Recycling and the Spring Sale

In these environmentally conscious times, recycling is a fact of life. Kuringai Council recently issued Lilliputian bins so we’re forced to cram our cardboard into one container and our jars and plastics into another if we’re to have any hope of jamming genuine rubbish into this miserly receptacle. Husbands can be seen performing a midnight pirouette across the street, tossing chicken bones into the bin at number 24 and smuggling leftover takeaway into number 15's bin in a desperate bid to clear the household rubbish.

It was in the spirit of recycling that I honed a story originally written for a magazine last year (rejected) to send to the Gold Coast Writers’ Competition. I gave it a thorough edit, refined the imagery in keeping with the theme of ‘Déjà vu’ and edited it some more. Then I shelved it for a week before editing it again. The July holidays loomed, signaling an end to writing, or anything else for that matter, except shopping for meals, cooking meals, cleaning up meals and washing clothes with meals spotted down the front of them. And don’t get me started on snacks.

‘The Mermaid’ tells the story of a young girl whose father drowned when she was a baby and a mother who grapples with alcoholism and depression. I wanted to show the terrifying vulnerability of a child but also her resilience in the face of parental neglect. The breakdown of another relationship is the catalyst for more upheaval for a child who longs for stability and security.

After several more rewrites, I still wasn’t happy with the story but the kids were on holidays and I was typing to the tune of ‘Mum. Muuum! Muuuuum! I’m hungry!’ so I read it through a final time and clicked ‘send’. Then ran downstairs to make more toasted sandwiches. I buttered bread and thought about how small things can mean so much to children, like the fairy bread served on a pink plate to the girl in ‘The Mermaid’.

By the time the holidays ended, I’d forgotten about the story. I’d submitted another piece of writing to a competition earlier in the year and was disappointed but unsurprised when a letter arrived telling me it was unsuccessful. It was a relief to be able to write uninterrupted but I wondered if I was wasting my time. I didn’t think about ‘The Mermaid’ for almost three months.

It had been a busy Friday. Grace was having a karaoke party after school and in a fit of creative insanity, I decided to build a cupcake tower for her birthday cake. I spent the day in the kitchen surrounded by cupcakes, mounds of pink icing, Styrofoam moulds and toothpicks trying to construct something stylish, fun and impressive to a group of nine year old ABBA fans. Angus and Lucy came over for moral support (and to jump in the pool as it had suddenly turned hot). One of the benefits of having a 4 year old in the kitchen is that anything covered in pink icing looks incredible. Pink icing on its own is incredible. The beaters were polished to glistening silver by the time Lucy had finished with them.

It was almost pick up time and my tower toppled precariously from a round plate as I ushered Angus and Lucy out the door with a box of cupcakes to take home. I noticed an ominous yellow envelope poking out of the letterbox as Angus strapped Lucy into her car seat (and she took advantage of a momentary lapse in concentration to open the cupcakes designated 'for later!’).

From bitter experience, I suspected a peevish letter from State Revenue, relating to my Audi. It’s not my fault the car accelerates so quickly, Officer. Angus waited, smirking, while I extracted the speeding fine and was confused when I began screaming and jigging on the lawn. I’m not usually so enthusiastic about speeding tickets.

‘I’ve won! I’ve won!’

Lucy looked up from her third cupcake.

‘Mum, that’s great!’ lots of hugs followed before I had to dash inside to share the news with everyone I knew, and quite a few I didn’t. At last, some recognition for all the hours sitting at my computer, rewriting until the story was seared onto my cortex. A chink of hope that I won’t have to polish my hula hoop and embark on a career in the entertainment industry or take up shopping cart wrangling at St Ives Village. Compensation for my expanding ‘writers’ bottom’, the inevitable consequence of my sedentary occupation. Perhaps there is a career in writing out there for me after all.

People have asked me how I spent my winnings. Books? A writing course? Laptop? Myer held their spring sale on the weekend, so I came home with two Leona Edmiston dresses – vintage style, silky non-iron fabric, elbow length sleeves to hide budding tuck-shop arms… what else could an emerging writer possibly ask for?