My scungy purple notebook

This blog is about my scungy purple notebook (pictured). Every word of that descriptive phrase is significant except for the word “purple”, which is really of no consequence. After all, the notebook could just as well be algae-coloured or tartan. It would make no difference.

Let me begin with the word “notebook”. It sounds innocent enough. But behind the mundane object named by that noun is quite a lot of my writing philosophy. You see, I’m a writer who gets a lot of odd ideas at odd times. If I don’t write them down (or sketch them, if they happen to be pictorial) I lose them. For ever. Thus this notebook is simply the latest in a long series of notebooks that I have used over the years. It is an extension of my mind. In it I jot down, well, whatever I think is worth jotting down, or putting into words, on a particular day: lines of poetry, plans, the beginnings of stories, journal entries, sketches, even blogs like this one. In fact, this particular blog was jotted down in this very notebook. The only reason you’re reading it now in typed form is because I then typed it up (editing it only slightly). But it was formed in this notebook.

There are also poems that have been birthed in this particular notebook, and the lyrics of a new song, plus a complete short story (that I’m not yet sure quite works), and ideas for blogs and social media posts, even the first halting paragraphs of a book idea. I’m sure I could use an electronic device for this sort of “noting” and “drafting” (lots of writers do), but for the moment I’m still doing what I’ve done (on and off), for years, carrying round the latest in a long series of notebooks.

Which brings me to my second point. It’s scungy. “Scungy” is a word that barely makes it into the dictionaries, since it’s an Australian and New Zealand colloquialism. It means decrepit, messed up, dirty, nasty. The pages of this notebook are starting to detach from the bottom third of the spiral binding. The cheap plastic cover is warped out of shape (that’s why it’s of no consequence that it’s purple, or any other colour). The page edges are getting a little frayed from constant thumbing. And that’s just the externals. Inside, the writing is rushed, barely legible, with multiple crossings-out and tiny scrawled-in additions. Even my family members say, “How can you even read that?” But I can. I can read it pretty easily, as if it’s an extension of my recent journey through life, which it is.

I suppose I should tell you one of the most significant points about its scunginess (and, hey, there’s a word that definitely doesn’t make it into normal dictionaries). Its scunginess is because I keep stuffing it into my backpack, taking it almost everywhere I go. It’s worn out because I’m travelling with it. But that’s the whole point. It means I’m “catching my thoughts” and “drafting new words” at all sorts of odd times in my life. Its scunginess is what makes it so organic, so connected with my journey through the real world.

Which brings me to my third and final point, the “my” in “my scungy purple notebook”. The “my” is what causes me not to care a fig about how scungy it’s getting. There’s so much of “me” now in that book that I’m connected to it by much more than its mere physical form and feel. There are words and sentences and whole written pieces in this notebook that are a key part of my creative journey over recent times.

If you are a fellow writer, then, as one of your kin, I can offer you few more heartfelt wishes than this: that you too will have your own “scungy purple notebook”—or whatever equivalent works best for you.

Happy writing.


© Peter Friend, 2019. All rights reserved.

The lazy writer

Most of us, I guess, get lazy. We like to sit down in an easy chair, with coffee in hand, and do nothing. Or we watch TV, which is worse than doing nothing, because it feels like someone is doing something on the screen—but of course it’s not us.

But if you’re a writer, then there’s one thing that you have to actually do, otherwise you’re not a writer. Yes, you have to write! And that means that you can’t just sit in a chair and do nothing. You have to put words on a page. Lots of words. You have to think too, for words flow out of thought; there has to be a certain logical flow to your words, with decent connections, and an overall shape.

Now, I’m a bit afraid that this blog is simply stating something that is really, really obvious. But, if my own experience is anything to go by, it’s an obvious truth that bears restating. For there have been long periods of my life as a writer when I haven’t actually written anything. I have let days, weeks, even many weeks, slip by without writing anything new. I have generally had excuses for this. I have been busy on other things, like my job as a teacher, for example, or administration (even administration connected with my writing). The one thing I haven’t been doing as a writer in those times is actually writing.

And so I have found I have often had to stir myself to “get writing” again.

Yet, when I have done so, I have discovered an interesting thing. The very act of “getting writing again” sparks ideas. It is not as though you have to always have the ideas first (although it works that way too). It seems that the purposeful act of writing forces ideas to coalesce and take shape. Ideas come to life as you write them down. Sentences, once written, suggest more sentences. And paragraphs, once formed, suggest yet more paragraphs.

I once sat down to write a kids’ story with nothing in my head but vagueness. I scrawled a first sentence. I wrote: “A funny thing happened on my way to school this morning.” That was it. When I wrote it, I had no idea what funny thing had happened! But simply writing that first sentence got me engaged. A next thought came, and I wrote a second sentence: “My trousers caught on fire.” I still didn’t know why my trousers had caught on fire. But now I had a scenario that begged to be explained in my story. So I pressed on, intrigued as to what might have caused this odd event. And the story grew and grew, and was eventually published in a kids’ magazine (Touchdown) as a short story called “Late note,” illustrated by the great Andrew Joyner.

But the point is this. I would never have written that story at all if I hadn’t just started. If I’d been lazy and hadn’t written that day, the story would never have been birthed, and would never have grown into a published piece.

That’s why I often simply force myself to write—because each sentence, once written, grows into the next. And new pieces of writing somehow eventuate.

The alien at the bus stop

In my last blog I wrote about how writing “anywhere” has become a major feature of my writing life. I don’t need a special place to write. I just need some place to write (although a special place is always nice)

This phenomenon is well illustrated by a story I once wrote at a lonely country coach stop, a coach stop that will forever be associated in my mind with a certain inter-planetary alien.

Let me explain.

I was in the little historic town of Gulgong in country New South Wales, the birth place of the poet Henry Lawson. I had gone there for a few days on a bit of a writing trip, observing the heritage-preserved buildings and visiting a few quiet museums and galleries. I had taken lots of notes. On my final day, I had hours to fill before my afternoon coach, and I had already checked out of the cabin that had been my accommodation.

So I sat on the bench seat of the coach stop, alone. And I wrote for hours in the open air. I had with me the beginnings of a short story that I had started at home. I suppose that’s the first thing to note about this particular episode. I was prepared, at least on this occasion. I had a piece of writing I could work on no matter where I was.

It was a fun story called “A question of identity,” and it had nothing at all to do with Gulgong or historic Australia. It ended up being published as the cover story of a kids magazine (pictured above, and superbly illustrated by an artist called Craig Phillips). The story was about an alien creature—a Zark.

The Zark was (intentionally) a bit of a mystery. In the beginning of my story, it was found just wandering about near the space drome on a futuristic Earth. But it wasn’t from Earth. In fact, it wasn’t to be found on the official database of one billion known galactic species. So the boy who found it had to take it with him to school, since the authorities (like authorities everywhere) didn’t want anything to do with it, because it wasn’t on their list.

It was this odd set-up that I was playing with while sitting at the coach stop in Gulgong. So I suppose that’s the second thing to note about this episode. It’s possible to be in one place in the real world, and in quite a different place in your imagination.

The Zark became clearer in my mind as I wrote. It was roughly the size of a large dog, and it was covered in long green fur; in some respects it was reminiscent of a sloth. But beneath the fur, as the boy in the story found out when he stroked it, the creature wasn’t warm like a dog or a sloth. No, the skin beneath the fur was reptilian and cold. And its feet were like those of a large bird. But the most striking thing about it was its head. It had a large beak, shaped like an eagle’s but five times as large—as large, in fact, as a pelican’s. The beak was razor sharp. It looked like it could rip open an elephant!

Was the creature safe? This, I decided, was the key point of tension in the story. The creature had followed the boy quietly to school. It seemed tame. It didn’t seem dangerous. But what exactly was this creature that wasn’t on any database? And why was the huge beak so sharp?

Without giving too much away, I can at least tell you that the Zark did turn out to be a member of one of the most dangerous species in the galaxy! It really could rip open elephants if it wanted to. The rest of the story was about what happened in the boy’s classroom when the Zark’s true identity was discovered. (I can also let you know that no kids or aliens were harmed in the making of this story.)

By the time the coach arrived I had pretty much finished my Zark story. I edited it once I got home. And so far this story has been published by that kids magazine not just once but twice. It remains one of my favourites. But it also remains a prime example in my writing life of writing something “anywhere”.

The echidna that wouldn't budge

The short story that became the cover story of the magazine pictured (above) almost wrote itself. Not really, of course, but that’s how it felt, and that’s why I’m telling you about it. It was a fictional story based on a real-life encounter with one of Australia’s oddest mammals, the echidna—and it taught me both about echidnas and about writing stories.

At the time, we were visiting my parents’ farm in rough, hilly bushland a few hours west of Sydney. We knew echidnas were around because we had often seen the gashes they left in the large ants’ nests and termite mounds. But we had rarely ever spotted one in real life because they preferred night-time and they kept to themselves. It was often years between sightings, and even then it was usually just a momentary glimpse on a far-off hillside.

And then one day, an echidna just wandered onto the dirt track we were driving slowly along in broad daylight. We shouted out in delight. The echidna spotted us as we spotted it, and it immediately did something which echidnas naturally do when startled at close quarters. Seeing nowhere to flee, it sank. With a flurry of movement and a churning of its heavy spade-like limbs, it dug itself straight down into the ground several centimetres. Its limbs and head disappeared. All that remained was its large arching back, bristling with spines.

And there it remained. It wouldn’t budge. By now, we had stopped the car, and were crowding around it. We had never been this close to an echidna before, not even at a zoo. With hushed voices, we took photos at close range. We softly ran our fingers along its thick spines. The echidna just stayed there, probably wondering who on earth we were.

But the key point—and the one that would later become the climax of my short story—was that I saw, for the first time ever, that an echidna was a real-life breathing mammal. From a distance, all you see are the spikes. But when you are right there, literally on top of it (as we were), you see that the spines are interspersed with soft, brown fur, and through the spines you see the echidna’s body gently moving as it breathes in and out.

It wasn’t too hard to turn this encounter into a fictional story. I made up a couple of human characters: a boy from the city visiting his cousin on an Australian farm; they ended up running after an echidna which came to a stop and half buried itself, just as our one had done. They too were amazed at the reality of the furry, breathing mammal under the spines. It was a moment of discovery for them, just as it was for us. Later, once I had written and submitted the story, the editors of The School Magazine very kindly made it the cover story of their Blast Off magazine, with some great illustrations by Peter Sheehan. To me, it was a prime example of just getting out into nature, encountering something wild, and then reimagining it as a story. That’s why I still try to get out into the wild when I can.

The story that popped from a pineapple tin

This is the tale of a wacky idea for a kids’ story. It was an idea that seemed to pop out of nowhere. Actually (to be precise) it was an idea that popped out of a pineapple tin.

You see, one day I was at home, trying really hard to write a new kids’ story. But I couldn’t think of one new good idea. It was extremely depressing. No matter how hard I tried to make a new idea come into my head, it just wouldn’t. I fidgeted, I squirmed at my desk, I looked out the window in case an idea was just flying by (sometimes that works). But … nothing. Finally, I got up from my chair and began wandering sadly around the house. There was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

I wandered into the kitchen, and then I saw it … a pineapple tin with a rip-pull lid sitting on the kitchen bench. It was an ordinary-looking pineapple tin. It was sitting there because we were going to make ham-and-pineapple pizzas later in the week.

But it got me suddenly thinking. What if? ...What if? And then I had my idea (because my mind works in funny ways). What if I opened up the tin and there weren’t any pineapple pieces in there? What if—instead—there were two tiny aliens in silver space suits.

Then it all came in a rush. I had my story idea. It was about a little girl making pizza with her mum, who opened up a tin of pineapple (with its rip-pull lid) and found two tiny aliens in shiny silver space suits who were extremely grateful to get out. (Apparently the aliens had crashed their tiny spaceship into a pineapple factory on Earth, and had been accidentally canned by mistake.) The end of the story would be about how the girl figured out a way to get the aliens back to the pineapple factory so they could find their spaceship. Wow. I hadn’t been expecting that story to suddenly pop into my head.

I ended up calling the story “Pizza, Special Delivery”. It was about 1800 words long. I typed it all up, and I sent it to the editor of a kids’ magazine (called The School Magazine). The editor emailed me back (I’ve still got the email). She said, “I just read this story and it’s delightful … I must say you have a real knack at making the incredible credible; keep 'em coming,” which I thought was very nice, although I knew that, actually, it was all because of the pineapple tin on the kitchen bench.

I often think of that pineapple tin. For me, it showed that story ideas can come from the oddest places. You just have to look at things with new eyes.