It didn’t happen in a conference or a course. It happened on a back porch in Moreton Bay over coffee and scribbled notes with another writer who just… got it. No pretence. No performance. Just mutual respect and a willingness to say, “Hey, what if we did something together instead of separately?”
There was a time—probably more recent than I care to admit—when I thought other writers were the obstacle. If someone else got published, that meant I’d missed out. If they ran a workshop, I figured they were taking up space I could’ve filled. Every win felt like a loss that wasn’t mine.
It wasn’t bitterness exactly. Just scarcity. Like creative success was a chair in a game of musical chairs, and the music was always running out.
Then something shifted.
It didn’t happen in a conference or a course. It happened on a back porch in Moreton Bay over coffee and scribbled notes with another writer who just… got it. No pretence. No performance. Just mutual respect and a willingness to say, “Hey, what if we did something together instead of separately?”
Competition is Taught. Collaboration is Chosen.
When you grow up in creative systems that reward the loudest pitch or the flashiest highlight reel, competition feels like survival. You’re encouraged to keep your ideas close, your contacts closer, and your successes vague—just in case someone copies the formula.
But the longer you’re in the game, the more you realise there is no formula. And even if there was, it wouldn’t have your fingerprints on it.
Collaboration isn’t about losing your edge. It’s about recognising that the edge dulls when you sharpen it alone for too long.
What We Lose When We Compete
When everything is a race, we lose:
- Community. The kind that shows up when your draft is stuck or your confidence is cooked.
- Creativity. Some of the best ideas come from conversations, not isolation.
- Perspective.We begin to think small. That if one writer launches a newsletter, you shouldn’t. That there’s only room for one book on a topic. One voice in a space. That kind of thinking? It shrinks the whole field.
And in regional areas—like much of Queensland, like right here in Moreton Bay—when creatives compete more than they connect, we rob the local scene of its potential. We stay scattered instead of strong.
When Collaboration Feels Risky
It’s okay if collaboration feels risky. Maybe you’ve tried before and been let down. Maybe you’re afraid of being overshadowed or misunderstood. That’s not weakness—that’s lived experience.
But here’s what I’ve found:
True collaboration doesn’t ask you to be less. It asks you to bring your full self, and let someone else do the same. It’s not about blending in—it’s about building together. And yes, sometimes it flops. But sometimes it opens doors you didn’t know were locked.
A Personal Shift
The first time I co-hosted a local writing workshop with someone else, I was nervous. Not because I didn’t trust them, but because I’d never trusted that I could share the spotlight without shrinking.
But instead, something remarkable happened: I expanded.
Because when you collaborate with the right people, you don’t just add skillsets—you multiply courage. You become the version of yourself that works better with others, not in spite of them.
What If We Chose Collaboration First?
Imagine what would change if we approached other creatives with curiosity instead of comparison. If we looked at another writer’s success and asked, “How can I learn from this?” or even better, “How can I support this?”
Because here’s the honest bit: there’s more than enough room.
More stories. More seats. More stages. More pages.
And when there isn’t, we make more.
Together.
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