This feeling of being unimportant
at weddings
funerals,
birth days, engagements. Even my own.
But at least I was there for those.

Sick beds were different.
Bed pans
yellow sheets
the smell of death
a cocktail of chemicals
cloudy water jugs
and those anaemic
stale flowers in an ugly jar.

I was there for that. There to see you decrepit and fading.
And it made no difference at all to who you were.

Why did you have an unshaven jaw and bad breath?
Though I understood the guilty-eyed glance.

There I was,
Very Important,
suddenly.

You looked at my hair and asked me why it was purple
What were you on – LSD?
Was that your idea of a compliment?

the only words ever uttered by you
to me
about
what I looked like to you.

How can you conjure love in a moment?
What can you do about what’s been done?

The photograph albums lay on the floor,
each page examined carefully,
the events of your life
without me.

Such pretty girls in flowery frocks
a folded hanky in your baskets
and the man with the power to reel me in to all of this,
benign
useless
defeated by time -
larrikin days
staining his flannelette pyjamas.

I’d like him to forget me.
Forget I ever existed.

Silly me, the foolish fly in the ointment
right from the start
blacklisted.

(C) Maree Giles 2010

Maree Giles

1. Do you think feminism has made women too independent? Too capable?
2. Do you feel a bit ‘redundant’ as a man?
3. Has feminism made you lazy towards women? Do you flop down in front of the telly after work while your partner, who also works, does all the chores, as well as doing the grocery shopping and cooking? Is your partner more ‘hands on’ with the kids than you?
4. Do you make an effort in the grooming department for your partner? Especially at weekends when she wants a bit of attention and love from her handsome man?
5. Have you let yourself go completely? If so, why?
6. Do you open doors for her, pull out her chair? Carry her shopping? Do the shopping? Cooking? Anything??!!
7. How do you think feminism has affected your life?
8. Do you find women are a bit too aggressive these days, not only at work but also at home?
9. Have women lost a bit of their femininity, because of feminism?
10. Have you given up trying to be romantic and chivalrous?
11. Do you find women too loud these days? Too vocal and opinionated?
12. Do you think women are too promiscuous? Is that a turn-off?
13. What do you think women really want from a man?
14. Why do you think women still pay so much attention to their looks? While perhaps you don’t?
15. What would you most like to change about yourself?
16. What would you most like to change about your partner?
17. What do you think about manners? Are they important to you?
18. Do you think good manners could form the foundation of a strong relationship?
19. What do think having good manners means? For example, do you think it means being kind, helpful, thoughtful? Or do you think it means knowing how to hold your knife and fork correctly?
20. If your partner asked you to improve your general etiquette, how would you react? Do you even know what etiquette means?

One of the pitfalls all writers fall into during that tricky first-draft phase is telling the story, not showing the story. All the How To Write Fiction self-help books put great emphasis on this craft device. And so do literary agents, editors and publishers. If you want to have your writing published, it is vital that you learn how to show, not tell.

Show, don’t tell confuses a lot of people. What does it mean? Basically it means you must dramatize your story, that is, bring it to life with active verbs, dialogue and action. And through those devises, show us who the characters are. Word choice is also key.

For example you could write this:

He was sitting on the sidewalk crying. People were walking past on their way to work, but no one was looking at the man.

They were looking the other way.

That is passive writing. It lacks movement. There is not enough detail, either, to bring this scene to life. It doesn’t really come alive in the reader’s mind.

Look at the difference when a few active verbs and some dialogue is added:

Toby was slumped on the sidewalk next to the Atlas Beverage Company. Office workers rushed past, their eyes straight ahead, their minds on accounting and sales figures. No one looked down at Toby. He was a blur at the edge of their vision. A pile of dirty cloth in worn-out sandshoes.

He looked up at the building opposite, and felt the weight of all that concrete and marble weighing down on him. Then he leaned over his knees and sobbed into his dirty cotton trousers.

Now the scene has dialogue, action, detail. It shows the two characters clearly through these details and dialogue, and we can be sure it is set somewhere in America, possibly in the Fifties. All important details that bring the scene to life.

It’s hard work writing like that in a first draft. You have to mentally walk your way through each scene, each exchange between the characters. As well as creating the plot and making sure it all makes sense. It’s like creating a jigsaw with a million pieces. You have a vague idea where each piece is, and what it looks like, but you’re not sure where it is all going to fit. You almost get to the end, and when you cast your eye over the picture you realise there’s a few missing pieces! Or some of the pieces are in the wrong place, or don’t quite fit.

With a bit of re-jigging and finding those missing pieces, eventually it all holds together and looks as it should.

Hard work. Attention to detail, that’s the real key. Bringing all those craft elements together to create a picture made of words. A picture with movement, detail, the five senses (sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste) and emotion. Careful word choice is vital for that picture to work well.

Yes, it takes up more space to write this way. But there is a place for telling – I prefer to call it SUMMARY.

You can sum up a scene that does not need to be dramatized, something that happened in the past, for example, something that happened off-stage at another location. You can sum up a person’s emotions, reactions, worries – this can be done using the interior monologue devise – a person’s thoughts – through the narrator.

Writers have to make hundreds of choices every day when they are writing. Those choices are a reflection of you, the writer, but more importantly, of your characters. Try using visual prompts to help keep the story alive in your mind as you write. Invest in a large noticeboard so you can pin the pictures in front of you and refer to them for ideas and inspiration. If you don’t have room for one, buy a large display book and arrange your research and pictures in that. Immerse yourself in the characters’ world. Imagine the smells, sights, tastes, sounds, the emotions that all of these things conjure. It is a unique world like no other. Choose the words that transport you and the reader to that location. Venice, Italy is nothing like Melbourne, Australia. Piece by piece the complete picture will emerge, and before you know it you will have a whole world opening up before your wondrous eyes.

(C) Maree Giles, November 3, 2011

if you’re anything like me
I hate to see the sun acting weak.
Does it all feel bleak
when you think of the future
or when you remember
what it use to be like
before things got complicated
before you were obligated
to satisfy others.
Does it make you feel sad
when no one bothers
to remember you care
when life seems totally destructive
and unfair.

How many moods did you experience today?
Did you start the day gloomily
progressing to looking
optimistically
at the hours unfolding.
Was it that moment
when you were holding your loved one,
or was it that instant
when you were excited about
seeing your daughter
or hugging your son

if you’re anything like me
that’s what I look forward to.
When I see that they’re safe
those moods,
those heart-tearing moments
that fill you with fear
suddenly disappear.

When you hear their voices
the choices you’re
faced with are boiled down
and the frown on your face
quite frankly feels
irrelevant and wrong.

How many moods did you experience today?
Did your heart ache when someone you love
raised their voice.
Was the choice all theirs
did you think who cares
if you’re crying or dying
for stability and love -
did you think
what have I done
to deserve this situation
that painful altercation
with the people I love?

Is God above watching and controlling
the journey you’re on,
are the devils at work
where shadows lurk,
do you look in the mirror and see
a cold-blooded smirk.

Does that dark scary mood go away
when there’s good
is your drug of choice laughter and light
or hatred, of course
that’s when the might of your heart bears down
with a terrible, terrifying force

yes, you experienced thousands of moods today.
No matter how hard you try
they won’t go away.

Those moods – you can curse them
or nurse them
because they are here to stay.
Those uncontrollable feelings
will always haunt you and
get in the way.

(C) Maree Giles, November 2, 2011

it was quiet
and lonely
but pretty soon
I knew someone
would say it was
time to go home.

up there
under the eaves
I had words
and worlds
and no one could
touch me
the crack of a head
on stone
the swish of a cane
on raw bone
hate-filled
fear-filled
voices
harsh, humourless
brittle voices

how I loathe that kind of voice
it can cut you in two
the shoe
fits a certain type of person
just right
the might at the back
of a throat
forces those
booming notes into
the fetid air
when the morning’s optimism
has begun to fade
and in the shade
of a solitary table
I would lay down and weep.

up there
under the eaves
I had words
and worlds
that took me away to
Italy Africa home
the ancient streets of Paris
where heads rolled
and the veins
in the road were filled
with blood.

I could be there in an instant
two lines in
the sin they accused me of
irrelevant and vile
and self-hatred
became a private refrain
my very own personal
incantation
going round and round
in my mind
it seemed like a kind voice
a small relief from the chain
the isolation
the skin crawling frustation
and then a key would slot into a door
and I swore
to myself
I’d never come back
to that room
up there
under the eaves
where I had words and worlds
and faith
was a fact.

up there
under the eaves
I had words
and worlds
and I could hear the thunder
I could smell the rain
and count the stars
their individual characteristics
more important than pain.

I had Byron and Shelley
Bronte, Austen, Conrad
and hell seemed a long way away
all the possibilities
were there between the pages
down the written, rotten ages
when this place
and others just
like it
were normal
when civility
and manners
mattered but
murder and mayhem
were hard to control.

up there
under the eaves
I had words and worlds
and the screams
in the night
fell into day
and I gave in
to the cares of Blake
and the notion that
demons were
waiting at the foot
of the stairs.

up there
under the eaves
I had words and worlds
and I could sleep
and keep my thoughts
to myself
I could imagine
myself at the foot
of a mountain
or diving for coins
in a Roman fountain.

sometimes I wish I was
up there
under the eaves
where life wasn’t real
where those words and worlds
I inhabited were perfect
or bad but
no one could hurt me
no one could affect
a voice like
the devil
at a high-pitched level
that split me in two.

Maree Giles (c) 2011

now the dinner tray
trembles on an arthritic knee

you see
how life has a habit of
biting back

no need for deliberation
revenge or spite
just sit back and watch

Percy, Percy
do they show any mercy
when your catheter’s changed

do they pilfer notes from
your dressing gown pocket
and force teaspoons of grey mush
through your gums

is your quivering eye
bloodshot and bleached
in its failing socket

have the hairs on your knuckles
fallen out or turned grey

and do the people in charge
keep saying
you’re there to stay.

Will your headstone say
REST IN CHAOS
will you think of us
when your luck runs out
and your ethos
is stuffed
in between two stones

the candyfloss in our visitor’s box
rotten with age

your tribute is a big black
Albatross
gripping your neck

and out there at muster
the fir tree whispers
a thousand names

and a cold wind
creeps over the wall.

fingers of ice crawl
into the rooms
the sheets are mitred and stiff

and there in each bed
is the hollow shape of
a girl’s sore hip

the tear-stained pillows
locked in a cupboard
numbered and shamed

over there in a corner
stands a naked figure
trembling with fear

Percy, Percy!
when you raise your arm
to touch her
she’s gone

the sharp bone of her shoulder
sears your
cold sweaty palm

you fall into a broken sleep
your hand heating on your leather belt

Mercy, Mercy!
where is your heart
the gormless sky beats down
on your furrowed brow
and night descends quickly like
the lid of a tomb.

© Maree Giles, September 2011

we were strangers in spite of this
sharing memories, pain and a sort of
vague anger
mixed with a strange desire to walk the corridors and cells
of that evil place and relive the smells and sounds.

unique reminders
like that can take you back to a certain day
perhaps the one when Dr Fingers
welcomed you to the clinic
or the officer who had a haircut like Hitler’s
smashed you in the face
or you were made to scrub a square of concrete
on your bare knees till the sun came up
face-to-face with another girl
you dared to touch.

we met at Parramatta station
then drove to Fleet Street
with the windows down
and the doors unlocked
a private meeting
some of us
had missed the official Reunion.

the painters were there
doing the old place up,
for what, no one knew.
But we wanted them out, to be honest, though no one said.
It was our place, not theirs.
Our nightmare, not theirs.

one of the women
knew the officer who let us in.
A big bloke who worked at the gaol
next door and did us a favour.
The bunch of keys on his hip made
my heart lurch.

Greeting the men and
stepping over the paintbrushes
felt like an illicit act.
Percy was long gone,
his office dusty and still
no evidence to give away what he’d done.
But we all Knew.

Outside on the Covered Way
A maintenance man had left
pieces of broken timber and other debris.
The paintwork
on the benches were bleached
by the weather but
I claimed the exact spot
where I sat with my mother on Sundays
when she came with her guilt
and heartache
and a box full of sweets
that the officers confiscated.

The lawns were overgrown
the trees and shrubs out of control
windows and doors left unlocked
as though the people who lived there
had left in a hurry.

Halfway along the Covered Way
someone from the Department
had constructed a wire fence
to keep people out
but we were on the side that mattered,
for beneath Percy’s office
was a maze of cells.

Alana’s characters
questioned the existence of dungeons
but there they were.
Dark, dank
Foul-mouthed
and filthy.

Our feet followed
the worn steps
and we scurried in and out of each cell
talking about what had been done
a knot of fear in our throats
at the sound of our own voices
as though slipping through hell.

It made us laugh
to see the old place
neglected.
To think of the hours we spent cleaning
scrubbing
polishing
dusting.

For what?
To train us?
For what?
To be what?
Good girls?
Obedient girls?
To wash out the bad?
Rub off those dirty ways?
Shine the parts that were tainted
with life?

We climbed the stairs
to the dormitories above Percy’s office
and Bonney showed us the original layout,
long since disguised by other incarnations.
Rooms we had never known about
for our movements were confined
to one place at a time.

And outside the dorm where Bonney and I slept
was a verandah that I didn’t know about
overlooking the front garden
a view so new and surprising
yet I lived there for nine long months.

I wanted to visit the library
at the top of a narrow, winding staircase
where a girl tried to kiss me
but that was behind the wire fence.
Two rooms up there all to myself
and shadowed by trees
where I sorted the books and kept everything orderly
transported to other worlds
where lines like “It is a far, far better thing that I do,
than I have ever done;
it is a far, far better rest that I go to
than I have ever known.”
seduced my regret.

The ghosts were there under the ivy-clad eaves that day
staring down at us with black eyes
and wondering why they had been left behind.

I could hear the footsteps of girls marching
and an officer shouting and slapping a face
the swish swish of a scrubbing brush on concrete
the metallic clatter of cutlery in the dining room
and the silence beneath it

I could smell the girls and the place as it was
A peculiar smell
A particular smell
that made me feel very small and afraid

I can’t describe it, but it made me think of short hair
itchy bloomers
bare scrubbed faces and unshaped eyebrows
sanitary pads and brown leather shoes
woollen cardigans and insipid food
the clout of a ball on a bat
girls singing hollow hymns on Sunday in the chapel
where silent tears slid down three hundred rosy cheeks
and there among the pews sat
damaged skin
and a host of musty Bibles

© Maree Giles
September 2011

My English garden attracts blackbirds, green parrots (it is rumored they bred like mad in the Royal Parks in Richmond and Kingston-Upon-Thames after escaping from a pet shop), red-breasted robins, cunning and bold urban foxes, sleepy tomcats, fat wood pigeons, and busy grey squirrels. I’ve planted lots of roses and hydrangeas – my favourite is a gorgeous pale green cone-shaped hydrangea called Limelight, which glows in the dark – and for colour, a variety of dahlias. Japanese anenomes are another favourite but the slugs tend to like these. This year they have thrived, thank goodness, as I really love these delicate, exotic flowers.

Behind my mother’s garden there is a sub-tropical mountain where hang-gliders launch themselves into the ether, and trees that are more than 300 years old. There are rocks and giant tree ferns and eagles soaring over the tropical forest. Behind my garden in London is someone else’s garden. A row of dark purple and white lilac divides our properties. Above is a Turneresque sky brushed with mauve and pink clouds, and a huge oak tree where the squirrels play tag all day in a race to gather nuts for winter.

Here are some photographs of the English garden I’m so lucky to have. Watch out for the photos of my mother’s gorgeous Australian garden (I have to find the disc first). I hope you enjoy these!

]]> http://www.mareegiles.com/my-english-garden-in-summer-2/feed 2 http://www.mareegiles.com/divine-inspiration-in-rhodes http://www.mareegiles.com/divine-inspiration-in-rhodes#comments Sun, 21 Aug 2011 16:31:34 +0000 Maree Giles http://mareegiles.com/?p=1300

Waking up to this view every morning made every day exciting, romantic and inspiring. The beaches are pebbly but who cares when the Aegean is clear, warm and safe. A short walk to a private beach with a board walk, bamboo umbrellas and a bar playing reggae music beckoned, but wait . . . what about the swimming pool?

Palm-lined islands, waterfalls, and spectacular sea views . . . how to choose? I’ve got a better idea! All that snorkelling and sunbathing has given me an appetite. Let’s go back to our room, enjoy the view from the other end of our balcony looking south, then hop in our rented Panda and go taverna hunting. You don’t have to go far in Rhodes to find one. In 10 days we didn’t have one bad meal. The food on this gorgeous island is nutritious, tasty, fresh, and always made with love. The chick peas are grown by the mother-in-law in the next village; the tomatoes are grown in the field behind the taverna, the olives are grown by a neighbour, the olive oil bottled by another neighbour, the wine comes from Uncle Yanni’s vineyard, the food is cooked by the wife and served by her husband. The sister-in-law is the kitchen-hand, the grandmother bakes the desserts, her husband gathers the honey, milks the goats, and strains the yoghurt. These are proud, eager to please, hospitable, friendly, warm and generous people. The economic cloud might be hovering nearby on the mainland but on Rhodes life is for living come-what-may. Guaranteed sunshine, a booming tourist industry, abundant ocean and farm produce, a rich and fascinating history, spectacular coastal and mountain scenery – you’ll wake up every morning thinking you’re in a Cliff Richard movie.

It’s so sad when some hard-to-please visitors to more out-ot-the-way places like Kiotari post negative reviews about the area, on web sites such as Trip Advisor. For me and my partner Kiotari was refreshingly unspoiled. We loved dining next to local families and watching the team effort as the owners and staff worked hard to please their customers in 35 degree plus heat. So what if it’s not near the nightclubs and bars that dominate other towns on the island. We were glad to get away from the tourist hot-spots where lager louts tend to gather. The whole point of this part of Rhodes is to get away from the hustle and bustle of life. If you’re looking for adventure, explore the back roads of the island, where you can find cool shelter in a tiny white chapel on top of a mountain, or buy honey from a local farmer, or marvel at a field of plump watermelons, or watch an orange moon rise over the horizon from your clifftop table, or chat to a colourful local about the weather, or watch wind and kite surfers bouncing ooer the Aegean and the Mediterrean at Prassonisi, where the two oceans collide in a carnival atmosphere. Where else in the world are you given free dessert after every meal? Whacking great slabs of fresh watermelon, home-made Greek pastries, ice-cream, yoghurt and honey? Then there’s the hair-pin bends that take you to secret beaches on the Mediterranean coast near Monolithos, where a rocky path through a pine forest leads to a clifftop castle.

Sunset over Lachania

Ten days on Rhodes gave me a chance to think about the Greek myths and how useful myth and symbolism is in writing. I’ve written an article to accompany today’s photo blog and will post it soon.

I loved that our hotel was in a fairly isolated stretch of coast near the village of Lachania. Venturing out to explore the island on days when we’d had enough of the beach or the pool created a lovely balance. We even managed three trips north to the medieval walled city, also called Rhodes, and several trips to Lindos. Both beautiful towns, fully pedestrianised and brimming with interesting shops. The hand-made jewellery and carpets from Iran were especially beautiful. Rich Americans onshore for the day pounce on these shops. The entire island revolves around tourism, but Rhodians are far from jaded, in fact, quite the opposite. They enjoy making sure you enjoy yourself, and go all out to welcome and fuss over visitors. I loved the climate. It’s a dry heat, and on the south-east coast where we stayed, a lovely breeze eased the temperatures just enough to make it comfortable. This was our first empty-nester holiday, so it was extra special. We loved the freedom of wearing summer clothes and feeling a little glamorous! Isn’t that what holidays are for?

1. What if your character lost something precious?

2. What if your character had a secret?

3. What if your character found something valuable?

4. What if your character discovered he had inherited a castle?

5. What if your character discovered that losing all that weight made no difference to his life?

6. What if your character was invisible?

7. Choose five words from your dictionary to use in the chapter you are writing.

8. What if no one likes your character’s husband/wife?

9. What sort of person was your character’s mother?

10. What if your character takes up an unusual hobby? How will his family and partner react?

11. What if your character couldn’t pay her bills?

12. What if your character couldn’t pay for his meal at a restaurant?

13: What if your character accused someone of stealing food, but was mistaken?

14. What if your character dug up an unexploded bomb while gardening?

15. What if your character was a confirmed bachelor or spinster and somone fell in love with him/her? How would your character respond/change?

16. What if your character woke up and his skin was green?

17. What if your character had to rescue a snake from a frenzied dog?

18. What if your character lost his/her sense of smell (this happened to me! When it returned more than a year later I was overwhelmed by the intensity of all the smells around me)

19. What if your character was ostracized by his/her family? (this also happened to me! My father ignored me all my life. Believe me, it’s not a pleasant experience!)

20. What if your character moved to a place where everyone was rude and unfriendly?