Oh my heart.

It still seems extraordinary to me that I can grieve so for someone I never really met. Of course, it touches an existing nerve of grief that never goes away, but oh, it’s George; the centrepiece of my conversation from the time I was 15 until I was much, much older; the cornerstone of my music collection; top of my imaginary future husband list and owner of the voice my ears are trained to hear whatever may be happening.

When I was much younger, I was devastated to learn how George Sanders died (before my brother shocked that out of me with Hollywood Babylon). How could this marvellous man take his own life? How could he think that life was boring and just leave? I now know how much more there was to his death but then, I thought (naively, irrationally) if only I’d been there I could have saved him. That pretty much sums me up.

As much as it’s George Michael’s musical talent that drew me to him, it was also his problems and the frailty he let us see (no surprise my obsession began with Freedom ’90). I would defend him to the ends of the earth. In all my crazy, youthful fan days and my grown up more peaceful fan days, I’ve only ever had one dream with George in it. Let me tell you about it, because yes, someone else’s dreams are always riveting. It was before a concert, he was alone and worried and I came up to him and gave him a hug. One of those dream moments that was so vivid that long after I was awake, I really felt I hugged him.

His music has sustained me when I wasn’t even aware of it and knowing he was in the world gave me some sort of strange comfort. I will always miss him.

I wish Fadi Fawaz would stop tweeting. He has triggered this extra mournfulness in me (or his Twitter account has). Whatever he is feeling or knows, don’t tell us all on Twitter. It should be private. Let us mad fans grieve with George’s musical legacy and respect the family and friends who are suffering right now. 

Being a George Michael fan has never been easy.

I started to love George’s music when I was going through a difficult time (and by love, I mean be irrationally and wildly obsessed). I used to sit in the reference section in the school library and read about his world records. There were scrapbooks. There might have been times when I listened to the same song over and over for days, weeks and months until I must have driven my parents mad (but they never said!)

When I made it through that difficult time, I discovered that I still absolutely adored George and his music. That combination of sexy but insecure kept me listening (for the feet and for the heart). I liked his political activism and I loved his philanthropy. He did so much for others. He brought me so much joy. I can’t explain the alchemy of the bond but goodness it was strong.

But still, it’s never easy being his fan. First he went silent for years. In that dark time while he fought Sony I discovered through email lists (Yogmael, Planet George!) that I was not alone or unique at all – that there was a huge number of Yogaholics out there and many with a story like mine. We clung together sharing glimpses of him in our daily life (“I heard Freedom 90 at the video store today!”). We knew the names of his dogs. Enough said. You also knew he always felt bad about how difficult it was. There were gifts for fans, apology missives and lovely exclusives that managed to keep us adoring (preaching to the converted!).

When I started university I discovered in journal articles scholars had written content analyses of all his work (I remember ‘baby’ was the most oft used word) and there were academic pieces on the mis en scene of ‘Father Figure’. Articles never as kind as I thought they should be. As I progressed through my law degree, I devoured (with anger on his behalf) the Sony verdict and delighted when new music was available once more. Still, at every party or outing, his music filled the floor.  No one could get people dancing like his music could.

And all this time lovely friends and family indulged me.

If I had a dollar for every man who said to me ‘You know he’s gay, right?’ I would be quite rich by now. It was the music that mattered and my chances of success with George were the same as theirs, pretty slim. It was a pretty good test for a kindred spirit though. So many sneered, so many put him, and me, down.

Ridiculous things happened, but George always emerged articulate, self-deprecating and smiling on the other side. His public outing was magnificent and sad. I felt so proud about how he handled it but was so sad about how nasty people were. Really, they’ve never stopped being nasty about George. He made bold moves and sometimes the results soared and sometimes they failed spectacularly. Oh, the London Olympics. I’d never been prouder than when he sang ‘Freedom 90’, it was as if everything had been worth it and he was back. My phone ran off the hook, I was crying, we were all singing. Then he sang a new song and it was back to, ah, George, maybe that wasn’t the right move. I still marvel over Eli Stone. How did that happen? How marvellous it was.

I finally saw George in concert in 2008. I was pregnant with my second child and flew to New York (leaving husband and two year old at home) and it was just amazing, his talent was astounding. Then he surprised us all by actually announcing a tour of Australia and I got to see George in my home country at last.

Now, I’m reading the words I’ve always wanted to see and it’s too late. There has always been such cruelty. To finally see the extraordinary chart success, the thoughtful analysis, the acclaim, what he did for the LBGTQ communities acknowledged, how he made a difference to so many through his kindness . . . it’s so wonderful and so terrible. I wish so much that he could see it all.

A key ingredient of being a George Michael fan is quite literally faith. We always believe that a new song is coming, that a tour might be in the offing  . . .

Living without that underlying faith now is going to be a little tricky.

Desperate Housewife

I'm worried I'm a housewife.

What is it about the word 'housewife' that sends negative tingles down the hairs on my back? Hairy back - that's pretty worrisome too.

I heard someone define it as a "middle-aged woman who sits at home using Facebook to track old boyfriends while letting the TV babysit the kids". Charm itself.

It is such a dowdy word that conjures such dreary images. There are desperate housewives married to mad men but there's not a lot to make you feel good about the decision to stay home (to raise the children mind you, not marry the house). I'm not very good at cooking or cleaning either so it's very hard to live up to the homely stereotype. It does make me feel invisible at times too, I'm not even sure what my job title should be!

Thank goodness I'm following in the hush puppie clad feet of my Mother.

I think my Mum is a magnificent person and really, I can't think of anything better than to live a life that mildly resembles hers (unless I can do it with Samantha Stevens skills).

Perhaps it's a job that needs a different name.

It's Beyond My Control

Worry of the day, or perhaps of the lifetime: was it selfish to have children?

Who would have thought amongst all the emotions that go with having children; joy, love, anxiety, depression even, I should feel guilt for selfishly having children for me! Who am I to inflict this world on them?

As daughter dear coped with difficult situations today at kindy, I thought, what have I let you in for?! I can't protect you any more from life, teasing and episodes of 'Full House'. You'll have to discover for yourself that the Olsen twins are just not right and sometimes you need to keep quiet.

Kissing Lauren Graham

Today's niggly worry is the TV show, 'The Event'. So much time and effort wasted on such an expensive, willy nilly, silly show. And that's just the two hours I've spent watching it, to think of the cost to make it is more than worrying.

Without the five minutes earlier/ 45 years later/ playing with time gimmick there would be no suspense at all, just a lot of running and whining. It's sillier than Joseph Fiennes in 'Flashforward'!

Is it strange that, more than the plot, I'm concerned two of lead actors (who are 20 years apart in age) are more famous for kissing Lauren Graham in previous roles ('Gilmore Girls' and 'Parenthood')? Do they talk about it between takes?

When does 'Double Indemnity' become 'Double Identity'?

It worries me that I don't see as many movies as I used to and that I'm too lazy to watch the good stuff. I have no attention-span and no ability to deal with depressing topics.

It seems I'm not alone. Each week, no matter what the quality, whatever is new rents in the video store I call home.

Reviewing and recommending films has worn me down. I have seen so many bad movies, I need new adjectives for the drivelly-dross I'm forced to describe. I wish I didn't know Leslie Nielsen was still making movies ('Stan Helsing'!!) or that as Val Kilmer puts on weight, so the number of direct-to-DVD movies he stars in increases.

Scene: my first video store shift many moons ago

Customer: “What can you recommend that's really good?”
Very Naïve Me: “Well, 'Unforgiven' has been popular and I enjoyed 'A Heart in Winter'. Is that the kind of thing you're after?
Customer: “It's down to 'Boomerang' or 'Sister Act'?
VNM: “Oh.”

(My approach is now quite different!)

Even more moons ago when I was at school, I tried to average a film a day. I had a chart to document it all. Highlight the title if I'd seen it before, stars for Oscars, other shapes for 4 star reviews. I cried with joy at seeing movies I'd long wished to watch. (I was very young.)

I saw so many magnificent and significant things that deepened my knowledge of the world. Foreign documentaries, retrospectives, Bill Collins festivals. So many classics helped me at school and university too.

In the last month I've seen quality fare like 'Did You Hear About the Morgans?” and I've cried in episodes of 'How I Met Your Mother'.

When does film fervour come back?

Beginnings, Romance and Length

Today I'm worried that I have an addictive personality. Not that other people become addicted to my charming ways, but that I so easily get addicted to things and usually ridiculous things at that. From iced coffees to solitaire. The deceptively simple Facebook application (I still can't use the 'app' word) Scramble has me so addicted, when I shut my eyes I see letters and when I'm reading I start rearranging words in my mind. (Opts, tops, pots, stop!)

One of my life-long addictions is romance.

I wonder why romances are so uncool. (Almost as uncool as the word 'uncool'!) Derided and scorned for being aimed at silly women, romances have a credibility issue, which is not unusual for something that is so female in its orientation. This is despite a good love story often being at the core of the best of literature, art and film and television.

For as long as can remember, I have been drawn to romance (the 'love story' definition – I was so disappointed when I read 'Romance in the Forest' to discover the meaning of the word 'romance' has little to do with HEAs).

Without even thinking about it, I've searched and scanned through books for couples and happy endings. I longed for the 'Naughtiest Girl in School' to end up with Julian, The Doctor with Sarah Jane (or anyone really, except Rose) and Anne with Gilbert. (Heaven forbid L. M. Montgomery writing a book without a romantic thread: straight to the unread, back of the bookshelf section for you!). I think it takes a special kind of skill (or delusion) to read six Norah of the Billabong adventures to get to the wedding or see a love story blossom in the Faraway tree.

I can't even blame Disney Princess indoctrination which has swept my Kindy-Girl away. She too sees romance in everything from “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz's” Scarecrow and Dorothy to Captain Mac and his space monkey.

It was a revelation then, to finally get to Jane Austen in grade nine. Books that gave me exactly what I was looking for that were also lauded and magnificently written. Devouring these I moved to Brontes then Georgette Heyers, still craving more and more. I thank my great aunt for introducing me to Victoria Holt (Gothic melodrama) and then, to the even less reputable, Mills and Boon category range.

Horrifying my father and kept as a guilty secret from anyone outside the family, I became a Mills and Boon addict, the fast food of romance readers. I could binge on huge quantities, feel terrible afterwards, but quickly get back on that dashing steed and indulge again (especially if exams were looming). I quickly learned which authors made me gag and which authors wrote beyond the formula and managed to cram couples with surprising depth into tiny word counts.

And that's the way it is with Mills and Boons. The covers and titles mean nothing to me. It's all about the author (in fact, sometimes the covers and titles have nothing to do with the story, which you'd have to hope for when you see the doozies they come up with, 'Pregnesia'?). In the absolute joy of a good read and the despair (and hilarity) of a bad one, I decided I wanted to be a part of making romance too.

Not dissimilar to my film philosophy, quality writing makes for good reading, whether it's romance or wild west-cooking-poetry novels.

I know a lot of writers have 'road to publication' sites but I'm a little worried about coming out to the world with my ambition so strongly, what if I'm held to it? What if I fail? All those cliches (which pepper trashy novels) sum it up though, hesitating gets you left behind, I won't know if I don't try, loving and losing and all that. So this is the beginning (maybe even the ending).

If I have to write a blog then perhaps I will keep working on novels too. (Like I've written multitudes.) At least I'll have an avenue for all those words that have been swimming around in my head since Kindy Girl was born. My brain has been filled a gelatinous, blobby goo that slows everything down, derived from sleep-deprivation, adult-conversation-deprivation and workplace-deprivation. Although it's a bit of a worry. What makes me think that anyone will be interested in my inane iterations and worst of all, what if someone reads what I write? Argh!!

I'm worried that this has been way too long – next time it will be more concise.

I'm also worried I won't live up to the standards of the wonderful women at Smart Bitches Trashy Books.

Their review of 'The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable Girl' is spectacular!