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!

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.

Jaws

"The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail."

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?

Yep. . . That's Me

http://www.homestarrunner.com/sbemail189.html

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!