Write on the Edge

Keep on keeping on ...

2010-08-29T09:47:00.000+12:00

I call myself 'a writer'. It's what I love most in life - my passion, the thing that makes time lose all meaning, that makes everything else just go away ...

So why is it that it's also the thing that ends up at the boottom of the priority queue? What does it say about me that I feel I can only write when everything else is running according to schedule?

I started a new work about two weeks ago. Wrote a complete outline on one day - a good outline, with a real beginning, middle and end. Which doesn't often happen, usually my writing begins with an image, or an emotional reaction, some trigger that later grows into a fully-fledged story. This one leapt forth fully grown. So there I was, totally excited and putting pen to paper - yeah, fingers to keyboard! - and I pushed out chapter one in a day. Awesome.

Then, everything around me went to hell in terms of disorder, indecision, problems to solve, and stressful emotions to deal with. And as each day passes, my story seems to fade into insignificance, and loses attractiveness, and I keep thinking that on my next day off, I'll get back to it ... and then I wonder if it's worth writing, worth all the hard work ...

And then I think - HELL, YES!!!! :-) If I were given six months to live (why is it always six months?), the one thing I'd want to do is finish something worth publishing. And this story IS a good one, I know it in my bones, so ... HELL, YES!!

Onward, then and shitty life issues be damned!

My Last Idols Entry

2008-12-07T01:13:00.000+13:00

I've pulled out of the Idols race for personal reasons (can you call a move to the other side of the world a personal reason?!?) but this was my entry for Week Nine, the prompt for which was Twilight. I cheated, due to lack of time. This one was written about four or five years ago and it's a very *religious* kind of piece, so if you don't like that kind of thing, feel free to skip! (It also doesn't really reflect the way I write these days, so I didn't mind that it didn't pick up many votes ... )

SACRIFICE

He blinked rapidly, trying to see, but his vision was cloudy, his mind dipping in and out of consciousness. Waves of nausea and heat flowed over him as the sun blasted down out of a cloudless sky and nothing in his body seemed to belong to him anymore. It almost didn’t matter that he was naked, in agony, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

My God. How long had it been? The taunts and catcalls from the crowd had fallen away; only the soldiers continued to mock him, and even they were now visibly bored. He had no idea whether he’d been up here three hours or three days. It couldn’t be much longer surely? And then he’d be done, the fight complete, the battle won.

Nearly there, he thought. Nearly home.

A sudden darkening in the sky as something crossed the sun. Nightfall already? Surely not. He tilted his head, trying to see upward without moving his pain-wracked body. A thunderhead of dark clouds came boiling out of nowhere, thickening with every second, coating the world in twilight hues of black and gray. A chill wind licked his fever-dry skin, dull rumbling filled his ears and the sound of demonic laughter echoed crazily through the caverns of his mind.

Father?

Below him on the ground, the soldiers shouted in surprise, confused by the dusky twilight that had so suddenly shrouded the land. An immense fear filled him as the dense black cloud descended further, wreathing and enfolding him, bending his neck beneath its weight.

Father, help me!

But even as his silent scream cannoned off Heaven’s door, he knew. And he groaned as the sin-thickened darkness seeped into his soul and he felt himself sinking fathoms deep into guilt and despair and shame. In that moment, he became the addict, drawn to the slick, cheap thrills that failed to satisfy; the adulterer, sliding helplessly into the gaping jaws of lust; the murderer, blazing with rage as he stole the life of the innocent. He felt the mad fury of the warmonger, the deep shame of the sexually perverted; the humiliation of lies revealed and theft uncovered; the searing agonies of prostituted flesh. He wept without sound as filth, squalor and degradation filled him. On and on it went until his soul was black with it, inside and out.

Father? It was a whimper, a hopeless plea.

Nothing. There was nothing around him but empty air. His Father was gone. The demonic laughter rose from the pit at his feet, lacerating him until his blood ran thick and dark with it. Above him the impenetrable vaults of Heaven rejected his every breath. Time fell away as he hung between two worlds, suspended between justice and damnation. Was it an hour? A second? In this world of lost time and unrelenting darkness, he had no way of knowing.

My God… Panic built in him, threatening to suffocate him. He pushed himself up against the spikes of steel, and dragged in a lungful of air, hearing it crackle and burn in his chest. He threw his head back and howled.

“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”

The words reverberated off the walls of the heavens, clanging like empty cymbals, the ringing sounds of abandonment and death.

Aeons later, a weak, faint wind lifted the dark air from his face. He felt a sponge being thrust into his mouth, the acrid vinegar-flavoured water burning his lips and eyes, and he turned his face away. He was done, all poured out, an empty vessel. He forced his eyes open one last time, saw the dark clouds receding, flowing away faster than water spiralling down a plughole, the preternatural twilight giving way to the corrosive rays of the noonday sun.

It was over. The end was in sight.

It…… is ………finished……

He forced the words past dry and cracked lips, but no one heard. No one cared. The heavens remained hard as brass, unyielding, unforgiving. No matter. He’d stayed the course and kept the faith. A spark of hope touched his soul and he twisted his head upward and opened his mouth again, oblivious to fact that he had no breath left in him.

Abba, Father!

The words rose upwards and outwards, a shout of absolute victory in the face of absolute defeat.

Into your hands I commend my spirit!

Idols for Writers Week Eight

2008-11-15T20:49:00.001+13:00

This week's prompt was Heroes. Ugh. There are some really great entries - funny, inventive and highly entertaining. Mine was a somber piece, based on some of the stuff I see at work everyday. Basically a true story, but the names and details have been changed.

HEROES

Every weekday morning, promptly at half past nine, Jacob arrives at the Whitby Health Care Centre. On the weekends, he might come a little later, with either a coffee cake for the staff or a fat Sunday newspaper tucked beneath his arm. It’s a fifteen-minute drive each way and he’s been doing it twice a day every day for the last nine years. In the morning, he parks his metallic blue Mazda near a row of stunted pine trees, but in the afternoon, he prefers the shelter of the indoor parking garage. The lighting is better there—at eighty-two, his eyes are still bright blue, but his vision isn’t what it used to be.

As we drink coffee together in the sunshine outside the front door, I ask him whether he ever gets tired of the daily trip. Jacob has a trick of looking at you over the top of his glasses, which are Coke-bottle thick and held together with a bit of tape on the side. He squints at me and shrugs. “Of course,” he says. “But what else can I do?”

He’s a tall man, a little thick round the middle now, with tufts of white hair surrounding his bald patch. With his corduroy pants and patched-elbow jackets, he exudes the slightly rumpled air of an absent-minded professor. We chat easily as we finish our coffee, the conversation flowing from Barrack Obama’s victory at the polls, to the weather, which is surprisingly good today, and to his sleep last night, which wasn’t quite so good. Then we walk back down the hall to Room Five. Jacob knows his way around Whitby as well as he knows the hallways of his own home. In some ways, this is his home away from home, because here, in Room Five, is where Ruby lives. And Ruby, a chubby woman with iron-gray hair, a whiny, nasal voice and multi-infarct dementia, is his wife.

I shake hands with Jacob and tell him goodbye, then I peek inside the room next door, Room Four. This is Carole's room. Fifteen months ago, Carole was a high-flying advertising executive, a mature single woman with two dogs, loads of friends and a love of travel. But when a routine insurance physical produced an unexpected diagnosis of rapidly-advancing cancer, chemo and radiotherapy left her with no eyebrows, a head of patchy, graying hair and severe depression. Right now, I’m looking for Maya, who was Carole’s next-door neighbor until three months ago when Carole was moved to Whitby for what the staff call ‘terminal care’. Although the room is full of sunshine, flowers and classical music, Carole is snoring, mouth wide open, and spittle coating her bluish lips. Maya, a young married woman in her thirties, is changing the water in some of the flowers and she’s happy to take a break to talk to me. We’ve been spending time together now for about a week, and finally I’m ready to ask her some of the most important questions.

“What happened to all Carole’s other friends?” I ask. Throughout my week at Whitby, I’ve seen only Maya in her room. “You seem to be her only visitor.”

Maya looks at her hands and spins her rings. “Her friends visited a lot in the beginning,” she says. “When Carole was having surgery and during the chemo, people brought meals and gifts and stuff. But then …” she shrugs. “Carole got very depressed, very angry. She wasn’t pleasant to be around, you know. I guess people don’t like that too much. And when she got admitted her, when it seemed the end was close, they kind of stopped coming.”

“But you didn’t,” I say. “You weren’t even friends, back then, you were just next-door neighbors. So how come you’re the one who’s here for her now? Why is that?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I wish I had a good answer for you. All I know is she’s alone in the world and she’s dying. I don’t think its right for anyone to have to die alone.” She shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I like to think maybe she’d have done the same for me, if our positions were reversed.”

“Kind of heroic,” I tell her, but she denies it immediately. “If anyone is a hero” she says “it’s Jacob—you know the guy I mean, Ruby’s husband?” As if on cue, we hear Ruby calling out as she does so often during the day. Help me, help me, nurse, nurse, help me, help me … The staff do the best they can, but there’s no real treatment for her persistent and meaningless vocalizations. Maya shakes her head.

“It’s really sad,” she says, “especially when you know their history, that it has come down to this.”

I have to agree. Over the week, I've also spent a lot of time talking with Jacob and I know now that when he was a teenager, he and most of the people in his little village in Holland were deported by the Nazis to concentration camps in Germany. “I was lucky,” he told me once, a rueful smile on his ruddy, wrinkled face. “I managed to escape and when I got caught again, I ended up in a work camp instead of a death camp. I survived.”

Lucky, I think. For most of us, luck is getting off work a few hours earlier, or finding a ring you thought you’d lost. For Jacob and Ruby, it was survival. They met after the war, at a hiking club. They’d married and when Ruby was in her forties, they’d had a child, a daughter who now lived far away. “You should have known Ruby when she was still well,” he often said to me. “She was never a great beauty, but what a fine woman! And what a fine mind she had. She taught physics at university, did you know that?”

It’s hard to imagine. Whenever he’s there, Ruby, with her dull skin and rough cut hair, reaches for him anxiously, demanding his attention. She has the concentration span of a two-year old and I’ve even seen some of the staff getting a bit annoyed with her. But Jacob is patient. Day after day, he comes in and reads to her, talks to her, takes her for short walks. He never leaves her without a quick kiss to her brow.

I see him now, pausing at the door of Carole’s room. He gestures with his newspaper toward Carole. “How is she today?” We all look at Carole, thin, drawn, and still snoring. “No change,” says Maya. Her smile is sad, her eyes full of compassion.

He nods and for a moment there is silence in the room. But it’s not an uncomfortable silence. There is a strange camaraderie here, a bond between strangers built on nothing less than decency and love and the willingness simply to be present and to care, day after day after day. They might deny it, I think, but heroic is the word, for both of them.

“I’m off then,” says Jacob. “Would anyone like the newspaper? I’m finished with it for today.”

“Thank you,” says Maya. “Carole likes me to read to her sometimes and there’s lot of good news today. It makes a nice change, doesn’t it?”

“It does, it does indeed.” Jacob adjust his glasses, tips his cap to us and then he’s gone.

Idols for Writers Week Seven

2008-11-15T20:38:00.000+13:00

Week Seven and the prompt this time was Utopia. This week I used an old story I wrote about three years ago. Upgraded and revised it and voila! It came in third, but the winner of this week;s round is my buddy Kels!! YAY!!

THE ROAD TO UTOPIA

"I'm ready. I’ll go."

There’s a slow intake of breath at the other end of the line. "You're sure?"

The hesitation is clear and I know why. I come from a long line of broken promises and unfulfilled expectations. But this time, it’s different. I'm going to do this. I won’t think anymore, I’ll just do. End of story.

"Yes, I’m sure.”

“Twenty minutes. This is right, Sam. You won’t be sorry."

I replace the receiver, pull on my boots and find my jacket, keys and cell phone. The dog, who thinks he knows what's going down, starts running in circles, claws beating a furious tattoo on the tiled floor. His eyes are bright as he stares at me, eager for our evening walk.

Not today, buddy.

I trudge down the hall, push open the door to the study and, not for the first time, I tell my kids a little white lie.

"I'm going out for a while, guys. Walking the dog. Tell mom I said goodbye." The words sail over the heads of my children, who are absorbed in some psychedelic cyber world. It's a reality they seem to prefer these days and suddenly, it annoys the shit out of me.

"Didn’t you hear me?" I raise my voice, then cringe at the irritation in my tone. God knows when I'll see them again, and I'm yelling at them?

Shame on me.

But they’re not bothered. Tom flips a distracted hand in my direction. Fourteen and already he's pushing the limits of civility. Katie executes a neat pirouette and ends up facing me. Her eyes are on fire.

"I totally cracked Level Three, Dad, but Tom is taking forever¾"

"Am not." Tom doesn't even turn his head, his hands flying over the keyboard

"Yes, you are." She spins back to the screen as yet another missile explodes in a cacophony of red and gold noise.

"I'm going now," I say. But there’s no response—they’re bent towards the screen, bodies tensed and expectant. A burst of colour surges across the scene and Tom's virtual self splinters into multi-hued shreds. He groans and slumps backwards in the chair.

"My turn, my turn." Katie shoves at him impatiently and I'm in despair. They have no idea what's about to happen, so how can I make a big deal out of this goodbye? I hesitate. Tom's face, all angles and acne, is tight with disappointment, so I step forward and pull him against me in a quick, hard hug. My son..

"Chill, Dad, its okay. I'll crack it next time." He grins wryly at me and pulls away, oblivious to the breaking of my heart.

"Sure you will." I let him go and step towards the door, steeling myself to leave. "Your mom will be home soon. Be good, guys. I¾I love you."

"Love ya too, Daddy." Katie sing-songs the way she always does but Tom is already slouching off towards the kitchen.

In the hall, the dog stares at me, head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out. I stare back at him. There's no air in here, and I feel as if I'm choking. The dog whines, as if to say 'one last walk for old times' sake?' To the field and back will only take ten minutes. And that way, my lie won’t actually be a lie …

I leave the house, locking the door behind me. The dog tears off towards the end of the road and I follow, breathing deeply. The air is cool and I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, hearing the steady crunch of gravel beneath my boots. The sun is dying, sinking below the horizon and the earth lies dark beneath the rain-sodden weight of the clouds. I shiver, thankful for my heavy jacket, then step up the pace and soon I'm on the field. The dog is a distant blur, speeding across the darkening wasteland, barking joyously as night birds scatter before him.

I stop walking, lift my fingers to my lips and whistle. The dog, however, is a no-show. I walk faster, searching the shadows, almost glad that this is the last time I'll play 'hunt the dog' in the dark.

I wonder who’ll walk him when I'm gone? Sherri? At the thought of my wife, tides of guilt surge through me. Sherri’s a fine woman, and a good mother. But we married too soon, too young—no! Enough with the excuses! Just tell the truth, Sam.

Lilly liked to say that—just tell the truth, Sam. I pause as I hear the dog barking in the distance, and for a second, it's almost as if I can hear her voice again, those lazy, seductive tones that¾

Oh dear God, I mustn't start thinking about Lilly now.

But the memories won't stay buried. I'm lost, carried back to the moment a year ago when she sashayed into my lecture hall and, with her hip-rolling walk and sassy grin, tore my life apart. Ten years younger than me, high on dope and life, she exuded a dangerously hypnotic and totally irresistible appeal.

I groan, remembering the terrifying, heart-breaking weeks that followed, as I discovered what falling in love was all about. Flying high, and falling, falling, falling¾and then doing it all over again. My life became a roller-coaster of danger, desire and desperation. Without her, I was miserable. But with her, I soared, turning cartwheels across the top of the world. Life seemed full of light and risk and adventure. She took me to a world I'd never dreamt existed, and she taught me how to fly.

The dog barks again and I stop, rooted to the ground as pain rages through me. This is not how it should be. I'm angry now¾an irrational anger that chews at my gut. Where the hell is that mangy hound? The sun is gone, fallen below the horizon, and the dark presses close around me, squeezing me in its treacherous embrace.

A sudden explosion of paws and panting, and there's the dog, slathering dust and spit all over my boots. I grab his collar and snap on the leash, and he tugs and strains, desperate for one last adventure, one more wild flight to nowhere. I keep the leash short and my throat closes as I realize my desires are no different from his.

Through all those months of intoxicating highs and soul-destroying lows, I tried to keep them all in the dark. I spent less and less time at home. Sometimes I caught Sherri looking at me, saw the pain and confusion in her eyes. I used to look away, pretending everything was all right. We both ignored the shadows beneath my eyes, the trembling of my hands.

Oh, God, I think. Can I do this? Can I really just walk out on my family?

I clench my fists in my pockets, torn between unfulfilled need and unbearable shame. Get a grip, Sam! I have to believe I'm making the right choice. I stiffen my resolve and repeat my mantra of hope. I'm making the right choice. Leaving now is better than staying…..

We're back at the house now. I undo the leash and let the dog into the garden. Sherri will see to him when she gets home. I hear the deep rumble of an engine and lift my head in time to see an old Ford slide to a halt outside the gate.

Right on time.

I straighten up and suck air, trying to quell the sudden panic in my chest.

Good bye, house. Good bye, kids.

The door pops open and slip into the seat. I sit tight, staring straight ahead.

Good bye dog. Good bye life.

"You all right?"

“I will be. Let’s just go, OK?”

We accelerate down the road and for a minute, I think I'm going to die. Whatever comes next, my life will never be the same again. As if he can hear the silent screaming in my head, the man behind the wheel turns his gaze on me.

“You tell the kids?”

I shake my head, look out of the window. “Sherri will do it.”

I feel him staring at me and the sweat breaks out on my neck. My hands are shaking now. He laughs.

"It's going to be okay, Sam. You're going to make it." The unexpected compassion in his voice stabs me and I cover my eyes with my hand as we drive on through the dusk and into the night.

How can he know I'm going to make it? Lilly’s been gone a month already—walked out and left me with a broken heart and a monkey on my back. I’m a mess of grief, and need, and fear. How will I live? I've been drowning in a sea of darkness, doubt and despair—I groan, and wring my hands….

“Whoa, Sam. One thing at a time, one day at a time. Remember?” He spins the wheel and we turn into the grounds of Utopia Rehabilitation Centre—the answer to all my problems, apparently.

“Dumb name,” I say, distracted for a moment, and the man at my side chuckles. He’s done his own time here, wrestling with the demons, and he knows this is no paradise. “Did you know,” I tell him, “that in Greek, utopia also means ‘no place’? Outopia means nowhere. Sounds about right for me …”

"Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “Not true, Sam. You’re not nowhere, buddy. You’re back at the beginning, right at the start of the rest of your life. You just have to take hold, to fight it.”

He sounds so sure. All I can do is hope that maybe, just maybe, time will prove him right.

Idols for Writers Week Six

2008-11-15T20:29:00.000+13:00

My entry for Week Six was done in a heck of a hurry - I wrote it on the fly and squeaked in just under the deadline! Whew! NOT funny! But still, I liked it and it did pretty well in the voting, coming in third this week! :-) The prompt was HAUNTED.

Sudan, March 2004.

We enter the camp soon after sunrise and by 10 o’clock, I’m done in. The heat, the dust, the endless flow of pain and loss—it never stops. So after a while, I tell Abdul I’m taking a break and I slip away out the back of the medical tent, canteen in hand, cigarettes in my pocket. I pull out my iPod, light up a quick one, and for a little while, it all goes away. Beyoncé, Britney and Avril Levigne, reminding me of home, a world outside Darfur, away from the endless cycle of need, fear, pain and misery …

Searching for strength, I open my eyes and take a long, slow drink from my canteen. The iPod shuffles again and now it’s the haunting strains of Evanescence and My Immortal.

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears

Yes, I think, that’s me. Tired, afraid of so many things, afraid of not being able to do enough, not being able to heal them, of not being able to cope … and that’s the moment when I see her.

Sitting in the midst of a sea of dust. A woman. Despite the searing heat, she’s covered from head to toe in black. The child in her lap is small—maybe four years old, maybe seven? It’s hard to tell. His shoulder blades are sharp and prominent; the skin on his arms wrinkled. His belly bulges outward, a taut, shiny drum as hollow as the promises that fall from his mother’s parched lips.

“Hush, hush,” she whispers, brushing the flies off his face with fingers that are nothing more than bone now. “Soon, it will be well. Soon, soon …” He cries, but his eyes are tearless and his voice hoarse, cracked and full of dust.

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

I stand up and walk slowly over, crouch next to them. I offer her a drink of water. She shifts onto her side, bony hip digging deep into the dirt and I can see that even that small movement causes her pain. The boy pushes in closer, like a baby bird restless in his nest. She takes the canteen from me, and tilts it to his lips. Water flows unheeded over his chin, splashes to the ground in long, muddy streaks. He stares up at his mother, his eyes empty, glazed.

She lets the canteen fall, and her hand drifts down, caressing his body. She traces the curved abdomen, passes skinny fingers lightly over the protruding bump of his belly button, that reminder of a time long, long ago when all she had to do to nourish him was simply to be there.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears

All she has to offer him is herself. I have more, I have equipment and medicines and food. But I don’t know if we’ll be able to save him, he’s so far gone. Should we even try? But she turns her eyes towards me, a final, silent plea, the kind of look that haunts my dreams at night.

So I pick him up and carry him inside and she follows me.

And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me.

Idols for Writers Week Five

2008-11-15T20:10:00.000+13:00

Week Five - not my best work. :( Came in joint fourth but there were other joint winners up ahead of me ... it's ok. All writing is good and you always learn something new!!

MY ADDICTION

I’ve always been a one-woman man. So it scares me to tell you that I think I’m falling in love with somebody else, somebody new.

I never expected that this could happen to me. We’ve been married for nearly four years and my gorgeous wife—well, to put it simply, she owns me, body and soul. She’s the one I fell in love with in high school, she’s the one who dried my tears when my dad died unexpectedly, and she’s the one I plan to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t think I even know how to love more than one woman at a time.

But these days I find myself consumed, and I mean totally consumed, with thoughts of—her. Day and night, at work and at home, in the car, on my bike, while swimming, walking, sleeping, she’s right there with me. I’m even dreaming about her, and that makes me afraid, because deep down I know—know with every fiber of my being—that this relationship is going to be the one that changes everything. How do people cope with something like this? Just the thought of loving two women at the same time scares me silly. But this new love of mine is like an addiction—I can’t seem to it let go.

And to tell you the truth? I don’t want to let it go.

It was my wife who first told me about her. She sat me down one day and told me all about her, told me when she’d be arriving, what she’d want to eat, where she should sleep—you know, all the basic, practical stuff you take care of when a stranger moves in to share your home. To tell the truth, I was a bit nervous about the whole thing to start with but gradually I found myself getting more and more interested. But it wasn’t until I saw a picture of her that this whole falling-in-love thing began.

It wasn’t even a particularly good picture, mind you. A bit grainy and out of focus, none too clear at all. When I was alone, though, I used to run my finger down the curve of her back, trace the delicate outline of her hands, and imagine I could see sweetness on her face. There was just something about that picture that gave me a glimpse into the true heart of her, of who she really was as a person.

And bam, just like that, it happened. I fell in love.

I tried to cover it up, tried to pretend it was just ordinary interest I was feeling. But in private I started counting the days until her arrival. I worked hard getting her room ready, making it special. I thought about her constantly. Imagined walking with her on a beach, cuddling with her on the sofa at night, making her feel special and loved and adored. Yes, I know its all fantasy, an idealized version of how I’d like things to be, but still. I’m utterly addicted to the idea of her. I can almost see her at times, smiling at me across the breakfast table or holding my hand as we walk down the street. Sometimes at night, if I hold my wife close and run my hands over her body, it’s as if I can feel her, right there with me and I have to I hold my breath as the longing sweeps over me

I know things won’t be easy when she finally gets here. Likely as not there’ll be yelling and screaming to start with—real blood, sweat and tears stuff. Later, there’ll be late nights and early mornings, missed meals and rushed conversations, tiredness and misunderstandings and angry retorts—all the upheaval that comes when three lives are blending into one. But I’m quite sure we’ll weather it and I’m even more sure that in the end, we’ll be fine. All three of us. Because there’ll also be love. Lots and lots and lots of love, and joy, and fun, and a goofy, delirious happiness.

You probably think I’m delusional, right? Living in a dream world? Well, let me tell you that—oh, hold on a moment, please. I see my wife is here, standing in the doorway looking both excited and scared.

“I think it’s time,” she tells me, pulling a wry face. “She’s on her way.”

My God, I think, it’s happening at last. I try to stay calm, but inside I’m absolutely throbbing with excitement. I cross the room, kiss my wife long and hard, then, dropping to my knees, I press my cheek close to the distended bulge of her belly.

“Hey my darling,” I whisper and plant a kiss where I think my daughter’s head might be. “I just can’t wait to meet you….”

Idols For Writers Week Four

2008-10-21T07:41:00.000+13:00

This week's prompt was The Golden Rule. I wanted to be original and also try writing something using a theme I've wanted to explore for a while now. So I was doubly thrilled (given the subject matter) when this entry picked up the most votes - over 60% of voters chose it!

JUST KISS ME

Harold, who is definitely in his dotage, thinks Maddy is the best thing since sliced bread.

Twenty years ago, she used to curl up on his lap and whisper little-girl secrets in his ear and he loved it, shameless old flirt that he is. Now she’s all grown up, a streamlined blonde with a degree in Economics and a part-time career as the drummer in an all-girl rock band. But she still likes to perch on Harold’s knee and tease him the way only a favorite granddaughter can.

“Come to a gig with us, Gramps!” she’ll say, tickling his nose with a feathery strand of hair. “I promise you’ll love it!” But Harold puts on his stupid-old-man face and says “Gig? What’s a gig?” “Don’t pretend you don’t know!" she says and then he heaves a vast and sorrowful sigh and says, “Sorry, sweetheart. Your grandma hasn’t let me out on my own since long before Noah built the ark!” He winks and we all laugh, co-conspirators in the idea that he, at the age of 82, might yet run off with one of the teenagers who frequent the city cafés where Maddy and her group perform on Sunday nights.

This weekend, Maddy and her best friend Jane are visiting us. On Saturday night, the girls go out for a few drinks, but on Sunday morning we’ll all be going to church together, something Harold has been looking forward to all week. Like her grandpa, Maddy can carry a tune, but Jane has a voice out of all proportion to her petite frame and when she sings, even the ancient vergers at our chapel sit up and take notice. “I’m probably just a silly old fool," he mutters to me as we wave them goodbye, “but it bothers me that at twenty-four, there’s still no sign of a husband.” He slips his hands deep inside the pockets of his comfortable old corduroy pants as he puzzles over this conundrum.

I link my arm through his. “Give her time,” I say. “We should probably be grateful she didn’t do something stupid, like getting married at eighteen.” Harold turns and gives me a smile that carries me back nearly sixty years. “Didn’t work out so badly for you, though, did it?” he says, his brow creasing slightly. I laugh, and tilt my face up to him. “Just kiss me, you old fool,” I say, and he does, his thin lips brushing my cheek with deep affection. There’s a lot to be said for marrying your best friend.

Later than night, Harold’s snoring wakes me and I realize I need to pay a visit to the bathroom. Barefoot, I shuffle down the hall, wincing as the arthritis in my left knee slows me down. The light is still on in the spare room and I glance in, but there’s no one there. Girls still out, I think, then I hear a muffled giggling coming from the living room and my heart balloons with relief. Even though they’re all grown up, I’m always happier when I know they’re safely home. I head past the bathroom, thinking I’ll just say goodnight, but as I reach the door, Jane’s voice stops me dead in my tracks.

“Think they’re asleep?” Her deep contralto is huskier than ever.

“I’m sure of it.” Maddy’s voice is soft. “They probably both take sleeping pills.”

“Good,” says Jane and it sounds as if she’s smiling. “C’mere, you.”

There’s a subdued scuffing noise, like satin sliding on skin. “Damn.” There’s more stifled laughing, then Maddy’s voice again.

“Aw, forget it, honey. We can fix that later. Just kiss me, OK?”

For an instant, my heart stops and I forget to breathe. Then it’s as if a herd of wildebeest have been let loose and are thundering through my chest. Heat floods my face in a wild rush and I clutch my robe tight.

Oh dear God.

Appalled, I peer round the corner. Wine glasses on the table, shoes on the floor. Maddy and Jane are curled together on the sofa by the window, oblivious to their surroundings. Arms wrapped around each other, hands sliding over smooth skin, hair drifting and flowing through fingers, soft sighing and tiny breaths—

I shut my eyes and step back. I’m worried now that my legs won’t carry me all the way down the hall and back to the bedroom, back to my husband of sixty years, peacefully ensconced in the dark oblivion of sleep. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and step by step, I make it. Ignore my bladder, ignore my shaking, just slide under the covers and lie there listening to Harold sawing away next to me. But I still hear the quiet padding of feet in the hall and the distinctive click of the spare room door as it closes.

I’m numb all the way to my toes and my thoughts whirl in useless circles, making me dizzy. How could I not have known something so fundamental about Maddy? Is she just experimenting, trying a new identity on for size? But no—Jane’s been coming with her to see us for at least two years now. It’s a two-hour drive from the city so they don’t come all that often, but still… Is our little Maddy really—I stumble over the words, even in my mind, then force myself to face them. Gay? Queer? A lesbian? Abruptly, I bunch the sheets in my fists and bite my lip hard, trying to hold back the torrent of tears that threatens to turn me into a sodden heap of old emotion and new fear. Mustn’t wake Harold, I think, he’ll be so hurt, so upset …

When the sun finally rises, I’m dry-eyed and in control again, but sleep is only a distant memory. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast all round, I take an extra pill to quell the whining of my arthritic knee. Harold drives us to the small village church, where Jane’s voice infuses Hymns Ancient and Modern with new vigor, Maddy’s eyes close in quiet reverence as she takes the sacrament, and I pray as never before. By the end of the service, I’ve decided what to do. I’m a woman of faith and I know I can handle this.

“I’m going to walk back,” I announce as we leave the building. “Won’t you girls keep me company?”

There’s a chorus of concern about my knee and the distance and Harold’s inability to drive a mile or two on his own, but the dissenters are easily quelled and we’re soon on our way. Harold is a bit disgruntled, but he’s not the one I’m worried about now. He can put the kettle on and have the tea ready by the time we get home. I’m sure we’re all going to need it.

I insert myself between the girls, claiming a supporting arm from each of them, because the grass is bumpy and treacherous roots can upset an old lady’s balance. As soon as we’re off, I plunge right in.

“Remind me,” I say, striving for a mild, chatty tone, “how long have you two been friends?”

Maddy plucks a long stalk of grass and flicks it to and fro between her fingers. “Oh, about two and half years now,” she says. “We met when Jane joined the band.” Jane grips my arm as we negotiate a rocky patch.

I draw a deep breath. “Hmmm. And how soon after you met did you become lovers?”

We keep walking but the silence is deafening. Then simultaneously Jane says, “Almost right away,” and Maddy says, “We aren’t lovers,” and right there, it all breaks down. Both girls let go of my arms and we come to a halt. Maddy’s cheeks are flushed bright pink, while Jane’s mouth is set in a mutinous twist. They stare at one another, almost ignoring me.

I reach out and take Maddy’s hand. She shoots me a quick look, shame in the downward angle of her head. “Gran, I don’t know what makes you think—” but I stop her with a look.

“No, Maddy. Don’t make it worse by denying it.” I pause, holding her gaze as best I can, seeing as she is at least six inches taller than me. “I just want to know one thing. When were you planning to tell me?”

Maddy stares at the ground. But Jane turns defiant eyes on me. “Maddy’s refusal to tell any of you about us has been the cause of most of our arguments. I hate it. I’m sick to death of pretending I’m just the best friend whenever I’m around her family.” She lifts her head high, earrings swinging and short auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight. “I’m sorry, Mads, but if she knows already, then why not admit it? What more have you got to lose?”

The fear on Maddy’s face as her two worlds collide is almost more than I can bear and I realize that this is not the time for speeches and homilies and warnings. This is the moment for action. So I step forward and I give her the only gift I can, the gift that was denied me all those years ago, the gift I yearned for when I was eighteen and head over heels in love.

I cup her sweet face between my hands and look deep into her eyes. “It’s okay, my darling. You are who you are and you have the right to love whoever you want. I accept you, sweetheart and I love you.”

As her eyes fill with tears, I bite back the rest of it, the words I’ve kept buried for sixty years. Don’t make my mistakes. No matter how good it may be, second best is not the same thing. Instead, I deliberately thank God for Harold, who knew and who married me anyway. And with the ease of long practice, I block out the memory of the day my darling Catherine was wrenched from me by parents unable to comprehend or accept that the love and passion we shared was real.

Idols For Writers Week Three

2008-10-14T07:20:00.000+13:00

The prompt this time was Reflections, and it was tough! I didn't win - my buddy Kells and I tied on 13 votes a little way behind the leader on 19 votes - but the standard of the entries overall was up by a mile! It's wonderful to see people pushing themselves further every week! So, here's mine:

R E F L E C T I O N S

On a peaceful autumn afternoon in October of the year he turned 18, Adi met the Devil.

Afterwards, he was never quite sure whether it was the actual Master of Hell he’d encountered or merely one of his minions. Either way, it wasn’t until after the death of his mother that he was able to speak of it, and even then, he censored his words carefully. But he never forgot. How could he? Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the unmistakable imprint on his face—an indelible reminder of vulnerability and weakness.

On that fateful day, Adi found himself alone on a train steaming slowly west through the Austrian countryside. The farmlands and woods beyond the window stretched out in sunlight, mellow and fruitful, but inside, he was anything but mellow. Indeed, the contrast between the bucolic charm of the passing landscape and the bitterness within his spirit served only to deepen his despair.

I have failed, he thought and the taste of his failure was as bitter ashes in his mouth. All my dreams come to nothing, all my hopes gone. I have failed and it is all the old man’s fault that this cannot be fixed. The heavy beat of the laboring engine merged with the dull thud of his heart and he stared out of the window, seeing only the bitterness of an empty, pointless life ahead of him. The sun sank unnoticed and it was dusk before he became aware that a stranger had entered the carriage.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” Adi blinked, taken aback by the sudden invasion of his privacy. A man stood before him, and with his hat, he gestured towards the opposite seat. Adi frowned, then inclined his head in a frosty bow as good manners wrestled briefly with annoyance.

“Of course, please do,” he said stiffly. With ill-concealed discontent, he removed a worn leather portfolio from the seat and dropped it to the floor at his feet. An entirely empty carriage, he thought, and the man has no more sense than to select the seat right across from me? His day, which had started badly and then become worse, was now reaching its lowest ebb. First the unexpected and devastating refusal of his application, then the news of his mother’s sudden deterioration, and now this. Seething inwardly, he turned his face away and stared out of the window at the distant horizon, now tinged with the purple haze of dying day. He clenched his fists, wishing he were still alone.

The stranger ignored his silent messages. “So, you want to be an artist, do you?” Adi’s head snapped up and he stared at the man, wondering if he’d heard him correctly. “It’s a pity the Academy refused you entrance. And all because of a few wretched figure drawings? That seems most unfair to me. After all, isn’t that why you wish to attend? So that you can learn these things?”

Stunned into silence, Adi could only stare. The man’s eyes crinkled and he grinned. “Nothing to say, Adi? That’s most unusual for you.”

“Who are you, sir?” Adi’s voice rose as fear curled in the pit of his stomach. Had the man somehow read his mind? “How is it that you know my business, and how dare you call me by my given name? It is only my intimates who call—”

“—who call you Adi. Yes. But you see, young man, I know you very well. In fact, it is quite possible that I know you better than you know yourself.” The stranger, a slender, dark-haired man in his mid-forties, leaned back, tilted his head to one side and smiled at him. “And no, I’m not reading your mind. I’m simply interpreting what I see and hear. As to who I am—well, you may call me Luc. That’ll do for now.”

“L-Luc?” Adi stuttered, wondering briefly at the lack of a French accent. The man had a slightly exotic appearance, he thought: unusually, he was clean-shaven with short dark hair falling across his forehead in a careless fringe. His suit and tie were of the same dark fabric as Adi’s own, but seemed somehow less tailored, more loose-fitting.

“Yes. Luc. I amuse people by telling them it is short for Lucifer.” But there was no smile on his face and the absence made Adi's skin crawl. Fear affects people in strange ways and this new anxiety, combined with his previous rage and misery, propelled Adi into reckless action. He lurched upright and planted his feet against the swaying of the carriage.

“Sir, I must ask you please to sit elsewhere. I have no idea as to your business here, nor do I wish to know, but I have a right to my privacy and—”

“Sit down.” The voice was low, the menace unmistakable and Adi shut his mouth and subsided, his heart thrusting against his ribcage. Luc leaned forward and stared straight into Adi’s eyes.

“Relax,” he said, his voice smooth and hypnotic, and Adi relaxed, his sudden panic evaporating like mist on a summer morning. The man had strangely piercing dark eyes, he noticed. The pupils were inky black and even in the half-dark of the carriage, they seemed to glow. Adi stared back, fascinated. Right there, in the centre, he could see himself reflected: an ordinary young man with straight dark hair and traces of puppy fat still visible on his cheeks. A tiny version of himself, perfect in every way. Perfect, he thought, but still rejected and dismissed by men who should have known better. A wave of helpless frustration and self-pity swamped him.

“Adi,” said Luc, pulling him back to the present. “I’m here because I care about you. I’m here to help. What is it that you most desire?”

Adi hesitated, disturbed and confused. He didn’t know whether to cast himself into the caring embrace of this stranger and pour out his heart, or to run away from him, as far and as fast as he could. He had the strangest feeling that if he connected with him in any way, if he so much as shook hands with him, he would be stuck fast as if with glue, unable to ever break free. The thought both thrilled and repelled him. What is happening to me? Why do I feel as if I know this man?

“I’m here to help, Adi,” repeated Luc slowly, his voice caressing. “You’ve had a terrible time today, haven’t you?”

Adi slumped in his seat, giving in to the allure of comfort. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “Terrible. They said my talent was not enough, that I should stick to drawing houses and buildings. They told me to forget about art, to perhaps study architecture instead if I wished to build a career. But I cannot—it is just not possible.”

Luc nodded. “I understand,” he said and Adi believed him. “You want to be an artist, don’t you? You want to win, to conquer the world, to achieve glory and honour, to be validated and respected by all. Am I right?”

Adi nodded again, his breathing quickening. “Yes, yes!” he said, becoming strangely excited. Luc understood him. Luc knew the dreams he kept buried in his most secret heart. Luc could be trusted. “I long for this, more than I long for anything else in the world. I could be a great man, if only I were given the chance!”

“Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.” Luc paused. “Recognize that quotation*, Adi? No? No matter. The man is not important, but his words are true.” He grinned and Adi trembled. “Today, Adi, is your day of choice. And when you choose, things will happen because I can make things happen. I am powerful in ways you cannot yet imagine. Do you believe that?”

Again, Adi found himself staring at Luc. There was something disturbingly familiar about him. The web of crinkles at the corners of the eyes, the slightly lopsided eyebrows, the small scar in the centre of the upper lip—all reminded him of someone. But who? From the relaxed set of his shoulders to the glow in his eyes, Luc radiated power and authority, and in Adi’s world, men in authority who cared for him were few and far between.

Adi caught himself. A question had been asked and must be answered. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I believe you.”

“Excellent. Listen carefully, Adi, because your future depends on the choice you make now. And choose you must—doing nothing is not an option.”

Adi waited. Time seemed suspended and the rest of the world very far away.

“Your mother. She is very ill, correct?”

Surprised by the abrupt change in subject, but not by the fact that the man did indeed seem to know everything about him, Adi nodded. “Cancer,” he said, anguish twisting his heart. “She is failing fast, and the news of my failure will only make it worse. She has always supported me.” Unlike my father…

“She is no doubt a good woman,” said Luc. “You love her? You wish she were well again?”

“Of course!” How could he even ask such a question?

Luc leaned forward. “This, then, is the choice I offer you. Your mother returns to good health and you live out your life in Linz with her, doing whatever work seems best to you. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.” He smirked. “Or she dies before the year is out and in due time, you get the glory, honor, recognition and validation you have always desired. The world at your feet, so to speak.”

Adi gaped and Luc regarded him closely, his eyes glowing in the dusky light. “I can do this, Adi. You know in your heart that I have the power. Now you have the choice. Reflect a moment and then choose. I leave this train at the next halt and this moment will be gone forever.” The mournful blast of the train’s whistle echoed through the night.

“But,” sputtered Adi, “How can I possibly…? What if this is all a dream?” The train began to slow and Luc stood up. Frantic and disturbed, Adi jumped to his feet. “What if this isn't real?” He grasped the man by the coat lapels and stared into his eyes. “For God’s sake, tell me who you are!”

“Don’t you know yet?” Luc lifted his hand and suddenly, unexpectedly, slapped Adi’s face hard. A sharp pain tore through his upper lip and Adi tasted blood in his mouth, hot and metallic. “I am exactly who you think I am,” hissed Luc. “And now I am you. Choose!”

The world shrank to the size of Luc’s pupils. The taste of the blood in his mouth sharpened his focus, bringing with it clarity and awareness and resolution of desire. Adi grew still. Slowly, he closed his eyes and still holding tight to Luc’s lapels, he chose.

***

Excerpt from The History Place**: Adi’s mother’s condition steadily worsened and as the festive Christmas season approached in December 1907, she was near death. In the early hours of December 21, amid the glowing lights of the family's Christmas tree, she died quietly. Adi was devastated. Dr. Bloch arrived later that day to sign the death certificate. He later said he had never seen anyone so overcome with grief as Adolf Hitler at the loss of his mother.

_____________________________________________________________

* William Jennings Bryan, American politician and orator (1860 – 1925)

** http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/riseofhitler/mother.htm

Idols For Writers Week Two

2008-10-08T08:56:00.000+13:00

This week, the prompt was Broken. I battled to find an approach but in the end, the piece almost wrote itself! This week there were 41 entries compared to last week's 55 - but the standard of writing was much higher, which I think is a really Good Thing - makes it more challenging.

I was once again amazed at how many folks liked it (did I mention that I got the most votes last week?) So this week, I tied for first place and then won the tie-breaker poll 25 - 17. Squeeeee!! It's pretty unbelieveable, but really thrilling! So here is my take on Broken.

BROKEN

Shit, as they say, happens. And when shit happens, things change.

I should know. Pull up a chair and I’ll tell you my story. But be warned: it isn’t pretty.

It was a cold, snowy night in late January when I arrived home and found my wife on the kitchen floor, her head inside the oven. Now, what would you do if you walked in on a scene like that? Gasp in horror, lunge across the kitchen in a single bound, drag her out by the hair and start thumping her on the chest?

Well, I’m less Neanderthal and more Sensitive New Age Guy, so I just threw out a casual ‘Hi honey!” I also refrained from asking when dinner would be ready. I mean, it really wasn’t the time or the place, was it? Give me a little credit here.

I walked into the hallway and shed my coat, hung it on the hook. Placed my keys and phone on the table and whistled a little to demonstrate my sangfroid, (that’s French for laid-back dude in case you don’t know!) Then I poured us both a drink. Whiskey for me, gin and tonic for her. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed over the last five months.

OK, so by now you’re thinking ‘Sensitive New Age guy, my ass! Insensitive New Age jerk is more like it’. But here are a couple of things that you’re probably not aware of: One - what Julia was doing was actually a very important step forward for her. And that’s not just my opinion – my therapist agrees. Number two: we had an electric oven and it’d been broken for about a week. I just hadn’t had the time to fix it. But, back in the day, Julia had taken a couple of classes in home repair and had mastered the art of the fixing broken fuses, replacing light bulbs and so on. So, seeing her down on her knees with her head in the oven—I actually felt really proud of her for getting to grips with something for a change and at least trying to fix it.

So I wandered back in there, ready to offer her a hand, but to my surprise she was up on her feet again, a plate of pie in hand, looking like she was ready to put dinner in the oven.

Pie again, I thought. Damn. But still—one thing at a time. Small steps. Eating the elephant one tiny bite at a time and all that jazz...

“Bravo, sweetie!” I smiled and walked over to kiss her. “You managed to fix it—” That was when I realized that all was not well on the home front. She was glaring at me, her pudgy face pale and her eyes glinting. Whoops. Time for a bit of diversive action.

“Excuse me, ma’am!” I switched to my best Winston Churchill accent, which always made her laugh, and swept her a courtly bow. “Is that a pie in your hand or are you just pleased to see me?”

She slammed the pie dish down on the table, where it came to rest next to a bowl of shriveled brown apples, long past their prime. She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “No, I did not fix it, Chris. In fact, if you would stop your goddamned joking and fooling for just one second and take a look round this house, you’d see that it’s not just the oven that’s broken. It’s everything!”

I gaped as she stalked towards the back door and grabbed the handle. The door stuck and she yanked hard two or three times before it finally creaked open. “See? Broken. And look at that!” She pointed a stubby finger at the terracotta tiles in the entryway. Lacy spiderweb cracks radiated outward from several of the tiles, hairline fractures stretching maybe a foot towards the door. “And that’s not all. The paintwork needs redoing, half the doors are falling off the cupboards upstairs, that broken window in the attic—how the hell can you expect us to live like this? This place is a dump!” Her voice rose and cracked. “And you! You don’t even care that it’s all broken. You don’t care about anything any more!”

I swear my jaw dropped at least three inches. Shocked, I stared at her, at this chubby—no, this fat woman in baggy jeans with nothing more than sweat and a smear of flour on her pale, unhappy face. Where was the poised and beautiful girl who’d danced with me in the moonlight on our honeymoon? Where was the tender young mother who’d crooned lullabies to our son while rocking him to sleep? And who was this overweight, angry cow to accuse me of not loving, not caring any more? The absolute unfairness of that took what was left of my heart and snapped it in two.

My new age sensitivity fled out the window, along with my common sense, and it shames me to tell you what I did next. I took three huge steps forward—yes, you could even say I lunged across the kitchen—and grabbed her by the wrist. I put my face close to hers and glared into her eyes. Her instinctive recoil only added fuel to the fire of my hurt and pain.

“Broken?” I said in a low voice. “Broken?” I shook my head and felt my nostrils flaring, my lips curling. “You don’t know what broken is, sweetheart.” I yanked on her arm, spun her round and pulled her out into the hallway. “I’ll show you just exactly what’s broken in this house.”

I hate myself for what I did next. My therapist says that in time I’ll be able to forgive myself, to come to terms with it, but it’s damn hard. I took my wife by the arm and I dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hall, past the door that was always shut, and into our bedroom. She protested loudly, dragging her heels but I was relentless.

“Look!” I thrust her in front of the mirror and held her there. “Look, Julia. That’s what’s broken in this house. Forget the bloody tiles and doors—it’s you. Look at what you’re doing to us, baby.”

Julia clapped a hand over her eyes, her body rigid. Her lips were a thin, bloodless line in an already pasty-white face. “This has got to stop,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re killing yourself with all this overeating. You’re killing us. We can’t go on like this, pretending nothing has changed.”

“Don’t talk to me about kill—” She stuttered and stopped, and I knew we weren’t done yet. I tightened my grip on her wrists and turned, pulling her along with me again.

She knew. She knew right away what I was going to do. “No,” she said. “Chris, no! Don’t you dare! I won’t!”

I pulled her down the corridor and stopped in front of that other door. The one she’d locked five months ago. “Open it,” I said. “It’s been locked far too long. Open it, Julia. Now.”

She wouldn’t do it. I had no idea where she’d put the key but I knew we had to do this, had to face what lay behind that door, had to root out the cancer that was eating away at our marriage, our home, our life together. Had to fix what was really broken. And if she couldn’t do it, then it was up to me.

So I took a step back and sucked in a deep breath. Then, with all the love in my heart and all the strength in my body, I kicked the door down. Broke it open. And stepped into my dead son’s bedroom for the first time in five months.

The air smelt stale. The little bed was empty, the curtains drawn.

“Julia, it was an accident.” I kept my back to her, didn’t want her to see my face. “It could have happened to anyone, anywhere. You are not responsible. You have to let go—let him go.” I could barely breathe, as tears threatened to choke me. It felt as if I’d been mourning on my own forever. “I miss him too. So fucking much. Not a day goes by when I don’t remember him, don’t think about what he’d be doing if he was still here.”

She was still out in the hall, hadn’t moved an inch. “But—you never cry. You’re always making jokes, fooling around. You don’t care.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

I didn’t know how to explain that every joke was a diversion, another layer in the wall around my heart, a protection against loss and heartbreak and loneliness. I didn’t know how to talk about pain or grief or trying to be strong. But I did know that I needed her. I desperately needed there to be an us again, after months of it being just me, alone and broken.

“Julia, please …” I turned around. Slowly I lifted my head and finally, I let her see my tears.

Idols For Writers Week One

2008-09-30T11:13:00.000+13:00

The prompt for the first week was New Beginnings. This fitted in so well with a writing idea I'd had a while back, so I plunged in straight away, got my entry in early. Posting closed on Friday and voting closed today at 1pm EST. Out of a total of fifty-five entrants, the three writers with the least votes were eliminated. I was totally blown away by how many people seemed to like my entry - it picked up a ton of votes!

New Beginnings

Something is wrong. I’m getting that awful churning in my stomach that I always get when something isn’t right. It makes me restless, like I can’t sit still for another minute. I get out of my chair, walk through the door, then stop dead.

Something is wrong.

I’m standing in this long corridor and I don’t recognize anything. Not the arty prints on the wall, not the green speckled carpet, not the slatted blinds at the windows. I don’t remember any of this.

A door opens, away to the right and someone comes out, walking backwards. It’s a young woman in a white tunic - and she has red hair that looks as if she’s been hacking at it with a pair of blunt scissors. Her mother should teach her to take better care of herself! I wonder why she's walking backwards? Oh, wait a minute ...she’s pulling a wheelchair, and in it there’s a woman - a very, very old woman. Is that her mother? The old bat is as wrinkled as a prune and looks half-dead; I doubt she could teach a monkey to stick a peanut up its ass.

My goodness, I haven’t heard that one in a long time. It's what Edward always said. “Couldn’t teach a monkey to stick a peanut up its ass!” he’d mutter, pointing to some dimwitted cashier or sales assistant who’d kept him waiting. A very impatient man, my Edward.

The woman in the white tunic is looking at me as if she knows me, but I’m quite sure I’ve never seen her before. I would definitely have remembered that hair. “Hello Mrs. Carter,” she says. “Do you need the bathroom?”

Excuse me? Didn’t her mother teach her any manners? She could at least introduce herself before she starts talking about my toilet habits…

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say as politely as I can, although I’m starting to feel as if I need to collapse on my bed. I blunder past her, heading for the room she just left, but she grabs at my arm. “Wait a minute, sweetie - that’s not your room.”

I don’t care. I’m not her sweetie and I really need to lie down for a bit, so I shake her hand off and scuttle towards the room as fast as I can. But in the doorway I stop, appalled. This room is very small, and it smells. There’s a gaudy crocheted rug on the bed and a pile of yellow satin pillows with bows on them at the head. There’s some kind of medical paraphernalia in the corner—oh God. My stomach churns again.

She’s right. This is not my room.

Anxiety turns my legs to jello. I clutch the door frame and look back at the woman. She’s still smiling. “Come on,” she says, stretching out her hand. “I’ll take you back to the lounge. It’s warm there and you can talk to some of the other residents.”

I’m so anxious and uncomfortable that I start walking with her before I know what I’m doing. As we go down the corridor, I realize that most of the rooms we go past are bedrooms. What is this? A hotel? The woman pushes the wheelchair along at a steady clip, but there’s not a word out of the old bat. Maybe she’s more than just half dead …

“Is that your mother?” I ask, worried, but the woman laughs. “No, no,” she says. “My mother lives in Illinois. This is Miss Thomas, remember?”

I’m supposed to know her? My hands are getting shaky now and I feel tears building up behind my eyes. We go past an office and I see a smooth blonde in a navy-blue shirt sitting at a desk. She looks vaguely familiar. In an instant, I abandon the old prune to her fate.

The blonde is talking intently into the phone. “I need it today,” she says, sounding cross. “By four o’clock. OK? Don’t be late!” She drops the receiver back on the hook and looks up at me.

“Oh, please,” I blurt out before she can speak. “You’ve got to help me. I’m not supposed to be here. I have to go home. Please, I have to phone Edward.”

The blonde stands up and she’s a tiny little thing, not more than five feet. She comes round, takes my hand, strokes it softly. “Whoa, Mrs. Carter, slow down.” She looks at me seriously. “I’m sorry. You can’t phone Edward, dear. And you can’t go home because this is your home now. You live here, with us.”

“No, I don’t,” I whisper and I feel my lips quivering. “I don’t belong here. I don’t even know where this is. I want to go home. Please help me.”

Her eyes soften. “I know it’s hard for you,” she says as she leads me out of the office. “This is Fairhaven Rest Home, dear. You’ve been here almost three weeks now, although you probably don’t remember.”

I don’t. None of this makes any sense. I’m very close to tears but Edward hates it when I cry so I bite my lip hard. She takes me into a lounge and I look round. It’s a big room, full of elderly folk with rheumy eyes and age-mottled skin. The old bat is there too, tucked away in a corner. Her eyes are shut and her mouth is lost amidst a hundred wrinkles. Panic billows like a dark cloud and I feel it engulfing me.

“No, no!” I shout, tears clouding my vision. “I have to go home! This is not where I belong!” I try to slap her away but I’m shaking so hard that I miss by a mile.

“Oh God.” The blonde sighs and raises her voice. “Amelia, get over here and sit with Mrs. Carter. I need to get her an extra dose of Risperdal*, or she’ll be impossible for the rest of the day…”

“Edward! Help me!” I whimper, afraid of what’s happening to me. But Amelia, with her chopped-off red hair, just puts her arm around me and rocks me slowly.

“There, there” she croons. “I know it’s tough for you, but you’re doing fine, sweetie. Your lovely daughter will visit you again soon, shh shh. There, there …” I give in and lean against her, sobbing, as her voice flows over and around me, as gentle and as soothing as a lullaby. She slips a small pill into my mouth and the water is cool against my lips…

Sometime later, I realize I’m sitting in a chair with a rug tucked over my knees. My mind feels fuzzy and I probably should get up, because I really need to go to the toilet. I yawn, blink and look round.

How strange. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this room before. Hmmm... I wonder where I am?
____________________________________________________________

*Risperdal – a medication often used in the treatment of senile dementia.

2008-09-16T23:53:00.000+12:00

The Bren LJ Idol - A Writing Challenge.

Ever heard of Idols For Writers? Me neither. But click on the banner above and you'll find it - a weekly writing competition based on the American Idol premise. I'm entering, as are a few writing buddies. How about you? All you need to qualify as an entrant is an active Live Journal or another creative journal with a lot of entries, and a willingness to write to a prompt on a weekly basis. If you don't have the time for that, you can join the community simply as an observer or as a random writer. That means you'll be able to read and vote for the various entries, which will be posted weekly on a Friday.

Join the community now, please! Season Two starts this coming Friday 19th September and the community will be closed at that point. If you can pick my entries out from all the rest of the anonymously posted entries, and if you like my writing well enough, it would be great if you can cast a vote for me!

Once voting is done, I'll be posting some of my entries in this journal ... maybe! :-)

2008-09-07T19:35:00.000+12:00

Shadow Artists.

In Week One: Recovering a Sense of Safety, the first thing I read about is the Shadow Artist - the person who, from reasons usually arising from fear and low self-esteem, lives in denial of his or her artistic self. The Shadow Artist's life is often one of discontent, filled with a sense of missed purpose and unfulfilled promise. I said a big, fat YES to that one!

The way out of this place is to learn to take your artistic self seriously and with gentle and deliberate effort, to nurture your artist child. Creativity, says Julia, is play, but for shadow artists, learning to allow themselves to play is hard work!

So on to the exercises. There are a lot of them, starting with a daily commitment to the Morning Pages. Wake up early and spend time freewriting for at least three pages. No censorship allowed, nothing but free writing about whatever you like. Morning Pages are not art. They are just a tool to get you to open up and to clear out all the stuff that is cluttering up your head ... not to be reread or edited. Just written and set aside.

Then comes the Artist's Date - a once-a-week date of at least two hours where you spend quality time with your inner artist. It can be anything from a walk on the beach to a prowl through a junk shop to watching an old movie, to baking a batch of brownies, to creating a collage - whatever you like, you do it simply to spend time alone with your fledgling artistic self.

Exercise: Imaginary lives. If you had five other lives to lead, what would you do in them? This is meant to be just for fun, just a quick jotting down. So my list looked like this:

1. Medical doctor.
2. Investigative journalist
3. Cosmologist.
4. Film director
5. Archaelogist.

But what was even more fun and very interesting to me was to take a look at what drew me to each of these ideas and if there was any commonality between them. I see connections - looking for answers, pulling together information, delving deep, presenting findings, creating a cohesive whole out of the separate parts, looking at the big picture by way of the details - and telling stories, stories based in truth or at least in the search for truth.

Then I tried, as an addendum to this exercise, the list the five jobs I wouldn't do for anything in the world. And my second list looked like this:

1. Sales assistant in a clothing store - hate, hate, hate clothes shopping!
2. Catwalk model ...
3. Telesales consultant - actually, any kind of sales but cold-call telesales has to be the pits.
4. Politician - all those little boys fighting in the sandbox? No thanks!
5. Care worker in home for the mentally disabled - did this during my psych training and it was terrible: soul-destroying, repetitive and endlessly depressing.

More exercises to follow!

2008-09-07T19:10:00.000+12:00

The Artist's Way.

For several years now, my dear friend Debbie has been saying that she wanted me to have this book. I'd seen it in the library, even had it out one time and browsed it for a week, but that was as far as it went. So last week, when we met for coffee during on of her bi-annual pilgrimages to my end of the world, we headed off to the bookstore and bought it - her birthday gift to me!

This book (by Julia Cameron) is a twelve week long course in Discovering and Recovering your Creative Self. It's interesting that this has come into my life right now, just after I negotiated a huge bend in my personal road (a milestone birthday) and just as an aspect of my life that I have been struggling with for years and years is starting to (hopefully) come under control - although that's the subject of another blog altogether. So for the next twelve weeks, I'll be using this blog for some of the exercises and thinkings related to the Artist's Way course.

2008-05-18T19:24:00.001+12:00

It's been a while.

Right now, though, I'm officially writing again, this time on an upgraded version of my NaNo book. I'm going to use this blog to post excerpts and meanderings about the story, the characters, the problems and so on.

Working Title: Paradox

Premise: That Ultimate Truth is unknowable and that man, even when handed something that looks like it might be Ultimate Truth on a Plate, will inevitably screw it up. We fight against our selves in our search for The Meaning of Life, Love and Truth. We are our own worst enemies. And yet ...

2007-12-01T09:15:00.000+13:00

Winner!!!

I did it! Tonight, at 9.10 PM on the last day of NaNoWriMo, with a mere 2 hours 50 mins to go before the cutoff time of 23:59, I uploaded my word doc, let the nanobots count it and got delivered to the Winner's Page where I collected a cool certificate! OH, and a dinky icon thingy to post here:

And this was after a major RL hiccup on Wednesday night, which meant I basically did NO writing at all from Wednesday afternoon to Friday early evening. Then I did the last 2900 words in about 2.5 hours ... and its a good feeling.

Now, of course, the real work starts. The second half of the novel needs to be written. Then the rest period followed by edits, rewrites, revisions etc. The fun part ... :-)

2007-11-27T06:48:00.000+13:00

NaNo Write-In!

Today I joined a fellow Wrimo and we nano'ed away for a couple of hours ... broke for lunch - delicious homemade soup and fresh bread - then nano'ed some more ... it was FUN!! We got some good writing done but it was far too short.

Next year in November, I think we need an SA NaNo Weekend!!! :-))

And word count update: 43,734 with 5 days to go ...
Elle

2007-11-19T23:31:00.000+13:00

NaNo Buddies and NaNo Winners.

One of the coolest things about the NaNoWriMo experience is that for one month - a full thirty days - you become a member of a very exclusive group of people. People who are, in one important aspect of life, Just Like You.

Writers. Wordfreaks and geeks. Storytellers, storylovers. People who understand when you say things that would make non-writers think you're ready for the nuthouse--or at the very least, overdue for a long vacation. Things like:

Yesterday I discovered that when Robert was six, he liked pulling the wings off butterflies.

or

Julia told me she just hates bread-and-butter pudding

or

Robert is simply refusing to fall in love with Julia. He wants to go hang out with Jane, and I don't even know yet who Jane is, except that she's a fat grade school teacher. What is he seeing in her that I don't know about yet?

This all sounds perfectly normal except for the minor detail that none of these people exist anywhere except within the confines of your mind. Then it becomes downright scary (to outsiders) and fascinatingly familiar (to insiders). And when you're doing NaNo, you have about 80 000 plus insiders ready, willing and able to share your fictional joys, sorrows and frustrations. And best of all, you don't have to explain yourself - they just know exactly what you mean when you moan about unco-operative main characters and annoyingly intrusive minor characters.

But the really, really BEST thing about NaNo is your personal group of Writing Buddies. The people you are most closely linked to and whose word counts you follow the way racing fans follow racing results. And today, I am proud to be able to share in the joy of my NaNo buddies who have reached the goal post - they have completed 50 000 words in LESS than a month.

Shirl hit 50K on Sunday morning (SA time) and Kelly also hit 50K on Sunday morning (EST time). Congrats and huge applause to both of them. :)) My other buddies are all hanging in there, astounding me with the awesomeness of their commitment despite things like houses full of guests, chemotherapy, broken hearts, and prolonged battles with the infernal internal editor!

Way to go, all my wrimos!

And my word count? 30,366 as of Sunday morning. I'm exactly on target - in fact, I'm about 360 words to the good!! :-)

2007-11-16T07:13:00.000+13:00

NaNoWriMo 2007 Update

Two years ago (2005) on the third day of Nano, I posted that I was an Official NaNo Dropout. Last year (2006) I was in a black hole and didn't even register for it. Duh me! Today is day fifteen on NaNoWriMo 2007 and my word count is:

23, 327 words and counting ....

Woo hoo!! In two weeks!!! Unbelievable. I'm ecstatic. I'm enjoying it SO much this year, which is why I'm not blogging too much here or on my other blog. But I'll be back, sooner or later.

Til later!

2007-11-09T07:14:00.000+13:00

Just a Quick Note!

Today is the eighth day of NaNoWriMo and praise be, I'm still in the running!

It's been both harder and easier than I imagined. Yesterday I wrote to a dear friend, who has been my stay and support through all my writing ups and downs over the last few years. Here's what I said to her (somewhat edited for brevity's sake!)

NaNo update: well, its quite amazing. Doing this has really changed something for me - not that I'm suddenly producing deathless prose at the drop of a hat, of course. But I can say this: (although with much trepidation, seeing as its only the sixth day of NaNo and I'm still writing in fits and starts, feeling my way forward very, very cautiously - and I'm behind the schedule - BUT at least I'm writing, which is more than has happened in a long while.)

As you know, whenever I've tried to start a new writing project in recent months, my first step has always been to create a story outline, then to try and make character sketches and only then to start writing, once I feel fully organized and in control. I spent ages on plotting, story-telling, character design, making notes and coming up with plot ideas etc. Well, you know exactly how far that has got me, lol!

On Sunday evening, I realized that at this point in NaNo, I didn't want to - in fact, I couldn't - do that anymore. In the actual NaNo writing, I've started letting the characters do the talking and acting and reacting and thinking ... so it felt like to now go and impose any kind of structure beyond the existing outline would actually arrest that process.

And I started remembering that THIS is what it felt like back in the day - back in the days of (Unpublished Novel No. One), and (Unpublished Novel No. Two). It was free-flowing, unstructured, coming from someplace I had no conscious control over, even though I still agonized over which words to use. I'd completely and utterly lost touch with that creative flow and NaNo has now become a process of finding that again. I have no idea if the voice I'm using is any good, or if it sounds stilted or true or artificial, or anything - but for better or worse, its me. My writing voice.

It's a wonderful and quite scary feeling... as in - will I be able to keep it up? When will I know if its any good? Aargh - all the usual writerly panicky things! ;-)

If anyone's interested in my progress, the link to my NaNo profile, which includes a regular update on my word count (right now it's 8998) plus links to my awesome NaNo writing buddies and occasional excerpts from the Opus itself, is HERE.

2007-10-29T02:44:00.001+13:00

Paul Potts is my hero.

If a pudgy, gap-toothed cellphone salesman can make his dreams come true, then so can you. And so can I.

This shy guy, who says that singing is what he believes he was born to do, took his dreams and his heart in his hands when he entered 'Britain's Got Talent' in March 2007. He rocked the socks off everyone and walked off both the winner and the possessor of a recording contract. His first CD called One Chance was released on July 16th this year and hit the top of the charts on July 22nd.

Paul Potts. An ordinary hero. And my inspiration as NaNo draws near.... :-)

2007-10-26T19:16:00.000+13:00

Oh My Gosh!

This morning I was browsing the NaNo forums and wondered when the Cape Town kick-off party was being held. Found the thread, found the place, found the date and time and thought: Hmm ..... 28th October, when is that?

"What's today's date, guys?"

"Um, the 26th Mom."

YIKES!!

That means the kick-off is this Sunday and NaNo itself starts ... *gasp, faint* ... next week on Thursday.

It was a shock. For some reason, I was drifting along thinking I had a few weeks still to go - and now I find there are only SIX DAYS left, if you count today!

I have GOT to get organized. :-)

2007-10-24T19:24:00.000+13:00

Scrabbling for Words and Software.

I've been playing Scrabble since I was two bricks and a tickey high, as they say. And very seldom have I achieved that glory of all Scrabble glories - using all seven letters in one turn and scoring that additional 50 points! But last night, I did it. Not once, but TWICE. In a row. On my first and second turns!!

Woo hoo!

My first set of letters included IRESUE and a blank: REISSUE was the word.
Second time around included NRLARE and another blank, which led to LEARNERS.

Two very sad faces stared back at me over the board, but not for long. My kids are nothing if not triers! Later during the game, I got another two seven letter words - but there was simply nowhere to play COVETOUS and GRAVITON. Dang!! However, we played very happily all the way to the bitterly contested end of the game ... it was fun. And yes, I won but only thanks to my extra 100 points!! :-)

Final Scores: Me: 240, Son: 159, Daughter: 156

And in other Nano news: yesterday a friend linked me to an amazing site where I downloaded some awesome free writing software called yWriter.

It looks really impressive so today I'm going to spend several hours organizing my Nano book into this software. Two things I really liked at first glance are the fact that each scene carries labelled tags to help you remember the goal, conflict and resolution of each particular scene, not just for each chapter. This is very in line with the way I learned to write (as taught by gurus McKee and Swain) so that pleases me a lot. And second, there is a place within the software for character stuff.

The best thing about yWriter, as far as I can see, is that it organizes all your stuff into one place. At present, I have folders and folders full of different drafts, character work, outlines, notes, and attempts at chapters, and its a mission to remember where I put what and when, if I'm trying to track down something from way back when. You can import and export files with yWriter, so you don't have to retype anything to use it.

Features include: (from the website description)

Organise your novel using a 'project'.
Add files to the project, each containing a chapter.
Add a summary to each file, showing the scenes in each chapter.
Print out summary cards, showing the structure of your novel.
Display the word count for every file in the project, along with a total.
Saves a log file every day, showing words per file and the total. (Tracks your progress)
Saves automatic backups at user-specified intervals.
Allows multiple scenes within chapters
Viewpoint character, goal, conflict and outcome fields for each scene.
Storyboard view, a visual layout of your work.
Re-order scenes within chapters.
Move scenes from one chapter to another.
Automatic chapter renumbering.

Til later, Nano dudes! I'm off to play!

2007-10-21T19:26:00.000+13:00

To Thine Own Self (And Thy Own Muse) Be True.

Browsing round the internet in search of a snappy quotation from which to extract a snappy title for my Opus In The Making (otherwise known as my NaNo book), I came across a site (blog) called Real Live Preacher. The beginning of an entry caught my eye:

"The Man In Black.

I saw him hitchhiking on the shoulder of the I-35 the other day. He was walking with his back to the traffic and his thumb stuck out......... He was wearing black, of course. So melodramatic. I had to laugh. "

I read the rest of this wonderful essay, which you can find HERE. It was terrific. A huge inspiration for NaNo writers everywhere - in fact for writers per se, never mind NaNo. Now, go read it first, please, because I want to muse (ha ha!) out loud on this essay and if you haven't read it yet, what I say might spoil it for you.

Back? Good.

Apart from the wonderful concept of meeting your muse/sender of dreams/voice of your unconscious/higher power or whatever, I loved the dialogue this guy writes. Dialogue is my weakest point writing-wise and I just adore great dialogue. And this particular interaction was so cool, so real and inspirational. Because in the book I'm planning for NaNo there's a character who plays a role that's sort of similar in some ways to The Man in Black (but not, he's both more and less than this guy). And I've been wrestling with a voice for this guy, trying to figure out how to present him so that he doesn't come over as preachy and too-good-to-be-true. So I'm bookmarking this post because I find here elements that I can use in developing this character.

I also found another blog this morning that made me laugh. It's called God's Blog: The Big Guy in the Sky and it's HERE. Very irreverent, but highly relevant - and sadly, updates very irregularly. But fun!

Now, off to do my daily NaNo prep writing. As many words as I can in an hour. Just to get into practice.

Yeah!!

2007-10-21T10:22:00.000+13:00

Go Bokke!!!!!!!

2007-10-20T02:12:00.000+13:00

We Interrupt This Blog To Bring You Breaking News ...

...but first you need to know that

1. I am NOT a sports fan
2. I am specifically not a RUGBY sports fan
3. I was born with a severe lack of patriotism. I could care less who South Africa plays against in the Whatever Nations Cup and Whichever Nations Trophy.

However!

There's a kind of madness abroad in South Africa today and against all odds, I'm getting infected with Rugby World Cup Fever. I can tell I'm infected because
1. I know the name of the match (just told you!)
2. I know where it's being played (Paris, France)
3. I know who it's being played against (the Brits) and I know when it's being played (tomorrow evening at 9pm South African time). These are things I am usually oblivious of until long after the event.

Rugby World Cup Fever has gripped South Africa. My daughter had a free 'civvies' day at school today - they dumped the uniform and all the middle schoolers were allowed to wear jeans and any kind of green/gold top they liked, green and gold being the colours of 'Die Bokke' (die Bokke being our boys - the Springboks). People have the green and gold rugby flag in their front windows, hanging on the back of their cars, draped over their shoulders as they walk through the malls. World cup chat is on the radio, television, the internet, in schools, businesses, shops - in fact it's everywhere today. Even the politician are getting in on the act - one of our smaller political parties arrived in parliament wearing rugby jerseys and tabled a motion to immediately congratulate the Springboks on all their successes to date. It was passed unanimously and the house erupted in cheers and good will.

And that's the most interesting thing of all: Rugby fever, unlike any other cause or concern facing this land today, is uniting South Africans. Even non-sporty, non-patriotic, busy-emigrating South Africans like me... I look at people in the streets with their flags and smiles and green-and-gold clothes and I feel a pride and a oneness that I've not experienced in a long long time.

Those are OUR BOYS out there!

Absurd, but there it is!! And when they win, I'll probably be out there screaming along with the rest of them:

Go Bokke!!!!!!

2007-10-17T22:52:00.000+13:00

Dismantling the Writer's Block

The four main causes of writer's block, according to David Taylor, are:

1. Not being ready to write - is it a novel, a short story, a what? and what does that look like, what's its format like?

2. Being afraid to write - due to the sure and certain knowledge that you will never be JK Rowling or Billy Shakespeare; or due to previous humilating failure in some sphere of writing; or by fearing that although you managed in the past, the 'magic' is now gone.

3. Composing in your head - and this is probably the one I'm most guilty of! Coming up with a good thought and the most perfect way to express it right there and then! It's not really possible and yet, when I'm thinking-writing, that is exactly what I do, and when I can't find the perfect way to say it, I make the stupid assumption that 'it'll never work' and stop trying. Duh!! What should happen is this:

a. Prewrite - dream, research, read, think, compost, vegetate, think think think ....
b. Planning - also called outlining
c. Composing - this is the wonderful, messy, shitty-first draft stage! (Hello NaNoWriMo!)
d. Editing - this is when you turn it into prose that sings!
e.Proofing - and this is where you make sure it not only sings, but dances and juggles flaming torches as well!

4. Starting in the wrong place - and this is so close to 3 that I'll own it as well! That all-important first paragraph has stymied me more times than I care to admit. :-(

Now, on to the solutions (and thus some of what you can expect to see more of on this blog - if there's anyone reading it, of course!)

1. Freewrite - sit down and just type for a predetermined period of type - type anything at all, just keep the words flowing...
2. Copy other writer's work and flow from there
3. With research materials next to you, read them and use writing to explore them further - explain, speculate, relate, add to, explicate, argue with, rant ....
4. Write letters (I do this a LOT already, yay! go me!)
5. Write a dialogue about your writing project - ask and answer questions about the topic
6. Write invisibly - make your font white and just go for it!
7. Write about writing - about how you feel and why etc

And don't reread old pieces of writing (you might fear you'll never achieve those heights again); don't edit yesterday's work, and don't talk to anyone else about your writing - you end up all talked out with nothing written! And that has happened to me before today, so I know it to be true!!

And my BackSpace key is still just a hole on the laptop, but my clever clever son is going to apply some magic glue soon, so hopefully it'll be fixed soon!

2007-10-17T06:57:00.000+13:00

Walking the Cat and other Procrastinatory Pursuits

Finally, this blog will have a real reason for being. :-) In November, the annual NaNoWriMO event takes place and together with my buddy Kells, I have signed up to participate. The goal is to write a 50K novel in 30 days ie around about 1600 words per day, on average. As organizer Chris Baty says, the trick is to forget about writing a bestseller and concentrate on producing prose that won't actually make anyone vomit!!

Hee hee hee!

The main problem here is that I've had a nasty case of writer's block for longer than I care to remember so I'm really not sure I can do it. BUT: today I found a site that addresses this issue - it's HERE.

There are many reasons for writer's block, which is defined as either being unable to start or finish a specific piece of writing - and my block falls into both categories. I have two novels 'almost completed'. I have another two novels that are about three chapters long. I have lots of ideas and thoughts and dreams floating around in my brain.

The trick over the next while is going to be to get my brain out of block mode and into writing mode. That's what this blog is going to be all about. I'll be using it to hammer out some of the unblocking exercises - these involve a lot of freewriting, copywriting, researchwriting, dialogue-writing and writing about writing itself, which is what THIS post is all about.

I have to interject here and say that the Backspace key on this laptop just fell off so each time I make a mistake I have to aim for the little bump in the middle of the Backspace space. Gotta get that fixed asap - it's driving me mad!!

Later, writing dudes! :-)