The Last Hurrah

11 years and 3 months ago I had this idea, probably delusional as it turned out, that if I set aside chunks of time to clack away at the keyboard on a regular basis and produce a blog, the creative cogs in my brain would then fall into place, whirr into action and spur me on to greater things.

Has that happened? Of course not. Which begs the question, how badly did I really want to embark on something greater? What happened to that novel locked inside me waiting to burst forth? Not much, as it turned out. I find it difficult to sustain a project past a few chapters. I'm not bad at beginnings, it's just that annoying middle part where you actually have to bring the story and its characters to life, and the end part where you have to pull it all together and tie up the loose ends, that brings me undone.

I have a short attention span when it comes to writing, which explains not only the dwindling number of entries on this blog over the past few years, but why I ventured into writing a daily haiku for two straight years in 2017 and 2018, the second year of which was presented online as the Haiku Diary 2018, complete with poems, reflections and photos. Nothing much else made it on to any page anywhere for those two years. You'd think coming up with three lines a day would be a cinch, but getting to the essence of an experience or observation in no more than seventeen syllables had its challenges, so after feeling somewhat haiku'd out I must admit to writing only a few in the last couple of years.

Have dabbled in writing short stories, which sounds simple enough, but there's a real art to writing a compelling short story, and despite consuming hundreds by other authors, very few really grab me. The short story section in my bookcase has taken up quite a bit of space with the many volumes picked up over the years, but as I doubt I will read them again they have been bagged up and deposited at the local op shop for someone else to enjoy, all bar a few favourites. The novel is the dream, but self-doubt looms like an ever-present black cloud, menacing, ready to put a dampener on my feeble efforts. It's not permanently over my head, so that's at least promising.

So why all this whining you might say. As Nike so aptly put it, Just Do It. Obviously easier said than done, and I've reminded myself of this mantra on countless occasions, but as evidenced in my personal journal, I have arrived at this point more times than I care to admit. At one level I know what to do, but don't seem to have the wherewithal to move forward, so once again I arrive at where I started this little rant, how badly do I want it?

I read prolifically, and gaze with envy at row after row of other people's creative achievements every time I enter a bookshop. I scour second-hand bookshops, and find some of my most interesting discoveries have introduced me to authors I have never come across before and inspired me no end. But then there's the debilitating effect of doubting I will ever have an offering to add to all those shiny bright brand new releases which seem to pop up with amazing regularity, sometimes even with authors in tow for the obligatory book signing.

There are indeed countless writers out there, published and unpublished, scribbling and clacking away with enthusiasm day after day, despite their own personal versions of self-doubt, for I've yet to meet any creative person who is not dogged by the fear of not being able to come up with the goods. Of never being able to produce not only one, but another book or painting, sculpture, film, song, poem, musical composition or dance or whatever art form they're immersed in, to justify their reason for being and satisfy that constant urge to bring something from its embryonic stage into full life.

For a woman to birth something other than children and then mother it with the same sense of purpose, attention and care jumped distinctly off the page from Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel The Book of Longings. It reminded me of my first few posts back in 2009 when I too wrote of bringing something to birth; the expectation, mixed feelings, the waiting and the labour involved as the stages followed their natural course.

So I've come full circle. I'm back where I started, with a dream, a desire, and still asking myself the question whether I have what it takes. The only proactive step I've taken is to come to the realisation it's high time I embarked on a new venture, hence this post both concludes Banishing Writer's Block and begins my new blog Don't Quote Me where I select a quote from someone other than me, whether notable or not, and reflect on what it could mean, both personally and more broadly.

Will ditching one blog and starting another get the creative juices flowing towards something more substantial? Who knows. Like spending a year in Tuscany or Paris or some idyllic Greek island to locate that quintessential writing environment, changing locations is simply a geographical move and brings no guarantees. So will it be any different this time around?

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

(Don't Quote Me should be up and running within the next week)

The New Year Beckons

Seeing as it’s the first day of a new year and a month since my last scribble on this site I thought it was about time to get the grey matter into gear. Don’t think I’ll be waxing lyrical or sharing any pearls of wisdom to help anyone fine-tune their list of New Year resolutions. There are enough feel good anecdotes floating around on Facebook at the best of times to do that, and as we pause to think about the year ahead they’ll probably now come pouring in by the truckload.

They encourage us to reach out to others, not be judgmental, hug a friend, hug a dog, hug a tree, climb mountains, explore, dream big, create, exercise, look up. look out, cook up a storm, smell the roses, pick flowers, don’t pick fights, love cats, love your neighbour, look after this fragile planet we call home, you name it, someone will have posted something relevant to fit whatever resonated with them at the time. And that’s fine, they’re little pick me ups which can sometimes be just what you need in the middle of a hectic or sad or bad or mad or whatever type of day.

Most of the time for me though I gloss over them, for well intentioned pithy phrases don’t inspire me that much. Which is a little strange on one level, as I’ve amassed a vast collection of quotes, not one liners from supposedly notable people, but rather sentences, phrases or paragraphs from whatever I’m reading. Good writing, really good writing, entrances me, takes me somewhere else, moves, inspires and challenges me, and infuriates me that I can’t write that well.

Then there’s the desk calendar someone gave me years ago with its Mottos for Success, most of which I find rather simplistic and patronising, but for some reason it remains on my study desk as there is the occasional anecdote that rings true for me. I think it sat on February 2^nd for several years to remind me I needed to change my mindset by setting aside time and creating a space for myself where I could reflect and refocus in order to become more whole.

Don’t knock the benefits of relaxation. A refreshed soul can be a truly creative soul, and a truly creative soul is a productive soul.

For the past year or so it’s been sitting on December 10^th Before you discover, you must explore. Enter the worlds of medicine, science, travel, engineering, communication or whatever, nothing happens overnight. Penicillin didn’t just appear one day, the theory of relativity didn’t occur to Einstein in an instant, the fact the world is not flat took a while to catch on, and I still don’t really understand how telephones, fax machines, computers, radios, televisions and a myriad of other things work, I mean how do people’s minds come up with these things? Planes, trains and automobiles started out as a germ of an idea in someone’s brain, and from there the journey began to work out how the dream could become a reality.

And therein lies the exploration, where you do the hard yards, the experimentation, the research, the first draft, the second, the third and fourth, the revision, the trial and error, the going forward, going in circles, going backwards, and riding the roller coaster of frustration and joy, disappointment and victory. I have a tendency, and I sense I’m not alone, to want to arrive at the end product without going through the process, to have the reward without dealing with the messy stuff.

And when you apply that process to more than inventing or creating something, when you dare to look inward, when I dare to look inward, to explore what’s going on in my heart and mind, in my soul and spirit, it can be challenging at times to discover what’s there, or more confronting, what’s not there. 

While Christmas shopping I saw Do more of what you Love on several different kinds of merchandise. The ultimate form of employment is to find the thing you love most and make a living from it, not an easy thing for the vast majority to achieve. But to discover those things that bring our spirit alive so we can be more present in each moment, to make our mark however humble, to put our own stamp on something, whether we see it as particularly creative or not, can bring immense satisfaction and fulfilment when we see a project through.

So, will I do more of what I love this year? Will I be more disciplined so the dreams bubbling below the surface have a chance not only of survival but of coming to the surface? Will I dare to challenge myself, take a risk, think outside the box, or will I play it safe? Actually writing it down challenges me, for to play it safe makes me feel like I’m giving up, giving in. I’m not getting any younger, and I often wonder if my dreams are simply delusions, but taking the easy road, doing what seems sensible and not stretching myself, makes me feel deflated, already defeated.

So I guess that’s not an option. The journey continues, and while I have my wits about me I’ll endeavour to pursue whatever creative explorations I need to make in order to discover what this one little person can be and do. While I’ve been clacking away on the keyboard a monstrous moth has been flinging himself at the window and flapping about madly, attracted by the light. I’m not sure if moths have the same super short life span as butterflies, but if so his flight of fancy has come to an end on my windowsill, where he now sits quite docile, spent after all his frenetic activity.

He headed towards the light to see what it might reveal. Maybe I need to find some illumination as well.

Playing with Words & Pictures

Seems I’ve been dragging my feet for a while, not writing much, scribbling away in my journal, a poem here and there, reading mostly, wandering the bush, taking photos, visiting galleries, creating collages of words and pictures that interestingly have a way of crystallizing where I’m at as well as the direction in which I’d like to head. Making a concrete representation of what is happening internally is what often kick starts me on that next phase, though it also has a way of reminding me of my apathy and procrastination, my self doubt, my lack of courage to take the steps necessary to create the future hovering tantalisingly but frustratingly out of reach.

Hence the “Banishing Writer’s Block” blog title. Here I am, five and a half years since beginning what I’d hoped would result in a more productive writing life, and the results have on one hand been rather negligible. On the other hand the process has not been a failure, for over the past two years especially the creative venture I’ve been on has helped me focus, re-focus, see more clearly, contemplate, appreciate, dream, make connections, and look at things from a perspective other than the obvious.

I sit on the floor in galleries in front of a work of art and immerse myself in it, wondering what was going on in the artist’s head as the painting or sculpture or whatever came to life. Were they trying to convey something in particular, or simply allowing their own creative process to unfold, with sometimes surprising results far different from what was in their mind’s eye at the outset.

Gallery staff give me surreptitious glances as I sit for so long writing away. Thankfully the practice of taking photos, once forbidden, seems to be lifting from most galleries, a development I have fondly embraced, for many of my scribblings have no picture to go with the story of what I see, where I find myself within the work of art, how it speaks to me, what responses it evokes in me.

Our Artist’s Way group is working through Julia Cameron’s book Vein of Gold – A Journey to your Creative Heart, and one of our tasks a while back was to create a collage, our very own treasure map. Because images speak directly to the subconscious mind, they are a very potent form of wishing. For most of us the world is experienced visually, images evoke emotions, memories, dreams. A couple of hours flew by quickly as we sat on the floor ripping and cutting magazines, then arranging and sticking down the words and pictures, with fascinating results. We mulled over them for the next week determining what all the images represented for each of us, and it was interesting to find specific themes emerging.

I’d done one three months earlier, and the themes were similar, but I could see a slow progression with this new one, and now another six months down the track I’m putting together my second visual diary of words and pictures culled from magazines over the last year or so, stringing them together with my own commentary and reflections, and somehow in the process it embodies the essence of who I am, who and what I hope to be. It becomes a conversation with myself, and serves to encourage me in those moments of self doubt when I think life would be so much easier if I could just retire and put my feet up and potter in the garden instead of dealing with this incessant and insistent intrusion of words and the compulsion to put them together in some sort of order so they make sense or say something poignant or profound, prosaic or poetic, prodigious or at the very least, passable.

From my visual diary

For I know if I did that, retire and put my feet up that is, I’d get sick of myself pretty quickly, and have to go off pottering around everyone else’s gardens to keep myself occupied, welcome or not. They might appreciate the weeding, but it wouldn’t get me any closer to working through the briar patch in my brain that requires me to stop procrastinating and clear it out so there is fertile soil to work with once again.

Gardening metaphors aside, the struggle to bring something literary to life, nurture it, develop it, prune it when necessary, either to get rid of dead matter or whip it into shape, then see it through to its completion, is by and large the mountain too high I somehow cannot scale.

It’s all in the head I know, so while I attempt to get my head into a more prolific space, I’ll keep playing with words and pictures to see what they trigger. I’m up to page 28 of my 80 page visual diary, so maybe by the time it’s done I’ll either have given myself a good boost to get writing again, or I’ll be so tired of it I’ll be itching to get writing again instead of having sticky fingers. Either way, looks like the desired result could be the same.

Something to Crow about

There are two crows I often come across on my morning walk, and I think it would be safe to say they’re the same pair every time. Parked in front of the glass double doors to the golf club, well not exactly parked, for they are always screeching and squawking, hopping up and down in a mad frenzy battering at the doors with their beaks. Not sure if they’re really that keen on getting in, think it’s more to do with standing their ground against the two crows on the inside and staking out their territory.

They’re obviously not too bright, seeing as all they’re doing is getting uptight with their own reflections, and they remind me of the two crows from the movie Charlotte’s Web. Perched up on the telegraph pole, looking out over the vast field of corn, they grumble and groan about their hunger, egg each other on, attempt to rustle up some bravado, and plan strategies for the attack that will reap them the reward they so desire.

But one thing stands in their way. The scarecrow.

There he stands, every day, a barrier to their prize. Their forays into the field are quickly aborted each time the scarecrow does his job, but it is only when they eventually face the scarecrow and discover their fears were unfounded do they get the opportunity to finally take their fill.

While Christmas shopping I found this note book, and the timing couldn’t have been better, so bought it for myself. With my writing seemingly going nowhere it was a reminder that although the scarecrow is there, every day, wanting to foil my attempts however feeble, I can stare him in the face if I want and take away the intimidation he wields.

So, if I find something to crow about this year, it’ll begin here, in this note book.

Don't quote me

Writing a regular personal journal has never been easy for me, recording my thoughts, feelings, responses or reactions to the world around me, including the multi layered network of relationships from family to friends and work colleagues. Chronicling my inner journey has long been a hit and miss affair, somewhat due to the fact the exercise felt too much like belly button gazing with little progress, a kind of wallowing in a foggy swamp where there were no firm footholds. I was much more comfortable simply ‘doing’ rather than thinking about doing, planning what needed doing, or reflecting on what had actually been done.

Flicking back through entries from past years I found one from September 2004 which I could’ve easily written yesterday, pondering on my present situation and what the future might have in store for me. Makes me wonder how predictable my life has become, how for many of us the dreams and bravado of our more youthful years can go missing as we hang on to the rhythms of life which bring a sense of safety and security.

What has become more prevalent in my journals though is the inclusion of quotes. Not those from world leaders or pearls of wisdom from philosophers either ancient or modern, but snippets from whatever I’m currently reading. Phrases, sentences and paragraphs have a habit of jumping out at me from novels, poems, biographies, all manner of resources. In those moments I have to stop and write them down before I can continue, lest the words which resonated for me are lost and the idea which caused me to reflect recedes.

I have much to be thankful for, and I certainly am that, but there are times when an infernal itch starts up inside, a restlessness, but finding the right way to scratch it is not always simple, let alone locating the source of the irritation. The quotes which usually burn themselves into my brain are probably the ones which feed the itch, causing me to question yet again what I’m doing on this little island on this part of the planet.

From Sue Monk Kidd - The Mermaid Chair

My life seemed sweet and dull and small and repellent. So much of it unused.

At the end of our lives, none of us will wish we’d spent more time working so we could simply survive. The only regrets we will have are those moments, those relationships, those ventures which carried a risk but also held a promise that if we pursued them we would connect more deeply with our true nature. Most of us get to use such a small portion of our potential. I would hate to be filled with regret when it comes my time to check out, with a withered spirit to match my withered body.

Last week we made a wish list as part of the Artist’s Way course I’m doing, and it was more than a little interesting what turned up on mine. Things I’ve enjoyed in the past which I no longer do, things I’ve never dared to do, unfulfilled dreams, as well as many wishes beyond my own little world. I know I too easily give up on the possibility of what might be. As in the movie Sliding Doors, decisions at any given moment have the capability of leading our lives in very diverse directions.

We have abandoned an infinite number and variety of pure possibilities, and perhaps they live alongside the choices we did make……Perhaps there are unknown lives walking alongside ours, those paths we didn’t take, and we reach for them, we ache for them, and don’t know why. We have, none of us, lived our lives as we ought to……..what agony, to know our better selves, the life we might have lived is there, just out of reach.

Haven Kimmel – The Solace of Leaving Early

Time to make some choices, choose the path we want to take, the one I want to take, otherwise someone else will make the choice for us.

Meet Me at the Bottom

We don’t necessarily have to hit rock bottom before we get motivated enough to pull ourselves up and out of the muck we often seem to have settled for in life. But that whole area of our lives of unfulfilled dreams or regrets or fear of failure that stops us from opening the door even just a crack on what might be possible out there, has been in the forefront of my thinking as I’ve participated in The Artist’s Way course these past few weeks. I have a habit of not wanting to attempt something unless I can do it properly, hence many tasks are begun and not finished, but one thing highlighted in the course is that we have to be prepared to produce ‘bad’ art of whatever sort in order to start the journey.

Every stroke of the brush, every phrase created, every note recorded, every dance move attempted, every photo captured, is a step in the right direction. Stepping back and observing what we’ve created might produce a positive or negative reaction from both ourselves and others, but at least it’s something to work with. We have a tendency to compare our efforts to the masters in our chosen field, which as beginners can be extremely deflating. There’s no point putting your first completed canvas next to a Van Gogh, for instance, and as I’m no literary genius, there’s no point judging my efforts against the authors I admire either.

What I can do though is start at the bottom, as hard as that may be, and stumble however precariously towards the goal, for I’m finding that by putting one foot in front of the other, however slowly, the process is gathering a momentum of its own, in much the same way as this poem has evolved over the last couple of weeks. What better way of marking the last day of winter than throwing off the dark, cold dreariness and preparing for the new spring of life which is to come.

Meet Me at the Bottom

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Bruised and battered

curled into a ball.

Get out of the dirty ditch

bedraggled and forlorn

Brush off the stinking mantle

and slink away to mourn.

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Screaming like a banshee

braced against the fall.

Grazed and bleeding grab a hold

stumble on into the night

Split the dank and settling mist

stay up, the end’s in sight.

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Tearing down with pure delight

in answer to the call.

Hair flying, eyes wide, 

a grin from ear to ear

Surefooted, balanced now

gone the hollow fear.

Shovelling in the Words

The past week has been fascinating, as if the top of my head has been prised open and someone has been shovelling words and phrases in at a great rate of knots. After several weeks of The Artist’s Way course and sharing with my fellow travellers, and reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg in 24 hours, I’ve suddenly gone into this frenzy of writing.

But not what I was expecting.

I’m writing poetry, something I haven’t touched for nigh on forty years and a task I’ve never really wanted to pursue. My scribblings of decades ago have been culled on more than one occasion, for whenever you revisit old poems or short stories you wonder what on earth you were thinking at the time. They are often stilted, morbid or maudlin, self indulgent, images and metaphors piled on thick as custard. What prompted their outpouring is a distant memory, and the emotion dies in the words.

What I’m doing now might end up just the same. In a week’s time, in a month or more, I might look back and sneer at my feeble attempts, but as I commit to this journey and take it seriously I’m discovering something new, and coinciding with the Olympics may be no coincidence at all. No athlete goes out to run his race without training and routine practice, without warming up, stretching. It’s a no brainer really, something I already knew but have been resisting.

The very act of putting pen to paper on almost a daily basis is opening my eyes, my ears, my mind, opening me, opening up possibilities. ‘Helter Skelter meet me at the bottom’ came from nowhere the other day. Or rather, somewhere, spawning a poem yet to be finished. Words and phrases and images are fighting for space in my head right now, I’m wondering where they’re all coming from, and while they’re not leading me in the direction of the novel I thought I was heading towards, they’re leading me somewhere.

There’s no point waiting for the Road to Damascus moment when the heavens will open and the message will be loud and clear. Right now I’m on the dusty road though, practicing, stretching, warming up for the main event.

MIRROR IMAGE

When I look into the mirror

what reflection looks at me.

My right side here

is right, right there

my left where it should be.

But when you stand before me

you see a different me.

My right is on your left hand side

my left is on your right.

I’m back to front

In body

Am I back to front

in mind?

Do you understand my motives

can you see my latent dreams

Can you navigate

the fissures of my mind?

Do you see beyond the body

are you brave enough to try?

Do I dare to let you

see inside

in those moments you ask

Why?

Unblocking the Drains

No, I haven’t had to call in the plumber, and despite the fact my internal workings are not exactly what they should be, it’s the journey of the unblocking of my mind on which I’ve had to yet again set out. As the title of my blog attests, the desire is to write, not just any old stuff, but something worthy of being read by those other than myself, and lately the S bend has become clogged. Nothing was making its way past that blockage, no amount of metaphorical Draino was having any effect.

For some reason I find the structure of a writing course or writer’s group rather handy, for it keeps me on my toes, spurs me on to keep producing, but when not in this construct for an extended period of time the self doubt takes over once again, apathy becomes the norm, self flagellation the response for not picking myself up and motoring on. Not literally of course, don’t have any cat o’ nine tails hidden in the wardrobe, but the mind can play all sorts of tricks to trip you up when the dream seems all but unattainable.

So, in this past week I’ve joined a small group doing The Artist’s Way, a 12 part course written by Julia Cameron in discovering and recovering your creative self. We’re a mixed bunch covering several artistic pursuits, music, dance, glass sculpting, singing, painting, crafts and writing. The very fact we’re not all chasing the same specific dream is going to be helpful, for we will all have different experiences from which to draw to bring to our discussions. The process however of releasing our creativity will have its similarities, delving deeper internally to discover what brings us joy, to what helps us tap into our dreams so our authentic selves can be expressed in whatever form, at the same time as identifying those things which prevent us from doing that.

For me it will be something of a spiritual journey, for the basic tools used during the course will I know bring me to those moments and places where I am confronted with the most basic questions. Who am I? What am I doing here? What and who do I want to be? Do I have something worthwhile to say or do in my little corner of the world?

The first basic tool is Morning Pages, 3 pages every day of whatever you can write, whether you’re feeling inspired or believing this whole thing is a waste of time. Stream of consciousness writing, letting the pen do its thing, not stopping to think too hard about what you’re doing. Funny thing is, only four days in, and the bare bones I start on page 1 suddenly turns into something much more meaningful by the end of page 3.

The second tool is the Artist Date, taking yourself off somewhere alone to revive your dry tired soul, or spirit, or whatever it is that needs refilling, in order to once again have some internal resources on which to draw. In one sense this activity is not entirely new, for I love taking time to observe the world around me, people, music, art, natural and manmade landscapes, but as much as I appreciate sweeping vistas it is the small details which fascinate me.

Yesterday found me at Cataract Gorge, vastly different from my previous visit when it was in flood last year. Back then it was all turmoil and power and savage beauty, but now, not a ripple on the water, beautiful reflections, but it was the moss and lichen and creepers on the rocks by the side of the path which intrigued me most. Besides writing, photography would have to be my next favourite creative pursuit, and though I’m no expert I do enjoy capturing images which speak to me, fill me with awe and reaffirm my relationship with the creator of this amazing universe.

So, with not even one week into the course gone, I’ve at least plucked up the energy to face the keyboard again and have another go. Whether or not I share anything from my morning pages remains to be seen, but with several photos from the Gorge pasted into my journal along with today’s entry, I’m trusting these next few months will once more kick start my creative juices.

WHERE'S A LIGHTHOUSE WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

Belt out the booming foghorn, the sea is becalmed, the fog has drifted in, the sails have been lowered and the old vessel has almost come to a standstill. It’s not always easy negotiating a way forward when you’re not sure which direction is the right one. For me it’s writing, for others it could be any one of a number of creative pursuits or career paths or whatever.

There may be no literal rocks looming in these uncharted waters, no sandbars on which to run aground, but the metaphorical ones are just as clever at bringing things to a grinding halt and shedding doubt on any glimmer of hope I might have had of producing anything other than this little missive.

Where’s a lighthouse when you need one, with its bright beacon shedding light on all the obstacles, showing the way forward and giving you something to aim for. Self doubt can be a crippling thing, and such a time waster I’ve found. In the time it takes to whip yourself for not applying your brain and engaging your mind and heart in something, anything towards your goal, you could’ve actually done something that moved you a little way forward at least.

Maybe that’s why I’m rabbitting on, raving just for the sake of it, in an attempt to crawl out of the little rut I’ve created for myself. I looked back at my very first blog entry, where I idealistically committed to writing every day, and have to admit to slacking off in that area. Nothing of value comes easy, and the dream of whipping up a best seller may look tempting, but making the dream a reality can be a nightmare.

So I take heart from the following words of wisdom from Garrison Keillor, taken from his novel Love Me:

Every writer I know is on a winding mountain road in the fog.

Writers like to think that writing is like Arctic exploration or flying the Atlantic solo but actually it's more like golf. You've got to go out and do it every day and live by the results. You can brood over it but in the end you've got to take the club out of the bag and take your swing.

A NEW BEGINNING

DEC 8 '09 DAY 1

Watched the movie Julie & Julia last weekend as I was crook and needed some curl up on the couch time. Loved it, couldn't get it out of my head and have been inspired to finally rouse myself from my apathy and actually get writing, before I think this daily blog thing which seemed like a good idea at the time turns out to be unworkable, before the housework beckons, before the grass grows and I have to spend several hours taming it into submission again, before gearing up to prepare for the big project of painting the hallway, the laundry, the study and spare bedroom, before I remind myself there are so many other things I should be doing. Should? Maybe that's could. But definitely not before breakfast, which is now.

Ok, Weet Bix and strawberries are out of the way, courtesy of my doctor's latest instructions. Need some extra fibre he says. Don't care what you put on it he says, can even be Froot Loops if you like, but those dreaded flavourless milk absorbing lumps of stuff which I somehow doubted ever really belonged to any of the food groups have now become part of the morning ritual, so I've opted for one, not the two as instructed, dare I confess next time I see him, but topped with fresh strawberries they are at least palatable. Definitely cannot start the day though without the Vegemite on toast, so armed with my favourite orange herbal tea I am now raring to go.

Despite the talk of food, this blog will definitely not be a Julie & Julia project discovering the delights and disasters of French cooking. If I followed the regimen in the movie I would undoubtedly balloon to the size of a blimp by the end of the year. No, my culinary needs are much simpler; I cook to make sure I stay alive.

However, with the purpose of my blog in mind, my attempts to write something over the past few decades that might actually be worth sharing with more than myself, my writer's class of which I've attended a few, my writer's group of which I've attended a couple, and friends who I correspond with, have come to a big fat zero. I have the first chapters of umpteen stories which started with a bang and ended in a whimper; short stories, some short, some rather long winded, most unfinished; there are lists of themes and issues to explore, opening lines, quotes for the inside front page, files of idea to stimulate the brain, but what has it produced? Filing cabinet drawers and computer files of Nothing.

For someone who is a 'completer/finisher' in most areas of my life, this is one area that fits well and truly into the procrastinator part of me. For those creative pursuits where validation of your efforts requires you to actually put something out there, I am sadly lacking in courage. And discipline, and effort, and time management, and......probably many other things as well. But if Julie Powell can set herself a target of completing her project in 365 days and achieve it, then I'll make a darned good effort to do the same thing.

The Great Australian Novel it will not be, but maybe I can take heart along with the countless other frustrated, self doubting wannabe authors out there, for at least it will be a beginning. I will do what writers should do, yes, should do. I will write very day.