Iris Lavell's Blog, page 20

First draft

I've just started something new based on my earliest memories, and I'm playing around with how identity is formed and the slippage between the real and imagined. At this stage the writing seems to have a kind of unconscious logic that is driving it forward. I thought it might be interesting for the blog to track how it develops, to document something of one person's creative process. I'll put other excerpts on from time to time. Here is a sample of the first draft writing just started - part of the first chapter maybe:


She wasn’t lost. They thought she was, but she wasn’t. She had only wandered a little way from the truck because the others had gone, too impatient to sit and wait for their father’s return from checking the fences.  “Stay here,” they’d said. It was already late with shadows slanting across the landscape, cooling the ground which scratched and slid under her leather sandals as she found her way through the spinifex to the other side of a spidery tree, and further in, until she reached the ant hill. It towered above her.  She had seen them as the landscape moved past, when she had knelt up on the seat to watch through the window, the boys pointed them out, named them for her, these red buildings made by other beings. Now she picked up one of the rocks scattered around, the ones sometimes caught in the act of turning to glass, and she hit the side of the hill to see what would happen. A piece broke off and life was uncovered. Ants began hurrying their eggs across the cut that she had made, to safety. She felt shame then, sorry for the damage she had caused. Jackie tracked her and returned to the truck to report. “Why didn’t you bring her back?” her father had said. Jackie would have shrugged and looked away. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.” Nothing more. What could be left unspoken was better than words. But in this moment emotions were raw from anxiety at the emptiness they had found upon their return, her brothers knowing they had disobeyed, and making excuses, and her father had spoken sharply. After Jackie found her, everyone clammed up. Her father must have been worried because of what had almost happened in the weeks before, and because she was so young, but not because he was afraid of the landscape. He’d been born in this country in 1911. Burnakurra. His mother had been born in this country, sometime in the eighteen hundreds. She knew it too. And her mother. Who knew where she’d been born? It was difficult to track the records. Once, years later, she’d pressed her mother for information. “Where did they get their looks from?” Her mother looked cagey. “They might have had Chinese ancestors,” she said. “Their people came from Bendigo.” Father’s father, a red-headed barrel-chested man, had half-walked there, half ridden a bicycle, looking for gold. He found it too.  So her father knew this country like people know their local neighbourhood, and like people know and don’t know their mother. He could easily disappear back into this country. His father is buried there. And others. There is a picture of him as a boy – aged ten or eleven – lying on his stomach on a home-made raft, on a dam. He is naked. That’s how it seemed, free and easy like that. They did bombies into the water. But right now the man was implicated in the potential for what might have happened if his daughter had gone missing. He loved her dearly, of course. Grace. When you look it up it has something to do with being absolved despite your own imperfections. Made clean again. The child was found. No harm was done. Jackie led them back to the place. Her father picked her up and carried her, but the memory of the fortnight before was fresh in his mind. It had been only two weeks since the boys had gone missing, lost all day in the bush, with the whole town after them. The trackers were able to tell part of the story, but not all. Finally they were found by chance. The boys were older than her of course, three and five. They kept their shoes on, kept to the shade where they could, didn’t drink from the sheep troughs, kept an eye out for snakes, and were found about this part of the day, just before darkness fell. Her father had taken a bicycle and ridden out.  And ridden. He was searching for some kind of clue. When they were found he couldn’t be contacted. No mobile phones in those days. There’s still no coverage out there probably. He came back well into the night to the good news, a candle in the window, the sign, so her mother says. He was thoroughly exhausted. His early onset rheumatoid arthritis flared up and he stayed in bed for days.  That story became part of family history, as comforting as a meal, disaster averted. Sometimes they dined out on it. One day in the middle of her mother telling the story someone said, “You must have been a bad mother.”  Her mother stopped dining out on the story then. Perhaps there was an element of truth in the ill-conceived comment, but not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Nothing but the truth is that everybody is a bad mother some of the time. All mothers. Even an exemplary mother is a bad mother from being too exemplary. Truth was she was a good-enough mother. There is the phrase that a psychoanalyst called Donald Winnicott coined: the good enough mother. As far as I know, nobody has coined the phrase: the good enough father – but I could be wrong. Most fathers are seen to be good enough, if they are regular guys. If they don’t do bad things.  If they are relatively neutral. Mothers have always been required to meet higher standards, because of the pedestal that supports them. Now things are changing, it seems.Maybe this mother wasn’t coping well. Maybe she wasn’t keeping a proper eye on them because of the displacement. She suffered illness. This wasn’t her country. She’d been brought here. One day she collapsed weeping in the red dirt because her clothesline laden with wet sheets had fallen onto the ground. Jackie came and helped her fix it then, because he knew she belonged somewhere else, where there was greenery and dampness. Still, she was the mother. It was her job. Her fault. That second time, with the girl, they were in their father’s care. That time it was their fault. The father. The children. The girl herself should have done as she was told. They all felt this. She felt this. Even so, there was a trace of self-flagellation about the father for a while – a shadow that soon faded. The story told later didn’t place blame. Neither of the stories placed blame. They were anecdotes. He might have taken it out on Jackie, speaking sharply. “Use your initiative!” But Jackie had been encouraged not to use his initiative, and to follow orders. Jackie was too well-mannered to speak sharply back. He was philosophical. It was a job. It kept his family fed for another couple of years. Besides, he didn’t mind the anger. At least it wasn’t patronising. It was understandable. The love. The investment of time and effort.  All’s well that ends well. The boys were found. The girl was found. Other children went missing and eventually turned up again. Jackie’s own children. They learnt to fend for themselves. It was necessary. All’s well that ends well.Memories are rehearsed, or untended and allowed to die. That time with the ant hill she experienced something that she held to all her life. Later she thought of it as a kind of revelation.  At the time it was beyond words, and later, destroyed by them. It was something to do with the way that life was connected. She transferred that memory as her body changed and replaced itself, the memory of a feeling that she’d once experienced. Sometimes a child has clear vision. Then it is gone. But she remembers knowing that she experienced it once –a glimpse into the mystery of life. She knew once that even ants glow with it. And that they are sentient. The word came later, a container for the memory, but like all containers served not only to contain, but to separate – to protect, preserve, prevent. Her own wandering away became a family story, and it dated the experience for her. She would have been no more than two years old – too young to know anything, or to be a philosopher. And this is why she knows that human beings have souls, and so do ants, or maybe that they all are souls, and that having is neither here nor there.(c) Iris Lavell 2013

 

The Courage to Get Naked

The Three GracesThere could be a discrepancy between being an acceptable social human being, and being free to be a writer. To be an acceptable social being is to grease the wheels of social interaction, to be considerate of the feelings of others, to avoid speaking up in certain situations, to know when to speak up in others, and to choose one's words and actions with at least some care. It might be said that writing fiction requires at least some of the same. Choices are made - what to write, what not to write - but there are different rules and expectations. If we are to do our job properly, we have to be prepared to take the risk of being seen without our social costume, or of being such good actors, of the fiction ringing so true, that we appear to be stripped bare. While we might take comfort in the disappearance of the author, I think s/he is often present in the mind of the reader. There is always the question of whether the writing is autobiographical. Does it represent the author's own belief systems and attitudes? I think the answer is that all beliefs and attitudes are possible, and that by taking on an empathetic orientation, it is possible to play with these on the page.  If a human attitude, emotion or belief is possible, then it is possible to try it on within the writing context. It does not mean that we choose this combination of beliefs within our private lives. What lies beneath? I think that as writers we need to be sufficiently courageous to examine what lives below the external social self and to look at conventional wisdom from new and unusual angles, sometimes unflattering ones. This means that if enough people read our work, someone might be offended, so it's best to get that out of the way at the outset. The craft requires an attitude of unflinching observation, objectivity, subjectivity, and above all, a loving commitment to authenticity.    In the intimate relationship between the page and the reader, in the context of the fictional narrative, truths are explored and potential lives examined. In the process, a writer might well compromise his or her persona as a likeable social being. Or s/he might become more authentic. At the beginning of this journey, I think it is likely to be something between the two.

Kill Your Darlings - another great site with submission opportunities

Kill your Darlings is a quarterly publication that describes itself as publishing "fresh, clever writing that combines intellect with intrigue".

The blog accepts submissions during March, June, September and December and pays its contributers. it encourages writers to familiarise themselves with the site and contributions prior to submission.  If you are interested in submitting material, follow the link to discover more about the guidelines.

Great site to interact with other readers

If you haven't already done so, take a look at Goodreads which provides information and reader reviews on thousands of books and advertises itself as reaching more than 13 million book lovers. The other day I spent some time looking through the reader reviews for two books, one that I have read, thoroughly enjoyed and admired, Ian McEwan's Solar , and one that has been recommended to me, Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time . Reading and writing goes hand in hand and having access to the often widely varying perspectives and opinions of avid readers is a real privilege. It is especially informative if you have read a particular book and aspire to the standard of writing that it contains.

Radio stories - a sound-byte identity

One of the attractions of writing is the initial privacy of that activity. Private until we choose to share. Many of us were odd sort of children who kept to our rooms whenever we could, our only companion a good book, craving our space and nothing more than time to spend between the pages. Not so odd probably. The modern equivalent might be kids holed up with their laptops, phones and tablets, although that activity seems more conversational with less time for individual reflection (more for collective reflection, maybe).This brings me to publicity, and the flashing promotion of my novel on the left. The browse window has been back for a few days now, and I can upload pictures again. Interesting strobe-like effect. If you are adversely affected by such things, turn to another site immediately!And radio. I have been able to discuss my writing and the upcoming launch of my novel on our local Community Radio lately - 6EBA FM, and RTR FM, with another to come on Radio Fremantle.  Not just me of course - all the local people with books coming out at the moment, leading up to the Perth Writers Festival. It's a time-limited thing, our15 minutes, and a good thing too. I have done a bit of acting, so have tried to employ some of those skills (don't apologise - never apologise! Keep talking. Speak up.) It ain't easy though. Acting should have taught me the art of being prepared and simultaneously appearing spontaneous. Instead, I think I've been something of a loose cannon dabbling in a genre that, itself, is something of a loose canon!  As for the acting it's been a few years now. I'm rusty. It might be a bit like  riding a bicycle, something else I've recently taken to doing again. You never forget, but the more time passes, the steeper the rises.  The Community Radio stations are gentle and generous. They give you some space and time to create or negotiate a public identity, but even so, air time is a commodity and there is little room for the finer details of discussion. More generous than the commercial stations though, I'd say. And for an interviewee, saying a lot in a short time is probably a skill that gets better with practice. For the novice high on adrenaline though, it's easy to stuff up and say something that you kick yourself for later. To maintain some semblance of sanity I tell myself that radio is ephemeral, like a bus ticket, soon blown away in public consciousness. It is, of course. A single interview is almost immediately lost in the flotsam and jetsam carried away in a vast ocean of sound waves. Where do they end up, all those interviews? Lost, or gathered together in a huge sink like that great Pacific garbage dump? Carefully archived as historical sound recordings? Recorded, streamed or i-somethinged?  I hope they're not kept. Like a photograph, a sound recording fixes a person in time. One is caught in a particular light and at a certain angle, in the midst of movement, or posed. Composed or windblown. The voice itself gives out information and an impression. Nerves place it at a higher pitch. The words thrown out on the spur of the moment can be potentially harvested and used in the future, in the expectation that that same person will tell the old story. What if that person decides to change the story? Is inconsistency the equivalent of lying? Perhaps consistency is the equivalent of lying, or at the very least, intransigence. Too much rumination? Not enough? I'm sure all this is old hat to those who have gone ahead, those who have joyfully put the work into many, many publications, and who are experienced in negotiating the concurrent public persona. And I have to admit, for a newbie it is fun to be asked what you think about this or that, as if it and you matter, although it could be difficult to strike the balance between having a serious discussion (not too serious) and coming across in the public self-pleasuring mode. Such insecurities are sometimes accompanied by a vague sense of shame. For a couple of hours after an interview a person might feel compelled to roll up into a ball and never show her face again. As the famous Howard Jacobson once said (I first heard it on the radio) writers can be very thin-skinned.

Natasha Lester's Blog

'Glen  H. reccently alerted me to Natasha Lester's blogsite . Click on the link to get there. It's called whilethekidsaresleeping and is a good one. Natasha Lester is a highly-respected Western Australian writer. In Glen's  words: "Natasha has been holding some interesting conversations on her blog and on her Facebook page in the last week, particularly about the declining standard of written English and the dwindling sales for first-time authors." Another of the discussion points is about the increase in writers who no longer read books - something that the Weekend Australian Article mentioned earlier this month in this blog, also discussed.

Thank you Maureen Helen

  Thank you Maureen Helen for the great discussion at the Book Length Project Group on Sunday. Your talk kicked 2013 off to a strong start. The discussion traversed the terrain of the way personal history informs process, the practicalities of finding time and space to write, and the nuts and bolts of the work finding a publisher. Maureen Helen brought in copies of her book, Other People's Country a publication for which she was long-listed for a Walkley Award, and short-listed for the WA Premier's Award (History). Great stuff!

One of the things that we have discussed is the possibility of featuring writers from the group on this blog, so that the wider writing community can become aware of a small sample of the thought-provoking, and  entertaining, writing that is emerging from this part of the world (Western Australia).

My feeling is that our time and place is worth writing about (and by 'our' I mean all of us, whether we are from Australia, India, the US, the Ukraine, or anywhere else in the wide world). Our 'take' on other times and places is equally worth while, whether those times and places are in the real world, or made real through the words we spin.

Take heart, any writers who stumble upon this site. The times are certainly a-changin' and isn't it great to embrace the diversity of viewpoints out there. Each of us has a right to join the discussion.The one thing that I personally feel is a good rule of thumb - write with love, even where the subject matter is grim. (I'm not sure, but I'm thinking that this can be a useful rule of thumb just at the moment. Please feel free to disagree!)

P.S. Apologies for the recycled pictures. I seem to have lost the ability to upload from my desktop. Hence the funny little guy in the top left-hand corner.

Iris ;-)

Forwords and Afterwords

How long does it take to write an iconic novel?

Ray Bradbury in the Afterword (1982) to Fahrenheit 451 said that he wrote what has become his iconic novel in the basement of the University of California at Los Angeles. He says that he wrote it in the spring of 1950, and that it cost him nine dollars and eighty cents in dimes to write and finish the first draft. Originally called The Fire Man, it later became Farenheit 451. Each dime bought him 30 minutes of typing time, which really put the pressure on to write quickly without self-censure.  He calculated that it took him roughly nine days to complete the first draft. Is a writer necessarily the best judge of his or her own work?

Aldous Huxley in his 1945 Foreword to yet another icon, Brave New World, described its defects, as a work of art, as "considerable". The original was written in 1932 when he would have been around 38 years of age. As an older and more experienced writer he felt that in order to "correct" the faults in the earlier work, he would probably have to rewrite the entire book, and in doing so would lose not only some of what he saw as the original faults, but the merits of the work too. He wrote that rather than wallow in remorse he would prefer to leave the work alone and  think about something else. It prompted me to reflect on the artistic distinction that he is making, given that this particular work is his best known, most influential, and shows remarkable foresight with regard to the proliferation of the consumer culture with regard to goods and services, and the human body itself.  

Nice article in The Weekend Australian Review January 12-13


Deirdre Macken has written a thought-provoking article in The Weekend Australian Review (January 12-13) on page 2: 'The Forum' about the proliferation of writers and the disappearance of dedicated readers. It reminded me that I still need to buy Howard Jacobson's Zoo Story, and read it! In the spirit of the article it's worth reading right to the end. Above it sits a great in-joke for aspiring writers under 'the sightgeist' by jon kudelka. It made this emerging-aspiring smile :)

ASA Mentorship program applications close January 18

The Australian Society of Authors offers a selective mentorship program for emerging writers. The program considers unpublished authors, authors working in a new genre, and book illustrators. Applications are judged on merit.  The program offers successful applicants an opportunity to work with a mentor of their choice to develop their work in progess to a publishable standard. Applications are currently open and close on January 18 (Australian Eastern Time), so there may still be time to get your application in. Click on the link above for more details. Results are announced March 13, 2013.