L.E. Truscott's Blog, page 39

The Fundamental Misunderstanding About Full-Time Writers

At the end of February 2015, I finished a six-month contract and decided not to look for another full-time job straight away. Instead, I was going to write. I was going to devote all my available time to writing.

I had the savings to be able to do it. It was financially irresponsible in the long term but important to my sanity and the amount of writing I was able to do in the short term. So I did it.

In the first few months, people were supportive. “Good for you!” “You look so relaxed.” “God, I’d love to be able to do the same thing.” After a few months, people were concerned: “When are you going to start looking for a job?” “Are you okay for money?” “Don’t you get bored?” Now, after more than six months, people are disapproving: “You’re still unemployed?”

And this is where the fundamental misunderstanding referred to in the heading rears its ugly head. I am not unemployed. I am a writer. I am financially supporting myself. And I work a full-time job just like anybody else.

My hours might be different (I’m writing this at half past midnight). My commute time might be more advantageous (approximately five seconds from my ideas board to my computer). My colleagues might be less annoying (or more annoying, depending on your perspective – three cats who like to sleep on my legs while I work at my laptop).

But I am still working. Novels don’t just appear fully-formed on my desktop. Blog posts and articles don’t just magically write and post themselves. Writing competitions and unsolicited manuscript submissions don’t just enter themselves. It is bloody hard work.

And yet many people seem to think I do very little. They think I sleep late because I’m lazy. They think I sit around and do nothing because I can. They think I’m available at short notice because I can drop everything. They never seem to wonder about whether I want to, whether I should.

They don’t understand that I sleep late because I work late. They don’t understand that there is always something to do, more than I can ever hope to accomplish in one lifetime. They don’t understand that every Monday that I can’t write because I’ve had to drop everything at short notice is a Saturday that I have to write. And every Tuesday that I can’t write is a Sunday that I have to. And every Wednesday that I can’t write… well, we’re out of weekend days for me to able to make up the hours that I’ve lost.

They don’t understand that writing is only half the job. I also have to market myself, not an easy task for someone whose natural instinct is to downplay my talents rather than promote them. I have to develop and maintain an online profile and presence. I have to interact with total strangers who might be the next person to buy a copy of my book. For someone who has often considered becoming a hermit and who has a manager whose catch phrase is “Interview over!”, this is not something that comes naturally.

Eventually, I will have to go back to paid employment. I don’t have a publishing contract yet and my independent book sales don’t provide enough money to avoid the prospect. And when I do, people will be relieved. “Phew! The money’s coming in again. She’s not just wasting her time on a pipe dream anymore.” And nobody will ask me to take time off at short notice. Nobody will call me unemployed.

And nobody will realise that I’m in fact working two jobs: the one that pays the bills and the one that feeds my soul. I don’t ever stop writing, at least not for long. I am always a writer, regardless of whatever else I might be doing to ensure my financial stability.

So, please, the next time someone tells you they are a full-time writer, don’t insult them by asking how much it pays or what their real job is or when they’ll be getting a real job or suggest that it must be a luxury to have so much time on their hands. Instead, buy a copy of their book and read it. Because that’s the only way you’ll be able to decide for yourself whether it’s a worthy use of their time. And even if you decide it’s not, keep it to yourself. It’s their life, not yours, and as long as they aren’t hurting anyone, at least they’re doing what they want to be doing with their life. It’s not something most people can claim.

*First published in Project December: A Book about Writing

Book Review: The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty

This is the second Liane Moriarty book I’ve read (the first being Big Little Lies, a great book and the reason I’m now reading her entire back catalogue). I’m pleased to report it was as well written and intriguing as my first endeavour.

The Husband’s Secret follows that same format as Big Little Lies, alternating chapters that follow the three main characters through a short but intense period in their suburban Sydney lives. There’s Cecilia, a Tupperware party thrower extraordinaire, married with three children. There’s Tess, a socially challenged advertising business manager and owner, married with one child. And there’s Rachel, a generation older than both Cecilia and Tess, widowed, and a mother of two. However, one of those two was murdered three decades ago and Rachel has never found any peace.

The novel opens with each of the women finding out something that has the potential to turn their lives upside down. Rachel discovers her remaining child, her son, will be moving to New York with his wife who has been offered a terrific work opportunity, taking Rachel’s beloved grandson and only reason for living with them. Tess is informed by her formerly fat but now fabulously flawless cousin and her husband that they’ve fallen in love. And Cecilia finds a letter addressed to her from her husband marked ‘To be opened only in the event of my death’. Only her husband isn’t dead. He’s travelling overseas on business.

The link between the three women is the death of Rachel’s daughter, Janie. Cecilia remembers her from when they were at school together, a few years older but imprinted on her memory from a single unimportant school sports carnival incident. Tess, after fleeing her husband, her cousin and her Melbourne home for the comfort of her mother’s and her childhood residence, finds herself flung head-first into her own affair with Connor Whitby, a long ago ex-boyfriend and the main suspect, in Rachel’s eyes anyway, in Janie’s death.

There are a couple of things that frustrated me: the letter containing the eponymous husband’s secret and the storyline involving Tess. After Cecilia finds the letter, she asks her husband about it when he makes his daily phone call home. He tells her he wrote it after the birth of their first child and that it’s just him rambling on about how much he loves his family. Even though Cecilia finds the letter in the very first chapter and thinks he’s lying about its contents, she agrees to his request not to read it and doesn’t until nearly 150 pages in. Because it takes so long for her to read it, it becomes clear Moriarty is using writers’ tricks to string out the suspense. She does this in order to give the reader a proper insight into Cecilia’s normal life before turning it upside down but she could have done that by having her find the letter later, thus shortening the gap and preventing my frustration.

And then there’s the storyline involving Tess. As much as I enjoyed this book overall, after I was finished reading it I realised that Tess’s story could be removed without much negative impact at all. In fact, it seemed the only reason for her presence was so that Connor got some page time with the readers and had a chance to plead his innocence and plant the seeds of doubt about whether or not he did kill Janie. Another writer’s trick.

There are a lot of similarities between The Husband’s Secret and Big Little Lies. They are both suburban novels involving ordinary people and an untimely death, gradually revealing how it impacts lives far beyond the reach of those immediately involved and ultimately discovering who is responsible and the poetic justice of that responsibility, even if actual justice never occurs.

If this is Moriarty’s formula, it’s certainly one that works well. But again I’ve held back that final star because while I enjoyed reading it, it didn’t jolt me or surprise me or wow me over the edge into fifth star territory. That might be a result of it seeming formulaic, even though that formula isn’t clichéd. And maybe I’ll find the fifth star territory in one of Moriarty’s remaining back catalogue books. I hope so. I’ll keep reading her books even if I don’t find it. They are solid efforts. More than solid. Impressive page-turners. Well worth the reading time required.

4 stars

*First published on Goodreads 9 October 2015

The Monroe Doctrine: Chapters One To Five

Chapter One

To: phoebe.monroe@ftv.co.uk

From: ned_lalor@yahoo.com

Date: 15 September 2015 7.46 am

Subject: Evil twin

Attachment: Evil twin.jpg

Phoebe,

I know the attached picture can’t be you so I thought I’d give you a heads up. An acquaintance of mine is shopping this around for five figures. Confirm it’s your evil twin and I’ll get him to drop it.

Kisses,

Ned

To: ned_lalor@yahoo.com

From: phoebe.monroe@ftv.co.uk

Date: 15 September 2015 7.59 am

Subject: RE: Evil twin

Ned,

OMG! You can’t believe how close to the truth you are. It definitely isn’t me. You’d have my everlasting devotion and appreciation if you could kill this.

Phoebe XOXO

P.S. Call me tomorrow and I’ll set you up with a photo shoot. Kim Cattrall is coming into town especially for it and I remember how much she liked working with you last time.

To: phoebe.monroe@ftv.co.uk

From: ned_lalor@yahoo.com

Date: 15 September 2015 8.04 am

Subject: RE: Evil twin

Consider it dead.

Phoebe Monroe was doing her best to stay calm, particularly while she was at the wheel of her black BWM hard top convertible driving as fast as traffic would allow. But it wasn’t easy. She was on her way to a very important rendezvous. She was going to kill her sister.

Not just any sister. Her only sister. Her identical twin sister who seemed intent on ruining her life. Okay, so it was a benign intention, but that didn’t make it any less cancerous to Phoebe’s career. A career she had worked hard to establish. A career in fashion journalism for both the print media and television. A career that was threatened when Phoenix appeared in public looking like she’d been dragged through a swamp backwards and then dried herself off at the edge of a volcano. Especially when some nitwit photographer – no, he didn’t deserve any title that gave credence to what he did for a living, a nitwit paparazzo – thought one sister was the other.

Personally, Phoebe didn’t see how it was possible to get the two of them mixed up. Where she was gorgeous and glamorous, her sister was brilliant but boring. She could speak, read and write fluently seven different languages – a skill Phoebe would have found useful when dealing with models and designers from all around the world – but Phoenix chose to put it to use by translating mind-numbing business documents for some nothing company and getting paid close to nothing for it.

Even worse, she hadn’t had a boyfriend in years and spent most evenings lying on her couch, a Phoenix-shaped groove indented in it, watching TV. And not even interesting dramas but the 24 hour news channel with a documentary thrown in here and there.

But perhaps worst of all were the cats. A good Samaritan gesture several years ago, taking in a neighbour’s cat when they’d been moving and unable to take the animal with them, had now turned into some sort of crazy cat lady obsession. At last count, there were six cats living with Phoenix: two who were officially her own, a previously pregnant stray she’d taken in to prevent the neighbourhood from being overrun by kittens, and the resultant litter of three who were now five weeks old.

Well, enough was enough. It was one thing for Phoenix to ruin her own life, but to attempt to ruin Phoebe’s like this was just not on. Her sister was about to get a dressing down about her dressing down.

Phoebe pulled up at a red light and used the time to check her Blackberry, hoping to see an email from Ned. He hadn’t confirmed yet if he’d been able to do what he’d promised but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He was an in-demand photographer who had better things to do than look out for her, but then again, she had career-making skills in the industry they both worked in. Career-breaking skills, too. She’d never had to use the latter, but she would if the stakes were high enough. And the stakes were high enough.

Phoebe put the cell phone down on the passenger seat as the light turned green and she resumed her journey. It wasn’t far to Phoenix’s cottage now. She practised what she was going to say and tried not to think about all the places she could quite adequately hide the body.

 

Chapter Two

To: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

From: Phoebe Monroe (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 9.24 pm

Sweetie, something has come up. Can’t make drinks with yr business pals. C U at home L8R.

To: Phoebe Monroe (cell)

From: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 9.29 pm

Phee, this is important. Don’t make me beg!

To: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

From: Phoebe Monroe (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 9.32 pm

Beg all U like. Have to go C my sis. Won’t B 2 L8.

“What are you doing here?” Phoenix Monroe stood in the open front door of her cottage wearing grey tracksuit pants, an oversized sweater with pulled threads all over it, a pair of Ugg boots that were once black and several cats. She was holding a tin of cat food in her left hand and a can opener in her right and Phoebe was almost too overcome with anger to answer the question.

“Nixy,” she started, but she didn’t get any further than that.

“Don’t call me Nixy. You know I hate it.” Phoenix stood back to let her sister in, making sure not to dislodge the five-week-old kitten who was climbing up the outside of her pants. Phoebe, as per usual, was dressed like a model. A black jersey wrap dress, black patent stiletto heels so tall, so thin and so pointy Phoenix didn’t know how she could walk in them, gold bangles but only on one wrist and a hand bag that almost certainly cost more than her entire month’s salary.

“Well, then, it looks like we’re both pissing each other off today. Would you like to explain this?” Phoebe held up a print out of the reason she was here.

It was a picture of Phoenix showing her pale faced, virtually in rags and without any evidence of a hairbrush having been used in the recent past. In fact, not too dissimilar to how she looked right now.

“That’s a picture of me! Where did you get that?”

“A photographer friend of mine. Some idiot paparazzo is shopping this around as a picture of me. For five figures. Do you know how damaging this could be to my career?”

Her career. It was number one on a list of two things that were the only two things that Phoebe ever talked about. And this was a well-worn subject. How Phoenix’s lack of interest in her own appearance and the fact that they were identical twins, making mixing them up very easy, could be the death knell of her precious career.

Number two on the list was her revolving roster of continuous but monogamous boyfriends. Man of the month was Marco Di Carlo, a former Italian model now trying to set himself up as an importer of impeccable Italian men’s fashion and using Phoebe’s cachet in the industry as somewhat of a springboard. Phoenix had only met him once but that had been enough. Unfortunately, he was lasting longer than most and was into his second month. In fact, the last she’d heard, Marco had practically moved in.

“Sorry. It looks like it’s from two days ago. I ran out of kitty litter so I went to the 24 hour market down the road.” Phoenix paused to consider the picture in more detail. “Why would anyone think this was you? You would never be buying kitty litter and you can clearly see the scar on my hand.”

It was the only obvious difference between them, from when Phoenix had shut her hand in a car door at the age of eleven. The doctor who’d stitched up the gash hadn’t done a particularly neat job and there was a large, silvery and very permanent reminder.

“Paparazzi aren’t always the smartest people. Or the most ethical. Maybe the guy did know it wasn’t me but was sniffing around to see if he could get any mileage out of it anyway.” Phoebe realised she was being distracted. “But that’s not the point. How many times have I told you to expect situations specifically like this? Is it too much to ask that if you’re going out anywhere to put on a pair of designer jeans, slick a coat of red lip gloss on your mouth and make sure to remove from your person any cats who are using you as a resting place or a scratching pole?”

“I don’t own a pair of designer jeans.”

“What are you talking about? I gave you a pair for your birthday not two months ago!”

Phoenix tried to think about what she might have done with them before realising just as Phoebe was spotting it, in the corner of her living room where Mama Mia had taken up residence with her three kittens, that they were currently nestled amongst a pile of clothing that the cats were… well, nesting in.

“Phoenix Stefania Monroe! Do you know how much those jeans cost?” Phoebe wailed.

“No.” The answer came quickly and the unspoken portion of it was, “And I really don’t care.” Phoenix tried to explain it away by continuing, “Besides, they have a wicked stain on them from when Mia gave birth in a pile of unfolded washing and I just figured she and that pair of jeans were meant to be together.”

Phoebe expelled a long, frustrated breath and Phoenix could see she was about to slump onto the couch.

“I wouldn’t—” if I were you, she was about say, but it was too late. Phoebe and her pristine black dress pressed into the cat fur-covered couch. Long experience with cats told her that the dress would never be pristine again. She decided not to mention it to her sister.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with designer clothes, Phoebe.”

“Clearly.”

“Try not to take it so personally. I don’t do these things deliberately to piss you off.”

“And yet they always do.”

“Sorry.” The word was starting to feel repetitious. “I’m not sure why it seems such a surprise to you that, when it comes to fashion, I’m completely in the dark.”

The house was suddenly plunged into well-timed darkness. Phoebe laughed a little hiccupy laugh.

“Damn,” Phoenix said as her eyes adjusted. In the minimal amount of light coming in from the street, she could see the whites of her sister’s eyes. “Don’t move. I don’t want you to step on a kitten. I’ll grab a torch and check the fuse box.”

But she didn’t have the chance. A microsecond later, all the windows blew in, shattering into a thousand pieces, glass raining down on both of them. Phoenix fell to the floor with her arms over her head for protection while Phoebe screamed her lungs out and put her hands over her face.

When the glass had finished raining down, Phoenix looked up cautiously. What the hell was that? The air smelled smoky but there didn’t seem to be any fire.

“Nixy…” Phoebe whispered uncertainly, her fingers checking for damaged areas of her exposed skin. “What happened?”

She was about to say she had no idea when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Too large to be a cat. And they were probably all hiding under her bed by now.

Phoenix turned towards the movement and was quick enough to glimpse two large men, clad entirely in black, balaclavas over their faces, coming into the room. But a glimpse was all she got.

As she was pushed to the ground, her hands bound and a hood placed over her head, she heard Phoebe start to scream again. And despite knowing it was ridiculous considering their situation, there was only one thing she could think.

“Don’t hurt my cats! Please don’t hurt my cats!”

 

Chapter Three

To: Bruno (cell)

From: The Boss (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 9.59 pm

Do you have the girl?

To: The Boss (cell)

From: Bruno (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 10.03 pm

Yes. On our way. But could be a problem.

To: Bruno (cell)

From: The Boss (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 10.07 pm

Fix it. And get here. I’m not a patient man.

Phoebe didn’t want to seem petty but the floor of the van she and Phoenix had been bundled into smelled really, really bad. There was the hint of some sort of grease smeared all over it that was now smearing itself all over her. She didn’t want to think about what had lain on this floor previously but in order to stop herself thinking about anything else, it became the only thing she could think about.

Animals maybe. Or some kind of dirty, oily machinery. Whatever it was, the residue of the previous occupant was now residing on her favourite little black dress. And her shoes. And her Marc Jacobs handbag, which had been slung over her shoulder when she’d been pushed onto the floor of Phoenix’s lounge room and her hands bound together with some sort of hard plastic strip behind her back.

At least her hair and her face were protected by the black cloth hood their kidnappers had slipped over her head. And they’d been gentle. None of that brutish roughhousing you saw on TV and in movies. Almost perfect gentlemen, apart from the fact that they’d exploded all the windows in Phoenix’s house, kidnapped them both and no doubt scared the shit out of her sister’s numerous cats.

God, the cats! Nixy hadn’t shut up about them. Don’t hurt my cats! she’d pleaded over and over again. Forget the cats, Phoebe had thought. What about us?

But since they’d been put into the van, her sister seemed to have settled down and was lying quietly next to her.

“Nixy!” Phoebe whispered, edging closer in the direction she thought she was laying.

“Don’t call me Nixy,” Phoenix said in a low, flat tone. Well, whatever else was going on, Phoebe at least knew that she was okay enough to make her nickname a priority.

“What the hell is going on?” Phoebe asked.

“How should I know?” Fair enough question. Neither of the men had said even one word.

“Why don’t we just ask?”

“It’s your funeral,” Phoenix said without humour, still keeping her voice down. She seemed subdued. Not an unreasonable emotional state given their circumstances.

“This has to be some sort of mistake. If we just tell them they’ve got the wrong people, I’m sure they’ll let us go. We haven’t seen their faces.”

Next to her, Phoebe heard Phoenix sigh but she didn’t say anything.

“Sir,” Phoebe called out. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. My name is Phoebe Monroe and this is my sister, Phoenix. I understand that you have a job to do but I don’t think we’re the people you were supposed to pick up. I’m a fashion journalist and my sister is a translator and we’re both very law abiding citizens. Please—”

“Shut up or I’ll shoot you in the leg.” The voice came from the front of the van and was deep and masculine, speaking lightly accented English and obviously meaning business. Phoebe instantly shut her mouth. Perfect gentlemen, my ass, she brooded.

“Nixy, we have to escape,” Phoebe whispered, suddenly realising that it was possible they were in a lot of danger as well as suddenly realising that she should have realised it long before now.

“Okay, you first,” Phoenix whispered back, clearly sarcastic this time.

“Well, we have to do something.”

“How? How are we going to escape? How are we going to do something? We’re tied up in the back of a van going who knows where. Just be quiet.”

“What does being quiet accomplish?”

“It accomplishes you not getting shot in the leg.”

“Take your sister’s advice. She’s clearly the brains of your little operation.” A different voice from the front of the van, this one clearly and heavily accented with an Eastern European lilt.

“Hey!” Phoebe began to protest until Phoenix kicked her in the leg. She grumbled silently to herself as she tried to rub her shin with the back of her calf. It was one thing to know she was the less academically-inclined sister but it was another to be told so by a complete stranger.

Next to her, Phoebe felt Phoenix roll towards her and stiffen slightly.

“What? What is it?”

“We’re stopping.”

 

Chapter Four

To: Phoebe Monroe (cell)

From: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 11.42 pm

Where are you? You said you wouldn’t be late.

To: Phoenix Monroe (cell)

From: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

Date: 15/09/2015

Time: 11.48 pm

Have you seen your sister? She is not home yet. Should I worry?

To: Phoebe Monroe (cell); Phoenix Monroe (cell)

From: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

Date: 16/09/2015

Time: 12.25 am

Where the hell are you both? Call me ASAP.

Apart from the initial excitement – a word used loosely in this instance – being kidnapped was pretty boring, Phoebe had decided. It felt like hours since they’d been taken. Maybe it was hours. They’d driven, and driven, and driven some more. Then they’d stopped. Then they’d driven a little further and stopped again. After which, they’d hauled both women out of the van and led them inside. Inside what, Phoebe didn’t know since they hadn’t yet removed the hood. But it echoed like a big room without furniture and there was an artificial light seeping in through the miniscule gaps of the woven cloth hood. Not enough so that she could see anything. Just enough so that she knew there was a light.

And then they’d waited. And waited. And waited longer until finally Phoebe had to ask, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of my using the bathroom, is there?”

There hadn’t been any response except for a metallic click-click noise that sounded the way it did in the movies when someone was chambering a bullet in a gun. She hadn’t asked again.

Phoenix hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived at their destination. She was a quiet person generally, happy to live her life and watch the world go by. Phoebe hoped she was okay. Being kidnapped by criminals or terrorists or MI6 or whoever these guys were was bound to upset even the most well-adjusted person.

Phoebe shifted in her chair, trying to rearrange her dress, which was bunching uncomfortably and probably exposing more than she usually did. But with her hands still tied behind her back and her handbag dragging heavily on her arm, there was little she could do.

It took her by surprise when the black hood was suddenly whipped away from her face. The light was bright and it took her a while for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she wished they hadn’t. She’d seen their faces now. This wasn’t going to end well.

There were three men standing in front of her, several metres away, regarding her with fixed expressions. She thought about smiling at them but they didn’t seem like the kind of audience who would respond well to it. Like a room full of fashion designers.

She looked around and her eyes fell on Phoenix sitting next to her, blinking the same blink. Her twin seemed unbelievably stoic in the face of all this.

“I’m sorry to have kept you both waiting. An unavoidable delay, I’m afraid.” The older of the three men finally spoke, moving towards them. The other two were clearly their kidnappers. Large, butch, built men with thick necks and short haircuts.

“Can I get either of you anything?” His politeness and the question seemed incongruous with the circumstances.

One last cigarette? But neither of them smoked. A telephone? Phoebe pondered. A squadron of heavily armed special operations police? She decided to take the honest and humorous route.

“I would love a glass of ice water and my sister is clearly in dire need of a hairbrush.”

She felt the back of the man’s hand on the side of her face before she even realised it was coming and her head snapped sideways painfully.

“Ow!” she cried out pointedly, looking back at him the way she looked at her boss when he was making her cover a story she didn’t want to do.

“Perhaps that will teach you not to be so flippant.”

Perhaps, Phoebe thought, wishing her hands were free so she could rub her cheek. Or give him the bird. Or both.

“The reason this has taken so long is that there was only supposed to be one of you. And yet here you both are.”

Only supposed to be one of them? What did that mean? That they were only after Phoenix and that Phoebe had thrown a spanner in the works? Or had they been after Phoebe but unable to tell the two of them apart – like some idiot paparazzo she knew.

“Sorry,” Phoenix said in the same tone of voice she used when apologising about bird’s nest hair pictures and designer jeans, which Phoebe knew meant she wasn’t sorry at all.

“There’s no need to be sorry. Just tell me what I want to know and I promise neither of you will be harmed.”

Even Phoebe knew that promises like that were routinely broken. Nonetheless, she asked warily, “What do you want to know?”

“Which one of you is the spy?”

 

Chapter Five

EISEC (Enhanced Information Service for Emergency Calls) Log Record #174852

Date: 16/09/2015

Time: 1.29 am

From: Marco Di Carlo (cell)

Location: Tennery Lane, Biggin Hill, Bromley

Requirement: Police

Metropolitan Police Service

Bromley Borough Operational Command Unit

999 Call Transcript

Date: 16/09/2015

Time: 1.34 am

Operator: What is your emergency, sir?

Caller: I have come to my girlfriend’s sister’s house and there has been an explosion.

Operator: An explosion? Is the house on fire? Do you need the fire and rescue service to attend?

Caller: No. There is no fire. But all the windows are broken.

Operator: Where are your girlfriend and her sister? Are they injured?

Caller: I do not know where they are. I cannot find them anywhere. They are not answering their cell phones. Please, please, send the police urgently.

All Phoebe really wanted to ask was if it was a trick question but she suspected if she did that the side of her face would become uncomfortably reacquainted with their questioner’s hand. The only other responses that sprang to mind – “I am Spartacus” or “Did you mean ‘Which one of us is spry?’” – again would have likely prompted an unwelcome reaction.

So both sisters sat there silently until the man standing in front of them couldn’t take it any longer.

“Ladies, I am not a patient man. I would recommend you answer my question.”

“Sir,” Phoebe began, clenching the side of her face in preparation for another backhander, “I really, truly think you have the wrong women.”

“Miss Monroe, I really, truly think I have one wrong woman. The other – well, the other may have some explaining to do at the next family get together.”

“This is ridiculous. I have one of the most recognisable faces in the UK media,” Phoebe pointed out. “And so does my sister, given that it’s identical to my face. Neither of us would make a very good spy. We’d never get away with being covert.”

“Who says you have to be covert to be a spy? Some of the best were very, very famous people.”

“Spare us the history lesson.” Phoebe rolled her eyes in Phoenix’s direction. There was no getting through to this man.

They had to do something. Phoenix just continued to sit there meekly so Phoebe decided to take charge.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that one of us is a spy. What would you want from that person?”

“Information.”

“Information about what precisely?”

“About many, many things. Information that would give me a great deal of power and a great deal of leverage over just about every government in the Western world.” He leaned in close to emphasise how serious this all was – to him, anyway.

But something about the man standing in front of her was starting to remind Phoebe of Dr Evil. Destructive yet inappropriately hilarious. Or perhaps she was just descending into the depths of the madness that tended to overtake people who were subject to this sort of treatment. Like the Stockholm Syndrome, except that instead of bonding with her captor, she could barely keep from laughing in his face.

“You are so full of shit.” The sudden sound of Phoenix’s quiet voice put paid to any thoughts Phoebe had of laughing. Everybody, including her sister, looked over at her. “You’re not going to let us go.”

“Not at this rate, no. Not unless one of you starts talking.”

“My sister already told you. We don’t know anything about any spies. Fuck you!” she cried out uncharacteristically, jostling Phoebe’s arm violently as she strained against the plastic strip binding her wrists.

“I don’t think you would enjoy it much, my dear.” The older man’s paternalistic tone only just failed to hide his growing anger.

“Phoenix!” Phoebe’s tone was a warning in itself.

“What?” She looked back at her sister and it was almost as though a complete stranger was sitting next to her. Phoenix jostled her roughly again but seemed to realise the futility of struggling and slumped back into her chair, her chin on her chest as she stared at her lap.

The older man stepped back and motioned for one of his henchman to step forward. “I really am sorry it has come to this, ladies.”

“Wait, wait, there has to be something—” But Phoebe’s pleading words did nothing to halt the henchman approaching. The larger of the two – although there wasn’t much between them – did an eeny, meeny, miny, mo and decided on Phoenix while the other stood back ever so slightly. Then he brought the gun he was holding up to her chin.

“Okay!” Phoenix called out, looking up at him and then over at the older man who had been questioning them. “I have something to tell you.”

“What!” Phoebe said disbelievingly.

“What?” their interrogator prompted.

But instead of saying anything, Phoenix suddenly grabbed the man standing beside her, put him into a headlock and rammed a set of gold-plated nail scissors that Phoebe recognised as the emergency pair she kept in her handbag into his ear. Phoenix caught the gun that faltered in his hand and shot the other henchman in the face with it. They both fell to the ground at the same time.

Phoenix pointed the gun at the only man left standing. “Do you really need me to tell you?” she asked him. He shook his head and held his hands out in a gesture attempting to placate her.

“You’re the spy!” Phoebe realised belatedly. “You’re the spy?” It just didn’t quite fit. Which, she supposed, made it perfect. No one would ever suspect her. Not even her identical twin sister who was supposed to know her better than anyone else in the world.

“I’m the spy,” Phoenix confirmed, then said to the man, “On your knees, please.”

He went down slowly as if it was painful.

“Now what are we going to do with you?”

Realising You Have Recurring Themes And Plot Devices In Your Writing

Last year, I read an article in the Writers Victoria monthly magazine where a writer was digitising her back catalogue with the assistance of her daughter. It was only when her writing was considered as a whole that she realised a theme ran through many of her pieces: knives.

At the time of writing, she hadn’t realised it and she certainly didn’t have any particular fascination with sharp, pointy kitchenware. But unconsciously, or perhaps subconsciously, knives appeared with a reasonable consistency.

I read the article with interest but then put it aside, not realising that I was also a victim of a similar problem. I say “problem” because my recurring themes were much more obvious than just a simple object. And now that I’m aware of them, I’m a little embarrassed that I didn’t notice them sooner.

It’s not as dire as it sounds because most of the pieces that contain the recurrences that I’m about to tell you about haven’t been published yet, meaning there’s still time to review them and rewrite them so that they don’t all read like variations on a theme.

Dead Parents

For some reason, many of my main characters have dead parents. Not both parents, just one. And not dead in a way that torments the main character, just dead as a natural part of the life cycle.

I can’t think of a good reason why. I have four parents (mother, father, stepmother and stepfather) all very much alive and kicking, so it’s not me subconsciously infusing the plots with elements of my own dead parents’ issues.

Comas or Extended Periods of Unconsciousness

Maybe it’s just that I like subjecting my characters to car accidents and shootings and druggings but, as a result, many of them end up in comas or being unconscious for an extended period while their bodies and brains recover.

I’m actually already planning another novel with a coma, a speculative fiction piece in which a woman is bashed and wakes up nearly twenty years later to discover that the world she remembers has been radically changed as a direct result of what happened to her.

Identical Twin Sisters

This is my main recurring plot device. I’ve written or partially written or started writing three separate novels from three separate series with identical twin sisters as a plot device. One of the novels is complete, one of the novels is half complete and the other will never be complete (as I stopped writing it four years ago and haven’t thought about it since).

Identical twins offer lots of opportunity for mistaken identity, although in only one of the abovementioned novels is that the writing road I took. More often in my writing, I use them as a way of exploring identity.

Now that I’m aware of what I’m doing, I’m planning to remove the twin element from my half-completed novel. It wasn’t a main plot device in that story. In fact, it was only going to be mentioned at the end of the novel to wrap up everything neatly so it isn’t crucial. Which makes me wonder why I chose to do it in the first place.

I’m not a twin but my star sign is Gemini, the twins of the astrological universe. I’ve never given much credence to personalities being determined by the day and month in which people were born. Perhaps I’ll have to reconsider it.

*****

I suppose it’s only in retrospect and collectively that my constant use of these plot devices seems like the same thing over and over. But now that I’m aware of it, it makes me wonder: am I just writing the same thing over and over?

I don’t think so. But it has certainly made me think and it has certainly made me want to stop using the same or similar devices. I suppose I’ll only know if I’ve been successful when I review my writing as a collective ten years from now. Stay tuned, I guess.

Check out my Friday blog post, the first (and only) five chapters of The Monroe Doctrine, an identical twin sisters novel I started writing several years ago. I’ve pretty much abandoned this story to focus on several others and I don’t know where the story was heading but it’s a pretty good example of exactly what I’ve been talking about.

*First published in Project December: A Book about Writing

Book Review: Mr Kiss And Tell by Rob Thomas and Jennifer Graham

This is the second book in the “New York Times bestselling series” and it continues on from where The Thousand Dollar Tan Line left off. It opens with Eli “Weevil” Navarro receiving a not guilty verdict in relation to the Celeste Kane incident in the movie and then being convinced by Keith Mars and Cliff McCormack to pursue a civil case against the Sheriff’s Department because of the planted evidence. While they are preoccupied with that, Veronica is again hired by the Neptune Grand (as she was in the first book), or more accurately their insurance company, to determine whether or not one of their employees was responsible for the rape and bashing of a nineteen-year-old girl on the hotel’s premises.

It’s a case of déjà vu for Veronica and the readers as the victim turns out to be someone from her past, very reminiscent of the first book in which her mother reappeared with a new half-brother.

Logan is on shore leave from the Navy and contemplating a permanent position in San Diego, much to Veronica’s relief, so we see a lot more of him, but he is vastly underused. And all the other regulars who appear to be wasting their lives and their talents in Neptune make an appearance: Mac, Wallace, Lamb, Leo, Madison Sinclair, Inga and a few more.

The second book, unfortunately, suffers from the same problems the first did. The Sheriff’s Department essentially refuses to investigate the crime when the victim refuses to tell them who her older, married boyfriend – who wasn’t even at the scene of the crime – is. Veronica spends a reasonable amount of time again justifying her decision to become a private investigator in Neptune. And the bad guy seems fairly obvious from fairly early on but Veronica ignores investigating a lead until there are literally no others left. When she finally gets around to it, she has her man. And then the circus of amateurish and illegal evidence gathering begins.

When all the inadmissible-in-court proof is in hand, Veronica finally enlists real law enforcement to do what she can’t and then somehow manages to embroil them in above-the-law activities as well. The resultant court case and conviction isn’t shown but surely any lawyer worth their fee would be able to get the guy off on a technicality.

From about half way through, I started wondering why Veronica didn’t just join a law enforcement agency. But the authors have spent so long trying to justify why she hasn’t that I don’t think they could logically be able to justify it if she did. But then again, logic doesn’t always take pride of place in these books.

The previous book at least had one chapter that reminded the reader of Veronica’s ingenuity but it’s completely missing from this mystery. And the ending annoyed me again. As Logan contemplates his future, Veronica contemplates a future without him and with another former flame instead. She only contemplates it but it’s enough to infuriate LOVEshippers. Because this isn’t the Veronica Mars viewers of the television show and the movie know and love. And viewers generally know when it’s time to end the love affair – ratings confirm it. We got one final fling with the movie and whoever owns the rights is trying to keep it going but every attempt just diminishes the former achievements.

What this series really needs is stories with genuine mystery that require actual sleuthing skills to solve them and a sense that Veronica’s life, and the lives of all the characters around her, are moving forward instead of just remaining stagnant and static.

Wow, and I thought I was harsh with my review of the first book. But I’m disappointed. I wanted this series to be so much better than it is so I could continue getting my Veronica Mars fix. It’s not to be.

2 stars

*First published on Goodreads 4 October 2015

New Year’s Writing Resolutions

In mid-November 2012, I released my debut novel, Enemies Closer. By the end of November 2012, people were asking when they could expect a sequel. So on 31 December 2012, I made a New Year’s resolution (and made it public by tweeting it) to spend 2013 completing The Cassandra Syndrome. It’s now 1 January 2016 and I still haven’t finished writing it.

I’ve written plenty of other things, including a novel from a different series, half of another novel and over one hundred and fifty blog posts, but every time I’ve tried to go back to that sequel, I just haven’t been able to make it happen.

I’m not sure why exactly but whenever I make plans to do something instead of just doing it, I never end up getting it done. Not just writing. That tattoo I always pledged I would get if Collingwood won a grand final. (They won in 2010 and I still don’t have that tattoo.) My lounge room that I decided to paint the ceiling white and the walls grey. (Still an awful light yellow colour – yep, even the ceiling.) The upstairs toilet I was determined to fix myself after I accidentally broke the ceramic cistern. (Well, the old toilet is gone but there’s no new toilet. It looks like the bathroom in the café in Pleasantville when Reece Witherspoon needs a moment to herself. Thank goodness for my downstairs toilet.)

On the other hand, the house I currently own I inspected, made an offer on and signed a contract for all in one day. I developed a concept for and wrote a four-minute corporate video in one day. And when I had hair down to my waist, I didn’t hesitate to go into the hairdressing salon and ask for a number two buzz cut a la Demi Moore in GI Jane (although the hairdresser sure did).

I think it was John Lennon who said, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” It’s certainly true of my life and particularly of my writing.

So here’s my alternative – this is what I’d like to do this year although I offer no guarantees:

*Publish my second novel, Black Spot (it’s complete but I’m just waiting on a final couple of rejections from publishers before I go ahead and self-publish again)

*Complete my third novel (I don’t know which one it will be – it might be Trine, which I am half finished; it might be White Wash, the sequel to Black Spot, which I’ve begun; it might be The Cassandra Syndrome, although I doubt it; or it might be another novel altogether that has been cogitating in my mind for most of 2015 but that I haven’t had a chance to even begin)

*Continue posting blog posts three times a week (but I’m planning to re-enter the workforce and work a full-time second job again so I don’t know if this will be possible in conjunction with completing my third novel – only one will be possible, I suspect)

*Write and post a LinkedIn article that beats the number of views and likes that “Three books women in their thirties should read about misinformation, motivation and motherhood” received (over 8,500 and over 650 respectively)

Now it’s possible that I might not achieve any of these things. It’s possible I might achieve something entirely different. And it’s possible I might not achieve anything at all. Let’s find out together.

Happy new year to everyone! I wish you all good reading and good writing!

Another Hopefully Helpful Lecture From A Spelling, Punctuation and Grammar Nazi

Here’s a few more tips, tricks and suggestions on spelling, punctuation and grammar. You won’t find the following in this lecture because I addressed them in my previous lecture:

*There, they’re and their

*You’re and your

*It’s and its

*Definite, definate and defanite

*Separate and seperate

*Focusing and focussing

*The “Do not check spelling and grammar” box in the Language dialogue box on the Review tab

*Apostrophes

But if you can master everything in the previous lecture and everything that follows, you’ll be well on your way to not pissing off an editor every time you hand over a piece of writing.

Plural Possessive Pronouns with Singular Nouns

This one is for my dad who is generally rather calm but gets very upset at the use of plural possessive pronouns with singular nouns. I argue that it’s a natural evolution of the English language because it doesn’t contain a gender-neutral singular possessive pronoun that doesn’t sound like one has a stick up one’s ass. He doesn’t care.

So when you find yourself writing a sentence that breaks this rule, think about how it can be rewritten so that the nouns and possessive pronouns are both singular or both plural.

Poor example: Everyone has a right to their opinions.

Better singular example: Each person has a right to his or her opinion.

Better plural example: All people have a right to their opinions.

Exclamation Marks (AKA Exclamation Points)

As The Cambridge Australian English Style Guide so succinctly puts it, “exclamation marks lose their power to draw attention to anything if used too often.”

As a general rule, exclamation marks in fiction should be limited to dialogue that is said with force or excitement. If you find yourself needing to use an exclamation mark in your prose, then you probably need to rewrite it.

Poor example: Shannon saw Steve emerging from the flames!

Better example: Shannon was shocked to see Steve emerging from the flames.

I Before E Except After C

I think all children are taught this rule in the lower grades of school but in a recent article on the Daily Life website, this alternative was offered: “i before e except when there’s a feisty heist on weird beige foreign neighbours reinventing protein at their leisure.”

It tickled my nerdy, word-loving funny bone but it’s not particularly helpful for those genuinely struggling with this spelling rule.

The Cambridge Australian English Style Guide offers a revised rule: “i before e except after c when it sounds like ‘ee’.” But even then, there are still a handful of exceptions.

Unfortunately (or fortunately if you’re a dictionary aficionado like myself), if you want confirmation of spelling in words with ei or ie constructions, you might just need to look it up.

Hyphenated Words

The issue of hyphenated words can be complex, especially because as the English language evolves, words that were originally hyphenated eventually lose their status as such.

Consider the word email. Short for electronic mail, it was hyphenated as e-mail for a while and some people who can’t move on still insert the hyphen. But for most people these days, email is perfectly acceptable.

Now consider the word coordinate. There are plenty of people who continue to insert the hyphen which always makes me wonder: what does ordinate mean when used as a verb? Nothing, apparently. It doesn’t appear in my dictionary as a verb. It appears as a noun in the context of graphs where there is an x coordinate and a y coordinate but as fiction writers, I doubt we’d be using it in this context very often.

Yet again, I find myself offering the same advice. If you need confirmation, look it up in your dictionary. But one good rule is that if you are using a compound and the last letter of the prefix is the same as the first letter of the root word, a hyphen is used to prevent misreading. Anti-intellectual and de-emphasise but antireligious and deactivate.

However, one set of words that are always hyphenated are the self- compounds: self-esteem, self-centred, self-sufficient, self-conscious, self-destruction, self-actualising. No doubts, no exceptions, no evolution as yet.

OK and Okay

Both “OK” and “okay” are acceptable according to your individual preference. The key is consistency. Whichever you choose to use, make sure you only use that one version. However, if you’re going use it as a verb, “okayed” is more generally accepted.

Disinterested and Uninterested

“Disinterested” means you are impartial or without bias. “Uninterested” means you couldn’t care less. If you can’t distinguish which is which, just don’t use either.

Effect and Affect

As a general rule, effect is a noun and affect is a verb.

Example: The footballer’s injury affected the result of the game. The effect of the injury was an unfortunate loss.

However, effect is also a verb, although a rarely used one, meaning “to bring about”. To check whether it is being correctly used, substitute it in a sentence.

Incorrect example: The footballer’s injury effected (brought about) the result of the game.

Correct example: The footballer’s injury affected (impacted on) the result of the game.

Another correct example: The footballer’s injury effected (brought about) a change in medical policy.

Get, Got and Gotten

If at all possible, try to use these words in a very minimal way. In almost all instances, sentences can be rewritten without get, got and gotten, particularly when they are used as auxiliary verbs. The reason to do this is that their use evokes a very informal, almost incorrect feel, in nearly the same way that writing “I should of” instead of “I should have” does.

Poor example: Sam got caught.

Better example: Sam was caught.

Regardless and Irregardless

This one is simple: “irregardless” is not a word.

Utilise (AKA Utilize) and Use

“Why say ‘utilize’ when there is the simple, unpretentious word use?” So opines The Elements of Style, informally known as a writer’s bible. I’ve referenced this recommendation before but I wanted to add a qualifier. When developing the individual voices of your characters, you might have a stuffy, pompous ass who would quite naturally be inclined to use the fancier version of these synonyms.

The key is always to make sure you can justify it. There are a lot of writers and editors out there who will jump on other writers’ heads if they use anything but plain and simple language but there are always instances when plain and simple just doesn’t cut it. Whole centuries’ worth of beautiful poetry would never have been written if those poets had listened to this sort of advice.

In general prose, using the word use will usually be best. But if English is known for anything, it is its exceptions. And if you’re invoking an exception, just make sure you know you’re doing it and you know why.

Consistency

Many parts of the English language these days have two or even multiple acceptable ways of being executed. When this is the case, the key is consistency.

As an example, I prefer to use “program” instead of “programme”. The –mme spelling is British English and generally more acceptable in New Zealand English but the former is more common in Australia these days even though it is US English spelling.

A way to ensure consistency is to prepare a style guide. Style guides are frequently used in publishing houses for exactly this purpose. Simply draw up a page with twenty-six boxes and label each box with each of the letters of the alphabet. Then, as you make decisions about which spellings and rules you are choosing to you, make a note of it. Later on, if you need to remind yourself which rule you’ve chosen to use, you can simply refer back to your style guide instead of searching through your manuscript trying to find an example of what you have done previously.

*First published in Project December: A Book about Writing

Book Review: The Thousand Dollar Tan Line by Rob Thomas and Jennifer Graham

I normally wouldn’t read television series tie-in books but when I saw a Veronica Mars book on the shelf of my local Target, I was excited. After all, it was Veronica Mars. I’ve watched the television show (many times over), I’ve bought the DVDs, I’ve seen the movie (also many times over). And now there is a book series that continues where the movie left off and promising original mysteries so I was prepared to give it a go. Plus I just finished a book that was very serious and I wanted something lighter and that’s certainly what I got.

The book I actually saw on the shelf in Target was Mr Kiss and Tell, the second Veronica Mars book. I didn’t realise The Thousand Dollar Tan Line even existed until I got home and googled the book I’d bought. So instead of reading them out of order, I bought the ebook of the first novel. Look out for the review of the second book next week.

Let’s start with the authors. Even though both Rob Thomas and Jennifer Graham are listed as the book’s authors, I suspect Jennifer Graham did the majority of the hard work. In most cases, this would be where I would give her the credit she’s due. Except that despite this being a continuation of the stories and characters in the Veronica Mars universe, it lacks the snappy, witty, tough as nails touch that I remember from the TV show and the movie. The individual characters don’t seem much like themselves. Only Cliff McCormack, during his short appearance, made me smile and think, “That’s the Cliff that I remember.”

The book picks up two months after the movie finished. Keith, Veronica’s father, is still recuperating from serious injuries after being in a car accident and Veronica is attempting to keep his private investigation agency going in his absence. All the regular characters make an appearance in one way or another. Mac, the technology genius, has quit her boring job at Kane Software and is working as Veronica’s receptionist and hacker. Wallace is still coaching. Logan is on deployment with the Navy but logs on for some patchy Skype time. Sheriff Dan Lamb, brother of the now deceased former Sheriff Don Lamb, runs the department and instead of being lazy and incompetent like his brother, is corrupt and incompetent.

The mystery is slow to get going but focuses on first one and then another teenage girl going missing from Neptune during spring break celebrations. Spring break brings in a considerable amount of revenue and the apparent abductions are keeping college students away. So the Chamber of Commerce hires Veronica to find the missing girls, knowing the incompetent sheriff isn’t up to the task.

It wouldn’t be a Veronica Mars mystery if she didn’t outsmart everyone and solve the whodunit in the end. But the only reason that Veronica is able to solve it is that literally no one else actually seems to do any investigating. The Sheriff’s Department doesn’t follow up a single lead, leaving them all for Veronica. If they had, they would have solved the case themselves without too much trouble because it’s not much of a mystery. It lacks the intricate detail and conspiracies of the TV show and the “Will she, won’t she?” of the movie.

The book spends a lot of time trying to justify why a smart woman with a law degree and a guaranteed career in the FBI or any law firm of her choosing in any other city in the US chooses to remain in Neptune and chase small-time crooks. It doesn’t succeed.

It’s also squarely aimed at a teenage market. But the teenagers who watched Veronica Mars have all grown up (just like Veronica herself, who’s now twenty-eight) and want a book that can satisfy the grown-ups as well.

Ultimately, it feels like an attempt to cash in on the goodwill the TV series and movie established but it doesn’t pay homage so much as it rests on its laurels. It relies on stupidity instead of being clever. The characters aren’t any different at the end of the book from the way they are at the start. And the only real accomplishment is enough money to keep the agency running for another few months. Hardly crucial reading or important storytelling in the Veronica Mars timeline.

The ending particularly annoyed me because even though Keith gives Veronica a gun and tells her she has to learn to use it if she is going to play with the big boys, she still requires saving instead of being able to save herself. It’s a major flaw in someone who has chosen to be a private investigator.

I recognise that I’m being harsh but only because the TV series especially and the movie to a slightly lesser extent set such a high standard that hasn’t been reached in this book. I’m happy to read the next instalment but if it’s more of the same then I probably won’t read any future books in the series.

3 stars

*First published on Goodreads 25 September 2015

A Poem For Writers At Christmas

’Twas the night before Christmas

When all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

Except for the mouse

And the hand on the mouse

And the arm on the hand

To highlight the words

In a vision so grand

That the night before Christmas

Was as good night as any

To write a few words

And if possible many

Because presents were wrapped

And the family in bed

The carollers silent

And the pets were all fed

Fingers flew over the keys

And letters became words

So intent was the writer

Santa entered unheard

Nor was he noticed

’Til he cleared his throat

The writer turned to the chimney

To see a bright red coat

Under a bushy white beard

And over bright red trousers

All the writer could think

And could say was, “Wowsers.”

Said Santa to the writer,

“You’re up at this time?”

Said the writer to Santa,

“For writing, it’s prime.”

“It’s love and adventure,

Smart women, brave men,

With heroes and villains.

I’ve been at it since ten.”

“If you’re not too busy

Would you read a few pages?”

Santa adjusted his sack

Admitting, “I haven’t read in ages.”

“But just at the moment

I’ve a few things to do

I need to get on

And head back up the flue.”

“So here’s some presents

For those in the house

Eyes back on the screen

And hand on the mouse.”

“There’s still a few hours

Left in the night

Happy Christmas to you

And continue to write!”

And with those kind words

He disappeared from sight

And the writer whispered back,

“And to all a good night.”

Happy holidays, everyone!

To Write Or Not To Write During The Holidays

One of the greatest difficulties most writers have is finding the time in their busy lives to write. We’re often lucky if we can find a couple of hours at the end of the day after working to contribute to a household of partners/children/pets, feeding partners/children/pets, cleaning up after partners/children/pets and trying to maintain even a semblance of a social life. So when you know you’re going to have a week or two without one or all of these things, do you spend it writing or do you spend it actually having a break?

A lot of writers say the process needs to be treated like a job. You should do it every day, even if you don’t feel like it. If that’s the case, then surely you need to take a holiday from writing every once in a while as well.

But if time is at a premium in your normal life and you suddenly have a clear block of it in your schedule, shouldn’t you make the most of it?

Over the Christmas break, I often do no writing at all. In Australia, Christmas falls during the summer and as far as I’m concerned, summer is for reading so I do a lot of it. I do most of my writing in the spring and autumn (or fall depending on where you’re reading this) as I find summer too hot (to be stooped over a computer) and winter too cold (to do much of anything at all).

That decision is probably easy for me to make considering I’ve spent the majority of the past two years not working a second job, meaning I could devote a lot of time to my writing. For those who are more responsible than me and choose not to be so selfish, writing continually needs to be fitted in around a full-time job.

There are no easy answers. As with everything when it comes to writing, you just have to do what feels right for you. But I will leave with you this piece of advice: if everything you are writing is crap, then regardless of whether or not you want to, it’s time to take a break.

Taking a step back can often be the best thing for your writing. It gives you a chance to recharge. It’s give you a chance to think (a very underrated part of the writing process). It gives you a chance to look at the big picture (the whole story, the plot, the characters, the style) instead of just the small moments of individual chapters. And it gives you a chance to go back to your writing with a fresh perspective and renewed enthusiasm.

Happy holidays (whether you choose to write or not)!