Superstition: As Stevie Wonder says, it ain't the way.

When I think about superstition, my mind immediately goes to extremes or the popular cultural ones. Black cats, walking underneath ladders, opening umbrellas indoors, walking on the cracks of the footpath. All of them childish, but impactful. I still get a shiver up and down my spine when I have to dry an umbrella indoors, but I do own a black cat and he's delightful. I know intellectually that these things aren't real, the stuff of myth and storytelling. There must be millions of things, in every culture and religion that people have passed down through the generations, through both written and oral traditions, things to look out for, to protect yourself against or with.

I remember as a kid, some of the things from my own heritage, things outside of religion that have meaning and are said to bring misfortune or prevent it. In Maltese folklore a symbol derived from the Eye of Osiris or Horus is used on fishing boats to protect them from harm or misadventure. The symbol of the evil eye can be found in many different cultures that have Phoenician influence, including on the Greek Islands. 

Another superstition I remember is the red horn or hand performing the horn sign, which is exactly the same hand gesture for "rock on". It was frequently used as jewellery or seen dangling from the rear vision mirror of cars, to keep the occupants safe or to curse male enemies with impotence. 

Image via: Pixabay

The Luzzu in Marsaxlokk, Malta. Image via: The Corinthia Insider

 Image via: Tuscan Traveler

Superstitions originate somewhere, are changed and applied to suit the people who they benefit most and eventually fade into mythology. People tend to hold onto these symbols though, as cultural rites and identifiers. They make them feel empowered and in control of things that life inevitably throws at them. They are all a bit of fun when not taken too seriously; comforting and decorative. But they can also define a people and is truly what makes humans so interesting and diverse. We all see the world differently, based upon our heritage. It's how we find belonging and how we connect, not only with people that are like us, but those that aren't, who also explain the same things about life, just in different ways.

But what about when superstitions become institutionalised beliefs that dictate more serious ways in which we live our lives? What about when symbolism, mythology, folklore suddenly starts to infiltrate society, where fact and science belong? That's pretty much my understanding of every religion ever. People used ideas and symbols to describe and influence events. When they came up with better explanations or methods, through trial and error or what we now call scientific discovery, they tossed out the old ways and did things differently. Some things that worked long ago, remained. Many of life's basic knowledge about survival is ancient. Others that were no longer useful, became harmful or were replaced with better ways were forgotten, or given another place to occupy in people's psyches. Perhaps they were used as fables or moral stories, perhaps as cultural traditional celebrations or festivals. Maybe examples of what not to do.

It seems logical to me that by now as a species, we should be able to discern what is real and what isn't. What needs more attention and what can be discarded.

I heard a story not long ago, and it's what got me thinking about superstition. A counselor working in public health had to do a home visit for an adolescent client who was accessing services. When they arrived, one of the parents opened the door and immediately told the counselor to leave. You see she was wearing a red dress and the parent was offended. I don't have details about cultural background or where the belief was derived from but basically the parent believed that red was a deliberate choice by a government employee to exert power and there would not be an equal exchange between the counselor and the client if she came in wearing a red dress.

Amazing right? Ridiculous? Well to that parent it wasn't. It was real. The family, I assume, would already have been feeling vulnerable and powerless. The counselor on the other hand, would have had no idea, but of course would not have achieved much had they insisted on pursuing contact. Of course they left and the case was reassigned to another counselor.

Which brings me to my point. How are we to know what people are thinking all of the time, what beliefs they hold and how they navigate the world? When people's superstitions, (and that's what they are), are derived from a religious belief, particularly the three main Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam), we have a bit more clarity because they have dominated and colonised a large part of the world. Of course other major religions like Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism have just as huge an influence on many. We can't exclude the Indigenous cultures of the world either, that despite attempts to colonise and eradicate them, have survived and in many parts of the world, through oppression and degradation have thrived and preceded everything else.

What about new and unknown stuff? There must be an eternal combination of heritage, new information, life experience and mental process that can influence the way a person walks through the world. What if someone thinks they can read my mind or vice versa? Or that they have had previous lives, or that I have? What if someone thinks they travel in their dreams or can heal using their thoughts and hands? (This is an actual industry worth millions of dollars). What if I am dealing with people on a day-to-day basis, people I love, acquaintances, those I interact with at work and in public, that have superstitions that I could never even guess let alone navigate openly? Maybe they think I'm sabotaging them or that they can move things with their mind and therefore I can too. Some people might have a thing about women with grey hair, or left handed people or those who only have female children or no children. 

What if some people's superstitions are so strong that they genuinely believe things that are not real and don't exist, but live their lives as though they do and those people make the laws, influence the medicine, control the information and decide who is worthy of life and who isn't. Imagine that superstition was mixed up with government!!! Imagine that!

Self-doubt and writing

 
Writing is one of the most liberating processes for me personally. I journalled endlessly as an angst-ridden teenager and young adult. It helped me to get my feelings and thoughts out of my system, read over them and make sense of them. The words were a true reflection of my disposition at that time. Sometimes it was poetry, sometimes black marks on the page. These days we blog or post on Facebook. Same difference.

The art of letter writing too, has evolved into emails and texts and I have to say, I'm ok with that. I would rather write short greetings, day-to-day catch ups or verbose soliloquies, than say them. Writing to someone is a great equaliser. They can't talk over you or respond their thoughts without considering your voice. They are forced to read what you have to say and then reply. I find it not only an efficient way to communicate but a leveler of the proverbial playing field.

Writing books has been a blissful and wrenching process simultaneously. I love nothing more than to sit alone and in silence; (this never happens, I write among the chaos of a young family most of the time!), and to thump out the work of my mind and heart on a keyboard. For me, the hardest part is definitely not the writing. Not even the re-reading, editing or re-writing. It's the sharing.

When I journalled, I assumed, and rightly so, that the words on those pages were mine alone. Nobody would ever read what I wrote. Maybe my children or grandchildren, or great grandchildren, after I'm long gone, would discover the chest of journals in some dusty garage and pour over the ramblings of their long dead relative. How romantic!

When I decided that I would write books and self-publish them, it was with the intention that I would manifest my desire, regardless of what an industry's rules were, and whether or not I was lucky enough to ever set foot in that world. Without the approval, hmm maybe that's the wrong word. Promotion? Endorsement. Without the endorsement of an industry: having a publishing house pick you up, give you a contract, market and promote you; without that machine of commercialism behind you, it's just you and your words, out there in the wind, naked and for all to see and judge or ignore. It's a bit masochistic because that is what I love most about self-publishing. That authenticity. It's just me out there. Purely what I have written, by myself, without much interference, with no one but myself to blame if it all goes pear shaped. It's very scary, but it's very liberating and I get control over the entire process of creating a book. I'm aware this may be a bit dysfunctional, but it's the only option I have to live out my dream right now. People don't have to read my books. They are not coerced or encouraged to, other than by my piss-weak self-promotion on social media, to my handful of followers (most of whom I'm convinced are bots!). And if someone does read my work, they don't have to like it. It's not trendy to. They don't even have to finish it. They can be completely indifferent. There's no popularity to cloud their vision or entice them. I have to say, I really like that. I can stay in the shadows.

But, and it's a big one, I'm still terrified about writing the wrong thing, causing pain, getting it wrong. Despite there being no real contractual consequences, (I don't owe anyone anything. I can write and publish the same word over and over again if I want to); despite that, I don't! I want to write something good. I want to write with integrity, honesty, emotion, passion, authenticity and fearlessness. I want my words to have impact. I want them to be enjoyable and entertaining, to make people feel and think. I want it to be the best it can be at the time I do it. Subject to change of course, and hopefully for the better.

It is now time to publish my second book, a prequel of sorts, in the trilogy that has become the guinea pig of this whole journey. And I am plagued by fear and doubt, which some may say means I'm on the right track.

When I wrote and published the first book I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The story took 10 years to develop and building the architecture of a book, setting up a business from scratch and fulfilling the needs of this experiment were a massive learning curve. This second story was a smoother process, from the benefit of experience, but I have some major doubts. I'm getting to the main point, stay with me!

So, my biggest fear with the first book was creating and writing characters that were Aboriginal. I was terrified that I would get it wrong. I worried about appropriation mostly, and so many other issues that I had no idea how to even approach it. I asked questions, did my research and let my imagination and intention speak for itself. Then I came across a great paper by the author Anita Heiss who addressed this issue. Dr Heiss' paper talks about white writers and their fear of not getting it right when creating Indigenous characters. Whilst I still had lots of discomfort about my amateurism, my lack of experience, my limitations in research, I forged ahead and did my best. I worked hard to portray my Indigenous characters with sensitivity and respect and to ensure that it was clear that the voice of both the author and protagonist was clearly a white person. In this way, I did my best to be descriptive without appropriating. I'm not sure if I succeeded completely, I'm sure there is always room for improvement, but I worked really hard to get it right and as stated in Dr Heiss' paper, I simply could not omit an Aboriginal presence in a story set in Australia, and in particular, in the countryside.

The Indigenous characters have returned in the second book, and I hope to include them again in the third book. I felt more comfortable the second time around. They felt more real and accessible to me than ever. I felt better about writing them and even bringing them closer to the central narrative. Again, I wanted to make sure it was clear that the story was fictitious, the author and the protagonist were still white and still mostly describing, from their perspective, their experiences and relationships with these fictional characters, which sometimes exposed their bias and ignorance. Again, I have doubts and I'm sure there is room for improvement, but I'm happy to stand by that, and if necessary grow and learn. 

Now I have a new uncertainty and this one is a little harder to make peace with. In the first book (spoiler alert), the protagonist starts off being a heterosexual woman, who later falls in love with a woman, the protagonist in the second book. I had some concerns about writing from the first person about being bisexual, when I, the author, am not. How can I speak for someone's experience, when I haven't had that experience myself? Do I even have the right? There was no way to make clear that the author was observing the character, because the protagonist tells the story in the first person. I justified my actions by allowing myself to explore a "what if" scenario. What if I, a heterosexual woman, found myself falling in love with another woman? It's not entirely impossible. I delved into that possibility as the fuel to my creativity.

This time it's a little different. I have to say from the outset that it's too late and I can't change it. As I write this, the second book is in the final stages of publication. You see, this time, the protagonist is a lesbian. She discovers her sexuality in her teens and I wrote the story in the first person. It feels a little deceptive and I'm not sure that I have the right to do this. I have a million justifications. I tried to be respectful and authentic, it's fiction, I should be able to imagine characters that are far removed from myself. But it still doesn't make peace with the appropriation of a gay woman's voice. I knew the only way around it as I was writing, was to write from the third person, making it clear the author was a straight woman, observing and describing a fictional lesbian character, but I felt the impact would be stronger in the first person and I felt strongly about not 'othering' the character - I didn't want her sexual orientation to be trivialised. I am aware that I may have done the wrong thing. That I may have made a mistake, but I simply didn't know how else to achieve the continuity of the style of story telling that I began in book one. I even considered writing the third book in the third person to prove myself wrong, to highlight how I should have written book two, but I'm not sure I can. I even told myself that the central issues of the story in the second book weren't the sexual orientation of the main character. That family breakdown, relationship dysfunction, addiction and recovery were the main themes. That it doesn't matter that she happens to be a lesbian. But it does matter. Her orientation is central to the character's being and I have appropriated that voice as a straight woman, by telling the character's story in the first person.

Therefore now, all I can do is stand by my decision, whether or not it is right or wrong and let the storytelling speak for itself. The politics are something I am willing to admit I got wrong, and knowingly! It is not something I am only discovering now, or that has been pointed out to me. I knew it was problematic from the outset, but I did it anyway. I'm not hoping to get away with it and this blog in part is a way to address my doubts, not exonerate myself. Remember, the industry machine does not exist in my writing and publishing. There is no media attention, no social media mob, no consequences. Lucky for me. It is very likely that not many people will read this book. So I want to make it clear that I am aware and mindful of my possible misstep and that I am willing for it to be a point of discussion if it comes up for people who do happen to read this book and find it odd that a straight woman is writing from the perspective of a lesbian.

In saying all this, I am proud of the work I have done so far and hope to do more. I adore the characters I have created and their journeys and truly feel that the story honours the issues and themes I hoped to highlight. This year I hope to write the final book in the trilogy and bring all the characters together. It might make all the mistakes of the past worth it. After all, that seems to be the central message of the saga. That life is just a series of experiences and decisions that we make with the tools and knowledge we have in that given moment, and that in retrospect, these events form the tapestry of our lives. We don't live in a vacuum. We share our life's voyage with those who we are intertwined with through kinship, friendship, love and chance.

The second book in the Space trilogy will be available for purchase on Amazon on the 14th February 2018.

This is how I wrote my book

I can't begin to explain how excited I am to hold this wad of paper in my hands, finally. Writing a novel has been a life goal of mine for a very long time. When I was a kid, when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said 'Author'. Not writer. Author. I wanted to write novels. To tell stories. That is, after I discovered that being a Vet wasn't just about cuddling animals, but touching poo and vomit (much like parenting), healing injured ones and putting some of them to sleep. 

I started writing this book ten years ago. I was in my early 30s. I had just skidded out of my 20s, bruised and battered by failed relationships, disappointment and instability. I'd been bouncing from one job and rental property to another for the best part of a decade and had finally settled down in a flat for a couple of years straight, and a job that looked like it could be a long term thing. I went overseas on my own, doing a Contiki through Europe on the cusp of my 31st birthday, when the tour guide himself was still negotiating his 20s. I came back determined to be a grown up.

In the meantime, my now husband had returned to Australia from a year long working holiday in the Canadian Alps and our paths crossed shortly after. My lease was up and my brother needed a flat mate, so I moved in with him the weekend after we met.

So, I finally found myself adulting. Living in stable accommodation, holding down a secure job and in a serious relationship. It was time to write. Then, I began this story. About a young woman, much like myself, who was living with her brother and working as a public servant. I had some ideas in mind about what I wanted her to experience. In some way, to tell my own story and reveal the themes that had guided my life to that point. I didn't have a set plan, just a bunch of thoughts and ideas and the desire to write.

I did that. On a regular basis. I would fish out my cheap laptop, turn it on, punch away at the keys, and develop a story. In fact, it was the characters I was creating. The people in my story who would come to life in my mind and embark on their own journey, sometimes seemingly separate from me.

But as is the case with being a grown up, life gets busy. My partner and I went overseas, feeling the urge to travel together before we settled down. We came home and bought our first property and got hitched. Then we started a family. Things literally snowballed. A year into our marriage we had our first child and then ten months later we conceived twins. To say things got a tad chaotic is an understatement. I suddenly found myself at home, unemployed and looking after three children under the age of two.

A short time before I gave birth to my first baby, I found out about 'Push Presents'. Apparently, people buy or are given a material incentive for giving birth. I'd never heard of this, but wanted to cash in. Side note here, I never pushed. I had two cesareans. But that's beside the point. Instead of wanting jewellery or a fleeting massage or some other pointless commodity, I told my husband that I wanted a writing class. 

Image via: catherinedeveny.com

Catherine Deveny was running her first Gunnas Writing Masterclass in Sydney for the Sydney Writers' Festival and I wanted in. Heavily pregnant, I waddled into the city and sat through a day of 'aha!' moments among my kind of people. It was the fuel I needed to resolve to finishing my book. The perfect opportunity was about to present itself, in the form of a longer than expected maternity leave. I would put the nine-to-five grind of working a day job behind me for a while, in fact much longer than I'd expected, and this gave me the time I needed to focus on finishing the book. I started to see myself as a novelist and when I found out about self publishing, it only propelled me even further forward. I realised I wouldn't have to send out a manuscript to a whole bunch of publishers and then have to sit on my hands and wait for someone to 'get me'. I could make a book myself. I would have complete control over every aspect of its design and construction and I would be able to create my own deadlines and basically own and oversee every step of the process. It was completely irresistible.

In the weeks before I had the baby, I started this blog. I found an online site that would pay me for writing articles called Lifehack.org and I pushed myself to finish my book. I made writing my full time job. Albeit mostly unpaid, but whatever. I had savings and a financially supportive partner and was in fact working harder than I'd ever worked in my life. I knew that eventually I would return to paid employment once the kids were in care and that this short time was a drop in the ocean in my working life. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I had to at least try. I'd kick myself if I didn't at least do that. 

As busy as it is having a newborn, I found the time. When the baby napped or was settled, I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. It kept me sane during the days I felt isolated and motivated me when I was exhausted. When the twins came, everything was magnified again, but I did another Gunnas Masterclass - Self Publishing with Julie Postance and a further writing one with Catherine, and I became even more determined to finish what had become a project, beyond merely writing a book. In fact, the story and characters had grown so much in me, that I envisaged a second and third book and a business plan started to take shape.

While wrangling three toddlers, I pushed on with not only writing the stories, but conceiving the cover, registering a business and getting a logo designed, starting a Facebook page and website; editing, proofreading, typesetting and building the architecture of a book. It was daunting and I was riddled with doubts and insecurity, but those niggles weren't strong enough to defeat the joy and the satisfaction I got from doing it. I grew attached to the narrative, the fictional people, their lives and relationships, and the process of making a book. I worked in small increments of time, whenever I had a moment to myself or the kids were occupied with themselves. Even five minutes of writing or organising fulfilled me and gave me pleasure.

Before too long the book was finished and while it was being proofread and edited, I busied myself with the business side of things and commenced the sequel. The second book has been much easier to write in some ways. I have experience and a premise. The sequel's protagonist is a character from the first book, it reveals her back story, and the stories intersect. In other ways, different challenges have presented themselves as I can't just let the characters lead me into the story, I have to adhere to the established narrative and characterisation. In so many ways, these obstacles have made me a better and more creative writer. 

The editing process of the first book educated me about the pitfalls of writing, such as style, grammar and punctuation and I think, I hope, that I have improved. The third book is swimming around in my mind. The business end is established and I believe that it won't take me as long or be as arduous a process, in terms of creating a physical book and making it available for purchase.

All in all, I decided one day, that I was going to write a book and when I took that first step, and kept putting one foot in front of the other, eventually I got there. And looking back, it's been a huge and very satisfying learning curve.

The hardest part now, and I think what has been the most difficult all along, is sharing it. You want people to like what you do. Especially if it's an artistic pursuit. You want people to connect and to feel the things you felt when you created it. It's not about being liked or feeling good all the time or getting approval. It's about connection and you want people to have a positive and constructive response. So, for example, even if people don't like something a character says or does, you hope that it is within the context of empathising with them. The fact of the matter is that some people will like your work and others will hate it. Some will be completely indifferent. I am prepared for that. What I wish for most is that the story and the characters are interesting, believable and at least a little bit entertaining. 

More than anything though, I wrote this book because I liked writing it. I am writing the next two because I want to finish telling this story. I will keep writing because that is the one thing I do that makes me want to punch the air in jubilation. I am so lucky to say I have found that thing that makes me go 'fuck yes!'. It is something that everyone should find in their lives.

Space: Everybody Shut Up, I'm Trying To Think will be available for purchase through my website and Facebook page from February 14th 2017.

When I Typed The Words THE END

Image credit via thebookrefinery.com

It's been almost 10 years since I started writing my book. A novel. That sounds like a long time, but it didn't really take me 10 years. I just started that long ago. I have finally typed the words The End....for the final time, after 3 edits, none professional and I'm scared. What now? I miss them all already. All the people I have grown to know and love in the story. What'll I do without their unfolding lives in my life.

When I started writing this book, I was in a great place in my life. After years of renting itinerantly and jumping from one casual job to another, I had finally hit a comfortable plateau. I'd been living in the same unit for three years and had been working in a secure and stable workplace for a year. I was saving money and had just come back from traveling through Europe - albeit a Contiki at the age of 31, but it was bloody awesome. I was healthy and I was happy with myself. My landlord wanted to sell the unit and offered it to me to purchase for $250,000. Can you imagine? A two bedroom unit in Marrickville, in the inner city of Sydney for a quarter of a mil, in 2006. I didn't have that kind of money. I didn't even have a deposit and the bank wouldn't loan me anything without one. I was doing ok, but I was not going to be able to afford it, I was happily living fortnight to fortnight. 

When he told me that if the new owners weren't investors, that I would have to move on, I didn't panic like all the other times I'd been evicted. He said he would put in a good word for me, but it didn't matter. I had another option.

My brother was share housing in a great ground floor apartment in Surry Hills, only a few suburbs away. It was an incredible place with two bathrooms, a courtyard and a complex gym and pool. His flatmates had finally moved on and he asked me to move in with him. The rent was reasonable and we were both excited to have the opportunity to live with family again. 

The weekend before I moved out of my unit I met my now husband. By the time I got to my brother's place I was finally at the end of a very rocky and tumultuous few years. Great job, great apartment, great flatmate, great boyfriend. It was time to start the book.

And so I did. I sat down at my laptop one day, a shitty old one I bought on ebay and just started. The main character started off loosely based on me. Lives with her brother, works in a government department, socially awkward. Other people who had walked in and out of my life over the years emerged as other characters. I was so unclear about where the story was going, but I made some rudimentary plans and just figured it out as I went along. It took on a life of its own.

A year later, I hadn't gotten very far. I was too busy loving my life. My brother bought his own place and I moved to the northern beaches of Sydney to be closer to my partner. Soon the book was on the backburner. Something I picked up every now and then and then put down again when life got busy. 

My partner and I went overseas together. When we got back we bought our first home. We got married. A year later I was pregnant and then 10 months after the first baby, I conceived twins. Suffice to say, I've been a little busy.

But this book, this dream, this thing I always returned to when I wanted to feel completely and utterly satisfied and immersed in my own thoughts, this story filled with people that were so much a part of me whose lives were unfolding almost separately to me, it was just there. Like an old mate that I caught up with when the time came. That was enriched with the progress and changes happening in my own life. 

The moment I was away from the obligations of full time work, from the time I went on maternity leave, I vowed to myself that I was going to spend more time on my writing. To finally finish it. And since the twins moved out of their newborn phase and I found myself with a more predictable and more forgiving schedule, I've slowly nutted away at it and now it's done.

It's no secret that doing two Gunnas Masterclasses and the Gunnas Self Publishing were huge influences on my motivation and momentum to get this book finished. I could finally see it as a real possibility. That I wouldn't have to worry about trying to sell it to a publisher and prepare for the inevitable knock backs. I could publish myself. I could do it myself. I could do it for myself. Who cares if no one buys it or reads it. I wrote it.

As the story took shape and the characters evolved, I not only saw the end of the book, I can now see the second and third books and I guarantee, they won't take me 10 years to complete. Although life is still pretty busy and I'm sure will only get busier. But so what. I'll make the time.

So the next step now is to work on getting it out there and start the other two. Stay tuned.

 

Your Extra Time and Your Kiss

The other day I did a writing class called Catherine Deveny's Gunnas Masterclass. I've done one before. It was life changing then and it was again this time around.

I wrote this piece which she generously published on her website, as she does with all her students. Some of the work that comes out of these classes are nothing short of brilliant. The passion of the people brought together is contagious and intoxicating and I want to read all the books people talked about having inside them.

One of the exercises we did was to write about a picture and a word she gave us randomly. We were to just start writing; weaving the picture and word we were given into the story as we did. We were given six prompts that would begin the next paragraph. The prompts are in italics in the piece below.

I was given an incredible photo of two men hanging from telegraph poles in their harnesses kissing. I wrote a gay romance in the time I had. I just saw passion, romance, love. The word I got was "damage". I contemplated the damage that having a crush does to you. The bitter sweet, irresistible, forbidden, terrifying, crippling, nauseating and euphoric damage.

I knew I wanted to publish this story here, so I looked for the photo on the internet, hoping I'd come across it. And I did. And they were kissing. For life.

The photo is iconic. It was taken by photographer Rocco Morabito in 1967. One man was actually giving the other mouth to mouth when he became unconscious after touching live power lines. It is truly an incredible story that you can read about here.

Anyway. Here is the photo and the piece. Enjoy.

DAMAGE

 

Image credit: The Kiss Of Life by Rocco Morabito, 1967

Once upon a time there was a huge storm. They sent Joe out to fix the fallen lines. It was his first time alone since finishing his apprenticeship. He was nervous, but eager. He climbed carefully, checking his harness as he went. It was tight on his crotch, but it kind of excited him. He tried not to look down, but the temptation was irresistible.

The higher he got, the more composed he felt. That is until, Pete showed up. Pete was the new foreman. Joe didn’t know Pete was coming. That changed everything. His confidence; his calm resolve suddenly turned to shit. His palms were instantly wet, his heart was beating and the harness got tighter.

Everyday since Peter arrived, Joe had felt more and more like a school boy again. Stammering his words, trying to avoid powerless confrontations, watching him from afar. He thought he sensed reciprocity, but he could never be sure if it was in his mind. From the moment he saw him the damage was done. 

Joe stopped to wait for Pete to climb to his height, which he never quite reached. Rehearsing a witty greeting and hoping to god his voice wouldn’t break. When Pete spoke, Joe’s mouth suddenly went dry, but as soon as their eyes met, the world stood still long enough for him to get his breath back.

One day he’d shed all this bullshit anxiety and insecurity about sussing out if someone liked him. Of course he didn’t know how to start that conversation. He didn’t want to make any assumptions, but he didn’t want to miss the chance either. What’s the worst that could happen anyway? So he smiled. His mouth said, “G’day boss.” His eyes said, “I really wanna fuck you.”

They worked quietly and with perfect synchronicity. Handing each other tools and making banter about the havoc the storm had wreaked. Because of that they had their work cut out for them and it gave Joe the time to centre himself. To focus on the job at hand, not the attraction; the unbearable and all-consuming desire he felt for Pete. 

They stopped briefly when Pete cut his finger on a rogue nail and Joe fumbled in his tool belt for the band aid he knew was floating around in there.

And because of that, Joe had the opening he needed to direct the conversation to a more intimate place. 

“Is it deep?”

“Nah. Just a flesh wound, but it stings like a bastard.”

“Here. Put this on before it gets infected.”

Joe reached over and handed the band aid to Pete, their fingers brushing one another’s briefly; electrifyingly. Pete carefully unwrapped it and wound it round his bleeding finger. 

Until finally they had two choices. Continue with the work, letting the delicious moment pass them by possibly forever. Or make this the story they told their friends and family.

“Are you Ok?” Joe said.

“Better now.” Said Pete.

“Me too. Better than I’ve been in a while.” Replied Joe, attempting to inch closer by trying to release the harness a bit to drop down to Pete’s level. The harness slipped and he jarred backwards ending up upside down. At precisely the same time, Pete caught him by the shoulders. They kissed. 

 

I'm a Writer - 20th blog post

So this is my 20th blog post. When I started doing this, it was just an outlet for me to write. To have a say about the things I felt passionately about or wanted to rant about, outside of commenting and combating online. I still do that by the way. If the situation requires it.

I've kept a journal since I was 13. I have a box of them stashed away somewhere. Those pages have witnessed all the turmoil I felt growing up as well as all the things that inspired and motivated me. There was a time when I would have been mortified for anyone to read my diaries, but now I think I'd have a new perspective on them. I should start publishing random pages. That would be bloody hilarious. You can't make that kind of stuff up. It's gold! (That will never happen by the way....NEVER.)

10 years ago - give or take - I started writing a book. A novel. It's about a woman and a whole bunch of stuff that happens to her. Partly informed by my own experiences, mostly made up. It's a bit idealistic and sometimes overly dramatic and mostly just interesting; to me anyway. It has taken me ages because life is very time consuming and motivation is fickle. Then I did a Gunna's writing masterclass with Catherine Deveny and everything changed. Mind you, I was three weeks short of giving birth to my first baby so everything really did change shortly after, but this class made me see myself as a writer. Whether or not I was getting paid, despite what I wrote about. It was as she says 'a creative enema'.

So I picked up where I left off with the book and started to see the end. When you start writing something; actually start not just think about it and then when you can see how it will end; the middle takes care of itself. I'm not finished yet; it's finished in my head, but I still have to get it all out. I'll get there, I'm in no hurry. I'm certainly not going to 'die with my music inside me.' Thanks Catherine.

This blog is a tool for me to pursue writing and it got me through the birth and early rearing of my kids, especially when I had the twins. The piece I wrote for multiple birth awareness week was one of my most rewarding. Slowly my purpose has grown and when something moves me and an idea comes together, with practice I am finding it easier to articulate myself. I'm also learning as I go about how this online world works. My blog still has no advertising and I haven't consolidated myself on social media, but I'm a baby step kind of person. I can't bite off more than I can chew. I need to take tiny bites and enjoy and savor every morsel. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, which is sometimes my biggest downfall. 'Perfect is the enemy of good'. I'm quoting CD again.

In the last month I have started writing for Lifehack.org. You can find my articles here. They actually pay me. It's not that much, but it's not about the money. It's about learning more and the editorial help they provide is really valuable. Plus, I'm actually building some experience and my motivation is soaring. I'm a published and paid writer. Another baby step conquered. 

I don't care for fame and fortune. I don't care if people don't bother reading or sharing my work. I don't care if nobody engages. I don't care if people disagree or agree. I don't care for competing. I don't care for a standard or an expectation or a definition of who others think I am or what they think I am doing. I don't care. I am a published and paid writer. End of story. Well no actually....it's just the beginning.