Ignore the Ironing!

I have decided to change my attitude to writing. Seeing my work on the page is not going to happen quickly. So, rather than wait for the moment when my book is published,  I’ve come to realize that if I’m to retain a sense of self worth, then I have to learn to feel satisfied when I send off a proposal, instead of waiting for the thud of my new book landing on the doorstep. If I decide that my job is done once the work is edited, polished and posted, I can at least look forward to some sense of achievement from this process.

I am also discovering the value of recycling material. Instead of deleting scraps of text or ideas for stories, even lines of poetry, I now save everything. You never know when you might need a few handy lines about a dead wombat being dragged from its burrow, or a knitting scene to throw into a story about the Granville Train disaster.  Possibly I need to rethink my policy on using real names when telling stories about wombats being shot. (Sorry Stephen).

I have also realized that there is no such thing as a ‘finished’ piece of writing. You might reach a point where you think something is good enough to publish, but leave any piece of writing for a few weeks, and without doubt, you will see things that you can improve when you look at it again. James Michener claimed that he was ‘not a very good writer, but I’m an excellent rewriter.’ Sometimes it’s tempting to ignore that niggling voice inside your head saying, You can do better than that. It’s not quite how you imagined it. Unfortunately, I’m discovering that I must heed that voice and keep rewriting until I’m satisfied… I have discovered that I must listen to my inner voice and keep rewriting until I’m satisfied…It must be acknowledged that the inner voice…

Finally, I am coming to realize that I have to plug away, no matter how stupid I am feeling. Peter Carey advised aspiring writers:

You have to treat this as the single most important part of your life. You do not need anything as fancy as inspiration, just this steady habit of writing regularly even when you're sick or sad or dull. Nothing must stop you, not even your beloved children.

So I have not picked up the thirty pairs of satin harem pants waiting to be sewn together for the ‘Aladdin’ concert at Grace’s school and I look away when the canteen mums call for volunteers, suddenly spotting something fascinating in the car park I need to investigate. Urgently.

Of course the advantage of writing is that I have the perfect excuse to indulge my love of reading. Caught out basking in some Sylvia Plath before breakfast? ‘I’m doing some reading for an article I have in mind.’ Rapturously devouring novels by Alex Miller or Vikram Seth? ‘It’s all part of the creative process.’ So I ignore the ironing, ditch the Dyson and let my eyes slide past my untidy house, to gaze out of the window in search of the perfect word to describe a tsunami. The household can wait. For now, there are stories to be written. (After that, I’m off to the library.)