Breathing space

Last week I finished what I hope was the last full redrafting of the children's novel I've been working on nearly two years. (It doesn't have a title yet, though it'll have to find one soon - it comes out in February in Australia with Allen & Unwin. Meanwhile I've just been calling it by the main character: an eleven year old girl named Raven) Of course I've finished drafts of it before, and had quick breaks while waiting for editors' comments, but it's not the only book I've been working on. I've also written three books about pets in the Rainbow Street Animal Shelter - the first was written before I started on Raven, and the last two during these two years. They'll start coming out in the next North American spring, with Henry Holt - I'm not sure yet about Australia.

And in bursts in between, there's been editing - rereading, pasting, arguing, more reading and tinkering - on the Princess and her Panther picture book.

But for the last ten days, there's been a lull, not just in the writing, but thinking about writing. Raven has flown from my mind - she'll return when I start doing edits, or another rewrite, but right now she's gone. For the Rainbow Street series, I've done the proof reading on Lost Dog Bear; done my edits on A Cat Called Buster, which has now gone to Susan Boase for her to illustrate; The Reading Dog is being edited, but my editor has said she loves it, so I can also let it free till it comes back. And the Princess and her Panther is actually published, though it won't hit the stores for another month, so it's well and truly flown from my control.

Soon I'll start the fourth Rainbow Street book - but even it is waiting, because I know what I want to do, but it's a bit different so I'm waiting to hear what the publisher thinks.

So I'm tidying my office, catching up on emails, catching up with friends, reading, gardening... all the things that have been neglected for the last two years. It's a strange feeling, not to be actively working on a book, but I'm feeling very contented, knowing that while I'm resting, seeds will be sown, and soon one of them will start to sprout and tell me that it wants to be a story. Here are pictures of my tidy office, so that I can remember this feeling of calm again when life is back to normal.

Storytellers

Last week was Education Week in Australia, and I went to two great schools: Cheltenham East and Amsleigh Park, as a Premier's Reading Ambassador. Then on Thursday I went to our local school in a very different role: as a surrogate grandmother for Grandparents' Day.

In our age-obsessed culture, my friend was anxious that I might be insulted when her 7 year old daughter invited me - but I was honoured, and even more so when I realised that the twelve year old sister also wanted me to visit her, though she'd been too shy to ask. It was a very moving day, and I learned a few interesting lessons in case I get the chance to be a grandparent again in the future (find out the name of the child's teacher, and better yet, classroom number! so you don't spend 15 minutes lost in corridors, reading every class list).

But as I reflected on it, I thought that authors in today's world hold the place of storyteller grandmothers in traditional cultures: entertaining and passing on thoughts and reflections in the tales we weave, in the hopes that they will help our readers/grandchildren face the challenges in their own lives.

An honour, and a privilege.

Mother's Day Writing Thoughts

It’s Mother’s Day in Australia, but for various geographical reasons we’re celebrating it before and after… so today I’m thinking about my imaginary children instead.
As a writer who is also a mother, one of the hardest things is being sufficiently cruel to the characters in my books. I have to disengage myself not only from the child who is me, but the mother who is also me. I want to love and nurture these imaginary children through the trials I’ve set them. I hate to hurt their feeling by exposing their flaws to the world.
At the moment I’m deeply engrossed in polishing the latest draft (8th or 15th, depending on how I count) of a young novel that will be out in Australia next February. (Maybe: The Girl Who Danced on a Mountain - but I’m unsure, so I’m still just calling it by the character’s name: Raven.) Raven’s life is in turmoil, and not just because she’s physically lost in the wilderness. Raven’s mother Jenny is a lovely, normal woman who adores her daughters – but she has her own life too. After two years of writing, I’m finally recognising that it’s my job to be honest about the hurt Raven feels about some of her mother’s decisions, and her insecurity about whether she is truly loved.
But of course facing truths, and accepting ourselves and others anyway, could be a definition of love, and mothering.
So I’ll go on being grateful for the ease of my own relationships as both daughter and mother, and explore the tougher ones for my fictitious families. And love them all.