Okay - let's see if I can write an entry without losing it due to my intractable problems using this new fangled technology.

On Tuesday I am giving a lecture to fiction writing majors at Monash. This is causing some anxiety. Am I supposed to sound as if I know what I am doing?

I am talking to them about experimental essay writing, of which I do a little and read more of. In short, I consume much more than I write. My lecture comes after a few sessions from real people who work in newspapers and stuff. Not itinerant academics coming to a school classroom near you. This is a problem.

On the other hand, it seems obscene to complain. I guess one of the things about me and writing is that even though I write a lot I don't think of myself as a writer. Not a real one anyway. Real writing is the kind of writing I can't do - narrative. I can write non-fiction just fine and occasional writing that blurs the genres of poetry and essay. But fiction has so far eluded me.

This reminds me of what one of my friends said about home. Her family is from Ireland. She said that home is the place where you are not. When she is in Australia, home is Ireland. When she is in Ireland, home is Australia.

So, like home being where you are not, real writing is whatever kind you don't do.