The online home of Yarraboy Editorial Services
WORDS, reading, writing. They have dominated my life since first being stimulated by the stories read to me by my parents, and the meaningless scrawls I scribed as an infant on whatever paper was nearby.
Rarely have I been without something I felt the urge to read; books galore, newspapers and magazines, fact or fiction, prose or verse, even manuals, brochures and menus. Whatever is to hand.
Reading is a constant, an endless source of learning, knowledge and pleasure.
Likewise with writing. Forever penning sentences since way back when. From being a regular pre-teen winner of writing competitions in the local newspaper to becoming a fully-fledged author of fact and fiction several decades later.
The progression was relentless, even during National Service and despite detours into work as a butcher, a travel agent, cook and restaurateur. Writing and books were always my solace and companions.
Not even the scorn and disgust of my headmaster or my mother’s shocked gasp when I announced I was rejecting university in favour of an apprenticeship as a journalist could deter me.
“You could be a lawyer, doctor, accountant,” they chorused. Yeah, right.
Instead, I ploughed my own furrow as reporter, columnist, feature writer and editor. Travelling the world to report and comment, meeting and mixing with the famous and infamous, palaces and slums, luxurious retreats and scary war zones, the pompous and the humble, shallow show ponies and modest high achievers.
A wonderful life with work as a daily pleasure while crafting my own words and those of many others. And reading, reading, reading.
The culmination was the appearance from nowhere of Bromo Perkins as I dreamily sipped my morning long black in a Melbourne café. He came unbidden, told me his story and my delayed ambition to create a book was fulfilled.
Six books later (one in progress) he remains a persistent companion. Therefore I continue to write, as much for my own distraction and pleasure as for that of any possible reader.
In between, I devour the works of those far more talented than I, and encourage others along the path to publication.
Books, books, books; words, words, words. Welcome to my world
THIS Icelandic journey into the dark side sparked something of a defining moment. Or, more precisely, a desire to have something defined. Better than that, a search for the definition of a definition; one that
OUR libraries and bookshops offer an intriguing double-whammy for devotees of crime fiction. They can either select a mystery by the enduring and much revered Josephine Tey, or they can delve into a tale
AND now for something completely different with a truly gripping thriller from a source not previously sampled. After years of immersion in the tide of Scandi Noir, I am stepping out into fresh fields with