With the upcoming announcement of this year's winner our New Australian Fiction Prize shortlist authors talk about their inspiration, the creative process, their perfect reader, their favourite writing advice, and what they hope readers take away from their books.

What was the initial inspiration for this story?

Amy Taylor (Search History): I’m fascinated by the way our relationships are divided between the online and offline world. When we construct an online version of ourselves and communicate with others, so much of our intention and authenticity can be lost in translation. I wanted to write a novel that approached this idea from within a newly developing relationship and from the perspective of a singular character, who brought her assumptions, insecurities, and fraught relationship experiences along with her. I saw these circumstances as a sort of perfect storm for a story, and it felt like the kind of story I’d love to read.

Tracey Lien (All That’s Left Unsaid): I grew up in southwest Sydney in the 1990s and early 2000s, and while the details of my life did not inspire All That’s Left Unsaid (my upbringing was nowhere near as eventful as the plot of the novel!), the feelings I had as an Asian Australian kid during that time inspired the themes of the story. From the outset, I wanted All That’s Left Unsaid to help readers understand how it felt to grow up Asian Australian in the 1990s—how it felt to be treated as a conditional citizen; how it felt to have your belonging conditional on your impeccable behaviour, your gratitude; how it felt to be told that you lived in a country that was fortunate and fair, even when that fairness wasn’t extended to you.

Bronwyn Birdsall (Time and Tide in Sarajevo): The novel is inspired by the four years I lived in Sarajevo. I was 24 when I moved there in 2007, eleven years after the end of the long and brutal siege of the city. I quickly found a great group of friends and felt very much at home. I taught English to a wide range of people, from six-year-olds to university professors, so I heard a lot of different perspectives, all day, every day. And I like to have a chat, so I stumbled through conversations in my stilted Bosnian. It wasn’t research, it was just life.

After returning to Australia, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I’d seen and heard, asking myself – how do I find hope in a world that feels beyond repair? What does it mean to have given up on a future? One morning before work, I found myself writing a scene set in Sarajevo that took me by surprise. By the time I was running for my bus, I had figured out the basics of a story that took me several years to solve, like a puzzle.

Shirley Le (Funny Ethnics): I wanted to tell a story centering the second-generation perspective in the Vietnamese-Australian experience.

Can you tell us about the creative process?

Paul Dalgarno (A Country of Eternal Light): Almost everyone can create, whether it’s something practical like a chair or more ‘arty’ like a book. The question, really, is whether you’ve created something ‘good’ (in your eyes, first and foremost, and then in the eyes of interested others). An air of mystique is cultivated around creative writing but fundamentally it’s a craft like any other, fuelled by perseverance and a sense of vocation. Is the first chair someone creates amazing? Probably not. But the hundredth, or thousandth, might be. Funnily, I don’t think the craft approach takes away from the magic of creation – the better your craft, the more likely the magic will visit.

Adriane Howell (Hydra): I’ve been thinking about creativity a lot lately – why it pools and, specifically, why it evaporates. Much of Hydra was written before my son, now two, was born. I rarely doubted my creative capacity beforehand but as I write this now, I find myself seven-months pregnant with my second son and it’s as if an incubus has crouched atop me each night and sucked dry my imagination. So what was the primary element in that pre-child life that nurtured Hydra into existence? For me, it was solitude and lots of it. Creativity comes from showing up and sitting there undisturbed for endless hours, producing nonsensical bullshit – that’s when my best ideas and writing materialised. If the writing still didn’t flow, it was because I needed external stimulation and this came from reading, researching naval history or antiques, art exhibitions, solo travel and trespassing into HMAS Cerberus.

Tracey Lien (All That’s Left Unsaid): Through my career in journalism, I learned that discipline is more dependable than inspiration. If I only wrote when inspiration struck, I don’t know if All That’s Left Unsaid would exist right now. What works for me is to write a little bit every day. I set a low bar for myself—three hundred words a day—and the act of consistently showing up helps to unlock new ideas. I also try to read as much as I can. It’s important for me to see what others have accomplished so that I know what’s possible.

Who is the ideal reader for your book and/or what do you hope readers take away from it?

Amy Taylor (Search History): I think the book will mostly resonate with those who came of age alongside the advent of the internet and social media, but I hope the universal themes of loneliness and belonging can be felt by a broader audience too. More than anything, I want readers to find some element of the story relatable. I love the idea of readers being open to seeing themselves on the page. I also hope it serves as a reminder that things are not always how they appear online.

Bronwyn Birdsall (Time and Tide in Sarajevo): I hope it speaks to readers who are asking themselves the same questions I was – and I hope they feel less alone in those questions. What has surprised me is hearing from younger readers (in their late teens and early twenties) who feel very seen by that core question of 'what does it mean to have given up on a future?'. That’s been a very moving and unexpected response.

Shirley Le (Funny Ethnics): Funny Ethnics is for readers who like to be challenged. Sylvia Nguyen, the protagonist, confronts her own expectations and wider Australia’s expectations of what it means to be a minority. And similar to life itself, the story of Sylvia Nguyen does not unfold neatly in three parts. Funny Ethnics refuses to conform across many levels.

Paul Dalgarno (A Country of Eternal Light): As a reader, I cherish the feeling, usually within a paragraph or two, that I’m in safe hands and the author will deliver on the book’s promise – so anyone who wants that from a novel, and feels it in mine, is my ideal reader. I’m always keen to hear what people take away from books because it varies so much, but I suppose I’d like readers to come away from mine reflecting on the many iterations of familial love and the miracle of our everyday lives.

What is the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

Bronwyn Birdsall (Time and Tide in Sarajevo): Tell the truth.

Adriane Howell (Hydra): In his writing handbook, Release the Bats, D.B.C. Pierre writes of the novel’s structure as an exercise in breathing: dialogue and conflict are short sharp inhalations, dream sequences and philosophising are more meditative breaths. It’s about finding a balance between the two. You don’t want your reader hyperventilating nor falling asleep.

Shirley Le (Funny Ethnics): Write like you’re dead.

Amy Taylor (Search History): This is widely recommended writing advice that I can’t attribute to anyone specific: Form a routine. In other words, figure out when and where you’re the most productive and replicate those circumstances as often as you can. I resisted this advice for a long time, but when I eventually implemented a routine it really did transform my writing in terms of both quality and quantity.

Tracey Lien (All That’s Left Unsaid): I have heard so many variations on this piece of advice that I no longer know who to attribute it to, but it boils down to having a growth mindset. It doesn’t matter if the sentence you wrote today isn’t great, or the draft you just completed falls short of where you want it to be. Trust that you’ll get better. Trust that if you keep showing up, you’ll improve, sometimes incrementally, and sometimes all at once.

Paul Dalgarno (A Country of Eternal Light): Never alight from a vehicle when you can get off a train.

What does being chosen for a prize judged by booksellers mean to you?

Shirley Le (Funny Ethnics): It means that booksellers like Readings value the vibrant and diverse storytelling that Australian literature can offer to readers both local and abroad. As a reader, I long to see shelves of books that reflect many communities, not just a few.

Paul Dalgarno (A Country of Eternal Light): Booksellers are basically made of books, with more exposure to the full spread of contemporary and classic literature than most publishers, authors, readers and critics combined. Their enthusiasm for particular books is almost literally infectious and I can’t help but feel more authentic than praise from those with vested interests in a given author or title. Which is to say: it means everything!

Adriane Howell (Hydra): Booksellers see the good, the bad and the ugly. Their literary knowledge is inimitable. They are a writer’s first and most crucial readers. The reason I’ve been so moved and honoured by this shortlisting is because of its bookseller selection panel. Hydra also launched at the iconic Readings Carlton, and I do enjoy a touch of circularity.

Want to know more about each shortlisted title? Explore the shortlist here.