At the end, when it is finished, it is possible to discuss the book as if it were meant to happen that way the whole time. The writing of it is all dead ends, a lack of centre. The writing makes us insecure. We cannot write. We are bad writers. There is that whole time when we wrote nothing and had no focus at all.
This is the second longest time that I have been without writing. The first was taking medication. Nine months when I didn't care about the lack of words. I slept and ate and worked and socialised. I had no drive. The bad months of flat line. This is different. I have been distracted by success I suppose. I have a book coming out and I can't stop toying with it even though I should be moving onto something new. I am irritated, jumpy. I focus my attention on the real world as if that is the reason for my frustration. I give my friend the hardest time, spilling over into his world as if he could somehow protect me from my lack of output. I chat. I update my facebook. I do not write.
This morning I woke up at 5 and sat at my computer and I cannot run from it. I am reading Lorrie Moore and she is part of the problem. I am enjoying this book. It is seductive with it's clutter of words. To many words. It is all smoke and mirrors. I enjoy the wash of colour they provide, but they do not force me into a beginning. I need to shame myself into starting again. I need J Robert Lennon and ITalo Calvino and Raymond Carver. I need the books I can never finish because I put them down to pick up a pen. I need my writer friends to spur me into competition with there output. I want to shake them. Where is your output! But they are stuck fast in my mud and mire.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
just one small idea
After so long I get one small idea and it is enough to run with. I don't know if this is the ultimate direction, but at least I have traction. I am writing. I am writing the new book. I will start to read things that make sense of it. I have my reading list stacked up on my new writing table. I dip into the books one by one. The relief of chipping away at it, a little at a time. The calm that comes with work on a new project. I thought I might never write again. I thought it was over before I had written something beautiful.
One day I will write something hearbreakingly beautiful, a whole novel that will never fail to move me, like Eugenides and Steinbeck and Nabokov.
Stay with me because I will get there if it takes years.
One day I will write something hearbreakingly beautiful, a whole novel that will never fail to move me, like Eugenides and Steinbeck and Nabokov.
Stay with me because I will get there if it takes years.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
4
Kissing. This moment of wonder opening, like his lips, a soft kind of understanding, a fruit falling and seeping into the dry earth. She had never put time into kissing. Twenty years of marriage and before that there was no time for something so preparatory. One kiss perhaps or several, but each one a hurried preface to sex. She kissed and she closed her eyes and her mouth softened and it was something that invaded her whole body and the idea of sex was superfluous. The kiss was the whole of it and the idea of sex seemed unimportant next to this momentous. Inside the kiss was a bitter-sweetness, all the love songs she had dismissed as saccharine, all the awful romantic comedies that she had always avoided. Not one kiss, but a series of kisses that might never stop. But they did stop eventually and she put her fingers to her lips as if she could pick up this knowledge with her fingers and remove it.
She replayed it. In this space there was time for it. She rocked away from the kiss, hand to lips. Thought, they were right. Thought, how can there be this new thing after so many years. Thought, I will have to rethink my relationship to a whole genre. Thought, maybe it is too late now. Because there was a glimmer of awareness. At the edges of the kiss there was a falling forward and pain, her body tensing. An overwhelming hurt, like the flip side to the kissing, and when she came close to it she almost woke to it and it was too big. It might swallow her.
She turned back to the kiss, replayed on a loop. This new thing. Tried to link the lyrics to love songs to it, but there was no comparison. The words were specific, fixed, nothing. The kissing was some kind of chemical reaction. It was physical. Some change was taking place inside her body and she would not be the same when it was done. She leaned forward. She touched lips. She softened and slowly opened them.
She replayed it. In this space there was time for it. She rocked away from the kiss, hand to lips. Thought, they were right. Thought, how can there be this new thing after so many years. Thought, I will have to rethink my relationship to a whole genre. Thought, maybe it is too late now. Because there was a glimmer of awareness. At the edges of the kiss there was a falling forward and pain, her body tensing. An overwhelming hurt, like the flip side to the kissing, and when she came close to it she almost woke to it and it was too big. It might swallow her.
She turned back to the kiss, replayed on a loop. This new thing. Tried to link the lyrics to love songs to it, but there was no comparison. The words were specific, fixed, nothing. The kissing was some kind of chemical reaction. It was physical. Some change was taking place inside her body and she would not be the same when it was done. She leaned forward. She touched lips. She softened and slowly opened them.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
3
She stepped into the shower. The sound of the water echoed. She would wake her husband and he would roll over in his sleep and glance at the clock.
She turned the shower to a slow drizzle, but it was no better. Soap, shampoo, bath cream. She rubbed the chemical scent onto her skin. She turned the tap off and reached for a towel. Fresh towels today. Today was Tuesday. There were fresh towels on a tuesday, slightly stiff and smelling of washing powder.
She huddled in it. The temperature had dropped. The sun rising and the cold air rushing in to meet it. There must be some science behind it, but it was a mystery to her.
No point in sleeping. She rummaged in the dirty clothes pile for different underwear, a shirt and trousers, rolling the things still warm from her body and pushing them to the bottom of the basket.
She emerged and there was steam drifting off her skin because of the cold and that was nice. The flat was a mess. She had done nothing more than drift through it and it was untidy. SHe began to stoop and gather. She lifted her helmet and there was a fine layer of sand on the table where it had rested. She wiped the surface with her palm and the sand was no longer on the surface but she could feel it on the floor under her feet. It took her a while to find the dustpan and brush which was embarassing. She found the broom quickly but that was not what she wanted. She looked in the laundry and behind doors and she thought she might have to check the bedroom but she found it in the pantry. She leaned over and she was light-headed. She was unused to this kind of protracted wakefulness.
She scraped the sand into the dustpan and she noticed that she had a headache. A big one. Something fierce and inescapable like you see on the adds for Panadol Forte. A headache, penance for her lack of guilt. At least this is wht she thought when she stood and covered her eyes with her hand. And then she fell, knocking the side table over, spilling sand back onto the floor, setting her helmet to skitter and stop in lazy rolling circles. It was a crash but not a terribly loud one, and in the bedroom her husband shifted once and settled and continued to sleep.
The clock flicked over, one red glowing digit at a time. The shower dripped. She had dropped the towel in the bathroom and it slowly soaked up the damp spill off the tiled floor.
She turned the shower to a slow drizzle, but it was no better. Soap, shampoo, bath cream. She rubbed the chemical scent onto her skin. She turned the tap off and reached for a towel. Fresh towels today. Today was Tuesday. There were fresh towels on a tuesday, slightly stiff and smelling of washing powder.
She huddled in it. The temperature had dropped. The sun rising and the cold air rushing in to meet it. There must be some science behind it, but it was a mystery to her.
No point in sleeping. She rummaged in the dirty clothes pile for different underwear, a shirt and trousers, rolling the things still warm from her body and pushing them to the bottom of the basket.
She emerged and there was steam drifting off her skin because of the cold and that was nice. The flat was a mess. She had done nothing more than drift through it and it was untidy. SHe began to stoop and gather. She lifted her helmet and there was a fine layer of sand on the table where it had rested. She wiped the surface with her palm and the sand was no longer on the surface but she could feel it on the floor under her feet. It took her a while to find the dustpan and brush which was embarassing. She found the broom quickly but that was not what she wanted. She looked in the laundry and behind doors and she thought she might have to check the bedroom but she found it in the pantry. She leaned over and she was light-headed. She was unused to this kind of protracted wakefulness.
She scraped the sand into the dustpan and she noticed that she had a headache. A big one. Something fierce and inescapable like you see on the adds for Panadol Forte. A headache, penance for her lack of guilt. At least this is wht she thought when she stood and covered her eyes with her hand. And then she fell, knocking the side table over, spilling sand back onto the floor, setting her helmet to skitter and stop in lazy rolling circles. It was a crash but not a terribly loud one, and in the bedroom her husband shifted once and settled and continued to sleep.
The clock flicked over, one red glowing digit at a time. The shower dripped. She had dropped the towel in the bathroom and it slowly soaked up the damp spill off the tiled floor.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
2
She placed the keys in the bowl on the kitchen bench. The place for keys. Everything in it's place Neat stale air. She breathed. There was a time when she would have opened the window, but she had lost that battle to a sudden gust of wind and a broken glass. She turned the air conditioning up a notch thinking about open faced helmets, drops of rain hitting her eyeballs, the scent of night jasmine. Breathing in static dryness and artificial chill.
She could smell him on her.
She moved through the loungeroom and there was evidence of her passing, her bag dropped to the ground and forgotten in an instant, her helmet perched on the table, her gloves on the couch The jacket draped over the bench framing the kitchenette. It wa a regular complaint, her shedding. There were pieces of her everywhere, abandoned, unnoticed even at his place there would be something, old bus tickets fallen from her bag, a pen that she had used to write his home phone number down. The envalope on which she had written his number. (She should have folded it back into her pocket or the zip pocket of her bag) A tampon wrapped in toilet paper and secreted in the very bottm of this kitchen bin. Her mark on his place. Her address, glaring from the window of the envalope dropped onto the floor beside his bed. Pieces of herself.
She took her knickers off and held them in her hands staring at the crotch, expecting blood. She had a sudden flash of that first time in high school and almost laughed. This new first thing. Despite the last days of her period, despite the idea of something done for the first time, it had not drawn blood. No one hurt then, which was a relief.
She could smell him on her.
She moved through the loungeroom and there was evidence of her passing, her bag dropped to the ground and forgotten in an instant, her helmet perched on the table, her gloves on the couch The jacket draped over the bench framing the kitchenette. It wa a regular complaint, her shedding. There were pieces of her everywhere, abandoned, unnoticed even at his place there would be something, old bus tickets fallen from her bag, a pen that she had used to write his home phone number down. The envalope on which she had written his number. (She should have folded it back into her pocket or the zip pocket of her bag) A tampon wrapped in toilet paper and secreted in the very bottm of this kitchen bin. Her mark on his place. Her address, glaring from the window of the envalope dropped onto the floor beside his bed. Pieces of herself.
She took her knickers off and held them in her hands staring at the crotch, expecting blood. She had a sudden flash of that first time in high school and almost laughed. This new first thing. Despite the last days of her period, despite the idea of something done for the first time, it had not drawn blood. No one hurt then, which was a relief.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
1
The bike was all rust. Rust spreading like algae on the tank. Rust on the mirrors and on the handlebars. Thick dusty doilies of it. The battery would be worse than flat, dead. Her dead motorcycle. She squeezed the car in next to it, illuminating it with her headlights and she sat like that engine off, the shadow of it stretching out across the road. She felt it in her body, suddenly, the lean of a corner, that particular ache in her forearms from holding the throttle at its furthest extension for hours, days. All the open road. She remembered a moment when the sunset took her by surprise and she had to pull over, flip her visor up and breathe in the change of season. Just an ordinary day but this moment bedded down in memory like it was her times tables or a recipe for pancakes.
She turned off the headlights and the motorcycle retreated into darkness. She could see the vague outline of it but it might be anything.
The inside of the car was safe and warm and ordinary. She sat in it for what felt like a long time. She could smell the boy on her. Saliva. His spit on her face and her neck and her breasts. She would have to have a shower before bed. Bed. And the glimmer of dawn beginning to touch the tops of cars, the faint outline of her own, decaying bike.
She breathed in the chemical car smell and watched the morning rising over her disused motorcycle.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror, dry-eyed but with an ache that was a fissure, irreparably large.
She slipped the keys from the ignition and she eased herself out of her car. Her husband's car. He had chosen it, paid for it, driven it home. His car then. She locked it and with dawn in her mouth tasting slightly metallic, she walked into the lobby and took the lift to the eighth floor to her own flat, home, only not it felt like somewhere else.
She turned off the headlights and the motorcycle retreated into darkness. She could see the vague outline of it but it might be anything.
The inside of the car was safe and warm and ordinary. She sat in it for what felt like a long time. She could smell the boy on her. Saliva. His spit on her face and her neck and her breasts. She would have to have a shower before bed. Bed. And the glimmer of dawn beginning to touch the tops of cars, the faint outline of her own, decaying bike.
She breathed in the chemical car smell and watched the morning rising over her disused motorcycle.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror, dry-eyed but with an ache that was a fissure, irreparably large.
She slipped the keys from the ignition and she eased herself out of her car. Her husband's car. He had chosen it, paid for it, driven it home. His car then. She locked it and with dawn in her mouth tasting slightly metallic, she walked into the lobby and took the lift to the eighth floor to her own flat, home, only not it felt like somewhere else.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
girl
she is a girl. This changes everything. months away from it and here is the answer. she is a girl and she is me. Not me now but me as I will be when I spend time with her. The she that I would have wanted to be.
Monday, December 15, 2008
linseed
I have no emotional energy for him right now. He needs something from me. He needs me to keep him moving forward by slow increments. He needs me to put him in the world and he is resisting me at every turn. He wants me to find a time when it will just be him and me in a house at the beach where I can find his voice and I will do this sometime, but I have no time for it now. I get nothing back. I need input. I need to be filled up with all of the emotions that have washed pale in me. I cling to the last little scrap of passion but even this may be taken. I can't read. I long for images. I flick through big thick books with glossy prints but I want the smell of oil paint. I want the taste of linseed oil on my fingers. After this thing called christmas I will clear a small corner of my head for this book, but until then I will paint.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
with his one hand
with his one hand Evan can turn the wheel, adjust it just a little at a time, negotiating the highways almost imperceptable curve to the right. His body remembers this. Open road, the easy lean back in the drivers seat. The sound of the radio turned down too low to hear anything but a rattle of distant voices. Pared back. That is what he likes about driving, this cut down to nothing but a road and a view that changes just to keep things interesting, and the clamour of this thoughts relaxing into the room that the open road has made for them.
There is a pedal fitted to the accelerator that makes it just a small stretch for the break. He tests it now, bunny-hopping a little and the thing works fine. He is safe. Or not. It makes no difference. He might have died and that was fine. He is alive and that is fine too. He turns the radio up, letting the wheel slip free, feeling the car drag slightly towards the shoulder as he does so. There is a roar of laughter and a chatter of voices, too muddled together for him to untangle one from another. It barely matters. They are happy, they are laughing, everything is fine.
There is a pedal fitted to the accelerator that makes it just a small stretch for the break. He tests it now, bunny-hopping a little and the thing works fine. He is safe. Or not. It makes no difference. He might have died and that was fine. He is alive and that is fine too. He turns the radio up, letting the wheel slip free, feeling the car drag slightly towards the shoulder as he does so. There is a roar of laughter and a chatter of voices, too muddled together for him to untangle one from another. It barely matters. They are happy, they are laughing, everything is fine.
Friday, December 12, 2008
always time for art
so if I have no head space for words I will always have time for art. These pictures leaped out of the internet and shouted to become useful to my brain book. Here's what they wordlessly say to me...
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Poetry
Christopher suggested a course in poetry and suddenly it made sense to me. It didn't make sense because I wanted to write poetry. It made sense because of all the novellists I love how have honed their skills using poetry. I suggested that we three, the band of K/Chris's pool our resources and get someone to give us a short course. Or we could join on-line and meet together for beer and to discuss it.
I don't read poetry, but when CC suggested the idea he said "I want to know when to press the return button," and suddenly it made sense. I want to learn to pare my sentenses back to bare bones. I want to know how to contain all the emotive potential in a scatter of words. Imagine if my brain book could be simple but poetic.
Maybe I will just read poetry as a side project. Maybe we will still meet for beers, Chris Chris and Kris and discuss the construction of the things. I must suggest it.
In the meantime, Christmas in Retail Land is seriously cramping my writing style.
I don't read poetry, but when CC suggested the idea he said "I want to know when to press the return button," and suddenly it made sense. I want to learn to pare my sentenses back to bare bones. I want to know how to contain all the emotive potential in a scatter of words. Imagine if my brain book could be simple but poetic.
Maybe I will just read poetry as a side project. Maybe we will still meet for beers, Chris Chris and Kris and discuss the construction of the things. I must suggest it.
In the meantime, Christmas in Retail Land is seriously cramping my writing style.
Monday, December 8, 2008
structure
a little exercise in structure.
I am going to cook my boy a lovely dinner tonight, and as he is the queen of structure, I am going to use the tool at hand and get him to talk it all through with me. I will take notes. I will get scenes mapped out and at the end of it all I will be a little closer, because I have no focus at the moment and it all blurs into the same thing and I am writing myself into a tight little circle.
All this tonight in exhange for a meal.
I am going to cook my boy a lovely dinner tonight, and as he is the queen of structure, I am going to use the tool at hand and get him to talk it all through with me. I will take notes. I will get scenes mapped out and at the end of it all I will be a little closer, because I have no focus at the moment and it all blurs into the same thing and I am writing myself into a tight little circle.
All this tonight in exhange for a meal.
a little each day
Just a little each day. This was the plan and so here I am thinking about the brain for a stolen moment. I am thinking about a scene where he endures some theatre/art/workshop day with a facilitator in her early twenties talking to everyone as if they are so excited to be involved in a group process with other brain damaged participants. I see him watching the speechless people straining past their paralyzed cheeks, drooling onto their best shirts, dragging their dead legs through a getting to know you game. I see him starting with the best intentions and then moving from disabled shakespere to his driving lesson. I see him driving and driving and seeing a sign leading him out of Brisbane. He ignores his instructors suggestion to turn back. He drives on. He wants to drive forever. He is not coming back. He decides that he will go.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Road Trip
Perhaps I should just get into the road trip, the moving forward. My habit is always to have my characters in stasis. They sit in a room or they walk alone in dark places, wandering about their daily grind. I have trouble puting them in motion. This is what I need for my character in this instance. I should get him onto the road as soon as possible. Driving on. In action we will find he comes out of himself I will learn more about him.
As soon as I get some head space I will take him out onto the road. My road trip. There he will find himself.
As soon as I get some head space I will take him out onto the road. My road trip. There he will find himself.
Friday, December 5, 2008
reviews
So this blog about my brain book has been sidetracked by my other work that is so imminent and urgent. I sold my first story to the US market and it went up on nerve.com yesterday. I also got a contract from Text Publishing today. I have entered a new playing field. Along with this comes some stumbling blocks. My first review on nerve.com was a harsh and completely unkind one. Reviews. I forgot about reviews. It makes me wonder about my book and its publication and the reader feedback. I have had to endure two very nasty reader comments on my furiousvagina blog. One of them I have saved and I come back to it ocasionally. I wonder why this man (it is always a man) has decided to have his own voice heard without having anything particularly interesting to say. It is the same on nerve. I am hoping that some of my regular readers will log on to nerve and balance up this very abrupt comment with something a bit more interesting.
I don't mind criticism. This is the point I would like to make clear. If you do not like my work, and you have a reason not to like it, then that is completely valid and I will be happy to hear and learn from your comments. It is the thoughtless chatter that I object to.
I should of course not bother reading the reader feedback. Like reviews in a magazine they can wear away at your soul.
When I am writing this new book, this embryonic thing, it is dangerous to expose it's barely formed underbelly to the possibility of mean and pointless feedback. I should hide it away as most writers do untill I am ready to unleash it. But this is not the point of the thing. The point is to watch a writer find her way through a book from beginning to end. The point is to interract with my audience and learn from them. I remember when I used to make television documentaries. I could always tell what was wrong with the thing when I brought it to an audience to view. Almost before I had pressed play I would thing - I need to cut that scene, or it is too long in the set up, or The charater is not likeable enough.
I want your reader comments. I want to know what you think of me. But I don't want someone to write - take this pointless crap off the internet, beause it is not pointless. Even the bad writing is not pointless. There is always a reason for everything I write and I hope that you, my audience will see and understand this.
I also kind of hope that you will log in to nerve.com and go to personal essays and leave something more intelligent than what is there at the moment...
I don't mind criticism. This is the point I would like to make clear. If you do not like my work, and you have a reason not to like it, then that is completely valid and I will be happy to hear and learn from your comments. It is the thoughtless chatter that I object to.
I should of course not bother reading the reader feedback. Like reviews in a magazine they can wear away at your soul.
When I am writing this new book, this embryonic thing, it is dangerous to expose it's barely formed underbelly to the possibility of mean and pointless feedback. I should hide it away as most writers do untill I am ready to unleash it. But this is not the point of the thing. The point is to watch a writer find her way through a book from beginning to end. The point is to interract with my audience and learn from them. I remember when I used to make television documentaries. I could always tell what was wrong with the thing when I brought it to an audience to view. Almost before I had pressed play I would thing - I need to cut that scene, or it is too long in the set up, or The charater is not likeable enough.
I want your reader comments. I want to know what you think of me. But I don't want someone to write - take this pointless crap off the internet, beause it is not pointless. Even the bad writing is not pointless. There is always a reason for everything I write and I hope that you, my audience will see and understand this.
I also kind of hope that you will log in to nerve.com and go to personal essays and leave something more intelligent than what is there at the moment...
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Kidding
So I'm trying to kid myself that I have enough energy for this now. When I have spent a day feeling insecure and judged and never good enough, when I asked, have I become more arrogant? when I should have asked, have I become more paranoid? When I looked without touching, yet again. When I was snapped at just because I am not liked. When I have found a thread on the memoir that I need to follow. When I have a publisher and a deadline for that and I feel like I may have a stroke of my own just like a method actor, method writing as it were. When I can't finish a sentence let alone a thought. When I meet an author who is calm and so lovely and so personable and I think, I will never be like that. When I check the mailbox three times to see if the contract has arrived. When I think, what if I have made a mistake, what if it has all been some terrible joke? What if they have changed their minds and I am back to where I was. When I still have no kitchen to cook in even though it looks like I do. When my neck grits as if there is sand in it, and my back is the back of a woman my own age or older when I forget sometimes and imagine I am as young and full of potential as my friends. When I don't know why anyone has time for me at the moment when I am so scattered and so incapable of even writing a blog post for the brain book.
So there won't be a blog post today. So you will have to wait till I have more head space. So I hope that I will come back to it soon, but this is the Christmas rush and I am about to be stabbed to death by one fellow staff member or another unless I get it together or wear armour under my new frock.
So there won't be a blog post today. So you will have to wait till I have more head space. So I hope that I will come back to it soon, but this is the Christmas rush and I am about to be stabbed to death by one fellow staff member or another unless I get it together or wear armour under my new frock.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Landscape
I had this idea about interstitial bits added into the brain book. This was all about the landscape of the mind. Originally I wanted to write an epic novel that was set in the landscape of the brain. The first third of the book would be when our character was still in a coma. The brain stem would begin the book. He would be reduced to basic functions, eat, defecate, sexual urges. We would see his life unfolding through these most basic of brain-stem activities. My book in my head was large and discriptive and rose up out of the brain stem to higher brain functions. The book followed the different areas of the brain and each section would be related to each area of the book. This was my dream. It still sounds like a great plan at this stage, but I wonder if I would want to read such an epic book. I like stories that are simple with few characters and an emotional core that is solid. I like simple things that are a clear and easy journey with challenging characters that I grow fond of by slow increments. This is the kindof story I like to read, therefore this strange and imaginary world of the brain my remain in my head.
It won't hurt to write some of it anyway occassionally, just for fun. But I may not do anything with it and it seems that this book will be a simple and strong narrative about a man taking a journey away from all he knows that will bring him closer to knowing about the ones he has left behind.
It won't hurt to write some of it anyway occassionally, just for fun. But I may not do anything with it and it seems that this book will be a simple and strong narrative about a man taking a journey away from all he knows that will bring him closer to knowing about the ones he has left behind.
Honest
Must keep writing this incredibly humbling difficult new book. Must not relax into arrogant wankerdom. Must keep working on this hard and levelling difficult thing. Must stay honest...
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