What inspired me to attend the 'The Bendigo Writers Festival'

There are a few reasons why I chose to enrol in the subject, 'Writers In Action' that is centred around the Bendigo Writers Festival and throughout this blog post I hope to list and explain my intentions and expectations of the festival and then re visit them following the completion of the event to ascertain how it all played out.

1. Firstly the BWF lured me in with the grand array of professional authors that are to be making appearances. I admire their talent and ability and I hope that some of their genius will rub off on me!

2. I am very keen to attend the workshops that help new writers understand the publication process.

3. I hope to have the courage to ask lots of questions and probe the speakers and audience.

4. I hope that the festival opens my pessimistic eyes to the idea of becoming an author as a full time job! I love to write but sometimes I feel as though there is no chance that anyone would ever want to publish anything I write! So at the festival I hope to meet those who can provide compelling optimism, opportunity and inspiration.

5. Lastly, I just hope to meet some like-minded people who love to read and write!

Okay! Lets do this!

Blog exercise 1

1. In 50 words or less, using a distinctive genre (eg fairy tale; comedy; science fiction; melodrama; poem) narrate the story of your story.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who loved to read and write. The young girl grew up into a young women and she began writing books for all of the towns people. Her stories of princes and princess's made the towns people happy and they all loved her and her stories very much. The end.

2. Write the opening paragraph of a story that begins with the words "what if".

What if I was the winner of Masterchef 2014? Would I be happier? Of course I would be! You see, thats my dream really. I mean I know that I am here at University studying the arts, hoping that my grades will be enough to get me into a masters degree. But honestly, I don't want to be a Master Teacher! I want to be a Master Chef. It was that epiphany that started the ball rolling…….to be continued!

The power of story telling

For without passion, life becomes a meaningless road where we "keep on keepin' on" without seeing the beauty that can be found in each small moment.

First I will set the scene, because we all know as avid writers and readers that a good story cannot be told until a scene has been set. It was the 90’s when I was born and I grew up in a less conventional way than most. My firefighter and nurse parent’s were unlikely ‘wannabe hippies’. We lived in the middle of the sticks in a small rural community, (I hesitate to say town as there were no shops).

“Granite Ridge’ in Benloch was our slice of paradise and is my continual inspiration. 

The land was fertile and green with large gum trees, ferns and native grasses. Koalas dozed high in the trees with tawny frogmouths and laughing Kookaburras. A meandering creek bordered the property and came to a peak atop large granite boulders, eventually running back down towards the ground and forming a cascading waterfall. Frill Neck and Blue Tongue lizards soaked in the sun on warm afternoons and Echidnas dug homes in the dirt. Our sustainable eco-friendly mudbrick home, the center of “Granite Ridge” was designed and built by my parent’s very own hands. I was born into a loving household where animals were treated with respect and hard work bore great results. The peace and serenity of my child hood still resonates within and although I am now far away, in the bustling regional city of Bendigo, it takes only a single moment for me to lose myself in the crunching sound of the twigs and bracken as I race through the forest, or the sound of an owl hooting above, and the rustling of the water while I feel soft moss between each of my toes.

I knew from a young age that I needed to know more words. Words can be used to describe the emotion and connection that can be evoked from a single memory or a group of memories that form in our minds to produce a perfectly painted picture. They can move and grow; the power of memories is great, yet the power of memories when expressed in words is eternal and never-ending.

Although writing can sometimes be an arduous task, the persistence I was taught by my parent's help me to strive, work harder, and be passionate in all that I do. 

One brave HB pencil

Sometimes in life I think there are two different sorts of people. People like me who are few and far between and then everybody else. So I was sitting in front of the fire, ahem, an electric heater that was marginally less romantic than a crackling wood fire would have been… But nevertheless there I was sitting in front of it trying to warm my iceberg of a nose as well as my toes. I was not getting very far as the abovementioned electric heater would only throw violently hot air straight at my back causing me to jump away every thirty seconds before I would freeze and again and needless to say, repeat the pointless process. I repeat, (and please take a moment to breathe for I am sure that my shocking grammar has conveniently caused you to go blue in the face and I feel I have been on a bit of a tangent and you most likely can’t recall what in heavens to Betsy I was ranting about) So, now that we are all sufficiently oxygenated I will continue. I was sitting in front of the electric fire having just finished cutting and pasting the last pieces of my almost perfected prose into my first mock children’s picture story book. It was finished and I was proud. Scattered around me were the bits and pieces of paper that hadn’t made the cut. (Excuse the pun, as I had been cutting and pasting!) ‘To the fire’ I exclaimed to the other occupants in the room who were trying to watch Men In Black II and most likely had no idea what I was on about and no real interest in finding out. Off I strode with vigor and enthusiasm in each step, holding the unwanted scratching’s of my unkempt penmanship, off to the aforementioned marginally more romantic wood fire, which happened to be not so conveniently located in the next room. I threw open the door with the red-hot cast iron handle and was rid of the rubbish forever! Moments later I let out an appropriate, Ohhhh Emmmm Geeeee. Along with the offending prose I had accidentally thrown my pencil into the inferno within! MY PENCIL! I had thrown out my pencil! And this you see is where I feel that the world is divided. I did not admit defeat and farewell my HB with a solemn obituary as I feel most would. It was time for a rescue mission! With no thought to my own five fingers safety I plunged my small white hand into the smoke and ashes and retrieved thy pencil, saving it from a sure death, a death that for my still four inch grey led pencil would have been much too soon. After washing my pencil of the ashes and dust I went back to the ‘Men In Black II’ watching zombies and cried of my successful mission. I was surprised to find that they were less than impressed; in fact they barely glanced up from Will Smith’s face to acknowledge my bravery. I repeated myself in a louder, much grander tone sure that they had been unable to hear me and alas they finally looked my way. Instead of a pat on the back and a much needed hand massage I was questioned like a guilty criminal on the stand! Why would I risk getting burnt to save a pencil? What was the pencil worth? Why did it mean anything to me? Along with the questions and accusatory looks that showed a belief that they clearly thought I had gone crazy, (little did they know that I am and always have been proudly insane) were statements about the small cost of a pencil and how easily it would be replaced. I was befuddled. In my view, the pencil was worth much more than it had been before. The pencil was interesting and it bore it’s scars and bubbled, blistered paint with pride. The pencil inside although a little ashy had not been affected beyond repair and with a quick sharpen it was, in my eyes, better than before. The end of my anecdote brings me to the reason that this blog entry has surfaced. The memory of the rescue mission and the response that ensued chased my thoughts for the rest of the day and I worried. So I have come to a conclusion that makes me both uneasy and more than a little worried. This is, in actuality, the throwaway society in which we live. It is a society where newer is automatically better and the more expensive something is the more pride we take in it. It is a society where we do not attempt to fix the broken and we laugh at those who try. It is not only how we treat our materialistic belongings that shakes me to the core. It is the exact same way that we treat our friends, family and strangers. Is this the way we want to live our lives? With such little respect?

Over and Out.