As a social anthropologist I am trained to observe; to observe and find meaning in the human interactions I am witness to. This is not much different to a writer's training. As writers and observers of life around us, we make use of the incidents, the experiences, the little vignettes that play out in our presence. We transport and reshape what we see into stories thus giving our observations meaning.

Inspiration and stories may be drawn from memory, from oral accounts, or from newspapers, books, or other secondary sources; and sometimes from deep imagination which reforms the stories. I imagined that when it came to creative writing I would have a head-start given the powers of observation I credited myself having.

But then I made an important discovery.

I was surprised to find two distinct types of observation; an outer, objective kind, which observes the life that takes place around us; and an inner, more subjective kind, which scrutinises the emotional life roiling within everyone. 'But so what?' you might ask.

Understanding the difference between these two types of observation is a great advantage to a writer in the shifting world of fiction fashion where deep point of view is becoming de rigueur. Readers are canny sleuths; they easily detect an emotional fake. This sort of inner observation or writerly kind of introspection not only offers deep insight into who we are as individuals but it exposes a universal humanity that readers instantly recognise as truth.

So, how do we mine the rich seam of inner emotional life? Like the outer kind of observation, finding the interior kind still requires a writer's sharp eye and attentive ear, but these are now turned inward toward the very personal, private and sometimes painful aspect of one's innermost self.

Let me share my story to demonstrate.

I am sure you must have heard people say 'Life can change in the blink of an eye'. I thought I understood what was meant by this expression. But understanding something on an intellectual level is quite different from knowing it intimately through experience.

As I sat outside the ICU of our local hospital waiting to be allowed to see my critically ill husband, I struggled to force back the panic that threatened to engulf me. I reached into my bag and pulled out my moleskin notebook which I carry everywhere for when inspiration strikes. But it wasn't inspiration that struck this time; it was a disaster and I was reeling from the blow. There was no-one. No one to talk to, no one to allay my fears, no one to answer my questions; all were too busy attending the emergency.

Through my tears I poured my confusion and fears into the little moleskin. My pen flew; words, sentences spilling out page after page. Would they make any sense? I didn't know, nor did I care. The act of writing was helping me keep my mind, keep my stomach contents and distract me from something I had no control over. My thoughts were turbo-charged. My pen couldn't keep up. The writing didn't look like mine.

I noted everything: the clock which seemed, Dali like, to be molten on the wall, its hands frozen and unmoving; the acid that kept coming up into my mouth; the hiccupping sobs that ambushed any attempt at composure; the fact that I was shivering with cold and sweating at the same time; how frightened the furtive glances of nursing staff made me feel as they came and went through the swinging 'doors of doom' into a dim world of muted voices, beeping machinery and flashing lights; the anger that unreasonably made me want to scream and rant at my husband for getting sick; the shiny vinyl floors, 'did they polish them everyday?' a little voice inside me asked. 'Are you f#@*^#! kidding me?!' I roared back silently.

Trauma has a way of focusing us like nothing else. It is often the minute observations, the pointless trivia and the bizarre emotions that rivet our attention during such times, while grasping the enormity of the situation we face seems to elude us. It is bad enough that we must endure these life events but should they be for nothing?

There is no doubt my writing exercise while under extreme duress was therapeutic. It helped to disperse the emotional tsunami. But it also made me realise that I could use it to become a better writer.

I have learned to heed the little observer that watches over my inner world; to listen attentively to the observations. Although sometimes ridiculous and other times astute, these observations are always personally unique, but also having enough of the universal human experience to engage the empathy in others, a necessity if one is to succeed in writing. Even in times of stress and trauma we never stop being writers; it is simply not a fair-weather endeavour. If writing is what you do, who you are, then the writer within must be acknowledged under any circumstance.

In the spirit of Masterchef: Life is a dish served hot or cold, sour or sweet. The act of writing takes note of the ingredients, the presentation, the blend of flavours, and critiques the final dish.

Copyright Robyn Haynes 2009