Sydney Morning Herald, April 30th 2012

We are at Your Heels, Freebooter! We have a shoe thief. She is shameless and persistent. We used to leave our shoes on a sheltered verandah, far away from the street. We preferred quiet entries and wanted to postpone the wear and tear on timber floors. It worked for 10 years, living this way. It takes a brave person to open the rickety gate, walk down a floodlit path and repeatedly steal every pair of size eight women's shoes lying on that verandah. Given three people in the house share a shoe size, our thief was spoilt for choice during 2010. Her sporadic spree lasted more than a year. Advertisement: Story continues below At first, we wasted time rummaging through each other's wardrobes, looking for the favourite boots or flats, accusing each other and arguing among ourselves. One night, the uni student returned late and left her boots at the door. She was due at work early the next morning. The boots disappeared overnight. When the cold snap arrived, we decorated our verandah with pots of cyclamens and winter bulbs. The verandah faces south and, in the winter gloom, the pretty blossoms cheered our days and made us smile. But the shoe thief extended her repertoire and stole them. The flowers disappeared but the pots remained. Over the winter, I replaced the flowers. They vanished, over and over again. There were nights when the outside light flicked on unexpectedly and the dog barked and scratched the door. We raced out, tore down the path and searched the street. We were jumpy and irritable, living on constant alert. One morning, we opened the front door earlier than usual and there she was. Tiny, ancient, dressed in black and wearing a pair of our shoes. She was carrying shopping bags in anticipation of a haul. But she was unlucky that day. The verandah had been stripped bare as we became depressingly accustomed to a life under siege. She wailed, babbled and denied everything. The police were too busy fighting serious crime to bother with a trespasser. Two years later, she surprised us. We had reverted to habits of old, and six pairs of shoes have disappeared over the Easter break, along with several single shoes. The shoe thief is either vindictive or, on dark autumn mornings when she is scurrying, her eyesight isn't what it used to be. We are fuming but ready. She has been seen wandering the streets in the chilly early morning gloom. We are plotting an ambush, our phone cameras at the ready. Let's hope she doesn't read this story as she sips a cuppa before her day's work begins. And I thought citizens arrests were only in the movies.

Dorothy

I find myself drawn to vintage bathing suits and the stories of the women who filled them. Bathing suits hide as much as they reveal. Like a woman's body, the fabric becomes threadbare and worn, yet she is still strong and imposing. Both the bathing suit and the female form continue to be a rich source of inspiration to explore memory, nostalgia and the transitional phases of womanhood.

THE PRETTY POSTCARD-SIZED FLIER lay snail-nibbled and slimy in the garden bed under the letterbox. Josie meant to throw it in the trash, but something about the words drew her in and serendipity took over. They shared a love of nostalgia. They had worn vintage clothes for decades. One had been collecting vintage swimming costumes. The other had been painting them. When Josie walked into the exhibition space, she saw the artist before she was pointed out. She wore an emerald green party frock. Josie’s was blue.

Josie coveted her dress and told her so. The artist laughed and moaned about a house bursting with clothes. Josie laughed and moaned about a house bursting with teenage daughters. They made a pact to get together when she decided to unload her wardrobe.

A warm breeze wafted over the gathering crowd. Josie wandered through the high-ceilinged space sipping chilled white wine and nibbling tiny cheese biscuits. Old swimsuits were painted in gentle water colours over tea-stained musical scores, snippets of love letters and dramatic wood block prints.

High above on ancient wooden rafters, the original costumes hung on rusty metal coat hangers, keeping watch, setting the tone. The fabrics were patterned and heavy, their once jolly colours bleached from years of sunshine and seawater. In their corseted shapes, they had become molds of long lost sweethearts, wives and mothers. Josie felt a sob in her throat. She mourned their absence as she would a beloved family member.

The artist’s respect for the women who wore the suits was palpable. Rose, Ruby, Jeanette; their life stories were lovingly depicted in the background collages. It was a sacred site, that white-washed room down by the sea.

It was there, as the ocean wailed, that Josie fell in love with Dorothy.

She was full skirted and vivacious, and her polka dots and matching balloons floated over segments of letters in old fashioned cursive. How lucky Dorothy was, thought Josie, to live in an era where letter writing mattered. Josie imagined Dorothy setting off with her faded, threadbare towel and daisy cap, her stocky legs tanned from daily swims in the rock pools near her home. Anyone in a polka dot bathing costume must have been jovial and kind. The perfect neighbour; one who kept her eyes on the local children, potted parsley cuttings and shared her old grandmother’s cake recipes.

Josie imagined having a quick chat with Dorothy before she dipped her toes into the sea. No wasting time, though! The washing needed a peg out before she met the girls for tennis and cards.

Josie considered her withering finances for a blink, and called for a red “sold” dot.

Time moves slower for Dorothy now. She watches over a household, not from next door, but from a hook on a wall in Josie’s lounge room. Dorothy brings an aura of peace to busy days. She doesn’t replace a departed mother, but her constant presence softens the loss.

Sometimes Josie and the artist meet for coffee around the corner from the studio, where unfinished canvasses line the wall and perch on wooden easels. The women are friends now, thanks to a grubby postcard discovered in the dirt one warm Wednesday evening, many summers ago.

This story appeared in the Winter edition, The Zodiac Review, January 2012

Publish or Perish!

Writer and broadcaster Richard Glover recently wrote a column about his 20 favourite Facebook faux pas and his last point caught my eye. “Posting a link to your own work…as if I’d ever do something as egocentric as that.” Mr Glover doesn’t need to self-promote on Facebook. He has a longstanding gig on ABC radio, a weekly newspaper column, eight published books and a well-stocked website. Many other writers are not as well established. For them, Facebook and Twitter are occupational necessities.

Back in early 2011, I resolved to write, get published and try and get paid. Don’t misunderstand. This wasn’t some fleeting plan dreamt up in a drunken festive moment. I had attended courses. I’d worked for 12 years in an academic position and had enjoyed limited publishing success in the past. But last year I decided to have solid crack at it. In a shrinking publishing world, the only option for emerging writers like me is to get brave and ignore what polite people think about blatant self-promotion. Embracing social media to self-promote as well as supporting others in their writing journey is mandatory. In the absence of an adoring publisher or a loyal agent, there is no other alternative.

Along with writing, I decided to attend literary festivals to learn about the state of the writing industry, and the news was as bad as I could have imagined. But whilst full immersion into the literary triumphs of others without a book to call my own was sick-making at times, by the time I had seen the last of the crowds at the Sydney Writers Festival last May, I was more determined than ever.

In September, I attended workshops as part of the Brisbane Writers Festival. I didn’t learn anything new, and took little comfort hearing yet again about shrinking publishing opportunities. But at least I met like-minded people and it was nice to catch up with the Queensland relatives.

Then it was off to Bali in October for the annual literary festival. Throw in a few more workshops and a story reading or two; despite vowing to leave my fragile ego at home, there were times when I wanted to throw myself into the nearest garbage-strewn creek. I stayed away from Ubud’s best bars and typed into the wee hours. I even wrote a little piece about surviving literary festivals which nobody wanted to publish. Like all the other rejected stories, it ended up on my little-followed blog.

Bali memories are fading now, but Alex Miller’s advice to a crowd of adoring fans and this cringing wannabe isn’t: “If you want to write, stop scribbling notes at festivals, go home and write.”

And so I did. In 2011, I had sixteen articles and stories published in newspapers, magazines, on internet sites and in literary journals. All but one were unpaid. And now comes the bad news. The writing industry is overpopulated, poverty-stricken and exploitative. The matter of non-payment came to the fore last year at the Huffington Post where non-staff writers and bloggers have been supplying most of the popular website's content for free. Founder Arianna Huffington sold the site last February for $315 million but the issue of non-payment remains. Writers love to write. Writers need to publish to increase their profile, so we will continue to write for nothing even though we moan about it. I was paid $10 for one story last year. That's $10 more than many journalism students on internships earn. I won't be giving up my day job any time soon.

Despite the bad news, we all know there's always a market for good stories. I will continue the struggle in 2012 and I’ll be flogging my efforts on Facebook and Twitter, whether Mr Glover approves or not.

Yes, I’ll be on Facebook. I’m not proud.

Boxing Day in the Swill

On Boxing Day, veteran yachtie Caroline Wheeler said “It’s fair to say there’ll be plenty of people spewing tonight.” I love boats, but I came to know what she meant. Following a rare invitation (I only know two people who own a boat), I was up early. I slapped a few slices of leftover turkey onto stale bread and grabbed my hat, wet weather coat, a towel and sunscreen. Boxing Day marks the start of one of the most difficult races in the world, the 65 year old Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race and I was going to be at the starting line when the cannon exploded.

I drove through a sleeping city and savoured streets bereft of the usual traffic mayhem. Twenty minutes later I pulled into an empty car park. The fact that most of the boats at the sailing club remained tethered should have bothered me. Botany Bay looked calm, but there was an 18 knot, three metre swell out beyond the heads. Difficult conditions didn’t seem to bother the not-so-old salt who welcomed me on board with a grin and a packet of sea sickness tablets.

We were nine, including an eighty five year old and a 13 year old boy who slept most of the time, rising every so often to nibble chips and beg for a turn behind the wheel. He finally got his way as we limped back home at twilight across becalmed waters. It had been a long impatient wait until the skipper, his granddad, deemed conditions safe.

I’d always opted for ginger beer and tight wrist bands to manage sea sickness, but the swell courtesy of tropical cyclone Fina seemed a good reason to bring out the big guns. When I saw three burly sailors throw down a couple of big, white pills, I swallowed a couple too. A southerly buster was due at midnight. By then I would be tucked up and cosy, beating off nightmares about being trapped on a lurching boat somewhere between Sydney and Antarctica.

We had five hours sailing to get to the start of the race. We crossed the bay and motored north. On top of magnificent sandstone cliffs perched golf courses, a wasteland which was a once a combined rifle range and horse-riding school (!) and vast stretches of coastal scrub butting up against high density seaside homes. From the water it would have been easy to assume every person in this affluent, show-off town enjoyed an unencumbered ocean view.

One hour later, I had ceased noticing the geography. I was busy focusing on a point above the skyline. With a sweaty brow and salivary glands on overdrive, I hastily turned my back while two miserable relatives fed the fish. Sydney’s wondrous coastline became a nauseous blur and I prayed the ordeal would be over soon. I recalled my husband’s comment as I packed my gear earlier: “The two best days in a sailor’s life? The day he buys the bloody boat and the day he flogs it.” I wondered who of sane mind would choose to sail for 630 nautical miles over four days in broiling seas. I contemplated asking the skipper to deliver me to the nearest wharf and save me the return trip.

As we entered the relative calm of the harbour four hours, two vomits and six churning stomachs later, I felt as though a flogging had temporarily stalled. The women on board agreed seasickness is like childbirth. While you’re in the thick of it, madness reigns. But in the sweet moments after, as you sip tea and munch on a sandwich, a tired kind of joy replaces the agony. And so it was for me. As we jostled for a spot near the starting line, lunch and a cuppa never tasted better.

Cannon fire saw the harbour become a washing-machine mess of riotous froth as hundreds of spectator boats took off and chased the big yachts out to sea. There was whooping and yelling, hoots and whistles. People were laughing and pointing. Warnings burst forth from distant microphones and police in launches and hovercraft whizzed about, cutting through traffic and ordering hoons in speedboats to keep to the six knot speed limit. It was chaotic out there.

The maxi yachts were distant dark blobs by the time we rounded the heads and the overcast sky was filled with buzzing helicopters. The ubiquitous grey sails that now characterize all modern yachts were soon given a colourful boost as the 88-boat fleet launched their pretty spinnakers. We tagged along in their wake, sneaking up to sticky beak at a beautifully restored 19th century barque moored off the cliffs.

It seemed like an awfully long time in the swill for a few brief moments of exhilaration. But in those minutes, I finally understood the thrill of this epic race and the pull of the sea. We were close enough to hear crew members roar; to see sailors throwing themselves around the decks. It was really something, that boat trip. And the unforgettable sight of a whale, a seal and a pod of dolphins surfing the northern point of the bay; it was awesome out there, though sick-making at times.

I won’t be buying a boat any time soon. But I hope I am invited back on board next year. I’ll be taking a double dose of those pills, swigging ginger beer and strapping my wrists, all before I leave the house.

Christmas Mall Crawl

It's that time of the year and off we trot to the mall. We enter an outlet which specializes in cheap t-shirts. The racket is fit to pop my eardrums. A wake up coffee hasn’t helped. It is too early and I am bleary eyed and desperate.

“Would it be possible to turn the music down, please?” I ask a chirpy shop assistant who immediately turns nasty. I have crept over to the sales counter while the teenager is trying on the merchandise. I want to spare her the pain of knowing I have approached a salesperson for any other reason than to pay.

“It is shop policy to have the music turned up high. To attract a crowd.”

The constantly repeated lyrics from which I am denied protection assault my senses:

“Need a shotgun; take control of me.”

The fashionista pokes her weary head out of the change room. Even she confesses the music is doing her head in. The next song is unidentifiable, due to the lack of melody and the expletives. I wait until the coast is clear again.

“I am sorry, but I shouldn’t have to listen to this while I shop. Silent Night usually works well at this time of year.”

The salesperson shrugs and continues to tidy a pile of cheap jeans. She knows I will stay and suffer because the bargains are worth it.

We flee and enter a department store. No one is available to stop the simultaneous blaring of dirty rap music and Oh Come All Ye Faithful on repeat. The sound collision is noisiest in the fitting rooms.

No wonder retail sales are down. It has nothing to do with the GFC and everything to do with the mullet. It was an ugly hair style back in the ‘80’s and it is an ugly fashion statement now. What’s with knee-exposing minis which trail the floor at the back? We find a rack of belly-exposing tops with thigh-length trains and others with drooping side bits. Can’t anyone cut a straight hem?

No one looks good in this stuff, not even genetically gifted teens with tarantula legs and washboard midriffs, like the one in the noisy change room. Mullets belong in the bad taste pig pen along with their best friend the asymmetrical. One-sleeved dresses with graduating hems: if a man walked down the street in a one-sleeved suit with different leg lengths, we might wonder about his mental health. We might search the crowd for a reality TV crew. Either way, we would probably feel sorry for him as onlookers pointed and stared.

Women with taste, rise up and yell, “Enough with the kooky dress ups!”

With Christmas shopping over for another year, we exit the car park before my head explodes. The local expletive-free shopping centre with its yummy food, gorgeous cut-price festive decorations and colourful plants has never looked better.

Peace on Earth.