One judges and is judged. Submission always required. Presiding over an upcoming occasion will be an Australian multi award-winning immigrant writer whose range could pretty much be guessed from the author photographs and a sighting some years ago in the street—Camberwell Market; not the most auspicious locale for what is wanted. Still, for confirmation it was best to have a look at her work and size up the tendencies and prospects. In the Singapore branch of Kinokuniya there is a policy of no seating within the bookshop. If you want to sample anything go find yourself a leaning-post and be their guest. At the entrance to the cafĂ© a sign warns no items from the store can be brought indoors without being purchased. One can bluster-barrel past the waiting staff as this author has done, but it is not recommended. High-handedness of this kind inflicted on those juniors always leaves a bad taste.
Five pages or a tad more
sufficient in order to size up the case. One blurb writer (New Statesman)
didn’t know whether to race ahead to find out what happened next in the novel,
or else dwell with the jewels. Female glitter in short. Light gleamed in
various facets from a number of surfaces in different places within the first 6
– 7 paragraphs. Already on page 3 there appeared a cockatoo, flying up from a
sapling and dislodging “a rhinestone spray”.
Nothing wrong with a female writer-judge of course, though this author would choose Hilary Mantel over A. S. Byatt. The latter added another blurb for this particular volume that had been sampled of the soon-to-be-judge: she had not read anything as good for ages; and further, the author “writes quickly and lightly of wonderful and terrible things.”
“Tea-coloured puddles” and a white “rust-spotted dog”.
As a consequence, the footy story that was recently long-listed by Australian Book Review for their Elizabeth Jolley Prize will be held over for an old village tale that received an Honourable Mention at the Glimmer Train desk in the U. S. Ready for dispatch; no entry fee in this case. (Some of these literary competitions are simple cash-cows for shrewd operators.)
In the supermarket this morning the pretty cashier played the Guess My Nationality game with some fine artfulness. Not Chinese; nor Myanmar or Thai.... The author was found a trifle stupefied early morning, still no teh, unfixed mind…. Where else was it again they sourced cheap slave-labour here for their menial jobs?... Not Mainland China. No to the new frontier bottomless pit of Myanmar. The hungry ranks of the Thais No. Light skin ruled out India and the sub-continent.
‘Same Chinese”, the poor dear finally admitted apologetically: Vietnam.
For a Westerner in a fine hat with his Cornflakes underarm, Same Same. What would he know? What could you expect.
Oh, of course by jingoes! Of course. So silly!... It was not just the Karaoke bars and Nail joints where they recruited the young Viet women. How daft.
Back on the street returning for a buzz-cut and hoping the nice Mainland girl was free, the cowering figure of a small child in Kinder uniform (yes, no surprise here), holding tight to a trouser leg like a tree trunk outside the Cheers store. Wary. Shielding herself carefully, no mucking around. Hiding and looking, but very careful to be out of danger, the line of fire.
....Oh. Oh. Mr. Mohammed the shipwright’s grand-daughter.... Yes, of course. The old cheeky Grizzle attached to the blue trousers, showing his big choppers even in relaxed mode. Moderate-sized bear of a fellow, still powerful in his mid-seventies. A made-to-order protector. Without a skill and trade Mr. M. might have made a good gangster, tough-guy, loan shark. Mean son-of-a-B when he put it on.
A year now the same shrinking and wariness from this particular sweet little mite. No way to win her, always cringing and shrinking away. Unusual for a fellow who can normally win a child effortlessly. A few weeks ago the author was chosen outright as handsomer than a young child’s doting father after two minutes acquaintance. Not this girl.
— Mat salleh eat children. Careful!
The old hound. Great oaf. No need further guess. The historical "red-haired" devils retained their foul reputation still in certain quarters in these parts, a wide net encompassing.
Nothing wrong with a female writer-judge of course, though this author would choose Hilary Mantel over A. S. Byatt. The latter added another blurb for this particular volume that had been sampled of the soon-to-be-judge: she had not read anything as good for ages; and further, the author “writes quickly and lightly of wonderful and terrible things.”
“Tea-coloured puddles” and a white “rust-spotted dog”.
As a consequence, the footy story that was recently long-listed by Australian Book Review for their Elizabeth Jolley Prize will be held over for an old village tale that received an Honourable Mention at the Glimmer Train desk in the U. S. Ready for dispatch; no entry fee in this case. (Some of these literary competitions are simple cash-cows for shrewd operators.)
In the supermarket this morning the pretty cashier played the Guess My Nationality game with some fine artfulness. Not Chinese; nor Myanmar or Thai.... The author was found a trifle stupefied early morning, still no teh, unfixed mind…. Where else was it again they sourced cheap slave-labour here for their menial jobs?... Not Mainland China. No to the new frontier bottomless pit of Myanmar. The hungry ranks of the Thais No. Light skin ruled out India and the sub-continent.
‘Same Chinese”, the poor dear finally admitted apologetically: Vietnam.
For a Westerner in a fine hat with his Cornflakes underarm, Same Same. What would he know? What could you expect.
Oh, of course by jingoes! Of course. So silly!... It was not just the Karaoke bars and Nail joints where they recruited the young Viet women. How daft.
Back on the street returning for a buzz-cut and hoping the nice Mainland girl was free, the cowering figure of a small child in Kinder uniform (yes, no surprise here), holding tight to a trouser leg like a tree trunk outside the Cheers store. Wary. Shielding herself carefully, no mucking around. Hiding and looking, but very careful to be out of danger, the line of fire.
....Oh. Oh. Mr. Mohammed the shipwright’s grand-daughter.... Yes, of course. The old cheeky Grizzle attached to the blue trousers, showing his big choppers even in relaxed mode. Moderate-sized bear of a fellow, still powerful in his mid-seventies. A made-to-order protector. Without a skill and trade Mr. M. might have made a good gangster, tough-guy, loan shark. Mean son-of-a-B when he put it on.
A year now the same shrinking and wariness from this particular sweet little mite. No way to win her, always cringing and shrinking away. Unusual for a fellow who can normally win a child effortlessly. A few weeks ago the author was chosen outright as handsomer than a young child’s doting father after two minutes acquaintance. Not this girl.
— Mat salleh eat children. Careful!
The old hound. Great oaf. No need further guess. The historical "red-haired" devils retained their foul reputation still in certain quarters in these parts, a wide net encompassing.
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