Woeful Wedges

I found my favourite pair of wedges the other day.

Now, you might think that’s a bizarre and materialistic way to start an inspirational blog, but trust me, I will explain my reasons. After all, I’m a literature lover and a die-hard author- everything I do is on purpose.

Back to those wedges. They are dazzling, I swear; velvet and black, with pair cut-offs near the ankle bones and one tiny toe-peep hole. They feel amazing, and they look amazing on. I guess the most horrific part to this description is that, for the most part, I normally wouldn’t touch heels with a ten foot pole! I avoid wearing them, and in fact, when I do, I soon take them off at the party I’m at in record time, either going barefoot or slipping discreetly into flats I’d previously placed in my handbag.

 I had them for a total of two weeks, before one disappeared into the cavernous black hole of Missing Shoe Land.

I threw a hissy fit, and everything in my wardrobe went flying across the room. Like a madwoman, I ungraciously tossed every shoe I owned out of the cupboard I keep them in- the process undoubtedly made me realise what a pigsty my cupboard actually was- and when the search was fruitless, I tried other places- under the bed, beside the front door, in the lounge room, and finally, the little sister’s room. When the last action yet again revealed nothing, I had given up hope. I only had one wedge- and I couldn’t very well wear one stunning shoe to a party without the other- and trust me, I seriously considering doing this.

But, two months later, when I had apparently recovered from the incident and was moving on without them, my father proposed a massive clean out of all the sibling’s bedrooms. The stuff he found was horrendous. I was perplexed at how together all four of us could hoard so much unnecessary junk! So many clothes, old books, forgotten food wraps, old broken cords, cardboard boxes and school excursion notes (whoops… sorry mum!) were thrown out or sent to the Salvos’.

But wouldn’t you know it? My missing heel turned up in the most unlikely of places- my brothers’ bedroom!

Before I began to fathom what the hell it was doing there in the first place (did my brother need to tell me something about an obsessive girl shoe habit?), I lurched forward and snatched it from the collective junk pile. According to my sister, I squealed and moaned at the same time, and then repeated “oh my goodness” for about a minute. I was far too excited and engrossed in the discovery of the shoe to take notice of my reaction. When I asked her where they had found it, she replied “Oh, somewhere in Declan and Vinnie’s room.”

Now, onto the metaphor!

I’ve always wanted to write. Since a little, drooling toddler, I’ve had my hands on a book or around the mouse of a computer. Mum claims that before I could even articulate a sentence properly, I learnt to read basic books and play PC games- mainly the ones with cute little talking fish and suicidal kangaroos (I didn’t know how to read words so I was always failing at Hangaroo). I made my first hardback book at age seven, called the Ten Little Kites, complete with my own scribbling illustrations. With my cousin Nathan, I tried to develop a book about a baby dragon found by archaeologists, which I began to co-write and illustrate, at age 9. By high-school age, I was progressing to the more “serious” stuff- if you count two teenagers from a subspecies of humans called ‘Flyers’ that were thrown, head-first, in amongst a battle between an ancient, evil cult that threatened them to embrace their inner raging instinct and crush the “walkers” to extinction (that’s us!). Once I realised how cliché that plot sounded, I ditched it, in favour of my current project, Faith.

I’m not even scratching the surface when I say writing a novel is hard. It takes all the preparation in the world- it dominates your free time, forces you to exert all of your creative and brainy juices into every word you type, and to top it off, people start to avoid you because you end up having conversations with yourself (when really it’s a character you are talking to).

However, it’s easy for me to grow very tired of it, very quickly. I’m easily distracted- I’ll go to Google a proper way to use a new word in a sentence, and suddenly I find myself at the Twitter page of Jesy McKinney, or watching the latest Smosh video. I can’t help it. Or I’ll duck out to grab another bottle of water and I find myself beside my brother Declan, screaming at him to throw the Pipebomb at the Witch instead of risking a bad shot to the head (clearly, I’m a L4D2 addict). It’s not a good character flaw, especially when it comes to exam study.

Just like those wedges that hurt my feet so bad, I got tired of writing. And before I knew it, I’d lost them those wedges by accident, just like I can lose my motivation. Caught on, yet?

I didn’t realise why I wasn’t getting enthused enough about my novel. All my friends love the idea, my mother is anxious for me to finish it, and I can’t get enough of my original characters. But there was something missing. It wasn’t a lonely shoe that had been unfortunately misplaced- I was missing a reason to keep going.

A couple of weeks ago, I got questioned about my faith by a person I really care about. He’s a die-hard modern-age Christian, and he’s always inviting me to events and speeches and games nights in dedication to his saviour. Every time I refuse. When I tell him I’m still exploring what I want to believe in and how, I get the feeling he believes I can do that through his God. 

And, you know what? I respect him for it. 

That’s what his passion is. He has made some brilliant life choices through his religion and has recovered from some horrific times, all the while shaping up to be an awesome person. But that’s not me. I form my opinions through personal experience, not a book about how to live, and I’m a chronic-cynic to stuff I can’t hear, see or touch. I loathe the morality of political and cult leaders in third-world countries that selfishly put their men on the frontline to die all for the misconception of the greater good. I hate the lack of empathy in people who stereotype others based on superficial things, like their economic wealth, appearance, looks, beliefs and family, when I’ve learnt some treasured life lessons by ignoring what gossip says. I love meeting people who can be completely opposite, yet come from the same roots. And, most of all, I love zombies.

The discussion me and my good friend had about discovering ourselves gave me an epiphany. My values, the ones I preach hardest about, weren’t reflected in my novel. I needed to put them there. So I did.

And what do you know? Now, I have the plot outlined properly. I know basically what’s going to happen from start, middle and end, I know the themes I want to explore and which characters/events are going to demonstrate them, and I’ve began writing chapters and re-writing scenes.

I must confess, right now, as I type this on my word document, I have my Celtx program window open on the taskbar and it has the Faith novel project up. So while I’m expressing my inward feelings, I have also been brainstorming!

 

So there you have it. I hope my first blog post hasn’t been too preachy. I hope it made sense. Honestly, I’m not a sixteen-year old obsessed over shoes- they were just a really, really good pair. If you want proof, ask my mother. Or… maybe not. She might bite you.