regional writes

REALITY DAY PASS GIVEAWAY

2010-07-07T18:00:00.001+10:00

We have a free day pass to the festival to give away.

First to email gets LUCKY!

Your time starts now.

ten rules for writing fiction

2010-02-25T12:22:00.001+10:00

This two part article is hilarious - and true, all too true
Enjoy. Part 1 Part 2

OPPORTUNITY FOR SUNSHINE COAST AUTHORS

2010-02-12T16:02:00.006+10:00

THE TRUTH ABOUT US - Calling all Non-fiction Authors

The 2010 Reality Bites Literary Non-fiction Festival is seeking submissions from local writers of literary non-fiction for possible inclusion in the forthcoming festival to be held 24 July - 1 August.

Writers of history, genealogy, memoir, environmental issues -- anything true -- are welcome to send a synopsis of their work for consideration. Deadline for submission is 15 March 2010.

Work must be published, either by an established publisher or self published. The Director will assess submissions on their quality and how the work fits with the themes of the programme. For further information go to the festival website at http://realitybites3.blogspot.com/ or contact the festival director.

In addition, we will be holding a pitching clinic again this year and invite authors with unpublished true stories to register for that session by submitting a synopsis. The panel will listen to your five minute pitch and advise you how best to get your idea up. Open to any form, screenwriting, prose, theatre etc, but the story must be true.

Annette Hughes
Director | Reality Bites 3
(07) 5447 7063
258 Ferrells Rd Cooroy QLD 4563
Sunshine Hinterland Writers' Centre Inc
http://realitybites3.blogspot.com/

"Australia's Premier Literary Non-fiction Festival"
Bookseller & Publisher

Poet in Residence @ Bistro Bistro in Cooroy

2009-12-07T11:13:00.010+10:00

Geoffrey Datson is the Australian Poetry Centre 'cafe poet' in residence at Bistro Bistro in Cooroy for the next four months. Each week or so he will post a poem on the menu board, all of which will be included in his forthcoming memior "Then, and Then", about his move from Sydney to a farm in the hills behind Cooroy.

The memior will be launched in conjunction with the Sunshine Hinterland Writers' Centre and Bistro Bistro at the forthcoming Reality Bites Literary Non-fiction Festival (24 July - 1 August) in Cooroy in 2010

Here is the first one. You can hear the audio version of it here.

What Thou Art

Time line, 1977

Spring I guess

Sunrise.on Black Mountain Road

the air a-pulse with incandescent wildlife

Hello universe!

Imagination,

it’s a field of abandoned cars

Native tobacco, and ferns burst through rust

Oxidation

We’re all on the slow burn down here

So, to the floor of a fifty-seven De Soto:

discarded tools, feathers,

crushed beer cans, greasy rags

and a message from the out-lands,

as without, so within.

And I’m hearing Patti Smith and

I’ve been reading the symbolist poets and

I’m fairly pretentious

Another lonely boy

out on the weekend

But, it’s a big land

and given to dreaming

Through the windscreen

the morning clouds pile up

our heaped canopy of joy

And fearful

that my head will explode

from too much cumulonimbus

Out and spinning, spinning

Spin the world,

slow

till racing backwards

retreat into our own eternal sunset

Hey Sheba, hey Salome, hey Venus

eclipse them my way

And a quarter of a century later

I dreamt of this same morning

crouching in the wet grass

hugging myself hysterical with connection

and voicing all time

in the wet grass

Bycatch by Morgana MacLeod

2009-12-07T10:21:00.003+10:00

SAM had no worries behind the wheel of his cruiser. He lived for the open sea, the tang of salt air mixed with diesel. The night before, a fierce storm churned the waves into a frenzy. Gale force winds speared gusts of rain, water turned brutal, clawed and slashed at the land. Now the ocean had settled, but there was still something ominous about the blood-red streak of sunrise. A gory stain leaking into the banked grey clouds on the horizon, it smouldered like a promise - no, threat - of more to come. Rounding the point, Sam saw spills of coffee rock exposed along the Coolum shoreline where tonnes of sand had been sucked back off the beach. Seal-sleek surfers bobbed in pods, riding the tail-end of the swell. Reflecting back the sulking sky, the sea was dull, a milky green-grey. Still, the current wasn’t strong enough to pull Sam’s boat off course, and although the wind had teeth he was heading leeward, following the line of the shark net. ‘Wouldn’t be dead for quids.’ Sam told himself.

At the big round buoy that marked a drumline, Sam dropped anchor. Small waves lapped the cruiser’s hull as he pulled up the chain, careful not to foul the float rope and net lead that anchored the whole set up to the ocean floor.

‘She’s right.’ Sam confirmed. The lump of shark carcass he’d used to bait the thick steel hook was a bit worse for wear, ragged edges trailing fringes of tattered flesh, but still secure. He was due to pull the lot out next week anyway. He was a Shark Control Program subbie, contracted to the Department of Primary Industries and Fisheries. Check the nets every second day, replace the gear as it rusted out every three weeks, help the boffins when he was needed – that was Sam’s line of work. Not what he’d call hard yakka, either. With plenty of time out on the open water, no-one in his ear all the time, he was a happy man. Sam lowered the baited hook and chain back into position under the buoy, weighed anchor, and continued to check the shark net.

‘You’d expect a bit of bycatch, after the carry on last night.’ Sam told himself. The drumlines and nets were designed to discourage sharks from lurking around the Sunshine Coast’s beaches. Without some deterrent, the predators were liable to cruise past and devour tourists as if the patrolled shoreline was a fast-food drive-through. But sometimes turtles, dolphins, even migrating whales got tangled up in the nets and lines, and part of Sam’s job was to locate and free this bycatch. By the time Sam found them it was often too late of course, particularly for the active breathers, the big marine mammals that had to keep surfacing or drown.

Sure enough, between the next set of marker buoys, Sam spotted a problem. Instead of lying strung out neatly like a bead necklace on the surface of the water, the torpedo floats that marked the top of the shark net were bunched up in a clump. Something big was snared in the nets below. The floats weren’t moving much, so Sam suspected that whatever it was had stopped fighting – probably for good. The sky was still dull, the water murky, so Sam couldn’t see what was caught. He threw his anchor over the side, started hauling in the fouled net. It was heavy going. Sam wondered about using the electric winch instead, but decided it was less trouble to just get on with it and land the thing by hand.

Sam grunted, ‘Big ‘un.’ Sweat beaded on his forehead and started to trickle down his back, despite the chill sea breeze. He stripped off his flannel shirt, down to a singlet, and went back to work.

He saw the fluke first, a frilly sweep of tail that, despite the overcast dullness, scintillated with flashes of aquamarine and nacre.

‘What the …?’ He thought he’d seen most things in his years on the trawlers, but this was a new one on him. His attention was snared and he pulled harder, ignoring the fire in his broad back and shoulders. He hauled a few feet of tail fouled with net into his boat and stopped for a breather. He grabbed the side and leaned over. Just below the water’s surface he saw a woman’s face. A swirl of long hair streamed and undulated with the moving water to conceal, then reveal, her beauty. Her face was light brown, café au lait, but from the neck down her skin tone blended towards the colour of the scales on her tail. Her naked breasts were a pale khaki with bluish nipples and the skin at her narrow waist blue-grey, like a shark’s. Rows of scales started about where her hips flared, where a woman’s belly and arse and secret parts were replaced by long powerful tail muscles that still managed to swell with the promise of seduction. Sam stared for a timeless stretch, frozen in wonder. When he snapped out of it, he started to haul like ten men until she was with him in the boat.

‘Geez.’ His curse, soft and reverent, was almost like a prayer. He unsheathed his knife, cut the fouled section of net free from the rest of the line and then collapsed back in the stern.

Sam struggled to catch his breath and sort out his head. He tried to tell himself he was just seeing things ‘cos he’d had a few too many last night. He rubbed his eyes, scrubbed his palms across his stubbly cheeks and then looked again. Nah, it had nothing to do with the turps. Maybe he’d just gone berko and when he made it back to shore they’d have to lock him up, or shoot him, or something. Either way, Sam couldn’t take his eyes off his catch. No less beautiful out of the water, she lay relaxed, one arm flung up as though reaching towards him, the other draped across her torso. Her long thick tresses of green-brown - part hair, part ribbons like seaweed - trailed down past her waist. Her lower half lay enmeshed in the lines, curved in a sinuous S-shape. The netting had cut cruelly into the flesh of her tail, raw gashes oozing navy blue…well, Sam supposed it was blood. His chest ached to see her and he fumbled for his knife again, leaned forward to cut her free. When Sam’s shadow crossed her face, her eyes opened. A clear, light green like the shallows in summer they glowed, huge over her high cheekbones. For an eternal moment, she looked deep into Sam’s eyes.

‘You wou’ not be after harming me, now, wid dat knife o’ yours?’ She asked, in a lilting Creole accent.

With a strangled ‘Fark!’ Sam recoiled, almost flipped himself over the outboard and into the drink.

The mermaid pulled herself up to a sitting position, wincing as the netting bit deeper into her injured tail.

‘I tank you, Sir, for liberating me.’ She ran long, shell-tipped fingers through her hair, stroked tresses back off her face. She started to sing, a strange polyphonic chant with a melody that rolled, hypnotic, like the tides.

Images of caverns, deep undersea, filled with pearls and pirate treasure drifted through Sam’s mind. He smiled as shoals of shimmering fishwomen swam into his dreams, reached out to him in welcome, invited him to linger and play with them a while.

The injured mermaid held a hand out over the waves. A stream of water leapt up, lively as a jumping fish, into her cupped palm. The chant stopped as she rinsed her mouth with the salt water and Sam’s head cleared.

‘Would you… can I…’ Sam choked down the lump in his throat and started again. His head still felt frothy, too light on his shoulders. A practical, brine-soaked man, good with engines and his sure strong hands, he was allergic to magic. ‘D’ya want me to cut you out of the net?’

‘I would take it as a great kindness, sir.’ She replied, and flashed him a smile. Her pearly teeth glittered, disconcertingly sharp behind her lush curved lips.

Sam bent forward and went to work. The familiar rhythm of steel on rope brought him back to his senses. The mermaid held still, but when Sam tugged a deeply embedded loop of rope free her breath hissed in distress. He thought to chat, distract her from the pain.

‘My name’s Sam.’ He offered. ‘What’s yours?’

‘In my country, I am known as La Sirène.’

‘You’re not from around here, then.’

‘Oh, no.’ La Sirène laughed.

In her open mouth Sam thought he glimpsed more than one row of teeth. He looked away quick smart, back to her tangled tail.

‘I was born in da warm waters of the Caribbean, near Aytí.’

‘Long way from home.’

‘Indeed, Sam-you-el. But I am tireless, as restless as de sea.’ His name sounded lyrical as it rolled off La Sirène’s tongue. ‘I ‘ave sisters, everywhere in de saltwater.’

‘Fair dinkum? I’ve been going to sea for nigh on thirty years now, and I’ve seen all sorts. Never caught nothing… I mean anyone like you.’

‘You are a fisherman, den.’ Her tone was sharp.

Sam could have sworn a flash of dusky maroon swept through her scales, like an angry flush.

‘Not for a while. I’m semi-retired, now, odd jobs and checking these nets for the DPI…’ He broke off when La Sirène gasped, as if she was short of breath. Her skin was suddenly dry and ashen, her scales dull. Shaky, she reached out to the ocean. Streams of saltwater shot up from the surface and wreathed around her arms, cascading down her body. Glistening wet, she was restored. She ran dripping hands through her hair and across her face.

‘There you go.’ Sam said as he pulled the last of the net away.

La Sirène summoned more saltwater and bathed her wounds. With a few muttered words in a language strange to Sam and an undulating gesture from her elegant hands, scales shuffled and migrated to cover the gashes. Soon, the only sign of her injuries was the navy stain of her blood in the bilge water. Her long muscles rippled as she flexed her tail.

‘Why do you set dese cruel traps, Sam-you-el, in da water where we live?’ Her fluke flicked.

‘Keep shark numbers down.’ Sam muttered. ‘Make the beaches safe.’

‘Safe?’ She flushed purple again. ‘’ow is ripping, tangling an’ drowning safe?’

‘Safe for swimmers. Umm, people I mean, not you fellas.’

‘You people,’ La Sirène spat the word like a curse ‘rule de land. Dere, too you destroy, an’ burn, an’ poison. Wit’out respect, wit’ no concern, your waste gushes into my domain.’

Here’s a turn up for the books. Sam smiled to himself. Seems like it’s the top half of a sheila that causes all the grief. Before he’d met this mermaid, he would have sworn that all the trouble that came, part and parcel, with a woman originated from parts lower down.

‘Sorry, love. Not much I can do about that.’ He’d never had much time for hippies and greenies and the like.

La Sirène smiled again, tossed her hair back over her shoulders to expose her breasts.

‘Dere be sumtin I ‘ave in mind for you to do, Sam-you-el.’ Her song swelled again.

Visions wreathed Sam’s mind. He could have sworn the full moon rose over her shoulders to stroke her skin and scales with silver shimmers. This struck him as odd, at half-past daybreak, but soon his confusion was quelled. When her mouth opened wide at the song’s crescendo, revealing three jagged incurving rows of dagger-like teeth, Sam smiled and leaned into her embrace. Then there was no will left in him, only the thrall.

Questions were asked, of course, when a tourist was taken by a three metre tiger shark off Yaroomba. In damage control mode, the authorities talked up the fact that he should have known better than to go swimming at an unpatrolled beach, but that was beside the point. Shark Control Program officers sent to check the lines and nets found the floats and anchors properly positioned. On the surface everything looked unexceptional - but all the nets had been neatly sliced away, the hooks cut off the drumlines. The DPI&F had some serious questions for Sam, but no-one could find him. Some months later his boat washed up on Castaways Beach. The outboard was operational and there was plenty of fuel. Sam’s equipment was neatly stowed. His logbook, protected from the elements in a plastic pouch, was neat and legible and recorded nothing out of the ordinary. The forensics mob was meticulous when they went over the boat but they came away not much the wiser. The silver-blue streaks on the hull, and the scattered sea-green scales found inside, were dismissed as irrelevant – just traces of bycatch.

Morgana is a Sunshine Coast writer. This short story was published in "Coasters", the Coolum Wave Writers' 2009 Anthology. Visit her blog to find out more.

Orca by Gabriell Bryden

2009-12-05T09:46:00.008+10:00

Gabrielle Bryden's poem 'Orca' has recently been published in the online ezine Third Eye. You can read more from this Hervey Bay author at her blog.

‘Orca is one of those poems that pulls you in right from the start. The imagery is especially powerful. Not only that, but the rhythm is just right. Together, this is an irresistible combination. I understand your fascination with the juxtaposition of fear and awe. Power and beauty. Weakness and hope. Orca doesn’t come along every day. Please allow us to add this to the December edition of Third Eye. Our readers will be most excited!’

Tea Cosy Queen

2009-12-05T09:32:00.004+10:00

Local author Loani Prior has just released her second book, Really Wild Tea Cosies. They are simply amazing. Visit her lovely blog and check it out.

Happy Campers by Annabel Candy

2009-12-05T09:16:00.003+10:00

Recently I camped in Coolum and discovered a small community on the verge of extinction. So I chatted to them, took photos and wrote this story.

Coolum Campsite is a great place to stay in the heart of Queensland's Sunshine Coast. Set right on the beach away from the high rises, you can find a peaceful spot, hoist the Aussie flag over your tent and relax. I only stayed one night but I wish it'd been longer.

Stan's lived at Coolum Campsite for 16 years. He doesn't need to use the communal bathrooms or laundry facilities because he's got a permanent home here, surrounded by lush bromeliads, with space to air his laundry in private.Temporary residents abound, but permanent residents like Stan are a dying breed. Literally. Once you could buy a spot at Coolum Campsite, set up house and move in, but those days are over now. Another charming resident who moved to Coolum from Victoria 10 years ago, said a permanent spot at the campsite was the only housing option he could afford at the time.

I admired a tree, adorned with a twinkling kaleidoscope collection and an epiphyte that clings to it like a ruff. The epiphyte has doubled in size since he moved here, but property prices have grown faster. Apparently, 10 years ago a typical house in Coolum would have cost about $150,000. Now they're over $400,000.

All 32 permanent camp-site residents have injected their personality into their homes and maintain them meticulously. Only one house looks pleasingly ramshackle and seems to house an extended happy family. Never-the-less, permanent residents are being phased out. Most of them are elderly and when they die no one else will be allowed to set up a permanent home like theirs.

If you can, stop by and visit the permanent residents of Coolum Campsite. They're a friendly bunch, teetering on the brink of extinction and we'll never see their like again. Thank you for chatting to me Stan, and letting me take your photo. You seem such a happy man.

Annabel Candy is a local writer who has lived in Noosa since November 2008 and is here to stay. She is originally from the UK (many moons ago) and moved to Australia from New Zealand via Costa Rica. Her blog "Get in the Hotspot" contains a wealth of great reading. Check it out.

Livaboard 1 by Stafford Ray

2009-12-05T08:11:00.001+10:00

As an infant, I loved all the rides,
The see-saw, the swing and the slides.
So now, on my mooring,
My life’s never boring.
I go up and down with the tides!

Stafford Ray lives aboard a yacht moored in Mooloolaba harbour.

Hinterland Calling by Julie Chilver

2009-12-05T08:05:00.006+10:00

I got out of the car and knew at once, despite the abandoned cars peppering the green hills, I wanted it I couldn’t even see the main house which was hidden by vegetation as high as the roof. I wasn’t put off by the bare brick interior or the dark stained floorboards. I smiled and then I noticed Andrew’s face, a mix of horror and amazement. Apartments in London and Sydney, and a McMansion in a street lined with shiny mail boxes hadn’t prepared us for this.

Reduced to rustic, by choice. A brick cottage with no upstairs bathroom and ventilation holes big enough for snakes and more. “Eighth generation possum.” The vendor told us proudly. Andrew assured me that although the possum could get down into the bathroom, it wouldn’t. What did he know? A high pitched shriek from me and he appeared carrying a piece of gyprock. ‘We won’t block it up completely, just so she can stick her nose out and the kids can feed her.’ My friends would be amazed that I’d even pop in to use the toilet, let alone live here. And that was before a giant cane toad sat by my feet while I sat on said toilet. ‘Andreeeeeeeeewwww’.

That was just the main dwelling, there was another building which was to be my office and painting studio plus guest accommodation for anyone game to spend some time on the ‘farm’. I decreed that the building should be dismantled. Termites I could have lived with but that was the building my dad christened ‘the building that never was’. More accurately he was almost ‘the dad that was no more’. Chatting to Andrew and leaning on the wooden railing, he was spat from the first floor entrance way. Crunch, splat. He jumped and launched himself to avoid a steel post where only yesterday a tree had been tethered. He fell 10 feet, I wailed like a banshee and my mother didn’t speak for half an hour. A black bruised foot and a scar shaped like devil’s horns on his forehead. Unusual souvenirs for the couple who usually played it safe with a bag of local nougat or marmalade from the Ginger Factory in Yandina. The building was declared evil and Andrew took it to pieces over our first winter, some walls as thin as paper and as easily torn as sweet wrappers.

And the cottage, I repainted those bare walls in white. My instinct was to paint the entire building white, inside and out. To make it clean, to paint out the dark. Then came the stairs, a wooden step ladder I couldn’t imagine negotiating after a glass or two of cab sav. It was to be our first big job, the stairs, until we discovered the wooden floor was full of holes and little white friends. The day we found the little critters was the first day of many hard rains. The floor was ripped up. We had no stairs. To get to bed we had to climb a mud bank four feet from the ground which led to a door giving access to the bedrooms. It was raining as I emerged with a determined face, clutching a bottle a wine, trying not to fall as I negotiated a sea of mud. It wasn’t until day 10 that we had stairs and flooring and the rain still hammered on a, thankfully intact, tin roof.

I call it a farm because it is to us, despite the animals being wild; wallabies, hares and once a wandering dingo howling in the night. And two dogs that adopted our boys, or the other way around. Cold Comfort Farm is what I dubbed it in the early days. We planned to live off the land, without a clue we researched. We have clay soil and predators. We’ll turnover the soil with a crowbar, plant legumes. And we have to have chickens, right?

Tough for a girl with a bird phobia. There were bush turkeys who were here before we were. They were prince of darkness birds with rudders for tails but no sense of direction, their huge bulk and tiny heads. I asked the locals for advice on how to tackle them, ‘shoot them’ came the reply. I didn’t like them but I didn’t want to shoot them. I would name them to personalise them, make them less scary. Philip, Bartholomew and Lester. There was one left. I asked my boys if they wanted to name it. “Dave,” said Jordan the 10-year old.

Now I’m so used to them, secure in the knowledge that they’re scared of me. We live side by side and I protect my herbs with swathes of chicken wire. Not sure how I’ll go with those chickens. I love shopping in the local town. I chat on first name terms with the shopkeepers. I know the difference between fresh local produce and the smorgasbord of city choice. For me it’s all about the people. How things have changed since London or Sydney when I’d spend hours searching for an obscure ingredient for our evening meal. Now I’m happy with a locally grown tomato.

Now where was I? Anyone know a good name for a chicken?

Julie Chilver is the mother of two boys. A former city mortgage broker who now writes short stories and lives on acreage in the Noosa hinterland.

Budding writer set to bloom

2009-10-31T22:59:00.007+10:00

Chevallum author Rhys Rodgers has been awarded the Regional Writes manuscript development mentorship.

20 year old Rhys studied creative writing briefly at the University of the Sunshine Coast, but quit and wrote his novel instead. His story, "Jac and the Wild Children", picks up from where JM Barrie left off by re-imagining the origin of the lost boys and pirates of Peter Pan.

Rhys has written a beautiful moral tale about power and friendship, betrayal and resistance; about growing up and holding onto the truth that to love one another is the only rule we need to follow.

The winner was selected in a 'blind' read, (without knowing the identity of the authors) from 20 full length manuscripts received from all corners of the Sunshine Coast region. The strong field was narrowed to a shortlist of three, including Cooroy author Tanya Overson and Christine Wunderlich of Yandina.

Rhys will be mentored by local author Annette Hughes, writer in residence at the Butter Factory Arts Centre in Cooroy, and will receive one-on-one coaching through the process of redrafting to take his manuscript to the next stage of development towards publication.

"I've been completely blown away by the quality of submissions to this mentorship program," says Annette," and by the range of genres authors are working across in this region; from fantasy to non-fiction, travel writing to the philosophical investigation of the natural world."

“The professional development workshop component of the Regional Writes program has received great feedback from participants, with most of the workshops booked out, and an extra session scheduled to meet the demand.” said Councillor Jenny McKay. “There is an amazing wealth of literary talent on the coast which Council is pleased to be able to identify and nurture through the Regional Writes program. The collaboration between Council and funding bodies from the Regional Arts Development Fund and Arts Queensland have enabled the delivery of a fantastic program."

A Word from the Writer-in-Residence

2009-09-07T16:57:00.007+10:00

Greetings regional writers and readers, and welcome to our community blog. Now that you're here, why not have a look around.

In the left hand column, under the Community Blogging Project heading, you'll find a list of categories. By clicking on the links, you'll be taken to all the stories in each category.

Beneath that you'll see our blog roll. This is a list of local bloggers who have their own sites. If you would like to add your own blog to the list, simply add a comment to this post and let us know your URL. There is also a list of links to local resources for writers and readers; book clubs, library services, bookshops, writers groups etc. If you'd like to add your group to this links list, again, post a comment and we'll add your link. For now, the site is moderated, but once it's launched, it will become your site.

All the best,

Annette Hughes

About the Writer in Residence

2009-08-15T17:13:00.003+10:00

Annette Hughes is a Cooroy based author who moved to the region six years ago after a twenty year career in first Brisbane, then Sydney, in the entertainment and publishing industry. In her previous lives she has been a bookseller, contemporary art dealer, small publisher, theatrical, film and television agent, literary agent and now, author.

She is an industry expert with many years experience in publishing from every possible angle. Her skill set includes; intimate knowledge of the entertainment and publishing industries, preparation of copyright contracts in all fields, structural editing of both fiction and non-fiction, life writing, art criticism, and assesses manuscripts for a major publishers. She has represented authors international rights to the London Book Fair, and attended Australian literary festivals to participate in the Australia Council's VIP program (Visiting International Publishers), selling international publishing rights. She has was also contracted by the Australia Council for a research project to scope and assess opportunities for regional writing in FNQ.

She is also a trained and registered art and English teacher, and speaks on a range of subjects encompassed by her professional skills. She has appeared at the Byron Bay writers festival, Reality Bites festival (Cooroy), Sydney Writers Festival, New South Wales writers centre, and various bookshops and libraries.

Annette is currently self employed, trading as Books&Writing, providing professional services to the publishing industry and manuscript assessment services to individual emerging and established authors. Her recent book, Art Life Chooks (a memoir) is published by Harper Collins Fourth Estate.

Blogging Workshops

2009-08-15T14:40:00.009+10:00

Learn how to set up your own blog by coming along to these free blogging workshops.

The 8 workshop sessions are designed to get you started. You will need have your own computer at home, set up a g-mail account prior to the workshops, and bring it with you.

The workshops are held every Saturday afternoon from 1 pm - 5 pm, running from 5 Sept - 17 October (inclusive).

The workshops will take place at Noosa District High School.

Space is limited to 12 places, so bookings are essential.

Community access sessions

2009-08-15T14:38:00.007+10:00

THESE SESSIONS ARE NOW FULLY BOOKED

Got a problem with your story? Need help with your writing? Need advice about how to get your work out there? As part of the Writer-in-Residence programme, the writer is available for consultation about any questions will be in residence at the Butter Factory Arts Centre at the following times:

2pm - 5pm on Monday afternoons from 2 Nov - 30 Nov (inclusive)

9am - 11am on Saturday mornings on 31 Oct, and 7, 14, 21 & 28 Nov.

The sessions are free and access is open to both amateur and professional writers as well as participants in the Community Blogging Project, but bookings are essential.

To book an appointment during the above times, contact the butter factory.

Submissions

2009-08-15T14:11:00.005+10:00

What's Your Story?

The Community Blogging project is all about us - our life in this beautiful region of Queensland. Whether you are the secretary of the local footy club, a farmer, a mum or a serious writer (or indeed, all of these at once), everyone has a story to share.

Here are a few ideas to get you started, but your story (up to 1000 words) can be about any facet of life in the Sunshine Coast Region. It can also be in any writing form, whether it be prose, poetry or song.

The Great Outdoors

Down by the Seaside

History

People and Places

This Sporting Life

Down on the Farm

Tall Tales and True

Top Spots

Family and Friends

Big Day Out

The Environment

To submit a story to the project, click on the comment link at the bottom of this post. A comment box will appear.

Simply copy your text into the box and then post your comment. The comment won't appear immediately, because the blog is moderated, so include your email address so that I can get in touch with you if the story needs editing before it is published on the site.

Note to teachers: It would be a great help if you could edit student stories before submission.

Manuscript development mentorship

2009-08-15T13:05:00.011+10:00

Submissions are now closed for a mentorship with the Writer in Residence.

There has been a fantastic response to the program, with twenty full length manuscripts recieved for consideration.

The mentorship was announced 30 October and awarded to Chevellum writer Rhys Rodgers for his work for older readers entitled 'Jac and the Wild Children'.

Rhys is also a poet and hes work can me seen on is website.

The mentorship was open to unpublished emerging authors who already have a completed book length (over 60,000 words) manuscript.

The mentor will read the successful manuscript, write a full length assessment of the work and meet with the mentee to discuss development of the manuscript. The mentee will work to the mentor's notes and resubmit the manuscript to the mentor for another full read through, report and face to face meeting to discuss any further improvement. There will be one further meeting to work on a revised synopsis.

Conditions of submission.

Applicants must be resident in the Sunshine Coast Regional Council area.

The manuscript must be original.

The successful mentee must be available to undertake the mentorship during the advised dates 30 Oct - 15 Dec 2009.

The submission should contain: a covering letter which notes the applicants name, address and contact details; a one page synopsis and the first three chapters of the manuscript with a footer bearing the title of the work and page numbers. The author's name should not appear on the synopsis or chapters.

The submission must be mailed as hard copy, double spaced in 12 pt times roman type and be printed on one side only on A4 paper.

Address the submission to The Writer In Residence Mentorship, c/- The Butter Factory Arts Centre, PO Box 141, Tewantin QLD 4565.

If the applicant wishes to have the material returned, the submission must contain a stamped, self addressed envelope.

This is not a prize or competition - there is no prize attached to the awarding of the mentorship, and there is no guarantee of publication.

The Writer in Residence will select the successful author on the quality of the submission alone, and will not enter into any correspondence regarding unsuccessful submissions.

Workshop feedback

2009-08-15T12:45:00.009+10:00

Workshop Schedule

A program of professional development workshops for regional writers.
Places are limited to 12 participants, so book early.

Cost: Each workshop is $50 for the day - morning and afternoon tea, and lunch provided.

Place: Butter Factory Arts Centre, Maple St Cooroy, all day Sunday (10am - 5pm)

Workshop 1: Life Writing
date: Sunday 6 September

This is an all day workshop that looks at the art of memoir. The workshop explores techniques for writing your own story. It gets you writing, offering informed feedback and guidance. Whether you are writing a story about place, collective memory or the story of your own life and times for your grandchildren, this workshop will set you on your journey. A practical workshop for anyone serious about writing their life and for those looking for a way to begin.
Workshop 2: The Business of Publishing
date: Sunday 20 September
A full day seminar covering the business and practicalities of being a writer. This seminar will cover the intricacies of the publishing process, following the path of a manuscript through a publishing house, the role of the agent, the work of the manuscript assessor and the editor, the bookseller and the librarian. Learn how to apply for funding for your writing project, how to pitch your story to the market place, how to find resources, and gain feedback about the commercial potential of your work.

Annette Hughes unpacks her toolkit of insider knowledge for emerging writers and those who are just plain curious.
Workshop 3: Reading for Creative Writing
date: Sunday 11 October

An all day workshop for creative writers. Reading quality writing by the best in the business is one of the most effective ways to develop your craft. This workshop will focus on the written word, and what can be gleaned from the work of some of Australia's best writers. Learn how to unpick a text, analyse it and harvest it for style, technique and how to apply both macro and micro critical reading to your own work, looking at structure, tense, plot, narrative voice, pace, character and dialogue.

Workshop 4: The Nuts and Bolts of Creative Writing
date: Sunday 8 November

This workshop is designed to build skills in polishing and preparation of your writing. Bring a sample of your own work (or work on a piece of supplied draft writing) and be guided through the process of applying an editorial scalpel to it. Discover what editors look for, what to cut, how to mould your writing into the most economical and pleasing form to keep your reader hooked, and to tell your story in the most elegant way possible. Lots of hands on exercises and experimentation.

Workshop 5: The Business of Publishing (by popular demand)If
date: Sunday 22 November