Sunday: A turbulent night over and light peeks through the sheer curtains. I prefer it to the darkness but am peeved to have missed the dawn. It’s been an intense year so far and the hype up to Christmas makes me want to step back.
In sight of the finish line, I’m flat today.
Today, I tried to blog. The words refused to flow, so I sat with it. This is what happened.
In our creative writing class last Monday evening, this question arose:
STORYTELLER or STYLIST.
Last Wednesday night, I attended an interview with Rosalie Ham, best known for her novel, The Dressmaker. A natural in front of the microphone she spoke honestly about her writing experience. It was a pleasure to watch the interview, a fun learning experience, the advice priceless.
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…
The crux: What is the blog about?
Success it seems comes from niche, excellence, and passion. An avid note taker, I filled a few more pages of a notebook with advice. The question, however, rattled around in my head all weekend. An answer would come, sooner or later.
What is it that I am good at? What do I have the authority to comment on? What is it I am actually trying to do each Monday morning when I compose my post?
What entices you to read a memoir? I would love to hear your thoughts.
What makes me want to write my second memoir? The unscrambling follows please read on.
Researching this genre, I find an elegant and confusing list of memoir attributes. These hope to unite those impassioned writers who want to share something about their lives, often a deep revelation of some hardship overcome. Writing to heal or healing to write; who knows.
I am so excited! My last few hard copies of Schicksal are selling fast. If you’d like a copy, look under purchase. Just had to share.
I am sitting on an old couch, old because the cats have shredded the sides with their claws. My veggie garden springs to life after winter’s slumber. But it is far of blurred by the flyscreens and the misting rain.
At the back door, my dog’s large brown eyes look up mournfully. Due to the rain, the window of opportunity for our morning walk has passed. Even when wearing her orange jacket, she is too old to take out in the rain.
I haven’t posted a recipe in ages. The other day I saw a Feijoa tree remembering the first time that I came across them. My sister-in-law had a bucket of them from her mother’s tree. I loved the enchanting smell and couldn’t wait to try them.
My family didn’t like them much, more to do with the slightly gritty texture than taste. No one wanted them, so I took them home. not even consulting a recipe book I concocted my recipe for jam. It was a huge success.
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The blurred a patch of the windscreen persisted even I moved my head. Silently I cursed the health centre car; why didn’t they clean the windows properly? I sat in a comfortable parlour with an old fashioned mantlepiece clock, 10:15, doing a home visit.
Assessment done, Issues discussed, began to write up the home exercise program. I derailed. My speech garbled and I lost the ability to write words. I looked at the clock,relieved that I could still read the time, 11:05.