All posts by Princess Sparkle

20 things I tell myself when I write

COLUMNS
  1. No matter how slow you’re going you’re lapping everyone on the couch.
  2. Art is never finished. It’s just abandoned.
  3. Do what you can where you are with what you have.
  4. Perfect is the enemy of good.
  5. Do something today your future self will thank you for.
  6. When you don’t know what to do, do anything.
  7. Writing sucks. If you only wrote when you felt like it you’d never write anything.
  8. Keep in mind the gospel according to St. Dorothy Parker “I hate writing. I love having written.”
  9. And Gloria Stienham “Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”
  10. Motivation FOLLOWS action.
  11. Inspiration is for amateurs.
  12. Great people do things, mediocre people talk about doing things small people bag other people who are doing things.
  13. Action speaks louder than coffee chats.
  14. People don’t regret the risks they took that didn’t work out. They regret the risks they didn’t take.
  15. There is only one way to avoid critism. Do nothing, say nothing, be nothing Aristotle.
  16. Pull your finger out, sing from your heart and don’t write with anyone on your shoulder.
  17. I am not making a living I am making a life.
  18. When fisherman can’t go to sea the repair their nets.
  19. There is plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead.
  20. When you find yourself in hell,  just keep going – Winston Churchill.

Ten things no one ever tells you about writing

Gunna write? Gunna write better, different, more or that project you’re blocked on? Come for the creative enema stay for the fab people, delicious food and great day.

Book Gunnas Writing Masterclass and Retreat HERE

 

 

 

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Hot blooded – Bernadette Jeffers

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

It’s hot.   It’s really hot. It feels so stuffy and suffocating in here. Is it just me or does anyone else feel the sudden urge to open every bloody window and let in a cool breeze? I can see the leaves moving outside. I know there’s air…fresh air… it could be in here, if only we opened a window. I can’t take off any more layers. Why is everyone else so rugged up? Jumpers, scarves, shawls…WTF?! I’m so bloody hot! Maybe it’s just me? It is possible that it could just be me. Maybe it’s my blood sugar? Maybe it’s the increasing sugar in my over-caffeinated blood? Maybe it’s my pancreas. It’s my malfunctioning pancreas that’s to blame and not this room with it’s closed windows and thick air. Maybe the air is thin and fresh and it’s my blood that’s hot and thick and stuffy. It doesn’t really matter does it? We’ll be leaving this room soon and then I’ll know. Then I’ll know whether it’s me or this room. There’s so much heat here…in me….in the room…in other people. Oh god, who cares. Heat aside, temperature aside, there’s baggage in this room. Maybe it’s the baggage and all the shit inside that baggage that’s making me hot…. suffocating me…smothering me. Maybe that baggage is making other people in the room cold? It’s making other people wrap their shawls and pashminas and scarves more tightly around their bodies. A protective layer…a shield perhaps. Is this group therapy? It’s starting to feel like group therapy. Can you wade through life’s shit with a pen? Can I wade through death, grief, trauma, anger, guilt, and disease with a pen?

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FOUND – Karen Ingram

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

An intoxicating mix of nerves and excitement came over me as the doors opened. I walked up to the reception desk and said her name. The words sounded foreign coming out of my mouth and although I hadn’t known her for long, I only knew her as Nana. “Do you know where to find her?” asked the receptionist. I froze. After three years of not knowing where she was, I had only just found her, but I didn’t know which room she was in.

Beeping sounds overlapped each other as they came from the left, from the right, behind me and ahead. There was no mistaking this environment. This is the final home for many and those beeping sounds were calls for assistance. Tentatively I paced the corridor, watching for the room number, wondering what I would find and how I would react. Turning into the doorway of room 107 I saw her in the corner bathed in sunlight. Her figure was framed by the plants in the courtyard as she reclined in her chair, reading.

“Hello” I called cheerily. She looked up and squinted in my direction. “Hello Nana, it’s me, Karen”. She beamed back at me. “Karen, how wonderful to see you!” Those words were just the encouragement I needed. My visit would be good for both of us.

Smiling, I sidled alongside her, took her frail hand in mine, leant in and gently kissed her soft cheek. “Hello Nana.” We sat quietly for a moment, smiling and looking at each other. I was desperate to take everything in, to not miss a thing. We had already missed out on so much. I’m not sure what she saw in me, or what her 95 year old mind must have been thinking. I’d been assured her mind and wit remained sharp although her short term memory was deteriorating. Nana spent most of the hours in her day reading novels or listening to Radio National. Her long tender fingers looked like they belonged to an artist or a writer and I was impressed they managed to cradle weighty hard-backs. Her beautiful smile nourished me instantly and at once I felt selfish to seek comfort from a woman who had already given so much of herself to others. I was hopeful my visit would bring her some gladness.

Nana didn’t find out that I existed until I was thirty years old. I was the family secret. My birth-mother told one person in her family that she was pregnant, her father. ‘Old Jim’ made all of the arrangements for his daughter’s internment, the relinquishing of her baby and he sent her on a south pacific cruise to get over the event. He also chose to never mention it to his wife, and took the secret to his grave. The shock, sadness and betrayal felt by Nana when my presence was unleashed on the family three decades later added further pain to this unfolding series of stories.

Twenty years ago I arrived on a doorstep of a house in Port Melbourne to meet my first blood relative. The front gate was flung wide open. The front door was flung wide open. Awash with an intoxicating mix of nerves and excitement I made a few steps towards the entrance and was welcomed by a smiling woman running towards me, her arms outreaching. It is still to this day one of the best hugs of my life. Our bodies melded into one and we held on to each other for the longest time. This was my aunty. She was my people. After a while I lifted my head high enough to look over her shoulder and down the hall I saw someone standing there. “Who is this?” I asked. “This is your Nana” was the reply. Nana, at the time a small but spritely 75 year old, reached out for me and we embraced. As soon as she heard about my planned visit, she booked a flight from Newcastle to Melbourne. She couldn’t wait to meet me.

That was the first of about six meetings over the following twenty years. There was a lot to learn about each but how do you catch up on a life-time of missed opportunities? I longed to connect with my heritage and the stories that had started to unfold about Nana were amazing. One of my prized possessions is a tiny jade Buddha which she gave me at our first meeting. What an awesome woman! A Buddha! We wrote to each other each Christmas although more recently her letters stopped arriving. I wasn’t sure if she had died, or if she had moved or if she had joined other members of her family in cutting communication with me.

After a series of heart-numbing events over the past few years I surprised myself in mustering the courage I needed to ask some more questions and three weeks ago I found that Nana had been relocated to a nursing home in a small coastal town in New South Wales. I managed to get a message to her about wanting to find out about my family history and I heard back that she was happy to help me where she could. After the longest time, it was these little nibbles that brought me to her bed-side one week ago and I was given a chance, possibly the last chance, to talk to my maternal grandmother.

Seeing her beautiful smile and hearing her say how wonderful it was to see me filled my heart in more ways that I can describe. I’d hurriedly written down some questions for her the night before but it’s hard to cram a lifetime of questions into one visit. I wanted to know the names of her siblings, of her parents, what did her father do, what did she like at school, what did she do when she left school, who were her pets, how did she meet ‘old Jim’, who was ‘old Jim’. On the surface the questions are quite banal, but when faced with the only source of the answers, it meant the world. How was I going to capture all of the answers and be present in the moment, and notice her expressions and mentally record and retain her voice, her tone, her laughter. As we sat together I felt the sands of that damn hourglass slipping away faster than ever.

We had quality time and enjoyed a conversation. We talked about the jobs that her great grand-children may have in the future, about storytelling and technology. We talked about cruelty of animals and the dreadful treatment of Indigenous Australians. It’s an issue so close to my heart and to know my grandmother unequivocally felt the same as me was wonderfully reassuring. She understood at a level I didn’t know existed for a woman of her generation. She felt that nursing homes are no place for children and we talked about the lack of exposure so many children have with people who are nearing the end of their life. She was excited to hear about my children and careful not to overwhelm her, I asked her if she would like to see them. They were marking time at the nearby beach with their dad. When Nana gave the all clear, I sent out the signal and they were there in a flash. Her face lit up, her eyes sparkled and her smile was beaming. I’m not sure what she saw in them, or what her 95 year old mind must have been thinking.

We had driven a long way to see Nana and it was time to say good-bye. I have so many more questions and I’m sure that was my last chance to ask them of her. I wanted our good-bye to be beautiful, but it in the end it was just sad. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see her again, but I took her frail hand in mine, leant in and gently kissed her soft cheek, “I’m so glad I came to visit Nana, we’ll see you soon”.

 

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Why I love running Gunnas

COLUMNS

Catherine,

I wanted to send you this email, with no expectation or want for a reply, just to tell you how grateful I am that one week ago I came to your Gunna’s Masterclass.

When I came to class I was on my second-last day of 5 weeks of annual leave.  I didn’t have a lot planned for that 5 week period, but “a shitload of writing” was high on the list (I had started my novel 6 months prior and had squeezed out just shy of 2000 words at that time and never gone back to it).

On the day of the Gunna’s I had been on annual leave for 4 weeks and 5 days and I had not written a single word in that time.

Since last Saturday at Gunnas…..

1) I submitted my piece that Saturday night which has since appeared on your site (the first thing I have written and let someone read in about 17 years since I finished school);

2) I have accepted the Gunnas Challenge and sat down on four occasions this week with the intention of writing for 1 hour.  On every single occasion I have written for in excess of 1 hour (on one occasion it was closer to 3);

3) I have read “Bird By Bird” by Anne Lamont in a single siting;

4) My novel now has in excess of 10,000 words and is growing everyday…

5) I worked a 40 hour week at my full time job and functioned as a human being whilst completing all of the above.

One final thought.  I sat down this afternoon and started to write a scene which is set in the conservatory of the Botanical Gardens. I was going from childhood memory and then thought “fuck this” and packed up my laptop and headed into the actual Gardens.  In my scene the conservatory is closed to the public but my characters are still able to go inside, and when I got to the Gardens this arvo the conservatory WAS closed to the public due to a wedding!! I was ready to go home and call it a day but instead I had a chuckle to myself about the irony of the situation (crazy writing gods fucking with my head!!), had a wander around the place and ended up with SO much more material which I will can use for either this piece or something in the future.  So it wasn’t a wasted trip at all!

So thank you, thank you, thank you for making me see the light, inspiring me to pull my thumb out of my arse, and bestowing on me the knowledge that to get something written you just have to sit down and damn well write it!

I feel that in terms of my writing, my life will forever be divided into “pre-Gunnas” and “post-Gunnas”!

Cheers!

Loz

 

Dear Dev,

I hope you’re well. I did one of your Gunnas classes in Melbourne in December, and just thought I’d give you an update on how things are going.

That five minute non-stop writing exercise has transformed the way I write – it’s made it possible for me to make use of all sorts of gaps in my schedule. For so long, I thought that there was no point in trying to use a two-hour window (or whatever) for writing, because I’d need at least a day to produce anything worthwhile.  Well, that counter-productive attitude has now gone, and I’m really pleased with some of the material I’ve produced in those gaps.

Another thing. I’ve really kept in mind the mantra about making this a summer of writing, rather than a summer of reading. I love reading, but whenever I’ve thought about grabbing a book, I’ve reminded myself that this is my time. My time to tell my stories.

Last week I had a free afternoon. I was going to go to the pub with a book, and lose myself in someone else’s story. But I decided to take my laptop instead, and do some editing on one of my projects. On the tram ride to the pub, the idea for another piece sparked in my mind, and when I got there I just sat down and got on with it. No nonsense, no “let’s workshop this idea” procrastination. Just a couple of beers, my laptop, and the resolve to just type and type like my life depended on it.

Within a couple of hours I had a down-draft done. Later that evening I returned to it and edited it a bit. The next day, I gave it a sober look over, edited it some more, and decided to send it to a website that had previously published some of my work. They ran it.

It is far from a perfect piece (it could be briefer, it could be neater), but I’m pleased with it. It means something to me, and (I’ve been told) it has meant something to some of the people who have read it. If I’d still been hung up on the idea of ensuring everything was perfect before I shared it, or on the idea that a few spare hours could not be put to meaningful use, then the piece would not have seen the light of day.

So thank you, for helping me de-clog some of the attitudes and misconceptions that have been holding back my writing. I hope your Gunnas students this year have a similar experience, and I look forward to reading whatever stories they have to share.

Andrew Heaver

More lovely things people have said about Gunnas here.

Next Gunnas, Gunnas Self-Publishing and Gunnas Stand-Up Comedy with Rachel Berger here. 

 

 

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Testimonial 11

Testimonial, Testimonial Featured

I hope you’re well. I did one of your Gunnas classes in Melbourne in December, and just thought I’d give you an update on how things are going.

That five minute non-stop writing exercise has transformed the way I write – it’s made it possible for me to make use of all sorts of gaps in my schedule. For so long, I thought that there was no point in trying to use a two-hour window (or whatever) for writing, because I’d need at least a day to produce anything worthwhile.  Well, that counter-productive attitude has now gone, and I’m really pleased with some of the material I’ve produced in those gaps.

Another thing. I’ve really kept in mind the mantra about making this a summer of writing, rather than a summer of reading. I love reading, but whenever I’ve thought about grabbing a book, I’ve reminded myself that this is my time. My time to tell my stories.

Last week I had a free afternoon. I was going to go to the pub with a book, and lose myself in someone else’s story. But I decided to take my laptop instead, and do some editing on one of my projects. On the tram ride to the pub, the idea for another piece sparked in my mind, and when I got there I just sat down and got on with it. No nonsense, no “let’s workshop this idea” procrastination. Just a couple of beers, my laptop, and the resolve to just type and type like my life depended on it.

Within a couple of hours I had a down-draft done. Later that evening I returned to it and edited it a bit. The next day, I gave it a sober look over, edited it some more, and decided to send it to a website that had previously published some of my work. They ran it.

It is far from a perfect piece (it could be briefer, it could be neater), but I’m pleased with it. It means something to me, and (I’ve been told) it has meant something to some of the people who have read it. If I’d still been hung up on the idea of ensuring everything was perfect before I shared it, or on the idea that a few spare hours could not be put to meaningful use, then the piece would not have seen the light of day.

So thank you, for helping me de-clog some of the attitudes and misconceptions that have been holding back my writing. I hope your Gunnas students this year have a similar experience, and I look forward to reading whatever stories they have to share.

Andrew Heaver

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Testimonial 40

Testimonial

Catherine,

I wanted to send you this email, with no expectation or want for a reply, just to tell you how grateful I am that one week ago I came to your Gunna’s Masterclass.

When I came to class I was on my second-last day of 5 weeks of annual leave.  I didn’t have a lot planned for that 5 week period, but “a shitload of writing” was high on the list (I had started my novel 6 months prior and had squeezed out just shy of 2000 words at that time and never gone back to it).

On the day of the Gunna’s I had been on annual leave for 4 weeks and 5 days and I had not written a single word in that time.

Since last Saturday at Gunnas…..

1) I submitted my piece that Saturday night which has since appeared on your site (the first thing I have written and let someone read in about 17 years since I finished school);

2) I have accepted the Gunnas Challenge and sat down on 4 occasions this week with the intention of writing for 1 hour.  On every single occasion I have written for in excess of 1 hour (on one occasion it was closer to 3);

3) I have read “Bird By Bird” by Anne Lamont in a single siting;

4) My novel now has in excess of 10,000 words and is growing everyday…

5) I worked a 40 hour week at my full time job and functioned as a human being whilst completing all of the above.

One final thought.  I sat down this afternoon and started to write a scene which is set in the conservatory of the Botanical Gardens. I was going from childhood memory and then thought “fuck this” and packed up my laptop and headed into the actual Gardens.  In my scene the conservatory is closed to the public but my characters are still able to go inside, and when I got to the Gardens this arvo the conservatory WAS closed to the public due to a wedding!! I was ready to go home and call it a day but instead I had a chuckle to myself about the irony of the situation (crazy writing gods fucking with my head!!), had a wander around the place and ended up with SO much more material which I will can use for either this piece or something in the future.  So it wasn’t a wasted trip at all!

So thank you, thank you, thank you for making me see the light, inspiring me to pull my thumb out of my arse, and bestowing on me the knowledge that to get something written you just have to sit down and damn well write it!

I feel that in terms of my writing, my life will forever be divided into “pre-Gunnas” and “post-Gunnas”!

Cheers!

Loz

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Tips for thirty and forty something men on Tinder – Raggedy Ann

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I’ve been on Tinder lately and it’s at times hilarious, and a bit bizarre just swiping “yes” or “nope” when you don’t even know each other. Nevertheless I’ve come up with these tips for men on Tinder.
Tips for thirty and forty something men on Tinder.
  1. Don’t post photos of you next to hot women.
  2. Don’t post photos of you next to hot men.
  3. Don’t say shit like “I don’t like chocolate or coriander” because if that’s make or break for you, I’m guessing you’ve got commitment issues.
  4. Do comment on how much you love your nieces and nephews.
  5. Only have one picture of your dog.
  6. Photos of your motorbike don’t make me want to love you.
  7. Don’t put up pictures of you shitfaced in South East Asia.
  8. Don’t post pictures of you standing somewhere tropical with a fuck off automatic rifle.
  9. I am ashamed to say it, but if you’re bald, make your first photo one with a nice hat.
  10. If you’re bald, don’t take flash photos from above.
  11. Don’t say “if you tell me your age, I’ll just add GST, right ladies?”
  12. Your six pack is unlikely to be the clincher. Make sure you include a picture of your head too.
  13. Saying “I <3 pussy respect my appetite” makes me want to vomit a bit.
  14. Cult death metal t-shirts draw a fairly exclusive class of suitors. Be mindful of this.
  15. If you have salt and pepper hair, feel free to grow a beard. That way you’ll look like the dad from Family ties, and I might want to meet you.
  16. There are a lot of single men out there who really love cars. Just sayin’.

 

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Ruminations – Susan Browning

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Relaxing on an old chair from the state cinema in my garden, working to sit up straight. It’s quiet in North Hobart, three doors up from the main drag. I feel enveloped by the plants and trees and can see my rabbit sleeping, on a pile of dirt he removed while tunelling. He is in his element and so am I.

Gently gazing towards the ripe red roses which have just emerged, still feeling the intensity of catherine’s energy and the power of the messages she delivered. I have written more words today than in many a year, and it seemed effortless.

I have stories to tell so might as well start now.

Snap, it’s a helpful co-incidence

We’d been walking north along Elizabeth Street from a Japanese restaurant in central Hobart, where we’d eaten sparingly and washed down the food with cold sake. Only enough room in the car for four….two friends and i volunteered to foot it up the hill, only a ten-minute walk to home. The woman of the duo is a questioner, rapid fire, and was curious, as we walked past the republic bar and cafe, where love can germinate, to ask me about love, do I have a lover.

“You need someone to love you Suzie and for you to love back.”  immediately I feel discomfort but try to give a considered response. “um, I suppose so, but I have love, in the form of a rabbit.”
“When were you last in a relationship (with a man), have you had one here?” she persisted.

I think no, and then yes.
“I did date Roger G. For two and a half weeks about 5 years ago.”
I expect a gasp of surprise that our mutual friend had been my lover at one time. She says who’s roger g?
I describe him, in an emphatic manner, gesticulating, of course you know him, he’s one of the gang.

We are passing a restaurant, an institution on the strip, I look up into the face, within metres, of roger g, for the first time in more than a year. The section of street was empty otherwise.

That’s him I tell my friend as we walked on after some small talks. And secretly i feel a little bit special, as though a cosmic power has winked at me.
I feel high, high on life and laughter.
If i’d been able to draw i would have drawn circles and full-lipped mouths with big smiles.
This is the mystery of life. Don’t allow those who would preach only on the rational suppress your excitement and wonder.

Give not a shit when they try to play down the significance of your cosmic moments. Put them in a diary or on your blog.
One day,  you might have a book.

 

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Three men – Steve Stretton

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Once upon a time there was a very small giant. He was so small that everyone called him a dwarf. But he knew better. He was definitely a giant. A small giant maybe, but still a giant. He knew he was a giant because his father was a giant, so he reasoned he must be a giant too. At first he was confused when people referred to him as a dwarf. He initially thought a dwarf must be special kind of giant, so he was very happy to be called so. But then one day a man came by who was neither a dwarf nor a giant. His confusion came about because this man was smaller than his father but bigger than him.

Every day he asked his mother; ‘How come that man is bigger than me but he’s not called a giant. Dad is a giant, I’m a giant but he’s not. Why is that?’
His mother didn’t know what to say.
Because of that he kept asking her, and she could never answer him.
‘But I’m a giant, Dad’s a giant, so he must be a giant. Why do they say he’s not? It must be a conspiracy to make him think he’s small, when he’s really big.’
He felt sorry for the little big man. He tried to think what he could do for him.
And because of that he formulated an idea.
‘Why don’t we call everyone a giant. Then he will be a giant, dad will be giant and I will be a giant.’
He was so enamoured of the idea he went up to his mum.
‘Mum, I’m going to call him a giant. Then everyone will know he’s a giant, and they will see we are all giants.’
His mother smiled.
‘That’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you go to him and tell him he really is a giant. Then he will know it himself.’
So the little giant boy went up to the other man and told him so. He repeated his statement several times.
Until finally finally the other man said; ‘I’m not a giant, I don’t want to be a giant, and I hope one day you will see you are not a giant either. There is more to life than being a giant. We are all different. Some of us are giants, some of us are dwarfs, and some of us are in between. You are a dwarf. You must learn to accept that and learn to live with it.
The boy was devastated. Not a giant. Of course he was a giant. How could this man say otherwise?
He went to his room and sat on his bed and wept. Surely they could see he was a giant. His whole family was giants. He was one too and he didn’t care what anyone said. When his mother came in to see what he was up to he said proudly;
‘I’m a giant, just a different one. I don’t care what that man says.’
His mother was so proud of her son. He knew what he truly was and no one would ever take that from him.
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From one fucking cool and brave chic – Ali

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Write like you’re on fire, like it’s the very last time you’ll be able to write. I’ll write and attempt to fail only to succeed triumphantly, with success inevitable as writing being what I was born to do. My perfect platform to express the creativeness existing with in me. I’m brave enough to endure the endless nights with out sleep typing away, my imperfect spelt words, sentences and paragraphs spewing out of my brain via my key board. I’m Brave enough to rise above the critics and haters that have nothing better to do in their own worlds than to have negative and strong opinions on my unconventional take on life, love and what ever topic spring to my mind that triggers a passion in me. I’m brave enough to be true to my inner self, ignoring any external expectations that may attempt to prevent me from succeeding. I’m brave enough to drive my true passion, my words scrambling, frantic in my mind, racing against each other to leave my brain in a sequence destined to make a difference in the world, destined to be read. But more importantly creating the outlet I personally seek as an escape. I write not for money or fame or even recognition, but because of the gift I have been blessed to with. The gift of creativity and strength to write what others may only ever think. Should my words make others stop and think, question, see another side or re look at their own beliefs momentarily I have succeeded. For my word to connect bring hope or inspire others I have more than succeeded.   Living your passion takes bravery, it takes you to break away from convention and often the comfort and safety you may already have, take a leap of faith. Jump without looking and believe in your self and that the universe will support you by providing the safety net to catch you. I believe if you are being truly true to yourself and your passion failure is not an option. Shedding the fear of being misunderstood, criticised, pleasing anyone other than your self, not conforming to the mould of society or religion takes courage, but the choice to simply not give a fuck is the very best option for me to rise above all the potential road blocks one might encounter when striving to be a successful writer. Not longer to I seek approval or a confirmation from others to do what I do best.

So hello my name is Ali and I am the next big thing in the world of writing.

 

Published as BYali

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