Time, Perhaps, for Some Actual Writing

So, when I started writing this blog I intended to put lots of bits of my writing up. I haven't really done that yet. So here's a couple of pieces from the archives. They're from my first NaNo novel, A Fairytale Tomorrow, which is currently (and will probably remain) abandoned. I've rambled on here before about why not everything you write has to be destined for publication, and about the benefits of writing for practice, but there are a couple of other reasons why this book is shelved:

• It was my first novel, so it is essentially jam packed of every single YA lit stereotype and trope you can think of.
• Basically everything in it is ripped off from my time at high school, and I really haven't tried to change names/incidents all that much. (The main characters are all completely imagined, though.)
• I could continue rewriting and editing it, but I'm happy to leave it as is and continue with my other works in progress. I learnt a lot from writing it though.

I have one physical copy of the book – or what it was like at one stage anyway – thanks to CreateSpace, a NaNoWriMo sponsor. Here it is:

(Cover adapted from a photo by D Sharon Pruitt.)

It's currently at Barnaby's house, where it may or may not be read. I mention this in case I ever forget where it is. I'll be able to read back over my blog and go 'Oh, right, that's where it is. Gee, it's been ten years, I should try and track that down.'

Anyway! Onto some excerpts. I've tried to pick ones that are not so much a rip off from SOHS. The first one, in case it's not obvious, is the first section from a paragraph where the Year Tens go to camp. (As we did at, uh, SOHS.)

'I can't, for the life of me, imagine why the school thinks it's a good idea to go on camp in the middle of winter', Mandy grumbled as Ms Tyler's form class waited to board the bus.

Caitlin was hopping from foot to foot, trying to keep herself warm. 'It's cheaper this time of year. And the school is a real cheapskate.'

'Aw, come on, where's your sense of adventure?' Adam asked the pair.

'I left it at home, along with my iPod, centrally heated house, and nice food', Mandy retorted. 'None of it's coming to camp with me.'

'Aw, it'll be fun guys', Ben put in. The group stared at him –  it really wasn't a Ben thing to say. 'Well, not exactly fun, but better than school', he clarified.

'Alright, class! Excuse me, everyone in my form class, please make sure you have put your bags by the back of the bus and line up to get on, please. Let's see ... line up in order of birthdays.'

'Why?' Gabe inquired.

'To spark communication, of course! Come on, or we'll never get to camp.'

'We'd get to camp a whole lot faster if she'd let us line up however we wanted', Caitlin muttered to Rory. 'Save me a seat?'

'If there're two seats together by the time I get on', Rory promised. Luckily for them, there were.

The bus had barely pulled out from the school when Ms Tyler suggested a singalong. 'How about some Westlife?' she asked. The students groaned, but one group of boys did start up a round of Row, Row, Row Your Boat.

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Toss your teacher overboard!

Listen to her scream!

Ms Tyler didn't think it was nearly as hilarious as the boys themselves did, and they wound up with detentions. That was the only punishment she ever gave anyone, although being in her class was a harsh punishment in itself.

'Hard luck, ay, going off to camp with Ms Tyler and Mr Healy, the most insane teachers this side of the planet. Probably more insane than any teachers on the other side of the planet, too.' Caitlin stared at the teacher, currently writing detention slips.

'It's about as good luck as getting Mr Healy as our form teacher in Year Nine, and then Ms Tyler in Year Ten', Rory responded. Though Mr Healy didn't make his classes play stupid games, he would get crazy ideas and see them through to the end. He'd thought it would be good to put all the desks in a large block in the middle of the classroom, and the students sit around the edges. They'd been incredibly squished, but the setup had remained all year. Another time he'd decided to play a week-long game where one team had to do whatever the other team made them do, regardless. There'd been a few complaints after that, and a couple of students had transferred out of his class. Terri McClashen had even changed schools.

Right now, Mr Healy was ordering all the students to get off the bus so they could go on a bushwalk. The sky was a very dark grey, and looked like it would pour down at any moment. The teacher wasn't put off at all, telling the students that if they didn't want to get caught in the rain, they would have to hurry around the track.

'Psst, Rory. Let's line up at the back, then only walk in for a couple of hundred metres, then get back on the bus', Mandy whispered. Ben was beside her, nodding.

'Okay', Rory said tentatively. She didn't want to get in trouble, but she really didn't want to go on a bushwalk either. They couldn't even start to put their plan in action, though, as Ms Tyler decided she would bring up the rear. The three students suddenly decided that they'd rather walk in the middle of the pack. 'Good thing too – this bush is near where part of Lord of the Rings was shot. She'd be lecturing us the whole way if we were at the back', Mandy remarked.

'Ah, students!' Mr Healy called from where he was striding out ahead of the pack. 'Isn't the smell of the bush fantastic? It's so invigorating, so life-enhancing!'

'So stinky', Ben said, drawing laughs from both girls. Adam and Caitlin, who for some reason actually enjoyed physical activity, were walking further ahead.

'Aaand here comes the rain.' Rory muttered, as it began to spit.

'Oh no, rain! I'll save you, princess' Ben said, picking Rory up and carrying her forward a few paces, before dropping her unceremoniously on the ground. 'Or not. That's hard work. I'm not cut out for carrying anything heavier than my backpack.'

Rory dusted off her clothes, and tried to pretend his comment didn't sting. She was heavy? She knew she wasn't thin, but she was actually heavy?

'Come on, Ror, let's go, it's starting to pour down now!' Mandy was right. The grey clouds had burst open, spilling buckets of water.

I would have to be wearing a white shirt right now, wouldn't I, Rory thought, chastising herself, and wishing she could stab Ben's eyeballs out – they were, for some reason, fixated on her chest.

The classes trudged along the path as quickly as they could, sighing in relief when the busses came into view once again. 'Okay, back on the busses everyone. Wasn't that fun? Just another hour until we get to camp, where the fun will continue', Mr Healy told the students.

The group looked like drowned rats as they climbed back onto their busses. 'Now we have to sit in wet clothes for an hour. I can't wait to tell my Mum she was wrong, camp wasn't safe, and I got hypothermia' Rory said to Caitlin. Caitlin was silent. 'What?'

'Maybe you should try and have a good time, Rory. If you think you're going to hate camp, you will, and you'll be miserable the whole time.'

Rory slumped back in her seat. 'Whatever.' She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep the rest of the way to camp.

This segment comes from a chapter where our hero and her brother Max find themselves staying at the next door neighbour's house while their mother is out of town for work. Rory's pretty unimpressed – the Hunter family includes:

• Adam, who is in her year at school. She has a bit of a crush on him, and he recently asked her former best friend to the school social instead of her.
• Dean, Adam's older brother, who's a bit horrible really.
• Ian, Adam's younger brother and Max's best friend. He's okay, actually. He and Max share a mutual interest in dinosaur games.

She found Mrs Hunter in the kitchen stirring a big pot of porridge. 'Can I help?' she offered, not really wanting to, but wanting to be polite.

Mrs Hunter sounded surprised. 'Oh! Rory dear, you're up very early! Not like my lot. If you could grab the toast when it pops, then put some more in the toaster, that would be wonderful.'

Toast and porridge for breakfast? Rory was surprised. How did people eat that much? Although, she supposed, there were an awful lot of boys in the Hunter family. Mrs Hunter didn't stop there, however. Once she had taken the porridge off the stove she went to the pantry and began pulling out boxes of cereal, which she placed on the table next to a selection of plates and bowls, and knives and spoons. Rory took the last of the toast out of the four slice toaster and put it on a plate, which she put on the table. Mrs Hunter hurried over to the pantry and took out an assortment of spreads which she put on the table as well. 'Sit down, sit down dear. Eat up.'

Rory felt a bit funny being the only one sitting at the table. 'Aren't you going to join me?'

'In a minute, I'll just finish making everyone's lunches.'

Rory wondered who 'everyone' was. She always had to make her own lunches. But if she was only making a lunch for Ian, the youngest, then she wouldn't have said 'everyone'. Anyway, she took a slice of toast and spread some butter and Marmite on it, and took a bite.

'Take more than that, Rory. Have some porridge, or some cereal. Breakfast's the most important meal of the day, after all. Oh, and what can I get you to drink? Orange juice, tea, hot chocolate?'

'Orange juice is fine, thanks,' Rory said, still thinking that this was way too much food for breakfast.

Max and Ian were the next ones down, and they slid happily into their seats. 'Oh boy,' Max said, looking at the food and immediately helping himself to some of everything.

'Max, be polite,' Rory admonished quietly. He paid her no heed. Ian, too, had taken some of everything. So Rory guessed that that must be okay – and it certainly seemed to keep Mrs Hunter happy, as she made cups of hot chocolate for the boys.

Dean was next down, sidling in beside Rory, who stiffened visibly. 'Sup Red' he greeted.

Well, Red was better than 'Ginga' in any case.

'Did you get your Calculus homework finished last night?' his mother asked him.

'YES, Mum, don't nag,' he replied, rudely.

'Alright, dear. It's on your own head if you don't get university entrance.'

'I certainly hope you got your homework done,' Mr Hunter added, arriving at the bottom of the stairs. 'You're not freeloading off of us if you don't get into university.'

Dean rolled his eyes, and Rory found herself wondering if the stories Adam had told them about Dean brewing beer in his parents' basement without their knowledge was true. And speaking of Adam, the last Hunter boy entered the dining room and, like his brothers and father, took some of everything.

'Adam, where is your school tie?' his mother asked him. Adam shrugged.

'Dunno. In my room somewhere.'

'You'll get in trouble at school without a tie, won't you?'

Dean snickered. 'No, Mum, nobody cares if you're wearing a tie or not.'

'But the Year Thirteen boys' trend of shaving their legs so they can wear roman sandals like the girls is a bit disturbing' Adam said, elbowing Dean. 'Eh Dean?'

'I TOLD you Squirt, it's good for swimming.'

'And your little legs just look lovely in your roman sandals.'

'Adam, if you don't shut up right now I'll –' Dean stopped, seeing his parents staring at him with pointed looks on their faces. 'Not do anything,' he finished, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

Rory found out later that Mrs Hunter had, in fact, made a lunch for everyone. Including two sandwiches, an apple, an orange, a pack of peanuts, two biscuits, a muesli bar, and some cheese and crackers.

'Do you always get so much lunch?' she asked Adam on the way to school. He looked at her.

'What do you mean?'

'There's so much food in our lunches! Is that usual?'

'Yeah,' he told her oddly, as if he didn't understand what she was saying. 'Yeah, that's how much we always get.'

'Oh, okay. It just seems like a lot, that's all.'

They had left the house at the same time, so it had only made sense to walk to school together. But when they had arrived they'd both sensed some awkwardness. 'Bye, then,' Rory said. 'See you back at your place after school.'

'We could – yeah, see you then. Have a good day.'

AND NOW IT'S TIME FOR AN ADELAIDE UPDATE.

I have AirNZ tickets, a valid passport, and the Writers' Week program in my hot little hand, so I'm going baby! It's pretty close now too – only 26 days away. There are lots of exciting people presenting but I'm most excited to see / hear / hopefully get autographs from (because I am a fangirl) Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld. Larbalestier is the author of the fabulous Liar, which I have just reread and it messed with my head (in the best possible way) just as much as it did the first time I read it. She also co-wrote Team Human which is an excellent antidote to Twilight. She also is really interesting to follow on Twitter. And she has Tweeted me a couple of times! One time recently we were having a discussion about writing fiction vs theses and I really had to stop myself from going MY THESIS IS 2/3 ABOUT UGLIES, YOU KNOW THAT SERIES YOUR HUSBAND WROTE?! I refrained from doing this because it is really annoying if someone yells at you on Twitter, and also because that may have lowered the tone of the conversation and I was enjoying having a calm conversation with a real live awesome author, yo. So yeah, Westerfeld was the subject of a great majority of my thesis. He's also my favourite author. (His wife is a much more entertaining tweeter, though.) It might be kind of neat to see him. I'll try to stop myself from doing anything really stupid, like getting him to autograph my thesis. (That was a momentary thought of madness.) I'm considering taking my original copy of Uglies (I have two copies of the series – a box set and a study set) which is full of about 300 post it notes and has notes scribbled in ballpoint pen throughout the book and seeing if I can get that signed. It would be kind of neat, since that's the copy I've read and reread and slaved over. We'll see. I could, of course, buy one of his books there (as you should really support the Book Tent at the Festival, as it helps keep the events free) but I figure they might not have that series there and I'll probably be inspired to buy books from authors who I go and listen to but have not read.

Until next time.

Actually, it's too hot to go to bed so here are some pictures of my copy of Uglies, so you can see what I mean.  

My stack of the series, with post-its.

The  colour code for the post-its, scrawled on the front page. Different colours for quotes, character, and theme. 

There aren't chapter numbers, which makes referencing a pain when you're making notes and want to say something happened in a particular chapter, and need to look it up again later. So I went through and numbered them all. 

Sometimes I didn't have a post-it handy, or wanted to note something about the text which did not fit one of the three characters. Here I very intelligently remark that Tally's river ride mirrors her discovery of life outside of society's mindset. (Does society even have a mindset?)

Anatomy of a thesis subject: We have post-it notes, with notes on them. We have underlining. We have notes written on the text itself. We probably have sweat and tear stains on the paper.

A symbolic shot showing how the series and post-its and hard work all ended up in a pretty little thesis.

And after that little photo-taking exercise, I should really go to bed! 

I Tried to Write About Cricket

When I was doing my MA at uni I'd meet up with my supervisor every three weeks or so. Generally our meetings would be about an hour, and we'd spend half the time talking about my research and writing then half the time on some random tangent. One afternoon we were discussing the town where I grew up, and somehow the conversation led to me pronouncing that 'people don't read much in Balclutha'.

He laughed, paused, thought, then told me 'that could be the title of your autobiography'.

So I'm baggsing it right now. One day I will be important enough that it would be worth writing my autobiography. It will be called People Don't Read Much in Balclutha, and it will be a bestseller.

I've written a little recollection for it already. Actually that's a lie. I tried to write a short story but two sentences in I realised I had no idea how to write a short story. You'd think they'd be easy, because they're short, but give me novel writing any day. I understand the way they work better. So. My attempted short story. It ended up as a … let's just call it a 'thing'. Maybe it's slice of life. I don't know. Which is really bad for an English graduate. VUW will be revoking my MA soon.

I also ran into trouble when I got to the end of the story because I couldn't remember what happened so I had to make it up. It's fairly realistic though. As Bob Katter says, 'I'm exaggerating, but it's not an inaccurate thing to say'.

Ooh look, I made another picture for it as well. I was trying to edit my rainy day Parapara pictures, but I never took any photos in the actual rain and whenever I edited them they began to look sunny.

So, here is a sneak peak of People Don't Read Much in Balclutha, coming soon to My Vivid Imagination.  

Nothing makes a small two bedroomed bach seem even smaller than persistent, pounding rain.

It clatters against the tin roof, stray drops echoing loudly as they fall down inside the chimney. If you listen really hard you can hear the sea roaring as it smacks up against the beach across the road. Were somebody to slide open the glass doors the wind would have caught the chimes, sending them into a clattering cacophony. The doors remain closed. We came here for the natural environment, but we're shutting it out. Perhaps this is because we came here for a sunny and friendly environment. The weather dropped its end of the agreement, and we responded in kind. It's not playing ball so neither are we.

It's supposedly the middle of summer. The 'wee hoose' at Parapara Beach is meant to be a base camp – we come back to it for half an hour after swimming if we're hungry and then head back to the beach for a walk. After returning from the chocolate shop we all gather in the kitchen together to put our treats away in the fridge, then disperse once more. It's where we return to squabble over who gets the top bunk that night, and where we eventually go to sleep.

But it's raining today and we're all confined to the asylum. There aren't even enough chairs to sit on, not really. There are two comfortable cushioned lounge chairs, some well worn 1970s-esque chairs around the dining table, and some stools at the breakfast bar. Dad and Keren have claimed the nice chairs and are reading. I'm sitting uncomfortably at the table, steadily making my way through a stack of outdated women's magazines which have gathered here over the summers. I'm not sure where Mum is, but Chris is sitting at the table with me trying to text. He himself doesn't have any trouble navigating a mobile phone, but reception here is poor at best, and that's on a good day. He's not a reader like the rest of us, and is growing bored fairly quickly.

Chris disappears into the bathroom, returning with a beach ball. 'Let's play cricket Izzie'.

I look up. 'It's raining.'

'So?'

'We don't have a cricket set.'

He holds out the beach ball as an offering.

'Still don't have a bat'.

'We'll use a stick'.

I close my magazine with entirely too much effort, but this day of doing nothing has been ridiculously exhausting. Sensing success my little brother quickly darts outside to fetch the aformentioned stick. He's in a charitible mood and lets me bat first.

Throwing air through air isn't overly efficient, so he stands mere metres away from me and bowls the ridiculously large cricket ball. I smack it over the breakfast bar so he can't catch me out and watch it land on the floor. It makes a couple of feeble bounces before coming to rest against the refrigerator.

'Where do I run to?' I realise suddenly.

He thinks. 'Touch that chair over there.'

I reach out lazily and prod it with the stick. 'Uh-huh'.

Chris fetches the ball and play resumes. Four points if you manage to hit the ball into the bathroom tucked in behind the kitchen. Six points if you hit it into either of the bedrooms on the other side of the lounge. After a poorly aimed swing Chris catches me out, and we exchange ball and bat. He clearly has a lot of pent up energy as he smashes his first ball all the way into the master bedroom for six. I wander in to retrieve it and discover Mum is in here reading. She doesn't bother asking.

He got off to a good start, but when he makes his next attempt the ball hits the book Dad's reading then lands at his feet. Without looking up he kicks it back towards us. Chris wordlesly hands me the bat.

I'm confused. 'What?'

'I'm out. It's your go.'

We continue for a few innings. With such a small cricket pitch it's inevitable that one of the spectators (though they'd have to be paying attention to be spectators, but then again this is cricket) is hit again. This time our sister is the victim, and she looks up from her book, annoyed.

'Oops', I say, handing Chris the bat.

'Nah, you're still in.'

'But I hit someone. I thought that was an automatic out.'

'If you hit Dad it is', he says, the exasperation in his voice making his tone one of somebody who is explaining something very complicated to somebody very simple. 'If you hit Keren it's an automatic six.'

This only serves to make her more annoyed. 'That's not fair!' she cries, indignant.

Whether Dad truly doesn't hear, or just chooses not to listen, I don't know.

Keren's persistent. And it's hard to keep playing cricket when someone's stolen the bat.

Dad closes his book and sets it on the ground. 'Who'd like to go in to Takaka for afternoon tea?' It's a clear direction to stop arguing, and we all perk up.

'Me!'

A few years years pass and each summer we retreat to our small piece of paradise once more. The beach behaves - the sun shines and the sleepy sea drags itself up onto the shore. But then fate strikes again and it rains for five days straight – and this time there's eleven of us here.