Basking in Brunswick, Melbourne

We moved to Melbourne at the end of 2012. We moved to Brunswick just north of the Royal Park about four months ago. It is visually one of the most interesting places I’ve ever lived in. The following are just some of my snap shots…..

Cafe graffitti

Acustico Cafe on Union Street. I walk by it everyday and am amazed each time.

brunsick girl

I caught this girl walking by the Town Hall. Loved everything about her.

lara in front of graffitti

My lovely girl had just spent three months in China. It was our first walk about the neighborhood.


Right off Sydney Road….


Cafe culture….


Beware! Yarn bombing on Sydney Road.


What will greet you when you go to Ray’s on Victoria Street. Yummy breakfasts, perfect coffee.


Not in Brunswick per se, but loved its sentiments…..


Wishing you and yours a profoundly Happy New Year!

x, Nina




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My New Writing Partner


He’s very serious and very good.

“Get back here, Nina. We’ve got work to do….”

See what I mean?


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Best British Shorts Stories 2013 and Moi

I can’t believe I didn’t blog about this before. I better blog now before 2013 becomes 2014!

Sometimes in a writer’s life events transpire to really give them a boost. This year it was my turn.

In 2012, Roelof Bakker, a photographer based in London (in my neighborhood of Crouch End, in fact) asked short story writers to contribute to his book of photographs.

I contributed a story called My Wife The Hyena.

STILL is a beautiful book, full of evocative photographs of empty spaces. The short stories from an international group of writers are wonderful. (I will be doing an interview with Roelof Bakker in January. )

In a gorgeous serendipity, one of the other short story contributors, Nicholas Royle, a novelist and editor at SALT Publishing who publishes Best British Short Stories, read my story in STILL and called me up. He said, “You’re not by any chance a British Citizen are you?”

I had just become a British citizen that morning and had celebrated with a delicious English fry-up which I was still trying to digest.

So I was eligible.

It was the highlight of a rather trying year!

Roelof Bakker kindly did an interview:

Sometimes writers have really good years and this one was one of mine.

Thank you, Roelof Bakker and Nicholas Royle.





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6 Things I Learned Writing My Last Novel

I have just finished a novel that took me almost three years to write. Granted a lot of other things were going on in my life; houses burning down, mother passing away, moving to the other side of the planet. As I sent the manuscript off to my agent, I realized that during this novel I learned a thing or two about writing. I thought I’d share them with you.

1. Learn to enter into the journey. I think I’ve often approached a novel as a task. To be done. By such and such time. For a particular reward. And so I skimmed instead of dove. I scooted along the surface, looking left and right for anything that would contribute to my cause. Almost like a trip to the supermarket, picking ingredients for a recipe. Instead I learned that I should be diving. Diving deep, exploring the dark murky waters of my subject. Not everything is going to be useful. That strange looking rock I pulled up from the underbelly of a bottom feeder will probably not make it into the manuscript. But it’s there in the atmosphere I create. I don’t think we understand what we’re trying to say unless we live with the ideas for a while. So give up that time frame and learn to dive.

2. Don’t give into negative thoughts. OK this is my personal bugbear. My mind is constantly streaming what Anne Lamott calls Radio KFKD. So all I can say is: Zap those suckers before they take hold.  They are mosquitoes of the brain. Spray yourself with a good dose of determination and resilience. Put on headphones if you have to. As you fiddle about with your personal work, the world around you will be on fire with others accomplishments and triumphs. Not to mention the demise of the publishing world as we know it. Buzz buzz buzz. All the noise. Ignore it. Splat ’em and finish your work. Finish the damn thing. You learn nothing until you finish. It’s my new mantra. I give it to you. Finish the F@%ker.

3. Let your main characters laugh. Often my main characters are flat. The other characters are bouncing off the walls with personality but the leads are about as fun as a stick.( To quote the great Bill Murray.) They are very serious because I have laid all the weight of the book on them. I need to lighten up on the poor fellows and fellas. When I finish the first draft I’ve learned to go back and tickle them. In fact, I could probably do it one more time.

4. It’s OK to take a break. When life was too chaotic and I couldn’t concentrate on my novel, or I was too down on it to be of any help, I would go away and paint bad art and write some short stories. The art hangs on my walls (to my family’s patient credit) and one of my short stories ended up in a beautiful anthology called STILL by Negative Press before being chosen to be included in Best British Short Stories 2013. But the main point is: I came back and finished. When I really was without confidence I would say to myself: Finish. Just Finish. It might suck but you have to finish. Or as my sister said when I was yet again complaining: “Well, you can always call it A Really Bad Novel.” Made me laugh so hard I got back to work.

5. Eventually things do start connecting. Like brain cells, ideas start wiggling out and tapping other elements in the book and making connections. Connections I didn’t even know existed but look so obvious now when I see them.

6. The novel is in you. You just have to get out of the way. Remember the Michelangelo quote? ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’ Rather than in a block of marble the novel is in your soul. Open your soul a bit everyday and write what you see and feel. Your novel will appear as if by magic.

Good luck. I can’t wait to read your magic.

Photo by SébastienWiertz (flickr)



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Doris Lessing. Mentor or Monster?

The city of Paris introduced me to Doris Lessing when I was twenty years old. I was living there alone and homesick when I wandered into the Shakespeare and Company at 37 Rue de la Bucherie, a croissant’s throw from Notre Dame. It was a glorious place, books lining the walls like wall paper, books lining the floor like walls. I was convinced that if I just stayed quiet enough I could stay all night and not be discovered.

One day I discovered The Golden Notebook. I still remember my eyes devouring the first pages, first propping myself up against a book case, then hunching down and finally just flat out collapsing in comfort to the floor to read what to me was a revelation: a woman’s intimate, psychological life written by a woman, in its intricate, no apologies way.

In the years since I have read many of her books: The Grass is Singing, Briefing for a Descent into Hell,  The Good Terrorist, The Fifth Child and The Memoirs of a Survivor. I worshiped her from afar.

Then one day I read about how she had abandoned her first two children.

It shook me to my core.

Granted, when I read it I had two young children and was hyped up with oxytocin. But I was appalled at her decision to abandon her children for her literary career. As I tried to type out my word count amidst baby bottles and tantrums and the endless chaos of a young family household, I understood her motive. Oh, indeed I did. But I could not condone it. And I certainly couldn’t see past it. From then on, every time I read her books I thought, Well, must be niiiice.

Once my hormones and children were under better control, I reconsidered. After all, even without my ‘gorgeous’ children I knew I would not be so prolific, so erudite, so revolutionary as Doris Lessing. And certainly not on the receiving end of a Nobel Prize. And so I gave her the benefit of non-judgement: something, of course, I owe all people (well most) and began to enjoy her novels again.

Until I read about her attitude toward the women’s liberation movement. ‘The battles have all been won,’ she said, ‘except for equal pay for equal work.’

And I thought Hey! You! You’re pushing it!

Don’t tell me the field has been leveled. Childcare is overwhelmingly done by women, violence is overwhelmingly done to women, poverty is overwhelmingly thrust upon women.

To say otherwise is to abandon the issue.

When I heard she had died yesterday, I felt the passing of a defining literary figure. In more ways than one. We all make our choices. We live with them, we die with them. I owe her respect and yes, admiration.

I like to remember her as one of the commentators did in the Guardian today:

“Very sad to hear of the death of Doris Lessing. I saw her talk at the British Council in Harare in 1995. She was one of the writers I wrote when I was working, through VSO, teaching English in a rural Zimbabwean Secondary School, Chatiza High School near Mutoko. I asked each writer to send a copy of a book which I thought would be inspiring for the students, for the school library . I asked Doris Lessing for a copy of ‘African Laughter’, where she writes about building school libraries in rural schools. She didn’t send me one copy, she sent me a case load of books. And made sure that they were delivered directly to school. An inspirational woman.”


R.I.P Doris Lessing

photo by xjyxjy (flickr)










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Why I love Brunswick


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House as Character

My house is a character. She was born in 1905 and has sat on a corner lot in the middle of Brunswick, just north of the Melbourne CBD, being grand. I call her the Baroness. She has seen Brunswick change, from a plantation to a brick making center to Greek and Italian conclave to a downright hipster pad with superb coffee and even better graffiti. Down the street one of the shops is still engraved with the name of one of her owners, a not very nice man I’m told who in the 1920’s made oodles of money from his general store but refused to extend credit.

My house is what’s called here of the federation style. It’s a particular Australian style which overlapped the Edwardian era but embraced Australiana themes. Australian flora and fauna were prominently featured: kangaroos, wattles, bottle brush.  Inside we have smoked doors featuring gum trees and stained glass windows glowing with sand and sea. The fireplaces are carved with Art Nouveau scrolls. The molding around the living room features lyre birds.

My house has so much character I have to resist making her into something she’s not. When we first moved in I had so many ideas.  I wanted to lighten up her dark yellow and green trim. I wanted to plant cool clean hedges in place of the granny-fashioned row of lollypop white roses. I was aching to clamp a frilly verandah on her and make her beautiful. But once I arrived I realized she is who she is. For one thing she’s just not a verandah kinda gal. She’d look ridiculous. I have to respect that.

Do you see a writing blog coming a mile away….

I’ll spare you.

I just wanted to say that I’ve painting some rooms in lighter colors. I even painted the yellow tiles in the bathroom white. I didn’t know you could do that and it worked perfectly. The good thing about painting I’ve found is that your thoughts turn to your writing. In fact I thought up a great blog the other day as I painted, tongue stuck between my teeth, the intricate rose molding above the hall. It was witty, insightful, ground changing. Unfortunately by the time I finished the painting I’d completely forgotten it.

But I’m hoping more thoughts will bubble up about my novel as I try to finish rewrite phase. But some days my brain is exhausted. I have squeezed it dry of anything to do with the subject and it must fill up again. So it turns to bits and pieces and that’s fine with me.

The Baroness and I just hang out, listening to the birds outside the doors squawking their little hearts out. Wiping paint off  our noses, we keep going. Because in the end that’s all that works.

Though occasionally I do feel her shaking her roof at some of my ideas.


kangaroo window by





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Moon Over Mongolia


My husband and I just came back from an amazing trip to Mongolia. It reminded me of a last frontier. I haven’t been so jazzed by a trip in a long while. Its history alone will have me up reading long into the night. Medieval traditions slamming into the 21st century. If you have a chance, grab a warm jacket and go!

You’ve got to be tough to be a bookseller!


I wanted his belt.


I watched a lot of wedding parties get their picture taken with Chinggis (Genhhis) Khan in front of the Parliament Building in Ulaan Bataar.


My favorite Mongolian dog.


A gorgeous riding guide.


Mine was the pretty white one.


Ulaan Bataar is a city full of extraordinary juxtapositions.


My new BFF


Everyone had mobiles. I mean EVERYONE.


What else do you need?


Two very cool cats.


I loved the use of color on and in Mongolian houses.


Because of the condition of the roads, those on horseback were making better progress.


Can not wait to go back.


Ruminating on possible future stories. Do you have any Mongolian stories for me?

Thanks for looking at my holiday pics. x





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I Don’t Care What Seth Godin says, this is sheer brilliance.

I don’t care what Seth Godin says. This is sheer brilliance:
What Does the Fox Say.

Of course I know what he’s saying. And I agree. But damn, this is funny.


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House Renovating for Writers

2013-11-03 19.42.06

We bought a house. We plunked down a fortune and signed an IOU in blood to our local bank. We received keys and a pile of bricks. We are wildly happy.

But today I stand in the hallway overwhelmed. Renovation, even the mildest, most superficial, is not for sissies.

The first couple of days I was so excited. I sat, pleased as purple punch, deciding paint colors. I obsessively poured over magazine pictures which had no bearing on my house but which I had turned to as a template for my future home. I was determined to create something beautiful, awe-inspiring, Zowie-invoking.

But after a week I have hit a wall. The hallway has taken the life out of me. Two coats primer. Two coats white paint. Endless painting of the molding around the ceiling edge and the two roses above the hanging lights. My excitement has turned to a slight depression.

Will this ever get finished.? Paint drips down the walls and splatters all over the floor. Cans of sticky paint and even sticker brushes lie underfoot. I am now realizing why painters get the big bucks: They deserve every penny.

I am also struck by how much renovating is like writing a novel.

You get an idea. You are so excited. You jump in, words flying here and there, until about a week into it you grind to a halt, words dripping down the page, surrounded by sticky platitudes. And you realize why the professional story tellers get the big bucks….

I smile as I reach out and return to painting. The key, of course, is to paint one wall after the other. Write one sentence after the other. Until you reach the end. And then you get to look back and say Ooooh! Or, as with most feats of creativity, see how different your feat is from what you had envisioned. But still you have done it. And you’ve done it the best you can.

Take a bow.

Take a shower.

Start again.




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