People Watching

People watching is, surprisingly, one of my favourite pastimes.  This is surprising as I am quite an introvert and really like my own company rather than be with people.  But this is the point - when I watch I am not being.  I am in another world, a voyeur, a fly on the wall, what they call in writing terms 'omnipresent' which is also a bit god like.  And like a god I find I get very judgmental of people and what I see.  I don't do a lot of smiting tho.  No, I just write it all down.

I make assumptions based on what they wear, how they talk, their action. I make up their stories - but isn't that what writing fiction is all about?  Here are a few notes from my day out in Freo:

• Older women, cargos, airwalker shoes, floppy hat, wanders into the restaurant  uses the loo and then walks out.  Bit cheeky, although I don't blame her, the public loos are disgusting .... and whats with that?  When you have to do a quick tinkle and you are out in public and have no choice but use a public loo (that always stink and you just want to pee and get out) and you use those thigh muscles to hover over the seat without touching and very proud of yourself, when the wee goes on and on and on.  Your muscles get wobbly, you grit your teeth, you become your own personal trainer and say (to yourself, to say it out loud would just be weird) ..come on, you can do it, just hold on a little longer, feel the burn ... and still the trickle goes on.  You try and recall what you have drunk since the last one, so you can gauge how much liquid is actually in your bladder, you come to the conclusion that it was just a cup of coffee and surely you have peed that out by now ... and oh god how much longer, your thigh muscles are burning now, you start to speculate just how dirty that toilet seat really is, discount that and keep your pose.  Finally, you think you have emptied your bladder, and then the pathetic little trickle starts, too much to blot with some loo paper, but annoying and painful in your present state.  Too bad you think, as you grab wads of toilet paper ... at last you can stand up .. except you cant ... your thigh muscles have locked in place and you are stuck, poised over a dirty loo seat.  Or is that just me?
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• A chubby mother, carrying a chubby child.  Her dress, or skirt or some kind of material is wrapped around her body, covering most bits except her thighs, bum and boobs.  A young man, father/boyfriend/husband trails behind her pushing an empty, expensive pram.  Later I see them - he has gone into a t-shirt shop (Metallica t-shirt anyone?) while she stands in the doorway, boob even more exposed and popped into the plump and content child's mouth.  I am a bit perplexed by this scene, I applaud her for breast feeding her baby but I wish she had arranged the wrap-around haute couture a little more discretely.  But  I am guessing they are a couple not on the hipster scale, but right at home in boganville.
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• A foreign speaking (French?) skinny, deadlocked, bike rider in the central square, like a child is aimlessly cycling about, round and round, not even going anywhere.  Does he not work?  He looks about 30-35.  Even a tourist would be doing something more productive.  He reminds me of a bored 7 year old.  There seems to be an awful lot of men and women this age doing not much at all.  Does nobody work anymore?

See, its very hard not to be judgmental!   A few stories for me there.

A Day in Freo bags me 4 books and a new journal

I needed a day to myself, to get my head clear, write, read and walk.  It was a bit of a bleak time at work last week, and the long weekend did not completely clear the decks.  I felt cheated of three days off work, that I could have been writing, spent with a panic-attack hangover caused by the job.  So I took a 'sickie' today.  And I have never felt better.

Mr K had an all day conference in the second city of Freo.  We got up early, left early and after an hour and a bloody three quarters, arrived at our destination.  Sure made me feel like I had gone away on a holiday, I wanted my in-flight meal and drink.  As the crow flies it is less than 20kms, we had traveled about 25 as we are not crows.  This took us 1.45hrs.  Eat your heart out West Sydney!

It was early for Freo, 9am.  Not many people were up and about, stark contrast to Perth CBD where 9am is practically lunchtime.  First stop for me was one of the two Elizabeth's Bookshops - a treasure trove of pre-loved books (or maybe some were only one night stands) stacked on floor to ceiling bookshelves, on the floor, on tables in every nook and cranny.  There is a vague organisation, but the fun part is trawling for a treasure.  Found one book here - 

Breakfast next.  Not feeling very brave or bohemian, and the fact that a lot of the hipper places looked closed, I went for the safe and sure Dome Coffee.  With a foccacia, pineapple juice, skinny cap, newspaper, journal and book, before me I had a little private chuckle at the sheer indulgence of it all.  Took me an hour and a half to eat breakfast.

A walk drew me to the second purveyor of books, New Edition. A tall elegant building housing a book shop and a cafe, and bizarrely, as only Freo can do, at the back of the bookstore, a hippy dress/bead/incense shop.  It was bizarre, as the book shop was rather posh, a bit Sydney.  I found two treasures here -

I will do some book reviews on all these at a later date. Anyone have a cold/flu/plague that they can come and sneeze on me so I can stay in bed and read for a few days?

Spent the next  hours just walking, observing, absorbing.  Found the public library and did a bit of reading which inspired me to sit down to write for a while.  Wasn't really hungry by 1pm but felt compelled to leave the library after it got overrun by kids, people with too few shoes and too much (matted) hair and a permeating sound of furious clacking on keyboards on the public computers.  

On 'the strip' I found most eatery's had now opened, again going to for the known, I chose Benny's - a quiet table up the back with a book, journal and Caesar salad.  Does it get any better than this!  I moved on when the staff seemed to be moving tables around me, perhaps I had outstayed my welcome.  Another stroll back to the library, the kids should have gone home for naps by now, and the shoe-less, matted hair lot surely cant concentrate that long.

Found yet another bookshop, Dymocks, and of course another book -

Nice little haul.  A good days gathering.  I spent the rest of the afternoon, waiting for Mr K in the library until I was joined at the writing table by the Bachelor Of the Year - a man whose body and clothes looked (and sadly, for me, and every person within 100 metres, smelt) like they had never seen soap, let alone water.  He wore three hats, each grubbier than the next, and .. get this ... HE tied a handkerchief, well grey rag, over this nose/mouth.  Was he being kind to me as he hadn't brushed his teeth that decade, or was it me who smelt?  Guess its all a matter of perspective!

Moved into the fresh air, and had a very nice and critical time writing about the comings and goings of Freo.

Day rating : 8/10

Well ... I pressed 'enrol'

A BIG thank-you to Jacana for her kind words and the last bit of encouragement she gave me.  It gave me a big boost and propelled me into giving this a red hot go!  I enrolled right after I read your comment.  Thank you xxx

I feel pretty daunted now, a whole host of things running through my (very foggy) mind.  Yesterday I pressed the enrol button on Unit 1 of a 24 unit Bachelor of Arts (my Son#1 said ... "oooh Mum an 'arts' student" - never thought of that, I always see writing as far more serious!  But then, when I think of art I think of this Art Review)  

Some rambling thoughts, to try and clear my mind, which is still full of whatever sinus infection/allergy/nasal thing I have:

• The first unit is, surprisingly, called An Introduction to Writing.  
• I start on the 25th February, which works out well as the week before, I should complete my current online course.
• It's all very exciting, and thrilling and I have a million stories and themes running through my head already.  
• It all feels very jumbled for the moment, but the excitement is there.  
• Wish I felt this excited for other things in my life.  
•  I have bought 3 brand new pads of Executive Lined Paper - it makes me feel very grown up.
• I have filled the jelly bean jar on my desk.
• The enrollment details say this unit should take 10 hours a week - I suspect it will be more.
• Did I mention how excited I was?

New Online Writing Course starts today

Writeriffic: Creativity Training for Writers

Is the new course.  Six weeks, 12 lessons and a portfolio to submit at the end.  I loved the last course I did, so enrolled for this one too.  

So far, I have completed lesson 1 - terrible assignment however - I am meant to read a book!!  How simply awful   So to punish myself further, I chose two books - I am nothing but an over-achiever.

Book #1 - Writers on Writing.  Have read this before, so know how it ends, but I will do my homework like a good girl.  This is the Australian edition, and as I am the only Aussie in the (online) class, I guess I will have to talk to myself about the book.  Wonder if I will agree with myself?

Book # 2 - The Writers Guide - spot the theme here?  The subtitle is -
a companion to writing for pleasure or publication - I guess if you are going to pursue the solitary occupation of writing, then you are going to need a companion - hope he's good looking - I can't fake pleasure if he's not!

The other part of the first assignment is to go out and buy a writers journal!  Boy, talk about throwing us into the deep end.  Reading and buying journals - what next - I expect it will be making us write.

Whilst all this is going on, I also have my finger hovering over the submit button for the first unit at Curtin Uni in a Bachelor of Arts (Professional Writing and Editing).  I have been researching all the Uni's for their writing courses and Curtin seems to come up trumps.  Plus I am able to start it, and do a lot of it, online.  

I have to commit to at least 10 hours per week per unit.   24 Units, at four units per year, will take me six years!  I am pretty sure I can do this, just have to stop doing extra things, like washing, cooking, cleaning - you know the little things.  Think I can manage that.  Enrollments end on 10th February, until then I am going to mull it over for a week or so - I don't want to start something I am not going to finish.

It's very exciting however.

Tim Winton - you Rock!!

I feel like my child has just won the honour awards at school.  I am bursting with pride!

Yeah, a bit weird of an analogy, but stay with me here.

My all time, ever, favourite author, Tim Winton, took out #1 place in the ABC's First Tuesday Bookclub's 10 Aussie books to read before you die, with Cloudstreet.  Number One!!  Out of all the amazing books in this country, the public chose Cloudstreet as their favourite.

ABC First Tuesday Bookclub

I have read every book Tim has ever written, buy all his books as first edition hardbacks plus a paperback when it comes out so I can lend it to people.  Some of my hardbacks are signed by Tim himself - confess that I am a bit of a groupie and go to book readings or signings by him.

Although, the last time I went to a reading (for The Turning) I didn't line up and ask him to sign my book.  He just looked so sad, so out of place, wanting to be away from people and this book selling machine.  He looked like he wanted to be on a beach, or at his kitchen table, writing.  So I went home, and gave him a gift of personal space.

I have loved every single book he has ever written, but my favourite is his latest Breath.  My sons love his books too, something that is tough to do - get boys to read.  I still remember Son#1 hopping about, getting me to read That Eye the Sky after he had read it and wanting to talk to me about it.  Lucky it was a short book, I devoured it in half a day, then Son and I sat and talked and talked.  Now that is something!

I love Tim's style, his (seemingly) easy writing manner, as you read, you feel like you are talking to an old friend.  I get the same feeling of place every time I read his books - I am about 15, everything is exciting.  We go camping on the beach, way down South, with my family, my best friend is there too.  We escape the adults, and at night walk down to the beach where there are some boys with a campfire.  They look a little rough, older, surfies, our hearts race, but we try and be brave/cool.  We sit with them, we talk, they are smoking pot and hand us some, we shake our heads.  I look into the fire, there is a delicious electricity around us, a thrill to be had, yet we don't know why... yet.

This is where Tim's writing always takes me.  On the precipice of discovery, a teenage girl about to fall into the most exciting time of her life.  Fear, mixed with sexual tension and a sense of emerging power.  I wish I had better words to make this scene of time and place come alive.  It will be a good writing exercise I think!

If you haven't already, go discover Tim's work.

Sauce Tartare and other stories

I was reminded of how a short story I wrote many years ago came about because of an overheard conversation in a cafe.  What reminded me was this news article in news.com.au today:

Woman pleads guilty to assault for tipping cuppa over customer's head

What on earth were these men saying that would make her react so violently and publicly?  There is a story right there!

I wrote Sauce of Rebellion about 10 years ago after I was sitting in the cafe at the Alexander Library.  I used to go there to do family history research, in the good old days before you could do most of the research online.  As I sat with my coffee, this older couple walked in and I was just fascinated by the relationship between them.  The incident that happened in my story, really happened, but of course, the rest is all made up.  It's how I imagined their life to be.

This is my story - in its very rough draft form - and after my weekend workshop, I feel confident to rework it and re-create it into something better.  Just shows that people-watching can offer a wealth of writing material.

Sauce of Rebellion

Bernie walks apologetically across the floor, listlessly following his wife, her voluminous shadow dominating him, even though he is much taller, he has a slim, comic, emu-like frame.   He dresses as She told him: brown trousers, beige shirt, soft, silent, leather shoes. The effect is a drab man, all shades of brown, like a sepia photo, left in a drawer.  You almost have to look twice to see if he’s really there, or just your imagination, a shadow from his past.

She waits impatiently beside her selected table, for him to catch up and pull out the chair, so she can sit and rest her bulk. Despite her size, she is well dressed, middle class attire – woollen skirt just below the knee, butter yellow silk blouse ruffled along the buttons, matching jacket to the skirt.  Tasteful and perfect, never just thrown on in casual abandon, dressing with care and pride.

Bernie slides into the chair opposite her, only now brave enough to lift his gaze to the tables that surround them.  Who will be witness to his shame today?  He doesn’t bother with the menu, she will order for him.  She motions for the waitress to approach.

‘We, young lady,’ she emphasises the word ‘lady’ with a raised eyebrow, ‘will have the grilled fish and salad.  Thankyou.’

She superciliously looks over the waitress, making up her mind in an instant that this young girl will end up a single mother with a string of loser boyfriends, which her husband’s taxes will support.  As the waitress leaves, a vacuum of silence engulfs the table, Bernie lost to his own world, and She scowling, tsk tsking at everyone and everything.

The waitress smiles as she places a plate of fish and salad before Bernie, serving him first in defiance, removing the smile before she places the woman’s food before her.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ asks the girl.  Spurred on by the waitress’s smile, Bernie looks up from his bland meal and asks if he could have some tartar sauce please? His wife glares at them both, not for a minute missing the smile shared, and tells him No.

With No ringing in his ears, Bernie gets up, walks to the condiments table, selects a sachet of sauce from a cane basket, and strides back to his chair – grinning inside.  It happened in an instant, nothing noteworthy to anyone else, a common occurrence, except to two people.  The tension was electric, Bernie, beginning to realise just what he had done: he had fired the first shot, and now his pistol was jammed, the enemy glaring at him across the table, a cartoon character with steam coming out her ears.  She just glared, as Bernie fumbled with his sauce sachet.  He tried to ignore the fury opposite him by putting all his concentration into opening the sauce. It was proving to be harder than it looked, the struggle becoming more than just an attempt to render sauce to his fish, it was to save face.

As She watched, She ran a monologue of instruction ‘here let me, I told you not to have sauce, not like that, give it to me’.  The diatribe continued, Bernie obviously flustered but determined to win this battle on his own.

He tried to get the corner to start peeling off, but it seemed to be stuck down fast, he was intently looking for an obvious corner to peel from, turning the sachet in all directions, when un-expectantly it happened. The sachet bent in half and squirted white thick sauce out like a bursting pimple.  Quickly, he looked up, coming eye to eye with his wife, a look of terror and fury and white gelatinous sauce, with little bits of green caper, on her face.  A blob dripped onto her yellow blouse, the oil making a shadow as it seeped into the material.  Bernie was losing control; a crack of a smile was threatening to enlarge into a grin, then a snicker and finally a laugh that took on a mind of its own.  Oh how good it felt, years of silence came flooding out in his laugh, releasing his bonds, an overwhelming feeling of freedom.  He didn’t care who saw them, didn’t care that his wife had murder in her eyes, and didn’t care about anything but this glorious moment, this rebellion.

Words : 737

© Jodie Sinclair 2012

 

 

 

Creative Writing Course - Brief

The Old Claremont Teachers College (now home to the UWA Extension Courses and AMEB)

Only a very brief post (for the moment) about my precious (think Gollum) gift of a day.

I attended the writing workshop today at UWA Extension and now feel intense pressure to write something pithy and extraordinary, but after six hours straight writing, my creative streak has run dry - for now!  My head and creative juices are overflowing, but I need time to let them all sink in.

If anyone is thinking of doing any of these creative writing courses, I highly recommend it.

Each lesson and subject we tackled was, to me, like a Christmas present, to be opened slowly and with anticipation of joy and wonder.  I wanted to savour each one, words and sentences thrilled me.  But then would come the next lesson - and I wanted to open that one too - but the last present still sat there, glittering at me and I was drawn in so many directions.

In a totally good way however .. it was all just so exciting and full of endless possibilities.

I have about 15 starts to short stories ... each one was an exercise but each one laden with promise of more to come.

I wont get a wink of sleep tonight ... my mind has already started my novel.

 

Creative Writing Course

I did it, finally. 

I have been peeking into the UWA Extension courses for ages now, hesitant but entranced.  Each course was like a jewel that I had to admire and turn around in the light.  They made me giddy with the possibilities – but then fear and doubt would creep in and I would just bookmark them and leave.  I doubted myself, my ability, my talent. Finally, today, I was brave (or just plain reckless) and despite the doubt still there, I pressed the ENROL button, paid my fees and now am off to do a creative writing course called:

Glint of light on broken glass: short story writing and the art of suggestion. 

(Makes me tingle just writing that.)

I am very excited, but nervous too.  Will I be good enough? Will my writing be immature and silly? Will I find my way there and not get lost?  After my last episode into the ‘art’ world, I have some serious doubts about my sophistication when it comes to anything artistic. 

I have to also take my own lunch.  Bit panicked about what lunch box to pack it in?  Should I take one that the boys left behind when they moved out, black plastic box with a Perfect Circle sticker?  Edgy, yes, but maybe not that creative? (Does have its own little bottle you can freeze with cordial that doubles as a cooler block however).  Or, the large purple and pink Tupperware one, that is really more for a family picnic – the other writers might think I am greedy?  (But I could fill it with home baked muffins to share, and they will think I am a real Martha?  Too pretentious?  Yeah, I think so too).  So maybe the best option will be a plain old paper bag. It will look a bit arty, green, conscious about the planet (oh? Or are paper bags out now too as they use trees … I am not sure, it all changes all the time .. I don’t want to offend but I want to make a good impression).  Maybe I will just go for a walk and find a café?  Or a Hungry Jacks for some more writing material?

Of course, I will have to go and buy a new writing journal.  I have only about a gazillion of them, all of them started and used, but very few filled to the end.  I keep liking fresh starts.  Nothing more exciting than a brand new, crisp journal to get you inspired.  (Of course it’s also a good excuse to go shopping – have to have a reason to go there in the first place).  While I am there, I will buy a new pen – even though I prefer to write in pencil, the sound of me constantly sharpening (my pencil HAS to be very pointy for me to write with any style) may put off the Other Writers.

I wonder what they will be like?  These Other Writers?  Will they have horn rimmed glasses and let their grey hairs all grow out?  Will they be quiet and only talk in well thought out witty quotes?  Will they think I am a fraud amongst the real writers? 

 

Maybe I should write about how I feel about writing with writers?  Ah well.  I have paid my money now, they have my enrolment details, so if I wag the class I am sure they will call my mother and then I will be in bigger trouble. 

Roll on 21st October.  If I like this one day course, there are lots more to do, a whole world of dare I say it, writing.

 

C'est la vie

Literally translated from French, it means "It is the life". Better translations lead to "That's life" or "it's life". It has to be said with a shrug and a relaxed, accepting tone of voice - of course with a French accent.  It does not mean you  are giving up, but rather accepting that you can't fight life, it is better to just go with it.  It is a gentle, serene saying. It also reminds me of the Serenity Prayer, a modern take on some old texts by American theologist Reinhold Niebuhr.  God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference. I like this saying very much, I just leave out who I am asking for this state of mind.  I don't know why, but I always thought this was an Irish prayer, an old Celtic wisdom.  Maybe that's because the first time I heard it was when (Irish) Sinead O'Connor started her song "Feels So Different" with it.  AA has also adopted this as their opening prayer.  Ned Kelly said something similar when he was told what time his execution had been set "Such is Life".  Nothing much he could do about it, better to just accept it and be at peace.  Kelly has been placed as rebel hero status in Australia and his words have been immortalised in tattoos and tshirts throughout the bogan communities.  It is a very Australian attitude, and one that is better for our health than fighting the inevitable.  Then dear sweet Doris Day sang Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be. So the Spanish also have a take on this saying.  I bought a cushion to remind me to not take life so seriously.  Or was it just because I like the colour?  But no matter how we say it ... c'est la vie, such is life, que sera sera, or the serenity prayer .. the same message is there.  Chill out man!!  Have a great Monday all.