Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
Today, I tackled the chaos of the Big Smoke to attend Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Master Class. My friends, Gina, a smart, talented, out there steam punk artist, had invited me. She was going for “fun”. I decided that if I was calling myself a writer, I should test the waters with other writers. Should being the definitive word.
The morning did not get off to a promising start. I was tired before I left home. Vivid dreams about thunderstorms and power outages kept me awake from the early hours. And with my punctuality suspect at best, I wanted to leave at eight o’clock on the dot to give me an extra half hour in case of disaster.
Goldie and I left in a shower of gravel at ten past eight. All was going according to plan until I turned onto the Roe Highway and came to an instant standstill. In despair, I risked being booked, making a sneaky mobile call to Gina. I just had to creep my way through to the Bypass, hoping I could catch up some time.
The next snag was my woeful knowledge of Perth city. Lack of familiarity plus endless road works sank my last faint hope of arriving on time. I was flustered and embarrassed as I entered, fifteen minutes late, with another participant. At least I wasn’t alone.
I would have loved to have recovered my wits, taken a few deep breaths and grabbed a cup of tea. Unfortunately this was not to be. Fi, from Greenmount, and I were plunged into the first task of introductions around the group.
The morning wore on. I was fascinated by the stories. But I wilted under a siege of terminology and apps, soundclouds and YouTube. They all appeared to be so much better than me. Hell, I hadn’t even known who Catherine Deveny was until Gina asked me to come to the Master Class. All my confidence began slipping away. I felt gauche and awkward and ignorant. The Black Dog had entered the domain. I could feel him breathing in my ear, taunting me with his whispers of my failure
The last straw was a sudden intense writer’s block. I could think of nothing. I could write nothing. Eventually, I wrote about drowning. Which I was.
Fortunately, lunch intervened. My hunger had deserted me but I felt like I had to salvage some of the money I’d spent on the day. Maybe I could eat up the two hundred and fifty dollars. I was ready to flee, back to the sanctuary of my home and my husband, when Gina caught me.
My shame was complete when I started to cry. In a public place with unfamiliar people. I hid at one of the tables. Gina coaxed me out of the dark depths of my well and persuaded me to stay for the rest of the afternoon. She helped me salvage my sense of worth so I could remain.
Gradually the fog was lifting. I was comfortable with the next activity. What would I do if I had six months only to live? The same as I was doing right now. Be with the man I love, in our house I love, with our dogs I love, in our gallery I love. And return for the end to our beloved Goldfields, so my last memories would be of Michael and the desert sky.
Then, we were given a card and a word. The card was a scene depicting bicycles. I could have laughed out loud with relief. I wrote about bicycles traversing the Goldfields and Michael’s rendition of that story, his metal sculpture “Bicycle Express”.
My nerve was failing me again when we began the last writing task. Simultaneously, Catherine played a video of the author who wrote “27 Dresses”. I gave up any pretence of writing and sat entranced by the story on the screen. And I caught a glimpse of self belief again.
I am exhausted tonight And exhilarated. I have written with relative ease, for one hour. I have no idea whether my writing has any worth. But if any other writer, or person for that matter, can read this and be less alone, then my writing has worth. And I am content.
Kate’s website is heavenlybeverleywa.blogspot.