It's funny how this new year feels refreshing. Sure, I have a brand new diary free from nagging appointments and my calendar's pages are crisp and stiff without the end of year sag, but the refreshment doesn't come from them. I also know there isn't anything really magical about a new year. There's no sudden new leaf upon which to crawl. I'm still the same me. I still struggle with the balance between who I am and who Christ is in me. Time remains as precious now as it was before the 12, and family wise we may even have more issues than we did three months ago. But somehow I still feel a wonder about the future, an expectation, a new hope. And we're even in February!

(Admittedly, knowing me I may feel entirely different tomorrow, but for now, let's bask in it!)

I think one of the reasons I feel like a little kid in the line for ice-cream is that I survived. I can look back down the path by which I got here and see that I made it. I didn't sink. I didn't drown. I wasn't swallowed whole. Grace let flowers grow in my front garden. Faith made me look up when I felt I couldn't. God was good, even when I was not. I can look back and see that: Okay, I didn't get much writing done by the count of words typed - but as a book I was written and re-written and submitted for appraisal. I came up lacking. But Christ held me firm and then decided to bless me.

So, as I lay out the year and colour in the dates of events I'd like to attend, and as I contemplate the priorities I plan to stand by, I want to let my Father take the lead. I want to walk with my hand clasped tight in his, my feet barely keeping still from anticipation, and my faith held out waiting. Ready to grow some more.    

I saw Weariness today and she wore boots. Heavy men's boots with thick, dusty socks. She trod the road in front of me, each step driven by will alone. She breathed through parted lips, she panted almost. Sucking in a breath, then relinquishing it without strength.
She walked as if she ached: her feet, her legs, her lower back. The very muscles that held her shoulders up barely refused to let her crumble.
Step.
Step.
Another Step.
Tiredness, pain, heat. She didn't look at me. Her eyes weren't searching. She held no energy to notice more than bitumen beneath those boots. Her gaze faced forwards, non-committal. If she saw the road she trod without looking. If she didn't see, she moved by automation.

I thought, before today, that I knew Weariness. That she and I had met before. But I doubt I've felt that woman's burden. I haven't lived as if I could barely breathe. I'm left wondering how she made it home, and what will be there when she arrives.
I'm hoping kindness will salve her aches and laughter draw her eyes aside. I pray that once her boots are off, her feet are soaked, her lips dampened and coaxed to smile, she'll sense a truth beyond it all. That Weariness is not her real name. 
She is Valued. She is Prized and she is most dearly Loved.  

Luke 4:18-19

I remember when I first spoke to the teacher. I said “She really needs to go to school, I know she’s only little. All her friends have gone to school, I really think it’s best.”

And the teacher nodded and smiled and probably thought a million thoughts about far-too eager parents then said “ She can begin next term”.

So my little girl went to school. With her mini-bag and bright red gum boots and fruit in her lunch box cut up small. She learned to sing “Five little monkeys jumping on the bed!” She jumped on the trampoline at lunch. She sucked her thumb during story-time and played in the sand pit if the big kids let her.

Today she stood on a stage and, dwarfed by the podium, confidently welcomed us to her Grade Six Graduation. With her hair in six tiny plats placed to circle her head, she didn’t fidget and she didn’t mumble. She now knows more grammar than I do, ushers lost kindy kids around at lunch and would dance all day if we let her.

So what will I do next year, with a high school girl for a daughter? Probably the same things I’ve always done. Smile. And wonder. And scratch my head. And marvel. And roll my eyes. And laugh. And join another crazy dance around the house that’ll leave me out of breath recuperating, until the next embrace.

Have you seen Praiseworthy?

He's the security guard down at the corner who smiles as if he really means it. As if, were he to ask that rhetorical "How are you?" question, you'd know he actually wanted to know.

It's the cup of coffee so large, so brimming with froth and chocolate, that it requires two hands to lift it for a first hopeful taste.

Shes the woman at the checkout who, despite her tired eyes, laughs and chats as if she was there, for this very moment, to help you though the day.

It's the patient, deliberate presicion of round and round, up and down, until the expanse of grass unnoticed by most, taken for granted by the rest, is tidied and mowed.

It's the gift of a small, individually wrapped cookie, loaded with white chocolate chips to accompany a hurried, bustled, desperately take away hot chocolate.

They're the ladies sitting in a safe wiping borrowed toys, piece by piece, with a baby wipe so someone else can have a fun, fun day.

Praiseworthy. I'm glad we met. 

'Whatever is lovely' is my attempt to notice the contents of Philippians 4 verse 8 in my surroundings.

I've been struggling lately with a lack of energy, not just physical but mental. I sit at my computer and feel like, rather than dancing in the freedom of writing, I'm pushing a leaky wheelbarrow full of wet sand up a rocky hill. This is an interesting feeling for me and not one I'm used to. In the past writing has been my medicine, it picks me up and fills my imagination with hope. Not lately. It feels like work. Perhaps because it is work. I have a contract to fulfil; a novel to get out and polished before December and I feel weak knee-ed.

Part of this is circumstance. My life now is tighter than it used to be, my mind is full of other stories (real life ones) that seem to squeeze the fiction from the corners and make it seem trivial. Part is fatigue and the tendency towards melancholy. When I'm feeling downcast my creative spirit curls on its side and whimpers rather than sings.

But I think another reason the writing feels harder is perhaps because (and note this is what I'm telling myself at present to keep myself going!) I've grown as a writer. I know more than I did before about plot and structure, about pace and tension, about character development. I've been reading more and seen how the authors I enjoy weave their themes and subtleties. So I find myself more afraid to type, afraid to plunge in incase I miss the deep end and land head first in the mud. I struggle for days about the faith themes I'm working with and how to explore them in minimal word count and genuine story. But isn't this what I also love about the writing?

So, although the wheelbarrow of my draft feels far too weighty and my mind scrambles to find the strength needed, I'll continue to snatch the moments given me to write. I'll sit down, turn on my computer, open my notebook and pick up where I left off last time. A few hundred words are better than none. And if a hundred seems too much, then I'll be happy with ten.

I've been thinking a lot lately about busy-ness and simplicity and the reminder from Psalms to just 'be still' (Psalm 46 verse 10). It seems like being hurried and frantic and busy has become the norm. We have to timetable everything in order to cover all the bases. As a writer I find myself trying to squeeze novel thoughts in between sweeping the floor and picking up dog poo from our tiny back yard. The children are longing to play freely without limits - their biggest complaint when school goes back is their loss of freedom because, once school is back, their routine launches into full swing and free play goes out the window.

But what if, and I'm seriously asking the question here so please comment if you can, we were brave enough to alter the way we faced life and decided to take a long deep breath and slow down?

Some of the things in our lives we cannot stop. I cannot stop the toddler tossing milk bottle lids (currently a favourite toy) around the house. I cannot stop his unceasing energy - and I don't want to. I cannot stop my husband's job from booking late afternoon meetings so he returns home after dinner occasionally. I cannot stop the children from doing homework (ok, I'll admit it, I sometimes do). But I hope I can change the atmosphere in our home, the pace at which we function as a family.  

So these days, and very slowly so don't imagine I'm starting a crazy revolution, I've begun looking at my life and seeing how I can take the curse of busy-ness away and invite a still quiet space in. How? I've begun asking myself questions. The last post was large scale questions about location and community, but the questions I'm talking about now are little ones. Very little ones that some people might think un-important. Like: do I really need to wash all these clothes today? Should I keep the saucepan at the back of the cupboard that I've never used? What would happen if we were late today? Does it matter? Have I thought about dinner yet (ask my husband, I tend to forget!)? How about sitting outside and drinking tea? Now?    

What about you? Does busy-ness creep up on you when you're not looking? What do you do to make sure there is the air in your life in which to 'be still'?

When we live somewhere does it require our heart?

Are we asked apon entry to love those around us? To say that we promise to care? Do we sit and watch and then comment lightly? Or must we feel the heat around us?

Will we sign the dotted line that asks us if we'll hope? Do we breathe deep, whatever the scent, then plant a garden? Water change? Does compassion stir us when we see what we see almost everyday? 

When things go wrong do we nod our head, verifying our last conversation? When blue and white tape appears round street corners do we drive slow to satiate curiosity? Or are we nudged toward dismay at so much brokenness?

How much of us is required by the address on the back of an envelope? Do we have the right to close our eyes just like we close the curtains? Are we justified to cast eyes down so we cannot see eachothers? Does our superiority put us above reproach?

And if there is a time one day, when where we live is weighed and judged, will not the verdict for our towns include our own names? As ones who lived there? Ones who walked, and shopped, and talked, and drank, and spat - and chose to love, or not?

When we live somewhere, I'm wondering, will we move in our heart?

A writing friend and I sat down one day to be wisened by a DVD. "Thou shalt go out and promote thou-self", the speaker did espouse. So hungry in my attempt to do what must be right I took down the notes and scrawled across my page: blog, blog, blog!

You know you may have an addiction to the post when you hear the postie bike coming before it even gets to your house. When you subconsciously time the squeaking breaks and hold your breath to see if it will stop beside your wind wobbled letter box. When you find yourself wondering if it what you heard was your imagination and check three times before the actual squeaks arrive you can be fairly sure there is a problem.  

Today, thirteen years ago, I wore the prettiest dress I've ever owned. I had flowers in my hair, gloves to my elbows and enough adrenalin to keep me warm despite the weather. I traveled the longest, slowest journey to our local church listening to soppy love songs in the car while my daddy misted over. I walked up the stairs and down the aisle to the theme from The Princess Bride. 

You work before most people notice you are even there. You scrape the bird poo from bus stop seats. You pick up rubbish left from last night's meanderings and scrub the tops of the conveniently spaced bins. You diligently blow and sweep and scoop and collect and bag the leaves from trees designed to molt.
You might be listening to your music, plugged in against the cold. Your head is down, your face unsmiling, your bold yellow vest bright against the reluctant day. 
When you are finished, I wonder if you look back, up the street and smile slowly in pleasure at a job well done. Or do you just trudge on to the next task assigned to you?

"Discontent calls my name.
She whispers honest observations
lulling me to sour sleep amid the bristle patch.
The chance is offered, should my heart not beat its track 
sharp in the opposite direction,
to murmur quiet agreement.
For I know for sure there's truth beyond.
But, Discontent, she strokes my hand,
and tugs my empathetic side with wishful thinking,
tomorrows dreams, another's fruit.
Before I know what has occurred
Melancholy comes a calling. 
My regular defenses down
I invite the depressing neighbour in
and serve some light refreshments, beg a favour,
play the host.
Despite my well intentioned hospitality
I sense a deadening in my soul,
for Discontent now curls herself
in Melancholy's wide white lap,
and I am suddenly spent and lonely,
wishing I had never let them near." 

“This is it?” I didn’t actually say the words, but I felt them rising. The portion before me was not what I’d expected. Surely I deserved a little more gravy? A little less lemon rind and – was that gristle? I eyed the cutlery with disgust and decided to make a complaint.

Now understand me, I don’t make a habit of complaining. I accept what I’m given with practised humility. But that night I was tired and hungry and felt deserving. So, I picked up my plain, ill prepared, unbalanced meal and walked to the head of the table to speak my mind.

However when I got there, the host’s seat was empty. “Where is he?” I asked the nearest waiter. She looked at me as if to say “Where do you think he’d be?”, and her head tilted towards the kitchen. The kitchen? Why would my wonderful host bother himself there? I paused for a moment then considered my luck. Perhaps my host had already heard about the lazy chef and mismanaged kitchen staff. He’d put them in their place. He’d sort out my portion. So I pushed open the kitchen doors and carried in my offensive plate.

The heat and aroma of the kitchen flew at me. Pots of bubbling sauces, flames beneath tossed vegetables, and at the back, hunched over a plate, stood my host. I was about to call out and voice my complaint, but I hesitated. I could see the care by which he was arranging the portion under his hands. I saw the tenderness in his face, the utter devotion that lingered there as if, with every item placed on the clean crisp crockery, his mind was dwelling on the very person he was preparing it for. Had he worked my portion with such care, such deep knowledge of myself and my needs? Had he given himself to my plate as he was to the one over which he worked now?

I thought to step back, to retreat to my seat, my questions unanswered. But my host looked up. He looked at me. Me. And I knew the answers. I was suddenly shy, genuinely humbled by the truth of love. I clutched my portion close. It was altogether precious now, the mores and the lesses of it. “Thank you,” I finally mumbled. “This is enough.”

Psalm 16:5

Curled, like slivers of chiselled timber scraps, they arched their backs towards the sky. The world around cursed and fled, ever forwards, in unspoken purpose. No one, it seemed, (beside myself) even noticed them. I saw no windows roll down, no eyes averted, no other faces dart from the road in front to the scattered remains and back again in hurried curious glance. For they hid their secrets well. Not one, though the wind gripped their edges and tried to pry them from the bitumen, bent to show themselves. Fascinating strength, corners tipped, they clung to anonymity and the lights changed from red to green and I too sped on, away to what required me.

Dear Diary,

I love -

My children are watching their favourite movie, again, and from where I sit I can hear the dialogue clearly even though I cannot see the picture. I know the scenes by heart due to serious levels of Narnian overdose, but today the single phrase "Excuse me, are you a  faun?" has stuck in my mind. 

I am a bit of a period drama addict. I love any and all of them. Jane Austen. Elizabeth Gaskell. Dickins in film. Ahhh. I'm happy. 

I had the privilege last month to be involved with the Christmas Carols presentation of our church. Here is part of the story I told over the course of that evening..

Now outside the town of Bethlehem, perhaps on the side of a little hill, there was a flock of sheep. They were smelly sheep, with long matted fur that sometimes caught stinky stuff in it and got knotted around prickles. The sheep were not wild, they probably belonged to a wealthy man from Bethlehem town. He bought them and sold them and sometimes ate them for dinner. But he never looked after them. That work belonged to some of the poor families of the town. There was a group of these men, shepherds you call them, watching the sheep that very night Mary and Joseph went to settle themselves by lamp light in the stable cave. These men had names, but we don’t know what they were.

God, however, knew all about these shepherds. He knew they probably wished they were at home, under nice blankets, drinking hot soup. He knew they didn’t have much money, he knew how hard they worked and he chose them to be part of his plan.

So you know what God did? Instead of arranging a meeting with the richest and fanciest people of town and letting them in on his wonderful plan he arranged a choir, with all the best voices from the heavenly angels and he sent them not to a palace, or a castle or the kings house, he sent them to the very same hill that those shepherds were sitting on and he told them to wait, unseen till just the right moment.

So the shepherds were tending their sheep, watching for any dangerous animals when all of a sudden an angel appeared. Just one, so as not to frighten the men. And the angel spoke to them and I bet even the sheep paid attention: “Don't be afraid, I bring you news of great joy! Today in Bethlehem, a Saviour has been born. He is Christ the Lord. And this is the proof: you will find a baby wrapped in clothes and lying in a manger.”

Do you know what a manger is? It is a food trough for animals to eat out of. Do you know where a food trough might be found? In a stable. Do you know who was in a stable that night?

So right then God told those angels, all prepped and ready, to come out and boy did they sing! They sung and they sung, a world class, no - heavenly class choir, the most beautiful music and the shepherds and their sheep just stared, with their mouths open and listened. And God was pleased because you know what they did once the angels had left. They didn’t sit back and say “Oh yeah, that was alright.” Oh no, they ran, stinky sheep and all, all the way into town, to the inn where they knew there was a stable and they poked their heads into the cave, a little nervously and might have asked something like this: "Ehhh, is there a baby here? Asleep in the cow food tray?”
And you know what? there was, and that was the very first Christmas.

Do you know what’s so special about the Christmas story? It reminds us that just like God knew all about Mary, and he knew all about Joseph and he knew all about the shepherds, he also knows all about you. He knows who you are, what you like, what you’ve done and what you wish you could do. And right back then, smack bang in the middle of the most amazing story ever God thought about YOU and the plan he was working on then? That plan was all about making it possible for you to be his friend. God loved You so much that his plan involved his son, a baby, born of Mary, laying in a manger and his name is Jesus. 

The other week was an exciting one for me. I was able to view and comment on some of the artwork that will be in my new series of Find the Animal books due out 2011. (I'm not sure yet of the release date, but I’ll keep you posted.) Roger deKlerk, whose bright illustrations made the original series so popular, has been asked and agreed to do the work for the new set.

When the first series came out I was a brand new author. Although I wrote the original texts while living in Australia the majority of the work on turning the idea to an actual book happened while I lived in Nepal with limited internet access. So, and I think this was one of those ways that God used to keep me humble, I had to wait till after the books were available for sale in the rest of the world before someone could courier me my first copies.

This time, with better internet available and options, I've been able to have a lot more input. Although I've only seen the roughs for one of the books so far it’s looking good. I’m looking forward to seeing more of Roger’s work as he progresses,  and eventually being able to sit down with a group of children, fresh with enthusiasm for the world, and say to them:  “Let’s go on another adventure...”   

PS: For all those who LOVE AUSTRALIA, you will be pleased to know one of our Aussie icons will be featured in the new series! 

Today I imagine my life as a pencil case.
(This may seem strange to those who are not lovers of pencils and pens as I am, but hey, humour me.) 

I’ve been thinking about suffering as being a choice.  Not that we choose to suffer, or that those who are going through hard times are doing so self inflicted, but rather that the way we live our lives – what we stand up for, what we commit to, who we are willing to love – is linked fast to the whether we’re willing to take pain as part of the consequence of our choice.

Some people say they “fall into love” as if it is an accident. There are those times when attraction is hard to explain, unwanted almost, but love, true and lasting love is a choice. It is a choice that says yes to potential suffering. Promising to love someone “in sickness and in health” is not just making a mental note to buy cough medicine next time you’re at the shops.

The recent prize winner of the poetry section of the CALEB book prize was a collection of poems about the love of a couple facing their final year together due to cancer.  I read another story of a family who faced the birth of their unborn and severely disabled child, committed to that baby’s life knowing she would only live a few days. Another woman I’ve met opens her home to needy children regularly with the knowledge they will not be staying and she is willing to have her heart broken each time they have to leave.

I don’t think suffering is something we are always intended to avoid. It seems rather, that suffering becomes a deliberate choice, when we know what may happen and still determine to love fully no matter the cost to our heart.

Valerie Volk’s book of poems “In Due Season” is available from her website: www.valerievolk.com.au

This week I will remember.
I may not cry, or shudder,
I doubt I’ll feel the trembles still remaining
of a world that threatened to crack wide open and watch you fall,
but I chose to pull the file from my memories
and see his face again.
This week I’ll remember
more than songs I wish I didn’t hear in supermarket aisles,
I’ll think about a life that was lived, a voice that was strong,
a dream that was held.
I'll consider the mystery and wonder and joyous rebellion
that you were privileged enough to share.
And I’ll remember what you've taught me,
in all the months that somehow crawled ahead then curled away into the past,
about grief and courage and honesty, 
compassion and strength and faith,
and the inadequacy of so, so many words.

Dear, dear friend,
I write you this letter

“Come on, puppy!” I tug, I pull and the little spotty dog titters slightly forwards. We are halfway out into the reserve. Her toes are getting wet, and the ground that isn’t covered with hard sharp prickles is soggy and slushy and damp. She doesn’t seem to care what the drains have washed up in the recent storm. She doesn’t even seem to want to go on this walk.

So I drag her forwards, encouraging her in a doggy-sweet-voice. I pull her after the big dog bounding through the puddles. The big dog’s loving this walk! She’s splashing mud up her belly, water up her nose and the tennis ball splits and groans as she chews it in delight.

 “Come on, we’re getting left behind.” I say and I pull the little dog’s lead till it grips her tight under the leg-pits. But the poor thing won’t move. She has one sore paw lifted at an angle off the ground. Her head is lowered, her eyes cast down, as if to say: “I’ve let you down, I know. I wanted to be everything you thought I was: tough, riotous, carefree. But I’m not. I’m just, well, me.”

And I look at her as the big dog bounds ever further away. Then I bend down and grip the belly of this wet and smelly canine and I lift her up. I pull a prickle from her paw and prop her humbly on my hip.

“I know how you feel,” I almost whisper to her. But I don’t. Instead I turn around and call for the big dog. I wrestle the slimy ball from the big dog’s mouth and toss it as far ahead of me as I can. Then I carry my wet, honest dog all the way home – and give her a treat.

I spoke recently to a group of 8 and 9 year olds. I had my purple diamondy shirt on, my knee-high/high-heeled boots and my author hat that I put on to wear out when invited or feeling brave. I was talking to them about books. About books and writing and story and God. 

To wake up to laughter
and then discover
a circus for mice strung between dining room chairs.

To take a piece of lamington,
in between meals,
and share it eightways with the kids on the street.

To revel in silence
that isn't really silence
because outside the wrestling and dance shows go on.

To smile at the clerk
behind the post office desk
and say "Yes, these are my kids and I'm not tired of them yet."

We have a tiny backyard. Two little triangles of grass are split by a diagonal concrete path to the back gate. Over the back fence there is an enormous green rectangle of grass. It doesn’t belong to us, we don’t mow it or pull out the weeds. But we do, all four of us bi-peds and the two dogs, gaze at it with fondness and imagine it as our space.

This morning we woke and looked out the window as normal to see the frost on the big green, and I noticed a television. It was smashed at the bottom of the drainage slope.   From what we could see it lay face up with various pieces of screen spread around it. “Probably stolen,” I mumbled.

Later the kids and I took the dogs for a walk. We went down to inspect the TV. My son was fascinated by the bits and pieces. The dogs were distracted by unusual scents. And I noticed the blood; just a few drops, dark burgundy in colour, against the empty screen. I called to the children and we walked away. We returned to our little back yard and locked the gate. When I looked over the fence a little later I didn’t feel such fondness.

Tomorrow I might stay in my little back yard and pat the big dog while the little one glares in jealousy. Or I could head out the gate, down the street and chat to the person I stand in queue behind. That person might be feeling nervous because their neighbour was broken into last night, or they might be exhausted from cleaning up other people’s mess. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll have a bandage over their forehead and a look of defeat in their eye, and my response could be retreat.
Or I might just gather strength from somewhere else and smile at them – with fondness.

When I was a child someone once told me that birthmarks or scars could be very useful. If, the example was given to me, my body was found unconscious my family would be able to identify me by locating the large thumb print shaped birthmark on my left thigh. And, if that wasn’t enough evidence that I was me, there was also the little pock-marked scar on my knee from where a painful boil had been popped for me by my father.

So this morning, several years after I have ceased by definition to be called a child, I am considering what other markings I may have that would identify me. Not physical scars this time, but habits, oddities, the peculiarities that if they were described to my family, my husband, they’d immediately say “Yes, that’s Penny alright.” There are things like the fact I sleep on my tummy, snore when I’m sick and laugh at my own jokes when no one else does. I tend to love pencils and paper and old style desks. I eat chocolate by row rather than piece. I hate having cold shoulders so steal the blankets at night. I dance like Elaine and sit cross legged at tea.  

But what about the deeper things, the parts and stories I won’t write here? The things I can’t write now because even I don’t know how to define them? I find myself wondering what, at the end of my brief shift on this earth, will identify the truest parts of me? What will my God point to on that day and say, “See, that’s Penny alright. I’d know her any day!”

Shyleen. That's the name of a character I've been writing on and off for a few years now. She started out as a creative writing excercise and turned into something of a novel. But Shyleen's novel was never finished. She moved aside while I worked on another important book, she sat and waited while Tania Abbey had her turn, and I've just recently opened her notebook again and begun to get my mind back into her world and all it involves.

But I've found myself with a tricky question at hand: why exactly am I writing this book? What's the point? What does Shyleen have that other books currently available, or being written by other authors, doesn't?

Does myself as 'writer' mean I can sit at my pretty desk and make up whatever stories I just happen to feel like? Or am I, as a servant entrusted with a set of 'talents', just as responsible for the use of my resources as someone with a different task? And if I am brave enough to really find answers to these questions, what will my writing look like then?

Yesterday I opened my laptop for the first time in several months. It took me a lot to get to that stage. In my spare moments of the few days previous I had begun clearning my desk of everything that had accumulated there. Before that I had found myself a new notebook and purchased some new pens (the kind with the comfy grip and easy to flow ink). The days prior to that I spent tidying my house, getting up to speed on some of the jobs busy-ness had pushed aside, because being busy and consumed by a life unusual doesn't just put writing on hold. So, after catching my breath again and it was time to open the lap top and write. Write anything. Write something.

I have several projects on the go at the moment. Several books waiting to find homes. I should know a bit more about the future of the Tania Abbey series within the next month or two which will be nice. I like Tania and her gang. I also have two novels waiting here for me to finish them... again there are some great characters I want to spend more time with. But yesterday wasn't a novel. It wasn't even properly a short story. It was something of an exploration - and it was nice to write something again.

Life hurts

The dreams we made, painted and wished

come crashing into puddles

And we sit in them like forgotten flowers beaten by the rain

But out of here comes a gentle hand

to cup our bruises

hold our pain

Then deeply breathe a shuddering love

‘till all we feel is someone else,

and that someone else’s

life.

Over the weekend I attended a workshop at the NSW Writer's Centre. It was a two day course on Story Design. I had deliberately chosen the course to help me work on two projects that I have simmering. One is a YA novel that I have worked and reworked to the one third point about eight times. The other is a new junior novel I am only just beginning.

The course was a good one, and really helped me to clarify my thinking on the direction of the stories I am attempting to write. But it also helped to encourage me to quit fiddling and to write. I am very skilled at procrastination.   the only problem is that   procrastination   wont turn ideas into books. So I am reminded to write.

And that is where I'm off to now...

Penny.