Wwhen I was counting down the weeks to my 50th birthday last year, part of me was excited and part of me uncertain. It felt like a major turning point. Ahem – It is a major turning point.

Several years ago just after my 46th birthday I wrote a poem about the day. It was a sad birthday for some reason. Now in hindsight I can see it was the call of the crone. She was calling to me to wake up, let go, prepare for the transition, get strong.

“…reminded of the preciousness

of this many year labour

with shared and salty tears as lubricator

of the crone emerging

preparation of an elders birthing.”

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Aat the end of last year I bit the bullet. I filled out forms, wrote synopsis’, responded to various criteria and questions, and then – ta-friggin’-dah – I submitted a manuscript to two competition/award opportunities. Both aimed to celebrate and encourage emerging  Australian writers without significant publication. Both offered a prize of 12 month mentorship with established authors.  Continue Reading →

Book of lOve 2 Photo source

Iihave a new soft covered journal/exercise book. I’ve covered it in a sheet of painted paper, the result of a quick splash of paints that I felt compelled to deliver shortly after a session with a friend of mine as she practiced her new therapy technique that involves deep hypnosis and exploration of the sub-conscious terrain.

Since covering the book I had been reluctant to seal ink on its pages, instead I kept returning to my tatty old, not quite full, note book. That is until earlier this week when I was wandering around a friend’s suburban garden. The sky was full and blue, the morning sun was warm yet softened by an early southerly sea breeze, suburbia hummed in the back ground and morning birds fluttered about and, although difficult to see, their many chirps, cheeps and warbles entertained my morning ears.

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Looking refelctions

Llast week I stumbled across a profound question. Immediately I felt the urge to respond. My heart smiled. Unlike the urgent leap I so often experience when writing, this was a much calmer response. It felt like finding a key and saying” Ahah, I wonder what door this one will open?”

And so here I am skirting the question, albeit setting context, ‘who am I when I write’?

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mad writer - i write because

Ii write because I go mad if I don’t. I write because I’m mad. Writing is madness for me. Writing liberates me from the strain and structure of predictable reality and frees a stormy inner muse. I write spasmodically, because, like my madness, it is an unpredictable urge: more of a surge. I write morning pages in spits and spurts. I respond to prompts with vigour and urgency. They are short and easy and I can pounce around the mad abyss for 15 minutes; totally unhindered.

I imagine about and conjure up longer projects. I write ideas down. And then I write more ideas down. And then I write even more ideas down. And then the old ideas get lost. And so do I. So I go back to short bursts and sprints of writing prompts and hints; guaranteed to get the blood pumping and the heart thumping.

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Life, a string of beads

Llife. It keeps on coming. Of that we can be certain otherwise it ceases to be life. I caught myself saying just this to a young woman this morning. She told me how she was so tangled up in wedding plans she expected that at some point it would all stop. She laughed. I smiled. And in silence we agreed the plans will become a wedding, then a marriage and then ….

Life. A series of transformations, struggles and victories, joys and sorrows. We could reduce it to a day, or even an hour or several minutes. Perhaps even on to smaller measurements of our movement through space. No matter what measure we choose there will be living, changing, transforming.

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dancing around white peacock

Aas the August full moon approaches my heart races back to an evening shared with friends at the July full super-moon rising. The night was crisp and clear. We had a small gathering with a  small fire atop a grassy slope fringing the riparian edge of the Kworabup River. Thick deep green grass, towering Karris and small puffs of cloud high in the sky courted the silver white moon as she rose like a pearl in a sea of sequined constellation. Her rays diffused softly into the sweet plump promise of earth’s lunar cycle. The mist, slowly rolling up from the shallow gulley and the shining face of river, gently wept through the grass, shrouded the bare black, fat trunks of Karri in a gossamer cloak and dissolved beyond the knoll. Fire crackled and logs radiant embers soaked in the breath of our sharings and sweet wafts of chai.

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Tthey say the first one is always the hardest. So here we are the third post and I’m still ranting. It’s not like it’s my first blog. I think it’s the fourth. I’m even going to import some of my old, but relevant posts over to this site. This is my writing blog. I will share some rants that will be rife with middle-aged freedom and the tangy tongue that seems to accompany this new life stage. I’ll add updates about where my writing projects are up to and most importantly share some of the learning on the way.  

Oh, and I’ve finally written a novel…

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reading with pcock fan

Nnew site. New software. New buttons. New settings. Clutching my new book -WordPress for Dummies, aka bible, in my nervous hot sticky hands, I scan the pages, seek some direction, land on the relevant landmark, digest the instructions. New words. New jargon. New knowledge. I take a breath.

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dawn cafe poet

 Aalong time ago in a busy urban village little Dawn sat writing in her small red exercise book. She loved the way the letters filled between the lines and spread a message across the page. She struggled with the prettiness and perfect finish that her teacher hoped for. She struggled with the prescribed angle to the right. Instead she twisted her pad to the right and wrote an elegant backhand. All of the letters sloped, slim and slender to the left. This could have been the first time she worked in opposition to the grain. An innocent statement from a deeper voice other than her own. Her muse perhaps declaring “Let’s do it this way, it’s much more fun.”

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