Writing Muscles & the Science Museum

The kids and My Beloved went off into the Big Smoke yesterday to see things and meet people.
Leaving me at home to write. Yay! And... not that I'm feeling smug or anything... but I got 5,000 + words written. Which isn't a lot for serious writers, I know, I know but I'm slowly building up again. And I finally got round to doing some more crits on Scribophile.
And okay, I know it's quality not quantity that counts, but it still feels nice to be building up my writing muscles.
So while I was sitting cross-legged on the couch consuming vast amounts of caffeinated beverages and writing on a roll... here's what the kids were up to. (Again... with slightly changed colours when the lighting wasn't quite right!) Locations include the Science Museum, the Carlton Gardens and some random Melbourne Locations.

Just for the record, Fireman Sam was NOT present.

I recently started trying to explain to the Sprocket how he came into the world.
"So you started of really small inside Mummy's tummy and then you got bigger and bigger and then you didn't fit any more and then you had to come out," I told him.
"Ghee was in Mummy's tummy?" my Sprocket said. It was a concept he obviously approved of.
"That's Right. Sprocket and Poppet grew inside Mummy's tummy, but then you got bigger and bigger and you had to come out."
"Ghee was stuck in Mummy's tummy?"
Well, yeah. He really was. I'll skip that bit. Wait till he's had a few kids of his own before going down that route.*
"Well, sort of."
"Fireman Sam got Ghee out of Mummy's tummy!" my Sprocket proclaimed.
I suppose in Toddler World that makes sense. In My Sprockets Toddler World, when anyone gets stuck, or anything goes wrong, Fireman Sam comes to make it right.
But now I've got an image stuck in my head of Fireman Sam's cartoon presence in the Birth Room among the blood and serious faced Nurses and Doctors. Sigh.
Fireman Sam is coming to get me. Help!

Just for the record, there were a lot of people present when my Sprocket was born, but Fireman Sam was not among them.


*My Beloved and I were having a discussion last night about the Sprocket's birth. He's still convinced I can't remember it. His proof is, that if I did remember it I'd never have gone for a second. His theory is that the hormones wiped all memories from my brain. This is rubbish. I do remember it. I just really really wanted another baby and the chance of a little girl. On the other hand, My Beloved also believes that if I do remember it and still went for another I must be really, really daft. Hmmm. 

Winter Snaps

That Earthquake needs Quiet Time!

Last night after the great-white-wolf* chased us home from our evening walk, we were sitting in our living room enjoying being slightly warmer than when we were walking outside, when the light began to swing and the floors to shake.
My first thought, as this is mining country, was that there was an abandoned mine under us that was collapsing.
Then my beloved said 'earthquake' and I relaxed.
I've looked at the map. Australia is miles and miles from any techtonic plate edges. Earthquakes aren't really an issue. Or shouldn't be according to my basic geography-for-dummies.
The world kept shaking.
"Outside!" my Beloved ordered.
I looked at my Beloved.
Hello. It's only an earthquake. When we lived in the Pacific earthquakes weren't that uncommon, and never having experienced a big one, I've become blase.
But the light kept swinging and it struck me that our house is flimsy to the extreme so I grabbed up the Sprocket.
"Go get Poppet!" I told my Beloved.
My Beloved ran into our bedroom and got the pusher where our Poppet was sleeping and we all dashed into the front garden. And I noticed that the camellias were all moving as if there was an extremely strong wind.
Dogs were wailing their displeasure and we could hear and see neighbours up and down the street. The next door neighbour, knowing the extreme rickety-ness of our house, came to check on us.
"This is an earthquake, darling. Earthquake," I told the Sprocket.
"Call Fireman Sam!" he told me.
"If there's a fire, we will," I assured him.
"Naughty earthquake. Give it Quiet Time," he said.
"Good idea."
Then he wanted down and we had to keep stopping him from running into the still shaking house.
Eventually the world stopped moving and we deemed it safe to go inside. The Poppet did not wake up.
Inside we inspected all the cracks in the house, which we believed to be bigger, but weren't quite sure. A few things had fallen off shelves but we seemed otherwise whole.
My Beloved went online, but the geoscience site was down. Checking out twitter, he found that the quake had only been about 5.3 on the richter scale, but that we were about 19 k from the epicentre.
Now I wonder if my Sprocket will remember the night-of-the-earthquake-which-needed-quiet-time. Will it reach the memory vault, or not?


*The great white wolf is a neighbouring dog who I think is a cross between a samoyed and a wolf-hound, but I suspect is an oversized marema. He likes to go for solitary night walks. We often see him striding out of the mist towards us and I appreciate his fairy-tale aspect. He appears to be friendly, but we worry Issy will get a sudden misguided idea she needs to protect us. Once he finds us, he tends to follow us home.

A Room of One's Own

"Ah. You were reading that feminist book this morning!" my Beloved interrupted my thoughts. 
And it's true. I was. I finally read A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf, which I have been meaning to read for a very long time. Now, as I have less time than ever before to write (o the glory days of high school!) I've finally sat down and done it. With a beloved daughter nursing through most of it.

And... it was fascinating.

A Room of One's Own is an early feminist book about why there were so few female writers pre 1928 (when Woolf was writing). No female Shakespeares or Donnes, no female Miltons or Wordsworths.

This has obviously changed, there are now a lot of female writers.

(And no Shakespeares, female or male. Let's just admit he was one of a kind. Sigh. But wouldn't a cyber-tech style Shakespeare be awesome)

But it was fascinating to read Woolfs reflections on the dearth of female writers through the ages. And I smiled ruefully when I took her point that the main female writers of the 19th century, Austen, Bronte et all were all ... childless...

Woolf's premise was that to write, (and by that she meant write well) you need an income of 500 pounds a year and a room of your own. Something females (and indeed most males...!) in the past were unlikely to get.


A quick google tells me that as of 2001 500 pounds in 1928 would be equivalent to about 200,000 pounds today. That's 400, 000 Australian dollars. With that you truly could devote your life to writing! Cleaners, cooks, nannies and yourself in your own (locked) and book-lined study contemplating the mysteries of the world and the perfect sentence. With occasional jaunts around the world for 'experience'.

My beloved Papa scoffed when I told him I was desirous of reading A Room of One's Own. 


He said Woolf was just another an upper-class snob. (Read in-bred and leeching the life-blood from the working-class.) 


And yes, sharing his background, knowing that when Woolf was demanding a room of her own and a substantial fortune,  most of our folk were working 14 hour days, 6 days a week on hands and knees down coal mines. I know she was writing for a teeny tiny minority.  


Woolf did however, mention Robert Burns as a shining example of someone from the working class producing brilliance -not only male and working class, but Scottish! Woolf admitted it was as hard for the working class male as it was for a female to produce literature. 


And if it was hard for a working class man that would make it near impossible for a working class women. Okay, I can't name a pre 1920s working-class female writer. Let's split the difference and call it impossible. (But please let me know if I'm wrong! I'd love to know I'm wrong!)

Time is necessary to writing, and time it seems, dedicated, private, thinking time, is a product you need to buy.

In the minority world, class has changed. Time has changed. Money has changed.

But to write, you still need dedicated, private time.

And it always has a price. It's still a luxury good.

My time will come. My beloved is studying hard to eventually supply me with 500 pounds a year and a room of my own. I get happy shivers just thinking about it. I can't say I'll produce great literature. But I hope I will produce thoughtful and creative literature. And I hope I remember those who are still waiting for a room of their own. Although to be honest, my  (our - ahum) money will go on schools, libraries and healthcare (particularly maternity care) in the majority world.