The Colour Yellow

Notes on Hopefulness

When I started writing my novel in 2015, something was sparked by the idea of ‘touching the colour yellow’. I finished a full draft of said novel in that year, the year after my second child was born, funnily enough, the year my son was diagnosed as autistic, aged two-years-old. The novel had a different name then. It was called She Sells Sunshine. That manuscript, with way too many storylines that didn’t quite line up, was probably the catalyst for me going back to uni mid-way through the following year to do the writing Bachelor of Arts I’d started twice in my 20s and abandoned. I began with two units, online, though the course advisor said I should start with two. I was 41 by then.

I put the manuscript aside, well, kind of. I wrote several other drafts. I finished the Bachelor’s degree in three years, even doing it part-time, thanks to Deakin University’s trimesters. I added an Honours year, so that I would be eligible to apply for a PhD. The focus of my writing shifted to poetry in Honours, and then to essays and other nonfiction forms. I wrote two ‘narrative nonfiction’ books. And, as I’ve written about here before, I returned to that old manuscript. Or the premise of it at least.

I chucked out everything except the opening scene (no longer quite the opening scene).

I’ve had to learn to back myself. Every day, trying to drag myself to just sit, to give myself the chance to write a shitty first draft. Just get it done. Get it down. Stop doubting myself, or doubt myself and keep writing anyway. Leaning into hopefulness, rather than its opposite. I know so many writers need to remind themselves of this, every single day, but it’s not just writers. It’s everyone.

&

&

It seemed obscene to me, when I went to bed last night, that I should have woken yesterday with the word ‘hopfulness’ planted like a seed in my thoughts, when the day ended with some very sad news about someone I love.

&

I tried to watch Glen Hansard’s funeral service in Dublin laste last night, but found I didn’t have it in me to watch a funeral, no matter how beautiful. And it was beautiful; I’ve sat and watched it this morning, with its incredibly moving eulogies, prayers, songs sung and otherwise performed by his brother, and other, more well known, though no more illustrious for that, musicians. It brought me back to the idea of hopefulness, and how we have to hold it ever tighter, the darker the day grows.

&

I’m reading slowly at the moment, but just finished Margaret Hickey’s unputdownable Cold River (I especially loved the tenderness of her epilogue, bless you, Marg!). Do yourself a favour, and read this book. To read Cold River, I put aside Siri Husvedt’s Ghost Stories, which I’m now picking up again. And it makes me think about how we make art of grief, when we write, which is something I thought a lot about when writing Vessel and my other, as-yet-unpublished book about anticipatory grief for my mother and for our planet. What can be more hopeful, really, than making space for art in your grief? I was so happy when Jo Canham of Jo the Smalltown Bookseller invited me to speak at Port Fairy Literary Weekend, and even more so when I found out the assigned panel was about this very thing, the subject of art and grief. I’ll be talking with these writers and their books on a panel convened by Anne Connor. You can buy tickets here, and, there are so many great Australian writers and panels, and workshops, and other events happening all weekend, and in such a gorgeous location. I hope to see you there.

&

Back to the title of this post, one of the ways I’m making art of grief, or art of writing, certain parts of my revived manuscript are punctuated with literal representations of the colour yellow. In the original (and still present) opening scene, I evoke the sight of a paint aisle in a hardware shop, with swatches of the colour yellow, to describe shelves full of yellow notebooks on shelves in a dead writer’s home. I began by putting little blocks of yellow, like paint swatches, but then I became more creative, and looked for yellow everywhere, taking photos of it where I saw it, including on photos of clothing worn by my mother in her youth, yellow everlasting daisies, the outside wall of the National Writing House, Varuna, paddocks of canola flowers in bloom. All kinds of things. So, that’s my new hobby, I guess. Collecting the colour yellow.

&

I keep reading (bad) climate news, and wondering why it hardly even rates a mention in mainstream media, even though it’s already very evident the way the planet is going, and what it means for our daily lives (though this is a good read). What a time for politics to be swinging so far to the right, and ever deeper climate catastrophe denial. But there’s room for hopefulness there, too, because there are always forces for good working away at these things, too. And even if they’re harder to see, or hear, they’re there. And we have the power of our own votes, and actions, and voices, too,

&

Most of all, as to hopefulness, we have the power of knowing we are here, now, in this brief, shining moment, and if we stop to take a breath, we can count what is precious to us, what makes us happy, how blessed we are if we are healthy, and happy enough right now, if our loved ones are healthy and happy too. These are words I’m speaking mostly to myself, as I move now to finish this, and turn again to the hopefulness of writing a book that truly is all about that very quality: how we go on and live our lives, despite everything. I don’t know if all this sounds trite, but I hope maybe it lands softly with you, where you are today. And may there be a cheering splash of yellow.

&

Thank you for reading xx This Substack is free, but if you can afford another subscription, every little bit helps support me to keep writing, and I am, as always, especially grateful to my paid subscribers.