poverty

Writing Memoir; open heart monography

I’m about to release my second memoir out into the wild. Am I completely mad? Well…now that you mention it. I’ve also published two YA novels so I can make some comparisons. I love writing. It’s therapeutic, cathartic, meditative, enlightening, enjoyable, torturous and sometimes even redemptive.

My first memoir was a coming-of-age tale of a wild and willful girl finding her place in the world. Although some of the subject matter was a bit risque (see sex, drugs and rock n roll) it was all relatively painless musings about my youth. We all went a bit off the rails during adolescence, didn’t we? Well. if you didn’t, you should have!!! Misbehaving, experimenting with illicit substances and bodies is a fairly mundane rite of passage and you just cross your fingers and hope that you come out the other side relatively emotionally intact…leaving broken hearts, empty bottles and frazzled, frantic parents in your frothy wake.

But this memoir feels different. I feel like, where I opened a window in my first book, One Way or Another, I’ve opened the front door, wide, with Madness, Mayhem and Motherhood. It’s kinda raw. It makes no literary pretentions, it offers no answers to the big questions and it isn’t a cautionary tale, nor one of triumph. It’s just my no-frills, hold-the-bullshit, nuts and bolts recollection of the nineties. I’d done the eighties thing in the rock memoir, big hair, shoulder pads and that severe line of rouge on the cheek sort of era and all that. Madness, Mayhem and Motherhood, let’s call it MMM, is the gritty tale of my decade of grunge. Seems my life rolls out against the musical background of the day….cos in the era of hip hop my frickin’ hip gave out. I don’t know what genre this decade of music fits into…complete leftover-scum-on-the-dog-bowl nonsense if my teenagers’ music is anything to go by.

Back to books. Memoir. Memoir is very much like sawing open your breastbone to sift through your innards looking for something that might look interesting on the page. I’ve recovered from my first one and waded on through comparatively easy rides through fiction where I just made up stuff about fictional character’s lives. That’s the stuff of dreams. Memoirs tend to be like living in a nightmare while you are writing/editing them. It’s so hard to relive your life and see all the places and situations where you should have or could have done better. Oh to be able to edit and proofread your actual life!! But alas you are stuck with your past. It is what it is. The trick in life is not to let it define you. It may be baggage but we can shed it, drop it by the wayside or onto a bonfire any time we like. But you can also just keep that baggage close by (in my case in a pile of ancient diaries and journals) and you can sometimes revisit and learn from both your mistakes and your successes.

Getting a bad review for a memoir hurts way more than one for a work of fiction for obvious reasons. Hexenhaus, my YA novel, was fiction, made up of fairy-tale forests and villainous villains and witch-hunts and hedgehogs….if someone didn’t like it, I didn’t take it personally. The gratuitous torture scenes weren’t everyone’s cup of tea. But a memoir is your thick, warm blood inked out onto the parchment of your own skin. It’s not about clever metaphors or snazzy literary devices. It’s just your head on the plate, your terrified eyes looking right at the reader, saying, ‘This is me. I am sharing me with you. Be gentle with me.’

It’s visceral stuff.

In the nineties, I was poor, I was mad and I was a single mother. Quite the recipe for disaster. And yet my story isn’t unusual. I’m not a famous person penning my gallant life story, I didn’t circumnavigate the world in a bathtub, I wasn’t the first woman to discover the invisible hairy marmoset lizard in the Galapagos. I just lived hand-to-mouth, making ends meet, wrestling the demon of depression, running amok on girls’ weekends, cask wine and crackers, Prosac and pizza….I still managed to drag home a famous muso but because it was the grunge era there were cockroaches all over the walls!! You’ll have to buy the book to discover if this said muso was from Cold Chisel or The Wiggles. There’s a scintillating hook right there for you. Yes, you have to buy it now!!!

Anyway….I will gnaw my fingernails to the knuckles as I wait to see how my pound of flesh in a book is received by the blood-thirsty, book-reading masses, shivering in me boots, hoping I sell enough to get my hip fixed (just kidding)! And I am grateful to have the distraction of editing  for my new YA novel in front of me begging for attention. It’s due out later in the year. Not one drop of my own blood was spilled in the writing of that one!!!

Madness, Mayhem and Madness. Out in bookstores on July 2nd this year (2018)

 

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MADNESS, MAYHEM AND MOTHERHOOD

The really exciting news is that I have a new book coming out on July 2nd.

A memoir.

Yes. I have done the unthinkable again and decided to chainsaw open my chest and spill out little bits of my heart all over the page for strangers to pore over. Am I a complete masochist? A complete narcissist? A complete exhibitionist?

Yes. To all of the above.

You need to be all of those things to be able to write memoir.

For the last few years I’ve been focusing on writing for a young adult audience but this one, ‘Madness, Mayhem and Motherhood,’ is for an older market. For mums and for those who’ve had mums or mother figure’s in their lives. That is most of us.

My journey through motherhood has been turbulent but also brilliant. I am the mother of five children. Five! I blame the Sisters of Mercy for failing to endorse contraception. I’ve grown three boys into men and still have two saplings under my roof. I’ve been a single mum and a partnered mum. Partnered is easier. But I also have fond memories of raising my boys alone. We were a tight unit. A team. I also have bitter, nightmarish memories of that time, when I struggled daily to pay the bills and keep food on the table; when I sat up rocking a sick child to sleep, soaked to the skin with their feverish sweat, alone and frightened.

There was and still is an enormous amount of stigma around single parenting and women cop it worst. A single dad is often seen as something of a hero while a single mum is looked upon as something of a failure. But having sailed the choppy sea myself and having witnessed many strong women bringing up wonderful kids on their own, I know that these parents, doing a double load, are incredibly courageous and inspirational. Champions.

To make ends meet, I cleaned houses, took in ironing and babysat.

But what makes my story a little different is that I was mad as a frickin’ cut snake.

Yep. It took many years for someone to slap a label on me. Bipolar. And let me tell you, juggling a household with small children on a budget made up of found rocks and feathers, with an invisible enemy living inside you like a malicious parasite, is no picnic. I called her Bad Nikki, She’d come to inhabit my body during my teens when she tried to kill me. But she was hot and cold. Not always bad. Sometimes, just mischievous. At times she picked me up on a wave of manic euphoria and sailed me way out to sea while we screamed with laughter, the wind in our hair….and then she’d dump me and leave me to drown. She’d help me write an entire book in two weeks and then stare at me from the mirror and tell me that I was worthless and the very worst mother/person on the planet and that I should jump off the nearest cliff.

But there were also many good times in my roller-coaster life of madness, mayhem and motherhood. The profoundly funny gems of pure joy that came out of my children’s mouths. The Wiggles (I had a massive crush on Greg…you know…when the Wiggles were real Wiggles). The strange and misshapen mother’s day gifts that came home from the school art and craft department. Those moments when you wake up next to your child and they turn to you, all sleep ruffled and tell you that they love you. Child-free girls’ week-ends of champagne and man-watching. Especially those weekends.

But there were yuckier bits. Losing love along the way. Being evicted for being poor. Bank fees for bounced cheques. The electricity being cut off. Eating dry weetbix all weekend….and BAD NIKKI getting in my ear to tell me to end it all. Especially that inner voice.

But I’m still standing. And the kids aren’t completely broken. Fortunately, people are pretty durable and resilient. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger ….and all that.

The book is almost at the first pages stage…..we’re fine-tuning a cover, looking for endorsements from writers that I deeply admire, and I’m just beginning to freak out of my crazy brain about how the book will be received. Will I be strong enough to deal with the haters? Because there are always haters. When you get a one star review for a work of fiction, you can shrug it off. Not everyone likes the same sort of books. But when you get a one star review for a book about YOU, YOURSELF, YOUR VERY SOUL….then it’s pretty hard not to take that personally.

I view writing memoir as a form of ‘therapy’. It flushes out some stories that need to be aired because waving them in the fresh air and sunlight dries them out and stops them from festering into a deep infection of the psyche.

So I’m feeling emotionally refreshed having spilled my guts again…

Can’t wait to hold the book in my hands and sigh….somehow I made it through the wilderness….yeah I made it through.

 

The Great Divide

”I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.”

That quote has been attributed to many people from Mae West to Gertrude Stein. It sounds like a no-brainer. Of course it’s better to be rich than poor. I’ve been dirt poor and I’ve been…..um…less dirt poor.

I have yet to experience what it is to be RICH in a financial sense. What the hell is the bench mark here, anyway? What is the test you must pass to be considered rich or poor? I’ve been hungry-poor, no-roof-over-my-head-poor but the closest I’ve come to being rich is getting a facial at a fancy beauty salon and slapping some Chanel No. 5 behind my ears. Both gifted to me. I am what could be considered comfortable and yet the foundations are shaky enough to warrant vigilance.

Last week I decided to go Gonzo journalist and give the extremes a good going-over. I signed up for the CEO Sleep-out for Vinnies, an annual event to spotlight awareness on homelessness. I had been invited to tell my story to the participants, as part of the presentation preceding a night of sleeping rough on the wintry city streets. I have slept in a tent with my children and bathed them in a bucket of kettle-warmed water. I’ve lined up for food parcels from Vinnie’s in the deep, dark past and it was my time to give back and say ”thank-you, I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Melbourne in winter is COLD. It is miserably cold. It is London-grey and squally. I grew up on the sunshiny Gold Coast. I don’t like bluster and frigidity. I also like my queen-sized, focaccia-like mattress and duck-down doona. I’ve done my time in the trenches of discomfort and starvation and now I’m running madly toward being rich … although it mostly feels like I’m on a comical treadmill.

I want to be rich but I chose to be a writer???? Cue clown squeezing a bicycle-horn.

So…I decided to do decadent ‘rich’ for a day, followed by desolate ‘poverty’ for a day. This would take place in the city of Melbourne.

Melbourne, like most cities, it is a place, a space, where designer shoes click past grimy, bare feet matted with chilblains, on most sidewalks. A woman in a camel-coloured mohair overcoat can blithely walk by a woman in a shop alcove, lying rolled up in a scabies-infested sleeping bag sans zipper. These people all share a post-code, human DNA and dreams, regrets, sorrows and passions. Too often we stride through our days automatically assuming a great cultural divide between these extremes. It isn’t necessarily something we spend time thinking about. We just don’t really identify with either – the one percenters in the mohair, or the derros in the mountain of scabby debris.

Day 1.

I sit in the Qantas lounge sipping my almond-milk latte and spoon my tasty quinoa and roasted veggie soup into my gullet as I watch planes coasting along the runway. I flick through a magazine, looking at the beautiful, skeletal people taunting me and decide to read a book, one without pictures. The flight to Melbourne from Sydney is comfortable and I quickly sweep myself into a waiting taxi to take me to my inner-city digs for the night – The Windsor – an historic pile of bricks that has put up the likes of Harry Houdini, Meryl Streep and that guy who plays Harry Potter not to mention various Prime Ministers and Princes.

A man in a top hat and tails who looks like a medieval town-crier opens the taxi door and takes my bags, ushering me into the warm embrace of the chandeliered foyer that smells like a wad of money and aged oak. My room is smug and confident, the linen sharp, the leather chair in the corner begging me to sit down for a fat cigar. Of course there is no smoking in the rooms and cigars taste like dried corpse so I settle for a glass of champagne instead. I cruise the net on my smart-phone, kick off my shoes, order in a take-away curry, flick on the television and crawl between the sheets. The champagne goes down nicely. The curry challenges my taste-buds and the bed feels cosy. Before sleep, I soak in a bath surrounded by wafts of minted green tea bubbles and walls of shimmering marble. I sleep well in the bed that may or may not have embraced Ellie Goulding and Kylie Minogue but presumably not at the same time!

The next day, I partake of really, really good coffee, sourdough toast, marmalade and an enormous goat-cheese omelette with a side of creamed rice, rhubarb and pistachio nuts. Classical music plays softly, crystal and silver-ware tinkle, and the spires of a church glower in at me through the dining room window.

I wander the streets of the city, passing countless homeless people. I stop sharing coins after the fourth because there are just so many. I sit in a cafe and have another famous Melbourne coffee while listening to street jazz. I window shop. I wander over the river, taking touristy pics. I meet up with two of my fabulously talented and interesting author-friends over lunch at a snazzy eatery. I chow down on a burger but it isn’t your run-of-the-mill McPatty. It’s Angus beef with caramelized beetroot or some such, with wilted flowers of the heart of a still-beating zucchini here and there. One friend signs her novel for my daughter. The other takes me to the art gallery and we stride about for a while admiring the ART DARLING and giggle at the sillier twaddle that calls itself ART but is really just stuff arranged somewhat interestingly.

VERDICT: ”Rich” is very, very comfortable and tastes good.  ( I wonder if Meryl Steep slept in the same bed as me. I decide ‘probably’. I take it as a good omen that I will one day win an Academy Award or seven.)

DAY 2.

I walk through the city streets with my heavy bag over my arthritic shoulder and finally turn up for a shift on the soup van run. I am given a visibility vest in chic fluorescent orange with velcro tabs. I meet a varied group of people who have spent hours donating their time to stock the vans with sandwiches, make huge vats of veggie soup, fill the hot chocolate and tea containers and pile sleeping bags, sanitary products, beanies and scarves into the trucks.

I’ve always thought of ‘volunteers’ as kind-hearted, retired people. That night I meet ex-school principals, a PhD student, a budding psychologist, ex-homeless people, young uni kids, mums, dads and everything in between. There is no stereotypical ‘volunteer’.

We hit the streets.

It is cold. Dark. The city is closed except for those who live in her shadows. They come out to meet the vans and stay for soup and conversation. I meet another varied group of people and I learn pretty fast that there is no stereotypical ‘homeless person’ either. I meet a man who spends his days in the city libraries reading everything that interests him. He was once an engineer and gives me a book tip. It’s a good one I plan to follow up and put on my TBR list. I meet a woman who has turned her life around in less than a year from struggling beneath a meth habit to being excited about her first pay-cheque. One man has a toothache so bad he is hitting his head on a wall, another man tells me things I did not know about the chemical make-up of air fresheners. I meet people who are living in crisis centres, boarding houses, community apartments and cardboard boxes on the street. Some have children, some have dogs, some are all alone.

I have a Styrofoam cup of street soup and you know what? It’s better than the one I had the day before in the Qantas terminal. It’s good. Very good. I laugh with the people I meet who seem to be much quicker to share a smile and a joke than most of the army of designer suits I passed on the street during daylight hours. There is the pervading perfume of mental illness but it isn’t as scary as I had feared. It is sad.

There is the problem of housing, for sure. Rents have become inaccessible to so many. But I talked with a team leader on the soup van run and he explained that the roof-over-the-head is just the tip of the iceberg in tackling this problem. A holistic approach is needed which addresses the individual needs – mental, physical, cultural, emotional, social, spiritual. The problem is that the funding just isn’t there. The problem is huge. The solution is complicated. The amount of interest in really getting things addressed is minimal and thus it falls to charities like Vinnies to muster what they can, to give help on the ground, where it is needed critically RIGHT NOW!

And then I turn up to the underground car-park at the Melbourne University for the Sleep-out. The place was the setting for a scene in the movie Mad Max and it does have an apocalyptic atmosphere; a subterranean concrete cavern with pulses of eerie light the colour of developing bruises.

Moving, gut-wrenchingly-moving speeches are delivered from key members of the Vinnies community and by the time I have to speak I am choked with emotion. I tell my story. It seems so insignificant in the face of the problems I have seen that night. My story is ancient history. I survived. I am now back in the seat of privilege. I stayed at The Windsor the night before…in Meryl Streep’s bed!

I eat soup again, without a price tag this time. I drink industrial-strength coffee. I am given a standard-issue sleeping bag and a pillow that does little to cushion my head from the concrete beneath. My mattress is a sheet of brown cardboard. I sleep in this bunker with 240 others, all trying to raise money, to do their little bit, to spend a night out of their comfort zones. It is cold and it is uncomfortable but nothing can prepare me for ….THE SNORING! Imagine many, many people snoring like hippopotamii with sinus problems…in a subterranean cavern with killer acoustics. It is a philharmonic symphony of epiglottal horror. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.

I suffer from Lupus. I ache all over. I am asthmatic. I am no spring chicken. I cope with the cold and concrete. But the snoring nearly kills me. Not one moment of sleep is had. To get me through the long horrible, torturous night, I focus on something one of the homeless women told me. She said it was safer to stay with the others in the light than to skulk off to the privacy of the shadows where bad things happen. So many women on the streets are assaulted. They feel safer under the streetlights with all the others, with the snores and groans and warmth of bodies. I spend the night fighting the urge to skulk into a far-flung dark corner of the car-park to get some quiet, private moments of sleep but in the real world, on the real streets, that is never a good idea. And so I lie, inwardly screaming for those motherf@#$&ing snorers to choke on their own tongues while I imagine rolling about in the sheets at the Windsor, playing with bubbles in the marble bath. I am dying a slow death-by-snore-torture in the dare-I-say-it Thunderdome!!!

It is hell. I have to use a porta-loo. Jeebus. In The Windsor you have people in starched uniforms cleaning your shit-stains off the porcelain bowl. I can only cringe at the thought of how women on the street manage. It is really unthinkable.

I go straight to the airport the next morning, shell-shocked. I smell bad. I look even worse and I am too embarrassed to ask for my flight to be changed to an earlier one because I know that I look like someone who has spent the night on some kind of debauched hen’s night pub crawl and I am afraid I’ll be judged or strip-searched.

And I guess in those long hours of waiting, I kind of understand why it is so hard to access any self-esteem after a night of sleeping rough. You feel like absolute crap.

Sure, being rich is better. There’s no doubt about it. But the crystal chandelier existence really is lacking something and that is 20/20 vision. It’s easy to walk the streets in good shoes and coats (something Melbourne is famous for) and feel a glimmer of displeasure at the homeless unwashed because THEY make you feel bad, begrudgingly guilty and you resent that, so you narrow your eyes or look away and try to think about something else.

The CEO Sleep-out is just one night where the ‘haves’ do it rough. It won’t change the world. It will raise some well-needed funds but it makes me ill to see politicians turn up to this event in cities around the country and don sleeping bags and smiles for the newspapers and then go straight back to cutting funding where it is needed most.

We were not faced with the dangers that many homeless confront. We had security. We had sleeping bags and shelter. Many don’t. We knew it was just for one night. There was light at the end of our little, snoring Mad Max tunnel. For many there is just relentless darkness.

It was a humbling experience for me… dare I say it… life-changing.

I have been reassessing priorities and examining myself and my life-view through a clearer, sharper and more discomforting lens.

We all need to do more. The first step is to open our eyes.

 

POVERTY IS NOT A CRIME

I am heading to Melbourne soon to speak at the launch of the CEO Sleepout organised by Vinnies to help shine awareness on the plight of those living rough. I was really honoured to be asked to do this, as this is an issue close to my heart. I know what it is like to be dirt poor and the flashbacks of the deep sense of shame and humiliation still swamp me and wake me from sleep in a cold sweat, even all these years later.

I woke up today and looked in my refrigerator and like many mornings, it brought a tear to my eye. Not a sad tear like in those dark, lonely, terrifying days as a single mum with three little boys, when I would look desperately into our fridge (that sounded like an emphysemic wildebeest) to find it was bare. Once I had to feed the kids plain ice-ream cones because that was all that was left in the pantry apart from salt and a can of corn. Handout food parcels from the welfare agencies always contained lots of cans of corn. They were big in the donation barrels….for good reason. I got good at dressing them up into dishes, but on their own, I had trouble selling them as little ‘lollies’ to the kids. This morning, I could offer my youngest son and daughter, yogurt and berries, rye bread and grilled cheese and a freshly squeezed pineapple juice each for breakfast. Today’s tear was one of gratitude for making it out of the darkness. I walked the kids to school and reminded them again of just how lucky they are. Most kids take a decent breakfast for granted.

But some don’t.

There are kids everywhere, next door to you, not just in the trailer parks but in the rental houses in your suburb, who are hungry, who walk a certain way to distract from the gaping hole in their school shoe. There’s a look in their eyes. I’ve seen it. I saw it at the bus-stop this morning. And it broke my heart.

Having been there, I know how hard it is to ask for help. The first few times I asked for help from the back office of a church or for credit from the local supermarket for milk and bread,  I was met with that churled lip and raised eye-brow and a quick up and down assessment. Was I a druggie? Mad? Or just a loser? The judgmental attitude that many people adopt when faced with poverty and disadvantage is, I think, a safety shield. They want to pretend that those poor people are ‘different’ from them because if they were the same then the same plight could befall anyone through circumstance. There but for the grace of god go I and all that.  So it’s easier to believe that they choose to live that way, either deliberately or indirectly. That keeps everyone else safe. But the truth is that so many people live week to week, hand to mouth and exist only one disaster away from abject poverty and possible homelessness.

Our Western Society is built on rewarding the rich and demonising the poor. That’s the basic premise of capitalism. If you are an able-bodied, well-educated, mentally fit and finely tuned individual who managed to escape childhood without any form of abuse, neglect, poverty consciousness, physical or emotional set-backs and you have an appearance within the parameters that are judged acceptable by society, you might get yourself a job, have healthy relationships and start building the foundation for a successful life. But if death, divorce, illness, accident or cracks in your family relationships, sexual abuse, depression or sudden job-loss strike unannounced, you can be derailed quickly like a runaway train and then you find yourself hurtling to that tent in the park, begging strangers for loose change to eke out a few crumbs to exist on.

It is haughty and foolish to think that it could never happen to you. And when you do fall that low, it is very, very difficult to pull yourself up out of that deep, deep quagmire. Without help.

I reached out to welfare agencies like St Vincent de Paul in my bleakest days and never once did the volunteers, giving their time and hearts to the cause, ever make me feel like a ‘loser’. The food parcels, the assistance with electricity and phone bills, the friendly conversation and cups of tea, helped me gradually back on my feet.

I’ve written a new book about my years of struggle and hope to publish it in the near future. Hopefully it will serve as inspiration to those still struggling and raise awareness for the need to work as a village to help those less fortunate. We are all in this thing called life together! I am fortunate to be in a position as a writer with something of a platform, to be able to draw people’s attention to this issue. I have come a long way from living in a tent and eating ice-cream cones for breakfast and doling out kernels of corn as treats for the kids. And it was thanks to those who did choose to care and not judge.

When you donate your old toys, clothes and furniture to welfare agencies, you have no idea how much that can mean to someone who finds themselves without decent enough shoes to go to a job interview. And when your kids come home from school with a note around Christmas time asking for donations of cans of food or packets of pasta and whatnot….or toys for disadvantaged kids. Please donate.

When I read about those struggling with Centrelink debts and the stricter measures coming in to make welfare payments more difficult to access, it makes me cry. To see funding being cut from women’s shelters, to see pensioners losing some of their benefits, to see health care becoming more expensive, it all looks wrong. Really wrong. There were times when I couldn’t afford medicine for my children, even with a health care card and for politicians to dismiss the cost of medication as a cup of coffee from a cafe shows just how out of touch they really are. For those in dire need, that amount of money equates to a loaf of bread, a litre of milk, a packet of four bricks of noodles and a cheap packet of water crackers and a few days of eating…..not a strong latte!

No-one chooses to be dirt poor. Sure, bad choices can lead to some dark places but if you agree that it is morally right to sympathise with people dying or suffering from lifestyle diseases, then you must also find sympathy for those who made wrong turns along the way. No one is perfect. When you are in a maze of starvation, illness, terror, particularly if you have children, you can barely see any light ahead, the tunnels are everywhere. It is literally like being in a maze. If you are high above looking down at the maze, it’s easy to see which turns to make to get out, but in the maze, it’s much harder and you inevitably make wrong turns, sometimes many, before you escape. Having someone beside you, holding your hand and shining a torch for you can really help.

Go and donate to Vinnies, the Salvos, Red Cross, Lifeline or any reputable charity. Give warm clothes, sturdy shoes, books, pots and pans, blankets and food (just go easy on the cans of corn, eh?)

Nik x