Solvitur Ambulando

Milton used to say this, apparently. You’d know that if you read my novel Angel of Ruin but hardly anyone did so I’m assuming you didn’t know that solvitur ambulando means “it is solved by walking”.
Walking is my exercise of choice. Not just for keeping fit, but because it seems to elevate my mood and make my brain work properly. I have a number of projects on the go here on my research trip, and sometimes while sitting here working on my netbook they become impossible. So I go walking.

Back home, my walk of choice is Mt Coot-tha, but here in York I’ve discovered a brilliant one-hour walk around the city’s medieval walls (see picture). There are stairs and slopes and uneven flagstones and places where there is no handrail, and whole sections of the wall are missing and I have to walk through suburbia (but that’s how I discovered Waitrose!), but it has been keeping my brain ticking over and I love love love it. I’ve finally finished the edit of “Garden of the Mad King” so I’ll send that to my agent when I get home and hope she can find a publisher; I’ve written the first quarter of the novella “The Year of Ancient Ghosts”; I’ve done all the reading and written an abstract for a symposium paper on medievalist internet memes; and I’m writing a paper on medievalism, gender, and World of Warcraft that is coming out in a collection with Routledge next year. I just know that, if i wasn’t walking for an hour every day, I’d just sit here on the couch all day, mouth breathing, playing Bejewelled on Facebook, and the circle of self-loathing would start.

Solvitur ambulando: my prescription for increased cognitive and creative productivity. Trust me: I’m a doctor.

The bells, the bells

I’m writing this in bed, with the window open to let in a chilly morning breeze and the gorgeous ringing of the bells on York Minster at the end of the Sunday service. I am agnostic. I certainly don’t believe in the Christian idea of god (I mean, who calls their god “God”? It’s like calling your cat “Cat”. What’s wrong with a cool, stirring name like Thor or Athena?). No disrespect intended. I should stress, I’m not an atheist either. I do believe in… something. On some days. Just not all that palaver about devils and angels and saints and so on, nor in a man in the sky who gets cranky if you put your genitals where you shouldn’t. I mean, like he’d care, right? And like he’d be a he anyway. If there is a god, I’m sure gender wouldn’t be involved: what would be the point?

Having said all this, I’m still glad that people spent a lot of time and money in the past building awesome places like York Minster so I can enjoy them because I do love old churches and I do love church bells.

I have now settled in York for an extended stay, and have an incredible apartment just behind the minster. You can see the view from my sitting room window above. Between the view and missing my children, it’s a wonder I’m getting any work done at all, but I am reading and writing up a storm. I have several projects on the go, and the difficulty is deciding which to work on in any given day. I’m feeling like fiction today, so as soon as I’m done with this post I’ll get into my novella. If I’m quiet, it’s because I’m working. Or listening to bells.

Nessie, highlands, and big hairy coos!

The drive from Inverness to Dornie through the Scottish highlands is incredibly varied and beautiful. It’s difficult to come back here to my B&B room and force myself to work. My head is too full of the drama and the wildness and the size and scope of this place. Photos below, mostly for my mum’s benefit because she is reading this and I love her very much.

This is me at Loch Ness. Couldn't see a monster, though I looked very carefully.

View of the Highlands: literally took my breath away.

Big hairy highland cow!

Scottish castle: the one from Highlander

Splitting Skulls

Knock, knock. Hello? Is God in?

So I came to Orkney in part to do Viking-y things, and today I was a true Viking by anyone’s estimation. After visiting the neolithic tomb of Maes Howe to look at the Viking graffiti therein, I headed into the town of Kirkwall (home of the magnificent 12th century crumbly cathedral St Magnus’s) for a spot of lunch and some Orkney ale.

“Give me a steak pie and a bottle of Skull Splitter,” I said.

The bar-keep did a double-take. I swear everyone in the bar hushed.

“Are ye sure, lassie? Skull Splitter is no’ really a lunchtime ale,” he said. “It’s very strong; eight-and-a-half percent.”

“I’m from Australia,” I said. “I can handle it.”

By Odin’s beard it was strong. But I drank it. And here is photographic evidence.

Kim of the Island

I am in the Orkneys, a little group of islands off the top of Scotland. There are only a few places in the world that I’ve long dreamed of going (Milford Sound was another: saw it last February. Iceland is still on the list) and the Orkneys is one of them.

Me at the Ring of Broadgar

To get here, though, necessitated me getting on a really really tiny plane with propellers. Propellers! In fact, it was so old there were still ashtrays in the arm rests. There was a string quintet on the plane too, with their cellos strapped into the seats next to them. I thought that at least, if we went down, they could play us some music, Titanic-style.

Flying off the edge of mainland Scotland and catching the first glimpse of the islands made me cry with excitement. Some of the islands are completely bare except for a lighthouse. I was expecting grey water, but it was clear and turquoise. Orkney is very sparsely populated, there are few trees, but the roads are good and it has incredible views. I’m staying at a cottage with a heavenly view across Scapa Flow to Hoy.

Today I’ve been to the Standing Stones of Stenness, the Ring of Broadgar, and Skara Brae. That’s right, it was neolithic sight-seeing day. Viking sight-seeing day is coming up on Friday, but it’s hard to escape the Viking influence here. Just reading the names of places should give you some indication of that.

Best things about today: talking to my kids on Skype, writing the prologue to my novella, blogging with my feet up and Sigur Ros on the stereo and drinking a fine Australian shiraz by the fireplace. Worst things about today: NOTHING.
And here, for your edification, is the (very short) prologue to the novella “The Year of Ancient Ghosts”, as written on a tiny propeller plane over the Scottish highlands.


Shards of bright pain and bright light speared into the cloying vacuum of unconsciousness. He struggled upwards; he had something important to remember.

“Try to be still. You’ve had an accident.”

His tongue swelled against his teeth.

“Don’t talk and don’t move. We’re taking you into surgery.”

The darkness yanked him towards it. Surrender. Beyond this threshold was an end to the pain. But there was something else. Something waiting, as it had waited for nearly thirty years, tangled in seaweed and teeth and veins.

His voice broke from his throat, a blood-soaked gargle. “Jenny! Mary!”

The light blinked out.

Scotland: as Scottish as a Scottish thing

You’re going to have to forgive me. I’m a long way from home and pretty jetlagged. In Edinburgh, which is gorgeous. Walked up the Royal Mile today and went to the castle. Here are a few pictures. I’m sorry, I’m too tired to know what they are of (except the one of me enjoying a cream tea at Edinburgh Castle).
Travelling is such a strange activity. We go so far from our comfort zones, and the results can be viewed both positively and negatively. I mean, you spend a shitload of cash, you’re tired all the time, and sometimes you pay 14 quid to get into a castle and find it a little… well… boring, so you spend another 5 quid on a cream tea that’s a little… well… average. But there’s something incredible about the long flight, passing over strange places that are lit up at night because people really live in them. Parts of Poland sound like fantasy cities: Wroclaw for example. And then you land in Scotland and everybody has this glorious accent you cannae understand. Oh good lord I’m rambling. It’s 5pm here, but 3am back home and my head is somewhere in between the two and my legs are wobbly and when I close my eyes I can still feel the plane pitching and yawing underneath me. One more plane now–to the Orkneys tomorrow to get my Viking on–then I can settle here for the six weeks and get some work done. And write more orderly and meaningful posts. Love you, Mum.

Travelling with books

Changi airport. Super tired. Weirdest and coolest place in the world. All those lights as you fly over, all those cargo ships in the water lit up like a lit-up thing (really tired… can’t make the words come).

I am reading Kate Forsyth’s Bitter Greens. Oh. My. God. I kept thinking words like: sumptuous, delicious, rich, detailed, powerful. This is an author at the height of her powers. The Rapunzel story retold, two different time period, lashings of mood, passion, atmosphere, and characters who you want to be your BFFs. Can’t wait to finish it on the next leg. YOU MUST BUY THIS BOOK. That is all.

The Fetid Nightie*

It’s important, while writing novels, to make sure you’ve slipped into something more comfortable while you work. I do a great deal of my writing in the early morning, when I first wake up, and this means that I tend to work a lot in my pyjamas. I’ve spent the last few days finishing book number 23 (yes, let’s all pause a minute in due reverence), and I was struck by just how unglamorous this writing gig is.

A glamorous nightie, unlike mine

If you’re squeamish, stop reading now.

The last few mornings I’ve set my alarm for 4.30 a.m. I’ve been wearing a light cotton nightdress because it has been so hot here in Brisbane. Humid, sweaty, violently hot. Even sleeping with the aircon on has been a little sticky. So there I was in my nightie and breakfast would come and I’d eat it and I’d keep working. Eleven o’clock would come and I’d think, “I really should shower.” Then I’d step out of the shower and look about for something cool and comfortable to wear and… well, it was right there, folks, so I put the nightie back on and wore it all day, then to bed again, and so on. On the second to last morning I spilled an entire cup of tea all over self and floor and notebook (not computer, thank God). I sponged the nightie out and let it air dry. In my crazy-artist paranoia, I had begun to believe that the nightie was the thing that kept me writing. If I took it off to wash it, I might lose my powers; like Samson when he gets his hair cut. I wore the nightie for almost 72 hours straight in one the hottest weeks of Brisbane summer. It was foul. When I finished, I finally peeled it off and showered. Free of the fetid nightie, free of the deadline.

So next time you think writing is a glamour career, please remember the story of the fetid nightie. And when the book comes out (go check out Kimberley Freeman’s blog for more details), stay in bed with your own stinky pyjamas on, just to keep in the spirit of things.

*This blog is so named to honour my Sistah Sal, whose birthday was on finishing day, and who thought it would be a good title for something.

2011 sucked. Bring on 2012.

We’re one hinge swing away from 2012, and like all human mammals I find myself reflecting on my year. 2011 had some awesome moments, but I have to admit, dear reader, that they were sometimes cold comfort as I got used to a whole new way of being in the world. The reason, which I have hinted at here but never fully explained (being an old-fashioned girl who remembers the concept of privacy), was the breakdown of my marriage after 20 years together and the subsequent recalibration of my motherly duties to two young children. I had incredibly favourable circumstances in this regard, being financially independent and being able to remain on good terms with the kids’ dad, but it still sucked all of the joy and industry out of me. I have never been so tired, so sick, so lazy, nor so self-absorbed. The year whooshed past my ears at supersonic speed, and all I have now are the tinny echoes.

And yet, hope blooms again. Other wonderful things, both personal and professional, are already coming to be. I realise now that if you are lucky enough to live a long life, you can’t avoid bad shit happening. It’s a simple mathematical equation: the longer you are out here, the greater the chance that one of those ill winds is going to blow you no good. I am in my forties; I was probably due. And then, because I’m still out here, more fair winds may yet come my way. Damn I’m grateful to still be out here. So grateful.

So here’s to all the shit, because if you put shit on your garden it might stink for a while; but then your flowers bloom in vibrant colours.