What a good idea, to go by ninky nonk

Charlie woke with a cold and I heard him from my room, talking to himself: a sneezing, a murmuring, a sneezing, an earnest narrative. Sometimes a scolding. He was figuring something. It was a long, low, murmuring, scolding dissertation in there. Eventually, it was quiet. I went in. He was standing. He looked calm and determined. He pointed to his nose and said, “Nose.” “That’s ri—” I began. But he wasn’t done. Now he concentrated hard, watched my face and said: “Sticky.”
“You’ve got a sticky nose!” I said.
His whole body relaxed, the beautiful relief of being understood.
I changed his nappy and he kicked his legs out, cranky now about his sticky nose. His foot went smack into my eye. I was feeling a little low myself. I asked him to stop kicking. I tried to explain. “It’s just that I really don’t feel like being kicked in the eye today,” I said.
I switched on children’s breakfast television. Imaginary creatures climbing aboard a multi-coloured, flying caravan.
“What a good idea,” the narrator enthused, “to go by ninky nonk!”
I thought of all the curious sentences floating around my house.

It was Mother's Day, the Other Day

The last few weeks I’d find junk mail advertising mother's day gifts and I’d say: “Huh, that’s right. Mother's Day coming up soon.” I’d say, “Um, I think that’s when people get breakfast in bed?” I’d say, “Mothers, I mean. When I say people, I mean mothers.” I’d say, “Pancakes. When I say breakfast? I mean pancakes.”
And so on.
But Charlie must have been thinking of other things

The Story of the Lost Sock

Remind me to tell you the story of the lost sock, one of these days.

Once, watching Play School

Once, watching Play School, a while back now, I saw that the teddy bear, dressed as a lion, was searching for a lost ball of wool.
“Getting hotter, getting hotter, oh, now you’re cold!” said the Play School host.
Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed. All the things to teach Charlie about the world! What was that creature, for a start? Was it a teddy bear or lion? What did it want with the ball of wool?
And how to explain that getting hotter means you’re almost there? Why, after all, is burning so right and freezing wrong?

Pangea Day

Still, on the morning of Mother's Day, I said, “Charlie, say Happy Mother's Day” and he looked at me and said, “Happy. Day.”
The afternoon of Happy. Day I drove into the city for a rerun of Pangea Day. It was in a conference room up high. Harbour bridge lights in picture windows. Floating champagne. Another mother said to me, “I’m glad we didn’t bring our boys.” We looked around the room and it changed. Now it was a beautiful expanse for running; now it was white cloths to tug heavy glasses to the floor.
But this Pangea Day. It was a global event bringing the world together through film. Everybody watching the exact same films at the exact same time around the world.
Not so much us though. I mean, for us, it was a rerun from yesterday.
But I still felt excited.
Yesterday’s audiences flashed onto the screen now and then, and some of them looked cold. The parties woohooing around the world, but sometimes they looked separate to me, oddly huddled. Some of them seemed impatient or not quite there, and some felt almost like ghosts.
But maybe I was just too conscious that they were yesterday. I was tomorrow.

Now, no disrespect, but I wonder if it might have been better just to show the films? Without the presenters, I mean. Once, a presenter said: “This film is only two minutes long but it packs quite a punch!” Then a two minute film and all around the world, audiences waiting for the punch. So, of course. I mean, the whole world had its defences up.

Trouble with the Neighbours

Time was, the neighbours were ghosts. They come and go, I said, at the strangest hours. Could not see their faces for bright lights. Murmuring names. A black dog. A dark-haired girl whose eyes slid sideways when I said hello to her. She seemed close to the dog, the dark-haired girl. She seemed to live a separate life to the man and woman who stood beneath the light and said their names.
Separate ghosts in the house next door.
And then this happened:
One day, I saw the dark-haired girl slam the door of a van and drive away. On the side of the van: PERKY PETS.
Everything fell into place.
That dark-haired girl doesn’t live in the house next door. She’s a dog walker. Of course she leads a separate life. Of course she comes and goes in the middle of the day. Of course she has a relationship with the dog. She walks it.
Next, this happened:
I went to New York and asked the neighbours to collect my mail. Do you know what they did? They fixed my mailbox. It was loose, hanging by a thread, my mailbox lid. If it had been a tooth you could have got your dad to grab it in a handkerchief and wrench it from your mouth. It wouldn’t have hurt at all. Next day, money from the tooth fairy.
But my mailbox lid, the screws almost all gone, hanging loose. And the neighbours fixed it tightly back, so the lid doesn’t clatter sideways anymore when I lift it in the rain.
Okay.
It gets worse.
Finally, this happened.
At easter time, the neighbours came over for Charlie’s first Easter Egg Hunt. They hid the Easter Eggs. They hid them ingeniously: I mean, for a 1-year-old, it turns out you hide the easter eggs in plain sight.
And while Charlie searched, in an ecstasy of suspense, the neighbours said: “Getting warmer, getting warmer, cold! Cold! Cold!”
He understood.
Nobody explained.
Such a beautiful calm overcame me.

I remember their names now, too. The neighbours have names: fine, strong, lovely names.

The trouble is: no ghosts any more, just fine, strong, lovely people, so where’s the story?

Unless

Unless I tell them I’ve been blogging about them? I could tell them that. They might not like it. There could be open hostilities.
Or better, they could pretend not to mind. They could laugh and say that’s okay. Yet secretly, they’d simmer. Begin to plot some form of ingenious revenge. Hide their revenge in plain sight. Drill small holes in the wall between our houses.
I don’t know why they’d be drilling small holes. But they’d know.
That might be a story.

The Neighbours on the Other Side

The neighbours on the other side are no help. Once I thought their house was on fire but it was only a candle flame moving about behind a window. Also, the other day, the girl from that house was out the front with a can of insect repellant.
“Watch out!” she said to me. “I just found a redback spider in my mailbox.”
She offered to spray my mailbox, in case there was one there too.
People around these parts are just too kind, that’s the trouble. Particularly when it comes to mailboxes.

What I am working on Right Now

I am writing the next book in the Ashbury-Brookfield series.
Just to explain: the Ashbury-Brookfield series began with Feeling Sorry for Celia, a book set at a private school called Ashbury, and also at a nearby public school called Brookfield.
This was followed by Finding Cassie Crazy (also known as The Year of Secret Assignments).
And then Bindy Mackenzie.
Each story is independent of the others, although sometimes characters wander between books.
You are welcome to read the books in any order that you like.
The important thing – the essential thing – is that you read them.

The next book, the one I’m writing now, takes place in the year following Bindy Mackenzie. It features two new characters named Riley and Amelia. Also starring Emily and Lydia from The Year of Secret Assignments, and Toby from Bindy Mackenzie.
I cannot say what this book will be called.
But I can say that it is a ghost story.

The Last Four Months

I hear you’re supposed to update your blog more regularly than I do.
The last time I wrote was in, what? December. So. That’s four months ago. I was thinking: “That’s not so bad. Four months! What can happen in four months?”
But now I hear there are people who blog every day.
So.
I have to catch up!
In this post, I will describe every day of my last four months.

I’ll begin with today.
At the moment, I am sitting at my desk and there is a midnight-blue ceramic bowl beside me. You know what, it’s not midnight blue. More a deep cobalt blue. No. Listen, I’ll take a photo of the bowl and post it here.
Great, so, setting aside the colour of the bowl.
Inside the bowl I have some grapes, a sliced-up orange, a plum, and two squares of Lindt 70% Dark Chocolate.
The plum is gone now. I ate it while I was thinking about the next sentence.
Huh. Now the grapes are gone too. A similar thing happened to them.

Outside, there is a very blue sky. The blue is nothing like the colour of the bowl beside me. Nothing at all. Also outside: it’s blustery. Right this moment, the bluster has stopped but the ferns at my window are still trembling.
There goes an aeroplane.
An e-mail just arrived!
Oh. It was just Shopfast with an Urgent Product Recall for Rogan Josh Simmer Sauce 540g. I don’t have any.

Charlie is asleep in his cot in his room next door.

This morning, Charlie woke at 6.30, and said, “Breakfast?”
“No, no,” I said, keeping my voice low and sleepy. “It’s sleeping time.”
Charlie yawned. I moved in closer, consolidating. “It’s the middle of the night!” I laughed gently and smoothed the sheet over him. “You go back to sleep now. Morning’s not for hours and hours!”
As soon as I said it, I knew I’d gone too far. He sat straight up and gave me a quick, shrewd look.
Then he turned to the window.
“Hey, Charlie! Here’s Teddy! He wants you to go to sleep!”
Charlie ignored me, looking around the waving Teddy, his gaze fixed on the window. A gleam of light hit the sill just beneath the curtain.
That was all he needed.
He stood up, gathered his yellow blanket underneath his arm, and announced, firmly: “BREAKFAST.”

My favourite breakfast television is Playschool, but oh no, we were much too early for that.
We were also too early for the animated boy named Poko. I like Poko too. He has such green eyes! And each episode something goes wrong, like the time when Poko was trying to bake a pie but the dog kept throwing its squeeze-toy into the pastry.

After breakfast, we walked up the street, Charlie in his stroller.
In the windows of the kindergarten classrooms at the local primary school:

TERRIFIC
TURTLES
T T T

At the store, we bought Pink Lady apples and October Sun plums.
I saw a woman who looked a lot like the actress, Toni Collette. A few moments later, I saw another woman who looked a lot like Toni Collette.
What are the chances of two Toni Collette look-alikes on the same street on the same day? Zero. So one of them must have been her.

At the video shop, I chose a Hi-5 DVD for Charlie. I handed over the DVD cover, my membership card, and the password. All that handing over. It seemed enough. But then I had to pay.
“I always forget about paying!” I said.
“That’s all right,” the young man said, “I’m here to remind you.”

Next, we went to the park and Charlie said, “Green”, heading to the green slide. Then he paused, and changed his mind. “Yellow,” he decided, and turned to the yellow slide instead.
I looked around to see if the other mothers had noticed. My baby knows his colours! But nobody seemed to be watching.
In this particular park, alongside the slides, there’s a miniature surfboard on springs.
I’ve seen kids of, what? Five? Six? I’ve seen them climb onto that miniature surfboard on springs, stand up and balance a few seconds.
Today, Charlie climbed on it. He stood there, swaying gently, arms out exactly like a surfer riding a wave - for what? A minute? More?
I looked around to see if the other mothers had noticed.
They were all facing away.
‘Charlie!” I said. “That’s great balance!” A mother finally turned in our direction. At that exact moment Charlie tipped forward and fell into my arms. The mother smiled fondly and turned away again.
He did it on purpose, you know. The tipping forward into my arms? He was ready to get off.

I thought about a few things on the walk home from the park.
One thing I thought about was the fact that I often spill water. I mean, when I’m carrying a lot of stuff, including maybe a small child and a glass of water, from one room to the next – well, I often forget that you can’t hold the glass of water sideways.
Also, I thought about something I once read: that you feel your most creative when you’re almost asleep.
Last night, Charlie woke at 1 am, 2 am and 3 am. Then, at 4 am, I woke to the sound of footsteps. A group of people in heavy workboots were running through the house downstairs.
“WHO’S IN MY HOUSE?! WHO’S IN MY HOUSE?!” I shouted. Then I screamed, a big, beautiful scream, to scare them away.
What were they doing in my house! In the middle of the night! And why were they running?! Why not walk?! Why the heavy boots?! Was there construction work in the living room?! Then why hadn’t somebody –
Then I realised I was dreaming.
Nobody was running through the house downstairs.
But the beautiful scream had woken Charlie, of course, and he was so confused I had to read him three picture books and sing him back to sleep.
(So, technically, Charlie, if you’re reading this, 6.30 was the middle of the night.)
And walking home from the park today, I felt at my most creative.

Charlie, too, I guess.
He fell asleep in his stroller.

The transfer from the stroller to the cot was successful!
I closed his bedroom door, went downstairs, got the blue bowl, sliced up an orange, added some grapes, a plum, and two squares of Lindt 70% Chocolate and came upstairs to work.
Here I am now.
I’m about to begin work. I’m halfway through the next Ashbury-Brookfield book.
But how can I write? The blue bowl is empty! Just orange peels.
And my camera batteries are dead! So I cannot photograph the blue.

But, setting aside the colour of the bowl, it looks like I’ve completed today.
I’m right up to the now!
So.
Yesterday is next.

Yesterday

It might be better to summarise the last four months.

In the last four months, Charlie and I have been to New York, to the hospital, to the Gold Coast, to the park, to the park, to the park.

I’ll post some brief notes below. I’ll skip the park. But I might include a copy of a letter that Charlie wrote to me, shortly after the hospital but before the trip to the Gold Coast.

1. Flight to New York

“Look,” I said, “Here’s the people on the plane, and she says, ow, my back hurts and he’s getting something down from an overhead locker, and here’s a monster, raaar! I think it’s a possum. And here’s a telephone, ring ring! Quick! Switch it off! And look, it’s a baby! And all the people are going oh, no, a baby, and what’s she putting on the baby’s face? Don’t worry. And here’s a boat! And it goes splash splash and all the boats sail away from the plane hooray and here’s a lady saying look, I’ve made a slide! Like in the park! And hooray! We all go down the slide. And she says, come on everyone let’s go down the slide, and they go hooray! And then they run! And – ”

On the flight to New York, Charlie had absolutely no interest in any of the books or toys or boxes of sultanas that I’d brought along to keep him entertained.
The only thing that made him happy was the Emergency Information Card, over and over, at high speed.

2. Pull Back 'n Go Santa

The first week in New York, a Canadian friend and I went to the Catskills. We left late at night and my friend drove the rental car straight into a snow storm.
But you can’t blame her for that.
It was the weather.

We stayed in another friend’s beautiful house in the woods. Charlie learned to walk there.

In the grocery store, I decided to buy a small toy for him, to celebrate. But all I could see were snub nose revolvers.
Eventually, I found a Pull Back ‘n Go Santa Head. It’s just what it says it is. It's a small plastic Santa head and if you pull it back, it goes.
Charlie likes it; I love it.

Driving back to the city, we saw what we’d missed in the dark snow-storm drive on the way up. We were quiet and thoughtful. The road looped and curved along a cliff edge.
“I didn’t know the cliff was there,” I said.
“Me neither,” agreed my friend.
We were quiet again.
Eventually, I said, half-laughing: “I can’t remember all these curves in the road. I can only remember driving in a long, straight line.”
My friend said, “I was thinking the same thing.”

3. Writer

Back in the city, I was promoting the Spell Book of Listen Taylor. I met teachers, librarians, booksellers, publishers and writers, and you know, I think I liked them all.
Especially, I liked hangin’ with some fantastic friends, including Arthur Levine, Jill Grinberg and Rachel Cohn. Such wonderful people.
And Rachel, the author of Cupcakes, gave Charlie and me cupcakes.
Anyway, one night I was walking to dinner with a group of children’s book writers and publishers. They were talking about the theatre strike in New York. This one writer I was walking alongside, declared, with passion: “I fully support that strike.”
“What are the issues?” I asked him, and he said that he didn’t have a clue.

4. Dream

I felt fond of the writer. That much passion for a cause without knowing what it was about. He must be a loyal friend.
At dinner, I asked the writer some questions about his books. But then I remembered a dream I had had just the night before.
In the dream, I was at a party with a friend who plays the drums. The party was on a ship. I was chatting to my friend, asking him about drumming. He gave me a wistful smile and shook his head. “At a party,” he said, “we don’t talk about our work.” Then he pointed to a corkboard where my name had been shifted to the right, as a penalty for talking about work.
Remembering the dream, I said to the writer: “I’m sorry to ask you about work.”
But he didn’t seem to mind.

5. Flight Attendant

The only rule for flying with a baby is: make sure the baby is sucking on something when the flight goes up and comes down. Because of his ears.
That’s what everybody told me.
On the flight home from New York, we were preparing for descent, and I was glad to see that Charlie was sucking his thumb.
Then a flight attendant stopped alongside us. She reached over, pulled Charlie’s thumb out of his mouth, put it into her own mouth, spat it out, said, “Ew! Boy germs!” then hurried on down the aisle.
That is a true story.
The consternation on Charlie’s face. To be honest, he and I were both in shock.

6. Looping

After New York, a week at home, then Charlie was in the hospital for five days. I was allowed to sleep on a fold-out couch beside him.

The day we got home from the hospital, I said, ‘Let’s get some fresh air straight away.’ I said, ‘We’ll leave the bags in the hallway by the door and get some fresh air straight away.’
MST CHARLIE, the hospital wrist band looped around his wrist, his bare feet stretching in the stroller, flexing his toes in the breeze. The baggage tags still looped the stroller frame.
We walked up the quiet afternoon hill past the jacaranda trees. When we left for New York they were vibrant in their purple, now the purple was gathering into itself, and into the summer green.
‘We’ll loop around the block past the corner store,’ I said, ‘you want to say hello to the people in the store?’
“Bye bye,” he replied, calmly and precisely, from his stroller.
He was remembering that the corner store was the first place he ever said ‘bye bye’.

7. Letter from Charlie

The following is a transcript of a typed document that I found one morning, neatly folded, in the corner of Charlie’s cot. I checked the room carefully but there was no evidence of intrusion: the window was still locked, the curtains drawn, etc. Charlie himself seemed in good spirits. He was standing up, asking for breakfast, all in accordance with his usual morning behaviour. There was, however, the faintest pause in his bouncing when I said, “Hey, what’s that?”and reached for the folded document in his cot – and then, too, a slight nod, as of approval, when I opened it and read it. However, almost immediately he resumed his bouncing, now holding out both hands to me, his song taking on the mildly scolding tone that indicates I’m taking much too long.

In the circumstances, I can only conclude that Charlie himself is the author of what follows:


My Dear Mum,

The moon is bright tonight.

That is fortunate. I have slipped from this room, already, once, to borrow this clackety typewriter (from a friend who runs a pawn shop) – and must slip away again, before dawn, to return it. The streets are quiet but my walking is not what it will be. I tip over sideways, on occasion, and, in all honesty, would prefer to maintain my balance by holding both hands aloft. Tricky, when carrying a typewriter.

Hence, the moonlight is a blessing.

I write, now, from my cot, to raise a serious issue.

First, let me say, that New York was an excellent vacation choice. I commend you for it, Mum. Central Park was surely the most comprehensive park we have ever attended. And the squirrels! (So funny.) The spaghetti sauce at Niko’s (on Broadway and 76th) was divine. The cupcakes! Then, too, I think you know how much I enjoyed the New York travel cots. Unlike my own cot here, which has wooden slats, their netted material was perfect for bouncing against. Here, as you probably know, I sometimes wake myself in the middle of the night with a thunk: my head banging against the wooden slats. Not so in New York.

Yes. New York was great.

But, then, directly after New York, there was the trip to Hospital.

Mum. Seriously. What were you thinking?

All right. Anyone can make a mistake. Maybe the brochures were misleading. Five star reviews on expedia.com? It happens all the time: holiday choices go horribly wrong. But once you know you’ve been duped, Mum, you just go home.

Oh, I tried to tell you. I pointed, repeatedly, at the exit door. But no, you kept on believing. I assume you were hoping that things would get better. Your sunny optimism is a virtue, I’m sure, but let’s be honest here: as a holiday choice, Hospital is catastrophic.

I won’t go into details – you were there, you saw it all. But I might remind you that I could not sleep for the incessant beeping of the machines around my bed. Fun during the day, I suppose – I do like beeping noises. But why did they not switch them off at night? Then, too, I suppose all the tubes and gadgets that they attached to me might have been entertaining. But I was not allowed to play with any of it. So what was the point? And that’s even if I had felt like playing which, to be honest, I did not. I felt extremely under the weather for most of the stay – another reason why we should have just packed up and gone home.

And I don’t even want to talk about my thumb. Let’s just say that I had believed that the incident with the flight attendant – insulting the taste of my thumb – was the worst thing that ever could happen to me vis-à-vis it. But to swaddle my hand in bandaging so I could not access my thumb? To put it bluntly, it became very clear to me, around this time, that the only thing I can rely on in this great, big, strange, old world is my yellow blanket.

I do not mean to offend you. I’m sure you were doing your best; I’m sure you genuinely believed that Hospital would be fun.

But that’s exactly why I’m writing this letter: because now I hear we’re going to the Gold Coast.

Look, I know nothing of this Gold Coast. I’ve never been there. Maybe it’s great? Maybe it’s another New York?

But how do we know it’s not a Hospital?

I just don’t think I can take that chance, Mum.

Look, I’m not suggesting that you should be as risk-averse as I am. You want to try the Gold Coast? Go for your life! Go crazy!

But I’d like to stay at home.

Now, please – I know you’re about to dismiss this suggestion – laugh at it, even. “You’re a baby! You can’t stay home alone!” That’s what you’re going to say. I can just hear you.

All I’m asking is that you think about it – that you give it some serious thought.
And when you do, consider this:

I am almost 18 months old. (You keep calling me a ‘baby’ but seriously, am I? A lot of folk would label me ‘toddler’ - or even ‘little boy’?) I know where you keep the food. (It’s in the fridge, right? And the cupboards? If you could move things down to the lower shelves, access would be easier.) I know where the laundry detergent is. (Please remove the childproof locks from the cupboards, though, at your earliest convenience.) So I can do my own laundry. And if you put my favourite Hi-5 DVD on repeat, I won’t need to mess with the tv remote controls.

Starting to seem almost possible? I thought so.

And there's this: in an emergency I can always call on my best friend down the street. She may be a few weeks younger than me but you will recall that she can recite the alphabet, count to twenty, and tell you what the weather’s like (if it’s ‘sunny’).

This letter has gone on long enough. I think I have made my point, and I must get the typewriter back.

I leave the decision – as all decisions – in your hands. I am hopeful.

I thank you in advance,
And remain,

Your,

Charlie


PS And just so you know, when I said, ‘bye bye’ in the stroller the day after we got home the hospital? I wasn’t ‘recalling that I learned to say good bye in the corner store’. No. I meant: enough with the sentimentality about ‘looping’. I meant, get a pair of scissors, cut the nametags off, and take me to the park already.

8. The Day After the Gold Coast

The Gold Coast was for the Somerset Celebration of Literature. It was one of the best festivals I’ve ever been to. The hotel had a parrot in a cage just outside reception. Charlie came along, and so did my wonderful parents – they took care of him while I was at speaking and signing events. And a lovely student volunteer made sure I got to the events on time.

The day after we got home from the Gold Coast, Charlie woke in the morning and said: “Bird.”
“Bird?” I said, uneasily, looking around his room.
There was a picture book with a duck on the front cover on the floor.
“Ah!” I said. “Yes! Charlie, this is a kind of bird! It’s a duck! You know ducks! What noise does a duck make?”
Charlie set the book aside and repeated, firmly: “Bird.”
“Bird!” I agreed, and he seemed pleased.
We went downstairs, and he called, “Bird! Bird!” all the way. He looked around the living room expectantly – a small frown flickered across his face. I put him down, and he began to run. He ran down the hallway and into the kitchen; he ran back into the living room; he spun around; looked at me; ran to the front door. All the time he ran he was calling, “Bird! Bird!” and each “Bird!” was more frantic than the last, until he was actually sobbing, “Bird!” and then he was only sobbing.
Suddenly, I realised what it was.
Each morning at the Gold Coast, we had begun the day by visiting the parrot at reception.
He was thinking of the parrot. If he could just find the parrot, he thought, he'd find the Gold Coast again – that bird would unravel that whole strange, idyllic world of lizards, beaches, pancakes; of heavy doors propped open that lead you into rooms where grandparents play and play; of dolphins, boats, pelicans, and water that surprises you by leaping from the ground beneath your feet.

Bindy Mackenzie wins Davitt Award

I am very happy and proud to announce that Bindy Mackenzie has won the 2007 Davitt Award for Best Young Adult Crime Novel. The award is administered by the Sisters in Crime. I would have loved to attend the prize ceremony in Melbourne but I am just back from a few weeks in New York, where I was speaking at the NCTE Conference, and promoting The Spell Book of Listen Taylor, and taking Charlie to Central Park. As soon as I wake up, I will write about the trip to New York. In the meantime, here's Charlie in Central Park.

Letter to Charlie #5

Dear Charlie,

I notice you haven’t replied to any of my letters.
I know that you are very busy. There’s the sleeping, eating, and going to the park. There’s the whole becoming a “person” and “figuring out the world”, etc. Not to mention practising your animal sounds.
I do see how busy you are.
So, maybe, you could post a comment? Just so I know you’re getting these?

Thanks, and
Much love,
Your Mum

Ben and Jerry's Factory

I kicked my toe on the fireplace. My sister was in the room at the time, playing with Charlie. I thought: Don’t say a word! Because I knew if my sister said, “Oh, you kicked your toe, are you okay?” my head would explode. I knew that.
She did not say a word. She just kept on playing with Charlie. I waited a moment and then left the room. I felt extremely grateful to my sister. There had been a silent communication between us – a beautiful understanding.
This was weeks ago. The other day, taking Charlie to the doctor for his 12 months shots, I said, “Look, there’s nothing you can do about a toe, is there?”
The doctor was silent. She gazed at me.
“I mean,” I said, “if I kicked my toe weeks ago and it still really, really hurts – I mean, it still makes me go aaah! just when I’m walking along – well, it’ll heal itself eventually, right?”
She asked me to take off my shoe.
“It’s swollen to twice its size and it’s quite crooked!” she exclaimed. I wasn’t sure if she was pleased or angry.
She told me to get x-rays.
“But,” I said, carefully, “even if it’s broken, I mean, there’s nothing – I mean, what could you do?”
“That,” she said, “is a multiple choice question.”
So I got the x-rays. They tied a ribbon around the other toes to pull them apart from the crooked one for the photos.
The x-ray report said that the toe was fractured. Charlie, I said, this is my first ever fracture. One day, I said, this toe will predict rain.
The doctor said it was a good fracture. She sent me to a podiatrist. The podiatrist trimmed my toenails for me, and told me she’d once lived in Burlington, Vermont.
“We spent a lot of time,” she said, “at the Ben and Jerry’s factory.”
She said she was going to make a splint for the toe. But the splint was a disappointment. It looked exactly like squashed pink bubble gum.
The whole time I was there, she kept Charlie entertained by handing him objects to play with. He was sitting on my lap on the white reclining chair.
The first object she gave him was a foot.
“Don’t worry,” she told me, “it’s just bones.”
Then she murmured to herself, “Not real bones.”

Later, it emerged that my sister had not even noticed me kicking my toe. That’s why she hadn’t said a word.
“I can’t believe you broke your toe,” she said, “and didn’t say anything. That’s so - ”
I thought she was going to say ‘brave’. I was ready with a brave, modest smile.
“That’s so weird,” she said.

Letter to Charlie #4

Dear Charlie,

You know how you sometimes try to take the nose right off my face, by grabbing it with your hand and twisting hard? And you know how, when you do that, I shriek?
That’s because you won’t let me cut your fingernails.

Much love,
Your Mum

Letter to Charlie #3

Dear Charlie,

In the mornings, when I come into your room, you are often sitting up in your cot with your thumb in your mouth, looking thoughtful. When you see me, you give me a dazzling smile, which is very kind of you.
And then, immediately, you say, “Ah!” and point to the window.
Next, you turn toward the book shelf and say “Ah!”
Finally, you declare, “Ah!” as you point to the chest of drawers.
So, my question is: why?
Is there something you need to communicate to me about the window, shelf and drawers? Do you need to be carried across to them? Do you want something passed to you from the window, shelf and drawers? Would you like me to remind you what they’re called?
Or are you simply surprised that they’re still there?

Much love,
Your Mum

The Party

It was the Twentieth Anniversary Party of Next Chapter Books in Warriewood. There were lucky door prizes and hors-d'oeuvres and some friendly writers: the lovely Michael Robotham (who ghost wrote Geri Halliwell’s autobiography, and also has best sellers of his own); a woman with a new slant on astrology; a writer of novels about surfing.
I sat at a table to sign books and a young man approached. He had a beard and a glass of champagne.
“Tell me about myself,” he said, very smooth.
I thought about that for a moment.
“Do you mean,” I said, eventually, “tell you about myself?”
“No.” He was emphatic. “Tell me about myself.”
After a moment, I murmured, helplessly, “But where do I know you from?”
The young man looked stern. He straightened up.
“You’re a clairvoyant!” he cried. “Tell me about myself!”
I had to explain that I was not a clairvoyant.
“The astrologer,” I realised. “She’s over there. These are fiction,” I said. “I write fiction.”
“Do you?” he said, moodily. He looked down at my piles of books and wandered away.

Letter to Charlie #2 (Re: Temper Tantrums ie Throwing Yourself Onto the Floor and Pounding Your Fists)

Dear Charlie,

Who taught you how to do this?

Much love,
Your Mum

In the Last Few Weeks

In the last few weeks, the weather has been warm.
One day, I sat at a table outside Jones the Grocer, ate dark chocolate rocky road, and drank Fruits of the Forest tea.
Another day, I did the same thing.
One day, Charlie turned one. I made a cake in the shape of a ladybeetle. Just before his party, he came out in spots. ‘Charlie,’ I said, ‘do you have chicken pox?’ I thought of cancelling the party but I’d already made the cake.
So we kept him apart from the other babies. He didn’t seem to notice. He seemed very glad of heart. And the next day the spots were gone.
That same day, I looked in the fridge at the left-over birthday cake.
Guess what? Its spots had also gone.
One day I saw the movie Once. I would have liked to see it Twice.
Ha ha.
One day I read Rachel Cohn’s new book and I thought it was savagely good.
One day I visited a friend: his floorboards shone and he had baked a magnificent devil’s food cake. (The week before, he said, he’d baked a quark cake.) Another day, a friend phoned from Canada, and sang a song into my voicemail. (In a separate message, she told me that her daughter had been made into sprite. The daughter had hoped to be a fairy.)
One day I saw my old neighbour. This was by chance.
“What are the the new neighbours like?” she asked.
I told her they were very mysterious. “They come and go,” I said, “at the strangest hours.”
“Shift workers,” she said at once.
I was at a loss for words. “Anyway” I said, a little frostily. “I’ve gotta go.” Abruptly, I walked away.
One day I realised that a lot of things are broken around here: the printer, my camera, the stereo, my toe.

Ned Kelly Awards

One day my publisher e-mailed to let me know that Bindy Mackenzie had been shortlisted for the Ned Kelly First Crime Novel awards.
We walked up the road to celebrate.
We walked past the three bus shelters. A wisp of white light caught the corner of my eye. I turned back and there was Charlie’s hat on the ground.
“Charlie,” I said, “the hat goes on your head.”
We walked past the local primary school.
“Enrol now for Kindergarten 2008!” said the sign.
Why not? I thought, recklessly. I felt excited. Kindergarten was a blast! But then, who would take care of Charlie?
I bought strawberries, bananas, and chocolate-coated apricots, to celebrate the Ned Kelly awards.
We walked back down the hill, past the local primary school. I stopped outside the kindergarten classrooms to consider. Look at Our Lovely Lions! said a poster, alongside a series of lovely lion paintings.
At the first bus shelter I noticed a sign.
Bar Fridge with Freezer Compartment, said the sign. $750 O.N.O.
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars!” I said to Charlie. “For a bar fridge? Are they mad? Even if it does have a freezer compartment!!!”
All the way down the hill I explained to Charlie how excessive that was. I said, what you don’t realise, Charlie, is that you can get a whole new full-size fridge for that amount!
There was nobody around. This was a hot day.
At the second bus shelter I noticed a purple octopus. It was looped to a pin on the noticeboard.
“That’s just like your purple octopus!” I began. “How about that! Who’d – ”
Then I said, “Hm”, and checked Charlie’s pram. His purple octopus was missing.
“Charlie,” I said, “the purple octopus goes in your pram.”
At the third bus shelter there was another copy of the earlier ad.
Bar Fridge with Freezer Compartment, said the sign, $75 O.N.O.
“Oh,” I said, “Seventy five dollars.”
I had misread it.
“You see,” I told Charlie, “it was the O.N.O. It confused me by looking like zeros, I guess. But seventy-five dollars, now that’s more – ”
We were almost home.
I stopped.
It had occurred to me that Charlie had not said a single word the whole journey.
I checked inside the pram. He was quietly taking his sock off, and slipping it over the side.

Comments

People have been e-mailing to let me know that their comments are bouncing back. Or freezing up. And I know that these people are speaking the truth, as I have tried to comment myself a few times in the last few weeks, and it hasn't worked. Besides, why would they lie? (Specifically, I have tried to thank Lucy for her kind and generous comment - so I will thank you now, here, Lucy.) I am very sorry for this situation. I will keep trying to fix it. And I hope you will keep trying to comment.

Letter to Charlie #1

I have heard that bloggers often write to their babies. Once a month or so they write a letter to their baby, and post it on their blog. That sounded like a good idea to me. There are a number of things I’d like to tell Charlie. So, here is the first letter.

Dear Charlie,

You are 9 months old. No, as a matter of fact, you just turned 10 months old. Yesterday. Can you belive it? Me neither.

I apologise for not having written sooner.

You are unbelievably cute. You have two little teeth in the centre bottom, and two more teeth either side up the top. They are eye teeth, I think, although some people might call them fangs.

I saw you push your tongue against the bottom teeth, feeling them. I thought how strange that must be for you, a new presence in your mouth.

You like it when I say, “bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, flyyyy!” and toss you up in the air. Each bounce is steadily higher, there is suspense building up, and then when I say, “fly!” I let go. You get some air. You don’t always enjoy that really. It’s more the suspense that you like.

I have noticed that you sometimes grin when you don’t understand what I’m saying. When I say something like, “Can’t forget to buy laundry detergent or we’ll have nothing left to wear!” in a joking sort of voice. You give me a friendly grin. And then a troubled look skitters across your face. I think it’s because you don’t actually get the joke. You know, from my tone of voice, that it is a joke, and so you smile politely. But you’re hoping I won’t ask a question that requires you to admit, "I don’t know what laundry detergent is. What do you mean?"

Charlie, do not be troubled. It’s my fault. I have never explained to you what laundry detergent is. Why should you know?

(Or maybe you are genuinely troubled that we might run out of clean clothes. If so, forgive me for underestimating you.)

In the last few days you have begun the deliberate dropping of items over the edge of your high chair. You do this in a very cool, sophisticated way. When you’ve had enough of your cream cheese sandwich you hold your hand out to the right and let it drop. You continue facing me as you do this. Sometimes I catch it as it falls, but mostly it just lands on the floor.

Charlie, that was cute for a while, but enough now. It’s messing up the floor. When you’re full, just place the sandwich neatly on the high chair tray and brush your hands together. Thanks.

I’m not sure if those bloggers' babies answer these letters, but I’ll assume you plan to reply.

If I can put the effort in.

I have quite a few questions, but I’ll just ask one for now. This is my question:

Well, I’ve noticed that you do not find many things humorous over time. One day it’ll be a real laugh-riot every time I pick up a pillow and say, “Quack!” The next day, you’ll be, like, “Yeah, I heard that one before.” Staring, bored, maybe a slow blink, so I feel like a bit of a fool with the pillow in the air.

But there’s one thing makes you laugh consistently. Ever since you were, what, two months old? Ever since then, every single time I sing, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, you put your thumb in your mouth and grin. Now and then in the course of the song you giggle. By the time I get to my gentle fade in the last line of the song, you’re killing yourself with hysterics.

Think it’s a real hoot, don’t you?

So, my question is this: what’s so funny, Charlie?

Much love,
Your Mum

Today

Today I decided to transcribe every word that Charlie said. As a first step in deciphering his language. At breakfast time, I ate Special K with strawberries, and Charlie ate mango-flavoured rice cereal with banana. Between mouthfuls, he said the following:

Um!

Um-ah.

Um.

[Deep sigh through the nose.]

[angrily] Um!

[with resignation] Um.

[with interest] Um!

[unexpectedly] Eeyaha nutting!

The telephone rang and I gave Charlie a drinking straw to keep him entertained. At this, he murmured, “Um.”

I answered the phone. “Yes, hi,” said a brisk and friendly voice. “Is that PMM Media?” I apologised and said that it was not. “Okay! Thanks! Bye!” said the voice in the same brisk, friendly tone.

As I returned to Charlie I realised he was genuinely chatting to himself. Syllables were running together like strings of lanterns.

But I’d left my notepad by the phone. He was quiet again when I sat down and I offered more banana.

After breakfast, we played with various things. I played with the musical toolbench and Charlie played with the box of Kleenex. I recall that, at this time, Charlie said, repeatedly, “Yeah!” with intense excitement. Also, repeatedly, “Yeah,” with a kind of depressed resignation (something like the sound that crows make around these parts).

I moved on to playing with the plastic dump truck while Charlie played with my bedside chest of drawers. Now, I recall, he said, repeatedly: “Yay!” and “Yay.”

It was a time of affirmation and celebration.

We went for a walk and, from his pram, Charlie said, “Ji Ji” and “Hm”. He began to fall asleep. “Don’t fall asleep!” I said, alarmed. “You have to wait until we get home and fall asleep in your cot so I can write a novel!” But Charlie regarded me a moment, and fell asleep again.

I went to a convenience store, bought an exercise book and three different coloured pens, and took Charlie to a café. He slept in the pram for half an hour while I worked on ideas for a short story.

The story is for an anthology called Does this Book Make me Look Fat? It’s being edited by Marissa Walsh. I wrote a story for another collection of hers last year. That one was called, Not Like I’m Jealous or Anything. Some of my favourite young adult writers, including Susan Juby and Ned Vizzini, also contributed to that one.

We came back home, ate lunch, and the new babysitter arrived. She is here now, with Charlie. I am in my study. I am supposed to be writing a novel. But I am writing a blog. I should say what my next book will be, and what I am working on now. A lot of people e-mail and ask me those questions.

So, I will start another post now, and answer the questions.

Charlie is playing down the hall right now. I can hear the babysitter’s gentle murmur and now and then Charlie says, “Yee.”

The Spell Book of Listen Taylor

The Spell Book of Listen Taylor will be released in the US and Australia in October, and in the UK next year. It’s a revised version of I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes. In many ways, it’s the same book, but there’s a lot of new material about a girl named Listen Taylor.

I rewrote Pancakes because my American editor was intrigued by the character of Listen. Listen Taylor, twelve years old, was already very important – her Spell Book is central to the plot – but she was also very quiet. My editor wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to know why her friends were so cruel. And what exactly she thought about the Zing Family Secret.

When I started to write more about Listen, an unexpected thing happened. Other parts of the book began to shift. For example, Listen’s older brother became her father. Her mother ran away to Paris. Some of the other adults disappeared, some of their actions stopped making sense, and some of them became more complete.

The result is a different story, and one that is aimed more at young adults. At this point I’d like to finish with a clever line about how Listen has flipped Pancakes. Or has added maple syrup. But that would be just too sweet.

What I am Working on Right Now

Right now I suppose I’m working on this blog. Writing it, anyway. As soon as I’ve posted this, however, I am going to write a novel for an hour and then I’m going to work on cleaning up the study. I’m supposed to do nothing except write while the babysitter is here, but you should see this study.

Wait. You can see the study. I can take a photo and put it here. The crazy world of the web. It really makes you think.

And then, once it’s cleaned up, I can take an After Shot and post that too. Although that will be less interesting. Just carpet and bookshelves.

When I am actually writing, I am working on three things. The first is a young adult book in the Ashbury-Brookfield series. It’s going to be a ghost story. Soon I will write a post and describe it, but at the moment I feel sleepy from chocolate and apple-and-cinnamon tea. The second is a book about a seventeen-year-old girl who receives extracts from a self-improvement book in the mail. She doesn’t know who’s sending them. They arrive, mysteriously, every few years, until she’s thirty-five years old. That one will be called The Effort of Pleasure or else a title which uses the word Zebra. The third is a five-book series about the Kingdom of Cello.

The Other Day

The other day we had breakfast by the fire downstairs. Charlie had yoghurt with orange juice squeezed on top. Then we hung out for a while. I watched for tired signs. I saw one: he put his head down on the floor and closed his eyes. It’s not in the books but surely, I thought shrewdly, surely falling asleep is a tired sign?

Charlie slept and I worked outside in the patch of sunlight on the lawn. I read a library book and took notes for my ghost story.

I met my parents down by the water at Thelma and Louise. We sat at the table outside in the winter sun. The café sent out coffee for Dad and hot chocolate for Mum and me. They sent a paper bag full of marshmallows, and some warm croissants. The table paint was scratched. Charlie in his pram watched us carefully. He ate his avocado sandwich but all the time his eyes moved from Mum to Dad to me. Eventually, he tilted his head to the side, and Mum did the same, and this made him grin and relax.

Then Mum and Dad took the ferry into town. At the winter sun table, I was talking to Charlie with my back to the water, and then I turned and there they were, my parents. They’d walked onto the deck of the boat to wave to me. I waved back vigorously, and at once they spun around and headed inside out of the wind.

That New Tunnel

I’ve driven through that new tunnel a few times. It doesn’t feel so generous any more. Now that they charge a toll.

And there was that episode with the ten thousand fines. Ten thousand fines sent out by speed cameras. People were ringing the radio station saying, I’m sure I didn’t speed! In the end they cancelled all the tickets. But still. The atmosphere has changed. Driving into the tunnel you sense something hushed and fearful. Brake lights flare up ahead. Cars seem to cower along.

Another Day

Another day, the rain and deep purple clouds and wind, but still I walked to my friend’s house, and Charlie wore his jacket and hat, and two blankets pulled around his shoulders, and I buttoned the stormy-rain cover over the pram. It was a brisk chill walk with ice sprinkles of rain. And when I arrived my friend opened the door and at once I was overcome with the warm smell of baking. It brought tears to my eyes. ‘I don’t think they’re my finest hour,’ said my friend. ‘I forgot to separate the dry ingredients.’ Then she brought the baking to the table, along with coffee and chocolate, and this friend, she is bright and beautiful, and she has had many fine hours, but those warm raspberry muffins, those were her finest hour.

The Last Few Weeks

In the last few weeks I have met the extraordinary writer, Rachel Cohn. (Her books are some of my all-time favourites – all her characters are still running around inside my head.) We had coffee at Bathers Pavilion in Balmoral. She taught Charlie how to make an elegant popping sound with his lips. She taught me how to wind down the windows in my new car.

Also, in the last few weeks, I’ve read Rachel Cohn’s latest books, Cupcake, and Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist (which she wrote with David Levithan, another favourite writer). Both books kept me awake most of the night and both made me laugh and laugh and cry.

Also, in the last few weeks I’ve been to a coupla parties. One was out at Bronte, a moonlit garden party. It seemed to me that gentle laughter and seamless chatter drifted from group to group. Also, it seemed to me that there were several famous children’s authors there and that everyone was beautiful and lantern-lit. There was a baby asleep on the couch, just through the sliding glass doors, with cushions on the floor in case she woke and slipped. Charlie was in my arms. I was especially glad to meet the authors Justine Larbalestier (who wrote the Madness or Magic trilogy) and Randa Abdel-Fattah (who wrote Does My Head Look Big in This?) and David Levithan (Boy Meets Boy and Realm of Possibility). Justine pulled faces at Charlie and made him smile in amazement.

There was another moonlit party too; this was by the harbour at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. Someone mentioned Charlie in a speech. He was referred to, in this speech, as a baby. I don’t think he minded. Also at this party, Charlie reached out from his pram and tugged on the edge of a white linen table cloth. A heavy glass candle slid sideways, and almost toppled down onto his head.

This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know the candle was there. The angle of his vision was wrong.

Once, in the last few weeks, I saw the neighbour emerge from his house. This was around midday. He pulled his hood up over his head and disappeared into the rain.

The Lost Keys

I woke up and my housekeys were missing. Eventually, I found them in the front door of the house. That made me smile. Thinking of the sign down by the ferry wharf: ‘Thieves are operating in this area – do not hide your keys in obvious places.’ That made me laugh. Then I remembered the spider outside my study window. All this time I’d been keeping windows tightly shut to keep the spider out. And here I’d left the keys in the front door. The laughter froze in my throat.

Liane, with Charlie

My favourite game was called Imaginary Adventure. It was invented by my sister, Liane, and we played it with the neighbourhood kids. What happened was, Liane told an extraordinary story and, as she talked, we acted out the story. She directed us, very precisely. I once spent an hour trapped in a giant's ham sandwich.

If you want to play Imaginary Adventure now, you just read one of Liane's books. She has a new one, a children's book called The Petrifiying Problem with Princess Petronella. Her other books, for grown-ups, are Three Wishes and The Last Anniversary. I love her stories; she's so smart and funny.

Somewhere online, Liane once found a conspiracy theory that she and I are the same person. Think about it, the theorist said, they both come from Sydney. They're both called Moriarty. THEY BOTH WRITE BOOKS.

But I had coffee with Liane yesterday. So how can we be the same person? That's what I keep asking myself.

The Neighbours

I have met the neighbours. I arrived home late and the neighbours were emerging from their house. The light by their front door was in my eyes. I squinted, trying to see them. They paused by the fence, spoke to me, and told me their names. Their names, like their voices, were wistful. “I can’t see you,” I said. “The light -”
The neighbours murmured laughter in response. I shifted, and shielded my eyes. Charlie, in his pram, gazed up unblinking. A black dog was breathing by their knees. I looked down but the dog moved into shadow. Their front gate clinked, and they were gone.

I came into my study and wrote their names on a piece of paper. I looked at the names, tried to see them. The next day, the paper was gone.

Lessons on Cheering up Friends

I borrowed three CDs from the library, to teach myself French.

The first CD made me fluent. I was not allowed to concentrate. Just relax, the teacher said, and later chided gently: Please don’t try to hold on. Then he slid ice-cubes down my neck. It was a sultry day: the ice-cubes were soothing. Also, the ice-cubes were phrases. Unobtrusively, he built the phrases into sentences. Within 45 minutes, I was fluent. I was walking into French cafes and asking other patrons, "What impression – do you have – of the economic and political situation – in France – at the present time?" Or else I was confessing, "I regret – it is not comfortable – for me – like that." I let the phrases melt together and my French was very sighing, very languid.

The second CD, the teacher took my melting ice-cubes and tipped them out onto the lawn. He was kind but firm. He thought I should be reading the textbook. I said, Look, I’m trying to feed Charlie his berry-and-apple ripple here. But he only gave me more instructions. "You are in a market and want to buy some vegetables. Ask if they have any potatoes. Ask if they have any beans." Also: "Your friend is very depressed and you are trying to cheer him up. Tell him he speaks French better than you speak French. Tell him he sings better than you sing. Tell him his garden is more beautiful than your garden."

Once, he surprised me with a moment of educational levity: "And now, an authentic French tongue twister about the price of sausages."

The third CD was a collection of French songs. As soon as I put it on I began to tap my feet. Charlie, in his high chair, swung his legs back and forth. It was folk music. It was the perfect way to learn French! I would dance my way back to fluency! By track 2, however, I realised that the music was unbearable and turned it off.

Myspace

Tried to make a myspace page the other day. But then I gave up. Something about going out into the net to find a layout. Codes and generators. I grew frightened and gave up. Another day, I thought, I’ll make a myspace page.

Then, last night, a terrible thing. I discovered I had made a myspace page. By accident. Somehow, just getting started had made it happen. And there I was, half-formed, no photo, no interests, just a star sign and a Friend named Tom. I don’t even know any Toms. In the bottom left-hand corner of the page, I announced that I don’t want kids.

Well. The state I was in. Trying to close down that myspace. I think I did it in the end, I think I no longer have a myspace, and I worry about Tom, but mostly I feel chilled at what could have been.

If I had not found that myspace. If I hadn’t got there first and closed it down.

One day, I’d have woken up and Charlie would have been gone.

Hours, maybe days later, I’d have found him, crawling along the footpath, his little red elephant tucked under his arm.

"Charlie," I’d have said, "I don’t understand. Why are you running away?"

His lower lip would have done that trembling thing that it does when a toy makes a sudden, loud noise. Then he would have composed himself, turned his face away. "I saw it online. You don’t want any kids."

"What? What are you talking about! Who said that?!"

"It’s okay." He’d have given a proud, little shrug. "You did. It was on your myspace. You don’t have to explain. I’ll go live in that play area near North Sydney oval. The one with the spinning things and the drums for kids to play with? I liked it there. I’ll play with the drums. I’ll be fine."

My poor, confused, brave little boy.

In the end, I suppose it would have been nice. We’d have cleared up the misunderstanding and hugged, cried, and so on. Eventually, we might have laughed about technology and default settings, and then we’d have headed home for some mashed banana.

But still. It really makes you think.

The Hammering

Also, new people have moved in next door. There has been hammering in the walls. The first day, a moving truck. The next day a lot of hammering. Hours of it. The day after that, a black dog. I arrived home in the evening, just as their front door opened. I paused, ready to say hi, maybe offer to bring around some home-baked muffins to say welcome to the neighbourhood. A black dog emerged. The door quietly closed.

That was a week ago now. Since then, nothing. Sometimes, the strange, hollow barking of the dog.

The silence around that barking seems to me to be a kind of reeling. I believe that the people next door were once jubilant. That first night they hammered in their picture hooks. That first night, contrary to their lease, they covered their walls with picture hooks. Then they hopped into their beds, smiling around, happy with their new home and their pictures. Then the baby in my house woke up. I believe that the people next door had not realised, until that moment, that they had moved next door to a teething baby who wakes four or five times a night.
There is something hushed and shocked about the silence from the house next door.

My Writing Time

I am very strict about writing. Charlie sleeps for approximately 2 hours each day, beginning at some point in the morning, and that is my writing time. As soon as I have placed him in his cot, I go straight to my computer. I do not stop writing until he wakes up. I do not check e-mail or answer the phone. I don’t run downstairs and quickly put on a load of washing and get myself a vegemite sandwich. I never think, “Huh, I wonder what happened to that boy who stole the breadrolls from the tuckshop in second grade? Maybe I should google his name and find out?” Or: “That sounded like the postman! I’ll just check the mail and get myself a Mini Mars Bar.” Or: “I’m sure I’d write better in my pink-and-green striped pyjamas, I’d better go and put them on.” Or: “Shouldn’t I be cleaning out the fridge?”

And, let’s say I walked into my study one day and found that a spider had strung its web between the frames of the window by my desk – just outside the window by my desk, the spider gazing calmly at my desk chair – well, it would never occur to me to run from the room. Then slip back in to take a photo of the spider through the glass. Then close the study door and go straight back to bed to read Joan Aiken and eat waffles with maple syrup, kiwifruit and plum for the next two hours until Charlie woke up.

The Brave Police Officer

I went to my sister Kati’s place for dinner, and when I arrived she was washing up a couple of things and her lime green rubber gloves matched her lacy shirt. There was a triple-decker chocolate cake sitting on the bench. “Look at that cake!” I said. “Oh,” she apologised, “it’s not finished yet.” Then she peeled off her lime green gloves, took a saucepan from the stove, and began to slather frosting on the cake. To be honest, the whole thing, the matching greens, the triple-decker cake, my sister’s generous swoops of chocolate cream, all of it made me very happy.

I drove home through the new tunnel, and that made me happy too. There was a haunted, whooshing sound, and it seemed to go on and on. I kept thinking, “Surely, this is it?” But no, there was more. Like an especially satisfying theme park ride.

And yet, there was an edge of uneasiness and then I remembered why: when they were constructing the tunnel, there had been some kind of error, and the whole thing had collapsed. It had taken an apartment building with it. The building is now buried underground.

Still, I remembered next, nobody was injured. Everyone got out. There was some sadness about a budgerigar having been left behind in an apartment, but even that was rescued by a brave police officer.

So then I cheered up and enjoyed the tunnel, driving its generous swoops.

Charlie, with Shadows

I am always talking to myself as I leave the house, “Okay, keys, sunglasses, list, umbrella, baby bag, nappies, wipes, baby. You be the baby, Charlie.”

I like the way he pats everything. He is purely baby now. Patting things, banging things, reaching to pull himself up on things, digging his hand into my mouth, pulling at my nose. Chuckling, gurgling, saying such things as mum mum mum and dad dad dad and ba ba ba and sssss and yssss, sitting in the high chair with apple smeared over his face, grinning his two new little teeth. So now I am always saying, “You’re such a baby, Charlie.”

My sister Liane, holding Charlie in her lap, said to him, “You can take my glasses off if you like.” I said, “Why are you letting him do that?” And she said, “Because I love the look of concentration on his face and then the amazement when he gets them.” She said, “He thinks he’s taking away a piece of my face.”

Thank you

I guess you are supposed to update blogs more often than I do. It was 2005, and now it is 2007. I would like to apologise for the delay.

I would also like to thank the people who have said such kind and generous things in the Comments section. You people make me very, very happy. Thank you.

In the meantime, since 2005, I have had a baby named Charlie. Also, I have published a book about a girl called Bindy Mackenzie. It's called The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie in Australia, Becoming Bindy Mackenzie in the UK, and The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie in the US and Canada. And yesterday I learned that my Dutch publishers have changed Bindy's name to Scarlett.

Startling

I have been calling him: startling Charlie.

Because he startles dramatically. When playing on the bedroom floor, flat on his stomach, flicking the green panels on the Fisher Price house, hard at work on the plastic house, he knows I am there in the room, and yet, he forgets. He appears to forget. I say, calmly, “Oh, Charlie, should we -” and he panics. His arms and legs fly about. He presses his hands onto the carpet hard, so as to turn his head rapidly towards me, his eyes open wide in consternation.

Then, quite quickly, he calms again. He gazes at me, a little disapproving, then sighs through his nose and turns away. Soon he is hard at work again, flicking the green panels of his Fisher Price house.

(Also, because he’s so beautiful it gives me a start.)

My Suitcase

My suitcase got a trip to Victoria. It went to Vancouver, changed flights, flew to Victoria, and then was sent back to Montreal. They delivered it to me at home, at 11.30 pm, three days later. It seemed proud at first, for its audacity, but then sagged in the hallway, frightened by what it had done. My mother said that everyone in Australia was in shock about the suitcase. That an airline had taken my luggage without me on board! Everyone was saying, What airline was it, we’ll never fly that airline! It was Air Canada, I said, and my mother said, Oh, but I like them.

The Tenth Day of the Book Tour

The tenth day of the book tour, Colin took me to the airport to fly to Victoria, and rejoin the book tour. I already had a boarding pass and had checked in my suitcase, but a woman behind the counter said, there’s a problem with this ticket. She was very cranky about the problem. She was very quick and defiant about the problem. She typed at her computer, and shook her head.
She typed something else, and looked up, triumphant. “There’s a problem with this ticket!” she repeated.
I said, “Well, that’s because it had to be changed yesterday. My publishers had to change it from home.”
The woman shrugged, proudly. She seemed to think the ticket didn’t exist. I didn’t feel like arguing with her. I felt like being gentle with her. I felt like giving her flowers. I felt like throwing up. My head hurt, and there were those black shadows over my eyes again. I was trying to stand up, holding onto the counter.
Colin looked at me holding onto the counter. “What’s going on?” he said.
I thought I should go home and lie down. I said, “Can I cancel the ticket?” The woman shook her head. “No, there’s no cancellations on this ticket.” I could only just see her through strands of air. But the ticket doesn’t exist. How can there be no cancellation. I felt like there was a legal loophole here that I was missing.
I asked Colin to cancel the ticket and I went to sit down.
I watched him from my seats. He came over and said that the ticket had been cancelled.
As soon as he said that, I felt everything unravel. I started crying right there and didn’t stop until I got back home to Montreal. In a quiet way though. And then over the next few days, everything to do with the book tour made me cry. I heard that Miriam Toews came along to the reading in Winnipeg. I heard that it had snowed out west.
It was this book tour: if I had just continued catching planes and walking in to new hotel rooms, meeting Lisa in the lobby, meeting bookstore owners and curious readers, well, everything would have been all right.
Also, it was this book tour, my first tour of Canada, my new country, because of my Canadian, Colin, and these Canadian publishers who organised pancakes for a launch party. And on this book tour, I had in mind that I was going to see a series of new cities, the west of the country. Also, there were people I knew who lived in these cities and they were going to come to the readings, and I had new clothes in larger sizes, and I had in mind a tour of telling people, one city after another, about the baby. It’s the way you divide up the future. It’s the way that book tours make your book real, and this tour was going to make the baby real.

The 8th and 9th Days of the Book Tour

I was supposed to be flying to Vancouver, but we stayed in the hotel, sleeping, and walked outside to get some sunshine. We walked down to the lake and saw a boat called the Matthew Flinders, and that’s one of my favourite Australian explorers from primary school. The older couple sat next to us exclaiming about the sailing boats. A younger couple sat nearby,