Sleepless Nights

Blog

  • Blogging: I’m doing it wrong

    I shouldn’t be writing a post right now. Haven’t you read the posts telling you when the best time to post is? Saturday afternoons are bad. So are Fridays. And Mondays. And Thursdays. And Sundays.

    Tuesdays and Wednesdays are okay, but only if you publish them at the right time of day; before breakfast, or during the lunch hour – not at 5pm when people are getting home from work, or mid morning when everyone is busy.

    No. You can’t post things whenever you like.

    And okay, I get that there are optimal times to publish thing and I GET that sometimes traffic is higher and lower and if you want to “work the system” then you need to tune into these times and play the game. The problem remains however, if I only post at optimal times, then I’d never write anything.

    I’m a bit sick of the system and I sure as hell don’t want to play the game anymore. Blogging isn’t a game to be tweaked, it’s STORYTELLING. I don’t want to tread on people to get to the top. Maybe other people do, but I’m not that person.

    I’m doing it wrong.

    I’m not scrabbling up a ladder, or jostling for position, or elbowing a baby in the head in the race to get to the front.

    I can come to terms with this.

    I’ve been “doing it wrong” for my entire life and look where that has gotten me. I have beautiful kids, a partner that I’m marrying next month and a life I love living. I think I can safely say that doing it wrong is what I do best.

    ***

    I got caught up in the PR noise, chewed up and spit out.

    It wasn’t until I sat down to really work out why I was feeling so blah about blogging that I realised: I had been basing my entire self-worth as a blogger on the pitches that landed in my inbox. Absolutely ridiculous.

    I had been pressing send/receive, waiting for things to fall in my lap. Hoping that interesting things would happen and pouting when they didn’t.

    Now that I’ve realised what was bothering me, I can let it go.

    I should be basing my self worth on how I feel about things, rather than on what emails land in my inbox, or how many comments and retweets I get.

    And frankly, I feel pretty good about things lately. Showcase Tasmania is doing really well and I’m loving it, there is a huge opportunity on the horizon and when I stop having panic attacks about it, it has the potential to be really huge (and really fun) and this is my blog and I can post whenever I like.

    I think I can safely say, if this is doing it wrong, then I probably don’t want to be doing it right.

  • Showcase Tasmania: Sorell Fruit Farm

    I’ve always been a fan of pick-your-own-fruit farms, ever since I visited one at the north of the state with my grandmother as a child. I hadn’t been to one for years though, which is a terrible oversight, as every year I lament the fact that I can’t buy enough fruit in bulk to make jam. Seems silly now that I think about it.

    Sorell Fruit Farm is situated at Sorell, which is around 25 minutes from Hobart. When I was a kid, we used to spend weekends with friends down at Primrose Sands, and I’m rather a fan of that end of the state. I think it might be the sea air. In any case, I always feel better after a trip down there.

    We headed down to check out the Cherry Blossom Festival last week and to photograph the farm for Showcase Tasmania.

    I wasn’t quite sure what to expect and taking two quirky boundary pushing children anywhere is challenging at the best of times. I had nothing to worry about however, all of that fresh air and room to run made sure that the children were very well behaved and they had fun too.

    Sorell Fruit Farm offers many different types of fruit and I am planning to head back in January sometime to pick fruit for jams and sauces. I’m stupidly excited about getting fruit in bulk.

    On top of fruit, they also do a range of their own jams, vinegars and liqueurs, which I can safely say are divine. (If you haven’t made salad dressing using raspberry vinegar yet, then you haven’t lived. Who would have thought that raspberry and garlic taste so amazing together over salad?)

    The farm has a rotation system in place for the strawberry beds, planting mustard before strawberries, for the anti-bacterial properties that mustard holds. The sea of yellow was striking and absolutely filled with insects. I could have stood on the edges photographing bees for hours, but Isaac demanded that I hold his hand. Bee photos are not terribly sharp when you’ve got a two year old tugging at your arm.

    I settled for snapping photos of apple blossom instead.

    It was a great way to spend an overcast but warm afternoon and I absolutely recommend that everyone visit and pick some fruit. There is a cafe and shop on site, as well as picnic areas for anyone wanting to bring their own lunch.

    The best bit though? It was absolutely kid friendly and I was able to relax as we walked around.

    And take your camera. There is not much better than wandering through an orchard with a camera, especially with the birds and insects around.

    I will definitely be going back to visit again and I would love to get enough fruit to spend a weekend preserving.

    Sorell Fruit Farm is located at 174 Pawleena Road, Sorell, Tasmania and is definitely worth your time.

  • Showcase Tasmania: Anvers Chocolates + giveaway

    Anvers chocolates have long been a love of mine, a luxurious indulgence when I see them in little shops and actually have the money to purchase them. Of course, since children this has been, uh, never. A shocking oversight in my mind, but these are the sacrifices we make.

    Anvers are participating in Showcase Tasmania and to that end, they sent me some chocolates to nibble on, as well as a “House Of Anvers Gift Bag” for me to give away to you.

    Firstly, their chocolates are to die for delicious. The truffles were amazing and I seriously wish that I hadn’t shared them. They are the kind of deep rich satisfying chocolate that makes bedtime screaming worth it, as you hide in the closet nibbling. With the amazing richness though, they’re not heavy and eating two at a time didn’t make me feel heavy, or ill. Which was fantastic for me, but not so fantastic for my chocolate rationing.

    The orange chocolate segments got me through some tough afternoon patches and there is a slight possibility that you could have found me in the bedroom with the door locked, refusing to share.

    I also got to try two types of fudge, butterscotch and milk chocolate, both were delicious as well, with Nathan being particularly fond of the butterscotch one.

    Now, because I love you guys and Anvers obviously does as well, I have a gift bag to giveaway!

    The gift bag contains Truffles 125g, Choc-orange segments 125g, 2x fudge (orange and butterscotch) 85g each.

    I’m using a new widget to manage giveaways and it appears to be working for me.

    The only mandatory entry is a comment answering the question: What is your special indulgence after a long day?



    You MUST check the boxes on the widget to enter – it makes my life much simpler. Let me know if you have any questions!

  • A little bit of insanity is a good thing

    We all want to be normal. Completely average and exactly the same as everyone else. No one wants to be called the weird kid, or the one who is odd at inappropriate times. We all want to be brilliant, but completely unrecognisable.

    I struggle with this, because when I’m writing fiction, the inside of my head feels more real than reality. Children needing food and drinks, attention and cuddles, snap me out of my world and I’m left with one foot on either side of my realities, wondering which one I’m actually meant to be in. Then I wander around distractedly, too firmly implanted in this reality to write, but too far into that reality to think clearly.

    It feels a little like a waking dream, as I hold conversations inside my head, with potential characters and flesh out worlds and plots.

    Having small children means that I don’t write as much as I want to, because no one copes very well when I’m stuck in the alternate reality in my head.

    I admire Amanda Palmer, with her ninja gigs and amazing clothing. I admire her brilliance and her music and her VERVE, in going out into the world, dressed however-the-fuck she wants to dress. She is brilliant because she DOESN’T want to be like everyone else. I admire that she does what she loves in the biggest, loudest way possible.

    I don’t want to be like everyone else, but I find myself getting squashed into the box that society prescribes for us. The small square box of normality , where creativity is correctly partitioned off and exercised at only the right moments.

    I want to be brilliant and different and amazing and I need to realise that being brilliant and different and amazing, means that I need to stop being so fucking scared of being different.

    Don’t be controversial, you’ll make yourself untouchable.

    Be sure to stop swearing, so that you appeal to brands.

    Don’t speak out about anxiety and depression, because then you’ll be forever labelled.

    Write what everyone wants to hear, so that everyone likes you.

    I mean, CHRIST. The list of things we should and shouldn’t do (the unwritten list, that we all hold close to our chests and read from every night, so that we remember how we’re meant to behave) gets longer every day and I’m drowning underneath it.

    When I start feeling a little insane, I write things. I also wander into walls and forget to cook dinner and feed everyone pasta with butter three nights in a row, but I’m busy having ideas and the sparks inside my head are flying. I just wish I could stop feeling so guilty about fucking pasta and go with the insanity.

    A little bit of insanity is a good thing – I’m not seeking out a psych because of the insanity. I’m seeking out a psych because of the anxiety.

    The anxiety that stops me doing what I want to do. That makes me question wearing rainbow tights in public, or glitter eyeshadow, or a dress just because I want to.

    I want to break the mould and embrace the different.

    After all, we’ve proved over and over again that difference is enviable, and coveted. We just don’t want to be the ones considered different.

  • The hardest posts to write are probably the ones I need to write the most

    I confessed that I was not okay during the week of RUOK day. The irony there was that despite the lovely comments, not one person actually asked if I was okay on the day. It seems from my circle of friends, I was not the only one having a minor breakdown that week.

    Despite the mental unloading that I did on the blog, I am still not okay. Mental wellness doesn’t seem to be a tap that I can turn on at will, which is a shame. I’m sure we’d all be lining up to fill our buckets if that was the case.

    It feels like I’ve been fighting for a long time. Fighting to have professionals believe that I was sick, fighting for a diagnosis, fighting to be treated as a human being instead of a teen pregnancy statistic, fighting (again) for a diagnosis, for help when we were having issues with secondary infertility, to having someone take me seriously and finally, when I was diagnosed, fighting to be believed again. Full circle. Fuck me.

    On top of that, there was cancer, death, autism, behavioural issues, and on and on and on. It’s like herding cats, every time I get a handle on one, seven disappear on me.

    [Digression: When I was 41 weeks pregnant with Amy, aged 17, I developed a chest infection and couldn’t breathe. Living in the city, having quit my job months before, I didn’t have a regular GP that I could visit easily, as he was an hour drive away. Nathan was working nights and by the time I realised how sick I was, he was asleep.

    I rang the pregnancy assessment centre for advice – something I had been told over and over to do, for any issues. I was a high risk pregnancy as it was and so, I expected advice, if nothing else. The midwife who answered the phone was short with me, got all of my details including the overdue nature of my pregnancy and asked me to hold please.

    Unfortunately, she didn’t press mute on the phone and I could hear her bitching about me to her colleagues. “She’s 17, says she can’t breathe properly, she’s 41 weeks pregnant, of course she can’t breathe properly. She’s been down here on and off for the last couple of weeks, attention seeking. God. She says she can’t even make it to her regular GP. I don’t know what I’m expected to do about her issues.” She then picked up the phone again and I was crying by this point, unwell and very pregnant and also very sick. “Are you there? I’m sorry, there isn’t anything I can do for you.” I replied “Maybe not, but next time have the decency to press mute on the phone before you complain about me.” She swore and hung up on me.

    You say that young mothers aren’t treated any differently? I beg to differ.]

    Anyway: Issues with medical professionals, I have them.

    I was coping. I was doing well, I was smiling and working and laughing and then I woke up one morning, and I wasn’t coping anymore. I sobbed for hours, had a minor breakdown and hid myself in a book for the rest of the day.

    I am decidedly not okay and I’ve learned that it is okay, to be not okay. That said,  I am sick to death of bouncing from one extreme to another, from abject depression, to panic attacks, to manic behaviour and wanting to frantically FIX everything, because surely things would be easier if the inside of my house wasn’t purple.

    The roller coaster ride has turned my stomach and I would like to get off now.

    I rang the psychology clinic today and asked for an appointment. Despite being quite busy (their words), I now am the proud possessor of an appointment on Tuesday afternoon and since receiving the phone call back, I have been fighting off waves of panic.

    Despite what every single medical professional I have seen has put me through, I am holding on to the fact that this person will help me. That I won’t be discarded as too hard, or too broken, or too complicated, and sent home to cope on my own again.

    I am sick of coping on my own. I would, for once, like someone else to help with this. To come up with a plan and insist that it will work and tweak it if it doesn’t. Not delete the plan altogether and leave me without any safety net.

    Surely that is not too much to ask?