All Hail Zonatron!

A Thought...

So I have two sisters and a brother. My sisters are 18 months and 3.5 years younger than me respectively. My brother is 12 years younger, lets not get me started on him.

My youngest sister, who I shall call PartyGirl, is completely deranged and has no sense of decorum what-so-ever. Once we were watching a baseball game, and I commented that the left fieldsman was particularly good looking. Next thing I know, she's leaning over the fence, introducing herself and successfully negotiating the retrieval of his phone number for my benefit. I should admit at this point I'd just finished a two hour training session, and was wearing an oversized baseball hoody, "Skins" (which for people not in the know, are second-skin like leggings that leave NOTHING to the imagination), a baggy pair of shorts over the Skins and my blond hair was allllll over the place. Not any man's idea of a good time, I'm sure, but PartyGirl found herself hilaaaarious. Anyway, while that gives you a brief insight into her personality, it's not PartyGirl that prompted the picture of the alien above. No, that's my first sister, BomberGirl, who I also happen to live with.

I would call her a typical "middle child," overlooked primarily due to PartyGirl demanding all our parent's attention, all of the time. As a youngling, BomberGirl had a predisposition to wandering around in her own little world. You would talk to her and eventually notice that she wasn't hearing a word of it. Or worse, you'd ask her a question, and she'd stare at you with a gormless expression on her face. At night she would climb into the pantry, steal biscuits, eat some and hide the rest under his pillow. When mum would come to wake her in the morning, and despite the crumbs on her face and in her bed she would swear black and blue that she did not do it.

This day dreaming disposition became so obvious at one point that my father announced that she must be an alien child, and we embroidered the story to eventually decide that she hailed from the Planet Zonatron. From that point onwards, when BomberGirl did something in character, we'd look at each other and mutter the word "Zonatron!" It made for a bit of explaining when this happened in public, but to this day the joke continues, over 25 years later.

BomberGirl's pose...

One of my favorite Zonatron moments was one Wednesday night when we were participating in a Twilight Softball match. I was playing Catcher, and BomberGirl was planted out in Right Field. Twilight Softball was a mixed tournament, designed to allow parents and children to play together, so my father was also on the field. When it was our turn to field, the pitcher prepared to throw the ball in to the batter and the rest of the fielders leant forward in readiness. Our job was to react immediately, and from the looks of it from my position, everyone was paying absolute attention.

The pitcher pitched the ball and the batter smashed it, straight over BomberGirl's head. BomberGirl however DID NOT MOVE! Not a muscle! She remained hunched forward, glove poised, staring avidly at the exact spot where the batter had been standing not a moment sooner. It wasn't until someone shouted "BomberGirl!" that she flinched, exclaimed,"OH!" turned and sprinted after the ball as it dribbled away from her.

Everyone was in hysterics, opposition included, to the point where the batter managed a home run because BomberGirl had nobody to throw the ball to - we were all too busy laughing. At that point my father turned to me and shrugged...

"Zonatron," he said

Snap and Crack

A memory...

I hate broken bones. No, I loath broken bones. It could almost be said I have a phobia. Any television footage where there is a sportsman getting his leg broken, or ankle snapped brings on dry retching and a sick feeling in my stomach. I've seen friends break limbs on the sporting field and I've had to walk away and let everyone else assist, lest I faint in the face of the injury. My saving grace is that until recently the most extreme break I'd experienced was a hairline fracture in my right ring finger - then I decided to fracture an ankle while quad bike riding in the jungle in Thailand... *sigh* 

So now I've explained that, I'll tell you about my brother who I shall call GolfBoy (yes, he is obsessed with golf, obviously).

Not GolfBoy.
He was much cuter

GolfBoy is twelve years younger than me, and when I was nearly 15, he was in the far end of his "terrible twos." I loved him so much, he was like my little doll, and to this day my feelings for him are extremely maternal. He was beautiful, sorry, he still is, but back then he stopped old ladies in their step as mum passed with him in the street. We were so proud of our little GolfBoy. Beautiful blond ringlets, true ringlets, old hollywood style, I loved to brush them (and yes, put them in little piggy tails complete with bows much to my father's horror). He had big sky blue eyes with lashes girls dream of, peaches and cream complexion and a cherubic pink mouth, and mischievous - you had to watch him like a hawk lest he disappear or cause havoc. I begged mum to let me enter him into a baby show, and was vindicated when he won a truckload of prizes.

I never thought I'd encounter a situation where I could overcome my repulsion of broken bones. In fact at the time, I knew I couldn't.

One day I was in the kitchen making a sandwich, Dad was in his Study, talking on the phone in a haze of cigarette smoke, my sister, (who I shall call BomberGirl because she is obsessed with the Essendon Bombers) was watching TV, and GolfBoy was, I believed, playing on the lounge room floor. The front door was open to let the cool summer breeze in the warm house, and nobody had noticed the baby gate was open. In fact, nobody noticed that it was GolfBoy who had opened it and escaped outside to roam our 1 acre property unfettered by fussy carers.

I was slicing up my sandwich when I heard crying. Now GolfBoy had several different cries that mum, dad and I were all very familiar with. My sisters knew them too, but were not as attuned as we were. Some were not in use as much as they used to be due to his ability to communicate now he was getting older. There was the tired cry, the hungry cry, the generally grumpy cry, the "I want" cry, the "temper tantrum" (which we all dutifully ignored until he cried himself out), and then there was the "variations of pain" cry. The pain cry had several different octaves. There was the "that scared me more than it hurt me" cry, the "ooooh that hurt" cry, then there was the "oh my god that HURTS please help me" cry. We'd only heard that on a few occasions, usually involving fingers stuck where they shouldn't be.

This cry was the worst one.

I dropped my knife, turned and hurried down the hall past the study to the entryway, where GolfBoy was toddling through the front door, looking up at me, reaching out. His face, from the eyes down, was caked in bright red blood, pulsing horribly from a slash between his eyes. Through that slash I could see the bright white of exposed bone.

I turned, bile rising in my throat, and did the most horrible thing I'd ever done to my baby brother: I ran away. 

I got three steps when I realised what I was doing. He was there, reaching out for me, and I had walked away. Without pausing I overcame my phobia, ran back to him and scooped him into my arms. He hugged me, sobbing and getting blood all over my top and neck.

'Dad, I think we need to go to the hospital," I said. I hurried to the entrance of the study, turned GolfBoy so Dad could see the blood, and hurried onto the kitchen to get a damp tea towel to stem the flow and clean his face and eyes. By the time I'd done this Dad had ended his phone call, grabbed his car keys and was heading out to the car. BomberGirl, who'd only just keyed onto the fact something was wrong, followed us blithely.

These were the days before mobile phones, and mum was down at the shops, so we left BomberGirl behind to tell Mum where we were. Dad drove and I carried GolfBoy on my lap. By halfway to the hospital I had most of the blood cleaned up, and could see bruises blooming around his eyes. We passed Mum on the way, waived her down, and she came up to the car to see what was wrong. Nothing can get between a mother and an injured child. She snatched GolfBoy from my arms, ran to her car and took off, driving with him in her lap! I never said my mother was intelligent.

I won't bore you with the minute details of the next few hours, but it involved a lot of impatience and blame-storming from my mother as she tried to determine who should take personal responsibility for this tragedy. In the end it was just a very minor cut, with a few tiny butterfly-stitches that didn't even leave him with a scar.

When we finally got home, we set GolfBoy on his feet and asked how he got the injury. GolfBoy tottered forward, simulated a trip and while I'm sure he didn't mean to fall face first into the edge of the stone step, he did. Again. Breaking open the freshly stitched wound.

This time we mopped him up ourselves.

In the meantime, as soon as the saga was over my phobia returned. So it seems short bursts are all I can handle

Respect those who loved. Respect those who lost. Respect the Dead.

You know, sometimes tragedy brings out the best in people, and unfortunately, the worst.

I recently lost one of my best friends - to a hugely aggressive and humbling form of cancer. Six weeks, I think it was? From diagnosis to death... 

I still can’t fathom that such a small thing, a two syllable word, can cause such immense pain, suffering and grief - but that is a post for another time and I digress - back to the best in people.

I had the unfortunate duty of telling the majority of people - some who didn’t know who I was – on the day that she died.

I received: shock; anger; wailing; denial; abuse, and most of all unbearably deep, deep sadness. It was quite probably, in utter truth, the worst four hours of my entire life - making those awful phone calls. What it did do was instill in me a faith that my friend was loved so desperately by so many. As I made those phone calls though, even in those moments of despair as I explained that:

a) she had been sick (she swore us to secrecy) and

b) that she was gone

People still took a moment to breath, and ask if I was okay.

Did I need anything? How was her family? What could they do to help me? Some people who were frozen in despair and couldn’t continue on the phone initially contacted me again - some minutes, some hours and others days later, to ask those same questions.

There were people who, in the moment of knowing the awful truth, took on my burden without hesitation. They offered to take names off my excruciatingly long list and be the barer of bad news on my behalf. The support, the love, was unfathomable, and carried me through the weeks and now months since we lost her.

Finding comfort in your loved ones in times like this is paramount, and recognizing that everyone shares their own version of the grief is so important.

Respect must be given for the manner in which people mourn, and respect must be given to the dead who were loved so dearly. I genuinely believe that you should show respect for the dead by acting towards the memory of them as you would have acted towards them if they were living.

So in regards to my point about respecting other's grief, what one must never do is belittle the feelings of others, display a lack of empathy for what fellow mourners are going through, and disrespect the wishes of the dead.

Unfortunately, my dear friend had someone close to her who did this. This person was her partner, who had displayed horrific behaviour in the weeks leading up to my friend's death. This behaviour ultimately resulted in my friend ending the relationship (much to our relief). This woman showed a complete lack of empathy for our grief. She turned up at the hospital and wouldn't leave, showing no respect for family who wanted time alone in the last precious hours. After her death she then went so far as to verbalise the claim that what we felt meant nothing in comparison to her feelings of loss. She stated, in writing, that the relationship we had with our friend meant nothing in the face of what she had with her. Even on the day of my friend’s death, because This Woman was not granted time to mourn alone with her body (as per my friend’s clear wishes), she felt it appropriate to send text messages belittling the relationship anyone else had with our friend. Even my friend’s parents were irrelevant in comparison - their loss was incomparable to hers.

And yes, I do think on a level that she loved my friend, but her behaviour showed a desire to possess and control her too - which is what ultimately lead to the relationship ending. So I think that the fact the relationship was over, and it'd been clearly communicated that she was not going to be acknowledged as a partner fueled her actions post death, to a point where they were unfathomable and horrifying.

Our friend had some deeply personal wishes about the circumstances of her death. Wishes she expressed to all of us and made abundantly clear. Wishes in relation to her private life, social media, her Will and her funeral. Her ex partner knew of these wishes, we all did. We'd either been told, or had them in writing. So it was with horror that we witnessed every single one of these wishes completely disregarded by this Woman - in some instances deliberately and joyfully disregarded (and I say joyfully because there was a few horrible things she did while smiling manically, it was almost scary to watch).  

I could write for days about the vile things that she did to my friend, my friend's closest friends and parents, and indeed I have diarised it all - I regularly read it to remind myself when people question why we have all decided to 'hate' this woman so much.

So, in the face of these violations, which occurred before her death, on the day and beyond, those of us who loved her and knew her better than anyone stood tall and were more determined than ever to abide by the instructions given to us by our dear friend - even in the face of the anger and hate we were incurring from this Woman. 

We were determined to deliver her the short, funny, casual funeral she never wanted and encourage no wearing of black. We were determined to acknowledge only those that she wished be acknowledged. And we were determined to remain as respectful of her privacy post death, as we were pre death.

Everyone abided by that of course – except This Woman. She posted publications in newspapers proclaiming information about my friend’s private life, something my friend had vehemently argued with her about for the length of their tumultuous relationship. This Woman’s family also followed suit, publishing similar proclamations (although I don't blame them - they didn't have anyone around to tell them the truth). This woman turned up dressed in top to toe black to the funeral, and reacted physically during the service when she wasn’t highlighted above all others.

A member of This Woman’s family actually struck one of us at the funeral with her walking cane, in response to the fact This Woman wasn’t acknowledged  – imagine that… HITTING someone who was grieving for her best friend, as she walked out of that friend’s funeral?

This really happened.

This Woman demanded access to window-shop through my friends home and help herself to everything in there that she felt she “had a right to take,” and became abusive and physically threatening when her request was denied (and was stupid enough to do it via text message – hello police!). Even after this we still gave her the opportunity to provide a list of what she would like and we packed it for her - making sure we found everything on her list, and had it delivered to an address of her choice – not many people would have had the compassion to do this in the face of such appalling behaviour.

She stole an item that my friend donated to our local sporting club, and kept it for herself.


She took photos of my friend in her final moments, and posted one of the photos on social media. - even though our friend despised social media and described it as "a violation of privacy." I'll admit when this happened I had a mental break and sought to harm this woman physically, and it was lucky that when I arrived where I thought she was going to be that she had not turned up (lucky for me, I don't need an assault record).

Months after the death she continued to harass the grieving family, demanding access to the Will, ringing the lawyers and making up stories about promises she claims were made to her by my friend (she also now claims the breakup never happened too *sigh*).

And now finally the estate is settled, and people are now asking 'why all the hate?' What did she do to deserve all this? And because, out of respect for our friend's privacy, we've kept quiet about the horrible truth we're now seen as the bad guys, because this Woman tells anyone who'll listen what 'we've done to her,' and that 'she can't understand why.'

So while writing this has been extremely cathartic for me, I wonder if she’ll ever see it? I know enough of text-book narcissists and borderline psychopaths to recognize she’ll never take accountability or understand why her actions have been so vile and unfathomable to everyone who was close to my friend. Indeed the people who still talk to her are the one's who weren't close enough to know the whole truth. It is to those people that she continues to lie to and say she is being treated unfairly, and that she has no idea why “we’ve” done this to her. It will continue, on and on and on.

And while it does, we cannot truly grieve.

For how can you when you get anxiety so bad you throw up before you know you have to see her? When you get heart palpitations and an anger so consuming that you know if you see her you may do something you’ll regret?

It comes down to respect - respect for the dead and respect for those who grieve. I should be allowed to grieve for my friend without the anxiety of not knowing what else will be said to me about it, what other opinions will be formed with not an ounce of truth. I just want it to end. I want this woman to go away, far away and leave us all alone. I don't want a whisper of her, I just want silence. So I can grieve.

Thank you.


*Please note, updated January 2013, one year on.

Are You Leading Your Readers Well?

One of the areas of specialization I work in is Leadership, in particular the fundamental skills one must have in order to interact effectively with their employees. This too is relevant as an author to the reader. Now don't get me wrong - I'm not saying an author IS a formal leader in the corporate sense - I am referring to the notion that we are leading our readers on a journey! So as a writer I struggle with the constant idea that someone might, hopefully, one day read (and enjoy) my work, and as I create I can't help but keep that in the back of my mind. So what are the essential skills of leadership that relate to writing, for me?

1) Basic social skills. 

I can hear you, "what is this chick smoking?" but seriously, how many people/managers have you worked with over the years who lack this?  As a writer, you greet your reader with your very first words. Hands up who has ever struggled with that first, crucial sentence? 

You introduce your reader to your characters, to the plot, to the feeling of your story. I’ve worked with a leader who does not greet her team. She does not say good morning upon arrival, she does not say good night - even in direct response to an employee's greeting. You speak when spoken to, are acknowledged only at her need. Imagine how this makes her employees feel? Would they want to go on a journey with her? So many people are promoted into leadership roles because they’re good at their current job. Unfortunately, those who can do, cannot always teach or lead. I’ve seen some steady, average performers make exceptional leaders, while outstanding performers have not had a clue. As a writer you need to acknowledge your reader, introduce them to your story, and be presently aware of the experience that you wish to give them. It's only polite.

2) Empathy.

Reflection of fact and feeling. How do you want your reader to feel? What is your objective? I find that it's much easier to write about things I have experienced myself (a challenge considering my passion is fantasy) because I have walked in the shoes of my character and experienced the fact and feeling I am describing. 

A leader needs empathy, or at worst, needs to know how to fake it. Recently I heard of a situation where a person had to inform their manager of the passing of a family member. Phone calls were not returned, text messages ignored, emails not responded to. Finally the poor sod had to contact another person in the organization just so they knew for sure that somebody was aware of their situation. In this case the leader didn't even make the effort to acknowledge the issue and fake sympathy, let alone go so far as to display empathy. Upon the employees return to work the death was not even acknowledged. So life goes on, a week later apparently, in this manager's eyes.

But what is my point? As a writer, we need to walk the emotions we want our reader to experience. If we want our reader to cry, then we too should be moved to tears. Walk the talk people, and if you can’t, fake it til you make it!

3) Listening skills.

A vital skill in leadership, and also in general! Ever tell someone something and know they're hearing you, but not understanding you? Frustrating, yeah? Many encounters with Call Centre staff often result in this phenomenon. Well, as a reader you need to know that the writer is LISTENING to you, and as a writer you need to be aware of your audience. It’s called showing each other mutual respect.

This is a subtle art form to master. I am always wondering about my reader: as they read my writing, what are they THINKING? How am I HEARING their thoughts and am I understanding them?

I'm probably not making sense, so let me try and explain.

I'm going to call on Wilbur Smith's Eqyptian series here, which I love dearly. In his first novel, River God, Smith paints a picture of main character Queen Lostris in such a way that the reader falls in love with her (as was his intention). She is an exotic, creamy skinned, green-eyed brunette who the lead character, Taita, loves unconditionally. We spend the entire novel reading of Lostris' exploits along with that of her family and kingdom. In a follow up novel, Warlock, Lostris is referred to repeatedly, and one of her descendants is described, again in reference to her great beauty, slanted green eyes and “dark, glossy tresses.”

Fast forward to the final novel in the series, The Quest, where we again meet the same character Lostris, reincarnated.

But her appearance is completely different, as is her name. In the earlier novels, Lostris’ “discarded” baby name was Lanata. This was repeatedly emphasized due to the fact that the love of her life chose to name his weapon Lanata also. In The Quest, Smith changes that name to Fenn, so now the character we’ve known and loved as Lanata, is now Fenn. What he then also does is change the characters appearance.

Now, imagine if in the fourth Harry Potter novel JKR suddenly decides that Harry James Potter is now Henry Scott Potter, with blond hair, blue eyes and a heart shaped scar on his chin. I mean, it caused enough of a scandal when she changed Hermione's middle name from Jane to Jean in HP7! Well, this is exactly what Smith chose to do. His changes were THAT drastic and also came accompanied with a huge amount of inconsistencies, errors and changes to the personalities of characters from previous novels. It was like both the author and the editor were asleep at the wheel – the Wilbur Smith forums EXPLODED after the novel was released, and not for the right reasons. So my point is instead of being taken on a journey, I found myself stuck in a pit-stop of confusion, and yes, with feelings of betrayal.

Smith did not listen to his readers, nor did he write with respect for them and the emotions they had invested in his characters.

Then we have the complete opposite happening elsewhere where authors are taking Listening to a WHOLE new level! Lauren Kate, author of the best selling Fallen series talked in a recent interview  (03/08/2011) about how she worked WITH her fan base to draw inspiration for the plot of her next novel, Rapture. She has woven their ideas and experiences into it, in homage to them and as a way of interacting with her readers in a way that she normally wouldn’t get to. This is quite extreme to me, and a concept I'm not entirely comfortable with, but I'm prepared to wait and read, before judging.

4) Finally, the ability to motivate, inspire and get people to act on your instructions because they WANT to, not because you force them to.

As a writer, you need to inspire and motivate your reader to want to drink in every last word. Has anyone had the pleasure of wading through Justin Cronin's The Passage, or Christopher Paolini's Inheritance series?

In both situations I found myself skipping ENTIRE PAGES of prose in an attempt to get to a place where something ACTUALLY HAPPENED. The Passage is a novel that really split reviewers. I saw a lot of 1 star reviews interspersed with 5 star reviews. Cronin had a good story on his hands and for some parts of the novel I couldn’t put it down, but his execution was flawed. He went off on huge tangents, and his editor... well, I don't know what his editor did, but it didn't seem to be a lot. I won't go into it all of the reasons I thought this novel could have been SO much better, but I'd be interested if anyone else reading this agrees with me.

Fast forward to books like The Stand, It (both by Stephen King), Harry Potter, Charlotte Brontë’s celebrated novels (who I've literally only just started reading), and Jane Austin... I know this is a small snapshot but these guys KNEW how to capture, motivate and inspire their reader to READ and RE-READ through meticulous planning, execution, passion and skill.

So where was my inspiration for this ramble? Well, I'm currently sitting on an airplane, flying interstate to deliver a session to a group of Team Leaders where the objective is for them to create their own “Leadership Charter.” This is in addition to all the pre-existing leadership paraphernalia that exits throughout the billion-dollar organisation that I work for. This session will be where these Team Leaders create and agree to a defined list of behavioral statements, as a means for THEIR managers to then hold them accountable to.

Why is this necessary? Because the Leaders of these people do not have the skills to inspire, motivate, drive performance and lead their people to a point where they WANT to act consistently without coercion. It's a way of the leaders having a list of behaviours that they can then now wield as a stick for non-compliance “you helped to build these behaviours, and agreed to adhere to them, and now you’re not I’m going to punish you MWAHAHAHAHAHA!”

I, as the designer of this session, have called this deficiency out loud and clear and said WHY are we not looking at the reasons these peole are choosing not to act, instead of just creating yet another method of driving their accountability?

But nobody is, or wants, to listen.

As a reader, have you encountered authors like this? As an author, is it something you consider? What are your thoughts?

Quality Assurance for Self Publishers!

The opportunities that eReaders have presented to the wannabe author to self publish have, for some, revolutionised their dreams of eventually becoming an author with real books, on real shelves, in real bookstores (while they still exist, anyway).  Taking on the task of writing, publishing and marketing your own novel has become an outlet for authors who can’t get a look-in with agents or publishing houses – or perhaps don’t know how to.

Matthew Riley is one of the standard true self-published success stories. His first novel, a cracking good read called Contest, was originally published in a self-funded run of 1000 copies and Riley put in the hard yards and actually convinced local bookstores to stock his book. It was then picked up off the shelf by Pan McMillan editor Cate Paterson, who read the book and signed Riley up, with Contest going on to become a best seller. Matthew Riley is now one of Australia’s best selling authors, and a personal favourite of mine. 

What Riley did exceptionally well, though, was deliver a good quality product, by himself, up front. It was such good quality an editor of a major publishing house noticed it. It was clearly edited very well and written in Riley’s fast paced style.

Not everyone, however, has this natural talent, attention to detail, funding or a network of support to assist with this.

I’ve written some novels, and although I am meticulous, reading and re-reading obsessively, when I pick it back up some weeks later all I see are the flaws and typos and I can’t understand how I missed them the first time!

And it’s here where a lot of self-published new authors are falling over. They are publishing on Kindle for a minimum sales price, and as an interested reader and supporter of these novelists I then download them. I actually reviewed a great one a few weeks ago (see SEED here). That being said, it’s often rare for me to encounter a novel where it is not riddled with typos and overly descriptive dialogue (where the novelist relies on the characters to explain in absolute detail everything that has happened, will happen and might happen, in the book). Or worse: pages and pages of back-story that result in me skimming past full pages of writing. One of my fellow bloggers and author Roland Yeoman wrote a blog recently about the five deadly sins of writing, but there is a LOT more advice out there for budding writers on the “do’s and don’ts” of self publishing.  The reality is this though – based on my experience as a reader, I would NEVER self publish without relying on my network to read it first, and provide editing advice. I would NEVER self publish without verbal editing - reading my book out loud (to the wall, or to my pug) , and I would never self publish without… wait for it… wait for iiiiiittttttttt…

A spellcheck.

Seriously. Type errors are one thing, easy to do especially if you produce all your writing on a keyboard (I try to hand-write when I can). But incorrect spelling?

Not good enough.

Even if someone IS only paying .99c for your product!

If you’re self publishing, I would assume that you probably want to be picked up by a publishing house (unless you’re wildly successful online) so wouldn’t you want to produce a top-quality product up front? So don’t do it on your own! Work hard to establish a network around you, participate in blog communities, join chat boards of like-minded people, ask your friends. Anything. Just don’t publish a poor quality product if you can help it.

I’m going to try and learn this lesson in advance.

Epiphanies on Writing

Isn't it strange what shape and form epiphanies can take?

I've had a few in my life: moments of revelation where you see situations and opportunities so very clearly. One was when I was going through a horrible time in my personal life. In my darkest hour I was walking down my street, crying, and a pink rose fell out of a neighbour's bush and landed right in front of me on the sidewalk. It looked like it had been perfectly sheered through the stem with a pair of scissors, although I knew that was not possible as there was nobody around. I picked it up and carried it with me that day, choosing to see it as a sign that everything would be okay. And it was. Just a few hours later everything resolved itself, but I kept that rose alive as long as I could as a reminder of the power of positive thinking, and what it meant to me on that day when I’d completely lost the ability to be objective about my situation.

My most recent epiphany was about writing. You see, I've always wanted to be a writer, as a little girl I used to go through mountains of notebooks writing what was for the most part gibberish. I still have books that I "self published" as an eight year old, rambling stories about unicorns, complete with illustrations and held together with yellowing sticky-tape.  As a teenager I excelled in English and Literature, and was even known on the odd occasion to complete assignments for friends and siblings purely for the pleasure of it (although one time I did get busted writing a Shakespeare essay for my sister - we had the same English teacher who unfortunately recognised my writing when compared to what my near illiterate sister had produced for previous assignments. Luckily she had a sense of humour). My penchant for reading and writing was something I most certainly inherited from my father, whose obsession with writing poetry and lyrics drives my mother insane to this very day.

My choice of reading material as a child also raised eyebrows. My father, the avid horror/thriller reader had an amazing collection of hundreds of books. None captured my imagination more than Stephen King, and at age ten I remember the teacher asking my parents if they were comfortable with my choice of book in class: Stephen King's "IT." Her concern was related to the extreme horror, sex scenes and adult content. The fact that a ten year old was comfortably tackling a book upwards of 1100 pages didn't seem to phase her. Dad admitted that while he wasn't happy about it, all attempts to stop me had simply encouraged me further, so instead of preventing me from reading, he had tried to censor my access to his collection. So he took a selection of his more intense novels and moved them.

Naturally, when I noticed that Thomas Harris' "The Silence of the Lambs" and Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" had been relegated to the top shelf along with a few others, it was like waving a red flag to a bull. I took several precarious trips up that bookshelf to retrieve them, with great success. My first choice was The Silence of the Lambs, and I had that confiscated several times before dad gave up. My attempts to read American Psycho (the only book in Dad's collection with a RATED "R" sign on the cover) ended in serious trouble. Dad caught me reading it once as I curled up under his desk. He tore it out of my hands and said if he EVER saw me with it again I'd cop a hiding. Since Dad had only ever smacked me once in living memory and it was not a pleasant experience, I took him seriously and it was many, many years later that I attempted it again. Once I read it, I understood why Dad was so concerned.

Around the same time, in recognition of my "blossoming talents," my father also presented me with an old-fashioned ink-ribbon typewriter that he'd picked up at the Sunday market for a steal. On the same trip my mother had also found a full collection of second hand Sweet Valley High novels that they both agreed was more age appropriate for me. I fell in love with both gifts but was especially enthusiastic about the typewriter. Ink-ribbons were hard to come by and while I used them until they wore through, mum and dad were gracious about keeping me in good supply. Reams of paper were churned through as I mastered the ancient typewriter. It was, as my little brother would say, "old school," you really had to PUNCH down on the buttons like you were angry with them, and it took my little wrists some weeks to get used to it. The letter "A" didn't work, so I would leave a space and hand write it in later, and the "Y" button landed half a line below the rest of the letters, giving the text a wonky look. That being said it was still with pride that I handed in my school assignments in typewritten format, in the age just before computers, that was certainly a novelty.

Amazingly, I got so proficient with the old typewriter that I could touch-type at a fantastic speed; so fast in fact that the letters would jam up and I'd need to slow down. The clickety-clack of the keys drove mum to distraction, although years later when I started playing the Piccolo, practicing for hours after school, I think she secretly wished for the return of the clickety-clack! So in case I haven't articulated myself clearly, as a child reading and writing were my obsessions, and I'd spend hours creating fantastical stories which were, in my eyes, absolutely brilliant - not that I'd let anyone read them!

I never knew what happened to that typewriter, it was replaced by an electronic model a few years later (again, found at the good old Sunday Market) and I literally used it to death. I am not overly sentimental, but it would've been nice to keep that old manual typewriter, it was in great condition and would probably be a collectors’ item by now. More than that though, it would be a reminder of one of the happiest times of my childhood, in that stage between innocence and the realization that things around you are not as trouble free as they once seemed. If I asked my mother what happened to the typewriter, she'd probably know, but I suspect it went to the tip, and if that is the answer I don't want to hear it.

But back to epiphanies! The older I got the less writing I did, it was a gradual decline that started around the age of thirteen, and once I hit my senior high school years and had a job, a boyfriend, band practice etc it completely dropped off the radar. That was until a period about five years ago when I became extremely unwell. The extra time in bed afforded me the leisure of concentrating on it, but once I recovered it faded again as a priority.

A few weeks ago my grandmother sadly passed away, and my family packed up and headed to my mother's hometown four hours away for the funeral and essential pre-arrangements. I was reading in my hotel room (shocking I know) when my mum rang and told me that they'd written the eulogy but couldn't get it right, and could I please come over and see what I could do with it?

They presented me with what they'd done, and while I had to be highly respectful of the original content, I made enough changes to ensure it flowed beautifully, and by the time I'd finished all present gave it their seal of approval.

The next day the eulogy was read out at the funeral, and while it was incredibly sad, what I was not prepared for was the thrill I received hearing the funeral director read my words to the audience. I hung on every word, cringed when sentences were not delivered with the intended rhythm, noticed when certain key words were not emphasized, and relished the sentences that were delivered with the appropriate pace. When people laughed I felt a sense of satisfaction, and although short and respectful, I hoped that all involved were pleased with my work. It was after she'd finished, when I was headed home that evening, that I had my epiphany: I'd do anything for that thrill again, of hearing my writing being read to a captive audience, and its played on mind ever since... hence the creation of this blog.

So is that a tale I should tell? That a re-written eulogy was my inspiration for finally making a commitment to my writing? It's amazing the form in which messages can come, but maybe it was my grandmother's way of putting me back on what had always been my intended track? I’m not sure, however I intend to use this opportunity and capitalize on it, in any way that I can.

Have you had any epiphanies lately (beside the one where you realised I am extremely long winded?),

Signing Off,

Tripping Tipsy