They’re all dead.

dead-ladybirdThat’s it, done. If I’m ever going to write a new novel, I have to kill off, ‘A Plague of Ladybirds.’

The final straw came this week. I was booked in to do a cold pitch at the Rockingham Writer’s Festival. Within days of the event, they wrote to me and switched the times for my cold pitch. Not a big deal, but I couldn’t make it to the 12th Planet Press pitch, the one I really wanted.

I’m not one for belief in an external locus of control, but it felt like the final ‘sign’. Following this, a cynical realisation followed, ‘What if they just took people’s money for cold pitches, and had no free spots in their lists?’ They could sit there all day, taking $50 for ten minutes of nodding…that’s a great income.

This isn’t a cry for help. There’s nothing I could try with this book that I haven’t already tried.

I’ll always write. I just won’t write about an Akubra wearing woman, single-handedly running a sheep station in perfectly pressed clothes – striving against adversity to finally win in the end. Therefore, I will write for me.

Thanks for the support and encouragement.
I was proud of the book, and I know it entertained many of you.

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