Tonight by way of a change I'm going to make an announcement that will bring joy to many of you. I'm retiring. Ha, no I'm not, although that does remind me of a joke I heard this week in the Great Writing canteen at a retirement party for one of the sausage rolls.

Now I have to be honest, this is not the world's newest joke. In fact, it was recently Grade II listed. It concerns a new recruit to the local monastery, one where the monks keep a strict vow of silence. Through a very complicated game of charades, he's told that he will be allowed to speak just two words every ten years. And for ten years he keeps his vow, at which point the Head Abbot approaches and asks '"What have you to say, my son?". To which the monk replies, "Bad food!" and off he goes about his business for another ten years.

Actually, speaking of bad food I was telling you about this party in the canteen, which has recently been refitted as a very trendy coffee bar for comedians - they've called it Tarbuck's - where who should come up to me but our Producer, wearing the suit he's most fond of: the one with the small checks. He called me over and asked if I liked my little hand-out. I said "It all depends what it's holding". But it turns out he was referring to a bonus I was recently awarded for many years' service, not including the time off for good behaviour. To tell the truth, I had actually been pushing for a pay rise but the Producer had told me that for reasons of tax, he couldn't free up any extra funds. Little did I know that the tacks were what he'd used to nail the money under the floorboards.

So imagine my surprise when the following morning his rather attractive new secretary rushed at me brandishing a couple of large perks. No, no not like that. You're making up your own jokes. Which is more than I can do. Anyway, one was a beautifully gift-wrapped box, with a card saying "A small token of thanks for your efforts. We hope this attractive and valuable sculpture will serve as an investment in your future". I opened the box. In it was a Blankety Blank chequebook and pen.

The other was a little more interesting. The Producer had told me all about a trip he recently took with his wife of 25 blissful years, of a 40-year marriage. They've just come back from a grand tour of India, after the marriage counsellor suggested they put the spice back into their love life. "Marvellous, darling", he told me. "You should have seen the look on the old girl's face when I took her up the Khyber Pass." Anyway, he'd suggested I do the same so my other little dividend was an all-expenses-paid holiday in the Far East; a weekend in Clackton. Not quite on the same scale I grant you, but then neither am I.

But back to the monastery, where ten years has gone by. Once again, the Head Abbot approaches the monk. "What have you to say now, my son?" he enquires. "Cold rooms!" replies the monk - his last words for another ten years of not much to say, and plenty of time to say it. Sounds a bit like this job really.

Which reminds me, I was going to tell you my announcement. My ramblings here have been nothing if not appreciated. So nothing, then. No, that's not quite true. In fact I've had so much fan mail, I'll soon have to invest in a second letter rack. But these days I have so many calls on my time. Not only am I about to go on that holiday, I've just been offered a new job as ringmaster at a flea circus.

So I was wondering, in all seriousness, whether any of you would care to add a little new life around here in the form of feature articles. You know the sort of thing we do - interviews with authors, writing advice from leading authorities, literary agents' tasting notes on vintage meths. If you've no idea what I'm talking about, peruse the Articles on Writing section for our previous highlights.

In case you're not familiar with the inhabitants of Great Writing - not to be confused with Little Sodbury, though I can think of a few who come close -  they, or rather you, are an eclectic bunch; young and old, male and female; Liverpudlian and cosmopolitan, drawn here from around the world by a passion for the pen. Poetry, short stories, comedy - I'm not much good at any of it, but you most certainly are.

We're not looking for any permanent commitments or celebrity columnists here, just articulate scribes who can put together interesting pieces of the type we're known for. We're in a niche, and we want to keep digging. It might be that you know an up-and-coming novelist who'd like to be interviewed. Or maybe you've an 'in' with Bernard Manning's jokewriting team, in which case I think there's a support line you can ring.

I'd like to see some personality and a certain irreverence, but something that will draw people into the site rather than make them run in horror. That's what I'm here for. To check submissions I mean, not make people run in horror. Now I'm not trying to be funny - as you'll no doubt agree - but while we're seriously looking for new feature articles, we can't guarantee to publish every submission we get. I do promise however, that every one of them will be read by somebody very high-up in Great Writing; our Director General...'s secretary's hairdresser's publican. Not someone I'd like to mess with. Six-foot-four, with rippling muscles and an unkempt beard, but they say she has a heart of gold.

So I do hope I've caught your interest there, assuming you've made it this far. To be honest, I've been meaning to ask this for a while, since Great Writing was more of a Modest Scribble. I'd quite understand if you've got better things to do, after all as I say we can't necessarily publish everything we get, and there's definitely no money in it. But you can at least take some small comfort from the fact that your carefully crafted feature will be read by literally tens of people from all over the Internet, and quite possibly you'll be thoroughly Googled for your efforts. And you can't say fairer than that.

Now I seem to have digressed somewhat from the joke I was telling you, in which our friend the monk has now been going for thirty years straight. I know the feeling. By now you'll know that it's time for the Head Abbot to approach -  which he does, asking, "And now my son, what have you to say?". The monk shouts, "I quit!". And the Abbot says, "I'm not surprised, you've done nothing but complain since you got here!"

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In case you think this isn't for real, it is. We're looking for feature submissions. If you can oblige, then send your article to editor@greatwriting.co.uk and if it's what we're looking for, we'll let you know. If you've got any questions, ask in the forums, or send a Private Message to Ed or nascent. And now ladies and gentlemen, Ms Elaine Paige...