Timid wave

Don't get too excited. I don't know if I'm back yet. But I had a small, silent urge to write and I thought I better seize the moment before it passed. So here I am. Writing. A little.

Today is Day 5 of my Ultimate Relaxation Holiday. No, I'm not at a spa. Or an ashram. I'm all by my lonesome down in my happy place in the South of France. That's right. I took one week off work to be by myself. Does that make me a freak? Maybe. But God it's so nice to not have to care about what anyone else thinks, wants, says, needs... No one else matters this week but me. And that is true luxury. That, and my iPad.

So here I am. I drove down from my little corner of Switzerland, winding my way past lakes and mountains, then through Italy (ah, Italy, how I have come to love you this year..) and across into France along the Côte d'Azur. It's an absolutely terrible drive to do if you get easily distracted by beautiful scenery (like me), dislike spending 20 minutes covered by a million tonnes of mountain as you go through the Gotthard Pass (like me), get easily annoyed by crazy Italian drivers (like me) and have a car that is less than comfortable with windy-hilly-pseudo-highways and has no AC (like me). But gosh it's stunning. Anyways, I made it in one piece, and have since been doing mostly nothing at all. Some running (trying to avoid the major roadside accidents of last year), some time at the pool, some time at the beach, some serious fall collection shopping in St Tropez. Heaven. Except that I have been bitten by so many mosquitos it looks like someone tried to write on me in braille. I'm thinking a sonnet.

I did have big plans to get cracking on the second book this week. Back around Christmas time I got incredibly inspired and started four different chapters of an idea I thought would revolutionize the concept of the American Novel. Or the French-Wannabee-American Novel anyways. And now... Well, now I hate it. I am so thoroughly bored by the idea it puts me to sleep just thinking about it. But there is one little nugget of something I like in one of the chapters. I wonder if there's somewhere I can go with it - maybe a short story. We'll have to see.

As for the first novel, well, like me, it is making it's lonely scary way in the world, trying its very best. Both the Kindle and the paperback versions have sold a few copies, and now I'm debating whether or not to try another round of agents. Especially after my recent run of disappointing reads that have left me thinking that if THEY found a publisher, then surely... We'll see. First, there are so many other things to sort out. Finding a new rental arrangement for my perfect little Parisian flat. Finding a new place in Switzerland (the flatmate and I are parting ways, amicably, and it's time for me to strike out on my own). Getting to grips with the job which is about to hit that difficult second year, where the novelty is gone and you have to work past all the annoyances and grievances and frustrations to make it something exciting again. And hey, maybe I'll even manage to get back to writing this blog...

Published

That's it.  It's out there.  When you look me up on amazon, you now get a hit (both .com AND the .co.uk versions!)

I hummed and hahed about publicizing it on this blog.  You have been my biggest supporters, after all.  But, well, the title page doesn't say "Res" and, as Buddy noted, that would result in an uncomfortable mix of my personas.

So, if you're interested in checking out the baby you're going to have to be a little bit clever.  Or drop me a line and I'll whisper in your ear.

After almost 18 months, I've reached the end of my project.  It didn't all go according to plan, and there were many, many painful moments, but still, I achieved something.  I wrote a book.  An entire one.  Some people have read it.  A few more may still.  Maybe one of them will really like it.

And that's already something.

The Past Imperfect Re-Kindled

This afternoon I saw a demonstration in Switzerland.  Hundreds of people blocking up the streets and waving signs, and one man singing (badly) a rather humorous song, or at least I assume it was humorous based on the giggles of the passers-by.  Although Swiss-German always sounds quite amusing to me anyway.

Leaving the demonstrators behind, I wandered onto the main drag of the city, the one where all the fancy watches and the LV handbags go to feel casual.  And there was a woman begging for money on the sidewalk.

I was so surprised I almost tripped over her.

It was like someone had sent me a tiny chunk of the outside world right into my Swiss antibacterial bubble.

Speaking of the bubble, it's been a challenge lately.  Turns out CoolCo Sub is so very cool that everyone wants a piece of it.  And they're suing us to get it.  Which is when everyone turns around to me and says "wait a sec, you're a litigator, right?" at which point I somehow become responsible for everyone keeping their jobs.  Fantabulous.  Especially when my Nemesis sticks his nose in it and starts trashing my work like the angry little man he is.  And I've already failed in my mission to save everyone's job since we had to fire someone two weeks ago.  I'm not going to go into that any further except to say it was incredibly unpleasant.

It was right in the middle of all this medieval madness that I received the following email from the agent who had asked to see my full manuscript:

"Dear Res,
Loved the first few chapters, girl.  But then, not so much.  So I will now crush your hopes and dreams and suggest you go read One Day so you can see what real authors do.
Toodle-doo,
Cruella"

So there it is.  I could keep going.  I could re-write.  Again.  I could send out to more agents.  And I could keep waiting.

Part of me wants to do that.  Part of me wants to wait for the chance to open up a brown cardboard package with the first ever copy of my book, a book I could slide into my bookshelf and smile at my name written on the side.

But the other part won. 

And so, following my Facebook friends' advice, I am publishing my novel on Amazon's Kindle.  It will be coming out very soon, so watch this space.

In the meantime, maybe I should buy a Kindle?

Hello conscience

"Hi. I am your conscience. And right now, I'm telling you that it's time for you to BLOG already!"

That's the message I got from my conscience today.  And believe me, when your conscience suddenly starts talking to you, you stand up and take note.  You also find yourself wondering whether those mushrooms you pulled out from the back of the fridge last night in a half-hearted attempt to get your five-a-day weren't a bit funny...

So here I am, blogging.  But what about?

The problem with getting a job is that your life becomes a whole lot less exciting all of a sudden.  Especially if that job is in Switzerland.  And especially if you can't blog about your job because said job is so unique that as soon as you open your exhibitionist little mouth everyone would figure out exactly what it is you're doing.

Which would get you fired.

Although I suppose that would be something to blog about.

But until that happens, there's always the fascinating topic of the failed novel.  I'm up to ten rejections now (they come in slow and steady, like an IV drip).  I'm thinking I should publish the best ones and let you vote on which are the most insulting.  So far I'm leaning towards the personalized and delightfully constructive "Res, you write beautifully, but your characters and plot suck."

Cheers.

As for the agents who asked for my full manuscript, not a peep out of them since October.  Come on people, I wrote a 63,000-word basic Chick Lit novel, not War and Peace!

Okay, see?  This is why I don't blog anymore.  Because I just end up getting upset and ranting and raving and showing you my not-so-darling side...

I need some Gute Laune... can anyone catch me some of those?  (with a side of sunshine, please)

Celebrating small victories

I'm paying a million francs a minute for this internet connection, and I'm late for an apartment viewing, but I just had to tell you...

An agent has asked to see my full manuscript!!!!

[insert flash animation of Little Swiss Miss Res jumping up and down, bouncy castle style]

Speaking of which, anyone else miss bouncy castles?

Swiss Post One

First impressions, stream-of-consciousness style.

My Twingo made it all the way in one piece and looks adorable parked between the Bentleys and Jags.  The travel stickers on the back are a particularly nice touch.  The man at the border was friendly when welcoming me into his country.  Switzerland is grey and wet and freezing cold this time of year.  But the forest behind the hotel is perfect to run in. Although my ears did almost fall off.  There is no bathrobe in my room, which defeats the entire purpose of hotel stays.  Food is good, though pricey.  I dare to dream that one day all hotels will provide free internet.  My new country of residence requires me to go through extensive administrative torture, all in the first week, and I have no idea when I will actually manage to go to the office.  Fitting an entire life's worth of belongings inside a single hotel bedroom (seriously, a single) is harder that solving world hunger.  Switzerland has this "glocal" website for expats which looks like it will do wonders for my social life (I hope).  My German skills have so far managed to get me through the day without intense embarrassment or imminent danger.  But I'm dying for some English TV channels (CSI in German is only half comprehensible).

Oh, and I got rejected by my first agent.  Although I suppose Switzerland is not to blame for that.

Never mind, at least now I have some serious aspiring novelist street cred.

Five Down

Eleven to go.

This is it.  The moment of truth.  I've started querying the first of my 16 carefully selected agents. 

For those of you who haven't spent the past year or so obsessed with the workings of the anglophone fiction publishing circus, lowly unpublished authors like myself can't just up and send a manuscript to editors willy-nilly.  Oh no.  Before any contact with editors is to be had, one must first bag oneself an Agent.

The Agent is the holy grail of the unpublished writer.  The Gateway to publication, the Saint Peter of literature.  And finding one involves hours of research, intense preparation and some pretty serious groveling.

The process goes something like this:

1.  Purchase the Writer's Yearbook, aka The Bible.  Even though you would think, in this day and age of the internet, such tomes would be unnecessary, you do it anyway because "They" say you should.

2.  Spend precious writing time reading through the list of thousands of agents and checking all their websites, to find the one agent that will be A Perfect Fit.

3.  Give up and just make up a random list.

4.  Check, double check, triple check exactly what you are supposed to send each of these agents so that they don't laugh you off the island.

5.  Write, re-write, throw away, start over, tear hair out over query letter to said agents.  End up with something along the lines of "Please agree to read a few pages of my novel.  It's amazing.  Not as amazing as you, obviously.  I love you.  Attached is my first-born."

6.  Wait.

7.  Wait some more.

8.  Move to Switzerland in despair at never hearing from agent.

It's oodles of fun.  Especially as most agents have never heard of the 21st century and actually still require you to snail mail over pages of manuscript. 

But I suppose it does lend the whole process a bit of a dramatic artistic aura.  If only I had penned my novel with a quill and ink in a haze of absinthe.

Short and Bitter

Oh god, the pain.

I know I said I just whizzed through the synopsis last month and ended up with a brilliant first draft sure to make the most cynical literary agent weep but, well, I just read over that draft and I was wrong.

It was terrible.  Filled with clichés, completely un-specific, and just plain bad writing.

So I started over.  And although I am now several hairs greyer and have long, bleeding scratches on my face from trying to rip it off in frustration, I don't think this damn synopsis has gotten any better.

But why is this so hard?  We all wrote book reports in high school, right?  This should be just like that.  Not rocket science.  (Come to think of it, maybe I should hire a 10th grader to write my synopsis for me).  And yet there are entire blogs devoted to how bloody difficult it is to write a half-decent synopsis (for a strong espresso dose of cruelty, see Miss Snark's contribution to making writers feel bad about themselves).

One page.  One page to sell the story, and tell the story.  But not the whole story.  Just the salient bits.  But enough so it's completely understandable.  And exciting.  Even if your novel is character, as opposed to plot-driven.  One page to show the agent how marketable your novel is.  But without sounding like flap copy.  One page of sharp, clear writing.  One page to determine whether or not you will become a published author or a pathetic failure.

Say it with me people.

Groan.

And then there's the query letter...

All For One

You'll probably recall that, when I was going through the first rewrite, I handled it with - well, let's just say poise and grace would not be the two words used to describe how I coped during those three months.  So it would have been safe to assume that I would do no better on the second go-around.

Which is why I'm as shocked as you are to hear myself tell you how much I am loving working on the third draft of the novel.  Maybe it's because I no longer need to stress about finding a job once I'm done.  Maybe it's because I know now that the novel isn't completely nauseatingly bad, at least according to a Dozen or so friends.  But mostly I think it's because I'm working on the third draft based on input from others.

From a completely solitary project, the novel has now evolved into a team effort.  Each and every reader who came back to me with comments is adding his or her imprint to the finished product.  And it's making it better, so much better than I would have done on my own.  There's a pretty deep moral to the story there, but I won't bore you with its unbearable cheesiness here.

I'll just say thanks, team.

Absolutely Fabulous

"It's like watching 'Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous.'"

Dixit my father.  About me.

Yes, at first I was confused too.  Granted, I did write a Novel (she says, in a nasal drawl, waving around one of those long cigarette holders and flinging back a corner of her mink coat) and a entire Dozen of People have read it, but I wouldn't call myself Rich per se.

But it turns out Mr. Res Senior had a point.  What he was referring to was My Evening With Stephen Fry.

Drumroll please.

It all began this past Monday afternoon, when I boarded the Eurostar and promptly proceeded to sleep throughout the entire journey (much partying had been had over the weekend).  Two hours and fifteen minutes later, I was in London.  I had a couple hours to kill so I strolled down Sloane Avenue and popped in for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at a Belgravia watering hole with an unpronounceable name (I believe Rachel Weisz was sitting next to me, or at least someone who looked very much like her - with fabulous shoes).  Until it was time to make my way to the Royal Albert Hall, sit my behind in the fourth row and gawk at my intellectual idol for two and a half hours.  And go home the next morning.

That's right, I hopped over to London for a show.  Not just any show, of course; the legendary Stephen Fry is completely worth that kind of extravagance.  But still.  Even as I was doing it, I couldn't help but have a small giggle.  I desperately wanted to wave off someone with a "ta ta, dahling, I'm off to catch Steve."

As for the show, well, it was just grand.  But would you expect anything less of Mr. Fry?  Part lecture, part reading, part stand-up comedy - it was a fine evening of wit, charm, provocation and exhortation.  Bravo, I say.

Besides the sneaky picture my companion managed to capture at my urging (below), I also scored fifty UK stamps during my outing.  Fifty stamps that will soon adorn the multitude of self-addressed envelopes I will be sending to agents, along with sample chapters, a synopsis, and a letter offering my first-born or my soul or both if they would only agree to find me a publisher.

Stay tuned.

If You Were Me

On the basis that the wisdom of many trumps the wisdom of, well, me, I'm going to run something past you and see if you can't help me make sense of my present conundrum.

So, way back when, in the days when I was feeling brave enough to change, if not the world, then at least myself, I made an important decision.  I was going to be a writer and, because one needs to eat, find some kind of job that paid me a decent wage but, more importantly, left me lots of time to write, run, and be merry.

Then I finished the novel and this job in Switzerland came up.  Career-wise, it's very exciting.  In fact, it's about as glamorous as you can get when you're a lawyer with a business degree and can't do properly glamorous things like launch your own fashion line or fly to the moon or something.  It means defining my own role, hiring and managing my own team, and watching men drool when I tell them who I work for.  It means working with people from all over the place with accents as confusing as mine.  But it's not in Paris, it's in Switzerland.  And it may not leave me very much time for writing, running, or being terribly merry, what with not actually knowing anyone in that particular city.

Last week another possible job landed on my horizon.  It's not a bad job, but it's not something to gush over either.  It's for a very French company, where I am likely to be viewed at worst as a threatening martian or at best, as an amusing play-thing.  But the hours will be good, and I wouldn't have to move.

So what do I do?  Stick to the original plan, take the job in Paris and write novel number 2?  Or move on to something new and fly off to the next adventure to see what happens?

Of course, this may all be cart before horse talk.  I may not actually get either job - which would have the advantage of not requiring me to make a decision.

There's something strangely blissful about that.

Now what?

The second draft is done, but what happens next?  Questions abound from friends, family, loyal blog readers.  When can we read it?  When does it hit the shelves?  Are you writing another one?

God knows I don't have all the answers, but here's the skinny on the little rocky path my novel travels along.

The Dirty Dozen are still reading.  So far, I've had one in-depth report (from a high school English teacher, no less) but I'm still waiting for the rest of the feedback.  At which point I will hum and hah and ignore most of it because honestly I'm tired of fiddling with this damn story.  Then, with care and trepidation, I will put together packets of manuscripts, accompanied by brilliantly drafted cover letters and synopses, and trust the postal services to deliver them to dozens of agents.  Obviously, every one of those agents will immediately call me back with publishing offers, movie deals, and marriage proposals and I will become more famous than JK Rowling. 

Or not.

So, will you readers get a sneak peak at some point?

I don't know.  Maybe if you're very good.  We'll see.

In the meantime, I'll be trying to land myself a job that pays actual money that I can spend in real-life supermarkets to feed my ever-expanding waistline (no, I'm not pregnant, just perpetually hungry).  Actually, I should be trying to do that right now (my next interview involves preparing a 20-slide presentation... A splendid opportunity to take the old Powerpoint skills out for a spin).  But the sun has finally returned to New York and I just came back from a really long run and I have a dinner with friends soon and [insert random excuse here].

In brief

Almost 48 hours since I finished the book.  The giddy feeling I was expecting still hasn't hit.  Instead I've felt listless, unsatisfied, and mostly waiting around for other people to make me feel good about myself - that hasn't worked either.

I thought maybe part of the problem is that my pet project, the one that's kept me up at night for the past year, is now gone.  I'm not writing anymore.  Truth be told, I haven't been properly "writing" for months now, as "re-writing" is more akin to dicing onions with blunt kiddy scissors than literary bliss (and don't ask me where that analogy came from).

To remedy this problem on this grey, rainy Monday in August (yes, I realize the weather may also be responsible for my doldrums), I decided to attempt the first draft of my synopsis.  The synopsis I will be required to send out to agents to convince them to read my manuscript which will then hopefully have them convinced to sign me so that they, in turn, can convince a publisher to turn the whole thing into a nice little paperback with a pretty cover that I can show my grandkids one day.

Anyhoo (geesh, does it always take me this long to get to the point?), once I'd plowed through the 450 word summary of my novel, I read back over it and thought, "Wow - that books sounds pretty decent!  Where is THAT book?"

Which is when I'd realized I'd done it.  I'd consulting-ized my book.  I'd taken a rather bland, completely unoriginal idea and made it sound ground-breaking.  It couldn't have been more obvious if I'd used slides to do it with.

Sigh.

But who knows, maybe it'll work?

Judgement Day

I finished it.  The book.  Well, the second draft of the book.

I should probably be more excited about this.  Instead, I'm terrified.  Because I've finally let the novel out of its cage, to run free and frolic and get mowed down by a humvee. 

As of one hour ago, about a dozen boys and girls, native and non-native English speakers, friends on all hemispheres, have gotten their grubby little hands on my baby.  They shall be named the Dirty Dozen.  The jury of my peers.  The ones who are 230 pages away from telling me my novel is shit.

At times like these I wish I had never started the damn thing.  What's the point if you're just going to humiliate yourself and disappoint everybody?  My friends will say, so what?  So what if it's bad?  At least you've written it.

But what's so cool about writing a bad novel?  Should I wear that proudly like a badge of honour?  "Hey guys, I made myself unemployed once so I could write the most boring 61,000 words known to man.  Jealous?"

Okay, okay, I'm calming down now.  I'm just one of those people that does not do well with being judged.  And between the grueling interview process I'm going through, plus waiting for the Dirty Dozen's verdict, I'm not making life easy for myself right now.  Talk about stepping beyond your comfort zone.

But hey, at least I have you.

PS: A shout-out to the true writers and fellow bloggers Karin and Sion for inspiration the other day.  And the Montmartoise, for a truly inspiring pizza.

Not-so-neutral feelings about Switzerland

I had a job interview yesterday.  In Switzerland.  And I don't know what to think.

But let's start from the beginning.  First, we'll set the scene.  It's been almost a year since I've had a job (I stopped saying I don't "work", as writing a novel surely counts as work - but it's not a job unless someone pays you and actually thinks you're any good.)  My finances are so low they're about to win a limbo competition.  All my friends, aware of my reputation as shoe expert extraordinaire, drag me shoe shopping and let me roll around the floor in pain while they buy out the store and leave me empty-handed.  I've stopped finding time to go to the gym or re-work more than one chapter a day because it interferes with my lounging around and not doing anything.  My brain has turned to mush and I can't even remember that my friends have already had their children, while I keep asking for their due dates.  Never mind still being able to do things like count or recite the alphabet.

It's time to face the facts.  I need to get back into the rat race.  If for no other reason than otherwise Res, as you know her, may cease to exist entirely.

So I started looking for a job.  Which should have been a piece of cake, or so I thought.  Excuse the appalling arrogance of the phrase you're about to read but, well, my CV is pretty damn awesome.

And yet.

It seems that no one in France wants me.  And very few people outside of France are interested either.  I'm overqualified.  I'm not French enough.  I'm too American (in that case, does that mean I get a green card?!)  I'm too specialized.  I'm not specialized enough.  They don't want someone who's done consulting.  They don't want someone who's been a litigator.  They worry I might be too nice.  Not nice enough.  And definitely vertically challenged.

And then a miracle happened.  A woman called.  She told me that a certain organization that shall remain nameless (for their sake, mostly!) was looking for someone with dual legal and business skills.  That they liked the fact that I had an unusual background.  That my patchwork of national influences was perfect.

Oh boy, it felt so good to be loved again.  And so I pulled out the black Hugo Boss suit from the back of the closet (miraculously, it still fit, albeit a bit more snug) hurried to the airport (narrowly missing my flight), flew Swiss Air (which apparently has risen from its ashes like the proverbial phoenix) and ended up in a city bordered by mountains (wait - they call that a city? but it has gardens everywhere and is barely the size of one Parisian arrondissement?...) to sit for part two of a three-part interview process.

I liked it.  I had fun.  My brain got some exercise, the verbal sparring brought me back to my glory days and all of a sudden I felt proud again.  Important.  Valued.

Which is when all the questions started pouring in.  Do I need a job to feel valued?  And does that job have to involve long hours and moving to Switzerland?  Do I have to quit the dream of being a writer?  What if it doesn't make me happy?  What if nothing makes me happy?  What if I don't have time to finish the book?  And am I prepared to leave my brand new apartment that I so lovingly redecorated?  And what about the fact that I have no friends in this particular city in Switzerland (a statistical anomaly given my lifestyle and the global reach of the INSEAD network, but there you have it).

Needless to say, I had trouble getting to sleep.  It's the morning after, now, and stress levels are high.  Fortunately, I have the blog to spill my angst into.  And a new motto I can grasp onto, thanks to Andi's discovery and a fun little website.  So I'm going to take a deep breath.  Put Switzerland on pause.  And hit chapter 13.

Icarus had it coming

Hubris.

It got the Greeks in some serious trouble. 

Not those Greeks, the ones with the deficit and fiscal mismanagement and street protests (although, on second thought, maybe those ones as well).

But the ones in Sophocles' plays, in togas, who went around flouting the natural laws of the gods and were smitten (smote?) down as a result.

I think I may have a little smiting of my own coming.

Almost a year ago, Res decides that she's too good for consulting, or really any silly desk job for which she has trained and slaved and filled out circles with number 2 pencils.  Not for her, the dull life of time sheets and black trouser suits and morning commutes with sweaty unknowns.  Not for her, the anonymity of millions and the banality of monthly paychecks. 

No, for she has talent.  A special gift.  She has been touched by the gods.  She can use a keyboard and string sentences together with only the occasional grammatical error. 

And so, she will Write A Novel.  She will be Awarded The Pulitzer.  She will be  A Brilliant Author and hordes of readers will Bow Before Her Greatness.

Yeah right.

Let's count the number of people actually talented enough to write a novel, shall we?

That didn't take long.

And it appears I am not one of them - turns out statistical improbabilities are just that.  Improbable.

So let the deadly deluge and plagues of locusts begin.  I'll get my umbrella.

Tongue in cheek

Five downsides to being on vacation when an unemployed writer:

1.  People say things like: "But aren't you always on vacation?"

2.  You spend most of your time searching for jobs, applying for jobs, speaking to recruiters, getting rejected, etc. rather than sitting by the pool.

3.  If you are sitting by the pool, you're probably working on your novel and feeling bad about yourself.

4.  If you are not working on your job search, or working on your novel, people wonder whether you shouldn't be, and whether perhaps the reason you're unpublished and unemployed is because you spend so much time on vacation.

5.  You start counting the days until you can go home and finally relax.

The Big Melt(down)

God it's hot.

I know, I shouldn't complain - better hot than cold, right?  But still, it's really hot.

Too hot to blog.  Too hot to write.  Too hot to move my pinky finger and scratch that sun allergy I have unflatteringly (new word, yo) developed all over my chest. 

At least I'm in the south of France.  Down here is a good place for my writing, usually.  I don't know if it's the sunshine, the shimmering blue of the pool, the absence of beckoning shoe stores - but it usually does the trick.  Although for the next two weeks the house will be filled with family members, many of whom are under the age of twelve.  Screaming children : not so conducive to the quiet, contemplative art that is literature.

So let's see, any more excuses I can come up with?  We've covered the heat, the tweens, but there's also the stop-and-start job search, the headache I can feel coming on, the misalignment of Mars and Jupiter, and...

Alright Res, that's enough.  Let's stop pretending that there's any reason for the delay other than being scared witless of strangers and friends reading my baby and hating it.  I'm not sure I have the requisite self-confidence to handle rejection right now.

A Little How-To

Those of you who checked today's NY Times just knew I was going to post this.

And how could I not?  Advice for the budding novelist?!  Eager like the metaphorical beaver (and with only slightly better teeth), I clicked away to find...

(image courtesy of 826 National)

And that made my day.  Because there's only one thing I like better than useful advice, and that's pointlessly witty humour.

For those of you (like me) who can't read type that small, the poster encourages writers to check whether they have included all the essentials like plot, dialogue, protagonist and dinosaurs in their novel.  Bonus points are awarded for vampires. (Oddly, international arbitration lawyers are not a prerequisite character type).

But while the poster is just a bit of fun, I did find a grating ring of truth to the final paragraph of the Times' write-up:

First, “it’s reassuring,” as Alarcón writes, “to be reminded that everyone works differently, that there is no single way to arrive at your destination, that, in fact, your destination is necessarily a very different place from anyone else’s.” And second, it is perfectly fine to take a break, to scan and scroll, to seek succor in a poster or an essay, a book of quotations from celebrated authors or a trifling little blog post, but if you want to write, the first advice must always be: write.

Right.  Better get back on that horse soon.

Weren't you writing a novel?

You're probably wondering what's happened to the book.

Or maybe you're not, because frankly you have better things to do, but for the sake of argument, let's pretend that you are.

Well, the answer is, not a heck of a lot.  I'm not a big fan of taking too much responsibility for my failures, so I blame it on the move (do you have any idea how much crap I have to try to squeeze into boxes?!)

The plan was to read the book from start to finish and jot down a few notes on how to make it better.  I've gotten through a bit more than half so far, and most of my notes read like this:
- "No!"
- "Delete"
- "Gag"
- "What was I thinking?"

It's heaps of fun and great for my self-esteem - a bit like stabbing myself repeatedly with a spork.

My biggest problem is that my voice/style/tone - whatever you want to call it - changed about one third into the book.  Clearly, when I started out, I was very intimidated by the prospect of writing a novel (a Novel!) and decided this was Serious Stuff and there could be no dicking around like there is on the blog.

As a result, the beginning of the book is Awful. 

Fortunately, I appear to have gotten over myself about six chapters in and the rest is terrible for other, possibly more manageable reasons.  But what do I do with the beginning?  Throw it out and start again?  Work with what I have?

Since I don't have an answer to that question, I'm filling up cardboard boxes with junk instead.