writing

When characters drop out of the sky

skyLast night, I made several new friends. Sure, they may have all been fictional, but together we giggled until we spat and sobbed until we were down to loo paper for tissues.

I have never ceased to find the experience of new characters dropping out of the sky and into stories or poems anything other than gobsmacking. In fact, given that I don’t write for my bread and butter, only my indulgent pleasure, it amazes me even more that these new faces even bother to pop out like corn from the seeming dryness of my imagination.

So last night, as I mentioned, I found some new buddies. And I just need you to meet two of them. One’s a lizard, one’s, a camel. I know. Extraordinary stuff. Falo is a ta ta lizard from north Western Australia and Bo is a camel from the Kimberley. One has a lisp, the other two lanterns. One races around like a mad thing in dehydrated delirium, the other labours like a frog in quicksand.

How they appeared, I’m still uncertain. And, to be honest, they’re still very simply constructed figments of my imagination. What’s intriguing me though is how it happened. Happens.

I believe, for me, in humblest terms, it’s a two pronged irony. One prong’s just waiting patiently. The other is writing vociferously. Maybe like swatting a fly: when you do it, you’ve got to attack with gusto and purpose, with the KNOWING the target is there and something magical (albeit hopefully more than a dead insect) is going to drop out of the ether and onto the keyboard.

That’s how the voice, presence, gait, motivation and characters of both Falo and Bo appeared. And believe me, even though the story is humble, the story a brief ten pages, these two are so lovable I might consider adopting them.

Even though Falo spits.

And Bo is a sad sack.

And Falo is hasty.

And Bo a blubbering mess.

Thus, my script for the school musical Melted is now written. And I am thankful to Bo, Falo, Queenie and Desert Rose for coming to the party. Still really can’t claim to know how they got here, but I’m blessed they made it.

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writing

When (If) I grow up

IMG_9672When I grow up, I would like to write scripts. Last year I began with a script for a ballet school’s production called, “Something about a girl who goes into a dream and she wakes up and discovers her true self”. Aka The Music Box by JaBaT Dance. It was utterly liberating, thanks to principal teacher Janine Felt.

You see, as a person attached to a pen for most of my life, I am still finding my love of words in myriad genres, yet still not through one in particular. Through this script, however, I discovered that I rather like the format of a script: Its simplicity in structure contains onomatopoeic, wild abandonment. Its formal sensibility is protective. The potential for chaos within abounds. All built around steadfast, sturdy symbolism, fugue-like, figurative and fanciful all at once. Or at best. brevity and the hint of transcendence. Making hard look easy. Like a Torvill and Dean Bolero. And I continue to dream.

So, having put it off for weeks, due to more than a smidge of confounding anxiety, I meshed together a simple musical today…this afternoon. It’s not rocket science, but it filled the nooks and abandoned crannies of my creative self. And now I believe I have the seed of a starting point of not-quite-exactly or anywhere near my hero Tim Minchin. but a…thing.

Melted.

So let’s see what happens when I take it to a school.

My school.

And see.

maggots
Mug courtesy Roald Dahl…

 

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writing

My story

I buy diaries. Journals. Empty books. I buy paper with lines. If you have ever been, or are someone who does this, I’m with you. Stood in front of the stationery aisles of countless newsagents and smelt the…smelt the…smelt the ‘illusion of solidity’.

Australian writer, bitter-brained and brilliant, Patrick White coined this too true phrase.

For surely, if I write words, from the unbridled and elusive parts of my self, I will, in essence, ‘be’. Like some quantification, some permission given, that one’s stamp is authentic. Precious. And, somewhat like Schrödinger’s cat*, both alive and dead at once, the moment one shows one has written, one proves that one need not have written for an audience in the first place. That one is, in fact, the writing. As I always was. As we are.

And so here is my journal. Again. Again, again. Again, again, again. And that I have actually realised that, much again like quantum irony, in writing for an audience, I am released to write for myself.

So, read or not. I am here to leave a mark, if only for myself. My story.

* This is my cat; his name is Schrödinger.

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Schrödinger, cat

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