Christine Bongers's Blog, page 5

The long and the short of it

One of my nine sisters-in-law once rang on a Sunday night, to share a snippet she’d found in the Weekend Shopper classifieds. It read:

‘For Sale: Size 22 wedding dress. Never worn.’

Just eight little words and an entire story ballooned out . . . But what that��story meant��depended on the reader.

For her, the main character was overweight, jilted before her big day, perhaps consoling herself with great slabs of wedding cake, while an over-sized gown hung unworn on the cupboard door behind her.

For me, there was an alternative, more optimistic, reading. In��my version of the story, the��protagonist had lost 36 kilos before her big day – the dress no longer fitted!

My point is that readers complete��stories that writers begin – whether our stories are novel-length, with months if not years, separating writer and reader, or short, like the one I finished today (which hopefully makes the cut for an anthology coming out later in the year).

Stories are needy things – they demand to be written and they demand to be read. Only then are they truly finished.

So, wish me luck finishing today’s short story. It has been written. It has been flensed. Now it needs first readers, and all going well, a publisher, editor and proof reader. When it finally makes it into the hands of its readers, it will be ready. When they finish reading it and decide what it means to them, my story will be complete.

Making reading and writing dangerous

You know that feeling when you’re about to step backwards off the edge of a cliff?

The terrifying thrill of adrenalin? The not-knowing what’s going to happen next?

That’s how I feel whenever I walk into the spotlight, when I start writing a new scene, or send off a story that hasn’t been seen by any eyes but my own.

And it’s how I feel right now, packing for Melbourne and the Victorian Association for the Teaching of English State Conference.

I’m giving my final workshop of the year –��Making Reading and Writing Dangerous for Kids��– and I’m equal parts excited (because I love talking to teachers) and nervous (because hey, they’re teachers, what if they give me a bad grade?)

And as soon as that thought popped into my head, I heard the ghost of Mr Rainie, my Grade Eight English teacher repeating the words he said to me when I was twelve: ‘Why don’t you just try being the best that you can be, Christine, and see where that takes you?’

Well Mr Rainie, I am trying, but you didn’t tell me how dangerous that journey would be. Or how brave I’d have to be. Reporting from plane crashes, reading the ABC TV News in a borrowed shirt and half-slip, and walking naked (with all my talents and limits clearly on display), every time I publish a new book.

But I want you to know that I am still trying, Mr Rainie. And I’ll keep a special place for you at tomorrow’s workshop, just in case you’d like to come along and check on my progress. :)

 

 

 

My house hates me

Fifteen years we’ve been together and finally my house has turned on me.

I blame myself. I’m a disinterested cleaner (no Nana, not everyone shifts the furniture to vacuum) and denial works for a surprisingly long time where home maintenance is concerned.

It worked for me. Right up to the morning I parked my feet under my desk and paddled in something wet.

I immediately accused the dog - which offended him greatly – and then realised that the sodden pool of carpet was too large and fresh-smelling to be blamed on my fastidiously continent beagle.

Intrigued, I tracked the puddle to the wall, under it, and on to the real culprit – my en suite shower next door.

‘Your waterproofing’s failed,’ said Mick the plumber, hitching up his duds. ‘Big job fixing that.’

I thanked him, filed his advice in my too-hard basket, and informed Hubba Hubby that we could no longer use our shower.

But that’s okay, I assured him, because we could always use the decrepit bathroom on the back verandah. Which is what we did – right through the coldest months of the year.

Now, Brisbane isn’t Winterfell, but showering on the back verandah of an old Queenslander is exactly like standing outside naked in the middle of winter. But we figured we could tough it out, because we’re Brisvegans, and hey, summer is coming!

But long before the mercury hit anywhere near yesterday’s 40 degrees, the decrepit bathroom on the back verandah gave out under the unexpected and unrelenting pressure of daily use.

So for the last two months, we’ve been deep in the throes of not one, but two bathroom renovations.

All manner of tradesmen have trapsed through our house while the scream of tile-cutters filled the dust-clogged air, causing what I can only assume was an inexplicable neural spasm because, in the midst of reigning chaos, I decided to order new curtains. After all, they’d been in the house since we bought it, fifteen years seemed a fair innings, and how much extra chaos could new curtains cause anyway?

A fair bit apparently. Because yes, Nana, I did shift the bedroom furniture to vacuum (so that the curtain man wouldn’t think I was a grub). And that’s how I discovered the plague of carpet moth munching its way through the woollen carpets in my bedroom.

So now the beagle and I are holed up in my office (which thank the high heavens has lovely acrylic carpet, albeit slightly water-marked in that large stained area under my desk) while Wayne, the nicest pest man in the world mass-murders carpet moths in the main bedroom.

Swear to God, I should have left well enough alone.

Once you start paying these old girls a bit of attention, they get so dang demanding…

But to be fair, they also scrub up pretty well, don’t you think?

Dear Santa

I’m good (or at least not on the naughty list yet), how are you? Snowed under, I bet. So I thought you’d appreciate my wish list before this year buries us all under an avalanche of to-dos, not-dones, and oh-well-maybe-next-years.

Normally I like to keep it simple: something I want, something I need, something to eat and something to read. This year, I just want and need to eat up some great reads. Specifically these…

Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty: Suburban noir meets brilliantly wicked take on ex-husbands and second wives – sounds like me. Also gotta love a Sydney girl making the New York Times bestseller list (and if you’re handing out any of those treats this Christmas, Santa, count me in!)

We Were Liars by E. Lockhart: What the… a big break-out YA-novel-of -the-year and I haven’t read it yet – how could this have happened?? (And Santa, if you happen to be passing before December 25, my stocking is ready and waiting for you on the floor of the hall cupboard next to the flippers).

When the Night Comes by Favel Parrett: I just loved her powerful and moving debut novel Past the Shallows and am dying to read this next one.

Which is also pretty much how I feel about The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl by Melissa Keil.

Her last offering, Life in Outer Space, was one of my favourite YA reads last year, and I am expecting incredible things from her new heroine, the comic-loving Cinnamon Girl (which ticks all my boxes given my comic obsessed past).

And seriously Santa, wouldn’t everyone be wanting one of these on their shelves for the cover art alone?

So tell me, what’s on everyone else’s wish list this Christmas?

 

 

A twinkling of brides

Collective nouns aren’t normally associated with brides, what with only one usually in a room at a time (South Korean mass weddings notwithstanding).

But oh my lordy, we needed a compendium of collective nouns to describe the bevy of bridal treats that turned up for our 20th wedding anniversary party on the weekend.

Dozens of my nearest and dearest slipped, shoe-horned and shimmied their way back into their wedding finery to celebrate with hubba hubby and me.

A train of brides chugalugging on champers. A bouquet of bridesmaids blessing us with their fragrant presence. A gabble of groomsmen that could be heard a suburb away.

Oh, and for some unexplained reason, hubba hubby chose to wear a safari suit, but each to his own.

I love him dearly and when it comes to wedding parties, no-one cares what the blokes wear, do they?

Psst buddy, wanna be in my next novel?

Funny the things you do when you have a new book out.

I hate the thought of shopping (even more than camping or cleaning) and spring fashion means little to me beyond discarding the dacks of track and swapping my uggies for birkis.

Yet this week, in the interests of shameless self-promotion, I found myself purchasing a frothy frock and MCing a Spring Fashion Parade fundraiser for three hundred and fifty mums from Brisbane Boy’s College.

I even did my bit for worthy causes such as Hope Foundation and Street Swags by auctioning off the right to have a character in my next novel named after one lucky winner.

The ladies were quick to take up the challenge, and after a couple of champagnes and a spirited bidding war, the lovely Bronwyn McEntee (pictured here) emerged the victor, outbidding dozens of less committed bibliophiles, to take out the prize for an undisclosed sum.

Congratulations Bronwyn, I already have an evil character in mind for you in my current work-in-progress. Watch this space!

 

 

Breaking the rules

Two things I can do without in my life.

1. Cleaning. Yesterday, a nice man demolished our bathroom. Today, the haze settled to a fine blanket of dust coating every surface in our house.  I started Mr Sheening after breakfast, but unfortunately I started with the bookshelves in the dining room, precipitating an avalanche of chaos that has now engulfed two entire rooms. (I am dealing with this by hiding out in my office and writing this very important post.)

2. Camping. I came clean to hubba hubby on our wedding day. I don’t camp, don’t try to make me. I won’t, he promised. And so far he hasn’t.

Not that my last (and only) camping experience particulary scarred me. It was vaguely pleasant, I recall, in a bracing, cold-showery sort of way, in the beautiful Conondale Ranges near Gympie.

I went with a friend from National Parks who came well-prepared with an itemised list.

I’m bringing the tent, the camp oven, a saucepan and frypan, utensils, cutlery, plates, two bedrolls, a hurricane lamp, a torch, a portable table and chairs, an esky, ice, food for two days and a night, a pack of cards, a portable radio-cassette player and earplugs in case the other campers are noisy, she said. What are you bringing?

Um, the red wine? I suggested.

Fast-forward twenty-odd years, and I am about to break my ‘No Camping’ rule.

Yes, I am going on camp for two days over the September school holidays – the Meanjin Young Writers’ Camp at Griffith University. And the good news is that I get to sleep in my own bed at night!

I’m going with the good folk at ALEA – the Australian Literacy Educators’ Association, who are preparing now for their 34th Annual Young Writers’ Camp.

ALEA are bringing the kids (up to 120 keen young writers from Grades 5-8), and the authors (including the awesome Melaina Faranda, Julie Fison, Pat Flynn, Kate Hunter, Mark Svendsen and of course, little old me). And what am I bringing?

Um, the red pens?

Now, you’ll have to excuse me, there’s a tsunami of books spilling out of the dining room that needs my attention. Putting them back on the shelves will be quite enough cleaning for one day. ;)

 

Car Karma – an update

Eight weeks after it was stolen, my station wagon is finally back home – paddle board on top, and wetsuits and boogie board still in the boot.

Brickbats to the thief for gouging every panel before hoiking my key into the bush (that’s malicious damage, dummy, on top of auto theft when it goes to court – and yes, they did get your fingerprints).

And bouquets to the good folk at Yamba Police Station, the forensic cleaners, panel beaters and painters at Raven Smash Repairs at Grafton, Advanced Car Carriers and Allianz Insurance for bringing it home.

A short story – with a twist in the end.

When police found my car abandoned in the bush, I ‘fessed straight up to the insurer and panel beater that the little divot in the centre of the back bumper bar couldn’t be blamed on a robber. That was me, nudging a post.

No worries, they said. And blow me down, they fixed it anyway.

Karma. My car is now in better nick than before it was nicked. Don’t you just love a happy ending to a story?

 

Happy Book Week!

Choice article from Rocky Life to kickstart Book Week  2014 – Connect to Reading.

Looking forward to connecting with heaps of readers this week at Ashgrove Literature Festival, St Williams Grovely, and Sharing Stories – Connect to Reading with Authors & Illustrators – a Book Week Event for Kids aged 10-13 | Book Links Qld Inc.

Hope to see you round the writerly ridges this Book Week!

 

Want to swap books with me?

I rarely give away my favourite books. They’re like friends that I like to keep close, on hand for when I need the  fun and comfort they offer.

Even lending them out is fraught. I press them onto friends in the afterglow of reading, blissfully unaware of what went where ,and to whom, and only months later wonder what happened to those that didn’t make it back home.

So when Riverbend Books asked if I’d like to celebrate National Bookshop Day by donating a favourite or much-loved book to the Great Book Swap to aid Indigenous Literacy I immediately said yes,  because it’s such a great cause. But later, I felt a secret pang about donating a favourite or much-loved book. 

Sigh. So much easier to give away the ones that we don’t care for.

But luckily this story has a happy ending.

A quick search of my bookshelves unearthed two copies of one of my favourite books: Karen Foxlee’s gorgeous modern fairy tale, Ophelia and the Marvelous Boy.

(I can bring myself to part with the paperback because the American hardcover edition with its gloriously illustrated end pages will never leave my shelves.)

So, hope to see you on Saturday 9 August at Riverbend Books where I’ll be swapping one of my much-loved books.

Which favourite book are you prepared to part with for a good cause?