It's All About The Journey - Isn't It?

Call me ambitious, but ever since I embarked on this writing lark I've aimed to earn a living from it. In my own mind I wouldn't have succeeded as a writer if I wasn't a) published, and b) making a career out of it.

Which was pretty stupid, really. I mean, hello. How many writers can say those two things? Even published authors (go you good things!) can't often say they're able to live on their earnings from writing.

So I guess it's just as well I get a kick out of writing, otherwise I'd be spending a fortune in counselling by now.

Anyway, a few of us writer-ly types got together for a chat and slating - I mean, critique - session, and we were discussing what it means to be "successful" as a writer. Or an artist. Or dancer or musician or otherwise creative being, because writers aren't the only ones who devote thousands of hours to something that may earn them next to nothing.

And the more we talked about it, the more we realised you could apply the argument to any human endeavour. Before we knew it our chat had become a philosophical discussion. ie - working towards a goal is actually what life is about. It's about trying, and trying some more, and failing and getting up and trying again. It's about our journey into ourselves.

The end goal is actually fairly incidental in the process.

Take the guy who enjoys a game of golf. He plays every weekend, and gradually brings his handicap down. But he doesn't turn into Tiger Woods. He doesn't even get down to single figures. Yet still he keeps chasing that silly little ball down the fairways. Why? All he'll get out of his golf is the satisfaction of having done his best (and maybe winning a couple of meat raffles back at the clubrooms).

It's all about the journey.

So next time I'm whinging about my lack of success as a writer - slap me. Remind me to enjoy the journey, because the destination may be a whole different place from what I expected.

What about you? Tell me, what's your journey? What made you choose that train? And are you remembering to enjoy it?

Want To Know Why I Haven't Posted Anything Recently?

You’d think God would be kinder to me. I mean, s/he’s thrown half a dozen significant earthquakes at me in the past nine months (hell, by comparison even pregnancy’s fun), and we’re being put through thousands of aftershocks, not to mention the loss of job security. Our city’s broken. Isn’t that enough?

I took on a part-time job. Just a little one. Hell, it barely even counts as a job! But it’s enough to let us have takeaways on a Friday night without a dose of the guilts – and that, folks, is a Big Deal for us just now.

A real job! Excellent idea, I thought. Beloved agreed. The cosmos, apparently, did not.

Within days (it felt like hours), our home turned into a House Of Ill. Drop the ‘Repute’ bit at the end – we’ve been so ill we haven’t had the energy for anything that exciting!

Little Miss Two – croup. Deduct one week.

Little Miss Two – gastro virus. Deduct two days.

Little Miss Two – croup (again). Deduct one week.

Master Seven – croup. Deduct four days.

Me – gastro virus. Deduct two days.

Little Miss Two – bronchio-freakin’-litis, for crying out loud! Deduct one looooong week.

Beloved – sprained ankle. Deduct zero days. No time for sympathy pampering, because…

Master Seven – serious infection. Hospitalisation. Deduct one night’s sleep.

Master Seven – severe nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea brought on by vicious, kill-the-bug-and-you-with-it antibiotics. Deduct five days.

And somewhere in the middle of all that I have to meet a major deadline in my new job and find time to write.

Guess what fell off the list? (Sigh.)

Post-script. Oh. My. God. Little Miss Two has come down with another cold. If it turns into croup, so help me, I’ll turn to drugs. For me, not her.

Am I the only one this kind of stuff happens to? Please, if life does this to you too - share it with me! Let me know I'm not the only one the cosmos is punishing. Give me permission to overdose on chocolate - or suggest an even better way of drowning my sorrows. :)

Maggie's Attempt At The Good Life

We leapt at the chance. A week of The Good Life? Perfect! Fresh air, peace and quiet, and a brief escape from the lingering stresses of QuakeZone. Exactly what we needed.

Bursting with anticipation, we shoved a few clothes in a bag, grabbed the portacot, strapped in the kids, and headed for the wop-wops.

Our destination: Motukarara. (Try saying that after a couple of wines.) Far enough from town that we wouldn't hear the constant thrum of traffic, streetlights wouldn't mar our view of the Milky Way each night, and we'd feel the tranquillity seeping into our bones.

The daily trips into town were a drag - school runs twice a day (not to mention swimming lessons, soccer practice, and weekend soccer game), a couple of pre-school sessions, Beloved had to work in town, and I had several appointments that couldn't be missed. Aside from that, though, we had a fair taste of The Good Life. Here's how it panned out:

Day 0 - turn off TV, can't get it working again. Not a biggie for me - but major for the kids.
Day 1 - pre-dawn wake-up by three cats scratching furniture and demanding food. Hens produce very first egg, just in time for Master Seven to discover. This is indeed The Good Life. :)
Day 2 - Magnitude 5.3 earthquake at 3am. Kids upset. Rest of night a write-off.
Day 3 - OMG one dog looks dead! (False alarm. Whew.) Miss Nearly-Two locks herself in bathroom. (Not a false alarm.) Shrieking gale-force winds all night. Sleep impossible. Convinced roof will fly off. (It doesn't.)
Day 4 - Hint of cat pee in living room. Magpies attack one of their own in field. Shrieking gale-force winds all night again. Sleep deprivation takes its toll.
Day 5 - Tyre blowout. No cellphone reception. Master Seven waiting at school... and waiting... Screaming kid in back of car. The Good Life sucks.
Day 6 - No internet access. Feel like I've lost limb. Miss Nearly-Two poos on kitchen freaking floor.
Day 7 - Fantail flies into house (death omen according to Maori superstition). Fan-freaking-tastic. Chirps merrily, has to be shooed out. Miss Nearly-Two enchanted. I'm filled with dread. Fine. Take my damn internet access. Just keep my loved ones safe.

Conclusion: The Good Life is over-rated. Or maybe bad things just happen to me more than anyone else. What's your take on it?

A Life Less Duckey?

Okay, I admit it. I'm useless. I haven't posted here for ages. The shame is killing me. No, really, it is. I know some of you need a dose of GirlTalk every now and then, if for no other reason than to remind you that your life is so much more sane than it could be. Because, let's face it, my life is worse. It's full of cringe-factor moments, weirder-than-fiction moments, so-stupid-she-doesn't-deserve-to-live moments. I don't know how, I don't know why - it just is.

Which makes me wonder - is this my lot in life? Am I really going to go through life making blooper after laughable blooper, year in year out, until I drop dead with the exhaustion (or embarrassment) of it all?

When I was a kid I had this image of a grown-up me, poised and elegant and sophisticated, able to handle every type of situation with ease. All I had to do was get through my ugly-duckling teens and I'd metamorphose into this magnificent swan-like creature.

I'm still waiting.

I still have a startling ability to embarrass myself in public. I still feel awkward and clumsy in people-heavy situations. Bizarre things, I'm-sure-I'll-laugh-about-this-one-day things, still happen to me.

I keep reminding myself that ducklings get a bad rap. They're not really ugly - forget the swan comparison and all you see is cute fluff. Besides, ducks have plenty going for them. Like... um... well, they don't need fertility drugs to produce a whole family in one hit. And... (gosh, this is hard)... they're not too proud to quack for their food... Um... Their feathers are a versatile shade of brown that can be dressed up or down for any occasion? (Is it just me or am I going quackers?)... Ooh! Donald! He's a great duck! And Uncle Scrooge - now, there's a duck who can survive a recession. Ducks... what's good about them... um... paté?

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Deep down inside, I'm still longing to be the swan I always imagined. But, you know what, duck or swan, it's kind-of irrelevant. We both swim in the same pond, see the same view, get our feet chomped by the same eel, and do the same feather-cleaning routine. It's how well we share the pond that's important. (Now I've just got to remind myself of that every time I look in the mirror, go to a party, take a customer complaint, reverse into a tree...)

Heroine Envy

I love movies. They're all about escapism and, let's face it, we all want to escape every now and then. (If you don't want to escape - ie you love everything about your sweet little life just the way it is - then you're an anomaly. You shouldn't be reading this. And BTW, don't even THINK about e-mailing me how sweet your life is, because I might be tempted to send hate mail.)

The best thing about seeing a movie is that I get to escape "me" for a while. No kids, no mortgage, no messy chaotic frenetic life, no panda eyes because I fell into bed without removing my mascara, no clothes that are four seasons out of date… When I immerse myself in a movie I'm able to be, for a fleeting couple of hours, a hot sexy mama with street savvy and an interesting life.

Oh, come on. You know it's true. Every movie you've loved featured a heroine who was young and slim and cool and had a don't-mess-with-me attitude (or grew one), right? And even if they were made-up to look ugly or fat or frumpy or old or whatever, they weren't even close to any of those things because Hollywood doesn't really do ugly/fat/frumpy/old. It wouldn't sell. It's not our dream.

And the heroes? (Speaking of dreams...) Mmm…

Where was I? Oh. Right. Bottom line: Hollywood produces what we (I use "we" in a broad sense) want to see. And we want to see hot-sexy-mama heroines with kick-arse attitude, not grumpy-frumpy-ugly old tarts with lemon-sucking skills. We want to see heart-stoppingly gorgeous men with you'll-only-cross-me-once determination, not wimpy weedy guys with inferiority complexes. Movies = escapism, remember?

Movie heroines always get their guy, and he's always hot. Movie heroines always save the day, or at least help save the day, and they don't get blown up in the attempt. They always have great shoes and even better one-liners. And they always end the movie looking like… well, heroines.

But movies aren't real. Sometimes it's easy to forget that and get caught up in the why-can't-I-be-more-like-her sulks - when what we should really be doing is celebrating. Because we're the real heroines and heroes. We're living it, doing it, solving it, feeling it. Every day. Bad hair, cranky mood, mismatched socks and all.

So if your made-for-the-big-screen life is looking a little less than perfect today - don't worry. You're in good company. And we my not be on a Jolie-type wage, but we're all doing star performances. (Pass the popcorn, someone!)

Presidents And Assholes!

We had some friends around for a friendly (read "hellish competitive") game of cards in the weekend, and I learned how to play Presidents and Assholes. (I have no idea how I missed learning it until now. I must have been very, very busy… writing, of course… )

Now, as soon as you hear the name you know it's gonna be a goodie. And boy, is it a goodie! (Mostly because I became the President in the very first round! And managed to retain that lofty position for so many rounds the rest of the table started muttering about beginner's luck gone mad.)

The gist of the game is that you're trying to get rid of your cards before everyone else. The complicating factor is that if you're the President (ie you won the last round) you get to offload your two worst cards to the Asshole at the start of the round, and the Asshole (who lost the last round) has to give you their two best cards. (Want more details? Google it and you'll find the full set of rules.)

Why do I mention all this? Well, Presidents and Assholes teaches several important life lessons which it never hurts to be reminded of:
1  It's handy to have an asshole in your life.
2  Once you're the President, life gets a lot easier - and if you get ousted it's usually through your own stupidity.
3  Never trust your right-hand man.
4  Never think of the game as a game - it's cut-throat, it's dog-eat-dog, and every player is in it to win.
5  So much in life is luck - but you can still completely screw things up even when you've got it good.

And to my card-shark buddies: when's the next challenge? Bring it on!

Think You're In Control?

Think again. We all have days that remind us we're not Queen of the chessboard. Days when we feel like we've been backed into a corner, we're about to be taken off the board, and we don't know quite how it happened.

Take Wednesday, for example. My "post-the-Clendon-entry" day. I'm not likely to forget it any time soon. Here's how it went:
* 1.30am (Tuesday night) - got to bed after finishing the novel.
* 3.00am - woken by baby for a feed.
* 6.30am - woken by baby again. Gave up, got up. Sleep is optional, right?
* 8.30am - did the school run. No parking space. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Still no parking space. Evicted tearful first-born from car to make own way into school. Guilty Mother syndrome.
* 9.30am - began formatting manuscript. Discovered weird paragraph spacing issue. Attempted to solve. Failed. E-mailed Clendon coordinator. Decided weird PS cute. Finished formatting.
* 11.00am - received e-mail from Clendon coordinator. Stop, she said. Go back to the start, she said. It must have this first little step, she said. Gnashed teeth, grew horns.
* 11.30am - reformatted entire manuscript. Baby in search-and-destroy mode.
* 12.30pm - began printing manuscript. Got to page eight (of 318). Out of toner. OUT OF FREAKING TONER????? Are you KIDDING me??????? Shook toner. Vigorously. Ditto printer. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Still no toner. Braved midday heat and bought more blasted toner.
* 1.30pm - completed printing.
* 2.00pm - braved heatwave once more to buy packaging for manuscript.
* 2.45pm -collected first-born from school. Grumpy kids. Grumpy mother.
* 5.00pm - partner home. Hooray! Shot out in peak-hour traffic to courier. Lost mailing address. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Miracle: found mailing address. Addressed package, sealed package. Discovered entry form OUTSIDE package. Decided I was OVER today. Gnashed teeth, grew horns, became screaming, wailing, hissy-fit monster. Beautiful, young, unruffled, disbelieving rep blinked at me, slapped packing slip on package, stuffed entry form inside. Oh. Right. Silly me.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to have days like this!