Are We There Yet?

“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love” – Ernest Hemingway

We’ve all been on those road trips, both as children and adults.  I remember sitting in the back seat of my parent’s old green Holden driving to Bunbury to visit my father’s cousin’s dairy farm when I was little, struggling for space with two equally bored sisters who came up with the game of let’s-annoy-each-other-for-fun at precisely the same time I did, motivating a bitch-slapping counterpoint of “Knock it off!” from front seat parents who were probably thinking they should have left us in the back yard with a bowl of water, like they did the dog.

Then you’re a parent yourself and travelling with small children who never shut the fuck up, fart in the car without warning, constantly complain of being bored despite your fanatical faith in the Game Boy you thrust at them as soon as the ignition key is turned, and they always need to pee precisely five minutes after you have pulled out of the gas station but refuse to use a bush on the side of road because it’s not private.  You drag them back to the car and make them sit on a towel because you just know, and seriously think about dosing them up with Nyquil and filling their mouth with peanut butter.

Finishing a first draft, especially the first draft of that bugbear of literature – The Second Book – is a lot like the road trip.  It’s exhausting, exhilarating, satisfying, terrifying, and there is always that god awful smell from the back seat and the niggling misgivings about the sanity of getting in the car with the thing in the first place.  Then there is that awful question that sends a cold chill and homicidal impulse through every parent: Are we there yet?

I’ve finished this first draft of the second book and yet...have I?  When do we actually stop?  Like the road trip we get out and admire a view feeling all “this-was-so-worth-it”, but then we get back in the car and keep driving until we find another view.  Eventually we have to decide when we can share the view, knowing full well that while you believe you’re looking at the Grand Canyon, the person sharing the view with you might be seeing a pot hole.

Ok.  I think I’ve beaten that road trip metaphor into a coma.

I’m going to give myself a couple of days to read and re-read.  I’m going to criticize myself mercilessly, because that’s what I do to prepare for another’s criticism.  Then I’m going to send it on its way.  I’ll be sitting on a towel waiting on the verdict.

"A book has got smell" – Ray Bradbury

Sometimes when I’m walking past one of my book cases, or a table that is laden with books, I’ll just do a little rearranging.  I’ll move them about, or build asymmetrical stacks, or open one and bury my face in it like it’s a fat baby, and sometimes even be happily surprised by something I had forgotten I owned.  I can’t walk past the shelves in the hall without touching a spine. 

Sometimes I’ll open a book to a random page and just read that page. A book I remember having beautiful words in exactly the right place will draw me to just dip in.  And I might write a note in a margin and leave the book face down, covers splayed, spine cracking, and advice about good book care will pinch me until I realize I have a secret relationship with this book and it understands.

Sometimes I’ll think about the house moves I’ve done - how I had to pick and choose what to slow boat back to Australia - and I’ll grieve the books left behind.  All those Shirley Hughes MacGyvered together with lacky bands and yellowing tape; the Toni Morrison, John le Carre, V.S. Naipaul, all left behind because they can be replaced, can’t they?  Well they can be replaced, but not those copies, which still have crumbs in them because I like to eat crackers in bed while I read.

I have a Tohby Riddle picture book I read aloud to myself when I’m feeling sad.

Where does this relationship with books come from?

My sister recently suggested I take up meditation to cope with some physical pain.  I told her I couldn’t quiet my mind.  Then I picked up The Transit of Venus (Shirley Hazzard) for the umpteenth time, and fell quiet.  Or distracted.  Or involved.  Or removed.  All those things books do.

Best not to analyze it. 

I love books.

“Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you’ve got to say, and say it hot.” – D.H Lawrence.

I have been honoured to be in the presence of some hot speak during the Perth International Writer’s Festival 2013.

“Being Bold” with  Julia Lawrinsonand Vikki Wakefield, chaired by Bonnie Davies.  What was interesting was that each of us took to the topic as if it were anathema.  Each of us having been labeled “bold” in the past (with varying consequences) we argued that the “bold” tag can almost be a hobble in our market.  Where we write for our audience (or in my case with no audience in mind) we find ourselves nose to nose with the gatekeepers of young adult literature time and time again.  With adults deciding what is appropriate and what is not, what opportunities for authentic, contentious discussion are being lost?  Is this fair?  We didn’t answer that question as well we shouldn’t.  Our job is not to anticipate the response to our writing lest that inhibit the honesty from which we draw our motivation.  To be on a panel with Julia Lawrinson whom I have read and respected for so many years was wonderful, even though now I have a permanent mental picture of her with her legs out the sunroof of a Yaris.  And Vikki Wakefield and I discovered quite early on that we are actually twins separated at birth. ‘Nuff said.  (Check in with Vikki if you need validation of this).

“At The Edge of Darkness” with Caroline Overington and Emma Chapman, chaired by Jane Cornes.  Having read the latest from these extraordinary women (Sisters of Mercy and How To Be A Good Wife, respectively) I was very excited to meet them.  Both of these women have credentials and prizes the listing of which throw me into an alcohol/codeine induced depression.  Just as well I was wearing my “Artist” lanyard, otherwise someone would have shoe-horned me out of my seat on the panel gently explaining “The audience doesn’t sit there, dear.”

What a ride!  With the faultless, and gentle, direction of our chair (Jane Cornes) we covered realism in literature, the process by which our experience with the real morphs into fiction, our favourite characters in our own books, where we draw from to create our worlds, the editorial process, and the future of publishing (p-book, e-book, online). 

It was so good to be given the opportunity to have these public conversations with such extraordinarily talented writers, to interact with other readers, and to sit in the signing chair earlier occupied by Andy Griffiths (I kept it warm for you Andy...).

The "C" Word

“I wrote a song about dental floss but did anyone’s teeth get cleaner?” - Frank Zappa

 Before I get into this Blog I must warn all sensitive readers that I am going to use the ‘C’ word...CENSORSHIP.

In August 2012 I was invited to attend and participate in a well known Literary Festival in Western Australia.  It is a Festival I have supported, attended and loved as an audience member for years.  So you can only imagine how delighted and humbled I was by an invitation to be a presenter at said Festival.

Six months after the invitation and my acceptance, just weeks before the Festival, the organizers read Creepy & Maud.  I received an email from the organizer, part of which reads:

"And having read it, I realised with great sadness that I would not be able to get you to present it at the festival because the actual life experiences of many adolescents can be so very distasteful to their parents...and completely at odss with the more wholesome vision of themselves as good parents etc that they generally prefer to have!"

 

I was offered two other roles at the Festival: a writing workshop or a chaired debate, the proviso being Creepy & Maud was not presented. 

What amazes me about this request to pull my head in at their Festival is that they seem to be asking me to do so out of respect for the delusion of the parents.  That is, the parents here like to think of themselves and their children in a certain way and while the Festival supports that fantasy they are concerned that I don’t or won’t. 

Wrong.  I whole-heartedly support the right of any and all individuals to live in whichever fantasy world they choose.  It’s not my business.  What concerns me here is the elevation of one fantasy over all others; the decision of the Festival organizers to only choose content consistent with the vision these parents have of themselves, rather than exploring what this denial of reality may be doing to the children raised in such an environment.  And then there is fear.  I’ve seen fear of controversy clutch at the throat of people too often – people who should be speaking loudly and fearlessly, joyously and with good humour, too often whittled down to a nub of their real selves in the misguided belief that peace is better than sharp thinking and tasty conversation.

Something very exciting could have happened between older adolescents and Creepy & Maud in this forum.  Now, through an extraordinary set of events, it cannot.  I have chosen to withdraw from participating in this event as I believe my attendance (in scold’s bridle) would be condoning their decision to censor.  This year it was me.  Next year it could be someone else.

I am left with an overwhelming sense of sadness.  I don’t care about losing the gig, but is this the thin end of the wedge?  Bruce Coville once said that the real heroes are the librarians and teachers who at no small risk to themselves refuse to lie down and play dead for the censors.  I won’t play dead either.  I will continue to be loud and honest.  I respect your right to feel confronted or offended.  I do not respect your right to choose shutting me up over talking it through.

(Note: This Blog does not refer to the Perth Writers Festival.  I will be attending the PWF in the company of some of my favourite fellow writers)

"The Next Big Thing"

My lovely editor, friend and favourite West Australian writer, Amanda Curtin, has tagged me to participate in this book meme - “The Next Big Thing”.  It is an embarrassingly inappropriate title in my case.  I prefer to name this blog “The Next Hopefully As Moderately Successful WIP Crawling Toward Deadline”.  To read about a genuine Next Big Thing please refer to Amanda Curtin’s blog here.

1.What is the working title of your current work in progress/next book?

Open Slather

2.Where did the idea come from?

When I was living in the United States there was a trial involving a teen couple who had become pregnant and decided to hide the pregnancy.  They delivered the infant in a motel room and then killed her, disposing of her in a dump bin.  The story has never left me.  I began to think about what circumstances could possibly convince two affluent, well-educated young people that they had no other choice but this.  What are the psychological mechanisms which enable two young people to convince themselves that a human life is just a thing?  How do young people become so isolated from, and fearful of, the intervention of parents?  What are grown-ups doing within their relationships with young adults to sabotage the one connection that should be the safe place to fall?  I approach this with no judgment. 

3.What genre does your book fall into?

Young adult/Cross Over.

4.What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

I do write very visually!  (Little movie in my head...)  I can see Abigail Breslin as Rose.  Logan Lerman would be a great Michael.  I would cast Ryan Gosling in there somewhere.  Just for funsies.  Give me an excuse to lick the screen....

5.What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Does doing something monstrous make you a monster?

6.Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Fremantle Press has given me a deadline based on the first 10,000 words they read.  However said read words are no longer the first 10,000.  They may not like it so it may be “The Next Big Rejected Thing”.    Stay toooooned....

7.How long did it take you to write the first draft?

Bit of a premature question as unfinished.  I started making notes in 1997.  I started writing real words late 2011.  In between I had a husband and child to raise.  The husband has since moved on to more bruise-accepting pastures and so I write and write and write...

8.What other books would you compare this to within your genre?

Who knows?  And who the fuck cares?  Comparisons are so self-defeating.  I’ve got one little book out there compared to years and years of dozens and dozens of beautiful, thought provoking YA. 

9.Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Refer question 2.

10.What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

This is a non-judgmental stare at perpetrators of infanticidal manslaughter.  Interested?

Hand on the Stove

“I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes...” – Neil Gaiman

Done, Neil.  In fact I predict I’ll make at least three new mistakes tomorrow.  I made a big one yesterday which only proves that I’m living my life fully right up to the end of the old year.  Let’s celebrate mistakes for a couple of hundred words, and look at the fallout a bit more closely.

We’re a mistake prone species.  And we don’t like them.  There’s great judgment awaiting anyone who makes mistakes.  We don’t like them in others and we don’t like them in ourselves.  Some mistakes are so glaringly obvious we might as well print up the sandwich board for ourselves and wear it with pride.  If everyone knows about your mistake then no amount of self-effacing humility and best effort to move on as quickly as possible can diminish the consequences: a public mistake can hang in the air like a fart in a lift for years.  Then there’s the private mistake, the one only you know about.  The one that you can distract yourself from for as long as it takes to follow a dress pattern or build a bridge, some activity that engages enough of your analytical brain to muffle recent memory.  But eventually mortification sneaks up and plants a wet nose in your crotch and then it’s only a matter of time before your mistake is barking at you incessantly enough to wake the neighbours.

Of course mistakes come in all shapes and sizes, so defining the mistake on the fallout scale is probably useful.  There’s the mistake that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme (“I really shouldn’t have gotten this hair cut”) verses the mistake that is definable by law (“I really shouldn’t have set fire to the neighbours car”).  I’m talking about something in between, obviously: something really, really bad that can hurt you or others like a bastard, but won’t get you arrested (“I really shouldn’t have voted for Tony Abbott”).  And if we’re on this road of classification then surely the real test of any mistake is how we feel about it afterwards, and how other people make us feel.

Mistakes are certainly motivating and sometimes the best response to them is to own them.  (I caused this, I set this up, and it’s going to hurt me, and you.  Now buggar off and enjoy the show).  And we should be hurt by our mistakes, shouldn’t we?  People run around all-consumed with a self-preservation inspired avoidance of any sort of pain when pain is the great teacher, isn’t it?  Bollocks.  When we put our hand on the stove and learn never to do so again through the pain caused, we don’t then put our hand on the stove again the following week just to make sure.  But some mistakes we make over and over and oftentimes because of our irrational belief in our right to be happy (is that a right?) and our desire to be understood and validated.

Are we, therefore, actually defined by our mistakes?  And would that be so bad?  Here’s to another twelve months of fucking things up.  Happy New Year.

Why is everyone so sensitive about the Right Wing?

“To admit you want to have a comeback means you have to admit you weren’t what you were supposed to be.  You dropped below your own standard.” – Marilyn Manson

I found myself in a situation recently where the conversation got really good.  You know those situations when everyone at the table is suddenly engaged, even when the topics scud about with merciless speed and then out of the blue there’ll be two, maybe three, different topics floating about at once and everyone is following everything?  The sort of conversation where people can disagree but still value each other and people talk over the top of one another but with enthusiasm for the discourse rather than recourse to bullying?  Good conversation that reminds an anti-social divorcee that people are great fun? 

Well, that didn’t last long.

One of the guests made a statement.  That’s ok.  It was racist, xenophobic bullshit but I am not one to judge (stop laughing...).  Keeping with the wonderful spirit of the occasion I countered with an alternative view and expected the tête-à-tête to continue with aforementioned enjoyment.  But something strange happened.  Everyone went quiet.  It wasn’t what I said or how I said it.  As far as I can deduce, it was the simple fact that I had disagreed with this one particular person.  The person next to me actually “shooshed” me.  Being a guest, as was this gentleman, I complied.  I shooshed.  For a time.

You see, they then gave him the floor.  I knew there were people present as uncomfortable with what he was saying as I was, but still the floor was his.  He was offensive, belligerent, and spoke with the sort of authority that only comes from a frightened person reverting to the kill-switch for fear: anger.  And somehow his fear was creating an even greater fear in everyone else.

Everyone just sat there.  I engaged with this man a couple of times and found that the angst of the table was directed at me!  So I shut the fuck up.  All of my comebacks are still festering in me.  Later I was told that this man was very sensitive and had strong views.  I was asked (told) not to respond.  Just let it go, for everyone’s sake!  It doesn’t matter!  He’s old fashioned!  Let it go!  Right...ok.  And more right.  And some more.  So much right I walked in fucking circles for a week.

I myself am sensitive.  It helps to be when you are creating people to inhabit a made up world you want your readers to believe in for just a little while.  Of course Creepy also came up in the tirade.  He could understand why I was so “bleeding-heart liberal” (liberal in the American sense) – that was made very clear in the “shit I was peddling”.   No response.  We don’t want to upset the sensitive Right Wing nor those who are sensitive about it.  And bringing up the Bible on top of everything else – well! Screw rational, evidentiary thought!  Screw conversation – let’s just move onto the chicken wings...(“How are they coming along, darling?...)

Here’s what I’ve noticed:  the Right Wing seems very sensitive to me.  And even those who are not Right Wing are terribly sensitive about that sensitivity.  My son said to me: “The only argument the right wing seems to have is that you can’t argue with them.” 

So much for discourse.