Over the years, I’ve also worked at more serious writing and have enrolled in a couple of university papers related to creative writing, one a post-grad course. However, it is still a very personal thing and you work alone.
I’ve joined writing groups and where there were none when I needed one, I created a group. This has happened four times – two of these continue with a strong core number of members, and two have folded. Also I’m a long time member, and on the committee of Waikato Writers and Associated Artists (WWAA), a branch of NZ Society of Authors (NZSA). The people I’ve shared my love of writing with have been nothing but inspiring and supportive.
I’ve have entered only a few writing competitions, so achieving a mention in the 2016 National Flash Fiction blew me away. I didn’t even believe it until a writing colleague contacted me to make sure I knew.
This is the piece below. It was inspired by a writing task set at one of these groups.
Stolen
Lee Kimber
I am a child of the earth. I go to the school and I learn the stories of the teacher’s world. He talks of other countries and capital cities. He tells us about the Murra Dam and how the pouring water under its wall makes the power and makes the lights and signs flash in the Wooroola shops.
I see the shoes in the window. They are red – redder than blood. Nineteen bucks and ninety-nine cents. My sister says, “If you really want them…”
I wear my new shoes and twist through the traffic. Just now, I am white.
I dance to the bus station where my people are sitting. I ride out of Wooroola and am in my hometown and my people with dark wiry hair are afraid. They are watching my feet. I dance to my boyfriend. I feel his breath, but it is different. He loves my red shoes, but I don’t think he loves me. My mates wait for me to turn white.
I shine the dust off the shoes with the bottom of my dress and I dance. My mother says, ‘Whatcha get those for?’ Jack points and laughs, and his drink spills and Mum and Aunty are watching the bottle.
I walk with my mates towards the dam. We see Wooroola, a way over. The dam has changed the big river and the cliffs below are empty.
My shoes are dusty. I take them off and feel the little sticks and stones bite as we walk beside the water in Murra Dam: the same dam which makes the sign in the city saying, ‘Fab Footwear.’
My feet know the earth again and I don’t bother watching the red shoes turning in the air and hit the water.