Coming Home

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I’m in Nelson. It’s Easter. The radio is playing songs I’ve not heard in years. An earworm becomes a memory weevil, eating its way into my flesh, under my skin, disturbing the carefully packaged emotions, that I wrapped and tied so long ago.

Russell Morris is singing ‘Rachel’s Coming Home’ and I can’t believe the lyrics. I know them all, but I’d forgotten them long ago. It’s an anti-war song, and when I loved it, I was dating an American draft dodger who was on the Icebreakers for seven years. We met in Wellington at the Downtown Club.  Now, I’m visiting my old home town, driving to meet a friend for coffee, I am wiping tears from my freshly applied make-up. Gentle tears, that are about nostalgia, about the state of the world, about this, my home town, the memories unwrapping. I don’t want this. I have tied steel bows around these nicely packaged emotions. I’ve labelled them and I know them by their wrappings, but the tight steel bow means I don’t wish to unwrap them. I think about the Red Cross Nurse from New Zealand, lost somewhere in Syria, and the tears fall freely. I don’t know her.  Is she an excuse for my unravelling?

I stop in the middle of the road, indicator flashing, to turn sharp right up the hill to Toswill Road. There’s a driveway to the left off this road, where my in-laws lived in their stylish stucco home with awnings. How I loved those stylish awnings. They were above the road looking out towards the sea. The garden would overflow with flowers and vegetables, fuchsia in abundance at the back door. Beans staked and abundant. I recall Earl Grey tea with home-made lemon shortcake. The delicate balance of flavours remarked upon by me and my mother-in-law, as something to savour and admire. She was a wicked stepmother to my husband. We admired each other. The house looks more modest than I remember.

And then we are cycling. We grew up here. He was from Nelson and I am from Richmond. We take the new cycle track on the old railway line through Stoke. We climb the hill to Bishopdale along the old railway path. I recall my maiden Aunt who caught the train to school, telling us how the train would slow down on the hill climb and students would jump off and race it up the hill.

I’m excited as the cycle path takes us down below the road to an old, but once new subdivision. It’s where my older neighbour Beryl moved after she married. I was invited to stay one night in her brand-new home. I’d been to her wedding. I was in love with the Groom’s younger brother.  In the morning, I was asked to do the dusting. I duly played my part only to be chastised for my inadequate job. I have dusted the surface of a nest of tables, but not the legs. The ignominy of this, never forgotten, for how could I expect to marry if I didn’t know how to dust the table legs.

I glance at the now ageing and less than impressive homes, where Beryl once lived and wonder if she’s there somewhere tucked behind the overgrown shrubs, dusting. She’d be over eighty by now and I speculate her soft brown curls will be going grey, or indeed that she may have died.

The emotion weevil worms its way through my core.  I imagine, remnants of me, along the roadside, skins I shed, small memorial mounds of flesh.  The Black cat dairy in Stoke. How can it still be there? The red and yellow Suburban bus would wend its way along this road towards the city. Each landmark, every corner, crossroad and oh no, there are roundabouts everywhere. They were not here back then these highway interlopers.

We’re cycling at the back of Bishopdale, looking into the back doors of houses I once only knew from the roadside view. I recognise a city of two halves. These humble State houses, grey and gloomy, have remained, they’ve aged, but back then they didn’t seem so gloomy, so very tired and cold.

The Post Boy hotel holds the history of my husband’s family. His grandfather and his grandmother ran this pub. And too, an old school friend of mine, lived with her Uncle who ran this pub. Our memories are merging.

There’s Anzac Memorial park with the almost out of place exotic palm trees. Legend has it an uncle of mine, in the Islands during the war, met his wife, my beautiful Tongan Aunt and showed her a postcard of either the memorial park or the Queens Gardens and claimed they were his family garden… She was an amazing woman who married him despite his extravagant untruths, and she never came to Nelson, instead living on the south coast of Wellington with a beautiful view of the roaring sea and out to Cook strait.

We visit the cemetery in Richmond, where all my recent family lie. Grandmother, Grandfather on my mother’s side. My mother, my father, my beloved Maiden Aunt and a much-loved Bachelor Uncle who as it turned out, was in fact a cousin. I know the cemetery intimately. As kids we walked up our street to the cemetery for something to do. We explored every inch of it. And still, the saddest grave, is the one I always look for as we drive down to the cemetery roundabout. It stands out because it has a white chain link fence. Jenny is buried there. My parents knew her parents. She was 21 and had cancer and had a leg amputated. After her leg was amputated, she got engaged (or this is the story I recall, the utter romance of it all). I must have been ten, or eleven. I feel a pang whenever I pass Jenny’s grave. It looks like the grave of a young child.  There’s a headstone too, further on, for the 18-year-old daughter of a local politician, who took her own life.

My husband’s mother and my brother are buried within cooee of each other, having died the same year, within less than two weeks. They lie two footsteps apart. They are in the lawn cemetery at Marsden, in Stoke. He took his own life, barely 22 and she was 47 and too young to die of cancer, having endured long journeys to Christchurch for cobalt treatment and two mastectomies…   At the time, my husband and I didn’t know one another and now we are surprised that we were both within a week or two of each other, were grieving for people we loved so dearly.

On our cycle trip back from Nelson, around Tahunanui, near to the airport, we pass the back of an industrial area. It is here, somewhere across from where I cycle, that my father found my brother’s body. It’s a long time ago, but still there lurks this visceral attention to the location, the unwrapping,

And then we’re off with glee to explore Monaco, to find the A-shaped house that our friend David built, back in the 70’s. It is tidal and we can see the muddy shore in front of this landmark house is more a seashore than a road. Remnants of a high tide obvious in the boulders washed up. This house holds a special memory of reuniting with friends we shared time in London with. Eating Nelson scallops out of a scallop shell, placed on a mound of mashed potato. The 70’s dinner party.

Robinson’s Wine is now a large outlet, bringing back memories when it was famous for Cider and hubby’s first ever hangover. We know the girl who married the boy from Robinson’s. We know the bridge before the corner at Brightwater where their car crashed and the scar she wore after a tracheotomy. Both now dead, but not because of the terrible car crash.

The highways and the hills are filled with the shadows of our childhoods, jointly and then some. We didn’t know each other back then. His mother, my brother, a foot or so apart, link us now as we are linked. Our lads remember holidays down here. The beaches, the bbq’s the rubbitty-dub as their grandfather, my Dad, called the Star and Garter where he drank every day, without fail, come rain or shine. If he ever failed to arrive for his half roast lunch, the owner of the pub would send his daughter on her bike or foot, to knock on his door, to check he was okay.

In Papers Past, there’s a detailed Court Report of an incident involving my grandfather, (my mother’s father) a blacksmith in this very same pub. The offender had made an insulting remark to my grandfather about one of his teenage daughters (my mother’s older sister) and when my grandfather took umbrage, a full glass of beer was hurled at him, smashing on his forehead. The offender claimed to have lost hold of the glass. In a lengthy summary, it seemed there might have been bad blood between my grandfather the blacksmith and the man who hurled the glass. The offender had been caught mistreating a pony by my grandfather and words had been spoken or a stick shaken.

There are memories too, that are too dark to resurrect. Some stories are best left buried. These stories are woven tightly under my skin and the weevil of emotion knows the no-go zones. These are post war stories, a family doing its best, under stress, when the adults were barely coping.

The house where I grew up, is still standing. A few doors down, is the home of my oldest friend, a Dutch immigrant, who arrived in New Zealand aged two. We cycled to college together rain or shine, wearing plastic pleated bonnets over our Panama hats. It was compulsory to wear our Panama hat. In the event of a downpour, where our coats flew open to soak our grey tunics, we would be sent to the sewing room to find an iron to press the grey box pleats into place. Her parents too have died. Both our family homes are owned by strangers. The path across the school paddock to our primary school has grown over and there’s a new and longer route to traverse. We’re both grandmothers and send photos via Viber of the memorable milestones of our grandchildren. Careful not to overdo this, not to compete.

I try to resist all these unbidden not so well-hidden memories. It seems my home town holds my DNA in a way that I cannot ignore. I blame the radio and Russell Morris as I bat away the tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Writing as a Political Act

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I recently attended a Writing Retreat and a workshop run by Mandy Hagar. She made the comment that all writing is a political act. At first, I was perhaps disconnected from this idea, but slowly it wormed its way into my thoughts, throughout the weekend. And eventually, I could see, she is of course, right. The very act of writing is to express a point of view, whether fiction or non-fiction. We write because we feel something and our expressions either overtly or subconsciously reflect our life experience, our class, and indeed, our politics.

I raised the point at my last book club meeting and a fellow book clubber pointed out to me, that all my novels have been political. It caught me by surprise, and then I was flattered.  Especially, my first novel which was indeed about the unspoken class system in New Zealand.  I wrote about marching girls and book clubs and had the most interesting outcome.  I was expecting marching girls to flock to read it (and some did), but mostly book clubs, and as a result, many of them feted me… the fascinating thing about this, was the prevailing theme from these book clubs… they still viewed marching as this very quaint, odd and er… working class thing… and so although they liked my book (some even loved it), in a weird and sometimes confronting way, I was faced with my own conflicting allegiances.  Over and over I heard women say ‘Oh, I always wanted to be a marching girl… but my mother wouldn’t allow it’… or something to this effect.  It had the impact of expressing a quaint longing, but almost a relief that indeed, ‘their mother’ wouldn’t allow it. They were unconsciously placing themselves firmly in the middle class, with some relief, it seemed.

Too my novel about Greece, was an attempt to write a little about the Greek Civil War, because I knew that many people knew nothing about it, and that in Greece, it is often the great unspoken conversation. I was also fascinated with the burial and unburial rituals in Greece… what could be seen in the current climate, as a very sensible use and re-use of land… so yes, political. And too, the little-known story of the Greek girls who came to New Zealand under a Government scheme in the sixties.

As for my second novel, about a middle-aged man and his step-daughter. I did set out to write about broken marriages, how the past informs the present and the love between fractured families. How friendship can happen when hearts heal.

Then, on Twitter this week, I got into a bit of to and fro about reviewing. I posited the idea that a book review is also political, neither right nor wrong, just a point of view, imbued with the reviewer’s bias, and life experience. Of course, of bias there should be none in the perfect review, but that’s impossible, perhaps. Readers and reviewers alike, bring their past and present to the page. It’s why we engage. To find something of ourselves we recognise, or to know more about others. Someone commented that readers like or dislike a book, but a reviewer must be more objective and support their opinion with research and reasons for the book’s failures or achievements.    It’s all true, but still, the reviewer’s life experience is the key informant of their response, just like any reader… who likes or dislikes.  But too, in book group, I find, the more flaws a book has, the more discussion it generates. So, it seems, imperfection, allows our political responses to creep into the cracks and we share our responses. This way the book continues to have an impact beyond the written word, often in a way, that a book we all agree to love, does not.

I’ve not read ‘Unsheltered’ by Barbara Kingsolver, but at my book group meeting which I hosted recently, everyone else had, and they all really liked it (they saw its flaws, at times didactic) but they loved what Kingsolver was doing on the page, the two stories, the one house.  I see on Goodreads that many fans of Kingsolver are not so enthused. My book group is full of feisty, clever, intelligent women and I trust their judgement… so of course, I will now read this book. I will ignore the reviews. 😊

Which books win prizes, which books make the best seller list, and which books get a lot of publicity is also inherently political. And yet, as writers we all know, that even just the one reader that a writer touches (I’m quoting Mandy Hagar again), can make the writing of the book worthwhile.

Poetry with Brownies

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Poetry with Brownies

You probably have to be a Kiwi to catch the lovely pun in this title. It’s Waitangi Day here Downunder in New Zealand. To celebrate, I went to a poetry reading at our National Library. The ‘brownies’ were both real in the form of delicious squares of home-made chocolate and more importantly, Maori poets. There was a formal line-up of established guest poets and an open mike. I had gone with two books slipped into my handbag, in the event, that it had become appropriate for me to take my turn during the open mike. I soon realised, this was not my time or place to read.

I arrived as the readings had begun and there was standing room only. Stupidly, I’d worn sling back heels (pretty yellow shoes), and thankfully, some generous person, perhaps noting my grey hair, offered me a seat. Imagine my shock when after sitting down, I looked up and at the back of the head of a rapist. This man had once been a sort of friend. We were not close friends, but he was a friend of a friend. This man is a poet. He is tall, handsome, wears kaftans and wrote poems about Vietnam. I know him, but I also know he’s been in jail as a convicted rapist. I’m ashamed to know him. I’m ashamed of my shame. I’m uncertain what is the right reaction. I don’t want him to know I’m sitting behind him. I try to make myself smaller. I remember how I used to love encountering him – the larger than life and lavish kiss on both cheeks as he bent in his tall handsome way, expansive in kaftan and greeting. I gave away his signed poetry book when I read about his conviction. The thing is, it seems he was guilty not once but twice of rape.

So, here I am, to celebrate Waitangi Day. In my handbag is a poem published in the ‘Friday Poem’ publication with a line about my first sex having been ‘technically’ rape, but that I’m from a generation who knew how to take half the blame (along those lines).   This poem is burning a hole in my handbag. This is a poem I had planned to read at open mike.  This man in front of me is confronting me, my poem and my beliefs.

Should I offer him compassion?  Is he the sum of these rapes, or is he more than that?  Has he served his time, and should I forgive? All of this is swirling around inside my head, but then thankfully, I am seduced by the poetry. It is raw, it is political, it is passionate, and it is visceral. I forget my misery at where I am seated and lose myself in the best poetry reading, I’ve ever attended. I’m reminded of poetry readings in the past, where people contain their emotions, control their voices, insist that the words themselves should speak as if the words need no encouragement or timbre from the owner. But this is different. These poets do not care about that. They read with a force that emanates from within. The words fly out carried by their emotions, their life force, their humour. These are mostly young Maori with stories to tell, some of them for the first time ever. I am overwhelmed at the beauty of the readings, the impact, the rawness rendered into such lovely language, the anger and pain transformed by poetry, but not diluted.

I am unable to live inside my head and listen to the poems and have surrendered my heart as well.

I slip away, unnoticed by the rapist (once a friend), slyly, and somewhat ashamed of myself. I catch up with two friends I am happy to see, and we marvel at this beautiful morning of poetry.  I think about my own poetry still inside my handbag, safely within the book covers.

Blow the Wind Southerly

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Dear Nor’wester

 

Now we will have to sweep

all the leaves you’ve blown

across our paths and garden

 

pieces of trees in the shape

of leaves, yellow, red and

even the freshly green

 

the dying fronds of the

punga skirts whipped off

and carelessly flung

 

to land thwack on the

bedroom deck startling

us as from peaceful sleep

 

your whine is impolite

you cause the blind to rattle

and the roses lose delight

 

our neighbour’s pohutakawa

dances, I’ll grant you this

a mesmerising flagrant bliss

 

but our kowhai and camellia

seem to huddle side by side

as if supporting one another

 

the sea looks grey and

angry, more confused

than splendidly wild

 

the whine you bring

Nor’wester is the

tantrum of a child

 

not like the southerly

when the sea rushes

with enviable vitality

 

dear Nor’wester, I need

to tell you, I much

prefer the southerly

 

blow the wind southerly

 

 

 

 

 

Love Birds

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These two came to visit us one evening. We’ve lived in our house on the hill for over thirty years. Usually, the kererū (wood pigeons), dive bomb us on our zig-zag path down to the road. They dance on flax bushes and crash through the bush at almost head height, frightening me frequently, followed by my joyful relieved laughter.

It’s a privilege to live among the bush and birds. For twenty years we had a cat called Red who roamed the sloping roof of our elderly house. She never killed the kererū or tui, but when Red died, we found the smaller birds (sparrows, blackbirds), got cheekier and came closer on our deck. They had obviously kept away.

This beautiful photo is of two kereru sitting on our deck railing while we were inside eating dinner. We had planned a BBQ but the weather closed in. Someone on Twitter suggested the birds are wearing white aprons, ready to do the dishes. Someone else suggested they are making their vows. And indeed, we held a wedding in our garden late December 2017. A friend said, the kereru heard we do good weddings.

So, this image, taken with a phone, through the glass, has struck a chord with many people on Facebook and Twitter, so I decided to share it with you, my blog readers.  Our house goes on the market late January (this is not a sales pitch), and this image of the kererū will see us through as we shift our view to further up the hill.

 

Gluten or Gluten free (and real cream) for the Kiwi

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I’ve been reading a friend’s tips for bloggers. The quirky, and highly original Rachel McAlpine has inspired me. I usually try to blog about things relating to my writing life or share my ‘writing’. Taking a tip from Rachel’s recent blog to bloggers, I’m tackling today, an issue that interests me. It’s about food and its on my mind.

We’ve just said farewell to our son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter who flew home to Seoul last night. While they were here, I enjoyed preparing and cooking food for them. It’s a pleasure I share with my local granddaughter. We are happiest together in the kitchen cooking. She particularly loves licking the bowl when baking cakes, at the creamed butter and sugar stage. Not to mention whipped cream! We prefer the Zany Zeus or Lewis Road double cream (the sort of cream we took for granted back in the 50’s and 60’s). My Korean daughter-in-law loves my meringues. I use the very simple ‘Bill’s Food’ Bill Granger, recipe for these. They never fail.  My son from Seoul adores Bill’s white chocolate cheesecake recipe (again, very simple).

One of the new easy highlights over this holiday, was a recipe I used from Annabel Langbein’s ‘Through the Seasons’ (Melt in the Mouth spiced stone fruit). I cooked apricots, plums and nectarines for three hours in the oven at 120 C, marinated in sugary water, vanilla and star anise. The flavour of the fruit intensified although still for me, the acidity remained. But with sour cream and brown sugar, the acidity was counter-balanced nicely.  Living in Seoul for 4 ½ months last year, I feasted almost daily on frozen mango chunks and a highlight always in Korea, is eating Mango Bing Su. I am selective about which fruits I eat. My digestive system seems to find most fruit too acidic. Whereas my husband eats fruit every day and especially loves stone fruit. I seem to live on bananas.

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This morning reading the Herald newspaper, I saw an article on the problem Kiwis have with gluten. I can admit to being one of those Kiwis. Mine is not a serious gluten allergy, but I have learned to manage my intake. In 2013, I spent three months in Siem Reap as a volunteer ESOL teacher and found all my digestive issues miraculously vanished. My specialist said it could have been the Cambodian rice. Who knows?  I found in the heat, I lost a lot of weight, even though I was drinking half pint 50c beers at night to cool down. So, I began visiting the Blue Pumpkin cafe each day to drink coffee and eat a millefeuille. I didn’t gain weight, but I also didn’t have any issues with the pastry.

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This set me to thinking about my fifties and sixties childhood. We didn’t eat much bread back then. My mother was a wonderful cook (coal range) and we always biked home from school to eat cooked lunches. We didn’t own a car, so as a result, we didn’t do ‘picnics’ very often. So, sandwiches were not really part of my repertoire. And I often choose a small sausage roll rather than an overstuffed, oversized focaccia at a café.

Over the past ten years, I’ve spent quite a lot of money, buying ‘gluten free’ breads. Not enjoying them that much but mostly for toast. Then I worked out that sourdough bread seemed different and was more easily digested. A neighbour who makes her own, gave me some of her sourdough scoby. My first loaf was a miracle loaf (photo included).  My subsequent loaves have been delicious but not as perfectly formed. I tend now, with loving care to my scoby.

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P.S.

In the 1970’s, I lived in Norway, doing my Kiwi OE.  I worked in a ski resort in the Haukeli mountains and learned to make Danish breakfast rolls (rundstykker). I haven’t made them in years, but when our son was here with his family from Seoul, we had a picnic in a local park (a Kiwi BBQ) for his friends and their young families. I made rundstykker and they were very popular (easy to make but not gluten free). I’d forgotten how light and delicious they are.

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I post, therefore I am

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(a rather long essay about social media and being a writer)…

 

I post, therefore I am.

Some years back, I went to a photographic exhibition of Barbara Kruger’s work and was struck by the photographic image with the caption ‘I shop, therefore I am.’ This image came back to me recently, when I saw a Facebook friend, who’d been very quiet on social media, post that he was alive, even if he hadn’t been posting. There were humorous quips in response, but mostly, there were warm, encouraging comments, letting this person know they mattered, people cared, that they were happy to hear from this person.

I am friends with many writers on Facebook and I was a reasonably early up-taker of social media. I joined Facebook in 2008. It’s enabled me to connect with writers throughout New Zealand, people I already knew and new people whom I only know through Facebook.

I had a short public spat several years ago on LeafSalon (one of the first on-line blogs for the New Zealand writing community, before Beattie’s Blog) with a fellow writer. I was somewhat pathetically bemoaning my lack of public profile, while trying to appear humble yet seeking recognition. My friend took me to task. She seemed to be saying that after so many years of hard work writing a novel, then it was to some extent disingenuous to not promote your own writing. That a writer should view their work as a product. This jarred at the time and I felt put in my place, but I also felt distant from the point of view that saw a piece of writing as a product. My art, no mere product, but my blood, sweat and tears… resting on some quaint idea that great art will out itself – be discovered – without me having to point towards it.  And of course, let’s be honest, it wasn’t even great art, merely good enough to be published. I’m now considering the idea that as a writer on Facebook, if I don’t post links to my published work, or announce upcoming achievements, are they even visible – will anyone know that I have written them?

The idea that you might write a novel, spend several years researching, writing and then launch it and hope that people will find it and read it… now seems quaint and rather luxurious.  Of course, there are writers in New Zealand for whom this has been their experience. They were best-selling authors at a time when it was enough to have a high-profile publisher, a few good bookshops and many, dedicated fans. When the writing had to speak for itself or, relied on word of mouth. I recall a saying… it takes six people to tell six people to tell… to make a bestseller.

New writers nowadays maybe less likely to have garnered that kind of following and may have to rely on self-promotion both the free on Facebook sort, or paid advertising, along with the sometimes-feeble efforts of their publishers. They can tweet and hope for retweets, Instagram and generally self- promote. Why not? Tweeting will require dedication. To just create a Twitter account is not enough. You must connect with other influential people for your tweet to be useful. You need to spend time being witty, empathetic, and attempt to look well read, and well connected to grow your list of followers (and er, potential readership). The difficulty is, as on Facebook, if you are a writer, you are swimming in the same pool of posts and tweets as each other. You cannot afford to ignore other’s achievements and it can be time consuming, ensuring you acknowledge everyone else’s achievements, and perhaps lamenting your own current lack of. Cliques of course abound and they both strengthen and depending on your position, inside, or outside, the clique, perhaps even dilute, a writer’s profile.

I am an avid user of Facebook, unable to withdraw from the sense of identity and connection it offers me. There’s a delicate balance between showing off, modesty and faux humility. The humble brag is a tricky beast to manage. You can pull it off successfully once or twice, but if it is your standard guise, you might find it wearing thin. Then again, an outright lack of modesty might also work once or twice and then begin to jar, so why waste time on faux humility?  Authenticity is encouraged. I have always hoped that this was what I was achieving, but Facebook has an insidious erosive effect on ongoing authenticity.  For some people this means showing their lives warts and all. I prefer to post positive updates, that shine a light on the mostly bright and humorous spots of my life. I am often perturbed by friends who whine, complain or reveal too much of themselves. I censor them privately and wonder why they feel so happy to be so public about what I perceive as so private, or frequently to me, so trivial. But of course, I’m ignoring the fact that my own updates may seem sanitised or inauthentic because I omit the bad stuff. It’s not that I want to pretend my life is perfect. It’s that I see Facebook as a public ‘face’ and not my private face. If I wish to share something deeply personal I will private message a friend or speak (with luck) to them in person. Or, I might text, because I assume this is a one on one chat, ignoring that it may in fact go via more than one ISP provider before it arrives in their in-box.

All of this has set me to thinking about what it means to be a writer and indeed why I write and who I am or wish to be. When I first found writing, late in life, it was the great elixir. A potent antidote to the quotidian, it felt as if my life, post children had suddenly become meaningful.  Each new small triumph, a story in Sport, or Takahe, a novel with Random House, an essay in Landfall, articles and a poem in the Listener… seemed to shower upon me, personally, some golden cloak of achievement. I wore this cloak secretly, proudly and I knew no one else could see it, but it warmed me through to a part of myself I never knew.  More recently, I noticed my golden cloak no longer warmed me the way it had… it was mysteriously absent and unreachable, possibly even out of fashion. I thought it was going to warm me through to the end. I saw it now for what it was. My unseen gold cloak was hubris. I realised that I couldn’t just wear this golden cloak, I had to continue to write.

Peter Wells, a well-known Kiwi writer, wrote a series of Facebook blog-like postings about his journey with cancer, subsequently published on The Spinoff.  It became an unmissable almost daily update as he explored his deeply personal response to this disease, along with stirring memories of his life as a young Gay man in New Zealand. One of the more poignant and striking posts was a moment of cultural alienation (and later he felt, for his parents, shame).  In a moment of personal disappointment at not having his own achievements recognised in a public arena (the 1987 Gofta film and TV awards) he took umbrage at the ‘sexist’ cliched portrayal of a Gay man by John Inman of the legendary British sitcom ‘Are you being Served?’ What Peter described as the ‘campest caricature’. He admits in his posting to being angry at being nominated for many awards and failing to win. The accumulation of this being his yelling out ‘fuck off, sexist shit’ at John Inman and the ensuing scandal that he had dared to do so. The poignancy is the shadow under which this cast Peter for many years, not just in his artistic endeavours but in his own sense of self. It is both sad and beautiful to see the healing in his writing about this time but tragic also, that in the conservative era in which this all took place, the impact was so unnecessarily harsh. He found a voice to express this, through Facebook and it resounded.

A famous local children’s writer recently blogged about being transgender, posting intimate details of their overseas surgical facial reconstruction. I haven’t named this writer, because it occurs to me that although I am a Facebook friend, maybe this experience was posted only for Facebook friends. The writing was personal, intimate and interesting. It wasn’t sensationalised in the way that perhaps a tabloid account of a similar journey might be to garner click bait. But, it was indeed, an important story and self-published. Facebook is a natural medium for writers.  I try to imagine the same encouragement and support for this type of journey prior to social media, knowing people who endured these journeys in self-imposed privacy, wishing to pass from one or other gender without the transition being public. On alert, antennae tightly tuned to any hint of a sideways second glance. Imposing restrictions on not just themselves but others within their circle.

Recently, I had a poem rejected by a journal I normally have success with. I was disappointed of course, but then decided, why wait? I posted the poem on my blog and a link on Facebook and Twitter. The poem boosted my blog stats over three days and I have convinced myself that more people viewed (and hopefully read the poem) than might have, if I’d waited for it to appear in the journal. I had a positive response. I could have waited and sent the poem off to another journal, but this would mean a long wait and who knows, another rejection. Through posting links on social media (Facebook, Twitter and my blog), I was able to self-publish and receive almost immediate and positive feedback. Of course, the risk is, that through social influence, art is applauded simply because you are ‘friends’ (the clique effect).  In traditional publishing, the poem would land on the page, wait to be read, and then perhaps a few months later, if fortunate, a thoughtful critique in another paper publication. Or, indeed, it might have been rejected, by a discerning editor.  Facebook has made us all greedy perhaps, for the more immediate. There’s a clamouring for attention. In the scramble, and due to algorithms, the more ‘likes’ a posting gets, the more likely it will be seen by others. Does this mean a piece of writing is good or just more likeable?

Facebook, for me was originally about a sense of community. The water cooler for writers who spend a lot of time on-line writing. It connects us in ways not possible before. Distracts us too, in ways not possible before.

Kirsty Gunn was quoted recently in ‘The Scotsman’ about a conversation she had with Ali Smith at the Katherine Mansfield Symposium in London, in an article entitled ‘The wonder to be found in Katherine Mansfield’s letters’.  In speaking about the letters of KM, Ali Smith and Kirsty Gunn spoke of

How they open up our sense of what writing can be, those pages and pages of communication from a writer to her friends and family and world, that we may use them to look about us with a greater sense of wonder and astonishment and sense of possibility.

Future, scholars may well be sourcing some of their material and inspiration from the Facebook and Twitter updates of famous writers. Stories arrive in fragments, images, or in the case of Peter Wells and my other Facebook friend documenting a surgery to reconstruct identity, by way of blog-like Facebook updates. Other writers’ responses are frequently eloquent, lyrical or poetic. In this way, Facebook and Twitter have opened channels of written communication to a wider clique. Whereas, letters or emails sent might only ever include the two participants. In some sense this has democratised the written word, but there are still pitfalls. New Zealand is a very small writing community, so many of us are connected. It is difficult to resist ticking ‘like’ when someone links to an achievement. It would be churlish not to, and too, it can be insincere to tick ‘like’ simply because everyone else has. There is the risk of a herd mentality. Following and liking a popular or perceived to be ‘famous’ writer, could be seen to enhance your own status if one wishes to be cynical. Then too, access to people otherwise out of reach, can be rewarding and widen your circle and sphere of influence. And then there is the over-showing, over-sharing, that begins to tarnish your view of someone.  I recall my initial excitement in following Stephen Fry on Twitter, and then my fading interest, as the Tweets kept coming, his incisive wit and originality, fading before my eyes, familiarity as its wont to do, breeding if not contempt, then eroding my awe-full admiration.

Sometimes, I find myself on Twitter, unable to negotiate some threads. People can be oblique, witty and sarcastic, and reference events, or use cultural signifiers that have no meaning for me. And then I find myself in a thread that takes me to the Paris Review and a recorded conversation with Simone de Beauvoir that I undoubtedly would have missed otherwise. There is the frequent opportunity to lose hours following literary Twitter links, admiring others’ achievements, losing yourself in a sea of creativity, but not your own.

There is at times a noticeable lack of empathy. I read a tweet from an otherwise insightful editor, who, when an old school friend ticked like on Twitter after one of her postings, tweeted almost gleefully, that her memories of this old school friend conjured up the stink of urine.  Many people ticked like to this scoffing. I was struck by how hurtful and thoughtless this tweet was. Why would anyone deliberately and in such a public way, shame someone? Of course, we were not to know who this old school friend was, but she would know…   Yet I don’t believe the tweeter intended to be cruel, it was for her, comedy. It’s the licence we take as writers. Other people are our fodder. I read an essay by Ashleigh Young in the Paris Review about her short stint at the Katherine Mansfield House in Tinakori Road, managing volunteers.  She relates conversations with others working at the house, to illustrate her points about the obsessive nature of some KM devotees. These conversations or reported communications are revelatory and very personal in tone. But there’s no personal harm to anyone. The writer has crafted a thoughtful, interesting essay and we the reader, can glean from reported conversations or excerpts from such conversations, her impressions and draw our own conclusions. The difference with tweeting an experience can be the lack of thoughtfulness and craft even within the limited word count.

I was reading the memoir of Christopher Hitchens and he mentions that Bill Clinton’s statement that he did not inhale, was more than likely accurate, as from Christopher Hitchens’ memory, Bill instead ate hash cookies. He also goes on to extrapolate about threesomes in which he implicates both himself and Bill (ah but not together). And although it is the written word, a crafted memoir, one can still, I imagine, read with a certain cautious sideways glance taking into account, memory, hubris and a somewhat misogynistic viewpoint. Look here, folks, the fun we boys had back then.   It made me think about Twitter or Instagram back then, and whether an image of Bill either eating or inhaling would have settled the matter. Or Christopher himself abed with whomever, and would the participants be objectified, or delighted to be part of history. But too, we have such sophisticated technology that whole heads can be transferred to other bodies, thus making all images, susceptible to manipulation and requiring a good dose of caution in observing and believing.

There’s plenty of room for hubris on Twitter… A theme starts with post a picture of yourself age 16 and of course, no doubt about it, we all look pretty lovely age 16 and suddenly Twitter is filled with sixteen year olds… the old humble brag abounds… look how gorgeous I was once (of course, the photo is dated, and you are supposed to look a bit gawky perhaps in dated clothes, but once can’t help but think how very weird, that you imagine the internet needs to see these photos)… having said that, I am guilty of posting retro photos of myself on Facebook, looking younger and thinking how cool in retrospect, I did look (although at the time, of course, that wasn’t so at all… we never really measure up do we?)… perhaps this retro posting is a way of finally measuring up.

The metoo# movement on Facebook and Twitter cannot be underestimated. It was a defining moment with the naming, shaming and downfall of Harvey Weinstein. It made it easier for women to speak of what had previously been their unspeakable experiences. It without doubt, kick started an enquiry into the largest Law firm in New Zealand, the mores of the workplace in which misogyny as a normalised sub-text played out over many years and no doubt continues to do so in many other workplaces.  But, the downside is that the prolific number of hashtag metoo responses, in a perverse and insidious way, can begin to normalise what is horrific. The way we read about war casualties from the safety of our laptop. And then when it becomes all too difficult, we disassociate. There are moments on Facebook and Twitter when I recoil from too intimate a revelation, shocked, empathetic, but preferring not to know.  On Twitter, people spill their guts in 140 character, speaking of abuses, demanding empathy in soundbites. I am overwhelmed, and I choose to restrict my empathy, rationing it to the most deserving (which in my case might mean the cleverly subtle spilling of subtle guts because I cannot face such confrontational gore). What does this say about me?  Am I the reason these perpetrators have gotten away with this stuff for so long?

I’m fixated when the rescue mission begins for the Thai boys and their teacher, trapped in caves with a rising tide and monsoon predictions. It’s a gripping story, although I know that in Japan, simultaneously, up to one hundred people have died in floods. Somehow the smaller tragedy is rendered more personal, because a story has been generated about the boys that I can relate to.  I keep refreshing Twitter to stay ahead of the story, counting each rescued child. I’ve invested my empathy in this story. Watching the rescue mission for the Thai boys, guarantees me an outcome, whether good or bad and I can cheer knowing that almost everyone would agree and be on the same side as me. I sign on-line petitions, consider myself a passive activist, but from the comfort of my keyboard. I took it personally in 2014 when the Chibok girls were kidnapped. My outrage meant I changed my Facebook profile in solidarity, assuming that of course they would be rescued. My outrage did not last the length of their kidnapping and quietly, admitting defeat, my commitment to standing with them until the end, lasted but a few months at the most.

Increasingly, with the abundance of words on the net, the value of good writing is both valued and trivialised. The deeply private thrill of going to the library and finding a book you’ve never previously heard about, plucking it from the shelf and taking it home to read, to uncover its worth and revel in its beauty without influence or prior expectations, is a joy I miss. The closest I got to this recently, was reading ‘The Transit of Venus’, a book gifted to me in the early 1990’s by a book club friend. I couldn’t engage with it then, and on impulse, after packing up our home of thirty years, I popped it into my suitcase for an overseas holiday. What a profound and beautiful experience it was to finally sink into such extraordinary prose. It was my own specially found treasure. I knew Shirley Hazard was a ‘rated’ author, but I had no idea what joy and amazement would ensue in the reading. Of course, I promptly turned to social media to announce my find… to discover many other people I knew had read and loved this novel.

So… when my Facebook friend, after a long absence, posted a short quip to say they still existed, what were we meant to make of this? Was it a toe in the water to see how warm it was? Was it a line cast into the deep to see if the fish were biting? Was it a weak moment, the person now regrets, because, they find the whole Facebook thing an utter bore?  I feel this every day, and I keep dipping my toes back into the water… casting my net, wider and wider, attaching sinkers by way of clever updates to go deeper and deeper and perhaps it’s becoming shallower, and shallower.

Frequently, I decide to eschew Facebook and Twitter… to settle down to write, to take myself seriously, by turning off social media. But then I am reminded that I am writing to be read, and Facebook and Twitter mean that I have a readership. I am also a naturally gregarious person, and social media enables me to engage in conversations with other writers whom I normally would have no access to. And too, the gnawing feeling, that if I don’t post links to my writing achievements, will anyone ever read them… is there any point to having written them at all?

I post, therefore I am.