Corbett family Christmas letter

Perusing Liz’s diary, I found December entries for shopping trips, baking days, Christmas drinks and staff dinners. But nothing to suggest a letter was in the offing. ‘Liz,’ I said. ‘Have you forgotten something?’

‘No, Biskit. Everything’s in hand.’

‘Something involving writing?’ I nudged her hand. ‘And postage stamps?’

She looked away, avoiding my doggy brown gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Alright,’ Liz said. ‘If you want the truth. I started wearing glasses this year. Got hearing aids. My novel was rejected. And to top it all off, my sixteen year old daughter has just left home. A bit hard to put in print don’t you think?’

‘All the same,’ I persisted. ‘your friends like to hear from you.’

‘No, Biskit. It’s too hard, this year.’

I sighed, a big deep doggy sigh that went right to the tip of my tail. ‘Alright, I’ll have to do it.’

Having to do the Christmas letter didn’t come as a complete surprise. In fact, I had been itching to try my paws at bit of corporate writing, for some time. Emailing people, as Liz does. Following up with a probing phone interview. It seemed the perfect approach for a Christmas letter and a way to hone my journalistic skills.

I made up a list of questions and showed them to Liz.

1. Name one thing Biskit did in 2010, that made you think: Wow!
2. One instance in which you could have given Biskit more attention.
3. Describe something special you and Biskit have planned for 2011.

‘Hmm …’ she studied them in silence.

‘Well,’ I snuffled her hand. ‘What do you think?’

‘They may need tweaking.’

Tweaking! That is code word for a complete re-write. I have seen Liz go through this process a number of times. Can you be more specific?’ I asked. ‘Constructive?’

‘The themes are good she said. ‘A positive. Some regrets. Then looking forward. But … it’s not all about you Biskit.’

Not about me! Her words were a blow to the stomach. My ears drooped. My tail curled between my legs. I felt sick. After all this time? Didn’t Liz realise? I’m the faithful hound. Man’s best friend. Heart of the family. It is always about me!

Still, I had to be professional. Get the letter done. How many times had I seen Liz felled by a critique? How many times had I tiptoed round the house, thinking: This is it. This time we’ll have to have her committed. Then watched her recover and re-draft the piece. It would be the same for me, I decided. This was all part of the writing process.

I lay on the heating duct, licked my paws, chewed an old bone for a while and, sure enough, I came up with a revised list of questions. It was time to begin.

Wow! Moments for 2010
 Ness completed her Certificate 3&4 in Personal Training this year. Seth got himself a job at the Rivoli Cinemas, Camberwell. He is also working as a Myer Christmas casual (don’t ask him about their carol CD). Priya, is still thinks wow! about last year’s big event ‒ Phoebe and Andy’s wedding. Liz went on a Silent Retreat (and hasn’t stopped talking about it since). Andrew’s duo, ‘INSIDEOUT,’ did an intimate community gig at Cheeky Latte Café. Monique enjoyed her home stay with a family in Vietnam. And Phoebe liked hiking in Tasmania. But Jack couldn’t decide on his ultimate wow moment:

“Seeing the Taj from space …actually, that didn’t happen. Um… the look on Kevin’s face as he got knifed in the back – priceless. Dunno… haven’t’ really drawn breath this year so its hard to say… maybe wow! It’s Christmas already.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this waffling response ( Liz says it is typical of academic writing). One thing is clear — Canberra certainly does affect people.

Our final wow! moment comes from Andy McCann. He, Phoebe and their friend Brett, went to the Grampians for a long weekend. A group of kangaroos arrived at the caravan park to feed on the lush grass. One of them was an extremely excited male roo. While the tourists all took photos (of the group, not the male) one mother squatted beside her pre-schooler, pointed to the roo and said:

‘Look darling, there’s a Joey.’

Wow! Andy and Brett exchanged looks of amazement.

Things we would have done differently

Jack and Ness agreed on this one. Go on a proper holiday. Not just a series of long weekends. Seth would have realised rich and famous people live in Camberwell. He certainly wouldn’t have said those terrible things about Peter Costello (our former Treasurer), especially not to his daughter, who just happens to work there.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ He said, in self- defence. ‘I live in Vermont.’

Andrew couldn’t think of anything he would do differently. Neither could Monique. This is what I call a sly dog moment ‒ an invitation to journalistic license. Andrew in fact, wished he’d learned to appreciate Biskit more. And Monique regrets spending so little time with him. At least, that’s what it says in my notes. Then again … you can’t believe everything you see in print.

Phoebe wished she hadn’t spent so long procrastinating over these questions. In fact, she could probably say the same of every essay she has written this year. Liz would have made the decision to axe the first five chapters of her novel much sooner. She looks forward to finishing it in 2011.

Things 2011 might hold

Phoebe and Andy will enjoy a late honeymoon in Africa. Andy looks forward to standing on top of Mt Kilimanjaro, whereas Phoebe wants to lay on the beach. Jack and Ness have a perfect alignment of aspirations — to get away from Canberra. Fortunately, this is achievable, as Ness has a four month CHOGM assignment in Perth.

After Seth’s great start at the Rivoli Cinemas, he is considering a change of employment in 2011. While Monique looks forward to recovering from her knee operation, playing in the Physio and Boyfriends mixed netball team, and finishing her degree. Priya looks forward to starting TAFE and living her new ‘independent’ life. But Andrew Corbett wants only one thing — peace in our home.

Well friends, a family dog has many responsibilities. It’s not all wags and bones, I can tell you – and this has been a difficult year. As it draws to a close, there are gaps in the family. A great deal of hurt. But Liz wanted me to tell you, God is good, and they are coping. We trust that it is the same for you. As you reflect on the year past, and look forward to the one ahead, we trust you will have peace in your heart ‒ and in your homes too.

Love Biskit ‒ on behalf of the Corbett family

Revising my Script

Last week I found out I need hearing aids. My family find this somewhat amusing. You see, my mum has hearing aids but she never wears them. Anyone who knows me, will have seen me foam at the mouth when talking about this annoying maternal trait.

Those who enjoy a more intimate acquaintance with me, will know Mum also has titanium hips. That she is not walking so well since the second operation. Her walking stick has recently been replaced by a shiny black aluminium frame. If you've had the good fortune to sit opposite me at a dinner party, you'll have heard me, glass of red in hand, saying:

She's only got herself to blame. She didn't do the exercises after her operation — and this is the end result.'

My very best friends will also know that Mum doesn't come to Melbourne anymore. She says my spare bed isn't comfortable enough.

'You can feel all the springs,' she said. 'And the boards beneath.'

Of course, this is both hurtful and embarrassing (you've heard the spiel), to have such a fussy mother. Who does she think she is, anyway? The Princess and the Pea!

These past weeks, however, I have found my self-assurance unravelling. My speeches distorting like an old cassette-tape disappearing into the workings of an out-moded machine.

It started with a visit from Canberra.

Seth's girlfriend Monique was turning twenty-one and, although he doesn't like to talk about it, Andy McCann was about to hit the big three zero. Jack and Ness decided they didn't want to miss out on the party fun. The bed was already set up. No flies on our backs. We have a spare room since Phoebe married, with a good mattress, despite Mum's princess propensities. We made up a second bed on the floor and anticipated a fantastic weekend.

I had no idea a mushroom cloud was looming.

But anyone who knows my daughter-in-law, will know she is direct. After one night on that spare bed she hit us with the truth.

'You need a new bed. That mattress is crap. You can feel the springs. And the boards beneath.'

Well! What could I say? Ness is tough. She has absolutely no princess delusions. If she says my mattress is crap, it must be. No point arguing. We'd have to get a new one, but darned if I was going to tell Mum straight off.

Unfortunately, the Karma Police weren't finished with me.

Mum has been pretty sick this year, with pneumonia and an infection in the lining of her lungs. She's had two extended stays in hospital and, although I've been trying to keep up with the hospital visits, my brother Ian decided it was time to take a turn on the carer's front. He flew home for ten days. We were chatting on the phone one evening, shortly after Mum had been discharged from hospital, when he said:

'Mum had a letter today, Liz. About her hip.'

'Yes?' I said, wondering what this had to do with me.

'Apparently the second hip's faulty. There's been a product recall.'

Silence.

'You there, Liz?'

Oh yes, I was there. I'd been haranguing Mum since that second operation. Urging, begging, coaxing and cajoling her to do the exercises. Go for a walk. Get motivated. Ignoring her quavery old lady excuses.

'Something's wrong, Liz. It's just not working.'

Now I knew why.

As if'd been hit on the head with a brick.

They say things come in threes. I should have feared the worst. But I'd had hearings tests before. This was in fact the third one in ten years. I knew what to expect.

'A degree of hearing loss, Mrs Corbett, but not enough to require intervention.'

Nevertheless, I didn't take the outcome for granted. I closed my eyes in that little carpeted testing room and concentrated really hard. I picked up every sound. Answered every question. At the end of the session, I looked up smiling.

'You need hearing aids,' the audiologist said.

'But ...,' my smile faltered. 'I heard all the sounds.'

'Yes,' she said. 'But I had to turn the machine up really
loud.'

Of course, the family think it's hilarious. A perfect twist of fate. On Skype, Jack and Ness could hardly contain their mirth.

'Pardon?' They said. 'What's that? We can't hear you.'

'Hey!' I said. 'Don't make fun of me, I'm now officially hearing impaired.'

'You'll have to wear them,' Jack said, grinning. 'No excuses. Even if they're uncomfortable.'

'Alright,' I said, face glum in the little Skype pane. 'You don't have to lecture me.'

It was time to ring Mum. She already knew about the bed. Someone had squeaked. She had ceased gloating about her hips, telling all and sundry it wasn't her fault. But this was something else. It was going to make her day.

'Hey Mum,' I said. 'Guess what. I have to get hearing aids.'

'Pardon dear? You'll have to speak up?'

'Hearing aids!'

'Yes, sorry. I haven't got them in.'

'No, Mum. Listen! It's me. I'm getting them.'

A pause.

'You, Elizabeth?'

'Yes, Mum, me.'

'Hearing aids?'

'I'm getting old. I'll need a walking frame soon.'

Another pause. Followed by a chuckle on the end of the line.

'Don't be silly, dear. You'll get a walking stick first.'

That's the other part of my speech. The bit I always leave out. Mum mightn't be able to walk very well, and she certainly can't hear, but her sense of humour is top notch.

Only a Small Peek

Here's the thing about me – I cheat. Not on significant things, like taxes, tithes or library reservation lists. But I lick the spoon after I bake a cake (though I am supposed to be losing weight), I look up the answers in the back of my Welsh book, and sometimes, despite my best intentions, I contradict what I have said on my blog. I wouldn't normally admit this. Only this week I have to – because I got caught.

I had dinner earlier this week with a newly married couple – let's call them Sophie and Tony (this is a clever ploy to protect the identity of persons concerned). Tony has a significant birthday approaching and Sophie had purchased him a gift online. We had finished main course (actually the only course) and were onto the Lindt chocolate when Tony said: 'My camera lens arrived to today.'

'That's quick,' Sophie replied, looking up. 'I hope you didn't open it?'

'Just s peek. To check it wasn't broken.'

'Tony! I told you not to look.'

'I didn't take it out. Or put it on my camera. So, it doesn't count.'

'You're hopeless,' Sophie shook her head.

I felt pretty smug at this stage. I mean I haven't peeked at a present since I was eight years old. Even then, I didn't mean to find the present. But it was a walking doll and mum had hidden it under my bed. It took all the surprise out of Christmas. I can safely say I haven't been tempted to peek at a present since. But I do cheat on other things and I was out of luck because, at that point, Tony needed a change of subject.

'What are you reading?' he pointed at the papers piled up on the arm of my chair.

'Oh, just some maps I copied from the State Library.'

'Old maps?'

'Yes, of Covent Garden,' I felt my face reddening. 'One's from the Regency Period. The other is late Victorian. I am trying to work out what the area looked like in 1841.'

'What for?' My husband (let's call him Joe) butted in.

'Well actually,' I swallowed it's for my novel.' Silence. I hurried on. 'It's just I did some TROVE searches and I found out the library had these old maps. And then I realised the Survey of London was online and a book called Old and New London. And I just started reading … I'm still having a break,' I added. 'I'm not writing or anything. Only thinking …

I looked away. Joe didn't say anything. Or Sophie. But I saw Tony smile because he knew that like him I'd been caught.

But, here's the thing about me. I love research. To sit poring over old maps trying to work out what a street looked like on a given date. To wonder how people lived in that room, in that house, or in that street. To read, and read, and read some more until I begin to see. Only a small picture, at first. But expanding like heat on a misted wind-screen. That is the way it works for me. It's heady. Like silver. Or nitrate. Or adrenaline. But is it cheating? The look on Joe's face told me it probably was. But really? I can't agree. It's not tithes or taxes, for goodness sake. I'm not diddling a library reservation list. And I certainly haven't un-wrapped my birthday gift. I'm just peeking – yes, that's it, like Tony. I'm having a quick glance in the drawer.

  

Drawer Therapy

Winning a writing competition is scary. And if the winning story happens to be the first short story you have ever written (apart from a rather dubious effort in year nine), then it will is much worse. The first thing you think after, oh, gee, wow, I can't believe it, that's marvellous, is: now I have to write another story - and keep winning.

The trouble is stories (short or long) don't start out as winners. They come out as crappy half-baked words all written around the pin prick of an idea. Infact, they are so elusive that when you workshop them for the first time your writing group sit, eyes round, faces slack, until someone finally has the courage to mouth the fatal words: But ... I don't get it?

At this point you seriously consider changing writing groups. I mean, all that subtlety wasted. All those metaphors unappreciated. The times you have said nice things about their rather ordinary efforts ... But you don't got to a workshop for praise. As masochistic as it may sound, you go there to pull the story apart. Layer by layer, like an onion; to analyse what is working, and what is not. To be grilled, questioned and challenged, until you know exactly what the narrative is about.

If you are a clear sighted sort of person, clarity will come early in the process. If you are me, you will fumble about as if in a fog. You will sit up late drawing mind-maps. Jiggle things about and make minor changes. Treat favourite parts as if they were indelible. Foist the narrative on another, more discerning, writing group (yes, it is necesarry to have two). Worry it over and over. Test it out on your long-suffering family until, at last, you give up and shove the whole damned thing in a drawer.

The word drawer in this context, is a metaphor. Not a wooden box slides on runners into a dark space. It means stepping back. Getting on with something else for a while. Letting your subconscious do the work. This is called Drawer Therapy, by the way. It is an essential part of the writing process.

But does this therapy actually work? Or is it merely a soft option? A way of giving up by degrees? Well, I don't know (not truly, deeply irrevocably). But at Easter, I wrote a short story. I re-drafted it a number of times. I sensed it needed to start differently. But I couldn't see how to make the changes. After a few months in the drawer, I began to get an inkling. It was time to re-visit the story.

I spent a day faffing about with the start. Then it dawned on me, my character motivations were all wrong. Scrambled infact. They were diluting the story's final impact. Yes, of course. Why didn't I see that before? Once, I had the motivations worked out, I started re-arranging the time sequence. I then added a whole new scene. Finally, it was starting to make sense.

So, is the story finished now? Is it stronger? A winning story? When will I send it off? I don't know the answer to those questions. Writing is a complex, mysterious process. But I certainly didn't have solutions before I put the story in the drawer. So the therapy must have worked.

Helpdesk eng sub.

Words

The greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading in order to write. A man will turn over half a library to make a book.
Quotation of Samuel Johnson

I find this quote rather encouraging as I am currently in a non-word producing phase of writing my novel. In short, it is in the drawer. I am told this is what one must do when they reach a stalemate. When they have tried re-writing the same scene a dozen times, have sat staring blankly at the screen for hours on end, when they have risen to sit, head in hands, tears coursing down their cheeks, for too many mornings in a row.

I have an image in my mind of my father, sitting thus (although, without the tears). His creased brow resting in a pair of big warm hands, his navy flannel pyjamas all wrinkled with sleep. It was his morning posture. And now it is mine. An, oh my God, how am I going to face the day sort of pose. What am I going to do without my novel – the project that has consumed me body and soul for the last six years? Will I ever get back to it? What if I don't? Will my characters ever leave me alone?

I don't know the answer to those questions. For now they are in the drawer. But I am reading, more than I am writing. I am thinking, sleeping, laughing, praying and trusting – yearning for a still small voice. I am confident – at least, I think I am – that in time a pattern will emerge.