The Lazy Devil

It’s tough when your twenty-five year old son is hell-bent on becoming a writer.  You do wonder where you went wrong as a parent. Persecute yourself for having failed as a mother. Nights are spent wondering how your once, sweet little boy went from reading Possum Magic by Mem Fox to  —We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. 

Our son wants to write Horror. Claims given his childhood that this is the obvious choice.  I threaten to make his life more horrific. He laughs at me, threatening to base the evil character in his short story — The Lazy Devil — on me.

I respond with a swift, “You can go base that one on your father.”

We both laugh.  Maybe having a son as a writer will be okay. 

Three Wise Women

Wanting to get into the Christmastime spirit, the tea lady has taken to wearing a turban fashioned from tea towels.  The writer and C.E.O. of self-publishing Inc have done likewise, except the writer is wearing a tea cosy and the C.E.O. a beanie made from woven tea bags.  These three wise women from the west are seeking a star that will lead them to the Messiah — they have gifts for her — a newly sharpened pencil with which to write. An exercise book to write in.  And a bottomless box containing — time.

"Stable Relationships are for Horses."

I love sayings, like this one — “Calm waters never did a skillful sailor make.”

Or — “There is no way to be a writer and be comfortable.”   Eva Sallis.

There’s reassurance in them there sayings.

Although I did once tell a friend that "Stable Relationships are for Horses"  and who then went on to marry a jockey, only to divorce him six months later. Can't win 'em all.

 

Anyway, if  you have a favourite saying?  Hand it over!

Birdie

One of the best jobs I’ve ever had was at Hayman Island, Queensland in 1979. I worked in the resort’s laundry for three months. The boss was a woman called Birdie. And she looked like a bird, even sounded like one, sweet and melodious. Birdie never “bossed” us girls as we sweated away in that Dickensian laundry in paradise. She showed, suggested, and sighed softly when we girls dropped wet sheets in the sand surrounding the washing lines.
Birdie carried not an ounce of fat; she was all wrinkled flesh and withered bone. But Birdie had the most remarkable eyes. They were brown and outsized within her small frame. Yet they reflected a depth of tenderness of which I have rarely seen since in another human being.

Overdue

The tea lady is about to throw her annual "overdue" afternoon tea party.  This marathon tea drinking event is an amnesty for all those slow coaches who’ve borrowed books off the writer and won’t return them until they’re given a virtual kick up the backside.

Each year the tea lady threatens to introduce cash fines for overdue books, each year the writer comes up with excuses, “It’s not that unusual for someone to take three years to read a book.”

Each year the tea lady fumes. “Cash fines! Cash fines! Cash fines!”

Each year the writer loans out more books.

 I've recently released my latest novel which you can download from amazon for $7.99.

Sea Dog Hotel

It's also on goodreads.

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18627596-sea-dog-hotel

Gardening our Garden.

We’re gearing up for another studio/home exhibition of  artwork.  While my husband, the artist, organises his studio I attempt to garden our garden which is more like a forest.  Set amongst a two-story studio and a centenarian house on a quarter acre block are approximately thirty trees, (many soaring high above us), and countless shrubs. It’s a tight fit and sometimes I don’t know where the forest ends and the house starts.

At times, it’s romantic.  At times, it’s hard work.

I mean, have you ever tried to garden a forest?   Bizarrely, I have, for years now, and the wanting to give-up factor can get pretty high. I might have chucked it in, but the forest would soon become a fire hazard, and who wants a bush fire in their back yard?  So I garden, sweep and rake leaves day in, day out.   I pick up branches; break them up with my bare hands.  Piles of composting leaf litter are scattered around the yard like gigantic ant nests.

The pay-off is that visitors are charmed by our idyllic retreat set in suburbia. They think it’s wonderfully romantic, that it reminds them of Pemberton or Margaret River — why you can almost hear the surf.

We planted this forest almost thirty years ago, and it has given us much, trees are the ox of the world. They absorb carbon from birth; they give shelter and shade and provide fruit and flowers. Then even in death they provide fuel. 

I yawn.  Tired. But then as I look out, sunlight flickering through the trees and spilling onto leaves moving in an early sea breeze, I’m invigorated. Our work and living environment is sublime. Trees also give spiritual sustenance. They remind us that the soul needs more space than the body.