The Book Shelf Doomsday

Not to sound selfish but if I lend you a book I want it back. I've lost so many books I've loved (for those are the only ones worth lending out) to friends who simply pass them on, keep them or let them loose into the ether. But I like my books. I love lending them out to other people. I love referencing them. I love looking at their spines and remembering their tales, since, let's face it, my memory is nearly non-existent. And I like the whole look of it. My two mighty Ikea bookshelves remind me I'm a writer, but also foremost a reader. But now my bookshelves face another blow. This time it is not a book-friendemy. It's me.

Since I originally hail from Canada there's always been speculation about heading back there, away from my cozy apartment here in St Kilda. I do not especially want to move. I've gotten to know a tad about Australia's publishing industry and love the independent publishers who serve the literary community well. Oh and those friends who buy me drinks and let me ramble on about whatever obsession tends to occupy my fancy that day, yes, I'll miss them dearly too. Alas, being in a relationship for nearly nine years requires sacrifice and my partner is pleading we move.

I've queried many shipping movers, requesting quotes to shift my belongings. I've already decided to sell everything but my art, 1/2 of my clothes, 1/4 of my linen, some momentos and my red mixing bowls. But my books? I don't think so, buster. Then another financial reality of being a full time writer struck - I'll have to, somehow someway, whittle my collection down to a mere box!

What do I get rid of? Classics is my main guess. They are easily replaceable, but even then I still doubt my capacity to contain my book collection to a solitary box. These are sad days ahead, my friends. It's like the Sophie's Choice of books. On the bright side, perhaps I'll convince Braden to stay here in melanoma land (so he has freckles and pale skin - slip, slop, slap, solved) or at the very least keep some of my lovelies here, stored up and dusty, so that when I come back (and indeed I will come back, family and everything) it will be like saying hello to a long lost friend, one who isn't on Facebook and doesn't keep in touch.

Oh the guilt

Lately the guilt of not writing a short story, or finishing the final *unpublished draft of my novel, or update this blog has taken me to Blue Town. That place writers know all too well. I often go through slumps where thoughts gather in my head but rarely make it on to paper. It's times like these I feel as though I'm that person at the party who say they 'want' to write a novel, well after they manage to find the time.

Although, I must say I have a barrel of excuses. I've been ill. Four lumbar punctures and a two day road trip to Queensland where my partner's mother is donating an unmatched kidney to her husband, has left me little energy, physical or creative. It's only the fourth such transplant done in Queensland. Fortunately all went well, except my aching, painful back, and for two weeks we had to devote our time to looking after his parents after they got out of hospital.

I haven't had time to read either! Oh my good intentions. I did read a quarter of Dave Eggers What is the What. And boy oh boy did the story, while at times repetitious, made the long drive and pale paddocks fly by. The story of Valentino Achak Deng combines nicely with Eggers writing. At times, as a writer, I often wondered what their process was, how all the detail was brought to life. It is obvious from the forward, some of the conversations and smaller points of 'the story' were embellished and thus meant publication as fiction. The larger, more important, facets of the story make it without a doubt some of the most compelling, humbling, honest, reading I have stumbled upon for a while. By the end of each chapter, all we wanted to do was read the next. We can't wait for the drive home.

Next, I will blog on one of my favourite humorous reads ever, Fanny Flagg's Daisy May and The Miracle Man.

Oh, The Woes Of Authorhood

A few times a week I set aside time to check my email and search out markets for my work. I trawl the internet and the monthly Writers' Centre newsletters hoping to find the elusive beast. It has these features:

-it publishes exciting or/and well crafted fiction and/or poetry
-it has an email address for submissions!
-it does not require any sort of fee.

Of course, there is a King Beast. He is extremely rare and facing extinction. Authors hear rumors of the beast at launches or from a drunk who boasts of his catch. You'll recognize the King by the distinctions that set him apart from his contemporaries:

-it pays money and/or contributer copies
-it has a national or international distribution
-it throws great launches.

Extended metaphors aside, the reality of placing creative work is daunting. You want it to be read and presented in a respectful way. You don't want to kill trees and fill landfills with ink cartridges to print off your work to send off. Sure publishers, this means you'll get more work to sort through because it makes submission more accessible. Perhaps you can hire an undergraduate intern. Maybe throw a saltine his or her way as they wade through the unsolicited inbox.

Don't get me started on contests! I haven't entered any writing contest (aka lottery) for several reasons. First, the submission fee. Australia isn't as bad as Canada. I've seen $25-$30 submission fees with a first prize of $100. Ridiculous. Secondly, the judges. Some contests state upfront who is judging, and pay a local author to adjudicate. But others? Well! Lastly, writing is a profession. Some 'contests' are nice to have on a resume and are genuine platforms for writers (most of these do not require a fee). But others are fundraising tools. It's degrading. What other professions have contests? Imagine an annual builders' contest (picture Jenga on a large scale). The only professions outside the Arts that I can think of that have contests are cat breeders and hairdressers.

And publications with reading fees really get my goat. I realize funding is thin. But imagine working days, maybe even months, at your job only to be told you have to pay the boss.

New Authors. An Admission. (No Stones Please)

I admit, shamefully, I am shallow when it comes to introducing myself to new authors' work in a bookstore. I'm not talking about word-of-mouth books, or the book reviews we all read and think I must read that author. I'm talking about wandering into a bookstore with no book in mind, stumbling onto a narrow spine which has never had its cover turned toward the aisle, or a little 'Recommended Reading' note inserted under its base. For this purpose I have devised a system, albeit a shallow system, of adjudication.

First. Covers. Recently at a party a friend leaned over the table, wine on her breath, and whispered a dirty little secret. She bought and read books based on their covers, wasn't she horrible! Well, no, I told her. I did too. Is the cover shiny? Yes? Then no, I won't read it. Is it a rip-off of J.S Foer's covers? Oh that glorious freehand anti-font. Oui? Then no, I won't pick it up. Does it feature pastel flowers or a photograph of a troubled teenager? Again, not a book I like touching my precious fingers.

Second. The blurb. Either it sounds interesting or it doesn't. If the blurb is only praise and quotes from reviewers or other authors in their publisher's stable, count me out. I don't need someone to tell me I should read a book because they liked it. I flip that book over to see if it might appeal to me.

Last but not least, it must pass the random flick test. The writing must be up to scratch. Not just the first page or the first overly-written three chapters. Come on writers, we're all guilty of slacking off immediately after the words Chapter Four. If it is well written, and it is under $30, it is likely I'll buy it.

Which brings me to Susan Hubbard's The Society of S. Despite the Zorro-esque cover of the golden S and featuring Society in its title, I let slide my first rule. Afterall it was matt black, a colour (or non-colour) I respect. Onto rule two. The blurb sounded familiar to my novel, so of course I was both impressed and nervously curious. Rule number three passed when I read a page 2/3s in and it wasn't blooming adjectives and it was written in convincing first person.

I was ultimately deceived. My formula wasn't fail proof. Gasp! Clutch my heart! The novel I thought was about a thirteen-year-old girl and her mysterious scientist father, was in fact about vampires. Since Stephanie Meyer's onslaught of everything vampire I shuddered, and admit thinking I'll finish this but I'm not going to tell a soul. Thankfully commonsense prevailed and I no longer care if people know I've read one of those books. After all Dracula remains one of my favourite books in terms of atmosphere and style. Far from cliche-land, this novel is shaping up to be one of the best YA books, realist or fantastical, that I've read since Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now. So, perhaps my system does work. It just allows for hidden surprises.

The Yawn Factor

Isn't it awkward when the friend, who is oh so generous, gives you a 'you-have-to-read-this' book? Undoubtably it will be a novel of somewhat questionable writing and most likely filled with a wandering plot that makes you question the publishing industry and characters drawn so thin so can see through them and their families three generations back. Alas, you feign a smile and politely say, 'Oh...thank you' and before you know it you've laid the brickwork for a series of long nights, struggling to finish a few pages before delving into the book you picked out, the one you enjoy, the one taunting you on the bed-side table.

I have recently received such a novel. This time from a friend who usually recommends great books. He introduced me to A House For Mr Biswas, which is now a favourite of mine, so I had every intention of reading the dull, water-warped pages of this 'have-to-read- book', which shall remain nameless for the time being. He had scanned his shelf before our meeting in the city, and thought 'Yes, I bought that years ago when I was in Ireland. It is one of my favourite books. I just forget what it is about' then later told me this as he passed it to me.

I wasn't going to let the one Euro sticker on the cover deter me. Some people just don't have taste. However, the first page was traumatic. Adjective and adverb city! And not just the good old JK Rowling romp through adjective town either. To top it off, it was written in that ever so annoying Old English style (yes, I wrote that on purpose) that leads you to think for the first thirty pages it is set in the 1800s until the protagonist mentions Nixon. Why do authors do this? People from the 1800s aren't reading your book, we are...hopefully.

Tonight marks the fourteenth night of those horrible words and the plot is wandering on one foot, drunk on too much of its own ale, blinded by the umpteenth adjective, searching for a place to lay down and die. I highly suspect this will take place soon, if not, I'll have to shoot it.

Of course there are exceptions to the 'you-have-to-read-this' book lend, but they are exceptions.

The Paris Review 187

While the mercury here in Melbourne reached a hard-to-breath 45 degrees, I was greeted by the latest edition of the Paris Review in my mailbox. Any day this publication reaches my hands is a perfect day, at least for a few hours, and yesterday was no different. A tall glass of homemade lemonade, a fan, the journal and I was was set to beat the heat.

For those not familiar with this publication, hop over to the website www.theparisreview.org to find out how to subscribe and treat yourself to a hearty meal of literature. Those of you short of funds (who isn't these days?) can spend hours sifting through the substantial archives, consisting of award-winning fiction, poetry and interviews.

With an Issue number of 187 (famous for being associated with homicide) who could expect what lay inside its covers to be normal?

The first short story was The Lover by Damon Galgut, a South African writer whose novel The Good Doctor was short-listed for the 2003 Man Booker Prize. The Lover was the best crafted story I have read in a long time. It is a story where it could be argued nothing much happens, except it does. The main character, Damon, a perpetual traveller, travels through Africa crossing borders that lay inside himself as well as on a geographical map, as he puts it. Familiar themes of political unrest and racism are evident but take a backseat to a less didactic story of falling in love.

Without knowing Gulgat's personal history, he does leave you wondering if this story is one in a growing trend of autobiographical fiction, especially since the author and protagonist share the same first name. Those of you familiar with Nam Le's short story collection, The Boat, which won the Dylan Thomas Prize, will recall the story Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice. Or Helen Garner's latest novel The Spare Room. Who can argue with this trend when what is produced is intimate and moving and somewhat brave on the writer's behalf. Gulgut's writing is clear and concise, giving it a beautiful rhythm. Not one word seems superfluous.

Among poetry, the interview with Poet Laureate Kay Ryan, the Northern fishing photographs by Corey Arnold, and other fiction in this issue, was another gem. Document contained a series of letters written in verse from Ezra Pound to Marcella Spann, a young woman who visited Pound in St Elizabeth's Hospital for the insane. It also includes one of his unpublished poems.

My Poetry

The Writing Partner


You remember things
like titles, directors and writers
while I sit dumb and collapsed
empty of remember

You show me scars
round cherries ash burnt
and I show you my remember
wishing it were empty

You talk of directors
and I think about cherries
burnt and ash pink
but your remember is empty

of those things collapsed.


(Originally published in Sketch Literary and Design Journal November 2008)

Launch Time Again!

Well, it's that time I love again, as long as I'm not reading my work. Actually, I don't mind reading as long as I limit the people I know in the audience. I used to have to sneak out of the house in full Shakespearean costume back in my acting days. I would often hear my mother shouting, 'Where are you going?' and I'd answer, 'Out for coffee'. They must've thought I was madder than crazy.

I actually love reading poetry. Call me old fashioned (cliche for the day-tick), but I wish poetry could go back to being about words and content rather than based on how well a writer can perform. I've recently seen some poets whose poetry ranges from mediocre to great but people don't take in the words during a reading, they focus on the poet's performance, much like listening to music and not the lyrics. Brilliant poets might get lost this way. Hopefully not. Perhaps it is simply about adjusting to our time and the evolution of writing/promotion/publishing.

Vignette Press is launching the Death Mook, which I'm grateful to be included, in late February. I can't wait to read the finished product. At least one other author I know, Angela Myer over at Literary Minded, is also represented in the Mook. The launch is taking place Upstairs at Dantes (150 Gertrude Street, Fitzroy) Thursday February 26th and starts at 7pm.

To purchase copies contact Vignette Press for a stock list. www.vignettepress.com.au

Currently Reading...

Try as I might to support independent book stores, my cinema is next to Borders and inevitably I do the 'I want a new book now! search'. Borders has a greater selection of books at cheaper prices, which is important to me because I am not rich. However, of late, I've been disappointed to see that they have none of the books I want to read, which are:

Borges and the Eternal Orangutans by Luis Fernando Verissimo
I Haven't Dreamed Of Flying For A While by Taichi Yamada
2666 by Roberto Bolano

In fact no shop has these books in Australia (Ahem, well Readings has 2666 but it is $59.00). So instead of spending $36.99 for a book that didn't really seem to be 'mykindabook' I went to my secret bookshelf at a nearby op shop and picked up four novels: Watership Down (which I started to read but it smelt like poo! so I'll have to get another copy if I can get over the whole talking animal thing), Bridges of Madison County (hated it but finished the novella), Briefing For A Descent Into Hell by Doris Lessing (I'll do a seperate review of this) and Sol Stein's The Husband (proving to be good in a theatrical and thematical kind of way).

Autobiography

A bit about moi.

The facts:

I am 27,
spent fifth grade with an English accent,
ate my entire eraser collection when I was six,
told everyone in grade one and two I was born in San Francisco,
have been to Paris,
spent nineteen years living in British Columbia, Canada,
made my younger sister cry by telling her that her bike was a dead horse,
have a Cornish Rex and a hell of a mean chihuahua/mutt,
have a phobia of drowning,
will eat cereal with a salad spoon before doing the dishes,
and miss the northern lights.


Other less interesting facts:

I am a full time writer currently living in Melbourne, Australia. I am working on my second novel entitled The Woods Between. In 2005 I completed RMIT's Diploma of Art (Professional Writing and Editing). 2006 made me a finalist for the SOYA (Spirit of Youth Australia) Awards in the Words Category for my short stories Kinship and The Mare and my poem Talk, judged by Allen and Unwin publisher Jude McGee. In 2007, I was long-listed for the HarperCollins/Varuna Manuscript Award and received the Varuna Pathways to Publication Masterclass residency. I also was a finalist for Young Writer of the Year by Australia's Sunshine Coast Literary Association for my novel The Islands.

My short fiction and poetry have appeared in Switchback, Visible Ink's Contemporary Soul anthology, Vignetts Press's The Death Mook, Sketch Literary and Design Journal, Harvest Literary Magazine, Paroxysm Press's anthology Ten Years of Things that Didn't Kill Us, Voiceworks, Noise, and Red Leaves Bi-lingual Literary Journal.