tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37115393284541721102024-03-14T14:44:59.874+10:00Zen QuillDiscovering magic in writing...Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-50307046241406430882009-07-02T23:27:00.002+10:002009-07-02T23:32:16.652+10:00Moved HouseZenquill has finally moved house and would love you to follow along. Come on over and play in the new domain. You can find me at:<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://lynnpriestley.wordpress.com/">http://lynnpriestley.wordpress.com/</a><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-24001257354286138152009-06-23T13:28:00.006+10:002009-06-23T14:59:51.349+10:00Dust by Christine Bongers<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Last night I had the pleasure of attending Christine Bongers launch of her debut novel 'Dust'. The launch was hosted by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-weight: bold; font-family:'lucida grande';"><a href="http://www.riverbendbooks.com.au/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Riverbend Books and Teahouse</span></span></a> </span>in Bulimba. The event was a sell out. Every copy of Dust in store sold out as well. The place was packed with family and friends who braved the rainy weather to support Chris on her special night. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Actor and playwright, Billie Brown got things underway with a witty and fabulous speech. Chris followed on, her opening line being, "Now that's a hard act to follow".<br /></div><div><div>Not true at all. I sat in awe of this woman who delivered a beautiful and inspiring account of her writing journey. She stood confident and strong, was funny and entertaining and had hold of her audience from start to finish. <br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I sat listening to her, considering my own writing journey. As a fledgling writer, plotting my own path into this writing world, I am overwhelmed with the generosity of Queensland writers. It was the first time I had met Chris in person, having raced with her on several occasions on a Tuesday night in the <a href="http://www.awmonline.com.au/Home.aspx">Australian Writers Market</a> online writing race forum. I came away last night feeling like I had caught up with an old friend. She was warm, welcoming and friendly and I can see why the place was jam packed with supporters. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I met many writers at the launch and each and every one was encouraging and supportive of each other, welcoming me into the fold. Camaraderie washed through the crowd last night and made me realise what an incredible industry it is. Writers and writing industry professionals are amazing people as are the families and friends who support them. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I listened to Chris sharing the journey of Dust, her face told of her passion and commitment to her craft. She spoke with eloquence and warmth and at one point moved me to tears as she shared anecdotes of her childhood and family life. It is that kind of connection that inspires me to write, to buckle down and believe I can do as she and many others have done. <br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>After reading her blog about her <a href="http://christinebongers.wordpress.com/motivation-for-writing-dust">motivation to write Dust </a>the dedication in the front of her book speaks volumes, and are words that inspire and move me as well. I was grateful to share her special night with her and her family and friends as well as her extended writing family. I am only two chapters into the book and already I can feel it moving about inside me the way a good book does. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The night was a huge success and I am sure a great time was had by all. I look forward to immersing myself in the journey of Cecilia Maria, and I say thank you to all you good folk who inspired me last night and make me want to grow to be a great writer.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; ">The Launch of Dust</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeRR6TPpI/AAAAAAAAAHc/Ufe1myCNE6Y/s1600-h/DSCN0434+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 326px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeRR6TPpI/AAAAAAAAAHc/Ufe1myCNE6Y/s400/DSCN0434+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350380008274869906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeRGBK91I/AAAAAAAAAHU/EsRLAoFUE3Y/s1600-h/DSCN0441+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeRGBK91I/AAAAAAAAAHU/EsRLAoFUE3Y/s400/DSCN0441+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350380005082462034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeQuWGc6I/AAAAAAAAAHM/WGf_mV-T0no/s1600-h/DSCN0438+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeQuWGc6I/AAAAAAAAAHM/WGf_mV-T0no/s400/DSCN0438+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350379998727795618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeQF4K-DI/AAAAAAAAAHE/XX3vC4UgUXM/s1600-h/DSCN0431+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 333px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeQF4K-DI/AAAAAAAAAHE/XX3vC4UgUXM/s400/DSCN0431+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350379987864844338" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeP5jnDdI/AAAAAAAAAG8/sL6YpZe3rYA/s1600-h/DSCN0440+copy+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SkBeP5jnDdI/AAAAAAAAAG8/sL6YpZe3rYA/s400/DSCN0440+copy+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350379984557379026" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-55619036867599841502009-06-02T08:38:00.006+10:002009-06-02T15:56:16.177+10:00The Editing Cauldron<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It began in a small dank cave on the side of a mountain. The coven huddled around a cauldron as it bubbled and spat. The sorceress was yet to arrive, and the novices waited, rubbing the cold from their pale eager hands. Outside, a full moon hung in a cloudless sky, its light spilling over the treacherous path. A bitter wind blew in from the west, bringing the first frost of the season. It made the cave feel warm and inviting, despite the task they had come to perform.<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Inside the cave, three novices paced. Tonight, their skills would be put to test. Tonight, their worst afflictions would be slain. They leaned into the cauldron and examined the roiling broth.</div><div>"What if I can't do it? What if everyone hates what comes of my spell?" one asked. </div><div>"Faith is the key," said another. </div><div>" You just have to trust..." added the third, wiping beads of steam from her face. They all moved back from the fire.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>At the far end of the cave, three warlocks gathered, chatting and slapping each other's backs. Occasionally, one ventured forth with a long metal rod to stoke the fire that raged beneath the smouldering pot. </div><div>"Here, let me do it - that's not how you stoke a cauldron fire," one said, taking the rod from his warlock friend. He proceeded to dig and poke at the fire, dispatching glowing red flecks into the musty air. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A sudden gust swept through the cave and at once, the din of voices fell silent. The fire crackled a welcome, and the novices turned to the cave's entrance, their robes still settling from the flurry of air. Before them stood the sorceress. She glided toward an altar, where she lay down her magical tools. Her hair was jet black, her eyes glistening, catching the flare of the fire beneath the cauldron. She surveyed them all, her hands clasped daintily before her. They were hands of ritual magic. Hands that could make or break those before her. If that's what they chose.<br /></div><div>"Who goes first this evening?" she asked. A moments silence slithered among them before a trembling novice emerged from the crowd. </div><div>"I do," she said with an unsteady voice. She was small and frail, with one eye gummed shut. </div><div>"Come forth," the sorceress said.</div><div>The young girl edged her way to the front as the sorceress lifted a roll of parchment from her satchel.</div><div>"This is your spell you wish to cast?" she asked the novice.</div><div>"It is," the novice replied, licking the dryness from her lips. The sorceress glided toward the bubbling pot, detached and methodical. She lifted the parchment high in the air and then thrust it deep into the bubbling stew, unbothered by its blistering heat. The only sound was the crackle and spit of the parchment as it purged its secrets into the brew. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The others looked on, opened mouthed, their breath caught in their throats as the cauldron took on the spell and diffused it into the air. Slowly the novices closed their eyes, inhaling the scents, kinking their necks to the sounds, their eyelids filling with fantastical sights. <br /></div><div>"So?" The sorceress asked the coven once the spattering cauldron had settled.</div><div>"I think the beginning could use a dash of eye-bright, you know, might help clear up the point of view, " a brave voice offered. </div><div>"And perhaps some eye of toad might stop all that head-hopping," said another. They all nodded in agreement.</div><div>"And what about structure - perhaps a set of Mojo bones might come in handy - had you thought about that?" asked one of the warlocks.</div><div>The novice trembled and slipped her hands slick with sweat into the pockets of her robes. Her good eye watered and her other stung as their words filled the cave and her spell was dissected again and again. </div><div>"Some balm of Gilead might help all that passiveness, as might a dash of the old Devil's claw but overall, I think your spell has great potential..." said someone at the back. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The young novice watched them all nod again and then turned to the alter where the sorceress stood with a sleek black quill in her hand. She scrawled furiously upon a clean sheet of parchment, and then lifted her arm and thrust the paper into the pot. The cauldron roiled again and a diaphanous mist rose to the roof of the cave. It hovered for a moment and then fell slowly to settle about the young novice. The novice shuddered and her eye pained and she thought she might cry. A single tear fell from her good eye while her closed eye wept only with pain. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She rubbed at her stinging eye, and felt the gummy slit of her eyelid widen. A needle thin shaft of light split the darkness and pain filled her head. She staggered a little and then slowly prized her afflicted eye wide open. Silence fell over the room and she stared at her fellow novices, their heads bathed by a murky white light . She rubbed again at her eyes, and slowly her vision cleared. A miracle. At last she could see the work to be done. The curse had been broken and now she had hope. The sorceress stepped forth and handed her a clean sheet of parchment and a new purple quill. </div><div>"Here, you'll be needing these..." she said with a smile. The novice watched her glide back to her alter, wishing one day to be half as smart.</div><div>"Shall we break for some tea? I think one of the warlocks brought fairy cakes..." the Sorceress announced, licking her ruby red lips. An appreciative murmur rippled among them and the novice breathed a sigh of relief.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-76167517714105059762009-05-10T21:08:00.003+10:002009-05-10T22:34:52.933+10:00Mother's DayIt was March 25th when I heard my great aunty calling to me over the fence. I was playing with my neighbour. I was eleven, she was almost seventeen. Our game involved loads of giggling and bad makeup. The stuff an eleven year old dreams of. She was applying the final touches of blue mascara to my eyelashes when I heard my name. I'd been staying with my great aunt during my mother's recent extended illness. My aunt called that my father had arrived - a surprise random visit I wasn't expecting. He visited a couple of times a week, in between work and visiting my mother in hospital. I downed tools and ran through the yard and leapt over the fence, a small wriggle of fear lurching about in my stomach. My father detested make up on any woman, let alone his eleven year old daughter. <div><br /></div><div>I ran up the front porch steps, to where my aunt was waiting for me, the screen door yawning open. My father was no where in sight. The house was chilly and my eyes took a while to adjust to the light as I stepped into the hallway and heard the screen door slam behind me. My aunt led me into the front room. The good room. The special room that was only ever used for important occasions. I remember her face as she looked down at me, her brow creased and her mouth pressed to a thin line. My worm of fear instinctively grew as she ushered me into the room and then closed the door behind me. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the door clicked shut, I turned and saw my father sitting in a chair. He pushed a smile onto his face and silently waved me over to sit on his lap. He was wearing a pale green and white checked shirt. I can still see it clearly to this day. I have never forgotten that shirt. He slapped his knee and pulled me close, and so I wriggled onto his lap. This was a new thing. We didn't normally do laps. Silence hung between us, crammed with the moment that would change the rest of my life, and would morph and warp the person I was. It took him several attempts to get going. A bit like a mower flooded from too much choke. I could see he was choking on something. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt the warm rush of adrenaline as he opened his mouth and finally got the words to come out. The sensation began in my knees and crept upward to form great sloshing waves in the pit of my gut where fear and denial churned for many long months to come. A sense of something bad saw me wrap my arms tightly around his neck as he said the words. Through his sobs he said, "Mummy died today." </div><div><br /></div><div>He pulled me close and for a moment I couldn't breathe. I couldn't tell whether he held me too tight or whether I was too scared to take another breath. If I froze in the moment perhaps it might all go away. I remember grief and confusion balled tightly inside me, like it were jagged on an edge that it couldn't get past. Eventually something shifted and I heard myself scream. Long and hideous screams of a frightened child. My mother was dead. I have never felt so terrified in all my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I folded in his arms, my tears falling freely and landing as blue black blobs on his shirt as the mascara washed from my eyes. He held me, and rocked me until my tears finally dried and my cries reduced to shuddery gasps. It's a memory that still pains me after so many years. But that's one bad memory amid a million that tilt the scales of happiness in my favour. And to preserve those memories, I will spend more time capturing them on paper - and may share some in here, as memory lingers and beckons to be set down in ink. It's Mother's day - a great day to start chasing memories in order to pin them to paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>Somewhere, her spirit runs. I see her love of things just about everywhere; in gardens, in kitchens, in creatures great and small. And there is still sadness but no longer loss. I am coming to realise how badly our culture responds to death. How we spend so much time revering the dead that we forget to honour the living. And regardless of all our spent grief, the show must go on. And on it goes...</div><div><br /></div><div>If you have a mother. Hug her. While you still can.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-54935479787633813082009-05-05T09:02:00.001+10:002009-05-05T09:04:39.016+10:00HappinessWe really should all sing more...<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGcOkRENygQ&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Egivememyremote%2Ecom%2Fremote%2Fhey%2Djude%2Dsing%2Dalong%2Din%2Dtrafalgar%2Dsquare%2Dfor%2Dt%2Dmobile%2F&feature=player_embedded">Click here to Singalong...</a></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-73262275387394884772009-04-25T10:01:00.009+10:002009-04-25T11:35:42.303+10:00Pink Mousse and Scrambled Egg - A Dessertation<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The place was busy and I watched as lunches arrived. A commotion erupted from one of the tables.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I didn't order PINK MOUSSE," shrieked a woman. A colleague of mine stopped and enquired what was wrong.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"I'm not eating it. I didn't order it and I'm not eating it... you take it away right now and bring me what I ordered..." she demanded. Her face took on a shade that complimented the mousses pinkness as she poked at her free Unhappy Meal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I wondered if she considered just pushing it to one side and not eating it, opposed to blowing a gasket over a bowl of pink mousse. I had visions of decorating the bowl with antlers and eyes and a cute little elkish mouth - perhaps make the mousse more endearing but I value my job so instead, I watched her react, and began to wonder what makes us flip out when we don't get what it is we think we deserve. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Why do we incite a mini riot and throw tantrums that would make a two year old proud? I wondered in her case, what lay beneath the pink mousse? What past experience drove her thoughts to make her behave this way. Was it about control, or having her desires ignored? Was it the colour pink? Did that remind her of some horrible childhood incident that dredged up unexplained angst at the mere sight of pinkness? Or was it all over nor getting her own way? She clearly had an agenda, and pink mousse was not on it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This got me thinking about personal agendas. Everybody has one - that fragile basket of eggs we carry around each day; each egg a delicate thought, a seed of potential being that we have conjured from the marketplace of our mind. I wonder what drives the thoughts we fill our heads with from moment to moment. My day to day thoughts roll around in my basket, knocking together trying to get out of each other's way, each vying for pole position as my ego swaps and sorts and deems which thought is more important. And the more thoughts I entertain, the less present I am to the moment and the more likely I am to end up with a head full of scrambled egg. If I can't be present in the moment, can I create characters that are present in their story? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I watched the pink mousse scenario pan out into a semi happy ending but the experience had me thinking about the stories I create, and how I could use this experience as a way to delve deeper into the lives of my characters. I started asking myself what is driving the thoughts of my main character, Max? What are his past experiences? What could make him flip out like the woman had over a bowl of pink mousse? I may never know the reasons behind the woman's aversion to rose coloured wobbling desserts but I can see how important it is to be able to recognise what pushes my character's buttons. To not know him at such a deep level may lead him to become a flat and flawless being. No flaws=no cause. No Cause = no claws to fight for what is important to him - even if it is just a free unhappy meal. </span></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-67887710294788726192009-04-15T09:14:00.007+10:002009-04-15T13:22:40.112+10:00Un-Deadly DeadlinesI have been thumbing through Chris Baty's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No Plot? No Problem ! </span>book. Chris is the founder of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which formed back in 1999 when he was working as a writer in the San Francisco Bay area. During this time, he decided to write a novel. He had no idea how to write a novel but that didn't stop him. His plan was to write a novel of 50,000 words in a month. He decided on 50,000 words after pulling the shortest book from his bookshelf, doing the math and coming up with the magical figure of 50,000. The book was Huxley's Brave New World. Quite a serendipitous title, given that NaNoWriMo is all about creating brave new worlds - all in a month. <div>"We were in our mid twenties, and had no idea what we were doing. But we knew we loved books. And so we set out to write them," he says.</div><div><br /></div><div>During the first year that NaNoWriMo ran, twenty one people signed up to undertake the task. NaNoWriMo is now celebrating 10 years with 1,643,343,993 as a total collective word count for 2008. In his book, Chris highlights a quote by writer and champion figure-skater, Ralph Waldo Emerson, "In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed." </div><div>And speed is the thing Chris swears by. Speed underpins the NaNoWriMo concept. You see, it's all about deadlines. </div><div><br /></div><div>He proved this theory by taking three months off work, to live that dream we all dream of - to write full time and uninterrupted by the vexations of work. He failed miserably.</div><div>With nothing to do all day but write, he found himself doing everything <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">but</span> writing. He had no deadline. He claims a rough draft is "best written in the steam cooker of an already busy life." He also points out Isaac Newton's observation; things in motion tend to stay in motion.</div><div><br /></div><div>I glance back over my own writing journey and I can see there is validity in his claims. I perform best when there is a deadline to beat. Over the past several Tuesday evenings, I have been heading into the Australian Writer's Marketplace online. <a href="http://www.awmonline.com.au/">www.awmonline.com.au</a></div><div>AWM run a friendly and supportive writing race from 8pm - 9pm and often have special guests along for the ride. It's not so much about racing against each other. It's more about setting a writing goal and for an hour, going flat out to achieve. </div><div><br /></div><div>During that hour, I can crank out between 1200-2000 words. And I am coming to realise, it's all because of the deadline. I have an hour to perform so it's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">lights camera action</span>. For one hour, I can block out the world and focus fully on words pouring forth. I have worked on my novel in progress during this time and I have also written first drafts of short stories. The short stories would probably never have surfaced had a deadline not been in place that made me think fast and write furiously, trusting that stream of consciousness writing that our inner critic loves to bully into submission. During a writing race, that kick boxing critic just doesn't have time to get a leg in. </div><div><br /></div><div>The beauty of racing is that you can do it anytime. Whilst it's nice to do it with friends and it's nice to have that support, there really is no excuse not to do it anyway. All you need is a clock, some time telling ability, a notepad or computer, a realistic writing goal and of course that all important ingredient - the deadline- be it an hour, 30 minutes or whatever time you can spare. For me, an hour works really well. Longer sessions see my mind wandering and my fingers itching to click on that time sucking icon that leads me into that wicked wide web. </div><div><br /></div><div>An hour gives me the chance to follow Emerson's lead; to skate over thin ice, knowing my safety is in the speed that I go. If I stop, the weight of my hesitation will sink me. And, I have to agree with Newton - things in motion really do stay in motion. Racing, either alone or with friends is a sure way to get black on white. The once dreaded deadline is now an exciting and brave new world in which to create. </div><div><br /></div><div>To join in the fun at AWMonline, follow this link;</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125); font-family:Calibri;font-size:15px;"><a href="http://www.awmonline.com.au/Subscribe/SubscriberSignUp.aspx" style="color: blue; text-decoration: underline; ">http://www.awmonline.com.au/Subscribe/SubscriberSignUp.aspx</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125); font-family:Calibri;font-size:15px;">Subscriptions start at $19.95 and you will be rewarded with a wealth of support and information to help you along on your writing journey.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>NaNoWriMo runs from November 1st -30th. </div><div>Details can be found at <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">www.nanowrimo.org</a></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-41208749617181653762009-04-10T18:22:00.003+10:002009-04-10T19:15:06.922+10:00Inspiration<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I so wish inspiration could come in a bottle. I would keep a vat of it sitting under my desk, a syphon attached and ready to pour forth over the page when required. If it were only that easy. Instead, when I seek inspiration, I turn to people and places that inspire me to write. Here are some;</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A Change of Scenery:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To escape cabin fever, I venture down to the local library. Here I can churn out words amid toddler screams, old friends catching up over coffee, community announcements over the P.A system. For some reason, the sounds and the sights of the library feed my creative spirit and I always achieve amid the hundreds of surrounding tomes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Reading inspirational work by others:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am presently reading Julia Cameron's </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Walking in this World. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is a wonderful book about nurturing your creativity. She suggests a weekly walk some place special and an Artist's date once a week - part of a day set aside doing something that will feed your creative side. I practise both - and they work. They take me outside the box and let me live in a space that is new and bright. When I go back to my work, it always seems so much more manageable. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Going Somewhere I Love:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When I head anywhere near water, I feel my creativity surge to the surface. There is something about paddling through water that connects me to some bigger, brighter source. It's akin to the feeling I get when I am actually writing. I resonate with a force I can't fully grasp nor wish to question. It just is and it works and it makes me happy. And it makes me write.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Friends Who Get It:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As much as we all love our friends, many friends just don't get what the fuss of a writer is all about. You burst at the seams with excitement over a new plot point and they look at you with that little half smile, wide-eyed and expecting the rest of the conversation - you know, the important bit that they are sure must be following anytime soon.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"And?" they say, ever so politely, waiting patiently for you to finish the sentence. Except you already have. You can tell straight away who they are, with that unmistakable expression that creeps over their face. They just... don't... get it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But then there are the friends who do. The writing buddies who know every inch of your angst and excitement without you barely even having to open your mouth. I am so blessed to have several writing friends - I treasure their friendship. They offer their undying support as they wade through their own writing journey. You know you can call them or email and rave about the good, bad and ugly of writing, and that they will listen and council and guide you gently back into some safe little harbour where you can rest for a while before returning to uncharted waters. Without these people, I am certain the writer in me would wither and die. So to all of you, and particularly Arienne, Marie and <a href="http://wellreadrabbit.wordpress.com/">Katherine</a> - I thank you from the bottom of my inspirational vat.</span></span></div><div><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-78581266598574713172009-04-08T09:43:00.000+10:002009-04-08T09:41:18.048+10:00QWC- AWM Writing Race - The Great UnblockerIt's official...I am now unblocked. I attended the QWC-AWMonline writing race last night and cranked out 2307 words of a short story from scratch - all in an hour. I can feel the winds of change rushing through me! I finally out-stared the Big White Blocky Page... and won.Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-21100205475734005332009-04-07T15:20:00.003+10:002009-04-07T15:40:44.618+10:00Writer's BlockIt's official. I'm blocked. Not literally. Just literarily. I have been opening this blog daily since the last entry and sitting and staring at a blank screen. I've felt like a captive stuck in a room with white walls. Walls I can't see beyond or around. It's been a cold and unwelcoming place where no matter what I do, I can't get a grip that enables me to pull the walls down. And it feels like I have been stuck here for ever. I'm almost finished my Year of the Edit course. Kim has been a fantastic teacher but I feel I have failed her. I have failed myself. Because instead of carving my manuscript into pieces that I polish like gems, I sit down every day to write and nothing comes. Not a thing. My fingers walk their way across the keyboard and engage the Off switch of my mac and once again, the big white block on the screen wins the staring comp. <div><br /></div><div>So what does one do, when blocked beyond all comprehension? When the project you loved with all of your heart lies abandoned upon the desk in a dust gathering pile of no hope? I have no answers to offer, and when I can't find words of my own, I turn to the words of others and I read. And in a way, I use it as an excuse to read for hours in a day - because somewhere amid the words of another, I will find my voice lurking behind the ink on their page. It will niggle and jump up and down and demand my attention, like a small child whose mother is on the phone talking. Eventually, after I ignore it enough by spending time with others, my muse and my motivation will edge its way back and demand I give them the attention they think they suddenly deserve. Eventually. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until then, I will read. And when the magic returns, so will I. And judging by the noise in my head as I write this, exposing my muse's resistant behaviour, I am guessing that I will be back at it sooner than I ever imagined. </div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-19392957260152797852009-03-26T19:52:00.002+10:002009-03-26T20:09:51.568+10:00True North 2"Not far away. How about you?" <div>"Down from Melany for the day," he said.</div><div>"She's a beautiful dog," she kept her eyes on his face. Out the corner of her eye she caught the other woman, shifting from foot to foot.</div><div>"I found her by the side of the road. She was only a pup,"</div><div>"She's a lucky girl,"</div><div><br /></div><div> They talked for nearly an hour, there beneath the trees, the ocean a giant blue backdrop. <br /></div><div>"I should let you two get going," she finally said. They walked as a small silent group back to the car park, the woman striding ahead. As they bid their farewells, he pulled a card from his pocket and slid it into her hand. He looked down at her and smiled.</div><div>"Maybe we'll catch up down here again, sometime," </div><div>"Maybe. I usually end up here on Tuesdays" she said, closing her hand around the card. </div><div>"See you later,"</div><div>"Maybe,"</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-78704882803127621432009-03-24T18:05:00.005+10:002009-03-24T18:42:24.607+10:00True NorthBefore her was endless ocean. She sat beneath the trees on a white park bench and contemplated her life. She felt unsure. About everything. The day was perfect. A cool breeze blowing in and a sun round and warm shining down, warming her feet. She bowed her head - not in prayer. Someone once told her that prayer was all about talking to God and meditation was all about listening. That's what she needed to do; just listen. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She closed her eyes, the sound of the wind and waves filling her ears. A dog barked in the distance and she opened her eyes for a glimpse of it. Dogs. They were her weakness. She watched it chasing the waves, bouncing through the clear water, not a care in the world. Her life should be like that, she thought. Carefree and playful and void of all worry. If only.<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She closed her eyes once again, resisting the temptation to get up and move. Resisting the uncomfortable feeling that sat in her chest. A feeling of loss like she had come adrift from her moorings and had lost her way. With eyes closed, she asked for a sign. Just a small fragment of a clue to help her regain her bearings. She imagined her heart like a compass within. She prayed for direction; she begged for true north. She licked at her lips and could taste the salt and was unsure whether it came from the sea or her tears. She answered her question by wiping her face. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She glanced at her watch and stood. It was time to get home. There were things to be done. She made her way up the hill to the car. Crossing the park, she saw him. He was standing beside a woman. They seemed together but not as a couple. Nearby was a dog - black and white, a heeler. She was beautiful. The dog was drinking from a bowl near a tap. She glanced down at her feet still covered with sand and then felt a pull, like some guiding force leading her sideways toward where they stood. She stopped in front of the dog. </div><div>"Ah, you've come to pat my dog," he said, smiling down at her. She looked up at him. He had blue eyes the colour of lapis and a gentle face. She looked down at the dog, who looked up at her. Its eyes were the colour of autumn and its face was as gentle as her masters.</div><div>"What's her name?" she asked him, returning her gaze to his face.</div><div>"Maggie." he said. </div><div>Her eyes settled on his face. A happy and gentle face. He was beautiful.</div><div>"You from around here? " he asked.</div></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-19454017444237746542009-03-22T14:36:00.002+10:002009-03-22T14:55:46.513+10:00Wrestling IdeasI often wonder where ideas come from. Do they hang about in the ether and filter down into available space? Or do we attract them on some vibrational level? What makes me wake in the middle of the night with a story line running through my head? The subconscious has a lot to answer for but that still doesn't explain why certain people get certain ideas. What made J.K Rowling think of a wizard boy, as she chugged along one day on a train? I wonder, if she hadn't taken notice of him, would he have moved on and appeared to somebody else?Do thoughts and ideas already exist as some kind of ethereal energy that beg our attention in order to populate our reality? I can almost see them floating about in the air, bumping into people's heads, demanding to be taken seriously. Like all the times I think of something and say to myself,<div>"I'll remember that..." and then don't. The idea moves on, never to be seen ( by me) again. Is there a great conscious creative connection going on that we must acknowledge and tap into or else be left without a clue? </div><div><br /></div><div>So many questions...so little time to ponder it all. The one thing I have learned is to take notice when a little whisper of an idea swings my way. Instead of relying on memory, I grab it and pin it to the closest piece of paper I can find. A $2.00 investment in a packet of mini notepads now strewn through the house have helped wrestle these fleeting ideas from the air. The notepads have at least given me the time to consider the idea's worth later on - before it moves on and is forgotten for good.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-58596202287363061312009-03-19T22:26:00.003+10:002009-03-19T22:41:00.629+10:00Staying on TrackI recently became motivated to get my life in some kind of order. Part of that clean up was learning to utilise my electronic calendar. I have been plugging in important things that need to be done for the day and so far, it is working right on schedule. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>For my writing, I enter a block of time that is specifically dedicated. It might be a two hour time slot for plotting. Or a one hour session on scene tracking. Whatever it is, it becomes an important appointment with myself that I must keep. When I log onto my mac in the morning, and start checking emails and surfing the net, my calendar is running away in the background. When I procrastinate past my allotted time to "play, trapping myself in the sticky wide web, a calendar reminder pops up and lets me know that I have a word count to meet, or a scene to develop etc. It helps me refocus. And it makes me set goals. It is easy to click it away but it is far more rewarding to acknowledge it and get on with what task I have set to improve my writing.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They only take minutes to set up and once they are in, you can drag and drop them from one day to the next when you plan for your next writing session. It's a little like having your conscience online and having to be accountable. Which reminds me...time for bed!<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>So, how do you keep yourself on track?</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-63493850749652682862009-03-17T17:44:00.005+10:002009-03-17T18:09:15.856+10:00RewardsYesterday, after a long writing session, I'd had it. But I had reached my goal, so in order to reward myself, I took off to Sandgate. One of the things I learned in Monique Beedles workshop was that it is important to reward yourself when you reach a goal. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The pay off was just what I needed. The weather was perfect and after a healthy lunch at a cafe, I sat and pondered some more scenes for the book. Because I was out "paying" myself, the extra work I did at the table didn't seem like work and the new atmosphere fuelled my creativity. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I rounded the afternoon off with a walk by the sea. It emptied my head and cleared out the fatigue I was feeling after hours spent in front of my computer. So from herein, rewards are the way to go - after the hard work is done - of course.<div><br /></div><div>Rewarding yourself keeps your energy flowing. When I don't reward myself, my creativity flags a little and it all becomes like a lot of hard work with little or no gain. Not all rewards have to cost, financially. They can include a walk by the sea or through your favourite park, coffee with a friend, a walk around the block, an hour of reading or gardening or just doing your favourite thing. Whatever it is that you need to feel recharged after the work is done. Julia Cameron, who wrote 'The Artist's Way', advocates having an artist's date. This is a pre-planned date with yourself that you must keep, and it is to be spent doing something creative and fun. It is simply a way of rewarding yourself. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Next time you reach that goal, no matter how small or large, take a moment to reward yourself in some way. It keeps the enthusiasm alive knowing that something nice is waiting at the other end of the slog.<br /></div></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-35870276626658190392009-03-15T15:03:00.005+10:002009-03-15T17:10:07.728+10:00The Big Picture<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My Official Board of Story-ness.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SbyOkKe4_sI/AAAAAAAAAFU/9JuMlqBhKTg/s1600-h/DSCN0346.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SbyOkKe4_sI/AAAAAAAAAFU/9JuMlqBhKTg/s400/DSCN0346.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313278412330696386" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yesterday I attended Dr Monique Beedles workshop - Project Management for Writers. It was a fantastic workshop filled with many tools and tips on how to meld daily life with a writing life as well as figuring out how to squeeze in time for yourself. I wonder how many writers out there take the time to plan out a schedule that is dedicated to writing. I know that when I have a dedicated time slot allotted for writing, I am more likely to feel in the mood. When I wing it, and fit it in where I can, I often find excuses to not write because so much else needs attending to. </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After doing the workshop with Monique, I am ready and rearing to get on with the tasks. I have a long term and short term map and goals all plotted out on a story board. My head feels lighter and I feel so much more organised and inspired to get on with writing instead of muddling through the quagmire that is my brain when there is no plan to follow. If you have a plan or routine that works for you - I'd love to hear about it. The board includes scene maps. plotting templates, a writing map, word count goals, a plan for the next week and month plus a "free" area to randomly jot general stuff that comes to mind.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After planning my writing life, I realise that blogging everyday is no longer a possibility if I am to achieve my major writing goals so I will instead blog with days that have "U" in them - Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday. Saturday will be my writing day off. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm off to plot and plunder the muse...</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-80988646805164586242009-03-14T11:11:00.003+10:002009-03-15T11:04:00.433+10:00The Writing Cauldron<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SbxT5Z7CWqI/AAAAAAAAAFM/zL8GBY4oSqc/s1600-h/WC_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 362px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SbxT5Z7CWqI/AAAAAAAAAFM/zL8GBY4oSqc/s400/WC_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313213906066496162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9mvJG9Q4ang/SbxTpI7QvuI/AAAAAAAAAFE/eE5gO-NUZHY/s1600-h/WC_1.jpg"><br /></a>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-75072111881705706172009-03-13T19:20:00.004+10:002009-03-13T19:47:11.381+10:00The Penny"Marshall, think carefully. He means what he says," Angie said. Her voice was soft but convincing. I stared at the door and then turned to face Pa. <div>"What if I can't find her? Then what? It would be like losing her all over again."</div><div>"Finding your mother is a choice you must make. Taking on these powers...I'm afraid, isn't." Pa explained.</div><div>"What do you mean?"</div><div>"The power accepts you. You cannot escape it once it has chosen," he said.</div><div>"What makes you think it has chosen me?"</div><div>"The penny that you now carry in your pocket..." I instinctively felt for it. </div><div>"How did you know about the penny?" I hadn't told anyone I had taken it.</div><div>"There are many things I know about. And it is my job to teach you all of it. The penny has chosen you, Marshall. You are wasting your time if you think you can run away from it." I felt the warm pulsing of the coin and for reasons I couldn't fully understand, I found myself walking back toward Pa. I fell into the chair, my head swimming a little and my limbs heavy as lead.</div><div><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-49505717427301348052009-03-12T21:40:00.003+10:002009-03-12T21:58:59.307+10:00Getting Away"Is this meant to be funny?" I asked him. There was no way my mother could have survived. <div>"You think I would joke about my own daughter's death?"</div><div>I felt hot and sick and needed air.</div><div>"I don't know what to think. How can she still be alive?" I felt sweat trickle down the back of my neck. I pushed myself up from the chair.</div><div>"I need to get out of here."</div><div> I wanted to know but couldn't handle believing it had all been a hoax. I'd spent so much time getting my head around her being dead. I moved toward the door.</div><div>"You can't leave here. Not tonight," Pa said. His voice was slow and even. It was clear who was now in control. </div><div>"Why not?" I glared across at him.</div><div>"It's not safe. People know you are here. They know why you have come. My brother will be watching out for you. The thing is, it isn't your mother he wants. It's you. He will draw you out, Marshall. And then he will kill you. Trust me. He has killed before. He will kill again."</div><div>I stood halfway between the door and the chair, uncertain which option to take.</div><div><br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-14327476027619373862009-03-11T18:49:00.003+10:002009-03-11T19:09:04.503+10:00Finding MaeThe room fell quiet and nobody moved for a while. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was nearly two. I heard rain against the roof, a soft and constant reminder that the weather had turned. <div>"So you're telling me I'm next in line? I'm the one who is meant to take over these...powers?" </div><div>Pa nodded slowly.</div><div>"That's right. It's all up to you."</div><div>"Why me?" </div><div>"Like I explained, if you don't take on the position as Time Keeper, then the title goes to my brother. We can't let that happen. There's something else I probably should tell you..."</div><div>I waited and wondered while he shifted himself in the chair. He leaned forward, his arms on his knees. We were mirroring each other. He looked at me, concern spread over his face.</div><div>"I don't think your mother is dead." My heart skipped a beat.</div><div>"What do you mean?" I asked him. My heart thudded about in my chest. I took a deep breath and waited for him to answer. He said nothing.</div><div>"What do you mean?" I insisted.</div><div>"I think she's alive and I think you can find her," he said.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-47411010274396191612009-03-10T20:01:00.002+10:002009-03-10T20:09:27.037+10:00BeginningHe walked slowly into the room, his hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets. He looked younger, and not so cranky. <div>"Surprised to see me?" he asked with a chuckle. I could feel his enjoyment oozing toward me. </div><div>"Can someone please tell me what's going on?" I asked, looking from him to her.</div><div>"It would be my pleasure," he said, pulling his hands free, and taking a seat on the couch. He leant forward, resting his arms on his knees, his head bowed low. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at me. </div><div>"It began when your mother was born..." he said. I settled back in my seat. This was going to be a long night.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-61149917104847261892009-03-09T19:05:00.004+10:002009-03-09T19:25:37.161+10:00He Shows UpWe moved into the lounge room and she motioned for me to sit. I sat in a chair opposite where she stood. I sunk back into the cushions for protection from what she was about to deliver.<div>"So? You planning on telling me now?" I asked. I was tired of the cat and mouse game we were playing.</div><div>"It will probably sound lame," she offered.</div><div>"Try me,"</div><div>"Your grandfather has powers you obviously don't know about,"</div><div>"Yeah, like he has the power to be a royal pain..."</div><div>"That's not what I mean. His powers are well known here," she explained. I wished she would cut to the chase. I looked to my right. There was a photo of me and my brother taken when we must have been about three. It felt weird seeing a part of me in such a strange place.</div><div>"So what are these so called powers?" I asked, looking back at her. She paused for a moment before answering.</div><div>"He can manipulate time," she said. I stifled a laugh.</div><div>"You're not serious. You brought me all the way here to tell me this?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"No," someone said behind me.</div><div>"She brought you all the way here so <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I</span> could tell you all this..." I recognised the voice straight away. I spun in the chair and saw my grandfather standing in the doorway.</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-2067922347672653392009-03-08T19:57:00.003+10:002009-03-08T20:26:26.189+10:00HomeThe gate snapped shut behind me and I followed her down a narrow path. Torches flickered and spat along the path. <div>"Keep up, we don't have much time," she said.</div><div>"For what?" </div><div>"The guards will have seen us come in. They will be wondering what we are up to?"</div><div>"Can you blame them?" I asked.</div><div>" Just keep up, OK?"</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The path led down into a valley, where buildings sprawled across the land. We turned onto another path that led to a small house. We reached the house where she fumbled through the keys she still held in her hand. She found the one she was looking for.</div><div>She stepped up onto the porch and opened the screen door and then slipped the key into the lock.</div><div>"How many houses do you have?" I asked.</div><div>"This isn't mine," she answered, opening the door and waving me inside.</div><div>"Should I ask?"</div><div>"It belongs to your grandfather. This is his house. Welcome home," she said. </div><div>I stood in the foyer and looked to her, as the porch door slammed shut. </div><div>"So why are we here?" I asked. She closed and locked the door.</div><div>"Because here is the only safe place to tell you the truth,"</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-55290697927148944342009-03-07T20:42:00.003+10:002009-03-07T20:58:22.620+10:00The GateWe jumped off the ferry and headed from the wharf. The place felt different - kind of eerie. I felt suddenly on edge. There was no one around and the narrow streets were lit only by lamplight that glowed feebly into the dark night. We walked in silence for several minutes before I asked.<div>"Where are we going, exactly?"</div><div>She cast a quick look over her shoulder and then quickened her pace.</div><div>"Shut up and keep moving." There was an edge to her voice that matched the uneasiness I was still feeling.</div><div>"What's wrong..."</div><div>"Don't say anything," she whispered through clenched teeth. "And don't look back," she added.</div><div>I resisted the impulse to do so. I cranked up the pace to keep up with her, and strained my ears to hear footsteps other than ours but all I heard was our hurried steps along a dark street now lined with old stone cottages. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>We hurried up the hill, my breath catching in my throat from the cold night air. As we neared the top of the hill, she dug in her bag and pulled out a large set of keys. We came to a high stone wall at the top of the hill and we stopped before a large wooden gate. She slipped a key into the lock and pushed at the gate. It groaned open as if in pain, allowing us passage into another world. <br /></div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3711539328454172110.post-25612386797503749622009-03-06T21:06:00.001+10:002009-03-06T21:08:44.900+10:00Feelin' DizzyI Dizzy is and Dizzy was<div>Too dizzy now to write a blog,</div><div>Catch up tomorrow...</div>Zen Quillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16969372381654737050noreply@blogger.com0