I lied to a 7 year old child last week. I know it’d be forgivable if it was a white lie to prevent unnecessary anguish or one enabling the perpetuation of childhood myths about Santa Claus the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. (Oh sorry, forgot to add #spoileralert before that big reveal!)
But it was neither.
I’ve been spending WAAAAY too much time lolling on my bed looking at Instagram pictures of Harry and Meghan (on their recent visit to Oz) and clicking on Facebook links to articles on No Sidebar, Tiny Buddha and Mark Manson.
The latter sites tend to re-share the same pieces over and over again. I know this because I tend to click on the same links over and over again.
In case you live under a rock, or you know… don’t follow me on social media, you may not be aware I’m in Italy on a writing retreat with Aussie author Vanessa Carnevale. We’re over halfway through the week, which is incredibly depressing but it’s been a wonderful opportunity for me to participate in my favourite sport: navel gazing. I’ve also taken the time however to reflect on some important stuff that does actually relate to writing and creativity.
I was just going to call this post, What Comes Next, but a vague sense of deja-vu niggled at me and sure enough, I’d written a post called exactly that in November 2011.
It wasn’t – as this post is – about work, my professional life and the ‘direction’ I take, rather it was written almost a month after my father passed away so instead pondered on the melancholy enveloping me at the time.
But, here I’m talking less traumatic events. Like my impending unemployment and life on the streets.
Kidding. #Obvs
Once upon a time female writers had to write under male pseudonyms as it wasn’t appropriate for women to pen… well anything really, under their own names. Think: Emily Bronte writing as Ellis Bell; Ethel Florence Lindesay Richardson as Henry Handel Richardson.
Thankfully much has changed since then.
At least I think it has.
I often comment on my apathy.
The fact I haven’t booked accommodation for my overseas holiday; talking endlessly about replacing my broken dishwasher but still hand washing dishes 2mths later; regularly bemoaning the fact I should be writing book reviews on weekends, when really I just want to sleep.
It’s been about 18mths since I started thinking I needed to do something about my verandah bannisters which are either rotting or just need sanding.
And then there’s the oft-mention draft novels. I’ve had a couple of drafts ‘open’ on my laptop/s since March. I’ve been carrying around print-outs of two first drafts for at least 2mths: taking them in my overnight bag to my mother’s. To work in case I take a lunch break. Back home. They’re particularly well-travelled documents.
I could go on. And on.
So, I’m going to a writers’ retreat in about 13 weeks. I’ve talked about it before…. ie.the writing retreat in Italy. *Flicks hair over shoulder with Cartier-clad fingers*
However, an obvious element to such a retreat is that we need to be writing something.
Indeed, the lovely Vanessa Carnevale has offered to look at our work and provide some feedback in advance.
Yay. Plus, FUCK!
Actually, the title is kinda misleading… My days are inherently boring so I couldn’t do that to you. Long time readers may recall I once pondered the idea of a reality TV show about my life, but figured my days of eating junk food and lolling about in bed or sitting at my desk would really not cut it. No racy sex scenes. No violent outbursts. No cat fights. #BORING
However, I noticed a few blogs around lately (by other book bloggers) about what it is we do and since my audience is mostly non-book bloggers I thought I’d share some of our secrets. And dispel some of those myths.