As you may know, or may not know, or may not give a shit about, I wrote a book. I’m not sure why I wrote a book. Not fame, certainly, although I do dream of appearing on I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here (no judgement, please). Not money, either, although I would like to be rich enough to never, ever have to shop at Chemist Warehouse ever, ever again (because, come on, what you save in dollars you lose in self-respect, dignity, time, patience, empathy and the will to fucking live).
I think I wrote a book because I wanted to put my stupid thoughts on stupid paper, as opposed to the ever-fallible internet. I wanted to tell a story that would let the reader – just for a few moments – step out of their reality and into mine. I wanted to write words that would last.
This is not a particularly highbrow book. There are no big words or hidden subtexts. This book will not be a bestseller (fucking hell, this book won’t even make it to Big W’s discount bin). And that’s okay, because this book wasn’t written for everyone else. This book was written for you.
If you follow my blog, then you get me. And if you get me, you’ll get this book. Chances are, you’re a little bit left of centre, a little bit awkward, a little bit drunk. You forget free-dress days, you take your children to school on the wrong kindy day and you put anchovies instead of oranges into crunch ‘n’ sip containers (no? just me?). YOU ARE NOT PERFECT. You are not super mum. You are not hashtag blessed. You’re just a girl, standing in front of the clock, counting down the minutes until bedtime.
If you’re any or all of the above, this book is for you, specifically.
And because I want you to read this book – and because no other fucker is prepared to take a risk on it – I’ve decided to publish it myself. It is – so I’m told – going to cost a solid SIX THOUSAND AUSTRALIAN DOLLARS to publish my book. I do not have six thousand Australian dollars. Truth be told, I barely have six Australian dollars. And so – HERE GOES – I’m asking for your dollars to help me publish my book. Shit!
Yes! I’m doing what the young and the hip like to call a Kickstarter campaign. THE IDEA IS that you give me your dollars and in return you get a book, but the book doesn’t actually exist yet, but it will when you give me your dollars. YOU DIG? My Kickstarter goal is $5000. I have no fucking clue if this is achievable. If it’s not, and I’m pissing in the wind, then you’ll get your money back. If we get close, then I’ll sell a kidney or a child or something and make up the difference, so you’ll still get your book. If we smash it, then fuck it, everyone round to my house for a big fucking piss-up.
One final thing: EVERYONE who pledges gets a shout-out at the front of the book AND an invite to the launch party. That goes without saying.
Want to know what the book's about?
Check this out (clue: it's not LITERALLY a beginner's guide to running):
Married mother-of-two Lucinda Heggarty-Jenkins is living a rose-hued Instagram life: to her friends and family, it’s an airbrushed picture of nuclear bliss. Remove the filters, though, and it’s a miserable snapshot of a loveless marriage within a meaningless existence.
Over the course of a decade, Lucinda has slowly lost sight of the person she used to be – a funny, music-loving fool with a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, but one who you couldn’t help but laugh at, or with.
Now 38, Lucinda can’t even remember smiling, let alone laughing, as she plods through domesticity and home-cooked meals like mother used to make. Until, that is, Lucinda’s narcissistic husband Jeremy dies (and in answer to your next question, no, she didn’t kill him, unless you count wishful thinking as second-degree murder) and Lucinda – once she’s wiped the ridiculous smile from her face – begins her (wait for it) journey of self-discovery, accompanied by good music, quite a bit of swearing and a fist fight in the McDonald’s playground.
Moving with her two young children back to her childhood home, Lucinda struggles to find her place in normal society. Feeling like she’s playing the part of “mother”, she doesn’t know quite where she fits in, and whether or not she should be wearing sensible mum shorts and doing sensible mum craft with the children.
Without the excuse of a controlling husband, and presented with a certain amount of freedom (or as much freedom as you can have with a four-year-old and six-year-old relentlessly demanding three meals a day), Lucinda knows she should be fulfilling her potential – but has no idea what that might be.
It’s not until Lucinda begins running that she starts to clear her mind and find her meaning. Yes, she develops horrific shin splints from running in Converse with an angry Russian, but that’s a small price to pay for the peace and calm running provides her with. Feeling as though she’s turned a corner in her life, and finally found focus, Lucinda revisits London, leaving the children behind with her parents overnight. It’s here that Lucy’s world is shaken yet again, and she’s forced to re-evaluate her life (should she get those sensible mum shorts after all?).
It’s running that clears Lucy’s head and gets her back on track (both literally and metaphorically), while providing her with the ending that she never thought she deserved.
Risks and challenges
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