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Suzanne Covich's Writings

Louise Allen's Book Review
‘When We Remember They Call Us Liars’ is Suzanne Covich’s memoir of her childhood in 1950s rural Tasmania – a childhood clouded by poverty, alcoholism, violence, and by sexual abuse at the hands of her father. The prose is tightly packed, honest and gut-punching. No frills, no lyricism, no prettying it up – just raw Aussie vernacular describing what happened. The...
FREMANTLE: LEMON TREES AND FISHING Lemon trees. The Italian tells me to load up the soil with copper bits and pieces to make it grow. Bang copper nails into the trunk. The Australian woman tells me to pour Epsom Salts around the base and water it in. My lawnmower man tells me to severe those wild shoots taking off left and right across the insides of the tree...
Short Story
Tasmanian Times
Old Wayne wakes as the sun comes up, dresses in protective gear ready to fight the remains of a bushfire—eats toast, drinks tea, waters plants, then checks the empty house next door. His little job for a couple of weeks, while the owners are away. Scooping wheat from a big tin in a rickety shed, he puts it into an ice-cream container, then potters through the...
Western Teacher: Western Australia's State School Teachers' Magazine
SUZANNE COVICH: A DRIVING FORCE When We Remember They Call Us Liars It was the great Ernest Hemingway that once said, “…You especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously…” Author Suzanne Covich knows what it means to hurt like hell and to be able to write seriously. Growing up in a small rural community in the 60’s, Suzanne said she loved...
2nd Prize Victoria Cancer Council Arts/Poetry Award
NO IDEA WHY, ABSOLUTELY . . .   No idea why I’d dream of a red nineteen-seventy-nine Combi van I’d bought without checking a single solitary thing and when I woke, I thought of the money I’d just spent to purchase a new fan-dangled touch-phone I couldn’t work or find because I’d touched something, I don’t know what, and it wouldn’t ring when I did what I...
1st Prize Gold Coast Poetry Award
Dear Bill   When you hid in the classroom, got found then “forced” to follow the teacher to the bus, you refused to get on, kicked up and plonked yourself down on the grass, curled like a Koala, so terribly afraid you’d never see your family again, if you went on the trip to that faraway place in the bush, where Aboriginal kids were once herded together and...