sgraffito

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 03 Jan 2014 15:10:00 +0000

The Blue Moon Phase

Around this time of year, many otherwise sane, intelligent and well-intentioned people start making lists and setting themselves ridiculous challenges and resolutions that they are never ever - not even in a blue moon - likely to attempt.

Let alone complete.

Blaise Pascal

It's understandable, in fact it's only natural to strive to achieve and each generation hopes for a brighter future.

'All the trouble in the world,' wrote Blaise Pascal 'arises from our inability to still still in a room'

Life, we are told is a journey. So we busily set goals at the beginning and start running wildly, shoelaces undone and arms flailing towards the finish line hoping to mark each post a winner.

But why must we put ourselves through so much pain. All that puffing and panting trying to keep up such a frantic pace is not only exhausting but also if we could stop, rewind and replay the video tape of our lives, we would probably look pretty silly.

For as Benjamin Franklin himself predicted, there is nothing more certain than death and taxes.
Which, brings me to the point of this rather long-winded rambling post about old blokes whose ugly faces ended up plastered all over bank notes.

The moon must be in its blue phase cause I've just committed to complete the Franklin level (named after our very own Stella Miles Franklin, not crusty ol' BJ) of the 2014 Australian Women's Writers Challenge.

http://australianwomenwriters.com
Which means I plan to read another ten books on the list and review at least six.

It's a tough gig, I know but someone's gotta do it ... anyone else game to state their new year's resolutions?

Time Flies ...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 24 Nov 2013 05:12:00 +0000

Where does the time go?

It has recently occurred to me that in a little over twelve months I'll be turning 50. It's so unlike me to consider my birthday as anything other than a date on a calendar. It has been a non-event to me for so many years.

As a little girl, I can vividly recall feeling as though it took forever for my birthday to roll around again. It seemed everybody else's birthday came and went but mine was always a long, long way off.

December was a dark mystical place, tucked away at the end of the year in the murky distance just out of reach. Then finally, around this end of the year, it would draw tantalisingly close to the long awaited event. I would build it up in my mind and imagine this wonderful day filled with bright and shiny happiness.

But for some reason, it never quite panned out that way. I'm not sure if it was because everybody was always so frantically busy. The entire month was filled with end of year concerts, work and school break-ups and of course, Christmas parties. Or if it was because I had believed it held magical qualities, but my actual birthday was always something of a disappointment to me.

Of course, there were many other childhood incidents that set the idea firmly in my head. But by the time I was a teenager, I had well and truly learnt my lesson. Hope only led to frustration, dreams never really do come true. I had decided it was better to not expect anything at all of others than to swallow another dose of that bitter disappointment medicine again.

As a result, I developed an incredibly thick skin. Sure, it made me strong and tough and very independent. I often referred to myself as a cold, hard B_____ and before long, it got to the point that I couldn’t allow myself to look forward to anything at all.

In my mind, the only way to create any opportunity was to get out there and make it happen, myself. My success in life - as a daughter, a woman, a wife and a mother - was my problem and mine alone.

It’s an exhausting path to choose. It’s such a long way up to the top of the

hill, especially when you’re dragging a lead ball on a chain. It’s not easy to let anyone else in once you’ve built up all these rock solid defenses. It’s even harder to punch your way out without letting anyone else take a swing of the sledgehammer

So, I've made a promise to myself that this next year will be different. I am finally going to let go. Over the next twelve months I will allow others in to enjoy the exhilaration of the rushing wind as we hold hands, take the downhill run and fly out over the edge of my self-made fortress.

By the time I reach the tender age of 50, I will be free to be me.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 17 Aug 2013 06:23:00 +0000

Festival Fun?

Hi Bloggers and Blogees, sorry to take so long between posts but I've been rather busy reading, writing and going to writers festivals. Not to mention pursuing my favourite sport of beach reading during a small but much needed break in good old Bris-vegas last month. Oh sunburn, where are you now?

For some strange reason, August is festival time here in this leafy garden state. Umm, hullo... its the middle of winter here people! Is this a sympathy ploy to the rest of the country proving exactly how cold it gets here in winter time? Or could it be a top-secret plot forcing us all to venture away from home and hearth and brave the frosty air for a healthy dose of culture together with a nasty case of the dreaded flu?

Either way, just got back from a bitterly cold but fabulously exotic literary weekend travelling all across this cold bleak land from Daylesford to Bendigo enjoying some of the festivities on offer.

Words in Winter is held across the month of August in several small towns in the icy hills of the Macedon Ranges. As together with some writerly pals, none other than the talented Lizz Sayers and Kathy Childs, we had been invited along as emerging writers to perform a reading at the Daylesford event.

Okay, so we appeared at 9.30pm after everyone else had long shuffled off in their ugg boots, hand-knitted mittens, beanies and ponchos to collapse in front of cosy cottage fires but troopers that we are, perform we did. It sure was cold but lots of fun!

The next day we all bundled up again and headed to Bendigo for their second annual Writers Festival. I had attended last year and found it to be so well organised, so filled with talent as well as that down to earth country flair that I had vowed to attend again.

My clever cuz Lauren Mitchell, a Bendigo celebrity and local journo presented an informative panel on preserving the true identity of Bendigo and then we attended a speed writing workshop run by local romance author Jess , followed by a hilarious session with the author of the Murray Whelan crime novels, Shane Moloney, as well as a lively panel discussion on the inspiration and the complicated process of song writing, finishing off with some great live music.

So festival fans, next weekend is the BIG one, the Melbourne Writers Festival and never fear, no matter how many lethal thunder cracks, lightning flashes, flooding rains and mighty gales lash the city I'll be there, with bells on. But then, it is Melbourne in winter so I'll probably have layers of thermals, polar fleeces, woollen tights, boots, gloves, scarves and a couple of overcoats on as well, so you may not get to see those bells!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 20 Jun 2013 05:34:00 +0000

A LONELY LIFE...

One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever know…

So sings that old crooner, that master of farewell concerts, Johnny Farnham.

I know, it's showing my age calling him Johnny, not John Farnham or The Voice.

But for me he’ll always be the nice looking boy in the powder blue safari suit leaning against his red Monaro on the cover of that first single I ever bought with my own hard-earned pocket money – Sadie, The Cleaning Lady.

Of course, One is really a song about love and longing. But, when I hear it on that ‘old fart radio station’ that I tune into on those rare occasions I find myself in the car unaccompanied by my husband or my teenagers, it always strikes me as quite a fitting theme song for writers.

It symbolises that idea of being all alone, all day – just you and your computer. Or maybe your lucky HB pencil with the chewed end, that clunky old typewriter you found in an op shop or perhaps an antique feathered nib and ink?

We're waging our own personal wars against the worlds. Brewing each cup of coffee with bullets of inspiration, then madly tapping away only to take a big gulp of that lukewarm bathwater at the end. Brainstorming an idea for 20 minutes as if you were devising a battle plan to invade Constantinople, till it dawns that this piece is heading completely off target. Lighting candles, selecting the right music, and practising meditation. Just about anything we can think of to kick-start those creative ideas.

But sooner or later a writer craves the company of other bookish types to fuel those passions, put it all into perspective and provide some purpose to the hours of solitary scribbling.

I’ve struggled for the longest time to find a group to lessen my weighty load. And I’m not talking about Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig. I’ve been looking for a writers group where I can feel accepted, respected or even just made welcome.

There have been a few disasters along the way and each new group has made me somehow stronger, bolder and more confident about what I should be getting out of it.

I now know what I don’t need:

· committee meetings complete with minutes and a treasurers report
· shoulder patting exercises, complementing each other on every word
· attacks on my personality or my lack of experience
· butt kicking regimes that leave me racing for the exit
· to read my work without any comment from others

What I do need is a small friendly group of intelligent, interesting people from varying backgrounds who will review my work and then be prepared to give me an honest opinion. Is this too much to ask?

In my mission to answer this vexing question, I’ve recently stumbled upon a small but diverse group of writers who are willing to do just that and more. We met at a recent workshop, so we know we have similar interests but at the same time we all bring a slightly different viewpoint.

We’re all equals, starting out together and we’ve agreed on the following ground rules:

· To provide a chapter for review at least two weeks before the next meeting
· To respond to the story first as a reader. Did it work for you?
· To provide an honest critique of the writing, not the author
· To try to see what the writer is trying to achieve, direct comments toward this
· To provide a place for open discussion of each others ideas, thoughts, concepts
· To take note of the points raised without the need for justification
· To enjoy the chance to share this time in the company of other writers

So, fingers crossed this is the group I've been looking for...

One Hundred Stories...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 09:00:00 +0000

One Hundred Stories...

Okay, so maybe there's more than 100 stories climbing up and up the sides of this hallowed staircase but I just couldn't resist using this photo I took on a recent visit to Deakin Uni library. Not sure if I've mentioned it before, but I just love libraries and really enjoy spending time wandering around in them wherever I go. I find it combines both of my passions - creative design together with creative writing as they often hold intriguing displays, interesting reading and working spaces and loads of local favour providing a true sense of the community they serve.

Which leads me back to the title of this post. I recently attended a memoir workshop conducted by a writer I had admired for quite a long time now, Alice Pung http://alicepung.com/blog/. I find her work is so approachable as she writes about her family in clear but concise language with such humility and compassion that her readers feels as though we already know her well. It's a gift she's prepared to share and the day was both intriguing and exhilarating as the group shared fragments of our work. By the time we left we had renewed enthusiasm for our own projects and had made some valuable new connections with talented writers.

We also learnt a few of the biographers golden rules, such as this outstanding example from The Talmud, "We do not see things as they are, we see things as we are".

Alice is also an ambassador for that enterprising team of young writers down at 100 Story Building http://www.100storybuilding.org.au/ who are busily pushing over all sorts of barriers and stereotypes to create a whole new generation of young readers,writers, producer and directors through their amazing literacy programs in the working class suburbs of Western Melbourne. Check it out...

Booktown Boogie

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 20 May 2013 14:31:00 +0000

Booktown Boogie

The booktown boogie is a new wave dance craze that looks set to take the nation by storm. To re-create a batch in your home town just take a mixed bunch of punters, from yuppy mummies with doll-like toddlers riding vintage trikes to old dears wearing colourful crocheted blankies on electric scooters and add a splash of hippy eccentricity and some owlish nerds to the mix then pour on a shipload of books and leave to set. Welcome to Booktown!

The weekend we spent in Clunes soaking up the vibes of this good old boogie mix tape is still as vivid in my mind as the first live concert I attended at the MCG in an ancient era that will remain nameless, suffice to say that we all wore big hair, tight black jeans, frilly shirts and a hell of a lot of black eyeliner.

But on this occasion, instead of shaking our permed and stiffly hair-sprayed heads off we spent hours sorting through piles and piles of secondhand books and chatting to some of the friendliest people we've ever met.

We also managed to fit in a few delightful writers sessions such as a panel of newly birthed authors, Leah Swann, Balli Kaur Jaswal and Jane Rawson discussing their positive publishing experiences with such small press gurus as Affirm Press and Sleepers Inc. that effectively took their "personal expressions and turned them into a gift for the reading public". Chaired by the coolly enigmatic Sam Cooney editor of online lit mag, The Lifted Brow http://www.theliftedbrow.com/
His well crafted questions created a chatty style forum which entertained the small audience in the massive bluestone church so well that we all staggered out into the bright sunshine filled with a renewed inspiration.

After a smorgasbord of treats from the international food stalls spread throughout the town, and maybe just a small sample of the book buying fun, we lined up for the next session. We were equally entranced by both that famous author Kate Grenville and her Publisher/Editor, Michael Heyward http://textpublishing.com.au/ as they discussed their long and very successful literary relationship. As well as revealing all the pain of drafts, tough-love editing and re-writes that you would expect they also spoke of the joy they'd had in developing a manuscript and working together to bring this country's history to life through the eyes of the real characters who lived it. Kate concluded with some sound advice to budding writers, "step back and let the story tell itself" and the crowd applauded as Kate thanked us all for reading her work, while Michael felt that we could all display our true appreciation of her skills by buying more of her books!

Most of the crowd took him up on his cute but crafty sales pitch and headed out to queue up and get a pre-signed copy of a volume or two. But we stayed put and soaked up the liltingly familiar voice of ex ABC broadcaster, Ramona Koval. As she'd interviewed so many authors and reviewed such an incredible amount of books in her career as well as publishing her own works she was a fine source of some very amusing information about this funny old writing life. Her energy was even more captivating in person than it had ever been on radio and once again were all left with sore cheeks from laughing as well as loads of inspirational advice to take away.

Ramona left us with a question, "does reading about life, explain the meaning of life?"
For me, the answer is clear : yes-indeedee-do, oh my lordee yes!!

And her own motto "Reading is a great recipe for living!", is just about as good as any I've heard and also gives me a great excuse to keep reading, reading, reading...'cause I aint exactly found that true meaning yet.

Bound for Nowhere

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 09 May 2013 09:01:00 +0000

Just spent a chilly but cozy weekend basking in the warmth of Booktown's literary atmosphere way out west at Clunes, a small but perfectly preserved nineteenth century gold mining village with a proud history of being the site of Victoria's first recorded gold strike and an almost unhealthy eagerness for all things bookish.

With the zeal of their forebears, those early diggers whose luck bought this tiny farming settlement overnight fame around the world, these proud country folk plonked out here amongst rolling brown hills and decaying hay sheds in the middle of nowhere have managed to re-invent themselves on the strength of these passions and from what I saw, it's worked a treat. So much so, that they all now find themselves Bound for Nowhere!

Our campsite was nestled between the bone-dry pebbled riverbed with a view to the lush green grass of the local footy oval on one side and the dusty main drag lined with hay bales on the other. We soon spotted the Life Bouy Beach Bus (above) with its well chosen destination board and began checking out this classic retro Bedford bus conversion when a thunderous roar and a cloud of dust from the highway spat out a faded old ZZ Top biker on a gleaming Harley clad from the top of his enormous gut all the way to his rather large bottom in cracked and worn leathers.

He pulled in beside the bus, took off his helmet releasing a flowing chest length beard on a tattoo covered billiard ball of a head and grumbled, 'Welcome to Booktown' then disappeared inside the bus.

Just for a moment there, we did wonder what we were in store for out here but bravely ventured out to check out the town and we were soon following our noses up the hill toward the tempting aromas of a bush barbecue sizzling away in the brisk autumn air. We joined the rest of the fabulously friendly locals for a delicious dinner amongst the hay bales up at that most famous of country town institutions, the show grounds. After we had polished off almost everything in sight, including a large helping of some rather memorable homemade pav washed down with a glass or two of the local brew, our tummies were filled to pussy's bow. Then we all headed off over the road to their magnificent Wesley bluestone church c1864 (below) to behold the guest of honour, the one and only Peter FitzSimons (author of Tobruk, Kokoda, Mawson and Eureka just to name a few of his blockbusters) spruik about his long and illustrious writing career.

Dressed all in black (except for his trademark bright red scarf covering his presumably balding pate), he took his place at the pulpit, cleared his throat and began with a dead pan face; 'Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today…' And he then proceeded to enlighten the congregation with several well rehearsed but quite amusing sermons from his life as a sportsman, a writer, a father and a well known husband.

He certainly is a natural-born storyteller with that innate ability to entertain but in my opinion as a writer he does tend to dumb down a few too many important historical facts to make these very well known tales accessible for all. But I guess that's what makes his work so very popular. Also as he did admit, he does have a full time team of researchers working for him. So, all he really needs to do is pull this pile of facts together into a piece of creative writing. Which does smell an awful lot like journalism to me. And, as we all know if it smells like and looks like it, then it usually tastes like it too.

Anyhoo, the theory goes that for each lecture one attends at least one lesson should be taken away and in fact I did end up with quite a few pages of notes. The essence of which is that the writer needs to make the story live and breathe. My old pal Pete likes to scrawl 'L&B' in red pen along the margins when he's editing to show where he needs to add some of the juicier anecdotes he's collected. One such example he gave was that the early polar explorers lives were generally quite miserable with very little to look forward to during those long lonely frost-bitten expeditions. One thing they did get quite chuffed about though was the ability to go for months without shaving. Then, when they grew tired of their beards they only had to spend a few hours out in an arctic windstorm spearing seals or some other disgusting deed and they could then wipe a mitt over their face to effectively snap off their whiskers.

Hmmm, maybe you needed to be of the male gender to get excited about this? Or, perhaps this will eventually takeover that Brazilian craze? No, according to Pete by adding such tantalising personal information the reader then truly relates to the character and can then physically connect with them in time and place.

Well, he's gotta be doing something right 'cause the sales figures don't lie ... or do they??

Welcome to sgraffito writing...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 13:09:00 +0000

why sgraffito?

Welcome to sgraffito writing ... 'sgraffito is the art of scratching beneath the surface to reveal the layer beneath'

Sgraffito has been employed in many art forms over the centuries including painting, printing and ceramics. It began as a form of decorative plasterwork and the word itself can be traced back to the greek - 'to write'.

It's a simple method many of us would have first enjoyed at kindergarten, clad in those puffy gingham smocks wielding a jumbo sized paintbrush we would happily spread one thick coat of bright gooey paint all the way to the edge of a large sheet of butchers paper. As well as a liberal dose on the floor, the wall and that freckly kid on the other side of the easel. Then the parent on duty would very carefully hang it out to dry. But there would never be quite enough pegs so, eventually it was left dangling by one corner, dripping and flapping in the wind, sticking to itself like bird pooh to the car window until it ripped away completely. Later, after being rescued from the end of the playground or dug out of the sandpit the unfortunate object was subjected to another coat of rather watery black paint (black must have been much more expensive than primary colours?). This bonox coloured liquid would be zealously slopped over that first layer of hardened colour. Then just before it was completely dry and your mum could be seen chatting to all the other mothers outside, taking an icy pole stick the budding artist would etch squiggles and lopsided shapes leaving a magical design revealed in the first paint colour. Surely you can remember those magnificent masterpieces?

My point is that we all learn pretty early on that there is more to most things than what we can actually see. The inspiration behind this blog is to reveal those hidden layers in writing.