All the time, I am asked where I get my ideas, or some variation thereof. Like, why did you write this story? How did you come up with the plotline? Is this based on your life?
To be entirely honest with you, I steal all of my ideas from daytime soaps. I write down a list of plot points like this while I am lounging and watching Days of Our Lives or whatever else: 1. Protagonist marries second-cousin twice-removed, 2. Secondary character is killed in mysterious car accident, actually kidnapped by satanic cult, 3. Alien pregnancy, 4. Antagonist gets stabbed by family matriach! Etc, etc. And then I get a twenty-sided die, and I roll. And that's how I come up with my plots. It's a bit melodramatic, but it works. Like sands through the hourglass, you guys.*
The real answer is ideas are very easy to come by. Every book I read and movie and TV show I watch and conversation I have or overhear and place I go and person I meet and song I listen to are filled with potential ideas. My thought process for coming up with a story is pretty much: Wouldn't it be cool if I wrote about this kind of person or this kind of event... and then Ah! And then this very dramatic thing happens... As a result I end up with stories that are tricky to write (My original book #2 was about a murder, but that will never see the light of day again. The new book #2 is about a bank robbery, because I thought how cool would it be if I wrote a book about a girl who takes her ex-boyfriend hostage in a bank robbery?). And then as I am writing, because I don't plan ahead a whole lot, I can incorporate every other idea that comes along. A chain of tiny ideas that become a novel.
Ideas are not the difficult part of the writing process, and the vast majority of the time, it doesn't matter if other people have written a similar idea already - one idea is just a tiny little seed of a story, and every writer will have different interpretation.
What I am not asked as often is why I write, which I think is a much better question. An idea will only take you so far. The reasons behind wanting to write are much more powerful, and what will get a book written and edited and maybe published and maybe give you a career (or life-long passion). Maybe the reason is because you really want to write that particular idea, but that's probably not all.
There are a lot of reasons I want to write fiction, instead of, say, painting, or becoming a carpenter, and they tend to shift and change all of the time, though a few remain consistent. Paintings and furniture have never really excited me as much as novels have, and every time I read a brilliant book I am struck by the feeling of wanting to replicate that in my own way, and create something that other people will enjoy.
And then there's a hundred more: I want to figure out how other people view the world. I want to make sense of the world for myself. I want to invent and create and this is the best way I know how. I want to have fun. (I forget about that one a lot.) I want to inspire other people. I want to make my family proud. I want to write really awesome books that make people laugh and cry and email me (seriously. Emails from people who love my book are the best thing).
There are other trickier things, like: I want to write something that outlives me. I want to be important. I don't want to be forgotten. I want these things, but they're entirely out of my control - I'm much better off writing because I want to write a story I would love to read, which is what motivated me in the first place. Sometimes I write because I want to make a living out of it. But that intimidates me a bit. Almost as much as wanting to write so as not to be forgotten.
I think if you're struggling as a writer, it's very useful to remind yourself of the many reasons why you want to write, the things you want to achieve. I don't think they should be wholly focused on financial gain, because money is a tricky thing to earn as a writer, and complicates the whole creative expression thing a lot. Another very handy thing to remind yourself of is this: Even if a thousand other people have the same idea as you (say, like my bank robbing girl book), your version of that story will be entirely unique, and yours alone. If the fact that no one else can write quite like you do isn't motivation to write, I don't know what will. Seriously, don't give up writing. If you are not already a writer of le fiction, I encourage you to take it up. It's difficult and great and sometimes terrible, but in the end it's worthwhile. You can create entire universes! It's brilliant.
*I don't actually watch Days of Our Lives. My true passion is Dr. Phil.
I want to know, writers: Why do you write?
And what do you say when people ask where you get your ideas?
Quotes for Writers, part one
Sunday, February 26, 2012
"I want to do something splendid… Something heroic or wonderful that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead… I think I shall write books."
- Louisa May Alcott
"The walls of books around him, dense with the past, formed a kind of insulation against the present world and its disasters."
- Ross MacDonald
"Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out the window."
- William Faulkner
"If you don’t think there is magic in writing, you probably won’t write anything magical."
Terry Brooks
"As a writer, you should have a sticky soul; the act of continually taking things in should be as much a part of you as your hair color."
- Elizabeth Berg
"When asked, ‘How do you write?’
I invariably answer, ‘one word at a time.’"
- Stephen King
"What writing practice, like Zen practice does, is bring you back to the natural state of mind…The mind is raw, full of energy, alive and hungry. It does not think in the way we were brought up to think-well-mannered, congenial."
– Natalie Goldberg
"There are thousands of thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen and writes."
- William Makepeace Thackeray
Originally posted here two years ago. Photos collected from Tumblr and We Heart It, sources since lost (if you know any original sources, let me know).
- Louisa May Alcott
"The walls of books around him, dense with the past, formed a kind of insulation against the present world and its disasters."
- Ross MacDonald
"Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it is good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out the window."
- William Faulkner
"If you don’t think there is magic in writing, you probably won’t write anything magical."
Terry Brooks
"As a writer, you should have a sticky soul; the act of continually taking things in should be as much a part of you as your hair color."
- Elizabeth Berg
"When asked, ‘How do you write?’
I invariably answer, ‘one word at a time.’"
- Stephen King
"What writing practice, like Zen practice does, is bring you back to the natural state of mind…The mind is raw, full of energy, alive and hungry. It does not think in the way we were brought up to think-well-mannered, congenial."
– Natalie Goldberg
"There are thousands of thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen and writes."
- William Makepeace Thackeray
Originally posted here two years ago. Photos collected from Tumblr and We Heart It, sources since lost (if you know any original sources, let me know).
Things people have googled that have led them to my blog
Friday, February 24, 2012
People google a lot of strange things. And sometimes they end up here, probably very disappointed. Here are some of the odd things that have appeared in the fun little 'Search Keywords' feature in the past few days, when I have been procrastinating by looking at stats.
- 'nudist teen' - I don't think I ever used the word 'nudist' on this blog, so I don't know how that led here. I am a big fan of clothing.
- 'girls never understand what a boy wants to say' - Those dastardly girls!
- 'glamour senior citizen couples' - I'm not sure about the 'glamour' or 'couples', but the senior citizen thing is basically my greatest post ever.
- 'how do you love someone who is incapable of being happy' - Some of these really depress me. I googled this to see what page this blog comes up on, but then I got sidetracked on 'Sociopath World' and that was interesting. There is someone who is a psychopath in the manuscript I'm rewriting at the moment but someone just being crazy for no reason isn't really excusable in a novel. I'm working on motivation and so forth. I also want to open an amusement park called Sociopath World now.
- 'how to get laid as a teenager' - I don't know? I think whoever clicked over here was disappointed.
- 'cake for writer' - The gloriousness that is this.
- 'teen girl truths' - Truth: People are weird.
- 'do you know me' - No, I don't. Who are you asking? The internet itself? It doesn't have a consciousness, FYI.
- 'relationships are stupid' - This post is the third link when you google 'relationships are stupid', which they apparently do quite frequently. I maintain my stance on the issue.
- 'lazy people' - Of course, when people search for this, I come up. Google doesn't think very highly of me.
If you have a blog, what kind of weird things have people googled that have led them there? (And how does this mysterious Google machine work?)
Thyla by Kate Gordon
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Here's the blurb:
THYLA is a story of Tasmania: of darkness, of convicts, of devils and tigers, and of promises that stay true through the centuries. It is the story of what happened to Cat, and what Tessa really is."My name is Tessa. I am strong. I am brave. I do not cry. These are the only things I know for certain.I was found in the bush, ragged as a wild thing. I have no memory – not even of how I got the long, striping slashes across my back. They make me frightened of what I might remember.
The policewoman, Connolly, found me a place in a boarding school and told me about her daughter, Cat, who went missing in the bush.
I think there is a connection between Cat, me, and the strange things going on at this school. If I can learn Cat’s story, I might discover my own – and stop it happening again."
What I loved about Thyla: Tessa is a wonderful and innocent and inadvertently hilarious protagonist (she is terribly old-fashioned, for reasons which quickly become clear, despite the novel being set in the present. Her experience of eating waffles for the first time was very funny). The historical aspects are incorporated brilliantly, and the setting (the creepy boarding school, Tasmanian wilderness) is atmospheric and tense and all of those other good things in a mystery. I loved the supporting characters that were the 'outcasts' of the school, and the way in which it was written - using second person, as though written from Tessa to the police officer that rescued her, Connolly (who is also the mother of the missing girl, Cat).
What I didn't love about Thyla: My issues with this novel are the same as my issues with paranormal series generally, and it's difficult to list them without spoiling it for you - towards the end, the mystery is explained, and the novel shifts genre entirely. A lot of information is packed in near the end, and despite the Tasmanian flavour of the paranormal aspect (I am very awkwardly avoiding a spoiler), it becomes a little generic paranormal-romance - battle scene, infodump (I do love the backstory, but it all comes at once), requisite romance. It's clear it's an introduction to the series, setting up the world and the players within it.
I love the mix of historical and paranormal, and Thyla is certainly unique from other paranormal romances, and beautifully written. I would definitely recommend it to fans of the genre. I'm interested to read the sequels and see how the paranormal aspects are handled from here on in.
Published April 2011 by Random House Australia. It's on Goodreads.
I love the mix of historical and paranormal, and Thyla is certainly unique from other paranormal romances, and beautifully written. I would definitely recommend it to fans of the genre. I'm interested to read the sequels and see how the paranormal aspects are handled from here on in.
Published April 2011 by Random House Australia. It's on Goodreads.
On writing characters of the opposite gender
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
There are certain writers that only write from the perspective of characters the same gender as them, and say that they don't think they'd be able to write from the perspective of characters of the opposite gender because females/males are so dramatically different from them.
This baffles me.
Because I have no idea what is going on in anyone's head except my own. Trying to write stories that reflect how other people view the world is my main occupation. That and taking naps. It seems very terribly limiting if I'm just going to write teenage girl characters. I can't extrapolate my thoughts to all girls, or even all Caucasian novel-writing eighteen-year-old girls living in Australian suburbs, because I don't know how they think. By connecting with other humans I hope I'll be able to understand them and find out how they view the world, and I figure I have just as good odds of understanding someone who is eighty-five-years-old and male and has dramatically different life experiences to me as I do someone who is pretty similar to myself.
In my mind (which you have no idea what is going on in, but I assure you it's all very above board), one of the most important things is connecting with and accepting other people. Of course, in one life you can only truly know what it's like to be male or female (excepting those who are transgender, but that involves a whole host of other experiences and identities), but there's a heck of a lot more to a person than that, and what it means to be female and the effects that has on one's life and thoughts varies from one woman to the next. The implication that one can only hope to see the world from your own perspective or one very similar is pretty sad. Saying 'I can't write male characters because I am a girl' totally discounts people who identify outside the gender binary or are transgendered or intersex.
I can understand feeling unable to write from the perspective of someone of a very different culture or religion, or someone with very different life experiences (I think a character of another gender that has a very similar background to yourself would be easier to write than someone of the same gender but a very different background) but I think through drawing on the experience of others and research, you can write convincingly about a protagonist that's nothing like you. (This is more about what you want to write about, though - often with people's first novels, they want to write about things close to their own lives.)
(It also confuses me when people say things like 'I just don't understand [women/men/teenagers].' I don't understand anybody. This is not based on what they do or their gender or anything else. I think it's because they're human beings with their own thoughts and feelings and motivations that are usually pretty different from mine.)
Also, people always think the protagonist in my novel that is the same gender as me is me. Which she isn't. Parts of myself end up in characters, but never enough for them to be based on me. Mainly because I would be a really boring character. (I'm more like the male protagonist, anyway. I'd deal with his problems a lot better, though.)
In summarising: you're all human and crazy and great and I want to know what's going on in your heads and write about it. I don't understand ladies more than I understand anybody else. (I find gender is usually fairly unimportant. Whether someone's nice or not is, however, of supreme importance. So important I had to italicise.)
Thoughts on writing characters that are dramatically different to yourself, gender or otherwise? Is it harder than writing a character of your own gender?
This baffles me.
Because I have no idea what is going on in anyone's head except my own. Trying to write stories that reflect how other people view the world is my main occupation. That and taking naps. It seems very terribly limiting if I'm just going to write teenage girl characters. I can't extrapolate my thoughts to all girls, or even all Caucasian novel-writing eighteen-year-old girls living in Australian suburbs, because I don't know how they think. By connecting with other humans I hope I'll be able to understand them and find out how they view the world, and I figure I have just as good odds of understanding someone who is eighty-five-years-old and male and has dramatically different life experiences to me as I do someone who is pretty similar to myself.
In my mind (which you have no idea what is going on in, but I assure you it's all very above board), one of the most important things is connecting with and accepting other people. Of course, in one life you can only truly know what it's like to be male or female (excepting those who are transgender, but that involves a whole host of other experiences and identities), but there's a heck of a lot more to a person than that, and what it means to be female and the effects that has on one's life and thoughts varies from one woman to the next. The implication that one can only hope to see the world from your own perspective or one very similar is pretty sad. Saying 'I can't write male characters because I am a girl' totally discounts people who identify outside the gender binary or are transgendered or intersex.
I can understand feeling unable to write from the perspective of someone of a very different culture or religion, or someone with very different life experiences (I think a character of another gender that has a very similar background to yourself would be easier to write than someone of the same gender but a very different background) but I think through drawing on the experience of others and research, you can write convincingly about a protagonist that's nothing like you. (This is more about what you want to write about, though - often with people's first novels, they want to write about things close to their own lives.)
(It also confuses me when people say things like 'I just don't understand [women/men/teenagers].' I don't understand anybody. This is not based on what they do or their gender or anything else. I think it's because they're human beings with their own thoughts and feelings and motivations that are usually pretty different from mine.)
Also, people always think the protagonist in my novel that is the same gender as me is me. Which she isn't. Parts of myself end up in characters, but never enough for them to be based on me. Mainly because I would be a really boring character. (I'm more like the male protagonist, anyway. I'd deal with his problems a lot better, though.)
In summarising: you're all human and crazy and great and I want to know what's going on in your heads and write about it. I don't understand ladies more than I understand anybody else. (I find gender is usually fairly unimportant. Whether someone's nice or not is, however, of supreme importance. So important I had to italicise.)
Thoughts on writing characters that are dramatically different to yourself, gender or otherwise? Is it harder than writing a character of your own gender?
How to deal with criticism
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Step One: Lie on the floor like a starfish, staring at the ceiling. (Floating in a pool or other body of water works, too, if you can find one. But maybe not the ocean, because if you are floating in the water and thinking it is entirely probable you will a. be eaten by a shark, or b. float out to sea. Be sensible about this.)
Step Two: Think about the fact that it is entirely possible that this is not reality, and we are just in the Matrix, or a coma dream (it's not my coma dream, by the way. I would never have invented Crocs), or an alien child's petri dish. Your world is probably just a science experiment! Someone doesn't like you or your work? It doesn't matter! Nothing does! We are on a spinning rock in the middle of an unpredictable universe!
Step Three: If this doesn't work, remind yourself that even the people you idolise are criticised, too. Probably a lot more than you are. Read the negative reviews of a book you love. I find this a lot more enraging than my own negative reviews.
Step Four: After you've had a while to calm down and think about things rationally, see if there is something constructive to be found in the criticism. If someone is just being mean, you probably should forget about it. Not everyone will love you and recognise your genius, and trying to tell them otherwise will not make any difference. If someone is criticising your work, remember that it is not a direct criticism of you (sometimes people are bitchy and will direct criticism at you. These people are not very nice, and you should ignore them). You have to have at least some distance from your writing to be able to see its flaws and improve it, and to deal with people critiquing it.
Step Five: Don't put anything in writing. Don't argue with people on the internet. You can't change the mind of your detractors, and responding makes the situation worse. If you remain very upset (which is inevitable if it's criticism on something like a book you've worked on for a long time and put a lot of effort and love into), talk to someone about it. Talk to the people who believe in you and encourage you and talk you up. And tell your friends not to respond to negative reviews either. It reflects badly on everybody, and you don't gain anything from it.
Step Six: In the words of Prime Minister Gillard, move forwards. Continue to be awesome and create the great work that you create, and stop dwelling on or fighting with or trying to influence the opinions of the people who don't like what you're doing. You can stop being a starfish now. We probably aren't in a coma dream, and it's entirely possible we only live once, so wasting time think about the fact that someone in the world doesn't like you or your work is a bit silly, really. There are a lot of people in the world. And plenty of them probably like what you're doing. Be nice and try your best and know that you can't really do a whole lot to influence other people.
If you have any tips for dealing with criticism, feel free to share them!
Step Six: In the words of Prime Minister Gillard, move forwards. Continue to be awesome and create the great work that you create, and stop dwelling on or fighting with or trying to influence the opinions of the people who don't like what you're doing. You can stop being a starfish now. We probably aren't in a coma dream, and it's entirely possible we only live once, so wasting time think about the fact that someone in the world doesn't like you or your work is a bit silly, really. There are a lot of people in the world. And plenty of them probably like what you're doing. Be nice and try your best and know that you can't really do a whole lot to influence other people.
If you have any tips for dealing with criticism, feel free to share them!
Teaser Tuesday: Sunny at the end of the world
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
I have this terrible habit of always starting new stories when I am supposed to be working on something else. I figure, though, that I should at least write the scene or chapter down before the inspiration passes in case I someday run out of ideas and have to go back and work on all of my unfinished novels. (Though lack of ideas is never a problem. Time and making myself sit down and actually write are the problems, generally. It's hard to keep up momentum when the outside world has so much stuff to distract me.) I'm not good at just writing notes and then fleshing out scenes - I tend to come up with bits of dialogue, or a character, or something that requires I type out 2000 words. Getting some writing done is wonderful, but not when you are supposed to be writing something else.
This is a little bit from zombie novel that I've written a few thousand words of, and may or may not continue (I have only a vague idea of plot). There are no actual zombies in this section. I love zombie novels, and I want to write a zombie novel. Also, the more you look at the word zombie the stranger it seems. The narrator of this part is named Toby, and Toby is not really a very good zombie hunter, and it's quite unfortunate he's on his own with a baby during the apocalypse. There's another protagonist, named Sunny, who may or may not be zombified. It's like a zombie love story. It's like an awkward teenage romance with the end of the world as the setting. And a baby thrown in. It's really fantastic in my head. I hope you like this and you will tell me what you think.
--
Dear Ronnie,
What does one wear to the end of the world? You wore a yellow jumpsuit. A very versatile garment, the all-in-one. Put it on and bam! Ready to rock. I’m not sure why it hasn’t caught on with the older crowd. Such a shame everyone grows out of it. I wore a purple three-piece suit. Not at the start – at the start I was wearing artfully frayed jeans and a deliberately faded t-shirt and an unbuttoned flannie, standard party wear, but once I realised life as we know it was definitely for sure ending, and that I would probably soon be dead, I figure I needed to die in style. You and me, kid, we’re going out with a bang. But we’ll get to that.
There are a lot of things that need to be explained to you, Ronnie, some of which I don’t even know. A lot of which you won’t be able to understand until you’re older. I’d like to hope that this will all be over in a bit, and we’ll get your family back together, and we’ll go back to being neighbours with not a whole lot of interest in one another.
As it is, I’m kind of your guardian and protector. I know, I’d be let down, too.
I never really expected to become a father this young. I also hoped that perhaps if I were to become a father, I would actually, you know, get laid beforehand. I bet this is how the Virgin Mary felt. I’m the Virgin Toby.
Don’t tell anyone at school, though, because I’ve got a whole lot of elaborate lies going on involving cavorting with various girls who live interstate. I have fake Facebook profiles and everything. It’s very involved, fabricating an exciting love life when you have nothing going on.
Though really I am never be going back to school, so who cares? I doubt zombies mind whether or not girls are interested in me. Zombies want me, I bet. And for my brains, too. Apparently the average age at which people lose their virginity is sixteen and I’m already seventeen, so I think the ship has sailed for me. Especially considering the girl I’m interested in is now a bonafide flesh-eater.
You’ll have to forgive me, Ronnie. I’m terrible with children. This is deeply inappropriate. I won’t let you read this letter till you’re at least sixteen. I’ll tell you how this whole shebang started, first up, and how you and I came to be the Dynamic Duo, fighting zombies, taking names. Though really mostly you cry and I cower.
A baby and a scared teenage boy. We’re probably not going to save the world.
--
This is the story of how we met: I mean, properly.
I heard, across the hall, you crying. I didn’t know it was you, yet, didn’t know your name. I’d seen you a few times before, nodded politely to your parents when we’d run into each other in the hall when I was on my way to school. I didn’t know if you were a boy or a girl, and, to be entirely honest which I figure I might as well be now, it’s not as if I were actually interested in small children. Sorry. So I was standing in my own doorway listening, thinking about zombie babies and the possibility of it being a trap and the idea of a baby being eaten alive and the idea of me being eaten alive and where your parents were. Your twenty-something mum with her hair always in a tight bun, and your older dad with a perpetually crinkled shirt. They mustn’t have had an iron.
Ironing. Christ, who wasted good life hours ironing? Not your parents. My mother, sometimes. Before a date with that boring used-to-be-a-babe accountant.
Your front door was ajar and I ran across the hall and my heart felt as if it were in my throat. Inside, your apartment is a flipped version of mine, except yours is decorated with great consistency. Your parents did a nice job. White carpet and tiles and black countertops and chairs and a lounge suite – that lounge suite looked expensive, it probably took a whole herd of cows to make – and a glass table. Tasteful modern prints in black and white adorned the walls at regular intervals. In my apartment, there is a hodge-podge of different styles and colours, and seven different chairs, and trinkets adorning every surface. In your apartment, with its pristine carpet, I was tempted to kick off my shoes and leave them respectfully at the door, but I did not. Sorry. I figured no one would mind. From there in the entrance hall, I could see the edge of the kitchen up ahead, on my right, and a smear of blood on the edge of a cupboard.
I did not go into the kitchen.
I’m just trying to write this down as it happened. You might never read this, Ronnie.
Instead, I turned left, towards the bedrooms and the screaming. ‘Veronica’ was spelt out in wooden pink letters on your bedroom door. In my apartment, this was my room. The door was open. You were loud. You were in a carrier, the kind you put in the car, which is on the floor. Like you were about to leave.
I have no idea how old you are, but knew you were somewhere between a newborn and a toddler. You don’t seem to be able to speak words. I pick you up, and I have no idea how to hold a baby but I am doing my best.
‘It’s okay, Ronnie,’ I said, patting you on the back and swaying you back and forth and speaking in as calm and soothing a voice as I could muster considering the circumstances. ‘Everything will be all right.’
This is a little bit from zombie novel that I've written a few thousand words of, and may or may not continue (I have only a vague idea of plot). There are no actual zombies in this section. I love zombie novels, and I want to write a zombie novel. Also, the more you look at the word zombie the stranger it seems. The narrator of this part is named Toby, and Toby is not really a very good zombie hunter, and it's quite unfortunate he's on his own with a baby during the apocalypse. There's another protagonist, named Sunny, who may or may not be zombified. It's like a zombie love story. It's like an awkward teenage romance with the end of the world as the setting. And a baby thrown in. It's really fantastic in my head. I hope you like this and you will tell me what you think.
--
Dear Ronnie,
What does one wear to the end of the world? You wore a yellow jumpsuit. A very versatile garment, the all-in-one. Put it on and bam! Ready to rock. I’m not sure why it hasn’t caught on with the older crowd. Such a shame everyone grows out of it. I wore a purple three-piece suit. Not at the start – at the start I was wearing artfully frayed jeans and a deliberately faded t-shirt and an unbuttoned flannie, standard party wear, but once I realised life as we know it was definitely for sure ending, and that I would probably soon be dead, I figure I needed to die in style. You and me, kid, we’re going out with a bang. But we’ll get to that.
There are a lot of things that need to be explained to you, Ronnie, some of which I don’t even know. A lot of which you won’t be able to understand until you’re older. I’d like to hope that this will all be over in a bit, and we’ll get your family back together, and we’ll go back to being neighbours with not a whole lot of interest in one another.
As it is, I’m kind of your guardian and protector. I know, I’d be let down, too.
I never really expected to become a father this young. I also hoped that perhaps if I were to become a father, I would actually, you know, get laid beforehand. I bet this is how the Virgin Mary felt. I’m the Virgin Toby.
Don’t tell anyone at school, though, because I’ve got a whole lot of elaborate lies going on involving cavorting with various girls who live interstate. I have fake Facebook profiles and everything. It’s very involved, fabricating an exciting love life when you have nothing going on.
Though really I am never be going back to school, so who cares? I doubt zombies mind whether or not girls are interested in me. Zombies want me, I bet. And for my brains, too. Apparently the average age at which people lose their virginity is sixteen and I’m already seventeen, so I think the ship has sailed for me. Especially considering the girl I’m interested in is now a bonafide flesh-eater.
You’ll have to forgive me, Ronnie. I’m terrible with children. This is deeply inappropriate. I won’t let you read this letter till you’re at least sixteen. I’ll tell you how this whole shebang started, first up, and how you and I came to be the Dynamic Duo, fighting zombies, taking names. Though really mostly you cry and I cower.
A baby and a scared teenage boy. We’re probably not going to save the world.
--
This is the story of how we met: I mean, properly.
I heard, across the hall, you crying. I didn’t know it was you, yet, didn’t know your name. I’d seen you a few times before, nodded politely to your parents when we’d run into each other in the hall when I was on my way to school. I didn’t know if you were a boy or a girl, and, to be entirely honest which I figure I might as well be now, it’s not as if I were actually interested in small children. Sorry. So I was standing in my own doorway listening, thinking about zombie babies and the possibility of it being a trap and the idea of a baby being eaten alive and the idea of me being eaten alive and where your parents were. Your twenty-something mum with her hair always in a tight bun, and your older dad with a perpetually crinkled shirt. They mustn’t have had an iron.
Ironing. Christ, who wasted good life hours ironing? Not your parents. My mother, sometimes. Before a date with that boring used-to-be-a-babe accountant.
Your front door was ajar and I ran across the hall and my heart felt as if it were in my throat. Inside, your apartment is a flipped version of mine, except yours is decorated with great consistency. Your parents did a nice job. White carpet and tiles and black countertops and chairs and a lounge suite – that lounge suite looked expensive, it probably took a whole herd of cows to make – and a glass table. Tasteful modern prints in black and white adorned the walls at regular intervals. In my apartment, there is a hodge-podge of different styles and colours, and seven different chairs, and trinkets adorning every surface. In your apartment, with its pristine carpet, I was tempted to kick off my shoes and leave them respectfully at the door, but I did not. Sorry. I figured no one would mind. From there in the entrance hall, I could see the edge of the kitchen up ahead, on my right, and a smear of blood on the edge of a cupboard.
I did not go into the kitchen.
I’m just trying to write this down as it happened. You might never read this, Ronnie.
Instead, I turned left, towards the bedrooms and the screaming. ‘Veronica’ was spelt out in wooden pink letters on your bedroom door. In my apartment, this was my room. The door was open. You were loud. You were in a carrier, the kind you put in the car, which is on the floor. Like you were about to leave.
I have no idea how old you are, but knew you were somewhere between a newborn and a toddler. You don’t seem to be able to speak words. I pick you up, and I have no idea how to hold a baby but I am doing my best.
‘It’s okay, Ronnie,’ I said, patting you on the back and swaying you back and forth and speaking in as calm and soothing a voice as I could muster considering the circumstances. ‘Everything will be all right.’
Stuff I have to share, like cakes with my book on them
Sunday, February 5, 2012
This birthday cake belongs to Sam Whitehouse - an amazingly lovely aspiring author - made by her nan, incorporating her favourite books... one of which is mine! It looks very yummy (it's marbled and pink). I met Sam at the 2010 Melbourne Writers Festival and have chatted to her online since, and it's pretty special for somebody I otherwise wouldn't know to have my book cover as part of their awesome 18th birthday cake, they enjoyed my book that much. Happy Birthday, Sam!
File this under cool and unexpected things that happen when you are an author. Seriously, this is adorable. More people should make cakes with my book on them! (Feel free to include lobsters and garden gnomes.) And send me pictures. And cake. (Valentine's Day is coming up, folks. A cake in the image of my book would be a wonderful gift. Well, it would be for me. Cake = love.)
I turned eighteen this week, too, and I'll write another post on adulthood soon, once I have my thoughts on the subject worked out. Eighteen-year-olds seemed very old and self-assured when I was younger, much more than I feel now. Perhaps cake is the answer. (Of course cake is the answer!)
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