A Novel Idea

There have been word clouds brewing in my sky for some months now that I’ve been impatiently waiting for to burst so I can run out and meet them, these big fat plump clouds, and stomp in their puddles pooled around my toes, squelching and plodding in their absolute joy… I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions, I never have been. However, at Christmas time last year, something wild and hungry in me started to stir amidst the warm awakening of new beginnings and slowly, like watching a sign come into view, I started to see that my red-heeled shoes had arrived at an unignorable opportunity. Declaring 2009 my Year of Yes, I decided to gather up my butterfly net, my corkboard and magnifying glass and pin down my biggest dream of immersing myself in a life of writing. Then I figured that if I was going that far, to quit my job and life as I know it to pursue this dream, I might as well make the most of it and throw in another long-time yearning; to make the most of my UK heritage and live in England (I’ve never been to the UK or Europe before). You know, two birds with one stone sort of thing. So, while at home with my folks during the silly season at the end of last year, I set to work on my pursuit of the unimaginable – I began applying to England’s top universities to become a 2009 postgrad Masters student of Creative Writing. Applying was a massive process – taking on not only the requirements of the universities but also the UK visa office required many patient friends and many late nights of hot chocolates and No Doz study habits from my undergrad student days. I had to compile a writing portfolio or varying lengths and styles, a ‘Statement of Purpose’ essay, a comprehensive resume, my education qualifications, extensive job references and writing references. After turning my mother’s house inside out, I found I was able to gather together everything except writing references – I was stumped. And I was trembling in my boots about the dishwater results of my Bachelor degree transcripts – all of the Masters courses I was looking into generally required Honours marks in an undergraduate field of study. I undertook my BA when I was in my late teens and not a unique story, it was a pretty troubled time for me. Unfortunately this was sharply reflected in average results across my degree with the occasional spattering of high distinctions in (funnily enough) my writing subjects. So, I didn’t have a writing reference and I didn’t have the marks on paper that the unversities I’d set my gaze on demanded I have before even thinking about applying. Nevertheless, the wild hunger persisted and the only place I could think of to go was the place that had snowballed my writing development and confidence in the previous year – Red Bubble. Without knowing her all that well at the time, the first person I went to was the stellar Bellmusker – a writer of such calibre that very rarely will she not steal your breath from your lungs with her words. Within a few bmails, Bell had fed the wildness and hunger in me. I was replete, stuffed and so full of self-belief and determination that there wasn’t any room for doubt. Bell, for the woman and person and writer you are, thank you for helping me to achieve what I have. Not only did Bell write me the most humbling brilliant and sincere reference of my writing ability to these universities, but she single-handedly completely convinced me that my writing portfolio would overshadow all bureaucratic educational requirements and my words would stand on their own (quivering-with-nerves) feet. And what do you know… eeeeek… they did! When I began to receive responses to my applications requesting interviews (one unversity blanket-accepted me without interview on the merit of my writing portfolio) I started to feel the air shift and change and the atmosphere electrify; the calm before the storm clouds were brewing. LIfe began to feel impossibly insatiable. I couldn’t sit still. In my sleep, the shape of my dreams started to solidify under my fingertips, the colour and fragrance of my words on paper woke me in the middle of the night, my mouth smarting with the taste of ink. The phone interviews across the hands of clocks and the waves of seven seas left me sleepless and giddy. The wait for outcomes was interminable… but finally, finally... the emails came… It is sheer pleasure…to…type…these…words… after weighty decision-making (Oxford was in the mix), I have accepted an unconditional offer of study and will be a 2009 student of the University of Manchester’s Master of Creative Writing program. I will be studying under such novelists as Martin Amis and MJ Hyland and will be living on campus! I leave Australia in a few weeks and still, despite all the little bruised stars on my skin from all the pinching I’ve been doing, I can’t believe this opportunity is mine. The countdown is on! In the lead up to my depature and to kick-start celebrations, I recently took a drive north to sugar cane country where the whispers of my family tree catch on the country breeze and settle at the feet of my grandmother’s kitchen table. Over pots of tea leaves that left tannin sketches at the bottom of every cup, I listened to stories of the women whose footsteps I walk in, who have always whispered stories in my ear. / L-R: my grandmother, with her mother and her sister – a rare afternoon of shenanigans amidst post-war life. I learned the secrets of my grandmother’s stew and scone recipes, held my breath as she clasped the strand of her oldest pearls around my throat and for most of the week I was with her, sat in awe amidst piles of photographs and hand-bound notebooks learning, as a woman, of my grandmother’s truest desire to be a writer. Side by side, we spent hours of one honeyed afternoon planting seedlings in her garden that was declared a patch of earth all my own where I will grow under my grandmother’s watchful eye while I’m on the other side of the world, growing word gardens all of my own. I saw the tethers in her eyes that were tied to my dreams and as I tore myself away from her to drive home, my grandmother pressed something into my hand and said, a reminder for you, my girl, of who you must always answer to. So, it was my 29th birthday a few days ago. To celebrate the year ahead and the Manchester countdown, my beautiful Libby flew across the country and showered me with almost more love and goodness than I could absorb. She gave me my very own vintage (made in 1963!) writer’s cape (or poncho!?) complete with handmade brooch and arm holes at the front for notebook/keyboard access… my father gave me a Tolkien collection that I will take with me everywhere, my brother (torn between the practicality of a sleeping bag and jewellery) opted for a pair of June Carter-worthy art deco earrings (for my “college life” he said) and my mother gave me a platinum-encased namesake of the one character I have penned who never leaves me and is never far from my thoughts. Next week, I get on a plane to Melbourne to celebrate where this journey of mine all began – amongst the pages and canvasses of this here red bubbly world and all of the shimmery hearts who have let me wriggle on in and dance around madly like no one’s watching. I’m on my way, the fledgling steps of this journey are unravelling… As artists, we all know how it feels to scratch our creative itch, whatever our addictions may be: words, paint, lenses… light, colours, stanzas or prose. And when we do, when we ride the high of being completely immersed in our raison d’être, there’s nothing better than sharing the elation, nothing better than vicariously feeling the rush of each other’s goodness shivers. I think that’s half the reason we’re all addicted to Red Bubble – the buoying support we give each other in our development as artists. To wrap up this rather long “little bit of news”, can I just say… from the very bottom of my boots and the seat of the tree in my heart… to all of you who have read my work, who have left such inspiring and encouraging feedback, who have made me applaud with glee at the applause you have left me… each and every one of those little morsels of support have fed the wild hunger in me that has gotten me this far, that has my ruby slippers at the threshold of this jump into my Oz, into my writing adventure. It’s enormously surreal and dizzying that it’s actually me who has the news to share with you… And I thank you wholeheartedly. I can hear the first crack of thunder… the storm’s getting closer, the countdown is on. Won’t you come celebrate and puddle-stomp with me? x / The University of Manchester campus, Whitworth Building / John Rylands Library: my future uni library – can you believe it?

I can’t believe it. This is the first picture I’ve ever taken of a Hot Air Balloon and to see that it has 112 views is mind blowing! Thank you everyone for looking, I really appreciate it! You all have made my day! / Shane

i got dumped applause / yes i know. take a bow. why you ask? oh thats easy. coz of my mu. part of it was coz of my mum. i hate life!

True to my nature i have defied my tyrannous mother and am on the computer. \m/_\m/

Well, I have been missing in action for a few days. It doesn’t seem like a long time, but I have had an interesting experience. I have finally moved back to California from Texas. I dreaded driving the 1500 miles, 24 hour trip, but it was something I really wanted to do; an opportunity to see some of the country and enjoy the changes in landscape and enviroment of each city and state, and the way the people interacted. My only real concern was that my loaded down car would hold up, and fortunately it did much better than I expected. One interesting thing was that throughout most of my trip, particularly in the Texas, New Mexico, Pheonix areas, the old Wild West was on my mind. My writer’s imagination contemplated the old wild west as it was then: Cowboys and Indians, small towns, dreamers panning for gold in the hills and streams. Men driving Cattle from places like El Paso, to California. Visions of families and others travelling in large groups through the very dangerous dessert with hopes of finding a new life for themselves. Thieves and highjackers laying in wait as they hide themselves behind rocks and bolders waiting to ambush and murder the most volunerable. I thought of the many wars and mini wars fought between various groups over land and cattle, and with the indians who felt infringed on by new settlers. I envisioned gunfights between drunken men on the main streets of small towns, and lawmen shooting at badmen as they attempt to rob banks of the town’s loot. It was all a very interesting trip. And I so much dreaded looking ahead of me to see hundreds of miles of highway in front of me as my car barreled down the highway at 90-100 miles an hour or more, with signs which say, next town 200 miles. It seemed that I could never get there, and when I did, there was another 500 miles to go, and then 300 miles, and on an on. And the weather; so damn hot; anywhere from 90 degrees to as much as 110 degrees. My AC was not working, so you can imagine my disposition in my attempt to stay cool. Impossible. lol But, I made the trip, taking many shots with my trusty Nikon Digital D40; some images taken while travelling at 90 miles. I will post a few of the best ones and maybe some unedited ones so you could see what the images looks like at 90-100 miles an hour. I am now in California, and plan to stay here for long into the future. I don’t plan to make a trip like this ever again in any other vehicle, but a plane. lol

im not alowed on the computer dunno y but yer i am ill be back but i dunno wen. xx apoligies for anyconveinence