Introducing Eliza

One of my favourite aspects of writing a novel is creating characters and witnessing their respective evolutions. When a character takes hold, he or she seems to magically take on a life of their own and start doing unexpected, delightful (and sometimes dastardly) things. They take detours and make decisions and its like I'm just watching everything unfold. It's the absolute best. 

For fun, I thought I'd introduce you to one of the main characters in my book, namely the zestful Eliza Garrett.

She feels like being interviewed actually. She gets in these demanding moods and you don't cross her when she gets like that. You don't cross her at all.

I'm not nuts, I swear. Although, if interviewing a fictional character from your own imagination is nuts, I have little to no interest in being sane. So here goes:

Let's start with the big question - what's the meaning of life, Eliza?

'How in the Sam hell would I know? I'm eighteen (almost) and I haven't been anywhere. I used to think God was It, but I was just a kid then. I needed something to believe in. Now I'm all about collecting wigs and partaking in horror movie marathons. I find Wiccan stuff interesting, but it doesn't mean it's the meaning of life. Life is something to discover, not to claim absolute knowledge of.'

What are your future aspirations? 

'Shitloads of travel. A global wig empire.'

Who are the most important people in your life?'

'My outcast friends are my family. Especially Saskia and her biological family. My mum's okay but she's more like a deranged housemate than a mum. Little brother? Well, I worry about him. That must mean I care? Don't tell him I said that!'

What kind of guy do you like?

'Why do you assume I'm heterosexual? I mean, I'm hopelessly heterosexual but it hardly excuses your line of questioning. My ideal guy would be a drummer in a heavy metal band, yet have a penchant for watching Knight Rider with me. He'd also tour a lot so he wouldn't be in my face all the time.'

Do you enjoy being a goth girl? 

'Holy ShitakeMushrooms, I'm no goth! I like black leather and lace, big deal! If you wanna know what real goths are, you should interview my mates David and Lance. Actually, don't do that. I don't want to inflict you upon people I actually like.'

 

What's been the most challenging thing you've faced in life?

'There's been a lot of shit go down in my life but it could be worse. I haven't been accosted by an axe-wielding cannibal. Yet. There's still time. I call the shots in my life though, so just let him or her (equally opportunity murdering and all) try!'

Have you ever been in love?

'Right, I've answered enough inane questions to last me until the Year 2000 so I'll kindly bid you adieu. Whoever you are.'

The Writing School of Hard Knocks

I have no regrets about studying Professional Writing and Editing at TAFE after high school. It gave me the chance to hone my craft, learn to survive away from my parents and meet some life-long creative friends. I got to study cool subjects like 'Myths and Symbols' and 'Short Story Writing'. I was just a train-ride away from Melbourne. (I couldn't afford big shopping sprees on Austudy but I loved it nonetheless. Country girl let loose!)

I must say, though, I think rather than helping me 'find my voice' or improve my voice, the course encouraged conformity. Not in political opinion or dress sense, as most of the students were fairly 'out there', (which I loved) but in writing style. I wasn't as good a writer as all the other more intellectual, cultured students, I believed. I was probably right on that count but the thirty-something Mish cringes at what I did to remedy the situation: I started to mimic their edgy writing styles. Soon came an award; something equivalent to the 'Most Improved' trophy I won in netball a few years prior, the main difference being that the other writers didn't mock me for it. (I hate to stereotype, but in my experience, writers are more sensitive than netballers).

It confirmed my suspicions: I could only be a quality writer if I copied others. When a visiting author asked the group what their ambitions were, one person answered, 'To write the Great Australian Novel.' A few other people echoed her sentiments. I hate to admit it, but I gave the same answer, even though I had no interest in reading a 'Great Australian Novel', let alone writing one. I was born to write Young Adult. Contemporary, humorous, romantic YA novels. The shame! (So perhaps my answer was honest, if you regard 'Queen Kat, Carmel and St. Jude' as a Great Australian Novel).

I truly believe I learned more valuable writing lessons by doing volunteer freelance work for a variety of magazines and online publications, as well as paid work (Alas, that was temporary). The word limits and guidelines meant that I had to be clear and concise with my words. I had to narrow my ramblings down to a core message. It helped me uncover my voice, as did allowing myself to write countless drafts! It probably helped that I was older and more confident in myself by that stage too. I knew where my strengths lay. I still found inspiration in the work of other writers, but I no longer yearned to replicate their style.

I'm glad that I finally embraced my voice. I don't know if voice is something to be found or something that is always there, if only you take hold of it. I tend to believe the latter. My kind of writing is not everyone's cup of tea, nor should it be. I was born to do it and I know some of the people will like it. As for those who don't, I'm still glad of my 100,330 words because they're mine. I'm not trying to be John Green or Rainbow Rowell. I'm just doing my best to give a piece of myself and tell a good yarn while I'm at it.

My novel may not equate to anyone's idea of 'The Great Australian Novel', but that's okay. I'm gunning for 'The Kick-ass Global Novel' anyway!

Formal learning is a great thing, but getting down in the trenches really tests your mettle. Maybe I'll never receive another cent for my writing, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to embrace my passion anyway. Volunteer, practice, improve yourself, read, and most importantly, bloody well write!

Negative Nelly's Noose

I'm having one of those self-loathing days. The sun is sorta, kinda shining; the children are happily playing in their pyjamas and I have my much-awaited coffee. I'm pretty happy it's the weekend and I'm spending the whole thing with my family. 

Doesn't change the fact that she lingers in my veins; that girl who's been coming up in conversation quite a bit lately: Negative Nelly.

Nelly is insidious. You could have everything in life going quite swimmingly but then she comes to crash your wave with her surfboard of despair. I'm feeling like I've wasted 4667 hours of my life working on a load of crap when maybe I should've been doing something worthwhile like washing dishes, improving on my finance knowledge or cleaning the grout with a toothbrush. I should've been doing anything but allowing myself to become deluded enough to think I could write a worthwhile book. 

Haven't I read other writers' work before? They're all so much better than me. Why do I bother? Why hasn't anyone stopped me? The worst part is, I've been waffling on about it to anyone who'll listen, and even letting people READ IT!

I'd be better off going outside to trim the lawn with kid-friendly scissors. 

I think writing is like drug addiction, or being in a bad relationship. It's a roller coaster of highs and lows (but with less track marks). You suffer the lows, trusting that a high is sure to follow at some point. A deluded, useless, pie-in-the-sky high. One of those highs where you say, 'I know why I bother! Because it's the one job I really love when I don't hate it. It's the one thing I've always had a knack for when I feel I suck at most other things. Because sometimes I read my work and I laugh in all the right places; because it feels like maybe there'll be some sort of legacy of me through my writing, however small. Because my daughters see me with my laptop and promptly whip out paper and pens to make their own picture books. 

Insanity prevails and I start thinking of reasons not to put my manuscript in the recycling and delete all of its files (including 'director's cuts'), and then I'm ascending on the freaking rollercoaster. I'm beginning to find my second wind and next thing you know, I'm eyeing off my pretty blue laptop.

It's a cruel and unusual curse, wanting to  write, but it's one I wouldn't trade for anything. Even those days when I feel like  putting my head in the toilet bowl and just flushing. Luckily, I'm too much of a busy creative mother and writer to have a pristine toilet so I never quite go that far. 

Nelly, I'm flushing you down that permanently stained loo! Until you resurface... 

Let the delusion begin!

The Unlikely Writing Muses

Have you seen my notebook? It’s unmistakable; it has the Clueless Betties on the front – it’s a Typo one. I’ve been running around like a chook sans head looking for it. It’s probably at the bottom of the porta-cot/makeshift giant toy box. Let me check… oh, okay. No luck. You see, I wanted to write about some unlikely writing inspirations of mine and there’s a rough draft on the topic in the uber-cool notebook. The ironic part of this is that one of my inspirations is a fictional TV character who lost his entire novel manuscript in a house fire (ie. Writer’s worst nightmare). His name was John ‘John-Boy’ Walton Jr., and he was the eldest child in a poor, close-knit God-fearing family, living during The Great Depression and World War II.

 

As a fellow writer, I keenly felt the devastation of the eldest sibling from ‘The Waltons’. He lived in a time where you couldn’t print out multiple copies or email one to yourself at work just in case computer crashed. Years’ worth of sleepless nights, effort and emotion was poured into his manuscript, only to go up in flames. From memory, a good pep talk from his parents convinced him that he should be thankful that no one died in the fire; that he shouldn’t waste energy regretting the loss of his manuscript, and biggest of all – he should just start from scratch with the book. His parents didn’t have time to sit around mourning the loss of their family home filled with memories. They had to get on to rebuilding so that they could put a roof over the head of seven children. Surely if they could manage that, he could find the will to suck it up, feel the gratitude and write his novel again. I don’t remember a lot about it, but I’m pretty sure the second incarnation of his book was superior to the original. After all, the loss of his home and the frustration of a novel up in flames would add a bit more anger and emotion to the new version, I imagine.

It’s one of those TV re-runs that renews my vigour whenever I feel like giving up.  It reminds me that I have at least one story in me that needs to be shared with the world and that I’m prepared to fight to make that happen. Come fire, flood or apocalypse. (Even constant rejection? Maybe.)

Another unlikely writing inspiration of mine is the one, the only, David Hasselhoff. He doesn’t throw in the towel EVER. He is well known for being sup-par. It seems that he was oblivious to the fact he was being laughed at for years, but then it dawned on him and he milked it for all it’s worth. I admire him for a making me laugh with the cheesy music videos he made in the 90s, the bad acting he displayed in Baywatch, and most of all, his determination to have fun with it all.  In my mind, simpletons write him off as crap, whereas smart people with a sassy sense of humour appreciate what he brings to the world – a crazy sense of fun in a world where fun is sorely missing. I don’t know if he’s ever tried to write a book, but his ability to laugh at himself, endure the criticism, and keep making the most out of life and every opportunity always inspires me to keep on truckin’. Plus, he has a car that does all the driving for him and exchanges witty banter with him. Who wouldn’t want that?

A younger, new-generation inspiration of mine is one Jenna Moreci. You may not have heard of her, but I discovered her while looking for YouTube videos re: writing advice. There are quite a few out there, but this lady is one of the few that has personality and wit. She swears like a trooper so I’m best off listening to her at work on my headphones so the kids don’t pick up on the colourful language. Her potty mouth is endearing to me though – especially when she recommends telling Negative Nellies and naysayers to f*ck off!

She’s independently published herself on Amazon.com. I’ve started reading her rollicking sci-fi novel, ‘Eve: The Awakening’ online and it’s hard to put down. She’s works tirelessly to promote herself. Not only does she make a writing advice-type video once a week, she also has a blog, impressive looking headshots and is active on all social media that I use. I admire the way she takes advantage of the technology available in this day and age to make herself known as a writer. She obviously has worked her arse off to write this book (and others to come) in the first place, and she doesn’t need to rely on traditional publishing to make a name for herself.  Jenna inspired me to start my Facebook page, ‘Ink and Coffee Beans’, actually. (So did a couple of my personal arty friends, but that’s a story for another time.) Her videos re: marketing yourself before you even finish the first book put a fire up under my behind. They spurred me on to do the unthinkable: put my name out there and risk rejection. Because Jenna shows that amidst all the rejection, something amazing can happen – you can actually finish your book and be crazy enough to let others read it! And if you work really hard and commit to it like Jenna, you may even get a whole bunch of Five Star reviews like she has on Goodreads! Feeling like I know the lady personally made me eager to read her book. There’s something in that for all of us, I think. Give a piece of yourself and people will want more. (But don’t do it in a Kardashian way. Unless that floats your boat.)

So tell me. Whether you’re a writer, an artist, or a taxidermist – who are the unlikely (or likely) muses who inspire you and motivate you to keep going despite self-doubt, rejection and a cruel, cruel world? I’d love to know. (Is it devastating to lose your taxidermied animal in a house fire? Guess it must be…)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discarding the Sham

I was precariously close to writing a sham of a book. I wrote with God in mind as I slaved over my work-in-progress, A Fine Invention. That seems sensible when you consider that Roberta, the main character, is a God-fearing teenage girl dealing with a church drop-out of a best friend and an irresistible boy who’s not a believer (among other things). The reason I had that niggling feeling that I wasn’t writing with authenticity was that I had doubts about God, although I was working towards a manuscript that unabashedly lifted Jesus higher. 

Eliza (the gothy BFF) was the perfect character to take on these doubts – I could live vicariously through this feisty teen as she said sceptical things out loud and questioned the hypocrisy of the bible. Meanwhile, Roberta, the faithful servant of God, explained it all away. I wanted to feel right about it all – I was downright passionate about feeling right about it. I wanted to create a story that would honour God, and fill each reader to the brim with ‘the spirit’. I wanted to ignite everyone’s faith with my words and enthusiasm. It would’ve been complete with explanations as to why I was right – that my god was the one true God.

My book changed once I became a church drop-out like Eliza. I went cold turkey and never looked back. Among other issues, my attendance record was poor. ‘Why don’t you come to church more often?’ I was often asked. One woman in particular, would invite me out for seemingly innocuous coffee and cake, in order to interrogate me in the second hour.  I began to associate my beloved kid-free outings with a Spanish inquisition. That was the beginning of the end for me.

There were some amazing people in that church, along with some fake-ass creeps. It’s the same anywhere you go, of course, but Christians are held up to a higher standard, (at least by me). I loved church because the messages (sermons, whatever) gave me something meaningful to reflect upon each week. It was like a cleansing; a purpose – a release from the mundane life of washing dishes, changing nappies and cooking nutritious meals. It made me feel wonderful to consider that there was more to life - that we're here for a reason and beautiful in God’s eyes. I was raising my children to feel special and loved, not just by family and friends, but by their maker; their designer. There was even one surreal moment when it felt as though God possessed my body (in a good way too.)

It wasn’t all good and it certainly wasn’t all bad. It was an experience. Although some memories of it all make me cringe, I appreciate them, if only because we writers thrive on experience.

I truly feel that I only felt genuine peace once I left the church. I began to question God’s existence without fear. More importantly, I began to question the church – all churches. It was a ‘coming-away-from-God moment’, to paraphrase our shitty Prime Minister. It allowed me to start investigating alternate options, to study other types of phenomena and philosophy; to quit limiting my knowledge and to stop feeling guilty over things that don’t matter. (Like swearing and blaspheming. Christians tend to worry about committing those two crimes more than they should. Jesus Christ!)

It wasn’t just the insistence that my church family trumped my actual family (‘Your father-in-law had triple-bypass surgery? That’s no good – but why weren’t you at church last Sunday?’). It was more than just the disgust I felt when I sat in on Sunday school to witness the teacher inform the kids that they’d eternally burn in rivers of hell if they didn’t accept God (although that’s a pretty major one, obviously.) It was all of that and more.

It was, most of all, feeling that any teaching that insists you only consider one option, one choice, one possibility, one point of view – is dangerous.

I can’t imagine I’d ever call myself an atheist. Who am I to proclaim that there’s definitely no higher power? I like to pray still sometimes. I’ve gone back to the god I had before – the one I’ve customised to suit my needs. He thinks I’m the greatest and concedes that some of the people who reckon they’re so high in His estimation are actually wankers. In my mind He’s actually a black woman. Just to stick it to da man, y’know?

It was a tumultuous journey, from joining a church, to being ‘saved’; from being baptised, to completely cutting myself off from the whole shebang.  It has made my writing richer, I believe. A Fine Invention was going to be what you might call Christian fiction. Eliza, our gothy friend, was slated to discover that her good friend was dying, and then he would be healed by God’s power, therefore bringing her back to God (and getting the sick gay friend on board at the same time – nifty!).

Now though, the book is less about affirming beliefs or giving answers. It’s about the effect beliefs have on believers, non-believers and those in between. It’s all about the questions rather than the answers. Answers bring you to an abrupt halt. They can box you into a corner. Questions lead to more questions; more discoveries, more adventures. 

I find myself learning and delving more into so many possibilities as I write the book now. Rather than preaching or giving all the characters a neat Western Civilisation God-aligned happy ending, the work is more nuanced.  I feel more authentic as I re-write this honest incarnation of the book.

It’s not a satire of religion like ‘Saved’ (starring Mandy Moore), nor is it a love-in for God like ‘Left Behind’ (starring my teenage crush, Kirk Cameron.) I like to think it’s somewhere in between – that it’s something that could make the reader think, question, analyse, and perhaps consider that there are at least forty-nine, if not fifty, shades of grey when considering what the meaning of this whole life thing is.

I think my own personal ideal of God in her beautiful African wisdom, would approve.

Legally Blonde: The Musical: A Review

I am a little averse to the trend of movies being made into musicals – I find it sad that musicals have less of an audience these days, forcing Broadway to resort to using well-established brands in order to pull in audiences who are too nervous to dish out the big bucks to see something they’re not familiar with. I was never a big fan of the movie ‘Legally Blonde’ but when I heard the soundtrack of the musical a few years ago, I was pleasantly surprised and impressed. The score combines humorous lyrics with infectious melodies – it’s like an insidiously clever pop album!

The irresistible Warner Huntington III (Rob Mills) enters the Delta Nu Sorority House

So of course I was all 'Ohmigod You Guys!' when I heard that the pink-tastic musical would be descending upon Melbourne!

Fuelling my enthusiasm was news that Lucy Durack, (who played Glinda wonderfully in the Aussie version of ‘Wicked’) would be playing the lead role of the fabulous Elle Woods. Elle, the beautiful blonde sorority girl, busts a gut to get into Harvard, in order to win back the ‘campus catch’, Warner Huntington III (Rob Mills, Fiyero in the Aussie ‘Wicked’) who dumped her in order to become a ‘serious’ law student. It sounds ridiculous, yet with Elle’s enthusiasm, positivity and determination, you believe it’s all happening and you can't help but cheer her on, no matter how misguided she may be initially! (If only I could go from average student to Harvard Valedictorian over the course of a few musical numbers!)

Durack has that X Factor – making the kind of character that many of us love to hate – into someone we simply love.

Sexy Cam with Lucy

David Harris makes for a scruffily attractive, sensitive Emmett – the guy who ‘sees beyond the blonde to Elle’s mind’, and the man can sing. Cameron Daddo plays a more charismatic, handsome version of the scruples-hating Professor Callahan, breathing new life into the character. Although Erika Heynatz was terribly irritating on ‘Australia’s Next Top Model’, she is truly fantastic in this show as exercise queen/murder suspect Brooke Wyndham – and she has killer abs! There’s plenty of wonderful choreography in this show and Heynatz's vigorous skip-tastic exercise routine is one of the highlights!

Crush-worthy David Harrisas Emmett, with Elle the Bunny

Helen Dallimore, yet another of the Wicked alumni (she was Glinda on London's West End) played the role of the friendly, confidence-lacking hairdresser Paulette with the required gusto, and was an obvious fan favourite, along with her eye candy UPS Delivery Man (played to perfection by Mike Snell).

However, the stars of the show are Bruiser the chihuahua, played beautifully by Sparrow, Quin and Audrey respectively, along with Rufus the English Bulldog, played by Luka and Harris. They are just adorable. Bruiser’s skittishness was endearing in this particular show!

The star of the show... and Lucy

The appearances of the Delta Nu Sorority girls, as cheerleader-esque figments of Elle's imagination, tie the numbers together seamlessly, all the while reminding us of what keeps Elle perky and optimistic amidst all the pink/blonde backlash going on at Harvard!

The show is lots of fun, with a great message - that you shouldn't have to fit into a certain mold in order to follow your dreams. At two hours and 25 minutes running time including interval, the show never drags on like some musicals do – it’s great to see a show with minimal boring bits!

It seems evident that the cast is thoroughly enjoying themselves and putting their all into their performances, resulting in a fantastic show that I’m sure will have a fair run in Melbourne.

My friend and I left the theatre feeling deliriously happy (Okay, so meeting Rob Mills and Cameron Daddo at the Stage Door may have helped) and tapping our toes – and I know I had a strange new urge to wear a lot more pink from now on!

A Toy Story

Today I have been wistful, thinking of unfulfilled dreams of the past... the things I always wanted but never managed to capture. Like a beautiful rainbow in the sky, or a bird on high - you just can't get your bleedin' hands on them. What am I on about?

The wide array of toys that I desperately wanted as a child and was not given! Either through fate or sheer bad luck, I couldn't possess these coveted items.

Seriously though, I did all right as a kid. I got lots of cool stuff. I wanted everything I saw, just like most kids, but I didn't get everything I wanted. I believe this built character in me. When I did get a new doll, toy or book, I was often so excited that I was almost sick. Literally. How many of today's kids would be able to truthfully claim the same in future? I remember how complete my life felt when I got my grubby little hands on the She-ra and Beau figurines; when I unwrapped my beloved Cabbage Patch kid in the Christmas of 1985; when I got the Punky Brewster showbag, complete with her style of hair ties and ankle scarf (gotta have an ankle scarf); and when I got that book about some girl named Debbie doing ballet classes for one of my birthdays. It was pure magic. Buying a book from the school's book club was unbelievably exciting. Even when the book was a bit dull.

Still - there were plenty of bright, shiny playthings that I lusted over as only a little girl in the 80s can!

There were elusive Rainbow Brite dolls, the 'My Little Pony' collection, Care Bears, the Alf stuffed toy, the Punky Brewster doll (although even then I thought it looked a bit crap), Jem dolls (ditto, they looked a bit crap too) Barbie campervans, dream houses and the like; the ET stuffed toy, the Popple... the dolls my friend so kindly Googled for me today because I couldn't recall the name of them - Rigadoon puppet dolls!

Phew, there were heaps, and obviously I haven't forgotten about them! I was definitely not hard done by. I had a 'My Child' doll, a 'Snugglebumm' (only in the 80s), a Viewfinder and a toy broom for sweeping pesky kids from my cubby house... I couldn't complain. On top of that, I had access to some cool toys traditionally set aside for boys, due to my three brothers' existence - the He Man gang, 'matchie' cars, army men - all great stuff!

I still can't complain, because now I have two daughters of my own. Living vicariously is delectable. I bought my 3.5 year old an old school My Little Pony from a collectibles shop (so much cuter than the modern, puncy looking ones who curl their hair). We read my old 'Jem and the Holograms' story book now and then, building up to her 'need' for some Jem dolls. My latest scheme is to buy a Rigadoon puppet doll or two - for the girls, of course! I've only just begun... as long as I can continue to steer my eldest away from those hideous Horror High School dolls, we might get somewhere.

My unfulfilled dreams of the past are not so unfulfilled after all... and I have the bonus of falling in love with new toys and shiny doo-dads that my daughters introduce me to, namely (at this stage), the Disney princesses (including their movies, soundtracks and merchandise). I'm just an oversized kid, really. The things I always wanted but never managed to capture are getting closer now - like a beautiful rainbow in my hands, and a bird caught in my trap!

So tell me... which toys did you always yearn for and never have?