Gillian Polack's Blog, page 262
March 21, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-03-21T23:40:00
I keep telling myself I haven't done anything today, but it's not true. I've read a short story for critiquing, and half a novel (for fun). I've written 1/4 of a chapter of my dissertation, and cooked food for the rest of the week. I've spent much time on the phone, catching up. I've sorted out more of my UK trip and even a bit of the French end. It doesn't feel like work.
I have at least 500 words of my novel to write before I sleep. Maybe that'll feel like work?
Or maybe it'll feel like work when I run out of review books (a mere 8 to read!) and have three more articles written, and have done my teaching, and finished my taxes (not even begun!) and have entirely finished that chapter of the dissertation.
The missing section of that chapter is going to be a bit delayed because I realised something important today. I discovered I was about to head off down a really interesting side path that didn't link back to the main argument and now I need to look at a couple of novels and find furphies, rather than examining some hot new Medieval research into the Languedoc.
In other words (I do like that phrase, don't I?) I almost forgot (again) that this is no Medieval Studies analysis, but something entirely different. There's a lot more straight thinking in this kind of study, which makes me feel as if I'm not working. I'm more used to reading vast amounts of material and taking volumes worth of notes and then analysing them to pieces and tallying up the evidence in tables and diagrams than letting the brain sort out all the hard stuff. It feels lazy, even when it isn't. Today's insight was rather important and yesterday's even more so - those insights don't have to equal a certain number of primary sources read. I need to keep reminding myself of that.
I have at least 500 words of my novel to write before I sleep. Maybe that'll feel like work?
Or maybe it'll feel like work when I run out of review books (a mere 8 to read!) and have three more articles written, and have done my teaching, and finished my taxes (not even begun!) and have entirely finished that chapter of the dissertation.
The missing section of that chapter is going to be a bit delayed because I realised something important today. I discovered I was about to head off down a really interesting side path that didn't link back to the main argument and now I need to look at a couple of novels and find furphies, rather than examining some hot new Medieval research into the Languedoc.
In other words (I do like that phrase, don't I?) I almost forgot (again) that this is no Medieval Studies analysis, but something entirely different. There's a lot more straight thinking in this kind of study, which makes me feel as if I'm not working. I'm more used to reading vast amounts of material and taking volumes worth of notes and then analysing them to pieces and tallying up the evidence in tables and diagrams than letting the brain sort out all the hard stuff. It feels lazy, even when it isn't. Today's insight was rather important and yesterday's even more so - those insights don't have to equal a certain number of primary sources read. I need to keep reminding myself of that.
Women's History Month: Another Damned Medievalist
On picking one's battles
First off, let me introduce myself: Like our esteemed host, I am a medievalist. I'm an academic, and fairly junior in terms of production and reputation. Technically, I'm senior faculty. I'm an associate professor, in Oz and UK terms, a senior lecturer. I've been head of my department (really not the distinction it is in some places -- lots more unpaid responsibility in exchange for a title). I've also worked outside academia, so I'm as old as many of my senior colleagues. I mention this because age is a dynamic that matters. I tell you these things because the matter to my story: I have as much job security as I'll ever have, and I'm old enough that the changes achieved by and for women from the 1960s on are things I lived through and remember. I've also watched as the idea of feminism has been re-cast and the term rejected by women far younger than me. It's too strident. It's not necessary: we have all our rights now, so why keep fighting those old battles?
Several times in the past year, I've been told I need to pick my battles. It's sensible advice, and the reasons for such a phrase are sensible. Pick your battles correctly, and you have a better chance of winning the war. War. Historically, it's a thing waged more by men, at least on the field. We all use it, though, if we are members of western culture. It's so much a part of our culture that it seldom occurs to think about it and what it means. I have been told this by women in the past, but recently, the advice has come from men, in situations where I was dealing with men. "You have to pick your battles," they said, as if we all knew we were in a war. It was only after the second or third time that I began to ask myself if we were fighting the same war.
The most recent of the incidents was pretty silly. I'd got pulled into a rather weird conversation online. I am a member of several academic listservs. One in particular is rather large and has a high proportion of senior male scholars and their students. The women on the list who speak up are often retired or are independent scholars, i.e., not "real" academics. And of course there are many lurkers, especially amongst junior faculty or those more sensible than I am when it comes to not engaging with people who have a lot of clout. In the US, at least, the most obvious senior faculty in my field are men, unless they particularly work on "women's history."
Someone had made a comment that was, intentionally or not (language was an issue), sexist. He'd been called on it, politely, by a couple of women. No response. For some bloody stupid reason, I stuck my oar in. I did it politely, giving him the benefit of the doubt, explaining why women would find the statement sexist. Meanwhile, several men stepped in, claiming that perhaps there was a language issue, and some implying that people, me included, might be taking this too seriously. Some, including well-known senior colleagues, began finding other instances where similar phrases were used, and had not been deemed offensive. He would keep using such phrases, then. A few suggested we simply move on: this wasn't to the point; it wasn't appropriate; we women were too sensitive. Off list, there were other conversations happening. Women thanked me for speaking up, because they felt uncomfortable doing so. Some eventually did anyway. A couple of men also stepped in, when it was clear that, intentional or not, the person who had given offense was also perfectly capable and willing to make intentionally sexist comments. And I got an email from a (retired) male colleague telling me to pick my battles.
Before that, I had been dealing with a lot of work-related garbage. The dynamics were different. Gender certainly played a role. But so did age, academic reputation, seniority, and very different views on the relationship between faculty and the university and the role of faculty in general. There are, at least in the US, faculty who still believe that they are exempt from doing anything other than teaching their courses and getting their research done. There aren't many, and in fact their impression of what their job is, is based more on what they've got away for years with than anything that has ever been the norm. There are one or two on every campus, and my department is home to one of ours. Somehow, I ended up being charged with getting the department to come up with norms and standards that could demonstrate to outside agencies that the students we taught were actually learning something. The rest of the department worked well together, but our special snowflake resisted. Trying to be heard made me crazy. Being stymied and dealing with people who would rather stonewall than cooperate was infuriating. Again, I was told to pick my battles.
What is interesting to me is that the contexts of this advice, although they seem different, were rather similar. The motivations for the advice, when explained, were different. In the former case, picking my battles also meant, "I don't really care to hear about this." I should feel free to fight the good fight, but really, not there and not then, because it was my war, and not this other person's. He shouldn't have to be sucked in to taking a side. I refrained from pointing out that, unless he'd written to the apparently sexist type, my correspondent was taking a side. There's little sense in wasting an e-mail on someone who thinks that, no matter if the cause is just, if he doesn't want the war to intrude on his life, it's perfectly ok to tell others they should just stop fighting. The fact that he thought he wasn't choosing sides was telling, though. Apparently, asking a woman to take her battle elsewhere -- "but I have been there and fought that battle already" -- is not taking a side. Attempting to shut down a conversation because one doesn't like it, or worse, thinks it unimportant, is not the same as choosing sides if it's not one's war. Dude, it's sexism. It should be your war.
The context of the second case made the advice seem much more like sensible advice. After all, we were fighting the same war, my mentor and I. We had the same long-term goals. We worked together, and he had a better view of the big picture. He was giving the best advice he could; he was telling me what he would do in my place. It was advice founded entirely in looking out for my best interests, professionally and personally. Why should I object?
I object, I think, because … well … he's a man. And when he says, "pick your battles," he really means it, but that's because he can pick his battles. A woman -- or any minority person -- has to deal with a different situation. Picking one's battles happens more often between equals. If the opposing army has a constant advantage, then it's much harder to pick when and where to fight. Given that women and minorities in our society seldom have that advantage, the minute battle is engaged (is anybody else tired of the military metaphor?), there is a second front. There is the initial front -- say the one over whether someone makes a sexist comment and should apologise or even acknowledge it -- and the secondary, but probably more vital, one -- whether the offended party has a right to fight at all when gender (or race, or sexuality, or …) plays a role in the issue at hand. That's a battle we fight every day. And it's a battle we don't get to pick. It's just … there.
And that's why I have a problem with being told to pick my battles. It seems like a luxury that I just don't have. If I back down, it might look good to everybody else, and yeah, I took the higher road. People remember that. But over time, especially if the battles are with the same people, or over the same thing, what is the cumulative effect? When the reasons for the battle are tainted with, or worse, rooted in, sexism, or racism, or any sort of bullshit privilege, then the person with privilege -- the general with the bigger, better-equipped army -- can declare a win any time his less-privileged opponents back down. This isn't because they've backed down, per se. It's because the simple act of backing down reinforces the general's sense of entitlement: the natural order of things has been maintained. There was a challenge. The challenger backed down. Surely the challenger realized that she was in the wrong.
I know some of you are probably thinking, "but if other people know that you took the high road, then isn't that enough?" My response to you is, "It should be, but it's not. Taking the higher road is the moral victory that makes us feel better; it also leads to an awful lot of complacency. Where would we be if if our foremothers had settled for the high road? I'm pretty sure there would have been no suffragettes chained to lampposts! Change is never born of complacency. It's not something that comes from picking which battles you want to fight, but from fighting the battle you can't afford to ignore."
I'd still rather not have to fight at all.
First off, let me introduce myself: Like our esteemed host, I am a medievalist. I'm an academic, and fairly junior in terms of production and reputation. Technically, I'm senior faculty. I'm an associate professor, in Oz and UK terms, a senior lecturer. I've been head of my department (really not the distinction it is in some places -- lots more unpaid responsibility in exchange for a title). I've also worked outside academia, so I'm as old as many of my senior colleagues. I mention this because age is a dynamic that matters. I tell you these things because the matter to my story: I have as much job security as I'll ever have, and I'm old enough that the changes achieved by and for women from the 1960s on are things I lived through and remember. I've also watched as the idea of feminism has been re-cast and the term rejected by women far younger than me. It's too strident. It's not necessary: we have all our rights now, so why keep fighting those old battles?
Several times in the past year, I've been told I need to pick my battles. It's sensible advice, and the reasons for such a phrase are sensible. Pick your battles correctly, and you have a better chance of winning the war. War. Historically, it's a thing waged more by men, at least on the field. We all use it, though, if we are members of western culture. It's so much a part of our culture that it seldom occurs to think about it and what it means. I have been told this by women in the past, but recently, the advice has come from men, in situations where I was dealing with men. "You have to pick your battles," they said, as if we all knew we were in a war. It was only after the second or third time that I began to ask myself if we were fighting the same war.
The most recent of the incidents was pretty silly. I'd got pulled into a rather weird conversation online. I am a member of several academic listservs. One in particular is rather large and has a high proportion of senior male scholars and their students. The women on the list who speak up are often retired or are independent scholars, i.e., not "real" academics. And of course there are many lurkers, especially amongst junior faculty or those more sensible than I am when it comes to not engaging with people who have a lot of clout. In the US, at least, the most obvious senior faculty in my field are men, unless they particularly work on "women's history."
Someone had made a comment that was, intentionally or not (language was an issue), sexist. He'd been called on it, politely, by a couple of women. No response. For some bloody stupid reason, I stuck my oar in. I did it politely, giving him the benefit of the doubt, explaining why women would find the statement sexist. Meanwhile, several men stepped in, claiming that perhaps there was a language issue, and some implying that people, me included, might be taking this too seriously. Some, including well-known senior colleagues, began finding other instances where similar phrases were used, and had not been deemed offensive. He would keep using such phrases, then. A few suggested we simply move on: this wasn't to the point; it wasn't appropriate; we women were too sensitive. Off list, there were other conversations happening. Women thanked me for speaking up, because they felt uncomfortable doing so. Some eventually did anyway. A couple of men also stepped in, when it was clear that, intentional or not, the person who had given offense was also perfectly capable and willing to make intentionally sexist comments. And I got an email from a (retired) male colleague telling me to pick my battles.
Before that, I had been dealing with a lot of work-related garbage. The dynamics were different. Gender certainly played a role. But so did age, academic reputation, seniority, and very different views on the relationship between faculty and the university and the role of faculty in general. There are, at least in the US, faculty who still believe that they are exempt from doing anything other than teaching their courses and getting their research done. There aren't many, and in fact their impression of what their job is, is based more on what they've got away for years with than anything that has ever been the norm. There are one or two on every campus, and my department is home to one of ours. Somehow, I ended up being charged with getting the department to come up with norms and standards that could demonstrate to outside agencies that the students we taught were actually learning something. The rest of the department worked well together, but our special snowflake resisted. Trying to be heard made me crazy. Being stymied and dealing with people who would rather stonewall than cooperate was infuriating. Again, I was told to pick my battles.
What is interesting to me is that the contexts of this advice, although they seem different, were rather similar. The motivations for the advice, when explained, were different. In the former case, picking my battles also meant, "I don't really care to hear about this." I should feel free to fight the good fight, but really, not there and not then, because it was my war, and not this other person's. He shouldn't have to be sucked in to taking a side. I refrained from pointing out that, unless he'd written to the apparently sexist type, my correspondent was taking a side. There's little sense in wasting an e-mail on someone who thinks that, no matter if the cause is just, if he doesn't want the war to intrude on his life, it's perfectly ok to tell others they should just stop fighting. The fact that he thought he wasn't choosing sides was telling, though. Apparently, asking a woman to take her battle elsewhere -- "but I have been there and fought that battle already" -- is not taking a side. Attempting to shut down a conversation because one doesn't like it, or worse, thinks it unimportant, is not the same as choosing sides if it's not one's war. Dude, it's sexism. It should be your war.
The context of the second case made the advice seem much more like sensible advice. After all, we were fighting the same war, my mentor and I. We had the same long-term goals. We worked together, and he had a better view of the big picture. He was giving the best advice he could; he was telling me what he would do in my place. It was advice founded entirely in looking out for my best interests, professionally and personally. Why should I object?
I object, I think, because … well … he's a man. And when he says, "pick your battles," he really means it, but that's because he can pick his battles. A woman -- or any minority person -- has to deal with a different situation. Picking one's battles happens more often between equals. If the opposing army has a constant advantage, then it's much harder to pick when and where to fight. Given that women and minorities in our society seldom have that advantage, the minute battle is engaged (is anybody else tired of the military metaphor?), there is a second front. There is the initial front -- say the one over whether someone makes a sexist comment and should apologise or even acknowledge it -- and the secondary, but probably more vital, one -- whether the offended party has a right to fight at all when gender (or race, or sexuality, or …) plays a role in the issue at hand. That's a battle we fight every day. And it's a battle we don't get to pick. It's just … there.
And that's why I have a problem with being told to pick my battles. It seems like a luxury that I just don't have. If I back down, it might look good to everybody else, and yeah, I took the higher road. People remember that. But over time, especially if the battles are with the same people, or over the same thing, what is the cumulative effect? When the reasons for the battle are tainted with, or worse, rooted in, sexism, or racism, or any sort of bullshit privilege, then the person with privilege -- the general with the bigger, better-equipped army -- can declare a win any time his less-privileged opponents back down. This isn't because they've backed down, per se. It's because the simple act of backing down reinforces the general's sense of entitlement: the natural order of things has been maintained. There was a challenge. The challenger backed down. Surely the challenger realized that she was in the wrong.
I know some of you are probably thinking, "but if other people know that you took the high road, then isn't that enough?" My response to you is, "It should be, but it's not. Taking the higher road is the moral victory that makes us feel better; it also leads to an awful lot of complacency. Where would we be if if our foremothers had settled for the high road? I'm pretty sure there would have been no suffragettes chained to lampposts! Change is never born of complacency. It's not something that comes from picking which battles you want to fight, but from fighting the battle you can't afford to ignore."
I'd still rather not have to fight at all.
Women's History Month: Jenny Blackford
A Wicked, Wicked Woman
Back when I was studying Greek at the University of Newcastle, as part of my Classics degree, one of my set texts was Euripides' play Medea. While I was at school I'd read umpteen versions of the myth of Jason and the Argonauts, and was vaguely aware of Medea as the woman who helped Jason steal the Golden Fleece, then did some dreadful things – killing her brother (older in some versions, or younger, sometimes directly, sometimes by treachery) and her children – but it had never meant much to me.
I'll never forget the shock of reading the Penguin translation of Euripides' Medea, and discovering that, by the end, I was totally on Medea's side, ready to excuse her for an apparently unforgivable crime. So many ancient Athenian women at the festival of Dionysus, and even some men, must have felt the same way. The play is fabulously subversive. It would be hard to feel Medea's suffering, and not to hate self-centred Jason's self-serving guts. How could he abandon her, and their children, after all she'd done for him, just so that he could marry a namby-pamby local princess half her age?
Even in Euripides' sympathetic version, Medea is best known for helping heroic Argonaut Jason to win the Golden Fleece, but her life is larger than that.
I'd never really understood, despite all the servings of myths and legends in my childhood reading, that Medea was the grand-daughter of Helios, the Sun, and far more powerful a being than Jason ever was. She was fabulously exotic: a Bronze Age princess and sorceress, whose turbulent life took her from exotic Colchis, at the far end of the Black Sea, to some of the greatest palaces of Mycenaean Greece: Iolkos in Thessaly, mighty Corinth, then finally Athens.
Medea served the dark, but well-respected, goddess Hekate. She was the niece of Circe, most famous of Greek witches, who ensorcelled Odysseus' crew. Her father was a powerful king and godling. After delivering the Fleece to Jason – who wouldn't have had a hope without her – and getting him safely back to Greece, Medea murdered Jason's treacherous uncle Pelias, healed the hero Herakles of his madness, and brought about the birth of Theseus.
Medea's myth reveals much about the place of women in ancient Greek society. In the earliest of the ancient sources, Medea is relatively innocent – according to archaic–era Hesiod, she's a "goddess" who marries a mortal man, Jason, and bears him fine sons. Nothing else is mentioned. As time goes on, evil acts accrete around her, so that she becomes an exaggeration of everything a Greek man would not wish for his daughter, wife or daughter-in-law.
By classical times, she does not merely help Jason to win the Golden Fleece, and elope with him: she also betrays her father and viciously murders her brother in the process, slicing up his body and throwing it into the sea. She does not merely help Jason to punish his treacherous uncle Pelias, bringing Hera's vengeance upon him: she tricks Pelias' virgin daughters into cutting him into pieces and boiling him in a cauldron, supposedly to rejuvenate him. When Jason deserts her for the younger, prettier, better-connected princess Creusa of Corinth, Medea is so violently jealous that she does not merely take her children away from him: she murders them, and flies off in her grandfather Helios' dragon-drawn chariot. Medea even tries to murder Athens' well-loved hero, Theseus.
It is clear in all the versions of the myth that Medea would never have left her home, betrayed her father, cut up her brother or murdered Jason's uncle, if Hera had not quite deliberately made her mad with love for Hera's beloved Jason. Even more unfairly, Medea would never have killed her own children, years later, if she were not still mad with love and jealousy. Indeed, after Medea kills the children and leaves Jason, her deeds become far less horrific. She heals Herakles of the madness that caused him to kill his own family, helps Aegeus of Athens to sire Theseus, lives amicably with Aegeus for years, and later fails to kill the young Theseus. Gradually she becomes a pathetic figure, an ageing foreign sorceress.
It's no great secret that I'm partway through a version of the life of Medea, taking her status as powerful sorceress and goddess seriously, as she deserves. It's time, I think, that there was a version of Medea's story in which Hera and Hecate are close to their terrifying Bronze Age originals, and Medea acts and thinks like a true Bronze Age princess – not a mere wicked girl. Wish me luck.
My Bio:
Jenny Blackford's stories have appeared in places including Dreaming Again, Random House's 30 Australian Ghost Stories for Children, and Cosmos magazine, as well as in Aurealis. Alison Goodman described Jenny's novella set in ancient Delphi and Athens, The Priestess and the Slave, as "A compelling blend of vivid storytelling and meticulous research", and feminist sf icon Pamela Sargent called it "elegant". Jenny's website is www.jennyblackford.com. She lives in Newcastle with Russell Blackford and the cat who owns them.
Back when I was studying Greek at the University of Newcastle, as part of my Classics degree, one of my set texts was Euripides' play Medea. While I was at school I'd read umpteen versions of the myth of Jason and the Argonauts, and was vaguely aware of Medea as the woman who helped Jason steal the Golden Fleece, then did some dreadful things – killing her brother (older in some versions, or younger, sometimes directly, sometimes by treachery) and her children – but it had never meant much to me.
I'll never forget the shock of reading the Penguin translation of Euripides' Medea, and discovering that, by the end, I was totally on Medea's side, ready to excuse her for an apparently unforgivable crime. So many ancient Athenian women at the festival of Dionysus, and even some men, must have felt the same way. The play is fabulously subversive. It would be hard to feel Medea's suffering, and not to hate self-centred Jason's self-serving guts. How could he abandon her, and their children, after all she'd done for him, just so that he could marry a namby-pamby local princess half her age?
Even in Euripides' sympathetic version, Medea is best known for helping heroic Argonaut Jason to win the Golden Fleece, but her life is larger than that.
I'd never really understood, despite all the servings of myths and legends in my childhood reading, that Medea was the grand-daughter of Helios, the Sun, and far more powerful a being than Jason ever was. She was fabulously exotic: a Bronze Age princess and sorceress, whose turbulent life took her from exotic Colchis, at the far end of the Black Sea, to some of the greatest palaces of Mycenaean Greece: Iolkos in Thessaly, mighty Corinth, then finally Athens.
Medea served the dark, but well-respected, goddess Hekate. She was the niece of Circe, most famous of Greek witches, who ensorcelled Odysseus' crew. Her father was a powerful king and godling. After delivering the Fleece to Jason – who wouldn't have had a hope without her – and getting him safely back to Greece, Medea murdered Jason's treacherous uncle Pelias, healed the hero Herakles of his madness, and brought about the birth of Theseus.
Medea's myth reveals much about the place of women in ancient Greek society. In the earliest of the ancient sources, Medea is relatively innocent – according to archaic–era Hesiod, she's a "goddess" who marries a mortal man, Jason, and bears him fine sons. Nothing else is mentioned. As time goes on, evil acts accrete around her, so that she becomes an exaggeration of everything a Greek man would not wish for his daughter, wife or daughter-in-law.
By classical times, she does not merely help Jason to win the Golden Fleece, and elope with him: she also betrays her father and viciously murders her brother in the process, slicing up his body and throwing it into the sea. She does not merely help Jason to punish his treacherous uncle Pelias, bringing Hera's vengeance upon him: she tricks Pelias' virgin daughters into cutting him into pieces and boiling him in a cauldron, supposedly to rejuvenate him. When Jason deserts her for the younger, prettier, better-connected princess Creusa of Corinth, Medea is so violently jealous that she does not merely take her children away from him: she murders them, and flies off in her grandfather Helios' dragon-drawn chariot. Medea even tries to murder Athens' well-loved hero, Theseus.
It is clear in all the versions of the myth that Medea would never have left her home, betrayed her father, cut up her brother or murdered Jason's uncle, if Hera had not quite deliberately made her mad with love for Hera's beloved Jason. Even more unfairly, Medea would never have killed her own children, years later, if she were not still mad with love and jealousy. Indeed, after Medea kills the children and leaves Jason, her deeds become far less horrific. She heals Herakles of the madness that caused him to kill his own family, helps Aegeus of Athens to sire Theseus, lives amicably with Aegeus for years, and later fails to kill the young Theseus. Gradually she becomes a pathetic figure, an ageing foreign sorceress.
It's no great secret that I'm partway through a version of the life of Medea, taking her status as powerful sorceress and goddess seriously, as she deserves. It's time, I think, that there was a version of Medea's story in which Hera and Hecate are close to their terrifying Bronze Age originals, and Medea acts and thinks like a true Bronze Age princess – not a mere wicked girl. Wish me luck.
My Bio:
Jenny Blackford's stories have appeared in places including Dreaming Again, Random House's 30 Australian Ghost Stories for Children, and Cosmos magazine, as well as in Aurealis. Alison Goodman described Jenny's novella set in ancient Delphi and Athens, The Priestess and the Slave, as "A compelling blend of vivid storytelling and meticulous research", and feminist sf icon Pamela Sargent called it "elegant". Jenny's website is www.jennyblackford.com. She lives in Newcastle with Russell Blackford and the cat who owns them.
March 20, 2011
Women's History Month: Felicity Pulman
Years ago, at a very bleak period in my life, I went to see a clairvoyant, hoping I suppose for a promise of better times to come. What stuck in my mind was her prediction that I would soon enter 'a path of knowledge that would almost overwhelm me.' I didn't know what she meant at the time, but I do now.
My journey out of the darkness began when I started to write Shalott, a time-slip story that takes five teenagers back to the time of Camelot and the court of King Arthur, where they try to rewrite a legend but instead rewrite their own destinies. My first decision was whether I should be writing about a dux bellorum from the dark ages, or a medieval king and his knights. It soon became clear that Arthur, as a legend, didn't really take off until the middle ages, so I decided to write about a medieval king living in a parallel reality to our world. HUGE learning curve: finding out about life in medieval time as well as coming to grips with the various versions of Arthurian legend. I had so much fun that, when I finished what turned out to be a trilogy, I found it impossible to drag myself away from life in medieval time.
For my next project, I decided to combine my love of crime fiction with history in The Janna Mysteries, a series about a young woman whose mother dies in mysterious circumstances and who then sets out to find her unknown father in order to avenge her mother's death, along the way solving crimes and mysteries (and meeting several gorgeous men!)
My first question was: in what period of history should I set my series? When writing the third novel in my Shalott trilogy, I had one of the characters save Guinevere's child from the devastation of Camlann by bringing the baby into our world. In that novel, the baby comes to the attention of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was the first to write a coherent account of Arthur's life that was supposedly inspired by a 'secret document'. In Shalott: The Final Journey, it is Guinevere's account of Camelot, which she gives to her child before saying goodbye for ever, that gives Monmouth the information he uses.
The first copy of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain was dedicated to Robert, Earl of Gloucester. I discovered that he was the Empress Matilda's bastard half-brother and (later) commanded her army when she waged war against her cousin, King Stephen, in order to regain the crown that was rightfully hers. My research of that time revealed England in chaos, without law or stable leadership. It was a time of great hardship and rife with treachery. I decided it would make a great background for my new series. But I quickly discovered that it's one thing to write about the quasi-medieval world of King Arthur; it's something else to write about real historic figures set in real historic time.
This was another BIG learning curve, but fortunately Gillian came to my rescue with regards to various aspects of medieval life (and also came up with some wonderful plot possibilities!) And so the clairvoyant's prophesy has come true. My journey into medieval time has been overwhelming indeed. I loved researching the historical background of the civil war between Stephen and the Empress Matilda, and weaving around it the story of Janna. I've also come to respect the empress as a role model: a strong woman who, almost for the first time, changed 'history' to 'herstory' after she was gazumped by her cousin, and who waged war against him to claim her rightful inheritance. While she never succeeded (although she came very close) she did ensure the continuation of the Angevin line, securing Stephen's agreement that he would name her son Henry as his heir.
My character, Janna, also has sympathy for Matilda's cause and, several times in the series, puts her life on the line to further the interests of the empress. Janna, too, shows courage in the face of adversity, in her refusal to lie down and take the bad hand she's been dealt. Instead, she becomes proactive and, like the empress, fights for justice, for retribution, and for what she believes in.
To write this series, I also had my own hurdles and challenges to overcome. For example, I quickly learned that to write about real places is virtually impossible unless you've actually been there. And so, for the first time in my (long) married life, I set off alone, for a month, to walk in the footsteps of my character and tell her story. Terrifying, exhilarating, and entirely necessary. And a demon slayed at the same time: my fear of being alone on my own.
Janna is far more courageous than I shall ever be, but writing about her courage and resourcefulness has, in a way, empowered me in my own life. Hopefully Janna will also motivate and inspire teenagers today. Meantime, reluctantly, I have finally emerged from the middle ages to explore, for a new book, our convict past. History might be 'one damn thing after another,' as various people have claimed, but those 'damn things' are endlessly fascinating and I continue to be 'overwhelmed' by the past.
Felicity Pulman.
www.felicitypulman.com.au
My journey out of the darkness began when I started to write Shalott, a time-slip story that takes five teenagers back to the time of Camelot and the court of King Arthur, where they try to rewrite a legend but instead rewrite their own destinies. My first decision was whether I should be writing about a dux bellorum from the dark ages, or a medieval king and his knights. It soon became clear that Arthur, as a legend, didn't really take off until the middle ages, so I decided to write about a medieval king living in a parallel reality to our world. HUGE learning curve: finding out about life in medieval time as well as coming to grips with the various versions of Arthurian legend. I had so much fun that, when I finished what turned out to be a trilogy, I found it impossible to drag myself away from life in medieval time.
For my next project, I decided to combine my love of crime fiction with history in The Janna Mysteries, a series about a young woman whose mother dies in mysterious circumstances and who then sets out to find her unknown father in order to avenge her mother's death, along the way solving crimes and mysteries (and meeting several gorgeous men!)
My first question was: in what period of history should I set my series? When writing the third novel in my Shalott trilogy, I had one of the characters save Guinevere's child from the devastation of Camlann by bringing the baby into our world. In that novel, the baby comes to the attention of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was the first to write a coherent account of Arthur's life that was supposedly inspired by a 'secret document'. In Shalott: The Final Journey, it is Guinevere's account of Camelot, which she gives to her child before saying goodbye for ever, that gives Monmouth the information he uses.
The first copy of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain was dedicated to Robert, Earl of Gloucester. I discovered that he was the Empress Matilda's bastard half-brother and (later) commanded her army when she waged war against her cousin, King Stephen, in order to regain the crown that was rightfully hers. My research of that time revealed England in chaos, without law or stable leadership. It was a time of great hardship and rife with treachery. I decided it would make a great background for my new series. But I quickly discovered that it's one thing to write about the quasi-medieval world of King Arthur; it's something else to write about real historic figures set in real historic time.
This was another BIG learning curve, but fortunately Gillian came to my rescue with regards to various aspects of medieval life (and also came up with some wonderful plot possibilities!) And so the clairvoyant's prophesy has come true. My journey into medieval time has been overwhelming indeed. I loved researching the historical background of the civil war between Stephen and the Empress Matilda, and weaving around it the story of Janna. I've also come to respect the empress as a role model: a strong woman who, almost for the first time, changed 'history' to 'herstory' after she was gazumped by her cousin, and who waged war against him to claim her rightful inheritance. While she never succeeded (although she came very close) she did ensure the continuation of the Angevin line, securing Stephen's agreement that he would name her son Henry as his heir.
My character, Janna, also has sympathy for Matilda's cause and, several times in the series, puts her life on the line to further the interests of the empress. Janna, too, shows courage in the face of adversity, in her refusal to lie down and take the bad hand she's been dealt. Instead, she becomes proactive and, like the empress, fights for justice, for retribution, and for what she believes in.
To write this series, I also had my own hurdles and challenges to overcome. For example, I quickly learned that to write about real places is virtually impossible unless you've actually been there. And so, for the first time in my (long) married life, I set off alone, for a month, to walk in the footsteps of my character and tell her story. Terrifying, exhilarating, and entirely necessary. And a demon slayed at the same time: my fear of being alone on my own.
Janna is far more courageous than I shall ever be, but writing about her courage and resourcefulness has, in a way, empowered me in my own life. Hopefully Janna will also motivate and inspire teenagers today. Meantime, reluctantly, I have finally emerged from the middle ages to explore, for a new book, our convict past. History might be 'one damn thing after another,' as various people have claimed, but those 'damn things' are endlessly fascinating and I continue to be 'overwhelmed' by the past.
Felicity Pulman.
www.felicitypulman.com.au
gillpolack @ 2011-03-20T21:57:00
If you scroll down to the bottom of this page, you can see something that caused me much happiness in my rather difficult last fortnight. It's the best possible start to my UK trip.
March 19, 2011
Women's History Month: Carole Wilkinson
There are authors who claim that the books that have had most influence on them are very worthy works by authors such as Dostoyevsky, Plutarch or Sartre. They claim to reread Joyce’s Ulysses annually for inspiration.
If I was to think about an author who influenced me on my path to being a writer of historical fiction, I’d have to confess that it was Sharon Penman and her book The Sunne in Splendour.
I read it about ten years before I considered becoming a writer. It is a page-turning, brick of a book about Richard III. Ms Penman depicts the king as a good guy—loving husband, thoughtful monarch, totally chivalrous—who didn’t murder either his nephews or his brother Clarence. I enjoyed the book immensely, but it wasn’t the book itself that was to have the influence on me—it was the Author’s Note at the end.
Having been introduced to the life of Richard by W. Shakespeare in 4th Year English, I had assumed that Ms Penman made up this version of his life. Indeed, I assumed that anything written about such distant times would have been entirely reconstructed. I was, therefore, amazed to read that the author “tried to be as accurate as possible, not placing a scene at Windsor unless [her] characters were known to be at Windsor on that day, making sure that a Wednesday actually was a Wednesday”. The fact that there was that level of accuracy in the book astonished me. How could she have known that events hundreds of years ago happened on a Wednesday? She said that she drew on contemporary chronicles. I didn’t do history at school, and I was ignorance of the fact that such documents were still in existence. Ms Penman also said that Richard didn’t have a hunch back. Shakespeare lied.
That book led me to another book about Richard the Good Guy, this time a crime fiction book called The Daughter of Time* by Josehine Tey (who, writing in the 1950s, felt it necessary to go by the name of Gordon Daviot). The book was about a London policeman who wiled away weeks in hospital by proving that Richard wasn’t a murderous monster. He sent a young student visiting him off to the nearby British Museum where he could have a look at letters and decrees in Richard’s own hand. This was a revelation to me.
Looking back I can hardly believe I was so uninformed, and unaware of the amazing archives kept in Britain, and elsewhere.
When I came to write my first novel**, it was in fact a contemporary story about high school students putting on their own musical. My daughter, Lili***, had just been in a school musical based on the Odyssey, set to toe-tapping tunes written by her music teacher. She played Aphrodite. It was hilarious (“We'll go to Hell and back again, to get Helen back again”). I wanted something even more unlikely, so I had my group of musical misfits put on a rock-musical version of Richard III. I wrote my own lyrics. I even had one of the characters read Sharon Penman’s book.
Since then I have written my own historical fiction. I blame it on Sharon Penman that I have become such a research junkie, spending far too much time chasing down illusive facts and primary sources. I think that if there wasn’t such an enormous body of books set in medieval Britain, I might have written about that era too. Instead I went further back and further afield, starting in ancient Egypt, but settling into ancient China, happily trawling through translations of 2000-year-old Chinese books.
*I went to the library to get a copy to re-read and found that all the copies (four books, a large-print edition and an audio book) were all out on loan. Not bad for a crime fiction novel about Ricard III written in 1951.
** Stagefright, now out of print.
***She still hasn’t forgiven me for stealing this episode of her life.
BIO:
Carole Wilkinson writes historical fiction and non fiction for young people. Best known for her award-winning Dragonkeeper trilogy, her latest book, Fromelles: Australia’s Bloodiest Day at War, tells the story of Australia’s disastrous first battle on the Western Front in World War I.
gillpolack @ 2011-03-19T22:40:00
I've been to Melbourne and back since I last posted, which is why things have not been quite normal around here (even for Gillian values of normal). I have a guest for you to meet tonight, and then i'm going to bed!
My big lesson for this last fortnight is that a good friend can make a big difference to the quality of one's life. Several good friends can transform life entirely.
My big lesson for this last fortnight is that a good friend can make a big difference to the quality of one's life. Several good friends can transform life entirely.
March 17, 2011
Women's History Month: Valerie Parv
Sleeping with Subversives
While we're celebrating Women's History Month, it's interesting to look at that most female of genres, the romance novel and its role in the lives of readers. Half of all paperbacks sold today are romances. They've been around for over 70 years in their present form and are conquering e-book markets and new formats such as 'chunking'- delivering the novels in short episodes via mobile phone - with ease.
The term 'romance' originally referred to tales of adventure in medieval literature, which had their origins in ballads performed by minstrels. Both were about chivalrous heroes slaying dragons and monsters to win their beloved, and were mainly for men's entertainment.
Modern romance was born with Samuel Richardson's 1740 novel Pamela, told from the heroine's viewpoint and featuring the first happy ending. Later heirs include Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Bronte and Georgette Heyer, doyenne of the Regency novel. Today's love stories are set in any time, place or universe, with women taking the sexual initiative as often as men. The idea of Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right-for-the-moment remains popular, as does the happy ending as it becomes ever more elusive in real life.
To me, four reasons explain the genre's enduring popularity:
1. Just as crime fiction readers expect the crime to be solved, romance readers expect a couple, a conflict to be solved and a happy ending. This may explain the persistent myth of a 'formula', although every couple arrives at their happy ending in their own way.
2. The heroine is loved as she wants to be loved, with the experience entirely under her female power. The intimacy and consideration most women enjoy is a hallmark of the sex in romance.
3. In our busy lives, we often yearn to be 'taken away from it all', the novels providing a welcome mental break from real-life pressures.
4. All popular fiction taps into mythology to some degree, allowing readers to recognize and connect with the characters on an instinctual level. Romances may speak to our survival as a species, with the strongest males providing the fittest offspring. Not politically correct, but our genes don't care.
The novels may also celebrate women's masculine qualities, subversively making her as much hero as heroine. Whatever the truth, there's a lot more to this genre than simple boy-meets-girl.
Valerie Parv has an MA in Creative Writing from QUT, is the author of 50 romance novels and 24 nonfiction titles, and has sold over 30 million books in 26 languages. Her latest book is With a Little Help (Harlequin Superromances, March 2011, Australia May 2011). In April 2011 she will speak at the Romantic Times Book Reviews convention in Los Angeles.
While we're celebrating Women's History Month, it's interesting to look at that most female of genres, the romance novel and its role in the lives of readers. Half of all paperbacks sold today are romances. They've been around for over 70 years in their present form and are conquering e-book markets and new formats such as 'chunking'- delivering the novels in short episodes via mobile phone - with ease.
The term 'romance' originally referred to tales of adventure in medieval literature, which had their origins in ballads performed by minstrels. Both were about chivalrous heroes slaying dragons and monsters to win their beloved, and were mainly for men's entertainment.
Modern romance was born with Samuel Richardson's 1740 novel Pamela, told from the heroine's viewpoint and featuring the first happy ending. Later heirs include Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Bronte and Georgette Heyer, doyenne of the Regency novel. Today's love stories are set in any time, place or universe, with women taking the sexual initiative as often as men. The idea of Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right-for-the-moment remains popular, as does the happy ending as it becomes ever more elusive in real life.
To me, four reasons explain the genre's enduring popularity:
1. Just as crime fiction readers expect the crime to be solved, romance readers expect a couple, a conflict to be solved and a happy ending. This may explain the persistent myth of a 'formula', although every couple arrives at their happy ending in their own way.
2. The heroine is loved as she wants to be loved, with the experience entirely under her female power. The intimacy and consideration most women enjoy is a hallmark of the sex in romance.
3. In our busy lives, we often yearn to be 'taken away from it all', the novels providing a welcome mental break from real-life pressures.
4. All popular fiction taps into mythology to some degree, allowing readers to recognize and connect with the characters on an instinctual level. Romances may speak to our survival as a species, with the strongest males providing the fittest offspring. Not politically correct, but our genes don't care.
The novels may also celebrate women's masculine qualities, subversively making her as much hero as heroine. Whatever the truth, there's a lot more to this genre than simple boy-meets-girl.
Valerie Parv has an MA in Creative Writing from QUT, is the author of 50 romance novels and 24 nonfiction titles, and has sold over 30 million books in 26 languages. Her latest book is With a Little Help (Harlequin Superromances, March 2011, Australia May 2011). In April 2011 she will speak at the Romantic Times Book Reviews convention in Los Angeles.
March 16, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-03-16T22:50:00
I just realised we're halfway through Women's History Month and I've had 22 guests on my blog and all of them have been wonderful. More to come, just as good (although I admit - and would not *dream* of dropping hints) that I'm still waiting on the posts for a few of the guests-to-come.
And I actually came online to do something and cannot remember what. If you feel impelled to suggest something, please remember my tender sensibilities.
I've had lots of suggestions of steampunk written by women, and veen given details of a website that contains still more. I shall put that list up here sometime next week, since the rest of this week is just a bit impossible. I want to read all the ones I haven't read, but I don't have time! I really need one of those t-shirts that say "So many books, so little time."
And I actually came online to do something and cannot remember what. If you feel impelled to suggest something, please remember my tender sensibilities.
I've had lots of suggestions of steampunk written by women, and veen given details of a website that contains still more. I shall put that list up here sometime next week, since the rest of this week is just a bit impossible. I want to read all the ones I haven't read, but I don't have time! I really need one of those t-shirts that say "So many books, so little time."
Women's History Month: Rachel Kerr
About five years ago my mother and I were watching the television program "Grumpy Old Women" and when Germaine Greer came on, my mother looked at me and said, "You know, she reminds me of you."
I was momentarily speechless. (Anyone who knows me will know how rare that is.) "Do you mean I'm a grumpy old woman?"
"Yes" replied my mother. "You've just started a bit early. Well, you do have a lot of opinions and so does Germaine Greer."
Well, doesn't that take all? I thought that my mother would have noted that Germaine and I both have unmanageable and curly hair (hair with character, I prefer to call it), we both wave our hands about, neither of us sounds sufficiently Ocker, and my little feminist heart has belonged to Germaine for decades.
I am not kidding about the decades part. Back in the 70s there was a fad for sewing amusing coloured patches onto one's jeans or jacket. The first one I remember was when I was about seven or eight years old and sure enough, I had chosen a feminist symbol. I loved that patch. It moved from one pair of jeans to the next as I grew up but when I was about eleven, my tastes changed and I wanted to be a bit more girly (while retaining the right to climb trees and be a tomboy if I felt like it). I believed honestly that girls were every bit as good as boys and in fact, I was a darn sight better than all of them in the classroom. I believed I could take on any career I wanted to and I would perform as well, if not better, than men in the same job.
I celebrate my mother today, Marie Kerr. OK, I'm still a bit bemused about the Germaine Greer comparison although my hair is becoming more and more like Germaine's as the years pass. Marie is the one who showed me how women could run businesses, work in broadcasting, become a Fellow of the Australian Institute of Company Directors, be a CEO, be vitally interested in their families, love and encourage their kids, manage finances, plan for the future, be organised and have fun. She never told me I couldn't do a particular job and sometimes even today she has a higher opinion of my abilities than I do. Her belief is not centred on the gender agenda but rather a belief in ability regardless of gender.
As I bring up my daughter, I hope I will be able to show a similar belief in her. Granted, quite a few friends think it's amusing that I, quiet follower of second wave feminists, have produced a daughter with an almost unhealthy obsession with pink dresses, sparkles, fairies and princesses. I don't mind really. I think that Princess Pink is a secret pirate and you should see her wield a sabre. The world is in safe hands, Mum.
Rachel Kerr (tilleycat2000 at yahoo.com) is a singing teacher, program manager at a university, and mother of Princess Pink. She is an alumnus of the Australian National University and the University of Canberra. She enjoys writing, performing, and attending the theatre.
I was momentarily speechless. (Anyone who knows me will know how rare that is.) "Do you mean I'm a grumpy old woman?"
"Yes" replied my mother. "You've just started a bit early. Well, you do have a lot of opinions and so does Germaine Greer."
Well, doesn't that take all? I thought that my mother would have noted that Germaine and I both have unmanageable and curly hair (hair with character, I prefer to call it), we both wave our hands about, neither of us sounds sufficiently Ocker, and my little feminist heart has belonged to Germaine for decades.
I am not kidding about the decades part. Back in the 70s there was a fad for sewing amusing coloured patches onto one's jeans or jacket. The first one I remember was when I was about seven or eight years old and sure enough, I had chosen a feminist symbol. I loved that patch. It moved from one pair of jeans to the next as I grew up but when I was about eleven, my tastes changed and I wanted to be a bit more girly (while retaining the right to climb trees and be a tomboy if I felt like it). I believed honestly that girls were every bit as good as boys and in fact, I was a darn sight better than all of them in the classroom. I believed I could take on any career I wanted to and I would perform as well, if not better, than men in the same job.
I celebrate my mother today, Marie Kerr. OK, I'm still a bit bemused about the Germaine Greer comparison although my hair is becoming more and more like Germaine's as the years pass. Marie is the one who showed me how women could run businesses, work in broadcasting, become a Fellow of the Australian Institute of Company Directors, be a CEO, be vitally interested in their families, love and encourage their kids, manage finances, plan for the future, be organised and have fun. She never told me I couldn't do a particular job and sometimes even today she has a higher opinion of my abilities than I do. Her belief is not centred on the gender agenda but rather a belief in ability regardless of gender.
As I bring up my daughter, I hope I will be able to show a similar belief in her. Granted, quite a few friends think it's amusing that I, quiet follower of second wave feminists, have produced a daughter with an almost unhealthy obsession with pink dresses, sparkles, fairies and princesses. I don't mind really. I think that Princess Pink is a secret pirate and you should see her wield a sabre. The world is in safe hands, Mum.
Rachel Kerr (tilleycat2000 at yahoo.com) is a singing teacher, program manager at a university, and mother of Princess Pink. She is an alumnus of the Australian National University and the University of Canberra. She enjoys writing, performing, and attending the theatre.
