Lian Tanner's Blog, page 16

Surprises

It’s been a good week for surprises. For a start, it snowed. Right down in the middle of Hobart. Everyone woke up with their gardens covered in white, and spent the day exchanging photos to prove it. It even snowed at Lauderdale, which it has only done once before in the 25 years I’ve lived here.

I know that this is very pathetic in terms of snow (I had to hunt around the garden to find it). But still, this is Lauderdale, right by the sea and always a couple of degrees warmer than Hobart, so I was impressed, even if no one else was.

Kunanyi/Mt Wellington has looked amazingly beautiful all week, and yesterday I saw several cars with snow piled up on their bonnets – this is compulsory in Hobart if you go up kunanyi. You HAVE to pile snow on your bonnet before you drive down again. It’s the Law.

The rest of the week was all about copyediting – the surprise here was that I’d forgotten I had to do it. I’d put it aside for a couple of weeks to get a bit of distance from it, but time’s a-rushing on and I had to go back to it for one last run through. More cutting-of-useless-words-that-are-weighing-down-scenes-without-adding-anything. More trying-to-get-the-conflict-right. I’m aiming to get this finished by the end of the week (or early next week), and sent back to my editor. Then I can resume pottering around the new series, which I’ve been enjoying. Plus working out what I’m going to say about structural editing when I talk to the Society of Editors in a couple of weeks.

Speaking of time rushing, have you noticed how things speed up as soon as we get to the months ending in -ember? The year seems to prance along quite reasonably, then suddenly it feels as if we’re at the top of a hill and swooping down towards Christmas. I’m sure it will happen again this year, which means I need to get a move on with the daydreaming and the pottering.

After the snow and the resumption of copyediting came the post, bringing the Spanish edition of Museum of Thieves. El Museo do los Ladrones. And it’s got a different cover from all the other editions I’ve seen, which makes it extra special.

It’s also got new character pictures, which I love – though the decisions they’ve made over the names is curious. Some of them have stayed the same – like Goldie and Sinew, Herro Dan and Olga Ciavolga. But Bonnie has become ‘Linda’ and Toadspit is now ‘Flemo’. I looked it up in Google Translate, thinking it must mean something a bit gross, like Toadspit. But what it appears to mean is – um – Flemo.

Next surprise was the Polish edition of City of Lies. Same cover as the Australian one, but nice to see all the same. The Polish translator is the one who contacted me with dozens of questions about the character names and the place names and various other things, so I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the best translation of all.

And last but definitely not least, my second chook Clara has started laying again. She’s been moulting for a while, but now that seems to be over, and I’m occasionally getting two eggs a day, which is very nice. She hasn’t quite figured out her routine yet, of course. Sometimes she lays in the middle of night, without getting down from her perch. Luckily there’s straw underneath her so the eggs usually survive.

By the way, you can now subscribe to this blog by entering your email address in the little box – to the side if you’re on a computer, right down the bottom if you’re on a phone. I usually update it every weekend, so if you go a few weekends without getting a post, check that your computer/phone isn’t blocking it. Sometimes it gets mistaken for spam – which I’m sure is wildly insulting!

 

Nothing happened

Nothing happened this week, not on the outside, anyway. On the inside it was a week full of excitement and adventure. And uncertainty. And frustration. And occasional moments of ‘Yessssss!’

All of which means that the new series is underway at last.

I don’t mean I’m writing already. I mean I’m finding my way into the world of the story, making lots of notes in my new notebook, cutting out pictures and glueing them in, digging out my ‘sparks’ folder and reading through all the odd things that have found their way there over the years. Looking for inspiration, for things that will get my imagination working.

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My ‘sparks’ folder

It’s an odd and interesting stage, this. I need to have other things going on, preferably practical things like planning workshops, as a sort of counterbalance. And I have to be careful not to make final decisions too quickly, but to leave everything bubbling along in a sort of creative sludge for as long as possible.

So that’s where I am. In one word. Sludge. But good sludge, not bad sludge.

 

A bad case of cabin fever

It’s been so cold lately that I’ve had the wood heater going for days. The mountain has been covered with snow and even down here at Lauderdale we’ve had several hard frosts. So there’s been lots of snuggling with Harry, lots of dashing outside to the woodpile and then back in again to get warm. The occasional foray to collect eggs – Dolly, splendid girl that she is, is still laying despite the frosts. And of course a daily walk (very brisk, to warm up) on the beach with my neighbour’s dog Cookie.

But as a result of all this (mostly) staying inside, I am now suffering badly from cabin fever. Even the thought of a day in front of the fire with a book doesn’t appeal to me. So I’m going into the city this morning to have a look at a Patricia Piccinini exhibition, and maybe then to the museum to see the Patrick Hall exhibition. And then a walk somewhere other than the beach.

Apart from the cabin fever, it’s been a good week. I finished the copyedit of Sunker for the Americans, and sent it off. I think I finished the copyedit of Fetcher for the Australians, but will come back to it in a couple of weeks for a final check. I’ve seen the final cover art for Fetcher, and it’s beautiful and fits in really well with the other two books. And I understand there’s a sketch of the American cover for Sunker coming soon.

*sighs with satisfaction*

Plus I had a meeting for the Tasmanian Book Prize and the Margaret Scott Prize with Matt Lamb (editor of Island magazine) and Professor Hamish Maxwell-Stewart (historian and Associate Dean at the Uni of Tas), and after not-too-much wrangling we managed to agree on a longlist for each prize. Those longlists will be published in about a week. Now of course we have to get them down to shortlists of three or four. That’s going to be considerably harder. Next meeting there’ll be blood on the floor, no question.

Last but not least, I got a load of wood in, which always makes me feel extra-secure in winter. Here’s Harry lording it over the mice and cockroaches.

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Three books

I’m working on three different books at the moment, which is more than a little confusing. I’m doing the copyedit for Hidden #3, Fetcher’s Song, for my Australian publishers, the copy edit of Hidden #2, Sunker’s Deep, for my US publishers, and I’ve just started on something completely new which doesn’t yet have a title.

Things always seem to work out like this. The new book is pulling me forward, the other two are dragging me back, and yet the copy edits must be done! Deadline for the US one is this coming Friday, which I should make without too much trouble. And then I’ll only be working on two.

Deadline for the Australian one is mid-August – there are still some changes in the story that I need to make, so it’s more complicated than the American copy edit. But I should make that one okay, too.

As for the new book, it’s in the earliest of early early stages still. I wouldn’t even call it foetal, not yet. Pre-foetal. A few cells floating around, waiting to be turned into something. A time when anything is possible. It’s a stage that’s both wildly exciting and deeply frustrating, because I have the urge to sit down and WRITE, but it’s much too early. And it can’t be forced. It needs lots of beach walks and daydreaming and questions, and probably some cutting out of pictures and some drawings and all those other things that spark ideas.

This is what it looks like at the moment, on the floor of my office:

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Oh, and I’m preparing a residential workshop as well, for people who want to write a novel. That’s at the end of this month, up on the east coast. Christina Booth (who wrote the very beautiful Welcome Home) and I are the tutors.

And I’m still reading the pile of books for the Premier’s Literary Awards. I’ve had a couple of minor rebellions, tucking up for the evening with one of Barbara Hambly’s fantasy novels (she’s high on my list of favourite authors), but am now ploughing through the last couple. The meeting to finalise the longlist is this coming Friday. Then of course we have to cut the longlist down to a shortlist of three, so it’s not over yet. (Weeps silently into sleeve.)

Apart from all this, we are having a coooooold winter. A couple of frosts last week, and I had the wood heater going all day. Harry barely moved from beside it. Last couple of days haven’t been too bad, but I think the cold is coming back this week. And I’m about to get a load of firewood, just in time!

 

 

Political language

I’m not doing a very good job of keeping up with my blog at the moment. So this morning I dug into my archives again, and found this never-published article on political language. Not at all the sort of thing I usually put up, but it still makes me laugh, so why not?

The power of political language

It’s no secret that politicians are deeply unpopular. Some people think it’s because of all the broken promises. Others put it down to globalisation, our increasing sense of powerlessness, our need for a scapegoat.

Me? I think it’s the metaphors.

Take a typical news report. ‘As predicted yesterday, the Premier has fallen on his sword.’ ‘The Shadow Treasurer stabbed himself in the foot this morning with a serious under-costing of election promises.’ ‘The Senator, a well-known old war horse of the Liberal Party …’

In their own eyes, most of our politicians are at war. More than that, they are prancing around like robber barons in full armour. If they don’t mention rape, pillage and droit de seigneur, it’s only because the women amongst them are glaring across the House. No wonder they’re unpopular.

Of course even robber barons can’t fight all the time. So every now and then they switch to football. ‘In failing to reply to rorting allegations, the Senator has given the opposition a free kick.’ ‘The Minister for Foreign Affairs said that all her party is asking for is a level playing field.’

Now this relentlessly macho display might be just the thing for young men, but it must be increasingly difficult for the older blokes to drag the sword out of their foot yet again, strap on the armour and stride back into the fray. And what about the women? It’s hard to attract decent talent when the only metaphorical options are a chastity belt or cutting up oranges at half time.

It’s pretty obvious that we need a change. So let’s scrap the war and the footy, and go for something completely different. Something practical. Something warm and homely – like knitting.

Imagine the news reports. ‘The Prime Minister dropped several stitches today when confronted with the latest opinion polls.’ ‘Analysts are predicting that the finished taxation garment will have a considerable hole under its left sleeve.’ ‘Yesterday the Independents started unpicking the Leader of the Opposition’s foreign policy jumper.’

See what I mean? There’s still enough conflict to keep the youngsters happy, but at the same time it makes the whole thing friendlier. Someone who’s casting on the stitches of reconciliation sounds so much more approachable than someone who’s arming themselves for yet another battle over land rights. And when parliamentary debate grows heated, politicians could calm themselves by repeating the ancient mantra, ‘Knit one, purl one, knit two together; knit one, purl one, knit two together …’

It wouldn’t be long before we started to see a different sort of candidate standing for election. Televised debates would be eagerly watched as, instead of demolishing their opponent with rapier-like wit, candidates set out to demonstrate their patience, their ability to count and their skill at keeping the tension just right.

Individual politicians would be judged on their contribution to the national garment. The Member for Kennedy would be criticised for using a brand of wool not seen since the 1950s. There would be suggestions that the Leader of the Opposition might not be able to handle the really big needles. And the Treasurer would be notorious for skimping on wool, making the whole thing too tight around the armpits and leaving a lot of people with no room to move.

Obscure economic terms would go out the window, to be replaced with concepts that the smallest child could understand. A ‘budgetary surplus’ would become ‘plenty of wool left over for next year’s scarf’. A ‘budgetary blowout’ would be ‘we thought it was going to be a waistcoat but it turned into a jumper’. And a trade deficit would become ‘we sold them a pot holder, they sold us a knitted three-piece suit with matching leg warmers’.

Once they realised the benefits, I don’t think it would be too hard to persuade our politicians to change their language. But if any of them looked like clinging to the past, they’d soon find themselves left behind. You see, there’s a job satisfaction in knitting that you don’t get in war. After all, what’s a field full of bloody corpses when you could have a pair of really warm socks?

Starting a new series

At the end of last year I was running on empty. I’d just handed in the third book in the Hidden series, and was trying to work out what I was going to write next. But the mere thought of starting a new series made me feel sick – probably because I’d been writing non-stop for the previous seven years – so after a bit of humming and haaing I decided to take a complete break for six months.

I still had writing work to do, of course, because there was the edit for Fetcher’s Song (Hidden #3) to be got out of the way, and workshops and talks to prepare. Plus I had to advise Harry on his blog, though that seems to have fallen by the wayside for now. His new passion is ballet. Or maybe aeronautics …

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But all that stuff seemed easy once the pressure of a new book was gone.

Now the six months is nearly up (just over a week to go!), and on July 1st I’m going to formally begin the new series. And after such a long break, I’m feeling excited about it, instead of nauseous. I’m not totally sure what it’s about yet, and beginning it doesn’t mean starting to write chapters. It means getting out one of my big notebooks and starting to play around with ideas for characters, and the world ( it might be set in the same world as the Keepers, though I’m making no promises at this stage) and plot etc.

By a nice coincidence, I’m running a three-hour workshop next Sunday (28th) for the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre on plot and plotting. So I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to work out how I go about it. Except it’s never a neat, rational process that’s easy to explain. It’s more dreamy and frustrating and ragged (with short moments of intense excitement) and despairing (with even shorter moments of over-confidence). And quite a bit of fun in the mix as well – I don’t want to make it sound too awful, because it’s not. It’s just tricky to talk about. But there are handy tools, of course, that I’ve used on each book at some stage or another. So we’re going to be talking about those tools.

As well as planning the workshop, I’ve been reading. And reading and reading. I’m one of the judges for this year’s Tasmanian Book Prize and Margaret Scott Prize, and between those two prizes, there were roughly 90 entries. I have to get them down to two longlists of ten or so, to take to the next judges’ meeting, which is in four weeks. A lot of them aren’t at all the sort of book that I’d normally read for pleasure, so it’s an interesting process. But every now and again I really feel like getting out a fantasy novel, or maybe a detective novel, and curling up in front of the fire with it for an evening or two.

So far I’ve resisted the temptation.

And in between reading and workshop preparation? Eating apple crumble and other winter treats, going to bits of Dark Mofo, pruning the grape vine and the apple tree, and lots of walking on the beach. One of my neighbours has broken her leg, so I’m on the dog-walking roster. Here’s me and Cookie on a brisk June morning.

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Alice and beyond

Well, I survived Alice Springs. Do I sound surprised? I am, a bit. I visited three schools a day for four days running, and that’s quite a feat for someone whose idea of a good time is to sit in front of the fire reading. Alone. (Except for Harry, of course, purring on my lap.)

But the kids were so nice, and the schools were so welcoming that I sailed through with barely a hiccup – though by the time I got to Day 4 I was starting to run out of steam, and by the time I finished Day 4 I could hardly speak.

My two minders, Celia and Ruth, helped the process enormously by doing all the work of getting me from school to school, and letting me disappear into a book in between, so that I could save my energy for the actual talks and workshops.

Alice Springs itself is a complex and interesting town. It’s the first place I’ve been in Australia where you CANNOT ignore the fact that this is Aboriginal land, and that modern Australian culture sits on top of it rather uneasily. So it almost felt as if there were two different towns occupying the same space but never quite meeting (except at the football).

Which I found more than a little confronting. And now that I’m home, it’s making me look at Tasmania differently too.

After Alice Springs I went to Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. And THAT is the most amazing place I’ve ever been. Uluru itself is so BIG. So imposing, so beautiful. I’ve realised over the last few years that I really like things that make me feel insignificant. Like the night sky. Like Uluru. They put things into perspective – we humans are such a tiny blip on the radar, and shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously.

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Full moon rising over Uluru. The sound you can hear in the background is me dying of awe and happiness. :)

So I gasped a lot, and laughed out loud at the beauty of the red sand, and said hello to a passing dingo, and rode a camel, pretending I was the great British explorer, Dame Freya Stark.

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Me channeling Dame Freya Stark, who was one of the first Europeans to cross the Arabian desert.

And then I came back home, where Harry immediately pounced on me (or maybe I pounced on him – it was late at night and I’d been travelling all day, so I was tired) and forced me to light a fire and snuggle up on the sofa.

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Harry snuggling.

So what now? I’ve got three weeks until I start thinking about the new book, but that time is filling up rapidly. I have a workshop on plot to prepare for the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre, some short stories to judge for the Young Tasmanian Writers’ Prize, and a huge number of books to read for the Tasmanian Book Prize.

Busy.

Alice Springs

I’m off to Alice Springs on Sunday morning, at a ridiculous hour. (Setting my alarm for 4 am. Gah!) Four days chatting to schools and doing workshops, then some time at Uluru and Kata Tjuta National Park. Not sure if I’ll get this blog updated while I’m away, but I’ll definitely be posting pics and updates to Facebook and Instagram. Come and visit me there!

Me and sport

When I’m talking to kids in schools, one of the things I always mention is that when I was their age I was astonishingly bad at sport. I’m not sure if they believe me, but it’s true.

So this morning I was looking through some old computer files, from the days when I was doing a bit of freelance journalism, and came across the article below. It was never published.

Good sports

It’s our local school sports day, and an enthusiastic teacher is trying to round up kids for the 100 m. The eager ones are already at the starting line, but this teacher wants more. “It’s going in it that’s important,” she says to a reluctant child, “not how well you do.”

But she’s wrong. It’s not going in it that counts, not when you’re a kid.

I grew up without sporting skills of any kind. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t swim, I couldn’t throw a ball, I couldn’t catch. By what seemed to me to be a magical process, every other girl in my class acquired a working competency at softball. I never did, but, under the unforgiving eye of our sports teacher, I still had to play at least once a week. Every one of those games is scorched into my memory. They go like this …

As soon we hit the oval, I place myself as far from the line of fire as I can get. But, at some inevitable stage of the game – despite my teammates’ best efforts – there’s a stray ball that flies straight for me. As soon as I see it, I freeze, hoping desperately that someone else will run for it. But they’re all miles away. I’m on my own and the ball’s hurtling towards me with what looks like enough force to break every bone in my hands.

To screams of “Catch it! Catch it!” I fumble vaguely in the air and watch the ball fly past. Loud groans from the rest of my team. I turn and run after it, knowing that the worst is yet to come. A couple more fumbles and it’s in my hands. More screams. “Throw it! Throw it!” So I throw it with all my might. The ball flies in a pathetic arc and thuds to the ground a few metres in front of me. More groans. I chase after the ball, pick it up and throw it again. Another pathetic arc. I chase, pick up and throw. Another pathetic arc …

[image error]Looked at from the safety of middle age, the softball games were hilarious. But at the time they were deeply humiliating. So were the swimming carnivals, the netball games and the school sports days. In retrospect, I know I can’t have been the only hopeless one, but all I could see at the time was my own awfulness.

The teachers who forced me to go in these things believed that they were good for me. And, in a way, they were right. Without them pushing me, I would have stayed permanently curled up on the sidelines with a book. I would have been less active than I was. But I would also have been happier. As it was, my fragile self-esteem was dragged several notches lower every week in the name of that sacred beast, participation.

In my final years of school, I grew more cunning. Faced with a teacher determined to enter me in a swimming carnival, and knowing that “I can’t swim” was not sufficient excuse, I learned to lie. “My mother won’t let me go up the deep end,” I would say without blushing. It was a great line (especially coming from a tall 17 year old) and saved me a lot of unnecessary pain.

Once I left school, I avoided anything to do with balls, running or swimming until I was in my thirties. Then, at last, sick of my chronic lack of hand-eye coordination, I set out to teach myself to juggle – no audience, no competition, no pressure except for my own desire to succeed. To my surprise, it was fun; so much so, that I kept practising until I was good at it. As a result, something else surprising happened. Out of the blue one day, someone threw a ball at me – and I reached up and plucked it out of the air. For the first time in my life I could catch. No exaggeration, it was like suddenly joining the human race.

Shortly after that, I taught myself to swim. That was fun too. I still can’t throw, but some day soon I intend to learn to kick a soccer ball around. [Note: this was written in 2000. I never did learn to kick.]

As a society, we recognize that sport and exercise are basic to our well-being. These days, we also know that for some kids the skills don’t come easily. They need to be taught. But, given the workloads that most teachers have to deal with, I suspect that kids like me still fall through the gaps.

If I was that age again – with a dose of middle-aged wisdom thrown in – I’d walk across broken glass to find someone who’d teach me whatever I needed to know to make sport the pleasure it’s supposed to be.

But if that wasn’t possible, if the only choice was between, on the one hand, compulsory sport plus failure and humiliation and, on the other, no sport plus no humiliation, I’d choose the latter. Which is why I find myself wanting to grab the arm of that enthusiastic teacher – of all those enthusiastic teachers.

“Participation isn’t a sacred duty,” I want to say. “So put up or shut up.” In other words, if you can’t offer kids like me the coaching that will make a serious difference, the best thing you can do for them might be to leave them alone.

Workshops and weather

Only two weeks until I go to Alice Springs, and I am madly preparing workshops. I’ve got my timetable – I’m visiting ten different schools (!) plus School of the Air and the Public Library. Some of them I’m just talking (though it’s not really JUST a talk – there are pictures and making up a group story and various other stuff), others I’m doing one of the following three workshops:

How to create great characters.

How to create your own fantasy world.

Striking out into unknown seas – taking risks with creativity.

I think they’ll be fun. I hope they’ll be fun. And useful.

I’m also trying to finish off Fetcher. I thought it was finished already, then realised that I’d got something fairly important wrong, so need to spend this week fixing it. Then, with any luck, I’ll have a free week before I go to Alice. Though I’m sure something will turn up to fill it.

We have had AMAZING weather this week. Two bitterly cold days with snow covering the mountain and Harry sprawled in front of the woodheater for the whole time, occasionally raising his head to say, ‘What? Go outside? Me? Why?’

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