I can’t begin to tell you how stressful work has been lately. This speech writing gig is hard yakka. Still, I’ve resolved  to worry less and make my time away from work more productive in terms of the blog and my own writing. One thing I’m very glad about is that I made the time to go to the inaugural Varuna alumni master class, the brainchild of the illustrious Charlotte Wood.

The full day class – Screenwriting Principles & Structures, Filmic Solutions for Novelists’ Problems by film-maker and screenwriter David Roach - was held at the historic Carrington Hotel in Katoomba and I can’t fully express my joy at being back in Varuna country. I love Katoomba – just being there makes me feel writerly, productive, and calm all at once. David was fabulous. Apart from entertaining us on a set of bongos (while getting us to think about the accents in a scene), he really did provide a room full of novelists with some, well, pretty novel solutions to problems of structure. And every writer knows the heartache of structure. David even went so far as sharing his own tips for sturdy structure, which I’ve written in my notes as: David’s 14 Points to help understand story structure (esp after first draft). Helpful? Yes. Very.

The whole day was a fabulous experience and well worth the two planes, six trains and two bus journeys I had to make from Melbourne to participate. I got to meet new alumni I’ve not met before, including the lovely Patrick Cullen, whom I have prevailed upon to be the December Varuna blogger. He’s going to be fabulous of course. And fabulous right now on the blog is the oh so wonderful Cate Kennedy. Please go forth and read her first blog post immediately.

Charlotte Wood & David Roach

Serious writerly types

The tree outside my window waves a piece of itself at me. I go to wave back, existential questions fight one another to my tongue, then wonder what the neighbours might think. When leafy limbs extend striated fingers to you in mesmerising circles it’s time to reflect on your raison d’etre in privacy.

I close my eyes and the outline of the tree burns bright under my lids then fades into a cluster of brightly coloured dots. The cosmos of my brain. I search for meaning, play dot-to-dot as it were, but no 3D Magic Art picture of life’s truisms are exposed. Instead I have adopted a strabismic squint and jump when the washing machine beeps its finale.

I winch the Hills Hoist up too high and hang the washing on the line like I am attempting to yoga myself up to god. I stretch my fingers and present them as an offering. No seraph plucks them from my hand. I remain intact and slightly disappointed I was not dismembered by a celestial spirit. I lower the clothesline and hang my bras in a neat row on the inside to hide them from my neighbour’s view.

I love eavesdropping. On trains and trams, in the supermarket and the library, at the markets and in cafes and restaurants. CJ and I had a long (awful, and never to be repeated) train and bus journey from Melbourne to the south coast of NSW last year and I scribbled down an entire conversation I heard between an ebullient, self-proclaimed drug addict and dealer and his somewhat stunned (into silence) young nestlings. The drug dealer’s story was too good to be true (so very likely wasn’t), but it was the stuff writers’ dreams are made of: dramatic, unique, dark, thrilling. Did I use it? Of course I did

People intrigue me – more than politics, more than current affairs, more than the latest trends and fashions, more than science and even the arts – people get me passionate. Once I hear a snippet of conversation or see a sad expression I’m hooked, I’m dreaming up the rest of the story, giving them a name, picturing them at their highschool reunion and imagining what their bedroom looks like. I can’t help it. I’m not hanging onto that tram handle thinking about climate change and the current economic state in China. But you see, in my new job (as a speech writer predominantly for the City of Melbourne) these are exactly the things I need to be thinking about because I have to write about them and sound like I know what the hell I’m talking about. On one hand I’m struggling with this and wondering if I’m ever going to be good at it and on the other I can already see how much my writing (and my knowledge in general) is benefiting from the challenge. Challenge it is though, yes siree.

Before I sign off, I’d like to direct your attention to some great blog posts by the incredibly talented Di Jenkins at the Varuna Alumni blog. Check ‘em out. Also, I’ve had a fantastic few weeks reviewing at the Melbourne Fringe and International Arts Festivals. You can read all my reviews here if you’re interested.

Last night was the launch of the inaugural Emerging Writers’ Festival Reader at Bertha Brown in Flinders Street. The book looks fabulous, I gotta say, and it’s jam packed with over 170 pages of writerly wisdoms and scriberly sagacities and I’m feeling rather proud to be included in its pages.

I was invited to read my submission at the launch last night, which, for an ex Thespian, is always fun. I heard a few laughs (panic not, it was meant to be funny), so I can only assume it went ok. Here’s a very grainy pic that looks like I’m about to face-plant the microphone.

And here’s a pared back version of my piece, in case you can’t get your hands on a copy of the book. Of course if you do want a copy, (and I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t!) head over to the Emerging Writers’ Festival website and grab yourself one – they’re only $20!

A Letter to My Younger Self (from the time machine)

Dear higher-bosomed, smaller-bottomed, younger me,

You should know that in the future you are not a rich and famous writer. Here’s why:

You didn’t read enough. You mistook reading for relaxing and didn’t set aside enough time to devour all you could. You didn’t sharpen your mind, fill your head with better ways of doing things, nor see your own long-windedness. So quit tweeting around and grab a book, knuckle-head.

You didn’t set aside work to brew for long enough. You didn’t allow enough time for your brain to be able to see what you had actually written, instead of what you thought you’d written, and you submitted things that were only half-cooked. And half-cooked pieces get spat back at you, leaving you to slop about in the ill-considered ingredients, regretful, for a long time.

You held your breath and pushed too hard. It filtered into your writing. Desperation leaves stains on the paper, didn’t you know? Tacky stains that readers’ thumbs get stuck to. Relax. Let the story be authentic. Clear your head, loosen up your wrists, and try to stay one step behind your characters instead of in front. Breathe, mini-me, breathe.

You didn’t draft enough. Drafting and editing are not the same things and you happily convinced yourself they are. Editing requires sweat. Drafting requires blood. Tossing out an errant comma and deleting reams of superfluous adjectives is a leisurely jog compared to the marathon of unpicking a rambling narrative arc or killing off characters in the name of expediency.

You spent too long networking before having something to network about, getting your author bio just right, and not enough time writing. Writers write. Please, please Kemosabe, don’t forget that bit.

You know the rejections, oh waify one? They still flutter through my mailbox, surrounding the bills and the fan-mail like bookends. They never do go away you know.

And please, please get your set-up right. I remember the pain in your thumbs. Please know that those luscious, unblemished digits are now scarred from carpal tunnel surgery. Spend money on a chair, a laptop stand, an osteopath, OK?

Oh, and progenitorial one? There is no fan-mail. I made that up. Sorry.

You know those writing groups where you read excerpts from your work to each other? Pointless. If you need someone to tell you how great you are, ask your mother. When you need someone to criticise the hell out of you, ask your mother. Yes, ye of the unwrinkled cheeks (both kinds), mothers have everything a writer needs: soup, criticism, and praise so blinding that it can, you know. Make you blind.

Speaking of cheeks, would it be so hard for you to get up and stretch every now and again? Move? Do some exercise? Because you know, chump, terrible things happen to the scriberly derriere when ignored. It can turn into Writer’s Bum, otherwise known as ‘no bum’, ‘flat arse’ or ‘dinner-plate butt’.

You know all those times you slumped off in a grump because it was too hard, took too long, was too lonely, and had too many rejections? You think people care? Pft! Get over it. And get on with it. Most writers love to have written, but don’t like to write. You are no different. You just have to put your head down and plough on.

And we need to have a chat about word count, buoyantly-breasted one. Word count isn’t everything. Don’t make your eyeballs bleed checking the word count every five minutes, you hear? Just write something. A blank page isn’t a blank page anymore if it has a word on it. So if one is all you can manage, make it a good one… like solipsism.

Right, that’s about it. Hopefully this time machine I got for a song on eBay actually works and you get this, Grasshopper. Good luck!

Oh, and I almost forgot. You know how I said in the future you’re not a rich and famous writer? I lied.

I can’t believe I’ve been in Melbourne 10 months. 10 months! It’s flown by, it really has. Let’s have a wee recap of what’s happened in that time shall we?

• We arrived to one of the biggest deluges Melbourne’s seen in many years. The connection between the house and the power-lines short circuited in a dramatic light show and we wondered if our first night in Melbourne may also be our last night on this earth. Talk about arrive with a bang.
• We spent Christmas in Bermagui where I was visited by a gastro bug and couldn’t eat anything. (Yes, this is a BIG deal. We also vowed never to take a train that far, ever again.)
• We survived the summer heatwave and tragic fires.
• I spent an entire 45 degree day at the Sun Cinema and watched 5 movies in a row.
• We made friends with our landlord and his Mum, who continue to bring mouth-watering Greek sweets to our back door at regular intervals.
• I became a redhead.
• I started writing short stories.
• CJ and I went on a coffee scavenger hunt through the city as part of the Food & Wine Festival in 40 degree heat, half having fun and half wondering why the hell we didn’t just quit and have a cold drink in the nearest pub.
• (The answer to the above has something to do with CJ’s competitiveness…)
• My Mum arrived to celebrate our birthdays and took me on my first Melbourne shopping spree. (Yes yes, CJ and I are birthday buddies as well as husband and wife; it’s so hard to decide who has to pamper who that we have to have Mum fly over to do it for us.)
• I’ve had three trips to Canberra to see my sister and brother-in-law and gorgeous nephew (now nephews).
• I won the Ada Cambridge Prize for biographical short fiction. Woot!
• My Dad and step mum stayed with us for 4 days and we found out how dire the Docklands really is.
• I experienced several LMAO experiences reviewing the Melbourne International Comedy Festival and had my first celebrity spotting in one Mr. Guy Pearce.
• I went on my second Melbourne Shopping spree, compliments of KRudd.
• I applied for a gazillion jobs and got one at Fernwood as a weight-loss coach.
• I got rid of the red hair (what was I thinking?) and went the big chop.
• I took on the job as blog manager for the new Varuna Alumni Writer’s Blog.
• I had a giggling attack in the middle of interviewing Martin Short.
• This blog turned two!
• I spoke at a panel discussion at the Emerging Writers’ Festival and loved it.
• I found an Osteopath so remarkable she literally changed my life in 2 sessions.
• I was given a place at the Overland Master Class for Progressive Writers and had a fabulous weekend being terribly subversive in the bowels of the Trades Union Hall in Carlton.
• I met the wonderful Kate Kennedy.
• I met two amazing women who’ve fast become my best friends in Melbourne, who, luckily for me, live two streets away!
• Beat got rejected again… and again… and again…
• Celebrity spotting #2: James Nesbitt at Crown Casino.
• Started yoga. Love it.
• My best friend from Perth came for a weekend visit and we talked non-stop for 48 hours.
• CJ and I discovered our favourite (so far) Melbourne restaurant.
• Attended my first lesbian engagement party, replete with furry handcuffs and inappropriate drunk groping.
• Attended my first book launch.
• I became a twitterer (for better or worse).
• I attended the Davitt Awards with my buddy and award winner Katherine Howell.
• CJ and I had a fabulous holiday in Bermagui (gastro and train free this time).
• I lost hours of my life to the Six Feet Under box set.
• I’ve blogged about pee sticks and am still yet to be visited by a stork. Or is it the stork? Maybe that’s why it’s taking so long – there’s only one. The poor bastard.
• I started a new job as a speech writer/editor, predominantly writing for the Deputy and Lord Mayor of Melbourne.
• I became a poetry reviewer for the first time, reviewing for the Overload Poetry Festival for the Overland blog (and earned myself an enemy in the form of an angry elf).
• CJ’s parent’s came for a visit and we finally went to the Yarra Valley and took a fabulous drive down Great Ocean Road.
• I interviewed a 95 year old woman for an article and she couldn’t remember anything at all about her life… like, nothing. Made for a riveting article…
• I’m currently having a great time reviewing the Melbourne Fringe Festival and very much looking forward to the Melbourne International Arts Festival.
• I miss my family like mad.
• I’m happily awaiting the launch of the Emerging Writers’ Festival Reader on October 12, because finally someone decided not to reject my short fiction.
• I’ve just cyber-met an amazing woman. Check out her blog when you get a minute and read her story.
• There’s more, I know, but it’s late and I’m full of dark mint chocolate and $60 a kilo Peruvian coffee and no doubt you’re all asleep by now anyway…
• In retrospect, I guess it’s been quite a ride thus far!

Ok, so I’m completely sick of rejections. Like. A lot. I recently underwent the frustration of a noted journal asking to see a particular story, showing enthusiasm for said story, then emailing to tell me they loved the story but had no room for it. I guess they didn’t love it that much after-all. Sigh. I know it’s all part of the ebb and flow. But currently I’m ebbing so far backwards I’m about to hit Tasmania. What to do?

The past month has been taken up entirely with my new job, finishing the old job and a visit from family. There has been no writing apart from speeches and forewords. The process of turning my novel into a novella has thus far only managed to fill me with dread and I’m pretty confident all I’ve managed to do is make it worse.

Hence my decision to start the next book. It feels good. The plan for it is already well under way. The first chapter is complete and the ideas are brewing nicely. I know I’ll come back to the first one. There’s so much in it I love. It’s not an easy thing, abandoning your baby. But if you love something… you know the drill.

Will I ever get to the bottom of Melbourne’s funkiness? Probably not. Clearly CJ and I will never be able to return to Perth. There’s just too much going on: too many restaurants and cafés to visit, too many shops with notices in the window insisting I enter. Like Gertrude St in Collingwood/Fitzroy. I’ve only just discovered the joy that is Gertrude Street. Take Industria for example. It sells ex-industrial furniture, old medical equipment and vintage medical models and diagrams, chemistry equipment, vintage maps and even vintage clothing, jewellery and accessories. Um, Perth doesn’t have shops like this.

You can even get a decent decaf from Arcadia on Gertrude St (although I hear Birdman Eating are good too), and that’s saying something. A decent decaf is ridiculously hard to find. The best by a long shot is from Cornershop in Yarraville, who do THE best soy decaf (with the almighty Bon Soy as the soy milk du jour) ever. My other great love in Yarraville (apart from The Sun cinema and Plump of course), is the newly opened Green Collective, an awesome shop that sells second-hand designer label clothes for $25 and under and a great collection of fair trade and green products. They have free fruit in the store that people from the neighbourhood bring in, and they’re basically a pretty awesome bunch of people. If you pay them a visit soon you can grab some grapefruit from our tree that’s been exploding with fruit in our yard for the past month!

Our other great love so far is Balzari in Carlton whose Chestnut Cjalsons with montasio cheese filled pasta with sage and muscatel burro cotto (cooked butter) is so good it just about makes you cry. Go there. Eat it. Now.

Next weekend we’re off to explore Northcote… without the wallet methinks.

So, the Overload Poetry Festival is over and now I’m receiving hate comments from a Crazy and very muscly Elf. Seriously, his guns are like bowling balls. Great looking bowling balls, but still, you wouldn’t want one to hit you in the face. My first go at reviewing poetry and I get dissed by an Elf. And all this time being a theatre critic and only one fat lady who incited her fans to spam my blog. Maybe I should try harder. Sad thing is, since the WA heat of the Australian Poetry Slam last year that I enjoyed so much, I was thinking about giving this slam thing another go. Now I’m making enemies in the Melbourne scene, I might have to re-think that…

My new job as a speech writer is going well. I think. It’s a steep learning curve, this PR writing thing. And a Perth girl writing for the City of Melbourne is a recipe for… well, some blank stares at the computer screen thus far. I mean, seriously, what do I know about the AFL grand final? Still, there are countless festivals and book launches and concerts to write about, and I can’t complain about that. So I won’t. CJ came home with a dozen red roses tonight. Certainly can’t complain about that!

My review of the Overload Poetry Festival Skype Slam between Melbourne and Bristol, also on the Overland Blog:

MC, Crazy Elf pays homage to the spoken word

The idea was a great one. In theory. A cross-continental Skype slam, replete with warring mascots, muscle-bound Aussie alpha males and pudgy, pink-shirted Englishmen. Not all good ideas are destined to come together though, are they? I mean, there’s mayhem and then there’s just plain annoying.

Not that the Overland Slam was ever touted as being anything less than slightly organised mayhem: you get beaten by a ninja (the Aussie mascot) if you stay on stage too long, the scores are between 10 and negative infinity, and they’re judged by people who ideally have no interest, or better yet, a slight disregard for, poetry.

The four brave finalists who made it through the heats ended up at ACMI on Saturday night, going head to head with a slightly less pandemoniacal crowd in Bristol for a skyping slam-off of disappointing proportions.

Ninja chop

If you’re going to commit yourself to chaos, commit, people, that’s my beef. If you’re going to dress in full ninja gear than BE a ninja with the commitment of a Shakespearean actor. If you have technical issues, don’t stand there and call people c*nts and laugh at how funny it is that nothing’s going to plan. Not that the technical issues seemed to be anybody’s fault. It’s just that every poem by the English team sounded like this: Th.. te.. ba.. ee.. fft.. spt.. tug.. pls.. th..  Yup. Riveting. Although, we did get to hear almost the entire rendition of a spunktastic extravaganza Nil By Mouth by Bristol’s Molly, which was all about how long a girl could hold onto a mouthful of cum before having to spit it out on the kitchen floor in front of her parents. It was a hit. As I’m sure you can imagine.

Our guys rocked, of course. Randall Stevens, Michael Reynolds, Timothy Train and IQ all seemed very worthy finalists to me. Timothy Train’s global financial missile midlife crisis poem was a well performed word-flurry. Michael Reynold’s list poem elicited several ‘God Save the Queens’ from the audience (a mark of great acclaim). Randall Stevens was the performer of the evening for me, with a deliciously husky delivery of his poem Meet Me, chock full of textured lines like ‘…when frayed ends of sentences left unfinished, bit back.’ IQ’s words gave me goosebumps and he was the only poet from either continent to command silence with a lyrical and inspiring piece about music: ‘It’s music. We owned it once… We all wanted to have a Ben in our life… The world is a tongue… put the needle on the record, sing along.’

Randall Stevens doing his thing

Who was the ultimate winner? I don’t even know. I think it was a draw between Michael Reynolds and Molly. Did anyone care? Not really, by the look of it. If Overload wants to bring poetry into public view, I’m not sure this event, populated mostly by poets, is really the way to do it.

My first poetry review for the Overload Poetry Festival is up on the Overland website. And here it is again. For those of you who feel the need to read it twice. Totally understandable, of course.

***

Ever noticed the prevalence of hats at poetry gigs? I counted 10 at See What I’m Talking About at Poetica La Mama on Monday night. Seriously, I’m wearing one next time. I need to imbibe that poetic vibe, man.

Wordsmiths riffing to photographers’ work is a seriously smokin’ idea. Monday nights’ poets responded to 17 beautiful photos by Andrew Watson, David Harradine and Jessica Rizzi.

Melbourne’s busiest literature buff, Angela Myer kicked things off and not in a zillion years would you imagine that this was the girl’s first go at a live reading of her own stuff. She spoke with a purposeful clarity and surety that lent much to her work. Her second poem, ‘Longing and the Aftermath of Something’ was my favourite. Written in response to a beautiful photo of a young girl, it oozed hunger and passion while managing its own kind of aural zing with its short, sharp sounds and lines like I make pancakes // I take to his remnants with a straw.

Briohny Doyle responded to her visual stimuli with a subtle theme of loss: feeling loss, lost within your own neighbourhood, and blindness to a lover’s true, maybe murderous intentions. Doyle’s writing is powerful and sharp, but unfortunately some of it was lost to her overly quick delivery.

Ben Pobjie had the rowdy, hat-loving crowd revved up. He let the photographic  images spark an idea and then off he ran into his own irreverent, crazy world of incestuous Grandfathers and facetious poets: Are you like my Grandfather… who spooned me?; I didn’t choose poetry, poetry chose me. It’s more than a get rich scheme, it’s a way of life… like quadriplegia.

I could see the skill in Pobjie’s work, which sounded like flash fiction when read aloud, but somehow it wasn’t for me. It seemed too much like shock for shock’s sake, and ultimately left me bereft of any lasting images.

Sean M. Whelan delivered three diverse readings in his effortless style. ‘This is a Ghost Story’ was a cracker of a poem created in response to a beautiful photo by David Harradine of an Asian streetscape. Any poem that starts with There’s a ghost in the Golden Sheep massage parlour just has to be good, right? It was an evocative word-shower of imagination and surprise. It was more than the sum of its parts and left you with a story that lingered long after he finished speaking.

Sean’s last poem was decidedly reminiscent of a Tim Winton story called ‘Abbreviation’. Despite the fact that for some reason I found this a little off-putting, it was fascinating to look at the photo and see where Sean’s brain took him in crafting a poem from it.

The illustrious Barry Dickins rounded off the evening and was certainly the crowd favourite. It seemed odd to me that Barry responded to five different photographs while all the other poets responded to three, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re famous…

Barry did steal my heart, I must admit. He didn’t read or perform his poetry; he breathed it out across the room. There was a definite rhythm to his work which was beautifully matched by his seductive voice. His third poem was written in response to a photo of an alley: I love you keenly, alley. Like death in a good mood… Your father, my father, our father, who art in alley.

If I’d been wearing a hat I would have taken it off. Next time.