The spark that lit the fire

I reckon it takes some kind of internal fire to commit to writing a novel.

But every fire has to be lit by something – no matter how small a spark – and sometimes those sparks take a long time to land in the right place.

In the case of my novel Finding Marco, the spark stayed dormant for over 10 years.

I was visiting my daughter in her share house in an inner suburb north of Melbourne when she led me to the back fence.

‘I want to show you something,’ putting her finger to her lips.

She climbed the railings on the fence and slipped over out of sight. I followed, curious, stepping down on to a forty-four-gallon drum, and then on to grass that was tall and rank.

I was stunned.

We were in a vacant suburban block full of old cars, small vans, small trucks, in various stages of dilapidation, some stripped of tyres, windscreens, doors hanging on one hinge, boots open, bumper bars drooping forlornly. The block was ringed by back fences. How could it be?

My daughter shrugged. ‘Sometimes at night, I come in here and see if I can go from one side to the other without touching the ground. It’s spooky in the dark.’

We tried it, and it was hard enough in daylight, choosing the strategic step that would land you up within foot-striking distance of the next vehicle.

Next, we explored the contents of each car. There wasn’t much. Her favourite was a tapestry bag packed full of knitting needles, and a tin trunk with a hammer and a coat in it. The air was pregnant with ghosts and questions that couldn’t be satisfied, at least in the ten years that followed. And then, quite suddenly it was illuminated by another small spark that happened when I read somewhere that in any major catastrophe a certain percentage of people take the opportunity to disappear. Those two things came together and gave me enough spark to light the fire that became the novel Finding Marco.