Craig Cliff's Blog, page 26
October 2, 2011
Some things I wrote about writing a novel over the last week and have decided to finally post
A writer who knows what he is doing isn't doing very much -- Nelson Algren
All images in this post by Jean Lowe, via Juxtapose
Looking Back, Looking Forward
No one ever asks me, 'Why do you still keep a blog now that you have a column?' Maybe I'm the one one who wonders about this sometimes. Because for long stretches of time there's not a lot to write about in a writer's life. At least not this one's.
When I go to work for my 2-day working week, people often ask me how THE NOVEL is going, which is a fair question, but difficult to answer, especially if they've asked you this the week before and again the week before that. I think they're all waiting for the day I say, 'It's finished' and they can ask about the sexy stuff like covers and sales figures. Hell, I'm looking forward to the sexy stuff. But for now it's drudge drudge drudge, and there doesn't seem a lot that's blog-worthy (or column-worthy) about this.
Something I can talk about with a certain amount of perspective is my old book (it's only in the last four months that A Man Melting has felt like my old book, not my only book). I received a royalties statement from my publisher a few weeks ago that made interesting reading. The statements come every six months and this was my second one, covering sales from Jan-June this year (so sales from 6-12 months after A Man Melting was released, but covering the period I won the regional Commonwealth Writers Prize [March] and the overall Best First Book [May]).
The good news: I've earnt back my advance and last week got a small (3 figures) royalty payment.
The rub: This isn't saying much when my advance was very small to begin with. To put it in perspective, I've earnt less (advance + royalty payment) from 12 months of sales of my 320 page, 18 story collection than I have from selling one 6,000 word short story to the Griffith Review in Australia. Of course, A Man Melting opened a lot of doors (it helped get me my column, it's taken me to Australia three times and Auckland twice, it won some prize money, it helped get a Creative NZ grant to assist with writing THE NOVEL, etc etc) but in pure sales terms, it's small biscuits. Which is fine. For some reason people don't buy short story collections in the same numbers as they buy novels. Maybe it's because after reading a collection of short stories it's hard to read novels as they seem so flabby and gratuitous… Maybe that's just a reflection of where I'm at with THE NOVEL.
More good news: I've sold roughly as many copies of A Man Melting in Australia as I have in New Zealand. Not many first time NZ authors can say this.
The rub: Australian sales are classed as exports, so I get a smaller royalty percentage. (Also, NZ sales figures are relatively small, so it's not that hard to equal a small number). But I'm grateful to have had the support of Random House Australia when I've been over there the last two times and it seems there are some of my books in Aussie book stores, which is pretty cool.
I keep having to remind myself that I didn't expect any Australian sales when the book came out in July 2010. I've mentioned on this blog already how I expected the whimper of noise around the book to die out back in November 2010 and that it was time to muscle up with the next book. But I've been lucky and A Man Melting kept popping up in various places.
I was looking forward to the post-publication world and it hasn't disappointed. The scary thing is meeting raised expectations (mostly my own) for the next book. It seems wrong to think about the post-publication world for THE NOVEL right now and use it as an incentive to finish the damned thing, but I'll take whatever works. And thinking about finding the right title and giving it the perfect cover (no long haired women in period costume!!) and talking about it as a finished piece of story telling… well, that does just enough for me to stop blogging and return to 1919…
Delivering the Goods
To counter the sense of drudgery and general mire my novel writing had entered, I started mixing up the music I listen to while I write.
You can get a sense of what's generally on heavy rotation as a write from the playlists I post here from time to time. As a rule: not a lot of heavy metal.
To counter the general seriousness and po-facedness of how I've been feeling, I went to the Wellington City Library and got out Best Of compilations for Judas Priest, KISS, Iron Maiden and Rush, as well as Iommi featuring Black Sabbath axeman Tony Iommi with various vocalists.
And you know what? It seems to be working. The music is bold and adolescent enough to loosen the tension I might have felt had I been persisting with Radiohead (I honestly haven't liked an album of there's since Amnesiac, but I can't delete anything off my hard drive because I think I might one day come around) and Bill Callahan and Wilco.
Playlist for a teenager trapped in a novelist's body
Run to the hills - Iron Maiden
Flame on - Iommi and Ian Astbury
Love gun - Kiss
Breaking the law - Judas Priest
Limelight - Rush
Heaven and Hell - Dio
What the Dickens?
Last year I wrote about those cloud-burst moments while writing a novel when everything becomes clear and you know which way to take the story (see here and here). It's worth noting that these two posts were in relation to 'Novel B', which I later abandoned (actually, I've decided to carve it up into a couple of short stories, the literary equivalent of selling a car for scrap).
Work on THE NOVEL, my current beast of burden, has been quite different from work on Novel B. For one, THE NOVEL is historical and required/requires a lot of research, whereas Novel B was contemporary and stuck pretty closely to what one might expect of the experience of a middle class NZ male in the 21st century.
The roadblocks I encountered with Novel B were related to narrative voice (the narrator was fine for a 8-10 page short story but he wasn't built to carry a longer narrative, he enjoyed stopping and ruminating too often) and a gnawing concern that as I writer I was taking the path of least resistance.
The roadblocks with THE NOVEL have been more to do with a lack of knowledge of time and place or not quite knowing how to tell the story (rather than one first person narrator, there's a mix of first and third person from varying perspectives).
Some weeks, when I'm in the first draft flow, I can churn through scenes quickly, happily littering square brackets throughout the text where period detail needs to be checked or an example found. For example, there's a scene in the first historical section where there's a vaudeville show, which includes two real-life singers performing a duet. When I first drafted the scene, I was happy enough to write something along the lines of: "And then they sung [song title] as a duet." A few weeks later I spent a day finding the details to fill in all the square brackets in this scene.
At other times, I seem to get stuck on these small details and can't push on with a scene without filling in the blanks. Whether or not I get stuck seems to be more to do with my mood/headspace than the details themselves.
Sometimes the things in the square brackets are more significant than a song title or a type of horse-drawn carriage. Last month I was working on a section which is told in the form of a diary, written by a sixteen year old girl. She's led a cloistered life and most of her knowledge of the outside world has come from books. I knew that on top of describing the action of this part of the novel in daily chunks, she'd also be reading a book in the downtime and would be likely to remark on it in her diary. So as well as adding sense of realism to the diary and consistency in her character, I thought this 'ther book' could be a useful tool to a draw out some of the substrata of this diary section (and/or later sections).
At first, I thought this other book might be one that I make up, so that I could make it link to those parts of the diegesis I wanted. I got as far as coming up with a name, The Voyage of The Penobscot, and liberally sprinkled square brackets through the diary entries saying: "[something about reading Voyage of the Penobscot]".
Aside: I had a little internal battle over including a character reading another book, real or made-up, in my own novel, because I know it happens too often in fiction and can be symptomatic of what you might call exogenous writing (writing that draws it's power from the outside associations it draws into it's own frame) rather than endogenous (writing powered by its own motor, though it can certainly make connections to other works). In the end I felt satisfied that I'd been led down this path of having a character read a novel by the fact my character is a novel-reader, and this character trait is a direct result of the cloistered upbringing, which in turn comes about as the result of a decision of her father, which is the key decision in the novel and the motor that drives the plot).
One thing that happens all the time when writing, but especially when writing longer works, is that you find what you need from what's going on in your real life at the time. Having written a few failed novels already, I know to be wary of incorporating too much fresh thinking into the structure or plot of a novel that you're part-way through. But for the small details, it's perfectly fine to mention a TV show you've been obsessing over in your time away from the desk (if you're writing a contemporary story). A novel is a patchwork of real-time thoughts, ideas and associations thrown over the pre-erected framework of your story. Sometimes you need to bend and adjust the framework so it supports the patchwork you're creating, and that's fine so long as it's being driven by the characters you've created and the decisions they're making, rather than your fervent desire to write something about ponaturi (sea fairies).
So I've been listening to Nicholas Nickleby on my iPod these past few weeks and noticing how certain elements mirror, albeit imperfectly, elements in the diarist's life. And I thought: 'Could she be reading Dickens' novel rather than The Voyage of the Penobscot?' In many ways her reading her own life into Nicholas Nickleby would mirror my own reading/listening experience, looking for points of similarity and difference with the novel I'm writing.
There are pros and cons both for using q real book and q made-up one. But right now I feel like it's better to have the book she reads imperfectly reflecting her life than risk it being too perfect for the novel (even if she doesn't pick up on the true significance of everything at the time).
Serendipity, controlled imperfection, drudgery: three things that should be on your shopping list if you plan on baking a novel.
Looking Back, Looking Forward
No one ever asks me, 'Why do you still keep a blog now that you have a column?' Maybe I'm the one one who wonders about this sometimes. Because for long stretches of time there's not a lot to write about in a writer's life. At least not this one's.
When I go to work for my 2-day working week, people often ask me how THE NOVEL is going, which is a fair question, but difficult to answer, especially if they've asked you this the week before and again the week before that. I think they're all waiting for the day I say, 'It's finished' and they can ask about the sexy stuff like covers and sales figures. Hell, I'm looking forward to the sexy stuff. But for now it's drudge drudge drudge, and there doesn't seem a lot that's blog-worthy (or column-worthy) about this.
Something I can talk about with a certain amount of perspective is my old book (it's only in the last four months that A Man Melting has felt like my old book, not my only book). I received a royalties statement from my publisher a few weeks ago that made interesting reading. The statements come every six months and this was my second one, covering sales from Jan-June this year (so sales from 6-12 months after A Man Melting was released, but covering the period I won the regional Commonwealth Writers Prize [March] and the overall Best First Book [May]).
The good news: I've earnt back my advance and last week got a small (3 figures) royalty payment.
The rub: This isn't saying much when my advance was very small to begin with. To put it in perspective, I've earnt less (advance + royalty payment) from 12 months of sales of my 320 page, 18 story collection than I have from selling one 6,000 word short story to the Griffith Review in Australia. Of course, A Man Melting opened a lot of doors (it helped get me my column, it's taken me to Australia three times and Auckland twice, it won some prize money, it helped get a Creative NZ grant to assist with writing THE NOVEL, etc etc) but in pure sales terms, it's small biscuits. Which is fine. For some reason people don't buy short story collections in the same numbers as they buy novels. Maybe it's because after reading a collection of short stories it's hard to read novels as they seem so flabby and gratuitous… Maybe that's just a reflection of where I'm at with THE NOVEL.
More good news: I've sold roughly as many copies of A Man Melting in Australia as I have in New Zealand. Not many first time NZ authors can say this.
The rub: Australian sales are classed as exports, so I get a smaller royalty percentage. (Also, NZ sales figures are relatively small, so it's not that hard to equal a small number). But I'm grateful to have had the support of Random House Australia when I've been over there the last two times and it seems there are some of my books in Aussie book stores, which is pretty cool.
I keep having to remind myself that I didn't expect any Australian sales when the book came out in July 2010. I've mentioned on this blog already how I expected the whimper of noise around the book to die out back in November 2010 and that it was time to muscle up with the next book. But I've been lucky and A Man Melting kept popping up in various places.
I was looking forward to the post-publication world and it hasn't disappointed. The scary thing is meeting raised expectations (mostly my own) for the next book. It seems wrong to think about the post-publication world for THE NOVEL right now and use it as an incentive to finish the damned thing, but I'll take whatever works. And thinking about finding the right title and giving it the perfect cover (no long haired women in period costume!!) and talking about it as a finished piece of story telling… well, that does just enough for me to stop blogging and return to 1919…
Delivering the Goods
To counter the sense of drudgery and general mire my novel writing had entered, I started mixing up the music I listen to while I write.
You can get a sense of what's generally on heavy rotation as a write from the playlists I post here from time to time. As a rule: not a lot of heavy metal.
To counter the general seriousness and po-facedness of how I've been feeling, I went to the Wellington City Library and got out Best Of compilations for Judas Priest, KISS, Iron Maiden and Rush, as well as Iommi featuring Black Sabbath axeman Tony Iommi with various vocalists.
And you know what? It seems to be working. The music is bold and adolescent enough to loosen the tension I might have felt had I been persisting with Radiohead (I honestly haven't liked an album of there's since Amnesiac, but I can't delete anything off my hard drive because I think I might one day come around) and Bill Callahan and Wilco.
Playlist for a teenager trapped in a novelist's body
Run to the hills - Iron Maiden
Flame on - Iommi and Ian Astbury
Love gun - Kiss
Breaking the law - Judas Priest
Limelight - Rush
Heaven and Hell - Dio
What the Dickens?
Last year I wrote about those cloud-burst moments while writing a novel when everything becomes clear and you know which way to take the story (see here and here). It's worth noting that these two posts were in relation to 'Novel B', which I later abandoned (actually, I've decided to carve it up into a couple of short stories, the literary equivalent of selling a car for scrap).
Work on THE NOVEL, my current beast of burden, has been quite different from work on Novel B. For one, THE NOVEL is historical and required/requires a lot of research, whereas Novel B was contemporary and stuck pretty closely to what one might expect of the experience of a middle class NZ male in the 21st century.
The roadblocks I encountered with Novel B were related to narrative voice (the narrator was fine for a 8-10 page short story but he wasn't built to carry a longer narrative, he enjoyed stopping and ruminating too often) and a gnawing concern that as I writer I was taking the path of least resistance.
The roadblocks with THE NOVEL have been more to do with a lack of knowledge of time and place or not quite knowing how to tell the story (rather than one first person narrator, there's a mix of first and third person from varying perspectives).
Some weeks, when I'm in the first draft flow, I can churn through scenes quickly, happily littering square brackets throughout the text where period detail needs to be checked or an example found. For example, there's a scene in the first historical section where there's a vaudeville show, which includes two real-life singers performing a duet. When I first drafted the scene, I was happy enough to write something along the lines of: "And then they sung [song title] as a duet." A few weeks later I spent a day finding the details to fill in all the square brackets in this scene.
At other times, I seem to get stuck on these small details and can't push on with a scene without filling in the blanks. Whether or not I get stuck seems to be more to do with my mood/headspace than the details themselves.
Sometimes the things in the square brackets are more significant than a song title or a type of horse-drawn carriage. Last month I was working on a section which is told in the form of a diary, written by a sixteen year old girl. She's led a cloistered life and most of her knowledge of the outside world has come from books. I knew that on top of describing the action of this part of the novel in daily chunks, she'd also be reading a book in the downtime and would be likely to remark on it in her diary. So as well as adding sense of realism to the diary and consistency in her character, I thought this 'ther book' could be a useful tool to a draw out some of the substrata of this diary section (and/or later sections).
At first, I thought this other book might be one that I make up, so that I could make it link to those parts of the diegesis I wanted. I got as far as coming up with a name, The Voyage of The Penobscot, and liberally sprinkled square brackets through the diary entries saying: "[something about reading Voyage of the Penobscot]".
Aside: I had a little internal battle over including a character reading another book, real or made-up, in my own novel, because I know it happens too often in fiction and can be symptomatic of what you might call exogenous writing (writing that draws it's power from the outside associations it draws into it's own frame) rather than endogenous (writing powered by its own motor, though it can certainly make connections to other works). In the end I felt satisfied that I'd been led down this path of having a character read a novel by the fact my character is a novel-reader, and this character trait is a direct result of the cloistered upbringing, which in turn comes about as the result of a decision of her father, which is the key decision in the novel and the motor that drives the plot).
One thing that happens all the time when writing, but especially when writing longer works, is that you find what you need from what's going on in your real life at the time. Having written a few failed novels already, I know to be wary of incorporating too much fresh thinking into the structure or plot of a novel that you're part-way through. But for the small details, it's perfectly fine to mention a TV show you've been obsessing over in your time away from the desk (if you're writing a contemporary story). A novel is a patchwork of real-time thoughts, ideas and associations thrown over the pre-erected framework of your story. Sometimes you need to bend and adjust the framework so it supports the patchwork you're creating, and that's fine so long as it's being driven by the characters you've created and the decisions they're making, rather than your fervent desire to write something about ponaturi (sea fairies).
So I've been listening to Nicholas Nickleby on my iPod these past few weeks and noticing how certain elements mirror, albeit imperfectly, elements in the diarist's life. And I thought: 'Could she be reading Dickens' novel rather than The Voyage of the Penobscot?' In many ways her reading her own life into Nicholas Nickleby would mirror my own reading/listening experience, looking for points of similarity and difference with the novel I'm writing.
There are pros and cons both for using q real book and q made-up one. But right now I feel like it's better to have the book she reads imperfectly reflecting her life than risk it being too perfect for the novel (even if she doesn't pick up on the true significance of everything at the time).
Serendipity, controlled imperfection, drudgery: three things that should be on your shopping list if you plan on baking a novel.
September 23, 2011
Away From The Desk (and I feel fine)
Soundtrack: Springtime in Vienna Wellington
I'm struggling with THE NOVEL at the moment. More to the point, I'm struggling with my attention span. To counter this I've been trying to get out of the house more so it doesn't feel like I'm permanently in front of a screen (over winter, I pretty much was).
Last Friday I went with my brother to the Karori Sanctuary to bush walk and take photos of birds.
Photographic Evidence:
Kaka eating some kind of nut
Hihi (stitchbird) - male
Korimako (bellbird)Last weekend M. and I went for a walk with friends from the Brooklyn Windmill to Red Rocks. It took four and half hours or so and was pretty awesome.
The South Coast from the Radome Track
Makara Wind Farm, Cook Strait and the South Island
Our lunch spot
View of the South Coast from above Red Rocks
In terms of wildlife, we saw goats, seals and ostrich (though these weren't exactly wild...
Ostrich doing the Boredom Dance
Last night my mum was down from Palmy so we went out for dinner and checked out the RWC2011 Fan Zone on the waterfront (Aussie was playing USA in the Caketin at the time). It was also the first night, I think, of the festival of lights. Different designs were projected on buildings like the boat shed, St Johns and the Stock Exchange Building.
Jazzy St Johns
Burlesque Stock Exchange
Stained Glass Stock Exchange
Ivy League Stock Exchange
I've also been to the Otari-Wilton's Bush twice in two weeks. The first time was an unplanned stop and I didn't have my camera, so of course I saw two karearea (NZ falcon) which I've yet to photograph, and a keruru (I didn't spot any of them in the Karori sanctuary on my recent visit, though I've seen plenty before).
Today I had my camera, so of course all I saw were tui and grey warblers (too quick to photograph) and robins (too dark to photograph). Thems the breaks.
Tui at Otari-Wilton's Bush
I'm struggling with THE NOVEL at the moment. More to the point, I'm struggling with my attention span. To counter this I've been trying to get out of the house more so it doesn't feel like I'm permanently in front of a screen (over winter, I pretty much was).
Last Friday I went with my brother to the Karori Sanctuary to bush walk and take photos of birds.
Photographic Evidence:
Kaka eating some kind of nut
Hihi (stitchbird) - male
Korimako (bellbird)Last weekend M. and I went for a walk with friends from the Brooklyn Windmill to Red Rocks. It took four and half hours or so and was pretty awesome.
The South Coast from the Radome Track
Makara Wind Farm, Cook Strait and the South Island
Our lunch spot
View of the South Coast from above Red RocksIn terms of wildlife, we saw goats, seals and ostrich (though these weren't exactly wild...
Ostrich doing the Boredom DanceLast night my mum was down from Palmy so we went out for dinner and checked out the RWC2011 Fan Zone on the waterfront (Aussie was playing USA in the Caketin at the time). It was also the first night, I think, of the festival of lights. Different designs were projected on buildings like the boat shed, St Johns and the Stock Exchange Building.
Jazzy St Johns
Burlesque Stock Exchange
Stained Glass Stock Exchange
Ivy League Stock ExchangeI've also been to the Otari-Wilton's Bush twice in two weeks. The first time was an unplanned stop and I didn't have my camera, so of course I saw two karearea (NZ falcon) which I've yet to photograph, and a keruru (I didn't spot any of them in the Karori sanctuary on my recent visit, though I've seen plenty before).
Today I had my camera, so of course all I saw were tui and grey warblers (too quick to photograph) and robins (too dark to photograph). Thems the breaks.
Tui at Otari-Wilton's Bush
September 21, 2011
True Stories Told Live coming to Wellington, 6 October
How's this for a line up:
Elizabeth Knox - winner of Deutz Medal for Fiction at Montana Book Awards, American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults (twice), Arts Foundation Laureate and ONZM
Kate De Goldi - winner of the 2011 Corine International Book Prize Young Readers Award and a Montana Book award in 2009, and another Arts Foundation Laureate
Neil Cross - lead scriptwriter for BBC TV show'Spook' and the creator of 'Luther', as well as the writer of several best-selling crime novels and a memoir
Duncan Sarkies - winner of a number of playwriting awards, co-writer of the film 'Scarfies' and author of 'Two Little Boys' which is being (has been?) made into a movie (also wrote episodes for Flight of the Conchords)
Jenny Pattrick - author of two of New Zealand's best selling novels of all time
Chris Bourke - winner of everything he could (best book, best non-fiction, reader's choice) at this year's NZ Post Book Awards.
And if that embarrassment of riches isn't enough, it seems the NZ Book Council have managed to wrangle one more big name for their 'True Stories Told Live' event in Wellington on 6 October... a certain Craig Cliff.
Okay, so maybe I'm not as decorated or famous as the others...
Okay, not nearly as decorated or famous, which is partly why I'm so chuffed to be taking part.
The only problem is the 10 minutes I have to fill 'unscripted'... and telling the truth!
I have my annual mole check up that morning, so hopefully it's good news or else it'll be an uncomfortable ten minutes for everyone.
The details:
Where: St Andrew's on The Terrace, 30 The Terrace, Wellington.
When: OCTOBER 6, 6.00pm.
Tickets: $20.00 or $15.00 for NZBC members, on the door or online at www.bookcouncil.org.nz.
Elizabeth Knox - winner of Deutz Medal for Fiction at Montana Book Awards, American Library Association Best Book for Young Adults (twice), Arts Foundation Laureate and ONZM
Kate De Goldi - winner of the 2011 Corine International Book Prize Young Readers Award and a Montana Book award in 2009, and another Arts Foundation Laureate
Neil Cross - lead scriptwriter for BBC TV show'Spook' and the creator of 'Luther', as well as the writer of several best-selling crime novels and a memoir
Duncan Sarkies - winner of a number of playwriting awards, co-writer of the film 'Scarfies' and author of 'Two Little Boys' which is being (has been?) made into a movie (also wrote episodes for Flight of the Conchords)
Jenny Pattrick - author of two of New Zealand's best selling novels of all time
Chris Bourke - winner of everything he could (best book, best non-fiction, reader's choice) at this year's NZ Post Book Awards.
And if that embarrassment of riches isn't enough, it seems the NZ Book Council have managed to wrangle one more big name for their 'True Stories Told Live' event in Wellington on 6 October... a certain Craig Cliff.
Okay, so maybe I'm not as decorated or famous as the others...
Okay, not nearly as decorated or famous, which is partly why I'm so chuffed to be taking part.
The only problem is the 10 minutes I have to fill 'unscripted'... and telling the truth!
I have my annual mole check up that morning, so hopefully it's good news or else it'll be an uncomfortable ten minutes for everyone.
The details:
Where: St Andrew's on The Terrace, 30 The Terrace, Wellington.
When: OCTOBER 6, 6.00pm.
Tickets: $20.00 or $15.00 for NZBC members, on the door or online at www.bookcouncil.org.nz.
September 19, 2011
Top Ten New Yorker Fiction Podcasts So Far
A preamble of lists The New Yorker Fiction Podcast has been going since December 2006. There have been 52 so far, with a new one appearing online every month. Each podcast follows six clearly defined stages:
1. Theme tune [bum-bum-bu-bum, bum-bum-bu-bum, an earworm that has become a Pavlovian trigger for mental salivation].
2. Intro from The New Yorker's fiction editor, Deborah Treisman, stating the name of the story from the New Yorker's archives, the author of the story, the New Yorker contributor who has selected the story and a snippet of the contributor reading it.
3. Brief discussion between Deborah Treisman and the contributor about the story (Why did they select it? Where did they first come across this writer? etc).
4. Contributor (or, in a few cases, someone else) reads the story.
5. Longer discussion between Deborah Treisman and the contributor about the story, often covering any connections with the contributor's own work.
6. Credits and another dose of bum-bum-bu-bum.
---
The top three reasons why I have compiled a list of the top ten New Yorker Fiction podcasts so far:
1. To promote the podcasts in general – they're great, especially if you like to get out of a short story, kick the tires and look under the hood.
2. To promote the best podcasts in particular – if you're only willing to risk downloading one episode, make it one of the ten below and it should be worth your while.
3. To show, in a roundabout way, my tastes in short fiction at this point in time (I've listened to all the podcasts in the last 6 months or so) which might then illuminate other things I write about books and short fiction on this blog (or, heaven forbid, my own fiction).
---
I didn't come up with any criteria before ranking the podcasts, but if I did, these are the four main criteria I might've used:
1. Quality of the story
2. Quality of the discussion (a close second, especially when it's a story I've read before)
3. X-factor factor (usually relates to hearing one writer I like/admire talking about another writer I like/admire, or the fact the podcasts brings to my attention a writer I wasn't aware of or hadn't got around to reading yet)
4. Quality of the reading (not all writers are born to read aloud).
Bonus criteria: No writer can have more than one story in the top ten. Just coz.
---
The Top Ten New Yorker Fiction Podcasts So Far (according to yours truly)
1. Paul Theroux reads Jorge Luis Borges's short story "The Gospel According to Mark" (listen here)A student stays with his uneducated cousins on the pampas. They have long since lapsed into illiteracy. When he starts reading to them from the family Bible, he is elevated to dangerous heights in their eyes...
I tried reading Labyrinths while I was an undergrad, but felt more muddled than inspired by stories like "Library of Babel". Perhaps it's time to return to Borges, because I found "The Gospel According to Mark" simple, sharp and memorable.
2. Julian Barnes reads Frank O'Connor's "The Man of the World" (listen here)
A young boy who has trouble getting beyond the surface appearance of things, spends the night at a friend's place to catch a glimpse of the young couple next door...
I've read several of O'Connor's stories (he pops up a lot in anthologies with titles like 'Great Short Stories From Around the World'), but hadn't come across this story before. I wonder why, since it is perfect in almost every way.
3. Donald Antrim reads Donald Barthelme's short story "I Bought a Little City" (listen here)
The narrator buys Galveston, Texas and sets about making some changes...
Classic Barthelme. Outlandish conceit with stylistic implications. No word seems out of place. A close second is Barthelme's "Concerning the Bodyguard", read by Salman Rushdie, which is told almost entirely in questions. Rushdie's reason for chosing the story is probably the best response in all the 52 podcasts (he's spent his far share of time with bodyguards), but it's Antrim's voice and the opening line, "So I bought a little city," that shades it.
4. Richard Ford reads John Cheever's short story "Reunion" (listen here)
A son meets his father for lunch in Grand Central Station. In him, he sees "my future and my doom"...
I'm a sucker for father-son stories. This one is so concise, so patterned, so understated, so heartbreaking. It's one of the podcasts I have listened to multiple times and quote sometimes in bars to the bemused faces of everyone else ("Two Bibson Geefeaters").
Cheever's "The Swimmer", read by Anne Enright, is another great story and podcast. Very different from "Reunion", much more to chew on, more metaphysical, but "Reunion" is a five minute wonder and gets my vote.
5. Cynthia Ozick reads Steven Millhauser's "In the Reign of Harad IV" (listen here)
The King's miniature maker's pursuit of excellence takes him beyond the what the eye can see...
This is an interesting podcast. Ozick's reading is stitled and can be hard to get into, but her poetic advice to readers more than makes up for this. Millhauser's story is itself a perfect miniature of an antique, magical world. A kind of "The Emperor's New Clothes" from the tailor's perspective, except there's no shortage of skeptics here.
6. Joshua Ferris reads George Saunders's "Adams" (listen here)
The narrator finds his neighbour, Adams, looking in the direction of his kid's room in his underwear...
I love me some Saunders. "Adams" isn't my all-time favourite of his stories, but it's good enough to make it onto this list. In fact, it works better aloud than on the page (all the talk about "wonking" Adams). Much credit to Josh Ferris' reading. Ferris' "The Dinner Party", read by Monica Ali, sadly suffered the reverse fate: a story I loved when I first read it in 2008, but it felt less fresh when hearing it on the podcast. Thems the breaks.
7. Tobias Wolff reads Stephanie Vaughn's short story "Dog Heaven" (listen here)
Reflections on life growing up as a kid on military bases, featuring a talking dog...
This podcast brought Stephanie Vaughn to my attention. Such a rich, intricate story of childhood. As Wolff comments: it's a kind of childhood that I haven't read about before.
8. Tobias Wolff reads Denis Johnson's "Emergency" (listen here)
The narrator and a hopsital orderly get mashed on mystery pills; meanwhile a man walks into the emergency ward staffed with a knife sticking out of his eye...
Wolff couldn't choose between Vaughn's story and Johnson's, so he twisted Deborah Treisman's arm and got to do two podcasts. Well, I don't blame anyone because I have trouble choosing which story/podcast I prefer. Unlike "Dog Heaven", I'd read "Emergency" before, first as a set reading in an undergrad writing workshop, then as part of Jesus' Son. It's a great story and stands up well in this new environment.
9. Sam Lipsyte reads Thomas McGuane's "Cowboy" (listen here)
A ranch hand with a shady past finds a steady job where they ask no questions...
I read this as part of the anthology Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar: Stories of Work, which I reviewed for The Listener earlier this year. At the time, I'd started working my way through the podcasts, but hadn't made it to Lipsyte's reading. Hearing it again soon helped highlight the great tenderness at the story's heart and cemented its place in my top ten.
10. Louise Erdrich reads Lorrie Moore's short story "Dance in America" (listen here)
A dance teacher stationed in the midwest goes to dinner with an old friend and his new family...
What am I thinking? This story needs to be higher. This is a story I'd tell people to read if they needed to be won over by the short story form. Same goes for the podcast. But what stories can it leapfrog? Ask me again in a couple of months and this might be number one... For now, it's number ten and only just edges out the honorable mentions: Jennifer Egan reads Lore Segal's "The Reverse Bug" and Thomas McGuane reads James Salter's "Last Night."
---
So, that's my top ten. What's yours?
September 13, 2011
Going West / Reading / Killing Moon / Columnist Godfather
Going West
The view from my bed & breakfast in Titirangi
I was in Titirangi, West Auckland, on Saturday and Sunday for Going West Books and Writers Festival. It was a real contrast to Melbourne the previous weekend, with a lot of aspects being in Going West's favour (see the view above).
I didn't connect with any Canadian musicians this time, but I did meet a student who has recently moved to NZ from Nigeria who told me he'd heard of me before he came here (the Commonwealth Prize is a big deal over there, with Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche being a more recent overall winner) and even read a review of A Man Melting in a Nigerian newspaper. I'm not sure if this will ever be verified (the internet is silent in this instance), and it's not likely anyone in Nigeria would by a copy… My Nigerian friend in Titirangi told me that he waited until he moved here, then borrowed a copy from his local library. Oh well.
My session, 'Early Days Yet', with Tanya Moir, author of the historical novel La Rochelle's Road, went well. It was ably chaired by novelist Tina Shaw, who had clearly read and engaged with both books. Interestingly for me, Tina's questions focussed on some stories I haven't been asked to discuss often (if at all): 'Oh! So Careless', 'Parisian Blue' and 'Fat Camp'. I had intended to read a section from 'Oh! So Careless' (which is one of the few stories I've yet to read from in public) but we kinda covered that passage in conversation, so I hastily chose a section toward the end of 'Facing Galapagos', which got a few laughs (hoorah!)
Recent Reading
I'm struggling to find the time to note down my reactions to the books I've been reading. I'm also conscious that a hastily dashed off and poorly thought through 'response' can and will be misinterpreted as a review by many. But here goes, hyper-speed styles:
Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart – Similarities with Visit From the Goon Squad's futuristic sections and Shteyngart's previous novel, Absurdistan, which I really liked, but SSTLS isn't as good as either of these. It never feels like much is at stake (despite the fact the US economy is imploding and martial law is breaking out). And I've never read a book where characters sweat so much (expect, perhaps, Absurdistan). Verdict: interesting but not engaging.
Classic Crimes of Passion (audiobook) – a short story anthology featuring Guy de Maupassant, Wilkie Collins, Louisa May Alcott and others. A strange wee collection. The approach to short fiction seems quite dated in these stories. One might call it pre-Chekovian. I think that was part of the charm… though I was glad to move on to something else when it finished.
Traitor by Stephen Daisley – A difficult novel to pin down because it floats through time in the fashion of memory. Another taciturn Kiwi male looking back, in the mould of The Hut Builder, but more poignant. Strangely felt more compelling during the NZ sections than those set in Turkey, despite my almost-meltdown when I visited the peninsula a couple of years ago.
New Yorker Fiction Podcasts – 52 stories in all (I think). Will be the subject of a separate post/arbitrary top 10 list.
Lots of books about NZ's subantarctic islands (research for THE NOVEL). Seemed fitting to read during our cold snap. Might have to fill bathtub with ice during the summer months to finish the subantarctic section of my book.
Erewhon by Samuel Butler – I've tried starting this twice, but still haven't made it past page 50. Back on the book shelf now.
The Call of the Wild by Jack London – I'm reading this on my iPad. First time reading an eBook in this way. Didn't buy an iPad to be an e-reader and glad I didn't coz the backlit screen can get a bit taxing. But it's useful to have on hand for small bursts of reading. As for the book: the word 'silly' springs to mind. I prefer London's The Sea Wolf, which I read earlier this year. Same themes, but with a human main character instead of a dog.
I've just started listening to Nicholas Nickleby on my iPod. The only other book by Dickens I have read is Great Expectations, which sort of put me off reading any more. But I'm loving Nickleby. Although I do tend to love the first 60 pages of older books – the hasty biographical sketches of the main character's forebears, the dextrous narrator who can address the reader directly… but often find my enthusiasm wanes as the book proceeds, e.g. The Brothers Karamazov. Hopefully Dickens can keep it up for the next 28 hours of book-time.
Earworm of the month, or Getting ahead of myself
I've been listening to Pavement's cover of Echo and the Bunnymen's 'Killing Moon' (a.k.a. that song from Donnie Darko) a lot these past few weeks. What a fantastic five minutes and change.
I have been wilfully mis-singing the line, "So take him to the end of his temper" (around 3:40) as "So take him to the end of this tableau" because it fits better with THE NOVEL, which has a way of bringing things into its orbit and bending them to its will.
Mark this down as a song for the book's playlist once it's finished and ready to enter the world.
Invitation to a beheading
If my brief Going West summary above isn't enough, you'll be pleased to know I compare and contrast Melbourne and Going West festivals in whatever detail 500 words can afford in next fortnight's column in the Dominion Post.
Which reminds me: one of the best sessions I attended at Going West featured columnists Deborah Cone-Hill and Jane Bowron, chaired by fellow columnist Steve Braunias. It was fascinating to watch three seasoned practitioners of THE COLUMN (the regular deadline means it can be just as imposing and obstreperous as THE NOVEL and even more interminable) discuss the craft.
At the cocktail party that evening, held to celebrate the announcement of a new writers residency in Maurice Shadboldt's old house Titirangi, I had a delicious Turkish Delight cocktail and a brief chat with Mr Braunias (who was stubbornly drinking beer). He clearly didn't recall our one minute conversation at the Auckland Writers Festival, but seemed interested in the fact I also wrote a column. In fact, the next day he told me via Twitter he'd been reading this very blog (he liked the stuff about birds, so that makes two of us!) and asked for a link to my columns.
One hesitates at such moments. Steve Braunias is New Zealand's most famous columnist but he's also famously acerbic. Giving him a link to my columns could end in so many terrible ways: sudden silence and a claim to not remember me the next time our paths cross; featuring in one of his own columns as a no-talent upstart ('The Secret Diary of Cliff Craig'… oh, how it stings); or a joke at my expense he shares with his literary chums that somehow finds its way back to my ears…
But I sent the link (luckily only a handful of my columns appear on Stuff.co.nz, and not all of them are filed in the same place).
It's not like the guy can't Google.
The view from my bed & breakfast in TitirangiI was in Titirangi, West Auckland, on Saturday and Sunday for Going West Books and Writers Festival. It was a real contrast to Melbourne the previous weekend, with a lot of aspects being in Going West's favour (see the view above).
I didn't connect with any Canadian musicians this time, but I did meet a student who has recently moved to NZ from Nigeria who told me he'd heard of me before he came here (the Commonwealth Prize is a big deal over there, with Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche being a more recent overall winner) and even read a review of A Man Melting in a Nigerian newspaper. I'm not sure if this will ever be verified (the internet is silent in this instance), and it's not likely anyone in Nigeria would by a copy… My Nigerian friend in Titirangi told me that he waited until he moved here, then borrowed a copy from his local library. Oh well.
My session, 'Early Days Yet', with Tanya Moir, author of the historical novel La Rochelle's Road, went well. It was ably chaired by novelist Tina Shaw, who had clearly read and engaged with both books. Interestingly for me, Tina's questions focussed on some stories I haven't been asked to discuss often (if at all): 'Oh! So Careless', 'Parisian Blue' and 'Fat Camp'. I had intended to read a section from 'Oh! So Careless' (which is one of the few stories I've yet to read from in public) but we kinda covered that passage in conversation, so I hastily chose a section toward the end of 'Facing Galapagos', which got a few laughs (hoorah!)
Recent Reading
I'm struggling to find the time to note down my reactions to the books I've been reading. I'm also conscious that a hastily dashed off and poorly thought through 'response' can and will be misinterpreted as a review by many. But here goes, hyper-speed styles:
Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart – Similarities with Visit From the Goon Squad's futuristic sections and Shteyngart's previous novel, Absurdistan, which I really liked, but SSTLS isn't as good as either of these. It never feels like much is at stake (despite the fact the US economy is imploding and martial law is breaking out). And I've never read a book where characters sweat so much (expect, perhaps, Absurdistan). Verdict: interesting but not engaging. Classic Crimes of Passion (audiobook) – a short story anthology featuring Guy de Maupassant, Wilkie Collins, Louisa May Alcott and others. A strange wee collection. The approach to short fiction seems quite dated in these stories. One might call it pre-Chekovian. I think that was part of the charm… though I was glad to move on to something else when it finished.
Traitor by Stephen Daisley – A difficult novel to pin down because it floats through time in the fashion of memory. Another taciturn Kiwi male looking back, in the mould of The Hut Builder, but more poignant. Strangely felt more compelling during the NZ sections than those set in Turkey, despite my almost-meltdown when I visited the peninsula a couple of years ago. New Yorker Fiction Podcasts – 52 stories in all (I think). Will be the subject of a separate post/arbitrary top 10 list.
Lots of books about NZ's subantarctic islands (research for THE NOVEL). Seemed fitting to read during our cold snap. Might have to fill bathtub with ice during the summer months to finish the subantarctic section of my book. Erewhon by Samuel Butler – I've tried starting this twice, but still haven't made it past page 50. Back on the book shelf now.
The Call of the Wild by Jack London – I'm reading this on my iPad. First time reading an eBook in this way. Didn't buy an iPad to be an e-reader and glad I didn't coz the backlit screen can get a bit taxing. But it's useful to have on hand for small bursts of reading. As for the book: the word 'silly' springs to mind. I prefer London's The Sea Wolf, which I read earlier this year. Same themes, but with a human main character instead of a dog.
I've just started listening to Nicholas Nickleby on my iPod. The only other book by Dickens I have read is Great Expectations, which sort of put me off reading any more. But I'm loving Nickleby. Although I do tend to love the first 60 pages of older books – the hasty biographical sketches of the main character's forebears, the dextrous narrator who can address the reader directly… but often find my enthusiasm wanes as the book proceeds, e.g. The Brothers Karamazov. Hopefully Dickens can keep it up for the next 28 hours of book-time. Earworm of the month, or Getting ahead of myself
I've been listening to Pavement's cover of Echo and the Bunnymen's 'Killing Moon' (a.k.a. that song from Donnie Darko) a lot these past few weeks. What a fantastic five minutes and change.
I have been wilfully mis-singing the line, "So take him to the end of his temper" (around 3:40) as "So take him to the end of this tableau" because it fits better with THE NOVEL, which has a way of bringing things into its orbit and bending them to its will.
Mark this down as a song for the book's playlist once it's finished and ready to enter the world.
Invitation to a beheading
If my brief Going West summary above isn't enough, you'll be pleased to know I compare and contrast Melbourne and Going West festivals in whatever detail 500 words can afford in next fortnight's column in the Dominion Post.
Which reminds me: one of the best sessions I attended at Going West featured columnists Deborah Cone-Hill and Jane Bowron, chaired by fellow columnist Steve Braunias. It was fascinating to watch three seasoned practitioners of THE COLUMN (the regular deadline means it can be just as imposing and obstreperous as THE NOVEL and even more interminable) discuss the craft.
At the cocktail party that evening, held to celebrate the announcement of a new writers residency in Maurice Shadboldt's old house Titirangi, I had a delicious Turkish Delight cocktail and a brief chat with Mr Braunias (who was stubbornly drinking beer). He clearly didn't recall our one minute conversation at the Auckland Writers Festival, but seemed interested in the fact I also wrote a column. In fact, the next day he told me via Twitter he'd been reading this very blog (he liked the stuff about birds, so that makes two of us!) and asked for a link to my columns.
One hesitates at such moments. Steve Braunias is New Zealand's most famous columnist but he's also famously acerbic. Giving him a link to my columns could end in so many terrible ways: sudden silence and a claim to not remember me the next time our paths cross; featuring in one of his own columns as a no-talent upstart ('The Secret Diary of Cliff Craig'… oh, how it stings); or a joke at my expense he shares with his literary chums that somehow finds its way back to my ears…
But I sent the link (luckily only a handful of my columns appear on Stuff.co.nz, and not all of them are filed in the same place).
It's not like the guy can't Google.
September 6, 2011
My Melbourne Writers Festival 2011
I flew to Melbourne on Friday afternoon, arriving in time to meet up for dinner with Eleanor Catton (with whom I was to appear in a session on Sunday), Ellie's sister, and NZ writer Julian Novitz who's been living in Melbourne for the last five or so years.
We went to a fantastic dumpling restaurant in China Town. I felt a bit like I was in a Sarah Laing comic, they were some good dumplings… My brother's going to China in a few weeks and now I have another reason to be jealous.
My two sessions at the festival were not until Sunday morning, so I had Saturday all to myself. I went along to 'in conversation' sessions with
In the afternoon I explored downtown Melbourne and bought an iPad2 from JB HiFi (thanks to Australia's Tax Refund for Traveller's scheme it was a lot cheaper than in NZ, and duty-free prices are just a joke), before catching
At 10am on Sunday I appeared along with David Morley in the festival's final (free)
Morley was followed by Hannah Jane Walker, who recited a poem from her show, The Oh F**k Moment. Next up was Chinese-Australian poet, novelist and translator Ouyang Yu, who read a number of poems. Whether by design or chance, the poetry was bookended by another prose writer, Felix J Palma, who launched into a detailed explanation of his novel, The Map of Time in his native Spanish. He then gave his eight-to-ten minute reading... in Spanish. It was lovely to hear him read and my traveller's espanol was truly tested (I got that there was time travel between the year two thousand ten and Victorian England, and the main character's name was Shackleton). Then Palma's translator stepped to the podium and explained the novel and repeated the reading in English – which got a lot of laughs this time, so clearly I wasn't the only one missing the nuances the first time around.
So in all, a lovely session. My only problem was it ran well over time, and I had another session starting at 11.30 and needed to meet the chair for the first time, get mic'ed up and all that. But it all worked out fine and there was no need for el tiempo de viaje.
This next session was 'New NZ Fiction' featuring me and Ellie Catton, chaired by Sue Green. We each gave readings of about 5 mins: Ellie from one of the Saxaphone Teacher's speeches early on in The Rehearsal; me Part 3 (on rejections) from my love letter to Wikipedia, 'Orbital Resonance'.
[image error]Ellie Catton, Sue Green and moi at 'New NZ Fiction'
(taken by Antonia, my assigned Random House Australia publicist... I think the dreamy, spectral look is in this Spring)
We were then asked to tackle the question of what it means to be an NZ writer (and who qualifies as an NZ writer)... which is quite a difficult topic for anyone to grapple with, let alone two twenty-something writers with one published book each to their name. One inescapable fact was that, despite the quality of books being published in NZ (something we both had to stick up for!), it's hard to find many NZ books in Australian book stores, let alone countries further afield. (Heck, it's hard to find my book in New Zealand!). My view (again, I'm not the best qualified person to comment on this), is that it boils down to distribution models as much as it does market appetite: you can't buy what you don't know about or can't get a hold of.
(After the session I met up with the guy who edits the NZ Society of Author's magazine and I might be writing something longer and more considered about the opportunity new distribution models present NZ (and other small market) writers to break-out rather than waiting for a Booker nomination or a feature film based on one of your books.)
Anyway, it was an interesting discussion, but afterwards I wished we had had more of a chance to talk about our own work. Luckily, I got to talk to Ellie quite a bit outside of the session: it seems we're both writing novels that are set in the past but aren't entirely comfortable with them being called historical novels because of the connotations this carries. (Basically, I'm trying to write something that isn't a romance in period costume; while the action in Ellie's novel sounds like it has a lot to do with, of all things, astrology...).
In the afternoon Julian Novitz and I went to two panel discussions:
After which it was time for happy hour in the green room, followed by the wrap party for festival volunteers (and thirsty writers who just don't know when to call it a day). At the party I got talking to a Canadian writer called
I told Dave about my Tragically Hip fanaticism (including my framed set list from a Paradiso gig in Amsterdam in 2008) and he offered to put me in touch with the Hip's front man Gord Downie, who's a voracious reader, so I could send him a copy of my book.
Pause for effect.
Now, I was several free drinks into the evening and I know I have a tendency to talk too much about pet topics in this state (later that evening I described my kiwi tracking expedition, complete with full-volume kiwi calls) and the morning after I was like, there's no way Dave's gonna follow through and hook me up with Gord f'n Downie. Not because Mr Bidini didn't seem like a nice, genuine guy (we also talked about hockey and he convinced me that fighting in hockey is unnecessary and should be eliminated from the sport's culture like drink driving… something I had previously thought was one of the best things about the sport [the fighting, not the drink driving])...
But today I received an email from Mr Bidini:
Gord also said:
So yeah, that was my Melbourne Writers Festival. My third ever fest as a participant (after Auckland and Sydney in May). One should never forget about the readers/audience members, as that the reason any of it happens, but making connections with other writers and booky-peops is surprisingly fun...
I'm off to Going West Festival in Titirangi on Saturday. It promises to be a different, more intimate festival experience. M's coming with me this time, we're being put up in a lovely bed and breakfast and have a rental car for the weekend.
But first it's time to bash out a few thousand more words on THE NOVEL…
We went to a fantastic dumpling restaurant in China Town. I felt a bit like I was in a Sarah Laing comic, they were some good dumplings… My brother's going to China in a few weeks and now I have another reason to be jealous.
My two sessions at the festival were not until Sunday morning, so I had Saturday all to myself. I went along to 'in conversation' sessions with
In the afternoon I explored downtown Melbourne and bought an iPad2 from JB HiFi (thanks to Australia's Tax Refund for Traveller's scheme it was a lot cheaper than in NZ, and duty-free prices are just a joke), before catching
At 10am on Sunday I appeared along with David Morley in the festival's final (free)
Morley was followed by Hannah Jane Walker, who recited a poem from her show, The Oh F**k Moment. Next up was Chinese-Australian poet, novelist and translator Ouyang Yu, who read a number of poems. Whether by design or chance, the poetry was bookended by another prose writer, Felix J Palma, who launched into a detailed explanation of his novel, The Map of Time in his native Spanish. He then gave his eight-to-ten minute reading... in Spanish. It was lovely to hear him read and my traveller's espanol was truly tested (I got that there was time travel between the year two thousand ten and Victorian England, and the main character's name was Shackleton). Then Palma's translator stepped to the podium and explained the novel and repeated the reading in English – which got a lot of laughs this time, so clearly I wasn't the only one missing the nuances the first time around.
So in all, a lovely session. My only problem was it ran well over time, and I had another session starting at 11.30 and needed to meet the chair for the first time, get mic'ed up and all that. But it all worked out fine and there was no need for el tiempo de viaje.
This next session was 'New NZ Fiction' featuring me and Ellie Catton, chaired by Sue Green. We each gave readings of about 5 mins: Ellie from one of the Saxaphone Teacher's speeches early on in The Rehearsal; me Part 3 (on rejections) from my love letter to Wikipedia, 'Orbital Resonance'.
[image error]Ellie Catton, Sue Green and moi at 'New NZ Fiction'
(taken by Antonia, my assigned Random House Australia publicist... I think the dreamy, spectral look is in this Spring)
We were then asked to tackle the question of what it means to be an NZ writer (and who qualifies as an NZ writer)... which is quite a difficult topic for anyone to grapple with, let alone two twenty-something writers with one published book each to their name. One inescapable fact was that, despite the quality of books being published in NZ (something we both had to stick up for!), it's hard to find many NZ books in Australian book stores, let alone countries further afield. (Heck, it's hard to find my book in New Zealand!). My view (again, I'm not the best qualified person to comment on this), is that it boils down to distribution models as much as it does market appetite: you can't buy what you don't know about or can't get a hold of.
(After the session I met up with the guy who edits the NZ Society of Author's magazine and I might be writing something longer and more considered about the opportunity new distribution models present NZ (and other small market) writers to break-out rather than waiting for a Booker nomination or a feature film based on one of your books.)
Anyway, it was an interesting discussion, but afterwards I wished we had had more of a chance to talk about our own work. Luckily, I got to talk to Ellie quite a bit outside of the session: it seems we're both writing novels that are set in the past but aren't entirely comfortable with them being called historical novels because of the connotations this carries. (Basically, I'm trying to write something that isn't a romance in period costume; while the action in Ellie's novel sounds like it has a lot to do with, of all things, astrology...).
In the afternoon Julian Novitz and I went to two panel discussions:
After which it was time for happy hour in the green room, followed by the wrap party for festival volunteers (and thirsty writers who just don't know when to call it a day). At the party I got talking to a Canadian writer called
I told Dave about my Tragically Hip fanaticism (including my framed set list from a Paradiso gig in Amsterdam in 2008) and he offered to put me in touch with the Hip's front man Gord Downie, who's a voracious reader, so I could send him a copy of my book.
Pause for effect.
Now, I was several free drinks into the evening and I know I have a tendency to talk too much about pet topics in this state (later that evening I described my kiwi tracking expedition, complete with full-volume kiwi calls) and the morning after I was like, there's no way Dave's gonna follow through and hook me up with Gord f'n Downie. Not because Mr Bidini didn't seem like a nice, genuine guy (we also talked about hockey and he convinced me that fighting in hockey is unnecessary and should be eliminated from the sport's culture like drink driving… something I had previously thought was one of the best things about the sport [the fighting, not the drink driving])...
But today I received an email from Mr Bidini:
C: Gord's reply below, Holmes.And then a bit later -- to the sound of Handel's Messiah and in a flood of heavenly light -- an email from Mr Downie himself arrived in my inbox. I will be sending him a copy of A Man Melting tomorrow! This is a big deal because, among other things, I listened to over 1,000 Hip songs during 2008, when I wrote most of the book and there are at least two song titles ('So hard done by' and 'Yawning or snarling') embedded in the text.
He will be sending u an email.
Don't shit yr pants.
Gord also said:
'We - the hip - are about to reconvene for a record we've half-finished. It's gonna be a good one, I think. Perhaps, I can reciprocate by sending you an advanced copy in the new year?'I managed to keep from shitting my pants, but my head totally asploded!
So yeah, that was my Melbourne Writers Festival. My third ever fest as a participant (after Auckland and Sydney in May). One should never forget about the readers/audience members, as that the reason any of it happens, but making connections with other writers and booky-peops is surprisingly fun...
I'm off to Going West Festival in Titirangi on Saturday. It promises to be a different, more intimate festival experience. M's coming with me this time, we're being put up in a lovely bed and breakfast and have a rental car for the weekend.
But first it's time to bash out a few thousand more words on THE NOVEL…
August 29, 2011
Farewell Peka / Names #2 / Joe Cocker
Farewell Peka
I still can't bring myself to call him that ridiculous name starting with H.F. The penguin I caught up with on Pekapeka Beach on June 22, has set sail this evening for the sub-Antarctic on board the Tangaroa. I took this photo of the vessel leaving Shelley Bay from my deck just after 6pm this evening.
In the foreground is the new ASB Sports Centre in Kilbirnie. I was one of the 15,000 people who visited on its open day on Saturday. What a fantastic facility and a great community asset! Lose a penguin, gain a stadium... Yeah, we'll be fine.
Naming Characters #2
On the subject of crap names and fantastic names, here's another article from
Peka Post Script
I felt conflicted about going up to Pekapeka in June for a number of reasons, a big one being that it was a 'writing day'. In the last two months, however, I've discovered that THE NOVEL will have a portion set on one of New Zealand's sub-Antarctic Islands. Probably not Campbell Island, which is where Peka will be dropped off (or nearby), but close enough. So there'll be penguins in THE NOVEL (probably not emperors, that risk 'The Shangai Knights effect' -- or whatever the animal equivalent is?), meaning it was totally research.
Phew!
Palmy's Pushkin
I have nearly finished listening to all of the New Yorker Fiction Podcasts. Get excited because I'm going to do a meaningless, subject-to-personal-taste top ten stories from these podcasts when I've finished (and probably once I'm back from Melbourne).
Anyway, today on the way home from work I listened to 'My Russian Education' by Vladimir Nabokov, read by Orhan Pamuk. In the story (which is actually from Nabokov's memoir... is there such a thing as a non-fiction short story? I reckon) Nabokov mentions his father's passions: butterflies, chess problems and quoting Pushkin -- three passions Vladimir Vladimirovic inherited.
As I walked down Houghton Bay Road I thought about what passions I might have inherited from my father. He wasn't a prominent politician like Nabokov's father (nor did he get assassinated), he was a polytech lecturer in New Zealand's sixth or seventh biggest city (depending on when we're talking about and who you ask). He didn't quote Pushkin, or any poetry, but he did 'quote' Joe Cocker (and Brian Wilson and Lennon/McCartney and Captain Beefheart...).
He took me (and my mum and his mum) along to see Joe Cocker at the Rainbow Stadium. My first ever concert.
In honour of the fifth week of disruption at my flat as the landlord put in a new bathroom, and my musical inheritance, here's Joe Cocker 'quoting' The Beatles...
A Close Reading
I went to the Wellington launch of Ian Wedde's new novel, The Catastrophe, at Meow on Friday. The next day, my column appeared in the Dom Post about Wedde's poetry, specifically 'CO Products Ltd'. You can now read my column online here, but you'll just have to ferret out a copy of Good Business to read Wedde's poem (although you can read Metalworx Engineering in Best NZ Poems 2009).
The book launch on Friday was immediately followed by a concert featuring Lawnmaster, the last ever gig by The Tenderisers (featuring poet John Newton and music reviewer Simon Sweetman), and The Close Readers (lead by writer Damien Wilkins) who claimed to have only had two rehearsals but sounded pretty tight. I'm not sure if I've ever been to as literary a gig (or as musical a book launch).
I still can't bring myself to call him that ridiculous name starting with H.F. The penguin I caught up with on Pekapeka Beach on June 22, has set sail this evening for the sub-Antarctic on board the Tangaroa. I took this photo of the vessel leaving Shelley Bay from my deck just after 6pm this evening.
In the foreground is the new ASB Sports Centre in Kilbirnie. I was one of the 15,000 people who visited on its open day on Saturday. What a fantastic facility and a great community asset! Lose a penguin, gain a stadium... Yeah, we'll be fine.
Naming Characters #2
On the subject of crap names and fantastic names, here's another article from
ODD NAMES [Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XLII, 13 September 1907, Page 1]
We publish hereunder a [slightly slimmed down -- CC] selection of Odd Names. All the names are genuine, and not invented for the purpose of publication. The majority of them are taken from the records which are to be found at Doctors' Commons, Somerset House, the Probate Court, etc. England.
Temperance Dry.
Thomas Jolly Death.
Friendly Churches.
Dover Beetles.
Jonas Whalebelly.
Young Fry.
Frederick Smallbones.
Leicester Midland Railway Cope.
John Richard Pine Coffin.
Sabbath Church.
Robert Rainy Best Best.
Pickup Pickup.
Nelson Monument.
Winter Frost.
Butter Sugar.
Morning Dew.
Wilde Field Flowers.
John the Baptist Arrighi.
Christmas Day Jones.
Daft Coggins.
River Jordan.
Urbane Cheese.
Carolina Gotobed.
Petronella Frederika Mess.
Brown Fox.
Time o' Day.
Lesser Lesser.
Bride Best
Parsonage Pope.
Urbane Cook.
Christmas Day.
Honour Bright.
Jolly Death.
Henry Hot Coddlings.
Queen Victoria Burr.
Peternal Hole.
Randalina Seedlum.
Moderina Belmontina Kimberina Robertson.
Ivynest Cowmeadows.
Choice Tippling.
Ambulance Bunn.
Only Fanny Thomas Jones.
Maher-shalal-hash-bas Sturgeon.
Lily Margarine Sturgeon.
Agathos Everley Alexander Eager.
Mabel Helmingham Ethel Huntingtower Beatrice Blazonberrie, Evangeline Vise-de-lon de Oreliana, Plantagenet Plantagenet Todemag Saxon Tollemache Tollemache.
William Rains Kneebone.
Emma Sheepwash.
B. L. C. Bubb (Beelzebub)
J. L. Bird (Jail-bird)
Through Great Tribulation We Enter Into the Kingdom of Heaven Slappe.
Hurry Riches.
Diehappy Harper.
Merelthalfcar Lamb.
Kerenhappuch Death.
Jacob Choke Lambshead.
Styleman Percy Bell le Strange Herring.
Hephyibar Hibberdine.
Philbrick Frank Colechin Elliott.
Naaman Napper.
Waples Canwarden.
Tamar Anna Manship-Ewart.
John Hadnot Kiss.
Rose Shamrock Anthistle.
Baron de Roths Child.
Ann Bertha Cecilia Diana Emily Fanny Gertrude Hypatia Inez Jane Kate Louisa Maud Nora Teresa Ulysis Venus Winifred Xenophon Yetty Zeus Pepper.
Peka Post Script
I felt conflicted about going up to Pekapeka in June for a number of reasons, a big one being that it was a 'writing day'. In the last two months, however, I've discovered that THE NOVEL will have a portion set on one of New Zealand's sub-Antarctic Islands. Probably not Campbell Island, which is where Peka will be dropped off (or nearby), but close enough. So there'll be penguins in THE NOVEL (probably not emperors, that risk 'The Shangai Knights effect' -- or whatever the animal equivalent is?), meaning it was totally research.
Phew!
Palmy's Pushkin
I have nearly finished listening to all of the New Yorker Fiction Podcasts. Get excited because I'm going to do a meaningless, subject-to-personal-taste top ten stories from these podcasts when I've finished (and probably once I'm back from Melbourne).
Anyway, today on the way home from work I listened to 'My Russian Education' by Vladimir Nabokov, read by Orhan Pamuk. In the story (which is actually from Nabokov's memoir... is there such a thing as a non-fiction short story? I reckon) Nabokov mentions his father's passions: butterflies, chess problems and quoting Pushkin -- three passions Vladimir Vladimirovic inherited.
As I walked down Houghton Bay Road I thought about what passions I might have inherited from my father. He wasn't a prominent politician like Nabokov's father (nor did he get assassinated), he was a polytech lecturer in New Zealand's sixth or seventh biggest city (depending on when we're talking about and who you ask). He didn't quote Pushkin, or any poetry, but he did 'quote' Joe Cocker (and Brian Wilson and Lennon/McCartney and Captain Beefheart...).
He took me (and my mum and his mum) along to see Joe Cocker at the Rainbow Stadium. My first ever concert.
In honour of the fifth week of disruption at my flat as the landlord put in a new bathroom, and my musical inheritance, here's Joe Cocker 'quoting' The Beatles...
A Close Reading
I went to the Wellington launch of Ian Wedde's new novel, The Catastrophe, at Meow on Friday. The next day, my column appeared in the Dom Post about Wedde's poetry, specifically 'CO Products Ltd'. You can now read my column online here, but you'll just have to ferret out a copy of Good Business to read Wedde's poem (although you can read Metalworx Engineering in Best NZ Poems 2009).The book launch on Friday was immediately followed by a concert featuring Lawnmaster, the last ever gig by The Tenderisers (featuring poet John Newton and music reviewer Simon Sweetman), and The Close Readers (lead by writer Damien Wilkins) who claimed to have only had two rehearsals but sounded pretty tight. I'm not sure if I've ever been to as literary a gig (or as musical a book launch).
August 23, 2011
Naming Characters / Breaking News/ Run TMC / Going West
Naming Characters (the first instalment of many)
I've been on the hunt recently for names for secondary characters as THE NOVEL moves into a new frontier. Naming characters in semi-realistic fiction is tricky because you can't be too outlandish or too overtly symbolic, as this diminishes the sense of (semi-)reality you're labouring to create.
In the course of other fact-sourcing and fact-checking adventures, I came across
Breaking news #1
Victoria University of Wellington study reveals psychopaths prefer commerce degrees.
Hmm. I wonder how VUW feel about its psychology department taking a dump on the university's cash-cow?
Excuse me while I control+F and delete all occurrences of "Bachelor of Commerce and Administration from Victoria University of Wellington" from my CV…
Breaking news #2
Apparently lots of people don't know about ctrl+f . I struggle to believe the figure is as high as 90%, and I can say for sure that kids in NZ schools are being taught this skill and a bazillion other techie things in the inquiry-based curriculum... but still. Everyone should know ctrl+f! Otherwise you might as well just write everything by hand and read, like, paper!
Paid Work
The full text of my review of the anthology Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar: Stories About Work, edited by Richard Ford is now online at The Listener's website.
Dream Teams
Geeky-sports moment: If I could choose any two NBA teams from the past to control in a video game they would be:
1. 1990-91 Golden State Warriors, aka Run TMC (Run Tim (Hardaway) Mitch (Richmond) and Chris (Mullin). It's telling the entire team is summarised by a 3-man moniker, because Tim, Mitch and Chris basically were the Golden State Warrior's offense for three seasons (they accounted for 70+ points a game, still a record for three team mates) and, like all GSW teams, they played no defense. Mitch Richmond is my favourite NBA player of all-time and I recently brought a vintage 90-91 Richmond #23 jersey to hang on my wall (to go with my Richmond #2 Kings jersey from circa 1995).
This adorns my bedroom wall.
2. 2001-02 Sacramento Kings. I actually had a copy of NBA Live 2002 and played a full season with this squad, but 10 years hindsight and the advances in graphics and gameplay mean this team is still a tantalising proposition. And the chance to right the wrongs of history and trounce the 01-02 Lakers? Priceless. From this approximate era, I have Chris Webber and Peja Stojakovic jerseys.
My office, featuring Peja 'Antique pistol for a head' Stojakovic
So, it was with much gasping and desk-slapping that
Run TMC baby!
Meta Moment
Anyone ever noticed how I tend to rush up hodge-podge posts shortly after bearing my soul as a writer in order to push said soul-bearing further down the front page? Me neither.
Breaking news #3
Boys don't read as much as girls.
Okay, that's not so breaking (except heart-breaking, perhaps?). Actually, I found the article above
from Robert Lipsyte (Sam's father!) interesting.
Inspired by my outreach events in Sydney, my Next Year's Resolution (patent pending) is to get out to more schools and juvies and prisons and talk to young people, especially male, and show them that books aren't all written by old people (or women).
First order of business, donate some copies of A Man Melting and Jesus' Son to Mt Crawford's library!
Wicky Wicky Wild Wild West
The programme for Going West Books and Writers Festival 2011 is now online. I'm appearing in the session 'Early Days Yet' with Tanya Moir, author of La Rochelle's Road (you can read an extract of it here) on the morning of Sunday 11 September.
Not long to go now...
I've been on the hunt recently for names for secondary characters as THE NOVEL moves into a new frontier. Naming characters in semi-realistic fiction is tricky because you can't be too outlandish or too overtly symbolic, as this diminishes the sense of (semi-)reality you're labouring to create.
In the course of other fact-sourcing and fact-checking adventures, I came across
ODD NAMES Evening Post, Volume CXXIII, Issue 70, 24 March 1937, Page 18
Even the name "Appendicitis," which Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, of Oklahoma, have bestowed on a newly-arrived daughter, is no more eccentric than some to be found among English gipsies [sic] seventy years ago, says the "Manchester Guardian." Talking to a gipsy woman on Stanmore Common in 1864, Mrs. Brightwen, the naturalist, learned that her name was Trinity Smith and that her family of daughters included Levise, Centina, Cinnaminti, Cinderella, Sibernia, and Leviathan. Asked why the youngest child had been given so weighty a name, she was informed, "Well, ye see, it were the name of the big ship (the Great Eastern was at first named Leviathan), and we thought it such a pretty name that we'd give it to the next boy we got: happened it come a girl, but we thought it didn't matter much, so gave it to her."
Breaking news #1
Victoria University of Wellington study reveals psychopaths prefer commerce degrees.
Hmm. I wonder how VUW feel about its psychology department taking a dump on the university's cash-cow?
Excuse me while I control+F and delete all occurrences of "Bachelor of Commerce and Administration from Victoria University of Wellington" from my CV…
Breaking news #2
Apparently lots of people don't know about ctrl+f . I struggle to believe the figure is as high as 90%, and I can say for sure that kids in NZ schools are being taught this skill and a bazillion other techie things in the inquiry-based curriculum... but still. Everyone should know ctrl+f! Otherwise you might as well just write everything by hand and read, like, paper!
Paid Work
The full text of my review of the anthology Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar: Stories About Work, edited by Richard Ford is now online at The Listener's website.
Dream Teams
Geeky-sports moment: If I could choose any two NBA teams from the past to control in a video game they would be:
1. 1990-91 Golden State Warriors, aka Run TMC (Run Tim (Hardaway) Mitch (Richmond) and Chris (Mullin). It's telling the entire team is summarised by a 3-man moniker, because Tim, Mitch and Chris basically were the Golden State Warrior's offense for three seasons (they accounted for 70+ points a game, still a record for three team mates) and, like all GSW teams, they played no defense. Mitch Richmond is my favourite NBA player of all-time and I recently brought a vintage 90-91 Richmond #23 jersey to hang on my wall (to go with my Richmond #2 Kings jersey from circa 1995).
This adorns my bedroom wall.
2. 2001-02 Sacramento Kings. I actually had a copy of NBA Live 2002 and played a full season with this squad, but 10 years hindsight and the advances in graphics and gameplay mean this team is still a tantalising proposition. And the chance to right the wrongs of history and trounce the 01-02 Lakers? Priceless. From this approximate era, I have Chris Webber and Peja Stojakovic jerseys.
My office, featuring Peja 'Antique pistol for a head' Stojakovic
So, it was with much gasping and desk-slapping that
Run TMC baby!
Meta Moment
Anyone ever noticed how I tend to rush up hodge-podge posts shortly after bearing my soul as a writer in order to push said soul-bearing further down the front page? Me neither.
Breaking news #3
Boys don't read as much as girls.
Okay, that's not so breaking (except heart-breaking, perhaps?). Actually, I found the article above
from Robert Lipsyte (Sam's father!) interesting.
Inspired by my outreach events in Sydney, my Next Year's Resolution (patent pending) is to get out to more schools and juvies and prisons and talk to young people, especially male, and show them that books aren't all written by old people (or women).
First order of business, donate some copies of A Man Melting and Jesus' Son to Mt Crawford's library!
Wicky Wicky Wild Wild West
The programme for Going West Books and Writers Festival 2011 is now online. I'm appearing in the session 'Early Days Yet' with Tanya Moir, author of La Rochelle's Road (you can read an extract of it here) on the morning of Sunday 11 September.Not long to go now...
August 22, 2011
This Fluid Thrill (a.k.a. the self-titled post)
[image error]
This will all make sense in time,
via EVRD
From the moment I committed myself to building a literary CV from the ground up* sometime in early 2007 life has been one long (at times glorious) waiting game. I would send off a few poems or a short story and wait for a yay or a nay from the publication. As the yays started to accumulate, I was lucky enough to have a few requests come out of the blue: Do you have a story for me? Can we print this story in our anthology? My consistent response: yay!
In this post-A Man Melting world, I'm still submitting poems and stories (most recently I have 6 poetic things in Pasture no.1 and a short story forthcoming in JAAM). But I've also had a lot of OOTB** requests: Do you wanna write a column for us? Do you wanna come and speak to my creative writing students? Do you wanna come to our writers festival? Do you wanna review a book for us? And then there are the people reviewing/talking about me, which are always kind of OOTB (you hope to get reviews, but aren't sure which places they'll show up in; you also have no idea what they'll say). And then there's the prize aspect. I've only been short-listed for one prize***(and just so happened to win), but that was Yaysville to the max (and also largely OOTB).
When taking stock of all the acceptances and OOTB bonuses, it seems like a steady stream of good news has been rolling in. But day-to-day, there's a lot of silence: stagnant inboxes, fruitless self-googles (sounds like the worst confectionary ever), voicemail messages that turn out to be wrong numbers.
Which is fine. What can one expect? But the thrill of acceptance is so great, as is the thought that someone you've never met might think enough of you to track you down and send you an OOTB email, that I have become a good news junkie.
On Friday morning I was blessed with a freshet of new emails in my inbox from interesting-looking senders. One of these emails contained an invite to a writers festival early next year (I'll be a bit cagey about where because sometimes they don't like these things being announced until details are finalised). It was a true W00T moment. An OOTB fix.
Once I had sent back my speedy acceptance, however, it was difficult to return to THE NOVEL, which right now feels like THE SLOG (or THE LOG or THE SOG or THE SLUG). One set of good news got me thinking about the unthinkables: the submitted poems and short stories for which replies had not been received, the other festivals that might OOTB me…
There's only so much picturing Grizz Wylie ('Get your head in the game, you muppet') you can do before you push back from the keyboard and watch a mindless movie (in this case, MacGruber, ugh).
'Get your head in the game' (Not a scene from MacGruber)
Good news is bad news for productivity. I'm sure long term all of these OOTB gems will help sustain whatever faith I have in myself and whatever drive I have as a writer and distortionist, but short term I think I'm better off feeling like an underdog when I sit down to write.
Worked example:
I had a chip on my shoulder in late 2006 when I sat down to write a story about my father's two wedding rings. I'd been through the IIML's MA blender (the delirium of the first few months slowly dying down to allow small doses of reality, culminating in 2 out of 3 lukewarm examiner's reports [with a bonus lukewarm response added for good measure]) and I wanted to prove I could write a straight-laced, hit 'em where it hurts, literary short story like some of my workshop colleagues.
That story turned out to be (or turned into) my story 'Copies'. What started as an imitative/I'll-show-you gesture managed to degrade into something similar to what I'd been writing before (high concept symbolism holding the story together rather than character or plot)… but it was better than the failed novels or any short story I'd attempted previously because:
a) I was determined it would be better (I even edited it in Tracked Changes because I thought, arrogantly, that in time people would want to see how the story evolved) and
b) I started from a point outside my general field of play (trying to write all literary-like instead of being arch or hip from the get-go).
I was not interrupted with any positive OOTBs during the composition and editing of 'Copies'****. There was nothing to break the flow of inspiration and motivation. I got it done and sent it off to a competition… and it didn't get anywhere. But then I got asked for a story OOTB and sent 'Copies' and baddabing baddabang, a monster was born!
Of course, writing a short story is different to writing a novel. Don't remind me. THE SLUG takes a lot longer, and it's harder to keep on top of it (alternative blog name: Riding The Slug; aja!) through good news, bad news and no news because, well, there'll be more news.
That's the way things work. There will be distractions and depression, elation and invasion. The novelist's credo must be: Get it done. I'm just not a very good novelist. I get distracted by seabirds and stories of people cutting their toes off with limpet shells and want to write about them now!
Picture Veruca Salt trying to write a novel (minus the orangey-red dress and long, lifeless hair) and that's me.
'Daddy, I want to write short story now!'
But I will persist. I'm a big boy now and can control my impulses. I will ride THE SLUG, will stick to my time period, my patch of turf and my narrators. I will survive without another OOTB fix; if one comes along I won't let it disrupt me. I will finish the novel. Soonish. I promise.*****
-------
Footnotes
* Until this point, I expected to knock one out of the park on my first (and second) at bat. One = novel.
** Pronounced Oh-Oh-Tee-Bee. Not to be confused with 'Oh-o, T.B.' which is number four on the list of Ten Phrases You Don't Want To Hear From a Doctor (especially if it's Out Of The Blue).
***Trivia time: I was long-listed for the 2010 Frank O'Connor Prize, but so were the other 56 writers whose books were nominated by their publishers…
****I'd actually started the story before receiving the MA examiner reports which counted as bad news and fuel for the fire.
*****
This will all make sense in time,
via EVRD
From the moment I committed myself to building a literary CV from the ground up* sometime in early 2007 life has been one long (at times glorious) waiting game. I would send off a few poems or a short story and wait for a yay or a nay from the publication. As the yays started to accumulate, I was lucky enough to have a few requests come out of the blue: Do you have a story for me? Can we print this story in our anthology? My consistent response: yay!
In this post-A Man Melting world, I'm still submitting poems and stories (most recently I have 6 poetic things in Pasture no.1 and a short story forthcoming in JAAM). But I've also had a lot of OOTB** requests: Do you wanna write a column for us? Do you wanna come and speak to my creative writing students? Do you wanna come to our writers festival? Do you wanna review a book for us? And then there are the people reviewing/talking about me, which are always kind of OOTB (you hope to get reviews, but aren't sure which places they'll show up in; you also have no idea what they'll say). And then there's the prize aspect. I've only been short-listed for one prize***(and just so happened to win), but that was Yaysville to the max (and also largely OOTB).
When taking stock of all the acceptances and OOTB bonuses, it seems like a steady stream of good news has been rolling in. But day-to-day, there's a lot of silence: stagnant inboxes, fruitless self-googles (sounds like the worst confectionary ever), voicemail messages that turn out to be wrong numbers.
Which is fine. What can one expect? But the thrill of acceptance is so great, as is the thought that someone you've never met might think enough of you to track you down and send you an OOTB email, that I have become a good news junkie.
On Friday morning I was blessed with a freshet of new emails in my inbox from interesting-looking senders. One of these emails contained an invite to a writers festival early next year (I'll be a bit cagey about where because sometimes they don't like these things being announced until details are finalised). It was a true W00T moment. An OOTB fix.
Once I had sent back my speedy acceptance, however, it was difficult to return to THE NOVEL, which right now feels like THE SLOG (or THE LOG or THE SOG or THE SLUG). One set of good news got me thinking about the unthinkables: the submitted poems and short stories for which replies had not been received, the other festivals that might OOTB me…
There's only so much picturing Grizz Wylie ('Get your head in the game, you muppet') you can do before you push back from the keyboard and watch a mindless movie (in this case, MacGruber, ugh).
'Get your head in the game' (Not a scene from MacGruber)
Good news is bad news for productivity. I'm sure long term all of these OOTB gems will help sustain whatever faith I have in myself and whatever drive I have as a writer and distortionist, but short term I think I'm better off feeling like an underdog when I sit down to write.
Worked example:
I had a chip on my shoulder in late 2006 when I sat down to write a story about my father's two wedding rings. I'd been through the IIML's MA blender (the delirium of the first few months slowly dying down to allow small doses of reality, culminating in 2 out of 3 lukewarm examiner's reports [with a bonus lukewarm response added for good measure]) and I wanted to prove I could write a straight-laced, hit 'em where it hurts, literary short story like some of my workshop colleagues.
That story turned out to be (or turned into) my story 'Copies'. What started as an imitative/I'll-show-you gesture managed to degrade into something similar to what I'd been writing before (high concept symbolism holding the story together rather than character or plot)… but it was better than the failed novels or any short story I'd attempted previously because:
a) I was determined it would be better (I even edited it in Tracked Changes because I thought, arrogantly, that in time people would want to see how the story evolved) and
b) I started from a point outside my general field of play (trying to write all literary-like instead of being arch or hip from the get-go).
I was not interrupted with any positive OOTBs during the composition and editing of 'Copies'****. There was nothing to break the flow of inspiration and motivation. I got it done and sent it off to a competition… and it didn't get anywhere. But then I got asked for a story OOTB and sent 'Copies' and baddabing baddabang, a monster was born!
Of course, writing a short story is different to writing a novel. Don't remind me. THE SLUG takes a lot longer, and it's harder to keep on top of it (alternative blog name: Riding The Slug; aja!) through good news, bad news and no news because, well, there'll be more news.
That's the way things work. There will be distractions and depression, elation and invasion. The novelist's credo must be: Get it done. I'm just not a very good novelist. I get distracted by seabirds and stories of people cutting their toes off with limpet shells and want to write about them now!
Picture Veruca Salt trying to write a novel (minus the orangey-red dress and long, lifeless hair) and that's me.
'Daddy, I want to write short story now!'
But I will persist. I'm a big boy now and can control my impulses. I will ride THE SLUG, will stick to my time period, my patch of turf and my narrators. I will survive without another OOTB fix; if one comes along I won't let it disrupt me. I will finish the novel. Soonish. I promise.*****
-------
Footnotes
* Until this point, I expected to knock one out of the park on my first (and second) at bat. One = novel.
** Pronounced Oh-Oh-Tee-Bee. Not to be confused with 'Oh-o, T.B.' which is number four on the list of Ten Phrases You Don't Want To Hear From a Doctor (especially if it's Out Of The Blue).
***Trivia time: I was long-listed for the 2010 Frank O'Connor Prize, but so were the other 56 writers whose books were nominated by their publishers…
****I'd actually started the story before receiving the MA examiner reports which counted as bad news and fuel for the fire.
*****
August 17, 2011
Polar Blast / Dear Diary / Naked Lunch / Melons
Mini-playlist for a Polar Blast
1. 'Hail, Hail' - Pearl Jam
2. 'Sleet' - The Futureheads
3. 'The Ice Covered Everything' - Shearwater (no clip on You Tube, but here's their almost-as-apropos 'Snow Leopard')
4. 'The Snow Fall' - Band of Horses (no clip on YouTube but you can listen to pretty much all their songs and imagine snowflakes falling...)
5. 'Similar to Rain' - Warren Zevon (argh, I had to pick the most obscure one... oh well, there are plenty more Zevon tracks I can link to that fit the theme: 'Steady Rain', 'Fistful of Rain, 'Frozen Notes'...)
Dear Diary
Roger Hall had an interesting piece on diarists (or the lack thereof) in the Sunday Star Times over the weekend. One thing it failed to address was where blogging features in the mix. The big difference between a blog and a diary is that one is immediately public (though may not be widely read...) while the other is only ever published after the writer is famous and prepared to publish, or more likely, famous and dead. (I guess there's a third category of diarists who weren't famous for much but, like Samuel Pepys, their diaries serve as important historical documents and gain personal fame posthumously).
While a blog and a diary do slightly different things, I'm sure no one does both. There's only so much time to reflect and rehash!
I'm sure there'll come a time when I'm talking to the younger generation about weather events and might find it useful to retrieve some evidence at the recent one-in-fifty year snow-dump (okay, snow-sprinkling), so here's some photographic evidence (which is pretty blah compared to some of the stuff people have posted on Facebook; my excuse: it took me over an hour to get home on the bus on Monday – the #23 only just made it up the hill past the zoo and I think all buses thereafter just dropped passengers off at the bottom and expected them to walk the rest of the way – and by this time it was dark and the southerly was ripping up the road which meant I couldn't hold still enough to take a video that wouldn't induce motion sickness)…
Snow falling in Thordon, Monday morning.
Monday night, Melrose
Then on Tuesday my bus didn't make it up Manchester Street, but it wasn't due to snow but a sudden heavy pelting of hail which froze as a layer of ice. About a dozen cars were stranded ahead of the bus. I know because I had to walk up the hill and the rest of the way home.
Cars stuck heading up Manchester St, Melrose, Tuesday 16 August 2011
Snow-laden clouds rolling in from Antarctica
I also saw snowflakes land on the sea and melt at lunchtime on Monday as I walked along the waterfront (on my way to Writers on Mondays at Te Papa).
Those white dots? Snowflakes! (photo taken on my phone)
Okay, so nothing to compare to snowier climes, or even the South Island. According to the internet, this is what it looked like in Christchurch:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/geoftheref/6044523385/sizes/m/in/photostream/
Not quite a namesake, but
I have a thing for Jimmy Cliff. I have a thing for covers. So it was cool to hear Jimmy's version of The Clash's 'Guns of Brixton' here. (It was also uncanny timing, what with the rioty carry-on in Londres last week.)
No Troubles With Fire
On Saturday I spoke to Fiona Kidman's class of budding memoirists, auto- and bio- graphers (and I'm sure some closet fictioneers). It was an interesting situation for me as guest speaker, having made my name as a distortionist and liar (a.k.a. short story writer*). So I spoke a lot about selective truths, careful omissions, mashups and wilful distortions, as well as answering questions about the general stuff like routine, my route to publication, and writing a fortnightly column (which should be more truthful than fiction, but in some ways is not).
The day before I had just finished reading Kidman's new book, the short story collection, The Trouble With Fire. Here I was, trying to field questions about being a writer and Dame Fiona, she of the decades of writing and catalogue of accolades who has no doubt tried everything I've tried on the page and then some, is sitting there, quietly interested. I managed to bring the conversation around to linked stories and Part Two of TTWF and it was interesting to hear Kidman's thoughts on the value of linked stories (turns out we're both big fans of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge).
I really enjoyed The Trouble With Fire. In a strange way, it reminded me of Sue Orr's From Under The Overcoat, which came out earlier this year. I say 'strange' because if influence flows one way, it should be from the more senior Kidman to the newer kid on the block in Orr; but I'm not sure the link is one of influence, but rather sensibility. Both writers seem to steer stories in quite deliberate directions. In Orr's book, each story is inspired by a famous short story from the golden age (to lapse into comic book lingo). In TTWF, it's more to do with genre: there's a travel story, there are the linked stories, there are two historical stories (quite different to each other). All of them twist a little in their generic suit without being overtly experimental or loudly subversive. But just when you think you're in for a nice polite tale, she'll drop the c-bomb!
(The) Naked Lunch
I also recently finished listening to the audiobook of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. Now there's a book you hope people can't overhear while on the bus. Taken en masse it's not obscene, it's actually quite moral in a strange way, but try explain that to the Sister of Mercy sitting next to you.
I have now read the three most heralded works of the beat generation (On The Road and 'Howl' complete the triumvirate). I find each invigorating in small doses, but I don't find the prospect of reading any more Beat prose particularly enticing. Conclusions: 1. I can deal with more confusion in poetry than prose. 2. I'm not crazy about pharmacologically-centred fictions. 3. While there's a lot in each of Burroughs, Kerouac and Ginsberg that was ahead of its time, there's also something dated in their transgressions (though some of where we've got to in gender politics might be traceable back to these same transgressions...).
"The Next Generation of Melons"
From paper book to audiobook to film adaptations: critic David Larsen has posted parts one and two of a promised four-part digested take of the Harry Potter films, having watched all seven again with his children in the week before the final film hit cinemas.
So far, so interesting. Actually, I'm getting antsy for part three (it's been over a day!), but I'm not sure if I'll read part four... not having seen HP7 part II.
I had never watched any of the films until earlier this year, when reading/listening to The Prestige got me thinking about magic in fiction. I have not read any of J.K. Rowlings' books. Maybe once I have kids... But for now, watching the films in quick succession was enough to fill me in on the basics. I now know about muggles, mudbloods and port keys, and for that I feel slightly less of a social outcast.
It's interesting to read Larsen's take on the various directors of the HP films and their relationships with the texts. It doesn't make me a) want to watch the films again in a hurry, or b) read the books, but I feel wiser for having read his thoughts, which is a kind of criticism that isn't all that abundant at the moment. (Yeah, yeah, I'm just looking in the wrong places.)
Anyway, this has all been a long and serious way of letting me post this gif of hilariously inept subtitles from the HP films (HT: @paulverhoeven):
Click on the picture and you'll get a series of gaffs and head-scratchers.
---
*Footnote: It has been bugging me for sometime that someone who writes novels is a novelist, someone who writes poems is a poet, but someone who writes short stories is a short story writer. Short storyist? Short storet? Of course, there's always plain old 'writer'. But I might try 'distortionist' on for size when the opportunity presents next.
1. 'Hail, Hail' - Pearl Jam
2. 'Sleet' - The Futureheads
3. 'The Ice Covered Everything' - Shearwater (no clip on You Tube, but here's their almost-as-apropos 'Snow Leopard')
4. 'The Snow Fall' - Band of Horses (no clip on YouTube but you can listen to pretty much all their songs and imagine snowflakes falling...)
5. 'Similar to Rain' - Warren Zevon (argh, I had to pick the most obscure one... oh well, there are plenty more Zevon tracks I can link to that fit the theme: 'Steady Rain', 'Fistful of Rain, 'Frozen Notes'...)
Dear Diary
Roger Hall had an interesting piece on diarists (or the lack thereof) in the Sunday Star Times over the weekend. One thing it failed to address was where blogging features in the mix. The big difference between a blog and a diary is that one is immediately public (though may not be widely read...) while the other is only ever published after the writer is famous and prepared to publish, or more likely, famous and dead. (I guess there's a third category of diarists who weren't famous for much but, like Samuel Pepys, their diaries serve as important historical documents and gain personal fame posthumously).
While a blog and a diary do slightly different things, I'm sure no one does both. There's only so much time to reflect and rehash!
I'm sure there'll come a time when I'm talking to the younger generation about weather events and might find it useful to retrieve some evidence at the recent one-in-fifty year snow-dump (okay, snow-sprinkling), so here's some photographic evidence (which is pretty blah compared to some of the stuff people have posted on Facebook; my excuse: it took me over an hour to get home on the bus on Monday – the #23 only just made it up the hill past the zoo and I think all buses thereafter just dropped passengers off at the bottom and expected them to walk the rest of the way – and by this time it was dark and the southerly was ripping up the road which meant I couldn't hold still enough to take a video that wouldn't induce motion sickness)…
Snow falling in Thordon, Monday morning.
Monday night, Melrose
Then on Tuesday my bus didn't make it up Manchester Street, but it wasn't due to snow but a sudden heavy pelting of hail which froze as a layer of ice. About a dozen cars were stranded ahead of the bus. I know because I had to walk up the hill and the rest of the way home.
Cars stuck heading up Manchester St, Melrose, Tuesday 16 August 2011
Snow-laden clouds rolling in from Antarctica
I also saw snowflakes land on the sea and melt at lunchtime on Monday as I walked along the waterfront (on my way to Writers on Mondays at Te Papa).
Those white dots? Snowflakes! (photo taken on my phone)
Okay, so nothing to compare to snowier climes, or even the South Island. According to the internet, this is what it looked like in Christchurch:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/geoftheref/6044523385/sizes/m/in/photostream/
Not quite a namesake, but
I have a thing for Jimmy Cliff. I have a thing for covers. So it was cool to hear Jimmy's version of The Clash's 'Guns of Brixton' here. (It was also uncanny timing, what with the rioty carry-on in Londres last week.)
No Troubles With Fire
On Saturday I spoke to Fiona Kidman's class of budding memoirists, auto- and bio- graphers (and I'm sure some closet fictioneers). It was an interesting situation for me as guest speaker, having made my name as a distortionist and liar (a.k.a. short story writer*). So I spoke a lot about selective truths, careful omissions, mashups and wilful distortions, as well as answering questions about the general stuff like routine, my route to publication, and writing a fortnightly column (which should be more truthful than fiction, but in some ways is not).The day before I had just finished reading Kidman's new book, the short story collection, The Trouble With Fire. Here I was, trying to field questions about being a writer and Dame Fiona, she of the decades of writing and catalogue of accolades who has no doubt tried everything I've tried on the page and then some, is sitting there, quietly interested. I managed to bring the conversation around to linked stories and Part Two of TTWF and it was interesting to hear Kidman's thoughts on the value of linked stories (turns out we're both big fans of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge).
I really enjoyed The Trouble With Fire. In a strange way, it reminded me of Sue Orr's From Under The Overcoat, which came out earlier this year. I say 'strange' because if influence flows one way, it should be from the more senior Kidman to the newer kid on the block in Orr; but I'm not sure the link is one of influence, but rather sensibility. Both writers seem to steer stories in quite deliberate directions. In Orr's book, each story is inspired by a famous short story from the golden age (to lapse into comic book lingo). In TTWF, it's more to do with genre: there's a travel story, there are the linked stories, there are two historical stories (quite different to each other). All of them twist a little in their generic suit without being overtly experimental or loudly subversive. But just when you think you're in for a nice polite tale, she'll drop the c-bomb!
(The) Naked Lunch
I also recently finished listening to the audiobook of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. Now there's a book you hope people can't overhear while on the bus. Taken en masse it's not obscene, it's actually quite moral in a strange way, but try explain that to the Sister of Mercy sitting next to you.I have now read the three most heralded works of the beat generation (On The Road and 'Howl' complete the triumvirate). I find each invigorating in small doses, but I don't find the prospect of reading any more Beat prose particularly enticing. Conclusions: 1. I can deal with more confusion in poetry than prose. 2. I'm not crazy about pharmacologically-centred fictions. 3. While there's a lot in each of Burroughs, Kerouac and Ginsberg that was ahead of its time, there's also something dated in their transgressions (though some of where we've got to in gender politics might be traceable back to these same transgressions...).
"The Next Generation of Melons"
From paper book to audiobook to film adaptations: critic David Larsen has posted parts one and two of a promised four-part digested take of the Harry Potter films, having watched all seven again with his children in the week before the final film hit cinemas.
So far, so interesting. Actually, I'm getting antsy for part three (it's been over a day!), but I'm not sure if I'll read part four... not having seen HP7 part II.
I had never watched any of the films until earlier this year, when reading/listening to The Prestige got me thinking about magic in fiction. I have not read any of J.K. Rowlings' books. Maybe once I have kids... But for now, watching the films in quick succession was enough to fill me in on the basics. I now know about muggles, mudbloods and port keys, and for that I feel slightly less of a social outcast.
It's interesting to read Larsen's take on the various directors of the HP films and their relationships with the texts. It doesn't make me a) want to watch the films again in a hurry, or b) read the books, but I feel wiser for having read his thoughts, which is a kind of criticism that isn't all that abundant at the moment. (Yeah, yeah, I'm just looking in the wrong places.)
Anyway, this has all been a long and serious way of letting me post this gif of hilariously inept subtitles from the HP films (HT: @paulverhoeven):
Click on the picture and you'll get a series of gaffs and head-scratchers.
---
*Footnote: It has been bugging me for sometime that someone who writes novels is a novelist, someone who writes poems is a poet, but someone who writes short stories is a short story writer. Short storyist? Short storet? Of course, there's always plain old 'writer'. But I might try 'distortionist' on for size when the opportunity presents next.
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