48 Hour Madness – Part One

No. Not a short-term mental breakdown due to too much brain work, but a 48 hour play festival – although I suppose agreeing to take part could give psychiatrists an argument for certification.

The idea was that the playwrights – for my group, me – were given a topic and several things that must be included on Friday evening and on Sunday evening the 10 minute play had to be performed at a local theatre with a paying audience.

Sounds mad – it was.

I spent most of Friday night and early hours of Saturday morning at the computer creating a masterpiece – well, at least it was 10 minutes long, on topic and included all the essential bits. My play was then submitted for approval at around 8 am Saturday morning. PHEW!!!!!!!

At about 11.00 we had our approval and the three actors and the director were sent copies to get a start on producing it. The writer’s job was supposed to be over – but seriously – could you let your baby out there without its mother? Besides which cuts were needed to meet the time limits – in the first draft I always find the longest way to say anything.

The worst job went to the actors. Less than 24 hours to learn 10 minutes of script – doesn’t sound much, but 10 minutes contains a lot of dialogue, movement, use of props and on it goes. Added to that, the time constraints were closely adhered to and there was only a small amount of leeway so the actors had to be consistent in their timing to get the play to meet this. Any play over or under the limits was automatically disqualified.

Despite everything, we had fun.

To be continued.

“Deathly Inheritance” is a romantic suspense novel by New Zealand writer Dorothy Fletcher.

“As his hand closed around the handle of a spade she shivered at the thought of those hands and what havoc they might reek if they were used against her body…

‘Stop it!’ she shouted at herself.

Fantasizing over a brute of a man when you’ve got a perfectly good one already – or so everyone says.

By the time she got to her mum’s house she was so engrossed in getting inside as quickly as possible so as not to embarrass herself any further, she didn’t notice the strange man on the opposite side of the street. He was bending down to tie his shoe lace, but his eyes never left Naomi until she shut the front door firmly behind her.”

Love, lust and danger intertwine around Naomi as she tries to start a new chapter of her life.

In order to have the love she must unravel the danger before more people close to her heart die.

“Deathly Inheritance” is set against a backdrop of an amateur production of a pirate musical.

But there are more pirates than the ones on stage.

Find it at www.dorothyfletcher.co.nz

Heading for a writer’s conference in Auckland, I was sitting in my plane seat, buckled in, high above New Zealand and eating my complimentary cookie and drinking my tea – no such thing as alcohol on the trips to and from the provinces. Looking out the window – nothing else to do, I get travel sick if I attempt to read – it was easy to see why the East Coast is so isolated.

The hills surrounding the city looked dark and forbidding even on a sunny day. The road through these takes around two hours at the speed I travel, and are, at best, character forming. Then to reach Auckland there is another five hours of driving – including frequent stops for comfort and food.

Easy to see why I plumped for the plane – plumped is such a lovely word, don’t you think.

When we had passed The Bay of Plenty – Cook was rude when he called our bay, Poverty Bay and theirs The Bay of Plenty – I could see the Coromandel Peninsula ahead. The bay was almost free of clouds but the land was covered in white clumps of fluff. The Maori name for New Zealand, Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud, was a more apt and poetic naming than Cook’s attempts.

It must be said, though, both sets of adventurers must have been courageous and very curious to have undertaken such trips without the certainty of what they would find.

I am quite happy to limit my adventures to journeys where I am pretty certain of the reception I’ll receive at the other end, and that there will be a comfortable bed, good food and congenial company waiting for me.

I do miss my dog, Barnaby though. But know after the compulsory ten minutes of telling me off for leaving him, there will be a warm welcome when I return.

“Love is a Drug” is a romantic suspense novel by New Zealand writer Dorothy Fletcher.

“Beautiful – there was no other word for her. She was the most desirable creature he had ever seen. The way her long legs made her hips sway in that sensual manner as she glided across the floor. The curve of her lips as a smile lit her face.

She was perfection.

She would be his: she had to be his.”

Ria doesn’t know it yet, but she has a stalker. Is it the new cop in town who inflamed her desires at first sight? Is it a stranger dogging her steps? Is it someone she has known for years? To stay alive and to find love she must unmask the man in the shadows and follow her heart.

Find it at www.dorothyfletcher.co.nz

Deathly Inheritance” is a romantic suspense ebook by New Zealand writer Dorothy Fletcher.

“She was on the floor, a pain pumping in her side, her heart pounding with the shock. The trolley that had taken her out was looming over her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ a male voice yelled. ‘There’s more than one person in this supermarket.’

He was huge, a mountain of a man. Naomi barely had time to register this much when a strong hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.”

Can love develop from such a painful start?

Naomi must decide between her safe, unremarkable boyfriend and a this new man with a girl-friend phobia who causes her pain each time they meet.. She also has to discover why people around her are dying.

“Deathly Inheritance” is set against a backdrop of an amateur production of a pirate musical.

But there are more pirates than the ones on stage.

Buy it at https://www.books2read.com/u/mVZaWZ from your favourite ebook store.

This year’s hot, humid and sometimes wet weather has brought about an explosion of the bug population – at least it seems to have done in my part of the world.

Luckily, I’m not having the problem with flies some people are experiencing, but crickets, shiny black ones, are in epic proportions. If you leave a door open at night, with a light on in the hall, then you will be invaded by the Babylonian hordes in miniature form, all looking for a mate.

(Interesting fact – according to my friend. Most male crickets sing to attract a mate. There are, however, mute males who hunt around looking for the females attracted by the recital. While the singing males are still doing their virtuoso piece the mute males hop in, do the business and hop away again before the poor performer realises he’s been pipped at the post. Nature can be cruel – but what a sense of humour!)

Walking the dog for his final pee-run of the day for him becomes a wonderland of tracking these creatures of the night, trying to make a kill. Well, I suppose for a five-kilogram fluff ball, a cricket is about the right scale of size to pretend you are a wolf and out on the hunt. It takes a while to get the message over that we’re out there for him to go to the toilet not to practice his predator skills.

The crickets get everywhere. For a few evenings I have heard strange noises, sort of metallic clangs and have sighed, thinking the fridge is on the way out. Last night, however, I was in the kitchen when it happened and the noise appeared to come from the range hood. I took off one of the metallic filters – noting that perhaps with the level of stickiness due to my not being a domestic goddess – remember that blog? – I needed to maybe do some cleaning in this area – I was surprise when several live crickets hopped out, and a few dead ones fell out.

Now, I can understand how flies can get in there – they are upwardly mobile – someone even theorised as to how a mouse got in there, I wasn’t convinced by the explanation – but crickets?

Perhaps as well as mute crickets there are also mountaineering ones who climb the walls, gain access to the loft and somehow get into the range hood ducts – or are we breeding mutations over here in New Zealand and the crickets are preparing to take over the world, one range hood at a time.

Dog Talk

There are lots of reasons to keep pets. Research says that sitting petting a dog or cat brings down stress levels and lowers blood pressure. There’s even a piece a research that says staring into your dog’s eyes causes a release of endorphin in both the owner and the dog, giving them both a feel-good high. I’ve tried it, and when I can persuade my little man to concentrate long enough it does seem to work. There’s also nothing like arriving home to an enthusiastic welcome – somebody loves me.

One of the main reasons I got Barnaby, a five-kilogram bundle of Maltese-poodle cross, was to make me get out walking. He likes his walks, but mainly to stop every few metres to sniff the recent pee-mails. Getting him to do a brisk walk for any distance is just about impossible. The only place I can do it is at the local park. I put him a on his extender lead and walk. He gets to sniff trees etc and then catch up, even then sometimes there are so many messages left around a tree trunk that it takes a while to pick up them all. It’s a constant battle.

The other problem is that he doesn’t like getting out of bed – did he get that from me? Most mornings when I get up he will stubbornly lie in bed until I am showered and dressed, opened the house up, got ready to walk and arrive in the bedroom with his lead. If I’m lucky he will manage to lift his tail and give a couple of wags. Once the lead is on he wakes up and is ready to go. Unless it’s cold or wet and the dreaded coat has come out. He hates his coat. I wish I had one – dry-as-a-bone covering and sheepskin lining. He sulks for ages once it’s on and regularly tries to shake it off during the walk.

He always knows the time. Dinnertime and bedtime are marked by him coming and reminding me to get on with it with a push of his nose to my leg, or if I ignore that a sharp bark. Visitors cannot get to the front door without him being there and letting me know. He’s also tries to be bossy and if I go away and leave him with my daughter and her dog I get a good barking at to tell me off when I come back.

One of the unexpected pleasures and health benefits of Barnaby is that he makes me laugh. Just walking behind him and seeing his back legs delicately hitting the floor, spread out as if he’s really constipated is enough to make me giggle. But when I come into the lounge and all his animal toys are lying on the floor, each with a biscuit either on their tummies or beside them, it’s good for a laugh out loud. If the toys don’t eat their food he will go up to each in turn and keep shoving the biscuit at them until he gives up and eats it himself.

Barnaby is definitely good for me. He even helps me write – he’s lying on the spare room bed now fast asleep. The thought’s there anyway.

I can’t resist having another quick word on running. Please don’t think I’m paranoid or anything – well, actually I am, but like most paranoia it makes me want to collect any evidence to feed my point of view.

I am a fan of most things crime, detective and murder, and I was watching NCIS on the box. I like it for the content but also for the fact that David McCallum plays the medical examiner, Dr Donald “Ducky” Mallard in the series.

I have been a fan of David since, as an innocent young teenager, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. hit the screens and David, playing agent Illya Kuryakin, became a sex symbol for my generation.

Getting to watch the show required a little deviousness on my part. My parents were not fans of anything “so foolish and silly”. However, my grandmother, Nana, lived across the road and loved having me keeping her company of an evening.

So, every Thursday evening – I’m almost sure it was Thursday - straight after the dinner dishes were washed, dried and put away, I would head over to Nana’s. She would be already tuned to the correct channel and had the Nuttall’s Mintoes ready – a lollie that tasted of a combination of mint and butter. It was very hard, then got chewy – a real filling remover.

First we would watch Top of the Pops, then came Man From U.N.C.L.E. I always felt that maybe I was using her to get my way but looking back I think she really enjoyed our TV time together and we would spend some time afterwards discussing the programme and lots of other things. She really seemed to understand my attraction for David – did she actually fancy him too?

A few years after her death I found out that she had a secret vice. She was an ardent snooker fan. Whenever there was a snooker game on the TV she would lock the door and enjoy the programme very noisily, according to the neighbours. Maybe I have a lot of her in me?

Anyway, back to the original idea. (Someone once told me that I was a born writer as I cannot tell a story without giving all the connections and the way it is important to me – evidenced by this blog.)

Back to the point for the second time. In one of the NCIS episodes Ducky gives a dissertation about why people were never meant to run other than for short emergency bursts. The action of pounding the pavements or other surfaces puts undue stress on leg muscles, bones, knees, hips, and many other parts of the body. If I could have got hold of him I would have kissed him.

I can now do my other forms of exercise – walking, Fifties Forwards’ exercises and theatre work, it’s actually very energetic – and feel quite saint-like that I am doing what my body was made for and leave the evils of running to those that enjoy them. Okay - this picture is really wishful thinking!

It’s that time of the year again when posters pop up around town exhorting you to get fit and take part in a fun run, quarter marathon or even a half marathon. Get those endorphins going and feel good.

When has running ever been fun? In my book – never.

Even as a child running was not in my favourite things to do. My Phys Ed teacher despaired of me. She was a real ‘jolly hockey sticks’ type – always dressed in divided skirts and shouting, ‘Wood. Get a move on.’

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t overweight then, just more curvaceous than my pencil thin friends. I did exercise. Riding my bike was one of my joys. Taking off with a packed lunch and spending the day meandering around the country lanes was bliss. I could cover thirty or forty miles, not the pastime of an excerphobe – or whatever you call someone who hates exercise.

Walking was a must then. There was no family taxi service to drop you off and pick you up whenever you needed it. My parents would have had a fit if I’d have suggested that’s what their major job in life was. If I wanted to see my friends I got my bike out or walked. If the school bus didn’t turn up – and it did fail to appear with regular monotony every time a snow flake was seen somewhere in a 10 mile radius from our village – you walked to school and then got detention for being late.

But running – no.

In my later teens I found I had a terrible affliction. Whenever I took part in any excessive physical activity the vessels just under my skin carried healthy amounts of blood, oxygenating all my cells. This did have an unfortunate effect.

I remember one occasion vividly. We had an hour and a half session of Phys Ed as the last of the afternoon lessons. I had actually tried running around after a ball and quite enjoyed it – very unusual for me. I decided to walk home as I was saving my allotted bus money for something I desperately needed – I have no idea what it was now. As I was walking through the woods – a shortcut home – the boy of my dreams, Adonis himself, worshipped by me from afar, came past on his bike. He slowed to go around me, smiled and called. ‘Hi, Dorothy. Did you enjoy that game?’

He knew my name!

I stuttered and stumbled and managed some sort of inane reply as he sped up again and disappeared in the trees. I could hardly breathe. My heart was pumping fit to burst. I had been noticed by Adonis. The rest of the journey home went past in a blur. I rushed in home, dumped my school gear and went into the bathroom to preen. He had noticed me. I looked in the mirror. I screamed.

My sister poked her head around the door. ‘What’s up? Seen your face?’ I nodded. ‘Didn’t you know you always look like that for a couple of hours after you’ve been exercising?’

Despair.

I had a white patch around each eye and a white nose. The rest of my face was bright, bright scarlet. I looked like the negative of a red and white panda. No wonder Adonis slowed to look at me and smiled. I was surprised he didn’t laugh hysterically.

Is it any wonder that after such a mental and emotional catastrophe running is my nemesis?

Endorphins – you know what you can do with them.

The song says, ‘Money is the root of all evil,’ but for me housework is right up there with it. Nothing puts me closer to transforming from a mild-mannered grandmother to a raving homicidal manic quicker than housework. I have friends who must do cleaning every day or they start to suffer from withdrawal symptoms – luckily, I have never suffered from this affliction.

My sister can attest to this. For several years of our childhood we had to share a bedroom. I caused her a great deal of mental anguish as her side of the room was neat, tidy, everything in its place, my side was more . . . relaxed. I always, however, knew where everything was and which pile to attack to find the article I was looking for. She never saw the advantage that she had far more room in the shared wardrobe than she would have got if I was also neat and tidy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a slob. My house, while not always sparkling clean and tidy, is comfortable and has a lived-in appearance. I like to think it is welcoming – but a show-home it will never be.

Some forms of housework are worse torture than others. Vacuuming and dusting are almost bearable, especially when the dog needs grooming and he leaves clumps of white hair artistically spread over the carpets in all rooms, and I have friends arriving soon, (family don’t count – they learned to live with it years ago.) I know I’m not alone in this, as I have a friend who says the test for whether vacuuming should be considered is when you walk across the carpets barefoot and it feels almost like walking over a sandy beach.

Have you noticed, though, not being paranoid or anything, but the closer you get to thinking, I really must do some housework, the more likely it is that friends will drop round unexpectedly. If I have a pristinely clean house no-one comes near my door, if the dust has settled on the wooden furniture so thickly you itch to draw pictures on the surfaces like a five-year-old, the doorbell doesn’t stop ringing. I swear someone in the ether hates me enough to set it up – I repeat, not that I’m paranoid, but it happens so often I really think something is going on.

The worst tortures that must be avoided at all costs are window cleaning, and, I’m sorry I have to say it, cleaning the oven. The oven is much easier to avoid as once the door is shut, as long as you keep the window so you can vaguely see what’s cooking inside, nobody knows how bad it is. That is unless you’re a meat eater and the fat from roasts has splattered, collected at the bottom of the oven and when it heats up smokes so much that the smoke alarm is set off. It really is a good job that facing a blank page part way through a novel and not having the foggiest idea where to go next has a tendency to instigate wild bouts of oven cleaning. Also, I do not cook a lot of meat so I am saved from the embarrassment of the fire department arriving to put out a filthy oven.

So, domestic goddess I am not, but visitors always get a welcome, even if I am cringing inside at how much housework I should have done yesterday.

There’s always tomorrow.

After all these years of writing, why take the plunge into websites and ebooks at an time when most normal people of my age are enjoying the benefits of retirement and a little more time to smell the roses?

The important word in that statement is ‘normal’. I’ve never been normal. Even when I was a child, my mother knew that.

"You’ve been playing with all those children who are going back to their mothers clean and tidy. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and there’s not a single place on you that’s not filthy. The dirt must find you because you could never find that much on your own." She never appreciated my special skill in this area, or the ability to cause inanimate objects to fling themselves at me."Why is it that I clearly remember saying you couldn’t go to that event, and now I’ve just agreed to it and what’s more it feels like it’s my idea that you go?""Dorothy! Will you go back to bed. There are definitely no burglars in the attics." But there was a dog who got himself locked in there by mistake. I learned not to mention it was ghosts and other creatures I’d imagined were making all the noise– life was easier when I kept those quiet.

All my life characters and plots have invaded my brain, demanding attention. Now they drive me to distraction with their constant need to expand upon their stories, until I submit and write their tale. So, my computer is stacked with novels and stories for both young and old. Why do something about them now?

Recently I saw a quote from Isaac Asimov, the science fiction writer and philosopher. He said, “You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you’re working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success – but only if you persist.”

My writer friends, and friends who are avid readers, have read my manuscripts and say that they are page turners with gripping plots, interesting characters, and well worth the time spent reading them. So hopefully that answers the talent part.

As the years keep racking up without my permission, and working on the premise it is never too late to change career, I have decided now is the time to persist and send my babies out into the wide world to see how they fare. I predict that some people will like them, some people will love them, and some will wonder why I bothered. I think that is about the correct balance even for very successful books – the difference is the passion level rises for all three categories in proportion to the level of success of the author.

Hence, the first of my novels will be available in ebook form very soon.

Watch this space.