GREAT INSPIRATION

A writer's legacy

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Wednesday 28 May 2014

Whenever a group gathers, the value of their collective purpose is multiplied many times and the capacity to do good is increased manifold.

 So it is important to join those groups that gather to educate, inform, and contribute. This was the case last weekend when over 50,000 people gathered in Auckland to listen to 150 global writers.

 They came from disciplines across all sectors…creative, mathematics, history, theology, physics, art and entrepreneurship. For example Pulitzer prize winning author, Alice Walker was there as was this year’s Booker Award winner, Eleanor Catton.

 What struck me about all these people was their humility and willingness to share insights with those who might aspire to follow in their footsteps. There is plenty of room in this world for high aspirations. The underlying message was, ‘you will join us if you work hard'. Where you start is irrelevant.  Sir Ray Avery began his journey as a runaway orphan living under a bridge in England. Sandi Toksvig is the daughter of  high achieving parents. Her father worked as the Danish foreign correspondent in New York.

 My one regret was I didn’t get to see Alice Walker whose writing and fearless work has inspired me ever since her ground breaking novel, ‘ The Colour Purple’ came out.

 These writers have proven anything is possible. They the ones to hold up as role models as their success can be ours.

 French mathematician Jacques Roubaud, at 85 years old is a European academic statesman with a huge career as a professor of mathematics and poetry.

 Although author of Mathematics (a novel) he is also a practitioner of the ‘constrained writing technique’. When he recited the poem below the inflections of his voice filled the room with ironic meaning. It was marvellous.

LIFE: SONNET

    000000 0000 01

    011010 111 001

    101011 101 001

    110011 0011 01 ….

And on it goes.

 I recall the twinkle in his eye and hear the inflections of his voice as I read it. And the French accent takes a lot of beating.

That was the beginning of what became the most wonderful two days in a long time. Jim Ali Khalili, a world leader in science was asked ‘when will the world end’. This sent a chuckle through the auditorium and set him up to debate the universe, black holes, the big bang theory and the concept of time.  Holding his hand up he said that his watch now ran at a fraction of a second slower than it had when he had his hand down. The further we move away from the centre of gravity the slower time goes….only by tiny fractions but time has to be adjusted on satellites to accommodate this change so that signals arrive back on earth within the right time frame.

 An hour with Danish/British writer, comedian and broadcaster, Sandi Toskvig was riveting.  She was entertaining, insightful and delightful. After ditching Sean Plunkett as her chair, a kind of political statement on its own, she went on to tell us about a trip she made to Kawerau to watch a woman’s boxing match. A strong exponent of women’s rights she talked about the power of boxing to make woman feel in control and able to defend themselves .

 She had many anecdotes. The one I absolutely loved was of the moon landing when she was at NASA with her parents. She came upon a visibly upset woman and held her hand to calm her.  It turned out later she was holding Neil Armstrong’s secretary’s hand. What a memory! Eventually she left the stage so that Sean Plunkett could establish the format of chairing the session. He brought her in and set about chairing the session. Every session Sean Plunkett chaired was well managed. He allowed the guest to be the star and drew them out with short, succinct questions.

 The next day was highlighted by a debate on the Gender Divide. We learned from Sandy that women still were not well represented in the senior areas of the BBC. When Booker Award winner Eleanor Catton was asked which writers influenced her the most she answered George Eliot, Jane Austen and others from that time.  That highlighted the legacy these writers leave. Imagine influencing writers, including a Booker Award winner two and a half centuries on from when you lived? Now that is Awesome

WELCOME

I would like to welcome new readers from China, India, and Lithuania to the blog. We are becoming a truly international fellowship of writers and readers. I thank you all for your continued support. If you have something you wish to post please E mail me ray@raystoneauthor.com  thank you.

Deep Water - Chapter 7 written by Mat Clarke

Mat Clarke is one of the original 'Minters' and here is chapter 7 from 'Deep Water,' a serial that became one of the most popular in the early days. Mat is still a member of The Story Mint and also runs his own writers club in Melbourne. Last year they published a book of short stories. Mat is an actor and can be seen on Australian TV in many dramas.

Another gulp of water. I gag and more water shoots into my mouth. I can’t stay up, oh god I can’t stay up. My leg hits something hard. I’m being dragged along the river floor. I can see the sky past the few inches of water above my head. I could be closer to the shore than I thought. I could stand! I wave my arms through the thick water and turn myself around and face down stream and push against the rocks below, the life jacket helps me surface. Air partially fills my lungs again. The shore is only yards away; although it’s the opposite side to where Artie has been left.

I scramble over the wet slippery obstacles until I’m back onto sun cooked rocks. Water spurts out from my stomach and I cough and shake. Everything has gone so wrong and Artie is dying. No rafts and no people are in sight but I can hear far off voices and yelling. A track leads along the river. It’s my only option. For Artie’s sake I push myself up and hobble faster than I think I should on whatever is broken in my foot. But for Artie, I have to for Artie.

‘Help! Bruce, anyone, help me, I’m over here. Hey!

My voice echoes off the walls but there is no return cry. I can hear someone screaming. Others must be hurt as well. It’s like a nightmare. It is a nightmare. Of all the stupidest trips this has to be the worst. Why couldn’t Artie just take me on a date. Why couldn’t Artie realise what I feel for him. Idiot! My hand flies to my mouth. He’s hurt and may be dead and here I am I’m cursing him. The hot sun is warm but my face is still wet. I keep crying like a pitiful child but can’t help myself. I gulp a chunk of air like it’s going to run out, sniff and try not to think of future birthdays without Artie.

The track takes a sharp turn moving away from the River. A hiss. I step back into a prickly bush. A snake the size of a cell phone is coiled and upright. It’s almost comical in its size but still scary and looks like it may just attack out of spite.

‘Help, anybody.’

My throat feels so sore. I can’t even yell out properly. I’m so useless.

But then an answer to my call and I can hear running along the path.

‘I’m here! Artie’s hurt we need to help him. Hurry.’

Then someone comes into view and stops on the other side of the small snake. He isn’t wearing the wet gear like everyone in the rafts. Instead he’s in camouflage clothes and a rifle is slung over his back. He steps forward and crushes the snake, then just stands there as if waiting for a reaction.

Mat Clarke (Australia)     copyright Mat Clarke 2012

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/deep-river

Learning to write well now a commercial necessity

Suraya Dewing is the CEO of The Story Mint. I post her latest blog here because what she has to say is important and applies to all of us, whether we are writers or readers. The Style Guide and an explanation of its use can be found at www.thestorymint.com

Submitted by Suraya Dewing on Monday 19 May 2014

I wonder if this is a universal issue.

Recently Auckland University cited a lack of literacy skills as one of the leading causes of failure at University.

As a consequence, they are raising the minimum requirements for entering. In 2009 a survey found that 25% of students lacked ‘the necessary literacy skills to succeed at University.’ That figure led them to make University entry more difficult. However, entry requirements are not as stringent as they soon will be.

There has been an improvement, but the indication is that this is not because the students have become more literate but because Auckland University has tightened its entry criteria. Now it is set to raise the benchmark again. The new rules will be introduced in 2016 which gives students plenty of time to adjust their programmes to include the required English subjects.

As a consequence of the survey findings, the University is doubling the number of English subject passes students have to have before being accepted. In particular, they will have to have some passes in grammar, sentence structure and academic composition skills.

The reasons Deputy Vice Chancellor Professor John Murrow gives for setting these criteria is that students who haven’t got some background in written skills will struggle when they get to University regardless of the area they go into. The basic written skills they are referring to are required for the sciences, engineering and business. In fact, he was saying that to perform well at University students need to be able to construct coherent sentences and paragraphs. They need to be able to present findings, arguments and reports. In short, they need to be able to write.

The Head of Careers for Western Springs College, Kay Wallace was also interviewed. She said the increased requirement would limit student’s choices and cause them great difficulty. ESOL students, in particular would be penalised. It took seven years for a student to ‘acquire full literacy’ she argued.

While she said that learning English was a process that continued throughout a student’s life, she appeared to miss the point Professor John Morrow was making. This was that students were arriving at University with a low level of writing competence which made engagement with all subjects difficult and led to a high failure rate.

The subjects that students took in preference to grammar and English composition covered topics like Health, History, and Social Studies. These gave them the necessary passes in English to get them into University. However, those passes did not prepare them for the rigour of writing essays based on strong argument, compare and contrast, as well as well-structured grammatically correct sentences and paragraphs.

It is very unfair on students to set them up to fail in this way and I am sure that was never the intention of the curriculum designers. It is far better that students are aware of a minimum standard, learn what is needed to meet it and then to enter University feeling confident and able to participate in a way that enhances their learning experience.

Some months ago I talked to my brother-in-law about the experience Chinese students have when they come to Waikato University, as I was beginning to wonder how they coped after having met some students and observed their writing skills. He said they memorised text books and that was how they got through. I found myself glazing over at the thought and a wave of admiration washed over me. My brother-in-law explained that these students didn’t understand enough English to take in what their lecturers said as the lecturers spoke too fast. They would catch a few words and fill in the gaps with what they imagined the lecturer was saying.

This week Ntec started testing the Style Guide™. They are enthusiastic supporters of it and are promoting it to their international student body. If, after hearing all this, there is one thing I want more than anything, it is that the Style Guide™ might help students to understand language structure and then give them confidence. English is the language of business. This is the reality these students face and if they want to participate in commerce then they need to know how to communicate on the same level as native English speakers regardless of whether they go back to home or stay here.

English second language

style guide writing competency

Another book from my collection. This is a really good 'How To' book that leaves no stone unturned for the serious writer who wants to get into marketing their book. From less than $3 this is really good value for money; one of those books like a dictionary - you always refer back to it.
Ray Stone



 With credit to Amazon publishing and advertising

Learn how to master Google+—the world's fastest-growing social-media service. Attract followers. Engage enchanting people. Promote your brand.

The former Chief Evangelist for Apple knows a superior product when he sees one, and he sees one in Google+. Hands down. In What the Plus!, Guy Kawasaki explains how to get started, create an enchanting profile, optimize for social searches, share posts and photos, conduct hangouts, and gain followers.

“We didn’t expect over 100 million people to join Google+ so quickly. If we had, we might have written a tutorial like this one. Lucky for us, Guy has written this wonderful introduction to Google+. Highly recommended!”

—Vic Gundotra, Senior Vice President, Social, Google

“What the Plus! is the G+ motherlode! Guy’s book will make you fall madly in love with Google+ and never look back!”

—Mari Smith, author of The New Relationship Marketing and coauthor of Facebook Marketing: An Hour a Day

“People ask me why I like Google+ better. I struggle to find the words, but Guy Kawasaki not only figured it out but shows you how to get the most out of this new social network.”

—Robert Scoble, Rackspace Videoblogger

“Brimming with tips for optimizing the Google+ experience, the author explains how to get started, find people, search by interests, manage circles (segmented relationships with family, colleagues, etc.) and streams (the flow of posts that you see), and hang out in groups for classes, press conferences, and other purposes.”

—Kirkus Reviews

PACKED WITH SCREENSHOTS THAT TAKE YOU STEP BY STEP THROUGH THE GOOGLE+ EXPERIENCE

http://www.amazon.com/What-Plus-Google-Rest-Us/dp/0071810102/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1400840643&sr=8-1&keywords=what+the+plus

Bruce Howat definitely has a style of his own. Factual and real mixed with fiction always makes for interesting reading. It also blends serenity and upheaval smoothly. This is different and moves forward with good pace. It also holds the interest and I wish there was more. 

The little brown sparrow

The little brown sparrow, jumped across the curb going under our table.  Quietly, secretly, it hopped forward to a crumb morsel, fallen from my blueberry muffin.  It darted the last few steps, picked up a crumb and bounced away to safety from the human giants.  It was too much.  Quietly I broke another price of muffin and dropped it beside my chair.  The sparrow returned, flicking its little head from side to side, checking out how safe I am.  Then at last minute grabs and off it darts again.

“What are you up too?” my wife quizzes.   I look up at the sun dancing off her bouncy, wavy red hair.  We’ve been married twenty six years and my heart still misses a beat when I look at her.  How lucky am I to have such a wonderful woman as my life partner.

She lifts her soya flat white to those beautiful lips and sips a bit more of her morning coffee.  Our local café only recently put tables and chairs on the footpath.  Paris, this is not, but relaxing and beautiful, our local community café is a catch up place for us all.  Through the gaps in the shops we see the Waitemata Harbour less than a kilometre away.

She realises what I am doing and teases me about getting in trouble with the café management for feeding the birds. 

The street is getting busier with shoppers moving up and down the footpath; no one complains about the narrowing of the footpath as they traverse past the café.  Too many of us remember the days before we had such modern luxuries and how it was a long trip into the city for a decent coffee.

I smile at Wendy, the magic as strong as ever in our relationship.  We feel part of this community and over the last twenty years have grown to feel we are locals.  There is a black screen between the parked cars and us.  I notice the screen is starting to move.  It is a reasonably solid structure.  In the distance, the sound of a train locomotive is coming towards us.  We are nowhere near a train track.   The locomotive is bearing down on us, the ground convulses under the pressure. I become aware of people starting to scream, the road looks like the ocean waves, bearing down on us.

Panic sets in everywhere as everyone realises’ it is a major earthquake.  We never get them in Auckland – it must be one of the “extinct” volcanoes.  My wife, Wendy is pasty white.   There does not appear to be anywhere safe to go, and, without warning, it is still.

People of the street stand, staring at each other – we are not used to this.  It seems like eternity before the first person is courageous enough to rekindle life and movement in the community.  It is all over.

I am back drinking my cup of tea when the sirens sound – a long continuous siren.  Tsunami warning!

Bruce Howat (NZ)

Copyright Bruce Howat 2014

I posted several paragraphs of my latest novel a couple of days ago, talking about the importance of research. I promised I would post again after another draft, ironing out a few wrinkles. Here it is. The prologue to Twisted Wire.

PROLOGUE

Nigel Silsbury was a spy although no-one would have guessed. A small man of slight build with thinning sandy hair, he could be mistaken for an accountant of comfortable means. Dressed in a smart Savile Row suit, he sat at the table by the window of Ray’s Jazz Café in Foyles bookshop. Clasping and unclasping his hands around a hot cup of coffee, he watched passing pedestrians with hunched shoulders scurry along with bowed heads.

The weather was not going to improve anytime soon according to the weather forecast in The Herald. He closed the paper and read the article on the front page. Putin was not going to give in on the Crimea. Russian troops were firmly embedded in the Ukraine after a protracted campaign orchestrated from the Kremlin. It was not going to be long before Latvia became the next target; so reported Enda Osin, political correspondent for The Herald. 

Vibrations inside his jacket pocket alerted him to a call. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. A text instructed him to be outside Leicester Square tube station in half an hour for a meeting. He picked the coffee up and sipped.

A meeting outside the confines of the office was unusual when in London but dangerous times called for caution. No-one, particularly the Americans, were willing to admit the Cold War had not ended; it had just been put on hold. London and Brussels bled agents from the eastern bloc and from the USA. One could almost trip over them. The department warned the Foreign Office but as expected, the warning was largely ignored.

He put the coffee down to look at his wristwatch. There was enough time to walk up Charing Cross Road after leaving Foyles, the bookshop he loved to browse in. As a teenager, his mother, Gloria Grant, later Lady Silsbury, had encouraged him to spend time there. He loved history, particularly Russian and Ottoman from the early eighteenth century. His mother was a great believer in broadening the mind by reading.

With politics an everyday subject discussed around him, he soon became interested in political history. He left college at eighteen, shortly after his mother’s messy divorce over an affair with her boss Lord Silsbury of the Foreign Office. Three years later, encouraged by his mother, Nigel enrolled in Georgetown University and studied for a Master’s degree at The Centre for Eurasian, Russian and East European Studies.

Nigel wrapped the scarf around his neck and folded the ends across the top of his jacket before pushing an arm into one sleeve of his coat, held out politely by a waiter. Twenty minutes before the meeting; he could have a slow leisurely walk to the square despite the cold weather.

London had a vibrant atmosphere he loved. Despite working abroad from time to time he always returned as soon as possible. His stepfather insisted he enlist in the army at eighteen and an easy and interesting administration posting to Germany was arranged for him. He later refused a commission and a posting to Nicosia, wishing instead to continue his studies at home. That lasted six months before travelling to America and Georgetown.

It was on his return from the United States that he was first contacted by a colleague of his father’s, offering him ‘an interesting position in the service of Queen and country.’

A gust of wind blew yellow leaves in circles about his feet as he stepped out onto the pavement. More swirled down from the tall Plane tree, some landing in puddles. Nigel dug his hands in pockets and waited to cross the road as a 176 bus passed on its way to Leicester Square.

The brightly lit interiors of stores, shops and small café’s cast long blocks of light across the pavement and road in the gathering dusk. Nigel breathed in deeply as he walked and smiled at an old dishevelled man shuffling from one foot to the other as he played an Irish reel on a harmonica.

Upon arrival outside the station, he saw Dewsbury standing just inside the entrance. Dewsbury moved inside and took the long escalator down to the platforms. At the bottom Nigel trailed him across the white tiled floor, following the signs for Northern and Piccadilly lines. A blast of cold dirty air signalled the imminent arrival of a train. He wiped his watering eyes and sat on a bench next to Dewsbury as the train emerged and rattled out of the tube. With screeching brakes and rumbling doors, it spewed office workers out onto the platform.

Dewsbury took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose into it. “Bloody soot,” he said, looking at the black smudge on the handkerchief. “This was supposed to be a thing of the past.”

Nigel ignored him. Crossing his legs, he said, “So what’s going on?”

“Things are happening. Krane’s signals are more frequent and Moscow sent our old friend Viktor to London. Whoever Krane is, he’s been inside our house too long. A memo generated from our ops room was sent to Moscow by him the same day. GCHQ picked up the signal for a few seconds and then lost it. This sudden activity made Whitehall jumpy and is one of the reasons we are here and not in the office. Anyone above grade five is looking over their shoulder. The situation is bloody serious and getting worse.  We don’t know if we are dealing with a cell but all the indications are that something big is about to happen. Anyway, keep me informed on what your source is up to. He’s a useful conduit if anything unusual is happening in Brussels or Westminster.”

Dewsbury removed his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Has your contact been to Brussels lately?” he continued.

“He’s supposed to be meeting me in a couple of days. I’ll have something for you then.”

Nigel got up and walked to the far end of the platform. He stood waiting for a train home and looked across the rails at the grubby curved wall opposite. An old poster covered in grime, advertising a London show, reminded him of a similar poster dating back to the early 60’s. It was stuck on the curved wall of the deserted ‘ghost station’ Unter den Linden as he travelled to East Berlin on the night of Picasso’s death. He closed his eyes briefly and saw the barbed wire strung along the platform edge as the train rattled through the station.  

July twelfth, 72’, the train pulled into Rosenthaler Platz, the only crossing point into the east. The East Germans were waiting on the platform. Unable to warn Picasso, traveling in another carriage, Nigel watched his agent being pulled from the crowd and dragged away. In the early hours Picasso succumbed to torture and was shot after giving information on two other Russian informants working for MI6. It was the worst moment in Nigel’s career. Despite that, Whitehall insisted he stay and manage the desk in East Germany for six months before returning to London.

Years later the name Krane was unearthed in the notes of a defector and identified as the mole within MI5 who had given Picasso’s name to the Stasi. Krane was still in place but the net was closing in. Nigel gritted his teeth as the train arrived.