With less than four weeks until I fly I have had the pleasure of returning to the nest, spending the past two weeks in my home town of Adelaide with my wonderful Ma.
It’s been lovely to have quiet time with her watching PG Wodehouse DVDs, joining her Tai Chi class, nattering over meals and discussing books. As noted in an earlier post, Ma is an inveterate reader whose literary acumen I hold in highest esteem, so we’ve also had a chance for several fruitful sessions pondering various aspects of my plot.
It has also been nourishing to return to the womb of my childhood bedroom which is still adorned with a picture (somewhat faded) of me in the role of Joseph in our Grade 7 production of Joseph and his Technicolour Dreamcoat, and three longstitch needleworks of gum trees that I perpetrated in my early 20s.
The family home is little changed since I penned my first nascent stories there and I still know how to dodge the creaky floorboard in the hallway when creeping into my room late at night, though teen subterfuge is no longer a necessity.
Being home has also recalled my father to the forefront of my mind. It’s hard to believe but he has now been dead for longer than I knew him in life. Garth Boomer was a bit of a legend in education circles, a brilliant thinker and writer, a raconteur par excellence, enthusiastic sportsman and the life and soul of any party. He died tragically early at the age of 53 when I was 25.
While taking my morning constitutional along the Glenelg foreshore it occurred to me that maybe this writing escapade of mine has a bit of a Freudian element to it. Just after I return from Carcassonne I will be turning 52, and perhaps there is some part of me that wants to guarantee I get this book thing sorted out before the ominous and perilous age of 53. I do know that if I complete my mission and my book is published there will be an extra twinkly star in the sky and an echo of his voice saying “Well done BG!” (his nickname for me – Beautiful Girl).
Apart from childhood naval gazing, my fortnight has also afforded some wonderful opportunities to take in the delights of the Adelaide Festival of Arts. I’ve crammed in four events and enjoyed every one. An especially huge thank you is due to my mate Fontella who is a mad artsista (OK, I just made up a word) who has shared with me the ticketing bounty she has reaped in her role as social media maven for Writer’s Week.
As a co-aspirational author, Fonty and I have delved into such all-consuming topics as whether or not to fictionalise locations in our novels, the inspiration v. application principle in writing discipline, and the merits and appropriate timing of when to seek beta-readers for our works-in-progress. Sharing the authorial journey with her is a joy.
And of course I couldn’t come to Adelaide without spending quality time with the irrepressible Rachel, my oldest friend and feared green pen-wielding editor (I previously and erroneously referred to her using a red pen – apologies). We had a great night watching one of her former drama students in her first Fringe production and supping on Greek delights in Unley.
But the best night of my Adelaide sojourn was the one I spent with Rachel, her husband Jamie and daughter Maddy, wrestling with the all-important, life-changing question of what to name my lead character.
Over the past 12 months I’ve tried on various names for her but none of them have ‘clicked’. I’ve gotta love this gal if I’m going to spend three months in her head, and none of the monikers I’ve tested have really rung true. Rachel, Jamie, Maddy and I scoured the nameiverse (yep, another new word) and I believe we have hit the jackpot (huge thanks guys!). I am pleased to announce that my protagonist shall be called Tess (or sometimes Tessa) Falkner. I hope you’ll like her …