Face of Narcissus feels Nauseated about her apathy.

So I'm almost finished the first of the fiction I've been referring to as 'research' (God, I hope that means I can claim them on tax or something), Emile Zola's The Kill, and the characters are performing a tableaux of the story of Narcissus and Echo. Mention is made of the Liriope, mother of Narcissus. And I had, not brain-freeze, but brainwave.

I was inspired by the Swell Season in my story of the cost of indulgence and the ways in which we use fiction to console ourselves about our life choices, and I've been searching for a protagonist - as I stood on the balcony of the Concert Hall of the Sydney Opera House, overlooking the Harbour surrounded by Sydney's cultural elite, sipping red wine and boutique beer, I felt like I needed a female voice - mostly because I am one, and because so many films have a very dominant male voice (the hangover, etc). I always played Sonia in Mortal Kombat, and I feel this is merely the logical development of my early feminist gaming tendencies.

But I am definitely not setting out to make an Australian Gossip Girl - I can't keep up with the Oedipal drama and high fashion. And I don't want to simply retell the stories I've been reading.

Advice I received last week was figure out what story you want to tell. Extremely good advice. But I also need to know my characters or at the very least, my main character.

I want to explore these ideas of the pursuit of hedonism at all costs, the idle rich, morality, and the way we use fiction to try and balance out the inequaliy we all face in society.

But I forgot someone I really shouldn't have. Jean Paul Sartre. I began reading Nausea and put it down ages ago. Mistake. Because I think I'm feeling this existential nausea. I wanted to explore my apathy toward the world and my interest in, well, mostly my hair. Do I really not care? Is my own life meaningless? What if a person was to suddenly realise that their life is devoid of anything more than an obssession with images. Would it make them feel ill?

And just by seeing that name, Liriope, I knew I had my heroine and a story to tell. Liriope Clifton, socialite, obssessed with nothing but the new, suddenly wonders if her life without meaning? Why can't she bring herself to care about things that other people care about, things that are apparently of substance? Global warming, poverty, inequality, homelessness, etc. Does she belong to a world entirely without a moral compass?

Is she simply worried about an arbitrary societal construct? What does it mean to have a meaningful life? What does it mean if it is all arbitrary?

Perhaps I am just retelling Nausea. But it's fine if I'm reinterpreting it and placing it in a different societal and cultural context?

Meanwhile, can anybody tell me how to find a black wool or felt cloche hat for Autumn/Winter? I'm feeling a roaring 20s look, but with an edge. And by edge I mean wearing jeans.

The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means. -Oscar Wilde

Hello there. It's been a while. You look good, have you lost weight? Oh. Well, your hair looks - oh. Ahem.

I haven't blogged in a while and I sincerely apologise to my large and devoted readership. Just let me dream, will ya? Anyways, I've been writing something with a friend and of course, because I just love the blog, I've been focused on that one and not on this one.

But my mind has been a-tick, tick, tickin' away. If you've read my previous entries, and I just know you have...ahem...you'll know that I've been reading and watching a lot of stories about morality and the soul and the very things that ole Oscar is talking about in this entry's subject. The idea that we use all of these devices to justify our position in life to ourselves. I've been reading a lot about the idle rich and watching what could only be described as a shitload of Gossip Girl and though I'm not sure at this stage which side I'm coming out as being on (do I write something that glamourises high society or do I tread in the same shoes as Wilde, Fitzgerald and co. and write yet another story of the cost of living the high life?), but inspiration has come perhaps the unlikeliest of places: Irish folk music.

I believe I've written before about the ways in which music can inspire a story or a mere image for me, and last night I went to see the Swell Season at the Sydney Opera House. For those of you who have never heard of them, watch the film Once. More than once. What inspired me was a group of artists truly passionate about their art and revelling in it - they were all so happy to be there and it was lovely. And this passionate, meaningful, organic performance seems to be in complete contrast to the kind of story I'm developing, but it made me ask myself what I want to communicate with this project. And their last song really added a new dimension.

It was a traditional Irish song called The Parting Glass. Sung at gatherings and particularly at wakes, the song is about wishing people well. No fear, no regrets, no guilt. At wakes it is sung from the perspective of the corpse. Essentially asking those left behind not to be sad, to let go and just appreciate the time we have on this earth. It was so moving. And I think what I want to say with my project is this: do whatever you want, just make sure it means something to you.

Thoughts, etc?