Her snakes sound like the sea
‘Circe’ by Wright Barker (1889)
Circe sounded like the sea.
The writer I hoped I would be venerated the sibilance of her name, even at the age of fifteen. When I hunched over library books in my high school, fingers tracing her story, the S felt like magic under my skin. She felt like magic on my tongue too. The S sounds, like snakes hissing. The awareness of how sounds melded together was the first spell I ever articulated before adulthood hit, deep within the suburban brick veneer I called home.
‘Circe’ by John Williams Waterhouse
Medusa’s snakes landed on my skin.
I watched the tattooist carve her curves into my flesh. It bled, it stung, it seared. Thirteen snakes formed themselves on my upper arm, writhing around her hips and bare breasts, their form silver and blue like lightning. Once, when I finished my shift at my pub and sat with a knock-off shot of whiskey, a punter approached me, staring at her. He raised a hand and, seduced by her stance, by her arched back and fangs flashing, cupped his hand and caressed it down my skin, right to the elbow. Medusa stood beside me and whispered in my ear; I bared my fangs and hissed, until he backed out the door and into the Melbourne winter.
my Medusa tattoo by Matt Burke Photography
Brigit made my armour warm and welcome.
In my twenties, I worked a job I didn’t welcome. It required a harshness I did not possess and an aloofness I didn’t allow. I did it anyway. As I climbed the stairs in that Chinatown alleyway I would imagine the customers waiting upstairs, the shift in perception and identity that would allow me to step into a new skin, shrug it on and zip it up. Brigit, the Irish Goddess of fire and protection, would be with me as my costume tumbled to the carpet, my spine straightened and my persona emerged. I would walk into each shift strengthened, knowing she was with me, and that the arrows would bounce off and miss the considerable chinks in my armour.
Brigit corn dolly
Tonight is Hallowe’en in the northern hemisphere. Here in Australia, however, where the seasons are reversed and everything is upside down, we celebrate the opposite. Tonight is not the celebration of winter approaching, the animals hibernating and the crops dying. Tonight we welcome Beltaine: the return of the sunlight, the knowledge that summer is approaching, and that the days get easier and more fruitful.
It’s odd, being against the ebb and flow of much of the world, of the traditional celebrations and media representations of paganism. We’re the opposite, down under. I’m used to it though, after almost thirty years of celebrating this way of life. I often work on the contrary. I don’t tend to follow the traditional paths, and my writing is a prime example. I once spoke on a panel at the Melbourne Emerging Writers’ Festival on the ways to put your ‘best foot forward.’ I spoke next to people with PhDs, famous agents and mentors, families born into the publishing industry. And me? I was the representative of just jumping in with both boots and getting the job done; no background, no backup. I began my writing journey by putting together punk zines with feminist workshops, cutting up old school collage covers and selling them at punk gigs. My voice may have shaken when I spoke on that panel, but I knew my journey was just as valid as anyone else’s.
Ten years later and I’ve had over one hundred stories published in anthologies and literary journals, performed at festivals and published on Australian and American radio.
Since my last blog post, there are a few more updates. I’ve had a pitch accepted by a major Melbourne literary organisation (details soon), and I’ve sent another to a Melbourne media company to be potentially made into a short film by a feminist group. There’s a New Orleans writing residency I’m applying for, and a British novel manuscript prize. I’ll be appearing at the Newport Festival with the wonderful Stereo Stories in November, and have had a recent piece accepted by the brilliant Verity La about my time as a Writer-in-Residence in Iceland.
No matter which Goddess is whispering at my shoulder, which story is being published or which season we’re welcoming, I’m always ready with one red heel to stretch out and ever so gently, nudge the wheel to turn, and welcome the next cycle into being.
Merry Beltaine
Tasting twice
When you head across Australia, the names alone keep you occupied. On the four hour train trip to the festival we chugged through Tallarook, Wangaratta and Wodonga. The town of Benalla apparently translates as ‘musk duck’, while the quaint blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Violet Town had us vowing to come back.
You’re talking to travel companions who came perilously close to landing in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, purely for the name. Don’t even get me started on Kaartinkaupunki in Finland.
Earlier this month we headed north, just over the border of Victoria into New South Wales. It was my second year performing at Write Around the Murray Literary Festival, and I realised with delight that I remembered a stellar lunch place, every opp shop in town, and a fabulous hotel with medieval theme, right down to jousting sticks in the dining room and suits of armour.
Albury’s Italianate train station
Jousting sticks in the dining room
Albury is gorgeous. There’s an abundance of Art Deco architecture, vibrant street art, and the Murray River curling past. Writing a novel set in both Iceland and Australia keeps me constantly watching these countries for art and architecture, wildlife and weather. And it always enthralls me.
Murray River
Wall mural
Art Deco ambulance station
Little pockets of gold in an otherwise busy weekend: solitary swim in the hotel pool, glorious fruit to nourish, and my Wolf, fresh off a Melbourne train and into my arms.
Rehearsals, sound check, lights down. We had a sold out show plus a waiting list, making butterflies flutter and heartbeats race. But, as I always do, I felt such joy and pleasure in striding on stage with Stereo Stories, and looking out at all those welcoming, waiting faces.
I told two stories, based on Kris Kristofferson’s divine ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ ‘Mercy Seat.’ I heard the brilliant band behind me sing the songs and I was back in Berlin, lusting after the voiceover woman from the U-Bahn system, or in my Finnish writing studio with turpentine and taxidermy, waiting for the northern lights with cloudberry wine and open notebook.
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and retrospect – Anais Nin
Chatting to everyone after the performance was such a highlight: everyone involved in the festival, from organisers to fellow performers and audience members, was warm and lovely, and made me realise just what I love about being a writer. It can be an intensely solitary profession, but when you find other passionate writers/readers, you know, it feels like home.
Below is a joyous yet tired writer, fresh off the stage. Two minutes after this was taken the green velvet dress was on the floor and the writer under the hotel sheets, Wolf by her side, celebratory whiskey in hand, and ‘Thelma and Louise’ on the TV. Now that’s a damn good evening.
Show’s over, folks
The people will sing their way through the forest
My writing studio is small, but lovely.
It’s home to Icelandic fortune telling cards, a deer skull with pearled antlers, and a plush rug the colour of blood that my cat loves to bask on in the last of the winter sun. On the floor sit my scratched punk records and a vintage turntable. On the wall, a huge framed photograph from my beloved friend Jessica Tremp, of her bare back as she kneels in the forest, tendrils of hair cascading down her spine. The lush green vegetation in the image melds perfectly with my animal bones and snake skins, as though the forest has slowly crept out of the frame and begun the process of taking over my room.
Like I said, my writing studio is small, but lovely.
I’ve been writing about space – and the spaces in which we write – for a non-fiction submission. I’ve been thinking about my windowsill in the Street of the Candlesticks in Brussels, where I’d sit and swill black cherry beer as Belgian life paraded below me. They never thought to look up at the window, and my pen rarely rested.
Brussels
Click on this photo for my ABC audio story, ‘Street of the Candlesticks’
I’ve been writing about my studio at my first artists’ residency in far northern Iceland, where Viking tomes lined the shelves and snow hit the window so fiercely that one morning, the front door wouldn’t even open. My second artists’ residency was in the forest in Finland, where on my very first night the whole household – six artists, two owners and three cats – rushed outside to the sculpture garden to watch the northern lights snake across the sky. My studio there was flooded with late autumn sunshine, scattered with turpentine and stiffened paintbrushes, and often resounding with Big Mama Thornton or Elmore James’ sweet blues keeping me company as I wrote.
Ólafsfjörður, northern Iceland
Joutsa, Finland (Photo by AmyMAndersonArt)
Then there are those places that are even more transient; tram stops where a first line just has to be written, hunched over in my woollen hood against Melbourne rain; my classroom desk when the students are doing an exam and my fingers are itching to spill words; a gold wall at the Moat next to State Library with mulled wine served in tea cups; and as assortment of train carriages, hotel rooms, café tables and park benches that can hold my notebook on my lap, feet curled under me, even just for the fifteen minutes it takes to get a title, an idea, a paragraph down.
Mulled wine at the Moat, Melbourne
Beautiful domed Reading Room of the State Library, Melbourne
Far back in my late teens and early twenties, agoraphobia took me away from the world for two long years. My space became only the walls of my house. It was a slow, painful kind of death – of my confidence, my social skills, my friendships – and even though I’ve walked back into the light and am now a professional writer, travelling the world with a full heart and high spirits, my indoor years have left an irrevocable shadow. My need for solitude is intense. But it’s done wonders for my appreciation of safe spaces, of looking up at café posters or soaring fir trees or medieval architecture or library shelves and thinking, yes, I feel good here: let’s get the pen out. Let’s write.
Pearled antlers with coronets – my studio
Snake skins and kingfisher skull – my studio
My studio here in Melbourne has a fat black cat at my feet, snoring gently in her basket. It has an antique station master’s desk with a fold out shelf to write on, inlaid with cracked brown leather. Today there’s Edvard Grieg’s recording of the music to Ibsen’s ‘Peer Gynt’ on my turntable, and a cup of tea just brought to me by my ever supportive Wolf. The trees outside my floor to ceiling windows are still winter skeletal, but one day soon I’m going to look up and see that spring has brought the passion flowers back.
My writing studio is small, but lovely.
Anthem
I’ve been thinking about beautiful things lately.
One of my stories, ‘Akathisia’, has just been published in the Beautiful Things column of River Teeth. This gorgeous literary journal of non-fiction narrative is one I’ve long admired, and this column is a perfect example why. It celebrates the golden moments in life: ‘the glimmers, reflections, river shimmers, keyholes, and cracks where the light gets in.’ I’m so honoured to have my work published by them, and recommend you go take a peek through some of their stories.
The column has inspired me to reflect on the beautiful moments in my life…and lord, there are so many.
- Watching winter light pass through my writing room, and the gaze (and occasionally, the gentle snores) of my cat as she accompanies me.
- Listening to the glorious voice of Mahalia Jackson in those moments I feel my balance faltering. For a punk little pagan, I sure do love my gospel music.
- That email from an editor saying ‘Yes, yes, we love your work: we want to publish it.’ Nothing. Like. That. Feeling. In. The.World.
- Walking in the forest behind my Wolf and his Cub, watching their animated conversation in the most gorgeous light, and feeling so privileged to be part of their journey.
Ms Marlow, familiar and judge of procrastinating dance outbursts
Mount Macedon majesty
- Standing knee deep in snow again outside my first writing residency, up near the Arctic Circle in Iceland, that most treasured of sacred spaces for me.
- Workshopping my novel with the Wolf, also a writer, with a scarlet sunset outside, a jug of creamy stout on the table between us, and his hand on my thigh.
- Seeing the joy on my nephews’ faces as they run towards me, calling my name.
- The industrial edge of my new home in the west of Melbourne, and the enormous bridge at the end of my street that I always stop and smile at.
Siglufjörður, far northern Iceland
Spotswood sunset for scribes
- The fur, feathers, skulls and skins in my writing studio, tracing the journey of the protagonist in my novel, and by extension, expanding my collection.
- Watching my beloved best friend’s dimples flash on a cliff top in Italy in April, glass of sweet wine in hand, plate of lemon peel pasta in front of me, and the most extraordinary of ocean views before us.
- Reuniting this week with an old pen pal from twenty years ago, who once took me in and showed me around Hollywood, and whom I’d always rued losing touch with. Bless the internet! The Pagan Profiles website introduced us all those years ago, and filling in the blanks of each other’s lives since will be a joyous journey. I already have an invitation back to LA, and I just might take it. The power of letters cannot be underestimated.
Studio snake skins and skull
The Amalfi Coast, shared with my beloved and her dimples
The story of mine just published in the Beautiful Things column is my 101st published, performed or produced story. There are always days where rejection letters hit the heart, where the pen falters and pages remain blank, or criss-crossed with the red lines that say ‘I doubt this, I doubt that, and I doubt myself.’ But when I read River Teeth’s description of the stories they publish in the column, I’m reminded of Leonard Cohen, and his wise words.
Even his pen must have faltered sometimes, but he still knew to pick it back up again.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
Leonard Cohen – ‘Anthem’
Gold
‘The title jumped into my line of vision, and I swallowed without thinking.
‘To be Fed to Red Birds’…those six plump, delicious words.’
Today I wrote in Sunshine Library. Beside me was The Wolf, pen moving in his notebook. In front of me was the Melbourne city skyline on the horizon, and in front of me was a coffee.
It was a stellar day.
I’ve also been working on my novel in Melbourne’s majestic State Library. In between pen strokes I often stop, look up, and lose myself in the stunning dome of the Reading Room.
State Library, Melbourne
When winter sky turns black and my front door loses its appeal, I curl up on my studio floor here at home and turn pages in my Iceland notebook, beckoning my novel out.
My studio floor
I put my pen down long enough to celebrate my birthday, an occasion I always adore. There were dirty martinis with bookmarks, calls from Rotterdam and New York, and a snake skeleton so beautiful I may have actually gasped.
At the Moat, under the Wheeler Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas
Birthday bones
Enjoying my birthday (NB: photo may not be current)
In between novel drafts, I’ve also been submitting short stories. I’m delighted to say that three of them have been accepted: I have work upcoming in both River Teeth and Stereo Stories, and one already published by the lovely Mookychick over in the U.K. This little tale, written around a Solstice theme and centering around a certain lupine love, is actually my 100th accepted story.
It’s been seven years coming, but it feels damn fine.
‘Gold’ by Rijn Collins (link here)
Medusa knows best
My friends are particularly adept at selecting stellar gifts for me. These range from a taxidermy workshop to Culture Club concert tickets, a bat skeleton to a tattoo design. An artist friend drew me an astounding Medusa for my thirtieth birthday; she decorates my left arm with her mesmerising stare and defiant pose, reminding me whenever I need it most how to straighten my own spine.
Icelandic fortune cards found at a Reykjavik flea market: ‘Let go of it.’
This present, however, was not on my birthday but as a random I-love-you-and-I-thought-this-would-make-you-happy gift.
The Wolf bought me a DNA test.
I’ve always known my heritage to be Celtic. My grandfather was from Belfast, and passed on to me both an adoration of books, and an Irish passport, in addition to my Australian one. I overdosed on the Pogues and Van Morrison by working in an Irish pub for almost a decade, and studied Gaelic for years (although it’s so challenging that all I can do now is order a Guinness, and tell someone to fuck off – a heady combination).
But while I’m deeply grateful to be able to travel so easily through Europe, it’s not Ireland or the UK that I’m drawn to.
I head for the fjords, every time.
Ólafsfjörður, northern Iceland
Siglufjörður, northern Iceland
Akureyri, northern Iceland
I’m so smitten by the snowy lands; always have been. Last month I returned from my beloved Iceland, with my Wolf and best friend Lisa in tow. We drove from one side of the country to the other on ice slicked roads in gale force winds, Lisa and I sharing capfuls of duty free vodka to stem the nerves. I showed them the tiny fishing village up near the Arctic Circle where I did my first writing residency, and where my novel ends (or will, when I finish it, all muses considered). I walked around Siglufjörður and Ólafsfjörður in my army boots and red riding hood, tracing where my protagonist eats, drinks and dreams, and then headed to Reykjavik to consider her stomping ground down south.
The street in Reykjavik where Elva lives, the protagonist in my novel
It was my fifth time in Reykjavik. The city – and country – spellbinds me. The bright primary colours of the buildings, the veneration of literature and language, the crunch of boots on snow, the glorious northern light, the stench of sulphur water when you turn on the shower….wait, that last one was kind of hard to cope with, actually. But the magic worked again, as I suspect it always will in that otherworldly land. I’ve returned to Melbourne even more full of a desire to head there again and again, and importantly, to pour out more of my novel as often as I can.
Downtown Reykjavik
Blues gig poster, Reykjavik
My muse works well in sub-zero temperatures, as writing residencies in Iceland and Finland have shown me. She’s standing over me with a bowl full of Skyr and a snow boot tapping impatiently, reminding me to WRITE WRITE WRITE.
My DNA test results came back. When I saw the circles drawn on a map of Europe, showing me my ancestry origins, the 36% Irish surprised no-one. There were tiny traces of the Iberian Peninsula, Central Asia and Jewish heritage, which fascinated me. But damn, the intake of breath when I saw the second biggest area of ancestry, a circle drawn around the northern countries I adore.
Nordic: 35%.
The Wolf was right: happiness guaranteed.
Siglufjörður snow in day
Shaking out the lava stones
I landed back in Melbourne late last night, after a nightmare flight from Berlin where the smell of smoke sent a wave of visible fright around the passengers, and sent flight attendants running – literally – through the cabin. All I could do was clutch The Wolf’s hand, down a Valium (or three) and mentally go over all the memories from this astounding trip.
Italy held…Easter palm fronds tucked into backpacks at Termini train station in Rome, lashings of tiramisu, balconies covered with ivy, skulking alley cats, graffiti covered buildings, clifftop villages reached by winding stone steps, lemon groves and limoncello, pastel coloured villages spilling down to the sea, saying ‘Ciao’ for goodbye, tiny cups of espresso, and – ahem – very attentive men.
Temple of the Vestal Virgins, Rome
Praiano, Amalfi Coast, Italy
Positano, Amalfi Coast, Italy
Iceland held…the home of my novel’s protagonist, Elva, in downtown Reykjavik, snow so horizontal it almost blinded, Viking ships, thick delicious skyr, army boots slipping on ice, notebooks filled with ink, buttery Icelandic fish stew, breathtaking fjords, hair raising mountain roads, avalanche barriers, more snow, primary coloured buildings, saying ‘Bless’ for goodbye, staggeringly expensive meals, and such glorious nostalgia from my previous trips that I knew just where to step.
Sólfar sculpture in Reykjavik, Iceland
Ring Road from Reykjavik to Siglufjörður, Iceland
Siglufjörður, far nothern Iceland
Berlin held…ten previous trips of nostalgia, sauerkraut in beer gardens, an abundance of bears, huge Milchkaffees, more wrought iron balconies, saying ‘Tschüss’ for goodbye, my favourite café on Kastanienalle, boots on cobblestones, museums about the Stasi and the Berlin Wall, tiny bottles of Jägermeister, thick salty pretzels, Nick Cave and Christiane F. pilgrimages, and lashings of laughter with My Wolf.
Beautiful Prenzlauer-Berg, Berlin
Chodowieckistraße, East Berlin
My beloved U-Bahn system, Berlin
When the jet lag abates, the stories start…I promise.
Fljúga
My March post is getting pushed to the end of the month, as my suitcase gets pulled out of the wardrobe.
Last week I had the supreme pleasure of reclining in my best friend’s lounge room, champagne in hand, Billie Holiday on the turntable. We discussed goddess temples in Rome, plague beaks in Berlin, and my ever present focus on glorious Iceland, setting of both my novel and my daydreams.
Our lazy Sunday, sorted
We’re hitting the road again in one week.
I need to dig out my army boots and leopard print ear muffs, not used since my last writing residency in the forests of Finland. I have a pair of thermal hot pants I bought as a joke, yet was profoundly grateful for on my first writing residency, in far northern Iceland. I’m gradually accruing my winter wardrobe, for I know I’ll be heading back to this part of the world, again, and again, and again.
This trip to the snow will be bookended by time in Italy, where I’ve never been, and Berlin, for the tenth time. My Jewell and I will add to our treasure trove of mementos picked up at the Place du Jeu de Balle flea market in Brussels, the Flohmarkt in Berlin, and the Feira da Ladra in Lisbon, all attached to her wall with great reverence and joy.
Lisa’s wall of jewels
My own collection involves Czech marionettes, Icelandic doves, and Amish flamingos…stories, each and every one of them.
My memories
I spend eleven months of the year working like a maniac, just for those few weeks I can pull my suitcase over cobblestones, drink bad airport coffee, and stand with my notebook open, beckoning stories to jump in.
And it’s always, always worth it.
I’ll bring you back more stories, I promise.
If your life is burning well
They say that on a list of fears, public speaking would rate highly for most people.
Here’s the thing: I love it.
Seeing audience seats fill is a beautiful sight. The butterflies generally kick in at this point, watching just off stage. But they’re the joyous, I-can’t-believe-I-get-paid-for-doing-something-I-adore flutters of excitement that make me reach happily for the microphone.
No, my list of fears is markedly different from most. It includes, just so you know, an absolute horror of people who walk on stilts, and a case of trypophobia that renders me mute in the face of crumpets.
But that’s another story entirely.
Performing ‘The Old Man with Birds for Hands’ with Michael Madden on cello
I hit the road again last weekend as part of the wonderful Stereo Stories. I perform regularly with this talented and dedicated troupe of writers, singers and musicians, and love every moment. We tell the tales of why a song resonates for us; whether it reminds us of our first lover or our last birthday, the people who’ve bruised us or the places that have nestled under our skin. On stage we have a full band performing the songs as we read, or sometimes a lone singer/guitarist. This combination elicits heartfelt responses from the audience, with many appreciating the songs with a fresh perspective, or even hearing them for the first time.
And when they approach me after a performance, I often ask them ‘What songs would you write about?’
My own writing pieces on the Stereo Stories website cross genres, ages and moods. I’ve written about wanting to see Babes in Toyland in concert in my feminist punk obsessed 20’s, yet being held prisoner by my agoraphobia. I wrote about sitting in a karaoke bar near my artists’ residency in a tiny rural village 200 km from Helsinki, listening to a poignant Finnish version of Kris Kristofferson’s ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down.’
The Pitkospuupolku through the forest, Joutsa, Finland
There’s a tale of mine about narrowly escaping sexual assault my first night living alone while listening to Ike and Tina Turner, and another about dragging my suitcase along a U-Bahn platform blissfully humming my time honoured return-to-Berlin song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
I once ended up in Jackson, Mississippi only to realise I was there purely for the Johnny Cash song. And I had the unique experience of watching a character of mine come to life in an ABC recording studio, in the shape of a surly taxidermy flamingo singing a gravelly Tom Waits songs.
Berlin Wall
My latest addition to my flamingo collection
My most personal story on the website, however, is a tribute to both Leonard Cohen and the man who’s changed the course of my life with his gentle yet wolfish ways: my partner and fellow writer, Chris. It was at times daunting in its intimacy, but what are songs if not conveyors of human emotion and experience? Listening to ‘Undertow’ by Leonard Cohen in our first flush of love is a gorgeous memory, even more so now that Cohen has left us.
For all my Stereo Stories, click here.
On this latest road trip for Stereo Stories, Chris and I hit the road with the Rolling Stones on the stereo, bad petrol station coffee, and excited thigh squeezes. Australia is made for jaunts like this with its wide open roads and sun bleached landscape. We passed kangaroo and koala road signs as we drove 250 km north, before hitting Wangaratta and our motel.
Rehearsals gave way to quick pizza and beer refreshment before the stage lights lifted. And it was, as always with Stereo Stories, a joyful experience. The Wangaratta crowd was warm and welcoming, the band and readers hit their stride beautifully, and then there were long and lovely chats back at our motel well into the night, discussing life, love and everything in between, with glasses of shiraz and shared slots on the stereo.
Stereo Stories (Tony Proudfoot Photography)
And there you have it. Be it Williamstown Literary Festival, Newstead Short Story Tattoo, the Emerging Writers Festival, Brimbank Readers and Writers Festival, Newport Folk Festival, Write Around the Murray Festival or any future adventure, it’s always a joy to climb on stage and reach for the microphone.
So in closing, let me ask you…what songs would you write about?
Snowbound
I am knee deep in snow.
I know, I know. Again, right?
I wish I could tell you it was literal. I wish I could say I was lifting my red riding hood over my plaits, pulling on my thermal gloves with the leopard print cuffs, and heading down past the fish factory to Samkaup supermarket for some skyr and harðfiskur.
But while my writing residency in a tiny Icelandic fishing village up near the Arctic Circle may be over, the inspiration I found there is making ink pour from my pen, straight into my notebook.
I’m working constantly on my novel, set in both Reykjavik and the village where I stayed, Ólafsfjörður. Elva is a half-Australian, half-Icelandic amateur taxidermist who works in a cabinet of curiosities, skinning small creatures, slipping on the ice, and hiding her growing obsession with a famous Icelandic book in the secret room of her attic apartment.
If you want to know more, you’ll have to read the book, people.
So I have to finish writing it.
In ten weeks, I’m pulling out the red riding hood, packing up my pens, and heading north again. I’m going to research the colourful nature of Icelandic slang, the smell of the fish factory, and the exquisite sound of ice crunching under my army boots. Just like my protagonist, however, this is usually heard moments before those boots slide out from under me and I hit the ground. Thirteen years of dance classes and I’ve never quite found the grace necessary to remain upright in the snow.
I’m relishing writing about the differences between Australia and Iceland. Elva has one foot in each place, and ever since my first visit to Reykjavik almost ten years ago, when I watched the sun rise over this sculpture, so have I.
Elva sits under her skylight waiting for the northern lights. As I write, I’m barefoot in the summer sun, nursing a beer in my back yard. Elva’s ritual before leaving the house involves a thick woollen scarf wound around her mouth; mine is a thick coat of coconut oil over my 30+ sunblock. I eat kangaroo steaks with a blue cheese salad; she tries to get the hang of harðfiskur með smjöri, thin slices of dried fish smothered with butter. She has just about the same luck with that as I did, however…which is to say, none at all.
Both lands are polar opposites, in geography and climate. I grew up with bushfire sirens that made you shudder when they rent the air. With my father a firefighter, I remember as a child watching the ash land on my school desk, rendering me mute with fear. Icelanders have avalanche sirens that make each and every villager look up, warily eyeing the towering peaks surrounding their homes.
It’s not an easy position to be in when the land of your birth, and the land of your heart, are on opposite sides of the world.
But damn, is it glorious to write about them both, and lose yourself in your own novel.
Ten weeks and counting!
