Serendipity in action

In my frequent bouts of crippling doubt about whether I've made the right decision to leave banking and become a writer, money has always weighed heavily as a factor. I'm not extravagent, but I do like to eat out, travel and have nice clothes. An sometimes I get the splurge urge. For the last 2 years I've been fighting with Inland Revenue in the UK about whether I'm entitled to a rather large tax refund. They have fought me tooth and nail, and I've had to get accountants and lawyers on the case. It's been unbelievably draining, and by now I've pretty much lost all hope, though we have a number of expensive legal steps to go through before we hit our final Alamo.

Then, out of the blue, just one day after I'd run through my finances again and concluded that my financial situation is really pretty tight, I get word from my accountant that Inland Revenue has unexpectedly conceded the case. I am stunned. So is he. And, although I'm pleased at the prospect of a big tax refund, I am absolutely thrilled at the feeling and conviction that this is the benevolent universe or God or whatever telling me that she really, really wants me to write the book. I do a celebratory dance around my little fisherman's cottage. Crickets are singing in the dark night outside. I am happy. I am encouraged.

Ack! My novel idea is mutating!

I’m in Broome to do some research for my novel. My novel is set around 1910 here, against the backdrop of the pearling industry. Broome is a strange place. Before scientists figured out how to cultivate pearls and before manufacturers developed plastic for buttons, the pearl shell industry was huge here. I don’t want to reveal too much, but thematically my novel is about why people choose voluntary exile, what the heart suffers under exile, and the kinds of relationships people form when they go into exile. So, I’m here in Broome to do research. I have arrived in The Wet. This is the local name for the unbelievably hot and humid and cyclone-prone season running from December through to March, more or less. It’s so hot that can’t really go outside, at least not for very long. Within 5 minutes of stepping outside of my little fisherman’s cottage, even very early in the morning, I am sodden, sweat streaking down my face, my back, pooling in the backs of my knees, clotting my shirt to my skin, making my underwear damp and fuggy. I keep the air con on full blast 24/7 in the cottage, but it’s still hot inside as well.

It’s a strange time here. I am all alone. I am here for 2 weeks. It’s too hot really to do anything touristy, but that’s not why I’m here anyway. But the writing seems daunting. I spend a lot of time doing Su Doku, until I blow out on the Fiendish level. I also take my scooter to Blockbusters every day to get something to watch each night, the ceiling fan swirling cool air down on me as I lie on my bed, watching the movie and listening to the crickets outside. I watch the German movie about Hitler’s last days in the bunker, called Downfall, and I am awed. I also watch a lot of trash, and feel guilty that I’m not doing more reading.

Still, I do some research. I visit the historical sites, the Japanese and Pioneer graveyards, spend time in the Broome Historical Museum, trolling through their materials. But still, I find it hard to feel confident that I can get to grips with the past, that I can get good enough sense of historical veracity, that I can get the sensibility of the time, let alone get into the heads of my characters. Moreover, something disturbing is happening to my idea for a novel. The original three characters in my book are multiplying. New voices are insisting on being heard. It seems that now I’m going to have to write at least part of the novel from the point of view of an Irish Catholic nun who comes to Broome as part of the Order of St John of God, because this character just won’t leave me. Also, I want to write some chapters from the first person point of view of an aboriginal boy. But what do I know about aboriginal sensibility? I feel depressed.