Writing Good Writing

As the aspiring author sat at his desk, he surveyed his study, trying to take comfort in his usual
mainstays his solid oak desk, the perfunctory whirring of the overhead fan, the shelves of literature
the greats, Scotts Ivanhoe, Swifts Gullivers Travels, Tolstoys War and Peace to name a few
that surrounded him. It had seemed so easy at first a trip to Woolworths, and three dollars and
sixty-nine cents later, prepared and armed with a pen and toilet paper (a la J.K. Rowling) where
could he go wrong? Now, five hours later, much like a used car, he was tired and exhausted, and
still completely nonplussed, as to how he should begin.

He had made himself a mug of hot chocolate, and now, he savoured the foamy, light and yet
blissfully pronounced sweetness and sighed in contentment. Simple pleasures, he thought to himself.
Yes. Perhaps he just needed to keep it simple. Not a conglomeration of ideas, but just one Taking
another sip, Rob applied himself to the task yet again: Iluf Jun Kfood shoved another fistful of hot
chips into his mouth, an explosive hit of sheer, unadulterated taste. Golden. Crunchy. Mmm... it was
so delicious! Closing his eyes, he bit down into his meat pie. Hot. Succulent. Mmm... this too was
just so delicious! Closing his eyes, he sank his teeth voraciously into a slice of pizza, one of the
wood-fired, cheesy ones, so cheesy that the cheese came away in strands, dripping with flavour,
when he pulled a portion away. Cheesy. Crispy. Mmm... it was so delicious!

Mmm... it was so not working now he was tired and hungry. He stared at a picture propped up on
his desk his idol, Shakespeare and deliberated long and hard. What to do? Of course! He needed
something more sophisticated, something more academic. Pursing his lips, he thought deeply,
before the pen went to the paper: Standing in front of his father, Lee Chun Soo sighed, as he stared
bitterly at the ninety-nine point five percent correct physics test he had recently completed. Why? He
felt immobilised by imperfection. He had disgraced the family name. Father, I have failed you, he
muttered. I am no longer worthy to be your son. His father was quiet for a long time: I am
displeased. Son, you have much to learn. As it is, I am willing to give you a second chance
Father, thank you!
In fact, seeing as you have worked hard, I also have decided to give you a well deserved reward.
Here:
Tears of joy filled Lees eyes, as he grasped the Maths Extension 2 with Differential
Calculus, bonus matrices, and added logarithmic quadratic and exponential locus and the parabola
textbook, second edition that lay in his fathers most generous hands.
Father, how can I ever possibly
His father dismissed the pending accolade with a gracious wave of his hand: No need to thank me,
my son enjoy.

The phone rang, killing the idea in its tracks or more appropriately, kicking the long dead corpse. It
was his innovative old friend, Fitzpatrick, who as always, more than likely, had yet another good
idea to offer.
Hey Rob!
Speaking.
Ive got a good idea. (Bingo.)
Rob groaned inwardly. What now?

I heard you were writing a book, old son. Remember all the great times weve had together? Why
dont you just compile a whole list of all the little things weve happened to have seen, done and
experienced? You dont need an epic. Why dont you just assemble together a number of different
ideas?
Rob shook his head, his copies of Virgils Aeneid and Homers Iliad staring condescendingly at him
from above, filling him with a sense of inadequacy. How could he ever be taken seriously, as a bona
fide writer, if he did what Fitzpatrick suggested? It was out of the question: Im sorry, Fitzy, but
look I want sophistication. I was young and uneducated at that juvenile stage. Now, I am
apro, and I wont stoop to such a level. Its preposterous.

Laughter rang through from the other end. Sorry, a what? From what Ive been hearing, I think the
only pro youd have now would be a serious pro-blem! Please! Fitzpatrick grinned his way
through the phone, allowing his horrendous attempt at humour to do its damage, before at length
thankfully relenting: No, you know Im only joking, Robbo let me hear what you consider to be
your best work then.
Humph. Now was his chance. Rob opened a musty drawer (which he had locked, of course) with
aplomb, pulled out his masterpiece and began to read:

The Ascent of Gerok to the Balsjek of Triamnwen

Gerok stared at Hiurgortar with tears in his eyes, as he surveyed the burning wreckage. I was too
late to stop the Jiubegs from administering the Quenderg to Jasron, he said bitterly. Frongor
agreed. But do not dwell, Gerok, on such things. It is bad Dersatwan. Come, we must hither to
Balsjek!
Gerok downed a deep draught of Kiologij, and the strength returned: To Balsjek! he roared.
To Balsjek! the others cried.
To Bal

Rob, Rob, stop.

What do you think? Rob waited with bated breath for the verdict.
Ah... look, uh, I hate to say this, b
Fine then!

Rob had had enough humiliation and the phone was thrashed back onto its hook.
He scrunched up the paper in frenzy, and hurled the heap against the wall. So what did make good
writing then? He had tried everything. Every genre. Novel ideas. Slowly, as the fury subsided, he
stared at the collation of different ideas in around him. The words of Fitzpatrick echoing in his mind,
he gathered the scattered, crumpled sheets together. At last, he smiled. For it was then that Rob
realised, that good ideas and stories were everywhere, in every situation, every moment, in everyone
and everything. All that was needed was the insight to recognise them to keep an open mind. With
an eye on the many fragmented ideas on his desk in front of him, he raised his Parker pen to a fresh
page, and began to write once more.