The last three months have flown by. Circumstances at home have been a little hectic, as my husband has been working in the city (an hour and a half away) and the my shifts at work have changed. I've had end of school year craziness (in Australia, the school year runs from January to December) and reading lots instead of writing any.
But I'm here again, and looking ahead for 2012.
Despite telling myself that I'm obviously not organised enough to study, I feel like my brain needs more. There are some short writing courses I can do online that I'm having a look at through the Sydney Writer's Centre. I like the timeline, and the options. For the next few weeks, I'll continue to plan for next year, and take advantage of the holidays to have fun with my kids. My middle child starts school next year and I want to gather all the moments I can before he joins the 9-3 crowd.
For anyone who has found their way here, I wish you all a holiday season filled with laughter and friends. And, if you can stand them, family :-)
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 7
Wednesday, August 31
A Signpost?
Just this week I have caught up with a dear friend whom I haven't seen in too long. Amid our talk of children, men, emotions and finances - you know, all the proper stuff you share with a close friend! - we came upon the topic of goals, dreams and directions. More importantly, how these have recently changed as our circumstances have changed.
My friend had her own successful design business for years, and after much debate and soul-searching she came to the decision to let it go. It wasn't an easy decision for her and anyone who has ever met her can attest to her gift for the aesthetic. She is not only talented in her work on the computer, canvas and paper, but her home itself feels like various pieces of art brought to life within a welcoming space. As she is currently at a loss, and since my own head has recently been full of literary dreams, I asked her if she'd ever thought of illustrating children's books. After an excited breath, quickly followed by a "Funny you should mention that! I've been meaning to talk to you about this...' and she continued to explain that she's been thinking of it quite a lot actually, and wouldn't it be funny if she and I could possibly collaborate....
I have been thinking about it a lot. Is this a signpost on my journey? A friendly hand pointing out a new direction? A diverging path? Now the next step is to write. Just write. I can only follow it awhile to see where it leads...
My friend had her own successful design business for years, and after much debate and soul-searching she came to the decision to let it go. It wasn't an easy decision for her and anyone who has ever met her can attest to her gift for the aesthetic. She is not only talented in her work on the computer, canvas and paper, but her home itself feels like various pieces of art brought to life within a welcoming space. As she is currently at a loss, and since my own head has recently been full of literary dreams, I asked her if she'd ever thought of illustrating children's books. After an excited breath, quickly followed by a "Funny you should mention that! I've been meaning to talk to you about this...' and she continued to explain that she's been thinking of it quite a lot actually, and wouldn't it be funny if she and I could possibly collaborate....
I have been thinking about it a lot. Is this a signpost on my journey? A friendly hand pointing out a new direction? A diverging path? Now the next step is to write. Just write. I can only follow it awhile to see where it leads...
Monday, August 22
Unmissed
I think of you fondly.
I love you even now, in a way. How could I do otherwise?
So many memories, so many firsts, were shared with you.
But I foresaw our destination before we'd finished the journey.
I felt our distance increase while we were still ensconsced in each other's embrace.
I mourned us while you still believed we bloomed.
It isn't you I miss, it's the companionship you represented.
It's not your conversation I crave, just an intelligent connection.
It's not your caress I desire, it's the touch of not-me, the breath on my neck, the slide of fingers deep, the fullness of a lover's inward stretch.
Tonight, cold and wrapped within a woolen blanket, I feel lonely.
But I don't miss you.
I love you even now, in a way. How could I do otherwise?
So many memories, so many firsts, were shared with you.
But I foresaw our destination before we'd finished the journey.
I felt our distance increase while we were still ensconsced in each other's embrace.
I mourned us while you still believed we bloomed.
It isn't you I miss, it's the companionship you represented.
It's not your conversation I crave, just an intelligent connection.
It's not your caress I desire, it's the touch of not-me, the breath on my neck, the slide of fingers deep, the fullness of a lover's inward stretch.
Tonight, cold and wrapped within a woolen blanket, I feel lonely.
But I don't miss you.
The Weaver
He specialised in lies.
White lies he could do with his eyes closed, hands behind his back, though honestly (pun intended), most people could come up with their own and he didn't get much demand these days. Grey lies were his stock-in-trade, from pale dove-grey all the way to deep charcoal. The kind of lies most people felt a tug of guilt at telling and couldn't pull off quite convincingly enough. Pesky consciences. Black lies were a challenge. The intricacies of a good black lie rippled in effect, so they always took him longer to weave. Financially, this was hardly a problem. The customers who demanded them were willing, or desperate enough, to pay asking price. And he didn't come cheap.
It was the end of a quiet week, the latest in a winter of them. His last appointment of the day was delayed, which afforded him time to think. Recently, business had been slow. The older the world got, the more cynical the people in it became, it seemed. Used to be, a man would pay a good price to clear the stigma of a guilty conscience. Now they came to him and haggled. The cheek.
He was startled out of his reverie by a noise outside. He looked up just as she walked in, the wind howling at her back before the door closed on her scent. Vanilla. She was pretty enough, with a wide forehead, long black hair and a generous mouth. She greeted him with a smile that failed to reach serious brown eyes.
“I’m Lucy.”
His name was simply Les. (“Like my craft, you see” he’d usually joke to customers. “ ‘Cept I’s not in it.” They never laughed. ) Something about this woman stopped him from using his worn-thin introduction.
Her voice seemed older, sombre. “I need your help.”
He was used to this request and only nodded in response, looking her over. He enjoyed doing this with clients. His silence disconcerted them as he tried to guess their sin before it was revealed. It was a little game he played. He’d gotten pretty good at recognising the distinct nuances between the faces of the cheaters, the gamblers, the embezzlers, the thieves. They came to him for succour and he delighted in his gift, in the power he held over them.
Something about this woman was different to his typical client, however, and it took him a moment to pinpoint it exactly: her face lacked the frantic panic he usually saw when prospective clients walked through his door. There was only a sad sort of remorse; only the guilt, with no fear of getting caught. Whatever truth she wanted covered, Lucy seemed more concerned with making amends than having it varnished. Which begged the question: Why was she here?
“Do you understand the weaving?” he enquired. When she hesitated, he went on to explain perfunctorily, “Price will be determined by the strength of the lie and the number of people who currently know the truth. The web needs an anchor, at least one person who will recognise its existence. That would be you, the client. The weaving does not make the lie a reality - this is very important. It is still a lie and as such, can be untangled. You need to understand that. I have never had that happen,” this stated proudly, “but there’s always a first time.”
Lucy nodded. She understood.
“Now, please explain your situation,” he requested. “The more I know, the stronger the web I can weave, the more believable the lie.”
She looked down at her lap, breathing quietly, thinking. Long minutes passed. He simply watched her, waiting, intrigued. Why was she here?
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked eventually, still staring at her skirt.
He flinched, shocked out of his impersonal curiosity. This was the last thing he’d expected.
“Err… I’m not sure what this-”
“Have you ever noticed,” she continued, avoiding his gaze, “that in every relationship, there’s always one who loves more? That it hurts them both to know it?”
“You want someone to love you?” he asked, confused. “That’s not what I do. I can weave li-“
“NO!” She was suddenly all fire. “I want you to make me believe I’m the one who loves more. I want the lie to be for me!” She finally lifted her eyes. Anguish and despair pooled in tear-soaked lashes. “Don’t you see? I need to stop feeling guilty for not loving enough!”
He was momentarily mute. The force of her pain was a palpable presence in his office. She had lowered her face into her hand, shoulders shaking with breathless sobs.
“It wont be true” he murmured gently, compassion an uncomfortable, seldom-used mantle on his shoulders.
He saw her spine stiffen. Saw her visibly collect herself, slowly pushing all the emotion, all that agony, back out of sight.
“It will seem true to me” she answered, tears still staining her voice. “And if I believe, I can make him believe also.”
He saw the logic in what she said.
“Who will be the anchor?” he didn’t want to disappoint her, but the web needed structure if the lie was to be strong enough.
The look she bestowed held such raw yearning, he couldn’t look away.
“Please,” she begged. “Help me.”
He couldn’t look away. He could not look away.
At last, he stood up and walked to her side. With an arm around her shoulder, he walked her to the office door. He felt her sigh, felt hope sliding away as they neared the exit.
“I will anchor,” he spoke quietly, opening the door.
She gasped, surprised, then threw her arms around him in a warm embrace, face against his neck.
“We’ll work out the details this week” he told her, awkward over her gratitude.
Moving away, beaming through renewed tears, she squeezed his hand as she walked past the door.
“Les?” she hesitated at the threshold. “What colour is it?”
He stopped in the process of closing the door.
“It’s golden,” he informed her. A pause. “And it’s free.”
A blinding smile that reached her eyes, and she was gone.
He had never thought he would feel noble in his work, yet now he did. He had never thought he would be envious of the beneficiary of one of his webs. And now he was. He had never imagined he would wish someone loved him enough that they were willing to commit to the gravest of lies, to delude themselves. For him.
But lies were all he had.
White lies he could do with his eyes closed, hands behind his back, though honestly (pun intended), most people could come up with their own and he didn't get much demand these days. Grey lies were his stock-in-trade, from pale dove-grey all the way to deep charcoal. The kind of lies most people felt a tug of guilt at telling and couldn't pull off quite convincingly enough. Pesky consciences. Black lies were a challenge. The intricacies of a good black lie rippled in effect, so they always took him longer to weave. Financially, this was hardly a problem. The customers who demanded them were willing, or desperate enough, to pay asking price. And he didn't come cheap.
It was the end of a quiet week, the latest in a winter of them. His last appointment of the day was delayed, which afforded him time to think. Recently, business had been slow. The older the world got, the more cynical the people in it became, it seemed. Used to be, a man would pay a good price to clear the stigma of a guilty conscience. Now they came to him and haggled. The cheek.
He was startled out of his reverie by a noise outside. He looked up just as she walked in, the wind howling at her back before the door closed on her scent. Vanilla. She was pretty enough, with a wide forehead, long black hair and a generous mouth. She greeted him with a smile that failed to reach serious brown eyes.
“I’m Lucy.”
His name was simply Les. (“Like my craft, you see” he’d usually joke to customers. “ ‘Cept I’s not in it.” They never laughed. ) Something about this woman stopped him from using his worn-thin introduction.
Her voice seemed older, sombre. “I need your help.”
He was used to this request and only nodded in response, looking her over. He enjoyed doing this with clients. His silence disconcerted them as he tried to guess their sin before it was revealed. It was a little game he played. He’d gotten pretty good at recognising the distinct nuances between the faces of the cheaters, the gamblers, the embezzlers, the thieves. They came to him for succour and he delighted in his gift, in the power he held over them.
Something about this woman was different to his typical client, however, and it took him a moment to pinpoint it exactly: her face lacked the frantic panic he usually saw when prospective clients walked through his door. There was only a sad sort of remorse; only the guilt, with no fear of getting caught. Whatever truth she wanted covered, Lucy seemed more concerned with making amends than having it varnished. Which begged the question: Why was she here?
“Do you understand the weaving?” he enquired. When she hesitated, he went on to explain perfunctorily, “Price will be determined by the strength of the lie and the number of people who currently know the truth. The web needs an anchor, at least one person who will recognise its existence. That would be you, the client. The weaving does not make the lie a reality - this is very important. It is still a lie and as such, can be untangled. You need to understand that. I have never had that happen,” this stated proudly, “but there’s always a first time.”
Lucy nodded. She understood.
“Now, please explain your situation,” he requested. “The more I know, the stronger the web I can weave, the more believable the lie.”
She looked down at her lap, breathing quietly, thinking. Long minutes passed. He simply watched her, waiting, intrigued. Why was she here?
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked eventually, still staring at her skirt.
He flinched, shocked out of his impersonal curiosity. This was the last thing he’d expected.
“Err… I’m not sure what this-”
“Have you ever noticed,” she continued, avoiding his gaze, “that in every relationship, there’s always one who loves more? That it hurts them both to know it?”
“You want someone to love you?” he asked, confused. “That’s not what I do. I can weave li-“
“NO!” She was suddenly all fire. “I want you to make me believe I’m the one who loves more. I want the lie to be for me!” She finally lifted her eyes. Anguish and despair pooled in tear-soaked lashes. “Don’t you see? I need to stop feeling guilty for not loving enough!”
He was momentarily mute. The force of her pain was a palpable presence in his office. She had lowered her face into her hand, shoulders shaking with breathless sobs.
“It wont be true” he murmured gently, compassion an uncomfortable, seldom-used mantle on his shoulders.
He saw her spine stiffen. Saw her visibly collect herself, slowly pushing all the emotion, all that agony, back out of sight.
“It will seem true to me” she answered, tears still staining her voice. “And if I believe, I can make him believe also.”
He saw the logic in what she said.
“Who will be the anchor?” he didn’t want to disappoint her, but the web needed structure if the lie was to be strong enough.
The look she bestowed held such raw yearning, he couldn’t look away.
“Please,” she begged. “Help me.”
He couldn’t look away. He could not look away.
At last, he stood up and walked to her side. With an arm around her shoulder, he walked her to the office door. He felt her sigh, felt hope sliding away as they neared the exit.
“I will anchor,” he spoke quietly, opening the door.
She gasped, surprised, then threw her arms around him in a warm embrace, face against his neck.
“We’ll work out the details this week” he told her, awkward over her gratitude.
Moving away, beaming through renewed tears, she squeezed his hand as she walked past the door.
“Les?” she hesitated at the threshold. “What colour is it?”
He stopped in the process of closing the door.
“It’s golden,” he informed her. A pause. “And it’s free.”
A blinding smile that reached her eyes, and she was gone.
He had never thought he would feel noble in his work, yet now he did. He had never thought he would be envious of the beneficiary of one of his webs. And now he was. He had never imagined he would wish someone loved him enough that they were willing to commit to the gravest of lies, to delude themselves. For him.
But lies were all he had.
Tuesday, August 16
Stranger Friends
This is a story I wrote for a creative-writing course, but never ended up submitting. The assignment had called for Flash Fiction of 1000 words (+/- 10%).
Stranger Friends
The first time Tim Violetta saw Rose, he had decided to mug her. He was three weeks shy of sixteen.
She was small, wrinkled. Her grey hair covered by a stylish hat, her handbag looked like a small bowling bag, but the colour matched her hat and purple granny shoes perfectly. He had noticed, because he planned to steal it. Having followed her for five blocks as they moved from the bustle of main street, towards the quieter residential streets, he saw her turn a corner into a one-way lane. Tim recognised his opportunity. Increasing his gait, he walked closer to the kerb as if to cross the road. He took his hands from his pockets, held his arm aloft and went to overtake her. He snatched the handbag roughly to jolt it from her grip.
And that’s where it all went wrong. The old lady didn’t let go of the bag.
He was so surprised, he didn’t make a run for it straightaway. When she grabbed the hood of his jumper, Tim looked at her, shocked, confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He weighed his options. Should he tackle her? Push her away? He imagined her falling backwards onto the cement, her elegance rumpled, shaken, possibly hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Tim turned to escape, hoping she’d lose her grip, let him go. She didn’t.
She held on tight as she scrutinised him. He felt her grey eyes cataloguing his appearance. Dirty hair, clothes stained and ripped, smelling of cigarette. Big eyes and nose in a face that had yet to catch up. Dried lips, chewed fingernails, a few swollen knuckles. He wondered at himself that he automatically straightened his posture while she studied him. Probably looking to give the coppers a description. Tim felt anvils drop in his stomach. He was screwed.
“Do you want this, young man?” Her voice was strong, belying his first impression of frailty. She held out the handbag in her other fist.
He looked at her face, startled. Was she crazy? He didn’t answer, just watched her.
“Do. You. Want. This.” She repeated.
He shrugged. This was a trick. Why not just let the damn thing go?
She nodded, more to herself than him.
“You can have it. I’m Rose by the way.” Then she walked away, handbag still in her clasp.
He stood there a few moments, bewildered. What the…? Crazy old bat! He was starting to turn away, anxious to leave, when she swivelled back.
“Aren’t you coming?” She asked briskly. “I’m only two doors down, then you can have it. Come on then, I need a cup of tea.”
Without any reason whatsoever, cursing himself for ten kinds of stupid the whole way, Tim followed her to the last townhouse on the block. She opened the door without looking back at him; as if there were never a question that he’d be behind her. He stood in the doorway, unsure what to do. She’s crazy, he thought. What kind of lady would invite a kid like me into her home? Turning, she pointed to his shoes and looked at the doormat without saying a word. What kind of an idiot took her up on it? Tim cleaned his soles before stepping inside.
At the end of that visit, where Rose fixed him coffee with biscuits, talking of her life and asking him questions he couldn’t answer with one word, she did indeed offer him her handbag as she walked him to the door. But he couldn’t take it then, as she must have known.
The next day, quite by accident, he ran into Rose after school. She was laden with shopping bags and greeted him like an old friend instead of a would-be thief. When she asked him pleasantly for help getting her shopping home, he consented, wanting to assuage his guilt.
And so it began.
Tim found himself visiting Rose some afternoons on his way home from school. She always talked to him as an equal, something no other adult had done. She considered his questions thoughtfully before giving him an answer. She wasn’t shocked that he smoked, only asked that he go outside, but would take her tea and accompany him when he did. Before long, Tim found himself sharing stories of his home life. The fighting, the cheating, dramatised reconciliations, renewed screams. Rose never judged, only listened, occasionally rubbing a hand along his shoulder as she worked around the kitchen.
It was Rose who encouraged Tim to pursue his goal of becoming a mechanic while his father pushed for a doctor. By the end of the year, Tim knew Rose’s kitchen better than his own. It was there that he ran with the acceptance letter from the technical college he had applied to. He wanted her to share in his success. He wanted to bask in her praise.
He arrived in time to see the ambulance outside her door. Two paramedics carried a sheet-covered gurney though the hallway, their footsteps soft on the tiles.
“What’s happening? Rose! What’s happened?!” Tim scrambled frantically around them, determined not to let them out the door. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I’m sorry, mate. We need to get through.” He wasn’t sure which of the men had spoken, didn’t care. He was shattered by their calm. Surely they should be in a hurry? Surely this was an emergency? He stepped aside, a pressure building in his head, a numbness settling over his chest. Slowly, he followed them outside. A small crowd of neighbours had gathered by the ambulance. He heard murmurs, snippets. “Accident… cracked head... slipped… wet tiles...” He didn’t want to hear anymore.
Once the gurney had been loaded, the paramedics climbed into the front. There was no-one to ride in the back with her, he thought. No lights. No sound. Nothing to mark the death of such a remarkable lady.
Weeks later, Tim sat inside a lawyer’s office, his father beside him. While his dad and the lawyer discussed words like “will” and “trust”, Tim held a letter in his hands. In his lap lay a ladies’ handbag, shaped like a miniature bowling bag, deep purple.
They both meant the same thing.
Goodbye.
Sunday, August 14
Psst...
I'm going to be let you in on a little secret: I want to write.
And to be even more ridiculous? I want to be published!
Let me be quite clear: I don't expect to write a literary masterpiece. I don't crave awards or even recognition, though who am I kidding, as if I'd ever turn them down!
But what I'd really like? What I really, really want? Is to write an entertaining story that people might be willing to pay for. To be able to create a page-turner with nothing more than my love of words, my imagination and a bloody good thesaurus... well that would just make my millenium! I long to walk into a shop (physically or virtually) and recognise a book or novel as mine.
So this is the beginning of that journey for me. I've never shared my work so publicly, for the judgement of all who might come this way. I know it wont be everyone's cup of tea, but feel free to leave a comment. I'll ask you to be kind, but more than that, I need you to be honest. This path I've chosen to embark on is bound to be long and the hurdles many, so I need to start practising my jumps!
And to be even more ridiculous? I want to be published!
Let me be quite clear: I don't expect to write a literary masterpiece. I don't crave awards or even recognition, though who am I kidding, as if I'd ever turn them down!
But what I'd really like? What I really, really want? Is to write an entertaining story that people might be willing to pay for. To be able to create a page-turner with nothing more than my love of words, my imagination and a bloody good thesaurus... well that would just make my millenium! I long to walk into a shop (physically or virtually) and recognise a book or novel as mine.
So this is the beginning of that journey for me. I've never shared my work so publicly, for the judgement of all who might come this way. I know it wont be everyone's cup of tea, but feel free to leave a comment. I'll ask you to be kind, but more than that, I need you to be honest. This path I've chosen to embark on is bound to be long and the hurdles many, so I need to start practising my jumps!
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