Welcome Ros Baxter!
Ros Baxter has worked as a social worker, lawyer, bureaucrat and teacher, but it was only once she had kids she realised two things. One, a PhD doesn’t tell you squat about how to check for head lice. And two, telling stories is the most important job in the world. When she had her third child four years ago, she seized the opportunity to start to write in earnest. Since then she has completed two single title women’s fiction manuscripts, one which finaled in the 2009 RWA STALI competition, in addition to publishing Sister Pact and has dozen’s of project’s underway. She continues to write in Brisbane’s northern suburbs with a husband she can still stand the sight of, four children, a neurotic dog and nine billion germs.
Sister Pact published in May 2012 by HarperCollins, was co written with her sister, Ali Ahearn (who writes romance as Amy Andrews). It is the story of two very different sisters. Once inseparable, they have long been estranged after an unimaginable betrayal. Organised and uptight Frances married the only man she’d ever slept with. But no-one told her that seven years later she’d be having sexual fantasies about everyone from the pizza delivery guy to Denis Thatcher. Scatterbrained animal-lover Joni never knew she was so attached to her kneecaps until she thought she might have to say goodbye to them forever. After their beloved grandmother — a game-show addict — dies, they discover that they have each been left one million pounds in her will. The kicker is that they can only inherit if they participate as a team in a gruelling reality TV program, Endurance Island.
Funny and heartwarming you can read my review of Sister Pact HERE
In the meantime, enjoy some Christmas cheer from Ros…
Tis the Season
It’s that time of year again.
I trade my keyboard for tinsel, Santa hats and things made with way too much condensed milk.
I put aside my “to be read” list in favour of free supermarket magazines filled with gorgeous-looking recipes guaranteed to turn me into Nigella. In ten short minutes.
I spend hours earmarked for writing dashing between events like a mad thing, flinging plates of food, costumes and thank-you gifts in my wake.
On December 1, I hit the “remind me next week” button when my iphone flashes a reminder at me – “WRITE CHRISTMAS CARDS” in big red letters.
Through it all, I try to stay jolly as I grit my teeth and seek out yet another present for yet another teacher. Wine. More wine. Surely the teachers need it as much as I do?
I try to stay jolly as I encourage boy children to write Christmas cards for teachers when I can barely get them to do their homework.
I even try to stay jolly as I plan a menu for eighteen and wonder if anyone will notice if the turkey roast is actually fifty Lean Cuisines mashed together.
But all is not lost. There are two wonderful things about Christmas.
Firstly, Christmas is a fertile time for stories. The local shopping centre is brimming with them (at least that’s how I manage to justify my endless hours stalking its halls).
Like the maybe five year old girl, standing enchanted before a bedecked Christmas tree at the local Westfield. She touches its branches reverentially, peers around behind it to the adolescent Santa whose beard is a little askew, and gives him the thumbs up. As though he is for all the world the Real Deal.
Or like the old couple, wandering lost in the forest of baby clothes, who stop me as I dash through the aisles with two small people in my wake. I have to force myself to break my stride. It’s Christmas, my inner festive fairy hisses to my inner humbug. They shrug helplessly as they explain they have a baby great grand-daughter and need help sizing a present for her. Half an hour later, their arms are heavy with piles of the tiniest of baby girl dresses; I am rewarded with happy smiles and life feels shiny and new again.
Then there are the two teenage shop assistants, racking up the festive season overtime. Lounging against Christmas trees as they whisper sweet nothings to each other. Flicking guilty looks over shoulders for harried supervisors. Stealing a scandalous kiss in front of all those customers. I watch them, guilty and a little jealous. Fascinated by the way they can block out the tinny carols and the overbright lighting.
And then there is the second thing.
Time. Glorious, guilt-free time.
After all the presents are bought, the food is cooked, and the cards are (finally) written, I get to stop.
I can lie in bed watching the small people unwrap presents while they conjecture about how many reindeer really took a nibble of the carrot.
I can drink wine with my sister and laugh about the time we tried to cook a Christmas chicken in an Austrian Backpackers. It was what the kids call now an Epic Fail.
I can watch exhausted bodies sleeping, wrap my arms around my husband and make plans for the year to come.
I can fall exhausted into bed and sleep the well-deserved sleep of the Christmas reveller.
It’s that time of year again.
And life is good.