The fist fourteen years of my life I spent growing up in a little town at the bottom of Victoria named Yarram. Population around 2,100. We were surrounded by farms. There was one main street. I rode my bike to school each day, picking up my friends on the way. When I was a kid and playing too much Nintendo my mum made us ride to the other end of town to collect a leaf from a tree and bring it back for her to witness, just to get us out of the house (by the way, this brilliance of this I now understand as a parent – invariably we’d get caught up in doing something and Nintendo ended up being forgotten more often than not). The journey on bike from one end of town to the other was around thirty minutes. Twenty if you floored it.

It was pretty idyllic. Crayfishing with dad, cricket out the front of my house with friends at Christmas time, Christmas beetles encircling our heads. Finding a black snake slithering beneath a communications box out the back of my house and swearing for the first time, out loud. Going to the pool. Knowing everybody.

So how does this fit into Snake Island? Snake Island is actually the name of an island near Yarram. The main action of this novel takes place in Yarram and its surrounding townships. I changed the names of all of them (except Snake Island because come on…) because many of the characters are corrupt, and because it is such a small town I didn’t want to risk offending anybody (I’ve been very careful with names, but you can never be sure). Many of the details are different, but the core of both places is the same.

Here’s the thing though: my idyllic childhood does not marry up with, as Simon McDonald put it in an early review: The small town ambience is real enough to smell and taste; a good thing too, because I’m not sure I want to visit.

Because while Yarram is beautiful, and I love visiting now whenever I can (my grandparents and parents still live there), there were a few things that were difficult for my young self to navigate. Primarily, the way people discussed things. There were a lot of broken friendships and relationships in Yarram, and a lot of stubborn people holding onto a lot of anger. Snake Island is about forgiveness and redemption, and a lot of people in small towns can struggle to forgive. Grudges are held onto, and the resentment flames are fanned with their apathy.

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Yarram, like all beautiful things, could also be quite dangerous. It’s a rough place. It’s a farming community, and there isn’t a lot of room for softness. The people are born and bred tough, and if you don’t fit into that tradition, then you need to have a cup of concrete princess.

At the same time, small town communities can be very supportive. I have fond memories of competing in the Eisteddfod as a child. I was in grade four, and I recited a poem. I remember the entire old theatre being absolutely packed with people. I remember being cheered as I left stage. I’m not sure how often such open encouragement happens in larger communities. The people of Yarram are bred tough, but they stick together.

This became a huge part of Snake Island, and it was really helpful. It’s one of my favourite things of my childhood – somehow feeling both alienated and accepted is such a small town thing, and such a juxtaposition, that it became rife with the possibilities of dramatic tension. I hope you enjoy and loathe Yarram – or Newbury – as much as I did. I hope the sense of it is a strong as the one I have in my guts. This place was truly my home, and whenever I go back I feel its warm embrace and strange coldness all at once.