Stuck in the Middle

‘Abandon hope all ye who enter the middle’ Kim Wilkins

At 19 627 words I am almost smack bang in the middle of my manuscript. For five years now, I have been driven by an urge to write this book, it is something that I not only want to do, but need to do. Simply saying the words ‘I am writing a novel’ seems tinged with excitement and daring. I had millions of ideas. I was filled with rage, anguish, love, regret, hope, and I was literally bursting to write everything down. And for the first part of the novel it had seemed, well, easy.

If my project began with what theorists call an ‘enthusiasm of practice’, then that enthusiasm began to wane. My passion and energy had definitely flagged. At first I had put this down to numerous other things that have been going on in my life, and to the end of another exhausting year of teaching. Then I listened to Kim Wilkins’ lesson in the online Year of the Novel Course: ‘Moving the Narrative Forward’. She told how it was common for writers at the middle point of their writing journey to feel ‘sad and disappointed’ about their work, dejectedly asking, ‘is that it?’ It’s as if the first hot flush of a love affair is over and now I must work hard at the relationship if it is going to continue.

Kim gave some brilliant strategies on getting back into writing and pushing through the middle section, and they all involve persistence, dedication and effort. The most important one was to spend time at least ten minutes every day writing down ideas, because the simple act of writing leads to more writing. It is, she explained, ‘epistemic’: you know more as you write more. This morning I received a message from an ex-student admonishing me for not having written on my blog for over two months. He said, ‘By writing about your thoughts and ideas on that blog you might make sense of it all’, and then it may become ‘the stimulant of your “river of thought”’. Thanks Justin, you’re exactly right!

I have written many different scenes that link together to form the first part of the novel, but I was at a loss as to how to turn the ideas into a story. Plotting the novel is something quite different to writing it. It is more methodical, structured and organised – all things that I struggle to be. Plotting took time and concentration, but it will be much easier to write knowing that the scene I’m about to begin must get the story from A to B, and if it doesn’t then there is a problem. Kim assured the class that if we persisted through the tedium of planning, the pleasure we experienced when we first started out on the journey of writing our novel would return, but that it would be a ‘different kind of pleasure’.

After working for hours yesterday on my plot skeleton, I felt a tremendous calm. Before doing this, I had simply not known how to proceed. I had floundered for a while writing scenes that did not really move the story forward, just happy that I was writing. But the more I wrote the more unwieldy it all became. I didn’t have any idea how scenes would fit into the novel, where they would go, or why I was even writing some of them at all. While it may have seemed wonderful and creative to be simply writing, I didn’t have a clear direction and so often wasted time, and as a full-time teacher I don’t have the time to waste.

I am taking part in the Facebook group ‘Year of Writing Dangerously’s’ 10 000 word writing day tomorrow. I have planned the scenes that I will focus on, and I’m going to move forward. I now have a map, and though I may take many different paths to get there, the end is more clearly in sight. I know where the story is going, and how the character should think, feel and act, or, at least I am surer of this than before. I am going to finish my novel, Open Cut, in 2010. It will be easier with my guide, and though she may say, ‘Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain’, I am eager to follow.

Reading Shane Thamm’s Novel My Private Pectus

I’m teaching short story writing to Year 8s at the moment. Along with explaining that verbs are the powerhouse of a sentence, I have to teach adverbial and adjectival clauses, and the use of active and passive voice.

The students were given a task where they had to extend on the sentence: The house stood on the hill. Then they had to take me inside the house and create a character who would be there for whatever reason.

One of the students wrote:

‘Inside the door stood a tall skinny man. The man was old and balding. He was wearing pants, only one shoe, and a sock on the other foot. His chest was deformed. There was a massive indent in the middle and his rib cage stuck out. I had never seen a person like this before.’

I looked up from his work and said, ‘Oh, that’s a real condition you know?’

‘I know. I have it,’ he replied.

I gaped at him in surprise for a moment. The fact that he actually had the condition never crossed my mind. I thought he had been using his imagination, but he was describing himself, a ‘monster’. He said he did so because he knows the sight of his chest ‘freaks people out’.

Only weeks before, I had finished reading Shane Thamm’s new novel, My Private Pectus. The main character has Pectus Excavatum, which causes a hollowing out, or cavity, in the chest of sufferers. The novel revealed the self consciousness of the boy who must deal with the fact that he is physically different to other boys his own age.

It is a cruel twist, I think, that the condition does not appear until around 12 years of age, continuing to worsen until 18. These years are already fraught with so many difficulties and insecurities. My student was diagnosed last year, and at only thirteen his condition will worsen for at least another five years before it stabilises.

I had never heard of Pectus Excavatum before reading the novel, and here I was being confronted with one of my students openly telling me he had it. I immediately began telling him about Shane’s novel, and asked him if he would like to read it. His eyes lit up as he said yes. I gave it to him the next day, and for the rest of the week he had the book placed on the corner of his desk where he could be sure I would see it. At the end of each lesson he would carefully pick it up, taking it with him to his next class.

Shane’s novel adds light on this condition, in order to give boys suffering from it a voice. The student will probably forget what an adverbial or adjectival clause is, but I am certain he will remember My Private Pectus. The book held up a mirror, and instead of saying there is something drastically wrong with you, it said you are okay, you are ‘normal’. The novel represented a positive portrayal of someone with his condition. The protagonist had great fears and doubts, but he was able to overcome them. He was not a monster to be feared, but a boy who was able to love and be loved.

When the student gave the novel back to me, I asked him what he thought of it. He gave a huge smile and said, ‘Yeah, it was good. I could really relate to it.’ As a beginning writer, I am continually questioning why I write, and then I see the look in a young boy’s eyes when he recognises some part of himself in a text, and I know.

Author Anne Lamott gave her version of why people write, in her book Bird by Bird: ‘People need us, to mirror for them and for each other without distortion —– not to look around and say, “Look at yourselves, you idiots,” but to say, “This is who we are.”

One of my old students from Moranbah told me that he and a mate read my last blog, ‘Fridging’. When they had finished, his mate turned to him and said, ‘That’s our lives.’ For me, there is no greater compliment and I am sure Shane feels the same.

For more information on Shane Thamm’s novel My Private Pectus visit his website www.shanethamm.com

Fridging

There are no traffic lights in Moranbah and only a handful of stop signs. The main drag, Mills Avenue, is roughly three kilometres long. You can walk from one end to the other in half an hour. Needless to say, there aren’t many places to go in town. Just like on the set of Neighbours there were the regular hot spots – the school, the coffee shop, the park – and little else.

Walk in any direction to the very edge of town and all you see is bush. It was like living in a snow globe, trapped. Boredom in Moranbah sucked the life out of you. Nights were the worst: silent and suffocatingly hot. With half the men working night shift and the other half at the pub, the streets were dead. The only noise to be heard was the occasional bark of a dog or hiss of a cat. With so little to do, we had to make our own fun.

“Man, this kid is really gonna miss his treadly in the morning,” laughed Paul as he circled us on a Spiderman bike.

“Fuck him!”

“Ohh guys, don’t you remember what it was like when your bike was your prized possession? He’s gonna be devastated!” I said.

“Well that’ll learn him for leavin his shit in the front yard! Parents shoulda taught him to tidy up properly.”

We all laughed. You just couldn’t argue with Micko’s simple, straightforward reasoning. Besides, this was Moranbah, the kid probably had another two or three stashed out the back somewhere.

We usually walked the streets for most of the night but we’d eventually be drawn to the ovals like a magnet. The ‘ovals’ were comprised of the hockey, soccer, touch footy and AFL fields. The space was huge and with only the light from the moon to guide us, it was a safe place to avoid questioning by the cops. We’d usually sit on the benches outside one of the clubhouses, drinking. Sometimes, a lone walker would stumble through the darkness, obviously on his way home from a big night at the Nugget. The boys, in exchange for smokes, would help the guy figure out which direction was his house. Unfortunately, tonight there was no alcohol and no drunken guy to keep us amused.

“Let’s get blind!” Micko yelled to the sky.

“Fuck yeah!” said Paul.

“Pity Damo’s out of town, he coulda bought us some piss tonight,” I said disappointedly.

“We don’t need him,” replied Micko with a smirk.

“What d’ya mean?” I asked.

“We’ll go fridging again,” nodded Jordan.

The two previous weekends, the boys, sober and with nothing better to do, had snuck onto people’s property and stolen everything out of their outside bar fridges. At the first house they went to, they scored a carton of beer. They couldn’t believe how easy it was. The fridges were packed with alcohol, just sitting there begging to be taken. They all agreed that they could trust me enough to show me what they did.

“That’s Macca’s place. He’ll have plenty of piss,” said Micko as we crouched in the shadows.

Macca was known for liking a drink or two. On his days off, he had wild parties. We’d never gone to any, but they were legendary. Most nights, when the Nugget closed at 2am, everyone from the pub would head back to his house to continue partying until daylight. Kids on their way to school would often spot people sitting on Macca’s roof, drinking and hurling cans onto the street. Tonight, however, the house was eerily quiet and in darkness. He must have been at work.

“Okay me and Paul will go round back, you two stay here,” said Micko, casually taking off on a light jog.

Jordan and I watched the boys from across the road as they crept stealthily through the side gate. We kept still and didn’t say a word. I was holding my breath for fear that lights would suddenly turn on in the house and they’d get caught. I peered down both ends of the street, nobody was around. Inside the neighbouring houses the miners were probably snoring so loudly they couldn’t hear us. They’d be exhausted from the drudgery of their jobs, riding the waves of a deep, drug induced sleep. Macca’s house stood by as a lone witness.

After a couple of minutes, the two boys suddenly reappeared. Jordan had a carton under each arm. Micko was using one arm to curl his shirt up towards his chest, holding in loose bottles of cruisers, the other arm holding another handful. One bottle was already starting to slip out of his grasp, threatening to smash in the middle of the road. Jordan and I leaped out, grabbing as many bottles as we could, avoiding disaster.

“Run!” hissed Paul.

We all sprinted to the other end of the street. Three cans tumbled out of Paul’s open carton, spraying beer all over the road.

“Fuckin’ hell!” muttered Paul as he tried to shuffle the carton into a position so no more would fall out.

We were doubled over in hysterics by the time we reached the street light a hundred metres away.

“Good one, you fuckin idiot,” laughed Jordan.

“I didn’t realise the carton was open!”

“Hey, where’s Micko?” I asked, catching my breath.

Just as we all turned around in confusion, Micko came tearing out of a different yard. From the look on his face, we knew something was up. Then we saw a burly miner appear behind him, fists clenched, yelling and swearing, “Fuck off ya mongrel”. We all turned and ran, knowing without saying it, to meet at the ovals.

When Micko finally caught up, he threw himself onto the grass.

“This is why I shouldn’t smoke,” he heaved.

“Oh yeah, that’s why – so you can escape big bad men in the middle of the night?” I teased.

“He had a fucking golf club,” laughed Micko in between gulping breaths.

“Holy shit, what happened, who was it?” asked Jordan.

“It was fucking Mad Dog, the crazy cunt. I didn’t realise he was watching me the whole time. Then out of nowhere I hear, ‘Get the fuck off my property.’ I swear I just about shit my pants!”

“So you didn’t get anything?” asked Paul, disappointed.

“Nah, I bloody well dropped it.”

“Serves you right for not sticking to the plan!” I laughed.

“I know, I know, won’t happen again,” said Micko, recovered, cracking open a XXXX.

However, after nearly getting caught, we never did it again. The police sergeant came to the high school and made a big speech on parade, wanting information about the ‘culprits’. He never got any. But it was a close call.

We didn’t feel any remorse. We did it because we could. Because it was easy. Nobody really feared theft in Moranbah. Most people left their whole houses unlocked while they went to the shops and nothing would ever be gone. Besides, this was different; it was only alcohol, and it was easily replaced. We didn’t consider it wrong or even breaking and entering. It was fun. Some excitement, an adrenaline rush, something to pass the time. It made me feel alive. I had friends. I belonged.

The Class

Returning to school after a break is always difficult. When faced with the task of teaching Romeo and Juliet to recalcitrant fifteen year olds, who are too young to remember the much ‘cooler’ Leonardo Dicaprio film version, it is even more so.

Recently, I watched the French film, The Class. I felt like I was there in the classroom as I watched the teacher attempt to impart the rules of grammar, and speak about literature to his students. The students were non-actors, and the teacher was played by the actual teacher whose experiences the film was based upon. In a review this was said to give it a documentary feel.  The students talked over the teacher, challenging everything he said, constantly trying to gain one up. It certainly rang true.

One scene showed two girls from his class actually sitting in on a staff meeting. Later in class they brought up comments that were made by some of the teachers about a boy who was in their class. I don’t know if it is common practice in French schools to allow students to sit in on meetings, but it certainly backfired. Though the teacher had been on the side of the student, this point became lost, as the students ganged up on him because he was ‘one of them’.

I recall a line from a brilliant novel, Oyster, by Jeanette Turner Hospital, ‘They’re all cunts, schoolteachers. Always were, and always will be. They all fuck you over in school’. There is a great divide between teachers and students. We are meant to be on opposite sides.

A wonderful ex-student of mine made a comment on my previous blog, saying that I was ‘still one of his favourite teachers’. I thanked him, saying that not too many students would admit to that. He went so far as to ‘advertise’ my blog on Facebook. He put up a post in big block letters that said something like: ‘FOR ALL THOSE PEOPLE IN THE BAH WHO HAD MS NOLAN AS A TEACHER IN  HIGH SCHOOL CHECK OUT HER BLOG AT … SHE’S EVEN WRITING A NOVEL ABOUT WHEN SHE LIVED HERE, HOW COOL IS THAT! ’

It is always great to have someone in there batting for you, but very quickly comments appeared that went something like: ‘I care because?’; ‘You’ve really let the team down’; ‘It’s OK you’re not in high school so there’s no need to suck cock anymore’.  This really hit home the ‘us and them’ mentality that exists between teachers and students.

My daughter, quite affronted by some of the comments, came to my defence, ticking the ‘like’ box and saying, I was ‘the best writer’ she knows.

To which one of them replied, ‘Pfft, clearly haven’t read anything i’ve written then.’

Moments later, another comment appeared, ‘The only thing uve written are lies to penthouse.’

The next comment I found very interesting, ‘Lets face facts, the truth is boring.’

It is not often that anything profound is said on Facebook, but I do think that this comment is worth pondering, particularly as it relates to my own writing.

My novel, Open Cut, is loosely based on the experiences of my daughter when we lived in the mining town of Moranbah, but it is in no way meant to be read as biographical. All events, incidents, and names are fictionalised. I lived and taught in the town for three years and I have lots of raw data to draw upon, but I need to meld this into a story that is believable, that rings true, even though it isn’t. It must be convincing.

This brings me back to the film The Class. It was not a documentary, or even a biographical film, but it was certainly authentic. However, at the end of the film my daughter said, ‘What was the point?’ There didn’t seem to be a plot in the traditional narrative sense. Like Hollywood films of the same genre, the students were not ‘saved’. The teacher was not a miracle worker. He was depicted as a human being, someone who cared deeply for the well being of his students.

I have been told that there will come a time when I will be asked, ‘So what?’ Why did I bother to write the novel? When confronted with someone saying, ‘I care because?’ I’m forced to examine this question. Why am I spending so much time and energy telling this story? Why should someone care enough to read my novel?

Young girls in mining towns exist on the margins, their stories are not considered worthy of telling. We hear about the men who work in the mines, but females are rarely given a voice. But I think their stories need to be, must be, heard. And so I write, adding to the voices of young females heard in Australian Young Adult Literature.

Twenty Years Today

My mother died twenty years ago today. It was a glorious day, much like this one: clear and warm, with pastel blue, shimmering skies. I always felt confused going home after visiting my mother at the hospital in the weeks before her death. Brisbane thought it was Spring, but in the ward the smell of sickness and death hung in the air like a cheap carpet deodoriser.

On Sunday, my daughter, Lyana, and I visited her grave. I can’t remember the last time I went there. It took us a while to find the plaque engraved with the names: Valma Nolan and Ronald Edgar Nolan. My father died first, at 45, and Mum died sixteen years later, at 63. That sixteen years was a life time for my mother; endless nights spent chain smoking and wallowing in despair.

Beside them is the grave of another married couple, the Mintons, who also died sixteen years apart. ‘It’s nice that they’re next to another couple,’ I tell my daughter, and we laugh as I imagine them getting together for drinks and a game of cards, laughing and talking – no more worries.

Lyana can’t really remember her grandmother. She was only two when she died, and I was twenty-three, alone and bringing up a young child. In a last ditch effort to control me, my mother cut me out of her will, but at one point, I’m told, she’d left me with the house. Gary, my eldest brother and executor of the will, had me written back in so I had an equal share. My brothers lost no time in telling me I had to get out, so I went and put my name down on the housing commission waiting list. The bitterness and anger still surges through me when I think of what my life could have been like … so much easier …

But in her death I found freedom. I had nothing, so I had nothing to lose. At 23, I was a high school drop out, and a single mother with little money and no family support. Now, at 43, I’ m a teacher, and I’m completing a Master of Arts in creative writing. I’m writing a novel, Open Cut, which is loosely based on the experiences of my daughter when I was sent to do country service in the mining town of Moranbah.

When we came home from visiting the grave I asked Lyana if she thought Mum would be proud of me. ‘Of course, what kind of question is that?’ she said.

No matter how old we are, we never stop wanting approval. I spent years spinning wildly away from my mother, only to find that she is at the centre of everything I do. When Mum died I lost the only person in the world who loved me despite everything and the realisation  left me gasping. Anxious and uncertain I lost the ability and the desire to connect. Writing has helped me to ignite this desire, this need. I send these words out not knowing that you will read them, or how you will respond. You are as ghostly and unreal to me as my parents. Yet I have faith. I believe that they can hear me as loudly and as clearly as you do.