I'm back! It's seemed like forever since I've been able to write, but my muse has finally returned...and, along with it, my procrastination. Hence this post when I probably only have half an hour in which to bang out some words.
Since having a baby eight weeks ago, life has pretty much turned upside down. Whenever I thought things might be evening out a little, it would all change again. But, dare I say it, Finn is pretty much sleeping through the night now, and after a challenging few weeks where he decided he didn't want to sleep for more than half an hour during the day, he seems to be settling much easier and sleeping for longer chunks.
Which means, of course, that not only do I have time for having a shower, going to the toilet and feeding myself, but now I've also got a few opportunities each day to do something just for me. Until this week, my brain has been mush and the idea of ever writing again seemed remote. But after a couple of weeks of a grumpy-crying-not-sleeping-constantly-feeding baby, the clouds have begun to clear and my creativity is slowly coming back.
On Tuesday, I began a working synopsis for a new book. There's still a lot missing - a plot, for instance - but I've got a very basic structure to work with. Yesterday, I started to write. Sure, 80 per cent of it was notes I'd already written months ago, but it's a start.
I think this experience is going to be very different from my previous manuscripts. I don't think I'll be writing a first draft in 70 days. But at least I'm writing again, and eight weeks into motherhood isn't a bad effort.
Now I must go, because I think Finn is waking up. And if he's not, I should be working on my manuscript anyway.
17 November 2011
21 October 2011
Yesterday, I fell in love
I have a new man in my life. He's only been around for just under five weeks, but it already feels like he's been here forever.
On 18 September 2011 at 8.11pm, Finn Wallace Freeborn Inglis was born. I won't go into the gory details; suffice it to say that with the help of my amazing husband I had the natural birth I'd had my heart set on and delivered a healthy, beautiful baby. George helped to deliver him, and I cried when he was placed on my chest and we looked at each other for the first time.
Having a somewhat shaky confidence and a tendency to the negative, I expected the first few days to be hard. I expected to have difficulties with breastfeeding. I was terrified of postnatal depression, and that I wouldn't feel any connection with him. But despite the intense sleep deprivation and the intensity and confusion of being responsible for a new life, I was on a high for those first few days. Breastfeeding came surprisingly easily. I could hardly believe how completely beautiful my baby was. I stared at him for hours while he slept. Everything was going so well.
After two days, we transferred to the Hilton, a service Ashford Hospital provides that I highly recommend, and while Finn started to become more alert and getting him to sleep was a little more difficult, we were still coping.
Two days later, we were ready to go home. The first day wasn't so bad. Life ran on a loop of breastfeeding, trying to get him to sleep, being brought food and endless cups of tea by George, and fitting in showers wherever possible before the whole cycle began once again. I was tired, but I was OK.
The next day, it hit. I'd heard about the emotional craziness that happens when your milk comes in, but I was completely unprepared for it. I cried on and off for days on end. Sometimes it was just 'my baby is beautiful' tears, but more often it was feelings of drowning, of inadequacy, guilt, an inability to cope. I read in a book that the sound of a baby crying can give the mother heart palpitations, dizziness, nausea - well, I had all three at once. He only had to murmur in his sleep and my chest would clench and I'd feel sick. I completely lost my appetite (which, for those who know me, is extraordinary in itself) and had to force myself to eat.
Over the next few weeks, the crying gradually tapered off, but the feeling that I wasn't really up for this job didn't go away. It got worse when George went back to work. Some days, having a shower was simply impossible. Some days, he'd cry for most of the day for no apparent reason. Some days, I was feeding him every two hours because that was the only thing that seemed to work. Some days, I wouldn't eat lunch until 4pm, and even then I'd choke it down as fast as possible before he woke up again. I couldn't sleep during the day, so I was living on 4 hours sleep a night. I started to feel like I was losing my grip on myself.
Overall, Finn has been a remarkably easy baby compared with some stories I've heard, but that just made me feel even worse that I was so out of my depth. Every time he went to sleep, I would be overwhelmed with relief, that I could pretend for an hour or two that I'd never had a baby, that I could hold onto my old life. I started to resent him for how much he'd changed my world. And then I'd feel guilty for having these feelings. I was so lucky to have him, and yet part of me was wishing him away. What kind of mother was I?
It's true that there's nothing that can prepare you for having a baby. You can read all the books in the world, but they mostly gloss over these emotional reactions. People don't generally talk much about it. I was lucky in that several of our friends have recently had babies and they've been very upfront about the turmoil it causes, but even they described the first weeks as a fog or a blur. It doesn't feel like a fog or a blur when you're going through it. It feels like a nightmare, and one that's never going to end.
I started to wonder why I didn't love him more. Sure, I thought he was the cutest baby that had ever been born, but the majority of the time my focus was on getting him to sleep so I could do things for myself. Wasn't I supposed to be overwhelmed with love? Wasn't I supposed to feel like I'd attained my life's purpose?
I didn't feel like that - not at first. I'm lucky in that I have a supportive husband who has never judged me for my feelings, and has just accepted my schizo behaviour without question, and I'm lucky to have friends to confirm that my feelings are all normal and not worth getting worked up over.
The last week or so has been much easier. Finn is sleeping better, and we're starting to get into a pattern of sorts. He's giving me the first little smiles, and each is worth at least a million dollars. We moved him into a separate room and as a result, he's started sleeping for six hours at night, which means I'm getting a lot more sleep too. I'm only getting up once a night now (fingers crossed this habit continues), and I'm starting to feel human again. I can even glimpse the possibility of getting some of my old life back soon. The plan to write another book in my year off is looking more like reality.
Yesterday, I fell in love with my son. It wasn't like a bolt of lightning, but more a realisation. He has become my world, and I'm finally starting to see what it really means to have a child. He's steadily grown on me over the last four and a half weeks, and I'm not worried anymore.
I don't write this because I want to pour my feelings out to the world, but because I want to record how I felt in those first tumultuous weeks. No doubt in a few months' time it will all seem like a fog or a blur, but I don't want to describe it as such to other first time mothers. Not everyone experiences that instant connection with their baby, and no one should have to feel guilty for their reactions to such a life-changing event. All I can say is that there is a wide range of 'normal', and that the love will come, even if it's not straight away.
On 18 September 2011 at 8.11pm, Finn Wallace Freeborn Inglis was born. I won't go into the gory details; suffice it to say that with the help of my amazing husband I had the natural birth I'd had my heart set on and delivered a healthy, beautiful baby. George helped to deliver him, and I cried when he was placed on my chest and we looked at each other for the first time.
Having a somewhat shaky confidence and a tendency to the negative, I expected the first few days to be hard. I expected to have difficulties with breastfeeding. I was terrified of postnatal depression, and that I wouldn't feel any connection with him. But despite the intense sleep deprivation and the intensity and confusion of being responsible for a new life, I was on a high for those first few days. Breastfeeding came surprisingly easily. I could hardly believe how completely beautiful my baby was. I stared at him for hours while he slept. Everything was going so well.
After two days, we transferred to the Hilton, a service Ashford Hospital provides that I highly recommend, and while Finn started to become more alert and getting him to sleep was a little more difficult, we were still coping.
Two days later, we were ready to go home. The first day wasn't so bad. Life ran on a loop of breastfeeding, trying to get him to sleep, being brought food and endless cups of tea by George, and fitting in showers wherever possible before the whole cycle began once again. I was tired, but I was OK.
The next day, it hit. I'd heard about the emotional craziness that happens when your milk comes in, but I was completely unprepared for it. I cried on and off for days on end. Sometimes it was just 'my baby is beautiful' tears, but more often it was feelings of drowning, of inadequacy, guilt, an inability to cope. I read in a book that the sound of a baby crying can give the mother heart palpitations, dizziness, nausea - well, I had all three at once. He only had to murmur in his sleep and my chest would clench and I'd feel sick. I completely lost my appetite (which, for those who know me, is extraordinary in itself) and had to force myself to eat.
Over the next few weeks, the crying gradually tapered off, but the feeling that I wasn't really up for this job didn't go away. It got worse when George went back to work. Some days, having a shower was simply impossible. Some days, he'd cry for most of the day for no apparent reason. Some days, I was feeding him every two hours because that was the only thing that seemed to work. Some days, I wouldn't eat lunch until 4pm, and even then I'd choke it down as fast as possible before he woke up again. I couldn't sleep during the day, so I was living on 4 hours sleep a night. I started to feel like I was losing my grip on myself.
Overall, Finn has been a remarkably easy baby compared with some stories I've heard, but that just made me feel even worse that I was so out of my depth. Every time he went to sleep, I would be overwhelmed with relief, that I could pretend for an hour or two that I'd never had a baby, that I could hold onto my old life. I started to resent him for how much he'd changed my world. And then I'd feel guilty for having these feelings. I was so lucky to have him, and yet part of me was wishing him away. What kind of mother was I?
It's true that there's nothing that can prepare you for having a baby. You can read all the books in the world, but they mostly gloss over these emotional reactions. People don't generally talk much about it. I was lucky in that several of our friends have recently had babies and they've been very upfront about the turmoil it causes, but even they described the first weeks as a fog or a blur. It doesn't feel like a fog or a blur when you're going through it. It feels like a nightmare, and one that's never going to end.
I started to wonder why I didn't love him more. Sure, I thought he was the cutest baby that had ever been born, but the majority of the time my focus was on getting him to sleep so I could do things for myself. Wasn't I supposed to be overwhelmed with love? Wasn't I supposed to feel like I'd attained my life's purpose?
I didn't feel like that - not at first. I'm lucky in that I have a supportive husband who has never judged me for my feelings, and has just accepted my schizo behaviour without question, and I'm lucky to have friends to confirm that my feelings are all normal and not worth getting worked up over.
The last week or so has been much easier. Finn is sleeping better, and we're starting to get into a pattern of sorts. He's giving me the first little smiles, and each is worth at least a million dollars. We moved him into a separate room and as a result, he's started sleeping for six hours at night, which means I'm getting a lot more sleep too. I'm only getting up once a night now (fingers crossed this habit continues), and I'm starting to feel human again. I can even glimpse the possibility of getting some of my old life back soon. The plan to write another book in my year off is looking more like reality.
Yesterday, I fell in love with my son. It wasn't like a bolt of lightning, but more a realisation. He has become my world, and I'm finally starting to see what it really means to have a child. He's steadily grown on me over the last four and a half weeks, and I'm not worried anymore.
I don't write this because I want to pour my feelings out to the world, but because I want to record how I felt in those first tumultuous weeks. No doubt in a few months' time it will all seem like a fog or a blur, but I don't want to describe it as such to other first time mothers. Not everyone experiences that instant connection with their baby, and no one should have to feel guilty for their reactions to such a life-changing event. All I can say is that there is a wide range of 'normal', and that the love will come, even if it's not straight away.
03 September 2011
Baring my soul: writing as catharsis
I've always known that writing about a difficult period of your life could be cathartic, healing; what I didn't know was how hard it is. Some months ago, I discovered just how raw and painful it could be when I wrote about the two miscarriages I had last year.
I don't think I would ever have written about something so private, even just for myself, if I hadn't seen the call for submissions for an anthology on miscarriage. And to be honest, I don't think I could have written about it at all if I hadn't been pregnant and reasonably sure that this one was going to stick.
I'm not great with emotions at the best of times. That's why I write. So I figured it was a good opportunity, at worst, to get it all out and, at best, to maybe get published.
But once I'd started writing, it didn't seem to work. Creating a story isn't easy, but telling your own is next to impossible, especially when you haven't really faced up to all the feelings you've been holding inside for so long. I had to let go of my wanky writer's pretensions and my natural inclination to hold back on my feelings and just go with it.
I wrote the first draft in a couple of days. I cried a lot. I thought it was crap, and that I probably wouldn't end up sending it, but I finished it nonetheless. But when I read it back a few days later, I was surprised to find it was actually quite good. I usually edit a lot, but in this case I didn't change much at all, just smoothed it over, tidied it up and sent it off.
It did help. Writing about it helped me to realise how I really felt about the whole thing, and that getting - and staying - pregnant hadn't completely erased the pain of what had happened. It made me value my relationship and treasure my friendships more, and to be grateful for what I've got in my life.
Not long after this, I found out that my story had been selected for the anthology. The Sound of Silence: Journeys through Miscarriage will be published and available in bookshops in October. You can see a trailer for it here.
If you want to read my story, buy it. If you've had a miscarriage in the past, or you know someone who has, buy it. One in five pregnancies end in miscarriage, so chances are you know several people who've had one but who have never spoken about it. This book is about ending that silence and allowing the women (and their partners) who've been through it the chance to find comfort and to know they're not alone, even if they choose to never share their own stories.
Even now, three weeks off having my first baby, I still get tears in my eyes reading these stories. Damn pregnancy hormones. But I've learnt that not everyone is as lucky as I've been. And I've learnt that one gain, no matter how great, doesn't cancel out previous losses. It just makes them easier to bear.
I don't think I would ever have written about something so private, even just for myself, if I hadn't seen the call for submissions for an anthology on miscarriage. And to be honest, I don't think I could have written about it at all if I hadn't been pregnant and reasonably sure that this one was going to stick.
I'm not great with emotions at the best of times. That's why I write. So I figured it was a good opportunity, at worst, to get it all out and, at best, to maybe get published.
But once I'd started writing, it didn't seem to work. Creating a story isn't easy, but telling your own is next to impossible, especially when you haven't really faced up to all the feelings you've been holding inside for so long. I had to let go of my wanky writer's pretensions and my natural inclination to hold back on my feelings and just go with it.
I wrote the first draft in a couple of days. I cried a lot. I thought it was crap, and that I probably wouldn't end up sending it, but I finished it nonetheless. But when I read it back a few days later, I was surprised to find it was actually quite good. I usually edit a lot, but in this case I didn't change much at all, just smoothed it over, tidied it up and sent it off.
It did help. Writing about it helped me to realise how I really felt about the whole thing, and that getting - and staying - pregnant hadn't completely erased the pain of what had happened. It made me value my relationship and treasure my friendships more, and to be grateful for what I've got in my life.
If you want to read my story, buy it. If you've had a miscarriage in the past, or you know someone who has, buy it. One in five pregnancies end in miscarriage, so chances are you know several people who've had one but who have never spoken about it. This book is about ending that silence and allowing the women (and their partners) who've been through it the chance to find comfort and to know they're not alone, even if they choose to never share their own stories.
Even now, three weeks off having my first baby, I still get tears in my eyes reading these stories. Damn pregnancy hormones. But I've learnt that not everyone is as lucky as I've been. And I've learnt that one gain, no matter how great, doesn't cancel out previous losses. It just makes them easier to bear.
29 July 2011
At 4.11am, I finished my book
I wouldn't normally get up in the middle of the night to edit on purpose, but I'd been awake since 2.30 already, and lying in bed staring into the dark seemed like a waste of possible productivity. So, at 3.20am I got up, sat on the couch with my laptop and edited the final 30 pages of the sixth and final draft of my first completed, polished manuscript.
This project has been a long journey for me. I began the first draft in January 2005 with nothing more than a sliver of an idea. No plot to speak of, no character profiles, no real idea of where it was going. This is not the ideal way to begin one's first book.
Over the years, the plot meandered along, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes with bursts of genius. I added new scenes in one draft that I subsequently deleted in the next. I implored George and my friend Bek to read it and give me the feedback I needed. Gradually, I made it a little bit better with each new draft.
The third draft was commended in the IP Picks competition in the Best First Book category, and I was asked to revise it and resubmit to the publisher. The fourth draft, while better, only inspired an invitation to pay the publisher for another evaluation. I decided not to continue down this line, but I did use the feedback to write a fifth draft, which I entered in a few other competitions without success. I didn't know quite what to do with it by then, so it languished on my computer for another year or so while I wrote another manuscript.
Last year, I entered this second manuscript in the Hachette/Queensland Writers' Centre Manuscript Development Program. At the very last minute, I remembered that first story that I had worked so hard on, and decided to enter that one as well. I gave it a quick tidy up and sent it off, fully expecting that the other one would better meet the guidelines of the competition.
To my surprise, that fifth draft won me a place on the program and one of the most awesome experiences in my writing career (I've written about that experience here). Long story short, but the feedback I received while on the program shaped the sixth and final draft.
Yes, it will be the final draft. I'm sure I could keep working on it and making it a little bit better each time, but at this stage the effort it would take is greater than the desire. Of course, if I get significant interest from a publisher with more changes requested, I'll go back to it again, but in my mind, it's finished.
Today I sent it back to the publisher, and also to the agent I met on the program. I'm not holding my breath. I'm still one of thousands of hopefuls that try their luck with the publishing industry every year. But I know that I've made it the best it can be.
Now that it's done, I have no idea what I'm going to do with myself. But I know I'm ready to move on.
This project has been a long journey for me. I began the first draft in January 2005 with nothing more than a sliver of an idea. No plot to speak of, no character profiles, no real idea of where it was going. This is not the ideal way to begin one's first book.
Over the years, the plot meandered along, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes with bursts of genius. I added new scenes in one draft that I subsequently deleted in the next. I implored George and my friend Bek to read it and give me the feedback I needed. Gradually, I made it a little bit better with each new draft.
The third draft was commended in the IP Picks competition in the Best First Book category, and I was asked to revise it and resubmit to the publisher. The fourth draft, while better, only inspired an invitation to pay the publisher for another evaluation. I decided not to continue down this line, but I did use the feedback to write a fifth draft, which I entered in a few other competitions without success. I didn't know quite what to do with it by then, so it languished on my computer for another year or so while I wrote another manuscript.
Last year, I entered this second manuscript in the Hachette/Queensland Writers' Centre Manuscript Development Program. At the very last minute, I remembered that first story that I had worked so hard on, and decided to enter that one as well. I gave it a quick tidy up and sent it off, fully expecting that the other one would better meet the guidelines of the competition.
To my surprise, that fifth draft won me a place on the program and one of the most awesome experiences in my writing career (I've written about that experience here). Long story short, but the feedback I received while on the program shaped the sixth and final draft.
Yes, it will be the final draft. I'm sure I could keep working on it and making it a little bit better each time, but at this stage the effort it would take is greater than the desire. Of course, if I get significant interest from a publisher with more changes requested, I'll go back to it again, but in my mind, it's finished.
Today I sent it back to the publisher, and also to the agent I met on the program. I'm not holding my breath. I'm still one of thousands of hopefuls that try their luck with the publishing industry every year. But I know that I've made it the best it can be.
Now that it's done, I have no idea what I'm going to do with myself. But I know I'm ready to move on.
10 July 2011
Why I need to read more Australian books
I'm sorry to admit that I really haven't been pulling my weight over the years when it comes to supporting Australian authors. It's not that I've actively avoided them, or have any sense of cultural cringe, or think that British or American writers are better. One of my all-time favourite books, Cloudstreet, was written by an Australian author, and will probably go down in history as one of the best books ever written.
I guess it's partly due to my long-held obsession with Indian literature, in that I'll almost always buy at least one Indian book every time I go to the bookshop. I also tend to go back again and again to my favourite authors, like Milan Kundera, Louis de Bernieres, Ian McEwan.
My rather random method to selecting books is also to blame. Because I rarely remember when people have recommended a specific book to me, I usually just wander the shelves, randomly select volumes from the shelf, read the blurb and pick out those that sound the most interesting. This has meant I've collected an eclectic combination of genres in my bookcase. I've rarely regretted a purchase. But it's also meant that I've missed out on a lot of outstanding Australian literature.
There have been a few Australian books I've been wanting to check out recently, especially those authors who participated in the same manuscript development program that I did last year, and who have been talented enough to achieve publication. So I decided, on my most recent bookshop visit, to devote my purchase to entirely Australian authors.
And my god, I've read some outstanding books over the last month. I began with Favel Parrett's Beneath the Shallows, moved on to Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey, followed by The Ottoman Hotel by Chris Currie, and I'm almost through Bereft by Chris Womersley. I won't go into the plot of each of them; suffice it to say that each was stunning in its own way. It's reinforced that we have some fantastic writers in Australia, and we need to support them.
And going on my experience of the last six months, Australian writers need all the support they can get. The publishing industry is in a big hole at the moment, and I don't know if it's going to improve anytime soon. Talent alone is no longer enough - you need a book that's strongly marketable, and even then you need to find a publisher that's willing to take a risk on you.
I don't know if I have the talent to get published; I hope I do. I'll keep trying. But in the meantime I'll be sure to support our Australian writers as much as I can. Please check out these books. They're fantastic stories by fantastic authors.
I guess it's partly due to my long-held obsession with Indian literature, in that I'll almost always buy at least one Indian book every time I go to the bookshop. I also tend to go back again and again to my favourite authors, like Milan Kundera, Louis de Bernieres, Ian McEwan.
My rather random method to selecting books is also to blame. Because I rarely remember when people have recommended a specific book to me, I usually just wander the shelves, randomly select volumes from the shelf, read the blurb and pick out those that sound the most interesting. This has meant I've collected an eclectic combination of genres in my bookcase. I've rarely regretted a purchase. But it's also meant that I've missed out on a lot of outstanding Australian literature.
There have been a few Australian books I've been wanting to check out recently, especially those authors who participated in the same manuscript development program that I did last year, and who have been talented enough to achieve publication. So I decided, on my most recent bookshop visit, to devote my purchase to entirely Australian authors.
And my god, I've read some outstanding books over the last month. I began with Favel Parrett's Beneath the Shallows, moved on to Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey, followed by The Ottoman Hotel by Chris Currie, and I'm almost through Bereft by Chris Womersley. I won't go into the plot of each of them; suffice it to say that each was stunning in its own way. It's reinforced that we have some fantastic writers in Australia, and we need to support them.
And going on my experience of the last six months, Australian writers need all the support they can get. The publishing industry is in a big hole at the moment, and I don't know if it's going to improve anytime soon. Talent alone is no longer enough - you need a book that's strongly marketable, and even then you need to find a publisher that's willing to take a risk on you.
I don't know if I have the talent to get published; I hope I do. I'll keep trying. But in the meantime I'll be sure to support our Australian writers as much as I can. Please check out these books. They're fantastic stories by fantastic authors.
27 June 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 3
Pedro
Pedro is the most recent addition to our animal family and has proven no exception to the personality rule. We found him at the Animal Welfare League as a three month old kitten, terrorising his brother in the cage they shared. I must admit that being black was the first thing that attracted us to him - it wasn't a pre-requisite, but it just seemed nice and neat to have three black animals in the family - and that's what got us in the cage with him.
He and his brother were both black with white chests and paws and were exceedingly handsome. The brother perhaps more so - his markings were perfectly symmetrical, whereas Pedro had a curly white moustache on one side of his face and nothing on the other. But when we reached out to touch the brother, he shrank away from us in fright. Pedro, on the other hand, pushed into our hands and purred like a little chainsaw in between tumbling around on the floor and trying to engage his brother in play. Plus, his Mexican moustachio was just irresistable, so he came home with us.
All the way home, he kept sticking a little white paw out of the hole in the box, trying to get out and start causing havoc as soon as possible. Far from being afraid of the other animals, he was already hissing at Jedi through the hole before we'd even opened the box. It took a total of about 10 minutes before he got over the last of his hesitation and was weaving around Jedi's legs and walking under his belly.
Pedro settled into our family in record time. Right from the start, he flatly refused to sleep anywhere but on our bed, preferably on our feet or in between our legs - whatever is the most irritating. He was bossing Wednesday around even before he'd exceeded her in height and weight. But his true love from day one has been Jedi. He idolises that dog and is always following him around - rolling on his back and reaching out for his legs when he walks past, walking back and forth under his chin when he's lying down, rubbing his face against him. Every night when we get home the two of them sprint up and down the hallway, taking it in turns chasing each other, Ped doing rather spectacular burn-outs around the corners.
I've never known another cat with Ped's voracious hunger. No matter how strictly we stick to the 7am breakfast and 6pm dinner ritual, he always starts campaigning loudly an hour beforehand. He yells constantly when he wants food - even if we spray him with the water thing to try to deter him, he just frowns and blinks at us and keeps yelling.
He has a love for toast, and sits beside Jedi every morning waiting to get a corner of my toast, which he chews up with as much enthusiasm as if I'd just handed him a chunk of meat. But what he really loves is bacon. As soon as the bacon comes out of the freezer, he's at our feet, yelling for it. He watches the microwave defrosting it like it's TV, and while we're chopping it, he's trying to climb onto the bench and swiping at it with a paw. In his most death-defying stunt, he leaps up towards the bacon and clonks Jedi under the chin with his head. The most patient dog in the world would be sorely tried by such an incident, but Jedi, bless him, only ever takes a step back, or walks around to the other side of whomever is chopping to maintain his view. A lesser cat would have lost his head by now, but Ped remains unpeturbed.
He has a voice exactly like a psychotic version of Dicky Knee, and his vocabulary is littered with four letter words that cannot be repeated here (and which he will probably have to abandon once there's an impressionable young human in the house).
Most cats I've had have been generally tolerant of but not overly enamoured with people. Ped is an exception to this rule. He loves hanging out with us outside, whether he's sitting on our laps in the sun, walking around talking to himself or trying to race Jedi. If he finds himself shut outside without us, he'll wail incessantly at the door until we let him in.
Ped is a complete dag. When it's hot, he sleeps on his back with his belly exposed and his body twisted. Also rare in a cat, he enjoys a belly rub and never attacks us. And speaking of his belly, it was only after we'd got him home that we discovered his coolest marking - a perfectly symmetrical white patch on his belly shaped exactly like a bat.
Pedro is the kind of cat I've always wanted - acts a lot like a dog, likes people, but still has that special cat attitude that lets you know exactly where you stand in the world - as a somewhat irritating, occasionally useful servant with a warm lap.
Pedro is the most recent addition to our animal family and has proven no exception to the personality rule. We found him at the Animal Welfare League as a three month old kitten, terrorising his brother in the cage they shared. I must admit that being black was the first thing that attracted us to him - it wasn't a pre-requisite, but it just seemed nice and neat to have three black animals in the family - and that's what got us in the cage with him.
He and his brother were both black with white chests and paws and were exceedingly handsome. The brother perhaps more so - his markings were perfectly symmetrical, whereas Pedro had a curly white moustache on one side of his face and nothing on the other. But when we reached out to touch the brother, he shrank away from us in fright. Pedro, on the other hand, pushed into our hands and purred like a little chainsaw in between tumbling around on the floor and trying to engage his brother in play. Plus, his Mexican moustachio was just irresistable, so he came home with us.
All the way home, he kept sticking a little white paw out of the hole in the box, trying to get out and start causing havoc as soon as possible. Far from being afraid of the other animals, he was already hissing at Jedi through the hole before we'd even opened the box. It took a total of about 10 minutes before he got over the last of his hesitation and was weaving around Jedi's legs and walking under his belly.
I've never known another cat with Ped's voracious hunger. No matter how strictly we stick to the 7am breakfast and 6pm dinner ritual, he always starts campaigning loudly an hour beforehand. He yells constantly when he wants food - even if we spray him with the water thing to try to deter him, he just frowns and blinks at us and keeps yelling.
He has a love for toast, and sits beside Jedi every morning waiting to get a corner of my toast, which he chews up with as much enthusiasm as if I'd just handed him a chunk of meat. But what he really loves is bacon. As soon as the bacon comes out of the freezer, he's at our feet, yelling for it. He watches the microwave defrosting it like it's TV, and while we're chopping it, he's trying to climb onto the bench and swiping at it with a paw. In his most death-defying stunt, he leaps up towards the bacon and clonks Jedi under the chin with his head. The most patient dog in the world would be sorely tried by such an incident, but Jedi, bless him, only ever takes a step back, or walks around to the other side of whomever is chopping to maintain his view. A lesser cat would have lost his head by now, but Ped remains unpeturbed.
He has a voice exactly like a psychotic version of Dicky Knee, and his vocabulary is littered with four letter words that cannot be repeated here (and which he will probably have to abandon once there's an impressionable young human in the house).
Most cats I've had have been generally tolerant of but not overly enamoured with people. Ped is an exception to this rule. He loves hanging out with us outside, whether he's sitting on our laps in the sun, walking around talking to himself or trying to race Jedi. If he finds himself shut outside without us, he'll wail incessantly at the door until we let him in.Ped is a complete dag. When it's hot, he sleeps on his back with his belly exposed and his body twisted. Also rare in a cat, he enjoys a belly rub and never attacks us. And speaking of his belly, it was only after we'd got him home that we discovered his coolest marking - a perfectly symmetrical white patch on his belly shaped exactly like a bat.
Pedro is the kind of cat I've always wanted - acts a lot like a dog, likes people, but still has that special cat attitude that lets you know exactly where you stand in the world - as a somewhat irritating, occasionally useful servant with a warm lap.
17 May 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 2
Jedi
Jedi is the love of my life, after my husband, of course. We got him from the RSPCA shelter as a three month old, bumbling puppy who was supposed to be a staffy/blue heeler cross. I don't know whether this was just an educated guess on the RSPCA's behalf, but he just kept getting bigger and bigger, and we really have no idea what combination of genes created him. He's tall, athletic and black, with a blue chest and four blue feet. He looks kind of like a mix of labrador, kelpie, pointer, staffy and god knows what else.
George had never had a dog before and, while he knew that me and a dog was never going to be an either/or deal, he was a little apprehensive about it. But Jedi knew straight away who he had to charm. As soon as we met him, he crawled straight into George's lap and gazed lovingly up at him, begging us to take him home. George was smitten in an instant, and is now his biggest fan.
But on the other hand, he has some very weird and unexplainable habits. When I walk towards the front door when one of the cats is waiting to be let out, he yelps, then races out the back and around to the side gate (which is solid, so he can't see anything). Whenever the neighbours are in their back yard, he trots up and down and stares at the fence for hours. And I mean hours. All day, sometimes. When we put him out the back before going out, he circles on the spot until we shut the door.
He adores our cats, and is always gentle with them despite being rowdy. The youngest cat, Pedro, has grown up with him and they're the best of mates. They occasionally play fight, as shown in this video I managed to get when Ped was quite young. They hang out together and follow each other around the house. They'll even lick the same plate with no jealousy or aggression.
Jedi also loves water, especially after a vigorous session of ball/stick fetching, so during the warmer months we have a clam shell exactly for that purpose.
He's the biggest wuss when it comes to pain - if he gets a three corner jack in his paw, he'll stand and dangle his foot pathetically, begging one of us to help him. But as soon as we touch said paw, he gets all panicky and jerks it around, making the whole operation far more difficult and painful than it needs to be.
It's safe to say that Jedi is very spoilt. He sleeps on the comfiest bed in the world, right next to our bed, and we take him with us on any errand we can. He has had a walk almost every day of his life, with the occasional exception of foul weather and injury. But despite all this, he's very well mannered and generally pretty obedient. He'll never steal the cats' food or any other food (with the single exception of the New Year's Eve when we had a party at our place and foolishly left three chicken carcasses on the kitchen bench - he held off for hours until he could no longer resist the temptation, leaving nothing but three lemon halves and a whole lot of grease on the kitchen floor). He usually comes when he's called and does what he's told, just for the pleasure of being called a good boy.
The best thing about Jedi is how much he loves us. He's never happier than when he's had a morning walk, a whole day of hanging out with us in the backyard in the sun, and ends the day curled up on his bed in the lounge room between us. He doesn't even like it when we're in separate rooms, and spends the whole time walking from one of us to the other, looking dejected. He's a great companion, listening to every word we say and never answering back.
I could write all night and still not be able to cover all the awesome things about Jedi. Suffice it to say that he's the greatest dog I've ever had, and he'll be an important part of our little family until his final day.
P.S. I just walked towards the front of the house and he sprinted at high speed out the back, yelping all the way. Nutter.
30 April 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 1
Since the day I was born I've been around animals. Apparently, at the ripe old age of two I chose our dog, Sally, from the animal shelter. The fact that this dog turned out to be borderline psychotic, chasing cars, eating snail bait and almost poisoning herself, biting anyone my dad got mad at, did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and love for animals. Despite her crazy tendencies, that dog was the most loyal, gentle and loving friend any kid could hope to grow up with.
But it does seem that my first choice has set me up for a lifetime of selecting pets with weird quirks. I'm not sure if everyone's pets have similar strange tendencies, but mine have all had very strong, very individual character traits. Anyone who thinks animals don't have their own personalities should, quite frankly, be shot. Repeatedly.
If I went through every animal I've ever owned, these posts could be endless, so I'll stick with those who are currently part of our family. This post is devoted to Wednesday, the first pet in my collection after I'd moved out of home.
Wednesday
She turned up on the street outside my friends' place as a three month old kitten, a little black stray with vivid yellow eyes. She came into my life at precisely the right time, as I was about to spend a year living by myself, a move that turned out to be a challenging one for me, but one that I only got through with the company of my little black cat. George named her Wednesday, but for some unknown reason, we have only ever called her The Kitty.
Wednesday is the sweetest, prettiest cat you can imagine, and she's been a charmer from the first. One day my neighbour confessed to me that, on her day off, Wednesday had been coming over to visit her for a few hours. This habit had begun when her young daughter said to her: 'Mummy, the cat got in!' As she held the door open for her.
Despite being almost 12 years old now, she still has a penchant for those little toy mice you can buy from the vet, scurrying around after them and doing backflips to try to catch them if you throw them over her head. She almost never drinks out of the bowl set aside for her and the other animals, but every night she tries to drink out of George's water glass when we go to bed. He's now taken to putting a beanie over the glass until he's drunk enough that she can't reach it.
Despite being almost excessively timid of every movement, loud noise, person or animal, Wednesday is very fond of our dog Jedi, who is at least ten times her size. Whenever he's near her, she licks his ears and his face. Sometimes she'll bat him on the nose if she believes he's being impudent.
Our other, younger cat loves to terrorise her, and she is appropriately frightened by him, but when it's time for them to be fed, she takes advantage of the distraction to sniff him all over and lick his face. She runs from him if he tries to chase her, but whenever he actually approaches her politely, she'll glare at him and then give him a few slaps around the head.
She is obsessed with heat. She loves to roll in the driveway in the sun and catch cockroaches on warm evenings. Years ago she used to lie in front of the bar heater until she got so hot she'd get up, whimpering, turn around and bake her other side. She even enjoys licking our bowls when we've been eating something spicy.
She loves to be outside, but for some reason our backyard fills her with terror. Out in the real world, however, she'll go anywhere. We used to go on midnight walks around the block with Jedi, and she would always follow us. Even now, when I bring her inside every night, she forces me to go through an elaborate game before she'll allow herself to be caught. She always hangs out around the units next door, but if I walk straight up to her, she'll skitter away at the last minute. Again and again. So if I 'pretend' that I'm just going for a walk, she'll start following me up the footpath until we've gone an appropriate distance before I'm allowed to turn around and pick her up.
She has the softest, most pathetic meow - in fact, it's more a 'meep' than a 'meow' - and yet somehow she manages to channel all the pain and despair of the world into it when she wants something. She's got George wrapped around her paw, and where I'll just ignore her until she gives up and finds somewhere to sleep, he gets all cut up by her apparent distress and does whatever she wants. I can just imagine what it's going to be like if we have a daughter...
All our animals have their own distinctive voices, and Wednesday sounds just like the Queen of England. She doesn't like to be disturbed when she's made herself comfortable, even if she's sitting on your chest two centimetres from your face and practically suffocating you. She never bites or scratches, but has the most effective expression of disdain I've ever encountered. May the gods save you if you ever dare to spray deodorant within a 10 metre radius of her.
She only likes the expensive-type food in the little tins, and within that narrow criteria, she prefers anything with fish, and definitely nothing that's too chunky. She also likes the fresh meat you can buy in individual packaging, but she reserves the right to go on a hunger strike at any time. She also must eat in solitude, preferably in the bathroom with the door closed, or she spends 80% of the time looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is trying to kill her while she eats. No matter how much or how little I give her, she almost always leaves a bit in the bowl.
She finds cat litter demeaning and avoids using it at all costs. I think this is partly because she has a bit of a mental blank with the whole thing. Outside, she copes just fine, but put her in a litter tray and she doesn't know how to cover it up. She'll paw at the wall, at the ground outside the box, anything but the actual litter, all the while looking terribly confused about the whole affair.
Above all, Wednesday loves to sleep, in the warmest spot she can find. She's been known to curl up in drawers, in the washing basket, inside bags or open suitcases, in the cupboard, on people's chests, under the covers in our bed, on my pillow, on the laptop.
Wednesday - or, should I say, The Kitty - is the longest serving member of our household. She has the least demanding personality, but she nevertheless asserts her importance on a daily basis. Hoping she'll be around for another twelve years.
But it does seem that my first choice has set me up for a lifetime of selecting pets with weird quirks. I'm not sure if everyone's pets have similar strange tendencies, but mine have all had very strong, very individual character traits. Anyone who thinks animals don't have their own personalities should, quite frankly, be shot. Repeatedly.
If I went through every animal I've ever owned, these posts could be endless, so I'll stick with those who are currently part of our family. This post is devoted to Wednesday, the first pet in my collection after I'd moved out of home.
Wednesday
Wednesday is the sweetest, prettiest cat you can imagine, and she's been a charmer from the first. One day my neighbour confessed to me that, on her day off, Wednesday had been coming over to visit her for a few hours. This habit had begun when her young daughter said to her: 'Mummy, the cat got in!' As she held the door open for her.
Despite being almost 12 years old now, she still has a penchant for those little toy mice you can buy from the vet, scurrying around after them and doing backflips to try to catch them if you throw them over her head. She almost never drinks out of the bowl set aside for her and the other animals, but every night she tries to drink out of George's water glass when we go to bed. He's now taken to putting a beanie over the glass until he's drunk enough that she can't reach it.
Despite being almost excessively timid of every movement, loud noise, person or animal, Wednesday is very fond of our dog Jedi, who is at least ten times her size. Whenever he's near her, she licks his ears and his face. Sometimes she'll bat him on the nose if she believes he's being impudent.
Our other, younger cat loves to terrorise her, and she is appropriately frightened by him, but when it's time for them to be fed, she takes advantage of the distraction to sniff him all over and lick his face. She runs from him if he tries to chase her, but whenever he actually approaches her politely, she'll glare at him and then give him a few slaps around the head.
She is obsessed with heat. She loves to roll in the driveway in the sun and catch cockroaches on warm evenings. Years ago she used to lie in front of the bar heater until she got so hot she'd get up, whimpering, turn around and bake her other side. She even enjoys licking our bowls when we've been eating something spicy.
She loves to be outside, but for some reason our backyard fills her with terror. Out in the real world, however, she'll go anywhere. We used to go on midnight walks around the block with Jedi, and she would always follow us. Even now, when I bring her inside every night, she forces me to go through an elaborate game before she'll allow herself to be caught. She always hangs out around the units next door, but if I walk straight up to her, she'll skitter away at the last minute. Again and again. So if I 'pretend' that I'm just going for a walk, she'll start following me up the footpath until we've gone an appropriate distance before I'm allowed to turn around and pick her up.
She has the softest, most pathetic meow - in fact, it's more a 'meep' than a 'meow' - and yet somehow she manages to channel all the pain and despair of the world into it when she wants something. She's got George wrapped around her paw, and where I'll just ignore her until she gives up and finds somewhere to sleep, he gets all cut up by her apparent distress and does whatever she wants. I can just imagine what it's going to be like if we have a daughter...
All our animals have their own distinctive voices, and Wednesday sounds just like the Queen of England. She doesn't like to be disturbed when she's made herself comfortable, even if she's sitting on your chest two centimetres from your face and practically suffocating you. She never bites or scratches, but has the most effective expression of disdain I've ever encountered. May the gods save you if you ever dare to spray deodorant within a 10 metre radius of her.
She only likes the expensive-type food in the little tins, and within that narrow criteria, she prefers anything with fish, and definitely nothing that's too chunky. She also likes the fresh meat you can buy in individual packaging, but she reserves the right to go on a hunger strike at any time. She also must eat in solitude, preferably in the bathroom with the door closed, or she spends 80% of the time looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is trying to kill her while she eats. No matter how much or how little I give her, she almost always leaves a bit in the bowl.
She finds cat litter demeaning and avoids using it at all costs. I think this is partly because she has a bit of a mental blank with the whole thing. Outside, she copes just fine, but put her in a litter tray and she doesn't know how to cover it up. She'll paw at the wall, at the ground outside the box, anything but the actual litter, all the while looking terribly confused about the whole affair.
Wednesday - or, should I say, The Kitty - is the longest serving member of our household. She has the least demanding personality, but she nevertheless asserts her importance on a daily basis. Hoping she'll be around for another twelve years.
03 April 2011
One ending, another new beginning
Tonight, I completed the final draft of one of my three manuscripts.
It's been three months since my last blog post, mostly due to the fact that I didn't really have anything new to say about my writing. This last draft has taken me a little longer than I'd hoped, and a big part of me is glad that it's done. Completing a story to the point that it's ready to go out into the world (well, as ready as I can get it on my own, anyway) is a big achievement. And I've done it in four drafts, an improvement over my first, of which I am about to commence draft six.
I can feel my skills improving with each edit. I'm better able to visualise the story as a whole before I delve into specific chapters, phrases, words. I've even got a somewhat realistic hope that I'll be able to get my third manuscript finished in only three drafts.
I don't fool myself that it's really really finished. I know that if an agent or a publisher picks it up, there'll be plenty more work to do. But I've got it to the most polished point that I can without professional advice.
I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.
But, after racing towards this goal for the last five months, I feel strangely empty. I'd expected to feel upset to be letting it go, to saying goodbye to my characters. I am pregnant, after all. A particularly shiny teaspoon makes me teary, for Christ's sake. But I don't feel much at all.
I know it's ready to go. And I've got my first manuscript to work on, and a clear vision of what I need to do with it. Tonight, I'm going to rest, and tomorrow morning I'm going to sleep in. I don't know how many days I'll take off before I get back into it.
But I do know that when the time is right, I'll sit down with that dog-eared manuscript I sent off to Brisbane last year, and which has since travelled to Sydney, then to Brisbane again, before coming home with me to Adelaide. I'm not ready just yet, but I suspect the time will be here before I know it. I'm looking forward to it.
It's been three months since my last blog post, mostly due to the fact that I didn't really have anything new to say about my writing. This last draft has taken me a little longer than I'd hoped, and a big part of me is glad that it's done. Completing a story to the point that it's ready to go out into the world (well, as ready as I can get it on my own, anyway) is a big achievement. And I've done it in four drafts, an improvement over my first, of which I am about to commence draft six.
I can feel my skills improving with each edit. I'm better able to visualise the story as a whole before I delve into specific chapters, phrases, words. I've even got a somewhat realistic hope that I'll be able to get my third manuscript finished in only three drafts.
I don't fool myself that it's really really finished. I know that if an agent or a publisher picks it up, there'll be plenty more work to do. But I've got it to the most polished point that I can without professional advice.
I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.
But, after racing towards this goal for the last five months, I feel strangely empty. I'd expected to feel upset to be letting it go, to saying goodbye to my characters. I am pregnant, after all. A particularly shiny teaspoon makes me teary, for Christ's sake. But I don't feel much at all.
I know it's ready to go. And I've got my first manuscript to work on, and a clear vision of what I need to do with it. Tonight, I'm going to rest, and tomorrow morning I'm going to sleep in. I don't know how many days I'll take off before I get back into it.
But I do know that when the time is right, I'll sit down with that dog-eared manuscript I sent off to Brisbane last year, and which has since travelled to Sydney, then to Brisbane again, before coming home with me to Adelaide. I'm not ready just yet, but I suspect the time will be here before I know it. I'm looking forward to it.
05 January 2011
At the halfway point
It's been exactly a month since my last blog post, and I'm almost exactly halfway through editing my second manuscript. I'll keep this brief, as I mustn't procrastinate too long from actually doing it (yeah right).
It's been a bit of a hard slog at times, but overall I've been enjoying the process. Some pages have been a lot like pulling teeth. I keep using the same bloody phrases and words over and over again, and I can't for the life of me think of different ways of saying it. I've even used a - *gasp* - thesaurus once or twice (or 500 times). There are whole weeks when it feels like I've had a wit-ectomy and everything comes out sounding flat and lifeless.
But then there are big sections - chapters even - where the writing is taut and snappy, and it just works. These bits allow me to think, just for a second, that perhaps it might actually be publishable. Once I've fixed up aforementioned hopeless bits.
My writing friend, Sam, has been going through it with a fine-toothed comb as I finish each chapter, and she's not letting me get away with anything. She's pulling me up on sentences that I just couldn't get right and allowed myself to conveniently forget about. She's ruthlessly culling my excessive adverbs (every time I comment about my excessive use of adverbs, I always seem to include an adverb in that sentence - you see, I have a problem). She's telling me all the things I need to hear, whether I want to hear them or not. Sometimes I feel like bitch-slapping her for it*, but it's all invaluable feedback that will force me to make it better. And no doubt she feels like bitch-slapping me every time I send one of her chapters back.
So I'll keep pushing on through the wooden sentences and repetitive phrases and slowly perfect it to a level where it might actually be ready to submit. And I haven't gotten over my addiction. I still have an obsessive compulsive need to do something on it each day, even if it's just reading through what I edited the day before.
*I was kidding about the bitch-slapping. Sort of. ;)
It's been a bit of a hard slog at times, but overall I've been enjoying the process. Some pages have been a lot like pulling teeth. I keep using the same bloody phrases and words over and over again, and I can't for the life of me think of different ways of saying it. I've even used a - *gasp* - thesaurus once or twice (or 500 times). There are whole weeks when it feels like I've had a wit-ectomy and everything comes out sounding flat and lifeless.
But then there are big sections - chapters even - where the writing is taut and snappy, and it just works. These bits allow me to think, just for a second, that perhaps it might actually be publishable. Once I've fixed up aforementioned hopeless bits.
My writing friend, Sam, has been going through it with a fine-toothed comb as I finish each chapter, and she's not letting me get away with anything. She's pulling me up on sentences that I just couldn't get right and allowed myself to conveniently forget about. She's ruthlessly culling my excessive adverbs (every time I comment about my excessive use of adverbs, I always seem to include an adverb in that sentence - you see, I have a problem). She's telling me all the things I need to hear, whether I want to hear them or not. Sometimes I feel like bitch-slapping her for it*, but it's all invaluable feedback that will force me to make it better. And no doubt she feels like bitch-slapping me every time I send one of her chapters back.
So I'll keep pushing on through the wooden sentences and repetitive phrases and slowly perfect it to a level where it might actually be ready to submit. And I haven't gotten over my addiction. I still have an obsessive compulsive need to do something on it each day, even if it's just reading through what I edited the day before.
*I was kidding about the bitch-slapping. Sort of. ;)
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