I just finished writing the first sex scene in my book – that’s right, cold showers for everyone. Actually, there was no sex, just the messy beginnings. And it got me thinking, are the yoof of today having better sex than we did in the dark ages before Sex and the City?
Let me explain further. I’ve been watching a crappy new TV show, The Secret Circle, which is based on the books by LJ Smith, who also penned The Vampire Diaries. In one of the early episodes, two pairs of high school kids–probably around 17–were having sex, and the girls were
wearing lingerie.
LINGERIE!
And no,
I’m not talking about a pair of Cottontails or even pettipants, I’m talking satin and lace, matching tops and bottoms. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice pair of knickers, but is this really what today’s kids are wearing under their skinny jeans?
Secret Circle - Is this what teens are wearing under their skinny jeans?
Or maybe these pettipants?
And if that wasn’t bad enough, these young couples were having perfectly polite sex in their own beds! With lovely white sheets and fluffy pillows.
Seriously, is that how the kids do it these days? Whatever happened to the back of a car, a football oval, the cheapest motel in the area or some random room at a party with no lock on the door and a constant stream of interruptions?*
Or maybe it’s just TV that’s painting these pictures?
Kids, seriously, the future of film, TV, books and teen pregnancy depend on you having awkward, messy sex in a broken down car on the side of a freeway while wearing light blue Cottontails.**
But whatever, I promise you this, the sex scenes in my books ain’t pretty. They’ree unlikely to happen in a bed, and let’s just say that nobody’s going to give a shit about what kind of knickers they’re wearing.
* & ** Disclaimer – These are just silly, silly things that have never ever happened to me or anyone close to me. Ever.
I’m currently at the country house writing and hanging out with the dogs while Jeff works 3 jobs in the city to keep us in grass-fed beef and fancy nuts. Love you and appreciate you!
I’m also working on our pet business (Lucky Pet) and was writing advertising copy over lunch at the local cafe when I heard one of my favourite sounds, the laugh of a Kookaburra, and it got me thinking of my favourite things, especially sounds. I’ve decided on my top sounds:
You know how everyone has a tale of hours spent on the phone to Telecom/Optus/Blah Blah Big Corporation. And then, after you’ve finished explaining yourself to the third person, you’re told that you need to speak to a manager and you get handed over without a syllable of explanation and you have to start all over again.
Well, TECHNOLOGY sure has changed that! You know the 24-hour live chat (which is like IM without the sex)? Well, I’ve spent 1 1/2 hours in a bath (which has become cold TWICE), with lemon juice dripping into my eyes (ow) and mouth (yum) with our website’s e-commerce folks. Don’t get me wrong, they’re delightful, but “chattin” to them (and to IT people, designers, most people) felt something like this.
Please note, if you’re short on time or have any form of ADHD you might want to go straight to the video. The rest of you, roll up your sleeves, get a snack and cider and dig in–it’s long, but worth it (start at around 40 seconds in).
Abbott: Well, Costello, I’m going to New York with you. Bucky Harris the Yankee’s manager gave me a job as coach for as long as you’re on the team.
Costello: Look Abbott, if you’re the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do.
Costello: Well you know I’ve never met the guys. So you’ll have to tell me their names, and then I’ll know who’s playing on the team.
Abbott: Oh, I’ll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.
Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet names…like Dizzy Dean…
Costello: His brother Daffy
Abbott: Daffy Dean…
Costello: And their French cousin.
Abbott: French?
Costello: Goofe’
Abbott: Goofe’ Dean. Well, let’s see, we have on the bags, Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know is on third…
Costello: That’s what I want to find out.
Abbott: I say Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know’s on third.
Costello: Are you the manager?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: You gonna be the coach too?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: And you don’t know the fellows’ names.
Abbott: Well I should.
Costello: Well then who’s on first?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: I mean the fellow’s name.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy on first.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The first baseman.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy playing…
Abbott: Who is on first!
Costello: I’m asking you who’s on first.
Abbott: That’s the man’s name.
Costello: That’s who’s name?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: That’s who?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: Who’s playing first?
Abbott: That’s right.
Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?
Abbott: Every dollar of it.
Costello: All I’m trying to find out is the fellow’s name on first base.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy that gets…
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: Who gets the money…
Abbott: He does, every dollar of it. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.
Costello: Who’s wife?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Abbott: What’s wrong with that?
Costello: I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he sign his name?
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: How does he sign…
Abbott: That’s how he signs it.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Costello: All I’m trying to find out is what’s the guys name on first base.
Abbott: No. What is on second base.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first.
Costello: One base at a time!
Abbott: Well, don’t change the players around.
Costello: I’m not changing nobody!
Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.
Costello: I’m only asking you, who’s the guy on first base?
Abbott: That’s right.
Costello: OK.
Abbott: Alright. PAUSE
Costello: What’s the guy’s name on first base?
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first.
Costello: I don’t know.
Abbott: He’s on third, we’re not talking about him.
Costello: Now how did I get on third base?
Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.
Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman’s name, who did I say is playing third?
Abbott: No. Who’s playing first.
Costello: What’s on base?
Abbott: What’s on second.
Costello: I don’t know.
Abbott: He’s on third.
Costello: There I go, back on third again! PAUSE
Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don’t go off it.
Abbott: Alright, what do you want to know?
Costello: Now who’s playing third base?
Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?
Costello: What am I putting on third.
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: You don’t want who on second?
Abbott: Who is on first.
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The left fielder’s name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: I just thought I’d ask you.
Abbott: Well, I just thought I’d tell ya.
Costello: Then tell me who’s playing left field.
Abbott: Who’s playing first.
Costello: I’m not…stay out of the infield!!! I want to know what’s the guy’s name in left field?
Abbott: No, What is on second.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first!
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: The left fielder’s name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: Because!
Abbott: Oh, he’s center field. PAUSE
Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The pitcher’s name?
Abbott: Tomorrow.
Costello: You don’t want to tell me today?
Abbott: I’m telling you now.
Costello: Then go ahead.
Abbott: Tomorrow!
Costello: What time?
Abbott: What time what?
Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who’s pitching?
Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.
Costello: I’ll break your arm if you say who’s on first!!! I want to know what’s the pitcher’s name?
Abbott: What’s on second.
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: Gotta a catcher?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: The catcher’s name?
Abbott: Today.
Costello: Today, and tomorrow’s pitching.
Abbott: Now you’ve got it.
Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team. PAUSE
Costello: You know I’m a catcher too.
Abbott: So they tell me.
Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow’s pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I’m gonna throw the guy out at first. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?
Abbott: Now that’s the first thing you’ve said right.
Costello: I don’t even know what I’m talking about! PAUSE
Abbott: That’s all you have to do.
Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.
Abbott: Yes!
Costello: Now who’s got it?
Abbott: Naturally. PAUSE
Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody’s gotta get it. Now who has it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Naturally?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.
Abbott: No you don’t you throw the ball to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s different.
Costello: That’s what I said.
Abbott: you’re not saying it…
Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.
Abbott: You throw it to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: That’s what I said!
Abbott: You ask me.
Costello: I throw the ball to who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Now you ask me.
Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU!!! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don’t Know. I Don’t Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don’t know! He’s on third and I don’t give a darn!
As Oprah used to say: “Here’s what I know for sure…”
1. I wish I had straight hair. But every time I get my hair straightened, I want my broccoli back. Gwyneth Paltrow was right when she said that straight hair is better than curls, because you just pat it down or tie it back and you always look polished (I may have paraphrased, but thank you, Ms Perfect, for that thought.)
Curly Hair = Crazy. No potential at all. Jail for you, sonny.
Straight Hair = Perfect. Potential for anything. Ready to face the world.
2. I don’t care for instruction booklets, to wit, I recently purchased a hair relaxing kit for $15 at the local African “we sell everything from bags to blankets, from goats to hair relaxing kits” in the local mall that is mostly empty, except for African ladies with incredibly straight hair (might be wigs, not sure). The kit included a little, concertina’d, full-colour booklet. I started reading it but got bored after “Put on latex gloves…”
Thirteen minutes in (of 15) and my head is burning. I want a coffee but think it best if I go have a shower and get this stuff washed out or there might be a repeat of the “Amsterdam incident” when Jeff went banana blond. He went to bed with the shakes and woke up with his head stuck to the pillow. Ew. But he looked positively cool.
3. My mother was right when she said “cu beddavopariri, u duluri a sintiri” (it’s the only time she’s been right about anything).
And (Oprah never said this) here’s one thing (among many) that I don’t know for sure:
* Just as “vulnerable” is the most beautiful word, is “potential“, the most horrible?
Potential is for dreamers, always wondering what might be, and making lists of things they might not do.
Potential makes parents think that their kids are not so normal after all. Viz -“Sure he’s great at making vegemite toast now, but he has the potential to be a Masterchef!”
Potential makes us dream of a brighter future. Viz – “I know if I stick with it, I have the potentialto become a great writer.”
Potentialmakes me wonder if the world would be easier to navigate if I had straight hair, as in, “sometimes the world sucks, but if I had straight hair, it could very well be great. Potentially.”
I wonder, do old people think in terms of potential?
P.S. I think the relaxer worked! I’m freaking out a little. What does one do with permanently straightened hair? I asked Jeff this very question earlier, to which he responded, cleverly, “wear it like a woman with straight hair wishing she had curly hair.” Smartypants.
Well, well… Today marks 2 months that I have officially been a stay-at-home whatever.
People ask if I’m:
Bored - Nope
Lonely – Nope
Getting fatter – Nope
Getting out of Sunshine – Does going to West Footscray count?
Happy as a dog rolling in bird shit – YEP
Jeff agreed to a few conditions – things I wouldn’t do just because I’m home:
1. Iron – tick
2. Empty the dishwasher – well… I have a few times
3. Can’t remember the 3rd one
Here’s what I have been trying out:
Weight and Health I’ve been learning about the Paleo way of eating and living – this is a goodie. Of course, just like religion, I’m doing it my way. And, just like religion, it’s working out. I was really worried about putting on weight because of boredom, loneliness, and “I feel like chocolate-o’clock”, but Paleo is really helping. I don’t feel hungry, and because I’m eliminating as much sugar and carbs as I can, I’ve just decided what I’m not prepared to eat and I just don’t.
Some can be a little fanatic, like insisting on no fruit. What? A girl needs to poo.
Cheap skin care There are just some things a girl can’t do. Like buy crappy shoes or scrimp on skincare. The thing is, I have sun damage on my face and I’ve tried everything. That Cate freaking Blanchett nearly convinced me to try SKII. But, seriously, with two mortgages and one salary, I had to let my fingers do the walking and I discovered on a number of website last night that fresh lemon juice dabbed on the face and left to dry for 30 minutes is the key to “bleaching” dark spots. FREE skincare! I’m European, so of course I have a lemon tree… Stay tuned.
No TV until after Jeff gets home Easy. My first week, I decided to watch Dr Phil during lunch and it was depressing! People yelling and not listening. Instead I have Triple J on all day, which means I keep up with music and say things like, “I’m so down with the kids, y’all”, which makes me sound just like Phil on Modern Family.
No shopping Man this is a hard one. I get these delightful daily reminders from MyHabit, Spreets, Brandexclusive, Dorothy Perkins, Urban Outfitters, Gala Darling etc etc. I mean, I don’t want to turn into one of those stay at homes who lets themselves go. Instead, I’m going through my wardrobe and wearing it…
Dress nicely and wear make up every day Tick, tick. This one was really important to me. If I look nice, I feel nice.
Walk every day Remarkably easier than expected. I used to find excuses, now I think of the puppies and it’s easy. I haven’t taken the car into Sunshine once…
Learning to like Facebook Yep, I’m a little behind the 8-ball, but it’s served me well. That said, I like having a virtual community of people. PLUS, how awesome is it to wake up to a tonne of people “liking” you!
Start Rollerderby Oh no she di’nt. OH YES I DID! I learned about the Westside Derby Dollz recently and I’m now training with them. I say “training” rather loosely. I’m learning to fall without killing myself or anyone else. It’s the best fun and serious bi’nness!
Hanging out with fellow homebodies Epic Fail! Who’da thought I’d be so freakin busy? Between the pet biz and writing, it all amounts to fullness. No complaints here, though. But I know I’ll make more time over summer.
Oh yeah, and the big reason I wanted to stop working for the man in the first place (other than my brain conniptions)…
Write a book Yes indeed. I have been planning my third book since around May. I know it’s a long gestation, but that’s just how I roll. This week I’ve had some serious misgivings about the plot. So I did as Jeff suggested and printed out all my notes and started reading all 100+ pages to see whether there’s a plot in there somewhere. And, you know, there is. Just not the plot I had originally planned. I’m planning on starting the main writing before Christmas. YE-HAW…
As I sit here on the wrong side of midnight contemplating both the SexPo ads during Roseanne and my dog’s hiccups, I’m trying to answer the question posed today by Dr Ray over at www.cutthefatpodcast.com:
What is your Kelly Harrington?
EH?
Well, for Dr Ray, Kelly Harrington was the catalyst that got him to move his ass and do something about his weight when he was 12 when she said “You’re fat, give me back my shoe” (Go and listen to his ultra motivating Episode 33 for some context)
Kelly became his motivation, his obsession that got him up and running.
So what’s your Kelly Harrington? What shakes your world up and motivates you?
Here’s the formula we need, according to Dr Ray:
BW x DAD = AR
When the WHY is big enough, the HOW will present itself. One of the biggest things I got out of this podcast is that once you’ve found the BW, don’t go looking for information, just go ahead and DAD to get AR.
Big Why x Do Anything Differently = Amazing Results
Indeed. My Big Why is that I love to tell stories.
But is that a big enough BW? How about, I’ve tried to quit but keep coming back to it? Why not…
My “Do Anything Differently” was to quit work. Work has been my excuse for not writing enough. It’s the biggest thing I could have done differently to get the results.
Has it worked? Somewhat. I’m still looking for information — and this is interesting because last week, my friend Rachael told me to “just get started”, stop researching and GO, which I did, but I’m still holding on to old ways a bit.
BUT… I’m determined to start on the actual manuscript before Christmas. I’m giving myself a few more weeks of research. I can’t cut the cord that quickly, can I?
I have been writing a woman’s memoir for the past year, and in order to do that, I’ve had to toss everything aside–that includes craft and my sanity.
I have my sanity back somewhat, even though others might disagree, and I’m starting to think of craft again. In the meantime, I’ve launched an Etsy store for my brother in law, who is a mad collector of native American turquoise and silver. The store is called Silverdreaming; such beautiful pieces too. I’m pleased to be able to offer them on Etsy for him. I’ve sold two already, ironically to someone in New Mexico, which is where the jewellery came from originally.
As things are warming up in the garden, I’m going to start adding manure, Dynamic Lifter and extra mulch to get things moving along.
So I don’t like the query process… The thought of trying to distill eighty thousand words into less than one page makes me sick–perhaps that’s why I had gastro last week.
Then there’s the synopsis. All that marketing speak–it’s completely unnatural for a writer to write like that. If I knew how to market, I would work in marketing–there’s a lot more mony in it, guaranteed.
To all of that, I say: Meh
So call me lazy. Actually, please don’t. I’ve just written eighty thousand words, and rewritten them, and edited them, only to find a hundred holes so I patched them up, which caused a rewrite. I’m on draft 4, officially, which doesn’t take into account all of the unofficial drafts and the sleepless nights.
So, just try calling me a lazy writer…
I just wish somebody else would do the boring bits for me. Any takers?
I am literally writing everyday at the moment, and I’ve never written such a diverse array of material. Whether it’s this blog, or this website, or even…
Photo by Striatic via Flickr CC
Not entirely unfamiliar with non-fiction writing thanks to the years as a journalist. Plus, I ask a lot of questions. Still, I’m using someone else’s words and can’t embellish–that’s been very hard. It’s meant a lot of focus, and really getting into Simonne’s mind and voice, which seems to come naturally. I feel like I’m possessed.
1. The autobiography I’m ghostwriting/co-writing
While draft three is with four readers and I’m writing my agent queries, I’ve been redrafting…
Photo by gogoloopie via Flickr CC
2. A short story I grabbed a chapter from an old manuscript that centred on a telephone call. It explores my usual obsession with death, but also looks at a woman who is schizophrenic and plays with suicide.
Looking at this story, and previous one, The Seventh Day, the main protagonists are barely present in their own lives. They skirt around the edges, and we see them through others. It’s like drawing with charcoal. You shade around the picture you want to see, leaving light on the page. That’s what these characters are. Other people surround them and form them, even when they don’t say or do anything.
And while this story stews, I’ve been outlining and researching…
3. The Immortals trilog What? This one came totally out of left-field and has me wondering–what the hell is it? Is it sci-fi? Fantasy? Paranormal? Well, according to the lads over at Writing Excuses, it’s Urban Fantasy. Me, urban fantasy? It’s nuts, but after weeks of researching and outlining, I’m completely embracing what is a very new genre for me.
I’ve only ever written standard literary fiction but I guess I’ve dabbled with it as a reader–I studied Philip K Dick, have been obsessed with the Vampire Diaries and Twilight (yes, I admit it, whatever), Lord of the Rings–and I watch a bit of it–True Blood, Heroes, Buffy–so I guess it isn’t a huge stretch.
But a trilogy? Yep, I’ve already got the premise of each book plotted out.
I hardly know who I am anymore, and I’m loving it!
So I am nearly at the end of this draft – the third. THANK CRIPES.
Don’t get me wrong, I am thoroughly enjoying writing, but the next book is starting to knock on my door with a lot of force that I want to get stuck into it. Sure, I could multi-task, write them both, but I ain’t made that way. My entire body has been overtaken by the current book. I have to wait until I’m finished and then I need a serious exorcism. If only Jason Miller were still around *sigh*.
Draft three has been all about entering corrections, restructuring and fact checking. It’s been a long process.
And, what am I writing?
I’m ghostwriting an autobiography; I say “ghostwriting”, but I’m actually co writing, really. Simonne Jameson is a Holocaust survivor who spent three years, from the age of twelve, locked up in the cellar of the Paris National library by her local police. She was raped daily, sometimes she had more than one visitor a day, and sometimes they were brutal. They brought basic food, comics, sometimes lollies. She was surrounded by books and rats, no natural light, no clean clothes other than what she had on. By the time of the Liberation of Paris and her release, she had tuberculosis and weighed 37 kilograms. She had never entered a Nazi camp; her tormentors were her own people, the French men who lived in her quarter.
Despite this crazy start to life, Simonne, who was born Simonne Levi, has marvelled at life, taking it into her own hands and living it in a way most of us can only dream of. Simonne has been married four times, has five children (one of whom she adopted when she was 50), has been in the theatre, travelled the world, studied psychotherapy under Carl Jung, has known Picasso, Dali and Chagall, has been an art curator (and still is), and a child counsellor. Did I forget anything? Probably.
So, while I’m looking forward to having this manuscript finished, I can’t imagine a day when it’s no longer echoing in my head.
It’s for writers, about writers, by writers. Go on, check it out. There’s a fine interview with Alain de Botton and the fabulous Samone Bos of Lifeinacircus
JJ and I want to buy this place, which is a block away from our country estate, the one with all the ceramic gnomes in the garden (yes, seriously). We went there on our walk today and dreamed away.
At less than a million bucks for 11 rooms (in which to frolic our asses off), 11 bathrooms (no more excuses for missing a shower), a commercial kitchen (in which to practice making macaroons, and risotto), a little ballroom with a white mini grand piano (dancing?), a dining room big enough for a wedding reception ( or for when friends stay for dinner, whatever), it’s a freaking bargain.
But who the hell am I kidding? We’re far to sensible for that.
I sometimes read interviews with writers but nothing comes even remotely close to the sorts of pieces from The Paris Review. I went through a magazine collecting phase a few years back and, along with some primo editions of Rolling Stone and Face, I nabbed some old editions of the Review. Beautiful, vintage pieces that delved into the real whys and hows of writing. The Hemingway piece is still a favourite. Check out their online archives. I see that the current edition has Jonathan Franzen talking about the art of fiction.
Nothing gets me more than when a writer, when asked why they write, responds with “I just need to.” What the hell does that mean?
Writing is one of the most solitary conditions. Not as solitary as, say, being trapped in a mine or deep sea diving, but it’s definitely a solo act where you get trapped inside your own head.
I write because I like to tell stories, because I want to see and readwhat’s in my head. And I like seeing my name on things.
Here are a few more things I ask myself.
1. Is the simple act of writing enough or do I need to get published? 2. When should I write? Morning? Night? Do I need silence? Quite frankly, I can write anywhere because I, quite literally, escape into my head. 3. Do I care about what people want to read? Am I abreast of the latest trends in fiction? I hear that historical romance is dead but paranormal romance is HOT. 4. Should I write to a schedule? 1000 words a day? Two hours a day? Every day? Weekends. Or will I just write whenever I can? 5. What do I like to read? Whose voices speak to me the most? Do I read for story or style? 6. What about me? Is story key? Or is literary style most important? 7. Am I able to write what I don’t know or will I limit myself to my experiences? 8. If I don’t get a novel published, what other publishing paths am I prepared to take? Self publishing? POD? 9. How about writing groups? 10. How do I stay motivated when the ideas simply aren’t flowing or like’s kicking me in the guts and writing’s the last thing on my mind? 11. What am I prepared to do to make this happen? 12. Writing contests? Huge potential or letdown? 13. Will people think I’m writing my own life?
So plenty has been happening over here but I’ve been a bit busy actually DOING that I haven’t had as much time to write about it. I’m about to finish my second term of pottery and it’s seriously the best handcraft I’ve learned in years. Between the day job, pottery, writing a memoir (not mine – more about that another time), hanging with Jeff and renovating the other house, it’s been fun.
We have so much growing at the moment. The herbs that I moved from the old veggie patch are loving the full sun in their new home. I planted lemongrass a few weeks ago and it’s going great guns. The tomato seedlings are not growing too well. I have no idea what that’s about because a compost tomato plant is doing well. The weather’s been so weird – we’ve had so much rain and it’s been a super-cold spring so I’m sure that’s got a bit to do with what’s happening in the veggie patch. It’s going to be ok though. We also have eggplant, lettuce, leek, radishes, snowpeas, yellow beans, potatoes and onions growing. I think I’ll mulch tomorrow and give the garden a drenching with blood and bone.
So here is a story, in pictures, of spring in the garden and some new pottery pieces.
Clockwise from top left: New pottery, the hard rubbish score have been cleaned and are ready to be painted, the first of the season’s hydrangeas, our very first cherries!
Clockwise from top left: poppies in the pond, wild figs from the tree in the gnome pond, the potatoes are coming, the first strawberry
My friend and neighbour, J’Red, who’s also a cop, calls out over the fence:
J’Red: Hey Betty!
Me (Quite concerned. I don’t like his tone. Something’s afoot): What is it J’Red?
J’Red: Listen, I just got a call from Fitzy that people have been door knocking–
Me (interrupting): Freaking politicians – it’s that damned election next week.
J’Red: No, not that sort of door knocking. Two people are knocking on peoples’ doors to see if anyone’s home.
Me (furrowed brow): Are they dressed as nuns?
J’Red (he and his misses, T’Red, are quite used to me and JJ now): What? They’re junkies or something. Fitzy’s called the cops. I just thought with JJ away–
Me: You’ve been talking to my mum, haven’t you?
J’Red: Seriously. What are you talking about? Just lock your doors.
I’m a liar; a nun certainly did NOT walk into a bar. A very lovely, but dead, nun has become the first Australian Saint (we will now call her “Our Saint Mary”).
So JJ is currently away, eating his weight in fish tacos and cheese enchiladas in San Diego, and fitting in some work, of course.
Anyway, after a feed at my mum’s, I was pulling out of her driveway and she walked to the car quickly.
I try not to look in her direction but she ra-ta-taps urgently on the window and I can’t pretend not to notice. I wind down my window.
Mum: I don’t like you sleeping at home alone while JJ’s away. Why don’t you stay here? Me: (Hahahahaha) I’m ok. Watch your feet.
I inch out but, clearly, she’s not done.
Mum: Don’t be fooled by anyone knocking at the door. Don’t let them in. Me(I’ve seen the bait, I can’t avoid it. I take it): Who’s going to knock at my door trying to get in, mum? Mum: You know, some people pretend to be nuns. They dress as nuns and then they knock on peoples’ door wanting to get in to rob you and do whatever else. They pretend to be nuns. Me (hook, line, and sinker): People pretend to be nuns to get in your house. Mum, when was the last time you heard of anyone who was robbed by someone pretending to be a nun to trick their way into their house? That’s ridiculous. Mum: It happens. Me: To who? Mum: I hear these things. Me: From Italian satellite TV? Mum: You’ll thank me for warning you when a nun comes knocking at your door wanting to use the phone. Me: Watch your feet!
Clockwise from top left: Fake nuns, fake (but very realistic) nun, real nun, fake nun
Writing is a long process that involves listening, often to things you don’t want to hear. I tell the stories that I know; not verbatim but, rather, a retelling of the ideas. Often these are tales that my parents have imparted and tales that they have invented purely for my amusement.
My father is fond of the wandering fable and that is how I like to tell my stories. It is a voice that always exasperated me for it meandered ever so slowly—“get to the point,” I would often say but, for him, there was no other way to tell a story. And as my mother says, “a story can be told in many ways, and sometimes, the telling is just as important as the story itself.” Hopefully you will agree.
Mostly I like to tell stories that I think I remember. To me, my childhood is always sunny, filled with the hopeful sounds of cicadas and bees, trails of ants making their way to their underground lairs, split figs and shiny loquat seeds discarded in the yard, boys riding rusty BMX bikes out the front of the school during recess and the thin black strap behind a nun’s oak desk. That’s what I remember.
Holy crap, after weeks and months of prepping the front garden – first by removing all of the “lawn” – if you can call it that, with the drought we’re having – then putting down the weed mat, getting in new yummy soil and making our little hills, we finally got mulch in on the weekend from our favourite local garden centre that reeks of cigarette smoke and I just want to get out of there as quickly as possible. We spent Saturday afternoon landscaping and I’m still in pain.
I’ve been collecting succulents for years so it’s great to see them being used in the garden for once. They can spread out and really rustle their feathers now and GROW. And yes, when I say “collecting”, this may have included some illegal activity. Here, let me practice my favourite line of defence (that I haven’t had to use. Yet)
“But officer, I have NO IDEA how that plant got into my shoe/sock/underwear…”
Wherever I go, I just simply have to collect a piece. Anyway, let’s not dwell.
I finally did some seed sowing as well. I bit the bullet after reading a tonne and even going to the Digger’s Club seed sowing class a week ago, which was excellent and gave me the opportunity to check out the Heronswood Garden in Dromana, which everyone should check out some time (I promise I didn’t collect anything at Heronswood that I didn’t pay for). Learned some useful sowing tips and got a fab watering tool. Check it.
They didn’t try to do the hard sell but the few products I did buy are excellent, like the seed watering nozzle above. You can use it on any plastic bottle and it doesn’t disturb the seeds. Clever little invention!
We got a few more seeds, including seed potatoes, and a membership.
Did I say that I AM Martha Stewart? Looking at my sowing station might answer that question. I TRY!
I know it’s been a little gloomy here on the Box, but, well, that’s just how I roll. I mean, as much as I might try, I’m no Martha Stewart and the world’s simply not made of cupcakes.
I’ve been having a mid-life crisis for a few years, especially since JJ and I stopped trying to have a baby. And I’m here, sitting inside a cosy country house, the TV’s on DIG and I think they’re playing Ben Folds right now, so I’m pensive, wistful even. JJ’s out at a party – they have them here, in the country, and people here still take mushrooms. I’m staying in tonight but last night I went to see some local ladies in a saucy Burlesque show (photos below). My gorgeous galpal, Momo, is back in town. I’m ghostwriting an inspiring memoir for a holocaust survivor and I have a few story ideas in my back pocket, not to mention a little tale that was recently published in Litterbox Magazine. Work is busy and gives me a decent salary and security. The meds seem to be doing their job. We’re not lacking anything, really. Things seem pretty good, right.
So why am I so uneasy? Why am I still looking for more? I’ve said it before, one of my biggest fears is realising that this is it. That there’s nothing else. When I was an unruly kid at university, I remember saying that I had no regrets in life – no matter how stupid things got, whose car I threw up in, whose boyfriend I fucked, I knew that there was nothing to regret. Make a choice and believe in it, even if you’re wasted, make a choice and completely buy into it.
I’m starting to wonder if the problem with getting older is that we start to have regrets and that’s why people tend to become jaded and cynical. You see, the longer you’re around, you experience more highs and lows, tonnes of lows, so jumping into the next thing frightens the crap out of you.
It’s funny how I had no regrets in the past, and yet I did so many regrettable things. And now, I’m starting to have regrets and I’m not actually doing anything. But hang on, you say, look back on paragraph 2, you’re doing heaps. And therein lies the freaking conundrum. It’s a busy life, but where’s the substance? Why don’t I take big leaps anymore? I was talking to an old friend, Voodoo, last night about this very thing. He lives up here in the bush and JJ and I desperately want to leave the city and head down here permanently. But it freaks me out. What happens if we fail? What if we don’t like it? What if it’s just like being in the city, except here?
I never used to worry about these things.
“Hey JJ, let’s quit our jobs and go travelling.”
“Hey JJ, I’m going to run a magazine.”
“Hey Betty, I’m going to open a record shop.”
“Hey JJ, let’s get a dog.”
“Hey JJ, let’s try IVF.”
“Hey JJ, let’s get another dog.”
“Hey Betty, I’m going to become a marriage celebrant.”
“Let’s buy a place in the bush.”
“Hey JJ, I’m going to be a life coach.”(yes, don’t laugh)
And this is what I think the midlife crisis is all about. We become afraid to make big choices. When we do, we buy sports cars – that’s how we expand ourselves when we’re too scared to make any real life choices. An expensive car is a safe way to show how much we’re moving forward.
I enjoy life’s slow pace these days, but I can’t help wondering if, should I live to 103 as I plan, will anything change along the way? Or is this it? Will I take chances again? Or is this the end?
And now for something a little less gloomy. Beautiful, in fact. The local ladies have formed a Burlesque troupe – Ripe – and they performed at The Convent Gallery on Friday night.
(sorry about the image quality – taken with my crappy phone)
That’s correct. October 15, 2010. We’re down at the country estate, 1 hour west of Melbourne.
Did I mention that it’s the middle of SPRING? SPRING.
There was one inch of snow in Daylesford and a little less in Hepburn Springs. JJ and I were asleep in the loft when Papa bear woke us up in his dulcet tone:
“Oi, you two. Get up. It’s freaking snowing.” (ok, he may have actually said, “eh, yooi tooi, cumma onna, issa snowa”.)
“What’s he talking about?” I say to JJ.
“He says it’s snowing,” JJ croaks back.
We tumble down the new staircase and, lo and behold, it’s freaking snowing. It’s actually snowing, in October, an hour from Melbourne.
ʃəl
So I am nearly at the end of this draft – the third. THANK CRIPES.
Photo by leah jones
