R. L. Stedman

Writer

Behind the Scenes

Pandemic After-Effects: or, Why I Quit My Job

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Timeline of an epidemic

Pandemic After-Effects

I quit my job this week.

I’m taking six months off to write, then will see what eventuates. Let’s hope something does πŸ™‚

I reached this point after eighteen months working in Supply Chain, over a global pandemic. It’s called burn-out. For a while, I couldn’t think, could barely interact with folks outside of work. Too much going on in the head, and not enough time for me.

The counselor I saw, and the doctor who signed me off, both nodded understandingly when I described my symptoms.

“We’ve had a lot of this,” they both said. “People are tired. Exhausted.”

And more than just tired. I think there’s a global sense that time is short. With the pandemic, and all that’s happened around the world: cities locked down, Presidents espousing bleach, mass cremations – these things were unbelievable in 2019.

Everything has changed.

Questions on School Visit

So last week I left the Day Job. Some folks looked surprised, but many, many others seemed to understand, and even more appeared envious. Seems to me, there are a lot of people needing time out on their lives.

This wasn’t an out-of-the-blue decision: I’d been saving my salary for a good few months, and so hopefully, we have enough put by to manage. My husband has his work, and our kids are old enough to look after themselves. After all, who knows what might happen next? If there’s one thing this pandemic’s taught us, it’s that we need to enjoy what we have.

So I’m going to work from home for the next six months, writing stories.

Watch this space.

 

 

All Thumbs at Work: or, The Importance of Fingers

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At the Day Job, all the senior managers look like thumbs.

spooky stories

That is, they are white, middle-aged, tall(ish), and bald. Occasionally in the corporate photos, there’s a face that breaks the thumb-crowd: someone Maori, Asian, perhaps, or the odd woman. But mostly, it’s thumbs.

It’s weird working with so many thumbs. Not that I have anything against thumbs – they’re useful for gripping tools, and individually most are perfectly pleasant. But sometimes, it would be nice to have diversity: a pinky or an index finger, or perhaps a hand of a different color.

This was borne out to me forcibly the other week when my boss was promoted. (My boss is a half-thumb, being white and male, but still retaining a head of hair). I decided to apply for his job. Now obviously, I don’t fit the thumb model: I’m short and female. Although I am white, so one out of three.

I was not successful in my application. Did well at my interview apparently, but it’s a big role, and we need someone with more experience. Fair enough, I guess.

My new boss started last month. Seems a nice guy and has plenty of international experience. Not so much knowledge of New Zealand, or the primary sector, but that can come.

However, most importantly, he is a thumb. White, balding, and male

He’ll fit in just fine in the photos.

 

Why, Despite 2020, I Feel Cautiously Optimistic.

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Cautiously Optimistic
From Unsplash

It’s been a mad, wild ride, this year of 2020. For much of this year, it’s been hard to feel optimistic about anything, right?

And now we’re into November.

I’ve written a couple of blog posts this year – mostly about pandemic novels. From that, you can gauge what 2020 has been like.

A quick summary of 2020 (to date):

I work full time in Supply Chain for a large meat company in New Zealand. The year began with China shutting down its manufacturing and borders, (try running a supply chain without China) and progressed through to a worldwide pandemic.

In April, New Zealand closed its borders and went into lockdown. 4 weeks or so of no-one traveling, workplaces closed, etc. But not the business I work for – it’s a food manufacturing business.

And in April, what was my job? To source sanitizer. (Not romantic or writerly, I know – but hey, it’s a living!) I wasn’t buying the little bottles you find at the supermarket: I buy barrel-loads of the stuff. And over April 2020, you just couldn’t find it, because the whole world was buying it and New Zealand is a long way away from most manufacturing.

Things grew easier in May, as some distilleries began to produce, and by June we were fine. But April was the toughest period, work-wise, by far.

Writing went on the back-burner for many months. Not only did I not have time: I didn’t have the energy. Watching the numbers of deaths climbing and the insanity of leaders – well, it saps your creativity.

Thank goodness the leader of New Zealand, Jacinda Ardern, listened to the scientists when they said – This is not just the flu. This is going to be really, really bad.

So now it’s November. At the time of writing, New Zealand has almost no active cases of COVID-19 in the community. Pub, restaurants, and bars are open: concerts and gigs are back to normal. We aren’t stupid – we know it can come back. But we have systems and tracking in place to manage this and the border is generally well managed.

It’s spring here in New Zealand. Today it’s Sunday, and the sun is shining. Flowers are out, birds are chirping.

Birds don’t notice the pandemic.

Timeline of an epidemic

Cautiously Optimistic

Today, Biden won the U.S. election. And I’ve written 20,000 words of a new story: a romance, set in my home-town of Ōtepoti, Dunedin. Starring a witchy-journalist and an absent-minded scientist, the story’s about nature and creativity and love and myth. It’s cautiously optimistic. Like me.

Oh, I don’t have a title yet. But at least I have words on a page.

Escape Reality

How to Create a Writing Place: The Story of Zeph

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Every writer needs a special writing place, where their imagination can soar. This is mine.

Meet Zeph. He’s a 1977 caravan. We bought him about 16 years ago, when our kids were little. Here they are, still small, when Zeph was looking pretty cool.

Zeph the Caravan - My Writing Place

I started writing in Zeph about 10 years ago. The first story I wrote was A Necklace of Souls

The track led steadily downhill towards the cliff. Just when I feared that we would fall over the edge it turned, descending through daisies and yellow bracken towards the sand. Breakers pounded, spray drifting in a white mist. The ocean’s roar blended with the wind, so it seemed the world was all noise.

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Then came Inner Fire, set in Devon. We didn’t take Zeph to Devon, it was too far, but I wrote these words inside him, much later:

β€˜Look.’ Rowan said. β€˜See? A stone circle.’

And now I could see it β€” flat rocks placed upright in the shape of a ring. It was fairly atmospheric, with the mist and the gray sheep and the silence. There were … I counted the stones out loud … twenty stones.

‘Count it again.’ Rowan sounded amused.

So I did, going back the other way. Which was widdershins? And was widdershins good luck or bad? While I was trying to work this out I forgot which number I was up to. β€˜Twenty-two,’ I said. β€˜I think.’

He counted too. β€˜Twenty-one.’

β€˜You must have left one out.’

β€˜And how could I do that, with the stones here in front of me?’

β€˜And how could I do that, with the stones here in front of me?’

Inner Fire

He grabbed me, pinning my arms to my sides. β€˜What do they say?’ His face was close to mine.

β€˜Just … that they can’t count properly.’

He smiled, and kissed me full on the mouth.

Oh. My. God.

(Can you guess what genre Inner Fire is? πŸ™‚ )

++++

Another visit, another story. This time, based in Berlin.

GS 0793-Peralta.jpg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stolperstein#/media/File:GS_0793-Peralta.jpg

These are Stolperstein – literally ‘stumbling stones’: small bronze plaques placed in the cobbles outside the houses of those taken by Nazis. They’re speckled throughout Germany, especially Berlin, and we stayed in the Jewish Quarter, so you walked over people’s names and the dates of their forced removal and death every day.

I wrote this story, staring out at the rain-streaked windows of the old caravan:

In Berlin, the sidewalk marks the dead. Small bronze plaques, set into the cobbles, remembered those who’d once lived here. … Fatima took up her violin and laid her empty case, open for stray coins, near the Kessler family. They had been murdered in various camps over 1943, so at first, Fatima had felt guilty for choosing this spot. But it was a good place because the pavement was warmed by the train station underneath, and anyway, the Kesslers didn’t mind. If anything, they seemed to enjoy her music.

Alice
Alice: A Short Story

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Over the last few years, Zeph’s been deteriorating. We’ve been using him less and less for camping, and I’ve been writing at home, where it’s been warmer and dry-er.

Zeph - ugly caravan writing place

Last year, we decided it was time to improve Zeph, to take him out of his old paddock and make him pretty. Plus, the kids have just left home, so we needed a project.

We’ve been doing Zeph up over the last year.

++++

It’s been difficult to find the time to write, but I have managed to squeeze one story out – it’s coming out in the ODT this summer.

Petra always finished her run at the Esplanade. Here she’d treat herself to a take-out espresso from the cafΓ© beside the shark bell, sipping the hot coffee slowly while she watched the surfers dancing with death on the tops of the waves.

She watched for sharks, too, but never saw any. They were out there though, because next to the bell was a memorial to the surfers taken by Great Whites, over forty years ago.

Petra liked to think of the enormous killers, swimming silent through the deep. They were apex predators. No-one messed with sharks.

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And – finally …

Here is Zeph, all bright and shiny new. We have just finished! He came home on Thursday night.

Now he’s ready for new stories.

Pretty caravan writing place

Here’s to Zeph, and more stories to come!

P.S. This blog post was first given as a talk at Wild Imaginings Hui, 2019

Do You Love Tiny Stories?

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writer's notebook

I’m always scribbling in notebooks. I have stacks by now: multi-coloured and full of crazy words. The other week, I started reading through them, searching for a half-finished tale about a witch-finder and a midwife.

I couldn’t find that particular story, but I did manage to discover other story snippets. Here’s one you might enjoy.

5 Books I Fell in Love With

Thumb

Once upon a time, Berta found a baby on the subway: a baby boy, only a few months old, with brown eyes and curly black hair.

Berta, who had been reviewing her diary on her phone while swaying gently to the train’s rhythm, at first didn’t notice the infant. Becoming aware of eyes fixed on her, she looked up.

“Where did you come from?” she breathed.

The child was perfect, but oh so tiny: no larger than a tea cup. He’d been placed in a car seat and covered neatly with a woollen blanket, embroidered with blue flowers. That’s how Berta knew he was a boy.

She and the baby were the only ones in the carriage. (It was still very early, so most people were still asleep.)

A baby shouldn’t be alone, Berta thought. Glancing down at her phone, she tried to put the child from her mind. Perhaps if she ignored it, it might go away.

The baby sneezed.

A baby sneezing is the most amazing thing. Unlike adults, a baby sneezes with its whole body: feet twitch, legs bend, tiny hands clench into fists. And Berta smiled, because the kid was so cute.

The tiny-but-perfect baby smiled back.

And Berta, who had never wanted children, who had never felt the slightest urge to even spend time with kids? She fell in love.

Baby boy

Child-Thief

Berta left the train with the baby.

The car seat was no larger than a shoe box, and the child fitted inside it perfectly. It felt was like something from a fairytale; like a dream. Not at all like something you’d find on the subway.

Berta was on a career fast-track. She loved her job in commercial law; she loved her independence. She had no wish for a child. Anyway, there was the small matter of that ovarian cyst. But yet, most nights she dreamed of carrying a child and in the morning her arms felt heavy with its absence.

Three stops to go.

The platforms were nearly empty, with only the odd passerby outlined against the yellow-tiled walls. She glanced again at the tiny, perfect infant. He was dressed in a hand-knitted white matinee jacket, embroidered with small blue ribbons. Someone loves this child.

Bending she whispered into the baby’s ear: “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

The baby stirred, as though it understood the question, and Berta heard quite clearly – all her life, she believed this – a voice. It said: Take him. He is yours.

Swoosh! The train doors slid open.

And Berta, in a moment of craziness, or indecision or just mad, pure love, lifted the child’s car seat by its handle, the baby still inside, and stepped from the train onto the empty platform where the CCTV camera was turned away.

Heading for the stairs, she whispered, “What should I do with you?”

The baby opened sleepy dark eyes. “Take me home,” he said, so clearly that Berta nearly dropped the seat, baby and all.

***

When Berta arrived at the office, her assistant, Stefan, stared at the infant. “What?” he asked slowly, “is that?”

“A baby. I found him on the subway.”

“A baby? On the subway? And you just took him?”

“I know,” said Berta wearily, “I’m crazy.”

The child opened dark eyes and smiled at her, and she knew that if she had to do it all again: choose a child and steal him, car seat and all – she would.

“What’s his name?”

“Name?” Berta blinked. “Um …” In the car seat, the child stirred. “Daumen. Yes. His name is Daumen.”

“Thumb?” said Stefan. “What kind of a name is that?”

How To Make the Perfect Pavlova …

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Recipes for Writers

Over the last few months, I’ve been posting recipes out in my newsletters, and my readers love them! So I’m posting them here on my blog too. Hope you enjoy.

Recipe based on Nadia Lim’s Blueberry and Lemon Curd Pavlova

In the 1920s, prima ballerina Anna Pavlova toured Australia and New Zealand. In honour of her visit the pavlova was invented: a meringue-based desert with a soft, caramel-like interior and crispy exterior.

There’s ongoing debate over which country was responsible for its invention. Me, I think it was New Zealand. I’m not biased. πŸ˜€

Today there’s many variations on the pavlova: my stepmother used to make a gorgeous one with coffee and walnuts. But usually a pav has a plain, creamy-coloured base, topped with whipped cream and fruit.

This particular pavlova is ideal for Christmas, as it looks somewhat like a wreath, with these beautiful seasonal colours.

The trick to a good pavlova is to separate the eggs correctly – the recipe will fail if there’s even a hint of egg yolk. And place it in a HOT oven, but allow the pav. to cool for ages – preferably overnight – before removing.

Recipe

  • 6 egg whites
  • 1 1/2 C caster sugar
  • 2 t cornflour
  • 1 t white vinegar

To serve:

  • 1 – 2 C whipped cream
  • 1/2 t vanilla (or vanilla seeds)
  • 1/4 C pomegranate seeds
  • 1 punnet blueberries
  • 1/4C sliced almonds
  • fresh mint leaves, to garnish

Preheat oven to 200 C. Line a baking tray with backing paper and mark an 18 – 20 cm circle on it. (You can use a plate or a bowl as stencil.)

  • Whip egg whites with electric beater until stiff peaks form (they must be really stiff)
  • Add caster sugar while beating.
  • Continue beating on high speed. The meringue mixture should be thick and glossy.
  • Beat it cornflour and vinegar.
  • Spoon onto circle on baking paper. You can smooth the top to look like a ballet-dancer’s skirt, or keep it rough, to form the idea of ruffles.
  • Put it in the oven and TURN THE OVEN OFF!
  • This is very important. Do not let anyone else open the oven, not for any reason. Not even your children, and especially NOT your husband. You may need to stick a sign on the door of the oven.
  • Leave the pav in the cooling oven for as long as possible, ideally overnight. Do not worry if the surface cracks, this is totally normal and will add to the homemade authentic look. Besides, you can fill up these imperfections with cream.
  • Once removed from the oven, and cooled, decorate with generous amounts of whipped cream and fruit, as in the picture above.
  • Alternatively, top with whipped cream and fruit of your choice.

An untopped pavlova will keep in a dry container for a while, so you can make this a few days before serving. But once it’s smothered in cream, keep in the fridge and eat quickly.

Nutritional information: best you don’t know.