Rock pool love

Much of Australia is a dry country (well, at least, until it's a soggy wet country), and drought is something that almost everyone goes through at one time or another. Anyone living in Brisbane through the 90s and 00s will remember how dire the water situation got - Wivenhoe Dam down into the teen percentage, four-minute shower timers, public water fountains being drained and shut off, moves towards de-sal and water recycling. And dry and drought is more than just what happens locally; it's cultural memory, too: the stories of dust storms, dry creeks and fire. In Brisbane, we're actually in a wet cycle now (as I remember it was like in the 80s), but I'm mentioning this stuff because I have special affection for rock pools. When your default consciousness is 'water is rare, and precious', there's something decadent about finding cradles of water in the middle of the bush, ones large enough to swim in, resting with level gravitational certainty in water-carved rock.

It's a privilege to find such places, and be able to be in them. This week, I was in Townsville, and headed north to Crystal Creek on a tip. At the end of a trail beneath the eucalypts was one of the best rock pools I've ever been to. I stayed a long time, swimming, sitting, writing (got myself burned, too :( ) ... and it was still sad to leave. I've been to other swimming holes all over the eastern states, but this one was really special. I know I'll be there again sometime.

Charlotte the Book Mangler

I have an avid reading friend who carefully covers each book with contact before it's read. She's even been known to cover other people's books when leant, so as to ensure they are returned in pristine condition.

Not me. I'm a book mangler.

Now, I've asked around about this, and it seems one of those divisive issues. Like whether you scrunch or fold. Some people believe in the integrity of the hard copy book. Others (like me) seem to flagrantly disregard the beauty of crisp new lines. We stretch spines (cursing a too-close-to margin print), dog-ear pages, and drop books into bags (along with keys and other scratchy objects) with cheerful abandon. Our book shelves are full of the worn, tired objects, dented by abuse. And you might be forgiven for thinking this is symptomatic of carelessness or disrespect.

But not so. I see those dents and folds as marks of love. See, the books on my shelf that are still crisp and new-looking are the ones I didn't enjoy very much. Maybe the story didn't even carry me far enough to crack that spine. Maybe it got a single, forgettable read and will never be touched again. Maybe I was able to put it aside for lunch/snacks/drinks instead of trying to balance both in only two hands. Maybe I never deigned to drop it into my bag and carry it with me. Being a clean cover on my bookshelf ... well, you're skirting your luck with the next pink bag collection.

The daggiest looking book I own is Jilly Cooper's Riders, a sweeping romantic drama in the tough, glitzy world of international showjumping. I stole it from my mum around age 13, and I have read and re-read it so many times I broke it. It's in two pieces now, cracked right through the middle of Janey and Billy's first sex scene. There are chocolate stains and age spots. I love it more because of that evidence. I leant it to a friend once with a rubber band around it. That rubber band was a mark of ultimate respect - it says, I love you, story. So much that I loved you almost to death. This story has been through my life with me. It is comfort, entertainment and pleasure, and never ever gets old. Respect.

The second daggiest is Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park. It's probably less daggy only because I own two copies - one in original hard cover (which even for me is much harder to mangle). It's the book I admire most in terms of concept and execution. It's creased like I may have sat on it once. I probably did.

Now, there's probably readers out there who'd recoil in horror at such treatment, and that's fine. You can be chaste about it and keep your books behind glass. But I like getting my fists in there. I like seeing wear and tear, the evidence of my return to the precious stories. It's one of the things that ebooks can't do for me (though being digital, I guess anything is possible - has someone written an app to 'age' a book as you read it more and more?).

So, which are you? And which books have you loved to death?

Montage Culture

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYoYGD8fEds&w=560&h=315] This evening, I was cooking beefaroni while the ManBeast ironed shirts. I mention the beefaroni, because it came onto our household menu after a Raj comment on The Big Bang Theory (and it will shortly become apparent how much television made it into this blog, very little of it good). I mention the ironing because ManBeast would probably enjoy the image enhancement. Anyhoo, while I cooked, The Block finale was on, and it was shamelessly cross-promoting Australia's Got Talent, or the X-factor (I'm not sure which is which). And perhaps because of my lack of distinguishing same-same-but-different shows, I was put in mind of So You Think You Can Dance, The Voice, Idol, MasterChef and (oh dear god) Big Brother.

And then (perhaps for antidote) my brain remembered Buffy.

See, it really struck me how so many of the free-to-air shows these days are what I'll call "Montage Culture". These shows (particularly the talent ones) scrape the proverbial cream off a bunch of lives and put it up on screen. To me, they don't tell stories. They don't show the years of gut-twisting, sacrificial effort each person represents. If we're lucky, and they have a sufficiently sympathetic story, we get a recap of said motivation, then tears (before and after, perhaps). But ultimately, we move on to the next contestant, the next competition round. Even if they're not really talent shows (looking at you, BB), it's still a compilation of highlights. These are not narrative explorations. It gives me a deep sense of how much activity our cumulative lives represent, but not much else.

I'm not here to say there's anything wrong with this in itself. The thing is, I'm wondering if it doesn't encourage a skewed view of the road to just about any accomplishment. Including in writing. As Buffy says (Season 5, Episode 4): I thought it was gonna be like in the movies—you know, inspirational music, a montage: me sharpening my pencil, me reading, writing, falling asleep on a big pile of books with my glasses all crooked, 'cause in my montage, I have glasses. But real life is slow, and it's starting to hurt my occipital lobe.

Yeah, real life is slow. Every dancer on SYTYCD, every singer on The Voice, every writer who ever made it part of the way down the road knows how slowly the days of practice can go by. Once the spark of inspiration has faded, once the bright TV lights are shining somewhere else, something else has to take over. There's different words for it: dedication, drive, determination, persistence. Part method, part madness, and all about recognising the slow days must be done. It's a long apprenticeship, which is why every serious writer finds this so hilarious.

This week, I'm handing in my next novel manuscript (number 6 overall, number 2 to be published). I love that it represents hundreds of hours of invested time, that some of those hours were hard, very hard. I love that there are many more hours and words to come, of satisfying slog. When I see the book on a shelf, that's like the moment on the talent show. It's lovely that people might enjoy that part, but it's over in a flash. I'm happy to be over here in the semi-dark, working the slow time towards the next one.

I hope that for whatever you want to achieve, if it's a long slow burn like writing (and most things are), you'll find that same satisfaction in the doing. :)

P.S. The beefaroni ...

Brisbane Writers Festival .... huzzah!!

This morning I was super excited to find in my diary that the BWF program launch is on tonight. Such a find was as fabulous as discovering there's still another Lindt ball in the box (there were four, not three!), or a fifty dollar note in the car ashtray (it happened to me once). So, I guess you're gathering that I'd forgtten about it. You'd be right. It's first week of uni, there's a manuscript due next week. But huzzah ... all that will be raked aside to bask in the glory of the upcoming festival. BWF is a little bit special. It's the first writerly/readerly event I ever went to. I met John Adjive Lindqvist there. It's in my hometown, which I love dearly. And this year, for the first time, I'm actually going to be on some panels.

The program release means it's just around the corner, and it's an amazing looking program - I'm stoked that it will be just down the road, readily accessible for all us Brisbanites and welcome visitors. You can find the program here (if the site is down, it's just because it broke under the weight of its own demand and awesomeness). And for the half of the year which is the slippery slide of conventions, conferences and festivals into Christmas, this is a great one to kick off with.

In case you're interested in catching me there, see Friday's A Roll in the Hay: Rural Romance panel and Saturday's How I Got Published panel.

... after After Earth (a little ramble on M Night Shyamalan)

I went off to see After Earth with trepidation (after all, The Last Airbender was 103 minutes of my life I'll never get back). To minimise bias, I avoided my usual routine of checking rotten tomatoes, or asking around friends for opinions. I'd only seen one trailer, so I think I got a fairly 'cold' viewing. I'm going to come back to it in a minute, because first I want to talk about something I've noticed happening with M Night Shyamalan films. I'll call it the 'Kevin Costner' effect - the trend of being lauded at one point in your career, and then steadily with some preciptating event, copping flak for anything else you make. Now, with Costner, perhaps fair enough. Dances with Wolves was a high enough pinacle to carry even Robin Hood, but Waterworld really sunk it. But with Shyamalan, I'm a bit perplexed. Yes, The Last Airbender was awful. But the whinging I hear about him precedes Airbender, and it seems to have little to do with storytelling.

What I hear from most people (and by most people, I mean my circle of friends, aquaintances and random stuff I read on the interwebz) is they don't forgive him for Lady in the Water. At first, I thought this was because they'd been blindsided; the film is perhaps not what most people expected (a fairytale for adults). But no, it's actually because of the bit-part that Shyamalan played himself - a writer who was going to change the world. Aparantly, this was so conceited (despite the fact said writer would be killed for it) that Shyamalan can not be forgiven, all his storytelling tainted. And that's just a bit sad.

Lady in the Water is one of my favourite films. I liked The Sixth Sense (though I saw it long after its release). Unbreakable gave me chills; Signs and The Village had me gripped. And Devil ... wow. These films have humour; they have horror. They have cleverness and interlink-ed-ness. Good stories, well told. The Happening wasn't brilliant, but I've always thought it was a fundamental problem of premise - very difficult to make plants an effective antagonist - and it still had genuinely creepy moments. So, all in all, I count only one truly awful film. And I shall not speak its name again.

So, to After Earth. I was strangely impressed. At its surface, a simple story. And there's some pretty bad dialogue, especially for the (limited) secondary characters. But still, I was riveted. By Will Smith, for once NOT playing Will Smith. No smart mouth, but with palpable and consistent tension of the military man he is. By the way the story incorporated and yet rose above the world-building. By the judicious smattering of flashback. By the intense and guarded emotion. By the carefully placed moments: of heart-rending sacrifice (not by the main characters) and horror that punched the story along. I've been far less impressed by many recent sci-fi offerings, including Oblivion. So, win.

But then, after the film, I discover it's been almost universally panned. Rotten tomatoes gives it 11%. Then I see the net is abuzz with how it's a film about scientology, or something like that, and blah blah blah. Now, I think Tom Cruise is kooky as anything, but that isn't what made Oblivion a ho-hum film for me. It was just poor storytelling--boring characters, overdone context, underdone conflict. And yet, 55% on rotten tomatoes.

So, I don't particularly care what sins M Night has committed outside the stories. I think he's proved himself a capable storyteller (and at least twice--with Devil and After Earth--since the stumble of Air-ahem-bender). Which is far more than can perhaps be said for Costner, post-Waterworld. 11% doesn't seem a fair capture. So, I trust in the next film, until proven wrong. Otherwise, I'm just cheated out of good stories.

Or at least, ones that work for me. And I'd have After Earth over Oblivion any day.

(I should acknowlege that the ManBeast maintains that The Postman wasn't a bad film, so perhaps Costner might have a recovery in him yet. Maybe. ;) )

Work it, baby! ...the writer's gym, set 1

The end of semester means marking, and this semester I had rather a lot of it: 110 final assignments, and 92 of those were short stories or novel first chapters. And after this gruelling 270,000 odd words of text, my editor's muscle feels ripped (in a Vin Diesel way). So I thought I'd take the analogy and work it hard, too. Stories I wrote early in my writing journey were really easy to spot, as plain as the newbie in the free-weight hall of a Monday night gym. This is often true of the work of many beginning writers (and first drafts of more experienced writers). The buffed up bods at the gym have worked on their physique for years, consciously using appropriate exercises to build the look they want. This also applies to writing. Writing has physique. Prose has muscle, and tone, and shape; it can be both pleasing and powerful. And being conscious of what you're doing is key. Just the same as at the gym, it's much nicer to have some kind of program rather than doing what you hope will work.

And so, I give you a workout in the writer's gym – first set. These exercises (like all gym workouts) aren't representative of real prose, and they're inspired by things I see frequently in early career writers' work and rough work of my own. The key is to become conscious of these habits.

1. Bulking up – verbs. Verbs are the powerhouse in writing. Strong ones work hard. Weak verbs evoke weak images, which is why they are sometimes assisted by adverbs, the accessory muscle of prose. This exercise aims to cut you off from some common culprit weak verbs and adverbs.
   1. Write a scene without using the verbs "look", "watch", "walk", "seem", "saw" and "feel" at all. Use no adverbs. Pay particular attention to the verbs selected and work them hard.
2. Cutting up – losing the fat. Writing becomes 'woolly' through many different mechanisms. This exercise focuses on one set of padding words that tend to extend sentences and make writing grope for true meaning.
   1. Write a scene without using "began to", "started to" or "for a moment".

There's many more exercises that could be done, including sculpting (cutting back to the essentials, so you can see the prose's figure in detail) and posing (shaping the prose through conscious choices of words or themes, and specific details). Stay tuned. For now, I'm applying today's set to a paragraph of mediocre prose as an example. The outcome won't win any awards (and still contains many problems); I just want to illustrate "better" rather than "good" by making minimal changes.

Before:

Karen watched Tristan through the window. He began to walk towards their mother, looking as though he had something important to say. It was only a week since the incident in the barn, but it seemed so much longer. Tristan seemed to be keeping his word, but maybe he'd had second thoughts after this morning. He was fickle like that. Karen felt apprehensive. For a moment, she looked around the room desperately, thinking. Should she go downstairs and try to head him off? She touched the glass hesitantly; Tristan was slowing now. Karen felt panicked. She didn't have much time. She ran quickly from the room and down the stairs. But in the foyer, she stopped and looked around again, courage seeming to desert her. Then, she saw the phone on the hall table. Taking her mobile from her pocket, she keyed the house number. The phone seemed to take ages to ring. She waited impatiently for a long moment before she picked it up and put the receiver on the table. Then, she quickly walked out the front door, banging it against the house. Tristan looked around, seeming startled.

"Mum!" she called, even as she watched Tristan with malice. "Phone for you!"

Now, muscling up and cutting up – removing weak verbs and adverbs, and common padding:

Karen tracked Tristan through the window. He stalked towards their mother, as though he had something important to say. It was only a week since the incident in the barn. Tristan had kept quiet, but maybe he'd had second thoughts after this morning. He was fickle like that. Karen's stomach tightened. Her eyes raked the room, searching for inspiration. Should she rush downstairs and head him off? She pressed her fingers to the glass; Tristan was slowing now. Karen panicked. She bolted down the stairs. But in the foyer, courage deserted her. Then, she spied the phone on the hall table. Snatching her mobile from her pocket, she keyed the house number. She paced, heart thudding for the age it took to ring. Suffering through three bells, she pounced on the receiver and threw it down on the table. Then, she burst out the front door, banging it against the house. Tristan whirled, startled.

"Mum!" she called, even as she fixed Tristan with a glare. "Phone for you!"

Getting in the headspace – an early writer's guide to staying sane

So, I blogged over at QWC - a little piece about staying sane in the early writing world, inspired by thinking about my experiences with the QWC/Hachette Manuscript Development Program. Follow this link to read more!

Story ... Destroyed

Yesterday, I was writing a presentation and I made a straightforward typo. I think it's called a temporal error, just two letters typed in the wrong order. The word I was trying to write was 'destroyed' (the fact I was writing for the editor's society might evoke some concern at this point) ... but what I actually typed was 'destoryed'. And I looked at it. And had one of those moments where and idea autoloaded into the breech.

It said: these are really the same thing.

The connection came from a passage I remembered from Neal Stephenson's Anathem:

So I looked with fascination at those people in their mobes, and tried to fathom what it would be like. Thousands of years ago, the work that people did had been broken down into jobs that were the same every day, in organizations where people were interchangeable parts. All of the story had been bled out of their lives. That was how it had to be; it was how you got a productive economy. But it would be easy to see a will at work behind this: not exactly an evil will, but a selfish will. The people who'd made the system thus were jealous, not of money and not of power but of story. If their employees came home at day's end with interesting stories to tell, it meant that something had gone wrong: a blackout, a strike, a spree killing. The Powers That Be would not suffer others to be in stories of their own unless they were fake stories that had been made up to motivate them.

And suddenly, I understood what makes people so desperate when they cannot be heard. Stories are how we relate to each other. How we connect, how we pass time: how we excite and scare and humour ourselves ... how we understand the maelstrom. Stories capture every nuance of human existence. SBS's catch phrase is Seven billion stories and counting, a direct equivalence to humanity.

Hence, destoryed = destroyed. Remove your story, and it is as if you never were. In the hard facts of reality, of course, that isn't true. But we probably feel as if it's true. Hence why grievances must be heard. Why secrets are hard to keep. Storytelling is compulsive, the interface to existence. Dendritic, and profound.

I was also reminded of another fab article on curses (the hex-y kind, not the swear-y kind). The best curses play on insecurity. And what could be better than No one will hear your story. So, no one will know you existed. You will never matter to anyone. You will make no impressions, leave no legacy. A life naught.

And all this because of story.

And so I thought ... so often we talk about stories that are rich, that are engaging, that have depth. But stories are us; they have those attributes from us.

So, if destorying is destroying ... then storytelling must be building, reconstructing, making new, making over, making better. Rendering something that matters. And so perhaps next time I have a hard time working out what a story is about, I'll come back to thinking about that.

Project-based writing

I was really inspired by Peter M Ball's blog on Stephen King's On Writing, and how it can be dangerous advice for new writers. I totally agree with Peter – there's a sense of martyrdom in the advice handed out to new writers, and a bullying attitude that executing desire to be a writer comes in only one flavour – which is to write every day. Woe betide you if you don't.

I don't believe in this, and I never have. Of course, we can all see where it comes from – it's a blanket antidote for the problem of being a writer who never writes (or perhaps finishes) anything. But as Peter points out, most of us have got jobs, families, or other commitments as worthy as our writing desire. And a rigid mantra, like a fad diet or an unrealistic gym regime, will be rapidly undone by competing obligations. And let's face it, writing every day doesn't mean you'll finish anything, either. So, is there a middle ground?

I've never written every day, and, like Peter, the times I've tried have been purgatory. In fact, I find it really useless to think "I must write 2000 words a day" – which words on what story? with what goal in mind? when will it be done? how will I know when it's done? So I want to offer a different way of thinking about writing that borrows from my engineering background.

Engineering work is often project-based – a well-defined "deliverable" by a certain date: a tunnel, a bridge, a rocket. And since, to my mind, a piece of writing (a novel, story, blog, whatever) is a fairly clearly defined outcome, project-based is how I approach stories, too. It wouldn't be particularly helpful if a construction site's management policy was We'll build stuff every day (jokes aside, many an engineered project is effectively managed to deliver on time or early).

So, rather than I must write every day, I would rather say: "I want to complete this project (whatever that is) by this date." It's about thinking of writing in blocks: as something tangible that will be completed at some future time. This then leads to critical questions:

1. What is the deliverable? (or, what needs to be done) How many words? What quality (final or just a draft)? In what form (novella, short story, novel)? How will you know when you're done? (not a silly question!).

2. Is the timeline reasonable? (or, how will it be done) Can I achieve the goal, knowing what I know about my other commitments and how I've worked in the past? (be really honest!) This allows you the flexibility to work out realistic, commitment-friendly goals. This might be weekly targets, a bingo card, or whatever technique works for you.

3. How will I build in contingency? Things change. Aim to deliver on time, but be prepared if things run over. Look at your past experience for guidance.

All my novels and many of my short stories have been produced this way. This makes my writing an episodic activity – I have periods of intense writing shooting for a goal (weeks or months), followed by stints with almost no writing, where I'm working other jobs, editing, taking breaks, etc. This suits me because of how I relate to my projects – I need to have some mental idea of the whole project's length, and how I'm going to get there – and the nature of my work. I also learn a lot about how quickly I can work if I need to, which informs the next project.

Now, I hasten to add that I don't do everything this way; that would be painful and unncessary. But the things I really really want (or need) to get done must be managed. And the point of this isn't to feel bad about what you can and can't do; it's about working out how you, in your particular circumstances, can make writing (and finishing) work.

This may not work for you, but take heart if you can't write every day. Be encouraged to try other things. Daily writing is not some panacea that separates the worthy from the rest. Finishing work should be the goal, and in a timeframe that suits the part writing plays in your life.

Thoughts on critique, the writer's medicine

Now that we're approaching the business end of the uni semester, I'm spending a fair bit of time marking. Now, I love teaching for its own sake, but it's also a fabulously instructive experience for my own writing. And this week, after marking about 180 critiques of fiction, I've been thinking a bit about the art of critique. I'm hardly the first to write about this, and I won't be the last (see here for a great vid on crit partners). Like many writers, I remember well my first experience of critique, and the meltdown that followed. Given I consider writing an apprenticeship, that was some sort of initiation ritual. But for those of us who didn't pack our bags after the experience, it does make you stronger. And by stronger, I really mean: tunes your senses for who's good to critique you and who isn't.

Good critique is an art. It balances being bold and honest with respect. It's the medicine that makes us better as writers, and it's much easier to keep taking it if it tastes pleasant (even if the side effects are still lots of work). Achieving this 'taste' (or tone) is difficult, but there's a few things that help with getting on the right track.

1. Critique is not a line edit. I can't tell you how many times critiques avoid talking about character, setting, or conflict and go straight for the red pen. Now, if someone's actually asked you to line-edit their work, that's different. But if you're reading a first draft (or any draft other than the last) there's no gains to make (except for your own ego) from spelling and grammar problems. You can address repeated issues of style, but they had better be repeated. This matters because spelling and grammar are the easiest things to fix in writing, and the last things. If you find yourself writing crit that you justify by casually mentioning to the author that you're just "nitpicking" now ... yeah, that shouldn't be in there. Story comes first.

2. Address the work, not the author. Authors write stories, but the story is a thing in itself. In written critiques, I find many times the critiquer saying "you did this", "you have this problem". Well, no. This particular story has that issue, not the author. The distinction is fine, but important; writing is an evolution, and who knows what state the author was in when this piece was written, or when it was written. So don't tie the problems to the author's psyche now. Perhaps the biggest reason not to do this, though, is the tone problem. Few people can pull off "you" without sounding accusatory.

3. Own your opinions and insecurities. Here, I'm not talking about suggesting things that are simply to your own taste. A writer should know that a critique is someone's opinion, and treat it as such. But if you have serious hang-ups about certain themes or topics, it's obvious. Really. So be big enough to push them aside when you crit. Or even decline to crit something you know you're going to struggle with. If you loathe sci-fi, then perhaps critting sci-fi's not going to be the best use of your time, or the author's.

4. Speak in enhancements, not detractors. Any time you find yourself telling the author their story has "problems", "issues", "flaws", think again. The author knows, deep down, that there are problems (or if they don't, the crit will tell them whatever its language). As a good critter, though, you're not just a problem identifier - you're also a fixer. And that means talking the language of fixing. "These are some suggestions that will enahance the story ..."; "I think paragraph three is a stronger opening"; "I'd like to see how Ralph reacts to the mutant lizard - is he scared? Overwhelmed? Irrationally brave?" ... these work much better than: "Your story has several problems I'll now list.", "You want to watch you don't overuse x literary device, or you'll alienate readers". See what I mean?

Also, pointing a writer towards an established author with a similar story/idea/technique and telling them to go read that to see "how it's done" is always in bad taste.

5. Serve it cold. Many a critter (haha) gets worked up about problems in a story, and that heat comes through on the page. Like any piece, take the time to rest a critique and read it back. Does it reek with frustration like a fetid gym sock? If so, maybe you need to cool off and strike out those feelings. Crit should come from a zen place, the critter wise, exact, and emotionally stable.

Above all, imagine you are the author who's going to have to read or hear the critique. Would you still be happy with the tone? Would you read it as balanced, kind and fair? Or snarky and reeking of one-up-manship? Remember, all the teaspoon-of-cementers, that even well-delivered crit is enough for the author to melt down. It is medicine, for sure, with clinically observable effects. Knowing your writing needs work is bad enough; no need to make the knowledge taste bad, too!

One week, two events!

Over the last week and a half, I've been privileged to enjoy two great events for Ryders Ridge, firstly the launch at Avid Reader on 9 April, and yesterday the Authors in Action event at Victoria Point Library, in my childhood stomping ground of the Redland Shire. Both were amazing in different ways. The launch was a special evening and ably conducted by the fabulous Kim Wilkins, who said so many lovely things about me and the book.

I must also pay tribute to my step-dad, Vic, who masterminded a surprise costume gang, all out-fitted in akubras, stethoscopes and name badges for the Ryders Ridge Medical Clinic. I was extremely touched, and I also had the opportunity to see friends and family I've been meaning to catch up with for years.

This theme followed me into the Authors in Action event at Victoria Point Library (in conjunction with Angus & Robertson) with both a host of locals and some surprising faces from the past coming along. Vicky Point enjoys the enviable reputation of being a proactive library with an excellent program and facilities, and it certainly showed. They had put up a striking display in the library foyer.

I felt very welcome and as I rambled about my childhood riding horses all over the Redlands when it was still very agricultural, I saw more than a few people nodding along. Clearly, others remember these things too, the shared cultural memories making a community. Thanks to all who came along, including international artist Corinne Colombo who now calls the Redlands home and was sketching from the crowd. Even though much has changed in those parts of greater Brisbane, I'll be happy to return again and again.

On horsey books and childhood reading influence (good and bad)

When I was a girl, I was horse-mad. I know, cliché, but very true. Unlike many infatuated, however, I was lucky enough to actually have one (Dellah), who was the most gorgeous, magical thing and the centre of my universe for many childhood years. I might talk more about her later, but for now I want to make links into childhood reading (bear with me).

One of the products of my voracious interest in horses was that I had mad interest in books containing horses, however peripherally (unicorns were close enough). I read fiction and non-fiction (including histories, anatomy, etc.) and when my parents took me to the library in Cleveland, I'd search 'horse' or variants thereof. This way, I read Elyne Mitchell's Silver Brumby (and all its sequels), Bonnie Bryant's The Saddle Club (my substitute for The Babysitter's Club, in which I had limited interest ... but she did write Me and Katie, the Pest which met my approval for its horsey content), and Patricia Leitch's Jinny series (oh, the gorgeous combination of celtic flavoured magic and a girl with her horse). It didn't stop there. Black Beauty, Penny Pollard, Walter Farley's Black Stallion (and all its sequels), even American tales like My Friend Flicka (and its sequels). And those are just the ones I can remember. I would devour these books, and imagine their plot lines when I was out riding trails. It was the most glorious ground for my imagination.

Obviously, this obsession was plainly obvious, and when in Year 5, a teacher decided enough was enough and took me aside after class. It wasn't good to read all these things with the same theme. Why didn't I read something else? he said. How about a 'choose your own adventure' book?

I can still remember the sense of shame I had during and after this conversation. As a ten year old child, it was the first time I was made aware of how I chose my books, and that an adult did not approve my interest. I was the kind of child who had great sensitivity to what others thought of me, and my enthusiasm for reading, for any reading, crashed.

I struggled afterwards. It was a difficult period for reading. I'd always had problems when the school brought out its latest reading challenge (where we had to write down all the books we'd read), because I always felt pushed to read fast and many, which held no enjoyment (I can even remember forging my mum's signature on one program where we had to get our parents to sign off what we'd read). After this no-more-horse-books event, I felt as though my reading went underground, and it wasn't in a nice, guilty pleasure way.

Eventually, many years later as an adult and having learned that others don't always approve of your choices in music, books or movies, I returned to regular reading, and it is one of life's great pleasures. I can appreciate now that I was reading at a level far above what my teacher was suggesting I aim for; I can see the silliness in how I reacted back then. But still, I was a kid, and that's what happened. As a result, I remain curious about how other people found their school reading programs and childhood reading influences – whether it caused them to read more, or less, or put expectations around their reading they hadn't been aware of. Feel free to comment.