Sent to me today by my mother...
ok I have to share this one with you.
I went to Franklins supermarket this morning to buy a few things and while I was paying at the checkout, I dropped my bank card. The gentleman behind me threw himself down on his knees and started scrabbling around my ankles trying to find the card. I couldn't resist so I clasped my hands together and said 'Oh yes I will I will,' well he jumped up so quickly in a panic that he hit his head on the display stand and sent magazines slithering everywhere. Well I thought it was funny.
love Rainy
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
As I Lay Dying
"Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file." William Faulkner
Monday, October 18, 2010
IT'S OVER
So anyway PHD application is in, Honours project is in (all in a three days), I am in... an insane asylum
Monday, October 4, 2010
Hemingway and a Fish
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Drinking Moby, Reading Moby...
So, I sat down today to take a much needed break from writing my exegesis (the word garrote comes to mind) with a bottle of ice tea and a copy of The Passage. I open my tea and take a sip. Nice tea, fruity but a bit spicy. Intrigued, I do what all humans do when they have tasted something they like... I turn the bottle over. What do I find? The bottle I was happily sipping away at was owned by Moby. (Not the actual bottle obviously- like, it wasn't stolen from the gym with Property of Moby written on it) That's right, Moby. Apparently he owns a Vegan tea store in New York called Teany Teas and my friendly neighborhood coffee shop sells his teas by the bottle.
So, why am I annoyed, gentle readers? Well, cause Moby (real name Richard Melville Hall) is the great, great, great (or something) grandson of my old pal Herman. Hence the nickname...
Gimme a break, universe. Seriously. Why does my heart feel so bad... indeed.
Good tea though.
So, why am I annoyed, gentle readers? Well, cause Moby (real name Richard Melville Hall) is the great, great, great (or something) grandson of my old pal Herman. Hence the nickname...
Gimme a break, universe. Seriously. Why does my heart feel so bad... indeed.
Good tea though.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Gone Fishin'
The Leviathan has gone fishin' and for the next few weeks will be baiting hooks and reeling in her first draft...
Friday, August 13, 2010
Perfume
"In eighteenth-century France there lived a man who was one of the most gifted and abominable personages in an era that knew no lack of gifted and abominable personages."
Patrick Suskind in "Perfume"
Patrick Suskind in "Perfume"
The Tangent Machine
My Call Me Ishmael Syndrome has made me a sufficient enough invalid that I feel I am well within my rights to begin my blog post with...
Where to begin?
(I suspect this will be something of an odd post. Particularly considering that I am sitting here with a jumbo glass of Berocca and a double strength latte. As the great bard says, pew pew!)
I have been staring at a computer screen for the last few days editing my short story for the QUT Postgraduate Writing Prize. It is now done, printed, sent. I gave it to a few of my very bright and talented co-workers last night (including my head honcho) and all the feedback was good. It was funny though as most of these peeps had already read my first draft (The Seagull) some time ago and while they all read it dutifully and handed it back uncrumpled I could read the lack luster disappointment on their faces. I could hear their minds screaming, but what is the point! You just seem obsessed with the beach, and whales, and shells and sand (which in my first draft I used 27 times in 1, 500 words). But this time around everyone came frisking back over to me, faces lit and hands outstretched.
"This girl holds the fire" they chimed in unison.
In the last few weeks work has been so mental that I have had to miss a week of class (even my Novel and Genre class which I fecking love) and work over forty hours in one week. I know what you are probably thinking, old Gen Y Leviathan, thinks forty hours is a big deal. Well I’m from farm stock, my friend! (I’m also from, like, three generations of jockeys and my Dad still wonders why my brother and I are short).
Tangent machine.
The only other person in Brisbane who seems to be busier and more frazzled than me is my good mate Barr Fletcher. Seems they have upped his hours of teaching at university (because he is a hero) and he is now a blur of tartan zooming its way around the city in a blur. He rang me throughout the day in four and a half minute bursts in between meeting with students and teaching. It was perhaps the oddest feedback I have ever received simply due to its delivery.
"Leviathan?" (imagine this in a thick Sterling accent)
"Yes, Barr." (imagine this in a scrawny, mangrovey sounding Aussie accent)
"Got ya story. Just read the first page. I’ve never been so fucking busy in my entire life, eh. I have all these students to see today and last week I lost my USB stick and I’ve just got four minutes spare and read the first page. So do you want feedback? How the hell are you anyway?"
In fact his campus life is beginning to sound more like the final scene in Perfume where Jean-Baptiste Grenouille gets ripped to shreds... minus the other bits... ahem (tangent machine).
Anyway, lovely friend that I am I sent him my short story again yesterday (as if he doesn’t have enough to do) begging him to unleash his lead penciled saber over my prose. Turns out, not much was needed however he did inform me that he now thought of me as a writer (to which I sent several expletives his way only to have another friend remind me that I was sitting beside a well stocked playground) and that he has been showing this blog in his classes.
Say what, Barr?!
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed but I am about as good at this writing caper as Paris Hilton is proficient in the ways of the hipster.
I have been in an abject panic since he told me, poised over my qwerty keyboard, sweating. Literally tens of tens of the city’s impressionable youth will be perusing my blog, combing over my prose while holding aloft a copy of Catcher in The Rye or The Bell Jar, giggling over my spelling mistakes and applying pop-psychology overviews to any post about my parents!
Oh Jesus! It's like being in highschool again when my year eleven short story got published in the yearbook and no one told me (or asked me). So on the day when the yearbook came out (I was too cool for yearbooks, joining anything... making friends etc)people kept coming up to me all day either complimenting me or asking if I was okay. I had no idea what the hell was going on till my fiend showed me my story (which was a futuristic piece about the possible death of my own brother) printed alongside a painting of a cheery group of half clad anime girls.
Tangent machine.
It's pretty sick, but! Thanks Barr... preciate the kudos.
After writing this blog I think there may be something in this tangent machine theory. Perhaps my inability to pen perfect first lines (or even okay ones)is more to do with the way my mind leaps, unbridled from one topic to the next. Who am I, Helen Razer? You just can't be a tirading tangent monkey these days. That was all left in the nineties with flannelet shirts, baby doll dresses, Winona Ryder and the ability to buy American Psycho in a bookshop. These days people need fixed, dignified prose with elegant, properly air brushed authors poised on wind swept cliff tops talking about how they write their books in between caring for Nicaraguan orphans and baking aubergines.
Crap... tangent machine.
Where to begin?
(I suspect this will be something of an odd post. Particularly considering that I am sitting here with a jumbo glass of Berocca and a double strength latte. As the great bard says, pew pew!)
I have been staring at a computer screen for the last few days editing my short story for the QUT Postgraduate Writing Prize. It is now done, printed, sent. I gave it to a few of my very bright and talented co-workers last night (including my head honcho) and all the feedback was good. It was funny though as most of these peeps had already read my first draft (The Seagull) some time ago and while they all read it dutifully and handed it back uncrumpled I could read the lack luster disappointment on their faces. I could hear their minds screaming, but what is the point! You just seem obsessed with the beach, and whales, and shells and sand (which in my first draft I used 27 times in 1, 500 words). But this time around everyone came frisking back over to me, faces lit and hands outstretched.
"This girl holds the fire" they chimed in unison.
In the last few weeks work has been so mental that I have had to miss a week of class (even my Novel and Genre class which I fecking love) and work over forty hours in one week. I know what you are probably thinking, old Gen Y Leviathan, thinks forty hours is a big deal. Well I’m from farm stock, my friend! (I’m also from, like, three generations of jockeys and my Dad still wonders why my brother and I are short).
Tangent machine.
The only other person in Brisbane who seems to be busier and more frazzled than me is my good mate Barr Fletcher. Seems they have upped his hours of teaching at university (because he is a hero) and he is now a blur of tartan zooming its way around the city in a blur. He rang me throughout the day in four and a half minute bursts in between meeting with students and teaching. It was perhaps the oddest feedback I have ever received simply due to its delivery.
"Leviathan?" (imagine this in a thick Sterling accent)
"Yes, Barr." (imagine this in a scrawny, mangrovey sounding Aussie accent)
"Got ya story. Just read the first page. I’ve never been so fucking busy in my entire life, eh. I have all these students to see today and last week I lost my USB stick and I’ve just got four minutes spare and read the first page. So do you want feedback? How the hell are you anyway?"
In fact his campus life is beginning to sound more like the final scene in Perfume where Jean-Baptiste Grenouille gets ripped to shreds... minus the other bits... ahem (tangent machine).
Anyway, lovely friend that I am I sent him my short story again yesterday (as if he doesn’t have enough to do) begging him to unleash his lead penciled saber over my prose. Turns out, not much was needed however he did inform me that he now thought of me as a writer (to which I sent several expletives his way only to have another friend remind me that I was sitting beside a well stocked playground) and that he has been showing this blog in his classes.
Say what, Barr?!
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed but I am about as good at this writing caper as Paris Hilton is proficient in the ways of the hipster.
I have been in an abject panic since he told me, poised over my qwerty keyboard, sweating. Literally tens of tens of the city’s impressionable youth will be perusing my blog, combing over my prose while holding aloft a copy of Catcher in The Rye or The Bell Jar, giggling over my spelling mistakes and applying pop-psychology overviews to any post about my parents!
Oh Jesus! It's like being in highschool again when my year eleven short story got published in the yearbook and no one told me (or asked me). So on the day when the yearbook came out (I was too cool for yearbooks, joining anything... making friends etc)people kept coming up to me all day either complimenting me or asking if I was okay. I had no idea what the hell was going on till my fiend showed me my story (which was a futuristic piece about the possible death of my own brother) printed alongside a painting of a cheery group of half clad anime girls.
Tangent machine.
It's pretty sick, but! Thanks Barr... preciate the kudos.
After writing this blog I think there may be something in this tangent machine theory. Perhaps my inability to pen perfect first lines (or even okay ones)is more to do with the way my mind leaps, unbridled from one topic to the next. Who am I, Helen Razer? You just can't be a tirading tangent monkey these days. That was all left in the nineties with flannelet shirts, baby doll dresses, Winona Ryder and the ability to buy American Psycho in a bookshop. These days people need fixed, dignified prose with elegant, properly air brushed authors poised on wind swept cliff tops talking about how they write their books in between caring for Nicaraguan orphans and baking aubergines.
Crap... tangent machine.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Whale Rider
This may be one of my absolute favorite first lines (as of yesterday when I read it)...
"In the old days, in the years that have gone before us, the land and sea felt a great emptiness, a yearning".
Witi Ihimaera in The Whale Rider.
"In the old days, in the years that have gone before us, the land and sea felt a great emptiness, a yearning".
Witi Ihimaera in The Whale Rider.
Email From The Sarge
Hi Sweetie,
just read you blog and I had a good laugh, thanks a lot. It got me
thinking about a book that I read many years ago called Sharks, Skates
and Rays (Shadows in the Sea) by Captain William McCormick and others.
Out of print but you may find one in the library or the second hand book
shop somewhere. I found it one of the most informative books about sharks.
Also, I don't remember giving you THAT advice.
Love Dad
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Richard Newsome and The Curse of The Leviathan
If you come here to regularly peruse the crisp dialogue of the lackadaisical Leviathan firstly, congratulations you have impeccable taste, and secondly you will know that I have (on occasion) embarrassed myself in the presence of authors (so far we have Charlie Higson, Gary Crew, Shaun Tan, Natasha Solomon, Michael Robotham and Morris Gleitzman - but the list is always growing).
The problem is I have the best job in the world. I work at a bookshop (and general hub of reading) in Brisbane where I regularly have to "liaise" with authors and publishing people. This is all very well and good (I have more than enough pencil skirts to make me seem eminently sensible) but I have this habit of freaking them out.
Last night my boss asked me to run an event with Richard Newsome, a Brisbane based author with a swag of awards and two books under his belt. Now, as I mentioned in my previous blog I am still somewhat under the weather and my voice has been dropping in and out like a radio channel in Dolby. So when I realised it was going to have to be a Q and A I had a mild panic (which was then somewhat nullified by a friend giving me a small plastic fox - long story, don’t ask).
Richard arrived and (having already image searched him, learning from my mistaken identity bungle with Morris Gleitzman) I introduced myself, he signed some posters and books and we waited for the guests to arrive. It was a pretty good turn out for a Tuesday night and my pal and colleague Rosie Blum was at my side providing much needed backup and apple pie. There were a few precocious kids with well worn copies of The Billionaire’s Curse and The Emerald Casket cradled in their laps and some star struck mums to boot.
I delivered my prepared speech (where I forgot to mention his swag of awards) and we got into it. I felt like Andrew Denton or worse (and maybe because I was wearing a pencil skirt) Jana Wendt. I found myself nodding knowingly at his comments and anecdotes, leaning against my palm in an act of profound numpty-ness and laughing like a banshee in need of a lozenge.
Occasionally my voice would break or a joke would fall a little flat (my jokes of course; his were hilarious) and I realised how much of my humor relies on a plosive delivery and emphatic hand gestures (because of the plague I could barely keep my head up let alone flail my hands about). I felt like the only joke that was going to work was, “I once caught a cold this big…” and I only thought of that one this morning.
Despite my cold, my squeaky voice and occasional omission of important information, it was a great event and Richard was a truly lovely guy (not to mention a talented writer). After the event he and his lovely little daughter Ella grabbed a copy of the Clementine Novels (a recommend from the leviathan), signed my book and disappeared into the night (well, okay not really. In fact we approached the Bastian of all great modern friendships ad came up trumps- we are now facebook friends).
So maybe I have broken my embarrassment streak (here's hoping) and am now being ushered into the glorious light of adulthood... nah, I doubt it.
On the way home I opened my copy of The Billionaire's Curse to read his inscription...
To Sarah, my great inquisitor. Richard.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The problem is I have the best job in the world. I work at a bookshop (and general hub of reading) in Brisbane where I regularly have to "liaise" with authors and publishing people. This is all very well and good (I have more than enough pencil skirts to make me seem eminently sensible) but I have this habit of freaking them out.
Last night my boss asked me to run an event with Richard Newsome, a Brisbane based author with a swag of awards and two books under his belt. Now, as I mentioned in my previous blog I am still somewhat under the weather and my voice has been dropping in and out like a radio channel in Dolby. So when I realised it was going to have to be a Q and A I had a mild panic (which was then somewhat nullified by a friend giving me a small plastic fox - long story, don’t ask).
Richard arrived and (having already image searched him, learning from my mistaken identity bungle with Morris Gleitzman) I introduced myself, he signed some posters and books and we waited for the guests to arrive. It was a pretty good turn out for a Tuesday night and my pal and colleague Rosie Blum was at my side providing much needed backup and apple pie. There were a few precocious kids with well worn copies of The Billionaire’s Curse and The Emerald Casket cradled in their laps and some star struck mums to boot.
I delivered my prepared speech (where I forgot to mention his swag of awards) and we got into it. I felt like Andrew Denton or worse (and maybe because I was wearing a pencil skirt) Jana Wendt. I found myself nodding knowingly at his comments and anecdotes, leaning against my palm in an act of profound numpty-ness and laughing like a banshee in need of a lozenge.
Occasionally my voice would break or a joke would fall a little flat (my jokes of course; his were hilarious) and I realised how much of my humor relies on a plosive delivery and emphatic hand gestures (because of the plague I could barely keep my head up let alone flail my hands about). I felt like the only joke that was going to work was, “I once caught a cold this big…” and I only thought of that one this morning.
Despite my cold, my squeaky voice and occasional omission of important information, it was a great event and Richard was a truly lovely guy (not to mention a talented writer). After the event he and his lovely little daughter Ella grabbed a copy of the Clementine Novels (a recommend from the leviathan), signed my book and disappeared into the night (well, okay not really. In fact we approached the Bastian of all great modern friendships ad came up trumps- we are now facebook friends).
So maybe I have broken my embarrassment streak (here's hoping) and am now being ushered into the glorious light of adulthood... nah, I doubt it.
On the way home I opened my copy of The Billionaire's Curse to read his inscription...
To Sarah, my great inquisitor. Richard.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Carl Jung - First Line of Four
"The hypothesis of a collective unconscious belongs to the class of ideas that people at first find strange but soon come to possess and use as familiar conceptions".
Carl Jung in Four Archetypes.
Carl Jung in Four Archetypes.
Why a Spoon, Cousin?
http://justdessertsreviews.wordpress.com/2010/07/12/rubys-spoon-by-anna-lawrence-pietroni/
So, I may have lied about not doing any writing... sorry, baby.
So, I may have lied about not doing any writing... sorry, baby.
The 'C' Hole
I know, I've been a bad blogger.
I'm sorry, baby. I know, I know, I haven't been thinking of your feelings. I've been inattentive. I never called. I'm sorry, baby. I would never want to hurt you. I've just had stuff to do. No, don't cry. I hate it when you cry...
Ahem.
So, it’s been a while since I posted anything substantial that wasn’t a photo of a shark or a moaning session about a member of my family. This is because I have had three cold/flu/black plagues and a bout of gastro which left me face down on the living room floor for three days watching Lois and Clarke the New Adventures of Superman. It’s not just you, gentle readers (hi mum). You'll be happy to know that I have, in fact, neglected all writing related duties. A 360 degree fail on all counts with one exception. The exception being the reading of everything Carl Jung has ever written about myth criticism and archetypes. And all I can say about that is,
I am in the C hole.
I mean, what the hell, Carl. WHAT THE HELL!
Hang on, I'll be right back.
I'm back. I put the emergency Enya on. Give it a sec... there it goes. I am now taking a deep breath, pushing the stack of Jung books away and having what can only be described as a Wasp volume swig of gin.
Let me back up a little and explain.
I am looking at a few things for my exegesis to support my claim that the feminine cannot really ever be removed from a story. When a female character is absent from the text (as in the case of Moby Dick) it reforms and takes the form of a landscape instead. One of the ways I plan to support this claim is looking at Jung’s work on the female archetype and his critical work on myth.
I have found some interesting stuff so far. Especially with reference to mans relationship to the water. Yep, my old pal Jung has some interesting things to say about this subject. If by interesting you mean CONFUSING AS ALL HELL! For example (in regards to the story of Moses) Jung says this,
"This story is an amplification and elucidation of the legend of the seven sleepers and the problem of rebirth. Moses is the man who seeks, the man on the "quest". On this pilgrimage he is accompanied by his shadow. Joshua had is origin in the depths of the waters, in the darkness of the shadow-world..."
Um.
Agh.
*cough*
Whatever happened to the days of "Sarah, can you spell CAT?" and "Sarah, can you spell your name?" I miss those quite, simple times, when scraping your knee was the worst thing that could happen and a cardboard box could fill a day with endless amounts of excitement. These days I have to address radical interpretations of the subconscious mind and the stability of the collective unconscious.
Now, where did I put that gin?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Angry Alice...
Apparently my Shark/Whale fixation is getting out of hand. A little girl came into the bookshop and asked for "the whale girl" last week. Turns out I recommended "The Morning I Met A Whale" for her and "The Snail and The Whale" for her little brother the week before.Whale Girl. Sheesh, not very flattering is it?
And it doesn't stop there. Everyone is in on it! People know about my strange obsession! Mind you, it may have something to do with the fact that I do little else with my time but write and research (both fairly whale heavy) and wear a silver hammerhead around my neck.
My very talented friend Angry Alice sent the above photos of books she found in Savers this week and (I'm ashamed to say) I coveted them! So, thank you Alice, you always find the best PD.
Check out her awesome work. She's Warhol meets Virginia Woolf with a dash of Lebowitz and a smidgen of Hello Kitty! http://www.flickr.com/photos/li-kimchuah/
The Sarge
Several weeks ago I briefly introduced you to the lunacy that is my Mum (and Brother, although as far as I’m concerned the poor kid didn't stand much chance of becoming an investment banker or the Lord Mayor given our barmy parentals) and now it’s time to introduce you to... the Sarge, my dear old Dad.
By way of a bit of an intro to The Sarge.
Many years ago, when I was just eighteen and leaving home I packed up the truck (my three best friends at my side) with my comic books, pink flowery sheets and Teddy Bear (yeah that’s right a Teddy Bear! Just try and give me a hard time about it). My Mum (weeping somewhat hysterically) hugged me and my brother embraced me in his stiff Spartan way. I turned to my Dad.
The Sarge looked at me, his bald head glistening in the morning sunshine. His overly tan, Grecian skin particularly dark with the morning’s hard work of hefting dressing tables and bags of identical blue jeans and multiple pairs of Doc Martins. I waited (I may even have been wearing pigtails and a pinafore) for my Dad to bestow on me some great wisdom. I hoped he would distill my future life into one clear adage that would carry me seamlessly and safely into old age (aka- his age).
The Sarge walked towards me extending his arm. I felt the lead of his fist slap me "affectionately" in the arm. He smiled (which he almost never does), looked into my eyes and said,
"Darlin, take care of yourself..."
(Oh Dad)
"...And be sure to steer clear of the clap."
The Serge, ladies and gentlemen, my Dad.
Mind you, you’d think the old Soldier would have figured this whole human interaction thing out by now. I mean I’m his sweet little (completely clap free) daughter.
Poor guy, he tries.
My birthday swiftly approaches (the big twenty-seven) and my dad has always had trouble with birthdays. He can't handle gift giving (unless he is buying yet another LOTR DVD for my Brother). Last year I alerted him to the fact that for five years now he has sent me the same birthday card with FogHorn LegHorn on it. It's a lovely card with the giant chicken raving on about how wonderful the recipient of the card is. I loved it the first time I got it, filled with carefully selected Hallmark-usque synonyms for amazing.
Dad, feeling the success of this card decided he was onto a good thing and has sent it every year since.
I decided this year, I would encourage him to broaden out into other sections of the Greeting Card universe and last night I had a conversation with him that went a little like this...
"Hi Dad."
"Darlin?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, you called me."
"It’s my birthday soon."
"Yes it is."
"What am I getting for my pressie?"
"I was thinking about an eighteenth century Victorian broach."
Wait a cotton picking second. My Father, the Sarge (old "steer clear of the clap" himself) is going to not only get me an eighteenth century Victorian broach but he is actually going to venture out of his flat (completely decked out in camo green couches, sheets and tea towels) to go looking for this phantom broach... it smelt fishy as hell to me!
"Dad..."
"Yes."
"You know that the Victorian era was from early 1800’s to 1900’s, right? "
"Yeah, so?"
"That’s the nineteenth century, Dad."
"Hmmmm, perhaps the broach is a little older then... Listen Darlin, have to go. Your Brother is causing a ruckus."
(The very calm voice of my brother) "Who me? I’m watching Home Improvem..." click of the phone.
So this blog is for The Sarge, you don’t have to defy the laws of time and space just to get me a broach, Dad... a laptop would be fine. Oh, and if I get even the slightest whiff of a Foghorn Leghorn card... I'm confiscating your cable.
Love ya, Sarge!
By way of a bit of an intro to The Sarge.
Many years ago, when I was just eighteen and leaving home I packed up the truck (my three best friends at my side) with my comic books, pink flowery sheets and Teddy Bear (yeah that’s right a Teddy Bear! Just try and give me a hard time about it). My Mum (weeping somewhat hysterically) hugged me and my brother embraced me in his stiff Spartan way. I turned to my Dad.
The Sarge looked at me, his bald head glistening in the morning sunshine. His overly tan, Grecian skin particularly dark with the morning’s hard work of hefting dressing tables and bags of identical blue jeans and multiple pairs of Doc Martins. I waited (I may even have been wearing pigtails and a pinafore) for my Dad to bestow on me some great wisdom. I hoped he would distill my future life into one clear adage that would carry me seamlessly and safely into old age (aka- his age).
The Sarge walked towards me extending his arm. I felt the lead of his fist slap me "affectionately" in the arm. He smiled (which he almost never does), looked into my eyes and said,
"Darlin, take care of yourself..."
(Oh Dad)
"...And be sure to steer clear of the clap."
The Serge, ladies and gentlemen, my Dad.
Mind you, you’d think the old Soldier would have figured this whole human interaction thing out by now. I mean I’m his sweet little (completely clap free) daughter.
Poor guy, he tries.
My birthday swiftly approaches (the big twenty-seven) and my dad has always had trouble with birthdays. He can't handle gift giving (unless he is buying yet another LOTR DVD for my Brother). Last year I alerted him to the fact that for five years now he has sent me the same birthday card with FogHorn LegHorn on it. It's a lovely card with the giant chicken raving on about how wonderful the recipient of the card is. I loved it the first time I got it, filled with carefully selected Hallmark-usque synonyms for amazing.
Dad, feeling the success of this card decided he was onto a good thing and has sent it every year since.
I decided this year, I would encourage him to broaden out into other sections of the Greeting Card universe and last night I had a conversation with him that went a little like this...
"Hi Dad."
"Darlin?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, you called me."
"It’s my birthday soon."
"Yes it is."
"What am I getting for my pressie?"
"I was thinking about an eighteenth century Victorian broach."
Wait a cotton picking second. My Father, the Sarge (old "steer clear of the clap" himself) is going to not only get me an eighteenth century Victorian broach but he is actually going to venture out of his flat (completely decked out in camo green couches, sheets and tea towels) to go looking for this phantom broach... it smelt fishy as hell to me!
"Dad..."
"Yes."
"You know that the Victorian era was from early 1800’s to 1900’s, right? "
"Yeah, so?"
"That’s the nineteenth century, Dad."
"Hmmmm, perhaps the broach is a little older then... Listen Darlin, have to go. Your Brother is causing a ruckus."
(The very calm voice of my brother) "Who me? I’m watching Home Improvem..." click of the phone.
So this blog is for The Sarge, you don’t have to defy the laws of time and space just to get me a broach, Dad... a laptop would be fine. Oh, and if I get even the slightest whiff of a Foghorn Leghorn card... I'm confiscating your cable.
Love ya, Sarge!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Ode to a First Line
Okay here it is. The first few sentences of my shark attack scene. This scene is to become part of my novel (towards the end). I have been obsessing about these lines for some time now (as usual).
My body freezes.
The jaws ease open as the fish sweeps past me.
I wait.
My body freezes.
The jaws ease open as the fish sweeps past me.
I wait.
Jaws
"The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail."
Peter Benchley in Jaws.
Peter Benchley in Jaws.
Shark Attack
http://www.sharkattacks.com/bites.htm
This is what I am doing with my day. Why did I decide to write about a shark attack?
This is what I am doing with my day. Why did I decide to write about a shark attack?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Mate... You've Been Hurt
Since starting this whole blog caper several friends have become covetous of honorable mentions and pen names. To that end, I have several mentions.
To my mate Ryan Cohen who listened to me read one of my short stories (a new one about a shark attack) over the phone. Our conversation post-reading went something like this,
(I pause at the end of reading) "So?"
"Mate."
"Matey?"
"Mate!"
"Yes?"
"Mate. . . you’ve been hurt."
Now despite the fact that this particular story is just about a shark attack (and an unsuccessful one at that) and obviously has no real connection to the events of my life (other than a rather brief shark attack) my friend Ryan still managed to feel the palpably sad quality to my literary sinew. I mean, come on! What the hell do I need to do? Write a cheery haiku where a Duck and a Cat become fast friends over strawberry milkshakes!
Thank you for that feedback Ryan, it will haunt me always.
To my dear friend, let’s call her Holland Daisy, who came to see me over the weekend and nurse me back to health while entertaining me with Texas Hold’em lessons (and clothing suggestions - good call on the red dress)... your praise of my novel is appreciated, your patience while I read it aloud is also appreciated. However the description of my writing feeling like being drowned beneath a flood of words is, well. . . okay, pretty apt.
You are one hell of a mermaid!
To my mate Ryan Cohen who listened to me read one of my short stories (a new one about a shark attack) over the phone. Our conversation post-reading went something like this,
(I pause at the end of reading) "So?"
"Mate."
"Matey?"
"Mate!"
"Yes?"
"Mate. . . you’ve been hurt."
Now despite the fact that this particular story is just about a shark attack (and an unsuccessful one at that) and obviously has no real connection to the events of my life (other than a rather brief shark attack) my friend Ryan still managed to feel the palpably sad quality to my literary sinew. I mean, come on! What the hell do I need to do? Write a cheery haiku where a Duck and a Cat become fast friends over strawberry milkshakes!
Thank you for that feedback Ryan, it will haunt me always.
To my dear friend, let’s call her Holland Daisy, who came to see me over the weekend and nurse me back to health while entertaining me with Texas Hold’em lessons (and clothing suggestions - good call on the red dress)... your praise of my novel is appreciated, your patience while I read it aloud is also appreciated. However the description of my writing feeling like being drowned beneath a flood of words is, well. . . okay, pretty apt.
You are one hell of a mermaid!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Several days ago at work (otherwise known as the best bookshop in the world) my boss, let’s call her Carrots gave me a stack of young adult manuscripts to read over. Seems that she had been asked to read through them and sort the gems from the dross.
At first I had a wee giggle at the content of the stories (two different manuscripts were written from a poodles perspective) and (not surprising given my "condition") I was struck by how bad the first line of every manuscript was. Well, okay, not bad but trying too hard. I started to get a feeling... a weird feeling... maybe there are more of us out there?
Suddenly my dodgy first lines didn't seem so bad. In fact the mere knowledge that these first lines were out there a seemed to quieten the thump, thump, thump beneath the floorboards.
Believe me, I'd love to tack some of these first lines onto the end of this blog but Carrots was standing guard over them like the Balrog over the Bridge of Khazad-dû.
She seemed to know what I was thinking (perhaps even planning in the manner of the Thomas Crown affair). The manuscripts glistened in the early morning light. Each first line seemed to call out to me from beyond the page.
But there she was, the red-haired Bastian of privacy, brandishing her flaming sword of copy write. Suffice it to say the manuscripts are safely where they should be and not being pillaged for the purposes of this blog.
However, if you have recently submitted a manuscript for a Young Adult Fiction competition please consider this blog a work of pure fiction.
Yeah. . . fiction (also, I'm thinking of starting a support group).
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Struck Down in Her Prime
I’m sitting at my writing desk in my sweet little flat in Paddington (Brisbane) and listening to the dulcet tones of the man beneath us hosing his perfectly clean cement walkway and the cerebral delights of the girl next door sqwacking to her boyfriend about the dark color of her hair roots while they play acid wash rock at a volume that ripples the air in a 2 block radius.
What I should be doing (as delightful as these forays into the Brisbane elite are) is doing my frickin literature review which is due tomorrow. <
. . .Oh god, the wanna-be rock opera fusion singer has started doing scales upstairs. He sounds like The Fat Lady swallowed Robbie Williams.
Anyway the old Ishmael Syndrome has struck in a big way. My essay sits before me, gleaming with perfectly referenced quotes, elegantly written and complete but for the intro and the GODDAM FIRST LINE.
So, if you have any ideas about how one can introduce gender landscapes within the context of Moby-Dick and Jonah and The Big Fish while dissecting the feminine absent and the fear of submergence, please email me at leviathan@StickaForkInMeI’mDone.com.au
What I should be doing (as delightful as these forays into the Brisbane elite are) is doing my frickin literature review which is due tomorrow. <
. . .Oh god, the wanna-be rock opera fusion singer has started doing scales upstairs. He sounds like The Fat Lady swallowed Robbie Williams.
Anyway the old Ishmael Syndrome has struck in a big way. My essay sits before me, gleaming with perfectly referenced quotes, elegantly written and complete but for the intro and the GODDAM FIRST LINE.
So, if you have any ideas about how one can introduce gender landscapes within the context of Moby-Dick and Jonah and The Big Fish while dissecting the feminine absent and the fear of submergence, please email me at leviathan@StickaForkInMeI’mDone.com.au
Monday, May 24, 2010
David Copperfield
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show"
Charles Dickens in David Copperfield
Charles Dickens in David Copperfield
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Holding My Ishmael
Okay, my Mum and brother have just called me to give me their feedback on my blog entries.
Now, I know I'm a fiction writer but I swear on Poseidon that I am not making this up! This conversation is verbatim. (See today's previous few blogs to have any idea what I'm rambling about)
"Possum?"
"Yes Mum."
"I just read your blog."
"Oh yeah?"
"It's very good."
"Did you read it to Charlie?"
"Not yet. He lent over my shoulder though and said, that boy looks like me. He's such a dill."
"Did you see the photo of me holding Moby-Dick?"
"Holding what?' (Sounds both shocked and incredulous)
"Moby-Dick!"
"Holding what? I don't know what you're saying?"
"Herman Melville's MOBY-DICK!"
"What are you holding?"
(From somewhere in the background my brother says) "She's holding her Ishmael."
"Ah ha ha ha! Did you hear that? Your brother said you're holding your Ishmael." (followed by more hysterical laughing)
(Massive sigh) "Mum if you scroll down, you'll see a photo of me holding a copy of Moby Dick."
"Holding ya what? Ah ha ha ha! It must be because I'm sixty. I'm losing my hearing."
Now, I know I'm a fiction writer but I swear on Poseidon that I am not making this up! This conversation is verbatim. (See today's previous few blogs to have any idea what I'm rambling about)
"Possum?"
"Yes Mum."
"I just read your blog."
"Oh yeah?"
"It's very good."
"Did you read it to Charlie?"
"Not yet. He lent over my shoulder though and said, that boy looks like me. He's such a dill."
"Did you see the photo of me holding Moby-Dick?"
"Holding what?' (Sounds both shocked and incredulous)
"Moby-Dick!"
"Holding what? I don't know what you're saying?"
"Herman Melville's MOBY-DICK!"
"What are you holding?"
(From somewhere in the background my brother says) "She's holding her Ishmael."
"Ah ha ha ha! Did you hear that? Your brother said you're holding your Ishmael." (followed by more hysterical laughing)
(Massive sigh) "Mum if you scroll down, you'll see a photo of me holding a copy of Moby Dick."
"Holding ya what? Ah ha ha ha! It must be because I'm sixty. I'm losing my hearing."
Aged P
It’s my mother’s sixtieth birthday today. She rang me and the conversation went a little like this. . .
"Sweetheart!"
"Hi Mum."
"Yes it's me. I’m old. OLD OLD OLD."
"Yeah I know. Happy Birthday. I was going to ring you."
"I’m an Aged P (said Age'ed), like in Dickens. Which one was that? I think it was Dombey, no maybe it was Bleak House. Anyway this fellow called his father the "Aged P" like parent. Now that’s what I am. Looks like I may have a job. Remember that second hand book shop, the one with the women who sits in the window all day picking her nose? Well turns out when she is not picking her nose she is quite nice. Anyway I was in there and I said to myself, just go up and ask her if there is any work. So I did. Turns out she races Go Carts (and she’s quite large so I don’t know how that works) but when she is racing her Go Carts she needs someone to watch the shop. So looks like I may have a job."
"That's great."
"And I don't think the picking of ones nose is mandatory."
She shrieks.
"What’s wrong? Mum?!"
"Something has eaten the buds off my orchid!"
"What? You sounded like you’d been shot."
"Those bloody possums! Anyway how are you? How’s uni? How’s work and your friends?"
"Um. Good."
"That’s good. Sixty today!"
"Happy birthday."
"AGED P!"
"Yes, Mum."
"Sixty."
"Sixty is the new forty."
"Oh what nonsense. There’s a remarkable bird just outside my window."
"A what?"
"A bird, sweetie. Pity about the bloody possums though."
(From somewhere in the background I hear my brother offer her six dollars to shut up)
Anyway Happy Birthday, Mum. I wouldn't be this weird without you!
This Morning...
"This morning I met a Whale. It was just after five o'clock and I was down by the river"
Michael Morpurgo in This Morning I Met a Whale.
Michael Morpurgo in This Morning I Met a Whale.
My Brother, My Captain, My... Whale Researcher
While collecting information for my literature review (due on Friday she said with an uncontrollable shaking of the hands) I came across an old favorite that I had almost forgotten existed. Michael Morporgo’s This Morning I Met A Whale. It is a picture book/early reader/novel about a young boy who tries to save a beached whale in London.
If you’ve never read it, go out and get a copy. It's one of the most beautifully sad books you’ll ever read. I gave a copy to my brother Charlie some months ago. Seeing as how he reads about as slow as a docking city cat on Sunday I really didn’t expect him to get back to me for a while. On Sunday he calls me and the conversation went a little bit like this,
"AHCHCHM" (he, for some reason I am yet to identify, always begins conversations on the phone by coughing first)
"Charlie?"
"Yes."
"Yes what? You rang me."
"Oh yes. How are you my girl?"
"Good matey. I’m at work though so I can’t talk for long."
"Oh yeah. Well I was just calling to say that I miss you. . ."
"That’s nice buddy. I miss you too."
". . . and I like my book,"
"That's great, mate."
". . . and I’ve decided that I'm going to study whales."
"Pardon?"
"Whales. I will study them."
"That’s what I do."
(Massive pause where I can literally hear the cogs in his brain working) "What?" (Clang, clang, clang)
"Whales. That’s what I’m doing."
"Oh yeah? (Translation; I’m suspicious of this as I am yet to see my little sister on a vessel of any kind, Old Man and The Sea style.)
"Yeah. I’m writing my honors on Moby-Dick and Jonah and the Big Fish."
"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarah (followed by a chuckle) I mean REAL whales, not paper ones."
And there is was. In a shared moment with my genetic other I watched as the ocean of my reading (not to mention the last five years of my life writing a novel all about whaling and sea beasts) swirled in around me and the uppity face of my brother sails elegantly by like some glowing Hercules.
"Mind the word vomit," he shouts to his crew as they heave their ship away from the squawking siren alone on the beach quoting lines from Moby-Dick.
In one beautifully crystallized moment he had defined all that was futile about academia. Who would want to be a Melville scholar when they could be throwing themselves on Japanese whaling ships?
So here’s to my brother! The boy whose childhood bedroom looked like a waterlogged Da’Vinci lived there. I hope you do study whales. I know you, brave (and dumb) enough to throw yourself on a whales back, fight pirates in all seven seas and turf a beached Minke back into the ocean. . . probably barehanded. My hat goes off to you, Faramir of Gondor.
Lake Gargoyle?
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/world/1055888/search-on-for-corpse-of-mystery-beast
And people say the stuff I write about couldn't happen...
And people say the stuff I write about couldn't happen...
My Body Strikes the Water
Okay, so I gave my speech to my entire honors class, supervisor and head of graduate studies on Thursday. Such were my nerves that I had to pee three times in forty five minutes. See the thing is, I have no trouble with public speaking and I’m not intimated by a room full of smarty pants (who wear vintage Nike jumpers and use words like existential and juxtapose) but I do have an issue with reading my fiction out loud.
FECKIN OUT LOUD PEOPLE. As in, “blar blar blar… come right in and take a good look around the salty, deep sea caves of my mind. Mind the coral…”
I’m not really sure how it went, nor am I particularly confident that the other creative writers didn’t want to have me murdered by the end (there were some very intimidating scowly faces). I suppose the only thing I can do now is lie back and think of Becks… I mean
In terms of first lines I think I did okay. They felt good in my mouth and seemed to catch everyone's attention. Barr Fletcher once again gave a somewhat "merry" (in the way my Granny always uses the word) swipe of his saber pencil and cut the seaweed out of my prose.
Ahem... (imagine you are an honors student and have recently said either the word existential or juxtapose and this is being read to you by a frizzy haired girl who looks like she may wet herself)
My body strikes the water.
Cutting through the ocean's skin I fall. I fall through the sound of a heavy wooden hull crashing against the waves, through the shouts and cries of the crew, and through the echo of the water's surface.
Now imagine that this same frizzy haired girl has moved silently towards what she thinks is a door out into the cold, dark night only to discover that it is a blackboard. Thwack! ... Okay this didn't actually happen. But I did say imagine.Monday, May 17, 2010
What's In A Name?
I named the boat in my novel today. This unnamed vessel has been a cause of concern for some time until finally today (while writing a speech for one of my classes) I happened across the perfect name. I looked up from the ocean floor pieces of my novel darting like fish above me and I saw it like the hull of the ship itself.
The Albatross.
… and I’m spent.
The Albatross.
… and I’m spent.
I Want Anonymity But...
My friend Sophia took this photo... a talent of leviathan proportions. I'll blow my anonymity just this once.
The Enemy
“Small Sam was playing in the car park behind Waitrose park when the grown-ups took him.”
Charlie Higson in The Enemy.
Charlie Higson in The Enemy.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Neuromancer
"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."
William Gibson in Neuromancer
William Gibson in Neuromancer
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Notes From Underground
And just because that last blog had nothing to do with first lines...
"I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man."
By Fyodor Dostoyevsky in Notes From Underground
"I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man."
By Fyodor Dostoyevsky in Notes From Underground
Barr and The Orb Weaver
I'm sitting in the university library supposedly finishing my assignment and instead find myself goggling pictures of leviathans on ancient Greek pottery. I’m not normal, I am aware of this.
In other news the ABR short story is due at the end of this week and I am sending "The Seagull". Mind you, it barely resembles the mess of several weeks ago due mostly to the edits of a good friend and sometimes college (when his football injuries allow) who tore it (not quite literally) to pieces. My poor friend (who I will hereafter refer to as Barr Fletcher) was so concerned that I would have a hysterical girl moment that he presented me with only one page of my three page story just to check that I would be okay for him to continue.
I looked at the spotted, scrawled over sheet of paper that had once been my short story with a kind of Patrick Bateman disregard. Almost as if I were being handed my own severed hand bleeding lead pencil. I stared at the page and the Scottish fist that passed it towards me.
Here it is, I thought, judgment day. Finally, someone has torn the still beating (seaweed covered, barnacled) heart of my writing and flung it, shot-put style, into the sea.The thing was, Barr had noticed my seamless, cobweb-like propensity to overwrite things. I had expected him to become just as tangled in editing my writing as I occasionally do in actually writing it. Many before him had attempted the task of chopping through my prose and it always ended badly. Scores of friends and writers have suffered the same fate; stumbling around a dark Queensland backyard, drunk on XXXX, surrounded by low hanging mango branches swatting away spider webs with one of my short stories.
Thing is, one has to keep an eye out for Orb Weavers and their tricky webs.
Cause that’s what I am. I’m the literary version of a big fat Orb Weaver. By night I weave my tangled word webs only to have some poor Scottish football aficionado get tangled in my prose by the dim dawn light. Mind you, this Scott was not going to fall pray to the web. Barr set aside his copy of “Soccer Duels: A History” and like some tartan-clad Achilles he unsheathed his lead pencil (I imagine this to be to the sound of a light saber activating) and cut through my prose like it was butter. One, two, swipe, stab… and the Scott was through while I (imagine me now in some kind of spindly Aragog form) sat shocked and somewhat placid before the bleeding first page.
“Wow.”
“Yeah sorry, I havenae got to the end yet. I can stop if ya want but I thought I better check before I keep going” (only imagine this in an Ewan McGregor-usque accent)
“Nah. Keep goin. I’m not going to freak out” (Now imagine an accent akin to a girly version of Bryan Brown in the “Shiralee”)
“Yaalrighthen.”
“Pardon?”
Ahem…
My friend Barr edited the entire three pages and each suffered the same lead treatment. Clumsy phrases were emphatically cut from between the branches of the mango tree and glistening silver pieces of web wafted to the ground where they disappeared into the dust. Standing, pencil saber in hand, was Barr, triumphant. The Orb Weaver glanced around her web. It seemed cleaner, less cluttered. She could get from one side to the other without tangling her many legs in the diamond shaped cross braces. All in all, it felt like the literary version of a trip to Ikea. It was like looking out over the ordered, meticulous show rooms and wondering how you are ever going to get the red wine stains out of your carpet. (God, I have to remember to throw out the empty wine bottles!)
So, from the much changed (but far less cluttered) web of the Orb Weaver (now nicely ordered and free of wine stains), this post goes out to my friend Barr and his sharp, ruthless pencil saber with much (if somewhat over-written gratitude). I have a copy of my novel with your name on it buddy! Only not literally… cause it still has my name on it.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
"In the town, there were two mutes and they were always together."
Carson McCullers in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Carson McCullers in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Middle Passage
"Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women."
Charles Johnson in Middle Passage
Charles Johnson in Middle Passage
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The End of the Affair
"A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead."
Graham Greene in The End of the Affair
Graham Greene in The End of the Affair
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Shemily and Shason
As I have said before, I work in the best bookshop in the world. It’s an amazing store with remarkably intelligent, well read human beings who daily make me laugh and question things. However it appears that my co-workers have been reading my blog (mostly because I told them to) and discussing its contents on spacebook. Well I told them that I would blog their conversation. I mean whoopty-do, I could almost hear them shout from across the city. Like as if my blog gets more hits then facebook.
I have had very little human contact over the past few days so bear with me...
It all started when I happened across a plan to get me the Moby Dick shirt for my birthday. (Oh, um, I had better change their names. Let's call them Shemily and Shason)
Shemily - It is a well known fact that a young woman in possession of a literary mind is in want of a fine t-shirt to express her opinion. PS. you do realise your fear of first lines has given me infinite ammunition with which to torment...?
Shason - A fear of first lines... hmmm... unusual, but I can deal with that. Just don't tell me you're one of those people that reads the end of a book first! Argh!
Shemily - Well technically I think it's more her fear of writing her own first lines. It's not like having a fear of feet or something.
Shason- Okay, fair enough. I really love first lines in that sense, although I do try and spend a little time on them and pack them full of meaning. I find it's the stuff between the beginning and the end that I have most trouble with. So maybe I have a bit of a fear of middles?!
God, Shason has a point... bloody middles. Excuse me, I have to go and work on my middle.
(In all seriousness... Love you Shason and Shemily)
I have had very little human contact over the past few days so bear with me...
It all started when I happened across a plan to get me the Moby Dick shirt for my birthday. (Oh, um, I had better change their names. Let's call them Shemily and Shason)
Shemily - It is a well known fact that a young woman in possession of a literary mind is in want of a fine t-shirt to express her opinion. PS. you do realise your fear of first lines has given me infinite ammunition with which to torment...?
Shason - A fear of first lines... hmmm... unusual, but I can deal with that. Just don't tell me you're one of those people that reads the end of a book first! Argh!
Shemily - Well technically I think it's more her fear of writing her own first lines. It's not like having a fear of feet or something.
Shason- Okay, fair enough. I really love first lines in that sense, although I do try and spend a little time on them and pack them full of meaning. I find it's the stuff between the beginning and the end that I have most trouble with. So maybe I have a bit of a fear of middles?!
God, Shason has a point... bloody middles. Excuse me, I have to go and work on my middle.
(In all seriousness... Love you Shason and Shemily)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
1984
"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen". George Orwell in 1984
Samples off the Starboard Bow
Today I was meant to have a meeting with my honors supervisor but I cancelled to do some writing. And my crippling syndrome and general knee-jerk procrastination aside, it all seems to be going pretty well . My ABR story is finished (it’s called "The Seagull") and I managed to write about 5000 words of my novel over the past three days.
However, the first lines all suck.For example, the first line of my honors creative work is…
“I feel gritty daggers of sand against my palms as I plunge my hands into the ground and dig.”
For “The Seagull”
“An old man curled his fingers around a fish”.
and my novel…
“The blood won’t mix with the toilet water”.
I know what you’re thinking. She’s a morose SOB. Fish, blood, old men. Yeah okay, just keep your comments to yourself!
Anyway check out what my friends at the bookshop are “secretly” planning to get me for my birthday...
http://www.outofprintclothing.com/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=L-1006
...while I quietly entertain myself in the kitchen, like Sylvia Plath.
However, the first lines all suck.For example, the first line of my honors creative work is…
“I feel gritty daggers of sand against my palms as I plunge my hands into the ground and dig.”
For “The Seagull”
“An old man curled his fingers around a fish”.
and my novel…
“The blood won’t mix with the toilet water”.
I know what you’re thinking. She’s a morose SOB. Fish, blood, old men. Yeah okay, just keep your comments to yourself!
Anyway check out what my friends at the bookshop are “secretly” planning to get me for my birthday...
http://www.outofprintclothing.com/ProductDetails.asp?ProductCode=L-1006
...while I quietly entertain myself in the kitchen, like Sylvia Plath.
In The Beginning...
Today my mother sent me an email after she was alerted to the existence of my blog by a completely unrelated third party (hi dad).
Bunny
I love this, but I'm afraid the best opening line of all has to be 'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth', I mean that has got to be it.
Have been trying to phone you.
Love Mum
All religious overtones aside, this email got me thinking about other firsts. Particularly first words AND the first thing a parent says to their child. Snotty nosed brats the world over seem to be always screeching for their parents to tell the story of when they were born. They want to know what was said to them and which word they said first; “Mum”, “Dad” or an expletive they heard from their drunken Aunty shrieking at Grandma’s email (why call me Bunny for gods sake, what’s wrong with Hammerhead or Viper)?
Anyway, this led me to a thought. What if my Call Me Ishmael Syndrome is due to my story of my mother’s first words to me?
Let me explain.
I am the fourth of five children (two fostered, one acquired and two biological- of which I am one). Each of my three older brothers was born with some kind of body malfunction (and not just brother-itis). Anyway, while trapped in my mother’s womb I was rather lackadaisical, some might say a zygote procrastinator. I put off swimming around, rolling over… any kind of physical activity really. So when I was finally born, one side of my face was scrunched in a face plant/afternoon nap sort of way. My ear copped the worst of it. My poor right earlobe is, to this day, sort of folded over. My dad said it resembled a dried apricot after kicking around in a kid’s school bag for a few days.
Anyway, after each of my brothers having something “wrong” with them (each slightly more serious than dried fruit - although I have often said my exquisite brother Charlie's only disability is having us for a family) my Mum was slightly concerned about my wellbeing. However all she could say upon my arrival into this world was…
“She’s deformed!”
Imagine looking down at your beautiful daughter complete with curly blonde hair and uttering the words, "she’s deformed"! Deformed indeed… I’m sorry mum, what? I couldn’t hear you… pardon? My DEFORMED ear seems to be muffling your instructions.
It all makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s visionary! I bet it’s never be done before… I just blame my mother! And that way I can also blame her for the creatively moribund sphere currently wearing me as a hat. And don’t think you get off scot free dad. My dad, dear old dad. Whose first piece of parenting advice to me (upon moving out into the big bad world at the tender age of eighteen) was… “Sweedheart, steer clear of the clap”.
Ah yes, my father the bard.
But seriously I think the inexplicably bad first lines that plague my family stories are the birthplace of my syndrome. I can’t bear to have the dry remnants of yet another bad first line hanging over my creative subconscious. It’s like the fetid afterbirth of family story time. Or like an episode of Family Ties without the laugh track, just the distant sound of a confused cricket.
In the beginning, mum… in the beginning.
Bunny
I love this, but I'm afraid the best opening line of all has to be 'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth', I mean that has got to be it.
Have been trying to phone you.
Love Mum
All religious overtones aside, this email got me thinking about other firsts. Particularly first words AND the first thing a parent says to their child. Snotty nosed brats the world over seem to be always screeching for their parents to tell the story of when they were born. They want to know what was said to them and which word they said first; “Mum”, “Dad” or an expletive they heard from their drunken Aunty shrieking at Grandma’s email (why call me Bunny for gods sake, what’s wrong with Hammerhead or Viper)?
Anyway, this led me to a thought. What if my Call Me Ishmael Syndrome is due to my story of my mother’s first words to me?
Let me explain.
I am the fourth of five children (two fostered, one acquired and two biological- of which I am one). Each of my three older brothers was born with some kind of body malfunction (and not just brother-itis). Anyway, while trapped in my mother’s womb I was rather lackadaisical, some might say a zygote procrastinator. I put off swimming around, rolling over… any kind of physical activity really. So when I was finally born, one side of my face was scrunched in a face plant/afternoon nap sort of way. My ear copped the worst of it. My poor right earlobe is, to this day, sort of folded over. My dad said it resembled a dried apricot after kicking around in a kid’s school bag for a few days.
Anyway, after each of my brothers having something “wrong” with them (each slightly more serious than dried fruit - although I have often said my exquisite brother Charlie's only disability is having us for a family) my Mum was slightly concerned about my wellbeing. However all she could say upon my arrival into this world was…
“She’s deformed!”
Imagine looking down at your beautiful daughter complete with curly blonde hair and uttering the words, "she’s deformed"! Deformed indeed… I’m sorry mum, what? I couldn’t hear you… pardon? My DEFORMED ear seems to be muffling your instructions.
It all makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s visionary! I bet it’s never be done before… I just blame my mother! And that way I can also blame her for the creatively moribund sphere currently wearing me as a hat. And don’t think you get off scot free dad. My dad, dear old dad. Whose first piece of parenting advice to me (upon moving out into the big bad world at the tender age of eighteen) was… “Sweedheart, steer clear of the clap”.
Ah yes, my father the bard.
But seriously I think the inexplicably bad first lines that plague my family stories are the birthplace of my syndrome. I can’t bear to have the dry remnants of yet another bad first line hanging over my creative subconscious. It’s like the fetid afterbirth of family story time. Or like an episode of Family Ties without the laugh track, just the distant sound of a confused cricket.
In the beginning, mum… in the beginning.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The First of My First Lines
So I think I may have the first line for my ABR short story...
"An old man curled his fingers around a fish."
That's it. No, really...
"An old man curled his fingers around a fish."
That's it. No, really...
Monday, April 12, 2010
Death of a River Guide
A great (and incredibly long) first line...
"As I was born the umbilical cord tangled around my neck and I came into the world both arms flailing, unable to scream and thereby take in the air necessary to begin life outside the womb, being garroted by the very thing that had until that time succored me and given me life."
Peter Flanagan in Death of a River Guide
"As I was born the umbilical cord tangled around my neck and I came into the world both arms flailing, unable to scream and thereby take in the air necessary to begin life outside the womb, being garroted by the very thing that had until that time succored me and given me life."
Peter Flanagan in Death of a River Guide
Mangrove Jack
I don’t really expect this to be interesting to anyone except me (even my interest is waning to be honest) but today I spent the better half of my day researching breeds of fish.
I think it’s weird to use the word breed about fish (and rabbits and insects for that matter) mostly because it seems like a moot point. Like, why bother calling something that prolific a breed. The word breed conjures up images of old ladies with Brighton Bobs in matching tweed suits sitting around with other tweedy ladies discussing which male poodle is going to impregnate which one of their “dawgs” next.
Anyway after hours of research I figured out which breed of fish I was after for my ABR story. Good old Mangrove Jack.
I remember my dad fishing in the estuaries around where I grew up, dragging these angry, thrashing spike backed fish out of the muddy water around the mangrove roots. My dad used to tell me that you could only find Mangrove Jack in two places, mangrove roots or drowned trees, and (when they matured) you could find them ducking and diving amongst the ornaments of the reef.
Sounded like a much nicer life to me, surrounded by green seaweed with rubbery skin, and tangles of brightly colored coral. I tried to imagine what that lone Jack would think as the water changed from auburn to blue, or how it would feel to shed the muddy sheath from its scales.
I always liked the idea that although Mangrove Jack would spend most of his life in muddy, salt stinking mangrove roots the day would come when he would break away from the thick water and disappear into the cool open blue.
Maybe perfect first lines are deep sea bait.
Raw Shark
"Every single cell in the human body replaces itself over a period of seven years. That means there's not even the smallest part of you now that was part of you seven years ago."
Steven Hall, Raw Shark
Not a first line... but a good one nonetheless
Steven Hall, Raw Shark
Not a first line... but a good one nonetheless
ABR - She Has Fire in The Chimney!
In addition to my looming honors assessment I now have to worry about the ABR short story competition.
Let me explain…
Last year, bubbling with way too much gin and ranting about my propensity to procrastinate, I made a pact with myself that (this year) I would accept every writing opportunity that came my way. This pact however was very specific, the opportunity had to literally drop into my lap, cross my path, fall like an Acme anvil from the sky.
So, I work in the best bookshop possibly in the world except for maybe this one...
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0Oi-_lFYS9LvJLucLdx2Va2_2vmJsckG-nCzJst1mDmYqKzS02h6eh_-sd2bfnL_PhlCeQ5Ap6lmkP6Xu1x9j5xUBVp0DFeXjgke9SiQcghe_bFGn3dI_uEunHdU3bu4DJRvvRGzVLs/s400/shakespeare.jpg
Anywho, I was at work stressing over the proper way to classify biography when my co-worker Jess nonchalantly opens the counter drawer and hands me an entry form. She looks at me and smiles very sweetly, “here you go. You can enter”, she says. I pause for a moment, staring at the form in my hand before promptly throwing myself onto the desk where I begin to wail. Poor Jess and I have only known each other for a few weeks and she is still new to my various peccadilloes (the least of which is a penchant for the dramatic) and she was justifiably shocked. I tried to explain that she had literally dropped an opportunity into my lap, it had crossed my path; the anvil had fallen and I copped it to the face.
So now I'm writing a short story for the ABR Short Story Competition. The first line sucks and is taunting me from it's glowing white computer page.
"You’re not even on real paper," I shouted at my screen this morning, "You're in some stupid interim world and I can DELETE YOU any time I want!"
I hate deadlines; they do weird things to my mind. I hate competitions and being judged. But, oddly enough, an A+ still has the ability to give me the tingles that only Cary Grant should be able to give a woman.
Oh, why can’t I just live in a cabin in the mountains like Hemmingway, or write one perfect book like Harper Lee. God, I’d even settle for being John “can’t write anything without a bear” Irving. Why can’t I be made of stronger literary stuff, swaddled in the golden fleece of metaphor and endless paragraphs? Because I procrastinate, that’s why.
And before you say anything, I realize the irony of setting up a blog with the express purpose of procrastination.
Anyway, a great first line I read today…
"The dead man was in the living room, face down on the floor beside the coffee table”. Derek Landy from Skullduggery Pleasant; The Faceless Ones
Let me explain…
Last year, bubbling with way too much gin and ranting about my propensity to procrastinate, I made a pact with myself that (this year) I would accept every writing opportunity that came my way. This pact however was very specific, the opportunity had to literally drop into my lap, cross my path, fall like an Acme anvil from the sky.
So, I work in the best bookshop possibly in the world except for maybe this one...
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0Oi-_lFYS9LvJLucLdx2Va2_2vmJsckG-nCzJst1mDmYqKzS02h6eh_-sd2bfnL_PhlCeQ5Ap6lmkP6Xu1x9j5xUBVp0DFeXjgke9SiQcghe_bFGn3dI_uEunHdU3bu4DJRvvRGzVLs/s400/shakespeare.jpg
Anywho, I was at work stressing over the proper way to classify biography when my co-worker Jess nonchalantly opens the counter drawer and hands me an entry form. She looks at me and smiles very sweetly, “here you go. You can enter”, she says. I pause for a moment, staring at the form in my hand before promptly throwing myself onto the desk where I begin to wail. Poor Jess and I have only known each other for a few weeks and she is still new to my various peccadilloes (the least of which is a penchant for the dramatic) and she was justifiably shocked. I tried to explain that she had literally dropped an opportunity into my lap, it had crossed my path; the anvil had fallen and I copped it to the face.
So now I'm writing a short story for the ABR Short Story Competition. The first line sucks and is taunting me from it's glowing white computer page.
"You’re not even on real paper," I shouted at my screen this morning, "You're in some stupid interim world and I can DELETE YOU any time I want!"
I hate deadlines; they do weird things to my mind. I hate competitions and being judged. But, oddly enough, an A+ still has the ability to give me the tingles that only Cary Grant should be able to give a woman.
Oh, why can’t I just live in a cabin in the mountains like Hemmingway, or write one perfect book like Harper Lee. God, I’d even settle for being John “can’t write anything without a bear” Irving. Why can’t I be made of stronger literary stuff, swaddled in the golden fleece of metaphor and endless paragraphs? Because I procrastinate, that’s why.
And before you say anything, I realize the irony of setting up a blog with the express purpose of procrastination.
Anyway, a great first line I read today…
"The dead man was in the living room, face down on the floor beside the coffee table”. Derek Landy from Skullduggery Pleasant; The Faceless Ones
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Great White Intro
Bear with me while I try and explain my syndrome...
I am currently doing my honors year at university after a five year hiatus (where I mostly wrote bad poetry and drank red wine) and my fellow students appear to be made up of Gen Y kids who think Starbuck is a coffee chain and whales are there to make the cheerleader from Heroes look thinner. Needless to say I'm sure they think I'm the weird fish girl writing about Moby Dick.
Eh, that's true enough. But I have bigger fish to fry.
Those fish come in the form of a 7000 word story due for submission in September. But once again, like a rash on a clap victim, my syndrome has raised its ugly head.
The Call Me Ishmael Syndrome has plagued me since my youth.
Most nights I would curl up with a good book and read for hours under the covers with a flashlight. Authors like Dickens, and Melville, and the Bronte sisters (alongside my much loved Nancy Drew and Susan Sand novels) would nightly speak to me in voices that were wise and elegant, visceral but also restrained. And while these stories, whether it be Wuthering Heights or Great Expectations, were page after page of glorious reading I was only really interested in one thing… the first line.
Once I realised that my youthful love of reading was morphing into a skill with pen and paper (or word processor) I was, at first, delighted by the idea of writing my own perfect first line.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.”
“It was love at first sight.”
I mean come on, how can I compete with that!
In fact these days the idea of having to write a first line, let alone a first paragraph haunts me; it stalks me through my subconscious with the gusto and gnashing teeth of a deep sea leviathan.
Well, no more… I take up the proverbial harpoon, sharpen the head, roll back my shoulder and take aim.
Thar she blows, my quest for the great white intro…
I am currently doing my honors year at university after a five year hiatus (where I mostly wrote bad poetry and drank red wine) and my fellow students appear to be made up of Gen Y kids who think Starbuck is a coffee chain and whales are there to make the cheerleader from Heroes look thinner. Needless to say I'm sure they think I'm the weird fish girl writing about Moby Dick.
Eh, that's true enough. But I have bigger fish to fry.
Those fish come in the form of a 7000 word story due for submission in September. But once again, like a rash on a clap victim, my syndrome has raised its ugly head.
The Call Me Ishmael Syndrome has plagued me since my youth.
Most nights I would curl up with a good book and read for hours under the covers with a flashlight. Authors like Dickens, and Melville, and the Bronte sisters (alongside my much loved Nancy Drew and Susan Sand novels) would nightly speak to me in voices that were wise and elegant, visceral but also restrained. And while these stories, whether it be Wuthering Heights or Great Expectations, were page after page of glorious reading I was only really interested in one thing… the first line.
Once I realised that my youthful love of reading was morphing into a skill with pen and paper (or word processor) I was, at first, delighted by the idea of writing my own perfect first line.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.”
“It was love at first sight.”
I mean come on, how can I compete with that!
In fact these days the idea of having to write a first line, let alone a first paragraph haunts me; it stalks me through my subconscious with the gusto and gnashing teeth of a deep sea leviathan.
Well, no more… I take up the proverbial harpoon, sharpen the head, roll back my shoulder and take aim.
Thar she blows, my quest for the great white intro…
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