JOURNAL
documenting
&
discovering joyful things
Free hugs
Image via
I'm in a hugging mood today. Not in a creepy "I want to touch you, Stranger," way. More in a "Hooray! I'm so happy and I want to share the joy!" way.
Why? Because Airmail just received a glowing review from Ashton the Book Blogger. She said:
"AMAZING! I absolutely loved this book from word go!" and, "As I got towards the last few chapters of the book, I found myself holding my breath, I was flipping through the pages, at what felt like lightening speed. I just wanted to know how it ended."
You can read the full review here and leave Ashley a hug-style comment for me.
This review just added to my happy day, which was already pretty darn good due to the lovely interview and comments published on Inner West Live (and referenced in my previous blog post).
Glad to be a westie
Why else do I love living in the Inner West? Well, aside from the lovely and supportive media, there's the food, which is abundant, incredibly diverse, and cheap. There's the stunning and ever-changing street art, which I've blogged about before. The lovely old parks that are more tree-filled and less landscaped, designed for the wanderer. The grand old mansions and ornate terraces you can pass on a walk with the dog, row upon row of the splendour of yesteryear.
- On our first day in Enmore, boxes not yet unpacked, we rock up to Le Bake, devour breakfasts, coffees and juices, only to discover they don't take cards and we don't have cash. We want to rush to the bank, but, "Don't worry!" the owners Julie and Edmond say. "You live here. You're family! We know you'll pay one day."
- Walking my dog on Cavendish Street, he crouches to do his business (as dogs do), and I pull out a little blue bag and pick his business up. We're out the front of a house, and a woman is in her front yard. She looks like she belongs in Mosman, not Enmore. I'd put her at about 50 years old, immaculately styled blonde hair, silk white pant-suit with a gold woven belt and matching gold jewellery. "Give me that," she says to me, pointing to the blue bag. "I'll put it in my bin, you don't want to be carrying that." I demur but the woman absolutely insists on taking the bag of dog crap from me and putting it in her own rubbish!
- The day of our wedding, the family headed out to our front street to execute a bit of a clean-up because, while I'm ever a fan of my neighbourhood, I confess it DOES get pretty filthy. This was also the day of the State election. Neighbours helped out. Some picked up rubbish, others loaned their brooms and gloves, and others who couldn't help out on the day have taken charge of the upkeep ever since.
And finally? Just like Kate and Will we, too, had a fly-over at our wedding ceremony. Because we chose to get married in our secret garden, a heavenly little spot out the back of our house that my mother made lovely and my father brightened by painting the door blue. And right on cue, after our vows (and possibly during them but my concentration was elsewhere), the Boeing 747s roared past. It's entirely possible the passengers witnessed our vows.
My dog the critic
This is me with my dog Oliver. People like him. Everywhere we go, he gets stopped and patted. And we go a lot of places. This dog has lived in Sydney and New York, traversed the east coast of Australia, and travelled through 22 States of the US of A.
So today I took my dog with me for a walk while I got my lunch and, on cue, an old man stopped us and started patting Oliver. "Floppy ears! Floppy ears!" he said to Oliver, and then to me, "Have you got time for a story?"
I didn't, but by then the story was already underway. The man told me he wrote Christian poems about Bible characters and some of them were quite long (oh goody). Then without warning, he proceeded to recite one of his poems.
I couldn't exactly pick the Bible character in it. It went along the lines of "I went to the beach with my girl Stella / But when I came back from the surf she was having sex in the shallows with some fella." I kid you not.
Stella, it transpired, was a dog with (and this part is very important) pointy ears. The poem continued for quite some time, while I shifted my feet and Oliver shifted his feet and the rain clouds gathered. I'll spare you the rest and simply cut to the stunning and compelling punchline, in which Stella gives birth to puppies with (wait for it) floppy ears.
"BAHAHAHA" the poet roared, holding his sides as he laughed and clearly very proud of his wit. It started to rain.
And in the pause that followed while I struggled to find something polite to say, Oliver said it all for me.
He walked directly up to the poet and vomited something white and yellow and foamy on the grass in front of the poor man's feet.
Inspiration for a life's work
I simply have to share this extraordinary video. As writers, we can spend years working away on the one book. Sometimes loving it, sometimes just wishing it could be accidentally consumed in a house fire. And when we finally think we're done, the gruelling edit process begins and that, too, can last years. After that, we're into the marketing and promotion phase.
But all this is nothing compared with sculptor Scott Weaver's commitment and achievement. He has spent almost my entire lifetime building this incredibly detailed and complex sculpture of San Francisco, out of toothpicks! But what's most impressive is that the sculpture is kinetic, taking ping-pong balls on various tours through the city's districts. Take a look.
[vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/22461692 w=525&h=394]
When I see something like this, after I overcome my amazement and incredulity at the sheer talent of what this artist has done, I start to reflect on my own work. And more to the point, I start to reflect on my own dedication to my craft.
I once read that Picasso was banned from some galleries because he used to try and improve his paintings where they hung. It's hard, sometimes, to stop, and certainly Scott Weaver is constantly adding to and improving his own work.
However for writers, once our books hit the stores and go into the hands of others, there's nothing much we can do, even if we see compelling room for improvement. So I take two lessons from Scott Weaver's work that I intend to apply today:
1. Give it your everything in the first place. Take as long as you need to take to make it the best it can be. And look for new places, characters, intricacies in your book that you can love, to keep up the motivation. Add little pieces of you to make it personal and special (like Scott added his own, his wife's and his mother's time of birth to the clock tower).
2. Keep going. I'm proud of my novella Airmail, don't get me wrong. I still love that book and I humbly think it's a fun read. But I couldn't improve it now, even if I wanted to. It no longer belongs to me because it's in your hands. So I will continue adding to my body of work with new stories and new novels. And if I apply myself, keep learning, keep reading, let's hope each new work will be better than the last.
Mutant species: kangaroo-dog
Proof! The species are mingling, powerful new genetic mutants are emerging. Ladies and gentlemen I present: the amazing kangaroo-dog.
Apparently, these are the blog posts that my brain believes are worthy at 3.30am. I suspect my 7.30am brain will apologise, so I am doing so now, in advance. Sorry! Still, I am enjoying the concept of the kangaroo-dog somewhat.
I am also rather on tenterhooks to bring you photographic evidence of another mutant species I encountered tonight: the Bikini Barbers. Yes, you read correctly. A barber shop where all the hairdressers wear bikinis. I assume they are women, although I'm hoping...
I passed this little gem of Queensland culture when it was closed, so had to content myself with reading a big sign displaying all the rules (such as "look but don't touch," and "no lewd comments"), but you can bet your booties I will be back in daylight!
Possibly I will need to hide behind a tree and take my photograph using a long-range lens (that I don't have), just as I imagine many a peeping tom has done before me. But this, my friends, is the strength of my commitment to excellence in journalism.
Stay tuned. In the meantime, I bid you Adieu
A piece of work
I have Alchemy of Scrawl blogger Coral Russell to thank for alerting me to this clip of Joan Rivers, sorting through her life's work.
I just enjoy the notion of creativity being catalogued. It's not a process that appeals to me, nor, I imagine, many creative writers. But if it was there... If I had a meticulously kept wall of drawers containing all my ideas, thoughts, unfinished work... WHAT a resource that would be.
The lesson in this appears to be that I need a butler. Or housekeeper. Or valet. There could also be a lesson in keeping myself organised, but that would imply personal responsibility, something I am trying to avoid while sipping my first cup of tea of the morning.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87yztkvEsIk]
Announcing Airmail's virtual book tour
My novella Airmail is about to undertake a whirlwind international tour. Virtually.
If you're the type that likes reading new books but wouldn't mind hearing what others thought of them first, I have good news for you. Folks all over town are busy reading Airmail and preparing to give you their honest opinions (gulp).
For my part, I am pondering the ethics of sending out chocolate and baked goodies.
But in the meantime, if you'd like to read an honest, sugary-foodstuff-bribe-free review of Airmail, keep an eye on these websites in the coming weeks and months:
Alchemy of Scrawl Ashton the Book Blogger Author Exposure Book'd Out Booksie's Blog Chaotic Compendiums Dreamtime Book Discussion Literary R&R My Guilty Pleasures POD People Reading for Sanity Reading Review Silver's Reviews Spitpress The Book Diva's Reads The Book Tree The Phantom Paragrapher 100 stars or less 1000+ Books to Read
My books
I just wanted to share this with you, dear friends: the bookshelves in our dining room.
Next week my books will go back into storage, less than a year after I unpacked them from the boxes they lived in while I was in New York, and this makes me rather sad.
One day, Mr B and I will be rich and old and we will have one of those old-fashioned libraries with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and big comfy armchairs for reading, with a bay window for light in the summer, and a fireplace for warmth in the winter.
(Moreover if this fantasy continues in the same vein, I may toast crumpets for tea, and Mr B will need to take up smoking a pipe.)
Dear friend, I'm writing you a letter
Dear friend, In the spirit of thankfulness, and giving, and love... And in the knowledge of how nice it feels when you get a letter in the mail that isn't a bill... I hereby promise to write you a letter.
When you buy Airmail, just send me an email to tell me you've done so, and I'll write you a personal letter of thanks. And I'll seal it in an airmail envelope.
And now to prove to you that I'm as good as my word, here is what I did on my lunch break today:
I grabbed the dog and took him for a walk.
We went to this store on King Street in Newtown, which is my favourite stationery place in all the whole wide world. Which is pretty big and wide.
While there, we met this very nice lady, who not only helped me pick out the writing materials she's holding, but also gave my dog lots of cuddles, which it is why it is now also his favourite stationery store in the whole wide world.
On returning home, I proceeded to write the first letter, which happened to be to Mr B as he was also the first person to buy Airmail.
If Mr B turns out to be the only person to buy Airmail as well as the first person, I may cry. But I will console myself with all the nice stationery that I will then get to keep.
(Actually it is lovely stationery but not that much of a consolation, to be honest. Plus, letters are meant to be sent not kept. Please buy a copy of Airmail. I will write you a super nice note on the beautiful paper. Yours truly, Naomi)
Storytelling + music
Shhh. Listen carefully while the forest sleeps. The wolf, in his greed, has swallowed the duck alive. You can still hear it quacking inside the wolf's belly.
When I was little, the only music I knew was classical music, with the odd folk intrusion. My mother was a flautist and spent seven years studying at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music (affectionately known as The Con). My father played the violin in the Sydney Youth Orchestra, but the dog would howl when he played for us in the kitchen.
My school attendance record was impeccable, in part because a sick day meant a day listening to "yucky music" (read: operas) on the radio. When I was in Year 5, I asked my parents what was this "rock 'n roll" and "pop" music that the kids at school were listening to. They put on a record of Godspell. Godspell!
But one great gift my parents' fixation on classical music gave me was an appreciation of the power of music for storytelling and imagination. When I was a child, entering the world of music was as wonderful an adventure as entering the world of a really good book. I loved both.
It started with Peter and the Wolf. Have you ever heard it? Was this in your childhood? The music echoes the adventures of Peter as he rescues a duck from the family cat, only to watch it captured (and gobbled up) by the wolf.
Inspired by this haunting, disturbing and beautiful piece of musical storytelling, my father would create fairy tales from every piece of "yucky" music on the radio.
"Listen, the giants are coming! Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!" he'd cry, as the double bass, drums and horns thundered. Oboes would signal the ruling of the wizard. Later, the piccolo and viola would quiver across the airwaves. "Can you hear it? The fairies are dancing!" my father say, then he'd grin and shake my arm. Dad could make a magical world of words out of anything musical.
Now, I spend my days trying to make music out of words. That's the power of imagination, I guess.