I have reached the end of my TAFE term feeling less confident than when I started. Wondering what this whole writer’s journey is all about, wondering if I am staring at failure, shaken to know that I have invested three years in a novel, only to find myself caught in a maze not quite knowing how to get out.
Enter the Victorian Writers Centre. It is one of those unsung heroes of an institution that sits alongside public libraries and state schools. An institution that runs on a AAA battery, for the good of a community. In this case my community, the aspiring writer I share my body with.
Every month or so, the Victorian Writer, the VWC’s magazine, arrives in my mailbox. I read it avidly, circling competitions, classes and mentoring opportunities like wishes in the sand. I also read its articles.
This month, there is an article by John Armstrong called The Art of Concealment. I am going to quote from it liberally because it has touched my soul:
“About two thirds of the way through each of my last four books, I’ve made a resolution: this is the last time I am ever going to put myself through such misery again. At this stage I feel like I have been working on the project forever and it’s never going to be good enough.”
Perhaps I am normal, I think. Perhaps I am a writer after all.
“I have gone through this enough times to bear with it – I hate it but I don’t stop. It’s not that I know all will be well – I don’t know that. It’s much more like an addiction.”
This has resonance with me. Ask my family. I am tired, stressed and distresses, yet I turn on the laptop day after day like an old alcoholic, determined to keep going (yes, I know, I need to take a break). Here is my final quote:
“My core experience of writing is that the pursuit of writing is that the private image of perfection creates a lot of mental disturbance. And that one has to bear the disturbance, and not be too terrified of it. And not let others see much of it. It’s an art of concealment.”
Do not be terrified. I repeat the phrase over and over as Jesus walks to me across the Sea of Galilee.
Do not be terrified that you can’t find the perfect opening line.
Do not be terrified though the waves are high and you can no longer see the shore.
Do not be terrified when conflicting opinions come flooding in.
Do not be terrified. It is an old liturgy, made new for me.
Relax, take a break, this is normal.
Do not be terrified.
Listen to that gentle voice of reason — that still small voice.
Do not be terrified. Let the old made new wash over me.
Do not be terrified. Trust in God - yes, why not! and celebrate the writer within.
Showing posts with label tafe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tafe. Show all posts
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Workshopping
Today we started workshopping at TAFE. I was asked to go first. It was a sort of a Liz the guinea pig sort of thing (not really , it only felt like it).
I am no stranger to workshopping but this involved twenty three people, who I barely know, and it was kind of scary.I had lots of favourable comments. That's because the lecturer made everyone say at least one good thing. The more noteworthy ones were: A good sense of period; strong opening sentence; good descriptions; powerful and evocative similies; good establishment of character and relationship; wanted to read more; and my favourite: some of the lines were so good I wished I had written them.
Then came the suggestions for improvements.
You will be glad to know, I am recovering.
Actually, they were not too bad and on the whole very insightful. I will take them all on board, especially the ones about Bridie's needs and wants being expressed more powerfully.I came home and debriefed to Carine(Yes, she is here again). But ... I would have to say at this point my gut is still churning. It will be like that until I get a chance to make changes. That is the thing about writing. The creative tension is like elastic. You are stretched ... and stretched ... and stretched ... until you finally give birth and then, it starts all over again.
It is soooo hard writing a novel.
My lecturer's final comment was: "overall a good start which could be made even better."
There goes my weekend again.
I am no stranger to workshopping but this involved twenty three people, who I barely know, and it was kind of scary.I had lots of favourable comments. That's because the lecturer made everyone say at least one good thing. The more noteworthy ones were: A good sense of period; strong opening sentence; good descriptions; powerful and evocative similies; good establishment of character and relationship; wanted to read more; and my favourite: some of the lines were so good I wished I had written them.
Then came the suggestions for improvements.
You will be glad to know, I am recovering.
Actually, they were not too bad and on the whole very insightful. I will take them all on board, especially the ones about Bridie's needs and wants being expressed more powerfully.I came home and debriefed to Carine(Yes, she is here again). But ... I would have to say at this point my gut is still churning. It will be like that until I get a chance to make changes. That is the thing about writing. The creative tension is like elastic. You are stretched ... and stretched ... and stretched ... until you finally give birth and then, it starts all over again.
It is soooo hard writing a novel.
My lecturer's final comment was: "overall a good start which could be made even better."
There goes my weekend again.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The great TAFE race ...
The competition is on folks! It will be a fight to the death between my new friend Paula and me. She got full marks for her first TAFE assignment (bitch!). But I got full marks for the second assignment (yeah me!) That’s what you do, by the way, when you have four kids, live in the eastern suburbs and are too old to win the Vogel award. You vie for TAFE marks. It is a kind of an, I am getting old, I-must-be-good-at-something, mid life crisis kind of thing. At least it is for me. I can’ speak for Paula. But just for the record my bet is on Paula to win because she has a Law degree.
Anyway, Paula suggested I put my assignment on my blog for the edification of mankind. I will, just because I can, but I warn you it is a detailed outline of my novel plot so if you don’t want to know what happens, give it a miss. If you are a publisher, however, wanting to sign me up for a multi million dollar contract so I can live in a castle next to JK Rowling, please feel free to read.
It came with pretty pictures because we have been studying classic Three Act story models. I learned how to do all the coloured lines and comment boxes at work. It is how I demonstrate catalogue search skills to school kids. but I can't get blogger to accept the format, so if you are a library wanting to offer me a lucrative position demonstrating catalogue skills to school kids, sorry, no go, I already work for the Premier library service in Melbourne.I can't upload the pictures in their curent format, however.
Project Outline for Chrysalis
It is the year 1841. Thirteen-year-old Bridie Stewart is travelling to Port Phillip in emigrant vessel, the Gloriana. The ship’s steerage accommodation is noisy and claustrophobic: a jumble of laughter, idiosyncratic personality and petty conflict. Bridie shares a bunk and rostered duties with the orphaned girl Annie Bowles. She watches her stepfather, Alf Bustle (Alfie), flounder in his role as steerage cleaner while her mother, Mary, who is expecting, becomes increasingly morose and inactive. Cut off from the world for months-at-a-time, their journey is a chrysalis from which no one will emerge unchanged.
For Bridie, the most enthralling aspect of the journey is her friendship with Rhys Bevan and his pregnant wife Siân. The Bevans are storytellers. The poetry of ancient myth, as told by Rhys for the amusement of his fellow travellers, infuses Bridie’s affection for the couple with a sense of wonder. Siân’s use of an ancient healing stone adds enchantment to the narrative. Their friendship touches a deep chord in Bridie and alleviates some of the loneliness she has experienced since her father died of alcohol related illness.
The Bevan’s young lives hold secrets. Bridie learns that Rhys is estranged from his father and that a crippling fear of enclosed spaces caused him to flee his Welsh mining village. She also becomes aware of Siân’s shameful, illegitimate birth. The bardic tradition of Welsh folklore sets their stories in a mythological context. It also provides a framework for Bridie to grapple with the tragic loss of her own father. At Rhys’ gentle insistence she begins to accept the presence of a new stepfather in her life.
Bridie and her friends are not the only ones wrestling with their past. As Alf seeks to establish himself in the eyes of the surgeon, he is dogged by an insecurity reaching back to his own childhood and the harsh treatment he received at the hands of his father. Annie has lived with her aunt since her father died. Now her aunt has arranged for her to emigrate. Annie’s face is deeply pock marked. She fears she will never find employment or a marriage partner. But she is good with children and finds courage in making herself useful. Doctor Roberts, the ship’s surgeon has left gambling debts and a failed marriage behind him on England’s shores. Rhys recognises Doctor Roberts from one of his droving journeys and knows of the surgeon’s involvement in the illegal anatomy market. As the journey unfolds, Rhys realises Siân will give birth before they reach Port Phillip. He asks Annie to stay with Siân during her confinement because he does not trust the surgeon.
In a storm of the southern coast of Australia, Mary and Siân go into labour. Annie is present during Mary’s labour but is dismissed hurriedly once the baby is born. In Annie’s absence Siân dies. One baby survives. Only Doctor Roberts and Mary know the true fate of Siân’s baby (although Annie suspects it), for it has been swapped with the dead child Mary was carrying. In a wave of guilt and self reproach, Rhys begins to drink heavily. Without Siân, he is unable to manage the fear that threatens to overwhelm him. Rhys’ drunkenness is a like reoccurring nightmare to Bridie. Lonely and confused she turns to her stepfather for support. With his help she is finally able to confront the painful circumstances of her father’s death.
At its deepest level, the novel is modelled on an abiding theme of Welsh folklore — the lost child. A child who is secreted away, found and restored to its destiny at a later date. The mystical elements of the story, as seen through Bridie’s youthful eyes, bring depth to the novel’s exploration of struggle and loss. This is the first book in a proposed trilogy of novels that follow the various paths of these characters during the early days of the Port Phillip District. The trilogy will culminate in Rhys’ reunion with his son and his marriage to Bridie.
Dates for the Gloriana’s fictitious voyage have been chosen specifically. The vessel enters Port Phillip Bay on January 1st 1842, just before the temporary cessation of Government assisted emigration. Its inhabitants are plunged into the economic recession that was occurring in Port Phillip at that time. The historical framework (independent of characters) has its own story arc.
The story is told in shifting Point of View with five main voices. Bridie is the main protagonist and I am still trying to get a firm handle on her dilemma. Rhys’ arc is a tragic arc (in the first book). I am trying to make his and Bridie’s arcs converge so that in the final scenes Bridie faces the truth about her father and from her newly matured perspective gives Rhys a glimmer of hope that will enable him to go forward.
Note: I attach two diagrams. The first one demonstrates the overall convergence of the main character’s story arcs. The second one is an attempt to plot Bridie’s arc in detail. I have been working on the other characters’ needs, wants and flaws but I have not included them as I am already over the word limit.
Bridie:
Wants: her Dad back (but he is dead). She also wants her mother to remember her father kindly instead if always showing a preference for Alf.
Needs: to let go of her Dad and to accept the presence of a new stepfather in her life. Before she can do this she needs to be sure that her Dad actually loved her.
Flaw: she has idealised her father rather than face the painful truth about his death. She tries to recreate her father in Rhys.
I will try and put the pictures on seperately.
Anyway, Paula suggested I put my assignment on my blog for the edification of mankind. I will, just because I can, but I warn you it is a detailed outline of my novel plot so if you don’t want to know what happens, give it a miss. If you are a publisher, however, wanting to sign me up for a multi million dollar contract so I can live in a castle next to JK Rowling, please feel free to read.
It came with pretty pictures because we have been studying classic Three Act story models. I learned how to do all the coloured lines and comment boxes at work. It is how I demonstrate catalogue search skills to school kids. but I can't get blogger to accept the format, so if you are a library wanting to offer me a lucrative position demonstrating catalogue skills to school kids, sorry, no go, I already work for the Premier library service in Melbourne.I can't upload the pictures in their curent format, however.
Project Outline for Chrysalis
It is the year 1841. Thirteen-year-old Bridie Stewart is travelling to Port Phillip in emigrant vessel, the Gloriana. The ship’s steerage accommodation is noisy and claustrophobic: a jumble of laughter, idiosyncratic personality and petty conflict. Bridie shares a bunk and rostered duties with the orphaned girl Annie Bowles. She watches her stepfather, Alf Bustle (Alfie), flounder in his role as steerage cleaner while her mother, Mary, who is expecting, becomes increasingly morose and inactive. Cut off from the world for months-at-a-time, their journey is a chrysalis from which no one will emerge unchanged.
For Bridie, the most enthralling aspect of the journey is her friendship with Rhys Bevan and his pregnant wife Siân. The Bevans are storytellers. The poetry of ancient myth, as told by Rhys for the amusement of his fellow travellers, infuses Bridie’s affection for the couple with a sense of wonder. Siân’s use of an ancient healing stone adds enchantment to the narrative. Their friendship touches a deep chord in Bridie and alleviates some of the loneliness she has experienced since her father died of alcohol related illness.
The Bevan’s young lives hold secrets. Bridie learns that Rhys is estranged from his father and that a crippling fear of enclosed spaces caused him to flee his Welsh mining village. She also becomes aware of Siân’s shameful, illegitimate birth. The bardic tradition of Welsh folklore sets their stories in a mythological context. It also provides a framework for Bridie to grapple with the tragic loss of her own father. At Rhys’ gentle insistence she begins to accept the presence of a new stepfather in her life.
Bridie and her friends are not the only ones wrestling with their past. As Alf seeks to establish himself in the eyes of the surgeon, he is dogged by an insecurity reaching back to his own childhood and the harsh treatment he received at the hands of his father. Annie has lived with her aunt since her father died. Now her aunt has arranged for her to emigrate. Annie’s face is deeply pock marked. She fears she will never find employment or a marriage partner. But she is good with children and finds courage in making herself useful. Doctor Roberts, the ship’s surgeon has left gambling debts and a failed marriage behind him on England’s shores. Rhys recognises Doctor Roberts from one of his droving journeys and knows of the surgeon’s involvement in the illegal anatomy market. As the journey unfolds, Rhys realises Siân will give birth before they reach Port Phillip. He asks Annie to stay with Siân during her confinement because he does not trust the surgeon.
In a storm of the southern coast of Australia, Mary and Siân go into labour. Annie is present during Mary’s labour but is dismissed hurriedly once the baby is born. In Annie’s absence Siân dies. One baby survives. Only Doctor Roberts and Mary know the true fate of Siân’s baby (although Annie suspects it), for it has been swapped with the dead child Mary was carrying. In a wave of guilt and self reproach, Rhys begins to drink heavily. Without Siân, he is unable to manage the fear that threatens to overwhelm him. Rhys’ drunkenness is a like reoccurring nightmare to Bridie. Lonely and confused she turns to her stepfather for support. With his help she is finally able to confront the painful circumstances of her father’s death.
At its deepest level, the novel is modelled on an abiding theme of Welsh folklore — the lost child. A child who is secreted away, found and restored to its destiny at a later date. The mystical elements of the story, as seen through Bridie’s youthful eyes, bring depth to the novel’s exploration of struggle and loss. This is the first book in a proposed trilogy of novels that follow the various paths of these characters during the early days of the Port Phillip District. The trilogy will culminate in Rhys’ reunion with his son and his marriage to Bridie.
Dates for the Gloriana’s fictitious voyage have been chosen specifically. The vessel enters Port Phillip Bay on January 1st 1842, just before the temporary cessation of Government assisted emigration. Its inhabitants are plunged into the economic recession that was occurring in Port Phillip at that time. The historical framework (independent of characters) has its own story arc.
The story is told in shifting Point of View with five main voices. Bridie is the main protagonist and I am still trying to get a firm handle on her dilemma. Rhys’ arc is a tragic arc (in the first book). I am trying to make his and Bridie’s arcs converge so that in the final scenes Bridie faces the truth about her father and from her newly matured perspective gives Rhys a glimmer of hope that will enable him to go forward.
Note: I attach two diagrams. The first one demonstrates the overall convergence of the main character’s story arcs. The second one is an attempt to plot Bridie’s arc in detail. I have been working on the other characters’ needs, wants and flaws but I have not included them as I am already over the word limit.
Bridie:
Wants: her Dad back (but he is dead). She also wants her mother to remember her father kindly instead if always showing a preference for Alf.
Needs: to let go of her Dad and to accept the presence of a new stepfather in her life. Before she can do this she needs to be sure that her Dad actually loved her.
Flaw: she has idealised her father rather than face the painful truth about his death. She tries to recreate her father in Rhys.
I will try and put the pictures on seperately.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A bit of this and that ...
Last weekend we went to the Port Fairy Folk Festival. The weekend before that was St David’s Day and my Mum came to stay. This weekend I am working. The weekend after this is Easter, then school holidays. That means a busy time for me at the library. My Blogging has suffered. But there are a few things to note.
St David’s Day was great. Mum and I went to the concert of the Victorian Welsh Choir. Sunday we were scheduled to attend a Cwmanfa Ganu at St Michael's in the city. As we were walking to the concert, Mum fell over and cut her head open on the pavement. A very helpful man from the choir called and ambulance and we spent the rest of the afternoon in casualty. The next day she woke up looking like this:
I don't know why but she seemed to expect sympathy.
The folk festival was great, as usual. I saw five people I knew the festival: three librarians, one fellow writer and a Welsh language learner. That pretty well sums up my life really. The music was fantastic. I enjoyed seeing Casey Chambers live, again. I also really enjoyed a British folk singer called Martha Tilson. It was very hot at the festival. The temperature in Port Fairy was thirty-nine degrees. Do bear in mind that we were sitting in tents with hundreds of other people. Surprisingly it was not too smelly.
The hot weather has continued on into this week. It was thirty-nine degrees again today. I feel a tad lethargic. My preparations for the school holiday programme at work, involves a session called Hysterical History. I have booked the library laptop and data show. We are going to read stories about inventions – useless ones in particular. This is my favourite one so far:
It is for those heavy hayfever days.
I have been learning about the three-act story model at TAFE. It has been mind blowing. I now understand consciously what I have been trying to do in my novel instinctively. Carine is here for the weekend (I am calling her the boomerang exchange student). I gave her a detailed run down of the three-act model with an in depth analysis of my novel this afternoon. Now, that’s what I like about Carine. She sat right through it and even managed to look interested.
Next weekend is Easter. We are going to Beechworth. If you are Victorian you will link the word Beechworth with Bakery. We are looking forward to sampling its delights. More exciting, however, is that we are meeting Jack and Ness there. It will be the first time we have seen them since they moved to Canberra. We are looking forward to catching up with them. I will take lots of photos and, no doubt, eat lots of chocolate. I will be on a crash diet by the next time we speak.
St David’s Day was great. Mum and I went to the concert of the Victorian Welsh Choir. Sunday we were scheduled to attend a Cwmanfa Ganu at St Michael's in the city. As we were walking to the concert, Mum fell over and cut her head open on the pavement. A very helpful man from the choir called and ambulance and we spent the rest of the afternoon in casualty. The next day she woke up looking like this:
I don't know why but she seemed to expect sympathy.
The folk festival was great, as usual. I saw five people I knew the festival: three librarians, one fellow writer and a Welsh language learner. That pretty well sums up my life really. The music was fantastic. I enjoyed seeing Casey Chambers live, again. I also really enjoyed a British folk singer called Martha Tilson. It was very hot at the festival. The temperature in Port Fairy was thirty-nine degrees. Do bear in mind that we were sitting in tents with hundreds of other people. Surprisingly it was not too smelly.
The hot weather has continued on into this week. It was thirty-nine degrees again today. I feel a tad lethargic. My preparations for the school holiday programme at work, involves a session called Hysterical History. I have booked the library laptop and data show. We are going to read stories about inventions – useless ones in particular. This is my favourite one so far:
It is for those heavy hayfever days.
I have been learning about the three-act story model at TAFE. It has been mind blowing. I now understand consciously what I have been trying to do in my novel instinctively. Carine is here for the weekend (I am calling her the boomerang exchange student). I gave her a detailed run down of the three-act model with an in depth analysis of my novel this afternoon. Now, that’s what I like about Carine. She sat right through it and even managed to look interested.
Next weekend is Easter. We are going to Beechworth. If you are Victorian you will link the word Beechworth with Bakery. We are looking forward to sampling its delights. More exciting, however, is that we are meeting Jack and Ness there. It will be the first time we have seen them since they moved to Canberra. We are looking forward to catching up with them. I will take lots of photos and, no doubt, eat lots of chocolate. I will be on a crash diet by the next time we speak.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Green Tea
It is a curious thing drinking Green Tea. There is a sense of virtue in it. A flushed out, grit-your-teeth, this is good for me feeling. Not that I don’t like the taste. I do, but only when I am feeling happy.
You see, for me, green tea is not an o-my-God it’s morning sort of a drink. That is coffee. It is not a refined, afternoon tea experience. That is Earl Grey tea. Neither is green tea an I-have-to-stay-awake-or-else fix. That is Diet Coke, for me.
Green tea is an all-is-well-with-soul sort of beverage, an I-am-strong; I am invincible; I am woman kind of a feeling. That is why I am drinking it now, in my study, with my dog at my feet.
Here are my reasons for drinking green tea:
I have been to TAFE, and made the right decision about what subject I want to do this year.
I am buoyant in anticipation of what I will be learning.
I have done the grocery shopping and have made a pot of vegetable soup (essential for ongoing weight management).
I have cut up fruit in the fridge.
Tonight I am going back to Welsh and my friend Anna is coming.
Tomorrow I am going to write all day.
I love Green Tea
You see, for me, green tea is not an o-my-God it’s morning sort of a drink. That is coffee. It is not a refined, afternoon tea experience. That is Earl Grey tea. Neither is green tea an I-have-to-stay-awake-or-else fix. That is Diet Coke, for me.
Green tea is an all-is-well-with-soul sort of beverage, an I-am-strong; I am invincible; I am woman kind of a feeling. That is why I am drinking it now, in my study, with my dog at my feet.
Here are my reasons for drinking green tea:
I have been to TAFE, and made the right decision about what subject I want to do this year.
I am buoyant in anticipation of what I will be learning.
I have done the grocery shopping and have made a pot of vegetable soup (essential for ongoing weight management).
I have cut up fruit in the fridge.
Tonight I am going back to Welsh and my friend Anna is coming.
Tomorrow I am going to write all day.
I love Green Tea
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