History is not was, it is.
~ William Faulkner
Feature Photo: Flinders Rockpool (c) Alison McDonald 2017
Inspirational Quote–History
writing community
Inspiration
An Exercise in Inspiration
A photo of a prehistoric stone circle on Dartmoor. (L.C. Wong©2024)
Why is it there? What was the meaning? Who raised the stones? Why? All of these questions foster ideas for a story, poem, an opening scene or a theme for a novel.
Then practice painting this picture with words. Describe the colours, the view, the atmosphere created by the clouds and light. Put a character in there and give them a dilemma.
Add a suitable quote from William Shakespeare:
“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
~ As You Like It (1599)
Cheers Elsie King
More on Memoir
SO – WHAT’S A MEMOIR?
Back in January I found out about an upcoming competition. With regular life in suspension and a bit of time on my hands I thought – “Give it a go. Why not? Nothing to lose.” One was required to write a memoir – couple of thousand words and a cash prize. Beyond the address for submission there were no more details.
But what exactly is a memoir? As a keen member of a local camera club, I’ve had photographs disqualified as “out of category” or “didn’t meet the brief”. I didn’t fancy putting time and effort into a couple of thousand words to have them peremptorily discarded in such a cavalier fashion. Obviously, memory is involved. Is it just autobiography or is there some twist I’m not aware of? Bit of research seemed to be in order.
The first dictionary I consulted (fairly simple; from my schooldays) told me it was “an autobiography; a reminder”. I had a sneaking feeling that for this writing competition there was a bit more to it than that. So, off to my great big two volume Shorter Oxford to discover that this word has been in use for centuries. Way back then, half a millennia ago, it simply meant “a note; a memorandum; a record – often an official one”.
A couple of hundred years later it had morphed into something much closer in meaning to our twenty first century perception – “a record of events or history from personal knowledge or from special sources of information”. All connected to memory and autobiography but with a bit of a twist as well in that interviewing then writing an account of someone else’s memories seemed to be in order too. Right then though I was more concerned with my own personal recollections of my own life.
My very earliest memory is of a big wooden table in the middle of a dim room. I was sitting in my highchair at one end of the table; to my left, a door standing ajar; a window next to it and beyond the verandah the gentle slope of a sunlit, golden hillside. I was aware of the rest of the house to my right, behind me and away across the table in the far wall, there was another window with, next to it, in the corner a wood stove, shrouded in shadow. However, my attention was caught by movement outside on the hillside. It was a rabbit or more probably a hare, lolloping across; stopping to nibble or look around before continuing its leisurely progress. The Easter Bunny! I was filled with immense excitement.
Now, so many, many decades later, I have no idea whether that was my own idea or whether my parents had suggested it. I was four months past my second birthday; the memory and the magic of it still clear and vivid.
My memories of a happy childhood are not at all a story continuing through the years but a series of pictures, many pictures randomly stamped on a blank canvas, like vignetted photos: crystal clear but with blurred edges. The competition? The time on my hands somehow evaporated. Life last January has also become a blur.
© Mary McDee 2025
Feature Photo: Wilderness Tamed for Tourists © Alison McDonald 2017
Reflecting, Revisiting, Re-blog
After Elsie’s “Thingamajig” poem last week, what better than Mary McDee’s writing tips for poetry.
Click on the link and check it out for yourself.
Feature Photo: After a Rain Shower (c) Alison McDonald 2017
Thingamajig Poem by Elsie King
The Thingamajig
*
“Where’s the thingamajig?”
I cry in despair,
I rummage in drawers,
Look under the chair.
*
“What, the TV remote?”
The hubby suggests,
“No, I’ve found that,
On that old wooden chest.”
*
It’s essential, it’s needed,
My heart races,
I search through cupboards
And dusty obscure places.
*
But what’s it called?
I just can’t remember,
The thingamajig, thingy,
I had it last December.
*
Hubby sighs and shrugs,
“Well, I’ve no idea.
You’ll manage without it.
Your innovative my dear.”
*
And just when I give up,
Well, stone the crows.
There it is, the stapler,
Right under my nose.
*
On my desk!
By Elsie King © 2025
Feature Picture provided by Elsie King
Inspirational Quote–For Mothers’ Day
“You turned ordinary days into miracles of love.”
Quote sourced from 100 Inspiring Mothers Day Quotes to Honor Her Endless Love (c) Quote Hive 2025 https://thequotehive.com/mothers-day-quotes/
Feature Photo: Late Afternoon (c) Alison MacDonald 2015
Wise Words–Overcommitment
Overcommitment
“Life is too short to stuff a mushroom.” Shirley Conran.
I want to welcome Berenice to Indie Scriptorium and congratulate her on her wonderful blog about procrastination. The problem of procrastination is something I don’t struggle with very often. My nemesis is overcommitment and that can have the same consequences as procrastination.
I am currently writing my fourth novel, editing my third novel, have provided manuscript feedback for several fellow writers and foolishly decided to go back to university to complete a Bachelor of Letters in Creative Writing. I can cope, it is doable, I can study and write.
I tried for five weeks and realised it was definitely not doable. The university course was exciting and stimulating but I’ve discovered a novel length work requires a singular commitment.
Writing a novel for me requires both writing and time to let your conscious and sub-conscious brain work out plot holes, motivations and what your characters will do and say next. It is as complex as drawing up roses and then getting all the petals formed, coloured and shaded to complete a satisfying painting. The university topics were fabulous distractions and something had to go.
I am no longer a university student.
Cheers Elsie King © 2025
Painting by L.C. Wong © 2023
100-word Challenge–Thingamajig
The Thingamajig
100 Word Challenge
George had never been on a holiday in his life.
Yet, here he was on a school camp, water swirling around his ankles as he stared at the wide expanse of ocean. Exploring some rocks, he peered into a rockpool, and saw something shimmering under wavy seaweed tendrils. He pulled it out, scattering some little crabs. Peeling the fronds off the thingamajig he saw that it was a disc with squiggles instead of words and a hole in the middle.
‘How strange,’ he thought, ‘what is it? Definitely not Australian.’
He was keen to know if he’d found a treasure.
(100 words)
© Berenice Norris 2025
Feature Photo: Crab-Hunting at Sellicks Beach © L.M. Kling 1995
More on Memoir–Bunyip Chasm
Have a Happy and Blessed Easter.
As it is the Easter weekend and in keeping with our months of memoir, a story of my Easter break in 1986, camping in the Gammon Ranges with my father and future husband.
THE BIRTH OF “BUNYIP CHASM”—THE PAINTING
You need to loosen up with your painting,’ my art teacher said.
So, with a palette-knife, I did with my painting of Bunyip chasm.
Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.
We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.
The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.
‘Is this it?’ my boyfriend asked. ‘Is this Bunyip Chasm?’
‘I think so,’ Dad said as he squinted at the waterfall splashing over the cliffs. ‘It looks familiar.’
‘I don’t see any chasm,’ I said.
‘Just wait a minute,’ Dad said and then disappeared through some scraggly-looking bushes.
I waited and took photos of the water spattering over dark cliffs set against a cobalt blue sky.
Dad tramped back to us. ‘It’s over here. The water’s deeper than last year, so I don’t think we can go through.’
We trekked after Dad, pushing the bushes and then reeds aside. There, the split in the hillside, and a deep pool of water lurking in the shadows.
‘Do you think we can swim through?’ I asked. I had worn my bathers in the hope of swimming in a waterhole.
‘Nah, it’s too deep and cold,’ Dad said. ‘I wouldn’t risk it.’
Dad then scanned the surrounding cliffs and shook his head.
I took more photos of the cliffs, hillside and of course the chasm.
‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.
We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted.
I cried out. ‘Wait!’
‘What?’ the men said at the same time.
‘I hurt my ankle; I need to soak it in cold water.’
Dad stamped his foot. ‘Well, hurry up. We have to get back to camp before dark.’
I pulled off my jeans and t-shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ my boyfriend asked.
‘I’m soaking my ankle; I twisted it, and I learnt in first aid that you need to apply a cold compress to it.’
Boyfriend put his hands-on hips and sighed.
I gave him my camera. ‘Here, take a photo of me in the pool.’
Boyfriend swayed his head. But as I soaked my foot and the rest of me—any excuse for a swim—boyfriend took my photo.
After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.
‘Stop! Wait!’ I called to the men.
‘We have to keep on going,’ Dad said and disappeared into the distance.
Boyfriend waited while I aimed my camera at the perfect scene and snapped several shots.
Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.
‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.
We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.
[In memory of my father Clement David Trudinger (13-1-1928—25-8-2012)]
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2024; 2025
Feature painting: In Search of Bunyip Chasm © L.M. Kling 1989
More About Memoir and Family History
Recently, our Indie Scriptorium group was invited to speak at a memoir group led by our new member, Berenice. A challenge facing writers of real life, people and experiences is how to tackle situations that are not perfect and may bring embarrassment to those mentioned in their life-stories.
So for this week, we are revisiting a post by Mary McDee who gives some advice on how to tackle those thorny issues.
Indie Scriptorium -- Self Publishing Collective 