Yesterday, a bleak, grim winter’s day, when the sun forgot its way and the cloud sulked low to the hills, and my husband and I brewed a winter virus, the postman rang twice.
Is it a career?
Maybe it would be if it paid my way through every aspect of my life. But many authors, both mainstream and indie, will tell you that earning enough to pay all the bills is extremely difficult.
If you are one of the lucky ones – well done, you. But for most of us, there has to be another income stream.
So – my writing life is perhaps not a career in the accepted sense.
I was part of history today.
Not just me either, but 1000 shore-based protesters and more than a thousand sea-based individuals and at least 300+ vessels – protesting against fish farms in shallow coastal waters and against Tassal’s plan to farm our beautiful east coast.
Like many rate payers in the Glamorgan Spring Bay Council (GSBC) area, I am at a loss to understand State Government and GSBC lack of transparency over so much of Tassal’s expansion onto the east coast. The first I heard of it was a casual comment by an acquaintance late in the 2015. By early 2016, a groundswell of concern had begun with the creation of a pressure group called Marine Protection Tasmania (MPT). That group, under the energetic direction of Wilhelmina Rea, has fought tirelessly for answers as to why it could be considered acceptable on any level, that an industrial fish farm be allowed to enter our iconic coastal waters.
MPT has managed to uncover much that is rotten in the industry and whilst the media has proved instrumental in getting that message out, at no point has government at any level, or Tassal, the company concerned, really engaged in depth and face to face with concerned ratepayers. In my view, it has been token consultation showing no sign of really listening.
Today, after hearing our Minister for Primary Industry, Jeremy Rockcliff claim on ABC Radio (14th June, Leon Compton Mornings) that he has listened to and engaged with the community, I decided I was tired of the empty and tiresome political rhetoric.
He has not listened.
I would like to have opened this segment with a review of Matthew Harffy’s latest book in The Bernicia Chronicles – Killer of Kings. But it sits waiting on my Kindle for me to finish my current reading. I have no doubt it will maintain Matthew’s reputation as a compelling writer of Seventh Century Britain. Matthew’s hero, Beobrand, has quite taken over from Cornwell’s Uhtred of Bebbanburg for me. Beobrand has such dimension and depth and wondering what influences Matthew may have had in the creation of such a well-rounded character, it’s intriguing to see where Matthew’s interests lie as he is marooned far from home on a Desert Island. I heard that westerns may make an appearance. Westerns? Matthew?
To the Mayor, Deputy Mayor and Councillors,
I’ve always been a fan of Michael Jecks. His writing is the kind we all crave to publish – writing that flows from one page to the next (and in all the best timeframes). But his Youtube writing videos are excellent also and most recently, I have lusted after his country rambles with the dogs, the kind of country walking that makes bells ring in my soul. Which makes me wonder where will be his ‘desert island’ and what will he choose to read?
Croise devant, port de bras, demi-plie…
These expressions came creeping out of dark corners of my brain this week as I went to my first ballet class since I was a child.
Ballet class – me – at the age of 65!
Why for heavens’ sake? I’m a writer, not some frustrated prima ballerina. Not even almost retired Galena at the back of the corps de ballet!
Okay! It’s not a new idea. In fact it’s been done everywhere. But I find I like reading what people would take to an island to sustain them…
I like listening to Desert Island Discs too – wondering whether, if the island is truly a desert island, they dance to the music, conduct a symphony orchestra, play air guitar truly fortissimo – and all without being embarrassed! And I wonder if the music would be a solace, soothing ebbing spirits as passing days get notched into the trunk of the obligatory palm tree.
But back to the books…