Category: Writing

The Gray

sandybarker

You step out into it. It consumes you, touching you in ways that make you uncomfortable. It doesn’t have your permission, but you have no choice; it forces itself on you. Sometimes you can forget that it is there, but not today.

Its companions are damp, cold, and quite often, wind.

The damp seeps into your clothes, chilling you from the outside in, while cold nibbles at your extremities turning them blue and then white. When wind intrudes, it cuts through to your very bones. And yet this trinity of misery is not as powerful as their master, The Gray.

You have adopted a stoop: head down, shoulders rounded and protective. A frown has made its home on your face. Your curl into yourself, wishing away the pervading presence of The Gray.

It invades your every thought. It pushes you down from above and sits heavily on your shoulders, on the crown of your head, on your eyelids and the tip of your nose. You do not stand tall. You are never not cold.

Your mood is gray. You crave nothing, hate nothing. Everything is neutral. Extremes have no place in your existence. Your soul has been doused in peroxide. Sometimes, just there in the periphery, you see glimpses of passion, of disagreement and debate. Yet you have succumbed to the numbing, and do not participate.

You make jokes about it with friends and colleagues, trying in vain to lessen its hold on you. The jokes are stupid and only serve to highlight what you so desperately wish you could disguise: that you crave sunshine like a starving man craves a hot bowl of soup.

You ignore it, pretending that it is not just there on the other side of the window pane. You laugh so hard you made no sound. You scoff potato chips straight from the bag. You make lazy love on a Sunday morning. You read the latest best-seller, voraciously turning the pages. You meet friends in trendy coffee shops and drink $4 lattes. You pretend and pour yourself a gin and tonic, with fresh lime and extra ice. You drink it with the thermostat turned to 78. You pretend that it is light outside.

You seek camaraderie among fellow ex-pats. Californians become your closest allies. Those who are native to this place apologize. “It’s not usually like this”, they say. They are tired of The Gray too. Yet it continues to out-stay its welcome. You cannot remember last summer, except in snatches of blurry images, the colors fading each time you recall.

And sometimes, just when you think The Gray will always be there, it goes.  Warm air floods your lungs, and you can feel the freckles forming on your nose as you tip your head to the sun.

You are forgiving in these moments, forgetful of the how much The Gray weighs, of how dense it is. You become lighter. Your exuberance is contagious and those who love you flood back, eager to bask in your joy, to share it, no longer having to pretend with you, but sharing an important truth: that light is life.

You start to forget The Gray.

And yet, it has not left, not for good. It has only waited in its own shadow, just long enough for the forgetting to begin. And then it returns.

You fight it. You are drowning and want to push through its viscous mass and break the surface into the light. You want a warm breeze to play with your hair, and trickles of sweat from your elbows and knees. You want the steering wheel to be too hot, and to sink your bare toes into the sand on a sun-soaked beach.

You hope. You know there will be an end to The Gray. But not today.

Photograph by Oliver Neilson

Write now!

sandybarker

I want to get back to writing my book.  Let me qualify that: I need to get back to writing my book.

My book starts as a series of journal entries (both personal and travel) and letters in 1996 and ‘97, long before I know I will write a book.

In 2001, I start writing chapters, by hand.  The chapters flesh out story snippets and descriptions of people and places.  The chapters expound on inner turmoil, extreme loneliness and a budding thirst for a less-ordinary life.

By the end of 2001, I am typing these chapters into a computer, adding more details, more perspective and more poetry to my word count.

I print out what I consider the second draft and edit onto the pages.  Like the cliché that I am, I carry dog-eared pages with me everywhere, reading and re-reading the story of me.  My book, a travel biography, begins to take shape and I move chapters, fool around with format and finally settle on a 3-part tome.

Part One. Narrative. Documenting the end of life as I know it.  My alone-ness.  My fear of drowning.  My knowledge that doing something, anything, is better than doing nothing.  Not knowing what ‘something’ to do.

Part Two. Narrative.  A journey in a wide circle.  Defeat.  Triumph.  Forging relationships.  Learning that I don’t know everything.  Learning that I know a lot.  Drinking in facts and places and more people.

Part Three.  Episodic.  The circles continue, concentric, overlapping, my life a Venn diagram.  Hating myself.  Loving myself.  Losing myself to excess and pretended celebrity.  Stillness.  Silence.  Sleep and a momentum that ultimately forces a new trajectory.

Years pass.

I occasionally dust off a printed copy.  What draft is this?  Eight?  Eleven?  I lose track.

“I am in love with this,” says a friend.  “But it should be a novel.  It should be in the third-person.”  I disagree, and re-write chapter one for the fifty-millionth time.  Each time I re-write it I love it more.

“It’s wonderful, Sweetie,” says my mother.  “She has to say that,” I think.  But she actually does love it.

I feed it in cruel increments to willing and select friends.  I want critics, not sycophants to read it.  Only that will make it better.  I write in sporadic and manic phases.  I accomplish much, then nothing for months, years.

In 2009, I sit in modest, yet well-decorated apartment in a foreign city, and I read chapter one.  “This should be a novel, in the third-person,” I think and I smile.  It has taken me years to get to this point.  I tell my friend, herself a writer, a successful one.  She is pleased.

I dig out the letters and journals from a decade before, all brought from my homeland for this very purpose, and I read.  I remember a girl I once knew, one who loved passionately and had her hopes crippled.  I think of her fondly as I might think of a distant relative I was once close to.  She saddens and angers me, yet I know I will always be protective of her.  She is, after all, me.

I return to the keyboard, and I start at the beginning, a very good place to start.

Chapter one.

I write the story of a young woman called Sarah.  She has a whole life, most of which I have yet to discover and some of which echoes my own life.  I love her, as fiercely as I love the girl in the journals and hand-written lengthy letters collected by loving parents and returned years afterwards.

I feed it to a new friend in meaty chunks.  She wants more.

It flows out of me, like a mother’s milk.  Chapter one.  Two.  Three.  Six.  And then, nothing.

Months later I return to the pages I wrote and do not recognize the words.  “Who wrote this?” I wonder and then remind myself that I did.  These words are mine.  And they are good.

Yes, I need to get back to my book.

One book in one minute

sandybarker

Of course, having just read through my friend, Simonne’s, 15 books in 5 minutes (note that she claims she wrote her whole post in 5 minutes. I took 45. Hmmm), I have realized that my favorite classic of all time is not on my list (it is on hers, though).

I could argue that it is in The Pantheon of books, and that it goes without saying that it is not only a favorite, but has an inexorable ‘classic’ status. Did I really need to mention it in my 15 books in 15 minutes? (I should say that it took me less than 7 minutes to come up with my list.)

Um, yes. I did. I should have to revoke my ‘awesome English teacher’ status – for at least a week.

The book is: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I first read it because I had to teach it, and I discovered magic. I did everything in my power to make my students love it as much as I did – for the simply told moral tale, and for the never to be repeated writing of Harper Lee. I guess when you win the Pulitzer for your first novel, the pressure to produce a second one can be great.

Phew. Glad I got that off my chest.

15 books in 15 minutes

sandybarker

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I love to read. In fact, I have discovered that my desire to write is affected greatly by whether or not I am reading regularly. When I read less, because I am too busy to carve out the time, I write less. When I make time to read – and I read diversely – I find that creative impulses kick in more frequently. I even write stuff in the middle of the night, if that is when inspiration strikes (like last night).

This meme, as with many of the others I have done, comes from Charlotte, whose humor and insight also inspire me.

The task: Name 15 books that ‘stick’ with me – in 15 minutes. Okay, so this took me 45 minutes (sorry Charlotte).

IT by Stephen King Truly the most terrifying book I have ever picked up. I could only read it in daylight, because it scared me so thoroughly. This proved difficult, because it is so long, and I never wanted to put it down. Dusk would come, however, and I had to close the pages so Pennywise the Clown would not get me.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte I read this for class at university, and I fell in love with simple Jane, and her classic Byronic hero, Rochester. I learned that ‘classics’ are deemed such for a reason. Heart-achingly told, and timeless.

Almost French by Sarah Turnbull A travel biography about an Aussie girl living in Paris with a Frenchman she fell in love with while traveling. Hilarious episodes underpinned by a sense of ‘otherness’, homesickness and doubt. Striking parallels to my own life, and validation that my writing style is commercially viable.

Dracula by Bram Stoker I am drawn mostly to the love story in this novel. I also love the Gothic genre, and this book laid a foundation for future reading, such as Anne Rice.

The Bride Stripped Bare by Anonymous Nikki Gemmell was revealed as the writer of this ‘stream of consciousness’ novel. As a reader you wonder how she crawled into your brain to extract your thoughts. She speaks dark and private truths, the things that you would NEVER say aloud.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold A young girl is murdered and watches helplessly from heaven as her family struggle to survive their loss, and the killer walks freely amongst her family and friends. The concept is innovative, but it is Sebold’s skill with words that makes it an extraordinary read.

Postmortem by Patricia Cornwell And so began my love affair with intelligent crime fiction, and with Kay Scarpetta. I was riveted, and because I came late to the party I was able to read 6 or 7 in quick succession. The last was a disappointment, however.

The Bronze Horseman by Paullina Simons I was given this book and it sat on my bookshelf for over a year. It is fat and I was daunted by it. I labored through the first hundred pages, and then I was carried away into Russia during WWII. Epic.

The Rabbits by John Marsden and Shaun Tan A picture book. White rabbits invade a land inhabited by bandicoots. The text is sparse and the drawings are so evocative, they bring tears to my eyes.

The Long Way Round by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman This was a television series, but I enjoyed the book more. They ride their motorcycles from London to London (essentially). Intriguing stuff. Importantly, it inspires me to ‘get out there and get grubby’.

Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews My friends and I devoured these books throughout adolescence. Chaste schoolgirls lived vicariously through the sexual awakening of Cathy and Chris, siblings whose love was forbidden. A modern-day Gothic novel, with many bosoms heaving – inside and outside the book.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling My favorite of the lot. I still don’t understand the end of the last one. Perhaps the movie will shed some light.

The Lord of the Flies by William Golding I read this at 15 and my perception shifted (perhaps not for the better). I realized that there are innate traits in us that will want to rise to the surface, and that it is our job (in life) to keep them subdued. That’s pretty heady stuff for a 15 year old.

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffeneger This is my favorite book. The writing is tough, poignant and real. Up front you have to accept that time travel is a genetic anomaly, and beyond that everything else is ‘truth’. Beautifully written, brilliantly imagined.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak I finished this book and said, “That is the best book I have ever read.” And it is. Niffeneger is still my favorite, but The Book Thief is innovative, engaging, and gut-wrenching. Could not put it down, so finished it in about four days.

Tag! Your turn…

Compelled

sandybarker

I never do this – post twice in one day – but the first of today’s posts I started last night, and I have just read something that compels me to write again.

Charlotte Otter is a South African woman living in Germany, and she write Charlotte’s Web, which is on my blogroll (check it out – she is lovely and clever). Charlotte, too, is a writer, and in a recent entry she posted a few paragraphs from her novel. Her heroine, Sanet, is a South African woman living in London. She feels displaced, as is understandable when not living in your home country, but there is more to her feeling than that.

Charlotte writes this about her heroine:

What is becoming clear to me is that if you are alienated from yourself, you are alienated from everything, and that will become the core of Sanet’s crisis: she will be offered the opportunity to be true to herself. The question is, will she take it up?

That is the statement that resonated so deeply with me.

Two years ago I was so completely unhappy in my own life. I had moments I enjoyed, I laughed enough that many people would not have really known this about me, but I felt like I was living someone else’s life. When you live that inauthentically, you cannot access any kind of inner peace. As a result, I discovered that I didn’t really like this person that I was. I isolated myself frequently, and not out of the need for ‘alone time’ that I have now, but to prevent others from having to put up with me. I became increasingly disagreeable, sullen, and felt a deep sense of loneliness – even when amongst friends.

I got to a point where I knew things had to change.

Then I went on a trip. A long trip. Across the world to two other continents. Greece-London-Peru and back home. The trip provided so many catalysts for change that my head was spinning by the time I got back home.

It literally changed my life.

I met people who loved life. I met Sheila and Deb and Geraldine.

Sheila is sixty-something, and gorgeous. I met her and her equally lovely twin Sharon, in Peru. Sheila has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, a love of adventure and am unwillingness to succumb to nay-saying. Sheila broke open my heart. She saw through the cracks and just stuck her hands in and pulled apart that hard casing. Then she encouraged me to pursue the impossible.

Deb, who I met with her husband Marty onboard the yacht in Greece, is smart, and career-minded. She knows what she wants and because of this, she has the life that she wants to live. She does all this with a broad smile and a hearty sense of fun. She and Marty have a sexy, joyful marriage. When I met them, I knew that it was entirely possible to have what I truly wanted.

Geraldine, our guide in Peru, is the most pure-hearted and kind person I have ever met. Her gentleness and kindness humbled me. When I was sicker than I have ever been before, she looked after me rather than visiting her own family, whom she hadn’t seen in months. Her selflessness made me want to stop being such a selfish, moody cow.

And then there was the cute American guy who stood on the dock of Tinos and said, “I want my life to be bigger.” I thought, ‘Me too’, and I wondered at that early moment in my big trip if I would have the courage to do anything about it.

I had no idea then that we would embark on parallel – and more frequently, converging – journeys that would bring those wants to fruition. And at that early moment in my big, life-changing trip, I had certainly had no idea that I could actually meet someone, a man, whose wants and dreams and goals would compliment mine, and challenge me to live that ‘bigger life’. I was, however, starting to see glimpses of my authentic self.

I met many others on my trips and visits and they all added something unique to my shift in perspective. Jaime and Paul, from Halifax, never want to miss an opportunity. Lara from Vancouver lives with such beautiful hope in her heart. Patrick from New Zealand and Liliane the Brazilian, crossed oceans and cultures to create a life together. And on that trip, I got to see my Little Sis in her natural habitat, London. (It is ‘home’ for her, even more so now that she is loved up.)

I had left home in want of something. Then I had gone around the world (literally), succumbed to illness twice, laughed until I couldn’t breathe, and cried as I said goodbye to new friends and my oldest friend, Vic. I saw lots, I did stuff, and I collected souvenirs from my travels, but the most important thing I brought home from that trip was my authentic self.

I made big changes after that, and some of those changes were painful because they involved breakups with people close to me. Mostly the changes were about shedding heavy burdens, such as obligation, fastidiousness, isolation, and a couple of unwanted kilos. I reconnected with those I had neglected, I moved house, I booked more trips and I took on more responsibility at work, all in the space of months. I took care with the new friendships I had forged, and apologised to those people who had endured my ‘funk’. I learned (again) to appreciate all that I had, especially the incredible people I call family and friends.

The tattoo of a butterfly adorning my lower stomach took on more meaning, as I emerged from my chrysalis and felt truly happy.

I still try to honour my authentic self. Big decisions, and even some small ones, are about the inner peace that comes along with serving that goal. Sure, I have had moments of doubt and sadness, and even fear. But never again will I let myself shelve what I truly want. I want to live a big life, and that’s what I am doing.

Words, words, words

sandybarker

I love chocolate. I love good coffee, red wine, and popcorn from the cinema. I love breakfast cereal, more than I could ever express. I so enjoy a good Pad Thai, and I am all about Vietnamese rice paper rolls. However, I can go at least a day without chocolate, cereal and coffee, up to a week without red wine, and even longer without the Pad Thai, rice paper rolls, and popcorn. I cannot, however, live a day without words.

I consume them voraciously, my appetite never sated. I gorge on them verbally, catching snippets of other people’s conversations, following clever talk back arguments on Triple J, laughing out loud at award-winning commercials, and listening to my students whisper about their weekends.

I devour them visually, as words are everywhere I look. I am drawn to them. As I drive I make up words from randomly assigned licence plates: ‘WKD’ becomes ‘wicked’, or even better ‘weekend’. And I am not a word snob. I will read anything, and I will mix ‘n’ match. I will read my cereal packet, a wikipedia page, comments on this blog, someone else’s blog, my horoscope, and the world headlines, all in one breakfast sitting.

If I can linger longer, then there are few greater pleasures than nestling in with a brilliant book. Chick lit, thriller, classic, philosophy, travel biography, Harry Potter, it does not matter what it is, just that it holds onto me until the last page. A mark of a brilliant book, in my book, is when I finish and I feel a loss, because I no longer get to live in the lives of those characters. I miss them even though they are only a collection of words. Such is the power of words; they enchant me.

And of course, there are those words I create myself. I cannot go a day without writing something, even if it is just a list of things I need to write. I write this blog, drafts of my novel, plays for my students, comments on their assignments, and memos, reports and letters at work. I email someone I love, and send a handful of text messages every day. There is even something strangely satisfying about filling in the dense and convoluted forms required to live and work overseas.

I am also a talker (usually – even I have quiet moments). Today I addressed a group of 15 year olds to persuade them to take my subject (Drama) for their senior studies. I had only five minutes, but I talked fast to cram in as many words as I could. I told them about my subject, what they could expect, and what I would expect from them. But my final message, the most important thing I said, was to do what they love, because then they will always be happy with what they are doing.

I do what I love. I consume words; I create words: daily, hourly, minutely. And I am happy with what I am doing.

Writing Meme

sandybarker

Charlotte Otter writes a blog called ‘Charlotte’s Web’ (link on this page), and on occasion she posts a meme. I appropriated this meme from Charlotte, who appropriately appropriated it from someone else. If you’re a writer too, then pass it on.

It is about my passion for writing.

I am loving writing this blog, and offering my perspective on the places I have been, and how travel can change me, and any person willing to let it.

In addition to writing about travel, I write plays, short stories, poetry, articles and have even penned my first novel, which will be published (I invoke the power of positive thinking and action).

This meme not only highlights my shiny triumphs, it gets into the dusty, mouldy corners of my writing history. I answered each question in turn, without reading ahead.
What’s the last thing you wrote?
A blog post. It was about fresh perspectives that come when you see a loved one in their home town.

Was it any good?
I liked the points I made.

What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?
I wrote a cutting satirical expose about public toilets when I was 15. It is still pretty funny, but limited in insight. I have been to many worse public toilets in the world since. Maybe I should revisit it.

Write poetry?
I used to. A long time ago. I did write Ben a poem last year, but that was the first (and last) one in a while.

Angsty poetry?
Yes, I often wrote about my poor, tragically-broken heart. My most angst-ridden was called ‘Screaming at the moon’. I still have it. Dire stuff. I was 20. Enough said.

Favourite genre of writing?
Autobiographical commentary – on life, on travel especially.

Most fun character you’ve ever created?
Kiara. She is a storyteller, and the heroine in a fairytale I am penning for adults.

Most annoying character you’ve ever created?
Any replicant of myself in fiction I have written. The angst I once expressed through poetry also came out through much of the fiction I created in my 20s.

Best plot you’ve ever created?
Something still in the works – the fairytale – and it’s good! But I will keep the details under wrap for now.

Coolest plot twist you’ve ever created?
It is in the fairytale. The heroine is not who she seems to be, and is subsequently faced with a harrowing moral question.

How often do you get writer’s block?
All the time. The best cure is just to sit down and start writing. 9 times out of 10, action creates inspiration. On the 10th time, I just give up and go for a run, or eat chocolate. The running sometimes brings inspiration. The chocolate just makes me happy.

Do you type or write by hand?
Both. I sometimes jot down lots of notes in one of the 10 notebooks I have lying around, and then form them into something on the computer at a later point. Other times, I am best friends with my computer. The computer is essential for the polished final product, but inspiration can strike anywhere. I have written lengthy passages on weird things like food packages, and plane tickets.

Do you save everything you write?
Yes. From my intellectual ramblings disguised as university ‘Literature’ assignments, to every film idea I have ever had. I keep all my travel journals too, and a huge thank you to my mother who kept all my letters from Europe (long ones before email was the thing), as these letters formed the basis of the novel I have written about that time.

Do you ever go back to an idea after you’ve abandoned it?
Yes. I started writing the fairytale about 18 months ago, and have left it and come back to it twice. I will go back to it again soon. I can feel it. It is not that we had a ‘falling out’; I just need breathing room from the big projects sometimes – to gain perspective and generate fresh ideas.

What’s your favourite thing you’ve written?
I wrote a detailed retrospective travel diary of my time in Greece in 2006. It is a record of falling in love with life all over again, after a long period of unhappiness.

What’s everyone else’s favourite piece that you’ve written?
The three people who have read my novel have enjoyed it. My best friend from high school still raves about the ‘public toilet’ piece (no, really). My mum (my biggest fan) loves the fairytale in progress. And Ben loves anything I write about our travels together.

Do you ever show people your work?
Yes, to people I trust to tell me the truth. I get positive and constructive criticism about my work, and take it all on board. I do not want to hear mindless responses about how good it is. Fortunately, these trusted people are good to me and are honest.

Did you ever write a novel?
Yes. It is about a year in my life when I worked for a tour company in Europe. This was one of the best and hardest years of my life, and I tell it all (well, almost).

Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
No. Well, yes. Contemporary romance. In film form. Partially. It wasn’t good.

What’s your favourite setting for your characters?
Anywhere I have been. I hope to capture the distinct feeling of those places in my writing, both the fiction and the non-fiction.

How many writing projects are you working on right now?
This web page, my fairytale, and perhaps I will revisit the novel again soon. It needs to be dusted off and freshened up.

Do you want to write for a living?
Yes. I do write as part of my job – I am a Drama teacher. I can never find plays for my students with enough good roles, so I write my own. The last one was a Greek myth, which I also created, and observed the conventions of ancient Greek theatre.

Ultimately, I would love to write exclusively for a living. Perhaps I would continue to teach in some forum. Perhaps not.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?
Yes. I was chosen as a winner in a short story competition run by New Woman magazine. I won a trip, and I took a girlfriend to the north of Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef for a week. We lived it up, especially as it was on someone else’s dime.

Ever written anything in script or play format?
Yes. See above.

What are your five favourite words?
ebbed, cathartic, sumptuous, delicacy, dream (for today)

Do you ever write based on yourself?
Yes and no. The autobiographical stuff, obviously. For fiction I have shifted away from that – to a degree anyway. I do believe in the adage, “Write what you know.” This is why the autobiographical work and blogging has been so fulfilling.

What character have you created that is most like yourself?
I need to climb inside the mind of all my fictitious characters, but I most enjoy the characters who are least like me. They get to do and say all the things that I wouldn’t dare; I enjoy the vicarious thrills of their antics. No one character in current or recent projects is exactly like me.

Where do you get ideas for your characters?
This may annoy other writers, but some of my best story ideas and characters are those I have dreamed. Otherwise I am often inspired by places. I can envision who would live there, and what their life may be. Then I breathe into those shadowy images and create something more tangible. A favourite character evolved from a visit to Hradcany Castle in Prague.

Do you ever write based on your dreams?
Yes, as I said above. I dreamed the basic story for the fairytale I am writing. It has developed greatly since then, but I woke in the middle of the night and could not stop writing. I did not go back to sleep for over an hour.

Do you favour happy endings, sad endings or cliff-hangers?
Truthful endings.

Have you ever written based on an artwork you’ve seen?
Yes, in a writing workshop, and the facilitator was just brilliant. It was a terrific process he took us through. I did not go back to that piece, but I have used that technique in teaching students to write fiction. Art work can be a powerful catalyst as it often evokes such intense emotion.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Scrupulously so. I cannot read anything without seeing any errors that might exist.

Ever write anything in chatspeak (how r u?)
Only on IM or sms.

Entirely in L337?
Um, yes?

Was that question appalling and unwriterly?
Am not cyber-savvy, and am guessing that is something to do with computing, so I do not know.

Does music help you write?
Yes. Often I play classical music while writing. Like art, it is evocative. I go in and out of awareness of its presence. On occasion I will replay a piece several times as I write; it becomes the soundtrack for what is on the page.

Quote something you’ve written. Whatever pops into your head.
Her voice was tentative at first, but soon the richness of its timbre filled the room as the young women sat around her, mesmerized by her face, her lined, and very beautiful face. She began her tale:

This is from the opening of the fairytale.

That is all. I will return to another destination soon. Vegas beckons.