Two flash stories originally published in The Lifted Brow Digital are available to read online now.
Two flash stories originally published in The Lifted Brow Digital are available to read online now.
It’s been a while since I updated, so I’ll shove it all in one post. First of all, Happy New Year! 2014 was an incredible year for me, though it started out rocky (I was unemployed for about two months). The highlights were finishing my doctorate, publishing Captives, and having a story included in Best Australian Stories 2014.
Another highlight was reworking a chapter of my thesis and having it included in this book: The Simpsons Did It! Postmodernity in Yellow (eds Martin Tschiggerl and Thomas Walach-Brinek). I wrote about Lisa Simpson as a nonconformist, the prominent voice of the show’s critiques of dominant consumer society (while being complicit to it, as the show is). If you’re interested, it’s available on Amazon. I’m looking forward to my copy arriving on the 4:30 autogyro.
I was also delighted to contribute recently to The Lifted Brow: Digital 15;2, with two new flash stories: ‘Close Like This’ (set in a strange underground bar) and ‘The Washington Irving Hotel’ (set in an abandoned hotel I saw in Granada).
Soon I’ll be contributing to a cool online project, Dear Everybody Collective, where artists and writers collaborate back and forth and the results are published on Instagram. I’ve really enjoyed following so far, particularly the collab between Rose Jurd and Melinda Bufton. Follow and scroll back here.
Speaking of online projects, I’ve decided to release the current short story I’m working on, plus a couple of new flash pieces and perhaps some audio in a package on Gumroad, to try something different rather than publishing new work through literary magazines. Of course I’ll continue to do that, I just like the idea of having a button here where people can always find new work from me, if they’re interested. Perhaps at some point I’ll release an extract of my novel-in-progress, or even digitise one of my workshops. What do you think? Editing is important so Daniel Young (of Tincture Journal) is on board to help me curate and polish the pieces. If you’d like to find out when I’ve released anything this way, add your email here (it won’t be too often/spammy).
And now the opportunity: I’ve been invited to be a judge for the Thiel Grant for Online Writing, which awards $5000 over a year to a writer who will produce 50 pieces (roughly one per week). There is more info here. There has been some criticism of the prize, namely that it’s not enough money per piece of work. These criticisms come from writers whose work is valued (financially) at a professional rate (as it should be) but I just want to take a minute to describe my own reaction to first hearing about the grant, and explain why I support it.
First of all, I thought it was generous, as it’s a personal donation made by a writer and teacher who has produced great volumes of online writing (mainly for interest, innovation and pleasure), so knows what it takes. Secondly, in my experience over seven and a half years of blogging, there were times when I wondered why something like this didn’t exist. Before and after writing for Crikey, for example (who only paid for a short while, by the way, when it was in the budget), I certainly would have applied for it. I was writing two posts per week for no immediate financial gain (though peripheral opportunities arose), and had a strong readership.
I experimented with advertising and it was never lucrative, though I know some people make it work. There are many types of blogs (ie. literary, experimental etc.) that would never attract advertising. Also, having ads on your blog requires admin work, or for some bloggers even requires you to (arguably) compromise your content with ‘sponsored’ posts on particular subjects. While this grant ‘sponsors’ a writer, the entire concept for the posts will be the author’s own, and there will be no editorial intervention.
People who are professional freelance writers are paid more than $100 for a piece (although many publications in print and online still only pay around that, I know because I’ve written for them), so I can see why some might have an issue with this grant. But those writers have put in the hard yards and are on a different tier, I think they can acknowledge that this grant is just not for them. Who is it for? There is a massive ‘blogosphere’ (and social media-sphere) of all kinds of writers (creative, critical, personal, you name it) who put a lot of time into their online writing, and who do it for love, and this is who this grant is for. They will already have a strong concept, and they will already write regularly. Off the top of my head I think about two of the blogs that inspired me at the beginning: Christopher Currie’s ‘Furious Horses‘ (the 365 stories project) and Krissy Kneen’s ‘Furious Vaginas‘. These blogs were updated with regularity and were a kind of discipline for the writers (and they have both gone on to be traditionally published authors) as well as being unique, stimulating and entertaining for the reader. I’m sure there are other writers like this to uncover, who will be excited to have their work acknowledged and financially supported. And I’m looking forward to discovering a range of voices and ideas as a judge of the Thiel Grant. Again, click here if you’d like to learn more or apply.
I’m the flash fiction editor for a new writing and art magazine, Cuttlefish, from Sunline Press in WA. I look forward to receiving your pieces (anonymously) of up to 250 words. The publication will feature one artist’s work and also print poetry, up to 40 lines, and longer pieces up to 1200 words. There will be a payment of $40 for all works.
Here are the details:
All submissions will be selected anonymously so writers should send a hard copy to Sunline Press, 21 Jarrad Street, Cottesloe, 6011, with no name on the work. These should arrive by December 5. Writers should then send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org with their names and the titles of their work after January 7 and before January 14.
Those selected will be notified by late January.
All submissions should be typed in 12 point Times Roman, with 1.5 spacing.
Short Fiction: Sue Midalia
Flash Fiction: Angela Meyer
Poetry Editor: Roland Leach
All the best!
‘The space beyond the stories is essential, and the words themselves appear with an illusory ease and simplicity.’
Read the rest here.
Captives is widely available, including from the publisher, Readings, Booktopia, Avid Reader, Fishpond (free worldwide shipping), or your local bookstore. The ebook is available on Kindle, Google Play, iBooks, Kobo & more.
‘Yet the clock is time, and time is lost, is bankrupt before it begins’—from Owls do Cry, Janet Frame.
Recently I made two early blog posts private.
Many times I have gone to do this but never have. When I taught blogging I would tell my students that the blog itself formed an overall narrative. Mine certainly does. From 22-year-old bookseller living in Coffs Harbour to Dr Meyer the published author, a Melburnian and a frequent traveller, now 30.
There was something about those early posts (the naivete, the openness, the enthusiasm perhaps all part of it) that made people champion me. I’m amazed when I look at the comments (on such cringe-worthy posts). It seems I even taught Emilie Zoey Baker what a meme was. The writing really was shocking, though. More so, I have changed and I can’t help feeling embarrassed at some of the earlier ‘personal’ posts, and well, poems. And so I might prune a little, here and there, from now on. I feel guilty about it. As though it’s dishonest.
But the narrative has spread out, to my published reviews, articles and stories, and the books I’ve now edited and written. Not to mention on social media, where ‘personal’ and even experimental expression continues. I’ll keep reflecting on the broader narrative (and journey) here. LiteraryMinded will always, in some shape or form, be my home on the internet.
I just turned 30, while at the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in Bali. A satisfying, literary-minded way to spend my birthday. I was on a panel about short stories on the day, with Nic Low and Dias Novita Wuri, chaired by Lisa Dempster. The audience was so engaged, and afterwards I was chatting with some teenagers who said they’d been reading stories from Captives aloud to one another. It’s always cool when someone tells you they’ve been reading your work, but I hadn’t previously realised these (often dark) stories would resonate with teenagers. It was great to meet them, and a special shout out to Julia. This is for you:
G and I spent the afternoon of my birthday at Bali Bird Park, absorbing sounds and colours; feeling the weight of parrots and hornbills on our arms, shoulders, and heads, and holding iguanas.
‘You experiment to know how big your spiritual tension can be and how high you can scale the heights of art.’
This shift, though, from being firm about never deleting old blog posts to deciding it’s OK, reflects a wider shift that’s been happening in my life. I’ve noticed it since I got back from overseas, and since Captives was published. Questions have been raised (mostly internally) that relate to values I’ve always held, and I’ll find that something I always firmly believed (so much so that it had shaped who I was) has entered some slipstream, and then I watch it float away. How strange, I’ve found myself thinking. How strange to find that you have changed so much. To know you could change so fundamentally.
What’s still present in me, from the early blog days? The enthusiasm, definitely. The mad crushes on books and people. The dark bits. The wanting to go deeper. The desire to write fiction. The commitment, though the focus has shifted to different projects. The need for balance. Unfortunately, the self-consciousness. But it’s gotten much better. I set my mind to doing things and I do them. I am capable. I am most definitely grown up.
I will miss my 20s. The last five years in particular have been incredible, despite a few rough patches. One thing I’ll miss is the fact that people are forgiving of you when you’re young. And your achievements seem larger. People are proud; they nurture you. But my writing is in a good place (I’ve made it into Best Australian Stories for the first time, out November), and I’ve had a few work experiences since my doctorate that have made me realise what I do and don’t want to do. And I want to have kids and other life stuff like that. The 30s will be different, but I’m certain they’ll still involve writing, reading, love, travel, and whisky. And that’s enough.
I reviewed The Rosie Effect, Graeme Simsion’s follow-up to The Rosie Project for the Weekend Australian. It’s a warm read, and a successful sequel. Following is an extract from the review.
As with the first book, these incidents are humorous and cause cringing; the reader observes the miscommunication, the unravelling, and longs to step in as an interpreter. This is enhanced by the first-person point of view: we experience each incident through Don’s eyes and can only imagine what the other characters are thinking […]
There is genuine emotional intent. Don grappling with the idea of a baby and how it will fit into his and Rosie’s lives is relatable on a broad level: trying to find some structure when life is changing shape or feels chaotic.
The Rosie books are partly about control. Life events take their course, and it is sometimes difficult to confront the idea that we have no control over them. We can relate to Don’s desire to be prepared for the birth, to play a part and to understand. His ineptitude makes us laugh, but his failure to recognise his partner’s needs strikes on a deeper level.
Read the rest of the review here.
Here you’ll find an interview I did with Graeme Simsion for The Big Issue on the release of The Rosie Project in 2013.
I had the pleasure last night of launching The Special by David Stavanger, winner of the 2013 Thomas Shapcott Prize. The book is published by UQP and available now. David and I didn’t know each other beforehand, but connected through words (in emails, but mainly through our work) and it was a wonderful night, with much warmth. David asked me to read a few pieces from Captives before launching his book, which was kind. The legendary Jennifer Compton read also, and it was great to meet her. Her next book will launched in a couple of months.
My launch speech also acts as a review of The Special, so I’ll share it with you now:
What I came away with from this collection was a series of images, connected meanings, and a mood. I can try to explain or capture that mood through this speech, but it may end up being slightly different for each of you. A poet allows for space in between the words, words that either spill like bodily fluid, or that are drawn slowly and agonisingly, like impacted teeth. The space becomes yours, the reader’s.
I’ve already invoked some of the imagery in the book right there, that of bodies. Bodies tattooed, divided, diseased, under floors, naked, flying through air, young and old, on a plastic sheet, and featuring ‘so many exit points’ (that line being from the very affecting ‘Inheritance Triptych’).
There are throats, lips, chests, colons and legs tumbling into feet (‘Baby’). The bodies are a source of fascination, but also of weight. It’s an effort to be bodily, to have conversations with other parents at the school gate. With his father, the poet states: ‘I am the ghost and he is the father.’ The body doesn’t fit right. Sentience is floating, not necessarily tied to the body. It may even be found in objects, like a fridge in the flood. A fridge that ‘mourns broken seals’ and ‘once dated an esky’.
The emotional state is often worry, like when the ghost worries about his father. Worry plus a sense of fatalism leads to an absurd sort of humour. The worry doesn’t hide behind the humour, it’s present in it. The poem ‘The Future’ is a pinnacle of this, the worry almost seems a precursor to the events in this piece. There’s a sense of: yes, everything bad can happen, has happened, is happening, will happen. We just have to open another door, or keep walking a dead dog. And what else can we teach our children but to do this also?
There’s also an expression, overall, of a sense of effort—the effort that everyday living requires. The poem ‘Digestives’ really sums this up: minding someone’s place, being alone and heartbroken, then locking yourself out, having to spend all your money on a locksmith, having nothing to eat but digestive biscuits. Then there’s ‘In the Palace of Broken Men’ which has lines like ‘sighing is the first act of the morning’, and ‘an unnamed smell in the bedroom’, and ‘bins put out not brought back in’. Just think about that for a moment, the bins still out on the street.
The horror of the ordinary, it’s what a lot of people with mental illness face. And some of the poems here reference David’s time as a psychologist, and his own personal and familial experiences with mental illness. Some poems push boundaries, mainly I noticed in their treatment of the desire for oblivion, or in their respect for other states of being other than the continually shrinking idea of ‘normal’ in an overdiagnosed society. ‘Jack, the Moon’ is a brilliant poem, a record of the poet’s maternal grandfather, who had bipolar. The final lines are:
Madness is not fully measured by the harm done,
it’s in the beauty only lunar suns undo.
Who was I, at seventeen, to deny the ascent.
Complementary to these themes is a thread of control. Having it, letting go, and others having it over you, even through words. A panic, but perhaps an inevitability, too, over a loss of control, is captured in one of my favourite poems ‘Straws’, where straws exist to keep mouths at bay, because the sensations of glass and ice would be too much. There’s definitely humour in the line: ‘feeling better if something is between: clothes, surnames, bodies of water’. And the final stanza, which I won’t ruin for you, makes you both smile and feel a short buzz of panic. The poem seems a parody of a human being who is trying to keep some distance from physical sensations and the effect they may have on them.
Or perhaps it is a parody of the writer himself, fascinated by the straw between the mind and the words on the page, always some distance between them. Or, perhaps, it acknowledges the straw between the writer and the world. The writer as a person, always feeling, but as a writer, always looking down on the scene from above, distant from their own self. Maybe this is the distance between David and Ghostboy, his alter-ego.
This kind of writerly distance, tied with a vision both warm and dark, made me think about a state or outlook described by Janet Frame, looking back on the time she was in a mental hospital and thought her plight was hopeless. It’s an incredible description, and I hope David and some of you find it relevant.
I inhabited a territory of loneliness which I think resembles that place where the dying spend their time before death, and from where those who do return living to the world bring inevitably a unique point of view that is a nightmare, a treasure, and a lifelong possession; at times I think it must be the best view in the world, ranging even farther than the view from the mountains of love, equal in its rapture and chilling exposure, there in the neighborhood of the ancient gods and goddesses. The very act of returning to the world, however, tends to remove that view to the storeroom of the mind described by Thomas Beecham as ‘the room two inches behind the eyes’. One remembers the treasure and the Midas effect of it upon each moment, and sometimes one can see the glitter among the ordinary waste of each day.
And with that I declare The Special officially launched.
The quote is from Frame’s An Angel at My Table.
Read an interview with David Stavanger on Verity La.
Watch David’s performance as Ghostboy at Tedx Noosa (where he recites a couple of poems from The Special).