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Are we there yet?

Ever finished a 256-square blanket and laid it gently across your bed only to discover it should, in fact, be a 289-square blanket?

Ever written a novel with the aim of submitting it for an unpublished manuscript award and then getting to the other side of the award and realising you still have to get the damn thing published?

It’s enough to make a girl put down her crochet hook and her manuscript and take up something altogether different, like planking. And yes, I know that’s an outdated cultural reference but I’ve been busy writing a novel, you know.

Still, it’s not all bad.

My manuscript made the the judges’ commended list for the 2015 Victorian Premier’s Unpublished Manuscript Award. And my Forever Blanket is looking like this:

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So the answer to the question “Are we there yet?” is “No, but we’re getting closer. So here, have some more car snacks and shut the hell up.”

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The Empty Nest

It’s been a while since I last posted here. You might be pleased to know that it’s because I have been writing like a crazy bitch for the past few months to the tune of 500 words a day every day for two months DURING THE SCHOOL HOLIDAYS.

Yep, what did I tell you? Crazy. Bitch.

And now this crazy bitch has finished a first draft.

I thoroughly expected to feel more excited about it but instead I’m feeling a bit “whoopy-fucking-shit” about it all.

For one thing, I didn’t quite make my 75,000 word target – it’s like I’ve finished the race but without actually crossing the finishing line.

For another thing, I went and gave the first draft to some members of my book group to read, which resulted in one of those middle-of-the-night “WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO THAT FOR?” moments.

Seriously, what possessed me to go and give something for free to the only people who are ever likely to buy my so-called novel?  I guess that’s why people write acknowledgements: to make all the people who read the thing while it was still a crappily-formatted Word document still go out and buy it just so they can see their name in print and stuff.

And even more seriously, they might hate it. And I’ve seen what they do when they hate a book. They tear it apart with their razor-sharp wits.

So… instead of feeling excited, I’m feeling anxious and strangely empty. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with my time now? (Please don’t say housework. PLEASE DON’T SAY HOUSEWORK.)