When Creative Girl went Corporate

Four weeks. Twenty days. Around fifty cups of herbal tea. Forty trips on the cross river ferry. Approximately 500 various responses to the questions “How was your trip?” and “Is your book published yet?”. Five pairs of laddered stockings. Ten calls to the IT Help Desk to recover forgotten passwords.

That’s how long I’ve been back in my corporate girl shoes for. And yes, it’s been a massive shock to my creative girl way of life (especially the herbal tea bit – I’m not drinking coffee at the moment and it’s nearly killing me). Such a shock that it took about two weeks for my brain to even really start functioning again. On my first day my boss Lorraine asked me to start thinking about developing a dashboard to measure KPI’s for Bid and BD costs, and I nearly had to ask her what a KPI was. Key Plot Item? Keep Pimms Iced? I remember just nodding and writing it down, trying to look serious and knowledgeable, all the while wondering how long it was until home time.

Unsurprisingly, not much in Corporate Girl world has changed in six months. Lots of new faces to avoid making eye contact with in the lift and a new job, but pretty much everything else is the same. The biggest surprise was only having 1800 emails in my inbox on day one, most of which were junk. Although there were a few in there from around March/April from people asking me to please run a workshop for them. Which was four to five months after I left – meaning that they hadn’t even noticed I was gone all that time. A good reminder that I’m not nearly as indispensible as I would possibly like to think I am.

As for my new role? So far, so good. Mostly because I still don’t know exactly what my role is so I’m able to bring some creativity into my corporate girl life when answering the question ‘So, what are you doing now?’ I’ve taken to just murmuring something about ‘global projects’ and ‘client development’ and I find that it tends to make people’s eyes glaze over, stops any further questioning in its tracks and lets me get back to surfing the net and stalking people on Facebook (just joking Lorraine. I swear. I would never stalk anyone on Facebook).

I will admit that the fulltime-work/writing juggling act is not nearly as easy as I thought it was going to be. I distinctly remember writing a blog entry several months ago (around the time I was in Spain and had 24 hours a day to devote to nothing more taxing that writing, eating and sleeping) where I stated that I thought it would be bloody easy to fit it in when I went back to work. Just an hour or two a day, that’s all I need.

Hmmm…..

You see, it turns out that spending my day talking about the impacts of the carbon tax on our clients is strangely draining on my creative juices. And the fact that I’m addicted to Masterchef hasn’t really helped either. The only writing I seem to be doing at the moment are emails to my accountant to organise my tax return and filling out forms to get my drivers license replaced. Even my beloved blog is slowly going to seed.

I clearly need a new plan of action.

So. I’m going to start up a new blog. Exactly what it will be about is still a work in progress – but it will be something that lets me continue to blog about my book, bachelors or bus station toilets. Stay tuned. I'll tell you all about it next week....just as soon as bloody Masterchef is over.

There's a few people I want to thank (because the fat lady is really bellowing now).

Alright. Enough stories of woe about all these Brisbane (in)eligible bachelors. Time to get down to more serious business like the fact that I am returning to work tomorrow. TOMORROW. As in about 10 hours time.

Good God. I really have no idea how this happened. One minute I was sitting in Spain having a bloody good time, writing a (crappy) novel, sleeping in and generally just minding my own business, and the next minute I’m back in Brisbane kicking myself for somehow not managing to get any of my jackets dry cleaned in the six months I had off, and checking all of my nude stockings for ladders.

So I can wear them, not strangle myself. Don't worry.

How do I feel about returning to work? Brilliant of course! (My boss reads my blog). Okay, maybe a tad depressed but I think that’s only natural after six months off. I’m also a little nervous to be honest – nervous that my brain has entered a permanent state of hibernation and will have forgotten how to function. I might need to pack a marketing textbook in my handbag just in case someone actually asks me a question about marketing. Like what it is.

I’m still not exactly sure what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, but I suspect it will involve answering the questions ‘How was your trip?’ (Fantastic!) and ‘How’s the book coming along?’ (Nearly finished!) around 850 times. My good friend Kellie Hogan suggested I just issue a memo on my arrival that provides a summary of answers to all possible questions to save repeating myself. I think that might actually be a good idea, thanks Kel. Or I might just commandeer the reception PA system and make a quick speech on my arrival.

To mark the end of my time as a full time ‘creative’, I wanted to write a list of acknowledgements. You know, like the kind you see in the back of a book where they thank Tom, Dick and his mate Harry for helping them with the book. I’ve actually got a lot of people to thank for helping make the last six months possible. And as my book will probably never see the light of day, I thought best to do it right here, in my blog.

Kelly Kent, aspiring novelist and inspiring friend, who made a bet with me two years ago and then kept me to it. Thanks for helping me with my ‘writing wobbles’, and encouraging me to just dive in and bloody well do it. I doubt any of this would have ever happened without you.

Lizzie and Paul. I truly can’t say enough about these two. Thanks for the festival of Paul, the copious amounts of herbal tea, not subjecting me to any horror movies, your gorgeous country cottage, robust debates about the movie Love Actually, and most of all for opening your home to a writer-in-residence you hadn’t even laid eyes on for five years. I can’t wait for my new bedroom in Bloomsbury to be finished!

Jane and Ben (and Bella the dog), the very-soon-parents-to-be who welcomed me so warmly into their amazing Knightsbridge home for the second year in a row, and who always make me feel like another Cleary sister! Thanks for my A-class rugby experience, teaching me how to make sausage rolls, and giving me a lifelong aversion to yellow paint/80 year old handymen.

Kate and Keith. For loaning me your awesome pad in Clapham while you were on holidays in Australia (and trusting me with your super deluxe kitchen).

Frank and Lorraine: my Corporate Girl bosses who said ‘Sure, off you go’, and are actually willing to take my hibernating brain back on again. Risky move.

Wonderful friends, sisters, family, colleagues and random distant acquaintances who have genuinely encouraged my novel writing escapade. I hear horror stories about people who tell family and friends they are writing a novel, only to be made to feel like they’re delusional and should be admitted to the local psychiatric ward ASAP. My experience has been the total opposite, to the point where it would be impossible for me to actually name everyone individually without getting RSI from typing.

Everyone who reads my blog. Yes, you out there, whoever you are and wherever you may be – from Russia to Japan, Singapore to Brasil. It always gives me a massive kick when people tell me they read my blog/their Mum reads my blog (hi Lyn!)/I made them laugh/they tell me about their favourite post. Thanks for being my writing guinea pigs. I hope it wasn’t too torturous.

Dell computers. Turns out your laptop was suitable after all, even if I did lose E, F, N and S.

And of course Mum and Dad, who always encourage and support me no matter what crazy idea I’m dreaming up (I’m quitting my job to go and work in the Canadian ski fields/I’m taking six months off to write a book/I’m getting a tattoo). I feel fortunate every day to be your daughter. Oh, and I’m joking about the tattoo.

Finally, to the woman who stole my wallet on Friday night. Thank you for your nimble finger work right before I am due back at work instead of last week when I would have had heaps of time to get my new license, medicare card etc sorted out. I would have given you the $50 I had in there if you’d just asked. Okay, maybe not, but seriously. Get a job.

I think that’s everyone, but I’m not sure (please refer to earlier note re: brain hibernation).

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Writing is a very solitary endeavour, and yet I honestly couldn’t have done it without my fantastic support crew. And I promise to repeat this if a publishing miracle ever does appear in my future. Even if I really am using a zimmer frame by the time that ever happens.

Introducing Eligible Bachelor #5

Last night a guy told me that I was ‘quite attractive’ and it was not my father or anyone related to me/working for me and looking for a pay rise/a Moroccan man trying to sell me a carpet.

Now, before you go rolling your eyes and thinking that I’ve gone all up-myself by blogging about this, or getting concerned that my head is going to be so big I won't be able to get it through the office doors tomorrow, let me just tell you that it was nearly midnight, the man in question (who, following my last blog post, I will simply refer to as Eligible Bachelor #5) had clearly had a few too many rumbos, and there was some very dim lighting involved. But what I really want to share with you to make clear that this has in no way gone to my head is what his pre-cursor to this statement was:

‘For an older lady, you’re quite attractive.’

Yes. That’s right. An older lady.

I have been under no illusions that I am getting older. My lovely Doctor in fact brought this to my attention a couple of years ago when he told me that the problems I was having with my neck were ‘general wear and tear’ and there was nothing he could do about it. Being likened to some well trodden carpet kind of has the effect of making you realise you’re not a teenager anymore. But still, I really don’t feel that different in a lot of ways to what I did 10 years ago. The fact that I am in a bar at midnight on a Saturday night is probably testament to this.

Until now. Because now I am an officially certified older lady.

Granted Eligible Bachelor #5 was about 21, so arguably anyone over the age of 22 would fall into his older lady bracket. But I doubt he uses this line on too many 22 year olds. Or looks at them in a way that implies they could well be his mother.

It was certainly a sobering experience. And I was already sober, so that’s really telling you something. I think I laughed – but not too hard, because I didn’t want to further define my obviously already visible crows feet. He wandered off and I was left to contemplate whether I should take his remark as a compliment or an insult. I’m still not quite sure. I guess I’ll think about that a little more today while I peruse some zimmer frame catalogues.

I will say, though, that all of these encounters in the last few weeks  makes me wonder whether I shouldn’t just rename this blog ‘When Corporate Girl met Brisbane’s Most Eligible Bachelors’ and be done with the whole fiction writing thing altogether. Because I honestly don’t think I could make up half of this stuff even if I tried.

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…..