Thunder Road

Mighty fine storytelling from a Melbourne artist and band with a new album on the way.

A couple of weeks back I posted on stuff writers shouldn’t do. It can be a tad confronting to hear what readers hate - until you remember you’re a reader and agree with many of the comments.

Now, thanks to the eagle eyes of the delightful Kirsty Murray, here’s a terrific list of things writers should do. Compiled by the UK’s Guardian newspaper, theses tips contain the wisdom, humour and brutal honesty of some very successful authors. Pure gold.

Maybe I should have the list tattooed down my forearm…

Incidentally, for the Twitterers out there, you can follow Kirsty via @kirstymurray and the Guardian via @GuardianBooks.

Can still see her snarling face. Late 60s, early 70s. Hair dyed dark, greasy and slashed in a no-maintenance bob. Spectacles. Walks with a limp. Perpetual smoker, shrivelled and dessicated as driftwood. If not for her haircut, I’d picture the parking vigilante as the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

She’s abused me before. Cursed me for lawfully parking in her residential street. Funny thing is that normally I’d empathise. I’ve lived inner city. I know how frustrating it can be to be to have your driveway blocked or your quiet street clogged with commuters dodging council fines.

But there are no parking restrictions here, none apart from a single disabled space near her place. This is why I’ve parked here sporadically, maybe four or five times, and walked the last block to work. I’ve never blocked a driveway or parked anyone in. I’ve ignored her cursing from her front door.

It’s been weeks since I even entered the street but there she is again, waving her arms like a scarecrow in a gale. Yelling something unintelligible. Brainless mutt defecating on the footpath behind her. I consider driving away but on this morning I’m moving office. I’ll only be an hour or so before I score a pass to the new multi-storey carpark.

I ease into a space and lock my car. Start to walk away. She scuttles halfway across the road and spits, “Have a good day because none of us will.” I keep walking.

I’m back within 90 minutes, ready to shift my car. There’s a 15 centimetre gash in the paintwork on the driver’s door - a classic case of being “keyed”. I scan the street. I’m sure she’s lurking, smirking behind her screen door; I can smell the smoke.

At home I type up a statement to police. I can’t prove who damaged my car without a witness or the actual key carrying traces of my duco. My best hope is she has form. That she’s been reported before. Maybe the police will knock on her door and tell her a complaint was made about her behaviour.

Nope. Too busy. A constable called Love explains that they can’t do anything without a witness.

So that’s it. Whoever did it got away with it. That doesn’t sit well with me.

Later I’m having a haircut, grasping for conversational connections with an unfamiliar barber. I put the criminal damage story to him to gauge his response.

“You should blow up her house mate. Seriously.” He pauses. “Bet the coppers would investigate that mate. Don’t leave any clues but.”

Errr, so many ways to respond. OK, seems I don’t need to. His gaze fades into reminiscing.

“My mates and me, we’ve got monkey bikes. We’re riding them in this park when the coppers start chasing us mate. They’re on big bikes but we get away. They’re spewing mate.

“So I’m at the shopping centre and I see one of the coppers so I go up to him and I goes, ‘Heard about the chase in the park last night. You couldn’t catch those guys.’

“And the copper says, ‘Were you there, were you?’ And I go: ‘Yeah, I mean no, I mean I just seen these coppers chasing these guys. Wasn’t me, but.’”

And I can see her at a desk in a cluttered cop shop. The detective asks if she recognises my car. She sneers. “Yeah. That prick used-ta park in my street. Someone must have done somefin’ though ‘cos he hasn’t been back… Wasn’t me, but.”

True story. I started entering writing competitions in my teens. I had some poems published, received the occasional citation or honorable mention and even received a medallion from an eccentric group called the Melbourne Poetry Society.

Encouraged, I took creative writing at university and received mixed feedback for my work. At writing workshops, everyone seemed way more mature and talented than me. My writing felt too naive and earnest. When a poet in residence looked at a folio of my work and suggested I consider another career path, I pretty much gave up on poetry.

I did enter some short story competitions, one of which was run by the Moonee Valley Regional Library service. Much to my surprise, I received a letter inviting me to their award night. I attended and discovered I’d won second prize in the short story competition.

On completing my arts degree, I entered journalism and began writing for a living. Various newspaper and online gigs followed until one employer went broke during the Tech Wreck era and I found myself working part-time and writing as a freelancer.

Freed from daily deadlines, I rediscovered fiction. I started writing short stories and entering competitions and stumbled across the Moonee Valley Regional Library competition again. It seemed like a chance to measure myself, to see if I’d made progress over the course of almost twenty years in writing.

I entered a short story. And won second prize again.

I had to laugh.

I’ve said elsewhere on this blog that judging yourself by your trophy cabinet can be damaging to your motivation and morale. You’re best to keep writing because you enjoy it, not because you hope you’ll win something some day. While any encouragement you glean can fuel sustained stints at the keyboard, many writing competitions charge entry fees. If you keep on entering, wishing that the next comp will make you famous, you’re doing the equivalent of playing the pokies.

I’m not demeaning competitions or accolades other than first prize. I am saying you write for yourself first. You persist. You rewrite. You progress. Any gongs you collect along the way are a bonus.