The Long Way Home - writing, like life, is a journey - the side trips we take add to the richness of

When I was 8-years-old I declared I would write stories when I grew up. But as I didn’t know any authors, I suspected they might be mythical creatures, who lived in faraway lands. In any case, they definitely didn’t live in the suburbs of Adelaide. Instead I followed the advice of well-meaning parents and carved out a career in journalism and then later as a media advisor. It has taken me decades to realise my initial dream. I was baffled in the first year of my Bachelor of Arts Journalism degree. I had been a star writer at school and couldn’t understand why my story assignments were coming back scored with red-penned comments like: “Get rid of the adverbs!” The penny dropped when our lectu

On turning 50

I recently sent out invitations to my 50th birthday party – a Sunday ladies’ lunch. While most people replied with great gusto – ‘Yes, I’ll be there with bells on – I can’t wait. There were at least a couple who replied – ‘Wow, you are brave!’ Brave? I didn’t understand? Why was I brave to have a 50th birthday party? I’d been having birthday parties since I was a child. There is always the worry that my diverse group of friends won’t get along or worse still that no one will turn up. These are age-old concerns. And it’s ‘old-age’ that we’re dealing with here. One friend suggested it was brave as a woman to admit publicly turning 50. Ah – so here is the heart of the problem. It’s not just th

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