More in the “I live at the end of the galaxy and every flight is so LONG” way.

(Also in the “I didn’t finish packing till 2 am” way.)

Here is a review of my Top 3.

3. Auckland, New Zealand – Sweet as

(Brisbane to Canada and Alaska)

Auckland is a sentimental favourite, due to being the only time for decades that I’ve flown internationally in company. Beloved company. My mother. A journey rendered more tender by the looming backstory that it was the trip she’d always meant to take with Dad.

If you customarily travel solo, you’ll know the swift agility of it. Like a confident peak-hour driver you can anticipate signals, change directions with ease, adapt to opportunities.

With an older loved one, your focus shifts to protecting them, extracting them from the barging tumult of elsewhere-looking travellers.

Accommodation: A blessedly vacant departure lounge, with padded, cloth-covered benches.

Ambiance: The delightfully relaxed Kiwi outlook… “Welcome, bro. Do whatever.”

5 stars – a solid two-hour transit nap.

2. Frankfurt, Germany – None shall sleep

(Brisbane to Russia)

Frankfurt makes it into the Top 3 as a test of endurance. If you’ve ever wanted to star on Survivor or I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, Frankfurt is the transit-nap airport for you. I’ve trekked New Zealand’s Milford Track for fun and book research, so you know I’m up for a challenge.

Frankfurt airport possibly has two postcodes, it’s that big. You’ll spend roughly two of your six transit hours getting from your arrival gate to your departure gate. If you’ve already been travelling 23 hours before transit even begins, lots of trudging helps deepen the despair element of exhaustion, leading to better chances of sleeping through what’s about to come.

Accommodation: Hard plastic seating firmly segmented by hard plastic armrests. The designers probably reckoned this would stop people napping in airport corridors. They didn’t reckon on me. Backside on one seat, knees bent up, feet on the next, small items of cabin baggage wedged around me to stop me cascading onto the floor.

Ambiance: Décor reminiscent of a public emergency department – except the hospital wouldn’t have a smoker’s zone ten metres up-corridor. Hard, echoing walls. Hard vinyl flooring featuring raised non-slip discs, so that each one of the thirteen thousand cabin bags wheeled past during the next several hours will sing gadunk-gadunk-GADUNK-GADUNK-GADUNK-gadunk-gadunk.

5 stars – creates great transit-nap-stories to tell at parties.

1. Singapore – Make yourself at home

(Brisbane to UK)

Singapore has apparently heard that travellers will be tired, and instead of looking for ways to stop them napping, they encourage it.

This is so revolutionary it probably needs restating: They HELP you loll about.

Accommodation: The ‘quiet zone’, dimly-lit, offers recliners. When even that wasn’t quite horizontal enough for me, I lay on dimly-lit clean carpet, feet elevated on my cabin bag. Even better was the time I splurged on the transit hotel. It’s actually part of the airport, above the transit lounge, no customs processing etc. I booked for 6 hours, took a hot shower, slipped between crisp white sheets with a sigh, and received a wake-up call to ensure I made my connecting flight.

Ambiance: When you’ve had enough napping, wander carpeted corridors, duty-free shops and a range of restaurants. Listen to a maestro on the grand piano. Watch enormous goldfish swim in a limpid landscaped pond.

Possible hazard: Travellers may not want to leave transit and continue the journey.

5 stars – Xanadu.

Favourite pics from March

These are a few of my favourite images I posted to Instagram this month… a searchlight-sky for the first day of autumn; me in full wet-weather kit, heading out to greet all the other people who claim to love “long walks in the rain” (spoiler: there were none); and some astonishingly bright zinnias I enjoyed on my walk (no filter used).

Other things I’ve been creating this month

• Simple Website Setup for Editors and Authors over at smallbluedog.com
• Author Platform: Do I need a website for the Gracewriters Podcast
• Author Platform: Email lists – Why do they matter? for the Gracewriters Podcast
• I was interviewed by coach Malini Devadas of the Edit Boost Podcast on the topic of dealing with a full email Inbox. She gave me great tips that I am working on putting into practice.

What about you?

How has your March been? Have you ever slept in an airport? Do you have any travel memories that come to mind, during this time when we can’t go many places?

I invite my mother, who also needs a break. The day dawns… with a heatwave. Hot weather makes me weak as a kitten and cranky as a snow leopard, but I am determined to be thankful.

Humidity drips off us as we pack, slow as a pair of sloths, finally departing at 4.30 pm into peak hour traffic – and a storm of apocalyptic proportions.

Night is falling when I stumble through sodden, wind-whipped ferns into a cabin the size and temperature of a toaster oven. The windows will have to stay shut. The storm is somehow lashing all four walls.

I coax some shudders out of an ancient air-conditioner. It’s strangely confined to an alcove above the main bed. I switch on a ceiling fan for assistance and a jet engine springs to life. Wild weather inside and out.

“The bathroom is clean,” Mum says, back from her inspection.

“And it’s nicely renovated.” I survey gleaming white paint and a bed dressed in crisp white linen. I test the mattress… which has the resilience of rice pudding. “Umm… will your back be okay?”

Mum says brightly, “It will be lovely.” She is apparently intent on thankfulness, too.

I leave her cooling in the jet-stream and drive out to buy the best fish-and-chips. The recommended shop is in darkness, which throws me. I commence a vague search for second-best fish-and-chips.

All the shops are dark.

The storm has caused a blackout.

Yikes! Thank you, God, that the power hasn’t gone out in the toaster-cabin!

Finally, there are lights in the distance, golden arches. McDonalds – with a generator, bless them. Back at HQ, we make the most of our jet-cooled burgers as the endless storm howls and crashes and rumbles.

We are only too ready to retire early – Mum to the big bed, me to a narrow bunk in a hot corner.

By 1 am, I can tell my mother is still not asleep.

“That bed’s no good for you.”

“No, no, I’ll be all right.” She is shrouded in blankets against the icy air-con, deep within a mattress with its own gravitational force – and clearly in pain.

I eventually persuade her to exit, and she flails her limbs like an upended turtle. The bed makes sucking noises as I haul her free.

Settled into my bunk, she sighs. “Nice and warm.”

I’ve inherited her bad back, so I can’t use the big bed. I wrestle a mattress off the upper bunk and park it on the floor under the jet engine. “Nice and cool,” I murmur.

Next day, we stagger bleary-eyed out of the toaster-cabin into more ferocious heat, but find lunch in a wonderful café with a generator and a view of the sea.

Later, the sun sinks but the heat doesn’t. I’m determined there will be a swim. It gets downgraded to a wade, because the surf lifesavers have just clocked-off – but my ankles are cool.

We drive down the coast and stumble upon a wharf precinct packed with restaurants – and electricity!

We savour gelati under a flamboyant sunset, and take some rather splendid fish-and-chips back to the toaster-cabin, before settling philosophically into our beds – in the warm corner (Mum) and on the jet-cooled kitchen floor (me).

In the morning, the heatwave has broken. There’s time for one last mango smoothie at the lovely oceanfront café before the drive home. Crystal waves curl onto the sand, and a cool breeze caresses my face as I slurp every last blissful morsel from that cup.

Life can be strange.

Strangely good.

Favourite pics from February

These are a few of my favourite images I posted to Instagram this month… Herons flying home for the night against an impressionist cloudscape; a weirdly half-and-half dusky sky which I’m told features anticrepuscular rays; and my security manager, Rufus Edward Dog, proving that awkward selfies with extra chins run in the family.

Other things I’ve been creating this month

• 5 Types of Editing for Authors over at smallbluedog.com
• Editing and Editors for the Gracewriters Podcast
• Self-editing for Writers for the Gracewriters Podcast

What about you?

How has your February been? Please join the conversation below. I love to hear your news.

Killarney, my little Australian terrier, is 16. That is 112 in dog years. She’s still got plenty of waggle in her tail, but spends most of her days training for the Nap Olympics or doing her version of ballroom dancing. She is nearly blind, mostly deaf and has lost much of her hair. She is also losing pieces of her mind.

It’s a couple of years now since Killarney first got up from my feet and went looking for me. My grandfather died of Alzheimer’s so I was imagining awful things ahead. But her confusion has not progressed far beyond bursts of eccentricity, and I’m thankful.

Picture this: I decide to sew some coloured patches on a new bedspread, to connect it with my hand-dyed curtains (created in a wild moment some years ago). The bedspread has been waiting, patches pinned, for months, alongside my sewing machine that crouches on a small desk in a tight corner of the living room.

Piled around the sewing machine are other projects, a kaleidoscope of good ideas waiting to be realised. (When archeologists dig up my sewing desk in a thousand years, they’ll think it’s a textile museum.)

Anyway, I decide that for this bedspread, the time has come. Yes, right now, even though it’s been a long day and I’m tired and achey. Meh. It will only take half an hour.

The thread in the machine looks like a good match and must be the one I’d intended for the project. What a bonus!

By the time I’ve sewn one patch, I’m having misgivings about the thread. Just to be sure, I sew a second patch. Hmmm. It doesn’t look quite right, but I’m not unpicking two patches. The thread will be a “feature”.

The bedspread is enormous and has an impossible turning circle. At the corner of each patch, I have to force metres of quilted fabric through the arch on the sewing machine. My shoulder is beginning to cramp.

I finish a third patch and pull down the head of the lamp next to the sewing machine to shine some strong light on the matter, something I perhaps could have done at the start. Yep. Definitely the wrong colour, that thread.

I’ve left the TV on behind me as a distraction. It was playing ancient reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond when I started, but now it’s The Simpsons (not my favourite). The volume is too high but I’m not leaving my seat or I’ll never get this job finished.

As I haul through another turning circle on the bedspread, I reflect that any sane person would have made more space around the sewing machine before beginning. But it was only a quick job. My shoulder is burning and I’m approaching a state of disgruntlement with this whole silly idea when Killarney decides to join in.

Thrown off-kilter by the flurry of unusual activity (routine is essential for dogs prone to confusion), she develops a pressing need to insert herself into the sliver of space between my leg and the wall. Who could possibly imagine why.

“Half an hour” has become an hour, and still the clock ticks onwards. By now, Futurama (not my favourite) is blaring in the background and from the dialogue it seems there is a bunch of people trapped in a sewer with mutants. Meanwhile, trapped among my foot pedal and swathes of bedspread is a small dog. She has made it past my leg and now has her head pressed firmly against the wall behind the desk. She squeals indignantly and moonwalks, trying valiantly to make headway.

I tolerate this for a while — you learn tolerance while living with a senior pet — but eventually I bellow at her to get out of there. I’m shouting purely for my own benefit because she’s deaf as a brick and hears none of it. I’m sure my neighbours are enjoying the auditory treat of squealing dog, yelling woman, rumbling sewing machine, and too-loud television, but I never promised to raise the tone of the neighbourhood.

Finally Killarney desists, and wanders off to rummage in her basket. Most dogs turn round three times then lie down. She loses track of how many circuits she’s done and it goes on and on, accompanied by squealing and muttering. I’ve grown philosophical about this behaviour; at least it’s exercise.

A few more minutes and there’s commotion around the foot pedal again. Another brave assault on the wall. We go through this cycle several more times.

The closing credits to Futurama are rolling up the screen as I finish the sewing with a big sigh. All is quiet on the dog front. Killarney has ceased intimidating the wall and is snoozing in her basket.

On my way past to the bedroom, she stirs and decides to come with. She loves to help. So now I’m clambering round the bed, trying to get acres of cloth arranged correctly, while a small dog ducks and weaves round my ankles, confounding every step.

It’s all in place at last. Ashamed now for shouting at woman’s best friend, I bend my legs and pat my knees, which even a mostly-deaf, nearly-blind, slightly-demented dog recognises as the international signal for “Wanna cuddle?”

I sway gently with the dog in my arms and survey my handiwork, while Killarney makes small contented noises in her throat. The strange coloured thread on the patches looks quite nice, really.

What are your experiences with home decorating and pets??

Christmas means summer here in Brisbane, and schools close for six weeks. When I was a kid it often meant a road trip. Sometimes we were visiting distant relatives, and sometimes it was simply the result of our parents’ affection for the outback. All seven of us would pile into our Kombi van stacked with luggage, cooking equipment, folding chairs, sleeping bags, colouring books.

There was the year we travelled 2000 km north to Cairns, and spent Christmas Day in our big canvas tent near a beach along the way. Dad chopped down a tiny pine tree from somewhere, we decorated it with foil milk bottle caps, and even though we’d received presents before we left home there were brown paper parcels under the tree for each of us — second hand books from the local book exchange!

There was the year we travelled 2000 km south to Melbourne. I still remember how it felt to drive into the dark streets of Sydney at the halfway mark — how eagerly I searched for lighted Christmas trees in the windows of homes we passed, and the thrill each time I glimpsed one.

Roads were rough and narrow back then, not the broad highways of today. At this time of year, when I hear cicadas screeching or currawongs calling while the sweat beads on the back of my neck, I’m transported back to those journeys through the bush. It’s almost as though my legs are once again sticking to those (non-airconditioned) vinyl seats.

*

Fast forward to 2008. I had just paid the deposit on a tiny caravan — what my US friends call a trailer. It was a retro van with yellow trim. I wanted a plain silver one, something more understated and discreet, but my Dad was delighted they only had a yellow one left. He liked the way it matched my little yellow Beetle.

I had never yet towed anything in my life, and found the idea intimidating. But I knew it would be OK – Dad would teach me.

Dad was the undisputed King of Towing. His engineer’s brain had figured out the angles. He could reverse any trailer of any size into almost anywhere, without becoming flustered or scraping gateposts. He could even do this with strangers watching. Heck, he could have done it with a marching band going past.

He was a calm and patient teacher too, so I knew he’d get me on the right track with my new ‘rig’. And then we could go on some trips as a convoy – me in my little rig, he and Mum in their own.

Dad was there the day I signed the contract on the van, but by the time I took delivery just two weeks later, he was gone – a sudden brain haemorrhage. I was very close to my Dad, and his passing left an immense vacuum in my life, echoing with the things we were still going to do.

*

Among the many memories he left for me, the road trips are some of my favourites. The destinations varied, but some things were always the same.

First, my Dad could cobble together a ‘fix’ for any problem. Perhaps his most legendary triumph was the time in remote western Queensland that the trailer laden with our camping equipment suddenly lurched drunkenly and collapsed onto the axle, scraping and grinding. Dad pulled up in a cloud of dust and got out to survey the problem. In no time he fashioned a new ‘spring’ from a flexible sapling he cut at the roadside, and it got that crippled trailer all the way home.

Second, we often camped for free. My Dad was one of the most generous people I have ever met, but with five children and a lot of travelling to do, he had to be creative. For a quick overnight stop, this might be as simple as pulling off the road, throwing down a tarpaulin, tossing seven sleeping bags in a row on top of it, then laying another tarpaulin over the lot, in case it rained in the night.

Third, we arrived late. Always. To be honest, this was not entirely and completely Dad’s fault, but it was inevitably his decision to ‘press on to the next town’. I have so many memories of setting up camp in failing light. In fact, I’m not sure I know how to pitch tents in daylight.

*

A couple of months after Dad died, that little yellow caravan was still looking at me, and I knew if I didn’t do something with it now, I never would. I invited my mother to join me on the inaugural road trip to a tiny gold mining town 400 km from Brisbane. I was nervous about the towing, and I wondered if either of us would be able to bear my father’s palpable absence – he really should have been there for this.

But, in a way, he was.

First, we ran late – very late. The plan was to get an early start, but after endless rearranging and fussing, I tentatively towed the little van out the driveway at 7pm. Yes, you read that right. 7 o’clock AT NIGHT. It was already dark, and we had at least five hours driving ahead of us, but like my father, I didn’t want to lose another whole day.

Second, we camped by the roadside. By 9pm, I had come to the conclusion that I was too tired to attempt a midnight arrival over winding mountain roads cluttered with kangaroo-hazards (kangaroos and car radiators do not mix). So we pulled into a roadside parking area, joining a row of slumbering caravans. I glowed with a strange satisfaction as I lay there listening to the heavy transports roaring up and down the highway just a few metres away, thinking of how it would have pleased my father that I was camping for free.

Third, we had a problem, and I ‘fixed’ it. The latch malfunctioned on the van’s skylight, so that it was flapping wildly in the air as I drove. I looped a rope through the skylight, anchored it to the legs of the dinette table, and drove on. Not very elegant, but it got the job done.

There were definitely some tears on that journey, as we remembered the one who was missing from it all. But I made brand new memories of my own, built on my father’s legacy. Dad might have left for the ultimate road trip, but part of him will always be there driving with me.

Arriving home a few days later (late and in the dark, of course!) I somehow managed to reverse my little rig into nearly the right spot in the backyard. I’m sure I’ll get better at that. I am my father’s daughter, after all.

It’s a tiny thing. Who thinks about it? Just part of the soundtrack to life here in sub-tropical Queensland.

Two weeks later I was sicker than I had ever been. My joints and muscles were on fire. I had raging fevers and delirium. I was so exhausted and weak I could barely walk as far as the bathroom. It went on and on.

After about six weeks, it finally settled down. But it never really went away. I went to doctor after doctor. I had test after test. It’s a wonder I didn’t look like a prune, they’d taken so much blood out of me for testing.

There never seemed to be any clear answers, and some days I felt like my life was over. But then I got cross. I didn’t want my life defined by one mosquito bite. Was there another way?

I remembered how a friend being treated for post-viral fatigue by a very senior specialist a few years earlier had been prescribed a steadily increasing program of exercise. No matter how bad it felt, she had to do it. And it did seem to help her. (Note: this is no longer recommended. And I’m not recommending it. Just telling the story of what happened to me…)

I wondered if something like that could work for me.

But it was so hard to exercise–painful and utterly exhausting. I knew I needed a powerful motivator to get me to take this particular “medicine”.

There are two things you need to know to fully understand the crazy thing I did next.

Firstly, for many years I had wanted to hike the Milford Track in New Zealand. It was a “bucket list” item for me. I wanted to do it as a research trip for my debut novel Poison Bay — a concept that had been composting in my brain since the 90s.

The book is about a bunch of old friends with past secrets who go on a long trek through Fiordland National Park… and when they find themselves lost, things start to go very, very wrong.

I’m an old journalist, so I wanted some facts to base my book on, to trigger ideas and word pictures and emotions. I wanted to know what it really felt like to hike those mountains. I wanted to write notes and take photos and interview people.

I’d been talking about doing my “research hike” along the Milford Track for years, but every year there had been another reason not to do it. I was too busy, or none of my friends were available. Yada yada yada.

The Milford Track goes through Fiordland National Park along the remote south-western coast of New Zealand. It takes four days, and covers 54 km. The start and end of the track are accessible only by boat. No phone signal. No roads. Once you are on the track, the only way out is your own legs or a rescue helicopter.

It goes through mountains that other mountains want to be when they grow up. These are professional mountains. If they were buildings they would be 400 stories high.

It’s one of the wettest places on earth. They have up to 7 metres of rain a year – flash floods sometimes sweep hikers away, and I even spoke to someone who had been blown off the track and broken their jaw.

There are avalanche alerts at various places along the track – yes, even in summer. People get caught in blizzards and lose their way.

The trees drip streamers of moss, like giant green cobwebs. It’s an otherworldly landscape, spooky and dangerous and gorgeous.

Sound like a good place to set a mystery/thriller novel??

The second thing you need to know about me is that I’m not actually a very good hiker. I’m not an athlete. I have eccentric knees. I love wild places, and I love the idea of hiking – but if I’m going to be absolutely truthful, I’m mostly in it for the snacks and the photography!

Nine months after being bitten by that mosquito I booked to hike the Milford Track. Yes, I actually booked it, and then nearly fainted from shock and the fear of what might lie ahead.

Here was my Motivation to exercise.

I had a deadline. I had a commitment.

I had PAID!

I had to do it.

So I began my training schedule. I walked around the suburbs in hiking boots with my rucksack on my back, feeling foolish. Gradually, I added more weight to the rucksack.

I found some steep hills outside Brisbane, and developed a 3 kilometre training circuit. Every weekend I would go up there and hike, even starting at 5am when summer came early and the heat was debilitating.

I couldn’t do much at first. Each time I’d go home after training and curl into the foetal position for a few hours and try to recover, my whole body feeling like it was on fire.

I built up little by little. In each training session I would be able to do just a little more for the same amount of pain.

I felt as though the exercise was pushing that virus out of my muscle fibres, one excruciating millimetre at a time.

Finally November came. There I stood, beside the sign that marked the beginning of the Milford Track. [Gulp]

I was terrified. I didn’t know if I would be leaving this track on my own two legs or in a rescue helicopter! (I joked with my friends at work to look for me on the evening news. I hoped it was just a joke.)

There were retirees scampering down the track ahead of me each day. Mostly, I was last. But I just kept plodding – one step, after another step, after another step.

I have two exquisite memories of that hike.

First, I remember standing at the top of Mackinnon Pass, which is more than a kilometre straight upwards. If you’re from the Himalayas, that might not seem too bad, but for a girl from Brisbane, that’s mighty high.

It had been snowing in the morning, but the clouds lifted for us slow pokes down the back of the bus. (Sometimes there are advantages to being last!)

So many people hike that track and never get to see the view I saw. Those incredible mountains, steep and so very tall, marching away into the distance. They boggle my mind. No photo can capture their immensity.

When I close my eyes, I can still see that view now. I swear I could hear angels singing!

The second memory is of standing under the sign that marks the end of the track. After four days of beautiful hell, my knees were so swollen I thought they might explode. I was leaning heavily on my hiking poles, using them like crutches to help me stand.

But my heart was bursting with joy, because I HAD DONE IT.

I had done it.

I had done it.

Do you know that it’s only recently I have realised, I might still be saying: “I’d love to hike the Milford track” if it wasn’t for that mosquito. That horrible insect that brought such suffering into my life was also the catalyst for one of my greatest achievements.

Some days I look back to the Belinda of 2005, and I say to her, “Who are you? And more importantly, where are you?”

I still have mountains to climb. I have other mosquito bites to overcome. Some of the problems are awful, and some days I just want to give up.

You have mountains to climb too. They might not be literal ones with snow on top of them, but you have visions and dreams that light a fire inside your soul.

And you have mosquito bites, large and small, that are getting in the way of your dreams. Big bites like grief or serious illness, and the little constant nibbles of daily difficulties and lack of confidence.

Will you join me this year, this day, in the Mosquito Bite Challenge? Let’s search for ways to release that fierce, determined, possibly INSANE person inside each of us, who can do amazing things in spite of the hassles of life.

Let’s climb our mountains. Maybe we can even take our challenges and turn them around into something good!

When you and I get to the end of the trail, may we be able to say: My life was defined by my dreams and the challenges I fought and overcame, not by the mosquito bites.

Poison Bay

Yes, I finally finished that novel! It was another huge challenge, and there’s an extraordinary feeling that comes of being able to hold it in my hand. And it has now won an IPPY Silver Medal, which is pretty exciting. If you enjoy mystery/thrillers set in wild places and you’d like to know more, you can check out my page dedicated to Poison Bay.

p.s. I’m not a doctor, and I’m just telling you my story, not suggesting how you should treat an illness! Talk to your doctor before you do anything crazy.

I just kept pointing in his general direction, and clicking away fast, with no real idea what I’d see when I viewed the freeze-frames afterwards.

I expected something reminiscent of a football match, but what I got had more in common with the Bolshoi Ballet. Take a look…

First of all, we must prepare and focus.

First Position

“And-a five, six, seven eight…”

We were treated to some country and western stylings.

The Hoedown

“Well, life on the farm was kinda laid-back…”

Followed by something a bit more urban…

Breakdance

(Rufus is too young to know any hip hop slang, so you’ll have to make up your own)

Something not nearly so cool…

The Hokey Pokey

“You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out, you put your right foot in and shake it all about”

Something from the movies…

The Matrix

“Ok, so it’s not really a dance, but you’ve got to admit this is pretty clever, huh?”

Something even more dramatic…

Bolero

“Did you ever see those ice dancers, Torville and Dean? They WISH they could do this as good as me!”

And to finish up, something from Ireland…

Riverdance

“Who says Michael Flatley is Lord of the Dance??”

If you want to try this silliness with your own pooch, you need a camera with a motor drive or “sports” function, so you can hold down the shutter and it just keeps on clicking.

Oh, and lots of space on your memory card — I took more than 300 shots in the space of a few minutes to get these little revelations.

If you do try it, give us a link to your photos in the comments!

The last word, from Rufus…

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Donations please! I prefer treats to coins (coins could get stuck in my innards).”

]]> https://belindapollard.com/frisbee-dancing-by-rufus-the-dog.html/feed 9 1169 https://belindapollard.com/looking-for-the-flipside.html https://belindapollard.com/looking-for-the-flipside.html#comments Tue, 21 May 2013 00:25:14 +0000 https://belindapollard.com/?p=993 I grew up surrounded by trees, and I loved them, and I miss them now that I live somewhere different.

But I’ve discovered that focusing on what we’ve lost sometimes blinds us to the flipside… the good thing that might follow in the wake of the loss.

My childhood neighbourhood was full of trees. Rainforest trees with seeds the size and weight of cricket balls that would suddenly drop from a lofty height with life-threatening potential. Mighty pines that released clouds of yellow pollen, and shed pine cones that I dressed in hats and clothes and stuck paper eyes on during my Handicraft Period (similar to Picasso’s Blue Period but requiring more glue). The blessed relief of dense mango tree shade on a steamy summer-sauna day.

Other trees with edible fruit… exotic pecans (don’t break the nut open with your teeth if it’s got ants in it!) and native macadamias with their spiky dark leaves pricking our skin. Mulberries that stained our hands and faces and yielded leaves for our silkworm projects. Even one neighbour with a custard apple, sweet and gritty and delicious once you pulled out the little grubs that congregated near the stem.

And towering above them all, native gums keeping a serene eye on all this lushness, like a benign prefect at tree school.

The big trees were full of birdlife, starting with the sarcastic dawn chorus of the kookaburras (yes! you do have to get up! ha ha ha), blending into the warbling of magpies, the throat-clearing of currawongs, the mournful hooooo of the storm bird, and the screeching of delinquent sulphur-crested cockatoos, drunk on fermented umbrella tree fruit yet again and swinging upside down in rowdy gangs.

At dusk, the birds went to bed and the night-shift came on. Flying foxes shrieking and squabbling, possums stuttering, koalas grunting and growling. (Anyone who thinks the Australian bush is silent has never been there.)

There’s just something about trees, especially big trees, that speaks to my spirit. When I’m surrounded by something so much bigger than myself, it’s like a visual aid putting my problems into perspective, and making me think of God. My heart lifts a little, my worries are quietened, just a little.

When I bought my own place, I couldn’t afford a big yard. In fact, I ended up with a pragmatic choice, a little townhouse among others just the same, with the redeeming feature of a big open river plain over my back fence. I do like my little house, but I’m sad that the tree police won’t let anything grow taller than themselves. Heaven forbid we should get leaves in our gutters, or, horror of horrors, have to rake them up from the lawn in autumn!

I’ve consoled myself by growing an improbable collection of trees in my little courtyard — which have finally started to bring a few birds other than crows — and visiting other people’s trees when I can. And of course, I’ve grumped about having no trees.

But do you know what I’ve finally realised I get at this house, that I never had much of growing up?

Sky.

When the trees are all gathering around and overhead, you get only glimpses of sky. And now that I’ve seen it repeatedly, I am able to report that sky is actually quite a beautiful thing too.

Our summer storms come roaring in from the Darling Downs to the south west, or the really vicious ones from the north west. At my childhood home, they would sneak up on us, and we’d be scrambling to get the washing off the line just as a thunderclap released the deluge.

Now I can watch the huge thunderheads approaching for hours, with fascination and sometimes fear.

And the sunsets are simply extraordinary. The evening art display is always beautiful and often exquisite, whether the soft gradations of blue and pink and silver of a clear winter sky, or the infinite combinations of cloud — from delicate swirls and wisps of gold and silver, to bruised purple and lurid orange and sulky charcoal.

And I take the time to look at it, because I’m that sort of person, a dreamer and gazer who probably should be taking the garbage out to the bin but is looking up instead. It thrills me, refreshes me, inspires me.

I have a special memory of driving down my road through one glorious sunset and saying aloud, “Well, God, you’ve excelled yourself today,” and receiving an unmistakeable answering thrill through my spirit. Far out brussel sprout, he heard me! So often I forget to remember that he likes beauty too — he made it, after all!

I have other special memories from the time when my teenage niece was living with me, another dreamy soul who likes to gaze at things. We would often sprawl on the ground in front of my house and watch the changing sky show until the light had all seeped away.

Of course, I continued to whinge and moan about the absence of big trees at my house. And then it suddenly dawned on me one day: the reason I had so much glorious sky to look at was…. (drumroll) the absence of trees. My loss was also my gain.

I’ve seen that happen in other parts of my life too. When I used to spend three hours every day commuting to work, I resented every minute… but now I realise I got much more reading done then than I ever have time for now!

Trees and trains are small potatoes compared to some losses, but can the principle still apply?

I met a woman with terminal cancer. She spoke frankly about her fears, but also saw positives in her situation. “Any of us can die without warning,” she said, “but because I know my time is short, I’m able to make the most of the months I have left.” I was awestruck by her ability to find a silver lining in such a dark cloud. She spent her time talking openly to people about her hopes for eternity, and saying everything that she needed to say to the people she loved.

When my own beloved father died very suddenly, it was a brutal shock. But later I was able to see God’s mercies in the situation.

There was the obvious one, that it was better for my Dad that he slipped away quickly instead of lingering in pain and confusion for days, weeks or months.

But there was a more subtle benefit too. Because we hadn’t been drained by an Intensive Care marathon, we had more health and strength ourselves to grieve and heal and try to get back into life. I’ve done the ICU endurance feat before, and it sucks the life out of you. My grief would have been so much harder to bear, with that level of exhaustion.

I’m trying to learn to be more thankful, every day, even though I often slip back into belly-aching about whatever has gone wrong again! I’m a praying person, and I’ve begun deliberately slowing down and — before I start asking for things — saying thank you for every good thing that comes to mind that has happened that day, and also looking for a flipside to the less-than-good things, that I could perhaps be thankful for too. It’s a small thing, but it’s a start, and it does seem to be helping change the direction of my mind.

How good are you at seeing the flipside of the things you don’t want? I’m trying to get better at it, but it’s a lifelong process. I’d love to hear about your experiences.

I have had about 45 minutes sleep since October.

And so I’m going to post some gratuitous puppy photos instead.

This makes this story a bit of fluff. Literally.

We have sleeping puppy photos, eating puppy photos, even cute-pink-puppy-toe photos!

Actually, maybe we’ll call it a Photo Essay. Does that make it sound more Serious?

Here we go. Get your “Awwwww” ready.

Newborn

Cute pink puppy toes

Puppies are born with PINK TOES! Who knew?????

Accommodation

Where to put puppies when the weather has suddenly turned cold for this time of year? How about the little downstairs bathroom? And we’ll fold up a cardboard box to make a barrier to keep them in. That should do it!

How many puppies will fit in a box?

At two days old, we take the puppies to the vet for their check. How do you transport four squirming teeny tiny pups? How about a cardboard box? And, I know, let’s photograph them in the same box every week, just for fun!

 Job description: Be Adorable

(Their aunty wishes she could have a few of those…)

 The trials of motherhood

Team photo

Ok, let’s organise the Waggle Mafia for a team photo.

We need a photo for the ad, and we really do need four puppies in a row. All looking at the camera. How to do it?

Maybe if we put them with their mother… she might organise them.

Hmmm. Well, that wasn’t very successful. Let’s try something else.

Another failure. How about the basket. They’ll all sit in that and look at me. Surely.

OK. I give up.

Let’s do it this way.

So tell me, what do you think of our puppies. Adorable? What is your experience with small dogs, or indeed any other young animals?!

I’ve been invited to take part in a “blog tag” which means I write about my upcoming novel POISON BAY this week, answering a set of questions. At the end of this post, I will also “tag” several other writers who will write about their own books.

I was “tagged” by Marianne Wheelaghan, a Scottish writer who I met on Twitter, where she is often encouraging other writers. Marianne blogged last week about her new book, FOOD OF GHOSTS, which features a Scottish detective investigating a tragic death on Kiribati, in the Pacific. It’s an intriguing location, and I love an intriguing location! Marianne’s book is just out, and I’m looking forward to reading it. Marianne also runs online writing classes.

I haven’t really talked on this blog about my own recently-completed novel, and I guess it’s about time I did! So here we go.

What is the title of your new book?

POISON BAY

Where did the idea for the book come from?

I did some day hikes while touring the south island of New Zealand some years ago, and was astonished by the Fiordland mountains.

My cardio-vascular system was equally astonished. Man, are those mountains steep. And gorgeous. So gorgeous.

I heard stories from other hikers about summer blizzards obscuring the route with near-death results, having to be airlifted out with broken bones after being blown bodily off the track by the sheer force of the wind, and rain of apocalyptic proportions that could cause “tree avalanches”, stripping a whole section of the mountain right down to the bone.

I’m not sure what you might be thinking in the face of such stories, but at the time I was a former journalist and a developing mystery writer, so this is what I thought: This landscape would make a good murder weapon. (Yes, I know, I know. And you thought I was a nice person. )

I’d recently read Agatha Christie’s And then there were none. In that book, ten people are lured to a remote island where their past errors catch up with them in a very final and messy way.

And so a story started to fester in my mind that involved this beautiful-deadly landscape, and a group of old friends with a shared secret that was going to catch up with them in messy ways once they were thoroughly cut off from the outside world.

Then I saw the location name “Poison Bay” on a remote corner of the Fiordland map, and that settled it. I mean, how could I not write a book after that?

What genre does your book fall under?

People who have read it have called it psychological thriller, literary thriller, and mystery thriller. My genre title for it is “wilderness thriller”. I remain open to further offers.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Aha. I refuse to answer this one, on grounds that I like my readers to be able to form their own mental picture of the characters, rather than be controlled by the faces I see in my mind.

I will give you a little word picture, however.

Callie Brown is a television journalist, late 20s, very tall, struggles with her weight, has curly red hair that frustrates her, and is prettier than she thinks. She is creative and good with people, but sometimes a bit snarky.

Jack Metcalf is a newspaper journalist, also late 20s, and “not very tall, not very good looking, not very anything”. He is often too blunt for his own good, but has strength of character and compassion for others. He also likes dogs. What’s not to like about a man who loves dogs?

It’s a character driven book, so there’s several others in the cast, but I’ll leave it at the top two for now.

Will your book be self published or do you have an agent/publisher?

POISON BAY was awarded a Varuna Publisher Fellowship for manuscript development, as a result of which it is currently in the hands of a major publisher, but with no guarantees. If they opt not to publish, I have other possibilities to explore. [UPDATE: I decided not to pursue traditional publishing, and the book is out now! You can read all about it here.]

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

When are we counting from?

It was one page long for a decade.

That was because I struggled with the thought that I probably should write something more Worthy, such as some more of the biblical meditations I’ve been writing for the past 14 years. A novel seemed such an indulgence. A waste of time.

But I’ve always wanted to write a novel.

And then a few years back I thought: Hang it, I might as well get it written. I’m a journalist at heart, so I have to do Research. I went back to NZ, and hiked the four day Milford Track to get a proper feel for those mountains, talk to wilderness guides, and take a zillion photos of terrain, vegetation and so on. (My knees are still frightened when they remember the steep descent from Mackinnon Pass.)

I then spent ten days in Te Anau (population 3000) doing old-fashioned research in the library, plus interviewing Search And Rescue leaders, local police, conservation workers, trawler operators down on Milford Sound (let’s just say I needed to know what might happen to “something” that fell in the ocean…), and eating the most excellent venison pies while trying to tell myself I was not eating Bambi’s mother.

I also flew over Fiordland in a plane smaller than my first car, despite my fear of heights. Such is my dedication to Research.

Thermal updrafts rise from mountains, especially steep mountains. Do you know what thermals do to the wings of planes? They lift them. At odd moments. In odd directions. My hand almost needed to be surgically removed from the handle beside my seat at the conclusion of this ordeal.

Fortunately the camera I had aboard for my research photos can be operated with one hand, even if that hand is shaking like a leaf in a cyclone, and so I had more photos to refer to while I was writing about the landscape.

Everyone I interviewed or bought coffee from asked if I was a famous author, from which developed the joke that I was “world famous in Te Anau” (er, population 3000). Kiwis enjoy teasing, especially teasing Aussies.

My one-page novel grew to 11,000 words during that time in Te Anau.

And then the day before I was due to fly home, I got a phone call to say that my father had fallen ill. During the hectic months of hospitals and rehab that followed, POISON BAY had to take a back seat. There were times when I wondered if I’d ever finish it, or even want to look at it again.

Then, in 2010, I decided to start entering the manuscript in writing competitions. This motivated me to keep writing, and growing that wordcount. I kept entering. And getting depressed when I didn’t get shortlisted. And picking myself up and trying again.

In early 2011 I learned that POISON BAY had been shortlisted for a Varuna Publisher Fellowship and I jumped all over the room. (In the right light, you can still see the dents in the walls.) (Just kidding.) When I was awarded a fellowship a month or two later, I just about went insane with delight.

The fellowship included a week at the historic Varuna writers’ house at Katoomba in Australia’s Blue Mountains. Think: winter winds whistling in the chimney, fireside chats with other writers, writing writing writing all day long.

It also included several sessions with a manuscript consultant at different stages of my progress, both during the Katoomba week and later, when I completed the first draft and then when I responded to her suggestions.

And the fellowship included Deadlines. Finally, I had to finish the book; the deadline said so. Ever since my days as a journalist, deadlines have had that power over me!

I also had three volunteer “beta readers” to test drive the manuscript for me, as I went through a huge rewriting and editing phase.

And so, about 17 years after the idea first plopped into my mind, POISON BAY is finished (at least until a publisher asks for Yet More Edits!) [UPDATE: It’s now really finished, and available. You can find links to all the main stockists here.]

What other books would you compare your book to within the genre?

As a person who works in publishing, I know I should have a quick answer for this. But I don’t. (Don’t tell anyone.)

It’s a mixture. I’ve tried to write the kind of book that I like to read on a long-haul plane flight :-). I admire the character development achieved by mystery writers like PD James and Elizabeth George, but the challenge is not to let it slow down the plot too much. As a kid, I read my way through a whole collection of old-fashioned thrillers by Alistair MacLean, and I loved the way his heroes faced natural elements and villains with the same determination.

So my book is character driven, with psycho villains and wild weather. It is in the “traditional mystery” category, which means it avoids excessive violence and explicit sex.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I seem to have inadvertently answered this already. (Note to self: Read all the questions before commencing.)

What else about the book might pique a reader’s interest?

The cover design you see on this site is just my “working cover design”. It may not ever be published with that cover!

I read a book that said creating a dummy cover might help inspire me to keep writing. And as a true professional *cough* I spent a lot of time on my dummy cover.

I am the Procrastination Queen!

[UDPATE: No, it wasn’t published with that cover. You can see the final version here, and over on my publishing blog, you can read about how the final cover design came into existence. It was a long and tortuous path! A bit like the trail to Poison Bay… ]

And now… tag, you’re it!

I have three writers to introduce you to today. They will each blog about one of their own books in the next week or two.

Ernest Crocker

Dr Ernest Crocker is an author, speaker, physician and photographer living in Sydney Australia. His first book, NINE MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT was released in Sep 2011, but still counts as a Next Big Thing because the totally reworked US edition is coming soon! I worked with Ern on the developmental edit of his original book, and it’s a powerful read that comes from his heart. It tells the story of an experience he had as a young doctor that challenged his assumptions about God’s role in the healing process, and then his exploration over many years of the experiences of other medical professionals. Ern is also a photographer, and has been to Antarctica, which I struggle not to ENVY!! (I think I really must set a future novel there…)

Karin Cox

Karin Cox lives in the same city as I do (Brisbane, Australia), and works in publishing like I do, but we met on Twitter! As well as being an excellent editor, Karin is the author of more than 28 books, mostly traditionally published, but she’s branching out into self-publishing for some projects. She is currently working on a paranormal romance (Cruxim), a romance novel (From Memory), a young adult post-apocalyptic novel (Float), and the three-part young adult fantasy series Day of the Danae Shee. Karin is also the founder of the Indie Review Tracker website, a site that helps self-published authors easily find free or affordable promotional opportunities.

Jo Swinney

Jo Swinney is a British writer, speaker, novice gardener, avid reader, ex-traveller, food lover on a long-term diet, asker of probing questions and a strict observer of bedtime. She edits me  (and quite a few other people of course!) in the CLOSER series of Bible meditations. Her bookThrough the Dark Woods is a personal account of what it is like being a depressed Christian, and I am reliably informed that it is even humorous! I have my own copy now and am looking forward to reading it. (My reading schedule has “gone to the dogs” since my mother’s pooch had pups, but I’ll tell you more about that next time!) Cheerful Madness deals with love and marriage and what happens to turn one into the other. God Hunting is a down to earth look at spiritual disciplines. Keeping Faith: being family when belief is in question is a book she co-authored with Katharine Hill. You can also find her on Twitter.

What do you think of my crazy writing journey, or anything else we’ve talked about today? Leave a comment and say hi, or check out Ern, Karin and Jo at their websites.

Heck, I like the lot of them.

I have to admit that even snakes can be quite beautiful, when they are not anywhere near me or biting my dog.

But what has this got to do with the expectations we place on people and organisations and things?

Well, sit right down and let me tell you a story…

I was out for a walk when I noticed one of my neighbours had a new puppy rolling around on the grass at her feet. Fat as mud, and cute as cute wishes it could be. It went off for a crazy circuit of the yard like it was being pursued by the Hound of the Baskervilles, before coming back to do a short program of tail chasing at her feet again.

Now such a vision is going to get my attention at any time — who doesn’t love a puppy? But I almost got whiplash from the shock, because I know this person is a dedicated cat lover. Not just in the “my cat did the cutest thing the other day” kind of way, but in the “one of the unspecified number of cats who rule my life did the cutest thing the other day” kind of way.

So what is she doing with a dog?

Me: “You’ve got a puppy!”

Neighbour: “Yes. But I don’t know if I’ll keep it.”

Me: “Oh, why not?”

Neighbour: “It’s so dirty, it doesn’t keep itself clean. And it’s noisy and rowdy and it won’t leave me alone. It follows me around everywhere.”

I have had both dogs and cats in my life, and it strikes me at this point in the conversation that what she is describing is a dog from a cat’s point of view. I am too tactful to say this out loud, but I can’t help a followup question.

Me: “So why did you get a dog?”

Neighbour: “Well I always wanted one of this particular breed, right from when I was a little girl.”

And there we have it. She wanted something imaginary. The thing she wanted looked like this breed of dog, but behaved like a cat, cleaning itself, acting calmly, and respecting her personal space.

It was extremely easy for me to identify this flaw in her thinking, as it so often is when we look at the behaviour of others. But as I continued on my walk it dawned on me that I do exactly the same thing.

I want something imaginary and get frustrated when I don’t get it. Here’s a few of the ones I’m guilty of:

• Expecting a multi-national corporation to act like a small family business and care about my problems
• Believing my knees will cope with that mountain, and pouting when they hurt afterwards
• Wanting the weather in Brisbane to be like Alaska, and getting cranky when it’s hot and humid
• Expecting a risk-averse person to behave like an entrepreneur, and getting frustrated when they can’t see the possibilities.

Do you ever do this sort of thing?

Ah, so many options for cat-n-dog expectations in human life! But you know what the answer is that I am continuing to discover on a daily basis? Brace yourself, there’s a cliche coming, but it’s actually appropriate this time:

It is what it is.

Ha.

So next time I find myself getting hot under the collar about someone or something that should have behaved differently, I’m going to ask myself: “Belinda, are you expecting a dog to behave like a cat?”

What about you? Do you struggle with expectations that are imaginary? What do you to do to cope with it?