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struggled to refrain from swallowing.
    If writing is what you want to do with your life, then you have to learn to have fun with it. You can’t expect to do great work when you’re so tense.
    Amy spat the pills into the washbasin, digging out those that remained wedged in the far reaches ofher mouth with her fingers. She looked back to her reflection, which appeared very different sporting a large smile. ‘There she is.’
    Â 
    After a few hours shopping, Amy’s attitude had made a significant adjustment for the better. She trundled in the door of her unit, dumping her spoils on to the kitchen table. From the shopping bags she pulled all her favourite food, a bottle of red wine, some incense, a CD of gypsy music and a pile of research books. Amy was tickled with enthusiasm as, from the last bag, she produced a rainbow-coloured peasant-style dress, with a full skirt and long draping sleeves trimmed with gold. The black clothing Amy was wearing was discarded in seconds and, slithering into the dress, she laced up the golden tie at the front which left her breasts spilling over the neckline. Amy rushed to the full-length mirror in her bedroom and squealed with delight as she danced around in front of it.
    â€˜If only he could see me now.’ She halted to admire her reflection. ‘No matter,’ she decided. ‘I see myself.’
    With a platter of food laid out before her, the wine poured, her books at the ready, Amy lit her incense and turned on the CD.
    Once she was seated comfortably before the blank pad, Amy took up the golden pen and admired it a moment as she sipped her wine. Drawnin by the mystical tune that wafted through the room, Amy closed her eyes and allowed it to fill her being with a sense of exhilaration and anticipation.
    When Amy’s eyes opened she lowered the pen to the paper. The Gypsy Road , she wrote. Amy went to write ‘by’ and hesitated as she reconsidered using her own name.
    â€˜A ghostwriter?’ Amy kind of liked the idea of that, it had a bizarre kind of symmetry about it. The Gypsy Road , she mused, by … Then the right name dawned on her. Phoenix Finley. As she wrote the name something stirred deep inside her and words began spilling out on to the page. The dream of the gypsy shrouded her from the bleak reality, and her soul took flight on a journey of mystery, adventure and delight.
    The next time Amy looked up, the afternoon had disappeared and lying scattered on the table in its wake were the first two chapters of her novel.
    The realisation rushed through her like a cleansing wave, dispersing every fear, ache and worry.
    Amy kissed the pen that was her Holy Grail, a cool smile of satisfaction forming on her lips. Contact.

Karen
    My listener — the film editor

    The Detox Factor

 
    MY FIRST ATTEMPT at a film script never got off the ground, but it did score me a job working at a film studio in North Sydney. I didn’t do much of my own writing there, but I did get an inside look at the industry and it very much appealed to me. I felt at home at the studio. I got to rewrite other people’s scripts occasionally, and sometimes I even got to help aspiring artists like myself.
    All the studio mail crossed my desk before it got to the producers. I filtered out any junk mail, filed the resumes and threw out the bills. On this particular day it was the resume of a young student editor I was looking at. On the first page of the resume was drawn a huge brain with wavy lines coming out of it. The caption below read, Help me, my brain is exploding! I smiled. This person had my attention and I turned the page wanting to know more.
    I have been beating my head against a brick wall trying to gain some real editing experience.
    As I read on, sympathising with how hard it was to get a break at doing what you are passionate about, I found myself walking into my boss’ office.
    The studio was installing a small editing suite downstairs, so