A review of Chemical Cowboys: The DEA’s Secret Mission to Hunt Down a Notorious Ecstasy Kingpin, by Lisa Sweetingham
Chemical Cowboys, by Lisa Sweetingham, is an account of the illegal Ecstasy market in the U.S. and around the world in the 1990s. I found it on the discard shelf of my local public library for fifty cents and thought, this looks interesting.
It is. In the mid-nineties, the USA’s ‘War on Drugs’ was centred on cocaine and heroin. DEA Special Agent, Robert Gagne, however, wanted to take his inquiries in a different direction and focus on the growing problem of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) or Ecstasy, as it was commonly known. Prior to Gagne’s investigation, Ecstasy was not a priority for the DEA; it was considered ‘kiddie dope’. But as the decade progressed and its popularity exploded to the point where it became the drug du jour for the young nightclub and dance party set, there became a growing awareness of its addictive properties and the potentially tragic consequences of its heavy use.
As the story’s central protagonist, Gagne is one of the few rounded characters in a long and often unsavoury list (we’re talking about drug manufacturers and dealers here, after all), struggling to balance his desire to ‘catch the bad guys’ with the demands of family life. The action bounces around the world, from the US to Israel to the Netherlands and back again. With all this globetrotting and the frantic pace of the story, I found it difficult to keep track of all the players. Not that it particularly mattered; Sweetingham is an accomplished journalist and the book is meticulously researched, yet it’s never boring. I was swept along with the energy of the story, fully engaged, entertained, and informed from beginning to end.
At times, the book almost reads like fiction. Perhaps the most tragic example of this is the story of ‘Club Kid’ king, Michael Alig, a New York nightclub promoter who ends up murdering fellow ‘Club Kid’, Andre Melendez, over a drug debt. Not knowing what to do with Melendez’s body, Alig keeps it in the bathtub of his apartment until it begins to decompose. Worried about the smell, Alig takes it upon himself to dismember the body, placing the pieces into garbage bags which he subsequently dumps in the Hudson River, before bragging about his gruesome deeds to his friends and followers. Initially, nobody believes him, thinking he’s just doing it for attention, but in the end, justice is served and Alig is imprisoned for his crimes. It’s just one of numerous events in the book that prove truth is often stranger than fiction.
I was a student at the University of Otago in Aotearoa in the mid-nineties. I was a rocker rather than a raver (or at least an indie-rocker, my wardrobe consisting of ripped baggy jeans and checked flannel shirts rather than studded jackets and leather trousers), but Dunedin was a small town and entertainment was at a premium so I found myself attending the occasional rave.
One in particular sticks in my memory, held in the crumbling ruins of the Seacliff Lunatic Asylum.
The Seacliff Lunatic Asylum, prior to its demolition and the invention of euphemisms.
Now, you can make what judgements you like about the link between ravers and the mentally ill (it’s all right there in the name). Still, in reading Chemical Cowboys, I found it fascinating to join the dots. Who would’ve thought a crowd of sweaty, swaying youths in fluoro face paint, dancing and waving their glow sticks at each other until sunrise on a remote island at the bottom of the South Pacific, could be directly connected to an international drug-trafficking racket centred on the Israeli mafia? Certainly not me; not at the time, anyway, but now that I’ve read Chemical Cowboys, I know better.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A review of The Protector (Men of the North Book 1), by Elin Peer.
I finally got around to reading this after it was recommended to me by one of my subscribers, Erica. Thank you, Erica, for your suggestion.
I enjoyed it. Not as much as Erica, I think, but it was a fun read. It’s set 400 years in the future, where some kind of apocalyptic war has resulted in a North America divided into two distinctly different countries. How’s that any different from now, you may ask? Well, in the old United States, south of the Canadian border, lives a futuristic matriarchal society, run by and populated mostly by women. North of the border (including Alaska) is a feudal patriarchal society, populated almost entirely by handsome, burly men with long hair and beards. What’s not to like about that?
Trade between the two countries is highly restricted, and the movement of people across the walled border even more so. So when the ‘Men of the Northlands’ ask for the South’s help in excavating a recently discovered archaeological site, the request comes as a surprise. The South’s decision to send Christina Sanders, a female archaeologist, is even more of a surprise for the men and results in confusion and a gladiatorial competition to find her a bodyguard to protect her from the threat of hormonal, hairy men as she goes about her work. Unbeknownst to Christina, the ceremony that crowns her ‘Protector’ is actually a wedding and the man who wins the competition will become her husband! Will the winner be Alexander Boulder (great name), the handsome, burly, bearded man that has Christina all hot under the collar? Or will it be his opponent, another musclebound yet less hirsute ogre, his villainous nature and lack of moral fibre indicated by close-cropped hair and a smoothly-shaven chin?
Sounds ridiculous? You betcha! So it’s probably no surprise that there are elements of the world-building that don’t stand up to close scrutiny (not the least of which is the fantastical ratio of men to women in the Northlands). Some might also find the implications of the gender politics disturbing, but it would be a mistake to take them too seriously. Peer certainly doesn’t. This is a story fuelled by silliness; just switch your brain off and enjoy the ride.
There’s also a healthy dose of sex. Despite all the ice and snow, Alexander really struggles to keep his shirt on. It’s all too much for the repressed Christina and her feminist sensibilities. She has a sexbot back home in the Motherlands, but it seems nothing compares to the real thing. Boulder may be a beast, but he’s a damn sexy one.
Peer is no Jane Austen and there’s no great art to her writing style. But if you like your romance steamy and you’re prepared to suspend your disbelief (like, seriously), the characters are fun and the story is an entertaining one. And, as Book 1 of the Men of the North series, there’s plenty more to follow up with.
Have you read The Protector, by Elin Peer, or any of her otherbooks? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
I’m pleased to announce that my second novel, Staking a Claim, is finally ready to go to my editor. She has a list of works in the queue to get through first so I’m not sure when she’ll be done with it, but what it does mean is that I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and I can get on with working on the next book, whatever it turns out to be. After the two years it took to write my first novel, I was optimistic I could finish the second one in a shorter time frame. As it turns out, that hasn’t been the case and almost three years have passed since Taking the Plunge was published.
There are multiple reasons why it’s taken so long, not the least of which was I kept falling asleep while working on it. I don’t have a home office, or even a desk, so I’d get up early every morning before work to sit on the couch and write with my laptop resting, funnily enough, in my lap. With a cup of coffee on the bookshelf next to me, it was the perfect setup, cosy and comfortable, and it worked well for my first book. However, it was clearly too cosy and comfortable because the second time round, day after day, more often than not, I’d fall asleep. Writing a book while asleep is very difficult, hence my progress was considerably impeded.
A few weeks ago, after months of struggling to stop myself from sleeping on the job, I finally arrived at a simple solution. It’s so simple that I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out a couple of years ago, but there you have it; life’s like that sometimes. My solution was to move my writing setup from our cosy couch to our ancient dining room table with its petrified and bum-numbing wooden chairs. When I say ‘petrified’, I’m not exaggerating; sitting on one of our dining chairs is literally akin to sitting on a slab of rock.
Here’s the dining room. A little minimalistic, perhaps, but the view more than makes up for it.
I still do nod off occasionally but, unlike the couch, where I can easily fall asleep and wake up an hour later, our dining chairs are not conducive to prolonged snoozing and after a few moments, my subconscious brain tends to snap me awake with the warning that if I sit still for much longer, I’ll be so stiff there’s every chance I’ll never move again.
And if that doesn’t work…
The result has been much-improved progress over the last few weeks and I’m feeling more optimistic about my writing. It helps that we’re through the worst of winter. It’s my least favourite season and the lack of sunshine always takes a toll on my mood. Now we’ve got daffodils blooming in the garden and there were at least one day last week where it didn’t rain, so things are looking up. Roll on, Spring.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A review of Let’s Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc. by Jeff Tweedy
I’m partial to the occasional rock star biography, so when I saw Let’s Go (So We Can Get Back), by Jeff Tweedy,the lead singer and songwriter of Wilco, one of my all-time favourite bands, amongst the pile of books for sale at the 2019 Auckland Writers Festival, I snapped it up.
There’s no guarantee that just because you can write great songs, you can write great books, but on this occasion, Tweedy manages it. As is usual with rock star biographies, some space is devoted to exploring the personality conflicts between bandmates, but there’s a warmth and humility to the writing that is atypical for the genre. There’s no braggadocio to these anecdotes, nor does Tweedy have any axes to grind. He’s happy to admit that he only got to where he is today with the assistance of others, most notably his family. The book includes a couple of transcribed conversations with his wife and children which provide an authentic insight into their family dynamic. It’s a little gimmicky, perhaps, but it works. It also delves into Tweedy’s struggles with mental health, drugs, and addiction in a way that is refreshingly honest.
What I most enjoyed about the book was the personal exploration of both Tweedy’s dedication to songwriting (he tries to write a song every day), and his songwriting process. Tweedy’s lyrics are often open to interpretation, and it’s no wonder when one of the lyric writing exercises he uses is to take a list of random verbs and another list of random nouns and then pair them up. “It might start as gibberish,” he says, “but it’s amazing how hard it is to put words next to each other without some meaning being generated.” Inclined to agree, I thought I’d try it out. Here’s the list I came up with (I swear these were the first words that popped into my head):
Nouns Chicken Refrigerator Tractor Laptop Children
Verbs Run Fry Smoke Swim Love
And here’s the resulting ‘lyric’. Appropriately, for a verse inspired by Jeff Tweedy, I can hear it as an Alt-Country song called something along the lines of The Modern Farmer.
Hangry Laptop fried and tractor smoking, I run inside and scan the refrigerator. It’s empty. Aside from a lone chicken wing, Swimming in brown sauce. I love my children But man, can they eat.
Anyway, back to the book. If you’re a Wilco fan, then I highly recommend it. If you’ve never heard of Wilco but like rock star biographies, you might enjoy it too. Then go listen to some Wilco. They’re awesome.
Are you a Wilco fan? Do you like rock-star biographies? Read any good ones lately? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
While the majority of books I consume come in physical form, I do enjoy a good audiobook, and with a 45-50 minute daily commute to work, I’ve got ample time for listening. I’ve thought about creating audiobook versions of my own stories, but the process has traditionally been a time-consuming and expensive one, so the thought has remained just that. However, with the opening of Google’s auto-narrated audiobooks service on Google Play, I’ve been able to take my first step into the wonderful world of audiobooks.
Hmmm… hard to know. I’d say it’s a toss-up between ‘Geronimo Stilton and the Curse of the Cheese Pyramid’ and ‘Finnegans Wake’.
I thought I’d try a couple of short stories to begin with, just to see how it all works. Google isn’t the only company working in this space, but they’re the first ones to open it up to the indie-author community and while the service is currently in beta, the technology behind it is pretty impressive. At this point, they have more than thirty different voices to choose from in English and Spanish. In English, there is a range of male and female voices with American, Australian, British, and Indian accents. Unfortunately, there are no Kiwi accents as yet, and given the size of the New Zealand market, I’m guessing the wait could be a long, if not interminable one.
The first story I selected to work with was The Art of Cigarette Smoking. Since it’s about a young man and his relationship with a packet of Marlboro cigarettes, I figured a male American voice would be most appropriate. I chose the one Google calls ‘Mike’. All the American voices have names beginning with ‘M’, so I don’t suppose it’s ‘his’ real name, but there is a solid, amiable quality to the voice that I think suits the story, as well as sounding perfectly ‘Mikeish’.
After selecting a voice, the process is pretty straightforward. The voice simply narrates the words from an uploaded manuscript. Mispronounced words can be corrected by either spelling the word phonetically or speaking the desired pronunciation into the software via a microphone. Pauses between words can be extended by typing extra commas, and there’s enough natural variation in the AI technology behind each voice to make it sound human and organic. It even places a rising inflection at the end of words followed by a question mark.
What it doesn’t allow for is EMPHASIS and yes, I tried typing in capital letters but it made no difference. I’m sure this feature will come at a later date, because it would make a big difference. For descriptive passages without dialogue, it’s not overly noticeable, and since The Art of Cigarette Smoking just happens to be a story without dialogue, I was pretty happy with the end result. You can check it out here:
I’m a little less happy with the outcome for the second story I tried, The Golden Cockroach. Since it’s set in Australia and written from the point of view of a young woman, I selected ‘Charlotte’, an Ozzie female voice, for the narration. As much as we Kiwis enjoy taking the piss out of any and all things Australian, it was actually awesome to have this option, and I felt it really helped me to visualise the main character, Nina, and her situation. However, The Golden Cockroach is a story with numerous passages of dialogue, and while overall, the reading is still an impressive one (and again, Charlotte’s voice sounds perfectly ‘Charlotty’), the lack of any emphasis in these spoken exchanges is noticeable. You can check it out for yourself here.
So, is this service a welcome one for indie authors? Absolutely! The audiobook market is a growing one and it’s fantastic to be able to cater to ‘readers’ who want to consume stories in audio form, for whatever reason.
Is it as good as having a real live person performing a customised narration? No, but given the minimal costs involved in creating an audiobook via this process, I think the end product can be sold at a price point that reflects this. Recording a custom-narrated audiobook is an expensive process, and so the end-product commands a premium price. An auto-narrated audiobook needn’t.
Will I be creating any more auto-narrated audiobooks on Google Play? Not at this point in time, at least not until the ’emphasis’ problem is solved, or a Kiwi accent is added to the mix of voices available. Or unless readers tell me they want me to.
Are you an audiobook fan? Got a favourite one? Would you like to hear any more of my stories in audiobook form? Let me know in the comments.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
This past weekend I mostly finished the all-consuming DIY project I’ve been working on over the last couple of months. I wish I could say it was something exciting like a new BBQ area with a swimming pool, jacuzzi, and a wood-fired pizza oven, but the reality is we’ve just redecorated the three least exciting spaces in the house: the toilet, the hallway and the laundry.
There’s nothing like a good DIY project to test the strength of your relationship with your significant other.
Still, despite the everyday mundanity of the spaces, there are few things in life better than that warm, happy feeling of satisfaction you get on completing a substantial DIY project, especially when it all comes together without any major cock-ups along the way. There were a couple of minor cock-ups (more about that later), but I managed to get this project done without losing any of my fingers, electrocuting anyone, falling off any ladders or putting any holes in walls, floors, or ceilings that I didn’t intend on being there.
The new multipurpose front loader from Bosch. It both washes your clothes and stores all your shit.
The bulk of the job was painting, which, although time-consuming, is pretty straightforward, and with most of the house having already been repainted since we moved in, my wife and I are well-practised. Less straightforward was my plan to install a new attic ladder in the hallway, a new cistern in the toilet, and a new tub, bench and cabinetry in the laundry. I can’t say I completed these parts of the project without any profanity, but overall, everything went remarkably smoothly, especially the attic ladder, which I was worried about, having never installed one before. But it went in almost without a hitch, and now we have a space other than our mouse, rat, and possum-infested shed in which to store some of the junk that has accumulated over the years in our household of five.
Stairway to Heaven (or at least a place with fewer rodents).
The most unpleasant part of the job was removing the ‘popcorn’ texture from the ceiling in the hallway. I don’t know why this technique ever became popular in the first place as it’s just a magnet for dirt, grime, and fly-shit and it’s impossible to keep clean. I watched a couple of YouTube videos to see how to do it – spray some water on and it just glides off with a scraper – but our ceiling had at least two coats of paint applied over the texture so there was no gliding. Scraping it off took serious elbow grease and my arms were aching after only a few minutes.
After I’d completed half the job (and taken a break for about a month) someone suggested the bright idea of using an electric sander to take the paint off the highest points of the popcorn. This allowed the water to soak in and made it much easier to scrape the rest of the texture off, but it was still a horrible job. I got covered in pale, plastery goo and looked like an extra-large baby had just thrown up all over me. It’s the kind of job that would be perfect for a teenage child who’s going through one of those phases which makes them difficult to like. You could tell them you’ve given them the job so they can learn responsibility and the value of hard work when really you would be punishing them for being rude and unpleasant. My own children, although perfectly capable of being stroppy and obnoxious when the mood strikes them, aren’t quite old enough to have lost their ‘cuteness factor’ (nor are they yet tall enough to reach the ceiling), so unfortunately it was left up to me. However, we still have to repaint the living room (which has the same textured ceiling) at some stage, so I’m thinking I’ll give it a year or three and then pass on the baton.
My biggest concern of the entire project was cutting the hole out of the bamboo benchtop for the laundry sink. I was optimistic I could do it, having done the same job when we installed a new kitchen several years ago after we first moved in, but being a $500 piece of wood, it wasn’t something I could afford to get wrong. At 35mm thick (that’s about 1 and a 1/2 inches for you imperialists out there), it’s also not the kind of thing my $20 bargain bin jigsaw is designed to cut, and there were several times during the extended process (with my entire body vibrating as I gripped the jigsaw; with coils of smoke curling up from the blade as it slowly burned as much as cut its way through the wood; with spatters of rain falling on my shoulders and one eye on the horizon where a bank of charcoal clouds was rolling in and promising to dump water all over my electricity supply) where I was sorely tempted to give up.
The reason I didn’t was that I wasn’t sure what the alternative was (heading into town to buy a better jigsaw or paying a professional to do the job seemed both time-consuming and unnecessarily expensive options) and because, as painful and slow as the progress I was making was, it was still progress. In the end, it took about forty minutes to make the cut and I was able to finish, get the benchtop in place and pack up my electrical gear just before the rain started pouring down. I also managed to tick a present off my Christmas list – with a bit of work, the piece of wood that came out of the hole will make a great chopping board.
I balanced the success of this part of the project by making a right cock-up of the next thing I attempted. This resulted in an explosion of profanity, directed at myself. When I showed my wife what I’d done I’m sure she wanted to call me names as well, but since I’d already made such a good job of it I think she felt sorry for me and her response was remarkably mild. See if you can pick out my error in the picture below.
Move along – nothing to see here.
As you can tell, I’ve tried to disguise it, but when my brother came to visit on Saturday and I showed him my handiwork, the first thing he said to me was, “Did you drill the holes for the pantry handle on the wrong side of the door?”
“Yes,” I said, “yes I did.” Bastard, bastard, bastard, I thought.
“Did you do that before you assembled the cabinet?” he added, clearly unable to comprehend how anyone could do something so stupid.
“No,” I said, “I just absent-mindedly drilled them in the wrong place.” I didn’t tell him I was humming to myself with the joy of a job well done while I was doing it.
“Pity,” he ended with, “otherwise it looks good.”
“Thanks,” I said lamely, because what else could I say?
With all that extra storage space, our new washing machine need only serve a single purpose.
The project’s not quite finished. You’ll notice the absence of a washing machine. This is because – Murphy’s Law – our front-loader started making an unholy racket a few days ago and I’ve taken it into the repair shop to see what the problem is. Until it’s either repaired or we purchase a new one, we’re using Nana’s laundry service instead.
This is why I love DIY! Not only do you get that feeling of satisfaction that comes at the completion of a project, you get all the entertainment value it provides along the way.
Do you love DIY? If so, why? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
Here in NZ, things have gone a little mental in the last month. We’re in the midst of a national Omicron outbreak, there’s been protests and riots at Parliament, and while the Russian invasion of Ukraine is on the other side of the planet, it’s all over the news and everyone seems to be talking about it. As an example, over the last week, my Year 9 Digital Technology classes (full of students just beginning their journey at high school), have been working on a slideshow presentation, the theme of which is: All About Me, Me, Me. One of the slides in the presentation asks them to find pictures of things they dislike. Alongside the typical teenage hates of homework, siblings, and following instructions, many students chose to include an image of Vladimir Putin. A month earlier, I doubt these same children would have even known who Vladimir Putin was, let alone having a reason to dislike him.
In the midst of this madness, it is with a sense of just how lucky I am to be tucked safely away in my little corner of the Universe, that I’m going to spend the next couple of paragraphs complaining about the tedium of Zoom meetings, or Zuis, as some of my colleagues have taken to calling them (a combination of Zoom and hui, a Maori word meaning meeting or gathering). Over the last couple of years, I’ve attended more Zoom meetings than I could shake a stick at.
Ahh, that’s better. Now let’s get this high-powered executive board meeting started then, eh?
I’ve even hosted a few myself, and while I certainly can appreciate the convenience (especially being able to switch your camera off and attend while wearing pyjamas), I’ve not sat through one yet where a boring discussion wasn’t made even more boring by occurring via the internet.
I think it’s the lack of accountability. Falling asleep in a face-to-face meeting is a little challenging (unless you have some of those glasses with the eyes painted on, and even then, you have to make sure you don’t snore).
With those piercing brown eyes, it was like he could see into the very depths of my soul.
On Zoom, if nobody knows you’re already wearing pyjamas, nobody’s going to know if you go the extra step and take a nap as well. I did almost get caught out last week, though. The discussion had moved onto the best brand of photocopier paper or something equally riveting and I was on the verge of drifting off when the meeting host said, “Now I’d like to hear from someone who hasn’t already spoken.“
My eyes shot wide open as I scrambled for a suitable reply. I was thinking something along the lines of, “I don’t really have anything to add that hasn’t already been discussed, but I totally agree that what one needs to look for in a quality photocopier paper is whiteness of colour and a solid, rectangular shape.” Thankfully, the host picked some other poor sucker who’d been silly enough to leave their camera switched on. I have no idea what their answer was. I was already asleep.
Got any tips for surviving in the age of Zoom? If so, let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
My upcoming novel, Staking a Claim, is the sequel to Taking the Plunge and due for publication in 2023. Here’s a taster.
Kate perched on the edge of the gantry, her legs bound, looking down. Forty-three metres below, the Kawarau River surged with spring melt, swirling around a jagged rock that burst from beneath the whitewater, black and dangerous. “You ready?” She turned her head towards the voice, stomach clenching. Both young men standing at her back flashed reassuring smiles. On the left, the pasty English one named Simon suggested, “On the count of three?” She nodded, took one last glance at the galloping waters, then closed her eyes. “One… two… three!” Wind whistled. River roared. “I did say three, didn’t I?” “Uh-huh. Loud and clear.” “And she agreed, right?” “Yep.” “Kate?” Her name came dancing on the wind, teasing. She didn’t answer, her feet rooted to the gantry as if encased in concrete rather than stretchy rope. “You didn’t jump.” She shook her head. “Why not?” “I’m enjoying the view.” “But your eyes are closed.” “They are?” As she slowly opened them, the two men came swimming into focus. “Shall we try that again?” asked Manny, brown eyes glinting from his swarthy, Chilean face. She opened her mouth to agree but nothing came out. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s been weeks since we had an accident.” Simon cuffed his colleague on the shoulder. “Accident?” “He’s kidding,” said Simon, scowling at Manny. “We’ve never had an accident. And we’ve been going since nineteen—” “That’s right, we’ve never had an accident.” Manny’s grin was wicked. “Sometimes the people jumping have an accident, but not us. It always pays to bring some spare underpants.” Simon dug him in the ribs. He laughed, warm and hearty. “I’m sorry. Look, Kate, let’s try it again. You’ll be fine. Everyone’s scared their first time. But I guarantee, once you’ve done it, you’ll be back up here begging to go again.” Kate looked beneath her feet at the rope, swaying in the wind above the raging river. “I’m not sure about that.” “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. On the count of three again, yeah?” She swallowed. “Okay.” “Right then, here we go. One…” She bent her knees and spread her toes. “Two…” She closed her eyes. “Three!” She opened them again, only to discover that the view looked exactly the same as before. The river was no closer, and the world was definitely not upside down. Dipping her head, she noted her feet were still firmly planted on the edge of the gantry. “Umm,” said Manny, “perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but the idea is that you jump on three. There’s people waiting, you know.” Back on the bridge, the young woman who was next in line gave her the evil eye. “I’m sorry. I really thought I had it that time.” “Kate?” Evan strolled hand in hand with Corbin towards her along the bridge, a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “What’s going on?” She gave a theatrical groan. “I don’t know. It’s scary up here.” “You’re not wrong,” he said, chuckling. “I was scared too.” “You didn’t look scared.” “Fake it till you make it. Come on, you’ve got this. You were so keen after you saw me go.” “That all changed when I looked down.” “Then don’t look down.” “I tried that. I closed my eyes, but the picture in my head was so vivid that it didn’t make any difference. Even from behind my eyelids, those rocks look awfully sharp.” “You’re not going to hit the rocks.” “I might. What if a gust of wind blows just when I jump?” “Wishful thinking,” said Manny. “We weighed you, remember?” Kate stared daggers at him, but his cheeky grin refused to budge. “Look,” said Evan gently, “if you don’t want to go, it’s okay. We can try again some other time. Right guys?” “Yeah, of course,” said Simon. “I do want to go. It’s just…” “There’s no shame in backing out.” “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Manny gestured across the canyon to the onlookers crowded along its edge. “Look at all those people watching. I’d be ashamed if I was you.” “Manny, you’re not helping,” growled Simon. “No, he’s right,” said Kate. “I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home without doing what I came for.” “Mummy jump?” Corbin poked his nose through the railings, peering at her. She cast her eyes around the canyon, sweeping from the bungy and cafe complex out over the raging waters to the far side of the gorge, steeling herself. “Yes,” she said, clenching her fists, “Mummy jump.” “You sure?” asked Evan. “Uh-huh.” Her tummy disagreed but she overruled it. “Let’s do this.” “On the count of three?” said Simon. She nodded, swallowing. “Good on ya, Kate.” Evan winked at her before raising the camera to his eye. “Okay then, here goes,” said Simon. “One…” This time, Evan joined in the chorus. “Two…” She rose onto the balls of her feet, knees bent, pulse pounding. “Three…” Then pushed. “You did say you wanted to be dunked, right?” said Manny. “Wait, what?” She flailed, but it was too late, her body past the point of no return, slicing an arc through the crisp canyon air, the wind whipping at her hair. The river rose up to greet her as she screamed towards it, impossibly fast, and her brain barely had time to form the words ‘you bastards’ before a plume of water leapt at her, arms open to grasp her in its icy embrace. The rope at her feet caught and stretched, the bonds tightening, her headlong plummet slowing. When the tips of her fingers touched the surface she yanked them back as if stung. The scream died in her throat and was replaced by the rush of water and a chorus of cheers from above. Hauled back up into space, she saw Evan and Corbin waving down at her. Her heart raced, the pressure in her chest so great that it crushed the coal of terror into a diamond of elation. At the apex of her bounce she screamed again, then fell, dropping with giddy joy. Her shrieks become whoops, and by the time she’d stopped bouncing she was giggling madly. Dangling over the water like a worm on a hook, she was lowered into the boat, the crew scrambling to untie her from her bonds, the indignity of it all swept away in the sheer joy of the moment. She was congratulated and helped from the boat onto the shore, where she made her way breathlessly up the steep path cut into the face of the cliff to the rim above. Into Evan’s arms. “How was that?” he asked, beaming at her. “Thrilling,” she panted. Corbin tugged at her trouser leg and she raised him up, sliding him onto her hip. Her gut did a somersault and the gas rose in her throat, making her burp. “I feel a little queasy now, though.” “Here, come sit down.” Placing a hand on her back, Evan guided her along the gravel path to a low rock wall bordering a well tended garden. She collapsed onto it, her legs tingling, then placed Corbin beside her. Her insides danced again, a bead of sweat running down her temple despite the chill wind. She brushed it away, and squeezing Corbin’s knee, said to Evan, “Thanks for inviting me.” “No problem. It’s good to see you again.” She smiled. “You too.” Two weeks had passed since she’d last seen him. Two weeks where she’d found herself thinking about him far more frequently than she expected given the circumstances of their last encounter — far more than she wanted, truth be known. As if things weren’t complicated enough. And then he’d called, asking if she was free to go bungy jumping on Friday and her answering ‘yes’ had been uttered before her brain was even aware of what her mouth was doing. She’d been nervous on the winding drive over from Cromwell, Corbin chattering away in the back seat, but now that she was here next to him it felt… good. Really good. She liked the way he looked at her with those intense blue eyes, the wind tussling his curling blonde locks, a shadowed stubble crusting his jawline. And the hug at the rim of the canyon, his arms warm and strong around her back — she especially liked that. A whoop from across the canyon made her turn in time to see evil-eyes plummeting from the bridge. “It looks so easy from here.” She lowered her gaze to the gravel at her feet. “I never thought I could be so scared.” “It’s a different story when you’re standing on the edge looking down. You did well.” “Thanks.” “So… ahh, what’ve you been up to?” Fantasising about your naked body entwined with mine? No: TMI. Eating more and exercising less than I should be? No, still TMI. She settled for, “Nothing much. You?” Evan shrugged. “I dunno. Yumiko’s gone.” Hearing the name caused another flutter in her belly. “Where?” “Back home to Canada, so Noemie says.” “What about Jamie?” “Him too, back to Oz, thank God. Licking his wounds like a dog, no doubt.” “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He did say he was in love with her.” Evan gave a bitter snort. “The only person Jamie loves is himself. I’m not worrying about him. He’ll be fine, believe me.” “But you worry about Yumiko?” “Yeah, but she’s gone, and I don’t blame her after the way I treated her.” Sighing heavily, he added, “Anyway, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it? Time to move on, embrace the future.” “Yes,” she said simply. But what will that future look like? They sat in silence for a while, surveying the scene on the bridge as Manny and Simon prepared the next jumpers, a couple this time, legs bound together and hugging each other at the edge of the precipice, anticipating their leap of faith. Her belly burbled again and she frowned. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to settle. “Mummy, I’m hungy,” said Corbin. Maybe that was the problem. How long had it been since she ate lunch? “Let’s get something to eat, then,” said Evan, standing. “Wanna ride?” Corbin giggled as Evan lifted him onto his shoulders. “You coming, Kate?” She nodded but the frown stayed put. “Just give me a moment, I feel a little…” The words faded as she clutched the leg of Evan’s jeans, pitched forward and threw up, splashing vomit all over his shoes.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
Last month, we bought four, six-week-old, baby Hyline chickens. When it comes to chicken breeds, it seems that the more prolific egg-layers (which incudes Hylines) tend to also be shorter-lived. In the past, we’ve bought adult hens from commercial egg farms that have already had a couple of years of production behind them, but this time we thought we’d get some young ones in the hope that they’d stick around a little longer. We’re hoping they have a few good years of roaming around our garden and fertilising the soles of our shoes ahead of them. So far, they’re settling in to their new home admirably, are very cute, growing fast and… well, look, only a photo will do them justice, so here you go…
Chickens, chickens, and more chickens
We got them to restock our flock, which has sadly dwindled in recent times. The most recently departed member of the flock was also the oldest and most striking, a Golden Laced Wyandotte, appropriately named Rainbow. Like a rainbow, she didn’t produce much in the way of eggs, but she did make you feel happy every time you laid eyes on her.
Rainbow, a handsome chicken if ever there was one.
As well as Rainbow, four other hens have shuffled their way off this mortal coil in the last few months. One of our fun-time family lockdown activities was to make grave-markers for the various burial sites now dotted around the garden.
Herein lies Rainbow; she may not have laid many eggs, but she’s made up for it with her contribution to the nutrient cycle.
After much negotiation (arguing at extreme volume) the kids have decided on names for the new chickens — Emerald, Pearl, Amethyst, and Jade. They’re perhaps a little euphemistic, but they do nicely complement the general naming tone of the established chickens in our flock — Shimmer, Shine, and Blondie.
By the look of savage intent in its eye, I‘m pretty sure this is Emerald. Or maybe Amethyst.
If you’re a chicken fan, let me know in the comments. Despite their tendency to leave little presents all over the place, they’re fascinating creatures. Sometimes I like to go out in the garden and just watch them, scratching around for food with their inch long talons, snaffling up worms and bugs and lizards with murderous aplomb. I’m reminded that chickens are dinosaurs, and I think to myself, Man, am I ever glad you’re not four metres tall.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
Happy days! I essentially finished the third draft of my second novel, Staking A Claim, last Thursday and celebrated in style by having two slices of lime in my afternoon rum and coke. I say essentially, because it’s not quite complete – I’ve left a few notes to myself sprinkled throughout the manuscript with reference to details that I still need to iron out.
Since the novel is mostly set in the small South Island town of Cromwell in 2003, some of these details relate to the cost of things back then and there. For instance, one thing I wanted to know was how much it cost to purchase a brand new Hyundai Santa Fe in New Zealand in 2003. I sent an email to Hyundai New Zealand, figuring that if anyone was going to know, surely it would be them. Rather than answer my question, however, they just subscribed me to their mailing list, so now I get daily emails prompting me to purchase a new Hyundai. I’d love to, especially an Ioniq 5, but the cost of a new Hyundai is not in our budget. I’d have to sell the house first, and I’m not sure there’s enough room in an Ioniq to sleep a family of five. However, I’m still none the wiser as to the historical cost of a Santa Fe.
The 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe, known for its luscious, sweeping curves and a tendency to roll over on tight corners at high speed.
Interestingly, my other emails to private businesses also fell on deaf ears. I wanted to find out more about house, land, and rent prices in Cromwell in 2003, so I contacted a couple of house building companies with franchises in the area, as well as some local real estate agencies. I got nothing in reply from any of them, not even an email prompting me to buy or build a new house. On the other hand, I contacted the Ministry of Social Development with a question about historical welfare payments. Within a week or so I received a letter informing me that my request had been processed under the Official Information Act. The letter included several links to central and local government websites where I was not only able to find the answers to the particular questions I’d asked, but also, with a bit of digging, the answers to my queries about house, land, and rent prices in Cromwell in 2003. I’m not sure what this says about the pros and cons of the state versus private enterprise, but it did make me think that at least some of my tax dollars had been spent in a useful way.
The other notes I’ve left to myself are mostly to do with the physical manifestation of emotions in characters. Say for instance, a character is happy. They can demonstrate this by smiling. But you don’t want to overuse the word, ‘smile’, so perhaps they might ‘grin’, or maybe, if they’re exceptionally happy, they could ‘beam’. And that’s about it – there aren’t many synonyms for ‘smile’ in the English language. If none of those words will do, but I still want that character to express their happiness, then they’re going to need to do something else. So, I’ve got several instances in the novel where I wasn’t quite sure what that ‘something else’ should be, but rather than slowing myself down racking my brains trying to figure it out then and there, I’ve left a note to come back to it later with my secret weapon, The Emotion Thesaurus.
The Emotion Thesaurus, by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi
This is a fantastic book for writers – you just look up the emotion you’re wanting your character to express, and it lists a whole range of ways in which that emotion can be physically manifested.
Here’s just one example: One character, (let’s call her Macie), has just said something to a second character (let’s call him Abeeku, which is apparently the Ghanian word for one who is born on a Wednesday), about which he is somewhat dubious. Rather than rolling his eyes, which would be my go to response, or emotional crutch, as Ackerman and Puglisi would say, he could instead (and this is just a small sample of the available options):
Bite or chew on his lip;
Hem or haw;
Reference similar events from the past that did not pan out (here’s looking at you, Dad); or (and this is my personal favourite)
Wrinkle his nose like there’s a bad smell.
So, the next time someone screws up their nose at you, just be aware it might not have anything to do with the state of your armpits or underpants; they might just be a little skeptical.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
