Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Life's Realities #2

Another fascinating question that one may ask a person who has just fallen from a fourth floor balcony onto the concrete below.

"Are you all right, mate?"

We may even feel a little surprised if the person does not rise to their feet, dust themselves down and reply,
"Yeah! No worries."

Had it been the fifth floor balcony, now that is a different matter, isn't it? Well, isn''t it?

Monday, July 30, 2012

An Absolute Joy

It is an absolute joy for me to be working with MetaPlume, my publisher, and more of a joy to have Fiona Gatt as my mentor.

I am pleased that I have struck a cord with MetaPlume, and a friendship with Fiona.

As any aspiring writer knows, there are a few hard tasks in writing, that test the most intrepid of us.

Editing is one that we do not like, as we often think that everything we have written down is important, exciting, interesting or not able to be left out.

Russel Clements, or Mark Twain as we know his name in books, was a wise man when he said that "There are three things that the aspiring author should remember, and that is edit, edit, edit."

A short story with lots of interest is better than a long, boring, verbose tome similar to the mating habits of the South American short toed gnat. I think there is a book with that title, but it was so boring I put it down after reading the preface.

In all the hard things about writing, getting your work published can be the most disappointing. We write to get published; that is the name of the game. Rejection is hard to take, especially when no critical, helpful comment is returned with your work.

I am now a proud, published author thanks to Fiona and MetaPlume. Do yourself a big favour and contact her, you will not be disappointed.

Please purchase a copy of my first effort. Who knows, it may become as valuable as the first edition of Playboy, with the nude centerfold of MM.

[Image Source]

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Fish in Dams and Bore Drains

Imagine a dam, newly constructed, isolated from any known river or perennial water course which, after a short time, contains fish. Why? The same thing happens with bore drains. Fed by very hot water from deep in the artesian bore basin the fish are seen up close to the bore head where a human would get scalded if they put in their hand.

How did these fish get there? Why would fish, fish that had transparent bodies and visible organs through the body, venture so close to the hot water of the gushing waters of the artesian bore head that, maybe, ran at 100c. at the surface? This is not explained here, other than to say that if the food source is closer to the bore head, then survival of the fittest would prevail.

Some theorists suggest that the fish in bore drains come from the higher fissures of rock since the water comes to the surface under its massive underground pressure. Others say the the fish flow across the land in flood time in the shape of roe, and then survive the egg/birth process.

Here is another theory: It was told to me by an aboriginal stockman who did have a good sense of nature, and who passed on some of his knowledge to anyone that cared to listen.

Because the water, in the wet season of the Outback is often a massive outpouring of water across otherwise barren land, water birds, fish eating water birds like pelicans, cranes of all kinds, kingfishers and the like, congregate in massive numbers.

Some of the stork family, and I would see no reason why others of the kind would be much different, also carry some type of body pestilence so, here-in is this fish propagation theory.

These birds do not have the intelligence to know where fish are and where they are not.  But they do know that they have an itch that can be attended to by any fish that may be in the water in which they landed in at any particular time.

You will see water birds walk into the water, lift their feathers and wings and settle down for a parasite pedicure. After this free treatment, if the fish are actually present, the bird will go to the bank, shake all the plumes back into place, and dine on the small fish that had given them the relief.  Life goes on.
But, not all the little fish, nor the roe of little fish and other water critters are shaken from the feathers.

Thus, dear reader, as the bird flies to another water source, be it a new dam or a bore drain, it will again wallow in the water for a bit of lice treatment. Here is where the few small fish and roe from the previous site, that  had managed to be concealed in the feathers of the bird, may be transferred into a new water environment.

Remember that I have said that this is a theory, if you have a better one, let us all know.

Thursday, July 26, 2012


I like to listen closely to descriptions of events, the every day events from suburbia, not the mind blowing events of the world at large.

It is wonderful to hear a mother say "Johnny fell of his scooter today and split his head open".

Immediately you imagine Johnny laying in the operating theater, the neurosurgeon looking gravely at this massive split in the boys head before his very eyes,  So you ask.

"What did you do?"

The mother says, " Well, what would you do? I just gave him a kiss and put a band-aid on the lump and sent him off to school".

Of course, how silly of me.

I did get the thought that, maybe, this is where our ferals come from, the tree-huggers, the animal libbers the strange and off the planet do-gooders, may all come from, even.  It could be because mother's thought that school was more important than scraping Johnie's grey matter off the road and putting it back in the cavity created by having ones head split open.

The neurosurgeon says " Something is missing..Do you have a plastic bag with the rest in it?"

You don't of course, so the next thing you can think of, "Just do your best with what you have, after all we can't afford to send him the uni".

The best the surgeon could do was create another feral.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Thought for the week, or so.

With these whopper jig-saw puzzles that they make, you would think that they would put in a few extra pieces in case you lost some, Hey?

Home spun Poetry #2

I  owned a creamy horse, a creamy horse named Custard.
Now, Custard liked to trot, the trottin' creamy Custard,
Some days he'd buck me off and I'd fall upon the ground.
It made me really sad, but I should've sent him to the pound.
One day, in rainy weather, he rolled in lots of Mud.
The dirty trottin', buckin' muddy custard, it was hard to stay his bud.
Creamy Custard went missing, and now I  know what where,
But I am so pleased that the dirty trottin' buckin, muddy creamy Custard
Never made me swear.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

A bit about me

My most active time in life was during my years in the Central West Outback QLD in the 1950s and 60s; and it is that time, those places and the many wondrous people I encountered, that inspire my writing.

Born in Wagga Wagga NSW on 1st October 1938, I am the youngest of seven kids. The family moved to Sydney in 1944. I remember the end of the war celebrations whilst living at Banksia in Sydney. We moved to Bondi in 1948/49 where I attended North Bondi Public, then Waverly College, then Wellington Street Tech school for my final years of edification. I had a good education, I just didn't learn much.

Early restless teenage years caused me to "Go West" and West ended up being Cunnamulla QLD where my first job was as a roust-about in a shearing shed. From four pound ten shilling a week, as a junior salesman in a menswear store in Sydney, to nineteen pound nineteen shillings, and keep ... it was a massive jump in lifestyle. With life on the land I got to follow my love of horses, and worked as a drover, stockman and contract musterer, as well as helping out with a windmill expert, driving tractors delving bore drains and a couple of rides in Rodeos for a bit of boyish fun.

After returning to Sydney (wish I hadn't) life became boring, mundane and, now after 50 years, remains the worst decision I ever made. My consolation is my fiction. I have a convoluted and active imagination, and I enjoy where my characters take me. 

In my later, more settled years, after I ridded myself of a woman, I have tried to be the "White Knight" in helping people that gave the impression they were not capable of  helping themselves in the more serious matters of life.

There is always one sucker that will put his hand up to help the ones that pretend they cannot help themsleves. This pastime never gave much satisfaction as many of the same people would not admit that they were being helped, or were helped, and preferred to let time go by before they told all and sundry that would listen, that they did it all by themselves.

But that is life, that is the way of the world, and I survive this attitude knowing that I did my best.

Everything, every different situation, has its interest, has its ability to educate, and has its place in life if you are one to move on without beleaguring the past.

I consider myself very fortunate in the fact that I have few very, but most reliable friends, and a few scattery characters in my head that all keep me in a space in the universe of the cyber world.

Peter Rake

Favorite writer:  John Steinbeck. Cannery row, Sweet Thursday, Of Mice and Men, The Red Pony, The Moon is blue and others.  Liked his satirical way of stating facts.
Favorite poet: Banjo Paterson. and of course, C.J Dennis who died the year I was  born.

Droving Outtakes #2

A droving contractor, Bill Chambers, asked me to call around to his  home to talk about a job.

As he told me to be early I arrived at around 5.00am.  After knocking on the front door with no answer I walked down the side alley of his home.

I could  see the  kitchen window open and I could hear noises from within the house, so I called out, "Are ya' there Bill?"

With no reply, I called louder, "Are you there Bill...Are you up Mrs Chambers?" thinking that it was her making the noises.

As a young teenager I was rather embarrassed at the reply, "No, he ain't up Mrs Chambers, he's havin' a shower, I'll tell him you're 'ere".

Such is the unexpected life of a boy in the bush.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Thought of the Week

There are a couple of things happen when one starts to age.  One is that you begin to lose your memory...and I can't think of what the other one is.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Out Takes from Droving (Sheep)

There are a few things that is not mentioned in the Droving story, things that some would not normally think about,  but are an intrinsic part of the job.

Washing clothes and bathing:  On a rare occasion, in warmer weather one would find a reasonably clean water hole, dam or tank and the ritual of bathing and washing clothes were conducted in the one ablution.

Boots, belt and hat would be left on the side of the water source, and then you would dive into the water,  diving as far out as your legs would propel you so as not to get bogged in the mud, getting out would be a problem in this department.

A bit of a splash around, a thumping of various parts of the clothing and a scrub of the neck, under the arm pits and if no one was watching, around the family jewels.

It would not take long before you dried out and felt like you were Mister health and Hygiene himself.

Winter, of course, brought a different approach to bodily hygiene.  It was not a good idea to bath much in the winter, as the body would build up a goodly amount of external fat excretions that would act as insulation once soaked into the clothing.  The same applied with blankets in the swag.

The one problem with the blankets, once at their warmest capability with the added treatment of body grime was the by the time you rolled up the swag in the morning ad unrolled the swag at night, the local blow flies would have a bonanza, and maggots would greet you as you were about to have a good kip.

A couple of shakes into the camp fire would soon get rid of that little inconvenience.

Dust was the bane of the drover, not the boss, of course, he would ride up front and make sure he is position was never challenged. tailing any stock in unfavored wind was most undesirable.

The above also contributed to the extent of the mundane mental stimulation of the drover. Imagine, if you will, looking up the rear end of three thousand sheep, or five hundred head of cows and tell me how far your mental horizons would stretch.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Droving (Sheep)


By the mid fifties droving had made a bit of a turn around in so far as 'home comforts' for the drovers, but still, it was nothing like the 'Long Paddock' drovers of today with their caravans, generators, TV sets. fridges, and even washing machines.

Many of the modern day drovers do not own properties, they buy store cattle and put them on a TSR that has good grass, moving the cattle as slow as they are game, until the beef price rises and the cattle get a bit fatter.

Today, the horse is replaced by quad bikes or motor bikes and a few dogs, which are comfortable travelling on the back of these machines, and with the mad men that drive them.

In the fifties, although the pack saddle days were still around for cattle, the sheep drovers had trucks set up to first get the horses to the site of the start of the drive and then the truck was turned into a kitchen for the full time cook, and a store to carry the sheep breaks. The dogs were carried in crates under the truck.

The sheep break made the difference between droving sheep and droving cattle. It meant a good nights sleep for the sheep drovers as against the nervous, night watch situation with cattle drovers.

Sheep, in those days, were mainly put on the road to ' Travel for Grass', meaning that the property that owned the sheep was running out of feed, so they put stock on the Travelling Stock Routes (TSR) in the hope that feed would be available elsewhere in the country.

Naturally, the sheep would be off shears so that the owner could sell the wool to off set the cost of having the sheep on the road.

One of Queensland's longest droughts ended in 1956, but it didn't rain grass, it only rained rain, and animals got bogged down in the black soil planes to perish there, as no one could get to them until the land dried up again. The grass did come, but a lot of stock died waiting.

I did a few short drives with different boss drovers, but it is boring, mundane, mind-numbing work.
The conversation level drops to a all time low with nothing to stimulate the mind. The same thing day in and day out seven days a week, out of the swag well before daylight, get the horses that had been hobbled out, with one or two of them being belled, where I reckoned that every time it was my turn to get the horses in the dark that the ones with the Condamine Bells on would stand stock still, making me a bit of a bunny for being so long in bringing them in.

I also reckoned that on bright moonlight nights the darn animals would be standing around the camp, but not if it was my turn to 'run the horses'.

The drovers would get a good breakfast into themselves and a hot black pannican of tea, saddle up and catch up with the mob of sheep, which the boss would have let out of the break half an hour ago.

The mornings, being the cool time of the day, we would move the sheep along a bit to be in range of the next water by afternoon.

Sheep were required to travel six miles a day and cattle eight. However, if you are travelling for grass you don't seem to be able to calculate distance above a couple of mile.

Once the sheep were mobbed up and walking along reasonably, the boss, or one of us, would go back to the camp and help the cook pack the truck up, with the sheep break and cooking gear, to move on to the next nights camp.

The sheep break consisted of some rolls of pig wire netting, star pickets and hobble straps. The break could be rolled out to make a self standing round yard, or if a fence was available a yard using the fence for the major side of the break would be easier and better to have.

After laying out the netting, you would drive a star picket into the ground at the joining points of the netting, which had each end attacked to a batten, the two battens from each length of netting would be hobble strapped to the star picket and then this was done around until the last length of netting was in placed.

Naturally, all this netting would be loose, even still lying on the ground, so at intervals you would put a star picket inside the netting and walk it out backwards as far as you could pull or until you had started a round shape. This was continued until all the netting was standing up and as tight as you could pull on it.

A round shape is a lot better than having corners. Sheep naturally run in circles, corners become pressured with a mob of upset bleaters, and a yard with lots of corners would not hold them.

The last panel of netting, which would  close against the fence, would then be opened and pulled back to make a 'gate' for the sheep to be herded into each night. The tighter the mob inside these breaks the better. If there was any space, and a dingo disturbed the mob the sheep could run and jump at the fence and if excited enough, push the lot to the ground. Big trouble for the sheep drover. Something like the painting by Tom Roberts at the top of the page, only in the dark of night.

Travelling for grass, even after you had moved the sheep onwards, you could look back and see last nights camp and after the truck went past, you would be able to see the next nights camp...Six mile a day, what a joke. Boss drovers had an uncanny sense as to where the Stock Inspectors might be, most of the time.

The only time we would get a bit of a hurry on was when the TSR went through private property. The grazier, on the property, would send his blokes down to keep his stock away form the droving mob, and that was all they were allowed to do..Supposedly. The unmentioned instructions to the property men would be to try to move the mob on without looking like that is what was going on.

This was a bit of fun, as the drovers would pull back from the mob and let the property men "pretend" that they were not moving our sheep on.

Everyone knew what everyone else was doing, but no one would admit it to anyone.

By the time the sheep were put away, it would be dark again and the night meal would be consumed, someone would help the cook wash up and then we would hit the sack until early the next day, same old same old.

At about mid morning the sheep would look for a bit of a rest, and after they were "Road Broke" they would all pick the same time every day to rest. The drovers would then catch up on a bit of kip under a shady tree if available or on the shady side of the horse.

During the rest time you would chomp on a bit of damper and some cold mutton, and boil the quart-pot for a cuppa, using the water from neck bags on the horse, or from a bit of a ride to the camp.

One of the last jobs I had in Queensland was droving sheep from Darr Siding, out along the Winton road, to Isisford, almost fifteen weeks on the road. My wages were twenty quid a week and keep plus tobacco.

A fence on on side of a droving mob was called the "Blind Shepard", it made life a lot easier for the men, who would consist of the boss, and maybe two other drovers to look after up to four thousand head of sheep.

Water for the sheep was obtiained from Government bores or from property bore drains that criss-crossed the TSR.

Dogs were good to have with sheep droving, but often the country carried a cover of galvanised burr, which would cut a dog's pads to pieces in less than an hour. Sometimes you could get your dog to wear leather shoes, and if the dog knew what protection they gave them, would come to their boss to get the shoes put on.

For the short couple of hours from putting the sheep in the break to hitting the swag, we would sit around the camp-fire, maybe looking out at the shine of the yellow eyes of a dingo or two, and tell blatant lies that we all believed, yeah!

It was a bit strange but the drovers dogs would not bark at the dingos, who didn't bark themselves, only howl. It seemed to be a bit of the "Code of the dog" not to dob your mate in.

One bloke, at the camp-fire one night sat quiet, not getting into the discussion on big mobs of stock that they had been on drives with. I was a new chum at droving so they wouldn't have listened to me if I did have something to say. The mobs got up to six-thousand head of sheep, five thousand head of cartel and kept growing.

Because I had the sense not to join in I asked, the silent Charlie "What about you, mate, you have been droving for awhile, what's the biggest mod you have been with?"

Charlie, who was normally the silent type looked as he was a bit uncomfortable taking the floor, but he did come up with an answer to my question:

"Well, seei n' as ya' asked, an' I can't remember how many sheep we had on the road, but I wuz in charge of the dogs, an' there were two thousand of them".

No body said nuffin' after that.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Odd Spot

A visitor to my home on the North Coast of NSW.  Most of my friends are nature's friends, and the ones of my imagination.

This little bloke, about the size of the more common green tree frog adult is called...

 The Maniacal  Cackle Frog.

You don't believe me do you?

Monday, July 16, 2012

Changes Over the Years

It is around fifty years since I worked in the Outback of Queensland, and it is  interesting to compare wages.

Hours of work in my day was for as long as there was something that needed doing.  I spent four nights in a row on a bushfire out near Aramac, and when it came time to sleep, I couldn't.  A couple of good stiff OP rums cured that little malady.

A stationhand, who would just arrive at the station and ask for work was often accepted straight on, no questions asked.  A weekly wage of sixteen pound sixteen shillings and keep was the usual offer.  I make this $33.60.  There was no overtime pay.

You could get $40.00 a week and keep droving, and $39.90 as a shed hand.

The jackaroo of those days was usually the son of some grazier that wanted his offspring to be trained in the management of a properties.  They were pretending Silvertails, and  the ringers and others would not give the jackaroo much encouragement or compliments.

This is from the past, and one would hope that things are different now, but a common phrase or question "What is the difference between a Jackaroo and a kangaroo?" brought the answer: "A kangaroo jumps around and eats the bosses grass, a Jackaroo jumps around and licks the bosses ar....."

The wage of the Jackaroo or trainee manager/overseer was about a third of the ringers, something  like the equivalent to $11 per week and keep.

I see that today, the jackaroo and the jillaroo earn between $550 and $750 per week and keep.

Isis Downs

Isis Downs is a place that I spent some of my working life. This photo is from one of many that is around today.

The grass weeds growing on the yards is an indication of the new direction that Isis Downs has taken.  Now primarily a cattle station, in my time it was sheep, and the pointed hard hooves of thousands of sheep at shearing time would leave no weed unturned, so to speak.

It was a large property, 250 000 acres I recall at that time.  Apart from the shed it had three cottages,  one for the farmer, a full time mechanic and one for the local handyman. These blokes were married and had their spouses with them. There was, to the left of the picture of the shed, a 'ringers quarters' with about twelve single rooms for the workers and between the quarters and the kitchen meal room was a meat house.

Beside the kitchen and cook's quarters there stood the Jackaroo's cottage; there were no such thing as a Jillaroo in those days.

Between those buildings, and the horse yards, one could see the Big Boss's place, up in the distance, and in no-mans land, as far as the working class were considered.

A general store in the middle of the area, manned twice a week by the bookkeeper, supplied at a cost, tobacco, cordial, soap, toothpaste and even tooth brushes.  Purchases on the night would be booked to your account and taken out of your wage of sixteen pound sixteen shillings a week if you were a ringer or station-hand.

The stud ram yards were near the mechanic's workshop, and a drop dunny that I helped dig the hole for was in the middle of the open area.

These drop toilets were usually about ten feet deep, which had been calculated by a 'dunny expert' to last a family of four for ten years.

The famous red-back on the toilet seat was a common sight in these little sheds.  However they were expected and dealt with on sight.

There is an adventure that the cook had in this particular double dunny, which I will relate later.

People of that era c1957 included the Manager Bruce Johnston,  Overseer Ian McLennan and Stud Overseer Phil Cameron.  The ringers were Alan and Bede Baker, Joe Saunders, a boundary rider's son, his name was Neil Piddock, I think, a young bloke that had never seen an airplane up close until we took him to the Longreach Rodeo. And of course, yours truly.

Up at the main house Joycie Singsong and Felicity Daylight were the housemaids, both South Sea Islanders.

Names I don't remember: The one armed cook and his wife.  The cowboy or cow milker and general hand, a pommy named Jim.  Two older general hands in the ringers' quarters.  The Jackaroo's housemaid and that is about it, I think.

Good memories of more time ago that I care to remember.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Home Spun Poetry

Hard Times

Hard times last longer so it seems
When the miseries of life torment the soul
There appears no hope in your despair
No happiness that will console

And yet, even life's misery has its place
It enhances the simple joy of life
Things we once took for granted
Are manifest when rising from the strife

How much more we appreciate love
When we have been forsaken
Health after illness, strength when it returns
All the good things there to be taken

Misery and woe are easy to attain
But happiness needs some work
No bird sings if we turn a deaf ear
No light shines if in darkness we lurk

Seek love and you will prosper
Have the strength to survive
Care about yourself, and be cared for
Be thankful that you are at least, alive.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

As my publisher said, I must laugh a lot.  That is very true when I create a character,and have that character interact with other characters and start the thread of a story, probably based, very loosely, on something that actually happened.

Using a fair amount of dialog like I do, the characters come more alive than just talking about them in the third person narrative.

Notty was one such character that came alive as I wrote the story.  At first it was my intention to make him immensely disliked by the reader, but as the story progressed,  Notty became somewhat of a hero.

My greatest  joy in writing is to see the characters develop personalities, and at times push the story their way, and not in the manner I first intended.

If some reader should see a resemblance to an actual event in one of my yarns, they could well think, 'That's not that way it ended'.  So, bad luck, in my yarn it ended the way it ended.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Hand Around Dog: A story in the making is about a designer dog of the Outback.

Long before the designer dogs of today, the labra-doodles, the bull terrier crosses with a Shitzu called a... use your imagination, came FRED a dog designed to do one thing efficiently, and  that was to kill.

Not one particular person owned Fred, and as needs arose, he would be passed around to different blokes to carry out a bit of pig hunting, or kangaroo culling, and to even  pull down a rogue bull or two.

Naturally, great consideration must go into the breeding of a versatile dog such as Fred and following is his Pedigree:

From The Hand Around Dog

"I have a bit of paper that explains Fred's breed lines ... Do ya' wanna' hear em?" Timmy O'Reily asked.

I averted my eyes from Fred, hoping that I wouldn't look him in his yellow and very mean eyes. Fred was not going to get any chance of making the excuse that I challenged him.

Every so often, Fred would test the high-tensile chain to see if it was still holding, and when he gave his best pull you could hear the 'ping' as the toughened steel reached a peak near its capability of tension withstanding.

"Ere' it is ... to start with he was the pup of an American Bull Baiting dog, or Pit Bull over a Rhodesian Ridgeback bitch and a pup from this mating was crossed with an Irish Wolf Hound ... "

There is no doubting the Irish Wolf Hound bit, as the Irish Wolf Hound's most recognisable attributes were on full show every Fred turned his back to us. Not unlike a postman carrying Mallee mail bags.

"Ya' Listenin'? snapped Timmy. "Then, accordin' to this paper, that Irish Wolf Hound cross pup, a bitch, was bred with a Great Dane, then a bitch from that litter was crossed with a big red Greyhound who looked like being a world beater until he had his leg broken by a rival owner. Now, the final touch, of  which Fred is a direct descendant, was a pup from that litter was crossed with brown hyena, just to give him jaw muscle".

"Sounds like the original breeders were serious about the result," was my knowledgeable comment, then another thought came to me, slowly "Do you reckon they got what they wanted in Fred?"

"How would I know, Pete? All I know is I got what I wanted, sumpin' to cull a few big roos out of the front paddock.

"All right Fred, " Timmy told the dog, "Settle back an' I'll bring ya' a couple of roos fer' supper."

Thursday, July 5, 2012

I love the laconic expressions that seem to ,only, come from those true blue Australians of the Outback and in a more varied localized variety from folk of the cities.

A typical example is asking someone if they "Have lived here all their life" and they answer "Not yet".

I once said to a Gunnedah farmer, after a good fall of rain, "You would be happy now with all that recent rain".  His reply brought me down to earth.  "It only rained rain, it didn't rain grass".

Probably the best I have heard is a bloke in a pub, trying to get a free beer who accosted a new customer with a overly pleasant greeting, and said, "Are you staying for a beer, Mate".

The bloke said "Yeah, I might have time for a couple".

"Good" says the bar fly "Make mine a schooner".

With that the bloke looked at his watch and hurriedly came up with:  "I just forgot, I've gotta been down town in a couple of minutes,I'll catch up with you later", and off he went.

The usual disappointed look befell the hapless cadger as he sadly said, "I've know that bloke for forty years, and he ain't changed.  He is that tight that if he cut you a slice of bread there would only be one side in it".

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

We have got things moving now.  Most of the slow start is in line with my  learning curve, which is almost flat-lining.

I would like to discuss how others approach their story writing and I will talk about how I go about writing my stories.

So ,pull up a log, make yourself at my place and let's have a chat.

Old Pete