Everyone has their share of traumatic, watershed moments from their childhood, that scars them for life and helps mould the person they become. I have quite a few of these, but none so heart-wrenching as the day I grew out of my favourite jammies with feet in them.

I must have been about four years old at the time, and can still remember my tears as I tried desperately to squeeze into the last pair I owned (they were yellow) while my mother patiently tried to explain to me that I was a big girl now, and big girls don't wear jammies with feet in them.

Well, more than forty years later, if my mother were here today, I’d be telling her: bollocks!

Not only do big girls still wear jammies with feet in them, but the God of Jammies with Feet In Them invented the internet so that traumatised people like me can finally get some peace.

Yes, you guessed it, in the mail on Friday was a parcel from Big Feet PJs with my shiny new jammies with feet in them.

They are bright red, have non-slip soles and I’m too afraid to look in a mirror, because I’m pretty sure even my magic mirror won’t be able to disguise the fact that I look like a blood-soaked Michelin Tyre Man while wearing them.

I don’t care. I have redressed forty-two years of injustice with the click of a mouse and the wave of my credit card.

And this morning when I emerged from the bedroom, Dace nodded with approval and asked: Where can I get jammies like that, nana?

I have closure. I have bright red jammies with feet in them.

Back in the 1970's, Planet Earth’s Most Ridiculed Dictator was a rather pompous, not to mention bloodthirstily corrupt sort of fellow in Uganda named Idi Amin, and if he’d had any oil to speak of, somone might have found an excuse to go to war with him, too.

Now, when I was 17, I had an album called The Collected Broadcasts of Idi Amin by the comedian John Bird, which was — supposedly — the more important radio broadcasts of that rather asinine gentleman. (It might also give you an insight into the workings of my strange 17 year old mind that while my peers were listening to rock and roll and smoking pot, I was listening to political satires… hmm)

Anyway, the broadcasts on this very funny album included:

• A hit song with the chorus “Idi, Idi, Idi Amin, the greatest man that has ever bin. He's the president, the general, the king of the sea. Idi, Idi, Idi Amin”. (It’s so sad I remember that.)
• His plan to improve the Ugandan navy by declaring war on the US (a tad problematic because is Uganda landlocked). According to Idi, the US would need to break down their aircraft carrier, pack it into suitcases, travel overland in disguise and then reassemble it when they reached Lake Idi (formerly Victoria), where the Ugandan forces would defeat them (natch). Not only would Idi get him self a shiny new carrier but some damn fine luggage, as well.
• There was also a rather impressive explanation as to why a number of bishops, academics, opposition leaders and other dissident types were disappearing — Idi saved us from invasion from Pluto, you see, by sending all these highly qualified people back with the Plutonians to solve their overpopulation problems (as you do). With this selfless act, Earth was saved, although the aliens did depart with the threat that “if this doesn't work, we’re gonna come back here and step on your face”. Fair enough.
• And a weather check that always cracked me up which announced “I have just been up on the Air Ministry roof and it is pissing down with rain”.

But the best speech, by far, was Idi’s plan for tourists.

You see, Idi understood the economic need for tourists, while lamenting the need for actually having to suffer them in your country. His plan was for the tourists to fly in, leave their money in conveniently placed deposit bins around Entebbe International Airport, and then fly out again, leaving Uganda in peace.

After driving back from Tennant Creek on Friday, I have to say, the man had a point.

I have long been of the opinion that international airports the world over must have big rooms hidden out the back, where selected tourists are required to deposit their brains upon entering a foreign country. This would explain, by the way, dipsticks who think they can smuggle drugs through countries with the death penalty, football thugs and people like my sister and brother-in-law, who take “8 countries in 4 days” bus trips through Europe and think they’re well travelled.

I am sure, in their own countries, these tourists are sane, reasonable, functioning members of society. I mean, they’d almost have to be, wouldn’t they? International air travel ain’t cheap. If they can afford the vacation, one assumes they hold down pretty good jobs and are generally, regular, sensible, nice sort of folks in their natural habitat…

But then they get to a foreign country, hop in a hire car, are let loose on the unsuspecting locals and they turn into, well, morons.

So there I am, ripping down the highway, doing 145 kph (roughly 90 mph – gotta love a place with no speed limits) and I reach the Devil’s Marbles. This is an amazing place about 113 klms south of Tennant, full of massive boulders that really do look like a god tossed a bag of marbles across the countryside. The aboriginal people call the place Karwekarlwe and according to them, the rocks are giant rainbow serpent eggs. It’s a national park and there’s a nice scenic drive for the tourists to take, so us locals suffering from get-home-itis doing 90 mph can drive on by without stopping to take in the sights.

Now, you’d think the logical thing to do, if you’re waiting to turn back onto the highway after your scenic tour of the Marbles, would be to stop, and perhaps check if there were any locals with get-home-itis doing 90 mph, heading your way before making a leisurely turn onto the highway.

But no… these people have left their brains at the airport, remember…

On the upside, I can report, happily, I have awesome reflexes, the Prius brakes at high speed like a race car, the horn works a treat, and the inch thick rubber skid marks in front of the northern exit to the Devil’s Marbles ought to have my name on them. I can also assure you I have an impressive cussing vocabulary when I need it, and I got to use all of it today, at the top of my voice, not to mention a few choice finger gestures that transcend language, which I’m sure this cretin understood, assuming he saw me through the cloud of smoke billowing out of what was left of my tyres as I whizzed past him close enough to give his wretched hire car a heat rash.

As a result of this near-death experience, I spent the next 375 klms coming up with a plan that will solve my tourist problems. You see, 30 klms or so south of the Devils Marbles is Wycliffe Well, the home of UFO’s in Australia (if you believe the road signs).

I’m gonna build an international airport at Wycliffe Well, have the tourists drop their money in the boxes I have placed on the runway, next to large, high quality photographs of Ayers Rock, Kakadu, Kings Canyon, the Devils’ Marbles, and all the other fabulous sights people come to the NT to see, right at the foot of the ramp leading up to the UFOs that will take said tourists off to Pluto.

Not only will the roads be safer, but I’ll make them leave their suitcases behind and get me a damn fine set of luggage, too.

It turns out one of my Tennant Creek apprentices (Skye of the don't-let-her-behind-the-wheel-of-a-car-if-you- want-to-live fame) has a phobia about turkeys.  She was attacked by one as a child, apparently, and is so terrified you can make her squeal by saying "gobble gobble" and she has to leave the room if the Wild Turkey ad comes on TV.This prompted an entire afternoon in class searching the internet for the correct name of a turkey phobia.

The upshot of this complete waste of time and government resources was that we still have no idea what the correct name for Skye's phobia is, but we did compile a fairly impressive list of other phobias, more than one of which, I suspect, is not entirely genuine.

• Ailuropyrophobia — fear of kittens or cats
• Arachibutyrophobia — fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth (seriously)
• Saukuraphobia — Fear of getting beat up by Japanese schoolgirls. (Methinks this one might not be genuine)
• Phoia — fear of the letter b
  
• A++++++++++++phobia — fear of getting anything other than positive feedback on eBay.
• Megacaninaphobia — fear of big f***ing dogs 
• Agyrophobia — fear of streets or crossing the street
• Hobia — fear of the letter P
• Anuptaphobia — fear of staying single
• Smegophobia — fear of English Sci-Fi parodies 
• Atomosophobia — fear of atomic explosions (a perfectly reasonable phobia, I would have thought)
• Apeirophobia— fear of infinity
• Bufonophobia — fear of toads  
• Lordofthephobias  — fear of Tolkien
• Acophobia — fear of ugliness
• Phobiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa — fear of cats on the keyboard (te-he) 
• Coulrophobia — fear of clowns
• Harpaxophobia— fear of being robbed (a phobia I’m well on the way to developing)
• Aibohphobia — fear of palindromes
• Pteronophobia — fear of being tickled by feathers (yup, it’s a phobia)
• Sesquipedalophobia — fear of long words (Exactly how do you tell someone you’re suffering from this?)
• Triskaidekaphobia — fear of the number 13 (had to put this one on the list, because Thirdborn could spell it by the time he was 13)
• Alektorophobia — fear of chickens (the closest we could get to turkeys, and the purpose of this whole silly exercise)

And my all time favourite —

• Superphobia — the fear of leaping tall buildings in a single bound… and missing:)

If you’re old enough to recall a song that goes: A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse of course, that is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed, then you're used to the idea of horses who talk, philosophise and don’t need to eat.

If you don’t know who Mr Ed is, and you expect anybody to believe you’ve ever been near a four-legged creature larger than a poodle, then you need to remember this vital but oft neglected fact about horses: they need to eat.

Yes, that’s right. Horses eat. And they drink water, too. Quite a bit of it, in fact. And if they don’t eat and drink, (shock! horror!) they die. This rather inconvenient detail is going to make your hero’s epic gallop across the desert to save your damsel in distress a bit problematic, to say the least.

I blame movies for this. Too many films portray horses galloping across a barren landscape without the need to eat, or stop to graze or drink, or perform any of the other normal bodily functions mammals need to survive. This is because the feed truck, the vet, the wranglers and the 14 other vital staff hired to look after these magnificent but somewhat fragile creatures are only acknowledged at the very end of the credits, just before the bit that says “ no animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture”. (I’m hazarding a guess here, but that would be because well, they fed them…)

Now, it’s not as if information on the care and maintenance of horses is hard to find, and there are plenty of people out there who know something about horses, which is a problem, because you don’t have to go far to meet someone willing to vouch for your complete ignorance of all things equine if you neglect these details. The trouble is, many a would-be fantasy writer lives in suburbia and the closest they have ever been to a real horse is a carousel at an amusement park.

Mary K Wilson has written a great article on this subject, (Sunlight And Air: Feeding the Fictional Horse) that opens with the observation that “too many fictional horses exist on air and sunlight. In countless stories, a horse and rider gallop for miles, without any thought being given to the horse's stamina and energy levels, both of which are directly related to good nutrition. When it's time for war, these same steeds valiantly dive into the battle without worrying about enemy weapons, unless it's crucial to the plot. Then, the poor horse dies in a big, heroic battle, and the rider finds another steed to abuse.”

She goes on to point out that “most fictional horses work for a living. Whether as a knight's mount, a plough horse, or a king's hunter, these horses exert large amounts of energy in the course of their daily lives. A horse under light work may need only 1½ to 2 pounds of hay per 100 pounds of body weight and ½ to 1 pound grain, if that much. Given that an average horse runs from 1000 to 1200 pounds, your character is looking at feeding at a minimum 15-20 pounds of hay or forage a day. This means if the horse is on the road, it will need to stop and graze at several intervals through the day..”

Anybody remember the last time a hero stopped to let his horse graze as the forces of darkness were bearing down on top of him?

And while we’re on the subject of horses, let’s talk about how far they can travel. If you gallop your horse for half an hour, it will drop dead. Fact. Let’s not even talk about galloping it for a day or more (particularly as it won’t have had time to eat…).

In another great article, Tina Morgan’s Using Horses in Fiction, she points out the following inconvenient facts. “The average horse can travel 25 to 30 miles in one day. This will NOT be done at a run. Most of the distance will be covered in a trot, a gait that your rider will probably not enjoy. Endurance horses are trained to make 50, 75 even 100 mile trail rides in one day. However, this requires special diets and extensive training for horse and rider. A rider with considerable experience will know how to ease the strain on their own body while riding long distances but they will still be sore if they're riding farther than normal. The muscles on the inner thigh and buttocks will take the greatest amount of punishment, but the lower back, calves, knees and hips will also feel the strain.”

So, your hero manages his epic ride by changing horses frequently, pony-express style, and arrives in time to save the day. He’s going to be sore, stiff and possibly barely able to walk. 

So, unless your hero is a superhero and he’s riding Mr Ed, or one of his magical cousins, do your homework. Learn the difference between a flank and a wither, a mare and stallion, a bay and grey, and for pity’s sake, feed your poor horses.

Don't be afraid to use the word "said"

I've seen whole MS's where the author did everything they could to avoid using the word "said". There is nothing wrong with this word. It's a perfectly acceptable word. People use it everyday and it's not in the least bit offensive.

According to Elmore Leonard, you should never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue at all. His rules state: “The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But said is far less intrusive than grumbled, gasped, cautioned, lied. I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with “she asseverated,” and had to stop reading to get the dictionary.”

Now, I wouldn’t go quite that far (which is probably he’s why been nominated for 3 Edgar Allan Poe Awards by the Mystery Writers of America and given the Grand Master Award, too, and I haven’t. Oh, and I don’t write mysteries. Maybe that’s my problem.)

Example

"I wish it were over," Clarabelle sobbed.

"It will be soon," Hildegard guaranteed.

"But I'm so sick of it," Clarabelle wailed.

"We all are," Hildegard established. "But we can't change anything."

"Are you sure?" Clarabelle asked.

"I'm sure," Hildegard confirmed.

"Really sure?" Clarabelle questioned.

"Really sure," Hildegard repeated…

You should let conversations take care of themselves. Unless you have a group of people speaking, there is no need to keep telling the reader who is talking, over and over.

Corrected:

"I wish it were over," Clarabelle sobbed.

"It will be soon.”

"But I'm so sick of it!"

"We all are," Hildegard said. "But we can't change anything."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure,"

"Really sure?"

"Really sure," Hildegard said…

Dialogue needs to walk a fine line between what you want your characters to say, and what people really sound like. You don’t want to your dialogue to read exactly like someone speaking, because people stop and start and um and ah and generally sound quite dorky if you’re writing their words down verbatim. Don’t believe me? Read a transcript of a recorded statement sometime. It’s terrifying.

Dialogue mustn’t sound forced, either, and the easiest way to make it sound forced is to add ridiculous modifiers to get your message across. Why do writers do this? Personally I think it's because they won’t be there with a baseball bat while their audience is reading their grand epic so they can bash them over the head with what they really meant.

Bottom line. You want to make your message clearer?

Write better, don’t patch up your shortcomings with adverbs, adjectives and a thesaurus.