Storytime

Last month, January, I gave myself the challenge of writing a poem a day . At first I thought I would have a clear plan of what to write, have some ideas, notions...but after a few days I tended to go off on tangents. At the end I had over 30 rough ideas- some to keep, to work on. This month I gave the challenge a new twist. I had discovered that there are prompts for a photo a day (some are for a week) and so I thought I would try one of these lists of prompts, take a photo a day and then write a poem. In that order. Photo first, then poem. It was a very interesting exercise. Some of the prompts (Febphotoaday)  were clear cut - your view today - or a self portrait- others really forced me to think out of the box - blue - something you hate to do. So after I thought about what photo to take, forcing myself to be creative -and more importantly to think, really think-  I took the photo then discovered where the poems would take me. 10 am. My poem for that prompt was abo...

Recently I had a milestone birthday- turning 50. Yep - as my younger brother said 'I was celebrating half a century on this planet'. Half a century sounds so old, and frankly, I know it's a cliche but I do not feel old. Well perhaps not 'that' old. A lot has happened over the years. I do pull the exact same face as above, am still as stroppy at times. But I have also learnt a lot. I've had a lot of experiences. Some good, some not so good. Much prefer the good ones. I grew up in a small country town, the oldest of four children. I have two brothers and one sister- and it was a childhood of imagination and games. We had limited TV access (and it was way before computers were in every home)- so we entertained ourselves. We played cowboys and Indians, complete with cowboy hats and pop guns, riding our stick horses around the yards. We built mud pies and 'sold' them in our shop. We played with the box of dress up clothes Mum had, becoming queens or kin...

Last Wednesday I went to a workshop with Jon Bauer at the Victorian Writers Centre . It was dealing with, as the title suggests, getting out of your own way. In other words what is stopping you from doing the writing you want to do. It was a good workshop, full of common sense and practical advice. As I made my way home (quick mention of train problems and that it took me three hours to arrive -very late- and then two hours to get home) I thought of what is stopping me from getting the work done. It is easy isn't it...you have a rabble of words, you put them down in some sort of order and heh presto, you have written something. Even if it is on the fridge door. So the theory is basic. Put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard and get to work. But there is the crux...why aren't I working? Is it too many options. I could write or hang out the washing, write or weed the garden, write or go for a walk.... In other words, procrastination - which frankly I'm damned go...

I swear. Actually I swear a lot, perhaps too much. I do refrain from swearing at work (unless I'm in the back room) and try not to swear (too much) in front of my father. So when is swearing acceptable, needed in writing? I don't ever swear when writing for children, do occasionally on a young adult work---it all depends on the character and the situation they are in. My adult characters do swear on occasion and I have sometimes, notice the sometimes, sworn in some of my poetry. So what stops me? I swear in reality so why am I hesitant to use profane language in my writing? It's because I think it is so highly over used and in about ninety percent of the time, not needed. In my opinion there is nothing worse in a book to be pulled out by one of the characters beginning to sound like a smart mouthed twelve year old using every word he knows (unless of course that is what he is)- but even this sort of character doesn't need to have a F or C or S word used as...

To start the year with a bang, albeit a small bang, I signed up for the Month of Poetry.   My idea is that it will make me write some of those poems that I want to ---that by the end of the month I will have 31 poems to work on. So far, on day 30 I have 29 poems (one to write this afternoon) and I have written nothing that I thought I would write. I had a list of ideas- niggly notions that I want to capture- and thought this would be the ideal time to cement them down. Instead I seem to have spent a month freewheeling and writing about life in general. After my NewYear's Day Odd Sock Throw Out- (and strange conversation with my Uncle) I wrote a poem about a sock orphanage. I wrote a poem about the trouble with being on the end of a camera...and missing what really is happening.  I wrote a poem about the attempts to declutter. The heat found it's way into a few poems (cliche I know but it has had a starring role down here- heat plus bush fires makes for writin...

Hands up, I can't juggle. I even have difficulty throwing one ball up to catch on it's downward spiral. I'm just not co-ordinated or flexible enough. So imagine the trouble I have trying to do everything I want, or think I should do (and of course avoiding the guilt). Working part time means I have two days off a week - unless I'm called in - which happens more times than I care to think about. When someone in the youth area goes on holidays for a few weeks, I know I will be asked to work most of her days (because I can jump in and do her Storytime etc)....so a few weeks ago when someone went on holidays I forgot the art of balance. There was a writing workshop I was interested in...but it was to be held on one of those days....I ummed and ahhed. Work, as yet, had not asked me to come in, should I book, should I wait a few more days? Well I waited a few more days  then decided 'no, my writing is important to me and I do get a lot out of workshops,' so I ...

Last year, while reading various poetry collections, I was inspired by the poet's ability to capture their landscape. The majority lived in cities, so their scape was urban and rigid, full of noise and movement. It inspired me to try and capture, not the area I live in, but the road I live in and walk. I wanted to try and put down what I felt, heard, smelt, what was 'different' about this place. And I then gave myself the challenge of writing a 'walking' poem about my road in the four seasons.  I began in the autumn- a night walk. As you can see my road is not a paved main arterial road, it is an unmade road (although recently was graded and has that oil screen on top to try and suppress dust). Our house is at the bottom and as you walk along the road becomes narrower and steeper. The 'regimented' gardens of exotics such as masses of agapanthus and laurel hedges give way to native forest.  It is a good walk, an invigorating walk. ...