Join Jill as she makes her way through
her own publishing journey –

22 Febuary 2010

The most beautiful men ... in the world

A couple of days ago, Me and My Girl went to the Top Gear Live show (yeah, I know we're always going to gigs and events, but read the piece on I HEART NZ – it's just so easy). Man, it was fun – high octane action, 0 – 60 in 3.2 seconds, brilliant stunts and funny repartee from the hosts. We both loved every second it.

I did regret wearing a summery dress, though. I'd forgotten that the audience would be 98% male; that Jeremy Clarkson and James May would venture into the audience with hand-held cameras and microphones; and that we were on the front row. I spent most of the event trying to cover my knees with my bag of Top Gear merchandise, hoping we wouldn't be spotted (but okay, yes, secretly hoping we would be really).

We came through unscathed, however, so I was able to relax and observe our genial hosts. And how genial they were – funny, self-deprecating, a teeny bit rude in a barely-grown-schoolboy sort of fashion. Jeremy Clarkson seems so testy and ascerbic, but there was something about his newly sunburnt face which suggested that actually, yes, you could hurt his feelings if you knew which button to press (like the little one with a letter on it on one of his test-drives – he never did find out what it was for). Co-host James May, meanwhile, was wittily shambolic and slightly mumbling; I wanted to pop him in my pocket and feed him cookies. Or go and have a beer with him and lend him some Aloe Vera After-Sun.

Apparently they were just voted (jointly) as the Number 1 Worst Dressed Men on TV or something similar. Jeans and a tee-shirt – what's wrong with that? Throw in a pair of jandals and you have every other guy in NZ. Anyway, I have new book out this week which I'd love to be able to dedicate to Jeremy and James, because I thought they were both just gorgeous. It's called The Most Beautiful Man in the World, and I only wish I'd thought about it in time to get Jeremy to say the title aloud with that grumbly, rumbly intonation at the end: 'The Most Beautiful Man ... in the world.'

There's a copy for each of them if they get in touch, especially if Jeremy could call so I could record his voice growling 'in the world' .... hey, I'll even send one for Richard Hammond too, despite the Telecom XT adverts. And for anyone reading who thinks that they know the most beautiful man in the world, there's a copy for you too! Yes, in your local bookstore, or at Mighty Ape ... Talking of beauty, there was a very beautiful moment at the end of the Top Gear show. After the final car screeched out and Messrs May and Clarkson ambled away, Me and My Girl both needed to the loo. Oh no. Loo – show. Show – loo. Not a good combo. But wait! As the entire female contingent of the audience could have had a toilet each with a spare one for their handbag, we were in and out of the ladies' in seconds. Meanwhile the queue for the gents was about a kilometre long and growing steadily. The guys bobbing up and down in the queue looked most perplexed. Ha, welcome to our world, boys; if at least one urinal was occupied by a recently-chucked person who was simply sobbing and didn't need the toilet at all, you'll really get the picture ...

22 Febuary 2010

I Heart NZ

A couple of sunny Sundays ago, my daughter and I went to see Ronan Keating in concert. It was glorious, not only because of the twiddly-diddly Oirish crooning of Mr Keating (which was fab and faultless, I have to say) but because the whole event was just so gosh-darned easy.

The venue was a beautiful vineyard near Auckland Airport (handy for Ronan who was leaving on a jet plane immediately after the show, and for everyone else who wanted to get gently sozzled on very decent wine). I zipped down the motorway from home in twenty minutes flat with nary a hold-up, parked in a field, picked up my tickets at the box office and my pre-paid picnic from the picnic box office, slung up two deck chairs in glorious sunshine and settled in for the evening. At the end of the night, we just re-wound the tape and were home half an hour after Ronan sang 'The Long Goodbye' and ran off to catch his roid home. Bliss. Sheer bliss.

Well. There had been one slight hitch, to be truthful. My tickets, which I'd only ordered the week before, hadn't arrived in time. I rang the tickety people the day before the concert, and they rang me back (yes, RANG ME BACK) on the Sunday morning of the gig (yes, ON A SUNDAY MORNING) and explained they'd done a track-and-trace on my tickets (yes, A TRACK AND TRACE ON MY ... oh, you get the picture) and discovered they were still at the couriers – but not to worry, they'd re-issued them and I could just collect them at the gate. (Which I did. In thirty seconds). Then the tickety person wished me a great evening, had a chat about the weather, a giggle over something and we were done. It was all so very ... Kiwi.

It's not just in matters like this that service excels, and NZ works so well. On Friday I needed to get my girl to the doctor's. I called them at 8.30am, and had an appointment an hour later. The doctor was on time. She was lovely, and spent a full fifteen minutes in consultation, which included a quick chat about the weather and a giggle over something, free of charge. She recommended blood tests which we procured within twenty minutes, then four hours later we were back at the doctor's for the results. Different doctor this time, and a different diagnosis, but only after he, too, had spent a full fifteen minutes in consultation and had a quick chat about the weather etc.

The bonhomie didn't end there, either. As we waited – momentarily – in the reception area, a little girl about a year old had just had her jabs and was wailing inconsolably. Next thing we know, a nurse appears with a bottle of bubbles and proceeds to fill the waiting area with soapy globules of distraction, while the receptionist coos and chirrups from her desk and various medical aides pop out of their doorways to clap and cheer them on. Thirty seconds later the little girl chuckles, the nurse smiles and chucks her under the chin, stops by the reception desk for a quick chat about the weather ... It was as if we'd strolled into an advert for perfect medical care – 'Come to your doctor's, it's fun!' And, I kid you not, it's always like this.

Sometimes, the Kiwis I know just don't get it, don't understand how lucky they are. We are. 'Well, it's like that in the UK, too, isn't it?' They'll tell you that they went on to the UK on their OE thirty two years ago and thought everyone and everything was just wonderful. Yeah, but that's London, in fact that's Earl's Court, and I doubt you'd recognise it now anyway.

Just take the contrast in visits to the doctor's, for instance. Only four weeks ago I was in the UK, and again had to take my daughter for some medical care. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I did manage to track down an emergency doctor's that was open in the next suburb. This in itself was a miracle for two reasons: one, that such a thing existed, and two, that it had staff and doctors and everything when the whole of the rest of the UK was broken because of Snow. Anyway, we managed to get there, gave our name to the bored-looking receptionist and then waited in reception with a bunch of characters from Viz and their foul-mouthed toddlers, getting sicker by the minute. I wasn't even ill before I walked in; by the time I came out I felt like I needed fumigating.

We sat there for over an hour trying to avoid contact with anyone else, particularly of the eye variety, watching as forty two people who stumbled in off the street got seen ahead of us. The crowd in the waiting room started sharing their appointment times – they were all about an hour ago, and yet drunks and crazies were being ushered through the system in seconds.

I presume there was a method in this madness, namely that someone who's managed to make an appointment by phone must possess some element of common sense, can speak, use their all fingers and their prehensile thumbs, sometimes all at the same time, and probably isn't crazy or drunk. Therefore they're more likely to sit being a patient patient without kicking up too much fuss, which is good, because the trained receptions and security guard (yes, I'm serious, there was a security guard on duty) are busy avoiding being stabbed by a wino or a mad person.

Eventually, the poor harassed doctor saw my daughter. The consultation lasted approximately ninety seconds and included a weary tapping of the back and a quick listen through a stethoscope, and then he told us it was viral and he couldn't do anything anyway which was precisely what I guessed he was going to say. 'Yes, but what about the stuff we've just picked up in the waiting room?' I wanted to add. Maybe we should have gone outside and poured a bottle of Jack Daniels down my thirteen year old's throat. We'd have been in and out with a prescription for drugs in seconds.

Incidentally, it has not escaped my notice that if the UK practice had been more like the NZ one, we wouldn't have needed to go to the NZ one in the first place.

Actually, though I enjoyed it – would have been a shame to miss it, really. It was much like the Ronan Keating concert, and reminded me once again of the many reasons I HEART NZ. Basically, they boil down to this: It's friendly. It's sunny. It works. Even when Life is a Roller Coaster and you just gotta roid it.

PS – Famous Person in 'The Fickleness of Fame' blog – if you're reading this, look! Ronan Keating came to NZ; will you guys do it too? Pleeeeeeeeease.

7 Febuary 2010

Conversations with my parents #1

Today, 7th February 2010, my parents celebrate their 51st wedding anniversary. Fifty one years ... blimey, that is hard to imagine. Fifty one years, four children, eight grandchildren, one great grandchild already - and my mum's still in her sixties, for crying out loud. She's still petite and trim and pixie-like. Not that she's ever worn a bikini in her life, to my knowledge, but if she chose to she could still get away with it, like Helen Mirren.

My father, meanwhile, is turning into my grandmother, who was her own version of Mrs Malaprop. To be honest, that might have been worrying at one stage. We used to stand with our heads cocked on one side, wondering at Gran's mental state as she came up with some piece of nonsense (eg. The lights flickered because they had 'lumpy electricity'), then took a moment to realise her mistake, and then laughed until her rheumy eyes seeped and her dentures were in danger of joining her mental faculties on the floor.

Now I realise how very sharp she was, and what very attractive traits these are: to have so little self-consciousness that you can say the first thing that springs up in your head; to have the mental acuity to understand that it was probably a bit daft; and then to roar laughing at one's own stupidity. Goodness knows there's little enough to laugh about these days – if we could all guffaw each time we committed some little faux pas, the world might be a more joyful place.

Dad came out with some prime examples over the few weeks were in the UK with them recently, and far from taking umbridge (or being 'umbridged' as another of my self-deprecating and funny friends, Brian R, might say), as we started to giggle at him he'd look at the ceiling, work out what he'd just said, and join in.

For example, we were discussing the merits of home-made spaghetti Bolognese over sauces in a jar. Dad wanted the final say.

'What you'd need to do,' he pronounced, jabbing a finger at us, 'is find out how they make it where it comes from ... in Bolognesia.'

A moment's silence. 'Um, or even ... Bologna?' I suggested.

He squinted upwards, replayed it in his head, then let out a wheezy belch of laughter that didn't stop until he'd turned purple and we were all trying to remember CPR.

Or this: driving to the emergency doctor's on a dismal Sunday afternoon, through the nearby suburb of Ashton-under-Lyne which is not as exotic as it sounds, my daughter asked why the speed was restricted to 20 mph.

'It's because,' said Dad, 'it's heavily populated by Asians.'

I started to laugh. 'It's not. It's just heavily populated.'

'That's right. By Asians,' said Dad.

'But the fact that they're Asian doesn't cause the speed restriction, Dad. Asian people are not genetically pre-disposed to flinging themselves into the oncoming traffic.'

He pointed across the road. 'So what is that man there if he's not Asian?'

'He's tall,' I said. 'And that's not the point.'

We couldn't understand each other, but far from getting angry and spirited, my father just laughed and I just laughed, and I could see that he was just a man in his seventies bewildered but not phased by the massive immigration into the UK. Just dealing with it. Finding humour.

And then the best one of all. Approaching his seventy fifth birthday this year, Dad was relishing the prospect of getting his TV licence for free. We don't have TV licences in NZ, so I asked how much it is.

'Oh, it's well over a hundred quid,' said Dad. 'Of course,' he added sardonically, 'it has to be that much to pay for Jonathon Ross and his Elk.'

Well, we might not have the TV licence, but we still get Jonathon Ross in NZ. But Jonathon Ross and his Elk? Like Rod Hull and Emu? Simon Smith and his Dancing Bear?

Then Mum said gently, 'Do you mean "ilk"?'

He squinted at the ceiling. He computed. And then the shoulders juddered and the wheezing began. 'Oh yes.' Shake shake wheeze wheeze. 'His ilk. Eeee.'

He wasn't the only one who fell apart. Mum laughed so much she nearly popped a rib. And I looked at the two of them, leaning on each other and gasping for breath, and thought, that's not half bad for fifty one years ...

I've never been married myself. Heck, in the last ten or fifteen years if I've made it to three dates with someone then it's more or less a committed relationship. And I'm getting to an age where, even if I were to meet the love of my life tomorrow and marry him the day after, after fifty one years (presuming either or both of us were still alive), I'd be getting pretty close to expecting a telegram from the Queen. Or a Facebook entry from King William, or Twitter from the President of the World - whatever it might be in another half a century.

But you know, if I did meet that person tomorrow, and married him the day after, I think our vows would have to be along the lines of: 'Do you think, in fifty one years, that you'll be able to make me laugh so much I'll be in danger of displacing a kidney?

Or that we'll be able to laugh at ourselves for being an idiot, and at each other for being an idiot, and together for our joint idiocy? In which case, I most certainly do.'

And if he still wants to see me in my Helen Mirren bikini, so much the better.

Happy anniversary, Mum and Dad x x x

4 Febuary 2010

The Fickleness of Fame

A few weeks ago, on a trip to the UK, I visited a friend in London. As we strolled down her street at lunchtime, chatting merrily, a couple of guys came out of a nearby doorway. One of them was, as our elders might have put it, 'very nicely turned out'. He had a blue velvety coat on that was just this side of Little Lord Fauntleroy, and a hat that almost matched but didn't (as that would have been completely Little Lord Fauntleroy). It was a great hat, and I was probably staring at it rather too hard.

Then I noticed the face under the hat. It was a famous face. A face that I was thrilled to see, that I would have killed to see fifteen years ago when I was still a true fan (I travelled from London to Copenhagen just for one concert, back then) and not a NZ-dwelling mum approaching middle-age. Our eyes met ... my heart thumped ... my mouth fell open into that gawpy 'oh-my-god-it's-YOU' expression ...

And then he realised he'd been recognised, and suddenly he angled his head so I could only see the top of the gorgeous hat, and carefully side-stepped me, in much the same cowering movement that a whipped dog might make. Or, I suppose, a famous person who's experienced too much love from his fans; who could reasonably expect that I might reach into my bag and pull out a camera, a bottle of acid, even a gun. I have to say, it hurt a little, mainly because I was so ashamed that my innocent gazing could have caused someone so much worry.

You know, I've got some slight experience of fame myself. A few 9 – 12 year old girls might just recognise me, or sometimes I'll get funny looks because I've just been in the paper or something. But those are the kind of looks that say, 'I know I know you, but I can't think where from.' I can see the person running through the options in their head: parent of someone at school? Work? Zumba class? They smile nervously and pass right by.

Only once did I know I'd truly been recognised. My daughter and I were shopping at the supermarket, and she whispered, 'Mum, I think you've been spotted.' Sure enough, a ten year old girl with a bone-fide Jane Blonde ponytail was staring at me, round-eyed, from between the margarine and the chilled dips. She and her little brother trailed us around New World – being spies, no doubt. I started dodging up and down aisles to test them out, knocked over some stacked tinned tomatoes, and my daughter disowned me. It was all very cute.

But there's the difference, I suppose. When you're an author, your fans are lovely people who've been touched by your books, or the characters in your books, and in my case, they're often children. Quite a few have emailed me so often we've become friends; I've even met a few and they've become my Special Agent team. I probably get around twenty emails a week from fans, and I'm still at the stage where I can answer them all personally – and long may that continue. It's a pleasant, unworrying kind of fame, being a writer. Apart from J K Rowling and Stephanie Meyer, and maybe Jeffrey Archer, I doubt there are many authors who get recognised while going about their daily business, or stepping nonchalantly out of a house in Holland Park on a frosty Tuesday ...

I could so easily have been a stalker, I suppose, instead of a woman momentarily distracted by a nice hat. The Famous Person wasn't to know that it was pure coincidence that found me, fan-faced and staring, right outside his door. So anxious was I to reassure the poor man that I wrote a letter avowing to my nonstalkerish status, adding the comforting words that I didn't think many people in NZ would recognise him at all (as he's not 'world famous in New Zealand' famous, just world famous outside of NZ famous). Then at dawn as I left town, I posted the letter through his letterbox. There. Now he could sleep easily.

Oh no. On reflection, perhaps the letter through the door was a bad idea. That was really stalkerish, wasn't it? I'm just going to have to go back and retrieve it. Long hook fashioned from fuse wire and coat hangers through his letter box should do it ... Or I could just go through his dustbins. If all that fails, I can just wait outside his house until he reappears, then run after him down the street, yelling, "Honestly, I'm not a stalker, I'm not! I'm just your number one fan. Give me my letter back! Give it!" And then he'll marry me and we'll have beautiful children (adopted, obviously) and make them all wear gorgeous blue hats. Ho hum. A fan can dream.

10 January 2010

The 2010 NZSA/Pindar Publishing Prize.
New Publishing Award Announced

The New Zealand Society of Authors (NZSA), in association with Pindar NZ, Whitcoulls, AstraPrint, The New Zealand Herald and Creative New Zealand are proud to announce the launch of the NZSA/Pindar Publishing Prize.

This competition offers budding New Zealand authors the opportunity to be professionally edited, produced, marketed and distributed throughout New Zealand. The total package is worth around $35,000 to a talented new author.

The competition allows applicants to enter any piece of writing between 30,000 and 120,000 words, be it a novel, non-fiction, poetry or short story collection. To be judged anonymously by a panel composed of representatives from Pindar NZ, The New Zealand Herald and the NZSA.

'This is an amazing opportunity for any writer – something that will springboard them into the spotlight', said Maggie Tarver, Chief Executive of the NZSA. 'In a time when more and more manuscripts are being rejected by mainstream publishers we are confident that we will get some really exciting entries'.

Entries close 30 March 2010, allowing writers time to finish or even start that piece of writing they have been putting off.

Full details and application forms are available on New Zealand Society of Authors or email.

Media: For more details contact
Maggie Tarver, NZSA 09-379 4801 or email
Paul Carter, Pindar NZ 021-929 757

10 January 2010

The Kindness of Kiwis

It started with those fateful words: "This car's never ever let me down." This, despite it being about 14 years old and roughly the size of a motorized roller skate. Practically as the words left my lips there was a loud bang as we rattled over the roadworks next to the Kauri Museum, a slightly shaky wheel for a few hundred metres, then a resumption of normality. On we ploughed, me, my eleven year old daughter, her friend, in our small pink dodgem of a car, through the Kumera Capital of the North, past the murky waters of Dargaville, and resolutely past the sign post for Kai Iwi lakes that the girls were urging me to take. Bliss.

We're holidaying in Perfect Pahi, up from Auckland, enjoying the scenery, the peace, and the history of the place. Today, Saturday, we are watching launches and bathtubs race each other across the Kaipara Harbour, as it's Pahi's 121st Regatta. Knowing we'd be wanting to stay close to Pahi this weekend, to enjoy the festivities and be ready for the dozens of Auckland evacuees who've decided to visit us for the weekend, I decided that yesterday was the day for a road trip. Nothing less than a NZ cultural stalwart would suffice. We were off to pay homage to Tane Mahuta, the largest known living Kauri.

It was highly (no pun intended) impressive, but once we'd circumnavigated the walkways a couple of times and stood with our heads bent back at 90 degrees for as long as we could, there wasn't much else to do. We were at the top of 18 ks of very windy road, thick in the bush and forest, and other than buying ice-creams from the Lovely Kiosk Ladies, we'd fulfilled our Kiwi duty. Back to Kai Iwi then. Or so we thought.

The pink peril had other ideas; after starting perfectly normally, it waited until I thrust it into drive, gave a rude groan, and refused to move.

And so began our wonderful sojourn into the kindness of kiwis. After checking the two things that I know how to check I decided some male expertise was needed. Amazingly, all the other tourists who appeared to be foreign (German, French, English – heard them all as I lay on the scorching tarmac looking helplessly at the underneath of my car) just regarded me curiously as though I might be part of the cultural tour, and then politely ignored me. I found the driver of a coach tour. He listened to the engine, sucked in his breath, and informed me that I would need a mechanic. But he didn't leave it there – he told me where to find a mechanic, how to get there, what they'd do when I got there, and that he'd even give the three of us a lift into the next town with his coach tour if we still needed it by the time he was leaving. His calm matter-of-factness saved me from near hysteria.

Kind Kiwis 2: far from having to beg the disinterested tourists to take us in their capacious motor homes, a young couple pulled up behind us, heard the tail end of the conversation, and offered us a lift. "We can go that way, can't we?" said Lady Kiwi. "Yeah, no problem," said Gentleman Kiwi. I pulled our two bags out of the boot and we all piled in. From that moment on I insisted on having our two bags with us at all times. Don't know why – one was filled with togs and towels in preparation for the wonderful afternoon we'd planned at Kai Iwi, and the other contained the remains of our picnic. Still, if we needed to bivouac in the Waipoua Forest with three moth-eaten towels and a bikini top, feasting on half a strawberry and a Melting Moment each, we'd be ready. Hysterical, but ready.

Kind Kiwis 3: Yummy Young Couple dropped us at the Waimamaku Service Station. They were flat out in there, and we stood for about fifteen minutes feeling like townies, stupid Pommy townies at that, and the tears threatened again. But then Bruce, a man of few words but a pithy turn of phrase when he did come out with some, just took over. We wound back up the hillside to the Pink Peril, whereupon he pronounced it incapacitated by a broken CV joint. I've had a broken CV myself a few times – never gets the job done. "I'll tow you down the hill," he said. No you bloody won't, I thought. The thought of careering down a semi-mountain on a length of rope with dodgy steering and no engine power was more than my poor beleaguered brain could take. Back we went to the service Station to come up with a New Plan.

We tried the AA. Unfortunately my membership, which I thought just needed a bit of gentle resuscitation, was terminally sick. To restart when I actually needed the membership would cost me several limbs and they wouldn't do anything anyway for another 24 hours. Bruce told them what he thought of that. He then set about on a one-man mission to make sure we were okay: he phoned for accommodation, for the Magic Bus which would pass through the next day, for a tow truck, for another tow truck when that one was quoted at $650 ("Come on, mate," he said, "the car's about the smallest bloody thing you've ever seen. You could pretty much put it on your back and run down with it.") And then when I said we had to get back to Pahi, and would have to hitch, he took his colleague back up the peak and between them they towed the PP back down to the garage. No bloody tyres on it in the morning if I left it up at the tourist spot, apparently. I couldn't have asked for more sympathy and understanding, even when I was being a pathetic Sheila.

Actually I think we could have had quite a nice night in Waimamaku. Friendly people, a cute bar-cum-fish and chip shop where the girls got fish and chips for pocket change and I could have anaesthatised myself from the trauma. But I had to get back. See, we'd left the dog at the bach. He's a lovely dog, small and white and unbothersome, but I'd realised in advance (goddamit, why did I go getting advanced right then?) that even unbothersome dogs would not be welcome at Kai Iwi or in the brooding presence of Tane Mahuta, where it seems kiwis run riot through the ferns. In all honesty the dog would probably have a heart attack if it met a kiwi face-to-beak. The poor bird would be far more in danger of being cuddled into oblivion by the girls, or squashed by me as I fell straight over like a felled tree, having involuntarily squeezed my thighs together as I do whenever I think of those poor birds and the size of the egg they have to extrude through an impossibly small aperture. Those poor creatures should be fitted with hinges.

Anyway, said dog would have been on his own for longer than he'd ever been alone. There would be little pebbles of distress scattered all over the lino, or even worse, the Axminster. By now it was 4.30pm. We'd broken down about 1.20, and time was a-pressing. There was not a car or cab to be had at any price, and nobody who could come up to rescue us. Somehow I had to get myself, two smallish girls, a bag of togs and a half-eaten picnic back across 100ks or more, by sundown.

I have never hitched before. It was an interesting experience. Two things I discovered: a thumb in the air mustn't mean the same in all places. I'd like to come on board and hide my weed in your duvet, perhaps. Female axe murderer with bad sunburn would like to steal your rental car and abscond into the Hokianga, pushing you out on the way. Anyway, I'm glad we didn't get a lift with the guy displaying some European flag or other who gave a vast, bemused Gallic shrug when I stuck out my thumb. Hands on the wheel, my friend; it would be pretty hard to control your Maui motorhome up a twisty road with your arms spread like Jesus of Gallilee.

The second thing I discovered was that children are a good aid to hitchhiking. As soon as I called for the girls to put on their doe eyes and look helpless and hot (which they were), two cars screeched to a halt in quick succession. In the first, sadly, was a couple who just lived across the road, but they'd stopped anyway to see how we were getting on. When I peered in I discovered it was Lovely Kiosk Lady from the Tane Mahuta site; she'd been asking people on our behalf if they were heading back towards Dargaville, and was quite disgusted at their touristy selfishness. Wonderful couple. I'd have quite liked them to adopt me.

I was reminded of the little ray of light I'd had up at Tane Mahuta. Two ladies had climbed out of their bus and were gazing politely, from under the brims of their hats, at a withered stump the height, girth and interest factor of your average telegraph pole. They had the same kind of handbaggy twinkle as the ladies on the Four Square advert. "Is that it?" I heard one hiss to the other. I interrupted them: "Errm, Tane Mahuta's across the road." At this they erupted into loud cackling laughter. "Heee, us Maoris!" said one, batting at her friend with her bag, with such Kiwi self-deprecation I wanted to hug them. I definitely wanted to follow them to the Kauri tree and watch their expressions when they saw the genuine article.

And talking of genuine articles, the second car that pulled up heralded the beginning of our trip home. The wonderful John and Kerri were only going as far as Kai Iwi, but rather than leave us stranded there they offered to take us the extra 30kilometres to Dargaville. Kind Kiwis number 3: they added a 45 minute round trip onto their journey without batting an eyelid, and cruised around town looking for the best place to drop us with nary a thought for themselves. We settled on the Caltex petrol station, into which institution I marched with my girls, my bags, and a weary expression befitting of Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

"I need a cab, or a rental car, to get us back to Pahi," I said.

The very kind cashiers pointed out that this would cost me a fortune, possibly not seeing the dangerous glint in my eye. Completely unsolicited, the man in the queue behind us told us he knew of a taxi; his wife found us the number. When we discovered my phone was out of credit after an afternoon of frantic phoning, he used his own, and the wonderful Michelle, Kind Kiwi No. 4, was duly booked to take us in her cab to Pahi. "I can do it for ... a hundred bucks?" she said tentatively. "Done," I said. There was a stunned silence. "Really?" Oh, really, Michelle, I could have said with a hollow laugh. By this stage I was prepared to buy a car outright, or a small bi-plane, even a scabby donkey with a couple of extra large panniers for the girls. If she'd added a zero, I'd have been prepared to consider it.

Michelle tipped up with her own girls in tow; they behaved angelically and passed round a barrel of chocolate biscuits. "Thought you might be hungry," said Michelle. It was the best taxi ride I ever had in my life. We got back seven or eight hours after we broke down, sobbing with relief (or widdling with relief in the case of the dog). The car is still a LONG way away, being fixed by the wonderful Bruce, and marvellous Michelle is trying to fix up with a friend to take us up there on his stock run when the Pink Peril is ready to collect. Their kindness knew no bounds. It was uber-kindness. Kiwi kindness.

I've been here five years, and it's true that in those years the news has become filled with rather more doom and gloom stories of violence than before. But here are some truths about what would have happened had I broken down in the UK:

• I would have cried.
• I would have cried some more.
• I would have been afraid to stay with the car for fear of being attacked, road-rammed, or accidentally knocked over.
• I would have been afraid to leave the car for fear of being mugged for my phone, the girls being abducted, or never making it safely to a phone.
• I would never have got into any of the three cars we climbed into without hesitation.
• I would possibly have set fire to the car to attract the attention of the police. You're meant to call them to say you're a lone woman with children, in need of help, but they could easily be very, very late...

Which reminds me. Kind Kiwis no 5: my girls – daughter Katie and her friend Sophie, who were stoical and cheerful throughout. They kept each other (and me) entertained, laughing, positive, and then chattered away in that totally-yeah-like-you-know-randomised way that tweens have these days to anyone who was prepared to listen. And quite a few who weren't.

So as I sit here singing along to the national anthem marking the end of the launch race, or possibly the beginning of the motorised bathtub race, I realise that, far from being a nightmare, yesterday's breakdown and subsequent stranding may yet turn into one of my fondest memories. I've been reminded, so eloquently, of some of the reasons I love this country: New Zealanders.

Though I'll tell you something for nothing – I bloody hate Nissans now. Just send me after those whalers ...

10 January 2010

Show not tell

Writing an instructional article about 'show not tell' is a little like trying to give a recipe without mentioning the ingredients. The whole point of the technique is to inform, entice and involve your reader without doling out tough, unpalatable chunks of narrative, so giving some instruction without resorting to blocks of text is something of a challenge. But just to continue the food analogy...

'Telling' a story is the equivalent of delivering all three courses to the table at once – too much, all together. The writer feels the reader has to know some piece of information, be it the location setting for their piece, the character's reasons for being there, or the pre-story that set up the challenges in the current quest. Unsure how to do this so that the reader will not be confused, our author inserts a few pages of historical information that brings us up to date, or goes back and throws in a prologue, dishing up all the information at once in a coagulating lump.

Reading it over afterwards, the writer realizes this is going to be hard to swallow. "I know!" s/he cries. "I'll turn it into dialogue." And so the Protagonist sits his grandson on his knee. 'Danny, did I ever tell you about the time...?" It's really not much of improvement - this is telling in quotation marks.

Think instead about how you'd like your food served up: flavours delicately tickling each other; morsels of delight gathering momentum to the ovation of the pavlova; every course a triumph both individually and as part of your indulgent and satisfying repast.

Now I would doubt that anyone but a serial dieter or bare-faced (but thin) liar could claim that such a meal would amount to a pile of green leaves. Never the less, it's SALAD that can help to remember how to show rather than tell your piece...

S is for subtlety. Use concrete images that evoke powerful memories for the reader by all means, but use senses other than sight, emotions other than the immediate, and do it all without ever saying what you're talking about – so not 'He was disappointed,' but rather 'The tang of the carbolic drew him back to every other blank birthday he'd ever known.'

A stands for Action: instead of setting the scene and painting in your background, go straight to the point where someone is doing something, something is happening. Make your verbs active rather than passive, too.

L means layering. Introduce nuggets of information at relevant points throughout the whole of the story, instead of dishing it all up at the beginning. Often we see a new character pop up on the page, followed by several more pages of minutiae about the individual. Better to feed in the details throughout a larger section of the story.

A is for adverb use. Try to keep adverbs to a minimum. Some authors prefer to use only 'he said' and 'she said' to practice the art of restricting adverbs, which often serve only to over-explain, or repeat what has already been inferred in the body of the text. "I hate you!" conveys just as much emotion as "I hate you!" she shouted vehemently.

D: dialogue. Conversation can speed the pace of your work dramatically, and can impart huge amounts of information without you, the author, having to 'tell' any of it. What could the reader tell us about this character, for instance?

"Bro, you stink," said Tahi.

A powerful image, even a sense of history and family, can be gathered from just a few short words.

Of course, 'tell' has its place. Like comfort food, it can come in handy after a raw emotional ride. Like a hunk of rustic bread, it provides variety, a need to chew more slowly. Like sorbet, it can mark a change of direction and refresh the reader's palette. Using both 'show' and 'tell' in appropriate measure can draw the reader in, allowing them to experience the story as you wish them to, while allowing them the courtesy of working things out for themselves.

So go on, enjoy your greens. And while you're doing it, pour yourself a large glass of wine. That'll go with anything.

10 January 2010

Well, here I am, blogging

I've resisted blogging for such a long time, I have to tell you. I wasn't quite sure why people did it, for a start. For self-expression? A chance to write? Honing their skills? As I write up to 25,000 words a week, I didn't really feel the need for any of those. And I very much doubt that anyone cares about my opinion on climate change conferences and the like. They're not at all interesting. That's why I write fiction, for crying out loud.

There are two things that have brought about this change. The first is the need to update this site, which led me to look for ways to respond more readily to questions that I get asked over and over. If I could answer them publicly, then more people might be able to gain from this information too.

The second catalyst was reading Michael Palin's diaries – the second lot. So that I don't influence my writing while I'm in the thick of a book, I tend to read non-fiction, and these diaries were just perfect. More than that, however, I realised just how much I'd learned from them, and empathised with Mr Palin. He seems to have had so many projects constantly on the go, and to be writing, meeting, celebrating, planning, and performing, all on the same day. Sometimes all at the same time. On top of all that, he handwrote his poignant diary entries every day. His catharsis was my gain. And I wanted to try it for myself.

I won't write something every day, and I suspect that what this 'blog' may turn out to be is a hotch-potch of articles, letters and even handouts that I've written in the past. But I may just surprise myself.

So here goes.

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