Still wrecking these journals:

Sometimes biting the bullet means doing the thing to 70% of standard because if you waited till you had the time and energy to do it to 100%, well it would never happen at all. I'm talking about the dodgy pictures here, taken in haste and in low light. But this could also be a metaphor for the very idea that the Wreck This Journal project fosters. Sometimes the quest for perfection (in creativity, in art, in craft, in relationships, in work, in life) can be so powerful that it completely paralyses the doer. Waiting until ability and passion reach full capacity before beginning is like the perfect recipe for unachievement, for non-doing.

I think that's the intrigue of Wreck This Journal. By blatantly ignoring perfection, you're set free to start. Right now. With anything. Free from expectations.

I'm still working on the Wreck This Journal project with my eleven-year-old students, and if possible we are having even more fun than before. Originally, we'd flip open to a random page and do whatever the instructions told us to, but we found that this method was kind of conducive to cheating. If one of the kids came to an instruction that didn't seem appealing, they'd discard it. Now we're going at it again, one page at a time, in order -- and that way we're forced to do even the pages that weird us out ("Chew the page? WHAT."). I love seeing the kids' incredulous faces when I read out the latest instruction: "Really?" Last week found us tying string around the spines of our books and swinging them through the air and into walls. There was complete disbelief followed quickly by giggles -- which pretty sums up the whole project. Plus, it's a fresh way to try new things and save precious pieces of ephemera like birthday gift wrap, picture book illustrations, and treasures scavenged from outside.

Weekend journal:

Queensland knows nothing of middle ground, it seems. There's no subtle progression from autumn to winter to spring to summer. It was autumn last week (winter, technically, but in title only) and now, suddenly, we seem to have bypassed spring altogether and fallen straight into summer. The forecasters are predicting thirty this week. Thirty. My soul is not ready.

I haven't done a weekend journal post for ages, but I suddenly missed the old habit of recording those magical two days of non-daily-ness, so I'm here with my pictures. On Friday night, my mum, little brother and I kind of spontaneously headed to Red Fest, a local festival celebrating the launch of strawberry season with lots of music, fairground rides, and ethnic food stalls. In past years we've spent whole days there on either the Saturday or Sunday, but there was such a relaxed vibe going along on opening night for just a few hours. Fewer people were around and we just strolled past the sideshows, burnt our mouths out on purportedly mild Indian food, and ended up in a hall where The Hillbilly Goats were playing a rollicking show. The show was high intensity and lots of fun, and the night itself was chilled out -- a good welcome to Spring/Summer.

Saturday I had to knuckle under and really make some headway on my major assessments for this semester. Both are fairly big projects (a memoir plus exegesis and a picture book manuscript with a number of illustrations and a publishing rationale) but they're also predominantly creative rather than academic, and I'm really enjoying that. When I finished my Bachelor degree, I really knew I wasn't ready to leave school behind, but now I'm nearing the end of my Master's, I can tell that it's time. My fingers are itching to have the freedom to explore some projects. Even more than that, I'm hankering after the brain space to actually remember that I can be a creative person and I can generate ideas. There has to be space in life for that to happen, and I'm looking forward to finding a bit of that space. Obviously, no one knows what lies ahead, but I'm hoping that I can continue in my current work situation (although a few more students would be great) and use the time I would've spent studying on writing instead.

So studying was the order of the day on Saturday, but there was still time to go and vote in the federal election -- and then, of course, to watch the results as they came in live on almost every television station. I felt quite strongly emotional about this election this year, and even fifteen minutes before leaving for the polling booths, I felt somewhat undecided about my vote. Political parties are much like anything else in life, I guess: you're never going to find one that you can say is 100% perfect -- or perhaps that's just my experience. What it came down to for me was not total alignment on every single policy, but weighing up which issues were the most important issues. This is, of course, highly subjective and probably quite ridiculous. For some, straightening out the economy is of key importance, so voting for a government which will make serious cuts to spending and keep out people who might require Australia's generosity becomes necessary. Others are justice-focussed and vote for policies which make the greatest effort to help the largest number of people, whether within our borders or beyond. I really had no feeling about which way things would go, but now that Tony Abbott is our PM, I hope that we'll honour his leadership where we can, support the policies that are great, and work respectfully to bring change where change is so needful. I have really strong feelings about our prime ministers. Even when I don't agree with them, I respect their role and the immense pressure it brings. It's not a job I'd ever want.

Today has been, in this precise order: church, birthday gift shopping for a certain sister and a certain nephew, a really terrible yum cha experience, drooling over stationery at Kikki-K, and weeping over The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I was supposed to study today to make up all the time I've lost over the past couple of weeks being unwell. But sometimes it's good just to take it slow.

Breakers, burgers, and stories for my nine-year-old self:

Today was a rare Saturday, one in which my Dad was in town and none of us had to juggle pre-existing plans. Miraculous! So we took a little family road trip down south, just one of those ambling, rambling drives that we never seem to get to do anymore. Just before we headed out the door, I grabbed Jennifer L Holm's Turtle in Paradise from my to-read pile, thinking it might be just the thing for roadtrip reading.

It turned out to be the perfect story for a sun-kissed afternoon on the coast (an afternoon in which wind and waves and whales and burgers and lighthouses featured heavily) because Turtle in Paradise is set in Florida's Key West during the '30s and having the wind in my hair and the tang of salt on my tongue made it all the more easy to dive into the dirt-between-your-toes, turtle-soup tale of childhood. It was everything my nine-year-old self could have desired. To begin with, the blunt and opinionated narrator, Turtle, makes lots of references to life as an orphan (even though, strictly speaking, she's not motherless; her mother has just sent her to live with relatives during the summer). I was obsessed with the idea of orphanages when I was young. Like Turtle, I overdosed on Little Orphan Annie and her world sounded kind of amazing. Then, too, there are kids roaming free in a neighbourhood that exists just to foster their spirit of adventure -- without letting things get too dangerous. There's a hint of a family mystery and also some buried treasure. Perfect summer kids' reading.

The grown up part of me appreciated things that my nine-year-old self would've missed. I loved the gentle discussion of the Depression and the particular challenges it posed for the working class. I loved the portrayal of solid, healthy adults who grieve and struggle and make mistakes, but who are safe and good people. I also enjoyed the historical details that slipped into the text in perfectly natural ways.

In spite of some serious and challenging concepts like poverty, illegitimacy, family conflict, and deception (all of which are discussed in really sensible ways), this is a sunshiny book. After spending a lot of time in young adult fiction lately, it's been nice to be reminded of the sweetness of junior fiction. I know my niece Amelia will love reading this one in a few years' time.

A baby and a legend:

I hope I don't ever get to be so grown up that I lose the thrill of seeing my little words in print. At this point, I'm far from such a level of maturity because when today's mail brought with it the September issue of The School Magazine's Touchdown, I was verging on the edge of delirious. What joy to flip to page 20 and find out that my short story, Remember, had been illustrated by Premier's Literary Award and CBCA Award-winning picture book creator, Aaron Blabey.

As a baby in this business of telling stories, it's such a thrill to see something I've written interpreted into pictures by a genuine professional creative dude who does this stuff for a living -- and does it beautifully. I'm really honoured.

Australian children's books of the year 2013:

I'm likely repeating myself when I say that I have a high opinion of Australian literary awards. I know that awards of any kind are often frought with controversy, but I think literary awards are important for the publishing industry, for the development of literary culture, and for the writers themselves. Awards are also great for readers, because, in spite of their flaws and the fact that any prize is subjective and influenced by so many details, awards provide readers with a list of books which a number of intelligent and thoughtful people have examined and found to be not just worthy of reading, but seriously seriously recommended.

A week and a bit ago, the Children's Book Council of Australia award winners for 2013 were announced, and the lineup looks great.

Book of the Year: Older Readers 
(Note: these books are for mature readers)
Winner Margo Lanagan, Sea Hearts
Honour Books Neil Grant, The Ink Bridge + Vikki Wakefield, Friday Brown

Book of the Year: Younger Readers 
Winner Sonya Hartnett, The Children of the King
Honour Books Jackie French, Pennies for Hitler  + Glenda Millard, ill. Stephen Michael King, The Tender Moments of Saffron Silk

Book of the Year: Early Childhood
Winner Emma Allen ill. Freya Blackwood, The Terrible Suitcase 
Honour Books Tania Cox ill. Karen Blair, With Nan  + Ursula Dubosarsky, ill. Andrew Joyner, Too Many Elephants in This House 

Picture Book of the Year, arranged by illustrator
(Some of these books may be for mature readers)
Winner Ron Brooks and Julie Hunt, The Coat 
Honour Books Gus Gordon, Herman and Rosie + Alison Lester, Sophie Scott Goes South

Eve Pownall Award for Information Books
Winner Kristin Weidenbach ill. Timothy Ide, Tom the Outback Mailman
Honour Books Jackie Kerin ill. Peter Gouldthorpe, Lyrebird! A True Story  + Kirsty Murray, Topsy-turvy World: How Australian Animals Puzzled Early Explorers.

So what do you think of the winners?Any surprises there? Any notable absences?

To my shame, I haven't read a single one of the winners this year, though there are a few on my bookshelf in my to-read pile, and I'm partway through Vikki Wakefield's Friday Brown at the moment. Some of my favourite Aussie writers and illustrators are represented here, though -- among them Margo Lanagan, Ron Brooks, Sonya Hartnett, Alison Lester, and Jackie French -- and I have no doubt that their stories will be amazing. There are a few names unfamiliar to me as well, which is exciting. New favourites to discover! I look forward to working my way through this list.

Which of these have you read? Which do you want to?

the little like list:

Little things I'm loving this week:

1. Queensland sunshine. She sure knows how to turn it on.
2. Getting to watch friends make ridiculous movies.
3. Expired film that my mother picked up for me. I can't wait to try it out.
4. Best potato scallops in the land.
5. Reading Dawn Wind by Rosemary Sutcliff, one of my favourite authors of all time.
6. Listening to evening:morning by The Digital Age. Best worship music.
7. New haircuts.
8. Glancing at the pile of birthday cards still hanging out on my bookshelf.
9. Handing in assignments that took far too long.
10. Crying at a good movie.
11. Phone calls and face-to-face chats with my sisters.
12. Talking to strangers.
13. Feeling that uncomfortable mix of nervous and excited about writing again.

What's on your list?

Thanks but no thanks?

The focus on individuality in our culture these days means that independence is prized as a virtue and dependency condemned as a vice. For this reason, along with the general life experience that tends to remind us that, mostly, strangers don't care about other strangers (unless they're really beautiful), I sometimes balk when a man offers to carry a bag or open a door for me. Am I supposed to protest that I'm fine, thereby freeing him from this obligation he's imposed on himself? The independence ideal would say 'yes', thereby creating an awkward schismatic moment where I internally waver between accepting or rejecting the offer.

But while I might occasionally feel awkward about random acts of gentlemanliness, I have never been offended by them and I don't feel demeaned by them. In some small way, such offers remind me that there are guys who look out for the interests of women, and the pendulum swings a little further to the side of trustworthy men. I feel cared for and respected, and such encounters usually leave me smiling.

Today, I had an unwieldy handful of groceries in my arm as I joined the checkout queue at the supermarket. There was a handsome older gentleman in front of me whose mammoth haul of groceries took up the whole conveyor belt and spilled over the end, so I leaned my pile on the basket at the end of the checkout and waited.

"Oh, you should go through in front of me," he said.

Without really thinking except to process the fact that there was no room for my groceries anyway and to assume he was merely "being nice", I waved him off. "Oh, I'm fine here. Thank you!"

He smiled but then shook his head and said, "You can't do anything to help anyone these days."

My immediate response was guilt, a feeling of sadness that I had refused an act of kindness. I went to explain or apologise, but he kept on talking. "Things are so different from in my day. Just the other day, I opened a door for a woman and she said to me, 'I could've done that myself, you know!'"

I went to say that I'd never refuse a door opened for me, but he cut me off. "If you wanna blame someone for the way I am, blame my mother. She raised me to be a gentleman!"

I wanted to thank him and let him know he shouldn't stop being a gentleman, but he continued speaking until he was through the checkout. I had not had a chance to explain myself or even thank him, but by the end of the conversation (if it was a conversation), I was not feeling thankful; I was feeling harrassed and oddly unsettled. As I walked out of the store, I looked for the man to at least give him an apologetic smile, but he would not meet my eye again.

 By the time I got to my car, I realised I didn't need to apologise at all. If his goal in allowing me to jump the queue was to serve and respect me and make my life easier, he had completely undermined it by taking offence and being angry at me for refusing his offer. If his goal, however, was to feel good about his own kindness, then it is little wonder he was hurt by my refusal.

But this is the thing with selflessness: it's meant to be, well, selfless.

I don't know if there is a moral to this story -- or perhaps, rather, there are two. The moral for me is that when people make an offer of kindness, they are usually happy to follow through with the act of kindness. The moral for gentlemen is that an act of service is only truly so when it serves the other. Being a gentleman is less about parading your masculinity and more about caring for women.

PS. Here, have a Cary Grant.