Novellas in November 2024, Part 1

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This November has been – well, about as busy as usual. I am secretary of an association for which, in November, we present our annual lecture and also hold our AGM. It all takes time and energy. I am therefore planning to combine my Novella in November (run by Cathy of 746 Books and Rebecca of Bookish Beck) comments into a couple of posts.

These reading months tend to suggest you start with “my year in [whatever the topic is]”. For last year’s (2023) post, I was horrified to discover that I’d only read one novella in the preceding twelve months, Jessica Au’s Cold enough for snow (my review). But, in fact, I realise now that I told a lie, as I had read another, Gwendolen Brooks’ Maud Martha (my review). Regardless, that was an easy benchmark to beat and beat it I did. Of course, I’ve still only read a fraction of what many bloggers have read, but here is my alphabetically-ordered list of books read for this “novella” year – that is, between 1 November 2023 and 31 October 2024:

  • Jane Austen, Lady Susan (my review)
  • Rebecca Burton, Ravenous girls (my review): joint winner of Finlay Lloyd’s inaugural 20/40 Prize
  • Rebecca Campbell, Arboreality (my review): novella or connected short stories, which won the 2023 Ursula K. Le Guin Prize
  • Michael Fitzgerald, Late (my review)
  • Elizabeth Gaskell, Cousin Phillis (my review): read for Bill’s Gen O week
  • Elizabeth Gaskell, Lizzie Leigh (my review): read for Bill’s Gen O week
  • Kim Kelly, The Ladies’ Rest and Writing Room (my review): joint winner of Finlay Lloyd’s inaugural 20/40 Prize
  • Thomas King and Natasha Donovan, Borders (my review): short story turned into an under 200pp short graphic novel which makes it a novella to my mind
  • Patrick Modiano, Sundays in August (my review)

In addition to these, I have read a novella this month (but have not yet posted my review) and have also nearly finished another, but both of these will all appear in next year’s novella count.

As I understand it, Cathy and Rebecca are not posing weekly prompt questions this year, which suits me as these can sometimes become repetitive. So, given that freedom, I am going to conclude this post with some comments made by Rebecca Campbell in an interview posted in the online journal The Artisanal Writer. The whole interview is worth reading, particularly if you liked Arboreality. She was asked

Another writer might have broken the personal narratives into linked short stories or added content to meet the length expected for a novel. You chose instead to give us a form we don’t get to read often enough. What drew you to the novella form for this particular piece of fiction? 

It’s an interesting question, as the book can be (and has been) described as linked short stories. However, Arboreality does have an overall narrative trajectory and it has some continuing characters albeit, by the end, the early ones are in memory rather than still living. Anyhow, Campbell answered:

This is where genre expectations are important. Novellas have always been an important part of science fiction, probably a holdover from its origins in pulp magazines. They’re still published regularly in periodicals, and markets for them are growing at both major and small presses.

Readers like novellas, and they are of an appealing length for writers. The novella maintains some of the focus of the short story, but allows a writer more space to explore the world they’ve created, something that’s particularly important in a genre obsessed with world-building. 

Arboreality is one of two novellas I’m publishing in 2022 (the other is The Talosite from Undertow Publications). After years of writing short fiction, I found my stories growing longer and more elaborate, so this form was the next natural step for me. I was also inspired by novellas that combined the focus of the short story with a sense of breadth, as though we are only seeing a fraction of a much larger world that is more compelling because it’s incomplete. On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan and Great Work of Time by John Crowley in particular let me see how flexible and evocative the form can be, despite its brevity.

I have heard other writers talk about the novella form appealing to them.

I particularly liked Campbell’s point about how novellas can combine the focus of the short story with a sense of breadth resulting in our “only seeing a fraction of a much larger world that is more compelling because it’s incomplete”. While some sense of resolution is usually needed, I’m not one who must have closure, so this openness appeals to me. Certainly, I loved On Chesil Beach. What do you think about this idea of “incompleteness”?

Written for Novellas in November 2024 (linked in opening para).

Margaret Atwood, Widows (#Review)

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Marcie’s (Buried in Print) MARM (Margaret Atwood Reading Month) event is now seven years old, but this is only my second contribution. I read a reasonable amount of Atwood before blogging, and since then have let her slide somewhat, though I have reviewed a couple of books here. You can’t read it all – but, I do like her voice …

So, I decided to join in again this year, as I knew I had a collection of short stories in my TBR pile. The only problem is that my non-Australian TBRs are still in boxes somewhere. What to do? Maybe, I thought, there’s a short story online somewhere, and sure enough I found one in The Guardian. Titled “Widows” it features Nell and (the late) Tig. From Marcie’s blog I learnt that this couple first appeared in Atwood’s collection of linked stories titled Moral disorder, and appeared again in her recent collection Old babes in the wood, from which this story comes. However, I’ve not read either of these collections, and I didn’t recollect those characters or their names.

Then a strange thing happened. According to Wikipedia, Moral disorder contains eleven connected short stories, the second last one being “The Labrador fiasco”. This is the story I read for last year’s MARM, but it was in a 1996-published Bloomsbury Quid edition. I had no idea it was later included in the 2006-published Moral disorder. Oh these writers can be tricksy. Did she change it in any way – such as to name the then unnamed character – for version in the collection? Anyhow, moving on, Wikipedia tells me that the 2023-published Old babes in the wood comprises fifteen stories in three parts: “Tig & Nell” (three), “My Evil Mother” (eight), and “Nell & Tig” (four). “Widows” is the thirteenth story in the collection, so presumably the second one in that last group of four.

I won’t rehash “The Labrador fiasco”, except to say that it is a “story-within-a-story” story, and that the framing story concerns the unnamed narrator (who is apparently Nell) visiting her aging father and mother. The father, in particular, is declining, having experienced a stroke six years before the story’s opening. It is told first person by the daughter, who regularly visits her parents and is becoming aware of aging and our inevitable decline. Some years have clearly passed, and in “Widows” Nell has recently lost her husband “Tig”. It’s an epistolary story, I guess you could say, though it contains only two letters, both by Nell to a friend named Stevie.

The first, and main, letter is a delight – and pure Atwood. It’s partly in what she covers, as this short short story manages to encompass Atwood’s recurring themes – women (their position in society, and their relationships), language, aging, social conventions, and the state of the world. But it’s also in the sly way she makes her sharp little points. For example, talking about widows, she has a dig at the modern penchant for creating increasingly complicated gender-neutral descriptions:

I’m hanging out with a clutch of other widows. Some of them are widowers: we have not yet got around to a gender-neutral term for those who have lost their life partners. Maybe TWHLTLP will appear shortly, but it hasn’t yet. Some are women who have lost women or men who have lost men, but mostly they are women who have lost men.

Similarly, there is a sly reference to world politics and climate change, when she says to Stevie, who is much younger, that:

if you live another thirty years and are still enjoying it, or most of it – if anyone will be enjoying, or indeed living, considering the huge unknown wave that is already rolling toward us – I expect you will look at a picture of yourself as you are today, supposing your personal effects have survived flood, fire, famine, plague, insurrection, invasion, or whatever …

Of course, Nell talks about grief, about the forms, assumptions and cliches that surround it. She’s quietly scathing about “checking the boxes of the prescribed grief process” and eschews the well-intended offers of casseroles and suggestions that she go on a cruise.

When I read writing like this, I can’t help being reminded of Jane Austen, because both have the ability to see through our conventions and pretensions to the truths beneath, and to make us chuckle as they do so.

However, for all the cheeky barbs and social commentary, there is also something heartfelt in her discussion of grief. She speaks of how it skews one’s experience of time, how it affects one’s relationship with the person who has died, and what grieving people really talk about and deal with. Atwood knows whereof she speaks having lost her husband of 46 years in 2019.

If I thought this first letter was both clever and moving, the second letter just nailed it. In fact, if I were writing criticism and not a review, I would discuss what Atwood does here, but that would spoil the whole experience, and I don’t want to do that because you can read it yourself at the link below. Suffice it to say that, while “Widows” is a short story, it does a lot in its few words, and its ending signs off with aplomb.

Read for MARM 2024

Margaret Atwood
“Widows”
The Guardian, 25 February, 2023 (also pub. Old babes in the wood, 2023)
Available online at The Guardian, 2023

Monday musings on Australian literature: Ausmus Month

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Image courtesy Clker.Com

AKA Australian Music Month. The things you learn, thanks to other bloggers! It was kimbofo’s post of last Monday that brought this month to my attention, though I now see that our ABC is celebrating it, along with other musical organisations. I should have been aware. Anyhow, as kimbofo wrote, it offers an opportunity to “celebrate music of all persuasions — rock, pop, classical, country and so on — made by Australian musicians”. Kimbofo, as you’ll see from her post, did so by sharing ten Australian music biographies. Do check her post if you are interested.

Clearly, I can’t do the same. That would add nothing to the discussion. So, I’m going to go broad and share a variety of ways in which music is reflected in my Australian reading. First though, I have written Monday Musings on music-related AusLit topics before – Pianos in Australian literature, and Musician’s memoirs – so there will be some overlap. However, I will avoid duplicating too much, and hope, instead, that the posts will be complementary.

Linda Neil, All is given, cover

Of course, as kimbofo ably shows, there are many memoirs/autobiographies written by musicians. Fortunately, I have read some different ones to those kimbofo lists: Emma Ayres’ (now Ed Le Brocq’s) Cadence: Travels with music (my review), Anna Goldsworthy’s Piano lessons (my review). Linda Neil’s All is given (my review), and Archie Roach’s Tell me why: The story of my life and my music (my review). These musicians vary, from classical performers to singer-songwriters, and so do their stories. Anna Goldsworthy is particularly relevant this month, because she delivered the first of this year’s Boyer Lectures. The overall theme is Future Classic (or, classical music for the contemporary age) and Goldworthy’s topic was Kairos, “the right shared moment” or “the right time”. You can listen to the lecture here.

Then there are novels which specifically feature music, musicians and/or musical instruments, including Murray Bail’s The voyage (my review) about a piano inventor trying to sell his new-style piano in Vienna; Christine Balint’s Water music (my review) about a music school for orphans in Venice; Carmel Bird’s Field of poppies (my review) in which an eccentric musician goes missing; Diana Blackwood’s Chaconne (my review) about a young woman finding connection through music in Europe; and Henry Handel Richardson’s classic Maurice Guest (on my TBR) about a music student in Leipzig.

There are novels written by musicians who have branched out into novel writing, like singer Nadi Simpson, whose Song of the crocodile I’ve read and reviewed, and who has now published Bellburd. Both titles suggest music in some way. In Song of the crocodile, a spirit songman, Jakybird, plays a significant role in the resolution. Another musician is the solo artist, Holly Throsby, whose third novel, the non-music “bush noir” Clarke I’ve reviewed. And there are more, such as indie rock band member, Peggy Frew, whose Hope farm won the Barbara Jefferis Award.

Short stories often feature music and musicians. One anthology in particular comes to mind, Red hot notes (on my TBR), edited by Carmel Bird. This book contains stories by some of our best-known writers from the end of the 20th century, like Thea Astley, Robert Dessaix, Helen Garner and Marion Halligan, exploring some aspect of music in their lives. I have written about music-focused short stories, including Myra Morris’ “The inspiration” (my review). Stephen Orr’s long short story or novella, “Datsunland“, in his collection Datsunland (my review), includes a struggling musician who ends up teaching in a “poor” elite school.

Featherstone, Fall on me

There are also books that aren’t necessarily about music but whose titles are inspired by it. Nigel Featherstone’s Fall on me (my review) is titled for an R.E.M song, while the title of and chapters in Julie Thorndyke’s Mrs Rickaby’s Lullaby (my review) reference music.

Finally, I must mention this year’s spoken-word-and-music album, The Wreck Event (my post) which was created by the Hell Herons, a new “spoken-word/music collective” comprising poet-writers Melinda Smith, CJ Bowerbird, Stuart Barnes and Nigel Featherstone. I have also written about Nigel Featherstone’s foray into art song, The weight of light (my post).

And this, I think, is perfect place for my final point. A pay-walled article in The Spectator (14 June 2023) commences with

Haruki Murakami said that ‘I feel that most of what I know about writing fiction I learned from music.’ Music and literature enjoy a close relationship. Authors rely on rhythm and tone for their writing. 

As I thought about this post last night, this was the point that I wanted to make. I love books about musicians and music. After all, creativity is inherently interesting, and music can be used in so many ways. But, this topic also makes me think about writing. I care about tone, and I love writing that is rhythmic. Some of the writers at this year’s Canberra Writers Festival talked about the craft of writing, and how the craft provides the “propulsive” element, rather than the more obvious aspects like plot that they tended to focus on when they were beginners. These writers – like Emily Maguire, Charlotte Wood and Robbie Arnott – concentrate, then, on their sentences. In my review of Arnott’s Limberlost, I shared an excerpt and wrote that “the rolling, breathlessly joyful rhythm of this description is very different to that in the next paragraph where Ned’s old fears return, and the sentences become clipped, and staccato-like”. I love it when the writing itself supports, if not carries, the meaning.

Anyhow, my point is that music meets literature in all sorts of ways. I’ve only touched some of them, and superficially at that, but now I want to pass it over to you.

Do you love music in literature or literature about music? If so, I’d love to hear your thoughts or examples.

Raynor Winn, The salt path (#BookReview)

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While my reading group’s main fare is fiction, we do include nonfiction in the mix. In fact, this year has been unusual as we’ve scheduled three nonfiction books – Richard Flanagan’s Question 7 (my review), Anna Funder’s Wifedom (my review), and, last month, Raynor Winn’s The salt path. I can’t recollect how The salt path came to be chosen, and nor could the 8 (of our 11) members who attended the meeting, but we weren’t about to complain.

Many of you will know this book already, given it became a bestseller after its publication in 2018. It was shortlisted for some major awards, and won the inaugural RSL Christopher Bland Prize (which I would call a “late bloomer” prize.) However, in case it escaped your notice, I will briefly summarise it. The book opens with two disasters befalling author Raynor and and her husband of 32 years, Moth. He is diagnosed with a rare, terminal degenerative disease called CBD (corticobasal degeneration) and, in an ultimately unjust court case, they lose their home which was also their livelihood. They have nothing but each other (and their two children who, fortunately, are young adults linving away from home). What do you do in a situation like this? You decide to walk England’s challenging 630-mile South West Coast Path, wild camping most of the way. That’s what.

Although it’s essentially a memoir, The salt path is better described as a road story that combines memoir, nature writing and social commentary. I would also argue that it’s a work of creative nonfiction, partly because of its strong narrative arc (albeit this is not uncommon in memoir and travel writing) but also because it includes dialogue (which, given there’s no evidence to the contrary, has presumably been recreated for the book). The result is a book which interweaves description, anecdote, personal reflection, social commentary and dialogue in a way that maintains our interest because it never bogs down in one mode or another. The balance Winn achieves is not only between these modes, but also in tone, which moves between serious and scared, melancholic and thoughtful, and light and humorous.

“you’ve felt the hand of nature … you’re salted” (woman on path)

I want to explore a little more how the combination of memoir and road story works to tell Winn’s story. Memoir, by definition, deals with a particular issue or time period in a person’s life. This gives the story a natural trajectory which conveys how that issue is handled or progresses – and/or what happens over that chosen time – until some sort of resolution or conclusion is reached. A road story has an even more obvious or natural narrative arc – the beginning of the trip, the middle with all the events and challenges met on the way, and the trip’s end (which may or may not be the originally intended one.)

So, in The salt path, the memoir, with its central issues being Moth’s illness and their homelessness, is framed by the road story, which describes the physical journey, that is, the landscape they walk through, and their experience of walking and wild camping. As in most road stories, we meet characters along the way, some positive or helpful, some amusing, and others negative or obstructive. And, as is also common in travel literature, we are introduced to issues that are relevant to the places travelled through. In this case they include conflicting ideas about heritage, conservation and the role of the National Trust in the communities and regions along the path.

There is, then, a lot to this book and while it works well as a coherent whole, some parts, of course, left a stronger impression than others. The strongest was their experience of the path, particularly given its recognised toughness combined with their impecunious state, inexpert preparation, and Moth’s ill-health. They were often hungry, wet and cold, and they walked at half the pace of Paddy Dillon whose guidebook they followed, but as time wore on Moth’s health improved. Why is a question never fully answered because they didn’t know why. Years later, he is still alive, still with the condition. Their strong interpersonal connection sustains them when little else does! And there is always the nature. This is Winn’s first book but she can clearly write. Her descriptions of the environment – the wildlife, the landscape, the vegetation, the sea – and of their feelings as they walk through it are perfect, like:

“A hidden land of weather and rock, remote and isolated. Unchanged through millennia yet constantly changed by the sea and the sky, a contradiction at the western edge. Unmoved by time or man, this ancient land was draining our strength and self-will, bending us to acceptance of the shaping elements.”

“The moon climbed into a clear sky, just past full, polishing the landscape in tones of grey and silver.”

After some time of walking the path, they start to look weathered – peeling skin, ragged clothes, and so on. It is around this time that they meet a woman who recognises the look. She tells them “you’ve felt the hand of nature … you’re salted”. Winn’s title is more than a literal description of a sea-swept path. It is also about being part of the nature, the life, they walk through.

From early in the book, however, another theme is introduced that threads through the book – homelessness. Obviously, it occupied Winn’s mind because they were suddenly homeless, but as the book progresses, she supplements their personal experience of being homeless with facts and figures. The facts are sobering, but they are made powerful by Raynor and Moth’s firsthand experience. For example, very quickly they became cautious about being honest about their circumstances, because it affected people’s attitudes to them:

“We could be homeless, having sold our home and put money in the bank, and be inspirational. Or we could be homeless, having lost our home and become penniless, and be social pariahs.” 

All sorts of other thoughts and issues arise, as you would expect on a long walk. Another is the aformentioned issue of protecting heritage and the environment, and the role of the National Trust. Locals complain about National Trust restrictions affecting their traditional jobs, but she also sees all the money coming in from the resultant tourism and senses “a strong whiff of hypocrisy”. In an area dug up for clay-mines, she discusses the various approaches taken after the mines have gone. One is creating an attraction like the Eden Project. Returning the land to its original state seems the least likely option, because “no tourist is going to pay to walk over a meadow with a leaflet that says, ‘You’d never know it, but this used to be a mine.’” By contrast, there’s the town of Tyneham that had been requisitioned during World War Two, and where

Strangely enough, limited public access, a lack of intensive farming and the occasional blasting by small-arms fire has allowed wildlife and vegetation to thrive throughout the ranges. A form of khaki conservation that no one expected to be the outcome when the villagers left their homes as part of the war effort.

Of course, insights into the land – into the many ways it has been used, modified and re-used – are common to those who walk, and land-loving Raynor Winn is no exception. Her observations are idiosyncratic to her. Readers may not always agree, but she is real and honest.

There is much more to say, but I’ll conclude on the personal, because this is ultimately a personal journey as much as a physical one. Winn starts off, somewhat angry but mostly scared (very scared about her beloved Moth dying) and deeply worried about the future and whether they are doing the right thing. Slowly though, as Moth’s symptoms seem to subside, and as time passes, she senses change in herself

I was no longer striving, fighting to change the unchangeable, not clenching in anxiety at the life we’d been unable to hold on to, or angry at an authoritarian system too bureaucratic to see the truth. A new season had crept into me, a softer season of acceptance.

I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that The salt path is a book about reality, not miracles but not tragedy either. Its interest lies in the particular situation this couple finds themselves in, in the path itself, and in Winn’s ability to write about it all with warmth, humour and honesty.

So, how did my reading group like it? Very much overall. Depending on our own experiences and perspectives, we varied in our reaction to the different decisions they took, but as lovers of the environment we all appreciated the description of the walk, and as lovers of “stories” we enjoyed the anecdotes about the people they met. Of course, we had questions, and there were little niggles – some didn’t always like the tone, and some couldn’t believe the couple’s poor preparation and apparent lack of sunscreen! But the discussion we had was excellent. So, a good book all round.

Brona also reviewed this book (nearer its publication!)

Raynor Winn
The salt path
Penguin, 2018
273pp
ASIN: ‎ B0793GXSBL
ISBN: 9781405937528

Monday musings on Australian literature: Final thoughts on Canberra Writers Festival 2024

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In 2019, I wrote a detailed wrap-up of that year’s Canberra Writers Festival, and I thought to do one this year, though I didn’t have the fascinating stats I had in 2019. However, with this year’s festival bumping up against November, which is a very busy month in the blogosphere, I’ve decided to scale down my plans and just share some ideas which caught my attention, mainly because they popped up more than once in the six sessions I attended.

Many of the ideas related to the ideas that drive the authors or that affects their writing lives.

  • Who are the decisionmakers, how are things being decided: Rodney Hall and Catherine McKinnon, in slightly different ways, indicated that these questions drive much of what they write. Hall said “we don’t know when the things that affect our lives are hatched”, and that too often we react (and act) without asking “why” things have happened. Similarly, McKinnon is interested in understanding our governments and the decisions they make, in thinking about who we are trusting to make decisions. 
  • Writing about the self: While autofiction and writing about the self are a strong trend of modern writing, they don’t appeal to all writers. Not surprisingly, the self-described classicist Rodney Hall is one of these. He sees his classicism as being out of step with his peers, whom he admires but who are interested in more personalised expression, because people “want the dirt of what you are yourself”. Robbie Arnott was more forthright. He sees the modern focus on writing on the self as raising mundanity to art. (I can enjoy both – it’s all about degree!)
  • Writing to encourage feeling in readers: Robbie Arnott and Anita Heiss were both very clear about wanting to make people feel. Heiss wants readers to feel with her characters. She see this as the power of fiction. (In fact, she suggested this differentiated fiction from nonfiction, which I can’t agree with. I know I’m not the only one who has been powerfully moved by nonfiction. As a blog-reader wrote to me, what about Anne Frank’s diary, for a start?) Arnott was also vey clear about his goals in this regard. For him, the aim of fiction is not to render the world as it is but how it feels. He starts by looking for the emotion.
  • Historical fiction, and looking at what it is about NOW that the past can illuminate: Once upon a time I avoided historical fiction, but that time has long gone, because I’ve learnt that historical fiction can explore ideas that speak to me. Catherine McKinnon and Emily Maguire both talked about the relevance of historical fiction to now. First, there’s the issue of retrieving history that has been lost (the role played by women, for example, or queer lives), because it didn’t meet the prevailing (often patriarchal) mindset. But McKinnon also talked about how you look for the story you want to tell now – at what it is about now that you want to speak to, at what it is about humans that is interesting to us now. So, the 2005 Oppenheimer-biography, American Prometheus was, she felt, about how people could be picked up and then dropped, but she was interested in decisionmaking (and how it can be petty).
  • On living in our loud, noisy, controlling, egotistical world: Charlotte Wood and Robbie Arnott both referred to this (but would have covered it more in the session I couldn’t attend due to a clash, The power of quiet): Wood said she understands the appeal of asceticism in our “you-can-have-everything world”, bur recognises that the idea of “obedience” (versus wanting to argue) is a challenge for the ego in our egotistical world. Arnott’s quietness is based in his focus on landscape and nature. Both, at least as I heard them, see value in withdrawing (at least for a while) from the noise that can get in the way of being.

Some ideas, not surprisingly, related more to their craft.

  • The craft: What I heard was writers knowing (or learning) how much the craft of writing does the job they want, rather than focusing on plot or character, for example. A good structure, the right voice, sentences that do something – these are what makes writing come alive, what makes their stories work. Structure, for example, is fundamental to what Rodney Hall does. Arnott talked about crafting his books sentence-by-sentence. Maguire and Wood talked about “propulsion” in their narratives coming from the language, the sentences, the voice. “If the voice is strong”, said Wood, “the reader will follow along. It’s propulsive. That’s the key.”
  • Writing as a vocation, that is, as something you must do, kept coming through, and was specifically mentioned by Charlotte Wood, Emily Maguire, and Robbie Arnott. It’s their sacred place.

None of this is mind-shatteringly new, I suppose, but these ideas interested me for different reasons – usually related to the context in which they were explored, or the slant or angle they were given. I hope you find something of interest here.

So, does anything here speak to you?



Finlay Lloyd 20/40 Publishing Prize 2024 Winning Books Launch with Conversation

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I mentioned the nonfiction winner of the 2024 Finlay Lloyd 20/40 Publishing Prize, in this week’s Monday Musings, but saved the full winner announcement until after I attended the launch at a conversation with the winning authors this weekend.

The participants

This year, as publisher Julian Davies had hoped, there was a prize for fiction and one for nonfiction. The winners were all present at the conversation, and were:

  • Sonya Voumard for Tremor, which the judges described as “notable for its compellingly astute interweaving of the author’s personal experience with our broader societal context where people with disabilities, often far more challenging than her own, try to adapt to the implicit expectations and judgements that surround them”.
  • P S Cottier & N G Hartland for The thirty-one legs of Vladimir Putin, which the judges said “welcomes us to a world where absurdity and reality are increasingly indistinguishable and where questions of identity dominate public discourse. The book spirits us off on a playful journey into the lives of a group of individuals whose physical attributes appear to matter more than who they may be.”

The conversation was led by Sally Pryor who has been a reporter, arts and lifestyle editor, literary editor and features editor at The Canberra Times for many years. Born in Canberra, and the daughter of a newspaper cartoonist, she has a special connection to our city and its arts world.

And of course, the publisher, Julian Davies, started the proceedings. As I wrote in last year’s launch post, he is the inspiring publisher and editor behind Finlay Lloyd, a company he runs with great heart and grace (or so it seems to me from the outside.)

The conversation

Before the conversation started proper, Julian gave some background to the prize, and managed to say something different to what he said last year. He described Finlay Lloyd as a volunteer organisation, with wonderful support from writers like John Clanchy. He reminded us that they are an independent non-profit publisher, but wryly noted that describing themselves as non-profit seems like making virtue out of something that’s inevitable! Nonetheless, he wanted to make clear that they are not a commercial publisher and aim to be “off the treadmill”. And of course he spoke of loving “concision” and the way it can inspire real focus.

As last year, the entries – all manuscripts, as this is a publishing prize – were judged blind to ensure that just the writing is judged. The judging panel, as I wrote in my shortlist post, included last year’s winners.

Then, Sally took over … and, after acknowledging country, said how much, as a journalist, she also loved concision. Short books are her thing and they are having a moment. Just look, she said, at Jessica Au’s Cold enough for snow (my review) and Claire Keegan (see my post). Their books are “exquisite”. She then briefly introduced the two books and their authors. Sonya’s Tremor is a personal history told through vignettes, but which also explores more broadly the issue of viewing differences in other. She then jokingly said that she “thinks” Nick and Penelope’s book is fiction. Seriously though, she loved the novel’s set up which concerns the lives of 16 Putin “doubles”. It’s a page-turner. The books are very different, but share some themes, including identity, one’s place in the world, and how we can be captured and defined by the systems within which we live.

On Sonya’s journey

The conversation started with Sonya talking about her journey in writing this book. She was about to have brain surgery, a stressful situation. But she’s a journalist, and what do journalists do in such situations? They get out their notebook. Her coping mechanism was to cover it as a story, one of big stories of her life.

She has had a condition called Dystonia – mainly tremor in her hands – since she was 13. She managed for many years but, as she got older, more manifestations developed, not all easily linked to the condition, and her tremor got worse. Getting it all diagnosed took some time.

Sally noted that in the book, the doctor is thrilled that he could diagnose her and have someone else to observe with this condition (which is both environmental and genetic in cause). Sonya, of course, was thrilled to have an answer.

On Nick and Penelope’s inspiration and process

It started when they were holidaying in Queensland. I’m not sure I got the exact order here, but it included Penelope’s having read about Putin doubles, and Nick having been teased about looking like Putin. Penelope said it was a delight to write in a situation where humour would not be seen as a negative. The story is about look-alikes being recruited from around the world to act as Putin doubles should they be so needed.

Sally commented that the doubles respond differently. For some, it provides purpose, while others feel they lose their identity. What’s their place in the world, what does it mean?

Putin, said Nick, is an extraordinary leader who has morphed several times through his career. They tried to capture different aspects of him, though uppermost at the moment is authoritarianism. How do we relate to that? Penelope added that it’s also about ordinary people who are caught up in politics whether we like it or not. Capitalism will monetise anything, even something genetic like your looks.

Sally wondered about whether people do use doubles. Nick and Penelope responded that it is reported that there are Putin doubles – and even if they are simply conspiracy theories, they make a good story.

Regarding their collaborative writing process, Nick started “pushing through some Putins” so Penelope wrote some too, but they edited together. Nick is better at plot, at getting a narrative arc, Penelope said.

On Sonya’s choosing short form not memoir

It was a circuitous process. There is the assumption that to be marketable you need to write 55,000 plus words. She had the bones, and then started filling it out, but it was just “flab”. The competition (and later Julian) taught her that there was a good “muscular story” in there, so she set about “decluttering”. Sally likes decluttering. The reader never knows what you left out!

“Emotional nakedness” was a challenge for her, and to some degree members of her family found it hard being exposed – even if it was positive – but they learnt things about her experience they hadn’t known. Sonya’s main wish is that her family and loved ones like what she’s written.

But, did she also have a sense of helping others? Yes! There are 800,000 Australians with some sort of movement disorder, and many like she had done, try to cover it up. (For example, she’d sit on her hands during interviews, or not accept a glass of water). Her book could be liberating for people.

Continuing this theme, Sally suggested there are two kinds of people, those who ask (often forthrightly) about someone’s obvious condition, and those who would never. She wondered how Sonya felt about the former. It varies a bit, Sonya replied, but it feels intrusive from people you don’t know well. At work it can feel like your ability is being questioned.

On Nick and Penelope’s editing process

Nick explained that their story had a natural boundary, given they had a set number of Putins. (And they didn’t kill any Putin off in the writing!) There was, however, a lot of editing in getting the voice/s right, and getting little arcs to the stories.

In terms of research, they read biographies of Putin, and researched the countries their Putins come from.

Sally wondered whether Nick and Penelope saw any legal ramifications. Not really, but they did research their Putins’ names to get them appropriate but unique, and they have a fiction disclaimer at the end (though Julian didn’t believe it necessary!)

On Sonya’s writing another book on the subject, and on negotiating with those involved

While there are leads and rabbit holes that could be followed, Sonya is done with this story (at present anyhow).

As for the family, Sonya waited until the book was finished to show them, but she also tried to avoid anything that might be hurtful or invade people’s privacy. She’s lucky to have a family which has tolerated and understood the journalistic gene. Regarding work colleagues, she did talk to those involved. It was a bit of a risk but she didn’t name those who had been negative towards her. Most people just thought her shaking was part of her, and she liked that.

Sally talked about the stress of being a daily newspaper journalist, with which Sonya agreed, and gave a little of her personal background. She started a cadetship straight out of school and was immediately thrust into accidents and court cases. It was a brutal baptism. Around the age of 30, when the tremor and other physical manifestation increased, she decided she couldn’t keep doing this work.

Were they all proud of their achievement with this format?

As a poet Penelope is comfortable with brevity, so this was an expansion (to sentences!) not a contraction. Nick was obsessed with “patterning” – with ordering, moving between light and dark, internal and external, providing an arc. Penelope added that it started with less of an arc, including no names for the Putin doubles.

Sonya paid tribute to Julian for being “such an amazing editor” who taught her about how to impose structure on chaos. Penelope added that it was an intense editing process. It was also a challenge because, being a publishing prize it’s not announced until publication so she couldn’t tell people what she was working on. But the editing process was interesting.

Q & A

There was a brief Q & A, but mostly Sally continued her questions. However, the Q&A did bring this:

Is Nick and Penelope’s book being translated into Russian and/or will it be sent to Putin: Julian said Finlay Lloyd were challenged enough getting books to Australians. Penelope, though, would love Russians having the opportunity to read it. Perhaps, said an audience member, it could be given to the Russian embassy …

Julian concluded that it had been a joy working with these authors who “put up with him”, and thanked Sally sincerely for leading the conversation.

This was a lovely warm-hearted event, which was attended by local Canberra writers (including Sara St Vincent Welch, Kaaron Warren, and John Clanchy) and readers!

These books would be great for Novellas in November. You can order them here.

The Finlay Lloyd 20/40 Publishing Prize Winning Books of 2024 Launch
Harry Hartog Booksellers, Kambri Centre, ANU
Saturday, 2 November, 12.30-1.30pm

Six degrees of separation, FROM Intermezzo TO …

/ Whispering Gums / 26 Comments

For the last two Six Degrees I was away from home – first in outback Queensland and then in Melbourne – but this month we are back in our little apartment enjoying Canberra’s spring. And, I’m rarin’ to go with this month’s Six Degrees. If you don’t know how the #SixDegrees meme works, please check host Kate’s blog – booksaremyfavouriteandbest.

The first rule is that Kate sets our starting book. This month, again, it’s one I haven’t read. Indeed – sorry Bill – but I haven’t yet read any of this author’s books. I’m talking Sally Rooney, and her latest novel, Intermezzo.

Kazuo Ishiguro, Nocturnes

The word Intermezzo refers to a particular type of music, so for my first link I’m choosing a book titled for another type of music, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nocturnes (my review). It’s a collection of somewhat connected short stories, and music features strongly in the stories.

Book cover

I have decided, in fact, to stick with a music theme for this chain. My next link also has a type of music in the title, but, in addition each of the book’s chapters is titled with a piece of music, starting with Nocturne for Chapter 1! The book is Julie Thorndyke’s Mrs Rickaby’s lullaby cosy mystery, (my review) which is set in a retirement village.

My next link has of course a music theme, as I said all my links would, but it also links to Thorndyke’s novel because it is set in a specific sort of community,. The book is Christine Balint’s Water music (my review), an historical novel set in the 18th century in one of Venice’s musical orphanages for girls. (And, in a little shout out to Novellas in November, Water music is a novella, having co-won the 2021 Seizure Viva La Novella prize.)

Emma Ayres, Cadence

My next book has a musical term in the title and the word “music” in its subtitle. It is Emma Ayres‘ (now Ed Le Brocq) travel memoir, Cadence: Travels with music (my review). And, with a little six-degrees licence, I’m going to lay claim to another link, which is that Ayres’ next memoir, Danger music, is partly about his working in the Afghanistan National Institute of Music which was created primarily to teach music to disadvantaged children. (The book also chronicles Ayres decision to come out as a transgender man.)

Book cover

Staying with memoirs (and the word “music” in the subtitle, my next link is an another musician’s memoir, this one by singer-songwriter and Aboriginal activist, Archie Roach. His book is Tell me why: The story of my life and my music (my review).

Virgil Thomson portrait, 1947
Virgil Thomson, 1947 (Public Domain, Library of Congress via Wikipedia)

My last link is not a book but an article written by the American composer and critic, Virgil Thomson. Titled “Taste in music” (my review), it was published in 1945 in The musical scene, a book containing a collection of his articles and reviews. I loved this article because Virgil Thomson had composed the music for two wonderful, classic documentaries, The plow that broke the plains (1936) and The river (1938), and because he had some interesting things to say about reviewing/criticism. What he says, I realise now, is similar to what James Jiang said in the CWF session I attended on critics (my post). He said that “in order to be a reviewer, you have to forget whether you liked it or not and tell your reader what it was like”. As I wrote on my Thomson post, and again on the CWF session, this approach is for me. I prefer reviews/criticism that focus on analysing what the work is like, what makes it tick, more than whether the reviewer/critic liked it.

So, we started with Sally Rooney in contemporary Dublin, and moved to contemporary England and Australia, before time-travelling to 18th century Venice. Back in more contemporary times we went on the road from England to Hong Kong with Ed Le Brocq (as Emma Ayres), and experienced Archie Roach’s moving journey from Stolen Generation child to successful musician. We ended in mid-20th century America with a composer who also had some interesting things to say about developing our taste in music (or, by extension, any art form I think).

Now, the usual: have you read Intermezzo and, regardless, what would you link to?

    Monday musings on Australian literature: Nonfiction awards 2024

    / Whispering Gums / 33 Comments

    It’s been a very busy weekend, and I have a few posts waiting to do, plus a reading group book to finish for tomorrow, so this post is a quick one. Phew, you are probably saying if you stuck with me over the weekend!

    Today’s topic recognises that our litblogosphere’s annual Nonfiction November event, currently coordinated by Liz Dexter, starts today. I don’t usually write a Monday Musings for this event, but I thought it might be interesting to look at what Australian works of nonfiction won awards this year. Most of the awards are specific nonfiction awards, but some are more general awards which can be won by fiction or nonfiction (like the Stella, albeit was won by fiction this year.)

    I’ll list the awards alphabetically by title of award:

    • ABIA Biography Book of the Year: Anna Funder, Wifedom: Mrs Orwell’s invisible life (biography) (my review)
    • ABIA General Non-Fiction Book of the Year: Thomas Mayo and Kerry O’Brien, The Voice to Parliament handbook (handbook)
    • ACT Literary Awards, Nonfiction: Kate Fullagar, Bennelong & Phillip: A history unravelled (history)
    • Finlay Lloyd 20/40 Prize, Nonfiction Winner: Sonya Voumard, Tremor (I’ll be reporting more on this prize and the Fiction winner next weekend) (memoir/essay)
    • Indie Awards Book of the Year Non-fiction: David Marr, Killing for country: A family story (history)(Jonathan’s post)
    • Magarey Medal for Biography: Ann-Marie Priest, My tongue is my own: A life of Gwen Harwood (biography)
    • Mark and Evette Moran Nib Literary Award: to be announced on 27 November, but 5 of the 6 shortlisted titles are nonfiction
    • National Biography Award: Lamisse Hamouda, The shape of dust (memoir)
    • NSW Premier’s History Prize, Australian History: Alecia Simmonds, Courting: An intimate history of love and the law (history)
    • NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, Douglas Stewart Prize for Non-fiction: Christine Kenneally, Ghosts of the orphanage (history) (Janine’s review)
    • Northern Territory Literary Awards, Charles Darwin University Creative Non-Fiction Award: Dave Clark, Remember (creative nonfiction about truthtelling)
    • Prime Minister’s Literary Award, Australian History: Ryan Cropp, Donald Horne: A life in the lucky country (biography) (Lisa’s review)
    • Queensland Literary Awards, The University of Queensland Non-Fiction Book Award: Abbas El-Zein, Bullet, paper, rock: A memoir of words and wars (memoir)
    • Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards, Prize for Non-fiction: Ellen van Neerven, Personal score: Sport, culture, identity (memoir and polemic)

    So 14 awards here, and life writing (biography and memoir) is by far the most represented “genre”, partly because some of the awards are specifically for biography (life writing). History is second, and again, this is partly because there are specific history prizes (some of which are won by biography!) It is noteworthy, however, that other genres – nature writing and eco-nonfiction, for example – rarely get a look-in in these sorts of awards. And yet, there is some excellent writing in these genres being published (by Upswell, for example).

    And a little survey…

    Do you write nonfiction or non-fiction? In my admittedly minimal research, I have read that Americans are more likely to drop the hyphen, and this seems to play out in American versus English dictionaries.

    I note that:

    • Liz has nonfiction in her banner, which is how I first titled this post
    • the above Australian awards vary in their usage – some using the hyphen and some not, but the hyphenated form seems to be winning.

    I am tending to go with not, just as during my lifetime (or is it life-time!!) we’ve dropped the hyphen from tomorrow and today. (Hmm, a little research into these revealed that Chaucer for example had “tomorrow” – in his form “tomorwe” – unhyphenated. It was then later hyphenated and later again, re-unhyphenated – and I think I really need the hyphen there! Actually, it’s not as simple as this because through much of time the two forms have coexisted!)

    What do you do?

    Canberra Writers Festival 2024: 6, The case for critics

    / Whispering Gums / 19 Comments

    Presented in partnership with Sydney Review of Books and Radio National’s The Bookshelf 

    This was my final session of the festival, and it felt the perfect choice after five sessions focussing on authors and their novels. The program described it this way:

    Derided, disparaged and cursed to the heavens, book critics are depicted as literature’s grand villains – as frustrated creators and gleeful wreckers. But what do critics really do? And why are they necessary for a healthy literary ecosystem? James Jiang, Beejay Silcox and Christos Tsiolkas – a trio of Aussie critics – make the case for criticism. In conversation with Kate Evans and Cassie McCullagh (recorded for Radio National’s The Bookshelf).

    Again there was no Q&A, because it was being recorded.

    The session was conducted jointly by Kate Evans and Cassie McCullagh though the participants didn’t need much guidance as this was a topic they cared deeply about.

    Cassie did the acknowledgment of country. The participants were introduced – author Christos Tsiolkas (who has appeared several times on my blog), Editor of the Sydney Review of Books James Jiang, and critic and Canberra Writers Festival Artistic Director Beejay Silcox. Then the discussion commenced. I considered using my usual headings approach but the discussion was so engaged and free flowing, that I decided breaking it up would lose some of the connections. So, I’ve bolded a few ideas here and there as a guide. And, I’ve put my own reflections in parentheses.

    Kate leapt right with a question to Beejay about what happens when she “sees the whites of the eyes” of someone she has critiqued. This indeed had happened, Beejay responded, as she had loved one book by Christos and not another! But, if she can’t be honest she shouldn’t be doing the job. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable facing people if she has done her job properly, thoughtfully, respectfully.

    Christos admitted that it can be difficult to receive criticism, but he also writes criticism. However, it’s film criticism, because as an Australian novelist he feels he can’t be objective about other Australian novelists. He has critiqued novelists no longer with us, such as Patrick White.

    Beejay had been writing criticism out of Australia for seven years before she appeared on the scene, so she didn’t have that issue of being known. (In fact, some thought her name was a pseudonym being used by an author, and Christos was one of the suggestions for that author!)

    James, who is ex-academia, believes reviewing living authors offers a “massive opportunity” because you can guide the development of the art into the future. Critical thought, in other words, gets sucked up into the culture at large.

    Kate and Cassie, who use reviewers on their radio program, were interested in how you choose who reviews what. Debut authors can sometimes want to make a name for themselves and, for example, love to attack the sacred cows. So, their practice is to give these authors books from other countries to review. They are also conscious of hidden agendas they’d like to avoid, like friends or lovers who had fallen out! (I suspect that working for a national broadcaster that people love to criticise requires a different mindset.)

    James, on the other hand, doesn’t mind a gung-ho critic. But he feels that increasingly in Australian letters there is the official story and the backroom chat, with the latter often not appearing in social media. He would like transparency, and wants these informal ideas to make their way into formal criticism.

    Christos took this idea up, arguing that criticism is a conversation, an argument, but he likes to know the perspective of the critic, where they are coming from. He thinks Australians are scared of having the debate. He also thinks that to be a good reviewer you need to be a good writer. This came up a few times through the discussion, the idea that good criticism is a work in its own right.

    Picking up the idea that Australians are scared of the debate, Beejay suggested that we are a comfortable country but criticism is inherently uncomfortable. She’s been told she is brave, but she’s not. She knows what bravery is and it’s not her. Rather, she is being honest. She worries for our culture if what she does is seen as “brave”. Criticism should open doors, but it is often mistaken for closing things down. (Thinking about bravery versus honesty, I wonder if it’s more about confidence. Confidence in what you think, confidence that you can present it clearly, and confidence that you can defend it.)

    Christos talked about loving the American film critic Pauline Kael. She starts by asking what is the work doing, and how is it doing it. But, she has criticised – negatively – films that he loves. So, immediately he is in a conversation with her about why he loves the work, perhaps even despite her criticisms.

    Writing schools, Christos said, should teach criticism and how to deal with criticism, because there is a sting to a critical review. He quoted Hemingway’s advice to young writers – don’t compare yourself to the present because you don’t know what will hold, compare yourself to the past. (This is probably good advice for critics too! So many works we read now won’t hold, for reasons that, admittedly, aren’t always due to quality.)

    At this point, Kate asked what is good criticism. For her it is not about guiding her on whether to read a book or not. In fact, she said, let’s define criticism!

    James suggested that criticism was ultimately a form of ekphrasis. The most interesting reviews are those that “recreate the object of scrutiny”, that “conjure the object”, for the reader. In other words, criticism explores the work itself rather than whether it is better or worse than some other work. So, probed Cassie, it’s not about evaluation but context? Not in a discrete way, James said, but you are evaluating all along. Every process of description contains evaluation. But it’s not plonking some assessment at the beginning or end. (I wrote YES! here, because I often worry that I don’t pronounce enough on my feelings about a book. Today’s session has encouraged me to continue with my preference for trying to work out what a book is doing, rather than focusing on whether I like it.)

    Christos suggested that the best way to show you care about the art is to ask why it doesn’t work.

    Kate then got to the nub of the word “criticism” which people tend to understand as something negative rather than something more analytical. Beejay took this up, saying that people want to ask about the negative, the “bloody”, but she also looks for awe. It’s about opening a book and being prepared to be drawn in, of watching a mind at work. (This is what most intrigues me when I’m reading: What is the mind behind this doing? Where is it going? Why is it doing this?) Her greatest fear is that she will lose the capacity for awe, to be amazed.

    Christos said that it can be hard to write about what gives you the awe. (It can be hard to write about the opposite too, though, methinks?) Beejay suggested that the best critics bring doubt, not certainty. They offer “a (their) theory” about the work.

    Christos talked about having trust in the critic (and he gave an example of a music critic he trusts, who works in an area he knows little about).

    Asked about bringing in expertise, James made the interesting statement that he wants to estrange experts from their expertise. He talked about the difficulties of public writing – and used The Conversation as an example. Experts tend to dilute their writing for the public so that it ends up being “high advertising” for the university. He wants to get away from that. Good public writing might change the style – from academic – to make it interesting, to engage the reader, but shouldn’t dilute the content. SRB will accept essays from 3000 to 10000 words. He gave the example of a 10000-word essay by a poet on the poetics of videogames. There was a mismatch between the subject (video games) and perspective (a poet) but the the result was something good.

    On this expertise issue, Beejay commented that many feel they need to have read everything relevant to be able to comment, but she doesn’t believe that’s so. Christos suggested it was partly generational, and came out of the post-modern era. He had to wash it all off when he left university. (I understand this.)

    Beejay on the other hand was a lawyer, not an academic. She left the law, and thought academia was solipsistic, not willing to have conversation. She found criticism by accident. Books saved her life, and now she’s giving back to them. She’s jaded about academia.

    James, however, grew up with working class parents, and was looking for where he could go to have the conversations he wanted. He found it in an English seminar. The classroom environment taught him to edit his own writing. (Kate commented that Michelle de Kretser’s latest novel, Theory and practice, feeds well into this discussion.)

    The conversation then moved on to the focus on the latest thing, and how to not be “just recent”. Christos said the best festival panels for him are those where they discuss influences and books loved. We need to find space for this because there is the danger that some of what we focus on is just fashion, and that we are being influenced by the language around us. He wishes there were more spaces for reflective pieces. (Being involved in the Australian Women Writers blog, and a Jane Austen group, I don’t disagree with any of this!)

    Beejay loves reading favourite writers on how they became who they are. She criticises Australia because she loves it, but we are anglophone and protestant. We have an incredible critical legacy and we forget it. Rodney Hall, for example, has a large body of work but only one book, besides his latest, can be bought in bookshops. Critics can keep older work alive, and the more alive our discourse, the more alive our culture.

    Christos agreed, and talked about a community radio session that focuses on the things we love. (The damage done by academia is that there’s no love.)

    Cassie wondered about pulling punches, and talked about being told to pull one. Beejay had never pulled punches, but she knows which punches she wants to make. James offered a different angle, suggesting that some things are interestingly bad, whereas others can be good but dull. There’s much good but dull publishing he suggested. Christos talked about being told he should have pulled a punch when reviewing a promising young woman because what she was doing was important. What he’d written was “fair but not right”!

    Returning, it seemed, to the idea of evaluation, Kate grapples with “stars”. She’s not good with binaries, but if you’re not binary, are you being nuanced or wishy-washy. (I feel her pain!) Beejay suggested that how she feels is almost irrelevant to the reader, it’s how she thinks that’s important. Feeling can impact thinking, but she has written positive reviews about things she didn’t care for.

    Cassie then asked about spoilers. For Christos, to do justice to a work, to get to a conversation about it, he assumes you are interested in the whole, in how it works. James gave the example of classical tragedies. We all know how they are going to end. But then, he said, he is more of a voice and style rather than a plot person. (Yes!) Criticism is an ethical activity, and you need to be brave about owning your idea. (I think I might have missed how this related to spoilers.) Beejay talked about having the trust of her reader and working out when to share what. Criticism is the tip of the iceberg. There is a lot of effort and care beneath it. (This discussion of spoilers missed a significant point that wasn’t addressed at all during the discussion which is whether there is a different between Review and Criticism. I feel there is, and that in reviews spoilers are generally not what readers want, whereas with criticism it’s as Christos said, it’s about the whole and you can’t do that without talking about the end.)

    And that was that … have you made it to the end? If so, do you have any thoughts to share?

    Canberra Writers Festival, 2024
    The case for critics
    The Arc Theatre, NFSA
    Sunday 27 October 2024, 12-1pm

    Canberra Writers Festival 2024: 5, Your favourites: Anita Heiss

    / Whispering Gums / 11 Comments

    In conversation with Astrid Edwards

    Astrid Edwards is a podcaster who conducted a “conversation” I attended at last year’s Festival (my post), while Wiradyuri writer Anita Heiss (my posts) has made frequent appearances on my blog. This was my second (and final) “Your favourites” session at the Festival, though there were more in the program. Here is the program’s description: 

    This year marks the 200th anniversary of the Bathurst Wars. Anita Heiss’s thrilling new novel, Dirrayawadha, takes its title from the Wiradyuri command ‘to rise up’ and is set during these pivotal frontier conflicts. Join Anita in conversation with Astrid Edwards (recorded for The Garret podcast).

    Contrary to usual practice, it was the guest, Anita, who opened proceedings. She started by speaking in language which she then translated as acknowledging country, paying respects, honouring it, offering to be polite and gentle (I think this was it, as my note taking technology played up early in the session!)

    Astrid then took the lead, saying it was a privilege and honour to be on stage with Anita Heiss. She did a brief introduction, including that Anita had written over 20 books across many forms, had published the first book with language on its cover, and was now a publisher. She also said there would be no Q&A, presumably because the session was being recorded for her podcast.

    The Conversation proper then started, with Anita teaching us how to say the title of her new book, but I was still playing with my technology, so will have to look for YouTube instruction later, as I did with Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray. She then read from the beginning of Dirrayawadha.

    On choosing fiction for the story

    Astrid was not the only person to ask this question, said Anita. So had some of the Bathurst elders. Her answer was that we all read differently, so stories need to be told in all forms – children’s, young adult, adult fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and so on. She talked about her first novel, Who am I? The diary of Mary Talence (2001), which was commissioned by Scholastic for young adults in their My Australian Story series. Told in diary form, it’s about a young girl’s experience of the Stolen Generation – and it made a bookseller cry. That’s the power of fiction – to make people feel. Anita wants people to feel with her characters. You can’t do that in nonfiction, she believes.

    She has four points-of-view (POVs) in the novel: the land, the historical warrior Windradyne, his fictional sister Miinaa, and the fictional Irish political convict Daniel. Her original idea had been to use Baiame (the creator) as her POV, but she’s received mixed feelings about this. She thought, then, of using the land, but she found it hard to tell her love story through that POV. So, she ended up with her four POV novel!

    As well as fiction’s ability to appeal to our feelings, Anita said the other power of fiction is reach. She quoted someone (whom she can’t remember) who said that if women stopped reading, the novel would die. Men rarely read fiction, she believes, particularly fiction by women. The composition of this morning’s audience didn’t contradict this! Her aim is to reach women in book clubs. This led to a brief discussion about “commercial” being seen as a dirty word, but it means reach!

    On the violence

    An interesting segue perhaps from the idea of encouraging women readers! But, violence is the subject of this historical novel about the 1824 Bathurst War, which was fought between the Wiradyuri people and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Every act of violence by the settlers brought revenge. Anita described the Proclamation of Martial Law made by Governor Brisbane which included that “Bloodshed may be stopped by the Use of Arms against the Natives beyond the ordinary Rule of Law”. While there was reference to its being a last resort, it sanctioned violence.

    Anita talked a little about the history, and recommended nonfiction books for further reading, but said she wanted to translate the massacres into a palatable form for wider audiences. And, she wants people to know this story through the Wiradyuri lens. (She commented that the colonisation of Gaza is the same story. What have we learnt as human beings.) She talks about the book so people can learn but every time she does, it is re-traumatising.

    On her main characters

    Anita spoke about each of the characters, about the historical Windradyne, and his bravery in fighting for his people. All she had to do to fight Bolt (see Am I black enough for you?) for his racist attacks was go to court, but in Windradyne’s time people lost their lives. She created his sister Miinaa because she wants to show strong Wiradjuri women (and Suzanne, for a strong settler woman).

    As for Daniel O’Dwyer, she spoke about the Irish political convicts who were transported because they fought the Britain for their sovereignty. It’s the same story. However, most of Dan’s Irish convict friends did not recognise the similarity because, once in Australia, they were fighting for their own survival, for jobs.

    Anita spoke quite a bit about Dan, because he helps represent conflict or opposition within settlers about what was happening. She talked about there being long standing connections between First Nations people and the Irish because they experienced loss of sovereignty at the same time. Through Dan, we see an Irish man who is conscious of being on Wiradyuri country. There are people who put themselves on the line for the right thing (like, today, the Jews for Peace group.)

    And, Anita told us something I didn’t know which is that the word “deadly” as we hear used by First Nations people comes from the Irish, who use it in a similar way. There were other similarities between the Irish experience and that of First Nations people, including not being allowed to use their language.

    Ultimately though, First Nations people were measured against Eurocentric behaviour. The Wiradyuri were seen as barbaric, and the convicts, who lived in fear, did not see that the violence they experienced was a reaction to their own behaviour

    Astrid said she was catching a glimpse of a what if story – or alternative history. That is, what if the Irish had sided with the Wiradyuri?

    The landownder family, the Nugents, and their place Cloverdale, were based on the Suttors and Brucedale in the Bathurst region. Sutter (who sounds a bit like Tom Petrie in Lucashenko’s Edenglassie) learnt Wiradyuri and built a relationship with the people. Co-existence, in other words, can happen. Again, what if? (Anita auctioned the name of her settler family in a Go Foundation fundraiser.)

    On the love story

    Anita said it is difficult to write about violence, so the love story between Miinaa and Dan, gave her a reprieve from violence and heartache. Further, through all her novels – this came through strongly in her early choclit books (see my review of Paris dreaming) – she wants to show that First Nations people have all the same human emotions, to show “us as complete, whole people”. She likes humour, but it was hard to find humour in a war story. Still, she tried to find moments of distance from painful reality.

    On learning her language

    Anita said her aim is not to write big literary novels, but using language does make her writing more rich, powerful. However, she is still learning it. She told a funny story about posting a YouTube video on how to pronounce Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray. Readers practised it, messaged her and sent clips of their achievement, but then an Aunty (I think) told her that she’d got it wrong. She was distressed, until a friend told her, “you are learning what should be your first language at the age of 50”. She does, however, feel privileged to be able to learn her language in a university setting when her mother wasn’t allowed to speak it at all.

    There was more on language – including the Wiradyuri words for country, love, and respect, and that Wiradyuri words are always connected to place. Country matters to Anita. She talked a little about her growing up, and her parents, about her experience of living with love and humour. Race was never an issue between her Austrian father and Wiradyuri mother.

    Astrid wondered whether there had been any pushback from using language – Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray – for her last novel’s title, given it was groundbreaking. It was during COVID, Anita said, and a Zoom meeting with her publisher, who wanted to push boundaries. Anita suggested taking English off the over – and the publishers went with it. Anita doesn’t want the title to be a barrier, and she doesn’t want people to get upset if they get it wrong, but no-one has pushed back.

    On her new role as a publisher

    I have written about this initiative which involves Anita being the publisher for Simon and Schuster’s new First Nation’s imprint, Bundyi, so I won’t repeat it here. She talked about the titles I mentioned, albeit in a little more detail. She wants to produce a commercial list, including works by already published authors doing different things and by emerging writers.

    The session ended with another reading from Dirrayawadha – of the novel’s only humorous scene, which has Suzanne explaining Christianity to a very puzzled Miinaa.

    A friendly, relaxed session, which nonetheless added to my knowledge and understanding of Anita Heiss and of First Nations history and experience.

    Canberra Writers Festival, 2024
    Your favourites: Anita Heiss
    The Arc Theatre, NFSA
    Sunday 27 October 2024, 10-11am