PHOTO: Australian author Jackie French, whose storytelling captures the beauty of the bush and the depth of human experience.
From Wombats To War Stories And Words Of Courage
Jackie French reflects on her remarkable writing journey, the impact of dyslexia, her love for Australian history, and how storytelling empowers children to understand justice, identity, and resilience.
Jackie French writes as she lives—with deep compassion, wild curiosity, and fierce purpose. From the soft-footed wombats that wander near her doorstep in the Araluen Valley to the echoes of history carried through generations, her stories emerge from a life steeped in observation and connection. A single book might begin with a childhood question, a scent of eucalyptus on the wind, or a flicker of injustice. Whatever the origin, it is the pulse of life, fully lived and fiercely examined, that animates her words.
Whether she is crafting tales of wartime resilience or translating the silent language of animals into laughter and tenderness, French’s storytelling is always driven by a sense of responsibility—towards truth, towards children, towards the past and future alike. Her books are not mere escapes; they are invitations to act, to understand, and above all, to feel.
A lifetime advocate for literacy, shaped by her own experience with dyslexia, she offers more than stories—she offers the tools to unlock them. She knows that reading can be revolutionary, and writing even more so. Through every sentence, she reminds us: we are made not just of words, but of the worlds we dare to build with them.
What inspired you to first begin writing stories for children and young adults?
Boredom. I was six years old, on a Sunday afternoon so hot the bitumen squished through our toes when we jumped on it. (We were mostly barefoot in those days, despite my mother’s weird memory from childhood that there was a garment called ‘shoes’. I had run out of books to read, so decided to write one. I showed it to my teacher, who showed it to the headmistress, who had copies printed off to use in school. Writing a story can be more powerful that reading one, as you can write exactly the book you crave.
I don’t think there has been a day since when I haven’t written fiction, or narrative non fiction.
How has your experience with dyslexia influenced your writing and advocacy for literacy?
I’m an accidental advocate. Each time, as I spoke to large audiences, there’d be a group of disruptive kids to one side. As soon as I mentioned my dyslexia they’d stop chomping spit balls and sit wide eyed. They were not stupid. It was not their fault. And yes, they could learn to read. It wouldn’t be easy at first. Dyslexics have a choice. We can give up, or keep going. The difference between ‘being good at something’ and ‘genius’ is focus and determination. The dyslexic who doesn’t give up learn focus and determination early. Those who keep going will soar.
Those kids would hang around to ask questions; their parents would write to me; those studying learning problems would contact me. Was there ever a time I thought:’I need to advocate for dyslexia to be classified as a disability, for snake oil teaching methods to be discredited, for kids to be given a hand at just the right time? Possibly when a parent rang me, a friend of a friend, crying. Her son had been at my talk, and was now reading the book I’d talked about: reading slowly, and with much help, but with enormous joy and sudden confidence. ‘I’ve decided I’m an eagle, Mum.’
It was never my decision to be an activist for literacy. I was merely sucked into the vacuum of enormous need.
Many of your books draw from Australian history—what is your process for researching and weaving history into fiction?
I come from a family of story tellers. ‘Tell us about when you were a little girl’ I’d ask Grandma, who’d tell me the stories from her grandmother, who’s had stories from her grandmother too, going back at least ten generations or far more. I also had a family diary of the early colony, and so knew that much of what we were taught was incorrect, for many reasons, and even when it was the truth, it could never be the ‘whole truth’. I’ve never researched a subject for a book. Instead, since I was seven and my grandfather found me crying because my parents had yelled at me to stop asking stupid questions like ‘why are plants green’ , I had access to the University of NSW undergraduate science courses, then medicine when I’ve finished that, plus grandpa’s library – though a neurosurgeon and then psychiatrist he wa passionate about history and archeology.
I learned scientific method early, found areas of history that fascinated me, often because the evidence seemed shonky. Years later, when I could smell, hear and taste those times in history, they’d become the background of a book. If I had to research, I’d know I shouldnt write about that time period as ‘I wouldnt know what it was that I didn’t know.’
PS. My parents yelled at me that day – and deducted pocket money- because they were trying to navigate a maze of streets to take me to my first violin lesson. Both usually delighted in answering questions. But I had accidentally re discovered photosynthesis while watching the slime in unsewered Brisbane begin clear then turn green, and neither of my parents were interested in the sciences.
“Diary of a Wombat” became a beloved classic—did you expect such success from that story, and what inspired the character?
Her name was Mothball, and her grandaughter Wild Whiskers lives in the wombat burrow a metre away from where I am typing now. It’s non fiction, though it did take three years to turn a wombat’s ‘hffs’ into English, and now into over 40 languages. I didn’t expect success, though my publisher Lisa Berryman did, and managed to convince HA Australia to publish a book about a then obscure Australian animal.. They printed 1,000 copies, but had to reprint three times even before the book was released. I love the book dearly: Mothball was a close friend, who I still miss today. But just sometimes, as I write historical fiction for adults, or non fiction, I’ll mutter ‘Write just one book about a wombat, and they never let you forget it.’
You’ve written across a wide range of genres and age groups—do you have a favourite type of story to tell?
Sometimes it’s easier to explain issues as well as history as a story. So this question is answered from the final paragraphs of ‘Goodbye Mr Hitler’:
The world has many ogres. Some, like Mr Hitler, do not even know that they are ogres, but dream they are the hero of the story.
But I have learned this in the years since I was ten years old: when you see injustice, stand beside each other and seize your spears. My spears are made of words. Yours may be different. But do not hesitate or look away. If too many look away, the ogres win. To be mostly deeply human we must risk our lives for others. Only when we stand together can we be truly free.
It is not easy fighting ogres. No one who fights an ogre comes away unscarred, even if you cannot see the wounds. And so you owe the ogre hunters this.
When the ogre has been vanquished, sit down upon the quiet earth and try to understand the ogre’s anguish and his twisted fear. Only by understanding can we stop them rising in our midst.
When you understand, forgive.
And then stand up, and live.
Live well.
How does living in the Araluen Valley and working with wildlife shape your writing and worldview?
I think, instead, that writing and world view led me to the Araluen valley. I fell in love with the bush through books. Once in the bush I met animals who became friends – it is an extraordinary privilege to have a wild animal decide you are a friend, or even an acceptable neighbour. It was also the era of ‘voluntary simplicity’, choosing to build our own houses, grow fruit trees, vegetables, discover new species roaming the valleys and mountains where I live.
But like all areas where families have lived for generations, it is a land of stories, of sitting watching the moon come up listening to remembered anecdotes, or even, once hearing one of the most profound stories in the waiting room of the local doctor. But bush communities also have the best gossip. You know everything, not just a few sentences around the water cooler. You mix with every age and every kind of person, not those you’d necessarily choose to be your friends or colleagues, because these are the people who will be standing beside you in a bushfire. My life has been extraordinarily rich in stories, from ancient hieroglyphics to grandma’s tales over afternoon scones, to the soap opera of wombats and wallabies I see each dusk or winter afternoon. Mix the ingredients, then rewrite forty times, and you have a book.
What role do you think literature plays in helping young readers understand complex issues like war, identity and justice?
Every book you read means you live the life of every character in it. Watching a screen doesnt have the same effect. I give readers black squiggles on white paper. They create the faces, the smells. They live the choices, too. Read 100 books and you have had 500 lives.
But a book is also safe. Shut the covers and any danger goes away. Compassion fatigue, and feeling ineffectual, are caught from other media. In fiction the ogres will be defeated, or even become a friend. I write historical fiction for young people to show them that while tomorrow will probably be like today, one day it won’t be. But we are descended from those who survived ice ages, eruptions, wars, pandemics. Our ancestors were warriors, or good at running away, or able to communicate ‘I know we dont speak each other’s language, but if we work together we might escape the volcano erupting over there.’ Books can also teach that even in the worst of times, you can find one thing of beauty, and people who want to help, if you can find the courage and words to ask.
What advice would you give to emerging authors hoping to write meaningful stories that resonate across generations?
If you have a meaningful story it will resonate across generations. So go and find that story. There is no one inspiration for a book. You need ten thousand. I love words, but it’s the story that matters most. The best books have plot and imagery, but no reader turns the page to find another bright image: they want to know what happens next. Always give the reader a reason to turn the page.
