Six hundred and eight words

I have spent a couple of days working in several of my usual haunts, and I have a short piece of fiction to show for it. It is very short: 608 words, to be precise. It's a story about a betting streak gone horribly wrong, called 'Strip Poker'. You can find it in my fiction clearing house, using the Unfiction link at the top of this page. It won't take you very long to read! I am prepared to share the story in draft form, which is very brave of me; I have got it to the point where it now needs to be 'rested', and I will return to it in the future and no doubt rework it. It needs more work, but I need to ignore it for a month or so before polishing it up.

While I tried a couple of different venues yesterday and then again today, I finished the story at a personal favourite, the Federal Coffee Palace, at the Melbourne GPO. For those of my readers who don't know Melbourne, the GPO is a historic sandstone building that used to be the General Post Office. It is located right in the heart of the city, and has a picturesque colonnade along the street, beneath which is a café called the Federal Coffee Palace. The setting is very European. I like writing at this venue because you can stay for several hours and they don't seem to mind; they have a lot of seats spread out beneath the arches, and they are rarely all full. The coffee is good enough, too.

Not overstaying your welcome is an essential part of the café writing experience. One needs to pay one's way, and not take up a table that might otherwise be earning the café patronage. This is incentive to buy coffee, as if I need incentive. ​This is also why I gravitate to venues that have a healthy scattering of spare tables at any given time. I would never linger in a venue when people are waiting for a table.

Having finished a draft, albeit of such modest dimensions, I think I will now wander off into the city and get on with the business of a lazy weekend. Happy writing, folks.

Gore Vidal: October 3, 1925 – July 31, 2012

​This is a sad moment for me, and truly the end of an era. Gore Vidal is dead at the age of 86. It somehow seems too soon, and I don't feel prepared. I can't fit into one short post how influential this man has been to me, he is one of the few writers I have felt close to through their work alone. His ability to move effortlessly between the worlds of fact, history, politics, social commentary and  fiction was inspiring, even if that fiction was somewhat brittle and sharp in the mouth. His essays have been a source of great joy and stimulation, particularly his writings on politics, many of which marked the distinctive imperial contours of the 'American century'.

The world has lost a rare polymath and a world of knowledge and experience dies with him. I cannot see that he has any successors, and I despair that there is one less authoritative progressive voice in the world, although he would undoubtedly chafe at the label.  

Mr. Gore Vidal: Rest in peace. 

An early start

Much to the pleasure of my animal familiars, who are always ready to be up and running about, today started earlier than usual. Put it down to a sleepless concern about the state of the economy. (Yes, really.) It is 7.15 AM and I find myself in one of my occasional weekend haunts, C&B Café on Block Place, having an early breakfast. C&B is great for people watching, and Block Place supplies a steady stream of passers-by. I was the first patron of the day, and having despatched some eggs and a coffee I am settling in for an hour of writing before heading off to the day job.

I love the city when it is still dark, and the trucks are making their early deliveries. A strange spell sits over cities in the very early morning, and it is somehow exhilarating to wander about before even the earliest cafés are open. You can own the streets. Merely being up early creates its own sense of purpose, even if you have nowhere to go in particular. Of course it helps if you have spent a restful night in a warm bed; not everyone is so lucky.

As it happens I was out of the apartment half an hour before C&B opened, and I was forced to have a coffee at one of those all night places on Swanston Street. I stopped at a restaurant near LIttle Collins Street, and sat at a booth. The place has a neon Eiffel Tower over the door for some reason. The coffee was terrible, but the table did have a jukebox, so it wasn’t all bad. They also have a picture of Elvis taped to the ceiling, in case of emergencies.

People are on the move now, starting to filter past, some dropping in for coffee or breakfast. So the day begins. It is time now that I too joined the throng, tramming over to the office in Carlton for a day of harmless fun in the design world. Next writing session at lunch, four plus hours from now: much to do between now and then.