Fishbowl Yarn - Andrew McKaysmith
by Andrew McKaysmith
I was thrilled when I got a call telling me that my application for the Fishbowl residency was successful. It meant I could supercharge my aspirations of becoming a career writer. I’ve grasped the opportunity with both hands, although there are many reasons I should abandon my dream and find a conventional job.
You see, I am a married father with two daughters. I feel the pressure of responsibility. My parents had conventional jobs, and I thought my life would follow a similar route. But I must write, and I’d dearly love to turn my dream into a reality. I want to give you a snapshot of my mornings during the residency when the drums of doubt beat the loudest. So, here goes.
5:30 am, and the alarm on my iPhone chimes in ever-increasing squawks. Just a few more minutes, surely I won’t fall back to sleep? Ugh, I should get up. The snooze function is a trap, like a time warp that can quickly spit an eager sleeper out the wrong side of 7 am.
A single bedside lamp breaks the darkness. I plant my feet next to the bed, feeling for my slippers. I unlock the phone and briefly scan the usual social media sites for any notifications. My body is aching. Rubbing my eyes, I regret the few too many vodkas I had the night before. Never mind, I’ve dealt with far worse. There is work to be done and a book to write, and I’m good at getting on with things.
A well-used coffee percolator sputters into life. Goddammed, does it know how to serve up a decent brew. It’ll be at least 15 minutes, so I saunter back to the bedroom and change into my gym gear; an ancient Gold Coast United soccer jersey and faded black shorts. Out the front door, the cold air bites my cheek. I stretch a little on the footpath, resting my hand on the bullbar of the 4x4. I hate this part. I enjoy swimming and loathe running, but run I must; ever since I graduated from Bond University, Olympic sized swimming pools are just too far away.
Out of breath and feeling worse for wear, I’m back inside the house. It’s daylight now, the sun rises quickly, and I need to make sandwiches, pack lunches, feed the pets and get myself ready for the day ahead. My wife wanders into the kitchen. We nod solemnly at each other. Mornings, I can almost hear her thoughts; they’re just not fun.
The first few sips of coffee have the desired effect, and I’m feeling a little more ‘with it’. It’s time to wake the kids. The blinds are open, and light spills into their room. With blankets still wrapped tight around themselves, they shuffle over the tiles in the kitchen- porridge for one, toast for the other, and hot chocolate all around too. Uniforms are organised, hair and teeth are brushed. They bicker over headbands, or is it elastics? God knows, please, choose because we have got to go.
Seat belts are buckled, bags all packed. Did we need to bring the viola today? No, that’s tomorrow, so I make a mental note. Kisses from mum on the cheek, we wave goodbye. Out on the road, the canefields on either side stretch far into the distance toward Moreton Bay. We are driving slowly behind a tractor. Never mind, we’re ahead of time. The kids will be at school before the bell rings.
The lollypop man greets us as we cross the road. I blow the kids a kiss each as they carry their enormous bags up the hill to class. Now, which podcast will I fire up? Joe Rogan is talking to a lady about the damage plastic is doing to our health. A worthy accompaniment. The GPS tells me the city is now an hour and 20 minutes away.
The motorway is chockers. Stop, start. Stop, start. An accident, or two, and those infernal never-ending roadworks conspire to raise the blood pressure. Eventually, Brisbane’s buildings appear in the distance. Not long now. The traffic is flowing better, and soon I’ll be on an e-scooter, tearing over Victoria Bridge toward the State Library.
Inside the building; check-in, sign-in, do I need to wear a mask? Not today. Up the stairs and past the band poster exhibition, sliding doors open. It’s as quiet as you’d expect in a library. Inside QWC, the lunchroom is vacant. The silver foil wrapping of my sandwich glistens under the light of the fridge. Down the corridor and into the ‘XYZ’ room, as I’ve christened my workspace. Breezy classical music is now playing, and I take a few deep breaths, then fire up the laptop and pour myself a coffee from the flask I’ve brought from home.
Set the timer. Go. It’s time to write- 52-minute blocks and then a five-minute break. I’m near the end of the residency. My subject? A Hare Krishna devotee. My aspirations? Become a ghostwriter. The manuscript is complete, and I stand at the dawn of a new profession.
I’ve hit ‘snooze’ on my career aspirations for most of my working life. I’m done sleeping through my potential. If I end up working back in an office, at least I can bank on the fact that I’ll never wake up on the wrong side of 7 am wondering if I can write a book. I’ve done the hard yards. Now I need to get the biography published. Wish me luck.