Our Ally...

Gorgeous and talented Romance author Ally Blake is fast becoming a media favourite.

Australians can check out the double page feature on her in this week's New Idea. It's lovely. Ally's a fabulous ambassador.


Go, Ally!!!

Funny how the headlines always want to gloss over the fact that Ally went to university to study English and they concentrate instead on her cheer leading background. I know many people like to think that anyone can write a Mills and Boon and it's true you don't need a university degree. Some of the company's bestselling writers haven't been to uni. That's not really my point. But, the truth is -- these stories are a lot harder to write than they are to read. Ally is one of the very few authors I know who didn't have to submit for years before her book was accepted. Most of us have suffered many rejections, but we stuck it out because writing these particular books is something we really felt called to do.

You have to love it to go on writing book after book once you've been accepted. Harlequin Mills and Boon aren't interested in publishing just one book. They want an author who can produce, at a minimum a book a year, preferably more.

There are a lot of myths out there about romance writing.

If you'd like to know more about this, check out this perceptive article on Anne Gracie's website.

Happy Mothers’ Day...

Over the past year, I’ve been researching my family, discovering the women behind those first immigrants who set off for distant southern shores in the 1850s.

I often think about those farewells… those poor mothers back in England, Scotland or Ireland, who knew they would almost certainly never see their children again. What was their story?

My ancestors were all ‘lower class' -- farm labourers, blacksmiths, railways workers, or ‘in –service’. Very few could read or write, and I was the first person from either side of my family to go to university.

But somewhere, among those ancestors, there must have been someone who loved stories as much as I do. Where did the creative spark come from?

The clues possibly lie in their gardens. My mother will be 82 next month and she still lives on five acres in the Brisbane Valley and spends her days working tirelessly in her garden, which is quite, quite beautiful. Here she is on her 80th birthday, held in her favourite place -- her own garden.

I remember my grandmother’s garden in Sydney – the high hedge at the back full of cicadas in summer, the huge blue heads of hydrangea under her bedroom window in the front, the little brick path that lured me around the side of her house, the sunny rockery by the back door. Playing in her garden is one of my favourite childhood memories.

And mum tells me about my great-grandmother’s garden. This woman, Matilda Potter, had eleven children and apparently her back yard had the merest strip of grass down the middle and the rest was filled with plants -- veggies growing on one side and flowers on the other, and then there were stables and a pigeon coop beyond that.

For these women, gardening was their escape from the slog of housework and it was also a creative outlet.

Have any of you read In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens by Alice Walker (of The Colour Purple fame)?

She asked a similar question. Who among the black mothers of her ancestors, passed on the creative spark which has so enriched her life? She pondered on the beauty her poor, uneducated mother created out of the plot of soil in their tiny garden and so her search began.

I love this quote from her:

And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see -- or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.

Today, I’m thinking about my mum and everything she's done for me, but also all those mothers who came before us. At least one of you was a dreamer… and for that I give thanks.

A bright start to the day...

Are persimmons available in your part of the world? Have you tried them?
I'd never eaten them until I discovered them at a stall in Townsville's Sunday markets a couple of years ago. The stall holder had actually brought them down from her farm at Ravenshoe on the Atherton Tableland. (Note to self: We must plant a persimmon tree at Tarzali.)

Luckily for us, the farmer does this every week during the persimmon harvest season in autumn.
I love them. They are like a cross between an apple and an apricot with a dash of something nutty or buttery. And because they're bright orange, I imagine they're full of goodness like pumpkins, but sweeter, and without the acidity of citrus fruit.

Right now, they're my breakfast fruit instead of pawpaw. Yes, I always like to start my day with something bright. Why not?


When we were in Japan last year, we saw persimmon trees covered in fruit wherever we went. They looked gorgeous. So bright and cheerful. And this little Japanese house is The Hut of the Fallen Persimmons.

I usually eat my persimmons raw, but the recipe sounds rather delicious.

Heavenly Persimmon Ice Cream Pie

I/2 litre vanilla ice cream, softened
2 cups persimmon pulp
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 cups whipped cream
1/2 cup slivered almonds
Spread ice cream in a biscuit crumb pie shell and shill in freezer. Combine pulp with the 1 1/2 cups sugar, salt, spices and vanilla. Fold in 1 cup cream. Pour mixture over ice cream in pie shell. Cover with foil and freeze 4 hours. Remove from freezer and garnish with remaining 1/2 cup of whipped cream and almonds..

A grandmotherly brag...

For those of you who have been keeping track of Lilly, she is growing up so fast. Here she is on Magnetic Island, where her other grandparents have a holiday house.

She is so full of life, and full of beans, talks non-stop, runs non stop. And LOVES books.

Am I pleased about that? You bet. And you should hear the way she says 'Hello, Nan!' on the phone. So loud, so cute.

Comfort reads

Do you have a comfort read, a book you return to if you’re feeling a little rundown or under the weather and you feel the need to retreat into a comforting past? I remember my editor telling me that she’d recently curled up with the Narnia Chronicles for comfort. I know, in the past, I’ve dipped back into the Anne books.

Today, I found myself reaching for Mary Norton’s “The Borrowers”, a gorgeous children’s book about tiny people – Pod, Homily and Arietty Clock, who live beneath the floorboards in an English country house. They’re responsible for all those things that go missing that we’re all familiar with – disappearing hairpins, needles, keys, thimbles, coins, matchboxes… these things become their furniture.

The book is just delightful. I remember how much my daughters loved it when they were young and when I’d finished, I searched google to find out more about Mary Norton and discovered a book of short stories for adults… so I couldn’t resist ordering it. I love having things to look forward to coming in the post.

Surprises are nice too. This week I received copies of Claiming the Cattleman’s Heart in Lithuanian. That’s a first in this country for me, as far as I know. My books have now been translated into 25 languages. That’s such a nice thought.

What are your comfort reads?

A stolen week...

We stole away to Tarzali for a week and it was gorgeous. Clear, crisp autumn days, wide blue skies with just a few fluffy clouds – and fabulous sunsets.

E took the photo here. Every evening was different and beautiful.

We laid paving stones, watered plants, harvested pumpkin and citrus fruit. I finished writing my Mother’s Day novella and I read another fabulous book – Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda.

This was one of those books I didn’t want to end, even though I still read rapaciously to get to the end. Isn’t it fabulous when you find a book like that – one that immerses you completely in the characters, draws you into its world and utterly entrances you? This book is set in Paris -- and the characters are all misfits and their story is difficult and simple, complex and romantic.

Tarzali was a little like that, too. We didn’t really want to come back. On the last night, we sat out under the stars to enjoy our pre-dinner drink and we put little coloured lanterns on the stones steps we’d made, and it was just magic.

That night I was so conscious of leaving – of blowing out the last candle on the veranda, of the last sip of wine, of the last track on the CD, which happened to be Shiver Me Timbers on a compilation one of my writing friends gave me.

But the next morning, as we were having breakfast, the builder the plumber and the electrician all arrived. Things were happening. At last! It was time to go!

Now, a little office tidying is in order, to get the feng shui right, before I start on a new writing project.

Name that rooster...

The photo was sent in a batch of email photos. As I love birds and I'm a romance writer, I couldn't resist sharing this one.

I think the rooster's name is Sylvester, after Georgette Heyer's wonderful hero, (not the comic strip cat!!)

I'd love to hear other suggestions for his name.