Some Wedding Photos

We had a wonderful day!

You know you're stressed when ...

You know you're stressed when you make a Cinnamon Coffee Crumble cake - but forget to put the cinnamon in.

You know you've lost it when you ask your daughter to move her car from the driveway - then, while she's getting her keys, you start the engine and back into her car.

You know times are tumultuous when you drive your youngest daughter to the railway station - but forget to drop her off.

You know you're under pressure when you drive to the airport to pick up your mother - but miss the turning and end up in the carpark of Maccas Melton, thumbing desperately through the Melways.

You think maybe they should lock you up when you go to Eastland, shopping - then can't remember where you've parked the car.

You know your sunk because all these years you've been winging it  - and your daughter, who leaves tomorrow, has been keeping you afloat.

And you think perhaps marriage isn't such a good idea and you wonder how you'll ever manage without her.

But you know you have to but, God, you're going to miss her and you wonder when the ache in your heart will cease.

The Writing Life

Now supposing you won an international writing competition and your success was reported in a number of publications, including the Melbourne Age. Supposing, as a result you had a call from a publisher, asking about your novel. And supposing you sent six chapters and a synopsis to the publisher, and they really liked your work and wanted to see more.

Yes, wonderful, I'm sure you'll agree: a recipe for ecstasy.

But supposing your novel is currently pulled apart with track changes and comment boxes throughout. And you tell the publisher, look I've only re-written the first twenty-two chapters, but give me a couple of months  and I'll show you all I've got.

And they agree.

Then you might have to do a great deal of work to do.

But what if you lied?

Not a real lie because you really have re-written the first twenty-two chapters – barring all but one teeny- weeny scene in chapter twenty-one which you have been putting off ...

And supposing you kept putting it off, pulling the individual chapters into one document, making decisions, reading and re-reading, everything neat and tidy, until there is nothing left to do but re-write that one tiny scene in chapter twenty-one?

And now it is time to write it and you feel sick.

Yes, that's right: sick.

New stuff always makes you icky. There is the excitement, the challenge of re-working old words to make the same-but-a-better story. There is doubt and fear of failure, your long time companions. And all the while you are wondering, hoping, praying that you will be able to give life to this vague sense of meaning that has formed in your mind.

So, you start because, let's face it, you have to.

And at first, you feel like newly washed hair all mussy and twisted. Then slowly creation's conditioner seeps into the fibres. You put a comb to the knots and begin to tease out the words. Very gently, lest you change too much, you work back and forth, in and out of the document. Does this move the character forward? Is he meant to be failing the character tests in this chapter? Or passing them? Who is this character, anyway? Maybe I should delete him? Cut the scene completely? Write a different novel?

Oh no, you think. Where am I going?

Of course, at this point when you are in deep crisis, there is always family: a school meeting, an art exhibition, a sick kid, or a husband you have to talk to.

But … you can't you possibly stop writing at this stage.

Except, you have to.
And quite frankly, it's what you need, because while you are away from your computer, the problem resolves itself (normally in the middle of the night, or a desk shift at the library). And you write the idea down in your notebook, or send an email to yourself.

And enjoy a brief interlude of peace.
Meanwhile, a dear friend is reading her way through the other twenty-two chapters of your manuscript, patiently editing and making suggestions. And she reaches chapter twelve and sees a need for some structural changes.

Oh God, you think. This is only chapter twelve. You quickly extrapolate this particular change against all other possible changes you might have to make, and realise that one small scene in chapter twenty-one is the least of you worries.

You are sunk.

Horror churns. You lose sleep. You never really liked that friend anyway. Who does she think she is?

She is right, damn it! The changes must be made – and right away, not a moment to spare. If you leave them they will burn a hole in your manuscript.

So, you make the changes – and all the other alterations your dear friend suggests, and the story is better for it. So, you delete the hate mail you have so carefully drafted.

Then, with gut wrenching, you re-visit chapter twenty-one.

The scene is before you, a poorly patched garment. You decide to be brave. Make sweeping changes. You work in a fever, nerves like violin strings. The whole document altered, chapter by chapter, like dominoes, falling, falling, falling ...

But it's not a waste.

The scene is strong and resonant, full of symbols and hidden meaning.

My God, you're a genius. Why did you put this off for so long? All that talent, finally flowering. A Pulitzer Prize in the making.

And you think, perhaps you will sleep tonight – maybe all the way through to six o' clock in the morning.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Liz’s Outfit

Sometimes, I worry about humans. They don't understand priorities. We are heading towards an important familial occasion, a busy, once in a lifetime, precious season, when certain formalities must be observed – and buying the Mother of the Bride outfit is of utmost significance. Yet, Liz spends every waking minute hunched over her keyboard.

'Please,' I beg. 'Don't leave it to the last minute.'

'I have to submit by the end of November, Biskit.'

'But Liz, your daughter's getting married. You are the Mother of the Bride.'

I have visions, terrible visions, of Liz entering the wedding chapel in work clothes with a badge that says – didn't have time – hanging from her lanyard.

I suppose, when a respected Melbourne publishers calls and asks to see your novel, a certain amount of work is required. But in my opinion, she ought to be focussing on important things – like permanent rinses, waxing, eyebrow tinting, and clothing.

I don't wish to misrepresent Liz (after all, she feeds me). Occasionally she does interrupt her writing - to read a book, for example, to work at the library, or attend TAFE Novel classes. Sometimes, she even remembers the grocery shopping.

But for the most part … she is in another world.

How to motivate her? That was the question. How to tear her away from her desk, just for a minute? Priya and I decided guilt was the best strategy.

'Mum,' Priya said, 'I need a wedding outfit.'

'We'll go shopping next month.'

'But Mum, the wedding is in December – I need to start looking now!'

'Not now, Priya. I'm busy.'

'You don't care about me,' Priya wailed, stamping her foot, 'only your stupid book.'

Liz and Priya went shopping the next day. Liz wasn't in the mood for shopping (and didn't we know it). But I knew once she hit the shops, temptation would take over. She would start flicking through hangers, holding up items and trying things on … just quickly. I wasn't there, of course. It's one of the injustices of my canine disposition. Quite unfair, I'm sure you'll agree. Fluffy white dogs are bred for their beauty, not their brains. We have a natural affinity towards shopping.

But this is how the plan unfolded.

First, Liz tried on a red dress. It made her look round and chunky, like a pillar box. Next she chose something a little more subtle – a pewter dress. She looked more like a tankard than a goblet. A black skirt with a paper bag hem looked frumpy. Hot pink made her feel like a Rhododendron and, as for the purple dress, well, what can I say? A New Age nightmare!

Fortunately, at this point the shop assistant intervened. 'Can I help you?'

'My daughter's getting married,' Liz said. 'And I'm too fat for anything.'

The assistant eyed her appraisingly. She fetched a pencil skirt, a soft non-crease top, and a cropped satin jacket, from the difficult figures section, and teamed it with a pair of gorgeous black high heeled shoes. Liz disappeared into the cubicle. Priya heard huffing and puffing. The shop assistant answered a few urgent questions about belts and zippers. Then Liz tottered out looking magnificent.

'Wow!' Priya said.

'It doesn't get better than this,' Liz said, laughing.

'No,' Priya agreed. 'Are you going to buy it?'

'What do you think?'

Liz bought the lot: skirt, top, jacket and shoes from Dianna Ferrari. I'm not going to reveal the colours, nor divulge anything as skanky as prices. But Andrew has seen the Mastercard statement – and he is still recovering.

Not the Mother of the Bride: Wedding Dress Scoop

At three years of age, Phoebe said: ‘when I get married, I’m going to wear your wedding dress, mummy.

‘You'll look lovely,’ Liz said smiling.

I wasn’t there, of course. I wasn’t even a pup in the belly. But trust me, I am a dog-of-the bride, I know these things.

Now Phoebe is in her twenties and the day of her wedding approaches.

Florists are being been booked, cakes tasted, deposits on reception centres made, and a great deal of discussion about suits, dresses and fabrics is being bandied about. Phoebe’s whimsical childhood promise of wearing her mother’s wedding dress forgotten by all but Andrew. He returned from a recent business trip to Adelaide with the dress in its mouldering packaging.

‘What’s that?’ Phoebe asked as he laid the box at her feet.

‘Mum’s wedding dress,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted to wear it.’

Everyone laughed, except Phoebe. She knew he wasn’t joking.

As I lay on my medium sized fully washable pet pillow, I heard a story in her silence.

Every mother wants to her baby girl to wear her wedding dress, and every mother is determined her adult daughter will have a new dress. I mean, it’s all very well to wear a matching collar when you are a pup. But once you are a mature hound, ready to leave home and manage your own household, you need a collar with some gravitas.

Dogs understand this, even if fathers don’t.

‘Go on,’ Andrew said, ‘try it on.’

‘It won’t fit,’ Phoebe said.

‘Mum was pretty skinny when she got married.’

Everyone turned to look at Liz, trying to imagine her with Phoebe’s waistline.

‘I might still be able to fit into it,’ Liz smiled, nervously.

There was a polite silence.

‘Phoebe’s skinner than I was on my wedding day. But I think the dress was altered for Wendy’s wedding. I'll try it on after you, Phoebe.’

I sat up, my nose twitching. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for. Like all good investigavtive journalists, I’d been working undercover, sniffing out potential stories, waiting for the time to swoop. The pricking of my paws, told me that moment was now upon me.

As Phoebe clumped down the hallway her arms swathed in yellowing fabric, I made a dash for the camera cupboard, thinking of headlines, such as Wedding Dress Scoop or Heirloom gown for Zone Three Wedding. I drew the camera out of its pouch and took up my position behind the couch. This would be bigger than Wills and Kate, the world in a frenzy. We’d have to hire security, keep the gown under lock and key.


The dress was loose on Phoebe. She turned like a model, the not- quite-white- ruffles swirling prettily. I had quite a lump in my throat as I crouched, low to the ground, the shutter clicking repeatedly.

Next it was Liz’s turn to try on the gown. I saw her smile slip.

But she walked bravely to the bedroom and came out a few minutes later grinning. 'Not bad,' she said, holding out her hands and curtseying.

But she didn’t twirl about as Phoebe had. She stayed front on, the creased skirts hanging stiffly.

At this point, I faced a terrible dilemma. It's one thing to talk about being an award winning journalist, quite another to show a middle-aged woman in her wedding dress to be pudgy and pretending, especially when the woman in question holds the key to the treats cupboard.

My lightly furred underbelly clenched painfully. I thought of the cupboard full of Oinkers, Beef Chews and Dentastix. Perhaps it was wrong to exploit another’s weakness? To climb on anothers back, and win acclaim from it? Then I thought of words like hard hitting and responsibility, duty to society. I remembered how it felt to Fail Alpha Dog Training. Scruples be damned!

I felt every vertebrate in my spine click. Dog like me have to take every opportunity. I slipped around the couch, before Liz had a chance to notice, and took this shot.

Melbourne Writers’ Festival 2009

Today, I am going to blog about MWF. Not because I think you will find this particularly interesting but because I have to write about it for a TAFE assignment. It's Saturday afternoon, however, and the idea of staying home and doing a TAFE assignment is not appealing whereas the idea of updating my blog is always exciting.

Before I begin discussing the 2009 Melbourne Writers' Festival, I would like to start by pointing out the apostrophe on the word: writers'. For it is by such small things I measure my progress. Once, I would not have known where the apostrophe should be placed. But I am a fair-dinkum, bona fide writer now and I know that writers is the plural of writer but, in this case, it is also a possessive noun, therefore the apostrophe goes sat the end.

Why do I tell you this? Please, read on.

When walking to the train with Priya on Friday, the morning of The Whole Shebang, Priya kissed me goodbye and said: You look like a writer Mum. As the bells for her train were ringing, I didn't have time to ask what she meant by this. Whether it was the go-get 'em aspect of my writer's demeanour she referred to, the stuck staring at the keyboard for hours part, the wake up at the crack of dawn with snakes in your tummy feeling, or that heady moment of discovering a powerful new simile. I hoped she meant the latter and, keeping my progress with apostrophe in mind, I struck out bravely.

By some strange process of osmosis (probably called Euan Mitchell) a number of Box Hill TAFE students who barely knew each other had worked out that we'd be Shebang-ing together. We met on the train and at various stages during the day, and finished the evening with a drink in one of the Bars at Fed square. It was a nice collegiate feeling.

But what did you learn at the Whole Shebang? I hear you ask. Surely that's necessary for the assignment?

Funnily enough, I have been avoiding that part of the assignment because, after listening to authors, publishers and various writing organizations throughout the day, my primary take home message from The Whole Shebang was: publishers are looking for writers who are reasonable and sane. I think at least, three speakers made direct reference to sanity.

Most of the others implied it.

Look, I don't want to be neurotic or defensive about this but, I ask you, is it sane to sit hunched over a screen for hours on end wondering whether stillness of the night sounds better than quietness of the night, scribbling in notepads in the middle of movies and concerts, reading aloud to hone your dialogue, or relating to characters that feel more real than your own family?

Exactly. It wasn't very encouraging.

On the Saturday, I rose, donning sanity like a school uniform, and caught the train to Flinders Street. Unfortunately, I had failed to check the Connex site and had therefore missed the all important message about work on the line. I was therefore a little late for my masterclass with John Boyne (a perfectly sane and reasonable excuse).

The Past is Not Dead, involved writing exercises (in which everyone but me came up with pithy and polished writing, no matter what the subject), and discussion of issues close to the heart of historical fiction, such as: defining the historical novel; recreating historical figures; and finishing with the question of how much responsibility a writer has to the truth. It was an interesting day, but not earth shattering. Although John Boyne was an excellent presenter, my friend Marina, a fellow Historical Novel Society member, and I agreed that we didn't learn anything that we had not already heard discussed in various HNS publications.

I did however make a valuable contact.

Last year, I met Marina and was given an opportunity of writing feature articles for Solander. This year I met a MWF volunteer who works in the library at the Koorie Heritage Trust. We had been asked, for one of our exercises, to write about a real historical figure. I chose to write about the execution of two aboriginal men, Bob and Jack, in the early days of the Port Phillip District. An MWF volunteer heard my short piece and, in the next break, told me about the Koorie Heritage Trust library. She also gave me her business card. I was thrilled, as the execution of Bob and Jack will probably be the opening scene of my next novel.

On Sunday, I attended Focus on Kate Grenville. I was particularly keen to attend this session, as I am writing a profile on Kate Grenville. I had heard Kate speak previously. In recent months have listened to or read every one of her recent interviews and read all of her novels, so I wasn't sure how much I would learn from the session. But as in the past, it was a privilege to listen to this warm, intelligent, human being talk about various aspects of the writing life. The session ended far too quickly.

So that's my wrap of the Melbourne Writers Festival. Tomorrow, I go to my last session, The Place for a Village, which is a two hour walk with Gary Presland. We'll walk around Melbourne and Gary will talk about the natural history of Melbourne and how it might have looked prior to the arrival of Europeans. This session will also be useful for my next novel and, as I know Gary from Balwyn Writers, I am looking forward to it.

So why did I tell you about the apostrophe? Oh no reason. It was just a hook, in the end. But I do think it is improtant to take note of the small things. It's like the little white pebbles Hansel and Gretel left strewn along the path. It shows how far you've come.

Peanuts vs Porkettes ...

What is it about forty-fiveish year old men and their wives' dogs?

I've discussed this with a number of women over the past months and we've concluded it's a twinge of envy sort of thing.

Surely not, I hear you gasp. Who would ever be jealous of a fluffy white dog?

That's a good question. The mind boggles. But it's a true statement. I think it must be the male menopause.

There's no other way to explain the motivation behind this photo.

I didn't take the photo, by the way. Andrew took it after I had done the weekly shopping. But he cheated.

I didn't buy all those bow-wow treats in one week.

Besides, Biskit needs those things. The denta-stix keep his little teeth clean. The mini-treats are a bedtime incentive. As for the porkettes and oinkers. How would you like to be locked outside while everyone is at work?

Okay, so home brand peanuts is a tad bleak. But I was pressed for time!

I'll make sure I buy Andrew the most expensive ones next time.