I have lived my life with assumptions. Not about science or politics, but just general assumptions that I gained by growing up with my parents. I assumed that if I worked hard and lived right, by now I would be financially secure – nope. I assumed that I would have relatively painless childbirth because my mother had painless childbirth – wrong again. And I had assumed that my parents – being such young parents – would be around for longer.
As a small child, I had assumed I would be rich and famous by now. That one I managed to understand was unrealistic quite early on. I’m still hopeful, but also not stressed by the prospect of smaller expectations. People are reading my stories and that is a great satisfaction to me. Since I’m always working towards improving my writing, there is still the chance I might make it bigtime.
I guess we all think we are the exception to the rules of life. I though I was a golden child, one of the chosen ones, because I could write. I thought my parents were special, and would live forever. I didn’t think bad things could happen to us. Not us!
How could my brilliant and charismatic mother die so young?
In some ways, I have been very lucky. I have the world’s best husband, gorgeous and clever children, and the loveliest family and friends. I knew my mother for decades. I can write, and I have a room of my own, and my hubby supports my endeavours. I can still pretend I am shiny.
I am going to stop making assumptions and be grateful for the good things in my life.
Dear fashion industry: Just because it is summer doesn’t mean I want to show all my skin.
Please stop making every second blouse a ‘cold shoulder’ blouse. Only the young and fit look good in them, and they are useless outdoors in Australia – who wants sunburnt shoulders? I need a shirt that protects me from the sun.
Please stop skimping on the fabric for tops by stopping them at waist level length. I do not want to reveal my scarred tummy when I reach up for items in the supermarket. I do not want to have to pay for all the therapy for my fellow shoppers.
Please be aware that there is nothing more frustrating than finding a shirt I like, but it is only available in this year’s fashion colours, and I look ill in that very limited range of colours. Would it hurt to provide a larger range?
Australia has an aging population and an obesity problem. So how about designing clothes to flatter middle-aged, chubby women. Or I (and all my demographic) will be forced to shop in men’s clothing stores and you will lose money hand-over-fist.
No wonder I love cosplay…
I wrote a long-winded post on Facebook, and suddenly realised that I should share this to the blog.
Reading ‘The Martian’ to understand the contrast between modern Science Fiction to the old school ‘hard’ science in fiction of ‘A for Andromeda’. I suddenly realise that there is a good reason why my mother hates Science Fiction, since she would have first encountered the over-technical ‘gosh, gee, SCIENCE!’ of the Forties and Fifties before the revolution of the Sixties caused by writers more interested in how people react to science than just the science. So many bad stereotypes.
At least ‘A for Andromeda’ tries to break away from cliches of the era and gives the women characters equal billing as protagonists and antagonists.
Yes, this is a sweeping generalisation. I do know that there are some very beautiful Science Fiction books written before the 1960s, that have fully developed characters and made sensitive observations of how science and technology could change lives. But they were the outliers. If you read the pulps from the Forties, there were rife with testosterone poisoning, but then, WWII probably influenced the tone of the era. It was an era of heroes fighting against impossible odds.
‘The Martian’ is all about fighting impossible odds. But the heroism is low-key. It is the humanity of our protagonist that defines him. Genre writing has moved away from being restricted by its genre and is moving into the realm of mainstream literature.
Yet, I’m still happy to sit down and watch ‘Rogue One’, which is all about explosions and white hats against black hats.
At the moment, I am trying to edit my Steampunk book and polish it so I can start sending it off to market. Except … I keep writing new short stories, and I finished a children’s book, and rewrote a creative nonfiction book about zombie bugs, all in the past nine months. As one of my writing compadres pointed this out to me at an informal get together, this isn’t getting my editing done.
I’ll be the first to admit that I am busy. But adding – and finishing – new projects is suspiciously like an active form of procrastination. It isn’t that I don’t love my Steampunk novel. It is just that the new projects are always just that bit shinier. Quicker to be completed and so quicker to send off to market. The structural edit seems to be dragging on, and I fear it is because I am dragging my heels.
Every time I dip into editing the steampunk manuscript, I want to add in new things. Should I blame my constant process and need for perfection? Normally, this means I am well and truly on top of a project. After all, I’ve complete books before this one. But I really want this one to be special. Magical! Absorbing! Detailed! Fascinating!
If I was listening to another writer complain about their need for perfection, I would be advising them to ease up and take it one step at a time. My staircase seems to be higher than the Empire State Building at the moment. Insurmountable!
At a meeting at my writers’ group, I did another chunking exercise today to try and get some control over the situation. All I ended up doing was coming up with some new (and excellent) ideas for adding foreshadowing to the first five chapters. *sigh*
Where will it all end?
I haven’t visited the blog for a while because , for an unemployed, stay-at-home, my life is very busy. I have been sending off short stories and manuscripts with the goal of getting 100 rejections in this financial year. I write off applications for jobs (though I am beginning to think I am unemployable). And I write, of course.
Well, I have a bit of good news. One of my stories has been accepted for an anthology: Monsters Among Us, being published by Oscillate Wildly Press. This not only gave me a rosy glow of contentment, the acceptance letter had such treasures as “a strong plot, some magnificently striking imagery and immaculate prose structure”. I’m thinking of getting this tattooed on my arm, to cheer me up on those days I feel I can’t write a single decent word. I was pretty chuffed with “even at this early stage, a gripping page turner.”
This means my strategy to get 100 rejections is paying off. I got the idea from reading John Birmingham’s How to be a Writer, and a couple of other online writing blogs. If you don’t send off your work, you can’t get rejected … but you can’t get acceptances either.
The reason that the rainbow has become a symbol for sexualities other than straight, is because sexuality and gender are a spectrum, not a black and white phenomenon. A rainbow is a symbol of hope. It is a promise that – one day – there will be peace and acceptance. Today is not that day …alas.
As politicians rush to make political hay out of this tragic event in Orlando, let us remember that this tragedy wasn’t about politics, it was about hatred. Hatred is born out of fear, and fear is born out of ignorance. He was an ignorant, fearful, hateful man who perpetrated this atrocity upon all those innocents. He felt threatened by the freedoms enjoyed by those precious young people who were dancing, and who were happy in a way he could not understand. So he washed that freedom away with bullets and blood.
The dead and maimed, and their friends and families, are not the only victims. The survivors will never be as carefree or happy ever again. The whole LGBTQIA community is shaken and more fearful than they were before the atrocity occurred in Orlando. This is community that is already under siege, fighting for their right to be accepted. They have to watch as haters gleefully celebrate the deaths of their innocent friends and relations.
Living in Australia, one might think it would be easy to put a comforting distance between this massacre and myself. Not true. To paraphrase John Donne:
Any person’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.