Just like this year’s theme, last weekend with the Melbourne Writers’ Festival was magical.
Three venues filled with writers thinking aloud, it felt as if we went through a full-body scan meditation together. My curiosity was satisfied, and my heart was fulfilled.
These events reminded me that we can be so many things at once - strong and vulnerable, hopeful and uncertain, ground-ed and homesick, seen and still searching. We’re all on our way to figuring out something. Marking the end of the week-end, I imagined myself as Rika in ‘Butter’ and got a bowl of warm ramen in the chilly autumn weather. The premise dif-fered from what Kajii had given, but the comfort was real. At that moment, everything felt like enough.
Swinging between dream and reality, my heart was purified by Kent’s love for Iceland and literature. Poetic and vivid, it began with the reacquaintance with her younger self and unfolded into the explo-ration of Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s story. Behind her, the green glow of stage lights cast something that reminded me of an aurora. “There was something about it that felt, I mean it when I say, felt unhur-ried. It felt as though everything had slowed down,” she said. “It’s a slackening of the hours, you seem to be falling out of time.” That same sense of time loosening is what I’ve often felt in Australia. While the way nature holds space feels strangely known, like home, I am drawn to the unfamiliar landscapes. I thought of how writing does this, too—holds space. It allows you to return to what you forgot and release what you’ve been quietly carrying. Like Kent, I hope one day I can weave my two homes into stories that feel rooted and from the heart.
“You’ve just gotta start doing it without knowing where it’s gonna end up. You have to be motivated and care about it enough to do it even if no one is paying at-tention.” After all the above, Jemma Sbeg and Lucinda Price (AKA Froomes) gave me the kind of energy boost I didn’t realize I needed (and the cutest outfits). Two perspec-tives on the creative and writing process were met, full of wit, humor, and honesty. They spoke of creating without waiting for permission, of working through doubt, of not being afraid to reach out, and showing up anyway. I love the idea of setting a timeline and creating a fun routine around work. As someone figuring out my creative presence in a new environment, they reminded me that beginnings are meant to be a bit chaotic and hesitant - it’s okay to feel unsure about whether it’s right, but remember all the care you put in counts.
I discovered a sense of freedom reading ‘Butter’, in both body and mind. Growing up in East Asia, I resonate with Asaka Yuzuki’s observations on how food and gender are often entangled, and how different expectations fall on different genders. How cooking has been part of traditional gender roles, how our views of the body still need widening, and how desire and pleasure often come with guilt and shame. What struck me most in both the novel and the talk was how cooking and eating what you want has become a form of power for many Japanese women. I’ve lived through both ends of the body spectrum and still catch myself measur-ing self-worth by some old rules. But the story gave me a pause: what would it feel like to live without constantly adjusting oneself? I hav-en’t found the answer, but I found the question.
