Amanda Apthorpe's Blog, page 3

Pssst - I passed! (Don't tell anybody)

The weight of the world - short story

I liked the look of them ... no truly, I did. They were bargaining with my owner - or my pimp as I sometimes think of him. There was something desperate about them, but not in a bad way. He had the eyes of a startled boy, despite the beard. She was ... well, let’s just say she wasn’t a looker; a bit plain but not not unpleasantly; just mousey, yes that’s it; she was mousey. He fussed over her though, like she was royalty. It was only when she turned side on that I could see why. I inwardly moaned at the thought of what was to come. There was no way he would let her walk when she could ride - he’d have to be an idiot if he did. Not much luggage though - that endeared them to me; just a couple of pigeons. I was starting to see a pattern. Having two pigeons meant little luggage, but more often I wasn’t hired by those types. But I could see why these two would need my services. 

When he lifted her on I could feel her anxiety. She was inexperienced and sat too close to my neck. If it had been someone else I might voice my objection, but for some reason, I didn’t want to upset her ... or him. They were going to have enough troubles in time to come. They were innocents in a vicious world. I pitied the child. With these two as parents he would end up carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Just as I carried him now.

The Donkey

  

An unexpected blessing

Profound moments take you by surprise and remind you that life's mysteries can appear anytime, even on days that look like shaping up to being very ordinary. Today was one of those. I spent an hour or so in a local cafe writing, as usual, trying to breathe life into a new character. It was pleasurable and absorbing, but I reminded myself that, if this new novel was to have any authenticity, I needed to find out a bit more about the Greek Orthodox tradition. With a church just down the road, I thought I would find out the times for Mass and, one day soon, slip into a back pew. I've always been attracted to the physical attributes of this church. At night, when the candles are lit, the frescoes and gilding are a wonderful sight. So I took advantage of a beautiful day and wandered around. Just one car outside, so I was confident that I could discreetly look through the glass doors and admire. I reeled back when I saw that there was not just a single worshipper who had dropped in for a quick prayer, but rather, a priest in full Orthodox regalia, two women kneeling in front and a couple sitting in the pews. I turned to flee when an elderly woman came out and asked me to come inside. Intrigued and embarrassed I accepted. As I took a seat at the rear, the priest stopped mid-prayer and asked me what I wanted. 'Is it all right if I just pray?' I said. He looked at me for a moment, 'What is your name?'. I told him and he wrote it down. 'Come here,' he beckoned and pointed to the front pews. The young girl who was partly hidden beneath his long stole did not move, nor did her mother kneeling behind her. I took my seat, suddenly stricken with the thought that my mobile phone was on 'loud'. For the next ten minutes I was part of a Greek Orthodox tradition. The priest prayed over the girl and her mother and every now and then read out my anglo-name, along with names of the others present. Holy Water was squirted over me from a plastic spray bottle. When it was over, and the girl emerged from beneath the stole, the priest asked me if I felt anything. 'Oh yes, I do,' I said, not sure what to say. 'Thank you so much for allowing me to be part of this.' I sat a bit longer. The girl and her mother stayed at his feet, but relaxed into easy Greek conversation and I was struck by the contrast between the very formal proceedings and the familiar manner in which they all spoke at the end of it. The priest, I realised, was an integral part of this community. Sadly, I couldn't understand what they were saying and began to feel a bit awkward. I stood and thanked the priest once again and made my way out. In the street I paused. I felt as though I had been transported to Greece and that I was indeed one of the characters in my novel. I marvelled too that on this ordinary day, I had received such an unexpected blessing. 

Strange Space

I'm living in a strange space. I thought that I would kick up my heels when I handed in the thesis, but instead feel as though I've cut the rope to the mother ship and have cast myself adrift. Of course now that I have 'time on my hands' (whatever that means! Sounds like I haven't washed after cutting up herbs), the space has opened for me to start the third novel. And I have. But I was daunted, once again, by the expectation of the blank page. It demands that I write something beautiful. Now that I teach creative writing, that blank page expects bigger things! I'm up for the challenge. Am excited about honing the craft a little more each time around. Each sentence now comes under greater scrutiny. How can I say it more elegantly, more simply... In the meantime, of course, my second novel has been shipped off to two unknown (to me) Examiners. Just as I did when Rupert and Neti in the Whispers in the Wiring (the first and published novel) left my cupboard to be published, I'm now wondering where Dana and her sister Madeleine are. Who's reading their story? What will they think of the uptight Dana and the nature of her psychological descent? 

Excerpt 1:  

The ceiling of the cabin sagged so low that I could measure its distance to my face with a wide-fingered handspan. A cold light from the bathroom cubicle ricocheted around the walls and reflected off the panels above my nose. Where the panels met, someone had picked at the seam like a child at a scab. With each pitch and toss, diesel fumes seeped through the ferry’s pores. 

There was no sound from the bunk below. My sister, I assumed, was sleeping peacefully, but I needed the comfort of her enthusiasm. In the space left to me I contorted my body so that head and torso hung over the bunk’s edge.

“Madeleine. Are you awake?”

There was a low groan and the sound of the bunk springs creaking as she rolled over. 

“What?” Her yawn was thick with sleep.

“What are we doing here Mads?”

No reply, just a soft snore at the back of her throat. I rolled back to stare again at the ceiling’s ragged seam. A dog barked in a cabin somewhere further along the deck. In the darkness, I doubted the wisdom of this journey.

 

Between the Lines

I handed in my thesis today for examination. It's taken me nine years. As I checked it over before submission, I thought how pristine it all looked. In fact it looked as though I really knew what I was doing and, really ... why had it taken nine years! What will the Examiner's think? I'll find out in a few months and no doubt it will rebound with, I hope, not too many bits and pieces to tidy up. What they won't see though is the life between the lines. As I readied the manuscript, I thought about all that has happened in nine years. I've already alluded to some of those things in previous posts, and I don't want to appear as though I think I'm the only one who has the lion's share of life dramas and highs. Quite the opposite. Reflecting on what had been happening in the foreground of my life while the thesis sulked in the background just makes me realise how very frail and beautiful it is to be human. For my own record I'm recording some of those things here, just to remind myself that I have achieved a personal monumental milestone. Here's what lies between the lines of my spotless manuscript: births of five grandchildren; full-time care of two of them; death of my beloved father; the publication of my first novel; the death-defying feat of my daughter; the jump from the mothership of full-time employment; good times with my mother; my beautiful mother's death; good times with family; Barkly times with good friends; love; food; simple and greater pleasures; the joy of teaching creative writing and yoga; the gift of brilliant supervisors; the excitement of starting a third novel; the recognition of the preciousness of the extended family and any who come under that umbrella; my home; my pond; my cat; my books; my children; my partner. How blessed I am. No, the Examiners won't see what lies between the lines. 

A noble profession

While a few of the things that happened in my novel Whispers in the Wiring were later played out in real life in unexpected ways, the initial premise of the story was very much based on real events. Following the sudden and untimely death of a family member, I struggled to reconcile a loose-fitting belief in an after-life with an increasing conviction that I was deluding myself. Rupert and Athena, central characters in the novel were initially 'born' to provide a vehicle for conversation existing 'outside' my head (of course it was still inside my head!!). The process was cathartic; no news to those who write. Among many other reasons it's why we write - to make sense of the insensible, to connect with our deepest dark and light places, and to disconnect from those same places. And so it goes with reading. In a recent creative writing class I asked the students what value did they think a writer had in society. I think the question arose from my decision to leave the very noble profession of full-time teaching  to follow my dream to be a writer. How self-indulgent! Had I lost my place in society? Was I no longer being of service? How could I compare my contribution with those who comfort the sick, the dying, the drug-affected, the battered .... We had a great conversation, my wonderful class and I and I realised that, apart from the love and support of family and friends, it was reading that helped carried me through life's dark times. Sadly, in this last week I have cause to put it to the test once again. The death of a loved one takes you to dark places. I scanned my book shelf searching for relief. I by-passed tomes full of weighty words and deep philosophies and instead picked out one that I might normally 'hide' from serious literature-minded friends. Light and bright, food, love, good times and, pretty shallow. I thank that author for the comfort and the release from the heavy reality of my loss, for the half hours at a time where I was liberated and felt a return of joy. She may never know the effect of her 'self-indulgent' profession, but it's answered the question for me. Do writers have a valuable role in society. Absolutely. 

That's my focus

After re-reading my last blog I began to wonder if my new year's resolution was to not write another one! ​The promise made to myself at the close of 2012 was to focus my attention on what is important to me (family aside!). If you read any of my earlier posts, you will see that I spread myself widely last year. When I look back, I can see that, within the optimism of 're-inventing' myself, was a certain amount of panic, and a difficulty in letting go of the perception I had of myself for over twenty-five years. Quite a bit of last year's energy was spent laying foundations. I would like to say they were 'new', but mostly they were still concerned with teaching, just teaching different things: yoga and creative writing. This is not a negative. In fact I have come to accept with pride and humility that teaching is a very significant part of who I really am, and this year I have reaped the rewards of the energy expended last year. However, a shift has occurred in that I truly and utterly know that writing is the ultimate expression of who I am; even 'saying' that now is an affirmation of that shift. My resolution for 2013. To write. To learn how to write beautifully, and then to learn how to write even better. A life-long commitment to the craft. That's my focus. 

So, what did I learn from my pondering?

Well, the year of pondering is almost at an end and I take this time to reflect on what I have done and what I have learned since I left my job this time last year. 

I'll start with the 'done' things (or still doing in some cases): Certificate IV in Training and Assessment to broaden my prospects of teaching creative writing; Certificate in Yoga Teaching (almost done); Doctoral thesis (almost done). I have tutored in Biology, taught yoga, and had a goodly amount of work as a replacement teacher; travelled to New Norcia in WA to get inspiration for a new novel. I have spent some quality time with family, but still not enough. 

What have I learnt? That I can be very fickle. I worry about things more than I would have thought when my mind was occupied with full-time teaching. I have a propensity to spread myself too thinly (have a look at the list above!). My confidence waxes and wanes according to the amount of daily sunlight (a melatonin problem I suspect). I am preoccupied with working out the financial budget. Now this is not so unreasonable because there was a (not totally) unexpected change in our financial situation. Chris had to leave his job because he could not sustain its physical demands while still recuperating. Fair enough. He says he's 'semi-retired'. I keep telling him that, no, we are both 'unemployed'. 

If you have read my previous blogs you might recall 'what the life coach said'. In that blog I wrote about another time when I made a life-changing decision, driven by the urgency of family commitments (you see I was preoccupied with family budgets then too). The other day I had that unnerving feeling that I was in a similar situation and wondered whether I have subconsciously set myself up to be motivated by need.
Ok, the urgency to get on with it is not of the same nature as then, and I have to keep reminding myself of that, but the more you have ...   So watch this space. 

So... has the year been a good one. Yes. I have done and learned a great deal. I always thought that it would be a year of sorting out myself, a fruitful year of pondering and it has been that. Has it been worth the sacrifices? Yes, but that all depends on what I now do with my pondering. New Year looms. I'd thought that I was 'over' making resolutions but there is something cathartic and renewing about the process. So I will. And the progress of these will be documented in 2013s blogs "The Year of Resolution".

Happy New Year.

The desk

In the last blog I mentioned that it took me about ten months to wean off the concept of  myself as only being a teacher. First and foremost I need to write here that I am proud to be a teacher, but that hasn't been the point of the year. If you have read any previous blogs then you will know that I had an additional plan in mind - to be a writer, to see myself as a writer and to try to build a more autonomous working life. Of course teaching is part of that life and I have loved those opportunities when they have arisen, particularly tutoring private students, but it seemed that all my energies were in that direction. So what changed? My desk is what changed it. Remember, that new desk that I set up at the beginning of the year and equipped with all manner of things to make me look and feel like a writer? The one that seemed to expect something of me and I wasn't sure I could do it? Well, I sat at that desk and I wrote. Much of it was the long neglected thesis and I'm pleased to say that I'm just about there. I fell in love with my life at the desk, surrounded by all those odd bits and pieces that reflect the person that I am. It's not so neat and tidy now. It doesn't look daunting, it looks like a real desk. My desk. A mess. Littered with academic articles, yoga assignments, reference books, journals that I write in, scraps of paper with notes and ideas, tutorial notes, collections of pens. The desk is my home. It has become so clear to me that there's nothing particularly magical about choosing a new direction and, hopefully, achieving a new goal. It's all about the work and the commitment to the task. I was becoming so distracted with how I was going to earn an income that I almost forgot what I was doing it for. It was to write, and my desk has reminded me of that. 

Who am I?

It's been interesting watching my mental processes over this past year. January and February were very much about setting myself up for a year of writing; new desk, printer, laptop, pens, notebooks .... all the tools I'd need. When it was all set and laid out before me, I was stricken with panic. They demanded a lot of me and I didn't know if I could deliver. However, I got to work, but was only too well aware that my day's work at the desk was not (yet at least) bringing in any money. Add to that was my sense of having lost an identity. After all, I'd been a teacher for 26 years and that's how I answered when anyone asked me what I did. The publishing of Whispers allowed me to say that I was an 'author' instead, but it didn't slip smoothly or convincingly from my lips. In fact, I felt like a fraud and had to face the fact that really, I was just another try-hard, stupid enough to give away a very good job and to sacrifice long-term security. When these thoughts filtered in I got busy. I took on every emergency teaching position I was offered; I tutored; I completed a Cerificate IV in Training & Assessment; I undertook Yoga Teaching Training; I applied to TAFEs for employment. Now these are all good things, but you might notice a particular thread that, believe it or not, I had become totally oblivious to: they were all about teaching! I'm not disputing the need to do these things, the necessity of providing a financial spine to my daily life and I am very grateful the opportunities given to me over this time, but for ten months of this year I consistently identified myself with teaching only. But things changed ...