“One down,” my friend laughed with me, upon the fall of NRL legend, Andrew Johns; “One more to go.” That’s that, then, I guess. Or is it?


Long, long ago, in a far away land, the feisty, 30-something writer – who feels so strongly about his ability to navigate this life, he spends a great deal of time writing about it for others – was a very different person, indeed. People often say to me, “I bet you were always this feisty!” and I generally laugh wickedly, in character, and say, “Well, yes, I must confess I was!” And the bizarre thing is, I often convince myself. It is very true that I was always a very bright car that tore down the road at a thousand miles an hour. But my feistiness, as charismatic as it is, as entertaining as it is, as effective as it can often be, is really born from a kind of anger. And anger comes from pain. It can come from all different kinds of pain – but it is a reaction to pain, nonetheless. I went into my teenhood very much in love with life. I left it very angry. More >