Saturday, 13 June 2020

On Writing

Writing is a strange thing. It seems to me that it's something everyone can do, but not all do it well, as people just don't have the time to do it. It doesn't require a lot of effort to write down what has happened each day and what's on one's mind and heart, just the setting it down. 

The problem sometimes stems when other people read it, and judge you on what you've written. It shouldn't matter if it's full of typos and bad grammar, the important thing is that you do it. There are editors and proofreaders for that task...for those pernickety perfectionists amongst us, those people who make a living spotting other people's mistakes. 

I used to write everyday from when I could first construct sentences from about age 6. I had a good imagination, I just wrote down what I would imagine, as often it would run away with me anyway and this was normal, it was all part of child's play world, make-believe. I was places in a writers group at school and left to be free with words. The problem soon came when real life got in the way and things would grow dark. Teachers did not like dark stories. 

They liked outlandish plots and things to be kept light and airy. Soon it became a struggle to write anything because what I did in my school holidays was not all that interesting. I would face my ten lines in my school book and struggle to write anything, that I hadn't written before. If I was too honest about stuff, nobody wanted to read it. By third form, it had got too much, I had a teacher write that I wrote things that were too PERSONAL.  In a way, they were encouraging students to lie about things as they didn't want to read about such embarassing or uncomfortable issues as puberty, domestic violence and racism. 

I soon abandoned writing and even cartooning as child's play and didn't write much for ten years. If nobody wanted to read it then what was the point of writing it? Anne Frank wrote her diary but then she didn't survive Auschwitz, or anyone else, it was not as if writing could save me. 

For years I did not write and then the urge came. After a while I slowly got back into it with a smattering of poetry at first. Poetry is all about feelings, and I had an abundance of those. Then a full saga, and short pieces. I joined a writers group, where there were some creative minds, but some of the exercises we did were like the workshoppy 'create a story' mould that was anathema to me. Why even make stuff up when it's all happening in the real world? Couldn't I just write what was on my heart? Well no, one must fictionalise it, and write what will sell. 

I looked into commercial writing - writing for pay. It just seemed like a sell out to me. Besides, nobody would BUY what I was writing, it was too raw.  Copy writers wrote nonsense for advertisers. What sold really was gossip. I even had a job in a company that  captioned photos that people would publish in women's magazines, as what people wore was way more important than the people themselves. It was keywording and I would describe stock photos mostly, so if it was a pretty landscape I would type in 'sky' 'tranquil scene' 'horizon' 'pastoral' . I was paid by the hour (not by word) so I was writing but I don't think you could call it real writing in any sense. A monkey could have done it. 

After extricating from that job of 8 hours 9-5 sitting in front of a computer with a supervisor breathing down my neck in case I made a mistake, I returned to gardening because at least that was semi-creative and didn't involve a lot of grammar, syntax, or idioms. But then I find I had to write things down in that job too because I have what lots of people have, a limited memory and I would forget things. 

So that is why I started my garden blog because I was so bad at taking photos and remembering everything I had done. And that is mainly why I write...because if I don't, I will forget things and that's the plain truth. I don't make things up or try to give things a happy ending...because life goes on regardless, but at least I would have captured a moment in time when something glorious has happened, like a flower appearing or a delightful discovery or just the plain hard work gardening can be. And it also helps if a plant has suddenly died and I'm trying to rack my brains on what plant exactly was that and where did I plant it...? 

Writing, as reporting or journalism is often a lost art, as newspapers fold, and people don't have time to read anymore. A picture can say a 1000 words true but often it can be deceptive and won't necessarily tell you really felt at the time. For that, words are gold. So sorry instagram I'm not about to sign up and be your loyal customer. 

As I type this I am not sure who (if anyone) will read this but if it's you, you can either write back or write your own blog and share the joys of writing. Secretly...it's actually a lot of fun to write stuff but don't take my word for it... just do it. 






Thursday, 14 May 2020

The day the oil ran out (17)

As I idly flipped on Facebook to watch a youtube video I saw a trailer go past advertising a movie called 40 Days.
How much longer would this go on for I had no idea, so I started counting. It didn't look too promising. The movie trailer looked very depressing and overly dramatic. I wasn't sure I was ready for Rangitoto to erupt just yet.
Back to the problems at hand. Are we in May?
Is it my birthday soon?
What will I do for a living?

I watched Slowy outside, still nibbling. It seemed she had gathered a lot of ...feijoas. Although they looked too small to be feijoas. On closer inspection the little fruits were shiny. They were olives!

Olives! I could make olive oil! And we had plenty, because someone had planted them all along the berms/verges of our street so there were at least 100 of them. And each tree had at least 50 ripe olives and they were all falling all over the ground.

OMG.

The oil had not run out after all.

Hallelujah!








Saturday, 11 April 2020

Honest Trailer

Goodbook vision 
In association with Fishy Writers
Presents

40 days

Based on a true story

40 days till the volcanoes blow. Will Auckland repent?

The hellhole of the Pacific – Auckland City, is on the verge of collapse. One man, Jonah is called to preach God’s Word to a city that harbours gamblers, drunks and prostitutes. Will anyone listen?

Jonah is a man on a reluctant mission. He is sent to Auckland when he would rather have spent a relaxing cruise holiday in Rarotonga. But on his way there, divine things happen that make it clear God really wants him to go to Auckland. 

The people of Auckland are not where God wants them to be.  Aucklanders are caught in the grip of consumerism  through buying and selling property, having just built the biggest gambling complex in the nation and a new motorway means more cars clog an increasingly congested and polluted city. There are  pride parades, constant drunken parties, and the red light district is doing a roaring trade. 

False churches prey on the poor for more money, we meet youth who cannot get jobs and solo mothers whose partners have abandoned them and become addicted to gambling. Other children never see their parents who are working overtime to pay the rising rates on their houses. Retirees sell up and run off with the cash, to spend on expensive overseas holidays.

The Mayor has an affair with his secretary and then does not quit his job but continues to get rich from council perks. 

Jonah wants no part of Auckland City. He doesn’t want to preach there. If the volcanoes blow in 40 days as God says unless people repent, he wants to watch from a safe vantage point.

However by miracle something happens as the Word gets round….Aucklanders don’t want their city destroyed like Christchurch! And they don’t want to leave in a mass exodus. Jonah can’t believe his eyes when he sees Aucklanders repenting and starting to love one another as Jesus commands. 

Rated BG
Some content may offend. Biblical guidance recommended.

Sunday, 28 April 2019

The day the oil ran out (16)

50 things to do in May.

1. clip back hedges
2. turn compost
3. plant magnolias
4. dead head hydrangeas
5. polish indoor plant leaves
6. build insect hotels
7...

Huh. There's heaps of things to do. Poor Slowy. She's never going to be able to do all this.

My sister said 'Why did you ever leave the library? There's always jobs there to do'
I said  I got replaced by robots. I don't think I can go back. I'd just disrupt their automated system. Also, I got told off for reading the books.

 Ok. Well I don't know. What else can you do?

Search me, I'm not good at anything. Mum says when I do the dishes, I just make them dirtier.

My sister admonished me. That's not the way to think. Be proactive!

I didn't know what she meant by that. Maybe easy for her to say, she'd always been the boss of everything she did. I just had to be the unfortunate recipient of everyone else's orders, which meant I had to follow them and not think for myself.

Unless I created my own business called 'Pay-my-bills.com'.
But as with all my brilliant ideas, I had no idea how to go about it, and if I tried, I would probably get in trouble with the authorities.

My sister said If I wanted to start my own business, I had to go to the bank to get a loan, and make a business case, because nobody would give me any capital without it.

How about I tell you a story, and you can pay me per word.

What like write a book?
Yes...
What are you going to call it?
I'm thinking of calling it 'The day the oil ran out'.
Er...
I did some calculations. It's about 32,000 words so far, so if I charge a dollar per word, surely the bills can be paid off this month.

My sister said, Selina, I think you need to find a real job.








Saturday, 8 December 2018

The day the oil ran out (15)

I let Slowy take a break as I could see she wanted to watch butterflies. She was somewhat of a free spirit unlike me and wasn't used to being chained to a house. I mean I was now used to it and accepted my fate but that was because I experienced severe Stockholm Syndrome under Mum's regime. It was hard for me to even think of leaving. Where would I go, and what would I do? I felt like Scarlett O'Hara when Rhett leaves her, telling her he didn't give a damn because she won't leave Tara. Or was it Ashley. I didn't know anymore my head hurt, so I thought the best thing to do was to have a cup of tea and a lie-down.

Dad made me a cup of tea and after finishing it I lay down on my bed. I soon fell asleep, exhausted. 
I didn't awake from my nap till I heard a familiar voice. 

Eh eh. Earth to Selina, earth to Selina. 
I woke to find my sister standing over me. 
What, is this all a dream? Aren't you mean to be in London? I said, semi-accusingly. How did she magically appear just like that? Genie, or just being Glennis?
I rang you from Nicole's. I've been back for a week. But I can't walk the Milford Track now because of this rather inconvenient oil crisis or even go back to London, since all flights are cancelled and nobody can get out so I guess I'm stuck with you here.
She grinned, seeing if I would take the bait.

Oh, I said. Well I can't really afford to hang out with you because I need to find a job. The car won't go.  And you can't borrow my bicycle because it's been stolen. 

My sister liked hanging out at trendy cafes and shopping malls, and seeing shows and dining out and all that jazz. My idea of a fun social time was,  a cup of tea and scone at church, while people asked me how I was and if I was  busy at work (No, because when they asked me it was Sunday, and I didn't as a rule do any work on Sunday). Also she wouldn't get the whole praising the Lord thing, and that you could sit anywhere in church you liked and didn't need to book or buy a ticket. That or reading library books. My sister never read library books, she always bought magazines. 

Aw chin up. She said. I bought you this Gardeners World magazine. I'm sure you'll find something. We can just put all the bills on my credit card. You can pay me back when you've got a job.

Ok. I flicked through the magazine. I came to an article with the heading 'What To Do Now'. It had no less than 50 things to do for the month of May. 








Thursday, 2 August 2018

The day the oil ran out (14)

A familiar face appeared on my facetime. My sister, and she was saying "Good news, I am coming home".
"Huh, what? Wow, when why how?"

My sister said not to worry about a thing it would all be taken care of. She must have seen the look of relief on my face as my worry lines uncreased. See, my sister had a cushy job in marketing and had squirreled away hundreds and thousands of pounds due to favourable exchange rate and hedge funds, while I was still trying to get Slowy to mow the lawn and clip the hedge for chump change.

She was older, wiser, and probably mortified that Dad had designated me default head of the household in her absence. What are big sisters for if not to step in and stop their hapless little sisters from falling off her *borrowed* bicycle? As my sister seemed so sure of herself, I did not question it.

See I don't know how she would get to Auckland when the airplanes were no longer flying, nor pay the bills and handle Dad's vinyl revival obsession, cook dinner each night, clean the bathroom, mop the floor, take out the garbage, feed the cat and chicken, weed the garden, do all the laundry, but then this was my sister, she was Wonder Woman and could do everything, and hold down a full time job to boot.

Maybe I could sleep easy tonight and eat those chips and icecream Dad kept proffering me after all. It seemed the burden had lifted off my shoulders and the world would carry on, because my sister would be running the show.

Thank God for Big Sisters!









Saturday, 30 June 2018

The day the oil ran out (13)

My patience was being tested. I had one day to find a new job, and the day was coming near to an end. The bills were piling up. We weren't winning lotto. And Slowy was so slow, she would never eat the grass to a good enough standard to get to the minimum 300 millimetres required by Auckland Transport to be a serviceable berm. And the oil had run out. Did I mention the oil had truly run out?

I looked at my options. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Option 1. Sell up and move Dad to the Waitakere Gardens, where I could live as a guest squatter as long as I kept my profile low. 

Option 2. Ring my ex-boyfriend in rehab, and become his accountability person. I will stop him from taking dangerous drugs, and be paid as a support worker. As long as he acknowledges he has a problem that will never get better. 

Option 3. Run away and join the circus. Shortland Street needs more people all the time. I could act as a kooky mental patient, and make a tonne of money on the long running series, as long as it continued to be on air. Perhaps even more if I had a special kind of illness that meant I could play multiple characters. 

I was in the process finding out the number of the Waitakere Gardens retirement village when I heard a familiar ringtone. It was my Facetime. My sister! What could she want, plus it was 3 in the afternoon. Why would she be calling me all the way from London in the early hours of her morning?