So my routine at the State Library is so set in stone now that I take a packed lunch and time everything in half hour blocks.

Sadly, this did not prevent me today from discovering my first REASON WHY THE STATE LIBRARY IS NOT ACTUALLY AS HEAVENLY AS I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT.

To the old man who shouted at me, I am sorry that I "back-talked" you when I dared to say "pardon? after you shouted at me to stop typing on my laptop. Also, I am sorry to have to break some news to you. You claim that "women don't back-talk men. It's not allowed".

I am afraid it is allowed, and in fact in some of the more civilised parts of society, it is an official sport.

Also, "jerk" isn't a swear word, so I in fact didn't swear at you. Arsehole is a swear word, and so are a great many other things that I did not shout back at you in the middle of the library while you held onto your plastic bags and shook your fist and failed to notice your crazy hair.

Life for some people must be very sad. The guy I met in the library was obviously sad, but I'm not sure sad is an excuse, so let's just go with crazy old bastard.

Reasons why the state library isn't heaven. What a bummer.

When I used to perform, I absolutely hated auditions unless I completely nailed them. There was no middle ground.

And when I didn't get a part, do you know who I hated? Do you know who I lost respect for? One of two people. Either the director (I can't believe she didn't cast me when clearly I was the most brilliant person in the audition) or the writer (it's not my fault the script was crap. What did they want me to do, work miracles?).

Obviously now my perspective on this has changed. Considerably.

Because now, as director, there is too much choice. Not too little choice. When we cast our last play, we actually had to draw maps. Days worth of maps. Does this "Samsonfish" go with that "Briony"? Could we imagine this "TJ" shouting at this "Oliver"? If we don't cast this brilliant performer in any of these roles here, then she can't be in the play at all! That's terrible! What do we do? Do we write another role, really quickly, and squeeze it into an already bursting script? Do we call her up and ask her to understudy? Do we tell her she was ace? Do we tell her anything? Would she mind if we took her home and brought her out for funny accents at parties?

Casting is hard from the director's perspective, because sometimes it doesn't matter how good someone is, they just aren't appropriate. Imagine if Geoffrey Rush was auditioning for Liar Liar, starring Jim Carey or Garden State starring Zac Braff. Our boy Geoffrey is a good actor, but he's really not great for the part.

All of which brings me to the other thing that actors don't notice in auditions: the writer is auditioning the script and the director is auditioning the version of the play that might be produced. There's so much stuff going on, it's a wonder the entire process doesn't grind to a complete halt before it even starts.

After the auditions for People Watching, I noticed a few bits that really didn't work. The actors stumbled over them or ad-libbed their own corrections without noticing. It was an excellent way to edit.

So now I think of auditions as a kind of workshop between everyone in the room. We're all trying stuff out. Sometimes it's going to work, sometimes it's going to fail. Nothing truly appalling will ever happen. At best it will be exciting, at worst it will be humbling. That's a pretty good sliding scale.

Anyway chumps, see you at the auditions. I'll be the one with the script and the big red pen.

Every person who writes or studies or thinks or reads has a favourite place where they are most productive. I have recently rediscovered mine: here. Quiet, light, friendly, inspiring, divided in subsections that don't distract you away from what you're doing. There's even a cafe next door with newspapers and sunlight and staff squinting at you through hangovers. It's so perfect. I completely adore it and I always have. I used to study there when I was in year twelve and then again during university, but I moped away when it was closed for renovations and I've only just made it back.

I'm sorry State Library. I have loved you all along.

You know, now, they give you free internet, a beanbag room with computer games and a gallery!

But the part I love the most is that I feel so overwhelmed by everybody else's studious determination that I suddenly feel as though I'm running out of time (which of course I am) and perhaps I should get on with things, like these other people are getting on with things, and like I have been known to get on with things in the past (cut to flashback of me in year twelve)... All of which means that I have done more work on my script in three days in the State Library than I probably had pre-harddrive-crash (or pre-crash for short).

Also, after the Library, because I worked so hard, I rewarded myself and saw two films: a documentary about the making of a Cuban film called I Am Cuba, and an actual Will Farrel film called Stranger Than Fiction.

See what you can achieve when you nerd up? GO LIBRARIES!

Lessons in racism here.

This proves that those who say it is patronising to presume that racists are only being like that because they're manipulated are, well, manipulating the racists who clearly have no other alternative perspective with which to face the confusing world around them.

Great story anyway.

So I have been missing a fair bit from these pages recently because I have been organising an event for four hundred people in Hardware Lane in the city. This is why I find myself doing things like:

a) constructing "scales of justice" from plastic plates and silver wrapping paper on Australia Day while other people crowd surf and practice a strangely developing kind of slightly ironic slightly manic patriotism.

b) dressing up in a "Lady Justice" costume and swanning about selling raffle tickets to lawyers and judges and magistrates at seven in the morning in Hardware Lane.

c) getting to know intimate details about the various sizes and prices of paper cups.

So now I am back on board, writing various things that are not my script, in order to ensure that the script one day becomes a play. I am writing audition notices, press releases, mini biographies, and excuses that detail exactly why things aren't exactly being done by their very specific deadlines.

If anyone has a few spare hours up their sleeve next year about this time, come over to my place on Australia Day, there's some cutting and pasting I need you to do.

Last week, we had a read-through of our unfinished script, 'For We Are Young And Free'.

We asked three very clever people to play the parts in the script and to provide us with feedback afterwards.

I honestly cannot offer any better advice to writers than DO A READ-THROUGH WITH ARTICULATE PEOPLE BEFORE YOU FEEL THE SCRIPT IS READY.

It was the best, most challenging and motivating session. I don't know why, but the potential horror of realising that certain things don't work or that certain other things need to be completely reshaped is (at the right point in the process) the most confidence-inspiring thing. You realise you can change that, you can tweak this, you are in control of the direction of the writing and there are things about it that actually work. It's a brilliant thing, the read-through.

And then, months from now, after the show, in the foyer (at the wrong point in the process) when someone says, "I didn't like this character" or "Did you ever think about taking this part out altogether?" (and there are people who say this kind of stuff in foyers after shows), you get to say, "Yes, we workshopped that, and it didn't work because [explain why person asking question is not as clever as you are]."

And it's quite a nice feeling to be able to say something constructive, rather than standing there feeling insecure, and it doesn't matter if people don't like the show (not everyone likes every show)... but it does matter that you feel like you thought things through and you challenged yourself early enough in the process that it made an impact on the script.

It's at this point that you look across the foyer at the people who were at the read-through and you think "Thank you", and quite often they look back at you and they give you a little wink and you remember them always.

Thanks very much to Tim, Jane, Emily and Rita.

Sometimes working from home is great. You make yourself a coffee, you wear your PJs until you feel like it, you have access to whatever weird thing you think you might suddenly need (a quote from a favourite book, some notes you wrote for another script nine years ago that might provide a clue, a big furry jumper to put on over your PJs).

But...

The telemarketers call me at home. My telemarketers are very nice people from India, who are always deeply thrilled that I have won the special once in a lifetime chance to sign up for eight years with a mobile phone carrier I have never heard of.

However, when you get up from the middle of a writing reverie and you stumble across the room towards the telephone and hear that telltale gap before anyone speaks, you really don't appreciate the tone of voice that the telemarketers take when they ask, "Is that Mrs Clarke?"

I have told them on many occasions that Mrs Clarke is not my name. I am not married to a member of my family, or coincidentally married to another person called Clarke who also spells it with an "e" on the end. I have told them also that I do not wish to speak to them, that this is a work number, and that the police are tracing the call because they are illegally not telling me where they got my phone number from. (Naturally, this last one is not true but it does tend to scare them).

Most of you have hopefully already heard this brilliant telemarketing prank. If you haven't, please do yourself a favour and have a listen. It's possibly the only way to get a telemarketer to give out his address over the telephone.

Not all of us can manage that, though.

So here is my advice: sing.

Now, whenever the phone rings in the middle of the morning, as I walk towards it I think of a song I know the words to (Ben Folds, Ani Difranco, even a bit of "Did you Ever Know That You're My Hero") and when I hear the Indian telemarketer asking can he please speak to Mrs Clarke, I sing. Loudly. As out of tune as possible.

After maybe a couple of verses, or up to the point where I can't remember the lyrics, I stop and I hang up the phone. Listening to the reaction at the other end of the phone is especially fun. I'm hoping they have to tick some kind of box such as "CUSTOMER HUNG UP" or "CUSTOMER NOT HOME" or "CUSTOMER ABUSIVE". I am hoping they have to make a new box called "CUSTOMER APPEARS TO BE SINGING".

Anyone who gets the same calls, try it. We shall overcome.

I am now up to the stage in re-writing my show from memory where I am sure it was funnier. I'm sure it was better. And more clever. And in fact brilliant. I'm sure it had a strangely genius quality about it.

But we'll never know.

Stupid exploding hard drive.

Also, according to the newspaper this morning, I am getting dumber. Having been vegetarian for twelve years, I am now a very shame-faced meat eater, against my finest political and ethical convictions. Now I find out I'm actually making myself more stupid. This might explain my script.