Stella, and a digression on envy, work, inadequacy

Posted on April 23, 2013 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

The Stella Prize 2013, the inaugural prize, was awarded last week to Carrie Tiffany, for Mateship with Birds, which you know I enjoyed very much (here’s my Big Issue interview with Carrie from last year). She very generously donated $10,000 of the prize money back to the shortlist, noting that it was a selfish act because it gave the authors time and she was looking forward to their next books! Very sweet.

Helen Garner was invited to speak, prior to the prize-giving. She spoke honestly and personally about how prizes can be tricky, if you don’t win or aren’t nominated at all. You have to remember, she said, that prizes are judged by people, driven by unconscious urges. It’s also true that even the most intelligent, studied, insightful and well-read critic is a person. There is always a factor of subjectivity.

Slowly shedding the naive shell I carried when I moved to Melbourne five years ago, I’m starting to realise that the industry isn’t quite so humble. (Yeah duh, you’re saying.) I’ve been privy to conversations lately, at festivals and events, where people are wearing envy on their sleeves, often around writers who have received big advances or won multiple prizes. I’ve heard words like ‘prize-bait’, and ‘flashing their advance’. Among all the good and positive stuff, mind you, of which there is a lot. Sometimes it just slips out.

But it’s healthy to (privately) express such things, because the industry is tough and getting tougher. Honestly, many authors whom you would think of as famous and respected are getting such tiny advances, like $4000. These are authors who have published several books. So it’s natural, don’t you think, that hopes become higher, maybe a little desperation creeps in?

Since I consider that I’m at the beginning of my career, I’m realising that it is a smart idea to have other work—a day job, freelance work, or whatever—that is regular, enjoyable (or bearable) and can be relied upon for an income. It’s a challenge in itself to find this, because ‘artists’ are not always easygoing. ‘Regular work’ can be a big deal, especially if you’re nervy, neurotic or prone to anxiety or depression (as many creative people are—no, I don’t think it’s a myth, they need to be because they need to see the inner workings of things, even if they misinterpret them):

‘All writers—all beings—are exiles as a matter of course. The certainty about living is that it is a succession of expulsions of whatever carries the life force… All writers are exiles wherever they live and their work is a lifelong journey towards the lost land…’—Janet Frame, The Envoy From Mirror City.

My own envy swells up when confronted with artists who seem free to be artists. My biggest obstacle to that is not money (though of course that’s an obstacle), it is myself. My unfortunate absorption of others’ opinions of what I should be doing, and the distraction of other genuine but smaller goals, means that I often put my biggest, shiniest ambition last. It gets blocked. And then there’s all the life stuff.

And I’m not brilliant, anyway. I need to work on something a lot to make it any good. An author I very much like suggested the other night that publishing a book might actually hinder my career. But most Australian critics that I respect have published books, fiction and/or nonfiction; and secondly, I obviously don’t see my career in the same light as she does. And that’s kind of depressing. It effects me, and makes me think my ambition is lofty. And it’s hard to shake those words when I sit down to write. Who do I think I am? All the while I watch the musician on the cello, moving his head like a mad person, being pure music; passion, and I envy that.

There’s a reason, then, that I’m drawn to characters in both my reading and writing who feel inadequate (would that effect my critical bias? Maybe). But also, adversely, characters who are supremely confident. Or eccentric, or glamorous; even arrogantly so. Not hard to figure that one out. Characters and figures to relate to, to make you feel less alone, and characters and figures who possess traits you aspire to. Both types are outward expressions of one own ‘truths’ and desires, though how confused it often all becomes. Always Kafka and always glam rock.

2012: cut, print, that’s a wrap & see you in February

Posted on December 30, 2012 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

2012 has been a crap year in some respects; a year of rejections, near misses and setbacks. There has been injury and some sickness. There has been grief. At times it has been hard to stay optimistic. I’ve also, at times, found it very hard to have faith in myself and my work. There’s been a cumulative effect of small difficulties, a sensation of rawness.

However, I have not been without a home, without friends, without love, without work, without money. I am incredibly grateful for all that I have, and have done, and I know that every year cannot be as wildly incredible as the previous few years. In fact, I think I was a little spoiled by them.

I do feel that 2013 will be a year where many things will change. With my writing, I need to both become more serious, and more patient. In terms of nonfiction/reviewing work, I’d like to write longer pieces, and for a range of media. I have to admit that writing regularly for LiteraryMinded is now holding me back in this regard. I need to read wider and deeper around the pieces I write, and when I’m keeping up one or two blog posts a week, this just can’t happen. So, after a complete break in January from social media (to break the habit) I think I will blog with less frequency. This is the first time in 5.5 years—the blog’s entire history—that I’ve come to a decision like this. I will still link to my reviews, interviews and articles in other places from here, and will still occasionally write original pieces/reviews/updates for the blog, ie. when at festivals. So it may not even seem that different. I’m just removing the mental priority status on the blog because now (unlike when I was starting out) I have to admit that it is hindering my practice and my progress.

Fiction-wise, I have the novel, one smaller project, and a planned project on the go. I want to dedicate more time to fiction. Through closer reading and analysis, as outlined above, I want to continue to develop as a fiction writer. Become more sophisticated in style, and bolder in ideas. I don’t want to be afraid to experiment, as an artist, nor do I want to be afraid to entertain.

That’s just some of the lit-related stuff. In 2013 I’ll also be finishing a doctorate, looking for work, editing an anthology (more on that soon), running the monthly Dog’s Bar St Kilda storytelling nights (first one is 4 Feb), attending festivals, and hopefully travelling. Travel is important to my writing as well as my personal well-being and growth. I also hope to learn more, be humble, be charitable, always honest, and if I can’t overcome my weaknesses I hope I at least don’t beat myself up too much over them.

So I usually end the year, on LiteraryMinded, with a list of achievements, events and random facts. As a summary for my readers, and for myself. It’s become a bit of a ritual. And this year the process will help me, I believe, to see that despite some difficulties, I have still achieved much!

In 2012, I…

interviewed Alan Hollinghurst, Ramona Koval, Irma Gold, Jessie Cole, AS Patrić, Annabel Smith, Jenna Williams of 100 Story Building, Courtney Collins, Emily Maguire, Belinda Castles, Sean M Whelan, Paul D Carter, a.rawlings, Simon Callow, Emily Perkins, The Rag and Bone Man Press, Deborah Robertson, Carrie Tiffany; and Kent MacCarter interviewed Johan Harstad

contributed to Varuna’s writer-a-day project

continued to read classic books I’d always meant to

completed the Australian Women Writers Reading & Reviewing Challenge

still yearned for a four-legged friend

supported the Queensland Literary Awards, because: Newman

wished I were as cool as Ron Charles

learnt about some fascinating characters in my family history

went to a conference in Georgia and took a side trip to New York (after Sandy, during the US election)

was invited to one writers’ festival and then the director never replied to my emails, meaning that I also missed out on another one that I turned down because I thought I was going to the first one

was jealous of G when Nick Cave said hello to him

tried to focus on the good things at Sydney Film Festival

was Highly Commended in the Qantas Spirit of Youth Awards in the Written Word category

seemed to drop off the list for a few events to which I’m normally invited. But was invited to some different ones

published an essay on Ghostbusters in the Geek Mook; wrote about New York for Killings

hosted guest reviews by Dallas Angguish, Troy Martin, Gabriel Ng, and Andrew Wrathall

pretty much abandoned my ereader

began a literary show called ‘A Drink with…’ and interviewed Lisa Lang, Omar Musa and Chris Flynn. The fourth interview still hasn’t been edited as my crew are getting a lot of work. I don’t know if it ever will be, to be honest

was very happy to meet my friends’ gorgeous bub

reviewed books for LiteraryMinded, Cordite Poetry Review, the Australian, Sydney Morning Herald, and Bookseller+Publisher; shared a ‘month of reading’ in the Victorian Writer, and started writing features semi-regularly for The Big Issue (links in the interview section above)

came close a few times but I’m still waiting for my cigar

started wearing lipstick

really got into writing flash fiction, and was published in Seizure‘s Flashers series, and by the London Literary Project

started learning German

held a ‘spectacular’ for LiteraryMinded‘s fifth birthday where y’all asked me questions (parts one, two, three, four and five). You guysss

exercised three times per week

was a judge in the Meanjin tournament of books and the Best Australian Blogs competition

ate a crap-load of cheese

did my best to support some people close to me dealing with mental illnesses and disorders

presented at Offset Festival, chaired panels at Sydney Writers’ Festival (and this is probably one of my best, if most self-indulgent, blog posts of the year), chaired and appeared on panels at Bellingen Readers and Writers Festival, hosted a Late Night Book Club event on short stories at the Emerging Writers’ Festival, taught a blogging course at the NSW Writers’ Centre (to be repeated this April, see their website!)

was interviewed by The Signal Express, Embedded Literati, and Killings

was an official blogger and panel host at the Melbourne Writers Festival

stayed on track with my thesis

shared my favourite books on Marilyn Monroe

once again failed to read the winners of most of the major literary awards

lost my beautiful Nanna

was trolled by an Oxfordian

was Maid of Honour at my best friend’s gorgeous Fremantle wedding

remained madly in love

—

OK, this is it. A month off social media from January 1… I’ll be on email: literaryminded (at) gmail (dot) com. And on my mobile. And checking my PO Box (PO Box 6266, St Kilda Road Central, Vic 8008) if you want to send me a postcard. If you hear of any great jobs in Melbourne, preferably part-time at this stage (four days is ideal), do get in touch. I’m already applying for them.

Trauma, kindness & starting with a bang: Jessie Cole on Darkness on the Edge of Town

Posted on December 14, 2012 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Fourth Estate, 2012
9780732293192
(buy paperback, ebook)

A woman crashes her car outside Vincent’s house. Vincent attempts to help the woman, and the baby in her arms, which may not have survived the crash. Rachel is her name and her arrival will have repercussions for Vincent and his daughter Gemma, and will draw attention (and judgment) in town. Darkness on the Edge of Town is Jessie Cole’s gripping and emotionally intelligent debut novel. Jessie and I have been getting to know each other for a little while now, sending missives from my urban jungle to her forest and back again, about animals, books, children, place, and more. I finally sent through a few questions to Jessie in order to introduce her, and Darkness, to you:

Darkness on the Edge of Town has ‘thrilling’ aspects, it moves along, it’s compelling, but I’d say it’s a character-driven novel. Could you tell us a bit about setting up the situation, and then letting it unfold? About pacing the story? How much of the whole story did you have when you began writing?

Good question! Firstly, the MS I’d written before Darkness was a very personal ‘family saga’ kind-of-story, set across several generations, and I decided after I finished writing it that I really enjoyed reading books that were more just a snippet of time. Stories that simply picked up in a certain part of someone’s life and stayed with them for a bit. I liked the immediacy of those stories, and the way they almost felt like they were told in real-time. And I suppose, I liked the smallness of them. And that was about as far as I’d gotten in terms of thinking consciously about what I wanted to write next. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was ‘a writer.’ Only that sometimes I wrote.

Then, the whole of Darkness came to me in a one big blast late at night. Beginning to end. Hit me like a whack across the back of the head. I have no real explanation for why or how that happened, but it was a very powerful moment and I knew from the outset that it was something special, something whole. It’s difficult to explain how a fully-formed story could come all-at-once, how it could even fit inside a mind in one instant, but it did. I didn’t think at all about setting up the situation, I just sat down and let Vincent talk. I imagined myself as a stranger in a pub who struck up a conversation with him. Him telling me his story— among all the noise and cacophony—and the story being just so hard and so strong he had to get it off his chest. The intimacy of it thrilled me. I wrote the first 20,000 words in a week.

In my mind Vincent and Gemma and Rachel were all compelling characters in traumatic but oddly intimate circumstances, and I was enthralled by them. Part way through the book I realised that I was writing something with some elements of a thriller. This was not purposeful, it was just how it came out. I’m not much of a deliberate writer. I don’t like to plan or over-think things. I do know that when I write I am looking to be thrilled—to feel a kind of wave or nervous tremor of emotion or sensation—and I do use this as a guide to know I’m on the right track. I didn’t think about pacing, the story had its own momentum. I trusted it. At some stage I saw Sonya Hartnett speak at the Byron Bay Writers’ Fest, and she said something along the lines of: ‘I like to start with a bang and end with a bang and have lots of bangs in between’. And I realised that this was what I was doing with Darkness.

Although Sonya Hartnett does plot out her novels, with different coloured sticky notes for different characters or something like that, I’ve been told! That’s what works for her. It fascinates me how each writer approaches a book or a story so differently (and it can be different for each book, too).

Yes, everyone works very differently. Sonya Hartnett has written so many novels, she must have it absolutely down-pat! I guess I just meant that last comment about the bangs in terms of pacing. When I heard Sonya say that, I realised that’s what I was aiming for in the pacing of Darkness, even though I hadn’t really known it. And yes, I think each book is different. I like what Jonathon Franzen says about how you have to become the person who can write the book you want to write, and how with each book you probably have to become a new person.

The connection that forms between the two young women in Darkness, Rach and Gemma, adds a layer to the story. They each come alive a little bit, and maybe grow and make some sense of what is happening to them (separately and together) through their conversations. Could you comment on this aspect of the novel?

I’m very interested in the power inherent in the kindness of strangers. I think in some ways Gemma’s generosity towards Rachel is a bit of a surprise. Teens are notoriously self-centred and maybe—in the circumstances—it would be natural for Gemma to be quite hostile and territorial. But she isn’t. I think that’s because she’s got this wonderful mix of knowingness and openness; she’s also hungry for adult wisdom and it’s in short supply. People who’ve been deprived can start to bloom with the smallest smatterings of attention, and I think Rachel and Gemma give this to each other in as much as they are able. To be truly heard is a powerful thing, and a lot of the time we don’t give each other that gift. I suppose I wanted to show how a kind of openness to connection can build something worthwhile and healing between people, even in the least likely of situations. I’m also interested in the idea of family. In Darkness none of the three main characters are related by blood, but the bonds that they form are, in many ways, familial. In our culture ideas about family can be so narrow. So nuclear. I guess I wanted to question that a little. What makes a family? How do they form?

I want to ask about the small town Australian setting. It’s really as rich as a setting can be, with its history and tensions, and its rituals (thinking about Gem drinking Jim Beam and Coke from a bottle, fumbling in her friend’s bedroom). How is the setting integral to the story?

This small-town-question always leaves me a little stumped. I know that sounds ridiculous because Darkness is so completely a small town story, but it’s really hard for me to have a lot of perspective on that. I’ve lived in the same small town almost all of my life. It’s funny, when people come to visit who haven’t been to my place before, they always say something along the lines of: ‘Wow, you really live in the middle of nowhere!’ And I always reply: ‘What do you mean? This is the centre of the universe!’ Which is, of course, a joke. But in a sense it’s also true, in that it is the centre of my universe. It’s the only way of living that I really understand with any depth.

In terms of how the setting of Darkness is integral to the story, I suppose for the characters of Vincent and Gemma it is that ambivalent mixture of security and claustrophobia. That sense that they are ‘known’ by the people around them, which is in some ways affirming, but that they are also judged or pigeonholed by who they once were, or how their lives have played out thus far. In a small town the past is not a foreign country. It’s a tangible presence that everyone remembers. And on top of that is the way that the private can be translated in small communities. I mean, once you drive up your driveway in the country no-one knows what goes on inside your house. You have no close neighbours to listen to the rhythms of the household, so I think people make up stories about each other based on whatever facts are at hand, but often these stories lack subtlety, or even truth. Maybe the difference in the city is that people don’t assume they know anything much about the people around them, whereas in a small town more assumptions are made. In Darkness, Vincent struggled to communicate what was happening between him and Rachel. He knew that he’d never be able to explain, but that all sorts of judgments would be made. The friction between what is really happening in the private sphere and what the town at large assumes—and how these assumptions play out—creates a lot of tension in the story.

Just as an aside, I think our culture favours the ‘escape’ narrative. The story where we escape our past and start our lives anew. Makeover. Transformation. Alteration. Just look at how many films turn on that fantasy. Especially now, when moving is so accessible. In some ways it is seen as a type of failure not to leave your past behind. And it is almost a given that anyone with any prospects should leave a small town and make something better of their lives. But I don’t think it’s as simple as that. And I’m interested in stories about people who decide to stay. I’m not sure how apparent it is in Darkness, but I feel there is a different kind of bravery required to live with your past, and it isn’t something that is celebrated all that much.

—

Check out Jessie Cole’s website.

New flash fiction

Posted on November 10, 2012 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Greetings from post-blizzard New York City!

I’ve really been getting into writing flash fiction, or micro-fiction, lately. It’s fun to try to give a strong impression of a scene, a story, in few words. And other people seem to like my super short pieces too. Seizure has just launched a flash fiction section of its website, Flashers, and my story ‘My Sweetheart Saw a Child’s Face in the Train Window‘ is the first one up. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Do also check out the submission guidelines.

I also recently had two super-short stories published as part of the London Literary Project. It’s first challenge is based on the London Clock. One of my stories is set at the Green Park Tube Station, and the other features George Orwell. I’m happy to be involved in such an interesting project.

The London Clock submission guidelines are here.

Bustin’ makes me feel good: Geek Mook

Posted on August 20, 2012 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Geek Mook (Vignette Press) has now been released, with my essay ‘Bustin’ makes me feel good’. Can you guess what it’s about? Maybe the picture of me from the launch to the left here will help. Or this. Or this.

The Mook features stories, poetry and articles on everything ‘geek’-related, from Star Trek to coding, pro-wrestling, gaming, steam punk, Twitter, interactive fiction and much more. At the launch, eds Aaron Mannion and Julian Novitz translated Keats’ ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ into Klingon. It was tres entertaining.

The Geek Mook is available via SPUNC, see here.

Update: buy the Geek Mook as an ebook from Booki.sh (browser) or Kobo (epub).

LiteraryMinded’s fifth blog anniversary spectacular! (part four)

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Amy Espeseth asks: ‘Has/how has your fiction writing changed since you started LiteraryMinded?’ and John (Musings of a Literary Dilettante) asks: ‘how has reviewing books helped your own creative writing?’

Five years of regular writing—fiction and nonfiction—has made me a better writer. I hope I keep getting better. Five years of reading, close reading and reviewing, has definitely helped. All the books I read make me want to do better. Some books also help me realise my limitations, ie. I’m really no good at simile, unlike Deborah Forster or Ryan O’Neill. I also can’t write something uproariously funny, but I can write something a little absurd. Many authors have helped me pay attention to detail, to fill out characters and their worlds, to make them real. I’ve learnt that there really are no rules, either! And I’ve learnt this not just from reviewing, but from attending festivals. Every writer has a different method. There is no one way you should write a story or a book. I’m still learning about plot, drive and pace. I do think I learn something new with every book I review.

I’m near the end of the third draft of a novel manuscript and I know it’s ten times better than the last one. But will it be ‘the one’? Who knows. Short stories are much harder than they used to be. But I think that’s because I’ve been putting so much energy into the longer work. Or maybe it’s because they really are so damn hard to get right!

Amra Pajalic asks: ‘What was your most controversial post and why?
How has having a blog helped you establish yourself professionally, especially as a reviewer?’

I don’t even want to revisit controversial posts. It may be a giant flaw but I really find it difficult to deal with conflict. I’m diplomatic about it when it happens, but I’d rather avoid it altogether. What a wuss! Most of the controversial stuff happened when I was on Crikey. Some of the commenters could be nasty, but I think they often came via the website expecting something specific (and receiving something else—a personalised blog post). A post about the launch of a certain anthology of Australian literature and another around a certain literary prize were the most controversial.

The blog, combined with my work at Bookseller+Publisher, are the reason I am now reviewing for a wide range of media. The blog is also the reason I get invited to literary events, so yes, it has definitely helped me to establish myself professionally.

Alexandra Neill asks: ‘During the zombie apocalypse you are only allowed to bring one book (you need to carry a lot of canned goods). What book would you take with you to the end of the world?’

(Because dogs make me smile, no matter what.)

Bethanie Blanchard asks: ’Who has been the most surprising person you’ve interviewed (differing perhaps from your expectations)? What is the best piece of advice about literary blogging and / or reviewing you’ve received?’

I don’t think anyone I’ve interviewed has really surprised me, but there have been a few times when I’ve met someone and realised I’d had expectations about them that were based on nothing at all. For example, when I met critic Geordie Williamson (and I hope he giggles if he sees this) I thought he was going to be an old man. I don’t even know why, his reviews aren’t particularly ‘old’, I think I had a kind of ‘book critic’ stereotype in my head. I first met him at PWF and found that his skin was wrinkle-free, his cheeks rosy and his demeanour affable.

As for advice on reviewing, let’s turn to that young man Geordie Williamson and his excellent Pascall Prize acceptance speech on ‘open-handed criticism’.

Michelle (BooktotheFuture) asks: ‘In honour of your fifth bloggiversary—do you have a memory from when you were five years old (or around that age) that you can share with us?’

Little Robbie. A very small boy with black hair and freckles. He had more Ninja Turtles toys than me and I was jealous. He could do the moonwalk and in class he would whisper: ‘hey Angela, hey Angela’ and I’d look over and he’d have his doodle out.

Susan Wyndham asks: ‘What do you know now that you didn’t know when you started the blog?’

That the Australian literary community is so generous and welcoming. That writing is even harder than I thought. That scholarships and grants exist. That whisky has many different flavours.

Brian Purcell asks: ‘What was the second-best writers festival you’ve appeared at? (The Bellingen Readers and Writers Festival naturally being the best).’

The Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, which I’ve been to twice. Besides the stimulating panels and gorgeous setting, you get to mix with writers from all around the world at some incredible parties. The locals are lovely, the food is delicious and the booze is cheap, too. And Perth Writers Festival is one of my favourite festivals to go to in Australia. The UWA Campus is a great setting and they treat their guests very well.

mareelouise asks: ‘In all this time, is there one book that you could call your favourite?’

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiit that’s hard. It depends on my mood! Right now I’m going to say Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita.

Luke Stickels asks: ‘As a hard-eyed veteran, are there any qualities to your blogging that have dropped off from when you were starting out, but that you kind of miss?’

Well, I was a lot less guarded. I was living in Coffs Harbour and didn’t really know anyone personally who read my blog. Sometimes I wish I could write some of those posts about being lonely or feeling afraid or thinking everything is f**ked-up… BUT I think I realised it’s more fruitful (for me) to channel those thoughts into fiction (and even reviews). I also realised that other people were writing about those kinds of things more articulately than I. So I guess I don’t miss it too much. But I think some readers dropped off when I became more ‘serious’ (though still, I hope at times, absurd) but others were gained. The core remains the same, the expression has changed.

Oslo Davis asks (and illustrates): ‘Where do you stand on ebooks? (Literary):

Love your work, Oslo. You know, I’ve read quite a lot of short stories as ebooks (and published some) but not novels. I think that’s mainly because, as a reader, I like to dog-ear and notate. I also read several things at once and sometimes only remember to pick them up because the books are sitting there staring at me. You don’t get that with an ereader. So I don’t mind ebooks, but I seem to still predominantly be a dead-tree media reader.

Mark Welker asks: ‘Single biggest change in your life derived from starting your blog?’

Becoming a professional book reviewer! And I love it.

Mel Campbell asks: ‘Well—ARE you the Keymaster?’

No, I am Zuul, the minion of Gozer. I am the Gatekeeper!

—

Still enough qs for a part five! See you again soon…

Grey areas of madness: an interview with Jon Ronson, on The Psychopath Test

Posted on October 27, 2011 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Picador, Australia, 9780330451369 (paperback)

In The Psychopath Test Jon Ronson takes us on journey through the mad ‘industry’ of madness. And it’s not all acid-tripping psychopaths. Ronson follows leads to high-security prisons, a mansion filled with predators… and to L Ron Hubbard’s coca cola stain. What results is an inevitably open-ended, sometimes frightening and often hilarious look at a hugely complex subject. Ronson is well-known for his journalism and his books Them: Adventures with Extremists, and The Men Who Stare at Goats. We managed to miss each other when he was in Melbourne, but we caught up over Skype when he was back in England. His first admittance was that he wished he’d had more time in Melbourne and less in Sydney, as it more seemed his ‘sort of place.’ As if I didn’t like him enough already through his work (and Q&A appearance) this started us off on the right foot. He also does have a lovely accent (he’s from Cardiff) and it was a pleasure to speak with him.

AM: Are you working on something at the moment?

JR: I’m trying to write a new book. I’m going through a period of self-hatred. No, that’s not true or fair. I’m going through that period with the new book where I’m trying to figure out how to tell it and what it’s about. It’s sort of exciting. I’m doing a few stories as well. Everything’s good.

I like how that’s how The Psychopath Test begins: you’re following this lead with a mysterious book and you don’t really know yet that you’re going to be writing about madness…

Exactly. I like it as a way of writing, you know, completely organic and allowing it to twist and turn in an un-prescriptive way. I do like that as a method. Ultimately I think it always makes for a better piece of writing. Because if you’re pre-planning everything… surely it’s gonna become very formulaic.

And you might miss other interesting threads that you can follow.

Exactly. You know, the idea that the journalist should feel completely free to change their opinions as it goes along… I’m quite happy to believe one thing and then completely change my mind back again. I think a lot of journalists don’t like that because it makes them feel like they’re not being authoritative. I think a lot of journalists have a real thing about wanting to come across as authoritative. So if they find a piece of information that goes against…

That contradicts…

Yeah, they don’t want to take the contradiction on board. They want to sort of skirt around the contradiction, whereas I love taking contradictions on board.

I like that, and that’s how you become involved with some of these groups – like the scientologists – because you’re taking in all these different points of view. With your style of journalism, or perhaps just your personality, you do manage to get invited into the inner echelons of some of these groups, or receive invitations from people who don’t often talk to journalists. Do you think that method contributes to that, that open-mindedness?

I think it definitely does, and also I very, very rarely have a hidden agenda, and if I do have a hidden agenda I make it completely clear to the reader that that’s what’s going on. Also, I’m particularly good at empathy. For instance tomorrow, for this new book, I’m meeting the woman who invented PETA. And I’ve been reading some of PETA’s writing and the ALF’s writing and I’m completely sucked into their belief system, in quite a naive way. By the time I approach people for my interviews, I can say to them in all honesty I’m finding this stuff I’ve been reading incredibly compelling and moving, and I think people like that passion. Some journalists don’t have that passion, but I think I genuinely do feel that passion and I get sucked into these belief systems. I’m sure I get access to people easier because of that. But it’s real, I’m not tricking anybody.

That comes across strongly for the reader, because it allows for them to go in with a bit of an open mind. It works really well.

I mean, I’m sure if I read anti-PETA stuff and anti-ALF stuff… This is slightly different because the meeting I’ve got tomorrow is not going to be about PETA, I’m going to try to get them to talk about some significant things they did that is actually completely separate, but I’ve always felt that way [excited about different points of view], right back from the beginning about 15 years ago. I would always get really excited about getting to go to a Ku Klux Klan compound or getting to hang out with hardcore conspiracy theorists, you know, rather than think of it as a chore. I actually think of it as an amazing mystery.

Yeah, fascinating.

I remember people saying to me, when I was doing this thing about the Ku Klux Klan, ‘don’t you just hate having to go to the Ku Klux Klan compound? Isn’t that like the worst thing to have to do in the world?’ And I always think, well, of course it’s stressful, but it’s also a kind of rare privilege to go to… shadowy places.

And to learn how people come to be in that sort of environment?

And what the environment is like first hand, and what little quirks can I see? Yeah, it feels like a privilege.

So you were talking to all these people for The Psychopath Test with that kind of openness and then you came across the Bob Hare checklist. I really liked it when you went to the conference on psychopathy. It’s very convincing, and I can imagine, too, being swept up in it. Then you took that checklist out into the world…

It’s funny, I think the reason why the Bob Hare thing worked as a piece of writing is because I went in as a sceptic. I’ve always thought that with nonfiction your ambition should be as high as it is with fiction. For instance in fiction something happens that changes the way the protagonist sees the world, and changes their life. You expect that in a novel, don’t you? You expect the character to go through some kind of huge change – just by the fact that it’s a novel. I’ve always had the same ambition for nonfiction. That’s one reason why the Bob Hare chapter really works. I went in as a sceptic thinking: don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going to be able to spot a psychopath just by their sentence construction and the way that they just seem. By the end of the course I’d completely changed and I’d become this kind of evangelical psychopath-spotter. I loved it and thought: if I can make that transition work in the chapter, then the reader will be thinking the same thing. The reader will go from being a sceptic to being an utter believer, so the reader will experience that massive change. And I think that really worked. But of course, as you learn later on in the book, becoming a psychopath spotter has its pitfalls. It can turn you a little bit power-mad yourself.

That was the other nice thing about the book – I felt that I could make the reader go through the same journey I went through, you know, become a power-crazed psychopath-spotter and then come out the other side learning the error of their ways.

It really worked for that, when I was reading it I started to think about people I’d grown up with or extended family members…

And then by the end of the book were you thinking maybe being a psychopath spotter isn’t all it’s cracked-up to be?

Yeah, exactly. And I think one of the main themes of the book that you end up with is ‘categorisation’, how it can be hugely powerful. Sometimes it’s very good and useful, other times maybe not so good, but how do you actually tell when it is or isn’t?

Yeah, and as you said at the beginning I had no idea that that’s what the book would become about. It does mean each time you write a book you’re taking a huge leap of faith, and so is your publisher. You can’t know that you’re going to end up with something that works if you don’t know what the book’s about when you set off – it’s a bit like the way Mike Leigh makes films, isn’t it? You don’t actually know what it’s going to be about when you set up. But if it works… then that process makes it rich, I think – the sort of organic nature makes it richer.

I guess the most worrying thing that comes up regarding categorisation is when you look at drugs for children, exploring whether we go a bit too far. Drug companies use categories that psychologists have come up with and then they use them in all sorts of ways. Do you see that as being a pretty big problem?

There are certain areas that some people were really hoping I’d get into in the book – polemicists, who felt really strongly about certain issues. People were saying: ‘you have to attack Aspergers as a definition’, ‘you have to attack ADHD’, you know, ‘these diagnoses are getting out of control’. And when I looked at Aspergers and ADHD I just didn’t have the stomach, really, to attack them. I thought: this is way too complicated. For some people, a diagnosis of Aspergers is incredibly useful. So it felt wrong to me to attack those things. But the one place where it seemed like there really was a pretty black-and-white abuse going on was childhood bipolar disorder. In the same way that psychopaths are being diagnosed from a checklist of overt characteristics, kids who have temper tantrums are being labelled bipolar. Because if you’re a three year old in the grip of a temper tantrum it basically seems like an adult with bipolar disorder. So you’re getting kids diagnosed as bipolar and put on anti-psychotic medication because they score highly on a checklist, you know? And all the studies point to bipolar disorder not existing until adolescence.

And the drugs can have severe effects…

Yeah, well they’re anti-psychotic, it’s powerful medication.

You do a good job of bringing up the issues but not drawing a lot of conclusions from them. Just making people aware.

One of the reviews of my book said that I probably consider drawing a firm conclusion to be a sign of madness. And in this instance I kind of do. I think it’s such a complicated, grey, messy area that going to one pole or the other is just factually wrong. So in a way the book is kind of anti-polemic, it’s anti-ideology. Some people are disappointed. The people who don’t like the book, who are luckily few in number, wish I would draw a firmer conclusion; they wish I would go to one extreme or the other. I just couldn’t do that, if there’s truth in both camps it would be wrong to ignore one truth in favour of another.

As we were talking about, you bring yourself into the work. I was interested in the stuff about your overactive amygdala and I sort of related to that…

It was overactive just this morning.

Yeah? (Verbally hugs Jon.)

It’s all over now.

Hope you’re all right.

I’ve only just tidied it up.

Well, I hope the rest of the day is calm. I was thinking though, I mean at least for me, there’s another side to this kind of anxiety that… I get myself into doing a lot of things because it’s this agitation. You know, you have this agitation to do things, to find out things. It’s like there’s two sides to it. So I was wondering if it’s also one of the things that actually drives you to work as much as it also at times holds you back?

Absolutely, and I think that’s probably the case with an awful lot. I wouldn’t give myself a particularly big disorder but, you know, people I know who do have big disorders – it can lead you to do really interesting, creative, worthwhile things. My guess actually is, pretty much every successful person is disordered in one way or another. It’s all some kind of psychological abyss that they’re trying to fill in.

You know I do think that the people who are very happy to just have a completely ordinary working life, where they don’t have to earn that much but it’s fine because their outgoings aren’t that high, and they’ve got a nice routine, and they’ve got a happy family, and they’ve got a nice hobby on Saturday, they go to the football, you know… those are the people who are probably the sanest. Because they don’t need to have this kind of mad scrabbling around. I’m a season ticket holder at the Arsenal and when I do that kind of routine thing I find it incredibly calming. It’s the thing I like the most about my life, the ordinary stuff. And yet, I’d bet you a million pounds that Richard Branson and all the really, really successful people feel compelled to be that way because of some kind of disorder. And it’s very rarely psychopathy. It could be any kind of panic disorder, or anxiety. Yes, I wouldn’t feel this constant need to sort of do things if I wasn’t so anxious.

Almost the madness/creativity thing?

I think that happens all over the place: madness. That question at the beginning of the book as to whether madness is a more powerful engine in society than rationality? I think that’s undoubtedly true.

For good and bad.

Yeah, absolutely, for good and bad.

Thank you so much, Jon. I hope the rest of your day is good, and calm.

Jon told me he was off to buy a new printer and chat to the head of TED that evening about possibly doing a talk at the next conference. I look forward to watching that online in the future.

I just want to acknowledge that both Jon Ronson and I are aware that severe anxiety and panic disorders, as well as other mental illnesses and disorders, can be incredibly crippling and inhibiting.

I have two signed copies of The Psychopath Test to give away! All you have to do is leave a comment here, on the Facebook page wall, or on Twitter (tag #madnesscomp) letting me know what your favourite book or film about madness is, and why. The ‘why’ part should be 25 words or less. Have your entries in by Friday 28 Oct, 5pm.

photo credit: Barney Poole

Between worlds: Dominic Smith on Bright and Distant Shores

Posted on September 27, 2011 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

Allen & Unwin, 9781742374161, 2011
(Aus paperback, ebook + US/Kindle)

Bright and Distant Shores is hugely imaginative historical fiction. It’s set just before the dawn of the 20th century in Chicago and the South Pacific. Owen Graves is sent by Hale Gray, the president of Chicago First Equitable, to collect some ‘special items’ to display on top of the tallest building in the city. Graves is dubious about the morals of the expedition but wants the money so he can finally marry his girlfriend, Adelaide. In Melanesia, a mission houseboy called Argus loses his master, but not his faith. He seeks out his sister and they are soon promised new prospects by the man on a ship from Chicago… This book travelled with me around the globe recently. Back at home I got in touch with its Australian-American author, Dominic Smith.

AM: I was swept up in every element of this vast story – the tensions at sea, Owen and Adelaide’s relationship, Argus caught between worlds, the skyscraper sliding into the ground – and I wondered, was it difficult having so many balls in the air while writing? You draw them all together seamlessly and somehow keep the pace steady throughout.

DS: I’m so glad to hear that you were pulled along! Writing this novel was sometimes akin to running between spinning plates, giving them each another nudge as I darted by. I was conscious from the beginning of the scope of the novel and thought about ways to handle all the moving pieces. Some of my favourite literature includes sprawling narratives and plots with many moving parts. I think of Dickens and George Eliot especially… I feel like one of the things I tried to do was to keep the plates spinning. So that meant even when we are at sea it’s worth taking a dramatic pause in the nautical action to check back in with the Chicago characters. It builds more tension - in both the Chicago and Pacific narratives – and allows the narrative to skip through passages of time. It increases the pace. I also tried to create some friction between the interweaving narratives, so that the ideas and predicaments of one storyline might echo with the storyline that is juxtaposed next to it.

It’s set in a fascinating time-period, when all the islands had already been somewhat ‘infected’ by ships of explorers, collectors, naturalists and missionaries and would never be the same again. What was it about this era that drew you in?

The 1890s was a fascinating period for both Chicago and the Pacific. When I was doing research for the novel I was shocked to discover the widespread fear among collectors of the late-19th century that ‘the bathtub had already been drained.’ There was a feeling that it was easier to get good curios in London or New York than in the Pacific islands. That surprised me. So you saw a huge collecting impetus by many museums and private collectors as the new century dawned. They were trying to get the last of the loot. So by 1900 the Pacific was already awash with European white culture; islanders were more likely to want Winchesters, ammunition, and cigarettes, than beads, glass, and ironwork. This is also a time of missionary zeal, when the Anglicans, Presbyterians, and Catholics are divvying up the Pacific, sometimes along tribal boundaries. Meanwhile, in Chicago, you have a dozen or so business tycoons who make millions from meatpacking and railways and insurance. They pour much of it into building cultural institutions - libraries, symphonies, museums. Marshall Field, of department store fame, donated $1 million to set up a museum in his name. There was a widespread interest in the exotic and ethnographic after the World’s Fair of 1893. So I was fascinated by how the tribal Pacific and commercial America could intersect in ways that were both strange and compelling. The 1890s, for me, is a crazy mash-up of conflicted ideas and visions.

You capture that mash-up very well! Some of the characters are ‘in between’ the two worlds (the West and the Pacific life), none more so really than Argus. He’s also caught, in a way, between loyalty to Malini, his sister, and to Owen; and between his past and his faith. His character is representative of some of the strongest themes running through the novel, but he’s very empathetic, three dimensional. Could you talk a bit about creating him?

I struggled with Argus and with my own misgivings about trying to represent someone with a tribal background. In the end, I gave myself license to explore his psychology. One of the things that made that easier was to make him a character who is caught between two worlds, between the Euro-Christian way of seeing things and the Melanesian tribal way of seeing things. He – like the writer – feels pulled between these opposite poles. So in some ways I gave Argus my own misgivings; he has to chart those waters on the writer’s behalf. Characters who have inner conflict are dramatically interesting, I think. Argus has a kind of visceral connection to faith; it’s in his blood. He’s also ambitious and wants to explore the world he’s read about at the mission. So those forces of curiosity, doubt, faith, and ambition ground his character. They pull him into the future but not without uncertainty. That is perhaps one source of empathy for him as a character.

You play with issues of class through the character of Adelaide, and through her relationship with Owen. They are both strong characters: determined, charitable, hard-working. Can you tell us a bit about shaping their relationship? Of course the distance between them does also add great tension to the narrative.

In some ways Adelaide (and Malini) are the moral core to the novel. Argus and Owen are filled with ambition, but they’re also capable of a certain kind of ruthlessness. With the relationship between Owen and Adelaide I was interested in exploring class and privilege, in addition to a love story that would seem of the period and compelling for contemporary readers. Adelaide comes from money but throws herself into charity. Owen comes from poverty and on some level thinks charity is a rich person’s enterprise. So when the voyage comes up – the prospect of bringing back natives to Chicago so that Owen can receive a windfall – there is a real divide wedged into the romance. Owen struggles to reconcile the morality of the Pacific trading scheme with the pragmatic need for money. He slightly resents what he imagines Adelaide – with her blue-blooded philanthropic ways – will think of this equation. I think these are the kinds of issues people deal with in relationships every day. How does one person’s actions reflect on the other? Relationships are evolving narratives and we sometimes want our partners/spouses to add coherence to the story we’re trying to tell the world. So in addition to their obvious admiration for each other, they struggle with how to integrate their pasts. Until Adelaide, Owen has never ordered a bottle of wine in a restaurant.

Were classic adventure novels an influence? I’ve been reading Gulliver’s Travels, and thought perhaps your book has a subtle element of social commentary to it as well? Ambition and wonder are present in your novel – as you’ve mentioned – and on some scale are seen as unrewarding and even destructive. I keep thinking about the ambitious insurance firm building sliding down into the earth…

I certainly thought of Treasure Island and Moby Dick when writing this novel, but also more recent novels, like Charles Johnson’s Middle Passage and Barry Unsworth’s Sacred Hunger. These latter novels showed me it was possible to render a seafaring story in an interesting, nuanced way, while still having fun with the tropes that come with sea voyaging and lore. There is social commentary in Bright and Distant Shores, though I think I’m more interested in paradox than a set of thematic statements. Ambition and wonder abounded in the 1890s, but so did naivete and exploitation. The early insurance companies saw their enterprise as somehow noble and they were paternalistic towards their employees. They had this idea of their clerks never needing to leave the skyscraper – they could get haircuts and eat in the cafeteria and take night school all under one roof. The insurance towers eclipsed the church spire as the tallest point in the city and the tower was seen as a kind of totem, but also a beacon of hope for the populace, with its clock tower a suggestion of life ticking away. This is obviously capitalism on a grand scale, with the delusion of benevolence for an under-insured populace. Corporations often think they have enlightened interests when in fact it’s really about selling insurance or widgets.

Not only is Bright and Distant Shores a ‘ripping’ tale, the writing is delightful. I found myself gasping at certain turns of phrase. And yet it never obstructs the story, it is not showy – just beautiful. Some of the descriptions: ‘spandrels of moonlight’, ‘a crapulous German clipper captain’, and the ‘fusty nooks and fetid warrens below deck’. It makes it such a pleasure to read. How much time do you spend with the book on a sentence level? Does that all come in final drafts, or do you craft the language carefully as you go?

Thanks for those nice comments. I do think a lot about language – it’s what draws me to reading fiction in the first place. I used to write skeletal drafts of things with very little attention to language, and then I would go back and polish things. Now I seem to write very slow and deliberate first drafts. It’s a gamble, because you may end up throwing out much of what you write in a first draft. But I seem to like feeling that a sentence does its job, that it’s more than a place holder, before I move on. I really try to work at the sentence level as I go.

You grew up in Australia but live in the US and have published over there. This is your first novel published through and Australian publisher, Allen & Unwin. How does it feel? Can you tell us a bit about your other works?

It has been very gratifying to publish a novel in Australia and I’m thrilled to have had it shortlisted for The Age Book of the Year and the Vance Palmer Prize. That means a lot to me; it’s a kind of sweet homecoming present. Allen & Unwin have been incredibly attentive. I was back in Australia for a month in June with my family and it was such a treat to share places and memories with them. My first novel, The Mercury Visions of Louis Daguerre, was a historical novel that re-imagined the life of Louis Daguerre, the inventor of the daguerreotype who supposedly suffered from mercury poisoning. The second novel, The Beautiful Miscellaneous, was a contemporary story and focused on the average son of a genius. It’s a story about a boy who is 15% above average in everything he does. His father, a renowned physicist, is convinced that the son harbors some greatness and desperately tries to uncover it.

Thank you so much, Dominic.

More details about Dominic Smith’s books can be found on his website.

Writing on writing: guest post by Harry Bingham

Posted on June 6, 2011 by Angela (Ms LiteraryMinded)

I’ve been a professional writer for more than ten years, but it was only recently, when asked to produce a How to Write book by A&C Black/Bloomsbury, that I came to think systematically about this craft of ours.

I mean ‘systematically’ in two different dimensions. First, there’s the whole area of technique. How, precisely, do you create a character on the page? What, precisely, are the golden rules of plotting? It’s easy enough to give good, general answers to those questions, but if you’re building a ship, you need more than some vague notions that a hull would be nice, maybe some masts.

The second dimension had to do with genre. It’s lazily assumed that literary fiction is good writing, and genre fiction is fun (but easy) writing. I more or less assumed it myself, but I’d never tested the assumption under fire. Given that I was writing a book that needed to give advice on every style and every genre, how would the different genres compare under close scrutiny?

My book relied on a huge number of examples drawn from recent high-profile fiction. I took great care not to stick with any one branch of writing, so I’ve had chapters that looked intensively at Bridget Jones / Eat Pray Love / The Devil Wears Prada, and ones that looked hard at Roth, Updike and Franzen. Using examples solved the problem of specificity. I could simply (for example) analyse dialogue by showing how Philip Roth writes dialogue and drawing out some of the most useful techniques.

And, you know what, some of those old, standard general approaches simply dissolved under fire. Take characterisation for example. The standard way to sketch out character while at the planning stage is you build up a character with little notes. Like these for example:

BJ is a late-twenties woman. Mildly but not seriously overweight. Social drinker, but sometimes very social. Ditto, when it comes to smoking. Uncertain self-esteem. Longs to be loved. No steady partner. Occasionally decisive, more often not. Sometimes awkward when in company, especially so with men.

DC is a mid or late thirties man. A business type. Charming, but deceitful and untrustworthy. There to bed women, not commit to them. Witty, however, and with some money and power.

What do you notice? I think you’ll notice how utterly clichéd these characters are. How lifeless. Any conventional ‘how to write’ book would tell you to scrap these characters and start again.

But then you read this:

Huh. Had dream date at an intime little Genoan restaurant near Daniel’s flat.

‘Um … right. I’ll get a taxi,’ I blurted awkwardly as we stood in the street afterwards. Then he lightly brushed a hair from my forehead, took my cheek in his hand and kissed me, urgently, desperately. After a while, he held me hard against him and whispered throatily, ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing that taxi, Jones.’

The second we were inside his flat we fell upon each other like beasts: shoes, jackets, strewn in a trail across the room.

‘I don’t think this skirt’s looking well at all,’ he murmured. ‘I think it should lie down on the floor.’ As he started to undo the zip he whispered, ‘This is just a bit of fun, OK? I don’t think we should start getting involved.’ Then, caveat in place, he carried on with the zip. Had it not been for Sharon and the fuckwittage and the fact I’d just drunk the best part of a bottle of wine, I think I would have sunk powerless into his arms. As it was, I leapt to my feet, pulling up my skirt.

‘That is just such crap,’ I slurred. ‘How dare you be so fraudulently flirtatious, cowardly and dysfunctional. I am not interested in emotional fuckwittage. Goodbye.’

The book is Bridget Jones, the author is Helen Fielding, and the result is terrific. The character definitions – which do suggest cliché – simply explode with life on the page. Indeed, a huge part of the book’s vitality arises from the way that Fielding took some chick-lit clichés and gave them new life. The trick isn’t in the character notes, it’s in the life.

The same example illustrates another thought too. Literary fiction is supposed to be deft with words. Commercial writers are thought to be just cranking out plots and letting the language go to hell. But take another look at that Bridget Jones passage. She says, ‘Had dream date at an intime little Genoan restaurant near Daniel’s flat.’

That word: intime. Dear old Bridget doesn’t speak French, and if she did, she’s not pretentious enough to slip such words into her ordinary vocabulary. So she got it from somewhere else – almost certainly a women’s magazine which would itself be using the word in a fake, affected way. And Daniel Cleaver – we know, we guess – probably does have the class to use the word intime in a natural way. (He has the sophistication to pick not just an Italian restaurant, but a Genoan one.) All that – that characterisation, that subtlety, that precision – from one word. One word, which isn’t even pivotal to the scene or even the sentence.

So, my heartening conclusion? That good writing is good writing. Some will be fast-paced and fun good writing. Some will be thoughtful and beautiful good writing. But there’s no genre which doesn’t produce extraordinary books. There are no rules which can’t be trumped by authorial excellence. There are certainly techniques to deploy – my book will be full of them – but a technique is not a rule.

I learned a lot while writing my book, but the very best thing is that I became a better reader. More attuned, more satisfied. Enriched.

Harry Bingham is an author and boss of The Writers’ Workshop (UK). His book on writing will come out in 2012.

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