Category Archives: writing

Stories, writing

The Australian Government and the ABC – A Christmas Special

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I am sharing this post for friends and writers in Australia and others who follow the work of the ABC. The article was posted by the Australian Society of Authors today.

The Government and the ABC – A Christmas Special

In the ricochet of the Abbott government’s $254 million, 5% cut to the ABC over five years, it has been announced that more than 300 ABC staff would lose their jobs over the next period.

Impacts on Australian writers.

This will have a serious impact on writers. Among the departures will be people who create scripts, intros, narrative, jokes, segues, back-announces and such other incidentals that radio and television production need. Producers, program makers, presenters, commissioning editors – many of whom wield precious word skills to produce ‘content’ – will also be eliminated.

We express sympathy and solidarity with salaried or contract staff who will find themselves terminated – but equal sympathy must go to the freelance writers who have relied on the meagre copyright or broadcast fees payable for use of their work.

The proposed closure of Poetica, Mike Ladd and Krystyna Kubiak’s long-standing program celebrating and supporting poetry in Australian life, is a further betrayal of the national broadcaster’s Charter, which includes: “… programs that contribute to a sense of national identity and inform and entertain, and reflect the cultural diversity of the Australian community …”

Poetica

Poetica has run every week since February 1997 bringing poetry to a mainstream audience on ABC Radio National. From this program alone it appears that 9 out of 18 producers – i.e. writers – are to be sacked. At its peak Poetica reached 90,000 listeners per week, with many more via the internet.

Poetica made 900 programs, 60% of which featured contemporary Australian poets. It brought their work to a wide audience and provided the poets with some much-needed income through the fees paid for broadcast. Their publishers benefitted through some exposure. And booksellers reported a rise in enquiries and sales of the poetry titles featured.

In the absence of a dedicated poetry program with its own timeslot and separate website, assurances that poetry will continue to be featured on Radio National are merely a sop.

Poetica is one of many culturally valuable writing-centred programs to have been axed in recent years; others include The Book Reading and Short Story. It appears that this latest is a ‘specialist’ program of a kind that no longer lies within the brief of the broadcaster – or if it does, is not worth paying for.

Despite the ABC Charter, ABC programmers more and more ignore the need to respond to and facilitate ‘special interests’. If the ABC does not actively and vigorously support such an interest as literary creativity – something that is central to education and the nation’s intellectual life and arts – what exactly does it support?

The ABC’s efforts to ape the styles and motives of commercial media and internet organisations are meanwhile risible. 100 people are to go from News and Current Affairs to fund a $20 million digital investment program and 70 new digital jobs, suggesting it will now seek new space in a highly competitive online environment, with no guarantee of further reach or loyal audiences.

The ASA accuses the ABC of ill-informed, uncaring behaviour and helping to send writers broke. Shame on ABC management and shame on its political masters.

Copyright © 2014 Australian Society of Authors, All rights reserved.

Life, Living, Stories, Women, writing

Pushing Up Daisies

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Chapter One: Casting Shadows continued

Viola flung the rest of her stale drink into the garden and carelessly dropped her glass on the day table. She turned and watched the remaining yoke of the sun slide away and as quickly, the darkness enveloped her. The evening breeze caressed her, nudging her silk cream blouse under her full breasts. Her navy linen pants hung loosely about her short fat legs. It felt weird but nice. No-one has touched her for so long. She made no attempt to rejoin her guests inside. The time had crawled to 6:30pm, when the automated sprinklers were due to start spitting. She paced the verandah to check if the entire irrigation system had come on to water her beloved garden. Her mind went back to events earlier.

Nora had asked her if she was all right – the stupid girl. Viola felt anger rising in her like bile, but swallowed it, only responding with “good”. For years, she had been telling her friend about how ‘he’ had treated her. Nora knew. Just like she had, Viola gritted her teeth and told Nora everything was good.

To Viola, “good” was a great word. When people ask how she was, she would reply on a reflex, “good”. According to Viola, the word good was so vague and final that anyone who asked could not ask any other questions. They left her alone. The word ‘good’, Viola thought, had protected her all these years. Kept her safe from the pity and concern that exhausted her so. Viola hesitated, as she paused and put the lights back on. They instantly flooded the lush bushes enclosing two carports and her guests’ extra two cars parked next to her black BMW and his silver Nissan 280Z. He would catch the $150 cab ride home tonight. She felt glad, she was not picking him up from Brisbane airport.

Over the years, she had kept all her feelings deep inside her, in the smallest pocket of her heart, layered with obligations and responsibilities as the daughter, mother and wife. But tonight, she was going to tell him everything when he came home. She would tell him she has had enough. She began thinking of her plan. Letting the scenario play out, she strolled back to the front of the house. Viola noticed at the end of the verandah that the sprinkler at her rose garden, nearest to her neighbours was off. Without thinking, she stepped bare feet onto the dying lawn and walked straight across towards the dark shadows to turn the sprinkler on. The light switch was near the tennis courts.

To read part one, see my earlier post and for more – visit my Wattpad:

http://www.wattpad.com/myworks/27925992-pushing-up-daisies

 

Life, Living, Stories, writing

Becoming a Stranger

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In the mirror this morning, the stranger looked back at me . It took her one week to take my body. Her hair, smile and the colour of her eyes were familiar. It was the shape of her face that was different, disfigured and daunting, creating her new identity and making her who she was. This woman looked 20 years older. Saggy eye bags, and burning and bulging red patches on her forehead from the illness that had engulfed her body and giving her the extra years on her face.

I stepped away from the mirror, afraid. I took my bag, car keys and left the house. It was 6am.

I got in and took the wheels of the Honda, staring at my swollen, bluish red fingers trying to bend over the steering and grip tight. It was painful. The auto-steering had a mind of its own and often spun back. My joints were not co-operating. Discomfort and unco-operative joints was something I had envisaged later in life, not today. I did not want to look at the rear vision mirror as I reversed. I did not want to face the stranger again.  I forced myself to ignore the pain and itch in my deteriorating body. The fever stood tall. I was glad my feet could work at the pedals better than my fingers. This, gave me some comfort and reassured me, I could still drive in my condition. I needed to get to the doctor quickly. The medication my Gp had prescribed seemed to have failed and my health worsen in the past three days. Last night, I thought I would die with the high temperatures of summer, fighting against the rising temperature of my body.

After ten minutes of driving, I had to slow down because the saggy tired eyes wanted so badly to sleep. I stayed on low gears and concentrated until I arrived at the shops. I parked and took a cab into the city to see the doctor. The cab driver looked at me suspiciously. His eyes went from the large red patches on my arm and elbows to my neck and forehead. I wondered what went through his mind. I was too sick to care.

“Can you take me to Wickham Terrace?”

“Yes”. He forced a smile and I tried one, knowing, my smile would have been ugly.

I stepped into the cab and when I gave him the doctor’s address at Wickham Terrace in Brisbane City, he muttered something and drove off. It must have been the face of the stranger from the mirror that got to him. Usually, the cab drivers liked to have a conversation with me during the course of my cab-journeys.

I shut my eyes and slept until the cab stopped. I paid the driver and made my way to the specialist doctor. Everyone at the foot of the lift stared. Could it be that bad? I wondered. This tower houses many doctors. I was sure, I was not the first weirdo to appear on the scene. Several floors upstairs, I saw an opened door and asked the receptionist if I could stay; I had come one hour early to see my doctor.  Secretly, I also needed the cool air-conditioning. My skin was burning like fire although it was only 7:15am and the air was cool. The receptionist smiled kindly and said it was OK. I sat down on the comfortable chairs and closed my eyes, relieved. My mind drifted to my girlfriend Marina. Yesterday, Marina heard my voice on the phone and came to get me.

“You don’t sound good, but you have to come with me”.

“OK” I gave in.

When she had arrived at my house, she was shocked at how I looked. I told her that I had been ill, but it seemed to have gone longer than usual. She told me there was more to it and it was best to swim in the ocean. She believed salt water was the cure. So, we packed our change, some food I left the sick-bed I had been in for a few days. We drove an hour away to Bribie Island.I had joked to Marina that once I completely surrender my whole body to the disease, perhaps it would leave me alone. I would get better.  The swelling started on my back and everyday, it the symptoms had moved up and over my head. Yesterday, after day six, the burning swells starting coming down on my forehead and neck.

The saltwater was amazing. It was good to feel the force of the waves hitting against me and the salt stinging me. The healing was working. I soon forgot how sick I was as I played with the waves and swam like a fish again. 

After our swim, we ate crab, fresh cucumber and drank hot tea with lemon and honey. Then, we spotted two black cockatoos and Marina, who is half Chinese and Papua New Guinean told me it was a good omen. She insisted we drive to a news agency and buy lottery tickets, so we did. At the same time, the Specialist doctor had called me back and said I could come in this morning instead of January 15. It was a good omen.

A knock on the surgery door forced me to open my eyes. My doctor’s receptionist had arrived. She popped her head in next door.

“The lady is not mine, she is yours”, the first receptionist said.

“Oh”, responded in hesitation.

I laughed and said, I had an appointment with the skin allergist.

Soon, she ushered me into the surgery and the allergist arrived. Two patients went in for fifteen minute consultation each and then he called for me. The allergist looked me over and asked me if I was alright.

“No”, I said. He would not know the difference between the stranger and I because this doctor had never seen me before.

He gave me a chair and I quickly told him what was happening to my body and showed him the lumps. I was tempted to show him a pre-hives picture of me and say: “Doctor, this is me”. He asked all the questions and guided me through the history of my hives’ problem. After a 45 minute consultation, he decided my issue was not an allergy as previously diagnosed and the medication given was incorrect. He told me he had never seen such a severe case before but all the symptoms pointed to a viral infection of the immune system – not an allergy. I was surprised. He made a joke about the disease not being something else and specifically said it was not contagious. I then joked if it was puripuri, which was witchcraft. The doctor rolled his eyes. As it turned out, doc had spent his early medical training Madang Hospital, Papua New Guinea.

I asked the doctor if he could cure me, something like giving me an injection because I was sick of being sick and there had to be something to fix me instantly. He laughed.

After examination, he said there was one thing that could knock this “thing” over, but I had to follow a stringent routine with the medication he was to prescribe. I waited for him to write everything out and I repeated his instructions back to him. I needed to get better.

I missed a week’s pay. That was what I paid for the specialist. I took the lift to the ground floor to have breakfast as instructed, and take my first prescribed magic pill. My cousin arrived with her ten-year-old and three-year-old daughters. The girls ran up the footpath to me, giggling, excited and ready to give their aunty a big hug but as they came up to me, they both stopped and looked at me like I was a stranger. It was only then, I realised, how bad I must look. Children are not good at hiding their feelings, I already knew I had become a stranger within my own body. My cousin rang her partner and described me as “unrecognisable”. She bought her daughters chocolate and cream and I spent the next ten minutes trying to convince them; the doctor had said my condition was not contagious.

“I am not contagious. I am your aunty”. They gave each other looks.

There were no hugs and kisses when they dropped me off,  just wave-goodbyes. My older son had earlier said: “Mum, I love you, but I am not going to touch you, you look gross”. (He was joking). His brother, on the other hand kept hugging me and telling me, “I’m scared mum and I don’t want to look at you”.

It has been 12 hours and the magic pill has started working. I feel a lot better. I took a walk to my greenhouse and spoke with the birds. The swelling is going down and I hope in the next few days, the pill will help me get rid of the stranger.

 

 

Stories, writing

Pushing Up Daisies

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Friends in creative writing group and I have decided to do a writing challenge within the Wattpad Challenge. The Wattpad challenge requires 2000 words per day to reach 50,000 words. We are writing 200-500 words per day. I hope to post as much as I write so I may miss some days, and post more words other days. This challenge would keep the creative juices flowing and keep us in practice until we resume our workshop next year. It is all in good fun and who knows, a good story or two may come out of it. I have decided to write fiction. I plucked my protagonist, Viola Gregg from one of my old stories and gave her a new life. Let’s see how she survives. I am making her story up as I go, so this story is completely unplanned. You can visit Wattpad for the rest of the story, as I write it. Here, I share with you, part of the opening chapter I posted a few days ago. Please feel free to comment here or on Wattpad and remember, these are drafts.

Pushing Up Daisies

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Chapter 1 Casting Shadows

Fiction JKLeahy

Viola rested her gin and tonic on the long wooden ledge. The 90z thick rock glass was placed exactly where the blue paint had stripped off, leaving a naked, grainy, and dull patterning. She noticed, dusk had dawned on her. The ice cubes clinked the glass before the clear liquor and ice stilled. The slice of lemon looked tired and hunched over the ice-cubes. Viola had had enough. The scent of cut lime hovered between the mess behind her and her glass. As she withdrew her cold and wet right hand from the drink, and placed it against herself, warming it in her other hand, she caught a moving blurred white car. The car was driving away from her street towards Moggill Rd. Viola did not know where the car came from. She did not hear it. Her eyes fleeted across the acreage properties and returned to the mess on the glass table near her, on her verandah. There were empty chips, nuts and cheese packets with some half eaten dips. Empty bottles and wine glasses stood discarded. Ants had gathered. Soon, the possums would appear boisterously to help themselves at her Mount Crosby home.

The drinks had started out here, on the verandah at midday today and had stretched the hours, her guests’ behaviors’ and her patience. She was ready for her guests to leave two hours ago. Too drunk and too stupid to notice, her friend Nora Gritty did not pick up Viola’s hints that the party was over. Nora loved parties. To think Nora had the nerve to invite herself and her friends, then not bother to leave after drinking all the alcohol but now Nora is talking about stripping and jumping into the pool. Viola had excused herself, and left the room.

“Where are you going?” Nora noticed her walk outside.

“I need some air”, that was all Viola said.

Viola did not care about the alcohol. She wanted time. Time to herself, and time to think before he got here. Today was the day. Everything had been set. She watched the sweat run off her glass and instantly stained the old timber. Most of the chilled run-off soaked into the timber grains. Her own sweat made her feel clammy.

“What’s happened with your make-up?” Nora had asked her earlier.

“I am not wearing any”.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m good”, Viola lied.

On the verandah, a feeling of despair came over her as darkness loomed and shadows peaked. She wanted to ask the guests to leave but she could not. Nora told Viola, she had kept to herself for too long. Viola felt trapped. She leaned into the ledge and looked over the lawn to the neighbours. In the background, her guests giggled and laughed; she could hear someone switching the lights on, throwing her own shadow forward to join the tall dark house on the lawn. Viola looked at the deserted road, knowing she could not turn back. The giggles and laughter became louder and Viola knew these were performances, fickle and simulated to get her attention, and this angered her. Her thoughts went to what she had planned for her husband and a slight chill ran through her. Viola wished she could dissolve into the grains of the old timber ledge and disappear with the water.

Over the verandah, her eyes, matching the brownie-green of the dying manicured lawn followed the edging of the garden to the leafy bottle tree. By now, the last week of Autumn, the tree should be flowering. It had been three years since she planted the semi-grown tree in 2011, just before the Queensland floods. Now, instead of being completely covered with its fiery, gorgeous red grandeur of flowering, like everything else, the bottle tree did not flower, but kept its deep dark green leaves. The sinking orange sun dusted the dark green leaves. As a slight breeze brushed the day away, the tinged leaves rustled into a dance drawing Viola’s eyes further to her extended creation, a garden bed of crusted rusty bark. Inlaid into this crusted bed neatly, and now flowering, were her pretty large white roses. These light delicate blossoms were blackened by the harsh, dense, lurking shadow. From the rose bed, Viola peeled her eyes away and looked up. She felt cold and she shivered as she gazed into the looming house that casted this thick dark shadow to her. The house was at least 50 metres away, but the shadow of the tall house bounced over the flat brownie-green lawn, visually, and almost touching her own shadow, linking her to her mysterious neighbours. She has not seen a single soul emerge from that house since the neighbours moved in six months ago.

Check here for JKLeahy Pushing Up Daisies updates:

http://www.wattpad.com/86132034-pushing-up-daisies-casting-shadows?utm_source=email-uploaded_story&ref_id=41515979

Stories, writing

A reading from Chris Abani

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Chris_Abani
Chris Abani Credit:Centrum

I am a great admirer of Chris Abani’s work. I found from the archives of the Port Townsend Writers’ Conference,  a reading by Chris Abani from three of his books and I wanted to share it here. The link to the podcast is at the bottom of Abani’s introduction.

For those who do not know, Chris Abani is a novelist, poet, essayist, screenwriter and playwright. Born in Nigeria to an Igbo father and English mother, he grew up in Afikpo, Nigeria, received a BA in English from Imo State University, Nigeria, an MA in English, Gender and Culture from Birkbeck College, University of London and a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Southern California. He has resided in the United States since 2001.

Awards

He is the recipient of the PEN USA Freedom-to-Write Award, the Prince Claus Award, a Lannan Literary Fellowship, a California Book Award, a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, a PEN Beyond the Margins Award, the PEN Hemingway Book Prize and a Guggenheim Award.

Some of Abani’s fiction includes The Secret History of Las Vegas (Penguin 2014), Song For Night *(Akashic, 2007), *The Virgin of Flames (Penguin, 2007), Becoming Abigail (Akashic, 2006), GraceLand (FSG, 2004), and Masters of the Board (Delta, 1985).

His poetry collections are Sanctificum (Copper Canyon Press, 2010), There Are No Names for Red (Red Hen Press, 2010), Feed Me The Sun – Collected Long Poems *(Peepal Tree Press, 2010) *Hands Washing Water (Copper Canyon, 2006), Dog Woman (Red Hen, 2004),Daphne’s Lot (Red Hen, 2003) and *Kalakuta Republic *(Saqi, 2001).

His latest publication is, The Face. A Cartography of the Void (September 2014).

http://centrum.org/2014/04/podcast-chris-abani-reading-from-the-2009-port-townsend-writers-conference/

Life, Living, writing

All writers need a Wattpad Moment

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I attended a talk at our local library last Saturday in Kenmore, near Brisbane City, Australia. I was with six others from our Creative Writing group. We had all been reading and writing fiercely, and were excited about learning to E-Publish.

As it turned out, the Kenmore Library talk, given by the Queensland Writers Centre was valuable and inspired all of us. Although we were all ‘pumped’ by the talk, some members were not too comfortable with self-promotion and general socialising on the internet and E-publishing.  Some of course (all total of three of us) raced home and signed up with Wattpad to begin writing our stories.

I was working through my drafts and trying to choose what I would like to write or publish on Wattpad. I also looked up general information on Wattpad and read other stories written by various writers. It is too early for me to know whether this step would assist me with my plans to publish some of my work but I will share more later.

Amongst all the information I read and saw, I came across this short video – which made me laugh. This video is not only about what a writer does in Wattpad. This is what we all do in Wattpad or WordPress or even other social networks – we are eager to get some response, feedback or praise when general advice is ‘write for yourself’, or ‘don’t expect’ anything or ‘believe in what you are doing’….. after all, writers are human.

Life, Living, Stories, Women, writing

The End of the Broom

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The End of The Broom

JLeahy Memoir Series

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Brooms. Credit: Wikipedia

The day was hot, thick and sticky with humidity. School was over yesterday. I was nearly nine. My mind was lost. Mother was going away. I had no idea when and for how long. She had a new job in Kundiawa, Simbu Province, Papua New Guinea.

It was so hot. I was dying to have a swim. Already, the children in the village were swimming in the river near our house. I looked down and saw them. Then my eyes caught the broom on the ground. I knew I had to get down there and sweep.

Mother trained women to sew clothes and make a living. She loved her job with the Lutheran Mission at Ampo (Lae), but now the government welfare office gave her a real job, she had said. Werner Knoll offered her this job. Werner was a German kiap who became a welfare manager and headed the office in Lae. He had told me he was my guardian. I knew being a guardian meant, he was not my father, but something like an angel.  I heard that word “guardian” used in our church. I also saw it in grandma’s bible.

I went to our room to get my red towel and walked back to the kitchen. I stood there and looked at the children. They were jumping off a platform we built on a tree, and landing in the river with a bombing sound. The water splashed everywhere. I was jealous. I looked at them but my mind went back to my mother. May be Werner could not pay us any more. Maybe, he ran out of money.

Mother and I visited Werner each month to collect money. Mother said we collected $AU20. When we arrived at the Welfare, Werner would beckon me with his pointer. He then lifted me onto his lap and pinched my cheeks. Then he pecked me on both the cheeks with his beard scratching me roughly. He had a large pink mole on his cheek. Then, he would order me to open my mouth so he would check my teeth for betel nut stains. I was terrified but I did as I was told. Mother and all the women in the welfare thought it was funny and laughed. After, Werner would tell me to  promise to be a good girl.  He would warn me not to chew betel nut and wink at my mother as he handed her a pink slip to go with to the bank. This ritual started when I was able to walk and speak.

I was to find out much later, this money came from my father whom I had never seen nor heard about. No one told me the money was from my father then, so I never knew. I had always thought Werner was related to me somehow and it was Werner’s money that he gave us. He was being kind. Mother had to bring me every time she visited Werner to get this money. I thought the whole ritual with Werner was part of the reason for getting the money. It was Werner’s rule.

“I will make a lot of money in this job”, Mother had said last night.

“Yamandu?” Really? I said, not convinced.

Mother promised me with such excitement in her eyes, I started to wonder what we would do with a pile of money. I did not think it was ever possible for us to have money except for Werner’s $20. Grandma said too much money was evil. Not many people made money, unless you had a bank; that’s what the village children said.

Mother’s job sounded ok. We could share the money with everyone. However, I was also concerned it would be too cold for Mother in Simbu. She needed to keep warm. She was smart, she could make fire in the evenings, I thought. I could not imagine how we would be apart. Deep inside, I had too many questions and felt uneasy about this job as I embarked on my own jobs for Saturday morning. I decided not to think about Mother. I went and started my chores.

“Kalem! Kalem!” the children were calling me from the river. I could see them from our house. I waved and made hand signs that I was busy, and would join them later.

To get my chores done I started with the coconut broom. I picked up the bundle of dried brown coconut sticks. They were held firmly at the thick end with re-cycled black rubber from tyre tube. I started sweeping from the back of the big house. My chores had increased with my age. Each day the chores changed, but most of the tasks were the same. We shared the chores between all the women in my family. The boys and men shared theirs. My chores were cleaning, washing, cooking, and helping Mother. Sometimes I helped my grandmother and aunties. If not fishing, the girls and women would be gardening together or making art and singing. On special occasions we would prepare our costumes and dance. The evenings were for story telling, and laughter after the church service. There was an occasional women gathering or village meeting. On Sundays we went to church and cooked a feast after. If someone died, we all gathered and cried together for at least two days before we buried them in our village cemetery.  As we carried the dead to the cemetery, we sang in Yabem:

“Where is the mouth of the road?

At the entrance of the cemetery.

That’s where my body will rest and become soft.

But my spirit would fly to you,

Where I will see your face Lord”

………………………………

(Draft only, and to be continued in my memoir series).

 

About Me, Life, Living, My Art, Painting, Stories, Women, writing

One Lovely Blog Award

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THANK YOU MILLIE THOM

Blogging is isolated and lonely. I am not writing in a newsroom where I can see writers and editors bustling in a typical newsroom I knew.  In a newsroom, I could discuss my story with an editor or another fellow writer, or work with a photographer.  In this blogger-world sometimes I feel, I am alone. I am reaching out to someone, somewhere, whom my story may appeal to. My story is like fresh bait on a hook, dropped in the middle of the deep, dark ocean.  I want the right fish to bite the hook, not any fish. So, the ‘bait’ has to be right. But how do I know if the bait is right? As writers, we don’t. Well I don’t, not 100 per cent anyway. Unless, we get feedback, research data and see some kind of recognition, we really don’t know if what we write is appreciated.

When my site-visit numbers were increasing recently, there were very few comments and ‘likes’ on each post. I have to admit, I felt doubt. I wondered why I would have many people visit my blog each day, and not interact. I would visit the few writers that “liked’ my post and be astounded by how many followers and hits they have had. I searched through their contents. What makes this blog great?, I asked myself. Some blogs were interesting and it made sense as to why they would have such an audience.  Others did not make sense at all – they were just popular. Like everything else, it really does not matter what you write and how you write it. That ‘bait’ will catch the reader that was meant for it. You have to catch your own niche market. I learnt, and told myself only to worry about my next story.

In the background, I did do some content research, adjusted my theme, and the layout. I took a course on content and UX with Open University and shortened my posts. (This post will not be one of those short ones). I kept on writing; refusing to use popular social networks to get my readers – or lure people who knew me. I covered most topics I loved and cared about. The risk was, that I could lose readers because of the varied topics. I borrowed some hints from Opinionated Man. Jason could scratch himself and blog it to get 400 “likes”. He was always true to himself. I enjoyed his narrative posts the most. I kept writing about the things I loved or believed in. It is real. So, my readership doubled in a month. And, somewhere in that increased number, someone connected with my content. My bait was taken.

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I won’t call her the right bait but a friend.

On November 2, a stranger appeared on my blog. She was wearing a China-red dress/top, armed with a natural straw hat with a black band that mysteriously and securely hid her face. I saw this picture after I received the first message from WordPress. It said: “millithom liked your post”.  I have had other “likes’ before so I paid no notice. I thought I would follow-up and view each respond when I had time in the evening. Then there was another ‘like” and another, by the same person. I immediately visited millithom’s blog and was very impressed with what she wrote. I learnt a lot from her. As an aspiring author myself, I was impressed with her book posts on writing in general and helpful advise on publishing. I was really grateful that she could relate to my post and COMMENT! On that same day, after the fourth “like”, millithom was hooked, I think. I say that with no malice. I got a notification that she started “following” me. It was the kind of ‘stalking’ that every blogger loves. The baited hook was taken by that fish. Each day since, this woman I have never seen her face except in an old photo, warmly responds to all my posts. She also writes very encouraging and heart-felt comments. For me and any writer or any blogger who is starting and ‘afraid’, we all need a millithom to put that hope into our doubting minds. I have mine. I also have L.T.Garvin, Poetheart! and Seafarrwide. There is a kind of sisterblog-hood going.

Thank you Millie Thom, blogger, author (Shadow of the Raven), with a gorgeous heart for nominating me for this award. It means a lot to me. I will continue to strive to keep the content of Tribalmystic blog interesting. Thank you Millie, my followers, and returned readers and I would appreciate any feedback to improve this blog. I also appreciate the quiet ones. Your silence and presence are both appreciated and acknowledged.

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Self-portrait. JLeahy, Acrylics & Inks on canvas. 2012.

Seven Lovely Things…

As requested by the conditions of this award, I have to tell you seven “lovely” things about me. Ahhhumm.. (I asked my sons and my colleague today) and they made some comments I shall not repeat; so I have to do this task the best I can.

1. I am a queen of surprises. (I am that confident). Even after all these years, I can still surprise my sons in their ‘older age’, family members and friends. I love the intrigue. I love mysteries. I love how happy I make them.

  1. When I was growing up, the children in my village used to call me a spirit. I was lighter skinned but had tanned from hours in the sun. I had straight hair which was blonde from swimming in the sea every day. All that time, I thought I was black. The children kept telling me, I was white. I think it is lovely to be both.

  2.  I easily make friends with strangers and people from all walks of life. I could connect and have a deep conversation with a stranger, that I had just met. It scares my children.

  3. I love nature.  The Ocean, forest, and all life forms. I believe that Earth is in danger. We should all be seriously concerned about what is happening in climate change and each make a commitment to do something about it.

  4. I am who I am because I am the thread that runs in the fabric created by my mother,  grandmother and my people.

  5. I love stories – telling and hearing.

7. I make art from anything..but I love drawing with  pencil and watercolours.

Pencil - Meri Karim Pikinini
Pencil on paper. “Meri Karim Pikinini” JLeahy. 2014

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Nominate other blogs I read and like:

1. Millie Thom

2. Seafarrwide

3. MyTwoSentence

  1. Poetheart! 

  2. Notes From An Alien

6. L.T.Garvin 

7. Vera Komnig

  1. Life in Russia

  2. HiMe

  3. When Women Inspire

plus more………

 

 

 

Life, Living, Stories, writing

When you write, who will you hurt?

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Photo: Greg Broom

That was the question of our discussion in creative writing workshop tonight.  My friend Bill Heather is an architect. He is also a writer in my creative writing workshop group. The group is tutored by Isabel D’Avila Winter, a published author. Pamela Jeffs, another writer-friend suggested that I should blog this discussion and my own response, to help writers who are planning to write autobiographies and memoirs or fiction based on real life stories.  I begin with Bill’s email to me and others in our group.

Bill Heather: Hello all you aspiring and proven writers,

  • Is there a limit to what you can mine from your own life experiences for a story?
  • Are authors of autobiographical fiction or memoir at risk of alienating their family and friends in their search for that elusive storyline?
  • Is ruthlessness in search of your best fiction a necessary attribute of a writer?
  • Would you publish a story if it could destroy the marriage of your closest friend?

There are good questions to ponder as we head towards the end of another year, and ones which are addressed in the attached article from the November 2014 issue of the Monthly. Link at the end of my response to Bill.

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Omar Momani: Ferguson’s pen mightier than the sword 

My Response to Bill: Dear Bill and friends,

Thank you Bill. I found the article very interesting and very true. The most safe writing would be fiction.

The pen does ‘cut’ deeper than the sword.

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Source: http://typem4murder.blogspot.com.au/2013/09/undeniable-proof-that-pen-is-mightier.html

 

In my Memoir writing, I question everything I write. I know there will be a lot of ‘hurt’ of others as well as my own. I have created pain in many stories I read in our evening workshop. For example, if I had told my mother the old uncle rubbed my sore leg the ‘wrong way’ I think there would have been some serious charges or bloodshed in my family. The man is dead now but if I spoke about it now – what could happen? I don’t know. I also spoke to my mother and step brother about some stories I have written so far, and we discussed them. These stories were all painful…my stepbrother is my late step father’s son. But my step brother is my best friend – we are very close.

So my point is, as often as I do, I ask, should I just change my memoir to fiction and pretend it is not me or get my ‘freedom to express’ in fiction? Perhaps some stories could be written differently, safely..? Those and others are questions I ask myself all the time. 75% of what I have written, I don’t bring it to our workshop, I am scared to. Sometimes, I write the whole thing and then delete it.
Every now and then, I write fiction for the class exercises, because, this gives me the freedom to write freely without guilt, pain, horror and more. I totally lose myself in the ‘fake’ when I write fiction.
I deal with my writing the truth ‘problem’ this way; I write about me, the events, people and places and things that affect me. I write it all, then I decide what I can manage to live with, and I keep that story. I tell myself, ‘stop thinking about everyone else’. I just write ‘my’ story. I can always pull out what I think is too much at the end of the day. The final choice is mine, and I have to live with it.

I hope that makes sense.

Joycelin

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Click here to read the article by Ceridwen Dovey : Monthly 11.14 pp42-45

 

Stories, writing

Second Part – Nathan’s story (fiction)

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Warning: This may offend. Descriptions and events in the part two of Nathan’s story are not from my imagination but my son’s. As a sequel and at readers’ request, I asked Nathan’s permission to publish this story. He told me I could if I don’t edit it. The story is yet to be titled.

Part One: https://tribalmystic.me/2014/11/16/the-gift-from-god/

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Part Two:

They drove through the crowded city. Eventually Jack and Prince Toban arrived at the arena, a colossal bio-dome located in the middle of the Sahara. They were quickly blindfolded and separated. Later, Jack found himself in small, cylindrical cell with an open ceiling. The exit was only just out of reach, but the tree lines were visible nearby, as was a huge LCD screen in place of the sky – in case it wasn’t already obvious I’m doing a Hunger Games thing with this, so just picture THAT and pretend I described it really well instead, and that it was an original idea that I thought up.

A man’s face appeared on the screen/sky. He had piercing blue eyes, which would be quite dazzling if they weren’t detracted from by the octopus shape the man’s facial hair and been shaved and sculpted into, (which is supposedly how everyone is going to look in the future, but whatever). The commentator who literally could not be taken seriously began to explain the gravity of the situation. The last man standing would earn food and prosperity for their district. That mean would go free. After an extremely long countdown (in case everyone forgot, it went for 50 seconds in the movie, which was slightly excessive) the cells were dropped and all hell broke loose as the various gladiators raced to the centre of the arena to arm themselves.

Jack glanced away from where he was going for a brief second, and when he looked back he was being stared down by a sexy older woman who lived near him.  She was more eager to survive than she was to mingle. She slowly raised a bat above her head and…very weakly brought it down, feebly attempting to club her sunset haired opponent. I forgot to specify, she was at least 80, it was honestly quite upsetting to witness. Thankfully (I guess), the assault didn’t last for long. Out of nowhere, she was cleaved in half by a man hated by personal trainers everywhere, who understood the secret to building muscle FAST. Time slowed as the elderly woman’s torso slid free from her lower half; I know that’s kind of horrifying , but she was super old, it wasn’t much of a loss. Have some perspective people.

As the juiced up superhuman before him roared in response to his muscular eyes being splashed with geriatric viscera, our charming protagonist made the (probably very wise) decision to piss off into the woods and wait for the majority of fighting to blow over. Jack climbed a tree and waited, bravely sitting around doing nothing in particular as he counted the cannons firing off, marking the deaths of his fellow competitors. The count had been reduced to Jack and two others when he finally dozed off from exhaustion. He awoke to a shaking coming from the base of the tree; it was the steady chopping of a man attempting to cut down Jack’s hiding pla- I mean…strategic watch post. Taking a closer look at his assailant, Jack recognised him as a three-legged penis enlargement specialist, evident by the-…you know what? I’m not going to describe his dick bulge. These things tend to get away from me but that’s where I’m going to draw the line. Jack had almost no time to act, and even fewer options, or so he thought. That was, until, his eyes focused not on the man inconveniently dressed in track suit pants, but rather on the beach ball of a wasp nest attached to the tree several branches lower. The fire-bearded protagonist grasped one of the spears he had fashioned, and hurled it at the hive.  Something completely unexpected but necessary for me to try sum this up happened.

The spear ricocheted and was flung into the bushes, which gave an angry snarl in response. See, there were several genetically modified creatures in the stadium to keep the contestants on their toes, and due to a lapse of good fortune they had stumbled upon the most fearsome one. Quietly at first, but slowly building until the terrible cacophony of the creature’s guttural roar and insidious hissing in a cruel quartet followed a creature that could only be described as a thing that should-not-be out into the clearing. Standing before them was a colossal two-headed grizzly bear. It’s body was covered in mange and scar tissue, everywhere that is, until it’s shoulders, which slowly cleared into scales along the lengths of it’s arms and inevitably ending with venomous snake heads. Now THAT’S a fucking monster; remember what it was in the movies? Big-ish dogs. My two-headed bear thing took all of 30 seconds to think up. In short, Suzanne Collins is a hack. Anyway, the creature swung at Jack’s would-be opponent. He dodged, but the hissing snake arm smashed clean through the trunk of tree our champion was perched on. Jack boldly leaped, and elegantly crashed through close to every branch of a neighbouring tree, cleverly allowing his hardy legs and ribcage to absorb the brunt of the force. After lifting himself back up, he shot into the thick of the woods with his fellow prey, hoping the vegetation would slow the creature down. Unfortunately it maintained its pursuit with ease, tearing down trees as though they were tissue paper, gnashing all 4 sets of its teeth voraciously the entire while. The pair of contestants burst from the tree line, back into the central arena they began in, and sped their way back to the cornucopia shaped armoury.

They darted into cover, and for the sake of plot convenience, found Toban holed up inside. Their nightmarish pursuer’s many faces clashed up against their shelter’s opening. The trio took this brief moment to make some light small talk, before unanimously deciding to team up in order to survive the snake-bear-bear-snake hybrid. Clouds rolled in and drizzle began to spit as they launched their assault on the monster. Closely chasing an arrow fired into one of the beast’s eyes, the three killed it. Not right away of course, there was a huge, dramatic fight. The thing about that is, describing fight scenes in text is hard to do, and tends to be very, VERY tedious. How many ways can you think of to say “X” hit “Y” with “Z” (or the controversial flip of “X” tried, but missed “Z”)? What’s that? Not many? Yeah, exactly. I’d probably end up being forced to repeat words or phrases, then just get disappointed in myself. I refuse to do that, and will instead promise that a fight between a twin-headed grizzly with snake arms, a Nigerian prince, a guy with a massive penis and Jack Buffington was pretty neat. After administering the killing blow, Toban turned around to face Jack, smiling, until all expression was removed from his face. He coughed, his lungs full of blood, and collapsed to the ground. Standing above Toben’s body trying to retrieve his axe was the final competitor.

Jack flew into a rage, and then the two fought for a while. We have just hit the previous issue again, and it’s a bummer because the mood of this fight would have been way cooler. The really angry protagonist fighting the bad guy in the rain on top of a building is always a really cool scene. So yeah, Jack punched the huge-dick-guy, the huge-dick-guy punched Jack. There were occasional kicks too, but mostly punching. Very dramatic. Eventually, Jack’s opponent slipped and fell onto his back. Our leading man capitalised on this vulnerability by planting his weight on top of him and bearing down on the man. It was sort of uncomfortable at first due to the bulge, but the severity of the beat-down only increased. Soon, the last opponent lay broken. He spat out a broken tooth, and grinned. “Go on, kill me” he growled, “Finish this!! Kill me like I killed your friend!!!” to which, a startled Jack said “What? Toban wasn’t my friend, he pulled me into this gladiator bullshit and nearly got me killed. The guy was a jerk”. He paused, dumbfounded at how absorbed in this contest everyone seemed to be “And I’m not going to kill you, I am completely sure, that legally would count as murder”. So our Hero and his temporary, bitter rival just kind of casually hung out until officials of the games realised they didn’t plan on doing anything. The keeper of the secrets of penis enlargement (who I clearly never thought to name) admitted defeat, and so Jack was named the victor. Well, due to a technicality in Jack’s team assignment, food and prosperity was awarded to Toben’s homeland of continental Africa. Our hero didn’t go home empty-handed however. As thanks for his show of mercy, Jack’s rival took him to his homeland to teach him their age-old secrets. And so ends the story of how, by a single act of kindness, Jack Buffington ended nearly all poverty in a country, and was crowned.