Why you should not buy my book for Christmas

Some of my writerly friends have started suggesting their new fiction as suitable presents for Christmas. I can't really do that. My reasons?

1. It feels wrong to say "Buy my book."

2. Some of you own it already anyhow. You could, of course, desire an entire library consisting of 340012 copies of the same tome. If this is your secret dream, then Life Through Cellophane is the perfect volume for you. Also, I know for a fact that a bunch of you have already read it, because you emailed me and told me so (which reminds me, I have two more sets of bookplates to put in the mail). You don't need to read it twice, or, if you do, you can read the same copy twice. Unless, of course, you're the person who desires an entire library consisting of 340012 copies of the same book. In which case, send us your address and we'll all buy you copies, to get you started.

3. Given my recent complaints about the festive season interfering with my daily life, it would be rather cavalier of me to say "And now you should buy my book for everyone you know." Or maybe it would tell them what you really thought about Christmas? No, we don't want to go there.

4. My character has a totally miserable Christmas. Totally. Plus she amputates innocents. Not Christmas reading.

5. If there's any Christmas spirit in the book, it probably emanates from the mirror. Whiskey would be better.

6. Life Through Cellophane came out *weeks* ago. The trend is over.

7. I don't have a single dead morris dancer in the book. Shun it!

8. It's summer here. Life Through Cellophane is not suitable for summer. Nor winter. Probably not autumn, either.

9. It contains public servants. No Christmas present should contain public servants. Not even if they pop out of giant cakes and catch you unawares. (There are no giant cakes in Life Through Cellophane. I was just trying to think of Christmassy ways of presenting public servants. I failed.)

10. It lacks footnotes.



My life has been full of seriousness this week and it's time to reclaim it from the mire. If anyone has books they recommend, tell me (and give reasons - just don't make those reasons dull and worthy) and I'll give you a list of new books people might consider buying as Christmas presents. I might also give you a list of classics. We'll see how energetic I feel.

(no subject)

Some of my Chanukah decorations have mysteriously transmuted into a Sydney street directory. Chanukah decorations are pretty hard to get in Canberra, so I store mine with care. Obviously 'care' unintentionally included arcane rites and transmutation occurred.

I shall find some pretty paper and many pairs of scissors and my guests tomorrow will make up the deficit by creating Sefardi decorations full of deep symbolism. That'll teach the street directory!

While I'm thinking about it, does anyone want me to blog my version of the story of Chanukah this year? It hasn't changed since last year, but if you don't remember it or didn't see it, it'll save you looking.

I've emailed all the presents. If yours hasn't arrived, please say.

Have I run out of excuses to avoid housework yet?

(no subject)

I'm taking a break from cooking and cleaning and trying to sort some notes. I know I'm losing the paper war, but if I can win this battle by midnight then there will be surfaces to sit on during my Chanukah gathering and, more importantly, no-one can upset my train of thought by shifting things around. I don't know what it is about paper and my place, but most visitors play with it, almost absent-mindedly, and so it moves in interesting ways and to interesting places.

The first set of papers I'm handling is a stack that calls itself "celery 1." It's about wobbly jetties and old trees and a 'sec fight'. The second stack is far more disappointingly entitled "Ghost novel." You will be pleased to know that stockwhips can be 6' or 20' but a bullwhip (as wielded by a bullocky) can be 50' long.

All this is surprisingly legible. Just wait till I reach the second pile, which is on the folding desk. The folding desk has to be folded, you see, to make space for people. The stack of notes it contains is truly terrifying. I wrote those notes in various art galleries and museums, while I was walking. If you think my 'celery' notes have been obscure, well, this is something else entirely.

It will all be in the recycling tomorrow. This is not just to make my limited space big enough for a party. This is also not only to keep my mind from being too disordered. It's also so that no-one sees what can become of my writing when I note things down and walk and don't quite look at what I'm writing because I've just noticed a curator working on a bust and commenting on his work to a colleague.

I think, just this once, I'm a bit nervous of what I'll find in that stack.

It's either this or clean the bathroom. Paper wins. Paper always wins over cleaning.