Author: J.B. Reynolds (Page 5 of 7)

Book Review: Are Organisms Just Algorithms?

April 10, 2019 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

A review of Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow, by Yuval Noah Harari

My reading tastes are fairly eclectic. Recently, I heard the term ‘genre slut’ used to describe such a person, and I guess I’m happy to own that. I’ll read pretty much anything—romance, crime, thrillers, science-fiction, fantasy, literary fiction, western, action, humour—you name it. I’m not particularly fussed about the age of the target audience either. I’m just as happy reading a well-written YA novel as something targeted at adults. Heck, I’ll happily read a book aimed at pre-schoolers if the pictures are attractive and the story’s a good one.

Since 2016, when I began to take my writing more seriously, I’ve also read a fair bit of non-fiction related to the craft of writing and the business of indie-publishing. Outside of that, my non-fiction reading is very rare indeed. In the last two years, for instance, the number of non-fiction books I’ve read that weren’t related to writing amounts to exactly two. One of these was Homo Deus, A Brief History of Tomorrow, by Yuval Noah Harari.

I discovered it while perusing the shelves of my school library during an English lesson. The somewhat cryptic title piqued my interest, so I put down my copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and had a closer look. On the back cover, the blurb contained the following headings:

WAR IS OBSOLETE—You are more likely to commit suicide than be killed in conflict;

FAMINE IS DISAPPEARING—You are more at risk of obesity than starvation;

DEATH IS JUST A TECHNICAL PROBLEM—Equality is out, but immortality is in.

I was hooked.

The book is 500 pages long. I always get a little nervous when starting a book of this kind of length, especially if it’s non-fiction. It’s a considerable time investment to make, and time is one thing of which I don’t have much to spare. I’m not one of those people who will stay with a book until the bitter end—generally, if a book doesn’t keep me hooked I’ll toss it, especially so if it’s non-fiction. Life is too short to read boring books.

Are Organisms just Algorithms?

Thankfully, Harari’s writing is eminently readable and he does a fine job of translating complex ideas into accessible prose. The book covers a lot of territory, diving both into humanity’s past and projecting into its future. Essentially, it argues that modern science has more or less determined that humans are the sum of their biological algorithms, and thus not so far removed from the algorithms that shape our digitally connected lives.

In a world where dataism is poised to overtake humanism as the ‘religion’ that makes the world go round, and where digital algorithms are already better than biological ones at many things and are speeding to surpass them in the areas where they are currently lagging, the book ends by posing the question of what will happen when digital “algorithms come to know us better than we know ourselves.”

I, for one, like to think optimistically about the future. I can’t wait for our algorithmic overlords to come and take my job over, so I can kick back and write books, grow sunflowers and play guitar all day. But I can’t help thinking that once the algorithms are better than me at not only teaching but writing books, growing sunflowers and playing guitar, then it would be hard to blame them for questioning my usefulness. I’ve seen The Matrix.

Are organisms just algorithms? What do you think? 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.

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In praise of Jane The Virgin

March 13, 2019 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly religious person, but in my living room is a large, rectangular black altar. It’s the central feature of the room. The furniture is oriented towards it. You can’t walk from one end of the house to the other without passing it, watching it as you go by, while it watches you in return. It’s the television.

My children love it. Like most children these days, they’re fond of screens in general but the dominant screen in their life is the TV, if only by dint of its size and central location. It’s the source of much joy, but also much conflict. They are all individual creatures with their own personal tastes and finding something they can all watch peacefully together can be a challenge. Occasionally, when they are unable to resolve their differences of opinion peaceably and resort to pushing each other over and sitting on top of one another while trying to extricate the remote from the clutching fingers of whichever unfortunate brother or sister happens to be the “sitee”, I might wish we didn’t own a TV. I might wish that they’d all go away and do something useful like milking the cow and then churning the milk for butter. But then I remember that it’s 2019 and we don’t own a cow, and that all the milk we consume comes from plastic bottles bought at a supermarket rather than a bucket beneath the udders of an obliging bovine. (We do however have seven chickens, so at least our eggs come au naturale. Here’s a picture of one of them, because, well… chickens).

Sometimes, when I’ve had a bad day and the sound of screaming is especially grating on the ears, I tell my children I’ll put an axe though the TV if they don’t stop fighting. It generally stops them, if only momentarily, but I think they know it’s an empty threat and born of desperation—I’d never go through with it because I love TV too.

I love it even though I don’t watch a heck of a lot of it. Together, my wife and I watch even less. By the time we get home from work and dinner is made and the children have left most of it on their plates and have asked for three rounds of Marmite sandwiches instead and the dishes are piled high on the kitchen bench for someone else to do the following day, the lure of bed often wins out over an hour spent in front of the goggle-box.

Occasionally, however, the stars align and the mood is right and my wife and I will sit for an eve on the couch in front of the TV. Like our children, our taste in televisual fare is quite different, but there are a couple of shows where we’ve managed to find common ground and which have entertained us together over the seasons. One of these is Jane the Virgin.

We like it a lot. We watched every episode of the first couple of seasons. Through season three, my wife kept up while my viewing became more sporadic. Now we’re into season four, and I’ve joined the fold again (we’ve just watched Chapter 72, and I like where it’s going—I’m on Team Raf).

If you enjoy the show, you might find this article food for thought. I like Jane The Virgin for the warmth and the positivity and the humour—it doesn’t really do dark and gloomy, even in the face of death. While there certainly are moments that pack an emotional punch (and yes, I’m including Michael’s death here), they’re often centred around Jane’s relationship with her mother and grandmother. Jane’s love triangle with Rafael and Michael is secondary to the one with Xiomara and Alba, and all the other plot twists come off the backbone of the story of the three generations of Villanueva women and their bond with each other.

I also enjoy the ridiculous meta aspects of the show—it’s a romantic comedy-drama based on a Venezuelan telenovella that sends up telenovellas while simultaneously embracing the telenovella, using the telenovella as a narrative device, having a main character who is a telenovella star, and having numerous scenes set on the set of a telenovella.

But mostly I watch Jane the Virgin for the characters. The characterisation is great—all the main characters are flawed and fully drawn, and it’s been fun to watch them develop over the seasons. I love how the writers have been able to show characters doing such terrible things, yet still have the audience rooting for them. There’s no better example of this than Petra. Like many others (including my wife), Petra is my favourite character. I love her story arc, from bitchy, selfish villain, to caring and vulnerable hero.

Are you a fan of Jane The Virgin? If you are, who’s your favourite character? Let me know in the comments.

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Taking the Plunge: Chapter One

October 1, 2018 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

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

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.

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Taking the Plunge: Prologue

October 1, 2018 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

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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How to Write a Love Story: Part 2 — Creating an Outline

March 10, 2018 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

“The more work you put in on your outline and getting the skeleton of your story right, the easier the process is later.”
Drew Goddard

Having set myself the goal of learning how to write a love story, and deciding that the best way to learn was by doing, the next thing I needed to do was start writing. But where to begin? How do you turn an idea into a novel? Some would say to just sit down and start writing, see where it leads, but I didn’t like that advice. I guess I’m a “plotter”, not a “pantser”, because I wanted a process, a step-by-step recipe I could follow that would allow me to flesh out my idea so that I wasn’t writing blind. I did a little bit of research, and the following is the process I settled upon.

How to Write a Love Story

Write Your Premise

A premise is a single statement that conveys the underlying idea of your story—the foundation that supports your entire plot. According to Joseph Nassise, a premise must do 3 things:

Highlight the main character;
Reveals the story’s core problem;
Hint at the goal or resolution.

Following this structure, the premise for my novel became:

A recently separated mother-of-one pursues a snowboarding instructor ten years her junior, against the wishes of her friends, family, and ex-husband.

Main character – a recently separated mother-of-one;
Core problem – she wants to get it on with a young snowboarding instructor—but her friends, family, and ex-husband don’t want her to;
Goal – will she or won’t she get her man?

This premise grew from the characters and events in a short story I had already written, and at the time the idea was conceived, I was (and continue to be) a regular listener of Shawn Coyne’s and Tim Grahl’s Story Grid podcast. I can’t recommend Coyne’s Story Grid methodology highly enough—it has been fundamental in shaping my understanding of story structure, and as a consequence, the structure of my novel. Essentially, what Coyne says is that for a story to “work”, it should break down into three parts:

Beginning hook;
Middle build;
Ending payoff.

This should come as no surprise—it’s your classical three-act structure. But Coyne goes further than that, by giving what he calls the five commandments of story.

The Five Commandments

Each of your three acts should also contain a further five elements, or commandments, as follows:

Inciting Incident (an event that kicks off the action)
Complication
Crisis (a character has to make an important decision)
Climax (the consequences of that decision play out)
Resolution.

Looking at it this way, we have fifteen major “beats” a story has to hit. In determining what those beats might look like, Coyne says that you must have a deep understanding of the genre you are writing in.

Genre is Everything

Coyne believes that genre is more than just a marketing tool, it’s an absolutely fundamental consideration in shaping your story. Every genre has its own obligatory scenes and conventions. See that word “obligatory”? It means that you’re obliged to use them, that they must feature in the story for it “to work”. So it’s essential to think long and hard about what genre you are writing in so that you know what obligatory scenes and conventions you need to include in your story.

It took me a while to figure out that what I was writing was a love story. Part of the reason it took me so long is that when I thought of love stories, I had a picture of Mills & Boon romances in my head, and I knew my story wasn’t that. I didn’t see how it could be a romance because it didn’t have a happy ending. But after thinking long and hard about it, I realised that at its essence, my story was about a girl falling for a guy—in other words, a love story. I prefer the term “love story” because it doesn’t have the same connotations for me as “romance” does. It seems, broader, more inclusive. Anyway, I digress—what’s important is that in the love story genre, there are obligatory scenes and conventions that Coyne says are essential to include when telling your story.

Obligatory Scenes of The Love Story Genre

Lovers meet;
Lovers first kiss;
Confession of love;
Lovers break up;
Proof of love;
Lovers reunite.

So, in terms of structure, my first task was to figure out how these scenes would fit into the fifteen beats of my global story. They don’t have to be in this particular order, but I chose to plug these into my story as follows:

Lovers meet – inciting incident of the beginning hook;
Lovers first kiss – after the complication and before the crisis of the beginning hook, so not one of the global beats;
Confession of love and lovers break up – inciting incident of the middle build;
Proof of love – climax of the ending payoff;
Lovers reunite (but part ways) – resolution of the ending payoff.

In this way, I had my first five important scenes of the story.

Conventions of The Love Story Genre

As well as the obligatory scenes, there are also conventions of the genre to consider, which may or may not amount to scenes in and of themselves, but which do need to feature in the story.

For the love story genre, these conventions are:

Rivals;
Moral Weight (the distinction between right and wrong behaviour – at least one of the lovers needs to have a serious moral flaw that they need to contend with in order to move forward in their life);
Helpers (characters that aid the lovers);
Hinderers (characters that harm the lovers or stand in the lovers’ way);
Gender Divide (men and women want different things);
External Need (some form of external pressure on the lovers’ relationship. In Pride and Prejudice, for instance, Mrs. Bennet wants to marry off her daughters as soon as she possibly can);
Forces at Play Beyond the Lovers’ Control;
Forces at Play Within the Lovers’ Control;
Rituals (some activity that the lovers share);
Secrets—lots and lots of secrets.

So the next task was to figure out where these would fit into the story. These conventions play out across multiple scenes in my novel, but there are particular scenes where I introduce the rivals, where I introduce the helpers and hinderers, where particular secrets are exposed. Once I had figured out how I was going to fit these conventions into my global story, I had about fifteen scenes, spread over three acts, that gave me the basic framework for my story. Once I had that, I had to come up with scenes and sequences of scenes that would plug the gaps between each of those points, driving the action along—a task that was much easier now that I had fifteen points of reference. As Coyne suggests, it’s kind of like plotting a road trip and fixing the major destinations on the way. The particular roads you should take to reach each destination become more obvious once you have the stops clearly defined.

Write Your Outline

In the end, I came up with about forty scenes in total. In doing this, I found Stephen Pressfield’s clothesline method to be really helpful (here’s the clothesline I made for my story). Then, for each scene, I wrote a brief synopsis (80 – 150 words). The beauty of the Story Grid method is that not only does your global story break down into the five commandments, but so should each individual scene. The synopsis for most of my forty scenes had an inciting incident, complication, crisis, climax, and resolution. By filling in the details of these five commandments for each of my scenes, I had a pretty comprehensive plot outline that enabled me to feel confident about embarking on my writing journey.

Now, this might seem like overkill, especially if you’re a pantser, but it worked for me. Without it, I’m not sure I could ever have started—the blank page would have been just too overwhelming. On an endnote, however, it’s important to say that just because you have an outline, it doesn’t mean you have to stick to it. I’d written several thousand words when I realised that one of the central ideas I had for my story just wasn’t going to work. It was a fantastical idea and had no place in the realistic setting of the world I was building. So I got rid of it, re-jigging my scenes and the ending payoff to suit. Thankfully, I didn’t have to rewrite any of the scenes I’d already drafted, realising early enough how stupid the idea was and moving on.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Is creating an outline before you begin writing a useful process? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read Part 1 of How to Write a Love Story: Goal-setting

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How to Write a Love Story: Part 1 — Goal-setting

January 12, 2018 / J.B. Reynolds / 2 Comments

“Our goals can only be reached through a vehicle of a plan, in which we must fervently believe, and upon which we must vigorously act. There is no other route to success.”
Pablo Picasso

Early in 2017, I decided I wanted to write a novel. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I’d been dreaming about writing one for twenty years, and I decided it was time to stop dreaming and start doing. As it turned out, the novel I wanted to write was a love story. I’d never written one before, so not only did I need to write a love story, I also needed to learn how to write a love story. In my twenty years of dreaming, I always believed that I would learn more by actually doing the job than I would by attending any number of creative writing courses, and now, having finished my first draft, I think that belief has been validated. I’ve learned more about the craft of storytelling in the last twelve months than I did in the previous twenty years. I wanted to share some of what I have learned in this series of blog posts. This initial post is about goal-setting, because the first, and possibly most important thing I did, was to set myself the goal. Without the goal, and the desire to achieve that goal, I would have gotten nowhere.

How to Write a Love Story

1. Set Your Goals

Saying I wanted to learn how to write a novel and actually writing one are two very different things, but without first setting that goal, I never would have started. The key to going from dreaming about writing a novel to actually doing it came by getting out of bed earlier in the morning. For twenty years, I told myself “I don’t have the time”, and for the most part, that was true. Between work and travel and friends and family and eating and sleeping and TV, my days were full. The only answer to this problem was to find the time. So I did, and the time I found was at five o’clock in the morning.

Now, you could go to the trouble of setting yourself daily word-count goals and deadlines. I didn’t do this, simply because I’d never written a novel before so I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to write as much as I could in the time I had (about an hour a day) for as long as it took to finish. Having set myself this goal, my progress throughout 2017 was much slower than I wanted, but it was still progress. And one thing I did do, right from the beginning, was to track my writing progress.

2. Track Your Progress

I followed Chris Fox’s advice and recorded my daily word count in a simple spreadsheet since I began writing my novel. The purpose of doing this was to have a record of how many words-per-hour I was writing so that I could work on improving my writing speed. You can see a copy of the spreadsheet here, and if you want, feel free to make your own copy and use it as you see fit.

I’ve found it extremely valuable, but to be honest, it hasn’t helped me to improve my writing speed (at least not yet). I seem to be sitting at about 830 words-per-hour, and have done for most of the year. Sometimes, when I’m “in the zone”, this increases to well over a thousand words-per-hour. One of my goals for 2018 is to get “in the zone” on a far more regular and consistent basis.

At the beginning of December, I’d written 44,000 words, which according to my plot outline, put me about half-way through my novel. This, for seven months of work. I know I’m not the fastest writer, but even so, I wasn’t happy with my progress, so I sat down to have a closer look at my spreadsheet to see if I could figure out what was going on.

3. Analyse Your Progress

It was a revelation. When looking more closely at the numbers I discovered, much to my surprise and dismay, that I hadn’t been working on my novel anywhere near as regularly and consistently as I thought I had been. On the day I did my analysis, I had spent only 70 out of 222, or 31.5% of my mornings writing my novel. Oh, sure, I had been getting up early every morning on the vast majority of those days to work on “things” related to my writing, (and there is a long list of those) but I hadn’t actually been writing my novel. If I had guessed, I would have said it was much closer to 70%, and it was galling to realise just how far from reality my perception was, but there was the data in black and white. The data doesn’t lie. I had to turn this around.

4. Refocus When Things Go Wrong

So, as December progressed, I prioritised writing my novel. By the end of the month, I had worked on my novel for 23 out of the 31 days of the month or 74.2% of my mornings. I had my most productive writing month of the year, writing a little over 18,000 words. And I felt much more optimistic about the progress I was making on my novel, which had been turning into a real grind. I also had five days where I broke 1,000 words per hour, when through October and November there’d been none. I think that a big part of this was because I really had formed a “writing habit” and “the zone” was more readily accessible because of this.

I also added another column to my spreadsheet (I’ve labeled it “Task”) to record specifically what I do on the days I don’t write. I have a very limited time in which to write and some days I just have to use that time to work on other writing-related activities. But I want to keep these days to an absolute minimum through 2018. My author platform is mostly set-up now, so just requires a bit of regular updating and maintenance. I want to improve slightly on December’s result—writing at least 75% of the time and hitting at least 20,000 words per month, consistently, month on month, throughout 2018. My goal is to finish three books this year; two novels and a novella. If I can continue to consistently hit my monthly word-count goal, then this is well within reach.

My main point here is that if I hadn’t been consistently tracking my progress in a measurable way, I never would have known how badly off-track I had gotten. It was a valuable reminder for me that it’s not just enough to set goals, you have to track your progress on those goals as well. It’s also a reminder of the importance of being disciplined and forming a writing habit.

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An Escargatoire of Snails

December 15, 2017 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

Here in Northland, it’s been an excellent season for growing things. A wetter-than-usual winter has been followed by a wetter-than-usual spring, and by the time Movember came and went, the plants in the garden had well and truly sprung.

My lawn, or perhaps more accurately, the weeds in my lawn, have grown exceptionally well, aided by the fact that my ride-on lawn mower had broken down (I took it into the shop for a service and it hasn’t worked properly since). In particular, it’s been a great season for carrotweed. Carrotweed, as the name suggests, is a weed that resembles wild carrot. It grows abundantly during the hot and humid Northland summers. I went for an early-morning walk a few days ago and noted my neighbours have grown entire fields of it, as you can see from the pictures below. I’m not quite sure why, as it’s a noxious, invasive species and once it reaches the flowering stage almost nothing eats it, except for maybe goats, and I’m pretty sure my neighbours don’t have any goats (we live in dairy country, surrounded by cows, with goats being few and far between).

Field of Carrotweed — Fields of carrotweed.

The other thing that has grown well of late is my moustache. Yes, I know you thought that my spelling of Movember in the first paragraph was a typo, but it wasn’t. I grew a moustache in support of men’s health, along with many of my work colleagues. I always enjoy Movember in New Zealand—it’s a chance to get creative with the facial hair. In the past, I’ve grown goatees and ‘muttonchops’ but this year I went for a simple ‘slug’. As usual, my wife hated it, but I was pleased with the result, despite the constant upper-lip itching.

J.B Reynolds and his unmowed lawn — Lost in the jungle.

Now, it’s mid-December and Christmas is approaching fast. I’ve managed to fix the ride-on lawnmower (with the help of my brother, who is good with that sort of thing). The garden is still growing well but I’ve cut the carrotweed and mowed the mo. Yesterday was my last day of work for the year and I’m looking forward to a well-deserved break and a chance to spend time with my kids, go swimming, camping, and catch up on all the chores around the house that have been neglected over the year (such as weeding the garden).

An Escargatoire of Snails

Aside from carrotweed, the other thing I noticed on my early-morning walk of last week were the garden snails, or perhaps more accurately, since I found them on the side of the road, roadside snails. I’m not sure if the dawn parade of snails is a typical occurrence on our road at this time of year or whether it was just the particular moist and misty conditions that had them gathering in such abundance, but they were everywhere, a veritable plague of mollusca. (Curiously, the collective noun for a group of snails is an escargatoire — an escargatoire of snails — now there’s a piece of trivia that’ll make you popular at your next pub quiz).

There were so many, in fact, that I accidentally stepped on a few of them. I was particularly taken with this little guy (or gal – I’m no expert on determining the sex of snails) below, and when I lay down at the side of the road to take the photo, I felt like his journey could be a metaphor for my writing progress.

garden snails — Crossing the finish line.

I’ve just hit forty-three-thousand words on my novel. I’ve been tracking my progress and it’s taken me fifty-three hours of writing at an average of eight-hundred-and-twenty-four words-per-hour to reach that goal. I’ve been reading a book on increasing my writing speed and will work on that over time, but it’s not so much my writing speed that slows me down so much as my thinking speed. When you know exactly what you want to write, writing fast is easy. When you have to think about what you want to write before you write it, the process is slowed considerably. This is where the use of a comprehensive outline is helpful.

I have an outline for my novel. It contains a basic description of what happens in each scene, and which characters feature in these scenes. All of these descriptions have, at the very least, a beginning and an end, and many are more detailed than that—broken down into five stages, as follows: inciting incident, complication, crisis, climax, and resolution. This is extremely useful, but there is still an awful lot of empty space in between these points. I know my start points and I know my destinations, and for some scenes, I know the big landmarks I want to hit on the way, but the journey I will take to reach them is unknown prior to my departure.

This is an exciting, fascinating, and as far as I can see, necessary element of the writing process, but it does slow things down. However, I take heart from the little guy above. I figure if the local garden snails can make it all the way across a road to pass the finish-line, then so can I. It’s all a matter of persistence.

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

November 8, 2017 / J.B. Reynolds / 3 Comments

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

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.

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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An Interview with Jocelynn Babcock, Paranormal Fiction Author

August 29, 2017 / J.B. Reynolds / 2 Comments

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.

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.”

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.

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What Friends Are For

August 21, 2017 / J.B. Reynolds / 0 Comments

The opening excerpt from my short story, What Friends Are For. Happy reading!

So I’m at home folding laundry, cos that’s what you do when you got a young kid. Between the shit and the piss and the vomit, seems like all I’m ever doing is laundry. I’d just given Hayley a box of raisins cos she was cranky—she loves her raisins, guaranteed to shut her up for five minutes anyway—when the phone rings. It’s Kate Hensley. Her son, Corbin, goes to daycare with Hayley, which is how Kate and I know each other.

I’m not sure why her Corbin goes to daycare, since as far as I know she doesn’t have a job; I guess she just needs the time to paint her nails and prune her roses in peace. Anyway, she wants to know if I’ll go along with her and Corbin to Alexandra for the morning to have a look round the shops. This is unexpected. I said we knew each other, but we’re not exactly friends. We see each other when we’re picking up or dropping off the kids at daycare, but we’ve never hung out before. I’m up for it. It’s not easy to make friends in Cromwell, especially when you’re a young mum and you’re new to town. I get sideways looks when I walk down the street, pushing a pram, like people are thinking, There goes another one. Should’ve kept her legs closed. They’re right of course, but hey, what’s done is done.

Kate might be posh, but she’s always been friendly enough. I ask her how long we’d be in Alexandra cos my shift at the pub starts at one-thirty and I got to get Hayley to daycare before that. I was late on Monday and the boss gave me a bollocking. I don’t want another one.

She says, “Oh, don’t worry about that. I promise we’ll be back before one.”

I say, “Okay then,” cos the housework can wait, and I think it’ll be nice to go shopping—you know, do some girly things. To tell the truth, I’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately. I stopped going to mothers’ group cos I was the youngest one there, and I didn’t exactly fit in. I mean, they were nice enough to my face, but all they ever did was bitch about other mothers behind their backs, so God only knows what they said about me.

So I’m excited Kate’s called. “It’ll be nice to get out of the house,” I tell her.

“Right, I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” she says.

“See you then.”

Which leaves me just enough time to finish folding the laundry, change Hayley’s bum and put a bit of lippy on. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually one for the make-up—you can’t polish a turd, as Davy likes to say—but it’s a little different when you’re going out about town with a woman as beautiful as Kate Hensley. I mean, I’m not vain or nothing, but you gotta make an effort.

I hear the toot of a horn and look out the window to see Kate coming up the driveway in her gleaming white Hyundai Santa Fe. It’s a good measure of the difference in our family incomes. I drive an eighty-four Corolla.

“Nice car,” I tell Kate as I place Hayley’s car seat in the back.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she says. “It’s just perfect for going skiing.”

This is my second winter in Cromwell and I still haven’t been skiing. It’s not on the priority list. I strap Hayley into her seat next to Corbin and put her stroller in the boot and then off we head off down the road. Straight away, Kate starts singing Coming Round the Mountain at the top of her lungs. She can’t sing to save herself.

“Jesus Christ, Kate,” I say.

“Pardon me,” she says, all hoity-toity like, and then I remember that she’s religious and I’ve just blasphemed.

She goes to one of the churches in town—not the cult one, thank God, but she’s bad enough. She’s one of those people who’s always slipping God or church or the Bible into the conversation. Like, How was your weekend, Kate? Oh, really good, thanks, went to a great service on Sunday—we learnt about prayer strategies. Or: Beaut day eh, Kate? Oh, yes, it’s lovely. God certainly has blessed us with the weather this week. She’s good in that she doesn’t pester you to come along to church all the time, but you know she’d be thrilled if you said you would. I’ve even considered it, just for the singing and the company, but the most judgemental people I’ve ever met were Christians and I’ve had my share of being judged.

“Do you mind if I put the radio on?” I say. “Only Coming Round the Mountain’s not my favourite tune.”

She shrugs. “I suppose.”

I switch the radio on and we cross over Deadman’s Point Bridge and turn towards Alexandra. The kids are quiet and it’s nice, you know, listening to the radio and looking out the window at the Clutha River, which on this stretch, up to the Clyde Dam, is less river and more lake. The sky is overcast and the water looks cold and grim and grey in the washed-out winter light. As we get nearer the dam, the steep slopes on the far side of the lake become criss-crossed with a network of dirt roads, made when the dam was constructed. They look like pale scars slashed against the hill rock.

“How’s Davy?” asks Kate, breaking my reverie.

“Who cares? He’s a jerk,” I say.

“Oh no, what’s he done?”

I grunt. “Okay, get this—right? It was my twenty-first birthday last week—”

“Really? Did you have a party?”

“Nah, it was just me and Davy and Hayley. My mate Julz back home said she’d organise one for me if I came up, but it’s just not that easy, is it? She hasn’t got a clue what it’s like to have a kid. None of my old mates do. Mum an’ Dad were gonna come down, but then Dad got called away for work an’ they couldn’t make it.”

“Oh, Tracy, you should have told me. I could have organised something.”

“Nah, it’s all good. I’d accepted the fact that I wasn’t goin’ to have the world’s most excitin’ twenty-first celebration. But I’m still pissed off at Davy cos the present he bought me was shit. Here I was, preparin’ my own birthday dinner since Davy was at work, an’ he comes home with a big box. No flowers or chocolates, just a box. It was gift wrapped, an’ there was a card attached, but I was already suspicious cos I was thinkin’, What on earth do I want that comes in a big box? ‘Open it, open it,’ he says, all excited, so I open it, an’ can you guess what it was?”

“No,” says Kate, shaking her head.

“A fuckin’ cake mixer! I wasn’t expectin’ diamond earrin’s or anythin’ like that, though that would’ve been nice, but for fuck’s sake, a cake mixer! I mean, it’s a nice cake mixer an’ all, but it was my twenty-first, not my fuckin’ fortieth! Most girls my age would be out ragin’ with their mates, but me, I’m stuck at home with my boyfriend an’ our kid—no friends, no family, changin’ shitty nappies an’ goin’ to bed at nine o’clock cos I’m so exhausted! I told him to go mix his own fuckin’ cakes.”

Kate laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tracy. That is a pretty awful twenty-first present. I guess he thought he was doing something nice for you.”

“I know, but what a dickhead.”

“Don’t be too hard on him. At least he cares.”

“Oh, I know he does. It’s just that sometimes he can be such a moron.”

“That’s men for you. I…” She stops, frowning, and then turns her head away. She’s a beautiful woman—sleek and blonde and elegant, with high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and luminous green eyes. Plus she’s got boobs and hips. She kinda reminds of a Barbie doll, only more Presbyterian. She looks straight ahead now, concentrating on driving, and I think to myself, Why am I here? Does she want to be friends? It’s a nice thought, I suppose, but we’re so different. I must look like her ugly, freckle-faced, flat-chested younger cousin.

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