Hello Again,

Well it's been a while, so long that I forgot my password. But, I am back and hope to re-kindle my little project of blogging, although for now sleep is probably a priority.
'Till next time,
cheers
A

LIvvy

I don't remember a time when Livvy was like us. Colleagues at a private school, when I first met her, we chose to sit at the 'naughty table' despite the ever increasing complaints from those at the top of the hierarchical chain. Standing a petite five foot nothing, Livvy had lived a lifetime of sorrows and joys before blowing out 25 candles. Some said she was cursed, others joked, if she were a horse she would be shot! But for those who were allowed close, we knew you never put down a thoroughbred.
Personally, I never understood Livvy's obsession with those awful toe socks. I could cope with the special vegemite sandwiches; antibacterial wash for every occasion; walking stick and fancy scarves but those socks will be my undoing. Livvy promises me she will have a special pair for me to wear, saved for the reading of her eulogy. It will be my first and last wearing.

Writerly Reading

To read like a writer is akin to asking a sprinter to run a marathon. The change in style requires lengthy practise and a determined alteration in focus.

Personally I am feeling the pain.

For nearly 40 years I have read voraciously, for pleasure on most occasions. In my youth two or three novels a week was standard form; however with increased responsibility I cannot sustain that pace and am happy to get through a novel a week.

Writerly reading , as I have discovered, is an art form and skill, I do not yet possess. The act of deliberately reading each word, each sentence, then each word and sentence in the context of each paragraph left me feeling as if I had read the story multiple times without connection or continuity.

For example when reading F. Scott's The Great Gatsby as a writer was a challenging experience. When reading like a writer – studying the usage and tone of each word I was unable to fully grasp the story. I also found because Fitzgerald used detailed descriptions in his writing I easily lost track of the story line, instead focusing intently on the word selection. Concentrating on single words rather than glossing over some seemingly superfluous words, left me feeling a little cheated. To compensate for this frustration I then re-read The Great Gatsby for pure pleasure, as a reader. I wonder however, if having studied The Great Gatsby in the initial read created a more pleasurable reading experience the second time round, as I had developed a greater understanding of Fitzgerald's style.

Some years ago I purchased the New York bestseller Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. The blurb on the front cover claims it is a “guide for people who love books and for those want to write them.” This book attracted my eye like a bee seeking nectar;I wonder if I knew then that this would be a skill I would need to develop.

I remember picking it up reading the fist page, reading the back and then putting it on the shelf again, only to return a number if times and repeat the process reading a different random page each time, until I finally walked to the checkout.

Admittedly I have not completed this book, of course when I saw this assignment topic, I wish I had.
Over the past few weeks I have made two more attempts to read like a writer. The two books were We need to talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver and Chocolate Cake with Hitler by Emma Craigie. These books, completely different in style and tone, resulted in very different experiences for me.
Chocolate Cake with Hitler is a simple text and storyline which seemed very similar to another book I read some years ago Hitler's Daughter , therefore I found I did not need to focus as much on remembering the storyline and keeping check on the characters interaction and development. On the other hand We need to talk about Kevin is a complex novel, emotionally charged and filled with emotive language. I found this story engaging and wanted to keep reading it, not focus on the words and tone and structure. It was one of those books you just want to finish. I am currently re-reading it.

This experience of writerly reading has left me with no delusions that I am a long way from where I need to be. Clearly I need to work and write and study and write so much more, if I am ever to become a writer.

24 hours

In each day I have 24 hours:
To earn
To eat
To laugh
To love
To work
To wash
To cook
To clean
To cry
To discuss
To decide
To engage
To ignore
To smile
To sleep
To seethe
To hug
To hurry
To talk
To tear
To dream
To do

Fatigue

My companion
My shadow
My friend

Fatigue

You know
You understand
You persist

Fatigue

I feel you
I fear you
I function
with you

Fatigue

When will I be without you?

A

Today, 8 years ago

Today is not a day for procrastination, I remind myself as I begin to ease my weary bones from my bed. The warmth of the blankets restrains me, compelling me to stay a few moments longer. The left side of the bed is empty. The sheets are wrinkle free and still carry the fragrance of newly laundered linen. No one has lain beside me for a time, the pristine pillow case testifies to the fact. In the crisp hours of new morn I yearn for the feel of another body against me, flesh on flesh, heart beating as one. I remember a time such as this. But, today I remind myself is not the day for memories, but a day for new adventures.
The movers are expected at 7 am; in the remaining hour I have endless tasks to complete. Eyes still closed I adjust the shower taps, step into the stream and allow the scalding liquid to soothe my aching soul.

White envelope (conflict)

It was a sensation I had never experienced until this moment, the raw comprehension of betrayal. In my stunned silence I did not know how to breathe and digest this realisation at the same time. I focused on the hard knot which had developed in the pit of my stomach, I am convinced my heart stopped beating, just for a moment. Minutes passed and yet I sat completely rigid on my twin seater couch, motionlesss. I no longer noticed the lumps which I sat on or the ugly brown suede which I loathed. At this moment I knew I would have to make a decision I never expected to face.

The letter arrived on a day I was home, unusual given I worked full time as a cadet journalist and did not have days off; but due to weekend committments my boss cut me some slack and let me off.

I lived in a shack, no exaggeration, it was a one bedroom fibro cement shack. The floors sloped awkwardly, mould on the bathroon walls grew virociously and my twin-tub washing machine churned in the loungeroom while I slept on a foam camping mattress. These few posessions plus my brown suede couch made my home.

I had been waiting for this letter for so long, I hoped it would provide answers to questions from my childhood - who was I , where did I belong, who the hell were my parents?

I got my answers, plus a few I never asked. Reading through the pages of court documents, original birth certificate and other identifying information I felt elated, until I read the line "NO children have been born to .......". In that moment my world changed. Not only was I adopted in less than ideal circumstances but my brother; the golden son, and only blood heir and was also adopted, overseas.

Everything was a lie, my life, his life, all lies. My brother had no idea.

What do you do when your 19 and hold information which could devastate someone else's life?
.