Sep 11, 2011


Okay. I’ve discovered something called ‘mood-editing’. That’s when you are working on a draft, but you happen to be in a particular mindset that day. It sort of infiltrates the pages you’re rewriting, but you might not notice it - until you come back to it a day or so later. That’s when you read it and think, ‘What the frack was I on? What happened to the simple goodness that was there before? Why is this section all amazingly the same in it’s weird level of fracked-upness?’ 

I won’t tell you what kind of mood-editing I was doing the other day, but I will tell you that it was probably a better idea to consciously snap out of it, or leave the manuscript well alone and do something appropriate to that mood. I don’t know… maybe crocheting one of those dollies that sits smugly on a toilet paper roll as if she’s ever-so-efficiently waiting to take a huge crap, would be my best guess.

Have you ever mood-edited? Have I perhaps done it now?

Sep 9, 2011

If you drink, then edit, your a bloody idiot.

Continuing with the theme of editing drafts, I bring you this slogan. Yes, clearly there's been some trial and error going on, and I'm learning stupendously along the way.
I figured other budding Aussie writers might get a laugh out of this, but if you're outside Australia the context might be lost. It's a spoof of an iconic Australian ad for the TAC. The original text is "If you drink, then drive, you're a bloody idiot."
I put it on a variety of stuff like stickers, a key ring, mugs, and a mouse pad. I couldn't resist the coaster, to serve as a handy reminder one can see through the base of their Shaz Merlot glass. Or perhaps whisky - if you're the unfortunate soul lumped with editing my MS in future. Of course, the whisky might even come from me. :)

Click here to check them out... or just have a giggle.

Sep 8, 2011


I find myself staring, defocused, at a shortcut on my desktop. Surely I’m meant to click on it, tap my desk impatiently as I wait for the folder to open, and eagerly jump into my latest writing project. Tap, tap, tap. No, not today, it seems.

I’ve never noticed the irony of this shortcut’s name until I spent a good ten minutes fixated on it just now. It’s called Shortcut to Writing, the folder I keep all my writing in. This tiny yellow rectangle of pixels has become the virtual keeper of all my dreams, and storage to my half-baked short stories, novel first draft, novella, other novel outlines, play scripts, character sketches, the occasional computer game concept and poorly named notepad waffling in sub-folders each called New Folder. The projects may be diverse, but they are all genetically related. Apart from inheriting my yuck grammar, most of them are inflicted with a congenital defect - stunted development.

As I muster up the focus and drive to continue editing through my fourth or fifth draft of my novella, Infected, I’m faced with the reality that despite what the pixels tell me, there is no Shortcut to Writing.

I close my eyes, and I remember what drove me to write this story. I recall how the characters begged to come to life and told me insights about humanity I felt I couldn‘t possibly know on my own. As other writers have experienced, a story bubbled so quickly to the surface of my mind, in all its intricacy and connectedness, that I couldn’t type the paragraphs fast enough.

I think of the people who’ve read it so far and have pushed me to keep at it. I humbly admit I now smile at the memories of their encouraging words even more gratefully than I smiled in their moments, when I was riding the wave of my own motivation, too. You know who you are, and I send you a super-sized thank you!

Okay, that’s enough waffle from me [tap, tap, tap] I’ve got some editing to do! 


Sep 7, 2011

A Great One Liner... Write On Wednesday

This week's exercise over at Ink Paper Pen is to come up with a single sentence that packs some punch by describing a part of someone's day and telling a story [fiction or non-fiction]. *EDIT: Seeing as it's a quick exercise but a very helpful one, I've added a couple more.

I gripped the metal handle of the factory door and my knuckes instantly froze to it, just as I imagined my father's always did.
Lisa agreed with her mother that the sewerage drain outside the front door was an issue with her new flat, but a far more pressing one she loathed to mention was the door key glistening in the trickling, putrid water below.
As usual, I'm open to criticism, but please try to stick to the one liners. ;)

Write On Wednesdays