A little bit of magic

She is 11. She loves reading historical fiction and stories about the early settlers. She knows about scalene triangles and has been to the Parliament house and has strong views on the government’s migration schemes. She is quick witted, dry almost in her humour, subtly sarcastic. She writes plays and short stories and poems that make me think that she houses a deeper and significantly older soul.  She cries when her C Melodic Minor doesn’t sound the way she wants it to, when her viola does not co-operate. She tells me about characterisation in drama lessons and how she is writing some dialogue in French.

Yesterday, she rummaged in her drawers for a fairy costume because it was magical day at school. I caught her sitting cross legged by the fireside, my 11 year old with a fairy dress on, a dress that was too short and showed her scraped knees, a plastic tiara in her dark and wavy and untamed hair, a song on her lips. She looked so small and so fragile, a little person hunched up over pipe-cleaners.

‘I am making a wand,’ she said. ‘With a star and all.’

And because I know that one should be quiet when magic happens , I just nodded.

I saw a million sparks dance in her eyes when she looked up at me.

‘I made it by myself, see?’ she waved the wand about.  Pink and purple pipe-cleaners and a heart that was large, too large.

‘You are magical,’ I said, stopping to kiss her.

She kissed me back and went back to her wand.

‘So magical,’ I said again.

And she looked up at me and said, ‘Yes, Mum, I am.’

I don’t always see the old soul in her, sometimes I see a young and innocent heart and then I know that she already has enough wisdom and wonder in her for any magical day.

And the wand. There is always the wand.

There is always the magic only you can create for yourself.



Questions, questions…

So. Because I am wonderfully organised when it comes to looking after one blog, I figured it would be a sensible idea to set up another place to neglect. This is the thing – I need a place to list the links to my published writing. Now, if you are a friend of mine on FB, you will know how I post links the minute I get an acceptance and how I refresh the page every 10 seconds to see if anyone liked my work. What was that? You didn’t know the latter part? Oh well,ummm, you do now.

But anyhoo, I am in two minds. There is some decent stuff I have written over the years (yes, yes, I am getting old) that I would like to share with you peeps. For those that did not know this, I am not called Scarlett in real life. To give out those links here would mean outing myself. Yet, the lure of instant gratification and the need for a pat on the back is so strong that one feels recklessly tempted (is there any other kinds?). It would be nice to have one blog where I can store all my writing work (failures/acceptances/links/demented ramblings/grocery bills etc etc).

Questions, questions. What do I do, dear gentle reader? Ideas? Delurk and tell me already.

Where was I/The Novel/This and That

Aren’t you folks the nicest? You check up on me even when I go AWOL and you send me the nicest messages.

Thanks for asking Mukta, all is well 🙂 Your comment pushed me out of hibernation.

It was not an absence of words that kept me away, rather it was the crowding of them. The novel (yes, there is a novel. Did you think I was going to get a movie deal just like that?) is done. By that, I mean, I have finished the third draft, the mentor has okayed it, the beta-readers have been kind (like, really kind and incredibly generous with their time) and I am currently writing my covering letter for it etc.

I don’t know how long the process of finding a literary agent etc will take. I don’t know if I will even get a publisher to sign moi up. But. I have a novel. I achieved my goal of writing a full length work. I quite like bits of it, I cried a bit reading some stuff I had written (and they were not tears of shame or embarrassment). Maybe, just maybe, I will come good, hey? 

Should I tell you more? Not yet, the butterfly is still in the cocoon, its wings are being marked. I do not have a title yet, I am wringing my hands over this every day because I am picky and unsure like that.

But because I love you all, I will leave you with these lines from the novel. Sneak Peek etc etc.

Those that leave you owe you nothing. You build shrines and gather their memories in muslin because you want to, because you have nowhere else to go, because you do not know any other way to mourn. The departed write their own songs.

And this.

In the end, your love depends only on you. Love has nothing to do with sorrow or absence. If you are prepared to wait, to leave the lights on for someone who may never walk your way again, love will pull up a chair and wait with you, for as long as you need.

You like? I am not going to give away the story just yet, but it is a story of chasing closure and the burdens of memories. 

Drop me a comment. Tell me if you liked the sneak peek. Maybe I will tell you more.


– is back in town.

Not here yet

The weather is so perfect today that I should not be here. I should be outdoors with Miss A, chasing tattoos made by the sunlight on the thankful lawn. I should be driving through the backstreets of the hilly suburbs around my house, pointing out the pinks and the oranges and purples to her, I should be telling her that there is immense beauty in acts of goodbye, just like the sunset.

I should be walking across crinkly autumn foliage with her, our feet in perfect rhythm with leaves that were once brave and green and are now gentle and almost broken. I should be inhaling giant gulps of crisp mountain air, I should have her little hand in mine.

Instead, I am at work and she is at vacation care. I went for a walk during my lunch break and she must have gone to the picnic arranged by the school carers. We both shared slivers of the obscene sky, we just did not do it together. I am leaving work soon to pick her up and I hope that the sun stays put and the blueness of the sky hangs around for just another hour.

Some day, she will be a grown up person in a different country, in a different time zone perhaps – she will not be at the gum-tree lined school down the road. There will be many more perfect days in our future –  just like there will be many more cloudy nights.

One day, she will not be a few footsteps, a few traffic signals away, one day she and I will have worlds that do not easily touch.

There is a bend in the road and behind the naked trees, the sky promises to be blue. 

These are beautiful days with dark undertones of everything that will eventually not be. But, the future is not here yet. Sometimes that is such a good thing.