It's been hectic

What a ridiculously infrequent blog (if that’s even a word anymore). Oh lordy, I wish I didn’t just google that. I found out that blogging has now ‘evolved into something bigger than itself. It’s part of a larger picture, one called content marketing’. How typical of markets to hijack a good idea and try to wreck it while wringing out a dollar.

The ‘good idea’ is to use writing as expression, catharsis, creativity, connection, information sharing and problem-solving. Sometimes for its own sake, for the sheer joy and fulfilment of it. To call ‘content marketing’ a ‘larger picture’ than blogging is the ultimate delusion. It’s the marketing of marketing. Of stealthy theft and smooth coercion. Too strong? Let’s leave it at persuasion. (I studied marketing at uni a million years ago. Do I sound bitter?)

So write away everybody, get it all down with expectation of nothing but its own reward. Writing is the greatest gift, the best thing that humans have ever devised. Hmm, fire, cooking and red wine are pretty good too, but no, I stand by writing. The best!

What a year. Really, this time ...

It’s become a thing that I look back at the previous ‘news’ post and think, ‘You had no idea, lady’. Back in March, I at least forsaw that Covid hadn’t gone away and that lockdown could be upon us again at any time. Well, yep. Lockdown city. Didn’t quite work, but the vax is our new best friend (go Victoria). So hello Covid 19. I believe we are living with each other now. I do hope you like to cook and clean, and know where the IGA is. How about a yarn and a laugh over dinner? Wanna watch the new series of Sex Education?

But Covid was not what I was oblivious to. What I was clueless about was that my family would be visited by that merciless and hideous bastard, suicide. RIP my dear brother Shane. What raging grief and drowning sorrow you have visited upon us all. Oh god.

Trying to keep working while stumbling through a vale of tears is surreal, if not impossible. I remember one time emailing the graphic designer suggesting we talk about a knotty publishing issue. Could I ring him? Sure. But I’d been multi-tasking that day, writing a piece for a memorial service for Shane. The more I thought about talking to the designer, the harder I sobbed. There was no way I could speak. Once again I resorted to email. Be clear, be succinct, Joanne. It was a good exercise. We solved the problem and I kept up my facade.

But the work continues and although my focus is elusive, practising that version of myself - the one that tries to make a positive difference - well, it means something doesn’t it, and can be a comfort. Recently my old boss got in touch and had a heap of work for me to tackle. It’s the old me she’s dealing with but old me ain’t that bad. I can still ride that bike and I reckon I’ve risen to the challenge.

And the book I published a year ago continues to give me pleasure. It’s won a few fans and is in the running (ha) for an award to be held next year. Truly, I loved researching and writing that book. Check it out: Rosedale’s Patrobas: The remarkable story of the 1915 Melbourne Cup. The best place to get it is from Collins Booksellers in Sale, Victoria. Give them a call.

Um, pandemic

Oh look, at the beginning of March 2020 I was already reflecting ‘What a year’. Wow. No idea. Here in Melbourne the year since then has been quite something. Lots to reflect on; little to fully understand. Not yet. But here’s one vignette: I woke up one morning — I think it was in August — and heard some crows (ravens?) lamenting outside. Usually in our street you hear wattle birds in the morning, chanting in that cheerful, staccato way. Go team! But not this day. The sinister moaning of the crows cut through silent neighbourhood. A thought came to me, unbidden and unwanted. I thought, ‘I wonder if they can smell death’.

We were losing our elders, scores of them each day, and I despaired that it couldn’t be brought to an end. This is a city that usually jumps to hold a public vigil, a march, a state funeral, when a loss affects us all. Not possible during our relentless winter lockdown, but what were we to do with all this grief and fear? I’m still wondering what we did with it, now that we are shaking off restrictions and starting to enjoy crowding together again. For now, anyway. That’s one big change: we no longer think we know what’s going to happen.

So what of Textpod? The book was published! Rosedale’s Patrobas: The remarkable story of the 1915 Melbourne Cup. She’s beautiful and I am very proud. Since then I’ve been trying to wrestle a personal writing project to the ground, a novelisation of a World War I story, with the working title Dear brother. Thanks to my trusted first readers for constructive and positive feedback. It’s been eye-opening to be on the other side of the editing process. I knew it would be nerve-racking, and it was. It was also a relief to let go of my precious ego, at least for a time, and share the warts-and-all realities of writing. Collaboration has long been one of my favourite words and now it has even more meaning.

And so to all who have ever entrusted me with their manuscript, I say ‘Bravo’. And ‘thank you’.

Giddyup horsey

I know, I know, it’s been more than a while. And what a year 2020 has been so far, especially in Australia. Sometimes you need to express more than words. Sometimes you just lose the words. But I’m back, I’m here, and I await new stories. For the past year and more I have been researching and writing a commissioned book. It’s been a labour of love and exactitude, as well as a freeranging adventure into some unexpected places. I think I can safely say that it’s been a lot of fun. I can certainly say that I’ve learned a truckload. I enjoyed telling the story, and hope you will enjoy finding it. And it’s going to look beautiful. It’s in production now, and will be out before the middle of the year. More details in a while. (It’s about a champion racehorse, of all things, and the kick-arse grandmother who owned him.) Ciao for now, and take care out there xo

Enough on your plate yet?

The plate is full. Overeating is not something I'm comfortable with. Just to push the food metaphor a little further, there's so much going on that I have to remind myself to stop and savour. The novel, the memoir, and the biography I've most recently edited; the educational materials I'm writing; the fortnightly foodie column I've been commissioned to do for Fairfax/Domain (check out the first one; hey, read them all while you're there). And the new jobs booked in and awaiting attention. The learning is very rich and privileged. I think I'm in love with my job. But every now and again I wish for a leaner table (oh, food again): more time for thinking, reading, discovering. And bike riding, just for the joy of it. Not to mention getting back to that book I once wrote. Would a life coach teach me how to fit it all in? Or is that person inevitably wishing for some space and time herself, and wondering how to find it? 

Marching along

Hello Textpodders. I can see a pattern here. The professional writer, ghost blogger, polisher of other people's prose ... forgets to look out the window at her own backyard. SAD! But not so sad really, as my daughter has become a super gardener and urban agronomist (great word) and the backyard looks pretty good really. Thanks for the basil, Gracie. Best we've ever had. And the home economist in me puts it to great use. Pesto, yum. How versatile is it, and how easy?

So! News? Lots, really. Work is busy, and more varied than ever. Just as I like it, especially when I get to do fiction appraisals and edits. But here's the big one: hosting writers' retreats. More details to come but think of it: relax in a beautiful peaceful country venue, with space and time to write, mentored by your very own in-house editor. Oh, and she used to be a home ec teacher and can't wait to serve you all kinds of delicious and healthy foodie treats. I'd sign up for that for sure. 

Mercilessly good

So much for keeping this blog dynamic, expressive and up to date. Where have I been? Well, here's one thing: I attended the Institute of Professional Editors Conference last month in Brisbane, being a professional and being an editor and all. And it was truly good. Fun. Inspiring. Great schmoozing and people-watching opps. All the positives we seek at these things. My unexpected highlight was Marion Halligan's speech at the presentation of the inaugural Rosie Award for excellence in editing (won by Jacqueline Blanchard from UQP). Wow. Who knew an editors conference could make you weep (apart from the oft-repeated message that freelancers have to promote the hell out of themselves and be at the front of the pack at all times; yes, being great at your job won't cut it). Marion Halligan -- revered stateswoman of Australian literature, one of three judges of this new award, and sister of the late, eponymous Rosanne Fitzgibbon (Rosie) -- did her sister proud. Marion sure can spin a yarn. She wrapped up a whole room of editors in it, leaving them warm, cosy and misty. Mercilessly good!  

Bye bye winter

You know when you don't want to start work because your home office is an icebox? Yes, I have tried to type in gloves and it doesn't work. (I thought of putting some clumsy typos in just then but, you know, I'm an editor so I just couldn't do it.) But then my life changed: a dear one bought me this electric foot pad carpet thingy. (I'm supposed to be a writer too, oops, no clue what this product is called. The Footsie?) Best workplace improvement since the eight-hour day. Oh, eight hours, who can edit for that long? This ramble is supposed to be about winter ending. Which it hasn't, really, since the news sites today are showing kids throwing snowballs at recess. What? So I guess this is about the power of ideas. Winter ending. Hope.

The ex-nuns of Daylesford

Hey, it's been a while. Life sure does get hectic. But it's been pretty exciting too. I've just finished my favourite editing job of all time: my first crime novel. Oh wow, who knew how dastardly things could get in the little town of Daylesford? Author Sandra Broman is an absolute star and her protagonists Bill and Audrey -- the Ex-nuns of Daylesford -- will charm your socks off. They're funny, kooky, sensitive and grounded all at the same time. Is it unprofessional to get so immersed and attached? If so, who cares? Can't wait for the next instalment. (And the TV series.)

The pod has landed

It feels like I've been off to another planet. It was called Holiday, and how fresh and light-filled it was. Highly recommended: five stars. Eucalypts. Sky. Water. Don't you love that seasonal turning point of welcoming the sun into the room? Lots of reading, lots of writing. I didn't venture far from home but did manage to walk along a beach. It was one of those timeless walks into everything. Looking back on it, it was the last day of our odd, prolonged summer. Today's a perfect day to get back to work: rain, wind and probably some snow in them there hills. Time to hunker down. So send me a story. Run your idea past me. Pass me the baton.