Garie Beach

Please critique this memoir I'm writing?

Thank you. Just read a bit and say what you think...(C.R.) Creative Memoir (October 10 1998) There were the five of us, fresh from drab, rain-washed London, and overwhelmed by our sudden arrival on Australia’s east coast. My parents, harassed by their attempt to juggle three young children and a car full of luggage. My brothers – Freddie aged four and Alex only 18 months, both half asleep and bewildered; then me, the eldest, suddenly wide awake as we leave the car. In my mind I can picture the family, as a passerby would have seen us, clustered together by the high metal gate; surrounded by overflowing holiday bags and silent in the sticky night air. The only sounds are Dad struggling with the house keys, and the cicadas’ constant whirring in the background. At six, I have never heard this strange, scratchy tune before and I’m at a loss as to what it could be, yet too tired to bother guessing. Mosquitoes glide effortlessly over our heads, gently brushing our faces. The humidity makes it hard to breathe. Ahead, the house looms out of the dark and in my imagination its bright yellow face glows slightly in welcome. The cloying scent of dying flowers, sand and paint all mixed together hits me in the face as an afterthought, as we each step cautiously inside. Though we don’t know it, this single visit will be the first of countless others. When I woke up the next morning, strips of glaring light were poking through the gaps in the worn blue shutters, and a new noise had merged with the droning cicadas – the sea! My room had lemon-coloured walls, and the floor’s terracotta tiles felt rough and unfamiliar on my bare feet. It smelt of salt water and sand, as though you were already outside, and I ran out to wake the others up – as though it were Christmas. Upstairs there was a narrow balcony, that jutted out to give a view of the beach that was beyond the cracked road, just outside the house. Peering out from between the rungs of the balcony, it was completely deserted. If I squinted I could see flecks of spray flying up over the rocks – the sea’s irresistable appeal. Beyond the road outside the house there was a rocky cliff that led to the shore. That first day, we recklessly tumbled down the rocks to land on fine sand, which was as yellow as a rubber duck and so soft your feet sunk right into it and left deep prints – proper sand, worthy of any travel brochure advert. As we stood there, the sea gently lapped the shore, tugging at your toes as if teasing, hissing playfully like an old cat. Palm Beach seemed enormous; our whole world existed within boundaries that were actually very narrow. The corners of our territory were the Beach, the Lighthouse, the Pier and the Park, as in our minds they were the most important places. The beach was to become our second home over the next few years, but it still managed to retain its novelty. Our daily trips there were executed with military precision, as though we were on an important mission somewhere far away. In reality, the walk took two minutes, but when you are six that seems forever. We three children would trudge doggedly through the stifling heat, sandals stirring up dust, dragging so much equipment we looked part of a strange circus act – surf boards, buckets, spades, a multicoloured cascade of arm bands. The kookaburras would be laughing derisively at us, always out of sight yet rarely silent. Our parents languidly followed with the sun-cream and towels. Once there, everything was immediately dumped at the high-tide mark and Freddie and I would race into the sea. Alex, the chubby toddler, would waddle after us calling plaintively, wearing so many floats he could hardly move, his pink skin coated in a thick layer of cream. We would swim as far out as we dared, out to touch the side of one of the moored boats tethered to a carrot coloured buoy. I would swim until my eyes stung with salt, and fingers went apricot-wrinkly. Or perhaps we would go beach-combing, and find unconventional treasures: bleached bones of driftwood; cuttlefish; tangled masses of rope and tiny intricate shells, the size of fingertips. Or instead we could try digging back to England, through the damp sand with plastic spades. I always believed it would be possible, if only we dug long enough – but before long the sea would cheat us and sneak up to obscure our work. Instead, we could run races up the beach to stay dry, up to the storm-water drain and back. A trail of prints in the white-powder sand at hight-tide marked our paths in these races. I always tied with Dad. By the time I was old enough to win, we’d be back in England. There was so much for us to do, and every day was full of new possibilities. A couple of times we went to sit on the rocks when the tide was high up, to try ‘proper’ fishing, Alex inevitably getting tangled up in the line or dropping bait in the water. The fish we caught were never worth keeping, but the

Public Comments

1. "At six, I have never heard this strange, scratchy tune before and I’m at a loss as to what it could be, yet too tired to bother guessing" - get rid of stuff like that. You should aim to condense all of that into half the size it is now. I'm telling you this because I got bored. Also try not to use the same description twice - ie, cicada. Good luck.
2. you have one thing nailed-the ability to utilize all 6 of a writers senses so as to ultimately paint the master picture in his head however dont stretch out moments too long.a reader needs to see and feel a story progress.
3. My dear friend... Well you received quite a bit of critique....but I believe in constructive criticism....and I "recognized myself" in your writing (which I find pretty decent), yet I do the "same mistake" as you.....I have a tendency to "draw it out" tooo much....People criticize me for "taking the L O N G route" instead of getting to the "point"....-smile- But...I still liked it very much ! Keep up the good work (just brief it a tiny bit) -smile- Sending you all my love & care....your friend...Annette***
4. Once again I am startled and impressed by the quality of your writing. Were I you I would staunchly ignore that Stephen King nonsense that someone was trying to chide you with. There are a million ways to write and King's is surely among the least of the forms, in artistry if not in volume or marketablity. It is clear, to me at least, that you are aiming for something very different and you have gone a long way toward achieving it. Details: The last line of the first paragraph reads awkwardly. The phrase 'the sea' is repeated once too often in the second, I would probably change the last. The first sentence of the third paragraph seems contradictory, to no particular purpose that I can see. Perhaps starting it differently with, maybe, something like 'Even though Palm Beach...' would be less jarring to the ear. Small things, certainly. This is very nicely executed and beautifully evocative prose. Good work.
5. That was extraordinarily good. I don't usually answer questions about writing since I'm not particularly good at critiquing. This, though, was very impressive. Frankly your descriptions brought vividly to mind some childhood experiences of my own; I could almost feel the heat and sand. There are only minor details to add to what reader mentioned: -There are some misspellings which editing will correct (e.g., irresistible is spelled wrong in the second paragraph and high tide in the fourth) -The two sentences about digging back to England in the fourth paragraph are slightly awkward, but I'm probably nitpicking. You have talent and should definitely keep writing. (This is my real reason for answering.)