Bring on the writer’s block!

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Ooo, what’s in here? Wait a minute, who gives a fuck?

I’ve given up writing. Blogging, publishing books, articles on Medium. The lot.

It’s my New Year’s resolution. I used to write about everything from yoga to mining, medicine to child abuse. There were devastating insights into the relationship between gambling and writing competitions, and also teddies I wrote a lot about both New Zealand and Australia. I’ve realised, however, that the internet has reached saturation. Everyone can write. And now, everyone does. There’s no need for me to contribute to it.

I enjoy writing, editing less so. And yet, I seemed to spend more time editing my work than producing it. In fact, the biggest hurdle to writing was the thought of editing it later.

I started this blog in 2004. Initially, I never edited a bloody thing. The readership was high, and I was re-published fairly frequently, such was the twitching churn of internetty politics and culture. So, I started editing my work. Not a lot, just a once-over-lightly for clarity.

Mostly I blogged as a way of working through a set of thoughts or issues. Sometimes I’d revisit them, researching facts or writing them up as an article to be as widely ignored as the original blog post. I thought that there was value in writing as a discipline, a way of organising my thoughts, making a coherent argument, exploring an issue.

Shock twist! There isn’t.

So, it’s with a sense of relief that I abandon writing. I’ve published a couple of books, some short stories and recorded the odd thing for the ABC. It’s been a good run.

I’ll probably still scribble down the odd thing from time to time. And it’s likely I’ll post some garbled shit on this blog occasionally too, but the half-finished manuscripts, articles and research are all headed for the bin. After all, if no-one reads your work then you’re just writing a diary. And who wants to read that?

 

 

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Six things my mother told me…

 

  1. You can get sunburnt from the sun’s reflection on the water.
  2. Try to make sure you can always get a job. Just the idea that a relationship might be based on need is corrosive.
  3. The jandal is faster than the eye.
  4. A cup of tea is the only treatment for shock.
  5. All waterskiers should have a solid understanding of angular momentum.
  6. All children are weird

Dreaming

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Oh my God, fat hair!

I just had a birthday. And, after a lovely day of presents, delicious food and general flopping around in the ocean I went to bed and had a rather vivid dream.

I was in a mechanics’ workshop, trying to explain to a 19 year old manboy that my diesel bicycle was not hitting its power-band. (Like I said: dream).

Anyway, the young chap sighed, looked me hard in the eye and said;

‘It’s not working because you’re sitting on it. You are too fat, lady. You are a fat old lady’.

He delivered these words almost like a chore, as if this fact alone was so self-evident that he shouldn’t even need to push the foetid air past his shiny white teeth.

Of course, this is the point where I’m supposed to wake up in a cold, thundering sweat, freaking out about my pending mid-life crisis.

But I didn’t freak out. Or wake up. In fact, I kept dreaming. Here’s what happened next.

The young man turned away from me with the thinly veiled disgust of someone who spends an eighth of each day with his own, lonely cock in his hand. I reached out and yanked the front of his overalls. As he stumbled towards my sweaty face, I said;

‘Look here, you tumescent little turd. If you think getting a woman skinnier than me is going to work out well for you, then think again. I’m sure you spend your humid under-blanket moments lusting over some scrawny bint with the je ne sais quoi of a pair of tights filled with coat hangers but let me tell you, the only thing standing between her and a dish-rack is a thick coat of spray tan. At least a dish rack is useful’.

And then I slapped him on his greasy, stubbly little chin and fixed the bike myself.

My dream was unexpected, but welcome.

I have no time for the paranoid foibles of middle age. Fuck that shit. I’ve had a bloody good run, and it just keeps getting better. I have earned my aches and pains and they were worth every bleeding moment. The modern obsession with youth is little more than a fear of wisdom – we idolise inexperience and stupidity, to do otherwise would be dangerous.

Well, screw that. I’m only just hitting my straps.

NB. I’m not actually fat – but maybe my subconscious thinks I am so I’m suffocating it in a layer of chocolate.

Lucky break

Hey you know what’s making housing expensive? Red tape. Nope, not ridiculous, hyper- speculation by Australia’s largest age cohort. No no no. Why would you even think that? It’s red tape. Big, bad red tape. If there were more houses, there’d be more supply.

And you know what holds up supply? Red tape. The Planning and Assessment Commission to be precise. So what if we cut the PAC’s ‘red tape’? How cool would that be? Then we’d get more houses! Or more apartments, anyway, because the PAC only deals in large developments.

What’s that? There’s an oversupply of apartments in Australia? Oh, well don’t blame us, here at the Liberal party we’re doing our bit to keep the apartment market afloat.

Now, where were we? Oh yes, red tape. The PAC. Well, let’s ‘streamline’ the approvals process. That’ll get more housing. There’s a housing crisis don’t you know. We’re doing our bit.

And if housing developments happen to comprise about five eighths of fuck all of the PAC’s business, then that’s hardly our fault. What’s that? What does the PAC mostly do?

Mining approvals.