Julie Twohig

When I’m not sitting in front of the wood heater gazing at the glowing coals or out to sea, you might find me walking – if the tide is low it’s a scramble across miles of reef , if high then a meander or brisk walk, depending, along sandy tracks above the dunes, under canopies of melaleuca and flowering gum.

All of which doesn’t leave much time for copious writing. At least not the volume I’d imagined – the disciplined ten hour day. No, this retreat has been much more gentle. Nothing gruelling or intensive at all. I’ve paced myself. Four or five hours of writing time each day which in practical terms translates as rereading and tweaking a quarter of my manuscript.

And reading. I gobbled Tony Birch’s Blood in one sitting (not hard to do!), and am half way through Tor Roxburgh’s fantasy The Light Heart of Stone, not a genre I’d usually go for but I’m loving it. And of course I just had to catch up on missed episodes of Madmen. And dare I confess, True Blood! And still two days to go.

Woo Hoo! What an exquisite week.