I did as I was told, as good girls do, but it set the tone for a life where my finger is poised to rub out any mistakes, despite the irreparable holes that may leave. In year 7, I ended a toxic friendship by moving schools and no longer speaking to anyone who I knew before, even though we had been friends since early primary school. At university I dealt with social anxiety in lectures by avoiding classes altogether, then enrolling in film subjects because it was the only class where the lights were (for the most part) switched off. I further went on to choose subjects that only assessed through essays or exams. I do not do oral presentations. At 31 and ¾ years, avoidance has now become my trademark, my modus operandi.

For the sake of my word count, I’m just going to file this under ‘inappropriate coping mechanisms’.

I was supposed to start my writing course last week after spending the whole summer in a state of indecision over whether or not I should go ahead with it. It’s one thing to apply, it’s another thing to show up. The issue was compounded by a crumby timetable, and my first day of classes being only 2 days after First Born’s first day at school, leaving no time for him to adjust before I whisked myself away from him. It would be hard to gauge if my ducks were in a row if I weren’t actually there to check.

Last week, when First Born had his first day of school, I decided it was his year and I would defer, or, if this were not possible, I would withdraw from the writing program entirely. I needed to be around for the boys, to be available, to be the contingency we will most likely need when winter comes and we’re all sick and we need one parent available to ride the merry-go-round of childhood illnesses. Historically this parent has been me, because Mr Karen is The Earner. Letting go of this mantel has proven harder than I imagined in the heady days of filling out tertiary admission forms.

My consolation to staying at home was that if I could find the time, I would attempt to write a book (though in the back of my mind I was already talking this down to anything longer than 1000 words).

That night, with my decision made, I lay down on the couch, put my head on Mr Karen’s lap and mourned my future. I cried. I felt bruised and sad and completely lost. I was staying at home in spite of myself. I realised that while I might have the reserves to work hard at writing a book, I am not a person with natural reserves of confidence and buoyancy in times of doubt. I am the freak up the back of the lifeboat, screaming “We’re sinking!!! We’re going to die!” In short, my plan was to stay at home, and not write.

Please, feel free to hit me with your oar.

So much of life has transpired and still, when faced with a big life decision, I ruminate until I become exhausted and emotional and wear my nerves down to a point where starting again seems like the most simple way to proceed.

I can’t tell you how I ended up on the city train on Friday morning. It had nothing to do with the overthinking that happened between Christmas and the day before my first class. It had everything to do with a gut feeling that I would regret not having tried to make this work. It had everything to do with a supportive mum and husband, a car full of petrol, a packed lunch, and legs that propelled me from the carpark to the ticket machine to the train platform. Legs that propelled me, despite my worried mind. Legs that knew better than my brain.

It was a pleasure to sit in classes at the end of my mothering week. I met more new friends in one day than I have in my entire time as a stay at home mum. And they all speak fluent book nerd. I found I didn’t have to edit my ramblings to avoid boring the pants off anyone. The program is populated by like-minded people, though we all come from different parts of the country, and differ in age, background and history.

Never mind the 2-hour commute, the parking at Frankston station, the childcare, and the silent treatment First Born dealt me when I finally arrived home after 12 hours away. I’ve made the right decision. It’s not the prettiest, but it’s better than rubbing out this whole chapter with my finger.

I feel like I owe it to you all to tell you I won’t be posting here for a while. It’s been fun kids, but I’ve got some real life things to work out and I need some space to do that. It sounds so dramatic! But really, it’s not. I just need to hang up the phone for a while.

Thanks for being lovely listeners and excellent sharers. I’ll be around the traps (of course!) but if you see me procrastinating by the water cooler, give me a kick in the pants and tell me to go do my homework.

Cheers!

Karen

I was going to write so much over the summer break. I haven’t. I’ve been spending time with my family, and resting, two things I won’t be able to do much of this year now that I’ll be studying.

When I was a kid, January was always back to school month. My big sister and I would spend a whole day shopping for school supplies; an afternoon looking for the perfect school shoes; and a whole day luxuriantly labelling stationary, covering books and weaving a delicate web of expectation for the year ahead. It was a Festival of Geekdom. Her bedroom was the hub of all back to school activities, a main stage for the big acts of nerdiness: she was the festival director, and I the obedient ticket collecting, bin-emptying volunteer, just happy to be on board. The air in her room was sweet with enthusiasm, and ankle deep in plastic wrap and woody pencil shavings.

Back in my own room, with my stack of neatly contacted books and sharp pencils, I would pull out my notepaper and practice my handwriting while listening to my one and only cassette, The Beach Boys Greatest Hits (purchased under the guidance of said big sister). I often worried that I’d forgot how to write, that somehow I’d lose my ability to write between Carols by Candlelight and the first rally of the Australian Open. Nobody in the world has ever felt so heavy while listening to Little Deuce Coupe. With that first New Year hold of the pencil, my whole hand felt like lead.

I feel that way sitting here at my laptop. I have officially donned my summer colour, in my comically thong-tan-lined feet. Everything else is still as lily white as it was last Summer, and the one before. As white as a blank page.

It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about writing. I’ve been reading my way through a massive pile of Amazing!! books after several unmentionable disappointing reads last year. I’ve also been reading the paper every Saturday and working my way through half a year’s worth of writing magazines which I’ve been stockpiling in the hope of catching up. Half of my office looks like an actual place of work, the other half looks like a Chinese laundry as I catch up on half a year’s worth of ironing, mending, and making the odd row of bunting, just for kicks. The longer I sit at the laptop, the more I look longingly towards the sewing machine, even though I would not call myself a sewer per se, moreover someone who feels compelled to sew things to other things.

Unlike my 8 year old self, I’m big and ugly enough to know why I’ve got the wobbles with writing. A few of my writing pieces have been published recently to a wider audience, and it was underwhelming.  People misunderstood the message I was trying to send, or just plain took offence, and I found myself backtracking trying to find the loop when all of my careful stitching became unravelled. Writing for me has always held its appeal in being the neatest, tidiest, smartest version of reality I can render. But seeing my little paper planes launched into the real world – to be read by complete strangers – and seeing them crumpled up or disregarded or misdirected is certainly making me think deeper about the kind of writing I want to do. Perhaps instead of putting on my big brave boots, I should stick with the thongs?

I’m looking forward to heading off to school and delving into non-fiction and research and editing, where there is right and wrong, and everything is delightfully (safely) black and white. Or in my case, mostly white.

[image]

What have you been reading this Summer (or Winter, for those in the northern hemisphere)? If you start reading something and don’t like it, do you finish it anyway, or do you just move on to the next book in the pile? I’ve always tried to finish everything I begin to read, but I’m beginning to think life’s too short for crap books. Thoughts?