I scream in frustration! Want to smash and destroy! Things are not going my way. Why? I'll tell you. You're me, right?
You're a writer. You want to write fiction - maybe for the screen, maybe not. You haven't written anything you're proud of in over a year, and you blame it on university, despite the fact that you're actually studying creative writing. Studies get in the way because you have to write what they tell you to write, and you don't feel like you have complete ownership over it.
But now you're on holiday. You have no less than three almost fully-formed story ideas kicking around in your head. You're ready to go. You know?
Open up Word.
Choose a gorgeous font. Garamond... no! No! Bookman Old Style. Perfect.
Hands hover over the keyboard.
...nothing.
Okay, different approach.
Pen to paper.
It's a really nice pen. It's metallic-blue and has a velvety grip on its nose. Has your Dad's business name printed in gold on the side. Inky. Delicious.
...nothing.
Why? The idea is there. You know exactly how the story will unfold. You've done a bit of research, you know how the technical details will work. You've named all your characters; written a plan. You've written the opening paragraph to this story about five or six times, and hate every version. Why won't the story come out right?
Do you wonder, at this point, whether the story should be written at all? Maybe it's a stillbirth. Maybe it wasn't meant to live.
In a highly figurative, non-spiritual-wanker-type way, I think stories have souls. I think that once they are formed as ideas in the writer's mind, it is simply a matter of their flowing out through the fingertips. All my best stories have been written this way. I'll read back over one and wonder how I came up with it. I certainly wasn't agonising over the wording at the time, yet here it is on the paper now, and it's just exactly right. When I consciously try, it comes out wrong over and over and over again.
Being that you're not me anymore, answer me this: how do your stories form? At what point will you abandon an idea for dead?
Nov 11, 2007
Nov 6, 2007
Lazy Survey - Me and the Girl
I shouldn't actually be answering this - it's supposed to be for marrieds - but screw that! Marriage is for stupid-heads anyway.
Who is your partner?
A girl of some description.
How long have you been together?
Since I got hot.
How long did you date?
It started out as like a couple of hours, and then it got longer.
How old is your partner?
She’s older than me but nobody would ever assume this, because she’s so terribly youthful like a little floppy bunnyrabbit.
Who eats more?
If she has pasta for dinner, she will eat the same amount of pasta as every person in my household would. You know, together. It's sort of like a magician's trick.
"No way, man. How did you fit all that pasta into that one little girl?"
Who said "I love you" first?
In a surprise move, I did. It was pretty special. She'd heard it before. I hadn't.
Who is taller?
One time we both got stoned at a ridiculous party, and a crazy chick came up to us and started waving her hand in the air in front of us diagonally.
“Wow. You guys are like, exactly the same height. That is so cool.”
She was so thrilled at this incredible discovery that she made enough noise for other people to gather and remark. It was eventually decided that she was tallest. We sniggered to one another because I’m actually several inches higher above the ground, and then we kept sniggering, and then suddenly I couldn’t stop, and I got terribly embarrassed, and then someone sat me down and gave me a glass of water and got out a camera. Then I couldn’t remember which of us was taller anymore.
Who sings better?
I may never find out. She is excruciatingly private about seemingly trivial things such as this.
Who is smarter?
Oh my, let’s not get into this. According to Tickle.com and Facebook’s 30 question IQ test (not dubious in the least), I have a near-genius IQ of 142. She won’t do one of these, so we can’t even compare on an incredibly base level – though I think with a question sample that minuscule, your result is largely down to luck.
Anyway, my thoughts are that we are both very intelligent people and we both struggle to show it at times. She thinks I’m smarter but I think she’s wrong.
Whose temper is worse?
I rarely get angry. When I do, it’s usually a kind of cold fury that manifests itself in quiet but biting remarks. She is far more tempestuous. She’s capable of serious damage sometimes. So I suppose hers is worse.
Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?
Usually me. She takes the wall, I take the edge. It’s mainly because I’ll have set an alarm on my phone, and neither of us wants me to clamber across her peaceful body in the horrid light of the morning to turn it off. We both know if I do that, she’ll curl all her tentacles around my body and pull me in like a ravenous Kraken, and the alarm will enter a fight to the death with my phone battery.
Who cooks dinner?
I do… for some reason I tend to claim the kitchen most nights, though I’m no better a cook than she is. In fact, she’s probably better, since she's actually had some lessons with her mother. The extent of my cooking education is a short period of Home Ec taught by my high school principal.
You see, our class, the so-called nerd class, wasn’t scheduled to do Home Ec, ever. And, sure, we were booked in to be the next engineers and doctors and lawyers of our generation, but did that mean we were going to have house chefs? So we made a collective complaint and requested a term of Home Ec. They couldn't find a real Home Ec teacher so the principal stood in. She'd do anything to keep her Accelerated Learning kids happy. Awww.
Who drives when you are together?
She ain’t gots a licence. Or a car. Well, I don’t gots a car either but I like to pretend I do. Putt-putt-putt-putt. It’s blue. Brrrrrrrbrbrrrrrr.
Who pays when you go out?
See, she's poor and I'm a miser, so neither of us ever really want to pay, and it gets so terribly confusing since we're both women and neither of us are meant to pay...
It usually turns into a ginger offering from both of us before one eventually takes a step closer to the cash counter and the other shrugs and settles back down in her seat a little too readily to be convincingly disappointed.
Who is most stubborn?
We’re both damn stubborn but she’s sweeter inside than me, and she usually cracks first. With me, there's not really much strawberry soft-centre below the surface - all you get is the marshmallow on top and after that it's all hard 70% cocoa. So if I’ve decided not to give up, I rarely will.
Who is the first to admit when they are wrong?
Usually her. Same as above really. If I’ve decided I’m right, I’m fucking right, alright?
Whose parents do you see the most?
Mine. I’ve got the whole Mummy’s Girl thing going on, and I’m pretty sucky-up to my Daddy too (see that other post about my parents from before) and I feel the need to share them around. Whereas she sees less of her parents and to be frank, I’m fearful of some of them.
Who kissed who first?
Well, I’d say I did, but she says it was crap. She kissed me next, and it was much better, so she’d prefer to consider that our first kiss. But still, it was me!
Who asked who out?
I’m so not sure at all. Both? Neither. We didn’t really do that stuff. We just kept running into one another and eventually we slept together.
Who proposed?
I propose weekly. She’s just not ready for that kind of commitment. Also, I always forget to bring the ring.
Who is more sensitive?
Well, I’ll cry a fishtank most weeks, but she’s just as delicate as I am – only she’s got a pretty strong mask on it most of the time.
Who has more friends?
I do, and I constantly complain that I don’t see them enough. When I was single (oh, eternally single) I used to talk bitterly about how people in relationships neglected their friends, and would only come crawling back when the relationship started ailing.
“I wouldn’t do something like that if I ever got a girlfriend!” I said. “Well, those people can just forget it. Crawl all you want, I won’t help you back up. Deserters!”
Well, these days I spend most of my social time with her, some time working and some time studying (heh) and the rest seeking the isolation my INTP self so desperately craves. It’s a little embarrassing considering my hardline policy, and I often feel like I should spend less time with her, on principle, and do more with my other friends. I don’t, though. My fault.
Who wears the pants in the family?
She’s the man.
That's right. I said it.
Who is your partner?
A girl of some description.
How long have you been together?
Since I got hot.
How long did you date?
It started out as like a couple of hours, and then it got longer.
How old is your partner?
She’s older than me but nobody would ever assume this, because she’s so terribly youthful like a little floppy bunnyrabbit.
Who eats more?
If she has pasta for dinner, she will eat the same amount of pasta as every person in my household would. You know, together. It's sort of like a magician's trick.
"No way, man. How did you fit all that pasta into that one little girl?"
Who said "I love you" first?
In a surprise move, I did. It was pretty special. She'd heard it before. I hadn't.
Who is taller?
One time we both got stoned at a ridiculous party, and a crazy chick came up to us and started waving her hand in the air in front of us diagonally.
“Wow. You guys are like, exactly the same height. That is so cool.”
She was so thrilled at this incredible discovery that she made enough noise for other people to gather and remark. It was eventually decided that she was tallest. We sniggered to one another because I’m actually several inches higher above the ground, and then we kept sniggering, and then suddenly I couldn’t stop, and I got terribly embarrassed, and then someone sat me down and gave me a glass of water and got out a camera. Then I couldn’t remember which of us was taller anymore.
Who sings better?
I may never find out. She is excruciatingly private about seemingly trivial things such as this.
Who is smarter?
Oh my, let’s not get into this. According to Tickle.com and Facebook’s 30 question IQ test (not dubious in the least), I have a near-genius IQ of 142. She won’t do one of these, so we can’t even compare on an incredibly base level – though I think with a question sample that minuscule, your result is largely down to luck.
Anyway, my thoughts are that we are both very intelligent people and we both struggle to show it at times. She thinks I’m smarter but I think she’s wrong.
Whose temper is worse?
I rarely get angry. When I do, it’s usually a kind of cold fury that manifests itself in quiet but biting remarks. She is far more tempestuous. She’s capable of serious damage sometimes. So I suppose hers is worse.
Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?
Usually me. She takes the wall, I take the edge. It’s mainly because I’ll have set an alarm on my phone, and neither of us wants me to clamber across her peaceful body in the horrid light of the morning to turn it off. We both know if I do that, she’ll curl all her tentacles around my body and pull me in like a ravenous Kraken, and the alarm will enter a fight to the death with my phone battery.
Who cooks dinner?
I do… for some reason I tend to claim the kitchen most nights, though I’m no better a cook than she is. In fact, she’s probably better, since she's actually had some lessons with her mother. The extent of my cooking education is a short period of Home Ec taught by my high school principal.
You see, our class, the so-called nerd class, wasn’t scheduled to do Home Ec, ever. And, sure, we were booked in to be the next engineers and doctors and lawyers of our generation, but did that mean we were going to have house chefs? So we made a collective complaint and requested a term of Home Ec. They couldn't find a real Home Ec teacher so the principal stood in. She'd do anything to keep her Accelerated Learning kids happy. Awww.
Who drives when you are together?
She ain’t gots a licence. Or a car. Well, I don’t gots a car either but I like to pretend I do. Putt-putt-putt-putt. It’s blue. Brrrrrrrbrbrrrrrr.
Who pays when you go out?
See, she's poor and I'm a miser, so neither of us ever really want to pay, and it gets so terribly confusing since we're both women and neither of us are meant to pay...
It usually turns into a ginger offering from both of us before one eventually takes a step closer to the cash counter and the other shrugs and settles back down in her seat a little too readily to be convincingly disappointed.
Who is most stubborn?
We’re both damn stubborn but she’s sweeter inside than me, and she usually cracks first. With me, there's not really much strawberry soft-centre below the surface - all you get is the marshmallow on top and after that it's all hard 70% cocoa. So if I’ve decided not to give up, I rarely will.
Who is the first to admit when they are wrong?
Usually her. Same as above really. If I’ve decided I’m right, I’m fucking right, alright?
Whose parents do you see the most?
Mine. I’ve got the whole Mummy’s Girl thing going on, and I’m pretty sucky-up to my Daddy too (see that other post about my parents from before) and I feel the need to share them around. Whereas she sees less of her parents and to be frank, I’m fearful of some of them.
Who kissed who first?
Well, I’d say I did, but she says it was crap. She kissed me next, and it was much better, so she’d prefer to consider that our first kiss. But still, it was me!
Who asked who out?
I’m so not sure at all. Both? Neither. We didn’t really do that stuff. We just kept running into one another and eventually we slept together.
Who proposed?
I propose weekly. She’s just not ready for that kind of commitment. Also, I always forget to bring the ring.
Who is more sensitive?
Well, I’ll cry a fishtank most weeks, but she’s just as delicate as I am – only she’s got a pretty strong mask on it most of the time.
Who has more friends?
I do, and I constantly complain that I don’t see them enough. When I was single (oh, eternally single) I used to talk bitterly about how people in relationships neglected their friends, and would only come crawling back when the relationship started ailing.
“I wouldn’t do something like that if I ever got a girlfriend!” I said. “Well, those people can just forget it. Crawl all you want, I won’t help you back up. Deserters!”
Well, these days I spend most of my social time with her, some time working and some time studying (heh) and the rest seeking the isolation my INTP self so desperately craves. It’s a little embarrassing considering my hardline policy, and I often feel like I should spend less time with her, on principle, and do more with my other friends. I don’t, though. My fault.
Who wears the pants in the family?
She’s the man.
That's right. I said it.
Nov 4, 2007
Little Legs
Posted as an entry for Kate Rothwell's UNTIL THE RETURN OF BAM Writing Contest.
Conventions: 400 words or less; reveal a secret without stating it outright.
Little Miss Muffet capers all the way to bed, little wicket-post legs launching from the carpet and leaping swiftly into the crisp blue sheets. Nine years old, no she isn’t sleepy but she wants to be up early tomorrow for the game. She snuggle-snuggle-snuggles her wriggly legs into the blankets, restless and trying not to be.
Then the legs SPASM and she’s out again, shrieking on the carpet. Me and Mummy and Daddy rush to the scene in time to spy an eight-legged thing darting back to the safety of the covers.
Miss Muffet eases her chair up to the coffee table and reaches out to the platter. I get in before her, seizing a slice of cake and pushing it into her hand.
“Did you want more tea as well?” I pour quickly.
“Bill, will you stop that? I’m not helpless, you know.”
“I know…”
“I can get my own fucking tea off the table.”
It’s mid-semester and I’ve come to stay with my family for the break. Mum is fussy because she hasn’t seen me for so long; she’s laid out the lounge like a tea party.
“Tina, he’s just trying to be nice.”
My sister says she’s sorry. “But please stop grabbing everything for me. I’ve still got both my arms, you know.”
She’s twenty-five, got her degree, looking for a job. Everyone’s equal opportunity these days but it’s still difficult.
“What happened? You used to be a little twit, don’t you remember? And suddenly you got all weird and helpful after the bite. You stopped playing practical jokes, too.”
I watch her sip her tea. She wears a red football jersey and a pair of loose jeans all rolled up on one side. They had to cut above the knee, so she can’t wear a prosthetic. I try to check the surge of pity, but it’s too late.
“Remember the time you put all the salt in my toothbrush? And that time you glued my baseball into the mitt?”
All I can think of is that spider, scuttling back into the sheets. Dad caught it in a jar to show them in Emergency. It had just looked like a huntsman. Harmless. Hilarious. Except for the two little pointed spinnerets on its tail. I didn’t notice those till they pointed them out at the hospital.
My stomach twists again. Tina smiles, remembering something different.
“Sneaky little bastard.”
Conventions: 400 words or less; reveal a secret without stating it outright.
Little Miss Muffet capers all the way to bed, little wicket-post legs launching from the carpet and leaping swiftly into the crisp blue sheets. Nine years old, no she isn’t sleepy but she wants to be up early tomorrow for the game. She snuggle-snuggle-snuggles her wriggly legs into the blankets, restless and trying not to be.
Then the legs SPASM and she’s out again, shrieking on the carpet. Me and Mummy and Daddy rush to the scene in time to spy an eight-legged thing darting back to the safety of the covers.
Miss Muffet eases her chair up to the coffee table and reaches out to the platter. I get in before her, seizing a slice of cake and pushing it into her hand.
“Did you want more tea as well?” I pour quickly.
“Bill, will you stop that? I’m not helpless, you know.”
“I know…”
“I can get my own fucking tea off the table.”
It’s mid-semester and I’ve come to stay with my family for the break. Mum is fussy because she hasn’t seen me for so long; she’s laid out the lounge like a tea party.
“Tina, he’s just trying to be nice.”
My sister says she’s sorry. “But please stop grabbing everything for me. I’ve still got both my arms, you know.”
She’s twenty-five, got her degree, looking for a job. Everyone’s equal opportunity these days but it’s still difficult.
“What happened? You used to be a little twit, don’t you remember? And suddenly you got all weird and helpful after the bite. You stopped playing practical jokes, too.”
I watch her sip her tea. She wears a red football jersey and a pair of loose jeans all rolled up on one side. They had to cut above the knee, so she can’t wear a prosthetic. I try to check the surge of pity, but it’s too late.
“Remember the time you put all the salt in my toothbrush? And that time you glued my baseball into the mitt?”
All I can think of is that spider, scuttling back into the sheets. Dad caught it in a jar to show them in Emergency. It had just looked like a huntsman. Harmless. Hilarious. Except for the two little pointed spinnerets on its tail. I didn’t notice those till they pointed them out at the hospital.
My stomach twists again. Tina smiles, remembering something different.
“Sneaky little bastard.”
Nov 1, 2007
Sharing
Something about my girlfriend's house makes me wonder.
It's the way we'll come through the gate and there's a mangy little Pomeranian in a jumper yarping hoarsely at us. It's the way we pass the creepy old rainchair on the way to the door, and there'll be a plastic bag full of children's toys on it. She lives above an op shop and there's always something lying around on the doorstep. She has an awful plastic wind-up Transformer that she fished out of one of these bags. It'll lie dormant on the carpet wherever she's dropped it, but if you pick it up between your thumb and forefinger, it struggles feebly in midair, not quite out of zizz.
You come through the front door and there's an etch-a-sketch propped up on the kitchen table, bearing last night's message from her housemate. It usually says something about food, either "I stole your eggs to make dinner, WILL REPLACE" or "Free wine left over from work, help yourself". The kitchen shelves are divided by the owners of the goods, but "ownership" is never strict.
She used to have a housemate who would draw a line on the side of the milk bottle to monitor illegal use. It's hard to get comfortable living with someone who does that. Quietly, gently, without a single word exchanged, a little green marker message in your fridge: "I don't like you and I don't trust you."
She's got a new housemate now. I like this one better. She has a much better DVD collection.
We came in the other night to find a post-it note plastered to the television. Her housemate had booked the set to watch something awful. They almost never see each other, so they run a system of note-based communcation. Post-its are a staple of the household.
It must be a delicate operation, getting along with your housemates. I still live with my father, and my father (a) loves me, (b) is obliged to provide for me, and (c) is allowed to exercise absolute authority over the household, since I don't pay rent. But when you split rent with two other people you didn't know til after you moved in with them - people who aren't friends or drinking buddies - your entire relationship is based upon tiny little domestic details.
Who bought the last dishwashing sponge?
Who left the toilet seat up?
Who hasn't paid their share of the phone bill yet?
All of the rules seem unspoken.
Should I ask before I use her new nonstick frying pan?
Am I allowed to borrow a capful of vegetable oil to cook my lamb chops?
Is anyone going to get uppity if I smoke weed in here?
Oh hey, I'm just watching your Buffy season four, is that cool? Oh, hey, I'm taking care of my friend's cat for the day, is that all right? Keep your drawers shut, he likes socks.
It's all about manners, but home shouldn't be about manners. If I had to call a place home, I'd want to be able to fart without excusing myself. I'd want to sing in the shower and spread whatever condiments I could find onto my toast when I stumbled into the kitchen for a five am snack. Is a sharehouse a home? Or is it just a place to sleep between your pubs and your classes?
I wonder.
It's the way we'll come through the gate and there's a mangy little Pomeranian in a jumper yarping hoarsely at us. It's the way we pass the creepy old rainchair on the way to the door, and there'll be a plastic bag full of children's toys on it. She lives above an op shop and there's always something lying around on the doorstep. She has an awful plastic wind-up Transformer that she fished out of one of these bags. It'll lie dormant on the carpet wherever she's dropped it, but if you pick it up between your thumb and forefinger, it struggles feebly in midair, not quite out of zizz.
You come through the front door and there's an etch-a-sketch propped up on the kitchen table, bearing last night's message from her housemate. It usually says something about food, either "I stole your eggs to make dinner, WILL REPLACE" or "Free wine left over from work, help yourself". The kitchen shelves are divided by the owners of the goods, but "ownership" is never strict.
She used to have a housemate who would draw a line on the side of the milk bottle to monitor illegal use. It's hard to get comfortable living with someone who does that. Quietly, gently, without a single word exchanged, a little green marker message in your fridge: "I don't like you and I don't trust you."
She's got a new housemate now. I like this one better. She has a much better DVD collection.
We came in the other night to find a post-it note plastered to the television. Her housemate had booked the set to watch something awful. They almost never see each other, so they run a system of note-based communcation. Post-its are a staple of the household.
It must be a delicate operation, getting along with your housemates. I still live with my father, and my father (a) loves me, (b) is obliged to provide for me, and (c) is allowed to exercise absolute authority over the household, since I don't pay rent. But when you split rent with two other people you didn't know til after you moved in with them - people who aren't friends or drinking buddies - your entire relationship is based upon tiny little domestic details.
Who bought the last dishwashing sponge?
Who left the toilet seat up?
Who hasn't paid their share of the phone bill yet?
All of the rules seem unspoken.
Should I ask before I use her new nonstick frying pan?
Am I allowed to borrow a capful of vegetable oil to cook my lamb chops?
Is anyone going to get uppity if I smoke weed in here?
Oh hey, I'm just watching your Buffy season four, is that cool? Oh, hey, I'm taking care of my friend's cat for the day, is that all right? Keep your drawers shut, he likes socks.
It's all about manners, but home shouldn't be about manners. If I had to call a place home, I'd want to be able to fart without excusing myself. I'd want to sing in the shower and spread whatever condiments I could find onto my toast when I stumbled into the kitchen for a five am snack. Is a sharehouse a home? Or is it just a place to sleep between your pubs and your classes?
I wonder.
Rather
Rather than write a blog, I can spend fifteen minutes fiddling with my necklace.
Rather than write a story, I can wash all the dishes in the house and vacuum my room.
Rather than write an essay, I can run around my backyard eight times while the ferrets watch me go.
Rather than write a script, I can wander into my dad's shed and shout about popular culture over the sound of a heavy-duty drill.
Rather than sketch a drawing, I can spend three-quarters of an hour playing solitaire.
Rather than paint a picture, I can take a whimsical tour of Wikipedia in my pyjamas.
I don't need paper.
I don't need thoughts.
I don't need Microsoft Office.
This is what my life is made of.
Rather than write a story, I can wash all the dishes in the house and vacuum my room.
Rather than write an essay, I can run around my backyard eight times while the ferrets watch me go.
Rather than write a script, I can wander into my dad's shed and shout about popular culture over the sound of a heavy-duty drill.
Rather than sketch a drawing, I can spend three-quarters of an hour playing solitaire.
Rather than paint a picture, I can take a whimsical tour of Wikipedia in my pyjamas.
I don't need paper.
I don't need thoughts.
I don't need Microsoft Office.
This is what my life is made of.
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