For twelve hours, on the hour, I wrote five minutes of uninterrupted automatic writing. No targets, no intentions, just going with whatever was in my head at that moment. With the previous exercise having failed completely, I decided to invent my own.

I dip into my unconscious for the eleventh exercise of 'The Art of Writing Fiction', and find it entirely too conscious.

The observational exercises come to a close. Having starting gaining material through general observations, scrapbooking (we know how well that went), weather reports, street observing, and work, the last of Cowan's suggestions is to observe home.

My observations now turn to my workplace, and the absurdity of working in retail is exposed.

For this observational exercise, I take to the streets. By which I mean I stare out of my living room window at the streets.