Inside his dungeon, my son defies the gloom about arts in Australia

If, straight after he was born, you’d asked me what I hoped my son would grow up to be, I’d have said either an all-singing, all-dancing Broadway musical star or a dentist. One would have given me a chance to vicariously live out my unfulfilled dreams, the other just seemed safe and sensible. After all, teeth aren’t going anywhere, so he’d never be out of work.

Now he’s 15, it’s clear that my son will be neither of those things. He’s consistently turned down my offers of unlimited tap-dancing and singing classes. And given how often I have to remind him to brush, his interest in matters dental appears to be negligible.

Instead, he’s come up with an idea of his own, as children are prone to do. He wants to be a film and TV director. Unlike most teens, he doesn’t play video games, and instead gorges television shows and movies. He doesn’t spend much time on social media either, but does stay glued to his phone, scrolling through the film listings on IMDB, and studying YouTube clips about famous directors.

Watching TV with him involves sitting through a pedantic critical commentary, analysing dialogue, camera angles and colour palettes. And he already has a vast archive of short films he’s written and directed, mainly starring his sister.

When he was in primary school we enrolled him a claymation workshop as a school-holiday activity. The classes were run by a very clever local animator who taught the kids how to write a script, make sets and film their stories, creating a little stop-motion movie of their own.

These workshops became the highlight of my son’s school holidays, and when lockdowns put an end to his live-action filmmaking, he plunged back into animating with renewed vigour. We now call his bedroom the dungeon, because he’s blacked out the windows with cardboard and crowded the space with homemade sets, tangled wire and plasticine figures, bits of which have migrated to all corners of our house, on the soles of our shoes, on our pets and even in my son’s hair.

The process of making a stop-motion film is painstaking and slow, yet he shows a single-minded commitment. He’s a child who would forget his own head if it wasn’t screwed on, yet he can spend days locked in his darkened bedroom, completely focused, the only sign that he’s still alive the click of his camera and an occasional cry of “Don’t come in! I’m filming!”

The idea of a tortured artist might be a cliche, yet the creative process is often excruciating, a battle with the self, and with the fear of failure. And I see it all play out in my young son. “No, no, the lighting was all wrong!” he’ll cry, bursting out of his dungeon in despair. “Oh God! I don’t know if this story will ever work”, he’ll mutter, pacing the hallway dramatically. Then he’ll go for a walk and return re-invigorated. “I think I’ve solved it!” Rinse and repeat.

When I started writing, I thought that with practice, I’d gain confidence and self-assurance as well as skill. That the more I did it, the easier it would become. The opposite is true. Yes, I think the quality of my work has improved. But I also know that the doubts have grown. And I’ve seen the same thing happen to my screenwriting husband. His successes haven’t banished the uncertainty or made the tortuous process of creation any easier.