Chapter 113: My son’s cinquain poems

Quarantine Poetry by my boy x

A Cinquain is a 5 lined poem with the following syllable sequence:

2, 4, 6, 8, 2

Awesome Bones

Systems

(2 syllables)

With my bone works

(4 syllables)

Not crumb(a)ling good thing

(6 syllables)

Of course my body knows whats right

(8 syllables)

Thats right

(2 syllables)

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God of thunder

Awesome

(2 syllables)

God of thunder

(4 syllables)

Son of mighty Odin

(6 syllables)

Strengths well he has the mighty ones

(8 syllables)

Hell yeah

(2 syllables)

Chapter 112 : Writers Group Covid19 Skyp

First writers Skype group tonight since corona crazy laid its ugly rotten egg over us all. Little glitchy here and there – but all in all – an awesome night. Didn’t realise how much I would relish seeing familiar faces. It’s all very weird and surreal and I’m grateful for the lot of it. 

We swapped our individual covid experiences and got stuck into the writing. Hopefully going to put some of our efforts toward the Perth Museum who are looking for a collection of insights into this weird ass sci fi movie we all suddenly find ourselves a part of.

Everyone was a little flat, and I found it pretty hard to get into the swing of things, so nothing too groundbreaking or remotely deep tonight. My last 2 offerings are from the perspective of my dog. Actually the animal POV’s were the best. Karen has a bitch of a cat with a really shocking attitude. Twas gold.

Corona Clay.
A crisis-schooling conversation.

Don’t drink anymore.

Reconsidering this decision. Rapidly.

“What’s in there Mum?”

“Clay.”

“Ooh. What’s clay?”

“Ay? Well… it’s just clay.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

“It’s what your yoga teacher told us you needed for the online session today.”

“Oh. So I’m not doing yoga?”

“Yes, you’re still doing yoga.”

“With clay? That’s weird.”

“No, silly. You’re gonna make something with the clay after you’ve done yoga… or before… or whenever.”

“Ah. Like the breathing jar.”

“Yes, like the breathing jar.”

“Right. So what’s the clay for?”

“Did we not just go through this?”

“Not really.”

“I think it’s for making a mandala thingy.”

“Mandala thingy?”

“Yeah. Mindful, creative stuff to help calm you down… during… all this…”

“Corona stuff?”

“Not just that.”

“I’ve seen it. 2000 died… somewhere.”

“What? Where’d you see that?”

“BTN.”

“Please stop watching that show.”

“It’s for kids! It’s on 23.”

“Back to 22 for now. What happened to Bluey?”

“I keep missing it.”

“Well watch it on playback, or watch something else. No more news.”

“You sound funny, Mum. Want me to get the breathing jar.”

“No thanks, love. I’m alright.”

“I know what’s going on you know. I am 8.”

“It’s because you’re 8 that I don’t want you to know everything that’s going on, lovey.”

“If we stay inside we’ll be fine. Step out – boom. Dead.”

“What the fu…”

“Can I look at the clay?”

“Um, yeah, sure. I got you terracotta. The white looked naff.”

“I like white. Shoulda got white. This just looks like clay.”

“Thought you didn’t know what clay was.”

“Well, I see it’s just a brown orange lump of mud.”

“Yep. Fifteen dollars worth of brown orange mud-lump. Maybe you should go get the breathing jar.”

“Really? Yay. I’ll show you how to use it.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“So, Mum – first you shake it, then you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth until all the sparkles reach the bottom.”

“Righto.”

“Oh and say ‘Ommmm…” Cranberry Candy says Ommm a lot.”

“Cranberry Candy says omm into her bong a lot, I reckon.”

“Ay?”

“Nothing. Alright, hand it over. I’m gonna be shaking that thing for a while.”

“What’s a bong?”

“Give me the jar. Now.”

Two hours later – one hand printed chunk of clay with split pea spiral mandala pattern done. Child more stressed out after supposed mindfulness experience fails to transcend peace loving vibes via the modern miracle that is Skype – aka – glitchy cluster fuck of the multiple screen sessioned variety. Om indeed.

Twelve hours later – on attempting to drown ones morning gullet with a bucket of coffee – said clay mandala reduced to rubble. Violated by vandals. Pesky possums pulled all nighter – clearly off their heads on clay and split peas. Cheeky little shits left their grafitti tag scratchings all over mandala middle finger. Child more distressed than after back to back BTN binge.

Today’s crisis schooling – cancelled.
Kids – Ipads, YouTube, whatever the hell. Screen it up.
Mum – Pottery, Ghost, Chocolate.

Eff you corona. And eff you crayola for the price hike on a clump of earth I could have got at the local creek if we were aloud to go to the local creek without being handmaided back into our homes for going near supposed non-social-distancing creek. But they roll the red carpet out for overpriced dry clay purchasing in an aisle the width of a beetles dick. #coronaconfusion

Life Goes On
A Corona Pooch Perspective

Smells good. She always smell good in the morning. Warm and sweet. Like muffins. Not him. He smells like socks and bum. Dags all the way. Don’t get me started on the man child. His scent wafts like stale pizza box farts. In the he-humans defence I do nuzzle deep into the more pong prone crevices. Where they are most warm. Sacrifice I’m prepared to make. Not her though. I know not to delve where I’m not wanted. The small of her back is a happy compromise and I count my blessings she’s even letting me sleep on the bed. They’re all a bit needy lately. It’s nice. I like having them constantly around. Can’t get enough,  especially the drama. Humans really are useless. They can cope with shit-all. But I love it. Meltdowns are the best! Every bastard looking for a support animal then. Nobody loves a best friend more than when in the grips of a freaked out apocalyptic frenzy with eff-all idea when it will end. Who’s your puggy now, bitch. Ha. I jest. I dig their crazy crap. I dig it all. Actually, I haven’t dug for days. Reminds me I have some work to do on an intrusive bush. What are the odds – I snack on one pissy little tomato that may or may not have been ripped from its stem and it fricken re-seeds itself. Now I’ve got a full bloody tree in my shitter! What a joke! So that’s on me to do list today. Dig. Up. Bastard. Tomato. Out. Of. Shitter. First I’m gonna get this lot up with a bit of soprano. Everyone’s been sleeping in lately which is balls because nobody is getting my breakfast at the time I’m accustomed to. This doggy brunch wank is nothing but some A grade tardy bullshit. I can’t be expected to live off shit-matos forever! Nuff said. I’m over it. Time to warm up the vocals. Me me meeeee…. wolf.

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Covid Pet Poetry

You let me sleep beside you.

I’m getting extra hugs

You pick me up and hold me close

When you need extra puggy loves

Don’t know what’s caused the change in you

Don’t understand or really care

All I know is you’re here with me

Instead of leaving to go out there

I sense lots of crazy feelings

From every one of you

Not sure what’s been happening

to make you all so blue

Just know that I am here now

Turn off the panic station

I’m your loyal loving fur baby friend

For as long as there is bacon

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Chapter 111: Corona Poetry

Covid19. What an arsehole.

Here is today’s thoroughly uplifting efforts.

Not your view

I walk
As in a tomb
Live-in ghost
room to room

I feel
Each cranny
Every nook
I trace
I look

loving place
loving Home
warm family meals
Navigations
Mediations
grey business deals

I walk
Through my tomb
Every memory
Of every room

Babies
Milestones
Height charts
Chalk walled mantras linger
Memories reduced
to monetary figure

What got us here,
forgotten
Petty rants
heated conversations
display tomb preservation
All done with now
Irrelevant, irritating blips
Of a time
Of a quartet
Of long sailed ships

I watch
Ay me
Always these Juliet dreams
From my balcony
Floral green
remember
nineties Gypsy
She told me
Touched my palm
Crystal ball scolding
You’ll get your tower
decking amongst the trees
But… she paused
…won’t be what it seems
WTF?
sighed the unseeing me

Now

Well…

I have lived.
(privileged)
I have seen.
(brokenly appreciative)

Sad mourning mountains
Heard sorrows and fears
Patient forest trees
caught podium tears
High amidst the blue
always had you

But

Now

No longer my view
No longer my hills
Achingly swallowed
the tartest of pills
Long, relentless battle – surrendered to conceive
And now
FINALLY
I can’t fucking leave?
Can’t heal
Can’t walk away
Corona calling
chains dragging
In this tomb
Every day

 

Chapter 110: Poetry – Blood Lady

WRITING

This is a quick little poem I was compelled to write. I’ve just been for a checkup and as I walked to an impromptu blood test – the woes and worries of the world had a field day in my head. But the second I saw the Blood lady tapping away on her ipad, playing a quick round of candy crush whilst waiting for her next patient – all that ridiculous anxiety disappeared.

Ironically, Blood lady has the same name I called every one of my dolls as a child and one of my all time favourite Brady Bunch characters. However, she is far from that groovy little lisping pigtailed cutie or any of my seventies Barbies.

This woman is a quietly spoken warrior with an awesome backlog of stories and a devilish twinkle in her eye when she relays them. I’ve visited her tucked-away-corner in every state imaginable. No matter the circumstances from sorrowful, to standard, to a sick looking plague monster – she has been a comforting presence every time.

It’s not until I’m having blood drained that these memories between we two return. So I thought I’d immortalise her before her lovely vibes are replaced with dog shit, kids complaints and all the sweet vibe overrides of realty.

Blood lady

bold white hair

kind warm smile

jab so gentle

talk awhile

tells me all

i need to hear

of her bolder life

void of fear

once a plumber

in era of scorn

female tradie?

 lesbian-sex-fiend

addicted to porn

she quietly giggles

as i beam at her tale

doc martin phlebotomist

married a

women should only wear heals

kind of male

candy crushes in breaks

no fuss nor ceremony

crushes in real life

 only 39 – hysterectomy

while i frizzle frazzle

a panicky frenzy

she soothingly shares

a life worthy of envy

empathetic smile

through checkups and tragedy

I am in awe every time

of this walk-her-talk majesty.

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Protected: Chapter 108: 2019 Fan girl & inflences

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Chapter 107: Page 90 & a half

Today was the day.

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The gmail alert went off early. I opened half an eyeball to check and there it was. The IngramSpark proof had arrived… again. But today… this day… it was going to be all good. the final copy. perfect. or at least close to. I just knew it… or was willing it to be true because secretly I was unsure I had much sanity left to go through another failed error bastard proof. I was dangerously close to packing the entire self-publishing thing in and seriously considering sending the book off to a local publisher, hoping for the best and be done with it.

I stared at the email for a few seconds, and for a brief moment contemplated opening my laptop. I didn’t. I was calm, eerily so. It was all very pretzel on the mountain pose, so I left it, went for a shower and continued with the madness of the last day of school routine.

Later I set up my cheer squad (image above), because everyone needs a little help from their friends. My good luck charms. 

And then I opened it.

Princess Leia and R2D2 circa Empire Strikes Back and my first Swatch Watch circa 1985 WITH original handmade friendship pins AND indignant pug in the background going hell for leather on her flim-flam – did the trick!

SUCCESS!!!

So You Are… Pregnant! has FINALLY been approved in PRINT form.

Won’t lie – it has been a finnicky, fiddly, faily-failure, little fuckery of a ride over the last few weeks. I had planned on having everything beautifully finalised, organised and orderly at the beginning of December, knowing how my life usually rolls around this time of the year.

If I could release the book at the beginning of the month – I could work on the promo when my kids were at school and then at night once hols begun. It was a sensible, well thought out plan until I remembered one part of my list that was never really executed or ticked off:

  • Educate self on self-publishing platforms tech/sales/promo.

Because the editing and fCking formatting (from hell) took sooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long and drained what little time I had this year – that major element was pushed back and back and back until I was right in the thick of it – having to wrap my severely limited brain capacity around a level of geek even my tech-savvy husband scratched his head at. Suffice to say – it was fricken intense.

Here’s the dreamlist that I’ll hopefully look back on in a few years and lmao about:

  • Final copy of So You Are… Pregnant! – revised, completed, perfect (ba. ha. ha.)
  • Full bottle on self publish promo, advertising, distribution locally etc (ba. ha. ha. ha.)
  • Ebook perfected, completed, released and promoted.
  • Print on demand completed, released and promoted
  • Website polished, posts edited and ready to flick to public
  • Private platforms polished, ready and flicked to public
  • Personal accounts flicked to private and/or disabled/deleted
  • Email template polished and ready for incoming email subscribers
  • Potential podcast plan ready and audio recording planned for 2020
  • Launch organised for 2020
  • Misc/Other perfectly/seamlessly ready to go

Alas, it’s been nothing but high level eye-twitching, stress-inducing, temple-palpitation-ing, laptop-head-leaning-balling, breakdown-after-breakdowning and self-doubt-tsunami-ing instead.

Shit has been released online, but no one knows it even exists and I am absolutely, utterly petrified and clueless of what to do about any of it. Everything up until about 30 minutes ago had been put on hold until I got the all clear from IngramSpark.

And the other day I did. All the crazy emotions were there and I was soooo excited about finally moving forward. Until I opened the proof and the ENTIRE manuscript had been chopped at the edges. Balloon. Deflate. Boo. Effing. Hoo.

In the many, many, many, many, many copies I had fuffed around with in the many, many, many different programs I wrote this thing in – after reverting back to where I had originally started – I failed to put in the 6×9 margins, or the bastard, bollocky, boofhead – BLEED, or adjusted my images accordingly.

I shall spare you the trauma that followed.

Good news – I worked it all out without being hospitalised – yay.

And today…

Yes…

I got it.

And…

It was…

AWESOME.

A lovely, normal, readable 6×9. No choppies, no major mistakies, no melt-downies.

PROOF APPROVED

FCk yes. FINALLY.

Did I cry? Of course. Like a blubbery slug.

Was there any mistakes I’m not divulging?

Yes.

(This one is for free though there is most likely a THOUSAND to be discovered – especially where commas and apostrophes are involved. On page 2 of THE BLOODY LONG BEGINNING… it should say:

“Mmm. Ah. Okay. Oh, dear,” she mumbles, looking down at your hands. The knuckle cracking is slightly anti-subtle.

instead it reads:

“Mmm. Ah. Okay. Oh, dear,” she mumbles, suddenly look at your hands. Your knuckle cracking is slightly anti-subtle.

That sort of shit editing is what sent my overthinking paranoia into overdrive over the last year. However, now, for the literal sake of my mental wellbeing I have to let it go. C’est la vie, unfortunately.)

And here’s the main tea…

PAGE 90 & a half

I fiddled around with the images at least 6 billion times – and even on the 6 billion and 6th time I was forced to re-work them because of tech reasons (to this day I still do not remotely understand) – I refused to give up on them. When I and the arsehole progression of programs were satisfied – I was 100% certain there were FINALLY no errors left.

Alas, I failed to bring a Page Break up onto page 90 and it therefore created a blank page between 90 and 91.

When I saw it – my heart sunk. I had specifically gone back and corrected this error SO MANY TIMES and to see that white space staring back at me – was hugely disappointing. The thought of going through this whole process yet again immediately began a suckery leaching of the sliver of energy remaining.

But then something lovely happened. The suckery stopped. I stopped. Because I was so utterly exhausted and no longer gave a shit – yes – but mainly because I saw potential in that white, wanker of a blank page.

It was human. It was relevant. It was current. It echoed the entire book.

The potential for Page 90 & a half to be someone else’s space for a vent, or a sketch, or record fave quotes, or note scratchings, doodling, secret keeping, deep thought releasing, love letter taking, piss-taking… whatever.

Suddenly it was a gift rather than a curse. A little chrissy cock-up. One last thing I could share with the reader, who one – bothered to buy my book and two – hopefully read it and got all the goodies I set out to give nearly two years ago.

So if you do happen to come across PAGE 90 & A HALF – it’s your very own holiday miracle fck up to do what you wish. Cherish it as you would your own lesson building mistakes – because how boring and bland would the world be if we were all perfect?

Fa la la la laa… far-king oath.

 

UPDATE: RE-EDITED. GOT RID OF PAGE 90 & A HALF. THERE ARE MANY, LIKE WAY TOO MANY BLANK PAGES AT THE END BECAUSE I COULD NOT RE-EDIT ANOTHER COVER WITH A DIFFERENT PAGE COUNT. SO THE FINAL VERSION INCLUDES NOT ONE, NOT TWO – BUT FOUR DOUBLE SIDED BLANK PAGES AT THE END. GRAFFITI AT WILL. 

Chapter 106: Dear Meraki

You were my friend, ever so briefly. A defo soul-spirity connection, a woo-woo being who the second I laid eyes on, felt like I had always known you. Admired you.

One of those gentle gems that draws all to your light. It’s impossible not to be drawn in. You radiate – from within to without. Gorgeous, kind, stunning, intriguing.

A mentor for the ages.

A lovely twist that my Mum visited one day to buy a gift for her dear friend, but there was a postponement of sorts and the gift-giving opportunity missed.

So she gave her offering to me.

Incense.

A ritual I had once done every day, lost – had again made its way back into my life via dance. I adored it.

With my new writing habit I wanted to create a space that was unique to me and re-introduced this as my own ritual to clear, create and not just mask a smelly room.

I lit one of your sticks and fell in love. My clove burning immediately felt so harsh and overpowering compared to the subtle air yours created. It was light, lovely… clean.

So I burned with abandon, never reading the box or the name of this gift – until today.

ZEPHYR

HAND ROLLED INCENSE CREATES AN ENCHANTING SOURCE OF CONSCIOUSNESS. BURN TO PROMOTE SOFT, GENTLE, CALMING BREEZES FOR YOUR SCARED SPACES.

Even with the typo I was impressed. To finally read the actual meaning behind the product when I have literally been hiding, scared in my very un-sacred, isolated, fear-fueled space – was fitting.

I burnt all 19 sticks save one and today I rediscovered it. I save it for the day I finally hit the dreaded button I put off for nearly 2 years –

PUBLISH

Your angelic energy was here with me throughout this journey and now, will be here at the end when courage, strength and belief is what I need most.

As I look out on our deck at the fairy garden you created with my daughter (now a re-purposed bird bath) and recall your brief involvement in my life, I thank you for entering and being someone I admire, respect and revere. Just writing this post makes me feel the joy and light of you.

Today – I light my old clove sticks and all the thoughts, power, self-love and belief I had when I begun my journey last year – came flooding back. This book sent me down a few dark turns and with one flick of the lighter I am starting to remember what it was all about and more importantly – who I am all about.

If a shitty $2 stick from our local grocer can drag out that level of good stuff – imagine the powerful manifesting goodness yours will create!

I cannot wait to light the final stick and step through the next doorway.

Meraki.

Such a light.

Truly.

Thank you.

Chapter 105: Eff Fame

“Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

So You Are… Pregnant! needs to get out there and be read, though this is easier said than done when on the cusp of airing the personal undergarments of your world to the world.

Soon I will shut down my personal accounts temporarily and eventually – permanently – and shift my social media needs solely to servicing my writing world. I’ll then FINALLY click the privacy settings off on my hidden accounts and release what I’ve been chipping away at for two years – into the universe.

I’m more than aware this is the worse way of launching a career – to ghosts who don’t know I exist let alone like what I’ve got to offer. This was not the way I’d planned for any of this to go – but this is what I’ve got to work with now. So be it.

I have definitely been – struggling to launch on multiple levels. Had I been launching the historical fiction instead of a semi-memoirish tell-all – my approach to all of this would have been a far less over-thought one.

I’ve had to reassess the ways I use my platforms without the heavy borrow from my family. This is proving to be both crap and creative. Even though most of my posts on my author insta are fairly blah compared to my personal one, they’re getting there.

JUST a trip to the local library could have me writing and posting for days. Actually, I could write a whole book on it. Possible titles –

From under rocks – into imagination

or…

Books, Freaks & Switchblades – the struggling artist’s account

Catchy.

I’m also not so naive that eventually I will need to be present in the flesh and not hide behind my keyboard – even if it is for a minimal fuss book signing consisting mostly of family members, a surly security guard and a lady who thought she was coming to see Natasha Lester and begrudgingly stays for a sympathy cuppa. I sign her copy of The Paris Seamstress. She’s unimpressed.

Back to the point… Even then – does the identity of my family need to be open season to the public? These are the overthinking niggling questions that keep me up at night – all the what if’s that may and probably won’t even happen!

The reason for my overly concerned obsession for privacy is the comment that crops up when I reluctantly share I am writing a book (after the odd looks of ew like I have a contagious rash, or the oh really… but why? comments):

“Do you want to be famous or something?”

I won’t go into my inner reaction – suffice to say – it’s never really a pine scented, misty mountain one.

Short answer – fck no thank you.

Second short answer I wish I had the balls to say –

Why? Because I want to write for a living therefore I can only want to be famous? Or because I want my books to be successful? Why does success have to equate to fame? I’m a grungy nineties girl at heart who for the better part of that decade spent it blissfully stoned and desiring nothing more than to hide away writing woeful poetry and watching the world from the view of my doona. That girl still stakes a large claim on the middle-aged woman I am today. She is creative, but very, very anti-attention.

Long winded, over wordy answer –

The book at this stage is still unfinished and I’m very much steeped in my borderline disorder inducing world of What-if-Land and most of those what if’s have shit-all to do with succeeding, let alone what attention it may bring, if any.

What if everyone hates it?

What if no one buys it?

What if I have to drag this out another year?

What if self-publishing is the worse idea ever?

What if I get hated on and never want to write again?

What if it IS successful and I have to do some type of media?

What if no one shows up?

What if only haters show up?

What if that bloody lady comes back looking for Natasha Lester again?

and seriously – it goes onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

If there are two things I am not pretending to be – is brave or a fame-chaser.

Plus, I am verrrrrrry simple. I’m more concerned about the local level. The communities I’m a part of. The parent peers who will read this stuff and question my sanity around their kids. I”m safeguarding my children’s privacy by not commenting on school forums or divulging literary plans under my real name. It’s borderline paranoid how much I do not want attention focused on my link to my own book.

“Fame” leases no space in my brain. It’s a word for untouchables. People I’ll never know, or meet, or be, or want to be. It’s irrelevant to what I’m doing in my corner.

And not to be bitter – but from my personal and private little world – eff fame. I love privacy too much. I love being unknown. I love slipping through life unnoticed, which for those who know me would think the statement ridiculous because from the outside – I’ve always appeared a larger than life extrovert. I mean – I’m a bloody Bollywood dancer – it doesn’t get much louder, showier and bling bling look at me than that.

That’s never been what it’s about.

Like my writing – I know I hold a power of reaching my audience and affecting them in a beautiful way. I see the reactions when I dance. It affects people positively. It makes them smile. It creates a flash of wow – this random whatever the fck she is – is actually making me happy – and in that second there’s a chance they’ll run with that feeling, submit to the joy and be joyful. Even if it’s just for a millisecond and the moment is never remembered again – I’ve done my job (albeit with minimal skills, qualifications and much unco-jumbo). I’ve created a yellow core memory for someone, perhaps even a few someone’s and that is mint.

That’s the main driver – other than I would like to write (and dance) for the rest of my life and set up my own universe where my children, family and friends will have an opportunity to work within my sphere and carve their own careers off of my springy boards if they choose to.

I HEART PIPE DREAMS

They’re fun – even if they are made of fairy floss.

Back to the fame-shame –

In my dream world I would put ANON on every piece of work and for the better half of last year that was exactly what I was going to do. But Anon is not the smartest move for an unknown, emerging artist, especially one who wants, or in my case, needs to make a living.

Which brings me to the other side of doing what is necessary in order to follow path and passion.

Social media/etc

At the very dawn of social media Green Man set up my accounts on Twitter and Facebook. I studied it all briefly and looked at him confused.

“Why would I want the world to know what I’m doing? Why would I give the world access into my life when I screen my relatives phone calls?

The plain boring facts are – even published writers are expected to put in the effort with platforms and if you want to sell – you have to sell yourself and your brand. That sentence alone makes me want to vom.

But, after initially fighting it I’ve hopefully created my own way of getting around putting myself, my family, our images and our lives out there – just to sell a book. Ironically – I think that could be my niche – being a semi-anon in a system that wants your all.

The evolution of influencers has lead to an evolution of normal random citizens leading lives that appear to be fame-driven, but within the entrepreneurial sphere – it’s the driver and necessity of running a business in the modern world. A means of survival and many are doing so with celebrated success. Even celebrities are mirroring them!

There has to be a happy medium.

The thought of vlogging, tik-toking, or constantly shoving my face onto peoples screens and talking about god knows what to who knows who – makes me shudder. To be another guru head waffling on, or the first thing people see when they wake up? Ugh. I don’t want people to watch my content, get to the end and think – why did I just watch that? What a waste of my time (like I do every fricking day with the flood every platform trend).

I honestly don’t want to add to the noise or open myself up too much. I have, however, accepted in this new world – you can’t have one without the other – but hopefully – will maintain control over what is mine without losing anything with my wins.

What perhaps looks like a bid for attention grabby, fame-hungry behaviour – is at times a necessity to be successful as an author.

Do you want to be famous?

No.

I just want to write books people enjoy and do my own thing, without expectations or explanations. Connect with the people who got some takeaways from my mad little tale and hopefully write some more to deepen the connection.

If that means documenting what my dog had for breakfast then this probably isn’t the gig for me. These writing efforts should be enough… right? Who the hell knows, clearly not me.

So I’ll dance this dance to get my work in front of the eyeballs who need it. Then hopefully I will last the journey long enough – to see anonymity come into trend again.

What has praise and fame to do with poetry? Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice? So that all this chatter and praise, and blame and meeting people who admired one and meeting people who did not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself- a voice answering a voice.

Virginia Woolf (2012). “Orlando: A Biography”, p.306, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Absolutely no offence intended to anyone who shares their life online. You’re all cool as. 

 

 

 

Chapter 104: Love letter to my bookie-wookie

Before I launch So You Are… Pregnant! into the world – regardless if it reaches 6 or 6000, I’d like to put my dreams out there first of what I hope it achieves.

Dear SO YOU ARE… PREGNANT!

I’m not going to lie… you’ve done my flippen head in. You’ve been a one wheeled roller-coaster ride with never-ending dodgy mechanics and rusty, nutty bolts. At times I have really not liked you at all. You have been quite the sucky friend.

But, like most good friends who test you a little and don’t put up with whingeing because they know deep down you’ve got the gumption – you have also lifted me, inspired me, made me cack myself out loud and forced me to remember – me.

I was set on writing an historical fiction – a fantasy bit of fluff I thought was destined to be my first novel – and for a while I was truly bitter about not being able to tend to it because of you. Every time I’d go into Scrivener and try to drop myself into Victorian era Freo – something would draw me out. Another memory, or a funny moment, or the perfect line for a particular scene.

You were supposed to be my experiment, with any luck a trickly cash flow just to prove I was capable of selling maybe a couple hundred books.

There were sooooooo many times I resented you.

I kept trying to down play you and rush you like you were inferior. Like you were actually an easy task that could be polished off in a few months.

What a moron!

You were the most complex, fiddly little fcker that took up every last second of my very, very precious time. You were – ironically – like a baby!

Did I obsess over you? No. Absolutely not. What I did do was start treating you less like a blog, or a social media post – and more like a novel. Because you deserved to be. A far cry from my initial plans. The original idea was to do what I do – write like I talk, but make it super casual, like I was chatting online with friends or family. But you morphed and evolved and try as I did to resist and rebel against it – so did I.

Now we are nearing the end. You are still no where near perfect, but neither am I and that’s cool. Really.

So here’s my hopes and dreams for you before I set you off into the world of fans, trolls, lovers, haters and everyone and everything in between:

  1. I hope you reach those who really need you. People at the start of their journey. People in the midst of it. People like me who are long past the baby having stage, but still carrying around a some things from the experience. People struggling with any trauma causing event who need an encouraging boost to acknowledge, process, and hopefully recover and move forward.

  2. I hope people do take one of the only leads I can offer and heal themselves and upgrade – so we can step into our roles as healers and nurturers and get on with the good stuff together.

  3. I hope you make people laugh their arses off. I hope people reading it in public crack up as loudly as my friend did and got lots of odd stares. I hope they see my madness in themselves and forget the bullshit we’re being steered towards, and the ridiculous pressure we all seem to be under… even for a moment and relish in the sweet silliness of being a nong. Truly – it’s far more powerful and empowering than any wank out there right now and way more fun.

  4. I hope you shine a light on all the takeaways – the good and not so good. But I hope you don’t become a tool for victim-bingeing, witch-hunting or general poo-pooing. That’s not what any of this is intended for. Rather, I hope you spotlight, highlight and bright-light the heart of humans, the goodness of random people, the act of taking the higher ground (or at least attempting to) no matter how fricken hard it can be at times.

  5. But most of all – I hope you bring joy to people across the globe who need it.

Good luck.

I believe in you.

x

Protected: Chapter 103: Undoing myself

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