My second novel is to be published this year. Watch this space for news and publication date.
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Ok, for those of you who know me, I'm not 'on the market'; well, not that kind of market anyway. I'm talking about literary speed dating, where you pitch your book and yourself to sympathetic, but overwhelmed publishers. I suspect there's not a lot of difference between the types of speed dating - a pervading sense of desperation and hope that someone will love you (and your work). What I gained from the experience is that I'm no good at it. I suspected I would become a babbling idiot, and I was. In truth I gained more than that. It made me face the reality that I need to smarten up my act if I want my second book to be published. I need to convince people that my work is marketable; that my spoken words run as sharply as my thoughts. The trouble is, I don't think either is the case. I suspect my second novel just isn't good enough (and I already know that I shouldn't be allowed out. My spoken words are as crisp as my linen ... enough said). I'm a tortoise in ill-fitting orthopaedic boots - I have to take my time, but somehow I seem to get there. As I stood in line waiting for my turn, I pretended not to eavesdrop, but I was desperate to know how other people did it. How did they get that publisher to show interest, to hand over the 'contact me' card, to come away from the table with a self-satisfied smile? Truly, I was out of my league (my league? are there others like me? Good grief!). But ... I met lovely people. They might have been better at speed dating than I was, but lovely nevertheless and for that, in particular, I'm glad I showed up; a reminder that I'm on a writer's journey and these are some of my companions on the way. Nice.
Perhaps it's a measure of self-interest, but when I'm in a bookshop, I gravitate towards novels written by Australian writers; not exclusively of course. The last six months has been a feast. It's no secret that I'm a Tim Winton fan and, yes, I know that not everyone is. I launched into Eyrie with the usual hunger I have for his books and was not disappointed - ok, perhaps a little bit at the end, but I'm used to that with his novels. I don't mind having to stretch my imagination to find a suitable ending when what precedes it is first class. When I read the spiel and looked at the cover of Arthur Miller's Coal Creek, I wasn't sure that this was a book for me, but I trust Miller, based on many of his previous works. For a while I was irritated by the voice of the protagonist, but soon found myself carried along with his story as though he was relating it to me by the campfire. Sadly, Christos Tsiolkas's Barracuda left me NOT wanting more -really, I just didn't care about his character enough, and this was a shame. Dead Europe was a wonderful, though disturbing novel, and, of course The Slap was, well ... enough said. Hannah Kent's Burial Rites was totally absorbing, as was Fiona Capp's Gotland.
Such wonderful talent in Australia and I haven't even touched the surface. Alexis Wright steeps the reader in the beauty of the Australian landscape from an indigenous perspective; Steven Carroll transports me back to growing up in the northern suburbs of Melbourne; Kate Grenville makes me weep in one of my most favourite novels The idea of Perfection. Lily Brett makes me laugh, and cry; Joan London endows unlikely characters with heroic gifts in Gilgamesh. The list of authors and their works goes on and that's still confined to a particular genre.
Is the general public catching on? Of course we are blessed with a plethora of wonderful international authors, and it's not in anyone's interest to confine reading to one culture, but I suspect there might still be a bias against Australian writers as though they're just not good enough. Things are changing, I hope so anyway. In the meantime I'll continue to blow their trumpet.
It's been nearly two years now since I began these blogs, tracking my own progress after leaving full-time work to 'follow my dreams'. It's been an interesting process. Committing myself to print has allowed me to view it from a more detached perspective, revealing certain patterns of my own psyche. The journey itself has had its ups and downs. I have been beleaguered by doubts about the wisdom of my decision and, predictably, doubts about my own talent. I have worried about getting enough employment, and about how wisely I have used my 'free' time to write. On the other side of that, I found new paths of work that have brought me great joy, in particular teaching creative writing. Rupert, Neti and Athena from my published novel have continued on their journey in the world and I have been so moved by the comments of readers who have loved them as much as I do; I was almost brought to tears by one who recently said that she missed them in the weeks after she had finished reading the book. Of course, life has thrown in more ups and downs as a backdrop to it all, but hey, what's new? I've recognised that I am an over-doer, but on the other hand, there's so much to do that I enjoy. I've put in a lot of energy over these last two years. I knew that it would have to be so when I started the journey. Has it been worth it? A resounding 'YES'. To those of you who have been reading the blogs, I thank you for your forbearance of my self-absorption, and for your 'likes'. There's been enough navel-gazing now. My purpose for 2014 is to simply write, simply work, simply love and, hopefully, simply laugh ... a lot. I will continue the blogs but with emphasis on creative writing and literature. Happy New Year. Namaste.