With so much going on in the world – at least two tragic wars, the climate emergency, most folk struggling to pay the rent and put food on the table – it feels a little off to talk about what’s been happening at a personal level. However, perhaps it’s necessary – healing, helpful – to reflect on the smaller things. Does not the big happen in the context of the small, and vice versa?
On 2 January, thanks to generous funding from Creative Australia (formerly the Australia Council for the Arts) and Create NSW, I bunkered down in my writing room and got to work on a new project. I’m not a fan of talking about projects while they only really exist in my imagination, so I won’t go into detail here, but it has certainly been good to have something substantial in which to immerse myself.
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Speaking of fiction, it was wonderful being asked to record a conversation with Dr Andrew Rimby for the Ivory Tower Boiler Room, a New York-based podcast. We covered a lot of ground, including the erotic in queer fiction and writing from the body; Andrew also asked some insightful questions about Bodies of Men and My Heart is a Little Wild Thing.
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In March, my father died two weeks shy of his 94th birthday. He had been experiencing poor health for some years, though was mentally very alert and still tried to do a daily walk, even if it was just around his ramshackle garden before moving into the local hospital, which includes an aged care wing. I wrote about Jack’s desire to die in his home town for Guardian Australia, recognising that many people who live in regional areas are not so lucky.
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Thanks to ongoing support from The Street Theatre in Canberra, my latest theatrical work, a play with songs, has been progressing. This is a project that I began in 2019, only months before the pandemic hit, but we’re now at the stage where my demo songs (I’ve written the play, song lyrics and musical sketches) are being arranged by Perth-based composer Jay Cameron. The intention is for there to be one more creative development in 2024, where we’ll bring everything together in a rehearsal space to see how the work is coming into focus, before, perhaps, a production in 2025. As opposed to writing literary fiction for the page, I do enjoy the collaborative aspect of writing for the stage. Knowing that it’s not entirely down to me is a relief.
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A rather surprising project that has been quietly bubbling along is Hell Herons, which is a spokenword/music collaboration with award-winning poets Melinda Smith, CJ Bowerbird and Stuart Barnes. What started with a question – despite having very limited musical skill, how might I set poems to music? – has become a more formal and ongoing project, thanks to funding from artsACT. The funding will allow each poet to re-record their vocals with the professional assistance of Canberra-based producer/studio technician Kimmo Vennonen, before he mixes and masters all 16 tracks. The intention is to release a full album in mid-2024. From little things, bigger things grow.
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That preceding sentence is a challenging reminder that on 14 October this year Australia declined to recognise First Peoples in the Constitution, a document written 123 years exclusively by non-First Peoples, all men, during a time when the Frontier Wars were still raging across the continent, as they would keep doing for many more decades. The referendum asked if Australia supported recognition through a voice to parliament, which would ensure First Peoples would always be consulted whenever a federal Australian government was devising policies and programs that would impact First Peoples. I wrote about my support of the referendum, and about my experience volunteering for the YES campaign in my home town in regional New South Wales.
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In November I had the pleasure and privilege of interviewing the forever brilliant and generous Christos Tsiolkas about his new novel, The In-Between, which is about modern-day queer love between two men who are very much in the middle of their lives. To my mind it’s another fearless novel from Tsiolkas, and I wish it, and him, well. A recording of our live – and lively – conversation, which was held in Canberra in front of a live audience at the Australian National University, is available here.
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Despite not considering myself a critic I do appreciate having the opportunity to think about books deeply and to write about them in a way that might open them up to general readers, as well as readers of literature. For the Canberra Times, this year I reviewed Sydney by Louis Nowra, Aphrodite’s Breath, a memoir by Susan Johnson, and Art is Life, by the prominent US art critic Jerry Saltz. As the Canberra Times has decided to no longer run book reviews – that the national capital’s newspaper is not supporting Australian literature in this way is a rather sad state of affairs, to say the least – I am now writing reviews for Guardian Australia, starting with a comparative analysis of Frank Moorhouse: a life, by Catharine Lumby, and Frank Moorhouse: strange paths, by Matthew Lamb. The review is available here.
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In the past I’ve ended the year writing some notes on the books that I’ve adored. This year, I’ve done that on Facebook and Instagram. If you’d like to see my lists, please visit me on Facebook (using my name) and via @ngfeathers on Instagram.
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I wish you and yours a wonderful summer – or winter – break, and I can only hope some calmer and wiser heads can soon steer this tiny little rock of a planet on a better course.
On Saturday 14 October 2023, in a national referendum, 60.6% of Australians voted against a proposal, developed by First Peoples, for the Australian Constitution to be changed to include formal recognition of Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, comprising the oldest living culture in the world, and for that recognition to be in the form of a ‘voice’, which would enable First Peoples to provide advice about policies and programs that affect First Peoples communities.
In my home electorate, a regional area of New South Wales that extends from just north of Canberra, the federal capital, to the south-western edge of Sydney, one of Australia’s two major cities, 74% of the population voted NO.
From Monday 9 October to Thursday 12 October, I spent time volunteering for the YES campaign, handing out how-to-vote guides at the local pre-polling station across a range of separate shifts, some in the morning, some at lunchtime, some in the afternoon.
Disclosure: I am not a member of a political party, nor have I ever been a member of a political party; I was not a formal part of the YES campaign, just someone who attended my home town’s Walk for YES event and then volunteered to put a YES corflute outside my house and help the YES campaign at the local pre-polling station. I have handed out how-to-vote guides at general elections twice before, but not for the two major parties.
The following are my experiences of the days spent supporting the YES campaign at my town’s pre-polling station. I have endeavoured to be as accurate as memory allows, but in some cases I have omitted minor details to avoid the possibility that someone could be identified. I have decided to record the experiences because it feels important that they are documented somewhere, and this blog, for what it’s worth, is being archived in perpetuity by the National Library of Australia.
A warning: some of the language quoted is offensive.
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A man in his seventies who is handing out NO how-to-vote guides says to his fellow NO volunteer, ‘This referendum is costing $500 million! What a waste!’ Although as a YES volunteer I have been advised not to engage in political discussion unless a voter specifically asks for advice, in the friendliest possible tone (this is my first shift), I say, ‘Isn’t it good that every few decades we have these big national discussions?’ He says, ‘No! No! No!’
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A teenaged boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, rides his BMX pushbike along the path, which is scattered with YES and NO volunteers, YES and NO sandwich boards, and voters. As the boy rides his bike, he calls out, ‘VOTE NO! VOTE NO! We don’t want any of this Ab* shit!’ Passing in front of me, perhaps only half a metre away, he shouts, ‘You’re a N*GRO LOVER!’
After he almost topples over two frail women with walking frames, he rides away up the mainstreet. A NO volunteer, an elderly Asian-Australian woman, calls out, ‘No! We don’t want that! That’s not what Australia is!’
A woman who is assisting the two elderly women – perhaps she is the daughter of one of the women, but quite frail herself – stops, looks at me, and says, ‘What an awful boy.’ She pauses to catch her breath, then says, ‘To balance out bad people like him, there is a good person like you.’
Later, at home, I can’t help thinking that the boy might turn into the sort of young man who decides to drive his car along a crowded footpath, for no other reason than he is angry.
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I say hello to a portly Caucasian man wearing a blue singlet. He tells me that he intends to vote NO. ‘We’ve had the pandemic,’ he says, ‘one of the toughest times in our recent history, and we’re in a cost-of-living crisis, but now this referendum has been imposed on us.’ I agree that times are tough. He says, ‘You know what I’m really worried about? What’s happening in the Middle East right now.’ I say that I’m worried about that too, that I’m finding it distressing. When he begins walking away to go into the pre-polling station, I wish him well. He stops, turns around, and says, ‘Thank you for your…politeness.’
After he votes, the man stops to have another chat with me; he is friendly, not confronting in any way. He says, ‘You know why I voted no? Recently I went out west. A lot of those communities are struggling. Most of the people out there are getting around with a limb or two missing.’ I ask him why he thinks that’s the case. He pauses to consider his answer. ‘Disease,’ he says.
Two or three people are heading my way, so I turn away from the chatty, blue singlet-ed man, and offer them how-to-vote guides. When I come back to my position on the footpath, the man in the blue singlet is talking to the nearest NO volunteer. He says, ‘I just hope they didn’t start the bushfires down the coast.’ The NO volunteer says something I don’t overhear. The man in the blue singlet says, ‘Well, apparently they’re meant to be good at fire management!’
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A NO volunteer, a woman in her seventies with a heavily lined face (she would later tell me she’d once been a farmer in the middle of New South Wales), is friendly with me and I am friendly with her. A few minutes later, the volunteer says to me quietly that she’d started the day earlier, but she wants to tell me about an experience she’d with the YES volunteer who’d set up the YES table that morning. ‘When I introduced myself,’ she says, ‘the YES campaigner turned around, looked at me, and said, “I don’t talk to British rednecks.”’ Although I don’t know the YES volunteer who’d said those words, I apologise. She says, ‘Do you think I should submit a complaint?’ I say, ‘Yes, I think you should.’
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I watch as a man manoeuvres his Vesper into a parking spot directly outside the pre-polling station. He dismounts, removes his gloves and puts them in the cane basket on the back of his bike, then removes his helmet. A largish man, middle-aged, he walks in an effeminate way directly across to me and asks for a YES guide. A few minutes later, having voted, he walks back to me and hands me his guide. He says, ‘I hope Saturday is not this nation’s great day of shame.’ He returns to the street, puts on his helmet and gloves, straddles his stylish little motor bike, and disappears up the mainstreet.
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I offer a YES guide to a middle-aged man who is about to vote. With venom, he says, ‘I don’t want any of your shit.’ The NO volunteer with the heavily lined face steps up to me and says, ‘There was no reason for that man to speak to you like that. He could have just said no.’
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A NO volunteer who owns a heritage-listed property about half an hour’s drive away says to me, ‘What’s happening in Israel right now is so tragic.’ I agree that it is. She says, ‘I don’t really have a problem with migration, but…we’ve just let in too many Muslims.’
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Later, the same volunteer says to me, ‘A friend of my son’s, a doctor, was recently out in a western New South Wales town. In this town, Nigel, they have an Aboriginal Medical Service as well as a normal medical service.’
Later, to myself, I wonder if she ever reflects on her choice of words.
Do I?
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The final interaction with the same NO volunteer: she says to me, ‘My town has changed so much in recent years. What happened during the pandemic, Nigel, was that all these Sydney people bought up property in my area. Now the mainstreet is full of people with tattoos.’
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A friendly and very talkative NO volunteer admits she is a swinging voter. When I share with her that I’m not a member of any political party, she takes a step closer to me and in a quiet voice says, ‘The NO campaign is organised by Angus Taylor’s office.’ Angus Taylor is the Liberal (conservative) member for my federal electorate. When my shift comes to an end, I shake the volunteer’s hand and say, ‘I really enjoyed talking with you.’ She smiles and says, ‘I really enjoyed talking with you too.’
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Hour after hour, I notice how angry a majority of the voters seem to be. Perhaps it is because, being pre-polling, many people are voting in their lunchtimes, or between shifts, or between fulfilling various domestic responsibilities. This is not the festive atmosphere that arises at general elections on polling day. Most people look like they’re thinking to themselves as they walk along the footpath and prepare to vote, ‘What a waste of time. This is an Aboriginal issue and I simply don’t care.’ This might be a gross over-simplification, or simply wrong, but it’s how I think in the days after my volunteering comes to an end.
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An elderly man who is volunteering for NO turns to me during a lull in activity and says, ‘Most people today have this aggressive swagger about them, don’t they?’
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A well-dressed middle-aged man parks his large and immaculately maintained white ute near where I am handing out YES guides. He tells me and the NO volunteer that he doesn’t want any ‘pieces of paper’; together we smile and wish him well. He goes into the pre-polling station, but emerges a few minutes later saying, ‘I want to vote with a pen!’ I recall the conspiracy theory that suggests that if you don’t vote with a pen there is a possibility the Australian Electoral Commission (AEC) will change the vote from NO to YES.
I can’t recall if the NO volunteer, who lives on a bush block 50 kilometres away, rolled her eyes or smiled sheepishly.
Perhaps she did both.
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A man in his late thirties/early forties, dark-grey jeans, hoodie and black hair tied back into a rough ponytail, strides purposefully up to a NO volunteer, a man in his senior years, and says, ‘We have to defeat this Voice. We have to save our country.’ Then he strides off again, proudly up the mainstreet.
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Thursday morning: I’m not scheduled to do any more volunteering, and I’m glad about that because I am feeling tired and a little despondent – from the experiences I’ve had so far this week, I suspect most people will vote NO on Saturday. I get a text from the coordinator of my local YES campaign: could I do one more shift? I agree.
It’s a hot day but I put on my YES t-shirt, which is mostly black, and my black jeans. The preceding days had been somewhat cool, so I’d also worn a light-coloured jacket, which partially covered the YES logo and made me feel safer when walking from my house, through town to the pre-polling station; I could also cover myself when walking home. The jacket was also practical because, if I wanted to help, say, an elderly couple navigate their way along the pavement and enter the pre-polling station, the AEC required me to cover up any campaign material I was wearing.
I decide to go without the jacket because it’s too hot. Having spent the previous days talking with so many people, certainly many more than I usually do, I’m feeling a little confident, so I also wear my YES cap and pin a YES badge to the left side of my chest.
As I near town, I begin to feel nervous: is this really wise?
About 100 metres along the mainstreet, a man in his early thirties gets out of his car, sees what I’m wearing, and says, ‘I’m voting NO!’ As calmly as I can, I say, ‘That’s democracy!’ As I keep walking, he throws words at me but I’m unable to hear what they are.
I am about to arrive at the pre-polling station and a woman walking towards me looks at my t-shirt, and says, ‘YES!’
When my shift is over, I begin walking back along the mainstreet and remember the man who’d got out of his car and aggressively shared his voting intention. Would it be easier if I took a side street? No, I’ll stay on the mainstreet, though I do remove my YES cap, replacing it with my standard, unmarked black cap.
Two hundred metres up the mainstreet, a man in his early thirties, who is texting on his phone, looks up, sees my YES t-shirt, and says, ‘I’m voting NO!’ In a tone that’s as friendly as possible, I say, ‘Good on you!’ As he continues walking away, he calls out, ‘No! Not good on me.’ I keep walking while he makes statements that I do not hear.
Knowing that I need to buy something for lunch, I decide to duck into my local supermarket. A wind gust sweeps through the mainstreet and something gets caught in my throat. I can’t stop coughing and it feels like I’m struggling to breathe. Remembering that I also need to get some alcohol for a weekend trip away, I decide that if I’m still struggling to breathe I’ll ask one of the guys who work in the liquor shop to give me a drink of water.
In the supermarket I buy a couple of items for lunch. My breathing has settled, so I enter the liquor shop, buy what I need, then go to the counter. The young man who has been working here for at least a decade (he used to live around the corner from me and once asked if I could keep an eye out for his dog, which had escaped his yard), looks at my t-shirt while I’m trying to get my card to work.
‘Looks like YES is tanking,’ he says.
Not wanting to get into a debate, I say, ‘The YES campaign could have been clearer, I give you that.’
He says, ‘If you don’t know, vote no, mate. And a lot of people don’t know.’
An elderly man appears beside me and says to the guy behind the counter, ‘That lot [I assume he’s referring to me] are using the same tactics that they used during the campaign to give women the vote.’ By now my breathing has settled, but I’m just too tired to engage any more and want to go home.
My card seems to have been declined.
While I get out my other card, the guy behind the counter says to the elderly man beside me, ‘Whatever the government is pushing, it’s bullshit.’
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I leave the liquor shop and am about to cross the mainstreet. I wonder if I should go into the pub on the corner and, in the bathroom, remove my t-shirt, but, again, I decide to not give in to fear. However, not wanting any more confrontation, I remove my YES badge from the left side of my chest, cross the mainstreet against the lights, and begin walking the rest of the way to my house, wondering if my actions over these past few days have been properly considered. Don’t most First Peoples support the proposed change to the constitution and the accompanying voice? Didn’t all this begin as a proposal from First Peoples after years of First Peoples discussion and debate? For a non-Indigenous person like me, isn’t siding with First Peoples the most justified course of action?
Perhaps it was foolish of me to get involved.
When I arrive at my house, I look at the YES corflute that I’d nailed to my front verandah after attending the Walk for YES. I consider removing it, but then I remember the teenaged boy on the pushbike weaving his way through the voting crowd and shouting.
I leave the corflute where it is.
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Note: analysis shows that polling areas where First Peoples form more than 50% of the population voted on average 63% in favour of constitutional recognition and the voice.
At the risk of writing an essay and, more concerningly, elevating my voice above the voices that really need to be heard in Australia right now (and into the future), what follows are the reasons why, after putting time and effort into considering the various discussions and opinions, I’m voting YES in the Australian referendum on 14 October 2023.
The full wording of the proposed addition to the Australian constitution can be found on the Australian Electoral Commission’s website, but, in essence, I enthusiastically agree with the proposal that First Peoples should be recognised in the constitution, and that there be a Voice to Parliament to ensure First Peoples are consulted – and heard – whenever policy and programs that might have an impact on First People are being developed by the central government.
Australia was founded on the lie of terra nullius, that being the coloniser’s assumption there were no people living on this continent before a few British men arrived on the east coast in 1770, claiming the place for the British Crown. It was not until 1992, as part of the Mabo decision, that the High Court ruled that, according to the law, there were people here, and for quite a long time – at least 65,000 years. What might 250 years of colonial denial, violence and erasure do to this continent’s original people? What dreadful legacy has been left in the Australian psyche?
Massacres of First Nations people is an historical fact. According to well-recognised research, [b]ecause of colonial genocidal actions like state-sanctioned massacres, the First Nations population went from an estimated 1-1.5 million before invasion to less than 100,000 by the early 1900s.
The Stolen Generations is another historical fact. Between 1910 and the 1970s, governments, churches and welfare bodies forcibly removed many Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families. These children became known as the Stolen Generations. Their removal was sanctioned by various government policies, which have left a legacy of trauma and loss that continues to affect First Nations communities, families and individuals today.
Australia has a well-documented history of excluding First Peoples. For example, it was not until 1962 that First Peoples were allowed to vote, and it was it was not until 1967, the year just before I was born, that Australia began counting First Peoples as being a part of the general population.
Is it not reasonable to conclude that the above government-initiated and/or endorsed programs have resulted in intergenerational trauma?
In terms of closing the gap between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities in terms of health, education, incarceration and other essential societal factors, all the evidence suggests that the status quo is not working. I have a foundational belief that it is morally and ethically repugnant to allow (perhaps even enable) one part of the community to suffer while another part of the community prospers.
Critically for me, the Voice to Parliament is a proposal developed by First Peoples through the Uluru Statement from the Heart, which involved extensive consultation over many years. Also critically, the vast majority of First Nations people support the Voice. As a Settler Australian, if I voted no, I’d be saying I know better than lived, First Nations experience, and I categorically do not know better.
Do I believe that ‘whiteness’ is the dominant way of being, thinking and feeling in Australia, despite the official dismantling of the White Australia Policy? Yes. Do I believe that Australia has a severe structural problem with prioritising ‘whiteness’? Yes. Do I believe ‘whiteness’ should have no place whatsoever in contemporary Australia? Yes. Do I believe that the First Peoples’ proposed Voice is a step towards addressing structural ‘whiteness’? Yes.
Do I accept that grave errors have been made in the past, and continue to be made? Yes. This means I also endorse a truth-telling commission, which is another proposal put forward by the Uluru Statement from the Heart, and I also support treaties.
Do I believe First Peoples have the solutions? Yes.
Do I want Australia to be a more equitable nation? Yes.
Do I believe that a good country does not leave marginalised communities behind? Yes.
Do I want Australia to be a happier, healthier, and more peaceful, reconciled nation? Yes.
Do I believe Australia will be stronger, deeper, more resilient when First Peoples’ knowledge is listened to, understood, respected, and incorporated in all parts of life? Yes.
In the context of the above, constitutional recognition of First Peoples – adding a couple of sentences to a document written 124 years ago (by a small group of non-First Nations men) – and having a mechanism through which First Peoples will always be consulted by successive Australian governments is a practical and modest change, one that will make good things possible.
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Although I understand that racism and homophobia are different ills (though possibly related, both connected through prejudice and fear), having experienced a sense of liberation that came from the successful marriage-equality campaign that Australia experienced in 2017 (one that caused a lot of harm, and over many years, and not all queer people survived the debate), I can hardly not want that sense of liberation to be extended to First Peoples.
Music has been a significant part of my life for the best part of 50 years, probably 55 years, perhaps even longer, because there was always music in the family home.
My parents were not especially musical, but records were played most weeks. I had a little silver transistor radio through which I could engage with the world of sound; I have a clear memory of being ten years old and spending a day waiting for The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ to be played so I could capture it on a reel-to-reel tape recorder (mission successful). Although I would have the opportunity to learn the basics of how music works at school, mostly I’ve just been engaged in this particular art form as an active – perhaps obsessive – listener.
Towards the end of the pandemic, however, two things happened: since 2019 I’ve been working on a new play with songs titled THE STORY OF THE OARS, and in a rather rash moment I decided to have a go at writing the music myself; and I formed Hell Herons, a spoken-word music collective. Thinking that it might be best to refresh my knowledge of music theory (whatever ‘knowledge’ I originally had), and did three music-theory lessons at the local conservatorium, and off I went. I’ll write more about OARS at a later date (though I can say that the project is progressing well, mostly due to the incredible Street Theatre in Canberra), but Hell Herons has proved to be an unexpectedly fascinating project.
Hell Herons, whose members are the award-winning poets Melinda Smith, CJ Bowerbird, Stuart Barnes and myself, fuses poetry through spoken-word with music. At times what emerges is atmospheric, sometimes it is a little noise; some songs almost have a pop sensibility. Although play, risk and adventure are very much the cornerstones of the project, there’s also a desire for accessibility, all the while ensuring the original text is preserved as the poet wrote it.
I won’t go on too much about form and process, but personally it’s been intriguing, because some of the text was written for the page and published as such – would this work in a recorded context, especially when music is involved? Other times, the music has come first and the text has then emerged.
Although we’re still at the demo stage, with the intention of having the final selection of songs professionally mixed and mastered later this year for an official release next year, we’re slowly releasing tracks via the Hell Herons’ SoundCloud.
The most recent release is ‘Off-World Ghazal’, which works with the incredible poem of the same name by Stuart and appears in his second collection, LIKE TO THE LARK, published recently by Upswell. It was wonderful, and a little daunting, to work with such an extraordinary – and lauded – poem of great depth and complexity. We’d love to know what you think of the track.
Another release of note is ‘Scar and Star (don’t fall)’, which is based on a deeply moving unpublished fragment written by Melinda. The concept at the heart of this song is the idea of taking off no matter what. It’s perhaps the most epic – and noisiest – of the tracks we’ve written to date. As opposed to ‘Off-World Ghazal’, which currently features my reading of Stuart’s words, ‘Scar and Star (don’t fall)’ features Melinda. I recorded my reading of Stuart’s poem in my closet, while we recorded Melinda’s in her sitting room, so if you listen closely you can hear the call of the birds in her backyard. Hell Herons do like to incorporate ambient, by which I mean ad hoc, sounds, as well as mistakes.
As mentioned, if you have any thoughts about ‘Off-World Ghazal’ and ‘Scar and Star (don’t fall)’ please don’t hesitate to drop me a line, either in the comments or by message.
Thanks so much to Melinda, Stuart and CJ for being such generous and open-minded collaborators.
When I left Sydney, in 1987 and as a not-so-fresh-faced 18-year-old, I was determined to find my own way in the world.
I needed to find a new way of being. I needed to be myself.
Without a doubt there had been joy in my childhood. Summers were spent either at the beach or up in the Blue Mountains, and most weekends I was able to explore the Ku-Ring-Gai Chase National Park, which bordered the suburb where my family and I lived. But the suburb was as affluent as they come: the roads were clogged with cars made by Audi, BMW, Volvo and Mercedes, and most streets were adorned with at least one mansion.
It was also monocultural. A ‘blue-ribbon’ Liberal seat, as they say. Conservative to the core. If you weren’t a Christian you were marked as different, and different was never good.
It’s true that, in my formative years, I was aware of that situation – the privilege, but also the stifling (read: dangerous) world view. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made was to get out of there as soon as I was able, to be in a place where I could choose the people with whom I wanted to associate.
And that’s what happened.
I found my tribe.
But I had no idea that in the ACT region I’d find something else.
While most folk know Canberra as the place where the federal parliament sits, where most government departments have their offices, where, on most nights of the week, the restaurants and bars are packed with political staffers and public servants talking strategy and gossip (that may have been true in the past but these days a majority of Canberrans are actually involved in the private sector; besides, the ongoing wars between ‘public service’ and ‘private enterprise’ are ridiculously reductive), I have come to know Canberra as one of the the most cultural and creatively sustaining places on the planet.
This small city has a wide range of arts organisations covering all the major art forms. There are also the national cultural institutions, including the National Library, the National Archives, the National Museum, and the National Gallery, and the National Portrait Gallery. The original parliament house has been turned into a museum of democracy.
There are brilliant universities and terrific bookshops. Libraries are dotted throughout the suburbs.
It probably should not be surprising that the ACT is one of the most progressive jurisdictions in Australia: in 1999 it was one of the only states or territories that voted for Australia to become a republic, and in 2017 it had one of the highest yes votes in the marriage-equality plebiscite.
Then there are the mountains on the edge of the city, the coast is a two-hour drive (which, in Australian terms, is not much more than ‘just up the street’), Sydney at the northern end of the freeway.
While, now I’m thinking about it, I first put pen to paper as a writer while briefly living in Perth in my early twenties, it was when I returned to Canberra that I decided to pursue my literary vocation with vigour. I met other writers, some of whom have gone on to shape the culture of the country. My own progress has been slow, a gradual coming out. (My other coming out was a little more dramatic.)
I should also make it clear that since 2010 I have lived on the other side of the border, in the regional New South Wales town of Goulburn. These days I like to say that Goulburn is my hometown, Canberra is my home city, and the ACT region is the place of my creative community
So, it was lovely – surprising, invigorating, and just a little overwhelming – to be named the ACT Artist of the Year at the 2022 ACT Arts Awards, which were held on Tuesday evening at the Canberra Museum and Gallery.
Thank you to the Canberra Critics Circle, who, for 32 years, have been celebrating this region’s artists. Gratitude also to the City News, which so generously sponsors the Artist of the Year Award.
Years ago, a prominent Australian writer and academic shared with me some advice that I’ve never forgotten: ‘When something good happens in your writing life, you have 24 hours to celebrate – drink champagne, go out for dinner, soak it all up, whatever you need to do, but then you have to keep going. When something bad happens in your writing life, you have 24 hours to commiserate – drink whiskey, kick the furniture, howl at the moon, whatever you need to do, but then you have to keep going.’
So I applied that approach to this news; I enjoyed a wonderful Wednesday. And then, to be frank, because sometimes there is life in contradiction and inconsistency, I kept enjoying myself.
But on Monday morning, I’ll be back at the desk.
I’ll keep going.
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Image credit: author photograph courtesy of the Canberra Times.
Thank you so much – indeed eternal gratitude – to all those who have supported the novel so far: the booksellers, the readers, the launch attendees, the podcasters, the journalists. You’re all bloody marvelous.
I have so appreciated the messages, posts and emails sent to me by readers. Every single one of them has given me a shot in the arm. It’s been almost overwhelming to hear how much Patrick and his story has meant to readers, and that the novel has moved some readers in a deep, perhaps even profound way.
A novelist can’t wish for much more than that.
It’s been such a wonderful ride so far, with launches in Canberra, Sydney, Brisbane, and the Huon Valley in Tasmania. I’ve had festival appearances in Canberra, Bryon Bay (including 5 days on the road touring regional areas, along with the incredible Huda the Goddess, Mirandi Riwoe, and Jane Caro), Southern Tasmania, and Berry, NSW.
I’ve met such amazing people and you’ve all been brilliant.
There is one more event WILD THING event for the year, and, rather fittingly, it will be back in the ACT region, where the tour began back in May. To be held at 2pm on Sunday 20 November, and called ‘The Quoll Connection’, my co-panelist will be Harry Sadler, the author of QUESTIONS RAISED BY QUOLLS, a fascinating book that is part nature exploration and part memoir. The event will be held at Terroux, a property on the outskirts of Canberra, and there will also be participation from a local quoll expert. Fabulous. Bookings essential.
As a rather lovely aside: back in 2019, Terroux offered me a weeklong residency, during which I worked on an earlier version of MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING. So, in a way, this will be a terrific full-circle moment.
Thank you once again to all those who have read the novel, who’ve let me know your thoughts, who’ve attended one of the various events.
Waking up, turning on the laptop, and opening my emails – to find an engaged, open, generous response from a reader.
It doesn’t happen every day, of course, though I can’t say I wish it didn’t. But when it does, a certain spring in the step ensues – a book is only half itself without a reader, it can only come to life in a reader’s mind. And the author has no control over what happens in a reader’s mind; the author must let go. But letting go is difficult. Many weeks and months and years have gone into the creation of those characters, those places, the journey of the story. Which means that, yes, when someone engages with the work (and it is indeed work) it is as though it’s now complete.
Needless to say, an author also wants their work to be enjoyed, if not loved.
Perhaps appreciated is enough.
These connections can also happen at those miraculous events called writers festivals, which I’ve been lucky enough to attend recently as an invited author. Sometimes (often) an author will feel as if their latest work has been wrapped in silence – nothing is happening. Have I experienced that? Oh yes. Indeed, every time a novel of mine goes into the world it is met with silence; sometimes that silence is all encompassing, sometimes it’s simply a hint. But then someone will come up to me at a writers festival and, about MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING, say, ‘I read your novel. I was so moved. Goodness me, I felt for Patrick. And the places in the book – they shimmered.’ All of a sudden, the silence is gone, at least momentarily. The novel has found a reader and all is well with the world.
Below are some images of this year’s Byron Writers Festival, which was spectacular, and also one image of the Canberra Writers Festivals. Other authors include Hannah Kent, Trent Dalton, Alan Close, Will Kostakis, Aaron Fa’Aoso, Mirandi Riwoe, Lee Koffman, Sulari Gentil, Karen Viggers, Huda the Goddess, Jane Caro and Suzanne Leal, as well as literary agent Alex Adsett.
Shortly I will be off to Tasmania to participate in this year’s Terror Australis Readers and Writers Festival, during which I’ll have the pleasure of leading a residency as well as giving a masterclass. Generously, the Festival has also organised a literary dinner for me and MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING. If you happen to be in Tasmania, it would be wonderful seeing you – it’s happening on Thursday 13 October.
After that, I head to the coast of New South Wales to attend the Berry Writers Festival.
While you are here, some books that I’ve loved recently:
THE MOTHER by Jane Caro – what would you do if one of your children married a domestic abuser? What if your grandchildren were also suffering from that abuse? Would there be a point where you would give up trying to protect them? These are the questions Caro asks. It is a novel that races along while offering a lot of food for thought.
NIGHT by Elie Wiesel – first published in 1960, this short autobiography chronicles a 15-year-old boy’s experience of the Holocaust. Tought, profound, gut-wrenching.
THE COAST by Eleanor Limprecht – this is a truly heartbreaking and multi layered novel about the ‘leper colony’ that once existed in Sydney from about 1886 onwards. Not only was it fascinating to learn about leprosy, which is now known as Hansen’s disease – it’s actually very hard to catch and limbs don’t fall off – the characters are so richly drawn that, yes, my heart broke more than once. Incredibly moving. Unforgettable really.
THE BALLAD OF ABDUL WADE by Ryan Butta – a wide-ranging history of the Afghan cameleers who were crucial in the establishment of the colonies that would end up being called Australia (which is highly problematic on many levels, as we know). The cameleers were treated incredibly poorly – it doesn’t take much imagination to work out why – by many, including those fancy chaps who would go on to create the White Australia policy. If you’re looking for a different, and necessary, take on Australian history, do give this a go.
THE BURNISHED SUN by Mirandi Riwoe – one of the best short story collections I’ve read in years. It is bookended (literally) by two exquisite long short stories; essentially novellas, they’re powerful and utterly unforgettable. What’s also wonderful is the way the collection, despite some of the stories being historical and others contemporary, and are set in various parts of the world, feels so cohesive. Perhaps that’s because, with this book, Riwoe has a very specific concern, one she explores with great depth and humanity.
I hope you’re well and safe.
And if we do happen to cross paths, please say hello – most likely it will make my day.
Well, MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING has now been in the world for 10 weeks. It’s been lovely receiving emails and messages from readers saying how much Patrick and his story are resonating with them. Really all a novelist wants is a close reading; as others have said, the reader brings 50% of the meaning to a book, and there’s little – if anything – the novelist can do about that. But, of course, it is always wonderful hearing about how a piece of fiction has resonated in the mind (and perhaps body) of someone else. That makes it worthwhile.
It has also been energising seeing reviews come in from around Australia.
Here’s a brief summary:
‘I loved this delightful novel and the journey it took me on. Patrick’s character is finely observed, and his growth, sexual liberation and preparedness to come out as he hits 50 are beautifully scrutinised. A remarkable look at Australian masculinity and its meaning’ – Newtown Review of Books
‘MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING is a devastatingly emotional but ultimately hopeful exploration of love, family and place. The natural world takes centre stage, with Jimenbuen, the location of the farm, playing a role almost akin to that of a character. Patrick is transformed by his experiences at Jimenbuen with Lewis, but the land itself – its isolation and wilderness – also provides a place of safety and freedom from the guilt and frustration Patrick experiences stemming from his difficult relationship with his mother. Every location is rendered in precise, attentive detail: the barn in Jimenbuen, the streets of Sydney, and the sleepy country town where Patrick lives. Featherstone interrogates the power of love and the natural world in Patrick’s life, crafting a compelling and moving read’ – ArtsHub
‘Featherstone depicts life in all its complexity and contradiction, capturing the comparative freedom of childhood but also the long shadow it casts when it has taught you to repress your true self. MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING shows that ephemeral connections can be just as meaningful as the grand, enduring relationships our society venerates’ – Canberra Times
‘You can’t help but be changed by reading this beautiful, exquisitely well-wrought and richly poignant novel which dwells in the quiet, pause-filled places of life while fomenting a revolution that sees one wounded, stoically lost man find a new purpose and home, far from the ordinariness of life and off where it is still possible, because MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING is always gently adamant that it is possible to find our true self, realise your hopes and dreams and go to wild and unpredictable where the sun has not yet set on possibility’ – Sparkly Pretty Briiiight
‘Nigel Featherstone weaves a remarkable story of the possibilities of love, the cruelty of duty and the magic of place. Bringing the Monaro to life in prose that quietly sparkles, MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING is a story of self-discovery that sits separate from anything I’ve ever read. Featherstone’s novels are unforgettable gifts’ – Booktopia
‘A contemplative portrait of a man bound by a strong sense of duty to his family as he learns to overcome a lifetime of trying not to rock the boat to allow himself to find pleasure… This is a novel whose charm rests in part in the accumulation of quiet detail and perceptive observation: the fleeting appearances of an elusive tiger quoll; Patrick’s comment that “in the end all buried things have a way of coming to the surface”. Its depictions of landscape are evocative; its sex scenes tender and frank. At one point, Patrick recollects the scent of sunscreen and salt water associated with beach visits, describing it as being “about freedom, and the extraordinary ordinariness of human life”. The same is true of Featherstone’s yearning, intimate novel’ – West Australian
‘The voice of MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING is laconic, grim, masculine, withheld, but through the darkness it also holds a sweetly earnest, genuine hope – Patrick’s desires shine through’ – The Saturday Paper
‘A novel about what it means to yearn. It is a portrait, surely, of many of us – those wondering if this is our place, our lot, our future. We learnt in Featherstone’s first novel, BODIES OF MEN, that he is a writer who understands human fragility. With MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING, he has cemented his talent and allowed us an intimate view into another person’s heart. It is a gift’ – Readings
‘The heart might be a little wild thing, but this novel is a little beautiful thing – and not so little at that’ – Whispering Gums
‘MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING is a beautifully constructed and written book; it cleverly tangles the reader in every aspect of its telling. It moves us with its compassion, its vivid depictions of nature and its complex explorations of the human condition. Here is a truly astute writer utterly in control of his art. Featherstone’s fluid, stream of consciousness narrative style is an immediate hook. There is not a breath of hesitation as the reader plunges into Patrick’s story, into his mind and his world. We feel for him, we wish him well, we wish he’d take something for himself. And we exult when he does’ – Living Arts Canberra
Many thanks to the above writers and editors for their attention and engagement.
While you’re here, some books that I’ve loved recently:
IF YOU’RE HAPPY by Fiona Robertson – a wide-ranging collection of stories that delights, gently provokes, and entertains. Like all good literature, it helped me feel more connected to the world. Absolutely marvelous.
TIME IS A MOTHER by Ocean Vuong – another truly extraordinary collection of poems. I was dazzled and deeply moved. Vuong is a magician.
THE GRASS CASTLE by Craig Sherborne – a mother-and-son story with a heavy dose of dementia; it’s harrowing, sure, but also highly inventive. Sherborne is a poet, and there’s poetry on every page.
SMALL THINGS LIKE THESE by Claire Keegan – the sort of novel I adore: succinct, tight, quiet but psychologically complex, and multi-layered. Exquisite. I’ll be returning to this again and again.
FUGITIVE by Simon Tedeschi – erudite literary fragments written by a professional concert pianist. Exploratory but also most engaging. I loved it.
After a few quiet weeks (much of the time spent on the couch recovering from Covid-19, like so many others), I’m back on the road next month, doing a range of festivals and events – I’ll write a separate post about that at a later date. In the meantime, I hope you’re well and safe.
It has been a hectic though entirely joyful few weeks launching MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING into the world: I’ve had events in Canberra, Sydney, and Brisbane (Queensland).
Such wonderful crowds, despite the ongoing threat of COVID-19. The Canberra launch, thanks to Harry Hartog ANU Bookshop, was an entirely masked affair, which helped to make people feel a little more comfortable. It is always terrific meeting readers, those who read BODIES OF MEN and are eager to read the new novel, or those who have already read MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING, or those who are new to both novels. It doesn’t matter; a novel only comes alive when the words are making magic in the mind of someone else.
To all those who have sent me messages or emails saying how much they have been moved by the story: thank you.
It’s also been lovely chatting with various podcasters. Two recent ones include writer Samuel Elliott, for The Write Way Podcast, and writer Michelle Barraclough, for The Writer’s Book Club podcast. I thoroughly enjoyed both conversations – so spirited – and highly recommend both programs.
Another response to MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING that has become very special to me is ‘Monaro’, which is the latest composition by UK-based artist and composer BPMoore.
Ben and I became friends over social media. As readers of this blog will know, I adore music and have done so from a young age; listening to music continues to be a daily habit. I immediately connected with Ben’s work: perhaps fitting into the ‘contemporary classical’ category, the songs – and they are indeed ‘songs’, as though written for those who are more used to pop music – are evocative, engaging, and deeply moving.
One evening last year, after having a couple of wines, I messaged Ben via Instagram to rather boldly suggest I send him an advance copy of MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING and see if perhaps it might resonate enough to result in some kind of musical response.
To my surprise, and delight, Ben leapt at the offer.
And here we are: today Ben releases ‘Monaro’, a pair of songs that have been written to be listened to as a whole.
Some words from the composer:
‘Monaro I & II’ were written during the reading of ‘My Heart is a Little Wild Thing’, reading in the evening each day, and then working on music the next morning in response. There were pictures in my mind, colours, vibrations in my body – all from the words Nigel wrote. I have never visited the Monaro. I hope to one day.
What I find extraordinary about Ben’s music is how it captures the Monaro in all its beauty and strangeness. The rolling notes evoke the wide-screen bareness, and the soaring vocals suggest the height that comes from what locals call ‘big-sky country’.
Of course, the music also reflects a crucial aspect of the novel: the main character, Patrick, who is devoted to the care of his ailing mother, meets a man called Lewis, who will change his life – and Lewis is a composer of contemporary classical music. Early in the story, Lewis invites Patrick to listen to the sketch of a new composition on his phone; Patrick is suitably moved. This event becomes central to how these two men will continue to connect over time.
Once again, to all those have read MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING and have taken the time to share with me your thoughts: thank you – so very much. I’m absolutely thrilled that Patrick and Lewis’s story is resonating with people the way it is. Patrick and Lewis have become real to me – I feel sure they’d both be fascinated to hear BPMoore’s musical response to their story – and it is just so wonderful that they are becoming real to others.
My new novel, MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING, has now been out in the world for 10 days, which, of course, has gone by in a flash. Even though this is my third novel (and eighth title) I still find it hard to let go.
As soon as a book is published it is no longer the author’s; it is the reader’s. We can wish the book well. We can hope it finds people who will love it as much as we have loved making it, though it is a complicated love, isn’t it – it has not always been easy, which perhaps only serves to make the love deeper, more profound. We can want for the book to be treated with kindness, and with an open-mind. At the very least, we do not want the book to gather dust at the back of a bookshop.
But how the book is received is largely out of an author’s hands. We just have to trust the work we have put into it.
I have heard composer-comedian Tim Minchin say (and this quote is based on my memory of an interview with him on ABC TV a couple of years ago, but I think it is reasonably accurate), ‘A piece of art is simply the result of how much time the artist had and how much energy they put into it.’ Minchin went on to suggest that if an artist proceeds along those lines, how people respond to a work – negative, positive, or otherwise – is largely irrelevant. It is helpful advice. However, it does not stop some artists, including myself, worrying about how an object like a novel is received. There are those who say that an artist is not their art, but where does one begin and the other end?
Best I stop rambling.
All I really wanted to do with this post is give a brief summary of the public life so far of MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING.
There has been a warm and engaged cover story in the Canberra Times; it is rare for a novelist to receive this kind of attention, so I am most grateful. And in all my years as a writer I have never imagined that I would appear on the cover of the newspaper’s weekend magazine with a water dragon on my head.
A rich story, elegantly written. I loved this delightful novel and the journey it took me on. Patrick’s character is finely observed, and his growth, sexual liberation and preparedness to come out as he hits 50 are beautifully scrutinised. A remarkable look at Australian masculinity and its meaning.
Booktopia did a Q&A with me, which was lovely. Such interesting and engaged questions, which I had to think about carefully before setting down my answers.
And I have also had the pleasure of being interviewed by a number of hard-working podcasters, two of which have already appeared online: a chat for the relaunched Queer Writes Sessions, which is an initiative of RWR McDonald, author of THE NANCYS and NANCY BUSINESS; and a wide-ranging conversation with Barbie Robinson for Living Arts Canberra, who concludes, ‘Here is a truly astute writer utterly in control of his art.’ Perhaps needless to say, I enjoyed both conversations very much.
Thank you to all those who have engaged with MY HEART IS A LITTLE WILD THING so far, whether it be by posting the book on social media or emailing me to share their experience of reading the story – I do appreciate it, no doubt more than this post suggests. I feel sure that Patrick would appreciate it too, though he might also be just a little overwhelmed. He might need to head back to Jimenbuen on the Monaro and bunker down in the steading, making meals, drinking wine, going for walks. Perhaps he might even go so far as to head up into the Cambalongs and spend a night or two in the hide.
Under the counter or a flutter in the dovecote 