Book excerpt

Published by L&R Hartley, PUBLISHERS, 2004

How old were you when you wrote your first story?' a friend's eight year old asks me. Instantly, I too am eight years old as I vividly recall a story I wrote about a tadpole transforming into a frog.

When did I first feel like a writer? I know the exact moment. My travel journal records:

'Saturday 16 March 2002 – I now find myself back at the Bali Buddha Vegetarian Restaurant, for a papaya lassie (some yoghurt cultures are necessary) and a pumpkin organic muffin. It is so hot, but thankfully a cool breeze gusts into my verandah position, one level above the quiet side street off one of Ubud's main roads. Sitting here listening to the various accents of the other patrons is an assault on the senses. English on the right. Canadian and loud American to the left, accompanied by some Caribbean sounding woman. Maybe even Australians behind.'

I remember looking out onto the street and thinking Somerset Maugham, then my food arrived.

I am a writer. I say it and it is true. This anthology of my short stories, written over the first 12 months of my 'official' writing career is testament to that statement and an illustration of my wordsmith journey so far. After much encouragement from friends and colleagues over a collection of what started out as travel emails and became known as Kayleen's New Zealand Instalments, I was introduced to the Gold Coast Writers' Association via a small notice cut out from a free newspaper. I called for details and found myself one cool August afternoon in the Pacific Fair Community Room, setting out chairs in some pre-ordained pattern that I was unaware of, but nonetheless looked right to me. The people came and the room filled. I felt compelled to join, for the exorbitant sum of $25; a fee which entitled me to the bi-monthly newsletter and the member rate for afternoon tea at these first Saturday of the month meetings. People talked to me, asked, what did I write? Oh, my gosh! This was a bit serious. Travel type short stories, I guess, was my stumbling answer.

Scanning the newsletter, I was drawn to the Support Group: Southern Short Story Writers. Well, if I were a writer, I supposed I'd best get on with it, so I emailed the co-ordinator, Doug, who replied with agenda, dates, times and address.

Before I could make it along to the group, another friend, keen to progress my writing talent, gave me a workshop brochure for 'A Picture Paints a 1000 Words – Creating Characters and Writing Inspired by Art'. A virgin character writer, I arrived at the Gold Coast Arts Centre, on a rainy Saturday morning, and spent a perfect winter's day learning, writing, absorbing and growing. A story emerged from somewhere inside me. After what I considered was enough editing, I emailed it off for consideration for selection for the brochure accompanying the exhibition 'All That Glitters' opening 14 February 2004.

That was that and I began attending fortnightly 'Shorties' meetings, 10am to 12 noon at Doug's place at Bilinga. My first time, I had written a little story about lizards and had printed just one copy, which was tucked in my backpack and cycled with me from Burleigh Heads. I met the group, who quickly became my group, as they totally embraced me. Doug, of course, provides a parking spot on his front patio for my bike. John is eloquent and effusive in his praise and encouragement. Joan is my real treasure; my mentor. Her critique and assistance, words and information, attention to detail and research, are priceless. Overlay all of this with her love of words, writing and me, and my passion for writing is nurtured and blossoming.

In the midst of all this I receive an email informing me that my workshop story will be included in the printed booklet for the exhibition, and I'm invited to attend the opening. Joan is my first phone call to share the news and is completely at one with my excitement.

It is a lovely summer's evening when we go to this fabulous event. Dress as your favourite Gold Coast cliché, the invitation says. I tell Joan I'm not planning on dressing up, but perhaps I am a cliché already; the quintessential surfer, yoga, corporate, cyclist, writer chick! Tequila Sunrises in hands we meander through the kitsch exhibition that is the short and sometimes tacky history of the Gold Coast; happy in the space where we can laugh at ourselves and enjoy it. We also peruse the works depicting the artists' impressions of the Gold Coast. We locate 'my' Currumbin Bird Sanctuary photo, the inspiration for my first story, 'Birds of a Feather'. Our glitterati evening is complete with KFC Wraps and cups of tea on my apartment patio. Such was Valentine's Day 2004.

'Shorties' has continued to provide me with prompts and inspiration. I have had periods of proliferation and admittedly a few writer's block times. I took myself off on a writer's sabbatical in March 2004, after quitting the 'corporate cubicle' to freelance and pursue what I am truly passionate about, writing.

I am now poised to launch into a novel that is developing with a cast of characters who are following their own destinies. Opportunities abound because I am open to previously unconsidered pathways as they are revealed. But for now, let me tell you a story …

It was that time again; time to prepare for the Sunday matinee performance. Robin proudly preened his feathered costume of vivid blue, green, red and yellow. Pleased with his slick appearance, and sure he would be a stand-out amidst the identically clad chorus, he moved into position in the wings and prepared to make his entrance as the assembled cast sang to crescendo. With precision timing he launched himself into the clear blue of the open arena and executed his trademark, rapid spiral in a kaleidoscope of colour, down toward the eagerly awaiting audience.

Coming out of his dive, he seemed to stop in mid air to hover, and then come to a graceful landing on one of the lowest platforms on the stage, ensuring that he was in prime position for photo opportunities by the appreciative crowd.

The script called for a token peck at the sticky treats of bread and honey on offer. As he dutifully performed this, he saw her; a bright bird among her flock, cloaked in blue and green, with a red hood, not unlike him. She was not particularly different from her group, but distinct all the same. Robin gave a quick flap of his feathers and tossed his red capped head, at the same time singing his song directly to her, willing her to notice him. She looked over but, it seemed, straight through him.

The chorus created such a raucous sound, trying to outsing each other and jostling for position, in their indulgent attempts to secure the best and sweetest for themselves. For a full fifteen minutes the cacophony continued, then as quickly as it began, it was over. A few last lorikeets hung back in the vain hope of a curtain call, where a few more morsels would materialise, but as the crowd of people trickled away, these birds too alighted and flew back to their erstwhile pleasures of grevillea, callistemon, banksias and eucalypt.

Robin left the theatre to follow his usual post performance routine, flying off toward the ocean to bask in the warm rays of sunshine that glanced off crests of crystalline waves, breaking close to shore. He raced along the beach, extending himself, feeling his heart race, feeling alive. Spent, he turned and headed for home, alone. His thoughts turned to the girl in the crowd.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon he settled down on his treetop perch, overlooking the headland, and watched the people in the park, many storeys beneath him. The women spread tartan picnic rugs on the ground and tables, and then covered them with a mouth watering array of salads, breads, crackers and nibbles, paper serviettes, plastic knives, forks and plates. The men dug into eskies, and twisted caps off stubbies, while firing up grills, ready to sizzle steaks, sausages and onions.

Robyn met her fellow rowers at the Surf Club, to host the out of town teams, here for the regatta, to a Sunday night beach barbecue. She was still wearing her club uniform of blue zip jacket with red hood and shoulder slashes, green boot leg pants and track shoes. Her blonde hair formed a yellow halo around her face.

The sun faded quickly and the rainbow lorikeets commenced their usual song as they seemed to fly in from everywhere to amass in the towering Norfolk pines, as much a part of the foreshore skyline as the high-rise apartment blocks. Robyn had never before really taken much notice of the birds; they were just always there, always noisy. But today, she had accompanied the visiting junior rowers to the Bird Sanctuary and for the first time, she'd really looked at these truly rainbow birds, as she held her plate of bread, sticky with honey, out high in front of her, to tempt them close. She was sure that one solitary bird was trying to get her attention, performing a series of swoops and dives looking straight at her, but in the flurry of colours and feathers, she lost him.

Now she looked up into the trees and saw that, far from disorganised chaos, these amazing birds were purposefully connecting with their mates and heading for particular branches, to rest for the night. She wondered at the pecking order that saw some birds settle high up in the tree canopy, while others remained on lower limbs. How did they find each other in the flock of seemingly identical birds? Perhaps what sounded like screeching birdsong, was really arguing over partners and status, position and views.

Robyn lay on the ground, looking into the trees, and watched the birds until the light was so dim that she could only just make out the almost fluorescent pairs, intertwined and camouflaged, all throughout the trees. When the sun switched out its light, ducking behind the mountains in the west, so too it was as if someone had pulled the plug on the sound and with a few stray squawks, all was quiet. Was that a lone lorikeet, without a partner?

About halfway up one of the pines closest to the sand, Robin perched alone and looked down with a bird's eye view of his world. There she was again; the girl in his colours. She laughed and smiled, and chattered with her friends.

The feast prepared, the hungry hoard of rowers swooped on the platters, taking their fill and more, until the last crumbs of sweets disappeared. The events of the day drew to a sleepy close. Robyn walked home and climbed the stairs to her apartment, tucked high amidst the treed shoreline. She walked out onto her balcony and looked out on her world. Taking in the beauty of it, alone…