When I was writing Island Home I was never really sure what it was. Now that it's safely behind me, I see that Island Home is a kind of love letter – to this place, its ecosystems and creatures – but also to its people. As I say somewhere in the book, this country leans in on you, it weighs down hard. Like family. Because it is family. And whether I like it or not, I'm caught up in its web, ensnared in all those family matters, organic and intangible, functional and dysfunctional, many of which make me shout at the telly and howl at the moon.

All the same, I love this family. It's where I'm from and it's what formed me. And I want to defend it. I want to see it continue to mature and develop and prosper. I love its myriad stories, its particularities, its peculiar sounds. And that's not one monolithic story or voice, by the way. It's the voice of Steve Irwin, say, but also the voice of Lee Lin Chin; it's the sounds of Gurrumul and of Katie Noonan; the stories of Tom Keneally and of Alexis Wright.

Australia has survived its colonial era. It's too cute to say we've left it behind completely, but in my lifetime we've striven to out-think and outgrow it. We've begun to sing and dance and play and write and, yes, to legislate our way past a colonial existence. And our arts community has been integral to this change of mindset.