I’m travelling in England, a place I’ve never before been – I’ve kept mostly, in the past, to places that are cheap and warm, and more obviously, more decidedly different from my home – and people keep telling me it’s surprising that this is my first time here.
I’ve always –at least, since I started writing essays, about seven years ago – believed that the essay form has a lot in common with poetry, despite the ostensible differences between them.
Every time I finish writing a book a very specific dread descends upon me. Every time I finish writing a book I feel emptied out.
People keep asking me, what are you working on now?
People keep asking me, what’s next for you?
And I still don’t have a proper answer.
Tonight, The Cure performed at the Sydney Opera House. I did not get to go. Instead, like most of my friends—my Facebook world seemed suddenly entirely dead!—I tuned in to a livestream of the band performing.
Eliah blames the English teachers for killing the student’s muse, for making it difficult for them to write because they were receiving corrections. I have a different take.
My friend Sarah and I ran a creative writing workshop out of a musty classroom in the Western suburbs. We were told that the students had limited English skills. So I spent the two weeks prior texting my aunt for Arabic translations of English and Assyrian words.
She has something new to offer.
Can she be new again?
I mean ‘new’ in the sense of reborn.
‘New’ as in alive once more.
Hey Debby, it’s not cute to perpetuate stereotypes about other communities and capitalise on their experiences by opting to tell their stories—so quit it. In recent years, the conversation of who can tell what stories has become more frequent.
Another Anzac Day comes on down the pipe. It always feels like the real Australia Day to me. As if some essence of who we are can still be found amid the twisted celebrations and misdirected attacks.
Go-betweens like me, born to visibly different immigrant parents, are always being asked where we’re “really” from, and often wondering where we really belong.
The question of whose story it is to tell is one that I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, especially as lately I’ve been telling more stories about myself and my life.
I’ve been thinking a lot about stories, and storytelling lately. I suppose I should — after all, I’m a writer. Aren’t stories my stock in trade?