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I consider myself to be a fan of George Orwell, much like the majority of emerging writers who look upon any person capable enough to conquer literature itself. However, upon reading his text ‘Why I Write’ I thought it impossible to simplify the motives of the writers of the world and history with just four categories. Only, it’s hard to challenge a theory when it applies to you, as while I petulantly evaded ‘sheer egoism’ I knew that I had no chance trying to deny ‘aesthetic enthusiasm’. Only when I attended my first Foundations class and met a diverse group united by one passion did I truly understand Orwell’s implication: the four motivations listed are not solidified by goal orientation, but rather a suggestion for the desire to simply produce.

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The Wurrunggi Biik stands tall and proud, watching the students, teachers, workers, the people of today’s Australia. It stands through soft summer days, and it remains standing through the harshest of rain and wind, watching even as the people of today’s Australia spare it fleeting glances as they pass. Yes, the folds of the metal sculpture stand when the wrath of white invaders tore down the inhabitants- the custodians of this ‘terra nullius’. From the delicately stitched cloaks of possum skin, discarded in muddy red earth, the sculpture of metal has arisen. In a street of today’s Australia, more commonly recognised as Naarm, the cloak shields what is left of a history almost lost. It is not only a possum skin cloak, but a suit of armour made to protect the lost spirits and promote the rejuvenation of ancient culture. Its possum skin may be strong and wielding, but the folds open to reveal its rich history to those who search for it.

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Any writer can look at their work and claim it to be as influential as a masterpiece, or as worthless as a week-old shopping list. They can cherish it with their time and energy, teaching it to crawl and helping it to take its first steps. They can boast to others about its perfection, and cry to their mother over the phone when no words stick to the pages. They can expect it to be received by the world with open arms solely because it is their own. But it is the editor who is just as influential as the writer. It is the editor who not only points out the piece’s flaws when no one else would dare, but also highlights the piece’s brightest traits, overlooked by the fleeting eyes of its creator. The writer may be the one who sketches the words that no one else thinks, but it is the editor who makes such thoughts comprehendible, no matter how invasive the process.

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Of the 10 books I have listed in my 'latest reads' list, only seven of the ten have been finished, and three of those seven were compulsory texts assigned by my high school. Admittedly, part of this was due to a pressure caused by my entry into this course seeing as I don't consider myself 'well read', especially in relation to classics. There are books I didn't list that joined my much, much longer list of unfished books, the majority of which being iconic classics. Oftentimes I found that their reputation was far more exciting than the novel itself, resulting in a gruelling process where I dragged my eyes over every word like it were gravel. So often I find that pleasure is robbed by pressure. Therefore, while exploring new genres of texts introduced to me through this course, I intend to discover what it is that I enjoy most in reading, regardless of its reputation.

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“How tragic,” he remarked, voice somber. “For a bird to look like that.”
Her eyes met his with a look of confusion before they followed his grief-stricken gaze to the center of the room. “Nothing tragic about it.”
“I saw one in Japan, once,” he continued, ignorant to or otherwise ignoring her blunt response. “Have you?” He was met with silence occupied only by the forceful clicking of a keyboard from across the table. “You haven’t. So you could never truly know just how tragic that bird- that rendition of a bird, is.”
An impatient huff preluded a sharp mutter of a reply. “I’ve seen one before. Pink. Long neck.”
“Stained with toxic waste? Mutilated? Crushed at the chest?”
“Obviously not,” she snapped, flexing her jaw. “But that’s not real, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” His matter-of-fact tone earned another huff or frustration. “But, like I said, it’s a rendition of how our Western society has come to view wildlife. It’s distorted, unnatural, a sign of the worst that’s to come when our planet falls into permanent disrepair after-”
“It’s a cup holder.” Her gaze was heavy, her tone final. “It’s an inflatable flamingo made to hold a can of beer, not a sign of the apocalypse.”
He sniffed, finally looking to meet her eyes, irritated but understanding in a way that he didn’t want to consider just yet. “Same difference to me.”

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The 17 Stages of Joseph Campbell's Monomyth are experienced by not only the heroes that writers create, but also the writers themselves. Rarely has a story ever come easy to me, and never have I completed a story without the help of some supernatural aid (AKA: my friends or my teachers). Writers face monsters of their own, chimeras of borrowed time and hydras of self-criticism, tasked with a pen for a sword and a laptop for a shield. In my experience, the scariest of all is the leap of commitment, the knowledge that there is only two possible ends to the path that is chosen. Either you will come out victorious with a story that rewards you with the riches of praise and pride. Or you can fail, and even if you rid yourself of the burden of a story-in-process, that draft will taunt you into diving into fire once more or haunt you as you approach your next quest. I'd like to learn to craft potions of mana and strength out of the items I collect on abandoned journeys, but perhaps the best of stories are crafted with the rawest materials.

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“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry- I didn't see you and-”
“It’s okay, seriously. I doubt you can see much in there anwyays.”
“Yeah- I mean trust me, take away the head and I totally would’ve liked to watch you walk away.”

“Didn’t think that tonight would be the night that I’d gain the bragging rights of being hit on by a moose."

“It's habit. But it was an eventual expectation?”

“Canada’s a pretty wild place.”

"We need Monty the Moose back on the field in five minutes!"
"Hey uh- listen. Did you also wanna tick 'knight in shining armour' off your list tonight?"

"Who's the blushing maiden in need of saving?"

"Monty. This suit's like, ten times my size and if I can't figure out the stupid knot on this drawstring I'm gonna have to have to add a new mascot costume to my student loan."

"Shit, okay, just tell me you're wearing pants under this, yeah? Uh, where's the drawstring?"
"Here, here, just- careful! That tickles."

"I'm trying. Dude, how tight did you tie this?"

"Not having my pants fall down in front of half the school sounded really great two hours ago. Besides, I had my friend Chris tie it cause-"
"Chris Strome? I work on the college paper with him and- Shit! Hold still!"
"No, nope, no way. I'd rather piss myself than totally blow my chances with Chris' hot mutual."

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"At best, it listens and looks out for a voice intent on singing, no longer cowed before the bully pulpit of the mind." - Mary Cappello

I’m halfway convinced that the algorithm scans our brains, ticking over our minds and sorting through the waves. I don’t want to write because I don’t like my thoughts, I want to pointedly ignore the dark cloud a little longer. “I never got Tiktok!” I brag as I flick through Instagram reels, same virus, different strain. One evening I lay on the couch while the light of the sunset illuminated the room, bathing it in its warmth. The reels Instagram gave me, one after the other, were videos that shone with that same summer glow. Poets, fields, books, artists, orchestral music, the perfect portfolio for the evening. Obscured blue light, a flawless recipe for a hit of dopamine. Lately, however, it’s… It’s. “I promise to give you guys a nice sunset”, the text on the screen reads, floating over the half-obscured face of a teenaged boy. Nonetheless, I swipe to the next, because it seems that kicking the corner of the coffee table is more cathartic than my responsibilities.

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The culture of Berwick Station is a culture of many, overlapping like waves licking the shore. Its racists and mysoginists and artists and poets. Children, students, parents and retirees. Men and women and people of all kind, never once conversing with each other, only sharing to me a piece of their contribution while they wait impatiently for their coffee. It is a culture ever changing, encrusted with seconds and minutes and fleeting glances, assumptions and misunderstandings. It’s a culture that has existed long before I found my place amongst it, and I can only wonder what it will be next time I visit.

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Mother of three, divorcee.

What does expreience mean

In the Hollywood scene?

More affable, she cries,

Than the rumours imply.

More capable, she pleads,

Even with her children of three.

The camera she craves

Is nothing like the stage.

Thirty years in broadway

To sell her face away.

A tragic tale or a dream?

Abandonment or security?

Steady employment, she demands

Whatever the price contends.

No grey in her hair,

Eyes bright and skin fair.

But no make up could touch up,

The creases around her smile.

Mother of three, divorcee.

What does experience mean

When you are just a has-been?

Failed wife, failed woman,

The silent phone contends.

Should've, could've might've been

America's next Marilyn.

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That voice is not mine. Realistically I know that it must be, that it is, but when I read the words the voice in my head that speaks them back to me is not my own. It's strained with the effort of appearing effortlessly, corrupted by some absurd determination to be unique. It's rushed like the 20-minute pomodoro I'd been given is never long enough, each sentence drawn out like my last. It tries to hide anxiety and feelings of incompetence with aloofness, as if calling one's own work inadequate is a niche kind of self-aware. My sentences today are still just as flowery and could probably maybe definitely be a little more concise or confident. I still write with the knowledge that it could be better, with time and with practice. But no longer is this a weight at my neck restraining my voice, rather, it is the comfort of the knowledge that everything I write is the best that I can manage. For now. And that self-deprecation and thinly masked insecurity will cut no corners, rather the tongue that once spoke words for the joy of it.

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The organic mass that is my writing stares back at me with its single eye, sliding about in its loose socket as it judges me with an inflated pupil. I stare back at it, dejectedly trying to avoid it as best as I can in this narrow corner of the world that I've carved out for the both of us. Sandwiched between work and study and other commitments, my writing was my relaxant, but now it's grown with its own volition and I can feel its hunger. "I'm busy," I plead. "I cannot feed you right now." But it sees the mass I cradle in my arms, a new story that struck me unexpectedly and stole my interest. I have but two choices, I'm sure, I can feed the young to the mature and soothe the judgement I feel, or allow the thorn in my side to grow until it is me that is consumed. I do neither. With a cleaver I rip apart the creation I once loved, I separate it into boxes marked with writing theory, I dissect those parts even as my skin crawls. In the box they will remain, a study they will be, and as my new story grows, with the old I will feed.