Rebecca Addison's Blog, page 5

24. Something I found.

It’s 1985 and I’m seven years old. I have new, bright white sneakers that I’m so enamoured with I lovingly placed them on the end of my bed when I went to sleep the night before. We’re in a circle on ‘the mat’ at school, except that it’s not really a mat – it’s just carpet. My teacher is calling out names randomly, bucking the trend I’ve come to rely on in my time at school – that everything is dependent on the first letter of our last names. I’m a G and I’m happy with my position in the queue when it’s time to collect notes to take home, to chirp “Here!” when the roll is called in the morning, and now – when we do Show & Tell. The teacher starts with a boy whose surname begins with an M and it throws everyone off. Eyes dart around the circle. The girl next to me picks at a scab on her knee. I had planned on telling the class about my new sneakers, but now I’m not so sure. Not knowing when I’ll be up has my stomach folding over itself and my heart knocking against my ribs. When my name is eventually called, I keep my eyes on the carpet and quickly shake my head.

1992. My first ever mufti day at High School. I agonised over what to wear for hours the night before then woke up feeling frustrated and uncomfortable in my own skin. Everything feels too tight – my jeans pinch my belly and the top I’d picked out itches the back of my neck. It’s raining and cold outside and I have a sudden flashback to my old primary school. Our four class school was homey and warm. On rainy days, we all brought our slippers and changed into them at the door. I’m running late for the bus and feeling anxious because we’ve just moved across the city and I’m still learning the bus route. In a last minute panic, I throw on a pair of worn jeans and a pale pink sweatshirt I borrow from my mum. The bus is slow – it’s a trolley bus, with those long antenna-like poles that are always coming off the wires. I mistake the bridge we travel under for one further up the road and pull the buzzer early. I’m too embarrassed to ask the driver to keep going so I get out  in the pouring rain. By the time I make it to my classroom half an hour later, I’m drenched. I feel the fringe I’m trying to grow out sticking to my forehead. The bell hasn’t gone yet which gives the girls in my all-girl school ten minutes to assess each other’s outfits. A girl I’m terrified of strides up to me as I make my way into the room and unrolls the cuffs of my jeans for me. Apparently, rolled up jeans are so Intermediate School. She’s wearing a huge men’s Barker sweatshirt and wide leg jeans. I don’t like what she’s wearing but make a mental note to look for these items the next time my mum takes me shopping.

2013. It’s Christmas time. My friend and I have been buying our children gifts. We’re trying, as we do every year, to find things that are original and locally made but still in our price range. We laugh as we shop because we both know we’ll end up at Toys R Us. I want to buy my daughter a chapter book with a main character who shares her name. Now that she’s nine, she would like to distance herself from ‘Jemima Puddleduck’. I can’t find one anywhere and I mention this on Facebook. A friend casually suggests that I write one. At first, I scoff at myself. Write a book? But the idea keeps coming back to me – when I’m cooking, when I’m driving, as I lie awake at night, and I realise that I want to write this book. I want to write it more than I’ve wanted to do anything for a long, long, time.

2015. I have a file on my computer named Writing. It’s full of books and stories that I’ve written but not shared with anyone. I start to write a romance novel and surprise myself by enjoying it. I decide to take a big risk and share what I’ve written – timidly at first, then with growing confidence, and the positive reaction my writing receives feels like a flower blooming inside my chest.

And here I am.

It wasn’t until my 30s that I found the thing I had been missing throughout my childhood, my teens, and most of my twenties.

Self-belief. Self-confidence. Self.

A sense of okay-ness. I’m not finished learning about this but I know that I like who I am. I like my clothes and my hair and my body. I can say I’m a writer out loud without cringing or following it up with a self-deprecating comment. I know that I’m good at writing and cooking and reading out loud. Equally, I know that I’m not good at being in a crowd or playing instruments or reading things with lots of numbers or detailed instructions. I can make things and they might not always turn out how I imagined them to be. They might be better. I can learn things. I can speak up if I don’t agree with something and that doesn’t make me difficult or bitchy or a nag. It just means I’m using my voice.

It took me a while to find this. I spent a few years walking toward it then at the last minute deliberately going the wrong way.

But do you know what I learned when I got there eventually?

The long search made the discovery all the more precious.

 

 

23. What I want to be when I grow up.

I confess that I used to be very big on Life Lists. I suspect I got this idea from Oprah sometime in my teens and being a person with a natural love of ticking things off, it became something of an obsession.

I have my old Life Lists in diaries and notebooks that I keep in a box under the bed. A lot of them are travel based (visit the Amazon, see the pyramids), others are personal goals (become familiar with the works of Hemingway, Dickens, Bach, Beethoven), some are career focused (publish something), and others are just dreams (own a house with a red door). I’ve achieved many of them and I will never achieve others. I no longer tick them off.

Goals can be good things. They can keep you on track, keep you focused on moving forward.

For me, they can also distract from the present and keep my eyes trained on something out there on the horizon. One of my unhappiest times was when I was intent on reaching a big goal. Suddenly, what I had wasn’t good enough; I could only see the negatives. I wanted my goal and every time I moved away instead of toward it, I felt the sharp sting of failure. It was only when I gave up relentlessly pursuing it that I found out how good I had it, right where I was.

I don’t like thinking of what I want to be when I grow up. I could say – a bestselling author – placing on the NYT bestsellers list – making enough from writing so that we can do the things we talk about in dreamy voices. But if I go there in my mind, I’m no longer here. And here is just fine.

Instead, I focus on the day. I try to fill it with some writing. Some reading. Some time in silence. I go online and connect with readers and reviewers. I make things to share with you. My husband and I work on covers and promos. I work hard at fine tuning old stories and I dream about new ones. That’s about as far into the future as I’m willing to go.

As a good friend said to me during a particularly hard time in my life, “Just live the day.”

And that’s what I do.

 

22. Thank you to a thing that I love.

Saying that you love your cat has some measure of stigma attached to it these days. I blame shows about pet hoarding. Somehow, being a cat lover has become associated with spinsterhood, craziness, isolation, bad hair and strange clothes. I’m curious as to how that all started. No one ever makes a meme about women who own lots of dogs.

I digress.

This is Vegas, the Bengal cat. He’s eight years old and unbelievably stubborn. He prefers to sleep under the sky on the small oval of ground he’s cleared of leaves and sticks to any cat bed or blanket.

We bought Vegas from a breeder when our daughter was three and our son was a newborn and since then he’s followed us from house to house and then over the sea to Australia. He’s one of the only constants our children can remember in their short lives full of packing and unpacking and new bedrooms.

Vegas cannot be contained. We’ve long given up trying to keep him indoors at night. Past attempts have resulted in a window being smashed and fly screens carefully removed from the window frame. When we amped up security, he left us a poo on the floor in protest.

He’s not a cuddly cat but when you pick him up he’s suddenly boneless, a silky sack of jelly that you can fling over your shoulder. He sleeps beside, not on, your lap and purrs like a V8 engine.

Sometimes, we all try to imagine what his voice would sound like if he could speak like a human. I think he has an accent, perhaps Spanish. My son thinks Vegas is an adventurer like Bear Grylls – it’s true that he can shoot up the highest gum tree and loves to roam the National Park near our house alone.

If anyone in the household is sick, sore, or sad, Vegas will find them. He’s unobtrusive about it, he never likes a fuss. He’ll just lay down against your side, or next to the sore part in the case of a sore knee or grazed elbow, and he’ll purr and wait until you feel better again. When my Nana died recently, he abandoned his outdoor pursuits for three days and followed me everywhere.

I really love my cat and I’m thankful to have him because he’s awesome. He’s cooler than we are but he still sticks around.

So am I a cat lady?

Yes. Yes I am.

21. My worst habit.

When I was a new mum, I had a blissful three hours to myself most days when my daughter napped between twelve and three.  Usually, I chose to spend that time nursing a cup of tea in front of daytime television. I watched a lot of rubbish and I took a shine to Dr Phil.

Now, hang on. I know what you’re thinking. But back in the early 2000s his show was completely different. There was something about the real life stories that had me hooked. My writer’s brain has always been overly interested in other people’s conversations, mannerisms, the little things that make them them. 

Over time, his catch phrases became a little cheesy and annoying – but one of them has remained with me.

How much fun are you to live with?

Which naturally brings me to the subject of this post – my worst habit.

Living with Rebecca:

WHERE CAN I SIGN UP?

Will make you breakfast in bed
Does most of the housework
Remembers your work or school functions / day your fees/bills are due / all special events
Sews
Organises paperwork and money
Will surprise you on your birthday

WAIT A MINUTE…

Can only sleep in complete silence and darkness. Will make you get out of bed to rearrange curtains in the event of “light spots”
Leaves shoes all over the house
Puts things in random places when feels the sudden urge to be clutter-free but can’t actually be bothered tidying up
Never takes the rubbish out
Opens a new packet of something before the last one is finished

But which is my worst?

On a more serious note, when I was thinking about this post at 3am this morning (that’s another one – insomnia and the desire to talk to my husband in the wee hours) I realised that my worst habit is one I am working hard on changing. It’s one that’s so ingrained in all of us that we do it without even realising.

It starts with an innocent little question:

Are you okay?

Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine.

I’m just tired.

Yes! I’m good. You?

But actually, I’m not feeling well. Or I’m angry at something you said to me earlier. Or frustrated that you weren’t listening to me before. Or any number of things.

I don’t think this habit is a good one to pass on to my daughter. She’s a child who is already very eager to please the people she loves.

So I’m trying to get honest with people, especially my kids. Obviously, I spare them the intimate details if they’re not appropriate, but there’s nothing wrong with this scenario:

“Mum, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I’m feeling really frustrated. I have a lot to do this afternoon and I’ve asked for some help with getting these clothes folded and put away but no one has stopped what they’re doing. It makes me feel annoyed.”

My nana died recently. As you can imagine, I was sad, and being sad is sometimes hard to do in front of your children. I recognised it as an opportunity to be honest about how I was feeling but also about grieving and death, two subjects they’ve been (thankfully) unfamiliar with thus far. They saw me cry. They hugged me and checked on me when we knew she was on her way, and they were there to support me and love me when she went.

I want to be honest in everything I do, whether I’m following Hemingway’s advice and writing the ‘truest sentence that I know’ or in my private life.

I’m working on it.

 

20. Something I lost.

When I was a child, I had a thing for the colour green. If mum was handing out lollipops and a green one was pulled from the bag, my sisters took a small step backwards and averted their eyes. Green was mine.

My birthday cake had green icing. Always.

And my tricycle, that brilliant speed demon with the big, black & white front wheel – that was green, too.

I rode that trike everywhere. Well, everywhere within my admittedly small domain – the path around the house, the neighbour’s driveway, and the footpath down to the bus shelter and back.

It was the dog’s fault that I lost it.

Our lovable but dim-witted golden retriever Paddy liked to sleep in the middle of the road and wander the streets of Miramar Heights until he found his way back to the ocean he loved.

I was riding my trike along the footpath one Saturday morning when I saw him. He was lying on the road again – tongue hanging out and long tail swish-swishing as he enjoyed the warmth of the gravel and tar on his fur. I got off my bike and called to him but he wouldn’t move. I wasn’t comfortable with him on the road. I knew that I wasn’t allowed to be there, and it seemed like a rule that should apply to animals as well as small children.

I decided to take him home.

Only, a golden retriever so fat he’s on a special diet your mother has to cook up on the stovetop every evening is not that easy to move. I pulled him, I tugged his collar. He grinned at me and rolled over so that I could scratch his tummy. Finally, after a very long time, he staggered to his feet and with my fingers tucked under his collar, we shuffled our way down the steps to the house.

I didn’t remember my green trike until I was lying in bed that night.

The next morning, it was gone.

I couldn’t believe someone would steal my trike, but they did.

For the next year, I looked in front gardens and down driveways, trying to spot the thief and my long lost freedom machine – but I never saw it again.

 

19. Brain dump: what’s on my mind right now.

This really does feel like a confession.

I would like to tell you that I have a lot on my mind. The Syrian refugee crisis, The US presidential election, the fact that there is a new airport being built with a proposed flight plan right over my house.

But because I have written three full-length novels in 12 months and it’s school holidays and I’m very tired, my brain which usually looks like this:

Currently looks like this:

Can you hear crickets? It’s actually more like a low, fuzzy white noise kind of sound. My brain is sleeping.

So now I will confess the first thing I thought about when I woke up this morning. It wasn’t the Syrian refugee crisis, the US presidential election, or the proposed airport.

It was Married at First Sight.

Have you heard of this show?

Holy cow. So, what happens is, four women and four men who are looking for love sign up to this “social experiment”. They undergo tests and interviews with the three people who are referred to as the experts throughout the show, and then they allow these experts to choose a match for them. Not for a date. For their wedding! They meet their husband or wife on their wedding day.

Oh, it’s terrible. But it’s very good to watch.

My favourites are Simone and Xavier because she is cute as a button and so nice, and she’s clearly into him, even with that hair of his. I had my reservations about 25-year-old Erin – mainly because she had never lived away from home or done a grocery shop and had to call her mum to ask her how to cut up an onion. She’s kind of winning me over though (I see through your sarcasm and defense mechanisms now, Erin!), and her husband Bryce is just about the sweetest man on the planet. I’m pretty sure every viewer in Australia would be quite happy for him to move in or at least turn up for family dinners.

And then there are Jono and Clare. Oh, Lordy. These two turned up at the “Meet the Other Couples” dinner last night separately. Jono pitched a fit earlier in the week and moved out because Clare called him on his tantrums and teased hm about being scared of crocodiles. He was incredibly rude to her over dinner, openly discussing what went wrong in their relationship with the other couples while she sat right there. It was horrifying to watch. I know there were awkward faces and some crying in the bathroom but this morning I can’t remember much of what was said other than Jono’s favourite movie is Happy Feet. They also showed them watching Frozen in an earlier ep. The producers are having a field day with that one.

So that’s what was on my mind. Pretty cutting edge stuff.

Have a great day everyone, & don’t forget to enter my giveaway by posting a comment on the Swag Bag post!

P.S When is the last time you played with Microsoft Paint?

18. What I’ve learned about life so far.

What I’ve learned about life so far. What a huge question. I thought about this blog post all day yesterday, wrestling with the big things and the small things I’ve learned so far. When I woke up this morning, I found a Facebook post on my page and it summed it all up nicely.

What I’ve learned about life is that it’s yours to live.

I’m naturally quiet and can lean toward being passive. It’s easier for me to say, “No..you do what you need to do, I’ll wait” rather than push for what I want or need. And being a mother just cements that mentality, doesn’t it – for years we’re giving and giving, waiting for the time when it will be our turn again.

The older I get, the more I realise how fast time moves. My children are so big now and I wonder how that happened. I’m another year older in the blink of an eye.

What I’ve learned is that it’s all up to you.

No more waiting.

Here is the post from Elizabeth Gilbert. If you don’t already follow her on Facebook, check out her page. She inspires me every morning.

Dear Ones –

When I think about how hard my mother pushed me to become as strong and independent and resourceful and resilient a person as possible, I believe it was because of this truth — which life had already taught her very well:

Bad things happen to women who wait for good things to happen.

Waiting to be rescued, waiting to be noticed, waiting to be heard, waiting for things to change, waiting for somebody to defend you, waiting for somebody to understand you, waiting for things to get better, waiting for a miracle, waiting for recognition, waiting for a promotion, waiting for the economy to pick up, waiting, waiting, waiting…

But here’s the dangerous thing about spending your life waiting: When you are paused — defenseless and passive — the world around you does not pause. Life remains in session, which means: THINGS KEEP HAPPENING. Whether you show up or not, life will keep occurring. And as you sit there waiting for good things to happen, all sorts of other things are happening around you. And if you continue to just sit there (hoping and waiting for something “good”) then things will not only happen around you, but TO you. And the less you participate in that story (the story of “your life is in session”), the more likely it is that the things happening to you will be based upon other people’s decisions, other people’s power, other people’s demands, other people’s needs, other people’s manipulations, other people’s will — in short: other people will show up and start using your life for their own purposes.

Other people’s purposes are unlikely to be in your best interest.

This is very, very dangerous.

Please understand: I am not a forceful person, by nature. I was not, by nature, born confident and certain. My brain and heart lean more toward “worrier” than “warrior”. My inclination as a child was to hide in quiet rooms, safely building nests of blankets and pillows — wishing to not have to participate. So reluctant to even be here!

But my mother had already seen what happens to girls who grow up to be women who are reluctant to engage with their own lives. She wasn’t having it. It was a battle for my mother to forge me into somebody who could participate in her own life at every level, rather than softly folding in on herself, and becoming life’s victim. But my mom didn’t give up on that battle, because she cared about me. And when I’m feeling scared and small, I STILL have to reach deep down and find that power to show up — to keep participating in my own choices, no matter how hard it is. And to accept the consequences of my choices from a place of sober self-accountability…which is the ultimate source of power.

If there’s one thing I’m trying to do on this page, every single day, it is to pass that lesson onto you.

I want you to take agency over your own life.

I know: You’re afraid sometimes to take agency over your own life because you’re afraid you will make the wrong decisions — but if you don’t make decisions for yourself, then decisions will be made for you, by somebody who may or may not (probably not) feel the same sense of sacred stewardship over your one rare and precious life that I want you to feel.

This doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone. Find your team, find your tribe, find your supporters, find your coaches, find your teachers — find those who will love and uphold you. But make sure they are people who know that you are strong — not people who fear that you are weak. Make sure they are encouragers, not enablers. Ask their advice. Listen to their wisdom. Fall in their arms at times in tears, seeking comfort.

But then — DECIDE.

Make your move. Understand that your life choices must originate from your own power — or else somebody else will lay their power upon you. And that will never be a good thing.

Stop waiting, everyone. Please don’t forget this: Any move you make — born of your own volition — is better than BEING moved by somebody else’s hand.

I love you, and you can do this.

ONWARD,

LG

Swag Bag Giveaway!

 

It’s almost here! To celebrate I’m giving away one awesome swag bag full of treats. The winner will receive:

A signed first edition copy of The ‘Ohana Tree
Summer tote bag
Mug with quote from the book
Nail polish
Aloha CD
Bookmark (not pictured)

All you have to do to enter is leave me a comment below.

Winner will be drawn on May 20, 2016 and will be notified by email. Open internationally. Prize will be sent by standard post (no tracking) by 30 May. Winner is final and prize cannot be exchanged or redeemed for cash.

Please share with your friends!

17. A DIY on something I know nothing about.

The first DIY on my blog, 2010.

I’m a DIY’r from way back. The first time I remember taking on a job probably best left to the professionals was when I was about seven years old. My mother and I decided to service her sewing machine. We took it to pieces on top of the dining table, cleaned and oiled it, then forgot how to put it back together. I don’t remember what happened to the sewing machine but I do know that it lived to sew another dance costume so it can’t have been that bad.

My mum has always had a ‘can do’ spirit. If a wall needed painting, she painted it. I have memories of her mixing plaster to repair a hole in a wall, hanging wallpaper, changing lights. We were an all-female household who just ‘got on with it’ – something I’m grateful for. As an adult, it has never occurred to me that I can’t do whatever task is at hand on my own.

Most of the time, I can do it. A couple of months ago, I built one of those flat pack kitchen pantries on my own. I’ve assembled barbecues, a guinea pig hutch, and more Ikea furniture than I care to admit to. I like working on cars as long as I have someone around who knows what they’re doing (engines are not my area of expertise).

I am not good at knitting.

This sometimes shocks people because I’m a good sewer and all round crafty person. I even wrote a successful blog based on DIY. You can check it out here. But try as I might, I can’t cope with the numbers and codes on knitting patterns and I’m forever losing my place.

A year ago, I tried to fix our billy kart for the school Billy Kart Derby by myself. I went to the hardware store no less than five times in one day. It got embarrassing around visit 3 and the wheel still fell off on the day of the race.

I’m not good with electronics but I will give it a good try and usually succeed through dumb luck or by a process of elimination.

I discovered I’m quite good at editing together movies by teaching myself and now I make one for each of my kids every year.

The point is, we’re all good at some things and not good at others – but how will we know which is which unless we give it a try?

My DIY hero is my sister Rosie. She makes things all the time. Sometimes they work brilliantly and even if they don’t she’ll still post a photo on Facebook and laugh about it.

I want to be like that. 

I want that spirit.

Don’t you?

 

16. My obituary.

I found this a little creepy.. it gave me a wonky feeling in my tummy. I mean, no-one really likes thinking about their own death, do they? Especially not when they have two young children.

I decided that the only way to handle it was to go for absolute best case scenario.