Showing posts with label Seasons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seasons. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Mistletoe Kisses
Do you like Christmas stories? I love them, and this year I have a story in a Christmas anthology by The Word Wenches — the group of historical romance authors I regularly blog with — Mary Jo Putney, Jo Beverley, Patricia Rice, Joanna Bourne, Nicola Cornick, Cara Elliott and Susan King.
My story is called Mistletoe Kisses, and it's about Allie Fenton, a young woman who, for various reasons, has never been able to attend a ball. Now orphaned and on the shelf, she's planning to become a teacher at a girl's seminary in Bath. But first there's her last Christmas at home and then, Lady Holly's famous annual Christmas ball.
Here's a short excerpt:
"You'll come to my Christmas ball, then," Lady Holly told her. "Don't bother trying to think up any excuses — you're coming and that's that. Your year of mourning will be up, and you have no reason to stay here moldering away when I've gathered an excellent range of eligible gentlemen for your perusal."
Allie laughed. "For my perusal? As if I'm going shopping?"
"That's exactly what you'll be doing."
"Don't the gentlemen have any say in it?"
The old lady sniffed. "Women have been making men believe they have a choice for generations. Now don't be frivolous, Allie — I am determined to give you one last chance to find a husband before you go off and bury yourself in this, this school of yours." She pronounced 'school' as if she really meant 'zoo.'
Allie smiled. For all her caustic tone, Lady Holly had a very kind heart. "I would love to attend your ball, Lady Holly. . . "
The old lady frowned. "I hear a 'but' coming."
"Not really—I would truly love to dance and flirt and be madly frivolous, and your Christmas balls are legendary, and you know I've never been able to attend. But the only ball dresses I have were made for the eighteen-year-old me, and not the seven-and-twenty version. Alas" — Allie indicated her hips and bosom and grimaced — "I'm no longer the slender young thing I was."
Lady Holly snorted. "You were a scrawny young twig back then — no bosom or hips to speak of. Now you've a fine womanly figure. Besides, I've thought of that. Took the liberty of getting a dress made for you — left the box with Meadows. It should fit — got Mrs. Meadows to take your measurements from one of your current dresses."
Allie blinked in surprise. "You had a dress made for me? A ball dress?"
"Now don't get all stiff-necked on me, Allie Fenton," the old lady said in a fierce tone that didn't deceive Allie for an instant. "I was very fond of your dear mother and this is for her, as much as for you. She was so looking forward to your making your come-out and was devastated that her illness prevented it."
"I'm not being stiff-necked, truly I'm not. I'm just. . . surprised." There was a lump in Allie's throat. She was deeply touched by the old lady's brusque kindness. And thoughtfulness. A ball dress. . .
Lady Holly reached over and patted her hand. "Now don't look like that, my dear — I promised your mother I'd see you dancing in the arms of a handsome man, and though circumstances have prevented it in the past — and I quite see that it would have been the height of impropriety for you to go dancing when first your mother and then your father lay dying — there is nothing to prevent you now, and you will come to my ball!"
Allie smiled mistily. "Just like Cinderella. And you've even provided the gown."
SNIP . . . .
The parcel, tied with string and wrapped in brown paper, lay on her bed. She untied the string and under the wrapping paper found an elegant box with a stylish gold emblem on the front. She swallowed. This was no dress from the village seamstress — it was from Lady Holly's own London mantua maker.
She eased off the lid, parted the layers of protective tissue paper and gasped. Almost holding her breath, she drew the dress from its nest of tissue. It was beautiful.
The underdress was a light shimmering lilac shade that she just knew would go perfectly with both her recent mourning, and also her coloring. But the lovely silk underdress was quite cast in the shade by the delicate overdress in some kind of gauzy fabric through which the lilac silk shimmered. Embroidered here and there with tiny rosebuds in silver thread, it was finished with bands of delicately gathered silver lace around the hem and at the elbows of the puffed sleeves, and a line of silver embroidery around the neck.
In the box, hidden beneath the dress, was underwear — not the kind of underwear that Allie had ever in her life worn — delicate, lacy, flimsy, exquisite underwear — a chemise, a petticoat, the daintiest, most feminine drawers, and even a corset. All were trimmed with lace, and everything but the corset was practically transparent. Almost scandalous.
She remembered Lady Holly's comment that she had the figure of a woman now, not a girl. Allie had never really given it much thought. But now . . . these were certainly underclothes for a woman, not a girl. Smiling to herself, she put the lovely, naughty underclothes back in the box. She'd probably die a spinster, but she would treasure these forever.
She picked up the dress again, held it against her body and turned to gaze at her reflection in the looking glass. It was the most beautiful dress she'd ever owned. And it suited her perfectly. The lilac color complemented her pale complexion and her dark hair, and even seemed to make her very ordinary gray eyes look almost exotic. The silver thread gleamed and shimmered in the light. It was a dress made for dancing. . .
How many years since she'd danced? And never at a ball.
Delight bubbled up in her. After what felt like years wearing mourning black and gray, this dress felt like a breath of spring. And yet even the highest sticklers could not look askance at her — lavender and lilac were approved colors for half mourning.
But would it fit? She stripped off her old black gown and, holding her breath, she carefully slipped the ball gown over her head. And breathed. It was perfect. It was more than perfect.
She gazed at her reflection, gave a sudden laugh and twirled around and around, as if she were a giddy, carefree girl again.
She felt just like Cinderella. And she was going to the ball.
"You'll come to my Christmas ball, then," Lady Holly told her. "Don't bother trying to think up any excuses — you're coming and that's that. Your year of mourning will be up, and you have no reason to stay here moldering away when I've gathered an excellent range of eligible gentlemen for your perusal."
Allie laughed. "For my perusal? As if I'm going shopping?"
"That's exactly what you'll be doing."
"Don't the gentlemen have any say in it?"
The old lady sniffed. "Women have been making men believe they have a choice for generations. Now don't be frivolous, Allie — I am determined to give you one last chance to find a husband before you go off and bury yourself in this, this school of yours." She pronounced 'school' as if she really meant 'zoo.'
Allie smiled. For all her caustic tone, Lady Holly had a very kind heart. "I would love to attend your ball, Lady Holly. . . "
The old lady frowned. "I hear a 'but' coming."
"Not really—I would truly love to dance and flirt and be madly frivolous, and your Christmas balls are legendary, and you know I've never been able to attend. But the only ball dresses I have were made for the eighteen-year-old me, and not the seven-and-twenty version. Alas" — Allie indicated her hips and bosom and grimaced — "I'm no longer the slender young thing I was."
Lady Holly snorted. "You were a scrawny young twig back then — no bosom or hips to speak of. Now you've a fine womanly figure. Besides, I've thought of that. Took the liberty of getting a dress made for you — left the box with Meadows. It should fit — got Mrs. Meadows to take your measurements from one of your current dresses."
Allie blinked in surprise. "You had a dress made for me? A ball dress?"
"Now don't get all stiff-necked on me, Allie Fenton," the old lady said in a fierce tone that didn't deceive Allie for an instant. "I was very fond of your dear mother and this is for her, as much as for you. She was so looking forward to your making your come-out and was devastated that her illness prevented it."
"I'm not being stiff-necked, truly I'm not. I'm just. . . surprised." There was a lump in Allie's throat. She was deeply touched by the old lady's brusque kindness. And thoughtfulness. A ball dress. . .
Lady Holly reached over and patted her hand. "Now don't look like that, my dear — I promised your mother I'd see you dancing in the arms of a handsome man, and though circumstances have prevented it in the past — and I quite see that it would have been the height of impropriety for you to go dancing when first your mother and then your father lay dying — there is nothing to prevent you now, and you will come to my ball!"
Allie smiled mistily. "Just like Cinderella. And you've even provided the gown."
SNIP . . . .
The parcel, tied with string and wrapped in brown paper, lay on her bed. She untied the string and under the wrapping paper found an elegant box with a stylish gold emblem on the front. She swallowed. This was no dress from the village seamstress — it was from Lady Holly's own London mantua maker.
She eased off the lid, parted the layers of protective tissue paper and gasped. Almost holding her breath, she drew the dress from its nest of tissue. It was beautiful.
The underdress was a light shimmering lilac shade that she just knew would go perfectly with both her recent mourning, and also her coloring. But the lovely silk underdress was quite cast in the shade by the delicate overdress in some kind of gauzy fabric through which the lilac silk shimmered. Embroidered here and there with tiny rosebuds in silver thread, it was finished with bands of delicately gathered silver lace around the hem and at the elbows of the puffed sleeves, and a line of silver embroidery around the neck.
In the box, hidden beneath the dress, was underwear — not the kind of underwear that Allie had ever in her life worn — delicate, lacy, flimsy, exquisite underwear — a chemise, a petticoat, the daintiest, most feminine drawers, and even a corset. All were trimmed with lace, and everything but the corset was practically transparent. Almost scandalous.
She remembered Lady Holly's comment that she had the figure of a woman now, not a girl. Allie had never really given it much thought. But now . . . these were certainly underclothes for a woman, not a girl. Smiling to herself, she put the lovely, naughty underclothes back in the box. She'd probably die a spinster, but she would treasure these forever.
She picked up the dress again, held it against her body and turned to gaze at her reflection in the looking glass. It was the most beautiful dress she'd ever owned. And it suited her perfectly. The lilac color complemented her pale complexion and her dark hair, and even seemed to make her very ordinary gray eyes look almost exotic. The silver thread gleamed and shimmered in the light. It was a dress made for dancing. . .
How many years since she'd danced? And never at a ball.
Delight bubbled up in her. After what felt like years wearing mourning black and gray, this dress felt like a breath of spring. And yet even the highest sticklers could not look askance at her — lavender and lilac were approved colors for half mourning.
But would it fit? She stripped off her old black gown and, holding her breath, she carefully slipped the ball gown over her head. And breathed. It was perfect. It was more than perfect.
She gazed at her reflection, gave a sudden laugh and twirled around and around, as if she were a giddy, carefree girl again.
She felt just like Cinderella. And she was going to the ball.
cccccccccccccc
The LAST CHANCE CHRISTMAS BALL comes out on 29th September 2015.
Buy it from your favorite bookshop, or try one of these links:
Buy it from your favorite bookshop, or try one of these links:
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Friday, May 16, 2014
Making yoghurt
When I was a kid, my friend Fay lived with her grandmother during the school week. Grandma was Macedonian and spoke little English, and our conversations revolved mainly around cooking and eating. She was a brilliant cook and showed me some recipes and methods that I still use to this day. One of the things she made was yoghurt. She nearly always had a large glass jug of it in the fridge, home-made and different from the commercial variety we used to get in the shops. And yummy.
The very first time I tried to make yoghurt was with Fay and some school friends when we were staying in a caravan on holiday. We were about fifteen or sixteen, and of course Fay knew what to do. We heated milk until it just started to bubble around the edges, then took it off the heat until it cooled to "blood temperature" — we stuck a finger in and guessed. Then we stirred in half a cup of commercial yoghurt, put the lid on the big glass jar we were using, wrapped it in a sleeping bag and put it in the cupboard. To our delight, the next morning it was yoghurt, almost as good as Grandma made —yoghurt like this.
Recently I had a yen for some of the yoghurt that Grandma used to make. I haven't had it for years — these days you can get good plain yoghurt in the supermarket, and it's delicious. But I enjoy making things from scratch sometimes, and so I decided to make my own.
To cut a long story short, and as you can see from the picture above, it worked beautifully. And then, of course I had to play with it, didn't I? First I decided to turn some of it into "Greek" yoghurt -- a process that basically involves draining some of the whey from the ordinary yogurt. You can see the difference it makes here.
I used a brand new chux superwipe, which I sterilized by pouring boiling water over it, then lined a wire drainer, tipped in the yoghurt. and left it for a few hours. (I developed this technique when I made cottage cheese with the same method, only using rennet from junket tablets instead of yoghurt. I believe in using what I have to hand, rather than getting in special equipment.)
Then I decided to make some lebne --a thick kind of cheesy substance (Lebanese, I think) that's basically yoghurt left to drain even further. The same process again. And here's the result -- left to drain an afternoon and overnight -- you can see how much firmer it is from the imprint of the cloth on it.
The very first time I tried to make yoghurt was with Fay and some school friends when we were staying in a caravan on holiday. We were about fifteen or sixteen, and of course Fay knew what to do. We heated milk until it just started to bubble around the edges, then took it off the heat until it cooled to "blood temperature" — we stuck a finger in and guessed. Then we stirred in half a cup of commercial yoghurt, put the lid on the big glass jar we were using, wrapped it in a sleeping bag and put it in the cupboard. To our delight, the next morning it was yoghurt, almost as good as Grandma made —yoghurt like this.
Recently I had a yen for some of the yoghurt that Grandma used to make. I haven't had it for years — these days you can get good plain yoghurt in the supermarket, and it's delicious. But I enjoy making things from scratch sometimes, and so I decided to make my own.
To cut a long story short, and as you can see from the picture above, it worked beautifully. And then, of course I had to play with it, didn't I? First I decided to turn some of it into "Greek" yoghurt -- a process that basically involves draining some of the whey from the ordinary yogurt. You can see the difference it makes here.
I used a brand new chux superwipe, which I sterilized by pouring boiling water over it, then lined a wire drainer, tipped in the yoghurt. and left it for a few hours. (I developed this technique when I made cottage cheese with the same method, only using rennet from junket tablets instead of yoghurt. I believe in using what I have to hand, rather than getting in special equipment.)
Then I decided to make some lebne --a thick kind of cheesy substance (Lebanese, I think) that's basically yoghurt left to drain even further. The same process again. And here's the result -- left to drain an afternoon and overnight -- you can see how much firmer it is from the imprint of the cloth on it.
So that's it, my little trip down memory lane. I'd forgotten how easy it was, and how delicious the result is. I'll be making yoghurt and lebne much more often, now I've reminded myself. Fay's away with her husband, gadding about Queensland on holiday, but when she comes back, I might have to take her some of "Grandma's yoghurt," which is what it will always be to me, even if it's not in a tall glass jug covered with a cloth.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Mandarin season
It's mandarin season here, and as usual, I can't get enough of them.
Years ago when I was traveling (backpacking) I arrived on the tiny Greek island of Lesvos at the start of mandarin season and I must have been deprived of vitamin C or something, because the whole time I was on that island, I ate mandarins by the bagful.
Now whenever I buy myself a bag, I smile as I remember those happy days in Greece.
Years ago when I was traveling (backpacking) I arrived on the tiny Greek island of Lesvos at the start of mandarin season and I must have been deprived of vitamin C or something, because the whole time I was on that island, I ate mandarins by the bagful.
They were sweet and tangy and almost entirely seedless. It was the first time I'd come across seedless mandarins, and I was hooked. I ate mandarins for breakfast and lunch and only at dinner time did I have a normal meal.
Now whenever I buy myself a bag, I smile as I remember those happy days in Greece.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Dried Fig Jam Experiment
I used to make fig jam every year, until my friends with fig trees sold up and moved — people can be so thoughtless. :)
I don't eat a lot of jam, but when the weather starts to get cold, I do like to have some tasty jam for the occasional piece of toast. And lately I've really been missing my favorite fig, lemon and ginger jam, so when I saw dried figs on sale, I bought some and am now making up the recipe... and hoping it works. Dried figs, oranges, lemons and grated ginger.
I don't eat a lot of jam, but when the weather starts to get cold, I do like to have some tasty jam for the occasional piece of toast. And lately I've really been missing my favorite fig, lemon and ginger jam, so when I saw dried figs on sale, I bought some and am now making up the recipe... and hoping it works. Dried figs, oranges, lemons and grated ginger.
So, the ingredients: (sorry, the quantities are vague because I'm making it up)
2 packets of dried figs (2 x 375g) finely chopped.
Zest and juice of a couple of lemons, also finely chopped.
Flesh of a couple more oranges (because I had them and I figured more citrus wouldn't hurt.)
a grated knob of ginger
Sugar.
1) Mix chopped figs, zest of lemons and ginger, and pour over sufficient boiling water to not quite cover.
2) Leave overnight. (As it happened I was a bit busy, so it sat in the fridge for several nights. The idea was to let the dried figs absorb the water.)
3) If mix is dry, add a bit more boiling water. The next day it shouldn't have any visible liquid, just moist mush of figs.
4) Measure fig mix, and add not quite the same quantity of sugar. (I like it not too sweet)
5) Cook for 45 minutes, stirring regularly.
6) Test to see if it gels on a cold saucer, as jam should. My plan was: —
a) If it sets in a jammy way, cheer and bottle as usual.
b) If it doesn't, add more lemon juice and hope.
c) If it's still not setting try adding commercial pectin. (I was really hoping I wouldn't have to do this, because it would involve a trip to the supermarket.)
d) Otherwise, treat it as yummy syrup for ice cream, bottle and give to friends who eat lots of ice cream.
As it happened, version a) was the one that happened. Yay. That's my jam up the top. My mix made 7 medium jars and a bit left over. And here's how I plan to test it.
Do you make jam or is it too much mess and bother? What's your favorite jam?
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The Valentine's Grinch
I'm a Valentine's grinch. We didn't celebrate Valentine's Day when I was growing up -- it was a custom I read about in old books — maybe Anne of Green Gables — I think it mentioned Valentines, didn't it? Nobody I knew gave or received Valentines. It's a relatively recent thing here in Australia, and getting bigger every year, and we grinchly types see it as something wished on us by US TV shows and cynical commercial forces who try to guilt people into spending money...
I don't like obligatory demonstrations of love. I think they should come naturally, spontaneously and unexpectedly, and not according to the calendar. I subscribe to the "Love Actually" theory of love — that it's everywhere at all times, in different forms, and I'll celebrate it whenever I come across it.
Red roses are beautiful, but the beautiful red roses that proliferate on Valentine's Day usually have no scent, and to me, that's symbolic. A rose without scent is worse than no rose at all. Give me a blowsy, tattered, bug-nibbled rose that smells glorious instead of a pristine, tightly furled perfect scentless rose any day. One is real, the other is all for show.
That said, if you're feeling truly romantic this Valentine's day — go for it. Just don't do the romantic thing because you feel it's expected of you. Genuine or nothing.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Christmas Fun
I love it when people go to that extra little bit of trouble to make Christmas special and fun.
This is what someone in my neighborhood did.
Brilliant, isn't it? It looks so lifelike, the first time I saw it I got quite a start. From any angle it looks completely real.
This is what someone in my neighborhood did.
People keep stopping to take photos and they often lift back the wig to check what's beneath.
I love that someone's taken the trouble to make such a fun and clever display to give us all a laugh at Christmas. They've gone to a lot of trouble, too — you can't really see it but the writing on the car door says "R&N Reindeer". The car is an old "ute" (utility truck) — a bit of a classic car in Australia.
(Following up a comment from Theo, I looked up the history of the ute, and turns out it's a fascinating one — and came from a request from an Australian woman farmer in the 1930's to the Ford Australia factory in Geelong to give her a car she could use to drive to church in, as well as take the pigs to market. The story is here.)
I also love that in the couple of weeks or so that it's been here, on a fairly busy street, nobody has damaged it or interfered with it.
Thank you neighbors.
All the best for Christmas and the holidays. Peace on earth.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
A day out
Yesterday I drove a visiting writer friend down to Queenscliff, on the beach, where she was going to do a week of intensive work on a joint project with another writer friend. It was a glorious Spring day — clear and sunny with a balmy breeze — a gift after a patch of cold, rainy, miserable weather.
My original plan was to take my friend there, have lunch with them and then go back home, where I had a mound of work waiting for me, but it was so beautiful I allowed myself to be talked into a walk. A long walk. And then dinner.
We walked around the salt water inlet — Swan Bay and saw pelicans, black swans, seagulls and oystercatchers
There's a group of steam engine enthusiasts who, on certain days, run a little engine from Queenscliff to Drysdale — it's a Thomas the Tank Engine choo-choo train, with the face on the front, and there's even a Fat Controller, who looked wonderful in his top hat and formal coat.
Once inside the bay, the beach was strewn with seaweed of all kinds, including an amazing variety of pink seaweed. I gathered some of the pink ones up but I haven't sorted them out yet for a photo. But here's one little clump.
My original plan was to take my friend there, have lunch with them and then go back home, where I had a mound of work waiting for me, but it was so beautiful I allowed myself to be talked into a walk. A long walk. And then dinner.
We walked around the salt water inlet — Swan Bay and saw pelicans, black swans, seagulls and oystercatchers
I didn't take a photo of the front, with Thomas's face, and I missed the Fat Controller, but here's the little train choofing past us, with a bunch of happy kids on board.
We took the dog, too.
After Swan Bay we cut across (Queenscliff is a kind of small promontory) and got our first glimpse of the ocean.
On the way we saw a beautiful Eastern Rosella sitting in a bottle brush tree. Isn't he a handsome fellow?
We wandered back along the ocean beach, picking up shells and the occasional bit of sea-glass (for my jewellery) and admiring the contents of the rock-pools. Here are baby mussels growing in colonies around the edge of a rock pool — they're only visible for a few hours of the day.
It was so refreshing and cleansing to be on the beach in the sun.
We rounded the point, one of the heads of Port Phillip Bay, where there is an old fort built on top of and into the rocky outcrop. I loved the sea-worn rocks.
And the seaweed didn't stop this little girl from creating a fabulous sand castle.
It was only an afternoon, really, but when I drove home last night I felt as though I'd had a little holiday.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Persimmon Tree
I dropped over to a friend of mine's house yesterday, and remembered to take a photo of one of my favorite trees ever — the persimmon tree in her back garden. This is the view from her lounge room — gorgeous, isn't it?
It's beautiful all year round — even bare of leaves, the tree has such a glorious shape.
It's also amazingly prolific and bears hundreds of gorgeous orange fruits. I love persimmons—well, I did once I learned how to eat them. These ones are the kind you need to leave to ripen until they're very soft and the skin looks transparent and ready to split— you'd think they were almost rotten, but instead, they're soft and utterly delicious. My favorite way to eat them is just to scrape the pulp out and drizzle it over vanilla ice-cream. Bliss.
It's beautiful all year round — even bare of leaves, the tree has such a glorious shape.
It's also amazingly prolific and bears hundreds of gorgeous orange fruits. I love persimmons—well, I did once I learned how to eat them. These ones are the kind you need to leave to ripen until they're very soft and the skin looks transparent and ready to split— you'd think they were almost rotten, but instead, they're soft and utterly delicious. My favorite way to eat them is just to scrape the pulp out and drizzle it over vanilla ice-cream. Bliss.
Some years ago I tasted a black sapote — an almost chocolate-tasting persimmon, grown in the tropics. My friend Barbara Hannay introduced me to them some years ago, first as black sapote ice-cream — deeeelish!—and then as just the fruit, and I was hooked. I keep wondering whether I could grow one down here in our cold/temperate climate. I figure if orange persimmons can grow and fruit here, why not black ones? One can only try.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A year ago. . .
I was in the USA for the 4th July. I was staying with friends in Dubuque, Iowa. Dubuque is a city built on the shores of the Mississippi and there's a high bluff that overlooks the valley. We were invited to view the 4th July fireworks from the Hancock House, a house built on that bluff — a perfect vantage point.
I adore fireworks, so I was keen to go and watch, but in the event, the fireworks — which were fabulous — were overshadowed by the beautiful house. I'll let the photos do the talking. That's the house, below.
I adore fireworks, so I was keen to go and watch, but in the event, the fireworks — which were fabulous — were overshadowed by the beautiful house. I'll let the photos do the talking. That's the house, below.
It's a guest house, so you can stay in this gorgeous red bedroom.
Sunset from one of the bay windows.
Another of the fabulous windows — one of the things I loved about this house was the beautifully carved woodwork throughout, like the screen that framed this window alcove.
Another screen framing the entrance to the dining room.
This staircase was magnificent, as was the statue set atop it..
And I practically drooled over this exquisitely carved fireplace surround and mantel.
The fireworks were stunning, but my camera wasn't up to any photos, even if I wasn't too busy oohing and aahing. But I managed to taste some of the delicious supper afterward.
It was a wonderful night and though I was a stranger, I felt very welcomed there. And as I type this, I'm smiling at the memories. Thank you, Dubuque. Happy 4th July.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Glorious Autumn Color
Autumn has come creeping into my garden... Virginia Creeper, a bright scarlet splash against the honeysuckle vine.
And enlivening the old fence with its glory.
What brightens your day at this time of year?
Friday, March 2, 2012
Winter Writing Workshops, Trinity College, Melbourne Uni
That first year I met Sharon Peers who runs it, and also a lecturer at Melb Uni, Bryony Cosgrave and we got talking about putting together a writing workshop for popular fiction.
I'm glad to say it's become a reality. The workshops will take place over the weekend of June 15-17, 2012, starting with a Friday evening session, and then all day Saturday and Sunday.
We've lined up some wonderful authors — crime writer, Shane Maloney, and fantasy, YA, children's writer and historical novelist Kate Forsyth. And of course, I'm taking some sessions, too. I think it's going to be a wonderful weekend.
If you've ever wanted to get started on a novel, or just hone your writing skills, all in the gorgeous surroundings of Melbourne University, this is your opportunity.
I've put together a website with the basic information — the details are on a downloadable pdf file.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Screenwriting at Trinity College, Melbourne
Last week I did a number of screenwriting workshops at Trinity College, at Melbourne University. It was part of the excellent Summer Film School that's been running here each summer for the last 17 years. I did some of the writing sessions last year and liked them so much I came back for more.
It's not that I'm planning to become a screenwriter or anything, just that I like doing different kinds of craft-of-writing courses occasionally. It refreshes my writing. And since it's not far from my home, and in my old stamping ground, it's a pleasure to revisit the area.
The pic below is of Royal Parade, which becomes Sydney Rd. I used to catch the tram from this street to and from high school, which is over the road from Melbourne University. So I got a wee bit nostalgic standing under these beautiful trees.
And inside the Junior Common Room it was beautifully cool and air-conditioned and we sat in lovely squishy leather seats and couches. Here is some of the class in the afternoon break. This was writing for children's TV.
It's not that I'm planning to become a screenwriter or anything, just that I like doing different kinds of craft-of-writing courses occasionally. It refreshes my writing. And since it's not far from my home, and in my old stamping ground, it's a pleasure to revisit the area.
The pic below is of Royal Parade, which becomes Sydney Rd. I used to catch the tram from this street to and from high school, which is over the road from Melbourne University. So I got a wee bit nostalgic standing under these beautiful trees.
This is Trinity and the wonderful ancient oak tree in the courtyard.
The weather was roasting, but under these shaded colonnades it was cool and peaceful.
And inside the Junior Common Room it was beautifully cool and air-conditioned and we sat in lovely squishy leather seats and couches. Here is some of the class in the afternoon break. This was writing for children's TV.
I also studied writing for short films with Chris Corbett which was excellent. He talks a lot about the architecture of a script, which I find a very interesting concept. I really like his way of analysing/structuring a script. I did a one day course with him last year on writing for TV and found it eye-opening.
It seems to me that screen writers' process is quite different from novel writers. Every screen writer I've heard speak pretty much plots the events of the story in detail first — the last part of the script they write is the dialogue.
For me, and for many of the novelists I know, writing the dialogue is when your characters truly come alive. I can write a really solid plot in advance and plan out characters in detail, knowing all about them and their backstory and their motivation, but as soon as the characters come to life on the page (ie speak), they'll reveal themselves as someone a little bit different and take the story in a different direction. And if I try to stick to the characters I planned, they'll be wooden or lacklustre and unconvincing. Maybe that's because in a novel you have to bring the characters to life on the page, whereas screen writers must rely on actors to bring the characters to life on the screen.
I'm not sure, but it's got me thinking.
One of the short movies we studied was this Oscar nominated Irish movie called CRUSH. If you have 15 minutes to spare, watch it — it's sweet and clever and wonderful.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Paper earrings for Christmas
A friend sent me a link to a photo of some folded paper Christmas trees, and they seemed pretty simple so with a little experimentation, I worked out how to make them, and with some cut out red ads from a catalogue I made some little ones, just to see if they worked and they did.
It's very easy -- just a circle folded in half then folded back and forth. But light and fun.
It's very easy -- just a circle folded in half then folded back and forth. But light and fun.
Then I found some double sided colored paper, so of course I had to try it with that, too. I snipped a shred away from the top layer of each fold to show the color beneath, and attached earring wires.
Then I made the ones below with a music print and I tried slipping in a slightly larger red semicircle between the fold, and that worked a treat, I think.
They'd look lovely, I think, hanging in a line on a string but here they are just as small ornaments to hang.
And someone just sent me this link, so I can also send you to a pattern.
She's used semicircles for her cards, but I used circles folded in half — it makes for a more dimensional earring or hanging ornament, I think.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My favourite Easter picture book
I made some paper earrings for a friend the other day and the colours reminded me of my favourite easter picture book when I was a kid, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes. It was my mother's book, and I have it still.
The story is very sweet, and with a nice moral to it — mother rabbit, despite having 21 kids and living in the backblocks of the country, still gets plum job over noisy show-off buckrabbit boys and frightful snobby city rabbits. Basically by using her kids as slave labour.
The story is about being selected to wear the magic gold shoes and being one of the five Easter Bunnies who deliver the eggs to the children of the world. It's a huge honour, of course, and everyone wants it. But when the country bunny Cottontail says that one day she will be an Easter Bunny, the others laugh at her.
So fast forward and our Cottontail is a mother of 21 little rabbits, but she applies for the job and again she's laughed at for dreaming foolish dreams. Even the wise old rabbit who does the choosing asks her gently if she shouldn't be home looking after her kids. But our girl has the kids well trained. Working in pairs they do everything that needs to be done, from cooking and cleaning to dancing, making music and painting cheery pictures.
The illustrations are lovely, aren't they? They're simple but quite detailed and with a limited palette of colours, and quite unusual colours, at that.
For me then and now, they're entrancing, but more than that, the story is quite touching.
The job of being the easter bunny is hard and exhausting and little Cottontail doesn't have an easy time of it. After all her deliveries are done, there's still one more job for her — to take an especially beautiful egg to a far-distant mountain where there is a sick little boy, who is very good and never complains. She travels far, over high mountains, and is climbing the last, highest mountain when she falls... but saves the egg. But it's almost dawn. How can she ever find the energy to climb the mountain again, in time.
Then the wise old rabbit appears and tells her she's not only wise and kind and swift, but she's brave. And he gives her a pair of magic gold shoes. And suddenly her aching feet are no longer tired... and she takes the beautiful egg to the sick little boy and is soon home... where her house is in perfect order, and all her kids are still asleep in bed.
It's a gorgeous book, and even though it's older than me, it's still in print, which goes to show that I'm not the only person who loves this story.
Happy Easter. Do you have any favorite Easter stories?
The story is very sweet, and with a nice moral to it — mother rabbit, despite having 21 kids and living in the backblocks of the country, still gets plum job over noisy show-off buckrabbit boys and frightful snobby city rabbits. Basically by using her kids as slave labour.
The story is about being selected to wear the magic gold shoes and being one of the five Easter Bunnies who deliver the eggs to the children of the world. It's a huge honour, of course, and everyone wants it. But when the country bunny Cottontail says that one day she will be an Easter Bunny, the others laugh at her.
So fast forward and our Cottontail is a mother of 21 little rabbits, but she applies for the job and again she's laughed at for dreaming foolish dreams. Even the wise old rabbit who does the choosing asks her gently if she shouldn't be home looking after her kids. But our girl has the kids well trained. Working in pairs they do everything that needs to be done, from cooking and cleaning to dancing, making music and painting cheery pictures.
The illustrations are lovely, aren't they? They're simple but quite detailed and with a limited palette of colours, and quite unusual colours, at that.
The job of being the easter bunny is hard and exhausting and little Cottontail doesn't have an easy time of it. After all her deliveries are done, there's still one more job for her — to take an especially beautiful egg to a far-distant mountain where there is a sick little boy, who is very good and never complains. She travels far, over high mountains, and is climbing the last, highest mountain when she falls... but saves the egg. But it's almost dawn. How can she ever find the energy to climb the mountain again, in time.
Then the wise old rabbit appears and tells her she's not only wise and kind and swift, but she's brave. And he gives her a pair of magic gold shoes. And suddenly her aching feet are no longer tired... and she takes the beautiful egg to the sick little boy and is soon home... where her house is in perfect order, and all her kids are still asleep in bed.
Happy Easter. Do you have any favorite Easter stories?
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