The Peacock Summer


(First glimpse: Australian Book Cover)

I’m very happy to announce that I have a new book coming out this year.

The Peacock Summer, will be published in July 2018 by Orion in the UK and Hachette in Australia and New Zealand, with translation rights already sold in Germany, France and Sweden.

If you’re interested to know more, you can click here for Hachette Australia’s recent acquisition press release.…/hachette-acquires-…/

I’m so happy and relieved to have finally found my way back to fiction writing, and even more pleased to say I’m well into the planning and writing of the next novel. Thank you for being so kind and supportive and giving me your much-needed boosts of encouragement along the way. I promise not to keep you waiting as long next time.

Roll on July 2018.


Laura’s Bench

… So I go for a walk and I find a bench with a view and sit for a while looking out over the countryside, staring at a patchwork valley of hills and fields, watching the summer swallows dancing in a blue sky. And as I sit there on the bench thinking about you and all the many memories I hold on this sad-strange anniversary day, I notice the brass plaque nailed to the wood beside me. In loving memory of Laura Kinsella who died at birth, 19 May 2005. Laura Kinsella, a girl who didn’t get to live one day in this world. And you, who lived 41 years and whom we still feel robbed of. And I think of the pain of the family who lost their Laura and I feel a sudden rush of love for them, strangers who know what it’s like to hold the ache of loss in their hearts. An ache that never leaves you, but shifts and changes – changes you – as the days roll by. And I lift my head and I say thank you to the sky, because it’s the only place I can think to look for you now. I say thank you for the years I got to spend with a man who loved me like I was a vital part of him, and who let me love him like he was a vital part of me. And I say thank you to the Kinsellas, whoever and wherever they are, for Laura’s bench, which was exactly where I needed it to be, today …


‘I accept’


I am a writer. I spend my days stringing words together to create stories. It’s a lovely job and I’ve been lucky that publishers have wanted to share a little of my work.

Only my writing hasn’t been going so well lately. In recent months, the days I’ve spent at my desk have felt hard. Broken even. The parts of my brain that used to allow me to daydream and wander the maze of my imagination have not been functioning. I have felt stifled. Devoid of creativity. And the words I have written have not been good words. There has been no momentum, as if the story I’ve been trying to tell doesn’t fully belong to me. I’ve become a writer who cannot write. A storyteller without a story. An imposter.

Amidst this struggle, I have found myself thinking about my identity as a writer; about how bad it feels to be a writer who can’t write. I miss the ‘flow’, that point when you lose sight of yourself sitting there at the desk and the words just fall over themselves onto the paper and you are so lost in the flurry of them that you don’t lift your head from the keyboard for ages. I miss that welcome loss of self that comes when  you are fully connected to an idea, committed to its creation.

Lately, when I have sat at my desk, I’ve felt judgement. There has been a voice on my shoulder whispering criticism and prodding my self-doubt. Chatting about this struggle with a wise person recently, I was offered some simple advice: accept. Accept the bad writing days. Relax into them. Allow them to just be. The wise one suggested I go so far as to write ‘I accept’ on a post-it note and stick it above my desk where I can see it. Every day. I nodded, and tried to look enthusiastic but listening to her advice, I felt sceptical. A post-it note? Right.

Acceptance. It’s a word that I have been thinking about a lot recently. It’s certainly something that I have discussed before with close friends, in relation to loss and life. It’s also something that was addressed in an evening class I attended on the Buddhist approach to unwanted loss and change. Late last year, on a steamy Sydney night, I attended a gathering at a local church hall, crept into the back and sat on an uncomfortable creaky chair to listen. The teacher that night told us how we humans, when facing unwanted change and loss, often fight the event. Our brains’ automatic response is an internal shout of, ‘No, no, no‘. We fight and resist. We feel in every fibre of our being: I don’t want this. The teacher pointed out that by reacting in this way we add to the stress and mental trauma of a situation. After all, the ‘no‘ doesn’t change anything. Instead, the Buddhist way is to observe the emotion and the pain, and then to simply say, ‘I accept.’

A little like my friend’s post-it note suggestion, this teaching at first seemed bewildering and, if I’m honest, a little offensive. Accept the pain of loss and change? How could it be that simple?

But time does strange things to the resistance in our brains and after a while, I realised I had nothing to lose by trying. So more recently, whenever I’ve felt overwhelmed, or had to face something I really don’t want to be happening, I have tried to fight the ‘no‘ instinct and turned to face the situation, whatever it is with a deep breath and an, ‘I accept’. Long traffic jam: I accept. My child having a massive tantrum: I accept. Feeling unbearably lost or sad: I accept.

And remembering this, I did write that post-it note and I stuck it above my desk … And of course, since then, something strange has started to happen. I have experienced something of a change. Slowly, I feel my heart and my head filling with stories once more. I recognise the itch to lay them down. I sit at my desk more readily and lift my head after a couple of hours at the computer, surprised at the new word count sitting in the corner of the screen. And it’s no coincidence, I don’t think, that with these feelings comes a new return of ideas and imagination and the first taste of that wonderful flow.

It’s a flow that I think extends beyond my writing too. I find myself daydreaming once more of travel and adventures – of the freedom that faces me to create a new life. I say ‘yes’ more quickly to friends and opportunities that are coming my way. I laugh more frequently. I am seeking out new experiences, new friends, new ideas. I feel open and accepting of whatever might be coming my way. In whatever form.

My heart no longer feels like an empty void. It is as if a door has opened and I can feel the world rushing in, in the most exhilarating way. Suddenly, every day feels like a gift – every morning a beginning. It feels a little like falling in love – falling in love with life. With possibility. With the smallest moments in my days that make me feel happy and alive. Accepting the good moments when life seems to make sense … and accepting those moments when life feels more pointless and dark, knowing that by accepting it all, the light does return. It’s as if I can suddenly bear my own my life again. The good and the bad. It is mine – my story – and I can carry it. I don’t always like it, but I own it and it has become a part of who I am.

I recognise the need to show up each day and invest in the things that hold the most value to me: writing, friendship, love, art, connection, life. I am gently reaching for more: for something greater than my own experience. It’s a relief to feel greedy for life again – for all of its joy and emotion. This is part of a larger transformation; but I also recognise it as a surrender. I am opening myself up to being vulnerable once more – to failure, to the potential for more hurt and pain. It is scary, but as the saying goes, a life lived in fear is a life half-lived.

I am a writer. And I am writing again. I am ready to own my stories again – both the one I am living, and the ones I want to tell through my writing. Some days I stare at the note above my desk and think, ‘I accept’. And some days I don’t even notice that note, because I am head down and lost in a world of ideas. And it feels good.

I have been so grateful for the messages and comments some of you have sent me in past months, asking about my writing. On the darker days they have been a reminder of who I can be, and what I am capable of and I hope that, all things being well, I might post more details here soon of what I am working on. In the meantime? I accept that these things take time, hard work, and patience.

I accept.






Great Trees


The finest of words written by Maya Angelou…

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
 fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
dark, cold

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

― Maya Angelou

A belated happy New Year to you all. I hope the year ahead brings adventures, kindness and much love to you all. H.

Hope takes flight

Last night saw the culmination of months of hard work from a great many people when the very first winner of the Richell Prize for an unpublished writer was announced at a drinks reception hosted by Hachette in Sydney. Sally Abbott was awarded the Prize of $10,000 and a mentorship with Hachette Publisher Robert Watkins for her wonderful, dystopian submission ‘Closing Down’.

It was an emotional night – touched with sadness, of course, but also full of hope. It felt like a night not just to honour Matt and all he stood for in his publishing work, but also a night to look to the future and the promise of what is to come. Which is exactly how Matt would have wanted it. It was inspiring for me to sit on the judging panel and read the work of so many talented Australian writers. There were other entries on the longlist we judges fought hard for individually, but collectively, the panel were in agreement that the five shortlisted writers – Brodie Lancaster, Ellena Savage, Jonathan O’Brien, Lyndel Caffrey and Sally Abbott were exceptional contenders for the Prize – a wonderful shortlist for its breadth in subject matter and style.

Richell Prize shortlist, from left to right, Brodie Lancaster, Ellena Savage, Lyndel Caffrey, Sally Abbott and Jonathan O'Brien

Richell Prize shortlist, from left to right, Brodie Lancaster, Ellena Savage, Lyndel Caffrey, Sally Abbott and Jonathan O’Brien

For anyone wondering why the swallow motif for the Prize, there is a very simple, very personal explanation. Matt and I shared a spring morning in a park a few years ago. Our daughter was still a baby, a warm dumpling lying in my lap. But our son was off, zigzagging across the park, haring about as three-year-olds will. There didn’t seem to be much logic to his haphazard running until Matt turned to me, a smile dawning. ‘He’s racing the swallows,’ he said. And he was. He was chasing the birds as they performed their dazzling acrobatics out of the Morton Bay Fig trees and swooping low across the grass. We watched our son for ages that morning. Sitting in the sunshine. Happy. Together.

When Matt turned forty, I bought him a voucher for a local tattoo parlour. It was a bit of a joke. I’d been teasing him about his mid-life crisis. I didn’t think he’d go through with it; but he surprised me by returning one Saturday morning with his arm bandaged in clingfilm. When he revealed the results, he showed me two small swallows inked onto his bicep. I knew instantly what they represented: his love for our children … that morning in the park … the joy of the small things in life … recognition of how those simple moments of presence and togetherness are the thing to focus on in life … how these are surely the definition of true happiness.

Since Matt’s death, I’ve seen swallows everywhere. I notice them easily. I searched online for the historical meaning of swallow tattoos and found that sailors used to have two tattooed to their chest. The belief was that if they drowned, the birds would carry their soul into the heavens. Swallows also represent hope and homecoming … a sailor at sea would know land was drawing near at the sign of the first swallow.

It seemed appropriate that a new prize, set up in Matt’s name, should carry the swallow motif. The Richell Prize is all about hope. It’s about writers spreading their wings and taking flight. It’s about launching talented new voices and helping their work to find a home. I’m so grateful to design agency JOY for translating Matt’s tattoo into such a striking design for the Prize.


I’m also very grateful to all at Hachette Australia, the Emerging Writers’ Festival, Guardian Australia and Simpsons Solicitors for converging to make this Prize possible. When good people come together with good intentions, wonderful things happen. I know Matt would be proud (and a little embarrassed) to know writers continue to be encouraged and supported through his name like this, and I know there are exciting things ahead for the five shortlisted writers of the Prize. I congratulate Sally, Brodie, Ellena, Jonathan and Lyndel and I watch and wait with anticipation. Today I focus on the promise of what is to come.

Riding for the Feeling

Sometimes I play a stupid game with our iPod. I put it on shuffle and ask Matt to send me a song. I know it’s ridiculous. I know ‘shuffle’ is a piece of apple software – an algorithm – rather than the ghostly hand of my husband reaching out to send me a sign. I know in these moments I’m a mad woman clutching for evidence of something beyond death. But it’s surprising how often something meaningful comes up. Of course it does. It’s our iPod. It’s full of music and memories. What’s a little more strange is the raft of new albums Matt bought in June last year, just days before he died. He never mentioned them. Just downloaded them and left them there for me to find. This morning I played the iPod game and the track that arrived was Bill Callahan’s ‘Riding for the Feeling’ from the Apocalypse album. It’s one that Matt bought in his last download session. I hadn’t heard it before, but the first lines, as they came through the speakers, stopped me in my tracks:

It’s never easy to say goodbye To the faces So rarely do we see another one So close and so long

It’s a really beautiful song. As I listened, it made me think of many things. I saw my son’s joyful face as he flies along on his bicycle … my husband emerging from the waves after a surf or a swim, drenched and happy … and my daughter on a swing giggling, ‘Higher, Mummy, higher.’ All of them ‘riding for the feeling’. It also made me think about goodbyes, and how hard they are. There is an intense, bittersweet longing that comes now with a farewell. I say ‘I love you’ a little more frequently, a little more easily. And thinking about goodbyes, I was reminded of a piece of writing, “The Light that Shines When Things End”, featured on one of my favourite blogs. It starts with these words: ‘I hope that in the future they invent a small golden light that follows you everywhere and when something is about to end, it shines brightly so you know it’s about to end.’ I like the idea of this light — of being able to consciously appreciate the final moments of something for the last time. But the thought of it also terrifies me. If it had shone on that last morning with Matt, I know I never would’ve been able to let him go.

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. All this leaving is never-ending.

This week is the one-year anniversary of Matt’s death. Anniversary feels an odd word to use in this context. His death date is one of pain. There is nothing to celebrate. We have endured a year without him. We are still here. Yet somehow it feels important to acknowledge the day. I plan to greet the sun at the ocean’s edge and will be hoping for clear skies that night so that the kids might look at the star named for their Dad (by a very thoughtful friend: thank you Vanessa) through the Observatory telescope. I hope we are able to ride the big feelings the day will bring us. I know we’re still learning how to say goodbye to a face we were lucky to see, so close and so long. And I suppose whether there there is a small golden light or not, it doesn’t really matter. Bill Callahan is right: when goodbye comes, it’s never easy.