At Last!

Yaaaahhhh! Just finished my last read-through of Book 2, At Curlew Cry . Now I just have to convert it, add the before and afters. Stick on the cover and Ta Daaa! ready for publishing, after I’ve checked the proof-copy of course. Then, you can read for yourselves what has taken me forever to finish. You’ll probably wonder what all the fuss was about as it’s quite a short one. Sorry about that. I am very interested to know what you think so don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon. You don’t have to write much, but I would love to know what you liked, or probably more importantly, what you didn’t like. Thanks.

I have been tossing up which to write next The Charters Towers one or the Paluma one. I think it’s going to be Paluma as I don’t yet have a suitable cover for C.T… and for other reasons which will come more to light as the year passes. I’m not going to worry about things out of my control until I have to.

What are you writing, or reading, at the moment? I’m always interested in what you’re up to. Keep up the good fight. I’ll see you soon…ish. Bye now,

The Struggle Goes On

Hi folks, I have not written a post for some time, because I am still struggling with editing Book 3 of the Beaufort’s Landing Series of murder mysteries, ‘At Curlew Cry’. I owe my beta readers a big apology because though I thought the book was ready, it turns out, no so much.

Yoiks! One poor girl couldn’t cope with it at all and withdrew. The others are still struggling through. One sent me her thoughts and I have gone back to the copy and re-edited. There were still so many timeline errors and plot holes. I was so embarrassed, and since then I have apologised to them individually. But, again, I am sorry.

Why? Oh, why, is this book such a problem for me? I am still having episodes of sudden and all consuming fatigue post-covid, so I guess that is feeding into it. I am feeling so frustrated and cross at myself…however, I am feeling better and getting more writing done.

I have some ideas for the next books in the series. One will be set in Charters Towers. some 2hrs south-west of here. The other in Paluma. I will write out a quick plot line soon. I have some ideas about titles and have chosen one of my paintings for the cover of the Paluma one— see above banner. Paluma is a beautiful mountainside village some 30 to 40 mins north-west of here. The temperatures are very mild, the air cool and often misty, and it is surrounded by national park jungle full of native mammals and birds. It is magical and special, pity about the winding and dangerous road up. Some people get motion sickness travelling up there. Surely nothing dastardly could happen in such heavenly surroundings. Stick around and you will soon find out.

On other matters….

The Townsville Writers and Publishers Community are having a special day at The Strand in Townsville on Australia Day 26th January. Come on down and participate in workshops, listen to readings, buy local writers books. It will be a fun day.

Also, am trying to get started on Book 3 of the DNA Novels, ‘Clothed In Black’, so will have more to report back on that in the near future.

Well, that should be my year taken care of, I reckon. Talk soon.

Beta readers are a godsend!

Just a quick note, ‘At Curlew Cry’ is off to beta readers. It would have gone out sooner, but at the last minute I added another chapter.

Now, I have to get stuck into Book 4. Working Title—Misty Mountain Murder. Set in the village of Paluma on the range behind Balgal, but slightly to the north, up a very steep and windy road. some people get motion-sickness on the journey. Honest. It is so beautiful there and covered in rain-forest; full of birdlife, including Cassowary, and nocturnal mammals. What a delicious palette to choose from!

I have written a short story set in Paluma…and because you’ve all been good I will put it up here for you to read, probs in one or two instalments. It’s not a murder mystery, but I hope you still enjoy it. It has been published as one of the short stories in my book, ‘Forgotten Memories and other Fiction’.


The woman stood close, but not too close to her husband. No part of her body touched his. She artfully designed her stance to give the impression of togetherness. Neither did she have contact with either child; after all they weren’t hers and though they were biddable enough she really was too busy with her own affairs to be bothered with them. The Nanny was doing a perfectly adequate job without the need of direction.

The man, for his part, sat erect in his carefully pressed suit, sporting a healthy moustache, as all great men should. He chose to balance his younger child, Suzanna, on his knee. Showing himself to the world in the best light — an up-standing citizen, a gentleman and a caring father. Unfortunately, the tilt of his head and uncompromisingly upright stance, to say nothing of his smug expression, belied outward appearances to anyone with a keen enough eye and perceptive enough heart.

Suzanna was terrified. She had never before been allowed so close to the great persona of Father. His hidden hand shoved at her spine forcing her to sit straight and still.  She let her hands rest in her lap. Her nose was itchy but Father had already growled at her for fidgeting. She dared a quick glance at Sebastian, but he was looking like thunder and busy with his own thoughts.

Her brother stood, independent and furious, to one side. His lips pressed together, almost invisible and his eyes glinted, hard as emeralds. He loathed having to dress in this horrid girly outfit. He determined that when he grew up he would destroy all photographs of himself in dresses. He stood well out of reach of the man he could never please.  How he longed for the freedom he found when Father was away on one of his many trips, the latest of which had brought into Seb’s life this strange and aloof creature who Father insisted he address as Mother, but who was nothing like his mother. Sebastian stared out at the camera, searching for some morsel, some vaguely happy moment in the family circle. There… there she was, drifting, ghost-like, through his mind; almost faceless now, a hint of sandalwood, a red-gold halo of hair surrounding a kindly face, warm, soft — lost! Gone the instant he caught sight of her. He felt the new woman’s presence behind him, prickly and arctic cold, trussed up in her ridiculous new outfit. She looked silly and out of place in Townsville’s turgid, tropical heat, as did he in the equally ridiculous dress he had been forced to don for the obligatory formal, family photograph

He could hardly wait to return to the primitive farmhouse in Paluma, where he was free to do as he willed; run wild with his native friends and never, never wear dresses! Surely this visit to Townsville would soon be over, all the talk of Boarding School would end, as it always did, and life could return to normal.

The photographer milled and dithered around instructing them, in his slightly effeminate voice, where to stand and what to do. They, of course, ignored him. ‘Merde!’ He shrugged eloquently and ducked under the cloth behind the camera. He had placed the Fitzsimmons Family in front of the building, which was not really a building. It was a façade, as he sensed their happy family was.

Pierre used the cardboard cutout to give some semblance of civilization to his photographs in this desperate, dusty backwater in which he found himself. His sharp eyes waited for the right moment. The young photographer slyly caught the woman when her face showed some of her inner turmoil – her head lifted proudly, her jaw squared and her eyes hidden in shadow. 


The photograph meant nothing to Sebastian.  He stared uncomprehendingly at it, then looked vacantly at the man in front of him… Possum, yes old Possum, his new mate. He had shoved the picture into Seb’s hands. 

“Knew it was you, but had to search out this old thing to be sure. You look just like yer old man, even have his bloody moustache,” ground out the gnarly old bloke in his tobacco ravaged voice. He sat on the rough-hewn stool outside his dilapidated timber cabin, puffing one cigarette after the other.

Seb reached up and ran his slender finger over the brush on his top lip. A puzzled look flitted across his normally expressionless features as he ransacked his brain for an image of his father. Nothing. There was nothing.

Possum scratched at his crotch. “I’m actually Arthur Benham,” he stated, jerking his arthritic thumb at his chest. “Name mean anything to you?” he queried. Once, many years ago he had been this boy’s ‘Uncle’, his mentor and confidant.

Seb lifted his eyes to meet the other man’s, trying to maintain his wayward concentration, which the past months in the Pacific Theatre had dissipated. His focus blurred and his mind wandered off on a tangent, then his body wandered off as well, down the path toward Rehabilitation Unit Six’s designated area. He still clutched the photo. 

Poor bastard, Possum thought.  He ran a hand through the wild thatch of graying curls that had given him his name, shrugged and lit another ciggie. Poor bloody bastard. Bloody useless war. Fuck the King. Gone are the good old days. He sucked on his rollie and blew smoke through his nostrils in disgust. Guess they weren’t so good for the lad, poor young codger. His father was a right bastard. A jumped up, pompous mug. 


Michael Fitzsimmons Esquire, dragged his boy away from the wattle and daub cottage to the dray waiting in the dusty street. Fitzsimmons had his little girl under one arm. She lay limp and uncomplaining. The boy struggled and called in the native Nyawangi language to his Aboriginal nanny, Leila.

“Save us. Auntie, I don’t want to go. Save us.”

She, poor creature, stood in the doorway trembling, wailing and sobbing her heartbreak. 

Possum was tempted to intervene but he knew starting a blue in centre town was going to achieve nothing. Fitzsimmons was a big bastard. Anyway, they’d be all right. He was their Dad after all. Never-the-less, as Fitzsimmons lifted his hat in greeting, Possum emphatically turned his back.


With a rattle and thump a truck chugged to a stand-still just up the street.    Unit Six’s sole truck stood in the middle of the road, steam pouring from its radiator. Shaking himself from the cloying grasp of the past, Possum sighed and got up to offer his help to the driver.

 A young woman slid from the passenger side, and spoke up to the driver. “I’ll walk from here and send someone back to help you.”

Laughter greeted this offer, “That’ll be the day, Love. She’ll be jake! Here comes old Possum. He’ll give me a hand.” Seb came level with the vehicle. “Hey you!” The voice called Sebastion to attention. “Grab the lady’s kit and show her to the women’s quarters. ‘N be quick about it!”

The young man shoved the photo into his shirt pocket and ambled across to comply. He lifted the case onto one shoulder and reached out to take the Lieutenant’s other bag. 

“Thank you, I can manage,” her voice smiled into his inattentive ear. His hand stayed suspended awkwardly in the air between them.

“Blimey Mate! Just take the thing to the quarters, will you! You’ll have to excuse ‘im Ma’am,” the voice inside the truck smirked. “Capt’n’s mad as a bandicoot… Shell-shock, o’ course. This bloody war!” he growled as he searched around inside the cabin for the truck’s crank handle.

During the short walk to the building in question, Bess tried to engage Seb in conversation.

“So, uh, I’m Elisabeth, Bess, Williams. Registered Nurse. And you’re, Captain…?”

“Nah, just Seb.”

They passed under the winged arch over the gateway to the Unit’s compound. 



“Oh, Where were you based?”

“Singas. Cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

“Here you go then, that’s Maiden’s Manor, er the female sleeping quarters.”

“Thanks… Oh, Captain,” she called as he turned and started to walk away. “Where is Commander Connelly’s Office?” He faced her again, the lost look lifted for an instant. Bess felt the colour in her cheeks. “I, I should report to him as soon as I d…drop this in, I suppose,” she stammered.

“That’s the sick-bay over there. His office is just to the right as you enter.” He gave a lop-sided half-smile that had her heart skipping a beat or two. “And it’s just Seb.” Then his face shut down and he was gone.

“Poor fellow,” she murmured to herself, “And so handsome too.”

Sebastian reached up to his pocket to get another cigarette and as he drew out the packet a photo fell to the ground. He bent to retrieve it and was startled by the blare of a horn from a speeding US army jeep. He jumped out of the way but the vehicle ran over the photograph. Seb snatched it up. “Bastards!” he shouted.

He studied the mired picture — a man, a woman, two children. Something stirred inside, then was gone. He wandered toward his favourite nook in the surrounding rainforest, staring down at the picture all the while. Heavy mist descended rapidly and unheeded around him.  The foggy blanket had given rise to Paluma’s previous title, Cloudy Clearing (so named by Arthur “Possum” Benham himself). 

Only when Seb could no longer see the photo in his hands did he stop and look around. He turned slowly on the spot. The cloud was now so dense that only the closest trees were visible. They did not look familiar. He cursed himself for a fool and stepped in the direction he thought the camp lay. 

The sun was sinking, and the temperature plunged as darkness fell. Sebastion shivered in his cotton shirt with the sleeves torn out. He had to find shelter or perish. His sharp eyes searched out the buttress roots of a giant rainforest tree. He broke off some large fern leaves and with those and some fallen palm fronds fashioned himself a not-so-cosy lair.

He woke cold, stiff and hungry the next morning, at least, though it was still dark, a cacophony of raucous birdcall proclaimed it to be morning. When he poked his head above his covering of leaves he saw that the mist still shimmered amongst the tall, forest trees, a ghost army of half visible memories. Bloody Munan Gumbaru. The Aboriginal name sprang effortlessly to mind. Munan Gumbaru. He rolled it over and over. Munan Gumbaru — Misty Mountain…How did he know that? He shook himself. Whatever it was called, the fog did not augur well for finding his way, back to camp. His eyes searched the immediate vicinity trying to discover some small sign that he was in familiar territory. As he stood undecided, a browsing bettong scrabbled noisily into the leafy undergrowth setting off another wave of catbird cries, which triggered the rifle-birds and a multitude of smaller birds.Well, I can’t stay here, he decided. If I don’t move I’ll bloody freeze. 

There you go…. more next time, Cheers,


I’ve done it! At last, Book 3 of the Beaufort’s Landing Murder Mystery series 1st draft is done. My god, it was like pulling teeth. I honestly felt like I would never finish it. I don’t understand why.

I know you’ve seen the cover before, but thought that after all this time you would have forgotten.

Have you ever had trouble getting the words on paper like that. It wasn’t that I didn’t know where the story was going or how it would resolve. It was more a problem putting one word after the other. Hell, one letter after the other. I had heard (somewhere) that the third of a series was difficult. Let me put my name to the list of complainers…It was a bitch!

Anyhow, now I have to rewrite, and rewrite, and use my beta reader, then edit, and re-edit. I’m hoping to have it ready for release in January. Order your copies now. Actually, I don’t have pre-order set up on Amazon, so you can’t do that. Why? Well, because I don’t know how.

I am hoping to have a book launch as soon as I get some hard copies. I’ll be sure to let you know when.

In the meantime, Books make great Christmas gifts so go to this link. HERE, Go on, you know you want to, and I certainly want you to. Just think, you’ll be giving 2 presents at once— one for the receiver and one for the author, who thanks you very much.

Here is a short excerpt to whet your appetite:-

You little snot, Xelma thought. Instead of voicing her distain at his close-mindedness, she extended her hand. ‘Xelma.’

‘Selma who?’

‘No one. Just Xelma, X.e.l.m.a…and you are?’

‘Geoff Orson.’ 

The young man looked at her hand held out in greeting, and with just the slightest of pauses took her fingers in his flaccid, seemingly boneless hand for a brief moment. It was enough. Xelma didn’t like the exchange, and had to stop herself from rubbing his touch off onto her sarong.

‘Aw, don’t be like that,’ Glenda chided him. ‘She gives most of her earnings to local charities. That’s what Geoff’s doing, Xelma. Cyclin’ for charity. He’s riding from Brisbane to the top end to raise money for…what was it again?’

‘ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Glenda responded. ‘His wife died of it just recently, poor soul.’

I’m sorry for your loss,’ Xelma said. ‘Geoff.’

With an impatient shake of her head, Xelma brought herself back to the moment. Her eyes took in the covered swag laid out next to an open fire pit. The ash was dead grey. Everything looked undisturbed and there was no evidence of a struggle. She got no sense of him being dead, but there was something in the air under that tree that made her uncomfortable, not in a dangerous way rather in a strange, foggy way.

‘I don’t feel his presence at all,’ she reported. ‘It’s as though he just walked away and left it, leaving nothing behind.’

‘Nothing? Yer daft creature, he’s left everything.’ Glenda sighed. ‘S’pose I’ll have to ring that new cop now. Damn it. He’s a grumpy bugger, not social like Niall useta be.’

Well that is all for now, I’ll try to do something useful before the next blog.

How is your writing going? Come on you can do it!


Busy, Busy, Busy…

I would have written sooner, but Rosa has been busy with her art stuff, and has just wall-papered the two bedrooms. They aren’t perfect but look okay. She’s so vain and thinks that’s a good reason for ignoring me, thus you. Honestly!

She did design my business cards, though. What do you think?

But, I am here now! — And still have nothing much to tell you. Sales of my books are pretty good when I go to markets etc. but still no money for advertising. Can somebody tell me why as soon as I get a bit an unexpected bill arrives?

I am still writing book 3 of the Beaufort’s Landing series. It is coming easier now, in fact I wrote over 1000 words this morning. It felt good. Writing red herrings is the best. Sometimes I even fool myself…like, What? Where did that come from? She can’t be the murderer! … It’s a hoot.

If anyone reading this is also on my newsletter list. I apologise for not putting anything out there for absolutely ages. I have no excuse.

I have got some good feed-back from the Prequel ‘Becoming Xelma’, but no one has said much about Book 2 of the DNA trilogy, ‘Daughter of Anger’. Come on people help me out here, lol.

I will be starting book three of the Trilogy as soon as I finish book three of Beaufort’s. I sincerely hope it comes a bit easier.

Now, I have to get back to life chores. So, Later

Post Covid Writing

So…the launch of the Prequel to the Murder Mysteries and Daughter Of Anger is over. I sold a few books, but really it was a great big flop. I am no good at this marketing game. I did the best I could, but without money for advertising etc I am up against it. Nevermind, I love writing…

What on earth has happened to this blog page? It’s gone all weird. Why can’t I make the pics smaller? Too bad. I don’t have time to muck around so que sera, sera.

What I really want to talk about is how weird my post-covid time was. I knew I had fog-brain and was very fatigued, but man!

So, I’ve told you I’m writing Book 3 in the Beaufort’s Landing murder mysteries series. I had written a portion before the covid got me. I was pretty useless for about 2 weeks, then I felt a bit better, apart from the brain thing. I wrote some, slept a lot, wrote, slept etc for almost 2 months. That may seem pretty good…right? I thought so, but I decided to print out what I had, read and edit it before continuing. Guess what? —— The new writing is a complete jumble. I mean, really crazy with paragraphs and sentences in the wrong chapters, characters out of place, absolutely not continuity. The sentences made sense in themselves, but not in the storyline. Not only that! But, there were 20 -30 pages I didn’t even recognise. I wrote them??? Yep, but couldn’t remember writing them. Having re-read them a couple of times since, I think I kinda remember them, but not really. I mean, the pages weren’t in too bad shape so I a little ahead there.

However, I’m a bit weirded out about the whole thing. I was so demented and that’s scary.

The good news is, that I’ve been beavering away, now that I’m back to normal, and the MS makes some kind of sense. I’m feeling better about everything. Have you had any peculiar post covid effects? Let me know. I have to go now, so until next time,


First let me say to all those who have liked or followed my blog lately and all along, ‘Thank you!’. I’m not ignoring your encouragement, but life is hectic sometimes and things get away from me.

You’ve probably read at Per Rose Oddly that we are getting a payment from Amazon. I believe I can take the credit here, After all every one loves a whodunnit, right? Her Poetry is all right, but can hardly compete with me.

I am sending for the proof of Daughter of Anger. so that will be out soon. Book 2 of the DNA Trilogy —

The recipient of a 5 star People’s Choice award. Read the review part of which appears below….

This is a very interesting story for fans of suspense and psychological thrillers, a fascinating story with multilayered characters. The narrative is stellar and it features excellent prose and powerful plot points. Note that it does contain mature content and situations that can be psychologically challenging. The use of the epistolary style reinforces the beauty and depth of the story, allowing the mindset of the protagonist to come out clearly, deepening the elements of the conflict, and enhancing character development. The twists and turns in Jenny’s Story (sic – previous title) are manifold and readers won’t see them coming. Percy Rose has a unique and compelling voice in the genres of crime and psychological novels, and this book is a fascinating read and a real treat.

Just to whet your appetite, let’s read the opening…

My Story

Dear Doctor Alec,  

 I’m innocent. I didn’t do it. I would never murder anyone. You believe me, don’t you?

Sorry, I had a moment’s panic there. I’m getting ahead of myself…

   Let me open with a little quote my mother used…

‘True! – Nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous. I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story.’

It’s a quote from the beginning of Poe’s, ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’, with which I am sure you are familiar, my dear doctor. Pretty apt considering my circumstances, don’t you think? I’ve never actually read any of his work myself. And, it’s a funny thing, Mum never used to read fiction at all until her later years. Most of what she did read was on the dark and weird side.

As you can see, I have decided to take up your suggestion and write down my story. But I shall do it in my own way and in my own time. After all, a girl must have her secrets.

 You pretend this is for my own good, but I know the truth. The truth is that you are curious, with more than an academic, professional curiosity. Yes, much more than that. You want to see into my life, into my mind, how I think, so you can take possession of it, of me. You think that if you can just understand, that if I know you understand, I will be yours.

Ah yes, I can hear the shocked denial echo through that bulbous head of yours, but you know it’s true. That is why you are a psychiatrist. You love that smug sense of superiority. You love watching your patients’ futile struggles as you pin us down with your words, your diagnoses. You love poisoning us with your filthy drugs that subdue us, make us malleable in your hands.

Outrageous, you say. And well you might, because it is outrageous. You are a very naughty man. I’ve heard all about you, and what goes on behind closed doors. Do you think that we don’t speak to each other, we in-mates of the female locked ward at the Mental Health Unit. Such a fancy name for a Lunatic Asylum, a Looney Bin. You may not see our lips move, but we are communicating all right. Have you never heard of telepathy? Yes, telepathy. They have told me everything. They whisper to me constantly, especially at night. Their voices ring in my head, telling in intimate detail, intimate detail of their ‘sessions’ with you.

They tell me everything. They send me pictures – your hand on a breast, sliding sensuously up a bare thigh, your full, wet lips kissing and sucking. I thrash around in my bed. I groan aloud as I bite the pillow to muffle my orgasm.

However, that is not what you want to hear about, is it?

What do you think? Admit it, you want to read more…


Well, I have finished the rough draft and 2nd draft. It is now with a Beta reader. So, now I’m going away for a week to relax and then come back and attack it again.

I am, of course, referring to the prequel to the Beaufort’s Landing series, which explains a couple of things about Xelma’s character and her past. Like all of us, she is a complicated creature and this novella (about 60 Pages) explores that, a bit. It is not a ‘whodunnit’ but there is criminal activity, murder and mayhem. All of the action takes place in Brisbane, (where I lived from about 10 years old to 20 yrs.) but ends up with Xelma moving to Townsville region.

I do have a dilemma, however, the title. The above cover is a work in progress what do you think of it? Now, please help me decide on the title…

  1. Coming Home OR 2. Becoming Xelma

I have a stack of things to do before I choo-choo off south, so if you’ll excuse me…

At Last…writing again

So, I’ve had a bit of a time getting back into the writing flow since I lost my sister, my friend and my best critic and champion. She is up there on her cloud rousing at me. I can hear her now, ‘Come on, get on with it. Stop procrastinating. Stop using me as an excuse.’ She always was a bossy britches.

Anyhow, all that is to say, over the past 2 weeks or so I have gotten back to my writing. I have written about 10,000 words of my prequel, ‘Becoming Xelma’. And, changed my mind about a portion of book three, therefore necessitating the writing of a new (very sketchy) outline.

Part of my problem is that I spread myself too thin. I have always known that life is too short and so, without even thinking about it, I try to cram too much in. It seems to be part of my DNA to skip from one thing, to another, to another and back again. I just can’t seem to help it.

Right, I thought I might offer the prequel free to pre-orderers of Book 3 ‘At Curlew Cry’, but I don’t know how to go about effecting this on Amazon. Can anyone out there help me? I’ll need step by baby-step instructions.

Did I show you the cover I made for book three? I can’t remember so here it is, again, maybe.

What do you think? Too bad. It’ll have to do because I can’t afford to pay anyone to do it for me…and being very vein, I like using my paintings on the covers. Lol.

Oh, and remember to write a review on Amazon if you’ve read any of my books. It doesn’t have to be long or even positive (though I hope it is), Just as long as you give me a review so it can go up the rankings, so that it gets more exposure, so that more people buy it and more people review it, and so on. Thanks. P.

Hello to the New Year!

I know, I know. I’ve been AWOL but I do have reasons — if you want to know know about them go to Per Rose Oddly or TipC — you will just have to for give me.

I am determined to make a better effort this year (not exactly off to a flying start am I?) Never mind every day holds the gift of a new start.

So, Ruth In Pieces, Book 1 of A DNA Trilogy (Psychological Thriller), is available in ebook and hard cover on Amazon. I don’t have any copies in my own hands yet, but will do soon.

Life is shattering

Book 2 Daughter of Anger will be released in May and Book 3 Clothed In Black by year’s end…hopefully.

The Beaufort’s Landing Murder Mystery Series has books 1 Escape to Danger and 2 Tidal Secrets available as ebooks and paperback and Book 3 At Curlew Cry and a series Prequel Becoming Xelma soon to be released.

At Curlew Cry will be dedicated to a brilliant Australian Author, Peter Watt, whose encouragement I have always appreciated. He and I have know each other for a number of years and Book 1 of his earliest Series is Cry of the Curlew.

Check out his extensive output here This is terrifiic novel writing of fictional characters living through factual Australian History. Exciting and engrossing. You won’t be able to put them down. Go for it!

So as you can see, I will need to really get to work. How about you? What are your plans for the New Year? Are you, like me, finding it hard to knuckle down? Don’t worry, just start typing…that’s what I tell myself. Let’s hope it works. Hope to hear from you,