In every major city, where people live and eat,
There is a place, Suburbia, where Suburban people meet
They give Suburban lectures, of gossip till you scream.
And still they try to put you in their great Suburban dream.
And Mummy still loves Daddy, ’cause Daddy pays the rent.
And Sister loves the boy next door but I know that boy is bent.
And Brother’s got his closet, and Junior’s got his chains.
And I still have to hear about Gran’s arthritic pains.
And Granpa thinks I’m communist, Dad thinks I’m a queen.
Mum thinks I’m on heroin but my arms still are clean.
And my sweet lovely lady wants to go and slash her wrists,
She’s asking me for razor blades and it’s hard to resist.
But tonight when all is quiet, no one’s going to sleep.
For downtown in Suburbia the wounds run oh so deep.
It was 1983 and I was living in a fibro death trap in North Ryde, Sydney, sharing it with my best mate D and an array of colourful characters who came and went over the next eleven months. I’d just left home and full of hormones and THC I Wrote Suburbia.
I think I had some issues
God I hope I’ve worked them out by now.
I’ve finished my first novel Parallel. Well, it’s being proofread by a friend and I’m waiting on his notes. In the mean time it has been a good opportunity to work on the second book in the trilogy, The Immortal Darkness.
Now the story of book one is that it was too long and each chapter was too drawn out. So I carved it up, rearranged it and I am using much of what was removed, (about 40,000 words) as the skeleton of the second book.
This has required a whole new beginning and will probably involve writing 90% of chapters one to three from scratch yet for some reason it does not seem a chore.
For the first time in a long time, I find myself writing new scenes, new characters and fresh words.
Now I remember why I love writing.
Now my hand writing is attrocious forcing me to use computers, which I don’t mind. I have a little Linux Net book for travelling and I am making notes constantly. Thus my books start life as a jumble of files, print outs and little scraps of paper, (eg. A MACCA’S napkin from when the netbook battery went dead.)
My stories are born out of chaos. My job is to weave the threads into a cohesive book. Next the characters begin to take on a life of their own. I’m often surprised by the things my characters say. Is that weird?
This is the part that’s most fun.
I think everyone who writes should have a couple of things on the boil. Sometimes I just have to take a break from neanderthals and pterasaurs.