As promised below (stupidly - why do I promise anything here? In order to doom it to never be done?) I will now attempt to persuade you that going to a literary festival is an excellent thing entirely and should be done by all and indeed sundry. It's not absolutely compulsory to be a nerd.

Firstly, writers' festivals are not entirely about writing. The one I've just come back from, the Sydney Writers' Festival, was about: crime, the brain, eventology (I know, right?), heroin, conspiracy, murder, morality, death, greed, revenge, obfuscation, corruption, identity, losing things, finding things, betraying people, quantum physics, Peter Costello, orgasms, and why David Williamson is a furious and irrelevant shouty man.

I loved Robyn Archer, who talked about dangerous or weird or interesting or new art deserving funding in a risk-averse society that tends towards (and this is where I provide my own example like a good arts student) reviews like this when confronted with a show that doesn't involve a creaky revolving set built to look like a house in Toorak and clearly meant as a metaphor for society's swirfggmmzzzzzzzzzzzzz sorry, what?

In short, Robyn Archer is one of those rare arts administrators who does not talk about the arts in a way that makes artists wonder what she's talking about (football? physics? apiary?). Instead, I sat there thinking "I've thought that exact thing but haven't yet been articulate enough to say it outside of my own brain". Refreshing. Not to mention funny. Not to mention she got her own standing ovation from a woman in the fourth row just for arriving to the session in the first place.

I also loved Norman Doidge's talk on neuroplasticity. I didn't know I had neural pathways, let alone elastic ones. Read his book. It will change your brain. In a good way.

Of course, the three of us (Stew, Rita, mygoodself) saw many more sessions and learned a giant heap of stuff. That's the best thing about finding out stuff. The more you know, the more the know you don't know.

Hence, nerd.

Dammit. I think I just unproved my own point. This is why I'm not a lawyer.

Ways in which the first week of solid writing is like a hangover:

1. The journey from yay to ouch is far more rapid and unflattering than you expected. Being excited about an idea is so tantalising. Having to figure out how that idea works is a struggle akin to being vertical after a night of free vodka shots and eighties-dancing in an unknown bar with persons whose names escape you.

2. It feels all foggy and slow and headachey and you feel kind of stupid and clumsy and directionless and unmotivated and you resent yourself for allowing it to be like this. To fix this problem, you must eat unfeasible amounts of toast.

3. You cannot believe what a monumental dork you were last night, or, in the case of the writer, what a monumental dork you were when you thought this idea was remotely clever in the first place. Slices of your idiocy eclipse your brain, crippling all other neural pathways except for the neurone responsible for the consumption of toast. In this first week of writing, I rediscover problems. It isn't until week 2 that I can solve them.

4. Nobody else feels sorry for you. You knew this was coming. You brought it on yourself. If you didn't want to be here, you shouldn't have stood on a table at 4am shouting "dance-off!" while a sartorially splendid gentleman with a parasol over his elbow took down team names in a spirax notebook.

5. You will, I promise, wake from this. Refreshed, bright-eyed, keen and totally flummoxed as to what demon had possessed you. When that happens, please don't judge your former self. It isn't fair. I'm trying. Me, with my nutella toast and my earl grey, I'm trying here.

The Standing There Productions Diary - the one you are currently reading - was set up so we could track the creative progress and technical development of our projects, whatever they turned out to be. Well, that was about four years ago and lately I've been less than forensic in filling you in on those details.

It has, of late, been what my first year English Literature lecturer would have called "a time of great social upheaval". I've spoken of him here before, I'm sure. My first ever experience of being a university student came a year before I attended university. I was part of a program with the rather Orwellian title of "the Enhancement program", wherein year twelve students undertook a first year undergraduate literature subject on top of our normal curriculum and also on top of having crushes on, fights with, and, in one memorable case, an actual sword fight (the drama teacher took a phone call), with our peers and colleagues.

Anyway, point is, in our "enhancement class", our poor lecturer was immediately imbued with all of our ideas of what our university would become. We thought we were sophisticated, feisty and academically bold. We thought he, our lecturer, was absurdly educated, wrily amusing and probably directly descended from Plato. He was, and remains, a gentleman by the name of Kevin Foster (see? Even the name works! And here is Kevin on the actual internets, continuing to live up to his reputation as a widely read history freak with Stories To Tell). I still believe he is all of those things, by the way, although the descended-from-Plato thing might be slightly difficult ot prove.

But I digress. Within this context, Kevin Foster said to us, "If you decide to continue studying arts subjects at university, you will be told the following in every single subject you ever enrol in, without exception: this subject is about a time of great social upheaval".

Kevin Foster, let me tell you, was not wrong. It got to the point, in my arts degree as well as my law degree, where I would simply write at the top of page one of my exercise book: TGSU. They said it every time. There is not a time in history, nor is there a movement in literature or politics or legal theory, whose context is not able to be summarised as follows: TGSU.

So. It feels weak, somehow, and dishonest, to say that, at the moment, Standing There Productions is undergoing a time of great social upheaval. Even if it were possible to stretch the metaphor and declare this point in time as a Cold War - no stage show, no auditions, just writing and meeting people and creating potentially explosive outcomes - the TGSU label still applies, and it still means nothing, and thus I am lost in a cliche.

Therefore, here is something useful I can say: at the moment, gloriously, I am able to write. I am writing what I want to write - I have an actual aim in mind - and Rita and Stew and I are meeting regularly to talk our way through the kinds of questions we're usually asking ourselves over a wavering Skype video connection at 11pm (including things like: "Are you wearing GOLD pyjamas Rits?" and "Sorry, that's my knee, I'll move over. There. Now where were we?")

So. Let's see how this goes for us. I'll post a few bits about the writers' festival here next. In the meantime, yay for writing and reading and teachers who inspire you, and working with friends who wear gold pyjamas and don't think you're an idiot for leaving the keys in the front door of your house.

Good news for those of you who are me: I'm about to write for a while.

This is excellent news for me because it means I can concentrate on one thing at one time. And it's a thing I love doing, too.

Where the problem arises, you may have noticed, is when I have too many things to do and therefore write things like "wnat", as in "If you wnat something done, ask a busy person".

Well, apparently that is not always the case. The other day, par example, I almost sent the parliamentary member for the area I am visiting for work... a timesheet outlining the hours I had worked on the project I was MEANING to send him a running sheet for.

I am sure this happens to important people, such as that guy who runs the UN. I'm sure every now and then he fedexes someone his shopping list instead of the financial papers relating the Uruguay incident or whatever and I'm sure when he gets an opportunity to focus on one thing and do it, and enjoy it, he relishes it.

I intend to do the smae.

Just kidding. Same. I intend to do the same.

You know what they say, don't you.

They say, if you want something done, ask a busy person.

Mind you, they also say early to bed early to rise, so as far as I'm concerned they're a bunch of sucks who should quite frankly pipe down before one more person says that to me and I accidentally hurl them from a moving train.

Anyway. Thing is, we've been busy. Stew, Rita and I have been busy, as a result of which I have not been updating this page as regularly as I once did.

Be assured, however: things are being done. We're not entirely sure what, and by whom, and by when, but the barrista trade remains fairly robust in the Fitzroy/Carlton area and in certain parts of Sydney when Stew and Rita and I are meeting up in order to have lots of meetings and then meet about those meetings before drawing up documents summarising meetings that we plan to have at a future date to finalise details of the original meetings.

I'm sure they say something about this, too.

Those smug bastards.

Well, we're back.

All of us.

In Melbourne.

Stew and I left Melbourne in an-only-recently-roadworthy vehicle, which we drove to Goulburn - Australia's first inland town and home of the somewhat alarming giant sheep.

There were many things of interest in Goulburn, including, in its recent history, a woman known to all as "the Queen of the South", who was photographed in one history book looking absent and loopy and wearing a sash and carrying a staff. These days, she would be just another homeless person talking crazy. Back then, she was known affectionately as the Queen of the South because she decided one day that she was the queen, instructed everybody accordingly, and went around the countryside, dressed in regal attire, collecting donations for her "palace", a broken-down old home made of planks of wood and dust, which was a favourite haunt for teenage boys, whose taunts were apparently met by the Queen's decree that they be executed post haste. The Queen of the South looks dangerous in all of her photos and, in one of them, stands furious and defiant out the front of the palace, with a gun in her hand. Once, apparently, the Duke of Windsor came to Goulburn and the Queen of the South went to meet him. A most sober and sincere conversation took place and best wishes were solemnly exchanged to each of the other's extended family.

I decided my favourite thing about Goulburn was the Queen of the South.

Then we went to Sydney, where we stayed with a Fairy God Mother whose magic extended to roast dinner, riotous giggles, and a house among the tree tops.

We had several meetings in Sydney and a most interesting time was had by all, including a meal with Standing There alumni Vic (production manager and runner of the universe from For We Are Young And Free) and Emily (artist extraordinaire from People Watching).

Speaking of friends of Standing There, our good friend Lawrence Leung (who was hilarious in our short film to the point where I had to go away into a room and compose myself before shooting the scene) has been on telly recently on Wednesday nights at 9.30pm. His show is fantastic, see his website here. Wherever we've been lately - Melbourne, Sydney, Goulburn, Canberra - we've made an effort to see it and been richly rewarded. Yay for him.

More on this soon, hopefully with some visual aids, although sadly no photographs of the Queen of the South. Shame.

So you know when you're leaving to get to a theatre show on time or something, and you have one of those "on my way out the door" moments?

Like, on the way out the door I decided I had to go back and get a warmer jacket?

On the way out the door I remembered to check my diary and discovered the start time was actually the following Tuesday?

On our way out the door, the phone rang and I won the lottery and my life changed and I never got to go to the theatre show and I'm sorry I missed it can I take you out to dinner how do you like quail?

You know those ones?

Well, I had one of those today. I was on the phone to my dad. Remember, I'm an adult. My dad said, "Did you get your car checked out before you drive to Sydney in it?"

I said as follows: "Erm".

So on our way out the door, almost, to Sydney, in our car, I took it in to see the nice man who looks at cars for adults who should really think of things before their parents tell them to.

He checked the oil. He said as follows: "You replenish this much?"

I said as follows: "Erm."

He then poured some oil into the bit where the oil goes. You know in cartoons when someone is doing something and it is taking a long time - like when they're falling slowly off a cliff to crash onto a rock below - you know how the bad guy always looks at his watch and whistles by way of marking the glacial passing of time?

Yeah well he did that. He poured oil into that baby for maybe a year. Never has a car needed more oil in the history of automobiles.

So then he decided to check the brakes. He did so. He told me as follows: "It's a good thing you brought this in here. It certainly wouldn't have made it to Sydney without the brakes giving out".

I said as follows: giving out?

He said: yes. Your brakes would have stopped working.

I said as follows: yikes.

Which I followed up rather rapidly with: how much does that cost?

See, now, this is why, when you are good at one part of your life (writing, for instance) you should also be aware of the things you are not so successful at (for example simple mechanics and the ability to exercise forethought).

We may get to Sydney for our meetings. It's not THAT far to walk. Right?