Sometimes, just when you thought a career was inaccessible, five words can transform the aspirational into the procurable, forever a defining moment in your life when one seldom walks through the doors of circumstance, and instead walks through the entranceway of design, only to wallow in the deep, dark and dreaded ocean of regret for having not walked through that other door. I visited that ocean once before in my life, when I chose to walk through the door of design to my professional calling, and thereby turning my back on the world of dramatic arts, a passion I had adored since I was four, yet by my mid-twenties, it appeared to be an inaccessible dream, only for me to be fifteen years later an older man, lamentably stranded in that ocean of ‘what might have been’. I would justify actions on the tripartite basis of stability, standing and sustainability, and there is merit in the third basis of that unholy trinity, because in my professional calling, I work until they nail down the lid on my sarcophagus.

Yet I had also unwittingly kept one ember burning from my days of creativity: writing. Indeed, during my halcyon younger days, I also wrote, including self-training in the complex art of film scriptwriting. However, writing poetry was my paramour, an ardent lover for whom I had an open door when the moment was right. Social media arrived during my early forties, and that one ember I retained from my salad days began to ignite a fire in my heart, and I leaped into the unknown universe of writing articles, ironically they mostly focused on self-confidence in pursuing one’s career goals, when I was the epitome of the antithesis of such strident beliefs in my own standing in the world, matters about my mental health to which I have referred to in some of previous newsletters. And then, in my forty-seventh year, a story entered my mind, like a lightning bolt; it thundered vociferously about that door of circumstance, earnestly imploring me to begin writing my first novel, The Flower Bed, a psychological crime thriller spanning decades and continents. It took me eight years to publish The Flower Bed– professional commitments, a pandemic, indecision and illness impeding my progress- nevertheless, when that first printed copy arrived in the mail at about this time two years ago, the lost boy had returned to his natural home.

There must be something about the number fifteen in my life, because by early August 2024, I was questioning whether choosing the door of circumstance and wearing another stylish hat, that of being an author, was really an open door for me to walk through, and venture down that yellow brick road of an uncertain universe. I had commenced writing my second novel before then. Still, working on the publication of The Flower Bed had interrupted my ability to make much progress writing another story that had flashed into my mind at the start of that year. I was an ingenuous babe in the woods of the world of marketing a print-on-demand novel, and notwithstanding the support of family and friends, the voice from the door of design beckoned me to leave that creative universe I so yearned for. Now, let me be candid, I had not turned my back on the door of design, nor will I ever do so, because I earned my professional calling through hard work of full-time study at night on weekends and at night while I was also working full-time, and also aspiration alone does not put a roof over your family’s head or food in their mouths. However, my fifteen-year itch of self-defeating misgiving was beckoning me to withdraw from the yellow brick road to once again close the door of circumstance, saying farewell yet again to my creative universe. Then, with an abundance of gratitude for the support I received from my darling wife, I decided to attend an author interview evening in early August 2024, yet this was not any author; it was the highly acclaimed and celebrated Michael Robotham. For about an hour, he spoke about his writing journey, including his challenging, disappointing moments, and then afterwards generously stayed behind to autograph copies of his recently published novel, Storm Child. Having been raised to be gallant, and also perhaps a bit leisurely, I stood back while a tsunami of Mr Robotham’s adoring fans sought his signature. Indeed, my gallantry and leisurely departure from my seat consequently left me at the end of the long lineup, patiently waiting while approximately fifty other people had their books signed by Mr Robotham. Finally, there I was last, the literal last man standing, a veritable Oliver pleading for one bowl more from what by now must have been a very tired author. Yet, to my surprise, Mr Robotham was very personable, and he inquired about my life before signing my book. Doing my best to observe brevity, which, I must admit, in my case, is an aspirational observation, I discussed my professional calling. I then humbly explained to him that I had published my first novel, though my ambivalence about being an author was evident. Mr Robotham scribbled away in my copy of his book while he kindly discussed the difficulties each author encounters during their writing careers. I was so engaged by Mr Robotham’s discussion that I did not notice what he had written in my copy of his novel, Storm Child. The following afternoon, I saw Mr Robotham’s book on the chaise lounge of my home chambers, where I had left it the previous evening when I returned from that splendid evening. To my surprise and good fortune, Mr Robotham wrote five words that forever define my existence: “Keep finding time to write.” Seldom can so few words have such importance at the crossroads of my own misapprehension. Absent from those five words was the mumbo jumbo of American motivational advocacy. Instead, it was tantamount to a set of riding orders from a General: “Get off your indecisive behind and finish that second novel and continue writing thereafter”. I returned to drafting the first manuscript of my second novel, and on the first day of November 2025, I proudly received the first copy of my second published novel, Two Minutes. I also continued marketing The Flower Bed, which I can proudly say is included in the catalogue of almost every capital city in Australia, save for the City of Sydney Council, a quest which I have not forsaken.

Last Sunday, I wrote to Mr Robotham to thank him for writing five simple words that had such a consequential impact on my life. It was an appropriate act of gratitude; the effect of his sagacity has now led me to reach the midpoint of the first draft of my third novel, and I am also compiling my first anthology. I write these newsletters each day to keep you, my loyal subscribers, informed about all aspects of the wonderful world of the Arts, while also maintaining my professional practice. Writing has brought another layer of meaning back to my life, namely my passion for the Arts, which is now manifested in my writing. Through all the mist of geopolitical uncertainty, I feel content; I have a beautiful family, I am almost five years sober, I have maintained my professional calling, and I am back in the creative universe I adore. Thank you, Michael Robotham, for your kind set of riding orders. And thank you to my loyal and supportive readers, for whom I shall continue to write until time has its final word.