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I didn’t start out in full swing. I worked up to it. And I never really quit the day job.  Accepting myself as a writer was always a bit hard for me. It was as if having so much fun earning a living wasn’t quite the way it should be so a great deal of my work has been done in between doing other things (like teaching, or being a mum, or cooking dinner – Prince Lachlan was written on butcher’s paper while the peas cooked – or feeding cats, dogs, birds and other visitors). This meant I had to grab whatever spot was available to add bits and pieces to my stories as I went along:

  • the kitchen table (The Web, in a writing pad, with pencil and biro),

  • the laundry (in the corner beside the guinea pigs and above the mushroom farm and a bit downwind from the washing machine – lots of my early books),
  • the bedroom on a second-hand desk that I bought with some of my writing earnings
  • and finally when my books didn’t fit the bookshelf anymore and the computer had replaced the old and new typewriters and there wasn’t a lot of room for printers and letters and phone messages and all the other things that make up a writer’s day then…oh then I built my studio. I had arrived!

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