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A screen grab of what goes through my head when I'm interviewing an author.

A screen grab of what goes through my head when I’m interviewing an author.

An indisputable joy for me over the past five years has been interviewing Australian authors for literary journal Verity La.

The interviews are conducted by email: I start with a question, the author responds, I ask a follow-up question, the author responds to that, and we keep going like this until we’ve reached a conclusion. Although I’ll have one or two questions prepared in advance, never have the interviews ended where I’ve expected them to, and I’ve learnt to follow the energy in the conversation, and allow the process – which isn’t far from writing letters to each other – to go into personal or dangerous territory. This part of the process can take a week or two, a month or two; some interviews have taken the best part of a year.

Once an interview has reached its natural conclusion, I bring it all together (keeping the order of the questions and answers as they happened), do a light edit, mostly for the purposes of consistency and to meet the editorial guidelines of Verity La, before I send it back to the interviewee for edits and clearance. This final stage in the process is critical: it allows the author to see her or his responses as part of a whole and also take the opportunity to make changes – and they almost always do, due to a desire to improve clarity and/or flow, or because, perhaps, it might be better to be more diplomatic, especially as the National Library of Australia archives Verity La.

With the publication of the most recent interview, with Biff Ward, the author of the extraordinary memoir In My Mother’s Hands (Allen & Unwin, 2014), I thought it might be timely to prepare a bouquet of some of the most memorable observations, primarily about the writing process.

Enjoy.

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‘Isn’t that what writing is about – wanting to know more, daring to find out, being brave enough to inhabit a place even when you know it might be uncomfortable, even though you might find out that you are the stranger?’ – Francesca Rendle-Short

‘When I first draft a story I never think about publication; in fact, it may even be dangerous to have thoughts of/desire for publication at the forefront of one’s mind. You may be tempted to tailor your story to notions of what is acceptable – to contemporary readers, to editors, to what is in fashion at the time – instead of attending to the organic demands of the narrative you’ve set in motion. Stories have their own inherent requirements – in length, in structure, in voice – and writing to external ‘public’ requirements can falsify the relation between a writer and their material’ – John Clanchy

‘I find plunging into my imagination and making up stories endlessly interesting. I am fascinated by character, bringing each one to life through narrative. And I delight in the fact I can give a character a personality change if s/he is not working within the emerging novel. And I love the English language, it’s gorgeous. Such pleasure to be had playing with metaphor and imagery’ – Andrea Goldsmith

‘I think that there are few, if any, endings in novels that are as satisfying as the journeys which arrive there. In the sense that journeys determine endings, I’d agree with Peter Carey that if the ending is troubled, the cause of the trouble is to be found elsewhere (and the problem perhaps bigger than a failed ending). I think all that should be asked of an ending is that it live up to the journey. My favourite endings, when I think about it, have more to do with poetry than story’ – Andrew Croome

‘Everything we know, see, think, do, down to the minutest un-thought action, is stored in the pressure-cooker of memory where it gets steamed and combined into Memory Soup. Then, when the writer needs something, the soup produces it, not in the form it was originally but as what is needed now’ – Glenda Guest

‘Reading and writing poetry represent the possibility of better things in a world that sorely needs this possibility’ – Paul Hetherington

‘I write stories because I feel compelled to do so. Because I love the writing process, everything about it. Well, maybe not those agonising moments where I know something is wrong but I can’t figure out what needs to happens next and begin to wonder if it’s possible I never will. But then something snaps and everything falls into place and that’s glorious’ – Irma Gold

‘One of my guiding principles in this old distinction between poetry and imaginative prose is Virginia Woolf’s observation that “…the poet gives us his essence, prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire”’ – Alan Gould

‘Material that comes out as part of a creative work needs time to mature like wine and [my novel] needed to work through from a conscious to a subconscious level’ – Denise Young

‘It’s important to me at this stage in my life that I don’t condemn, blame or hurt other people, and I do my best to make my writing and my public work reflect that. I am absolutely in love with all of the strangeness, diversity and surprises of this life, and I want to write about them’ – Walter Mason

‘The way in which I write my novels makes such surprises inevitable. It’s a very organic process for me. I write my way into the characters and I write many many drafts. What I begin with – whether ideas or characters – is rarely what I end up with’ – Andrea Goldsmith

‘My so called ‘achievements’ are not a big deal. I was programmed to have fun, travel and speak my mind. It was more by accident than design I played a small part in extending the boundaries of free speech. It’s an ongoing task, unfortunately, because the leaders of nations both rich and poor will lie, cheat and even kill, in order to protect their interests’ – Richard Neville

‘I see a big distinction between writing-as-therapy and the telling of a dark tale that has been personally experienced. Writing-as-therapy is a wonderful form of self-exploration and clarification – but it needs to be private! It is for the self, not for reading by others. It’s what you do if you need to journey through the glades of despair, to drag yourself through brambles and shudder through cobwebs’ – Biff Ward

Sydney Cove back when it all started: are they ominous storm-clouds or is it an approaching bushfire?

Sydney Cove back when it all started: are they ominous storm-clouds on the horizon or is it an approaching bushfire?

It’s January in Australia and I’m hot and bothered. Hot, because that’s exactly what it is: for weeks now it’s been thirty degrees Celsius in the shade, some days thirty-five. Last Friday went over forty; Sydney, just two hours drive north of me, had its hottest day ever – it breached the forty-five-degree mark. Here at home the chooks have their beaks open and their wings out and hanging low, so I’ve covered their run as much as I can with an old tent-fly – it seems to help, for now. But hot is hot is hot and there’s not much I can do about it. And I can’t do much about the alarming waft of smoke as it comes into town and gets us coughing. Last week there was an automated message left on the landline: ‘Tomorrow’s bushfire conditions are CATASTROPHIC. Activate your bushfire survival plan now.’ I put the sprinkler into the garden and, rather uselessly, turned it on.

All this is enough to make anyone hot and bothered, but it’s not all.

On 26 January there’s Australia Day; yes, it’s come around yet again. So the flags are out and about: they’re being stuck on cars and utes and trucks, they’re hung in shop windows, and they’re sent flapping in front gardens, stating the bleeding obvious, but also as though staking a claim all over again. We do it every year, our national day to commemorate the beginning of British settlement, when Governor Phillip landed at Sydney Cove in 1788. I was born and bred here, my forebears arriving by boat only a handful of years after that adventurous governor. Despite this ancestral longevity, however, and whatever blood I have in my veins, and all my thinking on the topic, I don’t really know this nation of mine; as I age I’m understanding it less and less. So, this summer, this dreadful, pressure-cooked summer, I’ve turned to our writers for assistance, for succour even, because their imagination, observation and skilful way with words are surely better than simply hanging out a flag.

Keep reading at Overland.  Thanks to Jeff Sparrow and Jacinda Woodhead.

For the past week I’ve been thinking about the writing of this post and I should be truthful and say that I’ve been struggling a little.  I’ve been struggling a little because at first very few books that I’ve read this year jumped out as being absolutely essential.  But I worked it out in the end.  Compared to this year’s crop of albums, which has been nothing short of mind-blowing for their immediacy (more on this in a forthcoming post), in terms of reading, 2011 has been a year of books that slowly and almost imperceptibly wrapped their arms around me until the best wouldn’t let go.

I’ve also noticed that my reading habits have changed, probably, I think, because as co-editor of Verity La I spend many evenings and weekends reading submissions before working to publish them.  This is an honour, particularly publishing the poetry, because by the time a poem appears on screen it feels as though it’s become a part of me and me a part of it.  This year I’ve judged the Marjorie Graber-McInnis Short Story Award, which is run out of the ACT Writers Centre – what gems come to the surface during these competitions. All this has meant that I’m reading more on-line, and by the time I get to the end of the day I’m looking for something short and punchy, which I’m finding in literary journals like Overland.

Amongst all this has been my own reading program.  What follows is a list of five books I’ve read this year that have ended up on the top shelves in my library, meaning they’re books that I must risk life and limb to rescue if the house is burning down.

I’m pleased to report that two books in the list are short story collections.  Finally this year I read some Raymond Carver, commencing my journey into this much-lauded oeuvre with What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (Vintage, 2003; first published in 1981).  What a joy are these stories. Except joy isn’t the right word, no, not at all; these are melancholic stories, told with an uneasy simplicity which reaches for a depth of humanity.  The prose is accessible, almost prosaic, but try writing like this and you’ll discover how much of a story-magician Carver was.  Elmore Leonard said, ‘If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it’, and it feels to me as if this was Carver’s modus operandi, too.  The next time I’m in a second-hand bookstore I’ll walk out with a bucketload of this bloke’s books.

The second short story collection is Marion Halligan’s Shooting the Fox (Allen and Unwin, 2011).  Here the Canberra-based Halligan reveals her artful playfulness – she has such damn good fun with words and characters and stories!  As opposed to Carver’s stories, Halligan’s are closer to poetry, although not in a pretentious sense; she simply asks the reader to work just a bit hard to nut it all out.  Throughout the year I’ve found myself thinking about many of these stories or telling friends about them.  If Raymond Carver’s stories have been boiled down to their essence, Marion Halligan’s are the most fluent and lively that you’ll find – they’re almost mischievous. You can read more about Marion Halligan here.

And then there’s Annabel by Kathleen Winter (Jonathan Cape, 2011).  A friend asked me to recommend a good book so I recommended Annabel because I’d read a glowing review, not because I’d actually read it myself, which is always dangerous, I know, but this is how it happened.  My friend ended up loving it and recommended it back to me, so I read it and…wasn’t as moved as I expected.  The story concerns a child born in 1968 in a remote part of far north-east Canada with male and female genitalia and follows him – for much of the book he’s known as Wayne – until early adult-hood.  Annabel is beautifully written, but perhaps too much of it goes in tangents so the end result isn’t as dramatic as it could have been.  However, like Shooting the Fox, I’ve found myself thinking about this book, especially Winter’s Wayne/Annabel character, and hoping that the world ends up treating him-her with kindness.  I’m convinced that I’ll come back to this book and a greater depth will be revealed.

Bite Your Tongue by Francesca Rendle-Short (Spinifex Press, 2011) is a brave book for two reasons: it explores life in Queensland in the 1960s and ’70s with an ultra-zealous, ultra-conservative, book-burning mother; and it’s a creative memoir, combining elements of the novel with elements of the straight memoir.  Somehow Rendle-Short manages to create a work that is loving, tender, critical and hard-hitting all at once.  It is a resolutely original book.  You can read more about Rendle-Short and Bite Your Tongue here and over at Verity La.

Perhaps the real book-reading treat this year has been discovering The Paris Review Interviews Volumes 1-4 (Picador, commencing 2006).  These interviews, many of which date back to the 1950s, offer illuminating insights into the writing process.  In the first volume alone there are interviews with Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, TS Eliot, and Saul Bellow.  Perhaps I find these interviews so fascinating because I’m someone who writes, but also because I sometimes interview writers for The Canberra Times and Verity La.  However, anyone interested in books and ideas, in the creative process in general, will enjoy these conversations.  For example, who cannot marvel at this piece of wisdom from Gabriel García Márquez (from Volume 2)?  If you say that there are elephants flying in the sky, people are not going to believe you.  But if you say that there are four hundred and twenty-five elephants in the sky, people will probably believe you.  Sheer genius.

Everything about writing is luck.  Everything.

There’s the luck of the idea, that little ‘what if’ that pops into your brain, you write it down somewhere – a post-it note, the back of a napkin (how appalling it’s been that sometimes I’ve had the best ideas when a little too drunk, so the idea is gone by the morning, it’s never stuck) – and then at some point or other you see if you can turn that idea into something.  There’s the luck of having the time, or being in a position to make the time, to do the hard work of writing.  And there’s the luck of being in the right headspace to produce that particular story, because every story is different.  And then there’s the luck in having the right editor read the piece and there’s always a bit of luck in terms of whether or not the publisher has the physical – or digital – space to get it out into the world.

More specifically, I have looked back at the publication of my novel Remnants as a series of events and confluences that have had as their commonality good bloody luck.  In 1999/2000 I did a Masters in Creative Arts (Creative Writing) at the University of Wollongong.  It was a great experience, a highlight of my life.  First up, I had the good fortune to spend time with writers such as John Scott, Merlinda Bobbis and Tony Macris.  Most closely I worked with Tony, and he was sufficiently blunt to tell me that my major project was good enough to give me the qualification but wasn’t good enough to find a publisher.

That night I started on a new project.

By the end of the year I had the bones of a story that I knew I wanted to take further.  I spent three years editing and re-working and polishing and worrying and fretting.  After shopping the manuscript around, and being told that it was well-written but would never be a commercial proposition, Francesca Rendle-Short, now creative writing academic RMIT but at the time was at the University of Canberra, suggested that I might like to have a chat with Ian Templeman, who was the head-honcho of Pandanus Books, the academic publisher at the Australian National University.  Excitedly, impatiently, I arranged this meeting.  (I am the least patient person in the world, so perhaps I should be serving burgers rather than writing stories.)

Over lunch Ian told me how he’d read a story of mine, ‘Song of Excess’, in Overland and would love to read the manuscript for my first novel – what luck that he’d read that particular issue!

A month later, I received a letter saying that Ian enjoyed the work but as Pandanus was primarily an academic publisher of non-fiction they couldn’t accept it; I should, however, again make contact with Ian.  More than confused, I rang Ian.  He said that he would like to publish Remnants, but he would have to establish a special imprint to do so, and this would take ‘some time’.  Ian was true to his word, and in 2005 that little novel eventually saw the light of day through Pandanus Books’ Sullivan’s Creek series.  Which would fold within a year because the ANU was adamant about focussing on the academic, not the fictional.

Remnants went on to achieve ten reviews, in places like Sydney Morning Herald, The Age, Australian Book Review, Antipodes as well as literary journals.  Nine of the reviews were positive; eight of those nine were glowingly enthusiastic. There’s no doubt in my mind that I was a very lucky person indeed throughout the whole journey of Remnants, and if that book hadn’t appeared it’s highly likely that I wouldn’t have continued trying my hand with the longer narrative form.

It’s a humble book, and a flawed book, but the more distance I get from it the more I like it, the characters and their situations have resonated with me, and the story has found a small but appreciative audience.  However, it left me with two feelings: one, how lucky we need to be for our work to be published; two, that I want to go on, that I want to write more, that I might just be able to do better, but I’ll need a shit-load of luck to go that next step, along with drive and tenacity and sheer hard-work.  Plus a good idea every now and again – that wouldn’t go astray.

In terms of current work, my novella Fall On Me was published by Blemish Books last month, and I could tell you a story about that story, how my partner and I went on holiday in Tasmania in 2007, how we stayed a few nights in Launceston, how, one night, we walked up Cataract Gorge and went past the Kings Bridge Gatekeeper’s Cottage and I thought, Mmm, how good would it be to write in a place like that, how two years later, I discovered that the Launceston City Council ran a program where artists could indeed live and work in the Gatekeeper’s Cottage, so I applied, was accepted, and in April-May 2010 went down to Tasmania to live in that Cottage for a month, intending to write short stories, but instead I wrote three novellas, Fall On Me being one of those, how, a year later I saw that Blemish Books was looking for manuscripts around the 40,000-word mark, so I sent off a submission, and the good, generous folks at Blemish loved the thing, so here I am, talking to you about luck and publishing and I’m realising that good fortune plays such a big role, perhaps a bigger role than hard-work and any talent one might have (though talent is always debatable).

And I could tell you how lucky I am to have found someone like Alec Patric with whom I co-edit Verity La.

And how lucky I am to live in a country where I’ve been able to receive a good education, and there are opportunities to continue that education.

And how lucky I am to have had an English teacher in middle school who once handed back a story I’d written, an obviously average story by the look of the mark written on the top of the front page, but he said to me, ‘You can do so much better.’  So here I am, aged 42, trying to do so much better.

And I could tell you how lucky I am to make a real-estate decision eleven years ago which now allows me to write as fulltime as humanly and financially possible.

And how lucky I am to not be in the twenty per cent of the world’s population that can’t read.

And how lucky I am that you’re reading this post.

All this – every little bit of it – has lead to publication, and now I realise that I am a man of such good fortune.  And how grateful I am for every little cheeky drop of it.

Perhaps all writers feel this way, at times, to a certain extent.  I’m reminded of the greatly loved Dorothy Porter, whose final poem, ‘View from 417’, finishes with these delicious words: Something in me/despite everything/can’t believe my luck.

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With thanks to Irma Gold, who asked a question that inspired this post.

On page 197 of a book I’ve just finished reading is a photograph that blew my mind.  In one way, it’s just an everyday happy-snap: a well-groomed mother is standing against a lounge-room curtain and holding up her baby daughter for the camera.  The baby girl is dressed in white; perhaps she’s on her way to her christening.  The mother – the adoring mother – raises the baby girl high so that she has to look up, so she can admire her creation, her responsibility.  The baby girl doesn’t look back at her mother; instead she looks to the camera, though not actually into the camera lens – she sees something off to one side, something that everyone else seems to be ignoring.  But what blew my mind is this: the baby girl has her hand to her mother’s chin, as if she’s already pushing her away.

The book is Bite Your Tongue.  The baby girl is the book’s author, Francesca Rendle-Short.  And the mother is the author’s mother, Dr Angel Rendle-Short, Christian extremist, morals crusader, and book burner.

Recently I spent two hours in the company of Francesca Rendle-Short, and good company she is.  She is thoughtful, engaging, and despite her familial background – or because of it – she laughs a lot, at herself, at her mother, who she describes as a ‘colossal character’, her siblings (she’s one of six), at her whole story, how absurd things can be, but how good it is to have reading and writing to make sense of it all.  She loves irony so much that if she could turn it into a cup of tea she would.

Rendle-Short has been many things in her life: radio producer, editor, art gallery worker, and mother of two now-adult children.  She has a Doctor of Creative Arts from the University of Wollongong.  ‘My mother would have been appalled!’  Recently, along with her partner, the cartoonist and writer Judy Horacek, Rendle-Short relocated from Canberra to Melbourne where she is Program Director of Creative Writing at RMIT University.  As well as Bite Your Tongue, she is the author of the novel Imago (1996) and the novella Big Sister (1989), and has written for the stage.

Rendle-Short is tall – statuesque is a good word – and many Canberrans will fondly recall her wild shock of pink-grey hair that looks both sculptured and just a bit out of control.  She likes to wear clothes that she’s made by hand, even when, as she might freely admit (in the right company), they’re slightly skew-whiff.

Despite her blazingly fierce commitment to writing and language and ideas, Rendle-Short is the kind of woman who describes her students as “so cute!”, and I remember one particularly intense conversation a couple of years ago during which she jotted down notes with a pen attached to what can only be described as a foot-long aerial with a fluffy pink pom-pom on the end, the sort of flourish a film-maker might give to a ditzy, Paris Hilton-like character, someone who is all style but no substance.  Except Francesca Rendle-Short is all style and all substance, with a potentially fathomless dose of complexity thrown in for good measure.

Bite Your Tongue mixes fiction and non-fiction as it explores growing up in Queensland in the 1970s with a mother who, driven by an intractable religious faith, developed a ‘death list’ of books to burn, a list that includes The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Lord of the Flies, amongst many others.  By all accounts, Angel Rendle-Short was most effective, fronting major public meetings and getting politicians to listen to her and – what’s more – take her seriously.

Through her extensive campaigning to have these books struck off school curricula because, so she believed, they were rotten or pornographic or both, Angel Rendle-Short brought shame and embarrassment and confusion to her children, who simply wanted the space to be, well, children.  One of the most harrowing sections of Bite Your Tongue (which the author describes as a story about ‘unbiting’) is when MotherJoy, Rendle-Short’s name for the mother character in the fictional strand of the book, uses a dead pig’s head to explain the female reproductive system.

How would Rendle-Short describe this ‘colossal’ character of her mother?

‘She was a very earthy person.  She grew up in a tiny town in northern Ireland.  Her mother was very earthy as well and loved to cook and make and sew.  My mother was happiest cooking, although she hated cooking for the whole family.  I think she hated the imperative of it, though quite liked being in the kitchen, just having fun.  She had a make-do attitude.  She also had enormous courage, of a conviction that I don’t aspire to or agree with, but she was really able to speak up.’

But what about her mother’s faith – what drove her to attempt to rid Australia of the best part of the literary canon?  ‘She had this foundation of the Bible and Christianity as the key set of principles that she was working from.  But of course it says in the Bible that women should bow in subjection to their husbands, that they’re not the head of the household, that they should keep silent, they should inhabit the home and not the public sphere.  What I found extraordinary about my mother was that she was in so many ways a feminist woman.

‘Maybe I owe her something!  Maybe I owe my feminist principles – oh my – to my mother!’  Rendle-Short pauses, as if wanting to re-hear her own words.  ‘That’s a gift really, isn’t it,’ she says, amazed at this, her conclusion.  ‘My mother had five girls and one boy and she gave us this sense that if you really wanted to do something you could.’

Not only is Bite Your Tongue a book about an ultra-zealous form of Christianity and its ongoing impact on one family, one woman in particular, it is also a quintessentially Queensland story.

Rendle-Short provides a guided tour.

Sir Joh Bjelke-Peterson, former Premier of Queensland, Australia's most conservative state.

‘Brisbane in the 1960s was a big country town and my mother had trouble understanding the language when she first arrived from England in 1961.  It was very unsophisticated and separate from the rest of Australia.  When I was growing up I didn’t know that you could cross the border and go to university.  I thought all Queensland children had to go to university in Queensland.  I really did think that was the rule.

‘While the rest of Australia was marching against the Vietnam War, in Queensland people were trying to protest the right to protest.  Joh Bjelke-Petersen was saying that where three people are gathered on the street that’s enough to define a protest and we’ll call in the paddy-wagons.  It’s against this background that my mother was able to garner community and political support.’

However, despite Bite Your Tongue being about Queensland in the 1970s, it is actually a book that has come out of Canberra.

‘From a writer’s point of view, Canberra is a wonderful place to write,” says Rendle-Short.  “There’s something about the physical space that I love.  The landscape itself – being on a limestone plain, with this beautiful sky, the purity of the air – these physical characteristics allow the imagination to soar and breathe.

‘There’s also something about Canberra being the capital of Australia, and that intrigued me, because Bite Your Tongue is a political book, uncovering and giving voice to the right in Australia, which most people dismiss.  Being in Canberra while writing this book reminded me again and again about the political landscape.  Queensland under Joh was so anti-Canberra.  Canberra for him symbolised everything that was wicked and wrong and awful about the south.

‘My mother came to Canberra for a women’s electoral conference in, I think, 1975 and the talk around my family’s dinner table was always about Canberra being that ‘wicked place’.  So it’s an irony to have written this book from this ‘wicked place’, and to have such key connections to it.  And then the National Library of Australia and the National Archives – I found my mother in both those places.’  Which would, of course, be another irony.

After all the hard work of writing this deeply personal story, does Francesca Rendle-Short feel like she knows her mother any better?  ‘No, I don’t!  I think she’s unknowable.  She’s so large, there’s a grotesqueness about her.  She was so doctrinaire, and forceful and extreme, and without regard for other people.’

But you respect your mother, don’t you?

‘I do.  And I find that extraordinary.  When I started writing this story and wanted to set the record straight, I was really angry – my mother had had her say, now I wanted to have my say.  And implicit in that was that I didn’t like what she’d had to say.  But through the writing I’ve come to a position of respect for that democratic, humanitarian right that everyone has to express a view, even when you don’t like it, even when it hurts.’

As our interview gently comes to an end, though I would have been happy for it to go on for another two hours at least, I again look at that photograph on page 197, the proud mother holding up the beautiful baby girl.  After all these years of pushing her mother away, has Francesca Rendle-Short come to a position of love?

‘Immediately you think, of course I love her.  We love our family, don’t we?’  Rendle-Short laughs uncomfortably.  She takes a moment to gather her thoughts.  Her voice – her strong voice – quietens.  ‘I found that the more I wrote this story the more I found that the hard edges have been softened out.  So I can talk about softness, but I don’t know whether I can talk about the big L-word.’  But the laughter returns, as if there is a palpable relief in all of this.  ‘Or even the little l-word!  It’s such a tricky four-letter word, isn’t it!’

*

First published in The Canberra Times on 24 September 2011.  Thanks to Francesca Rendle-Short and Gillian Lord.

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