As an early editor of the North West Star, he believed that not only was the English language being debased in its oral form but importantly, through the general acceptance and sheer laziness of the written word, with its shoddy grammar.

Plain Turkey was a little booklet of prose and poetry which was recognised as like a bird of paradise gracing the top of the tower of the Mount Isa Writers’ Workshop.

And when Anais Nin, the French American writer of short stories noted that we write to taste life twice.  

In the moment and in retrospect, Mount Isa’s aspiring writers put their pens to paper to capture the imaginations of readers of Plain Turkey.

It was an opportunity to see their work in print and the encouragement to continue to hone their skills in their chosen genre – writing.

For as English novelist, Philip Pullman who has been named as one of the 50 Greatest Writers since 1945 said.

 “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the things we need most in the world”.

However, after fifteen years, Plain Turkey was retired to make way for the Mount Isa Annual Literary Competition publication in 1988.

In the new format, not only were the winning stories published but readers had the opportunity to read the judges’ comments.

One such winner was Valerie Brown who won numerous writing awards, over three decades, including the Tony McGrady Award for Local Writers in 1992, with her short story, A Matter of Persuasion.

But it is her story Mad Molly of Miles Street first published in Plain Turkey in 1973 – that is reproduced here.

I knew it was a mistake to come, the moment she answered the door.

When she’s normal, she answers it just like anybody, perfectly calm and polite.

When she’s got herself into a state over something, its click, crash, bang against the wall.

I’d just as soon go without sugar in my tea than borrow from her when she’s like that, but she had me by the arm before I could nick off, and waved the North West Star under my nose.

“Look at this,” she cried, “look at this.”

“It’s the pioneers again.  Thought they’d give us a bit of peace once the jubilee died down.”

“Oh no, they’ve got to keep on harping.”

I stared at her mesmerised.

Such a nice young woman too except when she gets in one of her states.

Then the pins get loose in her bun and bits of hair hang down.

She let go of my arm and stared at a point somewhere above my head.

“Our pioneers braved a harsh country with none of your mod cons like prawn cocktails and carpets.

“None of your fancy dinner dances, fresh milk or speedy cars.”

“Life was hard in those days, carving out a life in this hostile country.”

I’ve an idea she was being sarcastic, but there was nothing for it than to let her run on.

“The poor things had to have adventures.

Start from scratch; live in bough sheds and shanties.

“And boring evening after evening they had to sit around and talk and play cards.”

“They had to make their own fun.”

“Get to know each other.”

“The worked untiring through the heat and dust and flies.”

I cleared my throat, “It must have been a nightmare trying to keep the children clean and healthy.”

My voice startled her and she turned the full force of her glittering glare on me.

She kept it there dramatically for a few seconds, then gave a hollow laugh before she launched once more into rhetoric.

“Ask them”, she said, “ask those mothers and hear what they say.

“They won’t say anything.  They’ll laugh.”

“Ask them whether they made a comfortable home for their families be it in bough shed, tent or shanty.”

“Ask them what could be done with a fracture box and at what price.”

Hah!  They had better things to do than wait for the man to come and fix the automatic washing machine.

They didn’t have the pleasure of spending half their life in a car taking children to and from school and ballet and music and football.

And cooking!  All they had was camp ovens or wood stoves.

They didn’t have the added interest of the gas bottle being empty or a power failure at 7 p.m.

Such joys were denied them.

“What about when they got sick and died because there wasn’t any doctor,” I said with my voice an octave higher than usual, but she wasn’t impressed.”

“Oh, yes, people died sometimes,” she said, “from appendicitis and diphtheria and things.

But they didn’t die from overdoses of Valium or Anytal.  They didn’t get smashed up in cars.”

She waved the Star aloft and cried to the sky, “Oh, harsh and unfeeling fate, why was I born too late.”

While she was looking upwards I tiptoed away.

When Samuel Johnson espoused in 1775 … the greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write: a man will turn over half a library to make one book …

200 odd years later, Valerie Brown and the Mount Isa Writer’s Group took up his mantle and the result was –  Plain Turkey.

Researched by Kim-Maree Burton www.kimmareeburton.com

‘Mad Molly of Miles Street’ from the 1973 Edition of Plain Turkey courtesy of Michael Beard.

Information sourced from Mount Isa Writers’ Workshop archives and Plain Turkey editions.