Golf fascinates me, despite a pesky handicap. In the mid-’90s, I began writing Bewitching Golf, a spin-off of a human-interest story I wrote for a local paper on girls and women playing golf. I was in awe of some of the young talented players but dismayed at the lack of support available for female golfers at that time. It saddened me to see girls with exceptional talent give up on trying to grab a golfing career for themselves. Partly I wrote the book for them, partly for myself.
I love playing tennis, as well, and play three times a week, same with golf. I have been passionate about writing ever since my first day at school at age five when I first figgered that C was a “kuh” and that with A and T tacked on it spelt “cat.” I was amazed, full of wonderment. That thrill remains. My first story, “Blackie,” about our pup, was in a class publication when I was eight. A poem, “Revolting Rice Puddings,” was later in a school magazine. My parents, not impressed, were appalled in fact that I wanted to be a writer and an artist. They actively discouraged me, believing it would lead to ruination, and pushed me into a secretarial swamp with the carrot of a sensible marriage ahead in a farming community. I escaped to wicked Auckland.
Peculiarly, no one had read stories to me despite my being the sixth child in a family of seven children. My mother told her own short stories orally, quoted odd snips from Shakespearean plays and her own made-up amusing short poems. I laugh easily. I wasn’t without story and drama, but had no notion of written words. Before five years old, I spent hours playing outside with imaginary friends in our large garden amongst flowers and trees when not involved with my sisters and brothers, two pet cats, Tick and Tock, and our much-loved fox terrier, Blackie. Fairy friends lived in the wind, in thistledown, a large gum in the corner and in our tall pussy willow tree, which was easy to climb.
My first day at school watching stern, tall and thin, Mrs. Black scratch big letters on the board in chalk, I sat quivering with curiosity and fear, fear of the unknown and of the fifty-one unknown children all around me: Denise on my left and Albert on my right. I was stunned to learn about the magic of written words and passionately soaked in the alphabet that day. I was highly excited to be allowed to take a book home that night, a Cat on the Mat story. I sat on my bed a long time peering at the letters, trying to figure the story from pictures and match up the words. The joy and elation I felt at this stupendous discovery of what words can mean and the thrill of unfolding stories myself through books remain freshly with me now, 55 years later.
Of course films, theatre and TV entertain and entice with their ever-changing myriad stories, and the endless flow of new books endlessly enchants. Literature at university, a glittering jewel in the murk of my ignorance, conjured up further hidden doors, inviting me to skip delightedly through. Now, I have just read Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, a delicious pudding of complexity and centuries-old puzzles unravelled. I need a good colour copy of da Vinci’s “Last Supper” to put on my wall so I can ponder the lovely red head, rich and educated Mary Magdalena. Her silence speaks volumes. Must be more stories to discover and unveil about her.
In November 2003, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 200 pages into my next book, GroomsBottomLost, when this bombshell hit, shattering creative writing dancing in my mind into useless shards. I did manage to write up a diary of my frightening journey to recovery. I am altered forever but have gained from it, particularly new friends, fellow journey-women
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I’m back writing; as happened for Isis, broken things can slither, reattach themselves, breathe and live again. It feels good; characters frozen obediently in time behave as old friends, are there to pick up again where we left off. This story, set in Auckland and the South Island, has a focus on art and painting and other challenges. Strong-minded story characters with their own agendas, notions and opinions barge into the plot, forcing me to sidestep this way and that to accommodate their realities. This happened in Bewitching Golf when the strong character Tui walked into the story out of no where that I had planned. I came to love and admire her. Rose, a Romance Fiction writer, barged last week into GroomsBottomLost; she’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer. I hope she doesn’t rock the boat too much, what with her penchant for ROMANCE.
I’m longing to see “King Kong” when it comes out later this year; my husband, Bill, was an extra in the Theatre scene. I envied him; it would have been fun to dress up in the ’30s gear, in fab dresses, jewels, a wig perhaps and with face suitably made up by skillful fingers. Unfortunately, the rest of the film is being shot in Wellington for the Manhattan bits so we miss out on that. I acted for a short time in local theatre when living in Gisborne; it was fun living out story parts. My three sisters and I used to put on plays under our kitchen table with a blanket draped over for a curtain to entertain our parents. We got such a rush of pleasure at their pleasure and applause. I hope kids still do this sort of thing. I got asked to leave the Girl Guides at age 12 for telling too many scary ghost stories when I should have been concentrating on tying knots. I guess staring out at the darkness, at wavering trees, bright moon and stars behind, got me thinking about ghosts instead of knots. I felt bad about this later, knew it showed bad aspects to my character. I still have trouble tying knots.
Living on an island at the bottom of the world, I consider myself lucky to have found an American publisher. I take more interest in what happens in your enormous country now, in your books, plays, ballet, drama, sport, than previous. My ancestors came from The Channel Islands, Scotland and Britain, similar to your cultural heritage, I guess. I visited Britain in 2002, fissing with excitement at going to named places known from stories, films, wars and the media: Barbara Hepworth’s enchanting garden and studio at St Ives, Stonehenge, the British Museum, the Wax Museum, Oxford to visit my cousin – loved the gargoyles! I will go back one day and see more, Covent Garden, The Globe, a gork at Harrods. It is my intention to visit your country as well one day. My oldest son, Philip, did two years ago. He thoroughly enjoyed the Amtrak trains whizzing to so many different destinations and experiences: The Space Centre, New York, The Everglades, St Louis jazz. And, boy, he loved the food.
I love J.K. Rowling’s fascination and clever use of old words, peculiar place names and links to subterranean subconscious magick realms, seemingly related to Tolkein’s passion for equally singular and strange ancient names and meanings, mind-teasers both. Of course, Hermione, my favourite in the Potter stories, deserves a greater role in the ongoing story. Hopefully this will unravel in the film out soon and eagerly awaited by me.
Enjoy, too, Sarah Paretsky.
Must go.
Cheers,
Ruth
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