The Making(s) of Me—Romantic Comedy Author
Once upon a time, I wished for a life like a princess in the fairy tale. I thought it was within the realm of possibility because lots 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 the princess.
As I approached adolescence, that wish fulfilment wasn’t looking promising. Thing is, I secretly hated the storybook princess. She, with her Cinderella complex just itching for the opportunity to tell a man, ‘You complete me’. (This, probably in sign language because she could barely string a coherent sentence together.)
By the time I graduated from my training bra, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. My mother never let me have a Ken doll (I think she feared he and Barbie would do the dirty under her roof. Hhha—like as if he could do anything with that useless, moulded, plastic tackle). And with my smart mouth, my preference for ugg boots over stilettos, and my penchant for shovelling industrial-strength chocolate ice cream over nibbling on undressed lettuce, I was not cut out for princesshood. Nuh-uh. I was destined to become a published author.
Still, the road most travelled beckoned. The lure of the picture-perfect Disney princess with her animated life was hard to resist. The pull of authorship was a way off. And anyway, I had some living to do first.
So. I ate salad, 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. 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).
From a worm’s-eye view, I saw that my childhood dream had indeed come true. I also got that the prince, even with all his fancy footwork, couldn’t save me from the monstrous voices deep in the psyche.
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.
And though writing felt 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.
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 in laughter in a society that’s seeing a little too much of the suppressed monsters’ influence. With her as my muse, I wrote my books.
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.
And 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, no way! She is more Princess Bite Me than Princess Pushover.
I’m a blogger too. But my blog posts can be more serious. 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.