If you drink, then edit, your a bloody idiot.

Continuing with the theme of editing drafts, I bring you this slogan. Yes, clearly there's been some trial and error going on, and I'm learning stupendously along the way.
I figured other budding Aussie writers might get a laugh out of this, but if you're outside Australia the context might be lost. It's a spoof of an iconic Australian ad for TAC. The original text is "If you drink, then drive, you're a bloody idiot."
I put it on a variety of stuff like stickers, a key ring, mugs, and a mouse pad. I couldn't resist the coaster, to serve as a handy reminder one can see through the base of their Shaz Merlot glass. Or perhaps whisky - if you're the unfortunate soul lumped with editing my MS in future. Of course, the whisky might even come from me. :)

Click here to check them out... or just have a giggle.



Today I saw a woman sitting on the beach with her face glued to a magazine. The pages had pictures of other women having fun at other beaches...


The Write on Wednesday Spark - The Nature of Place

This week's writing exercise from InkPaperPen:
Write about a particular natural geography, a natural place or space close to your heart. Tell us about the weather, the landform , the creatures who live there, what the place means to you and why. You can write prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction and/or a photographic narrative. You might mix the landscape with a personal story. Wherever the prompt take you...Let us peek into your place.

Nowhere's nowhere...

"Quiet, honey, it's the adults' turn to speak."
I spat the bush fly off my lips and swatted around my face. "Mum, I need to go to the toilet."
Mum looked at me, paused, and turned away. Whatever words she had, she forgot to say them. The intense afternoon sun glared at me from behind her profile, and I shifted to stay in her shadow.

Mum and Dad were speaking to an old friend. As the friend's canoe rocked in the shallows of the river behind them, my desperation grew worse.
 "When are we going back to camp, Mum?"

Camp was in the middle of nowhere on the banks of the stunning Macalister River. It might be in the middle of nowhere, but at least it had a three foot wide tent housing a portable toilet seat with a biodegradable bag hanging from it. Camp was also on a section of river where, carved into the rocks, natural water slides were coated in slimy green moss, protecting the bum of your bathers.

However, after a long drive from camp, we were in Nowhere's nowhere.

"You'll just have to go in the bushes."

My sharp huff didn't disturb the fly patrolling my chin. My eyes drifted across the rough-cut stones, up the greyish sandbanks, and to the small cliff that hedged the river. High along the ridge were the only bushes my mum could be referring to.

I set off up the cliff, climbing from grass clump to grass clump. With my hands busy clutching tufts for dear life, the best I could do to swat the flies was blink. Why couldn't we be like normal families? Why was it that our holidays involved deadly bush tics and heat stroke? Was it normal to have fork lightning blast a hole in your accomodation? I just want to go to a toilet! Why couldn't we go on an aeroplane to Noosa? It's the eighties, dammit!
I stood up and dusted the dirt from my palms and arms. 

And I forgot the flies, and I forgot my thoughts.

In front of me, long grass grew over a gentle mound in a perfect circular clearing. The trees practically hugged each other to keep a tight wall around it. In the beautiful space within, hundreds of orange Monarch butterflies flitted in the air.

I walked into the cloud of butterflies, palms up and fingers reaching. I lowered each foot carefully; I blinked to prevent them landing in my eyes. My heart filled with the level of wonder at this world that makes you feel ageless, even as a ten year old.

I remained in the giant fluttering sphere until I couldn't stand it any longer.

I really had to pee.

Laughing with joy, I crouched down on that very spot, looking up at the blue sky spotted with such brilliant, orange, brief little lives. As I pulled one of my white socks off, I decided it was the grandest toilet in the world.

Write On Wednesdays


Which way is up?

Do you meditate? I do. Well, on and off for a while now. Usually in bursts, interjected with the opposite - substantial periods of a mentally distracted lifestyle. In fact, you could call it a stuffstyle - too much analyzing stuff, pondering stuff, stressing about stuff, and wondering what will be the stuff I do with my life.

I generally experience my consciousness as an acceptable bracket within the much wider sliding scale of the human experience. A scale, which I imagine, is between a paper bag of sausage and a zen master teleporting their way out of their final stint in this physical reality.

At the end closer to the butcher shop is the disconnection from true self and the myriad of trickle-down effects that this devastatingly underrated spiritual faux-pas inflicts on the human race. When I disconnect from my true self, I lose sight of my goals and end up wasting time invested in activities that I think I should be doing. I become susceptible to underlying stress that affects me physically and mentally, even though I'm still overall a happy person. 'Important mental stuff' becomes the focus of every minute, such as work, research, everyday stresses, and the artistic project I'm aiming to finish by Friday, when realistically it needs 6 months and a team of five to help me.
As I shift further toward life as an uninterrupted procession of thoughts, I become what feels like a floating mind that hovers around 5 feet four inches off the ground, with little sense of my soul or the neglected body that drags beneath it. The mind floats up from the bed in the morning, floats into the home office, boots up the computer [yes, somehow] and glares more intensely than the monitor. It leaves the computer only a few times throughout the day for hygiene purposes - ie. it dunks itself in caffeine. In the final stage of the process, the floating mind gravitates closer and closer to the monitor and attempts to mind-meld Vulcan-style with the computer. To the floating mind, this final upload of self seems a logical merger, as all the mind's life, work, communications, and busy montage of over-activities have transferred entirely to the digital realm. Life couldn't be more perfect... but wait - what's that stench of rotting corpse?

Ever so thankfully, at this point, there is always an intervention of some kind. There's a defiant protest and shocked denial as each spongy lump of suctioned brain is plied off the monitor by the mind's dedicated sponsor [my loving partner]. I return to my body and use it to kick, scream, and blaspheme. I bow out of the mental race. I sit still, away from the computer. I even go outside and exercise. I eat wonderful home-cooked meals instead of astronaut food. I go to the toilet instead of using the astronaut - oh... never mind. I meditate and allow myself to truly drift off into space. I remove all thoughts. Most of them just come from other thoughts, anyway. I reconnect with myself again, and thank my loving sponsor dearly.
 I return to the preferable end of my relatively liveable bracket in the scale of human consciousness. Here I find mindfulness, physical calm, mental exuberance, energy, positivity, heightened awareness, balanced activity and inner peace. The sum of these cultivate a genuine space for creativity, wisdom and personal growth to cascade. Ideas and personal revelations explode like fireworks, one popping into the next, a continual illumination of everything that is truly important for me to see. Some call this being connected.
Only through recognition of true self, can I develop recognition of true purpose. An adopted purpose is really someone else's life. To live someone else's life is a form of death. With meditation and the art of simply being, I have come to experience an amazing side to the inner world, which is the force that drives my outer world and keeps me in check.
There is even what some call synchronicity, where many things just collectively go right. We have often heard of the adage - when a person follows their true goals, the right people and opportunities appear in their life at the right time. Some people would consider this surrealism. There are many people who think 'things going wrong' is the norm for reality. If this were the case, the universe would have started with a big bang, followed by a self-manifested slew of everything going wrong, and then - with an unfathomably infinite drop-jaw expression - imploded shortly after. 'Everything going wrong' cannot be the order of the universe, and therefore nor the individual – only 'everything going' can. The right or wrong is up to us. :)



I never noticed the irony of this shortcut’s name until I spent a good ten minutes fixated on it. It’s called Shortcut to Writing, which links to, self-evidently, my writing folder. This tiny yellow rectangle of pixels has become the virtual keeper of all my dreams, and storage to my half-baked short stories, novel first draft, novella, other novel outlines, play scripts, character sketches, the occasional computer game concept and poorly named notepad waffling in sub-folders each called New Folder. The projects may be diverse, but they are all genetically related—most of them are inflicted with stunted development.

As I muster up the focus and drive to continue editing, I’m faced with the reality that despite what the pixels tell me, there is no Shortcut to Writing.


Art must...

Art must prevail.
Otherwise there would be no means
for the critics to express their creativity.


Aussies. We're all fined, thanks.

I used to work in in Carlton, Melbourne. Some days I drove to work, and I would park outside my office in one of the many metered spots stitching the sides of the roads in the business district. The parking was metered for one to two hours, and the patrolling inspectors were, and still are, numerous. It was here, during my years in Carlton, marching to the beat of a grey gadget on a grey stick with my money in it, that I spawned an idea for a short film. At first, I was so infuriated every time another white ticket appeared stuck to my windscreen, that I was sure this was the time that I - along with an unwitting cast of my friends - was going to make the film. But I didn't. I just played it in my head each time a ticket appeared, and it made me feel a whole lot better.

The short film starts on the stone-wall eyes of a parking inspector. He stands on the street corner outside my office and peruses the cars that fill every park. He has returned to the area to hunt his next victim. He assesses the herd, and hones in on what he knows is the weakest animal. It is the silver sedan, with only a few minutes to live, according to the parking meter. He waits, stone-walls a black sports car that has just parked in the foreground, and stone-walls the owner who clinks coins in the meter as if there is somehow something wrong with doing the right thing in front of him. The inspector checks his watch. The owner of the silver sedan is a photographer. She is held, boarded up in a nearby boardroom [yes, that is why it is called a boardroom]. Her client cannot remember that he requested the model in the shots to have her hair up and all hell breaks loose.

Meanwhile, the parking inspector prepares to strike. He beelines to the car. He glances at the meter if only to confirm the car's fate to the universe, but a presence appears beside him and it forces him to look up. For once, it is the parking inspector who is startled. There, standing in his turf, is another parking inspector. She stone-walls him. She has her ticket machine ready and moves in for the kill. His kill. He assesses his chances in a fight, but something distracts him over her navy blue shoulder. At the end of the street is another parking inspector. This one stands like an A-frame, casting long, lanky legs of shadow down the road toward them from the sun that is setting behind him. Soon it will be after 6.00pm, and there will be no more prey for the predators. This third inspector rhythmically smacks his ticket machine against the palm of his other hand, to the soundtrack of West Side Story. From a nearby laneway, we hear multiple sounds of good walking shoes clopping heavily against the various chunks of alley pavement, and three more inspectors appear. They stand five feet away from the car and they are primed to fight.

From the back end of the street, from up basement stairs, pouring out of those small, practical windows on the sides of buildings, twenty more inspectors flood in. A navy sedan screeches to a halt in the middle of the road and another inspector jumps out from the car. One more pounces on his car and slaps a ticket on it for illegal parking. Yet all eyes remain on the silver kill, and they all see it only for themselves. The first inspector makes his move. The ticket peels out from his machine. He holds it high in the air above himself for the gathering to see. He is an astronaut, and he is about to ram his flag into his moon.
The only sound, the only movement, to break the freeze across the entire street is the feverous fluttering in the wind of the tiny white ticket. He suspends it further above his head, then brings it swiftly down toward the windscreen of the silver sedan. The flag doesn't make it to the moon. A brawl of blue breaks out. It forms a planet around the car like a loose ball of wool that continually entangles and reshapes itself. Arms with fists fly out and back in like solar flares, ticket machines clash together and ricochet off concrete, duco and heads. The punching turns to kicking, the kicking turns to biting. The biting becomes ferocious, rabid, and endless - and when that happens, it becomes something else. As the sun sinks past six o'clock in the sky, the greedy mob have turned on themselves and have eaten each other until there is not even the ticket left. The photographer, red-faced and puffing, sprints into the scene and stops dead in her tracks on the corner of the street. Her body becomes a statue, her heart a demolition ball beating out of her chest. She stares gob-smacked at the scene for well over a minute. She raises her camera lens to the watery glaze of her eye and takes the photograph that, tomorrow morning, the country will wake up to.

Clearly this is a light-hearted fictional story, reflecting the frustration that many in the general public feel with the increasing over-regulation of our lives. Parking inspectors don't really eat themselves or necessarily move to the beat of West Side Story. I don't believe they all have stone-wall faces, even though in my years of coming across them I have never seen one who doesn't. I don't believe parking inspectors should be assaulted for giving tickets anymore than I would believe a person should be assaulted for going over their meter time. However this story raised an interesting point for me.

Today, people experience indignation and anger when faced with a parking fine, because they are being treated like a criminal, and not because the majority are intentionally cheating the system, but because our lives cannot and will not fit the system, and enormous revenue is being made by catching us out. We are therefore in the conundrum where we cannot change the nature of society, and we have come to believe we cannot change the fact that we'll get a bafflingly disproportionate fine for being 5 minutes late to our car, no matter how much money we have paid in parking over the year. I would like to meet a parking inspector who has never been 10 minutes late to anything in any given month. Perhaps there is some planet where everything happens perfectly like clockwork, where we all function in perfect time slots of 1-2 hours, where nobody interacts with each other or with other things and therefore incur no circumstances out of one's control. But ours is not that planet. Why should we accept a system that pretends we are and then profits off the truth?

Some respond with 'just don't park illegally and you won't get fined' to any questioning of the current system. I've read comments like this in response to extremely informative articles about bureaucratic over-regulation in Australia, and the corrupting effects of allowing local bureaus to directly profit from the issuing of penalties. The moral 'don't do the wrong thing and you won't get punished' is a valid export from our childhood moral education, but as we mature it should always come with the adult responsibility of keeping an informed mind and a watchful eye on what constitutes wrong and what constitutes fair punishment. We must also consider the issue in a broader community context rather than from a self-righteous perspective. To ignore such responsibilities by giving over all power and decision-making in regulating our lives to bureaucracies could lead to the infantalising of the Australian population by the state's hand and by our own.

So how do we reform the current parking system to reflect more fairly the nature of social life, while "ensuring safe and fair use of Victoria's roads for everyone’s benefit" as it is described on the Local Government Victoria's website? Of course one important step is to improve our public transport services so they are more comfortable, reliable, accessible and indeed better than using a car. When that happens, there will be a considerable increase in people opting for it.

In terms of our parking system, why not have a service where the user has the opportunity to pre-pay money into a parking fee account, well in advance? This way, the money is already there, and they only pay for the time they use. Money is not wasted by the user having to over-pay a meter in order to offset the chance of being delayed.

A solution to the issue of time-limited parking, which  is necessary to enable sharing of scarce parking, is to allow the user to pay for a limited annual allowance of overtime, which creates [dare I suggest] a margin of flexibility for the everyday well-meaning citizen. It means that a person could be saved a few hundred dollars a year and not be treated like a criminal because they got stuck in an elevator, or they helped a stranger get to emergency, or they could not leave their sick child alone. Once they have used up their grace period they would be subject to the risk of fines again, and it would clearly be in their best interests to save their overtime for such emergencies. This step alone would ease the social tension surrounding parking fines by reversing the emerging steel-capped boot attitude that Australia must not allow community realism and humane considerations to get in the way of government revenue. The other massively important change is that revenue raised from penalties should no longer be kept by the local councils, as penalties should have the sole purpose of maintaining civil peace, not profits. The very fact that the parking system profits so disproportionately via the punishment of community points to the fact that there is something wrong with the system, not something wrong with the community.

In the current environment of continually increasing over-regulation of our lives and the invention of ever more penalties, license fees and permission fees for everything we do, why is the Australian public acquiescing to it, and why do we give the bureaucratic system the free ticket to do whatever they want? They're certainly not giving it to us.


Neon Festival of Independent Theatre kicks off at the MTC

What a fabulous opportunity to see some inspiring and provocative independent theatre works in Melbourne. The MTC is hosting five productions for the NEON Festival, plus free NEON Extra events, conversations, workshops and more.
The first production, Menagerie, starts tonight and runs until the 26 May 2013. Tickets for the shows are highly accessible at $25 each, and you can see all five shows for only $100.
"Menagerie is a new production based on the extraordinary life and work of one of the giants of the American stage, Tennessee Williams. DANIEL SCHLUSSER ENSEMBLE has built an exciting reputation for exploding the classics onto the contemporary stage with a unique sensibility and style. This award-winning company kicks off the inaugural NEON season with its most ambitious and potent work yet." —MTC

I'm also very excited to share that I have a place in one of the workshops for NEON EXTRA Insights for Independents. These free workshops, along with NEON EXTRA Conversations, are held by industry leaders and are an exceptional gift to emerging theatre makers. Unfortunately, the workshops are booked out (yes, I should have told you about it earlier!), but NEON Conversations are open to the public and require no booking. Visit NEON to download a calendar of the upcoming shows and check out what's on!