Why dogs 2

 Extract from Nothing but the Best. (Medical Romance by Margaret Sutherland)

 Hearing a bark, he saw a movement on the porch. That dog he’d seen weeks ago was still hanging around. He wondered why Natalie hadn’t contacted the RSPCA to take it away. It shouldn’t be living like this, skulking and hiding, poor creature.  Now it was coming toward him, wagging its curl of a tail. “Hello, boy,” he said diffidently. He’d never had anything to do with animals, but its lonely plight tugged at his heart. Strays had been unwelcome in the rental properties of his childhood. His mother had warned him not to touch the mangy cats that fought and mated outside his window, or the skinny dogs that hunted for food scraps. As an adult, his caution had been confirmed when he had to perform surgery on a small child who had been badly bitten in a dog attack. But this creature seemed friendly; in fact, was greeting him like a long-lost friend, giving excited yips and even spinning around in circles. Philip laughed. The joie de vivre of the little dog was contagious. He looked well fed, his short coat was brushed, and his eyes were bright. Someone was tending to his needs— presumably the lady from next door. She seemed a decent enough woman, if a chatterbox, sharing the hopes and disappointments of her love life as though he was a close friend...

...He locked up, intending to go home, but the dog had other ideas.  “You’ve got me confused with someone else, mate.” The animal seemed absolutely convinced he had found his master. Perhaps he wanted a walk? There was a leash hanging over the porch railing. Feeling oddly flattered by the dog’s attention, he attached the clip to his collar. A worn nametag read Teddy. What a name to inflict on a dog! If he belonged to Philip, that would be the first thing he would change. He lifted the dog into the back of the Lexus, tying the leash to stop him jumping up on the leather upholstery. He’d stretch his legs with a quick walk along the beach before the weather broke. The lake was only a five-minute drive away...
                                                                                                                     
...A brisk wind was whipping the waves to whitecaps, and moored craft rocked from side to side. The impending storm was bringing fishermen back to shore. Philip watched a couple of boaties who were efficiently winching a luxury cruiser up the launching ramp. Another sailor was hooking up his trailer, and further out, a solitary man was steering for the ramp, his small outboard motor sending out a steady throb.   Philip untied Teddy. Grabbing the end of the lead, he prepared to set out for a walk in the bracing wind. Teddy seemed distracted by the myriad sounds and scents. Sniffing attentively, he fixed his bulbous gaze on the incoming boat. He listened intently, then suddenly tugged hard enough to slip his collar, and raced on his stubby legs toward the water. The lead dangling from his hand, Philip ran after him, pulling up short as he reached the waterline. Could dogs swim? It seemed so. Teddy was heading out to the small boat, bobbing up and down amid the whitecaps. Philip called him several times, with growing anxiety. The dog wasn’t responding at all to his shouts. Did he have the brains to understand he must turn around and come back to safety? The incoming boat was almost at the ramp, but Teddy had failed to overtake it and instead forged straight ahead, heading for the horizon now...     ("Viktor". Photo courtesy of Tibetan Spaniel Network)

Why dogs?

My latest novel will be released on July 27th. That's only four days away! This is when all the days,weeks and months of work come together as one small ebook. This is when the author offers his or her work to the world. In other words, this is it!
     This time I've drawn on my training as a nurse and my interest in health issues to write a medical romance. My fifth romance with dogs, is far from the usual doctor/nurse story. But one aspect of Nothing but the Best will be familiar to my readers who enjoy the canine characters and their roles in the romances.This time, it's a Tibetan Spaniel, Teddy, who steals the limelight and reminds me of the old stage adage, 'Never compete with children or dogs.'

     People sometimes ask me why dogs play an important role in my romances. It’s not so hard to understand. A romance is about love—the finding, the losing, the eventual coming together of two people who are ready to commit, whatever the future may bring. What better symbol of attachment, devotion and unconditional love can you find than a faithful dog?
    The dogs I have known over several decades have given me immeasurable pleasure. Big or small, pedigree or lucky dip, sweet or assertive, all have been my friends and companions. They have filled my life with laughter and love. No wonder I like to write about them!
    In Nothing but the Best, I created Teddy, a Tibetan Spaniel based on one of my pets, now deceased. Determined to guard his master’s premises, he endures isolation rather than abandon his post. Of course this book is a romance. A man and a woman fall in love. And Teddy, as is fitting, finds his own happy ending.
     I'll be posting a couple of extracts about Teddy over the coming days. If I can't disclose the storyline of the book without 'spoiling' the plot, I can introduce you to a most endearing little dog.

Romance on the Rhine

The day was cold. The church hall was small. Concert goers straggled in, their dark winter coats and sombre clothing giving an impression they were refugees queuing up to be processed. A hum of conversation gradually filled the space. The pianist was already seated at the Yamaha grand piano. She was conferring with her white-haired page turner. Microphones were placed either side of the dais, where a couple of floral arrangements were dwarfed by the massive pipes of the church organ.

I scanned the programme. Romance on the Rhine…a recital of divine German and French songs. I flipped the pages casually. English translations stressed the huge gap between composers of earlier centuries, and the music of today. Romance? These flowery lyrics hardly fit our world. The news is awful, the economy is bad, terrorists and pollution are our daily diet. We have dug ourselves into a low state of confidence and trust.

One thinks such thoughts on a cold winter’s day.  But wait, the singers emerge from the wings and the pianist smiles at the audience. We hear that Act 1 comprises German composers: Mozart, Mahler, Richard Strauss and Schumann. The singer positions herself and nods to the pianist.

A pure note is heard. Something about this sound expands in my heart. German syllables fill the hall, lingering with grandeur on the ear. The lyrics are no longer trite, for I cannot understand them, nor do I want to. They speak through music, and the cares of the day evaporate.

These are art songs, we are told. They are a play between the voice and piano. I can hear this interplay as imposing passages ripple from the pianist’s hands, blending as the soprano eases forth quiet notes or soars to a climax.

Act 2 airs the French composers; Faure, Poulenc, Saint-Saens. It is the turn of the second soprano now. This romantic language draws forth her stories as in turn she is coy, devout, wistful, naughty. Always, she is a songbird. Always, the piano leads and follows, swells and dies. It is no longer a cold winter’s day. I have forgotten all the bad news. I am lifted up to another place, a place of great gifts, of art.

The last applause slows. The concert is over. Smiles and friendly greetings go with us to our cars. What a pity it is, that such experiences are not considered newsworthy. The news tonight will not even mention this event. But whatever grim facts are in store, I have the gorgeous harmonies of the Flower Duet from Lakme as my antidote. Thank you so much,  Kathleen Moore, Kathryn Dries and Sharon Raschke. 

                                     (Painting by Thomas Eakins, 'The Concert Singer'.)

Winter Solstice

     June 21st is the date of the winter solstice in Australia. This day has set me thinking about my neighbours who, like me, will be turning on their lights and warming their rooms as they prepare for the long, cold night ahead.

     When I was young, neighbours were remote figures dimly glimpsed, as though through a rain-spattered window. We seemed to have so little in common. A casual wave, a few words about the weather...a rare irritation with barking dogs or an overhanging tree branch.
     But now I'm older and I live in a settled street where I have come to know most of my neighbours. They reflect my own journey through the decades. Childhood and adolescence; marriage and parenting; work and change. I see houses sold, and new people arriving. Where on my timeline will they fit?

     As I go along the street, I am in familiar, friendly territory. Benson, the Golden Retriever, shows up at the gate, hoping for a tidbit. Melanie the one-eyed cat stares crookedly from a driveway.
     I stop to collect the mail for Bob and Jan, who are away on their New Zealand cruise.
     I wonder if Jannine is sick. Her car is in the driveway and she hasn't taken in her rubbish bin. Perhaps I'll phone her later.
     I can hear Peter's radio, tuned to its '60s hits. He emerges from his workshop, grumbling that his arthritis is giving him gyp. We exchange goods--a carrot cake for a tray of his free-range eggs. His hens are a happy sound, clucking as they wake to daylight.

     I value these encounters. They are small connections but they count.
     As night closes in on the shortest day, I will look out on the darkened world, comforted by the warm glow of lights in my neighbours' windows.

(Comments are appreciated. I apologise that Blogger does not accept my replies, informing me that I do not exist!)
    

Memoir Writing

We leave a shadow as we walk through life.

Recently I have been reading memoirs, in preparation for a workshop I was booked to give.
The breadth of style and topic this form inspires is astonishing. Narrative, letters, diaries, blogs...how can I compare Paris in Love, Eloisa James' light-hearted account of her year in Paris, with Joan Didion's stark contemplation of ageing in Blue Nights?

Childhood, too, can be mined by the memoir writer. Has any writer surpassed the naturalist Gerald Durrell's delightful Corfu trilogy? In My Family and Other Animals, he takes us to an idyllic summer roaming the Greek Island, free to explore the landscape's hills and bays with his dog, Roger.
I closed all these books, feeling privileged to have shared these lives with their pleasures, fears and discoveries.

The day of the workshop arrived. It was intended for senior citizens, and the faces gazing back at me showed, like my own, the passage of time. Having agreed that, unlike autobiography, you can write as many memoirs as you choose, the class each shared a random topic for the coming exercises. Some spoke out fluently. Others hesitated. A couple of people waved me away as if to say, "I'm not ready."
I noticed the transforming effect of each person's words. Faces became youthful, shedding decades as they relived moments of emotion. For our feelings seem to be the key to what we most vividly remember.

Nostalgia, pride, regret, even fear was sketched. Smiles and laughter chopped through the barriers of strangers. It was as though, sharing memories that mattered, we were like Hansel and Gretel, tiptoeing through life's unknown forest, our trail of experience scattering a path we could look back on. Memoir is a wonderful medium. Who is your favourite author of memoir?

Adoption Stories

Coincidentally, two books I borrowed from the library recently had the theme of adoption.

The stories couldn't be more different. "The Bad Mother", a novel by Isabelle Gray, is deliberately titled to intrigue. In fact, the character Tessa Parker is an excellent mother to her two teenagers. It is she who blames herself quite unfairly when her son runs away from home. Tessa's perceived failings and inattention to her family, however, seem excusable, given that she has only just found out she was adopted. To loving parents, yes. Somehow, Tessa tracks her origins, discovering her real father is serving jail time. Even so, she can't resisting meeting him, unwittingly offering naive trust to a dubious man. The tension level in this book is maintained very well. Along with Tessa, we suffer the confusion, misplaced hope and fear that erode her confidence as she searches for the truth.

The second book is a kind of memoir. Jeanette Winterson is of course a prize-winning author, well-known for several novels including her book, "Oranges are not the Only Fruit," where a girl adopted by Pentecostal parents falls in love with a woman. That painful story of judgment and punishment reminds us of just how harsh the world was, if you happened to be different. The title of this later volume is "Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal,"  which were the parting words she was offered as she was driven from her home at sixteen.

This is another painful read. The author is honest without blaming. She feels the wrench from her birth mother intuitively, while her adoptive mother deals out religion and punishment. Her daughter spends time in the coal hole or is put to sit on the doorstep overnight. Yet there is some kind of bond. "She was a monster but she was my monster," is the adult Jeanette's response when the birth mother she eventually traces seems to criticize the other woman. The author can be funny, and has a devastating eye for the ridiculous moments in life. One hopes these candid soul searchings bring some sort of catharsis and peace.

Meanwhile, I guarantee you won't want to put these books down! They are both great reads, and touch on serious issues in our culture and its ideas of parenting.

Bill. The Life of William Dobell. (Review)

Life as we live it is an unpredictable, messy business. Only when it is over can a perceptive biographer bring shape and meaning to our existence. Scott Bevan has succeeded admirably as he charts the fortunes of Sir William Dobell, known to his friends simply as ‘Bill’.

This is an excellent biography; the kind you read like a thriller, unable to put the book aside. At 457 pages of text plus a daunting 36 pages of references, this speaks not only for the interest of the subject but also the research and writing skill of the author, Scott Bevan. With carefully-chosen language and strong verbs he brings alive the visual landscapes where Dobell lived and worked. A Cultural Centre glares across the park; Catalinas heave themselves into the sky.

Setting is imperative in this account. After a debilitating court case, it seems that Dobell restored his health and sanity by retreating to the sleepy, lake-side village of Wangi Wangi, on Lake Macquarie’s shore. Living with his older sister Alice at Allowah, their simple cottage by the lake, he resumed painting and found a healing routine walking his dogs, visiting the local library or drinking with mates at the pub. Not the life of an important artist, one might think. But Dobell is presented as a simple man, pulled into the limelight of notoriety by the famous court case challenging his right to paint as he saw.

He cannot avoid the art world and its pretensions, painting and meeting politicians, artists, and the names of the day. Fame attracts him, yet he is more comfortable with the characters who have no claim to fame, except that he chose to portray them in his own visual way. He dislikes publicity yet is constantly in the news. He seems doomed to inspire controversy, though he proclaims he prefers to be left alone to paint. Endearing anecdotes reveal his foibles and fears. He hates driving. His last car has 14 kilometres on the speedo when he dies. He has no egg cups, so uses a cut-up toilet roll to serve a boiled egg to his visitor. His dogs won’t budge from the shop door until he buys them each an ice cream.

Somehow these little points humanise a man who has earned both lavish praise and vitriolic criticism. People describe him as ‘gentle’, ‘nervous’, ‘sensitive’, yet there is often a touch of malice to his portrayals. As he ages, he avoids Sydney, preferring the undemanding charm of Newcastle’s fringes. As a Newcastle resident myself, I enjoyed the part this city played in the life of a complex and gifted man. This is a wonderful read and I heartily recommend it to anyone curious about the dichotomy of this artist’s public and private lives.

Valentine Romance

In the Western world we pepper the year with days of special significance.

Valentine's Day ushers in moods of rejoicing and hope, when, briefly, people can forget our political, global and personal woes, and remember the joys of love and friendship.

When I moved from New Zealand to Australia in 1986, I found myself in the company of a group who dressed up and recreated medieval times. Romance and courtly behavior were high on their agenda. As well as the feasting and jousting, roses and verses were normal courtship aids. How impressed I was!

I am happy to tell you I found my own romance here, and have never left this magnificent country.
I wrote the first draft of VALENTINE MASQUERADE a long time ago. Recently I found the old manuscript. I was about to burn it, but started reading and became engrossed in the story. After a rewrite, it was accepted by Sweet Cravings Publishers in America.

I have been a writer for several decades, but only lately have I turned to writing romance, including all the ups and downs of understanding and loving another human being. My dogs also feature in each book, bringing their own special kind of love to each story.

As a special gift to you for Valentine's Day, my publisher has reduced the ebook price of VALENTINE MASQUERADE to only 99 cents on their website.

I hope you will grab a copy and share the journey of my lovers and the beautiful dog on the cover.

Available now until February 14th:  http://store.sweetcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=book_info&cPath=4&products_id=206