So what's your story?

Ever noticed how, as the silence goes on, breaking it seems to get harder? It's the pressure. You don't just have to say something, you have to say something that warrants all that time you've spent thinking about it. Never mind the fact that you haven't actually been thinking about it, except now and then for a fleeting moment when you realise that there's this silence, sitting there, growing into something palpable. Actually, you've been distracted by a hundred thousand totally insignificant things, like, "Are my toenails scratching holes in my socks?", and all the time there's this silence, starting to take on a life of its own. Until one day you realise that the silence is so big and so belligerent that it's going to invade Poland.

But hey, what the world needs is someone to stand up for the self-determination rights of awkward silences, and at least that'll give us something to talk about.

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What's your real story?

So it's been a while, huh? There have been numerous times I've thought about blogging. Amusing Goths. (Honestly, I respect everyone's right to dress and live however they please, but there's that other rule. Y'know, IC actions = IC consequences. If you wear a t-shirt that says "I am the God of Fuck", you gotta expect to be treated like someone wearing a t-shirt that says "I am the God of Fuck".) Moments of honesty vs politeness in writing class. ("Frankly, the best piece I have for you with regards to this novel is to stop writing it immediately.") Teeth-clenching swoon-inducing moral dilemmas. ("Is this skirt too short to leave the house in? And why didn't I ask this question before I left the house?")

And yet a keyboard has never been handy at these blog-worthy moments. And somehow, when I return to safe bastion of computer, there's something more pressing. Like finding one cinema - ANY cinema - that's still showing Night Watch. (I would say it's the most fun one can have in the dark, but that would be unfair given that it's no longer showing anywhere in the greater Melbourne area, and by that I do mean Victoria.)

It's a dilemma. It's almost as bad as the skirt question.

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Enough with the stories, just tell us what's going on.

The biggest development in my life is, I guess, that I've applied for a Masters in Creative Writing. Those of you who were present for the first episode of this issue might be laughing right now. I had decided that, since I'd been at various educational institutions for around 20 years (count 'em) of my life, it might be time to have a break. Try having a go at life without the student discount (although, when I put it like that, it was a stupid bloody idea right from the start).

Besides, I'd said, who wants a Masters in Creative Writing?

Me, apparently.

I think perhaps the deciding factor was this little thing called an APA scholarship. It's 19k a year, on top of fees paid. And I have this first-class honours sitting around gathering dust, and I don't really intend to ever go back to that whole International Relations business (mostly because it still makes me laugh hysterically, and I don't think that would be conducive to serious employment in the area).

I could handle, I though, being paid nineteen thousand dollars a year to write 50,000 words of my novel. Considering I'd like to be doing that anyway, and I find deadlines very useful.

So I applied, basically. (And I'm into field hockey players - 5 points.)

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Smug little wossname, aren't you?

Yep. And I swear a lot in front of children and drink too much coffee. But I have cool new white pants.