Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
She arrived early. A whole 10 minutes early in fact. Which was not like her at all, she never seemed to be able to get anywhere on time; dinner invitations, catch ups with friends, doctor’s appointments, the hairdresser’s, work! Her excuse was that she’d been born late and had been trying to catch up ever since. So, she surprised even herself when, for once, she managed to get somewhere, not on time, but even before the appointed hour with time to spare. And the reason she did so was twofold; she was excited about the day ahead and what magic it might unleash in her, but mostly it was because she was more than a little afraid that the person running the event could be more than a little scary. Because this facilitator, this creator, this deliverer of wisdom was known for speaking their mind, consequences be damned. This writer, comedian, social commentator showed no obsequious observance to redundant social niceties when a dose of profane bluntness was needed to make a point. Well, that and the fact that the email had said, in no uncertain text, 10am SHARP. Capitals for good measure – yelling – least it be taken as a mere suggestion rather than a non-negotiable start time. Oh hell, let’s just call this person Miss Trunchbull.
And why was she in Miss Trunchbull’s class today? Because Miss Trunchbull, who turned out not to be at all like she’d imagined, was going to help her unleash the magic. Find the key to unlock the writer within. Because Miss Trunchbull, although she claimed not be particularly brilliant had nonetheless been writing for over two decades. And was imparting her wisdom or, in her words, ‘providing the creative enema’ would be writers needed. And she certainly needed an enema because she was constipated with words. All sorts of words. Nice words. Horrible words. Beautiful words. Scary words. Angry words. Sad words. Words of all shapes and sizes. Comforting words and distressing words.
But all these words, and the images they painted, were locked away in her mind, spoken only to herself and she needed to get them out. Needed to see the shape of them in print. Feel the impact of them on a page. She needed to let them go……to take on a life of their own outside her head.
But she didn’t know where to start. She didn’t know how to start. What if all the words just started tumbling out one after the other, an avalanche of them racing down the page sweeping away the story in a rushing torrent of random letters? Letters making words that made no sense? But why would that happen? Because! Because she was afraid. And she was afraid because what if, once she started, once the flood gates were opened, she couldn’t control the words that flowed out. What if secret words and thoughts, long buried, came seeping out of the dark recesses of her mind? Secrets long buried because they came with demons. Demons that she’d long forgotten and couldn’t control. Would the demons destroy the writer she wanted to be? Or set the writer free to fill the empty page? And if they came, would these demons sit neatly on the page? Would they tell her stories with equal measure of desolation and redemption? Of heartache and hope? Or would the demons, once out, finally finish the thing they’ve been driving her to, from their dark hiding places, un-named and unrecognised, all these years? Or would they, once exposed to the page and the light of day, wither and die like neglected grapes on a vine? And if they withered and died, what would be left of her, devoid of all her demons?
Yes, they were her fears. Well, that and the fear that maybe she couldn’t write at all. That those books she’d been writing in her head all these years would just turn to shit on the page. But Miss Trunchbull would say ‘yes, of course you’re going to write shit – but do it anyway. And keep doing it. Keep doing it until it isn’t shit any more’. So that’s what she’s going to do. Write, even if it’s shit until the shit becomes merely mundane and then eventually until the mundane becomes interesting and somewhere she can find words that are lucid, coherent and precise. Until amongst all those words there eventually appears a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph that is a thing of uncommon beauty – something that touches the soul and shifts the earth just a little on its axis. Until she brings out the magic!
No, Miss Trunchbull wasn’t at all like she’d imagined. Oh yes, she was provocative and brassy and probably took no prisoners when crossed. She was full of self confidence and self assurance but not in a bad way, not in a full-of-herself kind of way. More like, well, sure of herself and her place in the world. The perfect kind of person to administer a creative enema to unleash the magic.
I fucking love Miss Trunchbull.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I ever tasted a chocolate from L’Savour’s was a life changing experience. I innocently wondered into the small boutique chocolate shop in Malaney and my senses went into overload. In one mouthful I was hit with the flavours of orange, bitter coco and velvety sweet sugar that melted instantly. In order to stop myself from squealing from delight I closed my eyes and allowed the flavours to linger against my taste buds. It was like time froze as I savoured the flavour of the exquisite chocolate. When I opened my eyes a man in a pink linen shirt was watching me and he had a twinkle in his eyes. I felt self-conscious, my eyes fell to the floor. I wanted to stand there and gorge all the chocolate samples out on display, but the deviant in the pink shirt was following my every move. It was as if the heat from his intense staring was burning my skin. My cheeks blushed, heart thumped loudly and a strange tingling sensational swept over my entire body. I slowly began to move around the room pretending to look at the many items on display. Suddenly the door opened and a group of boisterous women burst into the shop. I was relieved from the chaos this group brought with them and used the opportunity to discreetly exit the shop.
I hurried down the street past the various boutique stores selling locally made cakes, sweets, cheeses, clothes and handcrafted jewellery. Eventually, I paused at the shop window of a silversmith. After several minutes I noticed the reflection of the pink devo in the glass and that he was standing next to me. It was a warm day so he had the first 3 buttons of his linen shirt undone to allow the heat to escape and any stray cool breeze in to cool his supple body down. His skin was a golden colour and sandy curls flopped over his forehead. You could see he was fit as the pink linen of his shirt outlined his toned muscles. I looked left towards him and he smiled at me. He looked straight into my eyes and said, “You really must try the hazelnut truffles from L’Savour.” I raised my eyebrow and replied “Why is that?” He leant forward, he was so close to me that I could feel his breath against my ear as he whispered, “It will blow your mind.” The corners of my mouth creased upwards. That strange tingling sensation swept over my body once again.
He took a small white box with a red bow out of his pocket and handed it to me. After accepting the gift I stood there staring at the neatly wrapped package for what seemed like an eternity. When I finally snapped out of my trance I realised the pink devo had vanished. Had it been a dream? No, it couldn’t have been, I was holding the small box of handmade hazelnut truffles. I looked down at the box of chocolates and saw a business card slipped under the red ribbon of the box. In elegant silver ink, L’Savour was printed in calligraphy script. At the bottom of the card the name Pierre Savour and a phone number were printed in the same silver ink.
It was as if someone else was controlling my body, as the next minute I pulled out my phone and I dialled the number on the card. The pink devo answered the phone after 5 rings. All he said was “That was fast.” For some stupid reason I didn’t say a word, but just stood there smiling. What a complete idiot. It was a phone call not a video call. He obviously could hear my breathing, as he whispered “Red wine goes well with the truffles. Come to the Fox and Glove at the end of the street and have a glass of shiraz with me.” It was then that I realised that even though he had a french name, Pierre, he had a non-descript accent. It didn’t sound French nor Australian.
Before I knew it, I was leaning on the heavy wooden doors of the Fox and Glove. In the far corner of the room the pink devo was causally sitting on the brown leather lounge with his feet resting on the table with a bottle of red shiraz and two wine glasses in front of him. He looked relaxed and full of confidence. For a split second I thought this is crazy, this guy could be a psychotic axe murderer. Thank goodness I ignored that flashing thought, as if I had heeded that caution my three beautiful sons would not exist. From the moment I sat down on the couch my life changed forever.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Driving up the dusty red highway
I got this freedom flowing wind in my hair
Soaking up the wild desert country
All my worries are gone I don’t care
From “Feel like going back home” by Stephen Pigram
For fourteen months we travelled. We talked. We listened. Walked and swam. Played and ate. Thought and slept. Drove and drove. My husband and our three kids aged 8, 6 and 3 explored pockets of Australia we’d never seen before.
I wanted it to be a time of transformation and packed a whole bunch of books into the boxes including “Journalling for joy” and other guides to life and happiness. But since we were travelling with three kids, I had to ditch them all at the last minute in favour of food, toys and the biggest medicine kit you’ve ever seen.
Over time, I realised I was transforming without any conscious effort on my behalf. The act of travelling, seeing new places, meeting new people, not having timelines or deadlines or schedules, being autonomous and in charge and in control meant that I was a different person. My horizons were broadened, my mind had expanded. (When I take a look at some of our photos and I see the landscapes, I’m not surprised my horizons were broadened).
1 Sunset near Burringurrah (Mt Augustus) in Western Australia
At any given moment during that Big Trip, as it’s become known to our family, if you asked me what I was thinking about it was nothing. Nothing at all. I wasn’t thinking about yesterday or tomorrow or next week. I wasn’t thinking about work, school schedules or appointments. I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to juggle everything I had to do.
Usually at home, in the suburbs, my mind is whirring at a million miles an hour. I’m thinking about what I could do, what I haven’t done, what needs to happen next, what to buy at the shops, when to collect the kids, the upcoming holidays, the washing, what the kids are up to and what they should be doing and what’s going on in the world.
On the road there is sweet nothing going on in my head. We make plans. We have a rough schedule. When we are on the road we just drive. And soak up the scenery. Stop when we want. Talk, say nothing. Listen to the kids telling their stories. I am happy. I have everything I need. The landscape is nourishing my soul, the time with my husband and our kids is good for my heart.
I find freedom in travel.
We explored amazing places. The gorges in Karijini. The fish, turtles and sharks at Ningaloo Reef. I never knew how much I would love the desert, but it turns out I do. The flowers, the sand dunes, the plains of rocks, stunted trees and the amazing landscapes. I think every person should see the sunset over the sandstone escarpment in Finke National Park. And experience for themselves the sacredness of Uluru and Kata Tjuta. But there are dozens of other places that we’ve never heard about, or have the names of, that are equally as enthralling.
We drove across sand dunes at Gunyah Beach at Coffin Bay and in the Simpson Desert. I never knew you could have so much fun just driving. We felt so small as we drove around the little sandy tracks among the giant kauri trees in south western WA around Margaret River. We drove down beach tracks, savannah tracks, black highways, up and over ranges and along plains. We drove and drove. We walked along beaches. We camped under the stars in the middle of nowhere. We camped beside highways with no loos, with a bunch of other fellow travellers. We cooked outside, ate all of our meals outside, and knew the cycle of the moon. We’d watch the sun rise and the sun set and we were in sync with our surroundings. We were a part of the natural rhythm of the landscapes that surrounded us.
Australia is home to the world’s oldest living culture – and yet what we knew about Australian Aboriginals we had to un-learn. The more people we met, stories we heard and history we read, the more we wanted to know. We began to see when the culture and history of the local people was missing and yearned to know the creation stories, whose land we were on. We learned new words, had our first ever smoking ceremony, and we were welcomed to country. For small chunks of time, we were invited into the life of local Aboriginal people and we felt welcomed. We marvelled at the women who could split a pandanus leaf (for weaving) effortlessly while our attempts were so useless, we listened to dreaming stories, explored ancient habitation sites that were up until the last 100 years used continuously, we found rock art, and I cried in some museums and former jails. Seeing the jail at Derby in the Kimberley that was in use until the 1970s was deeply shocking for me. The steel rings that men were chained to were still in the ground. There was only a roof and bars, there were no walls so it was fiery hot in the summer, and freezing cold on winter nights. These horrors are not from times in the distant past, but in my own lifetime. This learning transformed us all.
We met lots of people – some ordinary, some quirky and some we’ll never forget. One of the most surprising things about the travel was that it was so social. It was a great surprise for a naturally talkative family. Going to the toilet became a social event. I might be gone for 30 minutes because I’d get chatting. “Where’d you come from today?”, “Where are you going?”, “What did you see?”. In my normal life, I might not have anything in common with these people but here I am, in a communal laundry talking about my life on the road with kids with a perfect stranger. It turns out she’s the mother of my husband’s former work colleague back in Brisbane! At times we’d bump into people again, at other times we consciously chose to meet up with fellow travellers. We made friends – we’ve been invited to a couple of weddings!
So over time, and without the yoga, the meditations or the journalling, I created a life and a way of living that I loved. I had all I needed in the world and so much more. I was transformed. My relationship with my partner and my kids grew stronger than ever. In delight, I watched the kids develop their sense of humour and saw them thrive in the new environments we threw them in. They grew up and rose to the challenges. We all learned so much about ourselves, each other, and the country we call home. Through travel, I became a better version of myself. Life on the road turned out to be a great life for me.
Injalak Hill in Arnhem land is filled with rock art and stories
We could hear her yelling abuse at someone before we saw her. She came out from the mangroves at the far end of the street. The kids and I were on the verandah just filling in time. She was heading towards us continuing to shout.
I wondered to myself how I was going to handle this situation and keep my kids safe. She appeared drunk and as she got closer I could see she was an old Aboriginal woman with a sock and shoe on one foot but nothing on the other.
The man she was yelling at turned away so it was just this old woman coming down the street. She saw us. She turned towards us and came over for a chat.
I’m not really sure what she said. We must’ve greeted each other. She was quite taken with the kids and my little three year old in particular. I could see that all she wanted was to hug him and hold him. But he didn’t want to be hugged by this stranger.
Her hair hadn’t been brushed. She had teeth missing. Her clothes were dirty, mismatched and ill-fitting.
I learned as she talked that she had children. She had a child around Otto’s age but they had been removed. She was full of love for her children. She was filled with love and warmth and compassion.
We talked a little more, I’m not sure about what. She said goodbye and went on her way.
This conversation is like every conversation, story or experience we shared with every single Aboriginal Australian we met on our trip around Australia. It was always surprising, enlightening (revealing our own prejudices) and always positive. Always, always positive.
We would hear the cautionary tales that you should stop on roads in the outback for an Aboriginal person because they’d just rob you or do something bad. We always asked the person telling us this story if they had experienced it. Never. But we were told this again and again by strangers.
We learned about country, kin, the matriarchal system, the stars and creation stories. We learned Australia has the oldest living culture on earth and yet we don’t know this, acknowledge this or celebrate this.
When we arrived in a new landscape, in another part of our country, we began to see what was missing. Where was the information to let us know who the traditional owners of this country were? What language group did they come from? What are the big creation stories?
The way I viewed landscapes became different. I stood on Injalak Hill and our local guide, Nelson, pointed out every feature of the landscape and for the first time it clicked, everything I could see had a story. Everything. There was a dreaming story for everything. We saw burial places in rocky crevasses. I wondered where the birthing places were. I could see ancient habitation sites that had only recently ceased being used.
The roads we travelled on were ancient footpaths. Ancient footpaths probably with ancient songlines attached to them. But most of us drive down these roads oblivious to the culture, the lore, the people and the land.
The more we travelled, the more these stories didn’t match with what we were seeing, hearing, observing and experiencing. Travel is a great way to be transformed, to learn not from reading or in classrooms, but to learn from observation and experience and from listening to the knowledge of other people.
The more we travelled, the more I connected to the land, my family, my children, my relationships with my own extended family and my relationships with traditional owners. The more we travelled, the more I wanted to know and understand. I know I could live a lifetime and understand such a small amount of the knowledge, wisdom and experience of each of Australia’s Aboriginal nations.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I saw you, I noticed the thread on your belt. I remember it standing out, as I weaved my way onto the bus, crowded and full, the press of warm bodies against me always leaving me queasy. Then I saw the flash of orange, a ribbon hanging from your hip, and I was enraptured, the people fell away. It didn’t seem to serve any purpose, your jeans held by the curve of your hips and the leather belt you wore. The orange contrasted so sharply with the green of your jacket, with the muted colours of those around you. Why did you wear it? What purpose did it serve? I slipped my sunglasses on quickly, to hide my stare, moving my way toward you as surreptitiously as I could. You were turned away from me, I needed to see who owned the ribbon.
Finally, I reached you, having to move slowly so I didn’t telegraph my intent, reaching up to grab the hand rail, turning into you ever so slightly. I still had my headphones in, but I turned off the music, wanting to hear you if you spoke. You didn’t though, your own headphones over your ears, I could see the fingers on your spare hand tapping a rhythm against your leg, and I wondered what you were listening to. I caught the hint of your profile, the straight nose, the freckles dotted across it, but glanced away as I felt you noticing. Who are you that you have turned into a beacon, the orange ribbon all but forgotten as I pondered you.
The bus lurched, all of us on our feet lurching in time, a dance performed on every bus, and I fell into you, breath catching as you turned toward me, cringing inwardly, but frozen, not moving back. You turned far enough for me to catch your eye, blue-grey meeting brown, though you didn’t know it, my eyes hidden. I coughed and shuffled back, my awkward ways coming through as I apologised. Your eyes sparkled with amusement as you nodded and held my eye. I had a momentary panic that I’d not put my glasses on, you seemed to stare into me. I clenched my teeth and wondered what the fuck was going on. My hand reached to push my glasses up involuntarily, an internal sigh when I realised they were there, but by then your look had turned thoughtful, and I felt my cheeks warming in response.
The bus started off again, and this time it caught you off guard, your momentary distraction left you unprepared, and you lurched into me. I wrapped my spare arm around you by instinct, a pull, although I felt like I was the one falling. We were nose to nose, and I took in the subtle curve of your lips, the angle of your jaw, swallowing at the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears. It took me a moment to realise you hadn’t moved back, that you were still holding onto the railing yourself and could have at any time. It was warm, the press of people and our thick jackets making sweat start to form on my back, but really it was the press of you. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, my world grinding to a halt, only the feel of you pressed against me and the flash of orange as it caught my eye left. Slowly the corner of your mouth lifted in a sly smile, and you righted yourself, the murmur of a sorry on your breath. It was my turn to nod, letting my arm fall back to my side, stuffing it in my pocket to hide the shake.
I turned slightly to look past you, to stare out at the world rushing by, blurred and polarised as I tried to ground myself, wondering still what the fuck was happening. An orange ribbon and a stranger in my arms on the bus. You must try and get hold of yourself, I told myself, but with you in my periphery, looking at me, I felt as if I was standing on soft sand, my balance thrown off kilter, no amount of shifting negating the feeling of free fall. I bit the inside of my lip and breathed slowly through my nose, trying to focus on the stench of sweat, even on cold days it’s always there, and I wondered why.
Slowly I pulled myself back from the edge, shifting my gaze into the bus, to look at the tired faces around me. So many people, packed into a small space, so many people a million miles away. And finally, so many people unseen. I caught sight of the ribbon again, turning back. But not you. Not to me. Orange. I knew that whenever I saw orange I was going to think of you, and I didn’t even know who you were. When I saw a half smile, I knew I’d remember the curve of your lips, if I saw a green jacket I’d wonder if it was you. I wondered if I’d lost my mind.
The bus slowed again, and it was my stop. The feeling of dread crept up on me, the moment of connection over already. Was that it? Is it ok if that is just it? The bus stopped, and I looked up to you one last time. You were still watching me, headphones pulled to your neck now, when did you do that? Next minute you reached your hand up to my face, pulling my glasses off gently. I was frozen in the moment, I watched your eyes widen ever so slightly, felt electricity arc between us. I swallowed again, then reached to take my glasses from your hand. I inclined my head as I turned and made my way from the bus. I felt like I was walking into a gale force wind, but pushing anyway, like I was making a huge mistake, but I was too shy to do anything else.
I reached the front, flipped my collar up and stepped back out into the icy wind, so much colder now than before. I paused for a moment, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and cursed myself for forgetting my gloves again. I turned and started my trudge toward work. I stopped at the traffic lights, reached over to press the button, and squeaked in surprise. You were standing next to me, hand on the button, looking at me, orange ribbon flapping in the breeze, a small smile of your face. “Hi,” you said, calm as anything. I stuttered a “Hi,” in return, another blush spread across my cheeks. I looked at the ribbon and back to you, and in that moment, I knew. An orange ribbon had just altered the course of my life.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I heard it, I was wearing ruby slippers and a ‘Dorothy in the poppies’ shirt. Well, they weren’t real ruby slippers just a pair of red loafers I’d worn to match. The red heart earrings had been a nod to both the tinman and my partner who had been so happy for me going – doing something I loved, just for me. “Have Fun!” she’d said, “You’ll be great!”. I drove off. I was nervous. Why was I nervous? Was it because it meant so much to try and find the missing “me” or because it was the only thing I was good at and I didn’t want it to be gone. Either way, I was a mess. I couldn’t go in. I felt a failure as I rang my partner at 9.53am.
In order to allay my fears, I’d called her. As cliché as it is, she’s my rock and the one who knows me. She would be the voice of reason, well in my reasoning she would tell me to get in the car, drive the hour home, and be back where it’s safe and where I’m unchallenged. Where it is ok the be the ‘lost’ me because I am loved. Where it is ok not to change, or change in my own time as it is my safe place to fall. I needed her to tell me to come home. She didn’t answer the call.
So, it was just me, just same old me, the same one who got me in this mess in the first place. The same one who had to fix it. It’s probably time. Get inside girl. I’d heard it.
Later I looked down to think about the red sequined garter that I’d pulled out of the mystery bag. I wandered about the randomness of that. Is it really random when you’re wearing a Dorothy in the poppies shirt and ruby slippers? Was it a nod to my upcoming nuptials, the symbol of the wedded, used no-where else except the institution of marriage or cheap porn movies. Odd. Not particularly random. What does the garter actual symbolize at a wedding? The taking of ownership of the bride? Taking of the old? A promise of sex or fertility or sexuality or what? Probably some misogyny. Today, I choose to take it as a chance of new. A chance to re-identify. A chance to renew. Perhaps be a new kind of something or somebody, someone that doesn’t put herself last but who show’s up, shines and lets go.
The newness on me is exciting. It’s both chilling and warm. Feels soft and hard and I feel all sorts of sharp angles that I don’t really know. I like how it feels, like a new skin growing through but feeling like I have a chance to change what that skin looks like.
It’s a strange feeling but it immediately reminds me of the starkness of grief.
It was warm in my mind, that crushing arrival of grief. That whirligig of unknowing about which way is up. Where your idea of today and normal ceases to function and in its place, your breath is held and your heart stops beating and you look for signs. It’s the feeling in the morning where you wake and forget that they’re gone, your loved one, and in those moments there is sunlight and there is love and hope and sound for just the quickest of moments. Then it is replaced with the overwhelming pain and heaviness and dawning of reality, and whatever the opposite of hope is. Despair maybe. The pain of swimming upstream and the swampy seaweed that drapes and binds your legs, anchoring them into inertia.
You must try, at these times, to find your anchor. Your place in the game. Your handle to hold until the waves subside and the grief changes into something you know how to swim with and not against. This would be the second time I would hear it. The sound of my own distant voice, soft but firm, driving me forward. My head out of the sand, and clear of the ocean.
And finally, nothing is dictated for us, unless you let it be so. My life is mine and I can call the shots. Nothing is promised, nothing delivered with a neat bow. Just fought for and negotiated and claimed, rightfully mine.
And in the next minute, I hear it again. Show up and shine. Shine and show up. One foot in front of the other, again and again until you remember the way. Until the journey moves through you as you move along it, earning the medals and stripes of your work and sacrifice. Your new insistence to be heard and be useful pays its way. You are not lost, you just forgot to ask. You are found and you are free.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time I came to a writer’s class is this class where we are being offered prompts to get us going. So I am writing about this first time experience with 2B pencil. I always write with a pencil because it feels nice and is easily erased. This possibility of erasure dulls the sense of exposure. This is clearly a pre-computer belief. Bringing this belief into high relief exposes the litter of terrible beliefs that still the hand of all my creativity.
I must be ready, for I am learning fast today. This has come along at the right time – timing has been good in my life so far, so don’t waste this good timing here. In order that I make the most of this, the wild and free mind just put together two aphorisms from the class – “create bricks don’t build a bridge” and “shit or get off the pot”. That adds up to “shit a brick” an expression of surprise – so solid and concrete yet the mind which is floating the idea is fluid and ephemeral. Such a strange marriage of concrete and fluidity, is the world of words.
I am now waiting for the next prompt. Where will it take me and isn’t it strange that I need that prompt right now. Are all stories like this story, pegged on prompts I ask myself? Prompts in the theatre are used to remind actors of what they already know but have momentarily forgotten. I haven’t forgotten my lines. I don’t know what they are. But here they come.
It was warm outside and it is warm inside this room in the kind of way that happens when everyone is in the same boat and is willing to say it out loud and take risks. We know that the wanting-to-write boat is populated with its own demons – procrastination, fear, varying beliefs of inferiority, beliefs that writers come fully formed with no evolution, that there is no time and that we need special conditions.
I must try to let all of these go. And now I am feeling the difference between trying and actually letting go. I am not trying now, I am writing, this is not the sort of effort that will let me down or will invite the band of demons back.
And finally, there is no finally apart from death. Life and writing merge with their offers, retractions, surprises, and devastations. This is a way to live and to write into the great heart of being.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Labels are bullshit. Labels are bullshit because it’s bullshit to think that we can be defined by them. Give me a thousand different labels and it still won’t be enough to truly capture my complex, loving, angry, brilliant, fucked up, bitter, beautiful me-ness. Or your amazing, sad, gorgeous, awful, empathetic, dastardly, shiny me-ness.
Humans use labels as shorthand to neatly sum other humans up. Without having to think too much. And worse – we use them on ourselves, and believe that bullshit.
Today my me-ness brushed up against lots of other me-nesses. Generally, I love a good brush with a fellow human (spiritually, metaphorically, literally). But today there were too many humans. It made me think, feel and behave like an introvert. Like a shy wallflower. I felt stifled, anxious, awkward. And sweaty. God damn I felt sweaty.
Driving home, safe in the sanctuary of my car, air-conditioning my saviour, I started to think about introverts, specifically that I was an introvert – after believing, for most of my life that I was an extrovert. And I thought about how shyly I’d behaved. And how that behaviour might be judged. Why did it matter to me that a bunch of humans I’m unlikely to meet again might think I’m a shy introvert? Why did I think that a bunch of humans might think of me again, at all? It just mattered. And does matter.
The thing is, I’m not an introvert. And I’m not all that shy. Nor am I a fucking extrovert. I’m both, and none, all at the same time, all at once. The person I was today has already gone. She’s about to get in the shower, get in the car and go to another social occasion. An entirely different affair where she’ll brush up against the me-ness of lots of people she knows and loves. She’ll hug, she’ll talk, she’ll listen and she’ll probably dance with brilliant, well timed abandon. People who meet her for the first time will think that her bright clothes perfectly fit her bright personality.
And they will. For tonight at least.
Labels are not only bullshit. Labels are useless.
Photo is from Unsplash.com. Photos are free for anyone to use without attribution, but attribution is appreciated) Photo by Nate Bell on Unsplash
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
The first time he had ever held a sword was when he was eight years old at the battle of Evra. It had weighed heavily in his hands as he lifted it off the ground beside a fallen soldier. His father was nowhere to been seen already having disappeared into the great mass of fog surrounding the battlefield. He stood alone grasping the sword with both hands having already wiped off whatever gore lay on it with his sleeve. His face was covered in grime and the metallic scent of blood lingered in the air mixing in the swirling dust. His breaths were shallow, and his heart felt as if was going burst right through his chest. Its beating vibrating through his small body.
In order to find his father on the blood-soaked battlefield he’d grasped the nearest sword for the semblance of a fighting chance. He didn’t know how to use a sword. His training had not yet begun in hand to hand combat. His chosen weapon was usually a bow and arrow which was not be found anywhere within his proximity.
This was a mistake.
He shouldn’t have even been there.
Sneaking into the armory wagon had seemed like a clever idea at the time. He had always wanted to be a warrior. To bask in the glory that his father and brothers had always shared whenever they returned from battle. The stories always filled him with anticipation and excitement which wrapped around him like a warm blanket. So, when his father had told him of a northern threat like nothing they had ever faced before, he had been devastated when he was told he was not yet of age to fight. However, this harsh reality was not what he had envisioned when he had stolen away that night.
The sword was a dead weight in his arms as he staggered to lift up the weight of the blade. He tried to see further into the mist, peering through the dust floating through the air and covering the land. Bodies lay splayed on the ground. Some staring up at the sky. Hollow. Others had missing limbs and lay motionless against the dirt. Every sense in his body worked overtime. He could hear the distant calls of battle cries, screams and shouts from far off beyond his line of sight. The ringing of metal on metal and clashing of swords clamoring for a minor victory so that they too did not join the dead lying in silent stillness surrounding him. His breath caught as a shadow began to emerge from the mist. The hooves of a horse echoing through the sounds of battle. He knew it was time to move. His head beckoning to his limbs to hide. To run. Anything.
Move.
Move.
Move.
His mind shouted at him but he remained frozen and wide eyed as the figure closed in on his location. His body betraying him.
Enemy or friend?
He couldn’t take the chance. Even at such at early age he knew the terrors that would befall him it was indeed an enemy from the northern borders.
It was warm inside his chest. His whole body heating up in a flushed sort of panic. His mouth went dry as the terror set in. Somehow, even though his legs wouldn’t move his arms pathetically lifted the heavy sword raising in front of him. They shook with the strain and he attempted to look like a warrior. Unafraid and ready for combat.
He swallowed hard and braced himself for the oncoming shadow praying that this wasn’t the end of his short-lived life. A laugh came from the shadow.
“You must try to look less terrified when you raise a sword like that boy. A brave death is the only true kind of death”
His sword clattered to the ground. The dirt dimming how heavily it fell. He tried to speak but his mouth remained dry. Words unable to form in his mouth.
And finally, the shadow took form. A warrior rode atop his horse. A black mare baring its teeth as if it hungered for more blood and carnage. Its temper could be felt even from his distance. The boys eyed widened in terror as he took in its rider. His eyes were cold. He bore only armour on his lower half leaving his chest bare except for a belt that held form around his torso. It held several blades in all shapes and sizes. His body was covered in scars. Some the colour silver clearly from battles past. Others still pink or bleeding from recent injuries. Blood covered his mouth.
His looked over the warrior and then stopped when he reached his ears. Pointed.
He was Fae.
Bloodthirsty. Fast. And without morals.
He bared his fangs at the boy in a wicked grin. Raising one of the two blades he held in his hands ready execution. He raised the sword and then halted as a war cry rang out meters away. They both turned.
Next minute the boy had found himself sprawled on the ground as another shadow roared towards the warrior. He snarled and raised the two long blades. The mare’s legs stomped in anticipation readying itself for more bloodshed.
Tears seeped from the boy’s eyes as he registered the voice behind that cry and watched in awe as his father rode towards them. The warriors collided. Blades clashed and teeth snapped as the battle ensued. He sank to the ground watching the fight in horror as his father dodged and parried with the fae warrior. His father maneuvered with easy grace as the fae’s knife almost slashed his father’s face. The boy screamed causing the fae to pause.
That was all the time his father needed. That small distraction and the boy watched as his father’s sword sank deep into the warriors middle. He held the fae’s gaze as the light slipped from his eyes.
Seconds felt like hours. Time blurring into itself.
Panting, his father slid the sword out of the warriors gut. The fae’s body sank, slid of the saddle and fell limp on the ground. Adding to mass graveyard that this land had now become.
The horse roared and kicking up his legs he fled into the fog. Without his master he was free to go.
His father turned towards him recognition flashing in his eyes.
“Hansel” he whispered, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Shock and disbelief bled into that one word.
“Father” the boy breathed, finally finding his voice.
His legs again regained motion as he ran towards his father who had dropped to his knees at the sight of him.
“Father” the boy said again “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” He was cut of as his father reached his broad arms around him and tugged him tight.
A horn blew, loud and clear echoing off the land and the dead. His father looked up.
“It’s over.” His father said stroking Hansel’s hair. “We won.”
But his voice was filled with quiet remorse and defeat. There was no glory or victory in that sentence. The boy simply pulled back and whispered “father?”
He smiled sadly at him and stood, lifting him into the saddle of the grey mare waiting. “Let’s go home.”
The boy nodded. He hoped that after today he would never have to go to battle. To never see another dead man or a field of them.
War was not glory. It was death.
And in the end all death remained the same whether you were a soldier or a small scared boy. It was always a true death.
The fae was wrong.
Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Write. Write. Write. That’s all that keeps turning over in my thoughts. So I write. But it’s no good. ‘So keep writing’ the voice persists. Keep writing. Don’t stop. Don’t edit. Just write. Just. Keep. Going.
The words are there, I know. Deep down. Locked in a fault. I can feel them in the pit of my stomach, desperate to get out. Amazing stories are trapped with them. Stories I haven’t even imagined yet. Tales of marvel and wonder.
I am a storyteller. This precious craft was past down to me from my grandfather. He was a complex man, racked with mental illness demons. Sadly never fully understood in his lifetime. But, he could tell a story. Stories of all manner of mystical creatures, traversing incredible adventures in faraway kingdoms. Stories that kept my younger sister and I entralled, carried away with him as each magical mystery unfolded. And all of this happened off the top of his head. Never was a word written. Every adventure, every character, every scenario, all tumbling out of his incredibly tangled mind.
I am a storyteller. I choose to tell my stories in many different forms, but my language of choice is ‘the written word’.
I love words.
So I write.