Ever been disappointed with the whole plus-size-model thing? Felt like something wasn’t quite right?

Here’s something that’s right.

How stunning — and, importantly, how *modern* — do these women look? No more freaking ‘rubenesque’, apologetic plus-size photo shoots, thanks, world media! From now on only exciting in-your-face photos like these.

That is all.

I’ve been surprised by the amount of interest in A Book of Endings, for example, and overwhelmed by the response of readers. Enough of my friends not only bought the book but *read* it to make me think people actually are interested in the short form. When challenged, plenty of my friends were adamant that yes, they really did like reading short stories even before my book came along and yes, they weren’t just buying it out of sympathy (though I suspect some of them were!) that I thought I’d overlooked something.

I admit I always thought short stories were rather esoteric, enjoyed more by writers than readers. Short stories are often a harder read than novels, I think. Because you have to pay attention the whole way through. Novels you can drift in and out, doze off on a daybed, miss a few words because the hammock is swinging too hard — all those hiccups that occur in perfect reading fantasies. But overall it’s easier to keep track of a novel because even if you miss bits the narrative spine will hopefully pull you through.

So I was still surprised when I read this in the Syd Uni Alumni magazine review of A Book of Endings: “Biancotti is further proof of why readers enjoy the short story, even though publishers prefer to pretend we don’t.”

And over here at the Guardian, some discussion about why women, in particular, are being recognised in the short story field (are they? well, isn’t that good news).

Short stories, on the other hand, are famously uncommercial; that, coupled with the perceived exactingness of the form and its heavyweight literary lineage, means that short stories by women are taken seriously – and awarded accordingly.

That would be ironic if true: women gain more recognition in short stories because short stories aren’t coveted by publishers either.

I’m back, baby.

Not sure I’d go so far as to girl-cott male authors, like Kathy Lette recommends. Because, y’know, none of us is free until all of us are free. And taking it out on male authors seems … well, against the spirit of the thing.

BUT anyhow, the damn internet took so damn long to load, who can remember what in hell my finely-tuned arguments really comprised of? Smarter people than I have already covered off the topic. I guess I’ll go kick some cans for a while.

Well, to be more precise, that problem is that I agreed last Christmas to go to Fiji this year & now that the time is rolling close, I find I’m really depressed by it. Okay, not depressed. More like stressed, upset & annoyed.

And why, you’re wondering, am I annoyed about a trip to a tropical island that I, as a grown woman, agreed to? Yes, it’s a good question, isn’t it, & I myself have spent the last month wondering what the hell the answer is & what is wrong with me & whether I’m quite sane.

But then Friday after 2 glasses (could’ve been 3) of red wine & some of my favourite cider from one of my favourite pubs, it hit me with all the sudden clarity that alcohol, in its raw animal wisdom, can invoke.

The *reason*, you see, that I agreed to go to Fiji is that it’s the place where my grandfather spent part of WWII as an engineer for the Colonial Sugar Refinery Company (CSR) in Lautoka. And it’s where my grandparents were married. And given this is Female Appreciation Month, I can confess to you, gentle reader, that nothing has been the same since my grandmother died in, was it 2001? It’s a blur, really, because in a way her death has never stopped happening for me.

So, no, I don’t quite appear to be sane!

And if my travel companion, my mother, is as unnerved by this trip as I am, it could probably explain why SHE herself appears to be limping forward with the planning that I’ve been trying to avoid! But by god we’ll get this trip sorted & we’ll visit that damned church in Lautoka (er, I’m not sure which one, but I’m assuming NOT the Sri Krishna Temple) & — by god — we’ll have ourselves a tropical holiday if the damn thing nearly kills us!

World Without Tears
If we lived in a world withought tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

If we lived in a world without tears
How would heartbeats
Know when to stop
How would blood know
Which body to flow outside of
How would bullets find the guns

If we lived in a world without tears
How would misery know
Which back door to walk through
How would trouble know
Which mind to live inside of
How would sorrow find a home

If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

If we lived in a world without tears
How would bruises find
The face to lie upon
How would scars find skin
To etch themselves into
How would broken find the bones

How would broken find the bones
How would broken find the bones

Goddamn, if you only do one thing I tell you to in your life, listen to Lucinda Williams.

So I’m going to mention Deborah Conway as a musical hero. Not only because she is a fabulous musical talent, but also because she founded the Broad Festival, which is itself a celebration of Australian women singers & musicians. She’s awesome for her folksy, raw music, her gigantic grin, and her lyrics. Amongst some of my favourites are lines like:

Somewhere between the swamp and the mountain
Somewhere between sex and fear
Somewhere between God and the devil passion lurks
The way there is sudden the way back is worse
– Deborah Conway, For All the Wrong Reasons

And then there’s songs with titles such as ‘Will You Miss Me When You’re Sober’ and ‘Alive and Brilliant’: gorgeous, raunchy, suggestive, strong, luscious songs.

I’ve tried to play it open-handed
I’ve tried to make a fist of this
Even when the questions are candid
My arrows miss
I’ve heard about your fragile ego
Your shield, your sword
What am I expected to do!?
Shout Man Overboard!
– Do-Re-Mi, Man Overboard

And here’s something you might’ve thought you’d never see: two of Australian’s gutsiest singers performing Love Hurts.