Shut up and Write

It felt like the first day of school for me this morning. Dressed in my Pilates clothes, I was off to my Shut up and Write group, then to Pilates, then to meet Farmdoc for coffee at our regular coffee place. This was my routine last year but I’ve had a long break over the summer holidays. Like my youngest granddaughters today was my first day back.

Have you heard of Shut up and Write? It’s a worldwide movement that began in San Francisco and is particularly popular amongst academic writers, but works for any kind of writing. The idea is to meet in a cafe with a group of people and a timer and just write. There’s opportunity for socialising but it’s amazing how productive you can be in the company of others.

We use the Pomodoro Technique, which breaks the time up into blocks. In the breaks between blocks you’re not supposed to talk about what you’re working on (though sometimes we do). Most people find that when they return after the short break they can get to a deeper level in their writing. That certainly happens for me.

We meet at 9.15, order coffee, chat for 15 minutes, write for 25 minutes, break for a five minute chat and then write for another 25 minutes. There’s usually a bit more chat at the end, sometimes another 25-minute writing session for those who don’t need to rush off.

We’ve experimented with different venues – a couple of different cafes and a meeting room in a hotel – but the café where we meet at the moment suits us best. They know our coffee orders and don’t seem to mind us spending an hour or so taking up precious table space. They’ve also grown used to our bursts of chatter, stretches of silence.

The time we met in a hotel, the young male manager set us up in a room to ourselves around a large boardroom table, but then tried to engage us in conversation about what we were doing when we were clearly wanting to concentrate and write in silence. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have been so intrusive and condescending  (‘We’re all working hard here, aren’t we?’) if we’d been a group of men. Just a thought.

The Pomodoro technique works so well for me that I’ve begun trying to use it at home too. In the five minute breaks I get up, maybe do a few stretches, maybe make a cuppa or get a glass of water, maybe do some chores.

These Monday morning Shut up and Write sessions set me up for the writing week. I use them for all sorts of things. This morning I spent the first block writing this. Sometimes I write in my journal. Mostly I work on my novel, which is what I did in my second block.

Conversations are short, we’re different ages and stages and working on all kinds of projects, but we have in common that writing is important to us. When I spot these people around town I feel connected to them but also to the life of the town. It's the beginning for me of a sense of community here in this new place.

Bearing Gifts

It's just over two years since my mother died and I have thought about her every day since.

In the early days I could remember only how she was when she was in the grip of Alzheimer's Disease. Her helplessness and despair as the mists began to swirl and she knew she would soon cease to be counted as a person who mattered and become instead an object of pity - someone of lesser value. Then that blank stare, the rage in her eyes when she became agitated in the late afternoon. 'Go awaaaay!' she'd scream.

It was so painful and exhausting to watch, relieved only by the joy of witnessing my father's devotion to my mother - his sweetheart of 65 years.

These days I remember other times. She was funny, my mother, with a wide smile that revealed one slightly crooked eye tooth. I remember how excited she was to see me, how she refused to allow me to help her in the kitchen when I visited because I was her honoured guest. It's hard to lose that kind of love and especially hard  to lose it to Alzheimer's.

But my mother's disease also brought with it many gifts, one of which was completely unexpected.

When my book, Alzheimer's: a Love Story, was first published, I dreaded hearing readers' stories. My own experience was so raw I thought it would be too painful for me to hear about other people's. But to my surprise I found that I loved it, and I could see too how much it meant to these strangers to share their stories.

Gradually I realised that it's because these journeys we take as we farewell those we love are so lonely and so difficult but also so rich and rewarding that they change us forever. When we tell each other about our journeys, these readers and I, we recognise our fellowship and we feel less alone.

I mention all this now because I am discussing my experience next Sunday at the Well-Being group in the hall at 2pm at St Mark's Anglican Church, 21 Beatty Street, Reservoir (just off Gilbert Road).

Come along if you're free, and join us for what I know will be a moving and enjoyable afternoon.

Flood

This time last year it was bush fires we were afraid of. In the end they came close to Onemilebridge and the air was full of their smoky breath but fortunately we weren't directly affected.

In the twelve months since then there have been wild winds that brought down dozens of fine old trees on our property but otherwise left us unscathed.

Now it's floods. Again the devastation suffered by others has passed us by. We are so grateful for our good fortune and our hearts go out to those affected. The survivors will have a long road to recovery, I know, and all we can do is wish them well and send donations. Our talented daughter Kate and many of her fellow craft bloggers are organising auctions of their work to raise money. I'll be bidding.

Yesterday at Onemilebridge Home Paddock developed a waterfall

and a stream.


The creek rose to the level of the timber supports of our bridge but left the structure itself unscathed. Our neighbour (who is also the bridge builder) said he saw it shake with the rushing of the water, but it stood firm. Thank heavens!


Some of the residents of Mole Creek weren't as lucky. These people have no other access to their property:

Water rose from the creek and across the main road, flooding a couple of houses. The post office and the pub were sandbagged.

Late in the afternoon, after the rain stopped, Farmdoc and I walked down into the village. It's always a friendly place. Drivers wave at each other (or at least raise one finger in recognition in what we call the Mole Creek salute). But yesterday friendliness was in the air. Strangers waved and stopped to chat. On our way home a driver pulled alongside us and asked if we wanted a lift anywhere.

It's nice to know that in difficult times neighbours are there for each other. It makes us feel less helpless and less alone. And actually, when it comes to Mother Nature we're all neighbours.

Peter Bakowski Reads

As all writers know, books don't sell themselves. Writing and getting published are only the beginning of the process. How do you find readers? How do readers find your books?

This applies across all genres, but particularly I think to poetry. My guess is that the poetry section of the bookshop, tucked away in the back corner, would be the least visited.

Peter Bakowski, a Melbourne poet, meets that challenge head on. He takes his poetry directly to the public, specialising in readings in private homes for audiences of more than eight people.

About four years ago I heard that Peter was in Tasmania and I wrote to him asking if he could come to us in Mole Creek. It didn't work out that time but when Peter was arranging his recent trip to Tasmania for the Launceston Poetry Festival he wrote to me and this time we succeeded.

Farmdoc and I put our heads together and made a list of our friends who we thought would enjoy a potluck poetry dinner. We scraped together every chair and makeshift table we could find.

And our guests contributed plenty of delicious food and drink.


Peter is a relaxed reader and generous with his time and explanations. He provided a wonderful insight into his life as a poet and his technique. It was also lovely meeting his wife, Helen, and their son Walter.

Peter's aim is to 'write clear and accessible poems, to use ordinary words to say extraordinary things...about what it's like to be human.' His latest book, Beneath Our Armour, a collection of portrait poems, was short-listed for the Victorian Premier's Prize.

What's Cooking?

The last weekend Farmdoc and I were in Victoria we taught a cooking class at the Daylesford Neighbourhood Centre.

I used to be a keen cook. I did a course at the Cordon Bleu School of Cooking in London back in the day, and I cooked for our household of six for years, sometimes serving up five different meals to cater for vegetarians, dieters and those who wouldn't eat anything that was coloured orange.

Once the kids left home writing became my priority. I began to look on cooking mostly as something that took me away from what was important.

But our community-minded daughter Meg believes that everyone has something they can teach others, and she is very persuasive. There are dishes that have remained part of my regular repertoire and it was those that Meg thought I could teach. Teamed with Farmdoc's great bread-baking skills we put together a class that went into the program as Basic Jewish Cooking. We taught challah (the plaited egg loaf eaten on the sabbath), chicken soup, matzah balls and honey cake.

It was a lot of work to prepare. Farmdoc broke every recipe down into individual actions and compiled lists of ingredients and equipment we'd need. We weren't sure dishes would turn out well because the centre's oven cooks unevenly. But the food was delicious and the class was a lot of fun. I think our students enjoyed it; we definitely did. We were lucky to be assisted by Meg and our granddaughter, Indigo.

I'm grateful to Meg for giving us the opportunity to share some of the knowledge and skills we have and encouraging us to teach the session. There's something elemental about preparing and breaking bread together and it was nice for Farmdoc and me to combine our artistic and scientific approaches. We're already planning what we'll teach next year.

Book Signing

Next Sunday afternoon I will be at Petrarch's Bookshop in Launceston from 2pm for a book signing and discussion event. If you're in the neighbourhood come along. I'd love to meet you and answer any questions you may have. I love discussing my book and issues that arise from it with readers. It makes all those lonely hours at my keyboard worthwhile.

To sweeten the event I will be bringing along a batch of my famous home-baked Launch Cookies.

INVITATION

PETRARCH’S BOOKSHOP

ON BEHALF OF

VIVIENNE ULMAN

INVITES YOU TO JOIN HER

WHEN SHE WILL BE SIGNING AND

DISCUSSING HER NEW BOOK...

“ALZHEIMER’S: A LOVE STORY”

IN THIS INSPIRING STORY VIVIENNE RECORDS

HER MOTHERS ALZEIMERS, HER OWN GRIEF AND

THE WAY HER PARENTS’ ENDURING LOVE SUSTAINED THEM.

“OUTSTANDING IS HER PORTRAIT OF HER FATHER. THE STORY OF THIS WONDROUSLY GOOD MAN WILL INSPIRE AND HUMBLE READERS” – RAIMOND GAITA

WE LOOK FORWARD TO YOU JOINING US AT PETRARCH’S AT

2:00p.m. SUNDAY 27^th JUNE.

Phone: (03) 6331 8088 Fax: (03) 6331 5163

89 Brisbane StreetLaunceston Tasmania 7250

Mole Creek Food Mile Market

Yesterday was the second ever Mole Creek Food Mile Market. The market was launched on 350 Reverse Climate Action Day, Saturday October 24th, and is the brainchild of Laurie Rose who owns our local Guest House and Laurel Berry Restaurant. Stall holder fees support the local community tourism association. The market is a small but excellent attempt to promote the idea of buying local.

Yesterday there wasn't much in the way of fresh produce for sale (though we arrived quite late and maybe there had been more earlier in the day), but it's still too cold here for much. There was some lovely fresh garlic, jars of jams and preserves, some hand knitting and other local arts and crafts, bags of Alpaca poo and plenty of enthusiasm.

There was also a stall promoting a community radio station that will be run out of Deloraine and transmit in our area, commencing some time next year. Farmdoc's ears pricked up at that. He did a presenter's training course at 3CR a number of years ago and went on to host a programme until we left Melbourne. I'll be staying tuned to see what comes of this.

The next market will be held on Boxing Day and my guess is there'll be plenty of fresh local produce at that one. Maybe we'll need to get up earlier to be there before it sells out.

Ten, Nine, Eight...

How quickly this week has sped by compared with how slowly time passed while I was counting down the hours until my launch with equal amounts of excitement and nervousness. Would anyone come? Would too many people come? If they came would they think it had been worthwhile to trek across town in peak hour traffic in all that heat? What part of the book should I read? What sort of speech should I give?

At first I was determined not to cry and not to upset my dad. But that made it impossible to find an extract to read, and everything I thought of to say sounded superficial.

Nicola introduces the evening.

And then, a few days before the launch, the words of that song, 'It's my party' began to play in my head. It's so weird how that happens, that you realise you've been humming a song that is absolutely appropriate to whatever you've been thinking about, as though a DJ in your head is rummaging through all your old records for a soundtrack.

'It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. You would cry too if it happened to you.' And it was true. What had happened to my family was sad. And you would cry too if it happened to you. I decided that if I cried, I cried. That left me free to say whatever I wanted to.

My speech

Lucky I'd made that decision, because I was crying before I even began to speak. I hadn't counted on being so moved by the words spoken by Nicola my editor, who emceed the proceedings and Clare who launched the book so beautifully.

Me, Clare, Emma and Nicola.

What touched me most? That Emma had arranged everything so perfectly, and even offered to pick me up. That so many people made such an effort to come and then said such lovely things. Some people had read the book already and wanted to tell me how much it had touched them. Others bought several copies, confident that they'd love it. Friends, relations, fellow writers, acquaintances I haven't seen in years - Readings was crowded.

I felt overwhelmed by gratitude. My daughter K had baked delicious chocolate chip cookies; my daughter M brought me fresh herbs and vegetables from her garden; my daughter E gave me wonderful advice, her skirt to wear, a card that made me cry, and a keepcup for when she buys me takeaway coffee on the weekend; and my daughter A rang, texted and emailed from San Francisco where she lives.

The author signs copies.

Readings sold out of books and all the cookies went. All in all a very successful evening.

Falling Down, Falling Down

I have no illusions about living in the country. I don't see it through a rosy romantic glow. Who was the writer who wrote 'There is no hell like a small town'? There's the lack of privacy, the gossip, the suspicion of anything or anyone new, the unthinking clinging to tradition. You can't be considered a local unless you, and possibly one of your parents, were born there.

But we enjoy our own company, have the privacy of 200 acres, and a village within walking distance, so it works for us. And when we need help our neighbours are there for us, even if they consider us crazy mainlanders. With our bridge in bad shape one neighbour said we are welcome to park our car at her place and travel back and forward on our four wheel drive bike through her property to our house. And now our other neighbours have offered to rebuild the bridge at a fraction of the cost quoted to us by the professionals. They remember when it was first built, thirty years ago.

We have wonderful neighbours in the city too, and I'm sure they'd build bridges for us if we asked, it's just that maybe those bridges would be more metaphoric than practical.