A few of the stories behind the story - of River Song

 At last I’ve finished my seventh major book, River Song.  Phew! – but now I miss my friends, the characters I lived with for so long. Shy but kind-hearted Claire, who tells the tale. I miss Vivien with her light-hearted fun and creativity. And the guys who keep them guessing for so long.

Needless to say, for those who know me, I miss Kenilworth. Its beauty and peace. River Song is set partly in Vivien’s family home, Riverside, which is inspired by Kenilworth Homestead, where I spent many very happy years and made friends for life.

The property was then owned by the Rowe family – Jim the gentleman farmer who loved and understood the property in all its moods, his kind effervescent wife Jennifer, their daughter Elvira with her friendly chats and talented son Justyn, whose antics made me laugh at a time I needed laughter.

Embedded in my mind are images of Kenilworth – its blueish hills crouching on the horizon, the river gleaming white like pale silk at dusk, the orange and scarlet blaze of the setting sun through the network of the crepe myrtle in winter … I could describe it all forever.

 

 

 Perhaps this is why I chose it to inspire Riverside – as an excuse to think about a place I love, indelibly imprinted on my mind.

In River Song, Claire and Vivien retreat to Riverside to relax and see Viv’s family during their years of university and teaching. In the hubbub of the swinging sixties, it’s a much-needed refuge.

Claire loves to sit by the river and listen to its gurgling and whispering song. Here she receives enlightenment much needed in their turbulent lifestyle where everything is upending and sliding out of place.

Perhaps it’s the peaceful atmosphere that enables her to gain insights – or could it be God, even before she believes in Him?

I went to the same university as my protagonists in those exact-same years so I had plenty of material to call upon. Sizzling sixties where ‘anything goes’, flower power, wild parties – and so much more. But the girls have to find their way through the turbulence to forge their futures. Not without frightening setbacks.

So the novel’s finished. I expect it to be published next year.

I hope you enjoy it. Do let me know. Even a very brief review when it’s published would be a great help and encouragement. If it’s not to your taste, you could just let me know you read it!

 

 

 

SMALL BEGINNINGS

Just thinking . . .

 

                   about when we were kids in a more or less techno-free world and we played wonderful, imaginative games. Do you think the games children play are indicative of their long term vocations?

 

A lot of children do have favourite games that are early expressions of their adult careers. For example, children who love playing doctors and nurses with their dolls may well become doctors or nurses. Kids who line up their siblings and play schools may become teachers. And so on.

 

My sister Arlene loved making mud pies under our big old Queenslander. 

We were just a couple of kids making mud pies but Under the House was a cool, magic world where the sun slanted between the battens and spread golden stripes onto the sweet-smelling moist black earth. It was quiet, with just the twitter of birds outside in the garden and the occasional strident burst of cicadas shrilling. We would mould the dirt into elaborate cakes and pies, usually decorated with flowers and leaves. Arlene created magnificent decorations with those flowers. 

I would soon tire of playing with mud and go upstairs, wash my hands and read or write a poem. I’d sit on the end of the veranda on the weathered boards and gaze into the glossy leaves of the huge old magnolia tree until ideas crystallised. 

I sent my poems to the children’s page of the Telegraph and was incredibly excited when they were published and I was paid, I think it was five shillings per poem. That was a lot of money in those days, when you could buy an ice cream for a few pennies (about the equivalent of a few cents.)

When I ‘grew up’, I continued to write and graduated to films, then books and other bits and pieces. 

My sister never tired of playing with mud or flowers. She extended her talents to create an intricate system of dams and waterways with the always-running hose (in those pre-water-restriction days) displaying the effectiveness of her engineering..

One day Arlene was happily playing when our usually gentle mother yelled, “Arlene, turn that hose off and come here!” Mum was shaking with anger and horror. “Arlene, you’ll have to STOP running the hose under the house,” she said, eyes dilated with disbelief. “The stump under the front door has SUNK and the door won’t close! We’ll have to PAY to have it fixed.” So that was the end of the waterways. 

Arlene with her mud pie experience grew up to become a potter whose beautiful bowls and vases decorate many of our friends’ houses. Her flowers evolved into her becoming a wedding florist. She did not become an engineer but passed that baton to her son who is a mechanical engineer.

 

One of our joint favourite games was dressing our cardboard dolls (changing their clothes as many times as possible) and taking them into make-believe situations. We would dress them for an occasion and, with accompanying facial expressions and voices, I’d narrate their adventures. Arlene was so fascinated by the dolls and their exploits that she flatly refused to go to sleep at night until I’d told her the next instalment of their lives. 

When I grew up, I continued to put on accents and pull faces. I became a speech and drama teacher! (We writers usually need to do another job as well!) With my love of literature, acting and young people, it never ceased to amaze me I was being paid to do something I enjoyed so much. 

 

So . . . what was your favourite game? Has it developed into your adult career or have new paths opened for you? I’d love to hear.

REMEMBERING MOMENTS THAT WERE FUNNY, WEIRD, EMBARRASSING OR OUTRIGHT DISASTROUS . . .as I interviewed people who featured in biographies I wrote

I loved writing biographies. Not long, dry, pack-in-every-word-he-ever-said biographies, but shorter ones, a bit like novels except they were illustrations that truth really is stranger than fiction.

Some of you may have read Jodie’s Story, which is actually a biographical novel as I have improvised all the dialogue, some of the settings and other details. But this book opened the door for publishers to ask me to write wonderful testimony-type biographies and to fly me to the cities where they were set.

Through interviewing people who featured in these stories, I met talented, even quite famous people I would never otherwise have met. I had a lot of fun. I also had some hilarious experiences and some weird ones.

 

NOTE: For obvious reasons, I will use different names and venues in this article. I had permission to interview and write about everyone mentioned but this is, well, that famous underside of the tapestry.

  

I muse on those days. Colourful times. I remember interviewing Dr Roberts. I was nervous. He was famous in his field. A brilliant top level medical professional. And I was just a shy young writer, using his valuable time.

I dressed in my most professional-looking outfit. Clambering out of the taxi outside his rooms, I tidied my ever-unruly hair. My heart was galloping. God, help me to be cool, calm and collected. Don’t let me make a fool of myself, I prayed.

As I stepped into the building, I slipped my professional mask into place. (Perhaps my acting talent, as well as my prayers, came in handy.)

I forced myself to relax as I waited in the foyer.

A middle-aged, expensively dressed man appeared and greeted me in cultured tones. English, perhaps, I thought.

He was charming and funny as he chatted to put me at my ease. A young girl brought us Styrofoam cups of coffee.

“Well,” he looked at me inquiringly. “You’re wanting to know about one of my former patients? James?”

James had had trouble relating to other people. His problems had been trashing his life. I asked a few questions and then, “So he said all the wrong things?”

Dr Roberts chose his words carefully. “Not wrong. Just . . . inappropriate. He said things inappropriate to the situation.”

At that exact moment I noticed Dr Roberts’ Styrofoam cup was leaking. It was dripping onto his very expensive-looking tie, drop by drop wetting it. I peered carefully to be sure it was the cup that was the source of the dripping. It was.

Dismay gripped me. Would it be an inappropriate thing – like James – to comment on it in the middle of an interview? Would it be rude? I watched in dismay while he talked and sipped – and dripped.

Perhaps I should ignore it. It would be rude.

Drip, drip, drip.

That lovely tie was being ruined.

Suddenly I couldn’t bear it. “Excuse me, but your cup’s leaking onto your tie!” I blurted.

He froze. A tense silence filled the room. He became very, very professional and clinical. “Perhaps it’s my mouth that’s leaking,” he said in chilly, sarcastic tones.

“No, really, it’s your cup!” I protested, sure of my ground now. “It’s ruining your tie!”

Reluctantly he scrutinised his cup. He was surprised (and no doubt relieved) to see a small hole in it.

“Well!” he exclaimed, suddenly jovial again “So it is.” He called the girl, who replaced the cup.

The rest of the interview went well but the things that stand out in my memory are the elegant doctor, his new tie, and that cup of coffee going drip, drip, drip. And my own mixture of dismay and near-explosion of giggles. 

Soon after, I interviewed a teacher who told me about their school’s resident ghost. “None of us wants to be the last one to leave,” she told me. “The ghost turns off lights, fiddles with the heating, even plays the piano!” I decided to wait and see before drawing any conclusions..

The next day a teacher from another school told me about their school’s ghost! I began to pray about my current interviews, wondering what it was all about. I was glad of my security as a Christian!

The next interview was with a nurse in a quaint, antique flat. She served me a cup of tea and began to answer my questions. Then she interrupted and asked, “Can you notice anything about the atmosphere here?”

 

I knew what was coming. I shook my head and assured her I could not. “We’ve got a ghost here,” she told me. “It must like you or it would have smashed a glass or something.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It usually does. But I enjoy its company. It likes me.”

I brought that interview to quite a rapid close – not because I was scared but I couldn’t ‘go there’. I had my own views, as a Christian, on what might or might not be behind it, but this was not the time. . . Besides, it was getting chilly.

 

My most disastrous one, unless I’ve deleted something from my memory, was interviewing a girl we’ll call Kelly. I had to catch two buses to that interview. Kelly spent two or three hours answering my questions and pouring out her feelings about her situation. Diligently I recorded it all and wrote copious notes. The next day, soon after I had begun to type the article about her, I received a phone call. “Sorry. Do you mind not using any material you have about Kelly? She found that interview traumatic and was so upset after it that she rang us and asked if we could cancel it.”

I looked at my notes, and my audio tapes. The scary thing was: I hadn’t picked it. I’d seen other interviewees weep (and I’d even wept with them) but they’d been happy with the result. After years of being told I was a good interviewer, I felt FAILED, REJECTED.  I suppose Kelly simply was not ready to ‘go public’ about her life.

 

There were many other strange interviews, many very normal ones and a lot of fun. It was a wonderful, enriching time for me.

 

 

 

 

Kenilworth and Seasons

A few days ago we had one of those magic winter mornings, the beginning of a perfect Queensland winter’s day. The sun shone from a cloudless sky and the air was still and sparkling.  As I hung out the washing, enjoying the excuse to be out of doors, I was reminded of Kenilworth in winter.

On a day like this one, I’d often walk along the Obi Obi Road, basking in the sunshine, feasting my eyes on the patchwork of green and brown paddocks, breathing deeply the clear, cool air.

I remember one day the air was so still I stood for a while in one spot, all but holding my breath so I wouldn’t break the stillness and silence. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath. Then a tiny rustle and twitter in the grasses beside the road. As quietly as I could, I peered into the grass.  A minute finch, red-breasted, hopped about in the winter-brown long stalks of grass. 

When I returned to the Homestead, I sat on the slope and gazed at the river. Its high mud banks on the other side were carved and sculpted into smooth curves and shapes. I thought about how peaceful the banks looked now, and how the wonderfully twisted shapes had been formed by the violence of the river in flood. That small silver thread of water below me, in wet seasons, swelled into a turbulent brown mass of water, surging and swirling along, gouging chunks out of the banks. 

“The river took part of the paddock across the way and dumped the silt onto our bottom paddock,” Jim told me. I remembered the eerie brown moonscape after the flood. That bend in the river never did look the same.

 

Times of change. Nature has seasons. So do our lives, many of our seasons ordained, I believe, by God. 

I’m thankful for seasons of peace and fruitfulness behind me and ahead as waves of change lap around me and buffet me. 

I think again of the breathless stillness and beauty of the Obi Obi Valley. 

“Be still and know that I am God. “ (Ps 46 :10) whispers through the silence.

COMING SOON. . .

One of the many types of writing I do is rewriting/editing. The past few months I have been doing this for Vivien Wilson.

Vivien is a tough, courageous, generous-hearted lady who, before this, worked for World Vision in Africa amid war, famine and disaster, including the Rwanda genocide. In Rwanda she worked amid piles of rotting, fetid corpses. Her initial book, A Full Life, which I also helped rearrange and edit, covered the African adventures.

Her latest book, soon to be published, Called to the Centre, details her founding of Teen Challenge Centralia. As with the first book, I have found it a faith-builder, an inspiration and some plain hard work.

The biggest challenge for me is to retain Vivien’s voice, yet edit out any actual mistakes. I’ve left in the jargon, the slang, and tried to keep her ‘turn of phrase’ while hopefully bringing it to publication standard.

Called to the Centre sparkles with miracles. You’ll wonder why you haven’t heard of some of the healings, even the returnings from death.

It could be a daunting scene. Imagine the dramatic beauty of the brilliant blue skies and the red rocky outcrops, the lavender ranges curling in the distance. But here and there, in Alice Springs or the Aboriginal communities in the area, are petrol sniffers, glue sniffers, drinkers, sniffing or drinking themselves towards premature death. Some are in wheelchairs from the side effects of what they inhale or drink. Some give up and hang themselves.

Amid this depressing situation a handful of workers, some Christians (including Vivien), take practical help and words of life to the hurting. This extends to anyone who crosses her path or who knocks at her door at all hours of the day and night. She is confronted with situations beyond her medical expertise (she is a nurse with experience in many countries) but “I did what I always do and prayed for them,” she says. And they are often healed.  In the midst of all these miracles (often the result of Vivien’s prayers), are never ending deaths, suicides, frustrations. But Vivien has carried on, battling discouragement, resisting tempting offers of exciting work overseas, never giving up. Her love for these people shines through.

She has every reason to face discouragement. One of the people given up for dead was taken off life support. To everyone’s surprise, he was soon healed, not dead! “You’d think it would have caused a revival,” Vivien says, “but it didn’t. Even in Jesus’ time, many were healed and some followed Him but many walked away.” 

I found quite moving Vivien’s love for the needy, her perseverance against all odds, her unquenchable faith. 

I expect this book will be out within a few months.

Who will like it?  Anyone who enjoyed her first book, A Full Life. Anyone interested in the Aboriginal people. Anyone interested in Central Australia. And of course, anyone who enjoys missionary stories or is keen to have a challenge and inspiration to his/her faith. I enjoyed this book even more than its prequel.

Thank you, Vivien!

 

 

 

MY JOURNEY INTO - AND OUT OF - ATHEISM

 

 

The recent article I shared about an atheist professor becoming a Christian jogged my mind to remember a snippet of my own testimony.

 

 

It is Term 1, third year of my Arts Degree, UQ. A sweltering day in late February. I am about to embark on a year’s lectures in Philosophy of Religion.

 

I enter the small room in the philosophy building and look around curiously. A man sits, arms crossed, on the desk. My tutor, I assume.

I join the group of about ten sitting in a circle. A few nuns and priests, other interested students like me.

 

The man at the desk – my tutor – defines the next two years of my life with his opening sentence.

“If you believe in God, you’re wrong and you’ll fail,” he announces.

The words fall like doom on my ears. I’ve already failed one unit, not having realised it would be mainly maths, so I’m carrying an extra unit and I need to pass them all. Butterfly wings beat against the walls of my stomach. I wonder if the truth shows on my face like measles or sheer terror.

 

I believe in God!

 

A battle of wills ensues for the coming six months. The tutor requires me to write and deliver a paper to the group, explaining why I believe. At this stage I am not a Christian. I come from a beautiful but ungodly home. However I've had several experiences where God has intervened in my life. I know without doubt He is real.

The tutor laughs at my paper. “Oh, come on,” he says, “Can you see him? Can you touch him?” His voice is mocking. I blush.

We continue to battle in tutorials for six months.

He wins.

Correction: he wins this round.

After six months’ battling, I am an atheist. For eighteen months I believe religion is a crutch. I enjoy a peculiar sense of freedom. After all, I can do whatever I want now. Can’t I?

Despite my various hedonistic and creative pursuits, I become increasingly aware of a gnawing emptiness inside me. I’m hollow. Lonely despite the boyfriends, the parties, the friends.

 

For reasons I don’t understand, my world begins to crumble. I feel even more hollow. I hit rock bottom a few times but bounce back up. I prepare to travel.

 

I’m ready to leave for England when, without any warning and at great inconvenience to me, God’s Presence intervenes in my life again. And I know it is Him. My plans turn to sawdust. I’ve felt this Presence before. There’s no getting away from it. Him.

 

I become a Christian.

 

It takes me two and a half years to get through the culture shock and say happily, “Jesus is Lord.” But I do it.

 

Like C.S. Lewis, I am a reluctant convert. I sink ungraciously into an armchair and say to the empty chair nearby (and to the Presence which has come with me to my new flat), “Well, you win!”

 

A reluctant convert. But to my surprise I haven’t been a reluctant Christian. I’m not a person to do things by halves. I’ve never turned away. How can one, when one knows the Truth? God pursued me a la The Hound of Heaven – and I am now a God chaser!

And I am blessed!

The Faith of Birds

An early start recently reminded me of this.

I’ve always loved that old saying, apparently a Scandinavian proverb –

Faith is a bird that, feeling the dawn coming, sings while it is yet dark.

It says a lot about faith. And birds.

It reminds me of an overnight I spent in the house of friends who were away. My friends lived near a rainforest, very beautiful and lush green in the daylight.

I woke at about 4 am. It was still pitch dark. I crept down to the kitchen to get a glass of water, then back to my room and settled back into bed in the cool darkness, intending to go back to sleep.

Suddenly a tentative twitter, then a louder chirp, filled the silence. The birds were waking! It must be nearly dawn, although there was no light visible. This was too good to miss! I went back to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and began my morning time with God, while listening to one bird after another waking and calling to its mates.

Chirps, whistles, a burst of melodic song, even a call like a cat’s meow, filled the pre-dawn world. Gradually the darkness melted to grey and the shape of the forest towered above me, still black and filled with bird songs. Early light crept around the tree tops and watery sunlight slanted across the lawn.

 The birds chorused joyfully. It was a new day, alight with sunshine and birdsong!