The Making(s) of Me—Romantic Comedy Author
Once Upon a Bloody Time …
I wished for a life like the princess in the fairy tale.
I thought it was within the realm of possibility because heaps of female book characters were living the dream. So was Barbie.
My Enchanted Evening Barbie, all dolled up in her pink satin gown, fluffy white wrap, long gloves, and triple-strand pearl choker, looked every bit a princess.
As I approached adolescence, that wish fulfilment wasn’t looking too promising. The thing is, I had come to dislike the storybook princess. She, with her impossibly small waist and her Cinderella complex—itching for the opportunity to tell a man, ‘You complete me’—made me want to barf.
By the time I graduated from my training bra, I knew I wouldn’t make princess. Why?
- A princess needs a prince, and I had no role model for a storybook one. My father was uncouth and he farted a lot. And my mum never let me have a Ken doll. I think she feared Ken would shag Barbie under her roof. (Helllooo! As if he could do anything with that moulded plastic junk …)
- I preferred ugg boots to stilettos
- I had a smart mouth, no decorum, and would laugh at inappropriate times
- And I was more into shovelling industrial-strength chocolate ice cream over nibbling at undressed lettuce.
I was not cut out for princess-hood. Nuh-uh. But after I’d won a crate of Coke in an inter-school essay competition, I knew I was destined to become a published author.
Still, the road most travelled beckoned. The lure of the picture-perfect Disney princess and her animated life were hard to resist. The pull of authorship was a way off. And anyway, I had some living to do first.
Them Raw Salad Days
So. I ate salad, got the waistline, wore froufrou frocks and found a prince. I was living, all right, but it was life in the not-so-fast lane.
I hosted Tupperware parties and hung with other princesses, schmoozing about stuff like … how to prevent lipstick bleed or how to avoid chiffon cake sag or how to fold a fitted sheet. I had become that girl.
Then other horrible things happened. The rhinestone tiara toppled and I fell into a different kind of hell: the underworld habitat of perverse stories—those god-awful ancient myths at the root of fairy tales and all other stories.
That debased basement of the psyche is a harrowing place to be but a good place to go to. You can see much from a bird’s-eye view, but it’s only from a worm’s-eye view that you fully understand it.
I got that I had got my childhood wish. I also got that the prince, even with all his fancy footwork, couldn’t save me from the monstrous voices in the depths.
Still, the pen is mightier than the sword, right? The girdle and gloves were off, I started keeping a personal journal and I gave what-for to this immortal lot! Tried to, at least.
And though writing seemed like the most natural thing to do and I felt more alive than I had during my pseudo charmed existence, it was like drowning in slops.
Then, just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, comedy emerged from the wreckage.
A Meaty Existence
It presented in the form of a potty-mouthed goddess, one who embodies a holy kind of filth. And my earthy humour, which had got me into trouble as a kid and had been gagging on moralism for too long, could no longer be straitjacketed.
Her Bawdiness showed me the absurdity of the human condition and the healing potential of laughter in a society that’s seeing a little too much of the suppressed monsters’ influence. With her as my muse, I started writing my first book.
And so, what you will read in my books—the sheer brazenness—is not my fault. She made me write it, I swear (… often). But I’m not complaining: she made me a writer.
I feel like a good fit in the category of Australian author because the Aussie humour is tongue-in-cheek and lippy. And I love being a romance writer. Through my protagonist, I get to be my own brand of princess: not a twenty-two-inch waisted codependent drag. Nope. More Princess Kiss My Arse than Princess Pushover.
I’m a blogger too. Most of my blog posts are satirical. I can’t help that—it’s the way I’m wired. But some are of a more serious nature. Why? Because life is romance and comedy, and everything in between; because I know that, like me, you need the whole story, and only you can complete yourself. It makes for a more realistic kind of happily ever after … end of story.