Marinating in Bile: A Document of Social Anxiety and Student Frustration

 * This post was originally written in February ’14. See postscript for rationale.

Early last year, I made a joking self-comparison with the misanthropic protagonist of Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground. It was during one of those exhaustive around-the-room introduction exchanges that tend to fill first weeks at uni. I was nervous, and hoped my quip would come across in its intended context. What I said, unintentionally, and to a roomful of people, was ‘I hate people’; what I’d meant was that I begrudgingly own social awkwardness as a defining characteristic and generally disdain small talk. You know: haha, self-deprecation!

Needless to say, the joke landed with a thud. Why am I (paraphrastically) retelling it now? Because bitterness colours this post. I hope to come across charmingly cynical, like Bernard from Black Books, or Dr House from House, but, as in the earlier example, will probably come across as more of a miserable git, ala Morrissey or Robert Smith. But, look, it does say ‘rants’ up there in my blog banner, and to be honest that’s a quota I don’t feel I’ve adequately filled. I originally wrote most of this back in February 2014, but chose to sit on it for fear of reproach. Consequently, this one’s been marinating in bile all year. I’m no chef, but feel it’s probably ready now. (No one wants their rants overcooked. Or their introductions overlong …)

We’ll start big. I generally hate everything about modern Western culture. I hate most everything on TV; I hate inconsiderate people (i.e. most of Melbourne’s population); I hate the inane things people say to fill a quiet; I hate asinine internet slang (‘Cool story, bro’, ‘Still a better love story than Twilight’, etc); I hate the wide misuse of ‘literally’; I hate the liberal overuse of ‘hate’; I hate people who contradict themselves (geddit?); I hate my multitude of shortcomings. I could probably rewrite ‘My Favourite Things’, with the sources of my ire replacing the objects of Julie Andrews’ affection. Incidentally, I also hate The Sound of Music.

I don’t hate everything, though. Miserable Brit-Pop’s all right.

Anyway, here’s a vitriolic, overdue post about my disillusioning final years of study.

 * * *

What’s bothering me lately (or at least at the time I originally wrote this) is the sense of apathy pervading my higher ed writing course. Very few students seem to give a fuck about their work, which lowers the bar and standard of education. Most, it seems, are there purely for something to do, or to satisfy abstract, romanticised notions about what it means to be a writer. They groan when appointed trivial 2,000-word essays (less than a day’s work, according to King!), despite having upwards of four weeks to compose them, and resent the ambitious semester-long creative projects, even though the curriculum writers have made every effort to accommodate our vastly different interests. There’s a lot of narrow-mindedness in my course. How can a writer meet the conceptualisation and design of a magazine (on which we’re given complete creative freedom) with anything but celebration? How can a writer find studying works by the world’s most influential short story writers a chore? What could be more valuable than listening to the personalised advice of professional guest speakers? I just don’t get it.

Before I get too carried away, I must clarify that I’m speaking generally; there are certainly some good eggs in class who make thoughtful, enthusiastic contributions and show engagement with the material. Even the apathetic students deserve some credit, for they will intermittently switch on whenever snippets of lecture personally engage them. I must also stress that the apathy I’ve perceived is no fault of the teachers or institution, as I generally believe the quality of my education is of a high standard. Frankly, this ennui is something that has infiltrated at a cultural level. It could even be a generational thing. My course is an interesting microcosm, but I shan’t go down that rabbit hole.

Since I’m talking in annoying abstracts (another pet hate), I should, for illustrative purposes, give an example of this apathy. At the start of the year, one of our teachers asked for a show of hands from those who’d gotten writing done over the ridiculous three-month break. Only six in a class of over twenty self-identified ‘writers’ raised their hands. Their excuses were thin – family, holidays, ‘it was a hot summer’. Unacceptable. If you’ve the will to write, it’ll happen. All it takes is self-sacrifice. Anyone can substitute fifteen minutes of daily television time to write. Three months at that pace and progress is inevitable. My classmates simply lost direction, which isn’t good enough. What kind of writer needs course-imposed deadlines to work? At our level, we should be writing for the inherent joy of it.

Another common attitude I hear is: ‘I’m not interested in the publishing side of things; I just want to write!’ This irks me because these students enrolled – at fair expense – to do a degree in Writing and Publishing. If creative writing’s their sole vocational interest, why not join a writers’ group, or enrol in one of Melbourne’s innumerable creative writing short courses? The publishing aspect is what makes this degree so progressive. Even if we don’t want a career in publishing, it’s beneficial to learn as much as possible about the larger book-making process.

We’ve had a few new teachers this year, many of whom weren’t accustomed to our group’s sarcastic disposition, or our collective indifference. It amused and disappointed me seeing the change in these teachers’ manners; they understood they’d have to prise answers from us, that it would take a tap dance and firework display to hold our interest. Some of these teachers are sessional and it embarrasses me that we’ve negatively informed their perceptions of students from this institution. ‘Writing class of ’14? Yeah, yeah, I remember: the ones who didn’t give a fuck.’

In case it sounds like I have some unchecked (and, believe me, unjustified) superiority complex, I’ll confess that I’m not entirely innocent of this behaviour. My mind readily wanders when I feel unstimulated. I’m perpetually sleep-deprived and having internet-enabled laptops at our disposal is a terrible temptation. I don’t fault the teachers or coursework; eight hours is just a long time to have to sit with sustained focus – especially for me, as an introvert, since socialising tends to drain rather than energise me.

Another triviality: static class environments don’t help. My last campus was multi-levelled, and attending classes meant ping-ponging around it, forever changing environments. Different rooms gave the lectures different flavours (perhaps why Myths and Symbols felt as oppressive as high school history class). In our current situation, we’re entombed in the same room for all four classes. Granted, it’s a lavish, open room with natural lighting and great acoustics, but being rooted to any one spot inspires stir-craziness.

I don’t mean to throw my fellow students under the bus but, for many of them, their problems come down to ill-defined goals. (Another reason I champion list writing.) They have no idea what they want out of the course. They’ve not thought about where they’ll fit within the industry post-qualification and therefore can’t visualise applying the taught knowledge in a real-world setting. Many want to be professional writers, but have no interest in the practical implications of this. They don’t care about establishing a professional writing schedule, keeping abreast of industry developments, playing the networking game or engaging with the literary community. They don’t submit to journals, or read widely, and they drag their heels if appointed tasks that don’t align with their narrow personal interests.

To make matters worse, many students make shallow, obvious contributions to class discussions. We discuss things that third or fourth-year publishing students should know. I must be an anarchist for publishing this, but most of the time, during class discussions, I feel unstimulated, deflated.

I’ve technically studied writing at three different campuses, with three different batches of people, so feel qualified to speak on the differences in attitudes, as least as I’ve perceived them. The first campus experience was a false start: I was young, green, and not at all ready for the Real World. Despite this, I recall spirited, stimulating discussion between students. I was somewhat spoiled at the second campus, for my time was spent alongside generally kind, enthusiastic, switched-on writers. Since then, however, I’ve been stuck with know-it-alls, antagonistic liberals and serial complainers. (Generally speaking, of course – I can’t, in good conscience, lump everyone in these categories.)

I don’t mean to sound pigheaded. I appreciate that people approach study for different reasons. I understand we’re at different levels and have different goals. But this is supposed to be adult education and I’m getting too old for high school theatrics. Case in point: earlier this year there was an ongoing feud between parties with different ideologies. One, boisterous and unyielding, was clearly at fault, but the actions of the so-called innocent party blurred this line. At every intermission, the class degenerated into gossip-mongering. Being privy to their private nastiness, I shuddered to think how the offending party (however unworthy of sympathy) must have felt entering a classroom that charged with vitriol. It makes me wonder what some of them think of me. I rarely engage socially, so it’s amusing to wonder what conclusions might’ve been drawn about my manner or competencies.

I’m digressing. But you see what a circus life on campus can be. I want to join a writers’ group in the future, and am hoping (praying!) to find one that’s a good fit. I’d love to find people with whom I could have a laugh, but more importantly I want to be around likeminded writers who are serious about their craft and who conduct themselves with professionalism. Is that too much to ask?

* This post was originally written in February, and does not reflect my current feelings about my former peers, or my overall study experience. I’m posting it despite the attitude change because I feel it’s an honest documentation of my frustrations at the time. This was a generally difficult year for me, and I’ve often turned to writing to process some of these challenges. I want my blog to be honest and truthful, and feel it’s important to share posts like these, even if they embarrass me and even if I’m afraid of the consequences.

For fans of happy endings, it’s worth noting that the year got better as it went along. A lot of students – notably the more difficult personalities – dropped out or stopped attending classes. Those that remained demonstrated ample commitment to their craft, and throughout the year I made more of an effort to get to know them. Overall, despite numerous unmentioned challenges native to the institution, this was an enjoyable and productive year. I think it’s important to own and process our uglier emotions (lest they fester). Perhaps that’s why I find boxing and writing so cathartic. But, hey, so now you know I’m a massive jerk. Where to from here?

My Favourite Music of 2014

Favourite Pop Tracks:

Caribou – ‘Can’t Do Without You’

Caribou_Our_Love‘Can’t Do Without You’ perfectly introduces the stellar Our Love, Dan Snaith’s sixth album under the Caribou brand. A fun club track, it perfectly synthesises the styles exhibited on previous Caribou LP Swim and the dancefloor-oriented tracks which characterise Snaith’s other musical moniker, Daphni. Club music infused with real emotion.

Modest Mouse – ‘Lampshades on Fire’

A ‘Dashboard’ retread from the Good News for People Who Love Bad News sessions. As samey and, dare I say, lazy as this comeback single feels, its catchiness is undeniable. I’ve missed Modest Mouse so damn much during their ridiculous eight-year hiatus, and welcome their forthcoming release. My body is ready.

Kele – ‘Doubt’

Though I’ve no doubt (pun unintended) that Bloc Party’s Kele Okereke approaches his dance music with conviction, I’m still yet to find it all that engaging. Trick lead single ‘Doubt’, however, is slinky and moves with purpose.

John Frusciante – ‘Fanfare’

I’ve written before about my limited patience for Frusciante’s avant garde stuff, but ‘Fanfare’ – and half of Enclosure, the LP it’s drawn from – I can get behind. Frusciante’s newfound penchant for experimentation clashes head-on with his pop sensibilities, with catchy and unexpected results.

Sticky Fingers – ‘Gold SNAFU’

‘Gold SNAFU’ is the perfect summertime track: it’s laid-back and sports a catchy, whistled refrain. Kudos to Dylan Frost, too, for penning memorable lines like ‘sexy as a slippery water slide’. Sticky Fingers expand their sound while honouring their roots. An Australian band whose evolution I’m enjoying.

The Autumn Defense – ‘I Can See Your Face’

The Fleetwood Mac-esque ‘I Can See Your Face’ is my standout track from The Autumn Defense’s fifth album, Fifth. Pat Sansone and John Stirratt’s warm vocals gel with summery production, making this romantic folk throwback shine.

Chet Faker – ‘Gold’

Chet Faker’s had a monstrous year, with sold-out shows and copious radio play. (His year even culminated in the netting of the Best Male Artist and Best Indie Release ARIAs, which he so graciously accepted.) It’s great to see a local boy make good, though I’m not quite sold on his début LP Built on Glass. (I found it a little tedious. See: the aptly titled ‘Lesson in Patience’, which opens with two minutes of wailing and goes precisely nowhere).

Still, dude can write solid pop tracks. ‘1998’ and ‘Cigarettes & Loneliness’ are contenders, but ‘Gold’ is the definitive bright spot. I’m curious to see what he does next. No diggity.

Michael Jackson – ‘Slave to the Rhythm’

Hesitated putting this on here thanks to the dubious motivations behind this release, but ‘Slave to the Rhythm’, originally written in 1990, is a catchy reaffirmation of Jackson’s pop-writing talents. (Like he needed one.)

Mark Ronson feat. Bruno Mars – ‘Uptown Funk’

bruno-mars-uptown-funk-videoThough it may not reach the same magnitude of cultural hit (due in part to the forever shifting tides of popular music), ‘Uptown Funk’ is, for my money, the most infectious, hook-laden pop song since ‘Hey Ya’. This song is an unparalleled party: all killer, no filler. Even the bridge is an absolute jam.

* * *

 My Favourite Albums of 2014:

  Ryan Adams – Ryan Adams

Ryan Adams marks Adams’ first release since the stripped-back, hiatus-shattering Ashes & Fire (one of my favourite records of 2011), and largely continues in the same artistic vein. It features a fuller sound than Adams’ last release, but straddles the same adult/contemporary line – not a bad thing. This self-titled release exudes confidence and cohesiveness. It also features some of Adams’ most mature songwriting efforts to date. It’s hard to believe this is the same hyperactive brat who wrote Love is Hell and Rock n Roll.

Foster the People – Supermodel

In 2011, Foster the People burst onto the scene with Torches, a potent pop début with a cache of surprise hits. The album netted the band a legion of global fans and, with the pressure high, it took them three years to follow it up.

Supermodel arrived to a warm but comparatively modest reception. Its singles failed to make the same splash as Torches mega-hit ‘Pumped Up Kicks’ and the album largely fell through the cracks.

Admittedly, it took me awhile to warm to Supermodel. It’s a reflexive, considered album, and is less immediate than its predecessor. Here, the band broadens its scope, trying on different stylistic hats. It’s a slower, more experimental affair – and consequently a richer experience. Punters will be greatly rewarded if they invest the time. Continue reading

Review: Page Seventeen Issue Eleven

p17issue11coverPage Seventeen returns from its hiatus with its eleventh issue and a new, glossier format. There’s clear emphasis on the new, as editor Beau Hillier invites you to abandon stuffy old front-to-back linear reading in favour of a novel pathway system. (Think those Choose Your Own Adventure books you read as a child.) This small touch personalises the reading experience, allowing you to shape the overarching narrative in a small way.

But, of course, what you really want to know about are the stories. Kathy George’s opener ‘Blessed are the cracked …’ takes a lateral look at the nature of creativity, demonstrating the sometimes obtuse ways artists find inspiration. (For more on this topic, check out the Busybird website, where Page Seventeen contributors were invited to share their processes or anecdotes which have inspired their work. Mine is reproduced on this blog here.)

In ‘A step back in time’, James May takes a soul-searching trip back to his hometown of Adelaide, seeking answers, catharsis and a new perspective. This was a visceral piece, full of grit and longing.

With ‘Protest’, Beverley Lello crafts an exquisite literary tale about acceptance and marital dissonance. Meanwhile, Lois Murphy’s standout ‘Mosquito bites’ tells a ripping yarn about a likeable-but-downtrodden young man with an addition to his already-lengthy list of mistakes: allowing his loved ones to believe he is dead. The story starts with a memorable one-two punch – ‘We were pretty pissed off when my cousin showed up at his own funeral. All that effort, those wasted tears.’ – and takes several unforeseen turns, with the cousin cutting an unexpectedly tragic figure.

In ‘Onshore, offshore, unsure’, Eril Riley uses poetic language to tell of one family’s traumatic struggle for asylum. Hemmed in body-to-body with other survivors, the protagonist waxes philosophical while enduring discomforts like urinating in a battered metal drum. This story made me appreciate the freedom and luxuries we take for granted.

Other highlights include Joshua Coldwell’s ‘Swan song’, a black comedy about a young man’s obsession to uphold the family legacy (by imparting witty or memorable last words), and Geraldine Borella’s ‘Achilles and the maple leaf’, a tale of unlikely friendship, and a touching reminder that sometimes the universe smiles upon us, bringing people into our lives precisely when we need them.

Warwick Sprawson continues to impress with ‘Spin’, a tension-filled casino story about a dealer with a sizeable (ahem) chip on his shoulder.

There’s also a veritable smorgasbord of poetry – much of it esoteric, all of it thought-provoking. I’ve never had much of an ear for poetry, but particularly enjoyed Katherine E Seppings’ quiet, assured ‘Seville’; Paul South’s perplexing ‘No sense’; and Jude Aquilina’s ‘Love suffers’, which begins:

Love suffers from a plague of clichés.
It claims to gleam like a bolt
of silken sun through winter cloud
but actually, it’s sharp and quick
like a tattooing needle.

Page Seventeen Issue Eleven is available for purchase here.

Some Thoughts on David Lynch’s ‘Catching the Big Fish’

So, I just finished this on the train and felt compelled to put down my thoughts while they’re still fresh (also I don’t blog enough).

catching-the-big-fish_lynch

Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity

What I Expected From This Book:

  • A reasonably detailed dissection of Lynch’s creative practices.
  • A practical guide to meditation.
  • An entertaining/illuminating reflection on Lynch’s work.
  • Specificity.

What This Book Delivered:

  • Shallow, cutesy proclamations about the importance of meditation.
  • A lack of direction. These anecdotes are so haphazard in their delivery. It’s like Lynch waffled into a tape recorder (Agent Cooper style) for an hour and thought the results worth publishing.
  • Repetition.
  • Repetition.
  • An irritating sing-song prose style laden with clipped sentences.
  • Vagueness. Lynch seems to go out of his way to avoid offering any true insight.

Example of Lynch’s Disagreeable Brand of Pop Psychology:

“How does meditation get rid of negativity? Picture it this way: You are the Empire State Building. You’ve got hundreds of rooms. And in those rooms, there’s a lot of junk. And you put all that junk there. Now you take this elevator, which is going to be the dive within. And you go down below the building; you go to the Unified Field beneath the building – pure consciousness. And it’s like electric gold. You experience that. And that electric gold activates these little cleaning robots. They start going, and they start cleaning the rooms. They put in gold where the dirt and junk and garbage were. These stresses that were in there like coils of barbed wire can unwind. They evaporate, they come out. You’re cleaning and infusing simultaneously. You’re on the road to a beautiful state of enlightenment.”

Review: ‘Pet Sematary’

pet-sematary-coverThis book, alongside a discouraging handful of other King novels, begins with great promise, drawing the reader in with the kind of three-dimensional characters King does best. Unfortunately, it hits a slump halfway, from which it cannot recover, and meanders its way to a predictable conclusion.

The plot deals with grief, obsession and reincarnation. The Creed family (Doctor Louis, Rachel, and two children Ellie and Gage) move to backwater Ludlow, a small town in – you guessed it – Maine. Ludlow’s a dandy slice of American pie. It’s also the halfway point between two large townships and is frequented by huge trucks on shipping runs … See where this is going?

So, protagonist Louis strikes up a friendship with local old-timer, Jud, and learns about a makeshift cemetery that is situated near the Creed’s new home. Apparently generations of residents have used this ground to bury their beloved pets, and it’s become a sort of eerie community tradition. But this ain’t your grandpappy’s cemetery; the titular Pet Sematary is actually a front for ancient Micmac burial grounds. It’s a spiritual place with deep historic roots – generations of teenagers have fooled around here. Burying your pet here is said to bring about reincarnation, which is handy because, after some whacky hijinks, Louis ends up home alone with the still-fresh corpse of family cat, Church. Ruh-Roh!

So Louis is faced with that classic parental dilemma: tell Ellie (his daughter/Church superfan) the truth, or dabble blindly in the dark arts. The choice is clear; anyone who’s seen the Arnie classic Jingle All the Way knows only deadbeats disappoint their kids.isc080booklet.inddAnd so Church comes back — albeit a little dopier than before. His movements are sluggish and he permanently smells of the earth, which was admittedly cool. The prospect of a reanimated cat – possibly infused with a sinister Micmac spirit – is great horror fodder, but, in King’s hands, it amounts to nothing. The cover and blurb allude to some terrifying developments; a murderous four-legged zombie that perfectly resembles your beloved Mr Whiskers would make for an excellent monster, but nothing like this eventuates. The whole concept of the Pet Sematary is severely underutilised – unless your secret fear is slow, dim-witted cats that lumber around not hurting anyone.

Nice Churchy!

Nice Churchy!

Pet Sematary has a strong premise and solid opening. It’s great to see King sink into teeth into some serious subject matter and, as usual, he excels at inhabiting his characters. Rachel and Louis are particularly compelling (as luck would have it, Rachel has a debilitating fear of death – guess who’s confronting their fears tonight?), and it’s a pleasure to discover the intricacies of their marriage. Louis is a bog-standard King everyman; however, his profession does distinguish him (slightly) from others of this mould. Doctors are logically minded and less inclined to buy into supernatural mumbo jumbo. I enjoyed Louis’ early scepticism and stoic nature, but grew frustrated with the irrational behaviour he exhibits later on.

Pet Sematary also suffers serious pacing issues. It takes three quarters of the book for all the (obvious) set-pieces to come together (believe me: the signposts are as big as Maine itself). You know the Pet Sematary will cause major complications, yet it goes damn near unmentioned for the first half of the book. Instead, the reader is dragged through family drama subplots that, while mildly interesting, add squat to the narrative.

My biggest issue with Pet Sematary is its conclusion, which unfolds like a slow train wreck. Despite being cautioned by Jud on the dangers of the Pet Sematary, and learning about how a reported case of human burial went horribly awry, logical, level-headed Dr Louis jettisons all common sense and tries it anyway.

A sizeable portion of the novel’s conclusion details Louis’s inner monologue as he climbs up to the haunted burial grounds, his child’s corpse in tow. He openly admits it’s not the answer, that he’s clinging to empty hope. He knows whatever emerges from the ground won’t be his loved one, no matter the resemblance. He knows his actions will cause grief and heartache, and that they will destroy his remaining family’s chance of moving on. He also knows his actions will place everyone in very real danger – yet he goes ahead and does it anyway.

The ensuing bloodshed was senseless, a chore to read, and was all so preventable. King spends so much of the novel (which, it’s worth noting, isn’t short) building rich characters and relationships, only to throw them to the wind in the last seventy pages.

I get the suggestion that grief supersedes rational thinking, and that the Micmac burial ground had some sort of supernatural pull of Louis, but that doesn’t justify this frustrating, limp-wristed ending. Here, King rejoices in kicking his readers in the teeth. The fact that Louis is aware what a dope he is adds insult to injury. God awful – and this is coming from someone who defends and understands Cujo‘s macabre ending.

Read The Shining instead.

A Day in the Life – 30/10/14

Free-writing today, because I fear the muscle will atrophy if I don’t get into a daily habit.

© Gracie Cannell, flickr.com

© Gracie Cannell, flickr.com

First week of job hunting’s almost over. No takers yet, but I’m told these things take time. I have, at least, been placed on a few freelancer databases – which I’m taking as a positive sign, though it’s probably just routine response for publishers dealing with cold-calling editors. I’m considering free content writing while I await the coveted call-back. Much as I loathe the exploitation pervading this industry, I think it’ll help me build a diverse portfolio of non-fiction writing (presently most of my published work is fiction). I also want a project to sink my teeth into. I spend a lot of time on my own, and tend to succumb to depression if I don’t have a distraction, something stimulating to work on.

I love you, Anne Hegerty!

I love you, Anne Hegerty!

(Here’s an embarrassing admission: my weekdays presently revolve around my daytime TV schedule. I daily tune in for Yu-Gi-Oh! [for nostalgia], Dr Phil [for morbidity] and The Chase [for entertainment/Old Frosty Knickers]. Obviously this can’t go on, though on particularly stagnant days these shows are all the daily happiness I get. The real cause for concern will be if I start watching TMZ.)

Anyway, my current priorities are: continue to apply for jobs; write various commissioned non-fiction articles (i.e. fitness-related, mental health-related, music-related, advertising stuff …); commence work on an interactive CV/writing portfolio, to keep on top of InDesign and to have something to direct prospective employers to; redesign blog; give NaNo another crack; and, finally, finish the numerous WIP blog posts that are scattered all over my desktop.

To combat the aforementioned depression, I’m resolving to interact with at least one human being a day. Interactions can include small-talk with shopkeepers, which I am famously awful at.

Yesterday I made the fairly spontaneous decision to visit Busybird, the publishing house where I once interned. It ended up being a great day. I was able to complete some internet research (in service of getting a job), and I had actual conversation using actual human words (English, I think). I proposed to my former employers that I might come in once a week during this (hopefully brief) tenure of unemployment, so that I might enjoy their wonderful creative space, use them as sounding boards and help out as necessary. Perhaps I could start referring to myself as the unofficial writer in residence. Could even wear a badge. Either way, it sure is great to be around creative people, kind people. I learnt a valuable lesson from those long winters of self-imposed social isolation (eight-week mid-semester breaks … brrrr!), so am endeavouring to get out more and see people.

Today I went to my old school (the one I finished up at last week) for a catch-up brunch/coffee thing (at which I had neither brunch, nor coffee). It was lovely. Even though I’ve endured – and continue to endure – a horrendous viral infection, it was still great to get away from my various neuroses and laugh, talk and listen to others. One friend, whose selflessness I’ve grown to adore, is also battling flu-like symptoms. Shaking hers is imperative for she’s leaving for Fiji next week. Another friend told me about all the difficulties her and her partner have gone through these past few years. They’ve had a lot of bad luck, and a long string of financial and familial disappointments. My heart goes out to them. I get the sense they’d be happy if the universe would only give them a much-deserved break. The third friend is going really well, with an impressive writing-related internship and some fortuitous part-time creative work. She brought her brilliant poodle with her, and seems in good stead for the next year. I’m hopeful these catch-ups can continue into the New Year, as I find I come away from them in a much better headspace.

Also while at school, I decided I won’t be going to my graduation ceremony. Despite this post, I’m not especially sentimental, and so ultimately deemed it not worth the money. Can anyone who’s completed long-term study weigh in on this? Do you think I’ll regret it? belljarAnyway, now that I’ve finished The Bell Jar (not the best book to read when you’re straddling depression), I’m ready to begin my friend’s novel, which I’ve been looking forward to for some time. Is there anything you’d like to share about your day, readers? I’d love to hear it. What challenges have you overcome? What are you grateful for?

Update: Publication News + Reflection

My story, ‘The Reunion’, has been accepted for publication in literary journal Page Seventeen. As part of the lead-up to publication, editor Beau Hillier asked each contributing writer to reflect (in 250 words or less) on the process of writing their respective piece.

I fear it won’t make much sense without first reading the story, but it does effectively document the way disparate influences can come together and inspire a piece of fiction.

From the Busybird Publishing website:

Reflections-4

The P17 launch date is fast approaching – not long now until the latest issue of page seventeen is available!

It’s an open invitation to come on down to our launch event and open mic night at the Busybird workshop – 2/118 Para Rd, Montmorency – from 7pm onwards on 19 November.

In the meantime, a couple more of the Issue 11 contributors have offered a little more insight into what went into the latest P17 edition.

*             *             *

Tom O’Connell on ‘The reunion’

My inspirations for ‘The reunion’ are threefold.

Firstly, this story was written in response to the Murakami short ‘All God’s children can dance’, wherein a young man, lied to about his supposed birth by Immaculate Conception, searches for his true biological father. The search culminates on an empty baseball diamond, a final image which has remained with me.

Years ago, I took regular evening walks around the streets of Northcote. On these walks, I often passed sporting grounds where local AFL teams had their weeknight training sessions. During training, the stands and grounds would be empty. The field would be lit, but only coaches and a dozen or so players were present. (I love how this contrasts the bustle of Game Day. Empty sporting grounds are so serene.)

One night, I noticed a hooded figure watching the boys train. The stands were unlit, so he was shrouded in darkness. I passed another night and he was there again. He came regularly. No one paid him any notice. He was probably one of the boys’ fathers, but that didn’t stop me turning over the possibilities. What if he was a spy, or homeless, or generally unhinged? (Amusingly, an earlier draft emphasised this angle.) The idea developed and he became an absentee father.

Finally, I suppose this story was written, in part, to satisfy an innate curiosity about my biological father, whom I have no relationship with. Paternal bonds often figure into my fiction, though never usually this explicitly.

Tom O’Connell is a writer, editor and tea-enthusiast. He is currently studying for a Bachelor of Writing and Publishing and has been published in [untitled], n-SCRIBE, Vine Leaves and Crack the Spine. Follow his writing at artofalmost.wordpress.com.