Big Fish Creative are three Melbourne-based writers who write, teach, mentor, edit and inspire. We offer workshops and events that aim to develop and improve writers’ skills and confidence. You can find us on our Facebook page @bigfishcreativewriters
What makes a well-told story drawn from real life? This session will take you through the essence of memoir writing – be it a short piece, a short story, or book length. In the session, we will look at techniques for triggering memories and emotions, the pitfalls, and positives of memoir writing, and writing strategies. Discussion and practical exercises will help you plumb emotional depths and determine the story structure needed to bring your memoir alive.
Date: 31 August 2019 - 10.00 am – 4.00 pm Cost: $95
St Joseph by the Sea 16 Cole St (corner Esplanade) Williamstown VIC 3016 Free on street parking is available
Williamstown Beach and Williamstown stations are both a short walk away.
A notebook and pen
Lunch! Unfortunately, we are unable to cater for all dietary requirements
However, kitchen facilities are available on site and there are cafés nearby. Tea, coffee, and snacks provided.
In case you’ve almost missed it, this week was National Pain Week. Chronic pain has many sources and is not usually visible, which is why
many of us who suffer with it are inevitably faced with the exclamation, but
you look all right! Just a hint folks, not a good way to start a conversation
with someone whose every fibre is screaming although you can't hear the
I can't speak for the origin of the pain of others but I
suspect conditions of onset might be common. Mine developed after lifesaving
surgery and gave me a completely new set of challenges. It took three years to
diagnose properly. By then, I was barely functional. I own up to being a major
overachiever so I was resistant to the adjustments that needed to be made. I had
a high-profile corporate career, a large extended family and community
commitments. I wanted to get up, go, and keep living the life I thought I'd get
back once my surgery was over. Luckily, a fantastic pain specialist, stints in
a rehab hospital and a team of physios, osteopaths, occupational therapists and
counsellors, all worked to help me get a new perspective on the situation.
The first thing I had to do was to develop acceptance. Notice
that I used the word 'develop' – it took a while. On the days that I felt better,
I rushed to do heaps of 'catch up' things then wondered why I crashed the next
day. I learnt with practice to do something called 'pacing'. Ha! No mean feat
for a woman who lived at a million miles an hour.
My specialist gave me a useful analogy one once, telling me to
think of my daily energy availability as a pie (pizza if I'm keeping with my Italian
origins). This has to be sliced up for allocation – your brain needs the energy
to think, move and to process all those functions that run like background apps
of which we're unaware. With chronic pain, the brain is also trying to get that
pain under control so for that it grabs the largest slice of the pie/pizza (as
any of you with hungry kids would understand). This leaves less energy for the background
bits that have to keep running regardless. And, if on those days I'm trying to
do too much with a smaller energy slice, it's no wonder exhaustion ensues. When
I finally understood this and married it with what I'd been taught to help manage
my pain – medication when needed, eating well, relaxation, massage, counselling,
yoga and appropriate exercise - I achieved more.
One of the characteristics of my pain is that it is unpredictable.
More correctly, the peaks in it are. It's always in the background and when I stop
and mentally scan my body, I feel pain it everywhere. But there are days when
for no discernible reason, it spikes and that can last for a while. On those days,
I might not be able to put my feet on the floor without pain so it's hard to walk.
Nerve pain fools me into trying to work out if the sensation is burning hot or
freezing cold, any kind of stimulus is painful, my head gets fuzzy and
concentration is a chore. I can't grip things, I can't sleep and I can't eat. Nausea
sets in and fatigue can be a bitch. That's just the stuff that's easiest to deal with.
I've consulted anyone who is an 'ologist' in every field because
chronic pain is a complex condition involving many body systems. All of this helps
me to understand and to manage. However, chronic pain affects us physically and
psychologically. It can be depression and is anxiety provoking. At times, I feel vulnerable
as if my body is letting us down. The worst part of the condition for me was
the initial loss of identity. After almost dying from the medical condition that
resulted in the pain's offset, I was forced to give up my career and income, which
was gutting. I identified with my job. I couldn't do as much for my family and
friends nor be involved in the activities that I loved. Good counsellors and staying
connected to people as much as I could, got me across the line, helping me
understand that living life differently can have benefits.
Making changes didn’t mean giving up enjoying life. To the
contrary, it meant that through learning to understand my condition, and how to
manage it, I could go on living, even if it was in different ways and at a different
pace. It isn’t perfect, far from it. I read avidly about new research and
practices in pain management, I constantly try to improve how I approach it.
My suggestion to anyone struggling with chronic pain is to
find a pain practitioner or a pain support clinic – advances in neuroscience
are being made all the time, which practitioners know about and can apply to each person's situation. Read up on the condition, adjust to the circumstances where possible by following management strategies. There are websites and resources
that you can hook into and follow. Stay connected to the world.
Chronic pain brought me a changed life. While this has its challenges, my life still has potential, I still have contributions to make, there is still happiness and even joy.
'You don’t have to go home, but you can't stay here.'
That’s what my musician ex used to say to the audience at the end of every gig when people continued to mill around the stage and just didn’t want to leave.
I felt like that at the end of this year's Williamstown Literary Festival. I didn’t want the gig to end.
This year there was an extra special buzz. The thirteenth festival, it entered adolescence and is maturing into one of the 'must go to' literary events.
As a writer and book lover, I'm excited to have the WLF on my doorstep. I was proud to be part of the program this year, with the opportunity to be in discussion with Olga Lorenzo and to be part of the Stereo Stories Live event with my 90-year-old father, Salvatore.
I've done many Stereo Stories gigs, but I was particularly nervous that night because I'd realised how much bigger it had grown, judging by the sea of faces in the audience. Then I looked around the table and there I was in the company of fantastic writers and musicians, Vin Maskell (founder and MC), Paul Bateman, Rijn Collins, Brian Nankervis, Andy Griffiths, Clare Boyd-Macrae, Zoe Krupka, Smokie Dawson, Jack Gramski, Peter Maskell, Anthony Shortte, Rob Gador, Stephen Andrew, Jennifer Lund and of course, my dad, Salvatore Romita. Not only was I suffering from nerves, but also my Imposter Syndrome kicked in.
After we had performed our piece, Lili Marlene, (me reading, Dad playing piano accordion) we helped him off stage as he leant heavily on his walking stick. The audience continued to applaud him. He was moved by the reaction and the kindness shown towards him.
That night for me was the epitome of what the WLF is about – a warm, appreciative audience, a love of words, a love of stories, and generosity of creative and receptive spirit.
Sadly, for this year, I've been forced to go home but I'll carry that memory with me until next year's festival. It will be fantastic as always.
My father is over 90-years-old and today, I accompanied him
to another funeral. These occasions are becoming more frequent and emotionally harder
for him. Most of his friends are a decade, if not more, younger than him, as was
the friend who died this week.
I know all my dad's mates. They are the youthful men of my childhood;
their now middle-aged children were my playmates. Funerals are some of the only
times I see them. We turn up knowing the formula: the apologies among the
living for not catching up more often, the sea of dark clothes that ripples as
the attendees move and join in the rituals of goodbye. The inevitable question:
how to sum up a life in a few minute's eulogy?
Dad's hands shake as he holds the service booklet. His friend's
face smiles from the cover. On the back, his friend is pictured as a sombre young
man. The few sheets of paper in between try to hold together the story of the years
that connect the two images.
Dad leans to me. "I saw him a little while ago. He didn’t
look well.' His voice cracks as he goes on. 'He said to me, Friend, I think they're
coming for me.' He turned away, gulping back tears.
We don't always know when death will come but at Dad's age, it's
closer than most. I have no idea of what it feels like for him to attend a funeral.
I can only imagine the thoughts and emotions that engulf him. Overly protective,
I flounder trying to work out how to ease his distress. All I can do is rest a
hand on his shoulder. It feels inadequate.
In the seat ahead of us, a young mother wrangles a toddler. He
looks to be about 13-months-old and he's just found his feet. He explores the world,
gurgling happily, while those around him mourn. Suddenly he notices Dad and stretches
his arms towards him.
Dad reaches to pick him up.
The bub's mother whispers, 'He's too heavy.'
Dad shakes his head and mouths it's okay then collects him
in his arms.
The toddler explores my father's face with his hands, trying
to lift off Dad's glasses, using a language all of his own. Dad offers the child
his thumb, which the toddler readily grabs and they press their cheeks together,
pretending to dance. The toddler laughs. Dad's face glows as he smiles.
Just as suddenly, the bub turns back his mum and leans toward
her. As his mother cuddles him, he smiles broadly and watches Dad over her shoulder.
In that small space of time, Dad's tears ease.
It reminded me of something a friend told me years ago—that babies
bring their own love to the world. I wonder if that bub sensed a need in Dad,
who was a stranger to him.
I'd like to think that my friend's theory about babies' love
was right; that somehow the love had stretched across the nearly ninety years between
this baby and my father, and given Dad a few moments' comfort.
As the mourners surged out of the church, the toddler and his
mum were swallowed into the crowd. We didn't see them again.