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

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 education, 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?

Long live the letter!

Three days ago, I wrote a letter.
A real, old fashioned letter.
There were two sheets of paper, a ballpoint pen, an envelope and a stamp involved.

'Good gravy!' I hear you cry. 'What possessed you? Why didn't you just text or Skype or email or phone?'

Well, the truth of the matter is, I did. 
It began with a text. 
A very short text to my son, who lives in Melbourne, reminding him of an appointment. 
And then I added a little bit of news about my tripping over on my evening walk two days ago. 
And then I told him about a new piece of furniture we had acquired.
And then I told him that I loved him.
All in the space of two dozen short words - and some gory photos of my skinned shin and bulbous blue ankle.

And then.... I shrieked in horror.

What sort of monster had I become?
Where were my words?
Where were my  manners?
How could I ever keep the world a kind, safe, refined place if I was going to whip off garbled texts interspersed with graphic foot photos instead of communicating in a measured and civilised way?

And that's when I did it.
I gathered pen, paper, envelope and stamp, sat down at my desk and wrote a letter.
To my son.
By way of apology - even though he didn't see anything amiss in our text exchange.
And so he could have a little taste of an era when we all lived life at a slower pace and thought good manners meant communicating in entire sentences.

I wrote four unedited pages with proper spelling and punctuation.
I drew a comic-type sequence of events to show The Great Ankle Spraining of 2018. 
I described my new bed and linen, then drew a picture of it. 

Hmmm, perhaps the picture was not so helpful,
but letter writing is about making do
and being authentic.

And I signed my name at the end with a flourish - well, as much of a flourish as possible when your name is Wahm. (Don't ask - nicknames have ridiculously convoluted origins in our family!)

I used to write heaps of letters. 

When I was young (read this with a geriatric shake in your voice), phone calls were expensive and email, Facebook and Skype didn't exist. 
On leaving home, I wrote to my parents every week.  And they wrote back. 

When I left uni, I was madly in love with the Great Dane. But, like doomed lovers from a gothic novel,  I was sent to the south of the state to my new teaching job and the Great Dane had to stay up north to finish his studies.  
Oh dear. Makes my heart break just thinking about it. 
But we survived the separation by writing letters - three a week each way until we married at the end of the year. Such devotion!
I recall one letter in which I wrote to my beloved, 'You are the sultanas on my Weetbix.' 
How could our love not survive with such passionate, eloquent letters fluttering from one end of the state to the other? 

Love letters!

The Great Dane and me at uni.
Before the letter writing began.

As I moved for study and work and marriage and travel, I seemed always to be saying goodbye to friends. But letters kept us connected. 

And when we lived on the other side of the world in Denmark, letters were treasure.  Even those ugly, flimsy, blue aerogrammes.

The upshot of all this is that I spent many years, from my teens onward, writing a vast number of letters to family and  friends.
It was a duty and a necessity if one wanted to keep in touch.
But, for me, it was also a joy.

I loved writing letters. 
I loved taking the time to think about the recipient. 
I loved reflecting on the past days and weeks as I shared our news and funny mishaps. 
I loved fiddling with words.
I loved finding a cartoon, photo or magazine clipping to include.
I loved the pretty stationary and choosing the perfect pen. 
I loved folding the letter and slipping it snugly into its envelope. 
I loved licking the stamp and pressing it down with the heel of my hand. (And, yes, I think lick-and-stick is the One True Way To Use Stamps. Sticker stamps just don't cut the mustard. There's no effort involved, no lingering taste of glue.)

Furthermore, I think the copious amount of letter writing  helped hone my writing skills. Any time spent writing thoughtfully is good practice.

I have several friends who still value good old fashioned letters. 
One writes twice a week to her daughter's mate who is serving in Afghanistan. The letters are the envy of every other soldier on base. 
Another continues a pen friend relationship  that has spanned five decades. 

But, sadly, on the whole, letter writing is a dying art form.
Our post office sits in the middle of a retirement village. 
How symbolic. 

So, I say, bring back the letter.
The one written on real paper that can be delivered into a real mailbox.

I, for one, am going to write regularly to my son - whether he likes it or not.
Just this morning I typed him a second letter.
Yes, typed!
The end result was a complete and utter mess but writing it was brilliant fun.  

And I'm going to write to family and friends, too. 

I'll have to buy some pretty new stationary, of course. 
And get more of those lovely felt-tip pens that are so delicious to use.
And dust off my old address book.
And somewhere, just somewhere, there might be a post office that still sells lick-and-stick stamps.

Want to join in?
Go on. Send someone a letter.

Better yet, send me a letter.
I will reply.
There will be unedited waffling.
There will be dodgy drawings and spelling mistakes and wobbly writing.
There will be coffee stains and chocolate smears.
There may even be disastrous typing.
But the letters will be written with thought and joy and a big dollop of love.

This is my address:
Katrina Nannestad
PO Box 7025
Spring Gully
Vic 3550
Australia

Ooh-la-la! I am so very French!

I’m writing this in my house in central Victoria. The garden is burning to a crisp in the hot, dry wind that has lingered way past summer. Magpies are carolling on the edge of the bird bath. The neighbour’s kelpie is barking. It’s all very Australian.  

But in my heart and mind, I’m in France.

And not only am I in France. I am French! Ooh-la-la!

What an exciting life I lead! And it seems even more glamorous when you consider that, last year, I was living in Rome, being totally Italian.

It’s all about writing, of course. Last year I wrote the first book in my new series, The Girl and the Writer (working title … or maybe the end title). It was set in Rome. This year I’m working on the second book in the series and it takes place in Provence. And if I’m going to write it, I might as well live it. And if I can’t live it by physically being there, I can pretend. 

Vive l'imagination!

I started, rather predictably, with books. I raided my bookshelves for novels set in contemporary France. A few weeks ago I confessed to my irrational and jealous love for The Little Paris Bookshop. What a delight it was to reread this gem! I’ve also been flicking through The Elegance of the Hedgehog, The Reader on the 6.27 and The Hundred Foot Journey. I’ve wallowed in coffee-table books on Provence and have just started rereading Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence. Fabulous! Fabuleux! Do give it a burl, even if you never plan to travel there. It’s beautifully written and hilarious.

Once I'd sorted the books, it was time to eat. I made omelettes. Omelettes for lunch with a little glass of red wine. Sometimes  a wedge of camembert and a bunch of grapes followed. I also made Salade Nicoise. So very French! 

The next culinary goal is to find a French patisserie in Melbourne where I can do some serious research into eclairs, tarts and gateaux. It’ll be tough but if suffering for my art can't include pastry and cream, chocolate and strawberries, what's the point of it all???

Moving closer to the opening chapter of my book, I started to feast upon image after image. Thankfully, feasting on images is not as detrimental to one’s waistline as feasting on cheese and eclairs. I drooled over Pinterest posts of olive groves, lavender fields, wisteria-covered houses, mossy fountains and shady plane trees. I dived into Google Maps. I took that little yellow man, placed him on the road and walked him the last two kilometres to the hilltop village in which my story is set. I browsed through my own photos of Provence and dreamed about going there again sometime soon.

And last, but not least, I've been learning the language. Or, as they say in Provence, I've been learning to parle francais. (Did you see how seamlessly I slipped from English to French? Sensationnel!) 

I’m probably the only Australian of my generation who didn’t learn French at school. Until six weeks ago, all I knew of the language was how to order an eclair and a religieuse chocolat from a patisserie. No, hang on a minute. I’m underselling my skills here. I also knew how to order two or three eclairs from a patisserie. 

Two years ago, I did try a program called  ‘Speak Fluent French in Eight Hours’,  but sixteen hours had failed to take me beyond getting my fill of sweet treats. If one truly wants to become French, there's more that needs to be said. And that’s where my natty little Duolingo app has come to the rescue.

Every day, for at least ten minutes, I chatter away (in text and voice) with men, women, a dolphin, a mouse and a bear and I am surging ahead. I am now able to say the following extremely useful sentences:

This pig is tall.

The sock is red.

The shark is eating the monkey.

It is a big dress. (This one is sure to come in handy when I’ve located a reliable source of chocolate eclairs!)

The milk is white. (I can also point out that the milk is yellow or green, but hope I’m never faced with such an advanced case of decay in my own fridge.)

It is a cat but it eats vegetables.

You eat like a pig. (The dolphin told me this! Can you believe it? And I haven’t even visited the patisserie yet!)

And my all-time favourite:

I know that he knows that I know. (Actually, I haven’t really learned this sentence. I get it muddled every time, but I know that he knows that I know that it is an important sentence to know if I am to become fluent in French.)

So there you have it. My life as a French woman, or as I now say, une femme française. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to duck out and buy myself a beret, a poodle and jar of lavender honey.

À bientôt.

Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and Me.

 Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and me. What a gang! We’re as thick as thieves. And I’ve gotta tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about it. We’re the ducks guts of writing trios. With our combined talents the sky’s the limit!

Jane Austen. Hardly needs an introduction. She’s my hero, the writer whose work I can come back to, year after year, and still laugh, gasp and gush like it’s the very first time my eyes slipped over her words. And, of course, I’m hardly alone in my admiration. She’s been wowing readers for centuries.

 Lorraine Marwood. Also barely needs an introduction. Award winning children’s author, poet and all round lovely lady who makes a mean shortbread bickie and has a smile that brightens your day.  I've just read her book, Rat Whiskers and Me, a verse novel set on the goldfields. What a work of art! A new fave.

And then there’s me. If you’re reading this blog, you probably know who I am. Yes. I’m the commoner of the writing trio, the turkey pretending to be a peacock.

So how do we do it? I know you’re wondering. Lorraine and me, doing the writing thing together, that’s not such a stretch. After all, we’re both writers and we live just half an hour’s drive apart. Easy peasy. But Jane Austen? She may be a writer but she doesn’t live nearby. She doesn’t even live. Hasn’t for a looooong time - two hundred years to be exact.

This is how we do it:

Lorraine and I have been working our way through the exercises in this book. It’s wonderful. Written by Jane Austen’s five-times-great-niece, The Jane Austen Writer’s Club  analyses the great Jane’s  writing, shares snippets from her novels and lists a number of exercises to help mere mortals work towards an Austenian level of brilliance. Nothing like aiming for the stars!

Evidence that we have been hard at work.
 Books, pens, notes, coffee, tea, bickies,
chocolate - all the important writing tools
together in the one place!

Together, Jane, Lorraine and I are learning new stuff and having a hoot of a time. (Well, Lorraine and I are. The two-hundred-years-dead thing might be limiting Jane a little nowadays in the learning stakes … and in the jollity department.)

But, most of all, the JAWC exercises have confirmed a truth that I have always known, but one which it is important to remember often: There is magic in writing.

Every time I have written a passage for one of the exercises from this book, I have found myself discovering hitherto unknown things about my characters and setting. Writing brings the story to life. Of course I have a whole range of ideas already, but the physical act of writing  (typing or handwriting) sets those ideas free and makes them blossom. Characters dance forward and reveal more of themselves than I could ever imagine without a pen in my hand. Towns draw me in, leading me down their cobbled streets, inviting me to peep  through windows and creep through doors that have been left ajar. Conversations that were a dull muffling in the background, grow loud and clear and reveal schemes and dreams and horrible secrets. It’s astonishing! 

Imagining, daydreaming and planning is so very important when creating a story. 

But writing is truly magic.

Especially when done on a mild summer's morning with Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and a nice cup of tea. 

Lorraine Marwood and me.
Jane is not a fan of the selfie.

For those of you who prefer your Jane Austen on the screen:

This  BBC production of Pride and Prejudice is fabulous - and this trailer has a teensy taste of that dishy scene where  Mr Darcy dives in the pond! 

For more information on Lorraine Marwood and her work, click here.