My third book is released next month and I’ll be on the promotion trail once again.

Back in 2007, when I finished my first novel, my publicist booked loads of spots for me on radio stations and TV shows, in newspapers and even in the glossy women’s mags, but at the time I just wasn’t getting enough sleep to be grateful for all the coverage.

There were my three children all under the age of four, one of whom was a newborn baby who needed three-hourly feeds and to be transported from interview to interview in his bucket. Most days I was in a fog of heightened anxiety, clawing desperately for more sleep (if you can imagine combining two such diametrically opposed states). I can still remember telling my next-door neighbour over the side fence that I was going on one of those national morning television shows the following day and that I’d decided I wasn’t going to shower beforehand, my excuse being that the need to be in a car around 5 a.m. and on air first thing with a baby in tow didn’t allow time for basic hygiene. My neighbour, though, raised an eyebrow and gently suggested that a quick scrub at 4.45 might be nice if I could manage it.

The scariest part of this intense period of my life (apart from scouring the press for reviews) was the melting sensation I’d have when the camera started rolling or the radio interview “live-on-air” light flashed red. In the few quiet seconds before a response was required I seemed to be fighting my way through an internal din of static that gave no room for coherent thought. This in turn led to a sort of stage-fright. I was terrified I’d turn into a speechless wreck when combatting the interviewer’s left-of-field questions. But now if I listen to or view the recordings from that crazy time, the outward signs of the inner turmoil seem almost unnoticeable (er, except for that one time, but let’s not go there).

One memorable morning I had to do a radio interview in my car via phone, and I hoped that baby, stowed in back, would reserve his noises for after. The producer called at the scheduled on-air time and wham, a thunderstorm hit, complete with lightning and hail stones like Auks’ eggs. We took shelter under a bridge, that is, all of us except the radio producer who was in sunny Canberra and who thought that both the hailstones ricocheting off the bonnet and the baby’s screams made for graphic radio realism. Then there was the other time I had baby in a pouch and was grabbing some much-needed groceries at the local supermarket, having completely forgotten a live radio interview that had been scheduled for that very time. Somewhere in the dim recesses of memory an alarm bell started ringing as I stood at the checkout. I desperately grabbed for the phone, only to be greeted by an icon indicating next to zero battery charge just as the producer called and cheerily enquired if I was ‘all set?’

The promotion of my first children’s book took me to the Somerset Festival in Queensland last year. Somerset is the biggest children’s literature festival in the country and attracts some excellent authors from across the globe. I found myself in libraries, chatting in the green room with other authors and talking before hundreds of school students of all ages in a variety of different situations from marquee tents to classrooms to lunch tables. To be surrounded by so many reading enthusiasts and great authors was a thoroughly enriching if exhausting experience. My festival stint ended all too abruptly. I was standing side of stage ready to go on when my publicist appeared, breathless and slightly pale. “Let’s go,” she mouthed. “Your flight’s been cancelled. I’ve had to squeeze you onto another one but we may not make it.” I had warned her so many times in the preceding days that it was imperative I get on my morning flight home on the final day so that I could be on time to collect my kids, who would all be waiting for me at the other end. I’d gone on about it so much that she had begged me over wine and peanuts in the hotel bar to stop. “What about the audience?” I mouthed back. But there was no time. We sprinted to a waiting car, across town to the airport and straight to check in. Luckily all I had to declare was hand luggage and a dry mouth.

So here I am, about to release my next book, and I’m assured that this time it will be considerably less hectic. Yet even as I write these words a problem arises to prove how hollow they are: how am I going to get away from my shoot tomorrow in time to collect my kids from their holiday camp? When next I write I’ll let you know how I manage my Houdini trick of being in two places at the same time.