Rewilding the Writer (and Woman) Within

When did we become so tame?

Feb 10, 2025

Women gathering together to sing and write at the ‘Rewilding the Writer Within’ workshop at Flinders Fringe Festival - February 2025. Photo Credit: Noa Smith Fletcher

Kookaburra sits on the old gumtree
Merry, merry king of the bush is he
Laugh Kookaburra laugh
Kookaburra gay your life must be.

This song takes me back to my childhood in the 70s. We sat straight-backed, obedient at our wooden school desks, those rigid relics of control, our books caged beneath heavy lids. If we dared to sneak a glance at a friend, it had to be a covert operation—rebellion in the form of a scrunched nose or the poke of a tongue.

The desks were lined up in strict, authoritarian rows, training our young bodies to sit still, to conform to the rigidity of the education system. The teacher would patrol, ensuring silence and compliance. We sang Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree in rounds, our voices monitored and measured. There was no space for mistakes, no room for a spontaneous outburst. Perfection on repeat was the expectation.

And yet, the irony.

We were singing about a wild, laughing bird, the merry king of the bush. A bird that does not bow to authority. A bird that cackles at the absurdity of it all.

I had forgotten this song until recently when I found myself at my sit-spot in nature—a practice that, unlike school, requires no rigid posture, no performative perfection. Here, in the quiet, I was a human animal among the trees, unobserved, unwatched.

A sit-spot is a place where you return again and again, allowing nature to reveal itself to you over time. It’s a practice that strips away the demands to be productive to replace them with presence. It’s where I remember that I am not separate from nature, that I am nature.

Here, there are no deadlines, no expectations, no measurements of success. I feel my bare feet pressed against the cracked earth. I listen to birdsong and the rustling of leaves. I watch bees, their work unhurried and instinctual, pollinating a purple flower I don’t yet know the name of—but will.

And then, as I prepare to leave, I hear it—a riot of Kookaburras, their laughter filling the air, shaking loose the childhood memory of this song. The feeling of sitting in that rigid classroom, the weight of rules, the pressure to be still.

It was an invitation to reclaim the joy that had once been silenced.

I return to my desk—not to a task list or a word count goal—but to colour, to play, to sing along to Emily Wurramara’s stunning rendition of Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree. At first, I resist. It feels foolish and self-indulgent. A grown woman colouring a bird? But then the joy takes over. The pressure to be productive dissolves. I let myself be in a way I haven’t for a long time.

Days later, my partner’s six-year-old granddaughter, Bella, visits. We sing the song together, bang sticks like makeshift drums, and set out to find a real Kookaburra in the wild. We bond in a way that feels more real, more unguarded than anything I could have orchestrated. A child’s presence demands presence.

This moment reminds me that creativity is not a factory line. Writing is not a job to be punched in and out of. But we have been conditioned to treat it as such.

I have spent over 20 years writing, and I see now how I have tamed myself to fit into a system that was never built for me:

Writing for an audience instead of for myself.
Writing what I think will be liked, praised, shared.
Writing only on subjects where I can claim ‘expertise.’
Writing stories that won’t offend—especially men.
Writing for algorithms instead of for truth and justice.
Writing to word-counts and self-imposed, punitive deadlines.
Writing when I am exhausted, sick, uninspired—because that’s what ‘real’ writers do, right?

This is what the patriarchy has done to women's voices, to our stories—boxed them in, stripped them of their wildness, made them safe and acceptable.

But what if we refused to play by these rules? What if, rewilding the writer (and woman) within, became our purpose?

What would that feel like for you?

I want to write with nature, not against her. To let creativity be fluid, cyclical, natural. To honour the seasons of writing instead of forcing productivity day-in, day-out, all year-round.

One way I’ve begun to rewild my own writing is in how I set my goals.

I had a brilliant session with my thinking partner Cassie on why I was struggling with writing my novel, Finding Elsie. “This goal [5,000 words per week with a finished 100,000-word manuscript by 31 May 2025], feels heavy and hard, like a mill-stone around my neck,” I admitted.

With deeper introspection by talking out loud about my feelings with Cassie as my witness, I was able to revision my goal.

"To experience joy and flow as I write and share Finding Elsie with the world.”

As soon as I said it, I felt the invisible weight of my old goal vanish. Lighter and freer, I was inspired again rather than burdened. My new intention became to channel that same child-like, sit-spot feeling into my writing. No painful plans, just pure pleasure.

I also realised that I’m already sharing Elsie’s story with the world—through my blogs, through an essay I’ll soon publish on Substack. It doesn’t need to be a neatly packaged book, yet, or ever.

So, here’s how I’m rewilding the writer within:

Sit-spot and story-of-the-day practice—returning to nature regularly to observe, listen, and let stories emerge organically.
Reframing writing goals—letting go of rigid word counts and deadlines to embrace joy and flow.
Journaling without an agenda—writing freely when I feel the urge, without expectation, purely for the pleasure of self-expression.
Swimming almost every day in the river or ocean — water, not my desk and a blank screen, is the best place for story ideas to bubble up.
Growing my own food and immersing myself in homestead life—nurturing something that does not demand immediate results is a great lesson in patience and letting go.
Wilderness immersions—reminding myself I am an animal first, a writer second, as I connect with friends and community to discuss the world's woes and what we can collectively do to take action.

If you have ideas to add, drop them in the comments—I’d love to hear them.

What if, instead of striving for a finished book, we allowed ourselves to relish and revel in the act of writing? What if, instead of chasing external validation, we trusted our own voices? What if, instead of taming ourselves, we let our words run wild?

I’m done with writing tethered and tame. I’m ready to write with nature, like a woman—fierce, wild, unapologetically free.

Are you?