Mother’s Day, which is celebrated around the world in May, conjures up images of happy motherhood and femininity – lots of pink; carnations and roses; bathrobes and bath bombs; scented candles and slippers.
It’s a time to remember and honour the woman who brought us into the world.

 For many women the festivities around Mother’s Day are painful

That can be a positive thing if you’ve had a good role model and nurturer. But for many women the festivities around Mother’s Day are painful. They might be grieving the loss of a beloved mother - or if they are a mother, they might be grieving the loss of a child. Then there are those who feel the bewilderment of having been raised by an indifferent, critical or neglectful mother. Still, many others are suffering in the midst of parent-child estrangement.

 My books scale the full gamut of mother and daughter relationships

Motherhood, and our image of it, can be a bit like Paris: a tad over-romanticised. When I think of Paris, I see images of the Eiffel Tower, chic women walking poodles, signs written in swirly Art Nouveau script, and men in berets playing piano accordions. I don’t think of rampant unemployment, pollution, traffic congestion, the crime rate, or the probability of a terrorist attack.

My books scale the full gamut of mother and daughter relationships; from the unbreakable bonds in White Gardenia and Wild Lavender; to the secrets and lies in Golden Earrings; the deeply mourned loses in Silver Wattle and Sapphire Skies; the delightfully irresponsible and impractical in Southern Ruby; to the narcissistic and plain manipulative in The Invitation; and the neglectful and distant in The Mystery Woman.

Narrative is a way of learning about ourselves and about life has been hardwired into us as a survival mechanism

From the thousands of emails, letters and comments on social media I have received over my writing career, it’s clear that my books strike a chord with readers not just in my home country of Australia, but around the world, in terms of their feelings about their own mothers.

I recently read a fascinating book by Lisa Cron, Story Genius. According to Cron, narrative as a way of learning about ourselves and about life has been hardwired into us as a survival mechanism.

If you think about this, it makes a lot of sense. Human beings can survive without the internet and even the wheel (we did for thousands of years) but if those paintings on caves are anything to go by, stories have been part of our existence from the beginning.

Stories are more powerful than simply learning facts

Have you noticed that someone who might dismiss reading fiction as frivolous is all ears when someone starts relating a story to them?

Stories are more powerful than simply learning facts. Imagine an ancient mother living in an isolated village. She could tell her children about the danger of wolves in the surrounding forest by relating the facts that wolves have 42 teeth, weigh about 50kg and have a sprinting speed of 60km per hour. But it is unlikely that information would register. But imagine instead that she tells them:

One day a little boy pretended not to hear his mother calling him back to the hut as dusk was falling. He was busy following the trail of a squirrel that fascinated him with its bright eyes and the way it scampered from tree to tree. Before he knew it, he had followed the squirrel into the cool, darkness of the forest. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky and he thought that perhaps he should return, but it was too enchanting to be in this forbidden place with the giant trees towering above him and the sound of the river flowing in the distance. He was resting his cheek against the soft moss growing on the bark of one of the trees when he noticed that the forest birdsong had grown silent and the squirrel had disappeared. Then he heard the crack of a twig and the slow, deep snarl of a hungry wolf …

Hearing a story like that was a child’s way to experience the event in virtual reality. They would have identified with the character and his thoughts, remembered the times they had disobeyed their mother and felt the world of the story open around them as if they were living it for themselves. It was a good way to make a lesson memorable. Athletes still use this process to enhance their performance, playing out every stroke of their tennis racket or swing of their bat in their minds before going out physically to play.

So what do I think my books offer in the way of helping readers navigate the complicated world of mother and daughter relationships?

There is a beautiful quote by Amelia Earhart:

‘Some of us have great runways already built for us. If you have one, take off. But if you don’t have one, realise it your responsibility to grab a shovel and build one for yourself and those who will follow after you.’

And that is what many of my characters do. They can’t change their pasts – whether they had good or bad relationships with their mothers, whether a beloved mother has died or has been separated from them, so they press on and learn to navigate an adult life that they must create for themselves. My characters face their fears, create nurturing and supportive relationships with other women, and learn to become self-reliant. In other words, they practice resilience.

This year, I celebrate twenty years of being a professional writer

In watching my characters do this, my readers can choose ways to practice the quality of resilience in their own lives. Because the only other choice is to remain forever a victim of something we can’t change.

This year, I celebrate twenty years of being a professional writer. I am very proud that my books have touched so many readers’ hearts and lives. I hope that my characters will continue to inspire my readers for many years to come.

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