WHEN WORDS FAIL

Wazza helps out Santa at Federal pre-school 

There are times in life . . . not many, when words fail.

Last week at the funeral of a friend, I struggled to find the right words; words that were meaningful to me, to his family and to the two young children he left behind.



I listened to stories about Warren's adventures - the ones I knew and the ones I had never heard of until his funeral.

In the end- it was the simple words that held us together.

Like when Waz was Santa's helper on his ride-on mower, his sailing trips and how he loved to dress up for a party at the hall.
Of the way he teased and joked his way in and out of life.

We sat around the village hall, our plastic chairs pulled close together, and shared our stories, long into the night.

The conversations were deep even though the words were small.

THE INFLUENCE OF TIME

Stone, wood . . .  and words – change with time.

Here's the opening paragraph from a short story, Not Your Home, that I am working on.

I live with the ghost of a wife who died too young and too slow. A disease with a complicated name ate away at her nervous system until she, literally, twitched to death. Ghost Wife follows me around her house. I walk her footsteps across the polished wooden floors. In the bright kitchen, I use the stainless steel pot with the wobbly handle, the one she used to make warming, winter stews. The fragrant freesias I picked from a forgotten corner of the garden, where she planted them, sit in her favourite vase in the centre of the smoky glass table she chose from an expensive furniture shop. She thought it was classy, Paul says.

Here's another opening paragraph from a short story, Middle Brother,  that I've finished . .  or at least think I have.

Stop going on about that bloody duck. 

Mum turned and glared at all three of us even though Skids was the one doing all the whinging. I said nothing. Skids stuck out his bottom lip. He’d done everything right. The old rusty bath was topped up with water every day and the bird was locked in its cage at night so pythons, eagles, dogs and anything else that liked to eat ducks couldn’t get to it. Still, despite all this, The Duck was dead. I kept my mouth shut. 

The difference between the two paragraphs is time. One is new and raw. The other has had my tampering hands all over it.

Do writers ever feel happy with their work?  Do they look back at a story they wrote ten years ago, read it and think – that's exactly what I meant and I've expressed it perfectly?

I suspect not. Not often anyway.

When I read past stories I've written I cringe - not all the time – but nearly.  It isn't about being harsh on myself but about developing as a writer. Not only developing the way I use words but increasing the discernment of my own work.

This feels like the key to writing better. But it may take some time.

Pic taken at 2010 Sculpture-by-the-Sea at Bondi.

STOP CLEANING

Cleaning the Apple

I am spending a lot of time cleaning my desk.

I've cleaned the computer screen, the keyboard, it's very dirty between the grooves, and I've rearranged the bookshelves.

Cleaning is a dangerous activity for any writer.  It can take hours or in my case – days.

Just one more wipe over the rosewood slab that is my desk. It shines and a pink hue at the right time of the day, when the sun is low in the sky, reflects against my face as I write.

That is . .  if I was at my desk writing.

Something has happened in the last month. I haven't written much. About 1,000 words.

I've carried my manuscript everywhere I go.
I've thought about the story, the characters and even sent off the first 50 pages for selection to the 2011 Harper Collins/Varuna Fellowship.

Trouble is, I have a lot more to write. 50,000 words at least. And cleaning my desk or screen with fresh smelling euc oil isn't going to get me a novel.

The less I write, the less confidence I have in myself and . . .  the less I write.

I know the solution is to write hard, write fast, don't edit, don't think to much, get in the zone. Write, write, write.

Stop cleaning and write.
I am shouting this at myself right now.
I need to be much harsher on myself.
I need to create my own deadline and write to it.

Write for god's sake.


Pic taken in Sydney CBD, late at night when the Mac Shop gets its Apple cleaned.

ONE WORD

One man . . . one word

Think. . . Stephen King's On Writing made me do just that. Think.

For years I avoided reading it because it was written by Stephen King.

Never a huge fan of his books, I thought I'd give it a go because in the last week,  this book came up, at least three times, in conversation.

So I overcame my unfounded aversion to the author and read his book, written after his horrific accident, in the quiet time it took for his body to mend.

What I liked was he didn't give advice on what you should and shouldn't do when writing fiction.

There was no how-to-write-a-story formula in this book. No magic fix.

There was plenty of insight though, from the snapshots of his childhood to the moving stories of the events that formed him as a writer.

He threw his first draft of Carrie in the bin. It was his wife who flicked off the cigarette ash and urged him to finish it. We never would have seen Sissy Spacek covered in red paint if not for Tabitha King.

I never knew Stephen King overcame an addiction to alcohol and cocaine. I never knew he knew so much about writing.  

He admits there is magic in writing and a bad writer can't learn to be a good writer.

His first real advice from an editor about a piece he wrote for the local rag was this –

'Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open. Your stuff starts out being just for you, in other words, but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right - as right as you can, anyway- it belongs to anyone who wants to read it.'

Powerful stuff. The book is funny too. So I've reshaped my thoughts on the man and that's a good thing. 

From now on when someone says to me, you just have to read this, I will. 

Books to read before I die, I already have a list but I'd like to hear your book-to-read-before-you-die. 

I promise I'll read it

After all, a recommendation is important, if it touched you in some way, chances are I too will be touched. 

At the very least, I'll have a greater understanding of the person who said, you HAVE TO read this book. 

Do it, I'll read it . .  . I'm excited already.

This man stood in Eastwood Mall all throughout the Federal election campaign. It was the marginal seat of Bennelong and the pollies were ever present. Everywhere I went there he was, with his little dog dressed in a frilly dog jacket, he was always wearing his sign 'think'. The other side of the sign read - 'imagine'.  Hmmm....

DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD

I'm reading Jessica Watson's Book True Spirit about her solo sailing adventure around the world. 

There were many times the sixteen-year-old could have lost her head. 

At a talk in North Sydney, a member of the audience asked Jessica what she was thinking when her boat flipped over four times in a fierce storm. 

Four knockdowns in one night.

What was going through her mind?

She was too busy hanging on to think or feel anything, she said.  

This could be a description for the current post-election state of the nation. 

Unlike our politicians, Jessica is a plucky and inspirational young woman. 

She had a boat to sail and a world to circumnavigate. 

At the talk, an eight year old school girl stood up with her mother to say she was doing a school project on an inspirational person. She had chosen Jessica. 

Jessica talked about the criticism directed at her and her parents for undertaking such a dangerous journey, but as she repeatedly said, they all knew the risks and prepared extensively to reduce them. 

Still four knockdowns in the middle of a stormy sea, on your own . . .

These real-life stories of journeys and adventures are loved by readers. 

We seem ever hungry for true life stories.

Yet there's nothing truer than fiction, Hemingway said

While all my writing, of course, has elements of my deepest, darkest thoughts, I struggle about how much of my real-life to put in a story. 

Especially if it is about love, or sex or family. 

Even if I start with a character far removed from myself, the story winds it way back to what I know. 

And to what I choose to reveal. 

There is, it seems, no escaping yourself. 

I deal with this by pretending no one will ever read what I've written. 

It frees me from perceived critics and conservative judgements. 

Secrets, knockdowns . . . even general elections, have to be dealt with. 

Best to keep your head.

Pic taken at The Rocks, Sydney. It reminded me of a phrase of my Dad's, 'running around like a headless chook.' It seems, in Sydney there are headless pedestrians. And – it seems, they need directing.

MAKING TIME TO WRITE

Time waits for no man . . . or woman . . . or writer.

I am starting full time work again in two weeks.

While I'm excited about rolling up my sleeves and throwing myself back into the newspaper world, a part of me is worried about my creative writing time.



When will I work on my novel, short stories and the poems I write for myself?
This writing keeps me sane-ish.

I thrive on a deadline and like to set myself a target of 1,000 words a day.
A lot of that is edited out in further readings but the word target keeps me on task.

Right now, I'm working on a back-to-full-time-work plan.
I reckon 500 words a day, done in the morning before I head off to work or alternatively late at night.
As long as it's do-able.

For six months I had the indulgence of wallowing in my words, going to uni, talking about writing, writing in cafes and in my home office whenever I felt the urge. This will be reduced to weekends and time squeezed in a week day.

Funnily enough, less time isn't always less time.
I write more when I have less time.

I refuse to give up on the dream of publishing my own book.

And I know that writing my book takes effort, belief and . . . time.

Any tips gratefully received.



Pic taken at 2009 Sculpture by the Sea at Bondi Beach, by Susanna Freymark. Would like to know the name of the artist. Anyone?

CHANGE THE WORDS

'Never give up' came up again when I made a visit back 'home' to the Federal Writers' Group.

Our 'show-and-tell' of rejection letters was interesting.

I had my first from a publisher, (about a month ago) and while it was a positive letter with heaps of feedback about my manuscript and writing style, my book was rejected on the grounds that it wouldn't stand out in a competitive market.

While this is part of becoming a writer, your first rejection, no matter how 'nicely' worded, is hard to take.

A small part of me had unrealistically hoped they would say – yes, of course we want your book.

Oh, how I wished it could have been that easy.

So never give up came up again. The rejection letter reinforced my drive.

I tackled my manuscript with fresh eyes and took the radical step of deleting the first half of the book (about 30,000 words) and beginning the story where the action started. I think the book is all the better for it.

I'll be changing more of the words, rearranging others and giving my manuscript a face lift. I can't wait.

Never Give Up, taken near Bangalow by Susanna Freymark. 

Resident, Richard Jones said he saw a woman standing on her car bonnet reaching up to add the word Never, to the sign that had been changed to read Give Up. The sign is located on the road next to the drug rehabilitation centre. You've gotta love the north coast.

WORDS ARE NEVER BORING

It feels important to ask myself, at regular intervals, why do I write?

The whole concept of writing is a strange one.

I mean, stringing words together on a page, re-reading them, making changes and poring over each word and comma . . . until it is done, truly is a strange activity.

Yet it is that intense scrutiny of words – bordering on obsession that holds me.

Not only the words themselves but the way they sound . . .  together.

Pick up a good poetry book, bursting with inspirational words, a book like Michael Ondaatje's The Cinnamon Peeler. His words sing. . . in a language that paints a picture and captures your imagination and makes you want to write.

Words inspire us, they make us cry, make us think but . . . words can be confusing too.

I was once asked by author and mentor, Melissa Lucashenko, to find a perfect sentence.

I looked through books, thought about song lyrics and read poems. There were so many sentences I loved . .  for different reasons. But perfect. . .  a perfect sentence?

I couldn't pick one. It was like when my dad asked me to fetch a left-handed screwdriver. I searched his tool box but all I found was a screwdriver.

There is no perfect sentence.  No single perfect word. But there are right ones.

For your story. . . for my story. I write to tell my story in the very best words I can find.

Picture: The Boring Shop, at Cockatoo Island, Sydney by S. Freymark, 2010

Never, never give up.




There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Ernest Hemingway

In writing, as in many artistic pursuits, it is easy to be hard on yourself.

When you receive your first rejection letter from a publisher.

When you think you've written a ripping short story and a reader is confused by your point of view.

When you've slaved over a chapter late into the night, only to find when you read it in the morning, it isn't nearly as good as you thought.

Never give up. Make time in your day to write. Make time to read.

I've never found it hard to find time to write.
It's a compulsion; whether it is done in a spare hour at my desk or when my 'desk' becomes the car while I wait for my son to finish soccer (oops, football) practice.
Never give up, because if you do, you'll feel lousy. Write like your life depends on it.

Don't put off writing your novel because you're busy, you're stressed, the kids are too little or your pencil isn't sharp enough..... make it a priority, make it a habit, make it work for you.

To keep my own writing on track I set myself writing goals.
Like – entering three stories in competitions, completing 1,000 words a day on my current manuscript or even something as simple as going to a writer's talk at the writers centre. Inspiration is a keen motivator.


Write every day, no matter what,  and preferably without bleeding.

An evolving Stop sign – words and their meanings change . . . pic taken in Federal, S.Freymark

Is it a plane? Is it a bird? No it's a blog.

Funny word, funny thing to do but here I am blogging . . . I think.

I've called my blog – at her desk.

I spend a lot of time at my desk – writing, thinking and distracting myself from writing by reading blogs.

I've found a lot of useful information and inspiration from the blogs of writers.

I'd like to share my own ups and downs in the journey of writing and being published.

My job as a journo supports my love of writing. It's a social job, done at high speed and one that has taught me more about editing than any course or book.

I love that I am paid for my writing, I love hearing the stories of other people and finding the best way to tell them. I truly believe in the maxim that – there is a story in every person.

This blog will tell my story. My own bumbling, frustrating writer's story.

Welcome to my world.