The Wall

In 2007 I trained for and finished a marathon. At the start of that year I'd never run more than 5km and on Sunday 7th October I crossed the 42.195km finish line on the MCG turf with the broadest smile I was physically capable of.

It felt incredible, the most powerful demonstration of how rewarding effort and commitment can be. But the training was a complicated journey of many feelings: pride, frustration, dread and incredible satisfaction.

I learned how to break down a daunting goal into achievable goals and I celebrated each of them. I also tried not to punish myself when, because of illness or injury or occasionally just utter disinterest, I missed a run. 

About four weeks before The Day I experienced something that until then had been an athletes' concept I'd heard of but more like an urban myth, like an evil woman in a fable that is present as a threat in a story but not actually real.

The Wall is real.

I did my long runs on Sunday mornings. As they got longer I started earlier, often in the dark. I included parts of the actual route on my training runs so that there wouldn't be any major surprises on The Day. I wanted familiarity to cultivate calm and settle me in to The Zone, another very real state.

The longest run in my program was 30km and I did this two weeks in a row. The first time was surprisingly comfortable and I hit the home straight, the track beside the Yarra from Swanston St to Chapel St, smiling at the rowers and the cyclists, trying to keep a lid on the fact that I was actually going to make it. The next week was a physical and mental hell. When I turned on to St Kilda Road, a stretch I'd enjoyed the week before, I was overwhelmed by its straight, relentless monotony.

None of my techniques worked. I couldn't tell myself that I was a gazelle or that I loved to run; I couldn't care less about what I'd achieved so far and my most powerful mantra, spoken to the rhythm of so many of my footfalls - big, strong, wo, man - seemed utterly ridiculous.

At an intersection I ate my last three jelly beans and sucked in desperation on each of my four empty Powerade grenade bottles. I thought that people in their cars were looking at me, laughing at me. A marathoner? Don't be absurd. Go enjoy a comfortable Sunday and leave the training for tall, lean women. Real runners. 

The pedestrian light turned green and my brain tried to tell my legs to move, but they refused. I was locked, rooted to the ground like a terrified woman faced with a psychopath in a horror movie. I was incredulous and furious. How could my body let me down like this? The green man started flashing red. The cars may as well have been revving their engines and lining me up like a target because I felt them as a terrible pressure that I had to escape.

I cupped my hands underneath my right knee, lifted it and dropped my right foot a pace forward. I did the same thing with my left leg, again with my right, again my left. When I made it across the street I had enough confidence to try to take some unsupported steps. I tried to slow down the thoughts, fears and anger, anything that was going to threaten my only objective: make it home.

I don't know how long it took but I did it. The two flights of stairs to my flat were agony. My cat lifted her head when I came in, looked at me and then closed her eyes again. My legs and arms shook as I looked in the fridge for a cold drink. I was exhausted, but I'd done it. 

The next day I couldn't get to work. Instructed by my massage therapist I went to the service station for four bags of ice and prepared an ice bath. For the first time in months, against so much of what I'd read, I poured a glass of wine. I thought I could trick my body into thinking I was going to enjoy one of the long, hot soaks I often take. Maybe I lasted 10 minutes but I doubt it. 

That week I missed two of the four runs, but a few weeks later I finished The Marathon. 

It's a long story but every detail of that experience came to me during a restless night last week as a parallel to what I've been defeated by for months. 

Of course I've heard of Writers' Block but I've only recently understood it, or at least my version of it.

For months I've barely written. Anything. I've tried writing about what I'm not writing about; tried writing a journal, just to write something; jotted notes about people in cafes, sat in libraries trying to read, written out passages from books that I liked, but nothing got me back on course. Every paragraph, sentence, note, email, everything that I produced, I loathed. I read so many great works and then despaired of my own attempts even more.

Finally I've set my life up to give me time to dedicate to the only job I've ever wanted and I can't make any progress.

But remembering my running experience has helped me to feel that I may be able to work through it. Unlike a marathon I can't set a major writing goal. I've always written short fiction based on a person I've seen or a comment I've overheard. It's a painful construction on a flimsy foundation, but I've always wanted to have the imagination, the creativity to write something that is separate to my own stories.

Lately, however, I've been thinking about Lee Kofman's answer when I asked her what inspires her writing. She said it's an exploration of something she's been thinking about. She knows that when questions around a theme or an issue occupy her a few times, then something will come out of researching and working with it.

I've been starting to write notes on things I'm interested in and would usually try to incorporate into a short story, into fiction. Now I'm looking at them a bit differently and writing down what I think. It looks a lot like mind mapping but it's helping to re-establish the writing habit.

For a long time after the marathon I found running very difficult, almost futile. Do a half marathon? I'd done plenty of them in training. I lost interest. I got lazy. Then I didn't like my body and what it could no longer do. But after a while I missed running too much and so I got back on the track. I blended in yoga and swimming with runs that I could enjoy. I joined a running group and for the first time felt part of that community.

I'm trying to see that it's the same with writing. I'm not someone with a novel I'm trying to complete, but I need to apply the same diligence. I'm very lucky with the friends I've made in Melbourne's writing community but instead of thinking of them as the real writers, I need to be more involved. I don't know if I can "make it" because I don't know what "it" is, but I know how rewarding it is when I'm writing, when I'm balancing it with other responsibilities but making sure it does get the time it deserves.

My marathon day was actually just one part of what had become a project, a habit with lots of commitment and lots of rewards. To remind myself to just enjoy the run I wrote, in black texta, on my hands: 'proud' on the left, 'happy' on the right. Maybe as writers taking up our positions for dedicated writing time, maybe we should have those words on our hands to acknowledge just turning up and trying, having a little faith and helping us to settle in to the zone, enjoying whatever it is that we achieve.

In the pink - the start of the 2007 Melbourne marathon

Words Out - Lee Kofman in Neighbours

Melbourne kicks up a windy, lightning-striking, summer storm as I drive to meet Lee Kofman. The Bureau of Meteorology radar is a colour riot that matches the graffiti sidewall of Neighbours, Lee's local cafe in St Kilda.
Set on one corner of an intersection with a service station, a milk bar and a single-storey brick house, this is where Chapel St sighs. It's the rolling recovery from Richmond, South Yarra and Windsor, barely touched by the knockdown rebuild developers. Yet.
Just up the road from the cafe are terraces that remind me of houses my friends moved to in Carlton when we were at university. Back then I was a girl from Glen Waverley still stuck in suburbia and envied anyone living in these old houses with bohemian histories and character.
While I was coveting Victorian buildings, a much younger Lee was deifying cafes. Growing up in a provincial and religious town, they symbolised civilisation and urbanity - things to aspire to.
Now Lee comes to Neighbours two or three times a week to write. She hates first drafts and though she needs the quiet of home to edit, she's good at all sorts of procrastination when something needs to be started. Lee has a love-hate relationship with writing, but being served good coffee and food in a cafe certainly helps to take the work out of it.
Cafes are important to Lee as a writer and also as a person. Her work is often an exploration of something she's been thinking about, or a question she wants to try and answer, which has led her to write about the relationship between writers and cafes herself. She's excited telling me about the role cafes have played in history, as places where rebels have plotted (in Turkey and Persia) and as targets to be closed down by governments forcing control. In person Lee is the curious and a little bit mischievious character I'd imagined.
While it's not quite scheming or inciting rebellion, I admire Lee's writing for challenging how we think and for sharing what she finds on her personal journeys to understand. Taking this approach means that her work doesn't follow a linear structure, something I described as potential for mess when I wrote about 'The Dangerous Bride' last year. Apparently there were plenty of people that didn't share Lee's vision as she was writing, but she believes in authors that write from their personality - I found her branching and digging intelligent, well-linked and an approach that I've enjoyed in her short stories as well.
Her favourite favourite book ever (no, she's not afraid to say that there is one) has helped Lee to not be afraid of writing from her own experience. She's read 'The Master of Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov many times, in three different languages, and calls it the "epitome of a non-linear novel." Thanks Lee, another addition to my Must Read pile.

It's not surprising that Lee is someone who gets bored and has therefore escaped to write in plenty of cafes. She used to be a regular in a place in Port Melbourne (which I won't name) that had everything a cafe-writer needs - "comfortable couches and cushions, quiet, atmospheric music and an owner who is nice but not intrusive."
It's a balance that I too have found and lost, and I share her frustration with new owners and their need to change our special places. We discover that we also share a fierce love for Melbourne when Lee asks me about my own work. She remembers reading a piece I wrote about my relationship with Melbourne, and tells me about falling in love when she was living in Sydney and came here for the weekend. Taken straight from the bus station to Acland St, she had a first-sight-fall-hard hit.
Lee's love of Melbourne is matched with the enthusiasm she has for her work as a writing teacher and mentor. Some writers resent time they spend in other occupations, but though she doesn't give herself credit for the generosity and bravery in her own work, Lee finds other writers inspiring and courageous and loves working with them.
When I listen back to the time I spent talking with Lee there's laughter, rain and more of me talking than there should be. She's a natural mentor, and is kind but firm when she suggests that despite my passion for short stories (fiction), I should consider writing more creative non-fiction. It's an exciting area right now, and she believes there's strength when you write about what you know. "You should try it," she tells me. "I really think you should try it."
After Lee's left I notice that it's quiet. Most people have eaten and gone, the rain's stopped and it feels a bit like the schoolyard before the bell rings, because I'm thinking about all the things I might try to work on next. I think, "You should try it" might be a maxim that Lee applies to her own life as much as her writing and teaching, and I think it might be a little bit contagious.

*  *  *  *  *

Words Out is a series of interviews with writers in the cafes they like to work in.  I'm making Melbourne's future literary map for tourists in the years to come.

Lee Kofman is a Russian-born Israeli-Australian author, writing teacher and mentor based in Melbourne. She published three fiction books in Hebrew, but since 2002 she has been writing exclusively in English and publishing short stories, creative non-fiction and poetry widely in Australia, Scotland, UK, USA and Canada.
Lee is the recipient of many literary awards. She judged several writing competitions, served as a member of the Varuna Fellowship Selection panel and organised several festival and conference panels, including the International Non-Fiction conference. Lee is the blogger-in-residence for Writers Victoria.
Lee's first book in English, the memoir 'The Dangerous Bride' about non-monogamy and migration, came out in October 2014 with MUP. Find more about it here.
Lee's written about 'The Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov here.

Words Out - Nicole Hayes at Santucci's

Nicole Hayes is a writer, editor, tutor, talker, mother, wife and passionate Hawthorn supporter. I joined one of her creative writing workshop groups when I came back to Melbourne last year, and from the first session knew I was in the hands of a generous and talented guide. Like Shaun Levin (one of my tutors in London), she has that rare ability to listen, analyse and offer insightful critique to work after a quick first read.

Though a lot of her time is spent developing others, an important part of Nicole's routine is getting away from distractions to focus on her own writing, and she's been coming to Santucci's in Carnegie to do this a couple of times a week for about 6 years.

Unlike meeting Else Fitzgerald at Carolina, I didn't have any trouble finding Santucci's, but they certainly keep a low online profile. The family-owned cafe has been here for decades and has a homely quirk to it. The coffee machine is an important feature and there's bookshelf displays of old percolators and grinders, old lamps on the tables and pictures with a loose Italian theme hung in collaged groups - it all adds up to make a loungey, informal-dining vibe. And they make good coffee.

Nicole arrives with a load that would fail commercial airlines' weight limit for carry-on luggage, although she assures me she took this much when she flew to London last year for the inaugural Australia and New Zealand Festival of Literature & Arts. She carries a laptop for writing, piles of hardcopy for editing, and "just-in-case" files. Nicole's a busy person who values alone-time as a precious commodity that should be spent on her writing (guilt is a great motivator), so it's important that here there is no wifi and though the staff are friendly, they don't bother you when you're head down.

It's usually crowded so fortunately Nicole doesn't have a favourite table or chair, she just grabs a space and gets to work. When we're there the lunch crowd is as mixed up as the furniture, and it's loud. It's the sort of incoherent noise that cafe writers like Nicole love - she'd find it far more distracting to be in a quiet cafe where a private conversation would really carry. If she does get stuck, Nicole uses a freeform exercise to get her work moving, shared with Writers Victoria here.

And did I mention that the coffee's good?

There used to be couches and toy boxes at the front of Santucci's, and on Saturdays a woman sat at a window table and read tealeaves for free. One day the woman asked Nicole if she could do her reading. Maybe the scribbling in the notebook (pre-laptop days) gave it away, but she asked Nicole if she was 'the creative type? a writer?' and Nicole felt convinced this stranger could see a powerful creative spirit in her. After the ceremony, the woman told Nicole that she would definitely be published. That was some years ago and the woman has since moved away, but wouldn't it be lovely to tell her that she was right. Nicole's first novel, The Whole of My World, was published in 2013 and is the first book about AFL to feature a female fan (not groupie, football-loving-female). Since its publication she's been interviewed and joined panel discussions covering a broad range of topics - Dark issues in Young Adult fiction, role models for girls and young people, women writing (and loving) footy, and writing what you love.  Her second novel, One True Thing,  will be published in May and she's already set to take part in the Melbourne Writers Festival Schools' Program in August.

Nicole has said that she has to write about a subject or a theme that really matters to her. "And I have to be angry about it, too - an injustice or a crime - in order to maintain my focus." She's choosing important themes in her work and pushes her students to call on the same passion and purpose in their own writing.  Santucci's is one of her places for holding and harnessing that focus, and on the way out I realise that their quote of the day when we met is a fitting tribute - a message that could come from one of Nicole's students for how much she helps them - to a writer fast becoming the voice for "girls finding their way in traditionally masculine worlds."

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I'm with you. I love you not for what you have made of yourself but for what you are making of me. George Eliot

 *  *  *  *  *

Nicole Hayes is an author and writing teacher based in Melbourne. Her debut novel, The Whole of My World (Random House 2013), about family, friendship and football, was longlisted for the 2014 Gold Inky Award, and shortlisted for the 2014 Young Australians’ Best Book Award (YABBA). Her second novel, One True Thing, will be published by Random House in May. She has a Master of Arts in Creative Writing, and is nearing completion of a PhD at the University of Melbourne where she taught fiction and screenwriting for more than five years. She runs writing workshops for Australian Writers Centre and is the Creative Writing Facilitator at Phoenix Park Neighbourhood House. Previously, Nicole has lived in England, France, Japan, and Hawaii during her extensive travels before finding her way home to Melbourne. To find out more, visit her website: www.nicolehayesauthor.com or follow her on Twitter: @nichmelbourne.

Words Out is a series of interviews with writers in the cafes they like to work in.  I'm making Melbourne's future literary map for tourists in the years to come.

Words Out - Else Fitzgerald at Carolina

Else writes in Carolina, named after the Ryan Adams song, 'Oh My Sweet Carolina' at 11 Nicholson St, Brunswick East. Despite her warning that it was hard to find, and my google maps research, I had to call from Nicholson St for instructions. With the original business name still painted on the window glass it's a modest treasure. A bit like Else. Try finding her online and you'll get listings for Ella Fitzgerald or F. Scott Fitzgerald - not bad company to be associated with, and hopefully indicative of the respect this emerging writer will realise.
Else is welcomed with hugs from the staff when she arrives, like she’s part of this family, and it’s close. She works as well as writes here so it is sort of a second home, which Else things helps with her writing. She's comfortable and relaxed, it's a bit like being in her living room but without the distractions at home. There’s no wifi.

Enjoying an Earl Grey or a soy flat white, on warmer days she might use a table in the courtyard (with a power point nearby), but she’ll usually sit at the table in the front by the coffee machine looking out on Nicholson Street. An urban vista that certainly doesn’t appear in Else’s writing. Born and raised in East Gippsland, her stories are rooted in rural settings, characters and issues. Water is a key feature in each of her three published stories, and the influence of seasonality, drought and fire threads her work. Her writing is dense and carefully carved, so it’s not surprising that she spends a lot of time mulling and editing. You’re more likely to find her refining working in Carolina than developing something in its initial stages.

Unlike many café writers, Else doesn’t tend to steal too much from what's going on around her. Most of her characters have some foundation in someone she knows, usually from the dairy farming days, so you don’t need to worry about her eavesdropping. Anyone who knows my writing knows I am the exact opposite in this sense – the working title of my short story collection is ‘You are being watched’. Enough said.

We do however share a common inspiration: using music. The emotional response Else feels to songs will create the tone and mood of a story and she'll often have headphones on at her cafe table. It’s usually one song that she becomes obsessive about with each story - for ‘River’ it was ‘Youth’ by Daughter, which you can listen to below.

As well as the staff family, Else’s real family come to Carolina. Her mum lives locally and is also a writer - and the founder of Verandah. She often drops by, playing a key role in editing Else's work, and her sister comes in as well.  There’s no disparaging looks for taking up a whole table over a few hours, possibly because there are other artists working here, as in creating and as in on staff, including a painter and a graphic designer. It makes me look around wondering what other people might be up to while we're talking.

The following published stories have all spent some time in Carolina, and I can’t wait to read the current stories that are “pretty much finished but need editing.” If you happen to see Else working away at one of her tables, please don’t interrupt her for too long.

You can read Else's online portfolio of poetry and stories on Elsewhere

‘River’ won the Fiction first prize in the Grace Marion Wilson Emerging Writers competition (2014) and is published in The Victorian Writer (Sept-Oct issue)

‘The Appearance Of Earth’ was published in Visible Ink vol.24 (2012)

‘A Body of Water’ was Commended in Elizabeth Jolley Prize (2011)

Words Out: a series of interviews with writers in the cafes they like to work in.  I'm making Melbourne's future literary map for tourists in the years to come.

Time Out Track - Dialogue

I've taken a long online time out, but having settled back in Melbourne I'm now settling back into a desk. Well, many desks at the moment, floating around houses and using libraries as an office.

Yesterday I joined a writing group, and during the discussion we were steered to studying Elmore Leonard for great dialogue. I've always struggled with dialogue, and therefore tend to avoid it, so will certainly take the heads up.

And then driving home this track came on the radio, and seemed a perfect way back into my Time Out Tracks - here's some NZ dialogue in song.

MELBOURNENOW - the crystal ball is broken

Earlier at NGV, as part of the Melbourne Now exhibition, Lisa Dempster chaired a panel consisting of Fiona Wood, Warren Bonnett and Connor O'Brien. We had festivals, writing, bookselling, publishing, designing, technology…basically experience and expertise on the chain of words. And our focus was the supply and demand of words from Melbourne.

There are many reasons why types (I don't want to start the genre, sub-genre classification debate) of writing are growing in popularity: science can thank the science journalists'  job losses for the improving quality of books tackling complicated and extraordinary events in the world; YA appeals to adults because it touches a time in our lives that typically was in flux as we developed our identities, and for some that is nostalgic, for others it contains regrets, but regardless it tends to be a time we love looking back at; digital developments are linking people in discussions and debates (with faces!) and showing how it really doesn't matter where you live, you can always participate in a literary event.

I've just returned to Melbourne and so enjoyed hearing two words over and over again during today's discussion: infrastructure and support.

The Wheeler Centre was at least part of the answer to most questions:
- What does it mean for Melbourne to be a City of Literature: engagement between readers and writers.
- And how dow we achieve that here? The Wheeler Centre, our range of festivals and our pool of passionate booksellers. Oh, and a talented writing community.

So what does the future look like?

As Warren reminded us, a year before the internet was 'launched', no-one predicted it's take-off. Initially IBM refrained from entering the PC market, forecasting a demand of approx. 10 per nation.

So what's the next thing in publishing? And how can you/I/we make sure we're a part of it?

The crystal ball might be broken, but right now Melbourne is a great place for readers, and writers, to be.

Our independent booksellers each have unique personalities and a place in their community, and just last week were consulted by the Melbourne City Council to talk about what council policies can do for them. So good infrastructure can get better.

The diverse calendar of literary events are all well-attended, and we're in a place that supports getting new ideas off the ground. Just look at the line-up in Connor's Digital Writers' Festival (and you'll notice The Wheeler Centre behind the scenes).

As is a trend globally, we have seen an explosion in book clubs and reading groups, but here we're also now seeing growth in volunteer programmes to help teach people to read. There's a lot of goodwill amongst readers and writers, and it's hard to imagine anything will slow that down.

Speaking for the YA market, but perhaps relevant across all Australian writing, Fiona has been asked 'what's in the water down there?' by people in the US. Our words are fresh and filled with an energy that makes them stand out.

We have some amazing publishers with international reputations that take chances locally but think globally. Innovation has deep roots here - Fiona worked on the 'Poems on Post-Its' project 25 years ago!

Who knows if we'll follow Krakow and have reserved seats on trams for readers, or if, like Paris, the literary supply chain will receive government subsidies. Who would have known there'd be a job as a bibliotherapist? A year ago the death knell for 'long form content' (ie. a book) started to ring, and then there's the success of 'The Luminaries' and 'Goldfinch'.

I don't know what's next or how it will look or who'll be leading it, but I am pretty confident that I'm in a good place to write, read, listen, learn, and have a lot of fun with the passionate people around me.

And finally, is there an iconic Melbourne text?

• Fiona has The Getting of Wisdom (Henry Handel Richardson) for her childhood, Helen Garner in her 20s, and now the many contemporary YA writers using Melbourne as their setting.
• Connor read Barracuda (Christos Tsiolkais) the day he moved to Melbourne, so it shed some light on society and places here.
• Warren recommends Melbourne (Sophie Cunningham) as well as Christos and Helen.

Perhaps you've got one to share?

On being back

I flew back to Melbourne on a one-way ticket a week ago.

Last February I visited for a month after my job 'finished'. I loved it - spending time with my family, reading, swimming - but I remember looking out the window as I drove interstate or caught the train to the other side of town to visit a friend, thinking I just couldn't see myself in Melbourne. I couldn't see where I'd live or what I'd do.

I was ready to return home to London.

Thanks to some vigorous encouragement by my good (writer) friend Amanda Saint, while she established and built-up Retreat West, I moved writing out of hobby status and got involved in the writing world. It started with this blog and Twitter (using Books for Dummies and a healthy vocabulary of swear words), as well as reading more widely, studying as I read (it was a good excuse for the time I spent doing it), and producing more and more of my own work.

By the end of 2013 I'd been to Word Factory UK and Spread The Word events, retreats by different fabulous people in Sheepwash, Exmoor and Portugal, and almost met my 25k word short story collection target.

And I'd decided it was time to move back to Melbourne.

Lots of things went into that decision, and yesterday while my dad was driving me to another appointment, I said to a friend how strange it is to look out the window and feel the thrill of being here. A sense of belonging again.

Tomorrow I'm going to listen to Lisa Dempster, Director of the Melbourne Writers' Festival, query a panel of experts on 'Writing Now.' Next week I'll be at The Wheeler Centre to hear David Vann and then I'm meeting at Writers Victoria to talk about volunteering with them.

And on Saturday I'm going down to a beach house where there's no internet. I'm going to read, write, hopefully throw away the crutches (finally) and fall into the salt water, and feel like I'm home again.

Last year was a significant one for me, and it feels now like it doesn't necessarily matter where I am, so long as I'm writing and around people who love words as much as I do. I can't wait to get involved with, and share my experience of, the writing world down here.

Remembering Barreiro...

I can't account for a fortnight passing since airport chaos gave me a bonus night in Barreiro. I'd promised Will Amado a short story about my experience there. But I haven't written, at all, since getting back to London.

It was a re-entry of shocks coming back to housemates and windy nights and silence in the dark street. I live in a loft and have always loved my windows to the sky, but they seemed weak after my sun-fixed windows tracking sunrise to sunset in Portugal.

There I'd stand on my balcony and watch as children walked home from school with grandparents, men stopped for coffee, or cerveja, women left my blue-fronted bakery with bags of pastries and fresh loaves. From my London back porch I see into the backs of other houses, and in summer I'm woken very early on Sunday mornings by little children screaming and parents laughing, letting them. Since coming back from Barreiro I've stood and looked and it's vacant. Even the foxes seem to have moved on.

Other things have interfered with writing as well - washing and "administration", stocking up on food and cooking it and serving portions to freeze. Donna Tartt commandeered a fair chunk, (and dare I say a wedge more than she needed?) and now here I am, Thursday 11pm, only just getting a writing itch back.

I blame Annie Dillard. Since starting 'The Maytrees' I've had word thoughts again. Phrase ideas. I thank Annie Dillard.

Tonight a friend who recently returned to Melbourne after 13 years in London sent me this photo and said she thought of me: a 50m outdoor pool with lap signs that have approx. lap times so everyone can go at their own pace. "You don't get that kind of pool etiquette in England!"

Yesterday I found out I've won a Mslexia Diary for my submission to the Spread The Word competition - "Tell us your favourite time of year to write, and why." My response (to be posted on their website soon) starts, "Is underwater a season? For me, that's where writing strikes."

I've got my swimming bag packed for the first time in weeks. Friday lunchtime I'll be in a 25m indoor pool where people swim in any lane they like. There's the occasional fit swimmer powering down lap after lap, overtaking when it's clear, but mostly it's a mix of cruisers, bursters who stop to rest a lot, kickers, headabovewaters, even walkers. A bit like us writers really. I'll be doing bits of all of those, and lines may come and go, an idea might strike. Or not. But I'll be back.

Day Five - Barreiro: Symbiosis

Today was never going to help the word tally. For me, working on new story ideas means research, wordlists, pages and pages of unrelated phrases looking for patterns, walking from the desk to the kitchen to the desk to the bathroom to the desk.

Thankfully, here I can stand on the balcony and watch a world so different to what I'm used to, and try to draw on it.

This morning I was working on the story I mentioned on Tuesday, the one that was lacking story, action, and enough to warrant being 3,000 words long. I've been thinking of the thread to bring it to life, so went to my Scrivener cork board for words, character descriptions etc, and came across Symbiotic.

If you believe Wikipedia, the definition of symbiosis is controversial amongst scientists, but essentially it's about different species living together over a long period of time. The various types of this include parasitism and mutualism. It was once used to describe people living together in a community, so I've been reading these controversial definitions looking for ways to apply concepts to my story, which is fundamentally a series of observations on a commuter train.

Still a ways to go, but I always enjoy these tangents. And by natural extension am handy at the corner of a dining table.

To counter the creativity challenge of that and another early idea for a story, I've been writing synopses of my short stories to use in a submission letter. How strange, trying to write about what I've written, seeing how many narrators I am, and recurring themes. I'm definitely lost and like exploring guilt in relationships, particularly families.

Just to be clear, I only write fiction.

Tunes of the day have been inspired by a tweet this morning from radicaledward


The video helped with my story concept, and I'd forgotten how much I love Rhye. Enjoy.


And if you make it this far, the weather today was sunny and warm. Thanks Barreiro

Day Four - Lisbon

Today I was a tourist. I enjoyed a couple of copas of local wine last night, and woke up aware of that.

Writing achievement was to record-edit a 5k word story. Yup, that's it.

Great day (sorry to rub it in but blue sky, all day, again) of wandering the cobbled hills at an easy speed. Stopped for a noon cerveja near the castle and walked across to Bairro Alto for lunch.
Not much to report as we just ambled the day away through different parts of the city and returned to Barriero to be welcomed by the barman downstairs for a cold one before retiring to rest and rendezvous for dinner later.


It was a day off, which I enjoyed, but I'm looking forward to getting back to the desk tomorrow.

Shame it wasn't open...

Day Three - Barreiro = Breakthrough

Yesterday I woke with an idea to change a POV in a story I've been working on for years. I finished that re-write today and have sent the updated version to my workshop partners for review. We'll see what they think but I'm sure it's come a long way.

This morning there was another breakthrough. On the weekend I had feedback from one of my workshoppers that went something like this:

"I don't think it would be helpful at this point to give too specific feedback... I feel that for the length of the piece there is not enough 'story' here... if I am reading a 3k story I want more action, more development of a story…"

That's a small extract, but you get the gist. 
I replied 'ouch.' 
Of course I knew it was true, just thought I'd managed to drop a series of scenes together with just enough stitching. The term friends and I have used for a famous Melbourne course steward, Des Gleeson, seemed apt: Harsh But Fair. 

And the magic of Barreiro struck again. 

In the shower (where most writing solutions happen for me), I came up with the thread. 

So watch out you-know-who, that piece will be coming your way again soon.





Here's how the tally looks today:
FINISHED = 13,500
FOR RE-DRAFT = 5,400
TOTAL = 18,900
NEW IDEAS TO BE DEVELOPED = ?

TARGET = 25,000 words

If you've ever used directions on google maps you'll understand when I say, I'm on purple.

Day Two - Barreiro

Though I might already be used to waking up in sunshine here, I'll keep celebrating it.

This morning as I lay in bed reading with a coffee and the sounds from the cafes downstairs of unstacking chairs and arranging them squarely around tables, I realised that one of the stories I'm trying to finish needs to change POV. For years I've drafted it in third person, and as soon as I started the switch to first I was typing the reader in. And it felt wonderful.

At lunchtime I read 'Forests of Antarctica' by Courtney Watson, the December story in Long Story, Short. I stood on my balcony listening to an opera playing somewhere beyond the square. I watched people walking, talking, and thought I really must get out to explore this place. But I came here for my words and they too are busy, and they feel right, so the streets around me will have to wait. Perhaps later in the day. The body time will tell me when.
And it did.
After a glass of local wine I went for a walk. I kept wanting to get back to my desk.

I haven't quite finished the two pieces I'd hoped to "finish" by the end of the day. But I have explored, written other exercises that have surprised me, read stories in magazines online, watched, photographed, eaten, and in an hour I'm meeting the other writers in residence here for a drink on our square.

I'm still aiming for 25k (almost said km but that was a couple of years ago now), and thought this man in the square represented that well.

As Shaun Levin said to me last night, "Failure is not an option."

Day One - Barreiro

A few weeks ago I wrote about a fabulous week that fired me up to prepare a To Do list for the next week.

To be fair a lot of that was achieved, but some items have carried over for my stay in one of the First Impression apartments in Barreiro, Lisbon to focus on writing for a week.



Here I've set myself a fairly aggressive target. Oh hell, let's get it out there:

I want to get to 25k of short stories finished by Friday night. 

I haven't checked my spreadsheet to know how far away from that I am, but given that many of my pieces are 1k - 2.5k, and there's not that many of them I consider finished, it's safe to say that's a pretty challenging goal.

One of my daily breaks will be to post an update on here, writing, reading, random thoughts, the fabulous local wine. Who knows.

I didn't start yesterday but to catch you up the content would have included: travel day, 4.20am start, little brain space for anything other than wow, weather. wow, apartment. wow, a whole week here. wow, I'm very tired.

So here's how today went.

9am-ish

I woke up thinking I was on a beach. The sun through the glass had strength and I read in bed listening to the square below waking up. The sounds of unstacking chairs around tables, welcoming locals for coffee, families with grandchildren meeting up.

For my next Reading To Write class I need to write a scene where one of my characters wants something from another one. I'm surprised at what I wrote for that this morning. Perhaps I was influenced by 'In The Cut' by Susanna Moore that I started reading this morning.
Maybe it was the Sarah Selecky daily exercise I did early: Write five sentences by an author you admire over and over for at least 10 minutes. Mine, from 'In a Strange room' by Damon Galgut, were:

"Why is violence always so easy to imagine but tenderness stays locked in words for me…Maybe horror is felt more easily from home…If your own pain is interesting to you, how much more detached will you be from someone else's pain…He has the air of someone holding his breath…Committed to a situation of which the outcome is unknown, travel and love have this much in common."

After writing them twice I knew them word for word and felt a strange power as I repeated them without thinking of the words but of all the paths these ideas could take in their own story.

Lunchtime-ish

At 13:09 I took off my watch. Everything here will happen on body time.

Now

And now, almost time to turn on lights, I can reflect: I've done my "homework", a couple of writing prompt exercises, another draft of a story I've been working on for years, and wrote up my notes about a new one.



Soon I'm meeting the other two guests at the restaurant downstairs, and tomorrow I get to do it all over again.

Who's telling this story?

I often write in third person, and have really been helped by workshop friends to identify whose story it is. Starting as an omniscient narrator I get to be the profound author with an agenda. And then it has to be pared back, generally to be one person's view of the story, and of course removing my telling telling telling.

Listening to 'Queen of Denmark' really highlighted the POV issue and how different the same story, in this case the combination of voice, words and melody, can speak to the audience.

Whilst I do have an opinion on which one works (for me), I think it's more useful as an illustration.

John Grant - Sinead O Connor 

And while I'm talking about John Grant's work, I'm working to his new album 'Pale Green Ghosts' today. I haven't posted a Time Out Track for a while, and this video is hard to beat. You could be laughing 65% more of the time. No wait 63%,  25%…you work it out, but watch out for  rabbits, birds in cages, basketballs in greenhouses, and taking a flame to your skin during a facial. And women who eat pickled peppers out of a jar outside a kebab shop.

Black Dogs

- 12 Edmondstone Street - was divided into - Three Houses, Many Lives -. It was a - House of Earth - a - House of Exile - A House of Slamming Doors -.

- One Night In Winter - The Outsider - approached, holding - The Golden Notebook-.
It was not the first time she had arrived with - The Notebook -. After - Forty One False Starts - she was - Unbored - , knowing that - This Book Will Save Your Life - . Knowing that in this house there wasn't - Too Much Happiness - and wanting to be - The Help -.

For - One Glittering Moment - Magda - heard - The Goldfinch - and the - Yellow Birds - screaming, as they did at - Inconvenient People -, and it was - Total Chaos -.

- At Last - The Door - opened.
- My Name Is Red -.
- Hello Again - . I am - The Gift Of Stories -. I have - A Tale For The Time Being -.
- Here Comes Trouble - The Son - cried out. - Enter The Evil - he yelled, the - Catastrophe -, the - Night - and - Nausea - The Storm At The Door - .
- Talk Softly - The Girl In The Photograph - whispered. - Like A House on Fire -, here, - Things Fall Apart -.
I bring - Some Hope -.
- In A Strange Room - Mud - The Pattern In The Carpet - .
-Tell Me No Lies -. - Disgrace - has been our - Harvest - of - Plenty -. We need to - Rub Out The Words -.
I bring - The Invisible Writing - Written On The Body -.
- The Book Of Cloud -?
- Tales of Protection - for - Writing Down Your Soul -...
- Inconceivable - !
No, - Stranger -, - The Information - you need is simple:  - All Dogs Are Blue -.

*   *   *   *   *

Response to Sarah Selecky's daily prompt for 1st November - Written at Woolfson & Tay watching Sarah Butler in residence for the Live Writing Series.

Sarah's piece, also using book titles - You Have Been Warned

BIG THANK YOU TO THE VERY SPECIAL WOOLFSON & TAY 

- not just a fabulous day (as usual), also thoroughly enjoyed my spicy chicken take away for dinner. 

Time out track: Wolf's Law

This week I've caught up on a few new and not so new releases: Boy George's first album since 1995, Arcade Fire's Reflektor, the latest from Cut Copy and Mercury-award winner James Blake.

But the title track from The Joy Formidable's latest album is one I'll keep going back to.

This is one of the most dramatic and powerful alignments of image to lyric, melody and rhythm I've seen in a music video.

With thanks - this writer getting out of a rut

I've been in a word hole for about a week. Who knows why, but it got to the point where I couldn't even read. I started 'A Field Guide to Getting Lost' by Rebecca Solnit (irony is recognised). By the end of the introduction I was so excited by it that I ordered it for dear friend in Australia. And yet, I had to put it down, because I knew I wasn't in the mindset to appreciate it properly.

And when I had the confirmation email that the book had been dispatched, I realised that I'd ordered the wrong book. So Mel, I look forward to hearing how you enjoy 'Wanderlust: A History of Walking'. At least I got the author right.

For several days I was more likely to eat large bowls of pasta and watch poor tv than be involved with written words.

A combination of things have got me back at the desk, but most importantly I'd like to thank Matt Haig, and all of the people who have tweeted about what an inspiration THE HUMANS is.

I could easily have finished it in one sitting, but I'm not willing to let it inspire only one day.

I remember reading someone saying something like - you should leave your desk when you still want to keep writing. For me it's the same with this book.

Music, as usual, has also got me back on track, and this week it's discovering Agnes Obel's new album. 'Aventine' was released in the UK on Monday, and has been 3 years in the making. It's a struggle to pick one song to highlight. Reviews describe the 'mournful sternness' of the album. As usual I get something slightly different from it. I've felt like I've been swimming out from a bay beach on the Mornington Peninsula, swimming past children's thrill squeals, through the chimes of anchors and sails moving with the tide and the wind, and swimming on out to the deeper water with sun on my back, salt thick hair, and the tranquil space of contentment. And that's when my word brain really takes flight.

So for any one struggling for inspiration at the moment, I hope this might help. As for me, I'm off to the local pool. And then I'll be back to finish another draft of a 4,500 story called 'Shame'. And maybe tomorrow, or on the weekend, I'll be loving 'A Field Guide to Getting Lost'.

Friday night at Foyles

The inaugural Spread the Word short story prize was celebrated with a panel, Prosecco and of course readings.

Bidisha and Tania Hershman (two of the three judges) were on the panel, chaired by Paul Sherreard, and they created a really friendly and informative space for the event.

It was interesting that one of the replies to the (impossible) question - what makes a great short story - was that the reader feels an effortlessness by the author. That the story has been told in exactly the right sequence and words - everything that's said is what needs to be said, no more no less - and there is no obvious over-working authorliness.
(That's not a direct quote of course - usually I do take some notes during these sessions, but I was so happy listening, like you are at a good dinner party, that I didn't want to disturb the vibe with my notebook).

So to me the judges' discussion was a similar success, as an honest and informal conversation between articulate champions of the short story form.

I particularly liked the Tania Hershman test of a good story: it has to have an impact; you need to feel like you've ben hit. Maybe not quite left black and blue, but you want to feel like you've gone through something and it stays with you. Again, for me the evening had the same outcome.

Bidisha read an extract of her short story, 'Dust', published in the anthology Too Asian, Not Asian Enough and Tania read 'Her Dirt' from her collection, my mother was an upright piano.

Not sure if there was a deliberate theme there ladies?  But the theme for the short story competition was 'RITUAL'.

Sue Lawther, Director of Spread the Word, arrived late to the event, with a very fine excuse. She'd been at the decision-making discussion selecting the winner of the inaugural Young Poet Laureate, to be announced by Carol Ann Duffy in the Houses of Parliament on National Poetry Day next week. And no, she didn't give anything away. But she arrived to present the winning prize to the very talented and exciting Clare Fisher.

Clare is working on a collection, 'The City in my Head' and the extract of her winning story that we heard was a powerful example of the judges' earlier comments about when it works: the voice is strong and confident from the opening word, and though we didn't get to hear all of it I'm sure that it has the Tania Hershman seal of success.

AND

We'll all be able to buy the anthology of the shortlisted stories when Spread The Word launches their publishing venture. ON SHELVES FOR CHRISTMAS - beautiful print and online editions. (nb. I have no investment in this venture, I just feel strongly about this organisation that does so much for new and emerging writers).

So I met a poet, a playwright, a short story award winner who it turns out I'd seen at several Word Factory events, and thought the sign of a great night was having to be ushered out so that the bookshop could actually close!

Thanks Spread the Word and Foyles for a great night, and congratulations to those who entered and were shortlisted in the competition. It's one for others to look out for next year - dates and details apparently to be released soon.

From Iceland to Canada

Last week I was in Hannah Kent's Iceland. This week I finished the wonderful collection from D W Wilson, 'Once You Break A Knuckle.'

I started reading it a couple of months ago, and knew straight away that this was something to savour.
The line up of names praising the stories on the cover and for several pages inside is absolutely justified.
As usual I'm not going to try to review the stories, you can find plenty of those, but my experience of reading it was the powerful relationships between men, with friends and sons, and their remote Canadian setting.

His novel, Ballistics, is high on my To Read list.

So while we're in Canada, here's a track I thought matched quite nicely.

Gold & Youth are from British Columbia, and though they tend into a more electronic sound than would naturally match D W Wilson's stories, there's something about this pared back version that fits.

Touched

Fruit for sale on the roadside in Surat Thani, the rows and rows rows and rows of black and white portraits in the Tol Sleng museum, rough floorboards underneath hammocks by the Mekong, paper serviette holders on the tables in Nha Trang, the drug dealers' ziplock pouches a quiet man in Jaiselmer slips our silver jewellery into.

The rockers of an empty chair on a front porch in Cuba.

Things that are dusty: teeth hair socks boots fingernails, hiking on the Australian Alps Walking Track until you get to the YHA in Thredbo three weeks later and wear your dirty thongs to the communal showers. You talk about the colour of the water going down the drain, about walls. There's no view like the wild brumbies as you bathe, no trangia to light, no billy to boil, no tent poles to click or spiders to keep out or sleeping and waking by the moon and the sun, climbing tree trunks that have collapsed across your path, banging your stick to get a long thick snake lazing in the sun's heavy heat to move out of your way. No more climbing a mountain to get a signal and check if anyone has left a warning message about the fires you can smell.

Almost city clean. Fresh clothes that were saved in a plastic bag at the bottom of your pack. A man behind a bar in an ironed shirt, two beers, two plates of fresh food, the noise of people ordering more drinks, talking about photos, weather, where they're going next. Talking about showers that aren't hot enough, steak that's undercooked, wine that's too dry, what they're children said today. Looking forward to the drive tomorrow.

And us. Creased and coloured despite the sunscreen we rubbed in with our filthy hands. Familiar aching in our lower backs, our calves, our thighs. Our toes wriggling in their freedom, knowing back in the room, beside our packs, the settled achievement of our boots' latest layer of dust.



Response to Sarah Selecky writing prompt to write a list titled: Things that are dusty.