Monday, January 16, 2017

Feminism and publishing

I'm currently studying a writing degree and have decided to share some pieces I've been writing in class. I hope you find these as interesting as I do.

Which part of the publishing has had the most influence on the modern era? Or vice versa?

Publishing and feminism have developed hand in hand as women sought a greater role in society. Louisa Lawson produced the journal The Dawn, which grew over its 17 years to employ ten female staff. During the late 19th century, she offered articles addressing household advice, fiction, poetry as well as local and global reportage from a strongly feminist perspective.

As the suffragette movement grew across the world in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, activists looked to writers, and subsequently publishers, to tell their stories and educate people with their books, journals, newspapers and more. Writers were concurrently looking for the opportunity to communicate with their audience and publishers provided the mechanism to connect these two whilst making money. A combination of the 1870 Education Act and growth of public libraries, led to a growing literacy among the lower classes. Suffragettes, though originally mostly from the upper classes, would end up advocating for the rights of all women.

Printed in 1949, Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, is a ground-breaking feminist work, which is often regarded as the jumping off point for the second wave of feminism. This movement gained real traction throughout the late 1960’s and 70’s with female led and feminist publishers growing throughout this time. Virago was born of this era to explore women’s stories and histories. Printed on the second page of every book they released, their purpose was clear – ‘Virago is a feminist publishing company.’

In this current digitally infused era, platforms such as Patreon provide modern feminists a ready-made outlet and simple way to convert social media attention to earnings. Podcasters to erotica writers use this platform to publish their own content for subscribers, garnering income along the way.

Until now feminism and publishing have developed symbiotically. Into the future, how feminism and publishing intersect remains to be seen as both struggle to stay relevant with new technologies.  

Friday, January 6, 2017

The Red Shoes

The Red Shoes

They had only made it half way to the front door. I’d remembered to bring them down from my bedroom but left them on the half-height wall in the lounge. It was a habit we had gotten into - leaving things by the stairs to be taken up or down.  Our cats had other plans for things left on the walls. Like brave hunters protecting their masters, they would bat items off the wall and onto the floor, forcing the object to submit to their feline dominance. 

So, I had moved the shoes in case they should suffer the same fate, the heavy wood heels marking the wood floor. Our landlords were cautious and had forced us to sign extra documents in our rental contract. We would not allow anyone to wear stiletto heels on the timber floor. Do I even know anyone who wears stilettos? We would not have any dogs or cats. Whoops.

The red leather shoes got put on top of a crate in my painting area. I don’t have a studio but a small area lined with a tarp then drop-sheet to protect the beloved floorboards. Plastic crates held my paints, rags and jars with brushes in varying stages of utility. Balanced upon a bar stool, an old tile served as my palette.

One evening alone and half a bottle of pink wine later, the urge struck. I didn’t have an image in mind like I often do. I looked around saw the shoes and thought why not. Loosely sketching the image onto the canvas, I got to thinking about such an everyday object in my life. I’d never been one of those women who own loads of shoes. I only wear shoes that are absolutely comfortable. I prefer flats over heels. Barefoot most of the time, any heels I do own must be able to be run in if the need arose.

There was a well dressed man who I briefly dated. He was a gentleman, sending a car to pick me up for our second date, where upon I met his best friend and wife. It was a well-reviewed bayside restaurant with an indulgent wine list and meal usually beyond my modest budget. I talked comfortably with the driver on the way to dinner. Working in a service industry myself, I’ve always chatted easily with waiters, bar staff and customer service assistants. They often know the best places for a drink or meal.

Over a few weeks, he wined and dined me. One afternoon, he turned up at my work to surprise me with a fancy dinner after work. We walked along the street after I finished up, me giving him the tour of the small country town in which I worked. Holding hands, we looked in the shop windows finally stopping at a popular bar for a glass of cold, white wine – a welcome perk of working in a fabulous wine region.

In the window of one store that I rarely entered due to my tight budget, we stopped and admired a pair of red heels. He asked if I liked them; I responded that I did. The store was closed so I knew he wasn’t going to buy them for me. I assumed he was just trying to learn more about what I liked and didn’t like. The seed had been sown though. I liked the shoes but I knew I didn’t need the shoes. I did, however, envision myself wearing them with jeans, with dresses, floral skirts - anything.

After we broke up, I decided to buy them. It wasn’t retail therapy to cheer myself up as I wasn’t really upset that we’d broken up. There had been something about the relationship that had felt a bit off. Maybe it was that he owned more beauty products and shoes than I did.

It was around this time that I began to reflect on what I had learned from the men that I had dated since my marriage dissolved. From one, I learned that I didn’t like being organized by others. From another, I learned that it is important to me to hear the words ‘I love you’. From the aforementioned gentleman, I learned that I could treat myself to some of the finer things in life.

So I went and spent more money on a pair of shoes than I had ever in my life. I slipped my feet inside and they were perfect – no pinching, no rubbing. And I did wear them with dresses, floral skirts and jeans. I loved wearing them. I felt special. Occasionally people noticed them and I would bend my knee, raise my hem and look down to admire them also. I smiled and said - thank you, I love them too.

I remember one night at a gypsy music bar in the inner north – you probably know it, it only serves crepes, two savory and two sweet options. Red-checked table cloths, velvet-clad chairs, and only one wine glass. If you are early enough you’ll get the wine glass, otherwise it’s a tumbler for you. I’m one of those early type people and while that doesn’t help with my social anxiety that the event won’t even happen, it did mean that the wine glass was generally mine.

 I found the bar via a piano-accordion player I briefly tried dating though things never seemed to quite work out there. We seemed to continually miss each other somehow.  I did, however, fall in love with the whole bohemian music scene. The swirling cacophony of notes, plaintive vocals and impassioned dancing hypnotized me. I was hooked and kept schlepping from middle suburbia into this exotic other world. My shoes brought me here. They belonged here.

One sultry summer evening, I didn’t feel like going out but had read in a well-meaning friend’s book on dating rules that the first step is just showing up. So I climbed into the low cut black dress that celebrated my curves and my comfortable, reliable red shoes. I did get compliments on my shoes. Small positive words buoyed me. The glass full of wine didn’t hurt either.

Then there was the Italian chef I had previously dated. I was now single. Again, it had been a relationship that didn’t pan out for any apparent reason. I wasn’t hung up on it. We’d both been invited to a party up country by the chef who had originally set us up on our first date. Not exactly a blind date, we had known each other through mutual friends.

Now country parties don’t normally seem like a heels kind of occasion but they had hired a function space and bungalows for the event. And I wanted to impress. I wanted to be the one who was in control. I wanted to be the one to choose to sleep with him or not.

It was going to be a great weekend. I’d taken the time off work, which was rare for me. Parties thrown by chefs are always good. Hospitality people like to drink and I’m not talking casks of Jacobs Creek. Platters groaned with piles of antipasto, cheese, seafood and more. Each surface offered up something delightful to eat or drink.

 It was late summer and the drive north was through some dry land indeed. Different shades of brown stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. Bushfires had raged across the hills only a year or two prior and many of the guests were somewhat twitchy. The firestorm was still a very real memory for most.

 I’m not a country girl though I worked out that way for many years and had grown to have an understanding of why people chose to live in such an area even though it was remote from the city with the very real threat of bushfire each summer. For me, I was always happy to return to my middle suburban life.

So I brought my shoes along with me. My red wrap dress and the heels worked their magic. I loved that evening. An entertaining group of people - I was with my tribe. I belonged even though I’d only met a handful of them before. I ate and drank with vigor, even danced to delightfully daggy 1980’s music. We did spend the night together. Though nothing further eventuated between us, I was fine with that.

Ten years on the shoes have seen better days – chunks out of the wooden heel, paint rubbed off the rear piece of leather, straps loose and soles very thin. Can they be rehabilitated? Should they be rehabilitated? Are they still relevant in my life? Am I painting a souvenir of times gone by or immortalizing a beloved item in my life?

A few days later, I find myself at the cobbler.  She is a short, spunky woman about my age who I slightly want to be. She seems to have found a trade she believes in and loves, that tires her but makes her feel useful. Her calloused, stained hands turn the shoes over and over, evaluating them while I try and explain what I hope for them. I’m not sure if what I’m asking is possible. How can I explain to her in just a few minutes what these mean to me, why I can’t seem to accept that they may have reached the end of their life? She finally looks up and smiles. I think things are going to be okay.

Monday, January 2, 2017


I recently finished reading Magda Szubanski’s memoir ‘Reckoning’ and I couldn’t help wonder as the pages decreased was she leading the reader towards something large, something she had foreshadowed but something we could not imagine. The looming figure of her Polish father during wartime and her father here in Australia -like two characters she was trying to meld; or was she?

As she herself was trying to reconcile her sport loving tomboy girl, her scholastic private girls school student, her funny tubby actor with the ‘gay-gay-gay-gay-a-little-bit-not-gay’ self, the fear of what might be more than the reality of what actually was. Her father wasn’t a collaborator. He was in fact a judge-jury-executioner of collaborators. She wasn’t weak, a would-be collaborator. She, too, had the strength of her convictions.

The book made me hold my breath at times, read longer into the night than possibly I should, let my tea go cold and occasionally fight back the tears.


Basically the word, tsundoku, refers to the piling up books to be read. In the last year, my local library workers have begun to get that glint of recognition in their eye and been happy to linger to answer my questions. The hold facility is a great way to line up my wish list but they don't have everything I want. I do take advantage of their suggestions section recommending new or interesting but obscure publications.

All that said, there's something enticing about a pile of books on my bedside table. So, I've been gathering recently and it's exciting. There are worlds ripe to be explored, characters to get to know, breaths to be held and sleep to be postponed.

I reached out on social media about a month ago looking for reading recommendations and I got them and more. I had books sent to me in the post as well as piles left by my door. I also was fortunate enough to re-connect with a friend from primary school. We hadn't seen each other in 33 years. She promised a cache of books larger then was practical to send through the post.

So on Christmas eve at 2 pm, we met at a local wine bar with the pretense of her handing over some books to me. The day was hot and dry; the streets were mostly empty. Anyone smart was sitting at home in air conditioned comfort wrapping presents. I was a few minutes early, as is my habit, and I opted for an Aperol spritz to slack my thirst but keep my head. Though the umbrelled bench outside was empty, the one free table inside made choosing my spot superfluous. 

I had recently rediscovered the wine bar. It is walking distance to my house which is always of great benefit to a wine bar. It is open during the day, as well as the evening, to enable my daytime penchant for a glass of something tasty. They make a mean coffee for my non-drinker friends, if I have any. The food is consistently good without being expensive or fancy. They even have vitello tonnato on the menu which I can never not order.

There was little time to contemplate if I would recognise my childhood friend - though I could visualise her family home well - for just then a tall willowy woman in a dark blue silk shift dress walked downhill past the door. She looked up and stopped, checking the transom for signage then swung open the door and entered. Briefly, the heat and chaos of this time of year entered with her but she paused, straightened and smiled as I caught her eye. All at once she radiated calm and grace, leaving any hurly-burly behind.

Over several more Aperol spritz, we laughed, conversed and made plans to catch up again. We spoke of books we loved, books we gave up on, culinary habits, partners, travel and moving on. She paid for my drinks as long as I promised to buy the drinks next time. I've done this before as a way of obliging my companion into another meeting. It's a great ploy that generally works.

So I had a lovely couple of hours chatting, some delicious drinks and got a stash of books for my Summer reading. 

I now am in the delightfully indulgent state of tsundoku.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Women’s Weekly Chinese Cooking Class Cookbook Dinner Party

Women’s Weekly Chinese Cooking Class Cookbook Dinner Party

Was I sitting on the floor cross legged as small children seem to be able to do so easily?  I can smell the stale dust in the yellow shag pile carpet. My hands pull on the tufts as I peek around the door jamb. Chaotic conversation mixed with Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass echo into the hallway. We four kids are supposed to be downstairs in the rumpus room playing nicely of course.  We were probably playing hide and seek but since I’m the youngest and therefore the smallest I can hide too well and the others give up before they find me. They don’t really want to play in the first place but only do it to keep me quiet.

I like to hide in mum’s sewing cupboard. I can tuck my legs in close and squeeze in beside the machine, pulling fabric on top to camouflage myself. My fingers slide in between the mission brown louver doors and pull them shut. The rough unfinished wood rubs against my back but I want to win so force myself to sit still, listening for the seeker. I’m not strong enough or quick enough or clever enough to win most games against my older siblings. Hide and seek is my trump card. If only I can stop my bladder from bursting, I’m definitely going to win this one.

It takes me too long to realize that they’re no longer looking for me but in my sister’s room busy with something else. No point going in to complain. I race to the toilet and almost make it in time. I take off my now wet knickers, scrunch them in my hand and leap upstairs to my bedroom. I shove them to the bottom of my laundry basket and grab a dry pair. Only then I tip-toe across the faux tile print lino towards the cacophony.

Shrieking laughter, clinking of tableware and swaying rhythms draw me closer. I want to be a part of this scene. Mums and dads from the other houses in our little court. I play with their children every day and have spent time in their houses but they look different now. They act different now. The mums have shiny lipstick and dangly earrings. The dads wear neat trousers and casual check shirts. My mum wears her jewelry and dad has put his Old Spice aftershave on. My parents look and smell different.

Before the grownups all arrived, I got to help mum and dad prepare. Dad went to the shopping centre this morning to buy all the exotic ingredients he needed for their Chinese banquet tonight. The Women’s Weekly Chinese Cooking Class Cookbook is great because it has photos of all the weird food he needs. The baby corn, water chestnuts and bean shoots all canned in weak brine. Soy sauce just like the local Chinese restaurant has on the tables. Ginger, not a dry dust but a gnarled light brown slightly withered lump. Dad even went to Box Hill last week to the large Asian warehouse and bought these small blue and white bowls and the odd ceramic spoons with the flat bottoms.

The recipe book gets propped up in the clear plastic stand which lives just a little too close to the electric fry pan. Splatters of a brown sauce are wiped off with the tea towel he always has flung over his shoulder when he is cooking.  As I’ve grown older I see many of his traits in myself. Not only the tea towel at hand but also dishes must be done and the kitchen clean before I can even begin to assemble my mis-en-place.

I can see the book in my mind even now – a rich red cover, gold lettering and a plate of meat and vegetables in a glossy thickened sauce. I don’t know if it was sweet ‘n’ sour pork, beef with black bean or chicken with cashew nut but there would certainly have been a dish of fried rice with those tiny prawns. San Choy Bow was definitely on the menu that evening also. I can see myself declaring that I’m up to the task of gently peeling apart the layers of iceberg lettuce for the cups. I probably wasn’t. Dessert was most likely tinned lychees in syrup with ice cream. Deep fried ice cream was reserved for dining out only.

The dining suite is pulled out from up against the window where it usually rests unused. Black stained wood, with black leather slung seats and ornate brass fasteners. It would not look out of place on the set of Game of Thrones. The good silver cutlery is unearthed from its resting place opposite and polishing begins. A cruet set (long before I know this is what it is called), large serving spoons, the cocktail shaker and glasses. They always serve Brandy Alexanders for the women on arrival and I’m lucky enough to get to shake the ground nutmeg from the Masterfoods spice jar. I’m even allowed to have some of the peanuts form the carved wooden bowl if I promise to chew them thoroughly so I don’t choke.

I don’t know if I was quick enough to leave my spying post before one of the adults came around the corner. I probably left of my own volition. My childhood stamina wasn’t much. One time, in a fit of anger I swore I was going to punish my parents by staying up all night. I’m sure I caved long before midnight.  Bored I would have retreated to my room and snuggled down deep under my sheets. The animals in their boat traversing the rainbow over the jungle below. I t was probably a version of Noah’s ark. I could never figure out where one picture started and the other one finished.

The next morning dishes would be stacked neatly on the side of the sink for washing.  Lingering smells of strange sauces and weird spices. We kids were full of our natural morning energy even if our parents weren’t. Morning sun shining in on the table and its detritus. 

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Tea rose

Tea Rose

I can still see it now - a large, proper china tea cup sitting on its saucer ever so gently shaking in her grasp. Her thin, spindly fingers are absent-mindedly caressing the flowers which encircle the cup. Interlaced folds of delicate petals surround the tight bud, blossoming, spilling outwards to unravel in an ordered chaos. Slightly shiny, crepe-like skin, so sheer I can see her veins. There is a small side table nestled up against the armchair but she is so focused on her tale that I think she has forgotten she is even holding the tea cup.

It is a day like any other in our house. My two young daughters are running around the garden picking flowers, chasing butterflies or something equally bucolic. I am pottering around my kitchen, baking biscuits for school lunches and getting a head-start on the week’s meals. The sun is streaming in the long windows, filtered through the over-hanging trees making it a place I’m very content to be.

It is through the kitchen door at the side of the house that people entered. In fact, when new people came to the house and approached the front door, they were stranded there for quite some minutes before we knew anyone was there. The wires to the front doorbell didn’t lead anywhere useful so it never rang even if someone managed to find the button.

The house had been extended multiple times over its almost one hundred year history, more than fifty of those with one couple, so that its direction and focus had changed. With almost more hallways than rooms, the concept of good design had been bypassed as rooms were added one by one to accommodate the many guests.

It is her firm rasping knock on the window, by the back door, that draws my attention. I hadn’t been expecting any visitors. Drying my hands on my apron, I shuffle to the back door. It is the weekend and I’m wearing weekend at home appropriate clothing. She isn’t.

‘Hello?’ I say upon forcibly sliding the reluctant door along its tracks.

‘Hello there.’ I’m sure she would have introduced herself but more than ten years later I have no recollection of her name. For the purposes of neat story-telling I could have called her Rose but there’s no indication that was her name. I do, however, still remember being slightly mesmerized by her appearance.

Multiple strands of pearls hang down from her neck, nestling into her rich velvet scarf. Layers of clothing in dark, gemstone tones jar at the bright sun in which she stands, leaning heavily on a walking cane. For a few moments we watch each other. I am wondering where, or rather when, she has come from. No doubt, she is sorting through her memory files trying to reconcile the many times she had stood at this door to be ushered in by her dear friend of many years – Nina. Not today though.

Although she knew the house had been sold, my strange face is still a disappointment.   I don’t even have a chance to invite her inside. However, I can see her now, stepping past me and into the kitchen as she explains how many years she has been visiting here. Not pausing in either the kitchen or the dining room, she steps deliberately and determinedly, her 90 year plus body onwards, so I have nothing else to do but follow.

As we arrive in the lounge room, she looks up and after a few moments, smiles. I can only imagine this room hasn’t really changed too much. The cherry wood panels that lines its walls, the large fireplace and mantle taking up an entire corner have not changed; only the furniture and its arrangement. Standing beside her, I can only wonder what she sees. I take the opportunity to offer her the armchair, its commanding position ideal to survey her domain.

Like a lady in waiting, I offer her some tea. She nods her approval and I disappear back into the kitchen to fossick for the supplies required – teapot, creamer, leaf tea, tea cup and saucer, a small plate of biscuits luckily still warm from the oven. As the electric kettle slowly boils, I wonder who is this woman seated in my lounge room.

Returning triumphant with my tray of tea supplies, I‘m unsure where to start but it turns out that doesn’t matter as I’m not the one directing things here now.

‘I have been coming here for many, many years, you know.’

I didn’t know but had figured out already my role as silent adoring audience.

‘Yes, I’ve known Nina and Clem since the early days. Stanhope was always such an exciting place. The Russian Ballet would always visit when they were in town. The parties they would have,’ she pauses and then points out through the west window. ‘Out there, under the cherry trees looking over Eltham. Tables laden with all sorts of food, they would play music and have outrageous arguments. So much life, so much laughter.  I never saw Nina smile so much as she did then.‘ Her own smile slowly fades.

I hand her the cup of tea which is not so full that she will spill it with her trembling hands. I don’t want to interrupt her but I want to know who she is and what is she doing here in my house. Hopefully, we will get to that at some point.

‘How did you come to know Nina?’ I ask trying to steer the conversation somewhat.

‘My first husband and I moved in to the street behind ten years or so after the war. We knew everyone in the street back then.  Stanhope used to be quite a large estate. It stretched all the way down the hill to the railway line. Being academics they never really had any money so they would sell off a block here and there when they needed to. I can still picture them running down the hill to the station to catch the train into Melbourne University where they both worked. The driver would blow the horn giving them time to race down. Nina was head of Russian Studies and Clem edited the literary journal Meanjin.‘

She looks down at her left hand as if noticing for the first time that she is holding a cup of tea. I offer her a biscuit but she declines with a slight wave of her right hand. I feel obliged to take one as though that is the reason I presented them in the first place.  Squealing, the girls are a blur as they run past the windows.

‘Nina couldn’t have any children of her own but she would host birthday parties for the neighbours’ children.  She loved having children around. She would be very happy to know that there is a family living here now.’

‘We’ve only been here a few weeks but we really like it here,’ I say trying to assuage any concerns she has. I bring the side table a bit further in front to make it easy for her to place her tea down. She pays it no heed.

We both sit in silence and I think how to explain to this woman what I already know. I have met Nina in my own way. I could feel her over my shoulder, keeping an eye on me. “Just watching, darlink. Just watching.”

 Nina was short with her long hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Always smartly dressed, she enjoys the company of me and my daughters. At times, she sits in the corner of the kitchen on the low wooden bench next to the girls as they attack their afternoon snacks. In fact, both of them love the life and energy we brought to the house.

 Nina became ill and with her strength ebbing day by day, she soon never left her bed. Clem would sit near her bedside reading as Nina dozed. She was grateful for the exciting lives full of love and laughter that she and Clem had shared. Sadly, too soon, she passed away.

 Clem couldn’t cope with the great weight of sadness he felt at this enormous loss. He drank more and more whiskey from his favourite crystal low ball to help blur reality but upon waking each morning, the house was still cold and empty without her. Not too long after, Clem moved out and died months later. His colour had been gradually draining out of him without his Nina around.

I understand that our family moving in, with all the noise and light that a family with two young girls bring with them, stirred Clem and Nina.

It is only a few seconds between the sound of the back door slamming and my six and eight year old daughters bounding into the room, puffing and laughing. The spell is broken. My guest straightens up, placing her tea cup roughly on the table and starts her ascent out of the chair. I go to assist and get stuck not knowing how to help so stand beside watching.

Picking up the teapot, cups and tray, I resume my role and follow her to the back door. She knows the way.  I say goodbye as she disappears down the path and around the corner. I look down and see her still full cup of cold tea, untouched.

Food as love.

If you’ve ever read  The Five Languages of Love book, or done one of those flippant Facebook quizzes, you’ve probably heard of the concept that we fall into particular camps regarding how we express our love for another – romantic or otherwise. Inconveniently, we also use this filter to perceive the actions of others as loving or not. If you’re curious, feel free to do an online search for the relevant terms and discover if you do perceive the actions of others as loving, and I will use the term nurturing as well. The fun bit is seeing if you and your partner, if you have one, view things the same way. I’m betting you don’t.

One of the main ways I demonstrate my love towards someone is to cook for them. Food is and has always been a big part of my life so this isn’t exactly surprising. I recall being sixteen and cooking a dish which at the time was not only a favourite of mine but also I considered being fairly cutting edge. Please bear in mind it was the 1980’s.

There was this guy I was trying to impress and hopefully get further along the baseball diamond scenario with (first base, second base – you with me?).  I even had two versions of this winner dish. The classic version was pan fried chicken breast fillet with a bacon and avocado cream sauce. I know, told you it would be classic. My alternative version was pasta with a chicken, bacon, avocado and cream sauce. Even now as I type these words, I cringe at the thought of dry stringy chicken meat (which I’m sure it was with the fear of food poisoning looming over my head), hard cooked nubs of bacon and under-ripe soapy tasting avocado in a too sweet creamy bath.

I can’t remember his name only that my parents had gone away to their beach house for the weekend and the coast was clear. I can picture a pimply face, short dark hair and him leaning against the kitchen bench whilst I tried to win him over with my kitchen confidence. The wine was Mateus rose – that classic semi-sweet from Portugal. I won’t reveal how well my efforts were received as my mum might read this.

A really beautiful part of the school that my children attended was the rosters that were set up when the class had a new mother. Healthy meals were provided that would nourish the family of the new baby. It was a Steiner school that my children attended so many dietary variations such as vegetarian, allium/dairy/gluten-free and so on had to be respected.

Only a few years ago, one gentleman I had started dating was quite strict on only consuming free range meats and had been lamenting the dearth of smallgoods that fit with his self-imposed parameters. My local organic store stocked a wide selection so I gathered salamis, sliced cured products and sausages into a bouquet complete with tissue paper wrapping. Again, decorum will prevent me from delving into precisely how grateful he was but I’m sure you can figure it out.

What I’m saying is nourishing people with food is one significant way that I show how I care. Of course, I do like compliments and affirmations of I love you but if I cook for you, it’s because I love you. The next bit is figuring out how other people are saying it to me.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Gretel's Gift Storyboard

A little sample of storyboards from my graphic novel - Gretel's Gift.