Want to know why I'm still single?*

This is not a blog post about books, or writing, or my travels. It is not a blog post about procrastination or losing my mojo. It’s a blog post that will attempt to provide some answer to a particular question I get asked a lot.

‘Why are you still single?’

It’s a funny question. Because I don’t really know the answer. I know some people think I am too fussy. And perhaps I am. After all, I refuse to date idiots, liars or men who still get their Mum to buy their underwear. 

Quantity is not the issue – there are plenty of men around. It’s more of a problem with quality control i.e. most men can’t pass it. And being a good corporate girl, here’s a little story to provide some evidence to back my claim.

On Saturday night I went out for a few drinks with a good friend, whose identity I will protect. She will simply be referred to as Wingman #1.  I will provide just three clues to her identity: she is tall, blonde and goes by the name of Kelly Cleary.

Wingman #1 and I met at Ortiga in the Valley at 7pm. It was the first time we’d caught up since I got back, so we ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of assorted jamon (i.e. fancy Spanish ham, the cost of which nearly required us to remortgage our homes), and spent a good couple of hours catching up on the goss. All very civilised. No men involved.

The fun began when we decided to find a new venue. Exiting onto Brunswick Street, we looked up the road and saw that Bravo was pretty packed so decided to give it a go. I was relieved. It was only about a 200m walk, and my feet were already killing from wearing heels for the first time in nearly six months. While we tottered up the street, I wasn’t praying to meet any men. I was praying for a bar stool.

From a distance what had not been apparent was that everyone there was barely of legal age. These were kids who were still in nappies while I was in High School. It felt a bit like being at a Churchie Dance with alcohol. Wingman #1 and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and realised there was nothing to do about it but order another drink.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #1

We had only just placed our orders when Eligible Bachelor #1 approached. He was about 22 and had wild blonde hair to his shoulders that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, if ever. He had no hips to speak of and his pants were hanging so far off his bum it was truly a miracle of gravity that they were staying up at all. Or else he had some duct tape hidden in his bum crack. He smiled winningly at us, before leaning in and whispering ‘So, do you girls know anyone around here that's selling drugs?’

Err, no.

His breath smelt distinctly like vomit. It was all such a highly appealing package, I’m still trying to work out why neither Wingman #1 or I didn’t nab him on the spot and try to march him up the aisle.

We tried valiantly for at least 15 minutes to get rid of him. He was fixated on his hair and, more specifically, our opinion of it. He pulled one of his equally glazy eyed mates into the conversation, and asked us whose hair we liked best – which was like choosing between Worzel Gumidge or a tennis ball. He seemed serious. I have never come across a man so fixated on his own hair since Bert Newton or Donald Trump.

He eventually wandered off in search of a drug dealer. Wingman #1 and I slumped against the bar, grateful for our escape. It was unfortunately to be short-lived.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #2

I mistakenly made about two seconds of eye contact with him. He was quite good looking, but short. And I mean really short. I was wearing heels but even if I’d had flats on he would have come up to about my ears. Which is perhaps why he turned out to have such a fixation on them.

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m size-ist. Okay, maybe I am. I’m five foot nine and I like my men at least the same. Call me old fashioned, but I’m not looking for a man who can see up my nostrils.

But this guy was nice. He was from Northern England (my Scottish boss would tell me this was the first warning sign) but had a lovely accent that sounded nearly Irish (swoon). And he was funny. He was also flirting with me outrageously. Within five minutes he had asked me out to dinner , which he repeatedly did for the next hour. And the strangest thing was that I contemplated it. I thought of Tom and Katie, of Nicole and Keith, and I thought, hell, if they can date a shorter man, so can I!

But after a while things started to get a little strange. I suspect it was the drugs kicking in. He started rubbing the back of my head and commenting on the feel of my hair in a way that suggested he was a serial killer who was making a wig out of human hair. Then he started telling me I had beautiful ears (for the record, they are very ordinary ears). He kept trying to hug me. Eventually I had to have the Dirty Dancing ‘this is my personal space, this is your personal space’ conversation with him, which he promptly ignored by trying to stick his tongue in my apparently beautiful ear. I turned my back on him and started talking to a lovely girl sitting next to me who looked like Marion Grasby from Masterchef. Not that she had any idea who Marion is. Turned out she was 18 and I was old enough to be her mother. 

Eventually Eligible Bachelor #2 also wandered off. But not for long. About three minutes later, he reappeared at the other end of the bar, in our direct line of sight, with another girl whose face he promptly proceeded to try and suck off. Now she must have had a really amazing set of ears.

After a 10 minute display of rampant public affection, he disappeared again, only to reappear by my side. I knew that it was really going to get interesting now.

Me: ‘Hello.’

EB#2: ‘I just had the strangest thing happen to me.’

Me: *raises eyebrows*

EB#2: ‘I’ve just been outside with the Police for the last half hour.’

Me: ‘Really? That’s weird because I could have sworn that you were just across the bar devouring some poor girl.’

EB#2: ‘No, I’ve been outside with the Police!’ *sways slightly*

Me: ‘Goodbye.’

Thankfully he walked off without too much of a fuss. I suspect he went in search of the same drug dealer as EB#1. Or perhaps a pair of Gary Glitter platform shoes.

At this Wingman #1 and I decided it was time to blow this pop stand and never look back. We made our way down to Cloudland for one last drink.

Introducing Eligible Bachelors #3 and #4

These guys were both tall (tick) and very good looking, but the real reason they stood out was that they were both wearing suits. On a Saturday night.  When they approached us I immediately assumed they were Real Estate Agents. Or very devout Jehovah’s Witness.

EB#3 was wearing a duck egg blue cotton suit from Zara. We’ll call him ‘The Hamptons’.

EB#4 was wearing a grey wool three piece. We’ll call him ‘Wall Street’.

They were out celebrating The Hamptons birthday. When Wingman #1 said ‘Happy Birthday Helen' to him and he didn’t get it, we knew we were dealing with a couple of young ones. Turned out it was his 24^th birthday. I remember that birthday myself…it was at the turn of the century. Literally.

I may be a reformed size-ist, but I’m not an age-ist.  I have friends who married younger men. My own Mum was a cradle snatcher. It can work. But as soon as Wall Street started telling me about his job (without me even asking), I knew this was not going to be one to add to the statistics. He works in banking. And honestly, there is no greater arrogance than a freshly hatched wanker banker. Especially one in a three piece wool suit in a bar on a Saturday night. I can’t even bring myself to tell you about his conversation, or the way he talked to me about business like I would know no more about that than the intricacies of a prostate examination. When he eventually asked me what I did for a living, I told him I was a professional dog walker.

The only interesting thing about those poor boys was watching The Hamptons try not to spill his vodka cranberry on his duck egg blue suit. He didn’t, which was frankly quite disappointing.

Over a slice of New York pizza just after 2am, Wingman #1 and I were in champagne and vodka fueled fits of laughter about our night and the quality of the men who had featured in it. Eventually we stopped long enough for Wingman #1 to look at me over her feta and spinach pizza and say ‘And people wonder why we’re still single.’

Well, now you know. 

*This post is dedicated to all the single girls of Brisbane. Good luck, it's all I can say.

O writing mojo, writing mojo. Wherefore art thou, writing mojo?

LOST

My writing mojo.

Last seen somewhere near Peniche, Portugal.

Answers to name Erratic, Unreliable, or Unpredictable.

Reward offered (currency: Gin and Tonics)

I am not quite sure what the problem is, but ever since I got home last week I have really lost my writing mojo.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am really not loving my manuscript. I know, I know, you will all just roll your eyes at that and tell me to stop being such a perfectionist. Those of you who don’t know me so well (or at all, other than through this blog), will tell me that the first draft is always pretty bleak, and just to plough on. Just get it done, no matter how bad the writing. I am telling my brain and typing fingers all of these things, but the big problem is that I just don’t like the basic concept of my novel anymore (did I ever? I can’t remember). And that is a problem.

It’s too clichéd. It’s not original enough. The characters are naff. It’s, well, dumb.  And as the only person who has actually read it that means I have 100% consensus on this. So no arguments.

One of the main reasons I know I’m not loving it is because for the life of me I cannot think up a title for it. It is still called ‘Book Draft 1’. Catchy huh?

But I am going to finish it. I am. I am! I just need to get my writing mojo back on. Or just sit in the bloody seat, start typing, and stop procrastinating.

Because procrastinating I have been. This has taken on many forms in the last week, most of them entirely justifiable of course. Like catching up with friends who have had babies either while I was away or since I got back. And there are a lot of them – I think my friends are single handedly working to keep the average Australian birth rate up. Which is lucky I guess, since they have to take on my share of the breeding as well. Thanks guys.

I’ve also been lunching and brunching, shoe shopping, testing out all the new espresso bars on Oxford Street, signing myself up for Pilates and piano lessons, drinking wine/G&T’s/pretty much anything to hand, and spending way too much time reading The Daily Mail Online to ensure I am up to speed with all of the world's most important news.

Enough. I don’t need to know what Kate Middleton was wearing at that charity do. Or eat bacon and eggs ten ways. I just need to write. I need to put one word in front of the other and march towards THE END.

And I will. Just as soon as I have another coffee. 

Goodbye London. Hello bloody freezing Brisbane.

Something happened in the two weeks since I last posted on my blog.

I arrived home. Yes, as in Brisbane. Cold and bloody freezing Brisbane. I find this quite ironic. Only last Friday night I was at Southbank in London, overlooking the Thames, having a few Pimms with Clare and Phil. The sun was out (until about 9:30pm in fact). There were girls wearing sun dresses. I was conscious that my neck was getting burned and I was getting a very bad tan line on my arms. And now here I am back in Brisbane where it’s dark at 5pm and my fingers are so frozen I can hardly type.

Londoners really hate sunny Friday afternoons....

Clare and Phil

To all my friends and family in Brisbane - forgive me for wishing that I was still in London. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that Brisbane does winter really, really badly. Queenslanders refuse to believe that it actually gets cold here. There’s a certain defiance that seems to set in against the cold weather – I WILL continue to wear shorts; I WILL NOT turn on the central heating (generally because no one actually thought to even install it).

Anyway, despite the frozen fingers, at least I am doing some writing, which is more than I can say for what I’ve been up to for the last couple of weeks in London where writing took a major back seat to several other activities, including:

1. Making my credit card smoke. Seriously smoke.

2. Buying loads of stuff at Mimco. Because it is a lot cheaper to buy this great Aussie brand in London than it is right here in Australia. Go figure.

3. Being a real tourist – from the Tate Britain to Westminster Abbey (Kate and Wills were nowhere to be seen) to an awesome street photography exhibition at the Museum of London. I tried to cram in all of those touristy London things that I had not managed to do in the six weeks I was there before I left for Portugal. Which was pretty much everything.

Westminster Abbey with Jason. No sign of Kate or Wills.

4. Climbing on a lion in Trafalgar Square. This is A LOT harder than it looks. Those suckers are really slippery. I opted to simply climb onto the surrounding base instead, thanks to a kind leg up from Jason, but even this was hard. I certainly gave a few passing buses a nice eyeful of my arse.

Slippery little sucker

5. Sampling a wide variety of London nightlife: from seeing Phantom of the Opera, to dancing to bad 80’s music (head banging to Poison did feature; running man did not) in Putney, eating divine pulled pork at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant Barbecoa and catching the wrong night bus home from SoHo at 4am (I can only blame the shots. And Fran. All her fault). It was a little like the craziness of Spain revisited all over again, just without the chocolate churros.

6. One last trip to Twickenham with Fran and Jase – although I had to trade the luxury of the corporate suite for plastic seats and pints of cider this time, it was totally worth it to see England lose to the Barbarians.

With Frannie at Twickenham

7. Burying my toes in the sand on Brighton beach with Janet. Sorry, I mean rocks. Burying my toes in the rocks.

The beach, British style....

I had a bloody good time. But literally no writing made it on to this list. Which means I haven’t touched my novel for near on three weeks. Eeekkk. I’m hoping that the rumour that ‘the longer you leave it, the harder it is to get back into it’ is false. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow morning, my first day back on the writing wagon now that my jetlag-induced delirium has nearly passed. I then have until 4 July to try and polish off this first draft, as well as get my first three chapters to Maggie Alderson.  

I think this is achievable – if only because Dad has finally turned the heating on and I can actually feel my fingers again. Thanks Bill.

The things I've learned about trying to write a novel

Today is my last day in Portugal. Tomorrow I head for a few nights in Stockholm to visit my good friends Shona and Calle, then a little over a week in London until I head back to Australia.

Although I have a month when I get home before I go back to work, a month when I plan to polish off my near-complete first draft and re-work a very shoddy synopsis, I thought I’d write a blog about what these last few months in Europe have taught me about trying to be a full time writer.

1.       I use the letters E, N and F a lot.

I know this because all three of these letters have rubbed off my keyboard. S is also on the way out. I am not sure what words I write that use these letters all the time, but I hope it’s not FERNS or SNUFFLE.

2.       Writing (well) is hard

If I could write a book for every time someone told me that they, too, plan to write a book, you could call me Barbara Cartland (she wrote 723 books. That woman was a machine). Writing is not easy people. Writing well is even harder. There’s a reason that for every published novel, there are around 1,000 that will never see a printers press. It may not be brain surgery, but it may be the next hardest thing.

3.       It’s hard to be original

Think you’ve got a totally original idea for a book, something no one else has even come close to thinking about before? Hundred bucks says someone else has already done it, or something pretty similar. Trust me, I do a lot of Google searching.

4.       When it comes to writing, there are no rules

The more I read about how to become an author (no, unfortunately you cannot buy a kit), the more I realise that it’s like doing a medical diagnosis online. You’ll eventually get enough options and differences of opinion to make you turn into a full blown hypochondriac.

Writing is much the same. Everyone does it differently. A Clockwork Orange was apparently written in three weeks; An Equal Music took ten years. Some writers aim for 500 words a day; some 5,000. Some people write in the morning; some stay up all night. Some people tell you to try and avoid too much back story; I just finished reading Great House by Nicole Krauss, and that is a whole book of back story, and is critically acclaimed.

No rules. You’ve just got to do it your way.

5.       It’s hard to totally avoid clichés

Okay, there is one rule I try to abide by – to try and avoid clichés. Do you have any idea how hard this is? I mean, clichés are the best thing since sliced bread. Oops.

6.       You’d better bloody well like your own company

Writing is solitary. There’s no way you can get around that fact.

7.       I am not a disciplined blogger

I read The Happiness Project last year, a book that was based on a blog. The author states that if you’re a blogger, you should write a blog post every day. I write one a week, and sometimes even that’s a stretch. I like to blog, and I think it’s improved my writing, but I don’t want to bore people. I sit, I write, I eat, I read, I sleep, I occasionally go out and drink a few cocktails. There’s only so many ways you can spin a blog out of that kind of crazy life. Or maybe I’m just lazy.

8.       You have to put it out there

This is kind of like dating. You’re not going to meet anyone sitting at home on the couch watching Farmer Wants a Wife. Devastating but true. Even though I’m not disciplined about my blog, it’s been my outlet to get my writing out there. Sure, that was a risk. You all could have laughed. I look back on some of my blogs and cringe. But I also love some of them, and get a massive kick out of people telling me when they love a particular post, or comment on my writing. Some days that’s actually what keeps me writing.

9.       I don’t need to write full time to get my writing done

Some of my most productive days, and the days when I’ve done my best writing, have involved maybe one or two hours of actual writing. This means that as long as I don’t make excuses like having an urgent need to watch Pride and Prejudice (the BBC mini-series, all six hours of it) for the hundredth time, I could actually hold down a full-time job and still get a novel written each year. One page a day is all it takes.

10.   You need a lot of self discipline

Refer to points 2, 6 and 7 above. Self discipline (SD) and I are not always best friends. Sometimes SD gets in a real huff about this and just walks right on out the door.

A lot of writers, when asked to give a pointer to aspiring writers, say ‘Just sit down and write.’ Good advice. And strangely difficult to do. 

11.   I’m not one of these people that can write anywhere that takes my fancy

Over the last few months I’ve written in friend’s dining rooms and kitchens, public libraries, coffee shops, hotel rooms and airports. I’ve written staring at blank walls, lying in bed and looking out over oceans. What I’ve discovered is this. I need not a lot of noise, a lot of natural light, and am much better off looking at a wall than being distracted by a view.

12.   I don’t know how writers don’t get really fat

Not only do you sit on your arse all day, but it’s tempting to snack every time you hit a tough spot. I’m sure this is somehow also related to item number 10.

13.   You have to be honest with yourself

Binning my first attempt at the 50,000 word mark was hard. I might or might not have wanted to cry. But I knew if I was being honest with myself I didn’t have a choice. It was crap.

14.   Practice makes perfect (ah, yes, that old cliché)

You don’t go for a jog around the block one day and then run a marathon the next (well, maybe you would, but I would rather not, thanks). Same with writing. The more I write, the better I get. I hope.

15.   The thing about reading

To write you need to read. I have seen people try to argue that this is not true. I am sure they are currently out there writing a novel about vampires. If you don’t read, you have no chance in hell of knowing if you’re doing items 3 or 5. But when you’re writing, I think you can read too much. It can start to impact your own writing voice. And make you wonder if you have an original word in your head.

I read somewhere that David Nicholls (author of One Day) only reads non-fiction or classics when he’s writing. I think he might be onto something.

16.   People are suckers

It’s actually quite easy to tell everyone you’re writing a novel when really you just want an excuse to bum around Europe and not work for a few months.

Novel? What novel?

17.   I like to write lists

Not sure if any of you have noticed that. They’ve weaselled their way into my novel too.

I know this list is far from complete. As soon as I hit ‘Post’ I’m sure I’ll think of ten more things I desperately want to add. But I guess that’s the thing I’ve learned most about writing – it’s never going to be totally perfect, as much as it kills my perfectionist brain to admit. *sigh*

Actually, maybe I’ll just go and start a new list…..

What book? For me, Europe has been all about the food.

I love to eat. And when I’m travelling, I love it even more. I mean, what better way is there to get to know a country and it's culture than to eat and drink like a local?

If I think back to the years I have spent travelling and living overseas, often it's the food and the places I've eaten that have created some of my best memories. Like:

1. Ordering breakfast at the Cracker Barrel in Tennessee and being presented with two, yes two, dinner size plates of food.
2. Our hosts hunting an impala in Zimbabwe and then serving it up to us for dinner (actually what I remember most about this is someone stealing the poor impala's foot and hiding it in people's sleeping bags. We were only 17 after all.).
3. $5 steaks in Argentina that were the size of my head.
4. My South African host mum Helga feeding me the same portion sizes as her tall, fit teenage boys. I remember being presented with, and eating, two hamburgers one night. And I wondered where the 13kg weight gain came from.
5. Eating poutine after a big night out in Vancouver. Because you would never eat that stuff sober, would you?

Now that my four months in Europe is coming to an end, I thought I would put together a short highlights reel of my culinary journey through London, Portugal and Spain.

I realise this looks like the recreation of a cow's intestine, but it is actually Jane making homemade sausage rolls in London.

Seriously good.

It is really hard to find good coffee in London. I'm sorry Londoners, but it's true. I made it a personal mission over the six weeks I was first there to try and track down the best coffee possible. In the end it was a toss up between the coffee at Look Mum no Hands! and the Department of Coffee and Social Affairs.

Both with cool names to boot.

It is not hard, however, to find a great pub in London that serves a Bloody Mary on a Sunday afternoon. Here's Lizzie at the Owl & Pussycat in Shoreditch, waiting for our Sunday roast.

And just to prove that I did need to travel to London for important book research, the Owl & Pussycat now features in my book (the Bloody Mary, however does not).

I have blogged a lot about the joys of the Portuguese tart. Here is just one of the many I have consumed during my time in Portugal.

Also featured in this photo is a galau, or milk coffee, made on, you guessed it, UHT milk. Check out the nice frothy bubbles on the top. Even the coffee in London is better than this stuff.

But those tarts are to die for, so I forgive the Portuguese for their bad coffee.

  

Meet my friend the Gin Garden. We were first introduced by Simon the Italian barman at Dromedario Bar in Sagres, Portugal.

I ask you, how can anyone call gin a depressant when it looks like this?

                                   

I like tapas.....but at the same time I don't really get it. If I ever saw a dish on a menu that consisted of tomato bread, grilled octopus and an omlette, I would never order it. So why do we think it's okay to eat all of these things together just because they're served on different plates?

I think the Spanish had been drinking too much sangria when they came up with that one.

Speaking of which, I did some pretty extensive sangria research, and this one in Vejer de la Frontera was the winner.

Drink and dinner in one. What more could you want?

Vegemite toast from Federal in Barcelona. I know it's wrong to put this on my highlights of Europe food reel, but I was bloody excited to eat it, okay? And this is my blog. I can do what I want.

Churros with thick hot chocolate.

Best eaten at 4am after a few hours on a Spanish dance floor. These suckers even give the portuguese tart a run for it's money.

 An authentic seafood paella. I shared it, but I could have eaten the whole thing on my own, even though I could see the chef making it in the kitchen and I saw him lick the spoon.

Heat kills all germs, right?

I asked for a Corona. The barman recommended this instead.

I am still trying to work out if I should be offended or not.

Looking back on all this food and drink, it's a wonder I've managed to get any writing at all done really. 

A public announcement to my Mum on Mothers Day

For Mothers Day 2011, since I am in possession of an active blog, I would like to take the opportunity to make a public announcement to my Mum.

Mum, I’m sorry.

Really, really sorry.

What for? Well, for those years between about 1988 and 1995. And probably even beyond that if I’m being totally honest. The years I was an eye-rolling, drama-inducing, door-slamming, withered look-giving teenager.

And as the middle of three sisters, my poor Mum had to deal with this three times over. It’s a wonder she didn’t up and move to Alaska, or somewhere very, very remote. Without a telephone. But she didn’t. She stuck it out, and at some point (I can’t exactly remember when) we all realised that she was actually a person in her own right. Not just our Mum.

My Mum's a qualified piano teacher. She used to sing at weddings. She worked for the High Court in Canberra, and transcribed some of the court tapes from the Lindy Chamberlain trial (a dingo did not kill that baby). She’s a grammar and times tables guru. She gave me my love of reading. When she was 19 she moved to Canberra for work and lived in a caravan (yes, I have trailer park roots). She could have gone to work in Washington DC but instead chose to stay in Canberra and marry my Dad. Lucky, or else I would not be here, typing this blog. Which would obviously be a terrible loss for all life on Earth.

It’s funny to reach an age where you can actually remember your Mum being the same age. I was eight years old when my Mum was 34. The differences in our lives at this age are, err, significant. I am responsible to no one. I am currently flitting around Europe writing a novel. Not earning any money. At 34, my Mum had three children and had paid off a mortgage. She had been married to my Dad for 12 years. She was responsible – because she had to be. She was a Mum, and she had the perm to prove it.

So it would have made sense that when I first told Mum that I wanted to take time off work to try and pursue my dream of writing a novel for her to tell me not to be silly. That is was time to grow up. And be sensible.

But she didn’t. You want to know what her first words were?

‘Well, you’ve always wanted to do that’ in a voice that suggested that she didn’t know why I had taken so long to reach this decision. Then she said ‘Why don’t you move home for a few months to save some money?’ and it was then that I realised that maybe she has early onset memory loss and has forgotten what living with me in the early 1990’s was actually like. Or else she’s had a lot of therapy.

I’m lucky. Very lucky. Not every aspiring creative gets this kind of reception from their family and friends. 20 years ago I might not have been able to appreciate this. But now I do.

And while I may still occasionally roll my eyes (very bad habit) and act like a surly 15 year old – Mum, I just want to say thanks for being such a loving, generous person and a truly wonderful friend.

Although I still wish you had never made me wear those polyester brown flares to school when I was seven. That sort of thing can really scar a girl you know.

Happy Mothers Day to all the Mum's reading this. And to those of you with daughters...good luck.

How long is a novel? Bloody long.

So the 45,000 word saga is behind me. Long behind. Although it was swiftly followed by the 50,000 word saga, 55,000 word saga, 60,000 word….you get the idea.

I have finally come to the realisation that as a writer you think your writing is crap most of the time. You just need to keep on writing. So I have.

And today……I hit 70,000 words. Hurrah!

I don’t know why that feels like a milestone but it does. Maybe because I feel like I’m now in the last third of the book (or my Practice Novel as I have now started calling it), on the home stretch. Based on my loose (and I mean loose baby loose) chapter plan, I figure I’m going to finish up somewhere around the 100,000 word mark.

So only 30,000 to go (*sighs and says strewth*).

There are no rules when it comes to what the word count should be for a book (trust me, I have Googled it. Several times). This is no better evidenced than by the fact that there is a bestseller on the market at the moment with a zero word count. It’s titled ‘What every man thinks about apart from Sex’. Honest to God.

Wish I had thought of that. Would have been a lot easier.

But that one seems to be a bit of a one off.  From my extensive Google searching (totally justified as a procrastination activity as the topic is writing related) it seems that most novels fall into the 80,000-120,000 word range. Unless you’re Vikram Seth writing An Equal Music of course. Although even he was outdone by L. Ron Hubbard, who wrote a 1.2 million word epic called Mission Earth, a fictional account of aliens, which is clearly in no way related to Scientology.

God, it makes me want to fall asleep just thinking about it.

So, 30,000 words to go. One month until I am back in Australia. Am I going to get it finished by then?

No.

But I do hope to have it finished by the time I go back to work on 4 July. Well, have the first draft finished. After that, I plan to put it in my bottom drawer for a couple of months and get started on the next novel. This is a tip I took from a seminar I went to with Pippa Masson, a Literary Agent at Curtis Brown, who said that all first novels should be locked in the bottom drawer or used as bonfire fuel (she didn’t actually say this, but that is the clear message I took away). Under no circumstances should 99% of them ever be sent to publishers or agents.

I won’t burn my practice novel. But I will lock it up. And then after a couple of months I’ll look at it again with fresh eyes to decide if it’s worth trying to salvage a second, third and perhaps fourth draft from. And this isn’t just me being a crazy perfectionist. When Mike Gayle wrote My Legendary Girlfriend, he says his first draft was ‘ten million different kinds of terrible’ and then proceeded to rewrite it 11 times. Yes, 11 times (*sighs and says strewth* again).

Writing is rewriting, apparently. Unless you are smart enough to write a book without any words, in which case I suspect you’re probably done after the first draft.