The desk

In the last blog I mentioned that it took me about ten months to wean off the concept of  myself as only being a teacher. First and foremost I need to write here that I am proud to be a teacher, but that hasn't been the point of the year. If you have read any previous blogs then you will know that I had an additional plan in mind - to be a writer, to see myself as a writer and to try to build a more autonomous working life. Of course teaching is part of that life and I have loved those opportunities when they have arisen, particularly tutoring private students, but it seemed that all my energies were in that direction. So what changed? My desk is what changed it. Remember, that new desk that I set up at the beginning of the year and equipped with all manner of things to make me look and feel like a writer? The one that seemed to expect something of me and I wasn't sure I could do it? Well, I sat at that desk and I wrote. Much of it was the long neglected thesis and I'm pleased to say that I'm just about there. I fell in love with my life at the desk, surrounded by all those odd bits and pieces that reflect the person that I am. It's not so neat and tidy now. It doesn't look daunting, it looks like a real desk. My desk. A mess. Littered with academic articles, yoga assignments, reference books, journals that I write in, scraps of paper with notes and ideas, tutorial notes, collections of pens. The desk is my home. It has become so clear to me that there's nothing particularly magical about choosing a new direction and, hopefully, achieving a new goal. It's all about the work and the commitment to the task. I was becoming so distracted with how I was going to earn an income that I almost forgot what I was doing it for. It was to write, and my desk has reminded me of that. 

Who am I?

It's been interesting watching my mental processes over this past year. January and February were very much about setting myself up for a year of writing; new desk, printer, laptop, pens, notebooks .... all the tools I'd need. When it was all set and laid out before me, I was stricken with panic. They demanded a lot of me and I didn't know if I could deliver. However, I got to work, but was only too well aware that my day's work at the desk was not (yet at least) bringing in any money. Add to that was my sense of having lost an identity. After all, I'd been a teacher for 26 years and that's how I answered when anyone asked me what I did. The publishing of Whispers allowed me to say that I was an 'author' instead, but it didn't slip smoothly or convincingly from my lips. In fact, I felt like a fraud and had to face the fact that really, I was just another try-hard, stupid enough to give away a very good job and to sacrifice long-term security. When these thoughts filtered in I got busy. I took on every emergency teaching position I was offered; I tutored; I completed a Cerificate IV in Training & Assessment; I undertook Yoga Teaching Training; I applied to TAFEs for employment. Now these are all good things, but you might notice a particular thread that, believe it or not, I had become totally oblivious to: they were all about teaching! I'm not disputing the need to do these things, the necessity of providing a financial spine to my daily life and I am very grateful the opportunities given to me over this time, but for ten months of this year I consistently identified myself with teaching only. But things changed ...

Happy Anniversary, Rupert

Dear Rupert,

Was it just one year ago today that you and Neti found your way into the world outside my desk? I remember seeing you up on the top shelf at Readings, out of my reach, out of my control. I worried about you. Would others love you like I do? Would your awkwardness and gentility be appreciated in a big, brash world? The fact that you were on that shelf was testament to that you were appreciated - at least enough to win that national competition. 

It was a big step for us, wasn't it Ru? An even bigger one for me i think - straight off the cliff and into the abyss. I summoned some remnants of courage and adopted a risk-taking persona at odds with my usual one.

I'm writing to you from the Moat Cafe as I wait to begin a writers' Boot Camp with an acclaimed Australian author. I've got you beside me, and Neti; Whispers sits on the table next to my rhubarb muffin and latte. I raise my cup. To you, my Dears.

Beside Whispers, on the table of this very wordsy, funky city cafe is a brand new journal. Its beautiful green cover is embossed with a golden Celtic tree. It seems to hold some significance for me but I'm not sure why. Next to it lies a brand new pen bought just days ago in the night markets of Fremantle. Hand made, black and gold with marbled teale and copper that swirl like a deep and dangerous sea. These are the instruments of my trade. My heart swells in their presence, but they demand the best from me and I know I will fear writing the very first words on the clean page of the journal.

I've sacrificed a lot for the sake of those tools and the hope for a life of writing. But that's what I want to do. Of course you know that, but I only know that now. 

"Only know that now?" you ask, "twelve months on? What have you been doing?" you may well add. 

I'll tell you about it later. Join me for a drink, Ru? A cup of tea? And what about you, Neti? Of course, you'd say that but I don't think they serve champagne to minors, Neti.

Dear Ru, so good to see you laughing. Cheers!

All my love, Amanda

Trying to walk the middle path

Christmas holidays passed as many had over the 25 years of teaching. The complete and utter sigh of relief, long walks, probably too much sun, yoga on my deck, barbecues and salads (for international readers, this is an Australian Christmas holiday). But of course this one wasn't like the others, and I had to remind myself that I wasn't going back as I had done for so many years. This holiday continued its ups and downs. I was preoccupied with fattening up my daughter in case they decided to operate again. She didn't seem to change, but I put on weight eating ice creams on the bed with recuperating partner while we watched the cricket. I also carried some smug weight. Whispers' sales, the small kudos I was receiving, the occasional comment of "So you're that Amanda Apthorpe, all added inches to my rear. As I type this, I recognise that within the polarity of my life, I was always trying to walk the middle path. On one hand I was despairing for my daughter, on the other, I could revel in the bliss of summer and the very moderate success of my first novel. Was it a compensatory method to find joy when there was so much to cause me despair? Perhaps, but I think that I have been blessed with a nature that can experience both poles independently. Some might call it a 'cold' streak, but I don't' think so. It's just that I have come to recognise that life will continue to have its peaks and its troughs. The 'trick' I think is in experiencing the intensity of each, while remaining, at the core, somewhere in the middle. I am a middle-child after all!