tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70087365536508747212012-01-16T10:29:08.318+08:00Helen Hagemann's "anovelist" blog is a narrative journal into her new novel <i>The Ozone Café</i>. Vincenzo Polamo is an aging Calabrian about to set foot on the Sunrise Coast of Australia. He wants a new life for himself, away from the gangs, but he cannot convince Maria to come with him &amp; to leave her five daughters. This story is not so much about Vincenzo, but the life of the Café, its three separate owners, and its uncompromising fate. © Copyright 2009-2011anovelisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03905957867565376152noreply@blogger.comBlogger331100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7008736553650874721.post-58369083631083018272012-01-13T11:35:00.004+08:002012-01-13T15:32:42.098+08:00

Winifred and Vincenzo walked along the esplanade, then moved further down the beach. Winifred stationed herself beside him in the shoals, scuffing her bare feet, so that she made short splays of water. Of course, she was quiet for most of the walk back home. Suddenly she flipped a majorarc of water out to sea, 'Vin, have you ever thought of doing another mural, somewhere. You know, so that I

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The three men rose from the cubicle, Dion moving off to serve a customer.‘Okay, Vincenzo you helped build the café, so let’s have a look at the wall,’ said Con. ‘I think the café’s sound but I’m no builder. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on?’Con released the bolt on the side door, the bright glare hitting their faces. Winifred followed. The courtyard buzzed indignantly. Palms crackled like

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Greek Boys (contd)Con and Vincenzo moved on from the topic of the Aegean Sea to food, both men raising their voices and smacking their lips. 'You must come and try our Keftedes meatballs,' said Con. 'You would like them in my special homemade tomato sauce. And our Mousaka and rolled lamb, sensational. The meat just falls off the bone. You know what our parents say, "Dion loves to cook and cooks

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Greek BoysIt was obvious to Vincenzo that Con & Dion Lazaridis had either previously owned a café or some type of restaurant. As he stepped into the white interior, he had a sense of stepping back in time. A time when he had owned the place, a time when it suited his sensibility to be a proud business owner. That's what he had been most of his life - self-employed. Now, he could look on with a

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Up the MountainThe cemetery, full of old burials, was an earthly hazard. Stones, brick and mortar lay scattered on their sides. Some headstones were either cracked or had fallen onto their shadows. The plots were so close together that Vincenzo had to walk over their dead bodies. ‘Sorry peoples,’ he kept muttering to himself. He toed it over several very old graves until finally, looking back at

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Boards on a CaféShe might have known. That stupid Pendlebod, how could he do it? Another time it would not have bothered her if a new owner came, giving the Ozone Café a new image of itself. New paint and cane furniture in the courtyard, she liked that. But now Pendlebod had gone too far, emptying the café of all the things she held so dear. She knew it would break Vincenzo’s heart.*

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Short-Lived (contd)Winifred held a deadly look on her face as if a large snake had hissed at her from one of the cubicles. As quickly as she ran out, she ran back in, facing Joe and almost spitting in his face. 'Well I never thought you'd change anything,' she said, pacing and raising her voice. 'I have never seen anything so bad in all my life!''And since you got it wrong, the name's Pendlebury!

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Short-Lived (contd)The two men leaned on the fender of the ute, peering into the engine cavity. Bill Sanderson began quietly enough, but soon his expertise on cars quickly emerged with a shake of the head, pursed lips, and then an informed choice of words. 'Generator's buggered, me old son. Look there, water's your problem. Easy fixed. Old Grumble Guts up at the Mobil should have one.''Yeah, I

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Short-Lived (contd)It never ceased to amaze Joe, how one minute a wild storm could flood the streets for twenty-four hours and suddenly evaporate overnight. When he had finished patching the wall, he hung a tarpaulin over the wet cement. The once smooth wall now deepened into a recess of broken bricks slapped together with thick, grey cement. The café groaned in its mythic shape. How long his

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Short-Lived (contd)For the next half-hour, he drank the remains of the bottle. Then he slowly rose to his knees into the pale blue morning. He peered into the damage, jiggling and removing the loose bricks as best he could. He ran his hands along the remaining wall, the mural intact - not one crack. How could that be? he thought. An extra addition, yet it was solid, not like the rest of the

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Short-LivedDampness hung over the café. Thunder clouds in the morning had opened their little valleys and waterfalls, releasing torrents of rain. The new cane chairs out in the courtyard were soaked and the palms had leaked their wet fronds into Joe's shirt as he tried to bunch up the chairs and put them in the back laundry. It was a scramble, even into the long afternoon, his wife, and Alf, one

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Short-LivedJoe Pendlebury tied the boat up at the wharf, coiling the excess rope into the deck. He collected his fishing gear, bucket and catch and trudged up the steps to his ute. Fishing was something he always wanted to do, but he found it tedious and quite often on the nose. The fishing manuals he had at the café had enticed him to the sport, but since it was on glossy paper it all looked too

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Only You, 2Vincenzo decides he has two choices, to stay and keep on working alone in the Ozone Café or do something really sinful with Mandy. He opens up for the lunch time session, and on springing the blinds to the top latch of the doors, he catches sight of Winifred crossing Bream Street.Outside the day is a blazing blue of sea and sky. He notices that Casey and Nicolas are trying to catch

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Tattoo Lady (contd)Everyone makes an effort for the party to be the coup d'etart of all parties. Winifred's mum and dad arrive with freshly cooked prawns, Ronny and Marjorie hover at the doorway with a bottle of champagne and homemade sausage rolls. The dining room table is filled with all kinds of assorted meats, chicken, turkey, ham. Strong smells of antipasto with olives, Gruyere cheese, dried

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Tattoo LadyThere's a flurry in the morning to get dressed. Rosanna puts on her yellow silk suit. Anna raises one eyebrow at Natasha's purple and pink dress, matching pill-box hat. They are all dressed for the Queen, but haven't realised that they will have to walk the sandy road edges to the Ozone Café. The café that has floorboards covered in the stains of the sea, cracked seats and youths

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Writing at the Centre classes have recommenced at the Fremantle Arts Centre. If you're new to writing, or are planning to write fiction then these classes are for you. We have several choices. I teach the prose class, Shane McCauley teaches poetry and Bruce Russell runs Get a Life which explores all facets of life writing.Why not come along, join in the fun, each Friday from 10.00am to noon. (Get

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The Sins of SataraMarjorie put the phone down slowly, letting it click silently on its rest. She raised her chest, feeling the weight of trouble resting there. It all seemed so complicated. First, an irate call from Mayor Tyrone last Tuesday, now this. The office was so disheveled it looked like a storm had entered, leaving the detritus of a wild party. She thought back to closing time at work

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The Three SistersLucy squeezes in beside Vincenzo and Rennie while Riesca and Natasha are in the back seat of the car. Vincenzo watches and listens as the two women open and close their mouths like pecking ravens. Watching them together, his three sisters and brother makes Vincenzo think about Sundays back in Paola. All the women talking, while the men played bocci.Rennie swings the car around in

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Mr. Sanderson’s HelpWith the final touches of paint and the café’s name screwed into the front wall, Vincenzo posts the menu in an alcove at the door, his white apron and wispy hair curling in the easterly breeze. Today, Vincenzo promises the children that he will reveal his veiled seascape; lots of fish and plenty of surprises. Winifred, who is now stretched out on the cane lounge in the

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Writing at the Centre1 Finnerty St, Fremantle, Western AustraliaI am the prose tutor at the Fremantle Arts Centre. If you're new to writing, or are planning to write fiction then these classes are for you. My aim is to guide writers over time to achieve their goals. Learning to write is all about trial and error. There is no quick fix. It's all about "getting started", "getting it written" & "

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Winifred, Casey and Nicolas‘What are you doing?’‘Yeah, how come you pulled down our cubby?'‘Where have all the oranges gone. Hey mister, you own this place?’Lots of little voices tracking in the wind. Vincenzo hasn’t seen these children before. Two girls, and a boy in a wheelchair, just appearing out of sea air. He puts down his shovel, calling Pomadina to stop her barking. ‘Yeah, this my place.

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Demolition 121Anyone who looked in the window of Bruce Kerr’s Real Estate could tell that there was a slight turnover of properties in Satara Bay. The houses were the colonial type, tin roof, weatherboard to mid section, then fibro to the top and under the eaves. Some places were run down, being holiday cottages, and others, the permanents, were usually cared for with flowering gardens in popular

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Bird WatchingThe next morning Vincenzo struggles to get out of bed. He knows he had a late night with the men drinking, but he can’t remember how he got home. All he can remember is Maria putting him beneath the sheets and tucking him in. ‘Just a dream,’ he says to Pomadina. ‘Hey quit licking my face. I don’t feel too good. Give me a minute and I get your breakfast. Go eat your biscuits, dumb dog

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The AgentThere were only three placards of restaurants for sale in the window. Ronny Williams knew that Vincenzo would not relinquish thoughts of buying No. 5 Bream Street; a property that had been hidden like a kellick under water. It was late Saturday afternoon, he was tired and wanted to go home. He could hear the clock ticking loudly above his head. Sat squashed behind his small desk, his

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Old HeroesThey drive silently through town; Vincenzo’s dream bubble having sizzled to a watery heap. He’s not sure now whether he is making the right decision. Maybe he should look into buying the cake shop, or the store at Oyster Bay. But his mind is still giving him the beautiful view from his Esplanade café. He is standing at the front door, the easterly sea breeze ruffling his cooking apron.

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Land For SaleAfter two weeks of swimming, fishing, and cruising Satara Bay; Vincenzo wanting to visit every inlet, wooden jetty, foothill and quaint shop, the two men take a Sunday snooze on the front veranda. Vincenzo loves being close to the water, with a view to paddle boats, canoes, children wading, patting mud-cakes, and weekenders lolling about in the sun. Renato’s house sits snugly along

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Class of 31st October 2008Recently I conducted a class on writing suspense. We looked at various genres, summising that most suspense was familiar to us when it came to TV crime series such as Midsomer Murders, Miss Marple, CSI, Law & Order, and Murphy's Law. We considered suspense in novels, writers like Agatha Christie, E.M. Forster & Nancy Price, to name a few. It was also interesting during

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Train to Satara BayThey travel to the Sunrise Coast by train. Rennie wants to show Vincenzo the beautiful countryside and the way for future trips. He knows that if his brother is familiar with the journey, buses to Satara Bay, he can commute on his own, taking little Pomadina with him.Vincenzo has bought a summer suit for the occasion and he has also packed a beach towel and bathing costume. He

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Harbour CrossingWith sails brightening Sydney Harbour, and noisy tugboats hugging the liner like pilot fish, Vincenzo waited in the main lobby area. He sat close to his suitcases; little Pomadina slumped beside him, chin leaning on her paws. He was glad to be free of his fellow passengers; especially the two sickly boys, who Lars had carried around on most days like two ends of a wet rope.

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Creative Writing ResourcesResources are fairly important for the novelist. The internet provides an abundance of sites that specifically deal with creative writing, writing tips, prompts, and most importantly - technique. As a prose teacher, I find these following sites beneficial in constructing class notes. They are placed here on my blog, mainly for my own convenience and daily

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B2 - Lower DeckVincenzo unpacked his blue striped pyjamas and placed them under his pillow. He put Pomadina's things in one corner and proceeded to fill a small dish of water from a porcelain pitcher. He was about to leave the cabin with Pomadina, when three roommates bundled themselves through the door.'Hiya,' the man said, lifting a Tyrolean hat in the air. 'Lars est my name. And this is Roland

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Voyage to SunriseVincenzo left his rocky shores without Maria, who remained unconvinced that Australia could ever offer her a land of milk and honey. (If it had been gorgonzola cheese, she might have considered). Instead her husband's words fell like drops of frustrated spit to the ground. He was sick of clasping his hands together, forever explaining that his older brother Renato would see to a

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Leaving ItalyVincenzo lifted his soft Calabrian beret from the hatstand, wrapped his Scottish scarf twice around his neck and whistled to Pomadina, already carrying her leash. He stepped into the tiny lane of his misty town. He would walk up to Mrs Scorcese’s bread shop for the last time. He would amble back down the right handside, call into old Joe’s for his last newspaper, then buy three red

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