Its been rather a big week. After some time in the wash, swishing around, lacking clarity; I began to form a direction. 24″ Waste, so titled until, I think of a better one, has been an incredible challenge.
Mental health… Anorexia… migrant background… the adolescent world…
I’ve been chugging through the past couple of weeks, flat and low. A trip up to Bendigo, to see the Marilyn Monroe exhibition seemed just the thing. The summer temperatures ebbed away and the shade felt cool, pregnant with the coldness of the winter to come.
Autumn leaves along the way boasted their impending demise, bold in the face of death. Maybe they were screaming and I couldn’t hear them.
When I finished writing ‘Schicksal’, I rather naively thought that I had accomplished a great deal. Balboa Press the self publishing wing of Hay house helped me to understand that publicity and marketing were my next area of growth.
My parent’s memoir continues to enrich my life. Already I have embraced so many new experiences. I have learnt about social media, blogging, and book launches. Librarians have been very supportive and helpful. My public speaking confidence is growing daily.
I like talking to people about my book.
The author talk is an exhilarating experience, a juxtaposition of highs and lows. It begins long before the actual presentation, beginning with the call or email that says, “yes”.
The Author Talk
I psyche myself up,
Make the call, send the email and wait.
An invisible face, clad in the cloak of self-publishing.
I kid myself,
It’s not as hard as I think, it will be okay.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Small as a child,
What can I be?
I see all your questions looking at me.
In my mock hospital,
I manage their ills.
Nursing them tenderly, making them well.
Changes, life and partings
Traveling for the past six weeks, my perspective changed. I admit it had to.
Turkey invited me to share her concern for the changes which may tether liberal thought, as war and politics spread the glue of fear. I knew fear, my novel unaltered for months now. Feeling guilty, I kept mulling but not writing.
Not long after my father’s death, I met a brother and sister also recently bereaved. We stood on the bow of the boat with the cold winter air blowing in our faces, when the woman said, “So we are adult orphans now.” Her comment resonated deeply within me, although until that day I hadn’t heard the term used.
Recently my publicist asked me to write an article for ‘Adoption Today’ on becoming an adult orphan. Now eleven years after the death of my remaining parent, I still found the task daunting. I wrote it many times, uncertain of the result. Although the darkest valley of grief was behind me, describing the process was quite intense.
I began a journey nearly six years ago that would see me change so much that I barely recognised myself anymore. To write this memoir about my parents’ lives in Europe spanning forty years, ensured I delved firmly into the unknown. This tale came from mainly my father’s recitations forcing me to connect to the young child who viewed the world through trusting, big, brown eyes.
It was like biting into a ripe fig, full of anticipation but knowing the skin would prickle the tongue ever so slightly.