Nam Le wins Book of the Year at 2025 NSW Literary Awards for 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem
Nam Le has won the top prize at the NSW Literary Awards for his debut collection of poetry — and his second book — 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem.
It's his second Book of the Year win at the event formerly known as the NSW Premier's Literary Awards, after his short story collection The Boat won in 2009.
At this year's event at the State Library of New South Wales in Sydney, the Vietnamese Australian author also won the $30,000 Multicultural NSW Award, taking his total winnings to $40,000.
The judges described the collection as "damning, frank and unwavering … passionate and bold in its depiction of otherness, trauma and struggle".
Le told ABC Arts he's "stoked" to have won at the NSW Literary Awards.
Accepting the Multicultural NSW Award via video message, Le — who came to Australia as a refugee from Vietnam when he was less than a year old — dedicated the award to his dad, "whose whole life has been an engine of multiculturalism in this country".
Le's publisher Ben Ball accepted Book of the Year on his behalf, reading a prepared speech from Le, in which he asked whether multiculturalism has become "complacent".
"If we think about the horror in Gaza — and how can we not — and how it has affected us here, perhaps we need new questions like: should the goal of multiculturalism be co-existence or cohesion?" Le wrote.
"What good is harmony if it only and always exists on terms dictated by power? … What good is diversity if it recognises every group's difference but not every group's dignity?
"When [diversity] doesn't challenge or threaten power, then how is it more than mere colourwash?"
Le told ABC Arts the response to his newest book has been "warming" — especially among other writers from marginalised backgrounds.
Other winners at the 2025 NSW Literary Awards — worth a total of $360,000 — include Fiona McFarlane, who won the $40,000 Christina Stead Prize for Fiction for her novel of interconnected stories linked to a serial killer, Highway 13; James Bradley, who won the Douglas Stewart Prize for Non-fiction for his ode to the ocean, Deep Water; and Lebanese Palestinian writer Hasib Hourani who won the Kenneth Slessor Prize for Poetry for his debut book rock flight, about the displacement and dispossession of Palestinians.
Accepting his award, Hourani described rock flight as a book "about protests, and one that acts as a protest for Palestinian liberation".
"Narratives of occupation, grief and resistance are difficult to capture straightforwardly. I wrote rock flight in order to explore both historical and speculative acts of liberation in Palestine."
In some ways, Le has been working on 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem since he first started writing, giving up his job as a corporate lawyer to attend the Iowa Writers' Workshop in the United States in 2004.
But it was being asked to write a piece for the 25th anniversary reissue of Watermark, an anthology of Vietnamese American writing, in 2021 that spurred him to begin working seriously on the book-length poem.
Le wanted the book to reflect his own "ambiguity and ambivalence" about the idea of a Vietnamese poem.
In [2. Invocative / Apostrophic], he writes:
"Whatever I write is
Vietnamese. I can never not —
You won't let me not —
Lick the leash or bite it."
Le explains: "If [the book] were to represent where I was at and what I was feeling about poetry and identity, culture and language, it would need to be something that was never fixed, always in flux, and always undermined and undermining other certainties.
"What I feel is so contingent and so changeable, so I wanted a field of poems where the poems could actually exert pressure and counterpressure on each other."
It gives his collection of poems a sense of energy and playfulness. It's also a reflection of Le's maturation as a writer — the collection coming 16 years after his highly praised debut, The Boat, which was released when he was just 29 years old.
"As a younger writer, you're wanting to convey authority by having answers; by the carriage of certainty," Le says.
"As you go on and get whacked around by life, you realise not knowing or not being sure of things is not a sign of lesser knowing.
"In fact, asking questions and not being sure, and having the wherewithal to change your mind, or to hold contradictory things in your mind, is a more truthful way of representing what it actually feels like to be around."
While his first taste of success was The Boat, Le's first literary love was poetry.
He grew up reading Francis Turner Palgrave's anthology of English poetry, his Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics, first published in 1861, and picking up books of classic poetry in second-hand bookstores.
It doesn't matter if the poetry he reads was written today or centuries ago.
"Good poetry, almost by definition, is alive," he says. "Whether it's written in really classical, metrical verse forms from hundreds of years ago, or whether it's written in the crucible of now, it speaks to what it sees, but it also speaks to the tradition that's around it."
He describes Australian poetry today as "incredibly eclectic" and "draw[ing] from so many different traditions".
In a country with such a strong migrant population, he says, "we each bring our own matrices of histories and stories and memories and cultural references".
Lebanese Palestinian writer Hasib Hourani — who won the Kenneth Slessor Prize for Poetry — finds reading Australian poetry "refreshing", because it speaks to "particular intricacies and nuances of certain movements and communities".
He also appreciates the camaraderie among poets.
"Because the Australian poetry landscape doesn't feel as saturated as other English language scenes, there ends up being a sense of community that translates on the page in a really beautiful and memorable way," he says.
Hourani grew up between the Arab states of the Persian Gulf and Australia, reading the poetry of WB Yeats and later Carol Ann Duffy, the UK's poet laureate from 2009 to 2019.
It was at university that he finally came across poetry similar to the kind he wanted to write.
"I discovered that poetry didn't need to take itself so seriously, even if the subject matter itself was quite grave," he says.
"[Rock flight] was an entertaining book to write because the way that I play with theme and language — while it's distressing and often so violent — it still is kind of tongue-in-cheek and playful."
Hourani began writing his book-length poem rock flight during a COVID lockdown in Melbourne in 2020. In the book, he writes about visiting Palestine for the first time in 2019, when he was 22; and about historical and present-day injustices inflicted on Palestinian people.
"I was figuring out what I could do from a distance," he says. "And what I could do is write and publish within this continent and hope that it will spread to different continents too."
Like Le, Hourani reflects on the limitations of language in his poetry.
"i go to palestine with a new journal
thought i'd write some metaphors
but return with scant pages of
questions and fodder.
the more time i spend with words
the more i realise that they just won't do."
The NSW Literary Awards judges described rock flight as a "rendering of crimes, a guide for survival, and a recognition of the disruptive potential of paper, voice and stone".
Hourani made some of his last changes to the book in October 2023. Since then, more than 53,000 Palestinians — including at least 160 journalists — have been killed in the war in Gaza.
"It feels really distressing to see that this book is being read and shared and even published, when journalists across Palestine and specifically in Gaza have been targeted and killed," he says.
"It has been really confronting seeing that all of my references in the book predate 2023 and yet they still remain as relevant as they are."
He says when he started writing the book he wanted to "advocate for Palestinian liberation to people who might not yet be convinced that's a just thing for us to ask for".
It started as a work of non-fiction, tracing his family's history in the region, including his grandparents escaping war-torn Palestine in 1948.
But he soon realised he could do more with poetry; he could make the book non-linear and tangential, and pepper it with recurring motifs like rocks, flight and contaminated water, all building to a picture of the history of Palestinian struggle.
"It's felt a lot of the time like history has been repeating over again for the better part of a century," he says. "The long-form poem allows it to be one contained story, in the way that this history is one contained story."
Hourani also wanted to write for other Palestinians and allies.
"Palestinian writing in Australia, but also now globally, isn't being given that freedom of expression and that airtime that it deserves and needs," he says.
"I really wanted to utilise the space as much as I could."
He wants his readers to "feel like there is always something to be done, tangibly and materially, to contribute to the struggle".
"A poet could dedicate this time to bearing witness to these atrocities, or they could dedicate the time to recoup and have readers feel re-energised to enter the struggle after a week of awful headlines.
"There is no one answer to what a poet's duty is at a time like this."
Book of the Year ($10,000)
36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem by Nam Le (Scribner Australia)
Christina Stead Prize for Fiction ($40,000)
Highway 13 by Fiona McFarlane (Allen & Unwin)
Douglas Stewart Prize for Non-fiction ($40,000)
Deep Water by James Bradley (Hamish Hamilton Australia)
Kenneth Slessor Prize for Poetry ($30,000)
rock flight by Hasib Hourani (Giramondo Publishing)
Patricia Wrightson Prize for Children's Literature ($30,000)
Silver Linings by Katrina Nannestad (HarperCollins Publishers)
Ethel Turner Prize for Young People's Literature ($30,000)
Anomaly by Emma Lord (Affirm Press)
Nick Enright Prize for Playwriting ($30,000)
Three Magpies Perched in a Tree by Glenn Shea (Currency Press/La Mama Theatre)
Betty Roland Prize for Scriptwriting ($30,000)
Inside by Charles Williams (Simpatico Films, Macgowan Films, Never Sleep Pictures)
Indigenous Writers' Prize ($30,000)
When the World Was Soft by Juluwarlu Group Aboriginal Corporation (Allen & Unwin)
Multicultural NSW Award ($30,000)
36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem by Nam Le (Scribner Australia)
UTS Glenda Adams Award for New Writing ($10,000)
Jilya by Dr Tracy Westerman (UQP)
Translation Prize ($30,000)
The Trial of Anna Thalberg by Eduardo Sangarcía, translated from Spanish by Elizabeth Bryer (Restless Books)
Special Award
Liminal
University of Sydney People's Choice Award ($5,000)
The Lasting Harm by Lucia Osborne-Crowley (Allen & Unwin)

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ABC News
4 hours ago
- ABC News
Geraldine Brooks on her memoir Memorial Days and travelling to Flinders Island to do 'the work of grief'
In 2019, Geraldine Brooks was sitting at her desk at home in Martha's Vineyard, working on her sixth novel, Horse, when the phone rang. On the line was a doctor from a hospital in Washington DC, calling to say her husband, journalist and author Tony Horwitz, had collapsed in the street. "I'm expecting her to say, 'And now he is in surgery,' or, 'We're keeping him for observation,'" Brooks tells ABC TV's Compass. "And instead, she says, 'He's dead.' Just like that." Horwitz — a Pulitzer Prize-winner, like his wife — was midway through a busy tour promoting his latest book, Spying on the South: An Odyssey Across the American Divide. Brooks couldn't understand how a man so fit and full of vitality had died so suddenly. "I just couldn't assimilate it." She wanted to howl in pain but feared that if she lost control, she might never regain it. In her new memoir, Memorial Days, she describes how, from that day on, she put on an "endless, exhausting performance" to give the impression she was fine. Eventually, however, Brooks realised she couldn't go on pretending. "I felt like this love had not been acknowledged by the capacious grief that it deserved. That's when I thought of Flinders Island," she says. In 2023, Brooks travelled to the remote Tasmanian island to confront her feelings, a cathartic experience she recounts in Memorial Days. And now, two years later, she returns to Flinders Island with ABC TV's Compass to discuss the important work of grief. Now one of Australia's most celebrated authors, Brooks began her journalism career at the Sydney Morning Herald. After covering the Franklin Dam controversy in the early 80s, she got a scholarship to Columbia Graduate School of Journalism in New York City, where she met a fellow journalist by the name of Tony Horwitz. "I was initially attracted to him because he was such an idealist. He had this high moral seriousness and a great sense of humour," Brooks recalls. The couple married in France in 1984 and moved to Sydney for a brief stint, before life again took a different direction. "Out of the blue, the Wall Street Journal called and said, 'Would I like to become the Middle East correspondent?'" The answer was yes, and an adrenaline-filled decade followed, reporting on geopolitical crises throughout the region. As foreign correspondents, Brooks and Horwitz often shared joint bylines, earning the tag 'Hobro' in the Wall Street Journal newsroom. "We were always getting calls in the middle of the night [to cover a story] … We lived with a duffel bag packed with crazy things; I had a chador and a bulletproof vest. "We often worked on different sides of the same story — [if] he was in Iraq, I would be in Saudi Arabia during the Gulf War and vice versa." Brooks eventually gave up journalism to write fiction, publishing the bestselling plague novel, Year of Wonders, in 2001 and winning a Pulitzer in 2006 for her US Civil War novel, March. She and Horwitz remained in the US, raising their two sons, Nathaniel and Bizu, in an 18th-century mill house on Martha's Vineyard, an island off the New England coast. "Their relationship is probably one of the all-time love stories," Bizu says. "More than anything, [he] revered and respected and loved how smart, intelligent and passionate she was about everything." Brooks first visited Flinders Island with Horwitz in 2000 to research a novel. Together they'd toured the island, marvelling at its natural beauty. They were confronted by its dark history too. At Wybalenna, they viewed the unmarked graves of Aboriginal people who died on the island after being forcibly removed from Tasmania in the 1800s. Brooks ended up abandoning the project, but she was taken with the island and toyed with the idea of one day buying a block there. When she returned in 2023, it was in very different circumstances. "For three years after his death, I'd been pretending to be normal. And I wasn't normal. I wasn't right … I wasn't myself," she says. "You're supposed to work through denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance, and I'd vaulted all the intermediate steps and pretended that I'd arrived at acceptance. You can't do that. "I needed to go back and work my way through those steps." For Brooks, Flinders Island offered "time and space … to do the business of mourning". "Grief counselling would've been one way," she acknowledges. "But I thought, 'Well, what do writers do? Writers write.'" She rented a shack overlooking a goblet-shaped bay, gazing out at the granite outcrop known as Mount Killiecrankie. There, alone and without distraction, Brooks returned to the worst day of her life to work through her grief. "I would get up in the morning and … do the work, write my thoughts, and then when I realised that I had a cramp and hadn't moved in hours, I'd go for a walk." She found solace in the rocky, windswept landscape. "I fell in love with granite," she says. "The rocks on Flinders Island are in these sculptural shapes. They're great works of art, monumental sculptures that completely moved me in the way art moves you." She also found another kind of comfort in her solitude. "I realised I wasn't alone. I was with Tony. I was able to be with him night and day. And it was wonderful." Brooks fell into a routine on the island, ending each day with a swim in the ocean. "At first it was just a swim. But as I got deeper and deeper into the work, I realised that there was something almost ceremonial about it," she says. "It became this gift to myself to be fully immersed and completely alone in my skin, in the water, like some kind of aquatic creature. And it felt cleansing and healing." Brooks felt a connection between her daily swim and the mikvah, a purifying bathing ritual that had formed part of her conversion to Judaism when she married Horwitz three decades earlier. Horwitz's Judaism was cultural rather than religious or spiritual. "If he had died and I was an Orthodox Jew, there would've been a very set road map to travel, a pathway into and out of grief," Brooks says. "There are strict rules. The first one, I think, is incredibly insightful: in the first hours after somebody experiences a loss like this, you don't even offer them condolences. They're in a state of 'stupefying grief' is how it's put. All you do is help them. "It's only after the burial that the grieving and condolences start." Known as Shiva, this formal mourning period lasts for seven days. "You sit and let people come and talk about the deceased. You don't bathe, you cover the mirrors, you're taken out of time," Brooks says. In her travels, Brooks has observed similar mourning rituals in other cultures, but found these customs largely absent from Western society. "I had no idea what a brutal, broken system it is when somebody dies suddenly far from home among strangers," she says. "I wasn't allowed to see his body. I got to Washington thinking that I could be with him and hold his hand and say goodbye. And I get to the hospital, and it's not allowed. They just show you a photograph and it's horrible. It wasn't until days later when he was finally released to the funeral home that I was finally able to see him." Alone on Flinders Island, Brooks found herself instinctively adopting the practices of Shiva. "I realised, I'd been swimming every day, but I hadn't had a shower, and there was no mirror in the shack," she says. "I was making it up as I went along but finding my own way to some of these things that have been enshrined for millennia in old religious practices." During her stay on Flinders Island, revisiting that terrible day in her mind, Brooks felt the howl of grief return. "I felt it coming back and I let it come," she says. "And after that, I realised that the time had done what it needed to do, and I was ready to go home." Brooks will never stop grieving for Horwitz, but she's found a kind of peace. "What I have been able to do … [is] set down that life I'd expected to have — growing old with him — and just accept that that life is gone. I ain't getting that back. I have to make the most of the life that I do have." Writing Memorial Days was instrumental to this process. "When you're in grief, the best thing you can do is tell your story … It wasn't until I wrote my story that I was able to feel like a normal human being again," she says. Watch Geraldine Brooks. Grief, A Love Story on Compass on Sunday night at 6:30pm on ABC TV, or stream now on iview.

Sydney Morning Herald
5 hours ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
‘As an older woman, courage starts to wobble': How Marta Dusseldorp finds her strength
This story is part of the June 8 edition of Sunday Life. See all 14 stories. Walking through the rainforest in the remote west of her adopted Tasmanian home, actor Marta Dusseldorp finds beauty and brutality along the banks that are home to rare Huon pine. At one junction, the clear water of one river meets the yellow, soupy water of another, poisoned by copper mining tailings. 'It's just extraordinary, the confluence of man and nature,' says Sydney-born and raised Dusseldorp, 52, who, more than seven years ago, moved to the island state with actor-director husband Ben Winspear and their two daughters, Grace and Maggie. Dusseldorp has just completed shooting the second season of ABC TV comedy-drama Bay of Fires, which she co-created, co-produced and stars. Filming took place again in the well-preserved main street of the small Tasmanian town of Zeehan, known for silver mining. But this spot, where the King and Queen rivers meet, proved a more elusive location. 'I tried to film there, but it's really hard to get to, and the safety issues weren't going to quite work.' Surrounding mountains and valleys have nonetheless provided picturesque settings for the appealing Tassie-noir, to which Dusseldorp's picaresque character Anika fled with her two children after death threats were made against her in her former corporate life in Melbourne. Anika took on the alias Stella, and hid among a cohort of eccentric, protected witnesses: there is heroin being cooked, a religious cult that has arranged marriages, and an assassin waiting for the aliens to descend. The second season has capitalism and greed on its themes as the townsfolk pressure Stella for more payouts from her corporate scam, which has already netted them $3.4 million, and inflationary pressures have pushed the price of bread to $23 a loaf. New threats may yet force Stella into the drug trade with her old foe Frankie (Kerry Fox), presumed dead by all at the end of the first season. Like the twists in her show, life in the smallest Australian state has delivered what Dusseldorp did not predict: fertile, imaginative ground. While her husband was born in Wagga Wagga, he'd grown up in Hobart, and they both wanted their children to experience the Tasmanian lifestyle. But they did not know how long they would stay. The couple found a network of like-minded actors, writers and directors, and started their own production company, Archipelago. Tasmania is also home to mycelium, the underground network of fungi threads that shares water and nutrients between trees, and which Dusseldorp says is a metaphor for the artist-community connections she's found in the state. The culture here appears to stimulate both artistic growth and biodiversity. Living here, says Dusseldorp, 'stops the clutter and gives you focus. You can get a lot done in Tassie as connections are just one step away.' Today, Dusseldorp is wearing a fawn trench coat in the lobby of her Sydney hotel and drinking lemongrass tea with honey. Several years ago, life was more frenetic as she dominated television screens in three popular series: Janet King, A Place to Call Home and Jack Irish. As if the pressures of playing the lead in the first two shows were not enough, Dusseldorp would also carve out three months each year between TV seasons to do a theatre play, including War of the Roses, The Crucible, Scenes from a Marriage and A Doll's House, Part 2. Theatre became her 'weird' way of researching what the public was feeling, she reflects now, which helped her decide when she went back onto a TV set if she was playing her long-running screen characters 'too tough or not tough enough'. '[Audiences] come as these beasts, and they sit as one, like in a colosseum, and then turn on you,' she observes. 'If they don't like [the play] or whatever, you have to work out a way to re-engage them, unite them, and give them something to go home with; it's like being a conductor. You find out politically where people are at and what's funny, because it changes depending on the climate.' The Australian playwright Benedict Andrews said Dusseldorp is a 'very brave and captivating and muscular actress'. (She played the eponymous lead in his 2016 play Gloria.) 'Oh my god,' says Dusseldorp when I remind her of performing this role in Sydney's tiny 105-seat Stables Theatre. ' Gloria was a very particular beast. She was basically a cry from me about what it felt like to be in the spotlight. Benedict did a really great job of showing the internal shattering of Gloria as a mother and a partner, and what the costs are of [fame]. 'I didn't want to fully acknowledge [the costs of fame], and when I don't want to acknowledge something, I do a play about it, so I can be somebody else, live it out, and go, 'Got that out of my system!' I would often go home and fall in a heap, but it was done. Theatre is like severance: there it is, I did that, and I went through it, and now I'm OK.' Dusseldorp met Winspear in 2003 when they were working on separate Sydney Theatre Company productions. 'He was like a ship: solid, unique,' Dusseldorp told me in a 2013 interview. The attraction was such that she 'had to splash cold water on my face'. Since moving to Tasmania, Winspear has directed Dusseldorp in the plays The Bleeding Tree, The Maids and Women of Troy. What's her take on their relationship now? 'We still walk side by side, which I really love,' she says. 'And there's an intent to be the custodians of our daughters forever, and make sure we guide them as best we can. Our work together is sacred, so we try to make sure it's filled with honesty, mutual respect, care.' In 2013, when I visited the couple's home in Sydney's Edgecliff, Winspear was preparing the evening meal for Grace, then almost 6, and Maggie, 3. He said he was mindful of how acting and directing obligations can invert family life, so they resisted employing childcare. 'His love of his family is his north star,' says Dusseldorp now. 'It comes down to mutual respect in a long-term relationship, understanding that people have their own ways of doing things, and trying to learn from that.' Grace is now 18 and has left Tasmania to live in Sydney. A budding writer, she is studying English literature. 'She's written a TV series about the family, which I have not seen yet,' Dusseldorp laughs, 'and I have the right to vet, I've told her! Sometimes when we have a family situation, I see her jotting things down and I'm like, 'What is that?'.' Maggie, now 15, and like her sister was often on the set of her mother's shows. 'My kids feel very comfortable socially with adults because they've always been around them.' Dusseldorp is mindful that with privilege comes responsibility. She is producing a film with a domestic-violence theme that is yet to go into production. She is also on the board of the Sydney-based charity, the Dusseldorp Forum, formed in 1989 by her late paternal grandfather, Dick Dusseldorp, founder of construction giant Lend Lease. The forum aims to improve education, health and social outcomes for children and their families through community-led projects. After our interview, Dusseldorp is going to visit her sister Teya, who is the forum's executive director. Her younger twin brothers Tom and Joe are also on the board. Missing from this story of tight siblings is brother Yoris, lost to cancer in infancy when Dusseldorp was eight. 'When I lost my brother, I realised that life comes for everyone in very unexpected ways, and that the person opposite you may have had a particular experience that you need to listen to and care about.' I ask Dusseldorp if she has a book in her. She laughs. 'If I do, it's just for me,' she says. 'I think it might help to put some stuff in order so I can work out what makes me creative, that way I can avoid losing courage. And maybe that's why people do it.' She reflects now on the road ahead; she hopes for a third season of Bay of Fires, and that the roles she plays, as well as creates, continue to have meaning; she doesn't want to just work for the sake of it. 'As an older woman, courage starts to wobble,' she says. 'I want to keep my courage until the very end, and I'm finding that right now I'm having to remind myself of that. That's partly because you become slightly invisible [as an older woman], less relevant possibly, and post-menopause, you need to redefine yourself.' Loading She adds women are finding strength in banding together post-menopause to 'bash through' the suffering of being ignored in this next stage of life. I suggest that shows such as Bay of Fires have proved there is an audience for engaging stories focused on older women. 'I think so,' she agrees. 'The courage to turn up is now something for me, but I want to have something to say. You've got to have a reason to be there, otherwise, shush!' Bay of Fires season two premieres on June 15 on ABC TV and iView.

The Age
5 hours ago
- The Age
‘As an older woman, courage starts to wobble': How Marta Dusseldorp finds her strength
This story is part of the June 8 edition of Sunday Life. See all 14 stories. Walking through the rainforest in the remote west of her adopted Tasmanian home, actor Marta Dusseldorp finds beauty and brutality along the banks that are home to rare Huon pine. At one junction, the clear water of one river meets the yellow, soupy water of another, poisoned by copper mining tailings. 'It's just extraordinary, the confluence of man and nature,' says Sydney-born and raised Dusseldorp, 52, who, more than seven years ago, moved to the island state with actor-director husband Ben Winspear and their two daughters, Grace and Maggie. Dusseldorp has just completed shooting the second season of ABC TV comedy-drama Bay of Fires, which she co-created, co-produced and stars. Filming took place again in the well-preserved main street of the small Tasmanian town of Zeehan, known for silver mining. But this spot, where the King and Queen rivers meet, proved a more elusive location. 'I tried to film there, but it's really hard to get to, and the safety issues weren't going to quite work.' Surrounding mountains and valleys have nonetheless provided picturesque settings for the appealing Tassie-noir, to which Dusseldorp's picaresque character Anika fled with her two children after death threats were made against her in her former corporate life in Melbourne. Anika took on the alias Stella, and hid among a cohort of eccentric, protected witnesses: there is heroin being cooked, a religious cult that has arranged marriages, and an assassin waiting for the aliens to descend. The second season has capitalism and greed on its themes as the townsfolk pressure Stella for more payouts from her corporate scam, which has already netted them $3.4 million, and inflationary pressures have pushed the price of bread to $23 a loaf. New threats may yet force Stella into the drug trade with her old foe Frankie (Kerry Fox), presumed dead by all at the end of the first season. Like the twists in her show, life in the smallest Australian state has delivered what Dusseldorp did not predict: fertile, imaginative ground. While her husband was born in Wagga Wagga, he'd grown up in Hobart, and they both wanted their children to experience the Tasmanian lifestyle. But they did not know how long they would stay. The couple found a network of like-minded actors, writers and directors, and started their own production company, Archipelago. Tasmania is also home to mycelium, the underground network of fungi threads that shares water and nutrients between trees, and which Dusseldorp says is a metaphor for the artist-community connections she's found in the state. The culture here appears to stimulate both artistic growth and biodiversity. Living here, says Dusseldorp, 'stops the clutter and gives you focus. You can get a lot done in Tassie as connections are just one step away.' Today, Dusseldorp is wearing a fawn trench coat in the lobby of her Sydney hotel and drinking lemongrass tea with honey. Several years ago, life was more frenetic as she dominated television screens in three popular series: Janet King, A Place to Call Home and Jack Irish. As if the pressures of playing the lead in the first two shows were not enough, Dusseldorp would also carve out three months each year between TV seasons to do a theatre play, including War of the Roses, The Crucible, Scenes from a Marriage and A Doll's House, Part 2. Theatre became her 'weird' way of researching what the public was feeling, she reflects now, which helped her decide when she went back onto a TV set if she was playing her long-running screen characters 'too tough or not tough enough'. '[Audiences] come as these beasts, and they sit as one, like in a colosseum, and then turn on you,' she observes. 'If they don't like [the play] or whatever, you have to work out a way to re-engage them, unite them, and give them something to go home with; it's like being a conductor. You find out politically where people are at and what's funny, because it changes depending on the climate.' The Australian playwright Benedict Andrews said Dusseldorp is a 'very brave and captivating and muscular actress'. (She played the eponymous lead in his 2016 play Gloria.) 'Oh my god,' says Dusseldorp when I remind her of performing this role in Sydney's tiny 105-seat Stables Theatre. ' Gloria was a very particular beast. She was basically a cry from me about what it felt like to be in the spotlight. Benedict did a really great job of showing the internal shattering of Gloria as a mother and a partner, and what the costs are of [fame]. 'I didn't want to fully acknowledge [the costs of fame], and when I don't want to acknowledge something, I do a play about it, so I can be somebody else, live it out, and go, 'Got that out of my system!' I would often go home and fall in a heap, but it was done. Theatre is like severance: there it is, I did that, and I went through it, and now I'm OK.' Dusseldorp met Winspear in 2003 when they were working on separate Sydney Theatre Company productions. 'He was like a ship: solid, unique,' Dusseldorp told me in a 2013 interview. The attraction was such that she 'had to splash cold water on my face'. Since moving to Tasmania, Winspear has directed Dusseldorp in the plays The Bleeding Tree, The Maids and Women of Troy. What's her take on their relationship now? 'We still walk side by side, which I really love,' she says. 'And there's an intent to be the custodians of our daughters forever, and make sure we guide them as best we can. Our work together is sacred, so we try to make sure it's filled with honesty, mutual respect, care.' In 2013, when I visited the couple's home in Sydney's Edgecliff, Winspear was preparing the evening meal for Grace, then almost 6, and Maggie, 3. He said he was mindful of how acting and directing obligations can invert family life, so they resisted employing childcare. 'His love of his family is his north star,' says Dusseldorp now. 'It comes down to mutual respect in a long-term relationship, understanding that people have their own ways of doing things, and trying to learn from that.' Grace is now 18 and has left Tasmania to live in Sydney. A budding writer, she is studying English literature. 'She's written a TV series about the family, which I have not seen yet,' Dusseldorp laughs, 'and I have the right to vet, I've told her! Sometimes when we have a family situation, I see her jotting things down and I'm like, 'What is that?'.' Maggie, now 15, and like her sister was often on the set of her mother's shows. 'My kids feel very comfortable socially with adults because they've always been around them.' Dusseldorp is mindful that with privilege comes responsibility. She is producing a film with a domestic-violence theme that is yet to go into production. She is also on the board of the Sydney-based charity, the Dusseldorp Forum, formed in 1989 by her late paternal grandfather, Dick Dusseldorp, founder of construction giant Lend Lease. The forum aims to improve education, health and social outcomes for children and their families through community-led projects. After our interview, Dusseldorp is going to visit her sister Teya, who is the forum's executive director. Her younger twin brothers Tom and Joe are also on the board. Missing from this story of tight siblings is brother Yoris, lost to cancer in infancy when Dusseldorp was eight. 'When I lost my brother, I realised that life comes for everyone in very unexpected ways, and that the person opposite you may have had a particular experience that you need to listen to and care about.' I ask Dusseldorp if she has a book in her. She laughs. 'If I do, it's just for me,' she says. 'I think it might help to put some stuff in order so I can work out what makes me creative, that way I can avoid losing courage. And maybe that's why people do it.' She reflects now on the road ahead; she hopes for a third season of Bay of Fires, and that the roles she plays, as well as creates, continue to have meaning; she doesn't want to just work for the sake of it. 'As an older woman, courage starts to wobble,' she says. 'I want to keep my courage until the very end, and I'm finding that right now I'm having to remind myself of that. That's partly because you become slightly invisible [as an older woman], less relevant possibly, and post-menopause, you need to redefine yourself.' Loading She adds women are finding strength in banding together post-menopause to 'bash through' the suffering of being ignored in this next stage of life. I suggest that shows such as Bay of Fires have proved there is an audience for engaging stories focused on older women. 'I think so,' she agrees. 'The courage to turn up is now something for me, but I want to have something to say. You've got to have a reason to be there, otherwise, shush!' Bay of Fires season two premieres on June 15 on ABC TV and iView.