Sometimes I feel like I’m two people – the author who pounds a keyboard and hopes the story unfolding under her fingertips is going to attract the attention of an editor, and the organiser of WriteFest, the Bundaberg writers festival.
I’m currently wearing my organiser’s hat and telling any aspiring authors out there that we’re able to offer not only a fantastic day of workshops and a full-day masterclass at WriteFest, but that two editors (yes, that’s right, two) from Harper Collins have agreed to attend WriteFest to conduct editor-writer interviews. This is a wonderful opportunity for writers, doubly so because Harper Collins is no longer accepting unsolicited manuscripts.
So if you are interested in taking advantage of this great opportunity, check out bundywriters.com for all the relevant information. Submissions close Monday 22nd March – don’t leave it too late.
And check out the workshops and masterclass – there could be something there you’ve been looking for.
It’s such a great feeling when the words flow onto the screen almost of their own volition. My fingers might be typing, but it’s as though they’re not there, as though my brain is feeding directly into the computer.
All writers know that feeling of being “one” with their story. The joy of it is wonderful – it keeps you writing through those hard times when your plot falls apart, when your characters won’t “come alive”, when every word you write feels like it’s being dragged from the deepest part of your psyche, reluctant to come into the world in case it’s the wrong one.
For the past week my story has been flowing. I’m hesitant to even say those words in case the well of creativity dries up overnight. Ellie is right where she needs to be, both physically and emotionally, Cass is her usual solid and dependable self, and Kandy is entering that scary land where wives doubt every word their husband utters.
We’ve had so much rain that when evening falls we feel like we’re living in Swamp Hollow. Frogs everywhere! Big and small green ones, fat mottled brown and cream ones about the size of a 50c coin that I call cranky frogs because if they’re not happy with something their croak has a distinctively angry tone, long brown-striped ones with skinny legs, and I haven’t pinpointed the ones that sound like they are sending out Morse code. Although the noise makes watching television a problem, it’s a delight to know that if the number of frogs is an indication, the health of our little patch in the world is quite good.