And on the Second Day...

It's blinding how fast things can change.

It's remarkable how quickly you can adapt to that change

Our family are in the tenth day of self isolation due to the Husband developing symptoms of corona virus, just as the schools closed. Overnight I became the sole parent to our nine year old as she was tipped into the wormhole of homeschooling and not being allowed to leave the house for two weeks apart from daily exercise, far away from others.

I also became the sole carer for an adult who could do nothing apart from lock himself away to avoid infecting us. Our correspondence has been carried out via text messages and my knocking on his closed door to alert him of the meals I have left outside.

Ten days have felt like three weeks but what I have noticed is that being in this domestic situation is like having an newborn baby. I disinfect the house avidly for fear of corona germs. I cook, serve, clean, cook, serve, clean; ad infinitum. My hands resemble claws, so much have I washed them.

The patchwork nature of my days going from chore to chore to chore means I have found myself unable to think in an linear or in depth fashion,. Instead I have snatched thought syndrome; something I remember from the newborn days.

In this new world order, I have observed the following things over the past few days:

• Freedom is a state of mind. But it helps if you can feel daylight on your skin and outside air on your face, even if for only a few minutes a day. 

• I am not the technophobe I thought I was. It turns out that when technology is needed, I am a fast adapter. Zoom is the current raison d'etre of online connection and I became a Zoomer in seconds. 

• I've always thought that it is important to know how how to be alone. And to be comfortable being alone. This helps at times like these.

• I am innately, a frugal person.Turns out I was listening to Mum all those years ago.

• But it turns out, there is a LOT less that I can live without. 

• The morning sun in our back garden is glorious.

• Nature becomes everything during solitude

• My dreams are very, very vivid. It's as if I am living my real life while sleeping and on waking, return to a dystopian Groundhog Day. 

• Structure is important. There is no freedom with structure. I can't remember who said that but I have always agreed. 

• I'm not sure in the months to follow what I will miss more - free  movement through the world or physical contact with others. We'll see.

• Seeing a plane flying overhead right now is a marvel, like seeing the articulation of possibility made into a machine.

• The view from the rooftop outside my loft window at sunset remains untarnished

• I'm enjoying street noise because it has become rare. 

• Being a writer is perfect for travelling anywhere and everywhere,when you can't.

• People can be pretty damn marvellous. Or not.

But there is no time to think anymore. Things to get on with. People to see (on Zoom). 

Corona used to be a Beer

Since my last post, a mere few weeks ago, it seems that the Earth has stopped rotating anti-clockwise on its axis and decided to turn the other way. We seem to have entered a new reality usually found in dystopian paperbacks sold at airports or kitsch movies about the zombie apocalypse.

I am referring to the force know as COVID-19, the coronavirus which is rapidly altering the way we live, for now. The core of our social infrastructure, i.e. human interaction, is being unpicked in order to stem the potential deaths that this virus may cause and ease the burden it will inflict on the health services.

Here in London, all schools are now closed.* Citizens have been asked to work from home and avoid unnecessary travel. Restaurants, pubs, libraries, gyms, theaters; all places where people gather in dense numbers to interact have been instructed to close to try and 'flatten the curve,' to allow the NHS to try and cope with the anticipated influx of very ill people.

Squash that peak!

Some people I know feel this social cease and desist has happened too late and that we should have shut down several weeks ago. Others are slightly begrudging of the new social sanctions imposed but acknowledge that we all have to do our bit, whether we have symptoms or not.

In this new landscape, I thought it would be prudent to check on my folks in Australia who, being in their 70s fall into the high risk group should they catch corona and have been told to practice social distancing.

My folks and I are already socially distant, given that we live 10,000 miles apart. We are also very self reliant of one another and phone calls are now rare occurrences, replaced by a family Whatsapp chat. But if a global pandemic doesn't make you call your parents on the other side of the world, then I don't know what will.

Mum answered the phone and after a lecture about mask wearing and asking after the Grandchild, she moved onto the subject on everyone's lips.

Toilet Paper.

I noticed the early signs of the phenomena known as Panic Buying when I was getting ready to leave Australia in early March. Stocking up on Tim Tams one morning in the local IGA, I saw that the loo roll section was bare. When I returned to London days later, I got chatting to a staff member at Morrisons who showed me a photo on his phone of the loo roll aisle just one day before. Empty. He was restocking as we spoke and in light of what he'd said, I put down the 12 pack of bog roll I was going to buy and picked up the 24.

How many bums are they going to wipe?

It's a good thing I did for weeks later, toilet roll has become like gold dust. People are queuing before supermarkets open to try and get some. Corner shops are hoarding it behind their counters, selling it only to 'regular customers.' Psychologists are saying that this global fixation with toilet paper is symptomatic of trying to maintain control at a time where things are chaotic and unknown. A local taxi driver told me he thought it was because people were full of shit.

Freud would have a field day.

Toilet paper has never been in short supply at my Mum's house. She is Chinese and therefore she buys bulk. In a gentler time, pre-Corona, visitors to our family house would gaze at wonder at the Great Wall of Toilet Paper assembled and marvel how we would never, ever run out.

Well.

Due to our recent visit to Australia, my family and I had depleted Mum's toilet paper inventory.

We were down to ten rolls when you left, she reported,'But I didn't worry. All those crazy people. As if we couldn't get toilet paper.

But she couldn't.

I went to Coles. I went to Woolies. None at Aldi's either.

So what happened? I asked. After all, this is a woman who in the 1980s was captured on the evening news limboing under a half open store door so she could be one of the first inside during a Boxing Day sale to nab a microwave that was 50% off.

Your Father and I woke up early one morning and he said, 'lets go shopping now before breakfast' so we went to a nearby Coles. But we didn't know where the loo paper aisle was because we don't usually shop there. There were already about 30 people waiting outside when we arrived.

So what did you do?

I said to your Father, it's easy. As soon as the shop opens, just follow the crowd. They'll lead us to the toilet paper.

And did they?

When I saw where the crowd were headed, I slipped around and went the back way. Got there before most of them.

How much did you buy?

36 rolls. It'll do.

It's reassuring to me at a time where so much is changing in an unprecedented way, that Mum always come up trumps when faced with a challenge. Loo roll or locusts, she'll find a way to overcome.

 I hope in the months to follow, I've inherited her moxie. 



  *Most schools will remain open on a skeleton teaching crew for children of key workers

Highway to Hell

I was having brunch yesterday with an old friend in the Canvas cafe courtyard at Fremantle Arts Centre when she asked me:

Why don't you write your blog anymore?

A little oasis

I rambled on about focusing on my umpteenth rewrite and getting to the end of the draft (which is developing at the pace that if I were racing against a snail with my writing speed, the snail would win) and as I heard the words come out of my mouth, I thought:

This is bullshit. You could keep blogging if you wanted to. It's good practice for writing short pieces quickly and the Husband will be happy that you are ranting here again rather than at him.

But what could I write about?

Coincidentally later on that day, Highway to Hell, the much heralded finale of the 2020 Perth Festival was taking place. On the 40th anniversary of the death of Perth local and former AC/DC lead singer, Bon Scott, the event intended to be a homage to his legacy. A logistical feat, it involved closing down 10 km of a road called Canning Highway, a strip immortalised in the AC/DC song, Highway to Hell. A convoy of eight trucks, each containing live acts would motor the length of the highway from 4pm - 9.30pm, entertaining the crowds and stopping at three key points to play one full AC/DC song of their interpretation.

Truck trundling
Pic courtesy of the Twitterverse

Everyone in Perth knew about the event because for weeks leading up to it, event information had been splashed all around the city and you couldn't drive anywhere in the areas surrounding Canning Highway without seeing road signs stating:

CANNING HIGHWAY CLOSED MAR 1. HIGHWAY TO HELL

It was the ultimate form of advertising for Perth is car central, so much so that eventually the citizens will lose their legs and grow wheels.

My friend knew I was going but she had no plans to. Her sentiment was that she didn't understand why the Perth arts community would go to such lengths to commemorate a drunk bogan, rock icon that he was.

Why can't they have chosen someone with better qualities to honour? she asked, rather than someone who used to drive around pissed, shagging lots of women?

I could see her point but it was a question I didn't have an answer for. By definition, her description of Bon Scott probably could have been found in the dictionary under the words ROCK STAR (of a certain era. Or not)

But who else do you know that would draw the mixed crowds? I asked.  Who else would three local councils AND the state government work together to shut down that road for? I can't even think of a sports person they would do that for?

I really couldn't.

Later that evening, I gathered with thousands of others under the freight container rainbow sculpture in East Fremantle, the last stopping point for the trucks where each band would play a final song. The crowd was mixed, there were families, students, pensioners, tourists, the odd bogan and everything in between. The fact that it was a free, unlicensed family event created an easy going atmosphere amongst the punters. Local acts and DJs entertained the crowd while we waited for the sighting of the first truck.

East Fremantle Rainbow

When it came, it was the Pigram Brothers; a much loved local Broome band singing a version of TNT followed by Long Way to the Top. Musically they were fantastic but their expressions suggested that they all wanted a nice lie down.

They look knackered  I shouted to my friend R, just as one of the band spoke to the crowd:

We have been playing non stop for four hours. 

That explains it  R replied.

After that the trucks kept coming showcasing the following acts:

Dom Mariani with the Tommyhawks / Steve 'N' Seagulls / Carla Geneve with the Floors / Shonen Knife / Odette Mercy with Mathas / Amyl and the Sniffers / Abbe May with The Southern River Band.

It was a treat for me to hear the array of Australian music on offer, and also enjoy the acts from Finland and Japan. My favourite of the night was Carla Geneve and the Floors performing a sublime version of Hells Bells. I also loved Odette Mercy singing High Voltage in Tongan

The last truck came with Abbe May with The Southern River Band performing Can I Sit Next to You Girl. As they rolled off, the event ended and the barricades opened. It felt anticlimactic as we all started walking down the said Highway to Hell to wherever our next destinations were.

Freo showed up for AC/DC
Pic courtesy of Twitterverse

Is that it? I thought to myself. I wanted more but there was none to be had. Later I realised my post AC/DC malaise was due to the lack of momentum caused by the event structure. Each truck appeared for a moment and then was whisked away. It was like swiping on Tinder (I've been told), seeing only the briefest idea of a person or in this case, the band. I had gone expecting a live gig and what the event was, was AC/DC on Tinder. There was no chance to get stuck into the act or their music.

In the end though, the only music that really mattered that night was Accadacca's. Beloved by the hundreds and thousands of Perth citizens who swarmed to hear it played, it showed the power that songs can have through time and space. And that you can still be the life of the party, even when you're dead.


And the music was good and the music was loud
And the singer turned and he said to the crowd
Let there be rock

-Let There Be Rock - AC/DC

Hiatus

It's been awhile since I've posted and that's no coincidence. Years ago I started blogging as a way to keep writing under the illusion that someone, somewhere might read it.* When I started in 2005 (another blog, not  this one), I was newly married, childless, starting a new life in London and recovering from ME. Now in 2019, I'm still married, have one child, consider London home** and recovering every day from the juggling act that is work-family-social-writing.

Unlike 2005 I now have a semi-regular writing practice because I am trying to write a children's book. I got serious about it a few years back when people started dropping dead around me so this children's book is my mid life crisis, only that I have always written in some form or other.  Serious means that any spare time is sucked up by the book and a few other writing projects that I hope will gain traction.

So being serious about writing (oh so serious) means that I don't have time to blog anymore. If I ever finish the bloody thing, I might start again but until that elusive point in time (insert Gatsby's green light here) I will not be blogging.

So until that fine morning, take care and see you on the flip side.

To be a serious writer requires discipline that is iron fisted. It’s sitting down and doing it whether you think you have it in you or not. Every day. Alone. Without interruption. . . . There is no glamour in writing. In fact it’s heartbreak most of the time.” ~Harper Lee

* And because it amuses me
** Until Brexit happened.

Palate Cleansing

I googled 'Australian - Chinese' writers recently in a pique of curiosity to see what would come up. This article caught my interest, mainly because of the word 'hyphenated.'

Years ago when I was a university student in Perth, I was introduced to the works of Trinh Minh-ha, who wrote something that has stuck in my head all these years.

'The challenge of a hyphenated reality lies in the hyphen itself. The hyphenated condition certainly does not limit itself to a duality between cultural conditions.'

I had not, up to that point, ever thought of myself as a hyphen, or hyphenated, but Minh-ha's theory around hybrid identities resonated with me. And still does because it provides an apt symbol for those of us who have or still do straddle multiple ethnic and cultural worlds as part of our daily lives. The fact that the article that caught my interest about Australian-Chinese writers is titled 'No-one is Born Hyphenated.' shows it is still a popular symbol being used 

Anyway, the opening paragraph contained another sentence that caught my attention. I quote:

Ethnic literature's hot. And important, too,” says one writing instructor. “I’m sick of ethnic lit,” a fellow student retorts, “It’s full of descriptions of exotic food.” 

This made me laugh because the memoir I am writing about growing up as a Chinese kid in Australia contains lots of descriptions about the getting, preparing and eating of said exotic food.

I am such a cliche was my second thought.

Which got me thinking about us hyphenated Chinese - (add second culture here, or third, ad infinitum) people for whom food is, to put it mildly, pretty important.

And not just any food. Good Food. Good Chinese Food.

Good Chinese Food is very important to most of my Chinese-hyphen friends. I have friends that have rice every night. Congee is important. Meat is important. Quality is important. Wok flame is important.

It makes sense. Irrespective of culture, your palate is formed by the food you eat growing up. And your attitudes towards food are informed by your environment . For the Chinese, food is imbued with vast powers. It is medicinal. It is preventative. It is superstition. It is celebratory. It is family. It is communion. It is value-for-money. It is, just short of religion. Actually, it is a religion. For the Chinese, food is a religion.

Somehow, I became an atheist.

Like most of my hybrid friends, Chinese food was a huge part of my upbringing but now, unlike some of them, I do not regard Chinese Food as the apex of the culinary universe. I like it. I eat it occasionally. I eat a lot of it if mum and dad are visiting. But for the most part, it does not feature in my daily diet.

This does not compute with some of these friends. It doesn't compute with my mother although she pretends it does.

But what do you eat? they ask, aghast.

I like raw things, I like vegetarian food. I don't really like congee. I think stir-frying is handy, but over- rated.

I don't want to eat the things that I had to eat every night growing up.  My palate is not a case of either-or. Chinese Food vs All Other Food.

There is however, one Chinese dish which I worship with holy devotion. It has sustained me for 43 years, most likely because I don’t have it that often.

Like the title of the article, we are not born hyphenated.  We are born multitudinal. I couldn't exercise that within my palate as a child when rice was might.

But I can now.

Going Full BAME

BAME is the common acronym used in the UK for anyone who is Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic. I fit into the BAME definition but it is a term which I have never liked.  The first time I ever heard it was during a job interview for Yellow Earth theatre. I was fresh off the boat (another popular term used in relation to BAME people). I had not been in London long and was bright-eyed and bushy- tailed in my eagerness to submerge myself into the arts scene.

I thought the interview was going well when the Chinese-British director asked what I thought about working for a BAME company.

Excuse me? What's that?

BAME. Black. Asian. Minority. Ethnic.

I stared at him. Was he serious?

What a horrible term. We’re all just lumped in together?!

The comment was out before I could stop it. The smile left the director's  and he pursed his lips defensively.

What's wrong with it?

Sorry, I just haven't heard that before, I back pedaled. It's not a term that's used in Australia.

Well what do you use in Australia?

For theatres like this, we would usually say Community Theatre. Not BAME.

BAME is more descriptive.

How? Where do I fit? I'm Chinese. Does that make me Minority or Ethnic? I know it's not Asian cause Asian means Indian in this country. 

The look he gave me told me he thought I was an idiot first and foremost, irrespective of ethnicity.

Needless to say, I didn't get the job. I left in a huff.

What a moron I thought. Talk about being a willing participant in your own incarceration.

Finally, publishing is taking a Benetton approach.

Years later (ie, now) when I started attending writing retreats and workshops, I heard the BAME term being bandied about again. It turns out that being a BAME is a good thing in publishing right now as the industry and market have realised that not only white people can tell stories or write books.

I absorbed this news and unlike my younger angry self, I decided to go all in. Go Full BAME.

Why not use this moment to my advantage I thought. I sure as hell need whatever help I can get.

So I started applying for writing awards and competitions specifically aimed at BAME people.  Luck would have it that I got offered places on some of them. Does this make me feel like I sold out?

Nope. It makes me feel like about fucking time other voices and people were considered legit and commercial.

Maybe this turn around in my attitude was the getting of wisdom.  In all likelihood, it was just wanting to get.

Get something. In writing. Out.

Middle of the Road

Middle age happens so suddenly.  The future is infinite until one day, it is not. The first time someone called me middle-aged, I scoffed.

You are middle-aged 

No I'm not!

Yes you are. You're over forty. Do you think you'll live until eighty- something?

Hmm. He had a point. I don't intend to live past eighty, and if I do, it will be an accident.

But despite the logic of numbers and average human lifespan presented to me, I did not consider myself middle-aged. The symptoms against which middle-agedness is gauged (in my society) such as physical decline, irrational desires to tick off bucket-list items (compete in marathons, write a book, adopt unflattering hairstyles) and an increasing observation that everyone seems really young all happened and are happening to me but I remained staunch in my refusal to be one of  them.

The Middle Aged.

Those people.

Then Book Club happened. Book Club has been happening to me for the past few years. It is, perhaps, another sign of being Middle-Aged but I'll pretend that I didn't just say that.

Book Club asked all members to nominate a book for the next meeting. I hummed and hawed as I scanned the three shelves of books that are on my 'to read ' list. None of them seemed suitable. I looked at my list of notes where I write down book titles that seem interesting.

Nah.

I gazed at my shelves and my notes.  Then it hit me.

I will never read all the books I want to read before I die.

In my head, I am this age when reading

In reality, I am closer to this age when reading

The list is too long. Some of the books I want to read, I don't even know that I want to read them because they haven't been written yet.

I realised that I no longer have the luxury of thinking,  I'll read that some day. I'll get around to it. That the years I have left are not sufficient read all that I want.

It's a tragedy.

And just like that, I became Middle-Aged.

Bird: by Crystal Chan

There is something about certain books you read as a child that stay with you. For all the reading I’ve done as an adult, nothing comes close to the obsessive amount of times I re-read The Endless Steppe; Bridge to Terabithia; Momo; the Ramona series; Hating Alison Ashley and the first book I never returned to my school library, Dancing Star by Gladys Malvern.* I knew every yellowed page, every dog-eared wrinkle, every dirty finger smudge found within the pages of those stories. Falling in love with a book or a story for the first time usually happens, if it happens at all, when you are a kid and discovering the world of reading.


So when I was told that to write children’s stories, you must read prolifically in the genre, it was a task I looked forward to. My seven year old daughter certainly helped me come up to speed with what kids her age were now reading. Judy Moody. The Treehouse Series. Wimpy Kid. They were fine but left no impression on me. So I branched out and started reading random middle-grade books that looked interesting in the library or bookshop. I read best-selling middle grade, obscure middle grade; local and overseas middle grade. I enjoyed many of them but none of them left a mark of any kind. I did not re-read any of them.

Then I read Bird by Crystal Chan.

I found Bird one weekend when visiting Brighton. We were sheltering from the rain in the local Waterstones and my daughter was doing her best to keep us prisoners of the children’s book section. We were not allowed to leave until she had inspected all that she wanted to inspect, which was considerable. I really only had myself to blame, having fostered this habit in her since birth so I followed suit. I picked up Bird, initially because of the surname signifying East Asian descent. There aren’t many Chinese people writing kids books. So I picked it up and after reading the first few pages, put it down, thinking ‘I already have too many books.' Then I picked it back up. Read a bit more. This dance of denial continued for a good while and eventually, the only possible outcome happened which was that Bird came out of the shop with me. Paid for, of course.

And then it sat in my bookshelf for over six months.

I had the good sense to pack it for a writing weekend away and started to read it on my train journey. By Chapter Three, I was hooked. By Chapter Four, I was texting people to tell them that THEY MUST READ THIS BOOK.

What was it about Bird that hooked me? The voice of the main character, a young girl called Jewel, was stronger than anything I have read in a long while. Also the way Ms Chan writes about Jewel’s relationship with the natural world literally was breathtaking and for me, instantly relatable. There were certain phrases in the story that made me just stop. Really stop and pay attention and absorb what had just been said on the page. I was in thrall of what the author had managed to do. Which in my case, was to wake up a part of me that hasn’t been reached by a book or a story in a very long time. Bird is a book I wish I had written.

I wrote to Ms Chan the minute I finished reading it. I just had to. I told her that she had set the bar to another level for me and how much I admired her talent. Her swift reply was gracious, kind, and in truth, a bit quirky.

Lit up somehow from this experience, I started reading, My Name is Mina, by David Almond the next day. As I turned the first few pages, I thought it would not be in the same stratosphere as Bird. I mean, how could it?

YOU MUST READ THESE BOOKS

I read it in an hour. I ignored my daughter who was waiting for her breakfast and gave her an ipad instead. I ignored the beep of the washing machine finishing its cycle. I ignored my buzzing mobile.


To be cracked open by two incandescent, insightful and special books in a week just does not happen anymore. Until it does and I am reminded, thankfully, that experiences from childhood can still be had.




*Technically this is called stealing which is not a good idea.

Spread the Word Life Writing Prize

During a sluggish period with the children’s book I am (forever) writing, I saw a call for competition entries for the Spread the Word Life Writing Prize. Life writing, as defined by the competition rules, is writing that is based on real life experiences of the author. As luck would have it, I had a piece that I had started writing a few years ago about growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s and what it was like to be the only Chinese kid in school. I dug it up, worked on it and then sent it off to the competition.

To my surprise and delight, my entry was longlisted alongside eleven other writers. This meant that I got to attend the Awards Ceremony and read an excerpt from my piece. I met the other longlisted writers; competition judges; the wonderful Joanna Munro who is personally financing the award for five years and the Spread the Word staff who were super to deal with in the lead up to the Awards Night. I also got to invite my long-suffering friends to the ceremony where they actually heard some words I’d written rather than me babbling on about writing to them but not ever showing them anything.

After we had all read from our pieces, Danny Brunton was announced as the winner with his with his piece, New Boy, alongside Paradoxical by Xanthi Barker and Small Talk by Laura Morgan as highly commended entries.

I had already been informed by Spread the Word prior to the event that I had not made the shortlist, so I knew that I was not in the running. But to me, I felt I had already won; obvious to all that were not blind by the huge shit-eating grin plastered to my face the whole night. Because I think when I found out I had made the longlist, it may have been the happiest day of my life. More than my wedding day or the day my child was born.

That’s how happy it made me. Pure unadulterated joy unmarred by stress (wedding) and pain (childbirth)

What a terrible thing for a mother and wife to say.

But it’s true.

It was a really good day.

The First Draft

It’s been a long time since I last wrote on this blog. The reason being that I have been busy writing elsewhere. For the past year, any spare writing time has been devoted to working on my children’s book and I think, I hope, that the first draft is nearly done.

There are different definitions of what a first draft is. For some, it is the initial purge of words and spewing of ideas onto the page to clear your mind and focus. It is after the process of spewage that you actually begin to write the story.

My First Draft

This was my belief until one day, while chatting to another writer, she said her definition of a first draft is when you can do no more. That the story is as good as you can make it and that you need outside help, usually from an editor, to take it to the next stage.

I shuddered.

‘That means your first draft could take years!’

She nodded.

‘Yep.’

It’s annoying to be reminded that there are no short cuts to writing. Telling yourself that you are on your fourth draft after six months is much more satisfying than being on your first draft after one year. Satisfying because it sounds like you have done more and are further ahead, even if you aren’t.

‘Why would you make it harder for yourself? ‘I wondered after our chat.

However, I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that the first draft should be the best version of the story that you can produce on your own.  And so I have been doing precisely that. Writing a first draft over and over and over again. Say ‘over’ really fast for fifteen minutes and you get some idea of what I’ve been up to.

This year of writing has been a big learning curve for me. I’ve met other aspiring and published writers and therefore I now know what MG, YA and PB* means. I know the functions of an agent, editor and publisher.  I know that apparently, your narrator should always be older than your target market.**  I know what a beta reader*** is and even found some for my not-yet-completed first draft.  And I’ve been reminded that to try and write seriously is fricking hard and completely satisfying. 

*MG - middle grade, YA - young adult, PB - picture book.

** So if your story is aimed for  7-9 years old, your narrator ideally should be older than that. Personally, I think this is bollocks.

*** The first readers of your complete draft.

Andrée Grau

Andrée Grau is the Professor of Dance Anthropology at Roehampton University.

Yesterday while marking student papers in one of her favourite parks in France, she died suddenly of a heart attack.

I met Andrée in 2010. I was six months pregnant and about to start the MA Dance Anthropology degree at Roehampton for which she was the Programme Head.

At that first meeting, she exuded warmth and interest in her new student cohort. She was fascinating to look at, dressed in beautiful clothes put together with a unique eye. Her lipstick was vibrant, her jewellery works of art and her makeup impeccable. All my misgivings about starting the course in the late stages of pregnancy melted in the presence of this engaged and charismatic person.  I was won over even before I'd even heard one of her fascinating lectures or experienced her wise counsel and acute perception.

I was a part-time student and in the four years it took me to complete the MA, Andrée was ever present. She guided me, helped me and listened to me. When I was in the first year of motherhood, trying desperately to cope with a sick baby, my own ill health and essay deadlines, she was the only person who really saw what was going on for me and told me not to quit. That she could help me find a way through.

Andrée was a internationally renowned dance scholar. She was a pioneer in the field of dance anthropology; a niche discipline which she helped develop and grow. Students travelled from all around the globe to study her course at Roehampton. Despite her reputation and prodigious academic output she had no intellectual arrogance or entitlement. She was down to earth, funny, sharp and kind.

Andrée Grau

It's a terrible lesson to learn that sometimes things you put off, last forever. I hadn't seen Andrée after I graduated from Roehampton in 2014. We made plans to meet occasionally but it never eventuated. She was busy. I was busy. We'd catch up on Facebook from time to time. But that's it. We'll never have that coffee together.

I always thought I would go and seek her advice when it came time to consider a PhD. She would have been expecting me. Even though she knew I had no wish to be an academic, she knew that I am a scholar at heart.

It stuns me that I won't be able to do that. That I won't be able to talk and discuss and laugh with her ever again. I wanted to ask her about fieldwork and how she thought I could conduct it with a family. I wanted to ask her so much.

All day long, tributes from her ex students and colleagues from all far flung corners of the world have been coming up on Facebook. They speak about her warmth, her kindness, how she looked out for each and every one of us. How much she was held in high regard and with genuine respect. We are all devastated.

For all that she gave us, I hope she knew how much we respected and loved her. How much we owe to her and what an impact she had on so many lives. I hope she took heart in the fact that she created many new dance anthropologists, all scattered around the globe. That we honour her legacy and will remember her always.

I can't believe she's gone.

Thank you Andrée. I will miss you.

Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction Tutored Writing Retreat

A few months ago, I attended the Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction Tutored Writing Retreat. I'd started writing a children's novel in March 2016 and I knew I would need help along the way if I wanted to get to the end.  My aim in writing was not to be published. Not to become an author. Just to finish writing a book.

My prior weekend experience at Arvon had been so positive that I had high hopes for this course. A week in a remote part of Devon dedicated to writing with one-to-one tutoring from published authors in the genre. In the company of other writers all working towards the same goal.

It sounded idyllic.

Arvon Totleigh Barton centre

I arrived at the Arvon Totleigh center near Sheepwash in Devon with 30,000 words of a story that did not work. It had taken me about thirteen months to accumulate and shape those words; time stolen and snatched amidst paid work, childcare and domestic drudgery. I wasn't close to the story however and I knew something was wrong with it. But what?

Turns out, just about everything.

Melvin Burgess and Lucy Christopher were the tutors at Totleigh. Melvin, who has been nominated for the 2018 Hans Andersen Author Award has written a gamut of YA books covering everything from dogs to drugs to Vikings to giants. Lucy, a fellow Antipodean and lecturer in the MA Writing for Young People at Bath Spa has also covered the YA market with kidnappings, swans and a soon to be published reworking of Shakespeare's, The Tempest. Despite their considerable output, I had never read a book by either of them and didn't remedy this in the lead up to the retreat, Quite frankly, I didn't have the time and I preferred not knowing their work as I wanted to meet them as people, not as authors.**

The story I'd taken to Totleigh was not for the YA market. It was aimed for 6-8 year olds in the vein of a Michael Ende-ish Momo allegory with Robin Klein-Hating-Alison- Ashley humour.

Well it was in my head anyway. The reality was far from it.

All the retreat participants bonded quickly. As a group, we were united in our determination to use the week to write as we lacked time in our real lives to do so. It soon became apparent that the other thing we had in common was drinking. And even if we didn't to start with, a week at the retreat fixed that. We were a diverse group, hailing from around the UK with one participant from New York City. By the end of the week, we knew not only each others plots and characters but also occupations, childrens' names, places of work, relationships and preferred choice of tipple.

This is where we ate and talked about writing. 

This is where we sat and talked about writing. 

During the retreat, each of us had four individual tutored sessions with Melvin and Lucy over four consecutive days. We also had to cook dinner (in a group with three others) for one night and take responsibility for our own washing/clearing up. In the evenings we gathered together for group activities including author readings from Lucy and Melvin and a guest visit from David Almond. The last night was reserved for participants to read out something they had written during the week. The rest of  the time was free for writing.

Most of us had arrived with ideas of what we would work on in the week. Mine was to edit and bash my manuscript into some sort of draft material shape. Prior to attending we'd all submitted 2000 words to both tutors so they had some clue of what everyone was working on.

My first tutorial was with Melvin. Ten minutes into that tutorial was all it took for him to accurately highlight key issues with my story. My stomach twisted as I realised I would have to rewrite the whole thing if I wanted it to be the story I wanted to tell. Goodbye thirteen months work. Goodbye 30,000 words.

Kill your babies they say of the writing process. Get rid of what you love if it doesn't serve the story, no matter how good you may think it is or how attached you are.

In my case, it was more like, Torch the Village and Kill (Nearly) Everyone.

It's a strange paradox that writing can be a emotional, psychical process. To create characters and stories, you have to dig deep. But then you must be completely unsentimental to shape the story into life.

It's a fascinating and grueling learning process.

I stumbled out of the tutorial slightly ashen, in a state of semi-shock. If someone had asked me there and then to climb Everest, it would have seemed an easier prospect.

Over the next day or two, I buckled down and started from the beginning. I took some comfort from the fact that others were in similar states to me. Frantically re-writing, rethinking, re-working. We all worked so hard that week, including Lucy and Melvin who were locked up inside from 9am-5pm giving feedback and advice to writers in various states of mania and descending madness.

No wonder we drank.

So two months on from the retreat and I have plugged steadily away at my story. I am still nowhere near the end but I can see it now.  The story is rough and there are so many problems with it but the process of grappling with words, story and characters is rewarding. I have learned that committing to a writer's process is a daily struggle. It's hard, fantastic and renewing all the one time.

A small group of us from the retreat have committed to meet monthly to give feedback to each other's projects. And in truth, to attempt to recreate a small semblance of the Arvon atmosphere. You cannot write in a vacuum and as Lucy said, You must find your tribe. Writing stories is hard and only other people struggling with it truly understand.

But how lucky we are that we enjoy this particular type of struggle.

Hallelujah, Amen. 

**However during the retreat I read Junk by Melvin and The Killing Woods by Lucy. Both compelling in very different ways.

Life's Not Fair

I'm supposed to be working right now but I'm finding it hard to concentrate. This morning I woke up to find out that twenty two people had been killed at a music concert in Manchester by a suicide bomber. Amongst those killed were children and teenagers. If I stopped writing this to concentrate on my Excel spreadsheet, maybe it will stop the urge to cry. But from experience, too much time on Excel can kill other signs of life.

I've tried to avoid most of the news today. In spite of this, I've heard the words 'terror' more times than I care to. I am not scared though. It's something else that is bothering me.

I should be used to waking up to catastrophic news by now. When I woke up to Brexit, I was shocked. Such shock that there was no room for tears but instead, profound grief. For I sincerely believe that it's a decision that will change the course of world history for the worse.

After that Trump was a breeze. I cried but more from anguish than pain.

Months later when the guy bulldozed pedestrians off Westminster Bridge right outside my work place, I made a point of walking across the bridge many times to and from work thereafter.

Brussels, France. France again. Germany. Idiots sacrifice others for misguided reasons. This has always happened of course. Right now, political instability, rising nationalism, a 24-hour news cycle and social media are the forces working to create a playing field fueled by suspicion, worry and protectionism. If continued, the Hunger Games may become non -fiction in years to come.

Maybe it's disingenuous of me to lament this latest tragedy because it is closer to home. Manchester is my patch. More so than places like Syria, Sierra Leone or Papua New Guinea where many young people endure unthinkable suffering and die every day.

Last night I checked on my six year old before I went to sleep. She looked so peaceful in repose. Such a contrast to her high energy antics during the day. I stared at her sleeping face and was struck by her vulnerability and also my own. It occurred to me that someday in the future we would be parted. I felt a physical pain in my chest and snuck out of her room.

It was an Ariana Grande concert those kids were at. I can imagine their excitement, going to a concert with their parents or unsupervised with their friends. I remember going on my own to my first concert. It's a rite of passage, something I hope my daughter experiences one day. You don't go to a concert expecting to die. Until recently this wouldn't even have been in the lexicon of 'concert going.' But with Bataclan and now Manchester, it is becoming so.

Walking home from school yesterday, my six year old told me about her day. They had been learning about an African animal that was becoming extinct.

People kill it because they think it brings bad luck.

What does it do that is so bad? I asked

Nothing. They just think it is bad luck.

So the animal does nothing but they kill it anyway? 

Yes.

That's not very fair.

Life's not fair Mum. Don't you know that? Life's not fair.


It certainly isn't.