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I was with Stan Grant, until the bit about “God”.

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I’ve always respected news media types that stick their neck out there. That talk shit and back it up. Stan Grant’s always been a favourite of mine for these very things.

When it came time to crown a new king, I was surprised at how excited everyone was for it, while completely ignoring the fact that the coronation represents hundreds and hundreds of years of colonisation and subjugation of the indigenous peoples of many lands.

I mean… that’s not a small thing. The indigenous peoples of Australia are still feeling it, all day-every day. There are many that are scarred, traumatised, broken for life, by having been ripped from their loving parents arms under the White Australia Policy. Same as the Apsalooka tribes of my homeland in Montana, being taken to Government Schools, cut their hair and wash their mouths out with soap when they spoke their own language. It was common, it was The Way You Did Things.

And the monarchy is where all that started. It came from the top and trickled down. To me personally, the Royals have been little more than tabloid fodder for the entirety of my life, doing nothing notable in any practical way. Then all of a sudden there’s this New King and everyone’s paying attention like the royal family is still relevant.

Which is fine, if they are, I have nothing to say about that. Except for what they represent to the people that are still hurting from their lasting effects. Every continent in the world has been affected. So it IS relevant and Stan Grant was RIGHT.

He was right. And he got shit on for it. And his detractors were WRONG.

Then they were worse than wrong, they were racist and wrong. Then they were wrong BECAUSE they were racist. F*ck’s sake, that’s as obvious as the problems with colonialisation.

And Stan had a gutful of it. Not just that, but the very organisation that employs him and gives him this Huge Voice, didn’t support him. He wrote articles on it, they had heaps of coverage on it, but his voice was alone coming from the ABC. They have many First Nations presenters, yet they didn’t stand up for ANY of them, let alone Stan.

So he quit. He walked away. Or is “taking a break” or whatever term we use so as to not make things TOO final.

And he wrote a good and powerful and scathing One Last Thing.

And I liked it and I supported it and I was Standing With Stan all the way until…

*record scratch*

God?

I am not perfect. But I try to live a good life. I try to be kind. I love my family. I love my people. I love the idea of what our country could be. I am a person of God and I know God is on the side of justice.

Sadly, it seems there is no place in the media for love, kindness, goodness or God. There is no place in the media for respect.

The first reference to “god” didn’t set me spinning. I have no interest in someone’s beliefs provided they don’t infringe upon others. It’s the second reference that shits me off.

“No place in the media for God”?!?

I’m sorry, Stan, but are you out of your f*cking mind?

You’ve got a huge brain, a huge personality and a huge voice. You are a man of power, a man of conviction and someone with influence. An integral and vital representative to your native Wiradjuri and First Nations people EVERYWHERE.

Yet you, yourself, can’t even see what you’re doing. Let’s assume you’re not just talking about the Abrahamic Religions, let’s say you’re talking about Christianity. Do you REALLY think that Western Culture is lacking in representation of Christianity?

I grew up being inundated with Christian teachings. I’ve read the Bible and completed Confirmation in a Protestant Church. Love, kindness and goodness are not separate from the concept of “God” in the context of the media.

I’ll put it simply: “God” has no place in media. Because we’re not all Christians, Stan. Most of us aren’t. “God” gets plenty of f*cking airtime, Stan. In EVERYTHING. “God” isn’t missing a place in the media, Stan. That’s not how this works.

Now’s when things get uncomfortable.

Also, Stan, I have a problem with your Christian god. I have no interest in changing your beliefs though. I simply want to point out  a few things you might be missing.

You’re against colonialisation. You’re not happy with the monarchy’s role in that. You’re against White Australia and I’m going to ASSUME that you’re against the systemic and systematic attempted genocide of your people’s culture.

Do you realise that the Christian god came along with that?

Literally, you can’t have one without the other. Colonialisation, subjugation, systematic genecidal racism… and Christianity.

They ALL go together. ALWAYS. EVERYWHERE.

I am a white dude and I have ZERO AUTHORITY to speak on the matters of First Nations peoples and their belief systems. But I will say, on a personal level, it makes my skin crawl to hear a First Nations person mention their belief in the Christian god.

65,000 years of your culture were overwritten by 200 years of subjugation, and you’re against that. But they brought along this New God, so that part’s okay?

That part, for me, simply doesn’t compute.

TLDR; I stand with Stan Grant, until he brings “God” into it. Then I point out that his god came along with all the shit he purports to have a problem with and is arguably as bad as the rest of it.

I used to be aspiring, but I’d limited myself.

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It was posts like this one: Aspiring Writers Need to Quit NOW that used to make me feel super-emboldened and legit, but I could never seem to follow it up in execution. I ended up writing neither more nor less as a result.

It was only when I was doing the usual, trying to carve out writing time during an otherwise busy life, and Wifeage called me out. I can’t remember if I was complaining about not having enough time to finish a novel or not (though I probably was) but she sat me down and said only this:

You’re a writer. And writers, write.

I have never looked back since. I’ve finished two sci-fi-esque novels as part of a series and have outlined and plotted out at least 4 more in that universe. I’ve just passed the 50% mark in the Coming-of-Age/YA novel that’s sort of a reimagined memoir about a young man moving from Montana to Perth, and I’ve got about a third of the way through a crime novel set in the same universe too.

Not to mention at least a half-dozen other novel ideas based on awesome dreams I’ve had, and at least a dozen short stories that I’ve either submitted or plan to for various contests. Only two have won/shortlisted in anything, but still, that’s alright.

Anyway. thanks to people like Kristen that Rah-Rah all us writers. And thanks to Wifeage who remains my muse, my motivation, my biggest supporter.

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Israel Folau Was Wrong

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And he can get fucked.

It’s a tale as old as time: He’s good at sport, therefore we should just let him do as he pleases.

The ABC is clearly a fan of his with the first in a two-part documentary getting masturbated all over their website and social media. An article about a documentary that is undoubtedly full of the same. Worship of his athletic accomplishments.

He’s good at running with a ball on a field. Awesome.

He also tweeted hateful shit. The article, and all his supporters, are all about Free Speech and Freedom of Religion. Those things are great, but nowhere did they mention the gun to his head that forced him to write that all homosexuals will burn in hell.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about your religious beliefs, but Hate Speech is an easy one. If what you’re saying is actively HURTING OTHER PEOPLE in a marginalised group, then it’s Hate Speech.

And he got fired for it.

Good.

How can you call yourselves good people when what you spout from your mouths at others actively hurts them, causes them pain, and even kills some of them?

Read, and believe, anything you want from a really old book. Just don’t post it. Simples.

Not doing great.

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How Am I Doing – 30/04/2023

[EDIT: 3.35pm 01/05/2023 – Originally a text file on my desktop, I have put it here.]
Not doing great, if I’m being honest. Still get sad, but now am feeling more and more removed and cynical and untrusting of others. Email from Cathie didn’t help. She makes me FEEL like I want to care, like I want to get closer to her. But then I remember all the times she’s made me feel like I did something wrong, like I am/was somehow wrong.

She just never missed a chance to remind me of that. The whole time Jo was there in her house, it would be Jo saying “Wasn’t he just wonderful!” or “Oh, what a cute little guy!” and Cathie would always, ALWAYS follow with “Oh, he was no angel!” in her firm voice.

Man, fuck that. I was a good fucking kid. And what the fuck did she know about it anyway? Did she ever pick me up from school for being naughty? Did my dad? Did either of them sit in a Parent-Teacher Conference and have to hear about anything awful I’d done?

What did I ever do to HER? I was stuck at her place for hours, days sometimes, with no other kids to play with and nothing to fucking do. I was stoked when I got to play on the computer, but the “Emergency Teleport” button was the space bar, and it was quite far away from the arrow pad that moved the little space ship. So when an asteroid was about to smash me, I had to quickly reach across and try and hit that space bar to teleport. It sounded hard, because space bars make slightly more noise than any other key.

Did she come in and politely ask me not to bang on the keyboard because computers are expensive? Did she come in and ask me why I’d banged on the keyboard? Nope, just a medium roar from the next room, “DON’T BANG ON THE KEYBOARD.”

I got one warning. One. If it happened again, in any manner, I was kicked off the computer for the rest of that visit and the entirety of the next one. For hitting the space key too hard. Because I was trying to emergency teleport.

But she never knew that, because she never cared. She never showed any interest in anything I did, ever. She never came to a concert, nor a football game (not even the ones in her town). I was shoved in the corner of her house and expected to play quietly. The toys there never got better as the years went by and I was absolutely, categorically NOT allowed in Jamel’s room in the converted attic. I was one told I could play with her brand-new Rubik’s cube and I got so close to solving one side but I just couldn’t figure it out. When I saw that the stickers were basically layers of plastic laying on the squares, I got my fingernail under one and it came off clean. Then the other one did too, so I swapped ’em. I felt guilty and stupid, but then forgot about it.

Jamel, being brilliant, came home and took one look at it.
“Did you swap the stickers?”
I wanted to lie. “Yes.” I hung my head.
“K, don’t… do that again.” She was pissed and went all quiet.

I wasn’t allowed to play with her stuff ever again. Not even shit she’d outgrown that sat in bags or boxes in the spare room. That stuff was for other people, promised to other kids. Not me.

Fuck I hated going to Cathie’s. And she never came to ours. Stepped foot in our house once in 1988 when we bought Denny’s truck and gave him a Going Away Party before he left for Perth. Other than that, I think she was there briefly when I graduated, but I don’t really remember that either.

So yeah, I’m a bit… sensitive these days. And I’m feeling quite bitter at anyone in my family. I still can’t believe Becky’s post. That was such shit and made me feel like complete shit. They’re all such shit, my family. Why are so many people such shit? *I* don’t think *we* are shit. I fucking love my little family. They’re wonderful people and I think they’re the best around.

Anyway. I’m not doing great. Pretty sensitive to things. Pretty sad sometimes, melancholic, then overly-sensitive. Trying so hard not to be too bitter, to be to reactive or sad or grumpy or shitty.

Kind of feel like shit today. Hate Mondays like Garfield, but hate bad sleep and bad wakings worse.

And all I’m doing is fucking whinging about it now. Just too… nostalgic isn’t the right word. Thinking about the past, I guess. Fuck that shit, and fuck all of them.

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Political Correctness

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Are you tired of political correctness?

That’s because you’re viewing treating others with respect and equality as something that’s politically-motivated.

It’s also because you don’t like being told to change how you think or what you call things, because change is scary. Your insecurity is so strong that you experience strong anxiety at the idea of learning New Rules because you’ve worked SO long and SO hard just to learn THESE rules and you’re not even sure that you’re getting those right! New Rules just mean more chances to get things wrong, and that might make you look bad, and that’s to be avoided at all costs.

That’s probably why you’re tired of Political Correctness.

Once you connect the changes in society with how we speak, act and regard others, and you really drill down into that until you get to the fact that “others” ARE actually people, just like you, then maybe that makes a difference. Maybe it’s not so tiring if you’d ask that others have a little patience for you too. Then maybe you’d feel better about you. Maybe you wouldn’t be so anxious, so insecure. Maybe if someone else was a bit easier on you, you would be easier on others.

But since you had it hard, do you think that means others should have to have it hard as well?

Is the whole point of all this… society stuff, to do better? To BE better?

Are YOU doing better? Are you BEING better?

No, seriously. I’m asking.

Me personally, I’d actually like to see this next generation, MY KIDS, have it easier. Have it better. I’d LOVE to see what they can do if they don’t have to have it as hard as I had it. If that means I have to learn new concepts about gender, and use pronouns, and get used to things that used to be weird or different or abnormal to me… I think that’s more than fair.

I’d like to think that if we give them room to grow and the space to feel safe in, they might have a better chance at being… happy.

That’s my goal, anyway. What’s yours?

Annabel’s Teapot

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This is a short story for the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction December 2022 Contest for which I was longlisted.

In addition to being limited to 500 words, the other rules were:

  • Each story had to begin with a 12-word sentence.
  • Each story had to include the sale of a second-hand item
  • Each story had to include at least five (5) different words that end in the letters –ICE.

Curious, when the entirety of life’s endeavours is little more than junk. Curious and pathetic. A loose collection of knickknacks, collectable items, kitsch.
Annabel loved her crochet samplers, her porcelain miniatures, her creepily-staring dolls, but she worshipped her spoons. She bid them good night, every night, and she stopped and stared at them every single day, sometimes finishing a nice cup of tea whilst standing unsteadily in front of them.
Her life consisted of very few lasting things. No children, not a single loved one still alive. Those spoons were the only thing she cared about. For them to be here, in this shop, awaiting appraisal and an unfair amount of currency for them was an injustice. Annabel’s life should be worth more than that.
The shop owner regarded the spoons with slightly less disdain than he did the man presenting them. Both were of swarthy persuasion, older and greying, and had been granted citizenship many years ago. But their countries of origin had fundamental differences of policies, and now a prejudice against the other permeated their very cell structures.
Annabel’s spoons would never be here were she alive. The only way someone would get them off her and get them here, was if they knew she was dead.
The man presents a tea set, the shop owner shows even more disdain, pointing out that it hasn’t even been given a proper clean. The tea remnants stain the bottom and one of the saucers shows the striped imprint of a licorice Allsort that was unstuck from it at some point. They bicker, the shop owner doesn’t want it until I call out that I would like to purchase it.
“Fifty.” The shop owner didn’t waste even a heartbeat before turning to me with an outrageous price. The seller’s eyes light up until he looks into my eyes and there’s a flicker, but I don’t think he recognises me.
“Twenty.” It’s a stupid game to play, but play it I must.
“Thirty-five.” The shop owner goes instantly to split the difference but catches the look of excitement on the seller’s face, leans over to him with his hand held up and reminds him, “Fifteen to you.”
The man doesn’t like it, but relents. Perhaps bolstered by this early success, he then takes among the first offers for the spoons and hastily departs. He’s easy enough to follow home because he lives next door to Annabel. I’ve seen him several times, though I don’t believe he’s ever really gotten a good look at me. When he answers the door, his brow gives a crinkle that says he’s confused as to how I was at the shop earlier and now on his front porch.
“I don’t know why, but you got in there before I could finish cleaning up at Annabel’s.” I push into his house. “Now it looks like I’ve got a whole lot more to clean up than just the nightshade from the teapot.”
I pull the door closed behind me.

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Part of the Writing Journey

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I’m not sure why I don’t put more in here about my writing, especially since it’s such a significant part of my life. I think I’ve wanted to try and balance my interactions with the world in a one-to-one sense (like emails) and a broader sense (like Facebook or blog posts).

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that there’s a rather high level of anxiety associated with the latter. Posting to a broader audience feels like it’s too one-sided. Like you get to know this about me, but I don’t know what’s going on with you. It’s like you’re cheating.

But I can’t say that’s why. If I had to pick something it’s likely Imposter Syndrome. Like I’m not sure when I’m going to feel like a real writer. I had a short story published in an anthology magazine, The Stringybark Stories. So everybody reading this, go buy that and write a nice review for them. David’s an awesome guy and does some really good work with Stringybark, and more folks need to tell him that.

Stringybark Stories

I entered a short story Crazy Witch Woman and while I didn’t get into the Top 3 prize winners, I did get a “Highly Commended” and included in the published book. So that’s pretty cool. Wifeage gave me a kiss and told me she was happy to be the first to call me a “Published Author”.

I rather liked that.

So I laboured over what to do with the book I’d written. It turns out it’s bloody hard to get people to read it and give you feedback. I sent it out to over 10 people and got actual feedback from 2. 20% is not a great rate. But I also worked really hard on my rewrites and after finishing the sequel, I went back and applied the knowledge I’d gained of the characters to the first book. I really felt like they’d come alive in the second novel and I wanted the love that had grown to be applied to them retroactively.

I think it worked. But I’m not sure. I’ve since gotten more feedback but it’s insanely disheartening when NOBODY* talks about how much they like the book and instead talk about it’s problems. And they’re all different problems. Some of them are even kind of genre-specific and I wonder if these people just don’t like reading thrillers.

* Not nobody. Family Matty really quite enjoyed it, and that was the very first draft. Which, to be fair, was not a very good book. But he helped me heaps with what could make it better and I’ll always have much love for him for that.

But my goal was to self-publish it by the end of the year. I’ve written these dystopian, sci-fi, speculative fiction thrillers under a pen name, one that I’ve built all of the online profiles for, and my plan was to finish the two other novels I’m working on (crime thriller and coming-of-age drama) and try and pitch those to publishers/agents and maybe get traditionally published.

Not that the plan was always to get The Council onto Amazon via self-publishing. I queried some agents, you betcha, but they all turned me down with either ignoring me or saying “Yeah, not really my thing.” Which is fair. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, I know it’s not for everybody, but it really seems to put some people off. Which is hard to hear, because *I* sure like it. I liked writing it, I liked reading it later.

So the plan evolved into just taking this one series and putting it on Amazon. Some brilliant advice I got from a great guy I know, one of those author-types, said start with the first book for sale, then tease the sequel, then when the sequel drops make the first book FREE to hook readers and tease the third one. I think it’s a goer, for sure. I’m just wondering if anybody will even purchase the book in the first place.

That will be something I’ll have to work on. Getting people to read it, then leave a review (a good one, preferably) to boost interest, and maybe I’ll get lucky and catch the algorithm in the right mood. Heh.

Anyway, the first book is up on Amazon, but it’s not finished yet so I’ve set it to “draft”. I’m still gathering feedback and some of it is so good that I can’t officially publish it until it’s ready. When your 15-yo daughter blazes through it and takes notes in the margins and draws pictures of the characters, you know ignoring that type of thing is for people with No Soul.

So if you want to read the 7th draft before the 8th (and hopefully FINAL) draft, and have your valuable insights calculated and most-definitely, not-at-all ignored, then drop me an email. Otherwise, just wait patiently, I’ll update here when it’s ready.

A little about what my life looks like.

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I am crippled. Broken. I have various bits of my body that don’t work well anymore. Some of them are my doing, living the life I did. Some of them are an accident of birth, genetics, fate. Neither of those differences ultimately matter though. What matters is pain.

Getting out of bed is pain. Getting into bed is nice, but still pain. Making the morning’s first hot drink, for me or Wifeage, is pain. Needing to sit on the toilet for an extended time is annoying for its base reasons, but it’s also pain. Doing nearly everything always involves a level of pain. And I am sick of it.

Except writing. Writing isn’t really painful. Not usually anyway. A new malady in my left arm has hampered things, but I’m learning to work with it. But if it meant giving up writing for the barest hope that this new pain would lessen, I would not. Fuck that. I’ll fight through the pain, and I’ll let the tears fall later when I am confronted that this, my last vestige of pain-free sanity, is now tainted with the same niggling electrical pulses that fuck with every other aspect of my day.

I’ve done The Right Things. I’ve seen the GPs enough that they’ve sent me to others who purport to want to help me. One of them plans to cut me open, fix or fuse or replace the bits that no longer work, and I remain hopeful this holds an answer to all this pain.

For now though, I have only the pain, and the hope. There are no answers yet. Writing is my only answer, and I plan to cling to it forever.

“The Glass House” Book Review

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The Glass HouseThe Glass House by Brooke Dunnell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Riveting… is NOT a word I’d use, so why couldn’t I put the bloody thing down?!
Because it’s Just Good Writing. With a relatable and interesting main character and vibrantly colourful supporting cast. Holy cats, I guarantee you know somebody just like every character in this book, and you sometimes love them, sometimes they make you want to scream.
It wasn’t even that there’s this Unknown Mystery hanging over everything. I mean, there is, but that wasn’t what drove me to keep turning pages for a solid 6 hours. With Julia, you’re just drawn in and taken with on her journey. She’s flawed, she’s human, she’s mutable and best of all, she’s that perfect blend of humble/arrogant about her life decisions that nothing is a given because she (like all of us) is still figuring this all out as she goes. I don’t think I knew that was the biggest draw until I wrote it just now. Julia is All Of Us. So good.

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