Inspiration

Environmental setting (or ‘world building’) is crucially important in novels. It not only establishes the tone and landscape of your plot but can transport the reader’s imagination right to the heart of the story.

The Therapist and The Thief is set in Clementine Valley, a rural community situated north-west of Brisbane, Australia. The township is fictional but inspired by my experience of working in Samford Village. 

I worked as a clinical psychologist in a group practice situated in an old, high-set Queenslander. Similar to Ana Allen’s fictional clinic, there was a circular gravel drive and a large tree in the front carpark. It too was tastefully and attractively decorated by the practice owner and my consulting room had soft, comfortable sofas and a beautiful big bay window, just like Ana Allen’s. In real life, I loved the beautiful open spaces, the delightful array of animals (especially the baby goats in the paddock next door), and the sense of connectedness and community in Samford.

I found it helpful to have experienced various small townships, each with a distinctly different culture. The sense of isolation and occasional peaceful solitude that tinged Veronica’s narrative was somewhat inspired by my recollections of life in the Australian outback.

I was a “bush kid” who spent my early childhood and primary school years in a mining town called Broken Hill, New South Wales. My mother was a Broken Hill native who was born in the local hospital shortly after my grandmother, in advanced labour, arrived in the rattling sidecar of my grandpa’s old motorbike.

I was an only child that was born into a very poor family that lived in a suffocatingly hot, red brick, rented flat on the edge of town. At that time (the 1970s) the road simply ran out of asphalt just a house or two past ours, and from there on was undeveloped bushland. Directly across the road was the Australian outback, wild and free. It was a wide expanse of red earth, rock formations, native grasses, salt bush, eucalypts and ghost gums.

I recall waking up with huge snakes in my bedroom in the summer months. Occasionally, I discovered them laying in bed beside me and on one memorable occasion, curled around my feet. They often ventured into houses on the outskirts of town so I swiftly learned how to calm my nerves and extricate myself carefully.  My grandmother was an expert at snake removal and could read both eye-rolling and hand signals like a pro.

Sturts Desert Pea spread in thick patches like weeds in various spots throughout our dusty back yard. My grandmother often ventured out at sunrise and dug it out with a shovel if it encroached on her makeshift garden bed. Armed only with a few second hand tools and a tattered Yates gardening guide, she somehow coaxed fertility from the sandy soil to supplement our meagre food supply. We could not afford seeds so she grew whatever edible plant cuttings could be found hanging over a neighbour’s fence or those that sprang up on public/common land.

I was forever out on my bike. In those days I was allowed to go out and play if I was home by dark. So, on most afternoons, weekends, and school holidays, I rode my bike around town or out into the bush.

As someone who currently has almost no sense of direction (thank heaven for Google maps), I marvel at the incredible in-built compass I possessed in childhood. After filling an old plastic water bottle from the outside tap, I typically rode my bike out into the bush for an hour or two, until I was either exhausted or beyond the reach of civilisation (whichever came first). I would stop in a place where there were no roads, no tracks, no sign of people, and town was no longer visible from any direction. I spent many an enjoyable day sitting still to watch, admire (and sometimes engage with) native wildlife. Many of those species I now know to be potentially deadly (this is Australia, after all) but as an animal loving child I had no fear. I also read books; collected rocks; explored; even slept out in the sun before riding home again, guided only by instinct. I don’t recall ever consciously considering directions, but I retrospectively assume that I must have used landmarks such as hills or rock formations.

A sense of peacefulness, contentment, of being able to breathe freely when alone (or in Veronica’s case under cover of darkness), were woven into aspects of the narrative. I find these recollections a warm, almost delicious memory, even after all this time.

I have a deep appreciation for the reflective process that arises unexpectedly within when weaving tales and letting my imagination run free. I imagine it may be a similar process to expressing creativity in any number of ways – cooking, playing music, dancing, painting, sculpting, creating in all its many and varied forms.

The well-known advice to writers - “write what you know” – speaks to me with a simple clarity. It seems that I manage to do so, regardless of my intentions, and not always with conscious awareness. Inspiration can be found anywhere – internally or externally – and for me, is in endless supply.