The novel

As I said, I knew it wasn't finished, not really.

But no matter how well you know, deep inside, that it's not finished, you still want someone to pop out of the woodwork and say, 'It's perfect! Don't touch a word!'

Rather than that there are 'some vital things to be worked out' still. Big things. Aaark. I knew it, I was just holding off feeling sick and tired until someone else told me.

I'm to go to Melbourne and talk it over. Which will be very helpful, I know. I'm looking for clarity of thinking around this small monster of a project, and other eyes on it can do nothing but help. But I can't shake this feeling of being called to the principal's office. Or this big, irrational fear. If I had an Evil Monkey it would be on my shoulder, pulling really hard on my earring and hissing, 'What makes you think you CAN finish a novel properly? What's this, the FIFTH unfinished novel of the past decade? Who are you trying to fool?' Margo: 'Come on, there was Treasure Hunters of Quentaris. Give us some credit.' EM: 'And remember what your own Dad said about that one? [He said, very gently: 'It doesn't show you at your best.'] Besides, it was so short, it hardly counts.' Margo: 'I know. I know. Pass me those wrist-slitters and let's be done with it.'

But that quick visit to Jeff Vandermeer's blog was nice. Go over there and read Ann's love letter to Australia. At least I'm living in the right place, even if I can't write long, eh.