Hi.
Just came back from a holiday in Bali. Interesting times, it was really nice.
I found I could write over there, my mind space was more free, less responsibilities, distractions, work, family life...It was really good. I felt like I could breathe...
I hope to create some new work this New Year. Returning to university, my love.
So, I will keep you posted on more work. My second book of poetry will be published soon, mainly about my brother and best friend. I always planned three books of poetry, one red, one green and one blue.
Red symbolising the anger I fled from my husband and the years of conflict, the green representing walking the path, peace, journeys, and that will represent walking along the stream of grief but experiencing peace and the blue; possibilities opening up, hope and new life.
This is the plan, and the green one will be published next. The red one is already published. It is for me a chronicle of my life at this time.
2 Dec 2010
14 Sept 2010
Foreign Objects (travel anecdote)
I could see she was sipping a tin cup of Chai Tea; its steam rising into the air as she blew across the surface and created waves that any surfer would envy. I salivated at the sight of the tea. It was all we drank on our expedition through the foothills of the Himalayas. A sweet aromatic scent was coming from the stone tea house sitting alone on the edge of this part of the mountains looking out into a brilliant valley of yellow and green canola terraces. Sipping Chai tea was like the nectar of heaven for me, with its fusion of cardamon, cinnamon, cloves, fennel, bay leaves, ginger, honey, brown sugar and milk combined melodically through the warmth of a wood fire.
She doesn’t speak a word of English. Jade eyes like the rushing Karnali River, a silver stud reflects light from the right side of her nose. Her auburn black hair is twisted tightly into a plait and twirled into a bun on the back of her head. Vivid turquoise, purple, yellow, red and navy flowers and birds and curvaceous patterns twist all over her sari and around her body. A marone circle sits symmetrically between her eyebrows signifying her righteous piety, and either that she is married or a modern Hindu woman who wears the symbol nevertheless.
From looking at her relaxed gait one can see these mountains are her home. She knows every crack, crevice and rock from here to Joktapur. She is relaxed and seems to me to look like any 20 year old enjoying the sun and not thinking about anything in particular. She flashes us a white waterfall smile.
After three days on the Anapurna Circuit I was bewitched by this place. A light mist had fallen over me, like the mists you can see shrouding Everest when you fly past it for the first time. A Himalayan spell of dirt tiered mountains, jagged rock edges framed by deep blue and white above, mountain streams no longer breathing but frozen in ice beauty, monkeys chattering and following us through the dense darkness of majestic trees in forests that reminds me of Tolkien.
Our guide Prakash chats to the girl in Nepalese. She giggles but does not make eye contact with him. We sit down on the rock cut chair. In the distance, two parkers can be seen advancing on us. A red and a navy parker, two dark beanies, two sets of hiking boots and two walking prods striding in strong, and determined motion. Prakash leans over to me and says:
“The girl told me ‘they’,” he points to the oncoming travelers, “are German and are how you say, “rude,” rude to her family at their lodge,” he whispers.
“Oh, that’s no good.” I say to him.
The girl nods towards me and smiles. She obviously recognizes their mannerisms and stride. As the two continue, they keep their pace up, rhythmical and rigid. When they get closer the man says, “allo,” and I say, “hello” and the others nod towards him.
Winter in Nepal, icicles jut out of caves, chasms and over rocks, and freezes waterfalls; but it won’t deter these people. They are going to conquer this land and are not going to slow down or alter their paths. A stubborn blindness to the magnificent Himalayas and the medieval culture around them is evident. Nothing will distract them from their course. It is as if a mental checklist is being ticked off with every squelch of their walking sticks into the ground.
As they come nearer something else becomes obvious to us, but not to them. They do not look at us as they approach, but smile impersonally, looking off at some imaginary point straight ahead. We try to look away but find ourselves drawn back, like when you see a large hairy wart on someone’s face. But this was clear and rigid, sticking straight down from their noses to their top lips as direct as the path they have set for themselves. Four frozen phlegm stalactites from their noses to their top lips transform them into figures on the stage of a Divine comedy. I suppress my laughter and so does Jasmine, my traveling companion. The Nepalese girl puts her hand over mouth.
Onward they march, no breaks for these troopers. When they disappear over the slope the four of us roar with laughter. Our Nepalese friend laughs long after we stop. I wonder if she sees it as some kind of Divine retribution towards these people; moving through her mountains with an arrogance and entitlement not unlike European explorers in Africa.
She doesn’t speak a word of English. Jade eyes like the rushing Karnali River, a silver stud reflects light from the right side of her nose. Her auburn black hair is twisted tightly into a plait and twirled into a bun on the back of her head. Vivid turquoise, purple, yellow, red and navy flowers and birds and curvaceous patterns twist all over her sari and around her body. A marone circle sits symmetrically between her eyebrows signifying her righteous piety, and either that she is married or a modern Hindu woman who wears the symbol nevertheless.
From looking at her relaxed gait one can see these mountains are her home. She knows every crack, crevice and rock from here to Joktapur. She is relaxed and seems to me to look like any 20 year old enjoying the sun and not thinking about anything in particular. She flashes us a white waterfall smile.
After three days on the Anapurna Circuit I was bewitched by this place. A light mist had fallen over me, like the mists you can see shrouding Everest when you fly past it for the first time. A Himalayan spell of dirt tiered mountains, jagged rock edges framed by deep blue and white above, mountain streams no longer breathing but frozen in ice beauty, monkeys chattering and following us through the dense darkness of majestic trees in forests that reminds me of Tolkien.
Our guide Prakash chats to the girl in Nepalese. She giggles but does not make eye contact with him. We sit down on the rock cut chair. In the distance, two parkers can be seen advancing on us. A red and a navy parker, two dark beanies, two sets of hiking boots and two walking prods striding in strong, and determined motion. Prakash leans over to me and says:
“The girl told me ‘they’,” he points to the oncoming travelers, “are German and are how you say, “rude,” rude to her family at their lodge,” he whispers.
“Oh, that’s no good.” I say to him.
The girl nods towards me and smiles. She obviously recognizes their mannerisms and stride. As the two continue, they keep their pace up, rhythmical and rigid. When they get closer the man says, “allo,” and I say, “hello” and the others nod towards him.
Winter in Nepal, icicles jut out of caves, chasms and over rocks, and freezes waterfalls; but it won’t deter these people. They are going to conquer this land and are not going to slow down or alter their paths. A stubborn blindness to the magnificent Himalayas and the medieval culture around them is evident. Nothing will distract them from their course. It is as if a mental checklist is being ticked off with every squelch of their walking sticks into the ground.
As they come nearer something else becomes obvious to us, but not to them. They do not look at us as they approach, but smile impersonally, looking off at some imaginary point straight ahead. We try to look away but find ourselves drawn back, like when you see a large hairy wart on someone’s face. But this was clear and rigid, sticking straight down from their noses to their top lips as direct as the path they have set for themselves. Four frozen phlegm stalactites from their noses to their top lips transform them into figures on the stage of a Divine comedy. I suppress my laughter and so does Jasmine, my traveling companion. The Nepalese girl puts her hand over mouth.
Onward they march, no breaks for these troopers. When they disappear over the slope the four of us roar with laughter. Our Nepalese friend laughs long after we stop. I wonder if she sees it as some kind of Divine retribution towards these people; moving through her mountains with an arrogance and entitlement not unlike European explorers in Africa.
21 Aug 2010
Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert
I am not a travel memoir reader, but this is a journey-book, of as the cliched term describes it "self discovery." Though I do not see the world exactly as she does, (and who ever does anyway?) I have found many parallels to myself in her personality and how she experiences everything. She is entertaining and funny. Sometimes she seems too American but mostly her nationality is not obvious. In our lives there are a few uncanny similarities that I wont share now cause it would be too personal. I think I will share some quotes I love on the another post. I love books where you laugh out loud and I love it when I have written in the past something that made people laugh out loud, it gives me so much satisfaction and pleasure.
11 Jul 2010
Poem that received a Highly Commended award in the WARM Writing Competition 2010
This poem expressed my emotions following the death of a close friend. As I have said before I do not consider myself a poet, however at the moment, poetry is all I am writing.
Breath
Breath is all that separates,
Me from you,
Now…
So often lately,
I have to remind myself to exhale,
My torso holding my breath in,
Like an unconscious desire,
I have to tell my body to release the air,
Let it escape there.
Cause deep down I know,
It is this simple thing,
These air vapours passing across my tongue,
They are all
That separates me from you.
You lay on the road,
Your life was going,
That day I became breathless,
For no real reason,
But now I know why,
Cause you were leaving,
My body knew.
And now I remind myself,
Breathe, Sue,
Breathe…
Cause sometimes somewhere deep,
I must remember,
It’s the only thing separating me from you.
Breath
Breath is all that separates,
Me from you,
Now…
So often lately,
I have to remind myself to exhale,
My torso holding my breath in,
Like an unconscious desire,
I have to tell my body to release the air,
Let it escape there.
Cause deep down I know,
It is this simple thing,
These air vapours passing across my tongue,
They are all
That separates me from you.
You lay on the road,
Your life was going,
That day I became breathless,
For no real reason,
But now I know why,
Cause you were leaving,
My body knew.
And now I remind myself,
Breathe, Sue,
Breathe…
Cause sometimes somewhere deep,
I must remember,
It’s the only thing separating me from you.
9 Jul 2010
Film and Television
Hey there!
In a couple of weeks I am going to embark on another subject at QUT, film and television script writing. It should be good and interesting to see how to write this type of work. I hope I can come up with a good idea for a 15 minute drama script. If anyone has done film script writing please feel free to leave any comments on here. I know that with other subjects in the post grad Creative Industries area it is best to prepare yourself with an idea before you start the subject. Notoriously, I usually have an idea but wish to think of something new, this is not always a good strategy. : )
I am trying to be more prepared this time. Regardless of this I am excited to do this subject. I am moving house again, I cannot believe it. But after I have moved I hope my life can get into some kind of groove, as they say.
So if you have anything to share about script writing, feel free. Until next post. Happy writing or happy experimenting. : )
In a couple of weeks I am going to embark on another subject at QUT, film and television script writing. It should be good and interesting to see how to write this type of work. I hope I can come up with a good idea for a 15 minute drama script. If anyone has done film script writing please feel free to leave any comments on here. I know that with other subjects in the post grad Creative Industries area it is best to prepare yourself with an idea before you start the subject. Notoriously, I usually have an idea but wish to think of something new, this is not always a good strategy. : )
I am trying to be more prepared this time. Regardless of this I am excited to do this subject. I am moving house again, I cannot believe it. But after I have moved I hope my life can get into some kind of groove, as they say.
So if you have anything to share about script writing, feel free. Until next post. Happy writing or happy experimenting. : )
19 Jun 2010
Highly Commended Poem in the Sunshine Coast Literary Association Competition
Hi there,
I received a Highly Commended Award for a poem I entered in the Sunshine Coast Literary Association Awards 2010. I like this poem because it expressed how I felt in the weeks after my close friend died.
It is just nice to have received some recognition for my writing, as we all send out stories or poems, or other items and may not always be accepted. It is nice sometimes to receive something in recognition of our work. Thanks for being here.
I received a Highly Commended Award for a poem I entered in the Sunshine Coast Literary Association Awards 2010. I like this poem because it expressed how I felt in the weeks after my close friend died.
It is just nice to have received some recognition for my writing, as we all send out stories or poems, or other items and may not always be accepted. It is nice sometimes to receive something in recognition of our work. Thanks for being here.
30 Apr 2010
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Competitions and Blogger
Hello there, I am not sure what is happening with Blogger but I am hoping my blog wont die in the next few days...
Anyway, I am currently trying to select some poems and maybe a story to send into a competition. I think it is good to just keep sending things into the universe and see what happens with them... : )
I am going to write a post on a novellas and I am also going to run some writing workshops for beginners. If anyone is particularly interested they can email me about it. I am running a writing therapy course for four weeks coming up in May. Writing Therapy - I call it Expressive Writing, is a superb way to release any emotions, memories or things that are holding us captive. I will post more about this later.
I thought maybe I should simply put something up on here, as I haven't communicated on here for so long.
Thanks so much for reading. I love having visitors.
Anyway, I am currently trying to select some poems and maybe a story to send into a competition. I think it is good to just keep sending things into the universe and see what happens with them... : )
I am going to write a post on a novellas and I am also going to run some writing workshops for beginners. If anyone is particularly interested they can email me about it. I am running a writing therapy course for four weeks coming up in May. Writing Therapy - I call it Expressive Writing, is a superb way to release any emotions, memories or things that are holding us captive. I will post more about this later.
I thought maybe I should simply put something up on here, as I haven't communicated on here for so long.
Thanks so much for reading. I love having visitors.
5 Mar 2010
The Wall
A friend reminded me the other day that I should put up the Wall on here.
So here it is.
This was from the Amazon Shorts Competition. The%20Wall.pdf
So here it is.
This was from the Amazon Shorts Competition. The%20Wall.pdf
15 Feb 2010
Things change so quickly...
On Saturday morning I woke up to discover the news one of my closest friends had died through a few words on Facebook that I couldn't believe were true, and still can't. Mark Foster, my close friend for 24 years had died in a motorbike accident.
Of course I grieved constantly for two days but on the second day I started to write. Writing is the way I experience life, it is like talking or breathing. I cannot go through anything without writing. If I do it remains inside me like a bomb building in pressure. I have discovered this by not writing. I cannot live without writing. If I had no paper I would probably write in the dirt.
As I wrote it poured out of me. Meaning into words, feelings released onto paper, the screen-they were concrete, embodying my grief. There is something about writing that saves me. It released me.
I believe we should cry and weep when someone dies. We are so restrained in the west. I like it in the Middle East or Europe where they wail, beat themselves, scream and make noise. There should be an impact when someone dies, when someone is gone. There should be a tangible sign they have gone. When a soul leaves, somewhere there should be an effect.
I have been given writing - to save me - to bring me through these times. That is why I believe in writing for therapy. It got me through another terrible situation I had been in previously. Now, it has released my grief. I am still sad for Mark. However, I feel as if I have something of him though now. Something that will not fade. My writing about him. It is like it has embodied him on the page for me and he has not totally gone. My thoughts and feelings for him have been captured on the paper and they will always exist. It relieves me. It's like something eternal. Someone else could read them after I have gone and these would still exist. This comforts me.
I am probably being very philosophical today because of this. Death crystalises life. It seems to be in sharper focus now. The transient nature, to seek meaning, and to give to others.
To find your life, you must lose it...
I live by these words. I am going to run some writing therapy courses and some creative writing courses.
Well, until next time, may peace be in you.
Of course I grieved constantly for two days but on the second day I started to write. Writing is the way I experience life, it is like talking or breathing. I cannot go through anything without writing. If I do it remains inside me like a bomb building in pressure. I have discovered this by not writing. I cannot live without writing. If I had no paper I would probably write in the dirt.
As I wrote it poured out of me. Meaning into words, feelings released onto paper, the screen-they were concrete, embodying my grief. There is something about writing that saves me. It released me.
I believe we should cry and weep when someone dies. We are so restrained in the west. I like it in the Middle East or Europe where they wail, beat themselves, scream and make noise. There should be an impact when someone dies, when someone is gone. There should be a tangible sign they have gone. When a soul leaves, somewhere there should be an effect.
I have been given writing - to save me - to bring me through these times. That is why I believe in writing for therapy. It got me through another terrible situation I had been in previously. Now, it has released my grief. I am still sad for Mark. However, I feel as if I have something of him though now. Something that will not fade. My writing about him. It is like it has embodied him on the page for me and he has not totally gone. My thoughts and feelings for him have been captured on the paper and they will always exist. It relieves me. It's like something eternal. Someone else could read them after I have gone and these would still exist. This comforts me.
I am probably being very philosophical today because of this. Death crystalises life. It seems to be in sharper focus now. The transient nature, to seek meaning, and to give to others.
To find your life, you must lose it...
I live by these words. I am going to run some writing therapy courses and some creative writing courses.
Well, until next time, may peace be in you.
28 Jan 2010
Moving house...
Hey anyone who is interested...:)
I am moving house at the moment and working a lot as well as studying, so there is not much writing happening. I am deferring university until next semester. I will do my film and television subject then.
The other day however, I thought of my main character and how she is still lying in a hospital bed, beaten up by her neighbour...a complicated story...but I am not sure where her life is going now...
She is in good company with her new Irish boy friend and her irritating mother. Roger her West Highland Terrier is waiting for her at home in her townhouse on the river at Hill End, Brisbane. It comforts me to think about her and know I will go back to her soon, to continue in her story. But for now, I am too busy. The story, the novella must go on in the background of my mind while I continue with all of the things I HAVE to do. No one is aware of the dreaming, musing and imagining that goes on in the writers mind when they are sitting on a train, bus, at a soccer field, on a beach, with a notebook...scenes, dialogue, character's thoughts, backgrounds...
However, there is a time for everything and for now my time is limited. I imagine the reader of this will understand this very well. At least I know in all of my busyness, I can still work in small increments. Quietly and patiently, the narrative can still develop, under any circumstances.
I am moving house at the moment and working a lot as well as studying, so there is not much writing happening. I am deferring university until next semester. I will do my film and television subject then.
The other day however, I thought of my main character and how she is still lying in a hospital bed, beaten up by her neighbour...a complicated story...but I am not sure where her life is going now...
She is in good company with her new Irish boy friend and her irritating mother. Roger her West Highland Terrier is waiting for her at home in her townhouse on the river at Hill End, Brisbane. It comforts me to think about her and know I will go back to her soon, to continue in her story. But for now, I am too busy. The story, the novella must go on in the background of my mind while I continue with all of the things I HAVE to do. No one is aware of the dreaming, musing and imagining that goes on in the writers mind when they are sitting on a train, bus, at a soccer field, on a beach, with a notebook...scenes, dialogue, character's thoughts, backgrounds...
However, there is a time for everything and for now my time is limited. I imagine the reader of this will understand this very well. At least I know in all of my busyness, I can still work in small increments. Quietly and patiently, the narrative can still develop, under any circumstances.
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