I just purchased a full pass to the Melbourne International Film Festival. This may well prove to be a very foolish financial decision, in the manner of what my friend Finn calls "gym donations". I have donated to many inner-city gyms, generously bequeathing them money without burdening them with my presence for months at a time.

The MIFF pass entitles me to go to absolutely everything with the exception of the opening and closing night films (pah!) which means that in order to justify it to myself I will pretty much be living in dark cinemas for three weeks. This raises many questions. Is it okay to stop writing films because you're watching them? Is it okay to spend three hundred dollars on a film festival when you refuse to buy dinner in the city because twenty dollars for a pasta is personally insulting? How do you judge a film from a programme guide? Is popcorn a food group?

Some of these questions will be answered, I suppose, and I will be attempting to document the highlights and lowlights here, for my own sanity if nothing else. Last year's MIFF was really fantastic and James Hewison is directing it for the last time this year, which means I'm not taking any chances and waiting until I can afford a pass. I want one now!

Last year, I saw only one film I didn't like. Even that, when I think about it now, was interesting enough for me recall, exactly a year later, almost frame-by frame. There was one that made me want to be sick (physically repuslive. I had to put my hands over my face) but that was actually quite a brilliant bit of cinema so even that I would say was good. And the other ones were all - to varying degrees - brilliant. In fact, in terms of getting an education in film, you couldn't really do much better.

So now the task is to get a whole lot of things done now, before the festival starts. Yikes.

Any recommendations, let me know.

Reasons why it is okay to love Johnny Depp despite the fact that Pirates of The Carribean II stars Keira Knightley who we cannot abide, and includes a positively archaic "mad, kwazy, unkempt black people" subplot...

1. He makes the wearing of eyeliner and heavy jewellery combined with a lack of personal hygiene a not wholly unattractive thing in a man (apologies to any role-players amongst us).

2. He makes Orlando Bloom look like a chump in a silly shirt.

3. He is responsible for me leaving a film starring Keira Knightley without the temptation to actually write to her agent and complain.

4. He said the following about the making of Charlie the Chocolate Factory : "We had been shooting Charlie for about a month, and I was beginning to get nervous because there weren't any phone calls. I called my agent and asked, Has no one called from the studio to complain or say, 'Hey, what's he doing?' or 'Hey, he's freaking us out?' And when she said no, I thought, 'Christ, I'm not doing enough! Something's wrong!' Then some of the studio brass came over to the set, and they were sitting in my trailer and I was all decked out as Wonka with the little bangs. And I just had to know. So I said, 'Okay, who was the first one, when you started seeing the dailies, that got a little worried?' And there was this beautiful 30-second silence. And [Warner Bros. president] Alan Horn finally said, 'Yeah, that was me.' I felt better instantly.

5. He also said: "America is dumb. It's like a dumb puppy that has big teeth that can bite and hurt you, aggressive. My daughter is four, my boy is one. I'd like them to see America as a toy, a broken toy. Investigate it a little, check it out, get this feeling and then get out." ... And he then managed to clarify this position without unsaying any of it.

6. His "I am escaping from hoards of people who are trying to kill me" run. Hilarious. On par with scenes of Jacques Tati sprinting after his bicycle in the French countryside in every movie he ever made.

7. From my reliable source (the internet) I have gleaned the following: he wanted some of his teeth to be gold-capped for Pirates of the Caribbean but knew that the directors would never agree, so he went out and got lots more than he wanted capped. He then showed the directors, and they decided to make him give up a few, so he got some taken off.

8. He has a fan website called "deppimpact". Quality.

That will do. Lots of work to do today and that doesn't even include picking which films I'm seeing at the Film Festival. Guide to Melbourne International Film Festival out today by the way. Mind boggling.

Telstra, the formerly State-run but increasingly privatised satire on bureaucracy in the form of a telecommunications company, received a phone call from me yesterday.

Me: Hello, I'd like to know what to do about a bill I keep getting sent by you.
Telstra: And what is your account number please?
Me: I don't have an account with you.
Telstra: *confused silence*
Me: I used to, but I don't anymore. I still get a monthly bill for the same amount each time. Even though I closed my account with you a year ago, for reasons that might become obvious.
Telstra: Okaaaay.
Me: The bill is for sixty-seven cents.
Telstra: I beg your pardon?
Me: The bill is for sixty-seven cents. But the bill says "do not pay this until your next bill". I have never received a subsequent bill, obviously, since I do not have an account with you . I'd hazard a guess that the costs of printing and postage, and of hiring of the staff to do the mail-out from (I see here on the envelope) Brisbane has probably cost more than sixty-seven cents. But I can't verify that. That's a guess.
Telstra: I'll just go and get rid of that amount.
*Pretty hold music*
Telstra: Hello, yes I've wiped that amount from your account. That was an account transfer fee that was charged to your account after you closed the account.
Me: Of course it was.
Telstra: Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: No, I would rather if you didn't. Thanks all the same.

I hoped that one was "recorded for quality and training purposes". And I hope the Telstra employees who listen to it have read Kafka.

In other news, this story really does beg to have a short film made about it. Although possibly no one would believe a word of it. How INSANE. I know this is probably insensitive, since no one would want to have a severe stroke and then feel the way this woman says she feels, but I must say that if you wanted to chuck a sicky, claiming to have Foreign Accent Syndrome would be one of the more entertaining ways of getting your sick leave entitlements (presuming you have any after the IR laws). Calling in sick in a Jamaican accent one day, a French accent the next... Want to give it a go? Study up here and here.

Lastly, a con woman, disguised (here) as the sort of person you see on Contiki tours in Europe, has been captured in Sydney this morning. Apparently she had people convinced she was a whole lot of people she wasn't. I have an idea: pop her on an Australian TV show. Wouldn't that be a refreshing change?

In other news, I'm seeing Pirates of the Johnny Depps tonight. For cultural reasons, you understand. Oh yes.

I didn't write anything here yesterday because I was trying to capitalise on the sudden inspiration I had for writing the next Standing There Productions script.

I proved yet again for myself, in other words, that William Faulkner was right when he said, "The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with". So true, Willie, so true. See, last night, I was robbed. During the night someone broke into my house and changed yesterday's brilliant writing into turgid, repetitive, pointless tripe. It was such a mess when I got in here this morning. They totally trashed the place. I hate it when those guys break in. It's happened before. You feel so... violated.

Anyway, while I was looking up the Faulkner quote, which I had of course remembered incorrectly, I found the following quote: "I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write." - P. G. Wodehouse.

That depresses me, because it's kind of true. And it's kind of not. The idea of a writer as an obsessive is, I hope, an overly-romanticised "mad artist" stereotype. But there is some truth to the fact that sometimes, even if you're going to a very close friend's wedding or something... you look up at the time and you realise it's half an hour before you're supposed to be there and you're still in your pyjamas but you're seriously getting somewhere with this script - you've rediscovered what it should actually be about - and suddenly it really weighs on you that you have to go to this DUMB WEDDING of your DUMB FRIEND (who is among your favourite people in the world the rest of the time but who now symbolises a selfish and demanding distraction). You're furious. You're late. You throw down your pen and swear at the computer when it takes too long to shut down. You can't find your shoes. You wonder why shoes were even invented. What is the point of shoes? Cavemen didn't need them, and now we have footpaths and everything so why are people so silly? Why do I have to stop writing just so I can go to see a ceremony celebrating some weird social union of two people who live together anyway, with two high-heeled leather bits strapped to the soles of my feet? It's just so bizarre.

The world turns really nasty for that small interval between enjoying writing and being sociable. I always have fun when I get to these things, and more often than not I am late to or absent from things I regret not attending. But it's a battle between the part of me that wants a social life and adores the people in my life and the part of me that wants to be locked in a quiet room with an endless supply of tea and recycled paper and maybe ocassionally a newspaper.

By the way, in case you're trying to find significance that isn't there, the above is a hypothetical situation. I have been to three weddings, and none of them has engendered in me the response described above, which is why I used that example. So shut up please.

In other news, I'm up to part two of Crime and Punishment , which really is somewhat of a corker. Dostoevsky apparently wrote quickly and obsessively but perhaps not just in a fervour of creativity. He was a serious gambler, which adds another urgency when you're writing for money (I imagine).

In fact, I would like to nominate Dostoevsky as the perfect contestant to spice up a reality TV show like Big Brother. Most banal TV show in the world, present sexual assault aside, but if you put someone on it whose father was apparently killed by his own servants, whose membership of the socialist party resulted in him being sentenced to death but then they said "Ha! Tricked you!" after the "mock execution" and shipped him off to do hard labour for four years in Siberia... I bet Channel Ten would get better ratings. He had an affair with his dead friend's wife and then married her, everyone in his life died at once leaving him with their debts and he was addicted to gambling and kind of a bit loony and Russian and cold and depressed. Perfect!

Put him in the Big Brother House. Go on. Maybe him with that pope who turned out to be a woman. Oh. Just looked that up on the internet and apparently that's very possibly not true. Bummer. It worked so well in Caryl Churchill's Top Girls. And it would make for much better television than, you know, drunken fratboy sexual assault.

I've been writing, which means everything else in my life is in disarray.

I did manage to get to the theatre on the weekend to see a play that reminded me why I never go and see mainstream theatre. Thirtysomething dollars to see a tortured metaphor and some heavy symbolism flogged to death on a very expensive and very contrived set. I don't like saying bad things about theatre, but my Lordy, that show I saw at Black Lung for ten bucks a few months back (which is what inspired me to get out more to see shows) really was the best theatre I've seen in ages. They have a new show on at the moment. Check it out here. Miles more interesting than anything you'll be overcharged for in the CBD.

Anyway then I checked out an exhibition at the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art, which I couldn't hear any of because the acoustics were so bad. Seriously. You can stand as close as like to the little TV screens and all you hear is screaming and wailing from the other room. So you think, "I might go into the other room", and you go into the other room and all you hear is talking and shouting from the exhibition you just came from because you couldn't hear it. Generally, though, it looked like it was probably quite good. I like the more political art that's out there at the moment. It's a good sign. Or, well, it's a sign. What it means for the future of the depressing things it's critiquing, I'm not sure. But at least someone is noticing.

Speaking of depressing things and critiquing, I'm also five chapters into Crime and Punishment , which is like saying you're a hundred metres into a marathon, but I'm enjoying it very much. Which is a good thing because I also purchased another book on the weekend. John Banville's The Sea , which he read from at the Sydney Writers' Festival and which was lovely, or maybe his accent was lovely and he was reading Spot Goes To School , I probably wouldn't have noticed. The task is not to start it before I finish the Russian. Yeesh.

And last night I saw the film version of Everything is Illuminated , by Jonathan Safran Foer, one of my faves. I enjoyed the film, actually, more than I thought I would. It must be hard to make a film from such a beatifully constructed first person narrative that relies so heavily on the voice of the person - or people - telling the story. If you get it on DVD, check out the deleted scenes. Sometimes I think the DVD menu should divide the deleted scenes into "DELETED FOR A REASON" and "OUT FOR REASONS OF LENGTH, DEBATE WITH PRODUCERS, RESULT OF AUDIENCE POLLS ETC". Most of the deleted scenes on DVDs would fall squarely into the first of these categories. I would go so far as to say that most of them would fall into the WHAT WERE WE THINKING menu as well, but that's unfair. I'm being a bit unfair today.

Perhaps this is why. On my way to gym this morning, a sign on the side of a Church. You know those ones with the messages? The well-considered, often topical, questions of faith they put up outside Churches?

Go past the one in North Fitzroy and witness the following blunt threat:

GOD EXISTS. OTHERWISE EXISTENCE IS MEANINGLESS.

Er... okay.

During my lunch break today I was looking at my CV because I'm giving it to someone so they can pay someone else to file it somewhere in alphabetical order. Don't you think CVs would be so much better if they were true representations of what you'd done in your life - of what you were good at, and bad at, and proud of, and regretted?

A CV is such an inaccurate record of someone's life. I don't care what your major was in university, answer this question: do you wash your cup in the office kitchen after your coffee or do you leave it in the sink and then pretend to hear your phone ringing in your office and scurry sneakily away? How do you waste your time? If the answer is, "I have long, drawn-out conversations with my co-workers about my children" then you're obviously quite a distinct personality type. If the answer is "I tend to email people I feel regretful about not catching up with" or "I usually drag out a task that involves walking somewhere, like, for instance, going to the post office", then you're obviously me... er, I mean, you're obviously another personality type altogether.

I think we should revamp the entire system. That's all I'm saying. It would make for much more functional workplaces and it would eradicate CV-only expressions such as "charged with overseeing the co-ordination of staff systems" (which is the sort of crap people used to write on their CVs when I worked in a job reading CVs. I figured out eventually that what they actually meant was "I was a secretary", when what it sounded like was "I ran the UN for a while just after I graduated"). Having been a secretary, I know that these two jobs are probably equally as demanding, but they are not the same thing.

Anyway. Have an excellent weekend, everyone. Be glad you're not the guy in the street outside my office who was driving a truck-load of dirt down a narrow laneway and the back of his truck fell off onto the road in the centre of the CBD. Now THAT is a bad day at the office.

Hello again.

The most exciting news from my little world at the moment is that I have myself a new printer, which does a couple of things my old printer did not do, the most of important of which is that it prints things out for me.

I know! How novel.

So that means I've been writing more things, on account of how I can print them out. Now I have no excuse for not getting to that next phase and redrafting everything within an inch of its life. I have also been reading the book that I purchased in order to avoid reading Crime and Punishment , which means I now have to read Crime and Punishment , which I am sure will be excellent, but there's something about reading classic literature that makes me kind of dread the experience (having said that, I have enjoyed almost every "classic" work of literature I've read, pretty much without exception, so what all of this says about me I'm not sure. Possibly that I'm an idiot).

By the way, I would like to congratulate the second sentence in that last paragraph for its recent nomination in the Longest Sentence of the Year Awards. Richly deserved.

The book I've just finished, Blue Water , by A. Manette Ansay, was so different from Read This and Tell Me What It Says (her short story collection), and Vinegar Hill (the only other novel of hers that I've read) that I almost wondered if she was a different A. Manette Ansay from the one who came to our Boston College writing class and spoke gruffly about what made her a writer. I had thought then that she was a hero for the writer who just writes because she always wanted to. She didn't seem to be trying to match her work to a structural formula, and was quite happy to write about the tiny details and skip the big themes of life and death and love and whether or not forgiveness is possible in a small town (all of which are covered in this recent book). In fact, I think I had transformed Ansay - in my head - into a casually misanthropic, accidentally cutting-edge "fringe" writer. But, since being selected for Oprah's Book Club (having her print circulation multiply many tens of times over), she could hardly match that description and still be selling as many books as she is.

It's funny how an author can be mistaken for a genre. You read one book and you expect them all to be the same. I often find this confusing myself, when I write. I write something quite unlike something I've written before (which is necessary for my own sanity) and I find myself missing the "old" writing - trying to crowbar some of it in between the cracks of the new stuff. 'Tis a merry dance, this writing caper. I don't know why everyone isn't doing it.

Also, isn't behooved an excellent word?

Definition according to dictionary.com: to be necessary or proper for. eg: "It behooves you at least to try".

I think that last sentence alone - "it behooves you at least to try" - could form the sturdy basis for a character. Probably a British one.

Geraldine: But Boris, it just isn't possible. I mean, I've -

Boris: Oh for heavens sakes Geraldine. It behooves you at least to try.

(Boris storms out, in the direction of the Parlour room. Geraldine looks bereft and stares blankly through the bay windows).