I thought I’d write a little post for those of you who have been asking about my WIP.
Some of you might know that the novel I’m working on at the moment is my first attempt at “chick lit”, and is inspired by the, well, inspirational Anita Heiss (whose workshop on the genre I attended as part of the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre’s fabulous festival earlier this year).
As far as how it’s going, well …
I think it’s done. And … I think it might just be okay. But then, I’ve learned the hard way that I fall in love with my manuscripts at first sight, and it’s only over time that I realise their flaws. But, for now, I am enamoured.
The working title is Marry Me, Monique Brumby. This may – and probably will – change, as Monique Brumby is a Real Person and may object to her name being used as the title of a small-time author’s first attempt at “chick lit”. Even though she only appears in the book fleetingly, and even though it’s really only the idea of Monique Brumby that plays a starring role in this novel, and not the chanteuse herself – and even though everyone in the book loves Monique, and she is painted in the best of all possible lights – I will probably have to tweak things. “Monique Brumby” will, no doubt, be replaced by some other (fictional), talented Taswegian songsmith. Probably, by the time the book goes to (hopefully, one day, maybe), publication, it will be called, Marry Me, Marsha Brimble, and Marsha will bear only a slight resemblance to the elfin indie popstar.
Apart from the little issue of the title and Monique’s role in the narrative, I am, actually, pretty darn happy with my little effort. It’s set in Hobart, chiefly Salamanca, and follows the journey of one Madeleine Matthews as she searches for a man who will love her, just as she is. When you put it like that, it sounds very pedestrian, but when you add in toilet graffiti, a guerrilla artist best friend, a lovelorn Irish lass, a sugar-deprived colleague, a feisty cat called Effalunt, an interfering neighbour, a couple of dastardly love-rats and the potential demolition of a historic property, not to mention the protagonist’s uncanny resemblance to a certain singer-songwriter, well …
I do hope it isn’t pedestrian. I hope it’s funny and cheeky and sunny and an ode to the island state I adore so fervently. I hope it’s fun.
I hope …
I really hope this novel makes it. Because, dammit, I like this one.
And, so, now what?
Well, because it’s my first, and because Anita suggested it, I think I might send it to an external, freelance assessor for their opinion. Because, you know, I may be very, very wrong. It may, actually, suck.
In the meantime, I’ll read it again, and hope like heck I still like it!!
Wish me luck!