2001 - 2002

I used to hop on the 6.35am #96 tram at its terminus on Nicholson Street to travel in to work. I loved being up at that hour to watch the delivery trucks zoom around the empty streets, making their bread and fruit deliveries to all the cafes. I would slouch into the corner of the seat, always on the left-hand side (my preference) and watch the sunrise come up over the eastern suburbs. This was usually in the Autumn months, like we’re in now, and those magnificent pinks and purples were a lovely welcome to the new day.

I would alight the tram on the corner of King and Bourke Streets to usually be the first waiting in the Hudsons Coffee line. I’d order my tall capuccino and blueberry bagel, walk next door to my work, go up to my desk, and sit and write my novel for the next hour. Then it was time to start over, this time at my ‘real job.’

It was those 60-odd minutes I managed to squeeze into my day that got me through the typical drudgery we all feel when we’re in an unsatisfying occupation - and my job, as far as it went, was quite cushy, thanks. But it wasn’t fulfilling. It was the writing which compelled me to set my alarm early, and even earlier once we moved out into the suburbs.

2009

Now I am struggling to find a similar kind of motivation to get me going again.

You see, the clock ticks over 7am and if the kids aren’t awake, I lie there and think, Sleep on, my babies. Sleep! So I may, too. There’s no more jumping out of bed to fling myself upon the day; I wait for it to break yellow like an egg all over me and my face. While the kids were babies, I cared little about the shunt my life took. I was getting such little sleep that any sort of lie in could be well justified, but now they’re at an age where I feel I can no longer use them as excuses for my own inaction.

I don’t know how I’m going to ‘fix’ my laziness. I’ve gone through periods where I’ve set the alarm to a super early time to get up to work or go to the gym and each time I hit the ‘off’ button without a thought. Perhaps that needs to stop. Perhaps I need to turn into a night owl. Perhaps I need to stop writing posts like this and just get on with it.

So I will.

I have lost all vocabulary.
I arrive upon a cartoon bugler’s herald
to a scene where with jesters hat jingling
my words seem mocking; they serve no purpose.
Emotional gravitas is thrown on a paperpile marked “for later.”
Then it is hidden, and later unbidden, in my
mind’s library where other books are flipped open erased and
I am left with a pen without ink.

(Yes, I wrote this. ‘Tis a work in progress)

This is Riley’s balloon from his McDonalds birthday party. His birthday party that was almost five weeks ago. Normally I pop balloons as soon as the kids lose interest in them.

(I know, I’m horrible in that respect. I don’t even let them blow bubbles with dishwashing liquid.)

(I am joking.)

(Except about the popping. I do do that.)

Not this one, however. No, I’ve been content to let it float about the house, quaking in the knowledge that at any moment I can and will (sometime) send it to the balloon master upstairs. That’s if the cat doesn’t claw it first. Which is more likely.

“Effective use of details, more than any other single factor, distinguishes publishable manuscripts from those that have a good story line but somehow ‘aren’t quite right for us.’ ”
Nancy Kress, Beginnings, Middles and Ends

My head is full of book at the moment. These ones. I will explain the reasons and causes later in the week of my mental jam, but today’s quote is enough to demonstrate my nerves: because instead of writing I’m reading books about writing, which is never a good sign of confidence.

(For the family, there are more pictures here)

I hope you had a lovely Easter.

This long weekend I shall try to read as many of these books as possible so they may be returned to the library - beginning with Escape from Blood Castle, which makes little sense in some of the riddle pages, but is an old childhood favourite of mine.

We cheated this week*. Being cold and rainy, on top of general holiday-time malaise, Adam and I rented a couple of our favourites: his being Grosse Pointe Blank and mine being The Cat’s Meow. For the record, The Cat’s Meow wouldn’t make my top-ten favourite movie list, but I can’t help but think it quirky and appealing. I think because it’s about Old Hollywood, a period of time I always enjoy learning about and watch being re-created. Plus, I have a thing for Eddie Izzard.

The new ones are Glory and Scarface (yes, I’ve never seen either).

Care Bears is Keira’s. Honestly.

*Read more of my movie challenge here.