The Silence

Procrastination is my nemesis. It tempts me to put off the cleaning until another day. It distracts me from my writing. It promises fun and intrigue but only causes grief in the end. It holds me back from my potential.

It is not too difficult a task to distract me from Spring cleaning. To make it even less desirable, I know that it has unpleasant consequences for me. I am allergic to dust. I have to wear a mask just to do the dusting. I now get someone else to do it, so I can breathe in my own home. First it settles in the eyes. The rims redden and itch. Allergic exudate (gunkiness) follows and finally, as is my current woe, it makes its way to my sinuses, finally culminating in one or all of the following:

• sinusitis – the most common
• laryngitits – annoying and a source of amusement for my family and friends
• bronchitis – go and lay in bed and stay away from other people. (the legacy of the familial asthma which I was lucky enough to avoid).

Today my procrastinaiton has resulted in dust bunnies the size of, well – bronchitis bringing bunnies – and ALL of the above.

This brings me to Procrastination #2. This one is not entirely of my own making. Time off for stress leave from my Day Job has meant that I have not been able to keep up with conferences. The biggest (and most expensive) one for the year starts tomorrow and concludes on Saturday. I can now kiss the registration fee goodbye.  My doctor laughed when I asked if I would able to attend. From over his metal-rimmed spectacles, he commented that I will be lucky to be better by Sunday. Drat!

Ah, Sunday. Supanova. Most likely, my Donna Noble (Doctor Who) costume will not get out to play now. If I can drag myself out (and am no longer coughing like a six-pack-a-day smoker – I do not smoke), then maybe I should cobble together a costume from Buffy the Vampire Slayer - from the episode Hush – complete with a mini whiteboard saying “When will I get my voice back?”

With no voice and strict instructions to rest, I can no longer complete the painting (a pot rescued from curbside rubbish)  that I had planned for today – and it is perfect painting weather. At least I can try to kick my writing procrastination in the butt.

This year I have concentrated on writing short stories, mostly in the steampunk/alternative history genre. They have been excellent practice in meeting deadlines and learning to edit.  I have developed a few characters that I have grown to love.  I have created a nefarious secret society, known as the Men in Grey, and secret intelligence and scientific societies to foil them – all in the name of the Empire.

All the while, there has been a steampunk novel bubbling away in my brain. Occasional bursts of inspiration have popped up, only to sink down to continue stewing. The forced silence, of yesterday and today, had me pondering on these ideas. Research ensued. Historical timelines and tit bits were spices added to the bubbling brew. At last an idea has coalesced and percolated to the surface.

I now officially has a steampunk novel as a ‘work in progress’.  I can defeat the Procrastination Beast. If only I can keep it as a WIP and not let it gather dust. ‘Cause now you all know how much I hate dust.

Dust. Bad.

The Silence

Why I Wore a Red Poppy on Remembrance Day.

Yesterday, I proudly wore my red poppy.  It is the symbol of Remembrance Day,  11th November.  At 11.00 am I observed a minute silence. To remember them. Not a war. Not the fighting, but them. The men and women who stood up to serve, not the politics of their country, but their families, their friends and the people. They gave their lives to protect us.

If I had my way, no one  would be sent to fight other human beings.  If I had my way, the families would not have to deal with the loss of a son or daughter, a husband or wife, a father or mother. Ever.  But I don’t have that power.

We cannot deny the fact that it happened (and still happens). We cannot (or should not) rewrite history to please ourselves. We don’t have to like it either. We must learn from it. So I remember.

“At the rising of the sun
and the going down of the same.
We will remember them.”

The poppy serves as a focus for remembering. However it should not be for just one day. For one ceremony nor for just one minute’s silence. We should remember them every day. We should remember that we are all live in this world. Then maybe we could embrace each other and try to understand our differences.

When I wear my red poppy, it is not to glorify war but is in the hope that one day we will not repeat our past mistakes and work out a way to prevent such tragedies. We need to learn to live together on this planet. It is the only one we have.

I wear my poppy; lest I forget.

Why I Wore a Red Poppy on Remembrance Day.

Where Ideas Come From

This week I am doing some research for a short story. At the same time I am waiting for the penny to drop on an idea that is currently flitting around the edges of my subconscious – not wanting to settle quite yet. I find this one of the most frustrating parts of writing – waiting for that eureka moment.  Waiting for that spark of an idea that opens the flood gates to a stream of words. Waiting.

Sometimes it happens that, when researching for a story, I come across a tit bit that sparks off another idea, as happened this week. I was confirming a quote from one of my favourite classic TV shows; a variation of the phrase lodged in my subconscious - And Other Little Green Men. (Actual quote is: ‘and other Martians’.)  I am now working on the first draft of this story.

The serendipity of this (and other story prompts) then led me to scrutinising where my ideas come from . (Funny enough, this then led to writing this post). What has inspired me to write? A lot more things than I had realised; research was just one of them.

1. The easiest is being given a theme: Some competitions supply a theme. Easy. Sometimes I ask my friends to provide one for me.
2. Daydreaming or dreams also are a source of ideas. I have a small notebook that sits on the bedside table to jot down ideas
3. 
   Being a very visual person, the most common source of my inspiration are pictures. My poor family have to deal with me suddenly stopping – when driving (actually my hubby is driving and I am in the passenger seat), visiting, even walking along the footpath – to examine something from every angle and take photographs.  I also find pictures on the internet, in magazines or on television. I have an entire (quite massive) folder on my computer which is devoted to pictures that have sparked an errant thought that I want to return to later.)
   The Guest Upstairs was inspired by two photos – a mechanical eyeball and an animatronic.  (sorry, I don’t know the source of the photo – let me know if you recognise it).
4. A passing comment. I was flicking channels on the idiot box and I heard a conspiracy theorist explaining how the Men in Black have been around for decades. This got me thinking…  And Fashioned in Black was written. Passing comments can also be heard on the radio and in the street.
5. I love a good title. I love creating an intriguing title for a story. A good title makes a story. (Literally, when it sparks an idea) This is how Day of the Dirigible was born. I just loved the title. Then the perfect pink, frivilous toy dirigible popped into my head.

These are just a few of the top of my head. Anything that creates the germ of an idea that leads to a story is an inspiration. Take a look around, be open to the muse and enjoy the results!

“The Guest Upstairs” rewrites: Photo: (c)Karen Carlisle 2013

Where Ideas Come From

Book Artwork - Mischief Managed

I have written about one of my recent art commissions for an upcoming book on period fencing – in  Commissioned Art and Book Artwork Commission. Finally it is done. Things have been inked, cleaned and the cover is coloured. I did a little enhancement with the computer to add a third tone and voila!

Watch this space for more information on the book’s publication.

Art/Photography: A little bit of fun with a photo taken by my husband (c)David Carlisle 2013

Costume Bit: with hats (left) and historical things, I was reminded of some of the hats and head wear that I have made for historical re-enactment and other costumes. This one is a linen cloth wound into a turban (similar to those popular in Florence very early 1500s). I embroidered the ends with blue silk, in  cross stitch.

Writing: Final rewrite and edit completed for short story: The Day of the Dirigible.

Book Artwork - Mischief Managed

Flash Fiction, Microfiction and Other Little Green Men.

For much of this year I have been writing short stories and entering competitions –  which has been useful practice. At the same time they have been giving me more confidence in my writing, learning my craft. With each story, I learn something new. Looking back at stories, I can already see changes in my writing over the year.

I have found the challenge of writing to  writing to a deadline. Most competitions will provide a maximum word number; if it is exceeded, they won’t even glance at the story. (My preferred length is 3500 words.) More recently I have discovered the world of flash fiction and microfiction and yet another challenge.

Flash fiction is a brief piece of prose; the term short, short fiction used to be (and is still) used to describe this type of story. While there is no definitive definition of word length for flash fiction, it seems that many agree it is under 1000 words. I have also seen stated word lengths of 600, 700, 800 word count. Then there is microfiction – stories less than 300 or 500 words. (again there are different definitions of word count and a multitude of other descriptives for this story length).

Initially a shorter short story sounds ideal – less character development, less description and less complicated story lines. This is not so. I have managed several flash and micro fiction stories over the past couple of months. With the word limit restrictions to support the more traditional plot structure without becoming a vignette. There has to be economy of words. No floury prose here.  Excellent practice for trying to perfect ruthless editing.

I have just sent off an 800 word flash fiction: At Aunt Enid’s to an anthology competition (and have to wait til January for results). I have just submitted two pieces of microfiction stories to a children’s anthology: Mum’s Theory on Cats and Lost. When I have finished a battle with a plot device and segue then I will have another flash fiction ready for competition.

Art/Photography: More experimental fun with my phone camera.

Costume: Australian Costumers’ Guild Quiz Night approaches. I am hoping to wear my Donna outfit… here is a hint

Writing/Reading: Current Work-In-Progress (rewriting) – Flash fiction: The Day of the Derigible. (Steampunk genre)

Other little Green Men? – adapted from the final episode of the  TV series Star Cops (UK): Little Green Men and Other Martians.  

Flash Fiction, Microfiction and Other Little Green Men.

Falling on Deaf Ears.

I was going to write some more on writing today but…

(I waited a few days to write this so it would not be too ranty)

Every time I buy a tshirt online, I search through previously purchased tees to confirm the sizing – as was the case with this order as well.  I noticed that there is now a larger size available. I double checked their sizing chart. I tried on a favourite tee (from the same online company). A comfortable fit. I ordered the same size as both my existing tee and the size chart confirmed that was the correct thing to do.

I waited. For a month. This was expected  as it had to be printed first. On Saturday I took delivery of a tshirt (from a well known online tshirt company). I eagerly pulled it from the packaging, held it up and wondered… Was it the size that I ordered. It looked like a kiddy tshirt. The ‘tag’ inside confirmed it was supposed to be the correct size. I tried it on. It was waayyyyy too tight.

My mood tumbled. I was crushed. The anticipation that had built over the time fell away to reveal the angry disillusionment phase of purchasing online. I waited a while and shot off an email to the company. I refuse to pay out again for return shipping for something that was not correct, according to the information supplied. Not that the tee is any longer available. It was one of those ‘one time only’ deals.

Further ‘research’ has revealed that some of my friends have recently had the same sizing problems with the same tshirt company. Our current theory is that it has changed its supplier. I now await any reply from the company.

There has been many murmurings about inconsistent clothing sizing, not only between countries (A China size Xl is NOT the same as an Australian size XL!) but also within the same country. I can go to different shops and try on the supposed same size only too have one swim on me and the other mimic a corset.

Over the years there has been agreement on this. I have signed a couple of petitions, even attended a ‘sizing survey’ that was researching women to ascertain the current average size – and another petition resulting from this. Choice Magazine has done articles – in an effort to kick complacency in its (supposedly a different size) arse. Too often television current affairs shows do an article (most likely as it is the ‘latest trending’ topic) only to have it fall on the deaf ears of the clothing industry.

Okay, it ended in a rant. Inconsistent sizing must be stopped!

Art/Photogaphy: Trying out new digital effects:


Costumes: making them myself ensures that they fit – the joys of ‘toile’ing – for my 18th century French costume
Reading/Writing: Two ‘flash fiction’ stories finished (under 600 words) and submitted for consideration to a children’s anthology.
- Lost- Mum’s Theory on Cats.


Falling on Deaf Ears.

Step 1: Admission

I was first lured into writing at the tender age of  nine (grade 4). I wrote a poem and won the Bookweek prize at my Primary School. (A book: West of Widdershins.) If only it was that easy now.  I was addicted. At first it was a sporadic indulgence culminating in fourteen-year-old teenage angst poetry and a 200 + page SF book at the age of seventeen (grade 12) Note to self: Never tell writers’ groups about long past, possibly teenage angst-ridden writings. They will insist on reading it. (There is no way they will get access to the teenage-angst poetry though.)

For some time I was reformed. I knuckled down and finished my university degree. Though I did not admit it to myself, I lapsed and wrote a variety of background and stories for my passion of (now-called) tabletop roleplaying (you know – with  rulebooks, dice, notebooks etc) I convinced myself that these were research and technical things and not fiction.

Then came work; practicle and scientific and for the good of others’ health. Somewhere along the line, I fell in with a comic book crowd who had scored a government arts grant. I did artwork and inking but secretly I wanted to write something. The grant ran out and I was spared the slippery slope of starting up writing again.

I pretended that the articles I wrote for the (now defunct) Roleplaying magazine Australian Realms, were more non-fiction… with pretty pictures. How could that be considered writing? Nor could the articles I wrote on other passions such as costuming – with articles on Florentine costuming (after all there was a lot of research done for those) or documenting various costumes I had made.

I almost fell into the beckoning maw of memoir writing in 2006. I was discovering things about my past that had been hidden to me. Things about my father that I had been sheltered from. I recently found some of these scratchings and was surprised that they sounded as if they were written by a real writer.

I did not realise I was a writer in primary school.

I hid the book I wrote in highschool.

I did not admit that I was a writer when penning articles for magazines.

I pushed away the ideas and writings for a memoir as I was not ready to face the daemons… quite yet.

It took a series of stressful events, for me to start rediscover the writer within me – she who has been lurking for almost forty years, not wanting to surface for the fear of rejection. This year I have given into the muse. I have uncovered things from my past, I have re-visited issues that have plagued me and I have found a catharsis in  putting my thoughts and words on the page.

Subconsciously I knew that I was a writer. I had kept flirting with it but never quite giving in. It was not a safe career choice, as my mother would say. It was not until I had finished one of my short stories and actually sent it to a competition, that I started the process of admitting to myself that I was a writer.

Even then I was researching the internet to find the definition of a writer, lest I was too presumptuous in using the word; I had always thought I was not allowed to be a writer until I got something published. Only when I had been shortlisted for one of the competitions did I allow myself to use the word. Silly me.  I had been a writer all along.  I write because I must. When I don’t write, I am grumpy (er).

I have these weird and wonderful characters knocking on the inside of my skull, demanding to be given life. When I do write them, they have a life of their own. They have always been there. Now they are allowed to come out and play. I have a couple of novels floating around in my imagination. One has been there since university (I now have one chapter down on paper and much more in my head). The other is forming from my love of steampunk. It is populated with characters that have been trying to find a home; they now have one.

So, here it goes…

Hello. My name is Karen. I am a writer.


Step 1: Admission