Sunday 25 February 2018

The banal best of 2018 ... so far

Oh my goodness! 
It's almost the end of February.
A sixth of the year has already passed. That's almost 17%... or 16.66666667% if you're a maths whizz ... or a dork.

I find myself wondering where the first two months of the year have gone.
And then I wonder if I've used the time wisely, or have I squandered it?
What have I achieved?

But as I reflect upon The Year So Far, mostly I find myself thinking of all the good things that have already come my way. 

No, I'm not getting all gushy about love and liberty. 
Sorry. It's far more banal than that.
I'm talking about the little things. 
The everyday morsels that make my heart sing.

Here goes: 

The Best of 2018 Thus Far


Best Garden Find
Pot plants.
At the top of the list.
Who would have thought?
The start of 2018 saw me investing in several indoor plants and I have actually managed to make them grow! 
A lovely lady at the nursery gave me sound advice about soaking from below not watering from the top and my life has been transformed. 
So has my study.
And the bathroom.
And the kitchen benchtop...
So, I might have become a little bit obsessed in the wake of my newly found success, but indoor greenery is meant to be good for your oxygen levels or your serotonin levels, or something like that, so I'm continuing to poke my green thumbs all over the place..


Best Books
Books second because .... well, they're books!

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, by Gail Honeyman
I laughed and cried and stayed up late to read it. 
I thought about Eleanor long after I finished the last page, which is my measure of a brilliant book. 
I was reminded of The Rosie Project and A Little Life as I read it - a weird combination, I know, but there you go. 
(This description shows why I'm not a professional book reviewer!)

A Garden of Lilies - Improving Tales for Young Minds, by Prudence A Goodchild (who might have been assisted by Judith Rossell) 
Pure delight in a fancy cloth cover with gold writing. 
Marbled end-papers. 
Beautiful illustrations. 
A red ribbon.
Sigh!
This book of cautionary tales had me roaring with laughter and vowing to buy a copy for every friend as their birthday comes around this year, because who doesn't need a good laugh and bit of Victorian instruction?
Furthermore, I now know what a damson pitter looks like.
I even know what a damson is!


Best Home Decorating Find
Coffee coloured sheepskin
I know!
It's fluffy and it's a delicious coffee colour.
It feels like I'm planting my feet on a little bit of heaven when I get out of bed in the morning.
And I like to imagine sheep bathing in cappuccinos each day so that their wool reaches just the right hue for the rugs.
Olive gives it her vote of approval too.
Olive is not looking relaxed here as she
knows the sheepskin rug is supposed to be a
whippet-free zone.

Best Tradie Tips
Three months after moving into our new house, I'm still dealing with tradies. 
They're all very kind and extremely clever. 
They're also ridiculously late, arriving anything from one to six months after the specified date, and incredibly verbose.
I have become far more relaxed about the extended period of building after accepting the two golden rules for dealing with tradies:

1. Don't hold your breath. 
If you do, you'll pass out and die before they arrive. 
But take heart, they will eventually turn up and, when they do, the job will be completed to perfection.

2. Get ready for a yarn. 
The older the tradie, the longer the yarn. 
There's never enough time to meet the job's agreed deadline, but there's always enough time to spend an hour or two solving the problems of the world. 

Best Movies
Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
You're sure to have heard of this already, if you haven't already watched it.
This is the best movie I've seen in years and, like the best of books, I thought about it long after it was over. It was full of despicable and complicated characters embroiled in despicable and complicated situations. 
Sounds ghastly, but soooo good and tempered with black humour at just the right moments. 

The Greatest Showman
This one was as light as Three Billboards was dark. 
I tapped my toes and smiled all the way through. I smiled for the whole drive home, too. 
I might need to download a song or two just so I can keep the cheery vibes going.

Best Food
Anything eaten on the veranda with family and friends, while looking out over the hills.
Except for kale.
And I wouldn't really like too much quinoa in my life.
And cheese is better than zucchini.


Huh!
I guess I have come back to love and liberty. 
Friends and family.
The freedom of choice.
Leisure.
Luxury.

Life in 2018 is good.

What have been the lovelies in your life so far this year?

Sunday 18 February 2018

What does the start of a book look like?

Messy.
Muddled.
Disorganised.
Coffee-stained.
Tear-stained.

The start of a book is unimpressive.
And hard slog.


Right now, I'm planning the  third book in my series, The Girl the Dog and the Writer. 
I've been reading, scribbling, drawing , making lists, writing down  random ideas as they spring into my mind, gathering old notes,  visiting the library, looking at photos, drooling over recipes and travel blogs...
I've visited my chosen location via Google images, Dorling Kindersly and Google Maps street views.
I've nibbled on chocolates and cheeses and salamis and pickles and pastries - all setting related, of course!
I've made lists of names and places and activities.
The names, I find, are particularly useful. A great character name can unleash a flood of ideas. 

Anything that's vaguely related to my vague theme has been added to the pile.
Notice the double vague reference?
It's all rather vague at this early stage.
Nothing is too big or too small. 
Everything is useful ... or, at least, might be useful. 
Thoughts and notes can be tossed aside so there's no harm in being a bower bird until I know where the story is headed.




I've spent many hours staring out the window, musing over these newly found tidbits of information.
I've spent many hours wandering about the hills, sitting on boulders, chewing on grass, staring at clouds, muttering.
Muttering, muttering, muttering.
There is so much muttering.
And, occasionally, I've chuckled.
A favourite wandering, gazing and muttering site.

There's a lot of coffee that's been brewed and poured and forgotten.
A fair bit has been guzzled, too!
I've dashed, many times, night and day, back to my desk to scribble a fabulous new idea.
I've had several ridiculous dinner time discussions with my husband and son.

Oh dear!
This is sounding daft and messy and not at all the sort of thing that might lead to a proper book with a pretty cover that will sit on a shelf in a real live book shop.
And I must admit that, often, I worry that it won't!

But, now, after weeks of trawling and scrawling and muttering and musing, I feel like a story is beginning to take shape.

I think I know what The Big Thing at the centre of the book will be.
My main characters seem ready to be drawn into The Big Thing . 
Furthermore, they're whispering about the little things that might happen along the way.
They've even chosen their accommodation. It's pretty, with an interesting land lady.
I'm the travel agent who has to organise it all - how they'll get there, how long they'll stay, whether or not they take any overnight trips to other exciting places.

There are fresh characters popping up their hands, crying, 'Ooh! Ooh! Pick me! Pick me!'
Some are kind and quirky. 
Some are gruff but lovable. 
One's a scumbag, the kind of bloke who'd sell his own grandmother if the price was right. I do love finding a dastardly villain.

Other characters, who looked like starters, are slinking away, saying, 'Nah. Not interested. I'll sit this book out. Save me for another tale.'

I have decorated imaginary shops and cafes. I've mapped out imaginary walking routes. There's even a  catastrophic weather incident brewing.

It's all happening on my desk and in my mind.

So this week, I'm going to gather my notes and thoughts and lists and internal dialogues and whacky ideas and coffee-stained pictures together and try to shape them into something useful. 
I'll develop a plot that can, hopefully, deliver tears and laughter and nail-biting drama. 
I'll write a few random character descriptions and an arrival or two at key locations - just to make sure I like the people and places I'll be living with for the the next six to eight months. 
I'll organise a notice board with notes so that I can keep track of it all... until my characters misbehave and take me writing off in a different direction.

And then, I will write The Book.

I'll write the first sentence. 
And then the next. 
And then I'll rewrite them both - several times.

Bit by bit, word by word, sentence by sentence, I'll get the first chapter out. 

I'll grind into the second and third chapters. 
I'll rewrite them over and over again. 
And then three or four times more for good measure.

I'll probably shed a tear or two during these early chapters. Not because my story is moving, but because I'm feeling inadequate. 
At some point, I'll press my hand to my brow and wail that my writing life is finished.
I'll consider applying for a job at KFC, frying chips.
The tears and melodrama always kick in at this stage.

But days will turn into weeks, and then months, and the words will outnumber the tears and, at some stage, the writing - which can seem so very tricky at first - will actually begin to flow. 
I'll slip further and further from reality and live more deeply in the world I have created. 
My characters' lives will become mine and the magic of a new book will draw me in once again.

Blood, sweat and tears will have turned to joy.
Pure creative joy.

At least, that's the plan.
If you see me frying chips at your local KFC you'll know it hasn't worked.

All of these books started life this way.
Scary but true!





Thursday 8 February 2018

Look at moi! I'm writing in a cafe!


I started writing this week's blog in a cafe.

I know! 
It's too ridiculous!

I always laugh at the idea of writers working in cafes. 
I mean, how PRETENTIOUS!

Look at moi!
I'm a writer! 
I'm writing! 
I'm very clever and creative and literary.

I imagine myself waving a fountain pen in the air, as I half-sing, half-laugh these very words, placing special emphasis on 'literary'. I pronounce it with four distinct syllables - LIT-ER-AIR-EE - just to poke a little bit of fun at myself while also making sure that nobody misses the fact that I have a fabulous vocabulary and I'm not afraid to use it.

I also imagine myself wearing a voluminous sack-shaped linen dress, elastic-sided riding boots (no socks), tiny round glasses and no make-up except for a dash of bright pink lipstick. Because I am far too busy and creative and LIT-ER-AIR-EE to be concerned about organising my wardrobe or applying a full face of make-up. 
Look at moi!

Look at moi!

Look at moi!

But, it's not just being pretentious that puts me off the idea of cafe writing. 
No, no, no, no!
It's all those DISTRACTIONS.
There is so much happening in a cafe. 
So much to see and do and hear and touch and smell.
People to watch.
Conversations to hear. (It's not eves-dropping if you're a writer, surely?)
Wobbly tables to shore up with cleverly placed sachets of Stevia.
Coffee to sip.
Cakes to sniff and lick and nibble.
Paper serviettes that are just begging to be transformed into paper cranes.

No, writing in a cafe just doesn't make sense.

And yet, there I was, late on Wednesday morning, writing in  a cafe. 
An Austrian cafe, at that. 
SOOOOO PRETENTIOUS!
But not quite so pretentious when you realise that the Austrian cafe was in Castlemaine, not Vienna.

But I was there for good reason.
It was hot.
Stinking hot.
And the air conditioning in my new house was not yet up and running.
And cafes have air-conditioning.
And coffee and cake.
And this particular cafe, had coffee and apple-custard tart - or as they so charmingly put it, kaffee und apfel-pudding-torte - and it was served by the most gorgeous hipster waiters wearing long aprons and warm smiles.


So there I was, sipping coffee, eating tart and writing this week's blog.
And, to be honest, I was going great guns until I'd chugged down all the coffee, gobbled all the tart and licked every last skerrick of whipped cream off the plate - about five minutes after it landed at my table! (I might be LIT-ER-AIR-EE but I'm a jolly fast eater!)


Now what?

You can't just sit in a cafe all day, using up lucrative customer space, just because you need somewhere cool and comfortable to write.
That would be rude and self-centred and, well, PRETENTIOUS!

Look at moi!
I'm a writer! 
I'm writing! 
I'm so very clever and creative and literary that the cafe owner is happy to sacrifice this table with its wonderful lunchtime earning potential in order to bask in the glory of my non-paying presence.

Of course, I could have ordered another cup of coffee, but that seemed too stingy. 
I'd have to add a couple of sausages to the order. 
Maybe even some cabbage and fried potatoes. 
But I was full.
Really full.
You should have seen how big that slice of apple-custard tart was!

Besides, the würste mit sauerkraut would arrive, I'd gobble it up and I'd be right back where I started.
Except that, now, there'd be sausage grease and strings of fermented cabbage across the pages of my notebook.
And I'd be feeling ill from overeating.

Hmmm. Tricky.

So I packed up my notebook and pen, paid the bill and left.
I'd written two pages.
Two small pages. (My notebook was tiny.)
The word to cake ratio was too low.
Totally unsustainable.

A cafe writer I am not.

But where to go?
What to do?
There was work to be done and a hot house to avoid.

I rejected the park. By this stage, even the shady spots beneath the trees were growing sauna-ish.

I considered writing in the ice-cream freezer at the IGA. It wouldn't be as pretentious as writing in a cafe, but I had an inkling that it would draw unwanted attention and be considered socially unacceptable. Nobody wants to open their Blue Ribbon to find two buttocks imprinted in the top of the ice cream. Not even if they're LIT-ER-AIR-EE buttocks.


Yes, this really is my bottom.
I blame it on all that apfel-pudding-torte.
I considered driving around in the air-conditioned comfort of my car, recording my spoken words on my phone.  But I'm a pen-and-paper, keyboard-and-screen type of gal. I need to feel the words flowing from brain to fingers to page. I need to see the sentences taking shape.

In the end, I did what any sensible person would have done in the first place.
I took myself to the library.
And there I found my space.
A quiet corner with a huge table, a comfy chair and deliciously chilled air.
A place where people are expected to be reading and writing.
A place where one can scribble words to one's heart's content without feeling even a tad pretentious.
And that is where I wrote the rest of this blog.
Castlemaine Library is not quite this big,
but it is just as lovely.
Furthermore, once I was done, I read four home decorating magazines, and toddled home with five DVDs and a lovely book on Switzerland tucked beneath my arm.

All in all, a public writing experiment with a jolly outcome. 
Except that my blog is about nothing more than writing this blog...



*
With apologies to my writer friends who work in cafes rather than at home because:
a) they need to escape their noisy children
b) they need to escape their smelly dog
c) they've run out of coffee at home
d) they have enormous appetites and giant royalty cheques so can afford to sit at a cafe table all day, ordering an endless supply of coffee, cake and toasties while they write
e) they like it



Thursday 1 February 2018

With thanks and apologies to my editor, my publisher, my mum and dad and .... well, everyone!


I love writing children's books.

I love the blooming of ideas - daydreaming and drawing and scribbling and playing little scenes in my head and holding imaginary conversations. (Yes, out loud, with  myself playing several parts. Don't judge me!) 





I love that moment when a really great character comes alive in my mind and demands their moment in the spotlight - or their place in print.


I love plotting a story. 


I love writing that very first sentence of Chapter 1.


I love the way a character can take on a life of their own and lead me away from the expected course of action I had so carefully plotted.  


I love writing that final sentence and sending my book out into the world.


I love the editing process and all the creative to-ing and fro-ing it entails. 


I love that moment when I first see the cover art and feel like someone else has understood the world I have created.


The gorgeous cover for the first Lottie Perkins book.
Makoto Koji seemed to know exactly who Lottie was,
as soon as she read the manuscript.
Delightful!
And I love, love, love that moment when a courier pulls up at my front door and delivers a brown cardboard box and I rip it open and find ten advance copies of my brand new book. Ooooh! Sends a shiver down my spine just thinking about it.



What I don't like is writing the acknowledgements.

Don't get me wrong. I think we should always say thanks to those who help us.
Gratitude is so very important, both for those showing it and for those receiving it.
Which is why I have such a tough time writing the acknowledegements.

I'd  hate to  sound trite - like I'm just saying thanks because I have to, because I'll sound like an ungrateful brat or an arrogant snot if I don't.
Let me make this clear: The people I mention in the acknowledgements have been very important in helping my story come to life.
And there are many that I don't mention, even though their contribution has been significant, because it might sound daft and their inclusion might make the role of the others sound less significant.

So, every time I come to the final stage of a book, I spend an inordinate amount of time writing the acknowledgements. Even so, when they are done, they seem hopelessly inadequate.


How do I explain that my editor and publisher are not only two of the most brilliant women I have ever met, but they are also incredibly kind, humble and forgiving? 
Sooo forgiving. 
Not once have they scolded me for the state of my first pages - despite the fact that they arrive at my house in pristine condition and I return them in a form that suggests they have been   borne through a long and bloody revolution, stuffed in the breast pocket of a regularly-injured and rarely-bathed soldier who might also have used one or two sheets to wipe his nose or his comrade's sweaty brow.
They don't scold. They don't snigger behind their hands. They don't even lift one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. (Or maybe they do, but they're kind enough not to do it near me.)

How do I explain the importance of my family and friends in making my world a safe and happy place? I could not write if I did not have peace of mind, a sense of worth and a wealth of happy and fulfilling experiences on which to base my stories. Furthermore, my family and friends make me laugh. What a gift! And that makes me want to bestow that gift on others - to become better and better at writing giggles and joy  and wonder into my stories.

How do I even begin to list the ways in which my husband has encouraged and supported me over the twenty years of writing and rejections and successes. Should I list the way he has worked hard to provide well for us, while I have earned a low income? Should I mention the times when I have tuned out, mid-discussion, because the world of my book has seemed suddenly more real than reality? Should I mention the chocolate and magazines and glasses of wine and cups of coffee in bed he has provided to jolly me along when I'm exhausted? Should I mention the fact that having him in my life makes me a better person, of which being a better writer is a subset?



And then there is the niggling suspicion that there is more, so much more, that matters when I am writing a book. More that I should be acknowledging for its part in the process:

The oaties that I sometimes eat with cheese during my writing breaks. They matter! My sincere thanks to the Scots.

My dear friends for those lunch dates that kept me sane and reminded me that there is a world outside of my story and one should stop to enjoy it from time to time.


Olive, my dog,  whose sudden need to play a game outside with her squeaky rubber sausage has distracted me from a plot glitch that I just couldn't see past - until I was distracted!


The producers and cast of 'Fargo', 'The IT Crowd' and 'Rizzole and Isles' for providing veg out time at the end of each long day's writing.


My mum and dad for their financial support through my childhood years and while I was at university.


The  NSW government for providing my public e
ducation, and all the teachers that built upon my skills and knowledge, year after year. You made me literate - which is important for a writer.

My brother for being such an adventurous young lad. The inspiration you have provided for character types and wild episodes has been invaluable.
He was not as tame as he looks here.

The bullies in my life. You have inspired wonderfully wicked characters like Pig McKenzie and Padre Paolo.


Cadbury's Chocolates. One small box of Roses can fuel an entire chapter and see me chug onwards into the next page or two before refuelling.


Vittoria coffee. Where would I be without my daily pots?

I could go on and on and on.
But I would need enough pages to fill a whole new book and that is not the point.

So please, if  you read the acknowledgements at the back of one of my books, know that they are sincere and just a taste of what matters in my writing life. And, somewhere, lurking behind the lines, is a giant dollop of gratitude for you, my reader. For where would my writing career be without you?