toast for tea

Here's my all-time favourite song. I wish you a "willow" for all the times you need one. Click here if you have enough download for a four minute music video.

It was the last session of the day and I had twenty-five lively grade one children sitting attentively in front of me. This was unusual. Their quiet, expectant demeanour probably had something to do with the fact that I was about to play the piano, which – to the horror of any music education purist – is a rarity in my classroom. My fingers feel at home curled around the neck of anything with exposed strings; they quiver in the proximity of ivory. After sending three piano teachers batty, I’ve decided there’s a kind of reverse polarity that occurs when my fingers get within striking distance of a keyboard. If a concert pianist’s fingers are drawn to the keys like magnets, mine are repelled – at the moment of impact they hit the notes beside. So to dare to play the piano for this group of cherubs had required a fair amount of audacity. It was a simple Japanese folk song with two chords, which sounded much prettier on the piano than the guitar. At home, on my piano, it sounded sensationa...

I am on my own in a villa by the sea on my first writers retreat. How to capture the essence of what makes up the moments of my days here? Plod around in vignette, recount snatches, sketch impressions… It starts when I pen a ‘poor me’ entry into my journal. I need a holiday . Two days later I win one. We all enjoy the winnings for the first weekend. We drive to the surf beach, play rummikub, sleep in bedrooms with our own ensuites. Then it’s time for them to leave. All too soon. But their weekday lives beckon, as does the manuscript I’ve come here to revise. As their car rounds the corner and disappears from view, my stomach lurches. I feel the two emotions in equal measure: elation at being on my own, to write – and a panic that claps hold of my body, sending me running for the toilet, as my aloneness threatens to fold in on itself and become the most desolate feeling of loneliness. I plug the portable speaker into the notebook computer and play The Prayer at full volume. I join forc...

It’s tricky navigating through life being a writer. There’s never enough time and there are always too many interruptions. Here’s the quandary. Scenario: you’re in Sydney, on holiday with your family. You’ve been to Sydney before, on your own. You loved it. At the time, you breathed in the atmosphere of Circular Quay as you looked out at the Harbour Bridge and Opera House; let it fill your lungs with vibrant life, as office workers and tourists tussled for a place in the queue for a cappuccino or ferry. You sat on a seat and took it all in. You watched people walk past, drink their coffee, take photos. You listened to their conversations. You noted what they wore. And every now and again you saw how the sun glanced off the water, the bridge behind, standing there like a wise old man. You could hardly breath. You wanted to capture this moment – so you could always relive it – not let it slip away. You took a ferry to Manly. You sat outside on the top deck. Your hair flew behind you as ...

Out at the shops today, she was everywhere. I watched her painfully negotiate the pedestrian crossing – bent over her walking stick – as I sat in the car and listened to Bryan Ferry on the radio. She was the woman in the wheelchair, sipping a cup of tea at the table next to mine in the food court. Later, I saw her hunched shoulders in a green cardigan in the queue outside the butchers. The last memory I have of my mother was when I visited her in hospital. I sat on her bed and watched helplessly as she struggled to support herself in a chair. They won’t let me get in to bed , she’d said. I can’t take much more. I didn’t know what to say. I remember looking down at her bare legs, slippered feet, and thinking how shiny the skin on her shins was. I remember thinking that life could be cruel. When my mother died, in the small hours of the following night, seven years ago, I lost a source of love that was bottomless and unique. A mother’s love is irreplaceable. Small wonder that so much han...

Here's an interview I did with Ursula, earlier in the year, not long after her Word Spy came out. It's done the rounds of all the reading mags and I have a little pile of very beautiful and encouraging rejections to prove it! Jackie Hosking saved the day, though, and published it in Pass it On. Here it is again. * ‘I always want to spend more time with Ursula Dubosarsky’s people. They’re wise, awkward and funny, and they give off sparks of insight that I want to read aloud to whoever’s near…’ Margo Lanagan (back cover of The Red Shoe) When multi-award-winning author and literary alchemist, Ursula Dubosarsky , breathes magic into her stories, it’s easy to find yourself tumbling helplessly into a world of fiction that feels so real, you forget who you are and become one with the characters. How does she do it? Ursula shares some of her writing secrets and tells about the challenges of writing her latest book, The Word Spy. One of the great strengths of your writing is your a...

Who Nicked the Dog? has been given the flick. Sounds like a title for a quirky, fluffy sort of story without a lot of depth. Which this book is not . The plot, subplots, themes and characters in this story need a more substantial title to sit on the front cover. See – I should pay more attention to my nearly-fourteen-year-old-daughter editor. The new proposed title is Lucky or Not . It works on a number of levels: Was Mum lucky, after all, to win the competition, when she ends up in hospital, instead of riding camels around Mongolia? Is Brody’s new dog really Mr Ironclad’s Lucky? Will Ish and Molly get to the farm in time to save Lucky from Uncle Vinny’s schizophrenic rampage? The big question is whether Lucky or Not is enough of a hook. The questionnaires are coming back with very positive responses from my group of ‘readers’. So far, people have told me they can’t put it down. Yippee! That the ending works. Yippee! That there is enough depth. Yippee! That they like the characters; ...

I push past rows of tee shirts emblazoned with “The Bitch is Back” and “I’m too pretty for homework”. The music is so loud you can’t hear yourself say, ‘the music’s loud in here, isn’t it?’ My thirteen year old is looking impatient. She’s standing at the back of the shop with one hand on her hip and a dark look on her face, and I still have to get past three racks of leggings, a table of see-through cardigans – surely they don’t wear these for warmth – and a row of skirts decorated with skulls and daggers. I dodge underneath a rack of singlets just like the ones my mother made me wear in winter, except these are fluoro coloured – mine were Omo white. And I’d worn mine under my clothes to keep me warm, not like the shop assistant, who’s made a feature of hers, wearing about five at once. A girl with incredibly shiny hair and a spotty face pushes politely between me and a row of jeans. Their legs are so narrow, you’d be hard-pressed to squeeze your arms into them. The noise of...

Haven’t posted for a few weeks – sorry! I’ve been flat out with my novel. The first draft is finished – hooray – and I’ve nearly finished revising and tightening it ready to send off for a formal assessment. Then there’ll be more revising and tightening and rewriting – not too much rewriting, I hope! – before pitching it to a publisher. That’s when I’ll ask you all to start crossing your fingers and toes and anything else you can think of! In the meantime, here are a few snippets to give you a taste — When Ish goes looking for a lost dog, he ends up searching for his father’s love, and finds more than he expected along the way. A story about a boy, a ghost, adventure and acceptance. The sky looks like my sister’s doona cover – black, dotted with stars and a misty moon in the middle. The tops of the gum trees, bending in the breeze, are casting scary shadows on the tombstones around me. It’s as if I’m watching giant grey ghosts creeping out of their graves, one by one. * Two sets of fo...

A picture's worth a thousand words... It's very important to have the right sort of pillow or you'll get a stiff neck. I begged them - blue or green or brown or red or black - but pink?! I love my cardi... And I love surfing the net in my cardi... Exuse me - can't a cat get a bit of privacy around here? Dignity? I told them cats don't need baths! I've got a secret sock fetish - but don't tell anyone. Who needs a posh bed when I can sleep in this lovely box? Um - you're, like, in my personal space. This ear's so dirty - didn't your mum teach you how to wash?

When the vacuum cleaner breaks down just when the cat decides to do a total winter coat replacement; when there’s no difference after the dentist crowns a cracked tooth that he targets as the cause of agony when I forget to add some hot water to my orange juice, or on a frosty morning, when I pass a fellow dog-walker, I open my mouth to say hello, instead of grunting; when a trillion school reports are due right in the middle of the VCE exams; and that moulting cat also goes on a kitty litter strike and deems the shower or any basin or sink a much better option for letting go – and the world in general spins horribly out of control – I either throw a hissy fit and/or revert to a tragic version of my earlier self, demanding all household members take part in a mammoth cleaning and tidying spree – quite tricky without the vacuum cleaner. Or I opt for a movie. And in this case it was The Flight of the Red Balloon , which was inspired by the original 1956 French short, The Red Ball...

My poetry has taken a back seat this year. I’ve been concentrating on writing articles and finishing my novel. But it’s nearly there! Only a few chapters to go. It’s a children’s novel for older readers. I’ll tell you some more about that another time and maybe even share a snippet or two from the text. Meanwhile – thank you next-door-neighbour poet friend, Helen, for reminding me about poems! Here’s some from my poetry archive: forgotten two shadows merging stark and soft like falling petals turning in the breeze dancing a death waltz till they lie still on cold earth life blown silently away like irrelevant thoughts discarded forgotten Minou Aware of the clock that yesterday ticked in silence I have learned to savour these moments; you curled on my lap, nestled close, relaxed. I watch the rise and fall of your small body, each breath a memory of feline mischief. I stroke your ragged coat, trace the skeleton landscape under my fingers, aware of the slightest twitch of whiskers, curl o...

I’m still absorbed in story. (When will I not be?) I’ve spent the past week listening to different people’s stories, in one way or another. People from within my circle of friends, people I’ve happened upon during my day to day activities and others who have intentionally sought me out to listen to them professionally. All in various states of happiness and unhappiness, some content, others yearning for something more. And all with a common thread to their stories: What has been told is sacred. Last night I finished reading This is Not my Beautiful Life by Elly Varrenti. I know Elly, who heads up the Professional Writing and Editing course where I’m studying. Well I sort of know her. I’ve met her a few times and had a couple of conversations with her on campus. And she signed my copy of her book at a recent book reading. But I feel like I’ve known her for ages – after reading her book. After hearing her story. It’s a no holds barred story. And it’s transparent. Sometimes you feel like...

Story is far older than the art of science and psychology, and will always be the elder in the equation no matter how much time passes. —Clarissa Pinkola Estes I’ve been reading memoir. I’m in awe of anyone who can write memoir. How do they remember all that stuff? When I think back to my childhood or young adulthood, or five years ago – or last week – if I tried to write it down, I’d struggle to fill up a chapter, let alone a book. I do remember certain events, obviously, but never the detail that the memoirists I’ve been reading lately seem to. They write as if they’re talking about yesterday. When I try to conjure up my early past, it’s hard to tell if what comes to mind is an actual memory or whether I’m remembering my mother’s version of what she’d remembered about it. Or if I’m remembering a scene captured on Dad’s old movie camera – like me tap-dancing on a picnic table at the Maroondah Dam when I was about seven. How do you know whether you’re inventing a memory or actually ...

(N B: If you didn’t read Part One last week, I suggest you scroll down and do that first if you want to get the most out of Part Two!) Continued from last week… My writer’s brain is brimming with images, descriptions and feelings that have been evoked by the river, and even though I’ve been sitting here on my flat stone for over an hour – pen in hand – journaling everything I’ve seen or heard or thought, all I can think of now is the laptop computer sitting on the table in the shed. My fingers are on fire with story. I almost run back through the paddock, picking my way through the cow pats, missing most and wishing I’d packed gum boots. As I pass the billabong, I see an Eastern Swamphen on the far bank, busily foraging for food. I stop to watch for a minute or so, fascinated by the simpleness of her daily routine. The story in my head is writing itself at breakneck speed and I fumble with the chain on the gate as I try to hold on to details – turns of phrase, opening paragraph, sequen...

‘It’s all downhill – right?’ ‘The map seems to show a slight incline from Myrtleford to Porepunkah,’ says my friend. ‘So it’s downhill from Porepunkah to Myrtleford.’ On this basis, I agree to a bike ride she’s been looking forward to all holiday. ‘You’re sure there are no hills? You know I’m not good with hills.’ It’s the night before, and the conversation takes place just as I reach the cliff-hanger section of a novel I’m reading. One part of my brain is engulfed by the plot while Rhonda unfurls her plan to drive to Myrtleford, where she’ll leave my car, then cycle back to our campsite, just outside Porepunkah; I’ll join her and we’ll cycle back to Myrtleford together and enjoy afternoon tea at the bakery. At the periphery of my concentration, the plan sounds good – but by now, another part of my brain is fully occupied with how I’ll fill in the two and a half to three hours of solitude I’ll have, armed with binoculars, bird book, writing journal and laptop computer, sitting on the v...

I am perched on a smooth stone, the Buckland River rippling past my feet – clear, shining water, slooshing and swishing, gurgling and splashing over rocks that have been rounded by centuries of washing. Small sections of white water break up this shallow, moving mass, filling the air with the sound of turbulent playfulness; I am mesmerised by the patterns formed by the flow of water over the stones. The river smell is sensuous and fresh. Every breath in, a melding with mother earth; every breath out, a setting aside. A butterfly lands lightly on a glistening pebble, to drink, then flits off again. I follow it with my eyes, and watch it do the same again, closer to the bank. For a moment, I become the butterfly and the feeling of lightness and absence of thought is exhilarating. Returning to my self, I have the sudden feeling I am being watched. I see it, further upstream –a giant turtle. It is a gnarled old tree trunk that has fallen in the water, but looks so real, I check with my bin...

Happy Easter everyone. I'm off to enjoy some r'n'r by the Buckland River, living very close to nature - in a tent. Without the assistance of 'the practical one' on this occasion, I'm hoping I remember how to put it up! Easter means something different to us all. And the Easter of now might mean something different to you than the Easters of the past. We are always in a state of becoming - and so are our ideas, views of the world, and beliefs. This can be comforting and reassuring; but it can also be confronting and frightening. Yesterday, I read Michael Leunig's Easter Story: Away in a Chook Shed in the A2 section of Saturday's Age newspaper. I thought it was a very insightful article, presenting a truth in a way only Leunig can. He spoke about the divinity within ourselves - how sometimes we betray, deny, and persecute that part of ourselves - our courageous soul. And he spoke about getting rid of the spiritual possessions we accumulate over the years...

Yesterday, with the house to myself, I was going to write. A glorious day of writing – a bit of tidying up on an earlier chapter of my novel, make a start on chapter sixteen and then do some free writing – not necessarily in that order. And lie in the hammock to read some more of The Curious Incident of the Dog . However, having forgotten to transcribe 'curriculum day' from the school newsletter into my diary, I ended up walking to the shops with Hannah (my thirteen year old) and Milly (our dog), losing a fifty dollar note on the way. The feeling of embarrassment and horror in the bread shop, when I reached into an empty pocket, was acute. Daughter, dog and distraught mother hurriedly retraced our steps home, eyes glued to the footpath, to find nothing but an old shopping list and an empty envelope. So much for a leisurely stroll. And so much for the cappuccino and hot chocolate we were going to enjoy at the local café . Being a firm believer in providence, I only hoped whoever...

Have just seen that my article is up on the Melbourne’s Child website. If you want to read about hi-jinks in church and how to have your feet washed for free, click here . They've called it Of Maundy Thursday, Mirth and Majesty. Postscript Melbourne's Child has taken the article off the web now because it was a seasonal piece. So here it is if you'd like to read it! ‘I’m not washing someone’s smelly feet,’ my daughter exclaims, disgust splashed all over her thirteen-year-old face. ‘And no one’s washing my feet,’ adds my son, tightening his shoelaces in the back seat, ‘what if I have to laugh?’ I keep silent. The thought of washing some stranger’s feet doesn’t appeal to me either. I practically pass out when my son takes his runners off in another room. Conjuring up images of bunions, in-grown toenails, warts and goodness knows what other foul foot conditions I might come across starts to make me feel queasy. It’s Easter, and I’m on holiday with a girlfriend and my two teena...