Goth Mother Urges Readers

Marissa Toffoli has kindly posted an interview with me on the very interesting site wordswithwriters.com

So far, my daughter says I look like a man and my eldest says I look like a goth. Eeek!

Do feel free to add yours. Oh and do read the interview and make sure to vote!

The boys are back in town

It happens every summer. The exes come to town. Their visits overlap, or almost, it is all so horrid.

Why so horrid? Because I feel I am the overlap in person, I am that intersected ellipse where these two men collided. I have given them children that are half-this and half-that. My life was quite this, and then completely that.

Having them around I feel shaky. Was I really that woman, tethered to that life? Was I really that fiend, that crazy loving lover?

A woman could not have chosen two more opposite examples of the male species.

That is why I have been withdrawing. If I think about the exes too much I want to run. And hard.

When I finish these damned edits I am out of here in a muddy jeep, big hat and my hiking boots.

Back in the saddle

Three days afterwards and my neck and legs no longer ache. There is something to be said for dancing in purple plastic heels designed by an architect. Just what that something is, I don't know yet. My brain is not engaged. I wonder if I am the only divorcée in Veneto who throws somewhat-wild-but-mostly-cool parties, gets herself in a tizz, dances herself dotty, sees in the dawn then finds a mattress. (But the mates! All too young, or too not-right, or too visible. And I am past the age where I need to throw myself about for validation. But hmmm there was a pair of shoulders I could have helped myself to.)

Now that the house is almost scrubbed clean I must hose down my brain.

My Editor is back on track and I have zipped up a denim halter dress and sat down to work. In truth I'd rather be starting off on the new books kindly ordered by-myself-for-myself that came in yesterday ('Having Cried Wolf' by Gretchen Shirm of Affirm Press OZ and 'A Little Javanese' by Andre Mangeot of Salt Publishing UK) and okay I confess I have read the first story of Shirm's collection, but I have just downloaded my own book and seen guiltily how hard my Editor has been working.

DLC has been formatted with a lovely typeface that is not my own, the front pages have been spaced out elegantly, the words look at me eagerly from the page. My own words. It is a slightly silly book, but it is my book. And it is coming to life.

On my horse.

Midsummer bash

This week my editor has abandoned me. Happily, I evade the screen. Though I am certain the next round of microscopically-adjusted galleys will soon plonk into my lap.

In the meantime it is time to party. Though I weary very quickly of people and crowds I do like occasional insanity and my character profile seems grounded upon this. Every July people look forward to the big summer bash I have here, without realising I use it to cover my social obligations for the year - seeing people I haven't sought out for an age, having a dance, having a moment of craziness without needing to catch a plane or drive all the way home witless. I see it also as a great opportunity to clean, exploit my sons and get the garden in order.

Now I have written my last lists. The portico has been repainted, the lights tested. The yard will be mowed today. I am about to shop and stuff the fridges. My towering plastic violet heels have been primed. I am almost in freefall towards the big event.

In past years I have danced in a fury, fondled men, drank way too much, woken to find bodies sleeping peacefully on the grass. In tents, on hammocks. A communal snoring. Then the next day in the sun begins and we sit slowly and without speaking under the trees thinking This is it, This was our party.

The Harbour

This year started with a rusted knuckled anchor chain thrown off the deck of my brother's sailing boat as we vied for a spot on Sydney Harbour on the 31st December. Vodka and something sweet, fireworks like cannon blasts and falling fairies, a putter across the harbour to take Lisa home before dawn.

Hours afterwards a slick of sun found my face. I looked up to see a block of harbourside flats rocking from side to side like a piano metronome. We jumped into the green water and Paul's bird cooked loads to eat.

Later I waited for the others in Sirius Cove, a magical place stolen from another people. The cove cuts into the landscape and though there are mansions on top the shore is unkempt and sandy with tossed rocks. I swear I felt the thrumming of the land. I could have sat there forever.

These days, halfway through the year, I am in summer heat again, wishing I were near water. But Venice is full of tourists. The nearby beaches have no waves. I will wait for Corsica. Yesterday my youngest and I bought a tent.

Meanwhile my eyes hurt and the editing of this book goes on and on. And on. My editor is strict. He says the book works and should do well if it finds its way to the right audience. I can't even begin to think of this next step.