eek.eke

I've moved!

2011-09-24T12:22:00.000+10:00

I've started a new blog: www.onethousandlights.com !

Check it out and let me know what you think!

UTS Anthology Launch

2011-04-21T11:27:00.002+10:00

Look! It's the cover of the anthology that my short story "Wide-eyed" will be published in!

So, um, wanna come to the book launch? The first one will be at the Sydney Theatre Company on 20 May 2011, as part of the Sydney Writers' Festival. The second launch (because one is never enough) will be at Gleebooks, 3 June 2011. Oh what a thrill!

4 reasons to expose your draft

2011-03-14T22:35:00.002+11:00

Do you share your unfinished work?

I've always hated showing my story drafts to people. Thinking about someone's (potentially critical) eyes roving through my tentative words made me feel sick. I feel like they're reading over my shoulder as I'm trying to work it all out. It's a kind of vulnerability that I've avoided for a long time.

That is until I started workshopping my writing in my classes. I can't believe how much I've been missing out! In the right environment, with sensitive, encouraging and insightful people sharing and drafting creative writing can be the best thing for your work.

You gain so much from sharing your silly little drafts with others. Here are 4 reasons to unveil your unfinished baby:

1. Develop an awareness of the pace of a narrative and the dialogue. I highly recommend reading your pieces out loud to someone or to a group. It can be nerve-wrecking, but it gives you and your audience an opportunity to... well to hear the story. Are your beautiful descriptions just a little too wordy and maybe (gasp) boring? Do your characters sound as stiff and phoney as Ridge Forrester's chin implant? Hearing yourself read it all out can give you great insights!

2. Work to your strengths. You may spend so much energy on your sparkling metaphors, when people really enjoy your narrative voice or your characterisation, which comes so naturally to you. Being able to identify your strengths means that you focus on those, rather than trying to write like someone you're not. You'll also know exactly which bits of your story to keep when it comes time to edit.

3. Find what's not working. No-one likes hearing specific criticism of weaknesses in their work, but being able to pinpoint issues in plot, character, structure is invaluable. It will save you hours, days, weeks of pouring over a manuscript wondering why oh why it's just not working!

4. Keep the writing process from becoming an isolated and scary thing. Once you share you realise how common your experience really is.

Do you share your work? Will you start to do so? What other things have you learned from exposing your unfinished work?

play time

2011-03-11T07:00:00.002+11:00

via Tim Walker

I've just begun the busiest time of my year with 14 weeks of uni - essays, fiction pieces, readings. Add to that work as usual, job seeking, interviews/hope/rejection, writing the 2nd draft of my novel and of course my usual pumping social life (maybe not pumping, but you know I do stuff). Yeah it's bizay! And yet, all I can think of is play time. What am I doing that's just for kicks? That's just creative and not necessarily wrapped up in some intense goal or expectation.

Fun is always the first thing to go when life gets full, but it's the very thing that makes life worth living. I think I kid myself into thinking I don't have time for it. But truth is, it's just easier to zone out on fruit ninja for 20minutes rather than actually think about something interesting to do.

Play time may eat at time that I should spend on that assignment or editing my novel or searching literary journals to send my stories to. But without it, I know that in a few months I'm going to feel dry as stale toast. Stale mouldy sad lonely toast.

So though I don't think I have the time, I'm starting salsa dancing classes with Mat. I'm going to those dinner parties, I'm going on adventures with my little brother, I'm playing with the dog, I'm lying on the grass and making shapes with clouds, I'm marvelling at the colour of a flower, I'm writing love letters, I'm keeping a smile on my face and some joy in my heart.

What do you do for fun? Any tips?

Pick Me Pick Me!

2011-01-26T23:11:00.003+11:00

Sometime in late November I ever so casually submitted a short story for the 2011 UTS Writers' Anthology. AND well, my story has been shortlisted for the publication, which "showcases the best new talent from UTS"!!

This is potentially my first publication since my high school magazine published my short story about crashing into a rock face on a flying fox.

I'll be working with one of the anthology editors for the next few weeks to polish it up for final selections and then who knows I could be at Gleebooks and then the Sydney Writers' Festival sipping champaign at my very first book launch! I may even get up in the middle of it all to start thanking my various fans (mainly mum and Mat) for always believing in me (sniff).

Wait what just happened?

2010-12-02T14:10:00.000+11:00

It's December! I am in shock and also... excited!

I'm not going to apologize for not touching this space for an entire month or two, because I'm really not sorry! I have had the most amazing, full, inspiring couple of months!

My first semester of my Masters was INCREDIBLE! Working full-time, studying part-time and having a life all-the-time sounded scary (I had many an anxious cry in preparation for this season)... But what I found was that when you're doing something you love, I mean really L.o.v.e you find the resources, the strength, the time, the creativity, the ideas etc to make it work! And if your lucky, you get to meet some amazing people whose advice and encouragement helps stoke the embers of enthusiasm and a firestorm of dreaming that keeps you going well into the wee hours of the morning. Thanks to passion and some structure I survived!

I have learnt so much by generous and positive lecturers and fellow students and I'm full to the brim with ideas and techniques and so many colours!

I made some changes to my work situation and I'm currently slowly moving away from full-time work (in an industry I'm not so thrilled to be in) to what I expect will evolve into more freelance, writerly work.

I've started working one day a week in an organisation I love and truly believe it!

I've ripped my novel in half and will commence working on the half that I actually like this month.

I am considering sharing some of my pieces from the semester with you.

I have read so many beautiful articles and books that I need to share with you, or I'll sure die a thousand sad selfish miserable deaths!

What did your last month look like?

Overwhelm

2010-10-01T16:33:00.000+10:00

via Miss Aniela

I've read a quite few books and articles about writing, drafting, redrafting and finishing my manuscript. All inspiring, all packed with great advice and so on. And I was going great guns for about a year. I finished draft one and started work on draft two. Cutting back on all the rubbish (there was a lot of that), refining plot, developing characters...

Then I stopped.

I got busy. Life's varied and incessant demands for my attention have kept me away from my WIP. Oh yes and then I lost my laptop (who does that?).

Now I'm in a place where I loath to even think about the novel. A year of my life is in it, but I can't bear to even look, because I'm afraid that laying eyes on it will unleash one of the two possibilities that I secretly fear...

1. That it's a useless piece of trash. That there's no point in editing any further, that the story will never be what I want it to be.

2. (Perhaps a far worse fate) That it's not a useless piece of trash. That there is a point in editing it futher, that it can and will be what I want it to be if I give it disciplined focus and time.

Losing momentum is a difficult problem to come up against. You feel unstoppable when things are good, when you have good habits and your blazing a trail of righteous creativity. When you're not moving forward, the realisation that you are very very stoppable is incredibly painful.

So here I am working out how to restart the urgency to see this novel to the end (again). I have a feeling it will involve deep breathing and little steps and perhaps a little more writing...

Blooming hell!

2010-09-09T12:33:00.003+10:00

This week in my Theory class we looked at Modernist writers and James Joyce's Ulysses in particular. I have to be honest, I tried reading this book for about 7 months last year and got as far as chapter 6. I think I'd read each of those chapters 3 times because I was sure that if I could just get under the language I could work out why this book had been labelled the most important text of the C20th!

Then one day I read the following Joyce quote: "I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality" (R.Ellmann). Read completely out of context, this confirmed a suspicion I had that Joyce is an immortal narcissistic psycho whose sole purpose in life (and death) is to play sinister mind games with me. I rolled my eyes when I saw the Ulysses chapter on the course reading list. Of course it was! Joyce has single handedly hoodwinked the entire literary academia into believing that he "meant" anything at all.

But then, in class we looked at something I had not seen before, the deliberately incomplete Schema for Ulysses:

LOOK AT THIS! It makes sense! There is so much detail, meaning, richness in every chapter. He wasn't just messing with us... he wasn't exclusively messing with us! He was doing something deliberate and meaningful. And so, with my faith somewhat (though shakily) restored in there being a point to reading Ulysses, I will attempt to complete it in my end of year break. Not because I think it's going to enlighten or inspire me, but because it's important. He is described as forerunner, a leader in literature. Any author who invests so much into their experimental work, with no real chance of ever being recognised in their lifetime, is worth a closer look, right?

This is never going to be a pleasant read - any one who says that they love it are lying or mental. The last chapter, Penelope, is made up of 8 HUGE sentences in stream of consciousness - oh what delirious fun! (Serious question, would reading such a thing disturb the delicate molecular structure of the my eyeballs?) And if these supposed fans start throwing around terms like "subversive work of art" or encourage you to join them on a trip to Dublin next June 16th for Bloomsday, you may want to gently back out of the conversation OR point over their shoulder, yell "Look, half priced sheep kidneys" and then run away.

What books did you force yourself to read from start to finish, because it was important?

depraved bubble popper

2010-08-02T15:42:00.002+10:00

I was popping bubble wrap today and it made me think about art. About how great art changes the way you see the world.

Amelie (one of my favourites) changed the way I think about people who secretly pop bubble wrap. In the movie, almost every character has their "likes" and "dislikes" presented just before they enter the storyline. A neighbour who plays a mean trick on Amelie as a little girl only likes one thing: "popping bubble wrap". From memory, there is short scene where the man sits alone at his diningroom table, his shifty eyes scanning the empty room as the camera pans down to his hands which are vigorously popping a sheet of bubble wrap.

That short scene about a minor character, made me giggle to myself as I sat at my desk surreptitiously popping away. I remembered Amelie, and suddenly I associated the act with repression and depravity. Suddenly I wondered if my popping may be something I might like to bring up in consultation with a therapist?

Great art does this! Great art finds and presents connections that, if executed cleverly, make you smile (or sigh) with recognition.

NB. The paintings above are by Michael Sowa, one of which hangs above Amelie's Bed.

What movie, painting, book, character changed your perception of something you do?

Opening lines good and bad

2010-07-19T18:08:00.000+10:00

via beehives

I've just finished re-reading one of my favourite books: White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Please do yourself a favour and read this book; it is intelligent, colourful, rich and hilarious! Among the multifarious (I learned a new word, you like? You don't do you? I sound like one of those first year university kids who use the word "erroneous" instead of "incorrect" or "wrong" in their tutorial oral presentations. We all know that no-one actually talks like this!) things that I love about White Teeth are the opening lines:

Early in the morning, late in the century, Cricklewood Broadway. At 0627 hours on January 1, 1975, Alfred Archilbald Jones was dressed in corduroy and sat in a fume-filled Cavalier Musketeer Estate facedown on the steering wheel, hope the judgment would not be too heavy upon him. He lay in a prostate cross, jaw slack, arms splayed on either side like some fallen angel; scrunch up in each fist he held his army service medals (left) and his marriage license (right), for he had decided to take his mistakes with him.

Before learning anything else about Archie, these pathetic and but cheeky first lines convince me that I'm going to like him, or at least chuckle at the tongue in cheek melodrama of his life. I want to know more about Archie, what has brought him to this place, what's up with his marriage, why does he choose to wear corduroy to his suicide? Now that's a great opener to a novel!

I wonder how long it took Smith to craft these opening lines? Do the rest of us plebs have any hope of being as clever with our own openers? If not, do you think perhaps that we should aim for the opposite and craft the most awful opening lines know to man? If you plan to do so, I suggest perusing www.bulwer-lytton.com for the worst opening lines in published novels, updated annually. Here are some of my favourites from the 2010 winners:

For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
Molly Ringle

(Hmmm, nothing says passion like water guzzling gerbils.)

The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them.
Scott Davis Jones

(If you squint you can almost see the metaphoric connection... almost)

Wearing his new slacks from L.L. Bean, and entering the pen to feed his three big dogs their usual three cans of dog food, some of which ended up on his new pants, Kevin then left the house to attend a revival screening of ‘Serpico’ with Alpo chinos.
Greg Homer

(Greg, awful puns are never acceptable)

She purred sensually, oozing allure that was resisted only by his realization as an entomologist that the protein dust on the couch from the filing of her crimson nails was now being devoured by dust mites in a clicking, ferocious, ecstatic frenzy. Jonathan Blay

(I'm sorry, what?)

Happy crafting!

what does he look like?

2010-07-14T14:37:00.001+10:00

Source unknown

Why is it that so many protagonists have attractive hips, a strong jawline, full lips and breasts (What does that even mean? "Full breasts"? Full of what? Are they going to breast-feed someone soon? How is this helping me to understand this character's motivations?), strong arms, eyes shaped like almonds and the colour of deep mysterious pools of dark water? Why are so many protagonists either extremely attractive or passably pretty at the least? And why despite all the pretty, are they such well-rounded, humble, non-arrogant, moral people?

Will we not connect with or care for a heroine (or hero) if she has a figure like a over-ripe pear, upper arms with the jiggly bits underneath that you have to hold onto when you wave goodbye, tiny myopic eyes and unrelenting adult acne? What about if they are only of average intellegence?

I wrote in an earlier post about how I avoid writing about my protagonist's clothes. I've found that I'm just as reluctant to write physical descriptions for them too! I don't want to make them attractive and perfect, and I don't want them to be hideous so what does that leave?

"She was of average build, brown hair, with one of those faces that you recognise, not because you know her, but because so many other people have the same generic features as her uninspiring face." What's the point? I may as well say: "She's looked like a woman, ya know wha' I mean?"

Maybe it goes back to Greek mythology with Helen of Troy, beautiful goddesses and handsome gods. Their beauty, grace, powers made them awesome and facinating. Beautiful people are muses aren't they? They inspire adoration? They are the stuff of songs and sonnets.

Or maybe we just don't want our precious protagonists to be blighted with pain of having to squeeze into waist to knee control knickers or the distraction of having to comb their dense monobrows out of their eyes.

What do you think? How would you describe your protagonist? Does anyone have a supremely ugly hero/heroine?

something special in hand

2010-07-05T16:07:00.001+10:00

source unknown

My mother has been talking about writing her biography for a LONG time. I was a little weary of the idea when she first mentioned it five years ago. Mum is unceremonious, audacious and straight up crazy at the best of times. Her biography seemed to me, at the time, like the fastest way to be exposed to enough overshare to necessitate intense psychological treatment and ongoing mental health care.

But that was five years ago.

Only a month ago I suggested to mum that we work on her biography together. I figured that I'd probably notch up enough reasons to need the afore mentioned treatment anyway - may as well get on with it. Also, I'd been thinking a lot about mum's childhood and all the stories that I'd always loved - truthfully, I couldn't think of anything I'd rather to work on!

Mum grew up in South Africa during Apartheid. The historical, social and political context of her stories alone are facinating. Add to that a bevy of crazy relatives, four displaced siblings, poverty, daily injustices and the challenges of being a "Coloured" but looking like a "White". Oh and also that fact that mother dear has a habit of talking herself into and out of the most bizarre and hilarious situations.

So we met at the library the following Saturday morning to plan the basic framework and chapter breakdown. And well, we laughed so hard that even the high school students attempting to study around us gave us dirty looks. At our next meeting (in a coffee shop) we began writing a chapter from her early childhood, living in an orphanage with her sister. Again we laughed a lot, but then there were these moments where we found ourselves overwhelmed by the sadness of those experiences and suddenly tears would spring up out of no where.

I started this journey with mum because I wanted to help her get these incredible stories out. I also thought it would be great to have another project to get my mind off my WIP novel, when it gave me grief. But in less than a month this exercise has come to mean so much more to me. To hear my mother talk about herself as a little girl, her feelings at climactic points of her life or in South Africa's history. To see the links forming between all the stories I grew up hearing. To talk about my father (who was murdered a long time ago). To talk about the history of my country and my family. It's a really beautiful thing and I feel incredibly lucky to be sharing it all with this wild, determined woman.

I'll keep you updated with our progress!

Do you have a writing project that means a lot to you? Have you written a biography? Do you think you'll ever give it a try?

The Hitchhiker

2010-06-17T12:26:00.002+10:00

A short short film made by some talented friends of mine.

"Based on the book Roald Dahl - The Hitchhiker... Always interesting as to who you pick up or be picked up by when it comes to hitchhiking."

The characterisation is brilliant, great comic timing and a very clever script. But don't you kinda just want to wash, condition and comb Jimmy's golden locks until they resemble Michael Bolton's mane? (One day, jimmy, one day!)

Share the love :)

2010-06-10T13:24:00.000+10:00

via lilpuddlejumpers

Last night you talked yourself half crazy with what ifs and impatient longings.

No matter how much you talk, think it through, hope wish sigh, there's no guarentee that what you're doing will move you somewhere good, somewhere close to what you want to be.

Dreams so fat they shine. Trying to squeeze their terrific potbellies into your smallness. Pushing and shoving, stretching your insides to make place. That hurts sometimes. They're so happy with themselves: Alive and Allowed Ha Ha! Smilng swollen dreams, banging around and laughing too much in your secret place. They tell you who you can be, ignore who you think you are.

Not knowing if they'll ever come out of the secret place, you just hold tight to whatever fleeting hope comes low enough to grab. That you can be someone better and bigger, that you are that someone already.

The White Tiger

2010-06-07T13:26:00.000+10:00

The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga

I've recently finished reading The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga. I think this may be the author's first novel and he won the 2009 Pulizer Prize for it - seriously, where do you go from there Aravind??

Wickedly funny and at times very dark, this novel presented as a series of letters, written from midnight to 3am, by self profressed entrepeneur extraordinaire, Balram Halwai to a Chinese ambassodar visiting India. In his letters Balram sets out to give an account of his rise from the slums of "the darkness" to the servant of the rich to the glorious success he now has as an Indian businessman. Oh and did I mention he killed a man once.

Balram is an extremely rational and intelligent man. And when he begins his autobiography he depicts himself in a sympathetic light as a young boy and a resourceful but naive young man. This characterisation, combined with the present day Balram's matter of fact references to his act of murder make for an intriguing story. You find out pretty early on in Balram's letters who his victim was, but his close (at times almost intimate) relationship with this man only adds to the intrigue!You know how it ends, so what you really want to know as you read is why?!

Balram's blase account of shocking behaviour of the wealthy classes in modern India communicate how common corruption and tragedy are in that country. My facination with Indian authored novels can probably be boiled down to this baffling acceptance of daily injustice and humilation that a COLOSSAL number of people face.

The representation of Indian society, the characters and the narration of this book are all equally impressive. There is a great depth to Balram. Though he depicts himself as an obedient, lowly and at times fearful servant, you get the feeling that this narrator is too calculated. This makes his account of events unreliable, but that's just part of the fun of this book.

If you're interested in India and you like heroes with dirty hands you'll enjoy this book. If you're a writer it is worth the read just to see Adiga's narrative style. I'm sure it's not revolutionary, but he puts a clever twist on story telling and has created a brilliant character.

Favourite quote: "You were looking for the keys, but the door was always open."

Do you like your heroes to be noble or do you prefer that they have a dark side? What's the protagonist in your current WIP like?

do the clothes maketh the man (or dog)?

2010-06-02T12:00:00.002+10:00

via BeanTownHandmade

I read a blog post today about characters' hats. This got me thinking. None of my characters have ever worns hats! I don't think I really think about their clothes. In fact I think often I deliberately avoid describing them altogether!

I think I'm always far more interested in what's going on internally for my characters rather than what colour their shirt or knickers are, and whether or not they match.

I detail articles of clothing and appearance if they are deliberate (ie. a disguise) or if it says something specific about the character. One of the characters in my WIP, Pig-nose Pamela (age 10), wears a pair of old yellow ear-muffs - rain, hail or sunshine. It's a part of her persona: "She lives in the school library, reading and re-reading the two books available on flesh eating insects. She was plagued with a fear that a bug would crawl into her ear one night, and eat her brain." (More here.) The ear-muffs also make her look crazy and augment her position as an outcast.

How about the dog in the picture above? Lets call him Pablo (am I the only one who imagines that if Pablo could speak, it would be in Spanish with a haughty Mexican accent?). Yes his hat is entertaining and definately worth describing, but it's the combination of the hat and the look in his eyes that are most interesting.

To me his eyes speak of deep resevoirs of wisdom, dignity and also a peaceful resignation to fate. Pablo knows his intellectual superiority to his owners full well, but he has resigned himself to the fact that others are in control of his destiny. A destiny which, it would seem, mainly has to do which wearing cutie-pie hats.

While I find descriptions of articles of clothing tedious. I do think that they matter, but how to do them well?

Would it help if we thought of clothing as another characterisation tool, rather than an arbitrary commentary. Clothes can denote social status, the time/era the story is set in, how a character sees herself - insecure, ugly, confident - or the way they want to be seen - seductive, superior. It may be a case of exercising a bit of restraint and only describing articles of clothing that help or hinder the character, or that reveal something about the character.

How do you describe clothing in your writing? What other ways can clothes be used as a tool rather than a report? Also, if you have a contemporary character who would just wear jeans and a t-shirt, would you describe this? How would you do it in a way that was not boring? What do jeans and a t-shirt tell us about your character?

I'm in!

2010-05-31T17:23:00.000+10:00

via kwilson

So it's about time that I shared my good news...

I've been accepted into the UTS Master of Arts in Creative Writing course!! Woot!! Wait this is not quite communicating my level of excitement...

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!!!!!!!!!

I start this September! Wow! I'm going to be a uni student again. I'm going to have other people read and critique my work. I'm going to LEARN stuff 'n stuff!

Oh hold up I don't think I've accepted the offer yet! ARG! I'll be right back.

Inspire me

2010-05-28T12:32:00.000+10:00

I'm still around the start of editting my first draft of my WIP novel and all is going well (read so so awful, I want to cry myself to sleep right now.) I've got to keep reminding myself that there is something good in this novel and that I am able to pull it together!

Yes, it's hard going, but it has also been a good time to distract my self with some beautiful novels like Tony Morrison's A Mercy and Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger - reviews coming soon. I'm also distracting myself with beautiful things. I'm currently putting together an inspiration board with images, textiles and objects that... well, inspire me. Really I should say, I've been fighting with the inspiration board ( it keeps falling off the wall)!

In anycase, here are a few collections that have delighted me...

via coco+kelley

via vee*

via steven's accidents

via fine little day

via jek in the box

via jessicab1992

via sandra

What do you use for inspiration?

Gold or grave

2010-05-17T05:00:00.005+10:00

This is my first stab at writing a Tanka poem. Don't know if I've got it right?

I called it Gold or grave because I always wonder which to look for.

He's digging again.
His spade as burdensome as
A burly body.
Gold or grave, he wants no hand
I just watch, dodge wanton sand.

Have you written Tanka before? Any tips?

Lit Theory minus the Snobbery

2010-05-13T11:52:00.001+10:00

Literary Theory, A very short introduction by Jonathan Culler

Thinking about study, I've gone back to an introductory book that I bought in my first year of university. This is a really refreshing and engaging little book about, let's be honest a pretty dull topic. Well I find it facinating, but I definately think I'm in the minority - you don't hear too many people raving about Lit Theory.

Anyway, if it is your cup of tea, or you're looking to start a Literature course, I highly recommend this book for the following reasons:

1. It's very very short (handy for those of us whose handbags, or manbags, are groaning as it is).

2. Culler writes incredibly concisely and is easy to understand despite the fact that he is explaining quite challenging ideas.

3. Culler has a great way of building on knowledge chapter by chapter.

4. Culler uses really simple examples - literary, pop culture or everyday language - to explain complex theories.

5. There are great resources at the back of the book, designed to explain differing schools of thought and terminolody and to inspire further reading.

Now saying all this, I did not get through this entire book when I was actually in first year. But this is due to the fact that I got by on an absolute minimal amount of effort in those days (quite shameful really). My second attempt at reading this book has been far more successful and rewarding.

Are you interested in Literary theory? How do you think Lit Theory helps writers? Also, out of interest, which novels do you consider to be literary?

Very big and very quiet

2010-05-10T13:03:00.001+10:00

Did I ever mention that I used to be a poet? I began at the (not quite so tender) age of 8 but gave it all up at the (really rather awful) age of 14. Well, I've come out of retirement as of about 5 hours ago.

I called this one: "Very big and very quiet" because that's how starts :)

Very big and very quiet, in the park.
His two eyes carefully covered,

Sunglasses like

Two enormous teardrops.

I sit in his lap because
I am small - though not very.

I compare our hands.
Sniff at tobacco in his shiny black beard.

I peer into the teardrops.
My breath fogs the glass
But I see myself,
Big like him!

Then he moves,
And I am smaller than ever,
I wave goodbye because
I am very far away.

Do you write poetry? Do you have any favourite poets that I should read?

smarty pants

2010-05-07T13:10:00.002+10:00

via presentandcorrect

Okay, I've not blogged for the last few weeks coz I been Bi-zay y'all. (Sorry, for a moment there I thought I was lil Kim...)

Doing what? Well, I shouldn't be saying this publicly, but I can't keep things to myself - I am after all a story teller, yes?

I applied for my Master of Arts in Creative Writing last week! I find out at the end of the month if I get into the course, or the Graduate Diploma (which eventually leads to Masters). If I never mention this again, you'll know that I did not get into either, so don't ask! But look, if I don't get in, I'm pretty set on doing this so I'll probably just apply again and again until I wear the admissions people down and they let me in, if only to end the ceaseless applications, which undoubtably will get longer and more passionate.

The thought of studying part time and working full time and having a life and functional relationships is rather daunting. I wonder what I will have to give up to make space for readings, assignments and such? I'm currently going through my old English Lit and Theory readings and notes (nerd), in the hopes of impressing everyone at uni with my vast intellect. I plan on dropping big fancy intellectual terms into everyday conversation (even when it's totally irrelevant and unhelpful).

Friend: Hi zz, how are you?

zz: I'm pretty down, my labour has no reward. It's just like Marxist theory posits that there are society is divided by those who profit from the labour of others and those whose labour profits others.

Friend: Um...

zz: "Um" is the vernacular utterance of uncertainty. It is a derivative of the onomatopoeia "Ho-hum" used by middle class men in the 19th Century. This reminds me of the uncertainty of Postcolonial discourse in the 21st Century.

Friend: Kay, got to go. (And by that they mean: Oh zz you truly are the most intelligent and beautiful person in the land, I wish I was more like you.)

zz: Kay bye.

Any of you study part time and work? How do you balance it all?

The first time…

2010-04-16T17:18:00.003+10:00

via the trial

This post can now be found at my new blog: www.onethousandlights.com

Finished!

2010-04-05T19:05:00.001+10:00

makeshift workspace

Sadly I have neglected blogging for a couple of weeks, but I assure you is was for a good cause. That cause being...finishing draft ONE of my first novel!

It is a fantastic feeling to finally be done with this sometimes joyful (largely painful) experience. Today I began reading my manuscript from the beginning for the very first time (!!). I am putting together a summary of each chapter and working out the kinks. In the next few months I'll be working on editing/culling scenes, researching the multitudes of details that I fudged my way through, expanding and colouring my characters, beautifying my at times utilitarian prose and giving it an overall spit and shine! I have an few friends and an editor lined up to read through it all and then who knows, it could be time to look for an agent or it could be time to take a vow of silence, curl up into the foetal position and cry myself to sleep every night using the awful pages of my failed novel as punishing, nose-scrapping tissue paper.

Look it’s possible that I am the most talentless person to ever attempt fiction writing and it's quite likely that this loosely structured, chaotic story is in fact unsalvageable, but I feel incredibly proud of myself for sticking to it!

Starting my first novel draft has opened my mind to the possibilities of creativity, it's sparked a hundred conversations with others who have an inkling of starting their own creative endeavours and it’s given me the confidence to aim bigger in my life. Finishing my first novel draft has taught me a lot about how I work and what kind of process I need to apply to completing big tasks and most importantly, it has helped me to apply discipline to my work habits.

I’m hoping that today you get a little bit more excited about your own novel (painting, song, poem, sculpture, short story, sewing project, photography…) and finish it!

What lurks in the deep

2010-03-23T13:00:00.001+11:00

via burgerdreams

Last night I wrote a pivotal chapter in my novel.

I’ve finally hit my relatively modest goal of 50 000 words since starting in November 2008 (!) The story has swelled and is continuing to grow despite me, though I’m eager to end it – even if it means writing a purely arbitrary finale – so that I can begin the very scary journey of EDITING! (eek!)

Anyway, last night I wrote a pivotal chapter. It was emotional, scary and at times I wanted to stop but I couldn't. I find that writing upsetting scenes come naturally to me. Most of the time I struggle to write even 300 words in one sitting. But when the content is distressing or moving and when I find myself asking the question "can I show this to other people", my writing becomes fluid, I can punch out 1000 words in under an hour and it is mostly coherent.

I have a few scenes in my novel like this. Scenes that I seriously question whether I have the stomach to edit, expand and prepare for a second/third/fourth pair of eyes to read. The scenes are not morbidly grotesque or terribly depressing, but they are dark and confronting. Sometimes they are themes that stem from dark times in my own life - though they are always fictionalised extensions of what I have experienced.

Despite the fact that it is fiction, sometimes the emotion of traumatic scenes, that my characters face, get to me. I've gotten emotional while writing about four or five key scenes while writing this piece. One of which I don't know if I'll ultimately include at all in my second draft. I feel like I can communicate the scene well enough and it defines the behaviour of one of the main characters... but I don't know if I want the content, I don't know if it has a place in the bigger story, I don't know if I can go back to it to improve and manipulate the first raw scribbling.

Have you experienced this? What do you do when your content gets too close to home? What do you do when it gets too far from home and you find yourself a little lost

Ps. If you want to read an extract of my WIP click here (1) and then here (2) let me know what you think!

the secret competition

2010-03-16T11:39:00.006+11:00

When I played hockey and netball in high school, I was very vocal, encouraging to my team and scary aggressive to our opposition.

In board games, I oscillate between quietly strategising, flying under the radar to sniper my opponents, to wild shouting, jeering and generally attempting to demoralise anyone against me. Just the other week I was playing a console trivia game with my husband and a couple of our friends. Everyone else just went with the generic character names for their avatar, but I insisted on wasting time selecting every letter of my name in full because "I want to see my name in lights when I win". (After a nail-biting spell at the bottom of the leaderboard (with Mat taunting and laughing at me "...maybe they'll still put your name in lights out of pity?" I came back to win the game! BOOYAH!)

Post school, post my sporting years, outside of all those tangible things like awards and pats on the back all I have now is an undercurrent of secret competition with my friends. Everytime a friend acheives something or grows in some way, it frustrates me and makes me want to acheive more in my own life. My secret competition feels like envy, but it also drives me to be better, it makes me push harder, which are good things. And yet I feel embarrassed to admit it, I feel exposed and a little ashamed.

But why should I be? If it's not turning into a dark, bubbling hatred for my friends. If I'm not eating my heart out every time they come beaming with good news?

Why do we hide the fact that we secretly compare and rate ourselves against the people that we love? No, you can't admit that, because the only question that can follow such an admission is: Well, how DO you rate you against me? (What's worse admitting that they are "winning" or declaring that you're "better" than them?)

Maybe it's got something to do with not wanting to seem unhappy with an area of your life. At times the feeling like you're "losing" can be debilitating - if I think I'm just going to lose I won't want to try anymore - then I can feign sexy, mysterious nonchalance. By the way, why are aloof people so damn sexy and cool? Damn them and their steamy lack of concern... Maybe their just better at pretending they don't care than I am?

Maybe it's got to do with not wanting to come across as too ambitious and aggressive, which apparently is not very attractive behaviour (particularly for a lady). But why isn't it? Guys seem to openly compete with each other in everything - my market research of one (Mat) has revealed that he and his friends all know, who is the strongest, fastest, most disciplined, most fearless and so on. I never have these kind of conversations with girlfriends!

Are you competitive? Do you feel embarrassed about it? Do you hide it? Why is that?

4 lessons from an unsuspecting mentor

2010-03-08T13:15:00.004+11:00

I've finally finished reading Midnight's Children. What an epic, witty, tragic story! Rushdie is so gifted and while I don't admire everything about him or his philosophies, I am so astonished | bewildered | mesmerised by his creativity. I've been re-reading the introduction to the book, in which he outlines the origins of the characters and his family and friends' reactions to having been caricatured in the story. He highlights the political climate in

India

when he wrote the book and then reaction to its publication. He also talked a little about working in advertising at Ogilvy's while writing MC.

These are just a few of the lessons I've gleaned from this short introduction, written retrospectively in 2005.

1. Writing is not the best get rich quick scheme going.

Rushdie had published a novel - Grimus - prior to Midnight's Children, but even after publication and after receiving an advance on the second novel, he could not give up his day job, well he did for a bit but he had to ask for it back! If you want to be a writer, you need to love writing for what it is, not for the potential ca-ching that you've been pinning your dreams and your financial future on. If you are truly talented and hard working, maybe (just maybe) you can be very successful!

2. Fear not.

Don't be afraid to offend people that are close to you with your thoughts, memories and expression. Personal history is a huge repository for joyful, bizarre, interesting and macabre inspiration. Use with wisdom, but don't stifle it.

3. It's not that common knowledge.

In the 80s Indian university students said to Rushdie: "I could have written that book, I knew all that stuff."

Use what is known to your locale - most people outside of your ethnic group, geographical setting, culture, heritage, etcetera, may just be completely fascinated by facts that are common knowledge to your people.

4. You don't need more free time/inspiration, you need a kick in the backside.

The following quote from the Introduction really inspired me:

On Friday nights I would come home to Kentish Town from the agency's offices near Waterloo Bridge, take a long hot bath, wash the week's commerce away, and emerge - or so I told myself - as a novelist. As I look back, I feel a touch of pride at my younger self's dedication to literature, which gave him the strength of mind to resist the blandishments of the enemies of promise. The sirens of ad-land sang sweetly and seductively, but I thought of Odysseus lashing himself to the mast of his ship and somehow stayed on course.
Still, advertising taught me discipline, forcing me to learn how to get on with whatever task needed getting on with, and ever since those days I have treated my writing simply as a job to be done, refusing myself all (well, most) of the luxuries of artistic temperament.

Just like the rest of us, he had to work a day job out of necessity. But because he loved writing, he MADE time for it. Don't cry and moan about how little time you have to write because of your "real" life, let the challenges you face sharpen you, teach you to be disciplined. (I say this to myself - the biggest whiner of them all.) You need a strong (perhaps stubborn) mind to resist the blandishments of the enemies of promise. The enemies of promise are your job, your busy-ness, your distractions, the kids, the cat, the bag of giant triple choc cookies, sleep!. If you don't resist these you'll never prioritise your writing/creativity/happiness!

So, what's your day job? What is it teaching you about writing or expressing your creativity? How does it help your writing?

Ps. As I'm writing this on the train, the girl next to me is reading a copy of Midnight's Children! I love that.

The death of books?

2010-02-24T14:47:00.002+11:00

via fatbrides

The buzz about ebooks and speculation that they will displace print books in the near future has got me thinking about the outlook for books, bookstores and libraries.

I've read articles and blogposts about a neat, organised future that the ebook revolution will unfurl. I've heard the radio ads which posit that just as the mp3 superseded CDs, the iPad and Kindle will make hard copy books obsolete. The minimalists among you are salivating at the thought and hey, it makes sense. I can personal attest to having damaged (probably irreversibly) my shoulders with years of lugging around stupidly huge novels, just so I could read another chapter or two in my infrequent and short breaks from class, work, etc. And yes, to be honest, if (when I go back to university this year) there are cheap e-versions of textbooks available, I will unashamedly plunder that particular source

I am, however, in total denial that the end is nigh for print books! Books are some much more than just the words on the page. I feel like the books I own are a part of me! It feels kind of materialistic, because the truth is I don't need to keep those books in my bookcase (so bounteous I swear it will give birth to something inky soon) not if the story contained has touched me and the ideas therein have intermingled with my own imagination. And yet, I feel that my books are a physical reflection of my personality, my thoughts and the things I value.

I particularly love old books, found in second hand book stores, which often have Bolognese (or other) sauce and ink stains on random pages. Or books from the library where if you're lucky, you sometimes find the previous borrower's shopping list in the middle. I also loved reading the cramped handwritten notes in the margins of prescribed texts from the university library. The physical story of the book, that tantalising connection with other readers is what I love. Reaching up, grabbing a favourite read from my dilated bookcase and pressing it into the open palms of a dinner guest saying: "This is the one, you HAVE to read it." that's what I'm holding onto.

Print books are romantic and those of us horders (or as I prefer, "collectors") will always want to fill our homes with (read show off) the beautiful and special books that have coloured our lives, don't cha think?

angry graffiti

2010-02-18T17:34:00.003+11:00

In keeping with my train traveling theme, here's an interesting piece of train literature graffitied in my carriage this morning:

Consume.
Be silent.
DIE.

I'd like to think culprit was an angry 18 year old who'd just read The Communist Manifesto for the first time. I love those impassioned young socialists, they made university so colourful and scary.

Most likely it was in fact that crazy old dude who screams "fascist bastards" at the automated CityRail announcements.

Either way, it was strangely moving to see this message scrawled next to dozens of suited, bored, bleary eyed commuters.

Fighting with my protagonist

2010-02-12T16:02:00.000+11:00

I am so frustrated with my novel's protagonist Adin.

As a little girl she is tenacious, annoying, deceptive, vulnerable, funny and lovable, well I love her and that counts.

As an adult, I just can't connect with her. Which is a problem; how could anyone else ever connect with her if I can't - she came out of my brain!

Grown-up Adin is elusive and cunning. She’s made a career out being shrewd and lifestyle out of isolation. These characteristics are interesting enough, but having a conversation with someone like this is an experience akin to hitting your head repeatedly against a rather thick, abrasive wall.

I've tried to write out an interview with Adin to get more from her, but it felt much like the above. How can your own imagination be cagey and distrustful?

I've left it until now, and focussed on volume volume volume. But now I have a plan. Over the next little while, I’ll be thinking and blogging about novels and the characters that I love as a means of digging deep and finding the things that draw me to them. What makes me commit hours of my precious (and often limited) attention to reading their stories?

I'll start soon with ‘Rahel’ from my all time favourite book: "The God of Small Things' by Arundhati Roy. Wish me luck!

Do you have any tips or tricks on characterisation? I’m totally down with the weird stuff people do for their art, so please share!

Awkward eyecontact

2010-02-08T10:00:00.004+11:00

Dear uncomfortable train commuter,

I'm the person staring at you. It's nothing personal, I travel on this train daily and I stare at people. I can't help myself. I look at what you're wearing, I think about what made you put that outfit and those accessories together. I look at your hair colour, sometimes I try to suss out if you've had work done on you face. Yours looks very natural. Often I make up a story about what your life might be like.

Generally I'm good at sensing when you're about to look up, so that I can quickly look away. But lately, I've lost my touch and have been engaging in a greater amount of "awkward eye contact" or "aec". Basically; that moment of connection when the staree catches the starer in the act of staring. The result is typically a quizzical look and/or outright fear.

The worst is when you catch me and instead of permanently looking away, I continue to dart my eyes over to you again and again, which of course you keep catching, because clearly if there is some strange little woman LOOKING at you, you are going to keep an eye on her because you're suspicious that she either wants a) your babies b) to kill or maime you or c) to steal your wallet/bag/shoes etc. Honestly, I don't want any of those things. I just missed some part of the socialisation process and am forever cursed with the inability to rein in my eyes or imagination.

Sincere apologies.
zz

Sex Spells give me hope

2010-02-05T17:34:00.002+11:00

A couple of Saturdays ago I wrote 1000 words of my novel. I spent the morning in the library, hidden away in a little corner writing and hoping no-one would notice and/or come and peruse the selection of books that surrounded me, which apparently covered everything you need to know about "sex spells" and "sex astrology".

Okay honestly, how many sex spells can there be in the world? Because let me tell you there are an awful lot of books on the subject!

That annoys me. Why would anyone need to read a book on sex spells? Apart from obviously having exhausted the many other resources available to them in romance novels, medical centres, high school pamphlets, anecdotal experiences and yahoo answers dot com? But not only that, why are there SO many books on this subject? Who publishes this? How niche can you get??

Well, okay, so it is.

I really wanted to say: "Go me, 45,000 words and counting" but what I guess I've ended up saying is: "If there's a market for rubbish such as the above, there must be a way to get my work published one day", and so I will cling to that thought like a mangy piece of driftwood when the tide comes in and I'm all but totally overwhelmed by the sea of rejection.

5 Things - Twitter

2010-02-02T11:18:00.002+11:00

5 Things I hate and love about: Twitter

Hate:

1. People who excessively and exclusively use their twitter to market their business and products. I won't buy your stuff specifically because you bore me.

2. People who start Twitter accounts and suddenly call themselves a "Social media entreprenuer", "Social marketing specialist". Sure this may be a legitimate industry, but having a twitter and facebook account with 1000 friends doth not a specialist make.

3. Exciting teaser, boring Twitpic. Ie: Teaser: "OH MY GOD, look what I achieved this morning" Twitpic: Five toenail clippings.

4. People who have a cry at you for unfollowing them... oh so sorry for exercising my freewill and choice. I'm gonna follow then unfollow again, just so you can experience the intense pain of rejection all over again. Why can't you just put what you have to say out there and if people like it -Bonus- if not, no one's stopping you from banging on so enjoy your right to freedom of speech!

5. EXCESSIVE self-help quotes. Honestly if I wanted to be ridiculously inspired all the time I would follow Tony Robins and listen to "Eye of the tiger" while riding my exercise bike (in lycra) and reading Dale Carnegie.

Love:

1. Funny people having 140 character monologues.

2. That inkling I get that the celebrity/public figure that I just replyed @ and I are real life besties.

3. Instant venting!

4. The feeding of two of my favourite vices: procrastination and the transmission of useless information.

5. Twitpics that leave you wondering. Ie. Did that person only trim the toenails of one foot? I'm definately going to check the next time I see them.

What, a disappointment?!

2010-01-26T10:02:00.000+11:00

"the octopus in the room"

I wrote a comment on someone else's blog a few weeks ago, which I've really wanted to share here. I've held off until now, because it could be seen as offensive to certain members of my extended family. But this is it, these are my experiences, and I've lived to tell the tale and I've risen to make meaning out of these seemingly random events that I've encountered, and so and so and so... I'm hoping these people either don't go online enough to bother with this blog and/or appreciate the beauty that I have found in the midst of ugliness.

Sarah Wilson (Australian journalist) recently posted about lowering expectations as a way of being pleasantly surprised by life. I get what she's saying, don't set yourself up for a fall by expecting to much of yourself and others. But part of me feels like this is pretty defeatist. "If I train myself not to expect much, I won't be disappointed by the nothing that I get and therefore I'll be happy." It sounds ok, but all you're doing is trying to protect yourself from disappointment, as though you can trick yourself into not being disappointed, as though disappointment is something you can foresee and avoid.

I think the let downs are one of life's most useful things. The way a person responds to disappointment can either build or decay their character (and sense of humour!). I think that we should have the highest expectations of ourselves and others, as this is what propels us forward.

If happiness is the goal, I think disappointments are a great opportunity to learn that real joy is NOT something that comes from the outside in. I expect a lot from the people around me, but I don't hold anyone responsible for my happiness.

A lesson: My 21st Birthday was spent in

South Africa

with my huge extended family. The gifts were beyond tragic: 2kg candles in the shape of faces, a holographic dolphin cuff-watch, and a furry leopard skin and diamante purse. But what topped this bizarre 12 year old themed list was the commemorative plate with a photo of my face stretched, so that I resembled a beardless swami, across the front from my most beloved uncle. The horrific plate was immediately passed around the large circle of Aunties who sporadically exclaimed “oh sooooo beautiful”, “sooooo thoughtful”. All of this could have sent me over the edge of self-pity and binge eating, but instead I kept a plate-stretched smile on my face and thanked every one earnestly for my gifts. Though I was not thankful for the trauma, I was genuinely thankful for the thought, the gesture, the kindness in their eyes, the love that I felt radiating from them toward me. Yes, I was very thankful!

I didn't need the Tiffany's bracelet or the subscription to Vogue Living or the Eames inspired wall hooks that's been sitting on my wish list for the last two years! I got a stack of crappy presents and something far more enduring and inexplicably valuable. (Don't you hate it when a writer writes "inexplicably", it's like "Come on, you're the wordsmith, give us an explication. That's just lazy." Well it's not lazy, it was beautiful beyond words, so why don't you back off cause you're ruining this touching moment.)

To be honest, that awful plate has given me more joy than any other gift I have ever received. I still have it, hidden in some dark place. One day soon, I’m going to dust it off, serve a delicious dinner for Mat on it and share the joy.

Birds of a feather

2010-01-25T11:14:00.001+11:00

I've mentioned previously the slow bird takeover of my apartment. This pictorialist post of some my feathered friends at home:

some handmade wrapping paper from Mat

handmade rug from Oxfam

somewhat blurred sketch by Suzie

playing cards

Death row dinner

2010-01-18T23:42:00.000+11:00

Today I spent 15-20 minutes of my life reading a free transit publication. I don't like to do this too often, as the celebrity goss/ whole articles based on one statistic from some obscure and wholely unnecessary research project in Norway kinda get to me a little bit. However, I do enjoy the obscure and totally bizarre snippets that they pick up.

Today an article about a British artist's (James Reynolds) who had recreated a series of last meals chosen by death row prisoners got my attention. The list of individual meals apparently include: a plate of six raw eggs, a bread roll and a cup of coffee - a single black olive - an onion and a coke - and (of course) KFC.

Clearly these are some disturbed people - as somewhere along the line a bunch of people decided that things would be a lot better if they were not around any more. "What? You want an onion as your last meal? Oh yes you definately have to go." Well, personally, I think the prisoner who selects a decandent last meal is probably more disturbed than the one who simply requests a mint and a glass of water.

Anyway, something about this concept really facinates me... in the face of imminent death, what parting pleasure would one want to indulge in? If you had a choice, what would you want the last taste in your mouth to be?

Does everything taste like ash? Or are your senses heightened, absorbing as much of the world, that you come into contact with, as you can?

Really, am I just too morbid a person? Should I stop writing at night, in a bat cave, with a bone for a pen and blood for ink?

And He Gets The Girl

2010-01-15T17:15:00.003+11:00

Lupe Fiasco is such a brilliant lyricist. Love these characters, love this story. I heart nerds so bad.

Don't you think 2:06 is the stuff that sun shine is made of?

Out of reach

2010-01-13T23:10:00.001+11:00

My father passed away when I was 13 years old. I closed the chapters of sadness and anger a long time ago, but the other night I had a dream about him, which woke me up and made me think.

In my dream we'd planned to catch up before he went to court to hear the verdict of a trial against him. He was told to wear a very respectable looking suit, but all he had were an old pair of suit pants which he cut into long shorts and a non-matching tweed suit jacket. He looked like a crazed hobo.

But he was gentle and when he talked all I could think was how much I'd missed his voice, how much I'd forgotten what it sounded like. I had only meant to stay with him for an hour, but I felt that I controlled time, so I made one hour more like two or three.

I also felt like the "verdict" to come was in my control, but I didn't know which way I would let it go. Innocent and free to see each other whenever we wanted or guilty and locked away for 22 years. I woke up before I had decided.

Once fully awake, I felt a dull ache in my chest. When we both lived and resided in the same country, he was never really close to me for long enough - I only visited him every second weekend as a kid. Now, even if he were still alive, he would live 1000s of km away from me. Even in my dreams he is just a little out of reach. It's like that relationship was never meant to be.

It made me think. There are some people who, no matter how much you love them, you can't bridge the gap. Maybe we're not supposed to. Instead of living in the past, maybe we should look around for the people that are within reach and love and cherish and be thankful for them.

Happy Birthday to me

2010-01-12T15:05:00.000+11:00

baked by Sarah

I celebrated my 20-somethingth birthday on Monday.

I was surprised by a largeish gathering of beautiful people in my smallish apartment. Highlights = looonnnggg table, 30 smiling faces, Slow (husband) cooked roasts. a zz cake, flowers out, pretty new tea set, generous cash gift toward a writing course, vintage tea towels...

Feel the love.

Lessons from Bird by bird

2010-01-08T12:27:00.001+11:00

another bird friend of mine

I've almost finished Bird by bird by Anne Lamott. This book has been so meaningful and real to me. Lamott writes incredibly honestly, generously and humorously about her experiences of writing which makes it easy to identify with (and breathe a sigh of relief about) the writing process and writerly lifestyle: the fight against self-loathing, the fears, the sudden bouts of intense hypochondria, the distraction of inanimate objects that start talking to you… yes yes YES!

There are so many things, practical and beautiful, that I've gotten from reading this book. Here's the short version of things that I'm changing and adding as a result:

1. Selecting two people that I love, whose opinion I respect and who I know will be gentle with my fragile creative soul - to read the 2nd draft of the novel. I've picked one already - based on the fact that a) she is one of my biggest fans. b) she is THE most encouraging person to have EVER graced the earth c) Once I bought an expensive red dress which I later tried on to show her and she had the guts to say: "I think you could do better" and then went back to the shop with me to return it.

2. I’m on the look out for some writers that I can form a very small writing group, to meet once a month to discuss our work and workshop extracts of our writing together. So if you live in Sydney and you want to write more and you think we'd get along, drop me a line. We can take things nice and slow, I promise I'm not one of those desperate people who will tell you that I love you after the first discussion, I won't emotionally blackmail you by talking about all my ex-writing partners , I'm very encouraging and just to repeat, I am not desperate at all, no , not me, never...(call me).

3. I'm going to focus on pooling my collection of scribbles, memories, sentences, and moments in a lovely box of inspiration and this lovely blog of inspiration.

4. I’m going to start writing gifts for others, in the form of essays, biographic and fictional novellas, poems (I’m not a poet, but it will be amusing to attempt, if only so that I can have deep and meaningful conversation about musicality with my song writing friends), stand-by obituaries, letters, limericks, shopping lists etcetera.

Busy and exciting year ahead!

Ships Ahoy

2010-01-07T13:47:00.000+11:00

On Tues night I had an Iced chocolate in the city with an old university acquaintance. I got in touch with him specifically to talk about his Ship fanatiscism! For those out of the loop, part of my novel involves a great deal of oceanic travel, my experience and knowledge of which is roughly zero, or there abouts.

We took the same "History and Terror" (or something exciting like that) class. He had this incredibly thick eyebrow (yes singlular, it is a marvelous thing) and in the tutorial ice breaker he introduced himself as a "ship nerd". Yeah, it's safe to say he was immediately immortalised in my hall of legends!

Back to Tues night, we spent an hour and a half talking about my novel's plot (or lack there of) and emerging themes and of course possible ship/ocean/geographical scenarios. I have never felt so excited about ships, particularly cargo ships... pirate ones! I learnt about how ships travel through the Suez Canel, ship crews, container ships and so much more! He also very generously gave me a list of fiction and non-fiction books to and articles to read/research. Talk about highlight of the decade!

This is just one of the great things about a big writing project - the people you gather and take along for the ride!

Simple things that make me happy

2010-01-05T21:50:00.001+11:00

roses from my parents' garden

1. I think I have discovered what eating a rainbow would taste/feel like.
A mouth FULL of colourful 100s and 1000s. Yes, I currently have a mouth FULL of 100s and 1000s and it feels wonderful.

2. Mat has gotten into subliminal advertising. The other night he spent a good half hour "sending" messages to me via, the throw cushions, my laptop and anything else he could pick up and hold in front of his face as he hauntingly chants "driinnnkkk coca colaaa..." or "getttt maaat a cooooookie..." I think he has confused subliminal messages with being a ghost.

3. The ending for my novel has struck me suddenly and so haphazadly that I feel like if I hadn't been paying attention it would have totally missed me. I like that.

Bird by bird

2010-01-04T11:35:00.002+11:00

I've started reading "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott, lent to me by a rather clever and thoughtful friend of mine.

I like it already:

First reason being, I have this rather disturbing predilection for birds - not real ones, which I find creepy and unnerving, but pictures and figurines, that seem to be taking over my apartment (see exibit A. above.) I am well on my way to becoming one of those kooky old ladies who wears all her best dresses and hats simultaneously, never leaving her small home filled with stuffed cats.

Second reason being Anne Lamott is very funny and very easy to read.

Thirdly, the book is quite thin, which helps me not to feel guilty about starting to read a fourth book concurrently. Do you ever feel like the other books you're reading get a bit despondent, depressed when you ignore them? I think they jostle for my attention and begin doing curious things such as turning up in odd places such as the bath, a handbag, a dream or other people's conversations.

I feel that this will be a good one:)

zz

Little Adin pt2

2009-12-31T13:47:00.001+11:00

Read part 1 below first :)

She would go to that carnival no matter what. She found the “secret” stash of cash in her mother’s underwear drawer. She took a few big notes from the roll and put the rest back under the black lace bras.

She walked the whole forty minutes to the carnival, but had to run the last few meters, mostly for fear of losing her life. That stupid mutt Minky had almost gotten loose this time. Minky – the terror of the town, the most savage dog ever known to man. Most people thought she was rabid. The police had been over to Mrs Warbin’s house at least three times, handing over warnings about Minky; aggressive, scaring the neighbourhood kids, way too hostile to be running around loose in the front lawn. She could run right up to the fence and bark at anything that came too close. Of course Mrs Warbin was a cantankerous old hag who didn’t care what the neighbours or the police or anybody else thought.

The Carnival was closed, season was over. No-one had told her. Last night had been the last night. The other kids were sitting on the field around the outside of the carnival’s barriers watching the carnies pulling down the rides. How had she not known? She felt hot tears well up in her eyes as she watched them packing down the big Ferris wheel. She plonked down on the wet grass, felt the dampness creep through her cotton dress, her tights, her undies , giving her a little shudder. She was too defeated to fight that particularly uncomfortable feeling. She watched the rest of the dismantling in silence, the other kids running around, laughing.

It was much later and darker when she finally got up and began the long walk home. She hung her head and stared at the ground, not really paying attention to much besides the pavement in front of her. She didn’t even notice when the fence to her left changed to the mould covered, putrid pink calling card for danger. Mrs Warbin’s picket fence. Within seconds Minky was next to her, barking savagely, mauling the fence, trying to grab the edge of her mustard coat. She would have jumped out of her skin or ran to the other side of the road. Instead she turned and faced the caged beast. She grabbed the ends of her coat and screamed at the dog.

“You want this? YOU WANT IT?”

Minky paused, mid bark and stared at her through the fence. She was hysterical, screaming louder and louder at the dumbfounded dog.

“DOYOUWANTIT?”

Suddenly Mrs Warbin was on the porch, coming down the front steps of her house, waving her cane at Adin and yelling out:

“Leave him alone!”

Adin, was amped on adrenalin and anger and all the sadness of her miserable existence.

“SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP.“

She was screaming and shaking. Rage was coming out of her in words and tears and urine, running down her leg. Mrs Warbin stopped. She was half-way down the path to the front gate. She was as stunned as Minky, who was still quiet, peering at Adin through the fence, perhaps sensing that Adin’s madness was not the kind she was used to. It was not stable, not predictable or comfortable. Mrs Warbin cocked her head to the side, mirroring Minky, who was now sniffing through fence at Adin’s wetness.

Mrs Warbin took the last few steps to the gate and opened it. She came out, put her arm around Adin and lead her into the house. Minky followed behind her, sniffing her backside, piecing together the last four hours of Adin’s life – fresh wetness, old wetness, field grass, elephants? This was one exciting person. Adin quivered; she was tired, worn down. Mrs Warbin sat her down on a big lounge chair and hobbled off down the hall to some unseen part of the house.

Adin dropped her head to her chest and waited for the shaking to subside. She stared down at the black buttons on her stupid coat and began pulling at one, twisting it until it snapped off. She hid the button down the side of the armchair and began pulling off the next. When all five buttons were hidden there, she looked up and realised she didn’t know where she was.

Then she saw the devil beast lying just below where her feet hung over the end of the chair. Her heart jumped into her mouth as she looked around and began to comprehend what she was looking at: the inside of the old hags pink house! Suddenly she heard the hag shuffling down the hall, clinking things, rattling things as she came closer and closer. She couldn’t get off the sofa and make a quick exit, the hag had set her guard dog at her feet to watch her and hinder her escape.

The hag was getting closer. So this was it, this was how she would die. She hadn’t even seen much of anything yet. So many hours, days wasted sitting in boring classes, eating dry sandwiches, and bruised fruit. She swallowed the raising lump in her throat.

Emerging from the darkened hall, the hag pushed a wooden trolley-like contraption. On the trolley, were not implements for the removal of the brains of little children, no instead there was a steaming pink teapot, two matching pink tea-cups, a sugar bowl and milk jar and a plate of digestive biscuits.

Mrs Warbin poured out the tea, added milk and a teaspoon of sugar. She stirred and handed it calmly to Adin, who stifled a grimace of fear (of death by poisoning) and took the cup and saucer and placed it in her lap, surrounding it protectively with her fingers.

One sip. Adin waited for the poison to overcome her, she didn’t put up a fight, there was none left in her. She was tired. Too tired to care, too tired to even want to care. She just hoped it would be quick, and that she wouldn’t have to cough up blood or her own beating heart.

Little Adin pt1

2009-12-30T15:39:00.003+11:00

I've arrived at New Year's Eve Eve, and the novel is not coming to a close as yet. However, instead of wallowing in self-loathing, I think that this would be a good time to post a short extract to distract you all from the fact that I haven't finished... Hope your New Years celebrations are fun and frivolous!

Adin’s feet were hanging over the edge, knocking against the bottom of the sofa, shaking dried mud from her purple Mary-Janes on the carpet. Mum was going to be angry, but Adin didn’t care. She was late again, too late to cook dinner, too late to pick her up from school.
     Adin knocked her feet harder; she was dressed and ready to leave. The spring carnival was waiting for her. In an insulated town like hers, this was the most thrilling thing to have happened since Mr Stanton had run down Blakely Street in his Y-fronts yelling, “I am Zeus” and throwing imaginary lightning bolts at people. Both of the police cars at the local station had been dispatched to collect him that day. The funniest part was seeing the policemen duck to avoid being struck by Mr Stanton’s flying lightning bolts, which he flung with incredible force. It struck her then that the ratio of crazy people to normal people in this town was quite high.
     She was the only kid in her entire school that had not yet been to the carnival. It had been running for two weeks and day after day the stories came flooding in from the others. Butt-face Brian had been on the Spinning Wheel of Death seventeen times. Mandy Man-pants had eaten so much candy-floss that she threw up pink spew, twice. Then there was Toe-nails Tay, who was the only kid tall enough to get onto the Big rollercoaster ride, after which he barfed up half a bucket.
     There was a competition going to see who had barfed the most. She strongly suspected that most of the children were exaggerating the exact quantity, particularly as there were no judges hanging around to weigh it and report back to the others. She found that most of the children were really bad at lying. Their eyes would open too wide, or they would avoid eye contact. Some unconsciously scratched at their scabs. Of course no-one cared if she believed them or not. Most of the time no-one even noticed she was there, on the outskirts of the circle, sitting alone, pretending to eat her sawdust sandwiches. No-one asked if she had been.
     She could always lie and wow them with her own elaborate story of the rides she’d been on, the toys she’d won and her own rainbow coloured barf. But she didn’t want to lie this time. She would feel the exhilaration of the Little rollercoaster, she would savour the rejection by the angry carnie man measuring kids for the Big rollercoaster. She would eat her weight in toffee apples and cream soda and she would tell them all about it. She would finally talk to someone other than Pig-nose Pamela, who lived in the library, reading and re-reading the two books available on flesh eating insects. She was plagued with a fear that a bug would crawl into her ear one night, and eat her brain. The worn, yellow woollen ear-muffs she wore everyday – rain, hail or sunshine – made her look pretty crazy. The story of Adin’s Uncle who died of a brain haemorrhage because a baby locust had found its way into his ear came back to her as it often did when she looked at those ear-muffs. She always felt a little guilty about that lie. That was probably half the reason she often joined Pamela in the library.
     Even Pig-face, worm ears Pamela had been to the carnival! Adin used to think her mother hated her. But as she got older she started to realise it was something more subtle and stinging than that. Sometimes mum barely seemed to register her presence, as though she simply forgot Adin existed.
     She jumped off the sofa, stomping the mud deeper into the carpet. She pulled on her black gumboots and her old mustard coloured raincoat. This was one thing she would not let her mother ruin. She would go to that carnival no matter what.

Christmas time

2009-12-28T16:34:00.001+11:00

I'm on holidays...sigh. I'm staying offline for most of it, but I thought I'd drop in for a quick update. For Christmas, Mat, the most wonderful and thoughtful of them all, gave me a box full of beautiful handcrafted paper, soaps, ribbons and a gift certificate for a writing course of my choice at the Sydney Writers' Center. I can't wait to enrol!

On a similar vein, the novel is going... ok. I'd say I've spent about an hour, tops, on it in the last 8 days. It turns out that I couldn't turn away from Rushdie to finish my writing project. But I'm optimistic all the same, perhaps because I'm filling my days with beautiful words and imagery and old musty love letters, drives up and down the coast and long walks in the rain.

How many days of 2009 do I have left? Four! Well three really, as I don't suppose I'll be exerting myself in any way on NYE. Oh dear, my target of about 1000 words a day has bloated to 2333 words a day, starting today.

My first novel

2009-12-19T10:00:00.006+11:00

I am so close, but so so far away from finishing my first draft of my first novel/la! I have 12ish days left of 2009 and 9000ish words to reach my modest target of 50 000 words.

I have never been one of those disciplined people who sets personal goals and knock them out of the park, so I feel incredibly charged and bewildered that I've come this far! And a very big, stubborn part of me wants so badly to get there, if only so that I can say: "Ha, imaginary people who doubted me, I did it!"

Due to my blasé and fairly mental attitude toward silly little things such as, plot, structure, general logic... I would say that once complete what i will have is a very strange and messy extended piece of work. I will reserve judgement for after I read it all together, but I know there is a long road of editting and fleshing out ahead of me, if I decide to make it work.

So can I write 9000 words it 12 days? Well this is the plan:

1. Tell everyone I know about my race to the finish line so that they start asking that annoying and challenging question: "Soooo, how's the book going?"

2. No more working on middle chapters - I can flesh those out later. Write to an END. Maybe write several ends and pick one later?

3. No more reading until I finish - Mr Rushdie will be my special treat to work towards.

4. If my body insists on continuing to wake up at 3am every morning I will punish it with coffee and writing - Hai yah! Take that cerebral temporal lobe!

Also, I plan on posting parts of chapters here. So keep an eye out and definately give me feed back. If you have lovely things and encouragement to share, please by all means comment! If you think my writing and stories are rubbish, comment anyway - I value all opinions, regardless of how foolish they are, hmph...

Bus Strike!

2009-12-18T10:37:00.002+11:00

There's a bus strike in Sydney today, which has left 600 000 commuters stranded! It is very frustrating for a lot of people who depend on public transport to get to work. So I know that what I'm going to say is a bit controversial, but frankly I love a bit of industrial action!

I am one of those people who buses part of the daily journey to work, so I understand the stress of not know how I'd bridge the gap between home and work! But I think they should take action if the Government won't talk to them any more. They are not striking to upset the public; they want to get the attention that they feel their dispute deserves.

It's just so defiant and bold. I think that if enough people are willing to make a stand like, despite the public outcry, it may be worth listening to what they have to say? Unfortunately all you get from the media is "reporting" on the public whining about how inconvenient it is, and how bus drivers are being greedy etc: http://www.smh.com.au/national/bus-drivers-go-on-strike-20091218-l0k7.html

I think we should be championing the little guy socking it to the ‘em. "You don't want to negotiate fair remuneration for the work that we do, that's fine we'll just stop showing up. Eat that!"

Maybe I just love the drama of it all? Maybe it just reminds me of the sweet elation of hearing the word's "teachers strike" in high school? Maybe there's just something about banding together and showing a united front for a single cause?

Can you tell I have a mother who marched in Anti-Apartied and Teachers Union protests? I love a good fight!

Two hearts disagree as one

2009-12-17T17:00:00.000+11:00

I have the joy of being married to an incredibly attractive Englishman. Our love is deep and wide and free and blah blah blah, who cares right?

We disagree on just about everything. He wants a winter holiday to Canada, I want to go to Barbados. He thinks the floor is a handy and versitile storage area for clothes, books, cords (to mystery electronic items) etc, I disagree. He thinks I over-react and suffer from personality altering bouts of 'perspective loss' and irrationality - I disagree, vehemetly. And so it goes.

We have friends who get very uncomfortable when we talk about our disagreements, but to be honest I kinda like this trait of our relationship. There is security in knowing that there is love that does not require aquiensance or the meeting of terms & conditions.

Yes I think there must be compromise, or someone will die - likely him (see above) and many times (maybe once or twice) I have had to pick my battles. But disagreements are challenging, stimulating and a big part of the reason I fell in love with him. Disagreements with him have taught me that there are other ways of seeing things, that sometimes I am so very wrong (albeit very very infrequently) and that there is always space to grow.

Thanks for eight colourful months babe!

Ghost boy.

2009-12-15T10:30:00.006+11:00

When I was 9, there was a very strange boy in my class. He was a trouble maker He was aggressive scruffy and a loner. He was also very fairskinned with white-blonde, wirey hair, which was the strangest thing of all in a predominantly "Coloured" school in South Africa, 1994.

At some point I realised that this strange person had a very strange attachment to me. It may have been because I seemed to be the only person in our school who was not afraid of him. It's likely that I yelled at him about something or the other. The truth is, I was afraid of him, of his unpredictability; I just yelled alot as 9 year old.

So one day while walking home from school, a bolt of fear hit me when I turned to see him following me. I gave him "the evils" and then kept walking a little faster, telling myself that in ten minutes I'd be home and my mother would shoo him away like a stray dog. He didn't try to catch up, he didn't say anything. These things that should have reassured me, only made the air between us more tense.

Finally, I was home. As I opened the door, I turned once more to see him standing at the bottom of my driveway, watching me. I pretended to look through him and rather confidently walked into the protection of my home.

My mother was in the kitchen making burger patties for dinner. I ran to her and began ranting about him. About how much I hated him.

She seemed to ignore everything I said, until I mentioned that he'd followed me all the way home. She wiped her hands and walked to the front door. I knew it! She was going to let him have it. I began looking around the kitchen for the broom, she would need that to chase him. I loved my mum, she really wasn't scared of anyone, not even creepy ghost-boys.

She opened the door wide enough for me to see that he was now sitting on the kerb of the pavement at the front of our house, looking out at the houses across the road.

Then she did the most absurd thing. Something I never expected, never imagined! She called out to him and invited him in.

I remember feeling panic, like a million tiny ants crawling up and down my arms and legs. Did she want to die today? Seeing him walk into my living room was surreal, like a nightmare that you keep willing yourself to wake up from.

She made both of us sit in the kitchen with her as she cooked a few of the beef patties she had made. I tried not to look at him, but I knew he was sitting very still. Very quietly he answered mum's gentle questions. I don't remember anything she said, I don't even remember the sound of his voice. I do remember my confusion and anger at this intrusion, at my mother's stupidity.

She took us to the table and plated up a fat, juicy burger each; with herb flavoured beef, tomoto, beetroot, lettuce and her spicy secret sauce. I ate about 1/2 of mine, sneaking looks across the table as he gobbled his up. He did not look up from his plate once. Despite how quickly he ate, he did not spill a drop of sauce, or one bit of lettuce on his plate or on his thin, holey uniform. Mum brought out another burger and he gobbled that one too.

When he finished, he looked up, his eyes glazed with satisfation. He stood up from the table, blurted a soft "Thank you" in mum's direction and then let himself out.

I sat there, starring at the front door and then at my half eaten burger.

I always think of that. About how I saw that kid everyday, but never noticed what mum did in an instant. How she had ignored my reaction to him. How the external things about him that had repulsed me, were the very same things that made her extend kindness.

He never followed me home again

This chair

2009-12-15T04:41:00.003+11:00

This is my chair. My mum and I found it on the side of the road on one of our really healthy, energetic walks, where we get more out of breathe from talking than from pumping exercise.

We instantly saw it's potential (and obviously due to our "issues" as outlined in a previous post), so we power walked home immediately to get the car and rescue it!

Well finally I am in the middle of refurbishing it, finished product to be posted soon!

I blame my mother.

2009-12-07T08:13:00.002+11:00

Today I found the number eight in my bag. As in a number that you stick on your house so that when people drive to your house for the first time, they see your number and go, oh that's 8 Whatsit Road, that must be zz's house. No I don't live at number 8 so it's not mine. I found in on the ground when I was exploring an inner city suburb with my husband.

This leads me to the following question: Do I have problems? Is it normal to see things on the ground, and think, oh better pick that up and take it with me. I cannot begin to articulate the justification process behind that.

Another time, I was walking to the train station to go to school and I encountered about 100 digimon trading cards spralled across my path. What do you think I did? I picked every single one up and put them in my bag. I was 17, I did not watch digimon. Is this a sickness?

Oh and while I'm confessing, if you're wondering where all you're pens are, chances are I took them, one at a time. I can't help myself. If there's a big bunch of pens, they don't seem to bother me. But if there's just one pen, flying solo on an empty table/bench/etc, I pick it up surreptitiously and quietly slip it into my bag/pocket/hair.

An ode to my mother

2009-12-06T17:28:00.000+11:00

What is an ode? I'm not entirely sure. I should probably google terms before I throw them around. But I think I'm getting to the point where my head is so full of useless information that I have to set daily quotas of input, lest I explode.

Okay wait, I couldn't handle not knowing, so I googled ode and it turns out that it's a bit too poetical for what I'm aiming for here. I'm going for more of a memory of my mother that reminds me of her character and innate goodness, which make me muse on how much I admire and love her. But that's far too long for a blog title, and not nearly as fancy as ode.
Okay now I've spent too long banging on about this and I've probably lost all your interest in what is actually a rather beautiful, moving and inspiring story...if I do say so myself.

So I'm going to end it there and start again some other time.

IDPwD

2009-12-03T12:11:00.001+11:00

Clever clever - re: my post below. Just found out that today is International Day of people with Disability!

What champions: www.idpwd.com.au

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

What is limiting?

2009-12-03T08:17:00.002+11:00

The other day at the movies I saw a young woman with an amputated leg. I’ve only ever seen older men with amputations, so seeing someone in my age range in that position caught me off guard. She didn't look sad; she looked like she was just waiting for her friends to show up so they could go catch Twilight, or whatever it was.

But I couldn't help thinking about what her life might be like. Would people stare or feign nonchalance so as not to offend, as I did? Did she feel regret or anger or depression? Is it something that happened recently or so long ago she barely remembers the event? Is she missing out on so much that I take for granted everyday?

OR is she confident, putting the past behind her, and looking eagerly to the future? Facing her daily challenges with a mighty resolve? I hope so. Maybe she is making her greatest weakness her greatest motivator like so many other people with disabilities who live that conquering kind of life!

Right now it makes me think: I have two legs, I can stand firm. I can run and leap. What's my excuse?

tbc

2009-11-30T12:30:00.001+11:00

By now you are wondering, as I am, if I'll post any of my fiction here. Well that is a little presumptuous, we barely know one another!

Posting my creative writing would mean two things for me:

1. I would need to actually make the time to write and finish this book. No I don't feel like doing that. Yes it is akin to jabbing oneself repeatedly in the eye with a dry stick.

2. It would mean that I would have to finally get over this thing I have about people reading over my shoulder as I write.

3. I know I said two things, but now I have three points, so just relax. Thirdly, I will have to put to death my fear of criticism. Which, honestly is a stupid fear to have, due to the plain fact that you can't please and delight everyone, and sometimes you just can't please anyone.

So as you can see there is much to grapple with, therefore the answer is to be confirmed.

Just say no

2009-11-27T14:00:00.001+11:00

I would say I'm a pretty accepting person. I try, as best I can, not to judge. But when it comes to crocs, I can hold my silence no longer.

They may look cute on the itty bitty feet of toddlers, but if you are over the age of five - I have one question... Why?! Look, I'm generally all for quirky, but wearing plastic clogs that resemble cartoon character feet is really pushing the envelope.

Arguments for include: "oh but they're so comfy!" Well so is walking around in your knickers on a hot day, but you don't see many people flaunting it in the streets in their tighty whities, do you? "Comfy" is for the privacy of your own home, nobody needs to see that.

Of course, I have my own fashion faux pas, for example, my schoolgirl-esque leather shoes. I was going through a red, t- bar thing… I don't really want to talk about it. The point is I recognised the error of my ways and moved on.

If you are wearing crocs as you read this, and you find that you don't really care what some obscure person (and good taste generally) think of your footwear, then good for you. I'm sure you and your crocs will have a wonderful life together.

If after reading this you think; "Wow no-one has ever told me they look that bad, but now that I think about it, they do kinda look like Barney, that lovable purple dinosaur's feet." Then, you're welcome, go forth and croc no more.

Non-creative types

2009-11-27T10:00:00.000+11:00

How does creativity transpire in the minds of mere mortals? Is it a thunder of genius that strikes the brain willy-nilly, haphazardly, any time it pleases? Is it a science, the formula to which is only dispensed to the most dedicated of inquirers? Unoriginally I want to say: "I believe it is a combination of the both divine inspiration and hard work."

But wouldn't it be wonderful if someone would set the record straight once and for all and say: "Actually no, creativity is a direct result of a complex and precise chemical makeup in the Medulla oblongata: You've either got it or you don't.

If you've got it, go paint the sky with the colours that spill out from your arteries.

If you don't, just give it up. Put on your mustard tracksuit from the 90s, and prepare for a life of absorbing and filtering experience via your spleen, yawning your day's allotment of breathe away. Don't bother trying anything new, it's all been done before, by other people. Don't you dare even think of reading up on a new area of work or play - you'll only discover that it's a lot harder than you think. And most of all do not talk to people, ask questions or listen to anybody - what's the point; surely no-one has thought thoughts that could have any impact on your perspective. And even if anyone did have challenging ideas to share, you are not capable of processing these in any useful way, as they will be relegated to your spleen to be dried and then incinerated in the crematorium of your desolate soul.”

If only someone would say THAT! Then I wouldn't feel so bad closing the curtains, switching on the TV and shutting out the new things stirring up in me.

Goody two shoes

2009-11-26T12:55:00.003+11:00

I was leisurely going about my day today, when I stumbled across: Kiva.

Looking through the site reminded me that the easiest way to get over myself, and all the boo hoos that come and go, is to help others!

Briefly, Kiva is all about providing small loans to disadvantaged people all over the world. You can loan as little as $25 to a small business owner (think pig farmers, tour guides, basket weavers). They use the loan to set up, or cover the expensives of, running their business, creating an income stream to support themselves and their family. Once they are up and running, they begin to pay back the loan. Check out this article about them in Fortune 500.

What I love about microfinance is that it is sustainable. If you can spare $25 you can loan that to one impoverished person, who can break the poverty cycle in their family's lives - then pay it back, so you can then loan it to another person! There are BILLIONS of people living in abject poverty all over the world, but if we ALL, every one of us, chip in with whatever we can, we can definately make a lasting difference.

Another fantastic (Australian) microfinance organisation that I know of is Opportunity International. To date, they have almost 1 378 527 clients from developing nations that they have provided small loans to! You can donate as little as $50 towards their projects.

As for me, I'm going home to do some maths and will be making my first batch of loan soon!

Dear Diary

2009-11-26T01:00:00.002+11:00

I began journaling when I was nine years old. I only wrote two entries that entire year. One was about a trip to a miniature golf course, and the other was the biggest secret I have ever kept.

I don't know why I wrote the secret down; it was not something I wanted to re-read or to remember. Maybe I felt that it deserved to be documented. Maybe if I wrote it down, it would be just another story.

Trying to remember my nine year old self's reasoning is difficult. But now that I really think of it, imagining myself sitting on my bed, thoughts of it filling my head, the main thing I remember is my diary. My mum had given it to me earlier that year. It was beautiful; a shiny "My Little Pony" cover with pink, lined, strawberry scented pages. Do you think they spoke to me? Maybe those pages drew me to them, pen (and pen license) in hand, willing me to spill.

Now I have a box of diaries from age nine to twenty-something. A box of secret thoughts and hopes and fears. Sometimes I think I’d like my future grandkiddies to read them when I’m gone, most times I’d like to throw the whole lot out! A lot of what’s hidden in there I wish I had never let into the world - I find I’m most verbose when I’m sad or trying to figure something out.

Curious. Why do we commit to paper things that we don’t really want anyone to see - ever?

Midnight's Children

2009-11-25T15:42:00.000+11:00

I'm reading Midnight's Children, by Salman Rushdie. I love that I have more time in my life for reading novels. I fear this will not be so when I begin my Masters next year. But let's not think about that just yet. Let's think about Rushdie and what a clever man he is.

I love that he doesn't waste a word; every scene, every character is deliberate and woven into the metanarrative. The sheer magnitude his stories is inspiring!

My favourite Rushdie extract so far? "Their curled bodies are a pair of question marks at the end of the puzzling sentence of the day" – The ground beneath her feet.

Page One

2009-11-23T09:24:00.002+11:00

I am writing my first draft of my very first novel. It is glorious, hideous, joyous and grievous.

Sometimes I feel confident that Salman Rushdie had better watch his back and his Bookers. Other times I have this debilitating fear that I peaked around '92', when all I knew was primary school and navy leggings - and poetry was all about witty assonance; like pairing "heart" with "fart". It's true, my best years may be behind me, but I can't go back there. Worst of all, I can't stay here either.

I hope this becomes my place to move forward, learn, share and, of course, whine and rant when I've exhausted my resources of gracious, patient friends.