Getting comments on my blog used to be the highlight of my day. When I got an email notification in my inbox, I would rush to open it, thrilled that someone had taken the time to comment on something I had written. These days — not so much. Almost every day I receive an abusive comment… Read More
Colum McCann, author of Thirteen Ways of Looking, shares some advice for the young (and not so young) writer. It is also wonderful advice for anyone who wants to live life with purpose and meaning. Colum McCann’s Letter to a Young Writer Do the things that do not compute. Be earnest. Be devoted. Be subversive of… Read More
The man was tall and broad chested. At the end of his bulging arm he waved a piece of paper. “I’m an expert,” he shouted, “and you can’t write that. Your words make it worse. People need love not judgment.” He tore the paper into shreds and dropped it on the floor. ≡ The woman was… Read More
There is a drawing of a spotted cow on my blue mug. She is stranded midair on a crescent moon. ‘Nothing is ever easy’ the caption reads. The mug was a leaving present from a job long ago, I can’t remember which one. On my way to the study I take a mouthful of the… Read More
I spent my teenage years on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, and through the church my parents attended, I became friends with George Perdikis, John James and Peter Furler. These young men would go on to form the popular Christian rock band The Newsboys.
“How the actual fuck did you even stay alive?” was the comment she made after reading about the death of my husband.
Today I am thankful that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only do things get better, sometimes they get fucking amazing.
Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble?
Look at the sky: that is for you.
As I read about the path taken by women in traditional stories, mythology and fairy tales, I was struck by how our own lives follow this pattern.
The curious thing is that most of us don’t realise what true transformation entails.
There is no trick to holding on to something from your childhood – you simply have to refuse to give it up. The one possession I’ve owned for close to fifty years is my pillow.
We moved house this past weekend. Our new place is ten minutes further up the coast, and is nestled in the bush on the side of the hill.
When I get tired of writing my memoir, I fantasise about who will play who in the Hollywood movie version of my life.
I think I’ve got it sorted out.
In the year Brisbane hosted the World Expo, I was kilometres away in a city filled with people who were running away. I had run away – from my parents, from the church and from my fairytale delusion that I would be a virgin when I got married.