Haunted: Claws and Teeth

From the 'Hauntings' Creative Project AAWP 2015, Published in Bukker Tillibul, October 2016. 

When she had been told the valley was haunted she had assumed several things, an air of self-righteousness foremost amongst them. Ghosts were the realm of old people and children and she was neither. There were other assumptions though. There was an expectation that apparitions must be human; lost wafting creatures with sad tales of hypothermia or a fall from one of the knives of red stone that slashed upwards all around her. Mixed with her scepticism was the warmth of knowing she would never have to test her convictions. Only a fool would try to cross that pockmarked, frozen wasteland at night.

Yet now it lurched before her, the trees wavering in ice wind, the edges of the red cliffs blurred by low cloud. Stupid. It was so unbelievably stupid to be stuck out here. The crystal threads running through the cold air made her skin twitch and there was a heart shuddering moment when she knew her assumptions were as foolish as her attempt to find the boy. She was not alone. Her rational mind she knew she had never been alone out here. There were possums bolting up the trees as she moved down the trail and a myriad insects squeaking and hissing their displeasure at her disruption. There were slitherings in the low black grass. But this was something else. She turned around quickly. Darkness.Darkness barely penetrated by her small torch. Pivoting back she looked down the overgrown trail. And it was there. Watching her.

A dog. Perhaps. A ghost certainly. Silvery, threadbare, not completely there. It was bigger than a dog though. As tall as her hip. Its face was sharper. And its teeth needles of light. It glowed, though not in the torchlight; from within. Her heart stuttered to a halt, winding down and then attacking her chest wildly - get away from this thing! She couldn't. The boy was out there. Beyond.

The creature looked at her, turned slowly in a circle, like a wolf, its head low, eyes up. Could you be killed by a ghost dog? The adrenaline tearing at her veins told her she could. The side of its body took her by surprise. Thicker than a dog. A longer tail. In her muddled, frozen mind she felt a flicker of recognition.

The creature watched her and let out a low sound - a rumbling. Pulling back suddenly on its haunches, it lifted its front legs in the air, pawing at the air. The movement was strange and she stumbled back, off the path and into thick, sharp brush that held her in place. There was something odd about it, moving as it did - like a rat. Like a wallaby. It flicked its head quickly side to side and then turned to walk away, down the path. It wasn't going to kill her. Was she supposed to follow it? She mocked herself for the thought. Her limbs were losing sensation in the cold. It wasn't worse than being completely alone, was it? Unless it led her off a cliff. As she fell into step behind the apparition she saw the lines across its back and she knew it. It was a tiger. Thylacine. Only survived by its silver shadow.

An open letter to my University students... said with love -and an eye-twitch...

Rant from a Writer: Shredding the Rainbow

 Growing out of your dreams.

When I was ten I wanted to marry Raphael (I’d like to say I was referring to the Renaissance painter, but no, I do mean the ninja turtle), live on the Gold Coast, preferably in a high-rise condo, and drive a Lamborghini Countach. I would be a writer who acted and modelled in her spare time. We would practice martial arts on the beach and go on philanthropy sprees through Africa where we showered orphanages with toys and cash. My books would be bestsellers with unicorns embossed on the cover. The pages would be rainbow scented. In the absolute worst-case scenario, I would settle… and marry John Stamos and the books could smell like creaming soda.

Only a couple of those things happened. I’ll let you guess which. And you know what? I’m okay with that. These were real dreams I spent hours thinking about – and I let them go, with very little angst. I just moved on, grew up, tried new things, met actual human men… I just changed.

So why, in the name of all the unicorns who died to make my stories more dramatic, can I no longer let go of a dream? Something happens when we hit our twenties- I’m sure of it. We start to pour our dreams into blocks of concrete around our feet and just wait for them to dry – mafia style. Then we can barely move… and we certainly can’t go swimming. I decided when I was at University that I wanted to be a writer and a lecturer. I wrote these down in a journal and I have the image of that list imprinted deeply in my mind.

I persisted with those two dreams. I wrote a lot of things and published some of them. I studied with the zeal of an addict. And I found full time lecturing work at a great institution in a time when academic work and great institutions are very hard to find. That’s it then – I’m done. I’m here. Arrived via Lamborghini Countach at the John Stamos’ house. So to speak.

So here’s the thing. I’ve realised a lot about my dreams along the way. Some are soul amplifying and some… well let’s just say I’m in an abusive relationship with another.

Writing is easy for me, I love it and it fills my soul. It is one of those life long love affairs. I write things that won’t be published. I write things that no one will see and sometimes I just write things in my head. It’s like breathing to me. I have become a better, fuller person because of this dream.

And then there is that other dream. The one where I get to stand in front of a group of brilliant, confident and occasionally hung-over students and talk about Sparta, and about writing great stories and why the world will actually be a better place if we don’t buy two dollar t-shirts. It’s a dream job and I’m good at it – most of it. But over the few years of my academic life I’ve discovered that lecturing is only the smallest possible part of a lecturing career. Mostly I’m in meetings or up to my eyeballs in research and paper work. And as hard as it is to admit – I just don’t love academia and I suspect that many (many) academics feel the same way. It is surprisingly counter-intuitive for a creative. I don’t want to write long diatribes about works of literature and their value. I want to actually write works of literature. I don’t want to study the way teaching is evolving – I want to evolve as a teacher. I don’t like the politics of education. And I don’t really like rules and frameworks and guidelines, and Universities thrive on them. I have too much soul-deep anarchy in me to sit in meetings and be told what to do. The truth is I don’t want that for my students either – the status quo at this end of history isn’t as great as it could be. I don’t want their education to teach them to accept things as they are because it has always been that way and I certainly don’t want them to learn that research for research’s sake is more important that creating something new (and I’m not talking life-changing medical research here – I’m talking theory so dense that you if you accidentally wade in you get sucked down and discovered two thousand years later by archaeologists).

And yet – it’s my dream, isn’t it? This is what I wanted. I have created a strong sense of myself out of the gentle (okay, not always gentle) snobbery of being “an academic”. I should be happy and I certainly shouldn’t be wondering if it’s even possible to let it go. And as I keep shelving that argument I also keep asking myself – why is this dream cemented around my ankles? If we grow out of clothes and ideas and people, why can’t we grow out of the dreams we had when we were young? Why is it so hard to let them go?   It is the nature of dreams to be come unreasonably attached to them. We have to, to find the strength to achieve them. But I also think it is the nature of dreams to be grounded only slightly in reality – it is also necessary to sanctify them, to make them almost holy, to make ourselves determined and strong enough to chase them – “fountain of youth” and “holy grail” style.

We have to dig them in and let them grow deep networks of roots throughout our brains and souls and even bodies. Which means that letting them go is a surgery and it is going to hurt and leave a hole.

These dreams are something we believed in completely, something we looked towards like the sun, something we based our whole identities on and then realised it just isn’t us anymore. It’s a breakup. None of the “chase your dreams” posters have that disclaimer – “And let them go when the time is right” - but they should. We need to know that it’s okay to grow out of a dream – even the really big ones. It’s not the same as giving up and we mustn’t confuse that. It’s changing. It’s knowing that something we wanted doesn’t serve us anymore and carving ourselves free to find a new one.

And it will be different for everyone – many folks are facing far bigger conflicts than whether or not they want to stay in a career. I know wholeheartedly that I am in the privileged position to be able to question my life choices. But we are who and where we are – and this is my small decision and my big philosophic change.

I’m realising that it is just as okay to grow out of your dream to be a doctor or an aid worker or a filmmaker or a lecturer, as it is to grow out of the Ninja Turtles. And I suspect that the result of this paradigm shift will be a realisation that new dreams are waiting to fill in that space. I’m not throwing in the towel; I’m just letting go of an idea and then seeing if what I do still works without it. If I don’t have to be a lecturer because I promised myself in high school that I would be, does that make a difference in how I approach my career? If I can allow myself to dream differently, does it change how I approach my work now – as something “for now” rather than an endgame. And more excitingly, what other things will come.

Rant from a Writer: Fear and Loathing at the Keyboard.

I was afraid of writing for a long time. Afraid of writing something that wasn’t golden. Afraid of using my time to write. I didn’t want to miss so much life that I had nothing to write about. I was terrified of writing about myself. It might be the thing I know the most about, but it is also very ordinary to me. I was scared of offending people. Scared of boring people. Scared of anyone at all reading anything I had written.

Image: CreativeCommons - staticflickr.com.

Most of all I was scared that I wasn’t a writer. I mean – are you a writer if you haven’t been published? Are you a writer if you only write poetry? Are you a writer if you write health articles for a newspaper? How high-brow and purist does your writing have to be before you are “a writer”. Coming off an international flight one morning I wrote “writer” in the too-small green occupation boxes on my arrival card. It felt like a safe place to call myself that. Of course the customs officer looked at it and said “a writer hey? What have you written?” I can’t imagine the panic would have been any greater had I a condom full of heroine inserted in my rectum. “Ah… I… I’m a freelance writer. I write about travel and kids and health and stuff.” And then I added like the criminal I was, “And I’m writing a novel.” I waited for this man who was an expert in the terrorist bugs that hide in South Pacific crocodile carvings to find me hiding in my own fiction. He didn’t. He smiled and said “Me too! I’m writing a fantasy novel. Goodluck.”I didn’t even consider judging him. I took him at face value. He was a writer. He was writing a novel. Customs was just his job. So why did I feel like I was the fraud?

I’ve always written things. I wrote terrible love stories in paper notebooks and passed them around to my friends in high school. I wrote fantasy stories based on computer games I played on the school’s Commodore 64. I wrote poetry about the boys I liked. I wrote Star Wars fan-fiction (I stand by the fact that my Year 8 prequel was better than George Lucas’). I wrote Gone with the Wind fan fiction. I wrote things on my arms. Later I tattooed those words on my arms. I have three blogs, two of which I don’t even share. There are notebooks everywhere in my house. When I am walking, when I am driving, when I am staring off into space I am thinking of the things I want to write. I know all of this is the same for other writers.

Somehow though, I have come to attach some sort of fiscal responsibility to myself and I know I’m not alone here. I make my living lecturing – therefore I am a lecturer. Who writes. Even now, after I have published a novel and have another on the way – I still feel like a liar unless I admit that I am a lecturer…who writes. Because I’m not making a living out of my writing and I’m certainly not writing all day long. And it wasn’t until recently that I had the very small, and some may say quite mundane, epiphany that I am whatever I feel myself to be. This came about because I birthed an artist. A small boy who unashamedly describes himself to everyone he meets as an artist - who also likes to play Lego. He has never sold a painting (to anyone but me) and he has never had anything hung on a wall of a gallery. But he just knows who he is. One day he might be making single-origin, organic, fair-trade lattes for lawyers and I’m pretty sure he will still tell you he is an artist. Though with that sort of conviction he will probably be living in a gorgeous NY loft apartment with his best mate who is also an artist, still drawing dinosaurs and selling them for millions. And his passport will always say “artist”.

His small, innocent conviction has galvanised this old girl. I’m not sure if it is a Gen Z vs Gen X thing? I was told I could only be something that made money when I grew up. I distinctly remember the moment that I was told there were not enough jobs for Palaeontologists in the world and I should be a history teacher instead. It was Grade 2. Perhaps it is because the world is starting to really understand the value of creativity again (it has been a while since the Renaissance –its definitely time). Perhaps he is just stronger than me. Either way, I’m starting to embrace being a writer. Finally. I am saying no to things so that I have time to write. I am writing instead of reading, writing when I wake up and writing even when I have nothing to say. And I’ve found that in removing the fear of writing something terrible, I have written lots of things. And I’m pretty sure some of them are terrible. I have things saved on my laptop that need to be erased should I die suddenly. Erased. But I did write them. Because I’m a writer.

Rant from a Writer - Ideas are People too.

An idea is a hard thing to quantify. It really is just air after all. Maybe some sound waves. But then - it is also everything. The internet was someone’s idea. So was cloning dinosaurs from blood in mosquitoes. One works – the other doesn’t, and yet somehow I’m pretty sure those two ideas are worth nearly the same amount of money.

CreativeCommons: Keriann3

The problem with ideas is, that the little puff of air, those mental waves of energy, that ripple in the time-space continuum – it isn’t seen as being worth anything at all. Not until it becomes a cold, hard ride-sharing App. Or a device that keeps your banana in shape in your laptop bag (it’s a thing). Or anything in Skymall. Once it is making money it is seen as valuable – as palpable – as patentable. But when its an idea – its flighty, and soft – and people don’t seem to mind reaching out and taking it for themselves.

This is especially scary for a writer. Because we have many, many ideas. And we love to share them. To air them and shake them out to see if they work. We like to talk about them to see if they are still interesting afterwards. To see if they wear out. To see if people laugh at them. And it takes a very, very (very) long time for them to become concrete money-makers that we can copyright and protect. These ideas are precious to us as Creatives. Like small children that we feed and spend time with. We talk to them, get to know them and when the time is right we share them.

Until you’ve had an idea stolen you can’t understand the horror, disappointment and (to be honest) the depth of self-righteous rage that can overtake you. It was your daydream, your secret conversation with a character in your head. It was your alternate vision for the shopkeeper at your local fruit shop, your re-versioning of the WWII encounter between agents. Your complex, flawed and beautiful character. It came from you. And because it is a puff of air, you risk having it snatched away.

I’ve had poetry taken and re-authored. I’ve shared ideas and had them used in grant-funding applications. I’ve tried out new characters, scenarios and characters and had them appear in other people’s work. And I’ve seen it happen to other creatives. Artists who have no money, but many ideas are taken advantage of by others with nothing but money. Filmmakers who pitch a fresh idea and are rejected, only to see it appear six months later on television.  Students and interns who have no power are being scraped down for their fresh ideas – unpaid of course.

And to me - its wrong. To me? This is theft. Grand-theft. Because this isn’t something I just worked hard to pay for – it’s not my car or my credit card you are stealing. This isn't something I can insure. Or something I can even prove existed. This is part of myself – this is my essence you are taking. Pieces of who I am.  They are not free. And they not value-less. They are goddamn platinum puffs of air.

Meme: thelearnedfangirl.com

There is a consequence to this theft of ideas. It is the shutting up, the closing in and the folding down of the sorts of conversations that change the world. We will simply stop talking. Stop sharing. And this will mean that our ideas won’t expand and be fed. They will not be as they could have been. Or worse – we will start to 'disclaimer' our ideas – “This idea is for anyone with the energy to pursue it.” – “This one is something I’d like to develop myself.” Ergh… and nothing shuts down a creative conversation like rules.

There is also a fairly simple solution. Don’t steal someone’s ideas. Ever.

And if you are deeply enamoured of someone’s brilliant thoughts, tell them. Ask them if you can collaborate. Or ask them if you can use the idea yourself and give them credit for it. Seriously – ask. Ideas-people love that shit. And I’m not saying don’t adapt, or re-imagine, or pastiche, or listen or rework – I’m just saying don’t steal. And I think without much trouble, we can all tell the difference.

Otherwise we’ll all just have to stop talking and hunker down in our mouldy coffee-scented spaces, alone trying out our ideas on the cup full of leaking pens (this works in a pinch – mine is a quite supportive pen cup). And then ideas get stale. And nobody likes a stale idea, they taste like self-importance and pretence. And there’s enough of that going on in politics. 

Rant from a Writer… Everybody Sell Something!

There’s that old saying “everybody’s selling something…” and people say it with a Monty Pythonesque tut and a roll of the eyes and its clearly a bad thing – people can’t just be … they have to try and take your hard earned cash.

The Salesman: Supermac1961

I’m going to counter with a new thought I’ve had lately – one that has disrupted my comfortable thinking significantly– everybody should sell something. And sooner, rather than later. We should be making and spruiking our wares when we are young, when we are shy, when we don’t have any idea what we are doing and even when we don’t need the money – because selling something is hard to do. And doing anything that is hard, particularly hard things that are against our own nature… makes us think, act and behave in new and usually highly discomfiting ways.

I never had a business when I was young. At school I made money cleaning people’s houses, minding their pets and kids, working in a store, working in a factory and even transcribing a Doctor’s Dictaphone tapes. I’ve worked hard. But the most I ever sold, were my skills as a worker and I didn’t even do this very well. I got jobs from friends of my parents, from friends of my friends and from neighbours – I never pitched myself, never even wrote a resume until I was twenty-one. I never did “the hard sell.” It was mostly because I was not drawn to the life of the entrepreneur, I was drawn to the life of the artist. I wrote books in my spare time and I loaned out these hand-written monstrosities to my school friends who would kindly read them and write comments in the back. All for free. They didn’t pay me for my melodramatic fantasy tales and I didn’t ask them to. I didn’t even consider asking them to.

After University I was offered a job. After that I was offered several more. I’ve only interviewed for jobs a couple of times and I got all of them. This is not to say I’m some sort exceptional talent – just that I didn’t really venture from my comfort zone. And what I found out recently – when I published a book and had something I suddenly needed to sell – is that I don’t know how to sell myself. Or my product. And this was unbelievably outside my comfort zone. I kept apologising for my own book, a story I loved and was really proud of, because I didn’t know how to own it, push it out there, tell the world about it.

In January we took a long trip across the United States to visit our family. While we were on the Amtrak - (I recommend this train by the way, the insights I had while this old girl rocked back and forth were inspired) – we had a conversation with our sons about what they wanted to learn. Neither of them love school and so we wanted to help them learn things in new ways – ways that they loved. They wanted to run a business. A business that sold something. Something that was good for the planet (bless them).

Finally, after a little exploring and shopping (shopping in the US is DIFFERENT to shopping in Australia where you can only purchase one thing per paycheck or you will end up in debtors prison… in the US, it's fun) they settled on candles. This seemed okay with me – I could Youtube, Etsy and Wikipedia my way into that field. Then they decided that they wanted to put the candles in recycled beer bottles that were cut in half. They had seen someone do this with wine bottles at a market in North Carolina and thought it would be great for all the bottles they see on the side of the road on the way home from school. This was harder, but again – Youtube – and we eventually had a product. (And some glass on the floor. And some wax.)

But then I was out of my depth. We could sell them at a market maybe? Online maybe? My husband, who runs his own production company, is far less terrified of selling something to people, so he immediately took them to local pub, who loved them and asked us to come back when we had a few more. I managed to sell a few more online to a friend who runs a restaurant. And the kids are busy wrapping some in bubble wrap for the ones we’ve sold online. It invigorates them. It makes them brave and proud and more and more fearless every time they sell one.

And this is where I finally get to my point. We should all be selling something. Especially kids. They should be thinking about products and services and ideas and solutions that they can sell and then talking to people about them – convincing them to believe in their ideas. It would set up writers and artists and filmmakers for a far easy road later on when we have to sell our work. It would make people far more confident in selling themselves in job interviews. And people would be far more comfortable with money – I really believe they would. Less afraid of it.

In my desperation to find out more about this whole idea of selling myself and my work I have been to listen to dynamic speakers (Jaki Arthur from JAMPR for one) and read inspiring books. Lisa Messenger’s Daring and Disruptive was so gently and yet powerfully persuasive that I’ve dared to dream of a couple of new ventures for the future that would normally be a long, long way outside my comfort zone. My brain, which is normally something of a lightning storm anyway, can barely keep up with the new plans. It’s invigorating to run a business, even a tiny one with my sons, and my writing has been enhanced by it. Imagine what it will be like when I get something huge started?

So this is what I am saying… sell something. Anything. Buy something wholesale and sell it at markets. Engage with people, talk to them, convince them to buy what you are selling. It will make you feel more alive than you can imagine. And for us writers and artists and poets and filmmakers… we will begin to see that what we create has that same value and we can sell that with passion as well.

 - rant over… x