Wild Woman Press

Wild Woman Press Author of ordinary, sacred things. Writing womanhood in real time. https://www.wildwomanpress.com.au

This is why…
04/06/2026

This is why…

01/06/2026

A very strange thing happened today.

I walked into a bookshop and there it was.

My book.

Sitting on a shelf between books written by people I’ve never met.

For years it existed only in my head.
Then on my laptop.
Then on my dining table covered in edits.

And now apparently it’s a real book.

Still trying to get used to that.

Also shout out to for supporting local indie authors x

31/05/2026

The camellia drops its flowers whole.

Not petal by petal.

Not slowly.

One morning the bloom is there, bright and certain. The next, it is lying beneath the tree, still perfectly formed, as though it simply let go.

By winter, the grass underneath is scattered with them.

Red circles against green.

I always notice them before I notice the tree itself.

Sometimes I stop beside them for a moment longer than I need to.

The flowers look almost untouched.

As if they could be picked up and placed back where they came from.

As if nothing has changed.

The tree stands above them, already busy with whatever comes next.

And the flowers stay where they landed.

For a few days.

Bright.

Quiet.

Enough to be seen.

Then not.

Anyway.

Today, on what would have been her 90th birthday, I’ll hold her in my thoughts.
29/05/2026

Today, on what would have been her 90th birthday, I’ll hold her in my thoughts.

26/05/2026

For my grandmother, Pauline.

Applications for the “Women I Don’t Know” ARC team are now open 🤍I’m keeping this one very small and intentional.Just a ...
24/05/2026

Applications for the “Women I Don’t Know” ARC team are now open 🤍

I’m keeping this one very small and intentional.

Just a handful of thoughtful readers who genuinely love quieter, reflective literary fiction and would like to read the book before its July 1 release.

If that sounds like your kind of thing, you can apply via the link in my bio ✨

19/05/2026

Northcote Town Hall still exists in my mind exactly as it was that night.

The bar stools too high.

The house sparkling slightly too sweet.

My wedges catching on the metal rung every time I crossed my legs.

I remember sitting there pretending not to look toward the door.

Red lips.

Black halter dress.

Hair that needed washing…. If I’m being completely honest.

I remember touching the stem of the glass over and over because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.

The room felt loud in the way unfamiliar places do.

Everyone already somewhere inside their evening.

And me, waiting.

Waiting with my favourite wedges on.

The ones that made me taller.

The ones I wore on all my dates.

Not lucky exactly.

Just familiar.

I can still picture them under the stool.

One foot tucked behind the other.

The tiny wobble when I shifted.

The ache that always came later.

And then the door opened.

Jeans.

White shirt.

That smile.

Funny what survives.

Not whole nights.

Just fragments.

The cold bubbles of cheap sparkling.

The metal rung beneath my shoes.

The feeling of waiting for something you don’t yet know will matter.

And sometimes, years later, I still go back there for a minute.

Just to sit beside that version of us again.

13/05/2026

“She looks like the type of woman who sings loudly in the car even at the red light.”

A line from something I’ve been writing lately.

03/05/2026

I did. Last night.

It wasn’t a big one, just the small one in the sunroom.

I must have left it open without realising.
Not on purpose.
Just… forgotten.

This morning the kookaburras found it before anyone else did.
Their laughter filled the room like they were already well into the day.

Show offs…

There was a spiderweb in the corner of the frame,
moving slowly in the morning breeze.

And I remember feeling extremely grateful for the fly screen.

Funny, fly screens…

They let some things in.
Keep others out.
A kind of boundary.

Leaving the window open let the fresh smell of rain in, and I keep thinking…

Sometimes what we leave slightly open, even by accident,
is exactly what lets something find its way in.

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