Cold feet?

Not quite.

I was all set to post an extract of the new novel (with a new as yet unrevealed title) to my agent, but I hesitated. I listen to such hesitation. I haven't really checked it as thoroughly as I'd like.

So the extract is sitting on my kitchen bench, waiting for me to cast a critical gaze over it. Plus I'll be passing it to my first reader. She's a fast reader (ridiculously fast) so I should get some efficient feedback from that.

It's a little weird to be back here so quickly this time around. I may have mentioned the last novel Here Today took literally years to reach this juncture. So the usual doubts begin to undermine your confidence. Doubt has its purpose. At least it ensures that I won't send out something half-baked.

At least I hope so. There's a hideous story that Tim Winton sweated his way to the end of Dirt Music only to realise on completion that he would have to completely re-write it. From a blank page. The story may be apocryphal, but it's the kind of thing that makes writers shudder.

Although the book that he subsequently wrote was actually pretty damn good.