In July 2024, I was half-drunk in a bar in Bali getting a $10 tattoo on my wrist. My hair was bleached. My Hawaiian shirt had one button too many undone.

44 years old. Not exactly growing old gracefully. At least I didn’t have a cigarette hanging from my lower lip.

This scene was a stark contrast to my beige life in Sydney, with its nice Victorian house a short ride from Bondi Beach, two designer dogs, German car, double cuff shirts and tailored suits.

But, fuck that guy.

There’s letting loose while on holiday. This was a few steps further.

As metaphors go, this one was pretty heavy handed, but then again, maybe that was the point.

I hadn’t written since Pills came out back in 2017. Sometimes life just gets in the way. Sometimes there are more pressing things than self-indulgent art to waste your time with. [INSERT BULLSHIT EXCUSE HERE]

A few weeks later, I’m sat in my therapist’s plush office, bathed in ethereal white light. “What makes you happy?” she says.

“Coke,” I say, not missing a beat.

She rolls her eyes. I’m paying to crack jokes that are not appreciated.

A few minutes of silence pass. “Writing,” I concede.

“Well why don’t you write then?”

Why the fuck not?

Six months later I’ve almost finished a new novel. And it feels great.

My hair, unfortunately, is more or less back to its usual mousey brown with flecks of grey.