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.

Bristol Short Story Anthology, vol. 2

Today the Bristol Short Story Anthology, arrived. I had been harrasing humble postal workers about it all week. When Andrew emailed to say it wasn't in today's post, I felt like chaff in the wind.

But then it arrived! By some magical postal arrangement that, to this day, Australia Post hasn't grapsed.

Andrew sent me a text message.

I came home straight away.

What, I hear you say? Weren't you at work. How could you just leave? Well, yes. But I work in the library - books are revered, and I'd just received one with my name written inside. No one blinked as I raced out the door.

The anthologies came in a sack. I've never received a sack in the post before.

Here I am holding it.

Yes, that's right. It seems sacks are a Swiss idea.

Inside the sack was a brown cardboard box.

And inside the box were the books.

They look real, don't they!

Here's me holding an anthology.

My story is the first in the book (okay, so a little freaky). Then are all these other amazing stories. I've been reading some this evening. They are really I good! I don't know how I won this thing?

But I did. There's my story, at the front on the book and it has First Prize written above it.

The whole thing feels real, suddenly.

Moon Landings and Black Holes in my Understanding

Where were you when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon?

It’s the question of the week. I have been searching my cache of memories for an answer. But I can’t remember the event. Andrew says he remembers it clearly. He watched it on TV. It was night time, he says, someone roused him from sleep.

I always believed him, until this week. Until I found out the moon landing took place at 13:50 AEST, which is ten to two in the afternoon, if my time-zone converter isn’t lying.

So what was he watching? Remembering? Who roused him from sleep?

We may never know the answers to those questions. It’s a black hole in our family history. But it set me wondering. Where was I when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon? Why can’t I remember the momentous event?

I would have been five years of age at the time. I did a quick finger count. Yes, five. The catechism of my family history says I came to Australia at the age of four and a half. That means I must have been in Geelong on July 21st 1969 at 13:50 AEST.

But why can't I remember? And when exactly did we emigrate? For some reason, that date is also missing from my cache. I don’t know why? It was the AD of my childhood. The beginning and end of everything.

I remember my Aunty Jean crying at the airport and Mum being airsick. I remember Dad eating Mum’s airline meals. Ian walking up and down the aisle of the Boeing 747, even at that age unable to sit still. I remember Darwin airport, too, with its high ceiling fans. Mum being take away for re-hydration. Soldiers from Vietnam. I even remember pulling up in front of the Carrington Hotel in Geelong. It was Khaki Green and located next to used car yard. Mum vomited in the gutter at the sight.

I remember everything – except the moon landing.

I decided to ring Mum.

‘Hey Mum,' I asked. 'What date did we emigrate?’

‘We left the 31st of August, 1969,’ she said. It was a bank holiday. You were four and a half years of age.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s strange. I must have been in England for the moon landing?’

‘Yes, dear, you were.’

‘But I came to Australia when I was four and a half, didn't I?’

I had a strange kaleidoscope feeling at this point. My identity breaking up an shifting. Last week, I did my first ever author interview with a magazine called Venue. It has a readership of around 20, 000. I told the interviewer Mum was Welsh and Dad was English. That we emigrated to Australia when I was four and a half years old - had I lied?

‘But, Mum,’ I said. ‘I would have been five years of age on 21st of July 21st, 1969.’

Silence on the end of the line.

I did a quick finger count.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the date right? Mum, can you hear me?’

‘I might be seventy two, Elizabeth. But I know when we emigrated!’

I did another finger count, slower this time. Mathematics has never been my strength. But I know I was born on July 3rd 1964. I’ve seen the birth certificate. I also know that nine take away four equals five. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but that makes me five years of age the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. It would have been 3:50 on July 21st, GMT, and I would have been tucked up in bed.

No wonder I don’t remember the moon landing? I was asleep. Mum and Dad were preparing to emigrate, selling furniture and packing boxes. About to embark upon their own momentous journey, leaving home, family, friends, and flying to the other side of the world. Henceforth to communicate with loved ones by infrequent letters and breathless three minute phone calls. The moon landing would barely have crossed their radar. Let alone an insignificant detail such as their daughter’s age.

But it matters to me – I was five years of age when I emigrated. Did you hear me, five!

Why has it taken me forty five years to work that out? I can’t answer that question. It’s a black hole in my experience. But I do know where I was when the moon landing took place, even if I can’t remember it.

Bristol Short Story Prize

Here’s the thing about competitions. They mess with your head. Especially when your short story, Beyond the Blackout Curtain, gets shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize.

You tell yourself. I won’t win, over and over, because you don’t want to be disappointed. But all the time you know that the award ceremony for the Bristol Prize will be at 8pm GMT, on July 11th at Waterstone’s. It’s like one of those little black boxes orthodox Jews wear strapped to their forehead.

No matter where you are, or what you’re doing, you can’t forget.

At work, when harassed mothers phone the library to find out whether there are any vacancies for the school holiday activity on July 3rd, you think: that’s eight days before the Bristol Short Story Prize is announced.

When an elderly gentleman calls to ask the due date of his books, you check his card, and tell him the due date is July 11th, you think: how could you possibly forget that date?

On Friday 10th, when workmates ask what you're doing over the weekend, you say, ‘Oh, we’re having friends for dinner Saturday night,’ but in your mind you think: I will be waiting.

On Saturday July 11th you rise late, have breakfast, go for a jog, bath the dog, make dinner and enjoy the evening with friends. But you don't mention the competition, and no one in the family mentions it, and you aren't sure if they’ve forgotten or just are just being kind. But you can't get it out of your mind. It's like one of those subliminal messages on Beatles records: Bristol, Bristol Bristol ...

You go to bed knowing, while you sleep, people will gather at Waterstone’s in Bristol and the award will be announced. You don't mention it to your husband, because, if I you don't win, and by this point you're convinced your story is rubbish, you want to be able to mourn in private. To be able to say casually, without a wobble in your voice, ‘well, I didn’t win the Bristol Short Story prize.’ But at the same time you're calculating the difference between GMT and Australian Eastern Standard time, and trying to remember whether Joyce has a mobile phone and, if not, how long it will take her to get home, and you know the call will come around 8’o clock in the morning.

And the phone does ring!

You leap out of bed, annoyed at yourself for caring, and thinking how silly you'll look if was a tele-marketing call and hoping, fingers crossed, for second or third place, maybe ...

Then you hear the loveliest accent in the world on the end of the line, and it's Joyce, and she's even more excited than you are, and she says you've won the Bristol Short Story Prize, and you can't believe it.

You just can't believe it.

Even now, sitting in bed, in your old green pyjamas, with your laptop resting on your knees, you can’t believe it. But you close your eyes, and lean back against the pillows, smiling, and think: yes, someone liked my story.

Not the Mother of the Bride chronicles

We have found a reception place (that welcomes dogs of the family), set a date, booked the minister and made arrangements for the dress. Phoebe and Andy will be married on December 18th

Liz will be a Mother of the Bride.

She’s started a diet, joined a gym, and made secret enquiries about foundation garments (just in case).But she's been reluctant to blog about it.

‘Go on,’ I said, ‘snuffling up to her with the idea. ‘You could call your blog the Mother of the Bride (MOB) chronicles. ’

‘No,’ Liz shook her head. ‘I want to focus on my novel.’

‘Yes, but sometimes you need a break,’ I said.

‘I’ve had too many breaks,’ she said, scratching my ear just the way I like. ‘I want to finish this draft. Besides, it would be unscrupulous to capitalise on Phoebe’s happiness. Look what happened to A. A. Milne. Christopher Robin ended up resenting all those Winnie the Pooh stories.’

‘But, Liz, I said, ‘How will the world cope without the nitty-gritty of our pre-wedding lives?’

She laughed and said: ‘The world will cope, Biskit.’

I went away and thought about this, stretched out on my mat beside the fire, my legs twitching with doggy dreams. But even after a long nap, I woke up worried. For a start, Liz writes about everything. Finishing the novel must be weighing on her terribly.

Secondly, I thought: Liz is wrong – the world does need to hear about our wedding.

Then, I had another thought. Perhaps I could help Liz. She wants to work on her novel, and I like to write. In fact, if I’d done better at Alpha Dog Training I might have gone on to be a journalist. I have a way with words, the other dogs tell me. They like the way I whine at the door, and bark at the window. When I moan with a squeaky toy it is apparently breathtaking.

But what about this scruples thing?

I had another nap (you have no idea how hard a dog’s life is), and woke up still worried. I mean, is it wrong for a dog to capitalise on its owner's happiness?

Fortunately, at that point, Liz suggested a jog.

I’m not a great jogger (although, I’m faster than Liz), but I do find it clears my head. As I raced around the streets, with my ears back and my tail streaming, wondering if I might have a touch of greyhound in me, I began to feel more confident. Never mind Winnie the Pooh, I thought, I am a wordsmith – a Dog of the Bridie. The world needs me. As for scruples, I couldn’t think of a single case in which an owner resented their dog blogging about their wedding. Why would Phoebe be any different?

I stayed awake for a long time that night, wrestling with my destiny. I have great owners, I thought, they are like a litter of puppies. I have a warm bed in the laundry, fresh water in my bowl and an endless supply of Porkettes to chew on. But it is not enough. I want to do something with my life. Give a canine view of things. I want to be the first dog in history to keep a blog of its owner’s wedding.

Yes, I thought, that is my destiny.

Introducing Cherry Ribbon

Thursday before last I bought a new cardigan. It's cherry red with a little black fleck through the wool. If it were a plant, you might call it variegated. But I'm calling it Cherry Ribbon. It has tiny diamond cut black buttons and a wide gathered ribbon around the V neckline. I bought it from that shop with a lady's name that has an E at the end.

I simply had to buy it.

Last night I wore the cardigan for the first time. That's one week and two days after the initial purchase. In between I have operated according to my standard, how-to-roll-a-new-cardigan procedure of which I thought the world might benefit from hearing.

Firstly, I must point out that to a librarian a cardigan is a most important accesory. I mean with contact lenses and permanent rinses, the profession has been in danger of blending with the general population. A tendency towards cardigans may be our sole distinguishing feature in the twenty first century.

Secondly, I would like to say that I work part time and write the rest of the time and, quite frankly, I should be shopping at Dimmeys. But when it comes to cardigans, the queen of all garments, I sometimes lash out no matter how badly the price tag reads.

That's the way it was with Cherry Ribbon and me.

Anyway, back to the roll out. It's a four step process and you must follow it exactly, or it won't work. It's like one of those post-cards-from-all-over-the-world, chain letter things.

Step one: throw out an old cardigan. Now I know that sounds harsh. But even a librarian can have too many cardigans. Fuschia Pink simply had to go. I bought her nine years ago. She no longer did up at the front. Well, she did at a pinch,but the effect wasn't flattering.

She is now at the Op-shop, readjusting.

Step two: talk nicely to last year's best cardigan. In this case, Tealy Ruff. Tell her how much you've appreciated her contribution to your sleek professional appearance. But now you've found a new cardigan, things have changed, she will no longer be your best cardigan anymore.

I advise, a strict, no nonsense tone. Cardigan's on the way down have a tendency to whine. Tell her the news is not all bad. That a second-best cardigan gets worn more than a best cardigan. Tell her you'll still be friends, that there will be a new freedom to your relationship.

Step three: wait

Now, I expect this step is a surpises. You imagined, having made such a signifcant purchase, I would leap out of bed Friday morning and don Cherry Ribbon immediately.

But that isn't how the program works.

You must wear your newly demoted second-best cardigan the morning after purchase. It sets the tone, demonstrates the benefits of her new role, and proves what you said about freedom and friendship.

Don't for a minute think I didn't consider Cherry Ribbon that first Friday morning. Taking her out, standing, head to one side, smiling at my good fortune. I did. But you can't wear a new cardigan the morning after purchase.

You have to wait.

It's one of those law-of-the-universe things.

Then you have to wait, and wait some more - until you've almost forgotten you have a new cardigan.

So that one day you step from the shower all fresh and steamy, wipe your feet on the bath-mat, towel your hair, walk still dripping from the bathroom, and fling wide the wardrobe door, and think: What shall I wear today?

You scan scan the hangers, going from black, to green, to blue, then purple, pink and red (yes, it's important to colour code your wardrobe), then your eyes alight upon it and realisation floods you anew, and you think, yes, this is it. I will wear my new cardigan.

Step four: You pull it gently from its hanger and lay it on the bed. You pick out the skirt that'll match it best, the stockings and the shoes. Apply make-up and blow dry you hair, never rushing, though your heart pounds and anticipation flooda your senses.

Then, when all is in place, you don your new cardigan - and the moment is deeply satisfying.