“I’ve always been drawn to the traces people leave behind—a letter, a building, a photograph. For me, history begins with those fragments and grows into stories we can carry forward.”
GHOSTWRITING
While ghostwriting Ranald Macdonald’s autobiography, I traced the crisis he sparked as a member of the Australian Bicentennial Authority.
GHOSTWRITING
In the National Archives, I uncovered a cache of documents that detailed the fallout. Ranald was astounded I had gone to such lengths to unearth that material, and he found it fascinating.
GHOSTWRITING
That’s the heart of ghostwriting: bringing a person’s story to life with rigour, care, and evidence they may have forgotten — or never known.
COMMISSIONED
HISTORIES
For Simon Normand’s forthcoming book Ludwig Leichhardt: Before the Clearing, I was commissioned to weave existing research into a narrative showing how a once-celebrated journey left behind a disturbing legacy of frontier violence — a history that still resonates today.
COMMISSIONED HISTORIES
Projects like this demand more than compiling sources — they call for storytelling that helps readers reckon with difficult pasts.
HERITAGE & PLACEMAKING
During a commission to interpret the history of an old boot factory in Collingwood, I began tracing the suburb’s industrial past through the lives of its workers.
HERITAGE & PLACEMAKING
In the archives and in secondary sources I uncovered how local families — especially women and girls — stitched boots in stifling rooms, while the factory grew to supply 100,000 pairs to the military during the war.
HERITAGE & PLACEMAKING
For developers, uncovering stories like this turns heritage into placemaking — giving new projects cultural depth and community connection.
A DECADE AGO, at the National Library of Australia, the sun caught Lake Burley Griffin as I opened a box of records for the first time. That quiet encounter with the archive set me on a path I still follow today.
I’m a PhD-trained historian working on Wurundjeri land in Collingwood, Melbourne. I uncover the stories behind people, places, and organisations—the kind of work that helps people understand themselves and make better decisions.
After ten years in universities, I chose to practise history beyond journals and rankings.
The turning point came when I collaborated with Ranald Macdonald on his autobiography. At the same time, I became increasingly aware of contradictions inside the sector. Some departments weren't rigorous enough; in other disciplines scholarship aimed at broader audiences was dismissed.
Some people infer that if you do a lot of radio interviews about your best-selling book you are a lightweight and a show off. Others assume that if you exclusively publish in international A-ranked journals you are an outmoded egghead with bad social skills.
Prof Clare Wright, Historian & author of You Daughters of Freedom
That candid assessment reinforced my belief in a better way to practise history, one that combines rigour with creativity. Historical method still shapes my work, but I apply it where it can live in the world: for families preserving legacy, communities shaping identity, and organisations building trust.
My Approach
The past hides in plain sight. A street corner layered with old signage, a building repurposed three times over, a name remembered differently by each generation. These are the details I look for, and the starting points for histories that matter.
The work draws on archives and lived memory, but what makes it distinctive are the values behind it. Curiosity means I follow threads others might overlook. Integrity means I show my sources, handle them with care and navigate complexity. Collaboration asks that I listen as closely to clients and communities as I do to the record.
What this gives you is more than background. It’s a story you can share with confidence, that deepens a project, earns trust, and helps people see their place in a longer continuum of history.
What Drives Me
I'm the kind of historian who lingers. A shoebox of photographs can hold me for hours; a forgotten clipping can change the angle of a whole story. That same attention keeps me combing archives for overlooked details—the lines in a ledger or the names in a minute book that can shift how a story unfolds.
History, at its best, is about connection. It turns fragments into stories that people can carry with them.