Apparently all you have to do to be a writer, is write. Rudely, nobody told me this when I was a kid. Or maybe they did and I ignored them because, pffft, who can make a living from writing?
Recently, I've returned to writing in a way that feels unforced and enjoyable. I took out the AWC's Furious Fiction in May 2020, made the final heats of a couple of NYC Midnight comps and long-listed for the Sydney Hammond Memorial Short Story Competition.
I'm currently contemplating a series of short stories and re-working my failed attempt at the Richell Prize.
I'm reading Dubliners by James Joyce (finally), and I'm addicted to the Modern Love column in the New York Times.
This quiet domestic study is beautifully nuanced – clear, smooth and illuminating... And almost imperceptibly, without suffering from schmaltz, this becomes a story of hope. A worthy winner that showed further restraint in leaving 50 words in the tank.
- Praise from the Australian Writers' Centre
She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing,
holding the universe together.
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
One day I will find the right words,
and they will be simple.