So Long, Farewell

When something happens in the media, or in life, that stirs my emotions - towards sadness or anger, generally - I often feel the need to write it down. Many letters have begun this way; letters that never get delivered, sometimes short, sometimes spanning pages. They rarely get published, they sometimes warrant responses from government ministers, but they do achieve the goal of making things known. Even if it's just to myself. Stream of consciousness 101!

(Interesting side-note: why are all introductory university courses always course 101 - it's very Orwellian, and not at all confidence inspiring!)

Anway, I have taken a break from writing curriculum and lists and stories and messages to write down my tribute to Kevin Rudd who, though he may deserve to go, does not (I think) completely deserve our disrespect:

It’s an interesting feeling to feel saddened by this turn of events that sees our first female prime-minister, which is brilliant, but also the unceremonious end to the legacy of Kevin Rudd. The opinion polls have spoken, but it was disappointing to be reminded too late of all the good things he has done for our country – things that don’t often count at the ballot box. Kevin, your dissolution of the Pacific Solution and your apology to the stolen generation made me proud again to be an Australian. You brought humanity back to parliament for a just a little while, and for that I thank you.

RIP.

The coffee club plan

So. I’ve decided the only way I’m going to win the Pulitzer – my back up plan if the Nobel Prize fails – is if I set aside a regular time to write something. (Ok - I know it's not rocket science but I'm pretty much Guiness Book Procrastinator material, so this is a big step!) And I’m talking seriously quality time: just me, my pen/laptop and a cup of java. (But I will not be thanking Starbucks in my acceptance speech – it’s just because they have a lot of students who are also seemingly chronic procrastinators, so I feel the bonds of solidarity might push me along!)

Maybe I should do my PhD. It would seem I really need to be forced to write!

So, Wendesday night will be writing night. Not shopping night. Not performance night. Not Hey-wanna-go-out-for-coffee-so-I-don’t-have-to–go-out-and-feel-the-weight-of-not-having-won-a-major-literary-prize-yet.

My original goal, when I was younger, was to have achieved everything in life by the time I was 32. Epic fail! I have a few months left, however!

And I know what you’re probably thinking: I don’t even sound like I like writing. I do!! I have two degrees in it – and I think that could possibly be the issue. Somewhere along the line, writing became more like hard work than something I did for fun. Forced to study genres I hated, teachers who didn't understand my style, teachers who I thought couldn't write for cupcakes. Now it’s only fun when I get into the swing of it – a hard swing away when Doncaster shoppo has sales, and Wittner has some ultra fucking cool pink shoes.

Want!

And I’ve become pretty social in my old age. Really should have written this thing when I was younger, and more of a hermit. Sort of. How do real writers – published authors of authentically brilliant prose – do it, I ask you?! A few hours on my own, and I’m literally climbing the walls for company.

Ok, so that could also be the four cups of soy latte!

So, next Wednesday it is … who’s up for a cup of coffee? I’ll be at a Starbucks near you!!!

And if I didn't already prostitute my writing enough ...

It’s a common theme I know, but once again I have come across the issue of balancing my rapacious need for money and capitalist bourgeois-ness (take that Karl Marx – I worked hard for my Jimmy Choos, and I shall have them!) and holding aloft the Nobel Prize for Literature. Because in my head Karl Marx actually gives a shit about high-heeled shoes. And in my head, it is indeed a little gold Oscar statue that I hold aloft, perhaps whilst wearing said Jimmy Choos.

Nah, fuck it. I’ll buy a new pair!

But I digress. (And, incidentally, have just cottoned onto the fact that one gets over a million dollars to win this thing, so this blog quandary has just become moot. But I will press on!)

Yesterday I received an email from a previously unknown (to me) magazine that I rather carelessly sent a story into some months ago. I say carelessly, for I have never read or clapped eyes on this magazine – it is in America, actually – I just happened to google romance magazines for a romance story I’d written (writing prostitution sin #2) and the rest is history. Sort of.

The response started off quite nicely: we think your writing has merit (it was crap, actually – but on purpose, so I guess that’s still quite skilful on my part!) and you have great flair for romance writing (kill me now – I have never even read something from the pulpy romance genre, though a friend of mine used to force me to listen to the sexy bits when she read them out) but we do feel that, before we agree to publish your story, it needs the addition of sex.

Um. Ok.

Please re-write your story to include 1000-1200 words of explicit (but not pornographic) examples of titillation and sex, and we would be happy to publish your story should it meet our stated criteria. With thanks …

Don’t get me wrong – I can write sex. The rest of this story is so blindingly clichéd, the addition of a bit of “titillation” hardly seems problematic at all. But does this start me down a new garden path of ill repute in the field of writing?

If I sell my first Mills and Boon in six months, I’m going to kill myself!

… She writes as his eyes sweep over her crimson, throbbing …

Nah. Sorry folks. Can’t do it!