December is here, and with it comes twinkling lights, frantic shopping, food prep, and the annual emotional blood sport known (only to me?) as End-of-Year Brag Season.

Support for the literary community is fabulous but it comes at a cost. It would be great to have a rethink and perhaps broaden our definition of support to take some of the pressure off.

Wisdom doesn’t announce itself. It’s the pause before reacting, the question before judging, the choice to listen instead of lecture. It’s seeing patterns instead of moments.

Writers are strange creatures. We voluntarily isolate ourselves to invent problems for imaginary people, then get emotionally wrecked when those fake people suffer.

Hospitality owners put a tiny line on the bottom of the menu that says there are surcharges on weekends and public holidays. Penalty rates. Staff cost more on weekends and holidays, but I don’t understand why the cost is ours.

I’ve cried over my book more times than I can count—over scenes that wouldn’t work, rejections that stung, and the fear that I wasn’t cut out for this. But I’ve also cried over milestones, prizes, and deals I never thought I’d see. Here’s what I’ve learnt.

At a party last weekend, I met seven new people. I now know everything about them. What they don’t know is anything about me. Why? Not one of them asked a single question. has this happened to you?

If you’re an author, is social media enough? Or do you really need a website too? Given I’ve just overhauled mine, you know where I stand, but let me share why I think an author website is non-negotiable.

I came for the pom-poms. I stayed for the rage.
The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders docuseries is a masterclass in how we still underpay women and expect them to say thank you.

Genocide. A slow, systematic undoing of a people while the world watches, rationalises, and turns the page. We said never again after the Holocaust. We said it again after The Killing Fields, Cambodia. We keep saying it. But here we are with it unfolding in real time in Gaza.

Does getting help for your child feel like a full-time job?

If you’re a writer staring down the barrel of a messy first draft (or even a polished fifth), you’ve probably hit that moment where you think, what the hell do I do now? Is it ready? Or maybe it’s closer to: how on god’s sweet earth do I fix this thing?

Earlier this month, a friend and I took a women’s self-defence class. I went in expecting to feel empowered, instead, one “tip” from the course stuck with me in a particularly sour way.

In my notes app, I have a list called “brilliant ideas.” It’s rarely brilliant. But that’s not the point. Many of these ideas have sparked the beginning of a novel …

I’ve considered paying for private health insurance more times than I can count. However, when the insurance pays for crutches but not the surgery you needed them for, something is deeply broken.

Should Australia follow Ireland’s lead with a basic wage for artists, especially in the Age of AI? Are we heading towards an arts sector dominated by AI pastiche, rather than authentic, lived human expression?

Before each season, the highbrow part of me insists this is the year I’ll give it up. It’s rubbish. It’s staged. The editing is so bad it’s insulting. And yet, here I am. Watching. Again. But the part that gets me most riled up? The so-called experts.

I turned fifty recently. No wild anticipation, no deep dread. Unfortunately, we know too many who haven’t made it to this milestone. So rather than lamenting it, I’m honouring it with wisdom from incredible women who have walked this path before me.

For once, my outrage is completely reasonable. Here's why I’ve been obsessed with Belle for the past decade and why I’m furious that she’s got away with her deceit.

My last uni subject is writing fiction for young adults. It’s not an area I’ve explored much as a writer, or a reader (since I was a teen!), so it’s been enlightening learning more about the books aimed at 13-18 year-olds. Are they only for teens though?