Listen

It's been a while since I've written about the book. Although to be fair, it's been a while since I've actually written the book. Period. So that may have something to do with it.

My problem was the infamous chapter 11. It took me 6 weeks from start to finish to write that one chapter (to give you a frame of reference, most chapters have taken me 3-4 days to write once I get started on them). But damn chapter 11 almost bankrupted my entire literary career (my my, aren't I witty this evening).

Why? Because this is the big moment in the book when the two main characters finally meet (yes, we're 100 pages in, I know). They haven't seen each other in 6 years. And saying there's some nasty "history" there is putting it mildly. So there they are, in public, face to face, and ... and what? Precisely. How does one write a scene like that without it being too much, or too little, or, or, or? That's what took me six weeks to figure out. And also I was enjoying the sunshine.

Well, I did finally finish chapter 11 two days ago (we'll see if the "big meet" ends up fulfilling your expectations, if not my own). But now I have another problem. I have no idea what happens next.

This problem crops up every time I finish a chapter. I'm all excited for about 5 minutes for having nicely rounded off an episode of my story and then - panic hits. Now what? Yes, I know how the story ends. I know lots of pieces of the story. But I never know what the immediate next step is.

So I wait.

And, ok, here's the weird bit, don't judge me, please.

The characters tell me.

I'm not kidding. I don't hear dead people, I hear imaginary ones.

Is that normal, or have I truly lost the plot? (fortunately, my knack for bad puns will never leave me)

The Woman in my Life

Dear friends,

Let me introduce you to Alina.

Alina is the first piece of art I have ever bought.

Alina is also the name of my novel's heroine.

It was about time you all met.




PS: The name of the artist is Daniel Timmers. The poor quality of the photography is my fault alone.

T'as de beaux yeux, tu sais

In honour of Women Are Awesome Month (or whatever it's called) I couldn't resist posting this little jewel which features France's very own, beautiful Marillon Cotillard (she especially has very beautiful ... eyes).

Forehead Tittaes w/ Marion Cotillard from Marion Cotillard

In the days of Victoria

Oh dear oh dear oh dear. 10 days have passed and I still haven't told you about my trip to Australia. I'm at risk of losing my precious Australian readership! (That's right, I have an "Australian readership." Of about 10 people.)

Here we are then, a day by day run-down of my second summer vacation in February.

Tuesday: Get on plane. It's an A380. I'm on the top deck. That remains exciting for about 35 minutes.

Wednesday: Still on plane. I think. I'm not sure what day it is, though, so perhaps I've actually migrated to a galaxy far, far away.

Thursday: In Melbourne. Feeling a bit worse for wear, I attempt a run. It does not go well. Instead, I decide to take the tram into the city. I forget to get off, end up on the other side of town, and have to get another tram back in. This clearly entitles me to a glass of wine, before meeting the Chick for a dinner of burger and fake champagne by the beach.

Friday: Miss Klum arrives and the trio is now complete in time for my first ever cricket match. As far as I can tell, cricket involves a lot of standing around and taking drinks breaks. Both for the players and for the spectators. Desirous of a little more action, we head to an outdoors bar, then an insanely overheated back-alley nightclub, and still somehow manage to make it back to bed still upright on our heels.

Saturday: Ah, the legendary Aussie barbecue. What a wonderful way to while away the afternoon. This is followed by an exlusive invitation to a 21-year-old boy's birthday party (don't ask). All I can say is: thirty-somethings have more fun.

Sunday: Woo-hoo! My very first music festival (yes, I know, that's embarrassing) and The Killers are headlining! Even the weather gods are with us.

Monday: We say goodbye to the weather gods as Miss Klum and I drive out of Melbourne in the cold and rain towards Wilson's Prom. Fortunately, the skies clear once we get there and it's in the sunshine that we hike the 20 kilometres to the lighthouse, to sleep in a little cottage battered by the wind.

Tuesday: Klum and I realize that it's all fine and good to hike 20k to a lighthouse until you have to hike the 20k back in the morning. Fortunately the wallabies are there to keep us company. In the afternoon, we drive over to Phillip Island, attempt the beach until we finally admit it's too cold, and spend the evening watching very small penguins (cleverly called Little Penguins).

Wednesday: A slightly quieter day where we hang in Torquay, home of Rip Curl, and shop. What? It's cold!

Thursday: It's the Great Ocean Road drive day which keeps us very busy, what with driving on the left, spotting koalas, and hitching a helicopter ride. A very, very good day.

Friday: Back in Melbourne and sipping wine in the Yarra Valley. Also catching a glimpse of the fire damage from last year. I'm happy to report the green is coming back.

Saturday: Wait! We forgot about the Olympics! Time to catch up, especially as the weather feels like London in November.

Sunday: The Chick, insane as ever, has us wake up at 5am to go to a triathlon. Even crazier, she's participating. Klum and I undertake our cheering duties with professionalism and poise and Chick crosses the finish line victorious. And then, sadly , it's time to spend another soul-quashing 24 hours on a plane.

That's a pretty full run-down I gave you there. What? You want more? You want pictures?

You certainly are demanding this evening...

View from helicopter @ Twelve Apostles (of which there are eight)

Koala

Wilson's Prom lighthouse

Faire le ménage

There are so many times when I point you to completely inane stories that have very little instrinsic value other than my own (occasionally) cruel amusement, I decided that this evening I would share with you a little piece of news about something important.

A female folk band.

From Brooklyn.

Who have the most fabulous lyrics you will ever come across.

Oh, and yes, I may be slightly biased (but no less correct) because one of the girls is a very good friend of mine.

Still. You could do far worse than to spend an hour or two listening to Ménage à Twang. Enjoy.

(Note: the video for "Listen sister, don't date a hipster" was previously posted here.)

The Highs and Lows of the Life of Res

Ladies and Gentlemen,

If you are the sort to shirk away from grandiloquent displays of self-confidence à l'américaine;
If extremes of emotion make you wither in disgust;
If you think a life of toil, grey suits and substantial bank accounts is the highest form of accomplishment;
If you don't have any particular feelings of affection for me and would rather see me fail than succeed;

Then stop reading at once.

For today, Ladies and Gentlemen, today is the day when I announce to you all:

I AM AWESOME.

Seriously.

No no, seriously. Stop laughing. Stop it. I said stop it!

Let me prove it to you.

In the past month, I have:

• Awesomelly climbed the highest sand dune in the world and Table Mountain in the same week;
• Celebrated one year of being an awesome non-smoker;
• Taken my first ever ride in an awesome helicopter;
• Seen the most awesome Killers on stage;
• Run a totally awesome 21.1 kilometres;
• Realized that in certain places of my manuscript, my writing is - you guessed it - awesome.

There you have it. Are you in awe of me? Because I am in awe of me. So call me Barney and give me a high five.

Sadly, though, not all of us awesome people can be awesome all of the time.

Today, for example, I had a less than awesome moment (dear readers, turn away if you are squeamish and/or would rather keep me on that nicy cozy Res-shaped pedestal you've prepared.)

Life as a girl, even an awesome one such as myself, involves a certain amount of - how should we put it - undesired accumulated insulation. In order to remove such insulation in time for bikini weather, I have decided to invest in what I have been assured is a high-ROI insulation elimination process.

Which began today, when I was given to wear... full-body tights. That's right. It's like a massive white baby suit. A giant human condom. Even Scarlett Johanssen would struggle not to look completely ridiculous in this thing.

And what was the point of this marvelous, "Star Trek does bad porn" attire, I hear you query?

Well, turns out the "process" I was signed up for today was to subject myself to the attentions of a giant vacuum cleaner. The point of the body tights, therefore, is to avoid accidentally getting swathes of my skin sucked up into the infernal machine. Good call, then, those tights.

But Lord help me. I struggle to find appropriate topics of conversation with the lady who cuts my hair, or when I get my nails done. What on earth do you talk about to someone who's hoovering your ass?

PS: This post is dedicated to my favourite Montmartoise.

Un pied devant l'autre

Tomorrow is the big day. The day I run 21.1 kilometres for no obvious reason.

I'm actually feeling rather stressed.

Which is silly, of course. It's not like this actually matters to anybody. It's not like an exam or a job interview or something important. Running the half marathon will not make me smarter, richer, a better writer, more popular, prettier, or find me the love of my life (unless he runs really slowly too; in which case I probably don't want to go out with him anyway).

But it's mine. In a time when I have no job, no job prospects, no book, no apartment, and no boyfriend, I have this. This potential glimmer of accomplishment.

So I better not screw it up and fail before the finish line.

Oh God.

I think I'm going to be sick.

To be continued...

(do not fret, dear readers, once the race is over I will be sure to update you on all my travels, including through the lovely landscapes of Victoria, and tell you a funny little story about social networking...)