The Alchemy of Ink: Red heads, tears & revelations

As all the best stories do, this one starts with a red-head. But not just any old run-of-the-mill strawberry-blonde blend of subtlety and quiet charm. No, this one was made from a unique brew of unabashed confidence, wicked humor and dry honesty. 

This red-head was my grandmother Fairlie, who, if you asked for her opinion, you'd better be prepared for the unfiltered version. She was honest, and rare, and we loved her for it. And it was this personality quirk that seemed to characterise her signature brand of plainspoken poetry. Her words - raw, unapologetic, and bursting with personality - read as though she is standing in the room, speaking them aloud. 

Having not heard her voice for over four years, what a gift that is. 

It was her passing that pushed me to write myself. At first, it was just words on a page - flat descriptions of emotions I only half-understood, forced into something that rhymed. Nothing particularly Pulitzer-worthy. 

But, one day, a single line began to echo in my mind: ”I was a precocious child… I was a precocious child… over and over again. Then, as if a dam had burst behind my left shoulder, a wave of words came surging in - urgent, and unstoppable. I barely had time to catch them on paper before the wave passed through me. After about five minutes of intense writing, the last line that landed was: “after all, big girls don’t cry” - and, right on cue, this big girl burst into tears.

That moment is one that has become burned into my memory. It was as if a chain snapped in my mind, or like an internal knot had been released. And with that release came a feeling of openness and a sudden sense of possibility. It felt like the boundaries I’d lived within for so long were now gone, leaving space for new thoughts, new ideas, and maybe even a new personality? I was free, unburdened, and strangely healed.

The shock of how instant this transformation was felt like a drug - I couldn’t stop. Over the next few years, I kept chasing that feeling, leaning into the raw, unfiltered act of writing only what is true, without thinking or hesitation. And when I do, I’m always reminded of Ernest Hemingway, who said “all you have to do is write one true sentence, write the truest sentence you know.” 

The Pulitzer committee hasn't called yet (can you believe their oversight?), but fortunately, I don't write for the accolades. I write for the process - because the practice of it pulls me into the immediate now, dissolving the boundary between thought and experience. I slip beneath the surface of the analytical mind into a space where only raw truth resides.

Here, in this moment of pure presence, what flows onto the page isn't merely words - it's sacred ink: poetry born not from thinking about life, but from being fully awake within it. This kind of ink carries more than words; it carries weight, emotion, truth. It absorbs what we pour into it and, in turn, gives something back - clarity, release, even transformation.

The depth of the transformations I was experiencing inspired me to do something that would spotlight poetry as a tool for self-discovery and healing, one that many women have been using for years, often in quiet corners without fanfare. I felt that these voices deserved space and celebration - both the raw and the refined, the confessional and the carefully crafted.

And so, the Australian Country Women’s Anthology isn’t simply about poetry as an art form. It’s about the transformative process of creating fragments of sacred ink that heal our deepest traumas and express our boldest truths. 

I invite you to join me on this journey of discovery. Whether you're a lifelong writer or someone who has never put pen to paper with creative intent, there is power in allowing yourself the freedom to write one true sentence. Because when we write from that place of truth - when we allow ourselves to be vessels for words that need to be spoken - we don't just change ourselves; we change the world... not with poetry, but with honesty.

Love, Lucy.