Robbie Arnott on rendering the wild

I grew up in Launceston and the Tamar Valley, spending a lot of time mucking about the bush and coast around the mouth of Kanamaluka. Like most children, I assumed my childhood was normal, but as I grew older I began to see how quietly idyllic it was. I never thought of myself as an outdoorsy person. It was just how we lived.

I have no real process; it's all a mess. I just have these places and moments I want to write about, then I find characters and stories that might make sense of them. For Dusk, I wanted to render the Tasmanian highlands in the way they felt to me as a child when my father would take me camping there: as mysterious, beautiful, otherworldly and fey-like.

I think stories about climate do the same things stories about everything do — they help us make sense of a nonsensical world. I think novels can inspire change — I hope they can — but that doesn't happen if an author sets out to write a manifesto, or to push their views. All that does is have people who already agree with you nodding along. Novels work when they surprise, when they fascinate, when they lift you out of yourself. The change comes later.

I'm forever influenced by The Peregrine, by J. A. Baker. Some of the most stunning nature writing of all time. I'd also recommend Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez, H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald and A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.

We have two very small children, so I spend a lot of time with them. As much as possible, I like to take them up on the myriad trails of kunanyi, each of which feels like a fresh world on an ancient mountain. I feel wildly lucky to live in its shadow.

If you like magical naturalism, maybe Flames. If you're into more traditional storytelling, perhaps Limberlost. If you like giant birds made out of rain ripping people's eyes out, go for The Rain Heron. I'm a terrible salesman.