Emerging Writers Festival

The Emerging Writers Festival begins THIS WEEK and I’m very pleased ( and terrified – in equal parts ) to be hosting a panel:

Writing the Personal, Saturday 3pm
Blogs… Memoir… Biography… how does one write about oneself while making it interesting to others? What kinds of skills or techniques are required? These writers will give you the benefit of their wisdom about sharing the personal.

With ANNA POLETTI, WALTER MASON, LUKE RYAN and FIONA WRIGHT. Hosted by LILY MAE MARTIN

You can access the full calendar and ticket information here: LINK

I’ve had the joy of researching, reading and listening to these four diverse and fantastic writers and I am very excited to be sharing a panel with them.

Hope to see you there!

Necessary loss

Coming back to Australia involved a lot of loss.

Sad, but necessary loss.

I left Cardiff where I gestated, birthed and became a mother. I found a letter last week with the details of the tree that was planted in honor of my daughters birth – for every baby born in Wales they plant a tree – and I cried. I never got to see that tree because I spent a long, long time healing, then winter with a newborn – pushing a pram through snow – and then we left.

I left Berlin where I found myself - professionally and personally – many years ago, where I had some of the most amazing times of my life. Where my relationship strengthened, where we dreamed about moving to and then moved to it – with a baby. Where I kept trying and trying and trying and yet still couldn’t be satisfied. Where my daughter began to crawl, talk ( in German ) and walk. Where I did it pretty much on my own and then reached my breaking point. Then I see other peoples pictures of Berlin – and find old photos on my phone – and I think of how well I know those streets, those cobblestones, the corners, the buildings, the graffiti, the mess, the smells – and then I cry because all the memories of my baby growing up are on the other side of the globe.

But it was necessary, and it’s a grief I can bare. As opposed to when I was in Berlin where almost two years in I was so unhappy my chest often felt like it was splitting open.

I still go over these memories and feelings to try and understand myself in the here and the now. What is important to me – what makes me happy. There’s a lot of reasons why I left Melbourne in the first place but these reasons became less important as my life took on a different shape. I see the difference in places and culture in ways that sound pretty obvious but I didn’t really know or understand before living life as an expat. Melbourne still leaves me stumped in many ways – the six degrees of separation really being two or one here. Everyone knows everyone. I’m OK with that, I wasn’t in 2008 – I didn’t know how to navigate that and I take everyone and everything less personally now.

( This post has taken on a different shape to what I initially thought it would.. )

Still I am trying to find out what is important to me – what makes me happy and what I want out of my life. I’m OK with that too – not being where I thought I should be and not having what I think I should have. I don’t own a home – I probably never will. I don’t drive – I probably won’t know how to for a very, very long time. Or own a car. I don’t have long friendships that span over my childhood, teenage years and early twenties. I don’t have people I have known since Anja’s birth – and bonded over birthing around the same time.

My career as an artist is proving trickier than I anticipated – things beyond my control are making me ask new questions. This isn’t a nourishing industry – I never went into it thinking that it was – by by golly, it just feels like obstacle after obstacle and some days I feel so fucking worthless and then conflicted about feeling worthless because I have so much that means so much so perhaps it is this career that is damaging – and not me.

If so, then I need to get away from it – because if it is repeatedly hurting me what the hell am I doing. Life is worth more than this, I am worth more than this.

Anyway, as I said – this took on a different shape to what I had started out with so I’ll write about that in my nest post. My daughter is getting frustrated with me and I am still in my PJ’s.

 

Friendship; In silence, we suffer.

( No drawing, sick. )

I’ve wanted to write about friendship for a good long time but I’ve been stuck with it. All I can think of it oh wow my friends are really awesome and you know, that’s sufficient for a facebook status or a tweet – not so much for a blog post. 

So I’ve been thinking on it for weeks and this morning I had one of those very clear memories pop into my mind – It’s morning and we’ve arrived at Primary School. I’m running in circles around a bench my mum sits on, I’m running over the hop scotch and other games painted in whites and yellows on the asphalt and looking up at a pretty brilliant morning sky. With all the clouds and sun light and blues and pinks and I’m believing in God at this point ( this is before I know about Religion ) because I draw a lot of strength thinking that there’s someone looking over me and there’s a place I am going to and I’m asking him to take my life and take me away from here because I’m desperate. My friend has just arrived and I’m sure we look happy – like little girls do – but when my Mum goes I know the teasing will start, I know this little girl will hurt me and make me feel bad in places I never knew I could feel such things and I can’t tell my mum. She’s sitting right there but feels so far away from me.

Which is probably where my need to talk truthfully comes from, because that place of not telling and suffering didn’t need to happen. I didn’t need to feel so physically horrible within my own skin, so sad and alone and I certainly didn’t need to wish for death over talking about a secret. My secret.

In silence, we suffer.

As an adult and knowing children I now can look back at this and think what happened to my friend to make her hurt and abuse me in the ways that she did? She was so cruel to me, why? I wish I could have helped her.

When I left that Primary school and her behind I walked straight into other friendships that saw me being bullied – I was taunted for being ugly, I had heavy toys thrown at my face at close range, my hair pulled, I was ridiculed for my spelling, my imagination – my drawing. I was called a slut and made to feel I couldn’t feel things for people I wanted to feel them for – I wasn’t allowed to date the boys I wanted to but rather the boys that they wanted me to. And then in my teenage years I lived with someone who took all of my money, dyed my hair blonde and made plans to change my name and birthdate. She did take me away from another kind of abuse but it was a trade off. It came with a very high price.

There was something always so wrong with me people had to beat, hurt, pull apart whatever it was that I was. They wanted to erase me – kill me –  turn me into something that they would like.

And then somehow when I cry about all of this at the age of thirty, I receive comfort from a man who loves me – who is also my friend – and a daughter we made. How did I get here?

Friendship has never been something I felt I could have without all the hurt and suffering. In my early twenties I spent my time with people who exhausted me – and I them. We made each other feel terrible, we lied, we bitched, we dated the same boys and whoever got in first used that as a device to one up the other girl. We never gave each other a chance and used silence as a weapon. The ultimate weapon – we punished each other with it. Somehow, this is the situation that I played over and over in my head and I think it is because it’s easier to think about than all the stuff that happened long ago.

When I came back to Melbourne I came back for family. Family and language. I didn’t really think about friendships and I when I did it was in that anxious way – will I go back to all these bad patterns? But the biggest surprise has been the friendships I have made since being back and one that was re-kindled.

I have friends who never sit and bitch – we talk. I have friends who I am confident won’t go away and share what I confide in them, who don’t need me to have a status or be anything other than who I am. Even if the who I am is a premenstrual, sleep deprived mess – somehow I am good enough. I have friends who bring me over groceries when I can’t do them and have come in to physically take me out of a space when they see that I am unraveling. I have friends who love my daughter and give her their time and influence and I don’t think anything has warmed my heart as much as witnessing this.

I don’t know how I found these people, what drew them to me but I finally feel like I see the true meaning and value of friendship and it often leaves me speechless.

In that really happy way.

 

Exhausted.

I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m just pushing paint around on canvases and it doesn’t look like anything, I feel like I am coming up with new routines that no one will settle into – I feel like I’m pushing sh*t up a hill for no good reason.

Every spare moment I get I work ( art ) and every other moment I work ( on everything else ) also. I blog, I write, I socially network my finger tips off, I take photographs, I cook, I clean and clean and clean, I draw, I sketch, I think, I plan, I paint… I see my amazing friends because they are so amazing and I love them so much..

I’m working extra hard for this exhibition coming up and to look after my husband, daughter and the house while my husband works extra hours and days because of another approaching deadline and I’m just having a few of those days where I’m like OH MY GOD HOW AM I DOING THIS THIS IS SO HARD I JUST WANT TO SLEEP FOR A DAY JUST  DAY A DAY OF SLEEP PLEASE SLEEP THAT IS NOT INTERRUPTED WILL I EVER HAVE THAT AGAIN OH MY GOD WHY CAN’T I JUST QUIT EVERYTHING SO I CAN GET MORE SLEEP.

And NO ONE FUCKING TOUCH OR TALK TO ME I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE.

But – I love you all.

And then I seek comfort in chocolate and the internet and somehow the time passes and my mood changes and another artwork gets finished and we’re getting through.

At the moment it takes anywhere from two to four hours to get my daughter to go to sleep in the evenings and by dinner time I’m anxious because I know this is going to happen. I can’t work, I can’t read, I can’t relax – I can’t even fucking pee because I have to walk past her room to go to the toilet. So I’ve been feeling a little bit desperate. There’s so much to do. Is it so bad I just want those few hours in the evening to myself? No, it isn’t. But what can I do. Just keep going.

But OMFG.

 

 

Reversing the damage

I’ve tried writing about this a few times, and each time I have felt incredibly self conscious, ashamed and I have then removed it. But I’m going to keep on trying because that’s what I do.

Control is something I have always struggled with – I either focus too much on it or am devoid of it. I have too much control around my work, the way I look but not much when it comes to my emotions and alcohol.

I’ve been doing a lot of work on things since becoming a mother – life matters more to me now that it ever did before.

My self image is a fairly negative one, that started at a young age. In fact, I remember the day I made a pact with myself about what I was going to do with myself. I was very upset – probably from a fight with someone – and it was a crisp, sunny morning. I was walking down Blyth Street – past the drives ways and on that asphalt that is always in my dreams - and I remember feeling so physically sick in my own skin. I thought about how much I hated me, how everyone hates me and that I was to end it. But because I’m such a fucking coward I’m just going to drink and smoke myself to death and you can forget about eating – you piece of shit.

Or something like that.

Oh, teenage angst.

I felt so original in my misery.

And I guess because it started at such a typical, teenage angsty time I never took it seriously. No one did. Even though at twenty I was underweight and from 13 to … I drunk myself to a point of black outs. And now at thirty, I still can’t eat my breakfast without retching. I’ve tried all sorts of things like eating a little later, buying all different types of foods that I like but they still all make me want to vomit.

I’ve gotten so used to nausea it’s part of my every day life.

Now I realize that I do not have control over this, and that this has been a problem for a long time and made worse by my complacency about it. The shame doesn’t help. I feel like it’s treated as such a self indulgence.

And maybe it is but does that really matter?

I can’t eat and I’m trying to. I don’t want to be that self – hatey person, I want to like me – I think I like me – I want to be happy, full and I am so sick of nausea and panicking about eating in public and people judging me for hardly finishing a meal. But that’s what I do socially now because bars and nightlife – well, truth be told I want to be in bed by 8PM. Or at least my pyjamas – I love being in my house with my other half and my kidlet.

I want to stop thinking I’ve out done everyone because I hate me more then they ever could because really – it doesn’t matter what other people think about me – it matters what I think about me.

Teenage angst Lily begone. Enough now.

 

 

Stories to be told

I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about my lack of activity on this blog for the last couple of weeks. I tried to counteract that guilt by giving you notice – I’ve got a tremendous amount of art stuff, life stuff, mummy stuff, etc stuff on my plate I’m just trying to get through it all as best I can.

But the guilt is still there, around the edges. Behind the good, solid excuses and reasons I do have to just ease off a bit. Though, it’s not really a break because I’m still on here, sketching- most days. Just not my everyday – hey maybe I’ll blog twice today – efforts.

My standards, high standards.

Every time I feel panicked that this is over and I’ll never sketch a decent drawing again or have amazing fortune with ideas and writing, I think when I feel like this I have to step back a bit otherwise I go into overdrive and just post up half baked ideas, unresolved rants, unloved sketches.

Though I never get paid for this – I don’t ever see away for getting paid for this – I still feel a great amount of responsibility for this and indeed all of my work. I once used to be someone who was half assed, if I saw other people unmotivated I’d just follow suit and it just contributed to me feeling bad about myself. A feeling I feel too often and am working very hard to correct. SO, if I’m not going to give it a good go – different from giving it my everything, making it perfect – then I’m not going to do it.

It’s not worth me coming up with another reason to beat myself up with.

Once I was desperate for my storey – stories – to be told and now I’m just trying to stay on track, keep up with making a beautiful, fulfilling project. Maybe not every story will be told but sometimes what you leave out is just as important as what you leave in.

All in good time, as they say!

 

 

Transitioning Toddler

 

This is a house of little and broken sleep. Everyone is sick. I was going to write more about it but it is so boring, so I won’t.

But here’s another sketch of Toddler, just chilling out. She’s pretty special.

Back to painting and snotty tissues.

Please, bless us with some unbroken sleep.

Reflections on the article: Having kids is my biggest regret

I came across this article via twitter on Friday, I had clicked on it because the person who posted it had dubbed the author a ‘bitch’ for writing this, which sparked my interest: Having kids is my biggest regret by Isabella Dutton.

After reading it I was instantly offended by the person who had posted this and dubbed her a bitch – *click unfollow*

I cannot stand how women who do not take to motherhood the way that is expected are treated as monster – to have her words, thoughts and experiences diminished by name calling.

It’s all too typical.

This article broke my heart in the I am really feeling this kind of way. The reactions this article received I can barely read, because I feel like absolutely everyone is missing the point – and then it makes me really sad. She must face it everyday. Women who do not like being a mum are the ultimate evil, and are treated as such.

My journey through this project has seen me through some pretty unhappy times. There were times I really did not like my life or myself. There were times I resented, regretted, loathed, feared, wanted out. I expressed this as best I could because I was trying to understand it, trying to get a grip and trying to connect. Sadly I found some the reactions very negative, but also telling. If I didn’t subscribe to tiresome sayings such as “birth is such a gift” or “motherhood is the best job in the world” than there is something wrong with me.

And there kind of was – I was depressed – but I in no way believe that all of those feelings were a result of the depression, I think I didn’t know how to cope with these feelings and thoughts because of the depression. My point is – if a woman does not fall in line with these views it is assumed that there is something wrong with her. It leaves me flummoxed that those vapid statements or the wordlessness of what actually is going on are questioned and discussed. Birth, pregnancy and raising children, social pressures and expectations – these things still don’t have a vocabulary the expresses them adequately. They still don’t have meanings, the proper weight or space.

Parenting is a wild intense ride – it’s full of extremes, of contractions, of setbacks, compromises, surprises, joy, fear, anger, anxiety, hilarity and insanity – of course it is, you are making and raising another human being. The biggest clincher is you can never truly know how you will take to it until you actually do it.

So I ask why is it such a taboo for someone to say actually, I don’t like this. This is not what I wanted, I can’t back out. Why is there no space for people to express this?

This woman is not evil as many people have claimed her to be – she obviously has a very open dialogue with her children and herself. People seem incapable to stop and take it in and empathise – this is how it is for her.

How brave it is for her to share some truth and contribute to this discussion of how complex parenting is rather than hiding away. How amazing she is to feel like that and still give them everything of her because she loves them.

What a wonderful woman.

De Sade and drawing – Advice on public speaking

I remember seeing the movie Quills – when I was far too young - specifically the scene in which de Sade writes on the walls of his cell with his own fecal matter. I vividly recall this as while my friends were being grossed out or in awe of his unstoppable artistic genius I was like yeah man, I dig.

I wouldn’t write though, I’d draw.

This weekend while thinking about me and what I’m good at I always came back to drawing. I mean, I can do lots of things – I can cook, curate, write, paint, watercolour, sometimes I can bang out a pretty decent poem at 2AM, I can make bunting and curtains there was a time when I planned and facilitated art workshops and public speaking but the thing that I will always come back to, is drawing.

I mean:

He’s pretty good – he took me all of five minutes.

And then

Pretty dark but it’s a bloody decent and important drawing. A heartbreaking but powerful moment right there and I drew it.

Then I think about what I like doing. I like drawing. I like drawing with kids – I love drawing with kids – I like drawing with anyone, anywhere. I like being able to talk about it and sharing it. I like life drawing, I like sketching, I like observational drawing, I like cartoons. I need to refresh on the jargon but I like reading so that’ll be a pretty easy thing to do.

That’s just the fine tuning.

So, really, all I’ve got to put the two and two together. Drawing and people.

Which leaves me to my biggest dilemma at the moment – my lack of confidence. I used to be someone who was quite extroverted – people found me full on – engaging, but full on. So some people went about putting me back into my place instead of staying true to myself I listened to them. Them who are very interestingly no longer in my life but still have a place in my head. Among the chorus of voices who tell me to stop, I’m not good enough, I shouldn’t do this or that. Shh.

And it’s really my fault for ever listening to anyone else.

I need to get on top of that because it’s stopped me doing so many things. I didn’t get up and ask or say the things I wanted to at the Big Hearted Business because of this, I didn’t talk when I met up with feminist writers a few weeks ago, I don’t introduce myself to people in person when I see them at events, I don’t think I can lecture, teach or offer anything BUT that’s really all just bullocks.

So, my question to you lovely readers, if you have the time is:

Where can I get some advice and even better - training - on public speaking? Links, tips, comments would be greatly appreciated!

Things I Didn’t Expect ( when I was expecting ) by Monica Dux

In between helping Toddler strap her toy cat into the stoller I am trying to upload and write this post..

Monica Dux is a very, very funny author who has written many a poignant piece. So when I found out about the launch of her latest book - Things I Didn’t Expect ( when I was expecting ) - I booked my mother to baby sit – almost two months in advance.

( Sorry, have to strap the cat into the stoller again.. )

What really struck me about this book was not just the complexity of the many subjects that are addressed – which got me re-thinking things, especially in regard to breastfeeding, ‘scientific motherhood’ and placentophagy - but the ease that it is written in. I had many, many moments where I was like “ohhh yeahhhh” and “why didn’t I think of it like that!?”

I also had many moments where I laughed very, very loudly – mostly in public.

There’s so much in this, and I wouldn’t say that this is just a book for mothers either. I’ve marked many pages in this book to come back to and do more research on. I wanted to write something really lengthy and intelligent but I can’t.. So I’m just going to say, go get this book and read it, buy it for your friends, buy it for your mum for mothers day! It’s fantastic.