Originally from WA, I now reside in Melbourne, official city of Literature #2. I’m a writer. I’m what’s called an ‘emerging writer’. As soon as I receive my egression papers I’ll let you know.
It all began when I was 9 and got hit on the head by a wayward football. Thus began my retreat from team sports, school ovals, crowds, loud noises, things coming at my head, pointed fingers, and other nine-year-olds, and my penchant for quiet rooms with books and comfy chairs took hold.
Much to my father’s chagrin (in his head I was destined for the courtroom I think), I ended up studying Communications, Theatre and Creative Writing at Curtin University and the egotistical, perfectionistic, hedonistic, and soon to be feministic me was born!
It soon became apparent that playwriting and directing were things I was pretty good at, and that of course, lead me to the firm belief at the age of 19 that I was destined for unparalleled greatness. So I finished my degree, was involved in a new Theatre Company in Perth called Embryo Theatre Co. for which I wrote and directed several shows for a few years, gathered up my quill and notebook and jumped on a plane to London to my awaiting destiny (stardom, fame, fortune).
Almost three years later, I was well traveled, a champion barmaid, and broke enough that on my homeward journey I spent a lonely 48 hours sleeping under a row of chairs at Singapore airport because I didn’t have enough money to pay the airport tax. I eventually made it home (and may I take this opportunity to extend a warm and heart-felt thank you to the Qantas staff at Singapore airport who donated food and orange juice for my 48 hour vigil to the humble airport chair) and after 4 months lounging around my mother’s pool, finally decided to pick up the pen once more.
The spawn of my endeavour was a one act play called ‘Love Me, Love My Whipper Snipper’, produced at The Blue Room in 1998. It was actually quite successful, despite the terrible title. After that came ‘Grab’; a one act play about rape that was produced for the Artrage Festival. Then came the long, dark night of the soul.
Okay, that’s a tad dramatic. But it was during this period of five or six years that I somehow forgot that writers write. I was infected by that terrible disease of wanting to be a writer without actually writing anything. This is not writer’s block. I don’t believe in writer’s block. In my most humble opinion, writers who complain of writer’s block are merely frozen in abject fear. Nothing to worry about. Just. You know. Abject fear.
Still, I got a few things done. I became a personal trainer, a State Figure Fitness Champion, a masseuse, and a Corporate Health Consultant. (Yes, when stuck in the grip of abject fear, go the health road, that’s my suggestion.)
And now? Well, somewhere along the way, things started to make sense. I wanted to write again. I missed it. I needed it. I practised it and I got better at it.
I still have absences and I now write for a living in the not-for-profit sector and I think that probably doesn’t help a lot of the time, but the grip of that abject fear has finally loosened its hold.