Zara Penney's Worth

And just so you know....

2012-01-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

In complying with that serious commitment on New Year resolutions, this is my second foray into this place for 2012. Who can beleive it's already 12 instead of 11. My checkbook has been surprisingly well behaved in this serious changeover period.

And it is Sunday - touching the belly of February. I hope this isn't a leap year. I need every day I can get to keep the aging brigade away!

Must admit. Today isn't as inspiring as I would like.

S'pose it's time to post the first missive of 2012

2012-01-27T19:04:00.000-08:00

Well, folk(s). Since there aren't m-any of you waithing enthusiastically for my wit and wisdom, let's assume there are thousands.

My list of new year intentions is empty. I don't smoke so that could be the only potential. And my vices... well they are vices and you don't give them up unless they end you up in jail. For the purists - gaol - but I'm a preferred non-purist. The Americans got it right. However they do spoil their pure record of straight forward talk by saying off of.

My creative gene is getting itchy. Unfortunately from the brilliant plot I had in my head about three weeks ago, I didn't write down and I'm waiting for something to trigger it back into my head. Maybe some sunshine? We haven't had much of it this summer.

Okay, okay. So what if I make a New Year Res right now... really!

I will post every day.

Stop laughing. It's a NY res and meant to be broken! Really!

'spose it's time to post the last 2011

2011-12-26T15:59:00.000-08:00

Sigh. Another year! Hope you all enjoy 2012!

Winter is lingering.

2011-09-09T21:52:00.000-07:00

I feel summery sometimes but I am a winter person. Maybe I was a polar bear in a former life? But I wouldn't have been a successful one because I'd hate to go fishing for dinner in the icey Arctic waters. I'm always cold.

Isn't funny how we always kind of think of ourselves in a former life as something constructive. Like... have you ever imagined you might have been a rattle snake? Or a rose bug who eats precious garden roses?

Or even a bag of compost - ie. thousands of tiny pieces of a horse's excrement?

But I am not really thinking of former lives at the moment. Now is really coping with the end of a life. A life of a talented woman, always proud and well dressed. One who prided herself on how she presented and conducted her life. Perhaps a little vain because she had plenty to be vain about. She was Grace Kelly beautiful. She painted and sang like a bird. She should have been famous in some way, but held back by a selfish very vain mother who sacrificed her family for her own selfish objectives. But...

Now the fading or even faded beauty has gone, and left in its place a shadow. One who shuffles down the hall of a behind-locked-doors old age facility. Shuffles off to a dining room where she indulges in overeating, something she's never done before. Is grossly overweight and has less of a memory than a goldfish.

For years she and my father turned up on a regular basis at the doctors to overdose on drugs they didn't need so many of, and looked after their health. My father died almost in his sleep. My mother isn't. She's as healthy as a horse where it doesn't count. She cannot do anything with her day except eat. I don't want to end up like this. They say it's only those left behind that suffer sadness but for my own personal ambitions, I don't want to leave anyone feeling this sad and sorry for me.

This person used to be my mother. Now she's just another vegetable. Is this to be my inheritance. Relief when she is no longer with us? Don't answer this question unless you are in the same boat because you will never never know what this feels like unless you are.

Ever get the feelin'

2011-09-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

Ever get the feeling you are the only feather in the cap? That the blog is falling on deaf ears? That you are ringing the bell, ie., pulling the rope but the dingaling is missing? That you are making pea and ham soup but forgot to buy the ham? That you have a television but lost the remote control?

Um...

what the heck. At least the blog is being utilized today, and who knows, one day when I am really, really famous, somebody will be sorry they missed my famous tomes.

I really hate these phone calls from India at dinner time. They try to sell me all sorts of things. Holiday resort packages. Cheap holidays if I change electricity provider. Make my current cell phone redundant. Casino deals.

I usually hate their calls and do the Seinfeld thing. I ask them for their phone number and I'll ring them back at my convenience. They hang up.

The latest opinion poll was for what men want. Guess. How did you guess so quickly?

Yes. They want beautiful women with big breasts. They like beautiful women with big breasts and an open pleasant personality. They like beautiful women who want plenty of sex. For this a poll was wasted? For this some academic has written a Ph.d?

But I can do an opinion poll and save money on what women want.

George Clooney and a very large bank account. You see? It works both ways. And if Clooney isn't available then the large bank account will do. So? Okay! I'm not fussy!!!

Freedom of Speech.

2011-08-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

We are on the very verge of losing it. This current government are hard at work to curb free speech. If it isn't in their favor they don't like it. Of course nobody likes adverse comments on their achievements or lack of them. And political bias has always existed. But as they say, "I don't agree but I will defend your right to say it".

At the moment there are steps underway by the Greens Party to hold an enquiry into what their leader considers to be adverse commentary on his party's policies. The Greens have formed an alliance with another party and gained power far beyond the mandate or lack of it by Australia's citizens.

I shudder when I think of the precedent set during WWII by Hitler. We saw the results of that.

We need to be vigilant. Drop your political beliefs. The right to say what you think, right or wrong is much more important.

What will they think of next...

2011-08-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

Shopped supermarket on the internet. Registration is terrible. Eg. on the address they asked if it's business or residence... a little dot let's them know.

Then later they ask me what the House Nickname is... huh? Zara's little house on the prairie? Lady Penney's Palace?

I had to ring. It kept on getting rejected.

Oh that's simple ma'am. You just say if it's house or residence.

But you already asked me that...

Who am I to question some nerd designer with a ponytail and drives a porche...

So guess what... the bleedin' bloomin' unobvious worked and...

next morning I unpacked my goodies in the luxury of my kitchen without having to bust a gut hawking the stuff up the front steps...

a writer could get used to this.

Go the F***k to Sleep...

2011-08-23T20:24:00.000-07:00

The book arrived yesterday. Author Adam Mansbach. It's clever and looks like a children's picture book. Nicely illustratored by Ricardo Cortes. Dangerous in a household of kids reading picture books. I hate censorship, but...

As a writer and illustrator of children's book I object to this book looking like what it isn't. Here's an example of some text:

The wind whispers soft through the grass, hon.
The field mice, they make not a peep.
It's been thirty-eight minutes already.
Jesus Christ, what the fu*k? Go to sleep.

I'm not a prude. It's a great book. Just a little bit dangerous for kid control in a household with real kids in it.

That's all folks. Nuf said.

BBC and Jane Austen.

2011-08-21T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'm a fan of Jane Austen. But the marriage of the BBC and Austen is a miracle made in Heaven. I just cannot tire of anything they render in the historical genre. They do it so well and with such dignity.

I watched a new video just purchased. A new (for me) version of
Sense and Sensability.

Women had such a uphill battle for property rights. We get a sense of it in Pride and Prejudice with the cousin due to inherit the property with the lack of sons, and in Sense and Sensability, we see three young women and their mother relegated to the charity of a relative, while their half brother inherits the property and is persuaded by his evil wife there is no merit in over generosity in the upkeep of a promise to make sure the women are all secure in his care.

This seems an exaggeration, but I have seen that this happens in reality as late as the 1850's. The daughter of one of Australia's earliest free settlers, Mr. Mitchell the Surveyor General of the new settlement of New South Wales, and the name behind the NSW main Library (Mitchell Library). He had a vast library of books, and his offspring were all very well educated, even the girls, but once he was dead, his son soon let down the wife and daughters, despite a large portion of dowry brought to the marriage by Mrs. Mitchell. The brother was a drunk and a gambler and had other places to waste his money.

If anyone is interested the young lady's name is Blanche Mitchell. She is one of the last graves in the Newtown Cemetery buried next to her father. She died at an early age of consumption, but kept some significant diaries which are available in print. An insight into the life of a girl in the 1850's and the life she led in NSW during that time.

The most surprising thing is that a fifteen year old in 1850 is no different to a fifteen year old in 2011.

A bit of a jolt.

2011-08-20T18:57:00.000-07:00

I collapsed on Thursday. Had a seizure and got transferred to a major hospital by ambulance. My daughter insisted I go to the ER, and while there the seizure happened. The collapse cost me five stitches to my scalp. Apparently the excessive bleed is typical of a head wound according to the doctor.

The whole incident was a wakeup call. Change your life style or perish.

I still have so many things to do. Too much to write. Too many stories in my head. This wakeup call was a Godsend.

I recommend anyone who is delaying a few little self reforms to do a large rethink.

And scaring the one person who has been my brick, my beautiful daughter, was about the lowest I could ever sink without being in Atlantis just before it sank below the ocean.

A friend's father died this week...

2011-08-01T22:45:00.000-07:00

When I got the new it was hard to just say "sorry". What can one say? I didn't know him, and he was high demand in those final years. Blind, sick, but still lived in his own house. He needed high care and he was a cranky old man when he wanted to be. But she was a good daughter and when he should have been in a nursing home, he didn't want to be there and she catered to his wish.

But he wasn't a happy soul.

Lately I've been wondering if there isn't quality of life, why hang on. Seems to be a natural urge in humanity to do so. And makes suicide look quite ominous.

Old age is depressing. And the closer I get to it, the more I feel about it.

The Wiseness of being Wise.

2011-07-31T23:24:00.000-07:00

A wise person has to think up something wise every day.

Um? Ahhh? mmmmm...

Eat Brussels Sprouts. It makes the rest of the meal taste better.

Stop dilly dallying and start running...

2011-07-28T21:04:00.000-07:00

I'm watching my friend Zee flying through apres procrastinated procrastination and suffering great bouts of envy.

I've been encouraging her to set a goal of 1,000 words a day and so far, damn it, she's doing it. I told her to stop getting involved in politics and all those distractions that can frenzy us... and guess what?

She did.

And guess what?

she did.

And guess what?

She's almost finished.

And guess what?

The words started flowing.

And guess what?

It started to be much more than 1,000 a day. Even over 3,000.

And guess what?

I wish I could take my own advice and just get on with it!

You know the music of Chariots of Fire movie? I'm humming it right now. Good on you Zee.

For all those no readers...

2011-07-21T22:53:00.001-07:00

I am in the doldrums. Self induced and distracted I sit here with blog guilt. I haven't blogged in ages and all my no fans are so disappointed and are sending me no mail complaining about my no blogging.

I apologise to my lovely no fans.

Hugging Heaters

2011-06-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

Winter has a habit of bringing out the wooz in me. In summer I declare quite openly how I love winter better. But the girl doesn't always tell the whole truth. In fact winter is lovely when you are warm.

Being warm is all that matters.

The mid-year sales are on and I'm not there...

2011-06-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

So that must mean I've become a minimalist?

Love Thy Character

2011-05-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

If I want your story I have to love your character. You have to make me care. Otherwise why would I read it?

Visiting old stories...

2011-05-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

When you return to your novel after some time, and see it with new eyes, you also realise how much you've learned in the meantime.

The morning is optimistic by afternoon rainclouds...

2011-05-27T21:28:00.000-07:00

I'm describing the weather, but it could very well be the writing process on some days. Sometimes you feel so optimistic but end up getting your knickers in a knot and worked up over some perceived blockage.

But I tend also to see problems like this as a kind of brain rage. You've done something to your character which might be out of character and embarking on a 'fork in the road' where you just get bogged and need your road service to come out and refill the tank with logic.

Our little writing group is growing. We are getting some interesting characters and with that the inspiration and motivation, hopefully will be fuelled on a daily basis. We had it before in our former group, and I do miss them all so much...

But new group, new hope, new friends, more nouns and verbs, bigger adjectives and a closer date with creative destiny, ie.,

FAME, FORTUNE, A PENTHOUSE ON FIFTH AVENUE (sigh).

Hugging heaters, Barking Dogs, and Playful Verbs

2011-05-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

Rough trots are not very nice. My computer problems set me on a path to a new computer. I'm not good with new computers. It's like walking down the aisle with a complete stranger. I'm supposed to feel comfy with this new little monster in my life and immediately start interacting with ease.

Instead I fainted. What an awful feeling, waking up and finding yourself in a heap. Stress. Just everything piling itself one on top of the other. Normally I can handle it. But this one just culminated in a heap. Banged my hand. Damaged a ring. Bruised, battered and befuddled.

It's cold. I'm hugging the heater tightly. Competing with dog. I get the heater when she's outside barking up the neighbors. So annoying because unless I beat her, my only other option is to join her. And at times my bark is worse than my bite.

Playful verbs. I just made that up. I suppose they are friendly verbs. You have to be in a good mood to have them. Yesterday they were, shopping, eating, laughing.
Today they are aren't all that nice. Today they're all about getting used to this new keyboard. Today they are taking out rubbish to the bin. Today they are looking for my Kindle.

Oh... must tell you about a new find and buy. (Good verbs, well done!)

As you may or may not know, I love Jane Austen. And you may or may not know Borders in Oz is having awful difficulties (I suspect Amazon is the major contributor) and closing down most outlets bar, one or two. So with bargains galore in closing store I was able to purchase a book titled THE CONFESSION OF FITZWILLIAM DARCY - Mary Street. Fully recommended. Follows the novel from his POV very very well.

Normally I hate this type of infringement on the integrity of an author's work, but it works well. She has been faithful to the intentions of the author, and hasn't tried trickery. I enjoyed it so much, I hope it takes it's own little place in history. Obviously Street loves Austen too and didn't want to stretch the friendship.

This has been the coldest Australian month of May in 41 years. I won't tell you that I'm a climate skeptic. I won't remind you that a few decades ago we were told of a coming ice age. I do believe in changing climate. But we've had it since the beginning of time if there is such a thing.

Didn't Galileo strike problems by defying the conventions of opinion of his time?

Tomorrow I'm down south for a writers conference.

2010-11-12T20:41:00.000-08:00

Probably a bit under my level since I'm already a published author, but they are very invigorating and I know,

No matter how long

You have been in the publishing world

There is always something

You can learn

And the minute you forget this

Forget publishing.

A quandary of jinxes

2010-11-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

I'm a superstitious character. Don't like it. I don't, for example, walk under ladders. But that's quite sensible. And if I don't know it exists, such as looking through glass at a full moon - well then I happily live in blissful ignorance.

Some omens are just plain unfair. For example, the neighbor's cat sits on the gate post. If I come out of the house with the dog on the leash then the cat hops down, runs in front of me and wallah! That's supposed to be a bad omen.

Not quite sure what bad omens can do. Like bad things happen - is that the result of a bad omen? Like, my husband left me? Did the cart come before the horse. He left because of a bad omen. Or did he create a bad omen? Was he the bad omen?

And if the vacuum cleaner is giving problems. Is it a bad vacuum cleaner. Is there a problem because of my neighbour's cat?

But then I also have my own in-built superstitions. They pop up in my head quite suddenly and they really are quite annoying. Like if I send a manuscript, do I tell people? If I tell them does that jinx it. But if I don't tell them will that also jinx me? I then get confused and in a quandary of jinxes.

Writing as an Adventure - or - Be In It To Win It

2010-11-09T16:24:00.001-08:00

Writing as an Adventure - or - Be In It To Win It
Somebody once said to me- "Oh I always meant to write when I retire."

Given the age of retirement is 65 here (recently I think, moved to 67 or something like that) that's a long time to wait to start writing. And while there are many people who don't get published until they might be that age, their motivation to write will have been with them all their lives and they should have spent many long nights writing before or after working all day in the office.

In other words a writer is born that way.

So I nod politely when people say this type of thing because they think because I can do it, anyone can. Either I look stupid, or... ah... I look stupid, full stop.

Writing is an adventure. It is painful. It is fun. It hurts. It can be triumphant. There are good times. There are bad. There are.

Advice to beginners, middlers and patient always have written hopefuls is just don't think - do. Don't plan. Just do. Don't sit down and try to plot the whole story like you were planning an overseas trip. Don't use precision and don't procrastinate. Just sit and do.

Some tips would be to carry a notebook with you at all times. You never remember good ideas. Good ideas are spontaneous little devils and like to play catch me while you can. Cheat them. Just tell them "later" and sneak it into your notebook while they're not looking.

Lucky you if you are technologically savvy. One of my writing group I am totally envious of. She puts them into her cell phone.

Another tip. Have a plot board. One of those cork jobs you can move around, throw in frustration or whatever. But pin things on it relating to a broad aim. I just tear up sheets of A4 and I can rearrange the chapters, ideas, etc. at will. This includes basic facts such as names, relationships etc.

Personally I don't do that, but some people like to answer quizzes about their characters, their aims, well... whatever it takes to motivate you, help you, grab it with both hands - every mickle makes a muckle.

Don't let people discourage you. My mother once said "oh that's just a silly romance" - "absolute rubbish". I also write and illustrate children's books and she was proud of them, but didn't realise that just because she wasn't a romantic soul, doesn't mean I needn't be one. You will probably think what sort of awful parent I have but my father once said to me "what makes you think you are so special as to anticipate you can convince somebody to like this rubbish?" again referring to my romance. Well. Given that he hadn't even read it makes it nonsense. But I don't let them discourage me because my sister once described the sort of books my father like to read then would pass them onto my mother and sister to read. She was most scathing herself. Consequently I learned to keep my own counsel as far as my parents were concerned.

Another tip. Love your characters. People don't like to read a whole book full of some nasty little nark nobody could love. You have to give them somebody to barrack for. I hope you don't hate your baseball, or footy team. Don't know about you, but Greg Norman and the old Tige got a vote of unpopularity from me because of their ego trips, leaving normal moral values hanging on the fence, forgotten.

Biggest, most important tip? Keep writing. Persevere. Thomas the Tank Engine. "I can do it. I know I can do it."

Edit, edit and edit. Make sure that what you publish will never be shamefully hidden away when you are famous. That's a bit like Marilyn Monroe's little nudie calendar done in a moment she needed some cash and haunting her once she hit the big time.

Not every day will shine for you. Good days and bad days happen. But in a way, they are good for you. Good days make you want to dance. Bad days make you (a) try harder and (b)realise what a good day you had yesterday and (c) anti ego.

Okay, enough. I'm off to write. Where are you going?

Well, it's done...

2010-10-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

I met the deadline for two short stories. One of them was a regency. And once again I am charmed by it. And once again, I am talking like it because that is where my head has been whilst I wrote it.

And yet it has led me to contemplate what it is that charms me so much about it. In actual fact it is a period of stilted interraction between people. They did not say what they thought. There was a lot of double standards. The rich were rich and the poor very poor. Children swept chimneys. Women died in childbirth. There were no penicillin drugs to keep babies alive. And Jane Austen didn't have a typewriter.

Of course when I set a Regency, of course it is set in the posh side of town. If it isn't it's going to at least be a rags to riches kind of story because a riches to rags story doesn't cut to the tone.

But heck it does suit my kind of sense of humor. And I do love Jane Austen. And the vocabulary is very flowery.

I wonder were history to go backwards rather than forwards, and they would sit in judgement of us, would they be as fascinated by our way of doing things. Somehow I don't think so. Look at us...

Men don't vacate their bus seats, you can't scold a school kid for littering, they'd only swear at you. Rapes take place every day. Women get themselves tattooed with growing enthusiasm. Rudeness is rife. People have little regard for each other. They'd have to look at the Holocaust and shake their heads at the breakdown of humanity. They'd have to wonder what manner of man can walk into a community and blow himself up in order to seek the comfort of 75 virgins in heaven and to kill as many of his fellow creatures because they didn't agree with his opinion... need I go on...

But writing a regency is great fun.
Go to this site:
http://www.janeausten.ac.uk/manuscripts/blpers/28.html
And look at the wonders of modern technology if you love Jane Austen.

You gotta admire diligence.

2010-10-02T21:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I've been very good. My last blog was at least in 1010.

Today I feel like a wet rag. Maybe rather, a wet dishcloth. There's something strange on in Sydney. It's called a 'footy final'. For me it means Sydney regains some sort of sanity, but for a lot of people it's some kind of rights passing.

People all over Sydney, with strangely painted faces gather - in the rain minus an umbrella to watch a bunch of muddied individuals fighting over a ball.

Why?

Why?

Well, I won't be there. I'd rather show my cellulite in an untouched photograph in Vogue.

There will be 85,000 people in a stadium.

And...

As we speak, the games in Delhi are about to start.

Maybe I'm just not tribalistic? Or patriotic? But sorry. Commonwealth Games? Who'd want to get Delhi Belly or Denghi Fever over this sorry bunch. The Commonwealth of Britain ceased to be a viable entity decades ago. Most of Europe is going under the weight of its illegal immigration and the current financial hardships. Africa is a cot case.

And all they'e got to look forward to is a group leader shot of Government heads of mostly corrupt dictators with the man who talks to plants sitting in the middle in a grey suit and looking totally out of place - as he is. (That's Prince Charles for anyone not in the Commonwealth.)

Hey Canada! Wanna bet? We win the 200 butterfly.

The problem with Bloggers

2010-07-14T19:32:00.000-07:00

You have to keep at them.

I have a wonderful book. It is the diary(ies) of Blanche Mitchell. 15 year old in the 1850's, daughter of the Public Surveyor of early settled Sydney government. He's deceased but his family live in the affluent eastern suburban expanses down near the harbour of Double Bay (very posh) at the grace and charity of her brother who inherited the wealth.

Her father was a very educated man and Blanche is a product of his affluence and influence in believing an education is as important for a woman. He is also the benefactor of the main library of NSW/Sydney - The Mitchell Library. His own extensive library is housed in this library. And I have had the honor of exhibiting my illustrative artwork there - as well as lecturing on being an author.

Blanche is in my soul. She infiltrated it to the extent I felt the need to seek out her grave in Newtown, an early suburb of Old Sydney. Her father is buried there. Interesting, maybe even spooky that I could not find the grave. Frustrating! I looked and looked but nothing. So I gave up and walked back to the car. But I fell over in the long green rather neglected lawn. The gardenia I had brought with me for her fell out of my hand. I sat up and dusted me down feeling slightly awkward. Looked around to see how unnoticed I'd been and I had been totally ignored. BUT GET THIS... I looked up and guess where I'd fallen. Right beside Daddy Mitchell and Blanche Mitchell. He did expect the gardenia was for him, but I reassured his presence that this was well and truly meant for my little friend, Blanche.

Blanche lived in the 1850's and sadly died early... not much into her twenties. She wrote beautifully about the things she did on a daily basis in that time. And when one reads these things, though they are/were mundane they take on a new context in another age.

Toothaches end up at dentists who don't have the sophistication of todays adherents.
The internet doesn't exist so a sister marrying and living in Britain might write and receive mail twice a year. Excitement came in the form of parties involving the visiting officers of the Royal Navy. Walks and picnics on beaches with officers from the barracks. The arrival of packets (boats), or a navy ship was a big deal. Sundays were for church, and teaching Sunday school. Does anyone remember mending. It was a real activity.

But the real point about diaries is this. Even though it was a yesterday, it takes on an element of here and now. Our lives as we go through them are progressing through a daily round on nows. For Blanche it is a future. For me it is now. And for me, Blanche is a past - at least I thought so until I read her diaries and realised that this is a confounding fact.

If I didn't sleep last night, that is important to me. I will wake up tired and possibly angry in the morning... if I don't eat dinner at some point in time I will become ravenous. If the postman doesn't come today I am frustrated but he'll probably be here tomorrow... mundane things.

Of course I'm being philosophical. I wonder if this is part of my makeup as an author. Whether it is people like me who reflect on things like this that might end up in elements of my sense of being and eventually in my writing. I need this kind of world in which to place my characters.

So blogs are very important. They are like diaries. But diaries are nasty little nagging duties. You have to be persistent. But so do you as an author. Without persistence you don't end up with a story. Without a story your frustration grows because being an author is being part of you.

Therefor:

I will blog.
I will blog.
I will blog.

On writing novels

2010-06-15T20:31:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could you begin?" said she. I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?"

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. IT is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

Once again Jane Austen has summarised for me the act of authorship.

Can anyone put it better?

That once can find themselves in the middle before they have realised it has begun?

Time flies said the monkey...

2010-05-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

As he threw the clock over the cliff.

Why do people wait for New Year to make resolutions? Well, I guess that's another way of asking why don't I? I seem to make resolutions all the time. Some are good, some are bad. Some are fattening. Some are good for your head. Some are good for your credit card (it's called Sense and Sensibility)...

Here are some of my resolutions:

Drink more water during the day. I try to.
Edit, concentrate, edit, concentrate, edit, concentrate. I try to.
Eat more greens. I've got a crush on spinach and cauliflower at the moment.
Edit, concentrate, edit, concentrate, edit, concentrate.
Eat more fruit, and... speaking of fruit...

I wrote a cute poem this week. It was following a call from a magazine which needs filler stuff. It's for kids of course, but I also intend to illustrate it.

But it has been a mixed week. I bought a Kindle on Ebay. Of course the person I bought it from would never have known but it was a first generation model which was only available in the US for the US market. And it took me a day to find this out. I was so disappointed. I've sold it to somebody in the U.S. who can use it like normal and re-purchased - I do like the look of the text on the little machine. I have an iphone and I know I don't need the iPad because I will not use it for a lot of the things many people would do with theirs.

But my today's resolution is to come to blog more often.

That way all none of you get to know what's going on in my creative life.

ZP

My characters are my friends.

2010-04-09T22:22:00.000-07:00

It's true. They are my best friends at the moment in my current editing WIP. I love them and they love me.

I gave them life, so they are obligated to me.

But then I'm obligated to them because without them, I'd be very lonely.

So here's to you Simon and Daphne.

Aren't they dead yet?

2010-04-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

Somebody died today. I thought WOW she was a one of those people you don't expect to die yet.

However there are people who you think are dead and aren't and ask ...

I thought they were dead... Somebody on the radio talked about Doris Day. Yes people, she's still alive and kickin'

I reckon Gregory Peck's still kickin' and I'm too lazy to Google. I think I really don't want to know.

What about Charlton Heston. I think I turned off him when I found out he was heading the gun lobby. I can't bear the thought of guns and shooting animals. I even hated deep sea fishing when they were all so gleeful about pulling in all these huge fish. Yes I eat fish. (If you are a New Zealander that's fush and chups). Just watching the poor things actually being able to flop around in somebody's cooler turns me off.
Yes I do eat oysters. Yes I do know they are alive when they slide down your throat. Okay so I have perfected the art of double standards. THat's one of the things I know I am good at...

But then who'da thunked Hudson would turn out to be gay.

Life is just a big question mark. What do they say?

Nothing stranger than fiction.

Well it's really nothing stranger than life. Even fiction.

Tech-twittism

2010-03-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

Yes. It's true. It's official. I'm a benign idiot. My links don't work. I can't figure out how I got my original list to look nicer. Either they've tried to make it easier to use for people like me - intelligent people who are trying to think like idiots like me - but GUYS IT ISN'T WORKING! YOOHOO! ANYONE THERE?

Write it down before you forget.

2010-03-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

It has occurred to me that you should really walk around with an ideas diary. I mean it didn't just occur to me because I've known this for years. For both artists and writers.

Ideas are very fleeting things. Some of them are worth keeping. Some of them are best forgotten. Some of them probably are only temporarily forgotten, and come around every so often, but because we have forgotten them we mistake it for a new idea.

Today I am thinking this because I'm editing my story and I have completely forgotten the plot, even though I know the general plot, the particular, incident by incident has been forgotten. The WIP is good. I know it is, but I still need to work on the editing. It needs upping the drama, without being over dramatic.

Over drama is worse than underdrama.

Oh hell I might as well write it here too...

2010-03-12T18:05:00.000-08:00

This day, in response to a post by Miss Snark's First Victim... my comment to her today's post...

It was nice to see you, like me, is a thunderstorm person. “It was a dark and stormy night” and you have to admit, they are a wonderful word backdrop for an old mansion in which its inhabitants are connected by both accommodation for various reasons and… murder. In fact you can almost believe, as you read that first line, that third murder of the night, that dead body of an old lady in the library. And finish off this awful discovery with the words…

“She must have been murdered. She knitted so carefully.”

Well, given that… Sanguine? I believe the word is more closely connected to masochism. You don’t live in the Philippines and participate in that Christian self-flagellation, or, jump in over the barrier to a street in Barcelona which is squashed, squishy tomato spattered blood-red, and let yourself be chased by a bull, or climb the Himalayas rather than wait at the bottom for the video… you, Authoress, write. With quivering heart and mind you chase those words which will set a pathway for you to clash head on with the future and hope… or is it hope and the future?(?)? < this was a cyber shrug by the way. Negativity is part of your make up. Because you have imagination, you can imagine the letterbox or the inbox with that sinking heart when your radar detects signals an imminent and spectacular fall from grace. You sit around eating a box of chocolates. You don’t care if you put on 19 kilos and your face ends up looking like the pestilic red middle of a volcano and you ring up council to come and collect your computer. You go to bed, and turn into Thomas the Tank Engine… I can do it – I know I can – I know I can and ring council the next morning, cancelling the collection order.

You are a religious masochist. You belong to the cult of publishing. To the cult of I write therefore I am. It’s an exclusive cult and sanguine is not quite the word. I think the description is more like, indomitable belief. It’s not ego. You are a Citroen and your logo is: The end of the road is not the end of the trip.

It’s an exclusive cult, and it’s members are few, because out of all those people who claim “One day I will write a novel” you are that one that has never said it. Never said those words. Because there was no beginning. It just spontaneously combustioned like a celestial event. J.K. Rowlings is a member.

But there is one cult you wouldn’t want to be in. The Cult of the Rejectors. It’s the equivalent of publishing hell. There’s a few editors in it. All crying over missed opportunities.

Lay or

2010-03-08T18:01:00.000-08:00

Lie?

Lay or Lie?

English is chaos. Chaos is Anarchy. Any suggestions? Who do we blame for this?
The Anglos, the Saxons, the Danes, le French, das Germans?

I know that lay works in a department store. I put money on it and when I'm ready to take it home, I pay the balance.

And I can lay a table.

Or if I tell a little porky it's called a little white one.

But...

When I'm buying a new mattress am I laying down or lying... will I lay down or will I lie...

Oh the quandary of self doubt... I'm an ignoramous, a dimwit,

But I'm not a liar, layer, oh heck.

Kinda Kindled

2010-03-05T12:47:00.000-08:00

Well, looks like I've been well and truly Kindled. It's the intrusion on a conviction that anything of mine should be a hard copy. Well I haven't changed I have to tell you. That is still my conviction. However, with my perfectly honed set of double standards I'm ready to relinquish my conviction when it comes to others.

It's not here yet. I won it on Ebay. I heard a comparison of the ipad and the Kindle and it seems that this person after seeing iPad (Apple) was still a fan of his Kindle. He took it away for a couple of weeks and didn't have to charge the battery. It wasn't back lit so the screen is friendly. It has one major problem people seem to constantly complain about. Apparently the page turner is a nuisance. But I'm happy with that - one can learn to live with a snarky little button.

So now I download books. But that's okay because there are certain books that I probably won't read more than once and they stay on the shelf, neglected and unread. And as is my eternal sin, should I want the hard copy to stroke and love them, as is my eternal sin, possession is only an Amazon away. In actual fact, lending libraries are frustrating for me because they tend to have a book or two that will be out of print, and me which will have a strong desire to possess them.

The bid went on last night. Eight hours later my competitor didn't know how close they came to my top bid. But that is now history. The kind of history that becomes irrelevant, blubbery and just disappears.

I'm Kinda Kindled.

The great language revenge.

2010-03-04T14:59:00.000-08:00

We are very absorbed in what happens when English absorbs words and phrases from other language but forget that English is probably the most desirable to know and to use as an international language. Once French was considered IT but it seems to me that English is by far the dominant international communication tool.

So it's nice to see that yes, after hundreds of years, the Anglo Saxons have muddied other people's waters.

To steal the list from Mervynn Bragg's Adventures in English, English has reaked it's penalties on Russion. Look>>>

futbol
chempion
kemping (camping)
klub
striptiz
ralli
boykot
lider (leader)
pamflet
bifshteks
grog
keks
konsultant
broker
sponsor
kornfleks
parlament
prezident
spiker (speaker)
elektorat
konsensus
ofis
supermarket
loozer (failure)

JAPAN:

raiba intenshibu (labor intensive)
rajio (radio)
konpyu-ta (LOL)
karaisu (curry rice)
suppootsu (sports)
autodoasupo-tsu (outdoor sports)
sutoresu (stress)
insentibu (incentive)
akauntabirity (accountability)
ranchi (lunch)
kissu (kiss)

BRAZIL is looking to ban English words but until then they can say:

Sale
50 percent off
spring,
summer
shopsoiled
exuberant
overtime
watch shop
New Garden.

But the ultimate revenge is on French. We are slowly making it easier to speak French by infiltrating that language where pronunciation defies the spelling...

le twin set
le weekend
le look
un holiday
le midwife
le parking
le gros rush (rushour)
le garden party
les drinks
le score
le front desk
le building
le mixed grill
un pullover
aftershave
le babysitter
le barmaid
le camping
le cowboy
le cocktail
le hold up
le jogging
le jukebox
le jumpjet
le know-how
le manager
le name-dropping
le rip off
le sandwich
le self-made man
le showbiz
le stress
le supermodel
le zapping

The French have made an effort to ban this seepage and are worried that English is taking over the EU. The margin is growing.

And that leaves me the last say.

LE END

The Art of Critiquing

2010-03-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

When I first joined a critique group, I was like a bull in a china shop. I didn't have any training for such a task and it was a frightening experience. But what really makes a good critique.

I am an author with a history in childhood publishing. It is my creating career in picture books both writing and illustration where I did learn, quite instinctively, to craft a world, a believable and credible entity, and a suitable one for an early childhood learning experience. I was learning without knowing it about GMC (Goal, Motivation, Conflict = Wants, because, but). I learned the story arch in a very tight situation where words cannot be wasted and illustrations cannot be mere reflections of words but actually meaningful for little the enrichment of fresh, growing, curious minds.

In my decision to jump the fence or grow up a little bit, and start writing for adults, I did it alone and innocent. Locked away in my author's tower, where Repunzel would let down her golden hair, I tap, tap, tapped away on the keys releasing characters onto the pages every day. Magical grown up people who would become my obsession and my friends.

So when I typed THE END I ventured forth into the big world and on my clumsy walk I discovered the concept of a critique group and so the story began.

I remember those early days. And what I learned in my trip through critiquing was that it is an art, between diplomacy and honesty - and a genuine desire to be helpful.

The reason I am reflecting on this is a meeting I went to yesterday. It is a network of authors which meets regularly each month to support, discuss, boast, complain, analyse and just be friends in this often rather lonely pursuit of getting published (and staying published). Yesterday at this meeting it was mentioned that a session by a panel of supposed professionals went hell-for-leather after the authors they critiqued. They were harsh, rude and took their roles as literally as possible, destroying already fragile sensibilities and that a lot of resentment had been generated in their wake.

So what makes a good critique? A good critique can only start with a good manuscript. It is not a one-sided endeavor. It is not fair to expect somebody to come up with the goods if the author hasn’t. This means that an author must basically present their best effort, in order to obtain appropriate feedback. It is not only fair but courteous. If the manuscript is not up to scratch then it isn’t a critique that is expected but should be relabeled ‘Help Wanted’ and conducted on this basis.

The critique then will be begin with a thorough reading. Looking for clarity and understanding, and flow. You should look through the m/s with encouragement in your mind. Concentrate on the positives which will expose the negatives automatically. Praise should be part of it. “Love this” can make an author feel buoyant and good. The critique should be on the lookout for ‘show not tell’, and probably also suggestions on rewording the odd sentence or two.

The trust between the critiqued and the critiquer should be very high. And not every manuscript will be identical to the next. And not every critique effort will be a compatible one.
And finally I think the self-confidence of the writer in their craft is probably important as well. This is the ability to sort out what suggestions to take on board, and what you will disregard.

It all, in the end, boils down to mutual respect.

Shampoo and set.

2010-03-01T20:46:00.000-08:00

I have a small Shitzu/Maltese cross. Now I did get a half Maltese because I didn't know they were snippy little dogs. Normally if the Maltese half had been at the back end I'd be happier. But I inherited the front end.

She's a dear little thing. She had an ear infection and the vet gave us ear drops. Good luck! We had the great 20 kilometer zone to bypass to get anything into that little chamber. We were spectacularly unsuccessful.

But the honor of a dog hairdresser fell to a lady called Ruth, of Pawfection. She comes along in a nifty little towing salon on the back of her vehicle. She managed very nicely and despite snippy Maltese teeth at the ready, she managed to turn my little dog into a very cute little poodle look alike. The dog, Baby, is half the size without her woolly mop and at the moment is curled up into her little fluffy doggy basket, snug as a bug in a rug, while I write here.

It's turning into winter. I think day two of Autumn. The winter Olympics have just concluded and Australia has a record two golds. Russia on the other hand got three and are ready to sack their trainers and officials in disgust. Finland didn't get anything. This year I didn't get caught up in anything of the games. I think I might be over it. Since Sydney's blowup plastic kangaroos I seem to have grown tired of opening and closing spectaculars. Half the time the officials can't tell the difference between the New Zealand flag and mine, and I don't blame them because they are both very similar, but the Olympics have also managed at some stage to fly a couple up-side-down. That is rather funny but probably not very patriotic.

Okay I promise to find something life-changing to comment on next time. Today was enough just to get up and get motivated.

Today I do have a question. Is shoppatherapy fattening? I did some today. Penance was sushi. Mea Culpa.

Aussie Humor

2010-02-28T16:21:00.000-08:00

There is a special kind of humor that is all Australian. It's hard to describe it to anyone who doesn't instinctively know it but we are an irreverent mob.

But this little bit of Aussie endeavour is called JUST A NOTE.
It's written by the famous, very famous Anonymous.

Just a note to say I'm still alive and haven't passed on yet,
Though these days I remember a lot less than I forget.
I've got used to my arthritis and I guess I'm now resigned
To my dentures and bifocals, but gee, I miss me mind!

I often can't remember, when I'm standing on the stair,
If I'm going up for something or I've just come down from there.
And I hold the fridge door open and I stand there, full of doubt;
Did I just put some food away or come to get some out?

Or I rush into the spare room and I hesitate because
I needed something urgently, but can't think what it was.
Now, if it's not my turn to write, you'll pardon me I'm sure.
Sometimes I think I've written to you just the day before.

Well, I guess it's time to mail this, think that's all I have to say,
Except, of course, I wish you didn't live so far away.
And I'm standing by the mail box and boy, is my face red!
Instead of posting this to you, I've opened it instead.

And irreverence?
How's this...

Again by the Honorable Anonymous.

Our lager
Which art in barrels
Hallowed by thy foam
Thy will be drunk
Thy pints be sunk
At home as it is in tavern.
Give us this day thy foamy head
And forgive us our spillages
As we forgive those who spill thee against us
And lead us not unto incarceration
But deliver us from hangovers
For thine is the sin done, the headache, the guilt trip,
For ever and ever...
barmen

Just plain interesting stuff

2010-02-23T17:50:00.000-08:00

As I have already told you. I am a fan of how this, the language, my mother tongue developed. And, with the help of a man called Melvyn Bragg, who wrote a book called:

THE ADVENTURE OF ENGLISH: THE BIOGRAPHY OF A LANGUAGE

Let me share some interesting things. But if you really want an adventure buy the book. There's a television series to go with it by the way.

He has a list of 100 most common words. Most of them come from Old English. Three are from Old Norse, and the first word of French origin only cuts in at 76 so what are these words?

Here goes.

1. the
2. of
3. and
4. a
5. to
6. in
7. is
8. you
9. that (this is a word you edit out of your manuscript)
10.it
11.he
12.was
13.for
14.on
15.are
16.as
17.with
18.his
19.they (Old Norse)
20.I
21.at
22.be
23.this
24.on
25.from
26.or
27.one
28.had
29.by
30.word
31.but
32.not
33.what
34.all
35.were
36.we
37.when
38.your
39.can
40.said
41.there (Old Norse)
42.use
43.an
44.each
45.whch
46.she
47.do
48.how
49.their (from old Norse)
50.if
51.will
52.up
53.other
54.about (Useful word. Canadians say aboot. Americans don't ;-))
55.out
56.many
57.then
58.them (Old Norse)
59.these
60.so
61.some
62.her
63.would
64.make
65.like
66.him
67.into
68.time
69.has
70.look
71.two
72.more
73.write
74.go
75.see
76.number (first of the French origin words)
77.no
78.way
79.could
80.people
81.my
82.than
83.first
84.water
85.been
86.call
87.who
88.oil
89.its
90.now
91.find
92.long
93.down
94.day
95.did
96.get
97.cme
98.come
98.madae
99.may
100.part

But wait there's more.

Britain was invaded. It was a nice little earner. And I'll dig up some more interesting stuff about this ministrone soup called English.

On editing.

2010-02-21T19:06:00.001-08:00

Sheesh!

How to write a romance novel

2010-02-20T19:57:00.001-08:00

I started writing romance in Nigeria when I had more time on my hands. We had a housegirl, a gardener, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a special school for our kids and for a gal that had been working her butt off to keep a husband in university, a kid in preschool so she could work her butt off, and little time to breath. Some people just sat around in this little glass bubble of expatriates. Squandering their time.

But that isn’t me. I don’t sit around doing nothing. My brain constantly buzzes and skims around for activities and thus with my trusty little blue plastic typewriter two layers of carbon paper, the pages mounted on my first romance novel. My guide was a mountain of Mills and Boon which was very popular in Nigeria for both men and women and readily available.

I also had a friend who also loved romance, and perhaps it was she that sparked the awareness of a need for writing and for the genre.

My road to romance writing halted while I took time out to study and to write and illustrate picture books for children. But, in that space of time, I think I really did learn my trade and came back to romance because by nature I am a romantic soul. And of course from the early days of little blue typewriters I was lucky enough to be part of a generation that benefited from the blessings of the computer age. Carbon paper leaves a lot to be desired.

I do love comedy and so comedy and romance sat very comfortably on my shoulders. I can watch Sleepless in Seattle and Pretty Woman ad nauseum. Love Jane Austen to distraction.

I never really thought about writing an historical novel until my brief for The Enchanted Faerie turned up. I discovered, since I have an abiding love of research, historical novels can be fun. The essential to writing historical, indeed any novel is convincing world building. The setting must be very believable. World building in any genre is terribly important because the reader must quickly forget the real world and be suspended. Next step for me is Regency. This genre lends itself so easily to my forte – comedy so watch this space.

So what are the rules of a romance? As far as I can think, they are exactly the same for any other kind of genre.

Convincing world building. . I’ve often wondered what idiot said blue and green should never be seen, only on the faerie queen. That is stupid. I’m sitting looking out the window and there’s that tree I love, and a perfectly blue sky behind it.

Lovable Characters. Second most important thing is to make characters lovable enough to want to pursue them in whatever adventure they are undertaking. Even if they really are awful, make them lovable. One doesn’t want to spend time hating the main character/s. My characters all end up as friends by the time I’ve finished a manuscript.

Consistency. Make sure your characters stay the same. I don’t mean that they can’t suddenly discover God or that they are undergoing life changing experiences, but make sure they react in a way which is believable and the way they really would behave because leopards don’t change their spots.

Be clear and precise. Plant the facts for the reader in a logical way so they don’t have to work hard to remember the plot direction. You do not want them having to double back because they’ve missed something.

Never take the reader for granted. There is absolutely nothing wrong with loving romance novels. They sell more books than anything else. The reader will smell an author who is treating them like idiots from a mile. Don’t write down to the reader as if they are a moron. If you don’t like romance then don’t write romance.

All the normal needs of any novel, plot, arc and ending, goal, motivation and conflict are all important just as they are in any other kind of novel worth its salt. The basic premise of a romance is the conflict. The demands of GMC – goal motivation and conflict. This basically is translated into: He/she wants – because – but. You must have this to make a story move.

Know your target audience. If you have a specialist genre – paranormal, time travel, contemporary, comedy, suspense then of course you will have to know what publishers of that genre require. That means you should know what publisher/s you want to target. Specially important because the readers will be expecting a certain standard and they will be very tough on judging anything that doesn’t convince them in their belief systems. You are suspending belief in a believable manner and unless you fulfil this then forget writing because neither agent, nor editor, nor reader will even be slightly interested.

Probably the best piece of advice I, as a writer, has ever been given is this.

Make every work you do your best. Never just let a manuscript drift because it’s good enough. It will end up in a bottom drawer and you will cry over rejection slips. And also be your own harshest critic. Of course every time you start a new manuscript it will probably be the inheritor of your skills getting better.

Edit, edit, and edit again. Be your own harshest critic. Don’t be precious about a piece you really know shouldn’t be there. The best novel doesn’t waffle on. If you are at a party listening to a drunk waffling on about nothing you soon get bored. So what’s different about a reader?

Make sure you have a good hook system. Hooking is important because it’s grabbing the reader’s attention. First line of the novel is important, but hooking throughout the novel is also important. Between point of view changes, and chapter changes.

Which does remind me to mention the importance of establishing the main characters. I have seen some people introducing so many characters in the beginning of the novel that it’s almost like trying to remember everyone’s name at a convention in the first day.

And there’s the biggy. Show not tell. This has been discussed by aspiring writers and authors constantly. What it means is simply don’t fall into a trap of boring description. Keep the writing vital and fresh. Don’t waffle on. Let’s say the character is lighting a cigarette.

Sam wanted a cigarette so he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes and red lighter.

Or.

Sam’s craving was strong. An irresistible urge he’d been fighting since he was twenty. Fingers danced impatiently and finally gave in to the urge for a cigarette.

I don’t need to mention the pocket. That’s a given and not really important where what and how he accessed them.

So really, what I am saying is that there aren’t any special rules for a romantic novel. It is simply a genre like all novels and employing all the rules of good story writing. Weave your spell, make it magic and make the reader extremely sorry they reach the end because they love it.

HOWE TO KONFEUZE A SPELTCHEKER

2010-02-19T18:23:00.000-08:00

Today Miss Snark's First Victim, an excellent blog lost from my link list along with all thirty of the others into internet Heaven, and I haven't yet learned how to retreive them or to start up a new list... Google time!

She raises the point that there are two extra vowels, Y and W. You will have to go there to find out what she says in her post of today (Friday 20th Feb). And this was my answer:

English is mashed potato. The rules we know today are tampered with, and made as one size fits all. They are wrong, wrong, wrong. First of all I became aware of sounds when I studied Pitman Shorthand. Without realising it I was learning to use symbols rather than letting the printed word block my linguistic sensibilities.

Basically consonants and vowels are floating entities. Consonents are hard sounds. The ‘l’ in look is a hard sound. The ‘l’ in could is a soft sound. Of course this sound is lost on us today. But once it was a vowel sound. A crude attempt at capturing a sound it was meant to convey.

Firstly may I recommend you go directly to Amazon and order yourself a copy of THE ADVENTURE OF ENGLISH. A BIOGRAPHY OF LANGUAGE by MelvYn Bragg. He talks of English in a section on which he describes as GVS which means Great Vowel Shift. He says that printing largely fixed spelling pre GVS but that took place after the setting of words. Thus a language which is in turbulence with its printed equivalent ends in the two being out of sync.

Quote:

“When properly read aloud, the fourteenth century English of Chaucer sounds strange to modern ears in a way that, on the whole, the late sixteenth century English of Shakespear does not. For example, Chaucer’s way of saying “name” would have rhymed with the modern “calm”, his “fine” with our “seen”; he would have pronounced “meet more or less as we would pronounce “mate,” “do” as “doe” and “cow” as “coo” (as it is prounced in parts of Scotland).
“In the years between Chaucer’s birth and Shakespeare’s death, English went through a process now known as the Great Vowel Shift. People in the Midlands and south of England changed the way they pronounce long vowels… (held in mouth long time) (meet, street) rather than short vowels (met, mat). Unquote.

He goes on to say on this subject that the invention of printing had an impact on language and the written word. Gutenberg in Mainz invented printing (press) in Mainz in 1453. And Caxton started printing English in 1453. The first dated book printed in England in English was Dictes or Sayengis of the Philosophres 1477. Caxton also printed romances, books of conduct and philosophy, history and morality and the first illustrated printed book in English was “The Myrrour of the Worlde 1481. Caxton worried about how to achieve a common standard. Caxton wrote “Certaynly it is harde to playse every man by cause of dyuersite & chaunge of langage. For in these dayes euery man that is in ony reputacyon in his counter, wyll vtter his commynycacyon and maters in suche maners and termes that few men shall vnderstonde theym.”

So really the vowels and consonants are loose translations for modern logics of today. They crude. Logically a consonant should be a hard sound. And a vowel a soft sound. I learned Hebrew and I find that – apart from being a neater language – its written word illustrates the vowel sounds apart from the hard sounds. Almost the way Pitman symbols do. Of course to a native Hebrew speaker they would read words out of familiarity much the same way we English speakers read and are not disturbed by words such as could, would, wrong, write etc. And understand how one mouse turns into two mice, while one house turns into two houses, but that’s another whole chapter isn’t it. Sheesh who’d want to learn English!

But basically, your suspicions on lurking vowels is very very logical and we are all heading up the garden path where the sign says THIS IS HOW YOU MUST GO AND DON’T ARGUE WITH ME. But you know better.

Book Reviews

2010-02-17T19:10:00.000-08:00

This is an exercise in the necessary evil of putting one's work out on the stage. And one must apply the very apt saying:

STICKS AND STONES CAN BREAK MY BONES BUT REVIEWS CAN ALSO HURT ME.

No. It's true.

They can hurt me. They do hurt me. They don't stop me. I just have to remember that a review is written by one person. And if I apply logic, some people must like Brussels Sprouts because if nobody did, then nobody would bother to grow them - or sell them - so it's basically a matter of personal taste.

And also, to be mean back, there is another saying:

THOSE THAT CAN DO, AND THOSE THAT CAN'T CRITICIZE.

So one wonders whether there's a little element of jealousy? A little bit of "Oh I can do that, but I'm too busy."

But perversely a bad review is probably better than a good review. How? Imagine that everyone always loved your work. It's what happens in every artistic industry. If it works don't fix it. And your publisher/movie mogul/gallery director etc., confines the artist to continue in the style that makes their work successful. Thus they are robbed of the artistic scope to further explore the potential of their work.

But it's nice to get a good review.

On being a dinosaur

2010-02-15T21:06:00.000-08:00

I have to struggle with today's technology. I only revel in the knowledge that somewhere in the world is an idiot bigger than me. Where? Don't know. But logic tells me there's a bigger idiot. In fact I know one of them. My mother. She is a technology idiot. But that spooks me because I don't want to be like my mother. One isn't supposed to. That isn't natural. Unless maybe she's Meryl Streep or Audrey Hepburn.

But I know I'm like my mother. One generation more modern than she. That generation didn't know what computers were and probably a small percentage of them coped with computers and digital knick-knacks.

I'm trying to download a Norten but I can't see how. It's supposed to ask me questions, but it's as dead as a Dodo. I am waiting for my daughter to come and help me.

You see, she's one generation further on and doesn't look anywhere near to being a dinosaur like me. (She'll probably be glad.)

When?

2010-01-29T16:53:00.000-08:00

When did you first become aware of a desire to write?

I didn't invent this question. It was asked on Miss Snark's First Victim blog (see the link to your right).

But it's a good question.

So, fire away. I'm interested. Pretend this is an interview and lay down on my analyst couch.

One
Two
Three
Four
Five...

You are now hypnotised and will reveal all your deepest darkest secrets...

Tickling Funnybones.

2010-01-28T22:07:00.000-08:00

I’m a natural comedian. And my writing reflects this. I am not a dark character and personality wise I’ve that kind of nature with the glass half full.

But I’m also dramatic. I think the two go perfectly together, hand in hand. There’s something about pathos, like black and white, ying and yang that combines the overall effect together.

Irony also lends itself well to comedy.

(Charlie Chaplin knew this so well.)

But comedy needs to be well done. It’s dangerous ground unless you are supremely confident because it can so easily descend into the grossly ridiculous.

Perhaps that is why I love Jane Austen so much. She had such a sublime sense of comedy. Subtle, like pearls with a little black dress in that Audrey Hepburn way. And one of the best opening pieces… which I had recourse to refer to only yesterday, which is both enlightening, as in summarising the essence of her novel and loaded with the subtle promise of an ironic and light hearted romp… promise being the key word because at no point in the ensuing novel does the promise let the reader down, and now just look at this little gem, the jewel in the tiara:

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Then in a supreme little spoonful she nudges the reader further into her novel:

However little known, the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood,

In other words the poor bastard won’t know what hit him and look at this slam/dunk:

This is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

Signed, sealed, delivered to the slaughter.

Isn’t it funny, but Austen still fits in today. Comedy can be a victim of it’s time because what we find funny in one generation, can be lost to another. I think people in today’s world have lost a lot in the current politically correct atmosphere of overcautiousness not to touch sensibilities of elements of society.

But then good comedy, well done, perhaps doesn’t have a use-by date.

Google “Who’s on first base” and you will see what I’m getting at.

So what's next?

2010-01-28T05:51:00.000-08:00

I admire people who can do the cryptic crossword. They must be very clever. But then...?

I get to write THE END to a long manuscript full of my imaginings.

IQ is like art. It's so subjective.

Sigh.

Happy Endings for New Beginnings...

2010-01-27T17:19:00.000-08:00

Happy endings. Funny but two of my favorite things don't have any endings at all - other than perverse...

George Bernard Shaw went out of his way to disappoint me by informing me in no uncertain terms that the glamorous Audrey was going to pursue her ambitions for a flower shop, spawn dozens of rug rats and ankle biters to the flop, totally on-the-street-where-you-live Eddy. Why? She could have lived happily ever after with crusty old 'enry. Oh Audrey. How could you, when you came to fetch 'is slippers, think Eddy could be a happy ending.

And there's Scarlett. Well you silly fool, you mucked around all that time pining for Ashley and missed the Gable charm...

But never mind, whenever she promised to think about it tomorrow, Rhett better have a good excuse to resist her onslaught, altho' he did quite well avoiding her in the awful attempt at a sequel which is about the only book I've ever gladly disposed off at the second hand bookstore. (I cannot throw out books but I'm happy to dump them onto somebody else's shelf.)

Why do I love happy endings? There is something satisfying about happy endings. There's an awwwwwww factor. GMC + HE = happy me. Hopeless romantic soul.

But there are people who consider happy endings to be tragically trashy. Sure they win Pulitzers and probably qualify for the Nobel, and the New York Times will write extensively about them with varying degrees of angst and praise...

... but little old me, she who loves Jane Austen with a fervor of a Beatles fan in the sixties is happy with Miss Lizzie's happy future with Colin Firth. And I ask why not? He was such a hunk they recycled him in Bridget's Diary.

Me and millions (This is a note for my mother - YES! Me and -) of other people are quite content to tuck our toes next to the fire and to awwwwwww our way out of the worries of the world. Earthquakes in Haiti and the horrors of the nuclear threat in the hands of terrorists.

If you happen to trip over my simple musings for this day, let me know if you agree or disagree and why.

It's time.

2010-01-22T19:01:00.000-08:00

No matter what, the cocoon must eventually turn into the butterfly. No matter how cozy the cocoon was, nature demands we move on to the next stage. In this case the cocoon is cozy against a blitzkrieg of heatwaves beating down on this, my city of Sydney today.

But we are waiting for the inevitable southerly buster which will come like the hero of the south and drop the temperatures to a liveable extent and then life will go on as normal.

And so must my writing activities.

Over the holidays, my son was visiting with his new wife from London. It was lovely to see him, meet my new daughter in law and to try to revitalise my drooping spirits, to be teased back into being inspired.

Yes, my batteries have been sputtering lately. I'm like a little car which is needing a jump start.

Batteries are my problem. Just ask anyone who wants to ring me on my cell phone. I'm the original forgetful charger. But maybe that should be my New Years Resolution. Charge your cellphone, your internal battery and get back onto the track - no excuses - head down, butt up hard work, determination, focus.

I've been treadmilling with determination this week. No excuses treadmilling. Exercise works It works on the butt and it works simultaneously on the head. The power of being positive so watch out manuscripts here comes Penney Positive...

Lean and mean Zara Penney is going to edit you all to within an inch of your word counts... because...

It's time!

I could have danced all night.

2009-05-31T19:03:00.000-07:00

I'd love to find out why... the myster, the stumbling block, the effervescence of:

Why is it Tuesday I can get up. Same side of the bed. Same face in the mirror. My shoes still fit. Yes. It's definitely me. Not my sister, or my neighbor. It's me. Hello me.
I turn on the computer and sit ready to write but it's flat. Like Coke gets. No matter what I write it's - well let's say you'd be better off going outside and plant weeds.

But:

Wednesday I get up. Same face in the mirror. Same side of the bed. Shoes still fit.
Had a horrible Tuesday and expect to throw it all out and start again. And there it is. The magic. The overnight recovery. It flows like the Niagara. And really works and,

I could have danced all night.

Just Google it...

2009-05-26T22:35:00.000-07:00

It took me a long time to remember to Google. It's so quick. So easy.

But I kept forgetting about it. Why?

Dunno. Just not in the habit. Now I am.

In art school they used to use the term "happy accident". At least one of my teachers, a most delightful flamboyant lady (Hungarian) "Call me Olga, Darlings.") did.

I've found happy plot accidents. Bits of information that helped me move a plot in a different direction once I had the knowledge.

Google is a bargain too. Once you pay for your internet provider, it's free. FREE! Nice word that.

FREE!
FREE!

There's only one better thing than free.

Wait for it, drum rolling...

1
2
3
A Jimmy Choo 70% of everything sale.

Am I the only one in the world?

2009-05-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

It seems to me (that) the ing, comma, ed curse is growing. It gets on my nerves with prolific use. Though it is very common it strikes me as clumsy.

They seem back to front. And for me, spoil the smooth flow of reading. Of course you are free to disagree, but look:

Strolling along the sand, the wind whipped his hair into a tormented frenzy.

Many years ago an old journo (he wasn't really old, I was just really young) advised me of the value of short sentences. I can only assume this is advice from him through me to you.

I'd do a re-write on the above sentence. I think it can do a lot more with a rich selection of sensations.

The sand was wet from a tide just departed. A smooth palette fresh, tempting and waiting for his footprints. And as the wind whipped his hair into a frenzy, he concentrated on the marks he left behind. A dog's leg trail along the beach, soon obliterated by the rogue wave, here and there, defying the tide edge. Life is like that. Temporary, easily erased by an accident of fate.

And I can expand this to a richer image.

The seagulls danced and sqwauked above him. Who is this stranger invading our beach? If he'd had some scraps for them, they'd have complained less, but alas, he would remain an invader of this lonely windy place.

The sentence alone can be re-written. As he walked along the sand, the wind whipped his hair into a frenzy.

But re-thinking 'how can I re-write this sentence, it left me with more images, sensations and a litte more meat than just a mere rearrangement of words and tenses.

Adding sounds, smells, to a text can enhance a mental picture. I don't want to tell, but also to show. Trail subtle mental images through the reader's head like adding thyme and garlic can add subtle flavor to a casserole.

So you want to be an author.

2009-05-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

This is from Blogger - Agent Demystified or Miss Snark's First Victim.

http://misssnarksfirstvictim.blogspot.com/

How many letters in that?

2009-05-23T23:40:00.000-07:00

When you write count how many letters in that.

This will read like the script for Who's on First Base? unless I spell it out for you.

When you edit your manuscript kill 'that' - just shoot them or as many as you can like they are sitting ducks at a shooting gallery in the fun park.

You can in the main live without them.

And now that I have spilled the beans, I will start on the next no no.

Put the word THERE on your hit list.

There is no point in starting a sentence with There.

There was a worm called squish. He got squashed.

Instead:

A worm called squish got squashed. Isn't that better, more direct and cleaner?

The new book.

2009-05-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

So you've worked hard on a manuscript. Turned it into a slick presentable story that if you hadn't edited it soooooooooooooooooooooooooo many times, you'd love to read. You've written THE END. And, as stated, edited to within an inch of its life.

A bit of advice. I had a wonderful editor at one stage and she gave me the most sage advice I think an editor can give. (Strangely now I think of it, a teacher at art school - a sculptor said basically the same thing but back to front. I'll tell you in a minute.)

ALWAYS DO YOUR BEST EFFORT. ALWAYS MAKE IT THE BEST THING YOU HAVE DONE UNTIL TODAY. TOMORROW YOU WILL GET BETTER BUT TODAY IT IS YOUR BEST. NEVER HAVE THE WANT TO PUT IT IN YOUR BOTTOM DRAWER AND FORGET ABOUT IT ONCE YOU MIGHT BE RICH, FAMOUS AND SUCCESSFUL.

While the sculptor said:
Keep your first sculpture so you know how awful you used to be. (He was a pessimist. And my marks never quite got over the point of 'could try harder'. I felt the same way about his teaching methods.)

You send off your manuscript to whatever fate is intended for it. And who ever says YES that isn't your mother, magically the thing turns into a book waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down the line - talk year - six months if you really are optimistic.

By that stage you are well into your next manuscript. Agonising over GMC, plot, research. You know all about whatever setting you've chosen, be it history, future, or present. They are a new set of best friends in a new world you are creating. Your intimacy with them is probably as much as you are with yourself. They live inside your head, go with you wherever you go, make you as boring as bat's teeth to be with and when other people are with you they must go:
SNAP! in front of face and say "Zara? Earth to Zara! Anyone at home?"

Then one day a bulky parcel arrives. You don't realise it at first so you dump it on the kitchen bench. Make a coffee, listen to something that distracts you on the radio and only then remember that there's a bulky parcel on the kitchen bench waiting for you. What could it be?

OH MY GOD IT'S MY NOVEL.

Well, (!!!!) you really really really did forget about it. It's been at least six months but probably more towards a year. You got to loathe it you read it so many times. But here it is. The cover you loved or hated during the editorial stage. The blurb on the back, and the stiffness of unopened pages groaning their way into your life. Out pops the smell of a new book, one of the smells you've loved since you were a kid. This is a solid mass of paper and cardboard you have aimed at with such a labor of love and agony. And the object of which you have set yourself the agony of a subsequent novel.

And it goes - actually goes onto a bookshelf. Other people will read it, enjoy it, misunderstand it. It will attract good comments, bad comments and indifferent comments. Some of the reviews will depress you until you realise that YOU DID IT! They probably didn't do it but YOU DIT IT.

YOU WROTE THE NOVEL, GOT IT PUBLISHED AND IF YOU DIE TOMORROW YOUR NAME WILL STILL BE ON AMAZON. YES AUTHOR, YOU ARE UNIQUE. NOT MANY PEOPLE DO WHAT YOU DID BUT YOU DID IT. YOU DID IT AND YOU DID IT!

Enjoy it. It's the best feeling in the world.

Oh that synopsis!

2009-05-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Synopses make me sleepy. They make my head spin. And I'm convinced that the author should be the last person to make their own synopsis.

The essence of a good Synopsis, in my opinion is a good but not too in depth summary of the manuscript. Keep GMC in mind. Keep characters to a minimum. You don't need to tell every last feeling, or detail. That's just coincidental to the main skeleton of the story. And when I say skeleton, I mean skeleton.

When you see a pretty girl, you say 'she has nice bones'. Yes she does. So should the good synopsis. GMC

in other words - she wants, because, but:

Perhaps a good method is to ask yourself questions.

Who is the heroine?
Who is the hero?

What does she want?
What does he want?

Why does she want it?
Why does he want it?

But?
But?

Let's do a synopsis for Sleepless in Seattle.

Meg Ryan.
Tom Hanks.

Sub characters are the kid, the boring fiance.

What does she want?

She wants to get married and get settled into a happily ever after. She's in a rut and the fiance is as boring as bat teeth.

What does he want?

He wants the hurt to stop. He wants to move on with his life.

But (she)?

She's blind to the man she is living with. He's a mere blob on her horizon. One night she hears a phone call. A little boy trying to sell his father. To find a lady who will make his Dad happy again. She's intrigued because she is slowly understanding herself. That she is about to be buried in a droll lifetime of repetition. So the little boy strikes that chord inside her. The part that makes her eventually write a letter.

But (he)?

He is caught in a web. The radio host is making him say things he never really meant to tell. The loneliness and the agony of a widower. And this in turn is making him realise that he must, for his son's sake, start to make a move on moving on.

There are a lot of distractions here for the synopsis. The best friend trying to convince Meg to write. The kid being cute as. The comparison of the Cary Grant/Deborah Kerr movie. But these are distractions. The essence is in the previous paragraphs.

So what happens because?

She is drawn to meet him. She traces him on the computer - it's not hard - no big deal. Gets on a plane goes to meet him but when she finds him he's hugging a woman.
She nearly gets run over, but also realises what a foolish thing she's done. She'd made so many assumptions.

So what happens because?

He sees her nearly get run over and recognises her from an encounter at the airport where, unbeknownst to her, some chemical attraction, thought lost had awakened inside him.

Kid:
Answers her letter. Arranges a meeting in New York on the Empire State.

Now the emphasis falls onto the lead up to their meeting.

(She)?
She's joining fiance on a trip to New York to damage control. Not forgetting that it's coinciding with a certain rendezvous the child had arranged on behalf of his father.

(He)?
Finds out his son has organised himself a trip to New York for a rendezvous with a strange woman.

So what happens? We are at the climax here. The will they won't they?

(She)?

Can't help herself. She has to rendezvous.

(He)?

He finds his son. They forget the bag.

(She)?

Finds the bag. They've gone.

(He)?

He races back to rescue the bag.

And the ending?

They recognise each other and we have HEA.

So this is the barebones and given that,
how would you write the synopsis?

Google It!

2009-05-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

Once I didn't have Google.

Once I didn't use a computer.

Once spell check meant get the dictionary.

Once carbon paper was my copy.

Once White out was my friend.

Once I used the telex machine.

Once file meant a cabinet.

Once there were dinosaurs.

The Hoarder

2009-05-16T20:29:00.001-07:00

The other day my daughter wrested a cake from my hoarding hands and threw it out. The cake had been given to me by her old flatmate who was a (insert fancy name for fancy pastry chef here) and taught said subject at a career college. It was a fruit cake - traditionally made, complete with brandy soak, marzipan and icing, rosebuds - you know... the kind of thing that somebody plonks a bride and groom doll on top and the wedding planner charges 4,000% of basic cost on top of.

Over the course of a year it lived in my microwave so the ants wouldn't attack it. I picked off a lot of the roses and decorations, and it was a nuisance to have to unload it out of the microwave before I could cook anything but...

I hoard therefore I am.

Yes I hoard. Mea Culpa - a sin for the confessional in which I am sure the priest would give me four Hail Mary's and one Our Father for breaching the 11th commandment:

Thou shalt not hoard.

I have no problem generally with the ten commandments, but you see, the trouble is that Thou shalt not hoard is rarely mentioned.

But ironically this comandment inadvertently made me commit the first one. The biggie. Thou shalt not kill. You see the darn cake was discovered by an ant scout. The word went out and the ant brigade invaded my house and my microwave.

It was like some awful scene out of a horror swarm movie, drunken ants soaked in the juices of a dousing of brandy the microwave looked like it was about to be hijacked.

Wall to wall ants didn't last too long under the onslaught of my can of ant spray. My kitchen tidy became a mass grave for dead ants.

My daughter is on constant alert. She's tossed out any cans dated before 1709 in my pantry. Gone through my freezer and thrown out the Barramundi dated 1968. And I'm too scared to leave the fort in case she comes and tries to throw out my pile of RWA newsletters in the still to be read pile.

I have a theory about hoarders. My mother wasn't. My father used to say, coming to my sister and my own house felt like coming home, because they were always full of my mother's unwanted junk. We are both full-blown hoarders. So my daughter grew up in a clutter environment and isn't a hoarder. If it hasn't been used for six months out it goes. Shauna's kids are the same.

Are you a hoarder? Is my theory sound? I have a friend whose house is so uncluttered you long to see whether it's all in the cupboards and would kill you if you open a door. But then,

Us hoarders are a breed apart.

Gotta get on with it...

2009-01-09T18:43:00.000-08:00

Back. Book is launched. The second one is sitting with the editor.

If you're out there and are willing I'd love your vote for anthology in the Editors and Preditors poll. We are currently hovering between #2 and #3. Your vote will count. See my link to the Romance Spinners and you will find a link to the vote. Visit us at our site because you might like a free cookbook and to read about Richard Armitage's new-look in Robin Hood. Why? Because one of our team, Heidi, is a solid fan.

It's 2009. I don't know whether I'm totally comfortable with it. I've lost heaps of weight and it feels better. I've also lost a husband/partner/best friend after 35 very good years. I don't smoke so I don't have to give that up. I've discovered just how important family is and how wonderful mine are.

And while I'm on line here, let me just tell you a little about our new anthology.
It's called For Rich or for Poor. And involves an ancient Norse curse. The anthology is quite exciting in it's concept and you will love the journey it takes you through generations of the family supposedly suffering the dictates of avoiding the curse. The richest must marry the poorest or risk the consequences.

PLEASE VOTE. PRETTY PLEASE.

How does this sound for a plot?

2008-10-29T23:46:00.000-07:00

The wife has been looking around town with her husband for a new house for investment. They search high and low and keep looking until he finds exactly what it is that he's been looking for. It was not bad. Not bad at all.

She asks about the settlement on it, but he's very vague on details. But he's a busy man. Very very busy.

And suddenly he announces to her that he's decided he and the wife will have an 'amicable separation'. Oh? says she. Amicable? Look up dictionary. This doesn't describe the situation at all. So what can be used instead? And he swears on a stack of bibles that under no circumstances is there another woman.

Wife is only one to believe him because she always has. Everyone else is exchanging glances. He starts decorating house with a joyful pride which is almost indecent. Is the wife that awful to live with? After all there hadn't been any complaints up until that moment that could be discussed. Nor indeed ever discussed on any meaningful level. Just a wham bam, he's gone ma'am.

Well, at least give the wife a key since she owns half of the darned thing. Key willingly given. A couple of weeks later the house is entered by some nefarious burglar, but strangely the burglar hasn't taken anything. Ooooh. Very spooky. Is this going to be a suspense novel? But the locks have to be changed since there were no signs of a breakin.

So confounding as this is, the husband is assumed to be going through some sort of midlife crisis. Then through a calamitous set of circumstances the wife finds out quite accidentally that there is a mistress. And that a woman had moved in to live in the new love nest. The very same little nest he and his wife had been looking for investment purposes.

Caught! So the plan had been all along to live in it with the mistress and still to look like the good guy. But he got caught with the proverbials. (oh how this plot is thickening along nicely)

So the wife gets very angry and shoots off emails then collapses in total grief. This is, after all, worse than being a widow, no dead body to mourn. No self esteem since she's so ghastly to live with.

So in self defence he shoots back an email which is so nasty it upsets his hitherto very closely knit family. And he's like John Wayne shootin' from the hip. Bang Bang Bang. Ah'm gonna keep ma little woman. She's my trophy. She's closer to his eldest son in age than she is to him. In fact had fate been different it could have been her that could get to keep the son as a prize rather than the father. He tells us how we all going to get to know each other and play ball in the park and that things are going to be just fine and dandy. We might even have a Penney family day picnic. Spend Xmases together under the Xmas tree unwrapping pressies, hugging each other with so much love and understanding.

This plot is bubbling along nicely. Lots of little nuances here and there to play with.

But his children are very upset and write back what they really feel. And tell him that they no more believe he'd only just met the woman, than fly.

But clues start to build, like little pieces of jigsaw puzzle. Turns out he's been having an affair with an employee while he's been off in foreign parts, and that it has been such a cozy arrangement. She's been on a posting overseas but you see, she's due back and he has to find a little love nest for the love birds.

And now they live and work together every day. Off goes a little alarm bell in the morning and out of bed they hop. Kellog Cornflakes and coffee then skip off to work. Then at the end of the day it's dinner and bedtime.

And they live happily ever after.

I do so love a romance. I wonder if I can turn this into a comedy?

My best friend - A sorry tail...

2008-10-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

Yes. I have a sorry tail to tell. I waved goodbye to it not too long ago and I ache. The tail belongs to my ex best friend.

The one with the tag in the front of the book that claims him as my rock. The one to whom I dedicated my first anthology story.

The tail end of a marriage full of love 35 years of total love and dedication.

But I have two new best friends.

My darling children. I've discovered what a beautiful bunch of people my ex-best friend made.

They are bewildered and as skittled as am I. We were such a tight little family and now we've been skittled by a huge bowling ball.

It hurts like hell, it sure does. Hurts so much that I think I have writer's block for the first time in my life. I can't do it at the moment, partly because I am basically a writer of comedy. And I can't really find anything funny in life at the moment.

How long will this take to get over? I don't know. My dreams are horrendous. Loss of self esteem is so big I never knew it could get to be this big. Are the days long? Yes. Am I forever beginning to jigsaw things into one piece? Dunno, but little bits of evidence of the lead up are beginning to fall into place, and I can sort of work out about what time the ex-best friend was buying the bowling ball.

Do I hate the woman who took him? Yes I wish she'd fall off a mountain or get crushed by an avalanche, or that if she is on a boat it will sink, but it's not really her that I know I should be angry with.

Have my children got huge issues to deal with? A huge yes...on what is a relationship, since their whole belief system has been crushed. OH YES! To them we were almost an institution. Like a building that could never fall.

At the moment if you asked me what I feel like - I'd cryptically tell you like Pompeii.

If you understand that then you are on the same wavelength as me and you understand.

2008-08-14T00:55:00.000-07:00

To all you gorgeous gazillions of fans out there in the world, those of you lurking faithfully for a word of wisdom from your guru Zara Penney, the site is a growing darling. Yes.

A whole Zara Penney dot com. Just for me.

It's growing right under my nose and I'm loving it. It's my very own darling. It's like a little launch to which I can invite all my friends. From there one can blog me or tease me. One can keep me company when I edit.

I haven't had this much fun since... since...

The release date of our anthology.

November 21. Don't forget it.

Trailer the Enchanted Faerie

2008-05-12T01:48:00.000-07:00

Edit is over.

2008-05-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

Well darlings! All of you people who don't read my blog. The edit is done. I know I have one more in me but I'm leaving some space between that event and myself for the time being.

I guess I am waiting now until the others have finished and we present it to the publisher ready for the galleys.

I feel in a strange mood. My little doggette Baby, has gone to the vet for desexing. I just cannot bear the thought of a little of little darlings, birthing, mess and problems associated with a litter. And I will never forget the experience of having a female rottweiler on heat and a silkie terrier in love with his large black diva.

The house was boarded up like the scene in Les Miserables during the siege of Paris, and darling Chester could not be dissuaged. We bought him a little pair of pants but they didn't work, so we bought a pack of baby disposable nappies and found them abandoned constantly. That was a nightmare episode. So unhappy me is sitting here lady in waiting for the news that Baby is ready to come home.

Now that the new anthology has been finished and landing in at almost 20,000 k's, I go on to edit my WIP which is 60,000 k's.

My critique group also has a Challengemeister with a mission... set us challenges to keep our collective muses (musai?) bustling along. Zee is currently a lady of leisure luxuriating in summer break from her daily slog as professor of english whipping hearts and minds into literates of the written word...

So I'm expecting to be busy.

Thursday 13

2008-05-08T21:17:00.000-07:00

Since I'm writing a regency at the moment I am so into Regency - let me give you some Regencyisms...

This stuff is so full of character... it makes a comedy very easy going and what a rollicking little to-do I am having...

Can you guess?

1. Queer in the attic. (As Seinfeld would say, nothing wrong with that.)
2. Stick a spoon in the wall.
3. Long Meg
4. Touched in the upper works
5. Leg shackled.
6. Parson's mousetrap
7. Cut direct, cut sublime, cut infernal.
8. Cyprian
9. A mushroom.
10. Taradiddle
11. Make a cake
12. more hair than a wit
13. Maggot in the head

How'd you go? This is a reverse quiz. The more you guess the more I have to tell you to 'get a life' unless you are full of so many IQ digits - this was just the last thing you needed before you emerged as a 'know it all'.

Following is a translation for the dummies.

1. Peculiar or crazy.
2. To die. Originally meant "took up residence" from the fact that in primitive times a leather strap was often nailed to the wall near the fireplace as a place to keep items like spoons. Eventually it came to mean "die", probably because the fireplace pouch - stuff went in and never came out - (read as junk pile or third draw in the kitchen).
3. A tall woman. Long Meg was a notorious woman from Henry VIII and the subjects of ballads and stories of the time.
4. Crazy
5. Married
6. Marriage
7. Well cut direct, really would conjur up thoughts of director/movie. But to the regency people this was the ultimate insult. Look the other way - social murder. Cut surblime is to look up to Heaven. and obviously Cut infernal is look down or tie or stoop to adjust a shoe.
8. A women who gave sexual favors for payment ie., mistress or courtesan.(Aphrodite the Goddess of Love from the island of Cyprus.)
9. A sudden rise to eminence and riches as would a mushroom grow in the night.
10. A lie.
11. Make a fool of yourself. (*Half-baked)
12. Not very smart.
13. A strange notion

As a fan of how English changes it's meaning over time, language developing - this is quite a fascinating transition.

Jis' one of dem days when...

2008-05-04T16:36:00.000-07:00

I woke up tired.

The dog peed in the hallway.

It's a Monday.

Read my emails, even the junkmail, cos there was nothing substantial there.

The dog is even a little energyless.

They are cutting a tree down across the road. Poor tree. It was a question of
the tree or the house. The dwelling won. But there's going to be an empty space on the street. Poor tree - just sitting there minding it's own business.

Need to carry on with edits. No energy.

Laundry basket overrun with clothes and a dog who's doing a degree of underwear at the University of Life.

Need to ring vet.

Cold KFC for lunch.

No inspiration.

No. Depression it isn't. Just slow roasted procrastination.

BUT

The sun is shining.

Decided to write and illustrate a graphic novel.

And it's a perfect day to wash/edit/eat KFC/ringing vets/seek inspiration/in other words:

What's the prob Bob?

The inbetween...

2008-04-29T18:14:00.000-07:00

Publishing is such a slow creature. Between that when one writes THE END and that which becomes a book is a period of Limbo. It is no man's land, the grey area, where all are waiting. The galleys are produced and more editing, more argy bargy-ing, and then you give it up, convinced that every last comma has been tipped in - such is that vegetative state - soon my darlings - you can see the results of my slaving over a hot manuscript.

I've finished my manuscript and well into the editing mode and it's getting tighter and tighter as I flip through it looking for repetitions, dead spots, punctuating as I go... making decisions whether something works, better and better, layering - always layering - until I am satisfied that this is the best work I have ever done.

Because as I write I know I get better and better. That is the way of the world. And if I'm not getting better then I am not trying. But then I am always trying and I know, relentless is a good word to have attached to my nature. There's another term - its called dogged determination.

This is a trait shown very well by Baby. She is testing out her puppy's voice. She barks at everything. EVERYTHING! Even the rain drops falling from the trees just recently. What she doesn't know are the frequent calls from the neighbors who are ready to shoot her with a bebe gun I would think by this stage. But how do you tell a six month old puppy that it's antisocial to bark?

Who's the Star?

2008-04-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

And so, having been brought to this point by a blog from one of my colleagues over at Romance Writers Unlimited - see link to the right - I am forced to expose the muse, the star of my current work in progress. Of course he was caught at the makeup room but believe me, this boy barely needs it.

It's lovely to be able to touch him, think about him, have him with you to remind you that your imagination is calling you.

(It's not easy blogging while Baby - who has just discovered a delightful source of human endeavor... the dirty clothers hamper, and mastered the art of underpants tennis - and I might add that she's Federra to my Jerry Lewis)

back to maingame:

Where was I?:

Oh, yes, muse:

Um?:

... to remind you that your imagination is calling... "Baby bring that back...

"Damn dog...

"My writing career is over or better still..

"Come back here,

"Baby! Baby!

"Scuse me! Gotta run!

"Baby! Baby! Come back here..."

Thursday 13

2008-04-02T21:04:00.000-07:00

13 things better than editing...

1 Waking up and saying "I've reached my ideal weight."
2 Winning the lottery.
3 Mornings in my Manhatten Apartment on Fifth Avenue.
4 George Clooney ringing me up and insisting that I stop editing and come to dinner.

That's high range.

Now for middle range.

5 Sending the last galley back to the editor.
6 Icecream French Vanilla with chocolate.
7 Playing with my dolls
8 Bargains at a sale.
9 A new pair of shoes.

Then there's low range.

10 Two seconds after the whole washing pile has been hung.
11 Two2 seconds after the whole ironing pile has been done.
12 The bed's made, dishes disappeared from the sink, and the dog is brushed.

And then free range.

13 Yay. Finished the editing!

Gotta love it.

2008-04-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

On April fool's Virgin Airlines advertised in the paper.

Special cheap flights, standing room only.
For longer flights a chair could be rented for limited periods, but strictly on during in-flight. Take off and landing standing room only.

Sad but probably had a few phone calls from the same mob that helps Nigerians out of their dollar dilemmas.

Lum de dum de dum - dontcha love editing?

2008-04-02T20:58:00.000-07:00

I just complained to my crit group. Few of us are caught in the act at the moment.
Yawn. So I thought I'd post my complaint here too...yawn.

One sentence.
oops thirsty
One sentence
dog barks
One sentence
phone rings
One sentence
what's the time?
One sentence.
Hungry.
One sentence
Doorbell rings.
One sentence
Check email
One sentence
Check RWU
One sentence
Mmmm still nine hundred hours until postman gets here.
One sentence
something interesting on radio?
One sentence
check email
One sentence
Check RWU
One sentence
Check RWU
One sentence
play with doll
One sentence
interesting link while googling
one sentence
cup of tea
one sentence
gee I feel sleepy
one sentence
yawn
one sentence
fiddle with doll who is current muse for Regency period.

Gawd! Doris Day is 84 today! HB Ms. Kapplehoff.

I'm writing about people who have lives.

2008-03-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

I'm slaving away over a hot manuscript. Editing editing. Comma by comma. To capital or not to Capital - that is the question. Whether I should split the sentence or give it the bum steer and just drop it. That's my life. The sum total of my life at the moment.

In other words.

I have no life.

But the people in my manuscript sure do. They have a life. I gave it to them. They came out of my head, dammit! You see there's life in the old girl yet.

I gotta get a life. I can't get romance because I quite like the current model. He Who Would Like to be Obeyed is a bit of a keeper! So what's left. Babies? Done that. Two are enough. Dinner parties arguing the pros and cons of the recent election with people who probably voted for the current idiots anyway. Football? Tennis clubs? Hotel for drinkies on Saturday night?

I'd much rather tuck my bunny slippers under my backside and do what I'm doing.

Dream on Zara. Dream on.

PS. If you missed, you millions of silent lurkers, I've been blogging on the Romance Writers Unlimited blog.

Edit it edit it edit it...

2008-03-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

If you say this very very fast while you are doing it it ends up soundling like:

I D I O T

And that's what I'm turning into.

But it's like the floor. If you don't sweep it it the dirt doesn't go away.

Sigh.

Back to editing.

The Enchanting Faerie - a real one.

2008-03-06T18:33:00.000-08:00

She will be capturing the hearts of more than one who come to know her over her life time. And her mother's a lizzard. Her grandmother's little doll.

Phoebe has caught her own little faerie.

And this on the eve of the debut of The Enchanted Faerie.

Bodes well.

Editing

2008-03-06T17:30:00.000-08:00

Editing, editing, editing...

It's like deciding to paint one of the walls because it's dirty. You buy enough to paint that wall. Stand back and ready to admire. No next wall is dirty. Back down to buy some more paint. Paint that wall. Stand bck and ready to admire. No next wall is dirty, so back on down to buy some more paint.

But this time you make an honest woman of yourself. YOu buy enough for two walls and before you are finished you have the whole room painted and it cost you twice as much 'cos you get a discount if you buy in bulk! That is a fact of life. Like you are always last in the queue. Or if you have just cleaned your car after six months of dirt, you almost forgot the color... It rains!

Editing the second galleys of Securement of Greggie Donald. And what do you think? One bitty little mistake, a missing comma?

My editor is going to kill me but I really didn't see them! Swear!

And for those of you who read the last post, the T13 the answer is yes.

I am still crying at the ending of Greggie Donald. STill.

Told you I'm a sook.

T13 - thursday's thirteen things that move me...

2008-03-05T19:42:00.000-08:00

Who am I kidding. I can cry at anything. I'm the biggest sook in the world.

1. Porgy and Bess.

2. Carmen Jones - the American movie version in English. Joe is a boxer.

3. Gone with the Wind. Rhett why did you have to leave just when...

4. You're gonna laugh but the ending of my anthology story - THE SECUREMENT OF GREGGIE DONALD. Yes I know. It's as bad as laughing at your own jokes but yes, I cry every time I get to the end.

5. The ending of Sleepless in Seattle.

6. The ending of Pretty Woman.

7. What do the Simple Folk do? To help when their feelings are blue, from Camelot.

8. Old Lassie movies. Just the music makes me cry. I don't even have to watch.

9. Jane Eyre.

10. Yentyl. Love Barb S. Biggest fan. "Oh you bake cookies too?"

11. War and Peace.

12. Losing something I really wanted on Ebay.

13. Getting lost. I do it so well.

Well he's left on a jet plane

2008-03-01T20:29:00.000-08:00

He who wants to be obeyed has left as of 3.00 bound for that place where Obama and Clinton are fighting tooth and nail. Where the Buffalo roams. And the deer and the antelope play.

And play I will here. List of things while he's away.

Not make bed until absolutely necessary.
No ironing.
Eat what I feel like when I feel like it.
Get around like a frump.
Cross fingers that the computer keeps working.
Hope burglars don't bust down the door.
Get a flat tyre.
The dishwasher keeps working.
Televisions work.
Internet doesn't muck up.

Oh dear. Now he isn't here the list looks quite depressing.

And two and a half weeks looks depressingly far away.

She doesn't read

2008-02-29T19:44:00.000-08:00

six random things about me? Well I wrote 13 and now here's another one...

14. She doesn't read the rules.

Here's the 7th to 14th random thing about me.

7. I fall in love with my heros. I'm a hopeless romantic. By the time you read my stories, this guy is second hand goods! (I've already had him and onto the next one.) Ahhhh love'em and leave'em - I guess I am a floozey at heart.

8. I love people who laugh. You can tell them at 50 paces. It lives in their voices. It's never very far away from them. They are usually optimistic, glass half full types. They are usually spontaneous. I'm a Kay Thompson/Elouise type. And I've never grown up. "Zara act your age!" What? Six and a half? Okay, but don't you see? I already am thank you very much!

9. I'm a chicken. Now if anyone says fun park to me I think, Oh no. What fun park? Is this the one where you have to ride stuff that scares the "beep" out of you? The one where everyone is having so much fun they are screaming in fear? Where they are trying to turn their stomachs inside out? And then have a greasy hamburger and keep it down? Maybe that's why I chose writing. If one has fun screaming then try sending out a manuscript. Yeah yeah. At least the hamburger stays put. I wish I could swish down a slope at G-force - yodling as I search for danger to thrill me... but go to 10.

10. I'd make a great rich person.

11. Why don't they make remote controls that have On/Off Pause/resume Volume-up/down?

12. Situations find me attractive. Red/yellow lights. Bank/supermarket queues. Mosquitoes. Dog poo and chewing gum. Flat batteries. Every size but mine in the best bargain of the century. Internet breaks down the minute my in-house comp-nerd walks out for more than a day (Lord He who would love to be obeyed.

Are you ready for it? The big one... the drums are rolling, the stage lights are all directed at the stage, ladies and gentlemen, the star of the blog...

Ms Zara Penney...

Ms Zara Penney...

Ms Zara Penney...

Ms Zara Penney...

13. We are very sorry but we couldn't find Zara Penney so here's her understudy.

(and I forgot to mention there's no doorbell on Zaraworld)

I've been tagged!

2008-02-29T18:33:00.000-08:00

Well, been tagged (the anonym of tag is gag!) so here I go...

First of all, the rules.

1. Link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Share six random things about you
4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry
5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blog.

Tagger: Gina Ardito (see her link on the right side)
Taggee: Zara Penney

1. I can cry at the drop of a hat. Basically I'm an actress at heart. I'd be great on stage but I freeze. I'm abysmal. So I write. But cry?
Weddings, funerals, movies, why I cry at the end of Pretty Woman and Seepless in Seattle!

2. I don't do sun,sand,surf. Apparently even when I was a few months old, I sat with a look of 'yuck' on my face and my hands in the air, on Bondi beach. I think I'm Eskimo - my stork was a deaf dork - he was told 'drop her in New York'. He misunderstood. Bondi Bloody Beach!

3. When I was little my sister's bedspread worked. Mine didn't. No matter how I tried, her's never had bumps. I tried swapping but it still didn't work. Same with ironing. Her pre looks like my apres. I don't mind ironing. It gives me an excuse to get information from Oprah on all manner of things. Menopause. Clooney. De-cluttering homes. But she never gave a program on ironing, maybe?... no won't go there.

4. I get lost very easily. I hate asking directions because I know I'm already lost again by the second 'go left then follow through until you get to the..." my eyes haze and I'm re-lost.

5. I wonder if I ever didn't have Altzheimers. I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on. "Zara you'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on." My head doesn't have little pockets in it like other people. My sister remembers every little hurt I ever imposed on her. Even the cut-out dolls I used to draw - well I did keep my best for me... but then she had a perfect bedspread and I didn't.

6. Zaraworld. This is a universe in itself. The people who live next to it think it's a mystery. "Zara did you hear me?" Well, you want the long answer or the short answer? Never mind it's a universal, resoundig NO. You should knock. "Hello? Anyone there?" Chances are I'm down in the basement immersed in thoughts. Some profound, some insane, and some mundane. I try to come out long enough to please people but the portal is very slippery if your name is Zara Penney.

Unwitting list of taggees - you can visit them from my links list:
Sandra Cormier
Heidi Wessman Kneale
Paisley Scott
The Artful Muse
E.J. McKenna
Ali Katz

A bed time story for Zee.

2008-02-06T21:07:00.001-08:00

Today Zee asked me for a bed time story. She wanted me to tell you about Altolvo the Magnificent of Italy. Of his fame, his daring. The man who was a white albino dwarf, and the Count of Mercato of Sicily. Well Zee, here is your wish...

Of course albinos dwarves with diabetes are quite common in Mercato. Indeed Sicily is well known for its mafiosa, its markets and its albino dwarves. But how did it come about. The mafiosa, the markets and albino dwarves.

Back in ancient times, Sicily was much desired by both Italy and many of the Mediterranean states from Egypt to Africa. It is said that the Queen of Sheba herself desired it above all else but despite all of Solomon’s wisdom and wealth, it was the one crown jewel he was unable to bestow upon her.

You see the secret of Sicily’s success is the Count of Mercato. The court of Count Mercato was a rich and wealthy place. It’s influence spread far and wide, and his army was so powerful. Nobody ever really understood why. In fact they never understood, though it was boasted about, this huge army, nobody ever saw any evidence of it. No! Absolutely none! Not a single guard. Not a single soldier.

Yet if one googles properly one can continually find mention of Altolvo the Magnificent. He was said to be one of the greatest Sicilian generals of all time. And led his fearless followers into battle.

And hence this tiny island has nestled in eternal safety amongst those that have continually desired its central Mediterranean geography. Where wine grows in abundance and fruit of the land is rich and generous. Where olive groves shade the hot and weary. And wear goats offer generous milks which readily transform into cheeses such as feta and yoghurts and Philadelphia Cream Halumi.

Now you might be asking what albino dwarves? Of course you have never seen one. There isn’t even a likeness of the great Altolvo himself. Not a single sculpture nor sketch nor carving. Nor description. Yet his memory is so vivid amongst Sicily’s native sons and daughters. It is because they all had sugar diabetes. They are small, white and melt away in the heat.

Eventually they sent their sons to all parts of the world. Where the breed grew both in numbers and stature. We have all known the activities of these descendants of the Sicilian albino dwarves. They flourished especially in the United States of America in the twenties during the prohibition. The alcohol proved most beneficial to the particular kind of Sicilian albino dwarfism. The most famous of them was Marlon Brando followed by Al Pacino, and James Caan. Yes you are surprised. All three of them are descended from the famous white albino dwarves of Sicily. Yes, I know you are shocked and never suspected this. But listen to that song, that famous song, you are humming it inside your head. It will probably stay with you all day long. In fact it was written on the spirits of the ancestors of these men and others.

The albino dwarves of Sicily.

But it is all true. Just Google it and see for yourself.

Back to editing.

2008-02-03T15:03:00.000-08:00

And a deadline. My mood isn't high. I've got a pile of ironing behind me here at Coward's Castle.

Truth is I really don't hate it. I can plot while I just mindlessly iron.

Teatowel.
Back, forth.
Back, forth, fold.
London. They race through the streets. She looks behind her.

"Quick, turn here!"

Quim looked into the mirror. The black limousine was still behind them.

"They realise we've seen them. Hold onto your seat!"

Pillow slip.
Back, forth
Back, forth,fold.

She screamed. Really loudly. This was way beyond her comfort zone. Way way beyond.
But then so was imminent death. That was all they were faced with if Crosby got to them before...

Shirt.
Back, forth.
Back, forth.

Up Barker Street. A little old lady was crossing the road. "Look out for the the little old lady!"

Back, forth.
Sleeve.
Back, forth.

They swerved. Hit a parked car.

Back, forth.
Left side.
Back, forth.

"Why don't we drive past the police station down on Sir Humphrey Nightpole Square?"

Back, forth.
Right side.
Back, forth.

He swerved back onto the road. She glanced at the parked car. It's owner was emerging from his house, fist raised. She also glanced back behind them. The black limousine was there, relentless and threatening. Big, black, solid and

Back, forth
Hang the shirt.

Dangerous.

Rainy Days and Sundays Always Let/Get me Down

2008-02-02T20:22:00.000-08:00

I suddenly realised as well as I know this song - at least this chorus, I won't ever win that million dollars on that show that tests your knowledge of songs you should know well.

Take My Fair Lady for intance.

I could have pranced all knight.
I could have pranced all knight.
And still have begged four more.
I could have spilled my beans
And made a thousand stains
And still have stained some more.

I should have grown and made it so inviting
Why every dunce could do it once or twice...

I only know when he began to prance with me
I could have PRANCED PRANCED PRANCED ALL KNIGHT!

South Pacific:

I'm gonna wash that Zit right outta my hair
I'm gonna wash that Zit right outta my hair
I'm gonna wash that Zit right outta my hair
and zend on his vay.

I know a lot of songs like this. My mother used to sing. My sister and I learned them at my mother's knee. Including foreign songs.

Only she's not so good at grabbing the words. I once lived in a place called Kfar Hassidim. She could never say it.

She could only ever say it like one well known clothing chain, (French Connection) we all know and love but can never say allowed...

Fcuk Hassidim.

You wouldn't be able to be my mother and survive Jerusalem. But then could Jerusalem survive my mother?

Back to writing. This was just a little bit of divergency. I'm in edit mode. This means pondering for ten minutes over a comma. It means cutting out whole paragraphs of exsquisite prose. FOREVER! It means you've used the name for half the novel and suddenly for some reason changed the dog's name. But it also means that you've reached the end of your precious months of toil. That you are on the bendy end of the envelope. That you can beg for your rejection slip well before Xmas so you can enjoy the cake and eat it too.

Just in case you are wondering about Baby. She has now officially outgrown the little baby doggy bed she came home in. Now she wears it like a tortoise shell. This is a game. She hops under it and walks around with her tail out doubled over it. Fluffy shitzu tail. She's gorgeous.

Now would you like me to sing you -

I'm as Horny as Canvas in August?

okay, ready?

I respect everyone of my crowd to have fun
and make loud restorations of faith in their pants,
And they'll say I'm so sweet like a baby to sneeze
on the table so near while my mother just rants.

Fearlessly I'll face them and argue their pouts away,
Loudly I'll spit about breadcrumbs that spring,
Flatly I'll stand on my little flat feet and say
Two 'flat' words ain't a beautiful thing!
I'm not ashamed to reveal
The world famous feelin' I feel.

I'm as horny as canvas in August,
I'm as formal as blueberry pie.
No more a smart little tart with no heart,
I have found me a wonderful buy!

I am in a contentional dither,
With a cementable star in my pie.
And you will note there's a grump in the boat
When I speak of that wonderful buy!

I'm as right and as any gay and as crazy,
A ricochet comin' through!
I'm repetitive and trite
As a spoon-crappy fight
Pourin' fright on the dune!

I'm as horny as canvas in August,
If you'll refuse an repression of juice,
I'm in love, I'm in love,
I'm in love, I'm in love,
I'm in love with a wonderful buy!

I'm as frightfully gay as a crazy inmate,
In a rich Roman zoo!
I'm nomadic and tight
As a moon-happy knight
Pourin' light on the dune!

Girls
I'm as horny as canvas in August,
Fight like a nag on the Fourth of July!

Nellie:
If you'll excuse an repression I choose,
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie:
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie:
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie:
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie:
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie:
I'm in love,

Girls
I'm in love,

Nellie and Girls
I'm in love with a wonderful buy!

Okay on a needs basis...

2008-01-28T21:03:00.000-08:00

This is nothing cerebral. Not celestial. No excessive gray matter needed here. But when I was little my sister's bedspread was always smoother. I figured even though they looked the same her b/s must have been a bit more expensive. I offered to swap, she took it up because I bribed her with an offer she couldn't refuse, but that so and so must have swapped it back while I wasn't looking because the new one never worked!

So this brings me to the main puzzle of my life.

Um...

Is it only my clothes - the ones that come home in my shopping bag to live with me until they die - that have

DO NOT TUMBLE DRY

????

Yes. I'm out there at the clothes line matching the socks, hanging the sheets, and the shirts. The t-shirts in their relationship to the color chart, and making sure that no item has a mismatched color peggery. Yet mine's the only clothesline on the block. Nobody else uses one. So? Does that mean? Every one else uses black magic - or - the - tumble - dryer?

I should have known. It should have occurred to me...

2008-01-25T17:20:00.000-08:00

You would think that...
Having posted on Wednesday, that I'd notice that the next day was...
That I had to start thinking about...
That there was something missing out of my brain...

The rather fast around the week approaching was the 'but I only did it yesterday'...

THE BIG T
THIRTEEN OF THE BEST

THURSDAY THIRTEEN. But then why am I shouting?

So it's two days late. Sue me.

1. Because I should be writing.
2. Because I have to brush the dog.
3. Because I have to research my Regency novel.
4. Because I didn't have the car on Tuesday.
5. Because I had to tidy the study to find something.
6. Because I was paralysed without the internet.
7. Because It was raining
8. Because I only had one sock (the dog stole the other one)
9. Because I had a short story for my critique group.
10. Because I had to pay some bills (that time of the month).
11. Because I have too many Indians ringing me to offer me fantastic deals on phone calls.
12. Because I had 400 emails this week.
13. Because I had to drive my husband to work.

There.

Pardon?

Oh!

Um...

"Why I didn't iron this week."

Yeah yeah

2008-01-23T21:26:00.000-08:00

You are The Star

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised

The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

This comes amazingly close to me, moi, myself.
Baby is learning to become a lap dog. I am learning about how hard it is to internet and write with a lap dog. Given that she is still a baby I'm glad she's not a Great Dane. I'd be in serious difficulties...

aaaaarrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh

2008-01-22T14:36:00.000-08:00

Yes. It's a scream from the hell of madness.

The modem broke. It took three days to work that out. Three days without the internet. Three days of madness.

No googling.
No interacting with the world I have come to know here on this internet community.

I was alone. ALONE! Cut off from information sources.
Cut off from everything comfortable. Emails.
Okay so the internet may creep in insipidly, take over my heart and mind, but since it is here:

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!

Research

2008-01-19T17:24:00.000-08:00

Drop everything!
Warning lights are flashing over the front door like the ON AIR outside a radio studio.
My lights say:

RESEARCH IN PROGRESS

This means a variety of things.

Piles of books accumulate. (I have books on a wide variety of subjects.)
Days are spent Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooogle-ing
I walk around talking to myself.
Dinner is late.
Ironing never gets off the ground.
New characters are in my head demanding fresh fodder.
And if someone in India rings me up from a call centre, I am not a nice person.

You'd never know how much I enjoy it. You'd never suspect it'd be hard work.

Just don't disturb me.

I'm having too much fun.

T13 Just because

2008-01-16T19:32:00.000-08:00

Just because this is here, and so am I and because I can...

1. I say actually a lot. Actually this, and actually that. HewhoWouldLovetobeObeyed wants to censor my actually. But actually, I actually don't give a stuff. I will say actually as many times as I want, actually.

2. I hate people who want to wash my windscreen. NO. NO. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO TOUCH MY CAR. You intimidate me. Invade my space. Go earn your dole check by helping little old ladies across the road. Your dole check comes out of my taxes and for that to be paid I get out of bed, catch a bus and go EARN it. Not beg for five cent sneaky undeclarable income.

3. Yes I'm a grump. Why? Because I can.

4. Today I feel flat, therefore I iron.

5. Yesterday my keyboard died. This one is a new one. Before it was given a burial in the garbade I tried the batteries. New ones. When I lifted it back to test I notice there was a decided history of dropped items into it's keys. Sesame seeds, breadcrumbs, pencil rubbings, paperclips (exaggeration but it's a because I ccan list right?)

6. I can also wave a you. Hello you. If you are here you deserve a wave. If I am still here waving at you in a few hours time that means (a) I have not written a word of novel. (b) my flat mood has not translated into a day of ironing. or (c) you have to have a c when you have an a and a b - but I don't have anything to put in it.

7. Today's lunch is definitely going to be a vegemite sandwich. If you don't know what that is, then don't ask. They used it once in an advertising campaign for Kraft which now owns it. "If you can sell this you can sell anything." was the slogan and it was sent to corporations. If you know then, hang five!

8. It's raining. I love rain. I adore rain. Have I ever told you how much I like rain?

9. If you have made it up to here on my T13 list I do have a bit of advice for you.
Get a life!

10. Zee's new challenge is excellent. I chose a picture and the sentence: He knew he would regret... I will probably post it here in a couple of week's time after the critiquing has been done by all the participants of my critique group.
11. There are names in links on this site for whom 2008 will be their brilliant year. Many of them have new publications coming out this year.

12. My second anthology story has been started. It's set in Regency times. I am enjoying the research and can rattle on quite a decent dialogue in Regency speak. "You are well suited to your pursuit of pleasure, Sir. I shall not hesitate to tell you this minute that in this, you definitely do not display laziness." Which is one way a heroine could complain about his use of the remote control whilst watching the sport's channels on television.

13. Around this time, there is something I love. It's the Military Tattoo in Edinburgh. I cannot tell you why, but it is very stirring. Perhaps all those drums and bagpipes tap the source of the inner ancient me.

And all that is left is to wave at you again.

T13 - trying the fathoms...

2008-01-10T14:21:00.000-08:00

80,000 fathoms beneath the sea is a creature called:

Man Reasoning.

A woman needs a submarine to fathom them and even then ????

1. WHY is it okay when he tells you to park here? If I tell him, it's nagging. He tells me and it's supposed to be a gentle nudge of logic.

2. WHY don't men ask directions? Need I say more?

3. WHAT'S wrong with the lights? Red means stop, green means go. WHY drive 60 kilometres the other way to avoid the lights. Especially when it was man that invented the damn things.

4. WHY do men think it's strange to rinse the dishes before they go into the diswasher? It's not an insinkerator. And the stuff'll smell if you don't start the machine for a couple of days.

5. WHY, when I tell him he needs something new, I mean half a dozen, yet he'll go all the way to the shop and buy one?

6. WHY, when he does the dishes, is there always 'something' he's missed washing or putting away?

7. WHY do I bother ironing his t-shirts? I put them into very satisfyingly neat little piles and the following week, when my next little pile goes in, the previous one needs ironing again? (This question is really Why am I so stupid?)

8. WHY do I have to tell him that mowing the lawn is dangerous in thongs? Am I the Goddess of Safety? Why would goggles when cutting wood be such a good idea. Is it just me and the one who invented them that can see the potential accident waiting for your husband to happen?

9. WHY are the singlets and tee shirts always inside out? ... ??? ...

10. WHY does he hate going to the supermarket with me? We only go for two or three things, but honestly, can I help it if I see fifty other things I needed. Lightbulbs? Matches? Candles for the next blackout?

11. WHY does he think pockets are for putting things in? No they aren't. Women have it right. They keep the stuff in their bags. No, not him. Still, I guess he thinks it's fun finding the biro in the bottom of the washing machine, or the business card from his shirt pocket? It used to be fun. I did fund some jewellery with washed coins I'd save from them into high numbers from this little caper, but he discovered my secret and bought a coin pouch. Since then it's been a desert of biros and business cards all the way.

12. WHY doesn't he think that hanging his jacket evenly on the coathanger might stop it from getting odd little bumps in it?

13. WHY is this creature so sort after by we women? Some of us marry them in job lots, up to three and four repeat times? Some of us write romances based on this strange creature. What is it about women that they'd punish themselves like this? I mean, all it gets us is a strange creature who does all of the above. Gives us a few babies, some of which might be carbon copies and turn into 13 year olds. Do I need to hang onto one of these strange creatures because they can tune the television?/open bottle tops?/hold an awful kishke-jarring thing called a lawn mower?/change car tyres?/unflatten flat batteries?/carry suitcases?/reads my m/s without complaint?/likes my cooking?/is my best friend?/oh heck... I'd hate to see his T13 on me up on cloud 9.

I do love that Hewhowouldlovetobeobeyed.

The Heavens are Hungry

2008-01-05T16:01:00.000-08:00

Yes. Heaven is watering our garden today. The waves on the beaches are thrashing the shore. Huge, very dramatic four meter waves pound the sand clawing back the sand beyond the thrashing whitewash edge of the Tasman Sea, which is what it is where I live in Sydney.

Slightly inland, where I live it is simply raining.

When I am writing these days in Coward's Castle there is a lovely spot outside where I set up my laptop and listen to the birds. One of the birds is Qantas since we are ever so slightly affected with traffic coming into land from far flung places. I love aeroplanes. I have since I was a kid. For me they spell exotique. They can take me places where I join my imagination.

Places I'd love to go:

1. New York. The big apple. Things happen here. People happen. I get a buzz. I think it's an either hate or love place - you do or you don't. I'm a do.

2. London. Was there twice in 07. Love to do a duo again. My son lives there. He loves it. Jump on a train over the canal and you can get to:

3. Paris. Different. Walkable. Eye Candy. Daughter loved NY, then London, then decided she'd do a Liza Doolittle there, open a corner bloom shop and live a dream. Me? I'd rather New York. But then there's...

4. Switzerland. We went there often in aroundabout the seventies, when I lived in Nigeria. Yes I did live in Nigeria. What was it like? It was strictly love/hate. I hated the robbers. They were scary. I loved drives in the country where we met the people. They are gorgeous. I want to go back but I don't. I don't want to spoil my memories of what I had back in those days because I suspect they are long gone. Not the lovely people in the country, they will never change. It's the cities that change. The cities which drag the innocent in to lose their innocence. Where the robbers get hungry for the spoils of theft. But at the moment it's Switzerland I talk of. That place where on-time means just that. Where the whiteness of mountains full of pines, where - oh just go there if you can. It's picture postcard. Which reminds me that I often went to:

5. Italy. I love Italy. The scooters hooting and tooting their way through the paved streets. I love the chaos that it is. So if you meet a long lost cousin in the street in your cars, you stop, have a chat. Horns toot, other Italians who don't know how long it is since you met cannot get through but Hay! Mama Mia! I haven't seen Gianni in two weeks! Wait! Wait! Mama Mia! Just for your screaming and tooting and the time I'm wasting telling you crazies to waste I have to spend longer cos you're interrupting me... hay hay...

6. Hong Kong. We lived here for a year. Well Hewhoshouldbeobeyed Lord Muck lived here for a year. I wafted in and out like Lady Muck backing and forthing between here and Sydney, while my children created havoc on their own at home 'alone'. There is a magic about Hong Kong. Indefinable. We lived in Mosque Street, near the escalators on the mainland. Not too far away from the Governor General's house and near where one took the cable train to the lookout. There was a bird in the tree across the road that I called the whoopee bird. I have no idea what it was but it was annoying. It did something like...

Whoop -> higher Whoop -> Higher WHOOP -> Even HIGHER WHOOP and then it'd wait. Or you'd wait, wait, wait, wait, come on you darn bird do it! Do it! Come on bird go go go <- <- <- <- <- then the whistle would go down the scales like a Nazi bomb just buzzing over wartime London.

7. Los Angeles. You are probably wondering why I've included this when I could go for places such as Amsterdam, or Antwerp. Wait. Los Angeles. I just like it. I can't explain. And also:

8. San Francisco. Ahhhhh. The Presidio. For some reason I have latched onto this treasure. It sings to me. Right under the armpit of the wonderful red bridge is this old army barracks/base. I can hear the beat of the music of that place of soldiers living their days, of the big bands of the era with the likes of Frank Sinatras singing big band songs, of those lives lived and lost at infancy of later teenagehood and early twenties...

9. Amsterdam. Only been there once but it was great. We did a bike trip. I discoverd that my bottom had feelings and that feeling it at the end of a day-trip through those streets out into the country kept me standing for at least two days afterwards.

10. New York. Did I say that already... Mmmm well... New Orleans. Oh my God is it hot in New Orleans. WE were there before the big storm. I loved it and I am sad for it. I'm not sure I want to see it in case it's lost some of that magic that was it. Day time, night time... fun time. Boy but was it hot there.

11. Solomon Islands. Now I have a memory of this place. A certain little island there that we stayed on by default. A no room at the Inn situation. The owner gave us the hut on the island owned by him a mile away by speed boat. We'd spent the day with people who reminisced about the Japanese soldiers left behind - never to surrender - after WWII and the battles of the Guada Canal. I was fascinated by the stories of how they'd put up speakers about the various islands and try to entice the soldiers out, telling them that the war was over. That was until the generator's one hour supply stopped and we were alone in the hut on our own island in the Pacific, just the two of us and oh no! How many Japanese soldiers?????? My husband reassured me. "Never mind we just shove our camera out the window and scream 'Mitzubishi, Toyota, Samsung, Canon!' We woke up in one piece in the morning and walked the silver shores completely alone in the world the next morning, at early dawn. Magic, absolute magic.

12. Israel. Jerusalem. Tel Aviv. Haifa. It's one of those places, which, like Switzerland lives up to your wildest imagination.

13. Here I am at thirteen and only starting. Two days ago I went on a trip to the Hunter Valley, the wine growing area. On the bus were people from all over the world and one couple from the US base in Okinawa. So I thought I must include Japan. It is wonder. Again I've only been there once and that was a long time ago. The people were so lovely. Welcoming and friendly.

And I will stop here because I'm making this my Thursday 13, late as usual.

I need to do a wash. It's not raining at the moment. It hasn't all morning. I just know if I hang a wash out it's going to open up the Heavens and make them hungry all over again.

Or I will write.

That's one of the reasons why it's nice to be an author. You always always always have an excuse.

I loves you's all... darling darling.

2007-12-31T15:53:00.000-08:00

My New year's resolution has worked in the past and will again this year. Should I tell you? Is it like the wishbone of the chicken, or wishing on a falling star? Does spilling the beans break the spell ... come to that is watching a full moon through a closed window bad luck? If you cross your eyes and the wind changes you stay cross-eyed for eternity? Well I'll be brave and let you in on the secret... spill the beans ... expose the promise ...

1. I MAKE NO RESOLUTIONS.

That's it. And I want to tell you. It works a treat!

Last night on a very very expensive harbor cruise I was part of one million people on Sydney Harbor to witness the fantastic 'Festival of Light'. The shores were lined with watchers, but I was privileged to be on one of the boats festooned with lights celebrating various significant dates in relation to the antipodean wonderland of Oz.

And I was one of one million people who made an orderly escape from the city after midnight. We all smiled. Drunks were not marring the footpath. It's nice when that happens.

Happy New Year everyone. Mine starts with a new anthology. Check out Romance Spinners. You'll find the link up in the corner. It also starts with a new blog that will be more frequently used by members of my critique group, RWU. This is the greatest bunch of support-groupies I've ever had, and I treasure the talents and the friendship of each and every one of them.

So from Coward's Castle, 'Baby', His Lordship Hewhoshallbeobeyed and myself...

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Welll my darlings...

2007-12-23T16:00:00.000-08:00

It's almost Christmas. Cowards Castle is going into ultra neat mode. WE are the mein hosts of the day, for a rather diminished family.

My son, is in London. He who has the wisdom and knowledge of the beastie inside the computer - the philospher - the dreamer I wish him more success in the pursuance of his dreams.

My daughter, will be with us. She the daughter of her father. Practical, sensible, quick, smart, adorable, with the personality of such that radiates.

My husband, best friend, putterupperer with my nonsensence antics.

My sister, she who spawned three offspring, none of whom she shall be seeing on the day for varying reasons, far beyond her control. All those taxi fares to various sporting, academic and talent on Saturday morning, and none of them coming home for Christmas.

My Brother in Law, dear sweet man, who will be the driver on the day and tuck into one Scotch.

My mother. Oh my mother. My dear sweet as lemon mother who is no longer the mother I knew but some character who dwells inside a soul drifting in and out of dementia and delusion.

Me. One of my friends once named a queue of celebrities with which she was interacting. (with whom? oh well you know what I mean) "And then there's me," she said. I wonder if that's how we all feel. And if we don't then I don't quite know if I like the person that doesn't have a little of that essential humbleness. The "and then there's me"ism. People who don't possess it have huge egos. And jackboots.

Merry Xmas to all of you people who don't read my blog. May your Christmas be full of the joy of the season, your families gather around you, may you also eat too much and just enjoy the fact that for one day of the year you forget your diet and enjoy the moment. I intend to enjoy myself and forget about the sillyness of my day to day life and the futility with which I pursue this little piece of human folly.

The snow is falling around. Drifting in layers on the footpath. Icicles are hanging from the eaves and thin wires of smoke drift up to the clouds from chimneys all around Sydney. Official lie.

But the truth is, this Xmas eve:

The Fish Markets are full of shoppers. They are queueing up for hours on end to purCHASE kilos of very large king Prawns, lobsters, fish, crabs, Balmain bugs, etc. YOu see Australia is usually barbecue territory during Xmas. If Santa comes, he's probably not wearing the official Coca Cola sponsored red suit.

The shops are madly scrawling to service the crowds of last minute masochists.

But moi. We went to the fish markets last night at 1.00am. WOW! Piles of fish. Who eats it all. Yet apparently we do.

Happy Xmas every body.

Thursday 13

2007-12-21T19:43:00.000-08:00

I'm late. Yes. My Baby has been discovered to have a heart murmur. I got the news and it bowled me over. But here's my Thursday 13 (which I haven't even decided about yet to let you in on a deep dark secret)

Okay I've decided. Things I hate.

1. Revving motor bikes that creep up on me when I'm driving.

2. Why do dentists and doctors think they can make me wait? Like if I'm late for an appointment I apologise. Have you ever had an apology from a doctor who is running late?

3. When two lanes turn into one lane. Usually this works in society. He goes, she goes, he goes, she goes... people just merge. But you get a smart arse that has to roar along to the absolute n'th of the merge and barge in. I like to stick my nose in the air and take up two lanes like an old witch.

4. People who walk on the pavement as if they owned it. Don't mind if you need to stop and talk about the shopping you've just done. Don't mind the fact that I might be in a hurry. Just take your time and I'll be patient.

5. Zebra crossings. Give a pedestrian the right of way and they'll sneer and jeer at you. They are waiting just for you. They like to pick on you because it gives them fun to walk slowly in front of you. Suddenly they jump in front of you. London is the worst place for these.

6. When somebody has just been rescued out of an avalanche. They are barely alive but they are saved. And along comes the journalist. "Are you glad you've been saved?" Huh? Is there some 'it' I'm not getting here?

7. People who say that is 'exactly right'. I'm missing something here too. It's right of wrong. Is there some grey area nobody has told me about?

8. Have you ever come up to the lights and had the "window washer"? This is a dreaded creature who comes along and without your permission simply takes it upon himself to wash your windscreen. Get out of my space person. Go make somebody else's life misery.

9. Cocktail parties. Yes I hate cocktail parties. "Hello I'm Zara Penney."
"Pardon?" "Zara Penney, my name..." "Hello, nice to meet you." "Pardon?" "Nice to meet you, Harry Belafonte." "Pardon?" "Harry Belafonte." "Nice to meet you." "Pardon?" "Nice to meet you." "What do you do?" Pardon? "What do you do." "WRite." Pardon? "I'm a writer. What do you do?" "Pardon?" "Sing." "Pardon?" "Singer." "Well it was nice to meet you." "Pardon?" And the canapes have just gone past at a hundred miles a minute.

10. Politicians. "How long is it since you laid straight in bed?" "Mmmmm that's a very interesting question. It reminds me of my mother's granny who used to crochet her cardigans. She always used blue wool because..."

11. When I lived in Hong Kong, there used to be a department store. They had 100 percent employment there. And every shopper had their own nag. This is an assistant who follows you around and every time you pick up an article, then put it back, they'd straighten it, check it to see you didn't leave fingerprints or spit on it... so much for browsing in that free spirited mood of the lonely shopper searching for the perfect - oh go away!

12. The nanny state. The politicians in my life seem to feel they need to tell me how to do everything. Leave nothing to chance. Example. I had to have a fence around my swimming pool. It had to have a special gate that locked in such a way that the child, who never came to my house, wouldn't drown because they never came to my house. Yet out in my front yard was a very busy road? Is there something I'm not getting here? Did somebody say why while I was at the supermarket?

13. By now you have worked out that I'm a grumpy old lady. If you are the one who is throwing coca cola cans into my paper recycling bin on rubbish night then go get nicked!

Today I found

2007-12-16T17:29:00.000-08:00

myself talking to my new puppy in baby bark babble.

"Woofy woofy woofy." in a high pitched slightly retarded falsetto.

Eat your heart out Tiny Tim.

Parlez vous etc.

2007-12-14T21:02:00.000-08:00

Today I had

a gogo

1. Internet
2. Washing

and Chinese to gogo

Thursday 13

2007-12-13T17:24:00.000-08:00

This can get hard but I had recourse to use some French words today, and I thought mmmm... I do spatter my spoken word with a lot of French, don't always know how to spell them when I write them down. So here's a few of my most used ones...

1. a propos

2. c'est la vie

3. comme, comme ca - imagine me waving my hands around as I say it.

4. deja vu - it's hard to remember the spelling though.

5. encore - I like them - en masse ;-)

6. de riguer - I use this a lot.

7. faux pas - oops. but it's a fait accompli

8. joie de vivre - yep that's me.

9. piece de resistance - but the only problem I have too many of them

10. raison d'etre - why, for haute couture, of couse.

11. Rive Cauche - in a bottle.

12. Cause celebre - entre nous ;-)

13. Panache - that's a very me thing.

Voila!

Finis!

Oh dear

2007-12-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

"Whom are you?" he said, for he had been to night school.
(George Ade)

I took a speed reading course and read WAR AND PEACE in twenty minutes. It's about Russia.
(Woody Allen)

"I used to keep my college roommate from reading my personal mail by hiding it in her textbooks"
(Joan Welsh)

"Shut up," he explained.
(Ring Lardner)

The last one is for any of my crit group. Knew it'd rile 'em.

Xmas Cheer

2007-12-10T19:56:00.000-08:00

If you want to see something to make you smile and feel some small cheer, then click on the link Xmas Card

Merry Xmas everyone.

The it's about time I blogged blog...

2007-12-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

Coward's Castle is full of the love of a little dog called 'Baby'. I tried to call her Avery, but somehow 'Baby' is winning. Put it down to one of those funny syndromes closely related to eggless nest but He Who Shall be Obeyed and She Who Forgets to Obey have both gone ga ga over 'Baby'.

I'm on my last chapter on the WIP but don't seem to be in a hurry to finish it. I think I'm suffering from character withdrawal symptoms. They've been my companions this last few months and I do like them. I don't really want to say goodbye so my muse said:

"Why say it?" She shrugged and like the floozey she is, she wiggled off into the void leaving me to answer into the air.

"Because every novel has to have an ending. Because I want my HEA. Because I want there to be life after WIP. Because I want to make new friends to take into 2008. Because I need to return to edit the long, long, long significant others." (That's me shouting at her as she retreats.)

But my muse is off in the distance and all I can hear is those spikey red high heels as she slinks off looking for whatever muses look for while they aren't musing.

Mmmm I am blinking at you empty audience. What a vanity of the bonfires this blog is. Laugh a minute eh?

Okay... I'm the last one out. I'll switch off the lights.

Zara