KSP Chats With... Yves Rees

Back yourself, be prepared to hustle, and recognise that rejection is normal.

1.      What did you hope to achieve during your residency, and how do you feel you’ve met those goals so far?

I used this residency to work on my novel manuscript The Quad. My previous work has all been non-fiction, so it’s exciting yet somewhat daunting to move into fiction. The Quad is a queer campus novel that satirises the neoliberal university—think David Lodge but with a trans coming out story. It may or may not draw upon my experiences as an academic and trans advocate. I didn’t commence the residency with specific objectives other than to immerse myself in the manuscript for two weeks. I certainly achieved that. I went deep into the story and am proud of the thinking and writing that resulted. It was also a whole lotta fun to hang out with my (bonkers) characters fulltime for a few weeks.

2.      How has the residency environment (the location, the support structures, the community) impacted your creativity or inspiration?

There’s something quite magical about living within an institution solely dedicated to the craft of writing. In a country that otherwise devalues the arts, it is profoundly moving and energising to be in a place where the written word is the most important thing. Where else does that happen? Forgive the schmaltz, but for me it’s almost a religious experience. And damn motivating! Beyond that, the sheer physical beauty of the KSP garden was an unexpected delight—especially for someone who normally resides in a tiny apartment on a busy road in the inner city. The garden felt like a protective buffer between my novel and the ‘real’ world, sequestering me within an alternative universe of the imagination.

3.      What advice would you give to someone considering a writer-in-residence program for the first time?

Do it. These big chunks of time are invaluable—especially give so few of us can afford to write fulltime. You’ll also meet fellow writers who’ll become part of your community. But also: don’t put too much pressure on yourself to produce. You may arrive exhausted from your regular life, and just need to sleep or read or walk or stare into space. That’s a completely reasonable use of the residency. Even if you don’t write a word, your work will still benefit from the expansive time to dream and think. Also: writing residencies are not created equal. Some are very solitary, some quite social. Some structured, some completely autonomous. Do you research and consider what setup is best for you.

4.      What writing habits or rituals do you find most conducive to productivity or creativity?

I am someone who needs big chunks of time for writing. I envy those writers who can pen a novel on their daily commute; I am not one of them. The dream is to turn off my phone and sink into hyperfocus for several hours, or even an entire day. The world ceases to exist and it’s just me and the words on the page. This is, of course, an enormous privilege that is rarely compatible with caring responsibilities. To accommodate this, I have made a very deliberate choice to live alone and remain childless. (Though I also don’t recommend living like a monk; I am a firm believer that artists need sociability and stimulation and fun to foster creativity.)

Also: movement is key. I’m a runner and swimmer, and my best ideas always arrive when I’m in motion. When you’re stuck, get outside and move.

5.      What is one piece of writing advice that you would give to someone starting out in their career, especially in terms of developing a unique voice?

This is not so much writing advice, as career advice: back yourself, be prepared to hustle, and recognise that rejection is normal. I encounter so many enormously talented writers who, for a variety of reasons, hesitate to put themselves out there. Or they do, and are rejected once, and get crushed and give up. If you want to be a working writer, you cannot afford to do this. The most ‘successful’ writers are not necessarily the most talented; they are the ones who hustle. No one is coming to discover you, no matter how brilliant you are. If you want to be published, if you want to be read, it’s up to you to make that happen. (Said with the caveat that the literary industry is, like the broader world, shaped by systems of oppression such as sexism, racism, classism, transphobia, homophobia and ableism that influence who gets published. We all need to hustle; some hustle is more likely to be rewarded. We’re not an equal playing field.)

6.      How important is inclusivity in the stories you choose to tell and what part (if any) does it play in the way you tell them?

Stories shape the world. They are one of the most potent political weapons we have. This is one of my core beliefs. As Rebecca Solnit puts it: ‘Stories trap us, stories free us, we live and die by stories’. As a historian, I know all too well that cultural narratives that centred white male cisnormativity have been essential to the operation of empire, capitalism, patriarchy and white supremacy. In my work, I tell stories that reach towards the alternate world I would like to exist—a world structured around care and justice and liberation and mutual flourishing. So of course inclusivity is key. I have made mistakes, and am always learning, but I strive to create work that unravels oppressive systems and helps us imagine how we might live otherwise. To quote Solnit again: ‘the change that counts in revolution takes place first in the imagination’.

7.      Do you have any particular authors, books, or literary traditions that inspire your writing?

This changes every week—as it should: stagnation is death. At present, I’m inspired by trans novelist Torrey Peters for being gloriously weird and rejecting respectability politics. I’m also taking cues from writers who have refused to stay silent about the livestreamed genocide in Gaza—especially Omar El Akkad, author of One Day Everyone Will Have Been Against This (my top book of 2025). Omar skewers the hypocrisy and complicity of Western liberals, and reminds us that artists must remain connected with our humanity and call out injustice. That said, if we use our voice to challenge power, we will lose things. Be punished. But the things we stand to risk are minor in the scheme of things. And no job or ‘opportunity’ is more important than being able to look oneself in the eye.

8.      In your experience, how important is community and feedback in developing your writing?

Both are vital. Writing is hard and often lonely, and we need fellow travellers to keep us energised and push us further. In my hometown of Naarm, I am part of a writing group that meets monthly to share and discuss drafts. I learn as much from providing feedback on other people’s work, as I do from getting notes on my own. It’s enormously instructive to be forced to articulate why something isn’t working. I also cherish the larger literary community in Naarm, centred around institutions like the Wheeler Centre, Readings, Paperback Books, Overland and (until recently) Meanjin. Given Australia’s general anti-intellectualism and antipathy towards artists, it’s invigorating to be around a critical mass of people who also values words and ideas.

Dr Yves Rees (they/them) is a writer and historian from Naarm. They are a Senior Lecturer at La Trobe University, co-host of Archive Fever podcast, and author of Traveling to Tomorrow: the modern women who sparked Australia’s romance with America (NewSouth, 2024). They are also co-editor of Nothing to Hide: Voices of Trans and Gender Diverse Australia (A&U, 2022) and author of All About Yves: Notes from a Transition (A&U, 2021). Their writing has featured in Meanjin, Sydney Review of Books, Griffith Review, Australian Book Review, Overland, The Guardian and The Age. Rees has won the Serle Award, the ABR Calibre Essay Prize, a Varuna Residential Fellowship and a Whitlam Essay Residency. They are co-editor of scholarly journal History Australia and the founding editor of Lantana literary journal.