Ben Crowe, the mind coach who worked with tennis player Ash Barty, surf champion Stephanie Gilmore and many others, tells of how he used the power of story to help them maximise their performance. He’d have them go back to their childhood and explore what excited them and what led them to their future careers.

I figured, if it worked for elite athletes, it might also work for writers. So I decided to give it a go.

When the two publishing professionals at our 2026 Writers’ Studio Pitching Day, Lou Johnson and Dan Pilkington, told me they always asked writers to tell them the story of how they came to write their novel, a light bulb went off for me. It made me want to explore the story behind my current novel-in-progress, Cry from the Outback. 

I have always wondered what drew me to character-driven thrillers. The clues were there all along. 

Growing up as an only child, I dived into Classic Comics, perhaps seeking an older brother and an immersive experience that helped me feel more connected to the world. 

I loved the adventures of dysfunctional superheroes like the Flash, Hulk, Spider-Man, Captain America, Iron Man, Thor and the Thing. They were essentially loners who never quite fitted in, but always answered the call when duty came knocking. 

At the same time, I discovered a show that screened after school on our black-and-white television, The Samurai, featuring Shintaro, Tombei the Mist and the Coga ninjas. 

I was never particularly drawn to Shintaro, who was a bit of a goody-two-shoes. I loved the ninjas who could jump out of trees, throw star knives and lived outside the system. My favourite was Congo of Coga, the master black ninja. 

Inspired by them, I dressed in my black ninja outfit, climbed the tree in our backyard at Newport and dropped down the other side of the wooden fence to seek adventure. Armed with a wooden sword and cardboard star knives, I’d patrol the bushes looking for trouble. 

I never found any. But it was good to know the neighbourhood was safe.

Only years later did I realise I wasn’t just pretending to be a ninja. I was living out the fantasy of being a fearless warrior, an outsider who lived by their own code. Long before Russell Carter came into existence, I was imagining inhabiting characters very much like him. 

With role models like these, my first novel was actually a romantic comedy, probably stemming from my penchant for challenging relationships. 

But the seeds of something different had already been planted. 

A well-known film director, who didn’t get past the opening of my novel, Scratching the Poodle, said to me, “You love Rugby, body-contact sports and action. Why are you writing a chick lit book?” 

I happened to like romantic comedies and believed action stories were superficial. 

I thought nothing more of the conversation. What would he know anyway? 

Then, a few days later, I had coffee with a friend who had just translated Ramses, a novel about a young Pharaoh. 

The novel opens with the young character confronting a wild boar. Ramses rises to the challenge, slays the beast and wins his father’s approval.

I remember thinking, “I really like this. I can do this.” 

A few days later, I picked up The Enemy by Lee Child. 

I devoured the novel, loved Jack Reacher and my passion for a certain kind of lone-wolf thriller hero was born. 

I was drawn to the idea of a lone-wolf character living by a strict code of honour. I later heard Lee Child describe Reacher as a Templar knight wandering the land and falling into trouble. 

My kind of hero. 

I never consciously tried to imitate Reacher, but his spirit infiltrated my psyche. When my first novel, No Man’s Land, came out, The Sydney Morning Herald described Russell Carter as “an Australian version of Jack Reacher. – enigmatic and lethal.” Another reviewer described him as “Jack Reacher with spirituality.”  

Those reviews told me readers recognised the influences. What they couldn’t know was where those influences came from. 

Unlike Carter, my martial arts skills never really developed beyond my ninja days. But we both share an ongoing passion for surfing. 

When I started writing No Man’s Land, I went through the Writers’ Studio process in the 10 Month Novel & Script First Draft Course, designed to help writers discover the story they truly want to write. 

I realised I was interested in exploring that moment when a surfer is about to take off on a steep, big wave. 

If they get it wrong, they go over the falls and get smashed by the white water. 

If they get it right, they make the drop and experience an exhilarating ride. 

That became the emotional blueprint for Russell Carter. Every novel places him on the edge of a metaphorical wave where he must commit completely, knowing failure comes at a harsh price. 

Which brings me back to Ben Crowe. 

He encouraged his clients to look back at their formative years and what brought them joy, because those experiences often shaped the rest of their lives. 

I remembered the first time I played Rugby as an eight-year-old for the Newport Seahorses against the Dee Why Lions. 

I saw the ball lying on the ground and remembered my coach saying, “If you see the ball on the ground, dive on it.” 

I did exactly that and scored my first try. 

My teammates all rushed over and patted me on the back. 

I’ve spent many years chasing the feeling of those pats while playing. Even today, as a rusted-on spectator, something about body-contact sports like Rugby League, Rugby Union and American Football taps into a deep part of my psyche. 

At school, when I completed a vocational guidance questionnaire, asking what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, “Professional Rugby player.” Even though the game was then amateur. 

Though I did spend a year as the paid captain-coach of the University of California, Santa Cruz Rugby team, I never felt I reached my full potential as a player and have always been fascinated by what enables elite athletes to excel under pressure while others crumble. 

Many of the greatest athletes possess a Zen-like ability to live completely in the moment and respond instinctively, regardless of the pressure. 

When I joined The Sydney Morning Herald, I never really made a mark until I started writing about sport, carrying that fascination with elite performance into my journalism. 

The same principle applies when writing the Russell Carter novels. I see him as a version of an elite athlete, a Zen warrior. 

The greater the pressure, the more his mental skills enable him to fully inhabit the present moment and intuitively rise to the challenge. A true mind, body and spirit connection. Like Bruce Lee, Carter aims to “be like water.”

However, what holds him back is his desire to do everything his way and operate one-out. 

And that’s where my own story blends in with his. 

In my latest novel, Cry from the Outback, Carter learns to let go and trust the people he sets out to save. They ultimately save him. 

When I looked back at the story behind the story, I realised I’d spent years learning exactly the same lesson. 

With my up-and-down Rugby career, I now see that what held me back from realising my potential wasn’t a lack of ability. It was that I focused too much on my own performance, instead of how I could best serve the team. 

My most enjoyable season was in California, when I stopped worrying about myself, put the team first and played some of my best Rugby. 

So I wasn’t simply writing Carter’s journey. I was writing my own. 

Perhaps that’s why writers are so often asked how they came to write their stories. With hindsight, I realised my novels had been revealing truths about me long before I recognised them myself.

It now seems clear that every influence, from backyard ninjas and comic-book heroes to Rugby, surfing, sport, Zen philosophy and Jack Reacher, was pointing towards the same story.

The story of a man who discovers that real strength doesn’t come from standing alone. It comes from letting go and trusting others. 

A Hollywood story coach once said that action stories show us how to best act in the world.

I love the idea that action stories aren’t simply about surviving danger. They remind us how to live. Through their characters, they remind that we are spiritual beings having a physical experience, not the other way around.

That is Russell Carter’s journey in Cry from the Outback. 

Looking back, I realise it’s been mine too.

Discover where Russell Carter’s journey begins in No Man’s Land