Face of Narcissus feels Nauseated about her apathy.

So I'm almost finished the first of the fiction I've been referring to as 'research' (God, I hope that means I can claim them on tax or something), Emile Zola's The Kill, and the characters are performing a tableaux of the story of Narcissus and Echo. Mention is made of the Liriope, mother of Narcissus. And I had, not brain-freeze, but brainwave.

I was inspired by the Swell Season in my story of the cost of indulgence and the ways in which we use fiction to console ourselves about our life choices, and I've been searching for a protagonist - as I stood on the balcony of the Concert Hall of the Sydney Opera House, overlooking the Harbour surrounded by Sydney's cultural elite, sipping red wine and boutique beer, I felt like I needed a female voice - mostly because I am one, and because so many films have a very dominant male voice (the hangover, etc). I always played Sonia in Mortal Kombat, and I feel this is merely the logical development of my early feminist gaming tendencies.

But I am definitely not setting out to make an Australian Gossip Girl - I can't keep up with the Oedipal drama and high fashion. And I don't want to simply retell the stories I've been reading.

Advice I received last week was figure out what story you want to tell. Extremely good advice. But I also need to know my characters or at the very least, my main character.

I want to explore these ideas of the pursuit of hedonism at all costs, the idle rich, morality, and the way we use fiction to try and balance out the inequaliy we all face in society.

But I forgot someone I really shouldn't have. Jean Paul Sartre. I began reading Nausea and put it down ages ago. Mistake. Because I think I'm feeling this existential nausea. I wanted to explore my apathy toward the world and my interest in, well, mostly my hair. Do I really not care? Is my own life meaningless? What if a person was to suddenly realise that their life is devoid of anything more than an obssession with images. Would it make them feel ill?

And just by seeing that name, Liriope, I knew I had my heroine and a story to tell. Liriope Clifton, socialite, obssessed with nothing but the new, suddenly wonders if her life without meaning? Why can't she bring herself to care about things that other people care about, things that are apparently of substance? Global warming, poverty, inequality, homelessness, etc. Does she belong to a world entirely without a moral compass?

Is she simply worried about an arbitrary societal construct? What does it mean to have a meaningful life? What does it mean if it is all arbitrary?

Perhaps I am just retelling Nausea. But it's fine if I'm reinterpreting it and placing it in a different societal and cultural context?

Meanwhile, can anybody tell me how to find a black wool or felt cloche hat for Autumn/Winter? I'm feeling a roaring 20s look, but with an edge. And by edge I mean wearing jeans.