face, there comes a time when life gets us down.

When I look at the hate of the world, and the misery that hate brings I become sad, I become angry and I lose my hope of happiness.

This is not a good area to seek, this is not helpful to those that try to cope with all sorts of problems in life.....

But sometimes I feel like this:

Oh bilious body that burns with hate, 

You stand yourself at Hades gate.

No mortal lives that's done no wrong

No life is full of love and song.

Difference abounds in the multitude

And you thrash yourself as you exclude

The rights of others, their right to live

The mixture of all that we wish to give.

Oh! bilious that burns with hate,

You stand forlorn at Hades gate.

The ones you hate do not care,

To them 'tis though you are not there.

Remember that you and you alone

Have made this path you choose to roam.

Oh! bilious body that burns with hate,

You have brought yourself to Hades gate.

Your only joy as you pass through

Is all in there are just like you. 

Dedicated to all the suicide bombers, to the ones that choose to seek revenge where no revenge is warranted, to those that have no love for their fellow man, and in this state of mind, have no love for themselves.

Must Be Dreaming

Dream On

In my dreams I am tall and handsome, Adonis, a fellow dreamer's word

I like who I am, in my dreams, and it does not swell my head.

I am as modest as a perfect man can be, a rooster if I was a bird.

In my dreams I drive a fabulous car, deep throated engine noise, I hear.

White upholstery, forever clean, beckons to maidens on the walkways,

And I give a casual wave, and they swoon seeing me so near.

In my dreams, everyone feels blessed by my presence, I do nothing wrong,

If asked I will recite a Shakesperian verse, do a scene from some film.

Dance like Old Fred, fight a duel for some lady's honour, or sing a love song.

I met a beautiful lady, in my dreams, blonde, blue eyes sent signal beam

For once my heart beat a little faster, could this be true love, I hoped.

“Come walk with me, dear lady,” I spoke “Come walk by yonder stream.”

“In your dreams, sport,” she said.

Dalmatians on Fire trucks

The New York Fire department had an agreement with the ASPCA, American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, that included the NY Fire Department accepting all Dalmatians that were born deaf.

Deafness is a ongoing problem with this breed of dog. Only about 70% have normal hearing, and it was found that they adapted to the fire trucks very well. The sirens did not frighten them as the spotted dog could not hear them.

True or False?

Comforting

Sometimes it can be very comforting to know that you can be blamed for the friends you keep, but you cannot be blamed for the relatives you have.

Not yet named

I have just finished the first draft of a 48800 word novel.  It has murder, corrupt police, two transvestites, love, sex, romance, odd situations and has our Hero of Tagaroo, Notty, involved in another episode of his life.

I even involve the KGB and some Russian agents.

I love the names that come to mind when I am writing like this: Shark Butcher, Teddy (the Toad) Kane, are just a couple of the characters.

It is written with much humor, and although the murders and sex are a bit graphic, I am sure you will get a laugh on the events as I describe them.

It may be some time before it hits the 'stands' so hang around, or put in pre-orders and give my publisher some more heartache.

This is an update on this yarn: After a bit of a think I came up with a name: "Shark and Other Fishy Creatures".

A funny title, I know, but the story is written with fun in mind, and a bit of horror, and a little slice of romance and that other stuff.

Troublesome trouble

Never trouble trouble 'til trouble troubles you.