what the heart wants, the head fears

This evening, after a flurry of emails throughout the day between the travel agent and myself, and many tweakings and confirmings of dates, I am in possession of a quote for an entire overseas holiday. Flights, accommodation, transfers, and insurance.

And about ten minutes ago I had a moment of sheer, blindness-inducing terror, because I couldn't possibly actually go through with it.

But you know what? It's simply not true. (Dear Brain Chemistry: I'm onto you. Stop it!)

I would have the same jitters no matter where I was planning to visit, no matter how standard the destination, because I have a head that likes to throw all sorts of catastrophes and definitely-going-to-go-wrongs at me regardless of reality or probability.1

And at the end of the day, I don't want to waste what little time off I get on holidays that don't take off the top of my skull and reboot my soul. I want to see geography that makes my heart swell with awe, and to witness cultures and ways of life that break my expectations. I want to see mountains, and steppes, and deserts.

So yes. Tomorrow I'm putting a deposit on my flights, and booking my leave from work.

And I'm going to Mongolia.2

  1. And because I have a physical aversion to spending large amounts of money in one bank-account-emptying swoop, let's not overlook that charming little neurosis. []
  2. Although I can't promise I won't have a few more freakouts between now and actually jumping on the plane. []

For what nation can advance with its tongue torn out?

I am feeling somewhat serious today, and so I point you to Richard Flanagan's closing speech at the recent Sydney Writer's Festival:

At the moment, Australian writers and readers are being asked to take a fall in order that a few rich people get richer.

… This dullest and dreariest of phrases – territorial copyright – is the drab motley thrown over a measure which will do untold damage to Australian culture. I cannot begin to convey to you the destructive stupidity of what is being proposed, nor the intense sadness and great anger that so many Australian writers feel about this proposal.

…Writers and books that matter will become like an endangered species with no habitat left to support them. The fate of most of them in the large chain and discount mega store culture will be that of marsupials in new outer suburbs, dicing with death on freeways, not knowing until that short moment of blinding light dazzle that this is no longer their home.

I highly recommend reading the full text of the speech, but for the edification of those non-Australians who read this blog, there is a proposal afoot to remove Australia's territorial copyright laws, and allow the parallel importation of books. Proponents argue it will result in cheaper books for the public.

Now, I'm all for cheaper books,1 but the arguments for parallel importation are specious, as Richard Flanagan summarises (emphasis mine):

Of course, as the Coalition for Cheaper Books – or, as we might more accurately call it, the Coalition for Bigger Business – would point out, that's not the whole story.

This is.

What is being proposed doesn't exist in Europe or the USA. And even if US and British publishers are allowed to dump books on our market, Australian publishers will not be allowed to do the same in theirs.

In the one country in the world where the change was introduced, New Zealand, publishing has, according to the New Zealand Publishers Association, suffered, and books are now more expensive.

If it were a reciprocal arrangement — if Australian publishers were granted access to the North American buying public at the same time as the North American publishers are granted access to the Australian buying public, for example — then the story might be different. But as it stands, the current proposal isn't "opening the market": it's turning Australia into a giant remainders bin for foreign publishers.

I don't know about you, but I get plenty of foreign culture on my TV and movie screens and book shelves as it is. I don't want those to be my only options.

More detail can be found at the AusBooks site, including a video of Richard Flanagan's speech, for those who don't want to read a slab of text online.

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  1. Let's just say I don't know any published writers who got into this gig for the money :???: []

sometimes alcohol is the best medicine

Right. Back again. I'll spare you all the details, mainly because I don't want to live through them a second time. Suffice to say things looked bleak for a while there. Not everything has fallen back into place just yet, but I don't think the light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train any more, so that's positive.

My writing time vanished out the window in all the panic, so I'm very much looking forward to getting words on paper again. All I've managed in the past week is scrawling one or two sentences on scraps of paper during spare minutes in my lunch break. There are a lot of scraps of paper, but a preliminary sort shows most of them have variations of the same sentence on them. Probably because I have a habit of writing down the last sentence I can remember as a starting point, but I obviously never got past the starting point most days. C'est la vie.

It puts me behind, of course, and I might have to start looking at allocating my writing time from a more financially responsible point of view. The novel I'm working on currently is uncontracted; perhaps it's time to put it aside in favour of one that has a more certain future. I shall ponder the issue. Tomorrow. Or maybe over the weekend.

In the meantime, I have spent a goodly portion of this evening attempting to understand the telephone provider system in Australia. I am baffled. Should it be this hard? Really?

in brief

Objective: Drive. Until the battery is sufficiently charged.

Secondary Objective: Stickybeak around a few suburbs, to see if there's any I fall in love with.

Method: Me. Behind the wheel. Sharing the road with trams. At speed. (Praying I don't stall because there's no way this sucker is restarting short of a jumpstart at this point.)

Outcome: Thoroughly lost? ACHIEVED.

Dear Melbourne: Not big on informative road signs that can be seen at any speed faster than perambulatory, huh? No thanks, Me.

Also, let it be known that mothers are made of win. Mothers who insist you EAT THAT SCHNITZEL AND CHASE IT DOWN WITH GELATO NOW transcend even that.

it never rains but it pours

The signing sheets for Postscripts #18 have come and gone on their merry way and I can say this with certainty: I have no signature. Truly, every single one of those sheets is unique.

I am currently sitting in my car, which is at the moment a very expensive sculpture, on account of the battery going to sleep sometime in the past two weeks and now declining to emerge from its coma. Given that I need the car today in order to find a place to live, my previous plans having exploded in rather spectacular and last-minute fashion, I am, needless to say, a little peeved with life right about now. For values of a little roughly approximate to I think the world can just go ahead and burn, what do I care any more?

So, my apologies, but sporadic and unfocussed (and haphazardly abandoned) is going to be a feature of this site until life JUST SETTLES DOWN, DAMMIT.

In the meantime, have a snippet of awesome to entertain you: Predator X (link courtesy of splinister)

PS: Comments are not turned off, but please be aware that I may be a little distracted and unable to get around to answering any of them for a bit.

it's the end of days

To everyone who's written, asking if I'm okay in light of the horrific Victorian bushfires, thank you. I'm fine, largely because I haven't moved yet, and so the fires (at least, those particular fires) are thousands of kilometres away from me.

For those who are feeling helpless, the Red Cross has set up an appeal.

In the meantime, the north of Australia is currently sinking under floodwaters, while the northern hemisphere suffers through debilitating snowfalls. And people suspect that global warming is a hoax.

ETA: And just as I posted this, my random quote generator served up the following quote:

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
– Phillip K. Dick, 1976

this does not bode well

The dream: I'm sitting beside the Doctor, watching Rose play soccer (sorry, football) with a giant exercise ball, and I know the fate of the a world hinges on the game but somehow I just can't quite make myself believe it.

The analysis: er, yeah. Freud would probably have a field day with that, wouldn't he? But I don't care about that. What I want to know is, where's the narrative drive? Where's the conflict? Oh, okay, football inherently brings with it conflict and tension, but really, I suspect the use of the exercise ball would sap a lot of that away.

Is my brain so broken that the best it can do, when given unfettered imagination, is to dream of sitting still for a bit?

(I need to get out more.)

I blame it on the joys of apartment-hunting via the internet.

i'm pretty sure it's called multi-tasking

Okay, whoever it was that linked to Pandemic II?1

You owe me I've-lost-count hours of my life.

Seriously, how can I concentrate on revising this novel, when there's humans to wipe out? How can I concentrate on wiping out the human race efficiently and effectively when I have this novel to finish? Huh? Huh?

  1. Actually, it was a few of you. Share the blame amongst yourselves as you see fit. []

because on a monday, it's allowed

I should be writing, but instead I'm putting it off a moment longer. I should have gone to the gym today, but instead I drove straight home, and cooked up my dinner early. I shouldn't eat the apple pie I have in the oven, because I didn't go to the gym… but I'm so gonna.

embracing uncertainty

Yesterday, I gave notice to my dayjob. Farewell to the baby mines for me! In four weeks, I shall be walking out of their doors, never to return. No more semen samples, no more discussions with patients about the consistency of their menstrual flow, no more explaining the convoluted process of the Medicare Safety Net and how it works (or fails to work) with our invoicing system, no more chasing people for money… Well, actually, four more weeks of it first, but then…!

Much as I would like to turn to writing full-time, my writing income (which term I use very loosely, meaning not income so much as lack thereof) is not quite up to that. Instead, I will have a couple of months away from work, after which I will be moving cities and starting a new dayjob.

It is not a particularly good economic climate in which to have a break between paying jobs, and I am not a personality type which copes well with uncertain, vague, or rapidly changing circumstances… but I'm doing it anyway. And I'm looking forward to it.

So, here's to following your heart random whimsical impulses…