Quote

“It’s not your expertise that counts [as a writer]; it’s the quality of your wondering.”
- Mark Tredinnick, The Little Red Writing Book

Made my day.

"... and there followed a moment's silence": a response

They sat by the phone together, he and she, brother and sister. Waiting. They did not look at the phone with their eyes, but their bodies tried to turn towards it. She pulled at her handkerchief, he bit his lip. The branches of the bare tree outside scratched at the window glass.

When the phone did finally ring its sound filled the room and silenced the tree. The siblings held their breath, locked in a silent argument with one another. ‘You answer it.’ ‘No, you.’ ‘I did it last time.’ ‘You did not.’ ‘Did too.’ ‘Did not.’

He answered it.

“Yes. Thank you. No thank you. No. They didn’t want us to. Yes. The crematorium. Thank you. Goodbye.”

The phone clunked as he put it down. Silence, for a moment.

“So,” she said, and dabbed at her eyes, which were not wet.

“Yes,” he replied. “We should organise the funeral.”

“We’ve already done that. They’ve already done that.”

The tree was scratching again at the window.

“What should we do then?” he said.

She pulled at her handkerchief.

“Stella?”

“Let’s eat out.” She was up, quickly, striding towards the door that led to the next room. “They would want us to celebrate, finally. I’ll wear that red lipstick with that green dress; you can wear that tie Mum always loved.”

He raised his eyebrows at his sister; he’d owned the tie more than ten years ago.

"Oh. Well, not that one then.” She removed her hand from the door knob. “What then, Stuart?”

He stood up. “Sit down Stella. We need to absorb this.”

“You’re not sitting down.”

“No. I’m not.”

The tree scratched louder. The siblings blinked at each other from opposite sides of the room. She felt she should cry, but could not. She had been sure she would be able to. He could not believe his sister was not crying; she always did. She had cried when their parents had first told them what they were going to do. (“Weak eyes,” their father had said kindly. “Just like your mother.” Their mother glowered at him briefly, through eyes filled with tears.)

Stuart had wanted to be strong for Stella, to support her while she cried, but she appeared perfectly able to support herself for now, and he felt himself close to tears instead.

“I could wear a different tie.”

“Oh Stuart.” She took a step towards him.

“Don’t. I’m hungry. Let’s go to dinner.”

---

There's more to this story, but I'm still working on it, and hope to have it published at some point, so I'm sort of keeping it to myself at the moment. I might share a little more of it later on. Any feedback on this part would be greatly appreciated though.

In other news, I've been updating avocadoandlemon a little more frequently lately, since I became an iPhone dork and downloaded an app that lets me do it on the fly. I'll try to co-post here, but I might forget sometimes...

So, by way of a catch up: look here, and here, and here.

Also, check out the sidebar for a few other responses to this month's project -- thanks for playing along everyone!

Travel

I know I've written about this here before, but travel does wonders for me. I might've only travelled three hours away physically this weekend, but in my head I travelled to the other side of the world and back, into the future and back into the past. When I'm not tied down to my regular life I find myself free to go anywhere, mentally. Which can only be good for creativity, right?

I'm ready to have an adventure (and to write about it).

(PS. I did take some photos at Floriade, but stupidly forgot to take my own camera, so they, along with some ridiculous shots of my brothers wearing matching bright yellow sunglasses, are still in Canberra on my Mum's camera -- her birthday present. I'll upload a couple once she's sent them through to me.)

I am a bad Monday Project organiser

Yep. I'm both late and incomplete. In fact, hardly even started. I do have an assignment and a new, unrelated short story to use as excuses, but I still feel like I should be a little more organised...

Anyway, I thought I'd share some of my ideas instead.

• My first idea involved a small box used by a woman to put bits and pieces of happy things in her life into, saving them up for a rainy day. A wee bit corny, so that's where the idea stayed.
• My second idea was similar to the above, but it was about a child collecting treasured things in a box and coming across them many years later by accident -- if anyone's seen the opening few scenes of Amelie, you'll know the kind of thing I was thinking of.
• The third idea was similar to Mr Sketchy's, and involved a window, or, more specifically, the two windows in my room, which are such lovely boxes of sun for me.

So that's it, really. And unfortunately that's as far as I got. Hopefully I'll be able to share some bits and pieces of a new story I'm working on with you soon, so you actually believe that I was writing something else.

In other news, Pseudo Rhys and I went to life drawing this week (both drawing, neither modelling). It's been such a long time since I've sat down to draw. I was a bit creaky at first, a little hesitant with my HB pencil (where my graphites are, I do not know), but once I'd got warmed up it was as wonderful as I remember. If I get around to scanning or taking any pictures of my efforts, I'll be sure to share them here.

I'm off to Canberra for the weekend for my Mum's birthday, and hopefully to have a look at Floriade. Hopefully I'll have some pictures to share when I get back.

Thanks to everyone who played along this month! We've got a new theme to go up soon, and some exciting news about something we're up to in Melbourne on 19/20 September. More details soon!

New things

I love new things. They're exciting and unknown, and full of potential. I started a new story this week, inspired by something I was half-watching on the tele. I went to a new cafe to write on Sunday, a recommendation from a friend of mine.

Two new things I think I will persist with.

I was in Melbourne this past weekend, for the Writers' Festival. I had the nicest weekend. Plenty of ideas and motivation at the writers' festival, good catch ups with a number of friends (Kate included!) and some frantic writing.

It was just what I needed. I feel creatively and emotionally refreshed and am ready to tackle some serious projects. This week I've written quite a lot. I haven't yet felt like I've achieved anything great yet, but I've definitely done some small things that will get me somewhere in the long run.

So now I just need to get myself to continue in this vein. Wish me luck!

--

PS. The image above I took in Federation Square at about lunch time on Saturday. I love the guy in the background, completely oblivious.

Writing exercises

This semester I'm doing just the one subject at uni, in an effort to slow down. It's a short story workshop, which is right up my alley, because I love short stories (to read and write). Each week we're being given an exercise to explore the various elements of stories (short or long, really); character, place etc etc. I thought I might share them each week.

For last week's class we had to take a character from one of our stories to the supermarket. In writing, that is. I'm working on a short story I wrote last year -- and that needs a lot of improvement! -- so any feedback would be more than welcome.

I'll also be posting these entries on avocadoandlemon.

------

The supermarket is only just opening when Bella steps off the bus. This is her favourite time to shop because the place is virtually empty and she can be as slow as she likes without worrying that she will in someone's way.

She recognises the cashier at the only open register and attempts a smile, but is rebuffed with a look of confusion and lack of recognition. The girl is here every week, but Bella supposes there's not much interest in remembering a little old lady with a squeaky fabric grocery trolley. She certainly wouldn't have been interested when she was the girl's age. Bella sighs and moves to the toilet paper and laundry powder end of the supermarket. She has always moved through the supermarket this way, 'backwards' as her husband put it on the few times she convinced him to come shopping with her. He hated supermarkets and couldn't understand the sense of freedom she found in them. "They depress me," he used to say, but would not, or could not elaborate further.

After comparing the prices, Bella chooses the least expensive toilet paper, which is unfortunately located on the top shelf, almost out of her reach. She will have to risk an avalanche of toilet paper to get a packet down. She looks around her. There is no one in the aisle; no one who could help. On her tip toes, her hand on the handle of her cart to push herself a little higher, Bella manages to knock the paper towards herself and move out of the way to let it drop to the floor. She smiles. Last time she knocked down four or five packets and was too embarrassed to ask for help, so piled the packets on the floor neatly. Later that day, when she got home, she realised that the store probably had cameras and that the store manager could have watched the whole thing. She had caught two extra buses to shop in another supermarket for the next three weeks.

She carefully crosses toilet paper off her list with a pencil from her dress pocket. Laundry powder is also on the list. Thankfully her favoured brand is usually found on the bottom shelf -- she assumes this is because not many other people buy it. Sometimes it is not in stock, but today she is in luck. Another straight pencil line on her list.

Frustration

Sigh. I'm frustrated. I don't seem to be able to get over it either. I try to be positive, I really do, but at the moment I feel like I'm wasting time. I'm working, I'm even writing, but I don't feel like I'm achieving anything.

This all began to become obvious about three weeks ago. My Mum came to visit for the weekend and we went to see Ruben Guthrie, a play by Australian playwright and actor Brendan Cowell. I loved it. But I began to wonder why I wasn't writing plays myself. Or anything, really. I mean, I am writing, but nothing feels finished and I still have to go to my day job. I feel somehow trapped. Somewhere.

I wish writing was my day job but I have no idea how to get from here to there. And that, more than the fact that I'm not there yet, is what I'm frustrated about. I'm a proactive person. I like to have plans and implement them. I like to make decisions and act on them (for instance, when I moved away from Melbourne the time between me deciding to do so, and actually getting on a plane was about eight days, and it was only that long because I had to give notice at work). I've made some decisions about things I want to do in the near future, but I can't act on them yet. Patience is certainly not my strong point.

All that said, I do have some things to be positive about at the moment. I have received some wonderfully positive feedback from my teachers about a screenplay and a short story I have written; and a non-fiction piece I wrote last year is about to be published in Voiceworks.

So why am I complaining, I think. Well, I'm just impatient I guess.

Rain, rain, rain

It's taken me a while to put these up. I took these on a failed adventure to the Everleigh Markets with my housemates -- failed because we got there just as the markets shut. How I wish I'd had my gumboots on!

I've been motivated this week. I've had two nights at home writing, and wished I was doing it the other three nights. I've also been noticing the (sometimes) very interesting people around me as I train and walk it to work, and have taken down little notes, which hopefully will be the start of... well, something.

Hard to believe it's only just over a week until this month's project is due. I swear it was only January yesterday.

Procrastination

I'm at home today trying to get a large chunk of an assignment that's due soon over and done with. It's an essay on a topic that I'm immensely interested in but I'm still have huge trouble actually doing it. I've hung out washing, emailed people I work with, emailed my brother and now here I am writing a post here.

It's not that I haven't done any work. I've just done very little.

Procrastination should be my middle name. Any tips on how to avoid it?

Rain, rain

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is (presumably) snoring...

I really feel like winter has started; it's bucketing down. And I love it! Okay, so I got wet from the waist down on my way to work this morning, and had to jump through a rather large puddle on the Pyrmont Bridge and am feeling a little cold in my air conditioned office, but I still really love rain.

When I was little I used to sit at our back windows (they were floor to ceiling glass -- lovely) when it rained and watch the water rush down the glass. I was fascinated by it. And I used to love falling asleep to the sound of rain on our tin roof.

I don't have a tin roof now, but I still love falling asleep to the sound of rain drops hitting my bedroom windows.

This morning I got up at 6 (I've been a bit slack and haven't done this for quite some time) and sat up in bed to write a screenplay that I'm working on. I can't think of a better soundtrack to that than the sound of rain falling outside and the quiet of the house around me. I didn't want to leave this quiet little writing space I'd found.

I hope I can find it tomorrow.

This picture is from here; it's actually in Coffs Harbour, but I feel like the rain was almost that heavy here!

Tears

I usually write about sad things. Until today I had never really felt like I was greatly affected by that sadness.

Today I was doing some research for one of my stories and I cried. I cried solidly for about five minutes; tears dripped off my chin.

I'm not sure if it is a good thing or a bad thing that I had such a violent reaction to what I'm writing about. I guess it means that I will write with empathy and passion; but maybe I will be too close to this writing. Maybe I won't be able to make sense of the topic enough to write coherently about it. Maybe it will just come off as soppy, emotional crap.

This is new to me; I'm very confused about it.

Sorry about the lack of pictures in my last few posts. I don't seem to be able to find or take anything appropriate.

Publishing

I’ve been published in print just once. On the web (other than here), I’ve been published a few more times. But I’m still not entirely sure how one goes about moving from Written Piece (notice I don’t say ‘finished’ – my pieces are never really finished) to Published Piece.

I do know that it involves putting your work out there. Sending your baby off to people you don’t know, who will judge whether or not it is worth publication. I find it a little terrifying.

The piece I had published in print was the first thing I ever really sent off. I should be proud of that, but it has, in fact, made it much more difficult for me to send anything else for consideration. What if it was just beginners’ luck? What if I only had one good piece of writing in me?

I know these are all just silly excuses for me to avoid having to face potential rejection. If I don’t send anything for consideration, I won’t have anything published. Simple as that.

I’ve made a mini-vow to myself. I am going to sit down at my computer and go through all of my short stories; and I am going to pick two, three, maybe four to start sending off to potential publishers. I will keep sending these stories until everywhere I can think of has said ‘no’ (or not replied).

The other issue here, of course, is that I do need to feel like something is at least finished enough for publication. So this is the first part of my mission: I am going to try to get three or four pieces to a Finished Enough point and then out they will go, into the big, scary world of Please Publish Me.

Wish me luck!

Filling in time

It's a Friday evening and I'm filling in time. I'm about to get on a bus to Canberra to visit my folks and I'm really looking forward to it. I love spending time with my family - I'm constantly amazed at how much more I appreciate them after living so far away from them.

But I'm also looking forward to the trip itself. I've got three hours to myself to write, read, stare off into space, listen to music. And when I get to the other end I'll no doubt stay up late with my parents and brothers talking and yawning. Tomorrow night we're going out f0r dinner to celebrate Mum's birthday, which was last weekend.

This little sojourn co-incides with the start of uni holidays. While I'm still working full time, I'm glad of the break. It will give me a bit more time at home, something I'll appreciate even more after a weekend away. And I'll have more time to write.

Image by Hoosier Graphics.

Am I Boring?

This weekend I attended 'Guwanyi': National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Writers' Festival. It was held at the New South Wales Writers' Centre on a very rainy Saturday. The Writers' Centre is a lovely old building inside Rozelle Hospital grounds; and the perfect location for such a festival.

I went with another non-indigenous friend and we agreed that it was an insightful experience to listen to so many writers of indigenous background talk about their experiences, both as people and as writers; and to do so with a certain level of objectivity, not playing the part of the bitter victim, a box I believe Aboriginal people often find themselves in. So many of the writers had very moving, and sometimes tragic, personal and familial histories.

Many writers that I speak to write about themselves. Maybe not directly, but definitely on some kind of subconscious level they write about how they experience the world. At the moment I find it very difficult to do this. I often write about sadness, but it is not very often my own.

I realised yesterday that I have often felt like my own experiences and the way I think about the world are not interesting enough to write about. I am middle class and white. I had a lovely childhood and still have a loving family. I have already received a good education and am in a position to pursue further study. I am in no way complaining about any of these things, quite the opposite: I am very thankful for them.

My point is that I have never felt like I can write about myself because my life does not really provide any interesting material. And so I write other people's stories.

Of course, just because I don't write about myself does not mean I don't write for myself. And, in the end, I guess people that have had incredible experiences and go on to write about them are doing the same: writing for themselves.

I'm not sure what my overall point is here, exactly. I guess I'm interested to find out what motivates other people to create. Is it an exploration or an exorcisim of sorts?

A new project tomorrow! And we will put the responses to the last up sometime this week. Apologies for the disorganisation this month.

Image by soartsyithurts.

PS. I am aware of the irony inherent in me writing a post all about how I don't write about myself!

I'm late, I'm late for a very important date!

So this month I thought I'd set a really good example to others regarding tardiness. As such, I have yet to type up my response to "...and then there were three". I have written something, but it is still in my notebook.

I have a weekend music festival, camping for three days, wearing gumboots and not showering to blame. I guess I have a good excuse... But I promise it is coming. And as proof, the shot above is of the text in my notebook. Apologies for the blurry image - after a two day festival, a twelve hour drive and a full day at work I just didn't have the patience to focus the camera properly!

But tomorrow is another day and I promise I will post my response then.

Travel

More and more, I seem to spend time in transit: to and from work, visiting my family in Canberra, visiting friends in other suburbs, occasionally crossing state borders to reacquaint myself with my beloved Melbourne, and even less often travelling further afield.

Many people I know hate travelling time. I gather they see it as wasted time, time better spent doing other things. Especially if it involves public transport. I, however, love travelling on public transport. I love it nearly as much as I love to walk. It could be argued that I have only learned to love it because I have to do so much of it as a non-car-owner. But I would disagree: I love it because it forces me to have contact with other people, while at the same time spending time alone.

I guess this ties in to my last post, but I feel that public transport travel allows me to listen; to observe. For me, observation is a very important skill to have: it forms the basic structure of my creative work.

Travel also takes me out of my ‘normal’, everyday life. Being outside of something, I believe, means you can more keenly observe it. And so, as well as scribbling some of my best work inside my little Travel Notebook while I’m bussing it somewhere, I make some of the most important decisions about my life while I’m travelling.

Here is someone who seems to agree with me on the subject of travelling time.

Image by Magnolias forever.

PS. I found it very hard to choose between the above image and this one.