“Are you ok?” I hear Mal ask, with a slight pitch of alarm as he walks into my office. I’m sitting on the floor, staring at a carpet of scattered papers. It looks like I’m meditating, but really I’m in half child-pose half foetal position and moaning. Only ten minutes prior Mal had popped his head in to ask if I wanted a cuppa – then I was sitting on a chair staring at the computer screen, albeit a blank one.
“I can’t get my ducks in a row” I whimper. He does a double head shake, turns and walks out the door,
with my coffee.
He’s not even going to ask “what ducks?”.
On my desk, a little yellow plastic duck with sparkly eyes and luscious lashes looks down, its bright red smiley beak taunting me. The damn thing knows I’m a brilliant disorganiser.
Let me go back a bit, a few weekends ago I’d attended a writer’s workshop run by author and journalist – Susanna Freymark. It was a fascinating workshop, all about simulating blowjobs, having sex on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald and pitching your duck. It only ran for four hours but I came away (along with the other 14writers) with some mindblowing information.
So what has ducks got to do with writing I hear you ask?
Hello! I'm Kerry
. . . a plan-nothing, have no idea where I'm going travelholic.
A daughter of the gypsies and the wife of a workaholic, I'm forever wondering 'What's over there?' and devising ways to squeeze through the barbed-wire fence of small-business ownership responsibilities and every-day life tangles to discover it.
and this is my book.
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