No. I am Not your destiny.

That song, you know the one, Shut Up and Dance, it really irritates me. And the line that irks me the most is "this woman is my destiny". That is not you call man. And it is deeply disturbing in how little heed is paid to her feelings or desires in the situation. It smacks of rape culture and patriarchy.

The really horrid part is I have had that line pushed on to me more than once. When I was young and silly I found it disturbing but flattering. To be wanted was nice. Now I have no tolerance for that rubbish and call it for what it is- obligation making.

I had a frank discussion with a friend of mine a few moths ago. I told them that I fancied them as more than a friend. I told them I liked their values. I told them I enjoyed spending time with them. I loved that our kids got along. I liked that my mother like them. I liked that we had a solid 12 years of friendship as a basis for a relationship. I poured my heart out. They, very kindly and gently, told me that they just didn't see me that way and they wanted to stay just friends. I accepted this like a trouper! I copped it on the chin and a week or so later we met up for one of our semi-regular catch up sessions. And it was fine. I was not embarrassed; it was not awkward.

That's how grown-ups do it.  Had I declared my undying love and that this person was my "destiny" I don't think I could ever have spoken to them again. But maybe if I'd gone all out, I could have made them feel obliged to say yes. That is not how it works. It is not okay. But it is all too common in how men speak to women. I watched "friends with benefits" the movie with in the movie has the man say to his beloved "I know you better than you know yourself". That's the high point. That's how he wins her. I would have slapped him. No one will ever know another person better than they know themselves and to presume you do is idiotic and says to your love interest that you do not think they have autonomy.

It didn't work for me; I took a shot and it failed. That's okay. I was honest about my feelings and beliefs. I did not assume the other persons feeling or beliefs. And I certainly did not claim that because I fancied them they had been especially created just for my pleasure and to fulfil my desires.

The sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me is "You're really smart." One of the reasons I liked that so much is that it was said with no agenda. It was not a way to get into my pants. It was not a hollow remark. It was an observation made by someone who's opinion I trust. If they had said I was their destiny, I would have walked away. Instead we are good friends. And that is a great thing.

Update in Failing

I was driving myself insane editing my book. Several people encouraged me to just send it off already. So I did. And a little over six weeks later; I received a very nice rejection letter. I say a nice rejection letter because I have been privileges to see many other rejection letters (not my own) and some of them were truly heart breaking.

My rejection letter came from a very well known publishing house. It opened with "this book has great potential". It then listed about three things the publisher thought I could do to improve it, including starting about half a chapter in and taking that first bit and tucking it into the middle of the book.

The letter concluded by wishing me luck but stating that I was not a good fit for their imprint. This is about as good as rejection letters get. And I know that. But I still wanted (briefly) to throw the manuscript under a bus and never write again. That lasted a day. I can't help it. I write.

So I've started implementing the recommended changes. And I know this is a slippery slope into madness because every publisher will have something they want to change. But the suggestions were all the ones I knew I needed to deal with but couldn't actually see because I was too close to it.

So this is a failure and also not a failure. It is a failure on the road to success. Maybe my ambition for a launch date next year was a tad premature? Okay so the time line was wrong. I've still got a book and it and I have great potential.

A dog called Jesus

My children attend a Catholic school. I'm not religious but it is fine with me. The school is little and friendly and does a good job. But my children have started saying "Jesus" a lot.

Jesus, why didn't you say we were having ice-cream?
Oh! Bloody Jesus! My shoes are outside in the rain.
And just random exclamations of Jesus to annoy me.

So today on the way to school they were lamenting the Patriarchy and the fact a woman can not be Pope. They both argued that Mary was the intrinsically more awesome family member and that Jesus having a penis was really why it is all about him. Cute little feminist.

That, strangely, lead into a conversation about having a dog called Jesus so you could call the following into the nigh:

Jesus? Jesus? Where are you?
Come here Jesus, what a good boy.
Jesus, do not pee on that shoe.
Jesus. Sit. Roll over. Good dog.
Jesus, do not try to walk on water.
Jesus, dinner time.

And this is a very small extract from the book "Why My Children Are The Best And I Will Love Them And Smoosh Them Forever"

Drive to the edge: day 1

Last week I had the great good fortune to stay at my friend's farm in rural Queensland. She and her family live near a town called Murgon about three and a half hours from Brisbane. I packed up my kids and got on a plane. It was only after I had collected the hire car that I began to freak out. The last time I was in Queensland I was about fourteen and it was a school trip.

But ever the showman I was a picture of composed self confidence. We admired the impaled yellow people lining the freeway. Was it art or just a Queensland thing we didn't understand? The radio was abuzz with congratulations because some football team (?) had won the grand final and it was two Queensland teams so obviously this proved that Queensland was the best place on earth etc.

The kids drifted off to sleep and I was left with static as I drove away from civilisation. The tiny hire car was very zippy and comfortable. I soon found myself looking at the greenness around me. Coming from South Australia I can admire Queensland even after the dry season and in drought for being green and wet looking.

Hours later I arrived in Murgon and could not find my friend's shop on the main street. It turns out I was on the wrong side of the road and not seeing clearly because of all the driving. She laughed at me and showed us around. We were given the "snake lecture" and the "drunken yob" lecture and then followed her back to her farm several kilometres out of town.

Pulling up to her front gate was a sort of homecoming for me.  She had described it to me with such love and colour that seeing it in the flesh was just being placed in my memory.

My kids met her kids and immediately became friends for life. Her soft spoken husband welcomed me and then shoved us out onto the twilight so we could talk. He made dinner and wrangled kids, giving us much needed catch up time.

We sat on the dirt road that runs next to her house. The sky was purple and orange and green and perfect. When the stars came out they blazed in the sky in a way they can only in places with out street lights. A warm breeze ruffled our hair as we caught up on life and remembered dear friends now departed.

That night I dropped into bed exhausted and happy. I fell asleep to the sound of my children breathing and the silence of the outback.

Celebrating Failure

This last week I found out I was not shortlisted for a prize. Looking at who the competition were I can see why I was passed over, not because I was less worthy, just because I don't look as good on paper. There were almost a thousand entries. I know no one read my manuscript. It wasn't the book they rejected it was me. And that was because I was not yet a safe bet. I'm okay with that.

I have come to embrace failure as an integral part of this process. As I told my writing students when I taught, "let them reject you. Don't do it for them." And I have no intention of letting anyone off. If you don't want me fine but I will put my hand up.

I think maybe this "can do" or really "don't care, just having a go" attitude was instilled in me as a child. My parents had enjoyed a very bright child before me, my sister Kate. She was reading at age 4 and was , by all accounts, a delight. I on the other hand would get frustrated and cry easily. At seven I still could not read.

My parents took me to be tested. Not dyslexia. Not ADD. Not anything with a name. But yes, something was wrong. and it was very wrong. My parents ignored all the evidence and told me that one day I would read and write as well as my sister. I had no evidence and so I believed them.

By age ten I could read a little. But my report cards were still blank for literacy. I was too bad to be graded. I was below a fail.

In the second term of year five, at eleven years old, I came home with a report card. my parents burst into tears of joy when they read it. I had gained a D- for English. I had officially failed. They were so thrilled that they called my Aunt and Uncle and both sets of Grandparents and we all went out to dinner to celebrate my wonderful fail.

Year later, in the same restaurant we were celebrating a 2A (83%) for my Honours. When I commented that I felt my parents were less impressed with this than my D- they laughed and agreed. Nothing I do will ever be as impressive to them as that fail. It was the start of my writing journey. It was the start of me finding my voice and my purpose. And I will always be grateful to them for showing me that the result doesn't matter anywhere near as much as the journey. It is really the showing up that counts.

The smell of love

I was prompted today to think about scent. The women of my life have all been glamorous, beautiful and intelligent. With the exception of my Mother they have also all had a signature scent.

I don't know what my Dad's Mum wore, although knowing her I would bet on Chanel No5. I do remember the smell of her shampoo. She had a shoulder length bob of dark grey hair. I was lucky enough to be indulged by her as she sat still and I endlessly teased, crimped and sprayed her hair. (It was the '80's) Her hair smelled of apricots and honey. And I loved the silky sheen of it in my hands.

My Great Grandmother and Grandmother (on my Mum's side) both wore a Dior scent that came in a cream and was kept in a cameo brooch in the jewellery box. My Great Grandmother would play singing games with me as a baby and I can still see her blue rinse and wrinkle lined face as she twinkled her hands at me, showing me the stars.

As for my Grandmother I remember her sitting in the front of my car as I drove her and some of my friends to a movie. I remember that perfume filling the space as she joked about Marijuana as my straight edge friends' mouths fell open in horror.

My Mother is a Doctor and chooses not to wear perfume to avoid allergies in her patients. I think the scent I most associate with her is the slightly burnt, slightly sweet smell of "Charcoal Cake" a dried apricot and bran loaf that used to get burnt in our old oven, hence "charcoal".

For me each scent is a memory and a journey through who I have been and who I am becoming. But each scent is also an emotion. With each sniff I can feel the love.

Spectacular Failure: On Plan B

It has long been the common wisdom that before you embark on any "risky" venture, you should set up a plan B. This includes becoming an actor, musician or writer. In one case it was even true for a  medical student I know; who's mother insisted he become a concert pianist "just in case" medicine didn't work out.

On a side note, it is seen as poor form to have a plan B for your relationships. This seems counter intuitive to me. One of the biggest risks you can take is getting married. Your finances, social life, children's welfare are all tied to one person. The divorce rate is 50%. Going in you know you have a 1 in 2 chance that it will fail spectacularly. This seems a good time for a plan B. A prenup perhaps? Or a separate bank account to serve as a get-out-fast fund if needed. But this is the one emotionally driven decision where people can see that having a plan B is actually having one foot out the door.

A plan B is always the equivalent of not fully committing. My sister is a singer/ song writer. She didn't finish year 12, instead doing a diploma of music and getting on with her career. I still hear people ask about her plan B. But she doesn't have one. For a while she taught singing lessons. I'm sure she was a great teacher. But soon she realised that the money was nice. She liked being able to afford the odd luxury. And all too soon, her writing time was teaching time. She quit being a singing teacher because as a plan B it was taking over from her plan A.

As a fellow creative I also get the "but what do you really do?" questions. I have tried so many times to find a plan B. Could I be a paralegal? Yes probably but I don't want to. What about a hairdresser? Again yes but I doubt it would be a good fit. There are any number of things I could do instead of being a writer. None of them would make my heart sing. All of them would be a waste of the talent and time I have invested in this path.

I have applied for and been rejected for two PhD's. This is it's own form of spectacular failure. But I'm grateful to the academics who think I am unworthy. They have prevented me from escaping down my own plan B. I like to know I have back up. I like to know I'm on the right track. I have a (sometimes) crippling  lack of self belief. A PhD would have allowed me to hide for 3-4 years while I toiled away in private on a baby of my choosing. It would have delayed me having to push forward toward publication and finding out once and for all if I will indeed fail.

As I get older I get less sensible. I take bigger risks. I have discovered that I would rather fall flat on my face than never try to fly. So this coming 12 moths will see me either published by a publisher or go it alone and self-publish. The two are equally valid in my mind. I just like the external belief that a publisher represents.

And if I go it alone and no one buys my book. Well then I am a spectacular failure but I would still rather fail at something I love than succeed at something I hate. After all isn't the attempt worth more than the fall?