Nice Little Mention

Like many large organisations, Energex has a magazine - Connections. Last edition they were kind enough to run a little mention of my newly published status. It's funny; scratch the surface of so many people and you find a creative pursuit quietly ticking away in the background... actors, musicians, photographers, super cooks, other writers... they're everywhere! We should have an expo...

I'll be in the June edition of Finally at 40 as well... it's a new mag - check it out at the newsagents or at http://www.finallyat40.com/

Dog Tired

Last night the dog looked sad as he sniffed around us. Usually Bob the rescue dog and Nelson the retriever love their little treat of indoor time in the evenings, but last night they just curled up together and snored a quiet duet.

Do even large, hole-digging, vegie-patch destroying, toy-eating, fur shedding hound dogs get the blues?

My New Local

I am finding that, in this busy life, if you want a little peace and space then you have to schedule it... Accordingly, I am experimenting with a little scheduled space for myself on a Monday evening. Usually I catch my 2 trains home... a trip of 2 hrs, and fling myself happily into family life as soon as I walk in the door.

We are trialling this system of a Monday night space and time...we'll see how it goes. I have found this rather elegant little lounge bar, generally empty on a Monday night, where I can set myself up in a corner of the sofa, drink at hand, a little music, enough light without being intrusive.

I feel so civilised! I write and write and before I know it it's time to catch the late train.

With a busy day job, marketing Crisp Whites for all I'm worth and a busy family life, this little apppointment is magic!

Time for Writing??

It's been a big week for me, blog-mates. Lots of good things have happened... my mum took delivery of the first sale copy of Crisp Whites and that was exciting. I have had to come to grips with the bucking horse of marketing - thank goodness for my planning-mad hubby! Just to keep me on my toes, work has been hectic and the family has lots going on. Is there anything wrong with wanting to live several lives at once?

Novel 2 is waiting for me, though... something is gonna hafta give!

Your Copy of Crisp Whites!

Greetings, Crispy fans - The wait is over! (well, almost…)
There are now suppliers who will ship Crisp Whites to Australian buyers - yay!

The attached press release has the links - also below...

You have 2 options for buying Crisp Whites:

Option 1 - Amazon

Go to http://www.amazon.com , drop down the first menu to "books" and in the search field write "Crisp Whites"
Click on the 4 new link - this means 4 new suppliers and the second supplier: the_book_depository_ will ship to Australia.
Add to your cart from this section and proceed on to the checkout. You will need to add your card if you have not had an Amazon delivery before.


Option 2 - The Publisher's website

Here is the link:
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/CrispWhites.html

The retail price is slightly higher than Amazon, and the shipping costs are slightly lower - so it works out pretty close :)


Now the only thing you will need to wait for is the shipping!

I'd love to hear what you think of the book... I hope you enjoy it.

Best always,

Noelani

The Print Proof Looks Great!

Amid great excitement (including an excess of chocolate cake for the toddler) we have taken charge of the very first copy of Crisp Whites... It looks so good! I have given the green light to the publisher to release it... any day now!

CRISP WHITES will be available soon for $19.95USD and can be ordered through:
http://www.amazon.com or
http://search.barnesandnoble.com
or from the publisher’s website:
http://www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/CrispWhites.html
Wholesalers please email
BookOrder@AEG-Online-Store.com

Lily, Meadesborough, 1832

“Rose! Anne! Will you stop mooning about and bring in those eggs?” Lillian looks at me with that little gleam of amusement that she has – a sort of brightening of the eye that conveys delight with no need of any curve to the smile. She is the quiet, still one, my lovely namesake. Serene as a lake, and with a womanly depth to her nature that makes her company pure delight. She and I are addressing ourselves to the preparation of some light and, hopefully, fluffy sponge cakes. Her fiancé’s parents come to tea today. They adore her already (who wouldn’t?) but it never hurts to make a good impression at every turn.

I roll my eyes and unreservedly roar out of the kitchen window; “Girls!” Finally there is some action from that quarter and the dreamy pair come drifting back through the herb garden. Lillian is a grown woman of twenty-four, but these two... although I don’t expect Rose, at nineteen to be too settled, Ann is just as bad, at twenty-two. Books, make believe, silly songs and impromptu pantomime in the garden... these are the things they love best.

I smile to myself as the eggs are handed over, still warm from the boxes. In truth I wouldn’t have my girls any other way, naturally enough. And although I often upbraid them for their undisciplined ways, I will stand ferocious guard over these lovely, carefree years of their youth. Time enough in any woman’s life to bend her mind, her back and her hands to the endless tasks of living.

Lillian and I whisk and fold, moving about the kitchen in a practised dance. Ann and Rose chatter like a pair of magpies, perched on high stools and stealing little pinches of batter whenever they can.

tick tick tick

The countdown begins! Will Crisp Whites be released in time for me to submit an entry in the Qld Premier’s Literary Award for new fiction? The cover is finalised, the print proof on its way (apparently). I need 5 copies delivered to the office in Brisbane by 5:00pm 10 May... Is it possible?

(Should have worked harder on that time-travel idea...)

Charles goes on...

Plague

I have drifted off topic. I was telling old Bert about Lily. Extraordinary is the word I used and I want to tell you why.

I will commence with a whiskery old truism and tell you that it has been the joy of my life to be married to this girl. The joy of my days...Really, I haven’t looked back, personally or professionally since she took me in hand. This will sound odd, but we are a team. I know what you’re thinking! Charles is getting soft in the head! At best, a wife is a soothing and comforting presence, a source of offspring and an efficient chatelaine. At worst, a shrewish burden. But I tell you, it’s not like that between us. Right from day one, I have been able to depend on Lily’s advice, her steady temper and her instincts. She is not like other women, my Lily.

Perhaps, I am also not like other men, for I know few men who would relish a serious discussion of business matters with their wife – especially when she disagrees with one! But she brooks no foolishness, and I respect her opinion. I hope you won’t think less of me for it.

So...

Extraordinary...

You will be saying to yourself Charles has a good wife – lucky Charles! This hardly qualifies the term extraordinary though... I say to you many wives are steady and stalwart creatures through the tribulations of family life, but My Lily has risen to become an extraordinary creature of calm and reason in the face of...well... perhaps I should just tell you about that summer.

Elizabeth Pinkney Chronicles

The tale continues...

Charles, Vienna 1841

“Sit there, Bert. Put your feet on the grate... no wives to scold us here! That’s better...time for a small whiskey and a long talk. What a night!” I dragged another wing chair over for myself and settled into it. Good to take a load off these old legs.

My friend and colleague Albert has travelled with me to Vienna this week. There is a gathering here of scientific men...such interesting ideas. Young men; a lot of them... good to see. Handing over the baton, that’s what old Bertie and I are doing. It’s time for that young blood to take charge. Hmm...know what I’m saying? I’m still interested in my own research, mind you. The brain might move a bit slower these days; might be a bit less limber, but it still works, thank the lord. Be a terrible thing to lose that clear thought... can’t imagine. It is summer here – still crisp – these northern summers are never particularly hot. Pleasant enough though. Many of the gatherings are being held in an open plaza – nice place, good acoustics and good for me - I can hover a comfortable distance away and listen. Can’t abide a tight-packed crowd...never could.

Tonight, Bert and I sit in the cosy drawing room of our little pensionnat; our abode for the week. Hmm...simple little place; quite good enough for a pair of old fellows like us. After several days of mild weather, the clouds have closed in overhead and a nasty wind has sprung up. We sit with our drinks and a modest cigar each, and that wind shrieks in the crooked chimney. Like someone screaming. Unnerves me, I’ll just tell you quietly. Every so often, sparks explode upwards in the grate – whoosh!

Unsettling – what? Yes, all rather unsettling.

I don’t often travel to these assemblies and home is on my mind tonight.

“How is that little wife of yours?” enquires Bert, perhaps sensing my preoccupation. I smile into my moustaches. Lily is fifty-six, God keep her, a shrewd and sturdy matron, but to me she will ever suggest the winsome slip of a girl that I married... little wife indeed. A sip of whiskey warms me. “Bert,” I respond, still smiling, “she is...extraordinary.” Bert’s considerable jowls momentarily bunch upwards in an affectionate grin. He has always liked Lily. “You know,” I continue “I realised something while Caulfield was giving us his lecture today...”

“The botanist from South London? Those bright red whiskers?”

“That’s the one. He was taking that line about the narrow divide between the therapeutic and the poisonous – do you remember?” Bert switched his cigar to the other cheek. “Oh yes! He had quite the litany of deadly stems and blossoms, that one.” (Bert is a naturalist; his interests are piqued by the animal world. I fear he finds the world of plant life a trifle dull.) “Well,” I pressed on, as the fire made a particularly lively display, “it recalled to me those two unfortunates who were murdered, back home in Middlesborough – must be eight years ago now. Did you ever hear of the cases?”

“Oh yes - I did – Quite the scandal for such a quiet village. Did one of them not have all sorts of odd afflictions in the months before he was killed?”

“Yes! They both did. Rashes of boils, blood-filled eyes, odd episodes of behaviour... like flights of madness... a...a...blackening of the extremities... a kind of rotting - very nasty.” There is a brief pause while we both sip whiskey and imagine the unpleasant implications of rotting extremities. The screaming wind adds a visceral discomfort to my thoughts. “Yes...” I continue, gravely “They suffered all right. All manner of horrible afflictions. In the end, I think most of the locals – the peasants you understand; the working men - considered them to be possessed by demons! The poor wretches were at my house many times. They were old employees of Lily’s father... did you know that?”

“No! How extraordinary... I had assumed from accounts that they must have been doddering ancients.”

“Well, no – the elder – the first to be murdered, he was only fifty-three when it happened. His younger brother followed him a couple of years later – he must have been about the same age by then. So – not young, but until they were felled by persons unknown, they were hale. Oh yes, in animal good health. Owned a few paddocks at the back of the Redfern farm...quartered horses there, did a few odd jobs. Still quite upright and strong, you understand...Hmmm?” I took a meditative puff. Those old murders had never been solved. They were grisly and the strangeness that had attended them had left our quiet little ville with a real stain of tragedy.

What do you think?

I have been wracking my brains for the direction to take in a little Victorian novella that I have been toying with.

I think I have it... a rather sturdy, prosperous, apparently contented middle aged couple hide secrets. She most of all.

There have been some disturbances in their quiet little village. the husband is full of admiration for his wife's steadiness through these alarming happenings. He is a good man, and loves his wife and daughters dearly. There are things he doesn't know...things that no-one could be expected to know.

here is the introduction. Please tell me what you think.

Prelude

My name is Wrath.

I am a poison of the spirit, peculiarly female. I am a dark smoke that rises in the heart of the woman ill used. Not a child, mind you; I speak not here of the abused child, for those unformed minds have not the shadowy imagination to spawn me. I am a bitter hunger for bloody revenge and I rise, inexorably, in many lives. Lives of violence, of humiliation... Betrayal of trust...these lives are like tinder awaiting the spark.

For many, I am confined. My choking tendrils touch only their creator. Long, long lives are lived while a woman holds close my sinister power. Most die with me creaking in their heart... a bleak, unwanted lodger.

But some...some – oh! The sinew, the bared snarl of those few! When my spark ignites those lives and I can burst through; implacable, black – the beast unleashed. Bloody murder I wreak, with a fearsome scream of hard anguish. Not often... no – not very often... What has the power to strip back the heavy cloak of passivity, of gentle forbearance?

I tell you this – all those who would use their position – their long tradition of power to saturate a woman’s life with grief. Let me give you a warning.

Remember, that I am wrath – I am the one, the smoke, the hunger.

Harm not her child.

Expo

A chattering swarm takes the hill. Early morning fog burning off in the bright Brisbane sun. What is going on over there? Crazy costumes; a lycra tiger suit, face paint, tail swinging... a collar and chain, the Mad Hatter, Sergeant Pepper, something... a frothy mini-dress of black lace, purple fishnets...painful shoes. Mixed in with the Karate ka, the ninja – tabi boots and headwraps (a bit hot for that?).

Shrugs at her friend – crazy crowd, what can you expect in the big city? At the crest of the hill, the old museum – gothic spires, crazy mix of brick. Turn the corner just as the Queen of Hearts struts by. Must be some kind of theatre event?

Inside; big, hot rooms – mats and the vinegar smell of sweat and leather. 3 wrestlers fidget in their suits while the instructors drone. “...oldest competitive sport apart from running or walking... wrestling moves engraved in the pyramids...” Big, industrial fans make the air hum, circulating the heat nicely. The youngest wrestler – what? 14? Gangly except for the solid column of his neck. Can’t decide what to do with his hands (no pockets in a wrestling suit). Hair in careful disarray, awkward, self conscious stance. Lycra as slinky as the tiger suit. He tugs at the legs, gazes at the ceiling. Coltish limbs restless, the joints bony. He has AUS printed on the back of his suit... this kid competes for Australia?

The instructor comes to a point... “Harrison will demonstrate...” the kid steps forward, transformed. Crouches; focused, coiled, eyes implacable on the larger opponent. Like lightning he strikes! They clash and lock like antlers...sinew leaps into relief. The bodies, boyish a moment ago –all wire and straining ferocity. A moment of equilibrium – a change of grip, of stance – a switch too subtle to catch... and then... amazing flight as the older boy is flipped through the air to land with alarming force on his back, pinned at the neck (3 points). They rise, step back.

The sinuous, oiled ease is gone... once again, two teenagers shift and fidget. Ordinary...

Superheroes hidden away again.

Understanding

Nudges in the boardroom how’s that little wife of yours – you old dog? Significantly raised eyebrows – grizzled and wild. It’s good natured, cheerful envy. No secret that money and power tends to draw the birds. He wheezes slightly as he treads the narrow alleyway to the coffee shop they all like now. Standing about, legs braced wide, the shoulders of dark, Saville Row repeated over and over. Most of them from Lloyds... a few barristers. Shiny pates, heavy, creased faces nodding over glasses of strong brews. Glasses wrapped in napkins... why wrap a hot glass in a napkin when a cup would... oh, never mind. It’s what they all like now. Like standing... it’s what they do now.

The complacent air is a fabrication, of course... eyes alight with the next chance – as hungry and eager as they were at twenty. Twenty... Veronica’s age. His chest feels a little heavy again, the wheeze not quite gone. He sips his macchiato, buys some time. Does she love him? Is he a typical old fool?

A few streets away she steps out of a steam room. The women-only Roman Baths... beautifully appointed. She unwraps her long hair, drops both towels. Tall and slender, the shape of fashion, she steps into the blast of a cool shower, skin tingling. Later she steps back onto the street with cheeks aglow. Passing a gleaming window she is arrested, seduced. She pauses, one hand raised, almost touching that spotless glass. It touches instead her lips. After a brief struggle she is inside the shop, stroking the soft fabric.

At home she carefully dresses. He will be home soon. Make-up pretty but natural, touchable. She wants to be touchable. Silky blouse, nothing underneath. No jewellery, just her wedding ring. She knows he worries that she (gold digger) cares only for his success. Well...she wants very simple things – she wants him to look after her. She wants a few babies to cherish. Carefully she packs away her little purchase, a tiny suit, soft plush, the feet like little paws, ears on the hat.

He folds the paper down. Watches the drizzle run down the window. Hardly any point having a driver in London – I could read the paper in this jam even if I were driving myself! Looks at his watch. Feels nervous about home, ribald laughter echoing in his ears. It’s only with the fellows that he worries about Veronica. When he’s with her, he never feels like this. Hormones! They laugh at him Pheromones! It’s not like that... is it?

Life in Dreams

I have noticed something about my friends and a lot of my family. My husband, a full time home dad, is working on his athletic career, my best friend has a latent film company to which she applies what spare time she has aside from her public service career. My brother; head of security in a major shopping centre, is running a martial arts school which is steadily gaining in profile. We are good friends with a couple – he works in retail and she in an office – who create thoughtful visual art from various media. One of my colleagues is a vocalist in a band and another has a sideline in photography. The receptionist in my building moonlights as a marriage celebrant... do you see a pattern forming?

We all have busy ‘day jobs’ ... and we also each have a second life... usually something that gives us pleasure but may also prove to be viable one day.

I like it... it proves to me that dreaming and chasing those dreams are activities alive and well.

Dream on!

I'm not, like, gonna fail or anything... am I?

She sits in the four-seat group with her friends, all of them self-conscious... newly emerged from their chrysalis. It is the first week of uni. The grey backs of buildings flash past the window as they rummage in their stiff new portfolios or cool messenger bags. She is dressed with a carefully considered whimsy; leggings, a couple of oversize singlet tops, layered in different colours. An enormous fabric rose pinned to her shoulder. She has great hair, funky and distressed. Her eye liner is dark and smudgy, making her worried young eyes look huge and luminous.

“Like...I don’t understand why they have to make it so ridiculously hard...” she is saying in a peculiarly toneless voice – a steady monotone. “We, like, all got good OP’s...” she drifts off, looking out the window. Her face is oddly still, although the eyes are restless and expressive. The face matches the voice – it is as though she is trapped in the flesh of her teenage shell.

The conversation around her putters along, but she launches back in, still on topic. “I mean, what is with the assignment? It’s, like so hard to get 750 words down. I’ve got no idea why they want to make it so hard.” The protest is undermined somewhat by the utterly level tone, the bland face.

She is worried, though... clearly worried. It seems that great hair is not enough.

Treasure

Every day I walk past it. The wicker quaint...speaking of days when there was sufficient time. Someone sat down and wove that basket, worked in a slight pattern near the top and tucked in all the sharp edges. Once upon a time it may have had a ruffled set of linens.

When we used it, though, we kept it plain; the glossy white finish clean and simple.

Looking at the old bassinet I try to get back to those early days. Is there anything like the time with a newborn baby? Our tiny son... securely wrapped in his bunny rug. Tucked up, full of milk and sleeping at last. It was at once as though he had always been with us – and at the same time as though he were a fantasy.

I used to sit bolt upright in the night. What is that? Silence?

Out of bed to check on the precious bundle, breathing quietly for once. Touch him, his warm, compact body, his dear little mass. The size of heaven. What is the drug of the newborn? Everything feels so particularly right.

We stood over him, willing him to wake so that we could pick him up. He’s a big boy now... but sometimes I long for those days and nights when the tender weight of him in my arms was treasure.

Final Galleys

Phew! What a process!

I am one email exchange away from completing the text block. I really want to see the cover art, though - that's the fresh part for me. What will Nina look like?

While I was writing Crisp Whites I became a bit obsessed by redheads. I would look up from the screen while packed into the train with the daily commuters and my eye would light on a head of long, red hair. Several times I considered approaching these candidates... what would I say, though? "Hi, my name's Noelani. I'm writing a novel and you look like my protagonist..."

I have decided to avoid overt stalking on the train!

Making Way

Have you ever noticed how many nautical turns of phrase are used in everyday life? Full steam ahead; the bitter end; a safe harbour... back on deck. Is it a colonial thing? Born of our history? Does it happen in landlocked nations?

In Crisp Whites, other members of her cohort are drawn to Nina’s warm nature and inner strength, and she becomes a confidante for their amazing stories. She is the discoverer of secrets; the one they turn to when it all goes to hell. Her sympathetic presence and ready shoulder disguise her own secrets and deepening confusion. At sea for six weeks, Nina tries to sort out her complicated feelings. The cohort steps ashore in Tasmania for a weekend of freedom from the ship and, in a series of misadventures, Nina finds herself literally fighting for her life in the back streets of Hobart.

Nina and Adam are drawn closer by this awful experience, but what hope exists for their love? As Initial Training draws to its climactic ending, tough decisions will have to be made. The experiences have changed Nina so much. What does this mean for the life she has left back in Brisbane?

Love Letter

He banged through the screen door and the heat was like being pressed into a pillow. Immediately the moisture dried from his lips and his eyes felt scratchy. The man (runner, ironman...) tilted his water bottle to his lips and tried to offset the baking effect. He could feel the water streaming down his throat, being incorporated into his body and then being whisked off the surface of his skin in a swift arc. He might as well fling the water directly into the air...

Dipping the brim of his cap against the shimmering orb that hung above the horizon, he turned into the street and started to run. He pulled the sulphurous air into his lungs without demure. This was good for him... in six weeks he would be (running... riding...) in Kona and it would be hot there too. This was good for him.

At first the joints and muscles felt a little stiff, a little tight. He talked to his body, kept the head wobbling loosely, asked the spine to feel the balance, the fine engineering between pelvis and shoulders. As he swung into the run, his joints oiled. His stride loosened and he could feel the muscles now, light and springy. He lengthened out and his breathing deepened. The awkward cold stage was nearly gone. He rolled his neck in pleasure and felt the satisfying fly;the almost impossible feeling of skimming the earth, of being a machine of running (man of iron), of being untouchable, unbreakable and uncatchable.

Finally the last fiery crescent of the sun was sucked beneath the horizon. The temperature dropped noticeably and the colours leached out of the landscape. The man (runner, machine) had passed beyond the edge of the neighbourhood and was on a winding road through the bush. The road surface was smooth and as the dusk deepened the cool darkness stroked gentle hands down his hot face. It was so good. He allowed his mind to reach out around him. He had been running steadily for an hour now and full darkness was almost upon the world. It was amazing how much you could see by starlight. The road ahead of him was touched with a silvery magic and he could sense the small and timid creatures in the bush beside him. They stirred and stretched. Night-time was the time to get busy for the possum, the echidna and the small hopping creatures. Day was too brutal... but night was velvet, gentle and sweet.

He drew that sweet night air deep into his lungs. It had a taste now – different from the flat, metallic taste of the baking daytime air. Night air was nectar. He tasted blossom, earth and dew. He turned his face up to the gorgeous night sky and the stars were densely crusted – like a fistful of glitter thrown across black silk. His body (iron, machine) crossed and opened, limbs swung in perfect rhythm with pulse and breath. The strike of his feet on the roadway was a metronome for the music that stirred all around him as the bush came to life. He felt a part of the world. For millennia there had been men running through the darkness, chasing their goal.

The darkness welcomed him. It cooled him and the sweet air fed him. Night running was his favourite time.

The Magic Trick

As I polish and consider each paragraph of my second novel, I have the distinct feeling I am being watched. It’s not the commuter with whom I am sitting knee-to-knee... a tanned, silver-bearded dude in a yellow plaid shirt (at this hour!) with the Beach Boys playing so loudly on his ipod that I can hear the lyrics. It is a gaze that beams from the imperfectly closed door somewhere in the hippocampus. Behind this door a small group gathers... three so far, with a fourth gathering colour and depth. Soon this gang will become impatient. “Oi! What about us?” they will call to me.

The calls will get louder and more strident until I must begin their story...or I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else.

The state of my books is a lot like the state of my children. I have one close to launching, another still learning to put his sentences together (he’s pretty good at it, too) and taking afternoon naps. Do I feel another gathering depth and colour in some other room? Maybe...

Crisp Whites (my eldest book-child) follows New Entry Officer Course 25 through many adventures. Whether they are learning to handle weapons, fight fires, march straight or survive at sea, this tightly knit group are there for one another. Real dangers exist in the world of military training and, more than once, Nina finds herself in high risk situations.

The greatest risk, however, may be to her heart. Despite the fraternisation rules, inevitably there are crushes, chemistry and liaisons among the group – some of them wonderful and others disastrous. Despite her long marriage, Nina finds herself drawn into a completely inappropriate fascination with Adam, a nineteen year old trainee pilot. Adam is hiding a tragedy of his own and, despite his better judgement; he cannot stay away from Nina. Striving to hold him at arm’s length, she is forced to examine her own thoughts on love, marriage, obligation and joy.

Flooding

It has been an oddly wet, dank and dripping kind of Autumn here in south East Queensland... three quarters of the state flooded (and it’s a big state) and it has been a challenge to get to work. It seems to be drying out at last... the nappies are snapping on the line again and a generation of cane toads (shudder) have debuted in the puddle outside the fence.

Like an unblocked drain, pre-production of Crisp Whites has also picked up a bit at last. I think I am being passed to my eighth department... internal layout and cover design are next...

Crisp Whites tells the story of Nina Yusof’s initial training when she joins the Navy – the most life-changing six months imaginable. More than once, Nina feels doubt – what has she gotten herself into? All of her assumptions about herself; her life, her work and the nature of love, are turned upside down. She is challenged, exhausted and far from home, but she is tougher than she realises. Thrown together with a delightfully motley crew of men and women, Nina and the rest of New Entry Officer Course 25 must overcome enormous physical, mental and emotional hurdles... luckily there is plenty of pranking, flirting, and some ill-considered melon liqueur to lighten the load.

Characters!

Is there anything more fun than trimming and moulding and sleeking a character until it leaps off the page and takes the plot off in an unexpected direction? Sometimes I front up to the keyboard and think to myself ‘where will the story go today?’

This happened regularly while I was writing Crisp Whites. Based (very) loosely on my experiences when I joined the Navy, I found myself needing to create meatier back stories for the characters... things that I may have not had a clue about with regards to some of the real folk I spent time with... Of course, once a character has a detailed back story, they have motivations... and away goes the story! To find that some plot twist eventually wove together other happenings was often a wonderful surprise to me.

Crisp Whites tells the story of Nina Yusof’s initial training – the most life-changing six months imaginable. More than once, Nina feels doubt – what has she gotten herself into? All of her assumptions about herself; her life, her work and the nature of love, are turned upside down. She is challenged, exhausted and far from home, but she is tougher than she realises...

Need a break from the every day? Run away to the Navy with Nina!

My fabulous team at work, and some real characters who are not under my command, are really inspiring me... so much material - what shape shall that next story take?

Crisp Whites Coming Soon!

I am a Brisbane (well… Burpengary) mum, currently working at Energex. I spent six years as an Officer in the RAN and I was a school teacher before that. On my huge work commute I write novels on a carefully balanced netbook...

Crisp Whites, tells the story of Nina Yusof.

Irish Nina and Greek Stavros are living an ordinary Australian love story. They have survived the fallout of their cross-cultural marriage, and have stuck together through highs and lows. Their lives now seem stable and secure.

Nina is a hard worker, a faithful wife and a joyful mother... but she is also restless. She craves something... and it turns out to be adventure.

Making a radical detour from the main road of her life, and in the face of her husband’s doubts, Nina joins the Navy at thirty-three...