TO ENTER OR NOT TO ENTER One of the many challenges writers encounter is the lure of writing competitions ... and the question of whether to enter or not. The theme for a particular competition can be so tempting as to create a flood of inspirational juices, while others fail to generate a flicker of interest. Should you stop your current work-in-progress to write an entry for a tempting competition? How much is the the fee, or is it free? Although you don't expect to win anyway, what about the prize money? Is your entry fee nothing more than a donation? By the time you consider everything and are convinced to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, you discover the competition closed yesterday. WHAT'S NEW A hint of excitement and anticipation exists at Eaglemount Books at the moment with the news a new book is now being edited. It's likely the new work will be released around late May. There has been no further news on how any other new works are progressing. SOME LIGHT READING A competition calling for epistolary stories (written entirely in the form of letters) inspired the following effort ... but not as a possible competition entry. Letters Home October 1885 My Dearest Jane A short note to share some exciting news. At last we are to travel to what will become our new home. After the horrendous voyage, the weeks in a boarding house have taken their toll on both mine and young James’ dispositions. About a week after we arrived, a land sale of Crown Land released under last year’s new Act, was held. William successfully acquired the block he desired, but it took a few more days to finalise everything. William spent today preparing for our departure tomorrow. He says we will leave at first light so as to travel as much as possible in the cooler part of the day. Most of our possessions already are loaded on the wagon in readiness for our early start. I close now to put this letter in the post before we leave. Your ever loving sister Anne November 1885 My Dearest Jane I write now to implore you to oppose any suggestion by your Robert of moving to Australia. I am aware my husband is singing the praises of this new land to your husband. As your sister, I beseech you to resist any suggestion you should join us here. Life here is not as we knew it. While our father’s home was not lavish, it accommodated us comfortably. Father was an excellent provider and of some standing in the community. We were afforded a sound education and participated in the social life of the community. That life can continue for you, but only if you remain in England. My last letter told of my excitement about settling into our new home. I knew nothing of what lay ahead in this new country or I would not willingly have agreed to come here. The prospect of moving into my own home offered some recompense for all we have endured to date. We loaded ourselves and the remainder of our possessions onto the wagon at first light and departed well before breakfast. William arranged to take with us a parcel of chunks of bread and cheese and a container of water. Our trip took three days. Three days of sitting on a hard wooden seat on an open wagon, with nothing to do but stare down a dusty track through the never-ending sameness of the countryside. The heat was almost unbearable. We were scorched by the sun and attacked by flies and biting insects, and the dust rose in constant clouds around us to cover us and everything on the wagon. Poor James did not handle it well. At the end of day three, we arrived at the town nearest to William’s block. ‘Town’ is a misnomer. It is a cluster of perhaps two dozen buildings, a mix of business houses, stables, and cottages. The track we followed continued through the centre of town to form its High Street. A hotel and five other business establishments lined the 'street'. We shared yet another tiny, dingy room at the hotel with cockroaches for two nights we were there. On the first of those night, after I settled James, William asked me to make up a list of the supplies to take with us. I thought to take only a little of a few basic supplies, with a view to obtaining others on regular visits to town. I had a lot to learn about life in the ‘bush’. Imagine my shock to discover that, here, provisions are purchased by the bag or box, not by the pound or ounces. I listed a bag each of potatoes, onions, sugar and salt, and a box of tea. When William added a bag of flour, I protested. The flour would be stale and infested with weevils before I finished it. He assured me baking bread every day or two would soon use up a bag of flour. Next day, William was gone until supper. Again, the wagon was loaded ready for an early departure next morning. I imagined another short trip before inspecting our new home. Once we set off, I settled in to wondering about the house and the extent of the domestic staff. We arrived late in the afternoon. William halted the wagon atop a low knoll, the only elevated site in a sea of arid flat land dotted here and there with stands of thick trees. There was no house. I had imagined a version of the wood and tin rough constructions we had passed along the way. While not appealing, it would afford us our own roof over our heads. Then came the next shock. William hauled a huge roll from the wagon and directed me to help him erect it. My dear sister, we are living under canvas. We share a tent with our possessions and bags of supplies. There is no kitchen. Cooking is on an open fire out front of the tent. There are no facilities or running water. Water is fetched from a spring which feeds a little creek some distance from the tent. I must bake bread every couple of days and, when I asked about fresh milk, William said it would be fresh every day straight from the animal, which I had to learn to milk. The heat and flies continue to torture us, and intrusions into our tent by ants, snakes and other wildlife must be accepted. James and I spend every day alone. William leaves at first light and doesn’t return until dark. He looks gaunt from the hard work, and is burnt to the colour of a walnut by the sun. The carrier from town brings fresh supplies and mail once a month, and takes away with him my order for the next month's supplies and any mail to post. He is due to arrive tomorrow and will post this letter for me when he returns to town. Apart from the carrier, William and James, I see not another living soul. There will be no Christmas this year. William says he cannot spare even one day, and James is too young to miss not having Christmas. William tells me the wet season begins soon, and will be followed by the cooler weather of winter. I struggle every day to live this life and to make something of a life for young James. I don’t look forward to whatever the New Year might deliver. I am assured a proper home is out of the question until the property is stocked with cattle and paying its way. As I sign off, again I implore you to strenuously oppose any suggestion by your Robert regarding relocating to Australia. As always, your ever-loving sister Anne to be continued... Watch for next month's newsletter for the continuation of Anne's Letters Home to her sister. Until next time Keep reading, keep writing, and stay safe
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