From 1990 to early 1997 I lived in a house that came alive at night, shadowed throughout the day. It was a nightmare and dream made of brick and concrete surrounded by humanoid-trees and a long stretch of road that would whisper your name. There was always something happening in that house: strange sounds, possum scratching inner roof and walls, figures out the corner of your eye, odd men knocking at the front door, tall Eucalpyts that would catch fire, my parent’s symphonic arguing, my brother teaching himself how to play guitar and fall in love with science, he and I hand holding down the hallway because we were too afraid of what was hidden in the dark. And there was always me in my room: writing, inventing characters, talking to myself. Me reading late into night hours, me wondering what type of adult I would become, if there was anything I’d be able to offer the world once I got there.
From time to time I’m asked who or what has influenced me and my writing. The answer is that house. This was the place I learnt to observe one adult after the other as they came to visit the family, the place that taught me to listen to physicality, to listen to gut instinct. This was the place I spent hours collecting the minds of others: I watched film and t.v as if they were breath, read books like scripture, listened to music until it became muscle memory. I learnt what I liked, what I didn’t. I learnt that you should be curious.
Here is the first part of some of the things I learnt about in that house, the things that helped me become a writer: