Category Archive: Writing

What I’m learning about writing: structural edits

I am waist-deep in structural edits at the moment, which is to say that I’ve bought every colour of Post-It in existence, watched three movies about writing (Stuck in LoveThe WordsBeing Flynn), sent quite a few emails to my dad and “tried” the new Cadbury Strawberries & Creme flavour. Constantly.

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Book news and other feelings

When I was a little girl, people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I am so very lucky to have parents who spent the first eighteen years of my life insisting that I could be anything I wanted. “You can be a supreme court judge! You can be a bus driver! You can be a metaphysicist!” They never told me I could be a digital strategist, but I’m sure if such a thing had existed then, they would have.

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Writing Prompt #14

Something for the senses.

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Writing Prompt #13

As a lover of love, and a writer of magic realism, I was obviously very sorry to hear of the passing of Gabriel García Márquez. How could love ever be fully realised in words without the injection of magic?

“The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.” 

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Flash fiction: Horses

It’s Tuesday. I’m supposed to be at school.

Dad’s taken me to a park and we’re sitting on a bench and he’s holding my hand tight, like I’m about to run away. I’ve never been to this park before. It’s wide and green and on the other side of the oval there’s a wooden fence that’s keeping the horses in, or the people out. Dad’s pointing at them and shouting because we’ve never seen horses before except in pictures. I can’t understand him, except for the word horses! and the word playground! and he is smiling but in a strange way, with all his gums showing.

I ask if we can go look at them and he gets up from the bench and he runs at full speed, straight for the paddock with his arms in the air, waving and shouting. The horses are afraid and they start stamping their feet on the spot and shaking their heads from side to side. Dad gets to the fence and climbs up to the top rung and shouts right in the horses faces: HORSES! and finally I remember to chase after him.

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Writing prompt #12

This week’s prompt has obviously come out of the grey week we’ve had in Melbourne. I love to be in the rain, and to be in love in the rain.

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Writing Prompt #11

When I was writing LATKES WITH SYLVIA, I watched this YouTube clip upwards of 100 times. The Currawong’s song appears more than once in the story, and the accompaniment of the rain and the leaves makes this more or less my favourite sound in the world.

I love the act of sitting on the crisp edge of the morning and looking out. Do you?

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Flash fiction: the pier

It is in the very thickness of night that Ernest Pearce hears it, behind the clanging bell of a ship lost on the waves. Dull at first, metal clanging against fixed metal, a kind of droll sea song. He pulls open his curtains and looks out into the midnight streets, but sees only the fat chimneys of houses just like his, and the blue streak of the horizon under the clouds.

On his kitchen counter he has sixteen shells. They are blue and pink and curved like the hip of a woman, large-lipped and glossy. He holds the smallest one — the most recently found — in his hand and wills it to bear the weight of the ocean. But it doesn’t matter how many times he puts them to his ear; they are all quiet, still as graves.

In the morning he will stand at the window again, but the scenery will be different. Today, today, and the wind will rush against the glass, and the sea will have turned over once more.

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Writing prompt #10

I must apologise for the tardiness of this prompt. It has been a week of hiding in blankets and hugging children close enough to smell the salt in their eyes.

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