Azahru

Website has been updated

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 07:17:46 GMT

I must find a new LJ experiment, I do miss it and interestingly enough I am writing less right now... I think, I should do more things with data, I like data even if I am bad at collecting it.

Duotrope (http://www.duotrope.com/) kindly tells me:
Pending responses since Clarion: 9 (8 individual stories, 2 out of Clarion, 6 completed afterwards)
Submissions sent since: 20
Submissions sent this month: 8
Acceptance ratio for the past 12 months: 9.09 % (that's 1, Clarion Week 2 story)

After a busy few months in educational comics I now have a double quiet spell. No more freelance work slated until March at the earliest, most of my Clarion stories that can be edited have been (one awaiting final critiques after an edit, one outstanding which is probably a page 1 rewrite). I, fingers crossed, have some comics projects that can start romping, but other than that... 'tis a little scary the quietude! What next?

More stuff on my website update, Cabbages and kings -> audio, thanksgiving, publishing news. http://lizargall.com/2009/12/mid-december-roundup/

Write not at all

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 05:27:50 GMT

So the write slow project became not write at all over the Orycon weekend. I got tired, I got worried about various pressing deadlines from new work that had emerged. AND I had got disinterested. it's tricky to tell when it's time to give up and when it's time to push through. I don't know if I have failed in my write slow or if the write slow came to a natural conclusion. It is certainly a time to think about it and see what is the next beneficial experiment.

I did learn some things about purposely building a world, about getting to know a character through their action. Strangely enough I like the characters more now, I'm just floundering around with the story. For a long time Jo was just a blank slate and I didn't like her much until I went back in and found her step by step.

Writing it in this public space helped me stay motivated and push through to some interesting places as a I didn't want to fall down in public. Interestingly enough it made it lonelier as well, which made it more challenging at times. I'll have to decide if the sense of loneliness, is worth the sense of motivation - everything has a two edged sword. I do like how it gave a greater, constant sense of utility to LJ and has made it easier to keep up with people's adventures on LJ.

For better or worse it meant I was absolutely writing every day and as indicated in previous posts other creative juices seemed to flow with greater ease.

I need to do some planning, figure out what are the experiments I need/want to do next, finish rewriting a few stories, write some new stories and figure out what and how I'm going to write a novel. Suggestions are very welcome.

In the meantime, lots of reading/critiquing (and inevitably slushing) to do.

Write slow project 18

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 08:29:58 GMT

A gravestone, granite oucropping, the land's bones poke through the skin, old smooth lumps granite. Jo will carve Mel's tombstone, it will take her a year to develop the design, find the right stone, get the skills, tools and carve it. The tombstone will have holes in it, she'll think of them as eyes to other worlds, beautiful curls and loops, grey flecked quartz. The grass will seem to glow when seen through the hole, the sky will have a pinkish tinge and the wind will always blow from the east.

Write slow project 16

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 08:02:42 GMT

Well, for the first time in a long time I'm writing truly slowly. At one minute to midnight I have 1 sentence for write slow. I've been noodling around with another novel concept and left it too late in the day to give this one proper energy. It's a short sentence too!

Jo held a branch of fresh eucalyptus leaves on the fire, waited for them to catch and brought the pungent smoke to Mel's face. She gently washed the smoke over Mel's body and breathed in the pungent fumes.

“Shhhhhhh,” said Mel.

The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher.

Write slow project 17

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 01:53:44 GMT

“Mel, can you hear me?”

Tang of salt sharp breeze, an ocean going on forever. Cold spring ocean, still cold from winter. The whales are slowly returning, they had grown weary of blood and avoided this place for a while, but there have been no killings for many years now.

Mel began to have a seizure. Her teeth started to chatter first, her head tilting back. Nnnngggggg Nggggg she said as her eyes rolled open, only to reveal their whites. The chattering grew worse and seemed to breed, growing ripples that extended down her body, shoulders, arms, hands and chest, her legs feeling the ripple last. Jo knelt beside Mel, afriad to restrain her and cause damage, afraid of her fractured scull shaking her loose.

“Mel, stop it, you have to stop it.” Joe flinched as a tiny squirt of blood came from Mel's mouth and curved in a perfect arch onto her lap. Mel breathed heavily through her nose, like a grunting animal and slowly the shuddering subsided.

A gravestone, granite oucropping, the land's bones poke through the skin, old smooth lumps gasnite. Jo will carve Mel's tombstone, it will take her a year to develop the design, find the right stone, get the skills, tools and carve it. The tombstone with have holes in it, she'll think of them as eyes to other worlds, beautiful curls and loops, grey flecked quartz.

The strange melancholy of elsewhere

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 21:14:12 GMT

I have blogged, and improved my website a smidgen http://lizargall.com/

Write slow project 16

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:57:06 GMT

The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the smell of crushed eucalypt leaves Jo held in her hand. The night air still held its shape, the dry heat and dessicating winds would come later. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet. The tracks wound down through the mountain range, cutting a line through a tangle of bracken and blackberries, curving sharply down to the foothills. The foothills unravelled themselves into short, mounded meadows before crashing into the ocean, a grey sullen ocean of fishing trawlers and mournful seagulls.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of tea tree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees huddled in a small grove nearbye nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

“Bullshit,” said Jo.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “That's what I mean. I said like you, not a carbon copy. Savour it!” Mel shouted above the rising clangour. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practised ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. Mel was part woman, part myth – she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs, dumb-arse stunts and she had a habit of taking under her wing lost strays like Jo.

Jo was 16 years old, going on 57. When she was eight years old she'd dyed her hair with food colouring and had discovered that it dyed skin a lot better than it dyed hair. She'd hopped in the shower the next day and a rainbow of colour had run down her face and stayed there. She'd been to school for a while, but hadn't liked it much. She didn't bother anymore and no one seemed to care. She stayed out of the way, occasionally swigging bad wine goonie bags from sullen boys on the kerb of their lonely country town. Jo and the boys had nothing in common except a steady burning unhappiness and they generally ignored each other except for the occasional abortive act of friendship that generally went badly. Jo was sick of the mainstream, sick of the freaks with their designer difference, sick of the dropkicks and the dropouts, sick of feeling stupid and sick of feeling smart. Now she was going to become an apprentice stone mason, build tombstones and shit. The shit would be the main part of it, not so many tombstones were carved anymore and never by apprentices, but that was her ambition, she wanted to make some of the beauty that lingered in cemeteries. Everyone had to have a dream, and it had been a long time since she'd dreamt anything.

Jo had made a decision and Mel was on her way again, satisfied another troubled freak would find her way in the world. It wasn't the decision Mel would have made, but it was a step somewhere that wasn't down a toilet and that was worth a smile. Mel and heard of a show in the north that was gearing up and was on her way to meet them, stopping in on her people along the way. Mel had people everywhere and while she never had much she always had people to call upon. In just about any town Mel could bang on a door, rattle a can outside and tent flap and have someone open the door who would fling their arms around Mel before ushering her inside.

Mel could have settled down in any number of places, but the itching in her legs, the passion in her mind, kept her moving. Mel had tried to settle down once or twice, she was even good at it for a while, but hearth and home would grow into cage and spiralling shapes in her mind that were not kind.

Mel waved good bye to Jo, certain their paths would cross again, hopeful of the transformations time and space could make at that delicate age. Mel hoped she would meet Jo in the city – Jo would be a tattooed, coffee drinking sophisticate with short chunky dark hair and ochered eyes. Mel would remind Jo of how much things had changed and Jo would laugh with surprised reminiscence at Jo the sullen teenager, an impossible creature from several lifetimes ago, trapped and cocooned in such a small world. Jo would play guitar after work, sing the blues and start a kick arse commune that would teach city kids how to clean their own game. Mel extravagantly blew a kiss as the train took her down the slope, she had a good feeling about Jo and she was seldom wrong about that kind of thing. Jo would get there, she just needed time and space.

Jo scuffed her sneakers on rough gravel by the track, hands in her pockets, thinking of the long walk back to town. They'd hiked out past the old quarry, following the train line as their last adventure together. Jo could not watch Mel leave any longer, she was too angry, too certain she would never see Mel again – she wanted to look anywher but at that clanling train. Jo did not see the fall, but she heard it. When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied; with her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world.

Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died and she ran on to the tracks, choking on the dust and feeling like a shit. Jo stroked Mel's hands and face, her skin a delicate membrane too soft to contain a life. “Mel? Are you ok? Mel?” Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she gingerly felt for damage. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died here, it was a simpler story to tell and she didn't feel like sharing the full details. “Mel, you've hit your head on the tracks. You...”

Jo looked to the trees, looked to the empty sky, looked to Mel lying on the tracks. “Please wake up.” Jo pushed down on Mel's thumbnail, wincing as she pushed hard against the quick. “Wake up.” Mel did not respond.

Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks; acutely aware that every movement could bring Mel closer to death – not that she had a choice, there was no way in hell she was leaving Mel on the tracks. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow soon slicked with blood, soft segmented fingers of casurina needles forming a lumpy mattress. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle. Mel began to murmur – short wheezes, obscenities and secrets, even in a coma Mel was never one to follow convention.

“Fuck no! The other one... the other one! Sheep belong to pigs, were you born stupid?”

“Mel, can you hear me? Are you ok?” said Jo, relieved that Mel was breathing. If Mel was breathing, talking, it couldn't be that bad, surely. She felt a warm flicker of hope in her chest, it was going to be alright.

Mel would die under the casurina trees and Jo would sit with her until the end.

“Snow, and smoke, you have to be careful. There's never enough water. We need a fire, a fire I promise.”

Jo hunched down next to Mel, chin on her knees, holding Mel's hand, the tops of Mel's hands were surpringly soft.

“I don't know what to do. I don't want to leave you to get help. What if something happened?”

“There's never enough, but we'll see it through, somehow.”

“I don't want to leave you and I don't think I should move you, your head is cracked in pieces.”

“Don't, don't...”

“What can I do?” Jo squeezed her eyelids together and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. She felt herself grow heavy with confusion, lethargic and needing of direction.

“The smoke will make it clean. The smoke will make us clean.”

Jo's heart leapt and she smiled softly, smoke she could make smoke. It would cleanse their spirits and bring the rangers. In the heat of summer even a small fire would be too dangerous to be ignored, they'd charge towards them, ready to arrest some fire bug or some stupid camper, she could almost hear their arrival, tyres squealing, chatter on the CB Radio and then a chopper coming to take Mel to safety. “Wait here,” she whispered in the growing light. “I'll be close, I promise.”

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. She cleared a broad area, pulling up dried grass and churning the soil with a small hatchet from her backpack. She made the fire small at first, soft timber and clean hard wood. When the fire caught and was steady she added freshly chopped green timber, a eucalypt sappling chopped into lengths, some native rosemary, some sharp lengths of blackberry, softened by bracken. She paused every now and then to check on Mel. Mel had stopped talking, though her lips still mumbled the air. Everytime Jo checked she was afraid that Mel would be dead, that she had somehow killed Mel by not sitting beside her and watching.

The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher. When the fire was built Jo sat and listened as Mel's blue mouth held off death breath by breath. Mel stood on the lip of death, her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down. Broken pieces saw many things, touched many things, channelled many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched.

Snow fell, high up in the ranges, a stand of dead eucalypts, a clear blue sky. Those trees had been dead for as long as anyone knew; naked, weathered limbs, slowly diminishing as one hatchet or another turned them to the fire. The hut felt like a luxury after three days hard trekking through snow and slush, though it was harder to keep warm. They found the places where the wind came in and shoved dirty underwear in the cracks.

“Do you think we've lost them?” Reframe.

Fire, metal melting, hubcaps flowed like quicksilver, puddles so bright eyes ached. Slide through.

The smell of coffee and cinnamon, the jingle of the bell. The bread's toothsome crust, the white inside a lattice of air and texture. Wipe the bread in olive oil, dip it in the dukkah, crush the cumin seeds between your teeth. Breathe slowly through the nose, yes, this is here. Release.

“Mel, can you hear me?”

Tang of salt sharp breeze, an ocean going on forever. Cold spring ocean, still cold from winter. The whales are slowly returning, they grew weary of blood and avoided this place for a while.

Mel had a seizure, teeth started to chatter first, her head tilting back. Nnnngggggg Nggggg she said her eyes rolled open, only to reveal their whites.

A gravestone, granite oucropping, the land's bones poke through the skin, old smooth lumps gasnite.

Write slow project 16

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 06:31:36 GMT

Jo hunched down next to Mel, chin on her knees, holding Mel's hand.

“I don't know what to do. I don't want to leave you to get help. What if something happened?”

“There's never enough, but we'll see it through, somehow.”

“I don't want to leave you.”

“Don't, don't...”

“What can I do?” Jo squeezed her eyelids together and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. She felt heavy with confusion, lethargic and needing of direction.

“The smoke will make it clean. The smoke will make us clean.”

Jo's heart leapt and she smiled softly, smoke she could make smoke. It would cleanse their spirits and bring the rangers. In the heat of summer even a small fire would be too dangerous to be ignored, they'd charge towards them, ready to arrest some fire bug or some stupid camper. “Wait here,” she whispered in the growing light. “I'll be close, I promise.”

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. She cleared a broad area, pulling up dried grass and churning the soil with a small hatchet from her backpack. She made the fire small at first, soft timber and clean hard wood. When the fire caught and was steady she added freshly chopped green timber, a eucalypt sappling chopped into lengths, some native rosemary, some sharp lengths of blackberry, softened by lantana. She paused every now and then to check on Mel. Mel had stopped talking, though her lips still mumbled the air. Everytime Jo checked she was afraid that Mel would be dead, that she had somehow killed Mel by not sitting beside her and watching.

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 07:33:00 GMT

Today I edited bits and pieces and inserted new sentences throughout

The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the smell of crushed eucalypt leaves Jo held in her hand. The night air still held its shape, not yet desiccated by the clamour of noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet. The tracks wound down through the mountain range, cutting a line through a tangle of lantana and blackberries, curving sharply down to the foothills. The foothills unravelled themselves into short, mounded meadows before crashing into the ocean, a grey sullen ocean of fishing trawlers and mournful seagulls.

“Bullshit,” said Jo.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “That's what I mean. I said like you, not a carbon copy. Savour it!” Mel shouted above the rising clangour. “You might as well.”

Mel waved good bye to Jo, certain their paths would cross again, hopeful of the transformations time and space could make at that delicate age. Mel hoped she would meet Jo in the city – Jo would be a tattooed, coffee drinking sophisticate with short chunky dark hair and ochered eyes. Mel would remind Jo of how much things had changed and Jo would laugh with surprised reminiscence, Jo the sullen teenager an impossible creature from several lifetimes ago, trapped and cocooned in such a small world. Jo would play guitar after work, sing the blues and start a kick arse commune that would teach city kids how to clean their own game. Mel extravagantly blew a kiss as the train took her down the slope, she had a good feeling about Jo and she was seldom wrong about that kind of thing. Jo would get there, she just needed time and space.

Jo scuffed her sneakers on rough gravel by the track, hands in her pockets, thinking of the long walk back to town. They'd hiked out past the old quarry, following the train line as their last adventure together. Jo could not watch Mel leave any longer, she was too angry, too certain she would never see Mel again. She did not see the fall, but she heard it. When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world.

Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died and she ran on to the tracks, choking on the dust ad feeling like a shit. Jo stroked Mel's hands and face, her skin a delicate membrane too soft to contain a life. “Mel? Are you ok? Mel?” Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she gingerly felt for damage. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it was a simpler story to tell and she didn;t feel like sharing the full details. “Mel, you've hit your head on the tracks. You...”

“Fuck no! The other one... the other one! Sheep belong to pigs, were you born stupid?”

“Mel, can you hear me? Are you ok?” said Jo, relieved that Mel was breathing. If Mel was breathing, talking, it couldn't be that bad, surely.

Mel would die under the casurina trees and Jo would sit with her until the end.

“Snow, and smoke, you have to be careful. There's never enough water. We need a fire, a fire I promise.”

Jo hunched down next to Mel, chin on her knees, holding Mel's hand.

“I don't know what to do. I don't want to leave you to get help. What if something happened?”

“There's never enough, but we'll see it through, somehow.”

“I don't want to leave you.”

“Don't, don't...”

“Wait here,” said Jo, smiling sadly at her ridiculous as Mel whispered in the glowing light. “I'll be close, I promise.”

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher. When the fire was built Jo sat and listened as Mel's blue mouth held off death breath by breath. Mel stood on the lip of death, her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down. Broken pieces saw many things, touched many things, channelled many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched.

“Do you think we've lost them?” Reframe.

Fire, metal melting, hubcaps flowed like quicksilver, puddles so bright eyes ached. Slide through.

“Mel, can you hear me?”

Type your cut contents here.

Write slow project 15

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 23:36:52 GMT

Write slow has been going for two weeks and a day. Fresh sentences every day. During this time I have also written a short story, Dear Ms Moon, written a serialized twitfic, made am almost half way through a story with a non-human protagonist and taken a few other creative risks.

It started with 1-3 sentences per day, unlimited editing. Then 1-5 sentences, now 1-10 sentences. If 1-10 sentences is stable for a while and it seems right I will let is stretch again in a little while. A bit over 1500 words in 15 days.

It has been interesting to watch how my relationship with the story has changed. The early honeymoon period where I loved writing every sentence and especially loved editing, it was like slowly untangling hair with a comb or slowly working wood, carving, sanding, polishing. Then came sections of loathing and confusion where I couldn't bear to look at my words and skimmed over. Having the text run dry on me, speeding up to try to get lift (ie more sentences allowed), leaping around for a day or two, then going back and building its frame some more, going back into earlier sections of the text to find out more about Jo. A fabric is starting to emerge, characters and the world are slowly developing, every day yesterday's trajectory disappears and new trajectories emerge. I think the story is getting stronger, I hope it is.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of tea tree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees huddled in a small grove nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

“Bullshit,” said Jo.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “That's what I mean. I said like you, not a carbon copy. Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

Jo was 16 years old, going on 57. When she was eight years old she'd dyed her hair with food colouring and had discovered that it dyed skin a lot better than it dyed hair. She'd hopped in the shower the next day and a rainbow of colour had run down her face and stayed there. She'd been to school for a while, but hadn't liked it much. She didn't bother anymore and no one seemed to care. She stayed out of the way, occasionally swigging bad wine goonie bags from sullen boys on the kerb of their lonely country town. Jo and the boys had nothing in common except a steady burning unhappiness and they generally ignored each other except for the occasional abortive act of friendship that generally went badly. Jo was sick of the mainstream, sick of the freaks with their designer difference, sick of feeling stupid, sick of feeling smart. Now she was going to become an apprentice stone mason, build tombstones and shit. The shit would be the main part of it, not so many tombstones were carved anymore and never by apprentices, but that was her ambition, she wanted to make some of the beauty that lingered in cemeteries. Everyone had to have a dream, and it had been a long time since she'd dreamt anything.

Jo had made a decision and Mel was on her way again, satisfied another troubled freak would find her way in the world. It wasn't the decision Mel would have made, but it was a step somewhere that wasn't down a toilet and that was worth a smile. Mel and heard of a show up north that was gearing up and was on her way to meet them, stopping in on her people along the way. Mel had people everywhere and while she never had much she always had people to call upon. In just about any town Mel could bang on a door, rattle a can outside and tent flap and have someone open the door who would fling their arms around Mel before ushering her inside.

Mel could have settled down in any number of places, but the itching in her legs, the passion in her mind, kept her moving. Mel had tried to settle down more than a few times, she was even good at it, but hearth and home would grow into cage and spiralling shapes in her mind that were not kind. Mel waved good bye to Jo, certain their paths would cross again, hopeful of the transformations time and space could make at that delicate age. Mel hoped she would meet Jo in the city, – Jo would be a tattooed, coffee drinking sophisticate, short chunky dark hair and ochered eyes. Mel would remind Jo of how much things had changed and Jo would laugh with surprised reminiscence, Jo the sullen teenager an impossible creature from several lifetimes ago, trapped and cocooned in such a small world. Mel extravagantly blew a kiss as the train took her down the slope, she had a good feeling about Jo and she was seldom wrong about that kind of thing. Jo would get there, she just needed time and space.

Jo was scuffing her sneakers on rough gravel by the track, hands in her pockets, angry that Mel was leaving so soon and she did not see the fall. When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world.

Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died and she ran on to the tracks, choking on the dust. Jo stroked Mel's hands and face, her skin a delicate membrane too soft to contain a life. “Mel? Are you ok? Mel?” Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she gingerly felt for damage. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it was a simpler story to tell. “Mel, you've hit your head on the tracks. You...”

Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks; acutely aware that every movement could bring Mel closer to death, but leaving Mel on the tracks was not an option. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow soon slicked with blood, soft segmented fingers of casurina needles forming a lumpy mattress. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle. Mel began to murmur – short wheezes, obscenities and secrets, even in a coma Mel was never one to follow convention.

“Fuck no! The other one... the other one! Sheep belong to pigs, were you born stupid?”

“Mel, can you hear me? Are you ok?” said Jo, relieved that Mel was breathing. If Mel was breathing, talking, it couldn't be that bad, surely.

Mel would die under the casurina trees and Jo would sit with her until the end.

“Wait here,” said Jo, smiling sadly at her ridiculous request. “I'll be close, I promise.”

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher. When the fire was built Jo sat and listened as Mel's blue mouth held off death breath by breath. Mel stood on the lip of death, her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down. Broken pieces saw many things, touched many things, channeled many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched.

“Do you think we've lost them?” Reframe.

Fire, metal melting, hubcaps flowed like quicksilver, puddles so bright eyes ached. Slide through.

“Mel, can you hear me?”

Write slow project 14

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 10:05:21 GMT

It still counts as Thursday 'cause I haven't gone to sleep yet. Though doh! I actually wrote it at noon.

Jo was 16 years old, going on 57. When she was eight years old she'd dyed her hair with food colouring and had discovered that it dyed skin a lot better than it dyed hair. She'd hopped in the shower the next day and rainbow of colour had run down her face and stayed there. She'd been to school for a while, but hadn't liked it much. She didn't bother anymore and no one seemed to notice. She stayed out of the way, occasionally swigging bad wine goonie bags from sullen boys on the kerb of their lonely country town. Jo and the boys had nothing in common except a steady burning unhappyness and they generally ignored each other except for the occasional abortive act of friendship that generally went badly. Jo was sick of the mainstream, sick of the freaks with their designer difference, sick of feeling stupid, sick of feeling smart. Now she was going to become an apprentice stone mason, build tombstones and shit. The shit part would be the main part of it, not so many tombstones were carved anymore and never by apprentices, but she wanted to make some of the beauty that lingered in cemetaries. Everyone had to have a dream, and it had been a long time since she'd dreamt anything.

Jo had made a decision and Mel was on her way again, satisfied another troubled freak would find her way in the world. It wasn't the decision Mel would have made, but it was a step somewhere that wasn't down a toilet and that was worth a smile.

Write slow project 13

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 06:08:09 GMT

ooops, almost forgot.

Jo was 16 years old, going on 57. When she was eight years old she'd died her hair with food colouring and had discovered that it dyed skin a lot better than it dyed hair. She'd hopped in the shower the next day and rainbow of colour had run down her face and stayed there. She'd been to school for a while, but hadn't liked it much. She didn't bother anymore and no one seemed to notice.

Jo had made her decision and Mel was on her way again, satisfied another troubled freak would find her way in the world. It wasn't the decision Mel would have made, but it was a step somewhere that wasn't down a toilet and that was worth a smile

Write slow project 12

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 20:16:29 GMT

Interesting, I am liking my story less, so I am writing faster. I'm writing earlier in the day, editing less and wanting to put more words on the page so I have more to experiment with. I have given myself permission to write more sentences as the project continues, a slow escalation.

I probably would have given up on the story if it wasn't a simple commitment of a few lines. It would be an embarrassing thing to fail at and there would be witnesses.

Snow fell, high up in the ranges, a stand of dead eucalypts, a clear blue sky. Those trees had been dead for as long as anyone knew; naked, weathered limbs, slowly diminishing as one hatchet or another turned them to the fire. The hut felt like a luxury after three days hard trecking through snow and slush, though it was harder to keep warm. They found the places where the wind came in and shoved dirty underwear in the cracks.

“Do you think we've lost them?” Reframe.

Fire, metal melting, hubcaps flowed like quicksilver, puddles so bright eyes ached. Slide through.

The smell of coffee and cinamon, the jingle of the bell. The bread's toothsome crust, the white inside a latice of air and texture. Wipe the bread in olive oil, dip it in the dukkah, crush the cummin seeds between your teeth. Breathe slowly through the nose, yes, this is here. Release.

Write slow project 11

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 05:13:14 GMT

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher. When the fire was built Jo sat and listened as Mel's blue mouth held off death breath by breath. Mel stood on the lip of death. Her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down. Broken pieces saw many things, touched many things, channelled many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched.

Snow fell, high up in the ranges, a stand of dead eucalypts, a clear blue sky. Those trees had been dead for as long as anyone knew; naked, weathered limbs, slowly diminishing as one hatchet or another turned them to the fire. The hut felt like a luxury after three days hard trecking through snow and slush, though it was harder to keep warm. They found the places where the wind came in and shoved dirty underwear in the cracks.

“Do you think we've lost them?”

Write slow project 10

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 02:49:08 GMT

Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks; acutely aware that every movement could be bring Mel closer to death, but leaving Mel on the tracks was not an option. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow soon slicked with blood, soft segmented fingers of casurina needles forming a lumpy mattress. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle. Mel began to murmer – short wheezes, obscenities and secrets, even in a coma Mel was never one to follow convention.

“Fuck no! The other one... the other one! Sheep belong to pigs, were you born stupid?”

“Mel, can you hear me? Are you ok?” said Jo, relieved that Mel was breathing. If Mel was breathing, talking, it couldn't be that bad, surely.

Mel would die under the casurina trees and Jo would sit with her until the end.

“Wait here,” said Jo, smiling sadly at her ridiculous request. “I'll be close, I promise.”

Jo gathered sticks, reassured by their clean snapping sounds, and built a fire. The fire flickered and Jo shivered, unnaturally cold, as the sun rose higher. Jo sat and listened as Mel's blue mouth held off death breath by breath. Mel stood on the lip of death. Her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down saw many things, touched many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, Mel spoke of what those fragments touched.

Write slow project 9

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 05:36:25 GMT

Wrote a new short story today as well (flash fiction actually) called Dear Ms Moon. I'm certain the write slow project helped me be in the flow that generated that. Thanks must also go to Italo Calvino for Dear Ms Moon.

Less editing today so I've only included the last 3 paragraphs, everything else remains unchanged.

Jo looked to the trees, looked to the empty sky, looked to Mel lying on the tracks. “Please wake up.” Jo pushed down on Mel's thumbnail, wincing as she pushed hard against the quick. “Wake up.” Mel did not respond

Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks; acutely aware that every movement could be bringing Mel closer to death, but helpless to do anything else. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow soon slicked with blood, soft segmented fingers of casurina needles forming a lumpy mattress. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle. Mel began to murmer – short wheezes, obscenities and secrets, even in a coma Mel was never one to follow convention.

Mel would die under the casurina trees and Jo would sit with her until the end. Jo built a fire, unnaturally cold as the sun rose higher, and listened to the stories Mel told. Mel stood on the lip of death. Her mind had been fragmented by the fall and scattered as it was into pieces of fluttering confetti or thistle down. Mel saw many things, touched many things and, lips to tongue, unlike any before or after, she spoke of what those fragments touched.

Write slow project 8

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 04:21:21 GMT

The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet desiccated by the clamour of noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet. The tracks wound down through the mountain range, cutting a line through a tangle of lantana and blackberries, curving sharply down to the foothills. The foothills unravelled themselves into short, mounded meadows before crashing into the ocean, a grey sullen ocean of steel trawlers and mournful seagulls.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of tea tree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees huddled in a small grove nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died and she ran on to the tracks, choking on the harsh dust. Jo stroked Mel's hands and face, her skin a delicate membrane too soft to contain a life. “Mel? Are you ok? Mel?” Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she gingerly felt for damage. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it had more dignity and was a simpler story to tell. “Mel, you've hit your head on the tracks. You...”

Mel died under the casurina trees. Jo sat with her, too scared to leave and let her die alone. Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks, weeping and murmering; acutely aware that every movement could be bringing Mel closer to death, but helpless to do anything else. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow soon slicked with blood, soft segmented fingers of casurina needles forming a lumpy mattress. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle. Mel began to murmer – short wheezes, obscenities and secrets, even in a coma Mel was never one to follow convention.

Write slow project 7

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 03:53:39 GMT

The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet desiccated by the clamour of noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet. The tracks wound down through the mountain range, a tangle of casurina trees and lantana, curving sharply down to the foothills. The foothills unravelled themselves into short, mounded meadows before crashing into the ocean, a grey sullen ocean of steel trawlers and mournful seagulls.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of tea tree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurinas nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died as she ran on to the tracks, choking on the harsh dust. Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she pulled Mel up off the tracks. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it had more dignity and was a simpler story to tell.

Write slow project 6

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 23:02:52 GMT

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of tea tree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a feisty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died as she ran on to the tracks, choking on the harsh dust. Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she pulled Mel up off the tracks. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it had more dignity and was a simpler story to tell.

Mel died under the casurina trees. Jo sat with her, too scared to leave and let her die alone. Jo half dragged, half carried Mel from the tracks, weeping and murmering; acutely aware that every movement could be bringing Mel closer to death, but helpless to do anything else. Jo made a bed for Mel, rolling her jumper into a pillow that was soon slicked with blood. Mel's breath flickered like a candle, her lips a soft blue, eyes closed, mouth empty and gentle.

Write slow project 5

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 23:52:17 GMT

Question: Do folks mind that I post this in the main body? I've been thinking about doing an LJ cut, but so many details change from top to bottom that I have not yet had the heart. I should keep the main body to a certain word limit, I have not yet decided what it is. Also, people are welcome to post comments, interjections, annoyances etc if they wish. I'm posting it in a more collaborative space because I value you guys :-). This project is in part inspired by Miracle in July (http://themiracleinjuly.com/) though I'm not half as sexy.

The air was crisp and cool, punctuated by the greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet dessicated by clamouring noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered and the casurina trees nodded their heads as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. Mel was part woman, part myth – she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs, dumb-arse stunts and she had a habit of taking under her wing lost strays like Jo.

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died. With her died stories – rich, complex and varied. With her died a wealth of knowledge, ways, meaning, learning hard won that could never be duplicated. With her died a small centre of the world. Jo did not know Mel was dying from the sharp crack of skull against tracks. Jo's first response was to laugh, a sharp high retort at Mel – playing pranks again and not yet ready to leave. Jo's smile quickly died as she ran on to the tracks, choking on the harsh dust. Mel wasn't dead, not yet, but the back of her head was slippery and Jo felt pieces of skull shift as she pulled Mel up off the tracks. Later, Jo would pretend Mel died on the tracks, it had more dignity and was a simpler story to tell.

Write slow project 4

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 00:26:24 GMT

The air was crisp and cool, with a greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape, not yet dessicated by clamouring noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.

“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face – some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.” The ground shuddered as the heavy freight train roared down the hill towards them.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood, she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.

Write slow project part 3

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:50:54 GMT

The air was crisp and cool, with a greasy sharp tang of diesel. The night air still held its shape and had not yet become a dessicated wraith of noon. The two of them stood near the tracks, awkward, almost leaving, but not quite yet.

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour as the freight train swept past. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixty five years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood; she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died.

Slow writing 2

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 04:58:37 GMT

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour of the freight train. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with sixtyfive years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way. She'd been a mother to more than her own blood; she'd been a revolutionary, the centre of numerous scandals, love affairs and dumb arse stunts.

When Mel fell from the train onto the tracks, her head splitting open on the shining steel tracks, it wasn't just a fiesty old woman with attitude that died.

Write slow project part 1

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 03:53:12 GMT

Hi all, welcome to a new experiment I shall incubate here. I'm going to write something slow. I'm going to write a line, no more than 3 lines a day and as many edits as I want. I've been noodling with the project by myself for a little while and I think it would be nice to share the experiment. That will also allow me to record the process. I've already changed the tense and the person, fiddled around with names and shifted things around quite a bit. I'm a little sad I didn't record the early part, but I shall remedy that now. I have no idea where the story is going and don't have any plans for knowing. I shall see where it takes me.

Yesterday
“I was like you once,” Melani said. She laughed and blew smoke in Josie, Joey, Jo-girl, Jospehina, Jojo's face, some bush blend full of teatree to cleanse the air and lungs. “I'd be like you again if I could be that stupid.”

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour of the freight train. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining herwrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with fifty years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and coated Jo's tongue.

Today

Mel patted Jo's arse as she left. “Savour it!” Mel shouted above the clangour of the freight train. “You might as well.”

Mel hauled herself onto the last carriage with practiced ease; her lean arms always surprising in their strength. Jo imagined trying to follow, her arms wrenched out of their socket from the force, spraining her wrists and falling to the tracks. Dust blew in Jo's face, Mel's throaty laugh, rich with fifty years of sass and spice coated the dusty wind and peppered Jo's tongue. Mel was fifty five, had sparkling green eyes, heavy powdered makeup and a face sun-scorched into dense wrinkles. She'd been a motorcycle stuntwoman with the travelling show and would still be doing it too if she'd had her way.

Small website blog update again

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 04:30:45 GMT

Being happy at WFC with some links to convention pictures http://lizargall.com/2009/11/world-fantasy-con-09/