degraded echo   (de Chirico?)   a white sun, nudging a post   heavy sun: velleities   hairy sun: shaking itself dry   barely an impingement, a diluted sun, a dilated sun, egg broken into a large bowl of soup sun   hot sea, in a clear glass: a sun like a creek that someone, right now, is carrying a bike across   art-like sun: an installation; the sun I just went outside to see (it wasn’t there)   a sun groaning, sick in bed, complaining […]                          from ‘Suns’ by Tim Wright (in Suns, Puncher & Wattmann 2018) […]

I’m not a very focused reader. Even with the writers closest to my heart, I’ve usually only read a few of their books. I figure I’ll get to the rest gradually, one each year or so, and spread them out across my life. The way I see it, there are so many books that I’ll never get to read before I die, so I might as well try to sample a bit of everything. In his ‘Art of Fiction’ interview in The Paris Review, Kenzaburo Oe outlines a much more systematic approach to reading: When I was in my twenties, […]

Glassblowing is magic. Anyone who has seen a demonstration—even on Netflix—will know this to be true. It has become almost all I can think about: the grumble of the furnace and reheating chamber;  the smell of runny beeswax used to lubricate metal tools, as warm and tender as the most intimate hug; the feeling of patting your head and rubbing your tummy while turning the blowpipe with one hand and caressing the glass with tools in the other; the glass expanding with the heavy push of my breath; the heat from the 1000-degree furnace making my arm glow pink and […]

This time last year, in lockdown, my partner and I decided to work our way through the novels long-listed for the Booker prize. Surprisingly, we both agreed before the announcement of the winner that Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart was the best and, even more surprisingly, it won. A few weeks ago I considered the recently announced 2021 long-list: so many presumably good writers I’d never heard of! I started off with the one writer I’d read before, Kazuo Ishiguro. His book, Klara and the Sun, ventures into science fiction. Klara is an android, an Artificial Friend. Well-to-do young people […]

‘I’ll be watching, because history is going to be made,’ President Trump told his supporters on January 6 as they started their march to Washington’s Capitol Building. History was made that day, and no amount of airbrushing by US conservatives can diminish the horror we saw on the TV, in the papers, via Twitter and Facebook. It’s a reminder that we are blessed to have fearless reporters, photographers and filmmakers in our midst—men and women who are committed to presenting the news the instant it happens. Future historians are also blessed. Without these important documents-of-record, their ability to interpret seismic […]

I am reading books about how to murder my family. I blame Australian author SL Lim. They started it. About two, maybe three weeks ago, I was idly Googling books about murdering close family relations, when I came across Revenge: Murder in Three Parts. Lim’s novel tells the story of a truly vile brother and his wonderfully awful sister whose relationship fatally plays out in Malaysia and Australia. I then read How to Kill Your Family, a novel by Irish author Bella Mackie. The book has an entertainingly cold-hearted, female narrator and some very satisfying murder set-ups, one of which […]

Reading Like a Mother Recently, I gave birth. To be more specific: recently, I almost gave birth in a carpark, because when I telephoned the midwives at the hospital to let them know I needed to come in, they didn’t believe I was in labour. ‘If you were really in labour,’ the first one said, ‘you wouldn’t be able to have this conversation.’ I hung up, wondered about the reality of my own existence for a moment, and tried to sit quietly with my heat pack and watch a re-run of Frasier. I called back twenty minutes later, when the […]

Reading Literary Blockbusters on Ngannawal Country On Ngunnawal country, the Canberra bubble continues to expand, with its brutalist architecture, national institutions, consulates, and blue-tinged gums from which the Telstra Tower on Black Mountain (aka the Syringe aka the Spaceship Docking Station) emerges. It is not a place well-known for literary production or for the celebration of literature. The roads with their infernal on and off ramps, circuits and curves, are arrayed in patterns to facilitate communication with aliens, or for devil worship. Canberra/Ngambri manages to be the nation’s capital, and remote—provincial—estranged from the artistic and literary metropolitan centres of Australia […]

Just before restrictions came into effect in late June, I converted my dining room into a new art studio, pushing the table into one corner and setting up my writing space in the other. ‘We’ll just eat at the coffee table from now on,’ I announced to my husband and the kids, as I placed art supplies, stationery and pot plants on the dining table. I was anticipating a new phase of creativity. My first book The Mother Wound was about to be published and I had promised myself that I would spend the second half of the year developing […]

My eyes are painfully sore from lying in bed till 3am while holding a phone above my face and tapping it with my finger—I mean, scrolling. Oh yes, the phone was displaying environmentally unfriendly content best described as a spectacular ‘cancel campaign’ that exploded across Twitter and Instagram (never mind that I had work the next day). The drama was not even unfolding live; most of the Tweets happened ‘5hrs ago,’ but I needed updates on this cyber inquisition. If I had woken up to the news that Mark Zuckerberg made it to space, I would have felt incredibly proud, […]

Writers are often asked what they’re reading: a question that always makes me squirm. After all, reading is personal and intimate, and literary folk can be so judgey. Do I really need to show you mine, even though you haven’t shown me yours? There’s a temptation to dodge the whole question—in a creative way, of course. For example, I could skip over books altogether, reflecting instead on how I was recently engrossed by the old Coles shopping receipts I found in my elderly mother’s kitchen drawer. Seemingly prosaic, yet seeing that she paid $1.95 for a pack of Iced VoVos […]

In June of this year I moved back, temporarily, to Sydney. I say moved ‘back’ because I lived in Sydney as a teenager and in my early twenties: 12 of my 38 years, with the remainder spent in regional Victoria and Melbourne. But Sydney marked me formatively. It’s brutal and beautiful. I feel nostalgic for it but I also remember how it felt to struggle here. I remember why I left. I haven’t moved back to the Sydney I remember. In some ways that would be impossible; more than 15 years have passed and cities, particularly ones you have nostalgia […]