Gillian Polack's Blog, page 40

Purim reading

A very long time ago there lived a rich and powerful king. His name was Ahasuerus, but no-one could pronounce it. Even his friends found it difficult to say. They called him Harry. All his servants called him the PM - standing for Persian Monarch - acronyms were just coming into fashion around then. He ruled over 127 provinces.

Harry lived in Shushan and generally ignored the provinces, except when he wanted something from them. Mostly it was taxes. Occasionally he collected a concubine or two, but generally he preferred good solid gold. His favourite miner was a young lady called Gina – she’s a bit older now. The reason he ignored the provinces was because he was too busy spending the taxes and his newly-mined gold on feasts. He also bought rights to a house elf called Dobby.

When he’d done all this, he was hungry. Tea-breaks just weren't good enough for someone in his line of work, he decided. It was a hard job, ruling.

The PM got rid of the tea-ladies and sacked Mr CMOT Dibbler, whose family had a long pedigree of making Persian sausages. Harry brought in banquet-management and promoted his new-found friend, Dobby, who hadn’t managed to stay bought for very long. Dobby organised the feasts, or delegated them to junior house-elves (for as a free elf, he was unionised). The unfree elves brought in contractors to do the job. Harry never remembered to invite the contractors and refused to give the unfree elves his spare socks. They weren't too happy about this, but there wasn't much they could do except grumble, or give the job to someone even further down the hierarchy the next time, or, in the case of a young contractor called Katniss Everdeen, to overthrow the establishment – but that’s another story.

Eventually a lowly branch of servants called D.o.P.E. came to exist, standing for Department of Private Entertainment. The head of the DOPE looked remarkably like Gillian’s nephew and was named Conan. Everyone thought he was a barbarian. He answered to Dobby, of course.

Harry mostly wasn't worried that he didn't pay for the feasts himself, or even organise them. After all, he was king and he had dreadful insomnia. He also poisoned lots of enemies. His most recent successful poisoning let him gloating, but didn’t help the headache. The world was a better place now that Harold, the invisible dog was dead. A small banquet here and another there was but tiny reward for the dreadful impositions of duty.

Archaeologists were never invited to the feasts either. They weren't worried by this. For one thing, they were too poor to pay taxes. For another, they had a dreadful habit of waiting till any big event had been over for a thousand years or so and then digging it all up again. Whenever Harry threw a feast, the archaeologists threw a sort of pre-university academic gathering, where they would get drunk and tell everyone else exactly how they would go about the excavation for this particular dig.

They were advised by a strange Englishman, who wasn’t at all worried that he hadn’t been born yet, for he was too busy analysing the not-yet-buried material at the pre-dig party. He predicted very precise futures from this material and swore that when he finally legally existed, he would become a superlatively brilliant detective. He would also be played by Benedict Cumberbatch.

The archaeologists were always writing letters to American universities asking for funding. Marvin the Paranoid Archaeologist (who looked strangely like Gillian’s nephew) said depressingly “This is not going to get anywhere.”

Each of these letters was carefully written on clay tablets and passed from hand to hand until it was so smudged with corrections that they had to start all over again. Each time they started over, Marvin the paranoid Archaeologist would announce how miserable it all was, that his tremendous brain was wasted on such measly matters, and that it would fail miserably. Sometimes someone got sick of all of this and they tried sending a tablet after only five or so drafts.

There was never any answer anyway. Ancient Persian archaeologists thought too much about the overall picture and forgot local chronology. Except for Marvin the Paranoid Archaeologist, who knew everything. America hadn't been discovered by Europeans. In fact, Europe had hardly been discovered by Europeans either.

When no-one answered these carefully expressed letters they got huffy and pretended they didn't really need the funding anyway.

One day Harry decided to throw a drunken orgy along with one of his banquets. Dobby disapproved. The archaeologists used this as an excuse for yet another boring academic gathering. They were discussing the possibility of grants. Marvin complained that there would never be any grants. That no-one appreciated the magnitude of his intellect. And that banquets were boring anyway.

The servants (other than the DoPEs) had a stop-work meeting to discuss work conditions, and ended up giving each other seminars on management technique. The DoPEs wished they knew how Dobby had obtained his sock – they wanted to join the stop-work meeting.

This feast was to be Harry's best yet: it made the third page of the pre-Murdoch press. It even beat the Tasmanian elections.

Vashti, Harry's queen, also gave a feast. It was much more sedate. Pottery was used so the archaeologists dismissed the midden-heap as boring. Archaeologists prefer crumpled gold to shards of pottery, even ones who look like Gillian’s nephew, though no-one has ever been able to work out why.

The king got pretty drunk at this feast. He'd killed all his enemies so there was no poison floating around. This meant he could drink lots of wine. Ancient Persian wine was pretty potent. After two glasses he sung a little song he made up for himself. He flattered himself it had a nice little melody, might have made the pop charts if someone had remembered to invent them. Auntie Jack eventually used it as inspiration for Wollongong the Brave.

After everyone had applauded him and he'd had a few more goblets of wine, and he'd been encouraged to sing his shy, lilting melody a few more times, he was very drunk indeed. He looked for his queen and couldn't find her. He looked under his throne, which was a stupid thing to do, since it was solid. He looked everywhere. He even asked Dobby (who, as Gillian’s work experience student says, “is a free elf!”) if he had seen her. Finally he thought she must have gone to sleep after her own banquet. He had forgotten she had a banquet. He wondered who she had invited. He decided to ask her. He sent the chief eunuch to wake her up. After he found out her guest list, he thought, he could get all the gentlemen of his court to tell him how lovely she was and how good he was at choosing a bride.

His chief eunuch, Hege, took about three hours to find the Queen. When he eventually crawled back into the King's presence, his face was miserable. He grovelled just as hard as he could. He grovelled into the floor, making a hole. “I need to rename you,” the king said. “Fatso. Fatso the Wombat.” The king was, of course, still drunk. No-one in Ancient Persia knew about wombats.

With his head so far into the floor his voice couldn't be heard, Hege (or Fatso) excused himself as the bringer of bad tidings. The king made him grovel in apology for mumbling. Then he got him to tell the message all over again. The eunuch was terrified and purple splotches began to cover his face. Harry was fascinated by this phenomenon. It didn't help him find the Queen, though. "She refused to come," muttered the eunuch, and he grovelled himself out of sight before the king could come to his senses and have him killed. Hege was a survivor.

The next day Vashti did come. She walked up the 953 purple and red plush steps to the gracious throne and had a private interview with the King. The King was livid. Vashti walked gracefully back down those 953 steps, a slight smile on her face.

Harry sent out decrees to all parts of his kingdom in all the languages of his realms. They stressed the need for wifely obedience. More than one hundred and seventy-five clay tablets were used for the various drafts. It went up and down the Persian hierarchy no fewer than thirty-one times in its search for perfect wording.

Wherever the decrees were understood, an awful lot of wives walked down the steps of the house with slight grins on their faces. Fortunately, the wording of the decree was obscure, obtuse and largely incomprehensible. Nineteenth century historians were very angry when they discovered this. The Persian Empire would have fallen at least 200 years earlier, Toynbee calculated, if there had been a complete breakdown of all marriages at the time. Mind you, he couldn't understand the decree. Sherlock predicted all this, of course, but he wouldn’t be born until 6 January 1854, so no-one listened to him.

The king was pretty pleased with himself after this, and he threw a party. The archaeologists waited anxiously in the rubbish dump along with the king’s close friend Gina, ready to examine the tailings. The tailings never arrived.

What had happened was the king had looked around for Vashti and found she wasn't there. The PM, being a King and no ordinary mortal, got sick of his 861 concubines fairly quickly. Then it dawned on him, he needed a replacement. He set up a Royal Commission to investigate the matter. The Royal Commission acted with extraordinary speed for a Royal Commission due to the king's uncertain temper. They were too slow.

After their untimely demise, the PM was forced to try other measures. He got in touch with his Chief of Protocol, who referred him to Tony who was Minister for Women, who referred him to Tony who was Minister for Indigenous Affairs who referred him to Tony who was in charge of the Office of Best Practice for Regulation, who referred him to the Taxation Branch. The Taxation Branch could not be found. So the PM asked Dobby (who was a free elf, but who now also served as the PM’s personal assistant), who referred him to the advertising manager. The King did not know he had an advertising manager, and felt safe when he discovered it was Lord Sandilands.

His Lordship decided to set up a complete list of all applicants, and then to hold a beauty parade. The PM was to choose his own bride.

The plan was modest. To gather together the largest array of beautiful virgins ever seen, and to sell the leftovers as slaves. The list was entitled Virgins and Maidens of Persian Satrapies, or VAMPS, for short. The advertising manager sent for his favourite consultants, whose normal work was in the Ancient Persian equivalent of King's Cross. The list of VAMPS was considerably shorter by the time the King discovered that they couldn't be trusted.

Dobby and Fatso the Wombat between them found a florid young man who had migrated to Persia from the ancient equivalent of California. He had degrees in pre-Keynesian macro-economics, technology transfer and advanced sandwich making, so it was decided that wife-hunting was the perfect thing for him. He was massively enthusiastic about it and set up a huge media-campaign. It worked so well, this campaign, that, over two thousand years later, the Australian Government was to consider using carrier pigeons, runners, and clay tablets to advertise the NBN. Unfortunately carrier pigeons were nearly extinct by then, and the climate wasn't suitable for clay tablets. The NBN fizzled. However, Lord Sandilands and the florid young man managed to amass a huge number of Ancient Persian virgins for the king to consider.

To cope with the sudden mass of information, the archaeologists set up a research group to keep American academics informed of the King's affairs. This was known as TIMEWARP, or Transatlantic Information on the Monarchical Eastern Women's Affairs Research Program. The Americans took 2,500 years to find out about it.

The shyest and most demure girl in Shushan at this time was the niece of a man called Mordechai, who was Minister for Security, or Persio, as it was known. Mordechai had taken care of his timid relative since the death of her parents, many years before. Now that she was adult, he had great plans for her. Hollywood! Either that or Home and Away. Lasting fame and glory, and her virtuous modesty untouched.

His first worry had been her taste in clothes. She was demure and quiet, but she dressed, to put it bluntly, like a bogan. She wore trakkydaks with Ugg boots when she went to the theatre, and her midriff was always, always bare. Her hair was teased peroxide blonde and her lipstick matched her handbag and her fingernails with killer precision. Each part was fine, but the complete effect only said one thing. Hard to have a career, even on Home and Away, if you look as if you belong on Kath and Kim.

All Mordechai’s fond dreams were rudely shattered when Esther became a VAMP.

Hege (who really didn’t look nearly as much like Fatso the Wombat as the king thought) rather liked Esther. He had a weakness for bogans. He didn't know she was related to Mordechai. Mordechai couldn't tell him of the link, or stop Esther from being rounded up with the other virgins, because he had a dreadful sore throat. It was thought that his secretary had put something in his mid-morning cup of wine. As everyone knows, all Ancient Persians sang at every opportunity. What not many people are aware of is that Mordechai sang rather like a dying chain-saw, and that was on a good day. So the hero of this tale was sulking in his office when Esther was taken to the palace. He couldn't sing, so he was teaching himself how to mutter. A useful and pleasant past-time.

During the preparations for the parade of beauties, Hege would often stop and chat a little with Esther because she never made jokes about his weight. He gave her good advice, and told her useful things. He persuaded her to leave the Ugg boots at home, for instance, along with the Crocs and socks that were her second favourite footwear.

Hege's most useful piece of advice to Esther was simple: to have a bath before the presentation. It was traditional that the king walked down the line of beauties as quickly as possible, you see, just to get away from the smell. All the beauties spent far too long in the traditional baths of frankincense and myrrh and other incenses and the combined smell was impossibly intense.

On the day of the parade, Esther adorned herself simply, as befits a young maid. The king admired Princess Leia and looked approvingly at Aunt Beast. He thought the Ugly Duckling had promise, but the smell of incense was just too much and he moved on before he got dizzy. When the king stopped in front of her as Hege had predicted, demure little Esther shyly raised her long lashed eyes and Harry was enchanted.

Factionalism was particularly rife in the Persian government. Hege was Centre-Left, and very powerful. Mordechai's power was mostly personal.

This was a shame, because very few people really got on with him. Though he had an older brother with a great deal of charm, and a young sister who was as sweet as they came, he couldn't sing, and, when they'd taken care of that, the man insisted on muttering. It was absolutely impossible to like him under these conditions.

But he was clever, and had managed to find out about a plot against the PM's life. Mordechai and his intrepid band of Persio men foiled it, of course. The matter was written up in a Departmental Minute and it was sent to the King. It unfortunately went to the Taxation Department instead, and was filed under Shushan region 15, section 9501, subsection 33.56392 by mistake. Life went on as usual.

Haman, who was of the extreme right, found great favour with Harry at this time. He was a notable person in many ways. Even before he entered the Megillat Esther, he was responsible for a variety of noxious conditions. They included Twitter addiction, indigestion, job outsourcing, curling, and tourists who persist in telling you how to find your way home. He also invented Facebook, Days of our Lives, and paperclips. He was promoted to chief minister.

Haman used his newfound power constructively. First he ground people's faces into the dust. Then he laughed at them for having dusty faces. Also, he offered people flat rate taxes. When they enthusiastically agreed to it, he raised all taxes to 99% of income.

He liked giving banquets in honour of himself. Only the archaeologists and the DoPEs were pleased. He made everyone bow to him, including Dobby, but Mordechai wouldn't. He muttered to himself and claimed that his sore throat and a stiff neck had given him a very rigid spinal column.

Haman didn't do things by half. When he planned his revenge on Mordechai for his disrespect, he didn't just plan to unstiffen his neck. First, Mordechai's mother would die, Haman decided. Then his brother was added to the list. He tried to poison them with a cunningly ethnic food fair. When this didn't work, his ambitions grew. He added Mordechai's sisters and his cousins and his aunts and even his mother-in-law to the list for slaughter. Then he went around trying to find a tune for the words, "If sometime it must happen that a victim must be found; I've got a little list, I've got a little list, of Mordechai's relations who should all be underground. They never will be missed, no never will be missed..."

Haman looked at this list for a couple of days and decided it was very unsatisfying. Mordechai was Jewish, so Haman decided to kill the whole race. It was much easier to include everyone than to risk offending someone by leaving them off. He invented a couple of useful acronyms to cope with the problem. Both of them later became very popular. The first acronym was YIDs, standing for Yucky and Irreverent Dissidents, and the other was SDI, or Sudden Death Initiative. This latter was Haman's name for his special technique of ridding the world of his enemies. It went at the top of every list he made. It used the latest technology - the drawing of lots and the sending of fast couriers - enabling him to co-ordinate his effort in a way previously unheard of. Because the couriers reached every corner of the immense Persian realm, it was also called Far Wars. His advisors wrote SDI on their lists, as Haman told them to, but in their minds it stood for Some Damn Idiocy. At the bottom of every list Haman wrote in the biggest, boldest letters he could get his scribe to muster up, "NB gallows for Mordechai to be particularly high." Then he went to bed, perfectly happy.

Next day he cast lots, or Purim, and settled on the 13th of Adar as a suitable day. Then he told Ahasuerus that all the Jews were breaking the laws and ought to be punished. Just like refugees. It was necessary, Haman claimed, to make sure the bringer of justice was a disinterested and upright man, such as himself, for example. He brought in a representative from a lobby group founded the day before by himself, to argue the case. It was a very talkative lobby group, and was known as JAWS or, Jewish Abolition: Women's Society.

The King, deceived, handed over Haman his ring, which meant Haman could do what he liked in the matter.

On the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, ran the decrees, all Jews in the realm were to be killed, and their possessions were to be given to Haman. It was a very tidy, simple little decree.

The scribe who worked on it was a Persio agent. Mordechai was not very happy to get the news. He suggested that it would be a good idea for the Jews to stage a protest. The Society Contrary to the Abolition of Residents of Eastern Demesnes, or SCARED, had a meeting to discuss the matter. They contemplated a stop-work, a strike, a street-march, and a sit in, but eventually settled for sackcloth and ashes and wandering through the streets of Shushan, groaning loudly.

Esther was very embarrassed to hear that her uncle was roaming the streets, looking like a fool. It was bad enough that he was a Public Servant, but to wear such stupid clothes! She sent him linen and silk and cloth of gold. He sent back a message saying he'd rather die than wear such things. It took Esther a while to penetrate this deep and meaningful statement. In fact, it took a leak from the Taxation Office, which asked if she wanted any of the loot.

Esther was tempted by the gold, of course, but nobly put her life above such wordly considerations as money. In fact, for the first time in her life, she stopped to think. Her maids were very worried by this aberration, and sent for five psychologists. She had stopped thinking before they arrived. Esther washed herself very clean, and put on a lovely gown. She looked her very best - modest, timid and demure. Harry was so impressed that he granted her a favour. Vashti hadn't even been able to get him to pay the food bills. Esther knew the PM very well. So did the archaeologists. They held their collective breaths. You guessed it, she invited the King and Haman to a banquet. Conan (who was a barbarian and who looked just like Gillian’s nephew, organised it, of course).

Banquets don't just happen overnight, even when you are the Queen of Persia and have a whole army of DoPEs to do the work for you.

The weather was hot and sticky. Summer seemed to go on forever. The king's insomnia was getting worse and worse. He began to get bad headaches from all the filing he had to do. He'd have to invent a new government department to cope with it all, he thought. In the meantime, he spent long, sleepless nights dreaming of filing cabinets. Finally, at three o'clock in the morning, he sent for someone to read to him. Harry was torn between having something read to him that was interesting, or something that was so boring that it would put him to sleep. He compromised. One of his secretaries started reading him the tax returns for Susa region 15, section 9501, subsection 33.56392.

It wasn't what he thought it would be. When he found out that no-one had bothered to reward Mordechai for saving his life, he waxed exceeding wrath. In fact, he called Haman out of bed. Haman was puzzled, but hopeful.

The PM led into his subject indirectly. The filing cabinets walking beside his bed when he had dozed off three nights before, had inspired him. He commanded Haman to spend 50,000 sheckels of the enormous bribe which had got him the use of the signet ring, to set up a bureau to take care of the filing. He called it the Cabinet Office. Then he tackled the more important issue.

"What would you give someone deserving of the highest honour, if you were the King of Persia?" Harry asked. This looked promising. Haman listened for the sounds of the gallows-builders doing overtime and rubbed his hands with glee. He listed everything he could think of, but the centrepiece of the honour was to have "this worthy individual" astride the king's mount, adorned with cloth of gold, and wearing a crown.

Haman was not at all pleased to find himself, the next day, leading the King's horse. On it was Mordechai. On Mordechai's head was the king's own crown. To add insult to injury, Mordechai muttered the whole time and Haman had to pretend he was listening. The only good thing in Haman's whole day was the sight of the gallows, reaching higher and higher. He consoled himself with the thought of a private banquet with their Majesties, that evening.

The banquet wasn't really worthy of the name. It had only forty courses, and so few guests that Haman was able to monopolise the conversation. However, even the garbage bags were made of cloth of gold. The archaeologist wept tears of joy. Haman, while he was chatting away, managed to put a couple in his pocket to spend later.

Esther was in despair as the evening progressed. She had planned to reveal Haman's plot and the threat to her own life, and to allow the PM to see the villain's guilt written all over his face. If only that villain would stop talking long enough to let her get a word in edgewise! Mordechai stood behind the curtain in agony. He was tempted to try to sing a little something, to get the King's attention, but, after a woeful attempt, his voice faded entirely. Esther dismissed the noise as a male Australian prime minister catching sight of a feminist. The King relaxed again.

She sat back and listened to Haman talking for another hour or two or three. Then, for the second time in her life, Esther had a thought. She slipped quietly over to her lyre and sang a little song bewailing her sad lot. The King's face paled and he demanded an explanation. Esther told the King that she was Jewish, and that the crimes Haman had accused her people of were pure fabrication. She petitioned her husband for her very life.

Harry was bewildered. He went into the garden to think. What to do? His chief advisor, a murderer? Finally, the King knew what to do. Esther was more interesting than Haman, after all.

While the PM was in the moonlit garden, Haman had tried to get out of his dilemma. He had seen his life was threatened, and had come close to where the Queen was sitting, meaning to throw himself upon her mercy. The King re-entered and didn't realise that it was upon her mercy that Haman was advancing to throw himself. He vaguely remembered seeing a nice new gallows, fifty cubits high, in the central part of town. Haman was sent to these gallows at once. He said nothing, for he was gagged until he was out of the King's presence. It was Purim. Haman died bitter, but, being Ancient Persian, he couldn't resist writing his own funeral dirge. Very original, he thought, as he waited for the hangman.

I was a crooked man
I walked a crooked mile
I made some crooked sixpence
Into a crooked pile
And with my crooked dough
I led my crooked life
Which now must finish
Due to Kingy's crooked wife.

LynC - Women's History Month

Once upon a time there was a child. The fact that she was female is irrelevant to this tale, but you can take is as written that she was.

She started writing as soon as she could shape the letters, long before she could spell. Her early achievements included a nice little poem about flying cats. A nice little piece of fantastical doggerel, even if she says so herself. Unfortunately everyone around her believed it to be so also, and made sure she knew it. Having created something ‘Good’, she rested on her laurels and basked in the glory and the accolades until they ceased some years later.

For a while she turned her attention elsewhere; to book reviews, sketching, and history articles. Again she was much lauded and rested on her laurels.

Soon though this was not enough, and a burning desire to WRITE filled her. Those early attempts do not deserve any further attention being very derivative, and reeking of her immature and inexperienced teenage self. Even she realised they could just not be allowed to see the light of day and put them aside.

Then came University and ‘Life’ happened.

Sure she became involved in writers workshops and SF/F conventions where she mingled with many many a published author and learnt at their feet. She even won the odd award, but the burning desire within her to WRITE was dulled. Or maybe it was that it was satisfied by essays, translations of ancient texts, and editing other people’s works? Or maybe it was distracted by other matters such as friendships, boys, and religious debate? That is, she was now fully immersed in ‘Life’ and was content with small offerings to the ghods of creation.

Then she hitched up with a man, like unto no other, and together they produced the ultimate in creations, not once, but twice.

These creations proved to be massive resource drains, and not only were they not complete when published, but they required continuous and massive edits and re-writes. This process of caring for the Organic Works in Progress took all the energy of both their parents for many years.

By the time the girl could lift her head again, she was no longer the callow youth she’d been all those years ago. Now, a mature experienced woman, the urge to WRITE returned, but now she had ‘responsibilities’. She buried and tried to ignore the urge.

One day, while waiting for her family to crawl out of a Dalek (or two), she poured out her frustration to a wonderful wisewoman. A woman who had managed, despite her own responsibilities to actually become ‘Published’. This wisewoman offered eight words of advice.

“If you want to write, just do it!”

So simple, yet so profound. It was a real epiphany to our wannabe writer.

“If you want to write,
Just do it!”

But When, Where, How? Between earning a living, managing a household, and caring for the Organic WIPs where would she find the time? The energy? She was so often so exhausted she was just running on automatic.

“If you want to write, I’ll keep the kids out of your hair whenever I can” her equally exhausted and busy partner offered.

So he did, and she took up writing again. And she wrote. And wrote. She even entered her fledgling attempts in competitions they never won. The more she reacquainted herself with the craft of writing though, the more her innate talent and creativity pushed through.

The floodgates crashed open. Once she had started, she found she couldn’t stop. She wrote long into the night when the house slept, on the train between work and home, and even stolen moments at work. Even when not writing, the stories filled her head once again and demanded release.

Exhaustion? What was that when this or that needed to be got down on paper/computer or tweaked this way or that to make it match the visions dancing in her head.

But then, with two novels almost complete, calamity struck.

The oh-so-wonderful partner became ill. Very ill. He could no longer distract the Organic WIPs and give her time to write. Both he and the Organic WIPs needed her. Once again she shelved her desires. But this time she vowed it would not be for long. Not writing was like losing a part of herself she held very dear, and she would never do that to herself again.

And so it came to pass. Her partner ceased to need her for all the wrong and worst possible reasons. The Organic WIPs began to take some responsibility for themselves, and their need of her diminished as they grew in autonomy.

Finally, one glorious day, a Publisher said, “I’ll take that story.”

Like the wisewoman she was now ‘published’. Unlike the girl though, she has learnt her lesson, and there will be no resting on her laurels. There are at least five other novels waiting in the wings, and hopefully many many more.

If she has any words of wisdom to pass on to emerging writers, they will not be her own. They will be the words of that wisewoman.

“If you want to write, just do it!”

© LynC 2015

You can find Lyn here and her book here. I only discovered Lyn’s booklaunch after it had happened, at the moment when I was checking with the publisher (at their stall, at Continuum) to see if Satalyte were really, really sure they wanted my books. That was one launch I will always regret missing.

Donna Maree Hanson - Women's History Month

When I look over my life it seems as if I have always been overcoming hurdles. Surviving childhood was a bit of achievement! I’m sure many of you feel the same.

That may sound glib, but if I look at me now I am far from where I ever expected or even imagined myself to be.

Looking back I am glad that I have fought so hard for my achievements because the other me, the one that didn’t strive to achieve, to change her lot in life, would have been a miserable creature indeed.

The thing about goals is that when you achieve them you have to replace them with new goals. In my late teens I believe I started to take charge of my life. I’d left school at 15 with not even the year 10 leaving certificate.

I wasn’t happy about that so I set a goal for myself to get my year 10 certificate. When I did that, I then aimed for matriculation.

That was a hard slog. I did that by correspondence with three babies under five. Later, after my marriage broke up and I found myself back in Australia, I wanted to study at university.

To do that I had to matriculate in Australia and another goal emerged. Then after getting in to university I had to study hard to get the course I want and the complete the degree.

With three children that wasn’t always easy. One of my daughters said she remembered how happy I was at that time and how much I enjoyed studying.

Eventually, I got a job I liked. I moved to Canberra and bought a house. Something I never thought possible for a single mother of three. Not in Sydney at least. Not long after I took on my baby nephew and it became four children to raise.

It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I asked myself: what do you really want? The answer came back I want to write. That’s where my writing journey really begins. You can’t really count the attempt I made a 20, when I thought I was too stupid to write a novel.

So this is the time where I started. I just sat down and wrote, and wrote and not long after I had the makings of a novel. My life’s trauma’s have to take some credit for my creativity because I spent a lot of time in my head, in my imagination, to get through those tough times. Writing legitimises that.

Now the novel I first wrote was badly punctuated. It had sentences without verbs, run on sentences, words that were incorrect, missing words and a whole lot of first writer mistakes!

Overcoming this was my true hurdle. Turning that first draft into a story. At the time, it seemed insurmountable! A huge pile of paper I was sure it would take me a year to correct. In those days, I thought everything would happen so quickly. I knew nothing about anything in the publishing world, of course, but I set myself on a path to learn.

In those early days I didn’t have a problem giving up television to write. I was probably so committed and intense that I sabotaged my relationship with my then partner and possibly my family.

My obstacle of choice was learning the craft of writing and learning to be a better writer. It has taken 14 years to get where I am now. Where am I now? I have no idea. The publishing world has changed around me. When I started it out the goal was a three book deal, big sales and international rights. For many a year, my goal was to get my series published.

I went through the dumps where I considered I should give up, that my work was crap, that I was wasting my time. Yet, I always came back to why I was writing and what my goal was.

When I looked around in late 2012, particularly in the romance genre, I realised that the world had changed around me. There were big publishing deals, but not many and I had to consider my options.

Digital publishing deals were the next new thing. It seemed like a bit of an experiment. I considered it would be a shame to miss out on trying it. What was the worst thing that could happen? That no one would buy my books. The rewards of success were indescribable. The reality was somewhere in between. It’s a bit like lotto these days. You have to be in it for a chance to win.

Of course I know I’m not the one with the huge publishing deal with six figures, but you know I don’t care. Publishing that first title lit a fire inside of me. I wrote and wrote and I have more books out now. I realise now that all those years where I navel gazed, I should have kept on writing all the different things I wanted to write but kept that I’d been putting off. Putting off to some future time when I was a full time writer.

I was my own hurdle, my own obstacle.

Now I find that I have a certain liberation. I write for me. I write what I fancy.

Donna Maree Hanson writes fantasy, science fiction, horror, and under a pseudonym paranormal romance. She has been writing creatively since November 2000. She has had about 20 short stories published in various small press and ezines. Her long works include: Rayessa & the Space Pirates, was published with Harlequin’ s digital imprint, Escape and Rayessa & the Space Pirates (2013), the sequel which will be out with Escape in May 2015. Dragon Wine was published by Momentum (Pan Macmillan Australia’s Digital Imprint) in two parts, Shatterwing and Skywatcher in 2014.

Wendy Orr: Women's History Month

My first guest this year is the wonderful Wendy Orr. And the theme this year... well, I'll let her explain it herself.



In 1991, I broke my neck in a car accident. Actually, the driver who went through a Give Way sign at 140 km could be said to have broken it for me, but however you word it, I was the one with fractured and displaced neck vertebrae, whiplash, fractured skull, two broken ankles, smashed heel, smashed thumb, concussion and inner ear damage causing severe balance problems. The other injuries were minor and I don’t want to bore you.
Over the next few years, every specialist visit brought more discouraging news: I should never cross a street on my own, would never be able to walk on rough ground, go for a walk for pleasure, wear high heels, go on a boat…
Needless to say, I’ve looked at this story in many ways, including fiction. But this is Women’s History Month, so maybe it’s time to examine it from a feminist perspective.
At the time, I was a mother of two, farmer’s wife, occupational therapist and part-time writer: two children’s books published and several more contracted. Thank god for being a writer, you might say, as one insurance officer did, explaining that I wouldn’t need compensation for loss of income, since the accident had given me more time to write. After all, there’s nothing to writing except for having the time to do it, is there? Especially children’s books.
My rehab officer had earlier explained that as I was already thirty-seven, rehabilitation wouldn’t be worthwhile, especially as it was clear that I was over 50% disabled and would therefore be entitled to compensation. This wasn’t quite as devastating as you might think, because I was still completely convinced that I’d make a full recovery and be back at work in three months.
However, after two years it became clear that I couldn’t go on indefinitely postponing my return to work and would have to resign. It was a loss of job, income, and a huge part of my identity. I arranged that the friend who drove me to town to clear out my office would take me straight on to see a psychologist.
In a cliché to absolutely avoid in fiction, ‘One door closes and another opens,’ the receptionist greeted me with, ‘Your husband’s left a message: something about a short list.’ Leaving it to You, which I’d finished the week before the accident, was on the CBCA shortlist.
Still, even shortlisted books rarely equal paid employment, so I went to our country town solicitor to ask about compensation. The problem was, he said, that since I was a married woman, I was unlikely to receive compensation for loss of earning. Not fair, but the way it was.
I don’t know if I’d be writing this story if it didn’t have a happy ending. All the advice I’ve mentioned, both medical and legal, was incorrect. I was entitled to both rehabilitation and financial compensation – and although it took twenty years, I’ve made a nearly complete physical recovery. Would I have had to fight for it all quite so hard if I’d been a man? I doubt it. Would a woman receive the same advice today? I sincerely hope not.
And of course, in the end, I did say thank god for writing. In typical cannibalistic writer fashion, I even used my accident as a basis for the YA novel Peeling the Onion. I will never see the experience as something to be grateful for, but there is nothing so terrible that it can’t be twisted into a story, and I will always be grateful for that.



Wendy Orr is the internationally published and award-winning author of more than thirty books, ranging from picture books to adult. In 2008 Nim’s Island was released as a Hollywood feature film starring Jodie Foster, Abigail Breslin and Gerard Butler; Return to Nim’s Island, based on Nim at Sea and starring Bindi Irwin as Nim, followed in 2013. The third in the series, Rescue on Nim’s Island, was published in 2014 and is in development as a film. A Nim’s Island television series is also in development.

Women's History Month

It's March 1 and today is the beginning of a month-long celebration of women. Every year I invite guests to celebrate with me, and this year those guests are all writers and it will get personal. These writers will be sharing stories that are important to them, many close to home. I'm hoping that readers will join us and that my blog will host a marvellous diversity of tales by women and about women and that we can broaden the narrative choices women have.

It's going to be a great month.

gillpolack @ 2015-02-24T15:12:00

More grump. I'll report in when things improve. Loads of things going wrong, both big and small. You don't need to hear. It will all pass. And when it does, I shall daringly pretend this week never happened.

gillpolack @ 2015-02-23T15:32:00

Interlude for grump: it appears that my deadlines grow and my lists grow and suddenly I'm faced with a squillion meetings. This is because it's that time of year. That time of the year with added publications and thunderstorms. Still, Three meetings a day on Wednesday and Thursday (before and after teaching) and the a whole day of in-service (really good in-service, of the "Thou shalt not miss" variety leaves me very much in need of coffee.

Also, dear friends, if you would kindly stop getting ill and requiring operations, this would help.

gillpolack @ 2015-02-23T09:10:00

This week is all about lists again. By the end of it, one novel will be out and one manuscript with publisher and one academic paper re-written (the ms keeps nudging it from its place) and two short pieces will be written and some fiction will be a third through, and two subjects will be taught and ... I forget the rest, but it's written down. It includes four meetings, though. Also, it includes preparations for Women's History Month. I have a splendid programme* planned this year, with many wonderful writers joining me to talk about their lives and work.

If I skip posting when things get interesting, you'll know why. And all of this explains why I've been light on substantive posts.

In the Ye Olde Cookerie Projecte**, several people are reading the 17th century recipes and talking about them off-line, but so far no-one has apparently actually cooked them. Various life difficulties have intervened for some of my most enthusiastic cooks, and I am sending supportive thoughts in their driection. Feel free to daringly be the first person to post.

One of my Thursday students made an 18th century recipe for queen cakes, for class, and so I'm going to find an equivalent 17th century recipe next month for the blog (if I remember). I've myself tried two 18th century recipes (the one my student made was definitely my favourite, hence its appearance in the course handout), several recipes from the 19th century and a whole heap from the 20th, and it's time I completed the sequence.

And right now I crave currants in a rich buttery cake. Not going to happen. This is not the week for eating delightful foodstuffs that are not very good for me.

Today (this week) is the time for food from the freezer. Cooking is (alas) luxury time, and if I start taking luxury time, I'll not meet my deadlines or have to give up on sleep. I'll still take time out (I"m still getting over that idiot virus) but the time out will be controllable and careful.

And now those who didn't know but wonder how I get my deadlines done when life is a pain can see how I do one end of it. From here on in, numbers of things need to diminish and I need to get control back over it all. If paper proliferates and everything becomes more complicated, I'll not deal well (from experience) but if I can tick things off my lists and feel a sense of control, I'll achieve the apparently impossible. (How one does a PhD in less than 3 years - it's all about making it look manageable and working systematically and continuously to shrink tasks.)

Today's list is vast and long but only includes one meeting. The meeting will be a late one and a lengthy one, however, so I'd better finish everything else first. We-who-are-about-to-cross-tasks-off-lists... wait, I don't want to salute people, I want to drink coffee.





*If you're a writer-friend from here, and you didn't receive an invitation, it got lost in the either (for I invited all my writerly LJ friends). Send me an email if you want to join in!

**I am never sarcastic or mocking about pretend-ancient spelling. Never!

gillpolack @ 2015-02-22T13:06:00

The change from cyclone weather pattern to normal ones caught my body in a peculiar vice. The result was not much sleep, and the whole night coloured by the most appalling nightmare. Thank goodness I'm a lucid dreamer, for I woke myself up from it (even if it took three tries).

There were no eggs at the market this week (and I need them) and no market for me next week.

And so I'm a third through Sunday and about to start on the working elements. I intend to finish them before Broadchurch no matter how lacking in sleep and lacking in eggs my life is. Coffee is my best friend in this endeavour.

If I finish early, I may watch an episode of House of Cards and I may also add some other urgent work to my daily round. Finishing late is not possible. Broadchurch waits for no Gillian.

To be honest, I'd rather sleep, but this week is the week of immoveable deadlines. There are three more today.

At least I have cream for my coffee. And I can get more on Wednesday, should I need more due to too many deadlines and too many nightmares. Although the cyclone has blown off, now (which was quick) so I don't anticipate a night quite so colourful or dangerous for a while.

gillpolack @ 2015-02-20T21:55:00

My novels each have their own stories and sometimes those stories amuse me. My publisher just sent eArcs of The Art of Effective Dreaming to two writers. Each of them encountered a different cyclone just now. He pointed out that they have taken the fall for everyone else...

Since they're two entirely nice writers who are always there for others, I'm very happy with this development.