March 2026 Quarterly Newsletter

​Dear friends,
 
In the Southern Hemisphere we are now moving out of a hot dry Summer here in South Australia into Autumn, while in the Northern Hemisphere you are leaving Winter behind to the new life that Spring brings.

As the new year unfolds before us, seemingly full of endless possibilities. It’s a time when many of us look ahead and envision what we wish to accomplish, and we accordingly set plans and goals. However, life has a way of intervening in our best-laid plans. That initial burst of enthusiasm that inspires us to aim higher and do more is often tempered by the realities of world events and local happenings. It becomes all too easy to set aside our ambitions, convincing ourselves that we will try again next year when circumstances might be more favourable.

With this in mind, I decided to abandon the tradition of making New Year’s resolutions this year. Instead, I’m going with a more flexible approach. If I manage to tick off one or two items from my to-do list, that is wonderful. If not, I will simply move on without regret. No good comes from overthinking these things. Sometimes we set unrealistic expectations for ourselves, and this can lead to unnecessary disappointment. Then there are circumstances beyond our control, which is what happened to me. I didn’t achieve half of what I had planned in 2025 due to a medical issue, which resulted in me having to take strong medication. I’ve never suffered from writer’s block until the last six months. I’ve been swimming through a fog-induced brain, which pretty much stopped me dead. And just like that, not much writing was done last year. I’m off the strong drugs now, and my head has cleared. I’m still a bit slow, my brain is finally functioning, and I’ve started writing again.

Considering my six-month hiatus, I was surprised when my Grammarly stats came in for the last few months. Grammarly is a Spelling, punctuation and Grammar checker. An example:

Grammarly analysed 1,094,227 of my words over the last month and estimated that I was more productive than 99% of Grammarly users. A total of 862,200,649 words  have been analysed since 2016. When I look at that number, I’m staggered.
​
Tones that were detected in my writing a week ago:-
Confident 37%
Informative 32%
Informal 11%
Appreciative 5%
Curious 5%
Direct 5%
Joyful 5% 

So, no matter what you think you have or haven’t achieved, you’ll probably find it’s never as bad as you think.

Prologue of Book 7 of the West Series, Tempest:

“Eight hundred and forty-six kilometres north of Adelaide, South Australia, the opal mining town of Coober Pedy, with its eighteen hundred residents, give or take, and fifty nationalities, was the perfect place to disappear.

Wilbur King hadn’t come to this godforsaken town out of choice. If someone had told him twelve months ago that he’d find himself back in Coober Pedy, digging a shaft for opal, he would have laughed his head off. He’d done his time mining in his youth, made a fortune, and moved on. There was no way he was going to go through that again.

Sometimes life throws a curveball.

He’d arrived undercover of darkness, found shelter in a dugout, and spent time coming to terms with his situation. He needed to buy a stake in a mine, which could be tricky given his current financial constraints. He wasn’t interested in the geology behind mining. Still, Wilbur knew it involved digging and moving dirt from one place to another, and if you shifted enough, you’d strike something. He needed someone to stake him, but his chances of finding such a person in a mostly dull outback town were slim.

While pondering this dilemma, he’d wandered into the Desert Cave Hotel, one of Coober Pedy’s finest establishments. He moved to the shady end of the bar and spotted an old bloke with his dog. Wilbur pulled out a stool, keeping his distance. He needed time to think, and a few beers usually helped clear his mind and open it up to possibilities.

The old bloke glanced sideways at him. His blurry red eyes and blotchy skin told a story.

“I’m Bob, and my mate here is Sammy.” He looked down at a shaggy, black-and-white collie, then back to Wilbur.

Bob ignored Wilbur’s disfigurement and instead started talking about Sammy. It wasn’t strange to Wilbur. He’d had a dog when he lived here in his past life. Mining was a lonely job, and a dog was good company. What was odd was that, unlike most people, Bob didn’t turn away from his mutilated face. As Bob spoke, the conversation became interesting.

“Did you say you managed a mine at the Ten Mile?” No big mining companies operated in Coober Pedy, as opal couldn’t be quantified through exploratory drilling. The only way to find opal was to dig. Budding miners showed up, got a land permit, pegged a chunk of land, and dug away. Many teamed up to share the cost—opal mining wasn’t a cheap exercise. Managing a mine revealed a whole new side of things.

The old bloke had tapped the side of his nose, nodded, and then looked at the small group at the far end of the bar. He then whispered behind his hand, “Didn’t manage it as such. Got a retainer to keep an eye on things. Anyhow, it’s history as they let me go.” He picked up the glass, slugged back a mouthful of beer, and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “The mines were all doing well except for the Ten Mile. We initially pulled colour from it, but we’re not finding much now. I’m a casualty of cutbacks.”

“Sorry to hear that, mate.” Wilbur doubted Bob’s managerial skills and wasn’t surprised that he’d backpedalled on the statement. “Who owns the Ten Mile?”

“Em Rogers. Denver, Colorado, Rogers—”

“Henry Rogers?” Wilbur’s heartbeat did a happy double beat at this piece of news.
“That’s him. Henry and Margaret.” Bob emptied his glass and plonked it on the counter. “You know em?” He belched loudly.

Wilbur nodded. “A long time ago.”

“Can I get ya a cold one?” Bob arched bushy, grey eyebrows.

“My shout,” Wilbur called the bartender. “Two cold ones, mate.” How easy it was to fall back into Aussie speak even after all these years.

Wilbur watched the bubbles race to the surface as the bartender filled the glasses from the tap. He shoved them on the counter, picked up the fifty Wilbur slapped in front of him, and returned the change.

Wilbur swallowed a mouthful of liquid amber. He resisted the urge to press the cold glass against his face to cool his skin. Who’d have thought he’d find a link to Henry after all these years? He needed to check out that mine. If it was the one he’d inspected back in the day, they’d been looking for opal in the wrong spot. Back then, Henry had the mine appraised, and the advice was to cut elsewhere. Wilbur suspected the opal was deep, but he’d never mentioned it to Henry or Margaret.

“I’d like to look at the mine.” Wilbur held eye contact with Bob. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Sure.” Bob grinned. “Nobody out there. You want me to drive ya?”

Wilbur nodded. “Why not?”

“Keep it quiet, though.” Bob tapped his nose again. “I’ll be up shit creek without a paddle if Henry’s missus, Margaret, finds out I’m hanging around. She’s one mean sheila.”

“Don’t worry about Margaret. My lips are sealed.” There were many Aussie sayings to relearn, and that one was a doozy.

Months had passed since meeting Bob. Wilbur had inspected the mine, and with Henry’s blessing to drill a shaft in a different section, he was ready to see if his prediction would bear fruit.

He began by drilling a small three-foot shaft. The next step was to widen it to six feet. He attached a rotary cutting tool to the drill’s bucket and commenced work. He excavated the shaft to a depth of seventy feet and drilled holes around its circumference. Explosives, placed strategically, would expand the shaft to twelve feet. Once that was done, a truck-mounted vacuum machine, aptly named the blower, would remove the dirt. Then, using a crane, he would lower the tunnelling machine down the shaft.

Once the tunnelling machine was running, Wilbur lined the tunnel with lights to spot opal. Hearing the machine scrape against the opal, as if it were glass, wasn’t enough. He wanted to be mesmerised by its beauty.

He’d been at it for a few days without success before he heard the long-awaited grinding sound and pulled the machine back four feet. He gripped his chest as veins of red, green, blue, and yellow opal winked back.

Over the next few days, he spent hours chipping away beneath the opal, chiselling it out and dropping it into a bucket. He had quite a pile to tumble, separate, and clean. Moving it to his sorting area, he got to work. That’s when his heartbeat shot up. Jesus Christ! Black opal! It was as rare as hen’s teeth and worth twice as much. He wasn’t Irish, but when had that ever stopped a bloke from dancing a jig?

Keeping the discovery close to his chest, he had the opal checked by someone outside Coober Pedy. He hadn’t lost his touch. Confirmation cleared the way to contact Henry, who drew up a contract between himself, Henry, Margaret and their two children, Isabella and Ethan.

Wilbur didn’t hesitate to deal with Bob. Falling down abandoned mines killed miners every year. What was one old bloke in the grand scheme of things? He didn’t want anyone looking over his shoulder. Still, most importantly, he didn’t want the other miners to find out about the strike. One old bloke in a pub with a few pints in him, and the news would spread quickly. Sure, people would eventually find out, but they wouldn’t know which mine, as Wilbur wasn’t selling his opal locally. There was too much cash on the line. This first find was worth over a million, and he didn’t want miners flooding the area and staking claims.

He did a good deed by rescuing Sammy. The dog hadn’t wanted to go with him. There was mistrust in his eyes when Wilbur attached a rope to his collar and dragged him to his 4WD and home to his dugout. Initially, he kept Sammy leashed and secured to stop him from leaving, but Sammy wasn’t stupid and soon realized that Wilbur offered a roof and food. Wilbur had hoped that, over time, a friendship would develop. Sammy gradually accepted that Wilbur was now a part of his life, but hadn’t yet offered the paw of friendship.

The dugout needed renovations. Wilbur kept them simple, doing the work himself. The bathroom, kitchen, and a dog door were installed first, followed by tapping into an underground water supply, which brought in much-needed water. He bought some furniture and kitchenware—nothing fancy like his previous life—but it was better than nothing and made the place comfortable. Wilbur enjoyed the isolation. It was just the two of them—people, he could do without.

He grinned at the hand fate dealt him. One minute, he didn’t have a dollar to his name or a friend, and now he was on his way to unimaginable wealth with Sammy by his side.
​
He’d quietly go about amassing his fortune. Then one day, he’d locate a plastic surgeon in some far-flung country who was talented enough to transform his appearance into something that people wouldn’t run from. Until then, he’d lie low and let the world come to terms with Walter Kinsley’s death while Wilbur King lived to fight another day.”
 
Until next time, stay safe
Suzie