Corralling ducks...

“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? 
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