Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
There is a half eaten frittata sitting on a ‘70’s era plate within twenty centimetres from me. Empty coffee cups also in a vintage style are strewn across the table. The salad plates have been cleared, as have the napkins, one of which I have been writing my notes on. I forgot paper. At a writing master class.
It’s called the “Gunnas Master Class” and it’s with Catherine Deveny who has just instructed us to write five minutes non-stop.
WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO STOP.
In her introduction to the task she says, “write about anything, just don’t stop, write that Catherine Deveny is fatter in real life than you thought.“
She actually lifted up her skirt to show us her strong legs from running eight – ten kilometres per day. They are strong. It reminded me of the time Mirka Mora lifted her dress over her head at the launch for a new French bubbles at Madam Brussels in Bourke St. Mirka then lifted the bottle above her head and poured the fizz all over herself.
What joy and irreverence she and Catherine share.
So, back to the table.
There are 20 of us in this master class. Two Baptist ministers; a management consultant; a musician; a comedian; a lady with Multiple Sclerosis who spilt water from the stainless steel jug and declared “It’s the MS”; another woman has cancer and I am obsessed with her jumper. There’s writers of music, poetry, fiction and non. I’d never heard of flash fiction or dental drafts but am willing to give both a try.
We students are a rabble bunch.
I am one of two blondes. There is one male. He’s an older gentleman whose family gave him the class as a gift. We all concur that was a lovely thing to do. He didn’t really seem to know why it was gifted to him. He works in finance by day.
At the beginning of the class, we each have to get to know the person next to us and introduce them. The usual type of thing you do in a training course.
This one is different.
Catherine uses each person’s story and ideas about what they think they would like to get out of the class as an impetus for all of us to learn. She’s sharp and hones in on each individual with remarkable ease.
I tell the class of strangers that I am scared. That the thing I need out of this course is to be brave.
Now, with 30 seconds to go of the five minutes of non-stop writing, I’ve not come up for breath. Lunch must be beckoning most people, though I’m still not hungry.
We stop.
Next task – to write for ten minutes – this time we are allowed to take our time, “stare into space if you like,” Catherine says.
I look back to the table again.
The rabble bunch has their eyes down, writing.
I don’t want to be a voyeur but I’m interested to look around and just watch everyone scribbling away in note pads and tapping on laptops.
There are four of us on laptops. “Don’t go on the internet” Catherine says.
I haven’t got the Wi-Fi password but wouldn’t go on the Internet right now anyway. I am honestly inspired by this process this far.
I’ve learned so much. Or actually so much of what I have known to be true has been reinforced, solidified to truth.
In the introductions. my partner, Cindy, a remarkably strong and spiritual woman with gorgeously grey hair in a high bun says that I am ”a woman who has achieved so much in her career.”
Cindy says that I am in a transition phase, and she’s right.
The transition is to be truly brave and honest, by doing what is best for me.
My creativity has manifested itself in beautiful things, but not for me, for others.
The creative process drives me ‘til my brain, body and soul cannot take it anymore.
The beautiful things have been counter-balanced by ugliness. Self-inflicted pain. Loss. Devastation.
And so, back to the table.
With two minutes to go everyone is again writing with gusto. Not many are looking up and around like me. The lady with MS lets out a big breath, her lips vibrating like a baby finding its lips.
Today, many of us are further on our way to finding our feet as writers.
**********
God Disease, 1901
Once upon a time there was a young lady afflicted with God Disease.
God disease is a condition that afflicts mostly women in their early twenties. They believe that God is a disease that infiltrates the body and mind and takes over one’s life.
Symptoms that present themselves in people affected by God Disease are the following:
- Having complete and utter disregard for God, religion and all it stands for
- Denouncing teachings and teachers of the Church
- Burning bibles
- In extreme cases of God disease, women will flout all kinds of norms in society
In the case of Miriam, 22, from Camberwell in Melbourne’s East, she was afflicted by one of the most serious cases of God Disease ever seen.
Having first exhibited the initial symptoms that included a covert operation to find as many bibles in Camberwell and make a bonfire of them, she was compelled to travel to Africa on her own by ship and work in the kitchens for the crew of sailors.
She allowed herself to be regularly serviced by the seamen.
Upon arrival in Africa she lived with a local tribe and befriended a lioness. The lioness gave birth to a small cub that she adopted and took back with her to Camberwell in a small wooden box. Back on the ship, she worked again in the kitchen which allowed her to feed the cub with left overs from the sailors meals
Upon return to Camberwell, every day she would walk the cub up Burke Road. Flaunting the rules of society, she dressed in risqué clothing that bared her shoulders and included a ridiculous hat with a fluffy pom-pom on the top.
Each day she would stop at her favourite teahouse that was run by an eccentric old couple, the female of which was also afflicted with God Disease. As such, she was allowed to take her tea and sandwiches inside while the cub (named Roger), would sit on her lap, occasionally sharing some of the lunch with Miriam as she stroked his silky coat.
One day, already exposing her décolletage, and in the middle of her daily sojourn to the teahouse. Miriam also exposed her ankle and, shockingly, her knee and under petticoat.
No one could believe such an event. Men gaped and women gasped in horror.
In response, Miriam simply fed Roger the last of her chicken and shallot sandwich and powdered her nose.
Because of that, one woman, Betsy Pie, a staunch and devout Christian, took it upon herself to let the local Minister of the local church know exactly what was going on well with in distance of their Parish.
And so, the bespectacled, gangly Minister took himself after Church one day to the teahouse to see what all the fuss was about.
Upon seeing Miriam’s milky white skin and the way she nonchalantly and elegantly chewed her points of sandwich, he was quite stirred.
And because of that, he stood still in the street, mesmerised also by the colourful and elaborate hat upon her auburn curls.
Betsy Pie had ensured she would be there to witness what would almost certainly be an attempted exorcism of the mad woman. She had bought with her a throng of fellow lady parishioners.
The gaggle of ladies stared and stared at the Minister as he gazed and gazed at Miram until finally, Roger let out a meow-like growl.
The Minister came to his senses as if out of a stupor.
The women shrieked in horror.
Miriam simply paid for her luncheon, made her goodbyes to the owners, put Roger on his lead and walked out back onto Burke Road in the sunshine.
Twitter: @_amanda_jane