Early writing influence – Peter Fitzsimons. I knew him from a previous life, well before he became prolific – and “discovered” that stupid red bandana.

I wanted to pick his brains, so I called and offered to buy him lunch.

It was one of the more memorable lunches I can’t really remember.

Most of us know “Fitz” – the rambunctious and voluable former Wallaby second rower who first gained public notoriety trying to punch multiple Frenchmen in a Test match at the Sydney Football Stadium in the late ‘80s. That’s him to a tee – when it comes to footy, Fitz and finesse are two words that’s should never be used in the same sentence. He was angry – all arms and legs, no hands and feet. Writing – that’s a completely different matter. Over the past 20 years, he’s hammered out a worthy reputation as one of Australia’s finest (and most prolific) story tellers.

I had a bit to do with when he was playing and working in Rugby, I really

enjoyed the book he wrote about his good mate, World Cup winning Wallaby skipper Nick Farr Jones. Given that I was about to undertake my own book project – the joint biography of his one-time Wallaby teammates, centre pairing Tim Horan and Jason Little, I was eager to pick his brains. When I was in Sydney, I rang and offered to buy him lunch. Sure. Meet me here, at this time. But I probably won’t have long.

I arrived at the specified Italian restaurant in Surrey Hills with a good bottle of Red to say “thanks”. Maybe we’d drink it. Maybe we wouldn’t. I probably won’t have long.

“So Fitz – you know I’m doing the book with Timmy and Jason – what advice have you got for a first time author?” I asked, inviting him to take the lead on the conversation.

He did.

Five hours and four bottles of Red later, they’d be the only words I’d utter, save for the badly slurred “I’llgettid” when the waiter finally arrived with the bill, not much before 5pm.

He ate, drank, and spoke. A lot. I drank, nibbled and scribbled, as quickly as I could, my scrawl becoming more and more unintelligible as the afternoon progressed. Detail – you need detail. And color – lots of color. Paint pictures, excite the senses. The reader should be able to smell the liniment permeating throughout the shed, feel the nervous energy, hear the sound of the metal studs, clang-clang-clanging on the cold wet concrete floor, as the warriors, march as one down the tunnel, emerging from the gloomy bowels of the grandstand, out into the brightly lit battlefield….

Slurp. Another swig of Shiraz.

There would be story after story, example after example, before our patient host finally gathered up all the empty soldiers on the table and swept us out onto the Crown St footpath, into the irrefutable evidence of Sydney’s horrible peak hour traffic.

I thanked him one last time. My pleasure. Good luck. Go well. Stay in touch.

Fitz’s final words, as he crouched and tumbled into the back of a cab, was a reminder of his very first piece advice, served up even before the top had been ripped off the first bottle of Penfolds Bin 389. “Remember – you don’t finish a book. You just give up on it.”

To this day, I never really finish writing anything. I just give up.

Perhaps sometimes too soon, perhaps sometimes too late.