For the next in Paranormology, I’ve gone back to the beginning in terms of my front cover, except that, unlike Grosvenor Lane Ghost, Jolimont is a fair bit darker and nastier.
Now, for the past three covers I’ve been the creepy guy curb-crawling around Essendon and Moonee Ponds looking for the appropriate house but, for this one, I needed a particular kind of townhouse: Two story, short front yard (if you can call it that) sharing its walls with its neighbours.
Yes sir, that meant a trip to Carlton.
Annoyingly, a lot of the best fits had trees in the way, or bicycles hanging out the front, or garbage bins overflowing with junk. I managed to get two decent houses, one a blanch (boring) white and the other a yellow and brown brick.
Guess which one I chose?
Anyway, here’s a sneak peek of the cover in progress.
I reckon the contrasting bricks makes for a most interesting title, don’t you?
Fun Fact: For the eagle-eyed of you wondering why the text is offset from the right some, that’s to do with the hard-copy version of the front cover.
Because of the way the printing presses work, you have a margin on the top, right and bottom of the image that is going to get snipped off and, what’s more, there’s also a ‘safety-margin’ that, again due to the manufacturing process ‘may’ get snipped off, and then you’ve got the ‘guaranteed-to-be-in-there’ bit.
There’s no margin of snipping or safety on the left edge, hence the left bias.
I’m making a habit, now, to start with the hard-copy version first, and tweak the wording over to centre for the electronic version. Stay tuned for more updates for Jolimont Street Ghost!
When it comes to defining success, context is king.
Status? Money? Power? Sure. If that’s the goal.
Sometimes it’s an all-or-nothing affair. Other times it comes in degrees.
Cider. As in, fermented apples. You see, last year I received a couple of boxes of mixed apples, fresh from their trees, ready to be stewed or eaten or turned into cider.
Now, I’m big on brewing my own beer – I might post a bit about that next run – and I’ve made an Irish cider from apple concentrate and malt, and I also have a copy of ‘The Practical Distiller‘ by Samuel McHarry, in which he describes how to get the best yield from those squooshy, overripe apples.
Armed with a knife, some muslin cloth, some big pots and a bit of spare time (ha!), I sorted, washed, sliced up and cooked those apples to a stew, then passed them and smooshed them and made a right mess of the kitchen.
Cutting up an apple ain’t so bad. Cutting up a couple of boxes worth makes your fingers curl up into little balls of angry cartilage. The juice gets into the nicks you make on your hand, stinging and biting.
I carried on, batch after batch, cutting and cooking and stewing and pressing and swearing all weekend, and, at the end of it, managed to scrape out about half a barrel of what might pass as juice.
Anyone who has tried to strain cooked apple pulp through muslin will know the error I made. The holes in the cloth are good at filtering fine stuff, but get blocked up after a second if you try and pass anything fibrous. Pressing it with a spoon only gets you so far, and squeezing the cloth ends up getting more apple bits into the brew than you intend.
Pith and pulp went everywhere. The kitchen is still a royal mess. Cupboards are stained. The floor is sticky. It’s an outside kitchen, not the inside one, but it’s still shameful to look upon.
Unsure whether I had enough to even make the effort worthwhile, I threw in several liters of apple juice. Yeah, it’s cheating. I didn’t care by that stage. I just wanted it all to be over. After that, I pitched some yeast I had on reserve, added the air-lock, swore a bit more and went inside to rest. Never again!
If the yeast didn’t take, I ran the risk of getting an infection in the brew, so I monitored it over the next few hours. It wasn’t bubbling much, being winter, so I gave it a helping hand with the warming pad. This got the bubbles going and it seemed that maybe, maybe I might have something worthwhile.
The next week, I poked my nose into the kitchen to perform the obligatory testing with the hydrometer. The fermenter had clogged up with all the precipitated pith, a thick gunk that had settled at the bottom. Great. I had to rack the liquid into the second fermenter (cleaned and sterilized), but the liquid was too viscous and the racking cane only got a little bit out.
Instead, I opened up the tap at the bottom, passing it through more muslin, losing more liquid in the meantime, making more of a mess. Eventually, the liquid was decanted, although somewhat aerated (oh, no) and the fermentation continued. I don’t think I ended up getting the reading from the hydrometer. Never again!
ANYWAY, after the next week the bubbles were all done, the liquid had settled some and I was at the point of ‘blow it, just bottle it’. So I did. Sugar, funnel, sterilized bottles, fresh caps, the whole works. More mess, more swearing as the little filling tube got clogged with pith, more throwing my hands up crying that it was a waste of time. It’ll probably turn to vinegar anyway.
Is there a point?
Didn’t I just say that context is king? Keep up! The whole point is that, I could have gone down to the store and bought apple cider, knowing that, when I got it home, it would taste as good as it should, there would be no mess to clean up, and I would have fingers that resembled chameleon tails.
Instead, I put my energy into creating something that didn’t exist before, something that ‘anyone can make’, but only one person did. Something that was potentially enjoyable, but could just as easily have turned out to be an utter failure – there was an element of risk involved.
Is that what success is? Reward from Risk? Perhaps that’s part of it. One doesn’t celebrate when one receives a paycheck every fortnight, the money that keeps food on the table, yet a small win on a bet gets legendary status.
And that brings me to the point of all of this. When you’re busting your hump trying to get your story written, and you’re banging your head up against a brick wall for ideas, and your fingers are gnarled from typing, and you can’t find anyone to help proof or edit or criticise, and you’re this close to packing the whole thing in, remember that if it was easy, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfying.
Sure, the results won’t come straight away, and you’ll have to refine and rework all those bits you laboured over, and you’ll have to cop criticism on the chin when it finally arrives, and you’ll have to go back an apologise to those poor people who read your first draft, but, in the end, after the dust has settled, you can hold your head up proudly and say, “It ain’t perfect, it hurt like blazes, I never want to do it again but I did it.”
And that, to me, is success.
A win is a win, even if it’s not an earth-shattering, mind-blowing, trump-’em-all win. No matter how small it is, take the win. In the same way one has to learn how to fail, one has to learn how to succeed, too.
Take the win when it comes. Celebrate it. Crack open the lid and drink the success, even if it’s only a mouthful.
Oh, the cider? Yeah, I opened a bottle just now, which is what prompted me to write this. Turns out it’s not vinegar, after all. It’s very dry, and quite apple-y and surprisingly pleasant. It won’t win any brewing awards, for sure, but I learnt a lot and I’m keen to give it a go next year.
Only I think I might invest in an actual masher, like the one pictured above. Or build a mashing machine. Or buy stocks in sledge hammers. Anything has to be better than doing it by hand. Never again.
In art class, all the way back in high school, I learnt about the word ‘juxtaposition’, placing two contrasting elements next to each other. The clean-cut girl and the rough-as-guts loaner. The pristine rainforest holding a smoke-belching factory.
An innocent bird inside an unforgiving fireplace.
Yup, that was the scene with which I was presented when I came home last night. From what we could figure out, it had been in there for a few days, since we had heard noises on Monday and Tuesday, but thought nothing of it.
So what happened?
I figured the best course of action was to don a pair of gloves, open the side door, catch the critter and put her outside.
Very, very slowly, so as not to spook the bird, I opened the fireplace, just enough to get my hand in. Very, very slowly, I pushed past the scraps of wood and such left over from Winter, and reached toward the bird.
Vvvvoom! Very, very quickly the bird whizzed past my arm, up and out into the kitchen, missing the wide open door to freedom altogether.
I found her perched on the top of a pelmet, looking at me with those suspicious black eyes, ready to fly should I get too close.
I got too close.
Cue ‘Yakety Sax’, fast forward and watch a goof running around after a bird, trying all manner of Dick Dastardly devices, like tea towels, fish nets, the hat rack, to coax the poor thing outside.
On the ceiling fan, on the liquor cabinet, the herb rack, pretty much every light fitting, behind the dvd case, on a few picture frames, up on the door to that led outside (Yes! Yes! NOOOO!), on the hat rack, up behind the oven, I’m chasing her and she’s deftly avoiding me.
At one stage we were nose to beak. “Come on, birdy, do yourself a favour and go out the door,” I said, pointing to the big rectangle of light.
The bird just did that little head cocking thing they do and scurried behind the fridge.
“Hey, cat! Cat! Help me out here!” I said to my feline who had come in from the open door.
I figured that, hey, the bird will be more scared of the cat, so would naturally want to fly in the opposite direction.
On seeing the bird, however, the cat hunched down, quivering like a ninny, and bolted outside the door. Thanks, cat.
How did it end?
After about half an hour of furious up-down-in-and-around, she settled on a shelf up near the stove-top. I used the fish net to distract her from the front while I moved my gloved hand up the back.
I’m guessing she was very tired – hey, that makes two of us! – and she merely cowered. Now I was in a position to pick her up, but I was over-extending. Using the fish-net, I managed to pull a stool over to me, slowly got on top and very, very carefully picked up the beast.
She was as light as a feather. She did not struggle as I took her outside, only looked at me with the tilty-head and black eyes.
“There you go, little thing, now fly over that-a-way – ow!”
She pecked my finger and flew away in a flurry, without so much as a ‘thank you’ or ‘goodbye’.
Wifey came home about two minutes after that, while I was up inspecting the flue (which was intact, mind you, so the bird must have squeezed her way in), wondering why the house was in a state, why there was a fish net in the kitchen, the stools scattered about, dust that was on the floor.
She looked the picture of perfection, having just had a hair cut, nicely shaped, smooth, polished (and so was her hair), and there’s me: sweaty, hot, fuzzed up with a feather or two sticking to me. How’s that for a juxtaposition?
This time, no mucking around with silly plots. What am I talking about? Well, if you look back a fair few posts, Hampton Court Ghost started life as a train-wreck. There was a mangled plot and a weird premise that just got worse as it developed.
If you can call a descent into silliness ‘development’.
I had to rewrite the whole thing, razing it and starting practically from scratch. Not so with Jolimont Street! There are markers and placeholders and XXX’s pointing out where I know I need work, all those things, but all in all, it’s a story that stays with its premise. In short, I’m chuffed.
Now I’m going to leave it for a bit, concentrate on something else. After a couple of days I’ll revisit the document with fresh, critical eyes and then, after that, I’ll do the hard copy and red-pen technique. Maybe I’ll work on the front cover in the mean time. Something brooding, not too innocent.
Imagine you are standing on a wooden stage. There is a big, thick curtain in front. On one side is a massive, nattering, rumbling crowd. On the other side is you, listening to the noise coming from the other side, stomach churning, twisting into knots.
There are lines of scuffed tape on the floor for where to stand, a couple of faceless people are twiddling this and that to the side, the heat from the overhead light is searing. You’re sweating. You’re biting your lip. The music starts.
The curtains lift.
And there you are. Ashamedly exposed, nowhere to hide, in front of an unforgiving crowd. For a moment you are blinded by the spotlight. You know not to squint but you do anyway. There are faces out there, not that you can pick any out. Even though you cannot see them, you can imagine that they are glaring at you, waiting for you to get your act on, ready to pounce if you mess it up.
You are exposed on stage in front of this crowd because you chose to be there. You, as an artist, believed that you had something worthwhile to share with everyone. That belief held you up all the way through and now, now you’re here, ready to show everyone.
Only you left your belief back in the change room.
When belief is gone, doubt takes its place. Self-Doubt, the mighty demon, is always ready to tear down any misconceptions you had about your creations: It’s too simple, it’s too complex, they won’t get it, it is incomplete, there are mistakes.
The crowd will not forgive you. You will be ridiculed. Your name will be mud. You might as well walk away now before you go and make it worse.
How many creations are never shared with the world because of this anxiety?
It’s not trivial. Heck, writing a book was one thing. Publishing it was something else. The sweats took hold. My stomach danced a tango. For the next week after hitting the ‘publish’ button I was a wreck. I lost what little sleep was available to me. I couldn’t concentrate at work. Why?
By publishing, I had, in effect, stood out on stage while the curtains opened, baring myself to the world. This is me, I made that, and I sincerely hope you like it.
Biting the Bullet
Part of the artist’s struggle is maintaining the belief in themselves, fighting off the self-doubt, continuing on despite the looming possibilities of ridicule and shame.
The weird thing is that all the creative work is done. It’s the smallest step of getting it out there that is the the hardest to surmount. It’s pressing that button to post it to Soundcloud, or Smashwords, or to send it to a publisher. There is so much significance built into pressing a bloody mouse button.
In many ways its like asking a girl out, or going for a raise, or proposing marriage. If you, reading this, are an artist um-ing and ah-ing, or making excuses not to publish, then understand that you’re not alone. Also know that the feeling of failure is nothing compared to the feeling of unrealised dreams.
Maintain the belief that made you do it all in the first place. If it helps, get everything all ready to go, and get someone else to click the button for you.
Go on! Suspend your doubt for a second and, when you do, quickly click that ‘publish’ button. Stand up to Self-Doubt. Stand proudly on the stage. Show everyone what you did. Otherwise you’ll be left behind a closed curtain, wondering what applause sounds like.
OK, I lied. I promised I wouldn’t do any writing over the holidays. The laptop was there, I managed to squeeze a spare hour out, one thing led to another…
Keeping with the idea of a “ghost story that isn’t really about the ghost”, and without giving too much away at such an early moment, Jolimont will explore the idea of assumptions, along with the necessity of having a scientific control.
A darker themed book, I suspect there will be a sinister element, in keeping with the current trend of the series: Grosvenor Lane was quite light, almost innocent, whereas Beaumaris Road and Hampton Court had baser elements.
No front cover yet – Hey, I’m still working on the wordy bits! – so I’ll be on the lookout for creepy houses. I probably should be working on Adaptation rather than Paranormology, I know, I know. Sue me.