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Dear friends, I recently chatted with a much younger friend about the books we read as kids and how the process of writing took hold for us. What she and I read was quite eye-opening. The difference had a lot to do with our backgrounds and age. I was born after the second world war when the world was emerging from dark times. We lived in the Midlands, UK, where jobs were scarce and money scarcer. Those with jobs were forever on strike, but my parents ensured we had food in our bellies, a roof over our heads and decent clothes to wear. Books weren’t a necessity. My friend is ten years younger. Her father was an Admiral, education embraced, and she was encouraged to read. As a family, they travelled, which expanded her education further. Books were scarce in my house. My folks weren’t readers. The soul token in reading matter was a Christmas Rupert Bear annual and later a Diana annual—of which I still have a few—and whatever we read at school. I read those annuals cover to cover so many times that I could recite the contents. We didn’t go on exotic holidays. A seaside resort called Rockly Sands in Dorset was the furthest we travelled. It became apparent we came from different worlds. What changed for me was a trip to Yorkshire to visit family. I was about eight and sent to the local shop to pick up something. The shop sold books, and I lost time perusing the shelves. I picked up One Hundred and One Dalmations by Dodi Smith (I still have that book, it’s tatty, pages are loose, but I wouldn’t part with it for the world). It was a turning point in my life. From that day on, I saved my pocket money and slowly built my reading collection. I collected the CS Lewis, Narnia series, Lassie Come Home, Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series and more. I joined the library when I was old enough, which opened a further world. My friend, however, was reading authors like Jane Austin, Emily Bronte, and Charles Dickens etc., as well as the books in my collection. So even though I didn’t read classic authors as a child, I still loved stories. The point is that reading opens a world of possibility. It doesn’t matter what it is. You start with one thing and move to the next. I left home at seventeen to go on an adventure—inspired by Blyton. I moved to Australia to work with Thoroughbred racehorses. I didn’t do much writing during that time (except I did keep a journal), and it wasn’t until moving to Hong Kong that my creative writing juices flowed. I became involved with the Belgian Society, and they asked me to help them with their newsletter. I joined a diving club and worked on their newsletter. I did creative writing courses and started writing short stories. The urge to write for me was always there. I just needed the right circumstances to follow through with it. When I returned to Australia, my writing was again on the back burner. It took years before I again picked up the pen or, should I say, hit the keyboard. Word processing was going gangbusters by then, which made the process easier. But between times, I never stopped reading. My point is it’s about taking the plunge and picking up that first book. Just because your family aren’t readers doesn’t mean you can’t be. And when you take the plunge, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Until next time Suzie
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Dear friends, Last month I wrote about injuries and how, as writers, we need to ensure authenticity. How often have you read a scene in a book that left you thinking no way? I’m guilty of this. It’s because of our normal daily routines that we read to escape. Some of my friends would say my life was anything but boring. I go on trips around this beautiful country called Australia, but my days are like everyone else’s when I’m home. A typical day for me is: Up at 6 a.m., feed the dogs, go the gym, pick up groceries if needed, head home for breakfast and hit my office to write. During the day, the dogs draw me from my office. They let me know when it’s time for a run in the garden or a walk through the park. Then it’s preparing dinner and watching TV before settling down with a good book. You get my gist, it’s just a typical day, and most of you can relate to, but you’ll have your own pattern. Sometimes life throws us a curve ball, pushing everything out of kilter. This happened to us Sunday a week ago. My husband, Peter, and I were getting ready for a trip to Adelaide to drop my books into Dymocks (one of the few book shops in the city). I was sitting in my office clearing emails while waiting for Peter—believe it or not, he takes longer to get ready than I do. Anyway, suddenly I hear this almighty scream. I jumped up, wondering what Rupert Bear had done now. Rupert is an eight-month-old Bearded Collie and lives life to the full. Yep, you got it, a typical young pup. I headed toward the noise. Peter was hunched over Rupert, who was screaming. They were on the bottom step leading to our bedroom. He held Rupert in a tight embrace to stop him from moving. I didn’t understand what was happening until Peter explained that Rupert had his paw stuck in the wrought iron scroll at the end of the handrail. I tried to look, but if you know the Bearded Collie breed, you understand they have lots of fur. How he did this will go with him to his grave. We think he heard Peter go to our bedroom. He was downstairs in the living room and did a quick turn to climb the stairs to the bedroom. His left back foot must have kicked out during the turn and went through a gap in the ironwork; it slid into the tiny part of the scroll. Peter remained calm, but I was anything but. Rupert’s screams were something I never wanted to hear again. Peter’s right arm crossed the dog’s side and held onto the trapped foot. Rupert wanted freedom and kept yanking; every time he yanked, he screamed. We knew one thing: If Peter let go, Rupert would continue to yank and leave his foot behind. What to do? I wasn’t strong enough to change places with Peter, plus the manoeuvre could end in disaster. My sister and her husband were staying with us, so I went to get David. While I searched the garage for a handsaw, David assessed the situation. He got pliers and prized open the scroll. Rupert was in shock—we were all in shock. Rupert lay down, and that was when I saw the blood. Blood, that substance I so often write about. But it’s not until you see copious amounts that you realize how easy it would be to understate a scene. Initially, I thought the blood came from Rupert because he was covered in it, but after a thorough examination and finding the dog miraculously unscathed, I realized it came from Peter. In his panic to free himself, Rupert had bitten Peter’s hand, but the amazing thing was that Peter never once made a sound. Nobody had any idea he was suffering. His concern was for Rupert. What’s that old saying: where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling! Animals will go to extraordinary lengths to free themselves. I hate to think what would have happened had I been home alone, or he’d been alone. While Rupert recovered at home, I took Peter to the local Emergency hospital. He had five bites, but the one to the little finger was the worst. The broken nail bed was a mess, which meant a plastic surgeon needed to check it. We got him into an appointment the next day. Rupert was quiet for a few days but is now back to his usual happy self. Peter had a minor operation under local anaesthetic and is doing well. You’d probably laugh out loud if you read a situation in a book similar to our situation where the hero didn’t make a sound while having a limb chewed off. I probably would. But it just goes to show you that freak accidents can happen. If you’ve read my books, you’ll realize I love drama and putting my characters into life-threatening situations. So, enjoy stories for the adventure they take you on and remember that: Truth is stranger than fiction. Until next time Suzie |
AuthorContemporary adventure with Archives
June 2024
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