Travelling with a RITA statuette

A couple of years ago my friend Marion Lennox won the coveted RITA award. (For those who don't know, the RITA is like the Oscar for Romance writers, so it's a hugely exciting achievement.) She's only the second Australian to have won it, Isolde Martyn being the first.

Lilian Darcy accepted the RITA for Marion at the US award ceremony and brought the big golden statuette back to Australia and presented it to Marion at the Romance Writers of Australia conference in Sydney. It's a large statuette, but it has this delicate quill thingy which looks as if it could easily break off or bend, so you have to be very careful when transporting it. It's not the sort of statuette you can fling in your luggage. The RITA needs to be carried.

Marion and I travelled home from the Sydney conference together. She was really fretting about possible trouble with airport security and her big, shiny, heavy, golden RITA statuette — which, as Isolde Martyn has pointed out to the world, could fell a burglar (or pilot or flight attendant) easily. Marion had it wrapped like a baby in her hand luggage and kept muttering "If they tell me I can't take it on the plane I don't know what I'll do. Catch a train home probably." (It's a 16 hour train trip) As we walked toward the security gates, she was a mess of nerves. . .

So... my bag goes through first. I walk through the metal detector gate thingy and it buzzes madly. I have to go back out and remove my shoes. Shoeless, I go back through the gate. More buzzing. Yes, I am carrying metal -- it's called silver bangles, earrings and a watch! So I am be-buzzed by more gadgets and finally passed. Then... "Ma'am, you have nail scissors in this bag," sez the security hulk. "Um, yes, that's right, " sez me, having forgotten they were Dangerous Weapons. I'd been using them for beading. "You'll have to check this bag in through baggage," sez the hulk. "Rightyoh," sez me, and then I am told I have to go back out to the check-in area and check my bag in my socks, my shoes still being examined by Terrorism Experts. With dignity I walk in my socks back to the baggage-checking counter. Luckily they are clean socks with no holes. The sockly equivalent of wearing clean underwear while being run over by a bus. My mother would be proud. I check the offending bag and nail scissors, then return, only to be buzzed again with gadgets, the bangles, watch and earrings still being metal. Eventually my shoes are handed back to me, there being (amazingly) no secret phones, files, sticks of dynamite or plastique secreted in them. Meanwhile the large, heavy, shiny, golden, burglar-or-pilot-felling RITA has passed through unnoticed, unbuzzed and uncared about... Marion, fearing discovery, has abandoned me in my socks and waits below, far from the madding security hulks, clutching her RITA to her bosom, acting Harmless and Inconspicuous. And thus, gentle reader, the price of friendship.

An unstructured rave about books ...

I love books. I love opening up the cover and plunging into a special world. I write in a room full of books. One one wall are the books I loved as a child, some of them dragged from house to house, some kept in storage for years and rediscovered as old friends. My childhood books sit behind my computer and when I'm stuck for a character's name, I've been known to scan them for inspiration. So my books contain characters called Captain Patchett and Lord Streatfield, a butler called Treece. I hasten to add, the characters are nothing like their namesakes...

On the other walls are all the books I've collected since, some old, some new. Some were gifts of love from relatives long gone, poetry books that my grandfather gave my grandmother, romantically inscribed, and signed, always, "from your loving Billy". He'd learned the love of Scotland, poetry and Robbie Burns at his father's knee and passed it down through the generations. I grew up reciting Burns's Grace before dinner, "Some hae meat and canna eat...."

There are the books that my mother won at school, leather bound and precious, with ornate bookplates inside. There's a heavy volume of ballads that my dad gave my mother the year I was born. That year, Mum taught full time, with me in a bassinette in the storeroom next to her classroom. She was teaching a huge class of 5 year olds — none of whom spoke English — plus she did all the cooking and cleaning for a family of six in a house without electricity. I think she deserved a whole library!

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Memories of Easter

It's a glorious Easter morning here - clear blue skies and brilliant sunshine, yet with a nip of early frost in the air. It reminds me of days in my childhood where we went on family drives for a barbecue. It was nothing like a barbecue is today -- my dad had some sort of pioneer bug which would strike him on days like this. Other kids' dads carried portable barbecues, tongs and other equipment. Other kids' parents took folded up tables and chairs; the Pioneer Bug scoffed at that! For Dad, a barbecue meant minimal fuss and preparation. It meant making do with whatever we could find, so no proper barbecue equipment -- only matches!

Mum would pack sausages and chops, tomato sauce (ketchup), bread, tomatoes, lettuce and a big flask of tea and that would be it -- one or two plates, a couple of metal mugs and a couple of knives and forks. Dad would find some old bit of tin or chicken wire and off we'd go. We'd find a gorgeous spot near a river in the foothills of the mountains (think the movie Man from Snowy River - there are pics below) and then the work would begin. Kids would be sent to fetch river rocks and collect dry wood from the bush. We'd build a semi-circle of rocks, then make a fire in it, then out would come Dad's old bit of tin to go over it. Once that got hot enough (presumably to kill off the germs) on went the snags (sausages) and chops and because we were all starving and couldn't wait, the fire was invariably too hot and they all burnt black on the outside (but that was how barbecued meat was supposed to be, we thought ). Finally we'd slap a snag into a piece of bread, top it with tomato sauce and if Mum remembered to insist, we'd take a bit of lettuce and tomato.

What feasts they seemed. The bread was our plate. River rocks and fallen logs were our seats and table. And while the adults drank hot tea, we kids fetched cold clear mountain water from the stream and drank it from our tin cups and we chomped on crispy apples for dessert.

Every Easter these days our family gathers on Sunday for a big sit-down baked meal. I'm obviously not the only one who's been thinking of those barbecues of old, because my sister rang me today and said, "The weather's going to be gorgeous on Sunday -- let's have a barbecue instead."

Sadly, the Pioneer Bug won't be there.

So, now another Romance Writers of Australia Conference is over. I had a lovely time, catching up with old friends and making new ones. The social -- er, business whirl was wonderful.

It started with a clash of events. I'd arranged an author dinner for those getting in early. There was also a get-together of the RWAustralia on-line community, most of whom hadn't met face-to face. The arrangement was to meet in the lobby of the hotel, wearing some sort of red heart.

I shall take a while to recover! And there was at least one innocent bystander who is scarred for life!

Mindful of the need to have a red heart for interim identification purposes, I had selected a large rubbery heart keyring, I pinned it on the left bosom (note subject heading), hid it discreetly under a sparkly scarf and a beaded cardie, went to the lobby, sauntered up to a gang of likely women sitting near the bar and ....flashed bosom with red heart affixed to lime green T-shirt.

Man sitting alone at bar nearly falls off his barstool. Much banter & laughter ensues... Blush! But at least the women were members of the e-group and not strangers.

Am then fetching extra chairs, when I spot a woman in lobby peering around hopefully. Flash bosom again with red heart affixed and say to her, "Are you one of us?" (Yes, could have phrased this better -- dialogue is not a strong point)
She looks faintly horrified for a moment, rallies and says "One of who?" (not what, at least) So I say "RWA member. " 'What's RWA?" 'Oh never mind," sez me,. "No really, I want to know," she says. So I explain and she's so interested she comes and joins us....

Half an hour later am walking in a small gang of authors to the restaurant a minute's walk from the hotel. Man comes past.... Man from bar stool. He can't resist asking for further clarification of the Bosom-Mounted Rubber Heart Incident -- we inform him he's surrounded by romance writers.

I try to present him with the red rubber heart as a memento.
He hastily explains he's married and his wife is coming to stay at the hotel tomorrow with their 4 year old son. (Clearly red rubber heart keyrings have greater significance than I'd previously realized!) This announcement causes great gusts of laughter from said group of romance writers....

I guess it is pretty scary being accosted in a dark Melbourne street by a dozen feral romance writers all set to party...

He moves off down the street....

We move off down the street....

I guess it's even scarier being stalked down a dark Melbourne street by dozen feral romance writers all set to party...

He turns and says.. Are you going to the same restaurant I am? Thai?"
We assure him we are, but that he is quite safe.
He looks at the bottles in our arms and says, "Is the restaurant BYO. "
We confirm it is, so he heads back to the hotel to buy some wine. (BYO is a Melbourne thing -- bring your own wine.)

Later he sends a bottle of wine over to our table....

I am very tempted to seek him out at the hotel and press a book on him with an inscription saying, "You were my inspiration for the hero in this book!"

And the feather boas?

The next day it's the author luncheon, put on by our publisher. I never dreamed I'd end up leaving a long, lovely lunch with our publishers to brave peak hour and race into the city in an ancient station wagon (mine) crammed with romance writers on a last-minute quest for feather boas. (The conference had a retro theme and we were all dressing up for the cocktail party.) We rock up to the shop with 15 minutes to closing time on Friday night...only to find it shut. We sit there, staring at the closed door in disbelief. But the shop lights are on.

One of the geniuses in the car whips out her mobile phone and rings the number on the shop window. "There's a car full of women out here in desperate need of feather boas for tonight!" So they open up again and we go into a frantic frenzy of feather shopping. It's a total hoot!

By then, it's getting late and we have half an hour to be at the cocktail party for the presentation of the ROBTY Award (half the finalists are in the boa shop!) We leap into the station wagon, now overflowing with flying multicolored boas as well as hysterical authors, zip through the peak hour city traffic and scream into the driveway of the hotel, almost running down a man... yep, you guessed it, our friend from the evening before... He takes one look at us, cracks up laughing, we blow him kisses and race off to get changed.

And that was just the beginning... my book, Tallie's Knight, won the Romance Book of the Year and my glass ranneth over...

We did actually attend the conference, in case you're wondering, and it was wonderful. Thank you to the organizers and to the many wonderful people I met. It was excellent meeting so many people I only knew by email. I've put my notes for the workshop I took on my writing page.

Now I'm home again, facing my unfinished manuscript, with Chloë the kelpie pup sprawled at my feet. She's no longer so tiny. She's shot up, lost the little fat puppy tummy and developed a waist and long coltish legs with big clumsy puppy-paws on the end. And she's still absolutely gorgeous. We've just started puppy obedience school -- which is more like puppy wrestling so far...

Puppy Love

I have a new resident in my house -- a tiny puppy called Chloë. She's a kelpie cross, and absolutely gorgeous. Yep. I'm besotted!

April in Queenscliff

Easter has come and gone and I've hardly even touched a chocolate egg. In fact, the only Easter eggs I ate were given to me by a friend -- and since she'd just heard she'd finalled -- twice! -- in the RWAmerica RITA awards, I just HAD to celebrate. (Well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it! Besides, they were really teensy tiny eggs...but delicious!)

And where did this act of martyrdom take place? In Queenscliff, a tiny gem of a seaside resort town 90 minutes drive from Melbourne, which runs an annual Festival of Words. This year the theme was "romance" and the main speakers were Stephanie Laurens, Marion Lennox and Isolde Martyn, whose names are well known to all lovers of romantic fiction, and also Juliet Flesch, a Melbourne academic. It was a delightful conference -- small, intimate and stimulating.

The setting was the wonderful Queenscliff Hotel, a gorgeous restored old Victorian-era hotel overlooking the heads of Port Phillip Bay. It's a beautiful hotel, with iron lace, brilliant mosaics, stained glass...and sumptuous gourmet food. A big thank you to Patricia O'Donnell, the owner, who was a most generous sponsor and hostess and to the staff there, who were wonderful.

We sat in the beautiful outdoor garden room on a balmy Autumn morning, listening to Stephanie Laurens explain how much romance writers have in common with screenwriters, songwriters and other entertainers. Marion Lennox entertained and informed us with tales of how romance has changed over time and Isolde Martyn wowed us with descriptions of the many pitfalls an unwary historical writer could fall into. She also described the innovative use of cow pats in aeronautics!
After a delicious, leisurely lunch came the workshops... I wrote a heap.

Later a small group of weary writers took a long, rambly walk along the beach then, as we watched the sun set over the water, we ate fish and chips, washed down with champagne, to celebrate Marion Lennox's RITA double finalist status...and finally we ate the aforementioned Easter eggs for dessert... All in all, a near perfect event.

Easter was also made special for me because my sister from Queensland came down with her husband and so my immediate family was together for the first time in ages -- well, the two older generations of the family were there -- the kids and the precious two new babies are still distant; in Queensland, Bali, Edinburgh and London.

You should have seen my mum's face when I walked in at dinner time with my oldest sister and her husband. She was laughing and crying at the same time and couldn't eat a thing, she was so excited. Easter has always been a big family time for us, but since Mum and Dad became ill, the get-togethers are even more precious.

Of books and chooks

Last weekend I went to a weekend writers' festival in Gippsland -- in the east of Victoria, about 4 hours drive from Melbourne. It was at Stratford on Avon -- yes, that's right. There's a small town called Stratford and it's set on the Avon River, so what better address for a writers' get-together?

I knew I was in the country when I was woken at crack of dawn by the most over-excited chook in the world right outside my window! (Chook is Australian slang for hen.) Now, I was brought up in the bush, and all chooks like to boast and carry on when they've laid an egg, but this chook was the Carmen Miranda, the Lola Montez, the Bette Midler at her most outrageous - of chooks. Cluck doesn't even begin to describe it! She squawked and carolled and shrieked and yodelled and I can just bet she was also doing a chook conga if not a lambada -- and this cacophony went on for more than 40 minutes (Yes, I timed it! It was still dark, after all and I was on my own in a motel bed and sleep was out of the question.)
I was a little grumpy, at first, but the sheer celebratory glee this chook showed her egg became quite endearing after a while, and the next morning when she started again, I felt almost friendly towards her. I brought back some eggs from there and I'm trying to work out which ones are Carmen's eggs. They're all delicious, but I sort of expected Carmen's eggs to have gold glitter attached. She was that sort of chook.

But I didn't go to Stratford to play with chooks, but to meet other writers, and I sure did that. I gave a couple of workshops there, which I enjoyed very much, but the best thing for me was listening and talking to other people. It's so exciting to get together with a bunch of people who are just as obsessed and fascinated by writing as you are -- and there were so many wonderful stories floating around on the air. So many writers are born storytellers.

There were poets and historians, life writers, food writers, fiction writers, journalists, children's writers and fantasy writers, hilarious bush poets and playwrights... Even a romance writer or two!
A highlight for me was listening to Arnold Zable (Jewels and Ashes, Café Scheherazade) talk about his writing -- that man writes like a dream and tells a story like a magician. I also went to a wonderful session on historians writing about place. I listened to some amazing local stories, of mountain cattlemen who swam their cattle in the sea; tales from the Murray River where I lived as a small child; and of Yallourn, a town that's disappeared like Brigadoon and the people who try to keep it alive through stories and artifacts. And there were so many more stories. I itched to use them in my fiction -- and I will one day.
There was a delicious dinner on Saturday night and Cecelia Dart-Thornton spoke, telling her inspirational story of selling her book (The Ill-Made Mute) through exposure she gained on the internet and the incredible exposure and publicity she had afterwards.

The worst thing about the festival was that I couldn't get myself cloned and go to all the sessions, so I had to miss some of them! Many thanks to my friend Vi Balhas and her partners on the Organizing Committee; it was a wonderful weekend.

The other exciting thing that happened recently was that we launched the second series of PageTurners, the adult literacy stories I write with a couple of friends and which is published through my work at a community education centre for adult learning. The really exciting thing was that we were instantly flooded with orders from people and institutions who'd bought the first set. And the orders didn't only come from within Australia -- there was a huge order from Canada. Thank you Canada - and everyone else!

New Orleans

Well, I'm home from New Orleans, where I attended the Romance Writers of America national conference. I had a wonderful time. First I stayed a few days in the French Quarter, in a lovely old French style hotel.

The old French Quarter hotel where I stayed on first arriving in New Orleans. My room overlooked this gorgeous courtyard- you can see my door just above the fountain.

I arrived there on Bastille Day (July 14) so naturally on Saturday night I had to venture out into Bourbon St to play. I wandered back and forth and listened to some good music. Finally I went into a restaurant with a Cajun band (I like Cajun music -- we even have it in Australia, you know.) I got talking to this local guy...well, sort of. I had a little trouble following him. He seemed to mumble quite a few of his words, but I managed. But he had HUGE trouble understanding me. I thought my accent was pretty easy to understand. Yeah, right. At one stage he said "Are you sure that's English you're speaking?" And he was serious!

Around 2 am, I was still wide awake, my body being on Australian time, but I thought I'd better try to adjust my body clock. Only I'd lost my hotel, or rather the street it was in. So it being Bastille Day and this being the French Quarter, I asked a mounted policeman where was "Rue Chartres" pronounced in my best French accent. "Hey, what?" he said. I asked again the way to "Rue Chartres." Understanding dawned on him. He leaned down off his horse and shouted in my ear "It's Charters Street, Honey, Charters Street!" Honey slunk back to her hotel. Next morning I discovered Decatur St rhymes with Gator St. So much for practising my French Accent!

The conference itself was great. I had a fabulous time meeting my editors, eating and drinking in wonderful restaurants (thank you publishers), going to brilliant workshops (Jo Beverley gave a fabulous talk about flying into the mist which took away all my anxiety about my method of plotting as I go -- thank you Jo!) And I had a lovely time meeting so many of the other authors, many of whom I knew from email but had never met. And I even met some people who had read my books! I can tell you, that was a thrill. It doesn't happen much where I live. I've never met such a warm, generous friendly bunch of people as romance writers and readers. Thanks everyone.