Hi! I am ten years old and my favourite foods are meat pies. Some of my hobbies include Karate, Violin and Acting. I also like reading and writing stories and poems. In Hap Ki Do (karate) I am a White Belt, in violin I am second grade, with Acting I was in a Banana Advert and in a recent play put on by the Australian Theatre for Young People called Macbeth and with the writing section one poem I wrote was shortlisted and highly recommended in the Dorothea Mackellar poetry competition and I was a State semi-finalist in the Nestle Write Around Australia competition for a story I wrote. Well that's it for now. Bye!!.

I'm so embarrassingly weird. Really, I can't believe I ever had any friends.

And maybe I didn't.

You don't believe me? Really? Well, if you consider two pages when I was eight-years-old a 'book' and hand cut sewn together 'published' then certainly I have. And so ambitious was I that I made the book and it's 42 pages before a single word was written. An unfinished masterpiece.

The following is a true account of the main events that occurred between July and November, 1908.

There, that is definitely an adult beginning. The only difficulty perhaps being the fact that I know nothing about 1908 and the fact I sometimes exaggerate things a little. But only when necessary, of course. A question one always asks oneself when reading books is "Why did he/her write this piece of drivel/vulgarity/load of sentimental crap?" Is it just a waste of recycled toilet rolls? To be frank, indeed, to be martha, I wouldn't have a clue. What I do know is that I am writing this, and here I flatter myself, masterpiece, to bring a little joy into the lives of dull, bored people on trains. A noble sentiment, indeed a Nobel sentiment, it is true.

Now the reason for my first line up there is because I want to write a serious, adult book. Last week I read my first intellectual novel. In fact it was the first book I've ever read by someone over 39, in fact, an adult. Well not really an adult, an actor actually.

There it is, word for word. I am so annoyingly facetious. The book I believe I was referring to was the not-really-intellectual novel "Making History" by Stephen Fry, who is an even better writer ("The Hippopotamus" is his best) than comic actor . I also assume I must have been getting into my Wodehouse fairly intensely, if my appalling word-playing and pseudo-innocent snideness is anything to go by.

Since there has been some interest in my writings...here's another (unknowingly) post-modern type attempt...again, age 13.

Prelude

Although this book is divided into two parts it is not chaptered. How is it possible to put one's life into episodes? If anything, life is one long on-going episode. Bear with me, then, and say, for instance, you enjoy reading a chapter with your cup of tea, set other goals. For instance, unpeeling a banana with your toes while reclining on the sofa. Standing on your head for ten minutes before bed. The possibilities are endless......

It went on...I don't really like it at all, it seems uneducated...I really, ugh, it was all bad. Here's another small opening of my attempt to write a fictional work based on my time at Boarding School.

"I don't like Mondays" an insightful essay by a teenager wise beyond her years. Probably the smartest thing Bob Geldof has ever said. Monday is the most hated day of the week for many reasons......

"Gee! Gee! Major problem over here!"
"I'm in the middle of the first sentence in what will make me a bloody millionaire! Must you interrupt?"
"Gina-- please. The worst disaster ever is taking place right now"

Perhaps if we changed it to Happyday, the approach would be different. However this would cause many problems. For instance, all dictionaries would have to be reprinted.

"Hmm, great"
"Oh god, this is it. This is really the end now, I'm in the deepest, muckiest, stinkiest , lumpiest...."

Well, I guess you would have got the message. That's Harriet all over basically, always in trouble, mostly her own fault , and running to me, (and here I flatter myself) the "thinker" of the boarding house. Yes, that's right, the boarding house. But don't go thinking of cold gothic terraces with horrified screams protruding from deep within. No such luck, it would be so much easier to create atmosphere that way, but this is the turn of the century people! Straight down, here I am trapped all term in a sterilised building with a bunch of philistines who wouldn't know "Blackadder" if it jumped off the box and hit them on the head.

Well, first day first term usually consists of unpacking, gossiping and (for me) writing a masterpiece "I don't like Mondays". I usually start one each term, and scrap it within the space of three days. But not this time, I'm passionate about this topic, not like my previous attempts "Flossing : a philosophers guide", "P.G. Wodehouse and others: what do those initials stand for?" and the latest "Blue Jelly; an undiscovered world".

I have even more and more and more beginnings for all kinds of things, but I really can't handle it all at once. So lets leave it for now.

If I were ever to truly write something great, I would take care to not waste a single word. Time, time, time...something I never have seem to have as much of as everyone else. If there is a story to be told, a lesson taught, a change put in action, you must tell it succinctly. Do not try and prove your superiority with complex references, vocabulary and sheer verbosity.

I am yet to find any novel that can come near to capturing the beauty, sophistication, pleasure in simplicity and power of influence that so-called children's books can do so brilliantly. Camus, Waugh, Cocteau, at least they come close, but Wilde...he knew and always said his short stories (Happy Prince, Selfish Giant etc.) were for people aged 18-80. C.S. Lewis always believed "a children's story is the best art form for something you have to say", and indeed, his blatant pushing of the Christian message could never have been so artfully done as in the Narnia Chronicles.

My mother is a children's writer, but believe me, that's not why I have such a strong opinion. I sadly haven't even read most of her books. Not because they're bad or boring, quite, quite the reverse...they're wonderful. But I'm afraid, I suppose, that something of myself will be reflected in the pages. Or that I'll be forced to make an opinion. Or I'll wonder when she wrote it, how she wrote it, and why she chose to say the things she did...I can't quite explain. I am not a writer, I do not want to be a writer, but sometimes I'm horribly afraid it might be my only option...

Sometimes I think I want to be like Freud, though better, saner, clearer...but I'm afraid I won't believe my own crap. Then I think I might want to be an entertainer...but I don't think I'd ever be so, so, so, to put myself in such a position. Then I'd want to be a journalist...but it's so impassive. I wanted to be John Cale once...but I can barely even play viola any more, and I wouldn't know where to start anyhow. I'm screwed. If you have any suggestions, please make them.