One Year Later

PPBSOne year ago today — May 8, 2017 — was my first day as a bookseller at Potts Point Bookshop.

I’ve had a tremendous time here, and I continue to be blessed — I know, I know; groan —  each and every day for getting to do what I do for a living, with the amazing people I work beside. I’d like to think that I’ve contributed — or rather, perhaps, am in the process of contributing — something meaningful to the shop and its community; something that’s made, or will make, the shop better; something that’s made its customers happier, that keeps them coming back in droves.

But I don’t want my first anniversary at Potts Point Bookshop to be about me. I’d rather it be about the people I surround myself with every day, who make me who I am, and the bookshop what it is. While my first anniversary is significant to me, obviously, in the grand scheme of things, I’m just a footnote in the shop’s illustrious history, which has achieved such grandeur in the Potts Point community and the publishing industry thanks to the following people, whose mere presence makes it a delight to come into work every day.


I had never met Anna prior to sitting down for coffee with her when I interviewed for the job at Potts Point Bookshop, but we immediately hit it off, as only booksellers and book lovers can. The fact that Anna is so well-respected not only among our staff and the local community, but around the industry, speaks volumes about the kind of person she is. Anna saw promise in me and has allowed me to expand my role at the bookshop, creating the nascent Crime Book Club, and letting me accompany her to a variety of events. Maybe she saw a hunger in me, the want and drive to do things outside of the stuff I was already comfortable with doing; whatever it was, she has made it happen for me, and continues to do so. I will always be thankful to her for that. Anna’s guidance and words of support have turned me into a far better bookseller than I was when I arrived. She has always made me feel welcome, respected and appreciated. She always has words of wisdom to put my mind at ease when it needs soothing, and encouragement when it’s time to do the next big thing. Her guiding hand has been instrumental for me.


Tim has been at Potts Point for some time, so when he has an opinion on something, you want to listen, because he knows exactly what he’s talking about. This made me respect him from the get-go, and even as a newbie, Tim made me feel welcome and was always friendly to me. He made me feel at home even during that weird period as I transitioned from one bookshop to another, and had to learn the “Potts Point Way” of doing things. As the months have passed, Tim and I have grown closer, talking about a variety of subjects and having a great many laughs in the process. I’ve always appreciated his immense knowledge, his experience, and his sense of humour. More than anything, I appreciate all of the guidance he’s given me over the last 12 months.


Naomi is probably the person I’m most comfortable around at Potts Point Bookshop, as evidenced by my uncanny ability to break into a soliloquy about whatever dorkish subject that takes my fancy, or hum tunelessly when a late-nineties pop song comes to mind. Always accommodating and accepting of me and my little quirks — and my questionable culinary skills — Naomi’s quiet determination and dedication to our customers has made me rethink the way I go about some things, and her book knowledge is inimitable. She’s also just a genuinely good person, and someone who is a pleasure to be around. 


Kate is the bookseller I want to be. A voracious reader, like me, but whereas that’s the end of my skill set, Kate is capable of coherent thought, and eloquent, intelligent discourse about the books she’s read. Always ebullient, a delight to be around, and always on-point with her recommendations, although we only sporadically work together, I’m thrilled every time we share counter space together, because one day, surely, I’ll inherit some of her natural verve. Of if not, being in her presence makes me a better bookseller.

Thank you!


Oh, Valentine’s Day

Oh, Valentines Day. A day of unmet expectations. Or inappropriately exceeding expectations – guilty! – when there were none in the first place.

(Because nothing is more awkward than giving someone flowers on Valentine’s Day and getting the text message: “Thanks. That’s sweet. X.” as a response. We, uh, never spoke again).

For those in established, long-term relationships, it can feel like an obligation. Not that either partner hates showering their loved ones with affection; just, why does it have to be on this day, this corporate holiday? Grrr!

For blossoming romances, it’s a chance to go all out. To make it official: we’re boyfriend-girlfriend! Or boyfriend-boyfriend. Or girlfriend-girlfriend. Whatever! As of right now! With these flowers! We’re a thing! It’s real!

Despite it’s corporateness, I love Valentine’s Day. Few days embolden me more to stew in my own personal cocktail of insecurity, honesty, immodesty and self-deprecation. It’s designed for those in fledging relationships, or aspiring romances, to take a chance. Yeah, go on. Send those flowers! Send that card! Tell her you like her!

Oh, it’s not reciprocated? That’s OK. It’s Valentine’s Day. We’re all a little love-crazed on Valentine’s Day. It’s fine. Normalcy resumes tomorrow.

One of my ill-famed Valentine’s Day moments (of which there is a phone book) occurred just out of High School. This girl and I, we weren’t going out yet, but there was a spark, I was sure of it. Or at least, pretty sure. There was maybe a spark. Possibly. One minute I’d think, Yeah, something’s here, and the next I’d think, God, what are you thinking?! But on this Valentine’s Day I woke up thinking: this is it. Time to do something huge. Time to make my move.

It was time to send flowers.

There were problems with this plan. Firstly, I couldn’t afford flowers. Secondly, I was petrified of delivering them: what would I say when she answered the door? What would I say if a parent answered the door?! Thirdly, how would I get to her place? I didn’t drive. The answer was my mum and dad. Which added a fourth problem: telling my parents I liked a girl, and dealing with the repercussions.

Anyway, to cut it short: I borrowed money from my parents, got a lift from them, and arrived at the girl’s house… where I promptly dropped the flowers on the front veranda and dashed back to the car. I don’t think I screamed “Go! Go! Go!” at my mum, but I probably wanted to. Then I whipped out my phone and texted her something like: “Left flowers on your veranda. Hope you like them.” Or something similarly poetic. And I probably added a smiley emoticon, because when your heart is all aflutter, emoji’s work wonders. It worked out OK in the end, though. Somehow. Miraculously. Well, for a while.

I totally get that there are those who view Valentine’s Day as a day of required love, and abhor it for that reason. I guess I have this inexplicable partiality for seeing people loved-up. Not that I want to witness their public displays of affection, you understand, but there is something very unifying and heartening about seeing couples holding hands, leaning into each other, roses, or another gift, in hand.

Some days it feels like the world is full of hate and bitterness. Valentine’s Day might be infested with corporateness, and for those without that ‘special someone’ (and especially those who, quite frankly, don’t want a ‘special someone’), the whole day can feel like a gigantic Fuck You. But there are too few days that encourage humanity to showcase their love and affection for one another. I can’t help but bask in it.

Although the day we shatter status quo on marriage in this country and let any two people wed will make it absolutely pale in comparison.

Tonight I’m Missing Home

It started with a song: Swedish House Mafia’s Don’t You Worry Child. Not my usual jam, but my iPhone was on shuffle, and tuned to my Running Playlist after an unconvincing 9km jog around Prospect Park this evening. In the rain, no less. Humph.

Running July

I downloaded the song the day before I ran my first half-marathon in September last year. I needed a playlist, and Robbie William’s Greatest Hits wasn’t going to cut it – – although Millennium and Bodies made it on. Naturally. Alas, there was no place for Feel, my patented Favorite Song of All Time. Still waiting for the right remix. It’ll come, I’m telling you; it’ll come.

Anyway, September 21, 2013: the day I ran my first half-marathon with best mate, Aveek. It started at Milsons Point and headed right over the Sydney Harbor Bridge. And I mean, right over. As in, they halt traffic and let the runners have their away. Amazing! See?

Running Bridge

And that song – –  Don’t You Worry Child – – started playing as I had this iconic view of Sydney, in all its morning glory.

So naturally, that sticks in my head, and resonates, and reminds me of home.

But more than that, the song reminds me of the night before, when Aveek and I stayed at a random backpackers hostel about a kilometer from the half-marathon starting point. There was the usual banter, you know, mate-to-mate chat. We went to bed early; had to be up at 5am, after all.

Nothing of note happened. I didn’t reveal my deepest, darkest secret to Aveek. He did not reveal his.

But for some reason, tonight, when I was running, and that song came on, my mind shifted back to that night. And of the afternoon after the run; sharing a 9am beer at the Sydney Opera House, exhausted as heck, and hungry. Man, we were hungry.

And that leads to other memories. Other runs, around home, my daily ritual; coming home, running more or less the same route, six nights a week. My second half marathon around Homebush; eating Chinese food the night before, with my parents. A mistake, let me tell you. And an earlier memory, running the City2Surf in August, with a bunch of mates, and the beers and banter afterwards.

Turns out one song is the key to unlocking the memories, and letting them flood.

So, tonight I miss home. The memories are returning thick and fast.

But I’m in New York now. Time to make some new ones.

The Running Man


I began running consistently on the 9th June 2013.

I started because I’d agreed to participate in The City 2 Surf with a couple of mates. Two of them were regular runners. Their stats on the Nike Running app proved this. I was approaching the looming 14km run – and the dreaded killer hill – with an extensive history of cardio reserved exclusively for the gym. Six days a week I spent half-an-hour on the treadmill and twenty minutes on the bike, listening to music or podcasts, bored not-quite to tears, but close, as I expunged memories of a day sat at a desk, staring at a screen.

I was never a fit guy. I was, actually, the fat kid in school. It never really bothered me because very few kids derided me for it – at least not to my face. Sure, there were stifled remarks when it came to participating in weekly sport and things like that, but they weren’t cutting. No, the punches that packed the most wallop came from within – that voice in the back of my mind that lambasted me for not being able to do what everybody else seemed to find so easy. I’m very critical about myself. I always have been. Scathing, in fact. My own recriminations hurt far more than anything somebody else could articulate. But for a long time, in my younger years, I was stuck in a vicious, depressive cycle of wanting to change who I was, but not having the confidence to do it.

One day, that changed. I was inspired by several friends who had begun to take their personal fitness and development seriously. And I was buoyed by a growing love for football (soccer). So, at 17 years of age, I began running down to the park every afternoon after school and would kick a ball around for an hour. On my own, using rugby posts as goals, I would dribble past an imagined opposition, score, send the ball downfield, chase it, and begin again.

And I loved it.

Especially as, over time, my stamina grew. I began running for longer – began running faster – and by the time I graduated I was looking leaner.

And with that came occasional plaudits from my peers.

“Looking good, man.”

“Man, how much weight’ve you lost?”

I could never gauge the sincerity of these comments, because my brain would always warp those comments into condemnations of my previous size. Their comments, to me, sounded like:

“About time you lost some weight, you fat f**k.”

More time passed. I joined a gym. These were my university days, where I would sometimes skip classes just to ensure I spent a few hours doing cardio. Now, family would say I was too thin. “You don’t eat,” they’d say. “You spend too much time at the gym.” But exercise was my drug. When I was involved in physical activity, that devious, self-deprecating voice in my mind dissipated. I would often postpone going out with friends and family in order to squeeze in another session. I wasn’t interested in toning my figure. Whatever that means. I wasn’t really interested in anything besides culling that Goddamned voice. I exercised to silence it.

It was like that for a long time. I went to the gym because I had to. I hated it. I was bored. There is nothing worse, more monotonous, than running on a treadmill and staring at the same wall, day in, day out. But I needed to drown out the voice, so I continued.

Cut to earlier this year. Still going to the gym six days a week. Maintaining a routine I genuinely despised. Then I agreed to do the City 2 Surf, and I forced myself to change my routine, to actually begin running on the street and partake in proper training.

And you know what? Like football at the park, all those years ago, I loved it.

Free from the routine – able to navigate a variety of routes around my neighbourhood and beyond – I ticked off the City 2 Surf and promptly signed up for a couple of half-marathons. I am challenging myself to take on a full marathon next year. I’m not sure if it’s a realistic target – I am pretty wiped after 25km, let alone 40km – but it’s something to strive for.

And, see, that’s the difference. Now I run to challenge myself – to reach targets, and hopefully break personal bests – and because I enjoy it. The voice is still there. Of course it is. Occasionally it pierces the hard shell I’ve cocooned myself in. But it’s no longer the reason I spend hours of my week pounding the pavement. I do it because I derive genuine pleasure out of every run – even the bad ones.

2013 and Beyond

tumblr_mg1lsgCFxj1rcrw09o1_5002013 began in the company of two of my greatest friends in a small, chock-full bar in Santa Monica.

And it was awesome.

We drank, laughed and danced.

The latter is, worryingly, becoming a tad too recurrent for my liking in recent months.

What can I say; I’ve got no rhythm.

When initially planned, the trip was a solitary affair. I am quite content with my own company; possibly to the extent that, if left unchecked, I’d collapse into full reclusive status.

And I’m sure, had things progressed as planned, I’ve had enjoyed my time away.

But I’ve no doubt it wouldn’t have been half the fun.

Not even a quarter.

And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have got my photo with a Stormtrooper.

When I reflect on 2012, I think of it was a foundation year; setting me up for 2013 and beyond.

I quit my job and moved into the field I’d always intended, working in an editorial department, learning the ropes with some amazing professionals, who inspire me every day to work harder and, simply, be better than I currently am.

I wrote a lot – oodles of drafts – polished several projects – but didn’t submit as many as I wanted.

I froze up when it came time to pull the trigger.

In 2013 that will not happen.

I’m blessed to be friends with several writers and artists, all of whom are at various rungs of their professional careers. Their successes motivate me to continue on this path and put in the hard yard that are necessary to get anywhere. These guys are incredibly talented, but they haven’t rested on their laurels. They have worked damned hard – and I need to do the same.

I must do the same.

In 2013 my mindset must be: No Fear.

In all walks of life.

I am too comfortable in the shadows. Too content to wallow in my own self-doubt. Everybody has lulls. But perhaps up until now I’ve been too comfortable with simply latching onto it and using it as an excuse.

No more.

I want 2013 to end as it began.

With the drinks, laughter and dancing, sure. That’s a given.

I want to end it happy. In the company of those dearest to me.

And with several thousand words out there, circulating.

It’s all down to me.

What Matters Most

16 DecI didn’t write a word this weekend.

And that’s okay.

It was my mother’s birthday weekend – the big six-zero – so everything else but those celebrations faded into the background.

My mother is my best friend. She’s an amazing woman, and with my Dad at her side, they’ve shaped me into the man I am now –  and the man I will become.

I’m not very happy when I’m not writing, but this weekend I was.