I am not going on a man hunt.

Suitcase packing has to be up there with box packing and mud shovelling as one of the world’s most tedious jobs. The only thing that somewhat redeems suitcase packing in this mix is that there is a cool destination at the other end. For me – destination LONDON. Departure 7:15am tomorrow.

Very excited. Even with Lizzie emailing me this morning to tell me how god darn cold it is over there at the moment. I have my new coat, gloves and beanie at the ready. I am sure I have forgotten something, but at this stage, it really is only God who knows what that is. I have my laptop and a change of underwear - essentials are therefore sorted.

Now, there is just one minor thing I want to do before I leave – and that is set the record straight. I am not going on a man hunt. While the number one comment I have had from friends and family over the last few weeks has related to Colin Firth and Love Actually, following in very close second place is a comment along the lines of “OOhhhh, I just KNOW you’re going to meet someone overseas! Another writer…or someone from Scotland…or a hot Portuguese surfer…”.

I just want to gently point out that I intend to spend a lot of time writing. Indoors. By myself. Not out fraternising with the opposite sex. Not that I’m saying it won’t happen, I just want to make sure expectations are not getting out of hand. After all, I have heard this same comment before when I

a)      Moved to Canada (apparently I was destined to meet a Mountie).

b)      Went skiing in France (French ski instructor was on the cards there).

c)       Started working for an Engineering firm (based on male to female ratio alone, nothing to do with the fact that anyone actually wanted me to hook up with an Engineer).

While dating a hot Portuguese surfer would certainly be useful research for my book, unfortunately someone already beat me to the concept of Around the World in 80 Dates. I don’t intend to replicate it.

What I do intend to do, however, is not gain 13kg, which is the amount of weight I put on last time I lived in the UK. That time, however, I was pulling pints in a pub and serving up hot chips and banoffee pie to hungry locals in Surrey…obviously with a little serving to myself on the side. I tend to stay far away from the banoffee pie this time.

Besides, I don’t need anything else to make my stomach churn – it is already getting a good work out just thinking about submitting my first three chapters to Maggie Alderson – since I WON the manuscript assessment! Bloody exciting but also more nerve wracking than jumping out of a plane…while doing a job interview….and speaking in front of 10,000 people. All at the same time.

So my next blog will be from London – sent from somewhere in the vicinity of Barbican where I will be staying with the lovely Lizzie and Paul. Hard to imagine that it is actually happening, as I sit here at my desk in Ebb Court, sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea. At 10:15pm on a Saturday night. See, I am like a real author already – a reclusive, tea sipping, penniless, cat-owning introvert.  Well, tea sipping and cat-owning anyway. And I’m working quite hard on the penniless bit too.

Holy Toledo Batman, I think I won!

This morning I jumped the gun. I posted a blog entry about how I had lost out on the Maggie Alderson manuscript assessment as part of the Authors for Queensland flood relief auction.

Turns out I actually won. Maybe.

Confused? So was I. You see, at first I thought I’d won. I had the highest bid amount entered, even with my paltry budget. I felt euphoric – my heart was racing with more adrenalin than when I went sky diving (honest to god – strange I know). Then fifteen minutes later I was on the floor kicking my legs and throwing my toys. Because my bid was time stamped 11pm. A note was posted to their Facebook site shortly after bidding closed to say that all bids had to be in before 11pm, and any received after 11pm would be discounted. Now, technically speaking, 11pm is in the no-man’s land in-between, neither before nor after. I thought I could foresee what was going to happen – 11:00:01pm being considered past 11pm. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I went to bed morosely humming “I’m a loser baby. Now why don’t you kill me.” It was on repeat in my head and I couldn’t sleep.

Now it might be slightly melodramatic to be humming about death. But I was very disappointed. You know what they say about not knowing quite how much you want something until you don’t get it (graduate marketing position with Telstra circa 1999 springs to mind as well – five rounds of interviews then nada. Never used Telstra since, I am a woman on a payback mission).

In between choruses I was cursing Dell. I had hit the submit button at 30 seconds to 11pm. It took so bloody long to load it by the time it did, it was 11pm.  I was sure if I had a nice, shiny Mac, this never would have happened. I could of course have blamed myself and the failure of my tactical strategy, but blaming Dell made me feel better. Less responsible.

I awoke this morning and in my depressed state wrote a blog entry about being a loser. Only after I had posted it did I see the note on the auction page saying that 11pm bids were A-OK, it was only those sneaky 11:01pm ones that were on the nose. So I deleted my loser blog faster than you can say “Holy Toledo Batman”. Because I realised I might have actually won.

I will wait for the email to confirm this 110% before I get too excited. But I am already freaking out. And hoping that Maggie Alderson herself doesn’t stumble across any of my blog posts because she might think I’m a stalker.  Which would not be a good start since she already things I’m a cheapskate – on Twitter this morning she wrote something about the final bid amount being ‘slightly humiliating’. How embarrassing. That’s the problem with an auction targeted at writers, we’re all cheaper than a McDonald’s cheeseburger meal deal.

The good thing is that I have already been spurred into action. If ever I needed motivation to get this book written, it appears that knowing I might actually have the opportunity to put part of it in front of Maggie Alderson might be just what the procrastination doctor ordered.  Hallelujah.

Portuguese tart shops and other important preparations for my departure this Sunday

Now that the flood crisis has been averted in Ebb Court, I have been able to focus instead on preparations for my departure for London this Sunday. Given that I have spent a few years living overseas before, I have become a bit blasé about the whole packing thing, generally leaving it until minutes before leaving home that I remember I haven’t packed my travel hairdryer/bikini/underwear/passport and I forgot to get travel insurance. This will probably come as a surprise to everyone who knows me only as Corporate Girl the perfectionist and detail-freak – but it’s true. When it comes to travel planning, my mind automatically switches to island time well before the flight attendants don their yellow safety vests and the plane leaves the tarmac.

This has in the past resulted in some minor travel related issues. Like arriving at Vancouver airport without any of my paperwork to prove that I had the cash to support myself on a twelve month working visa. I had been too busy trying to get my i-pod sorted out at the Apple store four hours before my flight left Australia to be concerned about minor things like, oh, packing for living abroad for 12 months. Making sure Coldplay and Fleetwood Mac were coming for the ride seemed far more important. Thank God there was an immigration officer on duty that day that was just as lazy as me. It’s a wonder she didn’t pull me over on suspicion of being a drug mule I was sweating so much standing in line. Instead, she gave my visa about as much attention as a vegetarian would give a pork chop and sent me on my way.

This time, however, without that nasty business called work to get in the way, I have actually managed to get some key departure preparations in hand a whole week before take-off. Just the critical, more-important-than-world-peace kind of things, like:

1.     Organise somewhere to stay. Obviously quite an important one as it is a bit chilly to be sleeping in Hyde Park this time of year. All I can say to this is THANK GOD for Lizzie, Jane and Fran who have all very kindly agreed to take it in turns to keep me off the streets for my first few weeks in London.  

2.     Purchase lovely new coat. I know, I know, I am not supposed to be spending any money, but what, do you expect me to wear my doona? Besides, I got it in the sales, so it was practically free (if you work out anticipated cost per wear based on the next 50 years).

3.     Meet up with my lovely Portuguese friend Sara for all of her hot tips on where I should base myself in Portugal and other important information such as the location of the best shop for Portuguese tarts in Lisbon. I just have a feeling that there will be a really important scene somewhere in my book involving a Portuguese tart shop. Must do extensive research.

4.     Purchase exit row seats for all of my flights. This to me is the cheapskate’s equivalent of first class. I honestly don’t know why anyone would bother spending all that extra money when you can just pay 80 bucks to stretch your legs out. See, another money saving initiative on my behalf. Although I honestly do believe that the airlines should change the pricing structure of exit row seats so that the taller you are, the less money you pay. I once flew home from Canada in an exit row seat next to a middle-aged woman from Taiwan who was about the same height and size as my five year old nephew. Her feet barely touched the ground. I felt annoyed on behalf of other tall people that whole flight just looking at all of that wasted leg room.

5.      Start downloading reading material to my kindle (yes, I caved. Yes, it arrived. Yes, I am a traitor. No, it is not the same).

6.      Read 1000 things to do in London and dog-ear all of the pages that have things that I want to do. Not that I will have time to do any of them because I will be so busy staying inside and writing etc. Honest.

In amongst all of these important activities, I have even managed to do some writing! I know, I almost fell of my seat as well. Some days I have been managing 2,500 words or even more, some days a few short of that (about 2,500 short). Today I, er, went to the movies and then out for lunch. But generally the word count is ticking over nicely. More quantity than quality at this stage, definitely nothing worthy of Maggie Alderson’s eyes and red pen quite yet.

5:51pm. Just saw that John Birmingham wrote on Twitter that he has written 5,000 words today! Smug #$%@&* (sorry John, it’s just the jealousy talking). Feeling guilty now.  Better go and tap out a few words before dinner.

Do I really want Maggie Alderson to read my manuscript?

In the small-ish pile of books I have on my desk that I very occasionally (i.e. about every 15 minutes) flick through to get my mind into some sort of writing zen, I have two Maggie Alderson books*. Her books are smart and funny. And if you have ever tried to write anything that combines those two elements, you will know it’s actually bloody hard. Comedy writing is seriously undervalued in literary circles – book awards are often only open to those books that make people want to slit their wrists or die of boredom (well, common people like me anyway). If there were more awards for books that tap into the feel-good-factor, Maggie Alderson would be more highly decorated than Peter Cosgrove. And if I could write a book even half as good as any of hers I would be happier than a pig in a pile of Brisbane flood mud.

The other reason I love Maggie A is because when she recently made a guest appearance on the First Tuesday Book Club, she introduced me to 'Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, including Books, Street Fashion and Jewellery' by Leanne Shapton, which I think is just a brilliant book.

So when I logged on to the Authors for Queensland auction website, where authors from all over Australia have come together to put items up for auction to support the Premier’s Flood Appeal, and saw that Maggie A had put a manuscript assessment up for grabs, my eyes lit up as though I had stumbled on a $100 note lying in the street (remembering that I am now a poor, unemployed creative type - $100 would keep me supplied in vegemite cruskits for weeks).

So I eagerly entered all of my details, wrote in my bid amount, placed my cursor over the SUBMIT key, and promptly froze. Because I suddenly realised that if I won it, I would actually have to stump up three chapters/10,000 words of my book. And send it to an established author. And quite an excellent one at that. And then sit and wait for her assessment and feedback, hoping that it did not contain the words “don’t” and “bother” in any proximity to each other.

Frankly I would rather eat my shoe. One of my big cork platform ones.

You see, to me, Maggie Alderson reading my book is like Jamie Oliver turning up at the dinner table one night to taste test one of my recipes. Or Rafael Nadal coming to watch me play tennis. My face is going all red just from the embarrassment of even thinking about it.

But then annoyingly-sensible corporate girl gave overly-sensitive creative girl a massive kick in the arse and said “Are you more idiotic than Todd Woodbridge armed with a mobile phone? Do you think this kind of opportunity is going to fall out of thin air again anytime soon?!” So I quickly hit submit before self-deprecating creative girl started throwing a tantrum to get her own way.

I figure the worst that can happen is I hand over some cashola to a very worthwhile cause, then find out my writing is utter crap and I can have a four month holiday swanning around Europe drinking cocktails get some direction and guidance that might actually set me on a course towards producing something remotely worth reading.

Bidding closes on Monday. I am currently the highest bidder, although I know from my experience with EBay over the years that this means about as much as being in possession of a million Zimbabwean dollars.  Keep your fingers crossed for me kids, I will let you know how I go on my limited non-salary-earning budget. If I win, you will probably hear my scream – equal parts horror and delight – right across the other side of Brisbane.

*In case you are interested, the other books I have in my pile are:

·         One day – David Nicholls

·         The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary-Ann Shaffer

·         The Book Thief – Marcus Zuzak

·         Come Together – Josie Lloyd and Emlyn Rees

·         Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen

·         The History of Love – Nicole Krauss

·         On Writing – Stephen King

·         Like I Give a Frock - Michi Girl

·         ZigZag Street – Nick Earls

·         Everyone Worth Knowing - Lauren Weisberger (so much better than Devil Wears Prada!)

·         Bridget Jones’ Diary – Helen Fielding

·         The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver

·         Watermelon – Marian Keyes

·         Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy (still reading, half way through!)

My induction into Brisbane's mud army

Yesterday I took the opportunity to finally appease my flood guilt. Most of Brisbane seemed to be back at work and only students, retirees, aspiring non-working creatives, teachers and the unemployed were left behind to volunteer. My good friend Mel Long hadn’t got quite enough of her fair share of the action up in Toowoomba, despite her parent’s roof falling in, so she drove down for the day to do her bit for Brisbane. We slathered on some sunscreen, grabbed our shovels, donned our coveted gumboots and set off in search of a street in need of some help from two muscly, super-fit women. OK, one muscly, super-fit woman…and me.

We eventually stumbled upon a massive cleanup effort in the streets around the University of Queensland in St Lucia, where the water had gone about a metre into the second level of the homes along Sir Fred Schonell Drive. Five days on and some of the streets had not yet drained of water. There were hundreds of volunteers all over the streets, being loosely instructed by scores of guys in Army gear (the real deal who had actually arrived there in tankers, unlike the numerous volunteers who had all rocked up in their camouflage kits like they were auditioning for Saving Private Ryan). We figured out the system pretty quickly - the trucks would roll in, we would grab stuff of the footpath and throw it in the back until it was full, and then move on to the next pile.

Ever the wallflower, Mel got into the spirit and climbed on board the truck a few times, shouting instructions even to the army guys below – I can see now why she makes an excellent Deputy Principal. I almost felt like shouting out “Yes Miss Long!” whenever she doled out instructions from atop her muddy heap. I stayed on the footpath to put my muscle into throwing items like fridges pieces of foam carpet underlay single handedly into the back of the truck. It really was like a war zone and just as dangerous – at one stage I even got hit in the side of the head by a muddy, water sodden mattress being thrown into the truck. Bit of concussion never hurt anyone, and the mud facial really did me the world of good.

I didn’t have too much time to stop and think about all this stuff we were dispensing of like common rubbish, all the artefacts of people’s lives. Some houses didn’t seem to have gotten anything out in time, including their cars, and I wondered what their story was, given we had so much warning that it was coming. Being in an area that houses so many students, I wondered if some of them had gone home for the holidays, not able to get back in time to retrieve even the smallest of items. But of all the things that were discarded in muddy piles on the pavement, rotting in the midday sun, it was the books that really got to me. When the flood waters were rising, I told Dad that if we had to move my furniture out of the garage, all I really cared about getting out was my books and my photo albums. To me at least, furniture is material and replaceable. Books, on the other hand, are not. They often take many years to collect and, to a book lover like me, are almost as sacred as Great Grandma’s fine china. It was heartbreaking to see the streets of St Lucia littered with thousands of sodden, muddy books. From thick medical text books and literary novels to books written in katakana or hiragana or one of the other multitude of Asian languages I have no hope of ever mastering.  

After several hours, I was getting sunburn on my sunburn, had consumed the contents of Wivenhoe Dam in water and had developed muddy cankles. I ate a sausage sizzle from the kind chaps of Westpac who had set up a station for volunteers and I thought – isn’t it funny that it takes a disaster like this to really bring out the best in people? (not mentioning those horrid looters of course). But even after the efforts of all those volunteers and young fit army guys (there really is something to be said for a sweaty, mud covered man in camouflage gear), there is still a very long road ahead to get those streets inhabitable. Driving home afterwards I was amazed to see the truckloads of rubbish being dumped into all of the suburban parks, their intermediary home while they await collection from another truck to take them to the tip. The magnitude of the cleanup effort really hit home. But if it wasn’t for all the volunteers….well, these streets would continue to look like war zones for years to come. As it was, as we headed back to the car, dragging our muddy boots, we commented that if you didn’t look too closely, didn’t notice the waterline on the buildings showing where the water came to or the absence of cars on the roads, didn’t see inside the houses, mistook the mud for just a bit of dirt, you might almost think everything was back to normal already. Thank god for this mob of unskilled, uncomplaining, determined, grotty volunteers – Brisbane’s mud army.  

So now that my flood guilt has been temporarily appeased and I have washed all of the caked mud out of my ear (I hope), surely I can get back to writing my book. I might just have to disconnect the internet and not leave my room until I fly out to the UK next Sunday. Or maybe someone needs to lock the door and slip vegemite cruskits under the door and a garden hose through the window. It might be the only way to finally stop this flood procrastination.

Thank God the biggest natural disaster that took place at Ebb Court this week wasn’t a flooded street but a sunburnt neck

It’s been days since I wrote a blog post. Nearly a week I think. Not because I haven’t felt inspired to write one, but because, well, I haven’t felt inspired to write one about writing. Because of this small flood thing that’s been happening here in Brisbane.

Even if we had had power on for the last three days (which we didn’t) or internet connection (didn’t have that either) I simply couldn’t muster up any willingness to write. I sat down at my computer a couple of times but barely got a sentence out before I had to get up and walk away. It just seemed wrong to be doing something so frivolous when there was a natural disaster of epic proportions taking place on my door step.

The first couple of days I had a good excuse – I was too busy watching the 24/7 flood coverage on TV as the media prepared us for the worst flood since 1974 when half of Brisbane went under. We watched nonchalantly from our couch, sipping our coffee and gloating that we didn’t have a property near the river (surely a 300m walk wouldn’t be considered near!). By Tuesday afternoon, half our street were sandbagging, some had rented removal trucks to move their furniture out, and we started to think that maybe we should start to get a bit concerned, even though we had convinced ourselves we were at least a metre higher than everyone else (I swear, to the naked eye we are, if you just tip your head at an angle just so).

Wednesday morning the flood modelling guru’s were predicting a flood of at least 5.5m. They were calling it a “100 Year Flood Event”. Our house is at 5.8m above the river level. At this stage we got to thinking maybe we had been a little bit too nonchalant and started moving everything upstairs to the second level. Just in case, you know. There is definitely something to be said for ‘inciting thy neighbours’ – the more concerned our neighbours became, the more we wondered if we needed to duck out to Bunnings to buy a canoe. I started hourly treks down to the river to check the situation and report back to Tyrrell Central Command. It was these hourly treks that resulted in the worst natural disaster to befall me, thank goodness – a horribly sunburnt neck and arms. Yes, I look like I am wearing a permanent white T-Shirt.

As it neared high tide at 3pm, people gathered in parks and streets all along the river to watch and talk with strangers about the incoming tide, “Where do you live?” replacing “How are you?”. We met more neighbours in six hours than we had in the last six years. By the time high tide passed at 3pm and we realised Bulimba was not going to be too badly affected, it almost felt like a community fun day down by the river with ladies swanning around with glasses of wine and men comparing their sandbag fortresses, only stopping to do a bit of debris spotting – “Oooh, look, a speedboat tied to a pontoon!”, “Is that half a tennis court?”, “There goes Oxley’s floating restaurant!” and “Is that a rain tank?”.

I bumped into a friend of mine, Matt, who lives just around the corner. People in the street were calling Matt’s house the Christmas present because he had wrapped it up so tightly in black plastic and 500 sand bags. Even ripped up the carpet, not taking any chances. When I saw Matt drinking a beer in the park that afternoon, he whispered to me “I just want the sandbags to get a little bit wet, to just lap at the bottom”. Mostly to justify the bollocking he was copping from his mates. I could totally understand.

It felt less festive after the sun went down and we realised most of Bulimba seemed to have self-evacuated to somewhere with power and well above the flood zone. We lit the BBQ and got out the camping torches, listening to the news on ABC Radio National. The guy behind us invited a few of his mates over and cranked up a generator well into the night. I wasn’t sure if I hated him more for his lighting or the bloody noise. We went to bed early, wondering what the high tide at 4am would bring.

We set the alarm for 2:30am, just in case further furniture evacuations were necessary from the ground floor. I went out onto the front balcony with trepidation, to be met by a very, very dry street. After all the anticipation, I will sheepishly admit to almost feeling ripped off. I got the torch and went and checked the drains – lapping at the top but not spilling over. Mum and I walked down to the river, through all the darkened houses shielded by sandbags. It had come well over the boardwalk but was not going to flood any homes down there. Compared to the festivities of the afternoon, we only bumped into maybe a dozen people on the street, some on foot, some on bike, all with torches looking into drains. It became the Bulimba 100 Year Non-Event, thank God. Walking home, we thought about going around to Matt’s house and throwing a few buckets of water on his sandbags. Just enough to get them wet.

Unfortunately not everyone in Bulimba fared so well – it wasn’t the river overflowing that was the problem in the end, but the stormwater drains in the low lying streets.  And many, many others in suburbs across Brisbane fared even worse than this. In comparison, we have only been mildly inconvenienced by three nights without TV and hot water.

On Friday afternoon I took a drive over to Paddington to check out my property in Red Hill after all that rain. Drove down Latrobe Terrace, saw people in coffee shops drinking lattes and ladies getting their hair cut in salons. Life was going on, yet 500m down the road in Rosalie people were shovelling mud out of their homes and businesses. It just felt all wrong.

I have often wondered about survivor guilt – what it would be like to survive if you were in a situation when many others perished. With the retreat of the flood waters, comes a new kind of survivor guilt – the flood survivor kind. When I have tried to sit down at my computer and write, I have simply felt too guilty. Felt that I should be out there shovelling mud and washing walls.  So yesterday I abandoned my computer with its two hour battery life, went down to Bunnings, stocked up with supplies and attempted to drive over to a friend’s house in Chelmer to help. To quote from Pretty Woman “Big Mistake. Huge.” After an hour and a half in a traffic jam and not getting much further than Ipswich Road, I turned around and came home. Registered on the volunteers website – as Can Do Campbell, our Lord Mayor, says, this is going to be a marathon, not a sprint. I am sure I can appease my flood survivor guilt soon - perhaps during the week when the rubber neckers are safely ensconced back at work and the roads have cleared up. Until then, back to the keyboard for me – flood procrastination no more.

How in the hell did Vikram Seth write 591,552 words?

OK, I will admit it. I didn’t think writing a book would be that difficult. I thought the quality would probably be questionable, but I had no doubt whatsoever that I would eventually write about 150,000 words (or 591,553 words if I am hoping to outnumber Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy) followed by THE END.

When you read a book, it all seems so simple. Introduce a few characters, make them do a few things, throw in a disaster/catastrophe/love triangle, resolve it or kill them all off. THE END.

Hmmm. So far my ‘SCRAP’ document, where I discard my unwanted words, is up to 25,000 words and counting. About five times the size of my actual novel. The problem seems to be that little voice in the back of my head that says “That’s crap”. It’s very persistent and hard to ignore, a close cousin of the “Go on, just one more glass of wine” voice.

I can practically hear the mocking laughter of published authors the world over. "What, you thought this was going to be EASY?! For God's sake, you only need to take a look at what happened to Sylvia Plath to know this writing caper is simply TORTUROUS".

I read somewhere that it can help when you are writing a book to go to your local book store, scour the shelves, find yourself a handful of novels that you would consider as BAD writing, and then say to yourself “Well if they managed to actually finish writing a novel AND get it published, surely it can't be that bloody hard”.

So, vowing not to let the That's Crap voice win, I wandered down to Oxford Street and went to Riverbend Books. Scoured the shelves. Realised quite quickly that I was probably better off going to ‘Bargain Books’ or some other such quality book store and scouting through the $2 bin at the front.

Instead I went to the general fiction section that contains all the books written by authors whose surnames start with T.  Closed my eyes and imagined my book on the bookshelf somewhere between Tropper and Tyszka. Tried not to be intimidated.

Can’t you just see it? “The Best Book in the World” (just a working title at present) by Kathryn Tyrrell.  Can’t say that I did. But maybe I will after my date with Bargain Books.

I can’t help but imagine myself as Colin Firth from Love Actually (minus the bloke bits of course)

I think I am harbouring an illusion of a grand scale. Ever since I booked my flight to London, I can’t help but imagine that I am soon going to find myself in a little lakeside villa in Portugal/Spain/Greece, a villa that is located of course in a beautiful picturesque little wood with only the birds and squirrels to distract me from the task of writing my book. Oh, and the attractive Portuguese housekeeper/cook of course, who doesn’t speak any English so we will only be able to say hello (obrigado) and cheese (queijo). Thank god I love a good cheese toastie.

All sound a little familiar? OK, OK, I confess. I stole the idea from Colin Firth, or whoever wrote Love Actually, or the set designer for the movie. Someone like that.

The only major difference between Colin’s little villa setting and mine being of course that I am a woman and the hot Portuguese housekeeper will be of the male variety. And I will be using a laptop not a typewriter. And my manuscript won’t end up in the lake. But otherwise, exact duplicate.

See, here he is. Hard at work.

Mmmmm. I do like Colin Firth. It’s because of that old lake scene from Pride and Prejudice. Gets all the girls swooning and I will readily confess I am not exempt. Perhaps he wants to be my housekeeper/cook instead of the hot Portuguese bloke.

Anyway, the reason I can’t stop visualising myself in this scene is because of the following conversation that I seem to have about 10 times a day.

“So, Kathryn (genius, soon-to-be-best-selling-novelist), have you booked your flights yet?”

“Why actually, yes I have. I fly out to London at the end of January.”

“Fantastic! And where are you going to stay when you’re over there?”

“Well, I thought maybe a month in London and then relocate to somewhere warmer/cheaper like Portugal/Spain/Greece. You know, live with the locals and all that.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh…..maybe you could find a house on a lake…you know, just like that one from that movie….you know, with Colin Firth when he’s an author and he’s writing that book….and he hooks up with the Portuguese housekeeper….oh, you know….Love Actually!!”.

After hearing this quite a number of times, I have started to believe that I can actually make this come true. However, there are a number of potential problems that I need to take into consideration:

-     If you Google this house, yes, the real one from the movie, it is actually located in France. Somewhere in the South. That really expensive part. I am sure lake side retreats in the South of France rent out for an absolute song.

-     It is surrounded by woods. At night, this would probably freak me out…just a little. I blame Blair Witch but I think it all actually started with Poltergeist.

-     How do you just nip out to the shop for a quick soy flat white?

I think these problems may be too difficult to overcome – particularly the soy flat white one. I need to be located in close proximity to a café. That serves soy milk. In Portugal. Hmmm…I see another potential problem.

How do ask for soy milk in Portuguese?

My friend the delete key

So my plan to write 2,500 words per day is going relatively well. Some days more, some days less. However it appears that I should also set a limit on the number of words I can delete per day as at this rate I am not going to get beyond the length of a haiku poem.

I have been writing every day. Not letting anything distract me. Even the cricket (well, maybe just over lunch...and afternoon tea). I am, however, still trying to work out my routine. I had high hopes that I would be a morning writer like Stephen King - he sits down at 9am and writes until his word count is done, usually around lunch time. Followed by an afternoon of leisure. This sounds like the kind of routine I want to have. Mornings to write, afternoons to swim, meet friends for coffee, read books and generally lounge about like Lady Muck.

Unfortunately mornings don't seem to be agreeing with me. Despite having set myself up a very nice work pad and being surrounded by my favourite things. See, doesn't it look all inspiring?



This is where the magic happens people. Or, er, is supposed to be happening.
I switch on my computer each morning and then I stare at a blank screen for, oh, about an hour. Then I read the opening chapters of a couple of my favourite books to try to jolt my brain into some form of action. I then sit and face the screen again, trying to tell myself not to go back and edit what I wrote yesterday. But after an hour of a whole lot of nothing I find myself just casually glancing back and VOOOOMPF. Before I know it, everything I wrote the day before has been deleted under the glare of the new morning light.

If you want perfectionism, Ken Follett, I've got plenty to go around.

I am going to need to try a new routine, test out which time of the day I am at my most creative. So this morning I am taking a walk up to Oxford Street, buying some caffeine, saying hi to Mum who is volunteering in the lifeline bookshop on Oxford Street (see, my book addiction is genetic), see if I can find any more books from my classics book list, maybe have a look through a couple of shops (and not spend any money. I repeat, not spend any money). Then wander home, watch a few overs of cricket, eat the last of the leftover ham for lunch, and voila! Instant inspiration.

I can only hope. Otherwise I will be trying night time and that is really just going to make me a total social outcast. Writing all night, sleeping all day. A creative shift worker.

New Year’s Resolutions be damned – this year it’s all about Good Intentions

Every year I write New Year’s resolutions that are usually broken within either a few hours or a few weeks. They are generally related to eating nothing but lettuce three times a day/training for a triathlon/ learning an instrument and joining a band/becoming fluent in a foreign language/writing a book/not being cranky/saving money/my love life (making effort to find new boyfriend rather than sit at home playing trivial pursuit with cat etc).

Resolutions no more. This year it is all about Goodbyes, Gratitudes and Good Intentions - intentions being less tangible than resolutions and therefore less guilt involved in breaking them.

Goodbyes:

-          Corporate Girl (albeit temporarily) and associated paraphernalia and lifestyle – blackberry, high heels, frantic demeanour, stress related alcoholism etc

-          The A-Team, Country Road, Veronika Maine, Miami Cocktail no. 14 (refer previous posts).

-          My little place in Arthur Terrace, Red Hill – don’t have too much fun without me.

-          Celebrating New Year’s Eve at Noosa Surf Club where I am at least 10 years older than 95% of other revellers.

Gratitudes:

-          Wonderful parents who support their boomerang daughter (yes, that’s me) without question, and provide five star boarding facilities.

-          Corporate girl job that pays enough money to fund creative girl adventures.

-          Friends and family who are endlessly encouraging.

-          Laptops and delete keys (imagine writing a novel long hand! Jane Austen I salute you).

-          A cool workplace that said “off you go, just make sure you come back”.

-          Kell Kent, who inspired me to take the step and just do it! And made me shake hands over 12 months ago to promise I would do it – she knows I am too honest to go back on a handshake.

Good Intentions:

-          Finish writing a novel (no cheating allowed i.e. 50,000 word novella or similar. Must be considered full length).

-          Go back to work (yes, I do intend to do this. On 4 July – the irony that that is Independence Day is not lost on me).

-          Don’t spend all my money in the first three months.

-          Do not enter shops in London that sell: clothing, footwear, luxury items (unless life or death requires purchase of items).

-          Learn some basic language skills in Spain/Portugal/Greece or whichever cheap, warm European nation I end up inhabiting for a couple of months.

-          Exercise more, eat better, don’t be cranky, and make effort with love life. Old habits die hard.

So goodbye 2010, hello 2011! I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I think we are going to have some fun together this year.

Happy New Year everyone!