In which I tried to write a picture book ...

I have made a lovely new friend who writes and illustrates amazing, wondrous picture books. 

Meeting this super dooper person has given me the confidence to try something I have always been too afraid to (in a manner that I have never been when I have met super dooper surgeons, triathletes or raw foodists).

I have begun my first ever picture book.

Many people think writing picture books is easy. Heck, if the Prime Minister can whip one up in his spare time, why can't the bust lawyer/doctor/five year old produce at least ten a day? Easy money!

Not so!

The REASON I have been too frightened to ever embark on this project before is that a) I have verbal and writerly diaorrhea, which is sometimes too ... ummm ... diaorrhea-y (erk), for even novel-length works. 60,000 words? Pssshhh! Easy Peasy.

500 (as it turns out): REALLY FLIPPING HARD!!!

So I have a great story, about alley cats in early Tasmania. It is poignant, funny, quirky and sweet.

It is also - at this stage - far too long.

My lovely new friend is being very understanding and patient with me as my story gets slowly shorter, and as I start to get the concept that the old "show don't tell" maxim does not apply in picture books. The pictures tell. The words are only PART of the story.

I hope I can make this thing work (after all, if K Rudd can - with a generous dollop of help from a very talented sidekick writer), while "running" the country, surely I can do it ... eventually ... with a LOT of hard sloggy work.

Whatever the case, I'm going to stick at it. I refuse to fail at something KR has achieved. Except maybe speaking Mandarin ... and grinning all the time and ...

In which I guest blog myself ...

Am being naughty today. The following is a blog post for the soon-to-be-launched Ferret blog for my work. So, in this context, it might sound a bit "old-person-trying-to-be-hip" , but still. I think it's a good list! Let me know what you think!

The best YA books you're NOT reading ...

Seriously? Give Bella and Edward a break. Their sparkles are getting tired. In the meantime, ditch the rubbish on the telly this weekend. (Cougar Town? Whatever), and curl up with one of these hidden treasures.


1.      If I Stay, by Gayle Forman
Oh, this book will make you cry. But in a good way. It’s a New York Times bestseller (almost not-heard-of with books for younger peeps). See what the fuss is about.

2.      Going Bovine, by Libba Bray
Libba Bray wrote the super-successful Gemma Doyle books, but you wouldn‘t even realise this book is by the same person. A weird and wonderful road trip / psychedelic dream novel about a kid dying of Mad Cow disease. I kid you not. It’s brilliant.

3.      Little Bird, by Penni Russon
Penni is a local girl, but that’s not the only reason you should read this amazing book. It’s super funny, sassy, smart and very, very powerful. Go the Tassie girls done good!

4.      After January
Read this in Winter, then beg your olds to take you to Surfers. It’s a perfect summer barbie novel that has a heart warm enough to see you through winter (plus, it’s one of the funniest books EVER).

5.      Looking for Alaska.
Okay, shut up, Nerdfighters. I know you’ve read this one, but for those of you who haven’t, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU WAITING FOR, PEOPLE? There is a reason this book has a cult following. It is because it is PHENOMENAL!!!

6.      Very LeFreak, by Rachel Cohn (she co-wrote Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist)
Who wouldn’t love a girl with a name like that? Perfect for making your very own playlist for every emotion, ala Very, or for when you’re taking a hard-earned Twitter break. This is the book for all of you seriously considering supergluing your Iphone to your hand. Come on, I know you’re out there.

7.      A Brief History of Montmaray
A change of pace: Read this one for when you’re dreaming of your very own romance on your very own island. This book is so full of loveliness it might just burst in a big cloud of confetti.

8.      Surf Ache, by Gerry Bobsien
Read this on a plane to drizzly Melbourne. Wished I could hijack the plane and take it all the way to Newcastle so I could be a surfer girl like Ella (and meet a boy like Snowy … and have a crazy little sister like Creaky).

9.      Jessica’s Guide to Dating on the Dark Side
No sparkles here, darlings. But there is some super snazzy vampy love, plus a heroine with a truckload more guts in her little finger than Bella has in her whole bloodsuckingly boring body, and a bona fide Romanian vampire. Woot!

10.  Will Grayson, Will Grayson
Okay, so it’s not out yet (you need to wait ‘til May), but I wanted to put something on here that you can look forward to. And you will trust me when I say that this book is PHENOMENAL. It’s a bit naughty, a whole lot funny, and has introduced me to both the best book character EVER in Tiny Cooper, and the best band I’d never heard of in Neutral Milk Hotel. Buy one of their CDs before the book comes out to be ahead of the game. Pure indie genius. Them play the CD while you read this book – so good I read the last page and then turned back to the first and read it all over again.

In which I found a lovely writing group!

I am chuffed, gleeful, awe-struck and glad to have a found a really lovely writing group (code name: Writerama), in my new hometown. 

We meet once a week at a local (and super-dooper lovely, yummy-food-making-kind-to-writers-wondrous), fish and chip super-shop. We bring our netbooks, our resources, ourselves and our brains. 

We don't order much, drink too much of their free bottled water, plug into their electricity and chat, laugh, people-watch and - here is the best thing - WRITE. We don't critique each others' writing, unless we feel a specific urge, but we do discuss it. 

We don't have formal topics or structure. We do spend a lot of time staring out the windows at the River Derwent. It is the best writey thing that has ever happened to me. I want to spend my whole life at writing group (with brief breaks to go and see the Husband Bear and Mephy, and watch Arrested Development).

All newbie writers, best tip I can give you: Get a writing group like mine. S'all, y'all.

In which Mephy is home and safe ...

And on many drugs that are making him the least psychotic and most cuddly he has EVER BEEN. Here is Mephy cuddling Bear:

(Nb Bear is wearing pants. It just doesn't quite look like it in this shot).

This level of cuddliness DOES NOT USUALLY HAPPEN.

Bear and I are very grateful to all involved in Meph's safe return to the little mint green house. It is not a home without him.

In which Mephy goes to hospital ...

I told myself I was not going to become a "cat blogger". It's not that I don't like cat blogs. I love cat blogs, but I figured there were enough cat blogs out there already without me adding my fantastic fur-child to the mix.

So I didn't tell you about how he is the best flopper that ever there was, and is a total glutton for tummy tickles.

I didn't tell you how he plays me and Husband Bear off against each other, pretending he has not been fed when he HAS.

I didn't tell you about how he is terrified of one partcular blue umbrella.

I didn't tell you how, every morning, when I am writing, he sits behind me on the back of the couch and curls his tail around me neck.

I kept Mephy the Psychotic Black Cat as my secret friend and muse.

But, today, Mephy the Psychotic Black Cat went to hospital. The Husband Bear and I don't know why yet. I won't go into the specifics, but my lovely Mephy has been sad and in pain. And I, for some reason, finally found the need to tell the blogosphere about it. Maybe I hoped a cat blogger out there would understand.

I'm sure Mephy will be okay. He is every bit as stubborn as he is psychotic. But I am worried about him in hospital.

Fingers and paws crossed.

In which I am beaten by Technology ...

 This morning was not a happy morning at the little mint-green house.

Not only was it a Tuesday (which carries neither the shared-with-the-world despair of a Monday nor the “Whee, it’s all downhill from herrrreeee …” of Wednesday to Friday), but there was also a fourth creature in our house. A fourth creature that was not a husband Bear, a Mephy the Crazy Black Cat or a Miss Cackle.

The fourth creature was a monster, and his name was TECHNOLOGY.

He came in many guises this morning. The first was a cute, tiny little netbook, formerly known as Windy. He crashed Windy into the dust, just when I finally got my head around the whole “track changes” part of the structural edit.

Then, while I galumphed around the house for a good six or seven minutes, ate a chocolate biscuit and tried to make smoke come out of my nostrils, Technology left the soul of poor, dead Windy and possessed Big Papa PC.

I was not aware of this. I was too busy galumphing.

So I, naively, tried to resuscitate my document of Big Papa PC. Big Papa PC DID NOT WANT TO RESUSCITATE MY DOCUMENT. This confused me, as usually, Big Papa PC is solid and reliable.

I finally worked out why BPP did not want to cooperate. He had been invaded by Technology. I called on Exorcist (AKA the artist formerly known as Husband), Bear to perform his ju-ju on BPP.

Luckily, Exorcist Bear is magic. He fixed BPP in no time, while I breathed into a bag and read Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters.

Exorcist Bear thwarted Technology (or so I thought), and I happily went back to my edits. La la “Approve”, “Deny”! Take that, “Scene That Wasn’t Working”!

But THEN, just as I was getting lulled into a false sense of security (and JUST before I pressed Save), Technology came back from the dead, in the form of … THE AURORA MAN, who knocked on the door, said “We’re just gunna have to turn your power off for an hour or so”, and did just that.

Before I saved.

“But I didn’t save my edits!” I protested.

Aurora Man / Technology just looked at me, shrugged and said: “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s a pretty bad problem. Your life could have been in danger”.

A likely story. I saw the evil glint in his eye as he walked over to the power pole.

It was another win to Technology; another loss for Poor Miss Cackle.

But tomorrow is another day, and I have learned many skills from the events of today.

Namely, the power of a little button called SAVE.

I'll get you next time, Technologeeee!!!

In which I go a bit ranty ...

I am not Generation Y.


I don’t have a Blackberry, or an IPhone. I have never worn high waisted jeans, leggings without anything on top, harem pants, or anything Lady Gaga might wear.


I don’t really know who Lady Gaga is. Or what her purpose is. I’m not sure she has one.


I Tweet, but I only Tweet with people who Write.


I hate Facebook.


I don’t get Myspace.


My friends are people I would die for, not people I would “poke”.


My life goal is not to be famous and buy a yacht. It is to be loved and buy some goats.


I don’t own bling.


I don’t have a dangly thing on my phone.


I don’t understand “random”. I laugh out loud all the time, but I have never ROFLMAO-ed (evidence – my “arse” is, currently, where it has always been, and not on the floor).


I get that, if people don’t put an emoticon in an email, it doesn’t necessarily mean they hate me.


Just because I do something does not mean I need to join a Facebook group about it.


I still want to be friends with people who don’t social network.


Doesn’t mean I hate people who do. Some of my best friends are as Y as they come.


But me?


I’m Gen Possum Magic; Gen Hairy Maclary; Gen There’s A Hippopotamus on My Roof Eating Cake; Gen Miffy; Gen Ramona; Gen Spot; Gen Butterfly’s Ball; Gen Anthony Browne; Gen Graeme Base; Gen Emily Rodda; even Gen Babysitter’s Club.


Later, I was Gen Garth Nix; Gen James Moloney; Gen Shaun Tan; Gen Tamora Pierce; Gen Isobelle Carmody; Gen Judy Blume; Gen Maureen McCarthy; Gen Melina Marchetta; Gen Terry Pratchett.


That’s the stuff I remember. That’s the stuff that lines my bookshelves in my tiny (non-McMansiony), townhouse. That’s what make me who I am. It might not be a one-letter catch-all, and it may not have functions and features and “applications” but, dammit, neither do human beings.

In which I met Lenny Bartulin - dashing crimey writey person

About six months ago, I met a man named Lenny Bartulin.

It was a dark and stormy ... errr day, and I had walked several miles already in the downpour, dragging behind me an ancient (well, actually, almost brand new, but ancient sounds so much more ... crimey), grey suitcase, containing my hopes, my dreams, and my bathers (I was staying in Manly, after all).

I was miles from nowhere - so miles from nowhere that my cabbie had no idea where to drop me and so I ended up wandering, lonely as a cloud, beneath many ... err ... clouds and rain and stuff, through bush where there may potentially have been serial killers and other assorted dastardly peoples. Thankfully, I survived - hurrah - and made it to my destination, an old, decrepit (well, the old bit IS true, but it was actually in pretty good nick), building.

I burst through the heavy wooden doors, dripping rain on to the floorboards in roughly the same manner as blood might drip (i.e. drip, drip, drip), and announced my arrival to the persons who lay (or, rather, sat), therein.

One of those persons - in fact, the very person I had come to see - was standing at the front of the room holding something that may have been a DAGGER (but also may or may not have been a whiteboard marker).

The man was tall, dark, handsome and had a very funky name. The man was ... Lenny Bartulin!

And it is not his fault I am still crap at writing crime!

He tried. He really did. And I tried. I wrote a whole entire crime novel set in a small town in Tasmania with a gutsy girl protagonist who finds out her parents are actually members of a top secret spy force! It was fun. It was a challenge. It was ... unfortunately not very good.

Lenny's books, on the other hand, are AWESOME. I don't read crime, which is maybe why I am terrible at writing it, but we had Lenny's launch here at the booky nook (he didn't recognise me, but that may be because I am a shy mouse person who was too awestruck to say hello. It's okay. I'm over it), and he was so super articulate and lovely, and he read from his books and they were brilliant and fun and a bit naughty, and I thought: well, they do say those who can write crime, do. Those who don't ... can at least read it!

Lenny's first book has just been sold to the US-y people, so be prepared for him to go gangbusters global very soon. In the meantime, you heard it here first: Lenny Bartulin is as good a crime writer as I am a bad one. Read his books. They are brill!

In which I met Melina Marchetta

So! Yesterday was Melina Marchetta day at the booky nook! 

Let me say that again: Yesterday was MELINA MARCHETTA day at the booky nook!!!

There, can you feel my excitement now? 

I was excited (that was for those of you who couldn't feel my excitement). I have been reading Melina since I was knee-high to a grasshopper (I am now elbow-high. It's a much better view from up here), and also since I thought you pronounced her name with a "ch" as in "chickety-china-the-chinese-chicken", when it's actually pronounced "ck" as in "karma-karma-karma-karma-karma-CHameleon".

I know. Everybody already knew that. But I am from Wynyard, Tasmania. We don't know much stuff down here.

But I digress.

Melina came. She was lovely - softly-spoken and very, very pretty and she had on the BEST SHIRT EVER.

I had to introduce her and I was a tad nervous, but I think I may have just pulled it off. Hurrah!

Then, Melina talked. Melina talking was much more interesting than me talking (note to self: become interesting before book launches). She talked for about half an hour about her new book, The Piper's Son -  which, is, just by-the-by, so complex and poignant and raw and real and incredible - and the books the preceded it.

Then, she answered questions about teaching (never again - the marking, THE MARKING), and whether there will ever be a sequel to "Alibrandi" (probably not).

Then, she answered questions about her writing. I was secretly hoping that somebody would ask her questions about her writing. I wanted to know (and, possibly, STEAL), her secrets.

Refreshingly, she didn't claim that her writing was a magical, mystical process, whereby she dreamed the plots to her books and woke up to find them all magically typed out for her by some whimsical writer sprite, who also left a cup of steaming coffee and a bagel for her to eat while she edited.

Instead, she actually admitted that there is a FORMULA, and that she PLANS AND PLOTS AND MAKES MANY, MANY NOTES BEFORE SHE STARTS WRITING, and that SOMETIMES SHE STEALS IDEAS.

This is why I love Melina. Not only is she supremely talented, she is also honest, humble and giving.

One day, even if I only get the last three qualities, I want to be a lot more like Melina Marchetta.

I also want her shirt.

In which ... Squee! I have a (sort of) fan!

So, it's happened.

It's official.

The first ever person to ask for my book at my bookshop has come. And asked. At my bookshop. Squee.

And my book isn't even out for another six months!!!

And, okay, okay, I know the woman was my former High School SOSE teacher, and I KNOW she asked for "the book by little Katie Lovell" (*maiden name*), and it WAS kind of embarrassing cos she asked my manager, and he didn't have a clue what the HECK she was on about, but still!!!

Word, at least in my teensy home town, has got around.

I am a writer. People are asking for my book. I think this may be the third or fourth happiest day of my life (after my wedding, the day I got an agent, and the days I found out I was getting published).

So, Derris Wood, hats off to you. You have just got your PhD at the age of 69; you are a teacher extraordinaire, and you are my first fan. Big, big love!

In which ... New Day, New Post ... :o)

This is going well! It's day two of my bloggy odyssey and look! Hurrah! Am still here!

And today I am glowing.

I did my first about-to-be-an-author thing.

And it also has to do with blogginess! 

The super-duper wondersome author Steph Bowe has let me guest blog on her blog.

Squee!

The topic is me the writer and me the bookseller and how the two me's work together (they are really very good friends and productive colleagues). Steph asked for 600 words. In usual Kate style I provided her with double that (this is why I am not a haikuist), but she said that was fine! Hurrah!

And so I am a writer. I am a writer OTHER writers want to write FOR them. About ME.

Yes, I do feel a celebratory chocolate break coming up. At this rate, by the time I actually get a book in my hands, I'll be the size of a house!