“Most writers write because they have to; the need to write is a driving force difficult to ignore or put aside for long.”
This was a quote from the article, ‘Get Down to Business’ by Adrian Magson, in the June edition of Writing Magazine (an English publication). I find that the quote rings true for most of the writers I know.
After reading Adrian’s article, I went on to read the magazine’s monthly section featuring a story of one reader’s journey to publication. Most of the writers say they knew from a very young age that they wanted to be an author, and their vocation-like calling was the first step on their road to publishing. I find those types of comments difficult to relate to, because I have never thought of myself as someone who has always known they would be a writer.
While clea ning out one of the cupboards I found a time-yellowed A4 exercise book containing my poems, pieces of prose and a few paintings from my teenage years, twenties, and thirties. There is a fairy tale printed on thermal paper, which has faded so much it’s like reading shadows.
This was a quote from the article, ‘Get Down to Business’ by Adrian Magson, in the June edition of Writing Magazine (an English publication). I find that the quote rings true for most of the writers I know.
After reading Adrian’s article, I went on to read the magazine’s monthly section featuring a story of one reader’s journey to publication. Most of the writers say they knew from a very young age that they wanted to be an author, and their vocation-like calling was the first step on their road to publishing. I find those types of comments difficult to relate to, because I have never thought of myself as someone who has always known they would be a writer.
While clea ning out one of the cupboards I found a time-yellowed A4 exercise book containing my poems, pieces of prose and a few paintings from my teenage years, twenties, and thirties. There is a fairy tale printed on thermal paper, which has faded so much it’s like reading shadows.
In my teens, I wrote poems about problems I was having – usually with friends or boys. The content and tone of my poetry changed when I left my close knit family and friends to go to university at the Australian Defence Force Academy.
Writing became my way of navigating the foreign and sometimes hostile environment at ADFA. Writing also helped me find likeminded people. The English Department’s poetry group for students and academic staff was run by one of my favourite lectures. The group met every week and discussed the pieces we had written based on a subject we’d been given at the end of the last meeting. This is my favourite piece of writing from that group:
Writing became my way of navigating the foreign and sometimes hostile environment at ADFA. Writing also helped me find likeminded people. The English Department’s poetry group for students and academic staff was run by one of my favourite lectures. The group met every week and discussed the pieces we had written based on a subject we’d been given at the end of the last meeting. This is my favourite piece of writing from that group:
Mushrooms are the fungi which grow out of the rotting faeces of cows. They are annoying things. In colour, they are ugly and in shape they are dopey.
I turn them upside down and almost vomit to see the fine things under the dome shaped lid. They remind me of old, mouldy, infected frills of sewerage drains, which keep everyone away because they could never imagine what horrors or illnesses lurk in all that fester gunk.
To watch people enjoy eating these unknown quantities of rotting, infectious cases makes me ill. Who knows what the cows ate to create such little beasties.
As soup they try to camouflage themselves, but that grey liquid does not fool me. It too, is like a sewerage liquid that will seep into your mouth and poison your taste buds forever – you will never be the same. Mushroom soup stays in the corners of your body and slowly builds up, consuming you, until your brain too, will become a festering little boogie. (1992)
I turn them upside down and almost vomit to see the fine things under the dome shaped lid. They remind me of old, mouldy, infected frills of sewerage drains, which keep everyone away because they could never imagine what horrors or illnesses lurk in all that fester gunk.
To watch people enjoy eating these unknown quantities of rotting, infectious cases makes me ill. Who knows what the cows ate to create such little beasties.
As soup they try to camouflage themselves, but that grey liquid does not fool me. It too, is like a sewerage liquid that will seep into your mouth and poison your taste buds forever – you will never be the same. Mushroom soup stays in the corners of your body and slowly builds up, consuming you, until your brain too, will become a festering little boogie. (1992)
Those that know me well will have a good chuckle at this. For people who force their children eat something they really don’t like – this is proof you will scar your child for LIFE!
When I read this I was taken back in time to Canberra in winter. It was dark and the wind blew off the snow capped mountains. Lights from the academic departments glowed and lit up the grassed parade ground. I marched across the paved concourse, holding my notebook by my left side; my right hand could not carry anything in case I had to throw a salute. I couldn’t run to the English Department because I wasn’t in my Academy tracksuit. The sound of my footsteps bounced back to me, off the square cement buildings. The group met at 6pm for an hour. The Mess closed at 7pm. I was always hungry on poetry night.
Each piece of writing unlocks different parts of my memory. I am finding it a very emotional, and at times, unsettling experience.
Prior to finding my old exercise book, I would have said I didn’t write very much after I left university. But the yellowed note book tells a different story. There are many poems and short pieces of prose on loose pieces of paper throughout that book. They are written on the back of algebraic equations, official minute paper, and Air Force notepads.
When I read this I was taken back in time to Canberra in winter. It was dark and the wind blew off the snow capped mountains. Lights from the academic departments glowed and lit up the grassed parade ground. I marched across the paved concourse, holding my notebook by my left side; my right hand could not carry anything in case I had to throw a salute. I couldn’t run to the English Department because I wasn’t in my Academy tracksuit. The sound of my footsteps bounced back to me, off the square cement buildings. The group met at 6pm for an hour. The Mess closed at 7pm. I was always hungry on poetry night.
Each piece of writing unlocks different parts of my memory. I am finding it a very emotional, and at times, unsettling experience.
Prior to finding my old exercise book, I would have said I didn’t write very much after I left university. But the yellowed note book tells a different story. There are many poems and short pieces of prose on loose pieces of paper throughout that book. They are written on the back of algebraic equations, official minute paper, and Air Force notepads.
There are lines between shadow and light,
But I can not read them. (1997)
I always wrote the dates in the corner of my work, so this notebook is my version of a diary. Not many of the gems in my exercise book are quality pieces, but it doesn’t matter. They are my memories, and they document my journey.
I am not sure what to do with such a body of work. I was writing for myself and not to be published. Editing them would be like altering a memory. Maybe I’ll select one or two to revise, but most will probably stay in their original state.
In the stillness of a memory
I wait for you to remember.
And when you shut your eyes
Your vision will be crystal.
The light in its colours
Will show me standing there.
In the loneliness of a heartbeat
I wait for you to hear.
At night when you lay still
You will feel the pounding,
A sound with resonant echo.
I want to be let out.
Sep 93
But I can not read them. (1997)
I always wrote the dates in the corner of my work, so this notebook is my version of a diary. Not many of the gems in my exercise book are quality pieces, but it doesn’t matter. They are my memories, and they document my journey.
I am not sure what to do with such a body of work. I was writing for myself and not to be published. Editing them would be like altering a memory. Maybe I’ll select one or two to revise, but most will probably stay in their original state.
In the stillness of a memory
I wait for you to remember.
And when you shut your eyes
Your vision will be crystal.
The light in its colours
Will show me standing there.
In the loneliness of a heartbeat
I wait for you to hear.
At night when you lay still
You will feel the pounding,
A sound with resonant echo.
I want to be let out.
Sep 93
While I can’t say I knew I wanted to be a writer from a young age, the discovery of a life time of poetry and prose prove, I have always been a writer because I have always needed to write.
Future
They whispered as I slept.
This was not my time,
I had to be patient.
“All that you have waited for will be revealed.”
I asked them, in my dreams,
“Will I receive all the things I have asked for?
If so, then I will have nothing to look forward to,
And my sleep will be empty.”
They looked at me with thoughtful faces.
They spoke once more and faded,
“The gifts we grant will give you all that you desire and more.
They will give birth to new hopes, new problems and new aspects.
It is your choice, carry on as you are, or learn from what you are given.”
16 January 1995
Future
They whispered as I slept.
This was not my time,
I had to be patient.
“All that you have waited for will be revealed.”
I asked them, in my dreams,
“Will I receive all the things I have asked for?
If so, then I will have nothing to look forward to,
And my sleep will be empty.”
They looked at me with thoughtful faces.
They spoke once more and faded,
“The gifts we grant will give you all that you desire and more.
They will give birth to new hopes, new problems and new aspects.
It is your choice, carry on as you are, or learn from what you are given.”
16 January 1995