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Congrats to a number of emerging authors of my workshop / mentorship acquaintance who’ve had some recent successes:

Adair Jones, Claire Kamber, Sheryl Gwyther and Julie Nickerson

Talented one and all…despite any influence I might have had on them.  

Some more good press from the land of Oz.

Nationally circulated magazine ‘Pregnancy and Birth’  has recommended The Umbilical Word as their ‘Read This!’ tome in the April 09 issue.  

Thanks to publisher IP and the Australian Book Group for bringing this to darrengroth.com’s attention.

In the finest traditions of movie trailers, here is a sneak preview of my new, soon-to-be-completed novel, Kindling.

So, go grab a packet of Jaffas, drop your voice to an impossibly low register, and read the synopsis of what promises to be my best work to date… 

Ten year old Kieran Monk is autistic. He doesn’t like questions, is afraid to look people in the eye, and his best friend is a plastic Mr Incredible bobblehead that never leaves his hand.
Nate Monk is Kieran’s father. He’s a single parent of a ‘differently wired’ child, a talented musician who once stood on the cusp of success, and a man resigned to a pragmatic life of responsibility over opportunity.
Both share the scarred aftermath of the Infernal Day. On a perfect Autumn April noon five and a half years before, wife and mother Felicity died saving her only child from a raging house fire. Although Kieran’s inadvertent hand was complicit in the tragedy, Nate refused to apportion blame. The tragic circumstances of the blaze, however, constituted a secret that a fearful father dared not share with his ‘different’ son.
But today, as the burning forests of nearby Pendarra Hill fill the sky with smoke and the TV screen with concern, Kieran will discover the devastating truth. And driven by a desire to make amends for the ‘stupid little kid’ of half a decade before, he will disappear into the night.
Now, Nate must search; not only the suburban streets and shops and backyards, but also the depths of his courage and spirit. He must come to terms with the past in order to defy a second tragedy and rekindle hope for a future dampened by doubt. He must be dauntless to do what needs to be done. He must be unflinching to go where his boy has gone:
To the fire.

Told via the dual narrative of father and son, Kindling is a compelling page-turner of heartbreak, healing and heroism. It is a story about nurturing the spark that resides within us all and fighting the flames that life sets in our path.

The most recent newsletter of IP delivers more lowdown on the mid-year The Umbilical Word Aussie launch and associated festivities.

Check out the kind words, photos from the events, positive sales news and a re-hash of the Brisbane News UW feature.

Also, keep an eye out for the soon-to-be-released podcast of my reading at the IP Winter Gala…

The Umbilical Word is among the (many) nominees for this year’s CAL Waverley Library Award for Literature.  The list of authors in the running for the gong include Geraldine Brooks, Peter Carey, JM Coetzee, Alex Miller and Don Watson.  Consequently, I am not waiting by the phone.

Rugby league dropkick, Andrew ‘Joey’ Johns, also has a tome in the mix titled The Two of Me.  Not sure if this is an expose of his drug-addled footy career or a memoir about his testicles.  Either way, I’m glad I won’t finish dead last in the award’s consideration.

PS If I win, I’m sending a gorilla-gram to Peter Carey’s house…

Check out the nomination list here.   

The Loose Short below was recently penned for the “Capture the Olympic Spirit” 2010 Story Share Initiative.  I will be publicly reading the work at BCLC’s Lottery Town Hall in October.

My memory begins with the anticipation:

I flung the screen door open and burst in to the lounge room. Wendy stood in the centre of the space, arms folded, brow knotted, staring down the frenetic action on the TV.
“It’s on, yeah?” I blurted, tossing my knapsack on the couch and distributing swift kisses to the rollie-pollie twins in the play-pen.
Wend nodded. “Two-two. We were in front. But they killed off a five-on-three and now they just scored.”
“Bugger. Who’s in goal for us?”
“Brodeur.”
“Not Cujo?”
“No.”
I peeled off the sweaty, Coppertone-soaked shirt that had borne the brunt of a long day’s teaching under the Queensland sun and grabbed a Sovereign from the fridge. After a brief moment standing under the wild but futile gyrations of the ceiling fan, I settled in on the couch. The time on the nearby wall clock read ‘3.23pm’. The unnamed commentator on TV assured me that “coverage of the Canada versus USA battle for Olympic hockey gold in Salt Lake City would continue after these messages…”

I can imagine how this scene looked from the outside. A shirtless Aussie, melting in the February heat, knocking the froth off a coldie, watching a game of ice hockey…it definitely dipped a toe in the Absurdity Sea. And ‘watching’ was a long way from the truth. This wasn’t detached, arms-length distraction. This was palms-perspiring, heart-thumping fare. Muscles contracting without prior thought or instruction. Words polarizing – “We…They…Us…Them”. This was meaningful. This mattered.
How did it happen? How could such an utterly foreign spectacle attain the emotional investment of an Ashes Cricket Test, or a Rugby League State of Origin? Part of the explanation sat beside me on the couch that day, riding each save, bracing each cross-check. Wendy had departed Vancouver for a six month Australian holiday in 1988. By the time that famous game rolled around, it was 2002, and the holiday snaps included a husband, two children and an Australian citizenship certificate. Fourteen years, though, hadn’t diminished her foundation. It shone through when she spoke to her family on the phone, or marked Canada Day on the calendar, or saw the Rockies on ‘Getaway’, or played Our Lady Peace on the stereo. The maple leaf remained etched on her skin. Inevitably, it rubbed off on me.

“This is so much more than a gold medal game,” I said, noting the white-knuckled clench of a painted Canuck in the stands.
It went beyond a contest for priceless international bragging rights. It was sporting transcendence. On one side – the ‘bad guys’, playing on home ice, seeking to turn back the clock on a 21 year old miracle, praying to ignite a small golden ember in the ever-lengthening darkness of 9-11’s aftermath. On the other side – ‘the good guys’, squaring-off with big brother, representing the cradle of the game itself, carrying the gorilla of a half-century without standing atop the Olympic dais. All around – the tournament’s winding paths to date; signposted with heroism, ignominy, luminati, hundreds of journos, and one small lucky loonie sunken in the surface of the rink. Once-upon-a-time meets once-in-a-lifetime.
“Where’s Homer when you need him?” I asked.
The epic continued to unfold without the great poet. Richter stoned a breakaway. Pronger poleaxed Roenick in the neutral zone. Super Mario fanned on a wide open net. Wend groaned and gulped the last of her homemade lemon iced tea.
“I don’t think I can watch this.”
She stood up and joined the twins, dividing their time between chewing on toys and studying the soles of their feet. I took a deep breath as a Brian Leetch shot deflected wide.
“Keep the faith, sweetheart.”
And perhaps the hockey gods heard. Perhaps the puck deities were moved by the voice of a stranger with a peculiar accent. With eyes wide and bodies released from the hair trigger, Canada grasped the opportunity presented by a Roenick tripping penalty. Joe Sakic squeezed a shot through Richter’s pads, the red light came on, and the generous smattering of Canucks amongst the stars and stripes crowd went cuckoo.
3-2.

I can’t remember if I guaranteed victory after ‘Burnaby’ Joe’s moment of magic. I can’t really remember much of any specifics following. Wend told me sometime later that, when Sakic scored a second time to seal the deal at 5-2, I leapt off the couch, shouting and waving my arms. She said the simultaneous TV coverage cut away to Wayne Gretzky in his private box. He was shouting and waving his arms in a freakily-similar fashion. “You can say you’ve got the moves of ‘The Great One’,” she remarked. Memory or not, I’ll claim that every day and twice on Sundays.
The only recollection, post- 3-2, that has stayed sharp six long years later is the scene an hour after the game had concluded:

I stood outside, on the deck. To the west of Brisbane, the sun had vanished behind a bank of storm clouds promising relief from the stifling heat. The ghost and spotted gums in the backyard inched side to side in the surreptitious breeze. The burbling TV passed on details of a miners’ strike in Tasmania. A kookaburra sat in the overhanging leopard tree branches, laughing like a smug conqueror. A single thought occupied the spaces between my ears:
Man, it’s good to be Canadian.

Brisbane News helped spread the word on The Umbilical Word with a hefty plug and a photo that has me thinking I should audition for ‘America’s Next Top Model’.

Many thanks to Jane Scott and IP for this piece.

Have a squiz at Articulate Conception

If you haven’t checked out the priceless wisdom offered by darrengroth.com’s resident pregnancy and parent guru, Dr Hans Zondad, then here’s a wee snippet:  

“You know, I never cease to be amazed at the wonder created in a Dad-to-be by a simple scan. Seeing his in-utero angel up close and personal, his eyes grow wide, his chest puffs out…then of course his brow furrows and his face crinkles as the inevitable question takes over: ‘What the #@$& am I looking at?’…”

Check out the Doc’s good oil by clicking on Razing Kids…

Anne-Marie Taplin, acclaimed author of the book Being Mummy, has put together a review of You-Dubya in the July edition of her online mag, Parenting Express:

‘…this novella is a very funny read for pregnant women or their partners…the book is sure to appeal, especially to men grappling with the concept of fatherhood for the first time.’ 

Have a geek at the full review and a linked excerpt here.

The Delta Optimist newspaper in Vancouver gave UW a very hefty plug with their recent feature article.

Cast an eye over their words and rather goofy pic.

Thanks go again to the Umbilical Word Publicity Deities (UWPD) for their sterling efforts.