Must be feeling melancholy – lazy blogger, article from the archives.

April 3rd, 2010
Flawed system failed Daniel at every turn

By CLAIRE HALLIDAY
Whitney and Aleshia were two years old when they found their father hanging in the garage. More than two years later, it’s an image that still disturbs the twins.
Their mother, Jo-lene Castree, 22, shares the memory of that day in January, 1999. That she felt sure the day would come hasn’t made it any easier to accept.
“I knew that Daniel was going to die but there was nothing I could do,” she says. Her husband, Daniel Chambers, was 22 when he committed suicide.
According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, Daniel was just one of 2492 deaths that year attributed to “intentional self harm”.
Fanita Clark, Director and founder of the Brisbane based White Wreath Association, believes Daniel’s story is sadly typical.
This year, what began as a way to commemorate the 1999 death of Fanita Clark’s own son, Jason, 19, National White Wreath Day, on May 29, has been added to the national health events calendar.
The association has offices in Brisbane, Townsville, Perth and Melbourne and is implementing support in Sydney, Canberra and Hobart. In Geelong, Jo-lene’s mother, Joan Castree, 48, is the official contact and organiser of the local service.
Joan believes problems in the health system need to be changed. The attitude towards confidentiality issues, she says, is the main thing. “Getting Daniel help was totally impossible because they wouldn’t talk to any of us about his case. They couldn’t discuss his case with anyone else but him.”
In the midst of depressive or psychotic episode though, in which he would often smash windows and punch walls, Daniel was in no mood to come to the telephone.

On the day he died, Jo-lene was trying to get help from the mental health service. Told that his case couldn’t be discussed with her, she was asked to bring Daniel to the phone.
“He just laughed at me. Just laughed at me and walked out to the garage. That was the last time I saw him,” Jo-lene says.
She remained on the phone, telling the person on the other end that she needed intervention, that her husband was going to kill himself. She said he had locked himself in the garage, hoping they would take her seriously.
“They told me people don’t go into a garage to kill themselves. They said he’d get in the car and leave the house if he was going to do it.”
The response from the police was just as frustrating. With Daniel’s past aggressive behavior already known to them, they told her to “leave the bastard”.
“That’s not what he needed. Daniel needed help,” Jo-lene says.
She was on the phone again when she heard a strange noise. “I walked into the garage and the girls were both hanging on to his legs and saying, ‘Daddy won’t move’.” She tried to get him down but couldn’t. “He was already dead anyway.”
Jo-lene believes Daniel was continually let down by the system. When police were called during a previous incident, the result was a court case a month before he died, with Daniel charged with resisting arrest. A combined sentence of community work and psychological counselling was agreed upon.
The next day Daniel was assigned community work, Jo-lene says. “But he never got his counselling.”
When he did get an assessment appointment two days before he died, Jo-lene says he was excited.

“He was saying, ‘they’re going to fix me’,” she says. Instead, Daniel only saw a social worker. To Daniel, it seemed the final betrayal.
Despite stating his intention to commit suicide, he wasn’t categorised as high risk because he couldn’t tell the social worker when or how he intended to do it.
Although Jo-lene can’t guarantee he would still be alive today if things had been handled differently, she feels that Daniel would not have died as hi did – on that Saturday in the garage in her back yard. Her mother agrees.
“It’s a terminal illness,” Joan says. “Daniel’s trajectory towards death was so clear to anyone who knew him well.
“He was dying… He talked more and more of suicide. I’m not talking about cures. There’s no cure for cancer or AIDS but they prolong life and make the person comfortable and they are working towards a cure.
“They need to do the same for suicide, because it is a disease. The mind is ill. It shuts down its normal function and homes in on death.”
Joan’s hope for this Tuesday, and future White Wreath Days, is that people left picking up their lives after a loved one’s suicide will realise they are not alone.
“If it had just happened to us I would say, ‘OK, we didn’t know how to work the system’, or that there was a breakdown in communication. But it’s not just us. A lot of suicide victims left behind have the story we have; that’s the real story.
“The government needs to spend just as much on suicide prevention as they do on anti smoking or road accidents. if you’ve got to wait 12 months, or even three weeks to get into counselling, that’s too long when someone is in crisis. If you can keep someone alive just enough to change the system, you can help.”

Even if time is slowly healing the scars, the memories continue to emerge. While Joan was picking her husband up from work recently, she heard a choking sound from the back seat and turned to see Whitney playing with a piece of colored ribbon, wrapping it around her neck. “She said, ‘If I put this around my neck I’ll go to heaven to be with Daddy’,” Joan says.
So, to counter their original stories of heaven as a wonderful place where “Daddy is happy”, Joan and Jo-lene have had to amend the fairy tale.
“I told her that if she goes to heaven she can never, ever come back to see mummy. That Daddy can’t ever come back, ” Joan says.
Aleshia seems to have realized it. “Last week she came in to me and told me that it was time she had a new daddy, so I told her to speak to her mother, ” Joan says. “She went to Jo-lene and said, ‘Mum, I’ve got to find a new daddy but please let him live long. I don’t want one that lives short’.”

www.whitewreath.com
(White Wreath Association)

an Australian day

March 7th, 2010

I started my day a couple of hours earlier than usual. My mobile phone alarm was set for 3.50am – just to make sure that I would wake up in time to be interviewed by a US-based site about my book. I set another alarm for 3.55am to make doubly sure but I needn’t have been so cautious. As it was, despite an inability to go to bed much before 1am, all my ODC-ish anxiety showed itself in an inability to sleep (even though I was tired). Instead, I tossed. I turned. And I kept checking the time.

And suddenly, there I was, dialing Chicago to be interviewed here: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/search/claire-halliday

And I was thinking about being Australian and how I was going to talk about the issues in what I have always seen as my very Australian book, Do You Want Sex With That?, to an American audience – and elsewhere.

I am Australian. I wrote my book about growing up in Australia. And suddenly, here I was, at 4am, on hold to Chicago, and beyond the wondering about the practical logistics of how the book was even going to be accessed by an overseas audience (it’s not for sale on Amazon but is available on other sites – www.fishpond.com.au; www.boomerangbooks.com.au and even www.readings.com.au) I was also wondering how it would be read by an international audience. But aside from the descriptions of my beachy Australian childhood that I imagine are quite alien to anyone experiencing a Chicago childhood,  the themes, I am sure, are universal. The worries I have as a parent – worries about sexualisation of children and how far our advertising standards are going to stretch to allow the increase of porn-style marketing – are, I’m sure, felt by parents all over the world.

Just as I write about swingers parties, sexual expos, strippers at bucks’ parties and 21st birthday bashes, rape, virginity, pornography and confusion in Australia, I imagine that those same topics could have easily been written about with an eye on US society. Those in the US have the same confusion – the one hand dealing with the incredible sexual freedom that the internet has played its large part in promoting and making accessible; that other hand with its grip on religious conservatism and some vain hope of trying to stem the tide.

When I talk about the way sex in long-term relationships can sometimes fall away, or the way my sexual values, since becoming a mother, have shifted, I imagine women all over the world feeling similarly.

My book is Australian but I’d like to think it’s more.

And so, I talked. About myself. About my book. And I think it went well. And then I went back to bed. It was 4.28am.

My partner let me sleep in when the children woke up at 6:30am and woke me later with bacon and eggs and a cup of tea and the suggestion that we drive an hour away to Rosebud beach to see the annual kite festival. So we did. And we took the dog. Other people did too. They flew kites shaped like sharks and crocodiles and stingrays and the local CFA had a sausage sizzle to raise money for their firefighting work and men walked around in the sun with their t-shirts off and down on the beach the sea sparkled while my nose burned. There was a jumping castle and a trio of African men playing drums and a little replica train that took children for rides and had a little bell that dinged and made my dog bark. There was soft serve ice-cream and a rock-climbing wall and a lady who took photos of our dog because she said she used to have a border collie and she wanted to remember.

When I arrived home, the same woman with the border collie obsession – this stranger who had asked for my email and offered to send us the pictures – had emailed me 33 photos of our dog, our family bordering the edges of him in almost every frame.

And maybe somewhere in Chicago, right now, someone is ordering my book online and they will have had a day that is so far removed from anything I did at Rosebud but that doesn’t really matter.  In many ways, it was a very Australian day. But parts of it were even more.

Blast from the past

March 2nd, 2010
I wrote this article to run in Sunday Life, on Mother’s Day 2000.
My first child had been born in 1999. My editor knew I had an adoption story to tell so she asked me to write something.

I would write it differently now. But interesting for me to see what I was feeling at the time…

this life

Claire Halliday
Thirty-one years ago, a mother named her daughter Amanda.

When I became a mother just over a year ago, I agonised over the naming process. It was, to me, a far weightier responsibility than worrying about disposable nappies versus cloth, whether or not to baptise, or the future private school fees I might never be able to afford. I had to name a person. For life. Thirty-one years ago, when a mother named her daughter Amanda, it wasn’t for life. Just three weeks later, another mother came along and renamed Amanda. She called her Claire.

Now, although I can’t imagine not being Claire, I can’t imagine not knowing I was also Amanda.

I don’t remember if there was a specific trigger to make me want to trace my birth mother. It had been a much thought-about but buried desire, I suppose. From the days of childish “I wish you’d never adopted me” taunts aimed at my ever-suffering parents, to adolescence-induced angst and a feeling that I just didn’t belong. Suddenly, when I turned 21 and was (geographically and, at the time, emotionally) far enough away from my adoptive mother, it just seemed important.

But I already knew I was Amanda by that time. That naming duality had been discovered three years earlier, courtesy of what the officials concerned called “non-identifying information”.

It might have been non-identifying as far as my natural parents were concerned (she – no name, slim build, longish nose, fair complexion, light brown hair with auburn highlights, 19-year-old trainee nurse; he – no name, slim build, olive complexion, dark hair, hazel eyes, 21-year-old postman), but for me – slim build, longish nose, fair complexion, light brown hair with auburn highlights, hazel eyes – it spoke volumes. I identified myself in someone else.

I also learnt about my other name. Throughout all this, my adoptive mother had seemed shakily uncertain and I didn’t really understand why. Fear and jealousy, I had presumed. She had raised me as her daughter and now, on an innocent-enough-looking sheet of A4 paper, she was reminded that she wasn’t really my mother. She had neither a slim build, longish nose, fair complexion or light brown hair of any description. She had named me Claire.

My sense of having betrayed her was palpable and so, without either of us ever formally deciding it, the topic was relegated to our personal family time capsule to be examined at some future date.

For me, time only fuelled curiosity and ridiculous fantasies. During my militant vegetarian, purple-wearing hippie phase, I conjured up a dream that gave me a satisfactory explanation to my “abandonment” at birth. My father, you see, must have been a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War who went underground at the threat of conscription. My mother became the tragic lover who went with him, fell pregnant and was forced to give up her child (me) because of the dangerous uncertainty of her fugitive lifestyle.

So, at 21, I went looking. I’d seen a lot of telemovies by way of research – so I knew that, even when I had received my original birth certificate with her name on it, it would take a very long, emotionally draining time to locate her. It didn’t. It took a very cursory search through the telephone directory of a small interstate town and one phone call to what turned out to be my grandfather. In fact, from the moment I took receipt of my original birth certificate from a nondescript office in the inner city to the time I had the number to her present home in yet another state, it took two hours.

If my story was a telemovie, it would have ended in soft focus when I dialled the number and recited my (only slightly less subtle) version of “guess who I am?” to the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. The birth mother and child are reunited. Roll credits. What I got was a stunned-sounding woman whose voice only increased the distance between us. A voice that sounded quite a lot like mine but belonged to someone I had never met. A woman whose voice I had heard in nine months of moments before memory exists.

It should be a conversation I can still recite word for word but I can’t and that annoys me. We might have talked for 10 minutes – long enough for her to tell me the brief circumstances of my adoption. A boyfriend she realised she didn’t love enough to marry and a baby that 1968 society didn’t encourage single mothers to keep.

She must also have asked me my address because, two days later, an envelope with gently formed cursive I didn’t recognise arrived. Inside: a letter and a photograph. The photograph, I learnt from a scrawled date on the back, was of her as a young woman. It confirmed I looked a lot like her but gave me no sense of who she had become.

The letter explained her pregnancy situation with slightly more emotion, provided my birth father’s name, confirmed she had named me Amanda, and told me that the nurses at the hospital had nicknamed me Rosemary after Simon and Garfunkel’s Scarborough
Fair. It told me she had met another man while still pregnant with me and that they had married straight after my birth and had their own child a year later. Then it explained that, as she herself had lost her mother to cancer at age nine, I should be grateful to have been adopted and had a mother at all. “Don’t cry for the past,” she wrote. It ended with a wish of “all the best for your future”.

I made a cup of tea, sat down, smoked a cigarette, re-read it and cried for the present. In response, I sent a carefully constructed assurance that I was actually quite happy with my life and was certainly not seeking to enter hers and expect to be welcomed into the family fold with open arms. “I don’t want that at all,” I told her. “I just want to talk to you occasionally – perhaps meet.” She must have read “please be my mother” between the lines. She never wrote back.

But I do have a mother, anyway, and I told her the new story. Her fear and jealousy still seemed to be there. We locked it away again.

Five years ago, this mother – my mother, the one who named me Claire – asked me to come home for a visit. She had something to tell me. She had to do her own unlocking. It was quite big news, as family secrets go – a pregnancy many years pre-marriage and a daughter she had secretly given up for adoption. As I had done with my own birth mother, this daughter had traced my adoptive mother, no doubt harbouring the same guarded fantasies and wanting all the things I had. Unlike me, though, this daughter got them.

To fill in these past five years would be to talk of anger and displacement. It was easy to feel replaced by this newcomer, a woman who had, essentially, assumed not only the role of daughter within my adoptive family, but made me see my adoptive mother as someone else’s birth mother.

I think it is the latter that hurts the most. It forces me to see the bond that can exist between birth mother and child. It reminds me that I miss it. Seeing the physical similarities between mother and daughter reminds me of the woman whose younger face I wear.

This experience prompted me to attempt contact again; requesting a meeting “just to see what you look like”. A departmental mediator this time to soften the blow of refusal. It didn’t. This time, I didn’t tell my adoptive mother what I’d done.

During my pregnancy, I felt my daughter kick inside. I fantasised about leaving her on a doorstep with a little note attached so someone would find her. I imagined running away entirely and just leaving her with her father. I came to the conclusion that I could never do it. I came to the conclusion that maybe I understood how people could feel so tangled up in circumstance that they could. And I stopped being so incredibly angry at my mothers. Both of them.

When my daughter was born, a friend told me she had my hands. It made me wonder whose hands I had and so I attempted contact again. This time I wrote another letter complete with photographs of my baby and what I hoped would be an emotional niggle: “I’ve been told she looks just like I did at her age.” This time there was at least a reply. It spoke again of bitterness and again reminded me I should be grateful for having had any sort of mother. I don’t write to her any more but if I did, I would tell her that I am grateful to have had a mother. And that I’m even more grateful to be one.

Double Lives/Double Bylines

February 28th, 2010

A quick glance at the photograph – a slightly blurry, badly framed headshot of a young woman with long, gently red hair and eyes that don’t look back at the camera – and she looks her age. Twenty-three, it says. As part of the profile she has posted on the Adult Match Maker site, she describes herself as “nerdy”. Under the sub-heading ‘Interests’ she lists “handcuffs”, “sex in public”, “naturism” and “swinging”.
She says she’s looking for casual sex but says she would prefer to meet for coffee “or something” before she meets up for anything else. This is, she writes, for two reasons:
1)    “I am shy.”
2)    “I have no idea whether or not you are an axe murderer and I don’t want to put myself at risk.”

In the past week, in response to my own profile placement selling myself as part of a couple seeking other couples to swing with, the details of this woman, from country Victoria, have been delivered to my email inbox – one of 27 new members who fit the specific criteria I listed as important.

I am not really who I say I am – this double life being lived for the purposes of research. On this site, though, like so many of the other similar websites, contact magazines and personal ads in suburban newspapers that allow people to advertise the intricacies of their sexual pecadillos in the hope they may find others to share some part of that experience, it is clear things aren’t always what they seem.

They make up innuendo-laden usernames – naughtygirl, hungandhandsome, tastytreat – and they list their occupations as everything from primary school teacher to office manager. They say they are married, attached, seeking discreet affairs during daytime hours only, looking for group sex, or even just one extra, usually female, to stir some spice into a “loving, long-term” relationship.
One gives her age as 39, thinks that what her husband doesn’t know “won’t hurt him” and says that older men, “about 50, with a bit of grey” are “a turn-on”.
They post photos of themselves with breasts plumped into red push-up bras and then there are others, with no photograph at all, who describe their looks as “very attractive” and their figure “cuddly”.
And they are online now. And they want me to contact them.  Now.
“Let’s meet for open-minded fun.”

Tonight, on channel 9, the airing of the telemovie Wicked Love will appeal to a public fascination with sexual double lives, in its telling of what was known as the ‘body in the boot’ case – the story of Maria Korp’s 2005 murder, with its gruesome links to infidelity and the partner-sharing world of the thriving local swingers’ scene. Online recruiting of sexual partners ultimately led to Korp’s death at the hands of her husband’s mistress, Tania Herman, and now, it seems, ads detailing the sexual urges of murdered millionaire, Herman Rockefeller, have played their own part in his death – linking the businessman to a fatal detour from the leafy streets of Malvern to the car parts-strewn commission block in Hadfield and the arms of the accused killers, Mario Schembri and Bernadette Denny.
The idea that Rockefeller , whose mobile numbers have been linked to ads run under the pseudonym Andy Kingston, was involved in the ‘official’ swinging community – a community existing primarily around a collection of regular events, held in private homes or clubs on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis – has had those well-known on the scene dubious of the subsequent media attention and the portrayal of the scene as something dangerous and underground, with one well-known party organiser who gives his name as ‘Paul’ dismissing any Rockefeller connection with the organised swingers’ events he says are safe and carefully managed.
What cannot be as carefully managed, Paul says, is the actions of the many thousands who explore the world of swinging in a less formal fashion – what many perceive as the more discreet dalliances springing from the placing, or answering, of personal ads in contact magazines or through companies who make a business from online match-making.

“Calling swinging ‘underground’ is laughable,” says Lilah*. “Information about other venues is available on the internet as well as a contact magazine which is found in most sex shops. Swingers’ parties have stands at the annual Sexpo. A huge swingers’ site advertises openly on late night TV.”

Lilah is a mother of two adult children and works as a personal assistant in a small CBD office. She is also involved in running one of Melbourne’s best-known swingers’ parties. In the emotive language of the post-Rockefeller media, she understands how the headline-friendly ‘double life’ tag could just as easily apply to her.
She disagrees.
“Sex is something that most people don’t talk about to work colleagues, family and friends.  It’s not socially acceptable to do so – but everyone, pretty much, has sex.  They aren’t having a double life simply because they don’t talk about it.  Just because some people’s sexual activities fall outside what others may do doesn’t give them a double life – it just makes them individuals,” says Lilah, 55. “Swinging is called ‘The Lifestyle’ and that’s how I see it in relation to myself and my boyfriend.  It’s just a part of our life – the way we choose to live our sexual life – and we don’t see it as a ‘double life’. My take on ‘double life’ is the people who are cheating on partners.  They are deliberately hiding something as opposed to just not talking about the sort of sex they have. I don’t tell my children that I’m ‘off to set up for the party’, but I also don’t tell them when I’m going out to have sex with my boyfriend.”
She’s not sure what percentage of men attending the party she helps operate are attached but knows at least a few of the regulars are.
“Quite often, when guys ring to make a booking they will openly say they are married and quip that they will have to find a reason to be out on a Saturday night,” says Lilah, whose event is one of a small group of advertised parties that allows single men to attend – setting it apart from the traditional, couples-focussed swingers’ scene. “I would say that attached guys attending parties, in general, do so without their partner’s knowledge.”
The most common reason, she says, the men give for their cheating is “that they either get no, or very little, sex at home”. With few parties allowing single men to attend, though, Lilah believes that the “vast majority” of men living sexual double lives would be doing so on a private basis, meeting couples or women one-on-one.
“Of course there is potential for a negative impact if their actions are discovered by their partners but they obviously feel the need for sex is worth the risk – and that they will be able to ‘get away with it’,” says Lilah. “ I don’t get the impression that there is much guilt attached to their actions though, especially for those who have been doing this long-term.”
Although she has seen, first-hand, this double life is not the sole domain of men, Lilah says that the number of men living this way far outstrips the women.
“Women do also seek sex outside their relationships but I would suggest that their needs are more than just sexual,” she says.

Psychologist Marcus Squirrell, 37, has spent the last few years working with clients with sexual addictions and cybersex addiction and is researching the area for his soon-to-be-completed doctoral thesis.
While the specifics of the Rockefeller case are not yet known and Squirrell is quick to point out that “engaging in any type of sexual behaviour, even if the behaviour is frequent does not mean that someone is addicted to sex”, the psychologist says that, sex addiction or not, the numbers of people living sexual double lives is growing – due to, in part, the rise of technology that has made it so accessible.

“I am firmly of the opinion that both the Internet and mobile phones significantly contribute to one’s capacity to develop sexually compulsive behaviour that otherwise would not have existed if it was not for easy access to an endless array of sexual material and other individuals who are also interested in meeting offline for sex.  I also see a number of bisexual men who act out sexually with other men and lead a double life where they hide these aspects of their sexuality from their girlfriends or wives.  These men frequent beats, sex-on-premises establishments and create online profiles to gain access to sexual partners,” Squirrell says. “Most of the clients I see were, at some point, leading a double life in regards to not disclosing their sexual acting out to family, friends and work colleagues.  It is typically only when they get caught do they disclose any of their history.”
Director of Action Psychology, Sarah Calleja, 58, has specialised in relationship and sexual issues for 20 years and says that the combination of mobility, time, money, opportunity and technology allows  “a large minority” of people to act deceitfully.
The textbook analysis, she says, details Narcissistic Personality Disorder – one of ten personality disorders defined in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook that mental health professionals use to diagnose clients – as something people living sexual double lives are more likely to have.
As a group, Calleja says, these disorders are described as “enduring pattern[s] of inner experience and behaviour” that are sufficiently rigid and deep-seated to bring a person into repeated conflicts with his or her social and occupational environment.
“The trouble with Narcissistic personalities is that they don’t have any genuine empathy or remorse for what they do – they just leave disaster behind them,” Calleja says.
Extricating yourself from such disaster, say the experts, can be achieved but only with hard work.
Among the clients he sees at Melbourne Addiction Recovery Service, counsellor and experiential therapist, Melvyn Bowler, 68, says they fall into two categories:  “those who want to stop because it is destroying their lives, and those coerced into seeing me because someone is forcing them to”.
The term ‘double life’, says Bowler,  is not used in recovery circles.
“We would say the person is in ‘denial’, and has constructed a whole range of psychological and other defences to protect themselves from the painful consequences of what they are doing,” he says. “If someone is seeing me because they have been forced to, then my job is to attempt to break through their denial, and to become honest in their recovery effort.  I do not always succeed. Living a double life becomes simply a part of life – second nature if you  like.  And some people can handle stress better than others.”

If Pete is leading a double life, he’s not hiding anything here.
It’s been just four minutes since we met in this second-storey room, with the smell of the kebab shop two doors down rising up the stairwell and the man behind the bar wearing nothing but an apron and lacy Carol-at-the-bar, with her overflowing bosom and Pete’s wife with the sleekly sexy black heels and her cigarettes, and he’s already telling me the name of his business and its website address.
He’s telling me this because we are at a swingers’ club – up here, above the suburban shopping strip, the under-populated Saturday night restaurants and the easy street parking– and he wants me to email him if I decide to come back. He’s telling me this because I have arrived here, with a female friend who I am pretending is much more, already carefully crafting my exit strategy with the story that we are two curious women, interested in the idea of all that is on offer but, for tonight, probably just here, slightly nervously, to look. And because that seems to disappoint him, he wants me to email him some warning if we plan to return another night and actually join in.
And so, he is spelling out his business name. Telling me to look it up.
For all Pete knows, my own husband could be a regular user of his products. For all Pete knows, my own profession could be linked with his somewhere down the distribution track. But if Pete does know this – if he thinks for a moment about the way his professional life might in one moment intersect with his personal – it doesn’t seem to bother him.
To him, being a swinger is comfortable, safe, secure. He nods towards a few other regulars, talks about this one, that one, by name. If he is living what some people would term a double life, then he is not living it here. Here, Pete is himself and he doesn’t seem to have anything he needs to hide.
Sure, his parents don’t know, his doctor, his neighbours, or the bloke at the petrol station where he fills up his ute. They don’t know that he comes here, to this bar where the tv plays orgy porno and the rabbit warren collection of utilitarian, purpose-built rooms out the back have bench-like beds without sheets butted up against the walls and black vinyl upholstery for easy cleaning. But it’s not like he tells them anything about his ‘regular’ sex life either, he says. There are some things you don’t need to share.

Unlike Herman Rockefeller, whose pretending about what he was led to his death and the raw shock of his family left in its wake, Pete has never lied about his relationship status (married) or age (36). But he doesn’t need to. With a wife who shares his penchant for group sex, he has never run into anyone he knows at any of the swingers’ clubs or parties he has been attending for the last couple of years but even if he did, he can’t see the problem.
“If they see you, then you’re seeing them too,” he says. “You’d be in the same boat, wouldn’t you? You’d both have the same secret.”

I have been talking to Carol and Nick – a  twangy country couple just down for the weekend. They make semi-regular trips to the city to inhabit this swinging world they can’t find in their small hometown. There are a handful of advertised swingers’ events on in Melbourne tonight. One, Debauchery, is at the house of a professional organiser in the southern suburbs. One, Party Insatiable, bills itself as a gang-bang party, promising a ratio of five men to every one woman. Carol and Nick have chosen this one, open to couples, single women and just a smattering of unattached men, although they find the cooler, bar-like atmosphere – unlike the homier surrounds of the typical party where guests are directed to “dress down” into lingerie, or less, upon arrival – a little less welcoming. They haven’t heard of Herman Rockefeller and think it’s safe, even after last weekend’s experience at a different party, where Nick thinks Carol was slipped “a snow cone” (a sprinkling of amphetamine or ecstasy on top of a bong she had been offered).
“I was having a great time, apparently,” Carol says. “I can’t remember any of it but Nick looked after me. I don’t take drugs. I didn’t know what was happening but I wasn’t myself.”
We talk briefly, of romance and of poetry and how she used to read Keats when she was younger. Before Nick.
I suspect the heating has been turned up and, as Carol checks her watch – quarter to ten – the mood is following. A saggy man with a towel wrapped around his waist drips past from the spa that is bubbling somewhere down the back. It is time to leave. Despite my continual flagging of my plans, Carol and Nick seem surprised and as he kisses me goodbye on the cheek he presses just a little too closely, as if to show me what I might be missing. Carol is smiling, almost apologetically, sweet, her soft hand holding mine for too many seconds as she laughs off her husband with her country Australian drawl.
“You take your time and think,” she says. “Maybe we’ll see you next time.”
A few doors away, I eat sushi and wonder if everyone has taken their pick of those back rooms. The one that fits three; the one with the whipping frame; the one with room for eight, maybe more; the one with windows for other people to look through.
And I think of Carol and Nick – her lace, her poetry and the way they seem to love each other – and if their time chatting to me has meant they have missed out on some other grouping they weren’t taking time to make themselves part of. And I think that it’s all somehow sad but they seemed so happy. Sometimes things aren’t always what they seem.

Hit Me, Baby, One More Time

February 23rd, 2010

Whoops. I did it again. Went exploring the secret side of Melbourne’s sexuality for a feature I am writing. By way of research, I have been interviewing all sorts of people – those with professional opinions, those who are simply opinionated and a whole lot more who really don’t have a lot to say…especially when there is someone pretending to be a journalist asking them questions.

Hopefully, it will be a way to give my book another little plug. With it already out on the shelves since September, 2009, any little push of renewed interest has to be worth pursuing.

And so…I have an inbox of emails that are helping me write my take on this particular issue – responses from people with fake email addresses and fake names and some with real email addresses and fake names and others still who are so real they don’t want to be quoted at all.

And so I think. Just mulling it all over – this mix of opinion, perception, observation and its banging into a newspaper feature.

I feel it already flowing and just wish the same would happen for my novel that is not being created in quite the way I’d hoped so many blog posts ago. Maybe I should stick to non-fiction? At first glance, it certainly does seem a lot stranger. And strangely familiar.

Liar, Liar

February 15th, 2010

Daily blog, indeed! Who was I fooling? Only myself. In the past five weeks, with my partner working both locally and overseas and not here, day in, day out, and four children and a puppy to look after, many things I had planned to do daily (write impressive amounts of words, walk the dog, eat a vegetable, shower) have become slightly less regular in the effort to simply keep life moving from one bedtime/deadline to the next.

And at least there has been work. A commission here, a pitch accepted there. Money, eventually, to land in my bank account.

I have grant application forms I still have not filled in…but will. Entire chapters of this novel to conceive of, other books to read, other things to write.

But through it all, in this past week especially, I have felt positive about it all. Still feeling that it will happen.

I seem to have found myself, lately, more deeply immersed in a writing community. A meeting with a writer one day, a work-shopping of ideas with a group of writers the next, discussions with interesting funding body representatives for that little confidence boost to keep trying, an appearance at a festival to remind me why I should continue to love words.

Writers At The Convent was a good experience. It showed me I have the courage to stand up and be me, no matter who’s listening and it made me take the time to listen to other people’s words and to share congratulations with them for doing the same.

At the end of the day, while it was clear I was no Matthew Reilly with a queue of autograph-hunting readers lining patiently to see me, I did manage to sell a few books, get a bit more experience of reading before a crowd and even more valuable experience reading before a non-crowd but getting up and giving it a go anyway. Even when the intimate gaze of just a small group of people seemed to sear straight through me – nowhere to hide.

When I listened to Kathy Charles read from Hollywood Ending, I gained something else too – the reminder that valuable writing does not have to complexly convoluted. And from Trevor – the older man who overlooked our fellow readers/signing table companions to scan the on-site Readers’ Feast bookstore and emerge with not just one but two books (Do You Want Sex With That? and Hollywood Ending, then got us each to sign respective copies) – I learned that someone out there appreciated the “rhythm” of my sentences. ‘Thanks, Trevor’, I signed, ‘it’s all about the rhythm.’

February 1st, 2010

Before I started writing – those neatly printed novels-in-the-making, earnestly written in a mix of purple biro that smelt like what the Hubba Bubba people think ‘grape’ smells like and pale pink that smelt like some variation of strawberry – I was a reader. In the days of my childhood the beginnings were simple enough: pedestrian adventures of Dick and Dora left over from the late 1960s that were the entry point to Enid Blyton tales of faraway trees and mysterious adventures on the moors. As the first uneasy aches of adolescence made me doubt all that was around me, I stumbled into Judy Blume and read and re-read Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret, It’s Not The End Of The World and Then Again, Maybe I Won’t, which evolved into my introspective angst period and the wonderful S.E. Hinton.

In suburban Plympton, her tales of kids from the wrong side of the tracks inspired me to rail against everything around me, take up cigarettes, discover James Dean and long to trade my largely uneventful life  for that of a disaffected, misunderstood misfit somewhere in America – land of all those Happy Days and sock-hops and sodas. The Outsiders, Tex, That Was Then, This Is Now and Rumblefish became the defining novels I delved into again and again – always crying at the sad bits, no matter how much I knew they were coming, falling in love with Ponyboy and wishing my parents hadn’t given me such a blandly mono-syllabic name.

My books tell a tale of me – my name and the year of purchase jotted somewhere in the front few pages. Messy. Crayon. Coloured pencil. Biro. Purple. Pink. Neat. Blue. Black. Hurried. Grey lead.

I know the year I found out the spider dies in Charlotte’s Web, can identify the part of my childhood when I realised what it was to be Australian and wished that Ginger had never been burnt in February Dragon, the exact day I discovered Holden Caulfield, found Abbie Hoffman’s Revolution For The Hell Of It in a second-hand bookstore and wished I had been born two decades earlier to have become a Yippie (America, again), sobbed at Carson McCullers’ short stories, pored over Oscar Wilde and first turned the pages of To Kill A Mockingbird – another book I re-read regularly.

I encourage my eldest daughter to do similarly – knowing that one day this may have some great meaning for her. This charting of her growth, this measuring of her switch from carefree to concerned.

Unfortunately, my shelves these days are not as regularly stocked with fresh additions. I belong to a book club, I go to the library, I borrow from friends (the expense!), I don’t have the time, I read newspapers that end up in the recycling bin the same day, magazines that have a slightly longer shelf life before they meet the same fate.

If I died tomorrow and all that was left were my books, one could assume, from a quick skim of the opening pages, that I was a prolific reader who cared deeply about specific and different things, at specific, different times and then, seemingly, cared little about a broader range of something else’s for a much longer time.

It’s not entirely true.

While I know that to be a writer, one really should be a reader, the truth is that there aren’t always the hours in the day.

I wish I could write more and I wish, almost as much, I had my feet up more often – glasses creasing my nose and shelves filling with other little slices of me. Times in my life. Things I was thinking. Things I was interested in. Things I wanted to learn more about. I expect I will get there again but for now, my own writing needs to come first – increasingly ignorant as that may make me.

I wonder, in my moments of self-pity (oh, I need more time for me!) my own handwriting of ‘2010′ may remain  absent from any book upon my shelves. If it does, I only hope that I have many thousands of words of my own to excuse the shame. Apologies to today’s rising and brilliant authors – it’s not that I think you have nothing to offer me, it’s just that I need time to find out if I have anything of my own to offer. And if it turns out I don’t…well, I look forward to many, many days and nights of happy reading.

Window to My Writing World

January 25th, 2010

Today, I looked out a window and saw more than just the view. It was okay – some lawn, a big tree (with a swing dangling from a branch), the blur of passing traffic on the other side of the fence beyond – but for me the best thing to look at was the possibility. I don’t know why the idea of a studio seems to give me so much inspiration. I have my own study at home – a beautiful spot with loads of light and a border collie at my feet. There are framed photos of all my children around me on the walls, shelves with books I love and piles of papers with scribbled notes. There is a kettle a short walk away, a fridge that is usually always packed with things to eat and a bathroom just down the hall.

But it’s home.

This studio is not.

It is away from home.

It will put an end to those procrastinations when vacuuming seems more important than chapter outlines. There is no internet connection (and I’m not paying for a wireless one) so there will be no social networking distractions, no email, no Google – just me and my laptop. My words. My fingers to type them. As it should be. I hope it will make me productive. What I’m looking forward to as well is the news the caretaker had for me today – that  each month all the writers renting space there have a meeting to network and chat about individual projects.

It’s what I have blogged about before – this need for occasional discussion and unloading to others who share your occupation. Freelance writers don’t really have too many water cooler conversations. Of course, it’s not something I miss terribly (I don’t need to hear about what someone did on the weekend) but the every now and then-ness of talking about agents, publishers and what to do when the words just don’t come will be, I’m sure, a good thing.

The history of the site itself is another inspiration.

Quite a few stories have already had their beginnings in those rooms and, before that, art in other forms from a previous resident, Arthur Merric Boyd.

And I like old houses. I like the smells, the imperfections, the solidness and the scope. I like things that creak and sag and are part of so many other lives.

I won’t be there much but just enough to give me a writing routine and a place that is mine. I plan to add my own touches – a photo here, a dictionary there, a few of those favourite books to spur me on. Then all I need is the novel.

Material possessions

January 24th, 2010

To what degree can you truly claim ownership of the lives around you and use them – or at least parts of them – as material for your novel/short story? The bitter, obsessive motivations of that ex from so long ago who obviously can’t let go; the relationship with a relative that seems more fraught with each passing year; the tragedy of a colleague whose life has been changed forever; the evolution of budding relationships with discovered siblings; the intrigue of watching your little girl become a woman; those snippets of conversation overheard in cafes or on trams; the way you know a friend feels about not being able to have another baby. To what degree do all these moments become yours to explore, draw out, embellish, or even leave as they are for the purpose of finding some kind of home in your latest writing project? What right do you have to create fiction from someone else’s facts?

As a writer, my instinctive answer is to believe that anything around me may become mine, one day,  on a printed page somewhere. It’s called inspiration, isn’t it? As long as there are no legal issues with regards to what is being shared, than anything I bear witness to – anything I experience in any way – is then part of my own experience to reveal, translate, magnify or blur, anyway that might suit. Isn’t it? Is that accepted? Expected?

Obviously, the interestingly complex (or even blandly mundane) details of someone else’s life should never be written down to be deliberately malicious but if life around me is providing so many insights into different human emotions and the way certain events are dealt with and played out, then surely it would be un-writerly of me to simply turn away. After all, good writers, I believe, hit the mark because they are keen observers of the world around them. Good writers should be able to make a reader understand the way something looks, the way someone feels, or the way an event has taken place. If this ability comes from the research into the lives of the people closest to you – your friends, your family, your neighbours, your work colleagues – is it any less valid? Does it cause offence?

In my own new novel-in-progress, there is much of me and my world in the pages. There are, too, many, many other additions that make characters and situations beyond anything I have lived but not, of course, beyond my imagination. It can never be that. What it can be, though, is such a stretch of my own experience and the experiences I have witnessed around me that I can never be truly sure if the reactions I am writing for my characters will be seen by readers as authentic, or not.  Would a character react THAT way? Would that event really occur just like THAT? The skill, I suppose, will be making sure that the lines between fact and fiction are seamless – that readers won’t be able to complain: ‘I didn’t believe that character would do that’ because, the truth is, I have seen lots of people behave in ways I never thought they would. Sometimes, it is hard to tell the difference between fact and fiction. But in novel writing, I don’t really have a big problem with that.

Inspiration

January 14th, 2010

Sometimes I find it in the noise, sometimes I find it in the silence, sometimes in that late night cup of tea when everything else seems to have finally, simply, stopped. Other times it doesn’t come at all – no matter where I look or how I try to chase it.

Reading http://www.writerhood.blogspot.com/ and finding it, sometimes, in quotes from other writers. Those slightly self-helpish ones that often leave me cold but can also make me just want to type and type (it’s all about the mood) and in the more nuts-and-bolts words of other writers whose pithy quotes equate to a simple urging to just go ahead and do it.

Well, then, I will.

I have so much still to learn about writing and I hope the honest, passionate craving for that knowledge will make the learning less difficult. I’m looking forward to the process.

Already, this year, I have secured official space and today with the hiring of a weekly babysitter, I have also secured official time. I still think I might need an official mentor but, unofficially, I guess they have already been found, in part, in every sentence of every paragraph, on every page of every book I have ever read. The ones that I loved so much I re-read. The ones I hated so much that I didn’t finish.

To be a writer, you really do have to be a reader – I do believe that. I know there are exceptions that could sway me to think otherwise but that is just them. It is not me.

As a freelancer working in journalism, I have made a living from many kinds of writing – the kind where newspaper and magazine editors respect you enough to give your your head and truly play with the language; the other kind for publications so constrained by successful commercialism that they force formulaic prose in which everyone stays the same, even if the byline changes.

I prefer the former but in this age of dwindling word length and too much concern for attracting advertisers, the latter is too prevalent.

It’s a pity. One day, I’d like to do something that challenges that. One day, I think I really will.

In the meantime, I’ll keep learning and reading and writing and writing.

And I I don’t really mind that inspiration can be vague and hard to pin down. It’s as it should be, really.

If I could switch it on whenever I needed it? Well, what would be the fun in that?