March 17, 2012

The Unequivocal Folly of Ladders

Whether they be in Nylons or in their more hideous literal form, I despise ladders.

I have always felt this way and I’ve felt it for a good reason, you see, a fact most people live in ignorance of is that ladders are Satan’s way of killing people. It’s true. It’s on wiki. Ok maybe it’s not on wiki, but it was on this other site with an article published in 2005 that said over 222,000 american people wind up in the Emergency room annually from ladder related incidents. And then there’s this, “according to the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, more than 532,000 people were treated in hospital emergency rooms, doctors’ offices, clinics and other medical settings in 2007 because of injuries related to ladder use.” That’s an approximate increase of 50% per year, which means this is an escalating issue (puntastic). So as you can see this is not just my personal prejudice people, this is a verifiable truth.

When I was a little girl, my mother dated a man who was building his own two-level house. Well kudos to him, but anyone with half, no even a quarter, of a brain knows that is simply madness. Occasionally my mother would take us for a day at his “house”. The foundation had been laid, the frame-work established, the levels had been split and he’d done it all with minimal impact to the surrounding trees which meant that they closed in tight in about his “house”. This left my brother and I with three options for play space:

1. The loose-nail and tripping-hazard strewn bottom level where existed a high likelihood of both foot impalement, or worse, the viewing of PDA between my mother and her boyfriend

2. The wilderness outside which was infested in equal portions by mosquitos and snakes

3. And finally the top level which could only be accessed only by a wooden ladder.

Though little was great about it, I chose the great outdoors. My brother, however, would scurry up the ladder and tell me stories about what existed on that magical second level, but not even a unicorn made of cupcakes could have lured me beyond the third rung. And anyway who (besides Voldermort) wants to eat a unicorn?…maybe Satan and Satan invented ladders so it’s all a very twisted web being woven don’t you think?

I’ve never actually been afraid of heights. As long as there’s something nice and solid beneath me I’ve no issue being naught but a  safety rail away from a long rocky fall to my death. Or a parachute, that’s ok, I’m good with a parachute. The hull of an aircraft works, heck, I’ll even take some well erected scaffolding. Just not a rotted/rusted bunch of slats that bow beneath my weight and threaten to snap, thereby tumbling me into a coma which I manage to awaken from but only to emerge a vegetable and then spend the rest of my days wearing kitten-appliqued tracksuits. Do we now all grasp the seriousness of this situation??

I am not afraid of heights, I’m just afraid of ladders….and applique.

And here’s the real crux of the matter. Once you have inched your way up a ladder, willing your bowels not to loosen from fear at the dastardly thing shaking with your every move, how then, HOW ON EARTH, do you manage to get from the ladder to the your newly attained height?? I’m at a loss. Does one brace the ledge with their arms and then haul themselves bodily over it? Does this not make the ladder slip? Or is one meant to climb to a height at which they can easily step off onto the new level? Surely at that point the ladder would over balance and fall backward? How many rungs shy of the ledge should one stop to ensure a safe dismount? How does one then get back on the ladder to climb down? And most importantly of all, is stringing Christmas lights really worth being dead for?

Believe it or not, I once climbed to the roof of an 80ft building via ladder. In fact via a ladder being held steady by my friend Matthew Clift, whose most commonly used phrase is “Ow!”. If Matty were a cartoon super hero, he’d need a very supportive sidekick and the theme music would go a little something like “Stomp, stomp, stomp, CRASH! Ooops.” Not exactly the kind of guy you want holding your ladder at such a fearsome height. As is evidenced by the fact that I got onto the roof, I did at some point dismount the ladder, sadly the memory is so laden with terror that I’ve never been able to recall how I managed to do so without incurring death.

I also climbed Mount Warning at one point in my life. As fitting with the “solid ground beneath my feet” principle, I was unphased by the fact that it’s summit was  3,793 ft away from it’s base. What did bother me is that after hauling my butt 8.8km in reasonably steep ascent, the final leg to the summit involved the scaling of this:

What we have here is a classic example of a ladder pretending not to be a ladder. “Oh no, I’m just a naturally formed steep rock face.” Bulls balls. Are you completely or nigh-to-completely vertical? Yes. Do you present a high likelihood of death by falling? Yes.

Then you’re a ladder.

And here’s another thing. Ladders that live in people’s homes and pretend to be stairs:

image courtesy of minus a kitchen

Who’s sock clad feet need to face that pre-caffiene? That there’s a neck brace waiting to happen that is.

So look people here’s the moral of the story, ladders are an unequivocal folly. If you are vertically challenged and need to reach high things, marry a tall man. Or a giraffe. Just steer clear of ladders.

J xxxo

P.S. Supporting evidence for my stance on ladders as supplied by Google Images for your eyeball’s pleasure:

from here

from this site

came from this place

came from here…note the active chainsaw.

was from this place

and people worry about walking UNDER ladders!

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March 3, 2012

Leap This

There’s a magic to February 29. It’s charismatic, elusive, self-determined. February 29 marches to the beat of it’s own drum and there’s a whole lotta swagger in that march.

I used to feel sorry for the kids who were born on Feb 29, we’d turn 13 and they’d still be 3, but now that I’m 29 I sure as bloody heck wouldn’t mind slicing three quarters off my age and how strange to think that Feb 29 kids resemble grey fuzzed prunes by be time they reach their 20th birthday. 

The strangest of all the mysteries which rides the Feb 29 train is the gender reversal proposal. I mean seriously, of all the things which can be gender reversed only one day every four years, why the heck does it have to be the most horrifyingly massive question a person could ever ask with the most devastating consequences should things go awry and by awry I mean being swallowed by a turbulent sea of rejection and shame with a corrosive effect on a person’s soul that is roughly equivalent to that of oven cleaner on eyeballs. Precaution: If soul contact should occur, flush with Adele 21 as you run the course of your agony on the cold hard tiles of your bathroom floor.

As for me, there’s a definite absence of a person in my life who is A) in possession of a willy and B) special enough to me that I would have deemed necessary the purchase of a man ring last Wednesday. I did consider asking a boy on a date however. And then I decided that I hated that thought and that heck, I’m Jess Lumby, da boy best be asking me!

Who invented this gender reversal business anyhow? I’m about 16 billion percent positive it was a man. Well not I! I’ll take no part in it! Here’s a proposal I am more than willing to make however: next leap year let’s allow the ladies some man dominated privileges that are actually, you know, NOT terrifying.

I henceforth put forward for the readers consideration the following suggestions for Feburary 29, 2016:

Girls can pee wherever the heck they like.

Boys, do you have any idea how jealous we are of your ability to just pull over and go behind a tree on a 16hr road trip? Do you understand that we poor creatures of the fairer sex are forced to will our bladders into submission until they can be released at the next blue-lit service station bathroom, decorated by stray toilet paper greying with age, and scented by the malign fragrance of death? Next leap year, it’s a pee-where-you-want-frenzy my ladies. Hydrate well.

Guys are the automatic peeler-offers of labels.

There exists a mutually beneficial agreement between the genders whereby it is understood men will remove tightly stuck lids with their burly man hands whilst we dainty creatures will happily peel off sticky labels with our longer nails. This agreement extends to other nail-requiring activities such as parting the casings on electronic appliances in order to replace batteries, the removal of incorrectly placed staples and the prying loose protective covers on mobile phones. The darker side of this mutually, though not equally, beneficial agreement is the injuries sustained in the carrying out of such tasks. Countless women across the millenia have received paper cuts, staple scratches, broken nails, or worse, nails bent back to the nail bed (just writing that made me shudder) and have been left with stubbornly adhesive sticky residue under their nails. Feb 29 2016, men will suffer as we do ladies, they will know our talon woes. Men, I suggest you up your silica intake that February, cause come the end of the month you’ll be needing a little extra length.

Women are not the automatic cry caretakers.

Men, you are grossly mislead in your assumption that women are more comfortable with the tears of others than you are. We have just as much desire to deal with estrogen in it’s saline form as you do, which is to say, little to none. Whilst the courtroom of science has charged us guilty of being the more empathetic sex, we feel the same helpless awkwardness as you do when another human being sheds tears and we make the same amount of ghastly insensitive jokes in the vain hope of producing a smile. Ladies, next leap year it will not be our shoulders which are cried, heaved, heavily breathed and quite frankly, profusely snotted on.

Men have to wear stockings.

I’m no stranger to stockings, but my new airline job has made me intimately acquainted with the bastards. They twist, they pull, they chaff, they snag, they run, they pinch, they stifle, they itch…basically it’s like a swarm of fire ants trying to brace and hold every inch of your being. Stretch out the pins boys, nylon torture awaits you.

Boys get boobs.

Though all who saw that heading thought, or perhaps even yelled aloud, the same single word “Yes!” the readership was nonetheless divided into two separate reactions. Men see boobs as mystical wonderlands full of acid trip lollipops, psychedelic rainbows and happy woodland creatures. Women know different. To us they are cumbersome dependants. Like 35 year old mummys boys refusing to fly the nest, boobs are constantly getting in your way, weighing you down, ruining your clothes and breaking your back. Guys, seriously, try running with a kilo of dead weight clanking around your chest, threatening to throttle your neck if not adequately restrained. They are painful, ungrateful, willful and costly, YES, lets not forget costly. Do you have any idea how much a good bra costs? Eighty bucks a pop. Yeah so next leap year boys, you can take a giant leap with as much boob as you like. We, all womankind, will happily to offload the clingy buggers.

I now await, with eager anticipation the arrival of 2016.

J xxxo

PS did you just like totally love my sketchy sketches?

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February 20, 2012

Where the bloody hell are you?

A few years ago the good chaps at Australian tourism mounted the “Where the bloody hell are you?” campaign to mixed reactions. The mix looked a little something like this: anyone who lived in Australia loved it, anyone who didn’t live in Australia…not so much. Which I guess amounts to quite the advertisement fail considering that the majority of people from Australia are already in Australia.

Aussies loved the ad because we have a unique relationship with the word “bloody”.

“Yeah bloody ah bloody bloody.” Is actually a valid sentence which can be used outside of describing the aesthetics of an abattoir. Loosely translated it means “Yes.”

Over the past few weeks I’ve not been posting much and some followers may have been pondering, “Jezzmindah, where the bloody hell are you?”. 

Am I still alive?

The answer to that is, Yeah bloody ah bloody bloody.

But I do have an announcement to make….I’m pregnant.

That’s a lie.

Truth is I’ve been working my butt off looking for new work, which I have (finally) found!!! Yes folks, my days working with the likes of Mrs X and My Fellow Man are sadly at an end. Luckily I will now be working for an airline so there will still be loads of hilarious work-realted stories, but in the interest of never getting fired and/or sued I have decided to refrain from going public with the name of my new employer and will censor any commentors who figure it out. How very Gestapo of me.

I’m so excited for the days ahead, there was loads of competition for this position and I went head to head with some really exceptional people. I feel very honored to have made it through and hope to see a few of my fellow applicants in training.

Life is looking bloody awesome right now.

J xxxo

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February 14, 2012

My Life and Loves as Shaped by MTV (part two)

A wise man once said “you say it best, when you say nothing at all”. The man was in fact not wise at all and I hope whoever he said it to punched him in the nose. Regardless of Ronan Keating, the truth remains that sometimes, those times in particular being the times when a blogger publishes their posts to facebook and is friends with many of their ex’s on facebook, well in those times, there truly are some things that a blogger might say best by saying nothing at all.

If you catch my drift.

Part One of this Valentine’s special documented my formative loves, the boys of the eighties and early nineties who touched my heart with their grey school shorts and mandarin scented breath. Side note, mandarin is a very powerful aroma, it’s ferocious abilities of linger are not a thing to be taken lightly. One should never consume mandarin within an hour of undertaking any form of professional or romantic contact. This piece of sage advice is freely given. You are welcome.

So in the interest of not giving too much information, this post is more…ah…philosophical than autobiographical.

Music has had a major effect on my life, from Tina Turner posing the question “what’s love got to do with it?” in my early years to more modern influences such as “Wiggle, wiggle. I work out.” which taught me absolutely nothing, but was none the less eye opening and certainly did make me Laugh My Figurative Apples Off. So as V-Day lands it’s red hearted plague on my gush beleaguered senses, I will soldier forth solo style with iTunes blaring the following songs which have greatly contributed to my love-ucation.

1996 – Shaggy, Boombastic

Shaggy, ah Shaggy. Many are the ways I love you. I wanna take you to an island of the sweet cool breeze, I wanna tickle your nose till you achoo sneeze. You taught me that anything is possible, even speaking like the Cookie Monster and still having game.

1997 – No Doubt, Don’t Speak

Gwen Stefani what wisdom don’t I owe to you? You taught me that blond is better. You taught me that red lipstick is eternally fashionable. You taught me that break up song film clips which prophesy a band break up are a really powerful way to launch a solo career. Don’t speak Gwen, I know just what you’re saying. It goes a little something like “I’m about to make a heck of a lot of money that I don’t have to share with a band.” This philosophy has been a cornerstone to my relationships, or more appropriately, probable cause for the frequent absence of them from my life.

1999 – TLC, No Scrubs

Nuff Said.

2000 – Shania Twain, That Don’t Impress Me Much

There are many things that boys think are impressive to girls and, granted, there are some girls who are genuinely impressed by these things. My thoroughly pulled from nowhere approximation is that 84% of the female population are not impressed by these things. I am the 84%. Recently, whilst on a date, my gentleman friend pointed out a nice looking Ferrari. Derisively I responded,”Wow, that guy must have a really big penis.” As much as it pains me to agree with Shania Twain, knowing everything, shiny cars and overly groomed hair don’t impress many female people much.

2001 – J-Lo, Love Don’t Cost a Thing

When I was a little girl my mother told me “Jess, when you go on dates don’t ever let the guy pay, cause then he’ll expect sex.” Oh mother, bless you. With therapy, I have overcome the rampant fear and discomfit this piece of motherly advice left me with, but over the years it has made me quite a cheap date…just not a cheap date, if you know what I’m saying.

2002 – Craig David, 7 Days

Mr David was a quick mover, that’s for sure. But I’d like to think that at the tender age of 20, I could have out paced even him. 7 days? Who needed 7 whole days to fall in and then back out of love?? Brevity people, that’s all I’m saying.

2003 – John Mayer, Bigger Than My Body

In the passages of time there came a time where I understood people didn’t have to be hot to be hot. Some people are just bigger than their body’s give them credit for.

2004 – Outkast, The Way You Move

Oh yeah baby, I have GOT the moves. I’ve got them moves like Jagger. I can woo a man with a shake of my hips and a flick of my hair. I am graceful, I am coordinated, I am ethereal in my movements, I am lying through my keyboard. Once, when I was 18 a hot boy in a club made his way over to where I was dancing and asked if I were doing aerobics. That’s a compliment right?

2005 – Black Eyed Peas, My Humps

And still to this day I’ve no idea what I’m gonna do with all this junk!

2006 – JT, SexyBack

Heck yes, I’m bringing Sexyback. Ugg boots, track pants and oversized sweaters are sexy right? Food stains? What’s the verdict on food stains? I recently decided that Vietnamese was a good restaurant choice for a date. It wasn’t. My two favourite dishes are really messy to eat, but it felt like blasphemy to order anything but pho tai or bun bo xao. If rice noodles hanging down one’s chin is not currently defined as ‘sexy’ you better bet I rectified this error that night. Holla!!!

2007 – Fall Out Boy, This Ain’t a Scene It’s an Arms Race

What? That’s a normal approach to relationships right?

2008 – Leona Lewis, Bleeding Love

I’ve never bled love personally and if I ever did, I’d probably just apply gauze and pressure. Lack of personal experience notwithstanding, the sentiment is a nice one, I think if Brett Parson were still in my life I’d bleed a little love.

2009 – Lady Gaga, Poker Face

I wonder what the antithesis of a Poker Face is? Like maybe a Go Fish Face? Yeah well I’ve a Go Fish Face, any thought in my head is usually on my lips in the same instant, but just incase one of my fickle filters decides to swoop for the save, fear not, cause whatever thought I’m thinking will be right there on my Go Fish Face. Burqa’s and vows of silence were invented for girls like me.

So somewhere after 2009, pop music got really awful….wait no, it was always really awful…I think there’s just some sort of grace in reflection that the passage of time brings. It’s like a gruesome, horrific, injury. You know the kind you see in Saw movies. Well of the few characters who lived to tell their tales, I’m sure that one day they would find they could do so without weeping and/or gnashing of teeth. Yeah so pop music is kinda like that for me. Anything from 2010 onward is just too fresh. The wound’s too raw. That and I was in a car accident yesterday and all this typing is cramping my neck and shoulders…I need sleep…sleep, codeine and a world without bad drivers/pop musicians. Thomas More, if you’re reading this, is a world like that the Utopia you dreamed of?

Happy Valentine’s Day <3

Allow me to woo you with the following:

J xxxo

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February 13, 2012

My Life and Loves as Shaped by MTV (part one)

Firstly let me clarify by saying that I have never watched MTV. I watch Rage, which is the Australian version of MTV, or at least it was until globalisation happened and with it MTV Australia. So now Rage is just the Australian version of Rage. What I’m trying to say is that this post would be more accurately titled “My Life and Loves as Shaped by Rage” but that just sounded like the title of an exceptionally narcissistic one person play with a huge potential for awkward love scenes. This coupled with the increased cultural accessibility of using ’MTV’ instead of ‘Rage’ lead to the misleading, though less-misleading-than-truth, title.

Kapish?

I must admit, I even lost myself there…oh well, land ahoy and on with the story.

Rage began at midnight every Sunday morning and would count down the most popular songs of the week from 100 to 1. One night I decided to be a trend setter and get the scoop on cool new songs by watching it from the beginning. I went to school that Monday singing the latest Salt ‘n Pepper tune which was clocking the high fifties at the time. I was awesome, rolling with my fluorescent midriff crop and sexy denim cut offs, singing lyrics that rowed three strokes ahead of the mainstream. Of course, no one knew what I was on about and the song never came within a whiff of the top ten, but that’s the life of a trend setter. I was so edge, U2 asked me to be their guitarist. If you don’t get that, it’s merely proof of how edge I am. Or just proof that you’re not a U2 fan.

Also, clarification, I was actually just the weird kid and not a trend setter at all.

I digress. Back to Rage.

Sunday mornings, my brother and I used to don our sunnies indoors and dance around to MJ, Mariah (Disclaimer: Daniel never danced to Mariah), Vanilla Ice, Milli Vanilli, Roxette, MC Hammer….OMG you so can’t touch this. One time Daniel made note to me that every song was about love. It hadn’t really struck me before that point, probably because I was only eight and had more important things to think about like seashells and Punky Bruster, but for all it’s foriegness the thought was none the less true. And so as we herald the approach of what, if the Aztecs can be believed, will be the last Valentines Day to ever exist before the world no longer does, allow me to journey you through my life and loves as shaped by Rage (MTV).

1986 – Every Rose Has It’s Thorn

At the age of four I can’t say I understood what roses and thorns had to do with love, that lesson would come four years later when I met Ricky Thorne (true name, true story). Ricky Thorne wasn’t my first love, but he was my first boyfriend. He was the rose that fragranced my third grade school days with the sweet perfume of romance and he was the thorn that moved to another school but two short months afterward. Our relationship consisted of nervous glances and never speaking to each other. Technically we’re still dating and bar the nervous glances, our love remains much the same today as it was in third grade.

1987 – Locomotion

In 1987 I was five years old, in my first year of school and completely sure that I was going to be Kylie Minogue when I grew up. Everybody was doing a brand new dance now, so when my school opened up a lip syncing competition I busted out my faux-ffle skirt (imitation ruffle skirt handsewn by my mother who didn’t quite catch the vision I was casting) and I mimed my little heart out to Locomotion. I jumped up, I jumped back, and thought I had the knack. All I truly had was a weird skirt with a (unbeknownst to me) chocolate milk stain on it. Of all the places to have a chocolate milk stain, the back of your homespun faux-ffle skirt is the worst of them.

 1988 – The Time of My Life

As earlier mentioned, Ricky Thorne was not my first love. My first love was Russell Lang and my best friend at the time was Rebecca Black (true name, true story). Rebecca Black and I both loved Russell Lang, but the Blacks were friends with the Langs, so Rebecca got to spend extra curricular time with Russell and thus always had it one up on me as we vied for his affections. Then, for one brief period in 1988, Russell Lang with his thick bottle cap glasses, sandy blonde hair and scrawny locust resemblance, saw me in a corner and knew my place was by his side, dancing in the spot light, showing Rebecca Black that Jessica Lumby knew what it was to fly. It ended badly, but Russell if you’re reading this, for those two weeks I had the time of my life.

I’m gonna skip through a bit here, cause frankly I was no hussy and do not have a love story for every year of primary school.

1992 – November Rain

1992, Slovenia and Croatia gain independence, Los Angelians riot over the acquittal of Rodney King’s attackers, Bill Clinton becomes President of the United States of America and through all of this, I was the candle Brett Parson found hard to hold in the cold November Rain. He was the bad boy and I was the weird kid, a solid match some would say, but I was always torn in my heart. I knew Brett was all wrong for me, he talked back to teachers and mooned girls in the school yard. I told him no for months but then one spring afternoon he followed me home from the bus stop crying out his love for me. We walked along the beach and played on the hot concrete of the storm drain pipes. In a bold move of vandalism, I placed a muddy hand print on the “caution waste run off” sign at the end of those storm pipes. Brett placed his hand over mine and said we were married now. That is love people. That is devotion. The November Rain washed those prints away, but I’d had my first taste of a bad boy’s good heart, a thing the cold November Rain could never shift.

P.S. November rain is actually quite warm in Australia.

1993 – Mr Vain

1993…Bobby something-or-other…or it could have been another Ricky to be honest…we dated in secret, because my friend Priscilla liked him. Turns out  he was dating Priscilla in secret too…and Candice…and Jaime…and Pieter. 1993, the year I was five timed. We all found out together and broke up with him in a fiery, single-file, procession of 10 year old indignation. Bobby-Ricky something-or-other, I’d rather call you Mr. Raider, call you Mr. Wrong, call you insane.

Join me on Valentines Day for Part 2 of My Life and Loves as Shaped By MTV (Rage).

J xxxo

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January 27, 2012

…but I won’t do that

I like to think of myself as a pretty good sales person. I reach targets, I increase return custom, I educate patrons. It’s highly possible that people could actually live longer, healthier lives as a result of my work here.

I’m pretty much Ghandi.

Meatloaf sings this song…well look, let’s be honest shall we?….Meatloaf grates out this song in a semi-intelligible fashion, it goes a little something like “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.” Actually it goes exactly like that. Lyricsworld concurs.

So, yes I will do a lot for a sale, and a lot to make a customer happy. There is one thing I won’t do however. Actually I should say there’s one thing I won’t do without harbouring an indignant inner monologue whilst still maintaining a sweet, helpful demeanour. That one thing, is work for a toothpaste sale. No, I will not (willingly) do that.

And, were you aware that there is actually a significant portion of the human population who want detailed, researched, in-depth assistance with toothpaste purchasing?

The mind boggles.

What does it taste like? What is fluoride? Why do people not want fluoride? What are the symptoms of fluoride poisoning? So then, what is Sodium Laurel Sulfate? How much can I ingest before it becomes toxic?

I AM NOT A SCIENTIST! Especially I am not a scientist for a $4.50 sale. It’s toothpaste, not a time-share in Boca Raton. You can make a bad investment with this one.

We all have our limits. I recently acquired a new flatmate who pointed out that there is a stray, homeless coin in every room of our house. This is because our collective tenants will all deign to reach down for $2 and $1 coins, heck, I’ll even stoop for a fifty cent piece, but a 20c coin? No. No, I won’t do that.

I’m planning a trip to Europe at the moment and have learnt in the process an interesting fact about my travel partner, Olivia. She is a bonofied airline racist. She will go to great expense not to fly with what she considers to be sub-standard airlines. Something about leg room and not dying…yada, yada, yada. Qantas, yes. Virgin, yes. Emirates, yes. Air Asia? No. No she won’t do that. Not even to potentially save $600. At this stage it looks like we’ll be taking separate flights.

My mother, as aforementioned, is a big fan of competition based reality TV. Yet there exists for her some indefinable line between the shows (which to me all mould into one awe-inspiring monstrosity of over commercialised and highly contrived hedonism). Australia’s Got Talent (true statement yet little of it ends up on that show) and X-Factor are both acceptable but Australian Idol? No. No, she won’t do that.

My brother drank snake wine in Vietnam. He drank the juices in which a serpent’s corpse had been marinating, yet fresh snake blood? No, he won’t do that.

Actually that one makes a lot of sense. You can safely wager on the absence of all snake based produce from my food diary for the next trillion, gazillion years.

I’ve heard it said that it’s not worth Bill Gates’ time to bend down and pick up a $100 note. I wonder if he’d stoop down regardless? I’m a thousand percent sure that I would.

Meatloaf would run into hell and back, but forgive himself for not going all the way TONIGHT! No. No, he won’t do that.

Figurative line drawing may be engaged upon in the below comments section.

J xxxo

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January 10, 2012

The Future Belongs To…

I’m a big fan of Eleanor Roosevelt, whose WikiQuotes page lists amongst CS Lewis’ and Noel Fielding’s as my one of my most frequently frequented. Foremost of the things Eleanor has said which have influenced my life, is her stock standard coffee mug quote “The future belongs to those who believe in the power of their dreams.” It was, in fact, upon a coffee mug that I first read this quote. The mug was my flat mate’s but now it is mine because, well…because I stole it quite frankly. The mug belongs to she who believes in her dream to own it.

Three years ago I stumbled upon a dream…almost literally now I come to think of it. I was holidaying with family in Scotts Head, NSW. And by holidaying I mean eating everything in sight. That’s how I like to holiday, wake, eat, read, eat, kip, eat, eat, waddle to beach if picnic is promised, eat, eat, read, eat, sleep. Exercise is prohibited. This particular holiday, however, was of such prolifically gluttonous proportions that my pudding guilt eventually overrode my no exercise decree. And by that I mean my jeans no longer fit. So I took to the headlands for a run, reveling in the cobalt blue sea swallowing up the jagged cliffs and the way the apple green grass played in the wind, when out of nowhere this one line suddenly blooms in my brain. I began to toy with it, I tried it in a few contexts until I hit the one that I just knew would make a really good novel and then…I smashed my ankle in.

Yes. I smashed my ankle good ‘n proper.

With no phone on me.

Really far from home.

And would you believe that, between me and home, there was even a small set of cliffs to climb?

I sure hope you do believe it.

Here’s a thing you might not yet know; The wet crunch of a ligament tearing is a sound you never, ever forget. Another experience which permanently sears itself in one’s memory is hobbling 4k home upon those torn ligaments. Yet, I am grateful to that vomitously wretched hobble home, for during this magnificently painful journey the concept for my Eden trilogy was born in it’s fullness. After my tumble in the headlands I spent two weeks abed with my (c)ankle elevated, studiously ignoring my physio exercises. During this forced reprieve I took Eleanor up on her advice, I dared to believe in the power of my dream. I started writing.

It didn’t take long before I caught on to what the dare part was all about. Were you aware that it takes a fair chunk of daring to believe in the power of your dream when very few others do? You see, I, Jessica Lumby, am an awesome starter….and an incredibly mediocre finisher. I’m like Heroes, promising epic amazingness at the start, delivering final episodes worthy of naught but late night time slots and then eventually drowning to death in unfulfilled potential.

Many scoffed outright at my dream. That sucked.

Most just gave me the tight-lipped smile and non-commital eyes of politely refusing to encourage my latest folly. That sucked more.

One of my most important people told me I couldn’t do it because I was a bad writer. That sucked the worst.

You know what else sucks? Sucking at writing a novel. And guess what? I, personally, am incapable of writing a novel without spending a large amount of time sucking at writing a novel. I began to agree with all of those above. How could I not when I was coming out with pearlers such as “looked deeply into his moss green eyes” and “icy tendrils of rage coiled around her heart”. Who writes like that?

Me apparently.

I’d get so frustrated with how bad I was that I would just stop. At 25,000 words I stopped for six months. At 45,000 I stopped for almost eight. At 62,000 I stopped for three months. At 97,000 I stopped for two months. Here’s a theory I have, sucking at writing a novel is crap, but so is fertilizer and good things grow in fertilizer. So eventually every stop would stop and I would start again. I would resolve that first drafts are allowed to be crap, for from their fertilizer crap, will bloom the beauty of a carefully edited novel…or something like that.

Then, on Friday night I stopped again. At 104,000 words, I wrote The End and I stopped.

Sur-freakin-real. I, Jessica Lumby, finished something.

Now all I need to do is edit this one and write the other two :/

BTW, as much as I love her, Eleanor is wrong. The future does not, in fact, belong to those who believe in the power of their dreams. I’m pretty sure the future actually belongs to those who grab their dreams firmly by the balls, give ‘em a hearty throttle and vehemently hiss “You’re mine, skank.”

…or possibly just those who own stocks in Apple.

The End.

J xxxo

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