When I think about the current state of my novel (is it even a novel anymore? That’s a question for another day!), these words of Henry Miller spring to mind:

“I had to grow foul with knowledge, realise the futility of everything, smash everything, grow desperate, then humble, then sponge myself off the slate, as it were, in order to recover my authenticity. I had to arrive at the brink and then take a leap in the dark.”

Meanwhile, it’s now the start of autumn in Tasmania, which means tomatoes are ripe and plentiful. My parents came round today with a crate for me - they drove to a pick-your-own-farm half an hour out of the city where these beauties were a steal at $2 a kilogram.

I washed and chopped several kilograms of them and was reassured that, even though my mind is a constant whirl of what the fuck am I doing with this novel or whatever it’s turned into and how is this ever going to work, if I put tomatoes, onions, garlic, thyme, oregano, basil, wine and stock in a slow cooker, put it on high for four hours and walk away, I will come back and it will have turned into a thick, rich and delicious sauce. There is also now an open bottle of wine.