Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Ana s Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Country Wedding

"Poor Jake," said Molly, leaning across to nudge Mr Jacobs. She really did feel sorry for the poor man - Jake had spent weeks agonising over his speech, rehearsing in front of the mirror, the dog, and probably the toaster.

"Speak up, Jake!" Sharon barked, then immediately snapped, "And look at the camera when you do!"

"Poor Jake," Molly repeated, sighing. "If only that producer - Sharon What's-Her-Face - would let him get on with it. The man's sweating through his shirt, and we haven't even had dessert yet."

Jake was told to start again for the third time. Molly sat back, trying to make conversation with Mr Jacobs, who was old, deaf, and now pretending to nap for self-preservation.

"Well," Molly began gamely, "I was the one who goaded Matt into auditioning for that stupid TV show." She didn't expect an answer, but kept talking anyway. "He'd forgotten his promise, kept making excuses, so I lost my temper. And now, look - he's married that snobby Sydney girl. I suppose it's all worked out for the best. For him, anyway."

The bride and groom sat semi-hidden behind a massive white plastic flower arrangement that looked like it had been stolen from a shopping centre display. On either side perched their families and bridal party, all arranged like unwilling contestants in a fashion show for polyester.

Matt's parents looked uneasy, probably wondering if their country 'Sunday Best' could survive this onslaught of city glamour. The bride's father wore a blinding white tuxedo with a plastic rose pinned proudly to his lapel. His partner, meanwhile, was losing her battle with a bright blue, sleeveless ball gown that was two sizes too optimistic.

Molly's gaze drifted to the nearby wedding cake, a towering sculpture of fondant perfection. "I wonder if that's plastic too," she muttered. "It'd match the flowers, the chandelier, and the personalities."

She'd managed to get through the ceremony without crying - no small feat - and she wasn't about to break down on national television. Mr Jacobs snored softly beside her, clearly committed to missing all of this.

Across the hall, Edna Stimps was holding court. "It's such a shame about that dear girl," she whispered, loud enough to be heard in the next town. "We all thought Molly and Matt would marry. Everyone did." She dabbed her eyes with a tissue the size of a postage stamp. "That city girl doesn't fit in. Such a shame."

Her audience nodded automatically, their eyes glazing over. Mr Stimps stared longingly at his empty beer glass.

Meanwhile, Molly's mind had drifted back years - to when she and Matt were nine. She'd had him pinned on the ground, tickling him until he begged for mercy and promised to marry her someday. They'd sealed the deal with a solemn spit-and-shake. Molly laughed at the memory, startling Mr Jacobs from his nap. He shushed her, proving his hearing wasn't quite as bad as he let on.

Molly was a handsome young woman - strong, capable, and unflinchingly direct. A champion horse rider who could out-swear most of the farmhands, she was the last person anyone expected to look breathtaking in a dress. Yet here she was, in pale cream satin, with her grandmother's pearls and her mother's handiwork, feeling as awkward as a kelpie in a tutu.

She caught Dougie staring at her from across the room. He looked like a kid trying to remember if he'd done something wrong. She gave him a look that said, Probably.

Jake was starting his speech again (or was it still the same one?), and Molly looked around the hall for a distraction. The Soldiers' Memorial Hall had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Even the Honour Roll of the Fallen had been packed away to make room for plastic lilies and a chandelier that sparkled like an over-caffeinated disco ball.

"It's like a winter wonderland," Molly quipped. "If winter were made entirely of plastic." Mr Jacobs ignored her and continued to pretend to sleep.

Her gaze found Matt again. He looked nervous - like a 'roo caught in the headlights of a road train. "Do I jump or just accept my fate?" she mused. "Maybe they'll be good for each other. I just hope their marriage lasts longer than Cassandra's fingernails once she sets to work on the farm."

Cassandra's bridesmaids looked like clones - same hair extensions, same white teeth, same aggressively pink dresses. Molly thought they could be sold as a matching set at a discount furniture store.

Then Matt looked up and met her eyes. For one heartbeat, they just stared at each other before he smiled gently and turned back to his new wife.

"I think we just said goodbye," Molly whispered to herself.

The speeches droned on. Molly slumped, resigned to listening to Jake's eternal loop, when she realised Dougie was still watching her - that same goofy grin plastered on his face. He'd been the only one to beat her at the last three-day horse trial. Now, he looked like a man who'd just spotted his next challenge.

Molly smirked. "Hmm. Dougie doesn't look too bad. Grown into a proper stallion. Maybe it's time I tried breaking him in."