Diary of a Festival Volunteer: the story of how Liz scored a new red beret

A few months ago, I put my name down to help at the Melbourne Writer’s Festival. I can only say that on the day I sent that fateful email I must have been feeling uncharacteristically energetic. For as my son Seth said when I outlined the scheme to him.

‘But Mum, you find a normal week pretty hard going. Whatever were you thinking?’

My desire to be part of Melbourne’s premier literary event was not, however, as unrealistic as it first appears. There would be no TAFE that week. I had planned to take annual leave for my library work and to give myself over to the festival completely. That was before I found out I was unable to take annual leave.

The problem with my leave was two-fold. Firstly, another of my colleagues had requested leave for that week. Secondly, the remainder of my colleagues were going to the festival as part of their professional development, you know ... getting paid for it.

Then I found out that the festival coincides with the greatly anticipated visit of my brother and his family. Okay, so now I was going to be working and volunteering as well as picking my brother and his family up from the airport at 12:40 am Thursday morning.

I should have probably quit at that stage and, after weeping into my pillow, sent an, I regret to inform you, letter to the festival organisers.

Instead I became stubborn and unrealistic.

‘Look, it is going to be a busy week,’ I said to my family. ‘But I really want to do this.’ All the time I was thinking: I must be a complete and utter muggins.

My husband Andrew compounded my inner sense of inner idiocy by saying: ‘I doubt anyone ever goes from being a volunteer to being an author.’

Of course, I wasn't doing it for that reason (well, not only that reason).

‘Why was I doing it?’ That was the question I asked myself as my alarm shrilled early Saturday morning. Of course, once I saw the Red Beret I would be wearing, I added and ‘F word’ to my original sentence.

Today is Tuesday and, yes, it has been tiring for a middle aged, health challenged, Vermont girl like me. But I am telling you, now. I will volunteer again next year and count it a privilege.

I have been assigned to BMW Edge a glorious venue in Federation square. After collecting tickets, volunteers are free to attend each session until it finishes. I have spent most of my time perched on the back bench of the BMW Edge looking out over the Yarra and listening. I have also carried the roving microphone around to various students during question time.

On Saturday I went to a reading by Age Book of the Year winners. A highlight was hearing Tim Winton read from his most recent novel, Breath. He read beautifully. Don Watson and Jan Harry were also fantastic. Monday evening, I sat in on a VCE session focussing on the film, Look Both Ways. I had not seen the movie but my son Seth is studying it for VCE. Last night Andrew and I perused his copy. It was inspiring, especially as I had just heard the writer and actor speak.

This morning I heard Robert Muchamore and Emily Rodda speak. At the end of Robert Muchamore’s session a teacher came up to me with a lone student. He had an email from one of the festival organisers indicating the student would be able to meet Roberts Muchamore. As the festival organizer in question was nowhere to be seen, I took the lad over to where the author was signing. Muchamore’s assistant was happy to arrange a meeting.

As I turned to leave, a petite woman in a pink poncho approached me. She had copy of The Shadow Thief by Alexandra Ardonetto in her hand. She said she could not wait in line because she had to go to the Green Room (the author’s waiting room). She asked could I please get it signed for her. I explained that I was not actually supposed to be standing in the author’s signing queue but promised to see what I could do. ‘Ah, before you go,’ I called out, as she hurried off. ‘Who would you like her to sign it to?’

‘My name is Melina,’ she said. ‘Melina Marchetta.’

My eyes flew open. I know that is a cliché line but I felt it happening. Standing there with my eyes like saucers I whispered: ‘I love your books.’

Thankfully at this stage my Liz-you-are-being-a-loser radar started beeping. I shut up and went in search of Alexandra Ardonetto.

Just in case you have never heard of Alexandra Ardonetto she is a Melbourne girl who signed a three-book-deal when she was only fourteen years of age. Can you imagine how I felt approaching her in my red beret and Crew T Shirt. Asking her to sign a book for Melina Marchetta and hoping she would do it quickly so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for being there, in line, instead of collecting tickets, or picking up rubbish, or directing people to the box office or the toilets.

I felt like an earwig.

Alexandra was sitting next to Alice Pung, author of Unpolished Gem. When I told Alexandra, Melina Marchetta wanted her autograph there was an audible gasp from both girls. Alice turned to Alexandra and said: ‘Oh, Alex, that’s fantastic.'

And it was.

When I took the book to Melina Marchetta in the Green Room, I felt like a fairy Godmother. Even now, as I sit here writing this blog, I find myself grinning stupidly.

Competing with the World ...

We have moved the television into the house. This only happens once every four years. Normally it lives out the back in the shed (I like to think our children are more intelligent as a result of this draconian measure). But it is Olympic Games time and we are Australian. We take our sport very seriously.

My friend Jane was the first to comment on the elevated status of our audio visual equipment. She comes from England and, despite having the recent privilege of citizenship conferred upon her, is sometimes mystified by local cultural practices.

‘Why have you got your TV in the house?’ she asked on a recent visit.

We looked at her dumdfounded. ‘It is the Olympics!’

My workplace sent out an email prior to the commencement of the Games, telling employees where television screens would be located during working hours. In my branch of the council library service the television is in the tearoom. We have been asked to consider non-sports enthusiasts (as if anyone would own up to it), and to be responsible with the amount of work time we spend viewing.

For my own part, it is always a shock to be exposed to commercial viewing after our Spartan diet of selected DVDs. Every advertisement during the Olympics is nauseatingly patriotic. Every possible link to sport is construed. Carine (who has been staying with us these past weeks) said this intense nationalism in relation to sport, is a novelty to her.

‘What,’ I said. ‘Don’t the Dutch go all sentimental during the Olympics?’

‘Not like you,’ she informed me.

I am not an avid sport watcher (I am more of a couch potato kind of girl). But I do love an event – and let’s face it, sports lover or not, the Olympics is an event. I can’t help but enjoy it. I like watching the agony on an athlete’s face give way to jubilation. I like the colour of the gymnastics. I like seeing people standing on the podium. I like the flags. I like the anthem singing. I also look forward to wheeling the television back to the shed when it is finished.

My favourite comment regarding the Games of the XXIX Olympiad comes from an online book group I belong to. The group is currently reading Race of Scorpions by Dorothy Dunnett. I am not following the reading schedule but I like to eavesdrop on other’s comments. This week someone wrote a plaintive message to the forum saying: ‘Can we please postpone this discussion for two weeks? I am not a big sports fan. But I can’t compete with the world.’

That pretty well sums it up for me.

This Heroine's Journey ...

I have a cleaning lady. None of my neighbours have cleaning ladies. It is not something you admit to in Vermont.

In my suburb women whip around the house cleaning the wash basins before they leave for work; they remember to get their meat out of the freezer every morning, and they mow their lawns on Saturdays while their husbands watch football. They are tough, tracksuit-wearing super-women who take on the world before I have even brewed my morning coffee.

When I had babies and stayed at home full-time (at the tender age of twenty), I tried so hard to be a super-woman. I had a cleaning day and an ironing day, a shopping day and numerous wash days. I scrubbed, waxed and polished laboriously. I even bought myself a tracksuit. But, no matter how hard I tried, whenever I looked at other women’s gleaming stove tops and their sparkling tiles, I knew mine were somehow lacking. I felt inadequate.

Then I went to live in Fiji.

In Fiji everyone had a cleaning lady (we called them House Girls). It was an economic necessity for many of the local women. I had the best House Girl in Suva. Her name was Naomi. I did not inherit her (as many ex-patriots did). I found her myself. I paid her well. She went on courses. She designed her own uniforms and established the first House Girls playgroup. I think she was happy. I know I was.

While living in Suva, I noticed something peculiar. Some women did not like having a House Girl. They were always complaining. Their house was not clean enough. They could never find necessary items in their cupboards. They missed doing the washing. Whereas I was confident, adaptable and coping.

Then we returned to Melbourne.

We arrived in the middle of winter. It was bleak. I had a white skivvy with a permanent stain on its rollover neck from my mascara tears. When we moved back into our house I said: ‘Enough! I am getting a job so I can employ a cleaning lady.’

I went back to University. I did my library training. I got my first job well before I finished my Graduate Diploma (a career founded on such noble principles was bound to flourish). As soon as my first pay hit the bank, I employed a cleaning lady.

She is wonderful! and I am her slave.

If my cleaning lady suggests a change of floor wash, I buy it. If she wants a new sponge, she gets it. Brushes, mops, vacuum cleaner attachments, whatever she wants, money is no object. I prize her above rubies. Every Wednesday, I prostrate myself at her feet crying:

‘Blessed are you among women and blessed is the work of your hands.’

It is as close as I get to goddess worship.

It is not for me to whip around the house cleaning basins. I do not iron or dust. I barely make the bed. My teenage kids do their own washing. We take turns with the cooking. don’t feel inadequate about this. I am in my forties; to hell with the super-woman complex.

I have been learning about the Heroine’s Journey at TAFE. In her excellent book, Story Structure Architect, Victoria Lynn Schmidt, calls this stage the Eye of the Storm. A time when a woman has come to terms with an ordeal and thinks her journey is over.

That was me — last week, I was light and happy and free. I thought I had found Nirvana. Now I realise it was only an Illusory Boon of Success. Yesterday, my cleaning lady told me she wanted to reduce her hours.

She may as well have shot me.

Last night, I pulled the old tracksuit out of the drawer. It still fits. Soon my scrubbing muscles will return. I am on the Road of Trials. I can feel my soul growing calloused. One by one my illusions being stripped away. I have begun my descent to the goddess.

This morning, I broke the news about the cleaning lady to the family. I told them it is all in Victoria Lynn Schmidt's book, and not to worry. That I am undergoing a symbolic death from with I will emerge strong and in control of my life. They did not panic. They did not weep or gnash their teeth. I was proud of them. Though it is the end of life as they know it.

Of course, I have not mentioned the roster word, yet. It is too soon. They are still in shock. But it will have to be faced ... eventually. Meanwhile we take things one day at a time. A mop here, a dust there, a spit and polish. Like a re-occuring nightmare it is all coming back to me.

I have commenced therapy.

The Art of Concealment

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.

Sorta, dunno, nothin' ...

This is for the aunties, uncles, parents and grandparenst among us. Or anyone who simply wants a good laugh.

What life is like ...

Sometimes my life feels like a pinball machine. You know, the kind you put money in and out comes the disc and you flick it with little levers and every time you get a point it goes ping! I work from two diaries and a mobile phone reminder system. But I still scurry about without managing to be in the right place at the right time.

Last Wednesday this helter skelter existence finally came apart spectacularly. I missed an important, and expensive, medical appointment. I also forgot to take my car to the mechanic as scheduled. As I lamented this unfortunate (but not unusual) series of events to Andrew and Seth over coffee, I regregretted that I did not own a diary small enough to fit in my handbag.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It would make a huge difference. Perhaps when Linda (at work) takes the diary requests for 2009, I will order a more compact organiser.’

‘Mum,’ Seth said, leaning over and speaking earnestly. ‘I don’t think you should wait until next year.’

I went straight to the newsagent.

I now own a modest shiny black synthetic leather volume designed and produced by Tai Shing Diary Limited. I sat down and transferred all my data, feeling buoyant with hope and achievement. I even went so far as to clean out my in-tray (heaven rejoiced). I saw a letter from the bank in my in-tray. It that had been sitting there for over a week with a replacement card stuck to it.

‘Look at that,’ I said, signing the back of the card with a flourish. ‘They have made the new Mastercard the same colour as my old Keycard.’

I chopped my Mastercard up and put it in the bin.

Feeling very righteous, I made room for the new piece of plastic in my purse. It was at that point I realised, my new Mastercard actually had the word Keycard written on it.

I phoned the bank.

A replacement Mastercard will arrive within five to ten days. Meanwhile I have my new Keycard to go on with.

Since Wednesday, I have been taking my diary around everywhere. I sleep with it beside my bed. It is the first thing I see every morning. The last thing I look at each night. I go to sleep mouthing imminent appointments like a sacred liturgy. I think it is helping.

On Friday, I managed to get myself to the airport, park the car, and board the correct flight to Adelaide without hiccup. I even rang my Mum to say the flight had been delayed. Yes, I thought, I can change. I was born to be a chess set. Not a pin ball machine.

I disembarked at Adelaide Airport feeling regal, calm and serene. It was lovely to see Mum. We gathered my luggage (no mistakes there) and made our way out to the car park. All was going well until Mum realised she had forgotten where the car was parked.

Mum has a new car so I didn't know exactly what we were looking for. I knew it was a red car. She thought the number might have an X in it.

There were quite a few red cars in the car park. As we walked around the car park pointing her automatic locking system at cars hoping for the lights to flash, I had a dark epiphany. Even with my Tai Shing Limited diary bumping against me, I knew in that moment, that I would never be a chess set. No matter how hard I tried. My problem is genetic. I was born into a family of pinball machines.

Rejection

I did not get selected for the ASA mentorship program.

I only got 9 out of 10 for my last TAFE assignment.

I am not upset or anything. I am a mature adult. I can handle disappointment - not!

I think the following video from Dylan Moran says it all.