Coming back to life... for now

Hi everyone! Long time no blog! Well, here anyway. I've been blogging over at my new home, The Green Room, and although it's been hard going fitting in blogging lately, I've been really enjoying it - it's great having a focus and a mission - I'm only trying to save the world, no biggie ;)

Anywho, I'm reviving You May Say I'm a Dreamer until the end of November because I've decided (against my own and probably everyone else's better judgement) that I'm going to do National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) again! For those of you who don't know already, I'm getting married on December 7th, so the month before is probably not the best time to write a novel. But screw it, I'm gonna try anyway. I don't have as much faith in winning as I did last year, but I'm hoping to make some headway the one of five novels I've started.

Last year I wrote 50,000 words worth of foodie goodness - a little country tale revolving around food told from the perspective of a jar of jam sitting high on a shelf in a charming cafe. This year, I'm exploring reincarnation with a story about a boy who lived twice. I came across a story on You Tube about a little boy who had all of these crazy details about a previous life in his head - a mum, a dad, a house by the sea, even how he died. He truly believed he had lived another life and when he died he saw a light at the end of a tunnel and ended up were he is today. The family, for the sake of the documentary, actually researched his claims and took him to the house he believed he used to live in and the look on his face - that of a grown man who has realised that everything and everyone he had known and loved was gone forever, not an innocent five year old boy - is burned into my brain. I can't forget it. So I'm using this story as a starting point for my own story about a boy who lived before.

So why am I doing this when I have a month until my wedding (when it starts)? Simply put, because I procrastinate a lot and let ideas fester in my head and it's a lot easier to get on with it when there are thousands of other people in the world doing the same thing and going through the same web of emotions with you. It's also cool to see that word count rise every day... or every few days.

I decided to blog about it here because I kind of miss blogging about random things. Plus, it holds me accountable.

So hello old readers and welcome new readers! Lovely to have you here. :)

Round two! Let's go!

The NZ fiction journey begins

Since I've finally finished reading Nancy Wake - which I wanted to finish by the end of 2012 but just didn't get round to it - my NZ fiction journey can begin!
You have seen me mention it before, but just to recap... I am reading only New Zealand fiction this year for three reasons: #1 I feel like we give international authors too much of the spotlight, with our books squished into dusty back shelves in our own book stores. #2 I want to become a New Zealand author one day, and I'm working on an epic three-part series called Missing Since Tuesday, so I want to learn what I can from those who have gone before me. #3 Apart from maybe reading something by a NZ author in school (which I can't remember but I'm sure it must have been in the curriculum somewhere), I have never read a book by a New Zealand author and of that I'm a little ashamed.

So here I go, and I'm starting with a lesser-known book called Flashback Forward by John Cairney. I should probably start with something a little more well known, but I've just been hankering to get into this one since I bought it over a year ago, so I'm starting with it.

Here's what it's about:

Tam Cochrane is a sickly lad, confined to his bed in Glasgow in the 1880s. His only experience of adventure and the outside world is through books - that is until his father decides to sell up and head for New Zealand. As they take the four-month journey by ship, Tam's health begins to improve, and with it signs of a new Tam, fully engaging in the real world. After arriving in their new country, the family heads to Rotorua and Tarawera, only to be caught in the volcanic eruption of 1886. Having been concussed, Tam wakes up, groggy but still the fit young man he'd been growing into, except he finds he is in Napier, emerging from the ruins of the 1931 earthquake. What has happened to the last 45 years? Why is he still a young man? And who is the other Tam Cochrane, now living like a recluse back in Glasgow? An intriguing story, it is set among the cataclysmic events of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and deals with identity, with finding out who we really are in life and with living it to the full.

Synopsis from Google Books

Feel good friday

                 








Not a lot has happened this week, so today it's all about the little things making me happy:

♥  Making an amazing batch of raspberry and orange muffins
♥ Starting a new book (Nancy Wake by Peter Fitzsimons)
♥ Writing a couple of chapters for Missing Since Tuesday and Strawberry Jam (which I'm now calling Demons in her Garden - just for a change, might not stay that way, who knows where the story is going? Not me...)
♥ Sitting in the hot sun yesterday - the first truly hot, summer-feeling day so far this season
♥ Joining National Novel Writing Month (anyone ever done this before?) - so excited, might actually finish something for once!

What's making you happy this week friends? ♥ 

Oh, and don't forget to follow my Facebook Page :-)

A little bit of Missing Since Tuesday

It's been awhile since I revealed any Missing Since Tuesday excerpts, so, I thought, in light of being called an "emerging author" over at Clancy Tucker's blog, I would post a little something. I've been writing like a crazy person lately, it's been fabulous! So let me know what you think :) Constructive criticism welcomed :)

The twilight hours in the Brandon home were usually Thomas’ favourite time of day. His six children and his wife were tucked away safe in bed and he enjoyed the company of a slow burning pipe, watching the smoke swirl peacefully towards the ceiling while the radio murmured quietly beside him.


But this night was one he would remember for the rest of his days. As he sat frozen, as if glued to his chair, the smoke burned his eyes and the rumble of the radio pounded in his ears.

Deputy Prime Minister Peter Fraser’s words rang in his head, and he replayed them over and over, hoping there was something he had missed, or that the words had not been said at all.

“This is not an occasion for many words; it is a dark day in the history of the world... It is with deep regret and sadness that I make this announcement on behalf of the government, and the people will receive it with similar feelings. That will not, however, affect the determination of both government and people to play their part.”

The words were vague, and Thomas knew there would be more in the coming days, but they had been said, and he knew that New Zealand would inevitably be at war again soon. He thought of Arthur in the next room, sleeping soundly, unaware of what would be required of him in the coming months, possibly years, and he felt the unrelenting hand of war squeeze his heart tight.

War had been a natural part of most people’s lives since the Great War began in 1914, and as Thomas stared blankly ahead, he did not see the breadth of the battered dining table, the well-used chairs, the modest bookcase. Instead, the homely objects were replaced by a stretch of land, barren save endless lines of barbed wire, and the smoke turned to the dust, kicked up by his comrades who ran in front of him and fell like flies. Cannon shells ripped the ground to shreds and bullets popped sporadically, ripping through bodies, peppering the dust with blood. Thomas’ hand went automatically to the scar on his shoulder, where a bullet had passed through him just under the collarbone, ripping through muscle and searing flesh.

He rubbed his thumb over the lumpy scar tissue and thought of his eldest son; his fit, healthy, young son who would soon be sent to his own battle field.

Happy Monday :)

Good morning all! Happy Monday! Good weekend? Mine was busy, busy, busy as usual but good, good, good at the same time. Spent Saturday afternoon curling my sister's beautiful long blonde locks and doing her makeup for her last ever school ball (will post pictures tomorrow), then stayed to watch the All Blacks beat the Wallabies (again), winning the Bledisloe Cup (again) with my parents. Was kinda weird saying "I should go home now" once the game was over, but a cool feeling all the same.
Yesterday I wrote some of my novel! Which led to a discussion about grenades, cannons and landmines with dad and Joshua last night when we had my family round for dinner. Very excited to be making some headway, and it's all thanks to the wonderful comments on this post from you lovely people. I've also promised a friend in America I will send him part one of my novel at the end of the year, so I'm getting it done man!

Travelling through time

If you could time travel to any era, where would you go, what would you do? I’m sure most of us have answered that questions many times, because for some reason, those things that are impossibly out of reach are the things we often want the most.
For everyone there is something in history they wish they could have witnessed, or, better yet, been a part of. For me, it’s always been the sixties. The year 1969 to be specific. On a farm in outback New York. Sound familiar? Yes, as a teenager, disappointed with what modern music had to offer, I turned to the classics; to the songs that caused such social upheaval and started revolutions, songs that created the teenager.

I longed to put on my long Indian-inspired orange skirt paired with a bell-sleeved top, topped off with bangles and headbands and hop into a convey van with a bunch of like-minded friends to drive the miles and miles it would have taken to reach Woodstock (never mind the fact that I live in New Zealand and if I time travelled I would end up in sixties New Zealand... minor detail).

I would get caught in the massive traffic jam that stretched for miles and my friends and I would abandon our van and walk, in bare feet of course, to the farm, drawn in by the strumming of guitars, microphone feedback, the thump of the drums and most importantly, the hum of half a million excited revellers come to enjoy this free concert that was never supposed to be free.
And when the rain started, my friends and I would let it come down on us and soak us to the skin. We would slide down the banks and then jump in the lake, all the while people that would go down in history as some of the greatest musicians of all time played on.

If my novel ever gets published, I know people will ask me “What inspired you to write about 1940’s Wellington?” To be honest, I don’t know. I started writing a novel based in 1960s America when I was about 20 and, although I may pursue it again someday, those files lie dormant on my computer. I can’t remember when I decided to base my book in the forties, it kind of just happened that way.

I let the story take me where it wanted and I ended up in the city I grew up in, but it is different. The masonry that, in my time, has been preserved, yet overtaken by high-rises, is now clearly visible and clean.
As I walk through the city, I am surrounded by a sea of hat-wearing people. Men in suits no matter what their profession and ladies in tailored suits and dresses with felt hats on their heads. There is a scattering of soldiers, their presence reminding people there is a war going on. Trams carry the people from A to B.

With the arrival of the Americans in 1942 comes both good and bad. Jealousy reigns among the New Zealand soldiers as their kiwi women become enamoured by the Americans, a brawl now famously known as The Battle of Manners Street erupts as an insult is flung from an American to a Maori, and a group of American soldiers drown at Paekakariki during a training exercise. However, their arrival also makes the city come alive with the opening of coffee bars, the organising of balls, a new sound of music, and hope that there is light at the end of the war.
And in amongst all of this are fretting mothers with sons away at war, exhausted fathers trying to scrape together a living, and young people who should be enjoying the innocence of young love but are instead mixed up in the turmoil and forced to think like adults.

It was not one thing, but all of this that has kept me stuck on the 1940s. The amazing amount of events, tragedies and social changes that occurred during that time is hard to ignore, as are my instincts – those instincts that drive me to find out more, to dig deeper, to find out the story behind the story. Those instincts are driving me deeper into Wellington’s history, with my novel pushing me on, urging me to go this way and that, shaping the story around me so much that, while it’s not the way I expected, I feel like I am travelling through time just like I always dreamed.
So, if you could travel to any era, where would you go, what would you do, and why?

The path I choose to follow

Lately I've been thinking about my novel, Missing Since Tuesday a lot, and have found myself getting bogged down with ideas; so many ideas in fact, that I feel I'm lacking a clear direction and it's going to end up too full of observation and become boring.
Don't get me wrong, I have pages and pages of great writing (well, I think it's great and all the people who have read it think it's great...) and a head full almost to the brim of ideas, but it's just too much sometimes!
The main problem is that every time I go on a research mission, a new strand gets added to the story - I find out about an event I didn't know about like New Zealand's Centennial Exhibition at Rongotai in 1940 and I see my characters there socialising, talking about the war and such, and then the whole story ends up changing around it and I can't settle it for long enough to get past chapter six (I've written six chapters in order, but I do have about fifteen more that are scattered randomly and I'm not sure where they fit).
With so much history, so much information, it's hard to find a middle ground - to know when to draw the line and get to the point of the story.

So to all you writers out there reading my blog (thanks for reading!), what would your advice be? How do you draw the line on information and how do you settle on one direction for your story so the writing flows smoothly instead of changing all the time?

Time to write has been found

It has been lost for a long while, what with changing jobs, moving towns, moving back in with the parents, searching for a place to live with Josh, joining the gym, and just generally dealing with the mad rush that is my life. Those are the excuses I've been using for months now, and life does not look as if it is going to get quiet or boring any time soon, so I have actually had to carve out some time in my week to fit in some writing.
I'm a big procrastinator, as I'm sure most writers are, and I prefer to work on more than one project at a time to ensure I don't get bored or distracted, and I think a big reason why I have been putting off writing anything remotely related to my novel Missing Since Tuesday is simply because I don't really want to finish it. Sure, I've got  A LOT to write yet, but the whole story is in my head and I'm having so much fun researching it and putting it together that I just don't want the journey to end. But I do want to get it published in the end, so that's really no excuse, and I guess that just means I'll have to write another book after this one.
I also struggle to write at home. I have a big desk set up in my brother's old room and all the space I need, but I just can't make myself sit down and do it because there are so many other things I could be doing.
So I came up with a plan... if I can't write at home, where can I write? The library of course! And, just my luck, I found out that my local library is open until 8.30pm at night, so after work yesterday, I went to the library, set up my computer and just wrote! I know it's a cliche, but it works! And hey, it's not like I was sitting in a dark corner of a trendy city cafe downing cup after cup of coffee while writing my novel... or screenplay...

So, I suppose now I have to show you some of the results of my hard work... This is how Missing Since Tuesday will begin, this is the prologue. Let me know what you think :)

A young woman sits on the windowsill of her brother’s room, the late twilight sun catching the curly red tendrils of her hair that moves with her swivelling head as her eyes scan the room for a clue, any clue that can prove her wrong. Something that can tell her that her brother was not where she thought he was; that the tiny world he had created for himself out of tattered old books and piles of scribbled notes had not led to the destruction of his soul; something that can reassure her what she believes about love is true – that it is not a toxic, septic mix of torturous situations and life-changing decisions into which you fall head first down a cracked and broken road full of potholes and despair, but rather something that completes your soul and brings it back to life leaving you with no need to ever feel pain again.

But nothing catches her eye and her brother does not walk into the room with a smile that reaches his eyes and beams across the room towards her slumped and defeated form. He does not cross the room to her with arms wide open to take her in a big brotherly hug and tell her he is fine, and she has nothing to worry about.

For months now his soul has existed only in the crinkled paper mess sprawled across the room and pinned on the walls, and, according to grandpa’s book that she would have dismissed had she not been searching so desperately, his body exists somewhere in the midst of World War II chasing a love they all thought was gone forever.

*Copyright Sarah Hardie 2012

Time to write

So, as most of my lovely loyal followers will know, I'm working on my first novel. But at the moment, I'm finding it quite stressful, as my head is near explosion, so full of ideas as it is; my emails that I write to myself from work when I'm seized by inspiration and have to write something down are piling up; and bits of paper are littering my desk at home, full of bits of chapters, sentences, character ideas, plot ideas, and about five different prologues.
And I have NO TIME to organise it all! All I want to do is write - I want a little Organisation Fairy to come into my study, log into my computer and organise all my mess, and then I want to pack up my laptop and a bag, jump in my car and take off to a cabin in the wilderness so I can just write.
Isn't it crazy how you try and try to live life in the slow lane but somehow your life just is not meant to be that way. I thought making the move away from journalism - which swallowed up my time, my conscience, and my soul - to move back closer to my family and friends would allow me to slow it down a bit, but it seems to have become even more frantic. Sure, I'm not driving over the hill every weekend and living out of an overnight bag, which was very exhausting, but now that I'm back, and in the big city, there is just so much to do, so many opportunities, so much to experience. And there are so many people to see.
Not that I'm complaining. I'm not. I like that my life is busy, but sometimes we all just need time out from everything and everyone and in a perfect world, we would like to do it without upsetting anyone.
For me, all I want is to make a dent in my novel - I want to feel like I've made some progress, and I want to be able to show someone the first few chapters and have them tell me what they think of it.
So I'm thinking, in the spring maybe, of taking a week off to write. Even though that's a few months away, I'm content to wait.
So I Googled "Writers' Retreats NZ" (in an ideal world, I would be Googling "Writers' Retreats Italy", but money doesn't grow on trees people) and was surprised to find that there are a few good retreats around these parts, so I thought I would share some with you in case you are having the same troubles and are dreaming of escape. I also stumbled across a great blog called Shameless Words by fellow New Zealander Seamus Kearney, who is also working on his first novel, so I'm extending some blog love thataways, make sure you have a peek!

Haurata High Country Retreat - Gisborne

New Pacific Studio - Wairarapa

Tauhara - Lake Taupo

The Writers' Retreat - Kerikeri

If all else fails, I might just hire my uncle's beach house up the coast, or hole myself up in the local library for a week... do you think they would let me sleep there? haha. Where would be your ideal place to retreat to? Have you had or are you having the same problem as me? Any advice on how to organise your life and get motivated?

Sarah xo

Surprising myself

Have you ever written something on a whim, with no idea where you're going with it, and get to the end and think "Yeah, it's alright" then, a few days later you read it again and you almost say out loud, "Wow, did I really write this? It's pretty good."
This happens to me every so often, and when it does, I feel almost sick with excitement and pride, and a little - okay, a lot - modest. But today I've decided not to be modest about it and share this small passage with you from my novel, Missing Since Tuesday. I think it's rather good. What do you think? Have you had a moment like this and would like to share? Leave me a comment or a link, don't be shy!

As the black chill of a cold July night enfolds the town of Owhiro Bay, a cloud of chimney smoke hovers over its small collection of houses as its residents retreat indoors, lighting fires to warm numb hands. Mothers cooks their families hearty winter meals; piping hot chunks of beef and potato swimming in thick gravy; steaming vegetable soup bubbling on the stove; sausage meat, mince and vegetables mushed together to form mum’s famous meatloaf.

When the children are tucked up in bed and their parents enjoy a moment of solace in front of the fire, they listen to the distant waves crashing against the rocky shore, a sound that makes them thankful to be inside and lulls the little ones to sleep.
Just a few hundred metres away on that rocky shore, a young man dressed in a once immaculate suit and tie walks out of time to the tune of the ocean as he stumbles over the rocks and his own feet as if in a dream, or rather, a nightmare, willing the movement to wake him up because the howling wind and stinging rain that burns his cheeks is simply not enough.
He trips one last time, this time on a piece of driftwood, and tumbles to the ground where he lies staring up at the grey clouds above that match the colour of his heart.
Sleep finally finds him, though he wonders if it is death in disguise as the rain pounds his sodden body, but he gives into it, content with the promise of relief from his pain, whether he wakes up from it or not.

Mothers and daughters

Following the passing of my nana over the weekend, today I am celebrating the beautiful bond between mothers and daughters.

I shot down to Wellington on Friday night after receiving the news that my nana was in hospital and it wasn't looking good, and sat with my mum, who was sitting with her mum, holding her hand, all day Friday.
As soon as I got in my car to drive to the hospital, I knew I would have to take on the role of mum for the weekend. When someone else is going through a crisis, mum always jumps in to help in practical ways by doing the things that need to be done like grocery shopping, looking after pets and driving kids around, so on the weekend, I became my mother and did her grocery shopping, drove my sister and her American exchange student to the places they needed to go, looked after the animals, kept the house tidy, and brought mum coffee.
Even though my brother and dad were around supporting us, the whole weekend was a very surreal mother-daughter experience, and it reinforced the fact that even though mothers and daughters drive each other crazy and clash a lot, they're always there when you need each other and no questions have to be asked, we just do what needs to be done and comfort each other with hugs when it's all over.

Thinking about this post made me remember a book I heard about called Mothers and Daughters by my favourite author, Diana Gabaldon, and other best-selling authors Faye Kellerman, Eileen Goudge and Joy Fielding. I haven't read it yet, but I intend to (I know I say that a lot, but I promise I'll get there!)
It also made me think of the teaser I wrote last week for my novel Missing Since Tuesday, and it's quite eerie that I managed to write that without having properly gone through the death of a loved one before, and even more eerie that I got it pretty much right - a lot of the feelings expressed in that small excerpt were true to how I felt being there with my nana from when she was admitted to hospital to when she took her last breath. This next week will be a hard one, but it will also be an opportunity to experience grief, which will help me with the next stage of my novel, since the best way to write about something is to experience it first-hand.
So I am unofficially declaring today as mother-daughter day, and I encourage you, my faithful readers, to appreciate your mother/daughter/grandmother/grandaughter. Give her a hug and tell her you love her or, if you're to far away to hug, give her a call or write her a letter, because you never know when it could be over and you don't fully appreciate what you have until they're gone.

New beginnings

Hi all,

For those of you who have followed my blog in the past - which I'm guessing is not many considering I haven't updated it in eons - will notice all of the photography and art posts are gone. I am still pursuing these passions, however they have moved to a different site: http://soacphotography.wordpress.com/

I have decided to turn this blog into one based around books. I live and breathe books. I read constantly - the latest books and the classics, am always reading reviews on Stuff and other such sites, follow my favourite authors religiously around the internet, write book reviews, and interview authors who visit masterton as part of my job as a journalist. I am also writing my own novel, which you may hear about as this blog pushes forward.

So welcome, my friends, to a place to appreciate the English language.