Trying to Write

There’s an open call for Australian fairytales & I’d like to send in a story

Once upon a time an author sat at her computer knowing that she was not allowed to put herself at the centre of a fairytale. She knew the rules. She knew that just by starting with herself she’d have seventy five percent of readers closing the story. But it was her heart hurting and sometimes healing is more important than art or communication. 

Her heart tore open with a soggy, splashing sound. Dark blood, like zombies bleed, poured out to coat her hands and clog the keyboard. She persevered.

Earlier, there’d been nastiness—she always lived her life in Euphemism Land, but with the blood pumping out, she forced out the truth, too. Earlier, there’d been hate.

God, so much hate.

An old ute on the road. A real rust bucket. A wonder the police hadn’t given it one of those notices for being a complete and utter danger to everyone. Fascinating in its horror, so that she sped up, came close and at the traffic lights, could sit behind it and read the fading stickers covering its dirty back window.

The author didn’t vomit. The sourness just sat inside her, congealing.

I will not type the messages that driver had pasted over the horror he drove. Messages of hate and violence. 

Australians have a culture that celebrates law-breakers. Our rebellious soul. I wanted to write a story that sang gently of community. I had a metaphor: the dandelion seeds that float over suburban fences and join us all in whimsy. Chaos and joy. Freedom. 

But my heart is truly hurting from that racism that surrounds me and I can’t be whimsical, today.