For Sale: Thin Skin

Rejection is never fun.  Whether it's being picked last for lunchtime dodge ball or that boy who you thought liked you, but really doesn't... being told you're not good enough is no fun.  And whatever they tell you, just because something doesn't kill you, doesn't make it good for you. 

I had hoped that in December I would be able to share my joy with you all when I won my first ever writing competition, or in this case, a mentorship program with one Australia's peak writing bodies.

I had hoped to fast track my writing journey, to avoid the years of disheartening failures and rejections.  I had hoped that my unedited, uncontrolled and untrained writing would earn me a scholarship. I was obviously living in some fantasy land inhabited by talking rabbits and freakishly big headed gnomes.

You see, they're right to reject me.  But it still hurts.  But the thing is, it doesn't hurt as much as I thought it might.  I'm not crying into my pillow, nor have I drowned my sorrows in a generous glass of something fruity from the south island of New Zealand.  Instead, I'm hamming it up with you good people.

Before I embarked on this journey to become a writer one of my main concerns was that I take things very personally, hate confrontation and, let's be honest, just want to be liked.  None of these things hold me in particularly good stead to take on a career where the rejection rate is astronomical.

But my good friend Amanda, who actually is a writer and has given me the confidence to attempt this as a career (http://becomingafictionwriter.com/) told me that rejection is made a bit more palatable because it is rarely face to face, and usually comes via a letter, or in my case, a very polite but ultimately unhelpful email.

She was right.  I'm disappointed but not broken.  Chalk that one up to experience, and submit the work elsewhere.  Just because they didn't like it, doesn't mean the next publisher won't see its potential and send me a cheque for $10,000.

Well that's me for tonight, I have a prior engagement: my friend the talking rabbit has just poured me a glass of something yummy.

The Voice in My Head

The voice in my head is fierce. 

She is confident, articulate and ballsy.  She says what needs to be said, even if it is difficult and painful.  Especially if it is difficult and painful. 

She doesn't ramble or make excuses.  She can think on the spot.  She keeps her cool.  She is not afraid of confrontation.

She is everything I am not.  She is everything I wish I was.

Christmas Comes Early in the State of Commercialism

Our three and a half year old has been begging to put the Christmas Tree up ever since they appeared in the shops in mid June, or whenever the big chains had decided they had milked enough out of Easter and it was time to move onto the Festive Season.

So in early November, thinking we were being smart, we told her that when the Tree went up at daycare, we would put ours up.

The tree went up at Daycare the very next day.

So true to our word we hauled the Christmas Tree out of storage.  However, because our 10 month old is now crawling and trying to pull herself up on things, we thought it might be prudent to avoid the 6 footer with all its baby crushing ability, and simply put a small tree on a table. 

I hauled a decades worth of decorations out of the cupboard, thinking I would let the eldest child chose a few decorations to put on our tiny tree.  Silly old Mum, doesn't she know, there's no such thing as a three year old who can make a simple choice.

So now the tiny tree is groaning under the weight of practically every bauble, star, candy cane and novelty ornament we own.  Not to mention the Christmas lights that must be turned on every day, so the girls can stand/sit under it and admire the festivity.

Our final yuletide effort was the classic and classy 'Santa Stop Here' sign, now covered with a fine layer of sawdust, wedged into a pot of geraniums on the front verandah.  Santa can't really miss the house at the moment, it looks like a circus tent with its red and blue tarps.  It's probably visible from space.

The downside to this early Christmas cheer is that every time we walk past the Santa Stop Here sign, the three and a half year old gets sad that Santa hasn't been yet, and no amount of explaining the concept of mid-November versus late December is sufficient to satisfy.  It almost breaks my heart.

Oh well, I guess I can drown my sorrow in the Hot Cross Buns that should be out in the shops shortly after New Years.

Diary of a Voyeur

This could be me, or it could be you.  Let's call her Jane.

Jane wakes up and the first thing she does is peek out through the blinds at the neighbours who are having a row in the street.  The wife is in her pyjamas and her hair is a fright.  Jane smiles inwardly.

During breakfast, Jane scours the local papers, looking for familiar names and faces.

Jane takes her daily constitutional, walking briskly around the neighbourhood, eyes scanning the houses for anything of interest, while she keeps her head straight. There's no point advertising the fact she is peeking into houses.

Over morning tea, she peruses the real estate section of the paper, trying to imagine what life must be like in the picture perfect houses, silently judging them on their choice of decor. 

Online she enjoys the celebrity gossip pages, with the before and after pictures.  Over-inflated lips and dodgy boob jobs!  Really! Jane revels in the superior high ground.

She checks through her favourite blogs and websites, keeping up with the latest happenings.

On the way home, she can't help but stare when she sees two cars twisted at the side of the road, their occupants arguing about who is to blame.

While cooking dinner, Jane watches the news, but really only listens to the stories about people whose names she recognises.

With a glass of wine in one hand and remote control in the other, Jane channel surfs, stopping briefly to watch snippets of fat brides being yelled at by gym instructors, families with dozens of children and more on the way, medical shows with blood and gore, and extreme makeover shows.

Before she heads to bed, she selects a new book from her pile of biographies and autobiographies.

As a final thought, she sits down at her computer and logs into her blog, spilling all her secrets and thoughts to an unknown audience, who wait at their own computers for her to sate their own thirst for voyeurism.

Time Stops for No Mum

There is more than a grain of truth to the saying 'time flies when you are having fun' and even more in the saying [which I just invented] 'time stops when everything sucks'.

Yesterday three things happened. 

Firstly, nothing happened.  On the house that is.  All day the wind blew through the tarps, making them flap upwards a bit like a can-can dancer flashing her knickers.  Occasionally I thought there were men up there, walking on the roof.  But alas, it was just the wind and some rather alarmingly high stacks of roof tiles.  After all the action and progress of the first three weeks, this week has been rather quiet and lonely. 

Secondly, my eldest daughter turned three and a half.  So we threw an impromptu surprise party for her, complete with invitations, balloons, and party hats.  As Aunty C. pointed out, she is now halfway to 7.  Uncle N. followed this up by saying she is one sixth of the way to 21.  My baby can't be 21!

Thirdly, I went to Kindy orientation, as my baby, who is halfway to 7, will be going 'big school' in the New Year.  I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant with her.  I still remember the day she was born.  I remember the first day she crawled.  She can't be going to school already.

A friend and I stood in the Kindy playground last night, in the dark, discussing how we are fighting to slow time down.  With our eldest children off to school, and our youngest coming up to their first birthday in a matter of weeks, we can feel this special time slipping away.  The time of having a Baby.  Before they are walking and become toddlers.  Before they start throwing tantrums.  Before they start talking (and talking back).  While they still have those fat rolls on their thighs and they can still put their feet in their mouths.  Before they have a mouth of teeth.  While you still count their age in months, not years.

So a plea to keeper of time, speed up the building process, but slow down the aging process.  I'd like to keep my baby for a bit longer please.

Renovate or gestate?

Last night I stood in my new bedroom.  Sure, it didn't have walls or a ceiling.  Or a bed.  But it actually looked like a room and felt like a room and it was very exciting. 

There wouldn't be much privacy should you want to spend the night, because the tarps no longer fit over the top much like clothes no longer fitting over your tummy when you are 9 months pregnant, but after only two and a half weeks, there is now a recognizable house up there.

After a painfully long conception (I'm just going to keep on with the pregnancy analogy) while we battled with the local council about what we were and weren't allowed to do (no designer baby for us), things have happened rather quickly.  I guess this is like 'showing' early on in pregnancy. 

But I am prepared for the fact that it probably is all show at the moment, and the rest of the build will drag on forever. 

The first few weeks have been sheer hell, the noise and stress and frustration is the home renovators' version of morning sickness.  Being woken early, not by nausea but by the sounds of tarps blowing in the wind or the sound of an air compressor starting outside the window.

Then I imagine we will enter the second trimester.  The house will begin to look like a house.  People will begin to compliment us on how well it looks.  The final payment won't yet be due, so it won't be so unwieldy that we can no longer walk (or afford food).  We will feel energised as we can imagine the finished product and what colours we should decorate it with.

Then we will hit the final trimester.  The interest repayments will begin to swell up, and we will start retaining discount vouchers and coupons in order to save money.  Instead of screaming 'get this baby out of me' I will be screaming 'give me a hammer and a paintbrush... let me up there!'

Finally will come the day we can move in.  We will think it's all finished and done, but it won't be.  Instead of nappies and breastfeeding, there will be carpeting and painting.  But until that day, I can continue to look forward to sleeping in my new bedroom, one storey closer to the stars, a new addition that will change our family forever.