Amanda Apthorpe's Blog, page 2

Next novel 'A Single Breath' out on 1 September!

Just something simple

In the dining room of a small country pub that has ambition, with tablecloths less than white and less than starched; where the seats of hard backed chairs are warmed by shuffling of exuberant diners, and napkins shaped to fit a small pope's head are spread to soak spilt shiraz (locally grown), I find an unexpected peace. On the wall above my lover's head, a painting of a pink vase and carnations (locally painted). It's poorly, but lovingly done; by a woman is my guess (locally grown). But it hangs here, proudly, and it seems to me - me, this city girl, who knows the news and the state of the world -that it hangs here, defiantly. We're still here, it seems to say - simplicity, integrity and goodness. We're still here. 

Watch this space

My second novel is to be published this year. Watch this space for news and publication date. 

The highs and lows of speed dating

Ok, for those of you who know me, I'm not 'on the market'; well, not that kind of market anyway. I'm talking about literary speed dating, where you pitch your book and yourself to sympathetic, but overwhelmed publishers. I suspect there's not a lot of difference between the types of speed dating - a pervading sense of desperation and hope that someone will love you (and your work). What I gained from the experience is that I'm no good at it. I suspected I would become a babbling idiot, and I was. In truth I gained more than that. It made me face the reality that I need to smarten up my act if I want my second book to be published. I need to convince people that my work is marketable; that my spoken words run as sharply as my thoughts. The trouble is, I don't think either is the case. I suspect my second novel just isn't good enough (and I already know that I shouldn't be allowed out. My spoken words are as crisp as my linen ... enough said). I'm a tortoise in ill-fitting orthopaedic boots - I have to take my time, but somehow I seem to get there. As I stood in line waiting for my turn, I pretended not to eavesdrop, but I was desperate to know how other people did it. How did they get that publisher to show interest, to hand over the 'contact me' card, to come away from the table with a self-satisfied smile? Truly, I was out of my league (my league? are there others like me? Good grief!). But ... I met lovely people. They might have been better at speed dating than I was, but lovely nevertheless and for that, in particular, I'm glad I showed up; a reminder that I'm on a writer's journey and these are some of my companions on the way. Nice. 

In praise of Australian writers

Perhaps it's a measure of self-interest, but when I'm in a bookshop, I gravitate towards novels written by Australian writers; not exclusively of course. The last six months has been a feast. It's no  secret that I'm a Tim Winton fan and, yes, I know that not everyone is. I launched into Eyrie with the usual hunger I have for his books and was not disappointed - ok, perhaps a little bit at the end, but I'm used to that with his novels. I don't mind having to stretch my imagination to find a suitable ending when what precedes it is first class.  When I read the spiel and looked at the cover of Arthur Miller's Coal Creek, I wasn't sure that this was a book for me, but I trust Miller, based on many of his previous works. For a while I was irritated by the voice of the protagonist, but soon found myself carried along with his story as though he was relating it to me by the campfire. Sadly, Christos Tsiolkas's Barracuda left me NOT wanting more -really, I just didn't care about his character enough, and this was a shame. Dead Europe was a wonderful, though disturbing novel, and, of course The Slap was, well ... enough said. Hannah Kent's Burial Rites was totally absorbing, as was Fiona Capp's Gotland. 

Such wonderful talent in Australia and I haven't even touched the surface. Alexis Wright steeps the reader in the beauty of the Australian landscape from an indigenous perspective; Steven Carroll transports me back to growing up in the northern suburbs of Melbourne; Kate Grenville makes me weep in one of my most favourite novels The idea of Perfection. Lily Brett makes me laugh, and cry; Joan London endows unlikely characters with heroic gifts in Gilgamesh. The list of authors and their works goes on and that's still confined to a particular genre. 

Is the general public catching on? Of course we are blessed with a plethora of wonderful international authors, and it's not in anyone's interest to confine reading to one culture, but I suspect there might still be a bias against Australian writers as though they're just not good enough. Things are changing, I hope so anyway. In the meantime I'll continue to blow their trumpet. 

A Year of Simplicity

It's been nearly two years now since I began these blogs, tracking my own progress after leaving full-time work to 'follow my dreams'. It's been an interesting process. Committing myself to print has allowed me to view it from a more detached perspective, revealing certain patterns of my own psyche. The journey itself has had its ups and downs. I have been beleaguered by doubts about the wisdom of my decision and, predictably, doubts about my own talent. I have worried about getting enough employment, and about how wisely I have used my 'free' time to write. On the other side of that, I found new paths of work that have brought me great joy, in particular teaching creative writing.  Rupert, Neti and Athena from my published novel have continued on their journey in the world and I have been so moved by the comments of readers who have loved them as much as I do; I was almost brought to tears by one who recently said that she missed them in the weeks after she had finished reading the book. Of course, life has thrown in more ups and downs as a backdrop to it all, but hey, what's new? I've recognised that I am an over-doer, but on the other hand, there's so much to do that I enjoy. I've put in a lot of energy over these last two years. I knew that it would have to be so when I started the journey. Has it been worth it? A resounding 'YES'. To those of you who have been reading the blogs, I thank you for your forbearance of my self-absorption, and for your 'likes'. There's been enough navel-gazing now. My purpose for 2014 is to simply write, simply work, simply love and, hopefully, simply laugh ... a lot. I will continue the blogs but with emphasis on creative writing and literature. Happy New Year. Namaste. 

A Lapsed Atheist

Schooled in the Catholic tradition, I embraced its tenets and its rituals with utter, unshakeable faith, despite growing up in a household that fluctuated between devout Anglicanism (mother), blatant atheism (father - the Catholic!) and a pervading sense of hedonism. The god of my youth, on the cusp of having a make-over during Vatican 2, demanded my attention and non-questioning belief and the nuns who taught me made sure of it. They were convincing and I seriously considered joining them until my mother, sensing their influence, made it very plain, "OVER MY DEAD BODY!" Every year, to my adolescent embarrassment, I won the school Religion prize. That just wasn't cool and I remember cringing as I slunk to the stage to accept. There always seemed to be a deathly silence accompanying it. The nuns were smiling, but my parents were, well, bewildered. I wanted the prize for intelligence, not blind, un-empirical belief and I began to resent those prizes. Faith clung to me like a mantle. Friday evenings were spent with similar minds discussing theology as part of the Children of Mary. Needless to say my parents were becoming very concerned that this was the sum of my social life and my mother all but handed me the razor and tweezers to 'tidy up' my monobrow and my legs. I loved the comfort of my belief, but, every now and then doubts arose. I don't know where or when or why, but the doubts began to take over and, besides, Cat Stevens was providing all the philosophy I needed. I became a lapsed Catholic. Later, that 'lapse' morphed into a confused sort of atheism that has suited me just fine. After all, I don't need to believe in anything, except the dignity of life and a sense of justice and compassion. But every now and then doubts arise. They come unbidden. They catch me in both quiet and noisy moments; with family, with friends, when writing and when I connect to that poised and peaceful centre during yoga. As I get older those doubts arise more often, despite the logic of my mind. What to make of it? Perhaps I'm a lapsed atheist. 

The wisdom of a head cold

Some days you just have to admit defeat, climb into bed and doze away a head cold. Soldiering on isn't necessarily good for you. I know because I'm a stoic. You just about have to 'break' my legs before I'll give in, and even if I do I become wracked with guilt about what I'm not doing - whether it's planning lessons, working on a new project, paying bills or folding the washing; or even more pathetically, that i might be causing more work for someone else. This week I gave in. I stayed in bed, just for one day. For many this is no big deal, but for me it is. My head cold wouldn't let me get up anyway. So I dozed, with one hand clutching a fist full of tissues, the other on automatic reach for a sip of water. There's a healing space somewhere in that sleepy fog. With the blanket over my eyes I entered a subterranean world where the 'things to do' list was forbidden. Every time my consciousness rose to the surface and I mentally thrashed about as I thought of something i should be doing, I was scolded. The head cold was in charge. The head cold was my mother telling me I didn't have to go to school and could just stay in bed. The head cold was my partner (an excellent nurse) who told me I do too much and he could see this coming a mile away. Why was the head cold never me? Back down in the subterranean world, visions of things on the 'to do' list were allowed to swirl. I noticed that something very significant was missing. Where was writing? Was it really not on my list of things I should be doing? So that's what's wrong with me, I realised as I broke the surface of semi-sleep. I blew my chaffed nose, had a long drink of water, and laid back down for some true healing. Thanks head cold. 

Ahhh

Just wrote the most profound, earth-shaking blog and it's disappeared! Blow!

The beacon in the mail

It seems ironic that, as a writer (at least I like to call myself that!), and having given up full-time employment to perfect my craft, I'm not finding the time to sit down to do it; it's an annoying fact. Why? Because I'm resistant to value it on equal standing with everything else I do. It's easier to justify myself when I'm working at a mainstream job, when I'm studying to create a new pathway, when I'm 'doing' for my family. I teach others how to write a novel and don't sit down to do it myself. Every now and then I have to remind myself of why I chose a new direction in my life. The pages of my leather-bound journal hold the promise of my new novel. A few weeks ago they were open in an invitation for me to write; lately that journal shifts loosely in the bottom of my bag, or worse, is left at home. But there is a beacon, calling me to write, to remember why I do it. It will arrive any day now in the mail. I'm excited, and know that I'll tremble just a little when it comes. I'll tear open the wrapper, but will be anxious that this exquisite pleasure will be over too soon; there might be a five year wait again until the next time. Tim Winton, my beacon.