Return of the anomaly

It feels surreal. I am walking around the streets of a sleepy hilltop hamlet in Queensland's Sunshine Coast hinterland. Courtesy of the workout playlist on my i-pod, Nirvana, Daft Punk and Fatboy Slim hurry my pace. But while my hearing is locked in angsty urban adulthood, every other sense has slipped into a childish netherworld. I am overwhelmed by the smell of wet leaves, ripe fruit and rotting mulch. The taste of sunblock and wet. The feel of hot, heavy air desperate to unload. The sight of palms, ferns and morning glory. Ants swarming over red concrete paths. Cane toads flattened on the bitumen.

No-one passing me with puffing dogs and pleasant smiles is i-podding. No-one is power-walking or wearing black. I am an anomaly. The locals are probably thinking tourist, city type.

In fact, I'm from these parts. I was born and raised in Ipswich, about two hours' drive from here. And I spent the happiest time of my childhood even closer -- living in a caravan at the back of my grandparents' house in Caloundra. My father planned to go into business with my mother's brother, distributing smallgoods in this region. So we camped for a few months while they tried to sell the house in Ipswich. Kids were everywhere. Mum's widowed sister and her three sons lived with Grandma and Granddad. And Mum's brother and his wife lived in the house next door with their four kids. Ten cousins on two blocks. We walked to school barefoot through the sandy scrub and ghostly white gums, making bows and arrows out of wet saplings and dried branches. We threw ourselves into the dumpers at Kings Beach, bobbing up with eyes stinging and noses snorting or tumbling into the wash. We played hopscotch and marbles on dirt roads. We chased each other around after dark, leaping over cane toads.

I ran away from this world twenty years ago. I reconstucted myself. The fear and loathing lessened. The look sharpened. The Queenslanderisms disappeared -- togs replaced by swimmers, port by suitcase, fordy by forty. But this region retains a powerful hold on me. It's where I was last truly carefree.

Later, I'm reminded of this when Mum and I are watching TV and I hear voices outside. The house we're borrowing is down a long steep driveway so I know I'm not hearing harmless passersby. "Who's there?" I call. Through the rippled stained glass surrounding the door, I can see there are children outside. Thinking they're dangerous delinquents on a trick-or-treat mission, I say "We've got nothing for you". Lame I chide myself. "We just want to sing for you," a voice replies. So I open the door on the safety chain and see eight or nine innocent-looking teenage girls. They launch into Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, the back line supplying the comedy. I open the door fully and Mum and I start laughing, as much with embarassed relief as amusement.

When the routine is done, my cousin Robert appears from the shadows. "Three of these girls are related to you," he says. "Which ones?" I ask. "The black ones," a gorgeous Islander girl says. Robert introduces his half-Samoan daughters, aged between 12 and 15. I've never met them before. For that matter, I haven't seen my cousin since he was even younger than they are.

I apologise for our nervousness. We'd just been watching a news report about a home invasion. He says, "I should have known. City folk!" but his tone is cheerful and his visit breaks the ice for the big family bbq we're due to attend the following evening. We go to bed with smiles on our faces. And next day a girl runs past me with i-pod wires flapping.

I don't feel like an anomaly any more.

Fear of Christmas

After last year's experience of Christmas, I swore I'd skip the family rituals in 2009 and disappear overseas somewhere. My mate Heather signed up for the getaway option too, but our resolve melted away during the year. Usual problems -- too little money, too much guilt/sense of responsibility.

So I had a big think about why I've never been able to pull off a great Christmas since my kids have grown up.

I decided to shrug off those things I couldn't change:
1. My mother's annual depression / bitchiness attack. One of her brothers died on Christmas Day when she was a child and she's never got over the mixture of grief, guilt and resentment the surviving siblings felt about the occasion.
2. My partner always spends Christmas with his adult children in Perth. Not only do I miss him, but my mother tends to be narkier when I don't have a man around.

On the other hand, I realised that I could do something about the two other big issues:
3. Cramped space. Among my immediate family (spread between Melbourne and Brisbane), no one has enough sleeping and dining space to host a combined shindig.
4. Separation anxiety. Whichever city we plump for, one of us always seems to be out of sorts. Usually it's my son missing his girlfriend and pals.

So what was my brainwave? Lacking the money to rent a big holiday place, I decided to try to swing a house-swap. And guess what -- although I joined an Australian home exchange site and started lobbying there for a deal, it was the international site I belong to that delivered the solution. Out of the blue, even though I hadn't signalled interest in Queensland, I received an offer from a lovely couple in a spot roughly half way between where my son lives and where my daughter will be staying with her in-laws. Hallelujah. I can host a Hannah family shindig and drop in for extended family howdy-doodies.

Now all I have to worry about are the family dramas.

The writing curse

I've asked the question of many writers: why do you write? The most common answer boils down to "I just have to; I've always felt that way". In other words it's a form of madness. An obsession.

When I told my boss that I wanted to leave a lucrative corporate job so I could write, he thought I was having a nervous breakdown. He couldn't believe any sane person would accept such a dismal risk-reward equation. The HR supremo, who was sitting in on the discussion (it was during my annual review), sensibly pointed out that corporate warriors might never reach the giddy heights available to entrepreneurs, but they don't risk falling into an abyss either. They're cushioned. Usually in a rats' nest of politics and self-delusion, but a cushy rat's nest. Then Mister HR asked a question that surprised me: "Are you running away from this world or running towards another?" After consideration, I had to admit it was a bit of both, so I agreed to stay on another year. I wanted to make sure my motivation was entirely positive.

I was so affected by this distinction between running away and towards, that I adopted it as the core idea of the novel I have now almost finished writing. At least I thought so until CJS (are you still out there?) started me thinking about why writers devote themselves to particular stories (see comment on "So you don't like Heathcliff?" post).

The idea for my book came in one big hit. A long time ago, I answered a dodgy job ad. An American film producer was looking for a PA and I wanted a fast track for my (then) screen-writing ambitions. In those days I was blissfully bohemian and therefore an object of fascination for many of the rich, powerful men I encountered professionally. The less impressed I was by their drive and status, the more intrigued they were. So my interview with the producer turned into a bizarre butterfly chase. The project was a biopic of one of my favourite writers and the money, travel and glamour made my mouth water. With all the wit and charm I could muster, I made my pitch for the job. It wasn't easy. The producer was smooth and sharp and a master of mind games. But I flitted around the ring like Muhammad Ali and he eventually said the job was mine if I stayed the night. By this stage, however, I realised I'd have to be Girl Friday 24/7 to Svengali himself. Although I told him I'd have to think about it and he gave me until noon the next day to make up my mind, I'd already decided I didn't want to trade freedom and self-respect for the Hollywood goodies he was offering.

To my astonishment, though, not one of my (then) girlfriends understood my decision. And years later, seeing fame-lust sweep across the world, I wondered what sort of woman would have taken the deal, and why, and then what would have transpired. There's a lot of me in the central character, Chloe, but much that's different too. Otherwise she wouldn't have come to a different decision. Nevertheless, the more I got into imagining this Sliding Doors scenario, the more I felt that Chloe's emotional story would resemble my own, even if the circumstances differed.

Have I written this story to show I made the right decision refusing Hollywood? Or at least that I didn't make a wrong decision? It's an interesting point, CJS. I've grown as a person writing this book. It's been a painful experience at times. Fun other times. But I just had to do it.

Seven benefits of being melanin-light

1. You're less likely to be a sun worshipper, so more likely to avoid its ageing effects. Tanning addicts develop a nasty leathery look at a certain age.

2. You glow in the dark. No one will ever lose you in bed.

3. You probably see better in the dark too. The paler the eye the more you'll squint in bright light, but the flipside is seeing well in dim light.

4. You show arousal more vividly, spurring lovers to greater heights. Pale is more interesting.

5. You stand out in a crowd and get served faster at crowded shop counters.

6. Unwanted body hair is paler, so you can get away with less waxing/plucking/shaving.

7. Grey hair doesn't show as easily, and may never overwhelm you. My red-haired grandfathers went sandy, not grey.

So you don't like Heathcliff?

A writer friend once told me that you can tell a lot about a woman's romantic nature by asking which classic she prefers -- Wuthering Heights or Pride and Prejudice. In her opinion WH types are inclined towards bad boys like Heathcliff, whereas P&P types make more sensible choices.

That's spot on as far as I'm concerned. I find Heathcliff incredibly sexy. Sure, he's vile and vengeful, but he's one of the most original and fascinating bad boys in literature. He's dark and sensual. He's wild and passionate. He's the ultimate 'harden the fuck up' hero who doesn't suffer spoiled, insipid fools.

But am I the only one who gets him?

Film characterisations are usually woeful. OK Tom Hardy did a pretty good job in the recent ITV mini-series, even though he doesn't look dark enough for a gypsy. But most actors fall well short of Heathcliff's darkly complex mark. They're often kinda namby-pamby. Urgh.

What disappoints me more, though, is the fact that young fans of the book leave messages on the web wailing about what a monster Heathcliff is. OMG. They're outraged at the way he treated Isabella. They can't understand why he keeps pining for a woman who married another man. They think Edgar Linton's a better deal anyhow.

What's the matter with WH types of today? Are they really Twilight types who like their bad boys pretty and girly? Urgh.

I've got my own Heathcliff at home, thank you very much, but I'd love to see Emily Bronte's done justice on the screen.

What tarot cards reveal

Tarot cards can only predict a person's future to the extent that people make things happen because of their mindset. As a self-taught amateur reader, I always caution the questioner, "I won't be able to tell you about objective, inevitable truth, only what will happen if you keep thinking the way you do now". That's mighty powerful stuff nevertheless. Depending on the questioner's openness and the reader's insight, the revelations can range from ho-hum to deeply moving. I've seen all sorts of secrets come to the surface, and tears often spring when I present the story.

But how does it work? How can a sane, intelligent person give any credence at all to this stuff? I think of tarot the same way I think of time-tested gems of philosophy, poetry, psychology and mythology. It's steeped in ancient wisdom. The cards depict an incredibly rich and intricate view of who we are and how we interact and progress through life. When the questioner shuffles the classic order of the cards, he/she is transferring his/her state of the mind to the universal canvas. The more passionate and specific the question, and the more trusting the questioner, the more the reader will be able to divine from the spread.

At the very least, the cards provide an entertaining framework for discussing issues. At best, they spark inspired reflection.

Red-haired goths

The lead character in my book-in-progress, Chloe, was a goth in her late teens. For the flashbacks to this phase, I've been trying to pin down how she would have related to the Brisbane goth scene in the late 80s if she chose to keep her red hair -- maybe with some purple streaks. Could she have been credible?

One of my research tactics was to google 'redhead goth'. After 20 pages of nothing but porn sites, I was reeling. WTF! So then I googled 'blonde goth' for comparison. The results were far more innocent. Mostly girly hair and makeup advice, with only a peppering of porn.

I don't know why I was surprised. Redheads are stereotyped, rightly or wrongly, as passionate, lustful and feisty. Throw in the dark, disaffected, demonic stereotype of goths, and you've got a marketable fantasy it seems.

Anyway, I'm thinking Chloe wouldn't have dyed her hair black, no matter what others thought. She's not a slave to anything or anyone.

Do redheads fancy each other?

Lately I’ve been trawling through redhead social networking sites to reality check the outrageous generalisations I hold dear about our subset. There’s so much to say, but for now I want to concentrate on one issue: do we fancy each other?

Some men seem shocked that fellow fanta-pants can resist their charms or even go urgh / eeww / yuk at the prospect of getting it off together.

Based on my extensive pop psych readings and chick chat, here’s the lowdown. People tend to learn how to be themselves from their same-sex parent and how to relate to the opposite sex from their o-s one. So, more than we care to admit, gals tend to go for men who resemble their dads, unless of course they had such a bad relationship that they try to avoid that type like the plague. The resemblance doesn’t have to be physical, but it often is.

Take me for instance. My father had black hair and hazel eyes. Guess what? This is my type. I appreciate red-haired men aesthetically, and gravitate to them as pals, but have always been repulsed by the idea of sex. It would be like doing it with my brother, bizarre as that might seem, because my actual brother has brown hair. It’s never been an issue, though. Gingers have rarely made a move on me.

But – and here’s a lifetime insight – the fireworks really only happen when I happen to be the type for my type. The love of my life is a dark-haired, hazel-eyed man who prefers redheads. His mother wasn’t a redhead, but she was freckled and the gene is in his family.

Now if all this sounds loopy or creepy to you, guys, I’m not surprised. But if you happen to fancy redheads, try asking this question early in the chat-up phase – “Where does your colouring come from? Your mum or your dad?” If her dad’s a redhead, I’ll bet you you’ve got a much better chance of getting somewhere.