Dear Mum,

I imagine your ears are burning, because across town, I’m reading a letter that you will likely never receive. I’ve been tasked with honouring somebody who helped me become the author I am today.

I know, I could’ve chosen a teacher, but that would mean picking just one, and they each seemed to see something in me, delusion or drive, or some terrifying combination of the two, and all nurtured it in their special way.

Regardless, I want to write about you.

You’ll say you didn’t do much. You just followed the example your parents set, and if I’m honouring anyone, it should be my immigrant grandfather, who would wait outside newsagencies before they opened to buy an exercise book. He would slide it across the table with a pen and order me to write, because he knew how difficult his illiterate life had been, and he wanted better for me. Or my grandmother. She’s so warm and full of life that she has inspired more novels than most.

I should write a letter to one of them.

I could.

But they weren’t there the night I decided I had to be an author. You were. It was late. You were returning home from a double shift at the cafe. If I had this life again, I would implore you not to do all this, work yourself to the bone after the divorce so my brothers and I wouldn’t go without.

Sell the house.

Pull us out of school.

You’re wasting your life

You probably wouldn’t listen. You’d say that because Dad isn’t around doesn’t mean we deserve less.

They were promises you would keep, even if they hurt you. You worked from sunrise to well past sunset every day, and it had become so routine that the sound of your key in the lock didn’t wake us anymore.

This night, I was woken by a thud. I kicked off the sheets and joined my brothers on the landing, just as you came to. You had collapsed partway up the stairs. I remember your disorientation, then, when your eyes met ours, the disappointment. You had let us see the toll everything had taken on you. Something would have to change. It did. My brothers and I were sent to live with our grandmother. If you were going to suffer to keep us in an overpriced private school, we weren’t going to see that suffering.

I never forgot that night. In an instant, my hobby became my mission. I would get published. I would earn enough to pay my way. I was 11 when I sent my first book off to a publisher, 12 when I received my first rejection. I sent manuscript after manuscript, received rejection after rejection. But I had something in me, delusion or drive, or some terrifying combination of the two, and at 17, a publisher invited me to their Sydney office to discuss a book deal.

You thought it was a scam. I’d clearly misread the email. You sat beside me, and like a good overprotective Greek mother, you started the meeting with, “What are your intentions with my son?” and ended it with, “I have another son, if you’d like him to write something for you too.”

When the cheque eventually arrived, I was elated, but also, disheartened. Half of my advance was $1500, about two weeks’ tuition at my school, delivered after I had graduated. I felt like I had failed you. Not that I told you though. I signed my first book to you, back when my signature was every letter in my name, and not a lazy line. I said every word was for you. That novel went on to sell a whopping ten copies, including the seven I bought myself. In a meeting, my editor asked if I considered pursuing a different career. I didn’t write for years.

One night, when I was feeling especially sorry for myself, you said it was a good thing I wasn’t successful. I was building a skyscraper, and when you build a skyscraper, you don’t build one storey and then the next, you dig down, you lay a sturdy foundation, and then you build up, one storey at a time. Twenty-odd years later, that’s what I’m doing, one story at a time.

And every word is still for you.

Love,

William

For those of you who are unfamiliar, Writing NSW is the state’s leading organisation dedicated to writers. Attending one of their workshops as teenager was a big stepping stone on my journey, and I’ve worked with them in the two decades since. You can help them support current and future storytellers with a tax-deductible (if over $2) donation, and check out their array of virtual and in-person offerings.

In keeping with the spirit of gratitude, thank you to everyone who has supported Otis Ottley and the School in the Sky. It’s very early days, but after seven weeks, the book is my fastest selling. I’m receiving some lovely messages from readers via parents, teachers and librarians, and they are exactly what I need to keep going through the end of the year.