The Making of a Writer

What makes someone a writer? My university creative writing lecturer (and successful author), Susan Mitchell, says a writer writes always. I guess I have written always, though only creatively in spurts and dashes. Most of my output has been generated in the many and varied jobs that I’ve put my hand to, so I thought today I’d reminisce a little about how these have all contributed to make me the aspiring novelist I am today.

My first job straight out of school was as a cadet journalist at the Adelaide Advertiser. I think cadetships of this kind are almost extinct now, but back in the day it was a three year apprenticeship where you were trained to type, take shorthand and learn the ropes of old-school journalism on the job. I was one of three school-leavers selected in my intake from a field of over 500 and was beside myself with excitement.

The Advertiser Cadet Training Room circa 1985

At 17, I was under the happy delusion that being a journalist was about writing. I was quickly undeceived. I spend my first three months in a night-shift job depressingly called ‘Chores’. This involved preparing a whole lot of useless information for setting by the compositors (compositors are definitely extinct now). For example, I had to add punctuation to mind-numbingly turgid figures on things like hogget sale prices and weather conditions in remote regions of the state. I would have a huge broadsheet of paper in front of me and have to go through it by hand – dot, dot, comma, dot, comma, comma, colon, comma, comma, colon, full stop. About 100 times. Riveting!

Then I spent a scintillating three months on the TV pages. This time I had to re-type each day’s television programming from the material sent in by the four stations (yes kids, there used to be only four TV stations!). Then I had to ring the stations and read it all back to them line by line. This was a full time job, and one of the most harrowing on the editorial floor. A mistake in the TV programme page could trigger a tsunami of enraged complaints from readers who wished to voice their displeasure that a scheduled screening of Dynasty had not been listed with the requisite R (for repeat) and people had thought they were getting a new episode. All hell could break lose.

So, by the time I was finally unleashed into the reporting team I was bursting at the seams with frustrated creative flair. It didn’t get much relief. I was dispatched to cover such earth-shattering events as the Red Cross Flower Show and the first couple ever to get engaged from Perfect Match. One career highlight was interviewing the first Mormon Miss America (who had been brought in to replace a disgraced Miss America who had sold pictures of her boobs to an unsavoury publication). And on another occasion I spent an afternoon attempting to look sprightly while riding a wind-surfer’s shoulders across the River Torrens to get a picture for a desperate photographer who assured me there was no chance my story about the wind-surfing competition would see the light of day without some ‘colour’. Anyone who has been to Adelaide will understand that this was not one of my better moments – the murky, silted Torrens is not an enticing swimming spot. And clambering up the body of a dripping wind-surfer in full flight was not quite how I’d pictured myself pursuing my career in the Fourth Estate.

Reporter Boomer in action

As a reward for my promising stint in reporting, I was posted to the Sports department where I covered junior netball and the results of lesser-known golf competitions before being sent back to Chores and TV for another six months. By the end of my second year at The Advertiser, I had decided that I was not suited to journalism. Never, in the history of the paper had a cadet bailed before the end of their three-year term. Boomer walked out the door.

I went to uni and did an Honours Degree in Communications and loved every minute of it – the writing courses with Susan Mitchell being a red-hot highlight. At the end of my third year I was gob-smacked to be awarded the Cecil Teasdale-Smith Award for Excellence in Creative Writing for a narrative version of my grandfather’s Charlemagne story. I mention this mostly because I just love writing the words Cecil Teasdale-Smith (they have such a fruity ring) but also because this award led me to believe I wasn’t totally delusional in my writing aspirations.

My next post was a stint as the Public Relations Officer for Bedford Industries, a career development charity for people with disabilities. I wrote newsletters, speeches for the CEO, the Annual Report and scripts for the Awards Night and attempted to get media coverage of the organisation’s work. When I pulled some strings with a former colleague (thanks Pen!) and got a picture story in the The Advertiser promoting the annual pantomime performed by the employees, one of them gave me a miniature Superman figure to mark the occasion. He still sits on my desk for inspiration.

Then I hit the career accelerator, landing a job as Press Secretary for the Minister for Education.

Press Secretary with my home phone/fax

This was the big time! A lot of the role involved writing media releases and speeches for the Minister, but mostly my job was to wrangle my former journalistic colleagues and try to get them to write slightly less horrible stories than they had been planning to write about my boss. This required round-the-clock communications so I became the proud owner of a home fax machine and a very early model mobile phone. The Brick weighed several kilos and had a battery life of about two minutes, but it really was cool at that time to slap it on the table in a restaurant and watch the other diners goggle (this was the mid-90s OK?).

Following a short-lived stint as Executive Officer of the Public Relations Institute of Australia I became Government and Media Relations Manager at SA Water, the state government’s water corporation. More speeches, media releases, annual reports and reporter wrangling. This time, however, I also became a media spokesperson and appeared regularly on Adelaide TV and radio explaining things like cryptosporidium (a nasty vomit-inducing bug that can result from the failure of water filtration) and the finer points of sewage treatment. As befitted my corporate status, I also had an impressively big office with a super view.

Corner office

After 10 high intensity years I decided I’d had enough of being on call 24/7. When I was jolted from sleep at 3 a.m. one night to explain to the media why the Barossa Valley was without water due to a massive burst in the Swan Reach to Stockwell pipeline I knew it was time to move on. So I became a talk-back radio producer.

In the studio

This was a really fun job. Each day was a fresh adventure – selecting stories to cover, hunting down talent to talk about them, briefing my presenters, fielding on-air callers and being always ready to chuck everything and leap on a breaking story. Of course the 5 a.m. starts put a bit of a damper on things, but at the end of the day I could walk away and forget all about it. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Then a strange thing happened. Because I didn’t have to be on trigger-alert around the clock I had a bit of time to think about life, the universe and everything. And THE QUESTION started plaguing me again. I had been pestered by THE QUESTION since I was about seven years old. What was my purpose in life? Over the years it had been answered something like this: teacher, writer, prime minister, writer, ballerina, writer, Egyptologist, writer, psychologist, writer, lawyer, writer, journalist, writer … you get the picture. On reflection, it seemed that this writer thing kept on popping up and it was probably time I did something about it. Hence my first sabbatical (see my inaugural blog post for more).

I didn’t write my book at that time, but I did change the direction of my life – a topic I plan to explore in my next post.

So what has all this got to do with my adventure in Carcassone? I know I can write – I’ve been paid for it lots of times! I know I can write under pressure – newspaper deadlines wait for no journo. I can write in multiple styles and formats – I’m versatile. I’m persistent and resilient – I’m thinking here of mounting the shoulders of that wind-surfer for the 10th pass across the river… I’ve had a rich and varied life (with more to be revealed next week) so I’ve got some stories to tell (Spoiler Alert: the first scene in my novel may take place in a talk-back radio studio). I’m ripe and ready to do this thing. I know the answer to THE QUESTION. I am a writer.

PS: HWB has insisted that I publish a retraction. Apparently, I made a gross error in my last post in referring to our new boat as a tinny. HWB informs me that our boat is in fact a skiff, and should not in any way be confused with the totally inferior characteristics of a tinny. My apologies.

Drawing Inspiration …

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Our Sapphire Coast

Apart from having wanted to write since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and being surrounded by a magnificent cheer squad of family and friends, what is it that inspires me to put fingers to keyboard? What gets my creative juices flowing? What fills my cup and makes it runneth over? Quite simply, where I live.

My home is in the beautiful seaside town of Narooma on the New South Wales South Coast. We are fortunately situated just far enough from Sydney and Canberra to put us outside the reach of sun and surf-seeking weekenders, but close enough to be able to access bright lights and busy streets if we want to. Narooma boasts a population of 8500 and we have one traffic light. It’s not even a proper traffic light – just a crossing so that grannies can get across the road at the shops.

To the east we have miles and miles of stunning coastline with literally dozens of pristine beaches. The sun rises behind Montague Island, a marine sanctuary which is home to fur seals and massive colonies of sea birds. At night the skies are lit by intermittent beams from the lighthouse. Between Montague Island and the coast, the whales migrate twice a year, heading north in the autumn and south in the spring. Dolphins frolic in the foam.

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No caption needed 🙂

To the west we have the Wagonga Inlet, a fisherman’s paradise where rivers and creeks flow out of the mountains forming into sheltered bays before making their way to the sea. The inlet is a tidal estuary – complete with mangroves – which makes it the perfect habitat for oysters, a fact we celebrate each year at our Oyster Festival, an orgy of gorging on molluscs. And watching over us is Gulaga, the Mother Mountain, a sacred and special place for local Aboriginal women.

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The Mother Mountain, Gulaga overlooking the inlet

Narooma is a magnet for boaties. We have a small marina for yachts and BBQ boats, and a wharf where the big fishing boats and whale-watching vessels tie up. HWB is very excited this weekend because we have just become boaties! We are now the proud owners of a tinny in which we plan to go on picnic and fishing adventures up the inlet. NB: for foreign readers, a tinny is a small open aluminium boat with an outboard motor, but the term may also be used to refer to a can of beer.

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Reflections at the marina

I’ve always been a nature lover and have done a stack of bushwalking over the years. Australia is a stunning place but nowhere have I come across such an abundance of natural wonders as I’ve found on our Sapphire Coast. When I step out onto our back deck in the morning I’m greeted by a chorus of bird song featuring kookaburras, sulphur-crested cockatoos, wattle birds, superb blue fairy wrens, rosellas, rainbow lorikeets, king parrots, wonga pigeons and literally dozens of other species. Of all the birds though, my supreme favourite is the majestic white-bellied sea eagle.

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This beautiful painting, by local artist Nicole Grimm-Hewitt, hangs in my study and never fails to lift me up. I am stilled into awe each time I see one of these imperial birds circling overhead or perched surveying their domain from the top of a spotted gum tree. Our coast has plenty of rocky outcrops and remote fastnesses where the sea eagles like to nest and rear their young. After becoming quite endangered they are now doing well in this part of the world and I am afforded regular opportunities to satisfy my eagle longing.

Not all the wonders fly. Our bush is teeming with kangaroos and wallabies, goannas and echidnas, tiny shy sugar gliders and rambunctious possums. And it wouldn’t be Australia if we didn’t have a suitable sprinkling of the more terrifying and venomous snakes and spiders. I don’t mess with them, and I find that they are quite happy not to mess with me.

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Brush tailed rock wallabies

I love it when visitors come to stay with us from interstate or overseas. I feel a delightful proprietary satisfaction when I see their eyes goggling at the gorgeousness of our seaside paradise. When I casually suggest a stroll along the headland at the bar, where the inlet meets the sea, I know I’m going to have the pleasure of wowing them with a sighting of one of our fur seals basking on the rocks. I can usually summon up a sea eagle fly by too.

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I travel a lot for work, and over the past 10 years I’ve spend about an average of 12 weeks a year in far-flung locations. I’ve been to almost 70 countries, and while I’ve seen many beautiful and fascinating places there is never anything to match the satisfaction of driving over the Narooma bridge and coming home.

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I know just how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful place. It’s safe to say I don’t have any trouble meeting my daily gratitude quota 🙂 And when I’m looking for writing inspiration I need merely to step out of my front door and decide which glorious beach, sun-dappled forest or fern-clad mountain to explore.

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The Inlet at dusk

So, when it came to selecting a location for my novel the answer was obvious. It will be set, primarily, in Narooma. Harking back to those writing advisers again, they all say that you should write about what you know. I know this coast, and my tale will unfold here. In these months before we leave for Carcassonne, I’m going to be soaking it all up and trying to capture something of the flavour of it in my writer’s note book (a gift from my editor/friend Rachel – thanks hon!).

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When I walk in the bush, or along the coast, I never know what I will find around the corner. But I can be pretty sure it will be inspiring. And always through the trees, or around the next headland there will be glimpses promising further adventure. I hear there’s a river in Carcassonne …

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PS: all the photos in today’s post were taken by me or HWB #nofilters

Poetry and Prose


This weekend it is Australia Day down under. For some, our national holiday means BBQs, beaches and surfing carnivals, for others it’s a day of tragedy and mourning. For me it’s always HWB’s birthday and a time for having fun with family and friends. Except for last year.

The plan for escaping and writing my book had been burgeoning in my brain for some time and, filled with new year inspiration and good intentions, I decided that I’d better follow some of the advice on writing I’d been imbibing. Without exception all the advice says that in order to be a writer – and wait for it – you actually have to write!

As previously noted, I have a peculiarly persistent procrastination perception (OK, maybe a little too much alliteration there …) that I can’t write while working. In my head this definitely applies to novel writing. You can’t just pop one of those out over the weekend. However, what if I were to write something shorter? Something achievable in a briefer period of literary exertion? Something like a poem?

I wrote my first poem at age 7. Here it is:

I am Catherine,
Catherine with a C
I am Catherine,
Catherine that’s me.

The C/K thing is very important to us C/Katherines. I could go on about it at length. Suffice it to say, my muse was clearly dwelling on existential matters stimulated by the fact that I had found myself in a class with no less than four like-named little girls. We had a Kathryn, a Katherine and a Kathy. Evidently, my C-ness had struck me as something distinctive and deserving of poetic exploration.

Me aged 7, with my brother Simon and the Banana Bender – my first big bike

I loved making words rhyme. It seemed a magical thing to me then, and it still does. Over the years I’ve penned many, many poems, pretty much all of them in traditional rhyming format. Though they don’t strictly adhere to the technical specifications of the genre, I call them all odes. I’ve written odes for weddings, birthdays, farewells and parties of just about all descriptions. Such was my penchant, that as a young journalist at The Advertiser I was dubbed the Official Oder by the Sports Wine and Grub Club (a fine institution, led by the Grand Gourmet (Sports Editor) and Vice Victualer (Senior Sports Writer), which convened in the sports department each Friday night after the paper was put to bed).

Anyhoo, last year I came across a mob called the Australian Bush Poet’s Association. This band of merry rhymesters are dedicated to sustaining the grand Australian tradition of Banjo Patterson-style poetry and they hold a number of events and competitions around Australia each year. On Australia Day, the big daddy of them all is held – the Golden Damper Awards (for international readers, damper is a simple flour and water bread cooked in the coals of a fire). My interest was piqued – I wanted that trophy!

So, what to write? It had to be on a specifically Australian theme, completely original, and complying with some very strict specifications.

After quite a bit of pondering, I decided that I would endeavour to tell the tale of how my grandfather got his name. It’s a bit of a legendary story in our family and something that I would love to write for posterity, Golden Damper or no Golden Damper. So, one weekend I felt the creative urge coursing through my veins and I bashed out ‘Charlemagne’, survived some vicious editing from my friend Rachel, and sent off my entry form for the competition.

Immediately I was struck with the horrors. What had I done? I was going to have to memorise this thing, and perform it in front of true officiandos, competing against seasoned poets from around Australia. I, who had never even entered a poetry competition before!

Then HWB stepped up. He became my trainer, coach and cheer squad and drilled me for weeks until I was word perfect. He critiqued each gesture and intonation and repeatedly assured me I was going to be great. My desperate need for reassurance surged to increasing heights once we had actually made the five-hour drive to Tamworth and I was gibbering with fear and literally shaking in my RM Williams boots.

Well, I somehow survived the experience, and was thrilled when I was awarded second place. I was officially recognised as a proper poet 🙂 My medal has pride of place in my study and reminds me of what I can achieve when I put my heart and mind into it. Courage is not about being fearless, it’s about feeling the fear and doing it anyway. Do I fear that my novel will be a failure? Of course, but I’m going to do it anyway.

And for those of you who may be interested, I give you Charlemagne.


“What’s in a name?” old Shakespeare asked – well, names have a tale to tell.
As the Bard also said “come lend me your ears” and I’ll tell you what befell
a bookie, a mother, a jockey, a log, and a horse called Charlemagne
whose fates came together one Monday – a refrain of joy and pain.

‘Twas Easter nineteen-eleven, in Adelaide’s rolling hills
Down valleys and up gum-lined roads, past farms and trundling mills
came a crowd of holiday revellers – by foot, by buggy, by train –
to the pretty Oakbank Racecourse, quaint Sport of Kings’ domain.

Carts lined the track-side railings, children dashed here and there,
families laid out blankets and strolled the picnic fair.
Across in the Members’ Grandstand gentlemen nodded and bowed
while flocks of flower-decked ladies eyed fashions among the crowd.

Round by the stables no ladies were seen, Akubras abounding.
Here punters and trainers lounged, amid cries of the bookies resounding.
Backs were slapped, rollies lit, cash passed from hand to hand,
while beer was downed in the bar to the tunes of the Balhannah band.

Now, Bill Boomer was a bookie, a straight man so they say,
and he stood with his board and betting bag among the crowd that day.
He called the odds with gusto and a twinkle in his eye
and a line of engaging banter that lured the passer-by.

The money was all on Charlemagne, the favourite that day
for the tough Great Eastern Steeplechase – renowned equestrian fray! –
where the hardiest of horses go three miles round the track
and leap a fallen gum tree on the hill around the back.

Charlemagne had won at Flemington only the month before.
He was worth four hundred pounds they said, classy to his core.
He wasn’t much to look at, but by golly that horse could jump, so
Bill Boomer called him at ten to eight from his perch on an old gum stump.

At two o’clock the trumpet blew, the horses took to the track
with Cosgrove riding Charlemagne, in white with a cap of black.
Thirteen riders bowed and waved to the roaring assembled host,
but only four would return that day past the winning post.

Starter’s orders: they all lined up, at the shot they dashed away,
with Charlemagne leading the pack leaping hurdles along the way.
Steelbit, Barnesby, Matchlock, Vanguard, Carrington, Valour, Bright,
all dogged the heels of Charlemagne but none could match his flight.

Hooves thundering on the turf they galloped up the hill
towards the fallen log where many have had a spill.
Charlemagne leapt a mighty leap! The crowd let out a cheer
split suddenly by ladies’ screams and indrawn gasps of fear.

Charlemagne was down and thrashing, the jockey lay still as death.
Seven more fell in the turmoil, the meeting held its breath.
Mothers shielded children’s eyes as a whisper went round the crowd:
“Broken neck”, “No hope at all”, hats doffed and heads were bowed.

Matchlock won but no-one watched, their eyes were on the hill
where Miller, the manager, tore his hair and gave the command to kill.
Cosgrove was stretchered from the field, the punters watched aghast.
Over the valley a shot rang out. Charlemagne had breathed his last.

Bill Boomer made a fortune on the back of the favourite’s fall,
his betting bag was bulging, and he was standing tall.
He whistled as he slapped the reins and trotted through the dim,
home to a beloved wife, who was waiting there for him.

All was quiet in the house, Bill called out Caroline’s name.
Her voice came from the bedroom where, lit by candleflame,
he found her pale and glowing with a baby by her side
born while Charlemagne was making his last and fated ride.

Big chestnut eyes gazed up at Bill’s, the baby gave a wink.
His mother smiled fondly and asked: “Well, what do you think?”
Bill looked down in wonder and thought of his log-gotten gain,
then grinned and said: “He’s perfect. His name is Charlemagne.”

For my grandfather, Charlemagne Carlyle Guilford Boomer – born 18 April 1911 – who, for many years, was legendary for picking the winner of the Great Easter Steeplechase each Easter Monday at Oakbank.

My Fellow Travellers …

HWB and me

I’m very excited! My first blog post exceeded all expectations and I am in the exalted position of having 20 followers! OK, so I know that all of you are my dear close friends, but that just makes your support and encouragement that much more potent in fuelling my inspiration 🙂 Thank you so much for joining the journey!

Everything I have ever read about the process of writing affirms that having a band of enthusiastic supporters is essential. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by a bunch of well-wishers who are kind enough not to think I’m delusional in my authorial aspirations.

First and foremost amongst the cheer squad is my husband Martin (pic above). Ever since we first met he has believed, deeply and unreservedly, in my writing dream. Martin will, of course, be travelling with me to Carcassonne and will be in the thick of the creative maelstrom – so you can expect him to feature prominently in these epistles. Henceforth, he shall be known as He Who Believes (or HWB for short).

Coming in a close second in the supporter stakes is my wonderful mother. Mum is a prolific reader, and when I say prolific I mean really, really prolific. At a guess she’s probably read about 10,000 books. I kid you not. This calculation is based on a conservative estimate of three books per week over the course of her life. Sometimes she reads quite a lot more than three in a week. So when it comes to writing, mum knows how to identify the good stuff. She has sampled my literary endeavours over many years and has bestowed enough kind words to keep the flame of my ambition burning. Thanks ma!

And then of course there’s my gals. Where can I start in extolling these fabulous femmes? I suppose I can legitimately begin with Rachel as she’s been round the longest. We’ve known each other since we were eight and have shared a love of books ever since. We bonded over the Anne series of LM Montgomery, a passion which culminated, in our 50th year, in a pilgrimage to Prince Edward Island to pay homage at our muse’s grave and visit the scenes and setting of her life (and Anne’s).

Rachel and Catherine in full pilgrimage regalia (with Anne finger puppets!)

Rachel has appointed herself as my editor. She’s an English teacher, so she wields a fierce red pen and, as another prolific reader, she’s also an astute and critical judge of quality writing. A word of literary praise from Rachel sends me scooting to raise the flag, let off fireworks and pop the champagne. I know Rachel is going to be an indispensable aid in making my writing the best it can be. I just hope she’s gentle with me …

Another long time mate and staunch encourager is my friend Fontella. Fonty and I met as young cadet journalists at The Advertiser newspaper, and like me she’s nourished a persistent dream of seeing her name in print.

Also like me, she’s doing something about it and is busy tapping away at her own novel. I know we will share solidarity and boost each other up on this crazy ride. You can check out Fonty’s story here:

I owe a special debt of gratitude to my wise counsellor, teacher and mate Bronnny. This incredible woman has perhaps done more than any other to help me envision, grasp and pursue my purpose as a writer. One of the central themes of my novel sprang from my work with her – this will definitely deserve official thanks in the published work!

Closer to home in Narooma (Rachel, Fontella and Bronny all live in Adelaide, so our F2F rendezvous are infrequent), I have two fabulous and totally biased partisans in Hannah and Julie. We are known to play golf, cook fondue dinners and generally have a hilarious time whenever we get together.

Hannah, Julie and me rocking the golf course as Christmas angels

Hannah and Julie have borne the brunt of me blathering on about my burgeoning book. Being close at hand they have valiantly endured my rants as new inspiration has struck me, and their wholehearted, bubbling enthusiasm has been, and will continue to be, the wind beneath my wings.

I could go on and on, but I fear the length of this post might become excessive. I can’t end, however, without also giving mention to a few more of the wonderful friends who are cheering me on in this adventure. Amanda, Imke, Susie, Simon, Tracy, Jamie, Sue, Mariella, Anna, Leen, Corina, Jeanne, Brittany, Natalia, Gigi, Deepesh, Sharon, Judy, Stephanie, Rebecca, Daisy, Jacquie, Bettina, Gabi, Helen, Terence, Di, Adrian, Michelle, Alice, Sam, Claude, Marie, Raphael, Peter, Nick, Steve – thank you all!

My fellow travellers, I’m humbled by your faith in me, and promise to do my very best to meet and exceed your expectations 🙂

The Journey Begins

I’m sitting in a hotel room in New York at 3 a.m. (don’t you just love jet lag?) and gazing raptly at this photo of Carcassonne. It’s the view from the window of the apartment that will be all mine for three months later this year. It’s the view which will be my inspiration/distraction as I finally put fingertips to keyboard to write my long-desired novel. I’ve no doubt it’s the view that will tempt me to flee a recalcitrant character or a crippling infestation of writer’s block. I’m sure it will be the view that lures me out to hunt down baguettes, a fruity fromage or a lip-smacking local bouteille de vin rouge. It is the view of dreaming and – I have the anticipatory temerity to say – fulfilment.

At the risk of being extremely boring, and of causing stifled yawns of cliched contempt, I’m going to have to tell you that I’ve wanted to write a book for a long time. A very long time. Since I was about 5 years old in fact. Over a varied career which has spanned journalism, politics and humanitarian advocacy (amongst other things including flamenco dancing and featuring as the Scarlett Fairy at children’s parties) I’ve done lots and lots of writing but most of it has had nothing to do with creativity.

Leaving aside sundry juvenile writing endeavours, I have occasionally taken this writing thing seriously. On two separate occasions I have stepped boldly out of the workaday world and had a good hard go at bashing out a book. In my mid-30s I was inspired to pen a young adult novel. Thanks to a generous inheritance from my grandmother I spent six delightful months squeezing out about 20,000 words, but most of the time I was desperately not writing and rather more eagerly embracing the pursuit of knowledge. I conceded defeat and went to uni to do a Masters instead.

About eight years later, after a punishing two year work secondment in New York, I took a month off to rest and recover and decided to give myself a little stimulation by taking on NaNoWriMo – a fiendish challenge where the foolish writers who sign up are required to spit out 50,000 words in 30 days. I did it! For a month I was inspired, my fingers flew across the keyboard, my characters took on a life of their own, I was in the flow – I experienced all of the symptoms of successful, burgeoning, unstoppable creativity described by writers in ‘how to’ workshops around the world. On day 30 I wrote the 50,000th word, returned to work and I haven’t touched the manuscript since.

So what’s going to be different this time? Well, I guess turning 50 sort of focuses the mind a little. One tends to ponder sinister questions like “what will you regret when you are on your death bed?” and “what don’t you want written on your gravestone?”. In my case, the answer to both of these is “I/she didn’t write my/her book.” I simply just have to give it a go. I am compelled by every fibre of my being to do this thing. It feels a bit like now or never.

More pragmatically, I confess that my most powerful procrastination technique is telling myself that I can’t write and work at the same time (you will note that both previous attempts have involved escaping the coal face). Well, thanks to the wonders of Australian workplace law I am eligible for three months “long-service leave”, the delightful reward that Aussies get for sticking it out with one employer for 10 consecutive years. Yes, I am going to be paid for my three month writing sabbatical – Carcassonne here I come!

So why this blog? I’m reliably informed that when I become a hugely successful best-selling author it will be de rigeur for me to have a blog presence. Frankly, whether I get published or not is pretty incidental to this journey, but hey, one may as well be prepared 🙂

Also, I think it will be kind of fun to track this journey of mine using this blog as a sort of personal electronic journal. I’ve already got three guaranteed followers (thanks Mum, Martin and Rachel!) and maybe they will be the only ones who ever dip into this jotting space. That would be fine with me, but in this crazy world who knows? Maybe others may be amused or entertained enough to want to see whether my authorial dreams come true. Anyhoo, I’m off and running. Let’s see what happens!