Desperate Husbands (9 page)

With so many writers’ festivals on these days, many readers have contacted me wondering how they might become authors, so as to be invited to the high-level soirees currently on offer. Happily, it doesn’t seem too difficult.

Remember, these notes are only a basic guide. You’ll also have to employ a good publicist.

Procrastinate.
This is an essential part of the writing game. There’s nothing like commencing a novel to make housework appear a joy. Just sitting down and typing the words ‘Chapter One’ can make tackling last night’s washing-up look very attractive. Hanging out the laundry becomes a task that has to be done this very minute. Ditto cleaning out the bits of rice and meat stuck in the kitchen-sink strainer. Certainly it took Flaubert seven years to write
Sentimental
Education
, but you should have seen his shower recess by the end of it. Absolutely sparkling.

Procrastinate some more.
Having written your first sentence, sit back and marvel at its poise, economy and limpid intensity. Spend the next three hours mentally rehearsing your acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature. Be sure to decide who to thank, and who to rather pointedly leave out. Perhaps, like Patrick White, you should donate the proceeds to fund a prize in your own name? But should it be for young playwrights or for elderly poets? Spend some time considering the advantages of each before deciding that—no—you deserve all the money yourself.

Write second sentence.
Here’s where you start introducing your characters. Remember: the real skill in writing is avoiding too many ‘he saids’ and ‘she saids’. This is what separates a class act (publisher’s receptions, prizes, offers of sex) from a basic literary failure (ten boxes of unsold books beneath the bed). Consider having your characters make a physical movement each time they speak, so as to tip off the reader as to who is talking.

Jason turned towards her: ‘I think I’m falling in love.’

Jacinta swivelled her face closer to that of her lover: ‘I am too.’

Jason turned his head sharply and looked towards the window: ‘Are you? Are you really?’

Jacinta jerked her head downwards to stare at her shoes: ‘No actually, I think it’s just wind.’

Remember: if you are writing really fluidly, your characters should be in need of a chiropractor by the end of chapter one. By the end of the three-book deal, they’ll both be in a neck brace.

Purchase a copy of
Yates Garden Guide
. In the real world no one knows the names of trees and shrubs, with the possible exception of the ABC’s gardening host Peter Cundall. Yet—for reasons I don’t understand—all the characters in novels are horticultural experts. No way can your main character walk past something described as ‘a tree’; you need more detail. Even ‘He walked past a big tree’ won’t please the literary types. He has to walk past ‘a gnarled river gum’, ‘a sweetgum liquidambar’ or perhaps ‘a vigorous hedge of hibiscus just coming into flower’. Perhaps you’ve wondered what they do in all those endless creative writing courses? I’m convinced: mainly horticulture.

Add some fauna.
Novelists not only know the names of trees and shrubs, they also—amazingly—know the names of birds.

Dressed in his chinos and striding purposefully through the early afternoon sunlight, Jason disturbed a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos. They rose as one, their distinct screeching filling the crisp air, before they settled back into the branches of a struggling European beech. Next, Jason walked past a potted
Murraya
tree, about two metres tall and just coming into flower, the orange blossom scent hitting him like an invigorating slap. A kingfisher bobbed in the nearby water, hoping
to catch the silver perch which live in this part of the harbour.

This is all very well, but how do they know these things? Whenever I read a passage like that I imagine the notes they must scribble in the margin of their manuscript: ‘Note to self. Check these details. What is a kingfisher? Is it a bird, or actually a fish? Are there perch in the harbour? Does
Murraya
flower in autumn? If not, what other scents are available to hit Jason like an invigorating slap?’

Do make sure you remove such pencilled notes before submitting the manuscript to a publisher.

Purchase a thesaurus.
We couldn’t help but notice that you had Jason ‘walking’ back there. Clearly you have yet to purchase a thesaurus. Do so and immediately consult section 266: ‘locomotion by land’. Next time we see Jason, we expect him to be trudging with the despair of a man who knows he has lost Jacinta’s love for ever. Or alternatively moving with the carefree long strides of a man full of hope, through air heavy with the smell of hibiscus. If you’re going for an overseas prize, you could even have him perambulating.

Add weather.
According to novelists, the weather constantly reflects the emotional state of the characters. I have checked with the weather bureau, which describes this theory as ‘extremely unlikely’. Still, it worked for Emily Brontë, so get stuck in. No way do you want your character running joyously down George Street only to notice that around him the sky is full of anger, the day dark as a cave, the wind keening its lovesong of loss and desolation. I mean: ‘He
laughed merrily as the rain lashed his darkened, windswept figure,’ is just not going to work. If in doubt, invest in a copy of
Wuthering Heights
and plagiarise Emily’s weather.

Throw in brand names and food.
People in novels love describing food. Apparently it’s a great way of keeping the sex scenes apart. They also love using brand names in a way that people in real life rarely do.

‘Let’s just take it slowly,’ said Jason, touching the back of her Versace capri pants, while she placed her hand on his freshly pressed Max Mara chinos.

‘Do you think,’ she said, unzipping him, ‘that normal people make a note of the brand and type of clothes they’re removing, as they remove them?’

‘Probably not,’ he replied, removing his pince-nez. ‘But I don’t even know what pince-nez are, so here’s hoping I’m removing the right thing.’

Their bodies naked, the two embraced. Outside thunder clapped, and a train went over the bridge and into a tunnel. ‘That was great sex,’ she said with a satisfied sigh. ‘Now, let’s get ourselves some food. Something hot and really adjectival.’

Which brings us to the adjectives.
In the real world, the person who makes your tuna sandwich is ‘a young guy, nothing special really, just average looking’.

Mostly the sandwich tastes ‘much like what you’d expect a tuna sandwich to taste like’. This is not the attitude which will get you invited to opening drinks at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. We want a sandwich which will push along the plot,
and a sandwich maker whose appearance will add to the novel’s oppressive mood of despair. The sandwich maker should definitely be wearing a pair of Italian brown leather brogues. Or perhaps a pair of workman’s Blundstones, worn down on one side in a way that indicates a limp: a sort of back story in a boot. Also, once your protagonist receives the tuna sandwich, make sure he eats it in the street outside. That way he can be dramatically killed by a falling tree branch, loosened by a bolt of lightning, the extreme weather curiously reflective of his state of mind.

Serves him right, I guess, for standing underneath a scarlet-flowered gum. With his horticultural knowledge, you’d think he’d know better.

I’m standing at the back door watching the clouds. They’re dark enough. They could bring rain. But I’ve seen their like before. They tease you, then pass. Life’s tough in the suburbs.

We’re all farmers now. Ever since the water restrictions came in, we stand and watch the clouds. Will I do some hand-watering this morning or should I wait? What if I spent an hour hand-watering this morning only to have it rain tonight? I give my chin a contemplative rub and consider the clouds once more. It’s the not knowing that can drive a man insane.

My eyes squint against the light as I survey the property. I stare towards the boundary fence, up to that distant back country, near the compost bin, where conditions are at their worst. They get a lot of sun up there. The country is steep, with some rough bricking around the clothesline. The rain, when there is any, doesn’t have the chance to settle.

I push back the Akubra hat which I’ve taken to wearing and grimace against the heat. I look at the choko vine, curling limply over the fence. Production’s going to be way down this year.

I wander up the road and pause outside the Charcoal Chicken. Some locals have gathered to talk, and naturally the conversation turns to the weather. There are blokes here who haven’t washed their cars for three weeks. One old fella has lost a couple of prize rose bushes. Another missed the
Australian Idol
final on Wednesday.

‘What were you doing, Terry?’ we all ask, concerned.

He shakes his head grimly. ‘Hand-watering. And the time got away from me. Before I knew it, the clock had gone 10.30 and I’d missed Jyssyntah’s win. But at least the front hedge will be OK.’

Most say it’ll rain tonight. Some say you can tell from the way the ants are swarming. Others swear by the behaviour of the local Sicilian grandmothers. If they’re carrying umbrellas, then rain can’t be far off.

Back home I move the pot plants out, rolling the big tubs from underneath the eaves. I’ll let them catch any rain during the night, then roll them back first thing in the morning before the sun hits. With luck, I can keep the parsley going until next harvest.

I see Jocasta watching me as I work, her face etched with concern. It’s always harder on the womenfolk.

We’re still doing better than others in the district. Our neighbour, worried by evaporation, has installed a pool cover. The family used to have a whole menagerie of blow-up animals floating on that pool—giant pelicans, a sleek dolphin, a beautiful multicoloured swan with drink holders
built into its wings. The day the pool cover was installed, they all had to go.

I asked my neighbour how he got rid of them, but he just went quiet and stared off into the distance, his hands buried in his pockets, his lips tight with distress. Sometimes, in the quiet of early morning, I’ll hear gunshots from a distant suburb. Some other poor bastard has had to shoot his pool toys.

The waiting, the watching, the hoping. The sky to the east is dark. It looks like it’s raining a few valleys away. Those lucky mongrels in Dulwich Hill and Marrickville. And here are we with nothing. A bloke can’t just stand still and do nothing. I ride the boundary—striding out past the hot water heater and up towards the recycling bin. Just a couple of years back, the water would cascade down these steps. There’d be water everywhere—leave a bucket out, even a wine glass, and it would be full of water, mozzies breeding like crazy.

Not any more. I stare at the garden. Will any of the ferns be left by the end of summer? Who knows? And yet without the ferns the stone lion will look out of place, and the wooden Buddha thingy will look silly. If things get much worse, they’ll have to move on.

And it’s then, when my despair is greatest, when I’m cursing this unforgiving land and its harsh ways, that the first fat droplet of water hits my upturned face. Rain! The dark clouds hover, there’s a crack of thunder, then Hughie sends it down, giant sheets of water lashing the ground, drumming on the red tile roof. Soon it’s all flowing—great streams of water coming down the steps and pooling on the lawn.

Jocasta and I stand and watch as the rain sets in and the water begins to spread onto the back paving.

I push the Akubra back on my head and stare grimly out. ‘Looks like we might be in for a flood.’ I don’t know. Here in the suburbs, it’s either one thing or the other.

He goes to the top of the
mountain, straps himself
onto a small metal cafeteria
tray, then hurls himself off
the mountain. ‘The winter is
long,’ he mumbles through
ice-chapped lips, ‘but death
will be quick.’ Three minutes
later, horrified, he finds
himself at the bottom of the
mountain, alive, safe and
having invented the sport
they call ‘the skeleton’.

The northern winter is long and depressing. There are endless periods of enforced idleness, and much of daily life takes place in total darkness. Insanity is common, as are suicide and alcoholism. Perhaps this explains the sports featured in the Winter Olympics—all of which seem to involve new and ingenious ways of throwing yourself off a mountain.

Imagine you’re in Finland and it’s February. No one has seen the sun for months. And so Olaf climbs to the top of the highest mountain he can find, puts on his beloved skis and throws himself off. It’s so cold, it’s so boring, the vodka has all gone, he’s thinking, ‘I just want to die.’ Miraculously, he lands upright on the skis and glides safely to the bottom. His suicide bid has tragically failed, but he’s created the ski jump called ‘the aerial’.

His friend Sven sees what happened to Olaf and is determined that his own suicide bid will not fail in a similar
way. His vodka ran out weeks ago. He has only two rollmops left in his pantry. His wife ran off with a holidaying truck driver from Spain. So Sven takes no chances. He goes to the top of the mountain, straps himself onto a small metal cafeteria tray, then hurls himself off the mountain. ‘The winter is long,’ he mumbles through ice-chapped lips, ‘but death will be quick.’ Three minutes later, horrified, he finds himself at the bottom of the mountain, alive, safe and having invented the sport they call ‘the skeleton’.

At a meeting that night, the citizens try to work out why people are throwing themselves off mountains—and yet constantly surviving. Says Hendrik: ‘It may be because they can see where they are going.’

He suggests throwing oneself off the mountain, feet first, one’s body strapped flat onto a board so one cannot see the track ahead. The next day, Hendrik gives it a try and finds himself at the bottom of the mountain, shaken but alive. Unbelievably, yet another Olympic sport has just been invented. This one they call ‘the luge’.

The village now breaks into mass insanity. There’s still nine months of winter to go, no vodka left, barely the smell of a rollmop, more Spaniards have come and departed with anyone good-looking, yet all the previously trusty methods of suicide are failing. The villagers take a vote and decide they’ll just have to shoot each other.

Arming themselves with guns, they strap on their skis and stomp up the mountain, blasting randomly in both prone and standing positions. Some work in teams, some individually, while others blast while in pursuit. Tragically, no one dies. The villagers return depressed but alive. They discover they have invented the biathlon.

Some will argue that not
every
event in the Winter Olympics is life-threatening. They will give the example of figure skating. To which I will respond by mentioning Tonya Harding. They may then give the example of curling. To which I will respond that death from boredom is still death.

Again one struggles to imagine the moment the sport of curling was invented: the Finnish farmer inviting ten friends over to play carpet bowls, then realising he didn’t have any bowls, nor any carpet. Even finding ten friends was hard going. But he did have some large rocks and a frozen pond, so maybe the seven who turned up could push the rocks from one end to the other then back again? ‘Ah, Johannes,’ his friends will all say, ‘break out the rollmops. One snowbound village, and now we’ve invented all the sports of the Winter Olympics.’