The story begins with a wayward creative writing student, who opts to abandon his half-written novel to boxes—strand one—to embark on the marathon of a doctoral project. Here he delves into men and their sexuality, uncovering something of himself in the process—the second strand. A decade later, slightly more enlightened, perhaps, yet not-so-slot-able into scholarly silos of universities today, he packs up his Sydney life to go travelling, starting an adventure through the United Kingdom and Ireland that he had long planned—the final strand.
My writing journey has been a meandering-yet-meaningful one, like many good stories, I suppose. As an Australian—no, not quite—I have had a love affair with my own roots, and the desire to chart a longer personal heritage has been a harbour within: part built, part natural. Since finishing my doctoral training, I have seized any chances to traverse the oceans that have kept this history from me. When I could, I have returned, and when I could not, I have reminisced and discovered through writing. How ever you have come to arrive here, by what ever channel or circumstance I have managed to snag you as a reader, welcome, and do visit again.
For this year, from that period when that place across oceans was more removed from me than ever in my lifetime, I took a different course: I bound the various strands of my writing story so far and fashioned some purpose from them, to release my first novel into the world—and this is just the start of the stories I have planned.