Writing advice

Describe what you see behind you while looking into a mirror: be concrete.

Writing under duress. Never next to or on top of. What did she see in the mirror? The outline of herself was clear as a possum tail in fog. Moments away from giving up at the desk today, she looked again. What if background is foreground? Can there be a behind if there is no in front? She turned in the chair to look at the rear of the room. The door, framed prints, bookcase, floor lamp. She untwisted her turn. In the mirror was no one—her face could be a stop sign, a juice box or a pile of ashes. The collar of her shirt and texture of the buttons were identifiable. Her face was not.

Her background was a string of dough-faced no-ones. People were puzzles; patterned problems needing intuitive solutions. Memories of her mother were tone of voice and fabric-softener smell. Her grandmother, she’d been told, was striking. The elegant nose and astute eyes were not there for her to perceive. Life had unwound day behind day. Family could be recognised by context or clothing. Friends could be known by their gait or extravagant handbag. And, through her writings in the book.

Use detail to appear convincing.

Always the same type of book. Black, 3.5 x 5.5, hardcover, rounded corners. Boxes of them filled the attic. She had begun recording in high school after she’d trusted Natalie Hanlon do her make-up for School Awards night. The only part of the humiliation she saw for herself were in the smears of clown-face colour on the bathroom paper-towel that she scrubbed across her skin.

That same night, at home, she’d found an old Moleskin given as a Christmas gift. She began recording key details under names; Daniel Grieg—high-pitched voice and tippy-toe walk, Melissa Canling—four bangles and a dose of Poison or Charlie, Sam Dury—giggles and makes skater hand-signs. She armed herself with details and bluffed through each day with a display of perfect facial recognition. After a while, they forgot that she had ever been different. She’d kept a book ever since, to ease the vulnerability.

Write in a new setting: try the theatre, a park, your coffin.

After his ruthless summer haircut combined with a new t-shirt she failed to recognise and greet her husband at their local café. A stranger waved to her from the doorway. She gave an uncertain smile then made busy in her handbag to avoid his advance.

‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you,’ she said.

‘How many other men are you meeting tonight,’ he joked.

She smiled again and twisted around the worry that she had caused a harm.

‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said.

She had one, and several more. Too many to be comfortable but not enough to stop the worrisome turns of inadequacy.

Switch off your monitor when you’re typing. You can’t edit what you can’t see.

‘I’ve an appointment today,’ she said.

‘Uh huh,’ he replied, ‘need me to drive you?’

His hair had grown out to a familiar length. Her old referents operated again.

‘No,’ she said, unable to reveal more without his prompting.

Learn to take criticism and seek it out at every opportunity.

‘Yes,’ he nodded from behind the wide, dark desk. A dulled brass sextant and pocket telescope sat at the corners, positioned like talismans, protecting him from the chaos of those seeking help, ‘We can amend your prosopagnosia. But it is expensive.’

‘Is it painful,’ she asked.

His head shook. She imagined his mouth turned south at the ends. It was inevitable she was short of better questions. She knew the physical pain would be temporary but felt pressured to ask for more information regardless. How to ask after side-effects, she could not foresee?

‘Some people find the change more unbearable than the inadequacy,’ the surgeon hinted.

She understood this. Devil you know and that sort of thing.

‘Is it reversible,’ she asked.

‘Yes and no; you cannot return to the person you are today but you can be returned to your condition.’

She didn’t understand the difference; didn’t want to see the barriers of freedom.

Use flashback sparingly.

In a tin, behind a quilt, tucked into the back of the wardrobe, the money. She remembered the numbers of the lottery ticket appearing sharper with each match. She recalled the surprised tone of the woman at the lottery kiosk.

‘Twenty thousand. We have a winner,’ sung the woman.

‘Thank you,’ she’d said.

‘What will you do with it love,’ the woman asked.

‘Save it for a rainy day, I suppose.’

Never use jargon words.

The morning came. They took in news and a quiet breakfast as they always had. Rain pattered on the roof, revitalising the faces of the daisies and head of the cornflowers.

‘I’m having the procedure today, she said.

‘Are you sure it’s worth the trouble,’ he said.

How could she explain? The world was a puzzle of people that had to be solved day behind day. She spent hours reading and amending her notebook. It was exhausting. And her fears—

‘What if we have children and I can’t recognise them?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Pick me up at five?’

‘Of course.’

Be in love with life.

She saw him pull into the curved driveway of the clinic. She did not see the car, the sunglasses, the shape of his head. She saw him.

She stood to greet him before the glass doors slid open. Meeting his face, eye to eye with smiling recognition, he registered the novelty with a reciprocal warm smile.

‘Hello you,’ she said.

‘You,’ he said embracing her.

She had never held fairy-tale endings as possibilities. This persuasion required review.

All that matters is what you leave on the page.

Over the next few days, as the effects of the procedure settled, she was able to greet the world with assured familiarity. The bus driver, the barista, the bank teller. They became people instead of over-the-counter mysteries. She could call out to neighbours, across the street, calling their actual name rather than a polite referent.

Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

‘I want to have a party,’ she told him that evening while chopping faceless carrots for dinner.

‘But you hate parties.’

‘The old me: the incomplete me.’

‘You’ve changed,’ he paused, ‘so quickly.’

‘Yes. Thank goodness,’ she spun around, ‘I’m a new—no, everybody else is a new person. I want a party.’

Be a sadist.

Saturday. Anticipation blurred into anxiety as pre-party nerves flit through her mind.

‘It’s funny,’ she said nestling a parsley sprig amongst the platter of cherry tomatoes and cheese cubes.

‘What’s that,’ he said passing with a bag of hard ice resting on each shoulder.

‘Will anyone come? Is there enough food? Have you got the music ready? Will I—’

He stopped, turned to her. She saw him.

Proceed slowly and take care.

Guests arrived in swells, fleshing out the evening. Curious and compassionate. Her old university friend, Liz, arrived in prank glasses, nose and moustache as a joke.

‘Liz,’ she declared in greeting at the door.

‘Fully true,’ said Liz, ‘it really worked.’

Together they pointed and named the circle of friends in the graduation photograph hanging on the wall. She watched Liz smile, warm with delight.

Unthinkingly, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Fred?’

‘What,’ snapped Liz, ‘who told you?’

‘No one,’ she stumbled between thoughts and words.

‘It’s none of your business.’

Read everything.

In the days to follow, she found herself nodding knowingly at people or checking in about their small but private details. Her neighbour, Mrs Winkle, had a pending hip surgery. Her sister was failing her distance education course in legal. The postie was beginning a divorce.

‘How did you know that,’ she’d heard countless times in the past few days. She was unable to provide a convincing answer.

Honour the miraculousness of the ordinary.

‘Sorry Liz, I just…’ she said.

‘Did you talk to Fred?’

‘No. Never. I, um,’ she arranged teacups to distract from the tender truth.

A knock at the door and Liz, confused, let her go.

‘Brenda,’ she exclaimed at the open door. Behind Brenda she recognised the faces of their monthly book club, ‘Steph, Flora, Chloe. Thank you for coming.’

‘We needed to see this for ourselves,’ said Brenda.

‘It’s true,’ confirmed Chloe.

They filled the room and shared first impressions.

‘So, you didn’t like the novel’ she asked Steph.

‘I, well, no, sorry.’

‘Me neither,’ said Flora.

She looked at Flora but said nothing. As usual, Flora had not even creased open the cover. The meeting wore on with a string of unintended surprises punctuated by uncomfortable silences when she could not explain or answer for the things she seemed to know so plainly. Liz left early, citing a headache.

Write for tomorrow, not for today.

Liz telephoned two days later.

‘Thanks to you, we’ve had the conversation,’ Liz said.

‘I didn’t mean to upset—’

‘He says he never told you. He’s as confused as me about how you knew.’

She heard the quaver in Liz’ voice.

‘Liz, it’s the operation; something’s happened but I don’t know what.’

‘Convenient,’ clipped Liz, ‘just admit it—you were one of them.’

‘One of them?’

‘It’s been going on for years. He told me everything. A dozen women, maybe more. He won’t give names. It’s like he’s protecting someone,’ Liz began to sob, ‘imagine, he wants to protect them. THEM.’

She remained silent while Liz cried.

‘Liz,’ she whispered,’ you must’ve known, it was written on your face.’

‘Go to hell.’

Don’t plan your ending.

‘It’s the most common side-effect,’ said the doctor, ‘you’ll learn to live with it.’

‘It’s not like this for everyone, is it?’

‘No. How would we function? How could society work if we saw as much as you see? Personhood is built on privacy.’

‘I don’t want to see so much. I just wanted to recognise my family, friends and—’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the doctor, ‘you will adapt, grow accustomed and such.’

And there on his face, she read plain as brown paper, the lie he had told so many times.