In 2001 I had a novel published. It was called Undertow and published by Australian publishing house, Allen and Unwin. It came after a decade of writing short stories. It was picked up from the unsolicited pile. I was buoyant. I felt I had arrived. A published novelist at last. It would be the first of many, I thought. Time to give up the day job. But as it turns out it is the only full length manuscript I have had published. I have written others and some have been okay. Others, down right bad. But I still dream of another book deal. I feel it is out there somewhere when the book is right. An unwritten book is such a beautiful thing, so full of promise, so perfect. It is the writing of it that undoes it. How to write the thing, without destroying it. Like the artist who knows when to stop adding paint. Like the tea before the first sip.
My little slim novel – a wisp of a thing – is out of print. I have found it at second hand shops and bought back copies on Amazon from as far away as the UK. Hang on to it if you have it. One day it might be worth a bit.