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Avant Garde
April 21, 2026The one thing that is constant in this cosy space that is Busybird Publishing – besides the cute labrador Oscar whose fur goes everywhere even if you don’t pet him – is the consistent schedule of lunch, the growing hatred of those fake spiders that sit on the desk behind me (that have most likely been giving me more trauma than actually curing me of my phobia), and Les’ question: “Natasha! Who sings this?”
The music.
That is constant. Never-ending eighties music with a number of songs I know, and many I don’t, so when Les asks me the question, I’ll say “I don’t know” more often than not. I believe he asks when he knows I can’t get the answer just to tease me.
Aside from every now and then when Dad played ‘Ghost of the Navigator’ and ‘Number of the Beast’ by Iron Maiden, I’d listen to pop music like Imagine Dragons and Fall Out Boy. Any song I really enjoyed from choir would also be added to my list of favourites.
It stayed like that until lockdown. Somehow my dad’s musical taste rubbed off on my younger brother, and soon enough Metallica was irritatingly played on repeat most days. Because of that, when I wasn’t doing online classes, watching tv or playing video games, I spent a lot of time in my room playing cards and listening to my music.
Then, one day, that all changed.
My metalhead brother had heard a song by hard rock band Skillet at school, which his classmate had played. That night, my brother came home and put on ‘Monster’ for me. It had a guitar riff that drove the gritty music I usually wouldn’t listen to, but I enjoyed it. I tried out a few of their other songs, however it took me a while to find the courage to dig a little deeper, because I didn’t know if I’d like their other music.
Turns out I did. Pop music simply dissolved from my mind, and in came the exciting, energetic hard rock music I never thought I’d listen to, containing something that made me crave for more. I loved how their heavy, hard-hitting songs like ‘Monster’ and ‘The Resistance’, would pump me up until I couldn’t sit still, bopping my head along with the rhythmic drums. But they also had emotional, stringed pieces like ‘Yours to Hold’ and ‘Fire and Fury’, ballads and power ballads that are emotionally driven and have me feeling every note in my heart. Even if I tried, I couldn’t get away from John’s raspy vocals, nor Jen’s angelic voice.
Over time, I started to enjoy listening to Metallica when my brother put them on. It was a surprise, considering at first I didn’t like being in the same room whenever they were playing. Come the end of 2024 I decided to try a book playlist made for Graevale by Lynette Noni. Each song corresponded with a scene in the book, and that way it became more like a movie, where the music supports the actions of the characters in that moment. I loved how it gave the scenes more emotional impact, such as using ‘Centuries’ by Fall Out Boy during an intense – and important – fight scene.
It was the first time in a while that I was choosing to listen to something other than hard rock.
And somehow, through that book playlist, I found an artist with music I liked: Benson Boone. It was strange to me, but the more I listened to his music the more I enjoyed it. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself, because after all this time walking away from pop music, I’d fallen back into it again … or a version of it.
And that’s when I finally figured it out.
The music is experimental.
Diverse.
It doesn’t conform to the four chord autotune songs that everyone hears on the radio.
The instrumentation of Benson’s songs and his voice swept me through his music. People compare him to Freddie Mercury, particularly in his demeanor. His high energy and wide vocal range in conjunction with self-written songs and heartfelt lyrics emotionally connect to listeners, and while I can’t personally resonate with all of his songs, I can still feel the emotion that comes through in his voice.
My music taste hadn’t changed too much from here. It was constantly rock and metal; however, every now and then I’d listen to Benson as a little refresher from the intensity of the double kick on drums and the distorted electric guitar.
In September 2024 I went to my first concert to see Iron Maiden. While I had only listened to two of their songs when I was younger, I couldn’t resist going. Watching the band perform made it worth skipping exam practice for a night. Plus, seeing their mascot Eddie – an undead being that dresses up as a mummy, cyborg, samurai and more depending on the album the song comes from – on stage and fighting the band was worth the money.
The next concert I went to was The Amity Affliction’s concert, but solely to see one of their supporting bands: Ice Nine Kills, who are as experimental and diverse as you can get in metalcore.
I didn’t listen to them much then, but I do now, and I am painstakingly waiting for them to headline in Australia. Not only do they write songs based around the horror genre, such as ‘The Shower Scene’ for Psycho, but they add lore to their music videos, which is followed through their albums and provides something extra for fans to enjoy.
On stage the rhythm guitarist and bassist add backing vocals, creating a harmony that seamlessly joins their voices together. Theatrics also play a heavy part in their performances, and I will always remember the day I got to see a woman behind a white sheet get stabbed by the singer as he screams, “You can’t escape the shower scene!”
The last concert I went to was Metallica. Despite how amazing the other two concerts were, this one surpassed them a million times. One of the supporting acts was Evanescence, and going into the concert I only knew of ‘Bring Me to Life’, and had never heard the band play outside of the studio song.
But it was breathtaking to see Amy Lee sing live. She is probably one of very few singers who sounds better live than in the studio. Seeing everyone turn on their phone lights during ‘My Immortal’ was enough for tears to prick my eyes, and by the end of their performance, the only word I could think of was Magical.
Then came the main act. I had heard their music many times before, even their live performances, so I knew this would be good.
Then I was proved wrong, because Metallica was extraordinary.
Somehow James Hetfield’s voice has become better over the years, and the audience loved joining in during the songs. My brother got the song he hoped for, ‘The Memory Remains’, where the live version features Hetfield vocalising, moving his hand up and down with the direction of the note, and essentially conducting the audience through the melody. As the instruments died down to just drums to keep us in time, we became the performers. It’s funny that by having so many people, you manage to get in tune even if a lot of you can’t sing.
I was stunned by how amazing the concert was, from the first (unexpected) burst of pyro so close to us I could feel the heat on my face to the crowd filling in the gaps more than enthusiastically to the final song ‘Enter Sandman’.
I was still unable to process how phenomenal the concert was two weeks later.
It always piques my interest to go back over how my music taste has evolved. It’s fascinating how much I’ve latched onto this type of music, and even now I sometimes find it hard to believe that I’ve come to like it. I still have yet to find someone else who has a similar journey, who shares my strange taste in the experimental, or should I say, avant garde.
While I’ve also played and performed music, listening to it has been more impactful.
I love how it hits you right in the heart, even when you don’t want it to.
In some ways it’s like writing, where it seems to be able to do the impossible.
Natasha
Editing Intern
The Little Things
April 14, 2026I remember when writing used to feel easy. How effortless it was to type at a keyboard relentlessly, ideas pouring from my youthful brain, back when life had very little worries. This was a period I look back on and wish I never took for granted, because now, as an adult, I no longer have as many hours to write away.
Now, that eagerness to write all the time is drowned by work, social life, and the simple day-to-day challenges that constantly appear from nowhere. This was only amplified by my expectations that I should be writing A LOT, constantly, or not at all – an incredibly unrealistic goal that was only pushing me further away from what I loved most.
You see, with social media’s portrayal of productivity becoming increasingly difficult to relate to – believing we can never live up to the same level of efficiency – the easier it is to feel like giving up, or push ourselves towards burn out.
I very quickly became a victim of this. I found myself writing loads in between my school breaks and then not touching my prolonged literary projects for months, sometimes even years. Why such extreme break periods? I simply could not meet the expectation I’d set for myself, wanting too much and only setting up for failure, quickly experiencing major burnout despite wanting to continue writing. I’d convinced myself that writing sessions meant producing thousands of words at a time every time. If I were to write anything less it wasn’t worth trying to write at all.
Recognising this pattern had me questioning if I was cut out to be a writer, and at one point even put me off altogether, doubtful over if I could sit down and write anymore.
But I knew how much I loved to write, and how fulfilling it was to add to my work and escape from reality during the process. It was something I’d treasured my whole life and certainly not a passion I was willing to give up on that easily.
However, I knew I couldn’t just continue the mindset I’d previously had, wanting to start from scratch and create a discipline that was going to build me up rather than keep me at the bottom.
I started being less harsh on myself about how many words I produced, reminding myself that a couple hundred was better than none, even if it wasn’t the thousands I’d previously hoped would constantly flow onto the page. It was a reminder difficult to convince myself of, still making comparisons with writers I scrolled past on social media. But I kept my head forward, pushing through the doubts to write something instead of nothing.
Instead of spending a whole day trying to write thousands of words for a couple weeks and then leaving my manuscript to collect dust, I was now writing briefly for fifteen to thirty minutes every day, collecting a couple or so hundred words at a time. While not seeming like much, I soon noticed the subtle progress I was making, while also finding that pleasure in writing beginning to come back again.
To keep this habit up I created a physical word count log that I write in every single day. I note the number of new words I’ve written, and update the existing word count of my project, keeping this in a journal that I can look back on and see the slow but promising progress.
As a writer, success shouldn’t be found in the big and intimidating goals you set for yourself, because they will never be fulfilled the way you want them to be. It is instead the small milestones made each day, even as small as a dozen words, that are going to help you chip away at the end-goal sooner.
Gently guiding yourself, rather than forcing an impractical amount of work onto your conscience, will inevitably quicken your progress. It is this gradual satisfaction, slow and steady, that is the most rewarding overall. Wanting to rush and do so much at once lead to a wall impossible to break down.
So, remind yourself as I have that a little goes beyond a long way, and that it is THE way if you want to succeed in discipline rather than motivation, because that guiding light can only last for so long before it eventually snuffs out.
Sit yourself down and write, just for a little bit, every day, even when you don’t want to, and be patient. You’ll be surprised how far you go!
Alessandra Donnelly
Editing Intern
My Second Death
April 7, 2026Fresh out of university in 2023, I was a junior nurse working at a public hospital. At work, each shift would consist of either mundane jobs such as vital sign observations (checking blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate, etc.) or complete chaos of medical emergency calls. By the end of the year, I felt confident with managing both the predictable and the unexpected tasks.
That was before I witnessed the traumatic death of a patient. As my patient gasped for air one last time and went still, the doctor standing across from me – holding the patient’s other hand – looked up. Our eyes met, and the doctor gave a small nod, a silent agreement that we both knew it had been her final breath.
I stood frozen, holding the patient’s hand, terrified. My patient had just passed away in front of me.
No, a person just died in front of me.
A life just went out of a person, echoed in my head.
I had seen death before, but never like this – not the exact moment of leaving, not from this close, and not with one of my own patients. Tears came before I could stop them. The silence filling the room between the nurses and the doctors was suffocating. I had to escape it. I had to run out as quickly as I could. I couldn’t bear to stand in that room, faced with death and the unfamiliar weight of grief.
Fast forward to March 2025, another patient of mine passed away. Ironically, it happened just after all the doctors and nurses had stepped out briefly, leaving only her daughter and me at the bedside. Once more, it became my responsibility to stand next to death. But this time, I could be there until the end.
As I listened to my patient’s laboured final breaths, I took her hand in mine, rubbing her shoulder gently with the other. When her breathing came to a stop, I felt her empty pulse and closed her eyes. Hours later, I noticed her warm hands turned cold as I changed her gowns, washed her, and prepared her body. Even then, I could stay in that room and whisper my goodbyes.
These past few months have been like that. Some things could no longer reach me or wound me the way they did the first time; experience has given me armour in certain places and scars I can lean on.
Yet, there are still moments that felt like a sharp, new sting, piercing through places I didn’t know were unguarded.
So many experiences and emotions, in work and life – different patient’s heartfelt stories, the exhaustion that clings after every shift, and the growing absence of those I miss – made me want to run out of that room again. Certain aches also circle back in ways I never expect, and I find myself running away, hiding in the pan room, crying.
But I am slowly able to tell myself that one day these heavy moments will stand between me and the worst of the hurt, protecting me in the name of ‘lived experience.’ And even if I cry over the same things I thought I’d healed from, maybe that’s okay, maybe feeling this deeply is part of living fully.
Hayun Jeon
Editing Intern
Labubu – Friend, Enemy, or Frenemy?
March 31, 2026Clonk.
My friend’s handbag hit the table as she sat down next to me. As I drew breath to greet her, my eye snagged on something hanging off the clutch. The ugliest stuffed toy I had ever seen was clipped to the bag as if it swung from the gallows.
“What is that?” I spluttered. (I may have used an expletive here.)
“My Labubu!” she beamed. The little monster – a gargantuan excuse for a keychain – stared up at me. Furry everywhere else, its face was somewhat humanoid. Its wide smile exposed a string of serrated teeth.
Labubus, I learned, are trendy collectibles. Yep, you fork out sixty bucks for the little devils not once, but again and again, until they form a grotesque little clan that all but obscures your bag.
The kicker? They often come in “blind boxes” that hide your Labubu’s colour and outfit until you make the purchase. Shoppers can’t even select what they like; in this sense, Labubus seem to herald a disturbing era of consumerism for consumerism’s sake.
I’m a staunch defender of Generation Z – I’ll leave the young-people-these-days gripes to my grandparents – but come on. Soon enough the population growth of Labubus in landfills will outstrip the world’s major cities.
I should also mention that I’m not someone who prides herself on going against the grain. I indulge in “the trendy”, from Taylor Swift to Birkenstocks to chocolate coconut water to flared leggings. I follow friends’ recommendations for TV shows, phone plans, nail polish brands, uni subjects.
Usually, I’m not just jumping on the bandwagon – I’ve got a reserved seat. But you can’t do anything with a Labubu. They’re not toys; they’re status symbols and eyesores.
I’ve played the role of the cynic amongst my friends once before. When we’ve travelled together, I’ve found their insatiable desire for souvenirs befuddling.
If we had the misfortune to encounter a souvenir shop – gaudy postcards, keychains, and magnets spewing out from the shopfront – a thorough perusal would inevitably ensue. One of my friends finished a trip with 54 postcards in total – a colossal stack that took up valuable real estate in her bag, as I enjoyed reminding her.
Once, at the airport, I talked my friend down from buying a puppy soft toy clad in a Union Jack cap. The twinkle faded from her eye as I ushered us towards more practical supplies: water and snacks. Although I intended to relay this anecdote with cynical relish, this particularly memory has me wondering – am I a bit of a hypocrite?
If anything happened to Big Ted, the teddy I’ve had since I was a baby, I’d be inconsolable. And Big Ted’s pretty mangy these days – in his 22 years by my side, he’s never been through the wash.
Big Ted was with me the night before I started prep. He was with me when I had pneumonia in Grade Three. He was there the night after I made my first friend in high school, and he was there the night after I failed my driving test. He was there my first night in a new country. He was there the night before I started this internship!
Maybe – maybe – I’ve been a tad harsh on the souvenir-obsessed. I’m clearly not immune to sentimental feeling towards objects. I guess souvenirs – and childhood stuffed toys – remind us of who we were. As the years accumulate, these objects become emblems of continuity and change.
My friend who bought the 54 postcards has stuck them up on her wall, and I must admit, they look great. The mural distils the laughs, views, meals, new friends, and mishaps that coloured each city we visited.
If you’ve been to the Busybird HQ, you’d know that it’s brimming with trinkets, knickknacks, and ceramic and stuffed toys. And from the handmade monkey puppets to the “intern badge” prank (don’t open the wooden box!), each object has a story about the intern or client who gifted it to Les and Kev.
I’ve taken this blog to a rather sappy place with this whole “objects-hold-memories” thrust. But I think the physical reminder that you existed as a younger version of yourself, or you went somewhere once, or you had someone who cared about you enough to buy or make you a personalised gift – these are nice supplements to memories, which can be fallible.
Where the dreaded Labubu fits into this message remains to be seen. My friend promised that the little beasts – no doubt raggedy and balding – would still be dangling from her bag when she was eighty.
But I’m not so sure.
Juliet Guthrie
Editing Intern
Give Yourself Some Grace
March 24, 2026
I started my internship here at the end of January and, until very recently, lunchtimes would consist of me chipping away at the mountain of work that was my thesis. I had only been given six months to conduct my research and write the 10,000-word report – the biggest project I’ve ever attempted.
As I was already juggling several competing priorities, I knew two things: I needed to put in consistent effort, and I needed to start immediately.
I would be lying if I said that I put in the same amount of effort every single day without fail for six months. Some days passed without me even looking at the document, and some days I could only spare an hour. The latter included every Wednesday — as work and study for my other classes took up the rest of my time, the lunch hour here was frequently the only time I could dedicate to my thesis on those days.
I’m a perfectionist to my core, and I saw these days as a failure. This mindset could have derailed my efforts entirely: all I could see was that I was unable to be consistently productive every single day, which was discouraging given the standards to which I was holding myself.
However, the broader picture shows a much more consistent effort. I didn’t consider that two or three unproductive days per week meant four or five days where I did make much-needed progress. I also didn’t consider the impact of just one hour per day: whilst not a lot of time individually, the consistent use of my lunch break on Wednesdays totalled 24 hours of work by the time I finally finished my thesis. It was the accumulation of these small but repeated efforts that ultimately got me across the line.
My point is if you’re writing a book or undertaking another big project, don’t pressure yourself to make a huge amount of progress every single day.
Making your standards more realistic – adjusting your expectations from writing two thousand words a day to two thousand words a week – might better facilitate long-term consistency.
I’ve found that missing one or two consecutive days with perfectionistic standards more readily led to inconsistency, overwhelm, and the abandonment of projects. Producing the same amount of work and effort every single day is challenging when you’re already juggling other priorities and whatever else life throws at you.
Give yourself a bit of grace; you’re not a machine.
Zoë Forbes
Editing Intern