Today's column marks my 150th for The Examiner, and I am still learning to appreciate the wind.

People, generally a touch older, who still buy the paper in print version ask me: "How do you come up with ideas?"

You learn to observe, I surmise.

Observation is not natural to many of us, and I do not mean simply seeing. Rather, taking notice of detail and interesting things which we can easily recall. Often, I must jot it down in fear of forgetting what I observe.

There are countless journals, both expensive and cheap, serviettes, business cards, and scraps of paper filled with phrases and words, many of which I will never use.

For Tasmanian Aboriginals, observation is part of their belonging and survival.

But for me, it requires a level of concentration that all too often wavers. What happened on the last page of my book? What did she just say in that podcast? Have I driven through Saint Peter's Pass?

I cannot stand the wind.

Living at the edge of a basin or by the sea or camping at the beach means the wind inevitably howls in the afternoon without pause for rest. It makes me tense and unsettled and agitated.

In a musical lament about home titled Stoney Creek, released last week, Australian singer/songwriter Xavier Rudd muses: "And the wind owes me nothing".

That lyric made me stop in my tracks and ponder. It also made me listen to the howl.

When reflecting on memories and periods of learning, music has always been part of my story.

Tunes of all genres accompany my writing both at flow and in chore.

What music and writing and driving stimulates is thinking. Cruising the Midland Highway provides plenty of thinking moments - perhaps too many.

Strange weather patterns, dead trees, open fields and farmers feeding out. Frost and fog, stolen cars, drivers taking risks and crashes and death.

Then there's beauty. Stunning sunrises and sunsets, captivating colours in contrast - blue on white on grey on orange on green on fawn on brown.

turbunna/Ben Lomond grabs me every single time - like a gigantic metal cog embedded in the mountain with exposed teeth ratcheting you to the summit.

For me, observation happens outside when finding new things in places you regularly visit or have never explored.

It is impossible to spend your days inside and think you will uncover ideas and material.

Along with a healthy appetite for reading, my home lutruwitta/Tasmania provides inspiration.

There is something unique, magical, misunderstood, and fascinating that is not readily explained.

There are stories to tell and just things to observe.

Thus, I still struggle with deadlines. Nothing has changed since my school days. It should be Friday afternoon, but I am never finished, never happy, and rarely content.

It is fair to say, I drive The Examiner team mad requesting change after change.

Some to prevent howlers and others so miniscule that it only makes a difference to me.

My family knows the drill: "Could you please read my column?"

"I will make you a cup of tea!" (having already made four) I plead to Mrs W who is often knee deep in marking and spreadsheets.

"Would you like to hear my piece?" I pester the kids.

There is always a refinement to be made, a synonym to be found.

Put it to bed, I say to myself. Yet I check again: before I coach, when watching football games, just standing about.

I must look awfully rude. I do apologise.

Engaging people with conflict and controversial topics is kind of brave, but it is also relatively easy. Engaging people with stories is difficult.

Writing in a way that makes people think even though they may disagree is satisfying. Expressing a view with respect makes a difference.

When you begin a regular column there are words in reserve. But then the words dry up and you dread they will never return.

What will I write about this week? It's something I have been known to tell myself on a Friday evening. I really should have sat down earlier in the week. Remember when I wrote a column for the school newsletter each Tuesday night while watching All Saints.

Ernest Hemingway provided sound advice: "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know".

Like going for a run or heading to the gym, sometimes it is the first step. Writing a column is no different, it is the first sentence.

At times, there is a story for every occasion. I just must remember not to tell the same one twice. At other times there is nothing.

Writing fulfils me, but I do not profess to be any good.

Writing makes me happy as much as it tends to frustrate.

Selfishly, I did not set out for people to read my column.

"Think I've nailed it this week," I proclaim to Mrs W.

"You say that every week," she laments.

And that's why readers owe me nothing.

Here's to the next 150.