Just a quick jump onto the blog to say I’m thrilled that my short story, An Unexpected Season, has been shortlisted for Lip Magazine’s Rachel Funari Prize. The story is one of my rare ventures into purely literary fiction — no robots, or magic, or any other genre elements! Well, actually, now that I think about it, there may be a little. But just a touch. Congratulations to all the other short-listees. The winner will be announced at the Emerging Writers Festival on 17 June.
I can’t stop thinking about Catherine Nichols’ article Homme de Plume: What I learned sending my novel out under a Male Name.
My first reaction was … I want to say disbelief, but that’s not quite right. Something more akin to weariness, something like really, still, again? And then I thought about one of my writing classes. The tutor was a woman, a much loved, insightful, published author. But she did favour the boys! And it took me a while to get my head around that. A person I admired, whose opinions I cherished who, nonetheless, was more laudatory of male writing, more critical of female. And someone who, I think, though I’m truly guessing, would be horrified to realise this bias.
And then there’s this interesting article by Jessica Norell which discusses some of the workplace experiences of transgender people. The same person, different gender perceptions, different treatment.
It’s tempting, but I don’t think I’m quite prepared to submit using a male name. Though I have thought one up that matches my initials. Just in case.
A video from Jamie XX.
(It starts slowly as the spaceship approaches, but then …)
This wonderful image is a panel from Zen Pencil’s Marcus Aurealis comic. Words of wisdom as well as zombies, what could be better! (I love Zen Pencils. His latest creation contains a Frida Kahlo quote)
We are all fighting our own battles, all, as Ram Dass says, just walking each other home. But for the times when those on the walk seem not so helpful and you need something tougher, and this quote from Meditations is a good reminder that even when you meet “the busy-body, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial”, there is no need to “be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on [you] what is ugly.”
Be strong, fellow travellers!
Apologies for R’s late arrival at school. She was feeling queasy in the early morning but felt well enough to come in later.
R had a mini existential crisis revolving around an unfinished assignment. She persuaded her mother to let her stay home and complete it. Her mother made her a cup of tea, came up with an advertising slogan, shaded in a poster and, several hours later, drove R to the train station. Unfortunately when R got to school, she found the teacher was, once again, away sick. R thinks the teacher is pregnant. And as she keeps coming to school, vomiting, and going home that may well be the case.
Please excuse R’s late arrival at school. She missed her train.
R took the opportunity of her older sister’s absence to ransack her room. (Many things were found. None of them the desired black jacket) The resultant lack of the good hair straightener led to a hair emergency which necessitated a quick trip to Woolies for hair ties.
R has been battling a debilitating flu and was unable to attend her eisteddfod solo.
R has been sick, but she was sufficiently well enough to dance. However, she stayed up all night talking to a boy she is not sure that she likes but who, nevertheless, is very entertaining. When woken at 6.30 in the morning, she mumbled something and went back to sleep in much the manner of a bear returning to hibernation. Her mother went back to sleep too. It was Sunday morning. The eisteddfod was an hour’s drive away and it was dark and cold.
HOW TO BE A POET
(to remind myself)
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill — more of each
than you have — inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
(Found via the inspirational Brain Pickings)
read books. So said the sweatshirt worn by a woman I saw this morning on Bourke Street. And I knew exactly what she meant. I’ve been travelling a little lately and, despite the weariness and the longing for home, managed, extraordinarily, to read almost two books in what seemed like one strange, elongated sitting. The first was Daniel Handler’s wild and unexpected We Are Pirates. And the other was Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour, found in a bookshop for $10. Whenever I read her, I think, well that is a ludicrously high and probably unreachable writing bar. But mostly I sat in the sun (various seats, always light streaming in, sometimes over clouds) and read. And was particularly happy while drinking coffee under high arches and listening to Paris by Black Atlass. Small blessings.
I have Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade running around in my head, all because I’m playing in Mosman Symphony Orchestra’s 40th anniversary concert this Friday and Sunday. (March 20 and 22) Scheherazade is, of course, based on One Thousand and One Nights and the tales Scheherazade told to save herself from execution. There are some beautiful solos and fantastic orchestral work. Copland’s Appalachian Spring, perhaps less dramatic, but just as appealing, begins the programme.
Literary Starbucks. I never go to Starbucks but I love these micro worlds. Here’s a sample: Haruki Murakami goes up to the counter and tries to order something off of Starbucks’ secret menu. The notion that there might be a secret menu surprises the barista, who has never heard of such a thing. Murakami is disappointed, but not particularly surprised, and decides to order a glass of steamed milk with a squirt of cinnamon syrup. While waiting by the counter, he listens to the jazz coming through the speakers, taps his foot, and remembers when he used to run a coffee shop. That had been a good time. He is so distracted by the past that he doesn’t notice when a small cat begins to lap up his order. He snaps out of his reverie and chases the cat off. Later in the day, he goes looking for the cat, hoping to make reparations. He never finds it.
Swoon’s vessels sent back out into the snow. There’s something even more beautiful about them outside in the woods. (photo © Jaime Rojo of Brooklyn Street Art)
New earrings – won unexpectedly from The Silver Forge
Strange and beautiful kinetic Insecta lamps by U-Ram Choe