The event in this column actually occurred, and has left me very wary when strolling through the scrub of late.  The drought drags on; rain to the North, the South, and even to the West… yet the land round here is aching for moisture. 

During the last couple of years I’ve been trampling through the bush at the back of our house in order to exercise the dogs, and keep them sane after being locked up in the backyard all day.  The funny thing is, I’m the one who didn’t want the mutts, yet somehow it’s become my duty to walk them every day.  How that happened I have no idea, but there you go. 

So, while the dogs eagerly fossick in the long grass for any ripe smelling carcasses, I meander along behind them, sorting through the days’ mental clutter and pondering some of the big questions of life.  But thanks to this long drought, a new terror has appeared in the bush.  Far more alarming than the time I stumbled across some people dumping a fridge and a roll of carpet in a small gully.  Even scarier than being mowed down by wild-eyed kids on motorbikes.  And, much more frightening than the time we were chased home by two large and extremely angry dogs.  It’s the trees.  Big trees.  They’ve started dropping branches harder and faster than a down-on-his-luck millionaire dumping excess family, friends, and mistresses.  And some of the more stressed trees have become so panic stricken that they’re opting for an even more drastic way of ending their suffering. 

A couple of weeks ago I was wandering along a well beaten track, grappling with the question, “What would happen if the entire state voted for independents at the next election?” when I was snapped out of my reverie by the sound of a cannon shot.  If you’ve never been in close proximity to a large tree that has decided to commit suicide, then you have no idea how loud the noise is.  I was in mid-step when the first big branch cracked off the trunk, and my left foot remained in mid-air but was soon joined by my right foot as I levitated on the spot.  Both feet hit the ground, decided that my brain was taking too long to react, then took immediate action.  Had they actually stopped for a moment to discuss which direction to run in, things might have gone a little better, because each foot took off in different directions.  As a result, I galloped about in small, frantic circles while large lumps of timber rained down around me.

By the time I regained control of my flailing hooves, the bulk of the tree was on the ground, so I wrapped up the hysterical discussion I’d been having with God, then went and surveyed the damage.  At that point, my faithful hounds returned from wherever it was they’d escaped to, while their Lord and Master fended for himself.  A quick look at the tree’s remains revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but, I’d like to point out that my knowledge on the topic is fairly limited, i.e., kindergarten level; the brown bit goes at the bottom the green bit at the top. 

As I stood gawping at the wreckage, a large branch from a neighbouring tree thudded to the ground alongside me, at which point I leapt into the air, resumed my earlier discussion with God and fled home, where I poured a beer with a shaking hand, and recounted my miraculous escape to Long Suffering Wife.   “Well,” she said, “if the dogs come home without you then I’ll know exactly what has happened, and what to do.”  

 “And that is?” I replied, keen to hear her rescue plan.

“First I’ll call the Merry Widow Insurance Agency, then book a nice sea cruise to get over my grief,” she said brightly.  It wasn’t exactly what I had expected to hear, but it did give me an idea, and as a result I’m seeing a bit more of the ocean myself these days.  The dogs and I are now strolling across the treeless mudflats until we get some decent rain.

 

15 days to go bofore this years novelling event!  This year, I decided, I would give it a miss.  The only other year I’ve missed was a couple of years ago when we moved to the new Plasterboard Palace.  That was the month from hell.  I wrote a few desultory paragraphs, but the pressures of moving, changing jobs at work, and well, just life in general was too much.  But in the last couple of weeks I’d had a change of heart, and I’ve found myself plotting story outlines in my head as I walk the dogs of an afternoon…  

Last year, I tackled my first (and possibly last!) Romance novel.  It was bloody hard work!  This year though, a story has formed based around the song “Sons of Vengeance”, by the old metal band, Krokus (they rock harder than the Swiss franc… apparently).  It will be a fantasy, swords and sandals epic.  I get to choose a mythical land, minus the mythical creatures and monsters, and tap away as my hero sets off on his epic quest.  I’ve got a ‘love interest’, warring kings, a rogue knight, and a couple of deputy sidekicks who will make life a bit more interesting for the hero. 

As a result, I’m quite looking forward to this years event… it’s the Nano curse, who will save me from it?! 

So, in preparation for a month of novel scribbling, I’ve upped the number of columns contributed to The Observer this month so I can concentrate on my ‘masterpiece’.  Thus my night time scribbling is consuming at least 2 - 4 hours each night, as I tap away in bed on my little laptop, writing, editing, re-editing, and writing.  How the hell I’m keeping up with this blog, work, house work, renovations, and finding time to read at least 2 books a week I don’t know… but I’m not unhappy with this situation, life is certainly a lot more interesting :) 

Meanwhile, in the loungeroom, my family are enjoying shows that I wouldn’t normally let them watch…  everyone’s a winner!

This week I’ve been pretty busy…. to say the least. But in my few spare moments, I’ve had a bit of time to read some books, blogs, web pages, newspapers, and do a bit of scribbling. 

The two most powerful things I’ve read this week though were: 

The Freelance Writers Bible, by Dave Trottier.  An excellent read, and one that I would highly recommend to anyone in the scribbling game.  It’s easy to follow, has so many excellent tips that I think I’ll have to buy my own copy, and above all, is highly encouraging and motivational.  It makes you want to to write! 

The second thing I read this week was over at Laura Goodins’ blog, “A Motley Coat”.  I usually pop in once a week to catch up on Laura’s musings, there’s usually something there that makes me think, and at times laugh… everything I like in a blog   But this post

 http://lauragoodin.blogspot.com/2009/10/back-from-conflux.html 

was worth its’ weight in gold.  A hearty pat on the back and a “Well Done, Madam” to you Laura!   

I want to be that sort of writer… and the good news is, I can be. 

Right now.

“You know you’re soaking in it?”  Remember the ad where a woman has paid for a nail treatment, and is informed by Madge, the alleged beautician, that her hands are actually soaking in cheap dishwashing detergent?  And instead of being outraged and upset, and rightly so, she shrugs her shoulders and grins as Madge firmly pushes her paw back into the dish.  That highlights the problem with advertising, we don’t buy the product, we buy ‘the story’.  Especially the stories written on the labels of beauty and bathroom cleaning products. 

Recently I was swanning past the bathroom on some errand, when I noticed Long Suffering Wife on her hands and knees scrubbing the bathtub.  “Ah, the scent of cow urine,” I remarked, sniffing the air.  Brushing some hair away from her eyes with a forearm, she looked up at me and said, “What?!”

“Cow urine.  That’s what bleach is made of.  You know you’re soaking in it?”  Moments later she was frantically scrubbing herself clean in the laundry tub while I tried to wrestle her gloves on.  Rubber gloves are fairly stretchy, but not quite stretchy enough to fit my mitts and when one of them snapped off, rebounding off the mirror and draping itself over my shoulder, I tossed them aside with a sigh, and got scrubbing.      

Things were progressing smoothly until the bleach ran out.  Sitting in front of the laundry cupboard, I read the labels on all the bottles stored inside:  Smashes Scum.  Mauls Mould.  Grapples with Gunk.  Tussles with Tarnish.  All of them promised so much, for so little effort:  No scrubbing.  No scouring.  Polish with Ease.  Spray and Rinse.  But in spite of all the blurb, there wasn’t enough left in any one bottle to finish the job.      

Inspiration struck, and as I merrily poured all the remains into a bucket, the thought occurred to me that I might be actually be brewing a cleaning product that really works.  Humming a cheerful little marketing jingle, I made my way back to the bathroom carting my bubbling and smoking concoction.

Splashing the chemical cocktail all over the shower cubicle I waited for the magic to happen.  And it did!  A little cartoon bluebird appeared on my left shoulder.  “Hullo,” I smiled, “shouldn’t you be hanging out with Snow White?”  He shrugged and said in a rough New York accent, “Nah, I got sick of all the singing, and she don’t need me no more since the dwarfs found that uranium deposit.  So watcha up to?”

Waving a hand round the bathroom, “Inventing a new cleaning product,” I replied proudly.  He looked unimpressed, “Should it be dissolving the grout like that?”

“Um, no,” I said, grappling for the shower taps, “but it has removed the mould and soap scum though.”  As I frantically rinsed, the fumes grew stronger, and at that point a second birdie appeared, this time a miniature vulture wearing a napkin, “What’ve I missed?” he asked the Bluebird.

“Mr. Glow here has been mixing bathroom chemicals,” came the bored reply. 

At that point LSW emerged in the doorway, “What’s that smell!” she cried.   

“Sshhtruth! It’sh, the mishuss,” I garbled to the birds, misplacing a slightly singed warning finger to my ear instead of my lips, “better let…, better let, me do all the thingy…, talking.” 

“Hallo! O Queen of the Shuburbs!” I warbled, bowing deeply and falling to the floor.  Turning on the extractor fan, she shuffled me outside away from the worst of the billowing vapours, and while I sat propped up on the back deck, she hosed down the tiles.      

Further experiments with my ‘Wonder Product’ were halted when it burned through the bottom of my good steel bucket, but my hands will definitely be much softer when the new skin grows back.  And as an added bonus, I haven’t had to clean the bathroom since;  I’m not allowed to.

It’s been a few weeks since my last ride, and my old battery finally died, point blank refusing to start last weekend.  It’s been recharged a couple of times over the last 7 years, but it’s not holding charge for long these days.  

I pedalled to the nearest bike shop, and while I was in there deciding which battery to buy, one of the mechanics ushered me outside and showed me a KLE 500 the same era as mine, that was waiting for work to be done on it.  It had had fallen over and the brake pedal had gone through the clutch housing cover, and some minor damage had been done to the plastic cosmetics.  When he told me how much it was going to cost the owner to fix the bike I nearly had a heart attack.  The owner was toying with writing the bike off, or spending a fortune to fix it. 

Here was a perfectly good bike, parts should still be available for it, particularly off an old GPZ 500 for the clutch cover, or many of the parts off the later model KLE’s should also fit, (the design hasn’t changed that much!) and the poor owner was looking at scrapping it.  Bullshit! 

Ok, KLE spares are as rare as rocking horse shit in this country, but not impossible to source.  I’ve dropped my KLE on a couple of memorable occasions, and generally the worst damage has been a busted indicator light and/or clutch lever.  There’s a large dent in the left hand side of the tank where my mates’ knee was slammed into it when a Virago 1100 took him out while we had swapped bikes.  No biggie.  It’s one of the things I like about the old girl.  She takes a hammering, and keeps on, well, hammering! 

But, most parts I’ve bought over the years, including one of the footpegs that got bent out of shape by the Virago, have come off the thousands of GPZ’s littering most cycle wreckers yards.  It would be a shame to see the KLE in the bike shop scrapped because of a few dinky parts.

The mechanic said the owner was keen to get the bike going again, but the bike shop are probably pushing him towards upgrading, possibly to one of those neato Versys 650’s (although wait til he drops one of those and see what it costs to replace those big lumps of plastic round the tank).

I’ve been toying with contacting the owner and seeing if I can help him get his bike back on the road… (God knows how!), But on the other hand, if he writes it off, then there’s a heap of spares for me if I can get my hands on the bike. 

You can see what sort of moral dilemma I’m having!

About a month ago the local council started building ’something’ near one of our local walking tracks up town.  Speculation ran rife until the first of the machines went in, and everyone said the same thing:  “Great Idea!” 

Exercise machines in Happy Valley Park (Pubtruck included for scale!)

It's becoming pretty obvious I need to upgrade my camera...

Then they said two more things: 

2.  Who will use it?  The answer, from what I’ve seen so far, quite a lot of folk actually.  And good on them.  In fact, going by the popularity of the park they may need to install more gear.

And, 3.  If it’s not locked up at night then it will be vandalised.  Well, it’s been a month now.  No graffiti, no smashed gear.  So far so good. 

 Which says a couple of things about our town; we’re fairly law abiding, and are starting to enjoy getting out and getting fit.  Or the vandals are too lazy to bother…  either way, you’ve gotta be happy with that!

He looked wiry, well toned and fit.  Very, very fit.  I met him through a mate who had learned that I was going to attempt a marathon, “Hey!” he had said, “I know a marathon runner!”  Not long afterwards I met up with the Marathon Man, and was suitably impressed.  He was aged in his fifties, and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.  Unlike the person who was standing in front of him. 

I wasn’t sure how to start discussing the ins and outs of long distance running,   so I started off with an easy question, “I hear you’ve done a few marathons then?” 

He nodded, “Yeah, I do at least one a year.  Are you interested in running too?” he asked.  I nodded eagerly, “Yep, I’ve set a goal to do the Gold Coast Marathon next year.” 

His eyebrows shot up and he took a moment to give me the once over, then shaking his head he took another, slightly longer look.  “Um,” he said eventually, “have you done much running?” 

“Nope!” I replied brightly.

“Do you have a training plan?  A coach?  Motivation of any kind?” he continued.

“Nope!”

“Right.  So, why are you doing this?”

“I have no idea!  But it sounds like a lot of fun, and it’s given me something to aim for.” 

He nodded his head, gave me another ‘once over’ then sighed.  “Look,” he said, sitting down, and dragging me onto a nearby chair, “marathons aren’t easy, you’ll be pushed to the extreme limits of your physical and mental endurance, training for a marathon requires persistence and dedication, because when the going gets tough, and it will get tough, you’re going to need a very good reason to keep going.  Do you understand?”

I nodded keenly, “Yep, marathons are tough.” 

He rubbed his brow then asked, “So, why a marathon, why not something…” he searched for the right words, “less demanding, I mean, do you know how far a marathon is?” 

I knew the answer to this, “Forty two kilometres.  Oprah Winfrey ran one in four and half hours a few years ago.  I reckon if she could do it, then so can I!”

He smiled, “Well, let’s see,” he said, “from what I recall, Oprah had a team of professionals training her.  She had a running coach, a fitness coach, a personal trainer, and a motivational coach.  Her dietician provided nutritional foods to help her reach optimal running condition.  Whereas you,” he waved a hand vaguely in my direction, “have no experience, no coach, no plan, vague motivation, and, I’m going out on a limb here, no dietician either.  Is that right?” 

I nodded again, but this time I wasn’t smiling, “So, what are you saying, I can’t do it?” 

He shook his head, “No, but if you really want to get through this thing, then you’re going to need a lot more help.  With the right advice, the correct running equipment, some diet tips and a whole lot of luck, you might just pull this off.  Perhaps you should set your goal a little lower, maybe try for a half marathon, and see how you go?” 

“Half marathon eh?” I muttered, “Twenty-one kilometres, hmm.” 

“Look,” he said, standing up and offering his hand, “I’ll be happy to give you some advice and training tips, but” he said, looking me up and down again, “you’re going to need a lot more help than I can offer you.  Seriously, consider hiring a coach, or a personal trainer, marathon running is a lot harder than you think.” 

We shook hands and parted ways, and as I pedaled home I thought about what he had said.  Ok, so I wasn’t a joggers’ armpit, but on the bright side, after talking to one runner, I’d manage to halve my running distance… now that’s progress!

“School holidays,” he said and shrugged, he was one unhappy firey.  

Over the last couple of weeks, several fires have been lit around town, and the resulting haze and smoke have been choking us ever since.  Added to the mix are dust storms which swept up the coast diminishing the already dim view even further, and covering us with a layer of fine dust.  This is not the sort of Spring weather I’ve grown used to up here.

On the weekend, I took the dogs for a walk over the hill where a large fire had burned last week.  The damage was incredible.  Large trees had been toppled, and while we walked, we witnessed a huge gum tree falling near the track, which scared nine colours of crap out of me.  But it was when we returned to our usual walking track did things take a much more alarming turn for the worst. 

Someone had lit not one fire, but three, and the wall of flame that greeted us on the rim of a small hill literally took my breath away.  It wasn’t moving too fast, so we jogged off down a side track, staying in front of the fire, but desperately looking for a way around it, so we could get home.  Near the railway line, the long, dry grass had been incinerated fairly quickly, so we were able to dash across the smoking ashes to safety behind the advancing fire.  As I ran I saw a motorcycle on the other side of the tracks, and to my surprise saw the young boy stop and take a photo of me! 

I kept running til I got home, then dragged my family out to look at the fire. We didn’t venture too close, and while we were watching the fires and taking some photos as well, I saw the boy on the bike again, still taking photos.  A 4WD fire truck turned up driven by a smiling young lady, and I was able to give her some advice on the condition of the track ahead.  They disappeared into the smoke.

Little Dog was keen to get home!

Back home we saw that a fire truck had parked at the end of our street, so I wandered over and had a chat with the driver.  He asked me if I’d cleared the bush behind my backfence and if my gutters were clean.  I had, and they were.  Giving the girls a wave he drove off to help his mates back burn. 

We watched the flames during the night when the wind changed, and our house filled with smoke.  It’s been hard enough for us, but the poor animals out there must be doing it pretty tough.  Heaven knows the trees are!  At night you can hear, from time to time, the crash and clatter of big trees falling over as their trunks give way.  The bush is a war zone at the moment.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been recounting some of my experiences as a volunteer at a community radio station in Brisbane.  My task was to answer the phones late on Monday nights for Chuck, an announcer who was politically so far to the right that he was in danger of turning inside out. 

Chucks on-air rants were so controversial that nearly every caller was angry and outraged.  At times they were so upset that words would fail them, and I would have to help fill in the gaps.  And being the sort of person who bores easily, I even started to have a little fun with the few callers who were overly abusive or threatening. 

I’d let them rage, scream and swear until they paused for a breath, then I’d say in an official tone, “Thank you for contacting the Australian Federal Police, your call has been traced and an officer will contact you shortly.”  Without fail the caller would slam down their phone and I would never hear from them again.  I imagined that they had dashed from their homes into the night, and spent the next few years on the run, jumping nervously each time a chopper passed overhead. 

And each week, just as the show was wrapping up, one regular listener would call in and point out any flaws in Chucks’ arguments.  In spite of loathing Chuck, and everything he stood for, he never missed a show, and I eventually asked him, “Look Phil,” (for that was his name), “why do you do this to yourself?  Why do you keep tuning in?” 

There was a long period of silence before he replied, ‘Well,” he said finally, “maybe I can change him?” 

“Do you think it’s working?” I asked in amazement.

“Um, no.  But you never know do you?” he said stoically.

“Oh, you can take it from me Phil, Chuck is never going to change.”    

“Well, what about you Greg, do you agree with him?”

“Hell no!” I cried, and hung up leaving him to ponder our curious working relationship.  On air, Chuck was such a hard line right winger that Joe McCarthy would have felt embarrassed in his presence, but otherwise, he was a genial, laid back sort of bloke.  Even when I’d finally convinced him that I really was a card carrying unionist, he merely grinned and said, “You’ll come around eventually, I’ve got faith in you!”  I had been hoping that he would sack me. 

After each show Chuck would whip up some great tasting coffee, and we’d discuss the various calls and our political differences.  I learned that even though we had wildly differing beliefs, it didn’t necessarily mean that Chuck was ignorant or uncaring about the society we lived in.  And Chuck discovered that not all unionists are mindless, loudmouthed, beer swilling yobs, hell bent on destroying the very fabric of society itself; I preferred rum.

We only had one falling out, over whether or not it was Voltaire who said, “Sir, I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend, to the death, your right to say it.”  Though we both heartily agreed with the sentiment, and eventually agreed to disagree. 

Afterwards I recall saying to Chuck, “I might not agree with a single thing you say, or how you say it, but depending on my mood at the time, I will defend your right to say it, until I get threatened with a black eye or severe financial losses.” 

But our peculiar relationship wasn’t to last as Chuck was eventually poached by a commercial radio station and sailed off to pursue a new life as a full time shock jock.  I was surprised to learn that a lot of people at the station were sorry to see him go; only because he took his little coffee machine with him. 

The selfish fascist!

Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been toying with publishing a book in the coming year, and while I tap away at my keyboard, in the back of my mind is the burning question: Should I E-Publish my work?

Now, I quite like the idea of cutting out the middle man, offering my work to a wider audience (world wide at the click of a button), but the end users’ may also decide to copy and paste my work to all and sundry, even though the original could be purchased from $5 to $10.

Having purchased a number of E-books, and a couple of self published ones over the past year, I’ve been impressed with some of them, their quality, the ideas and the sheer effort put in by the author, but the majority have left me a little underwhelmed.   Particularly as some of the self published authors were still charging $30 – $40 for their books, and in one of them the spelling was deplorable.  The words were technically correct, but not in context eg: your, you’re, there, their, etc.  Spellcheck is a handy tool, but not as a replacement for a good proofreader. 

Poor spelling, phrases repeated, poor layout, and even poorer grammar have left me thinking that the publishing world with its’ well trained editors, proof readers and quality control systems (while not quite perfect all the time) is probably a better option.  Of course, there is a price for all that quality! 

Then last week I was offered an e-book for a price I would hesitate to pay for a hard back novel, $48, and I thought, ‘Whoa!.  There are no publishing, printing costs, no distribution, warehousing, shipping, trucking, stacking, displays or retail costs, why so expensive?’  Possibly because the authors are offering the book as an alternative to a study course, as opposed to a motivational script.  But still… 

I’ll be watching with interest to see if the book sells well.  Maybe I’ll have to overcome my ‘conditioning’ in wanting to see “NY Times Best Seller!” on the back cover as proof that it has passed through the necessary quality hoops.

In the meantime, I need to focus on completing my novel before worrying about publishing, distribution etc.  Back to my scribbling!