I'm still here, in my married quarter, feeling like a bit of a fraud. My meeting with the publisher is in the diary, and I'm frantically trying to think up plotlines for the next book to present in a synopsis at the working lunch. My agent reminded me the other day, in no uncertain terms (I don't think she's the kind of woman who does anything in uncertain terms, actually) that 'the synopsis won't write itself, you know'. I do know. Just as I also know that I'm still teaching ESOL classes, running writing workshops, co-ordinating a volunteer project, and undertaking research for the arts centre, as well as looking after three kids (admittedly, not looking after them terribly well, under the current circumstances).
No, I'm not complaining at all. But the transition period from army wife to novelist does seem to be a teensy bit busy. Never mind. I've had lowlights, highlights and gel nails done, so I'm starting to look the part of a novelist, even if I still haven't written the synopsis-that-won't-write-itself. What's more, it's the wives' xmas party tomorrow night, which will be my last ever function in the sergeants' mess, where it all began. I'm going to wear the same dress that I wore to my first ever function in the sergeants' mess - more years ago than I care to share with you (oh, alright, about seventeen years ago). Luckily, thanks to the whole book deal suppressing-my-appetite phenomenon, I can still fit into it (just about)! Cheerio xxx