Living on the edge of the Nerang Forest, we are privileged to hear and see lots of varieties of wildlife – birds such as kookaburras, lorikeets, galahs, pulvars, to name just a few. My favorite has always been the magpie. They are known to swoop in breeding season, but they say that if they know you, they won’t swoop. Well, I get feathered visitors most mornings, and only once has a magpie swooped me!
Here’s a pic of one, and a haiku I wrote about the inquisitive and intelligent Magpie.
We took a trip up to Brisbane over the weekend, leaving before the sun came up to scurry up the motorway like timid nocturnal animals. Why you ask? Because there was a book and record fair on…I’m a book fiend while my husband is a record aficionado!
The book/record fest was held at the Exhibition Hall and because we were early, it meant that we had a couple of hours to peruse books (all genres, from a dollar), vinyls, dvds, even jewelry! I came away with 13 books including three Stephen King’s to add to collection and a couple of Margaret Atwood’s books. Hubby had a wad of Elvis Presley, Elton John and the like, so it was happy days all round..
We left our ‘goodies’ in the car and headed to the Gallery at Soutbank. I took a few pics, mainly of the art that caught my eye the most ( see images ), then sat by the river for some lunch.
Have a creative week everyone!..I wrote over 2,000 words of my new book, a historical timeslip novel, The Hour of the Witch. I plan to complete it by this Christmas 2019…
We headed up to a favorite lake of ours over the weekend. Coomera lake was one of the outdoor sites used in the Commonwealth Games last year, and it continues to grow in popularity.
We took our terrier Billy, of course. He must know every step of the route around the lake, and our little stop off half way under the shade of a gum tree. Can you spot the cormorants, waiting patiently for their dinner? They know that the fish jump up, their fins sparkling in the sunshine.
To celebrate the clear fresh winter sun -which is my favorite time of year on the Gold Coast – I have a haiku poem that I’ve written. I love the sweet simplicity of haiku poetry and the awareness of nature and its beauty. This poem was written as a nod to the hibiscus flower that grows wild and free around the coast and lakes:
‘The air so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great….’ – On the Road, Jack Kerouac
This short story is inspired by the American poet and novelist Jack Kerouac (1922-1969), whose writing was so wonderfully descriptive and emotive, called ‘spontaneous prose.’ He was a pioneer for the Beat Generation that included Allen Ginsberg and William S, Burroughs. I personally love his novel On the Road, which is based around his travels across the US and his encounters with jazz, drink, drugs, and poetry.
Brunswick Street is a nod to his literary genius:
The tram rumbles on behind us as we hurry down the street, passing noisy school children, chattering away like monkeys. They have on matching hats and jackets in a deep green, like newly mowed lawns, against the drab grey pavement. Someone bumps my elbow, and I turn around, feeling irritated. It’s a young child, no more than two years old, holding a toy in his arms. He grins up – a toothy grin that ‘s endearing – as he points a chubby finger behind him, to his mother.
‘Sorry,’ she says, a pale, thin young woman wrapped up in a yellow sweater and colored scarf. ‘He’s being a rascal today.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, watching as she hurries down the street, her flowing skirt picking up the gusty wind.
There’s a flash of purple and red as another woman brushes past me. This one has a mass of dark curls that bob in the pale sunshine. Clunky Doc Martin boots in a deep red that my daughter would kill for.
‘Come on, love or we’ll be late,’ says a voice in my ear. ‘He’ll want us to catch him.’
My husband is not the most tolerable of men and I can see by the frown lines across his forehead that he’s not in his comfort zone. I nod in reply, as we reach the corner of the street.
There’s a window on my left, full of musical instruments. All shapes and sizes; gleaming trumpets and oboes, a piano propped up neatly in the corner, a rack filled with guitars. A neon light flashes above us, even though its broad daylight. I can smell years of songsheets and leafed books as we make our way down a set of steps; suddenly we are plunged into darkness.
There’s a burly-looking man stood in front of a door. Its open and I can see tables and chairs set around a stage. Dim lighting coming from the recesses, somewhere.
I’m nudged forward, through the door and past the bouncer who smells of mints and cheap cologne.
I smooth down my dress, pat my hair self consciously. The music, a dull throb a moment ago, hits us, full on.
‘Sit down, I’ll get us a drink.’ I’m alone a moment, allowed to take in the atmosphere.
Then the lights become like candles, giving off an eerie glow. The stage is cloaked in sooty blackness. A spotlight appears, aimed at the figure on the stage. A young man is intent on the guitar he’s holding.
Something wicked this way comes” – William Shakespeare 1564-1616
On this day – 23 April 1616 – William Shakespeare was born and also died. The date of his birth is under contention, but he was baptized on the 26 April, and tradition then meant a baby was to be baptized a few days after their birth. The day of his death though is today.
So, if tradition is right, he died on his birthday!
Shakespeare is regarded as the greatest writer that has ever lived. He was a poet, a playwright, an essayist, and an actor, and his plays include Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Othello, and King Lear, to name but a few.
I have Macbeth on my bedside at the moment, for my Master’s thesis is on the Witch figure in literature, which has to include the iconic Three Sisters, the witches at the start of the play.
In respect of Shakespeare’s contribution to Literature – for which I will be forever grateful – here’s a short story in memory of his name.
They’d fallen in love almost instantly. Mary hadn’t wanted it to happen, she’d wanted a career, maybe travel a while. But the sound of Robert’s baritone voice, enrapturing audiences, from the matinee through to the shouts of ‘Bravo, bravo’ at night, had more than persuaded her. Robert was always surrounded by a gaggle of young women, each vying for his attention. He was the star of the show but had eyes only for her.
Robert had insisted they move in together, but Mary was not so sure. There was his wife to think of: Greta. They’d been separated years, he’d told her. It was a marriage in name only, but Greta was frail, almost on her death bed. Still, Mary felt apprehensive about the affair.
That was until they found a lovely place off the Thames Embankment. It had once been a manor house, in the heart of London, split into four apartments. There were ivy vines around every window and a brass knocker on the main front door. Sweet picture windows looked over the river and further down, if she squinted her eyes, she could see Tower Bridge. It was so convenient too, just minutes from the theatre, as the crow flies.
Mary loved their life together, the bijou apartment that she’d lovingly restored, adding her own style to the otherwise drab rental furniture. Robert had been left to sort out his other life; that was not her concern. Greta was to live in Cornwall, for the sea air would do her good. They could cozy up in London, a hundred or more miles away.
Why it was scarcely a sordid affair, she persuaded herself. They’d never hidden their love, instead had dined in all the best restaurants, had weekends trips to the country, taken numerous lunches with Robert’s theatre darlings.
The letter arrived just a few months afterward. Mary had been in the smart downstairs hallway and had just opened the communal mailbox. The letter had slipped out of her hands to rest on the shiny black and white tiled floor. She’d caught a whiff of something as it had fallen; something damp and guttural, like a damp meadow in the autumn. How strange, she mused, picking it up and tucking it in her handbag.
It was marked ‘Urgent’ and had a postscript from Cornwall. Mary’s heart had leaped into her throat at that. Nevertheless, she placed it on the drink’s cabinet, just inside their cozy living room, and started to prepare dinner. Thoughts of the letter were uppermost in her mind until Robert’s key sounded in the front door.
‘Hello, darling,’ Robert murmured softly, kissing her neck in a warm embrace. ‘How was your day?’
‘It was fine, darling,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got some asparagus from the markets and a rainbow trout.’
‘How splendid,’ he said, as she helped him with his overcoat. ‘You spoil me. Any post for me today?’
‘Why do you ask?’ she replied, hanging the coat in the hallway closet. Before closing the closet door, she checked the deep pockets of his coat then followed Robert into the living room. ‘A letter came today, as a matter of fact. It’s a Cornish postscript.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s nothing,’ he replied, grabbing her around the waist. ‘I can deal with that later.’
After dinner, Robert settled down with his newspaper. The letter remained untouched, right next to the sherry bottle. Mary tried not to look at it, picking at her knitting. She was making a lovely warm jumper for the winter evenings. Robert had recently started going out of an afternoon and without her. His alone time he’d told her, the first time she’d asked to go with him. He needed his space to think, to learn his lines. He was an actor after all; this was his life. She hadn’t minded in the least.
Next morning, and there was no sign of the letter. The sherry bottle sat, half empty, but alone, on the silver platter. And Robert had already gone to the theatre. Mary tidied up the dregs of the night before – the sherry bottle, the newspapers scattered on the floor. Her head felt woozy as she threw open the living room window.
The day greeted her; warm and sunny, with just a hint of winter. Mary leaned over the window sill, looking down at the street below.
‘Ouch!’ she said, pulling away. Her dressing gown had come loose, and her nightdress underneath gaped over the window. A sharp branch of the vine had scratched at her bosom, drawing a line of blood that had crept into the deep creamy curve of flesh. Another piece had wound its way around her wrist, almost holding her fast. Mary stepped back gagging as the putrid smell hit her – there it was again, the damp, dank stench of something rotting; dead leaves in a deep dark bog. She pushed at the branch as she tried to pull the window closed, but it had stuck fast to the sill.
‘That’s odd,’ she said, aloud. Her voice felt strange; deep, guttural and low. Not like her normal tone. Mary pulled at her dressing gown, twisting the branch free. Behind her, the pile of newspapers that she’d stacked, ready for the waste bin, fluttered, lifting in an imaginary breeze. They exposed a letter – the Cornish postmark!
Mary grabbed the envelope as the window slammed behind her. The smell hit her first; the stench unforgettable. The writing on the front was bold and black:
Take a look inside.
With her heart racing, she tore open the letter, searching inside. A document, as thin as parchment, inside. A death certificate.
Greta Mortensen. Born: 1949. Died: 1989. Cause of death: Unknown, but her body was found in woods near her home.
Further down, a scrawl of a signature that feathered along the bottom of the page, as if a small bird had settled there. Mary ran her fingers across it, the deep marks of the black ink.
Greta dead? How could this be?
‘Oh, Robert!’ she cried, placing fingers to her mouth. She tasted blood as she bit down. Then she heard the rustling, coming from the window. Mary turned around sharply as the window stood open, the vine reaching out, fingers thin and bony, searching for her throat. Mary screamed, pulling frantically at the ivy, but the tendrils were too hard, the vine too well established. The branches scratched at her face, wrapping themselves around her waist, her arms, her legs.
Later that day, when Robert returned from his daily ‘walk,’ he would find her. He would recoil at the guttural stench coming from their new apartment. He’d head for the window, wanting to rid it of the stench. There he would find his Mary. A body, hardly recognizable, wrapped in ivy.
We headed down to the coast this weekend. It was a matter of finding a spot of sunshine in between the rain showers! The Gold Coast is from one extreme to the other….weeks of drought, then downpours. The grass is grateful though and it all looks more alive after the intense dryness.
Here’s a couple of pictures taken around the coast. ..we stopped at an Irish pub on the Gold Coast highway that is dark and cosy after the brightness outside!
a story that revolves around the relationship between a boy and his dog
a tale set in a school for gifted children
The answer is NOTHING! But…they are all plot ideas, things that can start your novel. In order to move forward with your story ideas, you need –
a ‘problem’ that the character must face
the ‘problem’ – whatever it may be – is the drive that turns a good creative idea into a story. A story that will capture your reader, and enable them to turn those pages to the end of your story!
So, you want to write a romance set in King Lous X’ court in France. Who is your character? A society lady of the court, one who has her life already plotted out for her? Say she falls in love with a commoner? What does she do then?
All of these ‘problems’ that she faces are the driving forces of your story.
How can love win through in such adversity?
Once you decide WHO your character (or characters) are and then decide on the ‘problem’ they face, then it’s much easier to write your story.
Planning may be tiresome, and many creative writers (myself included!) like to have a vague outline of circumstances, the plot, and then let the ideas flow.
I’ve learned also that its good to have a few plans in place – then its easier to write your story. There’s nothing worse than having an idea fade away and you’re left with the dreaded Writer’s Block!
Keep a writing pad and pen next to you at all times! Many ideas are thought of in the local restaurant, squash game, or last thing at night – so bear that in mind.
As your plot idea progresses, add another event/circumstance/climax to the plot….then let it flow to the end of your story!
The best way to learn plot structure (and how another writer ‘fills in the gaps’ of a story)- is to READ! Read as much as you can of your favorite genre, for it will help you write that story. 🙂