Here’s a little section from my Esther Greenwood part of the collection;

June 28th, 1953

How do you even begin to talk about something like this? The way I’m feeling is completely indescribable. But it is certainly real. It is a consuming emptiness that no one can fill. No man, no girlfriend, no mother nor father can melt the cold. I’m allowed to control my emotions, everyone tells me that, but this is something that I don’t want to control because I think it could be my escape.

The words, the paper, the ink, it all comes together to create a big long story which I vomit my soul upon. I feel like someone is going to capture this diary when I’m gone and spread it into the world in a fit of furious laughter. Their scorn.

Besides that point, my mother is unbearable to me.
“Why won’t you smile Esther? Your smile is so pretty.”
Why don’t you leave me alone, Mother? Your absence is so thrilling.

She doesn’t understand the world or me. My first published story said it all, A Reasonable Life in a Mad World.

Not everyone is happy and some people like it that way. The world is a mesmerising place, yes of course, but we don’t all have to be mesmerising people.

I know that I am not. My writing is mediocre. I’d won that fashion magazine contest. Seventeen published my work and then Harper’s and even Mademoiselle. Congratulations Esther, here’s to the time of your life! But, I do not want to go. Don’t make me, don’t make me do this. Please.

July 3rd, 1953

New York City is a place where only certain amounts of light can shine so bright through the constant darkness. Central Park has become my solitude. My stay at the Park Central Hotel does not begin for another week and Central Park helps me distance the future from the present. I went for a walk through there this morning, right around near the boathouse. Probably the most beautiful place in all of New York City, in all of Central Park and I could only understand why every single woman wanted to get married there. I stopped only to gaze at an unusual person, always on their own, in the distance, wondering why, perhaps, they chose to come here of all places on this particular morning.

I stepped past a man who sat on the grass, legs crossed, quite unusual for a man of his age, 45 odd, I’d gathered, and the hem on his grey, pinstriped pants was hoisted far above his ankles. He sat on the grass eating an ice cream cone, his tongue swirling around the glossy blob, eyes closed, savouring the taste, like a small child. I looked past the top of his salt and pepper hair, peering at the ice-cream stand in the distance. I made a start for it.

I asked the man behind the stall for a small chocolate cone and then went and sat, similarly to the man, on the other side of the park. The blob glided across my tongue, offering me a part of itself so willingly every single time. I got up, left the park, walked back past the duck pond to my temporary home and crawled into bed. I wrote some poetry later, not really about anything in particular. My writing doesn’t seem to have an ongoing theme, which I suppose could be considered a good thing, an artistic thing. But, the writing really does make me feel better. It’s like writing in this journal, in a way. Using words as an attempt to penetrate my indecision into something coherent. Aside from that, I had some toast with a little bit of peanut butter and turned the radio on.

Once I get you up here, I’ll be holding you so near,
You may hear all the angels cheer ‘cause we’re together…
let’s fly, let’s fly away…

With the soothing voice and taunting lyrics of Sinatra, my frenemy, I crawled back into bed, closed my eyes, and allowed the darkness to overwhelm my conscious.


When I was in year 12 (2012) I completed Extension 2 English for my HSC (Higher School Certificate). For this subject, you were required to undertake a a major project; generally something creative like a short film, short stories, performance poetry etc. or a literary analysis.

I did a collection of short stories, and instead of creating my own characters, I embodied three of my favourite and most complicated fictional characters. They all had things in common; their location, their time, and their overall consuming feelings of isolation. You had to choose an overriding theme and that was mine; isolation.

My three characters were;
Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger
Esther Greenwood, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Holly Gollightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote

These stories were written in the form of the character’s diary entries, all complete with a letter. They were spinoffs from the original texts, using gathered information to create my own fictional scenarios involving these characters meeting one another, ultimately having an overall influence on each other’s lives.
I’m pretty fond of the stories I created, however I do think they need a lot of editing. They’re something I’ve always wanted to return to and with some serious dirty work, maybe even consider some form of publication (dream big). I just want to post some little snippets of these stories here on the odd occasion, just as a reminder that they exist.
Here’s a little something from Holden’s diary;

July 19, 1946

I’m not really sure why I’m writing all of this down. Or whether I even need to be. I’m not gonna do that whole “dear diary” phony crap, because I’m not that sort of guy, you know? I don’t really know what kind of guy I am, but I’m definitely not that guy. So, my brother, right? My brother, he is dead. Allie is dead as of yesterday. And I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should go and speak with Phoebe, but she can’t be handling this any better than me. My parents don’t want to speak to me any more than they usually do, which isn’t very often. I’m not gonna say that it all sounds crazy, because it is crazy, that is something I am sure of.

Last night I slammed my fist into the walls of the garage again and again. They bruised up, nice and purple. I did it for Allie, hoping he could hear the pain. He didn’t say nothing. Death is a real funny thing. Not in a ha-ha way, although I do feel like if I had a good laugh right now, this might all disappear. Anyways, it’s real funny. Strange it is. Allie was here a few days ago and now he is gone. He was sick as a dog, could barely speak, but his presence was enough for me to not completely resent my healthy existence. Now that you’re gone, Al, I hate myself. Why the crap am I still here? Your baseball mitt lies next to me, all covered in that bloody green ink and I am so unsure of what to do. Should I read those poems that you always adored and I ignored? Because it seems really hypocritical for me to try and enjoy these scrawlings now. I can’t become one of those people, Al. I know you know it too. Those people that make a hero out of the dead. You were great, you were real nice, I’m not lying to you, but I never did read those poems, not that you ever really asked me to in the first place. Maybe I’ll bring myself around to it though, give me something to do, like it did for you when no one was up to bat.