2012 – Planning for the End of the World

Should the end of the world not happen later this year (it didn’t happen twice last year, although I get the feeling the toilet paper is approaching the end of the roll), I’ve made a few plans.

I’ve never been one for plans, resolutions, agendas or sticking at one thing for long enough for it to become a habit. The intention was always there, but the execution was lacking.

Therefore I’ve put together a one page table of projects I intend to complete this year. Included in this ingenious piece of planning is predicted dates for completion of drafts, editing, beta reading and “final.”

On that list is 3 novels (two YA and one lit fic), a novella/multimedia project and a handful of short stories. It’ s ambitious; the main focus is on the novels and novella, but I want this to happen. It means cutting back in some writing I like to participate in, like #fridayflash, but in order to achieve my goals, I need to prioritise my writing.

By posting my intentions here, I am declaring publicly what I intend to do. You can prompt me from time to time to see how I am progressing. I’ll keep you updated from time to time.

Now to indulge in my inner Arnold J. Rimmer, crack out the highlighters, and colour-code my projects and timeline.

2012 Anti-Resolutions

I am not one for New Year’s Resolutions. I simply lack the required discipline.

Therefore, here are 10 things I will not be doing in 2012. They are not hard and fast rules. Rather, consider them more as guidelines or suggestions.

1. I will not let grammatical travesties go unedited. I will be there with chalk, pencil, pen, permanent marker to rid this world of apostrophe abuse. Time to form the Punktuation Squad with my English Department.

2. I will not always be wearing pants.

3. I will not give up strawberry-iced doughnuts, strawberry milkshakes and caffeine-enhanced, temperature-decreased beverages. Elvis would be proud. I will, however, cut back. Sort of.

4. I will not let popular culture and the media reduce my level of intellect to that of a cesspool of mediocrity. I will tell stories of worth and intellectual depth. However, I will also include the occasional fart joke.

5. I will not forsake my faith. To others it may appear to be an opiate or a crutch, but it is my anchor, hope and love.

6. I will not believe that a cardigan is a fashion faux pas. I intend to purchase one from a second hand store for when I am writing. I have made every effort to ensure the wearing of a waistcoat, pocket watch and a hat are all in for a fashion resurgence.

7. I will not tell Year 7 their music choices are rubbish. I will lead by example and have them listen to the great music. They will come to know why it is great. I will also not spend the first 40 minutes of their music lesson playing a drum solo. But it would be pretty cool.

8. I will not forsake the company of good friends (and tell them they are loved and cherished), good books and good music. All three are integral to make this writer happy. Especially when combined with a cup of tea.

9. I will not let social media dominate my life. I’ll be right with you after I check my email, update my facebook, check twitter, comment on a few blog posts and browse Google+.

10. I will not measure my success against what others are achieving. Nor will I compare myself to what others have achieved or completed. I will measure my success by the goals I have established.

The Year That Was. The Year That Will Be.

We have reached the end of 2011.

Time's Running Out

The year is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.

It is a handy time to pause and reflect, stare with focused gaze into one’s navel, pick out the lint and be careful you don’t stick your head too far up your bum and turn inside out.

THe year that was

I began writing in late 2009. I designated 2010 as my Practice Year. 2011 was to be the Year of Submission. Have I achieved it? No. Not in the way that I wanted because I didn’t create a plan.

By the end of the year I had three stories published: Headlines and Post-It Notes and Ashes to Ashes in eMergent Publishing’s Literary Mix Tapes’ anthologies “Nothing But Flowers” and “89.” I also had a piece of flash fiction, The Knight’s Defence published in the December edition of efiction magazine.

The first two came from associations and friendships formed via Write Anything. I am grateful for the wonderful opportunity to contribute, to be trusted as an unknown writer. Having The Knight’s Defence published makes me believe I have the potential to sell more.

the year that will be

A new year is a time to gird loins and make a list of No-No’s and Thou Shalt Not’s. Lists mean nothing unless there is a plan to back it up.

But I don’t do lists. I’ve decided on goals.

The problem is, I’ve never been much of a goal setting type of person. I’ve wanted to be one of those focused young things, changing the world before they’re twenty-five. Those years are a little behind me.

In the latter half of this year I set about designing and implementing writing goals. Lo and behold, I was able to reach them. Who’d a thunk it? I still need to revise the process, but it’s movement forward.

2012 is the Year of the Novel. I have never written a novel, although I’ve written enough words in the last year or so equivalent to a novel. And frankly, a pair of dark coloured underpants would be a useful to hide the fear I’m feeling.

But…

I am putting into place goals and plans to make this dream a reality. A key word to keep me going is “momentum.” I will set the marble rolling down the hill.

I will not measure myself against others. I will measure my success by the goals I have established.

A Modern Family Christmas Letter

Greetings to family, friends, acquaintances, hangers-on and my parole officer,

2011 has been a great year for the Bright family.

The beginning of the year saw the release of Father Robert Bright from his time as a suit and tie man with his retirement. He said he was glad to be rid of the routine of work. Now his routine consists of the couch, the newspaper, television and the garden shed. His favourite couch bears the burden of his backside but is given respite during the afternoons when he potters down to the local pub for a beer. It is a little embarrassing when he trundles down in his tracksuit pants with the threadbare bottom and slippers where his toes poke out the end. I’ve tried to make him change but his response is always the same, “But they’re comfortable, woman.”

Retirement has given him more time in the garden. This year he exhibited his orchids in the local show and did quite well. He seems to have taken up smoking again, although it doesn’t smell the same as the pipe tobacco he used to smoke all those years ago. It tends to make him quite peckish and he asks for a toasted cheese sandwich before breaking into a fit of giggles. And for some reason, Robert has gotten to know a large number of young people who come along to the flower shows. It is good to see young people taking an interest in botany.

Retirement suits us and we are thinking of buying a caravan and living the life of grey nomads. The children are old enough to take care of themselves now and we deserve a little fun in our dotage.

Adrianna finished her third year of law and her twelfth phase of experimentation. This year she explored the many varied definitions of the word “gay.” Before that there was veganism, socialism, ecological concerns and some obsession with a book about vampires and werewolves. She is our little “quiet achiever” so we aren’t too concerned.

We finally managed to get Jack over the line in his final year of schooling. It took many hours and many visits to the Principal’s office, but we managed. The Principal even wrote us a lovely letter of recommendation when Jack finished.

Jack’s fascination with fast cars landed him an apprenticeship with a local car dealer and he has been loving every minute of it. My little Datsun 120B has never run smoother. However, the addition of new paintwork makes me a little embarrassed to run down to the shops. Jack added some flames pouring from the wheel arches. I think it looks like a Matchbox car. And the fluffy dice and garter hanging from the rear vision mirror do make it a little hard to see sometimes.

He has been seeing a lovely young lass by the name of Felicity. They met at TAFE studying auto engineering and have been inseparable ever since. She and Jack spend many hours discussing cars, although I do wish she would put some clothes on sometimes. She’ll catch her death of cold if her skirt climbs any higher up her thighs. And she has an unfortunate tattoo on her lower back. I can see it as her jeans tend to sit quite low, revealing her underwear, although I fail to see how a piece of string counts as underwear these days. The tattoo reads, “Ride it like you stole it.” She must love cars to express her passion in such a permanent way. Coincidentally, I once found an unused prophylactic on the back seat. Jack swears it belonged to a friend and that it must have fallen out of his pocket one evening.

I think young Jack needs a new prescription for his glasses. He keeps getting pulled over by the police for speeding. He swears he was doing the speed limit.

Great Aunt Beryl is getting younger every year. This year it’s been her knee. Her knee is one of those new-fangled plasticy doo-dads that comes with a lifetime guarantee (which for Great Aunt Beryl may not be that much longer).

This knee goes along with her other knee, both hips and a set of breasts Dolly Parton would be proud of. For the life of me I can’t imagine young looking perky breasts protruding from a chest which Robert says had enough folds of skin she could be a MAD magazine fold in.

This year for me has been one with its ups and downs.

It’s been a tough year on the tennis circuit. We had a new member join us who looks like Anna Kournikova. Well, Anna Kournikova in 40 years’ time. I’ve had to attend a number of funerals of ladies from the club whose time has been called. “Game, Set and Match” as one wit described it. The old black tennis skirt has been getting a workout. It may need replacing next season.

What with Bridge Club, my Book Club, the Country Women’s Association, Meals on Wheels and meeting with my parole officer, I never seem to have a moment to myself.

Have to run along and tend to the Christmas pudding.

Wishing you all a fabulous 2012.

Much love and hugs and kisses from me and all the Bright family,

Miranda

Merry Christmas 2011

As Iron Sharpens Iron

Writers, by nature, are solitary beings, loitering in libraries, browsing bookshelves and hunkering over a laptop or paper alternately cursing and praising the words in front of them.

You do find them congregating at literary festivals and the adjacent pubs and bars where they will hold court and pontificate about process, craft, literary technique, genre, publishing, moleskins and every other ennui about writing.

But there’s one thing I’ve noticed writers tend not to talk about: story ideas. In particular, the current WIP. Writers become like professional poker players when it comes to discussing their WIP. The dark shades go on and the cards are held close to the chest. Is there a fear someone will steal our precious and brilliant idea?

A writer works in isolation, writing, drafting, editing, polishing.

A writer knows the benefit of a beta reader in helping to shape a novel/flash fiction from what it is into something better. The beta reader helps identify when the plot is flagging or the characters are not fully realised. But this is normally done only after the piece is written.

A new way?

If we were to collaborate with another writer, a critical friend or trusted beta reader, in the initial planning and drafting stages, would our WIP benefit from it? Would we avoid a flagging middle section, have more developed and real characters because we’ve talked it over with a trusted writer?

Do we not talk with someone because we are afraid of our brilliant story idea being stolen. We always think our ideas are brilliant, don’t we?

But why are writers so different from other creative types? Musicians collaborate all the time. Dramatists workshop a play before performance. A fresh set of eyes and ears could open possibilities you as a writer may not have thought of. Develop a critical friendship with a peer who writes in the same genre or a different genre.

I’m working on a multimedia project with a colleague where I am doing the writing (novella length) and she is the artistic director for the short film/website/graphic novel/art installation. It’s a partnership where the dialogue about possibilities and options will make for a better product. It will still require a beta reader in the later stages, but the collaborative approach is engaging, inspiring and fun.

During a rehearsal for a carols performance this week (where I was playing percussion), I was chatting to one of our singers, another creative type.  We were talking about the need for developing creative texts like short films and dramas for events like Easter and Christmas. It sparked a brief, but enthusiastic discussion. While no real plans were made, it opened an avenue for new directions to explore in the new year.

Whilst driving to the carols performance on the weekend, I had an idea for a short film for Christmas next year. And no, I’m going to keep it a secret. Hey, it’s Christmas, so there’s a limited repertoire and focus, know what I mean.

But as iron sharpens iron, so a discussion with someone creative opened new possibilities. My idea requires refinement and development, but the collaborative approach can surely produce a better product.

Would you consider a critical partnership to make your work better, even before you start?

Tis the Season for Giving

It’s the Christmas season, a time of giving and rejoicing.

Therefore, I have a gift for you. I have written a Christmas-themed story for you to enjoy.

Click on the link below to download your copy.

A Christmas Story – The Cracker Factory

If you would like a signed hard copy, send me your address. Please be careful not to post your address in the public eye (I want to protect your privacy).

Blessings and Merry Christmas

Adam

Pieces of a Puzzle

In the common room of the hospital, an idle television spoke to itself in the corner while two patients sat at the beige Formica table. Attired similarly in faded tracksuit pants and a loose t-shirt Jason wore a pair of woollen Ugg boots with his toes poking through. Morris fidgeted in a pair of Bart Simpson slippers. A plastic band around each patient’s wrist proclaimed name, date of birth and attending psychiatrist. One wore a red band indicating allergies to medications and foods.

“Right, let’s get this party started,” said Morris.

The lid of the puzzle box was flipped open and the contents poured out of the box, spilling all over the table. Fours hands deftly sorted through the pieces of a puzzle scattered between them. First, corners, then edge pieces. Beginning at the corners, the outline of the puzzle was constructed. An empty frame waited for the picture to be assembled.

The front of the box proclaimed a serene, pastoral idyll of green fields, wandering bovine, mountains and a vast expanse of blue sky. Colours were gathered into piles, like sorting a packet of M & M’s before eating them. Greens, reds, blues and partial shapes of cows.

“We should get Gracie in here. With her OCD she’d have the colours sorted in no time,” said Morris scratching at the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “Didn’t see you at the ‘bus stop’ for meds this morning.”

“Psych session.”

“Still crazy?”

“Certifiable.”

Morris paused from sorting pieces and looked at the younger man over his spectacles. “You doing ok?”

A slight nod of the head from Jason, eyes focused on the puzzle pieces. Hunched shoulders and listless movements sifting through the pieces; a young man layered with melancholy and sadness. The television continued to talk to no one in particular from its corner.

“One thousand frickin’ pieces,” Jason mused. “Can you think of anything less relaxing than a puzzle for someone who’s depressed?

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be a point when you’ve had enough bloody blue pieces of sky. Can you think of a more ironic colour? There is only so many times you can pick up a piece of blue sky and pray it fits.”

“There’s a nice ocean puzzle on the shelf if you want,” said Morris with a smirk.

Jason smiled wanly.

“So why are we doing it?” Morris asked.

“Because we’re depressed and screwed in the head.”

Morris chuckled in consolation. “Tea?”

“Yes, thanks.”

As Morris left the table, Jason fished through the pile of blue pieces, spreading them out on the table, hoping to find a pattern. Shapes, holes and tabs failed to lock together and form a picture. Instead he saw fragments and sections, disparate and disjointed from one another. One by one he chose a piece and tried to make it fit.

“How’d you go?”  Morris asked on his return.

“Two pieces of sky. Two lousy pieces of sky.”

“Try a more methodical approach. If a piece doesn’t fit, put it down in a different spot. Work your way through the pile. You’ll soon find the piece that fits and you then repeat.”

In the background the television droned on as pieces of the puzzle slotted into space. The beige background of the table poked through areas of the puzzle still unsolved. Gaps formed where pieces had been lost, disappeared or eaten by the vacuum cleaner. Stray pieces from other puzzles sat loose to one side, disconnected from their own box and scenic picture. Lost souls in need of a connection.

Jason scooped the loose pieces into his hand and prodded them with his finger, turning them over and over in his palm. With a guttural scream he launched the pieces into the air causing a sudden downpour. With a soft plop a piece fell into Morris’ teacup.

His head hidden behind his hands, Jason sobbed quietly. Morris fished the puzzle piece from his tea. Jason pulled at his face with his hands, stretching out his eyelids then lower lip, streaking the tears.

“It’s not about the puzzle is it?” asked Morris. He sipped his cooling tea.

“It’s about the picture in my head,” said Jason. “There’s a picture I have of what I was before I got sick.” His hands waved over the pieces, conjuring a memory. “But then there’s the picture in the darkest days of my depression and I ended up here.” Open palms, face up, in a gesture of supplication. “I cannot picture me when I leave here. None of it makes sense.”

Pulling a scrappy hanky out of his pocket he blew his nose and wiped his eyes.

“It’s like someone’s rearranged the pieces of puzzle; thrown some pieces away and replaced them with new ones. They fit, but the picture’s all wrong. I see familiar shapes, glimpses of me, but it doesn’t fit with the picture on the box.”

Across the table hundreds of loose pieces, in no particular order, scattered, waiting to be assembled.

“The picture of me has changed. Is the picture wrong?”

“Not wrong; you’re beginning to understand yourself and your depression better,” said Morris.

“I cannot see the picture of what I want to become. What do I do?”

Morris selected a random blue piece and placed it into the puzzle. “Start a new picture.”

The Drum Solo

Jeff pushed open the front door of the inner-city terrace and navigated his way down the narrow corridor. It involved playing a game of Frogger, negotiating a bicycle, odd shoes, a discarded backpack and a random pair of his flatmate’s underpants.

Passing the closed bedroom door to the right of the corridor he heard the muted dialogue of a television and the running commentary of male and female voices. With a quiet knock he called to the inhabitants, “Hi Shane. Is Bernadette with you?”

“Hey, Jeff,” echoed Shane. The conversation continued through the closed door.

“You eaten yet?” asked the female voice.

“Nah. Late lecture at uni and a ton of reading to do for an assignment so I dodged the cafeteria.”

“I made a curry. There’s a plate for you in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Bernie. You’re a legend. You up for a jam on the weekend, Shane?”

“That’d be cool. I’m picking up my guitar from the shop on Thursday.”

From the door to his bedroom Jeff lobbed his backpack towards his desk, clipping the cymbals of his drum kit before targeting the kitchen. Waiting for his meal to reheat in the microwave he tapped out a rhythm on the bench top with his knife and fork. His plate of curry in one hand and a can of Coke in the other he retreated to his room and began his assault on the night’s readings.

The noise from the television tumbled over and under, through and around Shane and Bernadette’s chat. Jeff created a cone of silence by opening his computer and plugging in headphones. Firing up some tunes he pushed the distraction to the edge of consciousness.

Some time later a distraction punched through the cone of silence.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Jeff frowned, stopped reading through his lecture notes and listened.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He paused his music and lifted the headphones from his ears, trying to identify the location and cause of the sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, with a wooden tone. Absentmindedly Jeff tapped his pen on his notebook as he searched for the source. Turning in his chair he noticed it was coming from inside the house. In particular, behind the thin adjacent wall connecting the two bedrooms.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

From his flatmate’s bedroom came the undeniable sound of horizontal folk dancing. And it was a passionate dance. Jesse grimaced at the thought of Shane’s hairy backside rising and falling like the moon. The shenanigans next door needed some assistance; Jeff wondered how a guitarist lacked rhythm. The drum kit beside his desk offered a solution.

Taking a seat at the kit he began to feather the bass drum using the sound of the bed head thumping next door as his metronome. Lightly the bass drum beater touched the skin, brushing up against it to produce a low muffled tone. In small increments Jesse added more power to the pedal, producing a whump, whump, whump, whump.

With his other foot the hi-hat produced a clean chick, chick, chick, chick in unison with the bass drum. The bass drum and hi-hat, two heartbeats, kept the pulse steady underneath.

Sticks in hand he tickled the snare drum in a light roll, keeping the sticks low. The snare roll increased in intensity as accents cracked from right to left and left to right.

And still the pulse was steady.

The snare buzzed and popped with accents, a simmering tension waiting for release. Punctuation on the toms dropped like spits of rain, the approach of an impending tempest. Quick bursts played between snare and toms suggested, coaxed, teased.

With the ferocity of a summer storm, waves of notes tumbled down the toms, sweeping from high to low and low to high; rising and falling from soft whispers to shouted declarations.

A quick pause for breath as the rush subsided to a low rumbling on the floor tom as the pulse throbbed beneath.

The floor tom rolled on, holding back, threatening to break open at any moment.

The pulse quickened, a heartbeat racing towards climax.

Cymbals crashed sparsely over the quickening roll. The crescendo exploded, accented with strikes on the snare.

Lows and highs merged together. Bass drum and cymbals erupted in a climactic crescendo before silence as the sounds rang out.

Jeff rested the sticks on the snare and watched the vibrations of the cymbals shimmer before coming to rest.

There was a polite knock on the bedroom door before it opened. Shane stood there, the door covering enough but allowing Jeff to see he was naked. His face was still flushed and a little flustered.

“Dude, what’s the difference between an orgasm and a drum solo?”

“I have no idea, mate.”

“You know at some point the orgasm will end.”

 

Voices of Creativity

A brief twitter discussion about maths, science and the humanities took me down a little garden path about the subjects we studied at school and the voice of creativity we develop.

It began with a discussion about the correlation between music and mathematics (explains my humanities/maths/music balance) then veered into the vagaries of the quality of the teacher in front of the room (caveat: I am an English teacher).

The quality of the teacher does have an impact on the learning of the student. A good teacher recognises the different learning styles of the students in the classroom and differentiates the curriculum. A good teacher also understands there is a world beyond the classroom and brings it into the dialogue of the classroom. A good teacher shows students the applicability of the curriculum and content to the wider world.

But it led to one person in the discussion recounting a statement that discounts a student’s aptitude: “You’re not mathematically inclined.”

You can substitute “mathematically” for any subject: You’re not artistically inclined. You’re not historically inclined. You’re not scientifically inclined.

We all have preferred learning styles and ways of expressing our learning and creativity. I refuse to believe students should be placed into categories regarding their learning. We need to expand our thinking beyond the boundaries and confines of subjects (English, Maths, Science etc) to learning skills and problem solving, to develop higher order thinking skills.

The modern approach to learning is to know a lot about a narrow field of enquiry. Rather, we need to know a little about a wider field of enquiry. Kind of like a talk back radio host, except with a higher IQ and a lot more common sense; a modern Renaissance Man. I want to be a modern Renaissance Man.

However, we have preferences and passions in our learning and our interests. For some it is the humanities (English and History) while for others it is the formulae of Maths and Sciences. I am securely in the former while I enjoyed Maths and Sciences in high school. And others find their passion in music and instruments or paints and pencils.

We have voices. We have different voices. Each subject is a different voice to express one’s creativity and passion.

I have found my voice in writing. I also another voice that dabbles in music and there is some correlation and cross over between the two.

Creativity is not limited to the “arts” i.e. writing, music, drama, art, dance, film making.

There is beauty in the mathematical language of the universe, a deeper understanding of the shape and form of the natural world in the patterns of the ecosystem.

Find your own voice.

A Writer’s Emotions

Prompted by a previous post The Reasons Why, a question was raised that is specifically focused at writers: What does it feel like when you write?

As with any creative endeavour, the creative process is a Hydra, a labyrinth, a slippery bar of soap and having to sort out the pile of electrical cables that have somehow entangled themselves behind the television cabinet (all electrical cables, speaker leads and instrument cables are sentient beings that tangle themselves in knots even when coiled correctly – for the non-musician, think of a plate of spaghetti).

Each creative person has their method, but at the heart of it, what does that person FEEL when creating.

Here’s what a few twitter friends had to say:

WookiesGirl Its the most frustrating and yet fulfilling thing I do.

LilyMulholland  to get those people out of my head…it’s getting pretty crowded in there…

Emma Newman Much better.

Helen Howell I’ve just finished writing a flash for my blog for friday, and it feels good. Just did a book review and I kinda feel pleased when I see the effort I have put into it up on the screen. When I write I become transported to the world I create. I not just see and hear my characters, I feel what they feel – writing is more than a therapy it’s a magical experience.

How do I feel when I write?

My other creative endeavour is music. I play drums. I equate writing and drumming/music, two artistic endeavours, as sharing the same process. There is the “rehearsal” phase, developing craft and technique (the drafting and editing phases), and there is the “performance” phase (the finished product).

The rehearsal phase is often a dog’s breakfast, splattered from one end of the kitchen to the other. Whatever you put your hand to is smeared rancid custard. It’s gruelling, tiresome, frustrating, painful and makes you want to take out your eyeballs with a crayon.

But there are times in the practice room when rudimental exercises become meditative. You find a flow, a rhythm, a beat.

Then there are moments when playing music is sublime. Those moments during a live performance when every part connects seamlessly from drums to guitar to bass to vocals to keys. You carefully execute the parts you hear in your head, translated into your hands.

However, to make roses bloom, (to mix my metaphors even further) you have to get your hands filthy dirty and smelling of manure.

How do I feel when I write? I feel a spectrum of emotions from giddy excitement of a new idea to the joy of the first few drafts. Then comes the hard work of shaping and refining. It can suck the life out of you and the story. Think of fingernails dragged down a chalkboard.

But…

There is a certain smugness and self satisfaction when a story is as perfect as you can make it.

And it feels good.

How do you feel when you write?