How to Write a Book

She took a stick and outlined on the ground the whole alphabet along with the punctuation marks, and asked me how many letters there were.
               “Twenty-six,” I replied.
               “You see, that is a very small number of letters. Can you call what I have outlined a book?”
               “No,” I answered. “It’s just an ordinary alphabet, that’s all. Ordinary letters.”
               “Yet all the books in the English language are made up of these ordinary letters,” she observed. “Do you not agree? Do you not see how simple it all is?”
              “Yes, but in books they’re – they’re arranged differently.”
              “Correct, all books consist of a multitude of combinations of these letters. People arrange them on the pages automatically, guided by their feelings. And from this it follows that books originate not from a combination of letters and sounds, but from feelings outlined by people’s imagination. The result is that the readers are aroused by approximately the same feelings as the writers, and such feelings can be recalled for a long time. Can you recollect any images or situations from books you have read?”
              “Yes, I can,” I replied, after a moment’s thought.
              For some reason I recalled Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and began to tell the story to her. She interrupted me:
              “You see, you can still depict the characters from this book and tell me what they felt, even though quite a bit of time has gone by since you read it. But if I were to ask you to tell me in what sequence the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet were set forth in that book, what combinations they were arranged in, could you do that?”
              “No. That would be impossible.”
              “Indeed, it would be very difficult. So, feelings have been conveyed from one Man to another with the help of all sorts of combinations of letters and forgot them right off, but the feelings and images remained to be remembered for a long time.
              “So it turns out that if you link emotional feelings directly to these marks on paper without thinking about any conventions, one’s soul will cause these marks to appear in just the right sequence and combinations so that any reader may subsequently feel the soul of the writer.”

The Story of Rupert

I was happily driving in my car yesterday afternoon when I felt a strange tickling sensation upon the back of my hand. I glanced down.
"BLEEARGHuuuuuuurrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" I yelped in shock and alarm. A small green praying mantis was perched upon my hand. I suppressed my first instinct to flail my arm about until it fell off - what had this poor, innocent creature ever done to me except surprise me with its presence? As a way of apologising to the praying mantis for my earlier rude shrieking, I decided to give it a name - Rupert. So now, of course, I had a dilemma as well as an insect on my hands. I was driving along the motorway, so I could not exactly open the window and release Rupert into the wild. Rupert, I decided, must remain for now on my hand, and when we stopped I would find some convenient shrub or tree to be his new home.

This was all good, in theory.

For the first few minutes Rupert looked like he was having fun. Perhaps he enjoyed the sensation of rushing along at what for him must seem incredible speeds. He kept rocking back and forth and rubbing his pincer-like forelegs together in glee.
"Aww," I said, gazing down at him fondly. "Rupert's such a little daredevil. So cwoote!"
Ah, yes. Rupert the Daredevil. Eventually he must have become bored merely sitting upon my hand, for he decided to take his adrenaline rush to the next level. He decided to move.
"Aha! Ahhhaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhehehehe!" I shrieked in near-hysterical laughter. He was unbearably ticklish. He meandered lazily across my hand, sending me into paroxisms of giggles, before taking a brief stroll across my steering wheel.
"Yes, Rupert," I choked, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes, "this is a good place for you to remain. Please stay there for the rest of the duration of the journey."
Rupert was a rebel as well as a daredevil. He actually had the temerity to disobey me and crawl back onto my hand and once more I was subjected to his torturous tickling.

At long last he decided to climb onto my sleeve and make an expedition up to my shoulder. I felt like an environmentalist pirate.

But you know how driving is. You become distracted; there's so much to think about. When I reached my destination I looked for Rupert on my shoulder - and then all over my sleeve, on my seat, on the window, heck, I even looked under the seat. He was gone. Vanished. Never to be seen again.

O, Rupert! You brought me joy and laughter, however briefly. I miss you. Please come back to me, or at least flip me a text sometime to let me know if you're okay. I hope that, wherever you are, you are happy and living your life to its greatest potential.

The Day Her Car Was Weeded

You may have noticed that I haven't posted anything in a while. This is because exciting things rarely, if ever, happen in my life. It makes a terrible story, which is why I don't write about it.

But today, I have a story.

And not just a "story". A Story. An Adventure Story, featuring such fantastic plot devices as a long journey, dense fog, a crochet needle, and obnoxious weeds.

The story starts on Monday morning when Zara wakes up feeling depressed and not knowing why. Sometimes Zara gets irrationally angry and frustrated with life. She is so miserable she actually chose to leave her staff work party far too early simply because she couldn't stand to be around people. (Before this, though, she'd found herself a book and started reading, much to the disgust of her colleagues who were all getting drunk downstairs.)

Tuesday is no better. In fact, it's much worse. In a way, it feels like she's two people - there is normal Zara, who is functioning much the same as usual, though with noticably much less energy and enthusiasm ("flat" is the adjective someone used to describe her). The other Zara is shrieking like a madwoman inside her head, keeping up a constant furious stream of insults, expletives, and generally negative commentary on every single action Normal Zara and everyone around her is doing. Work that evening goes something like this:

Normal Zara asks a customer whether she might possibly take their order, an unnaturally wide smile stretched painfully across her face.
Crazy Zara shrieks a very angry name inside of Zara's head, though whether she's directing it at the customer or Normal Zara is unclear.
The customer hems and haws over whether to order steak or pork and asks for a recomendation.
Normal Zara replies that the pork is much more delicious.
Crazy Zara goes on an angry rant with the main points being that, a), Zara is a vegetarian and promoting any form of meat makes her a liar and a hypocrite and b), the customer is a sadistic evil bastard for wanting to eat meat in the first place. She is very impolite in her choice of adjectives.
Later on, Tom-the-Manager asks Zara how everything's going. "All good?" he asks.
"Yep," mumbles Normal Zara, somewhat unnormally unenthusiastic for her. Usually she practically skips with glee and uses words like "Awesome!" and "Fantastic!".
"Cool," says Tom-the-Manager, and stalks off.
Crazy Zara erupts at this innocuous statement and reflects on all the many ways she would like to rip out his liver, force it down his throat and choke him on it, while flaying his ridiculously fluffy beard off his face and using his blood to repaint the ladies' bathroom.

And so the night wore on.

Sitting in her car after work, Crazy Zara seizes control of Zara's body. She shrieks and cries and hits her head on her steering wheel, all the while shouting, "Why? Why?" But neither Crazy Zara nor Normal Zara know the answer because they don't even understand the question.

***

On Wednesday Zara decides to try to make herself feel better. She sleeps in, makes herself pancakes, knits, and watches endless episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Nothing works.

Work that day is a repeat of Tuesday. Zara has had enough. She spontaneously decides to go on a road trip to the one place in the world where she has only happy memories of - a little-known, decidedly ugly beach near Tapora, a village perhaps fifty people in the world have heard of. Her grandparents used to take her fishing there during the summer when she was a kid. Zara often says that she considers fish to be highly-evolved plants and therefore justifies her eating them. In truth, whenever she eats fish, she is reminded of the love of her grandparents and the happy times she spent with them. She loves this beach. She feels as though everything there was a gift especially for her - the mudflats, the mangroves, the crabs that scuttle anxiously away over the sand, the jellyfish stranded across the receeding tideline (a most unwelcome gift, that), the many types of shellfish to be dug for, the mullet that leap out of the water as the sun goes down, the grass that feels for some reason much pricklier than anywhere else, the black swans that honk obnoxiously to each other in the shallow water, the public garden made out of driftwood and beach-scavenged items... somehow, the existence of these things seems much more significant here than anywhere else. If there is any one place that could ever make her feel happy, it is here.

Zara decides to make an expedition of it. She goes home and gets those items she thinks she might need - blanket and pillow, her crochet and writing pad, and a few other extra goodies. She sets out.

She's driving a bit too fast. She's feeling reckless and wants to do something mad. She copes well enough on the wider, better-travelled road from Auckland to Hellensville. After that, though, the road gets steadily windier and narrower. Heavy fog has set in and visibility is low. This does not dissuade her, although she slows down a bit once she turns off onto the road to Tapora. Tapora is such a nowhere place that parts of the road aren't even sealed. They definately don't have any recommended speed signs as you go around corners, which she had relied on earlier to help navigate some of the trickier corners.

The inevitable happens. She takes a corner too fast. Her tires skid on the gravel and suddenly she is swerving wildly. She veers off the road, somehow managing to drive along the side of a very large, steep bank - at least a 50 degree angle. She is convinced the car is going to flip, that she's going to continue to roll down the bank and she's going to hit her head and break her neck and die and her can of drink is going to go flying over all her crochet - but she bounces, her car flies up into the air and crash lands into a two metre high clump of kikuyu grass, narrowly missing an ancient cabbage tree and a small stream at the bottom of the bank.

Zara spends approximately a third of a second marvelling that she is alive. Her predominant thought is of how embarassing this is. She fires up her engine, puts on the four wheel drive mode and tries to power on up the slope. How terrible. Apparently her gigantic off-roader isn't very good at keeping off-road because no matter how hard she tries, her car will not move. Eventually she gives up, turns off the motor, sits back, and laughs heartily.

For someone who up until recently was very depressed, she can see only the good side of the situation. How awesome is this? She's stuck in a ditch on a deserted road in the middle of the night, her car will not move, she can't get reception on her phone, but HEY! It's a new experience and totally fun! She decides to wait until early morning when hopefully some local farmer will come by to tug her out. Until then, she might as well get some sleep. But first she decides to calm down by crocheting a little. The image of a young woman crocheting at one in the morning inside of a giant vehicle parked half-way down a steep bank in one of the most abandoned roads in New Zealand strangely appeals to Zara and she laughs heartily. She is enjoying herself immensely and she suddenly realises that her depression is cured. This only serves to make her feel more awesome.

Eventually she sleeps, curled up in a ball in the back seat with the seatbelt digging into her.

***

At around five-thirty in the morning traffic starts to drive by. A logging truck stops and checks to see if Zara is still alive. He looks slighly stunned as a ridiculously over-cheerful young woman excitedly and happily informs him, that, actually, everything is amazing, and they both exclaim in awe over the path of destruction Zara's car made, revealed in the light of the logging truck's headlamps. He can't pull her out, but does inform her that the rest of the logging crew were to be around shortly. Zara hops back into her car and crochets as she awaits rescue.

Five men in utes and one park ranger later, Zara finds herself back on the road - but not without mishap. The towrope the first man drove all the way home in his ute to fetch snapped as he tried to pull me out. Thankfully, the park ranger had a special cable thingy and that worked much better. Unfortunately, the entire underside of Zara's car is now covered in grass. People always complain about kikuyu. Farmers don't like it because it takes over the paddocks they craze their livestock in. Gardeners don't like it because it invades their gardens and leaves it a giant, weedy mess. There are endless horror stories of people who have tried and failed to remove kikuyu from their gardens - it's so difficult, it's nigh impossible. What you don't generally hear about kikuyu is how hard it is to remove from cars. The first man in the ute - name of Daniel - very kindly spends a good hour and a half trying to pull all the grass out from her car. It was twisted all around the drive shaft which - apparently - is a bad thing and can't just be left. He has to use a hand saw to slice it off. But he succeeds after much pain and effort, and Zara is left in awe of friendly Kiwi men and humanity in general. This man is now three hours late for work and it's his daughter's fifth birthday, and here he is helping some useless city girl weed her car and being wonderfully good-natured about it.

Zara plans to courier a pack of beer to him. She figures it's safer than driving and delivering it herself.


***

And that, dear friends, is the end of my story.

I stopped by in Wellsford to see my dad and tell him the story. I accosted him outside his work and said, "HI! Guess what! I have a totally awesome story to tell you!"
He looked apprehensive. "You're engaged?"
"Er... no."
He looked positively fearful. "You're pregnant?"
"No!"
"Well, what, then?"
"I just crashed my car! -" and he put his head in his hands and he wept. But not literally. Because that would be weird.

Genetics

I was at my mum's house the other day scrounging for a free cup of tea when I heard this interesting sentence spring from my mother's lips as she sat working in her bedroom.

"What should I do now? I am uncertain. Perhaps we should confer to discuss this? Yes, this would be a wise thing indeed."

I peeked around her bedroom door to see if she was on the phone. No; she was sitting in front of her computer scribbling hastily on a piece of paper.

I withdrew to ponder what this might mean. It sounded like my mother was having a conversation... but with whom? Herself?

And then it hit me - my mother has long drawn-out conversations with herself the same way I do. And that means that her phrase should have run more like this:

"What should I do now?" asked my mother in frustrated appeal.
"I don't know," replied my mother, rather unhelpfully in her opinion.
"Perhaps we should confer to discuss it?" my mother asked through gritted teeth, barely concealing her impatience.
"Yes, this would be a wise thing indeed," agreed my mother.

And what I want to know now is: Is having in-depth discussions with yourself a universal thing? Or is it limited to a few select people who pass this trait on to their descendants?

Everybody Lies

"Everybody lies" is the catchphrase of that most cynical of TV doctors, House. As sad and depressing such a catchphrase is, I can't help but think it might be true.

This is the story of how I told a lie.

I know that for many people I am the paragon of a Good, Decent Person, practically a saint, and I know that to admit to lying would shatter their image of me, and possibly their souls as well. Please, Dear Reader - do not feel distraught as your very concept of the world swirls and reshapes around you. Rather, rejoice in the knowledge that you have taken a step closer to understanding a Universal Truth and accept this new perspective of the world. And, I beg of you - offer me forgiveness for my wrongdoing, that I might feel ease within my soul.

To fully understand the context of my lie I must take you back in time to a morning a few days after my twentieth birthday, where I sat alone and despairing upon my sofa as I realised how pointless my life was. I was not studying. I had no job. I sat around all day occupying my mind with sci-fi-related nonsense. Where, I asked myself morosely, was my life going? What useful task occupied my days? I felt myself to be an utterly useless person and I decided to console myself by having a small glass of the sherry left over from my legendary Christmas trifle.

(I fear I may have inadvertantly destroyed yet another image people have of me - that of how I am not the type of person to sit at home drinking alcohol at ten-thirty on a Thursday morning.)

As tends to happen when misery, myself, and alcohol come together, I ended up drinking a little bit more than just a small glass. I ended up finishing a good third of the bottle.

I stumbled over to my computer desk, shouting "WHEEE!" whenever the earth seemed to rock a bit too much, and plonked myself down into my chair. I embarked on one of my infamous conversations with myself.
"Right, my girl," I said to myself, "you could sit here and be drunk and continue to do nothing. Or - and I highly recommend this second option - you could sit here and be drunk and search for something to do with your life."
"Goo' idea," I slurred, and I logged onto TradeMe and began to search for jobs. At my first hazy glance there seemed to be, typically, nothing available that I could do. But as I scrolled back up the page I saw a listing for a waitress at a place named the Hangar.
"Aargh!" I roared as ancient resentment towards the Hangar bubbled within me. When I was sixteen I was homeschooled, and one day as I was supposed to be doing my much-hated maths I began to reflect on the impending closure of Hobsonville Airbase and daydream about what possible use the old aircraft hangars could be put to. I created this elaborate fantasy of one of them being converted into this arty muso bar where non-mainstream bands would perform while their bow-tie wearing artist friends would recline in refurbished retro lounge seats sipping the more unusual types of alcoholic beverages. There would be a gallery lining the walls where pretentious people could come and make snide comments about the nature of art. My imaginings got even more elaborate until they included acrobats descending to perform in mid-air above the stage and an in-house five-player string quartet. I named this place... the Hangar.

A few weeks later I was driving down a road close to my house where I read a sign: The Hangar - Opening Soon. I swore elaborately inside my mind and shook my fist at the gods of creativity for sharing my ideas with lesser minds. And I set aside all hope for it being an artistic haven and resented the Hangar with all my heart, a feeling that continued for four whole years.

So, naturally, when I read their listing for an enthusiastic, outgoing person, no waitressing experience necessary, I clicked the apply button. Yes, I was that desperate.

As I filled out the application the combined effects of self-doubt, resentment, and sherry led me to do something I have never done before - I filled out the application with phrases littered with sarcasm. I praised myself to the highest heights - Why would you not hire me? I wrote. I am brilliance personified. Speaking with all possible modesty, my skills and talents are of such greatness that to fail to hire me would be a waste and a disgrace - and so on. I used adjectives of such praiseworthy complexity that I'm surprised God himself did not strike me down for my use of hubris.

Is it a lie when you say untrue things about yourself, even if you're being completely sarcastic about it?

I sent off the application, where I assumed someone would have a couple of minutes laugh at my expense before consigning it to the trash.

It's funny how life turns out.

Two days later I recieved a phonecall asking if I could come in for an interview. By this time I was sober and had returned to my normal, optimistic, self-confident self.
"Oh! Yes! Certainly! Great! Wow!" I said, all the while thinking: Holy crap. They actually took me seriously.

Buoyed by my success of unintentionally getting an interview, I turned up to the interview determined to impress. Boy, I wanted this job. I was witty and enthusiastic. I made them laugh. I came up with ingenious answers and resorted to sweet innocence when necessary. No doubt my usual impressively descriptive hand gestures were in full swing. All was going well. Until...
"You appear to be a quite, um, enthusiastic person," observed Alton, my interviewer.
I felt a brief moment of panic.
"Now Zara," I scolded myself, "we have talked about this before. You have a tendency to come across as being quirky and eccentric and most new acquaintances just don't know how to respond to it. Please, tone it down and for heavens sake try to act normal. And come up with a decent excuse for your behavior, ASAP."
And this was it. This was when I lied. I succumbed to my self-inflicted peer preassure and I said...
"Ah, yeah. I... had... coffee, this morning."
Oh, I'm sure the very gates of heaven trembled at my words.
"It must have been a great coffee," grinned Alton.
"Oh, yes, it was!" I said enthusiastically. Doomed. Condemned. A dark inkblot exists next to my name in the Book of Life where God dropped his pen in horror. "It's South Indian coffee. It's so concentrated and strong that you're supposed to drink it in shots... but I had a full cup size." And so the lies went on.

Well, I got the job. It seems that, contrary to what my parents taught me, lies and alcoholism do get you somewhere in life. But not without penalty.

On my first day of work I met my manager, Tom.
"I hear you're pretty fond of coffee," he said.
"Oh-ooh-ah," I replied.
"Alton said to me, 'Tom, you're going to like this girl, but you're going to have to be patient with her when she's had coffee.'"
"Oh, goody. I have a reputation," I said faintly.
"I'm going to feed you coffee sometime just so I can see what you're like!" he exclaimed.
And he did. He brewed me coffee so strong that I couldn't sleep that night and turned me into a trembling zombie the following day. Which meant I had to have more coffee to get me through work. Which of course meant I couldn't sleep again...

I am now a coffee addict. I cannot sleep. I cannot study. I cannot traverse a corridor without skipping madly.

Oh, let this be a lesson to you, my friend. Never lie. Not even a small lie. There are always consequences to every lie - even the most seemingly innocuous ones.

Lists! Oh, Glorious Lists!

"So," I said to myself one day, "If you were to write a list of your favourite books... what would be on it?"
"Well," I replied, "I would first feel obliged to write two lists - one a list of my favourite authors, and the second a list of my favourite books."
"But why?" I questioned. "Surely the same authors and books would turn up on both lists?"
"Not necessarily," I replied. "Some authors I adore above all others for their great skills and strengths in certain areas; however, sometimes an author I do not very much appreciate writes a stunning and awesome book deserving a place on my Favourite Book List. You understand my problem."
"I do indeed," I replied. "However, I also know you quite well; you rejoice in making lists. Indeed, making lists is one of your favourite activites, along with alphabetizing your bookshelves and DVD collection."
"Ah! Alas! You have hit upon my darkest secret," I cried. "I am indeed just as you claim I am. The sight of a well-ordered list never fails to stir excitement in my soul; and my deepest pleasure is arranging a bookshelf to my satisfaction."
"'Tis true, you are a strange individual," I remarked.
"Hush!" I scolded. "I am making a list, and you are distracting me."


My Top Five All-Time Favourite Authors

1. J.R.R. Tolkien.
The reasons for this are, perhaps, obvious. Ah, Tolkien, Father of Fantasy, Creator of Hobbits, a traditionalist beacon of hope in the stormy seas of modernity -
Why are you being so ridiculously poetical? Hurry up and get to the point.
Shut up. I'm writing.
I'm just saying that perhaps you should try and explain your opinions with a little less digression - you do have a tendency to write far more than you have to -
I said shut UP.
Tolkien is famed for his incredibly detailed and and realistic world-building. As you read his works, his world of Middle-earth seems to spring to life out of the page - indeed, it is almost as though Middle-earth is a character in its own right. People are always astonished about how a fantasy world could seem so real. But what they don't realise is that Middle-earth is indeed real. Tolkien wrote The Silmarillion, the Hobbit, and the Lord of the Rings as a type of pre-history of the world. So when you read his joyous descriptions of Middle-earth, you are not gaining pleasure from some unknown alien fantasy world; you are being filled with love for the real world, our world, as it is, or, perhaps, as it should be. For Tolkien was writing at a time when cities were beginning to spread like an advancing army over the face of the world while cars and artificial stone became the foundations of our society -
No one is interested in your philosophical musings. Move on to the next author.
Fine.

2. Robin Hobb
Robin Hobb's greatest ability seems to be her understanding of human nature. Her characters are intricately detailed, their motivations believable and understandable, and none of them are perfect. Fitz, the main character of her Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies, is one of the most infuriatingly annoying characters in the series - yet, because you understand him, you can't help but love him.
However, sometimes the opposite is true. The Fool has to be one of my favourite characters in all of literature, despite knowing almost nothing about him. Who is he? What is his relationship with Fitz? What is his real name? Is he even a h-
Be silent! You are spoiling the plot.
Sorry.

3. Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Her plots and ideas may not be exactly original (all her books are based on Celtic and European folklore), but she certainly has a unique way of writing about them. Her descriptive powers are beyond anything I have ever come across - people often say Tolkien has a fantastic archaic style of writing, to which I say, Phaw! You have obviously never read CDT. To which they reply, What is CDT? And I explain, CDT are the initials of a female Australian Fantasy writer whose descriptive powers and vocabulary should be described as legendary -
Unnecessary tangent.
Fine, then you write this, if you think you could do better!
I didn't mean -
La la la la la la la la. I'm not listenning to you anymore and I'm not writing this list.
Stop being so pedantic.
Your face is pedantic. La la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar.
Alright then. I can do this.

4. Isaac Asimov
I find his ideas original and inspiring.

5. Vladimir Megre
His books have changed my life.
Wait, is that ALL you are going to say about him? You're not going to explain, for instance, just HOW he's changed my life? My goodness! You have no concept about how to instil interest in the reader!
At least I am sticking to the topic at hand.
Fine, I'll explain, and I'll do it in just one sentence. His books changed me from being Generic Fashion-Obsessed Female to Nature-Loving Wannabe-Self-Sustaining Gardener Living On One Hectare Of Land With Husband And Children Surrounded By Likeminded Families On Their Own One-Hectare Plots, Thereby Creating A Better And More Beautiful World, One Garden At A Time -
If you were writing this in Microsoft Word, there would be a little green line wobbling under that sentence.
That's because Word has even less of a concept of grammar than your average Twilight fanatic. Ha! Score!


My Top Five All-Time Favourite Books

1. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Please see my detailed description above about Tolkien to understand why I love this book so much.
See? I can be succinct.
Well done.

2. Co-Creation by Vladimir Megre. In this arguably non-fiction book, the Siberian hermit Anastasia describes the concept of "Kin Domains" and the benefits these homes and gardens can bring to the people living in them. There is also a description of a flying, burping brontosaurus, and why such creatures are extinct. It turns out it's because no one could figure out why God should make a flying, burping brontosaurus in the first place, and so the poor creatures died of grief. I want a flying, burping brontosaurus. I would call it Deathbreath and it would fly around and fetch me strawberries.
You realise that the brontosaurus is not the most important thing about this book, don't you.
I do realise that, you idiot. Kin Domains are the most important things in the book. And, oh, look, what does it say in the first sentence of my description? "KIN DOMAINS."
Don't forget about the concept of "co-creation". It is the title of the book, after all.
Now look who's going on "unnecessary tangents".
I just think that if you intend to describe something, you ought to do it properly.
Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm just sniggering at your self-contradiction.
"Co-creation" is the philosophical concept of Man and God working together to create something that brings joy to everyone. (It's the catchphrase of the series: "Conjoint-creation and joy for all from its contemplation!" Apparently this is what God wants more than anything.) When someone designs a garden, they are essentially using nature - God's creations - as their artistic medium. So, in a way, Man, God, and Nature all come together to "co-create" a garden. It's a fantastic idea that has nothing whatsoever to do with shampoo. It's what made me want to take up landscape design. And, oh, by the way, do you know what these co-created gardens are called? KIN DOMAINS.

3. The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. It's the prequel to The Lord of the Rings! It's long and difficult to read and I've read it nine times!
Stop bragging. No one is impressed.
O contrare. I am SO impressed with myself.
Well... I admit, it is a great achievement. Very few people manage to read it through even once.
I cannot say I understand why. There are some awesome stories in there. Like the Tale of Beren and Luthien. Imagine what that would be like in a movie.
Terrible.
Yes, most likely.

4. Life of Pi by Yann Martel. I LOVE IT. It's one of those books that really make you think and question everything, and I'm sure no two people come away from that book with the same interpretation. It's also hilariously funny.
It's an attempt to answer the question increasingly relevant in our society about which is better - science or God. The answer is God, obviously.
Yes, well, that's your interpretation. What about the "meercats"? That was obviously made up, making the science argument much more likely -
But bananas can float -
Oh please, he had a flipping tiger in his boat and he didn't get mauled to death! That does not happen in real life! He obviously made it up to comfort his traumatised soul! Just like people do when it comes to God and religion.
Yes, well, the tiger is much better than cannibalism. Therefore, God wins.
Yeah, you're probably right.
Moving on.

5. Beauty by Sherri S. Tepper. Eco-feminist sci-fi at its best. You never know what's going to happen, though obviously the antagonists are always male and the trees usually triumph.
At least she's not anti-God in this book.
Yes, that makes a nice change.


"My goodness. I've come to the end of my lists," I said. "I feel a strange pang of loss echoing in my empty heart. Do you think I should expand them to my 'Top Ten All-Time Favourites'?"
"No. You've already expanded the lists far longer than they needed to be," I replied.
"Pshaw! You are merely jealous of my brilliance and you seek to hinder me wherever possible!"
"I would never do such a thing," I said indignantly.
"Ha!" I cried. "Don't forget, I know you as well as you know me."
"Yes, this is true. And I know how irrational you can become."
"Your face is irrational," I grumbled.
"My point exactly."

Coopers Beach - Days 5 and 6

Day 5 - Sunday

I awoke on the final full day of camp feeling tired but still strangely happy. The leader's meeting that day consisted mainly of discussing the previous night's banquet, with my main complaint being that it should have gone on longer. People promised to improve it for next year, and I subsided, appeased.

It was the final chapel time that day, though because it was a Sunday and the chapel was in use by members of the Coopers Beach community we had to have it in the hall instead. It was my final dance session. I was sorry it was over, but I was cheered up by watching people "skateboard for Christ". This was just one of many awesome illustrations used by the preacher at this camp. I shall forever shed a tear for the ill-spent lives of Zack, Mack, Slack and Jack whenever I read the parable of the wheat seeds. And who can forget the stirring allegory about how humanity seeking God is like Australians trying to swim to New Zealand?

That morning all the older kids would be heading offsite to spend the night at some other, much more interesting location (boys and girls separately, for various, hum, health and safety reasons). But first we were to go collectively to a river with awesome cliffs and a waterfall.

We piled into the cars, and an hour later, due to an interesting case of bad organization, we finally set off to the waterfall.

It was a very beautiful place. Twenty-metre high cliffs soared over a deep waterhole, and some of the more adventuresome people ended up jumping in off the cliffs. Izak did not. Head Leader Peter did. As Izak said to him much later, "You had more balls than I did." To which Head Leader Peter replied, "I don't have three."

Those unwilling to risk life and limb to enter the pool had to scramble down steep, pale rocks that reflected the sunlight and burnt into your feet. It was a most uncomfortable journey. And then when you reached the bottom the riverbed was filled with sharp, angular rocks that made wading through the water difficult. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful spot, and I found myself an interesting little spot where I contemplated life and discovered a hitherto unknown (to me) species of freshwater snail. (Also known as Potamopyrgus antipodarum.)

Strange fact you may not know about me - I love being surrounded by the beauty of the natural world. Well, that's not the strange fact - I'm sure everyone knows that - but what you may not know is that being in nature also makes me incredibly angry. Because whenever I should go someplace that oozes natural beauty, inevitably I think, well, this certainly is very beautiful - by why the hell am I expected to travel vast distances to see it? Why do I wake up each morning to a view of artificial grey rock slathered across the ground? Why did previous generations seem to think that ugliness was tolerable and nature unimportant? Why could they not instead create a beautiful place for me to live in and that I could add beauty to in my turn? And then follows a feeling of intense anger and displacement which a psychologist would probably say was deeply rooted in my childhood but which makes me say, "GRRR!" So it was with a decidedly angst-ridden heart that we left the waterfall and travelled to what I consider to be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen - a privately-owned beach known as Paradise Bay.

When I first saw this place I decided I wanted to write a story about it. (And I am. It's just taking awhile.) I find its beauty inspirational. So you might think that being here would cheer me up - but no. I was still in a really bad mood, no matter my attempts to claim otherwise.

"You look really sad," Junior Leader Sophie remarked as we lounged around the tent set up for our use.

"I am not sad," I replied with dignity and a freakishly optimistic smile. "I'm melancholic. It's a completely different thing."

The other girls, under the authority of Head Leader Sandi, we intending to take a walk along the beach to the rock pools down the far end of the beach. I'd been down that end of the beach the previous, and though I found it beautiful, I really needed some time to myself. So after the girls wandered off, I walked down to the water and spent a good half hour standing in the waves raving like a madwoman as my shorts grew steadily wetter.

I grew calmer. When everyone returned from their walk I was sufficiently sane to carry on an ordinary conversation during dinner, assemble driftwood into a bonfire, and drag our sleeping bags around it in preparation for sleeping under the stars.

I settled down near to Fellow Leaders Sara and Shannon and listenned with the all fascination of an explorer encountering a strange culture as they sang songs by people like Justine Baber and Tailor Swish. Or something. Feeling a need to express my own cultural identity, I recited Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll with my usual panache and, when the stars and full moon arose in all their glory, pulled out Izak's classic romantic joke.

"That's no moon," I said, in a dreamy voice with love filling my eyes.

"What is it?" they asked.

"It's a DEATH STAR!" I shrieked, all pretensions to romance abandoned.

"What?" asked Shannon, sounding slightly bewildered. Sara looked equally confused.

"Have - have you never seen Star Wars?" I asked in shock.

"Not in years," said Shannon, and "Nope," said Sara.

I clutched a hand to my chest. "This hurts me. This physically hurts me," I cried.

They looked at me incredulously, but mercifully were unable to comment further as Sandi started up the devotional time.

Mindful of my status of leader (though I had long since stopped feeling like a leader - it's one of the nice parts of going on the overnighter, it's like a holiday from responsibility) I contributed to the discussion of the Bible verse and made several deep insights which I have now forgotten. This was followed by the customary prayer to finish. I put my head down on my pillow as I listenned to Sandi pray and... I fell asleep.

An unspecified time later I awoke to someone shaking me.

"Whazzappening?" I muttered groggily. It was still dark, though the campfire had burned down almost to cinders.

"It's raining. We're heading up to the tent," someone said.

"Argh," was my eloquent response. I sat up unwillingly. I was surprisingly comfortable and warm lying in my sleeping bag on the lumpy sand. The shining stars had been clouded over with, well, clouds, and light rain was indeed beginning to fall.

There followed the interesting experience of walking barefoot through a cow paddock in the dark towards the tent. This was surpassed only by visiting the long-drop surrounded by pitch blackness and unusual scents.

It was an almost insane task trying to fit fifteen people into the tent. I felt obliged due to my status of Chief Female Leader to take the least desirable space by the entrance which was most susceptible to rain. I should add that there was no floor to the tent; I was sleeping directly on the ground, lying in who knew what. Still, I do not complain; my position came in handy when one of the girls began to snore loudly. I discovered that if I stuck my head outside of the tent the sound of the wind and waves sufficiently drowned out the snorer. Of course, this meant I would be getting horribly wet; yet, after much shifting and shuffling positions, I discovered this was infinitely more bearable.

Sleeping outside in the rain on cow-infested ground. Not something someone of my famed delicacy and sensibility would appreciate, you think? Not so.

I loved it. When I have my own home and garden I am going to sleep outisde. My house shall become a place merely to store my books and sleep in winter.

When I woke up the following morning there was what I hoped was dirt smeared across my face, I was thoroughly soaked, and I was happy. As we drove back to camp, I felt gratitute that I could experience such events.

We arrived back at camp. I won't bore you with the details of what we did next, but essentially it was a mad cleanup before all the parents arrived to pick up their ickle darlings from camp.

The kids left, seemingly forgetting half their luggage to judge by the amount of stuff in the lost property.

It is a source of pride and irritation to me that I am now Chief Female Kids' Leader as I had to go to the famed Leaders Meeting. Ostensibly supposed to run for a mere twenty minutes, the meeting easily stretches into the hour-and-a-half range. Last year it went for over two. This year, only a select few of the leaders were to go. I was supposed to represent the Female Kids' Leaders due to my overwhelming years of experience (five).

During the course of the meeting, someone brought up the idea of a quiz night for next year.

"Oooh!" I said excitedly, bouncing in my seat. I love quizzes. And I'd be able to partake in a non-physical activity.

"Zara's excited," said Head Leader Tony.

"She can organize it next year," said his (much more pragmatic) wife.

"Oh! Really? Yay!" I said.

"That's if she's coming next year," said Ancient Head Leader Dez.

"Of course I'm coming next year!"

"Well, you say that now," said Dez. "But I am old. I have seen much of life. You could be married and pregnant next year."

"Dez," I said, speaking over the strangled yelps of laughter that filled the room, "There's a good chance I won't be pregnant this time next year. Don't worry."
His earpiece must not have been working, for he did not appear to hear me.

The meeting ended (at last); and then, oh, then, the worst part of camp happened, the part I dread ever year: leaving.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I love everyone at this camp. They are my other extended family. Leaving is always sad because you know you won't see them for another year. Most years some of the Lincoln Roaders (Izak and I, mainly) hang around for an extra day with the others; but this year, for various reasons, we were heading down on schedule. I felt like crying. Seriously.

The drive home was fun. Head Leader Peter was feeling sleep deprived and had to stop every hour or so for caffeine breaks. George fell asleep with his head hanging forwards; a slow, steady stream of saliva poured from his mouth as he slept, and Izak and I amused ourselves for awhile getting as much of it as we could on camera. Elliot picked up a copy of the Auckland Property Press from a service station and we surveyed the houses and properties listed, spawning long conversations related to architecture and landscaping. I have decided to make Elliot become an architect. He has no choice in this. He WILL become an architect.

We hit traffic coming over the Brynderwyn hills and Peter and I had an argument about whether a certain tree outside our stationary window was a kauri or a rimu. Obviously, it was a kauri, and I said as much to Peter, who did not seem to think my qualification as a landscape designer was sufficient to comment on the species of a tree. Apparently a pastor knows more about these things.

Throughout the trip I also wrote a story and annoyed everyone by refusing to let them read it. For those who love me enough to read this blog, I shall say give this as an explanation: The previous night, during our prayer session (before I fell asleep) I was reminded of a dream I'd had the night before I came to camp. It was an awesome dream. But I'm not going to tell you what it was about - not until a certain event I have code-named "Secret Project Airport" has occured. Until then? HA! You are NEVER going to know. But I think I will mention it from time to time... merely to tease your mind.

At last we reached Auckland and... home. I threw my luggage into a disused corner of my room and joyfully rushed off to take a much-needed shower (I hadn't had one since the previous day!!!). As the hot water flowed over me, massaging away the ingrained dirt and sand from my scalp, I thought...

Boy, that was an awesome and action-packed camp. It's gonna make one long and interesting blog.