The Monumental Month of March

You might have noticed a certain calming quietude on this here blog of late; it is the sound of me fulfilling one of my new year's aspirations. Yes, for the first time in my life I have actually managed to write more than I have read this month. Indeed, get this, my book tally for March thus far is... 4! That's how many books I usually get through in a slow week. Moreover, I've been focusing mostly on short stories - Babel, Malamud, any other crushingly bleak misanthrope I can get my hands on. You get the picture. I'm going on holiday next week so I will probably up the total to something a little more respectable then but still, I'm kind of proud of myself. I am finally getting the hang of shutting out the world and focusing on what I'm supposed to be doing (I'm conveniently not mentioning that I've also been treading the boards in what looks to be my last ever stage show). I've given myself until the end of August to finish draft one of the book. It's an optimistic target, but if I don't start setting my own deadlines I'm going to be kvetching about the stupid thing for years to come.

Meanwhile, if you're in Melbourne and have some spare time on Sunday, come down to the grand opening of the spanking new Lamm Jewish Library of Australia on Hawthorn Road near the corner of Glenhuntly in Caulfield. I'm running a session at 2pm on writing the Holocaust in the 21st Century. Sounds fun, right? Basically, it will be an opportunity for me to rant against crap like The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas, Life Is Beautiful (which, despite myself, I sort of love) and any number of other awful camp romances (by which I mean Concentration Camp, not Armistead Maupin novels) that seem to be popping up all over the place. Apparently I'm funny when I rant. And my face goes weird shades of red. What more could you want?