Moans and Groans

My cry for help still remains:: If you know a publisher that is willing to take me on, let me know.

There are many things in life that one can control, and make the best of.  Unfortunately there are many things in life that one cannot control.

I am in a situation where I was helped to attain one of my long time dreams, then that dream was destroyed.  I found it difficult to control the anger I felt.  One would think that a person my age would be able to say, So be it, and move on'.

It is my age, too, that attributes to the anger, and the feeling complete frustration I am now having.  I am too old to go search for another avenue to publish my books, hours of writing, hours of hope, hours of disappointment now with only the latter remaining.

A real change of direction

My dear Publisher ... I say dear as I have spoken to her husband, John, who cannot put his credit cards back in his pocket until the plastic cools down, that kind of dear ... but I  digress, which is rare for me, but it is done, the digression, that is; so I will get back on track ...  My dear Publisher, who I was friends with before she read this, asked me to write a story for teenagers.

Ha! I said, Ha! Said I, me ... teenagers ... write ... story ... etc ... Well mates and matesses, I cannot even get the same grunt tone that exists in the modern teenager's vocabluary, I use vocalbury very loosely!

However, being very intimidated by the 'one who must be obeyed' I put myself to the task of doin' as I wuz told, without hearing the "Or else".

So, in a cupla'  months, you should be able to get Bogan's Heroes, which is most suitable to kids, and the old fuddy duddies that cant stand a bit of kissin' and stuff.

I enjoyed the exercise, it gave me a differnet approach on life.  It is not placed in the Outback ... Hang on, it is in a sort of sense, as a matter of fact the sense is that it is that far Outback that it has returned to be in front, ifn'ya' know wot I mean.

So, keep your peepers glued to the pages. No. No. Not your nose, that is harmful, Look at me! Sniff.

Ordinary Country Folk

Trying to tell stories that suit all English speaking folk around the world is difficult in the fact that we have different terms for the one thing.

For instance, in Australia we say timber, in the US they say lumber, I believe that the Kanuks are also so inclined.

Also talking of timber, we say 4 by 2 and the others say 2 by 4's. So if you can get around the Aussie terminology for whatever, you may get a bit of a giggle outta 'me yarns.

I know a few country folk, folk that spent a lot of time working, and little time at schooling, but that is the way it is sometime in poorer rural families where Dad reckons that if you have one son in school, why bother sending the rest, as the frist bloke can tell the others what he learnt.

However, some of the rural folk have that loveable slowness in speech and in thought. These ones are the purely lateral thinkers. These folk are the ones that I love to hang around as it makes me look almost intellectual.

My best mate, Slow Joe Rolly and his dad, Joe Slower Rolly, had come into town, with the old Bedford truck to get some timber at the local timber place, wot sell timber and stuff.

Old Slower didn't like town much, and was not really eager to leave the truck, but this was for several reasons, one being that if it cut out he wouldn't be able to get it started again without a lot of swearing and bush type mechanisation applications, known only to the two Rollys. Another reason was that dad Rolly couldn't open the driver's side door and the third was he had trousers on that had suffered from a severe bout of ….Well you know what.

Young Slow Joe went into talk to the timber bloke. “Do ya' have any hardwood timber, mate?”

“Yeah, plenty of hardwood timber. What size do ya' want?”

“I'll go an ask Dad.”

“Dad said we need some 4 x 2.”

“Yeah! Mate, we got plenty of 4 x 2 hardwood, how long do ya' want 'em.”

“I'll go an' ask Dad,” said Slow Joe.

“Dad reckons we'll want 'em for awhile, 'cause we is building a shed.”

Now don't be unkind, it seems reasonable that 'how long” should indicate time. I mean if you are going out and your wife asks, “How long will you be?” do you tell her that you will be the same length when you come back as you are when you went out, right? Okay, so you will from now on, I see.

Eventually, young Slow Joe Rolly got a job in a saw mill out near the back of the place that they lived in front of, ifn 'ya' know what I mean. See, I told ya' it made me look intellectual.

At anyrate, not long after young Slow Joe started work he was in a hardware store in town and up on a shelf he saw a row of vacuum flasks, or as we call them Thermos flasks, Thermos being a trade name.

“What are those things?” he asked.

“Thermos flasks, mate, stainless steel Thermos flasks.”

“Gee! What are they for?”

“They keep hot things hot and cold things cold, and a lot of workers have them.”

“Fair-bloody-Dinkum, I'll get one then.”

The next day, Slow Joe was busting a gut for Smoko to come, and when it did he sat down with the rest of the blokes and casually opened his tucker box and pulled the Stainless Steel Theroms flask out and put it in full view of the other blokes.

They looked, they looked but didn't say anything, so Joe moved it around and about until one bloke couldn't hold his curiosity.

“What's that thing, Slowee?” he asked.

Joe was so proud, so happy that he had something that no one else had that he almost cried, but instead he said. “It's a Thermos flask.”

“Wot's a Thermos flask for, Joe?”

“Well,” the beaming Joe said, “It keeps cold things cold and hot things hot.”

“Fair-bloody-Dinkum,” chorused several of the other blokes.

“Wot ya' got in it, Joe?” they asked.

“An ice-cream and a cuppa' tea, that's wot.”

So there you go again, running poor young Slow Joe down for a bit of lateral thinking.

Pete's Publishing News - Grab yourself a bargain

To celebrate the immenant launch of Peter Rake's debut novel, 'The Outback Story - The Adventures and Loves of 'Tiger' Williams', the price of Peter Rake's five short stories have been reduced to $0.99 apiece and the collection of six short stories and two poems to $2.99.

This is the perfect opportunity to sample Peter's work for less than the cost of a cup of coffee.

Choose from 'The Pup' - a comical tale set in droving country; 'Notty' - a suspense comedy full of wit and Aussie slang; 'On Swallow's Wings' - an urban tale of love and loss; 'The Awakening' - a coming of age story; and 'The Coachman' - to get swept into the past. All these fabulous short stories are now $0.99 each.

'Fair Dinkum Yarns From the Australian View' on the other hand is the complete collection, plus the comical but moving yarn about 'Arthur', the drunk sheep station hand who finds that it's harder to end it all than he first thought. The collection is now available for $2.99.

Find them all here.

The classic Australian joker and story teller gets the quintessential treatment

Like any old classic, Peter Rake's short stories are now available like an old LP - an essential collection.

The Fair Dinkum Yarns from the Australian View includes five outback tales by Peter Rake, plus a coupla poems thrown in for good measure (pardon the pun!).

Get set for some laughs, maybe even a tear jerker.

This collection includes:

Arthur
The Awakening
Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero
The Coachman
The Pup

Available on Amazon and Smashwords as an ebook and in print for all you old fashioned types as well.

Great Aussie Reads For Australia Day

From the desk of Pete's publisher ...

There are so many different Australian stories. One of the "classic" angles of Australian life, that carries with it themes of endurance, mateship and respect for the land - themes that break down barriers between the vast Australian experience - is that of the Outback tale. This Australia Day, 26th January, treat yourself to an afternoon reading of a story by Peter Rake.

My personal recommendation would be to inject a bit of humor into your afternoon with 'Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero'. This is a cheeky tale about a town's no-hoper turning good just when it counts - or as good as he can manage anyway. Although there's nothing terribly outlandish in it, it's not one for kids, so if you want an Australian story that the whole family can enjoy, try 'The Coachman' which is the perfect length to read out loud to a small crowd as your Australia Day BBQ feast settles in ... or as you nod to the occasion from across the seas.

Short Story 'The Pup' - A Quote

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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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.

A Teenager Story?

It has been suggested that I write something for the kids, or teenagers.  It may be a good thought, but I am afraid that asking me to write about the kids of today, or for the kids of today, would be like asking me to do a thesis on neuro-surgery.

It is a long time since I was a kid, well physically; I have been a bit of a kid most of my life, but that is my mind kid, not the up-to-date, muscle-fingered, mobile-phone-implanted teenager we see these days.

Even if I did have something to say to them, how do you get through the screen of technology surrounding them like a barb wire, land mined fence?

I wouldn't  have the mind to write the Potter yarns—I would scare the wits out of myself on the first page.

The language has changed, and I don't  have a kid-speak-spell checker on my 'pute yet.

The only things that I know about teenagers is that the terrible times that they have are still the same from my day.  Isn't that a lovely expression, 'in my day'?  I think so, but teenagers hate it.  Instead we hear, "I didn't ask to be born."  "Everyone hates me."  "I don't see why I should have to work when I can get the dole."  Although the last one was not around "In My Day."

How about the dress sense of our kids today—they all dress the same.  They can't tie shoelaces, they can't pull their pants up and they can't work out how to put a simple peak cap on their scruffy heads.
Their excuse: We don't want to conform to the oldies, we wanna'  all look the same as the other kids, so's we kin' be diff-net."

So, Me write for kids?  I hardly never say never, but in this case I might say, I will look into it.

Writing tip

I have had a method that keeps me interested in the story that I am working on.

Every so often writers get 'blank periods', and writers' blanks are not very good, as we wish to keep an idea moving and continuous.

I do this—every so often, I put in some sort of completely unrelated incident or moment and when I bog down I then go to that point in the story to see if I can weave it into my yarn so far.

This written moment is not necessarily permanent—I mean all you have to do is highlight and press delete and it is gone—however, I do not delete this teaser until I am happy with the story as it is.

It is only mind games, but isn't writing fiction mind games?

Two Mates at the Pub

My mate, Norm, he doesn't usually get despondent, well not up to, maybe the tenth schooner, but normally, like when us blokes are 'bonding' in the pub.

As you know bonding between us blokes is a very important part of our development.  There is no way we could be such good partners if it wasn't for the male bonding thing.  It is also well known that the only suitable place to male bond is at the pub, the club, the footy, the race track and all those great male bonding venues, right?

So, I was bonding with me' mate, Norm. I had just had a beer with Duncan, who is also a mate, but it seemed that I could not go home and leave Norm in his deep despondent mood.  No self respecting bonded male would, would you, mate?

"Mate," Norm said, "Mate, I don't have any idea what I have done wrong. I've tried to be what every woman expects of her man." 

I could see that this might be a bit of a long session so I ordered a couple more schooners, and took the money out of the change in front of Norm, that's what mates are for, hey?

"Mate,"Norm said again, although I am pretty sure he knows my name, "Mate, what are ya' supposed to do? I mean women expect a man to spend more time at the pub with their mates, than they do at home with her and the kids, I do that, but it makes no difference. My missus," who I am sure Norm also knows by name, continued, "Take taking out the garbage, I don't take out the garbage because she would not be able to say, 'You never take out the garbage', would she, mate?"

"Yeah Mate! They are never satisfied," I offered.

"Ill tell ya' wot, mate, they are never satisfied," Norm mumbled in the bubbles of his beer.

"When are ya' gunna' mow the lawn?" she yells. "I'll do it tomorra', I say. 'No leave it, I'll do it' she rants. So what am supposed to say, I mean tomorra' there is a good game on TV between the blues and the other mob. I mean she expects me to watch the footy instead of mowin' the lawn, so what is she on about?"

"Ya' got me, Mate, They are never satisfied, that's the problem."

And I know my wisdom has helped me' mate Norm in his problem, otherwise there would be no point in male bonding, eh?

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Me as Some Other

I used to travel Cyber Space, or if you prefer, the Internet, as Marakorpa.  Marakorpa has had a bit written about him here and there, so I will tell you who he is, or isn't as the case may be.

Well, Marakorpa is no one really, just a name I assumed.  Marakorpa is a name from a Tasmanian dialect among the Aboriginals.  Marakorpa means handsome man, so it is obvious why I picked that name, hey? All right, you are welcome to your opinion.

I am neither Aboriginal nor Tasmanian, which means that I am misrepresented twice out of three, as I am a man.

However, it is not a crime to assume names for the purpose of forums, writing fiction, talking to the Police, your girlfriend, maybe your father, even, but never your Mum ... they always find out when you are fibbing.

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Me? Ego! Na!

The Coffs Coast Independent newspaper has done a writeup!

A lack of understanding of the Wot-Not

After my experience of the Outback, an experience that I loved, and to where I went back to on many occasions, I did look into other pursuits. One such pursuit was home decorating; however, I was always confused with the use of some of the bits and pieces that folk wanted to put in their homes.

It is with this in mind that I ask these questions: If you were given, or on an some ridiculous impulse purchased, a Wot-Not, would you use it to display thingamajigs or would it be more appropriate to put out your antique watchamacallits?

I purchased a delightful gizmo once, but as it had no user manual I had no way of knowing how it worked. It is in a safe place in the work shed waiting for its time in life to arise.

However, I digress, and it is needed that I return to suitable uses for the Wot-Not. I did suggest to one home decorator that she may use the Wot-Not to show off her wonderful display of gozintas, those magical items that go into some other magical, but otherwise redundant item of great cost but of little value. But her argument was the she had a special item, a one off, that she had trouble of showing with other valuable items of a different value and usefulness, which she had found useless.

I did see a great hoozibob in her cupboard, amongst the cups, which cupboards are designed to hold, I think, which I said would look nice in amongst her watchamacallits, and maybe a smattering of thingos of equal charm.

I did find out that collectors treat their finds like they treat their spouses in that they may not be worth a spit, but they are nice to look at, and if the truth be known, the value is no where near what you have expended. Some even try to sate their thirst of the collecting bug by seeking other worthless spits to display on their Wot-Nots.

I did find that a Wot-Not really displays do-dads to the best of their shine, and that an occasional statue of a whos-e-wot looked exceptionally exceptional. 

I never seem to get it right, so I gave up this pursuit and pursued other things worth chasing.

Character development

I often wonder what draws people to other people' writings.  In my case, and I forgive you for calling me an egotist, but my writings and stories draw me to read and listen to any hidden wisdom that is within my soul.  Not much found lately, but I will keep trying.

I cannot stress more the importance of those that wish to write, to develop your characters to the point that you actually ask them, the fictional characters in your head, what they think of your story, so far.  Of course, I am speaking of fiction writing and fictional characters.

If you have a very strict concept of what your character is about to do, you may find that you will bog down with a mental block because you are confined with your ideas of a character that does not fit your direction.

Let your characters be a little changeable. Through dialog, let them take a bit of control of the story direction. If you feel that you can not do this, and that you must be in control of everything that is said and done, you can only then make the main character you.

I enjoy the way "my people" come to life in my writings.  Many of them are a spark from this old flint, whilst others may be a conglomerate of the human species that I have met, have been involved with and have either liked muchly, or been annoyed by the same amount of muchly.

No matter what your intention of writing is, never give up.  I am 73, have been writing stuff for around 50 years and finally, in this last year, had something published with the idea of having someone buy and enjoy my mind.

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The Code of the West

Was there a code of the West in the Outback? Does it still exist? What is the code of the West?

One main thing I could remember, and it is a pity that it is still not 'the code', but anyone that pulled a knife in a fight would not last long in any Outback town. It just wasn't done, and anyone that did was labelled as a "Wog."

Now, I know that word is offensive to some people, but to cover myself from litigation, please recall the book and movie, "The Wog Boy", or expressions like "Wog Football". These expressions are used by many ethnic people in this country to this day.

It is odd, I know, but I never suffered a cultural cringe when I was in the back country. We accepted the Greek Café owners, the Greek and Italian pub owners, and they in turn, accepted us Australians just as though we were actually humans.

In a Greek Café you were sure to get more than you could eat if you asked for a mixed grill, and as many cups of tea or coffee as you wanted.

So, Code #1 was fight fair.

Code #2 was respect the people around you, the ones that would help you out without hesitation, the ones that fought nature's onslaughts, standing side by side with all other men and women of the West.

Code #3 was definitely the hand shake. To shake on a deal was like writing it in blood, and consequently if one reneged on a handshake, there would be plenty of blood to write another agreement. Mainly from the reneger!

To have a reputation for someone that cannot be trusted was probably worse than someone that was a bit of a mug, a fool, as they often could not help themselves.

Code #4, I remember well, was respect women. They were so few women in the Outback towns that it was more awe than respect. I remember only too well young Nerida in Longreach saying "Are you going to stop babbling and kiss me, or not?" I kissed her, but I am sure the red glow of my face gave her sunburn, so much was my awe of the fairer sex.

Don't ever steal from your mates ... this one could be any number but I will give it Code #5. You see, trust features in The Code in a big way, and if you lose your mate's trust, you lose your mate, and many more mates along the way.

Code #6: never leave a man in trouble, be he broken down on a dusty road, hurt in some fall or accident. I say fall, as many of us fell from horses, as well as falling for a girl or falling from the graces of a girl ... lots of falling about went on in the good old days. Life was a bit slower, and we had time to stand by a mate, or anyone else, for that matter.

Code #7, do not be a coward. If for some reason, during a drink or two in a pub, a bloke says "You ... out where the bull feeds," there is a good chance you have been invited to a bit of a donnybrook, out on a patch of grass, grown for that specific purpose in a good few of the Outback pubs.

Being a smallish bloke, I won a few of my fights by at least fifty yards. However, there were the times that I was forced to stand toe to toe, nose to nose, eye to eye, finger to chest and likewise, reciting the well known battle chant ...

"Yeah! Sez 'oo?"

"Me, I sez,"

"Yeah?" Jab with the finger.

"Yeah!" Jab back.

And this would go on until someone in the gathered assembly would say, "Come on blokes, these pair of pansies ain't gunna have a stoush ... let's go have a beer," and off they would go, leaving the combatants standing there glaring until one or the other would say "Your shout."

Later in the evenings the real 'blues' would be on, and some serious, well bet upon, fights would take place. I never saw a coward in my time. Many of these blokes would be the best blokes to have around you as you would ever find. In fun someone might say "YOU! Out where the bull feeds," quickly adding "And if I'm not there when you get there, start without me." But you had to be good mates to get away with that.

Code #8, although you might be called a pansy in circumstances like the one I relayed above, if you showed any sign of being what a pansy intimates you would have no mates, inter or otherwise. I do remember one chap in Aramac, that made advances to a young bloke in the middle of the night, and I tell you, I have never seen such a bloodied, almost corpse, in my life. I never came across him again in Queensland, and although his gear was still at the pub, he never came back for it to the best of my knowledge. Such was the Code of the West.

Editor's Note: These are thoughts and recollections on life in Outback Queensland in the 1950s and 1960s.

An Absolute Joy

It is an absolute joy for me to be working with MetaPlume, my publisher, and more of a joy to have Fiona Gatt as my mentor.

I am pleased that I have struck a cord with MetaPlume, and a friendship with Fiona.

As any aspiring writer knows, there are a few hard tasks in writing, that test the most intrepid of us.

Editing is one that we do not like, as we often think that everything we have written down is important, exciting, interesting or not able to be left out.

Russel Clements, or Mark Twain as we know his name in books, was a wise man when he said that "There are three things that the aspiring author should remember, and that is edit, edit, edit."

A short story with lots of interest is better than a long, boring, verbose tome similar to the mating habits of the South American short toed gnat. I think there is a book with that title, but it was so boring I put it down after reading the preface.

In all the hard things about writing, getting your work published can be the most disappointing. We write to get published; that is the name of the game. Rejection is hard to take, especially when no critical, helpful comment is returned with your work.

I am now a proud, published author thanks to Fiona and MetaPlume. Do yourself a big favour and contact her, you will not be disappointed.

Please purchase a copy of my first effort. Who knows, it may become as valuable as the first edition of Playboy, with the nude centerfold of MM.

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Isis Downs

Isis Downs is a place that I spent some of my working life. This photo is from one of many that is around today.

The grass weeds growing on the yards is an indication of the new direction that Isis Downs has taken.  Now primarily a cattle station, in my time it was sheep, and the pointed hard hooves of thousands of sheep at shearing time would leave no weed unturned, so to speak.

It was a large property, 250 000 acres I recall at that time.  Apart from the shed it had three cottages,  one for the farmer, a full time mechanic and one for the local handyman. These blokes were married and had their spouses with them. There was, to the left of the picture of the shed, a 'ringers quarters' with about twelve single rooms for the workers and between the quarters and the kitchen meal room was a meat house.

Beside the kitchen and cook's quarters there stood the Jackaroo's cottage; there were no such thing as a Jillaroo in those days.

Between those buildings, and the horse yards, one could see the Big Boss's place, up in the distance, and in no-mans land, as far as the working class were considered.

A general store in the middle of the area, manned twice a week by the bookkeeper, supplied at a cost, tobacco, cordial, soap, toothpaste and even tooth brushes.  Purchases on the night would be booked to your account and taken out of your wage of sixteen pound sixteen shillings a week if you were a ringer or station-hand.

The stud ram yards were near the mechanic's workshop, and a drop dunny that I helped dig the hole for was in the middle of the open area.

These drop toilets were usually about ten feet deep, which had been calculated by a 'dunny expert' to last a family of four for ten years.

The famous red-back on the toilet seat was a common sight in these little sheds.  However they were expected and dealt with on sight.

There is an adventure that the cook had in this particular double dunny, which I will relate later.

People of that era c1957 included the Manager Bruce Johnston,  Overseer Ian McLennan and Stud Overseer Phil Cameron.  The ringers were Alan and Bede Baker, Joe Saunders, a boundary rider's son, his name was Neil Piddock, I think, a young bloke that had never seen an airplane up close until we took him to the Longreach Rodeo. And of course, yours truly.

Up at the main house Joycie Singsong and Felicity Daylight were the housemaids, both South Sea Islanders.

Names I don't remember: The one armed cook and his wife.  The cowboy or cow milker and general hand, a pommy named Jim.  Two older general hands in the ringers' quarters.  The Jackaroo's housemaid and that is about it, I think.

Good memories of more time ago that I care to remember.

As my publisher said, I must laugh a lot.  That is very true when I create a character,and have that character interact with other characters and start the thread of a story, probably based, very loosely, on something that actually happened.

Using a fair amount of dialog like I do, the characters come more alive than just talking about them in the third person narrative.

Notty was one such character that came alive as I wrote the story.  At first it was my intention to make him immensely disliked by the reader, but as the story progressed,  Notty became somewhat of a hero.

My greatest  joy in writing is to see the characters develop personalities, and at times push the story their way, and not in the manner I first intended.

If some reader should see a resemblance to an actual event in one of my yarns, they could well think, 'That's not that way it ended'.  So, bad luck, in my yarn it ended the way it ended.