All posts by Princess Sparkle

interrupted – CTH

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

We met at the theatre, the room was full of people waiting for the show to start, champagne was flowing and everyone was dressed beautifully, I was glad to see people still dress up and make an effort to see theatre these days.
I was standing next to a huge bouquet of flowers with my glass of champagne, mum had gone to powder her nose.
I was looking around the room watching animated conversations, there was a man around my mothers age across the other side of the room next to the marble staircase. Our eyes caught, I gave a half smile and looked away back to the glass in my hand.
I could sense he had kept on looking, I glanced back up and saw that he had started walking across the room towards me.
Just as he was close enough to speak mum came back, she was talking about the long line at the bathroom and why they should update these old theatres to have more women’s toilets.
I had kept my eyes on the man who had kept on approaching. Mum glanced towards him and smiled. I was feeling awkward and wondering how I would explain this to her, but I didn’t need to as he addressed her first commenting on her dress, mum was pretty used to flattery from strangers and handled it well, always smiling and gracious at first.
She smiled and thanked him and asked what he thought of the show and if he’d seen it before. He had and was a regular on the scene. I was surprised I had not seen him before. He kept his eyes on mum but kept glancing at me, he then turned full focus on me and asked my name. I introduced myself and held out my hand to shake, he had smooth, large hands and didn’t give a hard handshake that allot of men tend to do like it’s a competition or contest of manhood.
He asked if I enjoy the theatre or if I was just accompanying my mother. I’d grown up my whole life with a beautiful mother, her beauty was not to be judged or questioned, she had been blessed by the genetic lottery with symmetrical features, cat like eyes and a heart shaped mouth hanging off of chiselled, knife edged cheekbones.
At this age and from quite a young age I was able to judge a mans character and motives towards me and in the end my mother who was the ultimate reason. I was usually just an obstacle in their way, which unlike something inanimate could not be removed with brute force. This was a game of intellect, patience and scheming which was a true test for most of the men who were led to my mother by their dicks.
This felt somewhat different, I was the initial target, unless this was a scheme that was underway long before my attention was caught across the room. Maybe this man had seen mum and I at another show or even just earlier this evening and hatched a plan starting with me, to go for the young prey whilst my mother was otherwise occupied. And if so this was going to be an interesting game and I was impressed.
I told him I was actually the one to bring my mother to this particular show and that I had seen it multiple times.
We were interrupted by the hollow dinging of the house bells rounding everyone back to their seats for the final interval.
He introduced himself as Brian and asked what we had planned for after the show, to see if we were interested in having a coffee or nightcap, my mother gave me a knowing look as if to say the ball was in my court. I was interested to see how this situation was going to pan out but I told him we might need to leave it to be decided at the end of the show.
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The Beginning of the End – Elsie Jones.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

He left me this week. If I was completely honest with myself, I would tell you that 18 and a half years ago, I saw this coming.  And if I was honest with him, I’d tell him that I’ve thought about leaving a hundreds times over, never realising my wildest dream.  But here we now are. Together and apart. Somewhere waist deep in the murky waters of differing versions of reality, truth and despair.  Somewhere that at times, I’d envisioned to be, but never really wanted to reach.

I’m now part of the rising statistic of marriage separation and divorce in the modern ages. And I’m becoming increasingly uncomfortable with just how ‘okay’ I think I am with this outcome. Marriage is a funny thing. A commitment filled with so many nouns, adjectives and verbs; actionable promises made for a forever version of yourself you’re forecasting to meet. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, Shane and I had fulfilled those promises for 6722 days. We’d even made it to ‘til death do us part’. That is to say, the death of our marriage.

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PM SESSION – Wuff Keeble

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

#1 Originally I became obsessed with weight training after I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger in ‘To Kill a Painter’. I don’t really understand what the appeal was, but I suspect it had something to do with his accent, a kind of Scandinavian American cross that often had one struggling to understand what the hell he was saying. Anyway, bizarrely, the plot of the movie had nothing to do with killing a painter, yet everything to do with the history of “Art through the Ages,” a seminal secondary school textbook for students of art. It covered everything from painting, sculpture, architecture and history itself – religious and philosophical. I can clearly remember the scene when Arnold looks quizzically at the painter, a forlorn, out of work artist and asks, “assisted lift may be required.” “Vat does dis mean?” And then the poor fellow, a young Cezanne, having to explain the meaning, which by the way, had nothing to do with catching a lift to the Men’s department, which was precisely where the scene was set. Kind of like a ‘Are you Being Served’ setting. A stuffy, old fashioned, department store with old queens preening themselves and looking down their noses at anyone who dared requiring assistance. Ah, there we are, back at the assisting part of the story. All in all, it was quite dreary, a washed-out grey palette of a visual and lacking any details as interesting as a space capsule with all the buttons, lights and beepers, over stimulating your brain.

#2 The Japanese have a saying; what goes up must come down. Well that’s right, open an umbrella and bingo, you stop the rain on your head, but at some stage the rain stops, and the brolly goes down.
#3 Next minute, the rain comes again and up goes the umbrella, it’s a never-ending cycle, which is a bit like the movie. It went on and on, over the centuries, giving amazing insights culturally and spiritually into the world that we humans have created. But how does it end you may ask?
#4 I couldn’t make it out at first – what was it that Cezanne and Arnold have in common? Other than engaging in delightful, incomprehensible dialogue, it suddenly dawned on me. Blue eyes, they both have blue eyes! Now you might ask, what does that have to do with my obsession with weight training. Well when,
#5 I couldn’t find the switch to bring me back to reality, having just experienced the most heart rendering break-up, I knew I needed to change things up. Now I’ve always hated a few things physically about the opposite sex.
1/ facial hair
2/ fat fingers
3/ body builders’ physiques
#6 It was brilliant. I thought, ok, now you must face your demons. You must find a new lover – one who looked like Arnie Schwarzenegger, has fat fingers and sports a hipster, barista toting beard. Well do you think that anyone of that description existed on this planet. Yeah, you’re thinking right, no siree! But then, riding home one night, past the vaults on Flinders Street, out stepped the most beautiful man I have ever seen from the hardcore, Doherty’s City Gym. And yes, you guessed it, great muscle tone, fattish fingers, a super cute goatee and blue eyes to boot! Best of all, Arnie Number 2 and I, have lived happily after ever since.

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Things – Rebecca

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

My ‘things’ a blue clothes peg, two British Paint swatches: ‘Whitsunday Passage’ 261 (pale blue) & ‘High Alert’ 50 (yellow)

Prompt statements: originally, the Japanese have a saying, next minute, I couldn’t make it out, I couldn’t find the switch, it was brilliant.

Originally, he was meant to have been on a beach in Thailand by now, soaking up the warm sunshiny rays. He could picture it vividly, yellow sun, yellow sand, blue surf and gradually pinkening skin.

But now he here was, on high alert, navigating the yacht through the Whitsunday passage whilst an angry swell raged all around, tossing them to and fro like a toddler having a tantrum. He looked over at his co-Captain who was currently sporting a clothes peg on each ear – a rumored ‘cure’ for sea-sickness – which judging by his pallid complexion and sweaty brow, didn’t seem to be working one iota.

The boat hull cut cut through the waves like a jagged knife, his hands on the wheel were white-knuckle. He wished for a moment that he actually believed in a God – because if he did he’d have had someone to curse, pray to and beg forgiveness for whatever he had done to get himself into this dire predicament.

The storm had come out of left field, blown in by an ill wind determined to ruin everything and teach humankind once again who was really the boss of this show. The Japanese have a saying that basically translates to this: Nature never gives a man more than he can handle. But right now, he wasn’t so bloody sure about that… Next minute he was interrupted from his musings over obscure Japanese sayings by a loud crack and startling shudder – undoubtedly, they had hit a reef.

I couldn’t make it out in the raging swell, but the reef beneath had most certainly grabbed on and wasn’t letting go without a fight. It was the stuff nightmares were made of for any sea Captain worth his salt.

Damnit! I couldn’t find the switch to lower the tender boat off the side. This was the first time The Lady 261 had been chartered this season, and some upgrades had taken place since the last time he had Captained her – including on the main console. It was brilliant. Of all the infernal times to have cut some corners during his safety checks! If he survived this he was going to have to do some serious soul searching… Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for this life anymore. Well anyway, if they went down on this bloody reef it was a decision he wasn’t going to have to make…

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Heart of Glass – Kylie Bell

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Originally the little love heart was purchased for his daughter on a particularly dark day.  He wanted her to know he had enough love for both himself and her mother.  That there would always be love there.

When she came in from the lake she saw the heart on her bedside table.  She picked it up and knew who it was from and what it meant.  But a glass heart would not do.  It would not compensate.  It would not placate.  She picked it up and walked back outside and hurled it into the lake.  It didn’t skim, it plunged and dropped deep.  Love gone.

As if it never was.  And she felt no sadness, just nothing.  And walked back.

How could he love for two when he pushed her love away?  He wasn’t enough.

To find a heart in the bottom of a lake was no surprise.  Water beds hide all sorts of treasures.  His hand reached out through the murky water hopeful it was worth more than glass.  A diamond from a long ago land.  A precious jewel thrown overboard in a lover’s tiff.

Reaching the surface and closer inspection revealed its modest qualities.  But it would still be worth something to someone. Not everyone.  A heart is not for everyone.  One taker would do.  Only one person needs this heart.

He plonked it in his trolley along with his other bits and pieces and pushed on to the market.

With a heart given, a heart bought, he could eat tonight surely.

There’s a saying, if you want to find love, go fishing for it.  The way you go fishing of course is up to you but go fishing none the less – for love, always fish for love.

The next minute after contemplating this saying, it was as if fate was delivered.  There, before her was a glass heart, held by a young boy, thin, tanned, unwashed.  But the heart was shining, glowing, clean.  Before she had even decided whether she would have it her hand was already in her pocket holding her money.  “How much for the heart?” she asked.

He couldn’t make out what she was saying, so transfixed was he on the heart.  Its turquoise colour mesmerising.  She repeated and by this time was holding out the notes.

He froze, not able to answer or move.  Was this heart emitting energy or was it his imagination?  So inside his own mind, he couldn’t make the switch to actually speaking.  He just felt.  Was it love?  Was it sadness, was it anger?  How did he feel? Why could he not move?

The heart’s brilliance radiated.  They both stood staring as if the heart might speak, even though they already both felt its extraordinary message.  Would he give it, would he take the money to eat?  He couldn’t say.

And then they looked at each other.  Was it a stand off or a falling in love?  Would they fight for it? It was her heart, given many years ago.  Thrown.  It was her own love and ability to love inside that heart.  She needed it back. You can’t throw love away.  Not everyone is lucky enough to get it back.

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A moment – Lise Anette 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 It had been exhausting
The party was a roaring success, the glitter was spread throughout the room and everyone was looking “ just a little worse for wear “.
The tinsel drooped like it too was exhausted, not able to continue its merrymaking ways after hours of frivolity  and good humour. Whoever said that tinsel didn’t continue to be fun throughout the ages. Great Gran was emotionally pissed from her memories of youth, the grandeur of her parties and the memories they invoked. Gran had the tinsel wrapped around so much of her she looked like a gone wrong Christmas tree, without the benefit of the flickering lights and presents under the tree. God knows how she would pull up in the morning it’s not an image of your grandmother you see every day day.

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The Writer – Anonymous

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Twelve people meet outside a café. Different backgrounds, ages, professional experiences and objectives that will impact on how the day will unfold. After an overview and coffees ordered, Catherine asks us to introduce ourselves to each other. What’s your story? we ask. The pressure of professional networking is gone as we discover something personal about each other – our lives, our writing goals and motivations.

Some are here for professional development, some have a story to tell, some are already writers having completed a manuscript for a book. Some, like me, don’t have anything in particular to write – just wanting to develop creativity, wanting to put words on paper, and just to enjoy the process of writing.

“Mimicking” Catherine suggests, could be a way to develop my writing and creativity skills. How would Wil Anderson write? How would Chopper Reed write? How would I write if I wrote from a different location? How would I write if I dressed like a 16th Century prostitute? Something to consider.

One of my classmates set out to achieve “30 by 30” – tick off a list of 30 things to do by 30 years old. To date he has completed the manuscript for his first sci-fi novel by writing 50,000 words – much of it written by attending these workshops. This got me thinking about my next step.

Over a rustic, family-style Italian lunch, Catherine asks how my year has been going. “It’s been hard” I admit. If I’m honest, 2019 has been one of my hardest. I’m exhausted professionally and personally – moving back from overseas, starting a new job, rebuilding a sense of home, financial stress, a family member’s serious illness, adjusting to the first year of marriage, career burnout.

The 30-by-30 approach could be a ‘40-by-40’. What do I want to achieve in the next two years in my life? What would success look like for me at 40? What things do I prioritise over the next two years, and what do I need to let go of?

Perhaps I could publish an article as a part of this list. Could I write a biography about my travel adventures and mishaps? Maybe I can record a short film about all of my dad’s nine-lives – the time he got speared by a surfboard, or when he tried build a house while he bled internally for several days – he almost makes it sound like an urban legend and you feel yourself getting swept up in his story telling.

Adventures will be the next things to add to the list: go skydiving, cage diving with great white sharks, and to sail across a major ocean. Next will be the travel bucket list: Uluru, Vietnam, walk (and dive) the Great Wall of China, a road trip on Route 66, and a month travelling around Scandinavia.

Career goals would need to be included. Make over $100K salary. Work flexibly. Have a private office. Is this even possible within the next two years? Maybe I’ll hire a coworking office for a week to write about nothing in particular.

I look back at the list. All this in two years? 40-by-40? I better get started.

Catherine is wrapping up the day – tips for writing inspiration, motivation and time management techniques. “Send me what you wrote today and I’ll publish it online” she says.

I look over what I’ve written today. It’s rough but it’s down on paper. Twelve pages about nothing in particular! I’m surprised that I had anything in me. ‘Why not?’ I think. It ticks the first thing off my list. Look who’s a published writer now, 2019 (you asshole).

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Arriving in Marseille – By Anne Lewis

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Charlie looked at the port of Marseille from the deck of the ship. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Not like Melbourne where he’d boarded. Nothing like Fremantle where they’d stopped to board more troops. It was quite different to Durban, where brown-skinned boys had rowed out to the ship to sell fruit and cigarettes.

High up on a hill above the city was a church, with a golden statue on top, shining in the morning sunlight. The light was bright,   intense, but not the same as the light of Shepparton. There were a few moments to consider all of this. He rolled a cigarette, and leaned against the railing, smoking.  The air smelled of the sea, of fish, and of other scents he didn’t recognise. Soon enough, there were orders shouted. Time to form up and get ready to disembark. He threw his cigarette butt over the side, and watched it fizz out   in the oily water below, then hoisted his kit bag and rifle onto his shoulders.

Charlie lined up beside Davo, Harry and Reg, and proceeded to the gangway. Called to attention on the dock. Then – at ease. Shore leave.

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Ten Things No One Ever Tells You About Writing

Last November someone messaged me to tell me something I wrote was part of the year 12  HSC English exam. Which I found hilarious. I almost failed HSC English. Got 51%. Now I’m part of the exam.

I’m also dyslexic. Like 10% of the population. Fun fact, 60% of Nobel Prize winners are dyslexic. We’re also 50% of the prison population. I could go either way.

Not what you would consider a typical writer’s pedigree.

The function of freedom is to free someone else ~ Toni Morrison.

I have authored seven books, published over 1000 columns, performed hundreds of stand up shows, and delivered dozens of keynote addresses blah, blah, blah. To be honest, whatever it is that I had to prove to whoever it was for whatever reason it’s done.

I am free.

Writing saves peoples lives. Writing your own words and reading other people’s words.

Words, stories and writing saved my life. I created my Gunnas Writer’s Masterclass to save people from dying with their music inside them. I thought I would run two masterclasses. I’ve run 68 in a little under two years.

This is what I have learned from my 1000 or so Gunnas so far.

1. There are three things all writers from professional to novices deal with constantly.

Procrastination, thinking your work is crap and worrying about what other people think.

These feelings are normal and to be expected. Just push them aside and move on. They are like traffic lights. They’ll change. You expect traffic lights when drive don’t you? You don’t think OMG! What is that stop sign doing there? I should never have gotten in the car! I new this was a bad idea. Feelings are not fact. Emotions change. The dog barks but the caravan moves on.

2. Writing is horrible.

Seriously. It’s not all sitting under a Weeping Willow with a fountain pen and a moleskin notebook. Writing is like pulling teeth. I once asked a very well known internationally acclaimed writer if he would prefer to read or write. “Write?” he said glaring at me in horror, “Like writing? I would prefer to dig a six-foot trench through turds with my tongue than write. Like writing? Are you serious?” Expect to hate it. It’s like exercise. We don’t write because we like it, we write because of how it makes us feel. Better.

Sometimes it’s just ‘hate writing’.  You have to force yourself and think ‘I’m just going to have to hate write this’.

3. Motivation follows action.

Ever heard that saying ‘inspiration is for amateurs? It’s true. If writers only wrote when they just felt like writing they would never write. Just start. And then you will feel like it. Sometime when I don’t feel like running I say ‘Just put your runners on and run to the end of the street.’

4 None of us knows how the story is going to end.

That’s the reason writers write. To find out how the story ends.

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” 
E L Doctorow.

I would add you can only ever see as far as the headlights. There has never been a time that I have written something and not been amazed by what what came out. I had no idea that was in there. You can’t get that fourth packet of Twisties out of the vending machine with out getting the first three out first.

5. Do less.

The biggest mistake writers make is to set goals that are too big.

“I’ll get home from work and write for five hours”. No you won’t. You have failed before you have even begun. So you give up. You know that very well know internationally acclaimed writer I was talking about? A dozen books, sold millions of copies, translated into 16 different languages. You know how much he writes? Four hours a day, four days a week. Monday Tuesday Thursday Friday 10am-2pm Wednesday off for paperwork and admin and he never works weekends.

Simple. Small. Just set yourself very simple and small goals. I’m just going to write a word, a sentence. WHOO HOO! You did it. The buzz you get from that will give you a sense of achievement and the amazing thing is that you will do more saying ‘I am going to write for ten minutes three times a week than if you promise to yourself you will write ten hours ever weekend.

6. 4 billion years 1% inspiration.

Human beings are the product of four billion years of evolutionary success. Writing has been the same until the last 15 years. Since the year dot it was 1% inspiration 99% perspiration. Now it’s 1% inspiration 99% not being distracted by the Internet. Being on Facebook, twitter, comment threads makes you feel as if you are writing. You’re not. You’re mucking around. It’s a bit like being at a cocktail party. Picking at food and drink all day. Never building up a hunger and sitting down and having a good satisfying feed. The good brain chemicals we get from achieving a goal, like writing undistracted for an hour or getting down 500 words are dissipated over the day of digital snacking. You never get hungry, you never feel saited. Be honest with yourself. Use Freedom app to block the internet and used your digital snacking you as reward.

7. Actions speak louder than coffee chats.

Don’t talk about it. The more people talk about writing the less they are writing. That goes for tweeting and facebooking about it. Love the book Working On My Novel. A book full of tweets with people talking about writing about their novel. Don’t tell. Show. The talking about it dissipates the head of steam needed to force you to sit down, get over yourself and write. When you talk about your writing you feel like you’ve been writing. You haven’t. You’ve been talking.

8. Where it wires it fires.

The more you do it, the more you do. The more a pathway in the brain is used the better and faster it gets. Writing is a muscle. The more you work it out, the better it gets. The more it fires (gets used) the more wires (the more brain synapses connect) When you set a goal the brains expectation system sends you good feeling hormones in expectation of reaching it. The more you do, the more you do.

9. You are not trying to kill anyone.

When I was 24 I thought I might want to do stand-up comedy so I went to a little stand-up tafe course. During the course I met comedian Rachel Burger. She said ‘You should do stand-up’. I said. ‘But I’m scared.’ She said ‘You are not trying to kill anyone you are just trying to make a few people laugh.’

I can’t tell you how helpful that little reframing has been. Remember, you’re not trying to kill anyone; you’re just trying to write some words, that turn into sentences that turn into stories. This platitude has helped too ‘It doesn’t matter how slow you go, you’re lapping everyone on the couch’.

10. Who cares what people think? They’re all wrong.

I went out with two other mates and we ordered a jug of Moscow mule, a cocktail made with vodka, ginger beer, and lime. I poured three glasses. First mate said ‘Wow, heaps of ginger beer in this’, the second said ‘No way! All I can taste is lime’. I looked at them and said ‘Are you serious? This just tastes like a jug of vodka.’

Same thing. Three different opinions.

You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches ~Dita Von Teese

You don’t write to be paid, praised, published or win prizes. We write to prove that you can. We write because it makes us feel good.

Classes here. Mailing list here. Testimonials here.

 

 

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When it ends – MB

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Until finally, I forgot.  Well, it wasn’t completely gone.  Could it ever really be?  But slowly, I stopped turning my head to his beautiful commands.  Tell me you love me.  I kept my own addicted fingers from reaching.  I miss you so much.  I took myself offline in all the ways.  I tried to erase the dark secret scent of us.  I tried to silence my penetrating guilt, tried to block the images of the innocent others.  I killed the parts of me that held the feel of his beautiful mouth on mine.  But mostly, I tried to forget the music.  Oh, how wrenching it was.  How my insides shook, how I went to my knees when I thought about the music.  What do you want to listen to, my dear?  His fingers flicking gently through the music that shuffled us through the emotions of every night.  Sometimes a beautiful voice could offer us solace, could merge us fully together.  Other times, the music raced us ahead, severed us from each other.  At times we’d be crying alone and together, and our desperation would be pierced by something upbeat.  We moved with what we heard.  Oh, how I cannot bear to think about the music.

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