Jun 232010
 

So I'm having a little trouble with mustering up the organisational skills required to slot back into my normal routine.

Trams, being the junkies they are, require the regular feeding of metcards. Guess what I forgot to buy (and what you can't buy cheaply (or at all, if you don't have coins) on the tram itself)? Houses, once locked, require keys in order to be unlocked and yield up their comforts (said comforts being an empty pantry, but that's entirely beside the point). Guess what I left at work yesterday, and didn't realise until I was standing outside my front door? Corporate wear, in order to be classed as corporate, requires ironing. Guess what I couldn't be arsed doing any time since I landed?

The thing is, I know there's tasks I need to tackle — but whenever I think of them, I'm choosing not to bother. And I'm okay with that.

It can't last, of course. One day in and already I'm making time-wasting mistakes, when I'm time-poor. If I want to put in a productive day at the dayjob, achieve progress on the writing, and get in what (scant) exercise I can to combat the sedentary spread, without wasting more time than necessary on the daily commute, an organised routine is critical. But I'm beginning to see just how much organisation (and pre-planning, high-alert behaviour) my normal routine requires of me.

Sooner or later, I'm going to have to choose to tackle that routine again. Maybe now's my chance to see what I can streamline.

When I was just starting out at this writing gig1 I thought that the craft was the hardest thing to master. It's not. Don't get me wrong, I still don't understand how putting words in a row can be so challenging, but finding (and keeping) a routine that carves out time to write is sometimes equally as challenging. Life has this nasty habit of encroaching.

In the meantime, while I ponder how best to tweak my daily routine, I give you something I never noticed before yesterday. At the dayjob, we have a desk full of health-wise informational pamphlets, you know the type, all about walking your dog and knowing your blood sugar levels. Turns out there's a rather unfortunate placement of the Beyond Blue campaign poster directly above the anti-smoking campaign envelope:

Because you're not alone...but if you're determined to believe you are, we also have a handy envelope detailing the most efficient ways to end it all...?

  1. Heck, what am I talking about? I still consider myself to be just starting out. I always thought having a book published would help me feel more accomplished. Turns out, like every other writer who's gone before me thinking the same thing, I was wrong. I still feel just as raw and awkward as I ever did. []
Mar 222010
 

This evening, after a flurry of emails throughout the day between the travel agent and myself, and many tweakings and confirmings of dates, I am in possession of a quote for an entire overseas holiday. Flights, accommodation, transfers, and insurance.

And about ten minutes ago I had a moment of sheer, blindness-inducing terror, because I couldn't possibly actually go through with it.

But you know what? It's simply not true. (Dear Brain Chemistry: I'm onto you. Stop it!)

I would have the same jitters no matter where I was planning to visit, no matter how standard the destination, because I have a head that likes to throw all sorts of catastrophes and definitely-going-to-go-wrongs at me regardless of reality or probability.1

And at the end of the day, I don't want to waste what little time off I get on holidays that don't take off the top of my skull and reboot my soul. I want to see geography that makes my heart swell with awe, and to witness cultures and ways of life that break my expectations. I want to see mountains, and steppes, and deserts.

So yes. Tomorrow I'm putting a deposit on my flights, and booking my leave from work.

And I'm going to Mongolia.2

  1. And because I have a physical aversion to spending large amounts of money in one bank-account-emptying swoop, let's not overlook that charming little neurosis. []
  2. Although I can't promise I won't have a few more freakouts between now and actually jumping on the plane. []
Jun 022009
 

I am feeling somewhat serious today, and so I point you to Richard Flanagan's closing speech at the recent Sydney Writer's Festival:

At the moment, Australian writers and readers are being asked to take a fall in order that a few rich people get richer.

… This dullest and dreariest of phrases – territorial copyright – is the drab motley thrown over a measure which will do untold damage to Australian culture. I cannot begin to convey to you the destructive stupidity of what is being proposed, nor the intense sadness and great anger that so many Australian writers feel about this proposal.

…Writers and books that matter will become like an endangered species with no habitat left to support them. The fate of most of them in the large chain and discount mega store culture will be that of marsupials in new outer suburbs, dicing with death on freeways, not knowing until that short moment of blinding light dazzle that this is no longer their home.

I highly recommend reading the full text of the speech, but for the edification of those non-Australians who read this blog, there is a proposal afoot to remove Australia's territorial copyright laws, and allow the parallel importation of books. Proponents argue it will result in cheaper books for the public.

Now, I'm all for cheaper books,1 but the arguments for parallel importation are specious, as Richard Flanagan summarises (emphasis mine):

Of course, as the Coalition for Cheaper Books – or, as we might more accurately call it, the Coalition for Bigger Business – would point out, that's not the whole story.

This is.

What is being proposed doesn't exist in Europe or the USA. And even if US and British publishers are allowed to dump books on our market, Australian publishers will not be allowed to do the same in theirs.

In the one country in the world where the change was introduced, New Zealand, publishing has, according to the New Zealand Publishers Association, suffered, and books are now more expensive.

If it were a reciprocal arrangement — if Australian publishers were granted access to the North American buying public at the same time as the North American publishers are granted access to the Australian buying public, for example — then the story might be different. But as it stands, the current proposal isn't "opening the market": it's turning Australia into a giant remainders bin for foreign publishers.

I don't know about you, but I get plenty of foreign culture on my TV and movie screens and book shelves as it is. I don't want those to be my only options.

More detail can be found at the AusBooks site, including a video of Richard Flanagan's speech, for those who don't want to read a slab of text online.

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  1. Let's just say I don't know any published writers who got into this gig for the money :???: []
Mar 262009
 

Right. Back again. I'll spare you all the details, mainly because I don't want to live through them a second time. Suffice to say things looked bleak for a while there. Not everything has fallen back into place just yet, but I don't think the light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train any more, so that's positive.

My writing time vanished out the window in all the panic, so I'm very much looking forward to getting words on paper again. All I've managed in the past week is scrawling one or two sentences on scraps of paper during spare minutes in my lunch break. There are a lot of scraps of paper, but a preliminary sort shows most of them have variations of the same sentence on them. Probably because I have a habit of writing down the last sentence I can remember as a starting point, but I obviously never got past the starting point most days. C'est la vie.

It puts me behind, of course, and I might have to start looking at allocating my writing time from a more financially responsible point of view. The novel I'm working on currently is uncontracted; perhaps it's time to put it aside in favour of one that has a more certain future. I shall ponder the issue. Tomorrow. Or maybe over the weekend.

In the meantime, I have spent a goodly portion of this evening attempting to understand the telephone provider system in Australia. I am baffled. Should it be this hard? Really?

Mar 242009
 

Objective: Drive. Until the battery is sufficiently charged.

Secondary Objective: Stickybeak around a few suburbs, to see if there's any I fall in love with.

Method: Me. Behind the wheel. Sharing the road with trams. At speed. (Praying I don't stall because there's no way this sucker is restarting short of a jumpstart at this point.)

Outcome: Thoroughly lost? ACHIEVED.

Dear Melbourne: Not big on informative road signs that can be seen at any speed faster than perambulatory, huh? No thanks, Me.

Also, let it be known that mothers are made of win. Mothers who insist you EAT THAT SCHNITZEL AND CHASE IT DOWN WITH GELATO NOW transcend even that.

Mar 212009
 

The signing sheets for Postscripts #18 have come and gone on their merry way and I can say this with certainty: I have no signature. Truly, every single one of those sheets is unique.

I am currently sitting in my car, which is at the moment a very expensive sculpture, on account of the battery going to sleep sometime in the past two weeks and now declining to emerge from its coma. Given that I need the car today in order to find a place to live, my previous plans having exploded in rather spectacular and last-minute fashion, I am, needless to say, a little peeved with life right about now. For values of a little roughly approximate to I think the world can just go ahead and burn, what do I care any more?

So, my apologies, but sporadic and unfocussed (and haphazardly abandoned) is going to be a feature of this site until life JUST SETTLES DOWN, DAMMIT.

In the meantime, have a snippet of awesome to entertain you: Predator X (link courtesy of splinister)

PS: Comments are not turned off, but please be aware that I may be a little distracted and unable to get around to answering any of them for a bit.

Feb 102009
 

To everyone who's written, asking if I'm okay in light of the horrific Victorian bushfires, thank you. I'm fine, largely because I haven't moved yet, and so the fires (at least, those particular fires) are thousands of kilometres away from me.

For those who are feeling helpless, the Red Cross has set up an appeal.

In the meantime, the north of Australia is currently sinking under floodwaters, while the northern hemisphere suffers through debilitating snowfalls. And people suspect that global warming is a hoax.

ETA: And just as I posted this, my random quote generator served up the following quote:

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
– Phillip K. Dick, 1976

Feb 032009
 

The dream: I'm sitting beside the Doctor, watching Rose play soccer (sorry, football) with a giant exercise ball, and I know the fate of the a world hinges on the game but somehow I just can't quite make myself believe it.

The analysis: er, yeah. Freud would probably have a field day with that, wouldn't he? But I don't care about that. What I want to know is, where's the narrative drive? Where's the conflict? Oh, okay, football inherently brings with it conflict and tension, but really, I suspect the use of the exercise ball would sap a lot of that away.

Is my brain so broken that the best it can do, when given unfettered imagination, is to dream of sitting still for a bit?

(I need to get out more.)

I blame it on the joys of apartment-hunting via the internet.

Nov 252008
 

Okay, whoever it was that linked to Pandemic II?1

You owe me I've-lost-count hours of my life.

Seriously, how can I concentrate on revising this novel, when there's humans to wipe out? How can I concentrate on wiping out the human race efficiently and effectively when I have this novel to finish? Huh? Huh?

  1. Actually, it was a few of you. Share the blame amongst yourselves as you see fit. []