I admit I have been incredibly neglectful this year, but not nearly neglectful enough to feel guilty, as I do now. At the weekend I made my annual trip to Newcastle for the This is Not Art Festival and this sojourn never fails to put a rocket up my arse (not literally. That would be painful. And wrong) because there are so many bright young things who are *doing stuff* and I'm not.
Now, don't get me wrong, I am grateful that I write for a living and I am grateful that I am in such demand that I could, if I wanted to, earn close to six figures a year. Let's think about that for a minute. When I began as an editorial assistant on $20K per annum, I thought $100,000 would've only been possible at the very tail end of my career. Oh, I didn't tell you about my new job, did I? I'll save that for later.
In among all this writing is someone who simply cannot get her shit together. I mean, I don't even know where the hard copy of my novel is (oh, I didn't tell you that we moved, did I? Another story for later) and I couldn't tell you the last time I wrote anything for myself that wasn't a journal entry or blog post.
My pact is this: disciplined writing, either blog post or own stuff, FIVE DAYS A WEEK. My goal is to finish the second draft of my novel by the end of summer (that's 28 February 2013 for you Northerners) and to complete one zine, bound and printed, by the Sydney Writers' Festival zine fair (late May) next year. Uh huh!
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