It is mid-morning. You are walking through the city, minding your own business, when you spot something colourful on a stone fence up ahead. You pick it up. It is a journal, lovingly hand-made, and beautiful.

You think, “The owner of this will be devastated when they realise they’ve left it behind.” You start flipping through the pages backward. Not to read, not properly (you wouldn’t want to intrude on their privacy), but just to see if you can find a clue as to the owner.

That’s when you realise the journal is empty: open to possibilities, for stories, dreams, ideas, feelings as-yet untold. “Gosh,” you think, “I wish this was mine.”

But it is not quite empty, after all.

On the first page, you see writing. There is a message inside, inscribed by a local artist or writer. And the message is for you.

The journal is for you.

You have found one of 30 handmade journals that will surreptitiously be left in various places around Melbourne from 1 to 10 August this year, as gifts of “guerilla kindness” to whoever finds them. (You!)

It is a participatory project called “Sharing Ink” by public artist Sayraphim Lothian.

“I create these works as tiny moments of loveliness for the finder – that instant when the finder spots the work out of the corner of their eye, that moment when they realise that someone has made something and left it somewhere for them to find. That moment is the whole point of the work,” she says.

“As the artist, there is also a thrill to the unknowing… I’ll never know what happens to most of them, but there’s mystery and awesomeness in the unknown. While a thing is unknown, it could be anything. It’s only when you know that you narrow down the possibilities.”

Shall we take some slow walks through Melbourne together this week?

Photos of the journals (and the inscribers hiding behind them) all from the Sharing Ink blog). Last photo is of the journal materials ready for Sayraphim to make them.

This little angel and I are embroiled in a battle of the wills right now. And I fear she is both more patient and more stubborn than I am.

She spent most of the night last night fighting to stay awake. Not crying, just yelling, relishing the sound of her own voice, crying out “Aaaaa Aaaaa Aaaaa. Aaaaa Aaaaa Aaaaa. AAAAA. AAAAA. AAAAA” with a kind of fierce joy in our bedroom until the echos of her vocal gymnastics quite literally rang in our ears.

That started at 11pm. It is now 8.30am and we haven’t found resolution yet. I pray she will go to sleep. Madeleine is exhausted and I am destroyed, but she is absolutely determined not to sleep today. Not if she can help it. Instead, she has a story she wants the world to hear, and she is telling it as loudly as she can.

Madeleine is a talker. She tries to join in on other people’s conversations. When we read to her, she mimmicks us as best she can (generally with a stirring rendition of “Aaaaa Aaaaa Aaaaa.”) When the nurse at mother’s group is giving a talk, Madeleine attempts to drown her out with her very best “AAAAA. AAAAA. AAAAA.”

Having a little baby has taught me that some things I had always thought were learned behaviour are actually hard-wired into us. Like putting out the bottom lip when upset, something Madeleine does gloriously well, and which she did for the first time approximately 30 seconds after being born. Same goes for rubbing the eyes with fists when tired (there has been a lot of that going on this morning, by both of us).

The need to communicate is another. Even before she found her ‘talking’ voice, Madeleine tried desperately to communicate with me; with a chin-thrust, with a gummy smile, with a wail of displeasure. This kid is four months old and I swear she is already up to Chapter 17 of her memoirs.

I believe that story telling, in any format, is fundamental to the human experience. Our need to recap, reframe, and even reinvent our stories for others to hear goes to the core of what it means to be human, and to exist as part of a community. And the stories we tell ourselves are just as important as those we tell to others.

If I think about it, I guess this is the philosophy behind why I became a writer. It is certainly the philosophy that underpins the plot and characters in my book Airmail.

It is also the philosophy behind a summit called The Future of Storytelling, that was held in New York earlier this month. The organisers believe that “stories—in the broadest sense of the word—shape the meaning and momentum of everyday life. Stories will never die, but the ways we tell them are changing.”

They commissioned a short film on collaborative storytelling for the summit. It is about how sharing stories can help connect thousands, but also speak just from one person to another. I watched it this morning, and Madeleine joined her voice with these New York voices and, together without knowing it, we celebrated shared stories. And through my exhaustion, I found a kind of solidarity, even beauty, in this knowledge.

Every story that belongs to us, each and every one, shapes who we are and who we will become. This story of my tug-of-war with my daughter through the long, dark hours of the night will lodge itself in my bones now, and in hers. It is part of her and part of me and, by reading it, it has become part of you, too.

Madeleine just started yelling again. I’m back on duty. If you have a moment to spare, friend, make yourself a cup of tea and watch this little video. I hope it inspires you, like it inspired me. And if you want to share a story with me, leave one in the comments or send me an email. It makes my day to hear from you.

story(us) from Already Alive on Vimeo.

(ps. Do you subscribe to this blog? If you do and you haven’t redeemed your free copy of Airmail, click here to go for it and I’ll post a book out to you. There are no strings, it’s just a little gift from me to you to say thanks for your support.)

“Writing is not a job or activity. Nor do I sit at a desk waiting for inspiration to strike. Writing is like a different kind of existence. In my life, for some of the time, I am in an alternative world, which I enter through day-dreaming or imagination. That world seems as real to me as the more tangible one of relationships and work, cars and taxes. I don’t know that they’re much different to each other.

“However, I write about these alternative worlds because it helps to preserve them. I’m their historian, their geographer, their sociologist, their storyteller. I write them into being. I have to say I don’t care whether this is a good thing to do or not; this is just the way I am and the way I live my life.”

These are the words of Australian author John Marsden, and today on the English Muse, I’m exploring the mental and emotional gymnastics that Marsden put me through when I read my way through his Tomorrow, When the War Began series these past weeks. My post is here if you’re interested.

When I first read this quote, I thought “Oh yeah, me too.” But that’s not strictly true. Those alternative worlds? Escaping into them is why I read, not necessarily why I write. And that got me thinking: why do I write?

It surprised me that I had to think so hard to find my answer. After all, I’ve been writing since I was six or seven years old. Why did I write then? Why do I still write now?

Being a writer is like being an explorer. Charting new territories. Forging new frontiers. Rewriting the maps. Here be dragons! I undertake this adventure in the company of people I love, the characters who populate my stories. They are my co-explorers, often drawing me into places I’d never have thought to go. It is exciting, invigorating, and utterly addictive.

So tell me: why do you write?

“This is the most popular story in western civilisation. We love to hear this story. Every time it’s retold, somebody makes a million dollars. You’re welcome to do it.” Kurt Vonnegut

Probably you know, although possibly you don’t, that a little while ago I wrote a book. It’s a short little magical realism novella called Airmail that you can read in one afternoon. A tad more recently (April this year, in fact), Airmail was published. And even more recently (yesterday, to be precise), Cam Robbins of Novelspot interviewed me about this whole process.

This was definitely the most fun interview I’d done, because the questions were so thoughtful. Cam wanted to know why I wrote letters of thanks to people who bought Airmail, why I started the ‘travelling Airmail‘ project, what was behind the dual settings of New York and Sydney, and what novel came next.

If you want to know the answers to these questions (and more), you can read the full interview here. I’d love your thoughts. Did I explain everything ok?

Oh and ps, the cover of my little book looks like this. I had very limited say on what it would be, which only made my relief all the greater when I saw this cover because I absolutely love it. Hurrah!

My favourite room in our new house is definitely my study.

It is my very own, a square room with soft seats under the window for reading (or dozing, if you are Ruby the cat), a lovely old fireplace, a clean desk in the middle of the room for writing, and another desk for my artsy, crafty, projects. I have a little pin-board on which I stick notes, letters, photographs, sketches, and all kinds of other found paraphernalia that may bring comfort or creative sparks (or both).

Behind the big desk is a wall of shelves filled with the reference books I use most for writing, and items that inspire me like my film cameras, snow globes, my grandmother’s typewriter, and a little barometer that belonged to my other grandmother (when the weather is dry, a lady comes out of the cottage; when the weather is wet, a man comes out and bares his chubby, white knees).

For years, I have worked from the kitchen table or the living room, so this room feels like the greatest possible luxury, and I love it.

What is your workspace like? What luxury do you dream of having?

Imagine the perfect place for writing. What would yours be like? Mine would have to be a place that truly inspires. A place where the everyday rules fall away and the imagination knows no bounds. Everything should available: pens, papers, desks, beanbags, whatever I need to find my muse. Oh, and how about established authors on-hand as tutors, to help get my writing to publication standards? Hey, why not, since we’re dreaming.

Now imagine giving a place like this to kids, many of whom are disadvantaged. Indigenous kids, migrants and refugees, kids from schools with limited resources in areas of rising crime.

What if you gave them this place as a gift? A safe haven for children to develop their creativity and love of words. A place that frees their imagination, and breaks down barriers to communication and self expression. Wouldn’t you be proud to share a gift like that?

I’ve been dying to tell you about the Sydney Story Factory, a charity that will open later this year in Redfern, Australia. If you go looking, you’ll find it behind The Martian Embassy on Earth, a shopfront portal through which the children will pass into a new world of imagination.

Take a look at this incredibly inspiring workshop the Factory hosted in June. You’ll thank me. The kid at the very end is just too cute, and sums the whole thing up. How can you not love what they are doing, bringing literacy, a love of writing, self confidence, communication, self expression and pure, simple joy to these kids?

I’m brimming over with patriotic pride this week, following reviews of Airmail appearing in two wonderful Aussie publications.

The first is a review in my absolute favourite street press, Spitpress magazine. They say Airmail is “a philosophical cupcake; perfect to enjoy in one go with a cup of tea on a rainy afternoon,” and that it “will leave its footprints in your mind for days.” Poetry!

If you live in Sydney, you can pick up a copy of Spitpress all over town, and I highly recommend you do. Issue 8 (called ‘Wired’) is out now, and Airmail’s starring role is on page 9. For everyone else, despair not. You can read Spitpress online here.

In addition to Airmail, you’ll find Cleptoclectics, Frankie magazine editor Jo Walker, Brendan Maclean, Jack Carty’s tour diary from up north, Tunes for Change, Crash Test Drama, The Smallest Gig, Dry July, Photographer Xiaohan Shen, and artist Jilly Cooper AKA Lisa Bowen.

But wait, there’s more!

While I was still swinging high on Spitpress‘ kind words (and before I’d even had time to indulge my sudden desire for cupcakes), fellow Sydneysider Jayne Fordham of ‘The Australian Bookshelf’ posted her own review of Airmail online.

Jayne’s review focused on the characters in Airmail, and I really enjoyed what she had to say. In Jayne’s take on Airmail, Anouk is “neurotic and entertaining.” GL Solomon’s “rigid life becomes malleable.”

Jayne concludes, “The author has created very likeable characters who grow and learn despite the length and will leave you quite satisfied. If you would like a quick quirky read, then Airmail by Australian author Naomi Bulger, is an entertaining read.”

You can read the full review here, and if you live in Australia, don’t forget to enter her competition to win one of two copies of Airmail.

There’s a book-review website out there in the world wide webiverse called ‘Reading is Sexy’ and, following the fabulous review its author Diana gave Airmail last week, I am inclined to agree.

Here’s what Diana had to say:

“Airmail is one of the most engaging, thought provoking novellas I’ve ever read. In short order, Naomi Bulger delves into the possibilities of story telling. This quirky, left of center story sucks the reader into a sometimes magical world that seems to balance between the possible and impossible. Those of you who, like me, have enjoyed work from Through the Looking Glass to Donnie Darko will immensely enjoy Airmail. In some ways it reminded me a bit of the movie Mary and Max.”

Pretty sexy, huh? Now, imagine how chuffed I am. Uber-chuffed, that’s what!

To read the whole review, click here (and leave a comment to let Diana know if you like it: one good turn deserves another, after all).

You know what else is sexy? Swingin’ jazz from the 60s. For your listening pleasure, I present Airmail Special:

Meet the child-Naomi. At the time this photograph was taken, her career goal was “superhero”. Subsequent career plans included ballet dancer, marine biologist and princess.

She also wanted to be an author. Apparently she wanted it so badly that she hijacked my novel.

I wrote about it in a guest post hosted by the wonderful Jenai over at Bookingly Yours. You can read it here.