Using Canva to create my book trailers

I had worked with the brilliant tool Canva since 2017, albeit in a professional setting where I was more a passive recipient of mockups lovingly realised by UX designers at my workplace.

After releasing The Secret of Chantilly in late November, then participating in the book’s promotion activities in December and surviving all the Christmas cooking, I decided I needed a purely visual and auditory project. I took on playing with Canva and was pleasantly surprised. What began as social media posters (that I deleted) and fun food menus themed around Christmas and High Tea, soon led to a joyful passion for book trailers. 

I completed two book trailers in late January after upgrading to Canva Pro. One for Calista and one for The Ming Storytellers. I also had loads of fun with a Secret of Chantilly promo to coincide with Talleyrand’s birthday. I’ll eventually work on a trailer for my other books. 

My favorite part of the process was choosing imagery that evoked themes and symbols in my stories — a very rewarding semiotic exercise —  then applying various royalty free sound pieces to set the mood. I also had to avoid modern imagery as my novels are set in the past, and choose video content over photos where possible to avoid that “presentation slide” feel which is not what I wanted.  For the sound in the Calista trailer, I added thunderstorm, ocean and cricket effects and had fun with jarring and downright spooky horror pieces. The addition of sound made me realise just how crucial to the emotional effect sound mixing is and my respect for that discipline of filmmaking has increased like never before. The result is an unsettling little video that captures the contrast in Calista’s life before and after moving to England and creates intrigue. It won’t win an Oscar but I’m very happy. :)

For the Chantilly promo video, my aim was not to convey what the book is about but rather to showcase the essence of my characters : nimble, hardworking chef Carême affairing himself in the Château de Valençay kitchen, and his tasteful and regal master, Talleyrand. All the Valençay photos are my own, taken during a trip to Indre in July 2020 while I was editing the French version of the novel. I also used music that would have been familiar to Talleyrand in his time, so the first piece for example which accompanies Carême’s cooking, is by Mozart, and it worked wonders when I adjusted the pace of the imagery and used lots of dynamics like confetti, butterfly wings, and hand gestures. The cartoonish imagery is befitting because the novel possesses  a fairytale like quality, and these childish finishes also add an element of fun to what is, after all, a birthday celebration video. 

Giveaway ! 📚
How about a trip to the @ChateauValencay for #Talleyrand’s birthday? 🥳 I hear French chef Antonin Carême is cooking up a storm.

If you enjoy foodie historical fiction with heart, The Secret of Chantilly is currently free on Kindle. 🎁♥️ https://t.co/tpWhJXVGTb pic.twitter.com/7zHDcNDAax

— Laura Rahme (@Laura_Rahme) February 1, 2022

The Ming Storytellers book trailer is my greatest joy. It has by far the prettiest music, a melody that wonderfully tugs at the heartstrings while spelling mystery and awe. I remember sighing wishfully years ago, telling myself that I needed a book trailer for my epic story, but I never had the time nor the resources for it, and now, ten years after its release, it finally has one! Thank you Canva!  

Calista - my first horror novel

When my mother was pregnant with me and living in Senegal, her favorite thing to do was head to the cinema and watch a horror movie. I often joke and tell her, while feigning admonishment, that the horrors she experienced as she rode on waves of suspense and scares would have chemically passed to me, her vulnerable foetus. In what drugged state would I have existed, I wonder, as I floated about in that cushy womb, dreading another traumatic rush of adrenaline... Would I have become as addicted as she was? Would I have ached for similar thrills in my youth to compensate for the loss of this potent mix of chemicals? And was this perhaps the reason why as a young child, I was fascinated by the macabre and why as early as four years of age, I sat quietly with my mum and grandmother, watching supernatural horror movies like The Entity and Audrey Rose? Mind you, I was not spared the ensuing nightmares, but then again, what we love is not necessarily good for us.

Years later, I married a horror screenwriter and while I know from observing him and his many horror filmmaker friends, that horror writers are the sweetest people on earth – counterintuitive but true – I also knew that it would be just a matter of time until I'd try my hand at a wicked tale. (Because I'm also very sweet like that.)

Sheridan Le Fanu, Arthur Machen, Charlotte Dacre, Stephen King, Mary Shelley, Anne Rice, Daphne du Maurier and Wilkie Collins, are writers I admire in the suspense/horror genre. I'm a lover of atmosphere and ambiguity so these authors have been my go-to for gaining inspiration and for that general feeling of, "whoa, I want to write like that". Apart from Stephen King and to a degree, Anne Rice, their material is also delightfully old-fashioned which suits my historical novelist bend. I also love nasty women in novels. My greatest scare in this department is still Madame de la Rougiere in Uncle Silas but Wilkie Collins and Charlotte Dacre have nothing to envy. 

For almost two years, I had been wanting to write a novel about a certain [secret] topic that is dear to me. It was my novel XX. I didn't know what it would be about but I knew it had to feature that topic.

While in Greece this year, a horror story came to me and suddenly it made so much sense to merge this wicked tale with my topic of choice, that I wondered why I hadn't thought of it earlier. So you could say that I decided then and there to write a horror novel as a vehicle for my pet topic. I'm really happy to have made that decision. (And Greece was fun too.) 

But when should it be set? And where? I looked up a period of Greek history that is distinct for its political situation, and decided based on this research that my novel would be set after the Greek War of Independence, and – due to some other logistic details that I will not reveal – well before 1853. I settled on the period between 1836 and 1850. This historical horror novel would take place in both England and Greece; a Victorian novel with a Greek influence!

I titled it, CALISTA, like my female character.

I've just about completed the first draft. It is shorter than all my other novels and definitely shorter than my debut novel, The Ming Storytellers which totalled at 610+ pages. For Calista, I had initially envisaged a novella but there was so much I wished to say that I realised it couldn't be less than 50k words. So a novel it is. 

I will be launching a cover early in the year but in the meantime, I'm loving this creepy experience. I'm right back in that womb, so to speak, the hormones are rushing in, and I've a devilish smile on my face.

See you next year.

The Silence of the Pirogue

No self-respecting author born in Senegal and with a blog called, Teranga and Sun, should omit to pen a novel set in their birth place. I am pleased to have begun a historical crime novel partly set in 1970s and 80s Dakar.

Western Africa is a such a world apart from the last thirty-four years of my life in Australia. Yet now that I am currently living in France, so close to the place of my birth, the memories of Senegal have flooded back.

A wonder it is, don't you think, that just as I commence a new life in Brittany in the home of my French ancestors, I find myself drawing from an older life in order to create.

No surprises, given you have read this post's title. My new novel is called The Silence of the Pirogue. A pirogue, in case you are not familiar, is a slender traditional Senegalese fishing boat. It is beautiful and very common along the Atlantic shores. And that's all I'll say!

I have two other novels in progress, though one is purely at embryonic pen-free stage and its title has not been announced... Hint: it is partly set in a beautiful island and it takes place in 17th century France. D'Artagnan might just make an appearance.

In the meantime, I am eagerly applying the last beta-feedback edits to The Secret of Chantilly. I have made a decision to query agents and publishers and hope to find a home for it. Wish me luck. I do tend to keep my affairs secret but it is no secret that I aim to get rejected many times this year.

2020 is off to a good start. After ten years of erring, and wondering-where-to-grow-roots, it is wonderful to not be renting a home anymore. I feel as though the last six years have been incredibly intense. I lived a double life. By this I don't only mean that I was split between my corporate job and my writing job, but I also led the other double life; the one where I had a current Australian home and a potential French home, and everything I did and planned was aimed at leaving one and reaching the other. Who else plans, ever secretly, and for that long? Talleyrand perhaps. :)

Writers need their own quiet place, unburdened by the yoke of the landlord who so often corrupts any good intention one has to write from the heart. And I think artists need their space even more, so they may fill it with pretty things and remain inspired. This year, 2020, is the year I am no longer in transit; I have a place to call my own. I can fill it with books, art and paint the walls any color I wish. What a joy.

Goodbye for now

I have just turned 43 and more than ever, I discover that as a writer, nothing is more regrettable than two activities. 

One: revealing myself when my natural tendency is to opt for secrecy. I would choose evasiveness any time rather than divulge what I am writing or researching. In the past I always felt compelled to say something, describe anything, so as to justify the long writing silences and offer meaning for the months spent in incubation with nothing to show. I would share and share to prove that there was an idea being hatched, that I was authentic and that it was all true and there existed a work in progress. But I won't do that anymore. I don't need to prove myself.

My work is something I would rather not reveal until complete. Either way, when I shared a little in the past, I always sensed a lack of a connection with others about what I was trying to describe. Unless they actually ended up reading the entire completed book, it gave me an uneasy feeling that they had understood nothing. 

Nothing gives me less satisfaction than people knowing what I am up to when they don't really understand it. To make matters worse, given I am likely to remain purposefully enigmatic about the work in progress, then there is no point in speaking much of anything until the deed is done. 

Otherwise it is a waste of time. Which brings me to...

Two: spending time writing long emails, articles, marketing posts or any other self-promoting posts when I would rather be researching and writing; there is nothing wrong with author marketing and I respect it when it makes sense, but if it takes away from my current work in progress, especially when I am so limited in time, then I resent it. 

I feel reluctant to spend that precious commodity, time - there is enough piracy and unfair treatment of writers as it is without compounding the problem. Do you understand? I don't want to write for free unless I am aiding other writers by composing a review of their work. Our books are already cheapened every year as it is. 

I also feel indignant about being a person that I am not. I loathe the reputation that writers have acquired on Twitter or any other social platform - that of being self-promoting, constantly blasting others with posts about their work. It saddens me that it has come to this when in fact writers are the least likely to be self-promoting by default. Many writers chose that medium because they are introverts in the first place and don't enjoy the limelight. Yes, it is annoying to see writers continually rant about their books. Even I am annoyed by it, though I understand it. It doesn't come to mind to non-writers that we have no choice. If we remain quiet, we will not be read. Even those who are traditionally published are called to do their part in marketing. 

Why do writers have to promote themselves so much? You see, the nature of our medium works against us. To illustrate this, I will say, that today, especially today, the public is slow to take up a book from an unknown writer. A couple of readers might give you a chance but for this, they will need to accommodate you, squeeze you in between the known writers they adulate, make time for you. Time is crucial for readers. Why would they read you when they can read Dickens, Hugo, King. I am guilty of the same. I would drop any unknown writer to spend time with Wilkie Collins. But now a different medium like visual arts has an advantage. An unknown person can post a photo on Instagram and it will be seen by thousands because the eye cannot but see. Visual artists have an advantage because the mode of consumption for their work is instant. You cannot read, let alone comprehend, a 300 page book in the flash of a second, but you can effortlessly consume countless images in a matter of minutes. Hence why writers try to grab your attention. 

Anyway it has come to this. I don't want to be the self-promoting writer even if I will not judge others who choose to engage in marketing. But don't worry, I am not contrived. If I have something exciting to share, I will share it.

Since 2010, I have enjoyed posting in this blog - it was fabulous when there was time, but 2019 is going to prove demanding in so many areas of my life that I have no choice but to say goodbye...for now.

This is not the death of this blog. Or maybe it is...

Perhaps I'll start a new one. After all, this was the second blog after Les Nuits Masquées which I held since 2007. I can't believe that I have been blogging for 11 years. 

A Writer's Life

After jetsetting around Rome, Paris, Brittany, Capri and Sorrento in June last year, it was time to return to Sydney, and face the fact that the only reason I can afford international travel at all is because I am a corporate Techie, and not because I sell millions of books. Let's not kid ourselves, now.

I swallowed that pill and returned to my day job, back to what became a challenging six months project with Fairfax Media. As a Business Analyst/Iteration Manager (a hybrid word meaning, someone-who-doesn't-have-a-life), I embarked on the re-development and re-launch of two major sites, representing Australia's well-known news brands: The Age and The Sydney Morning Herald.

Rather than overwhelm you with descriptions of my Agile world with its sprints, its JIRA tickets, its endless meetings and the often maddening but always exciting digital media pace, I will simply say that despite the unrelenting whirlwind of my day job, I managed to actually make progress with another world, the gastronomic world of my fourth novel - set lavishly in the chateaux of Vienna and France, in the patisseries and alleys of Paris from the Left to the Right bank.

Chantilly: A Tale of Carême is my fourth book. It is a delightful, sentimental and passionate journey,  into the life of France's first celebrity chef, who began as a pâtissier but worked his way up as a master of French Haute Cuisine. More than a rags-to-riches fairy tale, which it is, it delves on overcoming one's personal demons, and on Antonin Carême's existence against a backdrop of political intrigue. It brings to life fascinating figures of the period, including the eccentric Grimod de la Reynière who was the first food critic, and a well-known Jewish banker who, while wanting acceptance from a Parisian social scene that had rejected him, managed to turn Carême into a celebrity.

Talleyrand: I love this guy

The book is also about an unlikely friendship. It explores Carême's surprising relationship with another great French man, the enigmatic Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Napoleon's foreign minister. Navigating in two different worlds, preoccupied with vastly different objectives, these two men will cross paths and each will learn from the other. Talleyrand has continued to perplex all historians who study him, and it is no surprise that research into his personality and psychology has taken most of my time. I am loving it.

And of course, it wouldn't be a book about a chef without it offering a glimpse into the culinary delights of the time, or highlighting the gastronomic inventions that swept early nineteenth century Europe. So I am having a ball, not only researching by reading Carême's own published works, but also pleasing my senses by indulging in cake whenever I can.

 I made this mango and strawberry Victorian Sponge and ate it all.

Any writer who pens a book like Julien's Terror has to battle their own demons. So even while flirting with pâtisseries and dancing the waltz in Vienna, I was lured, deliciously into another world - the darker world of MALEFICA. It seemed I could not step into the light without the darkness reaching out to engulf me.

So I went. Into the cold.

Valais landscape

Winter in Cologne. The majestic peaks of the Valais.

And I went further, into the lunar dark...

Into the mystical Nuragic caves of  Sardinia.

Ah yes, I am there. It's back to the 15th century.

Split between so many worlds I often feel that I might lose my mind. It's all there, at the same time, vying for space in my imagination. I look present but I am faraway, gripped by moving images, listening to the voices.

MALEFICA is my fifth novel. It is the fantastic sequel to The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice and it is part of a historical mystery trilogy that sees Antonio da Parma and the witch Elena as chief protagonists. My mind screams with excitement. There is still much research to be done but the concept has been alive in my imagination for over a year and the treatment is slowly taking shape.

You might think I stopped at two books. That the world of digital media strangled so many of my creative thoughts that I'd have no room for another story. Nope, that isn't so. I have also begun research on the third book in the trilogy. It will be called THE MASTER OF COLOGNE and will be set in France and Germany.

What has become clearer to me is that I need to be closer to Europe for my research. And so, because you only live once, I am planning to fly out of Australia and spend a sabbatical year (at least) in France where I would do nothing else but paint, write and travel to the places that have inspired my books. How does 2020 sound? In the meantime, it is another excuse to work hard and keep pumping out those JIRA tickets! Because books will simply not pay the bills. That's not what they are for.

So there it is, a glimpse into a writer's life. A psychotic universe of here and there, of doing something despite the fact it does not pay. Because you have to, right?

You just have to.

Marie-Hélène Sambou

I have been under the weather all week, feeling rotten and physically broken, and trying my best to keep it all together under a polished veneer. It worked out splendidly, well...aside from the weeping on Monday night, and then again on Wednesday night.

I don't mind a little sadness every now and then. Especially when it's for no particular reason (other than simply being a psychic sponge and a hypersensitive organism navigating through an extroverted planet). It's moments like these when I reflect on my past and the people I have lost, some for the better, others, at great expense.

Do you have friends or acquaintances, people you have known and who have either brought sunshine or drastic change in your life, people that you often wonder about after many years of not having seen them? How difficulty would it be, you ask, in this age of social media, to not find someone you were looking for. You would be surprised.

I talked myself into making a list of these fascinating people. There are two that I would love to describe to you. I would also love to see them again but I know it would be a difficult quest. One of them, I will speak of now.

Marie-Hélène Sambou

That is her real name. I knew this lady for the first 10 years of my life when I lived in Dakar and in Nantes.  And then I moved to Australia with my parents and never saw her again.

Who was she?

In common parlance, Marie-Hélène was our 'bonne', which is what we French-speaking expats living in Senegal called our 'help'.

But she was more than that.

From what I remember, my grandmother appointed her from the time I was born, or perhaps earlier. She was a young woman from the southern region of Casamance, a region I wrote about here. She could not read nor write. She was a Christian minority in a country that was and is still predominantly Muslim and she was, to me, absolutely fascinating.

Marie-Hélène took care of me from the time I was a baby. When I was separated from my mum aged 10 months, until the age of 3, Marie-Hélène came with me to France and continued to care for me at my grandparents' home.

Oh these were pretty cool days.
Here I am running alongside her in my grandmother's garden in Nantes. I was her star, I reckon.

She braided my hair into rastas. She liked that.

She played with me.

You could probably say she was like a mum to me.

Later when we lived in Dakar, at my grandparents' home. She and another lady (her cousin, Therese Sambou) did everything for us - that is to say they catered for a family of 7: my grandparents, my parents, my sister, my brother and I.

They rose with the sun. They washed all laundry by hand, waited on us at meal times, they scrubbed, mopped, tidied our rooms, cooked most meals, washed dishes by hand, made errands at the market daily, and prepared all ingredients.

When I say they prepared all ingredients, you probably wonder what I am talking about. Don't we all prepare ingredients?

Not really. In Senegal, well back in those days, preparation is time consuming. There is no packaging at the market, aside from rolled newspaper sheets and canvas bags.  The only packaging you can expect is from imported products purchased in a Lebanese or French deli. It goes without saying that most food arrives home in its raw form.

So you bought a chicken? Good for you.  Now go home, kill the chicken, pluck it's feathers, disembowel it. You can ask someone to chop off its head for you at the marketplace but you still have to prepare it when you get home.

Same story for the fish that my dad would bring back from his fishing trips and that would lay in a pool of blood on the concrete kitchen floor - Marie-Hélène would gasp at its size (much to my dad's pride) then haul it up upon the sink, scrub off its scales with a metal brush, and proceed to chop it into large pieces.

The rice we bought was crawling with vermin, mostly dead from the pesticides.  Marie-Hélène had to sift through the rice manually to remove all insects. She did this every time we ate rice. And I can tell you that we ate rice almost every day.

I wrote about Marie-Hélène a few years back. I regularly miss her and wonder what she is up to. I feel sad knowing that I never got to have an adult conversation with her. I feel regret for all my brat behavior and for dobbing her in whenever I felt indignant or bullied by the authority she had to show to get me to shower, sleep, behave or just obey my parents.

Truth is she was just an angel and she worked so hard, so damn hard. I remember that when I was eight, and we were living in France before coming to Australia, I would often sleep with her. One reason was that I loved the way she smelled and I felt comforted by her.  But the other reason is that she was so entertaining. I pestered her non-stop to tell me stories of magic and sorcery from her native Casamance and she begged me to let her sleep but I loved her stories so much, loved the way she told them so much, that I couldn't resist asking for more. Sadly the next day, after having had little sleep, she was up at four working at her chores, while I curled up in bed without a care in the world. All this makes me sad and I miss her terribly.

Marie-Hélène always gave of herself, despite the volume of chores she had to carry through. She was also always there for me. When she left us to return to Senegal before we emigrated to Australia, I remember how much she cried. She had been in our family for years and it would have hurt her enormously to leave. Leave where? Back in Dakar, somewhere. Or maybe in her village, in Casamance...

Where? I have no idea where. And that is what hurts so much. I feel as though a part of me is gone.

The Year I Tie the Knot

I haven't written much on life for a while and it leaves one to wonder whether I may have gotten lost somewhere in 15th century Venice, while scribing The Mascherari. Fear not, the twenty-first century is well and truly my reality.

I think.

Since the end of 2014 is looming fast, I thought it might be a good idea to express my gratitude for the wonderful things that are coming my way next year.

Because 2015 sure promises to be a freaking ride!

January

So firstly, The Mascherari will be available on Paperback. (Did I say this post would only be about 'life'? Too bad. I lied.) 356 pages of time travel set in 15th C Venice on cream paper.  I am working hard at it right now.

With this, can I say how grateful I am for having writer friends? I counted over twenty on Facebook the other day and felt truly blessed. It's wonderful to connect with like-minded people who love history, love writing and go through the same hardships, the same fears, the same hopes and damn, who just love reading! And to think that three years ago, I only had a couple writer friends. I love the surprises that life brings along the way.

Since I am on the topic of books, I'll mention another historical novel. This time it's one classic beast written by an Australian journalist in the 19th century. For the Term of His Natural Life is one of the darkest novels I've read and it's very much in my mind at the moment as I'll be heading to Tasmania (where the novel is set) in early January and am looking forward to visiting Hobart and Port Arthur.

This is a huge deal for me. In my twenty-nine years in Australia, since arriving at aged 10, I've never seen Tasmania. I can't wait! What a great start to the year.

March

Still on the subject of books and writing and writers, I am very much looking forward to attending the first Historical Novel Society Australasia Conference and to meeting some special, talented people. Oh my goodness, and I get to meet Colin Falconer in the flesh! That's The Colin Falconer who has written over 30 books and is one of my favorite historical novelists and an AMAZING human being.

May 

2015 is also doubly special as I'll be tying the knot with my partner of over 5 years. Oh my Lord Poseidon, that's like, 6 months away...

I've not even got a dress.

We have chosen the venue in Brisbane so that's a start. I am on the lookout for a good photographer but I'm not too worried: given my partner's background is film, the reception will likely be the equivalent of a large film crew. No kidding. That includes my lovely friend make-up artist, Billie Weston.

She did this to me five years ago:

I am fondly looking forward to my wedding day (that I haven't really planned yet...) and to seeing my friends again.

Because you know what? I do have an invite list. Invite lists are always a pain when you are young but when you are turning 40 next year (oh my God, did I say that?), invite lists are easy. The only difficult part is that I'll be missing out on the presence of so many people who live overseas and who I've never met in person and only wish I could.

You reach an age where it becomes obvious who you want in your life and who you want to share your special experiences with.

Which brings me to the inevitable...

October

I am indeed turning 40 next year. There's no turning back. I'll never wear 9-inch heels again. (Ok, maybe just a little bit.)

Like, WOW.

Me? Cute little me? Asian shorty me? 40 years old. Like, Wow.

I remember as a kid when someone told me they were 40. I would think they were ancient. (Like bloody old.)

And now I think, are you kidding, that's just the start of my adventure! :)

Because another upcoming joy for 2015 is Summer. Summer and all the love I have for this wonderful seaside place called Coogee and which has been my home for over 14 months.

I am immensely grateful to live in a place I could only dream of ten years ago. Grateful, for every walk I take along the magical ocean and every sunset and wave that paint a picture perfect landscape every second of the day.

I can't tell you how much I love this place.

And having unveiled sun-bathed Coogee, I'll get to the point. The point, the point, the point, is that...

And I feel a little embarrassed revealing this,

This summer, thanks to this shopping-porn-of-a-site called SammyDress, I actually have a bikini to wear for each day of the week. How cool is that? I have a Sky blue and leopard print bikini, a flimsy orange bikini that would make a Brazilian babe salivate, a classic white and red striped bikini, a halter neck snake-skin bikini, a very 80s dark green bikini with gold metal rings, a bling (and wog-ish) Gold & Black bikini, and a hippie style pastel print bikini. I'm all set!

Because you only freaking live once!

And there comes the icing on the cake: I also know what I'm getting for Xmas. These are the funnest and least pretentious presents I've ever received because let's face it: weddings are expensive.

So present number one is swimming goggles - to see underwater and swim and shit. (And like, for pretending I'm a mermaid in my orange bikini while swimming around Coogee. It all makes sense now!)

And present number two -  is a blowtorch.

With butane gas.

So that I can burn the shit out of my creme brulee.

Because I am SO making crème brûlée all over 2015.

And Croquembouche.

Maybe.

Four with a Five Wing

Yes, it's all true. I'm a loner. 

From the age of five, when I preferred to roam the playground alone, lost in thoughts, rather than play with other children, right up to my insistence, as an adult, on having lunch by myself every day at work - despite invitations from co-workers that I do like - I mostly enjoy being alone.

I live in my head, and I imagine things that make me wonder, at times, if the likes of Salvador Dali and Patricia Highsmith have not found a corner of my brain from which they command me to do their bidding.

Over almost four decades, I have had to surmount extremes in introversion and sensitivity, in order to function 'normally' in a predominantly extroverted world that abounds with stimulus.

Beneath the seemingly aloof, collected veneer, I am constantly adjusting, recovering, and moderating my own - often violent - reactions to what I perceive as overbearing, crippling and vivid stimulus, all around me.  I am getting better at it...

Human micro-expressions, voice tones, traffic noise, bright lights, weather changes, intonations of conflict, loud music - the world can be an overly jarring place, and only in the comfort of my own mind or else, in nature's embrace, can I find true peace.

Living this life can be exhausting and I am often physically tired, in need of an escape, or else riddled with migraines.

Call me precious. One day I will find a balance!

My Enneagram type is Four. Many writers who have delved into the ancient Sufi philosophy which is the Enneagram, will discover that they are Fours. As such, it is hardly unique.

Still, I could not help but smile at this apt comic interpretations by Clare Cherikoff:

And then there is this, which is my subtype:

"The Four with a Five Wing"

 It is so spot on that I just had to share some quotes from: http://enneagram.tribe.net/thread/beb08410-b129-4c19-b32a-0ede58786629

Healthy, gifted individuals of this subtype are probably the most profoundly creative of all the types because they combine intuition with insight, emotional sensitivity with intellectual comprehension, frequently with stunningly original, even prophetic, results. 

 This is where I hope to be someday: prophetic; but I am not there, yet. Some of my novel characters are certainly prophetic, and so I can relate to this. This statement accurately encapsulates my aspirations.

Four with a Five-wing burn brighter than Fours with a Three-wing, but at the risk of burning themselves out faster.

 Hence the migraines. Hence the recurring exhaustion with everything, and with living...

Average persons of this subtype are given not merely to self-absorption, but to philosophical and religious speculation. Their emotional world is the dominant reality, but with a strong intellectual cast. People of this subtype tend to be extreme loners, more lacking in social connectedness than the other subtype.  

This entire post is an example of the said self-absorption.  

Thus, their artistic expressions more completely substitute for the person than in Fours with a Three-wing. 

 This last point is interesting. There have been situations where, by no fault of my own, I have fooled people into thinking that they know me, when all they actually know is my artistic expression (whether in writing or visually expressed, especially through clothing). Humans are awfully simplistic and will use all manner of heuristics, judgments or else incorporate prejudices of all sorts in order to arrive at an opinion of someone. 

These people also frequently have an otherworldly, ethereal quality about them; they are extremely independent and unconventional to the point of eccentricity. They also tend to be secretive, intensely preoccupied with their thoughts 

 Are you kidding? I live in my head; I float outside of my body; no, wait...do I have a body? 

and purposely enigmatic in their self-expressions. 

*Smiles* 
Let us just say, that if I do not wish to share something with someone, I won't.  At the same time,  I can make it appear as though I have just shared a large part of myself, while in fact, I have revealed nothing. 

Their creative ideas may also be somewhat unusual, possibly even surreal 

I swim in the surreal and so I completely agree with this. 

 Members of this subtype care little for communicating with those who cannot understand them. 

Most people can't and won't suffer an eccentric (and they are absolutely justified). I would much rather not burden them. 

Memories of Dakar

Almost seven years ago, I wrote about my childhood in Dakar, the memories I have kept, and the amazing local women who helped take care of me, but this post brings with it some evocative images and thoughts that I thought worthwhile to share.

Avenue Jean-Jaurès

I was born in Dakar, Senegal where I lived at least 7 years of my life in an apartment, on Avenue Jean-Jaurès, with my parents and grandparents. You can see it here. It is a noisy and busy street with relatively tall buildings. Here, building constructions seem to linger on for years. I remember that as a four year old, I would be frightened of the pounding at construction sites, which I called  " le Tam Tam".

"Tam Tam" is actually the name of a traditional Senegalese drum whose sound is wonderful, but that was my way of describing the noise which, as an introvert, I already found difficult to live with.

Avenue Jean Jaurès was relatively safe, and on Sundays, from the age of six onwards, my sister and I would walk together to church all the way to the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

Cathedral of Notre Dame

Shopping in Dakar was completed by our maids who spoke Wolof and knew where to find everything and how to bargain in the markets. We usually ate plenty of fish.

a market in Dakar where supermarkets did  not exist

On weekends, we would regularly drive to the Pointe des Almadies and visit the resort there where I learned to swim, and where I would invariably pretend to be a little mermaid.

Hotel des Almadies - the pool was my Sunday joy

Our apartment was simple and functional with four bedrooms and two bathrooms for six-seven people, yet as expats, we were living in luxury compared to the majority of Dakar's slum dwellers. On my way to school, I saw signs of poverty everywhere, including limbless children getting around in wooden wheeled carts. But I never once stepped inside a slum, or what the locals would call, bidonville. I regret that now.

Bidonville in Dakar

Senegal is a poor country and my parents tried to shelter me from the cruel realities of life as much as they could. I remember that one day, I must have been about five years old, my dad was driving us to the coast, and we took a different route. I did not know it, but we were heading towards a slum district. We drove past what to me resembled large cardboard boxes and masses of greyish houses stacked so near together, that one could not even see what lay inside this maze.

I asked  my Dad where we were, and what we were doing here. I was absorbed by this alien place, a place so unlike the palm lined resorts, so unlike the pleasant breezy Corniche on the coast.  I could have never suspected that this ugly place was home for most of Dakar's inhabitants.

My mum told me to sit still but I hassled her with questions. My parents replied that people lived here, that this was their home. I remember that my jaw literally dropped and I entered a state of denial. I was persuaded that my parents were lying to me, telling me things, only to keep me quiet.

"That's not their home. How can they live in cardboard?" I asked. It was a notion I found so horrifying and unpractical that I was convinced that it must be a lie.

My Dad parked the car and stepped out. He said he had to meet someone and pay him. So I waited with my mum and sister, looking on with anxiety as my Dad stepped to the edge of the bidonville and disappeared behind a grey wall. I thought he must be playing a prank on me and was merely pretending to go and see someone, given that nobody in their right mind could live here.

I know that on that day, a truth had awakened in me, even though I buried it deep and tried not to look upon it.

What I had called, 'cardboard', was in fact flimsy building material but it seemed like the right thing to call this brown material at my age. I had not even acquired the vocabulary for describing what I saw.

It seems that slums in Senegal have resorted to using garbage as a building material. Even with the risk of disease and stench, even with a pride for cleanliness, they will have no choice, due to poverty, but to use garbage so as to lift up their homes from the bog and avoid death.

Dakar had the power, very early on in my life, to make me see the world. Really see it. It is a gift that I cherish. Because the majority of those who live in wealthy countries, just as I do now, have no conception of what the world looks like and, often, I think it hardens them. It would be a jaw-dropping experience for them to understand that just as the majority in Dakar lives in slums, the majority of the world's population survives on nothing. Almost one billion people in the world (one seventh) live in urban slums. In India, the world's second most populous country, people are more likely to have a mobile phone than access to a toilet with 50% of people still defecating in the open.

So that's all I wanted to say.

Swimming In the Collective Consciousness with Wojciech Kilar

As writers - artists, often we are let loose; we become searchers; we seek, swept on an endless trail of letters, ideas, music and images.

We hunger for more, enraptured by our quest; we seem to find ourselves, again and again, within the subtle interconnections between what we have loved, what we love, and what we grow to love.

The memory of what we have loved is re-ignited with every new discovery that we make, and there is enlightenment in this reunion with our nature.

But later we find, that our nature is not our own. Because by some unexplained happenstance, we flit back, we return, time and time again, to those who have inspired us, and there, through some subconscious force, we are awakened by them. By their side, we come to create.

In this pattern, the face of our obsessions slowly surfaces, and with it, the ties that bind us to those who have made us, come to be revealed.  It becomes evident that in this web, this collective consciousness, we have a place; snug, we fit. And those we look up to, are close, much closer than we could ever imagine.

Do you often experience this? As a writer? When all the stories, ideas, artwork, cinema or music that you have loved, and whose essence have shaped you, are somehow woven by the same thread. That everything you admire or that fascinates you, is related; magically.  That the more you look into these, the more you see that those obsessions are tightly bound.  That they have, not just one, not two, but numerous links between them, and that when all those inspirations are laid out, that you fit, in there, at the very center.

When you discover this center, you are surprised to discover that it is not yours alone. Your origin, those individuals whose art has imbued your psyche - you commune with them. They are there, by your side.

As a child, how I loved Jacques Prévert's and Paul Grimault's Le Roi et L'Oiseau. This 1980 French animation sets Hans Christian Andersen's The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep within a dystopian kingdom, ruled by a narcissistic despot.

It is the story of two fated lovers, who must try to save their relationship from the tyranny of a king enamored of the shepherdess. The surreal intrigue is compounded by the fact that it is the king's portrait who, having emerged from his own canvas and sent the real king to the dungeons, sets off a ruthless chase for the Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep.

With the help of my favorite character, L'Oiseau - a gregarious and anti-authoritarian mockingbird who protects them at every turn - the couple flee through the canal city, a world reminiscent of a sci-fi Venice, where they are chased by a black-clad, sbirri-like secret police.

This animation, which borders between lyricism and social satire, was the joy of my childhood. It is deep, with levels that I am still discovering. Its imagery often evokes Salvador Dali landscapes, where unbearable emptiness stretches across intricate details of spires, bell towers, endless steps and mechanical contraptions, stirring with it, paranoia and anxiety. To think that Salvador Dali has been my favorite artist since my mid teens.

There is much to like about this surrealistic masterpiece of French cinema.  As an aside, my favorite scene takes place in a cell where the Chimney Sweep has been imprisoned by the King's men, and is about to be devoured by a pack of lions.  Seeing this, the mockingbird urges his fellow cell mate, a blind musician, born in an underground subculture and who has never seen the sun, to play a happy tune with his accordion so as to distract the lions. And so the music plays on.

But the mockingbird, a master storyteller, and fluent in several languages (including "Lion"!) has a plan.  As part of the 'entertainment', and still accompanied by the happy ballad of the blind accordion player, the mockingbird begins to recount the poor Chimney Sweep's tragic love story to the hungry felines. Together with sound effects, and heightened pathos, the bird tailors the story to match the lions' interests, until the beasts' indignation towards the King reaches a climax. They force open the cage and free all the prisoners, before marching towards the tyrant.

That's the Bird. Protector and Catalyst...

But the real jewel of Le Roi et L'Oiseau, and the soul of this post, is the astounding soundtrack, by Polish composer, Wojciech Kilar. His wonderful music is in my bones. It is part of me, just as Le Roi et L'Oiseau has seeped deep into my psyche.

Wojciech Kilar returns again, later in my life, as the composer for Francis Ford Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) and later, he brings his dark arts to Roman Polanski's The Ninth Gate (2000).

The Ninth Gate, a film based on the novel adaption of The Club Dumas, has been a vivid inspiration for my upcoming novel, The Mascherari. I remember watching the film and feeling irrevocably drawn to it, believing that I had always known it. It's a strange feeling that one. Then again, perhaps it is Kilar's music which holds the key to my memory.

Reflecting on The Mascherari, if I were to look into the face of Venice, in the manner I have drawn it, with The Council of Ten's shadow looming over my protagonist, with its secret police- its sbirri, at every turn, I come face to face with the menace I remember in Le Roi et L'Oiseau.  In my creation, I return to what I have known, and through this, I remember that Wojciech Kilar's haunting notes are never far.

Thank you Mr Kilar, for the music and for the inspiration.

Wojciech Kilar died in 29 December 2013. But his music lives on. 

Making Faces

As a person with an INFJ personality profile, I have always been a sensitive creature.

I remember in Dakar, when I was six, my sister's friend, Sandra Ghaffari, had invited us both to her birthday party. We played many games.  And during one such game, the birthday girl gave each participant a folded piece of paper where she had written down her 'secret' thoughts about that person.

When it came to my turn to receive a note, I unfolded it in anticipation, only to be mortified. While my sister had the honor of reading, "You are my best friend", or something of that nature, I received the incredibly cruel, "You are a rotten banana".

Don't laugh. In French, it translates to, "Banane pourrie!"

My poor little ego was battered. All along, I had thought that Sandra had invited me to her birthday party because she liked me. How wrong I was! It seemed, that in her eyes, I had only tagged along as the annoying little sister. I remember leaving the circle, deeply hurt, and crying in my corner. I later confided in my sister that Sandra had been mean to me.

From then on, Sandra Ghaffari became my number one enemy. Oh, yes! As an INFJ, I certainly have a blacklist. (It did not help that I was possessive of my sister - you probably guessed that.)

And yes, Sandra Ghaffari was the girl's real name. Oops. You know what they say about writers? Don't piss them off. Ha!

But seriously, there have been moments in my life where rejection, or the perception of being rejected, has been incredibly painful. I think I wrote of it in a couple of blog posts, including this one, and of course, this one.

Tying into rejection, is the problem of perception. And ultimately, of image.

Like many women, image has been a problem for me.  From the time I wore braces for almost three years, to the long period where I developed anorexia, image has baffled and tormented me with the question of, 

How to be physically who I am inside? 

I know, now, that to be physically who-you-are-inside is impossible. It doesn't matter what you try, you will fail.

Image, I now see as either hard work, supreme art, physical effort, or incidental - but never a true representative of a person. At this point in my life, I play with artifice, because I enjoy it and because I am fortunate to be able to afford it. I love clothes, costume and beauty in all forms, just as I am fully conscious of their limits. For example, I would much rather read someone's words to learn of who they are, than look at them. In the same manner, I would rather someone read me to get to know who I am.

This is something that most people do not understand - that what I write, is very much closer to who I am than the visible ever will be. The visible is completely fabricated.

I learnt something about myself recently. I was not even reading a self-help book or anything too deep. I learnt of it through one of those model contest shows.

No kidding.

I forgot the name of the show. I'm not loyal to television in general and I tend to skim lightly through shows at random. Anyway, one of the modeling contestants was receiving feedback about her photo shoot. The judge observed her photos for a moment, and then he asked if she had at all been bullied or put down often during her childhood. She confirmed that she had. At this, the judge, who also happened to be a male model, explained that he could read this through the attitude she carried with her in each photo. In other words, her attitude was a defense reaction to the intruding eye of the camera.

His words really resonated with me. I began to understand, why, it is in fact rare, for me to even smile naturally in a photo shoot. There is always the default attitude, that tendency to hide behind a mask and to play the role of someone else - someone stronger, elusive or aloof - and to not let anyone in. I think this attitude is also part of my very private (and sensitive) personality.

Many would agree that a camera is a contraption that has the potential of making its subject feel vulnerable. It is why so many people run away from the camera. They hate the camera's intrusion and its false 'revelation'. They understand, deep inside, that one's image is limiting and that cameras can enforce a narrative that one might not want. And so, when the lens is on you, judging you, which really, is akin to any social situation where one might end up feeling small or inadequate, it carries with it an element of choice - do you allow it to make you feel vulnerable, or do you remain out of reach so that nothing can harm you. I think that is essentially the difference between a direct, warm smile to the camera and an attitude.

As an author who understands the need to market and to have an online presence, together with photos, the prospect of vulnerability and criticism becomes very real. At the same time, there comes the opportunity to create a narrative or to play with artful imagery - a wonderful process that mirrors writing.

To slip in and out of a role and create a character - I love that thrill.

Une Orchidée dans mon Rêve

Il y a maintenant plus d’un mois, j’ai perdu un être cher. Un être qui était à la fois pour moi, une mère, une grand-mère, une amie et une inspiration.  Que de trésors cette personne a déversé dans ma vie. 

Quand je l’ai vu pour la dernière fois, elle était menue, se faisait petite, silencieuse, et mangeait peu. D’apparence faible, elle dormait beaucoup. De ses cheveux, presque rien ne restait. Elle ne se déplaçait plus, errant entre sa chambre et sa table au salon, où trônait son ordinateur – ce vénéré appareil qui l'a reliait à sa famille de toutes parts du monde, ses êtres chers de qui rien qu’un petit mot, pouvait ensoleiller sa vie.

Je savais bien qu’elle n’avait plus beaucoup de temps avec nous. 

Trois mois plus tard, telle une fragile orchidée, elle est partie. Ses cendres ont rejoint celles de mon grand-père une semaine après.

Les jours qui se sont écoulés depuis ont été étrangement vides. 

Hier, comme par miracle, j’ai rêvé d’elle. Elle semblait plus jeune. Elle marchait dans une ruelle ombragée, longeant des petites boutiques garnies de souvenirs et de brillantes pacotilles; elle dégageait le calme, la sérénité, et de son visage rayonnait l’un des plus beaux sourires que j’ai jamais vu.

Je la revoyais telle qu’elle était durant ma plus tendre jeunesse. Sa chevelure grise prise soigneusement dans une mise-en-plis, vêtue d’un pantalon et d’une large blouse blanche, rehaussée d’un vert océan. Une légère brise fraiche caressait son visage, un visage à la fois ébahi par ce qu’elle voyait autour d’elle, et lointain - comme si elle n’appartenait pas à ce monde. Elle me semblait si heureuse. J’étais émerveillée par ce que je lisais sur son visage.

Je me souviens qu’au début du rêve, j’étais moi-même en tenue de nuit et que je n’avais pas fait ma toilette du matin. C’est là que j’ai commis une erreur. J’avais d’abord voulu courir vers elle pour la serrer dans mes bras et lui tenir compagnie, faire avec elle ces magasins pour que nous découvrions de belles choses ensemble. Mais une honte m'a saisie et j’ai couru dans l’autre sens, persuadée qu’il fallait d’abord que je m’habille, que je me coiffe et que je me nettoie avant de la voir. C’est dans ce moment de vanité, née, je crois, d’une adolescence pendant laquelle je ressentais souvent la honte de moi-même, que j’ai fui sa présence.

Quand je suis rentrée chez moi, mon père m’attendait. Il m’a montré une boite de biscuits me disant que je trouverai surement quelque chose que j’aimerai la dedans. J’ai ouvert la boite pour découvrir ces délices sucrés. C’est alors que du coin de l’œil, j’ai vu venir ma grand-mère vers moi. C’était comme si elle avait toujours été là. Elle est apparue là ou je ne l’attendais pas. Elle avançait cette fois en tenue de nuit. Le rêve voulait qu’à présent ce fussent elle, et non moi, qui venait de se réveiller. Elle me regardait avec un petit sourire coquin, comme si elle voulait me dire que elle, elle n’avait rien à cacher, et que ce n’était pas la peine que je me cache ainsi. 

Penaude, je lui ai tendu un biscuit en lui demandant si elle en voulait. Elle n’a rien dit. Elle l’a pris en souriant.

Elle était si gaie. Je ne pouvais lire aucun soucis dans son visage. 

En y repensant maintenant, je crois que c’est bien cela qu’elle voulait me dire, ou plutôt me faire comprendre, au sujet de la vie.

Et soudain il a fallu que je me réveille, que ce rêve prenne fin, qu'elle disparaisse sans qu’elle me parle, sans qu’elle ne m’adresse la parole, sans que je puisse marcher à ses côtés, sans que je puisse parcourir les ruelles ombragées avec elle, sans que la brise nous caresse toutes les deux, liées dans un après-midi complice et magique.

C’était un réveil dur. Trop dur. Dur, d’avoir était si proche et de l’avoir perdu si soudainement alors que je croyais avoir le temps… Réveil qui m’a meurtri l’âme. Trop dur, la fin de ce rêve, alors que j’avais de nouveau de l’espoir en la revoyant; c’était comme si on me l’avait volée une seconde fois.

Ce matin j’ai versé tant de larmes en me souvenant de ce rêve. Je me suis retrouvée bouleversée, de nouveau enfant - portant le fardeau d’une immense tristesse. J’ai vécu la fin de mon rêve comme une injustice accablante. Je sais, je sais bien; c’est un rêve qui présage tant de bonnes choses. Mais sa perte me coute. 

Elle me coute tant.  

Candeau Drawings

Bourgeois Ladies

When I was a little girl and living in France, I stumbled upon gorgeous sketches. These had been drawn by some distant aunt or cousin of my grandfather, at the turn of the 20th century.

I can barely remember the artists' names but these drawings were so lovely that I wondered why they were packed away in a dusty folder, together with my grandfather's genealogy files and century old research documents.

Mes Petits Bretons - an homage to Brittany

Bretons youth in traditional costume, dancing over the sea 
with the outline of a Carnac dolmen on the horizon

My grandfather, Yves Candeau, probably noted my intense interest in his genealogy work because upon his last visit to Australia, he left all his original jaundiced files at my parents' home. The edited and digitised version of his work was copied multiple times, and shared with each of my relatives. But I had the privilege of seeing his old files in our lounge closet.

When I left home, I took with me Yves Candeau's files and the drawings that in my youth, I had longed to unveil.

This is what you see in this post and I'm so happy to be able to finally share them.

The words "Je pense a vous souvent" (I think of you often) 

appear on this lovely Art Nouveau sketch

Detail from Mes Petits Bretons (my ultimate favourite)


It goes without saying that if you wish to digitally use or reference any of these drawings (and any personal photos I have previously posted in this blog) please do not do so without my permission. On the other hand, any reproduction and printing of these drawings is out of the question. These drawings remain copyright and belong to Yves Candeau's descendants. Thank you. :)