People have often compared writing a book to having a baby. I've always said that unless you're squeezing a hardback out your left nostril the comparison is flawed. And yet, there are some similarities worth noting. A long gestation period, full of hope and promise and fantasies, where you read a lot and talk to people with an evangelical glow about the forthcoming happy event. (I was heard to say repeatedly to my husband during this phase of the book, that it was the best book ever written by anyone ever in the history of the universe). Then the first stage of labour, where it hurts a bit but you have enough bravado to convince yourself you can handle it...without drugs. Then the long, really hard horrible bit where it's all just pain and misery and you want to give up and go home. Then finally, the last few thousand words, where you can't stop, you can't sleep, you can't eat, you just have to get the damned thing out of you before you die! And then this thing has arrived in your world, and you love it and all, but it looks really odd. It takes a little while for it to resemble the beautiful, loveable creature you imagined.

In this comparison, I guess a book launch is the equivalent to sending your child off to daycare, out into the world where you can no longer protect it from the opinions of others. Somebody might make fun of its ears, or its usage of adverbs, and you die a little just at the thought of such ordinary, offhand cruelty. So I'm very glad to have such a supportive, wonderful group of people to help me through this difficult time. I'm going to do my thankyous first.

Thanks to Taressa and Danette at Mary Ryan's for organising the launch. Thanks to Mary-Rose for launching me. Thanks especially to my dear friend Kate Morton, who was the other half of my writing group during the composition of this book. I'm very pleased to tell you that the book that Kate wrote at the same time, The Shifting Fog, has been accepted for publication by Allen and Unwin and will be launched here next winter. Kate is the bestest of the besties. Mirko, my darling husband. We've just celebrated 16 years of togetherness (that's half his life!) and I can honestly say that his faith in me one of the things that keeps me going when it all seems impossible. Thanks too to my little boy Luka, whose appearance in the world supercharged my observations of it, and I'm certain that's reflected in my writing. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou to all of you who came tonight! I'm overwhelmed, especially at some of the distances you've travelled. My cousin Janine Haig, the reigning Australian bush poet laureate, is here all the way from out past Eulo (which is out past Cunnamulla). I hope that you'll enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Rosa and the Veil of Gold is a historical novel, wrapped in a love story, wrapped in a supernatural thriller, but most of all it's about a journey: a journey through history, through folktales and myths, where all travellers have secrets that are slowly revealed as the book progresses. Here's a little blurb to give you an idea what it's about.

Rosa Kovalenka finds a golden bear walled up in a St Petersburg bathhouse. She contacts her ex-lover Daniel to help her authenticate it. While he and his workmate Em are on the way to Arkhangelsk to take the bear to a Professor of Russian history, they part company with the road and with reality and find themselves wandering in a Russian dreamscape made up of old stories and unexpected dangers. Rosa is left back in our world, on a haunted bee-farm, trying to cross the veil and rescue Daniel, and she has her own adventures, her own dangerous waters to negotiate there. Throughout the story is woven the entire history of Russia, from its conversion to Christianity in the 10th century, through to the execution of Tsar Nikolai and his family in 1918. But this is no ordinary history, it's a secret history told by a shadowy figure named Papa Grigory, about another shadowy figure called the Secret Ambassador and his attempts to reunite the worlds of magic and men.

Here's a brief reading, where the Secret Ambassador attempts to convince the goddess Mokosha to enter an arranged marriage with Ivan the Terrible. (reading pg210-12)

But this story isn't just about distant, fabulous places. It's also about the here and now. I'm not a fantasy writer, I'm much more interested in reality, about how real people react when scary stuff happens. So, that brings me to another aspect of the journey. Four years ago this weekend, Mirko and I took off on a big plane on a big research trip. If you work out the dates, you'll realise that we left within a week of the Sept 11 terrorist attacks on the US. The world seemed an uncertain place: the Wallabies refused to fly (big babies) but Mr and Mrs Whiteknuckle got on a plane and went anyway.

I don't want you to think that we were very brave. We'd just spent way too much money to cancel. Everywhere we went, we were frightened. On the Fin-air plane where they gave us metal knives to eat our lunch, for example (compared to Berlin where they confiscated the best tweezers I've ever owned: my eyebrows have never been the same). Then we were in St Petersburg when two things happened. First, the Ukranians accidentally shot down a passenger plane. Second, the US invaded Afghanistan. We were so unbelievably stressed out, that we did the only thing we could do.

We drank to excess.

We wandered out of our hotel room, and drank our way down Nevsky Prospekt, then all the way back up it again.

I'd like to close with another reading, set (at least partly) on Nevsky Prospekt (taken from my very detailed observations of it). (reading pg14-18)

I said earlier Rosa is about a journey: a fabulous, mystical, sometimes frightening journey. Writing the book felt very much the same way. I fell in love with Russia, with her vastness, her cruelty, her rich texture and her incredible history. Tonight, while it's a happy occasion, also marks the end of the process. It is with great reluctance that I bid da svedanya to that magical place. Thankyou.