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i got caulfield back from the mechanic a week and a half ago. the mechanic being a delightful old dude with a tiny bug-eyed dog who told me i 'look pretty good for almost thirty' (i can now look forward to a lifetime of such qualifiers). the new gearbox is a wonder of functionality. have been singing AC/DC and making a nuisance of myself on the roads, now that i get to go fast and - wait for it - steer with both hands! amazing.

at around the same time i moved out of that grannyflat housesit and into the holden. i've managed to fit all my worldly goods in the back and am fairly satisfied with my level of self-sufficiency; striking a balance (to use an ugly Howardism), at least until my mates get sick of me hanging round on their porches like a bloody quandong. i've been camping in a few different spots, keeping fairly close to town so i can swim in the pool every day (it's open again!) and steal wireless from the rich and check my po box for overdue cheques (you know who you are).

my finances are in an all-too-familiar shambles. lately this writing gig has been a rollercoaster of good news and bad news. i was disappointed to be downsized by the manic times at first, but now i'm relieved i don't have that weekly deadline anymore. starting a new book is scary enough, so it's good to clear other things out of the way. even if those things were going to pay the bills.

the book didn't make the vogel shortlist, which was also disappointing, but it means i'm free to chase up my other leads. the diamond anchor is currently spinning round somewhere in the shaun tan-esque digestive machinery of the publishing industry.

all this inconvenient liberation leaves me feelin a bit whittled down and buffeted around. i blame this old fella with the scythe:



yep, my saturn returned. it's technically over (as of september 2nd, saturn moved into virgo, where it stays for another two and a half years), but i find myself still letting go, still abandoning the few remnants of structure and responsibility in my life, and still working for almost no money and dubious emotional rewards. suffering for your art sounds heaps more romantic than it actually is.

i sound like i'm trying to talk myself out of it, and i have been having flashes of wanting to escape, even from my favourite form of escapism. do i really want to lose another two years to this? maybe i could change, have room for other things in my life (like human beings and stuff). the temptation to be on the move right now, to piss off somewhere and have adventures and walk and stop thinking and absorb, is enormous. to simply live without all this monstrously inconvenient mark-making.

ok, so it's good ol' garden variety commitment-phobia. the sensation, akin to a flight response, is getting pretty familiar by now. i may have said this before, but starting a new book is a bit like getting the bandages off your head and making straight for the nearest wall. the writing part is relatively easy. the leap of faith is apparently always tough. i'm twenty thousand words in and facing the point of no return. again. and i know i don't really have a choice, so arguing with myself is pretty academic.

i didn't sit down to blog about this today, or to indulge in book-panic in public (well, the semi-public of the interweb). sometimes i think i must subconsciously hate my work. if so, i must also have absolute, unwavering faith in it, because i keep doing it, and that takes more than compulsiveness.

there are times i don't have the necessary energy to manage this contradiction, and i'm afraid that i'm missing something fundamental that everyone else seems to have grasped. perhaps it's simply a matter of occupational health and safety.

whoever erected this dodgy scaff has a lot to answer for, i reckon.