Maturity, Angst, Getting Older

We were listening to Joan as Police Woman's Real Life album at work today, and I was really listening to it as if for the first time, on account of shelving the new release non-fiction right near a big speaker, and on account of having nothing to do but alphabetise and listen. And it struck me that a lot of JAPW's songs were about being content and in love and happy and having found what she wanted/needed/was looking for. 

I'm so used to hearing young female singers singing about angst, heartbreak, lack of control, despair, masochism etc. that it was refreshing to hear this strength in her music. I think it is much easier to be creative about negative experiences and feelings rather than positive, but it's more imaginative and interesting to look past the end of your own nose. The word I thought of that in that moment that best described her music was `mature.' I'm avoiding reading her lyrics online before I write this post, because the important thing for me was how the songs made me feel, rather than the precise meaning. 

Once upon a time I would have regarded the adjective `mature' as a bit staid and insulting. But I've been thinking a bit about maturity recently, in fact ever since I turned 30 a year-and-a-half ago. Getting old is a strange thing. Conversations about babies or property that would have caused me to mime the gag reflex five years ago are now par for the course. I had a conversation with my yoga car pool buddies last night, where the (40-year-old) driver described how she has happily and willingly let go of all ambition and drive for success now that she's getting older. That she realises she could do or be anything, and ultimately it won't make a great difference to her contentment or happiness. And I thought: that sounds nice, but I'm not there yet. I will be there, but not before time. Listening to her comments I thought, no, I'm still burning. There are still so many things I want to achieve. 

I have had quite a few short stories published, but I have always missed out on being mentioned in reviews. Every time an anthology or journal I have a piece in is reviewed I eagerly scan it for mention of my work. And I am always disappointed. Well, the moment finally arrived (the Sleepers Almanac was reviewed in ABR, and my story was name-checked), and I couldn't quite figure out what the reviewer meant by her comments. She said something favourable about my story (that it was emotionally honest), and then made some more general comments about how she was a little sick of navel-gazey female protagonists that wafted about noticing cracks in the pavement. 

My first reaction was: fair enough. I know the sort of protagonist she means, and I know the kind of writing she means. I think my protagonist probably did fall into that category, and I'm fine with that. I wrote that story about a very specific time in my life, my tortured mid-twenties. And the reviewer, as an older woman, didn't really connect with it. I think my story reflected the concerns of me, at my age, in my particular circumstances. What I would be concerned with is if I am still writing those sort of characters in ten years time. I am really looking forward to turning my writer's eyes further outwards as I get older. I imagine it will be quite liberating to forget myself and work towards something a bit more universal, or at the very least, well outside my own experiences. Perhaps as I get older my writing will hinge less on pure emotions, and more on ideas?

What is the appropriate collective noun for ginger beards?

I ask you. I'm not sure if it's because I was recently trawling for old-fashioned sponge cake recipes (the kind that Nanna used to make for the cake stall at school fairs), and came across a recipe for Ginger Fluff Sponge, but I can't stop thinking about ginger beards. The best sort of ginger beard is the ginger beard that lives on an otherwise brunette man. This sort of man can't help but look genuinely and permanently surprised at the colour of his facial hair. All this thought led me to wonder: what is the appropriate collective noun for ginger beards?

Here are my best attempts:
A blink of ginger beards.
A flurry of ginger beards.
A crackle of ginger beards.
A flame of ginger beards.

A boris of ginger beards.

I have provided a visual aid.

Suggestions are most welcome. 

Worldshaker - Richard Harland

There are many (great) things I could say about Worldshaker, which is a fantastically rolicking steampunk novel for young adults. Personally I am just feeling happy to tuck something of the steampunk genre under my belt. My lack of steampunk experience was starting to weight heavily on my conscience. There was steam! There were pistons! Cranes! Tailcoats!

But one of the things I enjoyed most about this book was the inventive names Harland came up with for all his characters. Really, they were things of beauty! Not only did they tumble pleasantly from my tongue, but they gave all sorts of clues as to personality and class. 

Here are some faves:

Ebnolia Porpentine

Sephaltina Turbot

Wisley Squellingham

And then right down at the bottom of the class hierarchy (clearly they could not afford many letters for their names):

Riff

Padder

Fossie

And the outright bestest Worldshaker name, for a much put-upon Menial, is: Wicky Popo. Wick-ee Po-Po. 

I think he might have taught me contract law at Monash University back in the early 00's. 

Old dog, old tricks

With the onset of the slightly colder weather, and the attendant need to use my heater, I have been happy to observe Minnie (now thankfully sans bucket after 6 weeks of R&R) up to her old trick of making a doggie tent when I dry my bath towel. Incidentally, I can highly recommend the technique of heating your towel before getting in the shower. Mmm cosy....

City of Ashes - Cassandra Clare

I put off reading the Mortal Instruments trilogy for so long.  I think I feared that it was going to be too similar to what I'm trying to achieve in my own writing and I didn't want to be influenced too heavily. But now I have read City of Bones and City of Ashes and I am completely hooked. I am carefully reserving City of Glass for my writing week holiday, in the same way that I am still hoarding my Easter eggs, trying to eke out their goodness for just a little bit longer...

Much to my pleasure I have also got work Kevin hooked as well, and we have being having frantic, excited conversations about it in between answering phones and shelving books. My reasons for loving these books are many, but they can be summarised as follows:

1) There are gays - hooray! My favourite character is Magnus Bane, the glittery, queeny warlock. What's more, the gay romances and desires in the plot are given as much weight as the straight ones.

2) I love the idea of Marks, and the idea of tracing elaborate runes on the skin that leave pale scars when they fade. I think this is a pretty clever idea as it taps into the current fascination with tattooing. Honestly, in my yoga class you're in the minority if you're not tattooed. 

3) Clare has a wonderfully elegant way of writing, and the books are full of beautiful descriptions of the sky and rivers and streets of New York. 

4) It has some seriously strong incestuous vibes. If it's good enough for George Lucas then it's good enough for me. I actually like things that make me go eeww! a little bit. I know people who have a major problem with the kissing cousin relationship in Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now, but please. It was wartime and everything was out of whack. Similarly in Clare's books there are extenuating circumstances. Jace and Clary ain't no Jenny and John Deaves. 

Kevin has also just finished City of Ashes so we've made some predictions and a wish list for the final book. Firstly, as enjoyable as the incestuous undertones have been, it's not going to be a surprise when it is revealed that Jace and Clary are not in fact brother and sister. Or when (maybe?) Luke and Clary's mum hook up. But our most fervent, fervent wish is that Magnus Bane and Alec have a Big Fat Gay Wedding, which of course will feature very amazing costumes, lots of vamps and werewolves and fairies, and plenty of glitter. 

Strange Fruit: Australian Finger Lime

One of my oh-so-many missions this year will be to eat more strange fruit. It has only just dawned on me that this is a mission. Last year Naz introduced me to the joys of longan, and Tash got me into mangosteens (steens? No idea what the plural should be for any of these fruit). This year I've already given honey plums and persimmon a go. So why not make Strange Fruit a project? 

In a way any fruit could be strange if you've never seen it before. I gave my nephew Archie a fig for his birthday a month or so ago, and it was as if I'd handed him the Holy Grail. He cradled that fig carefully in one hand  for the entire time we were at Collingwood Children's Farm. And, according to my sister, for quite a few days after. What a funny little man he is! Figs strike me as a disturbingly voluptuous fruit, but I've gotten used to them now that we have a tree and I pluck one every morning for breakfast. 

So yea verily thus - I present to you the Australian finger lime.  

I first saw these in the lovely fruit shop just down the road from my work, staffed by the lovely and informative Loretta, who told me that there are about four different types of indigenous limes in four different colours. I couldn't help but buy one. Admittedly their exterior is somewhat turdlike and unpromising. But inside..! Inside are tiny ultra-sticky green pearls separated into orderly compartments by membranes, just like in  regular citrus fruit. When you put these pearls in your mouth they explode, releasing a juice that is deceptively mild at first, but which soon hits you with cheek-puckering sourness. Mmmmm mmmm. I scooped them into my laksa, but apparently they go a treat in a G&T...

The Australian Finger Lime. 

The Afterlife

If there's a heaven - and unfortunately I'm pretty sure there's not - this is what it would be like:

Heaven would be a bed, a king-sized bed with crispy, cotton sheets; plump, squishy pillows and a light-as-air doona. And everyone would be wearing stretchy velvet hoodies and big satin shorts. And there would be a never-ending supply of piping-hot milky sugary tea served in satisfyingly large chunky mugs. And there would be buns. So many yeasty, spicy hot cross buns slathered with butter. And I would be right in the middle of reading a book I couldn't put down. And there most absolutely would not be a frigging annoying Weimaraner with abandonment issues next door barking his guts out.