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“My Mother Never …”
Another Novakovich “Fiction Writers’ Workshop” Exercise My Mother never went down to the end of the town without consulting me. But as you may know—if you have read Mr A.A. Milne’s poem—James’ Mother did. James James Morrison Morrison Wetherby etc. etc. that is. She did go down to the end of the town, and quite Continue reading
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“We Are Life Savers!”
Le Père de Christy Est Mort. Another Novakovich exercise. This time the task is to “think about an incident that you avoid remembering—or can’t clearly remember—and write about it. School was over for the year, yet Christy still wore his uniform — long trousers and blazer now that he was in high school. It was Continue reading
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“Schooled”
Another Novakovich exercise. This time, I am sourcing a story from a memory of a childhood fight. Some elements are true; some are made up or altered. There was no reason why it happened. At least, no reason that I knew. Though in later years I speculated that it might have been this or it Continue reading
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“You Can Dunk If You Like”
An exercise in sourcing story from youngest memories. Christy invited me into his kitchen and began to make us both a cup of tea. Will here do?” he asked jiggling the tea bag in the small pot. “This will be great,” I replied. “OK. If I put this cushion on the table?” Continue reading
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“Fish Again!”
In this exercise, I had to write a set of three paragraphs – each from a glimpse of a scene in a cafe that held the possibility of a story. Here’s a couple of of them. You can find the full set of three with our Craft Notes over on Substack. “Untitled” You don’t often Continue reading
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Couplets from the Old Card Table
A #smallwriting exercise 4. Herb or hemlock here is grown And which it be is not yet known. 5. A pigeon preens and puffs its chest To show of them which is the best. 6. A clover daisy shows its head To signal now that Winter’s dead. 7. A choir of voices here is heard Continue reading
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“Small News”
Written as an exercise from Josip Novakovich’s Fiction Writer’s Workshop (2nd ed., 2008), Chapter 1, Exercise 1 Suburban Brisbane, in the lead up to Christmas, surrenders to expectation. The air grows heavy ahead of the late afternoon storms that sweep in from the West as shoppers hurry to finalise their purchases before they hit. There Continue reading
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“Mangoes at Mataranka”
A backpacker hostel this time. A step up from the caravan parks and campgrounds. Halloran dumped his pack on the rusty, steel-framed bed. Walked downstairs to check the notice board. “Mangoes. Three days at Mataranka.” “Money looks good,” he thought. “But how much for the board and transport with this crowd”. He’d make sure to Continue reading
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“Transit Station”
They never really seem to dry out, these places. You can’t get away from the damp. The driveways squeak and glisten with rain spilling from the busses. The air is stale with the sweat of travelers and the acid stink of diesel and cold cement. The walls are finished in joyless tones of algae and Continue reading
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“Precious Gifts”
This week I was able to polish a song lyric that had sat with me for almost 50 years. Over those years, I had promised myself that I would complete the lyric … some day; but had never gotten round to it until I put in a determined effort over two days – all to Continue reading
About Me
An Australian post-lawyer reclaiming creative space and delving into speculative fiction after too long an absence.
Sunburnt Speculations 