Life of a Writer: My Story

Creative endeavors and doubt go hand-in-hand - is this why so many of us start "later in life"?

The Unfurling of Worlds:

I grew up in Sydney’s outer west, where I spent much of my time with my nose in a book, scribbling down stories, or outdoors in a land of imagination. Mum still lives in the house where I grew up. If you came on a tour of that quarter-acre block, I could show you magical herbs for witch’s brews; talking gum trees; a cubby house that transforms into a castle or a forest hut; and a stretch of grass where fairies play.

I’d build my fairy gardens out there, nestled in a good patch of dandelions. I’d lay out trinkets for the fairies to admire, stones for them to sit on, and an abalone shell filled with water for bathing. I spent a thousand hours peeking out from behind the garage, waiting to catch a glimpse of those fairies. It was a roving fairy garden, dismantled by my parents when it was time to mow the lawn, like sandcastles taken by the tide. I’d happily rebuild every time.

When I wasn’t fairy-watching, I was fighting dark forces to save the world, chanting over a cauldron in my cubby house, and embarking on long sea voyages to bring life-saving medicines to an imaginary “sick aunt”.  At night, I’d snuggle up with Mum and she’d read to me. The way she tells it now is like this: ‘I’d read her ten books a night, and then when I ran out of books, she’d tell me to make one up!’

Little Amy didn’t know all of this was the beginning of a life-long love affair with stories.

Little Amy running on the lawn (1993)

A Little Writer:

I wrote my first story out of spite. My mother was writing her own book – her “life story”, which unfolded in pretty cursive over three yellow legal pads. I’d bug Mum while she was writing, and she’d tell me to wait. Eventually, I said, “Fine, I’ll write my own book!”

That first little book was about my brother, sister, and me fighting aliens. It ended with the bad guys dead in a green pile of goo. From then on, I wrote stories on every scrap of paper that came my way.

I wrote my first novel, “Free Fall” (taken from an Evanescence lyric; I didn’t know about Golding yet), at age fifteen. It was about a pilot whose plane crashes on a mysterious island, featuring pirates, hidden treasure, and daring instances of survival in the jungle. The main characters were me and my best friend, Tasha; in fact, every character in “Free Fall” was based on someone we knew, their names unchanged.

I considered myself a Very Serious Writer at fifteen – I wrote “Free Fall” as an intentionally silly exercise, something to make me and Tasha laugh. But it was the first novel I ever finished, because it was so fun. I try and remember that when I write now.

Amy in her thirties (2022)

Delayed Dreams:

I tell you my past to make sense of the present – or rather, to show you what doesn’t make sense. With such a strong and consistent creative history, everyone who knew me in my younger years would have expected me to have at least one novel on the bookshop shelves by now. I’m 32 now with only a small (but appreciated) handful of minor publications to my name. I’ve probably penned over a hundred stories over the years, including seven unpublished novels. Most won’t see the light of day: they were practice-stories, and that’s okay.

I’ve always known that this is what I want to do with my life, but it’s life that got in the way. More so, I got in my way. I was deathly afraid of failure, and even more afraid of success. I wrote a poem called “Grandstand” about this very subject, and funnily enough, my spoken-word performance of “Grandstand” at an open mic in 2022 ended up being my first step in getting my work out into the world.

“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”
—George Eliot

Now I regularly submit to lit journals, competitions, and other opportunities like residencies and fellowships. I’ve made and released a few zines that have gotten a great response, and I had so much fun making them. I was accepted into the WestWords Academy for emerging writers this year, which I could hardly believe. It’s been an educational, communal, inspiring experience. In fact, it’s my fellow academians who encouraged me to start this newsletter (hi!)

In future posts, I’ll talk more about the obstacles I’ve overcome just to begin – if you started “later in life”, I’m writing for you – until then, I’m glad to be here, and I’m having fun playing in the fairy garden.

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