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Going to prison feels, for most, like the end of life as they knew it. The world keeps moving outside while time inside grinds to a halt. A sentence measured in years can make hope feel like a distant memory.
But even behind bars, there are ways to soften the edges. Ways not just to pass the time, but to leave prison carrying something more than the baggage you came in with.
Even long before I went to prison, I’ve always had the need to feed a creative spark. In medium security, I painted and wrote, though opportunities were scarce. It wasn’t until I was moved to a minimum‑security farm that my creativity truly opened up. Access to a pottery studio and kiln felt like a gift. Yet it was music – learning guitar properly – that gave me peace of mind and steadied my soul.
As a kid I’d bounced between lessons: guitar, piano, drums, sports. ADHD kept me restless, always chasing the next thing. I could strum a few chords by ear around a campfire, but I’d never performed, never played a song anyone would recognise. For 30 years an acoustic guitar sat in the corner of my home, strings dusty, silently judging me every time I walked past. “I should sit down and learn properly,” I’d always say. But never did. Never took the time. Life got in the way.
Prison gave me no more excuses. It gave me time – too much of it. Time to reflect, to read, to watch bad TV, to stare at walls. With four years left until parole, I decided I would finally learn. My old guitar was sent in, and I borrowed books from the library. At first my fingers stumbled, clumsy and sore. Then a fellow inmate showed me the simplicity of rhythm and chords. That changed everything. I practiced daily, sometimes for hours, until my fingertips were raw and callused.
Going to prison feels, for most, like the end of life as they knew it. The world keeps moving outside while time inside grinds to a halt. A sentence measured in years can make hope feel like a distant memory.
But even behind bars, there are ways to soften the edges. Ways not just to pass the time, but to leave prison carrying something more than the baggage you came in with.
Even long before I went to prison, I’ve always had the need to feed a creative spark. In medium security, I painted and wrote, though opportunities were scarce. It wasn’t until I was moved to a minimum‑security farm that my creativity truly opened up. Access to a pottery studio and kiln felt like a gift. Yet it was music – learning guitar properly – that gave me peace of mind and steadied my soul.
As a kid I’d bounced between lessons: guitar, piano, drums, sports. ADHD kept me restless, always chasing the next thing. I could strum a few chords by ear around a campfire, but I’d never performed, never played a song anyone would recognise. For 30 years an acoustic guitar sat in the corner of my home, strings dusty, silently judging me every time I walked past. “I should sit down and learn properly,” I’d always say. But never did. Never took the time. Life got in the way.
Prison gave me no more excuses. It gave me time – too much of it. Time to reflect, to read, to watch bad TV, to stare at walls. With four years left until parole, I decided I would finally learn. My old guitar was sent in, and I borrowed books from the library. At first my fingers stumbled, clumsy and sore. Then a fellow inmate showed me the simplicity of rhythm and chords. That changed everything. I practiced daily, sometimes for hours, until my fingertips were raw and callused.
Progress came quickly. A mentor appeared in my friend Dave, a professional bass guitarist, who guided me through the craft. Soon I had written my first song – a piece I remain proud of. More songs followed, and with them came a surge of creativity and a lift in my mental health.
Within a year I was performing with Dave on bass and another inmate on drums, playing my own original material. The reception was good. Negativity existed, as it always does, but I learned to block it out. Guitar magazines from a friend on the outside fed my learning, and I eventually bought an electric guitar through the prison hobby shop. We became a band. When Dave was released, I upgraded to a twelve‑string and performed solo, pushing my songwriting further.
Now, at home, I have a studio where I record, write for others, and share videos online. I never aimed to be a rock star. What mattered was the transformation: that dusty guitar and the opportunity to create became more valuable to me than any team of psychologists or programs.
Being in prison is not the end. For some of us, it can be a restart – a reboot of a life that was missing something essential.
I refused to waste my sentence. Every day became an opportunity to create, to learn, to give back. The guitar was only one path. Pottery turned into gifts for friends and loved ones. Leatherwork carried its own satisfaction. Selling artwork after release brought a joy I hadn’t felt in years. And now, I make my living as a writer.
The buzz of playing in front of an appreciative crowd is indescribable – a rush you have to feel to believe. In prison, it’s often fellow inmates who pass on their musical knowledge, because long‑term tutors are hard to secure. Yet the benefits are undeniable. Learning an instrument sharpens the mind, eases stress, and tempers anger. Whenever agitation rose inside me, I reached for my guitar. I still do.
Music gives different gifts to different people. For me, it was salvation, redemption, and a path toward becoming better than I was. Looking back, those eight years were not wasted. They were an enforced pause – the break I needed to rediscover my creative spark.
Progress came quickly. A mentor appeared in my friend Dave, a professional bass guitarist, who guided me through the craft. Soon I had written my first song – a piece I remain proud of. More songs followed, and with them came a surge of creativity and a lift in my mental health.
Within a year I was performing with Dave on bass and another inmate on drums, playing my own original material. The reception was good. Negativity existed, as it always does, but I learned to block it out. Guitar magazines from a friend on the outside fed my learning, and I eventually bought an electric guitar through the prison hobby shop. We became a band. When Dave was released, I upgraded to a twelve‑string and performed solo, pushing my songwriting further.
Now, at home, I have a studio where I record, write for others, and share videos online. I never aimed to be a rock star. What mattered was the transformation: that dusty guitar and the opportunity to create became more valuable to me than any team of psychologists or programs.
Being in prison is not the end. For some of us, it can be a restart – a reboot of a life that was missing something essential.
I refused to waste my sentence. Every day became an opportunity to create, to learn, to give back. The guitar was only one path. Pottery turned into gifts for friends and loved ones. Leatherwork carried its own satisfaction. Selling artwork after release brought a joy I hadn’t felt in years. And now, I make my living as a writer.
The buzz of playing in front of an appreciative crowd is indescribable – a rush you have to feel to believe. In prison, it’s often fellow inmates who pass on their musical knowledge, because long‑term tutors are hard to secure. Yet the benefits are undeniable. Learning an instrument sharpens the mind, eases stress, and tempers anger. Whenever agitation rose inside me, I reached for my guitar. I still do.
Music gives different gifts to different people. For me, it was salvation, redemption, and a path toward becoming better than I was. Looking back, those eight years were not wasted. They were an enforced pause – the break I needed to rediscover my creative spark.
The other old men and I never thought our lives would come to this. But here we gather again, like withered autumn leaves, awaiting the 7 am call for muster. Occasionally we stare at the large blank television screen which has been positioned high up in a corner of our small common room. What are we looking for?
I spat my first fireball on the shore of Warwick's Leslie Dam over half a century ago. That freaky moment was the flashpoint for a short but spectacular career as a professional fire breather. It gave me money and notoriety, but it very nearly killed me.
Victoria has just announced a raft of changes to youth justice. It will uplift a number of children’s offences to face adult prison terms, and will also introduce a new ‘Violence Reduction Unit’ to coordinate crime prevention policies across government.
I put the window down, and the wind rushed through my hair, and, as if by magical happenstance, How to Make Gravy came on the radio. His voice rolled out like it was coming from someone familiar, telling the story of Joe, writing home from prison before Christmas.
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Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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