As a writer, its worth the discipline (and the attempt) to write your life story. I was recently challenged to write it in 500 words or less. Of course, not thinking of the brevity I required, I thought I'd start at the logical beginning -- birth.
Old family photo, 1979, on the duchess, 2014.
My Story
The beginning wasn’t as inauspicious as Patrick Suskind’s character in Perfume, Grenouille, who memorably expels from his mother’s womb into a dank and smelly fish market within the first chapter. (Perfume would, incidentally, feature in my life but not in a Suskind kind of way).
My entry into the world began at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Adelaide. I might have been a little smelly, but that I don’t recall.
Prepubescent ambitions encouraged by my father included archaeology – I wanted to dig up Tutankhamen, although it hadn’t occurred to me then that someone had beaten me to it. I also wanted to be a psychologist, probably to figure out my misfit siblings – I became one of eight.
The real giveaway as to what my future would hold would be how dedicated my eight year old self was to reading the Neverending Story. That, and a heightened sense of childish injustice that was remitted upon my younger brother.
At the age of 11 my Step Dad and Mum moved us to Rockhampton. The city of churches was replaced by the meat capital of Australia. As far as I know, a super-sized Bull will still greet you if you drive in on the Bruce Highway.
School bags would be replaced by ports, recess for little lunch and bathers for togs. Riding out to First Turkey, the local national park at our back fence, to look for crawchies*, spot wild boars and run away from snakes would become a familiar game.
During this time my 14 year old self was given a bottle of Poison by Dior. A far too heady scent for one so young, my classmates must have wilted in their chairs beside me. Nevertheless I wore it religiously.
Religion would come upon me in my late twenties. It would also redirect my sense of justice toward the global poor.
But I should answer how we arrived in Melbourne. I guess the meat capital of Australia just couldn’t contain me, or my family, for one second more. We landed in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne. Just in time to begin year 12.
It was a seven minute walk to my new school. They offered Literature and English as separate subjects. I only thought of taking both.
Enter life in university, and yes, I did start psychology. But it quickly paled in comparison to my love of English Literature. This is in spite of being the slowest reader I know. Truth be told all the books on my bookshelves are yet to be read. Those I finish, I give away.
Life’s whirlwind dutifully scooped me up. Travel, meeting people, independent filmmaking, meeting more people, selling fragrance, wearing fragrance, dancing with the idea of becoming a writer but being terribly bashful and afraid of never overcoming my adolescent attempts, until little else became an option.
Justice and stories would finally meet in a passion-filled career working for not-for-profits.
And my daily writer’s habit? A good dousing in perfume.
*yabbies (in South Australian)