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.
Monday 7 September 2015
Wednesday 2 September 2015
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.
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.
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