Category Archives: Life and stuff

Deadlines vs Goals vs Real-life

Deadline: (n) the time by which something must be finished or submitted; the latest time for finishing something.

Goal: (n) the result of achievement toward which effort is directed; aim; end.

Real-life: (interjection) the little demon that laughs maniacally at the deadlines and goals you set.

Deadlines. I work to them all the time. Sometimes I impose them on authors, sometimes authors impose them on me, and other times it is publishers dropping those deadlines – all of which is good. Deadlines give us that extra kick up the bum to get shit done, especially if those deadlines are given by others.

I work well to external deadlines – my business and reputation depend on it. And I love my work, so while sometimes it can be stressful when I have a lot of different projects on my plate, I tend to thrive under the pressure.

Goals. I set myself two (which stepped to three) this year with regard to writing and reading – two things I don’t get anywhere near enough time to do as I’d like. I’d finished the first draft of my novel in February this year as part of my Black Friday Wager; of which there’s about 10-15% I’ll keep, build upon. It set my characters and their motivations firmly in my mind, and levered the world in greater detail, but man did it need a serious rewrite… or greater focus.

So that was one goal met, which transitioned to my next goal: the second draft of the novel, which was to be completed by November 13, 2015 (yes, a Black Friday Wager). I did not meet this goal. Oh, I started and restarted and restarted the novel eleventy-hundred times, but could not get the starting point right.

imagination

Work and real-life had a part to play in me not meeting this goal. I’m not just a writer and editor; I’m a mother, wife, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, keeper of pets. I have bills to pay, groceries to buy, meals to cook, and a seemingly interminable amount of clothes to wash. I have homework to help with (you suck, high school math!), the kids’ sporting events (and training) to cheer at, and all the while remember that I must leave the house wearing pants.  I don’t begrudge any of that – it’s my life and I wouldn’t change it (okay, maybe the bit about wearing pants in the outside world, but… oh the joys of working from home!).

Often, something’s gotta give, and that something tends to be writing time (made easier, of course, when you’re sitting on your eleventy-hundred-and-first draft of draft two of your novel).  I did write three short stories this year, all of which made short-listings but no actual publication. But that’s okay – stories were written, and they’ll be tweaked and sent back out in the world. It’s the creating that’s the goal; publication is that cherry atop a cake. And one of the big cherries this year was the publication of my comic, The Road to Golgotha, launched at Melbourne ComicCon, so not a bad year on the publishing front at all.

The Road to Golgotha

What I didn’t skimp on this year (as I had done previous years), was reading time. As an editor, I do a lot of reading, and by the end of the day, my eyes can sometimes be pretty shot. So reading for pleasure doesn’t feel like pleasure at all. Last year, I read 14 books – not too many when you’re looking at just the number, but at least one a month, isn’t bad considering. This year, I set myself a goal of 20 books. I hit that goal last week with Greig Beck’s The Dark Lands (The Valkeryn Chronicles #2), which was brilliant, and one of those stories you wish didn’t have an end (review to come).

I surpassed that goal last night, finishing book two in a James A Moore trilogy. Yes, there were times I read into the wee hours of the morn, sacrificing sleep (and the next day’s sanity) to read just one more chapter…okay, just one more chapter…one more… but that’s more testament to the book(s) I was reading than my quest to meet my goal. I’ve chosen well the books I’ve read this year, and the authors who’ve penned them.

So I met two of my three goals, and yes, there was some angst and frustration around not meeting the goal of the second draft, but not anywhere near as much I’d have doled out a couple of years back. You see, I’ve learned to be kinder to myself, to understand that sometimes life has different ideas to the ones you set yourself, and that’s okay too. With age comes wisdom perhaps.

My life is good. No, actually, my life is great. I have an amazing family, two of the coolest kids on the planet, a kick-arse job, and the want and desire to wreak havoc in created worlds. And I get to read with impunity.

The point of this post (yes, there is one, you miscreants!), is that no matter the personal goals and/or deadlines you set, don’t beat yourself up if you don’t meet them – real-life always has your back.

Deadline: a date for things that may or may not get done (depending on who sets said deadline), but hey, we’re all huma– ooh, look, a kitty! 

Goal: something you wish to achieve but doesn’t hold your self-worth if not met  (may also be cake).

Real-life: fucking awesome.

 

Confessions of a Book Hoarder

Hello, my name’s AJ, and I’m a book hoarder.

They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, but I don’t have a problem, I have books. I have worlds and characters and cultures and magic, and if you go near them I’ll cut you.

Seriously.

Back up.

Now.

So books I have. Lots of them. What I lack is space… and bookshelves. (That faint stream of cursing is from my husband as he trips over yet another pile of books in our home.) I read. A lot. Always have done.  And print is my go to. Why? Well there’s nothing quite like the feel and smell of a print book; that tangible feel of pages beneath your fingers, the anticipation of what’s to come as you slowly, slowly turn that next page… it’s book porn. There, I said it.

imagination

And bookstores are the bastion of imagination – there dwells magic. I have my favourite stores of course: Kinokuniya (the pantheon of bookstores), Galaxy Bookshop (amazing genre floor), and Kings Comics (nuff said) – all of which are in Sydney’s CBD. But for those quick fixes, it’s my local Gleebooks, which has a reading nook at the back of the store; or Berkelouw Books. Hours I can spend trolling these stores, new and used books an intoxicating perfume.

The middle of the year is also when the cons arrive, and I hit Supanova and ComicCon Melbourne this year, where not only did I buy more books, I could get them signed by the authors. And while I was an exhibitor at ComicCon, it in no way stopped me from buying books (it just meant a mad dash from stall to stall – easy as).

I’ve just finished a two-books fantasy series from Donna Maree Hanson, which I picked up at Supanova in Sydney (review of book one here; review of book two to come), and it was decision time for the next book. Easier said than done. I scoured the ‘to read’ mountain beside my bed, then the ‘to read’ stacks beside my desk, the ‘to read’ pile on the floor near one of my bookcases…

books

Panic set in: which one? Do I pick a trilogy? A collection? A stand-alone? Graphic novel? *wrings hands* What about genre? Fantasy, horror, grimdark… Ah, spoiled for choice. So many books… some of which have been in the pile for a while, watching, waiting, as others are chosen before them, their covers screaming: pick me, pick me!

My husband’s suggestion is to not purchase any more books until I finish reading what I already have, but I’m not buying into his kind of crazy. He’s long given up trying to get me to rid myself (and our house) of some of my old books, but I just can’t. I’ve tried. I’ll pick up a book and remember where I was when I read it, what time of my life it was when I journeyed into those pages, and I know they’re not going anywhere. Some are packed away, sure; carefully and lovingly bundled to ensure they’re safe (and easily moved from one house to the next).

So yes, I’m a book hoarder, and I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay, I’m freakin’ great. I’m surrounded by books, by words and worlds, characters and creatures, monsters and mayhem – my happy places. You can’t ask for more than that.

Oh, and the winner of the ‘what to read next’ dilemma? Return of the Ancients (The Valkeryn Chronicles) by Greig Beck.

 

ComicCon Wrap-up

Where to start? Probably 5am Friday morning when I dragged myself out of bed then dragged an equally unwilling child from her bed to catch a too-damn-early flight to Melbourne. After copious amounts of coffee (for me, not my daughter), wakefulness hit then excitement – COMIC CON!!!

We were bunking down at a my friends Chris and Tracy’s place (read her work – read it!), so Saturday morning we were again up at sparrow-fart and off to Melbourne-proper. It’s a pretty city, Melbourne, and damn if they don’t make a great cup of java (yes, this is a vital part of me liking any place I visit). As my daughter and I strolled along Southbank, it wasn’t long before we were in the midst of cosplayers – excitement level-up.

Me and Cloe

While I’ve been to Supanovas, this was my first ComicCon, and what made this all the more special was that this was the launch of my comic ‘The Road’ – part of a two-in-one comic ‘The Road to Golgotha’ with GN Braun and brought to spectacular life by the artist, Monty Borror. And when I walked up to the Cohesion Press table, there she was, pride of place and absolutely beautiful. That I was sharing this with my daughter made this even more special.

Our table was beside that of IFWG Publishing, manned by the lovely Gerry Huntman, the effervescent Stephen McCracken, and one of my favourite people in the world, Robert Hood. We were in some mighty fine company.

Road

Now, I’m not a salesperson by any stretch of the imagination (kinda a design flaw in the whole being-a-writer thing), and pimping my work to strangers is hard, but the thing with ComicCon attendees is their desire to engage. There’s complete and utter acceptance of everything and everyone at cons such as these; it’s a celebration of the arts in all their mediums, and a celebration of those who love their movies, tv shows, authors, artists and all that goes with it.

The cosplayers were just brilliant – always happy and obliging for photos; and some of the costumes just blew my mind. It was happy, happy place that nurtures creativity, and you really can’t ask for more than that.

Chatting with people about the comic, explaining the idea behind the story and having people ask me questions then buy the comic was such a buzz – signing it for them as an author is a real joy. To have someone come up and buy your work because another con member recommended it? That’s the stuff of snoopy-dances.

snoopy

If all of this wasn’t enough, I got to finally meet some peeps I’d been waiting to for a long time, and my mate James O’Keefe (who was also working ComicCon) was first to the table. I’ve known James for… must be five or six years now, but with both of us living in different states… it was great to finally catch up in person.

I knew artist and writer Jason Franks would be at the con, and that was a meet I was looking forward to, especially after reading his amazing novel Bloody Waters (get on it – it’s a killer piece! Reviewed here). While I would have liked to have spent more time chatting and to sit in on his panel – time was a hungry beast for us both.

Same with Aaron Sterns – it was wonderful to finally meet and chat with the softly-spoken writer of the Wolf Creek fame. I missed his panel as well, but that’s the thing with being an exhibitor at cons, you’re there to engage with potential readers and you can’t do that effectively when visiting people you’ve been hanging to meet for a long while. But cons are also the places that allow you to have those meets with friends from other states; with the people who love what they do as much as you do.

up

Being amongst it all brings home how much this really is the best gig in the world, and how lucky I am to be doing something that feeds my soul. None of which could have happened without the likes of Geoff Brown of Cohesion Press who believed in me and how much ‘The Road’ would be a kick-arse comic. I can’t thank him enough.road page 29

I really wish Monty could have made the con, but living in the US makes it a tad more difficult to get here – he’s a very busy lad! But without him, ‘The Road to Golgotha’ wouldn’t be the stunning piece of art that it is. And to top it all off, there were two pieces of original artwork waiting for me. Two of my favourite pages from the comic that will soon be framed and up on my wall where I will love them and stroke them and love them.

It was all over far too soon. Exhausting though those days were, it really lit a fire under my bum to create bigger and better, and to make sure I attend more cons to not only connect with my mates but to readers as well, ‘cause there ain’t nothin’ better than seeing someone walk away holding your book with a smile on their face.

 signing 1

ComicCon, I will be in you…

Tomorrow morning (waaay early), my daughter and I will be dragging our tired selves onto a plane for our trip to Melbourne for ComicCon. It’s a big deal, a very big deal. This is where the two-in-one comic ‘The Road to Golgotha’ will be launched through Cohesion Press. My story ‘The Road’, takes up 47 pages of horror-filled beauty, and while it’s uber-exciting, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet (hell, I still haven’t started packing).

The Road to Golgotha

It’s been quite a long road (yeah, I see that pun) to get to this point; the script was written about two years ago, taken from a short story I’d had published in Midnight Echo #9. This was the first comic script I’d written, and truth be told, it almost broke me. Comic writing and story writing are two completely different beasts, and it took me a while to wrap my head around the ‘stillness’ of a comic. A panel is a snapshot, a moment frozen in time – a character isn’t ‘running’ they are ‘mid-step’; they aren’t ‘raising their hand’, it’s either up or down.

A true collaboration it is, and the gods stepped in and sent extraordinarily talented artist Monty Borror my way. It’s his art that brings my story to life, his skill and mastery of the medium that took my words and ideas and made them visually real, visually stunning. I sometimes wonder if he’s a sorcerer.

So 47 glorious pages later, Monty had finished the art, the lettering had been done, and it was off to the printers in time for launch at Melbourne ComicCon. ‘The Road’ is a story of gods and monsters, of self-discovery and a battle for identity for the heroine. It’s hard and it’s bloody and she unapologetically owns it.

Page3

The other story, by GN Braun is ‘His Own Personal Golgotha’ – a search for redemption through horror-filled pages again brought to wicked life by Monty Borror. It’s a visually stunning piece that doesn’t pull any punches. It’s kick-arse.

I also get to share this experience ­– my first ever launch – with my daughter, and that’s pretty damn special. She’s just as excited as I am, despite the fact she isn’t allowed to read the comic as it comes with a ‘R’ rating, but she’s very much looking forward to wearing an exhibitor pass and exploring ComicCon.

So if you’re in Melbourne over the weekend, come say hello and take a look at the comic – we’ll even sign it for you! For anyone who can’t make it, the comic will be available on Amazon next week, in either black and white or spectacular colour.

road page 9

Now, I’d better go pack, I have to be up in five hours.

Don’t Be A Dick

Let me say that again: don’t be a dick. Four simple words with an equally simple message, but it seems there are those in the writerly community having a really hard difficult time not being dicks – some on a truly epic scale.

I’ve followed for a while the debacle that is the Hugos. I say ‘a while’ because it didn’t take long to become bored and disenfranchised with the whole thing, especially once it devolved into the slinging of poo from both sides. To say the Hugos have been irreparably damaged is an understatement. The honour of having ‘Hugo winner’ or ‘Hugo nominated’ stamped on the cover of your book has been lost. That’s a real shame. Will the awards recover? Only time will tell. Time, and whether Vox Day continues with his toxicity.

It was the perfect example of how ‘don’t be a dick’ would have helped those on all sides of the Hugo debate. Once you devolve into vitriol to further a cause (valid or not), you lose not only any sense of decency, but there’s a real chance you lose your reputation, and for writers, reputation is everything. No matter how good a storyteller you may be, if you’re a dick, you’ll find there are publications and editors that will refuse to work with you.

nice things

If only the dick-ness had been limited to the Hugos, but *le sigh* it wasn’t. Another spat broke out between authors that had political leanings (shades of the Hugos) at its core, which then resulted in one of those involved ‘one-starring’ the other author’s books on Amazon. Apparently this author isn’t a five-year-old child. Other authors were dragged into the mess, and yet again, playground behavior and bullying was the order of the day. Now I’m not saying all involved were ‘dicks’, some of those dragged into this acted with decency, common sense and rose above, but it was enough to spread quickly through the writerly community and draw more sad sighs, eye-rolls and mutterings of ‘again?’ from those sucked pulled drawn into the vortex.

Just recently I became aware of an instance of ‘dick-ness’ that struck a little closer to home, and which raised my ire. A friend and fellow author (who I won’t name for privacy reasons) was at an anthology launch where their story was listed as the lead – a well-deserved honour; it’s a wonderful piece. However another author (well-known in the genre) took it upon themselves to tear into my friend, stating without compunction that they’d paid to have their work included, that the story was shite, as was the antho (apart from dick-author’s work, of course), and that they wouldn’t be promoting it because all of the above.

This tirade was unprovoked and left my friend shocked and disillusioned with their work. I was furious. Still am, hence this post. I’ve little doubt that jealousy and the dick-author’s insecurities led to the words, but that doesn’t make it any way right. Not by any means.

booo!

Writers are an insecure bunch, myself included. We’re our own worst critics, and even those of us with publications (big and small) under our belt still have those moments of despair. When author friends have their successes we’re absolutely rapt for them, but there’s also a little stab of jealousy involved with those successes – we wouldn’t be human if that wasn’t the case. But here’s where the ‘don’t be a dick’ comes in (damn, these double-entendres are killing me). It’s simple really. If you feel like being a dick – don’t. Take any negative feelings toward another writer and turn it into the drive to write more, write better. Chanel that energy into non-dickness.

I’ve mentioned in a previous post that writers are a solitary folk, that most of our time is spent in created worlds, but there’s a real joy in connecting with like-minded beings, with those who understand the intricacies and quirks that make you a writer. You need these connections, and not just on a publishing platform, but for your sanity. And if the Hugos, Sad Puppies, Rabid Puppies and all the other author-transgressions are anything to go by, that sanity and sense of community is slowly decaying.

We’re in this together, peeps. Writing is truly the best gig in the world; don’t turn it into a toxic playground by being a dick. Simple.

don't be a dick

Feeding the Soul

Saturday night I ventured into the heart of the best city in the world for the Sydney Writers’ Festival, which was set to the backdrop of the festival of lights – Vivid. It was a fantastic night that all started with a forty-five minute walk, and what a walk it was!

Streets were closed from the middle of the city all the way to Circular Quay and around The Rocks, and I can’t explain how much I enjoyed walking down the middle of George Street, surrounded by so many but revelling in the solitary exploration of my home town lit up like magic. Those forty-five minutes, free to walk and explore and indulge on my lonesome was food for the soul.

opera house

Sydney Opera House under lights

I’m not sure how many writers’ festivals have a light, music and ideas festival running concurrently, but more need to. The Sydney foreshore, which is always beautiful, was transformed into a city of the fantastique. There were so many things that drew my attention… and probably why I made it to the auditorium by the skin of my teeth.

I was in the audience for the ‘5 x 15’ – five speakers chat for 15 minutes a piece. No scripts allowed! It was an eclectic lineup, too. A cook, crime writer, investigative journalist, rapper/poet/novelist, and violinist. Something for everyone, I thought, but not everything for all.

I’m happy to say I was wrong.

We began with cook (and MasterChef winner) Adam Liaw. Now I’m not a cook, not by any stretch of the imagination, so I wasn’t quite sure how Adam’s words would apply to me, but… he was great! Sure, a lot of what he spoke about was food related, about breaking food down to its main elements and drawing from there. Pretty much like you do for fiction. Adam was engaging, amusing and more insightful than I imagined.

baking

Next up was US crime writer Michael Connelly. Aah, fiction writer! I admit I haven’t read any of Michael’s books, but that will soon be rectified. He told us about his first novels (ones that will never see the light of day, which is always great to have in common), but I was most impressed with the research he undertook that turned his “crappy” novels into best-sellers. It’s the little things that count, the nuances of character, the attention to detail (no matter how small), that make a story. It’s this kind of information that’s invaluable to a writer, and I thank him for it.

Then came Kate McClymont. I’ve read a lot of her investigative pieces, especially with regard to the political shenanigans of our government – she’s very, very good, but I had no idea how funny she was. I’m sure she ran over time, but it didn’t matter. She had the auditorium in fits of laughter and entertained like a true show-woman. She was definitely going to be a hard act to follow.

Enter Omar Musa. Another Australian novelist/poet/rapper not on my radar. Now Omar had cheat cards, of which he readily confessed (but rarely looked at). Against the rules? Maybe. Did any of us care? Nah-ah. Omar is a finalist for the Miles Franklin Award for his novel Here Come The Dogs, and what he gave us was amazing. Part poetry slam, part biography, it was a feast of rhythm and verse and lyrical beauty told with an honesty that had me buy his book (and have it signed – he’s humble and happily chatted to all who came to him). It was brilliant. Just brilliant.

Here Come the Dogs

When the last speaker, concert violinist Richard Tognetti took the stage, he told us his 12-year-old son told him he’d better be funny as the previous speakers were amazing. Pressure much? Richard is one of the top violinists in Australia, and boy can he talk a million miles a minute! Nerves were definitely there, and at times, so fast did he speak it was difficult to keep track of where he was taking us. He had with him an extremely rare violin that was hundreds of years old – the history behind it (rapid though it was), was interesting, but when he put that instrument to his chin and played for us all… magic. He was transposed from this almost manic dialogue into a virtuoso of calm and beauty as he seemed to romance music from the violin. Such a fitting end to an incredible panel of speakers.

A special shout-out to the always lovely and quick-witted Diana Jenkins who emceed the event – amazing job!

After having my newly-purchased book signed by Omar Musa, it was off for drinks until there was only two of us left – me and my mate, Deb. We had a great (if not cold) stroll around the harbour foreshore, taking in the sights of Vivid, discussing the speakers and just generally laughing our arses off (as we tend to do when together).

peacock feathersfaces

The Argyle Cut and Martin Place Faces

For those of you who haven’t attended The Sydney Writers’ Festival, you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s a week-long event, with days and nights chock-full of panels and discussions, book launches, culture and heritage… there really is something for everyone. If you’re a reader, it’s a chance to connect with favourite authors and discover new. For writers, who really do tend to be solitary creatures, it’s a place to revel in your passion, to talk about stories and the realness of your characters (without those strange looks you sometimes get from non-writerly peeps), and connect with those who love what they do as much as you do.

For me? Well I got all of the above, and so much more. I’m inspired, determined and I learned – something a writer never stops doing. And I can’t wait to do it all again next year.

pyschedelic building

Now get thee to a writers’ festival!

Awards and Such Things

I meant to write this post before I left for my holiday but having two kids who’d rather video game than pack meant all my days blurred. But now it’s time to have a little chat about awards and such things most writers say they care little about but secretly (and sometimes not-so secretly) want. Sure, we write because we love it, because we’re driven to create words and worlds, because we’d go crazy if we didn’t, but recognition, be it via a sale, a kick-arse review, an award or recommended read is something every writer craves – that external validation that tells us we’re better than that little voice inside telling us we’re shit.

The first six months of the year are filled with awards (too many to list here), and the Australian Shadows Awards are the latest to hit my shores. Run through the Australian Horror Writers Association, it’s the premier awards for Australian and New Zealand horror that always presents really cool trophies – a different one each year, so you never know what you’re going to get.

AHWA

I had a pony in this race under the ‘edited works’ banner as co-editor (with Geoff Brown) for SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror. It was a strong field, up against Simon Dewar’s Suspended in Dusk anthology, and SQ Mag (issue 14) edited by Sophie Yorkston, and with just a week to wait from finalist announcements to the reveal of the winner, it was Sophie Yorkston and SQ Mag who took out the win.

Was I bummed? Sure – who doesn’t want to win an award for the work they’ve put in? Did I edit the anthology with the hopes of winning an award? No. I edited the antho because I got to work with some amazing authors with equally amazing stories. Of that I’m proud. An award win would have been a nice shiny cherry atop a kick-arse cake.

SNAFU cover art

There were four other categories: short fiction, long fiction, novel, and collected works – all with diverse and strong entries, and I was crossing my fingers and toes that two of my buddies (and fellow Sydney SHADOWS boozers) would take out a win.

Huzzahs happened when Andrew J McKeirnan won for his amazing collection Last Year When We Were Young. This is a fantastic collection of shorts that I reviewed here. If you haven’t read it, get off your bum and seek it out – you won’t be disappointed. Andrew’s been a Shadows Award finalist… well, heaps, so it was about time he took out the win. I’m sure he felt the same.

True to form, Alan Baxter took out the win for the short story category with Shadows of the Lonely Dead. He had two nominated works in this category, so that just shows you how much of a damn fine writer he is. Head over to his website and check out his work then buy it. Go on. What are you waiting for?

The novel category was taken out by Aaron Sterns and Greg McLean for Wolf Creek Origins (yes, of the Wolf Creek cinematic fame). Nightmare-inducing fun this! Fun? Okay, so maybe my idea of fun is a little different from yours…

Shane Jiraiya Cummings won the recently renamed Paul Haines Award for Long Fiction with Dreams of Destruction. While I haven’t read this story, I’ve read Shane’s work and I’m not at all surprised he took out this category.

So I didn’t win an award this year – that’s okay. I’ve been a finalist for the Australian Shadows Award, had SNAFU listed as a recommended read on the Bram Stokers’ ballot list, and the reviews for SNAFU have been incredible. I call that a win. I’d be lying if I said it was the ‘win’ I was looking for; you see, I’ve won a Shadows Award for my short fiction, and that’s an addictive high. I want to win another. Hell, I want a win a slew of awards. When I get hit with that writer-imposteritis, the trophy that sits atop my desk tells me I can do this writing thing; that I’m good enough to win an award, no matter what that inner voice says.

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The big winner here, though, is Aussie horror fiction, which is going from strength to strength, with recognition and appreciation for the power of Australian storytelling making those around the world sit up and take notice. And well they should.

 

Art of the Tattoo

This post is about art. There are some who’ll believe this isn’t the case, but tattoos just have a different canvass, is all. I’ve heard all the arguments against putting ink into your skin: it’s stupid, a desecration, it labels you, is the latest fashion statement, you’ll regret it… I could go on but I don’t want to. For me and a whole lot of other people, tattoos are little (or big) pieces of art we wear that have special meaning and mark a particular time of our lives. It’s a choice we’ve made, and to have those choices derided by others (and it oft is), is not only rude and offensive – as most commentary is definitely not asked for – it’s also none of your damn business.

Am I angry? Damn straight I am. Tattoos were always going to be a part of my ‘art series’ posts (with a special shout out to my tattoo artist), but I’ve brought this forward because of some mainstream media coverage that specifically and unfairly targeted women and tattoos. This was brought to my attention by the lovely Maria Lewis via a Facebook post, and yes, she was just as pissed as I am about the gender disparity when it came to the reports. You can read Maria’s article here – I’ll wait why you do that….

Are you riled up yet? If not, you should be. As Maria rightly points out, at no stage did the mainstream media mention any stats with regard to men and their tattoos; at no stage was there a follow-up piece regarding men regretting their ink. But hey, that’s cool, right? Women and tattoos are a society no-no, aren’t they? Wrong, on both counts and on so many levels.

tattoo art

As much as I’d like to put on my ranty-pants, I think Maria has covered this issue really well, and my thoughts are pretty much going to be a mirror of her words, but I will add this: I’m under no illusions that I’m sometimes judged on my tattoos, but that speaks more to the person making those judgements than to me. What I find amusing (and yes, frustrating) is other’s belief that their opinion and words are going to make an impact on any decision I make with regard to MY body. When I’m asked ‘How will my tattoos look when I’m eighty?’ Awesome, is my answer. My tattoos will bring with them memories of that time and what they represent. They’ll grow older with me, my pieces of art.

So, now onto the art of tattooing, because it is an art-form; anyone who tells you different is kidding themselves. I currently have five tattoos – three very visible and two not. And yes, I said ‘currently’, I will be adding to my collection. Like the art I hang on my walls, I like art on my skin, too. Each has meaning to me; they’re a representation of who I am.

I’m extraordinarily lucky to have found an amazingly-talented artist in Ben O’Grady from Lighthouse Tattoo in Sydney (he’s inked my last three). When I went to see him with my last design idea he sat me down and said no, we’re not doing that – he was seeing too much of a particular section of the design around. So out comes the pencil and within moments, he’s sketched out something so outrageously good, and so very much me, I could have kissed him. It’s that kind of skill and understanding of your client that makes a tattoo artist, and why I wouldn’t go to anyone else except Ben.

tattoo 1

I’ve often heard it said that tattoos are the latest fashion trend, that ‘everyone has them’, but while there is a growing amount of society sporting ink, there’s nothing ‘universal’ about them – this generalisation never rings true. Tattoos are a personal thing, each with its own special meaning to the wearer, each tells a story. Each is as individual as the person who’s inked.

Ben’s artwork appears on my forearms, and I’ve had more people tell me they’re beautiful than I’ve had people mock, and I will pimp Ben anytime someone asks. You see, my tattoos have opened conversations with complete strangers who’ve appreciated the skill and artistry of my ink and me theirs. There’s a community within the tattooed that a lot of people don’t see; we appreciate good art, we understand there’s an addictiveness to them, and we discuss old tattoos and the ones to come. We share an experience, we share the unfair scorn and derision oft thrown our way, and we understand that no matter what others think or believe, more art will come.

So the next time you’re out and see someone walking around with artwork on their skin, don’t judge, appreciate the thought, time and skill that’s gone into producing something they’re proud to wear for all to see. And maybe, just maybe, strike up a conversation and discover the story behind the art.

 wing tattoo

 

Note: the featured image, designed by David Schembri, is another piece of art Ben has inked on my skin. 

Guest Post: The Gender Binary

My previous post about living as a woman in a world without fear garnered much conversation – always a good thing, as opening dialogue on matters that are detrimental to any members of society can only be a step in the right direction to a world filled with acceptance and kindness. The discussions I’ve had with my crazy-amazing friend, Elizabeth Wayne, are times I truly treasure; she has a unique view on the world, and I often wish she had a greater platform to reveal a mind that looks at the world and those in it on a truly global scale. So I’d like to provide a platform here, to offer another view of how the world ‘works’ through the eyes of one of the smartest people I know. As individuals, we can only look at the world through our own eyes; our experiences are subjective because we are individuals – that isn’t a negative by any means, but by reading views and experiences of others, we, as individuals and a society, have the opportunity to become more empathetic to those around us. So without further ado, I hand the floor, and the mic, over to Elizabeth Wayne…

The Ritualised Dehumanisation of Civilisation Through Labelling.

~ Elizabeth Wayne

**For this discussion, the use of the term gender is regarding the culturally dominant binary of male and female. I do not believe that gender identity starts and stops with the genitalia we happen to be born with.

Labels are a contentious thing. Stick one on a milk carton and you have all the essential information we need to know about what is inside the container (we hope). When it comes to labelling people, they, unlike the milk, might have other ideas about the labels you use. The convention of applying labels to people (a species that has managed to extend its average lifespan decades longer than our great-grandparents, giving us the prolonged opportunity to evolve our understanding of human nature as individuals within the greater community) undermines our ability to form a cohesive society built on equality, especially if you stop and consider how long we wear some of those labels.

label maker

The debate regarding gender inequality has generated heated discourse around labels such as feminist, masculinist, equalist and humanist. Everyone pointing fingers at the patriarchy, looking for someone to pin the injustice on — battlelines drawn, “Who’s side are you on?” While all this goes on, more research comes out speaking to the gender inequality against females in pay, media representation, sexual and domestic abuse, etc. The masculinists* go on the defensive, pointing out that they too are exploited in the work place (many of the people fleeing to western countries are male looking for work so they can support their family at home and are often abused by systems that exploits their vulnerability), they are also the victims of sexual and domestic abuse (one third of domestic abuse victims are male), and society is falling back on a new default position that if you are white and male you are ‘the problem’ in spite of any efforts to be part of the solution. The more the debates rage, the less room there is for intersections and the sense of ‘other’ is maintained.

All of the aforementioned issues are important. Any issue where inequality and prejudice exists should be addressed compassionately as a society. But that means pulling things apart. Things get messy. We often have to face hard truths — sometimes, we have to admit we aren’t just part of the problem, we are the problem. It starts with a baby.

Everyone on the planet knows a parent. Some of you may be parents yourselves. Did you find out the gender in-utero, or did you wait until the arrival? Either way, it usually goes a little something like this: “It’s a _______! <insert boy/girl here>.” Some of you may think ‘so what?’ That simple declaration makes gender the initial focal point of a person’s existence. This has a domino effect that will last a lifetime.

girlboy

Take a minute here and think about that. If a person’s gender shouldn’t matter on a CV, then why does it matter when they are born?

The moment those words leave your mouth, a chain reaction starts. Chances are the child has a gender-based name. The cards, balloons and gifts arrive, reaffirming the gender of the child in both proclamations and colour association. Well-meaning friends and family will buy clothes, shoes, toys, linen, nightlights, pictures and cot mobiles with the gender in mind either consciously or unconsciously. Some parents may opt for a unisex name and their child’s room is gender-neutral with colours other than blue and pink (the current cultural association of genders), not wanting to define their child. But it’s only a matter of time before the dominant gender binary asserts itself.

Somewhere in those early years, the language used to describe your child will change. All babies are born beautiful, but at some point, young boys start getting called handsome. In the blink of an eye, the adoration makes room for the start of the dehumanisation process and young children are taught that emotions are a bad thing. ‘Don’t be a cry baby.’ ‘I thought you were a big boy/girl.’ ‘Big boys/girls don’t wet the bed/cry/misbehave.’ For many children, they hear such things before they walk into a school yard. We lie to them as though adults have got their shit together and we tell them that all the feelings that they experience are the domain for very young children. These barbs are often laced with gender bias against the so-called ‘feminine’ aspects; ‘Don’t be a sooky la la.’ ‘Don’t be a sissy.’ ‘Stop crying like a girl.’ Even if their parent isn’t the person saying it directly to the child, someone else might be, perhaps a friend, relative or another child parroting what they are told. Overt displays of emotions — negative or positive — are not to be done in public, and are often suppressed at home. If your child seems to be too much of anything, someone may recommend a trip to the doctor for a diagnosis and a new label (and possibly a prescription).

For those parents that fight to keep their child’s early years gender-neutral, by the time they get to school, the gender binary asserts itself for six hours a day. It could be as blatant as boys in one line, girls in the other, or something less obvious such as discouragement from things deemed to be associated with the opposite sex (girls playing with trucks, boys playing with dolls etc). If your child tries to move across the divide, the dichotomy is so ingrained even at this early age, the ridicule and shaming from young children, parents, care givers etc is enough to cause serious damage to your child. By this stage, terms like ‘boys will be boys’, ‘man up’, ‘that’s girl stuff’ and ‘drama queen’ are readily used. Naturally, as the children get older, the terms get more vitriolic. If a child attends every year of school, a child starting school this year in Australia will spend 13 years in this pressure cooker of an environment.

Somewhere in those 13 years, hormones kick in, amplifying every aspect of their lives. Any early natural gender identity association they felt goes into overdrive and they struggle to be true to those instincts. By high school most kids have some level of autonomy about their identity and they literally start to wear their heart on their sleeve. Those that cross gender assumptions are subjected to ridicule and physical assault. It could be as simplistic as long hair on a male and short hair on a female. Parents call it rebelling when their child starts to act and dress outside their perception of who they are — a perception developed in the gender dichotomy of male and female. The adolescent calls it being authentic. Unfortunately, authenticity isn’t valued as a character trait prior to adulthood. The early, formative years are reserved for conformity, and when it comes to gender identity, being authentic or even experimenting with things attributed to one sex or the other isn’t always a safe option. The suicide rates among teens that are facing gender identity issues and/or a sexuality that falls outside the heteronormative are staggering.

lifeline

Many opinions, social structures, identities etc. have solidified into absolutes for many teenagers by the time they finish high school. From there, we throw them into the deep end — get a job, go to university, start drinking, vote and help decide your country’s fate, have sex as god intended, but don’t do drugs. Each year a new wave of teenagers are tasked with fixing the patriarchy, racism, economic disparity etc. Once upon a time, it was us. All of us raised under clearly defined ideas of masculine and feminine. All of us born to a fucked up version of society full of inequity, bias and hatred. All of us wanting to do our part to fix it. So we call ourselves feminists, buy dolphin-safe tuna and recycle, not realising just how much of the system we unconsciously perpetuate. We tell our children to treat everyone equally, but we set them up in a dichotomy the moment we tell the world what genitalia they were born with before we even utter their name. How do we expect society to dismiss gender as a barrier when everything we teach our children exists around a dichotomy that tells them gender identity is everything. If we don’t want gender to matter in the board room, then gender shouldn’t be an issue from the womb.

Add to this the other labels that often get applied at birth — ethnicity, religion, nationalism, in some cases political (the family that votes together, stays together)—  and you’ve got multiple ways to define people as ‘other’. I implore you to take some time and ponder who those labels serve and why. If those labels (and their inherent narratives grounded in fear) don’t serve us, then why do we still use them? If we are going to live in a global village, it’s time to break the label maker.

I say all of this with the gift of hindsight. My children were labelled by their gender when they were born, one with a semi-gender neutral name, the other gender-specific, both names reflect their grandfather’s heritage, they have their father’s surname even though they were born before we were married, they were christened in their father’s religion in spite of my own reluctance to christen them at all, the list goes on. Now they are young adults learning the hard way how it all works. I try to lead by example whenever I can and that means I spend a lot of time catching myself in all the little things I do and say that reinforce the gender binary. I encourage them to be smarter than me, to fight the good fight of equality with compassion, and to pay close attention for it’s the little things that keep us blind to the big picture.

Disclaimer: I am a Humanist. I do not refer to myself as a feminist because I believe that such a term only furthers the gender bias and conforms to the concept of a binary gender association when it isn’t a true representation of society. I stand for equality and compassion on all fronts. I think the time for grouping people by their differences must end. For kindness to win out, all it takes is a willingness to see ourselves in everyone around us.

I’d like to thank my dear friend and soul-sibling, AJ, for giving me the opportunity to share this.

*The use of the term here is to illustrate those that speak up for men’s rights.

*** If you or anyone you know needs support, reach out to friends and family, or contact crisis-support organisations in your area. You are not alone. ***  

Art of the beautiful monster

“Good and evil and beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective…” ~ HP Lovecraft

The above quote resonates with me on a number of levels. As a horror writer, I often encounter attitudes of incredulity and confusion when it comes to my choice of genre. Why would I want to write horror when there are “nicer” things to write about? It’s all about perspective. To me, there’s an authenticity to horror I find beautiful. When we’re at our most vulnerable, fighting to survive, to make it to the next moment then the next – it’s gut-wrenchingly honest. How is that not beautiful?

Like I said, it’s all about perspective. What I find intriguing, beautiful and resonant, others may find ugly, disturbing and frightening.  Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. And art is the epitome of perspective, of subjectivity.

As I’ve said in a previous post, I don’t actively seek out art, it tends to find me, and this time it was via my Facebook newsfeed. It’s where I came across the artwork of Damon Hellandbrand. He’d re-envisioned the twelve Zodiac signs – all with a monster spin. They were gorgeous, and after wallowing in the artistry of each, I knew I had to at least inquire as to whether I could own some.

Pisces
Pisces

You know that awful moment when you fall in love with a piece of art and you pray to whatever deities will listen that you can afford it? Yeah. That. So I searched and found contact details (it wasn’t stalking, I swear), and sent a rather awkward-sounding email to Damon. With him being in the States and me in Australia, there’s that crappy time-difference thing that meant he was asleep while I was awake and vice versa – it makes all emailing a waiting game.

Damon, of course, was lovely and totally ignored the artlessness of my email (see what I did there?). Not only was his work beautiful, it – if I can say this – is under-priced considering the man’s talent. I promptly bought three pieces: my star sign, and those of my daughter and son (there’s a whole ‘fat octopus’ joke in our home re my husband’s sign).

Scorpio
Scorpio

More art. That’s right. More art, and something that resonates with me and fits perfectly into the pieces that adorn our walls – a little different to most, but art that evokes thought and contemplation. It stirs the imagination, and as a writer, that’s what I want surrounding me.

There was much excitement when the art arrived, and Damon, gracious and generous, had included some postcard-sized prints as well. It was like Christmas, only better…’cause, you know, it wasn’t Christmas… and art.

I’d never heard of Damon before his art hit my newsfeed, but that’s something I hope I can change with this post. His work should be sitting on the walls of more than just my home. Go take a look at his work. Go on. I do know he’s working on another series that’s currently under embargo, and if his Zodiac set is anything to by, I know it’s going to be kick-arse work.

What are you still doing here? Go. Click that link. Dare ya.

 Capricorn

Capricorn