Sitting Still (Friday Flash Fiction)

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They won’t find me out here. Not like the last time. Or the time before that. And was there a time before that? My memory is going so I can’t be sure.

I can remember one thing, though, and that’s my name. I’ll tell you it in a minute if you don’t rush off.

There goes another aeroplane, slicing up the sky. I don’t understand all this travel. You can go a long way by sitting still, the world’s turning so fast.

I mean, look at that sky. Nothing in it now but clouds, all twisting and turning and changing around. Doesn’t look the same from one second to the next. No need to move an inch to see something new.

They want to take me away but I won’t let them. They won’t find me out here.

My name’s Bruce, by the way.


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They Called Him Herman (Melville’s ‘Moby Dick’)

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‘Call me Ishmael.’

So begins Moby Dick, Herman Melville’s classic tale of whales and whaling, first published in America on this day back in 1851.

The brevity of the book’s opening line is misleading: Melville’s masterpiece has 135 chapters and more than 500 pages, making it a whale-sized story by anyone’s standards.

Was the novel the ‘draft of a draft’, as Melville himself supposedly suggested? If so, his editor ought to have taken a harpoon to the text.

Melville had a tough time as a kid. Money was short, his eyesight was weakened by fever, and the lad had trouble impressing his father, who described him as being ‘backward in speech and somewhat slow in comprehension’.

Ouch!

Melville’s success might be attributed, in part, to an early lucky break. Unlike his brother, who wrote nothing, he was not given the name Gansevoort. He was called Herman instead.


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‘Old Things Are Awesome’ (An Interview with Harmony Higgins)

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Me:    When did you start writing?
She:   When I was seven I wrote reviews of my mother’s meals and stuck them on the fridge.
Me:    How did they rate?
She:   Poorly. Especially the steak tartare.
Me:    I meant your reviews. Why historical fiction?
She:   So much of it is set in the past. Old things are awesome.
Me:    What’s the oldest thing you own?
She:   A brooch worn by Henrietta Stubbs.
Me:    Who’s she?
She:   Don’t know. She sounds ancient though.
Me:    Do you do much research?
She:   Loads. I use it as mulch on the garden.
Me:    What are your hopes and dreams?
She:   To write the perfect novel. Again. I’m joking, of course.
Me:    Of course.
She:   I’d like to become a yoga instructor.
Me:    Good luck with that.
She:   Thanks.

Riding the Waves and The Crestfallen Tailor are published by Penury.


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The Oldest Trick in the Book (A Review of ‘Polar Bears’)

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Ever laughed until you’ve cried?

If you haven’t, try reading ‘Polar Bears‘, a story by arts journalist and author, Gareth Hipwell.

This vicious but very funny vignette tackles a serious subject by stealth. Even before you’ve had time to wipe your nose its end has arrived, and the story, like a bear, has bitten off your head – only half of it, mind.

The story concisely captures the dichotomy in the ongoing debate about climate change: Tom and Jess have ‘polar’ opposite opinions and never the twain shall meet.

And although the story didn’t bring me to actual tears – is crying a conspiracy? – the plight of the planet is well worth weeping over.

‘Polar Bears’ was published at Flashers, the ‘online home of Australian flash fiction’, which is currently in hibernation. Here’s hoping global warming will bring it back to life sometime soon.

Sleepers, wake!


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Typographical Errors (Badly Bought Books)

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Here’s an odd admission to make on a blog about books: I hate buying novels.

Although I’m no bibliophobe – I love books! – I have a fear of ‘what books may do,’ as Holbrook Jackson puts it. Not all books, mind, just new-release novels.

Let me explain.

Buying books is risky business. A new novel hardly ever lives up to the hype, which says more, methinks, about the way books are marketed than about the books themselves. And then what?

Reading a novel is no one-night stand. Unlike a mediocre movie, a bad book stays with you; it crouches on your shelf, glaring at you like the picture of Dorian Gray, with ‘eyes of a devil’, a reminder of your profligacy and poor judgement.

Here’s another admission: I hate selling my books, even the bad ones. My ‘typographical errors’, you see, must never be known.


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Choking on Words (Writing, A Dangerous Obsession)

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So, you thought writing was to be your salvation, that it would save you from obscurity. But what if instead the opposite is true? What if your obsession has got you ‘entrapped’ (as the novelist, Amit Chaudhuri, puts it) and it’s stifling your life?

Such were my thoughts yesterday.

Picture the scene: I’m wheezing at my desk, suffering from a sudden attack of hay-fever. As I search for my asthma spray, a colleague jokes about shoving a pen down my throat to open the airway.

The wheezing soon went – the spray worked its magic – but the image of me choking on a pen stayed on.

Writing has been caught in my throat for a long, long while. Perhaps it’s time I swallowed my pride and gave the game away or coughed the thing up, took a deep breath and got on with the job.


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Plotting It Out (To Plan or Not to Plan)

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I have a vision. Like Nature in the poem by Burns, my ‘eye [is] intent on all the mazy plan’.

It wouldn’t be my first. I’ve had more five-year plans than the Soviet Union did under Stalin, one every few months.

But does a writer even need a plan?

It probably doesn’t hurt to have one. Planning helps you identify goals, set your direction and keep things in perspective – good practices for anyone, I guess.

And yet writing is a notoriously unpredictable endeavour. Markets evolve, opportunities arise unexpectedly, ideas come and go, and our likes and abilities change as we grow. Success can spring from a single manuscript and some luck.

Try planning that!

It’s nice to think that we shape our destinies, though, so I’ll go ahead and make my next plan. That way I can relax and wing it all the way.


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Navigating the Unknown (Writers and Mentors)

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Today, as I lunched on the waterfront, I overheard a fisherman explain to his mates why the ship in the distance wasn’t coming any closer.

‘It’s waiting for a pilot,’ he said. ‘They can’t come up the river without one.’

Writing is a lot like sailing; any number of authors have navigated unknown waters with the help of an experienced hand.

Allen Ginsberg had William Carlos Williams, the poet. Thornton Wilder had Gertrude Stein, whom he called his ‘toasted ice-cream‘. And Margaret Drabble had her ‘hero‘, the Nobel Prize-winning novelist, Doris Lessing.

I’ve only ever had one true writing mentor: the wonderful woman who first encouraged me to write. Since then I’ve been sailing solo, rowing around in circles and running into rocks.

In 1975, an unpiloted ship sank in the River Derwent, having collided with a bridge.

Maybe it’s time I found a mentor.


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Colourful Language (The Right Hue for You)

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Colour has the power to excite our emotions and yet few of us apply it to our writing.

What hues, then, should you use to maximise your mood while you work?

Red
Denotes passion, desire and love. Give it a go when you’re writing sex scenes and romance.

Green
Evokes harmony and peace. Not for conflict between characters or westerns and war stories. Also best avoided when writing reviews.

Yellow
Suggests joy and happiness. Perfect for comedy, wisecracks and witty dialogue.

Purple
The colour of luxury, power and ambition. Best for historical sagas about kings and queens.

Pink
Stands for vulnerability and youth. Use it for that YA novel you’ve been meaning to write.

Black
Denotes death, evil and mystery. Great for crime-writing, tragedy and horror.

White
Symbolises perfection. Not recommended.

Blue
My colour of choice. Calm, logical and intelligent – just like this blog.

Up to the Challenge (All Writing is Good Writing)

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Last week I took up the Swinburne Microfiction Challenge: to write five stories in five days in response to five daily word-prompts.

And while I won’t win the prize – one thousand dollars, if you don’t mind – I haven’t come away empty-handed. The exercise has taught me three valuable lessons about me, my stories and literary magazines.

Here’s what I’ve learned about myself: that I’m a craftsman and not an artist. My stories are facile and lack true depth of feeling – that’s take-away number two. And as for literary magazines, I found that their editors favour atmosphere over action.

Sobering stuff. What it means for my writing, I can’t really say.

Having taken the challenge I’ve learned what’s lacking in me and my work: artistry, emotion and atmosphere. What I’m not lacking, though, are the five stories I finished in five days.

I can write!