I told my SO what I'd last posted on my blog and he asked what it had to do with writing. Apart from the fact that blogging is another form of writing itself, I explained how reading the newspaper and watching televised news is one of the ways I keep the idea soup in my brain stocked up. Even if the news doesn't provide me with a particular idea or spark, everything mixes in together and sends my brain off in all sorts of different cognitive directions as I wonder about stuff and mull things over. Somewhere inside that mysterious grey matter unpredictable connections are made which then contribute to the content of my stories, the makeup of my characters and the convolutions of my plots. Its a hard-to-explain alchemy and I like to keep it well fed.
I went to see the movie Transformers 2 yesterday with the famdamily. I can't say I didn't like it but a lot of my favourite things from the first one were missing. Especially the peppy dialogue and brilliant story line. There was a tonne of action and some fun transformer robots, big and small. But the individual parts didn't add up so well. And why did Megan Fox need her hand held everytime she ran anywhere - are women incapable of running to safety on their own? My children who enjoyed the movie thoroughly got the pip with me when I began analysing the plot and couldn't understand why the shortcomings of the story were so important to me - they just were alright? Sheesh! I'm a writer - its my job. Ultimately I wondered about the director and whether he'd understood why the first movie had worked so well. Were all those good bits the first time round a lucky accident? Or was he in too much of a rush to get No. 2 out to capitalise on the success of No. 1.
I thought in my next post I might tell you a few more things about myself so you can add some facts and info to the pictures. If you want to know anything in particular (not already covered by my bios at the Book Council, Scholastic, Storylines and Christchurch City Libraries websites) leave a question for me in the comments section.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
I heard the news today, oh boy...
I suspect I do not perceive the news like other people do. For example Michael Jackson's untimely and tragic death at the young age of fifty. I am embarrassed to say one of my thoughts was Farrah Fawcett picked the wrong day to die. I do not mean to trivialise death. Its the biggest crisis we will ever face in our lives. But her, also tragic and untimely passing on the same day, will forever be overshadowed by the unexpected death of the King of Pop. Maybe thats how she would have wanted it. I don't know. I hope both of them rest in peace. They both seemed to share an air of sadness about them. Michael Jackson in particular appeared, like Benjamin Button, to live his life backwards. I can't help thinking of him singing one of my favourites of his, Rock with You, in an amazingly sparkly costume, looking young and handsome and talented and full of joy. There are so many questions surrounding the person he became. I think I will continue to think of him as he was when he made Off the Wall. There has been no mention of his children by the media so far. I hope they are okay.
But back to my strange news consumption habits. Don't think I don't read the headlines because i do. But my favourite newsworthy items are the strange and curious that only get one paragraph, always leaving me wanting to know more and I guess, with a writer's eye, conjuring up all sorts of possible extrapolations of the story. And folks, should I be worried that I laughed myself silly over the story of the German old folk who kidnapped and held hostage a financial advisor responsible for the loss of $5.14 million of their savings. They attacked him with a zimmer frame, tied him up with duct tape and stuck him in a cellar where they beat him up. My favourite quote was this one, "... they bound me with masking tape until I looked like a mummy. It took them quite a while because they ran out of breath." I guess he wasn't the fittest specimen himself if he couldn't subdue two breathless geriatric attackers. Upon release, the financier could only whine and complain about the harsh treatment he had received and turned his focus on having his captors charged, with the possibility if they are found guilty of being jailed for up to 15 years. Seeing as they have lost their retirement savings maybe jail offers a greater level of security then they got from the financier's handling of their nest eggs. I don't condone violence and crime but I could not bring myself to blame those OAP for their actions. No court of any country seems to be adequately dealing with the self-important, over paid, smug, creepy, greedy people who play risky games with other peoples life savings.
And more evidence that tv can have a positive influence (after all, its where the idea for The Were-Nana came from) - another news item in the paper talked about a young boy who survived when lost by doing things he'd learned watching Bear Grylls on Man vs Wild. No reality show is truly 100% real but obviously the survival tips in Man vs Wild have credible value. They helped save a small life. Now thats good news.
But back to my strange news consumption habits. Don't think I don't read the headlines because i do. But my favourite newsworthy items are the strange and curious that only get one paragraph, always leaving me wanting to know more and I guess, with a writer's eye, conjuring up all sorts of possible extrapolations of the story. And folks, should I be worried that I laughed myself silly over the story of the German old folk who kidnapped and held hostage a financial advisor responsible for the loss of $5.14 million of their savings. They attacked him with a zimmer frame, tied him up with duct tape and stuck him in a cellar where they beat him up. My favourite quote was this one, "... they bound me with masking tape until I looked like a mummy. It took them quite a while because they ran out of breath." I guess he wasn't the fittest specimen himself if he couldn't subdue two breathless geriatric attackers. Upon release, the financier could only whine and complain about the harsh treatment he had received and turned his focus on having his captors charged, with the possibility if they are found guilty of being jailed for up to 15 years. Seeing as they have lost their retirement savings maybe jail offers a greater level of security then they got from the financier's handling of their nest eggs. I don't condone violence and crime but I could not bring myself to blame those OAP for their actions. No court of any country seems to be adequately dealing with the self-important, over paid, smug, creepy, greedy people who play risky games with other peoples life savings.
And more evidence that tv can have a positive influence (after all, its where the idea for The Were-Nana came from) - another news item in the paper talked about a young boy who survived when lost by doing things he'd learned watching Bear Grylls on Man vs Wild. No reality show is truly 100% real but obviously the survival tips in Man vs Wild have credible value. They helped save a small life. Now thats good news.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
More distractions...
Totally love this post by Katy Jackson over at her blog Moving back, Moving On. Go and read it. It stirred all sorts of memories of my own, and reminded me of my own time as a student at a catholic school and the less-than-saintly things we sometimes got up to.
And here is another something I wrote...
Lessons.
We can’t speak. If we say something, the old lady comes and raps us on the knuckles with a stick or maybe hits us on the head with a book. So we are silent. But it is very hot and still inside the room and there are a lot of us. We are too scared to speak but we poke each other and pinch each other daring the other to stay silent. It is not fair really. If you speak you are punished. If you stay silent you are tortured. We are mean to each other. Anything to stop the boredom. At the front of the large room a large fat furry bee buzzes on and on. None of us could tell you what he is saying right now. But we have heard it many, many times before and if you asked us we would usually know enough to escape a smack. It is for the grown ups.
If I close my eyes I can think what I would do if I won a million dollars. Maybe a pony for my sister and a Gameboy for me. And some jeans. I don’t know. Dad would like a new car and Mum wants a holiday. Or a dishwasher. I guess with a million dollars I could maybe get her both. Ouch! The old lady whacks my leg with her skinny stick. It stings bad. I jerk up straight.
“Open your eyes. Sit up straight,” she scolds.
Can I dream with my eyes open? The buzzing makes me sleepy. It is better to keep my eyes open. Now the bee reads from the book and the buzzing is stronger. Like the bee with honey. Here it is my friends he says.
That girl is very pretty. She is new. Her eyes are big and her eyelashes are thick and dark and long. They are like a curtain hiding a secret. She knows she is pretty. On her arm are all these coloured bangles. The old lady will have those if she sees them. Her friend is plain. Is it always like that? One pretty, one plain, like the knitting stitches my mother does. They are not speaking but I can see something passing between them. Pretty drops her eyes. Her cheeks turn rosy.
There is a red mark on my leg. My mother will know I was bad. I like the pictures on the walls. They look kind. They make me feel calm. My friend’s fidgeting is annoying. He cannot sit still. I like him because he does not tease me like the others. And he does not poke and prod me like the others. But instead he wriggles and squirms to himself and it is as bad as the poking and prodding. I want to pinch him but he is my friend. He has a skateboard. Instead I look at pretty and she is staring at me. I smile but straightaway I feel foolish and I can feel my face burn.
Whack! “Are you listening?” Two red marks. My mother will be worried and sad for me. She’ll cry. If she cries my father will be angry. I don’t want her to be sad. I don’t want it to be my fault. How can I make the marks go away. I rub my leg. The buzzing sounds louder and annoyed like wasps. The pictures seem different. I feel like everyone is looking at me even though they all face the front. It’s not my fault.
Now it is over and we all stand. Like silly sheep we all move toward the door at the same time. Maybe if we squeeze tight enough we can all pop out at once and be free. As I pass through the doorway I am pressed by the crowd against the pretty girl. My body brushes against hers. She is turned away but her hair smells like apples. I smile. The sun is shining. It is a good day.
And here is another something I wrote...
Lessons.
We can’t speak. If we say something, the old lady comes and raps us on the knuckles with a stick or maybe hits us on the head with a book. So we are silent. But it is very hot and still inside the room and there are a lot of us. We are too scared to speak but we poke each other and pinch each other daring the other to stay silent. It is not fair really. If you speak you are punished. If you stay silent you are tortured. We are mean to each other. Anything to stop the boredom. At the front of the large room a large fat furry bee buzzes on and on. None of us could tell you what he is saying right now. But we have heard it many, many times before and if you asked us we would usually know enough to escape a smack. It is for the grown ups.
If I close my eyes I can think what I would do if I won a million dollars. Maybe a pony for my sister and a Gameboy for me. And some jeans. I don’t know. Dad would like a new car and Mum wants a holiday. Or a dishwasher. I guess with a million dollars I could maybe get her both. Ouch! The old lady whacks my leg with her skinny stick. It stings bad. I jerk up straight.
“Open your eyes. Sit up straight,” she scolds.
Can I dream with my eyes open? The buzzing makes me sleepy. It is better to keep my eyes open. Now the bee reads from the book and the buzzing is stronger. Like the bee with honey. Here it is my friends he says.
That girl is very pretty. She is new. Her eyes are big and her eyelashes are thick and dark and long. They are like a curtain hiding a secret. She knows she is pretty. On her arm are all these coloured bangles. The old lady will have those if she sees them. Her friend is plain. Is it always like that? One pretty, one plain, like the knitting stitches my mother does. They are not speaking but I can see something passing between them. Pretty drops her eyes. Her cheeks turn rosy.
There is a red mark on my leg. My mother will know I was bad. I like the pictures on the walls. They look kind. They make me feel calm. My friend’s fidgeting is annoying. He cannot sit still. I like him because he does not tease me like the others. And he does not poke and prod me like the others. But instead he wriggles and squirms to himself and it is as bad as the poking and prodding. I want to pinch him but he is my friend. He has a skateboard. Instead I look at pretty and she is staring at me. I smile but straightaway I feel foolish and I can feel my face burn.
Whack! “Are you listening?” Two red marks. My mother will be worried and sad for me. She’ll cry. If she cries my father will be angry. I don’t want her to be sad. I don’t want it to be my fault. How can I make the marks go away. I rub my leg. The buzzing sounds louder and annoyed like wasps. The pictures seem different. I feel like everyone is looking at me even though they all face the front. It’s not my fault.
Now it is over and we all stand. Like silly sheep we all move toward the door at the same time. Maybe if we squeeze tight enough we can all pop out at once and be free. As I pass through the doorway I am pressed by the crowd against the pretty girl. My body brushes against hers. She is turned away but her hair smells like apples. I smile. The sun is shining. It is a good day.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
In the meantime, read this...
I'm very proud of myself that I can keep a secret (or two or three...). I totally admit that I have the worst patience in the world but secrets I can do - so Fifi, no amount of begging or arm twisting will make me unseal my lips. Of course when I said 'tomorrow' I meant 'tomorrow' in publishing time which could mean weeks - hah!. I can say I am scheduled to be interviewed on the radio on July 11th, by Gordon Harcourt on RNZ according to this. But as for everything else, like you, I must wait to have things confirmed or otherwise. The interesting thing is that the one thing I have had some news on is the one thing not on my list of 10 possibles. So...
Here is an excerpt from a short story I wrote some time back, that I am very fond of, called The Gift. You can read the whole thing in the anthology, Short (Black Dog Books, 2008).
Everyone says I talk too much. My Mum says that as soon as I could make sounds when I was a baby, I would make noise all day long. When the sounds turned into words I was making sentences long before anyone else my age could. In class my teacher, Miss Watson, is forever saying, "Stop talking. Turn around and face the front of the class." Sometimes she says, "You will never learn anything if you don't listen."
My little sister Bubby says I even talk in my sleep. All night long she reckons. It's keeping her awake. My older brother Jimmy is always telling me to "Shut up."
"Mum," I call. "Jimmy told me to shut up." Mum used to come and tell him off but not anymore. Because I talk too much. I only do it because I have a lot to say. There's a lot going on in my mind and if I don't talk about it I feel like my head might explode.
Dad says if I'm not careful, I'll use up my allowance of words before I'm grown up. He says when I do I'll have to use somebody else's allowance and I'll probably start saying things like "Pass the cucumber sandwiches please, Cyril". Or maybe I just won't say anything at all. That would be the worst. My head would just keep filling up with thoughts and ideas and they'd have nowhere to go.
Then my Mum has a new baby. She calls her Renee and she is beautiful. Fat and shiny and full of smiles and giggles. She gets to be 18 months old and then two years and then two and a half and she doesn't talk at all. And then I know. I have used up my share of words just like Dad said and now I'm using up Renee's allowance too.
Here is an excerpt from a short story I wrote some time back, that I am very fond of, called The Gift. You can read the whole thing in the anthology, Short (Black Dog Books, 2008).
Everyone says I talk too much. My Mum says that as soon as I could make sounds when I was a baby, I would make noise all day long. When the sounds turned into words I was making sentences long before anyone else my age could. In class my teacher, Miss Watson, is forever saying, "Stop talking. Turn around and face the front of the class." Sometimes she says, "You will never learn anything if you don't listen."
My little sister Bubby says I even talk in my sleep. All night long she reckons. It's keeping her awake. My older brother Jimmy is always telling me to "Shut up."
"Mum," I call. "Jimmy told me to shut up." Mum used to come and tell him off but not anymore. Because I talk too much. I only do it because I have a lot to say. There's a lot going on in my mind and if I don't talk about it I feel like my head might explode.
Dad says if I'm not careful, I'll use up my allowance of words before I'm grown up. He says when I do I'll have to use somebody else's allowance and I'll probably start saying things like "Pass the cucumber sandwiches please, Cyril". Or maybe I just won't say anything at all. That would be the worst. My head would just keep filling up with thoughts and ideas and they'd have nowhere to go.
Then my Mum has a new baby. She calls her Renee and she is beautiful. Fat and shiny and full of smiles and giggles. She gets to be 18 months old and then two years and then two and a half and she doesn't talk at all. And then I know. I have used up my share of words just like Dad said and now I'm using up Renee's allowance too.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Whatever happens tomorrow, I've enjoyed today...
So that gorgeous flashy star (Venus) was trying to tell me something. I am full of secrets. I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you. Most are just hints of potential opportunities, but that is exciting enough for me right now. When publishing seemed to be a contortionist forcing itself into a smaller box and closing the lid against the world I wondered how I would get in there and find room but the lid has come ajar and I can't helping feeling more positive...Whatever happens tomorrow, I am enjoying that feeling of possibilities today. And having kept the secret of The Were-Nana being shortlisted for the NZ Post Awards for more than a month don't bother trying to get anything out of me :)
Instead I offer you this distraction at Jane Smith's blog - a post on some excellent blogs kept by editors and publishers you might like to check out.
Instead I offer you this distraction at Jane Smith's blog - a post on some excellent blogs kept by editors and publishers you might like to check out.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
What, or who has influenced my writing...
I'm being interviewed today. The interviewer has very generously given me a heads up on the questions and there's a couple which have my brain in overdrive:
Who or what has influenced your writing and in what way?
There's someone at the moment saying their father's book influenced JK Rowling's Harry Potter series and they'd like 500 million GBP as a thank you very much. Ms Rowling's representatives state she has never even heard of the book or author she has apparently borrowed from. A few years back I was stunned to see a book written by a writer friend explore the same subject matter I'd explored with a particular character (specific to the main theme) having the same name as the name I'd given my key character in a story I'd written. The most surprising thing was I found out about this book the first time I met this writer and held their book in my hand. I could not have been influenced by her and she could not have been influenced by me. But there we were. Justine Larbalestier has blogged on the topic of influence recently and I felt comforted by her take on the subject and by the responses of her writer friends. Influences can be hard to spot as a writer. I guess that all my favourite books and authors have influenced my writing but I couldn't point to any particular one as having influenced any one story of mine. Maybe the closest I can come is seeing a hint of The Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen in The Were-Nana. I loved their fairy tales growing up and read and re-read them frequently. But there are so many other things in The Were-Nana - my own experience growing up, my european background, all my thoughts on fear, and story-telling and the unknown and monsters like were-wolves and the scarey thought of going from being a child to an old lady without experiencing anything inbetween (I don't know if anyone has picked up on that one yet?). Its all in there, plus some other stuff as well. And because its illustrated you have to add in the illustrator's experience and influences too. Phew. Its amazing what you can stuff in to 32 pages and less than a thousand words eh?
I try to write books like the ones I enjoyed reading as a child, so there's the influence of the book writing heroes I worshipped. And then the people who have loved me and encouraged me along the way. My parents, my siblings, my husband and my children all get a nod (and a hug) here. But then there's the lady who ran the Writing for Children paper at Massey University that I took as part of my BA where I wrote the first short stories I had accepted for publication. Its not any one thing she said or taught but that is where some penny dropped and my writing changed. Then there's the kind words of encouragement that Diana Noonan, then editor of the part 3 and 4 school journals at Learning Media gave me when she took on that first short story. Her comments were life changing but also influenced my style and content just by saying I was doing the right thing. Then there have been comments from all sorts of people like Jo Noble and Joy Cowley that have given me hope at important times and impacted on the way I write. Sometimes there have been unkind comments that have made me more determined to succeed.
But its not only books, authors and people that influence me. Its all the movies I've seen, all the television I've watched, all the news I've read about, the way I was brought up and its probably even the food I eat. Ms Larbalestier suggested influence is something the reader can spot more readily than the writer but the reader has their own set of influences and experiences and there will be times a reader will see something the writer has no knowledge of (maybe case in point for Ms Rowling?). Or maybe the influence is not another book but the event or experience that prompted it. This is what I think happened with the writer friend of mine and me.
Sometimes I'm tempted by the idea of the Bene Gesserit witches in the Dune books by Frank Herbert, where the memories of all their ancestors are absorbed by the new generations of witches. I'm not just a product of my own experience, I'm a product of all the experience thats gone before. And thats too big a bag of influence to try and describe.
Who or what has influenced your writing and in what way?
There's someone at the moment saying their father's book influenced JK Rowling's Harry Potter series and they'd like 500 million GBP as a thank you very much. Ms Rowling's representatives state she has never even heard of the book or author she has apparently borrowed from. A few years back I was stunned to see a book written by a writer friend explore the same subject matter I'd explored with a particular character (specific to the main theme) having the same name as the name I'd given my key character in a story I'd written. The most surprising thing was I found out about this book the first time I met this writer and held their book in my hand. I could not have been influenced by her and she could not have been influenced by me. But there we were. Justine Larbalestier has blogged on the topic of influence recently and I felt comforted by her take on the subject and by the responses of her writer friends. Influences can be hard to spot as a writer. I guess that all my favourite books and authors have influenced my writing but I couldn't point to any particular one as having influenced any one story of mine. Maybe the closest I can come is seeing a hint of The Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen in The Were-Nana. I loved their fairy tales growing up and read and re-read them frequently. But there are so many other things in The Were-Nana - my own experience growing up, my european background, all my thoughts on fear, and story-telling and the unknown and monsters like were-wolves and the scarey thought of going from being a child to an old lady without experiencing anything inbetween (I don't know if anyone has picked up on that one yet?). Its all in there, plus some other stuff as well. And because its illustrated you have to add in the illustrator's experience and influences too. Phew. Its amazing what you can stuff in to 32 pages and less than a thousand words eh?
I try to write books like the ones I enjoyed reading as a child, so there's the influence of the book writing heroes I worshipped. And then the people who have loved me and encouraged me along the way. My parents, my siblings, my husband and my children all get a nod (and a hug) here. But then there's the lady who ran the Writing for Children paper at Massey University that I took as part of my BA where I wrote the first short stories I had accepted for publication. Its not any one thing she said or taught but that is where some penny dropped and my writing changed. Then there's the kind words of encouragement that Diana Noonan, then editor of the part 3 and 4 school journals at Learning Media gave me when she took on that first short story. Her comments were life changing but also influenced my style and content just by saying I was doing the right thing. Then there have been comments from all sorts of people like Jo Noble and Joy Cowley that have given me hope at important times and impacted on the way I write. Sometimes there have been unkind comments that have made me more determined to succeed.
But its not only books, authors and people that influence me. Its all the movies I've seen, all the television I've watched, all the news I've read about, the way I was brought up and its probably even the food I eat. Ms Larbalestier suggested influence is something the reader can spot more readily than the writer but the reader has their own set of influences and experiences and there will be times a reader will see something the writer has no knowledge of (maybe case in point for Ms Rowling?). Or maybe the influence is not another book but the event or experience that prompted it. This is what I think happened with the writer friend of mine and me.
Sometimes I'm tempted by the idea of the Bene Gesserit witches in the Dune books by Frank Herbert, where the memories of all their ancestors are absorbed by the new generations of witches. I'm not just a product of my own experience, I'm a product of all the experience thats gone before. And thats too big a bag of influence to try and describe.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Before anyone else is awake...
Every morning for the past week I have wakened to see an outrageously bright star hanging in the pre-dawn sky. I'm reminded of Tintin and The Shooting Star, because it looks impossibly large, like its hurtling towards us, a meteor on a suicide mission. Or maybe someone left a light on up there. Maybe somewhere in a distant solar system on the edge of time, a sun went supernova thousands of years ago, billions of years ago - I don't know. I read the science books which talk about these things but the numbers just drop out the other side of my head. Or the shear scale of those numbers is too much for me to manage so a few zero's are bound to wander off. All I know is, this week, this enormous shining star has been hanging in my bedroom window when everything else is dark and silent. Does anyone else see it? I feel like its trying to tell me something. Maybe I can only understand its message in my dreams and when I wake its just beyond my grasp, leaving only the star to wink and hint...
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