Twitter. I finally figured out what the fuss is all about.

I never really understood the whole Twitter thing. Seemed all a bit stalkerish to me actually. And as for the people sending Tweets – well, don’t you have anything better to do with your time? I mean, does anyone really care that Kim Kardashian “Misses her humpkin”?

Apparently about 6.5 million people do. Which does make me just slightly concerned about what our world is coming to.

But a strange thing happened this week. I finally figured out what the fuss is all about.

Writing is a funny business. When I was Corporate Girl, some days I longed for five minutes to myself. Especially when we moved offices and I went from private office sanctuary (with functioning door) to open plan, having time to myself (for important corporate type things of course) became a thing of the past. If I needed a five minute escape I would have to lock myself in one of the little telephone rooms. Unfortunately, these were made of glass, so inevitably someone would see you in there and come knocking because they had something urgent to discuss with you, you know, like brokering peace in Palestine or something.

Anyway, I digress (as per usual). As a writer, I get no such distractions. In fact, most of my day it is just me, myself and I. And sometimes some sheep of course. Take yesterday for example, apart from speaking to my parents and grandparents on Skype, a phone call with my good friend Janet, a quick chat with the neighbours cat (very one sided, kind of like the sheep), the lady behind the counter at Sainsbury’s (who had a very thick accent and I couldn’t understand anyway), and the lovely James from Clapham Computers, I spoke to no one.

And as for today – well, it’s 10:57am and I haven’t spoken to a soul. I just read this sentence aloud just so I could hear the sound of my own voice, make sure it’s still working. And while I’ve always been quite good with my own company, having lived on my own for many years and spent more years in singledom than coupledom, the silence does get a bit, well, bloody boring after a while.

And then I discovered Twitter. You see, Twitter is like a nightclub for writers. Or perhaps a café. Maybe even a dating service. Because not all writers are reclusive like J.D. Salinger. It’s where writers, who are generally sitting at a computer on their pat malone all day, gather to chat, trade insults, discuss all things book (and non-book) related, and generally go to get their social fix that they can’t get sitting around in their living rooms wearing their trakkie daks and dressing gowns.

This is not exactly a new concept. The poet Emily Dickinson was a total recluse, barely leaving the house for about 30 years, only speaking to people through her closed front door. Yet, she still traded letters with other writers and poets for many years. Only now we can do this in real time without the cost of the stamp. Although I’m not sure Emily would have been able to get across the angst of 30 years seclusion in 140 characters or less.

So I started following all sorts of writers, agents and publishers – Australian, American, British, Irish. It’s amazing how many are on here. And how connecting to them on Twitter makes you realise that these writers too are struggling with a setting or character, trying to write a certain number of words per day, their computers having melt downs. It kind of makes me feel like part of the gang.

But the best thing of all? I came across the writers of one of my all time favourite novels, a he-said she-said romantic comedy called Come Together, by Josie Lloyd and Emlyn Rees. So I dropped them a quick tweet (see, I'm up with the lingo already). And I actually got one back from Emlyn. One that said Good luck, and if you ever want feedback on your book, give us a shout.

Seriously, he did.

Either he is totally bored, a sucker for punishment, or just a really, really nice bloke.

So I get it now, this Twitter thing. If you’ve got a particular interest, like I do with books and authors, it can be bloody enlightening actually. And a major procrastination tool of course. I’m sure that’s why most writers are really into it, just between you and me.

Trillionaires, rifling through underwear drawers and the Festival of Paul

This is a blog entry about boozing, schmoozing and food scoffing. The new theme of my London existence. All in the name of book research of course.

Last Thursday it was the great little charity dinner that Paul and Lizzie took me to Zamcog. I even splashed out and got myself a new LBD for the occasion – which is just as well because wearing black is clearly some kind of unspoken dress code here in London. In Brisbane, cocktail dresses are more a clash of colours – who can wear the brightest tangerine number they can find, that sort of thing. Not here in London. Here it is black, black, black or, err, dark grey. So luckily I fitted right, no neon sign above my head saying "CASH-STRAPPED WRITER".

At one stage I was speaking to a quite older, quite-a-bit shorter man, who was enthralling me with a conversation about his trillion dollar Rolls Royce dealership (or something like that – as soon as he mentioned cars I started drifting off, I have a 6-cylinder Golf after all) when Lizzie’s friend Alexia asked me “So, how long have you two been together for?”. I nearly died of shock. Or laughter. She thought we were together. Which I guess, when you think about Anna Nicole-Smith and thousands of other women the world over who have married for money, is not actually all that unbelievable. But I’m not one of those kind of girls that could marry for money alone, as much as I would love to be. It would certainly fund my novelist fantasies for many years to come.

Due to the state of our resulting hangovers on Friday, we couldn’t bear to drag our sorry arses out of the house. Which is just as well since it was officially declared the Festival of Paul. I had never heard of this important festival before arriving in London, but it seems to be a regular feature on the calendar in Barbican, the main premise being that the night is all about Paul. Specifically, Lizzie and I cooking up a massive feast for Paul, and then Paul being in charge of selecting the night’s movie viewing. Given his preference for Horror, this is always a little worrying for me – I still haven’t recovered from watching Jaws when I was eight. Paul and I have discovered that we have slightly different tastes in quite a few things, particularly TV and movie viewing – he thinks Love Actually is the worst film ever made (hello, Waterworld? Gigli?), but somehow The Family Guy passes his censor as quality TV viewing (satirical, Kath, satirical).

Anyway, hopefully the Festival of Lizzie and Kath will be taking place soon, with Paul tying on the apron. After all, he does look a little similar to Heston Blumenthal I think. Here is a pic of Heston so you can get the idea (Paul himself has to remain anonymous due to book character requirements).

Saturday night featured a 40^th birthday party for Keith. Now you may well ask “Who is Keith?”, and that would be a very good question. On Saturday night, the question was more about “How do you know Keith?” and I had to keep saying “Actually, I’ve never met him” until he wandered past an hour later with a platter of salmon sandwiches and I managed to wangle myself an introduction. Kate and Keith are good friends of Lizzie and Paul, and have very kindly offered to let me housesit their lovely house in Clapham while they head home to Australia for a few weeks from Wednesday. I think. Keith might change his mind if he remembers me joking about rifling through his underwear drawer. In my defence, I had had a few too many champagnes and it was about 2am – still, I don’t want him thinking I’m some kind of bunny boiler.

Kate is a chef, and has had her kitchen specifically designed so that she can host cooking classes at home. You can see it here on her website Love to Cook. It’s seriously amazing. Although I am a little bit concerned that the house might blow up if I try and heat a Marks & Sparks ready meal in the microwave. I don’t think it sees too much of that type of cuisine.

On the writing front, this week I’ve taken to writing in the British Library – which even though it’s noisier than peak hour at Victoria Station, is strangely proving to be quite a good writing environment. Perhaps it’s knowing that I’m sitting only 100m away from Jane Austen’s writing desk and a copy of one of her diaries that is setting my typing fingers on fire.

Sending my manuscript to Maggie Alderson (AKA standing naked at Speakers Corner)

I wonder how you know when your book is finished. Do you just wake up one day and think “that’ll do, little pig, that’ll do.”?

I had a that’ll do moment this morning. When I realised that I could keep tinkering around with my first three chapters, changing “the” to “it” or “a” – you know, just the important sort of edits - or I could bite the bullet and just send the chapters off to Maggie Alderson.

So I did. I did a quick last read, a final spell check, uploaded them to an email and hit send before I had too much of a chance to think about it. Which is good, because now that I have had a chance, I think I might just throw up.

Not just because Maggie is a bestselling novelist, but because she is also the first person that is going to read any of my book. Which feels as confronting as standing up and reading it out at Speakers Corner in Hyde Park. Naked. I'm suddenly wondering why getting Maggie to be the first person to read it was a better idea than someone like my Mum. Might be something to do with all the swear words.

When Maggie contacted me a few weeks ago in order for me to claim my prize, she promised not to be nasty. When I sent her my chapters this morning, I asked her to please be as nasty and brutal as possible. Because that’s what I need right now, even if my ego is saying “No, you want her to tell you that you’re the most brilliant author since…oh….God, and that she must, just must, connect you to her publisher to sign you up for a trillion dollar book deal.”

I think the nasty and brutal option is slightly more realistic.

It’s been quite a big day on the book front for Corporate Girl. Not only did I send off my chapters, but my book hit 100 pages! Exciting stuff. If only Maggie doesn’t say something like “ummm…just so you’re aware, someone actually already wrote a book about that” and I have to delete the lot, I might just be well on my way to writing an actual novel.

Rubbing shoulders with Royalty and the World Series of Pong

London is serving up a feast of fodder for my book. It all started last weekend when Ben asked those golden words “Who wants to go to the Rugby at Twickenham tomorrow?” Now, I love a good rugby game at the best of times – but it just so happened that only that day I had been writing a scene at a rugby match in London. True story. Synchronicity in action my friends.

And these weren’t just any old tickets either – they were tickets to the XYZ corporate suite (I thought I should leave Ben’s company anonymous, I wouldn’t want to get him fired for inappropriate use of company resources in case someone from XYZ ever read this blog). So for several hours last Saturday I had to pretend I was Corporate Girl again – which turned out to be a lot harder than I thought. I’m a bit rusty on the old corporate small talk. I realised early on that saying “Australia” when asked “And you’re from….?” was not the correct response – they were looking for company, not country. My dazzling smile alone did not distract them. So I fumbled my way through some sketchy story about being in London for work, and was just grateful that no one asked me anything like where our office in London is actually located, as that would really have blown my cover because I have absolutely no idea.

I seemed to get away with it though, and settled back to drink some fine Australian wine and listen to the poms singing Sweet Chariot which was pretty amazing in fact. Almost made me want to be English. But not quite. I even managed to rub shoulders with Zara Phillips! You know, Princess Anne’s daughter, the one who’s marrying Mike Tindall, the England Rugby Captain (whose nose has been broken so many times it nearly sits parallel to his face). She was there to cheer him on, and I saw her on the big screen. So we were in the same stadium at the same time, which is rubbing shoulders in my books, even if there were 70,000 other people there.

Of course Valentine’s Day rolled around again this week as well – another year bereft of any heartfelt love poetry, exorbitantly priced flowers and meal deals at Italian restaurants. Not even a card from my Mum! Thank God. I still haven’t forgiven her for the time about 15 years ago when she got some customer in the newsagency to write on a Valentine’s Day card for me so I wouldn’t recognise the handwriting, then didn’t tell me that she was behind it for a whole week. Practically grounds for parental divorce that one.

As a single girl, I think I am kind of expected to feel a bit sorry for myself on Valentine’s Day, to maybe want to slit my wrists or hang myself from the Tower of London. But as many other singles can attest, if you have escaped a bad matching in the past, sometimes I think Valentine’s Day should double up as Thank-God-for-my-lucky-escape Day. Simone Warne or Elin Woods could be the pin up girls.

Tuesday night brought about my first major foray into the London nightlife scene – at the Bloomsbury bowling lanes for the World Series of Pong. Thanks to old Brissie boy Phil Dutton for the invite – it was highly entertaining. Thanks also to my fabulous Ping Pong skills, my team The Ting Tongs made the semi finals! Granted I hardly hit the ball, but I blame it on the bad lighting not my complete lack of coordination. Lucky my ping ponging partner Alex was a bit of a gun. It took the Brothers Tan, who looked like they played for the Taiwanese Olympic team, to knock us out.

Unfortunately though this week has been one of both highs and lows – I got news from home yesterday that my brother-in-law Damo is quite sick and is in hospital. Which has suddenly made me feel a very long way from home. Ali tells me he is in good spirits though – apparently the thing he is most upset about is he may have to cut salt out of his diet. Which for Damo would narrow his preferred cuisine choices down to not-much-at-all. Bye bye Colonel Sanders, it’s been nice knowing you. Hopefully we will know more over the next couple of days – until then, I am trying not to worry too much (which given I own a copy of a book called “Women who think too much” is unlikely), instead focusing on getting my three chapters and synopsis finalised to send to Maggie Alderson. I have a self imposed deadline of this weekend.

First though, my stay in Knightsbridge with Ben, Jane and Bella the dog comes to an end today (without a single sighting of Kate Middleton – apparently she lunches around these parts all the time) and I am back to Barbitopia with Lizzie and Paul, who have very kindly invited me along to a fundraiser dinner tonight for a Zambian charity of sorts. I am pretty lucky to get an invite actually – Paul usually invites his mates-with-money so they can actually chip in for the charity (given that is the purpose and all) – at the last such dinner, their table raised 80,000 pounds. I have told Paul that I might be able to chip in 50 quid if they get desperate. After all, I am practically a charity case myself these days.

As a booklover, should I be thrilled that Borders has gone bankrupt?

I’ve never been a massive fan of the big book store chains. Sure, they have some great deals and you can be nearly guaranteed to find any book you want there, but it’s hardly an inspiring literary experience to trawl through six fluorescent lit levels of books that looks suspiciously like the local Woolworths supermarket.

A true book lover gets their rocks off in the small independent book stores – the ones that are dimly lit, have creaking floorboards and the books are presented like works of art. The ones that smell like books, as if they are pumping some kind of strange musty book perfume through the air con. You know, the type that hardly exist anymore because they’ve been pushed out by the chain gang.

So you'd think I'd be thrilled to have heard the news today that Borders has filed for bankruptcy. Owing millions of dollars to publishers. But thrilled I am not. Because cash poor publishing houses can’t be good news for anyone, especially new, aspiring novelists I would suspect. And one of the main reasons for their bankruptcy - their poor online presence - has probably got book store owners quivering in their boots the world over.

Will our love for online shopping spell the end of the street front book store as we know it? Because unlike shoes and clothes, when it comes to books most people aren’t all that fussed about try before you buy. Those of us who like to spend hours browsing in book stores, sniffing the pages (it’s got nothing to do with the binding glue, I swear) might just be a dying breed.

Suddenly I feel bad for buying a kindle. I feel bad for my new addiction to The Book Depository, even though they offer free postage all the way to Australia and I don’t even have to get out of my pyjamas to place my order. I might just pop out in the morning and buy myself a book. From a book store. One of those musty, maze-like independent ones in fact.

Because imagine a world without book stores! That would be like a world without wine. Too unbearable to contemplate.

I bet Lizzie Bennett didn't have to deal with this much cow dung.

Call off the fox hunting party. I’ve returned safe and well to London, all arms and legs intact. Although I must admit that it did feel a little like my right arm had been gnawed off not having internet connection for five days. I didn’t have anything else do but write (god forbid) and watch all 11 episodes of Brideshead Revisited.

And do a lot of Jane Austen-esque strolling of the hills of course. The countryside around East Dean is stunning – all green rolling hills and the gorgeous white Dover-style cliffs of course. Here’s a pic, to whet your appetite.

I just had to stop to take this photo. Not only because it is clearly a great shot, but because even though I am multi-talented, I can’t take photos at the same time as trying to manoeuvre my way around thousands of cow pats. That’s the other thing about the East Dean countryside – it is also grazing land for loads of cows and sheep. And those green rolling hills are just full of yummy fibrous grass for them to eat. I am sure Lizzie Bennett never had to deal with this much cow dung.

When I wasn’t sidestepping dung, I did manage to get a mammoth amount of writing done though. 5,000 words in one day alone! However, when I started having conversations such as the one following I knew it was time to head back to civilisation before I turned into a reclusive, eccentric writer or something:

Me: Morning!

Sheep: (silence)

Me: That’s a really lovely coat you’re wearing, I love the black and grey flecks.

Sheep: (Silence)

Me: OK then! Well, have a lovely day.

Sheep: (Silence bar sound of chewing grass)

So here I am, back in Barbican for a quick pit stop before heading over to the Cleary’s in Knightsbridge this afternoon to stay for a few days. Hopefully I will have regained my ability to hold a conversation by then, it was a bit sketchy for poor Lizzie last night. After only speaking to people I was handing money over to for five days, as well as the sheep of course, I think I had forgotten what my voice box was.

So Ben and Jane are the next lucky hosts of this writer-in-residence. They live just around the corner from Harrods on one side, and Hyde Park on the other. Which is not going to be distracting at all. A walk around Hyde Park each day might be in order, but I really will have to work hard to stop myself from entering the hallowed halls of Harrods, and purchasing their entire stock of tea towels. You can never have too many Harrods tea towels, right?

Bridget Jones, air raids and mating foxes. Ah, my first week in London!

Yesterday I had an encounter with one of my all time literary heros. Bridget Jones. Yes, that’s right, she of the blue string soup and big undies. I didn’t bump into her or anything (I haven’t gone totally mad) but stumbled across her little apartment! I was at Borough markets with Lizzie buying whole rabbits, wild pheasant and other very Englishy things, when Lizzie suddenly exclaimed:

“See that pub! Look familiar?”

I must admit that the first thing that came to mind was Harry Potter, before I realised he was too young to go to a pub. Then I looked more closely at the black door and all of a sudden I had a vision of Bridget standing outside it in that flimsy god-awful summer dress, getting absolutely drenched in the closing scenes of Edge of Reason. See, here I am standing in the same spot, just a lot dryer and wearing a few more clothes.

See, it does look familiar, doesn’t it! Well, maybe if you’re a Bridget fan. If not, it probably looks not that dissimilar to millions of other black doors around London.

Talk about literary inspiration for my writing! Finding Bridget Jones’ apartment is akin to a Muslim going on pilgrimage to Mecca.

Anyway, Borough was lovely. I ate a really good chorizo roll which is apparently a must do when you go there, even though it was only morning tea time. The not-putting-on-13kg thing is going really well.

Here’s a couple of shots of the markets that I took using my new fandangle camera which has a million settings that I have no idea how to use. One of the rabbits with their poor little floppy ears (I know rabbits are a pest in Australia, but here they just seem like the pets of Beatrix Potter), and a few of Lizzie shopping up a fresh food storm.

I have spent my first week here in London staying with the lovely Lizzie and Paul* in Barbican. Lizzie is a good friend of my mate Emma Stringer/Nixon (AKA  Dingbat, Dingy, Stringy), who I used to spend a lot of time with when her and Em lived in a share house in West End many years ago – or the hippie commune as we have been affectionately describing it due to the lack of TV, home brewing, veggie growing, group cooking and other hippie-ish things that used to take place there. Great place. Anyway, the only real remnant of Lizzie’s hippie lifestyle these days is the fact she married a self-proclaimed hippie banker and owns a vintage Chanel handbag (recycled, Kath, recycled). They live in the-most-amazing-apartment in Barbican from which I can practically see Australia. It can get a bit windy up there though, some nights it feels like we have our own little Cyclone Yasi beating down the doors. The other night when we were eating dinner Lizzie even suggested at one stage that perhaps we should retire to the safety of the bathroom for dessert. Now that would have been an authentic London experience, just like the bombing air raids from World War II.

Barbican is in The City. So sitting at my computer each day tapping away I can practically imagine that I am Corporate Girl again. Only I can wear my pyjama pants to the office. London seems to have recently caught on to the concept of a Flat White (Hooray!), so I have a bit of a routine each day now of writing for a few hours then wandering the streets of London sipping my Soy Flat White. Strangely just like what I imagined Creative Girl to be doing.

The other thing I imagined Creative Girl to be doing was living in a nice little cottage in the country, strolling the muddy moors like Elizabeth Bennett. So this afternoon I am jumping on a train down to Eastbourne to spend a few nights in Lizzie and Paul’s country cottage. I’ve seen pictures and it looks VERY Jane Austen. In the middle of a lovely green field, 10 minutes walk to the village, surrounded by a clump of trees. It doesn’t look Blair Witch at all. Hhhhmmm. I’m just glad that Lizzie told me in advance about the mating noises of the foxes, because when she demonstrated, it did sound remarkably like a small child being strangled, which would have quite frankly just freaked me out. And I don’t think Colin Firth is going to suddenly materialise to comfort me. I am kind of wishing now that I hadn’t watched those few episodes of Midsommer Murders with Mum in the weeks before I left Bulimba.

Speaking of murders, Lizzie also showed me photos of the beaches around Eastbourne, and it all looks like the white cliffs of Dover. I’ve never been to Dover, but it did remind me of when my baby sister Alison visited there as a young 19 year old, only a week or so after arriving on her own in the UK on a working visa. She had called home from a payphone in Dover, crying miserably to Mum about how much she was hating it and how lonely she was when the phone cut out. And then she didn’t call back. Mum was beside herself with worry for three weeks, imaging Alison’s lifeless body at the foot of the Dover cliffs, when suddenly we received a phone call from Brighton, where she was having just the absolute best time of her life and honestly hadn’t even had time to call. If she had physically been in Australia at the time, she might have been in trouble. I think Mum’s urge to kill her may have slightly outweighed her relief. So now that’s what I think about whenever I imagine Dover – it being all windswept, lonely and depressing. Kind of like the wailing wall.

Anyway, best go and pack a bag of my best country cottage clothing (dang I forgot my wellies and jodhpurs). If you don’t hear from me within a week, please contact the British Police or alternatively a fox hunter.

*I am not including a photo of Paul in this blog because Paul has kindly requested to appear as a character in my book, using his full name, Paul Reeve. He has specifically requested that said character has a thick mane of head hair. Since I figure it is the least I can do as payment for his hotelier services, I have agreed. But I don’t want you all to get any images in your head of what Paul the fictional character looks like – hence no photo of Paul the hippie banker.

Sitting next to newlyweds....and other joys of long haul flights

I’m one of those strange people that love long haul flights. I love the anticipation of the food trolley making its way down the aisle toward me, hell I even like the food itself (except when they have loaded new catering out of an Asian airport and the dessert is no longer recognisable as edible food). I love knowing I have nothing better to do than watch movies and read books for hours on end with absolutely no guilt involved. I love the joy of stretching my legs out in my exit row seat and taking the plastic off my plane-issue regulation blue blanket.

I even love wondering which person barrelling down the aisle, weighed down with a lot more than 7kg of permissible carry-on luggage, is going to be my travelling companion for the next 24 hours. I have had some shockers over the years, the worst being the man sitting next to me on my flight to Fiji who had clearly never been introduced to deodorant. I swear his BO was so powerful I could smell it through my mouth.

As it turned out my seat mates on the Airbus leg from Sydney to Singapore were newlyweds, married only the day before. I saw them sauntering down the aisle looking like travel brochure models, all tall and spray tanned and with whitened-teeth smiles. She was wearing a little white sundress, he was pulling her hot pink cabin baggage. I figured it must be true love.

For approximately nine of the first 10 minutes, before we had even taxied away from the gate, they had their faces glued together. Making those little kissing sounds – you know the ones, like popping bubble wrap. I sat there and prayed that my noise cancelling headphones were going to get me through the next eight hours. They were giddily in love, telling the air hostess that they were on route to the Maldives for their honeymoon – text book romance stuff. I didn’t know whether to be jealous or irritated.

When they spent the duration of the flight holding hands and selecting the same movies to watch ‘together’ – on their individual screens – I settled on irritated. This did however quickly morph into jealousy when they were presented with a complimentary bottle of champagne from the air hostess at the end of the flight.

On the movie viewing front, personally I chose a succession of quality chick flicks, followed by ‘Eat, Pray, Love’. I thought this was appropriate given that I was also running away from home and embarking on a life-changing journey of sorts. Only my journey is more Write, Pray, Sleep. I don’t want to overdo the eating thing (refer last post) and no plan to do the love thing either (also refer last post). But I do intend to write, pray that I don’t get too distracted/get this book written/don’t run out of money, and sleep a lot.

There are of course some things about long haul flights that I am not so thrilled about. The re-fueling pit stops really are dreadfully boring, spending hours staring at blue/pink/green flecked carpet zonked out of your brain from lack of sleep. Those strange people who haven’t figured out how to flush the plane loo. The karate kid sitting behind you constantly kicking the back of your seat. Watching people in velour tracksuits doing butt and leg exercises to combat the threat of deep vein thrombosis – generally while standing with their bum right in front of you at eye height.

Anyway, I survived the flight experience, battled the Underground with my suitcase (why oh why are there so many underground stations in London without escalators?!) and found my way to Lizzie and Paul’s flat in Barbican, where I am now sitting staring out over the London skyline from the 21^st floor. If I squint and use some powerful binoculars I could almost see the time on Big Ben. Not distracting at all.

Yesterday I went for a wander in the streets around Lizzie’s place and stumbled upon an old graveyard where William Blake is buried. That’s the thing about London – there is so much history of writers and writing ready to be discovered around nearly every corner. Here is the pub that whats-his-name wrote poetry in, here is the house that so-and-so lived in when they wrote their classic novel, here is the café that Kathryn Tyrrell bought her soy flat white from when she was procrastinating from writing. It really is a city to make history in.