I’m off to Dunedin. Golly. I’m trying to assemble all the information I know about Dunedin. It’s where Scarfies was set, and Dare Truth or Promise. There’s a university there, and the steepest street in the world.
And it's cold.
I’m going there for the Wordstruck Festival, and some of my favourite writers will be guests; Paula Boock, Fiona Farrell, and Cilla McQueen. And of course the incredibly talented and very sweet (so I am told) Shaun Tan. Kate has promised to introduce me to him. I’m trying to decide if it’s too lame to take books down to get autographed…
I’m taking a stack of children’s books to read. Kate shakes her head at me, “No more reading, Fionnaigh, you’ve got to start writing,” and then turns around and tells the rest of the class to do more reading.
This week I’m in my element. We’re doing verse narrative. At last, an assignment that makes sense to me! I wish I had an extra ten hours in every day, just to write. I find myself trying to explain my definition of poetry to my classmates. After the workshop half the class come up to me and ask if I’ll give them some feedback on their work.
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My dad sends me an email. The subject line is simply the surname of an old friend. The email is one line, “I guess you know all about this,” and then a link to a Herald story. I don’t know all about it. For a moment I panic, I think it might be a link to an obituary. It’s not. It’s about a call for an inquiry into his sacking. I’m relieved, and then sad. I miss him. The old David, who used to send endearing emails and delicious poems. His scratchy voice down the phoneline to Costa Rica. Red wine and the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke. The first time we hugged, squeezing each other through thick layers of winter clothing. Before he started taking so many drugs. Before he became so self-centred. Before he drifted away. I spend a wistful half an hour reading through Usenet archives.
One, two, three, four wistful memories.
Got to let go. There were some good times, but now… everything has changed.
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The article also made me think about how much I say online. David was sacked as a result of the messages he posted on a newsgroup (detailing his actions). The same newsgroup that I have posted hundreds of messages to, some of them saying very very dumb things. I started posting when I was 16, and I was very naïve about the public nature of the group. It really didn’t sink in that anyone anywhere in the world (with internet access) could read what I was writing. Or that there might be some crossover between my “real” life and my online life. I got into some shit when my father came a cross a post in which I mentioned smoking pot…
I do try to be careful about what I post. Especially when it comes to other people. I don’t mind mentioning someone if they already have an online presence, but I try to make most references to other people fairly anonymous. I should probably be more careful when writing about things that have happened at work. Although confidentiality has not been explicitly mentioned for either of my jobs, I think it is probably assumed.
I have made mistakes, plenty of them. It’s just so easy, just a click of the mouse and my words fly off into the world for all to see. Now I find myself deleting quite a lot, sometimes before it makes it onto my blog, sometimes soon after I have posted it. I really want to continue to post personal writing. I guess it’s a matter of finding a balance. I’m learning all the time, and I hope I’m making fewer mistakes these days.
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In 26 hours I’m off to Dunedin. Hurrah! I only have to do a million things between now and tomorrow (I have no idea how they’re all going to fit, especially seeing as there's only an hour of today left). Maybe I should actually do some of it, instead of loitering online.
Cold southern updates, coming soon to a blog near you.
(They do have cyber cafes down there, don’t they?!)