September 20, 2010
By the time I was a teen I’d moved away from the shrine to a lost boy
and the sad droop of his mother’s shoulders
to the leafy green suburbs of the east.
It was a busy time of life.
and in amongst all that stuff
two young men,
second cousins by marriage,
added to the stats of those injured in teen accidents.
Both accidents on country roads.
One boy left by his mates, who thought him dead.
Both with brain injuries.
Two warnings. Take care.
But there was so much to do.
So we wept and reflected and
let life’s current sweep us along .
It was sad, but things like that happened to other people.
Bad things only happened to other people when you’re a teen.
If you were lucky.
Sometimes stories just arrive. You don’t really think about where they came from and mostly you don’t need to know. Then there are those stories that demand to be written. That hang around until you finally give up and give them a voice.
That is where I found Six.
Six began in 1971 when I was a kid. (Don’t do the maths, it’s frightening.) My friend, a neighbour across the road, lost her brother in a car accident. We sneaked into his room one night, a shrine to his memory, scared we would get caught by her mother still grieving.
This is what I remember.
A Daddy Cool poster on his wall.
A tidy bed.
Shoes lined up neatly.
The stale smell of nothing.
Guilt that we had intruded upon this special place.
But mainly disbelief that this person’s life had ended so abruptly.
September 15, 2010
Let the countdown begin.
That’s all that’s left until my latest book, Six, is officially released.
I’ve already got the real deal in my hot little hand
but it’s not legit until 1 October.
But I guess I can show off the cover…