"There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall." Cyril Connolly.

I sit down in front of my computer, a steaming cup of tea on the desk beside me, my clothes loose and comfortable, my feet be-socked and warm. It is a cold and wet Saturday morning, winter in the Southern hemisphere, and the children are home. I’ve settled them in front of the television to watch ABC KIDS. They are well-fed and dressed and shouldn’t need me for at least an hour. I have spent the morning making weet-bix and vegemite toast, pouring numerous glasses of milk and water, amazed, as usual, by how much they consume.

I open the word file, my latest work-in-progress (the ONE, of course, sure to be a hit and sell millions! and read through the (masterful! riveting!) pages I wrote yesterday.

It is easier to notice, the following day, the bits that need fixing; the repeated words, the clumsy phrasing, the stilted dialogue; so the first ten minutes are spent deleting and changing, adding commas or full-stops, making sentences longer or shorter. I quite enjoy this daily edit, this fine-tuning. It is fun to polish your words and phrases until they shine! Far less taxing, I think, than coming up with the new stuff.

I am excited about this latest manuscript. I am fifty pages in and the characters are starting to come alive; making appearances in my dreams, interrupting my thoughts at random times. Inspired plot resolutions occur to me when I am reading, or just as I am about to drift off to sleep. It has a form to me now, this story - shadowy still, its edges blurred - but discernible nonetheless. I can see where it might be headed and that it might actually have enough substance to make a novel.

A new page:

Chapter six

My fingers fly, the words flow. Nevermind the spelling now, the commas, the punctuation – that can all be fixed later – but my muse is peering over my shoulder and she is cackling with delight, cheering me on.

"Yes, yes." She cries. "Oh, yes!"

A noise intrudes. It seems to come from a distance…through a fog….but it grows clearer, louder, more familiar…….

"Mummy, mummy, mummy!?" My youngest is wailing. I recognize the cry, it isn’t urgent, but he is angry, indignant – emotionally injured, no doubt, by one of his brothers.

"Okay," I say, "Okay!" I sigh and press save and leave my desk reluctantly.

I console, wipe away tears and give kisses. I remind them to be good, promise a treat later... "a trip to the park!"... when the sun comes out.

I return to the computer and wait, fingers poised over the keyboard, for that feeling to return. That delightful ease of writing, that compulsion to get it all out, ideas and words pushing and shoving, tumbling over each other in their haste….

But it is gone.

I read over what I have written and it doesn’t seem all that inspired after all. Rather flat, really, and it needs a lot of editing, a lot of work to make it consistent, a bit more spark to make it compelling…..

"Mummy!! Mummy?!" The wailing has started again. Louder and more insistent this time.

I sigh again, stand up and walk away. But just before I leave the room I return to the computer. I turn it off and watch, resigned, as the screen goes black.

"Mummy! Mummy!"

"Coming." I say. "I’m coming."

Rebecca James
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