Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Writing in Rathdowne Street

Today I attended a writing class
with my sister
Recommended by our brother
Who believes in us

When I discovered
that the class was in Rathdowne street
I smiled
I’ve been down that street many times before
I’ve done 1001 Things there
Curtain Square was our children’s backyard

It holds so many memories
Of those early years
When life is so full
Of babies and school and parties and love

I’ve sat in those cafes and written screenplays and reviews
That I held close to my chest
Today I am reminded that
The best
kept secret
Is one we all know
In our hearts

Every one has a story
That we are longing to hear
And ‘everyone is an everyone’
And there’s nothing to fear

And now I just want to thank
Catherine
And
Rathdowne Street
For reminding us
That all we need to do
Is take the next step

Ruth Williams

(‘everyone is an everyone’ quote from Claude Fisicaro)

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Seventeen years ago I came up with the idea to write a book about selected pieces of jewellery that I’d bought on my travels. Each piece has a story to tell about their origins, attraction and how they came to be in a multi-cultural collection in Australia. The book is intended to have drawings as well as text, a way to express my creativity in two ways.

Each day I choose my jewellery to match my mood, clothes and plans for the day. For the ‘Gunna Master Class’ run by Catherine Deveny, I chose two pieces of power jewellery. One was a pair of Pre-Colombian inspired goddess earrings bought in Costa Rica. the other a gold vajra bought for me by my husband in Kathmandu. These were selected as they are both strong pieces that bring confidence with them. Confidence to face the challenges of putting my ideas out to the world. Hence the Masterclass.

The jewellery also takes me back to the experiences associated with the places they were bought. When I write about them I’m transported in space and time. An added bonus. Firstly to 1998 when I travelled to Costa Rica to attend a meeting of the International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). What struck me most about the meeting was the instant coffee in the breaks (a surprise in a country known for it’s coffee beans), the great dance music at the conference dinner, and the lack of credence given to Traditional Ecological Knowledge. These people now have more of a voice in climate change discussions, although western science still dominates. To me the goddess earrings I bought in Costa Rica represented the impressive pre-European history of that part of the world and the power of women.

Fast forward 12 years to Kathmandu and the vajra pendant, made of gold and semi-precious stones. Bought as a surprise gift for me by my husband who risked life and limb crossing the streets in the city. The vajra is a Buddhist symbol, also described as a thunder-bolt, that has spiritual power.  It was a perfect memento from our trip to Nepal and Tibet.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

You are both gathered here today to celebrate the life of Sean Young.

Not many people could have foreseen that Sean would be assassinated, nor that so many people would offer to pay for the hit.

This, no doubt, explains the noise coming from the function room next door.

Obviously he didn’t see it coming either or he would have run from beneath the piano that fell from the third floor of this very building.

Sean will be remembered as a man who squandered much. His widow would tell of the talent for wordplay that he wasted on the ignorant.  You may have to wait until she sobers up before that, though.

His children would tell you of the breath he wasted. On a daily basis Sean would pontificate “how to’s” and “don’t do’s” to a trio that were more likely to listen to a side show huckster than the man who wanted them to live with the benefit of his “insight”.

Those that we shall, for want of a better word, call friends would tell of all that poorly spent energy Sean expended on whimsy. His “just for the sake of it” and “let’s just see what happens” attitudes generated more bemusement than amusement.

I think we can all agree that Sean’s life was a great example of what not to do.

Now, if the formalities are done, we’ll leave the medical personnel to wrap this up while we adjourn next door and enjoy some truly excellent booze.

What’s that?

You’ve found a pulse?

Well, could you just lose it again?

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

“Do you like farmers?” Georgie shouts down the dinner table. The group of partially drunk netballers laugh and continue swilling pots of beers and passing around wiggling toddlers.

Blidn
“Whaddya mean? I’m not a farm-ist!”

“Na, would you shag one? I’ve got a bloke for you,” she retaliates as she moves her kid from one tit to the next.

“I’ve been known to thank a farmer, sure.”

“Brilliant, you’re going on your first blind date, bout time we got you hitched and pregnant.” She turns and continues talking netball goss.

“Hang on a minnie! Who is he? Is he funny? Does his mum iron his jocks? Why’s he single? I know I’ve got a whole bag of reasons, what are his? What’s his caper?” I protest.

“He’s fine, he’s lovely,” Sars chips in, clearly in the know.

“Lovely? He’s fucking lovely? So was my primary school librarian but I never wanted to bed her!”

You are taking part in a choose your own misadventure. Right now, what do you want her to do? Go on the date? Go on a bender in Melbourne?

DATE DAY:

I see him drive up, all popped collar and bull bar. He jumps out of his ute, smiling at me like a school boy with his first hard on. He slams the door shut. The grin dissipates and is replaced with panic. He just locked his keys in the ute.

My conscience taps me on the shoulder… Don’t do it! You’re going to eat him alive, he’s the antelope. He’s all embarrassment and apologies and I’m all ‘no no, it happens to everyone (you fucking douche).’

Beer pizza beer pizza chit beer chat you know I know blah.

I throw out a few of my more beige anecdotes about backpacking and he laughs like he may never stop. Boredom pulls up a seat next to me. At one point he literally slaps his knee and exclaims “bull dust!” I pray I’d brought someone along to witness my date with my 83 year old grandpa.

Not surprisingly lunch ends with RACV reefing his door open and a hideously polite kiss on the cheek. From the farmer, not the crafty emergency serviceman. I walk away wondering if I’ll buy a box of Fat Yak or Corona’s to take down the river that arvo. Gosh I feel like getting sozzled with my trusty pal Ju Ju. Unfortunately, old mate headed back to his parents with wedding plans in his noggin.

Missed call. Short message service. Missed call. Short message service.

Turns out, I was in no capacity to operate my personal communication device that night. Henceforth I missed his rapid-fire attempt to immediately rekindle our luke warm flame.

The poor sod was so overwhelmed with my lack of response that he became disorientated in his phone. I pray to the high heavens that he was drunk. It is in drunkeness that we are forgiven for fuckheadedness.

He sent me my contact details. He utilised the “share contact” option and forwarded me my name and number. Um…

I awoke from my boozy slumber down the river, patted my dog and waved at Ju Ju’s corpse in her swag. I located my phone (sticky with rum) under the passenger seat. Once my uproarious laughter died down I replayed the situation to Ju Ju. I momentarily felt bad, but without fail, the hilarity of his fuck up reared its ugly head and we rolled around in our hungover happiness. I could never see the farmer again. I did however save my contact details for future reference.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Dear David,

I lay in bed last night, unable to stop thinking about my recent experience of the phenomenon that is MONA and MoFo.  Having torn myself away from such stunning creativity and beauty to return to Melbourne yesterday, I have now been struck down with an awful case of FOMO (fear of missing out).

Over the last several days I have listened to folk music in a barn built in 1801, been serenaded by Ngaiire and the Australian Art Orchestra in the Theatre Royal, discovered the power of organ music in the Town Hall and meditated to some amazing sounds at the Baha’i Centre.  I rushed from the hotel to venue to restaurant to venue. I sat in crowded rooms, perhaps filled with people like me, who may be experiencing these sorts of music for the first time, or perhaps musicians in their own right.  But we were all enthusiastic; attentive and open to whatever we might be offered up to us from the artists.

I made the most of Faux Mo as well, dancing alongside you and a group of fabulous people in the Laundry until the DJs were regretfully silenced.   However, while all parties must come to an end, the same cannot be said of MONA.  This brings me to the key reason for this letter.  Having visited MONA for the first time on Thursday, I feel compelled to write to tell you a little of my experience and to say thank you.  Of course, my small voice is but one in a chorus of many people who sing the praises of this museum.

On my journey out to MONA I was amused to discover that you weren’t joking about “sheep class”, and I giggled at the replica sheep and cow out on the deck and marveled at Trevor, the dusky parrot in his gilt cage.  Every detail seemed to be preparing me for what I was about to experience, right down to the soft leather stools that wouldn’t be out of place at Vue De Monde and the warm introduction and commentary from the captain.

Excitement built as the ferry approached the dock, the 99 steps climbing up past the strikingly oxidised building and iridescent lawns.  My friend and I run up the stairs, first to the top in our eagerness but now gasping for breath as we wrestle the tickets out of our bag.  Then we are drawn down into the subterranean maze, following the gently curling staircase.  We enter the first hall, passing the bar with its bounty of jewel-like treasures, and wander through the motley collection of chaise lounges and winged chairs.  I skip past one of the first pieces, unwilling to wait for people to move aside. Perhaps this was a mistake but I will have to wait until next time to find out.

I lose my friend quickly, but just as quickly I lose myself as I wander through the first rooms.  The Darger collection fascinates and perplexes me. The drawings have a compulsive quality and the contrast of nightmarish shapes of children being abused and murdered followed by drawings sedate, pastel schoolgirls in uniforms and plaits, confounds me.  What drives the creation of such a complex, alternate realm?  I want to see more and try and understand more of this journey Darger was on.  Did his own life lack colour, love? Is he telling these stories for those children that he was never able to adopt?

Similarly, there are many more questions than answers as I stand in awe at Barsamian’s Artifact. The small, flickering openings scattered over the surface of the enormous bronze head have caught my eye from across the room.  I’m astounded by the stop motion as apples fall and melt in the palms of many hands and luminescent birds dart through the small spaces.  The head lies, on it’s side, seemingly impassive to the crazed, repetitive movements occurring inside the cavernous space.  A books opens, pages glittering and turning; iron work spirals continuously; light and patterns reflect through these small windows into the mind.  I continue my exploration; now kneeling then on tip toe, in order not to miss a single captivating scene.  I am intent on noticing the minutae of the piece yet I’m confounded by the mechanics driving the frenetic movement.

Peering around the corner, I watch as black and white photos are projected onto the wall of a cavernous, black room.  The scenes are mesmerising; a man with smiling eyes and mouth holding an outstretched hand, feeding seagulls.  The blocks of light and shade bring the people into relief before me; silvery contrast leading me to observe the interactions between the players. The blurred wings of the gulls and the transitions between perspectives have me captivated.  With each photo I feel myself being drawn deeper and deeper into the tableau.  I have to tear myself away from The Algiers’ Section of a Happy Moment.

This is a recurring theme as I begin to suspect that I could happily spend days exploring, watching and interacting with the pieces. Too soon I must close the box, despite the plaintive ‘I love you’ echoing in the hall, and head downstairs to the waiting ferry.  I leave with a full heart and a wildly excited head. I cannot wait to tell people about this perfect place and I am already plotting my return.

To bring an audacious project such as MONA to fruition takes great vision and determination.  So, thank you David, for making me feel as though I am part of something bigger, more beautiful and more complex than I could ever have imagined on my own.  I loved that I also share this experience with so many other people, who seem equally eager and amazed by this gift you have given, not only to Tasmania, but to every curious visitor who crosses the straits to explore the world of MONA.

Warmest regards, Anna.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

God I need to go to the toilet!

I’m sitting here in the Gunna’s Masterclass, trying, willing myself to pay attention as each person introduces themselves; tells their story but I’m hopelessly distracted.

I should have just gone but now it is our turn.

Between the stabbing pains in my abdomen I am trying to remember what Sean told me about himself; went back to university, likes finding the perfect word, crafting exquisite sentences.

Yes that right.  Ok Sean introduced – got through that. Now I should just go.  But I don’t want to be that prick that introduces himself and then walks out on everyone else.  I should just wait. Surely this won’t take much longer.  Anna is being introduced she’s into Mountaineering.  Awesome. Have to talk to her about that later.

The coffee orders start coming in.  This is going to be torture.  I have no self-control when it comes to coffee but that is not going to help my situation.  Bugger it I’m just going to have to go.

I start to stand up as the next person is being introduced. Julia, this is Julia. Julia has just been diagnosed with cancer. Cancer!?! Fuck!! There is no way I can go now.  It is one thing to be the rude prick that walks out while people are introducing themselves but completely another to walk out on someone talking about cancer.  Julia starts to tell us about herself.  She has four kids, all aged between five and ten. The youngest has Down Syndrome. Simultaneously my heart breaks and my bladder (almost) explodes. I begin moving restlessly on the chair.  Concentrate I tell myself. Julie went back to TAFE last year to study community development; to work with Asylum Seekers.  Asylum Seekers for the love of God, how much more inspirational can this person get.

The pressure is now exponentially building.

Catherine starts talking about her own experiences with cancer.  I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. I use all my will to maintain a normal, interested and attentive facial expression but I feel it’s a battle I’m losing.  Julia describes the previous year as the best of her life, when she finally started living it the way she wanted but in the last six weeks it has all been about the cancer.  She hopes that this can be the start of new a chapter though.  Get back to life on her terms; living it the way she wants.  I hope she can too.  Introductions finished. Wow there really is an amazing group here but I’m already out the door! Relief!

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

What is the value in writing?  What is it that makes Tolstoy more ‘worthwhile’ than Stephenie Meyer?  Or even JK Rowling?  Why is it that some writing is considered to have more worth than others?

If I am sure of one thing, it is that most people will have an opinion on this question.  And it will probably be a strong one at that.

My point is not to answer this question, or even try.  In my mind, there is nothing that makes Dickens more intrinsically valuable than the work I read on fanfiction.net or archiveofourown.org.  There is nothing fundamentally better about the writing of Charlotte Bronte than of the lesbian romance novelists I read, or my friend Car’s stories.

What is valuable to me, as a reader, is that I can connect with the story, that I can embrace the characters and feel that somehow they are like me, or that they reflect some facet of my life. Isn’t this why most people read stories, or watch television or movies?  To see some part of yourself that you can recognise or even aspire to?

So when I ask what is the value in writing, I am challenging myself and my own perceptions of what is the best kind of writing.  When I self-deprecatingly comment that all I’ve written so far is fanfiction, why the sense of shame?  When others ask “So do you have any plans to write something original?”, why do I accept the implied rebuke and equivocate, say that maybe sometime in the future I will?

What is wrong with writing fanfiction, damn it?

It’s something I’ve thought about a lot, especially today.

I tried to come up with a list of things that are good about fanfiction, and a list of things that are bad.  This is what I came up with.

Let’s start with the bad:

– It’s lazy.  What do you mean you can’t come up with your own worlds, and populate them with your own characters?  You’re just riding on the coattails of someone else’s hard work, how do you expect to get anywhere by doing that?  You need to work harder to really write.

– How do you expect to grow as a writer if you never have any original ideas?  There’s nothing unique about fanfiction, it’s all the same old stuff repeated over and over, and anyway who the hell wants to read that?

– You think you’re a writer?  Please.  Fanfiction is like graffiti, and not even good graffiti at that.  It’s like you’ve taken someone else’s work and just tagged it as your own, like some uneducated gang member desperately trying to get recognition.

– You’re profiting from someone else’s work, without giving them due recognition or compensation.

Well shit.  Maybe I should just give up now.

But hold on, are there any redeeming features of fanfiction?  Why do so many people write it if there’s nothing at all good about it?  If we think about it logically for a moment, would there really be such a vast body of work produced if someone wasn’t getting something out of it?

Weighing in for the positive team we have, in no particular order:

– Pleasure.  The ability to play with characters that you know and love, and put them in situations or relationships that are different from canon.

– Practice.  Fanfiction is a wonderful, (usually) safe space to try new ideas, get creative, really mix things up.  The fandoms are usually pretty forgiving of just about anything you can come up with.  If you’ve ever read a crack fic you’ll know there is some pretty way out stuff being produced.

– You can create the stories that you want to read.  I personally believe this is a massive part of the attraction – it’s a place to say “I wonder what would happen if…”, and just create that story yourself, instead of hoping that the author, writers, producers etc might provide that kind of storyline.

– And following from that, the fandom and particularly fanfiction is a real outlet for marginalised members of the community to put their own stamp on things, to alter what they see and read to better reflect their realities.  As a lesbian I know this to be especially true.  When the amount of TV shows and books with queer content is relatively slender, we have to go out and create that material for ourselves.  So often TV networks will throw the queers a bone, so to speak, will dance around the possibility of a same-sex relationship but with the ultimate end goal of retaining the safe ground of heteronormativity.  This is really where my own motivation comes from, taking that subtext and those little teasing moments and building something solid and representative.  Something that is truly ours.

– Profit.  There’s so much money to be made in fanfiction.  Yeah, no.  That’s a lie.  Unless you happen to hit a very specific niche market at exactly the right moment (as EL James did with 50 Shades of Grey), the only profit you’re likely to make from fanfiction is a potential group of new friends, people who share your love of the fandom.  It can definitely be an amazing experience connecting with people all over the world, but as for money?  Unlikely.  That’s not to say that people don’t profit from fanfiction every single day.  Helen Fielding certainly hit the jackpot – and what is Bridget Jones’s Diary other than an unashamed piece of Jane Austen fanfiction?

We’ve heard for the negative, and the affirmative.  Are we any closer to a conclusion about what makes some writing more valuable than others?  I’m not sure about you, but for myself I do feel a bit better about it.  Feel like I can let go of a bit of that internalised shame about writing fanfiction and own it with more confidence.  Sure, there are some writers whose work outstrips everyone else, whose sublime prose or vivid characters reach right out and connect with almost everyone.  And to be fair I don’t think that fanfiction is ever going to achieve that.  We don’t write for a wider audience.  Our audience is a group of likeminded people who are seeking something more from the fandom.

But that’s not to say that fanfiction is without value.  I reiterate, what is valuable to me (and I’m guessing to many people) is the ability to connect with a narrative and find some reflection of myself there.  To share someone else’s perspective and know that I am not alone in my thoughts and feelings and desires.  And where the wider corpus of material produced in the world doesn’t provide that, we need to be proactive and make it so.  If I watch Les Miserables and want to imagine a version in which Javert is motivated by his hidden love for Valjean, a version in which Cosette falls in love with Eponine rather than Marius, then why can’t I?  If I want to imagine that Charlotte Lucas was really in love with Elizabeth Bennet, why shouldn’t I?  People take existing work and repurpose it every single day – just look at the music industry or Hollywood.  It has happened for centuries, and continues to happen today in so many mediums.

So why the stigma around fanfiction?  There are some pretty cogent reasons why fanfiction is valuable writing, and I’ve really only skimmed the surface.  What is it going to take to get some recognition of the fabulous work that is being produced every minute of every day?  Why do I feel like it needs recognition, why the urge for validation?  Ultimately, the only recognition anyone needs is the satisfaction of producing a piece of work that you can be content to claim as your own, and I suspect for many fanfiction writers it is that urge that drives them more than any other.

But maybe next time you
hear someone mention fanfiction, don’t be quite so quick to scoff, to minimise, to move the conversation onto ‘real’ writing.  If you’ve never dabbled in fandom, maybe it’s a good time to just have a look.  See what’s out there.  Because if you’ve ever wondered “What if…”, if you’ve ever thought “Hey, what would happen if that character was different…”, there’s a fair chance that someone else has too.  And you might just be blown away.

Liss is on Twitter at @lazy_boo

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Argentine Tango is not a martial art. It is not a contact sport. It is not combat. But it is inevitable that at some point someone is going to get hurt.

We’re not talking about a little tap on the toe, the knocking of a kneecap, or the bumping of an ankle, but a full on ‘penalty-kick’ on your partner’s unprotected piggies.

There is a short delay in the proceedings whilst the pain signal slithers its way up her leg, continues through the spinal cord, and reaches its
final destination in that part of the brain where hate resides.

During this brief period you may persuade yourself that you have gotten away with it, that perhaps it really wasn’t as bad as it felt, but the electrochemical demons complete their work and a fearful transformation takes place. Where once there were dreamy eyes, a far away gaze, or even a sleepy come to bed tease, there is now only a cold and icy stare. The only bed on offer is a hospital bed.

An experienced tanguera will quietly seethe, then sheathe her dagger of disdain. All will seem well, but you have glimpsed the darkness. It will gnaw at your confidence for the rest of the tanda. If you are lucky this is already the last song, but if you dance like me you have committed your faux-pas during the first .

You have two options. You can choose to shun the offending move for the rest of the evening, or you can follow my lead (if only she had, we wouldn’t be in this situation).
If something scares me I tend to run towards it rather than away from it.
I am scared of heights so I fly helicopters for a living. I am shy so I make a point of introducing myself first in social situations. I have just flattened a phalange and risk never dancing with its custodian again so I will go straight back and try it once more. This may be the triumph of optimism over experience, but I might just get it right this time.
Often you pull it off successfully (the move, not the toe), but if you commit a double-fault don’t be surprised to get a witheringly early ‘thankyou’. Your dance is over.
Elvis Parsley summed it up fittingly
Since my baby left me
I’ve got no place to go
I haven’t had a chance to dance
since I stood on her toe
You make me so lonely baby,
I get so lonely baby etc…
Glossary
Tanguera – lady dancer
Tanda – a short sequence of songs or tunes, normally three or four of similar style for the course of which you will remain with the same dance partner.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Why do I want to write fiction? Because I am a great believer in its powers. Am I naïve to think that fiction can make the world a better place? That it can increase the quantity of kind and generous interactions that occur in the world so that human beings don’t hurt each other as frequently or as badly?

I’ve learnt recently, actually not so recently, I’ve been learning it my whole life of course, that human beings, even the ones who intend to do no harm, do hurt each other unpredictably and without warning. But fiction, I hope, I believe, I trust, can heal that, minimise it, prevent it. 

I think fiction absolutely prevents me from hurting and harming others more than is necessary. Good fiction, good stories, I mean memorable stories, they stick. They stick into me and sometimes around me so that I see the parallels in my own life and tread gently with others.

For me, those special “sticking” stories are often the ones about gentle treatment of children. Markus Zusacks, Raymond Gaita, Keri Hulme and JK Rowling in The Casual Vacancy managed something that I’d like to achieve. They all managed to portray a generosity towards children, and oh man, if our society could do that more often I really think we can move forward. 

Actually that’s not the common thread between those four. It’s something else I think…

Perhaps I’ll tackle them one by one:

Markus Zusacks The Book Thief. I can’t remember the phrasing but it was to the effect that the male carer character knew the importance of ‘being there’. The scenes where that character sits by the bedside of the young girl, regularly and patiently, because “being there” was the thing she needed. It chokes me up every time. And in my own life I don’t hear or see, either through words or actions, many people saying that it’s OK, and beautiful, for an older man, unrelated to a young girl, to sit beside her bed as she struggles through nightmares. But I heard Zusacks say it. Through his fiction.

Raymond Gaita (not fiction I know but he happened to have a lived a story he could share) said things I don’t hear in my daily life either. It involved beds and children as well. (As a wacky, serial  ‘co-sleeper’ myself I wonder if there’s a theme here?). In Romulus My Father ,he told me that as a child he would rather be with his depressed mother than anywhere else, even as she lay in her bed for days, when she couldn’t transition from horizontal to vertical. But he relished being there with her and lying in that bed together gave him a warmth and contentment that of course, he wasn’t able to get at other times in his life. That rings true to me. I’ve taught many children who want to be with their mothers when they’re depressed and seen the adults around them not honour that. Raymond Gaita said it much more eloquently than I’ve eve been able to in a room full of righteous social workers.

JK Rowling also said things that people didn’t want to hear when she wrote The Casual Vacancy. She too advocated for mothers and children being together even when many deem them unfit. The truth bell rang once more as I read her words and I wanted to hurrah out loud and I felt optimistic that hardened souls would read this book and start to thaw their thinking. Again, I’ve taught young people who’ve chosen to “leave” their parents. It happens and I’ve always honoured that, but it’s rare, and in my experience there are many more young people who would rather stay with their imperfect parents than be separated from them. How hard must it be to disagree with the “professional” adults around you when they are telling you that the best thing for you is to be away from your parent.

And Keri Hulme. It’s been a long time since I’ve read The Bone People but she was again brave enough to show me, and others, that even when your parent hits you, you can still love them and not want to be apart from them. I don’t hear people acknowledging that in my every day travels to school staff rooms, supermarkets and netball games.

In all, I guess I admire writers who speak brutally honestly about adults and children.

My Mum knows all of the above and showed me some of these truths, with her and she interpreted the world out loud to me through childhood and adolescence, despite her peers disagreeing with her. I’ve seen her advocate for children in supermarkets, swimming lessons and when she’s having a ciggie with random fellow smokers. People look at her sideways and sometimes choose never to speak to her again or label her as ‘a woman with strong opinions” but geez I admire her for it and geez I think we need more compassion in our society. Can fiction be a way to do this? I hope so. I really hope so.

And then again perhaps I want to write fiction to make people cry. Perhaps it’s just another way of wanting to bring people to strong emotions, buckle at the knees and make the story “stick”. I guess I’ve just got to try it and find out…