Leaving Gaza: an intimate story of marriage, sex and power

I am thinking of my friends in America. It's a long hop from there to Australia, where I am enjoying a late burst of spring. As I deadhead roses and stake the tall gladioli and foxgloves, I imagine my friends storing firewood and shaking out their winter coats and blankets.

Today is the launch of a new edition of the novel, Leaving Gaza, first published in 2007. What has changed since then? Well, the book has an updated cover and a bargain price, but the essential human situations are the same.  Ruth, the Israeli novelist in my story, makes her own long journey, leaving her conflicted homeland, looking for a quiet life in Australia. The friendships she forms with Heath and Barbara Barnes make her feel welcome. Their artistic partnership (Heath is a musician, his wife paints) complements Ruth's own talent as a writer.

But in the peaceful setting of their long marriage, Heath and Barbara are confronted with a private war of their own. Ruth becomes the third point in a triangle of mistrust and suspicion. Growth and insight are rarely won without pain. The gains and losses have to balance.

You may view Leaving Gaza now. The links are
ebook     http://tinyurl.com/jklflde

paper      http://tinyurl.com/zj57a7p

I hope you enjoy this touching story of marriage, sex, power and friendship.

The Last Party Free Book

It's hard to start again.

The publisher of my last four books closed up shop last year, leaving hundreds of writers to seek new homes. One of my strategies, as I waited for decisions, was to relaunch an updated website, focusing on previous titles. "The Last Party" is one of those books. It is a collection of several short stories, all with a medical or nursing theme, and it covers the whole life spectrum from birth to death. Yes, it is a serious book, but I wouldn't call it depressing or sad. Humour and acceptance lighten the struggles and challenges my characters face and deal with.

And the good news is, it is free until 9th May, or therabouts, depending on time zones.

The links to Amazon are as follows. http://amzn.to/1X5CuzG or http://bit.ly/1W3cRA3

or you can find the cover on my website at www.margaretsutherland.com

There's something in this book for everyone. As a reviewer said, "Every woman over 50 should read this book". And to that I will add, "and every man..."!
Grab a copy while it's free.

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?