Tragicomic Fiction Author

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Cowboy vs Redhead: A Review of the Small-Town Romance Novel, ‘Forever Dreams’, by New Zealand Indie Author, Leeanna Morgan

Montana Horses

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

A review of Forever Dreams (The Montana Brides Book 1), by Leeanna Morgan

I was lucky enough to meet Leeanna when she was presenting at a writers’ conference a few years ago. She was bubbly and vivacious and full of good advice. She’s a Kiwi and lives in NZ but writes romances set in and around the town of Bozeman, Montana. She’s a prolific writer and has published more than fifty books in several different but interconnected series. Forever Dreams is her first novel.

Forever Dreams, by Leeanna Morgan

It’s about a Kiwi primary school teacher called Gracie Donnelly who travels to Bozeman on a mission to find her long-lost father. Trent McKenzie is the handsome cowboy who works the ranch she’s arranged to stay at while she’s in town and as soon as he picks her up from the airport to bring her home, the sparks begin to fly.

As it turns out, Trent is also searching for someone special; a new wife. Despite her attraction to him, Gracie makes it clear that she’s not interested in filling that role. Until, that is, the couple end up in Vegas together, Gracie gets rolling drunk and they decide that the best way to ice the cake of their Vegas experience is with a spontaneous wedding.

In the cold light of the morning after, that decision doesn’t seem so clever, but rather than letting what happens in Vegas stay in Vegas, they compound the calamity by bringing it back to Bozeman. The pair forge a deal; Gracie will continue with the marriage charade so as to get Trent’s meddling matchmaker of a mother off his back in return for his help in finding her father. If that seems like an unnecessarily complicated arrangement, it gets worse. Despite their utter failure to keep their hands off each other up until this point, they instigate a no-touching rule in their shared marital bed.

It’s a preposterous setup and it’s not helped by having a hero and heroine who are somewhat clichéd — she’s a feisty, red-headed city girl who doesn’t know her ass from a donkey while he’s a strong, silent country boy who struggles to communicate his innermost feelings — but it’s an easy, breezy read with some genuinely amusing touches and a smattering of steamy moments. Besides, who doesn’t love cowboys? And descriptions of wild, Montana mountain scenery? After reading it, I know I wanted to have a holiday in Bozeman.

Have you read Forever Dreams, by Leanna Morgan, or any of her other books? Let me know in the comments.


FREE BOOK!

What Friends Are For, by J.B. Reynolds

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.

GET YOUR FREE BOOK >>

Beards and Biceps: A humorous review of the sci-fi romance novel, ‘The Protector’, by American Indie Author, Elin Peer

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.

The Protector, by Elin Peer

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 other books? Let me know in the comments.


FREE BOOK!

What Friends Are For, by J.B. Reynolds

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.

GET YOUR FREE BOOK >>

Staking a Claim: Chapter One

My upcoming novel, Staking a Claim, is the sequel to Taking the Plunge and due for publication in 2023. Here’s a taster.

Staking a Claim, by J.B. Reynolds

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!

What Friends Are For, by J.B. Reynolds

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.

GET YOUR FREE BOOK >>

Taking the Plunge: Chapter One

A scintillating story of secrets, sex, and snowboarding, Taking the Plunge is the debut novel from J.B. Reynolds and the first book of the Small Town, High Country romantic comedy series. Here’s Chapter One.

Taking the Plunge

Taking the Plunge

Kate shivered as a gust of wind ripped across Coronet Peak, shaking the chairlift. She looked down at the rented snowboard dangling from her feet, reaching out to dislodge a chunk of snow from the binding. It fell, dropping onto the head of a skier weaving beneath the lift, who skidded to a stop, squawking up at her with a clenched fist.
“Sorry,” she shouted down, but the wind whipped her words away and she was unsure if the skier heard them. She returned her gaze to the chair in front of her, where Evan and his companion were engaged in animated conversation. The woman, from some South American country — Brazil? Argentina? Chile? — was angled towards Evan, her arms raised and extended in a gesture that suggested they were discussing the size of a fish she’d caught. Like a bunny in its winter coat, she was wrapped in a pale grey and white ski jacket, her thick black hair flowing in waves from beneath a fluffy grey beanie, so cute it made Kate sick. Even from behind, Kate could tell she wore a smile so big it was a wonder her head didn’t fall off. She’d been flirting with Evan the entire lesson and he’d lapped it up, barely giving Kate or anyone else in their group a second glance.
She placed her gloved hands on the bar and rested her chin on top of them, sighing. The only reason she’d booked the lesson in the first place — the only reason she’d travelled all the way from Cromwell to Queenstown to come snowboarding — was so she could flirt with Evan.
She’d met him for the first time earlier in the winter, when she’d come skiing with her bastard ex and on a whim had decided to ditch her skis and try snowboarding for the first time. She’d joined Evan’s group lesson and even then, before everything had gone tits up with Lawrence, she was smitten. The way his blonde curls fell around his forehead, framing bright blue eyes and an easy smile, the warm and friendly manner in which he delivered his instructions, the relaxed but purposeful movement of his body across the snow — all combined to send a delicious little tingle up her spine when she thought of him.
She’d seen him again a week or so later, a chance encounter in the street when she’d been out shopping with a friend, a few days after she’d discovered Lawrence was cheating on her. That meeting had been brief, but the imaginary ones she’d had since were anything but. In the long nights following her decision to send Lawrence packing, feeling lonely and sorry for herself, eyes wide despite her exhaustion, she’d spent hours thinking about Evan. Her fantasies had helped to calm the buzzing in her skull, replacing it instead with a buzzing between her legs.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She’d booked a lesson, asking for Evan by name. In her head, the plan was perfect. The day would dawn bright and clear and she’d make the long drive with the stereo blasting. Evan would welcome her with a beaming smile, resting his hand on her hip as he guided her across the snow. They’d laugh and chat, have eyes only for each other, and he’d ask for her number. She’d already written it on a slip of paper, folded into the pocket of her jacket. She was nothing if not prepared, and if he asked her out for a glass of mulled wine after the lesson she could always call Lawrence and tell him he could keep Corbin a little longer — she was going to be late home.
But when she’d arrived the South American skank was already there, batting eyes like chocolate icing and wrinkling her freckled nose when she giggled, which seemed to be every time Evan opened his mouth. Of course her name was Maria, with an R that rolled like a burst of machine-gun fire, and it was her hips his hands rested on, her face he looked for when he stopped halfway down the learners’ slope, beckoning the rest of the group to follow. She’d stuck to him like glue for the duration of the lesson and now they’d left the learner’s slope, graduating to the main chairlift for their final run.
Approaching the terminal, Kate sucked in a breath. It would be mortifying to fall over, especially if the lift operator had to stop the chairlift to assist her. After years of skiing, she still hated that feeling — dangling in mid-air, stomach lurching — while some useless bugger was being scraped off the snow at the top of the lift. She was damned if she was going to be that useless bugger.
Ahead of her, Evan and the luscious Latino had reached the terminal. As they exited, he placed his arm behind her, guiding her away from the chair to the edge of the run, easing her down onto the hard packed snow. Kate snorted in disgust. Sure, it was easy when you had someone to help you.
Her stomach fluttered as the chair bounced over the rollers on the final approach. She focused, envisioning the steps in her mind, then lifted the bar, placed her left foot onto the snow, stood and dropped her right foot onto the back of the board, letting the chair push her forward and out of the way as it swung round. She pushed with her back foot and glided across the snow, smiling, hoping Evan would turn around to congratulate her on her perfect dismount, but he didn’t, having eyes only for the Brazilian bitch. She came to a slow stop, slumping down onto her bum behind them.
She heard a yelp and turned to see another member of their lesson group, a slight, bespectacled man in a red ski-suit, go down in front of the chairlift, his legs sliding out from beneath him. He grabbed desperately for his wife beside him but she dodged and let him drop, skiing gracefully out of the danger zone. The liftie, a young man with dreadlocks and a scraggly beard, hit the emergency-stop button and ran to his aid, helping him up and dusting him off. No damage done, except to his dignity, and perhaps to his faith in his wife. Kate thanked God it was him and not her.
If Evan and Maria had noticed, they ignored it. Kate punched her loose binding, dislodging snow so she could tighten the ratchet, and watched them both stand and begin their descent — Evan relaxed and smooth, followed by Maria who was tentative and twitchy. They hadn’t gone far, perhaps fifty metres, when he turned and skidded to a halt at the side of the run and faced back up the slope, beckoning Maria to join him. Then he caught Kate’s eye, waving her down.
She didn’t move, considering her options. If she didn’t do something to get his attention it would be Maria and not her he’d be sharing a mulled wine with at the end of the day. And by the way their eyes kept sliding towards each other, whatever Kate did, it would need to be dramatic.
She swung her board over so her body was facing the slope.
Drama had been her favourite subject in high-school.
Pushing herself up off the snow, she pointed her board downhill, beginning the descent, then leaned on her heels to cut across the run. She turned again, onto her toe-side, executing it perfectly, picking up speed. She crossed the run again, made another heel-side turn, this time adding a clumsy wave of her arms for effect. Adjusting her balance, she aimed directly for Evan and Maria, then let out a squeal. Maria’s eyes sprang wide.
“Heeelp!” Kate shrieked, flailing her arms.
“Turn, turn!” Evan shouted at her.
“I can’t! I’m going too fast!”
She saw Maria take evasive action, dropping down the slope. Evan stayed where he was, hands pushed forward and knees bent, bracing for the collision. At the last moment, she kicked her back foot out hard, spraying a wave of snow at Evan but also taking the bulk of her speed off. She hit him just after the blast of snow, arms outspread, turning her head so that their faces didn’t mash, and he caught her, softening the blow. Her momentum pushed them back to the edge of the trail, his feet catching on the small ledge formed by the snow groomer’s passing, and they collapsed into the lumpy snow beyond.
Evan groaned. The brim of her beanie had slipped over her eyes and she raised it so she could see. Evan’s face was covered in a coating of white powder, like a cupcake dusted with icing sugar.
“Oh, my God! Are you okay?” she asked, wiping his cheek.
“Your knee’s in my crotch,” he said, his voice tight.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” She shifted her knee, moving it down, and felt him relax, exhaling warm breath into her face. It smelled of spearmint. “Is that better?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’m awfully sorry. I don’t quite know what happened. I thought I had it under control, but then all of a sudden… I didn’t.”
“Don’t be. Happens to everyone. It’s all part of learning.”
She looked into his eyes and gave him her warmest smile. “Thanks for saving me.”
He cocked his head slightly, and perhaps she imagined it — maybe it was just the glare of sun on snow — but she thought she saw a flash, a little spark of chemistry there. Then he smiled too, ripe lips sliding apart, and it was all she could do in that moment, with him lying helpless beneath her, to stop herself from planting a kiss on them.
“What about you? Are you okay?” asked Evan.
Kate stared, searching for that spark again, considering his question. She tightened and relaxed the muscles in her legs but couldn’t feel any pain — and no surprise there, as Evan made a fantastic cushion. Not that he needed to know that.
“My knee, it’s a little sore. I must’ve knocked it on something hard when we landed.”
The corners of his smile crept higher.
“Are you all right, Evan?”
Maria’s voice was sticky and sweet, like melted chocolate. Kate sighed, shifting her weight. Maria was perched on her toes across the slope, facing uphill, her expression sour, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon.
“I think so,” said Kate, waving her away. “You head back down. We’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” said Maria, her frown growing.
“Yeah, I’m good,” called Evan. To Kate, he said, “As much fun as this is, do you think you could roll off now?”
“Oh, okay. Hold on, let me just…” She grunted, pushing herself up and back, lifting her board so her knees could slide on the snow.
He rolled himself onto his knees, then stood, dusting snow off his pants and jacket. Extending a glove, he pulled Kate to her feet. She slipped forward and he leaned into her, placing his hands on her waist to stop them both from sliding. She gasped.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she said, faking a grimace. “I might need some help getting down the mountain. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Course not. It’s my job.” He turned towards Maria, who was scowling up at them. “You go ahead, Maria. Kate’s hurt her knee. I’m gonna stay with her and help her down.”
Kate gave Maria her sweetest smile and waved. Maria’s scowl turned into a pout. Turning, she gave a dramatic flick of her hair and sped off down the slope.
“Wow,” said Kate, “look at her go. It’s like she’s chasing a burrito.” Evan dragged his eyes away from the disappearing Maria to look at Kate, who turned to him, still smiling, and added, “She must’ve had a good teacher.”
“I try,” said Evan.
I’m sure you do, she thought.


Missed the opening? Head back to the Prologue.


FREE BOOK!

What Friends Are For, by J.B. Reynolds

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.

GET YOUR FREE BOOK >>

Taking the Plunge: Prologue

A scintillating story of secrets, sex, and snowboarding, Taking the Plunge is the debut novel from J.B. Reynolds and the first book of the Small Town, High Country romantic comedy series. Here’s the prologue.

Taking the Plunge, by J.B. Reynolds

Taking the Plunge

Kate tipped the plastic can so a stream of petrol flowed from the spout and splashed over the collection she had stacked in the back yard. She was careful to lean forward and extend her arm as far she could — it wouldn’t do to set herself on fire as well as her husband’s belongings.
It had taken her a couple of hours to gather the items together and mounded as they were, like rugby players in a ruck, the heap was not inconsiderable. Oh well, she thought, if the neighbours call the fire brigade I’ll just have to accept it. No doubt they’d charge for the callout but Lawrence could pay for that.
The assembled items included a set of golf clubs, a mountain bike, all Lawrence’s clothes from their wardrobe, two sets of skis and boots (racing and telemark), fishing rods and flies, a wetsuit and dive regulator (she’d left the oxygen tanks, worried they might explode), a pair of water skis, his collection of awful, nineties techno CDs, a large backpack, hiking boots and the sail from his windsurfer (the board itself was a large, unwieldy thing, and she’d been concerned about the flammability of its foam core and how toxic the smoke might be. The CDs alone would be bad enough — she didn’t want to poison anyone). The windsurfer was functionally useless without a sail anyway, so she’d still get her point across.
Kate was under no illusion that the collected items were ideal fuel for a bonfire and so had asked for and been given three wooden pallets from the hardware store that afternoon. When she shifted Corbin’s car-seat to the front of her Santa Fe and folded the back-seats down, there was just enough room to fit them in for the drive home. It had taken an hour of toil to break them up with a hammer and an axe and add them to the pile, toil that had brought on a profuse sweat despite the chill of the winter breeze. With the sun lowering in the sky, the breeze had died, and it really was the perfect evening for a bonfire.
She completed her careful circle round the heap, sloshing petrol into it as far as she could, then backed away towards the house, dribbling a short trail with her. After replacing the cap and setting the can aside, she looked through the viewfinder of the digital camera she’d set up on a wooden stool, checking her framing. Satisfied, she set it to record. Then she took a matchbox from her pocket, struck a match and dropped it at the head of her trail of gas-soaked grass.
The trail leapt into flame, raced to the pile and exploded with an onomatopoeic, hot and extremely satisfying WHOOSH.
Kate watched the burning heap for a few minutes, mesmerised. A seething cloud of acrid, charcoal coloured smoke billowed into the air, but no neighbours poked their heads over the fence and no sirens sounded in the distance. She wrinkled her nose, then turned to the west, noting the sun had dipped towards the mountains. She checked her watch — almost five-thirty, Lawrence would be home soon — collected the camera and returned inside.
Corbin was still asleep on the couch, a happy convenience that made her wonder if God was supportive of her measures. She roused him with a gentle shake, and while he came to his senses she placed another log on the fire and closed the curtains, leaving a gap by the dining table through which she could keep an eye on the fire outside.
Gathering Corbin up, she plopped him into his high-chair, strapped him in and served him dinner, a mix of rice, casseroled beef and vegetables. He smiled at her, brandishing a plastic spoon and attacking his meal with gusto, slopping brown sauce over the side of his bowl and his face.
Kate poured herself another glass of wine and was pouring one for Lawrence when she heard the familiar purr of his car coming up the drive. Sipping her wine, she listened to the garage door opening and closing, the grunting and shuffling in the hallway as he removed his coat and then his muffled footsteps, the pads becoming clacks as he stepped from hall carpet to the tiles of the kitchen. She turned, and for the first time since she had discovered the incriminating photos of Lawrence and she who shall not be named, greeted him with a smile. He looked tired — eyes dark, complexion pale, his forehead rutted with wrinkles.
“Hard day? Here, have a drink.”
His eyebrows reared up at the bridge of his nose, like a furry black caterpillar staring at its reflection in a mirror. He cocked his head and took the glass.
“Thank you.” He looked at her, questioning, but she stared blankly back, giving no answer other than the thin smile tracing her lips.
“Daddy!” Corbin saluted Lawrence with an upraised spoon that sent a dollop of brown goo flying across the table.
“Hello, my beautiful boy. How are you?” He moved to Corbin’s side, bent and plastered his son’s cheek with kisses, blowing a raspberry that made Corbin shriek and giggle. He looked at her again, lips parting to reveal yellowing teeth, but her smile had vanished and his withered and died. He straightened, and with a shake of his head, said, “Greg was in again this afternoon. He’s impossible, that man. It’s like he thinks tax laws should only apply to poor people.”
“Don’t they?” She arched her eyebrows and took another sip of wine.
Lawrence snorted. “Of course not. There’s still laws for rich people,” he said, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. “They’re just different ones.”
She leaned over the kitchen counter, elbows and wine glass sliding across the granite. “Have a drink. It’s not poisoned.”
His eyes flicked to hers, springing wide for an instant.
The thin smile returned.
He nodded, a tiny bob of the head, returned his gaze to the glass in his hand and sniffed at it, then took a sip. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then paused, brow furrowing, and stepped towards the curtains. “What’s with the fire?” he asked, peering through the gap.
She shrugged. “Oh, just thought I’d burn some rubbish I found round the place.”
Another step. “You’re not supposed to have outside fires in town. Not without a permit anyway.”
“It’s only a little one. And there’s no wind. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
A third. “That smoke’s pretty thick.” He parted the curtain and pressed his nose against the glass. The words that came to her then were strangely muted, as though they were being strangled in his throat. “Why are those flames green? Wait, is that my…?” He yanked the door open, a rush of cold air flooding in.
His next sentence was short, but loud and clear.
“What the fuck!


 Like it so far? Continue reading Chapter One.


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What Friends Are For, by J.B. Reynolds

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.

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An Interview with M.D. Neu, Award-winning Sci-Fi Author

This month’s author interview is with the award-winning paranormal and science fiction writer, M.D. Neu, who lives in San Jose, California.

Marvin Neu

Living in the heart of Silicon Valley and growing up around technology, M.D. has always been fascinated with what could be.  He is inspired by the great Gene Roddenberry, George Lucas, Stephen King, and Kim Stanley Robinson—an odd combination, but one that has influenced his writing.

Growing up in an accepting family as a gay man, he always wondered why there were never stories reflecting who he was. Constantly surrounded by characters that only reflected heterosexual society, M.D. decided he wanted to change that. So, he took to writing, with a desire to tell good stories that reflected the diversity of our modern world.

When M.D. isn’t writing, he works for a non-profit and travels with his husband of eighteen years.

In October, as part of a special Halloween themed set of releases, NineStar Press published M.D.’s short story, The Reunion.

The Reunion by M.D. Neu

I had the pleasure of being given an advance review copy of the story prior to its publication. It’s a suitably spooky little tale; a ghost story with a twist and a cast of intimately drawn characters. I highly recommend it. Now, on with the interview.

Hi, M.D. Thanks for taking the time to answer a few questions for me and my readers today. You must be thrilled with the publication of The Reunion. Can you tell us a little bit about how that came about and what it means to you?

Thank you for having me.  I appreciate the opportunity to chat with you today.  The Reunion, man there simply are no words with how lucky and blessed I’ve been these last few months.  How it got started is a bit of a long story, but I’ll try and be brief.  Back in May I sent my manuscript for The Calling (my full length novel) to NineStar Press. I figured, I would get the standard “thank you but no thank you” response.  Anyway, about a week later I heard from a buddy of mine who is signed with NineStar telling me to send them my work and to let him know when I did.  He said he would let his editor know so his editor could pull my manuscript and take a look.  I was floored.  So, I let him know I just sent something to NineStar, so he told his editor and wished me luck. That was that.

A few weeks went by and I still figured I would get the “thank you but no thank you” letter.  Instead I got an email telling me they wanted to publish my book.  I couldn’t believe it.

When it came to The Reunion I was going to use it as a giveaway piece, but I knew it needed some editing.  So I chatted with my editor, the same one who read The Calling.  I told him about the story.  He told me he wanted to evaluate it, so I sent it to him and the next day he sent me a note saying he loved the story and it needed to be published. He wanted to include it in their Halloween Series.  I was stunned and thrilled.  In the matter of a few weeks I needed to do a massive addition to the story (take it from 3,600 words to 22,000 words), have it edited, proof edited, and copy edited.  It was the quickest turn around I had ever seen but we did it. The folks at NineStar Press held my hand the whole way through and I couldn’t be happier with the final product.

Every time I think about how quickly this has all happened I have to pinch myself.  I really am very lucky and so honoured to have this opportunity.

Wow, that’s awesome. Congratulations. The main character in The Reunion, Teddy, is an interesting one. He’s a gay man who returns to his small home-town after having escaped it many years ago. In your bio, you give yourself the challenge of writing stories that reflect the diversity of our world. Can you tell us a bit more about Teddy and how he meets that challenge for you?

Teddy.  Oh man, I love him.  What people have to understand about Teddy is that he’s more than a random stereotype,  which is what they will first see and probably call me out on. Teddy is an occasional drag performer and a full-time hair stylist. He is over-the-top and overweight, and he’s not a handsome man. However, Teddy is warm, caring and a wonderful person. He can be your best friend and give you all he has to give. His heart is as big as his drag wigs. Teddy’s not your typical main character, but he’s real. You see, Teddy is based on two people from my life.  A wonderful friend of mine who did drag and was a hairstylist and my mother—she was a hairstylist as well. Both are no longer with us, but I love them and I think about them all the time.

When I say I want to write stories that reflect the diversity of our world,  I really mean it.  I want to show people who may not be the typical protagonist.  I want to show people who we may joke about and tease. These people have stories and these people deserve to be shown and not just as comic relief but as real people.  Just like Teddy; he’s a character in a book but his heart and soul are based on two wonderful people who deserve to be in the spotlight of a story.  I hope that answers your question.

Yeah, for sure. That’s a great answer. So, what else are you working on at the moment?

Oh, wow.  There is a lot happening.  On December 18th, NineStar Press are releasing my second short story, A Dragon for Christmas. It’s about a cursed little Latina girl called Carmen, who also happens to be a lesbian. She needs to get a dragon to help her fight off this curse she was born with. The fact that she is a lesbian isn’t the focus of the story. It’s her struggle to battle with this awful curse that can kill her.  This story is personal to me for many reasons and I hope people fall in love with Carmen and the story.

On January 1st, NineStar Press are releasing my debut full length novel, The Calling.  The story is about an average gay man named Duncan, who on a fateful trip to San Jose, California, is introduced to the world of Immortals. There is much more to Duncan than anyone realizes. Even himself.

I’ve always loved vampire stories (thank you Anne Rice), so I wanted to offer my take on the genre and NineStar Press is giving me that opportunity.  I hope people enjoy it.

I’m also working on a fantasy story about angels and I’m still working on my science fiction series, so there is a lot going on and I have a lot of stories in the works. I also have a weekly blog and on occasion I write poetry, all of which can be found on my website.

Sounds like you’re a busy man. What is the hardest thing about writing?

The hardest thing about writing is the editing and cutting the story down.  I love detail.  I love descriptions.  I love creating full rich worlds, where everything is there ready for the reader to explore and see.  However, not everyone likes that.  So, editing and trimming.  Keeping it all focused so that people don’t skim to get to the good stuff.

I hate that, because for me it’s all the good stuff.  Why else would I include it?  Plus, I put things in one book that may or may not show up till the next book or even the book after that.  It’s all part of the world building, so don’t skim… cause you never know what you’re going to miss.

Do you aim for a set amount of words/pages per day?

I try and write two to three chapters a week.  Clearly that doesn’t always happen but it’s my goal and I’m happy if I can get one chapter a week written.  Sometimes, instead of writing chapters I’m editing or outlining both of which I count.

I’ll also spend time blogging and writing poetry, which also counts in my book.

Where is your favourite place to write?

I typically write in my study or in my dining room.  However, I’ve been known to write on the plane heading off on vacation.  I’ve also written while on vacation.  My laptop normally travels with me so I can write when the moment strikes me.

Do you proofread/edit all your own books or do you get someone to do that for you?

I belong to a Writer’s Group that provides critiques to whatever you post.  I’ve used that and I love it.  Not only do I get their feedback, but I get to read and provide feedback to their work, which helps me learn and improve.  I can’t tell you how much I’ve learned by being part of this Writer’s Community.

Writing is obviously a major part of your life. Outside of your writing, how do you relax?

I love to cook, travel, go to the movies, spend time with family and friends, play board/card games, read (I bet you thought I would forget about that), and have quiet evenings at home with my husband.  Really anything that takes me away from reality for a little while.  Even though we are living in one of the safest times in human history, with social media, there is so much noise that getting away from it is the most relaxing thing I can think of.

Well, that’s us for today. Thanks again for your time, M.D. It’s been great to chat with you. All the best with your future writing.

Thank you.  It really was a lot of fun.

To find out more about M.D., check out mdneu.com, or connect with him on Facebook or Twitter.


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What Friends Are For

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.

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An Interview with Jocelynn Babcock, Paranormal Fiction Author

This month’s author interview is with paranormal mystery and supernatural magical realism writer, Jocelynn Babcock.

Jocelynn will tell you she created books with her grandma’s yarn as a child and grew up to marry an engineer. She lives in the Channeled Scablands,  where the fine line between sanity and not is an outlet for idle hands.

Jocelynn is the author of the paranormal mystery novel, The Eyes of March, and the paranormal short story collection, Semantic: A Collection of Wyrd Sister Stories, which feature an assortment of psychics, ghosts, and witches among the characters.

Books by Jocelynn Babcock

Hi, Jocelynn. Thanks for joining me and my readers today. First up, can you tell us a little bit about the writing project you are currently working on?

I’m currently writing the second installment of my paranormal mystery series. Mantic Vol II: To Dance with Serpents has our main character, now with partial memory restoration (about two years back). She resolves to regain her entire memory after a shocking twist.

What has drawn you to write in the paranormal and supernatural genres?

I never considered what I wrote to be paranormal. I beta tested my debut novel as a murder mystery and found that mystery readers considered a psychic to be paranormal. I knew full well that psychic was not enough to publish to a paranormal audience, so I went back and threaded through magical realism in order to hit the target market of paranormal readers. This gave me more freedom in content and I think added a new element to my writing. I enjoy the finished product better than if it had remained just a psychic mystery.

That’s really interesting, and great that it’s worked out well for both you and your readers. So, when did you decide to become a writer?

I’ve always written, but lacked the confidence to be a writer. I went to college to be a grant writer, because that is writing that pays the bills. It was during that time I decided to give fiction a try. As I neared completing the novel, then I decided to become a writer. I finally realized I could finish a project, and the process would get easier.

Where do your ideas come from?

Conversations with people. My current trilogy was the idea of my husband. I have another idea from a conversation I had with my mom when I was a teen. Yet another was a thread I pulled out of my book because there was a lot going on already and the beta readers were confused by the connection. My niece, my forensic expert, has inspired a few stories also.

Which famous person, living or dead would you like to meet and why?

I would like to bring Susan B. Anthony to the future and show her: women voting, women on juries, women raising their children alone, women owning property, women going to college, women in the workplace, women wearing whatever they choose, etc. I’d like to point and say: “You did that.”

Susan B. Anthony
Susan B. Anthony, as engraved by G.E. Perine & Co., NY, c.1855

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

A little voice from the next room that says “I’m all done ny-night Mommy!”

Thanks for your time today, Jocelynn, and all the best with your writing.

You can find out more about Jocelynn and her writing at jocelynnbabcock.wordpress.com or follow her Facebook or Twitter accounts.


FREE BOOK!

What Friends Are For

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.

GET YOUR FREE BOOK >>

Audiobooks Have Changed My Life

Audiobook on Iphone

Audiobook on iPhone – courtesy of athriftymrs.com

It is approximately, depending on traffic, road works, and the route I take, a fifty-minute commute from my home to the high school in the small, rural town where I teach. I normally carpool with a colleague three days a week, which is great—it saves me money on petrol and I enjoy the stimulating conversation. On the other two days, I drive by myself. Up until a few months ago, I listened to National Radio on the days I drove myself. This was okay. We don’t have television at home (we have a TV, but no TV reception—our TV is used to watch YouTube, Netflix and DVD’s), and listening to National Radio allowed me to keep abreast of what was happening in New Zealand and around the world. It was also better than the commercial radio stations I get reception for on my drive to work through the countryside, mainly because it doesn’t have ads and the presenters don’t babble a constant stream of inanities. However, there were a number of issues that detracted from my listening pleasure.

Firstly, it was often depressing. The way events are framed in the news media often focuses on the negative. Bad news sells more, apparently. According to the New Zealand Crime Statistics 2014 (the most recent year for which data was been collated and published), there were forty-one murders in New Zealand in 2014. This is a tragedy. One murder is too many, and New Zealand is, without question, a country afflicted with a disturbing underbelly of violence. But let me zoom out for a moment, and re-frame the numbers. These forty-one murders came from a total population of roughly 4.5 million people. What this means is that in 2014, roughly 4,499,958, or 0.99999067 percent of the population, were not murdered.  The non-murder rate was approximately 107,142 times greater than the murder rate! I’m not suggesting we should celebrate this, but we could at least acknowledge it. Listening to the news on National Radio (or anywhere, for that matter), you would never know that in New Zealand, you are 107,000 times more likely not to be murdered than you are to be murdered.

Secondly, there was a lot of repetition. Driving to work in the morning, I would frequently hear the same piece of news repeated three times. Granted, the depth of coverage might be different each time, but this would still get pretty boring pretty quickly.

Thirdly, the perspectives expressed were overwhelmingly those of white, middle-aged, middle-class men. Sometimes, these would be complemented by the perspectives of white, middle-aged, middle-class women. Whether or not I agreed with what they had to say, these people were almost always intelligent, well-educated, and articulate, and their views considered. It’s just that by using them as a filter—well, there’s an awful lot that gets filtered out.

In April of this year, I uploaded a selection of audiobooks onto my iPhone. I don’t know why I had never done this before. I’d just always equated reading with type on a page. I listened to music, I listened to the radio, but I read books. I was visiting my niece and her boyfriend in Wellington at the time and they were discussing how much they enjoyed listening to audiobooks. They suggested some titles they thought I might like, and we went from there. When I got back home, the first one I chose to listen to was On Writing by Stephen KingI listened to it in the car on the days I was driving myself to work. It’s a great book—part memoir,  part instruction manual—and I have written more about it here. Since then, I have listened to a number of other audiobooks. The first of these was Consider Phlebas, an early science-fiction novel by one of my favourite authors, Iain M. Banks, and the first to feature the advanced race of humans known collectively as the Culture. I had read this (the traditional way) many years before and had forgotten how action-packed it is. The next was  World War Zan abridged version of the novel by Max Brooks, containing the oral histories of an eclectic group of survivors of a global zombie apocalypse.  After that was  Children of the Sky, a curious science-fiction novel by Vernor Vingeabout the exploits of a group of humans who have crash-landed on an alien planet populated by creatures that most closely resemble intelligent dogs; and Hostage, a live recording of a drunken Charles Bukowski giving a poetry reading at a bar in Redondo Beach, California, in 1980. I am currently listening to A Short History of Nearly Everything, by Bill Bryson. Again, this is a book I have read before, many years ago. I have subsequently forgotten almost everything I learned from it the first time. It’s a fascinating book, and I love the way Bryson makes an array of scientific arcana so accessible, easy to understand, and entertaining.

Every single one of these audiobooks has been more interesting and entertaining to listen to than National Radio. They have taken my mind to some captivating places. I keep finding myself sitting in the carpark at work in the morning, or my driveway at home in the evening, wishing I didn’t have to get out of the car and enter the real world again. Perhaps the most entertaining of the audiobooks I have listened to so far has been World War Z, due in no small part to the sumptuous quality of the audio recording. It is the only one to feature a full cast of voice actors. No doubt this is an expensive thing to do, but it does minimise the likelihood of experiencing voice fatigue. I felt a little of that with Children of the Sky, where the narrator, Oliver Wyman, does, for the most part, a stellar job. There were perhaps only three or four main characters whose voices I didn’t like. This isn’t much, especially considering the extensive cast of characters featured in the novel. However, the recording is almost twenty-eight hours long, and these characters featured enough for it to prove a minor source of irritation within the overall experience.

The best thing about these audiobooks is that it has got me “reading” again. Lately, I have done very little reading, in the traditional sense. Since the beginning of the school year in February, I have read only two books. The first of these, Girl in a BandI read quite quickly. It’s the autobiography of Kim Gordon, the bass player from one of my favourite bands, Sonic Youth, and a woman I have a lot of admiration for. The second of these, The Corn Maiden and Other Nightmarestook me months and months to finish. It’s a collection of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates. The time it took me to read is no indication of the quality of the writing. Oates is an incredible writer, and it’s a great book, and truly frightening in parts. However, the only time I have available to read is the hour or so I have between putting the kids to bed and going to sleep myself. More often than not, I have chosen to spend this time watching episodes of television dramas. This is not a guilty pleasure. I am one of those people who believes we are currently experiencing a golden era of television drama (long may it continue), and the shows I have been watching—Game of Thrones, Fargo, Better Call Saul—are wonderfully written. But one thing books are great for, and much better at than television, is engaging the imagination. With television, you don’t have to visualise anything—it’s all pre-visualised for you by somebody else. With books, especially fiction, you have to visualise everything. This is the true joy of reading. I can’t read and drive at the same time, but listening to audiobooks has allowed me to take the chunks of downtime I have when commuting and put it to good use, engaging my imagination. And they have given me true joy. Audiobooks have made a genuine improvement to my quality of life.

2016 Auckland Writers Festival

2016 Auckland Writers FestivalLast month, I was lucky enough to join a group of students and teachers from my school for the schools programme of the 2016 Auckland Writers Festival, at the Aotea Centre in central Auckland. It’s always entertaining to spend a day out of class with a bunch of high-schoolers. There were thirty or so on this expedition, a mix of ages and personalities, all ostensibly interested in writing—though I suspect a number of them just wanted a day off school, and who could blame ’em. It’s a three hour bus ride, more or less, from our school, in the rural backwaters of Northland, to the big smoke.  Three hours of singing, dancing and gossiping.

We arrived at the Aotea Centre in good time, having taken the Northern Busway into the city, which allowed us to avoid much of the citybound traffic. We were booked for four sessions at the festival, firstly with Kate de Goldi, then Jane Higgins, Omar Musa and Tami Nielson.

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Kate de Goldi’s session was, unfortunately, boring. I’ve read The 10pm Question and I think it’s a great book—smart, funny, and touching. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but it was more than what I got. She read excerpts from her latest novel, From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle, which is set in Christchurch, and talked about how the earthquakes in Christchurch had influenced her writing of it. Nothing she read, nor anything she said, made me want to go out and buy a copy. I’m not saying it sounds like a bad book (she’s an accomplished writer, and it’s probably a pretty good book), but her delivery—a little dry, a little stiff—made it difficult to get enthusiastic about anything she was saying. Maybe she’s a better writer than public speaker, and there’s nothing wrong with that—public speaking is daunting—but it felt like a missed opportunity, both for de Goldi, and her audience.

Our next session was with Jane Higgins. She was talking about hope in young adult fiction. She discussed how a lot of the fiction written for young adult audiences is bleak. But there’s hope too—and the sense of hope is essential to the success of the stories told. She said that young adult fiction may be bleak, but that is only a reflection of real life, where young men and woman live in a world that is often bleak, and have to face difficult challenges and make difficult decisions. She said that hope is also necessary, and that a story without hope would struggle to sustain an audience.

I have to agree with her there. Last year, I read Song of Stone by Iain Banks. It is almost unrelentingly bleak. Sure, it’s an interesting idea, well written, with prose that is often beautiful, in a cold, hard way, but once finished, I had no desire to read anything similar, and haven’t again since. This is hardly a recipe for building a sustainable audience.

Higgins said that there are five ways in which the characters in young adult fiction experience hope:

  • Discovering the people that are supporting them;
  • Discovering their gifts;
  • Being recognised for who they are;
  • Seeing clearly at last;
  • Happy endings (sometimes).

She said that young people are often asked what they are going to do. This is true—it’s a question I often hear myself asking of students at school, usually the ones where it is difficult to imagine anyone ever making the decision to employ them. According to Higgins, two better questions to ask, and two better question for young men and women to ask of themselves, are:

  • Who are you going to be?
  • How are you going to live your life?

I guess the caveat attached to these questions is that if hope is not part of the answer to them, then something needs to change.

After breaking for lunch, we returned to the ASB Theatre for our third session, with Omar Musa. Musa is a Malaysian-Australian poet/rapper/writer. He spoke about his life and his work, and punctuated these with spoken word performances of some of his poems. This is perhaps not so different from what de Goldi did, but the crucial difference here is in the word performance.  De Goldi spoke to the audience; Musa performed for the audience. He was charismatic, funny, and entertaining. His performance covered a range of topics, including the difficulties of growing up poor, angry, and Muslim in small-town Australia. The poem that sticks most in my mind was an ode to the spicy Malaysian noodle soup, laksa. Here, Musa called on the audience to participate, joining in with a shouted “Wooh!” on the poem’s introductory refrain of “Wooh! This shit is hot.”

Musa’s overall message was that storytelling is important, and that no matter where you come from—your stories are worth telling. He spoke of the importance of storytelling in Malay culture, where the word for storyteller, penglipur lara, translates as a “reliever of sorrows” or “dispeller of worries”. He sees poetry as a way of “giving a voice to the voiceless” and as being “a safe place to tell dangerous stories.”

For me, he was the standout presenter of the day, and most of the students I spoke to felt the same way. I think this is because of the entertainment value his presentation provided. When you’ve traveled three hours on a bus to see someone, and you’ve got a three hour return journey after you’ve seen them, it’s really not enough just to be talked at; it’s important to be entertained as well.

The last session of the day was with Tami Nielson. Nielson is a country/blues singer/songwriter. She was born in Canada to a musical family, and moved to New Zealand in 2007. She talked about her songwriting process, focusing on the evolution of her song Walk (Back to Your Arms), which won her the APRA silver scroll in 2014, and how it developed from a simple, almost wordless tune that popped into her head while driving one day, through to a fully-fledged, award winning song, with an accompanying music video.

Nielson was warm, funny and engaging. She talked about her life back in Canada, where her road to musical success was established as a child. She talked about her move to New Zealand, and the frightening prospect of having to start her career over again, in a new country, where no-one knew who she was or what she had done in the past. She told jokes and stories, sung songs, and played the guitar. She even showed some mean skills on the harmonica.

Like Musa, she didn’t just present to her audience, she performed for them as well. This is unsurprising—both artists are musicians as well as storytellers, after all. It’s perhaps unfair to compare their presentations with those of de Goldi and Higgins, but they made all the difference in terms of my enjoyment of the day. I think most of our students felt the same way. It’s always good to spend time with students outside the normal, everyday bounds of the classroom. You get to see a side of them that you don’t normally get to see, and visa versa. But it’s a long trip to Auckland and back, and I’d like to thank Omar Musa and Tami Nielson for making that trip especially enjoyable.

Book Review: On Writing, by Stephen King

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King

A review of On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King 

I must confess; I’m in my forties now and this is the first book I’ve ever read by King. This hasn’t really been a conscious decision — I’ve always been curious about him and his books and I’ve seen some of the movies made from his works — but I’ve just read other stuff. So, having finally taken the plunge, what do I think?

It’s fabulous — entertaining, informative, inspirational — full of amusing anecdotes and wonderful writing tips. I mean, if you’re going to get writing tips from famous authors, Stephen King is as good a place to start as any.

There are three things King says in the book that stuck with me. Firstly, he compares writing to building a house. He says that paragraphs are bricks and that if you put your paragraphs together in the right way, you can build any kind of house you like. All you need is a toolbox filled with the tools of writing — vocabulary, grammar, description, narrative, dialogue etc. I like this idea, perhaps because my father was a builder and he passed on to me a love of tools. I have a garage full of ’em (some of which I even know how to use). But I also like it because it simplifies the craft. Instead of being some arcane art, full of bubbling cauldrons, blood sacrifices and the casting of spells, writing is just a trade, like building or plumbing or drain laying. Just bring your toolbox and your knowledge of how to use the tools within it.

Secondly, he compares writing to excavating fossils. He says that stories are found objects, buried like fossils in the ground and that once the story has been found, it is the writer’s job to carefully excavate that story and reveal it to the world. He advises against actively plotting stories and says that the plot will reveal itself — organically and quite probably in ways the writer never expected — through careful excavation. I like this idea too; I think there’s a lot of truth in it, although I wouldn’t go so far as advising against plotting. Plot, by all means, but don’t be so attached to your plot that you aren’t willing to take the time for some detours along the way.

Thirdly, he says that writers are arranged in a pyramid of four layers. At the bottom, in large numbers, we have the bad writers. Above that, still in large numbers, we have the competent writers. Above that, in much smaller numbers, we have the really good writers. At the top of the pyramid, we have the great writers — King names Shakespeare, Faulkner and Eudora Welty among these — a select few writers who are intellectual freaks of nature, geniuses of the profession.

King goes on to say that it is impossible to turn a bad writer into a competent one. As a teacher of high school English, I’m not sure I agree with this entirely, but the task would certainly be a challenging one. If a student turns up in my class at Year 9 without having a grasp of the fundamentals of written English — sentence structures, grammar, punctuation, paragraphing and the like (let alone any concept of how to tell a good story) — three or four years in my classroom isn’t going to make them a competent writer. Perhaps that just means I’m a bad English teacher (it’s certainly not the first time this thought has crossed my mind), but let me break the numbers down. Four years at forty weeks per year (max) at four lessons per week at fifty-five-ish minutes per lesson equals a grand total of five hundred and eighty-six point six hours in class. Only a fraction of this will be spent doing any schoolwork, and only a fraction of that schoolwork will be writing. Much of these five hundred and eighty-six point six hours will be spent coming to class late, leaving class early, gossiping, arguing, conversing, searching for a pen, searching for a book, going to the toilet, asking stupid questions (although there are no stupid questions), flirting, swearing, worrying, daydreaming, sleeping, cracking jokes, laughing, chewing gum, making paper projectiles, throwing paper projectiles, listening to music, messaging their friends on whatever social media app is the favour of the month, watching videos on YouTube, making videos on TikTok, playing computer games, and half a hundred other things that kids get up to in the classroom that bear little resemblance to what they’re actually supposed to be doing. In his book, Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell says that it takes 10,000 hours to become really good at something. It’s little wonder that the bad writers who enter high school tend to exit high school as bad writers still.

And do those bad writers then spend the next ten years of their lives working to improve their writing? Of course not. They just go on to become builders and farmers and plumbers and truck drivers and lawyers and doctors and nurses and parents who can think of a thousand and one things they’d rather be doing than writing.

King also says that it is impossible for a good writer to become great. I see no reason to disbelieve this. I too think great writers are freaks of nature. I suspect you are either born with that talent, or you are not. So that leaves only room for the competent writers to become really good writers. I agree with him here too. If you are a competent writer, becoming a really good writer is entirely possible, likely even, if you have the desire. It will take time, effort, and lots of practice, but that’s okay. Good things take time. If you want to be a better writer, any time spent reading On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King, is going to be time well spent.


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