(no subject)

I was waiting at the bus stop this morning, in plenty of time for teaching, all beautifully prepared. Yet here I am, an hour and something later, and not a student in sight. I am even contemplating a late morning nap. How did this happen?

While I was waiting at the bus a guy came up to wait too. He was looking about anxiously and finally he asked me if I had been waiting long. I looked at the time and said "No, but there is one due soon."

"No, I meant have you seen any bus at all. There was a spot strike but it was supposed to be over by 8.30."

And I realised I hadn't. Six routes are visible from that bus stop, it was peak hour, and no busses in fifteen minutes. I waited until the time was past for the very last bus that would get me to work in time, then I raced home to try to contact my employers. That took twenty minutes. No chance of warning the students-with-cars that the rest of us might have trouble getting there. In the meantime I found that the strike had extended to 9.30, but there were no buses visible even at 10.

We decided that the class would be adjourned to Floriade (Canberra flower festival) next week and I had sorted work for the 3 students who made it in. I emailed it and they are busy writing and I am here, half a city away.

(no subject)

My life is doing the roller-coaster thing again. Two downs and one up just since I posted last. The downs actually belong to people other than me, so all I can say is "I'm thinking of you". Yes, we're talking very bad things. Wonderful people who don't deserve such badness in their lives.

The upwards bit of the roller coaster is a surprise phonecall from the Sydney Morning Herald. It was an unexpected interview and I am being given a couple of lines in mid-October, in an article about interesting courses. Very cool. The reporter was really, really nice and asked if I minded her contacting me about something else later on (she has a planned article even more suited to strange Gillian stories or stories of strange Gillian's life or stories of Gillian's strange life). I did explain to her about writing as well as teaching and she liked this even more. She was happy and I was very happy.

Now all I have to do is alert any SMH readers and ask them very politely if they could save me a copy of the article. I will try to spot it and buy my own, but this isn't always possible. So SMH-reading friends, please keep an eye out during October?

Tonight I get to meet Paul Collins. All of CSFG does, to be honest, as he is our guest speaker. The question is, do I bring with me a copy of his 1983 book to be signed? Or his latest book (which is on the AA list)? Or do I adhere to normal whatever. 'Normal whatever' is not actively seeking signatures. Just occasionally I get signed works, mostly for reasons of friendship. How about I go for no sigs but I re-read "Frontier Worlds"? Good compromise :).

Absolute Write Blogchain #6

Just as I was being interviewed (see the post before this if you came in late) in the previous link on the AW chain Infinite Variety was posting about fame. This obviously means that I have had my fame. Done. Over. Back to normal life. Or something.

I've heard a bunch of theories on different types of fame. My favourite - one of those one-liners I use far too regularly - is that I'm famous in my own loungeroom. Well, I am. I get occasional interviews but that's not me being interviewed, it's normally an article being done on one of my subjects. I just provide the sugar-coat to make the bitterness of history go down. Or something. (I am full of "Or something" today - must be the water. Or something.) People reading the paper or listening to the radio aren't looking for Gillian Polack. They're looking for King Arthur, or foodie stories, or the Medieval latrines in Winchester.

Bigger writers (more important writers? bigger sounds like a waistline measurement. If writing fame were measured by waistline, I would be laughing all the way to the best-seller lists.) are interviewed for different reasons, of course. Interviews of Gillian-as-Gillian tend to be by small local papers. And mostly they don't get published. Pity. Newspaper photographers in general are *wonderful* and I look so much better than I do even in my loungeroom.

Today I'm wittering, can you tell? Normally when I am in doubt about an AW chain I segue to food. Food is safe. But food was the subject of my interview today, so it isn't safe.

I think the truth is that I'm uncomfortable with the idea of fame. What I want is to be known and loved by a huge circle of very intelligent and wonderful friends. Strangers staring accusingly and saying "I hate you. You killed my favourite character" are not people I am keen to be round. I rather suspect that the famous authors to whom this happens may not want to be round them either.

What's the difference between a published writer and a famous published writer? Garth Nix once theorised about books launching writers to a higher orbit. If you take off high enough (at any time in your career) that book will sustain other books. The higher your orbit the more books it sustains. Terry Pratchett launched so high with his Discworld books and keeps writing so brilliantly that he increases his orbit. As a result, he is a permanent satellite. At the other end of things is me. I have these tiny little booster rockets that take me five seconds away from the ground and then I come right back to earth. Terry Pratchett is a permanent feature of the firmament. Not just the firmament of the little world of hard-working writers, but the wider world. His orbit is high enough and stable enough so he is famous. I get occasional interviews and get to see my name in print. Sometimes I get noticed by powers-that-be, but always mildly. I lack glamour.

One day I might reach an orbit of some sort. Until then I am famous in my own loungeroom, and very glad of it.

Maybe I will be glad of it forever. I saw Neil Gaiman at Continuum last year. I met him for about 2 seconds so all my crucial questions went unasked. As they do. If I wasn't going to meet the person I was going to analyse what was happening and the constraints on him. As Gillians do. I watched the phenomenon of fame. Neil spent almost all of Continuum surrounded by what looked like a stifling cottonwool of people who loved him and his work and gave him no freedom. He was amazingly courteous in the face of it all. I am not so nice. I rather suspect I would hate a crowd of truefen keeping everyone else at bay. I rather suspect that hate might manifest.

My dream orbit is a low one. I want readers. Lots of readers. Even lots and lots of readers. I just don't want that personal fame. I don't want to become even a little star in the firmament. I rather suspect I *like* coming back to the ground when my little burst of jetfuel runs out. The big thing that makes me search for more jetfuel to reach higher and higher is that a few hundred feet up from me are readers. I like readers. OK, I also like income. Money and readers. So what I need is to get into a low orbit. Or a medium one. I just don't ever want to be a permanent part of the night sky.

Maybe the next writer in the chain gang has a different opinion, being a movieish bod? Go visit Of Chapters and Reels and find out.

awchain

(no subject)

One last post for the day. It's the anniversary of Hurricane Rita.

It was a different kind of tragedy to Katrina. All the refugees from Katrina who went west were caught up in it. All the people who lived in west Louisiana or East Texas were caught up in it. Many died on the roads escaping it. Whole towns were lost to flooding. The town I know best - the one that was my base during my US visit in 2003 - is inland but was still flooded. Every single home was knee deep or even roof high in water.

These people haven't received much help. They have been battling this last year to pick up and keep going. This post is for them. I hope it's not too long before their lives are where they should be and that their kindness in helping Katrina victims and their strength in facing their own disaster are recognised.

There have been a lot of other disasters. I have friends who felt the earthquakes in Indonesia and one who outran the tsunami in Sri Lanka. It's not a matter of weighing up suffering and judging who has suffered most. That sort of weighting devalues people and what they've been through.

So why am I writing about Rita?

Because I have walked the streets of Lake Charles and talked to its people. Because I was interviewed by its newspaper and everyone round seemed genuinely happy that an Aussie writer had invaded for a book tour. Because I learned to drink real margaritas there. Because it marks a transition point in my life.

Each of the streets I walked flooded. My favourite shop is gone entirely: only the roof remains. I worry for the folks I met.

One day I will visit Lake Charles again to create new memories to replace the ones that were washed away by Rita. In the meantime, I can post this anniversary note on my blog, to let them know that someone remembers what they were and how brave they are.