I wouldn't normally get up in the middle of the night to edit on purpose, but I'd been awake since 2.30 already, and lying in bed staring into the dark seemed like a waste of possible productivity. So, at 3.20am I got up, sat on the couch with my laptop and edited the final 30 pages of the sixth and final draft of my first completed, polished manuscript.
This project has been a long journey for me. I began the first draft in January 2005 with nothing more than a sliver of an idea. No plot to speak of, no character profiles, no real idea of where it was going. This is not the ideal way to begin one's first book.
Over the years, the plot meandered along, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes with bursts of genius. I added new scenes in one draft that I subsequently deleted in the next. I implored George and my friend Bek to read it and give me the feedback I needed. Gradually, I made it a little bit better with each new draft.
The third draft was commended in the IP Picks competition in the Best First Book category, and I was asked to revise it and resubmit to the publisher. The fourth draft, while better, only inspired an invitation to pay the publisher for another evaluation. I decided not to continue down this line, but I did use the feedback to write a fifth draft, which I entered in a few other competitions without success. I didn't know quite what to do with it by then, so it languished on my computer for another year or so while I wrote another manuscript.
Last year, I entered this second manuscript in the Hachette/Queensland Writers' Centre Manuscript Development Program. At the very last minute, I remembered that first story that I had worked so hard on, and decided to enter that one as well. I gave it a quick tidy up and sent it off, fully expecting that the other one would better meet the guidelines of the competition.
To my surprise, that fifth draft won me a place on the program and one of the most awesome experiences in my writing career (I've written about that experience here). Long story short, but the feedback I received while on the program shaped the sixth and final draft.
Yes, it will be the final draft. I'm sure I could keep working on it and making it a little bit better each time, but at this stage the effort it would take is greater than the desire. Of course, if I get significant interest from a publisher with more changes requested, I'll go back to it again, but in my mind, it's finished.
Today I sent it back to the publisher, and also to the agent I met on the program. I'm not holding my breath. I'm still one of thousands of hopefuls that try their luck with the publishing industry every year. But I know that I've made it the best it can be.
Now that it's done, I have no idea what I'm going to do with myself. But I know I'm ready to move on.
29 July 2011
10 July 2011
Why I need to read more Australian books
I'm sorry to admit that I really haven't been pulling my weight over the years when it comes to supporting Australian authors. It's not that I've actively avoided them, or have any sense of cultural cringe, or think that British or American writers are better. One of my all-time favourite books, Cloudstreet, was written by an Australian author, and will probably go down in history as one of the best books ever written.
I guess it's partly due to my long-held obsession with Indian literature, in that I'll almost always buy at least one Indian book every time I go to the bookshop. I also tend to go back again and again to my favourite authors, like Milan Kundera, Louis de Bernieres, Ian McEwan.
My rather random method to selecting books is also to blame. Because I rarely remember when people have recommended a specific book to me, I usually just wander the shelves, randomly select volumes from the shelf, read the blurb and pick out those that sound the most interesting. This has meant I've collected an eclectic combination of genres in my bookcase. I've rarely regretted a purchase. But it's also meant that I've missed out on a lot of outstanding Australian literature.
There have been a few Australian books I've been wanting to check out recently, especially those authors who participated in the same manuscript development program that I did last year, and who have been talented enough to achieve publication. So I decided, on my most recent bookshop visit, to devote my purchase to entirely Australian authors.
And my god, I've read some outstanding books over the last month. I began with Favel Parrett's Beneath the Shallows, moved on to Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey, followed by The Ottoman Hotel by Chris Currie, and I'm almost through Bereft by Chris Womersley. I won't go into the plot of each of them; suffice it to say that each was stunning in its own way. It's reinforced that we have some fantastic writers in Australia, and we need to support them.
And going on my experience of the last six months, Australian writers need all the support they can get. The publishing industry is in a big hole at the moment, and I don't know if it's going to improve anytime soon. Talent alone is no longer enough - you need a book that's strongly marketable, and even then you need to find a publisher that's willing to take a risk on you.
I don't know if I have the talent to get published; I hope I do. I'll keep trying. But in the meantime I'll be sure to support our Australian writers as much as I can. Please check out these books. They're fantastic stories by fantastic authors.
I guess it's partly due to my long-held obsession with Indian literature, in that I'll almost always buy at least one Indian book every time I go to the bookshop. I also tend to go back again and again to my favourite authors, like Milan Kundera, Louis de Bernieres, Ian McEwan.
My rather random method to selecting books is also to blame. Because I rarely remember when people have recommended a specific book to me, I usually just wander the shelves, randomly select volumes from the shelf, read the blurb and pick out those that sound the most interesting. This has meant I've collected an eclectic combination of genres in my bookcase. I've rarely regretted a purchase. But it's also meant that I've missed out on a lot of outstanding Australian literature.
There have been a few Australian books I've been wanting to check out recently, especially those authors who participated in the same manuscript development program that I did last year, and who have been talented enough to achieve publication. So I decided, on my most recent bookshop visit, to devote my purchase to entirely Australian authors.
And my god, I've read some outstanding books over the last month. I began with Favel Parrett's Beneath the Shallows, moved on to Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey, followed by The Ottoman Hotel by Chris Currie, and I'm almost through Bereft by Chris Womersley. I won't go into the plot of each of them; suffice it to say that each was stunning in its own way. It's reinforced that we have some fantastic writers in Australia, and we need to support them.
And going on my experience of the last six months, Australian writers need all the support they can get. The publishing industry is in a big hole at the moment, and I don't know if it's going to improve anytime soon. Talent alone is no longer enough - you need a book that's strongly marketable, and even then you need to find a publisher that's willing to take a risk on you.
I don't know if I have the talent to get published; I hope I do. I'll keep trying. But in the meantime I'll be sure to support our Australian writers as much as I can. Please check out these books. They're fantastic stories by fantastic authors.
27 June 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 3
Pedro
Pedro is the most recent addition to our animal family and has proven no exception to the personality rule. We found him at the Animal Welfare League as a three month old kitten, terrorising his brother in the cage they shared. I must admit that being black was the first thing that attracted us to him - it wasn't a pre-requisite, but it just seemed nice and neat to have three black animals in the family - and that's what got us in the cage with him.
He and his brother were both black with white chests and paws and were exceedingly handsome. The brother perhaps more so - his markings were perfectly symmetrical, whereas Pedro had a curly white moustache on one side of his face and nothing on the other. But when we reached out to touch the brother, he shrank away from us in fright. Pedro, on the other hand, pushed into our hands and purred like a little chainsaw in between tumbling around on the floor and trying to engage his brother in play. Plus, his Mexican moustachio was just irresistable, so he came home with us.
All the way home, he kept sticking a little white paw out of the hole in the box, trying to get out and start causing havoc as soon as possible. Far from being afraid of the other animals, he was already hissing at Jedi through the hole before we'd even opened the box. It took a total of about 10 minutes before he got over the last of his hesitation and was weaving around Jedi's legs and walking under his belly.
Pedro settled into our family in record time. Right from the start, he flatly refused to sleep anywhere but on our bed, preferably on our feet or in between our legs - whatever is the most irritating. He was bossing Wednesday around even before he'd exceeded her in height and weight. But his true love from day one has been Jedi. He idolises that dog and is always following him around - rolling on his back and reaching out for his legs when he walks past, walking back and forth under his chin when he's lying down, rubbing his face against him. Every night when we get home the two of them sprint up and down the hallway, taking it in turns chasing each other, Ped doing rather spectacular burn-outs around the corners.
I've never known another cat with Ped's voracious hunger. No matter how strictly we stick to the 7am breakfast and 6pm dinner ritual, he always starts campaigning loudly an hour beforehand. He yells constantly when he wants food - even if we spray him with the water thing to try to deter him, he just frowns and blinks at us and keeps yelling.
He has a love for toast, and sits beside Jedi every morning waiting to get a corner of my toast, which he chews up with as much enthusiasm as if I'd just handed him a chunk of meat. But what he really loves is bacon. As soon as the bacon comes out of the freezer, he's at our feet, yelling for it. He watches the microwave defrosting it like it's TV, and while we're chopping it, he's trying to climb onto the bench and swiping at it with a paw. In his most death-defying stunt, he leaps up towards the bacon and clonks Jedi under the chin with his head. The most patient dog in the world would be sorely tried by such an incident, but Jedi, bless him, only ever takes a step back, or walks around to the other side of whomever is chopping to maintain his view. A lesser cat would have lost his head by now, but Ped remains unpeturbed.
He has a voice exactly like a psychotic version of Dicky Knee, and his vocabulary is littered with four letter words that cannot be repeated here (and which he will probably have to abandon once there's an impressionable young human in the house).
Most cats I've had have been generally tolerant of but not overly enamoured with people. Ped is an exception to this rule. He loves hanging out with us outside, whether he's sitting on our laps in the sun, walking around talking to himself or trying to race Jedi. If he finds himself shut outside without us, he'll wail incessantly at the door until we let him in.
Ped is a complete dag. When it's hot, he sleeps on his back with his belly exposed and his body twisted. Also rare in a cat, he enjoys a belly rub and never attacks us. And speaking of his belly, it was only after we'd got him home that we discovered his coolest marking - a perfectly symmetrical white patch on his belly shaped exactly like a bat.
Pedro is the kind of cat I've always wanted - acts a lot like a dog, likes people, but still has that special cat attitude that lets you know exactly where you stand in the world - as a somewhat irritating, occasionally useful servant with a warm lap.
Pedro is the most recent addition to our animal family and has proven no exception to the personality rule. We found him at the Animal Welfare League as a three month old kitten, terrorising his brother in the cage they shared. I must admit that being black was the first thing that attracted us to him - it wasn't a pre-requisite, but it just seemed nice and neat to have three black animals in the family - and that's what got us in the cage with him.
He and his brother were both black with white chests and paws and were exceedingly handsome. The brother perhaps more so - his markings were perfectly symmetrical, whereas Pedro had a curly white moustache on one side of his face and nothing on the other. But when we reached out to touch the brother, he shrank away from us in fright. Pedro, on the other hand, pushed into our hands and purred like a little chainsaw in between tumbling around on the floor and trying to engage his brother in play. Plus, his Mexican moustachio was just irresistable, so he came home with us.
All the way home, he kept sticking a little white paw out of the hole in the box, trying to get out and start causing havoc as soon as possible. Far from being afraid of the other animals, he was already hissing at Jedi through the hole before we'd even opened the box. It took a total of about 10 minutes before he got over the last of his hesitation and was weaving around Jedi's legs and walking under his belly.
I've never known another cat with Ped's voracious hunger. No matter how strictly we stick to the 7am breakfast and 6pm dinner ritual, he always starts campaigning loudly an hour beforehand. He yells constantly when he wants food - even if we spray him with the water thing to try to deter him, he just frowns and blinks at us and keeps yelling.
He has a love for toast, and sits beside Jedi every morning waiting to get a corner of my toast, which he chews up with as much enthusiasm as if I'd just handed him a chunk of meat. But what he really loves is bacon. As soon as the bacon comes out of the freezer, he's at our feet, yelling for it. He watches the microwave defrosting it like it's TV, and while we're chopping it, he's trying to climb onto the bench and swiping at it with a paw. In his most death-defying stunt, he leaps up towards the bacon and clonks Jedi under the chin with his head. The most patient dog in the world would be sorely tried by such an incident, but Jedi, bless him, only ever takes a step back, or walks around to the other side of whomever is chopping to maintain his view. A lesser cat would have lost his head by now, but Ped remains unpeturbed.
He has a voice exactly like a psychotic version of Dicky Knee, and his vocabulary is littered with four letter words that cannot be repeated here (and which he will probably have to abandon once there's an impressionable young human in the house).
Most cats I've had have been generally tolerant of but not overly enamoured with people. Ped is an exception to this rule. He loves hanging out with us outside, whether he's sitting on our laps in the sun, walking around talking to himself or trying to race Jedi. If he finds himself shut outside without us, he'll wail incessantly at the door until we let him in.Ped is a complete dag. When it's hot, he sleeps on his back with his belly exposed and his body twisted. Also rare in a cat, he enjoys a belly rub and never attacks us. And speaking of his belly, it was only after we'd got him home that we discovered his coolest marking - a perfectly symmetrical white patch on his belly shaped exactly like a bat.
Pedro is the kind of cat I've always wanted - acts a lot like a dog, likes people, but still has that special cat attitude that lets you know exactly where you stand in the world - as a somewhat irritating, occasionally useful servant with a warm lap.
17 May 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 2
Jedi
Jedi is the love of my life, after my husband, of course. We got him from the RSPCA shelter as a three month old, bumbling puppy who was supposed to be a staffy/blue heeler cross. I don't know whether this was just an educated guess on the RSPCA's behalf, but he just kept getting bigger and bigger, and we really have no idea what combination of genes created him. He's tall, athletic and black, with a blue chest and four blue feet. He looks kind of like a mix of labrador, kelpie, pointer, staffy and god knows what else.
George had never had a dog before and, while he knew that me and a dog was never going to be an either/or deal, he was a little apprehensive about it. But Jedi knew straight away who he had to charm. As soon as we met him, he crawled straight into George's lap and gazed lovingly up at him, begging us to take him home. George was smitten in an instant, and is now his biggest fan.
But on the other hand, he has some very weird and unexplainable habits. When I walk towards the front door when one of the cats is waiting to be let out, he yelps, then races out the back and around to the side gate (which is solid, so he can't see anything). Whenever the neighbours are in their back yard, he trots up and down and stares at the fence for hours. And I mean hours. All day, sometimes. When we put him out the back before going out, he circles on the spot until we shut the door.
He adores our cats, and is always gentle with them despite being rowdy. The youngest cat, Pedro, has grown up with him and they're the best of mates. They occasionally play fight, as shown in this video I managed to get when Ped was quite young. They hang out together and follow each other around the house. They'll even lick the same plate with no jealousy or aggression.
Jedi also loves water, especially after a vigorous session of ball/stick fetching, so during the warmer months we have a clam shell exactly for that purpose.
He's the biggest wuss when it comes to pain - if he gets a three corner jack in his paw, he'll stand and dangle his foot pathetically, begging one of us to help him. But as soon as we touch said paw, he gets all panicky and jerks it around, making the whole operation far more difficult and painful than it needs to be.
It's safe to say that Jedi is very spoilt. He sleeps on the comfiest bed in the world, right next to our bed, and we take him with us on any errand we can. He has had a walk almost every day of his life, with the occasional exception of foul weather and injury. But despite all this, he's very well mannered and generally pretty obedient. He'll never steal the cats' food or any other food (with the single exception of the New Year's Eve when we had a party at our place and foolishly left three chicken carcasses on the kitchen bench - he held off for hours until he could no longer resist the temptation, leaving nothing but three lemon halves and a whole lot of grease on the kitchen floor). He usually comes when he's called and does what he's told, just for the pleasure of being called a good boy.
The best thing about Jedi is how much he loves us. He's never happier than when he's had a morning walk, a whole day of hanging out with us in the backyard in the sun, and ends the day curled up on his bed in the lounge room between us. He doesn't even like it when we're in separate rooms, and spends the whole time walking from one of us to the other, looking dejected. He's a great companion, listening to every word we say and never answering back.
I could write all night and still not be able to cover all the awesome things about Jedi. Suffice it to say that he's the greatest dog I've ever had, and he'll be an important part of our little family until his final day.
P.S. I just walked towards the front of the house and he sprinted at high speed out the back, yelping all the way. Nutter.
30 April 2011
The antics, quirks and other endearing qualities of my animals: Part 1
Since the day I was born I've been around animals. Apparently, at the ripe old age of two I chose our dog, Sally, from the animal shelter. The fact that this dog turned out to be borderline psychotic, chasing cars, eating snail bait and almost poisoning herself, biting anyone my dad got mad at, did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and love for animals. Despite her crazy tendencies, that dog was the most loyal, gentle and loving friend any kid could hope to grow up with.
But it does seem that my first choice has set me up for a lifetime of selecting pets with weird quirks. I'm not sure if everyone's pets have similar strange tendencies, but mine have all had very strong, very individual character traits. Anyone who thinks animals don't have their own personalities should, quite frankly, be shot. Repeatedly.
If I went through every animal I've ever owned, these posts could be endless, so I'll stick with those who are currently part of our family. This post is devoted to Wednesday, the first pet in my collection after I'd moved out of home.
Wednesday
She turned up on the street outside my friends' place as a three month old kitten, a little black stray with vivid yellow eyes. She came into my life at precisely the right time, as I was about to spend a year living by myself, a move that turned out to be a challenging one for me, but one that I only got through with the company of my little black cat. George named her Wednesday, but for some unknown reason, we have only ever called her The Kitty.
Wednesday is the sweetest, prettiest cat you can imagine, and she's been a charmer from the first. One day my neighbour confessed to me that, on her day off, Wednesday had been coming over to visit her for a few hours. This habit had begun when her young daughter said to her: 'Mummy, the cat got in!' As she held the door open for her.
Despite being almost 12 years old now, she still has a penchant for those little toy mice you can buy from the vet, scurrying around after them and doing backflips to try to catch them if you throw them over her head. She almost never drinks out of the bowl set aside for her and the other animals, but every night she tries to drink out of George's water glass when we go to bed. He's now taken to putting a beanie over the glass until he's drunk enough that she can't reach it.
Despite being almost excessively timid of every movement, loud noise, person or animal, Wednesday is very fond of our dog Jedi, who is at least ten times her size. Whenever he's near her, she licks his ears and his face. Sometimes she'll bat him on the nose if she believes he's being impudent.
Our other, younger cat loves to terrorise her, and she is appropriately frightened by him, but when it's time for them to be fed, she takes advantage of the distraction to sniff him all over and lick his face. She runs from him if he tries to chase her, but whenever he actually approaches her politely, she'll glare at him and then give him a few slaps around the head.
She is obsessed with heat. She loves to roll in the driveway in the sun and catch cockroaches on warm evenings. Years ago she used to lie in front of the bar heater until she got so hot she'd get up, whimpering, turn around and bake her other side. She even enjoys licking our bowls when we've been eating something spicy.
She loves to be outside, but for some reason our backyard fills her with terror. Out in the real world, however, she'll go anywhere. We used to go on midnight walks around the block with Jedi, and she would always follow us. Even now, when I bring her inside every night, she forces me to go through an elaborate game before she'll allow herself to be caught. She always hangs out around the units next door, but if I walk straight up to her, she'll skitter away at the last minute. Again and again. So if I 'pretend' that I'm just going for a walk, she'll start following me up the footpath until we've gone an appropriate distance before I'm allowed to turn around and pick her up.
She has the softest, most pathetic meow - in fact, it's more a 'meep' than a 'meow' - and yet somehow she manages to channel all the pain and despair of the world into it when she wants something. She's got George wrapped around her paw, and where I'll just ignore her until she gives up and finds somewhere to sleep, he gets all cut up by her apparent distress and does whatever she wants. I can just imagine what it's going to be like if we have a daughter...
All our animals have their own distinctive voices, and Wednesday sounds just like the Queen of England. She doesn't like to be disturbed when she's made herself comfortable, even if she's sitting on your chest two centimetres from your face and practically suffocating you. She never bites or scratches, but has the most effective expression of disdain I've ever encountered. May the gods save you if you ever dare to spray deodorant within a 10 metre radius of her.
She only likes the expensive-type food in the little tins, and within that narrow criteria, she prefers anything with fish, and definitely nothing that's too chunky. She also likes the fresh meat you can buy in individual packaging, but she reserves the right to go on a hunger strike at any time. She also must eat in solitude, preferably in the bathroom with the door closed, or she spends 80% of the time looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is trying to kill her while she eats. No matter how much or how little I give her, she almost always leaves a bit in the bowl.
She finds cat litter demeaning and avoids using it at all costs. I think this is partly because she has a bit of a mental blank with the whole thing. Outside, she copes just fine, but put her in a litter tray and she doesn't know how to cover it up. She'll paw at the wall, at the ground outside the box, anything but the actual litter, all the while looking terribly confused about the whole affair.
Above all, Wednesday loves to sleep, in the warmest spot she can find. She's been known to curl up in drawers, in the washing basket, inside bags or open suitcases, in the cupboard, on people's chests, under the covers in our bed, on my pillow, on the laptop.
Wednesday - or, should I say, The Kitty - is the longest serving member of our household. She has the least demanding personality, but she nevertheless asserts her importance on a daily basis. Hoping she'll be around for another twelve years.
But it does seem that my first choice has set me up for a lifetime of selecting pets with weird quirks. I'm not sure if everyone's pets have similar strange tendencies, but mine have all had very strong, very individual character traits. Anyone who thinks animals don't have their own personalities should, quite frankly, be shot. Repeatedly.
If I went through every animal I've ever owned, these posts could be endless, so I'll stick with those who are currently part of our family. This post is devoted to Wednesday, the first pet in my collection after I'd moved out of home.
Wednesday
Wednesday is the sweetest, prettiest cat you can imagine, and she's been a charmer from the first. One day my neighbour confessed to me that, on her day off, Wednesday had been coming over to visit her for a few hours. This habit had begun when her young daughter said to her: 'Mummy, the cat got in!' As she held the door open for her.
Despite being almost 12 years old now, she still has a penchant for those little toy mice you can buy from the vet, scurrying around after them and doing backflips to try to catch them if you throw them over her head. She almost never drinks out of the bowl set aside for her and the other animals, but every night she tries to drink out of George's water glass when we go to bed. He's now taken to putting a beanie over the glass until he's drunk enough that she can't reach it.
Despite being almost excessively timid of every movement, loud noise, person or animal, Wednesday is very fond of our dog Jedi, who is at least ten times her size. Whenever he's near her, she licks his ears and his face. Sometimes she'll bat him on the nose if she believes he's being impudent.
Our other, younger cat loves to terrorise her, and she is appropriately frightened by him, but when it's time for them to be fed, she takes advantage of the distraction to sniff him all over and lick his face. She runs from him if he tries to chase her, but whenever he actually approaches her politely, she'll glare at him and then give him a few slaps around the head.
She is obsessed with heat. She loves to roll in the driveway in the sun and catch cockroaches on warm evenings. Years ago she used to lie in front of the bar heater until she got so hot she'd get up, whimpering, turn around and bake her other side. She even enjoys licking our bowls when we've been eating something spicy.
She loves to be outside, but for some reason our backyard fills her with terror. Out in the real world, however, she'll go anywhere. We used to go on midnight walks around the block with Jedi, and she would always follow us. Even now, when I bring her inside every night, she forces me to go through an elaborate game before she'll allow herself to be caught. She always hangs out around the units next door, but if I walk straight up to her, she'll skitter away at the last minute. Again and again. So if I 'pretend' that I'm just going for a walk, she'll start following me up the footpath until we've gone an appropriate distance before I'm allowed to turn around and pick her up.
She has the softest, most pathetic meow - in fact, it's more a 'meep' than a 'meow' - and yet somehow she manages to channel all the pain and despair of the world into it when she wants something. She's got George wrapped around her paw, and where I'll just ignore her until she gives up and finds somewhere to sleep, he gets all cut up by her apparent distress and does whatever she wants. I can just imagine what it's going to be like if we have a daughter...
All our animals have their own distinctive voices, and Wednesday sounds just like the Queen of England. She doesn't like to be disturbed when she's made herself comfortable, even if she's sitting on your chest two centimetres from your face and practically suffocating you. She never bites or scratches, but has the most effective expression of disdain I've ever encountered. May the gods save you if you ever dare to spray deodorant within a 10 metre radius of her.
She only likes the expensive-type food in the little tins, and within that narrow criteria, she prefers anything with fish, and definitely nothing that's too chunky. She also likes the fresh meat you can buy in individual packaging, but she reserves the right to go on a hunger strike at any time. She also must eat in solitude, preferably in the bathroom with the door closed, or she spends 80% of the time looking over her shoulder to make sure no one is trying to kill her while she eats. No matter how much or how little I give her, she almost always leaves a bit in the bowl.
She finds cat litter demeaning and avoids using it at all costs. I think this is partly because she has a bit of a mental blank with the whole thing. Outside, she copes just fine, but put her in a litter tray and she doesn't know how to cover it up. She'll paw at the wall, at the ground outside the box, anything but the actual litter, all the while looking terribly confused about the whole affair.
Wednesday - or, should I say, The Kitty - is the longest serving member of our household. She has the least demanding personality, but she nevertheless asserts her importance on a daily basis. Hoping she'll be around for another twelve years.
03 April 2011
One ending, another new beginning
Tonight, I completed the final draft of one of my three manuscripts.
It's been three months since my last blog post, mostly due to the fact that I didn't really have anything new to say about my writing. This last draft has taken me a little longer than I'd hoped, and a big part of me is glad that it's done. Completing a story to the point that it's ready to go out into the world (well, as ready as I can get it on my own, anyway) is a big achievement. And I've done it in four drafts, an improvement over my first, of which I am about to commence draft six.
I can feel my skills improving with each edit. I'm better able to visualise the story as a whole before I delve into specific chapters, phrases, words. I've even got a somewhat realistic hope that I'll be able to get my third manuscript finished in only three drafts.
I don't fool myself that it's really really finished. I know that if an agent or a publisher picks it up, there'll be plenty more work to do. But I've got it to the most polished point that I can without professional advice.
I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.
But, after racing towards this goal for the last five months, I feel strangely empty. I'd expected to feel upset to be letting it go, to saying goodbye to my characters. I am pregnant, after all. A particularly shiny teaspoon makes me teary, for Christ's sake. But I don't feel much at all.
I know it's ready to go. And I've got my first manuscript to work on, and a clear vision of what I need to do with it. Tonight, I'm going to rest, and tomorrow morning I'm going to sleep in. I don't know how many days I'll take off before I get back into it.
But I do know that when the time is right, I'll sit down with that dog-eared manuscript I sent off to Brisbane last year, and which has since travelled to Sydney, then to Brisbane again, before coming home with me to Adelaide. I'm not ready just yet, but I suspect the time will be here before I know it. I'm looking forward to it.
It's been three months since my last blog post, mostly due to the fact that I didn't really have anything new to say about my writing. This last draft has taken me a little longer than I'd hoped, and a big part of me is glad that it's done. Completing a story to the point that it's ready to go out into the world (well, as ready as I can get it on my own, anyway) is a big achievement. And I've done it in four drafts, an improvement over my first, of which I am about to commence draft six.
I can feel my skills improving with each edit. I'm better able to visualise the story as a whole before I delve into specific chapters, phrases, words. I've even got a somewhat realistic hope that I'll be able to get my third manuscript finished in only three drafts.
I don't fool myself that it's really really finished. I know that if an agent or a publisher picks it up, there'll be plenty more work to do. But I've got it to the most polished point that I can without professional advice.
I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.
But, after racing towards this goal for the last five months, I feel strangely empty. I'd expected to feel upset to be letting it go, to saying goodbye to my characters. I am pregnant, after all. A particularly shiny teaspoon makes me teary, for Christ's sake. But I don't feel much at all.
I know it's ready to go. And I've got my first manuscript to work on, and a clear vision of what I need to do with it. Tonight, I'm going to rest, and tomorrow morning I'm going to sleep in. I don't know how many days I'll take off before I get back into it.
But I do know that when the time is right, I'll sit down with that dog-eared manuscript I sent off to Brisbane last year, and which has since travelled to Sydney, then to Brisbane again, before coming home with me to Adelaide. I'm not ready just yet, but I suspect the time will be here before I know it. I'm looking forward to it.
05 January 2011
At the halfway point
It's been exactly a month since my last blog post, and I'm almost exactly halfway through editing my second manuscript. I'll keep this brief, as I mustn't procrastinate too long from actually doing it (yeah right).
It's been a bit of a hard slog at times, but overall I've been enjoying the process. Some pages have been a lot like pulling teeth. I keep using the same bloody phrases and words over and over again, and I can't for the life of me think of different ways of saying it. I've even used a - *gasp* - thesaurus once or twice (or 500 times). There are whole weeks when it feels like I've had a wit-ectomy and everything comes out sounding flat and lifeless.
But then there are big sections - chapters even - where the writing is taut and snappy, and it just works. These bits allow me to think, just for a second, that perhaps it might actually be publishable. Once I've fixed up aforementioned hopeless bits.
My writing friend, Sam, has been going through it with a fine-toothed comb as I finish each chapter, and she's not letting me get away with anything. She's pulling me up on sentences that I just couldn't get right and allowed myself to conveniently forget about. She's ruthlessly culling my excessive adverbs (every time I comment about my excessive use of adverbs, I always seem to include an adverb in that sentence - you see, I have a problem). She's telling me all the things I need to hear, whether I want to hear them or not. Sometimes I feel like bitch-slapping her for it*, but it's all invaluable feedback that will force me to make it better. And no doubt she feels like bitch-slapping me every time I send one of her chapters back.
So I'll keep pushing on through the wooden sentences and repetitive phrases and slowly perfect it to a level where it might actually be ready to submit. And I haven't gotten over my addiction. I still have an obsessive compulsive need to do something on it each day, even if it's just reading through what I edited the day before.
*I was kidding about the bitch-slapping. Sort of. ;)
It's been a bit of a hard slog at times, but overall I've been enjoying the process. Some pages have been a lot like pulling teeth. I keep using the same bloody phrases and words over and over again, and I can't for the life of me think of different ways of saying it. I've even used a - *gasp* - thesaurus once or twice (or 500 times). There are whole weeks when it feels like I've had a wit-ectomy and everything comes out sounding flat and lifeless.
But then there are big sections - chapters even - where the writing is taut and snappy, and it just works. These bits allow me to think, just for a second, that perhaps it might actually be publishable. Once I've fixed up aforementioned hopeless bits.
My writing friend, Sam, has been going through it with a fine-toothed comb as I finish each chapter, and she's not letting me get away with anything. She's pulling me up on sentences that I just couldn't get right and allowed myself to conveniently forget about. She's ruthlessly culling my excessive adverbs (every time I comment about my excessive use of adverbs, I always seem to include an adverb in that sentence - you see, I have a problem). She's telling me all the things I need to hear, whether I want to hear them or not. Sometimes I feel like bitch-slapping her for it*, but it's all invaluable feedback that will force me to make it better. And no doubt she feels like bitch-slapping me every time I send one of her chapters back.
So I'll keep pushing on through the wooden sentences and repetitive phrases and slowly perfect it to a level where it might actually be ready to submit. And I haven't gotten over my addiction. I still have an obsessive compulsive need to do something on it each day, even if it's just reading through what I edited the day before.
*I was kidding about the bitch-slapping. Sort of. ;)
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