Quarantine times - Dear Reader

Is it possible to have happy news in these times?

A couple of weeks ago I wrote two chapters and a bunch of future notes for the book I’m working on. You know the kind: “Make sure x does this before she meets y”, “Plant the teeth in the garden so z can find them later…” Those kind of notes. And I was writing of USB because I was switching PCs.

Why wasn’t this in the cloud, you dolt? I here you ask. It was GOING to be, but I have two different logins for Office and my work ethic is very strict about never doing personal writing during work hours, so I used a stick this one time so I could print. (Never got to print.)

And I transferred the new file over to the old file. Only I did it the wrong way around. Old file over new file and that was that. Yes, you can recover deleted files, but not overwritten ones and not when you don’t have File History turned on (new laptop) so yeah. Rookie mistakes all, and ones I haven’t made in almost a decade.

Lessons were learned.

Much swearing ensued, but somewhat muted because I have a dog with PTSD, so it was all happy-tone swearing. “Whose mum’s a fucking idiot? Yes she is! Yes she is! Shit, fuck, fuck, biscuit!”

The next day I received an email from a reader who had read Tallwood (library copy) and liked it so much, she wanted to buy one of her own. Luckily, I have some copies and was able to send her one. But the fact that someone enjoyed my work enough to reach out, that she was so lovely and enthusiastic and genuinely enjoyed the story, made up for all the deleted files and swearing and frustration. I have since jotted down most of what I remember and, energy willing, am going to recreate these chapters hopefully better than before.

This person got in touch at just the right time.

Thank you, Dear reader, for giving me a well-needed boost.

A writer's take on 'these quarantine times' #2,300,489

I’ve had / am having a quarantine period like everyone else. But cries of, “We’re all in this together,” or “We’re in the same boat,” just don’t resonate for me - thankfully. I am so thankful; let’s get that out of the way.

There. Are. No. Complaints. Here.

Writers, painters, poets, musicians, dancers; artists of all ilks are coming together - or doing it alone - and being their best creative selves. People who have never put pen to paper (fingertips to keys), brush to canvas, or feet to floor, are simply bursting with enthusiasm and having a go. And good for them.

There are millions of creative people posting about these quarantine times in ways that inspire and amaze. This is not one of those posts.

Because me? This introvert who once wished for such a thing (without all the death) - a forced, stay-at-home order, where the outside floor was lava - has been working. All the time. March was a blur of long hours and weekends working. The floor accumulated dog-sized hair balls, the dishes stacked up, grass grew unmanageable (which was lucky because…lava).

Someone I met at the Twin Peaks festival in the summer (US summer) of 2017 put it best:

”….when I watch TV... I see all the adverts. About how we're all in this together. About how hard it is for the people stuck home, especially those home schooling. I hear from my friends that have lost their jobs, or had to fire people themselves.

“I feel fortunate and I feel guilty. In a weird way I can't quite quantify, I feel left out. Like this isn't happening to me, but it's happening to everyone else. Like somehow I'm *not* in this timeline, except my internet is connecting to the one in this timeline, and I'm getting your news and TV broadcasts.”

Thanks to Ryan Acheson for those insights.

I am incredibly grateful that I’m in this position. I’ve actually worked on my novel a bit, and I’ve thought about it plenty (that’s writing, too). But after sitting for 12 hours working, the last thing I want to do is switch devices and sit some more. (Yeah, I could suck it up, but I haven’t.)

I’m thinking of taking up the notepad again, or going outside to write, or just writing in a different way that doesn’t feel like I’ve unplugged myself from one cubicle to the next.

When I have the time/mental energy. Which I don’t right now. Which I am thankful for. Which is conflicting.

The guilt I feel for working in the telehealth sector in a time when the world needs it most cannot be understated. I am not a nurse, or doctor, or working at a checkout, or delivering food. I am not on the front line of anything. I am contributing to the wellbeing of many, but the fact that I have a job, a house, dogs, and the luxury to sit in said house, free (for nonce) of worry, is palpable. And I guess, coming full circle, guilt is a luxury. Guilt is a privilege.

It’s worth repeating: There. Are. No. Complaints. Here.

But when this is over, I will be exhausted and I bet I’ll be asking for some time off. To sit in my house. Alone. To write. To try to find the kind of solitude that so many others “enjoyed” while all this was happening.

Life’s fucking weird sometimes.

Writer - am I or aren't I?

…But then my dogs died and my publisher went belly-up and I went through some stuff, came out the other side and found that I wasn't a writer.

Yeah, that was tough.

I found myself without my usual identity. “What do you do?” “I’m a writer.” That did my head in.

So I did all the things. I tried to write every day. I gave myself a break and not write every day. I gave myself permission to slack off, clear my head.

I read books from authors that I dig (VanderMeer, King, Eco) and new authors I discovered (Becky Chambers).

I read Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds blog (this entry is terrific) just to kick myself up the arse (that would be the Australian version of "ass").

And it kinda worked. I started a novel. Hooray, right?

Hold the confetti, folks. At 30k words, I abandoned it due to crippling self-doubt.

I started another novel. It, too, got to 30k words and I abandoned it for overthinking. ("This has been done before. Wait, this is being done NOW. This is not what you are as a writer. This is exactly what you are as a writer - full of shit." And so on.)

Was thirty-thousand words my new limit? A psychosomatic death knell? Maybe it was. So I sat down in the chair, at the desk where my other books had been written and cracked my knuckles. (Metaphorically. I hate it when people crack their knuckles. The sound, the image in my brain... Just stop it, people. It's not good for you.)

"Okay, you 30k word-limit piece of shit", I said - again, metaphorically - "Let's do this."

I wrote a 25k novella about a detective and a murder of an animal in a future time when such things are deemed to be abhorrent.

It didn't pour out of me like I’d hoped; it dribbled out, it retched out. I forced it out over weeks. But I finished it (confetti!) and I hated its finished form.

I put it away for a few weeks, then came back to edit it. It wasn't so bad. I grew to like it. Small win/big win.

But the other stories (those I left for dead by the side of the road under the "You are now passing 30k..." sign) kept nagging at me.

So here I am. Three years later. Two adopted dogs (pics for attention!) later.

I know, right?!

I know, right?!

New mindset, new schedule, and writing on the train with a pen and notepad, old school.

I'm still hearing the self doubt and the overthinking. But I'm not writing to get published at the moment. I'm not thinking of markets and audience expectations and where this will "fit" and who will or won't help it fit. I'm writing for me.

That served me well for the first three books. Let's see what happens with this one.

Snapshotted for 2016 - Interview by David McDonald

Well this was a surprise - and a delightful effort to be a part of.

The Australian Speculative Fiction 'snapshot' project has been around since 2005. Started by Ben Peek, it showcases Australian Spec Fic authors in a now-two-week sprint designed to interview and celebrate its subjects. It has taken place five times in the past 11 years.

A team of interviewers reach out across the interwebs and ask tailored questions, which we, the subjects, struggle to answer without sounding too precious, pretentious, or predictable - or alliterative ;) 

I had a blast answering mine, asked by the lovely David McDonald (look at all the people he interviewed!)

I have no idea how he found me. And he's not telling :) 

Matthew Summers, reviewer, blogger, writer, editor, and general crazy person, was also snapshotted this year and gave me a massive shout-out. Much gratitude to him :) 

Writing Excuses

My excuses vary day to day, hour to hours, much like the Melbourne weather. But I found a terrific podcast that both validated and elucidated the reasons behind the dreaded procrastination. Funnily enough, it's called Writing Excuses.  

About them, in their own words:

"Writing Excuses is a fast-paced, educational podcast for writers, by writers. It airs weekly, with new episodes appearing each Sunday evening at around 6pm Eastern Time. The show is hosted by Brandon Sanderson, Mary Robinette Kowal, Howard Tayler, and Dan Wells, with guests featured from time to time.

Our goal is to help our listeners become better writers.  Whether they write for fun or for profit, whether they’re new to the domain or old hands, we have something to offer. We love to write, and our listeners do, too."

And frell me if it doesn't motivate the pants off me every time I listen. One of their latest episodes (from Season 11) was on Imposter Syndrome - a thing I and, it seems, many other writers have in abundance.

Ahem: "This is the frame of mind that many successful writers suffer from, in which they worry that they’re not really good enough at writing to be enjoying their success. Worse, this mindset can prevent us from continuing to create."

I've written three books. After the first was published - BAM. Paralysis. Stage-fright. Doubt. After a year, I am only just coming out of it to write my fourth. It's a real thing. 

But I have now run out of excuses so...I will go write.