AustLit

When I decided to start watching The West Wing on the night of the US presidential election I was aware I was indulging in fantasy—what better antidote to the latest of this year’s global calamities than the nostalgic embrace of the gentle, optimistic Democratic administration that never was—but I wasn’t prepared for the utter absurdity of this scene.'

 (Introduction)

Life Is hard. I often to think to myself that it would so much easier if there was a straightforward manual for living, composed by someone who had their shit together, that would guarantee success in life. Oh yeah, there are a ton of them: personal development books, diet plans, business handbooks, motivational podcasts, life coaching and spirituality guides—the ‘nonfction’ category is one of the biggest money-makers in publishing and that is because of these kinds of books. And it makes sense: the prospect of having to figure it all out on your own is terrifying. I have a strong aversion to people who—in exchange for money—offer too simple solutions to life’s complicated problems. But as with all rules, for me there is one exception—a person who has made the transition from cult figure to self-made motivational superstar, all just by being himself. He even has a self-help book: Workin It!: RuPaul’s Guide to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Style. I may or may not own it.' 

 (Introduction)

'The first place We lived in together was a rental close to the city. Leah had this joke where, since we only intended to stay for a few months, she wanted all the neighbours to think we hated each other. I'd be cooking dinner and she'd be watching television and every so often, in response to nothing, she would scream profanities at me...' (Publication abstract)

' I was just sipping on my hot cup of 2.0 when I spotted the broadcast on the TV stack by the PetrolStop. Some dirty yollas were crouched around like swamp cats ready to pounce. They were too busy watching BunnyLove's ad to notice the CitySpeak Newsbreak on the top right screen: mamahunt on. father leo searching for next bedwife...' 

 (Publication abstract)

 ,Ana wants to know what it smells like here. In Mexico, she says, forests are the only places you can't smell the rubbish sweating in the sun. She and her family would drive for hours every week to the Nevado de Toluca National Park and disappear beneath its shade. They would eat sweet fruit with chilli powder, hike the mountains and the volcano hiding among them, and then drive home in the sinking light.. 

 (Publication abstract)

'One of the cupboard doors is missing, Audrey notices. She can see the silver snarl of the detached hinge pushed back, useless. Inside there are measuring cups and ramekins and knives. A plastic box full of knives, in fact. A jumble of them. Short blunt-looking knives with wooden handles, thin serrated knives, big carving knives. Nance sees her looking and apologises...'  (Publication abstract)

'They call hIm brave Ulysses. Despite the birth complications and corrective surgery, at just fourteen months old he's sailing across the Mediterranean, as though nothing can stop him. Thankfully his grandfather can, before Brave Ulysses, having commandeered the helm, turns their vessel into the path of a Turkish fishing boat. The one rule for docking, won in a wager through his mother's hyper-competitive Scrabble matches, is that wherever they land must have a beach for young Brave Ulysses.'  (Publication abstract)

'Prom seems like something a sixteen-year-old girl should care about. American high school films show her the ins and outs of the coming-of-age ritual and she comes to understand that the dress and the date rank high on the list of priorities. The fact that she attends a very un-American all-girls convent school doesn't seem to change her perspective. She knows that the most important thing is to look beautiful in an amazing dress. She and everyone else knows that it is the night that will change their lives forever.' (Publication abstract)

'They come for me in the night. We've burned coils down to ashes, smoke weaving its way through the netted entrance that we zipped up well before sundown, but they come for me anyway. The shrill of their buzzing wakes me, drilling its way into my dreamless sleep. They've beaten their wings like miniscule whisks through the thick night air, their flight fuelled by a desire to reach my exposed flesh, to dip inside and whip its sticky surface into flaming mounds...' (Publication abstract)

'In 2012, Stephen HawkIng presided over the signing of the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness. A collection of neuroscientists lent their signatures to a paragraph that proclaimed, 'The weight of evidence indicates that humans are not unique in possessing the neurological substrates that generate consciousness.''  (Publication abstract)

'The year of no rain we bathed in buckets while the tub rusted over. Your rough hands clasped our blistered shoulders, scrubbing until we glistened like hams. My feet rooted to the sagging verandah, careful not to waste a drop, riches rolling down my knobbly spine...'  (Publication abstract)