Wild Woman Press

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

I don’t want to convince anyone to stay.But I do want to make it easy, if you want to.The emails are where most of the w...
29/04/2026

I don’t want to convince anyone to stay.

But I do want to make it easy, if you want to.

The emails are where most of the writing lives now.
They’re the place the stories land first.
Some of them stay there.
Some of them eventually become part of the books.

Threads is where things are looser.
Half-formed thoughts. Small moments. Things I’m noticing in real time.

Both feel closer to how I actually move through the world.

No expectations either way.

And, as the saying goes…. Check the link in bio 😜

I don’t think I ever built this space with social media in mind.It started as something much smaller.Meditations. Women’...
29/04/2026

I don’t think I ever built this space with social media in mind.

It started as something much smaller.
Meditations. Women’s circles. Letters. Memory. A way of holding onto people and moments I didn’t want to lose.

Somewhere along the way, it became content.
And I didn’t notice how much I started performing my own life.

I miss the version of me that just wrote.
Without thinking about reach or rhythm or what lands.

So I’m coming back to that.

Not disappearing. Not performing leaving.
Just stepping out of the constant noise.

I’ll still be here sometimes.
But not regularly. Not predictably.

If you want the deeper work, it’s in my book and my emails.

Otherwise, thank you for being part of this while you were.

That feels like enough.

What started as private letters became something bigger than I expected.Not because I planned it.But because I needed so...
28/04/2026

What started as private letters became something bigger than I expected.

Not because I planned it.
But because I needed somewhere to put the things I was noticing about life, motherhood, memory, and the ordinary moments that don’t feel important until they’re gone.

The letters went to women who came to my meditations.
Then they became something I collected.
Then they became a book.

Not for attention.
For continuity.

So it could exist somewhere outside of me.

If you want to stay connected, my email holds the slower, quieter writing.
The book holds the physical version of it.

And here will now just be occasional.

That feels like the right shape for it.

This is probably the least “launch-like” launch.But it feels right.Because this book was never aboutsitting down and wri...
26/04/2026

This is probably the least “launch-like” launch.

But it feels right.

Because this book was never about
sitting down and writing something impressive.

It was about noticing things
before they disappeared.

Small moments.
Ordinary days.
The parts of life that don’t usually get kept.

If you’ve ever felt like life is happening in fragments lately…

this will probably make sense to you.

It’s available on Amazon and select indie bookshops.
Check the link in bio.

I started writing because I didn’t want things to disappear.Because of my Pa.Because of my Nan.Because of the quiet fear...
26/04/2026

I started writing because I didn’t want things to disappear.

Because of my Pa.
Because of my Nan.
Because of the quiet fear that memory doesn’t stay as steady as we assume it will.

And because I wanted my children to always have my voice.
Even if one day I don’t have mine.

This was never about building an audience.
It was never about momentum or visibility.

It was about preservation.

About leaving something behind that doesn’t rely on me remembering to maintain it.

Something that can sit quietly in the world and still speak for me.

That’s what the book became.

And that’s what I’ll keep returning to.

23/04/2026

When you write in fragments like I do, you don’t always see the pattern while you’re inside it.

You just think you’re noticing things.

A thought in the shower.
A moment in the car.
A sentence you don’t want to forget.

But then people start telling you what they did with those words.

That they read them at night when everything finally goes quiet.
That they wait for the email to land so they can sit with it properly later.
That it feels like someone putting language to something they couldn’t explain.

And I realise that’s what this has always been.

Not content. Not posting. Not even really writing in the way I once thought writing was.

Just translation.

Of life into something someone else can recognise.

23/04/2026

That word still feels slightly too formal.

I think of myself more as a storyteller.

Someone who notices things
and tries to hold onto them long enough
that they don’t disappear.

The book is just where it ends up.

23/04/2026

I write the parts of life
that don’t usually get written down.

The in-between moments,
The ordinary days,
The things that quietly matter.

If you’ve ever felt like life is happening in fragments
this will probably feel familiar.

22/04/2026

For a long time I thought I was doing it wrong.

That real writers probably planned more.
Structured more.
Read more.
Sat in longer, uninterrupted stretches of time.

But I didn’t have that.

I had pockets.

Between everything else.

So I wrote in them.

And eventually, I realised that wasn’t a limitation.

It was a style.

Accidental, at first.

Then chosen.

Now just… how it is.

22/04/2026

It wasn’t.

That part felt… natural, in a way I didn’t expect.

It happened in pieces.
In notes on my phone.
In small pockets of time I didn’t really plan for.

What I didn’t expect was everything that came after.

Reading it back.
Changing things that already felt true.
Deciding when something was “finished” when it never really feels like it is.

And then the strange shift into holding it as something outside of me.

The writing was instinct.

Everything after it has been… interpretation.

22/04/2026

That’s what I keep coming back to.

Nothing about the writing itself changed.

The way I notice things.
The way I hold onto them.
The way I try to put words around something before it disappears.

That was already happening.

Quietly.
Consistently.
Without needing permission.

The only thing that changed
is that it became visible.

Something that used to live in notebooks
and notes
and half-formed thoughts
now exists somewhere outside of me.

It can be held.
Read.
Returned to.

And that does feel different.

Not bigger.
Not better.

Just… harder to dismiss.

Like something I always knew
but can’t quietly minimise anymore.

22/04/2026

For a long time, it didn’t feel like something that needed a label.

It wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t consistent.
It wasn’t building toward anything.

It was just something I did
in the spaces between everything else.

In the car.
In the shower.
In the middle of conversations
where half my attention would drift slightly inward.

Not checking out.
Just… noticing.

Holding onto something quietly
before it disappeared.

I think that’s why it took me so long
to recognise it as writing.

Because it didn’t look like writing.

It looked like thinking.
Like remembering.
Like paying attention in a way that didn’t need to be shared.

Until, eventually, it did.

Address

Selby, VIC

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Wild Woman Press posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Shortcuts

Share