AWMonline

I’m bang up for resources that are actually useful. There’s so much shite you can pay for on the internet that have no substantial follow-through, unless we’re talking about the poo-coloured, poo-smelling blusters of boastful copy selling you something you don’t need. It’s the digital equivalent of a shart.

If it smells like shite and it looks like shite, it’s probably because it is shite. Don’t get carried away with the carefully crafted, incredibly persuasive blurbs on these things. Look instead for merit and quiet achievement.

My case in point is the Queensland Writer’s Centre. I have sung their praises before. I’ve even had my blog exhibited as part of their awesome blog safari and on one other occasion back in May this year I dropped into one of their online writer’s races.
It was a lot of fun.

I also discovered a proper package of resources. Have a look for yourself AWMonline. It’s the online version of The Australian Writer’s Marketplace – the most important book a writer in Australia could have (besdies their own obviously). The site has a gazillion important and relevant contacts in the writing business. There’s writerly news, writing advice, a cheeky wee blog and stuff about writing markets, publishers, agents, publishing services, writers’ services (editors, manuscript appraisers, etc), industry organisations, awards, competitions and grants and courses and events.

It might not all be for you, but like I said, practical, pragmatic and most importantly relevant and useful. There was a writing race today. I was involved. You can read through it on the forum. It’s a great opportunity and motivator to knock over a few hundred words. People wrote a couple of thousands words in a couple of hours. If you fancy some of that should look into it.

I know this has started to sound like one of the things I was knocking at the start. I got carried away. I don’t actually care if you go and look or not. Know that you can help yourself and your writing if you do.

Sunshine on Sirromet

Imagine, a few bands suited to a family style picnic in the sun, reasonable prices for beer and (it has to be said pish) wine, a willing and exuberant audience and put it all together in a bowl, or at least the closest a Winery can get to a natural amphitheatre and you’ve a Day on the Green. It’s a smashin idea…

well, cheap for an outdoor venue anyway

…except the bands include Mental As Anything and The B52’s.

Seriously the venue and the crowd were sensational. Possibly the broadest range of people, in terms of age and walk of life, I’ve ever seen at a concert anywhere. Ever. We were there, blanket on the ground, esky full of delicacies and as much reasonably priced pish wine as they would allow us to buy. Despite our bluster, we quickly made friends with everyone around us. Wee Maryhill and her boys, the well-travelled Sunshine Coasters, the generous sesame pretzel muncher and the hairy half-Greek guy in his sun-burnt stubbies (guess which half was greek?). It was a bizarrely beautiful mix. One I’m very grateful for.

bombing

One other band played. Sandwiched between mediocre 80s aussie pop and a band named appropriately after a bomber, the Proclaimers rang out like a clear and talented siren for sense and musicality and performance and most of all, getting amongst it. They were brilliant. They sang like fuck, played like fuck and performed beyond expectation. They even mentioned the Aussies capitulation to the Scottish rugby union side. They were rare, uproarious and worth their room on this Earth, or at least the price of admission on their own.

There’s a chance that me being Scottish might imply some favour here, but seriously the flame-haired, red-faced, bespectacled chaps from Leith should have been the headline act.

claimin' it

Three songs of a bad B52’s set was enough to tell anyone watching they’d be outdone by their support. Rather than wait to see if they got better, we left before it could get worse. From misery to happiness maybe?

An awesome day made for a buzz warm enough to overshadow a damn good hangover. A big cheers to those who made it possible. I loved it. I’m still loving it.

heat affected words

It’s too hot. I know I shouldn’t be moaning. But. This wee body of mine (by wee I mean short, I’m more than aware I’m a bit round for my height thank you) just isn’t built for squelchy sub-tropical heat and humidity. Anything below 11 degrees is comfortable. Otherwise I need drenching with cold water, as opposed to my own sweat.

I started collecting it this morning. By lunch time, bucket by bucket, I had filled a large vat with viscous briny human fluid. Sounds disgusting to you, but I have already garnered a contract from a gathering of Inuit people who want to guard themselves against the ferocity of the coming Arctic winter. They mentioned something about rubbing it into cracks? I can only assume they mean to insulate their homes.

When I sat down I had every intention of knocking over another sartorial blog effort. I know, I know. I make no apologies for humourous filth. I’m just back from my holidays, I should be fired-up, raging with writerly energy, ready to pummel the keyboard like some fiendishly hell-made (over)wordy demon.

The temperature would not allow it. No danger. Not even a warning. I couldn’t muster the energy. Then, moping around reading other people’s stuff instead of writing my own, I found this chris bongers blog the-write-stuff. It made perfect sense. You’re reading the result. The notion that inspiration comes because you’re there, bloomed in front of me like a pert desert flower.

I once heard Markus Zusak talking about Neil Young talking about the creative process. He said (Neil not Markus, Markus was paraphrasing) that he sees his creativity as an animal in a cave to be coaxed out. Often gently. It’s a lovely idea int it?

It reinforces what chris bongers is talking about. She’s a clever woman see. The important part is the coaxing. When the creative creature emerges you can seize it, to use, abuse and peruse. Whether it’s a stroking or a strangling, you have to be there.

Know that you’ve helped a sorry overheated soul, chris bongers. Thank you.

prize winner

I won an award, my first.
It was feckin awesome. Seriously. Awesome. Not the story you understand, the feeling. It was the QUT writing prize for postgraduate students 2009. I even got one of them giant novelty-sized cheques. In my celebratory cavorting I spilled red wine all over it. At first I thought,
‘Ahh shite. I’ve ruined it’. Then I thought, ‘Bollix to it, it’s still going up in the office.’

We writerly folk have a hard enough time gaining any ground on our confidence as it is. What difference will a wee bit of wine make? It’s nothing to the blood I’ve spilled on the floor trying to put a story together is it?

The prize winner, a story called Slice, came together in bits. An odd pizza fact, Norman Mailer’s book The Fight, a love of soul music, wishing I could dance and bumping into a guy I hadn’t seen for 20 years. The driving force was curiousity. How would this collection of things sit on paper? Ye have to see to find out don’t you? Isn’t what makes us what we are?

Well I did, I am and the curiousity’s paid for itself. As it turned out, among the spray of blood and letters the judges found something. Made me happy. Made me care less about the red wine stain let me tell ye.

Someone burnt my safari suit…

I’m gutted. When I went looking for my crimpolene safari suit, I was told it’d been burned. While I fear for the baby crimpols whose lives will be sacrificed in the name of bad taste (Thanks Billy) for the replacement, there is nothing I could have done for the original. It took seconds to melt into a ball hard enough to derail a train if left on the tracks.

See a blog tour is like a wordy safari without the guns. The chances of coming across scary animals are just as high, but the inhabitants are generally far more entertaining and thankfully, for us all, the suit is surplus to requirements.

Through my good luck or your ill fortune I’ve been drafted onto the enlightened and enlightening Queensland Writers Centre’s blog tour. The link to look at other, far more worthy, contributions is at the bottom there. They’re well worth a look, by the way. My answers to the questions, devised by the good and kindly Lisette Ogg at the bold and golden QWC, follow.

Where do your words come from?
I’m not sure myself. I’m driven to write. I need it like William Burroughs needed a fix. Nike Bourke once wrote that, for her, writing was akin to breathing. I can relate to the deeply etched nature of that notion. If I didn’t write the inside of my head would be like a bowl of breakfast cereal – handfuls of dusty freeze dried fruit desperate for hydration. In other words I’d be feckin nuts. The words themselves are secondary. It’s the movement that’s important. As long as I’m writing I’m happy.

Where did you grow up and where do you live now?
I was brought up in Stirling, Scotland. Growing up is a different story altogether. I live in a sleepy Brisbane suburb, I like it. I’d prefer to be somewhere near a beach though.

What’s the first sentence/line of your latest work?
Danny Irons knew taking his ball to the park was a bad idea.
It’s the opening line of a YA novel I’m currently redrafting. It was inspired by Jackie French, she told me I need to introduce the character and the setting in the first line if I could. I should know this but seriously I’d never thought about it. So I spent some time doing just that. I looked at a feckin great pile of YA novels and this line is what I came up with. It’s maybe not the best, but it is excellent advice. Jackie French is a diamond. And I’m very grateful for her help.

What piece of writing do you wish you had written?
Like most readers, I stand in awe of a great many writers. Bukowski, Auster, Hemingway, Miller, Steinbeck, Didion, Mills, Proulx, Welsh, Kelman, Munro, not to mention close friends who are unaware of how talented they are or just how good their work is are all at the top of this scratched surface. The breadth and depth of writing or writer’s which inspire is, well, too lengthy to be putting in here innit? For fear of sounding haughty or even just having a wank, I do not wish to have written any of it. I am happy, grateful that they have. I get to read it. That’s enough.

What are you currently working towards?
Short term, my PhD. Long term, becoming comfortable enough to call myself a writer.

The future of the book is… much steadier than we have reason to believe. Sure it’s shaken a bit by parallel importation and ugly digitisation, but we will always want books. Finishing a good book, like actually physically turning the last page and then closing it and sighing and having a wee think about it, has to be one of the best feelings ever. That’ll never change. To echo Bob Sessions – electronic books are convenient and the internet is, eh, powerful and all, but they (the powers that be, the forces of greed and evil) can never replace the book. When the CD was invented we were told vinyl was dead. Ask any DJ if that’s true? Look about you, there are eedjits everywhere. Anyone saying the same thing about the book should find a tall mirror and take a few moments…

This post is part of the Queensland Writers Centre blog tour, happening October to December 2009. To follow the tour, visit the Queensland Writers Centre blog, the Empty Page

the secret is there is no secret…

It’s no secret that there’s no secret to successful relationships. Keeping the emotional credit good with the wife is, for me anyway, not that difficult really. You don’t even have to understand the great mystery that is ‘woman’. If there is one of course. When I told someone my theory recently they told me I should write it down. This is a wee bit of a whirl to see what it looks like on paper.

A close friend put me onto the simple formula and for over ten years it’s held me in exceptional stead. I go and get bevvied when I want or need to. I get to spend time with my mates, she shows me great patience (most of the time) and I get a boating trip and a football trip away a year. I know. Hey my wife’s no door mat. She’s a fiercely strong, independent, intelligent, shining example of a good person. I stand in awe of her ability to run a business and a home. I don’t need to suck up her arse either. I’m telling you this same as I tell her. So what about this secret stuff?

It’s simple, I appreciate her. And I tell her. She’s amazing. She should know. So every few weeks I buy flowers. Not for any other reason than she’s a wee sweetie. I never apologise with flowers – it removes any goodness in them. If it’s not the flowers it’s a tub of her favourite of the 31 flavours or a wee CD I know she fancies. Here, this is no sucking up, it’s much less peurile and far more constructive. When I roll in from the casino at daybreak on a schoolnight – it’s only happened once this year so far – and wake her up breaking open the fridge to make a buffet breakfast, she doesn’t even bat an eyelid. She sits back and laughs at me. The credit’s in the bank innit? I’m good for it. She’s happy that I’m happy and I’m happy that I put the effort into keeping things right in the first place. I even get to mong on the couch and give my hangover a proper nursing in peace. Or a sore knee and a torn pair of jeans if we were to take my latest falling over into account.

When I come good, I tell her thanks and she say’s no problem and we resume the patterns of our busy days. Like I said, it’s hardly the makings of a secret formula or some kind of world turning revelation. There’s no doubt my life could be simpler, but it’s not. What I do, with a wee bit of effort, is make it easier.

As for getting yer Nat King Cole… the same rules apply. Were you expecting me to say, that’s a different story?

Postcards

My Icelandic friend. I think I can call him that, he’s the only one I have of the icelandic persuasion anyways, and we get on well enough to warrant me calling him a friend – we’ve bought each other beer on a number of occasions.

Here, I’m getting away from my point. He’s a very clever bloke. PhD qualified, Uni lecturing, travel memoir writer among many other things. It’s probably enough for you to know that he’s one of the good guys. Well he started a blog a while back. Loads of people have contributed. I wanted to show you mine. Have a look. Let me know what you think. Or not.

It’s called Postcard from Stirling

rare haggis sightings…

My spell as a chair at the bwf went as well as I could have hoped for. The first and only real difficulty was the elevated stage. Having the kilt on meant audience members potential for beneath tartan glimpses ran high. I apologised just in case. Everybody giggled. It was a starter for ten. It put a crack in the dam. It didn’t take too much more for a very generous audience to pour their laughter all over the panellists.

Nick Earls steamed in with a steady flow of frothy anecdotes full of writerly wisdom and easy humour. It was quality. It’s why festival peeps love him. Disco Boy and Chaser original, Dominic Knight gave the waters of authorial comedy a stir of his own and the session rapidly turned into a rush of unadulterated entertainment. I laughed my way through it. I even managed to float a couple of questions.

The boys performed like gentlemen and as the chair I had very little to do. You could say it was plain sailing.

A wee seat at the bwf

It’s on innit? The writers festival’s started. Fully swinging. Not a single South Bank car park to be had. Writers and readers wandering round, bumping into each other, spilling words all over the place.

If you see me say hullo. I’ll have my head down with the tunes on. I’m nervous see.  I’m doing a wee bit. Event 68. A quiet affair on the Queensland Terrace. Saturday 11:30-12:30.

I’ll be asking Dominic Knight and Nick Earls ‘What’s in the Name’ of their new books. I’ll be a chair. Hopefully a sharp edged glittery one with clean lines and a sleek cover. But more like the fat auld stinky number with burst cushions and a wee rip across the back that’s been lying on the deck in the weather too long.

It’s the audience I’m nervous of. All them people. Looking at us. Listening. Aye and probably laughing.

Which, of course, is what we’re aiming for. Nick Earls has some lovely stories and Dominic Knight was one of the Chaser originals. He’s bound to have a story or two.

Maybe see ye there.

Here’s a wee link to the bwf thing… so you can have a look over shenanigans planned for the weekend.

hands like a buffalo’s hooves

Some days I just can’t pick things up. Not physically, mentally. Like if my brain had hands, they wouldn’t have fingers, they’d be hooved stumps. 

It’s because I’m oh so very busy. Writing, reading, teaching. It’s mental. Variety is the spice of life, but too many flavours can turn the soup to paste. Which is where my wee brain is at. A thick bookish paste.

It’s because of the books see? Reading them for friends, for the BWF (post to follow shortly), for work and sometimes if I’m lucky, just for fun. And then there’s the writing of them. My own in particular. I’ve started into a more structurally sound draft of the two-week manuscript. I’m enjoying it. But all this book business is too much for my wee brain (I’m really not very clever). It’s been working at maximum capacity for too long. And it’s a wee bit tired, ye know stretched. So I’m having a job gathering new info and keeping it there. I keep falling over myself. It’s harder to break the fall with buffalo’s hooves for hands.

Keeping up with the blog is another thing that’s been getting missed. In a vain effort to regain some normalcy in the places where electronic interaction can go beyond giving a messy inbox a good seeing to, I have (all puns and innuendo aside) found a way to explain myself. Even if it’s not very clearly.

This is only the beginning.