In early 2005, Bywater is the middle of his life-arc, nibbling at the edges of obscurity, and clutching to the idea that at 38 he is still young as a writer.

Since relocating in 2004 from the spiritual home of his adulthood, Melbourne, to the spiritual home of his childhood and adolescence, Hobart, he has been scouring every childhood memory and auto-biographical anecdote for hints of the habits of mind, personality styles and behaviours of genius. He clings to the youthful assumption that his breakthrough is if not imminent, then at very least inevitable. Where, he wonders, is his destiny, and can he apply for a viewing?

In the early 1970s, at the age of 5, Bywater precociously announced his attention to be a writer, producing the thrilling adventure story Nicky, Snoopy and the Ogre. Nicky was no idle Sunday afternoon scribble - character driven and suspenseful, if somewhat obvious, it was typed in a bold, deft hand on a small white typewriter. The Snoopy of the title, by the way, owed nothing to Charles Schultz. The character was not a dog, and sprouted no witticisms. Bywater was disappointed, on discovering Peanuts, to find that he had, like George Harrison with My sweet Lord/He ís so fine, indulged in some kind of subconscious plagiarism.

Either shortly before or shortly after this nascent adventure yarn, Bywater suffered a significant appliance-related injury. Intending to feed the family cat, and going in search of a suitable feeding dish, he reached up and grasped the benchtop dishwashing machine's door, succeeding in pulling the machine down onto his head. Stitches were involved, as well as a quantity of screaming.

This incident, however, appears to have had little impact on his future life. He continued to use domestic whitegoods, despite being unable to remember that 'washing machine' referred to the appliance for washing clothes, not the appliance for washing dishes. Furthermore, he spent much of his adult life with cats as pets, frequently taking responsibility for their feeding. Interestingly, his fiction contains very few animals, apart from the dog Rex in the Sam Chauvel mysteries and the barnyard gang in his retelling of the Little Red Hen. This could possibly be linked to the dishwasher incident, but it would be a brave biographer who would make such a suggestion.

It is often of concern to Bywater that a considerable number of his favourite writers - Brautigan, Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Chandler - were alcoholics who died comparatively young. Despite feeling the weight of peer pressure, Bywater drinks to excess only infrequently, lacking the discipline of mind or physical constitution to embrace alcoholism as a way of life. In a moment of lucidity, he once confided to a close friend (probably) that another thing he had in common with these luminaries was never having wrestled a bear, nor ever had a desire to.

Bywater has frequently been better known for his haircuts than his artistic contributions. In adolescent days, when he played guitar and frightened young women by writing unsolicited poems, he was generally known as 'that long haired guy'. Later, once his hairline began to retreat, and he was dodging post-it notes along the corridors of corporate Australia with a clipper cut, he was generally known as 'that short-haired guy'. Those who knew him in either phase have trouble placing him in the other context.

At 38, his most recognised writing remains time sheets, employee tax declarations and superannuation fund forms, occasional personal emails and job applications. Despite tens of thousands of words written, including publishing to the tune of a couple of youthful poems, a few smart-arse articles, an opinionated website and a rather silly book, he is still to transcend the naturally-formed audience essentially comprising family, friends and occasional work colleagues. He urges you to appreciate him now and avoid the rush.