Writer, musician, performer and arts activist Justin Heazlewood selling himself. Image: supplied
Sitting out on the swing seat, with thighs scorching like almonds, Nan would nurse a glass of home-brew and impart her backyard philosophies. She knew I wanted to be a writer, and with knowledge gleaned from the author bios in her library books, she prepped me for the industry. ‘You’re going to have to sell yourself, Justin.’ At twelve, with my bowl cut and smooth legs, this sounded daunting. I was shy. Wouldn’t someone else do that for me? I thought. If you were talented enough, surely it would all take care of itself?