When Life and Art Inspire one Another
On the morning of 7 October 2026, I awoke with a peculiar impulse to gather all my eco-fiction stories into a single collection. Eleven stories, spanning six fictional worlds, written over several years. I had no particular reason for bringing those stories together on that day, but the impulse was strong, so I went with it.
I spent several hours formatting the 287,000-word manuscript, then went for a walk. It was a sunny day, which always makes me think of the colour yellow, which happens to be my father’s favourite colour. I was thinking of him as I made my way home, carrying a heavy bag filled with delicious food from the supermarket.
As I unpacked my groceries, I was still thinking of him, and hoping he was feeling as comfortable as possible. I made a cup of tea and brought it to my couch where my phone lay, charging. There was a text message from my mother.
“I’m so sorry, darling, your dad has gone.”
The news was inevitable. I had been expecting it for months, given how unwell my father had been. For a moment I felt relief, because he was no longer suffering. Yet the thought of his death felt as wrong as a horror story from another world.
The next few hours were a blur, but I remember eventually returning to my manuscript. It was ready for publication, but I was in no hurry to deal with it. Until it struck me: publishing this collection of eco-fiction on the day of my father’s passing might be the best way of honouring him and thanking him for what he had given me — a fascination with the natural world.
When we were kids, he would take my siblings and me into nature every weekend. Our expeditions took us into the rugged Australian bushland, along coastal landscapes and wildlife parks. Sometimes Dad would lift a rock to reveal the little ecosystem beneath it, then gently return the rock to its original position, explaining the importance of leaving everything exactly as we had found it.
We would walk on in silence.
Other times Dad would stop beside a tree and draw our attention to the markings on its bark. Perhaps a bird had pecked it, or an animal had rubbed against its trunk. He would explain what might have happened in a way that brought the creature to life in my imagination. Sometimes I would feel as though it was standing right beside me, living and breathing, and my skin would prickle with awe.
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This fascination with the natural world was my inheritance from my father. He inherited the same from his own father and grandfather. Growing up in rural Northern Ireland, he spent many wonderful moments with his dog while fishing from the edge of a small boat in the centre of a vast and still lake. He would share these stories with us so vividly, I often felt as though I had been right there with him. And he would talk about his bond with that dog in a way that made me feel the intensity of a love so strong, it had transcended language and time.
When my father moved to Australia, he brought that same passion for the natural world with him. There was hardly a bird or animal species he did not learn about: their habitat, behaviour, breeding seasons, migration patterns and the sounds they made were details he would share with us constantly. Always with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.
When I was seven years of age, Dad’s work with the Australian Army took us on a two-year posting in Papua New Guinea where we found a completely different natural world to explore. Lush plants, vibrant flowers and bizarre creatures were only the beginning of the experience. The locals’ stories and myths about the natural world swirled around us and somehow seeped into my subconscious where they lay, waiting.
I had no idea those stories, and the mental images they evoked, were living within me until they surfaced thirty years later while I was writing “Molly’s Magical Adventures.” Unsurprisingly, it is a series of eco-magic stories about a ten-year-old girl exploring the jungles of Papua New Guinea. Her knowledge of, and passion for, science and nature led her into one amazing adventure after another.
Whoever coined the phrase ‘art imitates life’ knew what they were talking about.
In the years that followed our return to Australia, I began to see my father as an incredibly complex person. On the one hand, he was loud, domineering, harsh, intolerant, fiercely opinionated and uncompromising in his convictions. On the other hand, he was playful, intellectually engaging, and wonderfully enthusiastic when discussing something he loved.
He wrote humorous lyrics, nailed every puzzle and cryptic crossword placed before him, laughed at British comedy shows on TV, enjoyed an evening nip of Glayva and maintained an incredible memory for facts. My dad was a scholar, soldier, teacher, conservationist, hunter, poet and an authority on almost anything that interested him. He was a man of bewildering contradictions, and an omnibus in himself.
Today, as I publish this blog post, it is exactly three weeks since my father died, and I find myself thinking about the things we leave behind us when we die. In me, my father left his sense of wonder and passion for the natural world, a gift I will carry until my last breath. This is the dedication I inserted, moments before publishing the eco-fiction omnibus, “Living Worlds”:
I dedicate this eco-fiction omnibus to my dad, who inspired my passion for the natural world.
He was a bit of an omnibus himself.
R.I.P., Daddy.
I love you.
