Cirrus@Austlit

'My desire to write has often been met with a concoction of pity and disbelief. When I first started university at eighteen, I thought I would practise law during the day and write at night, like Franz Kafka or Elliot Perlman. By the time I realised I wanted to work in the arts full-time, I was too far in, HECS debt too large, to quit.' (Introduction)

'I need to apologise – this is another piece on the death of the novel. On the death of the novel, but also on a fractured, stupefied publishing industry. More than that, it’s a piece on the decline in the public’s investment in literature as a cultural phenomenon.' (Introduction)

'I’ve been at a few storytelling events in which adults bring in the diaries they kept as a teenager and laugh at the things they wrote. I laughed along, but with some sense of disquiet. There are limits to looking back on your direct experience – as you lived it then – with a jovial posture. Reading through my own old experiences would not be funny. My old diaries talk of a deep sense of misery and loneliness. Reading them aloud would be enacting a cruelty to a self that no longer exists but who I feel protective of, and sad for. I also don’t think it would be an ethical representation of a woman, nor of a person who lives with mental illness, nor of myself – even though what’s in the diaries are (more or less) a true account of what I’ve gone through.' (Introduction)