Today’s instalment of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.
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.
At 3.47am today, my brain woke me up to remind me that her birthday was March 2nd.
HMS Pinafore is about to sail, and she is indeed “a saucy beauty”
“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.
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.
An author shares five reasons why she writes.
This challenge for writers is circulating on Instagram. Because it is a very positive thing, I decided to share mine here, too.
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.
If a book were to be written of your life, what would the title be?
This question was asked recently in one of the authors’ groups I belong to on Facebook:
The answer came to me in a blinding flash of little-appreciated genius.
Alternate title: Crap That Wasn’t Meant To Happen.
Precis: A woman goes through life generally trying to do the right thing, but situations and people keep backfiring on her. This is further complicated by her own big mouth and her failure to learn the basics of human nature.
Tone: Initially comical, tending toward darkness and cynicism as the story progresses.
Chapter titles:
I know. It will never sell.
Marketing that kind of stuff is exhausting – I should know. It is, after all, the story of my life.
A teacher confesses her most regular, and possibly most embarrassing, classroom faux pas.
The classroom is busy in a studious kind of way. Students are working on the task I have assigned them, and I am making my way around the room, checking in with each student to see if they need any help or clarification. The tone of the room is positive and the level of noise is low.
I know these kids well enough to know some of their hobbies and interests, which ones love reading, which ones are sporty, and which ones are the introverts who would rather work alone than in a group situation. Suffice to say, I know their names.
As I move toward the first girl in the next row, I quietly whisper to myself, “Don’t call her Susie. Don’t call her Susie. It’s Sharon, not Susie.” In the very next nanosecond, I open my mouth and say, “Hi Susie! How are you going with this assignment?”
Everyone in the room has heard me do it – again. A collective sigh, non-verbal but heavily laced with the essence of “Not again!” can be heard. One kid shakes his head at me in an awkward blend of amusement and newly-refreshed disappointment. It’s fair to say that this has probably happened to him before.
Sharon looks at me with an expression that shows she is torn between saying “I’m Sharon!” and rolling her eyes, pretending I didn’t say it, and answering my question.
“I’m so sorry!” I say. “I know you’re Sharon. I don’t know why that happens. It’s certainly not deliberate. It’s just… my brain. It hates me.”
Sharon nods. Unfortunately, she’s heard this enough times to know it’s true. I give her a pathetic, apologetic smile in response, and go back to talking about the assignment.
How can I remember the details of the Industrial Revolution or talk ad nauseum about the literary qualities of Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, and still get some poor kid’s name wrong at least once a day?
It isn’t even always the same student. Occasionally, my brain/mouth coordination goes rogue, and I’ll call Kate ‘Lily’ or ‘Rose’, just to keep things interesting. Just once. Just to make things interesting, I’m sure.
This is one of the things that keeps me humble as a teacher. In my job, I’m required to talk to people and use their names in the classroom. And that very basic thing is something that, from time to time but far too often for comfort, I struggle to do.
The ironic thing is that I’m actually really good at remembering faces and names, where I met someone and conversations I’ve had with them. I have to remind myself that not everyone does that when I’m tempted to take it personally that someone hasn’t remembered my name, or having met me before.
I just don’t understand how the wrong name can come out of my mouth so often in every day situations.
The only thing I can put it down to is the brain fog I have carried since I contracted a delightful tropical disease called Ross River Fever in 2011, and which is also typical of fibromyalgia, which I have been left with as the legacy of the RRF. I know the fog is particularly meddlesome when I’m tired or my pain levels are high, but even at times when I am doing okay and enjoying otherwise greater clarity, some autonomous impulse to self-destruct in front of others fires off and I find myself apologising for calling Tom either ‘Dick’ or ‘Harry’.
I think I’m going to have to just start telling my classes at the beginning of each year or semester that it’s likely to happen, it’s not intentional, and I apologise in advance. It’s either that, or resort to calling everyone “Hey You” or just never using their names, neither of which is a terribly professional option, either.
These authors have left their fingerprints on my life… and on my writing.
A couple of friends on Facebook tagged me in this challenge last night:
For those authors out there, list 10 other authors/individuals who’ve made an impression on you or who have helped influence your writing in some manner.
This is the sort of tag challenge I enjoy, because it gives me an opportunity to acknowledge some of the influences who have helped me to become the writer that I am today.
I’m a total bookworm, and I know I’ve read many, many magnificent books in my time. They’ve all contributed to my imagination, my understanding of the world, and the wellspring of ideas that flow through my brain and into my words.
The ten I’ve listed here are authors whose work I have consciously aspired to honour in my own writing, either stylistically or in the themes and ideas I regularly explore.
None of the names on this list will surprise anyone who knows me. Those who have read my work probably won’t be too surprised either – not because I have copied them, but because of the “trace evidence” in various poems or stories I have written.
This list is presented in no particular order, because I couldn’t possibly rank them. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Emily Bronte
L.M. Montgomery
Charles Dickens
Mary Shelley
Edgar Allan Poe
Alfred Noyes
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
William Shakespeare
A.B. “Banjo” Paterson
Harper Lee
I’d love to know…
Are any of these authors a favourite of yours?
Who has inspired you?
Whose books have you loved reading?
We’ve all seen those images of the long-distance runners at the Olympics who can barely move their limbs, and have to keep jerking their arms and legs to get over the finish line, where they fall into a sobbing heap, barely able to think or breathe.
That was me this week, although not in any track and field event. With a final burst of grim determination and a fair degree of operating on ‘autopilot’, I staggered over the finish line of an 11 week school term. Exams done and graded, reports written, special reporting for students with disabilities completed, and reporting software glitches dealt with, it was all I could do to get home without actually falling in a heap.
Then I was reminded by my very extroverted husband that we had to go out for dinner to farewell a friend who is returning to The Netherlands. The very last thing I wanted to do was move, let alone have to talk to anyone.
“Do I really have to go?” I asked. I’d like to say there was hope in my voice, but it was more like desperation laced with the abject misery of the tears I was blinking back.
“Yes!” replied favourite ‘social butterfly’. “We won’t stay long.”
I can’t believe I fell for that – again. Why do I always believe him when he says that?
Anyway, I went along and made a valiant attempt to both stay awake and wear a happy face. Despite the fabulous array of food on the table, I managed to eat some potato and a sausage. I was too tired to contemplate chewing anything, so not even the marinated steak managed to tempt me. I had reached the point when I just didn’t care.
It was after 9pm when we got hom. I went to bed and, surprise surprise, found it impossible to fall asleep. Instead, I just lay there in a fuzzy daze of not-quite-asleep limbo for hours, occasionally weeping a little when I had to move one of my limbs. I had my regular talkback radio shows on, and I know I listened, but I don’t think I took anything in. Of course, given that the last time I went to bed and fell straight to sleep may have been when I was about three years old, this is completely normal for me. But oh! how I wanted to sleep.
Today, I feel like I’ve been hit by an even bigger truck than usual. My Fibromyalgia is keeping a constant check on my pulse and my dodgy spine is being a drama queen every time I move.
So far, I’ve managed to avoid taking any codeine, which I wouldn’t have been able to do before my conch piercings. Despite enormous temptation to overdose on coffee, I’ve only had one, and am focusing on just drinking water and resting as much as I can today so that this doesn’t continue for days and eat up half of my term break. I have writing that I want to do, and work for school that I must do, so that’s not an option.
Today is a pyjama day. Tomorrow, I’m going to dress up, put makeup on, and go out to take bookselfies for Indie Pride Day. Trust me, you wouldn’t want me doing that today, even with makeup and proper clothes.
For now, I’m going to snuggle in my comfy chair and cuddle my enormous sense of satisfaction at having not only survived, but also having met every work requirement and deadline, rehearsed and performed in a play, and then auditioned, cast and started rehearsals for HMS Pinafore in September. And all of that without killing anyone – other than fictionally, of course. Go, me!
Mind Blown: A story from my Year 10 history classroom.
What’s on your list?
I’d love to hear your ideas!
Tonight, an impromptu conversation occurred when a friend messaged me out of the blue.
Friend: Power went out.
Me: That’s no good.
Friend: Pedalling my bike now. LMAO.
Me: Haha. Not sure you meant to message me, though.
Friend: Scared my dog though… Oh. Sorry! Hugs.
Me: No problem, mate. Actually, I think this has been one of my favourite conversations all night.
Friend: hehehehehehehe
Me: Do you mind if I blog it? Names changed, of course.
Friend: Sure thing. Looks like the storm is about to hit here. Gonna be a yuck night for sleep.
Me: Yep.
Friend: It’s still hot out. About 24 outside. It’s horrible.
Me: Yeah, here too.
And that was all. Completely normal.
WordyNerdBird 