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Newsletter - December 2023

A big welcome to all new subscribers and a warm hello to those who have returned. I hope you all enjoy my December newsletter and find something to inspire you and perhaps a bit of fresh wisdom. You can access my earlier newsletter via the archive on my website. And if you are too busy to read it all, I have highlighted the most important points. Merry Christmas and happy reading.

On November 12, I was privileged to attend the launch of award-winning author, Peter Long’s latest book, Identity – Larry Cummins Bushranger.

It was such a great event. Peter wrote this novel following a family funeral where it emerged that his family were not all descended from the eminent Bonython clan of South Australia as he had always believed. It turns out that his family tree included an Irish rogue, the bushranger Larry Cummins.

I thoroughly enjoyed Peter’s first book, Steve Hart, The Last Kelly Standing and his new novel, Identity is a real page turner. Peter immerses the reader in mid 1800’s colonial Australia with evocative details about the thrill and fear that was the bushranger life. The tale is told from different points of view including the women in Larry's life. This range of perspectives results in a vivid portrayal of this brutal chapter in our history. From the hold up of a mail coach in the opening pages, the reader is swept along in the lives of Peter’s characters as the day-to-day reality of their survival is revealed in cinematic style. Do yourself a favour and get a copy. And add one or two to gift as Christmas presents.

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Some of the Hawkeye family, celebrating the launch of another fabulous book. From left to right Jo Skinner (soon to be published author of The Truth about My Daughter), Carolyn Martinez (founder and director of Hawkeye Publishing), Troy Henderson (recently published author of Head Grenade), Meesha Whittam (editor with Hawkeye) and Peter Long.

I just finished Head Grenade and what a read it is. Strap yourself in, get yourself a double shot of coffee or large glass of red, turn your phone off and lock the doors. This book is a wild ride that defies genre with some sci-fi, crime, magic and a bit of romance. Filled with street wisdom and the musings of a young man who takes us through Brisbane's seedier side as he navigates the forces that control his life, this debut is a walk on the wild side. The perfect Christmas gift. Order several now using the link above. 

Running

I completed marathon number sixty in November, realising a goal I set myself some years ago, to run sixty marathons. And yes, this is me looking very happy with myself.

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I’d half planned to do next year’s Gold Coast or Brisbane Marathon for the big 60, but when the Indigenous Marathon Foundation email landed in my inbox, I knew that this was the one I needed to do. My vote in the referendum this year wasn’t enough to give Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders a Voice, so I voted with my feet instead by completing the November challenge, 42.2K on the unceded lands of the Turrbal and Yuggera peoples.

The Indigenous Marathon Project was established by world champion marathoner, Rob de Castella in 2009 and one year later four Indigenous Australians created history as the first to run in the New York Marathon.

The foundation strives for a reconciled, unified and healthy Australia and supports and celebrates Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, cultures, strengths and achievements through running (and walking). Do take a look at their website via the link and perhaps donate or set yourself a running/walking challenge in 2024.

Running sixty marathons involved numerous smaller challenges. There was the training for each event just to reach the start line, rearranging life so I could travel to each race and finally, completing every step of every run ranging from 42.2K to 50K.

Whenever you challenge yourself to take on a big project, it is helpful to have not just one big endpoint or goal, but a series of milestones to work towards. When you reach each one, there is the satisfaction of seeing something through, of getting closer to your target. No matter how distant it seems, (running sixty marathons seemed impossible at times) every small step towards your endpoint brings you just that bit closer. And you learn to live with the possibility that you may not reach each milestone, that it is the journey that is more important, including any detours along the way.

The thing with each marathon is that I could never be certain how it would go. Sometimes the training went smoothly, and I was pumped at the start line, my mind focused. I would head out at a steady pace with no niggles, confident of victory with my only task being to put one foot in front of the other for the next few hours. Other marathons did not start so well because of any number of reasons. Stress at work, fatigue, training that had derailed.

In one marathon, I reached 37K and my calf cramped up, forcing me to walk 500m then run 500m for the next 3K before coming good. With my first 50K event on the Gold Coast, hubby booked me a hotel room for the night so I could sleep in an extra hour or so in the morning. When I arrived the evening before, I realised I had forgotten the most important accessory, my running shoes! This meant driving all the way home, then back again and not getting to bed till after ten with a 4am start. I was so anxious and exhausted at the start line, it was tempting to bail out. I was shocked to find that I was the second female across the finish line.


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Every marathon is unique. You set out with rock solid plans of a grand finish then things you can’t control get in the way. It is the best microcosm of life I know. Despite uncertainty, you learn to challenge yourself, to push through tough bits and pull back when you are hobbled by the unexpected. But however long it takes to finish, whatever trips you up on the way, there is still the joy of finishing 42.2K. You develop a new respect for your body and learn to appreciate the adjustments your mind needs to make. And then you start to apply the lessons you have learnt to other parts of your life.

Whatever challenges you set yourself be they running, writing, study or becoming fitter and healthier, break each one into smaller achievable steps and celebrate every hurdle and every small goal along the way.

Life is a series of single days. You can only live one at a time. One run, one word, one moment. And don’t forget to celebrate every success and every failure. You learn just as much from both.


Writing Pearl Number Four

Sidestep rejection

In earlier newsletters, I detailed pearls number one to three and you can find these archived on my website. I adapted these writing pearls from a Chi running programme I participated in some years ago and still refer to it regularly.

Rejection is a heartsink word for a writer. It is just like a DNF (did not finish) next to your name after a running event where you trained hard and had high hopes.

Rejection translates in our heads as, my work isn’t good enough, I don’t write well enough, who am I to even call myself a writer?

The truth is every writer has rejections, even our favourite bestselling authors. Not everyone is going to like your work or perhaps, the piece you sent in wasn’t ready and needed editorial input. Before rejecting it yourself, give it to another writer to read and ask them to suggest how it can be improved. It may simply be that the competition or publication was a bad fit for your work.

I regularly send stories or pieces of fiction that have been rejected numerous times to different competitions or magazines or rewrite them and send them back to the same competition or magazine that previously rejected them. Many of these pieces are eventually accepted and published. Writing is ultimately subjective with the preferences of the judges or editor playing the major role in what is accepted.

This year, my writing group, Brisbane Scribes were invited to judge the Sydney Hammond Short Story Competition organised by Hawkeye publishing. One of our members, Jane Connolly, an experienced former judge of the Children’s Book Council Awards tabled the criteria we would use to determine the long list for 2023. Even with a formal guide, there was disagreement and heated discussion about which stories should be included. Every member of our group brought their own experience, their preferences, and opinions to the table. The outcome would have been different with a different group judging the competition.

The upside of rejection is that it is evidence you have the courage to send your work out to be scrutinised. I draw up a table each year to track what stories, poems, and non-fiction articles I send out to competitions and magazines. The final column notes whether the piece won, was accepted for publication, or rejected. And there are always more rejections than wins or acceptances.

Set yourself a doable goal to send out a set number of pieces per year. For example, five pieces of flash fiction for monthly competitions like Furious Fiction run by the Australian Writers Centre or Right Left Write by Queensland Writers Centre. Most of the stories I send in don’t list but I use them as the scaffolding for stories that go on to place in other competitions or become a scene in one of my novels.  Perhaps your goal is to complete a first draft of a novel or to send out three pieces of non-fiction to your favourite magazine. Keep a list of what you send out to competitions or publications and when. Just seeing that list grow is immensely satisfying whatever the outcome.

We are told to be ruthless. Kill Your Darlings is the mantra of good writers. My little secret is that I never kill my darlings. I cut and past them into a folder called Bits and keep them on life support. Sometimes these bits make it back into another story or another scene. Other bits are used for some flash or poetry. A bit like harvesting organs. A bit macabre.

Almost always, I have found opportunities to use rejected words elsewhere. It may only be a line or the idea, but if those sad words are waiting patiently in a folder they can be retrieved if needed. And it can be encouraging to revisit something you wrote six months or six years ago and see how much you have improved.

The beauty of writing is that the process itself takes courage and like any creative endeavour has tremendous benefits for the author. It is like exercise. Sometimes the positive outcomes are the things that you don’t see. Your heart works more effectively, you become stronger, healthier and your risk of many diseases is reduced. Writing keeps your brain active and flexible, nurtures your soul, broadens your horizons, and feeds your imagination. You truly become a writer when you can’t help but continue to get your words down despite endless rejection. It reminds me of this powerful quote from To Kill a Mockingbird – where Atticus says real courage is ‘where you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway’. 


GP Wisdom - Exercise

Last month I promised a few non-drug options for managing wellbeing and mental health. I will write a series of short pieces that will hopefully get you motivated to improve your overall health, defined by WHO as ‘a state of complete physical, mental and social wellbeing and not merely the absence of disease and infirmity.’

Imagine if there was a pill, with no side effects, that had the following benefits.

30% reduction in all-cause mortality

35% reduction in cardiovascular disease

40% reduction in diabetes

30% reduction in colon cancer

20% reduction in breast cancer

30% reduction in depression

30% reduction in dementia

68% reduction in hip fractures

There is no such pill, but these are the known benefits of regular physical activity based on research published by Department of Health United Kingdom in 2016 as part of their efforts to get every adult active every day.

A large meta-analysis of ten studies demonstrated that unfit individuals had twice the mortality of fit individuals. This occurred even if the fit individual was overweight or obese, highlighting that it is better to be fit and fat than normal weight and unfit.

That is startling, particularly given the far greater emphasis on weight loss than information about improving cardiovascular fitness.

Prescribing exercise is a challenge with so many of us too busy, too tired, or unmotivated. It is not as hard as you think. The greatest health benefits occur when an inactive person takes up small amounts of activity, in the range of 75-90 minutes per week. This alone results in a 15% reduction in mortality.

Start small. Get a watch or device that measures your steps daily. For the first week, see how many steps you accrue without changing anything. If you clock around 2,000 steps per day, aim to increase to 3,000 steps a couple of times per week. Break up your activity into small increments. Ninety minutes over seven days is 12.8 minutes a day. Aim to increase slowly and when you have a bad week, pull back. Remember any activity, including a stroll or some window shopping counts.

Choose a few things you enjoy. Dancing, gardening, swimming, cycling, or walking with a friend. Incorporate some incidental activity (walking to your café to get a coffee, taking public transport, walking around a gallery or a market) and keep a diary, electronic or paper to document your daily activity. It is satisfying to see positive changes week by week.

And remember the energy you expend when moving depends on how far you walk or run and your body weight. The good news is that if you are heavier, you use up more energy than your light-weight buddy going the same distance. Whether you walk or run five kilometres doesn’t matter. Walking the distance is as beneficial as running it, with exactly the same energy expenditure.

I get patients to set achievable goals, always keeping in mind that life happens. Your kids get sick, you end up doing overtime, become unwell or move house. Aim to be active three to five times a week. Don’t let your activity drop below three active episodes. A challenging week might just mean a short walk around the block, dancing around the house to three of your favourite songs or walking instead of driving to get your morning coffee. A good week might be two 5K runs, a Pilates class, playing in the pool with your kids and walking with a friend on the weekend. Just don’t go back to doing nothing at all. Have a baseline activity level. This is your treading water mode and keeps you sane and your body healthy while life throws you curved balls.


What I’m Reading

My Heart is a Little Wild Thing

This month, I’m going to review a book I read over a year ago because its words have stayed with me and I remember listening to the author, Nigel Featherstone talking about writing it at the Byron Bay Writers Festival, 2022.

When he sent his initial completed draft to his editor, their response was not encouraging. I remember Nigel using the world ‘terrible.’ He reshaped his idea and went through the laborious process of starting again, despite the disappointment of such unfavourable feedback. I know everyone who has read the final draft is delighted Nigel persisted in polishing his words and gifting his novel to the world.

The best ideas take shape gradually and are often organic, taking on a life of their own if nurtured and allowed to grow despite unfavourable conditions.

And I just adore the cover which I will share with you. If you have ever felt stifled by your family, longed for love or just the freedom to be yourself, dive into the pages of this rich work and immerse yourself.

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My Heart is a Wild Thing, is a poignant book about love and shame and how the weight of obligation and expectation can stifle dreams and desires. The main character Patrick escapes the oppressive clutches of his mother and retreats to Monaro country where he holidayed as a child. Isolated in this beautiful and wild landscape, he befriends a stranger and begins to explore the longings locked inside his heart. The gorgeous prose takes us deep into Patrick’s soul and in exposing his vulnerabilities, reminds us of our own; the yearning to belong and to be accepted for who we really are. This story stayed with me long after I finished it and I continue to return to it again and again.


One of my Stories 

There is an American competition I have regularly sent pieces to because there is the option of paying a bit extra and getting feedback. It is called WOW – Women on Writing and has the option of a short story or creative non-fiction essay, both run quarterly. The feedback is divided into subject, content and technical with points awarded out of five for each section. Every piece that achieves a score of fourteen or higher goes into the long list with the possibility of winning cash prizes, amazon vouchers and publication on their website.

Last year I wrote this story, The Christmas Letter, and sent it to the competition as well as paying for a critique. I was delighted when I read the positive feedback and learnt that I had scored a perfect fifteen. And then after the final round of judging, the story didn’t even make the ten highly commended. It was a reminder that every judge has their own preferences, that writing is always subjective, and that rejection is ultimately a challenge. An invitation to send your piece out again, somewhere else. There is a reader somewhere who will love your work and your words may be just the very thing they need to read.


The Christmas Letter

Drew stepped into the hallway and immediately the chill evaporated the slick humidity clamping his shirt to his chest. After his disagreement with Connie about the holiday, he wanted to make it up to her. He hoped to surprise her by coming home early. He would suggest ordering her favourite Thai take-away for dinner. They could do Paris next year when things were not so tight.

He dropped his keys in the dish on the sideboard when he heard her talking in the kitchen. 

‘I can’t do it anymore, I can’t. He just doesn’t listen to anything I say.’

Drew stood very still.

There was a murmur of sympathy from whoever the other person was listening.

‘I’ve really thought about it, and I’m leaving. No one should have to put up with it.’

Without making a sound, Drew edged away from the door, his stomached knotted.

‘I’ll get Christmas out of the way and then I’ll tell him.’

Drew’s pulse throbbed so hard in his ears, he thought his eardrums might burst. He slipped out of his shoes and tiptoed to the bedroom.

He stood in muted afternoon light dappled through the blinds. His body was numb. He had heard about men who came home to an empty house, known friends whose wives had just upped and left with no warning, but never considered it might be him one day. Connie seemed fine, didn’t she?

A ripple of sun spilled over her computer, left open on her desk in the corner. Drew always told her to log off when she finished and there it was sitting open again. A fury erupted inside him. How dare she leave him. Couples all had tough times and what with closing down during bloody COVID and now the interest rates going up, they were hardly the only ones pulling their belts a notch tighter.

His eyes scanned the screen, and he felt his heart trip, then accelerate. It was that bloody Christmas letter she wrote each year. He always teased her about it, how she took a week to write the thing agonising over every detail. This annual summary of yet another year brimming with achievements always skating over the surface of their lives, glossing over juicy interesting details, swerving around failures and disappointments.

Drew glanced over his shoulder then half shut the door so he could hear if she came down the hallway. Had she told friends and family about leaving him? Well, this year, he would let everyone know what was really going on in the Reynolds household. He sat and shifted her cold cup of tea to the side.

To our dear friends and family,

Drew snorted. Did that include his bloody obnoxious mother-in-law and those insufferable snobs from Connie’s private school days? He deleted it.

Hi All,

Not sure about you, but we are sick of sugar coating, pretending everything is bloody fine when it isn’t. This Christmas letter will rip the lid off and tell it like it is. Anyone who doesn’t like it, can shove it.

Connie’s letter continued, her words hiding those anxieties and fears she whispered to him at night when the kids couldn’t hear her.

Miles is a beautiful creative soul who continues to surprise us. Did she mean that ghastly tattoo he had inked on his chest, the night he got blind drunk? The one she’d cried about.

Hannah is planning a gap year before she makes any study decisions. Is that what moving to a bedsit with that ass of a boyfriend was called?

Drew started typing again. Not much to report about this parenting thing. We have both given up and just hope they emerge as decent human beings eventually. Perhaps they will surprise us, and these last two years will be a black hole we can all forget about. Suffice to say, Hannah’s boyfriend will not be invited to join us over Christmas. Miles will likely be unconscious in his bedroom.

What had Connie written about him?

Drew is working hard in the business despite nearly going under during COVID. He never stops. We will delay Europe till next year. I am still working at the same place. Nothing to report there. I might spread my wings and try something new.

Nothing about leaving him. Well, there was no time like the present for truth telling.

I’m leaving Drew, leaving the whole mess that is the Reynolds family. I might really screw him over for half of everything, not that it’s that much. I might even give the whole Christmas thing a miss. No messy tree to clear up, no stupid hot dinner to cook, no wasting money buying crap no one even wants. Yes, read that twice folks. We are not hosting Christmas this year.

Drew heard the front door and Connie’s voice tearful, saying goodbye. He panicked and pressed send.

He heard the tap of her court shoes along the hallway, just as his letter whooshed and landed in seventy-three inboxes. His elbow caught the cup of tea and it spilt over her laptop.

He disappeared to the ensuite just as Connie collapsed onto the bed weeping. The sound crept around his heart. ‘Darling, what is it?’

He slid in beside her and she gazed at him eyes red-rimmed.

‘I can’t work at that place anymore. I know we need the money, but it’s so awful. I want to leave.’

Her words landed like stones in his gut. ‘You’re not leaving me?’

She pulled him close, her forehead puckered. ‘Why would I leave you? You are the one piece of sanity in my godawful life.’

Her hiccupping sobs slowed. She caught sight of her laptop, cold tea dripping off the edges, her mug broken, the screen black. ‘The bloody cat. She killed my laptop.’

Her smile was tear stained. ‘My Christmas letter…’

He looked away, sweat on his brow, heart hammering.

She kissed him. ‘I might just give it a miss this year.’