Magic Dust, Anyone?

I would have posted sooner, but Blogger – once more – was having some problems. I would start afresh in WordPress, because I’m afraid Blogger is becoming unreliable, but I’m fond of the look of my blog, and familiar with the technical eccentricities. It took a lot of time to feel at home here, really, and a new blog site would take forever to feel comfortable with. So I remain faithful to Google’s Blogger – at least, for now.

June has been a difficult month for me. We all have those months. I know I’m not alone with this. The last few weeks haven't been fraught with worry or deep sadness – rather, a general malaise, old-fashioned blahs. I can't get my act together. I lack optimism. All of this could be because I can't seem to get warm. Me! Ex-Canada! It's winter here, which laughingly plays out at around 59 degrees Fahrenheit during the day...hardly frigid, but with no central heating and one small portable radiator in the living room, it isn't quite enough and I've resorted to blanket-swathing and staying close to that heat source. I certainly haven't felt like writing. My computer is in a particularly drafty area of the house.

I heard back from my agent, who's been in poor health. While I totally sympathize, it's so hard to accept being no further along with the editorial search. Part of me is concerned for her, poor girl, but the other part is growing impatient. No, that's not true. Impatience isn't really me. It's more like a kind of dull resignation. My agent still loves the book, of course. This is enough for me for now, but I wish I had better news for you, all the same.

In my current doldrums, my new book is now on the back burner until I'm resuscitated by either warmer weather, or a sprinkling of some kind of magic dust. I’ve worked on the manuscript sporadically, but can’t seem to control my distracted moods, and end up idly searching real estate sites, looking for that perfect house I dream of, both here and North America. (Would I really do that to my cats again?) I'll be all right. We all get a bit weird when we're cold. Come to think of it, I get even weirder when I'm too hot. Either way, when the writing mood comes, it will be out of the blue, with no advance planning. It would help if I could decide on the age of my protagonist, and also have confidence in that essential last line. The one I have isn’t doing it for me. You know I need that before I can plunge into the real writing.

But I do have some ideas for a few paintings. My friend, Squeakie Stone, in South Carolina, is doing so well with his art work, in all kinds of galleries, that his latest email gave me a boost. I now have two of his pictures on the wall, where they comfort me. I don’t usually have paintings on this blog, but wanted to share them with you.

I've been considering a return to painting for a while. I've even moved my antique desk near the patio doors, for the light. This desk was never meant to be used as an art table, but it's all I have at present, and will have to do (its 19th Century surface well-protected, of course). So, the work area is ready, and all I need are some canvases. Maybe next month. (It has to be more inspiring than this month.) Just hope my paints haven't dried out... I could even revive my art blog, once I’ve produced something. What a surprise that would be.

And there you have it. My irresolute life. I dislike this vaguely-vegetative Fran, and long for the enthusiastic one back. She’s around, but suffering delayed reaction at leaving Canada. She never learns. Snivelling about not knowing where to live…everyone should be so lucky.

If you know a good magic dust source, please advise. (They should accept PayPal.)

The Shuttle Program, Me, and the Ants.

I saw the International Space Station overhead the other night - my first time. It was particularly moving to think that Endeavour was docking for the final time, even as I watched. All these years of following NASA's  space adventures, even (it's true!) seeing Sputnik regularly overhead back in the 50s, and still I'm enthralled. My son is a science writer, exclusively about space, particularly with the production of a huge tome which is the last word on the history of the Shuttle program, so I've always been aware of every flight, experiment details, and hardware, almost down to the last widget.

But seeing Endeavour up there on a clear, cold, starry night in Sydney, reminded me of just how very insignificant we are. We may not have been in space ourselves, but I think we all can imagine how Earth must appear to those brave folk up there. And they are brave. We've almost stopped feeling that clutch at our stomach when NASA control says 'Lift Off!', if we even bother to watch the news stories, because we've become used to and somewhat blase about those regular flights, but it is no less dangerous today than it was thirty years ago.

So it occurs to me that our rather frenzied rushing around down here (in the privacy of our own homes much of the time) texting, Skyping, Facebooking, Twittering, whatever, is all so much like little ants in their colonies, although what they do means life or death to them. Not sure what real purpose our social networking serves in the grand scheme of things, although I realize a lot of people would suffer terribly without it. All this busy-ness, all this communication...we would be rich if were paid by the hour to perform these tasks as real work.


As an aside, my own internet access died for an hour the other day, and I panicked. My way of life was threatened. I found myself sitting bleary-eyed, mentally thinking of all the things I couldn't achieve without it. I'm a writer, but my work is never printed and mailed. (Mailed?) I also imagined I might have to physically go into my bank. I certainly don't have checks to pay bills with. Is my branch still there? So many things crossed my mind, and then, miraculously, I got my online access back and life returned to normal. Such a relief.

I am a writer, yet I owe a letter to a dear friend in Canada, who doesn't have a computer. All these months, I keep reminding myself that I have to write that letter, and mail it. No success so far. I don't own a printer (see no point in hardcopy anything, really, except books), so I will have to write it by hand. I have nice handwriting, although I don't get to practice it too often, but the idea of taking a pen and putting my thoughts onto a sheet of paper by hand is anathema. Which makes me what kind of friend? A lousy one, I guess. One who emails and Skypes all the time, but who can't write a nice newsy letter and mail it.

Every day, I'm like one of those little ants, busy, busy, in love with my laptop, researching (often time-wasting on cute things that catch my eye), trying to get into flow with my fifth novel, wishing my other novels would be published. And none of it is a life or death imperative.

So the other night I looked up in wonder at the Space Station, which  seemed so close, like a firefly I could almost touch. It will never be seen as bright again after Atlantis's final flight. The Shuttle adds an extra third mass to it. (Thanks for that, Lee.)

And I found myself wondering how we must appear to those astronauts up there. A bit silly a lot of the time, I should think.

Writers Who Don't Write Get Grouchy

I'm still in non-writing mode, trying to convince myself that a writer needs a break from the constant internal conversations of characters who don't exist. Of course, I'm suffering. Writing has become my life. There -- I said it. The day-to-day personal things I do are of no interest to anyone, I'm sure. I quit Facebook and Twitter for exactly that reason. Who would care? I do my daily chores, read a lot, watch more TV than is healthy, considering how irritated I get with it. And my politics, my philosophies, the things that impassion me are revealed only in my work -- deep, deep in the work, I hope. Nothing worse than a preachy novelist.

So I expect to be embroiled in the next book very soon. I can't go on this way. I had a tiny thought that I could do some painting, but my heart just isn't in it. Painting does make me happy, and it's an almost instant fix. You come up with the idea, and get it down on the canvas. But I need more than that. I want total mental immersion day in, day out. I need the pull of my story to get me rushing downstairs to the computer each morning. The painting will have to wait. It's been a long time since the last one and, no doubt, will be a long time until the next.

This blog was meant to be a diary of my writing days. I enjoy talking about the work-in-progress, and sharing the various stages of it, although whether it's ever uplifting and useful to others I'm not sure. The fact is: my blog is a bit pointless if it doesn't talk about the act of writing. Why else would you read it?

And so I am at loose ends. I can't imagine not being a writer. I don't like not writing. Many of you grumble about the inability to write -- from lack of time, or lack of enthusiasm. If it's making you irritable, I understand. I'm about as crabby and sober as I can get, and it has to stop. Booze won't do it.

It's all about to change. I want my other life back. The writing one. I'll let you know how it goes.

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." ~ Ray Bradbury

Life After the Novel is Finished

Uncharacteristic Behavior is finished. I've been over it for the thousandth time, pruned, tidied and dusted, and have now relegated it to the back of my mind for most of the time. It won't be completely cloistered off until I start a new book, of course. But it has stopped talking to me as I do other things, and the dropping-off-to-sleep whispers (I always need a pen and notebook beside the bed) have gone.

This is a no-man's land for the writer, this time immediately after completing a book. There is the sadness at saying goodbye to characters you've come to love or hate, and a sense of relief that you managed to make sense of it all. I wander rather aimlessly around the house, try to catch up on my reading (which slowed considerably during the writing), spend more time in the garden. I clean things thoroughly that have only seen a duster lately. I sew, which is pleasurable to me. I do useless but interesting research on the computer. (The little lizards in the garden, called Skinks, love to eat strawberries. Who would have thought? The Northern Territory in Australia was once considered as a Jewish Homeland site, before Israel. It's a dreadfully harsh state, and was nick-named the 'Unpromised Land'. And so on...)

I'm back to everyday life. Ho Hum, and what's for dinner?

When I'm not actively writing -- in my head, or at the computer -- I'm terribly listless.  No one expects a writer to finish one book and immediately jump into the next. But I want to. It hits me the minute I step out of bed.. What are you going to write this time? And if you finish it, do you realize you'll have five manuscripts waiting for publication?

But I have a loose plot, and I'll undoubtedly go with it. Right now it's a nub of an idea, captured on a 3x3 Post-It.  I have done one bit of a research. Did you know that you can buy a derelict stone cottage in the U.K. for under Fifty Thousand Pounds...around $75,000? This will often include acreage. And Ireland is the cheapest?  (Not that I'm thinking of buying one, although the fantasy has presented itself to me several times over the years.)

Anyway, I suspect I'll have started on this new one by the time I post my blog again. The irritable, Domestic Goddess me will leave again. I'm no good as housekeeper. My time is way too valuable for that. Clean and tidy is all I aspire too, and I'll never invite you to eat off my floors, okay? Oh, and if you are peeved by that, do you use housework as an excuse not to write? Shame on you! Enjoy the dust bunnies and finish your book!

One last word on your writing. If you haven't completed your first book yet, get it done as soon as possible. No more excuses: no cleaning the bathroom right now; declare a moratorium on emails and frivolous Googling; no catching that movie on TV that you've been dying to see. (Are there any like that these days? My TV is as barren as a desert.) Finish the book! A magical thing will then happen: you'll be itching to start the next. You've done it once, you've opened the flood gates. You are no longer a would-be writer -- you are a real writer, dues paid in the form of the emotions and time you've spent with it. The anxiety you felt -- Is it any good? Am I any good? Am I wasting my time? -- all these will fall away with the next manuscript.

Forget your need to publish. You have all the time in the world. Those painters of old, who died before their work was recognized -- were they not great artists? Does not being published make your work any less valid? In fact, I'd suggest not submitting to an agent until your second book is underway, and you can mention that in your query. You'll have so much more confidence and will be almost blase with the rejections you'll get (yes, you're bound to get them. Agents are the most confounding bunch). "What do they know?" you'll say, flippantly shrugging them off. "I'm already on my second book..."

I know about your doubts and anxieties, but with each new manuscript, the technical worries will go. The creative ones should never leave. That's what makes your work unique.

I don't curse on my blog (what I do in the privacy of my own home is a different matter!), but if I could I would right here:

Finish your ***** book!

Nearing the End of the Novel

And so another month has passed and Uncharacteristic Behavior is nearing the end. I've been working on it constantly - not so much moving it forward, as filling out the characters, adding detail to the earlier chapters. There's a lot of material in my 'bits' folder ready for the last chapters, but I'm hanging back a bit, savoring these last few weeks before I put it all to bed.  Once again I'm experiencing that bitter-sweetness at the prospect of ending a book and wanting it to last just a teensy bit longer. I try to reassure myself that - although I'll miss my current ones - there'll be other characters, and there is even that possibility of revisiting Karen, if I do a sequel to The Place of Dreams.

As this is my fourth novel, I found it easier, naturally, than the first, but perhaps it's not as good, as no blood was drawn in the effort, as seemed to happen with that first one (which was difficult to write, but I hope not difficult to read). But I'm happy with it, and my who-dunnit reader likes it, so something must be going right.


Speaking of readers' difficulties, The Guardian published a relevant interview with writer, Nicole Krauss, on Sunday. I've added the link, although I was most taken with the following:

'On a long book tour of the US, Krauss was taken aback to find that one of the things she heard most frequently from readers was: "this book is difficult". "I was so surprised," she says. "I realise that it's challenging, that it refuses to come together too easily, but I didn't think of it as a difficult read." So how to explain it? Krauss believes – or at least, she worries – that in the west, we are moving towards the end of effort. "We've arrived at this place where we just thoughtlessly plunge towards whatever the thing is that will allow us to make less of an effort. We know we're diminishing experience. We know that it was richer to walk to the store, talk to the bookseller, maybe meet your neighbour than it is to click online. But we can't stop ourselves. We're programmed to do the 'easier' thing. That's why people have Kindles. It's easier not to have to turn the page. All that's left of turning is this bizarre little sound to remind us of it. People no longer have the concentration to finish things; we skim along on the surface, and it's miserable.'

I can't help but think that she's right. People have become lazy, perhaps always were. How many of you skim-read passages in a book because you see them as unnecessary or riffle through pages to get to the next 'interesting' bit? My who-dunnit friend finds Mark Billingham too wordy; I think all of his words are worthwhile. Will we shortly be publishing more and more books of under 70,000 words, because anything more will be too taxing? And when was the last time you read any poetry or a 19th Century novel? What? Did you say, high school? Give yourself a treat, pick up some Dickens, or Hardy, and wallow in the words. One of these days I intend to read Ulysses. I should start soon; time grows short.

So it was recently revealed, through letters acquired by the University of East Anglia, that J.D. Salinger wasn't the recluse we thought he was. I somehow always felt that a man of his insight would enjoy regular interaction with real people. Niagara Falls, Canada, eh? Who'd have thought it? I might have stood next to him a couple of times, just before we went to the casino for lunch.


As an aside, of all the postings I've done for this blog, the most popular appears to be about agent requests for full manuscripts. There have been dozens of searches on the subject, which obviously means you're all doing really well with your queries. Good luck to you, and certainly don't stress if an agent asks for the whole thing. Time to celebrate! Your query letter worked!

Perhaps, by the time I post again, I will have completed Uncharacteristic Behavior. Nice timing, as that's the beginning of the Australian autumn - not really fall, because most of our trees don't shed their leaves and nothing much changes in the garden; the perennial plants look a bit bored with everything and simply doze off. Being a cold weather girl, I prefer the end of the hot season. A couple of weeks ago, it was so hot (over a 100 F/40's C) that I didn't think I'd survive it. Like magic, courtesy of the new weather patterns (which have no pattern whatsoever), it dropped 50% the following week. Love it! With the cooler autumn weather, the MS finished, I'll hibernate with my next book idea (missing the carpet of maple leaves I used to have at my door), and pretend snow is not far away. I think better when it's cold.


Tell me what you're up to. You've all been a bit quiet since I moved. I miss the chit-chat.

Until next time...

Writing a Sequel to The Place of Dreams

I officially signed Hafan Deg with the lovely agent on January 3. When I refer to her, I have difficulty saying 'my' agent, as it sounds pretentious. So I say, 'the lovely agent I signed with', which is less in your face. As I become more confident, I'll feel less selfconscious using the 'my'.

Her first official suggestion was to change the name of the manuscript. It's now called The Place of Dreams, which you've probably seen in the sidebar. The second biggie is that she asked if I would consider a sequel to the book. In all my dealings with agents, hinting gently that I have other manuscripts I want to sell, I've never thought about sequels for any of them.

My first reaction was that it couldn't be done. The book had been rather exhausting, taking a long time to get it the way I wanted it. It's something of a saga,  and it took many re-writes to bring the major raison d'etre to a satisfactory conclusion, all the loose ends tied up, and everyone more or less living happily ever after. But I haven't stopped thinking about it since the idea was presented to me--how my protagonist, Karen, could pick up from where we left off.  I now think it could work. I'm two-thirds through the fourth novel, at a tricky forensic pathology (Google is brimming with information on that!) bit in the book, but Karen is now popping into my head constantly and I've even started making some notes.

If my (did it!) agent suggested a sequel, it surely indicates that she believes Karen is too interesting to abandon to one book--that people will be so involved they will want more. Considering how long it took me to get her this far, it's all rather surprising, but very rewarding. As I become more comfortable in this role of agented writer, I'll ask more questions, as there is still much that I don't know, but right now I'm humbled by it all, and will probably remain that way until an editor is found, or until my agent tells me to relax and enjoy the ride.

I think I'm a fairly good writer, certainly do the best I can manage, but it's hard to be too confident in this business, isn't it? How awful to brag about it all, only to fall on your face when a publisher isn't forthcoming. I appreciate a certain amount of irritable rumbling from some of you, 'She's working on her fourth novel?'  But I'll keep on writing, whatever happens. There could be ten novels, who knows? Not one of them published. We don't write to publish, but do have a need to share our ideas, our view of the world, and publication is the only way to do that on a scale larger than this blog.

I suppose what I'm saying is that you should never stop writing just because you have other manuscripts tucked away that have generated little interest. Ten novels, even twenty, doesn't preclude the publication of your very next one, and with luck all those others will then be picked up, too. Except for British writer, R.J. Ellory (he writes who-dunnits exclusively set in the U.S., and does it well, even as he lives in Birmingham, England!), who confesses he has over twenty manuscripts in his attic that never sold, that will remain there. He has since published many subsequent novels, and it frustrates me that he hasn't felt the need to look at the first twenty again, but perhaps, after all this time of honing his craft, he is honest enough to acknowledge that they just weren't good enough, and not worth resurrecting.

Over twenty novels discarded--now that's what I call a true apprenticeship. Good luck with yours. Perhaps you're about to receive your Certificate of Completion in the form of a contract. Not that it will guarantee anything, but you can have it framed, and show it off to your friends. I now have three! I'm hoping the last one holds true to its historical association with good fortune.

Until next time, stay safe, and get back to work.

A Writer's Apprenticeship

What a year this was! 2010, the year we were all forced to come to terms with the new financial reality (all except Australia, which seems blythely unaware of more than a slight hiccup somewhere over there). We started thinking of new ways to make, save, or hide money, and it's brought out a lot of hitherto unacknowledged creativity, if some of those heart-warming TV stories are anything to go by. Some of us are worse off than others, struggling just to get by, and the rest are worried that it could happen to them. But we've become more understanding, more empathetic, through all of this. All in all, 2010 was a year with little to show for itself. But--the good news is that you don't have to keep up with the Joneses anymore, because they're probably having a rougher time than you are.

In the 70s, I was mad for books and TV programs that featured the Simple Life, whether it was back-to-the-land escapist stuff, decorating on a shoe-string, or how to look fabulous wearing clothes from the thrift shop. It was cool to be green, although I did it because I had to, single as I was with three small children in tow, but the philosophy behind it became something of a mantra, and I try to live this way today, even though it's just me now. So learn to enjoy this belt-tightening. It feels like you've suddenly given up bread, or coffee, or even cigarettes, and you'll have withdrawal symptoms, but you can do it. After a while you'll be lecturing others on how to cut corners, where the best deals are.

Oh, and if you think I'm being patronizing? --I've been there, guys. When my husband left, and the kids were tiny, I  lived at a shelter with them, later used food stamps until I was able to scratch out a living and stand on my own two rather wobbly legs. It was then that I decided that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable again. I've had some rough times since, but they were my rough times, not the result of someone else's irresponsibility.

And eventually you get through it. It's corny, but you really do appreciate life, and friendship, and all that other stuff, far more when you've eaten tuna and rice three times in a week. (My grown children are still not too fond of tuna and rice.)

So I'm sorry that my posting today doesn't appear much like a writer's blog, but, if you think about it a bit, it really is. All those years of struggle, of worrying about whether or not one of the children was too ill for school, which in turn meant I'd lose a day's work, or simply trying to keep them in shoes (one of the most difficult tasks), was my writing apprenticeship. You write it all down, or go mad--at least, that's how I was. I wrote a lot of black humor, ironically, because that's how I saw the world. But we got through it, and you'll perhaps be surprised that I don't regret any of it. I can write equally about poverty, and comfortable living, because I've known both. And, to this day, I write about relationships, in all age groups, because my friendships over the years have been my saving grace. 

It would have been great if those writings in the lean years had generated income, but I had no idea what I was doing, or even how serious I was about writing. And so I had to reach this grand decade to decide that it's time to do something about it. Notice that I'm not at all impatient. See that I have reached the age of philosophizing. What is, is. You know, a touch of Buddhist thinking goes a long way.

In the meantime, I am over one-third into the fourth novel, Uncharacteristic Behavior. This is my first whodunnit, and at times I wish I hadn't. It's very tricky stuff to write. If you're at all interested, I've added it to the right side bar (click on the cover to read the synopsis). Speaking of covers, do you like my artwork? Of course, it's unlikely any publisher would use it, because they employ their own people, don't they? (And we wouldn't want to take their jobs away from them.)  But I think my pictures are evocative of the subject matter. Anyway, I like them.

Have a great holiday season. Stay home. What's so great about being somewhere else at this time of the year? You need to bum around, flop on the couch, and not bother with makeup. You don't do that at a resort (you'll be lucky) or someone else's place. And you get to sleep in your own lovely bed.

See you next year.

Surviving the Move

It's been over three months since my last post. Some of you have stopped looking for me, I know. Well, everyone, having recovered from the stress of my move, I am as back to normal as I can ever be. (I wasn't that normal to start with.)

From where I'm sitting now, I can hear a bunch of rainbow parakeets chattering and screeching in the trees in the courtyard here. Members of the parrot family, they are the noisiest birds in the world, but I love every minute of it. They sound so happy to be alive! I don't know if it's their exclusive food, but they hang out in bottle brush trees (so called because their red blossoms look like bottle brushes), and they sip on the nectar all day long. Having two of these trees directly outside means I hear all the action.

So I know where I am; it's audible. Then there is that unique smell - of eucalyptus, jacaranda, and other flora that gently surrounds you the minute you land here. It's as different to Brighton (in both England and Canada) as tea is to coffee, or whiskey is to vodka, but I'm always grateful I've had the opportunity to appreciate all these places, along with the others. I'm a wanderer. Like the song. But time to stay put now, not just for my sake, but my dear cats.

I finished Summer Must End back in August as I predicted. I have yet to pull together a one-page synopsis and shorter jacket blurb for it, but there's plenty of time to do that. With the two other manuscripts patiently waiting their turn, I doubt much will happen for quite a while. Does that matter to me? Not at all.  I am already well into my fourth novel and I'm guessing that there will be more before Summer comes under the microscope. You have to have huge patience in this writing game. But you guys already know that.

The great news is - dare I tell you? You might recall that I dropped an agency last year, and perhaps you thought I didn't  take the process seriously enough - I have a new agent. She is absolutely lovely. The ideal for me always (a bit of a fantasy, I thought)  was having an agent who was very friendly, uncomplicated, excellent at her craft, and available. And then there she was, like an old friend in the way she responded to Hafan Deg (although I'm persuaded that title should change to something more recognizable). It's quite a shock to deal with someone who communicates so easily. I send an email, and she replies immediately, always sounding enthusiastic. Oh, my... (Pinching myself again.)

Jeeves longing to get out there...

Baby contemplatng the garden...

So there it is.


The move to the Antipodes is over; my cats survived it with only a little resentment; I'm working on my new novel; I'm agented for the first. Oh, and another bonus: the local library is directly across the street. What more could a girl want? Seriously.

Love being back here. More about the new book next time.

The End of the Novel - Summer Must End

I know I've been very quiet - for almost two months, in fact - but I've been busy. Summer Must End is in the final furlong. I'll finish it by next weekend.

When I started this book on September 6, 2009, I'd already been composing in my head for months. I knew how it would end. I always know how my books will end, like Stephen King, with whom I share that particular approach. I don't start a book until I have the ending. But getting to that end is the thing - that's where all the exciting, unplanned things occur.

When I write (and I've mentioned this before), I quickly work on each chapter, getting down everything I feel  I need to say at that moment, and later - the same day, or the next morning, whenever - I carefully edit the draft, and move on to the next segment. When that chapter is complete, I go back to the very beginning, because ideas and dialogue are constantly coming to me during the time that I'm not physically writing, roughly scribbled on scraps of paper, and they now need to be inserted. Another careful proofread (well, as careful as any normal person manages) and I'm on to the next chapter. And so on. So what started out as (say) a 10-page chapter becomes 14 pages, perhaps, and the manuscript is becoming the final draft with each re-read and tweak.

The point today is that I'm about to start that final chapter. This one is the payoff - this is what writing all the other 90,000-plus words was leading to, and I'm both excited and relieved. There will be more inserts, of course, before this thing is ready for an agent. No doubt I'll even be tweaking it after I've made my move from Canada. But it will be ready for my trusted critics, those dear friends who again could take the time to give me their own opinions on it. I can only hope they love it as much as I do. It's my homage to Ontario. It's my farewell to Canadian rural life. I leave here at the end of September.

Sometimes when I'm deeply immersed in the work (or is that submerged?),  I find myself wondering if my un-writerly life is going okay. I work on average 5 hours a day, skipping some days to do the usual chores, and then I feel as if I've just returned from a trip, because writing the story, being surrounded by all these characters, genuinely makes me feel as if I've been away. I look at my cats, and wonder if my occasional cuddles in the evening have been enough. Are they feeling neglected?  Baby and Jeevesie, I promise I'll make it up to you. (And soon you'll be chasing lizards together.)

I'll continue my blog, of course - more regularly, I hope - after my move to Sydney. For those of you who have hung in there with me, despite my long absences, I wonder if you'll detect a difference in my demeanor. The light is so different there, and it makes me different. Being so geographically remote, you tend to feel less involved with the world than you do in Canada. My thinking becomes lighter, less introspective and intense. What kind of novel might that produce?

What I haven't mentioned over the last little while is that two - yes, two - lovely agents are presently looking at my first two manuscripts, respectively. They both seem very upbeat about them, and the fact that they communicated this to me is, in itself, a wonder to  behold. We all know how very mysterious most agents appear to us, so this is almost miraculous - this one-to-one contact. I am practical enought to realize that It could come to nothing, which is my usual experience, but one never knows.

Summer must end, but perhaps we'll have an Indian summer. I always live in hope.

Talk to you soon.

I Wonder What My Characters Are Up To?

Since I haven't been devoting myself to the current novel, I feel I've let the side down. Not just my readers, who could be anxious to see whether or not the writing life is all it's cracked up to be, but my characters. Stuck. That's what they are. In limbo. Hanging, like a proofreader's "widow".

Because I am somewhat weird, perhaps, I picture them doing things behind my back, like teenagers left alone at home. I imagine they have been going places, talking about interesting stuff, having the occasional party, and I wasn't invited.  I could check in, of course. In one second I would see that they've been absolutely nowhere, but are still just about to sit down to a scrummy vegetarian Christmas dinner, all of them frozen in time. But I don't check. I rather prefer the idea that they are out there doing their thing, laughing, weeping, and loving.

My own days are taken up with final arrangements for my cats' transport. No one likes to send cats on international journeys. If I had my way, they'd sit next to me on the plane, but that's impossible. I try not to think about it too much, as I look into their little faces. Cats are tough. They will be cranky with the whole business,  but they'll get over it. The experience is going to be more emotionally draining for me, when the time comes.

My friend in Oz asked me today if I was sure about this move. Well, first, it's a bit late to change my mind. All the arrangements, except for booking my flight, are in place. But, second, I know it's time to leave again. Because of the way my offspring are scattered around the globe, it's difficult to settle for too long in any one place. I divide my time almost equally between Canada and Australia, and visit England regularly. All three countries are important to me.  I am an odd arrangement of English, Australian and Canadian. During sports finals, particularly the Olympics, I am totally torn about which teams to root for, and end up being complacent about it. NOT the hockey, of course. There's only one team to cheer on there.  (I just hope I'll be able to get the NHL in Australia. There must be a way. Surely ESPN is available worldwide.)

Only about 15 weeks to go now. I don't know whether I'll get my characters in Summer Must End away from the Christmas dining table during that time. This avoidance is not Writer's Block, but Writer's Distraction. I've so many other things to deal with for now, and can't bring myself back to the novel. It's not going anywhere. A little more stress in the coming months could well produce even better writing. Well, that's what I tell myself.

So forgive the scarcity of my blogs, please. This, too, shall change, once I'm back to normal. Whatever that is.

Oh, do you like the new template? It's full of sky and brightness. I think it's a happy design.