She's out!

And I'm finished. 75,000 mostly harrowing words later, and the Woman is finally out of the Wall. Poor thing.

And, of course, in some ways the story turned out not to even be about her at all. Isn't that always the way? Just who she is, how she gets out of the wall and what the story is really about, are secrets that await the loving eyes of my beta readers. (Most of you probably know who you are...if you're in doubt, you'll find out sooner or later...)

So, over the next week or so I'll work on a few edits I know I need to make, then the Woman Finally out of the Wall, will become the Woman Stuffed in the Bottom Drawer For a Few Weeks, so I can re-read in a month or six weeks with something of a fresh eye, before she's allowed out of there and into the world. Of Loving Betas.

I've had a pretty ferocious week of writing this week - check the Koala's stats! I'm going straight back to fully approved and stamped with love come check in time. I'm somewhat drained. Still, I'll dive into the edits in a day or so and then I'll claim a post-WIP break to read something that will make somebody in pink stripy socks jump for joy.

Something sweet-smelling on the barbecue today...

Check out the Book Roast. You'll find somebody I'm very close to hanging round there today... Well, later today, once she arises from her slumbers.

Welcome to Koala Smackdown!

Believe it or not I have showed restraint over the past four or five months. I have attempted to be understanding; I have, in my benevolent Koala-like manner, occasionally offered writers a slightly longer piece of rope with which to hang themselves. Now, at last, the time has come. My claws are unsheathed and sinking into not one, but two, miscreants...

I invite you to view the bloody remains of:

Whirlochre
and
Janey

Not only must these two now display the butt-kicked badge prominently on their blog, they must feature underneath it the following message:

Dear All

Alas, I have not met the Koala's kind, generous and loving challenge of writing a mere 100 words six days a week. You may not see me for some time, because the depth of the clawmarks in my butt make it impossible for me to sit in a computer chair.

I understand that the only way to be free of the humiliating stain of displaying my 'The Koala Kicked My Butt' badge, and to placate the enraged Koala, is to write a minimum of 2000 words in a single week and also to direct the Koala to some highly witty web site or YouTube video where she may laugh off her disappointment in me. That modest target has been set by the Koala while in a relatively good mood. Further infringements will incur further challenges of increasing complexity.

I also understand that a Goblin, disguised as JJdeBenedictis, will shortly appear and pull out all my toenails.

Yours sincerely

Whirlochre/Janey

PS Other, more successful, participants in the Koala's challenge may also feel free to mock me

Koala Threat Level: Extreme

You know who you are. Smackdown approaches. 48 hours to produce some wordage or you will wear the badge of humiliation.

You have been warned.

The Koala is grumpy. She may have to take it out on you.

What a week

Just completely manic. A full day on canteen, plus bits and pieces of other volunteering (I'm such a sucker for help requests), a faraway specialist appointment for Soccer Boy, a new client meeting, a full day at the Athletics Carnival (SB just missed the 200 metre final, came equal fourth in 100 metre final and seventh in 800 metres, he's very smug; Princess, um, last in her one and only race, but still smiling); not to mention all the other things I have now managed to completely forget about. The dog has not been walked for days, the library books are beyond overdue and we have raided the freezer down to the very last meal.

So, today, with a lovely empty day ahead of me to catch up with work, domestic admin, walk the dog, make some more food, do the washing etc, what did I do?

I went to sleep for four hours and then added 500 words to my much neglected WIP.

Beware of your dreams

I read a sign today that said: Beware of your dreams, for they may come true. The dark streak inside me loved that thought. Then I re-read it and, alas, the real message was 'Be aware of your dreams, for they may come true'. Which I should have known as the shop was one of those fluffy-pillowed, candle-scented visions of tat that contains nothing of any use whatsoever.

But...to get back to my first, much better, reading of the sign. My life is full of examples of the danger of dreams. Take Mr Koala, who, while we lived in London, dreamed of returning to his sun-blessed homeland where everybody knocked off work at 5pm to go surfing and all the trains had functional aircon. When we rocked up at the doors of Oz, he discovered that he'd completely forgotten about the fact that, although winter is brief, it's darn cold without heating in the houses, that Aussies now have the longest working hours in the world and that the aircon on most trains had broken down during his twelve-year absence.

It's just another version of 'be careful what you wish for', I suppose - but I like it.

Beware the awesome power of Find and Replace

For some reason, no doubt incredibly important at the time, I decided change the name of a supporting character in WIW/WIP from Chris to Jason. It was less than thirty seconds work with Find and Replace.

And that is how I ended up with another character suddenly renamed 'Jasontine' and the festive season newly dubbed 'Jasontmas'.

The Koala is Not Happy

Look to the right! I'm not pleased with a single one of you! I'm only moderately pleased with Sarah, whose status is dubious in the first place, due to trying to squeeze seven days into the weekend. The rest of you - bad, bad, bad! Get back to the grindstone! That's a computer, you know, not a desk ornament.

Report in, please: Chris, Robin and Sylvia. Grump. Snurfle.

More about Disneyland

One Saturday in February, Mr Koala went out shopping for mundane things, such as medicine and schoolbooks, and came home with a holiday to Disneyland.

I chastised him mightily with my mighty claws, but recognised a done deal when I saw one and settled down to paying very little attention to the details, merely muttering 'mortgage' every now and again when I passed him on the branches of the eucalypt. Soccer Boy inadvertently won additional mothering love with his comment of 'I'd rather go to New Zealand'. Princess was a lost cause from the start. 'Princesses! Princesses! Princesses!'

And so the time came, and we boarded the flying eucalypt and landed in an artificial land of multi-lane freeways and buses with windows you couldn't see out of thanks to the advertising plastered all over the glass. When we arrived in Anaheim my first thought was 'nature - smashed flat'. The artificiality of it all: the motels made to look like ancient castles, the fancy paving, the trees trimmed into unnatural forms. And that's before even going through the gates of Disneyland.

It was a grumpy koala that made her way to the theme park on the first day, mostly sticking her tongue out at Mr Koala's back. But then...but then...wait for it... More artificiality; a fake Main Street with every shop selling a souvenir or sugar overdose. Fake New Orleans, fake Frontierland, fake Tomorrowland - well, OK, that one has to be kind of fake. The artificiality shocked me - even the food was artificial, or made that way - even the bananas coated in chocolate and nuts. The excess, the consumption! Was this really the America our children should see?

'Rides! Rides! Rides!' Well, OK then, baby koalas, I suppose I'll have to go on a ride. I can't even remember what our first ride was. Whatever it was, I loved it. And the next, the next and the next. The whole place was totally dedicated to me having fun. Oh, yes, and the baby koalas too. And, once I got over myself, I did have fun. Heaps of fun. To the point where when I saw people walking around who weren't smiling, I had a little internal surge of anger: 'why aren't you smiling? Everything here is fun! I'm completely won over, why aren't you? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?'

I proudly admit that I am a Born Again Disneyland Fan.

Question: the President's pardoned turkey ends up a Disneyland. In a small enclosure, not sure it's such a great pardon. But...there's only one...what happened to last year's? And the year's before? etc etc. Is the pardon only valid for one year?! Is there no handstamp for reentry to the Happiest Place On Earth for last year's turkey?

Did I mention I was going away?

I did. I'm back. I've returned to tales of deadly plague. Apparently as of today Australian flights are sending any passengers from the US with flu symptoms to some kind of limbo. We flew in yesterday: me with laryngitis, Princess with travel vomiting and Soccer Boy with a massive sneezing fit moments before we landed. I think we narrowly escaped limbo.

Just shattered after a week of Disneyland frenzy. I'm not completely sure that we actually slept. Until the flight back, when all four of us fell completely unconscious within five minutes of sitting down. The flight was rough, I kept waking up from roller coaster dreams to find that the plane was acting like one. I was tired enough just to poke the sick bag at Princess and roll back over to sleep again. "Roll back over" meaning, move my head one inch to the left or right.

Kids tired and grumpy, dog excited and grumpy, Mr Koala working today - and grumpy. Planning on doing some domestic admin and then collapsing with a book for a few hours. Back to reality tomorrow - get back to grips with WiW and seriously consider looking for some new copywriting clients. Grr, recession.

In the meantime, where do I go to find the most detailed, gossip-filled report of The Great Meeting in London?

Unfinished! And Facebook!

Having discovered there was more to the latter section of WiW than I originally thought, plus getting a last-minute piece of work, I am going to have to take a break from it for ten days or so. It's so frustrating! Just hoping I can pick up the threads when I return - and that it makes sense to me again!

And on to Facebook. There are some things about it I love. Scrabble, anyone?! The instant life updates from friends. But the rest - I think I'm getting sucked into a real time-waste. Kind of like as predicted.

What do you think of Facebook? I'm considering giving it up altogether - tell me your thoughts.

Interview

Women on Writing has a nice interview up with The Koala's good friend, Shona Snowden:

Check it out!

Over 60,000 now!

And romping through a great scene which is going to be about twice as long as I thought, but that's not a problem for all kinds of reasons. Let the characters talk all they want! They're saying such fascinating things. Fervently hoping this is not some kind of psychosis.

Slightly worried there are more words required to get to the end of the novel than I am physically capable of typing by my deadline of next Sunday night...

WIP it good!

I've slithered past the 55,000 word mark on The Woman in the Wall, with at least three more chapters to go; a key moment that always proves to me that I am nearing the end of something that will turn out to be of actual book length. The Grand Climax is looming and I know roughly what is going to happen, which gives me the confidence that I will actually get there!

I'm hoping to crash through to the end with a writing marathon over the next ten days or so. I'm not entirely confident, thanks to the school holidays, which started yesterday. So if I'm not blogging much, it's because I'm squeezing writing around child needs. (The eyes are infinitely better, thank you for asking, but I think I'll avoid contact lenses for a while! I'll settle for being a specky without actual pain).

I'd really like to get the first draft of this completed if I can, because we're going on holiday for a week in the second week of the school holidays and that would be a fantastic, and complete, brain break before jumping into the rewrites and edits I will have to do before sliding it under the eyes of the first beta readers.

How are your WIPs going? Do you have any official, or self-imposed deadlines, that you need to meet?

I'll be cruising your blogs shortly to ensure you've been keeping up with the Koala Challenge. My claws are itchy, so be ready...

Updated to add...

My claws are more than itchy. Naughty, naughty writers! Tragic, tragic excuses:

"My dog was sick and ate my manuscript! Errr...except not in that order." *

"06-Apr = Got a bad case of the Mondays.
07-Apr = Apologies to Monday. I seem to have the flu" **

Note how many of you are sliding down the scales of approval... Socks up! Pronto! I want 100 words or more from every one of you today!

*This writer has no dog.

** Monday does not accept your apologies. Monday also has claws.

Tentatively returning to the blogosphere

If you like pink, look into my eyes, baby... Yes, even the kid are scared. I have zombie eyes. However (clutches large piece of wood) I think the unearthly colour of my eyes is my last remaining symptom.

Speaking of zombies... There's a small, fluffy black and white cow grazing in my back garden at the moment. He/she (I haven't examined that aspect yet) appears perfectly content. However, I will shortly be taking my deadly claws to that innocent creature in order to satisfy the bloodlust of my blog readers. Yes, it's all your fault. I'm merely your pawn. Updates coming soon.

Speaking of zombies...Aerin presented me with the much-coveted ZOMBIE CHICKEN award!!

"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…”

I know I have many zombie fans here. Take a bow Sylvia, Whirlochre, Robin and just to be thorough, I'm re-awarding it to BT and FH, because even though I know you already have it, your love of zombies is such that I just can't bear to miss you out.

Creeping back...

The doc gave me some magical new eye drops that are taking away much of the pain of the eye problem - apparently it's a viral infection and will have to run its course, but he's hoping that by the start of next week it will be receding. I hope he's right and in the meantime these drops help a lot.

So I'm still a shady lady and still avoiding too much reading/computer time, but I'll be checking out a few blogs over the next few days.

Anybody want to tell me where the 'not to be missed' stuff was in the past week or so?!

Thanks for all your good wishes!

Still swirling in a maelstrom of pus

Ah, a post title worthy of Whirlochre. Still on medical leave here. Keep writing over there.

Computer ban!

I have an eye infection, and right after the doctor had looked at it and said 'oh my god' (high on my list of things you never want your doctor to say) and prescribed eye drops, rest and sunglasses, he said the following:

No computer
No reading
No tv

Doesn't he realise that's all I do?

See you in a day or so...

Koala challengees

I haven't had time to cruise the blogs this week, so please report in here with your wordcounts for last week and I will dole out appropriate rewards and punishments.

Thank you for your honesty (at least I hope I can thank you for that...)

The winner is...

My, this judging thing is so exhausting. Four entries, all hilarious, one only vaguely comprehensible, one actually featuring a cow, three verging on smut (surprise), two cleverly mimicking Robin and Whirl's tones of voice (no, not theirs)...all impressive. I had to read them several times to choose my winner...but I can now announce...it's Sylvia! Mostly thanks to the hilarious ending. FH was a close second, for clarity and use of cow.

Congratulations; when the zombie cow starts its World Travels, it's coming to you. Having a few cow sourcing issues at the moment, but watch this space and I'll update asap. Sylvia's winning entry is followed by the other three, in no particular order.

Sylvia's story

His fingers tapped on the old oak table as he looked around the pub. Dodgy foreign lager swirled through his stomach; he had stumbled into this dump and downed a few pints to try to neutralise the rat Madras he'd swallowed half-chewed at The Raj next door. He should have gone to the chippy rather than poisoning himself at the Indian. He should have stayed in but lately the walls had been closing in on him and even the zombie-ridden local was better than suffocating in the dingy semi he called home.

A sharp crash from the street ricocheted into the pub, startling the surrounding conversations to a halt. He walked up to the bar to take advantage of the lull and order a quick pint without having to shout but then something made him turn to look at the battered doorway with the photocopied fivers stapled to the top of the frame, just out of reach. That's when he saw her walk in, the woman of his dreams. The spitting image of today's Page 3.

***

I hesitated for just a second, trying to look into the dark gloom of this dive, everything silhouetted from the bright fluorescent lights of the parking lot. I didn't need to see to know that every eye in that damn place was focused right on me, thinking this little lady looks like she might be lost and I might be just the man to save her. I put on my best steel magnolia face and looked around the joint for a pay phone. Some asshole had rear-ended my car and bitchin‚ about the size of my rental like it was my fault for being stopped there. Then the bastard had the nerve to mistake me for a damn yankee and I just blew. No way was I leaving this hell-hole without getting the cops to put down their donuts and write the idiot up. I had my dead cell in one hand and his car keys in the other: if he tried to disappear while I found a phone so help me god I'd keep his car.

Then like something out of a movie, everything changed. That was when my blue eyes adjusted to the light and locked onto the big brown ones of a hunk holding up the bar. He looked like the poster-boy for British cool, a combination of Paul McCartney and Dudley Moore with just a touch of Peter Sellers at the temples. And like a chill creeping up my back, I could feel the future surrounding us, the cheap and dirty motel room that we'd check into, the crazy night discovering each other, the afternoon sun peeking through the window to spotlight the two of us tangled together in sheets stained with blood and sweat and rum. I stood there in the doorway, like there was no one else in the world, just me drowning in those chocolate brown eyes of his.

***

He gulped a breath and his fingers clutched the bar as if it were going to save him from drowning in the pale curves of cleavage highlighted by the flickering bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Time solidified like the tin of syrup stuck to the back of the larder. After a century he remembered to breathe and a few decades later he managed to let go of the bar that he was clutching onto as if it were going to save him from falling into that Irish-Eyes-Are-Smiling face of hers. He patted his pockets looking for his fags and then remembered he'd given them up for Lent and put his hands back onto the bar, never looking away from the blonde-haired angel in the doorway who might or might not be his redemption.

***

I watched him, tall, handsome, a half-smile on his face as if he knew something special, as if he'd seen the same vision I had, sweaty limbs entwined together. He moved his hands around his body, as if reassuring himself that he was really there in the flesh and not just dreaming this moment of the two of us alone in the world together. I forgot all about that asshole with the Range Rover standing outside waiting for me to give him his keys. I forgot about every other lecherous jerk in the bar staring at me like my clothes might fall off any minute. I just started walking towards him, too far gone to play hard to get, to try to pretend like I hadn't noticed him.

***

He felt his feet start to shuffle him forward, almost against his will, as if he'd landed in an episode of the Thunderbirds and her eyes were the puppet strings, dragging him across the room towards her: his own personal Lady Penelope here to invite him into her pink Roller and drive away. The forces pulling them towards each other were so strong that they almost collided.

"Ayup chuck," he spluttered.

"Lord have mercy," she said at the same moment.

***

I stood there batting my eyes like a frog in a west Texas hail storm. "Say what, sugar?" He flashed me a hundred watt smile and said something that sounded like, "You've pulled."

"Pulled what, honey?" I was beginning to realize that we maybe didn't have a language in common but it wasn't like talking was what I had in mind.

I smiled all friendly like to put him at his ease.

He smiled back. „Wanna shag?‰

I figured he must from the Middle East or somewhere like that where it‚s polite to trade carpets although I declare I have never saw anyone from those parts looking quite so much like they belonged on an episode of the Monkees. "Hey, your English is pretty frigging good," I told him trying to build his confidence up.

That‚s when he broke my heart. „Christ,‰ he said, „I need a fag.‰

***

As soon as he said it, he knew he‚d made a mistake. Her words knocked against his skull like a Steve Davis break. He had no idea how a quiet night at the boozer had ended up with this nutter carping on at him about three dollar bills and such a goddamn waste and how freaking unfair it was. She must be one of those rabid morality types who wouldn't let a bloke have a ciggie in peace.

"Bloody yanks," he muttered and turned away to walk back to the bar.

He lurched forward as something hard and heavy caught the back of his head. He landed on the edge of one of the sticky, low tables and then slipped and rolled into a puddle of lager or worse. He crawled forward to the gents and not until he was under cover of the doorway, did he finally dare to look back at the daft tart with the perfect tits. He watched her pick her phone up off the floor, where it had landed after bouncing off of his skull, and storm out into the night.

He should have gone to the chippy.



Fairyhedgehog's story
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Robin asked. She was standing next to Whirl in the muddy field with a lasso in her hand, looking uncertainly at the cow that was circling in front of them.

"Actually --" Whirl said.

"Okay then, here goes." Robin flung the lasso and it caught the cow's horns. "Now you all give this a frickin good pull." She pulled hard on the rope, leaning back into Whirl's body as she did so. "Hey, you all have some pretty good muscles going on there," she said. He reached around her to grab the rope and she leaned more heavily on him. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back in a cow pat with Robin on top of him.

Robin wriggled round so that she was lying face down on him, their lips almost touching, his breath warm on her face, his toffee coloured eyes drawing her gaze. Whirl looked over her shoulder and tried to back away. He managed to slide through the dung for a few inches before coming to a stop. Robin craned her neck to see what he was looking at and saw a giant tongue dripping in front of her. Above the tongue were bovine nostrils puffing steam which misted the ring that hung there.

"Holy crap!" she said. "It isn't a zombie cow after all."

Robin
As soon as my eyes glommed on those kilted up gams of his, I knew who he was; knew what was hidden behind that dark ducky of a codpiece. I'd been in there before, or really, it had been into me.

(Not the ducky...)

It was the 80's and I was in Europe for the first time. I'd been wanting and wanting a taste of something exotic, and, well, you wouldn't think only an English accent would've qualified the boy, but with his particular version, it sure as hell did. That and he had the most exquisite eyes. In a certain slant of light, they were ochre cat's eyes, intelligent and tricky, and given to...well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. (It could fairly be said - I might be prone to such things.)

So there we were in this London bar, him with his wild messy hair and me with my bra locked away in my luggage, with me fairly saying with whatever I had going on, and that may have included words, that I was interested.

We lounged against the smooth wood of the bar, listening to the music inside, and we drank; me my white wine, him his nasty room temp brown beer. I hated that stuff at first, until I tasted it on his tongue on our first date, which happened to coincide with us leaving the bar and walking down Picadilly Circus into the wee hours. Then I loved it.

When dawn threatened to invade our eye sockets and the rain started in on us, we got serious about shelter, found a cab and wound up at his place, and onto his sofa, the scene of: Second Act - First Date.

Yeah.

One look up at those eyes of his and we both decided it was time for the rest.

I didn't see him after that week was over. I mean, it wasn't like I had the money to pop over whenever I wanted, or to stay either, not for very long, or even to talk on the phone much.

But the intensity of those days stayed with me, and they flooded back full bore when I caught a glance of those naked legs again.Not sure he knows yet it's me he's been talkin' to, not before today, anyway. But he was my first taste of exotic, and for that, I thank him.


Whirlochre
Whirl and Robin flopped together till the beads of sweat on their noses blended as one.

‘Never thought this would happen,’ said Robin.

‘Me neither,’ sighed Whirl.

With nods of weary resignation, they both drew the deepest of breaths and got stuck back in, nibbling hard on the flesh at the base of one another’s necks. For a full half an hour they chomped, until finally Whirl broke off.

‘It’s no good,’ he said, looking flushed. ‘I can’t keep it up.’

‘Me neither,’ added Robin, her lips swollen redder than a KO-ed boxer’s face. Wriggling in her bacon rind cocoon, she rolled back against a heap of boiled cabbage. ‘If I could just reach inside my pants...’ she gasped.

Whirl sniggered. Even in a dire emergency such as this, the scope for puerile humour afforded by the transatlantic gulf in meaning between pants (as in pants) and pants (as in pants) was too much to bear.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Robin, popping a shoulder from the flaps of fat.

Whirl made to shrug, but he was similarly pinned fast. Composing himself, as befitted the grim reality of the situation, he said, ‘so, what’s in your pants?’

‘In my pocket,’ Robin continued, ‘I have a laminated photograph of Evil Editor. If that can’t cut us loose, nothing will.’

Whirl smiled. Of all the people to find yourself trussed in strips of knotted pig flesh with, on a giant dinner plate piled almost to the ceiling with overboiled vegetables, on the occasion of His Obnoxious Wartiness, the Ogre Lord Buttpusoozysquirt’s thousand and thousandth birthday (this is a date, remember?), who better to have as a companion than Robin?

With a look of determination not witnessed since Billy “The Hoss King” McTossenae rode a freshly castrated buffalo into submission at the 1905 San Antonio rodeo, Robin tore open her bonds.

‘Listen, babycakes,’ she said, ‘We better get the hell outta here before the chef sends us up in the dumb—’

Darkness consumed the crescent moon of the potato roulade, and with a rumble, the dinner plate began its slow ascent. With the deftest of strokes, Robin slid the tip of her idol up along Whirl’s inside leg — round under his buttocks, in a wiggly line across his back, to finish with a wing-like flourish above his collar bone.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘when the creative urge strikes, you gotta go with it, sweetie.’

The hatch of the dumb waiter swang open. At the end of a large wooden dining table, His Obnoxious Wartiness sat with his knife and fork held aloft in readiness, and a paper hat nestled atop the dandruff bloom of his mullet.

‘WHERE MY ICKLE PEEPUL?’ he roared.

As the scabrous butler bore the dinner plate across the chamber, Robin peered over the edge. ‘No way in hell we can jump off. We’ll have to take our chances on the table.’

‘Look,’ cried Whirl, cupping two heavy balls to his groin. ‘These peas are like boulders. Maybe we can fight our way out.’

‘Great idea,’ said Robin, ‘ let’s tool up.’ Crouching low, she slid a sausage between her legs from beneath a fluff of pureed swede and hoisted it onto her shoulder. ‘Did I ever tellya I once coached my neighbourhood little league?’

With a clunk of porcelain on wood, the dinner plate landed at the foot of the giant’s bib.

Whirl rubbed the biggest of his peas hard against the leg of his trousers. ‘Hope you’re Ok with cricket style, Rob.’

‘Hey, ‘ she snarled, ‘just throw it straight at me and I’ll have his freakin’ eye out...’

Circumstances give a competition extension

I've just realised I won't be at my computer today, other than about ten minutes now, so no results until tomorrow, probably late Monday your time. Late entries OK if anyone wants.

Competition Entries and back to Brazilian

Get 'em in. Boys, it's looking like an all-girl affair right now. I know that either lures or offends you, either way, if you want to defend your honour, get going. Deadline approaching! The Koala Awaits.

Re. Brazilians - check out this (very brief) article. Actually my question to you is not about Brazilians. I would like to know the details of your latest neck wax. Please. Spill all. Particularly why.

Why I'm not posting...

Too much work, and so many good things going on around the blogs this week, including my very own inaugural competition (see below), so there's no time, no time!

Here are some cool places to go, though:

A secret agent 250 word review at Miss Snark's First Victim - I'm number #14 and Chris is #25. This blog is a new discovery for me, check it out.

Um SS@Starbucks is posting some great stuff on voice etc, and Paca's basketball tournament is ready for entering. Sorry, no more links, in serious time crush here, must gooooo...

You are in my dreams. Also, zombies.

I had a dream last night in which Whirl and Robin were dating. Weird.

I'll leave you to imagine the rest. But then you have to tell me, because this bizarre mind spasm has inspired the first ever 'The Travels of the Zombie Cow' competition. Yes, the nascent Zombie Cow has expressed an interest in seeing the world and may shortly be visiting a mailbox near you.

While I am assembling the raw meat, sorry parts, necessary to birth Zombie Cow, I want you to tell me what happened on Whirl and Robin's first date. The funniest entry will suffer, sorry, win the first bloodsucking, sorry, visit, from Zombie Cow. Who may have to have a name, but that might be a whole other competition...

Meanwhile - Whirl and Robin - where's the date? What are they saying to one another? What's going on in their little beating hearts? Tell all...

*Edited to add* If you're not sure who Whirl and Robin are, here's a crash course:

Whirl: Male. Brit. Has a cat called Geoff. Makes friends with mules and flies. Has a Girl of Whirl and together they have produced Son of Whirl. A paragraph or two away from finishing first novel. May once have been an actor. Now he calls it 'education'.

Robin: Female. American. Has a cat called Maddison. Married to a Brit. Four daughters between them. Sassy. Stalks Evil Editor. Likes all things Welsh, wine and hot tubs. Just finished first novel.

Make the rest up!

Deadline is Friday, end of day US time! Email your fabulosity to: mckoala at optusnet dot com dot au. Entries and winner will be posted next Monday.

No entry=no cow!

What to do about the Zombie Cow?

I think there may have to be a competition. Hm?

Why writing is like baking Bat Fingernail Pie

It's a piecemeal process of patience and persistance. First, you need bats. Then you need to feed them right and look after them while their fingernails (which are, as everyone knows, the truly tasty part of the bat) grow. Mostly you're doing that at night, of course. You also have to fend off the Walkers Chips tasting department, who are currently very interested in Bat Fingernail as a new chip flavour.* Then, once the bats' fingernails have grown, you have must trim them, down to the quick but no further, while avoiding the cross bat's remaining (very sharp) fingernails, not to mention its teeth. Repeat 76,581 times, because that's how many fingernails you will need to make your pie. And that's the easy bit.

You see, the success of a Bat Fingernail Pie depends on the way in which the fingernails are arranged. You cannot simply dump them all into a pie dish. Oh, no. You must arrange one on top of the other, in a meticulously constructed tower of fingernails. A single error might cause the whole thing to come crashing down, and that's pretty frustrating when it's fingernail #76,000 or later. And don't forget the Puffin Tail Pastry on top, but that recipe is a whole other post in itself.

Then we have the cooking of your pie. A truly great Bat Fingernail Pie is not solely about arrangement, but about how you treat your arrangement afterwards. The oven must be hot, but not too hot. The room must be silent. The wind must be an easterly and you must gag your agapanthuses, because the whispering of their leaves is so loud that it will invariably cause your pie to sink.

And if you get it all right, every single bit of it, you will give your Bat Fingernail Pie to somebody else to tear apart. Did you make the mistake of thinking it might be for you? No, no! The best Bat Fingernail Pies are those that are intended for others; built with love, cooked with care and then, we hope, consumed with thought.

I did have a reason for writing this post, but I'm afraid I got so carried away with my recipe I forgot what it was. I think it was that the 100 words a day of the Koala PHC challenge will build up in time to the most delicious Bat Fingernail Pie.

*See Whirl

I'm revolting myself

I'm writing one of the most difficult scenes I've ever written. I should be doing it right now, not lollygagging round here, but I need a mental break. And I feel sick. Actually sick.

I've upset myself before, usually by killing off characters I've got to like, but this is a whole other league. Such a tiny scene, too. Although big in its impact on my character, and the book too. And me. The things I've just had to research to write this were horrific. The way I am combining them is even worse. This is only going to be a few hundred words, but jeez. It's not sex, it's not violence, well not in any traditional sense - but it's awful. And it happens too, that's the worst thing, it's not fantasy or paranormal, it's reality.

I don't think I'm writing a horror story, but much more of this and I will be.

Ever disgusted yourself with your own writing?

*updated to add - finally finished and I think I'm going to be eating vegetarian for a few days now*

Who wants a zombie cow?

I know I'm going to regret this.

The Koala Challenge. And Whirlochre.

The Koala is delighted with most of her challengees and momentarily retracts her claws for some team head patting...excellent...fine work...you're getting the hang of it...

Now. Enough with the nicey-nicey. Claws halfway out. Aerin and Janey, time for updates my friends.

Now. Claws all the way out. WHIRL! LAST CHANCE! WHERE'S THE WORDAGE? AM I GOING TO HAVE TO COME AND GET YOU?

SMACKDOWN APPROACHES!

Feast your eyes on my last victim (note that this is the post-surgery appearance):

Let's talk about writing

Handwriting, that is. In my few turns around the block I've established a few things, hey let's agree to call them 'facts' heh heh, that I believe are related:

1. Writers have dreadful handwriting, but designers have beautiful handwriting.

2. When writers were kids they hated colouring in, but when designers were kids, they loved colouring in.

Sweeping generalisations? Me? Allow me to continue with a few more, um, facts:

1. Designers want things to look good, therefore they care about what their handwriting looks like.

2. Designers have some innate artistic ability, therefore they are able to make their handwriting look good.

3. Writers couldn't care less what things look like, as long as they have time to write.

4. Writers couldn't care less what things look like, it's the contents that matter.

5. Taking three and four together, ergo writers don't care what their handwriting looks like.

6. Most writers have zero physical artistic ability. Apart from the ones that are artists as well, and you, my friends are a whole other group of talented beasties, of whom I am merely jealous. Anyway, for the rest of we mere mortal writers, our hands just don't cooperate.

Remember the colouring?

1. The future designer kids wanted things to look good, therefore they cared about keeping things between the lines.

2. The future writer kids got bored. Couldn't care less about the lines. Just wanted to get the darn things finished so we could go and do something else. Honestly, could anything be more boring than filling in a blank space with a blunt crayon? Yes, filling in two blank spaces with a blunt crayon.

3. Hours of devoted colouring strengthened the designers hands. Add in the natural ability, plus the caring - it's the perfect combo for beautiful writing.

4. The writers' hands remained weak and wibbly wobbly. Not only is our writing not beautiful, it's a wild scrawl.

I sooooo qualify to be a writer.

PS If you are a writer with beautiful handwriting who loved colouring in as a child, are you sure you're in the right profession?

Thoughts from the mind of a Princess

Sadly the keyboard blood has more to do with work than fiction, and my brain is bare of blog inspiration, so I'm taking refuge in some of Princess's wonderful remarks, like:

"Mummy, was Sarah's mummy born fat?''

Princess's friend: "Do you know what a vagina is?"
Princess: "Yes. It's a willy."
Princess's friend: (pause) "I knew that."

"I don't think there should be jewellery shops. I think they should all be closed. Grown-ups have enough jewellery."

And here's a classic from Soccer Boy, only this morning:

"When our goldfish die, why don't we put them on the barbecue and eat them?"

Blood on the keyboard

That's how hard I've been working. My 'j' key is streaked with actual blood. Beat that!

Almost a winner!

I think most of you know my good friend, Shona Snowden. I'm excited to learn that she just landed a runner up position in a writing competition over at Women on Writing - here's the link to her piece: Recreating Home.

I've got to say I don't think much of that photo; it looks like her husband took it with a pocket camera when he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. A bit more make-up next time, please, Shona.

As for the writing, that last sentence is a howler (take a deep breath before the start), but the rest reads OK to me. I'm sure she'd like to know what you think!

The Pollster

It's a Pet Takeover. Here is our Pollydog.

She's from the mumble pet shop unmumble. We were looking for a rescue dog, but with young children wanted a puppy rather than an older dog with unknown issues/phobias. We couldn't find one that wasn't going to grow to the size of a mountain.

I went into the pet shop on a fact-finding mission and there she was. That was it. Game over. Mr Koala wasn't even in the country at the time. He came home to find himself a dog owner.




She's kind of that third baby koala, although I do have the sense to treat her vaguely like a dog, so she knows her place in the hierarchy. Although she and Princess did debate that a lot, I think Polly's got the idea now and does actually obey Princess, particularly if dried liver is around.

She loves people, soft toys and the sand pit, hates the rain, fish oil capsules and when she was immunised she cried so loudly all the other vets at the surgery came running into the room to see what was wrong.

She often needs a haircut, but long or short, she's the kind of dog everybody stops on the street to say hello too. She repays their attention with lots of love and licking and has fans all over our suburb.

Rumour has it she's a cavoodle, but personally I think a terrier got over the fence and had its wicked way with a Miss Poodle.

Who cares? We think she's perfect.

More pet stories, please! Comment here or look at the thread below for more writerly companions.

Pet-tastic

So many of us have furry/feathered/scaled companions - so let them take the stage for a moment.

What pet do you have? How did he/she come into your life? Habits, quirks, cutenesses?

Soccer Boy's situation improves

(If you confessed recent writing slackness, check the comment thread below for some Koala Punishments)

We had a meeting with Soccer Boy's teacher last week and I think things are getting back on track.

We have to meet all his teachers to rattle through his health issues, a meeting complicated and lengthened this year by a move to using a keyboard in the classroom. Once we had done that we moved tactfully on to the stress/classroom confidence. The teacher admitted, although not in so many words, that he had only that week achieved an understanding of Soccer Boy and his needs - mental as well as physical. In fact, specifically on the Tuesday of that week (!) he had noted what made Soccer Boy confident and happy, and what bemuses him - and provided practical examples to us to demonstrate! He is going to be working on those things with SB - encouraging his classroom participation through success and checking that he and another boy, who appears bemused by the same things, understand what they are doing.

We left the room feeling much more positive about the teacher, and not in a 'smoothed over' kind of a way. Once he understood what poor old SB was dealing with on a daily basis he became very proactive with his suggestions of support and called me in this morning to discuss what he'd researched and discovered over the weekend. SB can expect a lot of computer support with his keyboard and we will decide together whether or not he is ready to sit the 'compulsory' writing exam this year, or whether, for his own sake, he would be better applying for an exemption.

The whole thing went, and is now going, much better than we expected. However, while Soccer Boy seems to be settling, in that we have far fewer tanties and he comes out of the classroom with a smile, he still says he dislikes the teacher. Unfortunately for the teacher, he can encourage SB as much as he wants, but it will take a long time for SB to overcome the horror of those first couple of weeks. Poor old soul. SB, I mean.

On the happy side of life, soccer trials were yesterday and SB went like a dream and it looks like he'll get on a good team this year. He had four eight-minute matches and after the first two was jumped up into the top group, yippee. He loved three of the matches, the fourth astounded him by its roughness: 'they hurt me four times in eight minutes. In eight minutes, Mum. How can they do that?'

Is my son a softy?!

Blog emergency!

I have thirteen followers! I love you all, and, please, nobody leave, but I have a thing about the number thirteen. I can't stop reading a book on chapter thirteen, I can't stay on the thirteenth floor etc. etc.

Please...I need one more follower...please, someone follow me, even if you don't want to...

Alluring?

It's time for Robin's voice challenge again! You may remember the last, slightly dodgy, challenge was making some dry-as-dust text sound sexy. This time we're turning it around. How unromantic can we make some loving words?

Here's my attempt - Burns, unromanticized. (Less than a minute long - that's how long it took to destroy our national poet...)

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The Koala is perturbed

Some folks at The Kill Zone are making free with her decency.

Read the comments to the end. I think they are unaware of The Claw.

Water bottle koala update: she's in love! Check this out!

Here's a question we haven't asked in a while...

...what are you working on?

Do you have a major WIP at the moment, or are you working on some shorter pieces? Writing/editing? Plotting/researching? Genre/style? Near the end/just getting started? Let's talk about what's keeping us busy and away from the TV.

Koala Challenge victims, sorry, participants, I will be viewing your WIPs with particular interest...

You know it's summer when...

...you burn your feet not only on sand and concrete, but also on the grass

...you stop wearing make-up, because it slides right back off your face

...the pool is as warm as a bath

...the dog hasn't been walked for three days and she's grateful

...the air smells of smoke from bush fires

...your kids are praying to God for rain

...you dress in inappropriate clothing, just to get some more skin out there to sweat

...you regret gloating about the heat to your friends currently enduring winter, because right now you'd like just one of their lovely snowstorms.

Soccer Boy updates will appear when he, or we, get/s to grips with this teacher.

Poor Old Soccer Boy

Remember that dream teacher whose class Soccer Boy was so pleased to be in? Well, alas for Soccer Boy, he does not teach computing and sport all day. There's a lot of work and testing in there too. Apart from spelling (a disaster area for Sokr Boi), I think the testing is going OK. I even think the work is going OK. That is, when he understands the instructions.

A couple of times SB has misunderstood what he's been asked to do. The teacher then blows up and tells him to do it again. Without repeating the instructions. I think you can see the vicious circle developing.

I've already been in the classroom three times (in a week!) trying to sort out various issues (health, use of keyboard, speelin dezastrs). I think the teacher now hates me and I really feel I cannot darken his doorstep again, or there may be classroom consequence for SB. However, Soccer Boy is becoming very stressed and demoralised.

We'd like Soccer Boy to see if he can manage this independently, but we're making suggestions as to how he can help himself. We've come up with listening carefully (but, Mum, I doooooooo!), checking with his friends (tends to lead to trouble for talking) or getting more confident friends to ask the teacher to repeat the instructions (a couple of Adam's friends could not care less about yelling/threats/visits to the headmaster's office - I think he can use that!)

Does anybody out there have any other suggestions? What strategies can Soccer Boy use?

This teacher is a male, 50ish, very sarcastic and used to teaching kids a couple of years older and more confident than poor old vulnerable Soccer Boy.

The shame, the shame

Yes, The Koala has been forced to moderately threaten herself after squandering her weekly day off for no particular reason and then discovering that the weekend is just not a good time to catch up. Especially when there is a family party on one day, and a lunch that merges into a dinner on the next.

Better make up for it today, hadn't I?

Also, the new month is starting over at Aerin's Random Complexity Challenge. Speaking of which, JaneyV and JC Montgomery are rather cleverly keeping a running total of Koala Words. I thoroughly approve of this, because I have no idea how much I actually wrote in January. Let's do it! I also like The Troll's method of keeping seven days word count up, because it makes it much easier for me to keep track. Blogless, you're back on Approves as a bonus, because You Have Pleased the Koala. Diligent Janey and JC are already there.

In other news...it's Hot and Sweaty Down Under with no respite in sight...I'm meeelting...meeelting... And feeling less smug about the heat than usual.

The Koala wants to make you smile

After the downer of my last post, I found something special in the news that will hopefully cheer us all up.

True stupidity in action.

A Koala on her Soapbox

I read the news every day. I read about the awful things people do to one another, and to their children. Awful, awful things.

But this absolutely floored me. The title of this post is misleading. I'm actually completely and utterly speechless about this one.

*Link fixed!*

Back to school

The summer holiday has just ended on our topsy turvy side of the world and today the baby koalas returned to school. They were both bizarrely happy about it. Am I that boring?

They scored great teachers; in fact, soccer boy got the one he'd been hoping for. He has been separated from a couple of his friends, one close friend in particular, but the biggest chunk of his group of friends is in his class with him so he's pretty happy. Princess has her best friend with her, hooray, so she'll be in clover.

So it's back to work properly for me. Well, I tried. I made three calls and none of my clients were in. Oh, dear. How to spend my time? I rose to my own challenge and wrote just under 400 words to finish the short story I've been working on for the last couple of weeks. It's a short story of just over 5000 words, mostly written in small batches of a few hundred words here and there - words that I would not have written without this challenge to keep me going, even if it was just to crunch out a paragraph on the laptop on the sofa late at night. I'm learning that while being able to sit down for an hour or more and write 1000 words or more is the ideal, it is possible to work in a different way.

I'll give the story a quick edit over the next couple of days and then let it sit for a while and apply my new technique to a WIP. A more demanding and more complex task, yes, but if I keep at it, even a tiny bit a day, I should always know where the story is going, making it easier to keep my line of thought.

I hope!

BTW, my story is sci fi - a whole new world for me, literally.

Goede morgen iedereen!

Vandaag is 'Rabbit Hole Day' en dat betekent dat ik iets moet schrijven dat een beetje anders is van mijn normalen blog verhalen. Dus, schrijf ik in het Nederlands. Het spijt mij als dit vol fouten zit, maar het is nu over tien jaar sinds dat ik in Nederland heb gewoont. Ik heb vier jaar in Amsterdam doorgebracht en ik heb een Mavo in het Nederlands. Toen ik daar woonde dachten sommige mensen dat ik Nederlands was, so goed kon ik de taal spreken. Niet meer, helaas!

Ik denk dat dat genoeg is voor vandaag!

Easy way to show your PHC wordcount

OK, so we are officially launching this weekend - i.e. now. Kudos to those who were already hard at work.

I've snuffled about the guts of blogger and found an easy way to keep your wordcount at the top of your blog, without having to make a post. 'Gadgets' click the 'text' option - put in a title - 'The Public Humiliation Challenge' springs to mind. Then you can simply type text into the box (like your wordcount), or add links, for example to the appropriate Koala Claw badge or to the original post. Above the box is a small selection of activities, such as links and images to make it even more easy, peasy. Writing it is pretty much like writing a regular post. Save the gadget and It should appear at the top of your blog. Then it's simply a case of clicking on the 'tools' pic under the gadget to edit the text and each day's word count.

This is not obligatory, a post or a comment is fine, but once you've set it up, which doesn't take long, it's quick and easy to amend without having to open posts or comments.

Here are our fantastic Koala Claw badges, provided by the seriously talented JJdeBenedictis:

Koala Approves

KCTL: Low

KCTL: Moderate

KCTL: High

KCTL: Extreme

Koala Smack-down

As you can see, she presented me in my best light. Although I'm not sure about the size of that Koala butt.

I'm sure you are all on Koala Approves...or do I need to issue reprimands so soon?

The Public Humiliation Challenge (summarised and made coherent)

The Public Humiliation Challenge is a way to ensure you keep cracking on those works in progress.

Challengees post word counts either in posts on their own blogs (preferably a new post, so I can follow it easily), or report in here (comment in whatever post is at the top is fine). Your target is a minimum 100 words up there at least six days a week, actual writing and not blog posts. Memoirs, stories, a paragraph in your novel - any kind of original writing counts. Editing also counts, but you must have worked on a chunk of at least 100 words - although I don't care if it turns out to be 150 words or 10 words by the time you've finished with it. Plotting and planning count as long as they are on paper/keyboard, not in your head. Reading does not count; I expect some kind of production. State in your entry what type of work you have done, if not straight writing.

You get one day off a week - a free pass for those days when the family keep you busy from dawn until dusk or some kind of irresistable adventure uses up your whole day. Only one day, mind and you must declare your chosen day instead of your wordcount.

Otherwise, only entertaining excuses are permitted - those would be ones that make me laugh. Special dispensations for extreme weather conditions, and for tragedy, obviously, although this year the koala clan is hoping fervently for a year without hospital admissions as we have single-handedly kept the Australian medical system afloat in the past twelve months. The tragedy dispensation section does not include broken nails, cranky spouses or homework-eating dogs. It does, however, include Attacks by Baby Koalas (section 5, A (iii)). What do you mean I'm the only one with baby koalas? Too bad. That's not my fault.

Anyone who doesn't make the 100 words on at least six days in any one week must come here and confess. We reserve the right to be utterly unsympathetic.

This was going to be a lovely, friendly challenge with mere fruit throwing as penalties however JJdeGoblin introduced a rather cool 'Koala claw threat level-ometer' that I shall be adopting. Graphics to follow.

This challenge is completely compatible with Aerin's - use your 100 words a day to meet her challenge of 1000 a month (however, if you want it to count towards her challenge the words must be original writing).

Why this will work... 100 words a day on a WIP keeps you in touch with your creativity and line of thinking, even when you don't have time to write large chunks...100 words a day keeps your technique alive...100 words a day adds up to a 1000 word short story in only ten days...100 words a day can take less than ten minutes...100 words a day can turn into a couple of thousand almost by accident...100 words a day just reminds you of what you are doing and why you are doing it...100 words a day is merely fun that can turn into something amazing.

Meet your fellow challengees:

McK (surprise!)
JJ de Benedictis
Whirlochre
Blogless Troll
Robin
JaneyV
Aerin
Sylvia
Sarah L
JC Montgomery

More entrants welcome at any time. Just let me know in a comment at the end of my most recent post.

Public Humiliation Challenge Wordcount

22 January 2008: 278

We can say we knew him first...

The winner of the latest contest over at Clarity of Night is our very own PJD with his great 'Sliding' - warmest congratulations to him! Previous winners have gone on to be published, so Jason has a good eye for these things. The Unlucky 26, coming to a bookstore near you, very soon.

Check out the rest of the winners too - there are some familiar names in there, including Precie, Janey, Aerin, LaughingWolf and, heh, me! It was a fun, fun contest, with so many different takes on the prompt, fascinating stuff to read and kudos to Jason for having the energy to assess all the entries.

Public Humiliation Challenge Wordcount: 170.

Cheep, cheep

Public Humiliation Wordcount 20/1: 225 and I've sorted out a tricky moment, yippee
Public Humiliation wordcount: 173 (and that's 173 words more than would have been written today if it weren't for the challenge - so it's working for me!)

We've been looking after a friend's bird for the past few days; a beautiful rainbow lorikeet. When I was a kid my parents refused to buy a cat or a dog, so they rather uselessly substituted goldfish, then, rather more usefully, a series of budgies. Initially Mum had to take care of them, however, I later became rather handy around them, cleaning them out and feeding them like any responsible mum. So I loved having the imaginatively named 'Birdie' to stay. We kept him on the deck right outside the family room. He was a chatty little thing with a small vocabulary and a cute habit of instant imitation. He could also cough, sneeze and laugh.

Polly dog was fascinated by him and spent hours standing by the cage, just watching, while Birdie taunted her by inching closer, then suddenly leaping to the other side. Polly would race over there, Birdie would hop back, Polly would race back, Birdie would hop back etc. etc. Polly just thought he was the best-ever plaything. When he left this afternoon, she sat by a glass panel next to the door, wistfully watching my friend's van until it was out of sight.

Now I want to have a bird again...however, Mr Koala's loathing of birds is only surpassed by his loathing of cats, and as he would like to assassinate all cats, that's not saying much.

Have you ever had temporary care of a pet - and then wanted one the same?

The Public Humiliation Challenge: Editing Counts!

Public Humiliation Challenge wordcount yesterday: 210 words
*Updated to add* Public Humiliation Challenge wordcount today: 1023 words
*Updated again to add* Public Humiliation Challenge wordcount tomorrow (yours, I'm there already): 316 words

Yes, editing counts. I think that editing and rewriting is what makes writing really sing. As long as you work on a chunk that starts at 100 words or more then it counts for the PHC. Even if you edit those words down to 50, 10 or even 1. As long as it's a good word, then it counts. Or you start with 100, rewrite the first sentence ten times and then realise the rest is fine - that counts too. Whack it into your wordcount with pride. Call it editing, so we know what you've been up to.

*Updated to add* Scheming/plotting also counts. See how reasonable I am? All I want is 100 words of progress on whatever you are working on. Drafting, editing, plotting - as long as you feel it's progress then it's in. This is supposed to help us - it's a way of either kicking off something new, or of never losing track of something we're working on - just 100 words...it's that easy...and if that kicks off 1000 words that's fine too. But you've still got to write 100 the next day - the whole idea is to keep going!

So signed up so far I think we have:

JJ de Benedictis
Whirlochre
Blogless Troll (if tomorrow ever comes)
Maybe Robin (couldn't figure out if that was a in or an out!)

I'll put something up on the side of the blog in due course, but we may have more people joining us.

The Public Humiliation Challenge

Word count yesterday: 0 due to sweatbox of a work room.

That's the Public Humiliation Challenge in action.

I'll post word counts in each of my posts now in the interests of demonstrating my slackness, sorry, industry. What I'm actually writing is probably of minimal interest so I won't yarn on about it unless it's particularly interesting. JJdeGoblin, I'm challenging you to do the same! And anyone else that wants to play along. I want to see a minimum 100 words up there at least six days a week, actual writing and not blog posts. Only entertaining excuses permitted - those would be ones that make me laugh. Special dispensations for extreme weather conditions, and for tragedy, obviously, although this year the koala clan is hoping fervently for a year without hospital admissions as we have single-handedly kept the Australian medical system afloat in the past twelve months. The tragedy dispensation section does not include broken nails, cranky spouses or homework-eating dogs. It does, however, include Attacks by Baby Koalas (section 5, A (iii)). What do you mean I'm the only one with baby koalas? Too bad. That's not my fault. Yes, Attacks by Baby Koalas can be a tragedy. Haven't you heard of Deadly Drop Bears? Whirl, enlighten them, please.

Anyone who doesn't make the 100 words on at least six days in any one week must come here and confess. Fruit may be thrown. If you don't confess and I find out, big fruit will be thrown.

Um, that's it. This little challenge, by the way, is completely compatible with Aerin's. Imagine, 100 words a day. How fast would that add up to her demand of 1000 a month? Easy peasy!

I'm a-ok for Aerin's challenge, thanks to my entry to Jason's contest at: http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/

I'm number 74, and if you're burning with excitement to read my first 250 words of 2009, that's right here. You'll also find Precie, PJD, Janey, laughingwolf and various other blog buddies over there, but I'll let them find their own entries! Can't remember all of them, m'dears.

However, my work is not yet over. 100 words or more coming up later today.

There will be no writing today

With good reason, not just procrastination (for once!). It's going to be 40 degrees Celsius here, 104 Fahrenheit. It gets five degrees or so hotter in my little room, perched as it is in the ideal position to collect all-day sun and I really don't want to die in a pool of melted fur.

Amuse me. How warm or cold is it where you are?

The Book Roast is Back!

We've refilled the gas, scrubbed down the grill and topped up the sauce bottles. Yes, the Book Roast is blowing off the cobwebs of the holiday season and relaunching with a slightly different format.

To celebrate, we've lined up a varied guest list for the first two weeks - yes, two solid weeks - featuring two of the coolest agents, six amazing authors and our new regular contributor - the Mystery Publisher, our very own publishing Deep Throat.

Monday, Jan 12: Mystery Publisher
Tuesday, Jan 13: Eric Stone
Wednesday, Jan 14: Agent Lucienne Diver
Thursday, Jan 15: Barrie Summy
Saturday, Jan 17: Elysabeth Eldering

Monday, Jan 19: Mystery Publisher
Tuesday, Jan 20: Traci E Hall
Wednesday, Jan 21: Maggie Stiefvater
Thursday, Jan 22: Agent Nathan Bransford
Friday, Jan 23: Jennifer Macaire

As ever, we'll have wit, charm and insider tidbits - and prizes galore (easier to win now, too!). Check out the Book Roast and tell your friends!

WAP: Writing Action Plan!

Step 1: Join Aerin's 1000 words/month writing challenge (done, see post below for evidence).

Step 2: Stop googling anything suggested by BT (done, for today at any rate)

Step 3: Get cracking on bubbling Clarity of Night idea.

Step 4: Visit JJdeGoblin and chat more about mutual-egging-on.

Step 5: Revise and submit Clarity of Night.

Step 6: Start on something else.

Step 7: Keep going!

Emergency writer's block package
Track down gum leaves.
Keep Whirl ideas to blast away writer's block.

Hold me to it!

The first step: rise to something!

Aerin at In Search of Giants is hosting a writer’s challenge to foster inspiration and community. It's pretty low-pressure: 1000 words a month. At the end of the year, you'll have a total of 12,000 words, which is not even half a NaNo entry. Go here to sign up!

BONUS: If you sign up for this challenge by January 14, your entry to the Ascension Clarity of Night contest counts as all 1000 of your words for January!

Somebody inspire me

I have a little-post Christmas problem. No, not that one. I thought nobody knew about that one? BT, if you dare google it...

I just can't glue my ass back in the writing seat! I managed to churn out some web copy for a client at the start of the week (the stuff that pays) and I thought that might kick start me, but it hasn't. I'm still messing around with kids - it's their summer holiday for the whole month of January, but they are normally fairly forgiving if I sneak upstairs for an hour or two - but somehow I can't get myself to actually do it.

I'm not short on ideas; I've got two short stories simmering, something that needs editing and the famous Woman is still firmly stuck in her Wall at around 25,000 words. I did reread those 25,000 just before Christmas and I'm really happy with them. I even know where she's going (nowhere for a while, but just wait...). The something that needs editing is actually already two thirds done, but I know the last bit would be the hard bit. One of the short stories is completely written in my head and is probably sellable. The other is not quite so written in my head, but is probably even more sellable. And then there's the Clarity of Night comp, which would be fun to do, and I even have an idea for.

All fun things that I even WANT to do. Just can't get myself of the post-Christmas butt to do it. I know you guys are good at butt kicking. Please, please, please kick mine, or for the more polite among you (I know who you are. Sarah.) suggest where I might start.

Mmrrrphl, schrrrphl

*sound of rustling as McKoala digs herself out of the remnants of the eucalpyt leaf feast and gazes around blearily*

Just a little something to wake me up - here are ten honest facts about myself, most of which you probably don't need to know, but, hey, let's get this blogging thing revved up and going the easy way. Once upon a time this was a meme, but it's not any more.

1. I don't have single plant in my house, because I can't be bothered looking after them.

2. I pick my nose in the shower.

3. I wanted to be left-handed.

4. I sing really badly.

5. I don't go Brazilian.

6. I hate sport.

7. After dinner I sit down and treat Mr McKoala like a dishwashing, tea-brewing slave.

8. Sometimes when I tell the kids I'm working, I'm just dandling about on the Internet.

9. This is bland.

10. Most of the honest things I can think of are unprintable.

It's 2009!

C'mon, slowcoaches, catch up! I'm already hung over and contemplating what to have for breakfast. Fried ham and eggs sounds good to me. This could be you tomorrow!

Hope you're all having a fantastic festive season, with all your favourite goodies and gifties from the fat bloke in the red suit, and that you occasionally recall whose birthday it really is. BTW, Soccer Boy says that only three people live forever: God, Jesus and Santa.

Nothing profound to offer you today (see para 1), but promise to get back to regular blogging some time in the next week.

And remember. Hogmanay is not a kind of sausage.

Rockin' around the eucalypt tree...

Have a happy holiday!

Love McKoala & clan

And you thought finance was boring...

Robin's latest voice challenge: sexing up something dull. OK, I admit it was my idea - but is anyone surprised that she went for it?!

Here's mine - a little early, but I had some time today. Investment anyone?

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From Weds night/Thursday, for more voices and links check out Robin's blog.

Lives are meeting

I've often wrangled with whether or not to put this blog into my real name. Well, I'm not going to, nyah nyah.

I'm around and about under my real name - which I think most of you know, and if you're confused there's a whopping big clue on the book roast blog - but move fast, because I think I might delete that soon.

What's happening now is that, thanks to Facebook, you ethereal chums and my more earthly versions are meeting. Not a bad thing in itself, but while I'm perfectly content for you all to know my real name, I'd quite like to keep McKoala and this blog to my ethereal life. Very few people I see on a day-to-day basis know about my fiction writing, beyond the short stories and articles. I hate the thought of people asking me 'so how's the book going?' every day, possibly for forty years or more if I never get into print!

So I may try and blur the links between the names a little more.

Is anybody else having to think about this?

Random rules

When the right hand does not know what the left is doing, the left hand will take advantage and will shut the right hand in a closet door.

If a husband is entrusted with laundry over a period of a week or more, he will economise by running the machine less often. One morning your daughter will run out of school dresses and your son will run out of school shorts.

The zip on any dress that cost less than half price will break the first time you wear it.

If you save time by dropping off a prescription before going to the supermarket with the plan of picking it up afterwards, you will waste even more time by forgetting it and having to go back to the shopping centre specifically for that one item.

If you let your daughter have nail polish on the grounds that she is now old enough and sensible enough not to paint the white carpet in her bedroom, she will paint the white carpet in her bedroom.

If I can't understand it, I won't read it

Apparently, I am not stupid. Apart from maths, but we don't need to talk about that now*. Specifically, I am not a stupid reader. I have a degree in English literature and language and I studied linguistics for a while and did OK there (but not as well as Paca). I can even spell, not that that is particularly relevant.

So here's the thing. As a reader, I don't think that a writer being deliberately opaque is a pleasant experience. And although I admit I read for pleasure nowadays I don't mind a bit of a challenge (apart from Russian names, which, as discussed before, I just cannot master - I like to see that as a quirk, rather than general stupidity...), if I do not have any idea what is going on after the first five to ten pages, I will put your book down.

This doesn't mean you can't intrigue me, I'm all over that. But I need to know something. For example, I don't necessarily need to know who the speaker is if I can vaguely follow what they are saying. If I understand who the speaker is, I may bear with difficult content. So tell me something, anything. Even knowing where an unnamed speaker spouting confusion is located may help me. For example, jail. No names needed, confusion expected. But don't hide everything from me or I will put your book down and recommend others skip it too.

I need to have something to hang my hat on before I start taking my coat off. (Whirl, feel free to make merry with that one).


* Never give me the bill to check. It will not work out.

Rewrite Jane Austen, 2008-stylee

Following on from the previous post, choose any line from Jane Austen and rewrite it in contemporary English!

See comments for my attempt.

International editions

In Australia we are in a kind of publishing black hole where we often receive British or US editions of books, rather than Australian editions. Fair enough, there aren't that many of us and it's probably cheaper.

This has enabled me to observe first hand the efforts that publishers do, or do not go to, to create American editions of British books, and vice versa. Here are a few examples:

• The publishers that make no changes whatsoever, other than publisher details. As we shall see, this is a surprisingly sensible approach.

• The publishers that change everything. Now, this might seem a sensible approach, but unless you are very careful, this can go horribly wrong and result in an unnatural hybrid. Changing spelling isn't necessarily a big deal, but when you get to vocab and grammar, you are on dangerous ground. Let's assume that our book is set in the UK - as, let's face it, many British novels are. It may be fair enough in narrative to say: 'The child sat on the stoop eating candy'. Not in dialogue. A British child would not say: 'I'm sitting on the stoop eating candy'. A British child would say: 'I'm sitting on the step eating sweets.' There's a huge distinction there between adding an American perspective and creating a monster that doesn't work in either country.
  

• The publishers that change a few things here and there to add 'a flavour'. Again, an example and this is my absolute favourite. A book set in Wales, featuring a Welsh family who'd been there for generations and throughout the novel a little boy called his mother 'Mom'. No, no, no. I've seen this a couple of times in US editions of UK novels, but interestingly I've never seen it the other way. Perhaps publishers have the sensitivity to realise that if a novel is set in the US they can keep 'mom', because British readers will understand that this is 'American' for 'mum'. But do they really have the insensitivity to believe that this is not true in the opposite direction? That an American adult would not realise that a British kid using the word 'mum' is not merely making a repeated mistake?

American adults speak out!

And if anybody has noticed anything similar in their reading, I'd love to hear about it.

I long to delight my followers

But how, my precious ones?

Maybe a little giggle and a schoolyard yarn.

Soccer Boy's ball got stuck in a tree yesterday after school. We couldn't quite reach the lower branches to shake it loose and chucking sticks didn't help. 'I can do it,' says one of the mums and spear throws her daughter's hobby horse into the tree. Yes, that got stuck too.

So now we have a cricket ball and a disembodied horse's head hanging from the branches. 'Leave it to me,' says Mum number two and lobs her daughter's schoolbag at the ball and horse. Guess what. That got stuck too. So now we have a howling toddler and a schoolchild who doesn't know to be happy or sad. (My homework's in there, yippee! Oh hang on, so's my lunch bag...) Soccer Boy in the meantime is perfectly happy, because his ball has come down.

I'm feeling the need for sacrifice, because this is all down to my child, so I'm weighing Soccer Boy's bag in my hand, thinking that it should at least join the crowd in the tree when the one sensible mum among us arrives with a long-handled mop from the janitor's office. And no, she didn't throw it.

It took three mums and said mop to get the horse and the schoolbag down.

Revealed: The Face of McKoala

I'm in love with this new following feature, which enables me to keep up with everybody's new posts without browsing for hours (I still may or may not reply, heh, heh...). By the way, am I missing anybody? Is anybody lacking a recent visit from a marsupial with attitude? Tell me and I'll start stalking, sorry, following you.

A side effect of this wondrous new gadget is that my profile pic is popping up everywhere as a grey-headed Mr Nobody. Could this be any less appropriate?

And so...I reveal...the true face of McKoala. Am I as cute as you thought I was? No, I'm cuter, right?!

Koala family health update: I'm almost back in full action, but won't be allowed to lift anything heavy for three months, therefore Mr Koala is now delegated to supermarket shopping and laundry baskets, yippee! Grandma Koala still in hospital, but now I have been released from house arrest I will go and visit her this weekend. Recent phone calls and demands indicate increasing return of vigour in Grandma although release date remains changeable.

Say it like it is

Princess loved our holiday in Scotland so much that she says she wants to go and live there and play with the little McHaggi every day. Soccer Boy says, no thanks, Scotland is too cold for him. Dilemma? No!

'OK,' says Soccer Boy. 'Next time we go we can just leave her there.'

The Joys of Freelancing

In my real life, as far as I have one, I am a freelance copywriter. This means that I am lucky enough to make my living by writing. 'Lucky' is a tricky kind of a word, though. A slippery, dippery, wippery kind of a word. The reason for this is simple. Clients

There are many breeds of client. Most are nice, normal people with perfectly good manners, who lack the ability to write and recognise that, hence their need for me. Others are nice, normal people with perfectly good manners, who lack the ability to write and do not recognise that, hence the tinge of grumpiness when they call and say "the designer said I'd better call you before we printed any of this". I can usually pleasantly prove that I can write better than they can, while remaining friends, and these relationships usually end with professions of gratitude and a loving promise to call me next time they need a brochure. Others are pus-oozing monsters with no manners whatsoever who lack the ability to write, but deny that, and make my life a total misery to the point where I wonder why they even employ me. Silly me. It's to torture me, of course! And in one case, make me abandon my chosen career for six months while I recovered from his pus-oozing awfulness.

While I know you long to learn more about the monsters, today we have a short post about The I-Did-It-Myselfers. I-Did-It-Myselfers are always the loveliest people, often with a slightly frail quiver to their voice, which makes me be extra polite to them on the phone, in case I should accidentally break them. I-Did-It-Myselfers really, really want to help, which is, believe it or not, not always a good thing.

When I ask for 'a few bullet points', I-Did-It-Myselfers provide pages of close-typed text, which take hours of reading to pick out the three things I actually need to know. When I ask for 'a brief bio', I get an entire life story. When I ask for 'any existing literature', I get a postman's-back-breaking package consisting of every piece of paper the company has produced in the past fifty years; including copies of their order forms and invoice layout. Not really necessary for a DL flyer about their new widget.

I-Did-It-Myselfers are so lovely, and so fragile, however, that it's impossible to explain to them how to be more helpful, because all they want to do is be helpful, and if they tried to be any more helpful they would actually frazzle themselves into a tiny pile of ashes. All I can do is say 'thank you' and grit my teeth as I plough through the forest-slaying piles of info (these people always send paper), using hours of non-quoted working time, all so that I don't hurt their feelings.

Because, however troublesome I may find their efforts, they have gone to an effort. They have tried to make my life easier. They are nice people, who, any time I need anything, will always answer their phone and do their best to find it for me.

They are, at the end of the day, My Client.


*McKoala Family Health Update*

Considerable improvement in everybody's condition over the weekend. I can now walk almost normally, rather than shuffle, although I still can't sit for long. Grandma Koala is much stronger and may even be released from hospital in a day or so (although they've said that several times before).

What's in a name? #3

I just read a book in which one of the characters was called 'Jem Stone'. And nobody seemed to notice.

Any recommendations for my convalescent reading? I'm going through a book a day at the moment so Mr Koala will be sent to the library again very soon.

Need...energy...boost...

Still not quite firing on all cylinders here. Thinking about doing lots of things. Not actually doing any of them.

Grandma still in hospital with massive headache. Nobody knows how many stitches she has, because the consultant says he lost count half way. Hoping she'll get out later this week.

Mostly I'm reading. I have many intelligent things to say about my reading. Not actually saying any of them.

I'm popping up randomly here and there on the blogosphere, but this is not the time to look out for me. I think Paca's Teddies will lynch me for a woeful performance in the quiz this month.

Well, if I've been up for two hours, it must be time to go back to bed now...

Owie

Here, but owie. Post surgery not quite as awful as I had thought, but a bit tired and sore now and mostly located in bed/on sofa. Got home from hospital yesterday; within a few hours mother-in-law had a fall and is now occupying my vacancy in the hospital. As my nephew put it, 'as soon as one comes out, another one goes in'. She's had many stitches in her head, but apparently no concussion and should get out later today. Her accident happened at the kids school where, bless them, an off duty ambulance officer and nurse (both parents) were on the scene. They worked hard, but they couldn't stop the bleeding that has traumatised half of the infants department; we're still getting calls from parents of freaked-out kids who want to ensure that Soccer Boy's Grandma didn't bleed to death. No, and she is issuing orders from her hospital bed about where her cane should be positioned, who to call and where her car should be parked etc., so we're hoping for a quick recovery.

It never rains but it...you know the one.

Poor me

I have to go into hospital later this week to have an operation. Nothing serious, no need to panic, just something that needs to be done and now is apparently the golden moment to do it.

I'm not looking forward to it. I seem to have a very low pain threshold. There will be moaning. I'm hoping I get some of the good-quality painkillers I got after I had Princess via the stomach slicing method. They made me very happy for an hour or so and then I fell asleep and woke up again just in time for my next dose.

Apparently I'm going to be largely out of action for two weeks. I've set up a complex play date schedule for the baby koalas that I hope all my friends remember, because I'm pretty sure Mr Koala won't. Visions of abandoned children in the schoolyard.

Kind of hoping I'll be able to stagger to my computer chair, but nothing is guaranteed.

Yeah, yeah, any excuse to avoid Paca's rainbows and teddies quiz. It might be different if I were winning....

The Name Thieves

I'm sure you all know about the Baby Name Thieves. You know, the friends, old and new, who are pregnant around the same time as you and who, in the middle of discussions about stroller brands, stretch marks and Braxton Hicks contractions, steer the conversation around to baby names.

'Caspian-Romeo if it's a boy and Amaryllis-Francine if it's a girl,' you confide. 'How about you?'

'Oh, we haven't decided yet,' she says. Then when baby pops out around two weeks before yours (these people are always slightly more pregnant than you) and you get a flowery message announcing that their angel has landed, funnily enough the name is Caspian-Romeo or Amaryllis-Francine. And if ever taken to task, they will airily deny any memory of the name conversation and avow that Caspian-Romeo or Amaryllis-Francine has been their favourite name since they could lisp around the teat of their own baby bottle.

And you have to call your baby John.

It is now my painful task to announce to you that the Baby Name Thieves have cousins. The Novel Name Thieves.

It turns out that my perfectly wonderful first novel (yes, yes, the one in the bottom drawer, no need to remind me) shares its title with the name of a rock band. My second (yes, yes, it's still unsold, no update, again...) shares the name of a blogger. My third I think is as yet unstolen (perhaps because it is very long). The fourth, half finished novel, shares the name of a song. The fifth, well OK, the idea in my head that may or may not ever be written, but which already has a title with which I am very pleased, I discovered in the library today shares the name of...another novel.

Who are these evil people, the Novel Name Thieves? How do they find me? Is this an alien probe situation?

Use 'em - or kill 'em

I've just read a book - rather a good one, I thought initially - that boasts a useless character.

This elderly man appeared at one meal, at which he had to be helped with his food. Occasionally the writer mentioned the number of chairs or people at other meals, which a quick tot-up showed meant he had to be present. Although he was never fed again, not that she mentioned anyway. Once she referred to 'the old man' being helped into another room.

That was it. He had nothing to say, nothing to do, except hang out at the dinner table and not be mentioned.

So why was he there at all? I've thought my way around the symbolic stuff - nothing. Family balance, that kind of stuff - nope, nothing. His presence, as far as I could tell, was completely unnecessary. I wondered if he had had more of a role in an earlier draft, which was then cut, leaving him voiceless, faceless, needing only a chair for the head count.

He was a problem though, when I thought about the book afterwards. This man, who needed help to feed and walk, what was he doing the rest of the time while the family were out and about? Who was looking after him? Rather than just being a presence without consequence, he became a problem in my mind; a loose end that undermined the realism and credibility of the whole story. So what had been rather a good book slid down my mental ratings chart to slumber somewhere at the bottom of the 'well, I won't read that one again, or probably anything else by this author' pile.

If you don't really need a character, if a character has no character, please, please get out your sharp red pen and kill 'em off.