Yes, yes I said. Of course I can write something for you. When? That’s ages away. Plenty of time to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. There’s only one wincy ickle snag. To put it poetically, I am a bird without a song, an artist without a canvas, a mower without a lawn, a writer without words. Well, I guess you could say that I have words, we all do, and there are lots of them out there. I just can’t seem to find the wherewithal to put them all together in a big coherent, interesting block. Everyday, I write something brilliant in my head; in the supermarket I’m writing snappy little pieces, witty observations on life. They’re started by the fresh pro-duce department and published in a reputable magazine by canned goods. My parents have started a scrapbook of my articles around the same time I remember the toilet paper and by the time I get to the checkout, I’m earning enough money to quit work and spend time being creative and well dressed. Then I get home, look at the laptop, try to remember the supermarket brilliance and fail. Maybe I should stack some cans in my lounge room and create some aisles with my furniture.

I’ve got poetry and half written pieces littered around my bed-room, faded bits of folder paper from high school with twee poetry written when I was supposed to be paying attention to something else. Chapters of books that will never get written because they have no plot. They do have splendid titles though; Olives Grow on a Gum Tree has always been a particular favourite of the books that don’t exist. I wonder if there is a parallel universe some-where with a me that is purposeful and organised, who doesn’t write two sentences and remembers something more pressing like a cup of tea and a cigarette. Its not like I don’t have any ide-as, I do, they are just a smidgen half formed and currently only fit for Synopsis Magazine, if only there were such a thing.

Let’s see, what could I write about? To try and get some idea what other more focused scribblers are doing, I had a butchers at some other magazines. And before you ask, yes I know what plagiarism and appropriation are. This is research. Besides, I didn’t find any-thing worth pinching. There was one quasi political piece, sand-wiched somewhere between ’New Hair for You’ and ’Wear This and Men Will Like You’, which boldly proclaimed that Howard’s got to go. Hmm. Revelatory stuff. Alas, our lass is a bit late as stand-up comedians and (or should that be including) Peter Costello have been proclaiming this to anyone who will listen. While I scoff, I do have to confess that the article reminded me of the time I was determined to get a grasp on what was happening in the Middle East. I borrowed a copy of Middle East for Dummies (yes, it is an actual book, and no I don’t think it was dedicated to Dubya, and yes, OK, it would probably be a good idea if he read it sometime between now and more dead people) but it ended up like the credit card bill, unopened and under my bed somewhere.

So, back to coming up with my own ideas for an article. I could write about a personal experience, something daring and intrepid that will curl people’s toes and have them gasp into their morning coffee. To go out there and do something that I have never done before, something that the very thought of made me blanch. So I did. I got on a tram, went into the city, alighted (love that word) and marched into Myer, into the bright glaring lights and perfec-tion of the make up department. Marched right up to the Dior counter, flung my arm out and said (this is where you hold your breath) “I’ll have that mascara please” (that’s where you exhale in awe). Ready to brave the scorn of the dreaded make up counter lady, only to discover that she was nice. Really nice, “Oh, that one’s lovely” said she, “just come around here and I‘ll put that through for you” No snorts of derision or some such. Just very nice. So then, no intrepid story there. No rising above the conde-scension I had envisaged. There goes that plan.

Next theory, try some of those techniques that writers purportedly employ when they are faced with the dreaded block. How about ensuring you write something down everyday, even if it’s only a sentence. So in a week I’d be able to say yes, I have in fact written something, its seven unjoined, rather banal sentences. Rather nice font though. Do you think it will make this edition? Brain-storming is another method you could use. I imagine that would end up rather the same way, Yes here it is, a nice list of things I could write about. Look, there’s even half a paragraph there. Real-ly, you think it needs some editing? Then there’s automatic writ-ing, with a couple of options to choose from. The basic theory here is that you get a pen and paper and write without using conscious thought. I could go the original route and use it to receive mes-sages from the spirit realm, or I could just go the surrealist path and use it to tap into my unconscious. Either way, I still don’t think it would be publishable. Although, I am rather fascinated by the definition given to automatic poetry by the surrealists. According to Hans Richter’s book Dada, automatic poetry “springs directly from the poet’s bowels or other organs, which have stored up re-serves of useable material”. Aha. A dual explanation for both the twee poetry mentioned earlier and the strange noises coming from within.

So where to now, my dear friends? Still no article in sight. I’ve blathered and slaved over a hot laptop for days, talked about how I don’t write, how the words in my head dry up when I attempt to put them to paper. I’ve cast the proverbial net around, looked to other scribes for inspiration and come up empty-handed, while skilfully deflecting this by pooh poohing someone who has man-aged to get it together. I tried life experience, but no, dismal fail-ure there. Firstly, there was no triumph and secondly, it was hardly a one-legged climb of Everest, was it? Tried immersing myself in some block-breaking techniques, but my brainstorming consists of “Photography? Environment?”, thus reading more like high school subject choices. The automatic writing I can’t even decipher, and don’t get me started on the bowel-worthy poetry. So I guess I’ll have to keep trying, rack the brains a bit more to come up with a brilliant idea to write about. Till then, I think the kettle’s boiling…