We went to see Sufjan Stevens. On the way there, we argued about what time the show would start. Ridiculous. So maybe it was me, not him. I’d carried my life stresses into the concert hall with me, heaved them onto my lap and let them direct the tone of my night. My son’s illness, my sore foot, the moronic argument, all making it impossible to see beauty in the home movies screening behind the performers, to celebrate the poetry in Stevens’ love songs, to be moved by the profundity of his darker lyrics. While others nodded at the words ‘we’re all going to die’, I sighed. Come on, I thought. I tugged at my dress. My dress annoyed me. Continue reading
I am a writer and editor based in Melbourne, Australia.
My first novel is a 2014 Finalist for the PEN/Bellwether Prize and is represented by the Jacinta di Mase Agency. I'm grateful to have worked on the manuscript at Canada's Banff Centre. I'm writing my second novel.
I've written for publications/places including the Daily Beast, the Wheeler Centre, the Hoopla, the Age, the Melbourne Weekly, and Notebook magazine.
- The Mind-Numbing Artifice of Sufjan Stevens
- Marching Won’t Get Us Anywhere
- Silence = Writing
- Writing Tag
- Morrison, Diaz and Oates
- Good Reading & Listening List #2
- Good Reading & Listening List #1
- Exercise as Cure
- 4 Tips for Republicans
- Whose Home is it Anyway?
- Why I’m Holding Out
- Whatever You Do, Keep Doing It
- The Year 1913
- Australia, Go to Your Room
- Miranda July: We Think Alone
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