Wendy Dunn, Author and Friend: Falling Pomegranate Seeds

I have known Wendy Dunn for many years. Recently we both completed our doctorate at Swinburne University. Believe me, those study bonds run deep.

Women collaborate and support each other. There is no competition, no one-up-man-ship, just genuine friendship.

As soon as Wendy’s name is mentioned images flash through my mind of being in a warm loft of an old stone winery on a cold Melbourne winters day. Wind whistled through cracks but we were cozy. Best of all,  Wendy had arranged and found funding for this amazing venue for a workshop with author, Christine Balint. All this small group of writers had to do was sip mellow red wine and write, write, write. The result was an anthology titled Journeys.

She is my close friend  and a  talented author who is always honing her craft

This third Tudor book published by MadeGlobal Publishing is no exception. It is engaging, entertaining as well as being informative. Through her books, I have learnt how people of Tudor England lived, loved and survived. In an exciting and new way they opened a previously closed window on a section of English history I knew nothing about.

About Wendy

Wendy J. Dunn is an Australian writer who has been obsessed by Anne Boleyn and Tudor History since she was ten-years-old. She is the author of two Tudor novels: Dear Heart, How Like You This?, the winner of the 2003 Glyph Fiction Award and 2004 runner up in the Eric Hoffer Award for Commercial Fiction, and The Light in the Labyrinth, is her first young adult novel.

While she continues to have a very close and spooky relationship with Sir Thomas Wyatt, the elder, serendipity of life now leaves her no longer wondering if she has been channeling Anne Boleyn and Sir Tom for years in her writing, but considering the possibility of ancestral memory. Her own family tree reveals the intriguing fact that her ancestors – possibly over three generations – had purchased land from both the Boleyn and Wyatt families to build up their own holdings. It seems very likely Wendy’s ancestors knew the Wyatts and Boleyns personally.

Born in Melbourne, Australia, Wendy is married and the mother of three sons and one daughter–named after a certain Tudor queen, surprisingly, not Anne.

Gaining her Doctorate of Philosophy (Writing) from Swinburne University in 2014, Wendy tutors at Swinburne University in their Master of Arts (Writing) program.

For more information about Wendy J. Dunn, visit her website at www.wendyjdunn.com

 

An announcement from MadeGlobal website

Wendy Dunn – Hot new release
Posted by Tim Ridgway on August 25th, 2016 at 9:33 am
Falling Pomegranate Seeds: Wendy J. Dunn
Hot New Release

Wendy J. Dunn’s book “Falling Pomegranate Seeds” was launched on 20 August, and it’s already listed as number 3 in Amazon’s coveted “Hot New Releases in Tudor Historical Romance” category, just behind Philippa Gregory’s new book “Three Sisters Three Queens”. Well done Wendy!

If you’ve missed all the hype and news about this book, then it’s time to catch up – people are loving the way Wendy has told the story of Katherine of Aragon in her early life… this book is the first installment in a series and takes us up to Katherine preparing to leave Spain for England.

GET THE BOOK HERE at Amazon.com

All writers, whether published or not, need support, encouragement and inspiration. This connective network may be found in a writing group or being amongst like-minded friends who you know will support and care for you through thick and thin. I am so fortunate to have the MadeGlobal team, especially Tim Ridgway and Melaine V Taylor, a totally supportive family and great writing buddies who watch my back and point me in the right direction. Bless you all.

Ode to Age

A mother and son’s view of old age.

 

Some people/sons think this way

The numbers are increasing,
The demographic kind,
Of ageing baby boom cohorts
In biological decline.

They swamp the health care system
Become seniors by the score.
I wish they were invisible
Then death we could ignore.

My parents have retired
To devote their lives to pleasure.
What a boring lifestyle
Using up unlimited leisure.

Maybe a worthwhile part-time job
With status will assist them
To productively remain
Locked into the capitalist system.

Dear old Dad has passed away.
We all must go sometime.
Will Mum come and live with us
Or go to Shady Pines?

What? Sell the house tomorrow
And buy into a village
With pool and spa and golf course
And gain a millionaire’s image?

But won’t she feel so guilty
As she lays out in the sun?
Great grandma would be saying
‘Are you sure the work is done?’

               

Mum’s reply
The time has gone for guilt.
I’ve always worked, my dear,
It’s time for me to play
And enjoy my remaining years.

But something strange is happening
I’m not as spry as you
Things I once thought easy
Are now difficult to do.

My teeth sit in a glass
My hair has gone so thin
Now I’m even noticing
A spare tyre and double chin.

My body is getting older
It’s drooping more each day
And I find you try and help me
As I stagger and I sway

I think you see your mother
In obvious decline
Well look a little closer,
I’ve a young, inquiring mind.

And yet I do have fears
Of darkness, death and healthcare
And need the extra security
Of a buzzer and of welfare.

But don’t lump us all together
As an old decrepit bunch.
I make my own decisions
And that’s what really counts.

I’ll live my life with enthusiasm
Right up to my last day
So don’t weep when I leave quietly
In my euthanasia way.

But in the meantime darling
I really don’t need much,
Just let me live life my way
And always keep in touch.

Friendships Between People Who Love The Same Books

There are no faster or firmer friendships than those between people who love the same books (Irving Stone)

My cousin Julie is part of my life, part of me.

For many years we have shared the trials, tribulations and joys of our lives, including books, quotations and inspirational verses. I pass on to her any that I enjoy and she does the same for me. Recently we have exchanged the Desiderata , The Rosie Project, Cleo, Tumbledown Manor and the complete book of Great Australian Women.  Last month she moved into assisted care and had to clear her unit.

She has passed on to me her most treasured books; prizes awarded when she attended Fintona Girls’ School many years ago. Books by Jane Austin, RD Blackmore and George Eliot. With love I have placed these new additions to my book ‘family’ amongst fellow companions and I will care for them, love them but most of all enjoy them and think of her whenever I do. They are here in my safekeeping. Hers to visit or take home whenever she likes. However, later they will be passed on with love to whoever needs them at that time and I will be guided as to who that is when that time comes

Julie used to teach piano and music is part of her life. When feeling blue, listening to classical CD’s always sooths her soul. Books to me are like her music to her. They are my Bach and Beethoven. Old friends who comfort, exhilarate and transport me into so many different worlds. I don’t sit and read line by line like Julie. I dip in, flick through, but always find what I need at that particular time. My books are not worthy tomes, they are about everyday life and are dog eared, preloved, tatty, often garage sale gleaned and anyone searching for first editions lined up in library neatness will be disappointed. I make no apology. From the crayon scrawled Dr Suesse to the thesis written in longhand on aboriginal children in schools during the last century thrown out by an uncaring family, to precious school awards, they are my treasures.

Often I find scraps of paper buried between the pages, such as ‘Live more in your heart and less in your head’ or ‘There are two dominant energies, love and fear and love conquers all’. Boring to some but often photocopied and sent with love to uplift others. These days I also find many inspirational verses on Facebook and love to see people sharing these treasures.

FRIENDS

Through laughter and light

And the dark soul of night.

Deep rooted as a tree.

Our mothers were cousins. They whispered together and walked hand in hand. Every Sunday, side by side, their voices soared in harmony. Handbags hanging, they linked arms and, with heads close together, magpie chattered, oblivious to the world. They laughed, cried, told jokes, criticised their husbands and praised their babies.

Julie was eight when I arrived.

Julie’s parents had elegant Christmas parties. I admired ruby glass from afar and ate jelly cakes and lamingtons, never spilling a crumb. Julie played Beethoven on the grand piano. I saw her wear dresses that with a tuck would be mine.

Julie went to college, studied at the Conservatorium and sang in the Sun Aria.  She whispered of love. Her family disapproved but she married her ‘commoner’. I saw her look of defiance and the family’s look of defeat.

We  met weekly in the Botanic Gardens where we laughed, cried, told jokes, and tended our babies.

The battered doll is bruised to the core

Convinced no one will love her any more.

 Julie grabbed her music, called a taxi and fled to a flat.

Julie lies quietly in the hospital bed.  ‘The cancer operation will be a success,’ she says.  I lie beside her, our heads touching. We sip Chardonnay in elegant glasses hoping the nurses will leave us alone. We talk for hours until the late bell tolls and I train home filled with courage.

Julie is fighting. She has chemotherapy, loses her hair. We sit in cheery waiting rooms amongst smiling faces beaming love to anyone near.  Life seems precious and eggshell fragile as we talk with others of hopes and plans.  ‘I will beat this,’ she says.  ‘I will be well.’ Seeing her confidence I also believe.

Julie cuts her hair, rents and laughs at her family. “They tell me I must save for my old age,” she says.  She travels to Assisi convinced she is cured.  Sits six hours on top of her luggage at Calcutta station talking to soldiers.  Lives in an Ashram where she silently peels vegetables, takes cold showers, swirls in dervishes.  She lives in her tracksuit. “But where is the love,” she cries as she travels to England, Austria, America and Italy. “Where is the peace in the world?”

Julie is happy. She sits in Yoga lotus when we talk on the phone.

Meditates in her special place, mentally cleansing her body and soul.  I see her graduate as a Yoga teacher, write a book Love and Light and help others through cancer and HIV Aids.

One night, we light a candle, sit cross-legged on the floor our hearts soaring with symphonies and talk about Chin Maya, Satyananda yoga, her Swami, our angels, our chakras, our energy. “Live now,” she cries.  We discuss  life, love, miracles and healing and…

Through love and light

Soul mates set free.

Deep rooted as a tree.

‘What does she mean to you’  is asked of me

Writing Healing Life Stories

For writers, writing is how they make sense of their world.

There is a long human tradition of writing to make sense of events that effect the self. Writing can be a way to heal the emotional and physical wounds that are an inevitable part of life

Some people use writing as a way to work through emotional issues by privately writing of grief in personal journals and diaries. Others write and publish memoirs such as the heart-rending Paula (1995), in which Chilean writer Isabel Allende interweaves autobiographical fragments into a letter to her dying twenty-eight year old daughter. Two recent memoirs about coping with the loss of a loved one are Megan O’Rouke’s The Long Goodbye (2011), about mourning her mother and Joyce Carol Oates’s A Widow’s Story (2011).

The most touching of all is perhaps Sandra Arnold’s Sing No Sad Song: losing a daughter to cancer (2011). These books add to a growing sub-genre that includes Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking (2005), a memoir of her husband’s death, daughter’s illness, and the wife and mother’s efforts to make sense of a time when nothing made sense. In her latest book, Blue Nights (2011), Didion mourns the loss of her family, youth and ability to write. David Rieffs’ Swimming in a Sea of Death (2008) is a loving tribute to his mother, the writer Susan Sontag, and her final battle with cancer. In a similar vein, Anne Roiphe’s Epilogue (2008), explores late-life widowhood.

This mourning of mothers, daughters, sons, husbands and friends shows the reader that their experience is not unique. They are not alone.

Last year I ran workshops concentrating on teaching the craft of writing and discovered that many students were recording their own traumatic stories. They wanted to make sense of their lives and hoped sharing their experiences would help others. The stories were far reaching and covered how life threatening illnesses, drug addiction etc. changed the lives, not only of the person involved, but also the extended family.

For this reason I’ve decided the 2015 workshops beginning in April at the Living Now Wellbeing Centre, Studio 7/14 Hartnett Drive Seaford will focus on the writing of Healing Life Stories.  The ten week course begins Tuesday April 14th until June 16th (10am -12noon).  If interested ring 97724566

Writing can heal your life. It allows us to find our creativity, write our stories, become more whole and expand our horizons.

 

Random notes jotted into an exercise book helps us to sort the tangled web that is our lives. My début novel, Pickle to Pie began in this way. Ostensibly I was writing my father’s story, but after the book was published, I realized it was my way of dealing with my hidden German heritage.

Before I was born, because of the ill feeling towards German people after two disastrous world wars, my Australian born father renounced his German ancestry. He also changed the family name by deed poll from Schlessinger to Sterling. When I was seven I found an old photo album in the bottom of a wardrobe and asked my father why the sombre groups of people looked different. He hesitated then replied that in 1885 his grandparents migrated (not from Germany) from Belgium. I didn’t meet my German grandmother until I was twelve and by then knew not to ask questions. The feeling of release once the story of my father’s life was published was incredible. I finally understood the whispered background to my childhood and could let go of the past.

Recently completing my second book, ‘Hens Lay, People Lie’ I now see that I’ve done it again. Written a story that explores my life journey. This book has moved beyond my childhood to enable me to make sense of my adult life. However, when I was three quarters of the way through writing the manuscript about two women, two countries and a life altering pen-friendship, my penfriend died and I was grieving. I found myself trying to writing while mourning. At first I couldn’t write, until I realised how much words like regret, love, loss, guilt, memory and remorse have power over our lives.

Hélène Cixous, a French feminist philosopher, claims that, ‘Words are the doors to all other worlds. At a certain moment for the person who has lost everything, be it a being or country, language becomes the country. One enters the country of languages’ Cixous 1992: 19).

When Cixous was eleven, her father died. She describes this event as having a formative influence on her as a writer. Loss and the need for consolation became key motivating forces in her writing life. Her advice to those struggling with trauma in their lives is, “We should write as we dream; we should try and write, we should all do it for ourselves, it’s very healthy, because it’s the only place where we never lie.

IS TRAUMA WRITING CATHARTIC, OR IS THE WRITER RETRAUMATISED?

If the writer revisits painful emotions there is extensive literature about the risk of slipping into depression (Kammerer & Mazelis 2006; Stone 2004; Wurtzel 1999). Joy Livingwell, online columnist for the Neuro Linguistic Programming website, for example, warns of the danger inherent in reliving grief when she advocates that it is essential for the person involved ‘to get the useful life lessons from less-than-positive memories, without getting upset or re-traumatized’.

Therefore, if writing can be cathartic, it can also be dangerous. To avoid the danger of slipping into depression, writers need as safe space. A journal can be such a safe emotional space; a gap between reality and imagination where feelings and emotions can be intuited, articulated or performed. A space to write. Yet, there is the constant danger of being brought undone by your own words: stabbed by your stories, bowled over by both understanding and misunderstanding. Terry Williams writes: ‘Words are always a gamble, words can be like splinters of cut glass’. Writers attending the 2015 Healing Life Stories workshops will explore this aspect of trauma writing and learn how to protect themselves.

I’ve found writing can take you places you’ve never been before; some good, some bad. However, for me, writing about my life has been an uplifting experience. It has enabled me to let go of the past and move on with anticipation to the next exciting stage of my life journey.

You can write your healing stories about yourself or someone else important in your life  either for your own benefit or with the aim of helping others. When writing the story of my father’s turbulent life,  I found myself writing with passion and compassion. Above my computer is a quote by Australia’s famous author Bryce Courtenay 

‘There is no greater tribute than to lovingly record a life.’