Otis Ottley lives in the shadow of the Manor School for Magic. Literally. It’s an island hovering over his town, and he’s determined to reach it.

While many kids dream of roaming the prestigious institution’s halls, casting spells and conjuring spectacles, Otis has a very specific mission: to seek magical help remembering something very, very important.

The odds are stacked against him, but Otis will break into magic school. Or at the very least, he will break a few rules trying.

Otis Ottley and the School in the Sky releases September 1 and is available for preorder now.

My Father Haunts Me

My father haunts me. It’s not that he’s dead. He’s not. I mean, he could be, but as far as I know, he’s not. I see him wherever I go. In the faces of passers-by. In cars. Ugh. He’s the tightening of my chest when a white truck that could be his drives past. He is everywhere and nowhere.

Even my writing career, which blossomed in his absence, is haunted by him. My mother’s father was the one who waited outside newsagencies before they opened to buy me fresh lined paper as a kid, but my father was the reason I was sending manuscripts to publishers before my thirteenth birthday. When my parents’ marriage ended, our house was a shell, half-renovated, the ceiling was a mess of wiring, and the kitchen was a leaky fridge, and a sink propped up by a plank of wood.

There used to be an aluminium bench and some chairs. To give you a measure of the man, when my parents divorced, my father collected his half of the furniture, as was his right. Then, he returned to halve it again, claiming that he hadn’t yet. He took our bikes, our boardgames, and the aluminium bench he fashioned in his factory with the accompanying chairs.

Mum worked hard, too hard, to keep us in school and to fill that house. One night, she collapsed walking up the stairs to her bedroom, and instead of working less, she sent us to live with our grandmother so that we wouldn’t see the toll it took on her. Slowly, she made that shell of a house a home. She installed a ceiling. She bought furniture to replace the pieces my father stole, and then some.

And I wrote. Every day. From Year Seven, I sent manuscripts to publishers, each time convinced that that manuscript would be the one to earn a JK Rowling-sized advance and mean Mum didn’t have to work as hard. That drive that saw me earn a book deal in Year Twelve … that was me trying to step into my father’s absence and provide, or at least, ease the burden he had placed on Mum’s shoulders.

His absence didn’t just inspire my drive, it inspired my output. My first novel began its life as a thinly veiled Parent Trap-style revenge fantasy. In an early draft of my second novel, The First Third, a character tracked down their absent father and said everything I wished I could have said to mine. I remember my then-editor Clair Hume, congratulating me for getting it off my chest before suggesting I cut the scene. When I asked why, she asked if I’d ever tracked down my father. I said no. I cut the scene.

I toured the book. Students who study The First Third try separating fact from fiction. Am I Billy? Is the mum in the book my mum? The grandmother? The brothers? Did this all really happen? One afternoon at a school in Sydney’s outer suburbs, a hand shot up in the middle of one of my talks. The student asked if I had ever tracked down my father. I said no. Another hand shot up. That student asked why. And I didn’t have an answer. I was a quote-unquote grown man now, mid-20s, I was perfectly capable of finding my father and expressing everything I wanted to. I didn’t need to do it in fiction.

So, I set out to find him.

I guessed his address. Suburb. Street name. House number. All of it. Unbelievable right? I mean, I could say I worked at a polling place one election, was entrusted with a tablet featuring the electoral roll, searched my surname, miraculously found his entry, and memorised his address, but that would have been a crime. And it didn’t happen like that. I can’t overstate how much it definitely didn’t happen like that.

I had his address, but I wasn’t going to show up on his doorstep. I typed the address into Google and Google returned a White Pages knock-off that featured his phone number. I sat on the edge of my bed and dialled. One ring. Two rings. My heart thumped. My chest was in a vice. My brain stung. I hung up, set my phone down and took a breath. And another.

I refused to believe a man I hadn’t seen in over ten years still had this much of a hold on me. I dialled his number again. One ring. Two rings.

“Hello?” I didn’t recognise the voice.

Heart thump. Ragged breath.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak to Stephen please.”

“Speaking.”

Heart thump. Heart thump. Heart thump.

“Hello Stephen, this is William …”

Heart thump.

“As in, my son?”

“That’s the one.”

Heart thump.

“What, um, why are you calling?”

“I just think it’s about time we had a chat. In person. Does Thursday night suit?”

It didn’t. We tried for the following Tuesday. He cancelled on the day, rescheduled for Friday. He called when I was walking to the train station to change the venue and push our meeting back an hour. He told me to meet him at Rockdale Station. He waited by the turnstiles. I walked right past him, but he caught the edge of my eye. I turned and stared down an older, semi-sundried version of myself. The same curly hair. The same stubbly beard. The same posture … Even though I had built myself in his absence, I had become him. He was inescapable.

I said hello. He said he thought I’d be taller. That’s what he led with. And now that I was closer, I could see he hadn’t even changed into a clean shirt after work. I hadn’t been worth a quick tidy.

He walked me to a nearby Thai restaurant. We took our seats. It was surreal, sitting opposite him as he browsed the menu. He was alive. Every day and every night he didn’t make contact, he lived. He visited Thai restaurants, browsed menus … He cleared his throat and said it was nice to have me back after my “bitch mother turned me against him”.

I was stunned. That was how he was going to start. I didn’t flinch. I told him I didn’t remember her picking up my brother and throwing him against a wall.

He denied that ever happened, then said he didn’t know why we were doing this, this was a mistake. He still ordered, mind you. My voice shook every time I spoke. We were on edge, combative. He set the tone, and I met it. Again, he said he didn’t know why we were doing this.

I knew. He wasn’t aware, but every time his mother was sick, my mum found out, and she snuck us into the hospital to visit her. Mum took me to the nursing home to see her just before she died. We resolved everything. I was here, at dinner with my father in case he got hit by a bus tomorrow. And I told him so.

He wore my words like a slap, and I teed up the rant that I’d been slow-cooking for years. I was ready for some poetic evisceration … I managed three sentences before I realised he wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want to itemise my grievances, list all the ways he’d hurt me, because he wasn’t worth the words. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he’s responsible for any part of me.

There is only one person in the world who deserves that satisfaction. As much as my father has haunted my life, he has never cast a shadow over it, because I have sat perched on one woman’s shoulders and she bore the brunt of it so I would never go a day without feeling the sun on my face.

My mother doesn’t haunt me. She never left.

This piece was first performed at Mudgee Readers’ Festival (‘Queerstories’) on August 17, 2019, alongside original pieces by Cadance Bell, Faith Chaza, Benjamin Law, Maeve Marsden and Hajer. Monuments is out now.

Can’t wait to share what we’re cooking up next.

Big congratulations to my fellow nominees. The judges described Karen Comer’s Grace Notes as an “assured debut verse novel captures the fear, anxiety and boredom of Melbourne’s Covid lockdowns with pinpoint accuracy”, Gary Lonesborough’s We Didn’t Think it Through as “an honest reflection on vulnerable masculinity in all its frailty, fear, and doubt”, Lili Wilkinson’s A Hunger of Thorns as “a unique specimen of the genre filled with bursts of unrestrained creativity and vividly descriptive writing” and Melissa Kang and Yumi Stynes’ Welcome to Sex! as “a fearless, frank and important resource for young people”. Read their full notes.

The judges’ comments about We Could Be Something:

17-year-olds Harvey and Sotiris both live in Sydney’s Darlinghurst and are trying to find their paths in life under difficult circumstances. Subtly and skilfully, Kostakis shows the reader differences and resemblances between the inner and outer worlds of the two young men.

Kostakis has achieved a new level of excellence with this novel, capturing both characters with crisp, clear prose, layered with meaning and pathos. Brimming with raw emotion and truth, We Could Be Something contains vivid descriptions of the Darlinghurst and Kings Cross area of Sydney, and of Greek-Australian culture, intergenerational living, and Australia’s LGBTQI evolving communities.

Kostakis writes with authenticity and insight about a teen novelist having his ego and creative spirit crushed when his first novel falters. The novel’s bittersweet conclusion avoids cliche and leaves the reader with something far more complex, realistic and lingering than a tidy ending. Kostakis balances the reader’s desire for satisfaction with this story’s demand for authenticity with enviable skill.

This is a powerful novel with universal appeal, imbued with heart and wit, told with control and maturity.

This caps off an incredible year of shortlists, with We Could Be Something also making the lists in Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland. A big thank you to everybody who has championed and supported the novel. It was my way of working through the worst news of my life (IYKYK) and the fact that it’s struck such a resounding chord is humbling.

If you can’t get enough of shortlists, Readings has just announced the YA shortlist for their annual prize. It highlights the exciting works of new and emerging talent, and always pushes some interesting reads to the top of my TBR.

The judges’ comments:

An engaging and unexpected tale of isolation, the meaning of family, and finding your way back to yourself. The dual voices and array of complex themes in We Could be Something are skilfully handled throughout. An exploration of wider family dynamics within a fracturing moment, it is beautifully balanced, touching and a little heartbreaking.

This is the third state prize the book as been shortlisted for, after the Victorian and New South Wales’ Premiers’ prizes. Beyond chuffed.

I keep writing and rewriting the commemoratory post, and that’s seriously way too much effort to put into a blog in 2024. So here’s a photo of Mum and Yiayia, along with my thanks to all who’ve read it, reviewed it, recommended it. Means a lot.

Just a quick thank you to everybody who has embraced the new novel so warmly. It means the world. There is so much of me in We Could Be Something. Mum. Yiayia. I wanted to tell a big, messy story about a small (still messy) Greek family, and to see how much it’s resonated … The stuff dreams are made of.

(Says the guy who just wrote a book about the harm of chasing dreams.)

“Nothing, I… got an email.” I’ve read it four times. Still doesn’t feel real. “Someone wants to publish me.”

“Are you sure you haven’t read it wrong?”

She thinks it’s a hoax. She insists she meet the publisher. She tells my soon-to-be editor that she has another son who can write them a book too, if they’d like … I recoil. I’m inches from my dream, and Mum’s mumming all over the place.

The book deal happens.

My author journey is all propulsion. Past rejections. Past that first book nobody likes. Past how publishers treat you when nobody likes your first book. Past the editorial concerns about gay characters that you carry as a knot in your stomach until you come out. Past the brouhaha that happens after you come out. Past the next book. And the next. And the next.

We Could Be Something starts as a memoir. It’s a handbrake, a chance to consider all the experiences that have made me. And then I do the thing I’m not supposed to. I start a new Word document. I take pieces from the memoir and rearrange them, remix them, and make something fictional from them.

It’s a lot of things, a story about the changing shape of the queer experience, the changing shape of being Greek-Australian; a story about falling in and out of love, and ultimately, a story about family.

It’s a story written by a guy who’s accompanied by his mother to a publishing meeting at seventeen, whose thunder is stolen by his grandmother at Sydney Writer’s Festival at twenty-three, and who, at thirty-three, knows he only got past the rejections, the first book nobody liked, and the rest of the nonsense, because his family pushed him.

We Could Be Something by Will Kostakis

Harvey’s dads are splitting up. It’s been on the cards for a while, but it’s still sudden. Woken-by-his-father-to-catch-a-red-eye sudden. For the foreseeable future, he’s living on top of a cafe with the extended Greek family he barely knows.

Sotiris is on the up. He’s achieved his dream, a novel released at seventeen. It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and then a cute, wise-cracking bookseller named Jem upends his life.

Harvey’s and Sotiris’s stories converge on the same street in Darlinghurst, in this beautifully heartfelt novel about how our dreams shape us, and what they cost us.

An emotional rollercoaster of a novel about two young men — part coming-out story, part falling-in-love story, part falling-apart story.

“The enormous heart of We Could Be Something beats with a rare, thrilling authenticity. Every funny, smart, tough word of it rings true. I loved this book.” Patrick Ness, bestselling author of A Monster Calls and the Chaos Walking series

“Vivid and exquisitely written… Kostakis weaves a sparkling tale of hardship, heartbreak, identity and the universal struggle of finding your footing in the world.” Brenton Cullen, BOOKS+PUBLISHING

“There is no doubt that Will Kostakis is one of Australia’s leading writers for young adults — and this is, I think, his best work to date.” Paul Macdonald, THE CHILDREN’S BOOKSHOP

“The storytelling has the degree of complexity and maturity you’d expect in an adult literary novel… We Could Be Something is a truly special novel, exploring Greek culture, queerness, the writing industry, but most importantly family and the love that binds it.” Joe Murray, READINGS

See? All over the internet. Can’t scroll an inch without—

Okay, let’s not piss everybody off w—

What’s the novel about? Well, the blurb is still TBC, but basically:

Harvey’s dads are splitting up. It’s been on the cards for a while, but it’s still sudden. Woken-by-his-father-to-catch-a-red-eye sudden. For the foreseeable future, he’s living on top of a cafe with the extended Greek family he barely knows.

Sotiris is on the up. He’s achieved his dream, a novel released at seventeen. It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and then a cute, wise-cracking bookseller named Jem upends his life.

Harvey’s and Sotiris’s stories converge on the same street in Darlinghurst, in this beautifully heartfelt novel about how our dreams shape us, and what they cost us.

An emotional rollercoaster of a novel about two young men — part coming-out story, part falling-in-love story, part falling-apart story.

“The enormous heart of We Could Be Something beats with a rare, thrilling authenticity. Every funny, smart, tough word of it rings true. I loved this book.” Patrick Ness, bestselling author of A Monster Calls and the Chaos Walking series.

They put care into each word and offered quality constructive feedback when they really didn’t have to. That letter held pride of place in my desk drawer, and whenever my dream felt way out of reach, I returned to it. The next time I sent Loathing Lola out, a publisher said yes.

I’m still so grateful for that letter, and it seems significant that they’ll be publishing my sixth novel. It’s about Greek families and messy, wonderful dreams. It’s out next year. It’s We Could Be Something.

An emotional rollercoaster of a novel: part-coming out story, part falling-in-love story, part relationship break-down story, and part extended-family story, I’ve never felt this way about a book before.

This is the one. Coming in May 2023 unless I botch my deadlines.