I love language. Its purpose, persuasiveness and possibility. I aspire to the art of a perfect sentence: to evoke an image, flavour, character or behaviour. To find the right word for the job. I revel in the challenge of exposing the sublime balance of character and plot, so as to engage my reader in that most curious of dynamics – the relationship between foreign imaginations.
Education was a misnomer until I discovered tertiary institutions, then I never left – seven years across four campuses and two continents. People actually discussed and debated popular culture. You could submit short films instead of theoretical essays for assessment. I was the stopover that stayed. But while education fills the brain it doesn’t fill the belly. At some stage income seems integral.
It’s the cliché casting call of submission and rejection. I have felt like the bridesmaid of the writing industry for a long time. Should I pitch: 27 Scripts? I do love a montage. Thus my desk balances on the proverbial “bottom drawer” where several manuscripts of the film, TV and novel oeuvre groan impatiently, rustling to be nurtured into something more than catharsis. I had a pinch of success after finishing my screenwriting course with funding from the AFC for a feature film, but it was dropped after development. Most of my submissions to TV series have been well received but my services have not been required (read between the lines girl).
I have slaved away at a plethora of mundane jobs from dish pig to debt collector and while they don’t feed the soul, they do fill that other beast with a voracious appetite – story. That is the true gift of being a storyteller, everything is research.
Stephen King is my favourite author. He is my mentor by osmosis. I panic that I will not be alive long enough to reread his entire library of work for the third time. So many books, so little time. I did the math – I have to read twenty books each year and live at least another thirty to get through my list. And that’s not including papa King’s published works or any potential new material. When I first started reading King (It was the hook), I used to preach his gospel, enamored as I was. I remember this one guy saying to me that he wasn’t into horror and I was genuinely surprised. He stumped me. I had never thought of King as a horror writer (that says more about me than him), for me he trolled the depths of the human psyche in extreme circumstances, forcing his characters to confront their base fears and keep moving forward. Fascinating. And yes, there may have been a rabid dog, an ominous hotel, a maniacal clown or a devil of a shopkeeper, but aren’t they all symbols for the challenges we face in our own lives?
Undoubtedly, I will continue to write: film because it’s epic, TV because of its omnipresence and books for their utter purity. Twenty years without success has not deterred me because even without an audience, I’m still entertained.
Pyromance is the novel I always wanted to read, snug in a club chair with a latte at hand. Feel free to insert “banana lounge and margarita” or “airplane and single serve nuts”. It’s transport for the mind. Thanks & Spanks!
and debut novel…..Pyromance…available at Tercio Books
Ms Ann Thrope was born running from a Melbourne alley which would one day be known as AC/DC lane. As Thunderstruck, the hail of gunfire was not the only fury that rained down on her, that November of 1988. Whoever she was in that lane died the moment she skidded off the cobblestones, in her black patent boots and into heavy pedestrian traffic. Her discarded fire engine red wig her only corpse, on a day death was sated.
Ann, now an independent, educated, blacksmith, runs her own business; Irony. Her combination of scale and detail produce grand designs, which are often found secreted throughout Melbourne’s underground.
She is a lone wolf. No family or friends only clients and barfly’s. She is however, content, until her prized HJ ute collides into some random guy. As she calls emergency services the guy vanishes, his camera the only evidence of his existence. On developing the film she discovers the images are of her. Her past rears up. Why is she under surveillance and who is he working for? Inadvertently, she runs into him at a business meeting and discovers he’s merely a photography student. Herb Ritts meets Hercule Poirot. Enter Matt Chisholm.
Ann is not the only one keeping secrets, Matt has a blinder of his own. He is hunting the man who murdered his mother – his father. The betrayal of his “adoptive” family, forced his exodus from Adelaide in search of the cancer he needs to expel. The sickness grows, the closer he gets to Ann’s past. And as the two of them trade insults up to blows, they develop an addiction to each other. But as Matt makes Ann’s past present, they become the anti-romance, destroying each other and anyone caught in their crossfire.
Some secrets live, regardless of their parents, because the truth never dies. And for some lies, death is not enough.
Available now at Tercio Books http://www.terciobooks.com