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 PDQPatterns.com
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
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.