I think I love it even more than the Blood Song cover, and I didn't think that could be possible.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Crannying: Finding the time to write
One of the questions I get asked the most is "Where do you find the time to write?" Usually after, "How much money have you made so far? Is that rude to ask? It is, isn't it? But seriously, how much?"
I find time because I cranny. To some friends, an after work drink starts at 9.30pm on a Monday night. Are you kidding me?! I am done by 9.30. I'm halfway to bed, and the other half of me is watching Frasier and drinking a chamomile tea. The movie starts at 8.30? Screw that, we're seeing the 7pm session, and we're eating beforehand.
It's friends who don't see me more than every fortnight or month or so who ask the finding-the-time question. Probably because the see me of an evening or weekend with a glass of wine in my hand, make-up on and in a dress. It's very difficult to be stressed or distracted with half a bottle of pinot noir or grigio sloshing through your veins.
If it's a birthday or engagement or I've got cabin fever, I'll stay out late. But most of the time I won't. I'll have an early night, and be up at 5am on a weekday, staggering to the kettle with a small black cat sitting on my shoulder.
My really close friends know I cranny. Cranny is a made up word. It's like a piking but piking not because you're lame (I hope) or a socially awkward penguin (I hope even more), but because you have to be up early. And of your own volition. Sometimes I get to drop that everso dramatic, self-important word, "deadline". But mostly I get up early because I want to."Want to" is a bit misleading though. I become irritable if I haven't written a few thousand words in a while. It's like withdrawal from a drug. I feel a high after a good writing session. I imagine it's because I've been writing regularly since the start of 2009. It's become a habit, and not one I feel the need to kick. (I did kick the boyfriend out this morning, though. Poor thing. We did lie in till 10.30am but there was no hand-holdy breakfast, no idle, "Oh what a lovely day, shall we go out?" conversation. Just me with a mad glint in my eye, edging towards the laptop.)
"Cranny" probably came from that commercial for cranberry juice that goes, "Where's the cranny, granny?" It doesn't make a lot of sense, but a dear friend made it up and it sounds suitably nanna-ish and sensible. And that's me making time for my writing really: nanna-ish and sensible. But I get sh%* done. (Not my tax returns though.)
I find time because I cranny. To some friends, an after work drink starts at 9.30pm on a Monday night. Are you kidding me?! I am done by 9.30. I'm halfway to bed, and the other half of me is watching Frasier and drinking a chamomile tea. The movie starts at 8.30? Screw that, we're seeing the 7pm session, and we're eating beforehand.
It's friends who don't see me more than every fortnight or month or so who ask the finding-the-time question. Probably because the see me of an evening or weekend with a glass of wine in my hand, make-up on and in a dress. It's very difficult to be stressed or distracted with half a bottle of pinot noir or grigio sloshing through your veins.
If it's a birthday or engagement or I've got cabin fever, I'll stay out late. But most of the time I won't. I'll have an early night, and be up at 5am on a weekday, staggering to the kettle with a small black cat sitting on my shoulder.
My really close friends know I cranny. Cranny is a made up word. It's like a piking but piking not because you're lame (I hope) or a socially awkward penguin (I hope even more), but because you have to be up early. And of your own volition. Sometimes I get to drop that everso dramatic, self-important word, "deadline". But mostly I get up early because I want to."Want to" is a bit misleading though. I become irritable if I haven't written a few thousand words in a while. It's like withdrawal from a drug. I feel a high after a good writing session. I imagine it's because I've been writing regularly since the start of 2009. It's become a habit, and not one I feel the need to kick. (I did kick the boyfriend out this morning, though. Poor thing. We did lie in till 10.30am but there was no hand-holdy breakfast, no idle, "Oh what a lovely day, shall we go out?" conversation. Just me with a mad glint in my eye, edging towards the laptop.)
"Cranny" probably came from that commercial for cranberry juice that goes, "Where's the cranny, granny?" It doesn't make a lot of sense, but a dear friend made it up and it sounds suitably nanna-ish and sensible. And that's me making time for my writing really: nanna-ish and sensible. But I get sh%* done. (Not my tax returns though.)
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Exclusive Interview with Zeraphina and Rodden at Eleusinian Mysteries
Want to read the ONLY between-the-novels piece I've written? Then go here, to the Eleusinian Mysteries blog and read Brodie's lucky last Valentine's Blog Event post. There's some hints about Rodden's past and a chance to see Zeraphina from another's perspective. The interview takes place shortly before the events of Blood Storm. I can't wait for you guys to read book two!
Also, COVER NEWS. I have seen it, dear readers. The cover of Blood Storm. It's absolutely gorgeous. So atmospheric, wild and beautiful. I didn't imagine anything could top the Blood Song cover, but this blows it out of the water.
My designer is adding the final touches of fairy dust and dragons' blood (it's very technical, what these designers do) and running it past a battery of love spells and courage potions, and then you'll be able to gaze upon it too.
Also, COVER NEWS. I have seen it, dear readers. The cover of Blood Storm. It's absolutely gorgeous. So atmospheric, wild and beautiful. I didn't imagine anything could top the Blood Song cover, but this blows it out of the water.
My designer is adding the final touches of fairy dust and dragons' blood (it's very technical, what these designers do) and running it past a battery of love spells and courage potions, and then you'll be able to gaze upon it too.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The Hatchet Job: Celebrating a roasting?
The inaugural Hatchet Job of the Year award was presented today (the 7th in the UK). As its name suggests, it's a literary prize unlike the Man Booker or the Pulitzer. First of all, it's given to a reviewer, not a writer; specifically, to a reviewer who penned "the angriest, funniest, most trenchant" review published in a magazine or newspaper in 2011." The award is essentially celebrating a roasting done in a show-offy way.
That doesn't seem right, I thought to myself. That's just not cricket, as they say.
Then I read a few of the reviews on the shortlist. And they are very good. They brought to task shallow biographers, glaring errors, literary wankery. I read the rest. And I liked them.
In two minds, but erring towards the I-don't-like-its, I described the award to T over dinner last night, which I originally read about in a Wheeler Centre post. His feelings were very different to mine. (Let the record show that he's not a big reader and doesn't know his Bookers from his Brownlows; but he's got a brain between his ears and can form an opinion or two.) He thought it was essentially a positive: "If it means authors will write better books, then surely that's a good thing? And how serious is the prize, anyway?"
Not at all serious, it seems. The prize is a year's supply of potted shrimp.
While eating I remembered another similar award, similar in that it celebrates something bad: the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Oh boy. In it's nineteenth year, the award's intention is "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it". (Interestingly, the award has gone mostly to men. Another example of gender bias in lit awards or are we happy to let this one slide?)
Sotto voce, I read aloud passages to T from last year's winner as we ate our dumplings, David Guterson's Ed King (he of Snow Falling on Cedars fame), a modern retelling of Oedipus. There was much snorting with laughter over the spectacularly unerotic prose. (Guterson received news of the dubious honour with equanimity: "Oedipus practically invented bad sex, so I'm not in the least bit surprised".)
I can take glee in the Bad Sex award. I even enjoyed reading the shortlisted reviews for the Hatchet Job. But still something in me recoils from it. The latter celebrates the shredding of an entire book, even if it is with wit and nous.
The shortlisted books are written by award winning authors who presumably sell well. They can, it's possible, take such things in their stride. I doubt an award that took aim at reviews of midlist books would be received half as well. And can you imagine if the blogosphere set up such a thing? As much as the Twilight-bashing goes on, I just can't see it happening without howls of protests from all quarters.
I don't entirely condemn the Hatchet Job (seriously, read the reviews, they are illuminating to say the least). But as I said--*holds glass of Pims, twitches satin frock*--it's just not cricket.
~~~
I'm bound to be squeamish, being an author. But a lot of you are reviewers. What do you think about this? Will writers write better books? If you're a writer, do you think about what reviewers will think of your book as you write? Do you like dumplings??
That doesn't seem right, I thought to myself. That's just not cricket, as they say.
Then I read a few of the reviews on the shortlist. And they are very good. They brought to task shallow biographers, glaring errors, literary wankery. I read the rest. And I liked them.
In two minds, but erring towards the I-don't-like-its, I described the award to T over dinner last night, which I originally read about in a Wheeler Centre post. His feelings were very different to mine. (Let the record show that he's not a big reader and doesn't know his Bookers from his Brownlows; but he's got a brain between his ears and can form an opinion or two.) He thought it was essentially a positive: "If it means authors will write better books, then surely that's a good thing? And how serious is the prize, anyway?"
Not at all serious, it seems. The prize is a year's supply of potted shrimp.
While eating I remembered another similar award, similar in that it celebrates something bad: the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Oh boy. In it's nineteenth year, the award's intention is "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it". (Interestingly, the award has gone mostly to men. Another example of gender bias in lit awards or are we happy to let this one slide?)
Sotto voce, I read aloud passages to T from last year's winner as we ate our dumplings, David Guterson's Ed King (he of Snow Falling on Cedars fame), a modern retelling of Oedipus. There was much snorting with laughter over the spectacularly unerotic prose. (Guterson received news of the dubious honour with equanimity: "Oedipus practically invented bad sex, so I'm not in the least bit surprised".)
I can take glee in the Bad Sex award. I even enjoyed reading the shortlisted reviews for the Hatchet Job. But still something in me recoils from it. The latter celebrates the shredding of an entire book, even if it is with wit and nous.
The shortlisted books are written by award winning authors who presumably sell well. They can, it's possible, take such things in their stride. I doubt an award that took aim at reviews of midlist books would be received half as well. And can you imagine if the blogosphere set up such a thing? As much as the Twilight-bashing goes on, I just can't see it happening without howls of protests from all quarters.
I don't entirely condemn the Hatchet Job (seriously, read the reviews, they are illuminating to say the least). But as I said--*holds glass of Pims, twitches satin frock*--it's just not cricket.
~~~
I'm bound to be squeamish, being an author. But a lot of you are reviewers. What do you think about this? Will writers write better books? If you're a writer, do you think about what reviewers will think of your book as you write? Do you like dumplings??
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I'm on Facebook
Yep, you can totally like me on Facebook now. Go on, click the link. You know you want to. I'll be posting bits of writing advice and updates on the LHARMELL books. I'll even be doing the cover reveal of BLOOD STORM there. Why would you not go hit like?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Reluctant Christian Melinda Tankard Reist's attempt to muzzle debate on the internet
Australian conservative "feminist" activist Melinda Tankard Reist has instigated legal action against blogger Dr Jennifer Wilson at No Place For Sheep for bringing people's attention to Reist's religious beliefs and how they influence her political views. It seems Reist would rather people not know she's a Christian, and/or is using the action and subsequent outrage for publicity purposes.
Reist believes in protecting women from abortion, pornography and sexualised images. Funny, I thought we had minds of our own.
There is a particularly good opinion piece by Jill Singer about Reist's reluctance to address her religious beliefs in the Herald Sun:
Tankard Reist appears to be worried her public campaigns to "protect" women will be seen as motivated by religious fervour instead of evidence and reason. Instead of paying lawyers to try to silence Dr Wilson, she would be better off addressing this issue and answering her critics.
Otherwise she risks painting herself as a reluctant Christian - and willing bully.
Sign the petition if you disagree with Reist trying to muzzle debate on the internet and side-stepping questions about her religious beliefs. Relevant posts/articles at the bottom of the petition.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Couch monstering
couch monstering (verb): to exhibit the behaviour of a couch monster; in particular to sit, lie or sprawl on a couch in a post-artistic daze.
This was the birthday card I was given by my brother and his girlfriend. For those just joining us, I live with them in a lovely house in Melbourne. We have a cat, Tivali, who is The Only Cat in the World. (She may be rudely disabused of the notion soon. We're thinking of adopting cat #2.)
The message inside:
I am a couch monster. I wish I looked as pretty as this girl while I was monstering. With butterflies shooting out the ends of my hair. I could do without the wormy tail though. It's very Lharmellin don'tcha think?
"Post-artistic daze" is highly interpretable. Hangovers count. For us artsy types in Melbourne it's practically mandatory to sit in a little laneway bar feeling equal parts fabulous and misunderstood. Till 4am. With espresso martinis. Then stumble in and be greeted by a sleepy-eyed cat who hopes you might drop your beans on toast/pizza/half-eaten Hungry Jacks on the floor. (Has totally happened. She's a lucky cat.)
What is one to do the next day except cleave oneself to the couch with a bottle of diet tonic water, said cat, and a book/audio book/a billion eps of something funny/dramatic/suitably vapid? Or a Ryan Gosling movie. Oh lord. *fans self* (Is Ryan Gosling cuter than a puppy? I lie awake at night wondering this. What about a room full of puppies? What if Ryan Gosling was dressed AS a puppy?)
Post-artistic daze could mean post-date. Oh god, dating is the work of Satan. I am not in the Satanic phase right now thank goodness. I'm in the Lord You're Cute, Do You Want To Spend Every Weekend Together? phase. Which is about elebenty billion times more awesome than dating.
It could also mean post-oh-frack-I-hurt-all-over. (Perhaps from writers' back.) Right now I hurt all over, but it's because I beat myself up at the gym twice this week. (I nearly fell off my stationary bike watching the clip to LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It" <------- CANNOT BE UNSEEN.) Twice at the gym this week. I'm practically Jane Fonda.
It could also mean post-event, or post-publication, or even (oh happy days) post-I-just-wrote-three-thousand-words-and-my-brain-giveth-out.
But SOMETIMES. Just SOMETIMES. I am actually dreaming up stories. And the best place for that is the couch. Writers apparently like to be alone, but I don't. Maybe it's feng shui. Maybe it's the extra stimulation. But I don't like to be hidden away when I work. Or couch monster.
This was the birthday card I was given by my brother and his girlfriend. For those just joining us, I live with them in a lovely house in Melbourne. We have a cat, Tivali, who is The Only Cat in the World. (She may be rudely disabused of the notion soon. We're thinking of adopting cat #2.)
The message inside:
We see you like this so often, dreaming up stories on the couch. So we thought it would be most apt as it also reflects the worlds you see. Happy birthday.
I am a couch monster. I wish I looked as pretty as this girl while I was monstering. With butterflies shooting out the ends of my hair. I could do without the wormy tail though. It's very Lharmellin don'tcha think?
"Post-artistic daze" is highly interpretable. Hangovers count. For us artsy types in Melbourne it's practically mandatory to sit in a little laneway bar feeling equal parts fabulous and misunderstood. Till 4am. With espresso martinis. Then stumble in and be greeted by a sleepy-eyed cat who hopes you might drop your beans on toast/pizza/half-eaten Hungry Jacks on the floor. (Has totally happened. She's a lucky cat.)
What is one to do the next day except cleave oneself to the couch with a bottle of diet tonic water, said cat, and a book/audio book/a billion eps of something funny/dramatic/suitably vapid? Or a Ryan Gosling movie. Oh lord. *fans self* (Is Ryan Gosling cuter than a puppy? I lie awake at night wondering this. What about a room full of puppies? What if Ryan Gosling was dressed AS a puppy?)
Post-artistic daze could mean post-date. Oh god, dating is the work of Satan. I am not in the Satanic phase right now thank goodness. I'm in the Lord You're Cute, Do You Want To Spend Every Weekend Together? phase. Which is about elebenty billion times more awesome than dating.
It could also mean post-oh-frack-I-hurt-all-over. (Perhaps from writers' back.) Right now I hurt all over, but it's because I beat myself up at the gym twice this week. (I nearly fell off my stationary bike watching the clip to LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It" <------- CANNOT BE UNSEEN.) Twice at the gym this week. I'm practically Jane Fonda.
It could also mean post-event, or post-publication, or even (oh happy days) post-I-just-wrote-three-thousand-words-and-my-brain-giveth-out.
But SOMETIMES. Just SOMETIMES. I am actually dreaming up stories. And the best place for that is the couch. Writers apparently like to be alone, but I don't. Maybe it's feng shui. Maybe it's the extra stimulation. But I don't like to be hidden away when I work. Or couch monster.
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