Poet Progressing to Prose

Plaudits to all you patient people.

It seems ages since I last wrote a post within this site. (Big Sigh)

Why?

What excuse or explanation can I offer?

Hibernation? Staying in bed for much longer than usual – often after reading until WAY after midnight.

 

 

 

 

Head cold

‘Don’t worry, I’m not death — I’m just a bad head cold.’

 

Took me longer to recover from that cold than it did when, in 2003, I was evacuated to Perth with a collapsed lung, influenza and pneumonia.

 

 

 

Lack of motivation? 

 

 

Although I have been working on the next novel, the research has put me right off and I wish I had not discovered that which I now cannot forget. Stomach turning and, while I think  strong feeling should be behind one’s writing, it feels as if I am preparing a dose of what I see is much needed caster oil. And who am I to offer potions? I recall the basis of the essay, written under exam conditions, which resulted in admission to Uni as a Mature Age Student. I adopted the persona of a small finger nail clipping from God’s hand; not claiming to BE God but staking my position as having come from God. I wrote a letter to Humanity and signed off as Keratin. Years later, at a bar,  an academic claimed to have remembered it.

I think some of my poetry – The Comet – for instance has similar echoes. 

So, napping it out is pretty well how I am handling my doubt about the current project.

 

But the major deficit is a lack of passion!

While I am passionate at one level about the theme of the project (organ transplants – particularly hearts) the level of passion has not risen to the stage/state of obsession which is when and where I can really get down and get some work done.

Once upon a time – 1980’s, I processed every item of the Australian National Accounts years 1969-1989, through a decade by decade series of Time Series Analysis. The results were not cheerful.

 

 

Why do I write? Why do I bother? I guess the truth of it is that, very early on, I found and was told I had a talent for writing. All my early efforts hit the jackpot first try. Just a knack. But little or no discipline with it. Generally, I was at a loss to think of what to write unless presented with a request or problem. As for becoming a WRITER, I thought I would need Life Experience to be credible. So at 18 I set out to garner the experience I thought I needed and got carried away with living, surviving and just generally getting on  with it.

Sixty years later, I have harnessed much of that experience within Mixed Fortunes which I have finally tackled the earlier layout of the print version, with the hope I don’t have to fiddle with uploading an amended file again. Great news today from a reader who emailed to let me know she had lent her copy to another who enjoyed the read. I KNOW word of mouth is simply the best advertising, so I can only live in hope the word get around. One thing which really gladdened my heart when I finished the manuscript – but before posting to Amazon – was laying my head down to sleep to ‘see’ a couple of old gypsy women nod with approval. (and I am goosebumping as I write this.) I know that story was written to illustrate a much misunderstood aspect of humanity.

Now long past midnight and I have a day out tomorrow. Catching up with one of my several very patient friends. You know the kind. Don’t see each other for ages, but that’s okay. My only worry now is that soon some of us will be dropping off the tree.

So, should I desist from continuing with the stomach-churning heart transplant saga? Or can you offer a project which will grab me down into a rabbit-hole of research, statistics and some topic most would find immensely boring but which will feed the energy needed to be passionate to the point of obsession?

 

 

Three FREE for THREE days August 1-3

Have been having fun with different platforms. Would be interesting to find out which is preferred!

 

https://www.izabellazwriting.com/

https://sites.google.com/izabellazbooks.com/izabellazbooks/home

Ancient lore meets modern law.
A century of saga between 1865-1965.
Four families, four generations, four countries, four cultures.

Clearing the desk uncovers a forgotten poem.

Tearing leaves from an old notebook, putting together a folder for the research necessary for the next book – the plot of which is REALLY shaping up – I came across a sheet used within a workshop run by David Chapple for Eyre Writers, Port Lincoln.

Against the prompts on the left side of the page I had filled the dotted lines, resorting to verse when under pressure. Here goes:

I grew up in…. Mount Helena

Where the weather was always….fresh and the air was cleaner.

And the sound of that time…. is the Jane Brook running

Friends ….taught me the Kellys were always punning

Family …. taught me that’s ow we were perceived

And…. now I live to be believed

Today ….I am as truthful as I ever can be

Tomorrow …. is when I deceive only me.

I wish …. I had not seen the vision of my future self

I’ve become accustomed to ….leaving the ream on the shelf

I know ….that my hope is that when I am dead

and ….you read my writing in the years ahead.

The Value of Nightmares

An eye, very like this, seen first in the film “Spiral Staircase”, used to wake me to sitting in terror.  The eye (through a hole) filled the screen prior to each murder of women in boarding house, each with a different disability. Later in life while enjoying/enduring a psychotic episode, I reassured myself by believing there is always someone watching over me. Or Someone.

Another series of nightmares had me in a lift/elevator shaft, jumping from side to side above the lift, grabbing onto wrought iron walls,  my parents in pursuit as the lift rose up and down, but never squashing me. Have read this as no matter how high or low the bipolar takes me, I am safe from being crushed. Rising above and outside the moving box.

For me, the most valuable nightmare is/was the one that came true in real life as I followed my dreams on waking.  I use it now to reassure myself that I am on track – the dirt running track in the following poem – and with the cheering from friends responding to David Collins-Rivera review of MIXED FORTUNES as posted on tumblr (see below) leads me to the comfort that I am on the final stretch. (For how this worked out in real life one would have to read “Life Before Lithium” on Smashwords. ) Now I am applying it to my writing life.

A witch used to chase me

through a three dimensioned maze

always found an opening

but not the way out

before the maze disappeared

and the witch

turned into a tribe of gypsies

in full cry behind me

as I sped

from village hall

up the main road

between disused railway tracks

to the field

where pig-lilies grew.

Up the bank

across the recreation ground

up clay-slip slope

and stony path

dirt running track

gravel road

pine trees

by gate of school

to disappear.

 

But one night,

the night they went

forever,

I made it.

Fell into the arms

of the waiting headmaster

deafened by the cheering school

the witch and the gypsies

demons of my night

let me sleep

undisturbed.

http://wordacrosstime.tumblr.com/post/162945342034/mixed-fortunes-work-in-progress