Writing in a woman's voice

My thanks to Beate Sigriddaughter for including my poem 'The Garden of Earthly Delights' on Writing in a Woman's Voice.

Awe some

I've started to post mini-profiles of some of NZ's women comics creators, artists and cartoonists on the Three Words blog - Judy Darragh, Giselle Clarkson and Olga Krause so far - just tasters of their work to give a flavour of the anthology I'm working on - and I am having the best time finding out about these inspiring and frankly bloody awesome women!

Splash fiction

Surreally pleased to have my fiction "Ladder to the Moon" included in Through the Looking Glass. Sparkling thanks to Andrea Quinlan for having me.

Any verse ay?

April 10th would have been the birthday of poet Bella Akhmadulina, had she not passed away last year. As a fine tribute to her, Russell Streur has put together a special edition The Eye of the Needle where women writers, poets and artists have come together to mark her first posthumous birthday. I have several pieces of poetry and artwork there and am very pleased to have been asked to contribute. Many thanks to Russell for the opportunity.

Dig in

I sketched my mother some years back, the drawing has been the foundation of many other pieces and experiments including this.

I seem to be on repeat - feel free to visit My Mother's Land: it's about digging, oh and stinging.

Think I've got VIP membership now, at the Camel Saloon - else escorted off the premises for loitering! Thank you, Russell Streur.

Man the lights

My poem The Garden Of Earthly Delights is up at The Literary Burlesque. My sincere thanks to Melanie Browne.

Writers reign

All white on the grey.

                                                                                

My sincere and grateful thanks to Amber Lee Starfire for including my artwork and poem "And They Were Only People"  in Writer's Eye Magazine. It has a fab new look and is a fantastic venue for new and upcoming writers. Please, take a look, submit.

In other news: Think storms, Gothic windows, strange figures with stony glares and bewitched objects. Tis the month of pumpkins and spooky tales, alas it used to be. Here in NZ there is scant evidence of Hallowe'en at all and I miss it. Therefore, I have challenged Andrea at Rainbow Notebook to something of a scary story duel. Each of us is going to write the scariest story or poem (or whatever pops into our heads and out of the keyboard onto blogger) and post it on our blogs with a link to the other's on October 30th. Feel free to join in, add your own offering! Rahahahahahah!  

On words

Imagine they are your children; your family -do what you have to do to feel for them. Start small - one thing at a time - and see what we can do.




You start again. You sit there and you write. You write even if it is utter drivel. Then you sit and write some more.


You cannot change everything. You can change some things. Accept what you cannot change. Learn to live with the possible.
Catdownunder


You are a published writer: you have a blog. Now your readers must think their own thoughts about what you have reported.Several consciousnesses focussed on the same theme. Better than nothing.
Patteran


But you can't change the world....Do as much as you can with the constraints that are placed upon us; you can do no more.
Donna Hosie


I think writers could make a difference. But many of us only want to entertain.
Lori

The Telling IS the doing.

Through our blogs, we're gathering in a circle around a fire, talking and crying, laughing and cheering, trying to make sense of this crazy, mixed-up world. And if, in the end, it makes us feel less odd, less lonely and less pessimistic, maybe we won't go out and slap someone.
Kass

...you do what you can do... hug and love your children, hug and love your friends, hug and love yourself, and know that...

A man walking down the beach came upon a man who stood among countless washed up sea stars. He was picking them up one at a time trying to throw them into the sea. The walking man hollered, "You know you can't save them all." The other man stopped for just a minute with a sea star in his hand and replied, "I know, but I can save this one." And he threw the sea star back into the sea.

"We're all looking for heaven, which is later and elsewhere. Actually everything in front of us right now is a miracle, here and then gone, forever. What's the nature of that miracle? I don't know: no one does, and that's it's nature. You can't even really say that: but you have to keep on asking the question. That's what makes us human."
Annotated Margins quoting Norman Fischer


Most of us just use our blogs for preening. So that's one small difference You've already made.
Thomas Taylor


...trying to accept being human...guess it's no harder or easier than being anything else...depends where you live..
Rachel Fenton


There are way too many hard, harsh, hideous, cruel things in the world.

I think that I write to try to communicate and interpret the world. Sometimes just writing for me helps to work through some of the unfathomable worldly tangles.

Individually we can be the best friends/neighbours/people we can be. We can shine goodness as best we can.
Sara Crowley


If we didn’t have journalists and their photographers out in places like Haiti then the world would never know how bad things are. Individually I have no doubt that they do their bit when there but even if they never lifted a hand other than to click a shutter that would be enough. Like many I have the photo of Phan Thị Kim Phúc, the nine-year-old Vietnamese girl running down a road near Trang Bang after a South Vietnamese Air Force napalm attack, embedded in my mind. The same goes for the young man shot in front of our eyes during the '68 Tet Offensive. The sad thing is that over thirty years on I’m still seeing images like this and they don’t affect me like they once did. That doesn’t mean they have lost their power and for some the photos from Haiti will be the first images of a disaster like this that they will have seen and they will be the ones that will become a part of them.

Do you know what I remember about Live Aid? Bob Geldof. Now, why him? Because of the state he worked himself into. You could see how frustrated he was. He didn’t have the words. What words were there? But then we have this wee, scruffy, Irishman getting all worked up at swearing at the British public before the watershed: "Fuck the address, let's get the numbers!" After the outburst, giving increased to £300 per second. He reminded us, the generation who’d cracked jokes in the playground about starving Biafrans, that these were real people; you’d think it was his family that was dying out there and, of course, we’re all related if you go back far enough.


I don’t know the people in Haiti. But I know you. I should feel for them but what I feel is for you. You have become a proxy. I should feel the way you do. We all should. We’ve forgotten how. That’s why we need writers, to hold our hands and lead us into scary places we'd rather not go.
Jim Murdoch



I have that photograph, Jim, along with one of a man being beheaded in a public square - before and after the blade came down - in a highschool text book I didn't return. And others. And for the most part I, too, amble through life with little daily thought about such matters because I am too caught up in my immediate sphere of existence to give them the time of consideration...I remember kids in my class laughing at these images...I remember leaving the room to be sick after looking at the beheading one...I remember Live Aid, the swearing and the pot-bellied kids with big heads and spindle limbs and all the bloody flies, the colour of the dust and the richness of contrast where a droplet of saliva or a tear escaped and the flies going in and out of gawping mouths and feeding on those tears, and how for years afterwards all people remembered was the godawful song...I remember the start to Isherwood's "Goodbye Berlin"..."I am a camera.." and there are dozens of others who have used that same line in one way or another but there's one fundamental problem with that idea...a camera cannot feel, it cannot move of its own accord...we can, I can...there's a difference between passivity and ignorance...observing and ignoring...thank you for reading and for taking the time to make a difference to me...
Rachel Fenton


...while art can seem trivial when compared to the pain and suffering some people go through on a daily basis, I think that it can give some kind of a hope - I think of how listening to music helped me during admittedly much less tougher times - perhaps the frailty and shortcomings of art can be what makes it powerful in a way.
Andrea


I love the idea that you and I and all other writers - and I add here artists of all types who represent humankind and life - join hands to speak about things that would otherwise not be said or heard.
Elisabeth


...it's easy to feel overwhelmed by the horror of it all, the tragedy, the unnecessary unfairness of care/aid/finance. I've certainly been feeling that. And then my daughter comes home all excited about money they've raised at school...and what do you say? 'It's all hopeless, the world is unfair?' No, I didn't say that. At 9 I'm still keeping some of that from her...when I can.


At times like this writing can seem like a bloody stupid thing to be doing. We see nurses on TV and think 'look at them, they can DO something!' But we can't all be nurses. We just can't.
Rachel Fox

we can't change a world, but we can change our small part of it. I do my best to be decent to other people: I may not be able to love, help or change them, but I can be decent to them. And decency involves truth, sharing thoughts, and listening.
Titus

Right then...I'll do what I can...my son's filled his nappy and the sun is shining...onwards...
Rachel Fenton

Vanessa Gebbie's got news on what writers can do to help Haiti over at her blog.

Telling me

As far as I am aware, the end result of this image still hangs in a tertiary education facility somewhere in the North of England. Media: felt tip pen on jotter pad.

"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag..."

When I was seven my grandfather taught me to paint with watercolours. It became my hobby. I have his tartan printed shortbread tin with his paints and brushes, a pencil and a putty rubber, and a piece of charcoal.





When I was seven I wrote my first story and showed it to my primary school teacher. She didn't believe I had written it. Writing became my secret.





When I left high school I had failed my mathematics. I wanted to study journalism because I had to be able to get a "proper job". I was refused entry to the course because the then head of the course thought I was too shy to make it as a journalist. I was brought up to accept the advice of my elders and of professionals: these people knew what they were talking about, apparently.



I looked to science - I had an aptitude for chemistry and biology - I had no mathematics and was refused entry onto the science courses. I enrolled to study art, modern history and English language, and to re-take mathematics. A few months into the course I had dropped history and was re-failing maths. I was deemed unworthy to go to university. I hadn't thought about university. On the advice of a lecturer I dropped out of my other courses - because what use were they if I wasn't going to university?




If I wasn't studying I had to get a job.





I signed up for an art and design course when I was still seventeen, it included fabric and fashion design, jewellery design and ceramics, and in the summer break I got myself a job at my college - painting murals. I still have a great interest in fashion and fabric design, I still make my own jewellery, I went on to study and make ceramics. I still paint. My writing is no longer a secret.




A while ago I was asked if I thought my writing and art were connected. I know the thought processes behind the two definitely are but it took me a while to step away from myself enough to be honest about my work to see what my painting and my writing, and, therefore, what I am about.


"And smile, smile, smile..."


We all have an image of what we want to be. We all aspire to be the best that we can be. We all want to be open to others and embrace difference. And underneath all that - if we were paintings and someone x-rayed us, beneath the layers of what we've told ourselves and everyone else what and who we are - there would be us; raw, rough and unfinished, but us nonetheless. I call this potential. Every blank canvas has it. Every empty screen, clean sheet of paper, new beginning; they are the tabula rasa, the potential. But when we create upon them a mark which we later decide we do not want, do we say - that's it, that was your one chance? Or do we continue with another sheet, another layer of paint, a new document; a new beginning. Does potential cease to be because we didn't achieve it in the first draft?




So, anyway, last week I found the design of the mural I painted in my summer job and I thought of this poem. I wrote it last year.




She wore VERY FLAT
sandals, the type that
history tells us
were worn by Jesus,
though I doubt if He
were real He would be
inclined to wearing
manufacturing
successes such as
these samples of mass
production nor source
purposefully coarse
skin making designs
dyed a lurid lime.
And even if He
were He probably
could not find any
sandals SO VERY
similar; with the
chrome buckles and the
gluing of the straps
concealed within flaps
tucked inside the SO
FLAT soles. Who would know
for definite? No
real proof exists though.
As is commonly
the case, like her, He
more than likely had
soiled, cracked skin: a pad
resulting from too
much wear of a shoe
severely lacking
support; cushioning
secondary to
looks. Feet which tried to,
unsuccessfully,
shed in blocks only
becoming ingrained
with dirt and the dead
skin becoming grey
in pallor. I say
the word probably;
the reality
was I couldn't see,
well not properly,
her feet, because frayed,
trousers, discoloured
from being trodden
upon and sodden
in all weathers, hid
them. I think she did
this on purpose, part
of a student's art
project, a no jest
feminist protest.
Lurking within brown,
corduroy worn down
to the ground were no
doubt legs that were so
hairy they were part
of the protest art;
intrinsic to what
it is to be that:
a feminist. I
realise that my
description does, on
the whole, rely on
probability,
gathered unwisely;
STEREOTYPICALLY.




In my short story collection there are two semi-autobiographical pieces: one is called Potential. With age comes the ability to project confidence. People who meet me are intimidated by my height and outspokenness - ironic that in school I was bullied for my height and quietness. I was called scaffolding (as well as cardboard cut-out and dictionary) I couldn't shorten myself so I upped the volume. I wear bright colours. I speak my mind. I am honest even when it would serve me better, and those around me, to lie. If I have offended you with this or any other post or comment I have made please tell me; directly. There are, as any writer or reader will know, multiple interpretations of any word or combination of words - it all goes back to that slippery chain of signification - and it would be a fool who professed to know what any one person means by a small selection of words, or to take from that comment an assumption of what a persons views might be. I would say to such people, go back and look again at what offended you from another perspective. I am many things. Other people think I am different things; but, underneath, I am still there, shy as I ever was; writing.



"What's the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile."


I could tell you another version of me, and another, but really, what difference would it make? You'll each have your own perspective, some of you will have more than one - hopefully.

Worn art

I chose this pastel sketch because I gave the sitter a big body and a leetle head, and because the style and colours make me think of some of Gauguin's work.

I've been having a bit of a clear out, preparing my studio for when Nuala Ní Chonchúir visits on September 1st, to start her virtual book tour, here!

I'm going to be interviewing her about her latest book of short fiction, Nude. I have my copy, which I read whilst pushing the buggy to school, and I cannot praise it enough.

You may remember I was asked to think up three questions to ask Nuala. Me being the generous soul that I am, offered one of you lucky bloggers a chance to ask a question yourselves. Well, I can say I have chosen the question (it was an easy decision, those of you who are regulars will know why) and I am very happy to announce Lori Tiron-Pandit as the other lucky questioner. Hurrah for Lori!

As her prize, Lori will have her blog showcased on this blog after the interview which should hopefully benefit her with some extra blogger traffic.

So watch this space for more updates and, possibly, more nudes - it's amazing what tattered un-masters you find down the far recesses of a dusty old portfolio! I might start painting nudes again - any offers for sitters?