Articles / Blog

Let’s be honest: trying to get published in Australia is like trying to hitchhike across the Nullarbor with a manuscript and a dream. You might get picked up, but odds are you’ll be left standing in the dust, waving at a mirage. I’ve spent years sculpting stories - tragicomic, mythic, putting my raw emotion onto pages that yearn to be read. I’ve written about emus winning wars, barefoot elders guiding lost kids through the desert, and boys chasing hope up the Newell Highway.

It was the summer of ’98. I was thirty-something, still clinging to the last strands of youth like a mullet in denial. Jan and I had just survived another chaotic Christmas with her extended family in Frankston, and I was itching for escape. Not just from the in-laws, but from the creeping dread of adulthood. Bills. Routine. The slow death of spontaneity. So I packed up the twins - Ollie and Garrett, aged nine and ten, full of sugar and sibling warfare - along with Jan, my l

I was 52 when my son Oliver went mildly viral on YouTube, he was 16 at the time. One moody acoustic cover of “Ocean Eyes” and suddenly he was the next bloody Ed Sheeran. Twelve thousand views, a few flirty comments from girls named Tahlia, and a DM from some local producer who used phrases like “raw talent” and “emerging voice.” I watched the video on loop, each view a dagger to my middle-aged heart and long-forgotten dreams. I taught that kid how to hold a bloody guitar. I b

Artificial Intelligence has become the new scapegoat for everything from missed deadlines to getting fired, to your partner having an affair. People love to complain about AI stealing jobs, ruining creativity, or plotting to take over the world. But maybe it’s time to stop whining and just deal with it. After all, AI isn’t going anywhere, and neither are the problems it supposedly creates. So, buckle up, because this is a no-nonsense, satirical take on why the endless bitchin