Winter Solstice, Strawberry Moons and Shifting Focus

Winter has well and truly arrived here in Sydney. The days are sharp and icy, the kind of cold that seeps right into your bones. Until just recently, we were drenched in what felt like an endless deluge, grey skies, wet pavements, and little relief. Then, almost unexpectedly, a break: golden sunlight, and the stunning rise of the Strawberry Moon.

Not blue, but blushing pink and low-hanging, the lowest full moon visable until 2043, apparently. It felt timely, like a small gift from the sky. That soft, silvery light cutting through June’s melancholy.

The Strawberry Moon, as it turns out, is said to support deeper, more authentic communication. It’s an invitation to speak from the heart, to articulate your desires, and to call in more joy, love, and understanding. It sets the stage for stronger, more meaningful connections. I’ll take all of that, thank you.

In the spirit of slowing down and tuning in, I’ve been gradually pulling back from the digital buzz. Less noise, more clarity. No pressure to keep up with the constant stream of world news, must-reads, memes, or viral moments. Instead, I’ve been choosing stillness. Choosing presence. Choosing one thing at a time, and doing it with care.

Which brings me here.

After applying for a writing residency, I found myself deep in reflection, forced to articulate what I do, why I do it, and the themes I keep circling back to in my work (for reasons I’m still uncovering). That impossible but important question: Why make art? Why write? It led to a refresh of my artist statement and biography, long overdue, and a more grounded sense of purpose. So, If you have the time, jump back onto my homepage and have a look.

Now, about this blog / newsletter / Substack post.

Yes, I’ve started a Substack. A new space to gather and grow—a place for words, reflections, conversations, and creative resources. I’ll be cross-posting content from my blog there, plus more that may not make it here. If you feel inclined to follow along, a subscription would mean a lot. You can find it here, and thank you, as always, for reading.

On the subject of inspiration—

Last week I attended a warm and wonderfully cosy book talk hosted by my much-loved local bookstore, Bookoccino. The focus was Collecting: Living with Art by Kym Elphinstone, a beautifully curated book that offers a peek into the homes of creatives and non-creatives alike: artists, writers, poets, architects, business moguls.

It's more than just interiors, it’s a fascinating chronicle of how people live with art. There’s practical advice, personal stories, and plenty of visual nourishment. It seemed like the perfect book to bring home considering my current musings on art, process, and creative space. Kym herself was as generous and thoughtful as her work,open to chat and rich with insight.

A must-read if, like me, you live deeply and emotionally with art.

Resources and Inspiration

If you're trying to write about yourself (for bios, statements, cover letters—or just to make sense of your path), I found these helpful:

On writing artist statements:

1. How to Write an Artist Statement – by The Mindful Creative

2. The Artist Statement as a Creative Practice – with helpful prompts

3. 
   

On why we make art:

• Why Do We Make Art? – 10 Inspiring Motivations

  
  

Writing fiction is one thing. Writing about yourself? That’s something else entirely. But it’s worth doing. If you stay with it long enough, you’ll often discover what it is you’ve been quietly circling for years.

The winter solstice is just around the corner. Like the animals in my house, I’m hunkering down, layered in wool, wrapped in thought, letting stillness do its work.

Because life, like art, doesn’t always follow a plan. It rewrites itself. And maybe that’s exactly how it should be.

Until next time

J x

The ‘lull’ and how it can nurture the creative force within.

Decorated kumquat tree

It’s been four days since I returned from Vietnam’s verdant central coast, and my feet have yet to touch the ground. I feel caught in a vortex, suspended between two realities. My heart aches for a place I didn’t know I would love so much and for home, that familiar soil where everything feels safe and comfortable. I’ve travelled moderately thus far, dipping in and out of places in between work and the humdrum of daily life, enjoying both sun and sea, rain and bitter cold. However, some trips just stand out on their own, leaving a lasting impression that changes you for the better, often unexpectedly. I’ve been fortunate enough to have three such trips in my life: my first solo journey to Bali at fifteen before the world went topsy-turvy and those awful bombings occurred, my wedding in Mallorca and Scotland just before the chaos of COVID, and this recent adventure in Vietnam for my first writer’s retreat in the beautiful hamlet Cẩm Thanh, Hội An situated in Quảng Nam Province.

Writing up a storm with www.transformationalwritingretreats.com

Hội An, as I recently discovered, translates to a ‘peaceful meeting place’ in Sino-Vietnamese. In retrospect, that’s precisely what happened; I arrived fully at my authentic self—peacefully, happily, and with open arms, ready to embrace the unknown. It felt like soulful medicine, akin to cataracts being removed from my eyes, allowing me to see the world anew. Upon my return, I felt refreshed and alive, with colour coursing my veins and a delightful premise for a new story suddenly emerging out of thin air like an epiphany had struck.

I think, in all honestly, the beauty of this recent venture lies somewhere in the balance between sightseeing, hard work, and living without a schedule—everything weaving seamlessly together, creating a beautiful ebb and flow. Most nights, I worked late, pouring out everything I had seen and experienced, recharging for the workshops and writer meet-ups the following day. During my free time, I took full advantage of the old, rusty bicycle provided by the villa, cycling through the streets with the wind in my hair and feeling completely free in this new, foreign land. In those precious moments, I gazed meditatively at the endless rice paddies, their iridescent green gleaming and dotted with white stalks—images reminiscent of various Asian artworks I had seen and my old, gilded room divider back home, purchased from an antique dealer years ago. Alongside all this was a strange mystical presence that crept under my skin, filling me with awe and fascination and akin to some bizarre reunion, like the things I had lost in my life were coming back to find me. This sensation was particularly evident in the potted kumquat quasi-Christmas trees that decorated every shop, café, and restaurant and the courtyards of the narrow Vietnamese houses during the Lunar New Year, which coincided with my visit. Adorned with red ribbons and tassels—colours that symbolize good luck and fortune—these trees instantly reminded me of my long-deceased Australian grandmother, who had once had a similar tree in her garden in Wagga Wagga. It was the only other time I had seen such a substantial shrub bearing tiny, bouncy, ball-sized fruit, which I remembered, produced a delicious tart jam enjoyed with butter on Tip Top bread. Shoulder to shoulder with other strange dreams and an encounter with an ominous Witch moth, my grandmother would make a somewhat audacious reappearance during a later tarot card reading on the coconut palm-lined shores of An Dang Beach, leaving me feeling a tad spooked, to say the least. Vietnam’s celebratory Tết and The Year of the Snake no doubt having a profound effect on me.

Embracing the frizzy hair in Hoi An's old town

In addition to the spine chills and the epic scenery, my trip produced an array of new and wonderful friendships, including Tam and Duc, who worked tirelessly on their narrow vegetable patch along a rice paddy just outside their café—one I frequented daily, showcasing permaculture at its finest with its yellow marigolds and red flowering cacti to ward off insects. I later bumped into Tam in another part of town, where she honked her moped as I cycled by, prompting us to stop and chat.

Then there was Huy—a young, handsome photographer and driver eager to learn English and connect with others. He was incredibly kind and open, pouring out his heart and soul to me as we drove back to my accommodation after I'd farewelled my mother at the airport, who had come for a brief visit. He reminded me of how lucky I was to have her, contrasting it with the tragic loss of his own mother, who passed away suddenly two years prior at just fifty-two. His story tugged at my heartstrings, and I comforted him as we navigated the chaos of Da Nang, tears misting his eyes as he apologised for his emotional outburst.

Tam and Duc across the road from their cafe

Last but not least was the joy of my newfound writer’s family, all gathered under the same roof at the enchanting An Villa. We were a diverse group, representing many nationalities, each with unique histories and cultures. Despite our differences, we became instant and lifelong friends, wishing each other the best of luck and success and promising to stay in touch.

There has been much to reflect on and process since returning home to Australia. My key takeaways being, that I love dragon fruit and egg coffee, and it’s perfectly okay to let go for a moment, stop and smell the roses, and dive headfirst into the lull.

Now, you might be wondering, what on earth is “the lull”? Well, it's a term I learned a few years back while attending a screenwriting course at the National Institute of Dramatic Arts (NIDA) in Sydney. It refers to a momentary pause or a brief sidestep from our often-hectic routines that can stifle creativity. Like me, you might have worked on a project for a long time and found it hard to see the bigger picture. You may also feel stuck in a rut or face a good or bad crossroads requiring a decision. The key is to take a break and step away from your medium—be it a canvas, laptop, typewriter, pen, paper, or simply the daily grind. The magic lies in the return, allowing you to see everything with fresh eyes and a renewed sense of clarity. This isn’t about giving up or abandoning anything; instead, it’s about recharging and gaining a new perspective on whatever it is you're focusing on. It’s like breathing new life into everything or—less romantically—just giving it a bit of a spit-and-polish to make it shine.

J x

Getting back to work and keeping those memories of Vietnam close at heart with bamboo in a cloisonné vase gracing my desk.

The Beauty of Small Endeavours

It’s hard to believe we are again embarking on another lap around the sun. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been much into making New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I prefer to set some loose, and I mean very loose, goalposts upon which to strive. As you can probably guess, I’m not a rigid planner; a pantser, as it is coined in the writing world, who likes to ease into new things with arms wide open, ready to embrace the magic of the unknown and the unexpected and wherever the path might lead me.

Speaking of magic, I finished the first draft of my second novel just before the festive season began. It was perfect timing—an unexpected triumph that filled me with warmth and joy as I whispered, 'There you are, little story; I’ve given you life.' I did manage to take a day or two off to relax, decorate the Christmas tree, and pop a party popper or two on New Year’s Eve. However, for the most part, while everyone else was enjoying beach outings and soaking up the sun, I chose to embark on an ambitious decluttering project and completely transformed my house.

Those who know me well understand that I have a passion for collecting, and the more, the merrier! I’m a self-proclaimed maximalist and do not subscribe to Marie Kondo’s minimalist philosophy. Everything from antiques and patterned fabrics to jewellery, art, and, of course, books brings me joy. I can’t imagine sipping tea while staring at a blank wall; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever lived in a space that had one. For the record, I’m not experiencing a mid-life crisis, nor am I planning a complete purge. What I’m aiming to do is to eliminate the clutter that occupies valuable space, preventing my more beautiful and high-quality items from shining through. I’ve wanted to do this so-called ‘radical declutter’ for some time now. However, the task has always felt too daunting and time-consuming amidst my writing and hair and makeup work— that is, until the other day when, somewhere in that strange time between Christmas and New Year, I felt inspired to pull out a small dusty box from under the bed and make a modest start.

With a structural edit approaching, I suppose the takeaway from my long-winded story is this: just start—anywhere, no matter how small. And if things are not serving you both in your writing and life, get rid of them. As Australian singer-songwriter Paul Kelly says, ‘From little things, big things grow.’ In my case, I hope 2025 brings a polished manuscript that remains focused on its core story and, dare I say it, an organised home.

Happy New Year everyone!

J x