Check out Karl Lagerfeld’s library. Not jealous…much.

I have never been one to fawn over stars (rock, movie, aussie soap etc),  fashionistas or A/B/C grade celebrities. Particularly the fashionistas. Reading the Devil Wears Prada is about as close as I have ever come to reading Vogue magazine. So I can’t say I have ever been interested or intrigued by Karl Lagerfeld, or King Karl as he is apparently known by those in the know, apart from wondering how someone who is steeped in so much fashion mystique, revered by fashionistas worldwide, can be happy to get about looking like a cross between a skunk and Herman Munster.

Anyway, for Christmas Ali gave Lissy a book called The Selby is in your Place, a collection of photos of creative people in their personal spaces that this guy called Todd Selby takes. Check out his website theselby.com. So I was flicking through it last night and I came across the shoot he did of Karl Lagerfeld’s place. I think I actually said “Oh My God” out loud. For those of you who read my blog about wanting to have my own library, check out the photo below and you will understand why.

Excuse the dodgy photo (didn't do Todd Selby proud with that reproduction, and have probably just broken some international copyright laws or something).

Very cool library Mr Lagerfeld. Because I am a sticky beak and detail freak, I did take a closer look at his book collection and saw that he has several copies of the same title. I’m not sure what that’s all about – hope it means the books are not just for show. But is it feasible that he has even read half of these books? Maybe he has the same book buying addiction as me. Although it would be a lot easier for him to feed his addiction since he also owns the book store next door. Very handy.

Not jealous much. I think my interest in fashion just went up a few notches.

Did someone put sleeping tablets in the Christmas Cake?

I think I've been drugged. It's the only conclusion I can come to for why, for the past three days, I have spent most of my time yawning, snoozing, wishing I was in bed, talking about being tired, sleeping or saying "I don't know why I'm so tired". Either someone slipped something into the Christmas cake or Dad is piping some sleeping gas through the air con. Which, come to think of it, might not be such a bad idea with two wet-weather-housebound kids running around. Don't tell family services.

It's like that feeling you get after you have just finished Christmas dinner, when you have eaten enough to feed a small animal (like a baby elephant....for a month), and you just want to lie on the couch but instead have to tackle the washing up for 12 people who also ate enough to feed the rest of Noah's ark. Christmas lunch lethargy. Only mine started a day early.
If it's not the sleeping gas, that it must be the last four years of expending 110% effort as corporate girl finally catching up with me. I can only hope it doesn't last too long. Even typing this blog I keep wanting to let my head have a wee little rest on the keyboard. It's going to be a long six months if this keeps up.

This rain, on the other hand, is welcome to keep up. This is good, stay-indoors-and-write kind of weather. As opposed to stay-indoors-watching-movies-under-the-doona kind of weather, which would be procrastinaction and Christmas lunch lethargy combined at their worst. It's all about the writing, Kathryn. Repeat after me, it's all about the writing.

I can also only hope that this weather is not replaced by hot, sunny days when I might be found sunning myself on the beach with the feeble excuse of doing research for that very important beach scene. Bring on the floods! The less reasons I have for leaving the house, the better.

My first day on the job as a full time writer

It has been 24 hours since I walked out the front doors of AECOM's Brisbane's office and into my new life as a full time writer (unpaid, unpublished, living at home with parents).

Did I feel sad walking out the doors? Hard to say really. I can't say I comprehended it. Even when I handed over my former lifebloods (my blackberry and laptop) it didn't feel like it was really happening. Even when I said goodbye to my bosses Frank and Lorraine. Sitting in the bus on the way home I kept saying to myself "This is the last time you will have to wear these heels for six months" but even that didn't sink in. Maybe because I know it is going to go quickly and I will be walking through those doors again in no time. Or maybe because the overriding thought running through my head was "I've done it. SHIT. Now I actually have to stop talking about this book and actually write it".

D-Day has arrived.

Here is a quick snapshot of what a day in the life of a full time writer has consisted of so far:

7:30am Wake up and play Nintendo Wii with five year old nephew and Dad.
8:00am Beat Dad at ten pin bowls by scoring a Turkey. Take pride in fact I am excellent online sportsperson since so uncoordinated in real life.
8:30am Eat two Weet Bix.
9:15am Walk to ferry with Mum, Brother-in-law Damian, and nephews Will (5) and Ed (2).
10:00am Arrive at ScienceCentre. Spend approximately two and a half hours putting together Rubik's cubes and cheering for Ed as he did the 25m sprint challenge about 50 times in a row.
1:00pm Arrive home at Bulimba. Eat hot dog.
1:30pm Snooze on couch following extended and exhaustive cheering efforts for the 25m sprint.
2:30pm Older sister Elissa and soon-to-be brother-in-law Jules arrive from Sydney.
3:30pm Quick dash to Coles for last minute Christmas day essentials i.e. tonic for the gin.
4:30pm Crack open first bottle of champagne (Moet) to celebrate Liss and Jules engagement.
5:00pm Crack open second bottle of champagne (Veuve) .
5:05pm Robust discussion on whether Moet or Veuve is better. General consensus = Moet.
5:55pm Fire up computer to write a blog entry
6:00pm Realise that using alcohol to get the creative juices flowing is not that effective. Just causes lots of spelling errors.
6:15pm Come to the conclusion that Christmas Eve should not be considered a prime example of a day in the life of a full time writer.

I have signed an imaginary contract in my head that states that the full time writing gig starts next week. For now I am going to write a few blogs, spend some time with my family, catch up on some sleep, eat a few rum balls and drink a bit too much champagne/gin and tonics. Next week it is 2,500 words a day, come inspiration or not. Does that make me nervous? Yes. But excited too. Best go and have another glass of champagne - apparently it is a very good relaxant.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Saying goodbye to the A-Team

I love my team. I do. If I could somehow take the whole lot of them with me into my new role when I return to corporate life, I would.

On Wednesday they organised a farewell for me. At about 10:30am I was sitting at my desk absorbed in some exciting report or other when I heard a lot of heavy breathing behind me. When I turned around I laughed so much I cried. A cliche but a true account of what happened. Check out below to see why.

This photo was taken after I had put on the t-shirt they made me, which featured all of their faces enshrined in love hearts - that's me in the middle. That's David second from the right, the one who has an apple logo sticker on the front of his Dell laptop.

They wore these shirts around the office all day.  I think people thought it was some kind of a flash mob - the marketing team promoting some new campaign. People were still talking about it on Friday - which may or may not have had anything to do with the massive 'I HEART KT' poster hanging next to my desk. They were probably just wondering why I love myself so much that I hung up a poster about it.

Even though I have quit my role, got a new one, hired my replacement, rented out my apartment and moved in with my parents, this was the first day that the reality of what I am doing really sunk in. The last four years in this role have been a sometimes dizzy mix of challenging and rewarding - I have hired and fired, given warnings about phone bills and good news about promotions. I started with two staff and say goodbye to 12. I have made hundreds of cups of coffee with this crew. Do I feel sad about moving on? Yes, I do.

I just want to say - thanks team (since I know that a few of you have now discovered my blog - thanks DT). You are the best team a corporate girl could wish for. When I need a flash mob to promote my new bestselling novel, you will be the first people I call. 

As a creative person, is having a Dell like turning up for work as Fashion Director in the Vogue office wearing Payless shoes?

With the end of my job comes the end of my work sponsored laptop. So a few weeks ago I started the extensive task of researching laptops. It went something like this:

1. My detailed analysis of creative people has led me to the assumption that 99% of them use Macs.
2. I am trying to look like a creative person.
3. Therefore I should get a Mac.
4. Ask girl at work how much she likes her Mac.
5. She loves it.
6. Ask her what price she paid.
7. I don't love that so much - or more specifically, my new I-won't-be-earning-an-income-in-three-weeks budget doesn't love it so much.
8. Look online at Dell laptop.
9. Purchase Dell laptop for $800.
10. Say goodbye to vision of sitting in cafe typing novel on Mac looking like trendy creative person.

Seems I am too sensible on the budget front to be too worried about whether or not I look the creative part. But is this creative suicide? As a creative person, is having a Dell like turning up for work as Fashion Director in the Vogue office wearing Payless shoes?

Get over it, says my back pocket. I just hope my lovely new Dell computer is as full of creative juices as the marketing people at Apple have so easily convinced me a Mac is.

My shiny silver Dell arrived yesterday. My tech savviness is about on par with my athletic ability, it just took me two hours to work out how to connect to the internet. In the end Dad had to work it out for me, which is quite shameful considering he is retired and nearing 60. I don't think he could handle the swearing and whingeing that was going on. And that was before I discovered that apparently CD drives don't come as standard on laptops anymore. My customer satisfaction levels are rapidly nose diving. I am sure they are going to hit rock bottom this weekend when I try to transfer my i-tunes over - a task in my mind that is about equal in effort and difficulty to running a marathon. I wonder if the guys on the IT Help Desk at work are open to bribes.

I think I am in love with Ken Follett

I had never heard of Ken Follet until I read an interview with him on Booktopia. But I think I am now in love with him. Not because of his distinguished good looks (without being ageist, see photo below - he looks a little like Santa's less hairy brother) but because of an answer he gave in his interview



When asked what advice he would give aspiring writers he only said "Be a perfectionist". A man after my own heart! I have no idea if I can write a novel, no idea if I have the discipline to commit to writing a minimum of 2500 words a day, but a perfectionist? Now that I have well and truly mastered.

A few months ago I was on the receiving end of some 360 degree feedback at work. A confronting exercise at the best of times, always full of things that both warm your heart and make you go red in the face with strenuous denial. In the area of perfectionism, my scores skyrocketed. This was not news to me - my poor family, often on the receiving end of my perfectionist tendencies, had been gently and not-so-gently suggesting this to me for years. My leadership coach, the same one who told me I was a sucker for procrastinaction, kindly explained that being a perfectionist was not necessarily a good thing before handing me a copy of a book called "Perfectionism: A sure cure for happiness". I didn't even try arguing that correct punctuation makes me deliriously happy.

And so I discovered that perfectionism is not a good thing in the work place. Or so I thought. A couple of weeks later, in my annual performance review, I raised this with my two managers, who had both scored me about 11/10 on the perfectionist scale. I asked them what advice they had for curing this undesirable trait, to which they responded "We don't want you to fix it. That's why we hired you". It turns out one of my bosses had another Somerville House graduate work for her years earlier, who was also a perfectionist. So when Lorraine saw my CV and glimpsed the words 'Somerville House' she sent for an immediate interview and I was hired within a week. Perplexed, I asked why they had then scored my perfectionism as a negative behaviour in the feedback. They simply responded that I just needed to work on perceptions. My perfectionism made me work long hours. Rather than telling me to get a better work/life balance, they simply said that if I wanted to continue writing emails at midnight that was fine, but maybe just save them to my outbox and send them first thing in the morning.

Perhaps this blog should be called an ode to work/life balance - or how not to do it. Starring Kathryn Tyrrell.

It seems quite ironic really that the reason I am taking time off work to write my book is because I am a perfectionist, yet this is the quality Ken thinks I need to have as an aspiring writer. Either way, it seems that I don't need to kill of all of my perfectionist tendencies just yet. Which is a relief because I hadn't quite figured out the absolutely best way to go about doing it.

Answers to the TOP 10 questions I am being asked, right here in one handy list

I have found in recent weeks that there seems to be a common theme to the questions I am being asked so I thought I would jot them all down in a list. This way my friends and family can just read my blog and not have to talk to me, which some of you may prefer. It would also suit me as then I can save my voice in preparation for appearing on Oprah’s book club. I can also just print out a copy of this blog post and hand it out when anyone asks a question. Don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.

I have considered the fact that maybe people are only asking me these questions to be polite, but I quickly dismissed it. Surely there could be nothing more interesting for people to think or talk about than me?

So, here they are (in reverse order, to build the anticipation towards number one):

10. When are you moving out? Thursday (see previous blog post)

9. What are you doing with all your furniture? As well as their middle daughter, Billy and Naz are getting a garage full of furniture, which I am sure will come in handy when they need a third fridge.

8. When are you finishing work? Last day the office is open before Christmas - 23 December. I envision I will be doing a lot of work that week.

7. Are you insane? No, not that I am aware of.

6. Have you won lotto? Ditto.

5. Have you found your replacement yet? Yes, Kay starts on 20 December. I am sure she must be the only person in Australia starting work the week of Christmas, but when I was asked if I would be willing to come back in for a few days in the New Year to do a handover, I contemplated it for about three seconds and said no.

4. Have you started writing your book yet? Yes and No. Is that non-committal enough for you? Started writing but now have fantabulous new idea that I want to write more. Busy writing it in my head at the moment, preparing to commit it to the page.

3. When do you leave for London/have you booked your flight yet? Probably early February, only tickets booked yet are for flying by the seat of my pants.

2. Can I come with you? All welcome, but only if you are quiet and non-distracting.

And the number one question I am being asked (drum roll please):

1.   Are you getting excited? I think there is something wrong with me. I am one of these weird people who doesn’t get excited for a holiday until my plane has landed at the destination. I didn't even get an adrenalin rush from sky diving. I think I am disappointing people when they ask me “Are you getting excited?” and I look at them with a blank expression and say “Ah, not really”. I will soon, when it all feels a little less surreal.

And there you have it – Kathryn’s top 10. Any others, send me a text, email, blog comment , leave a voice mail, employ a sky sign writer or send me a message in a bottle. I will add it to the list.

Plaster teeth and other random things I have found while packing

So here I am. Sitting on the couch. Just me, my laptop, a lot of boxes and a gecko on the wall. Only a few loose items remain to be packed – a bowl for breakfast, a glass for water....and maybe one for wine. You know, just the essential stuff.

Some of the random things that I have discovered in my packing:

-     Old video tapes including Cher fitness videos, my high school formal, and Dirty  Dancing.

-     Set of plaster teeth at the back of the bathroom cabinet from when I had my mouth guard made.

-     Mum and Dad’s phone charger from three years ago (sorry about that, just add it to the bill)

-     Three penis shaped twisty straws from Emma’s Hens lunch. I thought about keeping them for my nephews as I’m sure they wouldn’t know, but it just seemed a little wrong.

On my right are boxes full of stuff from the kitchen. It is amazing how much kitchen stuff I have for someone who doesn’t cook. And kitchen stuff I don’t even know how to use, like a Mortar and Pestle. Why would anyone still use a tool in the kitchen that requires manual labour? I have always loved the idea of being a good cook – unfortunately the cooking genes went mostly to my older sister Elissa. I cook more like my Nan, who is infamous for her Sunday night special where everything leftover from the week gets made into a casserole. I still have fond memories of a casserole about 20 years ago that featured cheerios and ruffles chips.

On my left are boxes full of books, and these are just the ones from the living room. There are more in both bedrooms upstairs. A good cook I am not, a devoted reader I am.  

And then of course the boxes where I have just stuffed those things into that I have no idea what to do with, but am sure I will figure it out when I open the box in 12 months time. Mum said she had a few of those when we moved up from Canberra when I was 11 – after not opening them for 20 years, she eventually threw them all out when they moved to Bulimba. I asked her what was in them and all she could remember was old shoes.

So the packing is 95% done. Removalists are booked for Thursday. Tenants move in on Saturday. Only two more nights in Red Hill before the hard work adventure truly begins.

A huge thanks to Billy and Naz for all of the packing and cleaning efforts to date, and those yet to come. Without you around to beat the packing boredom, I would probably have died from sniffing too much packing tape, my hands black from wrapping glassware in newspaper print. Your reward? Me, living in your house for the next 12 months. Lucky you. But you are getting the flat screen TV as an added bonus.

Is there anyone alive who actually enjoys packing?

Packing is one of those activities that you do for hours on end, then look around and realise you have hardly made a dent. For a two bedroom townhouse I have accumulated a lot of crap over the past three years to build on the crap from the 30 years before that. Boxes of the stuff. But even  though I know it's crap I still can't seem to get rid of it - sentimentality insanity. In 50 years time will I really care that I saved my Christmas cards from 1992? Will I ever need inspiration from 100 back issues of outdated Real Living magazines?

When I was a kid I spent hours with my baby sister Alison pretending we were librarians - getting all of our books out, writing out book loan cards (computers were still the size of a small house back in those days), loaning them to imaginary people. When we got sick of that we would wash Dad's 1982 Commodore, pretending it was the Queen's Rolls Royce. Maybe because we didn't understand the concept of working and chores at that stage, they seemed grown up and fun. Maybe I just need to channel that again - fly Alison in from Sydney and pretend that we are professional house packers. The problem is that now I am a grown up, and I understand the reality of chores and work. And being a professional house packer must be in contention for the title of world's worst job. 

You know who I do have respect for? Those people who manage international moves - the ones who walk into your house, glance around and estimate you have 1.4556 40ft shipping containers worth of contents to ship. How do they do that? I can't even accurately estimate the number of boxes - I never get enough. I looked around a few days ago and thought "20 boxes should just about do it". I have nearly used them up and haven't even left the kitchen/dining yet. Not to mention the amount of newspaper. After digging into the stash I have for Roary's kitty litter (is that bad? It feels a little tainted because of it's initial intended purpose), I have already progressed to the tea towel drawer and now the linen cupboard to source wrapping for my breakables. Haven't had to succumb to toilet paper just yet. 

I'm looking forward to the troops (Mum and Dad) arriving on Sunday morning to sort me out. We moved house what seemed like 50 times before I was 10 - and all in the same suburb, which in hindsight is kind of weird actually - so they are seasoned experts at this moving and packing business. Clearly one gene I did not inherit.

Better get back to it....or maybe just a quick nap on the couch first.....

I'm moving on out

The daunting task of box packing has suddenly gone from priority number 20 in my life, somewhere between unplugging the shower drain and finishing off the photo albums from my trip to South America five years ago, to priority number three. It is now surpassed only by booking a removalist and finding a storage unit for all my earthly treasures.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to consider buying some bunk beds and converting my spare room to a hostel for Japanese students, my seemingly useless real estate agent* found me a tenant! A lovely professional couple who come with glowing references and a cat (hence why they must be lovely even though I have never met them).

They wanted to move in this weekend but after brief contemplation I realised I am not super human and have agreed to next Saturday, 11 December, instead. So the torturous process of packing begins. You will probably notice a lot of blogging over the next week as the packing procrastinaction kicks in.

This time in two weeks I will have moved in with my new roomies (can you call your parents roomies?) and will only be a couple of weeks away from turning 34 and being kind-of unemployed. Serious grounds for writing more depressive 'Memories' related poetry, and yet for the first time since I first asked my boss if I could take six months off work, I am excited. Now it feels like it’s really happening!

The project plan is on track (which keeps my corporate genes happy). If only I could conjure up a box packing fairy, life would be pretty damn good right about now**.

*I really dislike real estate agents. I know that is a general sweeping statement, particularly when I have a couple of friends who are in the real estate game and my own mother used to be one, but, the industry seems to have a gaping hole in its training program that covers the “I work in customer service” component of the job.

I have been dealing with a real estate agent for nearly two months trying to get my property rented. And I emphasise the I have been dealing with them component – if it wasn’t for me making phone calls and sending emails, I would still be waiting for them to upload the photos to the internet. The same photos they had to take twice since the first lady missed the other part of the training program that teaches them how to use a camera. Or perhaps just  how to look at the screen after you have taken them so you can tell if they are crap or not.

**To be perfect I would also need to have already finished work, lost five kilos, be in training for a triathlon and have met the man of my dreams (although since I am about to move in with my parents it probably wouldn’t  be great timing).

Should I buy a one way ticket?

The end of work is nigh – Kay, my replacement, is starting on 20 December. Tomorrow would have been preferable, but only 16 working days away so I can’t really complain. A week of handover and then I am off on the world’s longest ever Christmas break.

So I have started to think about actually making a commitment to a flight to London. The question is – will I encounter any trouble at Heathrow airport if I arrive with a one way ticket, a laptop and an overloaded suitcase? I am going to use frequent flyer points, and a one way ticket is exactly half the points of a return, so there is no financial incentive to lock myself into a return date and departure airport.

But  I have visions of being carted away at Heathrow on suspicion of trying to illegally enter the country to work and put straight back on the first flight home. While that could make for an interesting story, it is one I would prefer to stay in my head.

Is a one way ticket a trouble magnet? Let me know what you think.....

The first time I was published

The more I read about published authors, the more I think I am a writing fraud.

I started thinking about this when I was reading Stephen King’s book On Writing (referenced in my last post) – he devotes the first part of the book to his CV – recounting tales of his youth and his early years as a writer that led him to being published. While his classmates were out having a smoke behind the gym or riding their BMX bikes, he was writing science fiction and suspense stories and submitting them to magazines – by the time he was 18 he already had a few pieces published and dozens of rejection slips.

I did not spend my teenager years in the pursuit of publication. While I was a dedicated student, my leisure time was spent in the same way as many other teenagers – hanging around in the city, going to movies, pretending to go to movies but instead hanging out in the city smoking Marlboro reds, giving my girlfriend Dana an undercut, talking about boys, talking to boys, and looking at pictures of boys in their high school yearbooks.  Playing netball, working in Mum and Dad’s newsagency, and reading featured somewhere in amongst all of that as well, but you can tell pretty quickly that writing stories and getting published were not high on my list of things to do.

A writing fraud through and through. Surely if I wanted to be a writer I would have been scribbling stories since I could first hold a pencil. Mulling this over, I felt slightly depressed for days. Until I remembered that I have, in fact, already been published.

Now, I’m not talking about The New Yorker here. Or even the The Courier Mail. But the Somerville House Yearbook circa 1991, 1992 and 1993.

In a fit of triumph at remembering that I, too, was a childhood writing genius, I dug out my old yearbooks with enthusiasm, flicking through the black and white typewritten pages, searching for my name in print. I was overcome by vivid memories of flowing, rhythmical poetry, and sharp, funny stories, things I hadn’t set eyes on in nearly 20 years.

On finding them, I could only hope that no one else has set eyes on them for the last 20 years either. My initial observation about my first published works is that my writing style 20 years ago was a little different to the romantic comedy that is my adult fiction of choice. My writing when I was 14 was verging more on depressed and suicidal than comedic.  In 1991 I had a short story and a poem selected – one titled “Death’s Memories” and the other “Memories”. I am not sure what memories I had developed in my short life that inspired these fine pieces of writing, nor had I experienced death other than that of my cat Pussy (my parents named her, don’t blame me) but haunting they are. Particularly the one that describes a desolate cupboard, and a dying, wilting rose.

In 1992 I progressed to writing poetry titled “View from the Inside” that was possibly even more tortured than my Memories series. The poem starts with “The world weighs on your drooping shoulders, cement blocks on your weary feet, constant overbearing pressure, to succeed, to win, to compete”. They shouldn’t have been publishing my work, they should have been sending me to the school guidance counsellor on red alert.

I did start to hit my stride when I was 16 though. Not only was I published but I won an award! The Magazine Essay Award, for an essay titled “Fame from the other side “, a topic I clearly had so much first hand experience with. It was printed on page 116 right before the report from the Chess team. Highly coveted by no one in particular, but the only award I received on completing Year 12 so one I have been quite fond of ever since. I was not successful in winning the Short Story prize though. So maybe I should be trying to become a journalist rather than a novelist.

Perhaps I am stretching it just a little to try and convince myself that I was a childhood writing genius. Well, maybe a lot. But reading back over my immature attempts at creative writing has given me the evidence that I clearly needed that perhaps this writing caper is not a passing whim. The third instalment in the Memories series could be on the cards after all.....

No backing out now

Turns out I am not irreplaceable after all - my replacement officially accepted today!!  Start date approximately four weeks time.....so looks like I will need to ask Santa for that divine inspiration for Christmas after all.

It only took 12 interviews in the end. No need to rush these things. But the wait was worth it - couldn't have hoped for anyone better to take over the reins - I don't even mind that I think we have employed someone who is going to show me up. I will be too busy churning out my 2500 words a day to be too worried about that I suspect.

Wonder if I should be concerned that I am now out of a job but have not yet signed the paperwork for my new role. Putting a lot of faith in the goodwill of the corporate powers that be.

Why I want to write a book

If someone told me the end of the world was coming and I had to give up one of either reading or writing in order to prevent it, I would take about half a second to make my choice. I would rather spend the rest of my life eating two minute noodles than give up reading.

I am addicted to books. Have been ever since I was a little kid; I have my wonderful Mum to thank for that. I come from a family of prolific readers. Christmas Day and birthdays are always a bit of a let down if there isn’t at least one book amongst the present pile. On average I would say I get through around two books a week, depending on what else is going on in my life at the time, and the size of the books in question. Sometimes it is only one a month, but that tends to result in a book reading binge. I fairly regularly stay up until 1am or 2am to polish off a book on a school night. A quick count of my bedside table at the moment tells me that I have 17 books actively on the go or with an intention to be finished at some point before Christmas (wishful thinking). And yes this includes Shantaram. It also includes Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver, which I have been struggling through for about three years (loved Let’s Talk About Kevin, but this one is just a slog).

A lot of people have asked me why I want to write a book. Which is a good question given that I have just told you all that I would choose reading over writing if forced to make the choice. I guess the best reason I can give is that because I love to read so much, love books and the world of fiction, I can’t imagine not at least attempting to make a contribution to that world. I too want to create a story that makes a reader want to hug it to their chest when they have finished. To create characters that they are still thinking about days after they have finished the final page.

I wasn’t born with any athletic ability – I was born with two left feet but a willingness to try anything. My Dad once told me he was proud of me for running (I was in training for the 10k Gold Coast run at the time) because it didn’t come naturally to me. I wasn’t offended by this; I found it quite funny and entirely accurate. I also wasn’t born with a massive IQ. I have always been a hard worker (this I am convinced I was born with) so mostly achieve what I set out to do, but I was never going to be a rocket scientist or molecular biologist. I am also near tone deaf with no musical talent. Despite being quite adept at the recorder when I was about eight years old, I am never going to be the next Julia Stone no matter how much singing practice I do in the car.

But I can write. And I think we all have an obligation to make good use of our god given talents. Writing persuasive executive summaries for Sewerage Treatment Plants and Parallel Runways is riveting, but not quite cutting the mustard as they say.

So I’m going to write. Write a story that has been banging about in my head in one form or another for about seven years, although it did just make quite a U-Turn about four weeks ago when I had a moment of divine inspiration when standing at Suz and Paul’s wedding. They (the same they as referenced before, whoever they are) also say that your first novel is often quite autobiographical – and I don’t doubt they are right. I write romantic comedy, and all of you who know me (which is everyone, given only my lovely family and friends read this blog) know that my love life is nothing short of a comedy. But don’t worry, I promise this will be a little more interesting.

But that’s about all I am going to say about it. I have just finished reading Stephen King’s novel On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. He talks about writing with the door closed, and writing with the door open. Door closed is for the first draft, door open for the second. I am still writing with the door closed, and will be for quite some time. So I am going to apologise in advance if I screw up my face and ummm and ahhh a lot when asked about my book and what it’s about. I’m just not ready to open the door yet. But I sincerely promise it isn’t because I am writing a book about any of you (despite having received several requests from friends – mostly male - to have the main character named after them. Even when they don’t know if that means they will be the equivalent of Hannibal Lecter).

Ask me again in six months time, when hopefully I will have bashed out some dodgy first draft, whether I would still give up writing over reading. Maybe when I consider myself more of a writer I will have a different view. For now I had better make a dent in these books....I could be up all night.

The distraction of fake moustaches and feather boas

The last two weeks have been evidence enough for me that I need to take time off to get this book written. I haven’t even had time to buy cat food let alone write my blog. Instead I have been working 14 hour days getting our annual Queensland conference organised (what that has to do with my job as Marketing Manager I have never quite figured out but think it has something to do with a combination of event management skills and being unable to say no). It felt kind of like organising four weddings at once. 80 people, two and a half days, one awards night, and one murder mystery night (where I got to dress them all up in dodgy costumes and fake moustaches – very satisfying). I did learn that night that giving the Russian Mafia table a shot glass as part of their costume and then a real bottle of vodka as a table prop was not such a smart move. Lets just say that there are things I saw that night that will I will never be able to erase from my memory involving male work colleagues, a black lacy bra, feather boas and the song "Sweet Transvestite".

 Anyway, I packed them all back on the bus to Brisbane at 4:45pm on Friday (to be precise, it was a momentous occasion) and come Sunday morning I think I may have just about recovered. So time to get back to blogging and writing.

Two things of note have happened in my corporate to creative journey since I last blogged.

1.     We have shortlisted two candidates for my job – hallelujah!

2.     My townhouse is officially up for rent.

I have mixed feelings about both of these. While I want to find someone for my job so I can head off into the land of writing, I feel sad about leaving my team. I personally hired all of them, built the team from the ground up, and we have alot of fun at work (when we are not rolling our eyes at the antics of left brain engineers). Once we have a preferred candidate there is no going back.

I also love living in Red Hill. I like being able to walk home after a night out at the rugby and a few drinks at Gambaros (and I admit maybe a dance floor session at the Caxton – I blame the cheap wine at Suncorp Stadium). I love being able to walk down to have brekkie at Anouk in Paddington. Even though I usually drive because I am lazy. I know it’s only for 12 months but I am still feeling a little nostalgic.

Not much movement on the rental front yet though. I am trying to rent it furnished (refer to earlier lazy comment) and apparently there is only a small market for this. Will try it out for a few weeks to see what happens. I just had a look on the rental site and it has had 181 page visits...but zero inspections. There is something wrong with that equation. Think I had better start looking for some furniture storage.

Big thanks for Roary though for getting in a couple of the photos taken by the rental agent – gives the place some added character (see if you can Spot Roary Here). Just hope my body corporate don’t see it since I never did get around to paying that $100 to keep you here. You just might get evicted early.

Sex really does sell

I think it is quite entertaining that I received four times as many page views on my blog "The Sex and the Cash Theory" than I did on my blog "I am addicted to Badminton". Obviously sex is the preferred sporting pastime of my followers (that makes me sound like Jesus).

Maybe I should write that Mills & Boon novel after all.

My battle with the e-book

I love my book collection. When I grow up I want to have a house with a library and floor to ceiling books. Here's one I prepared earlier, just to give you a visual of what I have in mind:

Because of this, I have been a very vocal resistor of the new e-book phenomenon. The thought of discarding my dog eared books with their cracked spines and pages that smell like musty old English libraries  for a piece of technology is about as foreign to me as the Japanese language (I scored ½ out of 10 on a Japanese test in Grade 9...couldn’t tell my katakana from my hiragana).

That is until my good friend Suzi J introduced me to her Kindle . And I started to think of how much easier it would be to travel with one of those than five kilos of paperbacks, many of which often end up discarded in hotel rooms, the pockets of plane seats or donated to other needy travellers.  How much easier it would be to just connect up and download a book than to have to trawl foreign towns for second hand book stores with one shelf of English titles that usually consist of Mills and Boon and ten copies of The Da Vinci Code.

Although my biceps always appreciate the exercise they receive from holding up a book at an exact 90 degree angle to the sun when I lie on the beach, imagine how much easier a lightweight e-book would be! As long as you don't drop it in the sand. I doubt the e-reader would appreciate that very much.

I might even get to finish Shantaram after four years of looking at it on my bookshelf. Every time I go to pack it for a holiday or into my handbag for the bus ride to work, it always gets turfed out for one if it's smaller, more lightweight cousins.

And no more book sharing would mean no more unidentified sticky spots on the covers, hand written names of past owners on the title pages, or spaghetti bolognaise splatters on the pages.

But aren't all of these things part of what gives a book its character? How does a book get its character when its been downloaded from the Internet? There's something special about loaning on your favourite books to your favourite people. Giving them a USB stick just wouldn't feel quite the same. And I can't imagine for the first time author that getting a copy of your first book in your hands would be as momentous an occasion if it was sent to you as a link in an email.

For any avid reader, surely this is the great moral dilemma of our time. Are we selling ourselves out if we go digital? I hazard a guess that as usually occurs when it comes to technology, I am simply a late adopter. My Grandma probably has one by now. I just need to accept that times they are a changin' and put a Kindle on my Christmas wish list. But I still want that library.

Still a Corporate Girl

It appears that I am not a very good blogger. I discovered this over the past week when at least 20 people asked me “Have you finished work yet?”. As a blog about my creative journey, this is probably near the top of the list of ‘basic information’ questions, right below my name (Kathryn Ann Tyrrell, Kath to my mates, Blondie to my family), Date of Birth 22/12/1986...OK, OK, 1976) and hair colour (blonde with just a little help from the bottle). Yet I seem to have neglected to write an update on this basic piece of information. I have been sidetracked by sex and cash.  

So have I finished work yet? The short answer is no. In fact, even the long answer is no. The problem seems to be that I am irreplaceable.

In order for me to finish up at work, I have to find my replacement. And seven interviews on we seem to be getting as close to finding my replacement as we are to ending world poverty. It’s not that we’re not interviewing some quality candidates, but just that no one can agree. Too many heads on the selection panel being kind of like too many cooks in the kitchen. And with each person on the panel, including myself, being as opinionated as Gordon Ramsay I could be there until retirement.

I am still trying to work out if this difficulty we are having in finding my replacement means I have done a fantastic job over the last few years (ie we have to search the world over for someone as good as Kathryn) or I have come up short (ie whatever we do, don’t get anyone that even slightly resembles Kathryn). I of course choose to think the fantastic option, with periodic lashings of the second. What I have worked out for sure though is that if you ever want to know if you are getting paid the market rate, interview several people for your own job and see how they respond to “what salary package are you after?”. I used to joke if I worked out my hourly rate I was practically slave labour, now I don’t need to joke about it. I am officially slave labour.

Three more interviews lined up next week so I am praying to the book writing gods that one of these is a marketing guru. I figure by the time we appoint someone, they give notice, come on board, I do a handover....it will be Christmas by the time I finish up. Just in time for Santa to deliver me some divine inspiration for a bestselling novel. I think I can wait for that.

The Sex and the Cash Theory

Hugh Macleod has a theory. It's called the Sex and the Cash Theory - not to be confused with the Sex and the City Theory (which is a complicated theory linking the number of inappropriate men you sleep with to the number of Cosmopolitans you consume) or anything to do with prostitution. It's about creativity.

The Sex and the Cash Theory goes something like this: creative people need two jobs - one is the sexy creative one, the other brings in the cash to pay the mortgage. I came across it in Hugh's manifesto How To Be Creative. The theory centres on the basic concept that only idiots give up their day jobs to pursue their creative interests.

Which got me to wondering if Hugh would consider me an idiot for giving up my job for six months or a legend for not quitting it entirely. He would definitely think I am stupid:

QUOTE

"People think all they need to do is endure one crazy, intense, job-free creative burst and their dreams will come true. They are wrong, stupidly wrong".
UNQUOTE

He wouldn't be alone in thinking this about me. My boss called me an idiot once - he has a theory that everyone is an idiot and we spend our lives trying to stop other people from cottoning on. Seems everyone has a theory about idiots and stupid people. Although I know it's not personal I cant help wondering if Hugh is right. Am I stupidly wrong to take on this crazy endeavour?

Although I'm blonde, I try not to be too stupid most of the time. I'm a safety girl. Not like the Julia Roberts pretty woman type, which would perhaps be appropriate given the sex and the cash theme of this blog entry, but the sensible, goody two-shoes, always have to have a safety net type of safety girl. Which is why I am not quitting my job entirely. So maybe I am only half stupid.

Perhaps I will instead just focus on the first item on Hugh's list of 26 tips for budding creatives: Ignore everybody. Including Hugh.

Farewell Miami Cocktail No. 2

I am going to miss the cocktails. This is what I was thinking last night when I was sitting at the bar at Libertine drinking a Miami Cocktail No.2 with my sister Elissa, brother-in-law-to-be Jules, and Lissy's friend Gretch.

I love a good cocktail. Preferably tall ones with lime and lots of gin. Similar to how I like my men, just sans the lime and gin. But at  around $15 a pop, cocktails are another item I will have to add to my no-go zone for the next income-less six months. The zone seems to be getting bigger than a security zone for Barack Obama in the Middle East.

Which got me to thinking that I should probably send personal notes to Borders, Country Road and Veronika Maine warning them to expect a significant decrease in profits over the next 12 months.

Dear Country Road

I am writing to advise you that I wont be making any purchases in your lovely store for, oh, about a year. It's not that your summer collection is off the mark - although I am really not so sure that an ankle length horizontal stripe skirt in jersey stretch material would be all that flattering - but that I will have no money to afford to buy any of it and will have nowhere to go to wear it anyway.

Yours faithfully

Kathryn Tyrrell

PS - If you would like to consider sponsoring me with a year's supply of trakkie-daks though, as a token of your appreciation for my many years of loyalty, that would be greatly appreciated.

So farewell Miami Cocktail No.2 and Country Road, hello tap water and current overloaded wardrobe, my new best friends.

And before you go and tell me I am being all dramatic about the tap water - let me just say it has been a successful sympathy vote for me once before. Cut to 1993 when I was interviewed to be a Rotary Youth Exchange Student. I was 16 years old and sitting opposite an interview panel of 12 Rotarians. Clearly young, naive and willing to stretch the truth, I was asked what I drank when I went to parties and was surrounded by my peers drinking alcohol. After a brief pause where my mind cut to visions of passion pop, fire engines and west coast coolers, I replied "Um, I find a tap in the garden and just drink water".

Either I won a sympathy vote for my pathetic answer or they believed me (I would hazard a guess at option A) because several months later I found myself boarding a plane to South Africa for 12 months. The land of Castle Lager, Hunters Cider and Amarello. Strangely enough I never did manage to find many taps in Pretoria.

Tonight we are off to Ortiga. I have a feeling I am going to struggle to find a tap there too. Two more pay checks to go - no need to rush into the no-go zone just yet.

Addicted to Badminton

This week I have discovered another procrastinaction red alert – the Commonwealth Games. I am addicted to the swimming. And the gymnastics. And the badminton. Basically anything that involves Australia or men with washboard stomachs in low slung swimming trunks.

Can someone please come over and take my TV away because my self-discipline is clearly sketchy.

Stalking Jane Austen

It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me well that I am going to publicly admit that I have a mild obsession with Jane Austen - or more specifically with Pride and Prejudice, both the book and BBC mini-series. I practically know the words of the mini-series off by heart, which is no mean feat given it is six hours long. Even then, if I put it in the DVD player I have to watch the whole thing through, only fast forwarding through the bits with Mr Collins (I find him excruciatingly annoying). When my younger sister Alison was visiting Brisbane recently, she asked me if she could borrow the mini-series - she still talks of the look of horror that came across my face when I thought she intended to take it back to Sydney. Luckily she too got hooked and managed to get through it before she left. I have withdrawal symptoms if it gets outside of a 10km radius of Red Hill.

When she got back to Sydney, she sent me a copy of the Keira Knightly movie version for when I need a quick fix. Not bad. Except that the best scene, when Darcy is declaring his love for Lizzie against his will and better judgement and she basically tells him to rack off, feels like the producer hit the wrong button and it is on fast forward. Has anyone else noticed that?

Anyway, I digress. The reason I am talking about Jane Austen is not because I am going to try and re-create a modern day version of Pride and Prejudice (unfortunately Helen Fielding beat me to it) but because I am going to follow in her footsteps and go and spend some time writing in England. Which means that the byline of my blog is a total lie - I am not going to sit at home and talk to the cat, I am going to sit somewhere in England and talk to someone else's cat and channel some Jane Austen. Oh, and maybe drink a few pimms, visit the Tate and go to Paris for the weekend. It could become a black hole of procrastinaction.

Procrastinaction is filling up all your time with activities because you are procrastinating from doing something. I am an expert at this. When I was at school studying for exams my room was spotless and got completely rearranged every three months. I suddenly found programmes on TV about rare frilly lizards totally fascinating. And I haven't gotten any better as I have gotten older - I now head into weekends with enough brunch and lunch bookings to put the Queen to shame. For years I have procrastinated from writing through dedicated procrastinaction. So I knew that I was going to have to get out of Brissie for a while to get this book written - I just cant say no to a flat white and poached eggs.

Since part of my book is set in London, it seemed the obvious choice - I have a fair bit of research to do since it has been 12 years since I last lived there. You know the kind of research I mean - what bars the characters go to, what restaurants they eat at, where they stay on weekend trips to Bath, Edinburgh and the Lakes District. I think I might need to apply to the Government for a research grant to fund all this critical research before I go. Procrastinaction red alert.

I have a real estate agent coming over this week to list my place for rent for 12 months. I am going to try and rent it out fully furnished so I can just pack up some boxes and go. I have realised in the last few months while making the decision to do this that I have alot of stuff in my life that I don't really care too much about - even my lovely new flat screen TV. Eckhart Tolle would be proud of me.

So for 12 months I will base myself with Mum and Dad (if you are reading this from your hotel in New York - surprise!) which seems logical given the impending cut to my cash flow, and just head off when I want to. I am planning three months in London, and then whatever else takes my fancy and my bank balance can withstand, either here in Australia or abroad. If anyone has a nice little beach side or country cottage they desperately need someone to look after for a few weeks or months, I am your woman.

And when I have to go back to work next July and I am 34 years old and living with my parents, no comments please.

Footnote: I should reference the term "Procrastinaction" to the excellent Leadership Coach that was engaged by my company to coach us in Leadership skills. I am typing this as a footnote and in very fine print as I used the sessions more for personal life coaching than leadership coaching. I could be fired for improper use of company resources.

My lack of discretion

Today I read an article called "The Working Mothers Guide to Writing a Novel". I am not a mother and soon will not be working, but I read with interest how an American woman called Mary McNamara wrote a book while raising three young children and working full time. Bloody amazing effort I say.

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/tv/la-et-mary-mcnamara-20100926,0,6312255.story

She offers a list of what she thinks people in the same boat need to do. I read item number nine with particular interest:

9. Discretion. Of course you want to tell everyone that you're writing a book, and whoever you tell will then be forced to ask what it's about (only a few will honestly care, by the way). But talking about writing a book is not, as it turns out, the same as writing a book. In fact, it often proves to be the opposite of writing a book

Now discretion is something I have clearly thrown to the wind since deciding I am going to take time off to write my novel. I have told anyone and everyone who will listen - but this is just what I need to do in order to make it happen. Once I have told people that I am doing something, I feel personally committed to it. If I kept it to myself, I would continue with the excuses and never do it. So hence my blog and practically hiring the sky writer.

What I am slowly discovering with writers is that everyone is very different in their approach. Some writers can only stare at a blank wall to write. Some meticulously map out their plot and characters for months before typing a single word, others just start writing and let the book take shape as they go. Kate Grenville only writes 400 words per day, Simon Higgins wrote one of his novels in two weeks. Some writers hand write everything before typing it up (writers cramp 101).

One of the ladies I met last Thursday told me that she hasn't told anyone about her book apart from her hubby - she is too scared of what people are going to say, of the knowing "get your head out of the clouds" look. I have found the exact opposite - I am actually yet to come across a naysayer. Everyone seems to be genuinely excited for me - maybe it is the fact that I lead in with the "I am taking six months off work" component before the "I am writing a book".

It would be nice if there was a tried and tested method - but like everything, there are a million ways to skin a cat. Don't worry Roary, you're safe....for now.

The book or Bora Bora?

On Thursday night I went along to an author event at the Queensland Writers Centre where Simon Higgins was talking about how to make a living from being a writer. Simon writes novels for young adults, most recently with an overriding ninja theme - so probably the polar opposite of the type of book I am going to write, unless I make my hero an Iaido expert. I struggle to find the martial arts sexy though, so that is unlikely.

Anyway, Simon has had something like 11 books published, both here and in the United States. And he still has to keep a day job to pay his bills. I almost fell off my chair when he said that he gets $1 for every one of this books that sells. My god, McDonalds are making more profit from a cheeseburger!

This got me to thinking about my break even point of this whole creative exercise. I did a quick calculation of what I think this six month writing stint is going to cost me; I tallied up my lost wages, lost super, no paid annual leave, the amount of my savings I think I am going to burn through, and a bottle of wine/vodka per day (to get the creative juices flowing) and I came up with something around the $110,000 mark. (Cut to image of Kathryn lying on the beach in Bora Bora for 6 months, which would probably be cheaper).

Now maths has never been my strong point - those of you who were in High School with me may fondly remember my ever-patient maths tutor Rob L'Estrange, who once walked out on me after five minutes due to pure frustration. But even I can work out that at $1 per book, to break even I not only have to somehow get published but I need to sell a copy of my book to practically the entire population of Townsville.

I recently read that Peter Andre's lovely ex-wife Katie Price (AKA Jordan) was on top of the best sellers list in the UK with her latest book Paradise, written by a ghost writer. To be on the best sellers list, she sold 10,000 copies of her book in one week.  So all I really need to do is somehow get myself on the UK best sellers list for, oh, about five years in order to make enough money to never have to work again. I will really need to step up the shameless self marketing - maybe I will take some tips from Katie. The bikini is already on order.

The fact that 10,000 people bought the ghost written book of a former topless model in one week is a blog entry entirely on its own.

The QWC event was not totally a wrist slitting exercise though - I actually exchanged emails with a couple of fellow writers and there was talk of a coffee catch up - so perhaps I will be sipping Lattes and talking punctuation and all things creative before I know it.

The bribe worked

I wonder if I will ever find out if the excitement of getting your first novel published is anywhere close to the excitement of getting your first blog follower? Even though my first blog follower was my sister Elissa (sisterly love in action) it was still bloody exciting. And now 11 devoted family and friends have joined the ranks – in the words of Jeff Fenech, I love youse all!

I promise not to name any nasty characters in my book after any of you as a sign of my heartfelt appreciation.

So, what is your book about?

A lot of people at work have been asking me what my book is about. I really have no inclination to share this with my work colleagues, so I keep telling them it is a non-fiction book called 'The Office'. Funny how everyone is acting so nice to me all of a sudden.

That thing called Synchronicity

When I first read about Synchronicity in The Artists Way I thought, yep, I want some of that. Its like the Universe making things happen to show it supports you - like telling your sisters best friend that you are writing a book and lo and behold she is related to some amazing publisher. I think there is a higher probability of success with potential synchronicity than the adoption method. Maybe just writing my blog will generate some goodwill in the world as well.

So I've been on the lookout for some synchronicity in my life. And I when it happened it was actually quite significant. From a career perspective. Which isn't the type of synchronicty I was really looking for but let's not get hung up on the details.

I was pretty nervous about asking my bosses (yes, there are two of them) for six months off work so I could write a novel. Nervous but also determined - I didn't tell them this, but if they had said No I was ready to resign. I feel strongly that I want to do this in my life, and do it now. I have never been a patient person, never been one to use lay-by, so it is unlikely that I am going to develop this enviable trait at the age of 33. I was also fully prepared to drop the "lets pretend I am pregnant and going on maternity leave and then you wouldn't even have a choice about it..except instead of giving birth to a baby I'm giving birth to a book" statement but thankfully I didn't need to - they were nothing but supportive. As well as being great people, I also like to think it is some good kharma for all the hours I have worked over the last 3.5 years (ie they could probably pay me a full time rate for the next 6 months and it wouldn't quite cover the salary of my extra hours...hint hint).

And then the Synchroncity happened. I said to Boss 1, the Marketing Director for Australia and New Zealand, that, actually, I am kind of tired of my job, and when I come back it would be great if I could do something different. And she said (OK, not word for word but something along the lines of) "Funny you should say that, I have been asked to take on a global project for the next 2-3 years. How about coming and helping me out in Corporate so I can go off and do this job?". And that was it. A new job presented itself and before I knew it my current role is on Seek and I am starting interviews next week.

I have never had to replace myself before. It is quite a strange concept. While I want to get the best possible Manager for my team, I also don't want to get anyone who is too good and will show me up. A fine line.

The end of Corporate Girl could come sooner than I think - Boss 1 wants me to head off and do my creative thing as soon as I have found my replacement, which could be within a month. I am working up a sweat just thinking about it. The true test of whether I am a fraud or not is imminent. Fingers crossed for some creative synchronicity next!

Corporate Girl seeks famous publisher for adoption

A couple of weeks ago in a fit of creative energy I decided to join the Queensland Writers Centre. I thought - if I am going to take this writing business seriously, I should at least join my local industry association (the Corporate part of me is really going down kicking and screaming). I must admit to having some vague visions of myself sitting around in coffee shops with fellow writers I met at QWC, plotting charachters, discussing punctuation and being generally all very creative.


Looking the part is important. I also want to get a pair of glasses to complete my intelligent author image, but I had my eyes tested and I have 20/20 vision. Very disappointing.

After joining QWC I discovered that the Brisbane Writers Festival was on this weekend just past so I decided to head along and see what advice and inspiration I could stumble across.

What I discovered is if I am ever to get my book published I have to be related to someone in the publishing industry - someone very, very important in the publishing industry. Alternatively being the daughter of a past Prime Minister could be quite handy. Mum and Dad, as much as I love you, I may need to seek an adoption. If that fails I need to have a hell of a lot of luck and a lot of industry contacts. Since my chances of adoption at 33 are slim to none, I am going to hope that my luck didn't run out when I won Division 3 in the lotto when I was 21.

The session on "How to Get Published" was nothing short of scary. Scary enough to make me realise that I had better hold bloody tight to my job while I write this book as I ain't ever gonna make a living out of this creative business! As much as they tried to be positive and upbeat about our chances, there was really only one person on the panel that was a total unknown with no contacts in the industry before she got published - her tactic was to practically tackle a publisher at a book festival. Probably not my style but ask me again after I have written my book and am totally desperate for someone to publish it.

Perhaps I am jumping the gun a little. Might just focus on writing the book first and worry about the adoption papers later.

And in case you were wondering, no, I didnt meet any fellow QWC members, didn't plot any charachters or sit around discussing punctuation in any coffee shops. I didnt even head up to the QWC to say hi - I haven't quite convinced myself I am not a writing fraud just yet.

Trouble

If my dedication to this blog is any indication of my future sucess as an author, I had better not give up my day job after all.

Going cold turkey on the chicken chippies

Something big happened today. Huge. A significant milestone in my corporate to creative journey.

I cancelled my Qantas Club membership.

Not only will I barely be leaving Red Hill and the comfort of my pyjamas for six months, let alone requiring the services of an airport, but it is simply a luxury I will well and truly no longer be able to afford. And the QC is not cheap - in fact, I actually think it's a total rip off and I can't believe no one has actually cottoned on to that yet. I have never before heard of anyone being able to charge such an exorbitant amount of money to serve potato salad and chicken chippies. Even Greasy Harry's on Caxton Street used to only charge $2 for 15 chicken chippies, and at 4am that was seriously considered gourmet catering. 

I do find it amusing seeing all of these self-important business people lining up for their chicken chippies, piling their plates to overflowing. The hot food almost becomes a tradeable commodity in the QC during peak hour. I prefer to get my money's worth from the wine, but have figured I would almost need to join AA if I were ever to be successful in achieving that.

I can only imagine what Eckhart Tolle thinks of airline lounges.

But as much as I may mock it....I did hesitate, just a little, as a I hovered over my Qantas Club card with scissors in hand before swiflty chopping it in two. I do love my chicken chippies.

Reading too many self help books can get confusing

I have just finished reading "A New Earth". My good friend (and fellow writer and avid supporter - I am writing that now so you can all witness that I said that BEFORE she won the Pulitzer) Kell Kent recommedned it to me. It is an Oprah Book Club read, so really, what further recommendation can a girl need? And I can honestly say that I loved it - lose the ego, be present in the moment, follow the will of God (no, I am not going and getting all religious on you now - but follow the will of the Universe...I can get that).

But I am getting a bit confused. You see, I am also doing The Writers Way at the moment (although I havent written my morning pages for two days, but don't tell anyone). The WW is encouraging me to 'unblock my creative spirit', which I am in dire need of, and find a way to make a living from my creativity. Hallelujah for that. But A New Earth tells me that I can't wish for something like being a famous author, because that is just my ego talking, and I need to put that ego back in its place. So I need to unblock my creative spirit and write my book without any thought of it ever being published. That is like putting a block of Cadbury Black Forrest chocolate in front of me (unwrapped) and telling me not to eat it. As well as feeling confused, I am becoming more and more concerned that I may have to move into a caravan for the remainder of my life to support myself as an unblocked yet unpublishable writer.

Reading too many self help books at once is actually not helpful at all. I think Eckhart Tolle would be disappointed in me. I have clearly missed the point.

Can a corporate girl get creative?

When I was at University I dreamed of climbing the corporate ladder. It was the early 90's so I had visions of black power suits, boardrooms and striding through the city in six inch heels, looking highly important. When I look back now, I think I was more enamoured with the image than the thought of what I would actually be doing.

So I have precariously climbed the corporate ladder, and am now managing a marketing and comms team at a large Engineering and design firm. Big pat on the back to me and my ladder climbing efforts! But I cant help asking....is this really it?

I like my job, I just dont love it. What I love to do is write. I just don't do it. My head is too full of marketing guff and staff issues to think about getting creative. Six years ago I took a Creative Writing course at QUT, wrote three chapters of a book I was told were 'publishable' and promptly shelved them for the power suits. So now I am shelving the power suits and rewriting the chapters (cringeworthy, thank god they were never published!).

It is August 11, 2010. Come Christmas, I am taking extended leave to earn no income, stay at home, and write. And I cant wait. But I am also pretty nervous - about not having any money, not being able to afford my mortgage, having only the cat to talk to, and failing big time - something I haven't ever really done before (unless you count my love life...massive failure). But I am chasing my dream and I am going to blog about my journey and the many, many stumbles I totally expect to make along the way. Who knows, one day when I am a wildly successful author, maybe even this blog will be made into a book! Dream big, Kathryn, dream big.

So the big question is......can a corporate girl really get creative?