S#67: Make someone’s day
Yet another friend had a birthday on the weekend, and a bunch of us went out to dinner. I managed to manipulate events to get almost all of them to come back to my house bearing ice cream, chocolate, and assorted candy. We made our own fantastic creations with (among other things) mint chocolate sprinkles, maltesers, honey nougat chocolate, mini M&Ms, flake bars, and so on. It amused me how pathetically grateful the birthday boy was, considering I’d been scheming for hours for some way to make dinner segue into a house party.
People eating:
(If you look closely, you can see: Someone dangling from an anchor; a camel; one extra set of hands; two clocks; just one person who actually noticed the camera.)
And this is what I ate (you can tell I’m a little stressed about two upcoming writing conferences – the ice cream is the healthy part):
Coming soon: Some stuff, probably. Not really sure what, to be perfectly honest. More flickr.com pictures, in any case:
Incidentally, if you’re wondering what the “S” stands for in the title, it’s Steff Metal – http://steffmetal.com/101-ways-to-cheer-yourself-up/
#177: The Piper
A scottish-born friend of ours celebrated his 50th today, so his friends were all summoned to celebrate – as Scottishly as we knew how.*
One five-year old took a look at him and said, “Hey look! He’s wearing the same dress I am!”
Awesome.
Due to a tug-of-war gone horribly right, I also finally saw what a Scotsman wears under his kilt.**
I was also pleased to observe an elderly lady who’d obviously been as stumped for Scottish-ish gear as I was. She’d found a tartan pencil case and wore it proudly on her head. Another lovely old lady brought out a set of electric bagpipes and the sunny Canberra day suddenly sounded like rain-swept plains on an isolated headland.
And then, during afternoon tea. . . the piéce de resistance. We heard the drone and pipes approaching from outside, and paused with half-eaten shortbread en route to our mouths. There’s no mystery when you hear the skirl of pipes – no wondering, “Is that what I think it is?” Short of the yowling of angry cats, there’s no sound like it.
And in came the piper, in full regalia (including a beard that he assured his many groupies was once red). At the doorway we all gasped in wonder and delight. As he entered the room the sheer unmistakeable power of bagpipe volume FILLED THE ROOM.
One forgets how loud pipes can be.
Not sure how.
All up, a freaking brilliant afternoon.
And, as usual, here’s a nice bit of forest to feast your eyes on (thanks to Flickr.com):
*ie, not very.
**shorts.
S#31: Join the Library
Mmm. . . booooooooks. . .
Flushed with the success of the “Reaching the World” YA writers’ conference in Sydney on July 3 (and wide-eyed with the new data that only 1 in 10,ooo books gets published via the “look up publishers and send the book to The Editor” method), I’ve decided to go to two more conferences. . . starting this month.
First, the Melbourne Writers’ Festival (plus I get to help launch the 30th issue of Going Down Swinging, since I’m in it – as Felicity Bloomfield, since the story is horror). This is a ten-day con of epic proportions – Joss Whedon and Neil Gaiman will be there (no use to my career, much as I admire them) plus many publishers and writers.
Second, the CYA Later, Alligator! conference in Brisbane. CYA stands for Children and Young Adult writers. I’ll be pitching one of my books directly to a lady from Publisher J. I’m in a fabulous mood right now because I figured out a way to make it much better at around 2am this morning. CJ agreed that my idea was brilliant.*
There are literally hundreds of writers and publishers, and I’ll be listening to or connecting with about fifty. Thus I’m in the process of scouring the internet for the most relevant books and [this is the bit where I get to the point] borrowing terrifyingly high piles of novels from the library.
So far, I have fifteen books to read – and I’m barely started. The last two cons I went to (in July, and the Sydney Freecon last November) introduced me to exactly one faint-with-exhilaration-because-they’re-so-good author each – Pamela Freeman, and Sandy Fussell.
Later this month, I’ll report back and tell you who is the pick of the bunch this time. So far I’ve read one book, and it was hideously bad (something which I won’t mention to the author when I go to her book launch).
Play along at home: borrow Pamela Freeman’s adult trilogy (the first is “Blood Ties”) and/or Sandy Fussell’s “Samurai Kids” books from your local library. (I’ve decided that Sandy Fussell’s series sets the standard for children’s books worldwide, and have read the first book three times so far, studying how she puts it together and wins readers over. The second and third are also exquisite, but I’m saving the rest for later.)
You’re welcome.
In other news, I went to a new doctor yesterday (one closer to where I live). To cut a long story short, I had food poisoning in Indonesia in January, and I still haven’t 100% recovered. I’ve been wondering if I’ve developed some of the food intolerances (including fructose malapsorption – ie allergic to several fruits) that are just, like, so hot right now. She reckoned I have – temporarily (which answers my question AND means I can eat whatever, comfy in the thought that I’ll continue to improve over the next few years). Among other things, she said I should go lactose and gluten-free for at least three months – just in case they’re the triggers. In less crazy news, she said I should take inner health plus. So I went and bought some (despite the fact it costs almost a dollar per pill – yikes). Inner health plus is a probiotic – each pill contains literally millions of tiny little guys to help me digest stuff. Hopefully all those microorganisms will do their thing so well that at the NEXT writing conference, no-one will ask me when I’m expecting.
The human body is SO GROSS. Don’t you love it?
I’m also finding, lately, that I often forget it’s Winter. I just walk around, reasonably comfortable, enjoying the sunshine and living life. It seems mad, but apparently “Love your Fear” actually worked. Thank you Steff Metal for the suggestion!
And here’s today’s pretty pretty Flickr.com pics (two for the price of one, you lucky sods):
*Or at least, he mumbled something that sounded like, “Brilliant.”
Problem solved – with horrible death
I had one of those days yesterday when I couldn’t look at the book I’m working on. Some would call it writers’ block. I’m lucky, because there was a simple reason: I didn’t want to make the dad bad. It messed up a lot of things (particularly since the whole island is so small they’d all notice Dance’s injuries and be culpable), and (since no-one’s ever physically abused me or anyone I love) didn’t resonate at all.
At 2am this morning, though, I found the solution. Dance is a twin – an identical twin, and her sister is dead. Naturally, being dead, Dance’s sister is perfect in every way, and gives Dance a foil she can never live up to.
I often think of my own sister as a little like who I would have been if I wasn’t so messed up – exaggerate that feeling (by making the sister the same age, and dead), and I have something I can use to drive Dance to feel and do everything she does in the book – AND resolve that feeling in the end, as her dad stands by her side against the pirates.
Voila! When in doubt, kill someone.
#176: Eat cookie dough
Mmm
Louise’s Lardylicious Choc Chip Cookies:
Mix:
3/4ths c white sugar
3/4ths c brown sugar
1 egg
1/2 c oil
1 cup butter (softened or melted)
1 tsp vanilla esence
Mix and add to above:
3 c flour
3 c cornflakes
1 tsp cream of tartar
1 tsp baking soda
Cook at 175 degrees celsius for about 12 minutes (or not).
Due to technical problems, there’s no photo today. Sorry! Go search for “rainforest” on Flickr.com if you want to see something pretty.
“Peace Hostage” story so far
1
The boar was so close I could taste the stench of it. I pressed the butt of my spear into the rocky ground and shouted a challenge.
The bleeding pig squealed and charged right onto my spear. It hit the crossguard and broke it off. I held on, staring at my death.
Tem covered my body with his. He screamed as the pig gored him. I crawled away, pulling him with me. Dad cheered as the pig bled out.
2
Dad and I lay bloated with pork at the door of our hut. Dad said, “That boy, he’s too stupid for you. Getting gored like that.” I blushed.
Dad turned serious: “Truly, Sawi, it can’t be. Tem returns to his tribe next month, or those Yah will kill us – like they killed your Ma.”
“I know, Dad.” He laid his hand on mine: “If Tem doesn’t heal up and go home, your brother’s life is forfeit – and all our lives too.”
3
“Chief!” screamed my best friend, Iv. Dad stood. Iv wept: “Your son! The Yah have murdered their peace hostage. We are at war.”
Dad ordered Tem and I inside. We sat silently, holding hands. Tem kissed each of my fingers. I said, “My tribe must kill you now.” “I know.”
Tem said, “Everyone dies. My life switched with your brother’s life bought our tribes ten years of peace. That is enough for me. I am full.”
4 – do day 5 very late tonight!
Dad stood guard while the village waited for him to decide the blooding hour, and who would make the kill. Tem and I didn’t leave the house.
“Sawi? Will it be your Dad who kills me?” “Don’t speak like-– why are you smiling?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me awkwardly, so I fell.
Tem kissed me, knocking our noses together. I gasped. “You fiend! My Dad’ll kill you—oh!” We dissolved into helpless giggles.
5
Dad saw me staring into our fire and said, “I will stop the blooding as long as I can.” I looked into his eyes, and bowed my head.
“Tem! Wake up!” He blinked at me. I said, “I’m going to go into Yah land – and save you.” He said, “Don’t get killed.” “Same to you.”
Tem said, “My Mum loves me. She’ll help you.” I held his hand, and kissed him carefully. We didn’t knock noses. I crept away into the night.
6
I found the ruined stream where my mother’s bones still lay, with many others from both tribes. The Yah bank was black with shadows.
No-one stabbed me as I crossed the naked grass. I stepped into the freezing water, dislodging old skulls so they rolled on down the river.
Monsters versus pirates
Monsters versus pirates is the plot hook for my book. It’s a good plot hook. But my main character, Dance (though smart, very physically coordinated, rebellious, and a little insecure) isn’t interesting enough to cut it. Even though she saves her island twice.
I’ve thought about it, and realised that one of the options I have is to change her dad into a baddie. I don’t like it – but he IS featured in the opening scene, and there’s already tension between them I can exploit. Plus he’s quite heroic towards the end, so I can make him turn good during the story.
I think I’ll make him a hitter. That ruins the mum’s character too (although they are stuck on a tiny island, so it’s not like there’s anywhere to run to). Urg. Hopefully I can think of something else – something better.
#140: Antique Shop in a Small Town
CJ and I went exploring in “Grandpa’s Shed” in the small town of Fitzroy Falls (yes, the one with the waterfall).
They’re really serious about their stuff. And there’s a lot of it.
Because having thirty rusty saws isn’t suspicious at all.
Remember those things?
Tins. Who doesn’t feel strangely compelled to buy dozens of tins? Tins are cool.
I have a feeling I should recognise the typing machine above.
Giant bellows.
And. . . a pulpit. I confess a part of me so wants to buy it. And the typing machine. And at least six tins. And the piano thingy.
But never, never the safari hats.
Here’s today’s Flickr.com picture:
Three-Ingredient Thursday: Christmas Salad
Fine! I confess. There are four ingredients. I snuck in the sesame oil on the basis that although it isn’t USED as a cooking fat (which’d make it a freebie ingredient according to the rules), it COULD be.
This is why I’m not a master criminal.*
The ingredients are baby roma tomatoes, baby spinach leaves**, and fetta. With sesame oil.
How to play along at home:
Wash/wash and cut/cut/mix in. Note: do not wash the sesame oil or fetta.
Now, time for further confessions.
Due to the fact that I cordially dislike baby spinach and tomatoes, and I don’t think fetta is enough protein to satisfy a human, I added more ingredients – specifically mint (huge taste difference), mushrooms (which I actually do like, though they’re not quite as bold in colour as the first three) and cold ham. My justification for today is that you can eat the Christmas salad if you like, OR you can use it as a base, and add whatever else suits you (apple and peanuts are particularly good). It’s called the Christmas salad because of the colours.
What I actually ate (and enjoyed):
This is the only salad I don’t refuse to eat. I’m hopefully getting tested this week to find our if I am ALLERGIC TO FRUIT AND VEGETABLES. Seriously. There’s a condition called fructose malabsorption which would explain why apples make me feel sick. Which is ironic, since in my case “an apple a day keeps the doctor in pay.”
And here’s another pretty pretty picture from Flickr.com:
Yes, I know, it’s not Papua.
*not yet
**mmm, tasty babies.
S#52: Have some delicious delivered to your house
Food is good. Food at home is better. Food at home with no dishes is one of the great pleasures of the modern age. I had Chinese this time.
Mmm. . . duck and mushroom sauce. . .
Here’s a link to a short story I wrote called “The Misbehaving Mountain”:
http://www.onthepremises.com/issue_05/story_05_4.html
And here’s a link to my other blog, where I talked about the four greatest modern books for children (trying to figure out how the writers made their work so awesome in order to improve mine):
https://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com/2010/08/03/the-first-ten-pages/
In other news this month’s twittertale, “Peace Hostage” is set in a real historical setting – warring tribes in West Papua (now called Irian Jaya). Papua has literally hundreds of distinct languages, so some Christians have decided to live with various tribes (assuming the tribes want them there), learn their language, and write an alphabet for it. They then teach people to read and write, and they translate the New Testament into that language.
One particular translator, Don Richardson, believes that every culture in the world has redemption analogies – echoes of the Jesus story – hidden inside it. He worked with the Sawi tribe, who valued deceit as a virtue, and was horrified when he translated the bit in the Bible about Judas betraying Jesus through friendship. All the Sawi cheered at such a great act of deception. He tried to talk to them about the idea that deception ruins friendships, but they were unimpressed.
In the meantime, the Sawi fought with other tribes in the area, and the violence was worsening. Don asked the chief repeatedly to stop the fighting, but the chief said Don didn’t know what he was asking.
At last it became so risky that Don and his family decided to leave the area. The chief stopped him, and said he would stop the fighting. That was when Don learned the price of peace – the chief’s son.
Each of the chiefs involved gave up their first-born son into the other chief’s custody. This was the only way to ensure peace. The child was called the peace child. If the peace was broken, the child would be killed.
As a Christian, Don immediately saw the peace child as an analogy for Jesus – God’s son coming to live with us, so we could be reconciled to God. When he said as much to the Sawi, they were shocked.
They understood exactly what such a sacrifice meant – and the absolute worst thing a person could do as a Sawi person was to deceive or kill a peace child.
The Sawi tribe is now 70% Christian.
I first heard that story when I was ten years old.
This picture is from Flickr.com
Felicity Banks 