The last time I heard from my friend John Marsden was exactly a week ago, when he emailed to congratulate me about something. A writer of his calibre, a principal of two schools – yet he always took the time to write. Not just cursory one-sentence emails, but wonderful, philosophical musings about parenting, politics, about the powerful and the powerless.
When I was first published in my 20s, and quite overwhelmed by writers’ festival events, John was the steadying, kind presence that grounded me. He didn’t give a crap about prestige, he had no respect for unearned authority, and when he gave a speech he always addressed the students or young people in the room instead of the eminent adults. John was an introvert – sometimes could barely look another adult in the eye – but when he spoke to young people it was truly transformative: he wiped the boredom from their faces. They sat straighter, they lit up, they laughed. He truly got them.
