So... Let's Talk Vegetables.

You know all those horrible vegetables that you hated as a kid? Cauliflower, broccoli, brussels sprouts? (I tried brussels sprouts as a four year old and promptly threw them up, they were so vile.) Well, faithful reader, I have made an amazing discovery. There is a secret to making all these unappealing but oh-so-good-for-you vegies taste delicious.

It's called ROASTING.

Yes, cut them into little bits, slather them in olive oil, pop them in a hot oven and voila! Who knew?? Even brussels sprouts can be yummy. Especially when you scatter them with toasted almonds, or bacon, or pine nuts.

But it doesn't work for cabbage. I'm afraid nothing can save cabbage.

Thanks, But No Thanks

A few edited highlights from my (bulging) rejections folder:

"The narrative framework seems a bit slight, especially at the end. (The main character) doesn't develop much?"
 ''Longer than it needs to be... the opening seemed rather slow..."
"Probably not quite up our alley...still a few purplish patches..."
"Came close but just missed out... The basic theme of house-sharing gets a bit of a hiding these days..."
"I did baulk at the lack of punctuation..."
"Nice story as usual [this was my third unsuccessful submission to them]. I'm sorry our excuse is the same -- insufficient space..."
 "Too neat and too dramatic. I'm not convinced that this is the ending for this story..."
"(This story) could make a contribution in a collection of your stories but on its own I don't think we can use it..." (fourth try)
 "We can't fit it in..." (fifth try)
"Perhaps this would suit a more popular publication?"
"Unfortunately we are unable to publish this ms."
"Strongly written but we can't find a place for it." (sixth try)
"I thought your writing showed a lot of promise and will get stronger with practice. There were awkward patches that will become fewer with experience... I did think the theme was not believable however..." (At the time I found this comment hilarious as the story in question was based on an actual experience. I now realise that "true" and "believable" are not the same thing.)
"Sorry we've had this submission so long... unfortunately we have accepted a couple of pieces ahead of it..."
"We cannot publish this story." (eighth, and final, unsuccessful submission to this magazine)
"Towards the end I found I wasn't really that interested in any of the characters... I think it's a bit overwritten."
"There seems to be a lack of the sort of dynamic energy that makes readers respond to the characters.... They seem to lack heart..."
"I couldn't get my teeth into it..."
"My advice would be to put the manuscript in a bottom drawer and start on another."

Goodbye, Sarah-Jane

Terribly sad news this morning that Elisabeth Sladen, who played (Best Ever?) companion to the Doctor, Sarah-Jane Smith, has died of cancer at the age of 63. She leapt onto the screen from the first moment she appeared, crackling with charisma, warmth and energy; no other companion has matched her for sheer spunk.

It's something to be glad about that the producers of the new Doctor Who had the wisdom to bring her back so that a whole new generation of fans could get to know her.

Vale, Sarah-Jane...

Reading in Exile

 Reading In Exile

One of my very favourite books when I was growing up was The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge. (It was also one of JK Rowling's childhood favourites, which is why, I suspect, it's been reissued, and I was able, to my great delight, to find it in a bookshop.)

It's the story of straight-backed, clear-eyed Maria Merryweather, who comes to live at her ancestral home, Moonacre Manor, in the village of Silverydew in the West Country in 1842. Even the place-names give you a sense of the kind of book this is: magical, lyrical and intensely English.

Maria's bedroom is a circular room at the top of a tower, the ribs of its vaulted ceiling meeting at a carved sickle moon. She has a four-poster bed with pale blue silk curtains (very worn, but scrupulously clean) and a patchwork quilt, a tiny fireplace and a box of biscuits, topped with delicate sugar flowers, on the mantelpiece, in case she gets hungry between meals. At the age of nine I thought all this sounded exquisitely beautiful, the pinnacle of perfection, and it remained my model of bedroomly bliss for many years.

Anyway. Reading Misrule's wonderful tribute to Diana Wynne Jones got me thinking. Like Misrule, and at around the same time, I clung to books of English fantasy in a sea of Australian realism. But I wasn't living in Australia; I was exiled in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea. I utterly rejected any stories about my own country in favour of an imagined English homeland, the land of Maria Merryweather, with her silvery hares and great golden dogs. When I was eight, we visited my father's family in England, and when we left, I sobbed for days. England felt like home in a way that Australia never had. I belonged in that damp green landscape.

Was it the blood of my ancestors calling me home? Or was it just that the books I adored were all set in England? Was it literature that had sunk into my bones?

I chose the English books because they admitted the existence of magic. The Australian books of the era were harsh. There were bushfires, droughts, hardscrabble farmers, children thrust into a disaster and having to cope alone. I didn't want a bar of any of that. It was all too confronting, too real, and yet somehow unreal. In a strange way, those stories felt more alien to my life as an Australian child in New Guinea than the adventures of the children in the magical books I craved. I lost myself in the enchanted country of Elizabeth Goudge, CS Lewis, Joan Aiken, E. Nesbit, Penelope Lively, Lucy M. Boston, Alison Uttley and Philippa Pearce, and I was completely at home there.

Was it the magic in those books that called to me, or their Englishness? I've always thought it was the Englishness, but perhaps it was the magic. If I'd been able to find stories of Australian magic, perhaps my reading childhood might have looked quite different.

I wonder.

Radio Days

We are a bit addicted to radio in our house. We have at least one in every room - a clock radio in each bedroom, a tranny in the bathroom and a spare one by our bed, one in the kitchen, another (fake 1930s wireless) in the library, and there's the radio which is part of the sound-bar DVD player thingy under the TV in the living room. I feel slightly disoriented when I go into friends' houses and can't see a radio anywhere. It's a little like a house with no books - something vital is missing.

My very first radio station was EON-FM, when FM radio was shiny and new, and I was discovering pop music. Eventually I switched to Triple J, and I stayed tuned to the Js for many years. It was our station of choice at the record company where I worked. But then my love for cricket began to outweigh my love for music (never very robust, sadly). My boss and I used to surreptitiously switch over to the ABC to listen to the Test coverage, and then I'd leave it there and listen to Jon Faine and the grown-up current affairs discussions. I remember being glued to the coverage of the waterfront dispute as it unfolded, rushing into my boss's office - can you believe they're doing this? The move from JJJ to 774 felt like growing up.

When I was at home with babies, the radio was my connection to the outside world. At the dead of night, at dawn, in the cheerful mid-morning, for afternoon lulls and evening tears, there was always someone (adult) talking to me, telling me stuff, one end of a conversation that I felt part of. When the Twin Towers came crashing down, when the Beaconsfield miners were trapped underground, when the bushfires raged, it was radio that told me what was happening, both frightening and reassuring at the same time.

At last I grew weary of 774; it seemed like lots of politics, a bit of gardening, and too much unfunny anecdotage. I grew up a little bit more and discovered Radio National. This time the conversation was more wide-ranging. I listened to discussions of history, philosophy, design, literature, and science. I was in left liberal heaven!

But lately football has sunk its evil claws into me and I've got a bit addicted to the guilty pleasures of SEN, which is ALL football, ALL the time. This has felt like a retrograde step, a slide from sophistication back to lazy, blinkered adolescence.

But I've realised there's more to it than a simple addiction to footy. The truth is, I can't bear to listen to grown up radio any more. I'm so disgusted by the limpness of our political 'leaders,' so overwhelmed by the enormity of the calamities that face us, so infuriated by the name-calling, the vote-grubbing, the shallowness, the pointless abuse, the short-sightedness of the so-called grown up world, that I cannot bring myself to listen any more. That's the trouble with radio - when it's on, it's unavoidable. You can't look away, the way you can turn a page of the newspaper or click on a fresh screen.

I haven't switched it off. I still like to hear people chatting. But I have turned the dial. For now, I've politely asked the commentators and the economic experts and the 'serious' journalists to leave, and I've invited in some ordinary blokes who like talking about balls. And you know what? It's kind of relaxing to have them around.

So who are you listening to?

Life Lessons Football Can Teach Us

Part 2: Be Prepared

It started so well. Saturday, an unseasonable 27 degrees, was the first time I have ever felt hot at the footy. Instead of being swaddled in scarves and beanies, I wore sandals and a summer dress. The four little girls we'd brought with us were sufficiently amused by expeditions to the toilet, impromptu games of kick-the-homemade-ball up and down the ramp, and the frequent provision of snacks, that Michael and I were able to watch, oh, probably as much as almost half the actual game, so a good time was had by all.

The trouble began after the game had ended. By this time, being Melbourne, the summer-like day had turned freezing and it was pouring with rain. Michael and the little girls sprinted for the car, while I trudged toward the tram (I wouldn't fit in the car). Half an hour later I was still at the tram stop with nary a 112 in sight, wet through, and rain trickling down my neck. My frock and sandals no longer seemed like such a good idea. As dusk rapidly gathered, the only bloke at the tram stop in possession of an iPhone informed us all that there would be no 112 trams for the foreseeable future.

Time for Plan B: a long walk in the rain down Collins St while I considered my options. At least I couldn't get any wetter. With the tram situation still uncertain, I ended up at the train station, only to discover that I had missed my train by seconds, and a half hour wait lay before me. Worse, I had nothing to read. Luckily, the timely arrival of a Big Issue vendor solved that particular problem.

At long last the train arrived and carried me helpfully back to Southern Cross station, which I'd left an hour and a half earlier. Michael was ringing my phone every few minutes to check my progress. 'Where are you now?' 'East Richmond.' 'So you've gone through Jolimont?' 'Yep.' 'Oh, by the way, the girls are all having a sleepover at our house, see ya, bye!'

By the time he picked me up at the station it was two hours since I'd left the stadium. Two hours from the city to Preston has to be some kind of record, surely? My inappropriate footwear was soaked through, my toes frozen, my light Bulldogs jacket wringing wet. It could easily have been the Worst Footy Day ever. But luckily we'd won.

Second Sight by Cheryl B. Klein

First, a disclaimer: Cheryl was my editor when the Chanters of Tremaris books were published by the Arthur A. Levine imprint in the US.  I must confess that when I received my first communications from Cheryl, I pictured her as a motherly, middle-aged lady, probably with pearls or bi-focals on a string around her neck. This will teach me to make generalisations based on names alone, because in fact Cheryl is a very hip, witty, glamorous, young professional about town (her town is New York -- sigh!) Maybe I should have guessed when she sent me those Captain Underpants erasers to make corrections on my manuscript.

Three things became immediately apparent as we worked together. Cheryl is a) very thorough,* b) completely lovely, and c) very smart. She has a knack for putting her finger on the exact word or phrase that isn't quite right, and clearly (and kindly) explaining why.

Ever since I had the privilege of being edited by Cheryl, I've followed her blog, Brooklyn Arden, where from time to time she would link to various talks about writing and editing that she gave at conferences. I printed out several of these talks to help me clarify my thinking about drafts that weren't quite working, and kept them by my desk for easy reference. So imagine how pleased I was to learn that she had decided to collect all her talks together and publish them as a book!

Second Sight: An Editor's Talks About Editing, Revising and Publishing Books For Children and Young Adults is exactly what it says: a collection of talks. At times this means that the same ground is covered several times, but I don't think this is a flaw; it just serves to hammer home the points that are really important. This is not a book for a beginning writer; most of the advice is for those who have a workable first draft completed, but want to make it better. Second Sight offers clear, sensible and sometimes inspirational advice, as well as practical tips for revising. It's almost as good as having Cheryl herself looking over your shoulder.

Though it's probably not as good as having a cup of tea with her. Which is something I still hope to achieve one day.


* Like me, she is both a Virgo and a Horse, which might be one reason why we worked together so harmoniously.

Life Lessons Football Can Teach Us (An Occasional Series)

Part 1: The Sweetness of Victory Does Not Outweigh The Bitterness of Defeat

Last week my team got crunched by some cheeky up-and-comers. This week, we bulldozed an undermanned and reeling interstate team at home. It was nice enough. But it doesn't erase the pain and outrage of the shocking loss the week before.

Winning feels good. But losing feels really, really bad. When the Western Bulldogs finally win a premiership, will it really make up for the fifty, or sixty or seventy years of disappointment, anguish, heartache, betrayal, sorrow and grief that have gone before? How good could it actually be? Especially when you wake up the next morning and know that you have to start fighting all over again, for the next one?

I guess if I was actually a member of the team, maybe the player who kicked the winning goal on the final siren to seal the victory, I might have a different perspective. But think about it. Once upon a time, I vowed, if I ever get a book published, just one book, I will never be unhappy again. If I could win a literary prize, or get short-listed for a prize, I will never complain again. If I get a boyfriend... if I have a baby...

Well, I've done all those things and they are all wonderful, but the high fades away. Achievement is no guarantee of permanent happiness.

Unfairly, though, it seems the reverse is not true. The bad reviews and rejections and defeats still hurt, even though logic suggests that the pain should be wiped away by the joy of accomplishment.

So what can we draw from all this, class? This is what I think: it's a mistake to tie your emotional and mental health to any notions of "success" or "failure." Enjoy the little things in life, and pin your joy to them. In football terms, we should enjoy the spectacle of the game - celebrate individual acts of courage or skill - relish the small acts of sacrifice when the team works together - laugh at the freakish or the slapstick - scream with excitement. But don't let the result determine our mood for the whole of the next week, or season, or a lifetime.

Lucky I'm not an AFL coach!

March 29

2011 (aged 44)
Black Swan would have to be one of the most stupid, overwrought, hysterical (in every sense) films I have ever seen. Nearly as bad as Boxing Helena. Nice to spend a decadent afternoon with my husband watching it though!
They were playing Afternoon Delight over the PA at school this morning. I wonder how many of the kids know what that song is actually about...
2006 (aged 40)
Evie (very excited): I got a idea! (What is it?) I don't know!
2003 (aged 36)
Alice turns on TV; I turn it off; Alice has tanty. "More-more toast," she demands tearfully. She scribbles vigorously on piece of paper (left-handed). I relent and put on TV. Alice and Nana settle down to watch Sesame St.
I retire to the scriptorium to work on 2nd draft of 10th Power (Knot of Waters chapter). Manuscript of Waterless Sea has arrived for final copy-edit but I want to finish this chapter first.
1998 (aged 31)
If only T* hadn't said that about living together, that got all my hopes up that he might really care but he doesn't - he only said it because he doesn't want to pay so much rent. Oh this is so stupid. Why can't I just accept the situation for what it is, why this craving for romance?
1996 (aged 29)
T rang on Sunday and said are you going to S's party and I said what party & he said it starts in an hour so I went. Didn't dress very sexily - could have done better. T flirts with everyone so I'm not going to pay attention to it any more!
1995 (aged 28)
Happy for once! Ulitarra are publishing "Madeleine," had a good weekend in Sydney with D which work paid for, B Potato Head is definitely leaving in July. All I need now is a love life!
I asked T to a movie. At least I should feel as if I have options...
1993 (aged 26)
"The Scottish girls never left their washing all over the living room."
"Now, Mer," said Simone, laying down the paper. "That is just plain not true. They used to leave their washing lying around all the time."
"Well," said Mer. "Maybe once. Or twice. But their clothes were nicer anyway. The point is, the girls were absolutely perfect, and Lucy is a pain in the arse, and that's the point."
"Arrse," said Simone, rolling her tongue around it like a toffee. "Bollocks. Mudder."
 1989 (aged 22)
There's no point wishing I could write like Margaret Attwood or Margaret Drabble or Dale Spender. I have to write like me.
1987 (aged 20)
I didn't go to see Death In Venice tonight with B & S. I stayed at home to keep D company. He and B have been broken up for a week now. So what does D do? Goes to his room and listens to the radio after morosely shuffling cards and complaining about how bored he is. That's the thanks I get...
1986 (aged 19)
Double shift [at the Swagman]. Hour's break between. Fell over with tub and cut lip. Absolutely buggered. Bed at 1am.
1985 (aged 18)
Up massively early, dashed down to Common Room to meet Philosophy tutor (quite young, not very cute). S never showed. Ran to uni to meet F & F. Needless to say, F's Shaun and my Shaun are one and the same!!! S bought us coffee after Legal History lecture. Had long deep & meaningful with F, visited J & L at St Hilda's, then H at Queens (who was out), then borrowed book from the Baillieu, to Med building to try to find A's brother, then finally Naughtons. Sat around drinking and getting depressed about our lives. Met up with J, L and JR. Back to college, arranged to meet R at 6.30. Into city, shopped in Myers for a prezzie for F's parents and ran into LP. Met R & K at the station and had brandied apricot icecream. Ran for train in the dark and got home at 8.30. D & m with Mum. Chiefly about alcohol.
1981 (aged 14)
I'm leaving for camp tomorrow. I'm increasing nervous and electric with anticipation. I haven't finished packing yet...
1980 (aged 13)
Constructed a HUGE tent over the balcony and played in it with H & E. Happy are the days of childhood...
1977 (aged 10)
I hoped to go up in swimming but I don't think I will. I played Headhunters with Tracey. Very boring day today. Nice though.
1976 (aged 9)
L got a Merit Card. It rained. We learned about Pompeii and Troy. We had Toad-In-The-Hole for tea.


* T = Taylor (now my dearly beloved huzzband)

Tooth Traumas

 Alice had ten teeth taken out this week. Some were rotten, some were crowded or crooked baby teeth, and have been removed to allow the adult teeth to come through straight (we hope).

It was a big operation, bigger than we were really prepared for, and the scene in the recovery room was like something out of The Exorcist. I think I've watched too many post-operation scenes from Days of Our Lives; I guess I pictured my little girl waking up quietly, pale and interesting, in a hospital bed, perhaps whispering vaguely, 'Where am I?' while I stroked her forehead reassuringly.

Well, she was definitely pale -- her face was as grey as a plateful of porridge. Interesting? Yes, but not in the way I imagined. Blood-soaked gauze spilled from her swollen lips as she thrashed about in post-pethidine delirium. 'Water!' she croaked. 'I URGENTLY need water!' (At that point I was relieved to note that the anaesthetic hadn't damaged her personality.) I started to feel rather ill myself, and managed to pass her to her father before I keeled over. Luckily for me, I thus avoided the projectile vomit she then sprayed over everyone else in the room (mostly blood she'd swallowed during the procedure). Groggy and drooling, eyes rolling in her head, she lolled in her father's arms while I tried to pull myself together.

Three days on and we are all feeling much better. It's helped a lot that she's become something of a celebrity at school. A crowd of well-wishers has hung over the school fence near our back gate at recess and lunch-time, calling her out into the laneway, and on the second day, our garden was invaded by all her friends, who came spilling over the fence to visit.

So now my main problem is coming up with ideas for soft food. There won't be any chewing for a while.

Evie's Homework

One of Evie's homework tasks this week is to write down the recipe of her "favourite food to cook."

Evie's Chicen Strips

Ingridionts:

• chicen
• flower
• breb crums
• 2 eggs
• bolws

Method
Cut the chicen ant put the flower and bred crums into the bolws and some cracked egg in. Get the chicen and: 1 flower 2 egg 3 bred crums. Cook and eat.

They were delicious. Except now she's decided she's vegetarian again. DAMN IT!

Snap!

Some of you may be aware that a couple of years ago, Penni Russon and I co-wrote, in alternating voices, a book called Dear Swoosie. Her character was a smart-talking redhead called Poppy, and mine was a hippy-drippy blonde fortune-teller named India.

Well, I've just started reading Six by Karen Tayleur. And one of the six main characters is a hippy-drippy fortune-teller - called Poppy. With red hair.

Tres bizarre! Admittedly, Swoosie is a light-hearted, frothy romp, and Six is... not so much. The books were published in the same year, so there's no way we could have accidentally read each other's novels. It just goes to show that there is a lot of stuff floating in the ether, and sometimes two or three people haul down the same things in their nets.

But the weirdest thing about it is, it's exactly the kind of spooky coincidence that the India/Poppy girls themselves would absolutely love. I can almost see them smiling mysteriously, not-quite mirror images of each other, and wandering off into the Land of Fiction, arm in arm.

The Million Dollar Secret*

I've recently made an exciting discovery. Or I should say, re-discovery, because I actually worked this out years ago and then mysteriously forgot it.

The secret of getting lots of writing done every day is this:

250 words.

Yes, that's all. Just 250 words. But you have to write them FIRST THING. Before breakfast. Before that cup of tea. Before you hang the washing out. Before you feed the bearded dragon. Before you look at your emails, or heaven forbid, think about a blog post. All that can wait. Not for long, because, hey, how long does it take to dash off 250 words? Ten minutes?

But amazingly, once those first 250 words are on the page, it makes going back and doing more soooo much easier. Those first quick ten minutes at the keyboard might turn into an easy half hour, then an hour, and before you know it, you've written nearly a thousand words and it's not even ten o'clock yet! Or even if you do take a break (because, hey, we all have to eat sometime), 'going back to work' is not as daunting as 'starting work.' I don't know why this is. It's something to do with the small-target theory, I think.

But gee, I'm glad I've remembered about the 250 word trick.

* If that heading doesn't attract a lot of casual browsers then I don't know what will. Boy, are they going to be disappointed...

Meanwhile, Down At The Kennel...

This time last year there was a lot of excitement in the Kennel. The Western Bulldogs had just won the NAB Cup -- the first time we'd won anything since 1970 (and even that was only a night grand final). Our new recruit, Big Bad Bustling Barry Hall, was red hot, and the Doggies were favourites -- yes, favourites! -- to win the 2010 flag.

Well, as we all know, it didn't quite work out according to plan. The wheels fell off late in the season, partly due to injury and illness. But also our elderly, if distinguished, forward line looked slow and ineffectual (apart from Bazza, who kicked an alarming total of 80 goals to finish second for the Coleman Medal). We finished fourth, which was probably about what we deserved, and the Magpies marched off with the premiership.*

On paper, this season looks less promising. We've lost our fearless and beloved captain Johnno, and the experienced premiership player (among other things...) Jason Akermanis, and the brave servant Nathan Eagleton. There's about 500 years worth of experience gone, right there.

But down at the Kennel, while we're not as hysterically excited as last year, a quiet confidence is bubbling away. We have some special new pups to add to the pack. Mitch Wallis and Tom Liberatore are the talented sons of club legends, and while they're young, they're already looking pretty good. (That's them pictured above. Wallis is the one with the blond curls.) They've been friends and team-mates all their lives. Aww! And our new captain, Matthew Boyd, played in the same team as Little Libba's dad. How about that.

And we've unearthed the Z-Man, the Bullfrog, the Z Factor: Zephaniah Skinner, who has an electrifying leap. Hey, he can jump over Barry Hall's head! Overall, the team looks faster, younger but just as skilful.

Here's hoping for a good year for the Bulldogs. Maybe it's a good sign that just ending up in the finals again will feel, not like an acheivement, but a disappointment. Come on, Doggies -- take it all the way!

* By the way, Collingwood fans -- please don't whinge and moan about how you had to wait soooo loooong between flags. Twenty years? Please! To us patient souls at the Whitten Oval, that's a blink of an eye. Try waiting for FIFTY SIX years and see how you like that...

Gendered Reading?

I can't remember exactly how I stumbled onto this debate yesterday (originating here, with some statistics by VIDA about the proportion of books by women, and books reviewed by women, in some major US literary journals) but it chewed up a good few minutes of what was already a fairly unproductive day.

Suffice to say that the results are both horrific and unsurprising. And I'm sure if anyone did a comparable study of Australian book reviews, the situation would probably be even worse.

Just out of interest I decided to do a quick breakdown of the books I've read in the last year. (This task was made simple by my handy-dandy book diary.) This was the result:

Blokes: 41

Chicks: 47

I was actually really surprised by this. I expected my reading to be far more heavily weighted toward books by women. I think of myself as a biased reader, consuming far more women writers than male authors. So what were all these blokes writing about that I was lapping up so avidly?

As I made my very quick, unscientific, superficial count, I did notice that the blokes' list leaned markedly to the comic end of the spectrum - Stephen Fry, Bill Bryson, Richard E. Grant and Nick Earls were all over-represented. Male authors also accounted for the majority of football books read (ahem!) and a fair proportion of the history books. The other significant chunk of books-by-men consisted of children's and YA titles. Again, I was a little surprised by this. I tend to think of kids' and YA as a fairly female-dominated field. But my brief list reminded me of the excellent books I read last year by the likes of David Almond, Steve Augarde, Nicholas Stuart Gray, Russell Hoban, Mal Peet, Tim Pegler...

So what's missing? There is one big, obvious hole in my blokey reading, and that is male-authored literary fiction. The reason? Well, to be perfectly honest, I find a lot of books by literary blokes... well... boring.

But perhaps that's a topic for another post.