Monday, November 21, 2011

The Other One (a free quick read)

HEY GUYS: Here's an example of my short fiction (with a twist) that's available for free at:
http://freequickreads.blogspot.com.au/

The Other One
by Christina Larmer

My sister has always been more beautiful than me and I don't understand why. We're identical twins. We're supposed to look the same. But for some reason, men are more attracted to Kara. Hell, everyone's more attracted to her: old women, little kids, even the dog next door gallops across, tail wagging a million miles a minute when Kara comes around. He offers me not so much as a sniff, and it bugs me. Or, at least it did until last week, when Kara turned up dead.

They say a handsome young man found her body. Of course. He alerted the police, they called in the fire brigade who in turn called in the search and rescue squad. She was hard to get to, stuck in a tree, halfway down a cliff. Just dangling there, like a dead pig in a butcher's window. For all to see.

The irony of it hit me. Kara was always eager to be seen and death did not let her down. Of course if you spent as much time on yourself as Kara did, you'd probably be noticed, too. She always knew what to wear, how to do her hair. Subtle make-up, sexy shoes. I gather she spent all she earned at that glamorous PR job on her shoes. I've got them all now, of course, but they aren't taking me where I thought they would.

I'm thrifty. A mad saver, really. And not at all into fashion or lipstick or highlights in the hair. The 'plain one', I hear them say, sympathy edging out the disdain. They don't compare themselves to her, of course. Just me. Her other half.

I'm an accountant. Wealthier, wiser, lonelier. Had a boyfriend once. Until he met her. Of course Kara would not be tempted by someone so dull, but she might as well have. He was as good as gone after that; sex occasionally, the fire extinguished from his eyes. Unless he was thinking of her. I knew when that was because he was excited, animated, fervent. Alive. That's when I would slip off midway and leave him there, dangling.

Dangling. It's a funny word, isn't it? Ugly. Humiliating. Out of control.

Kara was never normally out of the control. She spoke well, she made friends easily, she drank just enough, never put on weight. She was School Captain and University President. She had been in love, but she never fell there like the rest of us. She sauntered up instead, opening the door to it, offering it a seat. And she always left them, a few expected tears, and happiness again.

"I love being single," she told me once. "I love being on my own." I'd noticed. Apart from our nine months wedged together early in the piece, we'd never been close. I laugh at the thought of poor, beautiful Kara stuck in the slimy environs of my mother's womb, her limbs entangled with mine, unable to get away.

Last week she got away from me. For good. She was pushed from a cliff. Then she really was all alone. And now in death as she lies rotting beneath the soil, she rests all alone. Except for the constant visitors of course. Mum can't bring herself to leave Kara's grave. Has practically set up a camp site. Old boyfriends have driven miles to pay their last respects, weeping over her marble plaque, leaving perfectly healthy roses to wilt without water and die. And I watch this all from a distance, disbelieving and distraught. I'm still here, guys! The other one. Give me a second of your time, hand the flowers to me.

One man has started paying me attention, though. A policeman by the name of Jones. Talks to me a lot, asks all sorts of questions, mostly about me. He discovers that I did it. He locks me up for life and throws away the key.

It's not so lonely in here. I have a room-mate called Sharon, and she's not going anywhere.

ends:
Read my latest short story at: http://freequickreads.blogspot.com

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The end of your career

How's your career going? Soaring ahead, plodding along or stalled like an old bomb with a overheated radiator? Sadly, mine is the latter, and I have no one but myself to blame.

It's hard to keep working away when your heart is simply not in it. It's even harder for others to give you work when they can sense that very despondency, and you can't blame them. Not really. I've been a journalist for 24 years. I've edited magazines and run international bureaus. I've interviewed A-list celebrities and clueless psychologists. I've struggled through a move up north and the birth of two children, a time when keeping employers interested has been almost as challenging as the births themselves. You sort of drop off the planet when you have a baby, and often through no fault of your own. Employers (editors) just assume you're not available. Perhaps they're being kind, giving you some time out to bond with bub, but you want the work. Hell, you need the work if you're going to pay the mortgage and keep the bub in nappies. So you end up having to work even harder to get back on their books.

But you do. You crawl back in, you dazzle them with your ideas—menus and menus of tantalising feature story ideas— and the work pours in again. All is right with the world. But deep down you are bored, and you are not happy.

And so, slowly, almost without you even knowing, you start to falter. You've been doing this gig for so long, you have simply lost your spark. And with that loss of spark comes a loss of passion and of brilliance. You start sending mediocre story ideas, not because you can't think of any great ones, but because you actually don't want to write them. You don't want any work. You tell yourself you do. You know very well that you need it. But you are over it. And so your ideas and your performance reflect that. And editors see that. And so they give you what your subconscious wants—less work.

Eventually it turns into a trickle and then a drought. You get a wake-up call - usually after perusing your bank statements— and you snap yourself out of it. You find that spark, send in some better story ideas, get a little work again.

But a few months down the track the pattern resumes and the work dries up again.

Eventually those confused editors don't even bother responding to your emails. And why would they? You're unpredictable. They're not even sure you're keen. And so you have finally achieved what you really want. An end to your career.

And so the empty bank balance glares at you. How on earth will you fill it now?

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Have you got the stomach for it?

(A story about Chi Nei Tsang)

If, like me, you're not big on stomach massages, that may mean you're the perfect candidate for Chi Nei Tsang, a Thai abdominal massage. Here's what happened when I tried one out, courtesy of a luxury Thai resort and the generous sisters at Double Edge PR who got me there.

Like most people (dogs, cats...) I love a good massage, especially on the feet, but I have a slight problem when it comes to my stomach. You come anywhere near my tummy with those oily hands, and I chop them off! So I was a little bemused during a recent holiday at a health spa in Thailand, when a therapist suggested that it was actually my stomach that needed a good pummeling.

“You have problem with tummy,” said the Chiva-Som masseuse after she’d finished giving me a blissful body massage (which involved three seconds on the stomach before she got the evil eye). “You need Chi Nei Tsang—stomach massage. Good for you.”

“Oh, no thanks,” I laughed nervously, making a beeline for the spa. As I bubbled away, I began to reconsider. Perhaps the reason I dislike tummy massages so much is the very reason I need one. I’ve had pelvic problems since my first pregnancy and, lately, an occasional nagging ache on one side of my abdomen which neither a GP nor a physiotherapist have managed to explain. What did I have to lose? The next day, I found myself lying flat on my back, my stomach exposed, and a Chi Nei Tsang master bearing towards me, her hands poised for attack. What had I let myself in for?

Believed to have been developed by Chinese Taoist monks, Chi Nei Tsang literally means “working the energy of the internal organs”. It’s all about using deep, gentle touches to retrain the internal organs (stomach, intestines, liver, gallbladder...) to work more efficiently. Therapists say that tension and negative emotions build up in these organs causing congestion and blocking the body’s energy. This eventually weakens these organs, particularly the digestive system, causing problems like irritable bowel syndrome, constipation, bloating and gas. By gently massaging this region, my internal organs should be re-energised and my negative emotions magically released. Well, they certainly had their hands full with me!

My session was held in a dimly lit therapy room with ambient music and the sweet scent of lemongrass all around. I was covered up, except for the tummy, and massaged quite determinedly around the entire abdomen. At first it was hard to relax and I found myself tensing up, but eventually, as my therapist’s soothing hands persisted, my stomach muscles held up the white flag. And it’s just as well because this treatment is useless if you don’t relax. I found that I enjoyed part of the therapy and was slightly irritable during other parts—particularly when the therapist hit those trouble spots. “You have a small tear in your large intestine,” she said, much to my surprise. “Do you get bloating, a little bit blocked?”

“Well, maybe a little,” I replied, embarrassed. She suggested I drink warm water more often, then noted that I don’t breathe nearly deeply enough. “Breathe deeper, you’ll feel better and have much more energy.” I liked the sound of that.

By the end of the 45 minutes, I was feeling incredibly relaxed and, yes, even a little more positive about life. While she never picked up on my pelvic problem, the therapist did manage to make my nagging ache disappear, and it still feels fine some two weeks later. While this may all be the result of the holiday itself, I have come away a stomach massage convert.

It’s clear to me now that relaxation is not just about the outer muscles. If you neglect those all-important inner organs, they might just come back to bite you on the... well, you know.

More information:
Chi Nei Tsang is a signature treatment at Chiva-Som and is also available in Australia at some health spas, yoga studios, naturopathic clinics and osteopaths. Treatments range from $80 to $150 for an hour session, and most therapists recommend three sessions for maximum effect. It is not recommended during pregnancy or menstruation and for those with abdominal cancer or vascular abnormalities. For a practitioner in your area: www.naturaltherapypages.com.au.

My family & other animals: Travel tips (FYI)

About to set sail with your family or head off on a road trip?
Here are some travel survival tips for holidaying with extended family (from someone who's done a lot of it!)

• Choose a holiday you all agree on
• Share responsibilities such as organising the trip, booking restaurants, babysitting…
• Leave personal views about parenting, drinking and diet at home
• Book enough accommodation for each family to really spread out and relax
• Adjoining rooms are good for babysitting and catching up
• Set basic rules first, such as how often you get together and where
• If someone wants to do their own thing, don’t take it personally
• Get the formal group photo out of the way early
• Take your own happy snaps and share photos at the end
• Share things like snorkelling gear, books and toys
• Move around at mealtimes so you catch up with everyone
• Take kids’ books and toys to dinner so you get some adult conversation in
• Invite single family members to join you in activities and mealtimes, and offer to babysit if they have kids
• Don’t expect Grandma to keep the kids entertained. It’s her holiday, too!
• Enjoy!

Ocean's 16 (a past travel story for your enjoyment...)

Imagine sticking 16 members of the same family together on a cruise ship in the South Pacific. Will they be drawn closer or heading for the gangplank? I don my sailor hat and find out...

It seemed like a good idea at the time. My father’s 70th birthday was coming up, he wanted to celebrate by taking the whole family on a South Pacific cruise, and I couldn’t have been more excited. As the date crept up, however, so too did the doubts. Is this really such a good idea for an extended family? There are 16 members in mine, aged from four to almost-70, and now living in five different countries including the United States, Singapore and Papua New Guinea. How would we all get along? Getting together for Christmas lunch is one thing, but ten days stuck on a ship in the middle of nowhere? That’s 30 meals, countless group photos and endless hours of small talk…
Then there’s the matter of our varying ages and tastes. Would all 16 of us have a good time? Even my husband (whose idea of hell is dancing the Macarena on the Lido deck—an activity that presented itself before we’d even left shore), and my two young sons who got cabin fever on our seven-acre property? How would they go couped up on crowded ship by day and in a four-berth cabin with ‘the oldies’ at night?
Only time would tell, so I swallowed my concerns and headed for the Sydney port. Dubbed ‘Australia’s first superliner’ Pacific Dawn is an older Princess ship that’s been revamped by P&O with a few new twists including more flexible dining times. It accommodates up to 2050 passengers but don’t let the crowds put you off. We moved swiftly through check-in and within an hour were up on deck greeting each other excitedly. And what an electrifying way it is to reunite—the sun setting around us as we glided beneath the Harbour Bridge, champagne piccolos in hand.

A feast to remember
That first meal was a good sign of things to come. We dined over four leisurely courses and across two tables that faced out to sea. The menu was tantalising, the food excellent and the service first-class. Luckily, we were able to hold onto these tables so the waiters got to know which wines we preferred and how quickly to serve our kids before they turned feral. They also knew by Day 7 to present Dad’s birthday cake quietly without the usual fuss (eight waiters gathered around singing at the top of their lungs).
At the start my mother suggested we do our own thing by day and get together for the main meal at night, and it proved the making of the trip. We weren’t expected to constantly coordinate and compromise. One day, for instance, while Dad disappeared for some wine tasting, my mother on a chef’s tour and my sisters to the gym, I headed for the library and my husband tried his hand at quoits. Having said that, it’s surprising how often you run into each other on a ship with five restaurants, nine bars and lounges and 11 decks!

Kidding about
As for the kids? Who needs acreage when there are two pools, 24-hour in-house movie channels and threeITALICS Kids Clubs? Forget about the children, the Clubs are everything a parent could want, with a strict signing-in book, beepers to keep in touch and movie nights (with beds and dimmed lighting) so you can take in a show. Best of all, they’re broken down into age groups which enabled my youngest to bond with his Singapore cousin in Turtle Cove (ages 3 to 6) while my eldest mingled with his Sydney cousins in Shark Shack (ages 7 to 12). There’s also a Teen Lounge, and all three come with a daily menu of age-related activities including arts and craft, song and dance, mini-basketball and PlayStation®3.
There’s plenty of fun for the adults, too, and it’s all listed in the newsletter that’s delivered daily to your cabin door. The selection includes shuffleboard lessons, theme nights, quizzes and games, art auctions and grandparent get-togethers or ‘boasts’. There’s also an internet cafe, a gym, a salon and a spa offering everything from Tahitian scalp massages to collagen facials, most of which cost extra. The budget-conscious in your group needn’t despair as all main meals and most activities are included in the fare, and because you’re issued with a personal cruise card (which deducts automatically from your credit card) you don’t need to fiddle about with cash, currency or tips. Nor could anyone pull a swiftie when it came to bar shouts. While alcohol cost extra, we simply took turns presenting our cards.

New Caledonia
After three days of sailing, it was delightful to wake up to find Noumea come into frame through our large porthole. The capital of New Caledonia, Noumea is a contradiction of cultures with shabby French shuttered buildings alongside thatched huts and coconut trees. It was here that we made our first family error. We ignored Mum’s advice. None of us had opted for shore tours, things like bird sanctuaries and zodiac rides, so once we’d swiped our cruise cards and disembarked, we were left floundering. Some of us were clearly in the mood for adventure, others to sightsee or shop; yet we compromised and settled for a local beach, which probably wasn’t the best use of our time.
The next day we did things differently. We’d sailed through the night and were now anchored off Lifou in the Loyalty Islands, a Pacific island clichĂ© with glassy blue waters and stunning coral reef. Determined to maximise the day, my little family got ashore early, snagged a shady spot and was snorkelling for hours before the stragglers in the group caught up. There’s no port at Lifou and the tenders take you back and forth to the ship all day which is perfect for varying age groups—some of us returned to the ship to settle small children, others for a nanna nap.

Vanuatu
Our next two stops were in the tiny island nation of Vanuatu, the first at Port Vila, the capital. By now the family broke up easily into smaller groups; one took a taxi tour, another went diving, and the rest of us headed for the luscious lagoon pool of the nearby Iririki Island Resort. The next day we anchored at the more remote island of Wala and, as it was Dad’s birthday, we happily gathered under palm trees and snorkelled together in the warm bay. The kids also befriended the local children while the adults stocked up on handicrafts. By the time the ship hauled anchor and was heading home, most of us were looking forward to the last three days at sea, which for the hubby and I were largely spent lying on a deck chair at the stern, immersed in books (no nagging children or dance music to disturb us).

Family matters
As it turns out, holidaying with extended family really is a great idea, if only for the free babysitting. We took turns escorting the kids to early dinners then popping them in Kids Club so the rest of us could relax and enjoy the nights (particularly handy for the single mum in our group). And when my boys fell ill, various family members watched over them so my husband and I could get some fresh air. Others minded the kids when we broke Mum’s rule and snuck off for a romantic dinner one night.
There’s a certain comradeship in being part of a larger group. One day all the girls got together for a chick flick, another time I ran late for a popular yoga class and it didn’t matter as my sisters had saved me a mat. There was never a shortage of someone to share a coffee, a swim or head out for the night, and we never tired of conversation because there were so many of us. Dinner became a game of musical chairs, and yet I still had to schedule a coffee date with one brother I’d hardly spoken to. My parents got to enjoy quality time with their five grandkids without the usual stress of entertaining them in an apartment and then putting the place back together again. And because it was a birthday cruise, there was always a celebratory note.
Best of all, unlike Christmas lunch, this get-together was leisurely and stress-free. No-one was slaving in the kitchen or stuck on a sofa bed (did I mention the cabins are stylish and surprisingly spacious?). In fact, we had such a good time, we’re already planning the next family adventure, probably to Bali. Rumour has it there may even be a new baby and a wedding in the mix…

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Too many books, not enough time to write them

Are you a writer? Do you have endless books in your head, as I do? Or do you prefer to read the writings of others, something I also enjoy but which often leads me to the former. Being a writer can be irritating sometimes, especially when you have so many ideas and so little time. I want to take another three months out of my freelance soon and write my next book, or at least get it started.

But what book?

I have just posted my two completed Ghostwriter mystery books, Killer Twist and A Plot To Die For on Smashwords, but I have a third one already in the pipeline. It was originally intended as book number two, before A Plot To Die For swept into my imagination and took over. Loosely dubbed Last Writes, it's a cracking tale, one I desperately want to complete. I'm about 10,000 wds in. I know exactly how it will go. I might as well finish it.

But I have this other idea, see, that's just as intoxicating to me as a writer. It's a whole new crime mystery series called The Agatha Christie Book Club (see earlier posts). I am also 10,000 words into that, and it excites me even more than the ghostwriter books. It's just fresher, I guess, and has more marketing potential. So I would like to re-focus on that, if only to clinch the idea which I think is a corker. (Why hasn't anyone ever thought of it before?)

What do you think? Stick with the first series, extend that portfolio of titles? Or launch into something new?

All comments/critiques/advice most welcome. Anyone?

xo C.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Smashed at last

Almost exactly a month after my first attempt to upload my first ebook, Killer Twist (A Ghostwriter Mystery), to Smashwords (SW), I have finally succeeded, and not because I'm technologically savvy, I hasten to add. After formatting it in accordance with SW's Style Guide (three hours and a lot of sweat later), and adding a slick cover courtesy of designer Stuart Eadie, I pressed the publish button and expected instant success. My how delusional I was!

It didn't convert. Hmmm.

I tried a million different methods, I took out bolds and italics, I reformatted — no mean feat I can tell you— and tried again. Still no luck. And the stream of cries for help that I sent SW largely went unanswered (when they did bother to get back to me, they contained no useful tips at all. Just told me to try again. Duh!).

The problem with SW, as far as I can tell, is that if you have so much as a tab out of place the whole file does not convert. You have to get the formatting exact. Whatever I had done, it was clearly NOT exact. (Another problem with SW is the fact that it's free. I don't want to pay for it, don't get me wrong, but perhaps if I had, they may have responded to me faster and more effectively?)

I was left feeling frustrated, demoralised and pitifully low—it takes so long to write a book, edit it, get a cover designed, and let go of the whole, dreamy idea of ever finding a 'real' publisher, that when you finally decide to self-publish an ebook you just want the friggin thing to work! For a whole month it just wouldn't. My cover uploaded, it looked fabulous. But they kept rejecting my book.

Was this an omen?

Eventually I realised that I needed to bring in the Big Guns, or at least accept that I'm a Luddite and hire someone who isn't. Enter Amy Siders from US-based formatting business 52 Novels. We love her now! For a mere $45 (AUS$43), she formatted it in less than 10 days and got it back to me. At first, it still didn't work and I was beyond tearful. DAMN IT! Then I realised it had page breaks—a SW no-no—so she redid it immediately and PRESTO!

It's up. It's on the SW website.

Or, at least, it will be when they read through and approve. Right now you can search for it and find it, download it and buy it. But I guess it won't come up on the main menu for a few days. Fair enough. Someone has to manually check for errors, inappropriate language etc etc.

But the process has finally begun. Oh hail the ebook, and may I sell at least one!

xo Christina

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Pssst! Wanna buy a book?

As Smashwords (SW) continues to thwart me—more on that, later—I have now made my books available via a new website. Thanks to Wix (slow but super-easy and so much to teach SW), I have set up my new website: christinalarmer.com and am happy with it. It's slicker than larmermedia.com.au, but that wouldn't be hard. That was my first attempt, via five convoluted adult education classes in Byron. The result: a sad looking site that has done the job, but only just.

Now I have a place where you can purchase a few of my books (oh eager reader you). Go to the site, click on the Purchase Books button and help yourself! I have the PNG book for sale as well as the first in my Roxy Parker GhostWriter mystery series and, coming soon, the second book in the series.

http://www.christinalarmer.com/

Happy reading.

xo

Monday, August 15, 2011

Thwarted! For now...

So last time we spoke, I raved a bit about the glories—the ease!— of self-publishing via Smashwords. Perhaps I spoke a little prematurely. Sure, formatting the book was slightly tricky but hell, I did it, and I'm Queen Luddite. I got the cover designed, it looks hot, I have to say (thanks, Stu). And I uploaded the lot to Smashwords. They accepted it, yippee! Than they spat me back out. It seems I hadn't quite ticked all the boxes.

This process is a little trickier than I had anticipated. Doesn't mean it can't be done. Doesn't mean it won't be done. But there are a few hiccups I hadn't counted on. For instance, I didn't realise - duh! - that I'd need an ISBN number. A barcode as such. Why I didn't realise this is bizarre and a little embarrassing but there you go. How else can retailers know where to send my giant royalty cheques? Luckily for me, Smashwords recommended an Aussie ISBN website. I'm in the process of acquiring a book of 10 ISBN numbers (just $80 all up, people), then that's sorted for a few years/decades. (Really, with all this mucking about, you don't expect me to find any time to actually write anything else, do you?)

I also didn't realise I needed a US tax file number. The very thought sends shivers down our collective spines but, again, why I hadn't anticipated this, is beyond me. If you don't provide a tax number the US government withholds 30% of earnings. SO WHAT you might chorus? What's 30% of NOTHING? Then, you do the maths and realise that you're already giving your life's work away for a measly $2.99. Why let Uncle Sam take a whole dollar? What the hell did HE do? They don't even tax Bill Gates that much. (18% if you must know.)

Fortunately, I do have an old Social Security number from my three years working in the US, so I may use that. Or will that only open a can of worms? Will a helicopter suddenly descend upon the house, bright lights, a Swat team in place to demand where I've been for the past 12 years and why the hell haven't I been paying tax in God's Own Country?!

NOW we know what we needed publishers for.

I'm now in consultation with my Aussie tax bloke to find out the best course of action. Perhaps 30% ain't so bad...

But you know what? I still would rather go through all this crap then have to deal with a publisher, or not as the case currently is. Sure, a publisher would do all this for me, cross all these Ts, tick all the boxes. But I can still do it faster. They say it takes around a year for a publisher to turn a book around. So far, it's only been about six weeks for me. So we're doing okay.

Speak to me again in a month.
xo

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Slamming towards Smashwords

I'm inches away from getting my first crime novel up on Smashwords. I'm in edit/cover design phase and then it's hey presto! A book! Or, more precisely, a self-published ebook. My very first, and I'm not sure why it hadn't occurred to me earlier (I've got four manuscripts currently gathering dust in my hard drive).

Actually, that's not strictly true. I know exactly why I've never self-published before, and it has a lot to do with the nonsense surrounding the 'real' publishing world. It seems like a no-brainer now, of course, but five years ago it was a shameful idea to self-publish. Something only the truly desperate did. Patronising, I know, but there was this impression back then that if you even attempted to self-publish, you were a sad twat who would NEVER get a 'real' publishing deal. Ever again. Of course that's what the 'real' publishing world wanted you to believe. But guess what? I never did get a publishing deal anyway. So what was holding me back?

Well, my 'Ludditism' didn't help of course, and my aversion to all things techno (and my knack for making up really lame words). Cost, that was a factor, too- you used to have to re-mortgage the house to even contemplate printing your own books. And then there was my own bullshit. I really needed the affirmation that came with a BIG publishing house telling me my work was so bloody fabulous they just had to get it into stores worldwide. Pronto! It was just affirmation, something I need less of as I age.

Today, thanks to the likes of Smashwords and co, I can put my own stuff out there, for nix! It's now so cheap and easy, my seven-year-old could do it. With his pocket money. Most importantly (for my pathetic ego at least) it's also more acceptable now. Everywhere I look people are self-publishing ebooks. It's the reason the 'real' publishing world is in freak-out mode (and the reason my agent has struggled to get them to even look at me, or so she kindly reassures me). I love that! I love that the little people can fast track the process and put their own stuff out. Sure, it might get lost in the quagmire, but at least it's OUT THERE. Not hiding away in my hard drive waiting for some publishing stranger to give the nod.

This month I'm giving myself the nod. Then, if you (dear readers) like it, you can give me the nod, too. If you don't, well, what have I lost? Exactly bloody nothing.

Viva la people power! (Or something like that.) I'll let you know how I go...

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Agatha Christie Book Club

The Agatha Christie Book Club©

By Christina Larmer

NB: Dear readers: Here are the first few chapters of a new crime fiction series I am writing based around my passion for Agatha Christie murder mysteries. It is the first in the series and will feature a book group who end up investigating mysteries that arise in their neighbourhood. I already have the next two books mapped out. Please let me know if you’d like to read any more from Book One.

Thanks,

Christina Larmer


Prologue

She needed to teach him a brutal lesson, but she couldn’t quite work out how. She shivered a little and turned the heating up. It was one of those fancy turbo blaster gas thingamejigs that had baffled her once. Before. But she had mastered it eventually, had sat herself down and read through the blasted manual—what the ideal temperature was, how to use the timer so it would switch on a good half hour before she headed to bed. She had worked it out, and she would work out a solution to him, too. She knew now that it was possible, that she wasn’t the ‘useless maid’ he constantly referred to. She would show him, and she would show his ‘precious princess’, too.

They would both learn the hard way.

But how? The woman sat, wedged up against the headboard of the bed and gave it some thought. To her left was a small table with the usual bedside accoutrement—a large, pearl coloured lamp, a clock radio (another thingamejig she had mastered, thank you very much), a glass of water, today’s local rag, opened at the classifieds, a half-read biography, her old watch, recently discarded, and a container of floss. She picked it up and absentmindedly pulled a long strand out, snapping it off and applying it to her recently brushed teeth. As she pushed and pulled, twisted and yanked, her eyes dropped back to the bedside table, and that’s when she saw it. The answer to all her prayers.

She would create the perfect murder. What a brilliant idea!

She dropped the floss to the floor and smiled, the first time she had smiled in months. Then she picked up the book and continued to read...

Chapter 1: Two weeks earlier

Alicia Finlay was in the wrong book club.

Of course, she hadn’t realized it at first. Had come along, every month for three months, the latest Booker Prize-winner wedged under her arm, a strained smile on her lips, and pretended to be having fun. But there was no fun to be had. On the fourth Monday night it dawned on her.

It was the table of canapĂ©s that first drew her attention to it. Not because she wanted to eat them. Quite the contrary. The stiff cardboard crackers adorned with dribbly yellow and red gunk resembled something her dog recently brought up. No, it was the simple fact that they had been placed to the side, just out of reach. So, too, were eight sparkly crystal wine glasses and two bottles of Merlot, opened, inviting, yet unattainable. It would all have to wait until the serious chatter was over. She knew how things went. Alicia’s mouth salivated. She glanced at the man to her right but he was deeply engrossed in something the woman to her left was saying.
“It’s not so much the physicality of the tear drop,” the woman, Verity, was saying, “but the way in which it draws the reader into the major themes of the novel. There really is a reoccurring water motif running all the way through this book. Don’t you agree, Alicia?”
She darted her eyes from the wine bottle to the grey haired woman talking and smiled awkwardly. “Oh, well, I—” She paused. Laughed a little. “Actually, sorry, wasn’t really paying attention. Thought I might help myself to a glass of red.”
“Red?”
“Yes, red wine.” She stood up. “Does anyone else want me to get them a glass? Something to eat?”
Kirsten, the book group’s hostess, sat forward with a start.
“Ahh, sorry, Alicia, but it’s not really time for wine, we’re still in discussion mode.”
She tapped her wrist watch.
“Oh,” said Alicia, dropping reluctantly back into her seat. “We can’t discuss and drink at the same time?”
Kirsten smiled politely, exchanged glances with another participant—they had exchanged those kinds of glances before—and shook her head, no.
“Why not?” Alicia persisted and Kirsten looked slightly taken aback.
“It’s just not what we do... here.” She fumbled for her sheet of questions. “Okay then, if we can return to the subject at hand. Where were we exactly? I think we were up to question five? Yes, style of writing. Have you got anything to say about that, Wilfred?”
She stared pointedly at a large man with a shaggy beard and gold-rimmed glasses who was slouched in an armchair across from Alicia. He pushed the glasses back into position and then slid one hand down to his beard and began caressing it lovingly. He’d been waiting for this.
“Yes, right well, if you ask me, and I believe you just have, I really have my doubts about this chappie. His writing, well, it leaves a lot to be desired don’t you think?” A few murmurs of agreement broke out around the lounge room where the meeting was being held, and, encouraged, he launched into his trademark monologue on the fallibilities of today’s novelist. There wasn’t a decent writer left in the world, apparently, not since Hemingway and Salinger had a good book been published. Alicia couldn’t help wondering what a science lecturer would know about that but pushed the thought away and let out a long, soft sigh instead.
Why hadn’t it dawned on her earlier? Why had it taken four sessions and a forbidden bottle of wine to make her see what was probably blatantly obvious to everyone else in the room from day one?
She just didn’t fit in here.
If truth be told, Alicia Finlay didn’t give a toss about literature. She just wished she did, in the same way a woman who guiltily watches Desperate Housewives on TV, wishes she could find the strength to switch over to that really important current affairs show on the public broadcaster. She just didn’t have it in her. She just didn’t care enough.
Alicia’s mind wandered now to her own bookshelf in the small, semi-detached house she shared with her sister Lynette and their Labrador Max. The shelf was huge, took up an entire wall and tipped ever so precariously to the right. It was cluttered with well-thumbed paperbacks, mostly crime novels, and mostly by British author Agatha Christie. Alicia’s smile returned. What really woke her up in the morning and saw her drift off to sleep most nights was an old-fashioned whodunit. And if it happened to be penned by the Queen of Crime herself, all the better.
She suppressed a giggle. Imagine if she suggested Murder on the Orient Express for the next book club! Wilfred would have a fit. Kirsten would choke on her chamomile tea. And I’d be in book heaven, she thought.
That’s it. Enough’s enough.
She stood up. She walked across to the table. She picked up the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured herself a generous glass. As she did so, the room fell silent behind her and she could feel their eyes boring into her back. She wondered if Kirsten would tackle her to the ground and wrench the wine out of her hands screaming, “But it’s not drink time yet!”
She turned around slowly and tried for her bravest smile. Kirsten’s eyes were abnormally wide. Verity looked nervous, glancing between Alicia and Kirsten. And Wilfred had stopped stroking his beard.
“What are you doing, Alicia?” Kirsten said eventually.
“Just helping myself, before I head off,” she replied.
She finished the drink, placed the glass down and reached for her handbag.
“Where are you going?”
She took a deep breath, tried for a smile. “Look, I’m really sorry, guys, I gave it a go, but this club is clearly not right for me.”
They all looked stunned, as if it hadn’t even dawned on them, and Alicia realised then that it probably hadn’t. They were so self-obsessed they hadn’t noticed the elephant in the room. A wistful look crossed Verity’s face and for a moment Alicia thought she might leap to her feet and follow her out.
“But... but what about your book?” Kirsten demanded, grabbing Alicia’s pristine copy of the latest award-winning novel from the coffee table and thrusting it towards her.
“Oh no thanks, Kirsten, you’re welcome to it. I’ve got much better things to read at home.”
And with that Alicia Finlay walked out on the Monday Night Book Club, their suffocating rules and their tediously dull literature. And she returned to her inner city home where her sister was just starting work on a crispy duck stirfry, her dog was wagging his tail maniacally, and her latest Agatha Christie novel—Murder At The Vicarage—was waiting, temptingly, by her bedside.

“I think you should start a book club,” Lynette announced between mouthfuls of dripping duck and broccoli. Alicia scoffed and Max pricked up his ears hoping the conversation had something to do with food and his mouth.
“Um, I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, Lynny, I hated the book club. I’m never going back. Why would I subject myself to a whole new one? It’s masochistic.”
“No, not that kind of book club. Start your own. One totally devoted to what you like.”
“Well, that would be crime fiction and last time I looked, you don’t have book clubs about that.”
She scooped a chunk of duck from her bowl and dropped it into Max’s waiting mouth. He slunk back under the table, satisfied.
Lynette frowned at her but let it pass. “Why not?” she said instead.
Of the two sisters, Lynette had always been the fearless one, always ready to dive head first into life, never considering consequences or looking back. Alicia, six years Lynette’s senior, was quieter and more conservative, less likely to just jump. She considered Lyn’s question and found that she came up short. Why not indeed?
“Seems to me,” Lynette continued, “that plenty of other people love crime fiction, too. You’re hardly alone.”
“Hell, more people read crime fiction than bloody Man Booker prize winning tomes of trite. Just look at the Millennium trilogy.”
“Exactly! So, it won’t be hard to get a group together. Just ask around. Or get on Twitter. You’ll be inundated. But if you’re not, I’m happy to plump up the numbers. I’ve always had a soft spot for Miss Marple, you know that.”
In fact both sisters had been Agatha Christie devotees since childhood, a legacy passed down from their mother, Amelia, who possessed almost every book in existence and read and re-read them at will. Their father, Tom, and brother, Monty (named after Agatha’s own son would you believe), were less inspired by the Queen of Crime and preferred a good, modern thriller complete with double crossing CIA agents and at least one missing nuclear bomb.
Alicia put her fork down, she could hear her heart beating suddenly, as though it had only just come to life.
“I’m not sure how it’d work,” continued Lynette but Alicia was way ahead of her now.
“I know how it’d work! Oh, it’d be great. We’d all choose our favourite crime novel and focus on a different one each fortnight. I’d start with Death on the Nile and then...” She stopped, darted her eyes from left to right. “No, no, forget that. We could all all choose our favourite Agatha Christie novel! It could be an Agatha Christie book club!”
Lynette frowned slightly and took a gulp of her white wine. “Well, that might be taking things a bit far. I mean, are there enough books to sustain it?”
“Enough books? It would take us about four years to get through them all, Lynny. The woman was prolific. She wrote something like 50 books in 35 years.”
Lynette looked impressed. “There you go then.”
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, this is the best idea you ever had!”
“I thought my duck creation—I’m calling it Lucky Duck by the way—was the best idea I ever had.”
“Nah, that comes a distant second. Good name by the way.”
Alicia began to contemplate the club and her heartbeat continued to accelerate. She hadn’t been so excited by anything in such a long time. Not since the receptionist at work had convinced her to take over her seat at the Monday Night Book Club.
Her heart skipped a beat. She knew how that had turned out. She slumped over her bowl.
“You really think it will work?”
Her sister winked. “’Course it will! You just have to get the right people together this time. Set up a Facebook account or start tweeting every one you know. How hard could it be?”

“Oh my God, it sounds like a bloody nightmare,” said Ginny, the aforementioned receptionist, over the espresso machine in the office the next morning....


to be continued