A Writer’s Life

Being born is hard work.

You arrive angry at the imposition or entirely worn out and wanting a good sleep. There is also this little thing called ‘hunger’ that is making itself known for the very first time. It is all a big ask.

The Melbourne’s Writer’s Festival offered me an unexpected epiphany—if epiphanies are something that can be expected. I certainly wasn’t looking for one as we boarded the train and headed into Town.

Entering the auditorium, I felt myself exhale. That is what happens when you are amongst your tribe. And like any tribe, there are those who are pushing their power ahead of them, those whose ownership is such that they cannot be disagreed with, and the rest of us, hoping for a little peace and maybe some encouragement.

Telling stories is hard work.

During the session, I took copious notes. Ali Cobby Eckerman said ‘there are tears, this must be a place of healing’ and I wished, once again, that crying came naturally to me. She had wept while sharing her heart with us and I wanted to weep, too. Those things shouldn’t have happened to her, shouldn’t still be happening, and yet they are.

At the end of the session was a question about Elders. Ali was confused. She explained that you know an Elder when you see one, that sometimes there are old souls in new bodies. Daughter was born like that. The nurse said ‘this one has been here before’ and she was right. Even now, as a young adult, Daughter leans forward with the shoulder of an elder. I use small ‘e’ here for we are not Indigenous and it isn’t our place to assume the title of Indigenous Elder. She is, however, an old soul. Thankfully, she is young and not yet called to focus on her old bones.

As I walked out of the session, I thought, ‘that is me, I am an elder’ in the sense of an older, wise woman. There is a life I have lived, and continue to live, that has taught me much, and continues to teach me. It is time for me to take my place.

This, of course, is all happening in my head but this is as important as if there were a ceremony and announcement—The Making of an Older Woman. I don’t presume to know everything. Goodness, how boring to think that there is nothing left to learn! I am quiet around people like that. No, there is plenty left to learn. It is simply time to embrace the role of an older woman.

As we walked down the street, Hubby turned to me and said ‘I don’t want you to feel that I am giving you permission to be something, that isn’t my role, but I have something to say’. In the midst of my eldership musings, this serious moment took me by surprise. What could Hubby have to say that required such a lead-in?

‘These writers are your people. This is who you are. You need to embrace it. Go to these events. Be part of this world. Not that you need my permission.’ People flowed around us, as they do on city streets, and I tried to take in the enormity of the moment.

He’s right. I don’t need his permission but I do like to have his support. Since finishing my PhD, I have tried to give him back all of the time that I took. He loves time together. It fills him up. I knew, even as I studied, that he was making sacrifices for me.

This is the first time Hubby has seen me in my writing context. He was not there when I met with uni mates, or when I went to the HDR Summer School. He doesn’t see me in these contexts, only later, as I cheerfully chat about them.

This time he had seen it.

‘I want you to put your writing first’ was his response.

We talked about the sacrifices that might entail and the way we might be viewed or gossiped about. Hubby was dismissive. And, as we had just both read The Courage to be Disliked, we laughingly agreed that we were willing to find that courage.

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Today, this romantic life as a writer began.

I prepared a pot of tea but not in my pretty things. Just a practical pot with a tea cosy and the milk in a bottle. I loaded them into my wooden basket, with a few pens and my phone, and with the other hand, picked up the iPad, notebook, and a cup.

Shuffling down the hallway, I felt the real work of writing about to begin.

I made it down the stairs without spilling a drop and even opened the back door. At that moment, as I slipped on my shoes, I tilted forward. Boiling black tea poured from the spout, through the wooden basket, and onto my foot. The thick socks took the brunt of the attack while the crocks stopped the pool of tea from spreading any further.

‘My phone!’

I tried to correct my stance only to repeat the performance. Sure that I had doused my phone in tea, killing it as a result, I managed to put things down without further incident and check.

The phone escaped tea-aggedon but my white socks and foot did not.

This is the writer’s reality. The writer’s life

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I made it to the hothouse and sit watching the rain wash errant leaves from the roof. There is a writer’s life to plan, and seedlings to pot up.

Better pour what’s left of the tea and begin this life.