Once upon a time, back when I was a child and teenager, I spent all my spare time drawing, painting and writing. I married as a teenager – and very soon discovered wifedom and motherhood didn’t allow me the time to be a renaissance woman – able to do all things. By the time I had my third child I was back at study and the paint box was coming out less and less. Then I entered my 30’s knowing I had a novel within me, demanding to be written. Realising that I was far better at writing than painting, I decided at that point it was better to aspire to grow in one artistic area rather than spread myself too thin and not grow at all. I also wanted to ensure my family wasn’t too neglected in the meantime. Thus, the paint box was put away while I focused on writing.

Those years of attempting visual art enriched me as a writer. Painting and drawing teaches you to use your eyes – really use your eyes. Landscapes and seascapes become more than matter of green hills and blue seas. You see it as a skilled observer of the world around you. The surf pounds the rocks in fury, its white froth tossed into the air by power and wind. Skies evoke the change of time and season, and emotion.

On the table beside me is a book with the painting by Ford Maddox Brown, The last of England (1855) on its cover. In the painting, a young, married couple huddles close together. Pensively, the man gazes seemingly unseeingly ahead and not at the woman beside him, as if unable to turn to her and witness her face. She holds his hand, nursing their baby, hidden under her heavy grey cloak. Nothing is seen of the child but a tiny hand, held in comfort by the mother. The faces of the man and woman are pinched with cold and unspoken grief – the grief of those who will soon be exiled.

I close my eyes and instantly my imagination conjures up a girl of about sixteen. She sits in a window-seat in her long, white shift. If I was to draw her, I would show her with her back against the stone and hugging her legs to her. The growing light behind her comes from the break of dawn; as yet there is not much colour in the scene. She hears a sound and lifts her face. We come closer to her and her eyes look straight at us. At first, she seems frightened, but then she breaks into a welcoming smile. By seeing the picture in your mind, you can paint, like they say, a thousand words.

The Tudor Ghost Story Contest is on again for 2008! Entered stories need to be at least 1500 words and no more than 3000 words. All stories must involve a Tudor Ghost(s) or Tudor characters.

Lara E. Eakins has very kindly agreed to help keep this great contest running. This year we are doing it a little differently than in past years - there will be a five-dollar ($US) entry fee for stories via the donation button on this page. This covers the costs of the contest (first prize is a signed copy of the judge's book); anything left over will be donated to World Vision.

Publication will be at Lara's very respected Tudor England site, on The History Bookshop, as well as on my web home at www.wendyjdunn. com.

This year's judge is Sandra Worth. Due for release in December, her fifth novel, The King's daughter, is about Elizabeth of York.

The contest will close on November 1, 2008 and the winning stories published in time for Christmas.

Please free to contact me (Wendy J Dunn at wjeandunn@yahoo. com.au) for further information.

Read the winning entries from other years here:


Wendy J. Dunn Author of DEAR HEART, HOW LIKE YOU THIS? Awarded the ABPA 2003 Glyph for Best Adult Fiction and First Runner Up for Commercial fiction in the 2004 Writer's Notes Book Awards. Seriously one of the best novels ever written about Anne Boleyn's life. Jennifer Lodine-Chaffey, reader.

My stomach’s hurting. Writing this on my carefully balanced laptop, I am lying in bed feeling ill and very sorry for myself – wondering why I have such problems with my insides. My daughter would say, “There’s nothing wrong with your insides except what you do to yourself. Stop eating silly things and exercise.” All right, I admit it; I am my own worst enemy.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to go to Neil Gaiman’s literary dinner last night. Spurred on by the discovery there were available seats at the dinner and it was too late to book in for his free talk at the State library, I decided to drag my husband out for a literary night. But when I booked, it would have helped if they had told me that the 7.45 pm start on Neil’s web journal was wrong. The dinner actually started at 6.45 pm, which meant we ended up having a very rushed meal. Maybe that’s why my stomach kept me (and my poor husband) awake last night and is still giving me grief today.

I am a Neil Gaiman fan – and have been since going to a fantasy conference three years ago. I was there at the suggestion of my friend Gillian Polack, who was taking part in the August Author Festival, a children/ youth online literary festival I coordinated for Melbourne University. Gillian thought the conference was a good opportunity for me to network with other authors and see if I could add a few fantasy authors to my group. With panels on a range of fantasy topics, I thought it sounded a fun way to spend the weekend.

Second day, I ended up in the audience listening to "the Neil Gaiman enriched" panel talking about folk lore, myth and legend. I thought, this man really knows his stuff; it would be absolutely wonderful if he agreed to take part in the festival. Poor man. He finished the panel, got off the stage, and then found me hounding him. It was only afterwards I discovered that Neil Gaiman was a literary star. Strange thing about Neil, his fame seems one the world’s best kept secrets. Most of the time, life keeps me so busy I forget I am one of his many fans, too. Yet I have read with great enjoyment and admiration most of his books.

Star dusted with success, Neil is the complete author package – articulate, witty, multi-talented, and the list goes on and on. I will never be the complete author package. What I enjoyed most about last night was listening to my husband laugh beside me, laughing as I laughed, knowing he was as just as caught up in Neil’s storytelling as I was. Remembering how my son’s eyes lit up at the mention of Neil Gaiman, I patiently stood for about hour, waiting my turn to have our three books signed. Amazingly, my husband stayed patient, too.

Neil’s readings last night really brought home to me that comedy artfully weaved into tragedy is the perfect meal for reader and audience satisfaction. D’oh – no wonder Shakespeare is as popular now as it was when whoever first wrote it.

Note to self – be funny and write funny; might help my stomach, too.