Gillian Polack's Blog, page 272
February 2, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-02-02T18:15:00
Our storm has come and the temperature outside right now is only a degree above the lowest it reached the whole of last night. Doesn't it make you happy to know important facts such as this?
gillpolack @ 2011-02-02T15:08:00
I guess it would be a bit redundant to let locals know that my personal weather-vane is telling me that we're getting icky weather? After last night, I suspect the whole region knew that today wasn't going to be a zone of comfort. I still can't get over it getting so much warmer after midnight! These are the mountains, it's supposed to cool *down* at night! I know the reasons why (and have made coffee to get me through immediately) but still, even the spiders protested and are now scaring me from their dark corners.
gillpolack @ 2011-02-02T15:01:00
My friends are made of awesome, especially the SF fandom element. The North Queenslanders are posting about the winds (185 kph!) and that the landfall for Yasi has changed and is now heading straight for them. They've done everything they can and are as prepared as they can be, so they're heading off to celebrate a birthday. The cafe is still open, although the numbers are a bit down.
May these awesome people (and everyone else in Yasi's path) get through Yasi's landing in style and good health and come out the other end completely intact.
May these awesome people (and everyone else in Yasi's path) get through Yasi's landing in style and good health and come out the other end completely intact.
February 1, 2011
Telling the Long White Cloud - Mary Victoria
Arriving as an immigrant in a new country can be a tricky manoeuvre. There is the question of learning languages, both spoken and unspoken; there is the question of understanding, slowly and surely, where one is actually living, what story the country and its people tell, over and above any fact-finding in a guidebook. For while everyday customs and mores are certainly one unspoken language a newcomer must learn, there are other, deeper tales to listen to that have to do with the past, ancestors, history. And underneath it all, deepest of all, there is the voice of the land itself, its trees, beaches and rivers, its birds and stones, its weather systems and the way the soil smells, crumbles between your fingers.
Misinterpret a human conversation and you will make an embarrassing mistake, hopefully remedied by a cup of tea and an attempt at humour, or at least an abject apology. Misinterpret a river and you will be swept away, which is something I almost did on my first, somewhat starry-eyed hike in the glacier valleys of the South Island, a year or so after arriving in New Zealand. (I was reminded of the incident recently while reading Lucy Sussex's excellent story, 'Slow Dreams', in the Baggage anthology edited by Gillian Polack. Never underestimate a glacier.)
A newcomer in this country, therefore, finding her own skills at interpreting foreign terrain somewhat lacking, would do well to employ a tour guide to help her cross a glacier. She would also do well to employ a storyteller to take her through the inner landscapes of New Zealand, for artists and tellers of tales are the shamans who interpret a culture, read its signs and articulate its soul. Most importantly, our fresh arrival would be wise to pay attention to the very oldest tales of all, the first told by human beings in Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud. For it is through them that she will learn how people originally heard the land and what ghosts still haunt it.
I have had, during the course of my stay in New Zealand, the honour of being received on two occasions with a traditional Maori welcome. That experience is intensely satisfying for a visitor, for it ritualizes all a stranger's preoccupations in one succinct ceremony: Who are my hosts? What do they expect of me? Who were they in times gone by, and what ghosts watch over their shoulders? The Maori were veteran travelers by the time they reached these shores; they knew very well what stories newcomers need to hear, in order to feel they have arrived.
Likewise, I have found a chorus of welcome in my fellow New Zealand fantasy authors, and been thrilled to discover part of the reality of this country by listening to their unique voices. I thoroughly enjoyed Helen Lowe's new book, Heir of Night, the first instalment in the 'Wall of Night' series, finding it both a satisfying adventure story and a subtly skewed take on the usual 'good vs. evil' fantasy trope. I actually met Helen for the first time at Aussiecon4, where I had the great pleasure of sharing a panel with her, Karen Healey (a New Zealander herself and author of the wonderful YA fantasy Guardian of the Dead,) and Gillian Polack, who introduced me to the joys of Baggage.
I have also been sampling the work of such interesting new talents as Tim Jones, a fellow Wellingtonian, whose latest collection of short stories, Transported, deftly explores a mix of fantasy and other genres. And another Wellington resident, the most excellent Elizabeth Knox, is on my list of Authors-I-Desperately-Want-to-Read-Before-I-Die-So-Help-Me-God; I suspect I'll plunge into her books very soon with or without divine assistance, for I have simply heard too many good things about them to put off the encounter. There are a fleet of others to discover, of course, puzzle pieces in this great mosaic of what it is to be a New Zealander.
If, like the characters in Ursula Le Guin's story 'The Telling', we speak ourselves into existence, defining reality with our stories, then I am honoured to count myself as one among the many world-weavers of New Zealand. Slowly, surely, as my first decade in this country comes to a close, I am learning to listen to the story of Aotearoa, and to contribute my small part to it. I do not yet know the language of glaciers. But I did surprise myself at Auckland airport recently, fresh off an international flight and walking between the terminals, as one does, at 5:30 am, when I suddenly found I could understand the scent of the soil beneath the pohutukawa trees, and the song of the birds in their dawn chorus.
Both were crying, 'home, home, home': I knew I had arrived.
[Note from Gillian: you can find Mary on her own blog usually!]
Misinterpret a human conversation and you will make an embarrassing mistake, hopefully remedied by a cup of tea and an attempt at humour, or at least an abject apology. Misinterpret a river and you will be swept away, which is something I almost did on my first, somewhat starry-eyed hike in the glacier valleys of the South Island, a year or so after arriving in New Zealand. (I was reminded of the incident recently while reading Lucy Sussex's excellent story, 'Slow Dreams', in the Baggage anthology edited by Gillian Polack. Never underestimate a glacier.)
A newcomer in this country, therefore, finding her own skills at interpreting foreign terrain somewhat lacking, would do well to employ a tour guide to help her cross a glacier. She would also do well to employ a storyteller to take her through the inner landscapes of New Zealand, for artists and tellers of tales are the shamans who interpret a culture, read its signs and articulate its soul. Most importantly, our fresh arrival would be wise to pay attention to the very oldest tales of all, the first told by human beings in Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud. For it is through them that she will learn how people originally heard the land and what ghosts still haunt it.
I have had, during the course of my stay in New Zealand, the honour of being received on two occasions with a traditional Maori welcome. That experience is intensely satisfying for a visitor, for it ritualizes all a stranger's preoccupations in one succinct ceremony: Who are my hosts? What do they expect of me? Who were they in times gone by, and what ghosts watch over their shoulders? The Maori were veteran travelers by the time they reached these shores; they knew very well what stories newcomers need to hear, in order to feel they have arrived.
Likewise, I have found a chorus of welcome in my fellow New Zealand fantasy authors, and been thrilled to discover part of the reality of this country by listening to their unique voices. I thoroughly enjoyed Helen Lowe's new book, Heir of Night, the first instalment in the 'Wall of Night' series, finding it both a satisfying adventure story and a subtly skewed take on the usual 'good vs. evil' fantasy trope. I actually met Helen for the first time at Aussiecon4, where I had the great pleasure of sharing a panel with her, Karen Healey (a New Zealander herself and author of the wonderful YA fantasy Guardian of the Dead,) and Gillian Polack, who introduced me to the joys of Baggage.
I have also been sampling the work of such interesting new talents as Tim Jones, a fellow Wellingtonian, whose latest collection of short stories, Transported, deftly explores a mix of fantasy and other genres. And another Wellington resident, the most excellent Elizabeth Knox, is on my list of Authors-I-Desperately-Want-to-Read-Before-I-Die-So-Help-Me-God; I suspect I'll plunge into her books very soon with or without divine assistance, for I have simply heard too many good things about them to put off the encounter. There are a fleet of others to discover, of course, puzzle pieces in this great mosaic of what it is to be a New Zealander.
If, like the characters in Ursula Le Guin's story 'The Telling', we speak ourselves into existence, defining reality with our stories, then I am honoured to count myself as one among the many world-weavers of New Zealand. Slowly, surely, as my first decade in this country comes to a close, I am learning to listen to the story of Aotearoa, and to contribute my small part to it. I do not yet know the language of glaciers. But I did surprise myself at Auckland airport recently, fresh off an international flight and walking between the terminals, as one does, at 5:30 am, when I suddenly found I could understand the scent of the soil beneath the pohutukawa trees, and the song of the birds in their dawn chorus.
Both were crying, 'home, home, home': I knew I had arrived.
[Note from Gillian: you can find Mary on her own blog usually!]
gillpolack @ 2011-02-01T14:02:00
In a little, today's post will appear. This is not it. This is an explanation.
Today I'm going to celebrate Mary Victoria's new book and NZ writing and NZ in general. I'm dead lazy (as we all know) so I did this by asking Mary for a guest post. She returned the favour (actually, I can't remember who asked first) and I'll appear on her blog in a few days.
Mary has a rather good list of writers appearing on her blog in celebration of Samiha's Song. She also has a post of her own, explaining why "Samiha" and why she's asked us to write about strong women as characters. You may well want to give it a look-in.
Today I'm going to celebrate Mary Victoria's new book and NZ writing and NZ in general. I'm dead lazy (as we all know) so I did this by asking Mary for a guest post. She returned the favour (actually, I can't remember who asked first) and I'll appear on her blog in a few days.
Mary has a rather good list of writers appearing on her blog in celebration of Samiha's Song. She also has a post of her own, explaining why "Samiha" and why she's asked us to write about strong women as characters. You may well want to give it a look-in.
January 31, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-01-31T15:07:00
Further to my post of full two minutes ago, I just realised that my great-great-grandmother came out at the right time and managed to avoid becoming either a damned whore or a God's policewoman. She did this by being a Jewish widow who ran a boarding house in downtown Melbourne. I'm pretty sure the stereotyopes didn't cover Jewish widows who ran boading houses in downtown Melbourne.
I wonder what it was like, though, being a woman like her in this particular set of colonies before 1870? I've read books, and I've walked streets, and I know timelines, but they don't seem to cover the experiences of a Jewish widow who ran a boarding house in downtown Melbourne. The newspapers don't help. The only time she's in them is a decade before her death when they predicted that she would die imminently because she was old and had just broken both her legs in a fall. Very stubborn, my great great grandmother. She just missed out on seeing the twentieth century.
Now that the excitement of a new article is past, I should do some more work.
I wonder what it was like, though, being a woman like her in this particular set of colonies before 1870? I've read books, and I've walked streets, and I know timelines, but they don't seem to cover the experiences of a Jewish widow who ran a boarding house in downtown Melbourne. The newspapers don't help. The only time she's in them is a decade before her death when they predicted that she would die imminently because she was old and had just broken both her legs in a fall. Very stubborn, my great great grandmother. She just missed out on seeing the twentieth century.
Now that the excitement of a new article is past, I should do some more work.
gillpolack @ 2011-01-31T14:53:00
Remember my admonition not to get your face put on a postage stamp? Well, it was directly linked to the piece I was editing that day and that piece has now gone up. Please beware that it contains interesting language. The title does, anyhow, the rest is benign and is basically two writers helping me think about women's history.
Which reminds me, only a month until my Women's History Month ginormous celebration!
And now I must go back to my commas and dashes and occasional ellipses...
Which reminds me, only a month until my Women's History Month ginormous celebration!
And now I must go back to my commas and dashes and occasional ellipses...
gillpolack @ 2011-01-31T13:23:00
Absolutely everything urgent today takes close attention, and all the non-urgent work doesn't. This means I'm working a bit here and a bit there, taking lots of breaks. It's very frustrating. Normally the same pile of papers that today will take the whole day would take just three hours to work through. It's only three hours paid work, but I can't afford to let my eyes get lazy and stop looking and I can't afford the brain switching off and stopping thinking. I also have to be careful with the eyes. It's barely a year since I lost that chunk of vision. So I'm being careful, and working in chunks and noting it all down, so I know how long it all takes, over a day.
Anyhow, by tonight, all the close detail stuff will be done (for now) and I shall have two reviews to write and 6,000 words of my own fiction, and that will take me right through to Saturday. OK, so there's other stuff as well - there's always other stuff as well - but I have novel to write. When those 6,000 words are written, then things get really exciting. I will be able to sort out the next tranch of research. I love research zone almost as much as I love writing zone. The timing is important, though. I need to be able to do the research when I teach, since writing fiction and teaching take much the same energies.
None of this is terribly interesting to people other than me. The work I'm editing is fascinating, and the interview I just finished for BiblioBuffet is cool, but the processes of working on them are not exciting to talk about. That's my life today, though, that and midsummer.
It really looks as if you're stuck with the unexciting side of my life until I move out of editing mode. It's not that there aren't curiosities involved. Yesterday, for instance, I forgot to blog about mischlings and pirates. It's just that I have work that pushes the bloggable curiosities aside.
Anyhow, by tonight, all the close detail stuff will be done (for now) and I shall have two reviews to write and 6,000 words of my own fiction, and that will take me right through to Saturday. OK, so there's other stuff as well - there's always other stuff as well - but I have novel to write. When those 6,000 words are written, then things get really exciting. I will be able to sort out the next tranch of research. I love research zone almost as much as I love writing zone. The timing is important, though. I need to be able to do the research when I teach, since writing fiction and teaching take much the same energies.
None of this is terribly interesting to people other than me. The work I'm editing is fascinating, and the interview I just finished for BiblioBuffet is cool, but the processes of working on them are not exciting to talk about. That's my life today, though, that and midsummer.
It really looks as if you're stuck with the unexciting side of my life until I move out of editing mode. It's not that there aren't curiosities involved. Yesterday, for instance, I forgot to blog about mischlings and pirates. It's just that I have work that pushes the bloggable curiosities aside.
January 29, 2011
gillpolack @ 2011-01-30T00:38:00
I'm at one of those moments when I like my writing. This is a good thing, because the heat has given me a stinking headache. (Most of the east coast of Australia has this very same headache right now, which probably ought to be comforting, but really isn't.) Anyhow, a couple of characters and several sequences came together and acted interestingly today. My liar isn't as much of a liar as he was. This is sad. Not sad, however, is me actually liking my writing.
This liking won't last, but it means I've actually done my week's work on the novel, despite the weather and despite being ill. I can look my supervisor in the face. I could, at least, if he weren't the other side of the continent.
This liking won't last, but it means I've actually done my week's work on the novel, despite the weather and despite being ill. I can look my supervisor in the face. I could, at least, if he weren't the other side of the continent.
gillpolack @ 2011-01-29T20:26:00
Fresh homegrown blackberries eaten with ricotta are a solid underpinning to happiness. (Which is another way of saying "Thank you, Elizabeth!")
