The room in which you sleep

The Result of writing exercise #3:

If I were to die tomorrow and my possessions were pillaged & plundered, what would be found? 

A substantial collection of spare buttons. A bookshelf of dog-eared novels haphazardly arranged like a frustrating game of Tetris. Food stained university lecture notes and anatomy textbooks reeking of formaldehyde. A stack of 90’s sewing magazines and a dusty sewing machine. Unused clusters of crockery, teapots, table runners and Indian cotton quilt sets, strewn between piles of clothes. The space under the bed would reveal unhung art and creepy one-eyed dolls from a reckless youth.

There is no real system of organization. Spare socks plug empty spaces of the bookcase. Books wander into the wardrobe. My room is my home. Many people experience the choke and congestion of clutter. I’m fairly content to live with my things luxuriously lounging about the place.

Did I fare any better living out of a backpack? I can give you a resounding no. In fact I was far worse without four walls to confide my belongings.

That is NOT my suitcase

Travelling in a twenty-ton truck leads to all sorts of false ideas of spaciousness. In fact, travelling light is nonsense when driving around the world. You do tend to forget a minor detail - how much it is humanly possible to carry.

At every border crossing the truck was inspected. We had to be responsible for all our personal possessions. I had to be able to shoulder all my things and walk across the border whilst the truck was separately inspected. Some borders had more thorough inspections then others. I can remember a Nepalese border guard bounding up the steps and calling out a cheery hello before waving the truck on. At the Turkish border the guard was more concerned with a passenger’s “stylish” bandana. We stood in subzero temperatures for hours whilst they tore the truck apart at the Chinese border.

At the Chinese border, after I had posted a 12kg package home from Kathmandu, I still had a 25kg backpack, two overflowing plastic boxes, a day back, a handbag, a jumbo sized environmental plastic bag. The seams of every single bag groaned. But not as loudly as me, as I lumbered through the security checkpoints. Trying not to look suspicious. The only people who would have carried more things travelling would have been the first pioneers. And they were going into the unknown for indefinite durations.

In fact I had so much luggage, at one point I unwittingly became an international smuggler. I slipped whiskey into Malaysia. Why whiskey is contraband is beyond me. I happened to chortle at the sign also outlining eggs, sugar and rice as restricted items. I then confidently crossed the border, assured I was following the letter of every law.

Looking back on it I wonder why I had some much luggage. I suppose it comes back to my panache for cumbersomely shaped or weighty objects. Otherwise known as home wares. Since leaving Australia I developed a raging nesting instinct. After only two months in London I posted home an 18kg package. Of home wares. For a house I do not own. I have an unfailing sense of optimism that I will, one very distant day, own a house. It’ll perhaps be wise to also invest in a garden shed as well, to house my heaving collection of eclectic keepsakes.

I’m still re-discovering all the stuff I bought whilst away. I procured a couple of things “for the house” in every country and mailed a bundle home every so often. ‘Bundle’ may be a misleading word. During the nine months on the road I mailed home five packages totaling a whopping 56kilos. My backpack weighed in at a sterling 24kg at my last border crossing.

I became very friendly with postal staff worldwide

I suppose the only thing I can say is that this future house of mine shall require a good many rooms, as I’m doing a daily decathlon to get out the front door.

Writing Exercise #3 Dropped Dead

Mountains of Rubbish, Glastonbury 2011

I think that this writing prompt from 'Naked, drunk and writing' is particularly poignant given my inability to find things in the roaring rumble and rift-raft that is my room. 


"You dropped dead suddenly and your house is cleared out. What do they find?"


I almost miss just having all my possessions fit into a backpack.But then again I am and always will be a book hoarder. Well that's a half-truth, I hoard many things. From mountains of clothes to broken yo-yo's, christmas cards and CD's that are scratched beyond play. After travelling I have also learnt that I've got quite a penchant for objects of stone or exceptionally fine fragility...

Reader's Bill of Rights

Bookshop in Bucharest, Romania 

Reader's Bill of Rights - Daniel Pennac

1. The right to not read

2. The right to skip pages

3. The right to not finish

4. The right to reread

5. The right to read anything

6. The right to escapism

7. The right to read anywhere

8. The right to browse

9. The right to read out loud

10. The right to not defend your tastes

The hot heart and cold eye

The other day I mentioned I was on the hunt for a book. It still remains a sight unseen. Though in my half-hearted attempted to find it, I happily rediscovered another book. I abandoned the search and whittled away the afternoon re-reading ‘Naked, Drunk and Writing’ by Adair Lara.

I bought the book last year because of the title* and it’s promise to help the reader ‘craft a compelling memoir or personal essay.’ At this point I was half contemplating writing a travelogue about my impeding journey from London to Sydney. I was also starting to get steady requests to pen opinion columns in SpitPress.

On the first read I gobbled the book up. The pages are dog-eared and annotated with flashes of green highlighter and scribbles in the margins.  Adair Lara’s guide is personable and informative.  Lara addresses structure, subject matter, tone, narration, scene with a firm hand and wry wit.  Even Lara, a writing teacher, admits, “structure is not sexy”, yet I would consider her own book as delightfully playful. She blends anecdotes of working as a columnist at the San Francisco Chronicle and teacher, throughout the book. Thereby giving each lesson or writing task depth and relevance.

Lara also liberally quotes other writers including Chekhov - “Tear your story in half and start in the middle” or Marilynn Robinson’s description of writers starting out “At first less in love with structure or pattern and more in love with words in a foolish but sweet way.”

Lara herself is also full of quotable titbits (hence the heavy-handed green highlighting) “Apply part A (Butt) to part B (chair)….Don’t vow to write. Vow to show up at the desk.” Or “You must work. You start with your hot heart, spilling truth any old way onto the page. And then you bring in your cold eye.”

There is a plethora of writing exercises in the book. In all honesty I have completed few. I read the book quickly and with immense joy. Then I packed it in a box with 18kilos worth of other goods and shipped it from London to Sydney.  

Some of the writing advice stuck like glue throughout the rest of my trip and inferred astounding impacts on my journal writing. Lara recommends that you collect sensory rich images as well “those cranky, eccentric details that could come only from a frontier where no one else has been: your life…the most neurotics details resonate like a tuning fork”. So I wrote my journal with a hot heart. Now I just need a cold eye.

* The title itself is a cute story in itself “somebody at a party once remarked to me over sushi that books with ‘naked’ in the title always sell”. 

Year In Provence

I suppose this is further proof of my lack of commitment to finishing book trilogies. I wrote this book review about two years ago and I have as yet to finish the third book. I throughly enjoyed the first book, in fact my mouth salivates at the very thought of it - cheese, chocolate and wine oh my! I suppose I'll eventually get around to finishing it. Though it'll probably take me another two years.

A Year in Provence is a book to lunch with. An undemanding companion, the novel unfolds in a casual undulating fashion, with each chapter devoted to a different month of the year. So enraptured by the countryside, it’s food and people, you learn little about the author (Peter Mayle).

Besides possessing all the qualities of an ideal lunch companion – it is essential to be in the process of eating whilst reading the book; otherwise to you are at risk of gnawing off your own foot.

The Provencal menu is dictated by the ebb and flow of the seasons – muddy truffles, lashing of golden olive oil, crusty bread and of course gallons of wine - Mayle’s descriptions of mouth watering gastronomic delights feature in nearly every chapter.

Not content to merely recount the menu, Mayle makes Food a prominent character equivalent to a Prima-Donna, bristling for attention when not centre stage and full bodied with sensuality. Even humble fruit melons are equated to tasting like a young woman’s lips.

When not tucking into a meal, Mayle cheerily recounts the bizarre bureaucratic process of purchasing the 200 year-old farmhouse, dealing with a band of cheeky renegade builders and entertaining a endless stream of “friends” turning up at their door.

My edition also features the following two books in the Provence Trilogy – “Toujours Provence” and “Encore Provence”.

Without pausing for a breath, I launched straight into book two. Unfortunately Mayle seems to be more self-conscious as he awkwardly acknowledges the international success of the first book has impacted upon his life in the Provence. Though three years on, Mayle still retains the wide-eyed enthusiasm for the Provence, however the novel lacks structure and substance. Mayle seems to be scrapping the barrel for ideas by including a whole chapter on a choir of toads.

Just like never being able to leave the table without feeling stuffed, perhaps I just had a Mayle overload. That’s why I’m leaving “Encore Provence” unread for a couple of months, so I avoid indigestion.

The sheer joy of food can also been indulged in:

- Like Water for Chocolate

- Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

- Sound Bites: Eating on Tour with Franz Ferdinand

- Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life

The terrible threes

One, two, three

I think I'm developing a dreadful pattern. I've discovered I'm terrible at reading trilogies. It appears I start a trilogy of books great gusto. I lap up the first book, lose pace and plod through the second then completely run out of steam by the third.

I have started three trilogies this year, each of wildly different genres (LOTR, Fifty Shades and The Hunger games) yet I've come to a grinding halt with all of them.

In fact The Hunger Games has almost become an

albatross around my neck. I continue to lug it around, hoping that I'll feel inspired to finish the bloody book. You see that I've somewhat fallen out of love with the series. The protagonist is just dreary and clueless that it's become almost painful to read. Yet I'm determined to finish it! Along with the other two trilogies.

Now that I think about it, I suppose this isn't such a new pattern, after all I have never finished the 'Year in Provence' or 'Girl with the dragon tattoo' trilogies. Is this steming from some deep seeded psychological issue? Perhaps or perhaps I simply get distracted. Either way after reading this top ten list - I’m keen to sink my teeth into a new trilogies and actually finish it.

After I finally finish those three trilogies first *sigh*

Death Sentences and Executions

Last night I found myself doing some heavy reading before going to sleep.

I’ve started researching and verifying facts about the political and social situation of Iran during 2011, as I’m writing the Iranian chapter of my book.

Yesterday Amnesty International released their annual report “Death sentences and Executions: 2011”. Within hours all major news outlets where lighting up with stories about Iran – always handy when researching!

Though the things I learnt made my hair stand on end. Whilst travelling through Iran in September 2011, I fell in love with the country and the culture. I got the impression that Iran had a violent past and whilst insular was coming forward with it’s human rights policies.

In fact as you can see from the pictures we became so comfortable in Iran. The first picture is a ‘dress rehearsal’, of us in Istanbul, Turkey.

'Dress Rehearsal', Istanbul, Turkey

We had been informed that as foreigners we must always wear black or dark colours. That not a inch of skin or hair must be showing. Women must always keep their gaze adverted from men. You must not sit next to a man, unless he is your husband, in public. Let alone touch another man, even for a handshake. We were told that there would be government police as well as tourist police on constant patrol. To say we were nervous would be something of an understatement!

But as you can see from photo two, my headscarf is loose and I’m so relaxed.

Esfahan, Iran

Women appeared to be held in equal stead in Iran. The rules certainly appeared more lax than first anticipated. We were never stopped by police, let alone by tourist police except for a friendly hello. Plus we were allowed to engage eye contact with men without repercussions!

Though the statistics give an entirely different picture of Iran. Executions rose from 252 in 2010 to 360 in 2011. Iran is statistically to have the second highest execution rate in the world (second to China) though the exact numbers can be shady many countries with capital punishment policies, including Iran, carry out secret executions. The Amnesty international report states that it has creditable information for a 274 ‘secret’ executions in Iran during 2011. Typically crimes rendering execution include adultery, sodomy and religious offenses such as apostasy or “treason against God”.

Hanging is the most common mode of execution. In fact the number of hangings had risen so dramatically, that the use of cranes has become common, so a Japanese crane manufacturing company has ceased their imports of cranes into Iran.

Whilst the people I met in Iran were the some of the warmest and most genuine people I have ever met, the government’s policies are extreme to say the least and rigorously put in place.

With an Iranian family in Masouleh, Iran [Note Amy Winehouse style hair]

The Hunger Games

I am in no way highbrow. I think this probably goes without saying, as I’ve already mentioned bowel motions and toilets far too many times in the rather short life of this blog. I swear I don’t have an affinity for potty talk; rather I'm just somewhat juvenile. Whilst my personality is less than refined, my reading habits have always erred towards being a self-proclaimed snobby toffee-nosed twat. I’ll be honest I’ve openly turned my nose up to sci-fi and fantasy in the past, without actually reading any such books. Someone slap some sense into my younger self please!

Since realizing that this attitude is appalling I’ve been trying hard to break this habit. So I’ve been branching out and exploring all the genres I’ve slagged off in the past - youth adult fiction, comics and sappy romances.

I do want to make it clear that I am truly armored by Austen, besotted by Bronte, amiss by Amis. I’ve poured over Perec and smitten by Steinbeck. I love a good classic, but it turns out that I love a bit of fantasy. I’m halfway through the Lord of the Rings trilogy and have just gobbled up ‘The Hunger Games’. They’re both rollicking good reads, featuring a hero’s journey.

‘The Hunger Games’ is splashed all over the internet in the lead up to the film’s release, but it was my sister who turned me onto the trilogy after she read it in a week.

The basic gist of it is in a post-apocalyptic world, America is a dictatorship run by ‘The Capitol’. To ensure the general population is reminded of how powerful the capitol is one boy and one girl is selected from each of the twelve districts to participate in the annual hunger games. A televised event where there is only one winner – the last person standing. It features such a strong storyline and bizarre premise that you can dissociate from the sometimes-whiny narration from 16 year old Katniss Everdeen.

I’ve started the next book in the series; so far I’m not as keen on it as the pace is all over the place as the plot is being set up, but I highly recommend book one.

How to Breathe Underwater

I picked up ‘How to Breathe Underwater’ up on a whim. It was at the bottom of a book trade and swap box at a hostel, covered in a thick layer of bodice ripping romances and dust. To be honest I rarely read short story anthologies; it’ll be even rarer that I would consider laying out some moola for one. Yet I loved this book so much I continued to carry it, despite risking herniating a disc from hulling around a ridiculously heavy backpack. The characters are so vividly flawed and fragile I just couldn’t them sit idle, dusty and unloved. Greedy I suppose; I promise to lend* it out I swear.

There are nine short stories, ranging in setting from a vineyard in Italy to a local swimming pool to San Francisco. None of the stories are particularly uplifting. In fact the stories are so bleak they leave a thin film melancholy over you, that sits there even days after finishing the book. Despite the sober stories, I couldn’t help but jump from one to the next.

The writing in ‘Pilgrims’ is so pared back and exacting, you’re drawn into the confusion of Ella dealing with her mother dying of cancer, which is an emotionally raw topic but then the ending of the story is so violently shocking and dark, I probably almost popped a lung from holding my breath. Then there’s poor Isabel in ‘The Isabel Fish’ who is literally drowning under misplaced guilt over a car crash. Whereas Tessa in ‘Care’ had me so riled up I could have slapped her. But then I also want to make her tea and toast, lend her a pair of shoes and a coat. I would also invite over Mira (from ‘When She is old and I am Famous’) to help her forget her condescending cousin. See, Orringer has created characters that not only breathe underwater, but leap off the page.

I can’t recommend this short story collection highly enough that if you ask nicely enough I may even lean out my copy**.

* ‘lend’ being the operative word

** Actually no, I think I am still much too attached to the characters - perhaps if you offer them tea and toast too then I'll consider it.