Merry Christmas! (and a video)

So we didn't actually plan to post a Christmas message on the blog, but this happened and I thought you might like to see words coming out of my mouth (just as if I were a real person!)






Mink hid behind the water heater all day. He is a Grinch.


Man slays turkey!

The first Christmas dinner I have cooked all by myself, including a turkey!


Post-lunch.

Mink's first Texan Christmas!

Merry Christmas, everyone! Have a wonderful day.

Andrea xx

Fredericksburg!

Happy Christmas Eve, everyone! (And happy Christmas to Kiwis, who start a bit earlier than the rest of us).

Yesterday, LOML and I went to Fredericksburg with a couple of friends. I can't tell you how gorgeous this little town is - every single house is picture-postcard perfect, it seems. We'll have to go back and explore the town properly, because yesterday we were going to the National Museum of the Pacific War. Absolutely fascinating. After living in New Zealand, the Pacific theatre of WWII is particularly interesting, and the museum was just amazing. And comprehensive. And LONG (it took about four hours to get through it all), but worth it. We also explored the Combat Zone, where retired tanks, jeeps, artillery and torpedo boats are displayed.

The memorial garden.

New Zealand!

A WWII pamphlet encouraging women to join the Marine Corps. "A so-becoming forest green cap!"

The Vereins Kirche - a 1930s replica of the original 1840s church. And we're standing next to a tiny replica of the replica on a stick (no idea what that is for). It's all very meta.


I got a bit excited about this wooden Christmas tower, gifted to the church by the nation of Germany.

Have a wonderful Christmas Eve!

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la ... ugh.

This is unrelated, but I found a statue of a sabre-toothed tiger last night and I thought the world needed to know.

I am hijacking the blog to have a bit of a rant today.

I love Christmas. I love everything about Christmas - the food, the songs, the presents, the pretty twinkling lights, the rapidly-expanding waistline. Well, not the last thing. But everything else. Christmas in the States is particularly joyous because it seems that everyone gets equally excited about it, and coffee develops interesting flavours like Gingerbread and Pumpkin Spice.

My indomitable Christmas spirit, however, is swiftly becoming domitable.

We live opposite a store that plays Christmas music. This is fine. What is not fine is that this Christmas music plays - loudly - twenty-four hours a day. Literally.

Here is a short summary of last night's experience:

11:30pm (bedtime): Feliz Navidad.

2:30am (first waking): Silent Night. Ironic.

4:30am (second waking): Oh Holy Night - the really screechy Mariah Carey version.

6:30am (third waking): I'll be Home for Christmas followed by Baby It's Cold Outside.

And it is LOUD. We have double-glazed windows and very good insulation, and yet I can hear all the words. My brain sings along. Christmas music has started to infiltrate my dreams - even dreams about robots and the End of the World. This shop is not open all night, but the music blares on for an audience of crickets, owls and sleeping people.

I went in yesterday to speak to the manager and, apparently, the store cannot control the music. It is, instead, controlled by HEADQUARTERS (I started thinking of 1984 at this point). HEADQUARTERS decrees that, during the month of December, Christmas music must play constantly from every branch of this store across America, and nothing is going to alter this decree in the slightest. Therefore, we must put up with this midnight assault on our eardrums until ... Boxing Day? Or New Year's Day? Hopefully just Boxing Day.

This means that I am grumpy for a good hour after I wake up and will be for the next (at least) three days. That is all.

Brief absence

Thank you so much for your kind comments on my last post, everyone - I so appreciate them.

I'm still alive, but have been working furiously for the last few days. Until Christmas Eve I'm afraid I'll be head-down, bum-up working on various projects that have a pre-vacation deadline, and there are some family dramas going on as well, so I'm going to officially take the next few days off blogging. Have a wonderful week, and I'll see you nearer to Christmas!

Andrea x

A real, live book!

My editor sent me a copy of the newly-printed, fully corrected The Cry of the Go-Away Bird today, with its proper cover - it's so pretty! I can't stop looking at it. This is the only Christmas present I need this year. *

* That doesn't mean you can't get me something nice, LOML.

Today

I am reworking the second half of the book again, which requires piles of pages to be laid out across the floor and many pink post-its to be used. Mink is not being very helpful - he likes to a) sleep on the piles or b) walk across them and push them out of order.

Mink had an operation yesterday, and his little legs had to be shaved for the IV. He looks so cute. (And he's fine, thank you - he was having his back teeth cleaned).

Worry FM

I have been thinking about worrying lately - which isn't hard, as I have Worry FM going constantly in the back of my mind. (Yes, I hear voices. No, they do not tell me to burn things). A couple of days ago, I talked about my constant need to worry, and many of you said that you experience exactly the same thing. I have been trying to work on this, and I have realised something.

Worrying is easy.

It is familiar. It feels like slipping into a pair of comfy old slippers that smell a bit off but that keep your feet warm. It is a soothing litany of everything that can go wrong. It is a security blanket. I'm talking about chronic worrying, here, not a five-minute session that can actually produce results. Nope, this is the constantly-running, deluxe kind.

Trusting is hard.

Trusting is SO hard, isn't it? I am useless at it. I was even useless at those team-building games where you had to fall backwards into a waiting colleague's arms with your eyes closed, trusting that they would catch you. I just couldn't do it. I would tense up and sway on the spot, unable to fall backwards. I am a control freak of note, deserving of my own special Control Tower and a campaign map with little figures that I can push around at will. This might be a side-effect of writing fiction ("Why won't you do what I want? MY CHARACTERS DO WHAT I WANT," - except that, most of the time, my characters don't do what I want either).

Worry allows you to smile sadly yet wisely when the expected Horrible Thing happens. "Ah yes, there it is. I knew it was coming." It allows you to live at a slightly flattened register, which is not as much fun as living open-heartedly, but is a lot safer.

I am pretty suspicious of happiness. My mum is, too. She has good reason. She got married to a wonderful man in her early twenties. They were very much in love. They created a home together; bought beloved pets; built a life; and became pregnant. And then, when Mum was a few months pregnant, her husband (my dad) was killed. Knowing that, it's pretty easy to see why it has taken Mum a further twenty-five years to be able to trust life and happiness again. I think that this contributed to my natural worry-wart tendencies, but I made some pretty good worrying progress on my own, too.

Sometimes worry is good, when it brings a problem to light. But most of the time, it is just a running commentary paralysing you as effectively as duct tape around the wrists. It's a habit. And it fools you into thinking that you are safe, because SURELY if you're on high alert for disaster all the time, you'll be safe. Ha. It is easy to believe that your worries are somehow more 'realistic' than your happiness because some grim, pessimistic part of you tells you so.

I am trying to make the daily - or even minute-by-minute - decision to trust rather than to worry. My technique of "LALALA I'm not listening" comes in handy here, too. Of course, Worry FM still plays, and there is still that pinched, stingy part of my brain that insists that my worries are 'realistic' and need attention, but I am trying to turn the volume down.

"It is safe to try this new and exciting thing."
"No it isn't. You are doomed."
"Yes it is."
"Weren't you listening? NO IT ISN'T."
"LALALA I can't hear you."

'Acting as if' is very helpful, too. If you pretend that you believe something ('I AM able to succeed at this') and act accordingly, eventually it will become true. And perhaps one day I will be able to tune into a different station altogether.

P.S. I went out to brunch with some lovely Austin bloggers on Sunday! It was bloody freezing. Thank goodness for coffee.


From left to right: Grechen, Joyce, me, and Cathy (first photo) and Sandhya (second photo). Photos stolen shamelessly from Sandhya's blog.

Esther's Follies (and mine)

Some good friends took us out to Esther's Follies last night - a fantastic vaudeville show on 6th Street. My throat is still sore from laughing so hard. They combine stand-up comedy, skits, magic and music to create a hilarious show, compounded by the fact that there is a window onto 6th at the back of the stage - many hapless (and not-so-hapless) passers-by inadvertently become part of the show! This is definitely going to become an Austin regular for me.

No idea who this portait depicts, but it reminded me of the scene in Alice with the Queen and the baby that turned into a pig.

LOML was given a block of soap with a moustache on it. He likes it entirely too much. ("I have you now, my pretty").

Esther Williams! Who kindly donated her name to the show. Perhaps involuntarily.

LOML against one of the murals.

The stage - you can see the window that looks onto 6th.

No idea. But I liked it.

And this is what helped me to recover from all the excitement this morning.

Early review of The Cry of the Go-Away Bird

I saw my very first review today! It is simultaneously exciting and terrifying. I'm so thrilled that it's a good one, and grateful that someone read my book and took the time to write about it. And now I think I need a stiff drink (as in a cup of coffee).

From Book Trust UK.

The Cry of the Go-Away Bird
By Andrea Eames

Published by Harvill Secker

The recent violent struggles in Zimbabwe form the backdrop to this deeply moving and unexpectedly affecting debut novel. Written in a deceptively simple register, The Cry of the Go-Away Bird nonetheless is deeply felt and darkly ominous – and doesn’t flinch from the difficult questions recent history asks us.

Elise is a young white girl in 1990s Zimbabwe, living an idyllic life on her mother’s farm. It is a life full of the wonders of nature, the luxuries of colonial life, the certainty of happiness. But the illusion of such safety cannot last. As Elise grows up, she sees the ambiguities around her, the complexities both in the country that she loves and in her own home. The arrival of step-father Steve coincides with a straining in the politics of Zimbabwe. Nothing now is safe, especially as Mugabe’s regime turns to punishing the farmers and their land.

It’s easy to overplay such emotive fare, but Andrea Eames’ understated prose puts the reader right at the heart of the action, without ever feeling manipulated. Plot, character and political insight combine to create a memorable and accomplished novel.

Why I never won the Lottery

LOML and I put up our Christmas decorations last night, ready for our first Christmas in the USA!

I am one of nature's worriers. I worry about everything, all the time. I know that a lot of you are in the same boat. Worrying is all about jumping ahead into the future - it starts with "what if I can't pay my phone bill this month?" and escalates to "I WILL DIE AND BE EATEN BY COCKROACHES," in no time at all. This can paralyse writing, as well. Thinking "what if this never gets published?", "what if this gets terrible reviews?" or "what if I die halfway through the book and am eaten by cockroaches?" is not at all helpful when you are in the throes of creating. (And, as a side-note, you are much more likely to be published if you have actually written something). To produce anything halfway good, you have to be really immersed in the story, and you can't do that when half of your brain is leaping ahead gleefully to examine all the dire possibilities that might be lurking for you in the future.

When I was about nine years old, I decided that I was going to win the Lottery. Yes, I was delusional. We were in the UK visiting my grandparents for Christmas, and the Lottery jackpot was something ridiculous like a zillion squillion dollars. I bought my Lottery ticket from the corner shop and decided that, if we concentrated enough positive energy onto my chosen numbers, I would win. I wrote my numbers out on bits of paper and gave one to each family member, telling them to concentrate on those numbers all day. I sat back, confident in the knowledge that I would soon be a zillion-squillionaire and could finally buy that pony.

Then I started to worry.

What if I did win? I mean, it was a pretty foregone conclusion. Would the money bring more troubles than benefits? Would it change our lives for the worse? Would it mean that ROBBERS and BURGLARS would descend on us en masse, bringing their scary black masks and loot sacks? Would my friends still want to be friends with me, or would they think I had become a rich snob (with my new pony)? I chewed my nails down to the quick. I worried all day. Finally I ran around to all my family members again, confiscating their bits of paper, and told them to concentrate on NOT WINNING instead because winning was going to bring DIRE CONSEQUENCES.

I didn't win, which I'm sure is only because I aborted my mission. I mean, otherwise I would totally have won.

I am trying to avoid this sort of thinking at the moment. My work is going so well right now that I am afraid to be aware of how well it is going, if that makes sense. It feels like guiding a trapped butterfly out through an open window - you have to be gentle in case you damage it by trying to be helpful. So I'm working behind my own back, as it were, while the conscious part of my brain whistles and twiddles its thumbs. I have to watch out for worries and squish each of them as they appear ("LALALA I'm not listening"), because if I allow myself to think about the future, about anything beyond the present moment and what exactly I am working on, I will become paralysed and unable to write anything. It's a delicate balance.

I think that mastering the art of "LALALA I'm not listening" might be the key to maintaining sanity, no matter what you're working on. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to stick my fingers in my ears and get back to work while simultaneously pretending that I'm not working at all. It's kind of exhausting.

"Task: Dress as a Serious Artist"

I thought this excerpt from Julia Cameron's The Vein of Gold might amuse you! (Very tongue-in-cheek, of course).

"Drag out all of your basic black. Rip a few holes. Smudge some dark circles under your eyes. Grease your hair back in some patently unattractive dork hairdo. Sprinkle your shoes with specks of white. Scuff them. Do not wear a belt. Go to a coffee house. Act dour. Grimace and scribble furiously, cursing quietly under your breath. Finally announce, "Screw it!" and stalk out.

You may wish to undertake this role-playing with a friend. Go to a coffee shop together. You may wish to invent a fictional project you are working on, one involving only the most dour and existential themes. Additionally, you may wish to give your dramatic character all of the character traits associated with the most cliched version of a suffering artist: let it be known you have a serious drinking problem, you are promiscuous, you can't earn a living, you sponge off your friends, you are neurotic, self-centred, miserable, contemplating suicide ...

... For those of you who have been acting out some version of this already, it may break the code and allow you to look pretty in pink someday if that's what appeals to you."

Exposing yourself (not like that)

Okay, maybe a little bit like that.

"It is a paradox: writers, who are presumably the most sensitive of creatures; who possess a hyper-alertness to life, subject themselves to a process that even the most thick-skinned and impervious would find harrowing. Too, writers are often working against a sense of inner transgression, telling stories they feel they were forbidden to reveal. They are usually our resident observers, and it is a painful and shaky process to take the stage. To then get cut down for your effort, is the ultimate form of existential pain—reaffirming the very dynamic you have worked so hard to overcome. You suddenly realize the terrible exposure that publishing brings. This is something any writer who seriously wants to get published must expect." - Marina Budhos

I wouldn't quite claim existential pain, but I am starting to experience some of the caught-naked-in-full-beam-headlights feeling that comes with being published, even though the book hasn't even launched yet. Writing feels terribly intimate while you're doing it - it's just you and the reader, experiencing a story together - but, of course, once it's out in the world it becomes very public. And not everyone is going to like it (nor should they). I know that in writing a story set in Zimbabwe's recent history, I am describing a very complex and volatile situation that inspires, quite rightly, passionate feelings in many people. I tried to be very honest, and while that will resonate with some people, it will offend others. That's just how writing works. I know that.

Here's the thing:

I will never be able to tell the story of 1990s Zimbabwe to everyone's satisfaction.

Here's the other thing:

I'm not trying to.

I want as many stories as possible to come out of Zimbabwe; as many voices as possible to be heard. I can't wait to read all the stories that I know will emerge from Zimbabwe to join the already extensive list of wonderful books on the country that are available. I am just one of many voices - that's it. I am not a political scientist, an economist, a sociologist or anything that could possibly give me any claim to being an expert on the country's workings. I am one person trying to make sense of my experiences and the experiences of others through storytelling. I don't think you will ever get an accurate picture of a place or situation from reading just one book, because there are as many different views of the situation as there are people.

Having said that, here are a few of my very favourite Zimbabwean books.

An Elegy for Easterly - Pettina Gappah
Unfeeling - Ian Holding
The Grass is Singing - Doris Lessing (who went to my high school in Harare, weirdly enough)
Mukiwa - Peter Godwin
Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight - Alexandra Fuller
Nervous Conditions - Tsitsi Dangarembga
The Stone Virgins - Yvonne Vera

Again, every one has a different voice and a different perspective on the country, but together we can start piecing together a picture that approaches some sort of accuracy.

P.S. I just read this great post from the ever-hilarious Kiersten White as well. Wise words.

"Anyhow. People love your writing. People hate your writing. Doesn't matter. You always write alone. Thank heavens, too, because I'd hate for people to be reading over my shoulder and vomiting all over my poor MacBook ..." - Kiersten White

Photo shoot for Laura Martinez

My friend the lovely Laura Martinez, makeup artist, asked me to take part in a vintage-inspired shoot at Coffee-A-Deli coffee house to showcase her amazing makeup skills and the deep purple lip that she sees as fall's top trend. Jenny Fu took the photos and was hugely patient with my lack of modelling skills and tendency to make silly faces at every opportunity. If you're in Austin and need makeup done or photographs taken, these ladies are the ones to approach. If you need someone who can't keep a straight face for ten seconds, call me. Or don't.

Edits: Day One

I'm starting my first read-through of the final draft today, complete with an array of equipment; coffee, post-it notes, coloured pencils, a pencil and pen, scrap paper and a small furry black thing that I like to call Mink who steals my chair whenever I get up.

Opening of Cypress Vanguard!

Today I went to the opening of a new store here in Austin: Cypress Vanguard, on 606 E. 3rd Street (on the corner of Red River). Local designers and artists have come together to open a retail space where they can sell their work, and it's set in the most beautiful old house (with paisley fabric wallpaper!). My friend Anslee of savannahred is one of those artists. She makes gorgeous vintage-inspired clothing for curvy women, and she finally has the perfect bricks-and-mortar site in which to showcase her work.

"Not only is it a large deal to me, personally, as it signifies that I am now an adult - officially - but in the world of fashion, it is a great thing for ladies who don't necessarily fit the mold. I am so excited to be able to celebrate this as part of my adventure! Three and a half years ago, I had no idea I would be sitting here now, dreaming about my studio space and the gorgeous ladies I get to create for every single day. (I didn't even know how to sew then!) This is soon to be my reality, a storefront in downtown Austin. How am I so lucky?" - Anslee

Of course, there are other talented people selling from this space as well: By Jeannie Jewellery; Kandy Glass, make-up artist; Megan Summerville (who makes gorgeous lingerie); Ross Bennett; Kerri Lawnsby; and Laura of Milli Star. I particularly coveted one of Milli Star's gorgeous handcrafted hats. Santa, take note.*

Jeannie of By Jeannie Jewellery.

Two of Anslee's beautiful models wearing savannahred creations, and the lovely Cathy, also wearing a savannahred dress.

Me and the talented Anslee.

Mr and Mrs Gingerbread Man wish you happy holidays.

* If I have left out any of the artists or designers who are part of this project, I do apologise! Let me know and I'll add them in.

I'd rather be thrifting

Cardigan - Brand is Smudge, from a clothing swap
Dress - vintage, thrifted
Shoes - vintage, thrifted

I went thrifting today as a treat for finishing the book. I have been trying to avoid non-essential spending for the last couple of months in preparation for our UK trip early next year, but a vintage dress and a book from Goodwill didn't put me back too far! I love thrifting. There's nothing better than sifting through a pile of junk looking for treasures. I think I have said this before, but I see thrifting as a creative activity (I'm going to avoid being too wanky and saying it is an art); you have to be open and willing to see the potential in unlikely things, or to try something that would never have occurred to you. You never know what you are going to find - it might send you in an unexpected direction or open up a surprising possibility. And that's why I (and you, I know) love it. Although it is rather dangerous - it's very easy to over-fill a house, bookshelf or closet with thrifted finds.

Speaking of which, here's my crowded closet. I can't tell you how nice it is to have a huge closet after the coffin-sized mould and spider trap that we had in New Zealand. Please excuse the flash photography - it's very dark in our closet and my skills with a camera are woefully inadequate!

Some of the hats are lined up along this shelf - the rest are in a metal steamer trunk on top of the dresser (a trunk that my grandparents on my stepdad's side brought over to Zimbabwe from England in the middle of last century).

I'm afraid I do take up more space than LOML. He does have two rails on the left, though, which you can't see here.


The aforesaid trunk o' hats and dresser.

Mink will sometimes wander into the closet, give a disgusted sniff and walk out. I think it's a bit too girly for him.