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Ghost Story: The Hands Part 3.

‘Something evil?’ I said.

‘I was in my study,’ he replied. ‘It was probably about eight in the evening and I was doing paperwork related to work. It was a very cold night, so I had my central heating cranked up full. It was VERY toasty in that room. Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. It must have dropped thirty degrees in the space of a minute. I could see my breath misting the air.’

‘Spooky.’

Richard scratched his head.

‘It wasn’t so much the cold that bothered me. It was the feeling that there was something in the room with me – something evil. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my cat crouching just outside my opened study door. It was snarling and hissing and its back was arched, the fur standing upright, eyes fixed on a point behind my chair. And I just knew that if I turned around I would see someone or something looming over me.’

‘And did you turn?’ I asked.

He paused, shuddered and took a drink.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did.’

To be continued…

The time has nearly come for a competition where you can win a prize of such staggering mediocrity it will make your eyes water. Hone up your review skills [but with a difference]. Check out some reviews within the pages of Insideadog, but be prepared to go the extra yards. Details coming soon.

How to survive the new school year:

Did you ask the question about the car? Any interesting replies?

In English, write a poem and hand it in to your teacher. The poem doesn’t have to make any sense whatsoever [in fact, much better if it doesn’t], but the key is it should LOOK like a poem. Something like this:

I hoot

like a bullfrog on the moon with A.D.D.

and see the lights

                Of the universe

Blink … Out.

Tell your teacher that your poem  is a microcosm of man’s search for commitment in a hostile cosmos and ask for his/her opinion. You will be surprised how often the teacher is full of praise for compete gibberish. What are they going to do? Destroy a budding writer’s confidence? I don’t think so.

I’m working on the assumption that there are plenty of people out there who would like to be published writers. Do you dream of that moment when you get your first novel published? The delirious joy of seeing a book with YOUR name on it in your local bookstore? The first magnificent reviews – “A writer of enormous talent has emerged…”?  Being asked to a literary conference for a panel meeting with John Marsden and Melina Marchetta?

Ah, yes. Heady stuff.

But a word of warning. Sometimes it can be positively humiliating to be a writer.

A good number of years ago, I went to a festival. Amongst the company of writers were Morris Gleitzman and Markus Zusak, fabulous writers both. It was clear I had arrived as a writer if I was in such august company.

My first session was in a large tent on the school grounds and it was packed to the rafters [if tents have rafters – which they don’t]. There was an excited buzz around the tent as I made my way to the podium and started my staggeringly witty, clever and brilliantly informative talk:  “Good morning, my name is Barry Jonsberg and I am delighted…’ [a stunning start, I’m sure you will agree]but then noticed eighty percent of the audience leaving. Now, even by my own high standards, this was quite remarkable. Ten seconds and people are nearly being trampled in the mass exodus? “Sorry,” said one teacher as he passed. “We thought you were Morris Gleitzman.”

Now, I have placed a picture of Morris here, so you can see where the confusion arose. Do I look anything like Morris? Were we separated at birth? I don’t think so.

Anyway, I continued my talk to the remaining ten people [who almost certainly wanted to see Morris but couldn’t be bothered to move] whilst hearing roars of laughter from the adjoining tent where Morris, presumably, was inviting everyone to laugh at me. Or he could simply have been brilliant, witty and engaging about his own writing…

Later, I sat between Morris and Markus for a book signing. The queue of kids for Morris possibly exceeded the length of the Great Wall of China. The queue for Markus almost matched it. My queue was… well, what is the length of a queue with no people in it? Zero? Occasionally, a small child queuing for Morris would break out of the line and ask me to sign the paper bag containing his/her copy of one of Morris’s books. The paper bag! So I signed it “Morris Gleitzman sucks.”

I apologise, Morris. Humbly.

Now, other writers have had similar experiences. For an excruciatingly funny Youtube song by the American writer Parnell Hall, click here:

Happy Valentine's Day!

Are you looking for that perfect gift for your loved one? Tired of cliched chocolates and flowers? How about something romantic, a love story that will bring tears to his/her eyes?

I have JUST the thing for you.

A book.

What's more, an award-winning book.

What's more, an award-winning book about a love that survives death.

Ah, how sweet.

It is purely coincidental that I happened to write it.

Wrap it in something gorgeous and when you hand it over, say "Thank you for Being Here for me."

I tell you, you won't believe how many brownie points you wil rack up.

Have a beautiful day...

Today we celebrate the launch of the National Year of Reading!

Across Australia mutliple launches are taking place to celebrate the importance of reading and how we can all encourage young people to read and find new places for inspiration.     We here at the Dog will be joining the celebration on March 1st when we launch a nation wide, creative competition for young people ages 12-18.  Keep an eye on this space!

What is the National Year of Reading?  In a nutshell it is all about helping people discover (and rediscover) the magic of books.

And if we know anything here at the Dog, we know magical :)