Category: True Story

My Near-Death Experience

When I say I have been deathly ill, I’m not exaggerating.

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After following the ambulance to Camperdown and then to Warrnambool, I spent last Thursday night at the ER with my dad. Over the course of the night, his pain lessened and his condition improved. At 4am, I was allowed to take him home. We both slept all day, and I didn’t go anywhere else.

By Saturday morning, I had a bad throat. As these things go, I figured it would be a croaky day or two, took some paracetamol, and tried not to think about it.

By the wee hours of Sunday morning I had no voice, a fever, cold sweats and a wracking cough. I was so dizzy that when I had to get out of bed, I had to hold onto the furniture to keep myself from falling over. I stayed in bed, made sure I drank plenty of water, and told my dad not to come near me.

By Monday, my lungs were rattling and squeaking. I could no longer lie flat, and sleep was out of the question. There were moments where I would have gladly accepted my fate if the Reaper had shown up.

I have been out of action ever since, and am still in quarantine. My doctors have me on two different antibiotics, cough syrup, Ventolin and pain meds. I haven’t felt so awful since I had Ross River Fever in 2011.

Today is the first day on which there has been any improvement. My cough is less frequent, although not less violent, and the rattle in my lungs sounds more like rice crispies than a chatty raccoon.

If I were you, I still wouldn’t come near me for a while yet.

It’s fair to say that I know why the person I got this disease from was at the hospital.

A Glimpse Into A Writer’s Mind.

Today’s instalment of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

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When I was growing up, there was a girl with whom I was friends most of the time. Our parents were friends, too, which meant that we saw each other outside of school and church activities. She left school two years before I did, and I only saw her briefly a handful of times between then and when I left Sydney in 1989. We have some friends in common, but I haven’t ever pursued reconnecting in any way.

2016-02-11 21.54.33-1At 3.47am today, my brain woke me up to remind me that her birthday was March 2nd.

A Curious Surprise.

Curious Times is out now!

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I announced in my recent ‘cover reveal’ post that there were Curious Times ahead. Today, my latest release hit the stores.

I wasn’t actually expecting that to happen before tomorrow. In some miraculous twist, Draft2Digital and Amazon both published my book into stores faster and more smoothly than ever before. The alternative is that I’m getting better at this, which is also a possibility, although I doubt that the skill of any individual can make those wheels turn any faster.

Curious Times Cover eBook

‘Curious Times‘ is the sequel to ‘Curious Things‘, and delivers five more stories about a black cat, superstition and strange events.

Friday, the magical black cat with a devilish sense of justice, returns in a second collection of macabre and darkly humorous stories. Set at significant times of the year, these stories celebrate key events while Friday delivers his own brand of feline justice to people who fully deserve what’s coming to them.

If you have ever wished for revenge, or taken pleasure in seeing horrible people get their just desserts, this book is for you.

‘Curious Times’ is on its way into all the stores I can possibly put it into and, like all my other books, will be widely available as both a paperback and an eBook.

 

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For Sale: Part Of My Soul

Why my writing matters.

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Sometimes I wonder what people think when I say I write poetry.

Cute little greeting card verses? No.
Lofty, unintelligible, old-fashioned rhymes about flowers and oil paintings? No.
Trite rhymes that talk about love and sunshine? No.

I have to admit, I’m very tired of the “That’s nice, dear!” kind of responses.

I’m also more than weary of the sensation that I have to just about stand under a red light on a dimly lit street to get people to take my poetry seriously.

I’m not talking about my readers here. I’m talking about people I interact with in my daily life, be they co-workers, acquaintances, family members or friends. Other than a very small number of individuals within those circles – for whose support I am ever grateful – it feels like most people in my life prefer to pretend I’ve never written a word.

I know they’re not my main audience. I don’t expect them all to love everything I write. In all honesty, most of them have never even picked any of my work up to read it.

The question remains, though: Why aren’t they more willing to support me? Do I mean so little them that what matters to me is of no value, either?

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I have commented on numerous occasions that there is a part of my soul in every poem. My poems speak my pain, my love, my joy, my life lessons, my resolutions, my fears, my anger, my insomnia, my restlessness and my contentment. Some of them are the very essence of my desperation to survive and my will to live. Some of them could only be more “life and death” if they were actually written in my blood.

Do people not understand the bravery that it takes for an author to put their words on paper and unveil them in front of the whole world? That kind of vulnerability is, quite honestly, terrifying.

I experience this far more profoundly with my poetry than I do with my fiction. It’s far more personal, and it’s definitely more revealing of what’s in my own heart and mind than any of the stories I write. That’s why I am so committed to crafting each poem to say exactly what I want it to, in a way that is beautiful to read, and with careful attention to the music and structure of each poem. If I’m putting my soul out there for other people to read, it’s going to be the best that I can make it.

My readers tell me that my poems encourage and move them. The ultimate satisfaction as a poet is knowing that my words matter to the people who read them. They get it. And thank God they do, or else I’d be feeling more dejected than ever.

The other weirdly encouraging thing is that this isn’t something that only I experience. These are thoughts and feelings that are remarkably common among the writing community, and I have come to learn that they are common to all creative people, whatever medium they work in.

It’s why I am so thankful for my community of fellow authors and poets and other creative people who encourage and celebrate one another’s creativity and the courage that goes with it.

It’s why I am doubly grateful for my “additional family” that are known as the Indie Fabs – they’re my posse, my constant encouragers, and my soft place to fall when things are hard.

It’s why I am doubly grateful for those few family members and friends who support everything I do, read everything I create, and cheer me on relentlessly.

It’s not overstating things to say that I am still here because of my writing, and I am still writing because of them.

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A One-Off Inscription.

There is more truth than most people realise in the jokes about authors killing people off in their books.

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Yesterday I signed a paperback copy of my latest book for my best friend. I have written something personal and unique to her and our friendship in her copy of every one of my books.

Yesterday’s effort was by far my favourite.

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You should understand that this is not a promise I’m willing to make to just anyone. Anyone who has read ‘A Poet’s Curse’, for example, will have worked that out very quickly.

Jokes are frequently made about authors putting people in a book and killing them, but most don’t realise just how satisfying and therapeutic that can be.

Oh, we change the name and some minor details, but the important thing is that we know who we’re finishing off, even if the rest of the world doesn’t. And you know, it is important to conceal the true identities of our victims because, in the end, nobody wants it to backfire or get ugly.

I have, in fact, had a number of people ask me if a particular poem or story was about them. Rather than confirming or denying anything, I’ve gone the “self-examination” route. Each of them received the same answer: “If you think that’s a possibility, I suggest you to take a long, hard look at yourself and how you treat people. It might be time to do some repairs.

As an author, I can have my macabre little cake and eat it, too. And as an extra reward for good behaviour, I get to keep my best friend. Bonus!

Square Peg, Round Hole.

A response to intolerance.

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I’ve never understood why people feel the need to pressure someone to conform. Why are they so intimidated by someone daring to think for themselves, pursue their own dreams and make choices according to their own preferences?

And what I really don’t get is how they can say they love someone and yet reject particular qualities that makes that person who they are.

These are the thoughts that have contributed to a poem I finished recently.

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The imagery is macabre and horrifying. The message is dark. None of that will surprise anyone who knows my writing.

I won’t discuss the details of the situations that led to it being written. Suffice to say that there are people in various “circles” in which I live and move who have, at one time or another, exerted significant pressure on me to be less individual and more compliant with the way they like or want things to be.

I have some bad news for them.

I will not submit to their peer pressure. As adults, they should know better.
I will not moderate my politics, my social conscience, or my rampant individuality for them.
I will not be submissive or silent in response to their bad behaviour, intolerance and hypocrisy.

If they don’t like it, they can go and boil their heads.

Of course, that’s all excellent news for me. In the immortal words of the Monty Python team, “I’m not dead yet!”

 

 

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Curious Times Ahead.

There are, indeed, some very Curious Times to come.

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A year ago, my character Friday didn’t exist. He didn’t appear in my imagination until Friday 13th of October, when I wrote a spooky piece of flash fiction featuring a black cat. At that time, I didn’t expect it would be any more than that.

Friday had other ideas. He showed up again the next day, and the next, and the day after that, too. By Halloween, I had written thirteen macabre stories featuring Friday, a magical black cat with a penchant for poetic justice.

“A lovely collection of tales, overseen by a
cat who defends his person with almighty
power. A little gory, and a lot killy. ;-)”

Promo Curious Things Cover

Playing with common superstitions, the old proverb “curiosity killed the cat” and the strange events that happen in the stories, I titled the book of these collected stories ‘Curious Things’.

Of course, it’s not the magical cat who ends up in trouble. It’s the people who allow their curiosity, dishonesty or greed to get them into bad situations who find themselves on the wrong end of Friday’s magic.

Friday was, quite naturally, rather pleased. He purred his way onto bookshelves, rubbed against the ankles of those browsing the YA, paranormal and horror bookshelves, and wrapped his sleek black tail around readers’ hearts.

“This cat is like Karma on four legs.”

He enjoyed the attention and adulation of his fans so much, he began to demand I write some more stories for him. Being a cat, he’s most accustomed to getting what he wants. And so, Friday’s next book, titled ‘Curious Times’ is due to be released in early October, right on time for Halloween reading!

I’m very excited to reveal the cover of ‘Curious Times’ right here, for the first time!

Curious Times Cover eBook

‘Curious Times’ will be available in all major and some minor digital stores, and widely available as a paperback.

Stay tuned on social media and this blog for an announcement of the book’s release!

 

Ahoy!

HMS Pinafore is about to sail, and she is indeed “a saucy beauty”

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“We sail the ocean blue,
And our saucy ship’s a beauty;
We’re sober men and true,
And attentive to our duty…”

It is aboard that trusty, much-loved vessel that I am about to embark on one of the busiest weeks of my school year. Its the week in which the the last fifteen months’ worth of planning, preparing, auditioning, casting, decision-making, organising myriad details, and the rehearsals of the past three months come together and appear on stage as the annual school musical.

This year we’re doing Gilbert & Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore. We have a cast of about 45 students who range from 12 to 18 years old. Others of our students have been trained in sound and lighting, backstage management, while still others have helped to create and prepare the set.

It’s a wonderful show that tells a ridiculous story beautifully. I enjoy the moments of pathos, but also the delightful comic moments in which my actors really shine.

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The soloists are amazing, the chorus sounds fantastic, the dance moves are fabulous and the costumes are beautiful. The orchestra’s performance alone is worth more than the price of the ticket. When all of those amazing ingredients come together, the outcome is incredible.

I know this week will be exhausting, but it will also be exhilarating.

I’ll be back to my usual blogging and social media self after the week is done and I’ve had a good sleep. Until then, say a prayer for me. Or… just send coffee.

Sledgehammer.

A short reflection on the significance of my newest poem.

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I finished a new poem today. It’s only short, but it has great significance.

The idea for this poem came to me in a moment of reflection while I was thinking back to how broken I was just a year ago. Back then, I would not have been able to write this poem: it would not have been true.

In fact, it’s only since I did some “housekeeping” via the publication of ‘A Poet’s Curse’ at the end of August that I’ve actually begun to feel free of some of those things that were holding me down and tormenting me. I wrote in a post back then that it was a cleansing experience, but I had no idea just how liberating it would turn out to be.

I also wrote in my previous post that writing is, for me, really effective therapy. I’ve used it to resist and fight my own personal demons. I’ve used it to grieve, and to rejoice. And I’ve used it to say any number of things that it might not be appropriate to communicate in any other way.

‘Sledgehammer’ is not even defiance. For me, it’s like a milestone that shows me how far I’ve come.

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My walls may not be perfect— they have, after all, been damaged and repaired. I am, without a doubt, both stronger and harder than I was before. That’s not to say I am insensitive or uncaring: I’m not talking about being hard of heart. I’m referring to the kind of hardness that can not only resist the assault of a sledgehammer, but also remain completely indifferent to and unmoved by it.

As far as I’m concerned, that sledgehammer does not exist.

 

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Five Reasons Why I Write.

An author shares five reasons why she writes.

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This challenge for writers is circulating on Instagram.  Because it is a very positive thing,  I decided to share mine here, too.

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Five Reasons Why I Write:

1. Compulsion: the words flow and I can’t stop them.

2. Satisfaction: there is immense joy in creating and crafting something meaningful.

3. Encouragement: I write about things that everyone experiences- grief, anger, pain, happiness, challenges, victories — in a way that shows others they are not alone.

4. Self-preservation: delivering justice fictionally carries fewer penalties than actually hurting people.

5. Sanity: It’s the most effective therapy I have ever had.

Bonus Reason: 6. It’s the only way I can explain my browser history.

I’d love to see you follow me and join in this fun challenge on Instagram.

You’re more than welcome to tag me in your post so I am sure to see it.

Also, I hope you feel free to comment and share the reasons why you write.