Category Archives: Works in Progess

Apologies

I’m sorry for not replying to comments or reading blogs but my iPad has been slowly dying for some weeks. I have an iPhone but with my cataracts it’s very difficult to read much.
My wonderful Nojy and Lisa are taking me to the Apple store tomorrow so I will hopefully begin to catch up soon.
Keep your fingers crossed they can retrieve my poems that are floating around in the ether somewhere.
Take care all
Tricia.

Obsession – A work in progress

Next year has been designated the National Year of Reading in Australia.

Because I love all things literary I have decided to write a story that gives a view of my life experiences via the books I have read. This post is the beginning of my intention to show not only my life with books, but also the growth of a story through the process of revision. I intend to expand it to include my childhood and teenage years, and to show how my library has evolved over the last 15 years or so, in direct correlation to my life experiences, and my ongoing quest for knowledge and understanding.

My aim is to show in the completed story, the value, joy, solace, knowledge, and companionship to be found in books; an homage to literature. And in the process I will hopefully encourage others to delve open mindedly and often into the wonderful world of words. 

OBSESSION – 2nd draft

I could have a tidy house if not for my obsession. Books are slowly taking over every room. Precarious stacks form walkways. The remote control must navigate coffee table clusters in its search for the little red light, without which, it is just another piece of useless plastic.  Eight bookcases, shelves once neat, now crammed, double stacked.

Hundreds of murder mysteries by various authors, titles not important, they serve my need for justice. The Collected Letters of Dylan Thomas, I ache to know more of he who wrote Do Not Go Gentle, various works by Kahlil Gibran, the oracle who touches my atheistic being. Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, the title a tale of secret yearning, the story within, for me an ethereal confirmation of the theory of Six degrees of separation. Lady Chatterley’s Lover According to Spike Milligan, the other side of a man whose poetry rips me open. The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, my introduction to the amazing mind of Robert Johnson, the first in my collection of his works, three copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, I have my Hamlet days 

Shakespeare’s sonnets, my introduction to the wonder of poetry. Yeats, Wordsworth, William Blake, T S Elliot, Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Hewitt, Dorothy Porter, Gwen Harwood.  Claire Gaskin who introduced me to the words of Pablo Neruda, a man who brings clarity to confused yearnings.

Then all the wonderful novels, Alex Miller’s Landscape of Farwell, the last line a poem, sparse and complete. Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides, this wonderful book a doorway into the darkness of childhood trauma. Ruth Cracknell’s Journey from Venice, a story of life, love, death and grief. My hidden vice the much read story of the love of a priest and his Megan in Colleen McCullough’s The Thorn Birds. 

I remember once trying to convince my husband of the need for larger premises, ostensibly so he could have a study, but in truth it was the books. So many more volumes to assemble before the library of my life is complete.

Tricia

OBSESSION – 1st draft (written a few years ago as a blithe little piece on my book collection)

I could have a tidy house if not for my obsession. Books are slowly taking over every room. Precarious stacks form walkways. The remote control must navigate coffee table clusters in its search for the little red light, without which, it is just another piece of useless plastic.  Eight bookcases, shelves once neat, now crammed, double stacked,

Hundreds of murder mysteries by various authors, titles not important, they serve my need for justice. The Collected Letters of Dylan Thomas, I ache to know more of he who wrote Do Not Go Gentle, various works by Kahlil Gibran, the seer of things unseeable. Lady Chatterley’s Lover According to Spike Milligan, the other side of a man whose poetry rips me open. The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, my introduction to the amazing mind of Robert Johnson, the first in my collection of his works, three copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, I have my Hamlet days.

Shakespeare’s sonnets, my introduction to the wonder of poetry. Yeats, Wordsworth, William Blake, T S Elliot, Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Hewitt, Dorothy Porter, Gwen Harwood.  Claire Gaskin who introduced me to the words of Pablo Neruda, a man who brings clarity to confused yearnings

Then all the wonderful novels, Alex Miller’s Landscape of Farwell, the last line a poem, sparse and complete. My secret vice the dog eared pages of the love of a priest and his Megan in Colleen McCullough’s The Thorn Birds.

I spoke to him-self the other day about the need for larger premises, ostensibly so he could have a study, but in truth it is the books. So many more volumes to assemble before the library of my life is complete

Tricia

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