The 2019 Boroondara Literary awards - Get Writing!

Greetings, aspiring writers!

As of today (Mon 6 May 2019), The Boroondara Literary Awards are open and accepting entries in the 'Young Writers' Competition' category. 

This is open to all young people who live, study or work in the City of Boroondara. Creative Write-it is conveniently located in this area, so if you would like a little support in writing and preparing your entry, please feel free to get in touch! 

Entries close Friday 30 August 2019.

We are extremely proud to share a story which was recognised in last year's awards, written by a former young Creative Write-it author, Minduli. ​

Former Creative Write-it student Minduli Weeraman, 2018 Boroondara Literary Award winner for her story, 'A Wrinkle in Destiny'.

From Minduli's mum, Deepa:
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"Your teaching, advice and influence helped greatly to improve her writing skills. You put Minduli on the correct path and taught her how to structure her thoughts and imaginative ideas for a better outcome at a very young age. Thank you again for your wonderful work and effort which improved Minduli’s literary skills."

Minduli's short story, A Wrinkle in Destiny, won 3rd Prize in the 'Middle Prose' category, Year 7-9. We're absolutely thrilled to celebrate her success, and to have been a part of her writing journey!

Minduli was kind enough to let us share her story with you below. 

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'The Significant Warrior' by Minduli Weeraman

​P.S. You can also find The Significant Warrior, a novel written and published by Minduli during her time at the studio in our bookshop! 
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A Wrinkle in Destiny by Minduli Weeraman ​

I have always believed in death with virtue and meaning, haven’t you? Well, in simplicity. Grace. Nobility. Bravery. Even beauty. As simple as that. As simple as other people.

As simple as characters in fiction.

"All anyone wants is a good death," I read. This is in a novel about a young girl who is slowly succumbing to cancer. She is graceful, noble, brave, even beautiful. I hate the story. Stories about cancer, no matter how graceful, noble, brave or beautiful, leave me with a pit of despair that digs down further the more I read. They write that the character dies a “brave” death. That they are fearless. Living with cancer spreading through your bones is certainly not ideal, but are they really being brave, or doing what they have to do to survive? Do they really have a choice in whether they should forget about the pain chemotherapy injects and claws into them? When I read the author’s note, I learn that she works in the cancer centre where I am in palliative care and have received the news that I am going to die soon.

This is what I say to her book: I do not want your good death.

This is what I say to her biography: You make a living off other people’s deaths.

This is what I vow: I am not your story.

What if I were to write a story, with me as the protagonist? Another young girl, who reached the ripe age of sixteen with chestnut, brown hair and porcelain skin? Whose light freckles could only be seen in the sun, a secret too noticeable to be noticed? Notice the change in tense? Guess the ending.
There are patterns in stories like these. Untimely deaths and even unlikely romance. Pressured time and the monotonous tick of the looming grandfather clock until the heart…
stops…
beating.

What others do not notice, however, is the message under all of these words, pages upon pages of a tale that pulls heartstrings. The message that we take for granted but never fully accept. Our destiny is already written. We cannot change our fate, it is written in the stars. Of course, this does not make sense. How can our whole life story be written in flaming balls of gas that exist in the empty depths of the universe? Why is it that so many people say that we can change our fate? We cannot change our past, but we can supposedly change our future? This statement is true. Our future can be manipulated, but our destiny was written before we were born. It can never be changed.

Picture this: dark, pale clouds crawling across a watermelon sky, the sun like a bubbling, gold fountain. Swans dance gracefully like ballerinas in their feathery tutus, their slender necks bobbing in synchronised formation. Imagine not being able to see that in the same way. If that is too hard, imagine not being able to see that ever again. The way the sun’s rays bounce on the water and hang from the sky like spun gold. The way the clouds sweep across the sky, not in haste. Now, imagine not being able to describe it to anyone in words. Never being able to make those words come out of your mouth.

Going too fast for you? Well, keep up!

Imagine never being able to walk towards the glittering, jewel water, or never being able to swim in its mysterious, shimmering blue. Welcome to the world of brain cancer! Where most of your senses are impaired and nothing can be done about it except to wait. Waiting, wanting and hoping for something miraculous to happen, and whilst you wait, a tumour grows larger in your head.
As I wait for my oncologist, I ponder about life, mine in particular. My life has been cut short by a looming deadline that has been placed upon me. My cancer has inhabited me for a year and now I am thinking about weeks, possibly days of survival. It has torn down my life, my family, even my friends. Skyscrapers I had once built in my make-believe land are crashing down, cold, grey debris everywhere, unable to be fixed. I am a ticking bomb, waiting to explode and leaving my loved ones to pick up the pieces.

So, what do I do? I try to be the person I was not before.

Fifteen-year-old me would walk past beggars and paupers, kneeling on the dirty, cobble-stone streets, not even casting an eye upon them and feeling the jiggling of the silver coins that weigh down her pockets. Fifteen-year-old me would slam the door out on her desperate friend with faint, white scars on her wrists. Fifteen-year-old me would be ignorant of the troubles of the world and would never even think about helping others.

Now, whenever I see a shivering beggar kneel on the streets, I empty out my pockets and give away my coat and scarf. When my friend is on my doorstep with tears streaming down her blotched cheeks, I open the door wider. I try to help when I can and perhaps, these blessings that I get from my deeds might do the impossible.
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Change my destiny.