I make up stuff

I was recently awarded two blog awards by That Elusive Line writer, illustrator and all round dandy blogger, Thomas Taylor. Thank you, Thomas, I am very honoured.

However, I did look at the list of things I had to do and my brain short circuited (not to be confused with the book Short Circuit by Vanessa Gebbie). There were simply too many numbers, sorry Thomas, and I would have felt like a fraud if I had copied the awards onto my blog and then not followed through with the terms of acceptance.

So.....

Hahaha!

What I've done is come up with a feel good solution. A way for everyone to share in the enjoyment and praise with no numbers (well, three if you count the thirds). I am offering the Principle of Thirds Award to anyone who wants it. If you can be bothered to copy and paste this award onto your blog, it's yours. That's it. You don't have to pass it on but you can if you want to.

In line with the spirit of the two other awards and the recent blog craze to post some things which are true and some which aren't, here are some random facts about me and not about me.

I can click my tongue like horse hooves to the tune of the William Tell Overture whilst humming the same tune.

I can't swim.

I passed my driving test first time.

Awards, like painting, like photography, work on a principle of thirds. (I make up stuff so don't believe everything I write. Only a third may be true or, conversely, two thirds may be true).

This was fun! I might make up some more awards!

Telling my wares

This photo has a little to do with the flash fiction I've got up at Ink, Sweat & Tears. I'll explain later. But, remind me.

Bit of a school jumble sale of a post for you today. Got to be in quick to get the best stuff!

Thomas Taylor, over at That Elusive Line has generously nominated me for a couple of awards which I will gladly accept and do what is required of me at some point over the weekend - yes, it's Friday here, come on rest of the world, get your act together! (Note - deferring attention from my own tardiness!)

Got another piece of flash fiction up at Ink Sweat & Tears which I shall be dissecting for you in a week or so if you're interested to know what went into it and how it all started (this is my code for - you might think it's a little strange and therefore, that, by default, perhaps I am, also, but I'm not, honest governor, it's all got a very simple explanation, and phewsh, I'm normal really - and could I fit in another clause break? Probably not). It's called "Your Favourite Colour". Let me know what you think.

Goshkins, on a mish not to start a sentence with "so" and yet to cause the maximum agitation to all you grammarians out there! Any takers? We've sold all the quality goods now, can I ask anyone to take the last few items of this post off my hands - c'mon, it's pence. Nope?

Back in the van it goes then, you'll all have to wait until the next jumble to know what else I had to tell you!

See gulls fly

I didn't have a photo of an eagle, at least not one in focus enough to tell it was an eagle. Anyway, there are no eagles in New Zealand anymore.

You know when things aren't going to plan when you start a line with "I was going to..."

Well, managed to stave off that disaster. So, here's the thing, I was going to write a really interesting, stimulating, nay, I say veritable lyrical Officer and a Gentleman assault course for the mind, and I was going to tie that whole film thing (tenuous link for those of you reading between the lines) in and wow you all with my wit and...yeah, well look where that got me.

Well, what happened was, there was this dog. No, scrap that, there was this pack, big, hugemongously fearsome braying, barking, belching pack (if only the collective noun for dog began with a b) - heck, there was a back of belching beasts (why let stupid spelling rules spoil a quality bit of alliteration?)...and then I faffed about and read these and was more tickled by the degeneration of the comments thread than the jokes themselves and completely forgot what I was going to blog about.

And then, just like a flash of flashyness, I remembered: I was going to answer Steven's super duper questions from the comments in my last post about how do I write a poem and, specifically, how do I know it's a good one.

Remarkably it all ties in because the way I go about writing a poem is much the way I am going about writing this post: I think of something, I hear/read/see something and I think, that could work together, so I stick it together and something else pops into my head and then I go, wait, this is better....you see? I make it up as I go along and sometimes I like it and sometimes I don't. The ones I don't like can, often after a period of solitary confinement (for them, not me) be redeemed with a little wordy personal trainer. The ones I do like I ask politely to wait in the green room and if we still get along after the show I invite them to dinner.

Here's one that's doing hard labour for being a crime against my potential for publication - hey, I'm not proud.


Cicadas 10/03/08

Won't get used to cicadas
breaking up the air with their
too loud noise, a cross between
electricity and clock.

Biting spiders will destroy
my quality of life whilst
flies continue to taunt me
with their filthy aerial

arrogance, refusing to
die when sprayed: insecticide
does not do as it says on
the tin. Won't get used to here.

Here's what I think is wrong with it (yes, the list is finite - just about). Firstly, it's too personal. Most of my poetry is personal, personal is not bad per se, but (I think) the poem must also speak to a wider audience, it must transcend the boundaries of the territory in which it was created. This p, p (nope, I can't even call it one), this aberration is still very much in the shadow underneath my own I.

Secondly, agh, forget it, it just doesn't move me enough to even want to dissect it. Which is odd, considering that it's written about a subject which causes me such a strong personal reaction, because this po, po - almost typed it (pooh) - doesn't get across any of the emotion or fear - any real feeling in fact.

Thirdly, hey, maybe I'm just over my phobia? Sadly, not: I have an earwig and a spider, and some as yet unidentified flying critter, in jars on the sill awaiting release, just like this bunch of worthless words. I may be able to turn them in to words worthy of an officer but they will never be....yeah, yeah, it was a tenuous link, remember? So here goes (making an ass of myself now): run - for the hills! (*Where the seagulls fly, on a mountain high, la, la, la!)

This hit

Live traffic...you mean there's, erm, non-live traffic? Err, that would be stationary in a never to move again traffic way, as in permanently parked traffic; on the scrap heap! Recycle: it's alright after all! Lost the plot some days ago, before my sleeping hours were reduced by a small persuasive chap - that's not a euphemism, by the way - with mighty lungs and an ability to throw his toys out of his cot!

The internet - a world of mischief and ideas.

I have a poem to post today but as I was rooting around in my pictures for a suitable image - I know how you bloggers like a picture with your post - I came across this, which I had saved a couple of months ago, and thought I'd give a big high five to my blog readers in Bulls, and a thank you for making me chuckle. Yes - I'm immature, what of it?

Inspiration, it's everywhere, especially in these times when it's no more than a click away. It would be possible to sit here and never leave the knowledge well that is the internet. Sitting in front of a screen for hours on end is not the way I find inspiration, however, even if it is the medium which transforms my findings most quickly into stories and poems. I still like to get out and about, hence blog AWOL lately.

And here's why:



Come on let's go
I'll say and I'll
scoop up your two toothed, grinning,
compliant softness and we'll head
out into civilisation. Note book in hand,
we'll listen to random snippets of stranger
conversation you don't yet understand,
and notice peculiarities of description
to translate into language; and when
the notebook is heavy with
inspiration and my arms are tired
from carrying you, we will return,
and as you sleep I'll write,
and one day you'll be inspired.


If you want some more inspiration, Women Rule Writer is hosting a blogeriffic interview with poet Liz Gallagher where Liz talks about her collection of poetry "The Wrong Miracle", and where Nuala invites you to enter a draw to win the book. But if you prefer to buy your own, all royalties go to SANDS, the stillbirth and neo-natal death charity. So it's a win win situation. What are you waiting for? Check it out.

Cease her

Picture this: two faces framed in gilt. Ornately carved laurel leaves
intertwined with golden vine.

I was going to post today about how I go about writing short stories but this arrived in the post and I want to read it, and if you are interested in writing or knowing more about writing short fiction, you should, too.

One face turned aside, ear lobe cushioned to lip, receives the hidden word. Curiosity runs its fickle fingers down your contorted spine as you lean in closer.

I was going to pick out a painting to top my post: a pixilated prize for those who seek a visual lure. And then the words came and made a frame. Now all I have to do is fill it, or do I?

He, or is it she, stares ahead and would close her eyes if she thought she could hear better for doing so, and doesn't see anything but the shape of the words going into her ear. She doesn't see the way the body at her side is poised to flee; doesn't see the the thing that glistens in the hand, inches from her neck: a ring? A blade? A torch, perhaps? She is unaware of how the eyes set intent upon her do curve with narrowed lids which mask their unreal colour so that only a tease of it can be seen by you. But you know that the eyes are shaped by ugly satisfaction or grim enjoyment. Lies, you say? Lies it is.

But what's a painting if not words coloured into shapes? We squint at clouds, at clods, at the mottled colours until we can find lines which our eyes translate.

Now it's your turn. Go on? No? Then end it.

Write place

Retro furniture installation courtesy of Isobel and Polly Pocket.



It's been a strange period, since I returned from my research trip: I don't seem to be making much of a dent in the information I've accumulated, but I have been busy.




I have written another short story (and when I say short, I mean SHORT: less than a thousand words). I seem to be able to write about an eight hundred worder in an hour. Oh how I wish it were then finished. Sometimes it is. Rarely. More often than not I end up going over them, again and again, tweaking and chopping, syntax juggling, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, for me, I did not allow myself time for double checking with two stories I sent off recently - won't be winning that competition - and found a typo and a ridiculous primary school crime "loose" instead of "lose". I fear my neighbours may have increased the volume on their idiot's lanterns when I saw that one and went AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!




Hey ho.




It's not all been a waste. A valuable lesson therein, me thinks. Me often thinks a tad too much in the hind of sight as opposed to the fore of it. Oh sight.




Since returning from South Island, where I tried to get a feel for what it would be like to live in the place I was studying (walking the streets so many times I knew what was where enough to give other tourists directions and describe landmarks in a way as to make them think I lived there), I have been feeling retrospective. I have been thinking about my "place" there and here. Obviously, there, I was fulfilling a role - researching, but there was more to it than that. I was thinking - and this is useful for my novel in progress - what makes a place "home"? Answers on a postcard, please.




Anyway, why was I posting today, ah, yes! Award winning short fiction writer, reviewer (to name a few credentials) and blogger extraordinaire (extraordinaire here is defined as "how does she do all of that?"), Tania Hershman very kindly asked me to write a guest blog for her series on "Writing and Place", and you can read it here.

Did I give you a flight?

Sometimes the smallest frames hold the largest views. Incidentally, my daughter took this photograph - and many others as I was enjoying the view of the inside of a paper bag for most of the journey!

Fasten your seat belts. Could all passengers please remain seated whilst the aircraft is taking off and landing. Thank you.

I've been avoiding posting since I returned from my research trip to South Island - what, I hear you say, you were away? Well, here I am again and I have so much I want to share with you all about my trip, but so little I can, alas, as I want to stuff as much of what I have discovered into my novel as my plot allows for.

Please keep your seat belts fastened as we seem to be experiencing a little turbulence.


It's been peculiar, to say the least, being back in Auckland. I have a huge stack of reading material to get through, plus hundreds of photographs to label and scrutinise. I have maps and memoirs and, curiously, memories of my own to sift through and work out what is valuable to my story and what is merely of value to me.


This is your captain speaking, to notify you that we will be landing shortly. We are currently (bunch of numbers) high and with a wind speed of (bunch of numbers), I hope you have had a pleasant flight on behalf of Too Small for Sense and Comfort Airways and I wish you an enjoyable and safe remainder of your journey.



And I have to catch up on blogging and general real life as I know it.

Thank you for choosing to travel with us and I hope to see you all again soon.