Calling people on the phone is a thing of the past. I'm sure of it. Any time I ring, expecting to speak to an actual person, I get this recorded message. That’s fine if everything goes as expected. But I'm not sure how often that really is. In the end I made three phone calls instead of one. The voice recording, which is supposed to respond to my voice, gave me the run around until that last call. For some reason everything worked that final time. I'm still not happy about it, but the reason I called in the first place has all been sorted, finally. I decide to make another call and get yet another recorded message. What happened to people? I had to leave a message and now I don't get that extra sleep I'm desperate for, because I'll be sitting here waiting for them to call me.

I wrote all that to point out that sometimes we're pushing all the right buttons and saying all the right things, yet we aren't getting the response we need. This couldn't be more true that with writing. You do your homework and find the correct writer's guidelines. You follow them to the letter. You submit your query/article or you ring first with your idea, and yet nothing happens. Or you write a terrific short story and enter it to another competition. You've stuck to the submission guidelines; you've worked on your prose, description, characters and plot. You even make sure the entry gets in well before the deadline. But your piece is not selected to win a place in the competition.

Why is this? What are you doing wrong?

Most likely you are doing everything right. Sometimes you have to hang up and try again. The first short story I ever had published I sent out a total of three times. The last time I changed the title. I still don't know if that third editor would've liked the story with the old title or she'd have loved the piece without the change. All I know is that time it worked. I hit the mark and got the piece accepted into the magazine for publication. The feeling still lingers in memory even now.

I've entered competitions with stories I know are top quality, but when I hear the winning entry read aloud I can only scratch my head. What made that story better than mine? Sometimes I'll share this with other writers and they feel the same way. Other times when I hear the winning entry read aloud I know it's because the winning tale was far superior to my own. But it's up to the judges. This fact is something you cannot change or manipulate to your favour. It might help if you know who the judges are, perhaps. But you can never know just what appeals to them in the long run.

This is what makes writing a subjective exercise no matter what. I've been baffled by the meanings of stories selected as winners in some competitions. Sometimes these tales just go right over my head. I've sat in stunned stupor over some silly short story a magazine chose to publish over my own. Once I entered a short story, in the fantasy genre, in a local competition. I didn't win, but felt the winner deserved to. I sent the story out to various magazines and eventually received a bite in a low paying magazine. Later I sent the same story to a website and received a glowing email about the tale from the editor. She loved it, but the subject was something she really related to at that point of her life. Had I sent it earlier she may not have reacted that way.

What I'm saying is back to the second paragraph of this entry; you can be doing all the right things and still get nowhere. Your writing is good. The subjects, content, information and style works. You send your piece out and it returns to you unaccepted, unappreciated. The editor or judge just didn't see the piece as quite right for their publication. This is one reason to resubmit as soon as you know the magazine switches editors. The new editor might just gel with your piece where the other didn't.

Anyway, I'm still waiting for that phone call. Keep writing and don't give up.

There are certain places I find creativity blooms. For me the ocean shore is one of those places. It's been a while since I've allowed myself a dose of that salty air and the strong wind off the coast of Western Australia. You could say I have been busy. What with the baby and helping hubby with his course. Taking a moment to go breathe in the air, let the wind carry away my worries. Watch the gulls lift and float on the currents of air. See the small children build and destroy sand castles. See the people walking their dogs, pumping their blood, chasing the dream of youth, smell the slick sunscreen and the meaty juicy aroma from the barbies in the park.

It might be something about all those things, but it could be that it takes me back to childhood. My earliest memories are of the beach, swimming, fighting the pounding waves. I grew up with salt water constantly in my ears and sand in the crotch of my togs. I would pull on my togs and present myself to mum claiming to be fully dressed. She'd snatch up straw bag filled with towels and hats and toys and cross over what was then called a highway, but hardly any traffic buzzed along at that time, and took us to the beach.

I grew so used to the sting of sunburn it became only a sensation of heat across my nose and cheeks and a tightness across my shoulders. Every morning for the first several years of my life I lived and breathed the beach. Apparently we visited a relative in snow covered Katoomba, in New South Wales, and I screamed and screamed. I was all of two and when they could finally get anything out of me, it was simply, "I c-c-c-cold, I c-c-c-cold." Nothing they did would please me. I sat crying in front of the fire refusing to remove my jacket, hat and mittens.

I still dislike the cold, even as an adult. Perhaps this is why the warmer weather inspires me more. It could have something to do with my dad, too. As a small child I was close to my dad. He took me down to the beach in the afternoons and walked in silence with me as I'd look for shells along the wet sand, toss some back into the shore waves, and drag seaweed in and out of the water. We'd sit for a time and listen to the lull and lapse of the waves until the tide went way out and we could walk where earlier in the day we'd swam.

I'd return with him and sit and watch him work the planks of wood and later foam, into surfboards. The overwhelming fumes of catalyst there in the shed, the long strands of fibreglass, the lumps of coloured resin on his shorts and shirt, the dust on the floor. I'd watch him sand the boards through their various stages, watch him lay the sheets of fibreglass onto the boards, mix the resin. I'd watch his face, half covered in a hankie, until someone made small moulded masks for jobs like his.

I'd sit and watch, always silent, learning from his methods and just being in his presence. I don't know when that changed. One day I left home and realised I didn't even know my father. I didn't even know how to speak to him. The companionship of my younger days had turned into silence and anger of adolescence. But whenever I think of the ocean I think of dad. To me the two are inseparable. I could rely on the tide to come up to the top of the shore and make the white sand dark and damp. I could rely on dad to be there. I could depend on the later return of the tide and the off-scent of drying seaweed in the burning sun. I could depend on dad. He taught me to swim, to listen, to watch for rips and how to swim out of them. He taught me to be still and know the silence of beauty.

These are the places I return when I need inspiration; the beach and the memory of my dad. He's been dead some 16 years now. The ocean connects me to him still, even though I can never gain access to him again. A letter I wrote to him some five or so years ago, which could never be sent, was published in several places on the internet and even found a home in an English language text book for Chinese students. I found that significant. It was also about the time my writing really broke through into a new level.

I suppose the point is the places you find inspiration will really speak to others, too. You should never be afraid to use them as tools to writing better fiction and non-fiction. Anyway, I'm done for the day.

The sky outside is a perfect blue, the kind of colour that sweeps away bad moods and sleepiness. The clear sky beckons me in a summer whisper to come outside and play. Twenty eights, pink and grey gallahs and white cockatoos make their way over the house, heading to water and food. A noisy truck zooms down my street. I feel the chill on the back of my neck where the hair used to be. I've just got in from having it cut. Both hubby and bubby are in bed.

This kind of weather makes me want to write more. There's something about the clear blue sky that speaks to me of rest, calm, peace. I love the way staring out into it makes me feel. It is only second to the ocean. While the surface of the ocean is ever changing and restless, the sky is similar, but the changes are slower.

First there's the changes from morning to evening. The colours of morning are the pinks and blues of freshness and bright new light. The same tones are deeper for the lack of sunlight later in the evening when the sun begins to lose its hold on my side of the earth for one more day. Clouds make the sky different, too.

Watching the clouds float by is one of my favourite activities. I love making shapes out of their billowing beauty. I love to spread out on the soft and lush green grass and stare up, up, up into the blue sky. It makes me think of when I was a kid. Summer time, blue skies and remembering my childhood all make me want to write. There's nothing worse than trying to write in winter with your fingertips all frozen and the sniffles to distract you.

It's cold right now, but nothing like the days we had a few weeks ago. This kind of weather is what I often refer to as a Goldielock's day. The day is not too cold, or too hot, it's just right. We're coming into more Goldielock's days soon enough. I'll be more productive then. I've always noticed I have a better time of year for my writing. For some people summer is a difficult time to write. I don't find it so. For me I feel there's less reason to sleep-in during summer. The morning light calls to me and I get out of bed well before the rest of the family.

That just doesn't happen in winter. The mornings are darker and bleak with the cold. The days are also shorter. They're over before you know it. In summer there's time to write early in the morning, late into the balmy nights or just at any time at all. I can always sit a fan in front of me if I'm really desperate. I've done it before. At my desk I have two small desk fans. One is generally enough for me, but hubby needs both blowing.

My mood is different in winter, too. I feel lighter and more joyful in summer. Roll on summer. Better finish here, even though there wasn't much to this entry today.

Each night before I come to sit here and write the thought passes through my mind; what the heck am I going to write about? I mean this is the 46th day of Boot Camp and I'm sitting down to write another entry. Surely there are only so many things one person can say on writing.

But as I sit I know the very challenge of writing about writing for some 14 weeks, that's right I hope, is where I will find myself digging down within myself to find what it is I really feel about writing. I'll rediscover what I know about writing. I'll write and grow just by challenging myself to do this task.

I've always found when you first start writing there's a kind of skimming off the surface you go through, all that stuff that's just floating up to the top. It doesn't really matter what it is you're writing about, the action is the same. You begin and you can amass a certain amount of material just from what comes to mind reasonably immediately. That's pretty much the easy part.

After a few weeks, or perhaps longer, you find you're going to have to dig deeper, get a bit of a sweat up, and work harder to get something down on the page, or the screen. This is where regular journal writing is a good habit. There are times when what I write is dreadfully mundane. But it's the act of going over the same old ground that inspires me to seek further into myself for more interesting material for those pages that breaks me away from the same old, same old. Before you know it I've hit a rich vein of gold that keeps me mining for weeks.

This is where you come into the real resources inside yourself. The top layer of anything is usually pretty good and it could be easy to be satisfied with just that, but we are intensely spiritual beings. Our souls are capable of absorbing so much in life. This can only compute out in various ways, but filtered through you own perspective, touched with the tastes of bitterness and sweetness from your own experience, your words will meet someone, somewhere in a way that no one else can ever do. You can only find that view-point or attitude if you work at it.

I know that's a word most people don't really like these days. It's a four letter word, but one writers should embrace. I heard it say you have to write one million words of junk before you start writing anything worthwhile. There could be something to this. But it's not just a flat one million and you're into the cream. In my opinion it's on just about any subject you start to write about. The best work is often the work you produce later. That is if you're committed to finding what it is you really have to say. It may take a million words to discover just what it is you are trying to convey. I feel that's okay. A committed writer will give their writing that time.

I don't believe there's any such thing as an overnight success. If people try to tell you they are, then I believe they're lying. I don't think anyone ever just sat down and produced a really great piece of art, not before they prepared themselves in some way for it.

It also makes me think of the wells the shepherds in bible times used to water their sheep. Those wells could fall into disuse. Sometimes years went by before they revisited those same wells, especially when there'd been drought in the area. The shepherds had to go down and dig to re-establish the flow of water. That is what writing is like.

It might be each day or each week, but we need to roll our sleeves back and open up that flow again. Hope this helps someone. I'm done for today.

There's days when the idea that I'm a writer seem completely foreign to me. I wake and eat a quick breakfast. I take my big boy to the train station. I feed the baby. I take my daughter to school. I look after the baby. I run errands for everyone. There's the housework and the other things that keep me busy out of the house. Just the regular; bills, visits with people you expect to keep up friendships with, getting petrol in the car, buying food, I could go on and on. I make lunches, dinners, look after the baby, collect people from school, train stations, and wait with them at doctors and government departments. I finally get the baby to bed, run around the corner shop for yet another thing we need and finally I have some time to myself.

By now I'm tired. I've been up since just after six this morning and have done all of the above and more. The only time I wrote was when I sat for twenty minutes in a cafe and scribbled in my journal and when I chatted online with my mum for half an hour. So much for writing.

But I did write. I am writing now. I can call myself a writer because I wrote today.

When I first had the baby I felt I might never get another moment to write again. It was just how I felt. I knew I would. While I was in hospital I grabbed any chance I could. It was much more difficult at home to do the same. In hospital all I had to do was look after the baby and wash and feed myself. Once home there was everyone else. They were terrific with the housework and meals, but I did have this demanding baby who just wanted to feed every other moment of the day.

I'm glad he's into a routine of long sleeps at night. I get the nights to myself. I'm often tempted to stay up late using the time for myself. I wasn't surprised when it wiped me out. The feeling of not having to be doing something constantly went to my head a little. Exhaustion soon claimed me. Instead of learnt to go straight from getting bubby to be to getting this done, if I hadn't already. I could then use some time to myself to post these entries online, read some email and that kind of thing.

My point is I don't exactly call this writing, not to the standard I had, but it is something. I've written today. That's what makes me a writer. Okay, it's not on my projects. I wanted to do so much more by now. But at this point I need to focus on what I am managing to achieve instead of what I'm not doing.

I have a six month old baby, two teens and an unemployed husband. I wanted to kiss him last night when he tried to offer some practical help with my writing. After a few of his ideas he just laughed and gave up. I would have kissed him, but I had the baby on my lap feeding and it made the kiss quite impossible. He knows he does as much as he can. He already minds the baby while I do things. He tries to keep out of my hair and keep busy by painting and taking the baby with him for a walk. It's just that time when life is difficult.

Anyway, not much to say tonight. I'm tired and am going through the motions. I know things will change again and I'll have the time I need for my writing. But for now I'm achieving whatever it is I can manage. It might not seem like much, but it's at least something.

The baby has been unsettled all day. I know it's the teething, but it doesn't really help in the moment he's so grizzly and all. He's in his cot right now kind of calling out and whinging. I could go get him, but it won't make a lot of difference to his mood or mine. A bit of distance is necessary right now.

Distance helps with writing, too, I've noticed. There are times I come across something I've written and it can almost feel like reading something written by someone else entirely. Of course other times it's like driving into familiar territory. Everything is painfully familiar, so much that I cringe at the clumsy language and the obvious mistakes. The distance helps, though, probably more for the bad writing than the good.

Reading work I've written a while ago does seem like reading someone else's work. That distance gives me what I need to make the changes necessary. I'm no longer so hotly connected with the piece. The passion of it has dissipated somewhat, although I have had it re-stir as I read.

If that happens I figure the writing is working and there's nothing to change, unless there's some glaring error. Distance helps me see the errors, though. When I'm writing I'm in that hot zone of emotion and creativity. Later I am removed from those feelings and can read a piece simple for the words there. Hopefully those words evoke emotion and stir me to connect again with the writing.

I've also found the longer you leave it the brutal you can be with yourself. Where once I'd have clung to certain passages, I've forgotten the investment of my time and can easily cut out entire sections. With my first novel I did that. After investing three months of time and chalking up 125,000 words, I came to it much later and saw an entire one third of the novel needed to go. I did baulk at that, for some time, but ultimately decided it was for the best.

I removed the section and now the story felt more streamlined, more in sync with what was supposed to happen. Oddly enough, that entire section became a novel of its own, which I wrote up in November of last year for the Nanowrimo challenge. The tale went from the mainstream story it had been to a murder mystery. The primary character in this version became the victim. I never did like that guy much, anyway.

Anyway, that's me done for tonight. I did begin this earlier, but have written it in fits and starts. I hope I don't get interrupted by bubby anytime soon.

It feels a little like whistling in the dark here. I come to this screen, sit and make myself write for the group, yet I still feel quite alone. I suppose the real reason I've been doing this is the feedback I've had from the other members. There's something of a reward in the little comments left on my entries. Yet, there's also a reward in knowing I've done the task that I sat and wrote today. There's a reward in sifting through the collective memories and experiences of my life like an archeologist. I'm shaking out the dust and brushing off the grit. I'm seeking to uncover some gem so far unturned, unrevealed to my writer's tools.

There's a reward in this seemingly banal activity. Maybe the reader isn't always rewarded, that could be the case here. But really I'm writing for myself alone. I'll admit to enjoying those responses. It's certainly better than writing in this vacuum of home with the chores of housekeeping and the baby's bottom to clean. The endless what's for dinner cycle. The baby crying in his cot because he's refusing to go off for a nap, even though he has everything done for him already.

Writing to any audience at all delivers a satisfaction quite unlike anything else I've ever experienced. I remember the first time I ever read in public. I don't mean amongst a group of writers at a workshop. The very first time I did that I cried, and the content didn't even justify me reacting that way. What I do mean is the first time I read at a public reading. My nerves ate at the inside of my stomach. I heard the other readers with their funny work. I watched them perform their pieces and felt the deadening of my heart.

I could not do that. I simply couldn't act out the parts of my tale in that way. Simply being there was making me sweat and this was in early spring. As my turn drew nearer my hands began to tremble. My mouth went sandpaper dry. When I heard my name I hardly remember how I got from my seat to the front. There was no microphone, no podium to raise me above the crowd. I simply stood and read, raising my voice as best I could, but I didn't once glance up to the audience.

The chitter chat of their voices stilled as I read. A listening silence emanated from within each person present. I felt them collectively lean toward me. Even though nothing had really changed as I read I relaxed a little. I let the voice of my character take over and no longer did I really feel like myself standing there. I was the character and had a story to tell, a yarn to spin and found a captive audience.

I felt myself step aside from the scene and watched as the people sat in awe of the words coming out of my mouth. It wasn't so much that my story was so well written, or that I was performing it in a way that grabbed their attention. They were simply under the spell of story. My words spun a web and they were delightfully caught in that web.

That feeling was like a drug. It only took that one time and I was hooked. Any chance I got I read to a crowd. My skills improved along with my delight in sharing these stories of mine with others. To see their rapt expressions. To hear their collective caught breath at just the moment I reveal the pearl. I can only describe it as satisfying beyond a meal or the high of drugs. To give that to another is where the magic of storytelling really begins.

Anyway, that's me for tonight. Hope some of the others update their blogs, too.

Writing at different times of day brings out different kinds of writing, different thoughts. Perhaps we even access a different part of the brain. I'm generally a morning person. I prefer to rise and write while sleep still clings to my brain. I would wake before the family and stumble out here to the study and pour my rough stuff into morning pages. Then I'd sit at the computer and skim off the top of whatever rose to the surface of my mind.

I'd drop off the family to their various places and then come home and write some more. That's when I'd work on my projects, whatever they were at the time. I loved the habit of writing in the morning.

Writing in the evening is a different matter. Not only am I struggling with fatigue and the fact my entire family is around, I'm also less inspired. My brain tends to close down, at least enough to make writing a lot more difficult. I can do it and I have been these past few weeks. But it's not the same kind of work I produce in the mornings. I've lost that freshness, that sense of adventure. The act of writing feels less a joy and more a chore. I don't like writing to feel that way.

It's not that I can only write when inspired. If that was the problem I wouldn't have made all these entries so far. I learnt a long time ago to simply get on with the writing no matter how I felt. Some might call it discipline. I'm not sure what I call it; perhaps determination. I think it was Woody Allen who said, "The secret to writing is to show up at the page." I'm willing to be corrected if someone else knows who I should attribute that saying to. I probably have the quote incorrect, too. I am writing this after lunch.

The secret is to simply be there, do something, make a move with your fingertips, and engage your brain, even if it is sluggish, even if what you write is wrong grammatically. Like the sentence I just wrote. I've learnt to do that, just write. It matters just to do it. That's the only way to learn, by doing. It's like a lot of things. You can't be a great piano player unless you sit down and play, regularly. You don't become an artist overnight. There is talent, but you must build on your talent. It doesn't carry you through. Determination and some of that bum glue is about all you really need.

Talent can go to waste and often does. I see talented writers all the time who write terrific work then never send it off anywhere. You've got to keep trying, even if they do send it back. Just because one place didn't want the piece it doesn't mean they didn't like it. What happens is your piece simply didn't find the right home. No big deal. It might take some effort to get that piece published. Anyway, I've raved on long enough for now. The rain is coming down again and the baby is crying.

The baby is asleep. Hubby is asleep. I've just got in from dropping my daughter off at school. The house is silent. I decided to grab this opportunity because I don't know when another chance will present itself to me today. My days are so unpredictable. At least while hubby studied I knew I had the days. He'd be out of the house four days a week. I began to accomplish a lot on those days. I'd settled in with the baby and began to feel more capable to achieve other goals. It was one reason I joined up with this Boot Camp.

While I knew what I wanted to do, I also needed a sense of accountability to achieve it. But when hubby has no routine, or no regular job to go to, my days simply has to suffer. He doesn't mean to take over. I think it's just a male thing, being the dominant sex and all. I've had to learn how to be assertive. For a long time I wasn't. I simply put up with being there as the constant companion sitting with him while he watched TV, but I grew bored. I can only take so much.

For a while I did puzzles or crafts, such as knitting and crochet. I still do those while I sit with hubby in the evenings. It's difficult for me to do absolutely nothing. Since I've had the baby, though, I've gotten back in touch with this ability. At times there's just so much happening, to actually sit and stare into space for a while feels very good. This just sitting around, though drew me to want to do other things. I'd go out of a Thursday night once a month to the writing centre I joined. Hubby didn't really want me to go, but he could hardly complain. Besides, I was going no matter what he said.

This is what I mean about assertive. Whenever I do voice my opinion, let him know what I'm trying to achieve, he's on my side. He does a lot for me. Many guys wouldn't put up with it. He's the kind of guy who does his best to accommodate my needs, but he's no psychic. I do have to speak it out. Sometimes I think women tend to expect too much of their men. I've been guilty of this. Whenever I do let him know what I want, he does his best to help me make it happen. But even if he didn't, I believe women need to speak up and not expect their loved ones to treat them like doormats.

It's all too easy to fall into the pattern of doing everything for everyone. They generally figure it out for themselves once they have to. I've made it easier on my lot by getting them used to me being busy out here anyway. The kids are generally more accepting of what you want to do than husbands, anyway. But once you know what you want to do you should let the family in on your plans. They want to support you in everything you do. You've given and given of yourself. It's not unreasonable to expect them to give back.

Night times and baby nap times are the only times I can get things done these days. I have written with the baby awake, and I still will whenever I can. It's writing with hubby and the baby awake that's difficult. I was putting him on the floor behind me in this study. But with hubby awake and walking around it gets too awkward with the baby there in the way. For me, it's not a hassle.

Anyway, this was kind of a raving on sort of entry. Hubby is now awake and eating breakfast. Bubby is still asleep, thankfully, and I can at least get this finished. This morning's task is to get hubby's CV updated.

One of the best things a writer can do is be open to new ideas. It doesn't mean you should be so open minded that your brains fall out. It just means you should be receptive, flexible, willing to try out something if someone finds it a good method. If you try it and don't like it then at least you know that method is not for you. I've found this is one of the best ways to bring some zap back into my writing. I might feel somewhat stale, flat and down right uninspired. A quick flip through a writing book, or even a non-writing book, and some idea leaps off the page. It's one reason writing in a workshop is so good for writers.

There's this mix of every kind of person in a workshop. Some shy, some over-confident. There's experienced and beginners. There's those with a strong sense of what works and those reluctant to share because they simply feel unsure. Once the prompt is given, the challenge is there. You have no time to pick and choose, you must write something and it must be now. You pick up your pen and let the first thought that comes to you help you begin.

I've been to an untold number of workshops in the last five years. Prior to that I'd only attended a community education writing class. The teacher was so insecure in herself she did everything she could to play down my work. I imagined it a subtle thing and decided she was jealous and shrugged it off. But several of the older women noticed and asked me how I felt about it. I was honest and said I felt complimented. To think the teacher was intimidated by me.

That atmosphere isn't what I'd call really useful to a beginner writer, such as I was in that time. What does work is the atmosphere at a writing centre where the needs of writers as individuals are taken into account. I joined such a group around five or more years ago. The workshops I attended challenged me to write beyond my comfort zone. I never wrote anything I felt crossed the line of my personal beliefs, but I did write things I would never have tried alone.

A perfect example is the time I was given three pictures and had to make a plot and story from them. One of the pictures showed a transvestite. I don't want to go into why, but I did object to writing about this character. When I spoke a gentle objection the workshop leader challenged me to think of some way to use the character. My hackles started to rise, but I swallowed and calmed myself. Okay, I would use the character. It's not the place to go into it here, but I did. I worried my use of the character might offend someone, but in fact they were delightfully entertained.

I ended up with a great story idea, which needed work and change, of course, but a useable tale that fit a specific genre. I'd never have come up with that idea if I hadn't attended that workshop. It's an idea that continues to grow and attract the stuff stories gather once they've been left to stew. Anyway, that's me done. I had to write this in-between working out some problem with a company who claim we are overdue on our account.

Entry for July 19, 2005.

To plan or not to plan; that is the question.

When I wrote my first novel I had a rough idea of who was in it, what would happen and how the story ended. In my inexperience I felt sure this would be enough to carry me 100,000 words to the end. Pure motivation and the natural momentum I built as I wrote drove me to THE END. Actually, as I thought about it, I think I ended up with closer to 125,000 words that first draft. I recall moments of sheer terror as I would sit to write my prescribed 1000 words and just wing it. The process could be described as flying by the seat of your pants and that's exactly how it felt.

While I did work my way to THE END I remember feeling an inner resistance to ever doing it that way again. There were too many moments of aimless writing. Yes, there were moments of pure gold and I did learn a lot about my characters, but there were too many boring bits to cut out by the end of the entire process.

I kept reading how other authors did it. How they managed to get their stories written. Time after time I came across the outline and planning thing. I resisted this. It made me feel that writing was somehow less a mystery to do this. Planning every movement would take the romance out of the process for me. Maybe I read it one too many times. Maybe I just decided that I should be open to trying new things. It could've been for myriad other reasons, but I did finally sit one day and plan my novel.

To be fair I didn't start with the plan. I had an idea. This idea was simple and involved a girl with a situation that became a problem. I found one of those online character charts where you ask yourself 20 questions, it might have been more, about your character. I figured the main character deserved more time and I spent a good one hour on her. I write in a notebook in a cafe and just kept answering the questions. A clear character emerged and her problem crystallised into something I could recreate on the screen as I sat to write.

The other characters needed some time, but not quite as much as the main character. As I wrote these people, every single one of them, the fog cleared and they simply felt real to me. Their personal agendas and motives mixed in and before long I had a story. The plot unfolded as I played with these questions and ideas and people. I had so much more idea what could happen when I finally sat down to write.

Then I figured how many words I intended the novel to be, worked out how many chapters and wrote quick sketches of what could happen in each chapter. Most of this fell together and I found I didn't need to rearrange much. Once I felt happy with this I began writing.

This part went smooth. I never once experienced those moments of terror or even uncertainty. My characters emerged fully blown, real as you people reading this at this moment. I did change things as they became even clearer to me. I moved certain events to different parts of the story. I added and took away. I melded characters and adapted situations.

When I compared the two processes I knew I could never return to the old way of doing things. Every other novel since, I've written using the method outlined above. To go back to the old way is simply inconceivable now. I suppose I could, if I really had to. Just sit and write a novel out of my head. But given a choice, I would always choose this way. The work is done in the planning and playing stage. I sat down each day with a clear idea of where I would go next. The whole experience still felt like a journey of discovery. It's kind of like having a map, but allowing yourself to make detours.

Anyway, this entry is quite late as I've been at my sister-in-law's place tonight for dinner. We ended up staying quite late.

Practice is something I tend to go on about, but most of what I've learnt about writing comes back to this again and again. I recall when I wrote the first draft of my first novel. After reading Lawrence Block's Write That Novel I felt suddenly inspired, or perhaps his no nonsense style got through to me. It doesn't matter now. What does matter is that I finally planned to sit and get this novel down.

I figured I could handle 1000 words a day. Come hell or high water I'd get those words down. And I did. I warned the family this 1000 word goal was imperative. Nothing could stop me getting it done. This meant sometimes I had to write after dark and after dinner. For the first time hubby complained about my needing to get those words done at that time. I simply asked him to help me get them done earlier and I wouldn't need to do them later, when he wanted me sitting companionably by his side in front of the TV.

The novel took me three months to write. I don't recall writing on Sundays, but every other day I wrote the required 1000 words. The feeling of reaching THE END and knowing I'd done it - there's nothing like that mixture of relief and achievement. I felt like I'd read the best book ever and like I'd fallen off a cliff. I went in and told the family. They kind of glanced up at me and nodded. That deflated me a little, but not for long. I shared the news with my online friends and felt a whole lot better. I'd only achieved something many dream of yet never actually do. I'd written 100,000 words and called it a first draft of a novel.

I've achieved that several other times since, but wanted to get back to that practice word. Each time I sat down to write I achieved those 1000 words in a shorter and shorter time. I went from it taking me an hour and a half to tap out that many words to getting it done in around one hour. That was for my first attempt. Later I found I could write up a serious 1500 words or more in around forty minutes. In two forty minute sessions I could get roughly 3000 words written and sometimes more.

Practice.

The very act of sitting down and writing my stories had made me faster. Having a goal also helps. There's nothing harder, believe me I did it with my first draft, than sitting and not really knowing where you're going. I recall the times I sat there in despair. I'd written my characters into a corner and there was no way out. It took much craftiness and cunning on my part to get them out of those situations. I don't know how many times I had to back out and change the entire lead up, just so I could make things more credible or give my characters a way out.

But the rest of that can be for another entry. I don't want to waste potential blog entries by doubling up.

My fingertips are chilled from holding the cold bowl in my hand. I've put it down now, but I enjoyed the ice-cream, despite the cold day. I hadn't felt the cold until just now. My arms feel the cool air swirling around them and my feet aren't quite warm enough inside my socks and slippers. But now I'm here, sitting and writing, I don't fancy getting up to seek out a jumper or anything else to wear. It would mean going by the family watching that silly Elvis movie. I don't know what it is, but I just never got into him. Hubby is a fan, but Elvis just doesn't move me.

It's Sunday arvo, which means afternoon for those who don't speak Strine, which means Australian. I'm feeling lazy and cold and not in the mood for thinking. What is it about Sunday that does that to me? The baby is sleeping and all I feel like doing is joining him. I just argued with hubby. Well, that's too strong a word. Really, we just disagreed about something. He has this way of making any opinion other than his own seem trivial, beneath his great and mighty thoughts and downright wrong. I challenged him on it. I don't always do so. I suppose for the most part I'm the compliant one in the relationship. Most of the time I just don't see the point. He always argues from a logical point of view and I don't always think that way. Logically, I mean. I'm the abstract thinker. My reasons and motives may appear emotionally driven and at times unclear, but I feel strongly about my point of view. Just because I can't compute it out in a logical fashion doesn't make it any less valid.

As you can imagine this makes for some interesting discussion, or arguments, around here. Hubby is learning to think less rigidly and I am learning how to logically explain my abstract ideas. For the most part we meet in the middle. I suppose this process of communicating is a lot like writing. Maybe we've written something and feel pretty good about it. To us it makes perfect sense. But as soon as you bring a reader, or listener, to the mix something happens. Words may have standard meanings, but each word holds a different meaning to each reader involved in your piece. What appears perfectly logical can make no sense whatsoever to your reader. They may even react negatively to your ideas. Either you failed to actually put across your idea in the right way in the first place or your reader is at fault.

If every reader pretty much says the same thing, then you'd better believe them and not your instinct. Sometimes we just don't get across the message in the strongest possible way. As soon as we open up to the idea that someone else may have something valid to say about our writing, the quicker we grow as writers. Any constructive criticism I've ever received has been of value in improving my writing. This kind of writing is less about getting input, though. I'm referring to the short stories and novels and even articles we write.

Our writing can only benefit from getting another to read it through. I find I am always blind to certain turns of phrases or at times even leaving out words. When someone points these things out I am only too happy to change them and quick to thank them for doing so.

For me the product needs to convey my ideas and clearly. I want to know the reader can read it through and grasp my meaning without having to work too hard, either. Being a creative type, with my abstract thought processes, means I often need to embrace a more logical attitude when editing my work. For this reason I always write first drafts without even editing anything. I then change hats and let the inner editor go to work.

But, I've discovered that the very act of writing in a daily journal, be it this kind or a handwritten one, strengthens my logical brain. I can go back and argue with hubby much more effectively after writing in my journal than if I attempt to argue right there and then.

Anyway, that's me for today. I didn't even look at the time to be honest.

Sitting down to write is like going on a journey of discovery. While those who've been to exotic and far flung locations to see what they might unearth take a vast array of tools with them, my tools are far simpler. The expeditions I embark on still require as much courage as those who scale mountains and track their way over glaciers. My landscape is an inner world. They might need ropes, picks, warm weather gear and enough supplies to last them untold days of isolation. I only need my pen, paper or computer, imagination and me.

That's the essential ingredient in my writing, though; myself. Anything I write will have that element. It's unavoidable, and until I grew enough as a writer I never did fully appreciate that fact. For a long time I worried that I knew nothing. And while I was young and inexperienced it was most likely true. Even then I had been through some things. I just needed to find the ways to gain access to that information.

When I took on a job at Suite101.com several years ago, I had no idea the things I already knew. My subject is still there, in their archives for all who are interested; Parents' Guide to Reading for Kids. I wrote on reading for kids for almost two full years, writing up fortnightly articles and mining my own knowledge. Yes, I also researched outside what I knew, but the more I read the more I understood I had a vein of material from within my own life. I quit when they stopped paying. It never had been much, but it had paid for my internet connection.

The crooks now sell an ebook from their website with a collection of my articles. I receive nothing of their profit on this ebook. It must be doing okay because they keep it up there.

Aside from that, I did not fully value what I already knew about that topic. I had enough material within me to write some 49 articles on the subject. Okay, some weren't as good as others, but for the most part my articles were good, good enough for the crooks over there to steal and sell and leave me right out of the picture.

I only regret not valuing my own knowledge more. Those same articles I am collecting together, revising and working into my own ebook. My version will be so much better for several reasons. One, the articles will be updated and revised. Two, I am adding two new articles. Three, my version will have more articles than theirs. Four, I put it together. This project is truly my own, not some rip-off put together by someone who didn't even seek my permission to do so in the first place.

How much more do I know on how many other subjects? That is for me to discover. Each day I take my tools, my writer's kit, and set out to discover whatever else is in me. I may need help along the way. That's what being part of a writing group is about. It's why I seek out other opinions, books, websites, and experts. But first I must unearth the raw material from within myself. This requires the discipline of sitting each day, my bottom firmly glued into my chair with that bum glue I mentioned earlier this week.

But essentially, I need to do that. No one else can find out what I know, what I need to know and what interests me. I suppose through all this I'm really trying to say you have to be interested, have a passion. Look at the things that matter to you. Are you concerned about the environment, recycling, family, business? Are you passionate and interested enough to put off other tasks to be involved in that topic? There's a great place to start off with your writing. You already have enough information to tap away at and reveal as you sit and write each day. All you need to do is hold it up to the scrutiny of the others I mentioned before.

After all, the guy who mines the diamonds is not the same one who later skillfully cuts and shapes it into a thing of beauty. And even if he is, as in our case, he doesn't do the same job at the same time. He digs and delves into the rich earth, finds the basic material in its raw and unappealing state, then changes his outfit, cleans his hands and begins the work of revealing the beauty of his find. That's what we need to do. What we know is already there. It only requires the polishing of those other tasks; shaping, chipping, filing, shattering, rubbing and finally, admiring.

Go write and unearth an idea of potential beauty today.

(Although this entry was actually written around nine am on Saturday morning, the blog is set in a different place to where I live. So, please ignore if this shows as another entry for the same day. This is my entry for 16 July, 2005.)

There's a familiarity I slip into once I finally sit down to write for the day. Something like the way my feet feel in my slippers, or the way it feels when you finally come in for the day and know you won't need to leave the house again until tomorrow. That's how I feel when I sit down and write. There's a real sense of comfort. My fingertips caressing and nudging the keys on this board, the way the words form a split second after I expressed them in my mind; the silence, if I'm lucky, of the house around me; inhaling the strong black coffee that sits at my left on the old clock face coaster.

I feel this sense of comfort, too, when I sit to write in a cafe and hear the crack of the spine of my handmade journal as I open to where I've last written. I smooth the page, mark the date and let my thoughts go. I think I would write even if I never gained anything from it, at all. Yes, I enjoy the response of others. It's a big part of the writing experience, to see how your words touch people. But there's a real joy in simply creating words for yourself, to sit and let them spin out like sitting at a spinning wheel. The thread can be as singular as my desire to be here, or as complex as a deadline or group participation can make it. Those threads spin out a multi-textured cord with obvious interest to any reader.

And like spinning yarn each kind of writing brings its own set of challenges. To pick up the few fibres and begin to feed them into the spindle is similar to knowing where to start for the writer. But once you've done it you're away. There can be false starts, but usually only when we're being fussy. Any place is a good place to start. The thread can be chopped away if it's not to our liking later. There's the wear on your fingertips. The very act of spinning the sometimes coarse materials onto the wheel can cause the fingers to feel tender from overuse. We've all experienced that stiffening of fingers from holding a pen too long or using a keyboard for a long time. I have a lump on the middle finger of my right hand where the pen rubs as I write. The lump has gone down a little since I've had the baby. The lump was also worse while I attended school.

I'm not really sure my allegory of spinning and writing are very good. I've personally never spun anything other than a story. Some part of me craves to give spinning a go. I gather it's the same part of me that wants to sew and dye fabrics, that wants to sketch and paint, that wants to mould clay and carve stamps from rubbers (erasers for my US readers). I've always enjoyed crafts, but tend to want to get down to their grassroots level. Something in me must know the very in and out of every aspect of the endeavour I'm about to embark on. Although I've learnt I simply have more fun if I just start doing it. I read all the info I can find, but to actually do the thing, that's where the real learning comes.

And to make mistakes, do it the wrong way, or muck it up entirely, is still good. It may be costly, which is disappointing, but the mistake made is a lesson learnt and usually never repeated. That's the same with writing. No matter how much you read and discover from books, websites and other people, there's nothing like learning it yourself. When I did the challenge for Nanowrimo each of the last three years I found I learnt so much more about novels than from reading any one book on writing. The books have been helpful, for sure. None of the info was wasted. But there is really something in the actual fact of just sitting and writing.

No one else can teach you to find your own voice, or style or give the slant you give on any idea. No one else can produce the vision of your novel and the story you have to tell. The only way it's ever going to happen is to write and write. Write what works and what doesn't work. Write your characters into situations you'll never use in the finished product. Write dumb things, smart things, silly and fun things. Put characters into situations you failed at. Have them make the decisions you couldn't. Have them live the life you wanted to. Empower them with skills you've always wanted, yet make them fail sometimes, too. We've all failed, but none of us failed to learn something from our failures, even if the lesson came too late.

Hope this all made sense tonight.

Every time I sit down to write I get this flutter of fear. It's only small, but I never allow it to stop me from plunging in and writing. I once read a book about writing and fear. An online search will reveal the title and I'll post it here once I find it. It addressed the issue of fear and how writers can allow fear to paralyse them. I know once I did allow fear to rule me and my ability to produce words on a page or screen. But now I don't feel the fear in such a big way. It's been reduced to a mere whisper instead of the angry snarling roar I used to hear. It's difficult to face that raging emotion, but when fear speaks as soft as the end of my cat's tail as she swirls by me, well, that's pretty easy to ignore.

What quietened that untamed fear into something I could control? I really think the mornings I spent just writing and writing absolute guff in my morning pages is what did it. Once I had those three pages of rubbish out of the way I somehow felt switched on and ready for anything. Prior to reading Cameron's The Artist's Way I had been inspired by Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones, yet another book filled with utter nonsense, yet it spoke to something in me that needed release.

Goldberg gave me permission to write junk, to write about nothing, the pile of laundry, the sunlight streaming through my window in the morning, the dust gathered on the sill, the ants crawling around my dog's bowl. She showed me the beauty and simplicity of writing for the sake of it. The act of putting pen to paper with no real purpose in mind liberated me. I felt a freedom I simply did not find any other way.

It sounds crazy to think a grown woman, with children of her own, would need permission to write. I did, though. I really needed to know I could just write and have no real reason to. That I could pick up the pen and swirl it in scribbles if that's how I felt right then. All those inner restraints had held me back for so long. In unchaining myself I let out the writer within. All those critical sounds of how hopeless I was, how unimaginative, how boring, how useless, and it goes on and one, left me once I knew I could be all those things and it just didn't matter.

Of course, that's what got me going. I understood there was a place for writing better and far more interesting things, but the act of practicing is really what it's about. As soon as you learn to write and not think the sooner you can learn to hear your inner voice and what it's really trying to say. I learned I wanted to write about food, about my childhood, about my father, about my experiences, about reading and books, about my daily life. I learned I could connect with characters who are lining up to have their stories shared, and by me. I learned other people want to read my writing, too.

Once I freed myself to write whatever came to mind I found my readers, and listeners, responded in a way they never had before. People stopped me and thanked me for sharing what I'd read, for sharing a part of myself. I learned to access the parts of me that really have a story to tell. Anyway, I sat down without knowing what to write and guess what? I managed to fill the time with words. It's amazing what we can achieve if we just use a little bum glue and determination.

As a writer I feel it's important to be in touch with the emotional side of your personality. Each of us, as writers or non-writers, goes through a massive stream of emotion each and every day. As adults we've learned ways to cope with this cycle of feeling. If we haven't it means we subject ourselves to an emotional rollercoaster. This could be exhilarating, except it gets quite sickening after a while. Most of us get the sense to learn ways to deal with it or seek medical assistance. It could be necessary as a way of coping.

For myself I think I really grew up once I figured ways to live with my emotions. They ruled me for some time, a most unpleasant time, too. I may still have my good days and my bad days, but I am in far greater control. But as a writer there is a lot to learn from emotion. For a start, any character we want to write about, so long as we want them to appear real, will need emotion. Without it they're just cardboard characters and no one wants them in their fiction. We want characters that live and breathe, characters that take big chunks out of life and have trouble coping with that mouthful. This is what makes reading exciting. The very fact we are emotional beings makes reading about the daily struggle others go through something we can relate to.

Perhaps this is the real reason online blogs are so interesting. We have permission to peek into the life of an ordinary person. They're a lot like us and yet they are also very different. They go through their daily struggles and their lifetime battles. We read and understand how they feel but wouldn't want to be them, either.

As far as adding life to our characters we can do no worse than mine our own life experiences. Each of us has experienced emotion at different levels. We've all known pain in some way or another. There’s the pain of loss, unrequited love, abandonment, physical ailment or labour in bringing our children into the world. The memory of this pain is there free to mine as the raw material of your own experience. Take it and shape it into something precious that will make your character alive and thriving. Your readers will feel the echo of their own pains as they identify with your character.

This is why something has to happen in fiction. Not specifically in fiction, but something has to happen to your character. I heard it described once as "getting your character up a tree and throwing stones at them." Not only do we need to have them in a bad situation we also need to have things going from bad to worse. Your character may go through challenges you've never faced, but you have experienced that same emotion on a lesser level. You can use the memory of the loss of your beloved pet to understand the loss of a loved one, if you've never had that experience yet yourself.

As we live our lives we store up a vast resource we can always use for our writing. Everything is worth noting. For just one day try to write down the emotions you experience. There's the frustration of waiting in traffic or in the endless line at the bank. You feel intimidated by the bossy receptionist or superior to the silly checkout girl. You feel angry at your husband for overlooking your needs, again. The kids get you cranky by not doing attending to the small details you asked them to. The joy of small discoveries and the things that make you laugh, write them down, too. The possibilities are there in your day, which is likely to be vastly different from mine.

Just make a quick entry at the time you feel the emotion. Later, go through the list and write short descriptions of how you felt at the time. Details such as body language, the way you actually felt inside, and the words you muttered to yourself are all important. Now try and put these onto a character you're working with in fiction. It doesn't matter if you never use the piece in your finished work. What is important is that you get to know your characters in an intimate way. You begin to feel empathy for them, to understand their hurts and joys. I hope this helps someone. I need to finish here, because I'm way over time, again.

The sun is shining and I've had a good night's rest. Amazing how your physical condition can affect your mood. I know when I walk daily and get plenty of rest I perform better. Winter tends to rob me of those two things, well this winter in particular. The baby only woke once and that was around four. Not too bad. I even got back to bed after dropping my big boy down at the train station. Constant rain robs me of the ability to walk whenever I feel like it, too. Not that it's raining today. There's always something to do while the baby sleeps these days. I do need to get back into the habit of walking, though.

Walking as a writer is different. I used to walk for my health, and found it difficult to motivate myself to get out there and do it. I read another of Julia Cameron's books and changed my focus. For the most part the book had lots of silly nonsense in it. That's my opinion. I don't recall the title, and don't want to stop just to find out. But she did say to walk daily as part of the creative process. Once I changed to creativity as a motive for walking I suddenly found ways to fit it into my day. I used the time to ponder issues raised in my fiction, to let my mind wander, to mull over problems I couldn't resolve. I miss that. Perhaps it's time to give myself another pep talk and get out there for my creativity's sake and stop focusing on my health.

Not that there's anything wrong with improving my health. Being healthy can only make you better at whatever you do. I suppose we each need to learn the ways our own minds work. If I need to resort to little tricks, that's okay with me. If walking around the big long block past the high school will make me a better writer, then I'm all for it. Any other benefit is just a bonus.

One day in particular I walked by one single red poppy growing in a crack in the footpath. I plucked it and continued walking. I didn't let my mind run down the track of logic, though. That would be too easy. It was clear the flower grew from a wandering seed. It just struck me as significant as I could see no other poppies in any of the gardens I passed. I had been thinking on an idea from Julia Cameron's The Right to Write, which has less nonsense than some of her other books. I had just done one of the exercises and wondered how I could use it to form a story. I held the red poppy gently in my fingertips and let my mind roll.

Suddenly an image of the flower as a dress came to me and the entire story clicked into place. I had characters, the problem to resolve and motive, all from the walking and one flower. Once home I jotted down my thoughts on an index card. It sat there for a few weeks until a call came for short stories for a competition. I wrote the tale up as a 5000 word short story. I'd love to say I won the comp, but I didn't. I do know the story worked, though, because of input from other writers in workshops, etc. I'm still seeking a market for that one, not that I've done much about sending work out just lately.

The point is the walking helped me in that case and many more. It's just I recall that one time clearly. The only problem I had with going for a walk was getting permission to go alone. Once I'd pull on my shoes the kids wanted to come and even hubby would feel suddenly motivated. I love my family and it's hard to say no to them, especially when it makes me look unreasonable. I had to establish some rules. I don't mind walking, but we're not to speak. Can you all handle that? The kids found it too difficult, but I encouraged them to walk ahead. Hubby didn't mind at all, though. While I was pregnant with my littlest we'd often go for long rambling walks in complete but companionable silence.

For this reason I'd love to live in the country. I could handle walking through bush tracks and breathing in the eucalyptus scent of the air. Walking around a suburb of houses and streets can be uninspiring. I had to play little games with my mind to make me feel I was in fact walking somewhere else. I'd need to look for just one colour or focus on certain flowers in gardens. I did anything I could to make the places I walked fresh to my mind. But there's also something about doing those mindless actions, like showering, driving, cooking, that sends me off somewhere. It's a place where my mind has permission to create. I don't need to think on what I'm doing. I can work automatically and my creative mind can roam and create. Anyway, that's more than ten minutes. I simply lost track of time.

Keeping these entries writing related gets tougher each day. I just ate dinner and feel that sated warmth and sleepiness that comes with knowing the day is over and all my chores are done. My big kids take care of the dishes, even though I think there'll be some dispute tonight, as both were out of the house working. My son attended TAFE, the community college he does his automotive panel repair workshops at, and my daughter her casual holiday job as a cashier. Normally I enjoy the school holiday break, but it hasn't been much of one. I've needed to wake each morning around ten past six to take my son down to the train station. Some mornings I've managed to get back to bed. Most mornings I haven't. I suppose the frustrations of the mumwriter's life is where this is leading.

If hubby had a job. If he didn't need to be reminded of my need to create. If..? There's always something preventing me getting down to writing. Lack of sleep makes me really depressed, too. My state of mind just lately might have something to do with the little shut-eye I've been getting. I begin to think only negatives, to feel anything I want to attempt is hopeless and that I am incapable of achieving what I plan to, anyway.

I think it also has something to do with winter. I tend to get the blues in winter, where summer time is my best time. For my family it's the complete opposite. They love winter and can't wait to don thicker clothes, to flick the heater on and do cosy things together. I detest chilled fingertips, icy cheeks and noses, freezing cold buttocks (for some reason that's where I really feel the cold) and the mood that descends on me at this time of year.

All this lack of sunshine over the grey days of endless rain really does get to me. I attempt to write and yet nothing really happens. That's not true just lately. Really the family has had me run off my feet. I haven't had time for anything but this, my usual blog and a moment online at night. I fall into bed without even reading or doing anything else. To say I feel frustrated would be too trivial a word. I'm more than frustrated.

There's the whole no money thing going on, too. Hubby doesn't have a job, so we live on umemployment and some other government handouts. Now, I'm not unthankful for those. Without them I have no idea what we'd do, but it makes life tough. I end up doing a bunch of things I don't really have time for. They take longer than if I had the money to do them another way, but we have no choice. Having the baby to deal with is also throwing the otherwise well-ordered existence I knew before he arrived way out the window.

I think I'm really starting to annoy myself now, so I'll end this here and go post it. I don't mind if you have nothing to say to me tonight. I'm too down to really care.

High expectations and disappointment are probably a good subject to tackle in a writing blog. I know I had my fair share yesterday. I think each of us expects a lot of our writing, especially in the beginning. I remember feeling so eager to write and be published. The long gap between first sending out my working and to that first acceptance taught me how to handle disappointments. I don't know if it ever made me lower my expectations, though.

If you have a look at my goals, as a writer, then you might understand what I mean. I do expect my writing to take me that far. I want to achieve and succeed, except when one of my writing friends described me as ambitious I have to admit to a sense of shock. Me? Ambitious? Surely not, but then I pictured all the negative images of that word at that time. The media, films, even books, depict ambition as deadly and often dangerous. When I expressed this to my writing friend she quickly drew my attention to the positive aspects of ambition. Now I say ambition is good, so long as it doesn't become obsession.

That same ambition, that high level of expectation, can also make the disappointments harder to bear. Waiting and waiting for a reply on a manuscript or even a query can feel like an eternity. When the answer is polite, encouraging, but still negative, it can feel difficult to push through and continue with your dream.

I'm learning to take disappointments and turn them into lessons. I had an email query accepted a couple of years ago. The editor took the time to point out the weaknesses in my query, but she did want to see the article. I thanked her for pointing out the fact I could've included more information. But by the time I got the article written up, she hadn't given me a deadline, the magazine ceased publication. Lessons learnt? Don't take so long next time and write a stronger query. If I had, she might have given me a deadline and I'd have another credit to list. Now I have an orphaned article that doesn't quite fit any other publication. Yes, I could rewrite it, but that's just one more thing on my to do list.

I've applied for mentorships, had my writing assessed by experts, entered competitions, and so on. Each time I've had my share of disappointments, but have reshaped that low feeling into something I can use. Yes, I have a lot to learn, but I am making progress. I'm not staying static. I am growing and learning every day. It makes life far more exciting to add disappointment and remix it into something that fuels my desire to keep on writing, keep on pushing to get where it is I'm trying to go.

So, I'm forty today. I suppose I'll look back on this day, my weird moods, and the fact no one besides my family wished me happy birthday so far, and learn something to make my life worth living again. I refuse to give up or stop.

What's your DREAM? I don't mean what's your goal for the end of camp, Imean, what, if nothing could stop you, would be your ultimate writerly goal? Share it with the group.

My ultimate dream is to have the books I've written published, become bestsellers, keep writing bestsellers, build a readership of devoted eager readers and make enough money to help my family out of the slump we've been in for years. I said it before, but what I really want is to be an international bestselling author.

Maybe, just maybe I expect too much of my family sometimes.

It's my birthday tomorrow, but we celebrated today. As in we had to wait until dinner was cooked at around eight thirty tonight. We had to wait until around ten when my son had finished decorating my cheesecake. The same cheesecake he was supposed to make, but I ended up making last night. Not to mention how the prawns needed to be picked out and cooked again because my daughter just followed the recipe and didn't employ any of that common sense we've tried to stuff her brain with for the last 17 years. Then there's the way I needed to shop for all this special stuff in the midst of crazy sales in shopping centres filled with manic shoppers. Just whose birthday is it anyway?

As I stood there in tears last night as I blended ricotta and cream cheeses together I had to remind myself that maybe I'm being unfair.

I am the one who goes out and buys their special treats for their birthdays. I make the meal or simply provide it, whatever. I actually do this, for the most part, every day, too. I tend their needs; anticipate their desires, work hard to keep things in some kind of order. I'm mum and the long-suffering wife. But that's not their job; it's mine. They don't know how to anticipate anything I might need or feel or want. They're the hubby and the kids. They just don't get it.

So, not only do I look after them I end up looking after my own celebrations, which doesn't make me feel like anything special in the long run. When I end up working this hard, it starts to feel like I'm just not worth the effort.

Why should I be the one to go out of my way, for myself? Surely that's not how it's meant to be. I stressed and rushed. I shopped and worried. All because they do important things like work, sleep in and play around with their friends. And I don't need to do any of those things, obviously.

Excuse my moody entry. I'm just feeling a little down. I turn 40 tomorrow and I'm starting to wonder if I've actually missed the boat as far as getting my family to understand exactly where I'm at. Thing is, I only want what they get all the time, for just one day, one meal, one moment. Yet it seems that is all too much to expect. I need to learn to be grateful for whatever it is they do for me. My personal standard of service is high, and yet no one ever meets up to that when it comes to what I need.

Okay, the cheesecake tastes okay. The only thing missing was my son's delicate touch. The meal was pretty good once the kids pulled all the prawns out and recooked them in the fry pan. My gifts were lovely. Hubby made a massage certificate booklet for me on the computer and printed it out. I can cash these in any time I like. The kids put in and bought me a handcrafted leather purse. I really need one, as the one I have is just about dead. And my daughter made me one of her birthday cards.

I'm not complaining about these things. I'm just feeling fragile and a bit battered. I didn't feel turning 30. It was just another day to me. But I am feeling turning 40. What's the difference besides a decade? I have no idea, but inside I'm just all in turmoil and greasy. It's unsettling. I had to write it down and this is the only outlet I've had all day. Please excuse my rant.

"I've lost my touch," my red-haired son said to me and dumped the skateboard at my feet.

His words sounded drastic to my ears. After all, it had only been six weeks since he'd attempted an olley or tried to grind some handrail. Six weeks without any time on his skateboard. It might as well have been an eternity to my fourteen year old son. Perhaps I need to explain.

Earlier this year as he waited outside the school for his bus, a half-crazed young man punched my son in the face, more specifically, right in the nose. Of course it broke. The attack was completely unprovoked. There were witnesses and my son wasn't the only boy assaulted. One other red-head had his nose punched and broken, too. Rather than go into the whole crazy day, I'll jump all that and skip straight to what the doctor decided to do later.

After the swelling reduced and the doctor had a look at my son's nose, the doc left it up to me. My son could breathe quite normally and apart from an obvious swing to the left his nose looked completely normal. I decided he needed it fixed. I didn't want to know how it didn't bother him, but it meant going under general anesthetic and rebreaking the nose, which had its own risks.

We went ahead with the operation. My son came out from under the influence quickly. I knew he felt better by the question he asked me. Before the surgery the doctor marked which way my son's nose swung in red felt pen. As the cloudiness cleared from his eyes he asked me, "Do I still have a red arrow on my forehead?" But then the bad news.

The female doctor gave my son stern instructions not to engage in any sporting activity for the following six weeks. You could see the weight this news carried as my son's shoulders slumped and he asked, several times, about specific activities he just about lives and breathes. The answer every time was a firm but simple no. No skateboarding, no bike riding, no basketball, or cricket, or football, or running around with his mates. It felt more than he could carry.

Living with an active son who's suddenly had his wings stripped is not an easy thing. Not only did his natural aggression have no outlet, but the poor kid felt fine. To not have the freedom to run and jump and throw things around felt like a prison sentence.

For me the six weeks stretch out to the longest wait I've ever experienced.

Finally, the day arrived, the doctor checked and my son's nose passed inspection. He had permission to play and run again. But what did he learn? That he'd lost his touch. Lack of practice took its toll. I worked hard to encourage him to simply push through the obstacle and get back into things again. He did. He worked on his skating and his basketball. He applied himself diligently each evening out the front of the house. He's in the basketball team now. He's kind of lost interest in the skateboarding, again, but he learnt something and even admitted it to me the other day.

Driving along in the car he said to me, "In a way it was good to have a break from basketball. It made me realise that's what I want to do. And it made me see how important practice is." He turned to me and said, "I want to be the best basketball player ever." I smiled and told him if he just keeps practicing he's most likely to be exactly that.

I suppose this entry could apply to anyone who writes. Maybe a break can do you some good, too. It might fine tune exactly what you want to pursue. But that good old standard of practice comes back again and again. That's all I have to say tonight.

It's another one of those days for me. Rushing from one task to another. People taking more time than I planned for. People dropping in for visits, tasks to keep me occupied. Mental head as far as getting things I needed at the shops. I know it has something to do with lack of sleep. I'm far more productive when I've had my dose of at least six hours. I can survive on that much every night. Seven is better, but it makes no difference if I have more. Broken sleep is not conducive to a productive day, either. And then my body let me down, just when I don't want it to.

It all sounds like an excuse for having no prompt or anything else to write about. Some days are just too much for me. It's a fact I've learnt to roll with. Okay, I haven't worked on any assignments or even my goals all this week, but life can be like that for me. I know I'll get my good days and that's when I'll produce enough work to astound even myself. Just getting through the day felt like trying to push through rice paper. I had two episodes of this recurring upper abdomen pain, too. Painkillers sorted it out, but they left me feeling not in touch with reality and air-headed. I only just finished eating dinner half an hour ago and sat down wondering what to write.

I pawed through The Writer's Idea Workshop by Jack Heffron with thick, awkward fingers. But still felt I had no idea and gave up. I really should read that book. I flipped the pages of Good Taste magazine, but the photos of dishes just made me feel annoyed. Do these people live the same way I do and have the same budget? Almost every dish has prawns (shrimp for my US readers) curled seductive and fat amid various coloured sauces, rice and/or noodles. Nothing there inspired me to write.

I sat and thought about the two fun things that happened this week to do with writing and rewards. Okay, to be fair only one of those involved a financial reward, but the other still made me feel good. That's a reward in my book.

On Friday I spent some time at the library and read an article in a magazine I love; Good Reading. In this article I came across a word that didn't sit well with me. Surely the writer had used the wrong word, my first instinct told me. I checked the dictionary for the word used in the article and couldn't find it anywhere. dictionary.com provided the answer I needed. Yes, the meaning I imagined was correct, yet could I be wrong about the way the writer used it? It annoyed me all evening and finally I bounced it off hubby. He's no wordsmith, but he's learnt to appreciate my interest. he agreed it couldn't be right.

I wrote the editor an email, but didn't do so until Sunday afternoon. That same afternoon I'd treated the family to Cadbury Flake ice creams and much to our dismay only two of them actually had the chocolate Flakes inside. This fuelled me to sit and write a couple of emails; one to Cadbury, who made it easy with a lovely little form to fill in online, and the other email to the editor of Good Reading. That done, I felt a lot better and promptly forgot about the whole business.

Monday on checking my email my eyes lit up at the sight of a reply from the editor. Indeed my sharp eyes were correct and their writer had made a mistake. I received a lovely email from her and replied with thanks.

On Wednesday morning the only letter arrived from the ice-cream producers with an apology, a thanks for letting them know and two $5 vouchers for the store where I shop most often. Okay, not directly from writing, but an indirect writing blessing. It made me feel good to know I did these things because I write. Nothing much tonight, but enough to fill the screen and pass the time.

Things a writer needs.

I don't have a prompt, but made that one up on the spot. Some days my brain feels flat and lacks that creative juice I need. Let's see what happens. I've learnt you don't always need it so long as you turn up and just start writing.

I've found all you really need as a writer is imagination. Okay, you need something to physically write with, but I've used lipstick, eyeliner, crayon and faded felt pens to scrawl thoughts on the back of school newsletters, envelopes, shopping receipts, and unpaid bills. It annoys me no end how they've taken up all that white space on the back of receipts by printing all those vouchers I'll never use. They were handy scraps of paper to have around. Okay, I've since learnt to carry a notebook wherever I go, so I do need something to write on and something to write with. My mobile phone has also become a handy spot to jot things. I use the reminders to make short notes to myself and set a time for it to remind me, usually later in the day when I'll be sitting down again.

But without imagination what the heck would I write? My mind buzzes around 100 miles an hour each and every day. Not only am I thinking of the present moment, I'm stewing heaps of story ideas, characters, article ideas and meanings of words. I try to learn a new word every day. I'd also carry a dictionary with me, but there are only so many things I can carry. The bag is heavy enough with my journal, pencil case, purse, baby gear and whatever else I manage to shove in there. I used to have an electronic dictionary/thesaurus, but the batteries have gone flat. It's one of those things I forget to buy. So, I need places to catch the ideas before they slip away. I know that truly good ideas do return again and again, but it's a good way to prompt my brain they need getting done when I see the note I made on the topic.

It helps to have a computer. Since teaching myself to type way back when my first two kids were little, I've come to appreciate my computer. One day on returning from exercise classes I came across one of those car boot sales. There on the ground beside some guy’s car I spied a hefty manual typewriter. That heavy beast cost me a total of $5. I had to lug my son, then less than a year old, on my hip and put the typewriter in the pram. My daughter had to walk, she had no choice. At least home was in easy walking distance. A visit to the library provided me with the books I needed in order to teach myself how to type. I used about three until I found the one I liked the most. After some slow going lessons I finally picked up the art of typing, although I wouldn't get a job as a typer anywhere, I work up a mean 70 words a minute or more these days, but I do use a keyboard now.

Did I mention the library? I've always loved and used the library. Whenever I need to know something I head straight there. I'm one of these people who learn by reading. If there's a book on it I'll locate it and devour everything I possibly can on the subject. It's part of my nature. I think I've read every book the library has on writing. If I like the book a lot, found it useful, then I go ahead and buy it. I also read lots of fiction.

Anyway, I'm sure my time is up. The baby woke in the middle of this so I have no idea how long I had to go. He's in his bouncee now half complains at me and half smiles, the way only babies do. Better go.

The name of that book I mentioned yesterday is The Midnight Disease and I'll get the author for this spot by the time I get this online. Her name is Alice Flaherty. While I did my thing last night, posting blog entries, reading other blogs and email, I tracked down the book and requested it from the library, an easy enough thing to do. I couldn't recall the title but remembered some of the key words in the sub title. That helped a lot. I even found an interview with the author here.

But what to write about today? It's a tough one sometimes to come and sit here without a thought in my head on what I'm going to write. Perhaps I'll write about the places I like to write the way Dawn did the other day.

There's a place I go with the other members of the writing centre I'm part of usually twice a year on weekend writer's retreats. I haven't been this year, at all, but that's not surprising. I have a new baby and am certain the last thing my fellow writers want is for me to bring him along. I know they love me, but that would be stretching the friendships a bit too far. I missed the one at the end of last year because it happened at the same time as Father's Day here in Australia. It feels like ages since I've been there. I love the place so much I've even taken my family there and we've stayed to enjoy the place together. The land itself has a real peaceful presence. There's a calm as you walk around the property, breathing in the scent of the bush and the river.

There's a house and that's where we stay when I go with the writers. It's a massive, but simple place with nine bedrooms and twelve beds. Apart from being a wonderful place to stay the woman who owns it doesn't even charge very much to stay per night. There's also a couple of old rail carriages on the property, some caravans, too. My family has used the old rail carriages several times. Things are rough, but not as rough as camping. You get to sleep in a real bed and cook in the simple kitchen, if you like. We also cook out on the fire when we feel like it.

But I love to go out into the bush early in the morning when all I can hear is the screech of the black cockatoos as they chase the dawn light through the trees. I love to take my journal with me and sit on a rock and write. Anything I write there is electric. It's the atmosphere. When with the group we create amazing stories, poetry and pieces in our informal workshops. We read them aloud and I'm stunned by what each of us create with our imaginations and pens and just by being at that place.

There's a certain magic to it, I think, even though that sounds somewhat childish. Even when I'm there with my family we all draw or paint and write and sit in the silence easily. Poetry I've written there has been published. Other ideas that came to me there have gone on to be real. It's my favourite place to write. Even though I'm happy to sit at one of my favourite cafes and pen my prose, too.

Yesterday we had a day off. I still wrote something, I just didn't post it on here. Does that make me some kind of addict?

Perhaps that's a good place to start my entry for the evening. It's a lot later than usual, but I have to work with what I've got around here. At the library today for the monthly reading group meeting, I came across a book with an interesting title. I wish I could recall what the title was now. I'd love to look it up once I get online tonight. It do recall what it was about, though; writing addiction, which had some fancy sounding name, and the opposite; writers or a creative block. The black cover drew my attention and the stark white words speaking out to me that I should read it. I have no idea now why I put it back. Perhaps the fact I had White Teeth in my hands for this month's read; Book Lust, which I picked up last week at the library; and I still have Mao's Last Dancer to read, which I picked up last month.

But this brings me back to the question; is it possible to have a writing addiction?

I know I must write every day, at least once. There's this blog, my other online journal, the handwritten one I carry around in my nappy bag, the one beside the bed for last minute nightly thoughts and the one for the books I'm reading. I've written in the first three and the reading one today. But does that make me an addict?

There are days I simply don't have time to sit and write in my handwritten one. I've only been onto this one for around three weeks. The other online journal I've only been writing in regularly in the last couple of months again after having my baby. The nightly one I tried to keep up but some nights I just crashed. I'm back at it every night now, though. The reading one is very simple. I note the title, author, page number, when I started and finished, where I obtained the book and what I thought of it. Last year my count was sixty something and the year before 74, I think. This year I'm at eight so far.

I know I like to write. It satisfies something deep inside me. I enjoy the sensation of forming words on the page or the screen. But what qualifies me as a writing addict? I suppose the best way to find out is to read the book I mentioned above; the one I can't recall the title of. Usually, I note these things down, but I did have the pram to push and the book to carry and the time to watch as I needed to be home.

When I write an entire novel or other project I get antsy if I can't get to it. I haven't done anything on my goal project in several days and it's bothering me. Some days I'm lucky to get near the computer. Today was one of them. I admit it's my own fault. I read and read to finish the book for reading group. I so wanted to be part of the discussion. I didn't read the last one and felt out of touch with the discussion, even though it seems I didn't miss much, anyway.

I like words. I like the sound of them on my tongue and enjoying playing around with them just about any time. For some reason I love saying the word slab. It's so satisfying, so delicious, so delightful. Maybe I'm not so addicted to writing as I am to words. I see them everywhere and read them in great chunks. As we zoom past signs in the car I read them aloud. I read the credits at the end of the movie; I have to know if the story is based on a book or where they filmed those scenes. I write email complaints to publishers and ice cream companies just because I can. I don't really care if I get a response. The reward for me is the writing, not what they will do. Anyway, my time is up.

There are times when I'm acutely aware of my otherness as a writer. This term, mentioned in the book Pen on Fire, describes that sense of not belonging or living on the fringes of normal or every day society. Not in the same way the homeless are, but on an emotional level. But I'm not sure that's really the word I'm after here. I don't mean in a spiritual sense, either, just that feeling of not belonging to any group. Perhaps people who wear homelessness as you would a cloak do experience this feeling, too. Perhaps that's what drives them to avoid society and live outside the lines marked for each of us.

Those lines are not tactile, though. You cannot know when you have crossed some of those lines. Of course, some lines are clear and the law governs the marking out of those across our communities. Our consciences prompt us of other lines, and the new codes of ethics, confidentiality and duty of care that take its place. I mean the lines you cannot point to, pick up or indicate in any way. I do mean that sense when you just know that you've stepped over some line you shouldn't have, but you didn't see it. Perhaps the line once etched a visible standard, but the chalky nature of the line, and the shuffling of many feet over that line have all but obliterated the line, made it indistinct. There's just the echo of self-recrimination as you recognise the glazed eyes surrounding you. The way you just know you don't fit in with these people.

Feeling like a square peg when everyone around you is clearly round. How they slot right into that hole you tried to fit into. This might not become apparent to you or even anyone else immediately. Some people spend years forcing the edges of their personality into the wrong purpose. They file and soften those edges tirelessly. They work on their character and read self-help books. But the truth remains. The hole remains round and the person remains square. We are what we were created to be.

I've been aware of this feeling for a long time. There's that knowledge you just don't quite belong. I tried to fit in with the brainy kids, yet something about their ordered and logical existence didn't sit well with me. I couldn't do that. Not all the time. I grew up with the beach at my front door, so the surfie chick image fit temporally. But in the long run I needed more substance than sun, surf and sand. I wanted something solid. For a time I lived a kind of alternative, hippy lifestyle; the biker chick phase; serious working times; the night club nights; for a while I lived as a travelling Matilda; the newly wed stage; and my initiation into motherhood. While all these moments added to my life, I did not find that place I truly fit.

When I finally made the decision to serve Christ as Lord, some measure of belonging followed. It's true then and now, I do feel more at home with true saints than at any other time of my life previously. But even among saints there's a certain level of belonging. Most people aren't willing to accept that fact. Mostly, the ones who refuse to see it simply because they do belong. They've never felt outside that circle in any way. But I have felt like I didn't belong even among those who are supposed to be my brethren.

There's only one place I've ever felt completely at ease with others. That place is among other writers. These people have all kinds of religious beliefs, have lived all kinds of lives and come from various parts of the world, but we have a passion for words in common. They understand the way I think and feel about this or that thing, and yet we can still disagree. There's the debates and arguments, but ultimately we're having a ball; discussing the issues of life and love and everything in between. That's what makes life worth living. To know there are others I can bounce my ideas off, who won't look at me like I just lost my marbles. That I can speak my mind, have my opinion, even if it isn't a popular one, and know they won't give me even an intellectual cold shoulder. I know I fit in with other writers and it sure feels good.

This entry was extremely difficult to write. I love my hubby, but he isn't a writer. He doesn't always understand my need to be alone to write. I don't want to feel guilty over letting him know what I need, though. He might not understand, but he appreciates my honesty. He said, "I'll leave then," yet I know he didn't mean it in a nasty way. He prefers me to be straight up with him. So I was and I got what I wanted, only after getting half way through this entry, though.