One of the many things I admire about US writers is their willingness to write their own stories in their own words, and this is true for all types of media including prose fiction, TV and film. US writers tend to document their own culture in detail. As an Australian, I want to do that too; I want to write stories that only an Aussie could write.

Now, there’s a “cultural cringe” element in some quarters of Australian publishing – “Don’t be too parochial because a story needs universal appeal!” goes the mantra – but I disagree. I don’t much care for stories that are set anywhere and nowhere. Instead, I adore stories that immerse me in another world, another identifiable place. For example, I have a particular fondness for early- to mid-twentieth century American crime fiction, with its emphasis on slang. Kicked in the slats? Yeah, that means kicked in the ribs. Getting yourself properly organised? That means getting drunk. Wonderful! Don’t give me generics: give me specifics. Let me feel, smell and taste the story. Take me somewhere I’ve never been before, and I’ll love you for it.

And that’s what I’ve tried to achieve in Body Farm Z. It’s set in the Australian bush, a few hours’ drive northeast of Melbourne. I wrote Aussie characters of British, Finnish, Greek, Chinese and Indian descent – since Australia is a nation largely comprised of immigrants – and exposed them to a zombie apocalypse within the high fences of a forensic body farm.

Other important characters in Body Farm Z include a kookaburra and a kangaroo. I told you I was an Aussie!