I didn't grow up yearning to be an author. I tried my hand at a few things; dish pigging, brick cleaning, physiotherapy, commodities trading...then I started writing one day. I didn't have any real plan. I just felt compelled to fill a blank page. That compulsion was related to one very specific moment, a dawn bus ride through southern Mexico years earlier. I remember it so clearly, the act of writing those first scribbles, sitting awkwardly at my laptop, sweating bullets in

*An excerpt from Sweet Dreams of Fanta I pull Lizzie in for a cuddle while I sit on the steps of the front verandah and look down at my feet in a pair of double pluggers. I start shuffling them in a Michael Jackson moonwalk dance and sing along. “Just eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Get yourself an egg and beat it! If it’s getting cold reheat it!” Lizzie starts barking. Mum stands over my shoulder. “You’re a funny sausage you are.” I look up to see Sam Chambers jog past with

Around the middle of the third term of year four my mum had had a gutful of Catholic education. Three years earlier she’d had a gutful of the public system and two years hence she’d be well and truly done with alternate independent schooling also. Mum was a perfectionist I suppose and I was a willing guinea pig. Based on old photos, the emphasis would be on pig. By the start of term four in 1990, I was walking into my first day at International Grammar School in Surry Hills,

*An excerpt from Slippery by Liam Carroll* Joel pops the trunk and waves me up, “Right mate, all clear, out you get.” I push my golf club camouflage away and edge forwards. The heat overwhelms me. I’m so sick of the equator. We’re a short way down a dirt road in the shade of some tropical overgrowth. I hop out and feel the side of my head, the cut seems to have healed over somewhat and the bleeding has at least stopped. “Flynn, there’s a train station around the corner. Get a

Did you hear about the dyslexic, insomniac, agnostic? He couldn’t sleep at night, sick with worry, unsure if there was a dog. Poor fella. I have no idea if there is a God or not, surprise, surprise! Though I do love seeing Richard Dawkins debating various religious nitwits and anyone else deranged enough to indulge in arguments about all this impossible to prove rhetoric, getting all hot and bothered and abusive. If Jesus was indeed born of the virgin, Mary, and crucified for

The humble beginnings of the modern era’s undisputed and unrivalled heavyweight defecator champion of the world, Sir Brian 'Pooh Pooh' Taylor, can be traced back to the steamy, tropical streets of Bali in the late 1980’s. It is written into mythology that a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Brian Taylor was nursing a heady case of sunstroke following his first full day in the Indonesian archipelago, surfing the world-renowned breaks from Airport Rights to Kuta Reef on the cusp of Bal

*An excerpt from Slippery by Liam Carroll* Our hotel room has a bare-bones ‘Prison Break’ chique; white tiled floors worn into a mushroom grain thanks to the oppressive southern Mexico heat, three rust-encrusted, steel-framed single beds that appear unappreciative of the Pacific ocean’s proximity, and a door-less dunny that should be entertaining later on after generous servings of chili doused, black bean tortillas washed down with tequila. We throw our bags to the floor, do

The chooks are more dependable than clockwork in this outer realm of Indonesia, up bright and chirpy, cuckooing their way through the dawn.

*An excerpt from Slippery I’m woken from my tequila-induced slumber by the captain’s rushed Malay gibberish. He stops talking as he pulls the boat around to where I’m lying on the concrete wall. I sit up, rub sleep from my eyes and try not to whiff my rancid breath. I step down onto the boat, brushing off his outstretched hand to help me aboard, saying what any Aussie lamb to the slaughter would, “she’ll be right, mate.” I’m no historian, but I’m fairly certain these words pa

You’ve made the conclusive decision that you are 100% determined to lay your soul bare on the page and write from that most vulnerable place where you truly open yourself and your deepest feelings to the reader. Yep, you’re all in. You’ve set aside the time to write your manuscript and have maybe even rented a cabin in the mountains or some seaside oasis of creativity to ensure your writing will be of the highest calibre possible. The cupboards are stocked with Nescafe and Ti

It’s been brought to my attention that I can perhaps offer some insights into the process of being able to take that novel that is merely an idea hogging space in your thoughts and hopefully assist anyone interested in how best to bring those promising ideas from your mind all the way to a living, breathing novel that is captured for eternity on the page…for better or for worse. Firstly, it’s critical to answer two questions: 1/ Are you prepared to write a novel that is strai

Peter always treasured the world that was going on around him. You’ll find these people along your way, kind souls who are stoked simply on being alive. There’s a calm to be found in their presence, a sense that all is the way it should be, and it’s bloody beaut just like that. Something he especially loved was taking a few minutes at a lookout. I’m sure at similar moments when he wasn’t with me he’d light up a joint to mark the moment, but when it was me and Super Dad, we’d

Given the powers of time travel there are many people I’d like to thank if I could jump back a few years between now and 1980. There are the many loving souls, close family and friends who supported and encouraged me in any way they could and are unfortunately no longer with us. There are sporting heroes, rock gods, and any array of public figures that were instrumental in shaping and inspiring me. But, above all, there are the bullies. Nothing firms your focus, strengthens a

I dedicated Slippery to my dad, the man who taught me to think clearly and laugh loudly, always. And over this past week, being bombarded with endless Mental Health stories and interviews to commemorate Mental Health Week, I think this dual lesson Dad provided is the greatest survival technique I’ll ever learn. At the age of 7, being in the sweet spot of seeing the world clearly in black and white, right and wrong, good and bad, I vividly remember one afternoon catching the f

*An excerpt from Slippery It’s almost midday. There’s a lack of construction noise in this part of the city, most of the old buildings in the immediate vicinity are heritage listed and safe from Bangladeshi operated jackhammers. This means I am actually able to wake up leisurely and with a degree of peace. I stay lying in bed, checking my emails on the Blackberry, nothing urgently important in the hundreds of subject titles I scan over amongst the unread list. Week one. Done.