Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
I step out of the Gunnas Masterclass into the bright afternoon sunshine and already the negative voice in my head is at it.
Write something for the Gunnas challenge? Ha, good luck with that. You’ll just go home, sit on the couch and procrastinate. And anyway, who wants to read anything that you’ve written?
Fuck off I tell the voice. I’m going to write something. But what? I decide to walk home to give myself time to think of a story. Or procrasti-walk, says the evil voice in my head.
I set off through the back streets of Carlton, enjoying the sun on my face and the breeze blowing my hair. Looking down a laneway paved with bluestone I spy two cats squeezing between a gap in a fence, intent on getting somewhere fast. Maybe I could write a story about those cats and the adventure that they’re on. Nope says the voice, totally lame idea.
Heading deep into hipster territory I swing down Gertrude Street. Man buns to the left of me, flannette shirts to the right. Walking past restaurant after restaurant I start getting distracted. Maybe I can drop into one for a quick bite to eat and write about that. This time the sensible voice in my head speaks up and I make a deal with myself. Go home and write, then take yourself out to dinner as a reward.
By the time I hit the backstreets of Richmond I realise that all I’ve been thinking about is where to take myself for dinner. That’s not going to get anything written, just dreaming about food. Turning down Victoria Street I notice the local drug dealer doing a roaring trade. Surely with the amount of business he gets he can afford some shampoo and maybe a new set of teeth. I suppose he’s got different priorities in life.
Dodging the old ladies picking over vegetables at the grocers, families out for an afternoon stroll and kids skateboarding I still haven’t thought of what to write about. My feet are starting to hurt. What genius decided that walking would be a good idea I mutter to myself. A little too loudly it seems, judging by the startled look the guy walking past gives me.
Finally I stagger through the front door, kick my shoes off and curse at myself. Still no ideas, my brain is like a desert. I imagine pulling the top of my skull off and peering inside to discover no brain, just grains of sand being blown about.
What was one of the tips from Gunnas? Find a fabulous frock, tiara or whatever and wear it while you are writing. I remember the pair of purple Manolo Blahnik’s purchased in New York years ago after a particularly long and boozy lunch. Gorgeous shoes, but totally impractical and as a result have been languishing in the back of my wardrobe. They will be part of my writer’s outfit. I put them on then sit down at my laptop, hands hovering over the keyboard waiting for the inspiration to hit. The flatmate wanders by, looks at my rather unusual outfit and asks me whether I’ve lost my mind.
Taking a deep breath I just start typing. Who cares that I haven’t got a brilliant story to tell. I’m writing, and most importantly I’m sticking it to that that evil little voice in my head. An hour later I’m finished. I mentally high five myself, then head out to dinner to celebrate. And guess what, that negative voice is nowhere to be found.