The Doors of Perception and Phosphorescence

‘The eye recovers some of the perceptual innocence of childhood, when the sensum was not immediately and automatically subordinated to the concept.’

-Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception

‘You taught me language, and my profit on ’t
Is I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!’

-Caliban, Shakespeare, The Tempest

As a teenager, Caliban’s speech resonated like little I’d read before. I was a sensitive child, and already besieged by words, chatter, ‘busy brain’, a whole parliament of conflicting ideas and judgments, making noise in my head. Oh that I had not language to mess with this pretty world!

Of course, I have a love-hate relationship with language; I love words, how they play together, how ‘conundrum’ and ‘ointment’ and ‘verisimilitude’ sit on my tongue.

I’m currently reading The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley. His prose makes me love language, because he so aptly expresses his experiences and reflections. His writing is like meeting an old friend for tea and easy banter.  Fascinating to me, the odd simpatico of this moment: I’ve been contemplating consciousness and I’ve taken a deep dive into the metaphysical. I’ve been learning about transcendental meditation and mindfulness, in part, to shush the ego and help my busy brain to rest.

The Doors of Perception set off a small explosion of recently idle neural pathways: Lost, The OA, Devs, Vanilla Sky, Black Mirror, Oliver Sacks, Margaret Atwood, David Lynch, philosophy, neurology, the life of the mind; so many thoughts that excite me. I’m no genius, not like the minds that made some of the great art listed above. My memory and word retrieval capabilities have diminished over the last year. However, when I read the work of Huxley, I have the heartening feeling that I am known in some way; that other people have had the weird and fleeting and often inaccessible thoughts I’ve had. Those thoughts are inaccessible because they are so transient. Unless they’re written down in the moment, they’re lost. There is a tribe out there who enjoyed The OA, who loved Lost, whose brains toy with ideas about quantum physics and the metaphysical like a plaything that keeps rolling out of reach. I don’t think I have the brain power to grapple with the specifics of these ideas, but they ignite such fervent curiosity, wonder, and awe.

I’ve also been reading Phosphorescence, by Julia Baird. It is preoccupied with wonder, and the way awe and engagement with the natural world interacts with physiology. The Doors of Perception acknowledges that perception of the natural world is only accessible by virtue of our senses and consciousness; that we are a part of it; nature, the infinite, the absolute. The common thread in both books is the dissolution of ego; Baird, through mindfulness and engagement with the senses, Huxley’s through transcendence and/or mind-altering pharmaceuticals. Both texts explore that Nirvana, that empty mind space unencumbered by the ability to ‘think straight’, to remember, or postulate.

‘Successfully (whatever that may mean) or unsuccessfully, we all overact the part of our favourite character in fiction.’

-Aldous Huxley

We all must do our merry dance between the world of ego, and of simply being. Mindfulness, nature-bathing and transcendental meditation might be the best-known ways to stop ‘overacting’ our chosen part, to find a space where time is unimportant, where you can lose yourself. I have not yet mastered the art of transcendental meditation, and I’m disinclined to take any pharmaceuticals that are not prescribed by a qualified professional, because I suspect I have a fragile mind; I don’t think it would work out well for me. So instead, I lose myself at the beach, and in the forest, but mostly, when I write. Writing reminds me that ‘I’ can disappear sometimes, until I’m wrenched back to the present, and there’s a startling sense of: ‘I wrote that?!’ I remember that ‘I’ is nothing, and everything, and the ‘I’ who is here right now is a thirty-eight year old woman, who has the privilege to choose to consume great art, to resonate, to explore and wonder. Without ego, my children would go unfed, but I’m learning how to lose language when I choose so I will not go the sour way of Caliban.

Writing and Ego

Writing was an exercise in ego when I began, at age six or so. I’ll never forget the rush I had, when Mrs Rhodes, my Year Three teacher, shared my story with the class. The Children of Apple Tree Farm. It was a thinly veiled imitation of Enid Blyton’s novel of a similar title; the same family of six, making an idyllic shift from the city to farm; an apple farm, not a cherry farm; new names for the lucky children with their ponies and chicks.

I remember in that same year, my frustration at being told that my protagonist could not make grammatical errors in dialogue. But that was his voice! He was poor! He said ‘Me and me dad’ instead of ‘Me and MY dad’ because he spoke like the kids I’d met down the road! Of course I knew it was grammatically incorrect! Couldn’t she see how I’d used the boy’s voice for characterization purposes? At eight years old, I was marked down and corrected anyway. My, my, my, written across my work in red pen.

In Year Seven, my teacher took me aside to check that I was well, that I had not been interfered with, that there was no physical abuse happening at home. Specifically, he asked if my father had any anger issues. Again, I’d ripped off someone’s story; a letter to an agony aunt in one of those awful teenager magazines from the nineties; the ones that promoted Kate Moss proportions, eating disorders and body image issues. I hadn’t plagiarized of course- I’d just stolen the kernel of the story. The poor girl’s father lost his temper and hurt her regularly. His worst transgression was a boiled kettle tossed across the room and this scene was at the peak of my narrative arc. Once my teacher established that this was a mere work of fiction, he had me read it aloud to the class, deconstructing the language, the metaphors, the pace, and the heightening. He may as well have told them I was a genius, someone to watch.

All this was a boon to my limited confidence and self-regard. I was chubby and shy. My voice shook when I spoke. These were formative years. If I could not be Kate Moss, my ego would be sated as a cerebral, an aesthete, a ‘writer’. It was a private enterprise, and that suited me, introvert that I was. I loved school, especially English, History and Art because I could write essays and garner feedback that made me feel valued, that helped with all those adolescent insecurities.

My facility with words on paper would prove that I was not the gormless wallflower I appeared. In Year Nine, I wrote a magazine article assignment entitled, ‘Art or Pornography?’, replete with X-rated imagery. I was usually a model teacher’s pet, fearful of reprimands, and yet, I dared to pierce that mask and reveal my true self. I was endlessly curious about human behaviour- the whole spectrum- but I was socially anxious; a person too fearful to engage in very much human interaction. I remember my devoutly religious Year Nine teacher, who I will call Ned Flanders, because he truly reminds me of The Simpson’s character, moustache and all. Ned was befuddled by my article and he was a picture of cognitive dissonance when he asked me to stay behind after class. He said that usually, this would be cause for concern- potentially a visit to a deputy principal at the very least- but he had conferred with other teachers in the English department and they agreed that it was insightful and well-written, and a warning would suffice. Ned implored me: no more provocative subject matter, please.

Adolescence and that peculiarly adolescent fear of failure made it difficult to put pen to paper for a while. My capacity for a well-made paragraph and cohesive essay meant that I left high school with excellent results, but at the time I felt a fraud- like I’d used my writing to fool the markers in those disciplines where my actual knowledge and understanding was limited.

When I arrived at uni, I felt ill-equipped to write anything other than critical essays. I was studying great literary and philosophical texts, and who was I to make any attempt at fiction that might impart any great wisdom or observation?  I’d barely lived.

I returned in earnest to creative writing when I was pregnant with my second-born. It was an exercise in pleasure, but I had a few stories published, and that was validating. Caring for small children and returning to work as a special needs teacher put an end to that inspired period. My creative energy was expended in work, and child-rearing pursuits. I didn’t miss writing- there was so much in life to absorb me, and indeed, I was absorbed. Some might say consumed; I was consumed by a passion for the work I was doing but becoming spiritually exhausted. I wonder about the sensitive observational skills of ‘the writer’ and how much these character traits inhibit work/life balance. My neuroses, obsessions and busy brain is analytical, and pattern-seeking. I think these traits have made me a good teacher. However, one must be wise with their energy, and I am dispensible in my paid work. I am indispensable to my loved ones. So, I have decided to work as a teacher in a more balanced way, so that I do a good job, and I can pay my bills while being less consumed.

So, now, I question why it is that I want to return to writing? I’ve felt compelled to return to my desk. I do not want to ‘be a writer’. I do not have the temperament to make a career of it, and rarely does it pay enough! I do not seek accolades, because I know that the joy of extrinsic reward is fleeting. I suppose I’d like to publish more, if I think the work is good enough, because really, what is a story without an audience?

Most of all, with as little ego involved as possible, I want to write for the experience of it. I want to enjoy that flow state, where I am not really myself, where I edge away from consciousness, where I can take a break from ‘me’.   I want to write to help me to make sense of the noise in my brain. I want to remember that words on a page can relieve me of words in my brain and help me find peace. I want to write short stories for the fun of it. I want to write, so that I can edit, so that I can pare back and finesse something to make it better. I want to observe human behaviour without judgment, and with tenderness, because it is easy to become disillusioned in this truly bonkers global landscape.

My partner and I have a quirky sense of humour. I put these framed awards on the wall by my writing desk for his amusement. The first is a Beryl Jones Literary Award from 1994, when I was twelve. The second is an 1997 Editor’s Choice Award from a vanity press (The International Library of Poetry). Both awards make me smile, because I kept them for so long, because, for a time, I thought they meant something about me, who I was, and who I would become.

‘She lied in all the usual ways.’

‘She lied in all the usual ways.’

Charlotte Wood, The Weekend

It’s funny, the lies we tell ourselves. We don’t intend to; the lies are happenstance, and they serve a purpose. They propel us through complex lives where we clutch at narratives to understand ourselves and the people we love.

 I’ve been very unwell, and I’ve had the time to read quality literature again. It’s a sad truth that I’ve mostly read easy and fun fiction for a long patch. Cognitive and emotional overload does not readily accommodate dense texts and lofty themes. Life has provided enough of those over the last few years.

I left the blog six years ago, in the belief that I must give my other passion a guernsey. I’ve worn the guernsey and it’s threadbare, but still much loved. To thrash the analogy, I’ve gone hard on the field, and I’ve finessed my skills. I love the game, I love my team-mates, and even the opposition, who have challenged me and helped me to grow. I’m tired, and injured and I need to step away for a season. While I heal, I’m working on training my mind to be still. I’m working on the dissolution of ego, a thoroughly privileged pursuit. I’ve learnt to crochet and spend time in the garden. I’ve started to turn towards old passions and pastimes I’ve neglected.

So, the quote: ‘She lied in all the usual ways’.

I happened upon two novels, Imperfect Women by Amarita Hall, and The Weekend By Charlotte Wood. I was struck by their similar themes about womanhood and friendship. Over the last few years, we’ve seen a shift in the way that women ‘mask up’. The MeToo movement was a collective cry of: “We will not lie for your convenience or comfort anymore”.  I think there comes a time in a woman’s life when this realization strikes; when we’ve given of ourselves so that we’re careworn but keeping up appearances. We hear the catch cries: ‘I’m fine’; ‘I’m just so busy.’

For some women the realization hits early, and then they watch from the sidelines, free from the scrap, but frustrated or saddened by peers who carry the load, whose guilt propels them to be more and do more, unrelentingly. I’ve resolved to stop ‘lying in all the usual ways’, insofar as I will no longer be a martyred version of myself- I will help others where I can, but I will do away with the thoroughly feminine patterns of self-sacrifice and unrelenting high standards, so that I can crochet in peace.

Reflections on Teaching

You know that old chestnut, ‘Those who can’t do, teach’?  It riles me. More than riles me; I feel the heat in my belly, even as I type.

But I have a confession: I used to think that way. When I completed my Bachelor of Arts, at age nineteen, I was loath to consider teaching. I was naïve and I thought I wanted a more glamorous vocation. It took years and life experience to recognise the flaws in my thinking. I do not have the temperament for those more glamorous occupations; I do not enjoy networking or ‘talking the talk’. I like to always be authentic and I’ve only recently realised that I was meant to be a teacher; that it makes me feel truly purposeful. Working in education is a great privilege and a wonderful pursuit for those who are fascinated by the human condition. Writers and teachers have a lot in common. They have to have a lot in common to be good at what they do.

Teaching is an exercise in improvisation because human behaviour is unpredictable and learning psychology is nuanced and complex. For all the lesson planning and forethought, you’re dealing with small humans and anything can happen. You must be skilled in the art of humanity to tune in to the mood and engagement level of your little learners. I don’t always do it well, but sometimes I do, and when the planets align, and small people are learning, it’s hard to believe I get paid to do what I do (when I collapse in my bed at 7pm, I remember why…).

Primary school teachers need to be generalists. They need to facilitate learning in English (grammar, semantics, comprehension, writing, spelling, reading), mathematics, science, technology, arts, fine motor skills, gross motor skills, social skills, emotional skills. But they also act in loco parentis, managing behaviour, emotions and classroom dynamics. They’ll purchase clothes and food where necessary; even provide shampoo and a hot shower if need be. It’s not just a job.

I was raised by teachers. I work amongst them. And I know a secret: good teachers, are a special and unique breed. I’m not even half the teacher I want to be: it takes time, and endless reflection and professional learning, but I think I’ve got the makings, and it’s where I want to direct my energies for a while. So, my blog posts might be few and far between, and I imagine I’ll churn out fewer short stories, but Passion No.2 deserves a guernsey. Don’t get me wrong, I will continue writing, but it will probably be quietly, behind the scenes, without very much engagement in the online world. It’s where I’m at right now, but maybe over the school holidays I’ll have more opportunities to read blogs and pop in to Twitter and Facebook. Thank you to the Perth writing community (especially Louise Allan, Emily Paull, Glen Hunting, Amanda Curtin, Annabel Smith, Susan Midalia, Marlish Glorie, Richard Rossiter, Natasha Lester and Dawn Barker) who have always made me feel so at home.

A shout out…

…and big congratulations to my friend, Louise Allan. Her novel, Ida’s Children, has been shortlisted for the TAG Hungerford Award. It’s a wonderful story, and Louise is a beautiful writer. I’m very excited for her!


The Ark

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I loved the TV series, LOST. I love disaster movies and imaginings of dystopian futures. I’m obsessed with human behaviour and I find the psychology behind group dynamics compelling. When humans are thrown together in extraordinary circumstances, fascinating things happen. In LOST, a plane full of strangers are deserted on a mysterious and isolated island, and their lives intersect, their personal narratives drawn together by a twist of fate. In Annabel Smith’s newest offering, The Ark, an unlikely group of characters are locked down in a hidden bunker under the leadership of the charismatic Aiden Fox. It is 2041 and the peak oil crisis has precipitated The Chaos; it’s the end of the world. Fox, an employee of SynBioTec, invites a selection of his colleagues and their families to join him in the The Ark, a seed bank concealed in Mt Kosciuszko.

I found this novel truly compelling, not least because of the intriguing cult-like human interactions (did I mention I love cults?). You see, this is innovative storytelling: an epistolary novel, packaged in an aesthetically slick app designed for reading on your tablet. The story unfolds in a selection of documents: newspaper articles, emails and blog posts. Unreliable narrators abound; who can we trust? The reader must construct meaning as they go, their allegiances shifting as new information becomes available. It’s a thought-provoking novel, but it’s also an easy read, perfect for single sitting. My only beef is that I wanted MORE. I was so happily immersed in the characters’ lives, and I had to leave the world of the novel too soon. There’s real scope for a sequel; let’s hope Smith has something in the works, because my guess is that the The Ark will be a real hit.


Wonderful Women Series: Emily Paull

I know a number of very special, creative women and I want to share them with the world. These are the women who inspire me; they are driven by passion (and compassion!), and they have found ways to live authentically and thrive as artists. I should define my terms, because I intend to interview some wonderful ‘non-artist’ women too. Some of them are simply making the world a better place, because they have a vision and they have the courage to go forth and create; these are people who make beautiful things happen.

I met Emily Paull last year, and we’ve become fast friends. I’m inspired by her commitment to her craft and her natural wordsmith ways. Introducing blogger, editor, fiction writer and bookseller extraordinaire, Emily Paull…

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What do you do/create?
I am primarily a writer of historical fiction- my two obsessions are the 1930s/ 1940s and the Tudor/ Plantagenet eras- but I occasionally write short fiction. My short stories are usually about dysfunctional relationships or families in emotional crisis.

When did you know that this was what you wanted to do with your life? How did you get started?

I’ve wanted to be so many things, and I’ve always been so suggestible. If someone said to me, as a teacher once did ‘Oh you’d be a fantastic newsreader,’ then that would be what I would tell people I was going to be… but writing was always there as something I loved to do. My grandparents have a short story I wrote when I was around six which is about Winnie the Pooh finding 50c and trying to decide what to buy with it! It’s possibly the only bit of fan fiction I have ever written. At our old house, I used to have a publishing company set up in my bedroom, and I would write long short stories, make covers and blurbs and then have mum bind them. I kept all my books in a plastic suitcase and people could borrow them if they wanted. I don’t think anyone ever did though. For some reason, writing never seemed to be a job for me, and so I would always say “I want to be a Japanese teacher and write on weekends” or, “I want to be a chiropractor and write in my spare time (ha!)”. But then when I got to the end of year 12 and I had to apply for courses, I just decided that no, writing was the only thing I really loved and I was going to study it, even if I ended up teaching literature to pay the bills.

Did you do formal training as a writer? If so, where have you studied?

I did a Bachelor of Arts with Honours at Murdoch, where I majored in English and Creative Writing and Modern Social History. The history units were immensely inspiring in terms of things to write about. I loved studying there. My honours degree was all about what made Western Australian writing unique, and I looked at my favourite book of all time, Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey.

Do believe that your training has influenced your process?

The number one thing that I have learned is that there is no one way to learn to write. But the ability to go to a space with other people who were starting out like me, under the guidance of someone who had a lot of theoretical and practical experience was really encouraging, and it made me form good habits. I don’t think I would have learned to keep discipline in my work without it. It would have remained a sometimes hobby, and I wouldn’t have produced as much work to date.

What is your process? Can you see the finished product before you begin or do you work more organically?

I’m a pantser, which means I fly by the seat of my pants. I have a genuine idea of what I want the story to say or mean, or sometimes I’ll know if I want the characters to get what they want, but I let how that happens come to me as I draft. With my novel, I typed the whole thing, just writing each bit as I thought of it, and then I printed it all, started a new document and typed it up again, changing things as I saw them more clearly. I have done that same process, with some professional input from editors and other writers, about eight times now. The draft I am doing this year will hopefully be the last.

Do you intellectualise your work before or after the act?

Before. Often I start the story with a grand idea. Sometimes that gets lost in translation though.
Do you do anything special to get your “creative juices” flowing? Please explain.
My best ideas come to me in the shower, so if I am frustrated or blocked, I take one. It doesn’t always work but it’s pretty helpful most of the time. If only they made waterproof writing implements…
How do you know when a piece or project is finished and needs no additional work?
I don’t. I could keep revising until the work was totally mangled. Usually when a piece is rejected, I revise it again before I send it somewhere else. But I have heard that a piece is done when the only things you can find to change are commas that you put in and take out again, endlessly. It also helps if one of the people I share it with can’t think of anything they need clarified or taken out.

Is your work mainly political or personal? Do you have a conscious agenda?

Personal. I still haven’t worked out what my politics are. I write a lot about people who have hurt me, or incidents of people not getting what they want through misunderstanding. I also (not so secretly) have a weakness for love stories.

What do you do when you feel discouraged?

Threaten to quit! I have had a few incidents this year where I have just thought ‘That’s it! I need to go back to uni and get a real job!’ And then I cry a lot, and inevitably someone says to me ‘Do you really think you could stop doing it?’ and the answer is no. So I pick myself up and start again.
What kind of jobs did you have before your career took off?
This list is still in production but I have:
Helped teach a children’s Tae Kwon Do class, worked in a fish market, worked the registers at a discount variety store, worked for a jewellers and worked at a fantastic independent bookstore, where I get to stare at shelves and remind myself of why it’s all worth it every day. Seriously, I love my job… well, most of the time.

How do you balance your creative life and work/home life?

I don’t always do a fantastic job, but I try to be very organised, and I set myself deadlines. I don’t work Fridays and those are usually my designated writing days. If I have a draft of my novel going, I try to do 1000 words a night on work nights, usually between dinner and my bedtime cup of tea. I just have to be careful not to write in bed because I fall asleep.

Who inspires you?

Margaret Atwood. I would read her shopping lists.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be? Please explain your choice.

Right now I want to visit Amsterdam, because I read an amazing novel called The Miniaturist and it’s calling me… I also want to try living on the East Coast of Australia, because that’s where most of the publishers are, and I want to live in Barcelona because it’s a beautiful gothic city and Hemingway drank absinthe there… but mostly I want to live here in Perth, because this is where my heart is.

How do you find the artistic life in Perth?

It’s slowly getting better, but it could definitely be more of a priority. I hope Colin Barnett is reading this.

Choose your favourite creative work (your own) or accomplishment. Why?

My first ‘win’ in three years of submitting things! I just got accepted to do a Young Writer’s Residency at the end of the year, at one of our local Writers’ Centres. I’m not sure if I am allowed to say which one yet. I’m pleased as punch.

What is your advice for someone starting out as a writer?

In Hitch-Hiker’s guide to the Galaxy, they say you’re always supposed to bring a towel, but I say always have a notebook. I have a tiny one now so that if my bag’s too heavy my journal can stay home, and the tiny one records lists, overheard conversations and lines of prose that dance into my head when I’m not even thinking about it.

Short, sweet and sour

I’ve had very little time for writing over the last few weeks, and no inclination to do anything but climb into bed with a book when the opportunity has presented itself. I get restless when I do not write, and I’ve learnt that these are periods of time when I must read. So I gave myself a mission: to read as many of Doris Lessing’s stories as I could. Lessing’s work has been a tonic for my busy mind, and I credit her for my renewed writing energy this morning.

A good short story is like a fine dining- it’s all about the balance of flavours, the subtle notes and nuances. There must be a good mix of sweet and sour. I’ve just finished the first draft of a short story that I’ve been working on for months. It will need some revision, but I’m pleased to say that I think it is sweet and sour in all the right places.

Thank goodness for writing. I love teaching, but it ‘drains my cup’- writing revives me. It’s nice to be back.

A snapshot of this writing life…

This school term has been wonderfully intense, because I’ve had a rather atypical travel spell. I’ve done plenty of writing: SCHOOL REPORT writing! But I’m back, and I’m renewed and excited.

First there was the Margaret River Readers and Writers Festival with my writing besties, Emily Paull and Louise Allan.


It has been my long-held belief that writerly sorts tend to have a similar sensibility. We over-think, we feel emotions keenly, we resonate with the mood of others in a room. Well, the women in my writing group certainly have enough in common to fill a four-hour road trip with conversation. We’d intended to listen to the audio book of Marlish Glorie’s The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street, but instead, we told stories. The tales invoked laughter and solemnity, wisdom and frivolity. I fell in love with these women just a little bit more in those four hours. Yes, ‘fell in love’.  Isn’t that what we do when we meet kindred spirits? When they are generous enough to share their private thoughts? It was an idyllic weekend.


Then I went on a romantic getaway to Singapore with my beloved. I’ve been there before, and always thought it a bit sterile for my liking, but I saw another side of Singers this time around. My highlights: the architecture, Gardens by the Bay, and our public transport adventures.

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My last trip was a bit of a pilgrimage to my second home, Melbourne. My eight year old son played Auskick at the MCG, much to the delight of his footy-mad grandfather and dad. I’m not terribly sporty, and generally find my thoughts wandering when I attempt to watch a game of any code. But  this was different; I had such a special time with my menfolk: partner Justin, Dad, and my son Thom. I could say so much about my dad, but I might embarrass him. He’s a teacher and the type of man I hope my sons will grow to be. I think we both had a bit of a happy cry as we sat together and watched our boy kick a goal at the MCG.

Photo courtesy of Georgia Martin

Photo courtesy of Georgia Martin

I also had the opportunity to spend quality time with my long-time friend, and wonderful ceramic artist, Georgia. By golly, we laughed. SOOOOOO much fodder for new stories.


I made the trek out to Alain De Botton’s School of Life. Good stuff.


In terms of actual fiction writing…

  • In the midst of travel and reports, I did a frenzied twelve hour re-write of my novel. Crazy? Perhaps. But after such a long hiatus, I felt like I was meeting my characters for the first time. Twelve months ago, I cursed them and now I look upon them fondly.


  • There was also a reading at the Swanbourne Bookcaffe with the delightful Bindy Pritchard (read her story in The Trouble with Flying and other stories– it’s heartbreakingly beautiful), Rosie Barter, and my other lovely writing pal, Glen Hunting.



Photo courtesy of Amanda Curtin

Photo courtesy of Amanda Curtin


  •  It was quite a novelty to have my picture in the local rag; my boys, parents and grandmother were pretty thrilled.
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So, that’s my last few months in a nutshell. It’s nice to be back. I’m going to prune the roses and plant some petunias, bake something delicious, curl up in bed with a book, and generally just enjoy the simple magic of home.

It's camellia season!

It’s camellia season!


Six Degrees of Separation

Six Degrees of Separation: The Bell Jar

I can’t be quite so verbose this month, as I have school reports to write! Here goes:


  1. The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

I identified waaaaaay too much with Plath’s particular type of ‘crazy’ when I first read The Bell Jar. I’d like to think that it would be a different read these days, now that I have my head in order (somewhat!). I loved it; it was astute and funny and terrifying. Funnily enough, I doubt I’ll revisit this book. Poor old Plath.


  1. Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

I can’t help but think of another female writer who succumbed to depression and suicide: Virgina Woolf. Mrs Dalloway and The Bell Jar  both explore mental illness and patriarchal oppression.


  1. The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot

I have a vision of Woolf walking into the water with stone-filled pockets and I’m reminded of Maggie Tulliver and her brother drowning in a flood. What an awful way to go. Plenty of tragedy and patriarchal oppression here!


  1.  The Bloody Chamber, Angela Carter

Enough with the victims! Angela Carter appropriates elements of fairy-tales and folk tales to invert patriarchal power systems.


 Written on the Body, Jeanette Winterson

There are moments of perversity and sensuality in The Bloody Chamber, and I’m reminded of Winterson’s Written on the Body (amongst other works). Here, woman is object and subject, complicated by the ‘gender-less’ narrator.

 glory of woman

  1. The Glory of Woman

This is a very special family heirloom, passed down from my great- grandmother.  It is part 19th century self-help book, part female anatomy textbook. This tome provided many laughs during my formative years. It is prescriptive in its descriptions of romantic love, courtship and sex.


Can you tell I did a few units of Women’s Studies at uni?

The six degrees of separation meme is hosted by Annabel Smith and Emma Chapman. Feel free to join in! Here are the rules:

#6Degrees Rules