electric gypsy

Lolita on the road

2011-11-28T16:28:00.000-08:00

Another thirteen books to catalogue after a couple of weeks away in South Australia. Even in the tiniest towns there was usually a second-hand bookshop. One was an extension of the elderly lady’s lounge room, where she sold off some of the books that now crowded out her remaining years (I know the feeling!). There was an ancient copy of a history of Australian countrywomen, but I could not bear her to part with it, so left it there. Another bookseller had a few 1950s editions of French classics, in the original. They had been in the shop for six years. I relieved him of the Madame Bovary, but left him the rest. Another woman was keener to sell, assiduous in checking my wish list against her stock. That was how I ended up with Lolita. I was looking for Nabokov’s memoir Speak, Memory, but this was all she had of his. She urged me to read it.
That was how I spent the rest of my holiday absorbed in the rollercoaster ride that is Lolita, following her and Humbert Humbert in their wanton drive across the vastness of the United States, while I and my partner pursued our own modest road trip through South Australia. What remarkable writing! Such lyrical outpourings from a character so flawed. Such a gripping story, full as it is of repetition and meanderings. Such an inspiration for a writer. So, back home and on with the work!

NY state of mind

2011-09-10T23:46:00.000-07:00

OK, so it's ten years on and SBS 1 is screening Man on Wire at 9.30pm today (Sunday)- Philippe Petit's 1974 tight-rope walk between the twin towers. A must-watch for inspiration and to see what humans are capable of creating, as opposed to destroying.

Critics or mentors?

2011-07-18T21:44:00.000-07:00

Like most writers, I live with the critic constantly perched on my shoulder. It takes a lot of writing to shake off the creature and regain some self-belief. I got to this point last week as I wrote myself into a short story and finished it. In the process, I think I found the solution to knocking Mr Critic off his perch: appoint a mentor or two to take his place.
In my case, three mentors helped me through my story. First was Tim Winton, whose stories from The Turning I have read and re-read over the past month. My second mentor was Hemingway, who helped me loosen up when my writing was locked up and taught me to strive not for a perfectly crafted story but for depth of insight and emotion. Thirdly Philip Roth brought me back down to earth with his mix of drama and reflection.
With their books back on the shelves, I am interviewing other prospective mentors to help me redraft my memoir. The front-runners are Anne Manne, Penelope Lively and Orhan Pamuk. As long as The Critic doesn’t get a look-in.

Moby Dick and Breath

2011-05-15T21:58:00.000-07:00

I can’t forget Breath, Tim Winton’s latest novel about daredevil surfers. I’m reminded of it now as I finish watching Moby Dick on ABC1, also about dying/drowning and manhood. Such strong narrative themes.
I discovered a copy of Breath in a B&B at Mt Macedon and just had to read it. Sex, death and surfing – what a heady mix. It’s meaningful, exciting and scary. When I came to the end and closed the book, I was moved to tears by the power of the writing.
And yes, it is about breath, the breath we take for granted but that is the difference between life and death, as any surfer knows. And if, like me, you’ve never managed to stand up on a surfboard, read the book for vicarious surfing.
Later, in a second-hand country bookshop, I came across a first edition hardback of The Turning, Winton’s book of short stories that I had to have. A perfect weekend!

Boner McPharlin’s Moll

2011-02-21T20:17:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered a short story by Tim Winton that blew my socks off. Boner McPharlin’s Moll has the heightened reality and menace of a Flannery O’Connor story, with Winton’s graceful touch. I discovered it in The Australian Long Story, (ed Mandy Sayer, Hamish Hamilton 2009), but it was originally published in The Turning, 2005.
The narrator is a fifteen-year-old girl, Jackie, who gets off with the local bad boy, Boner. He’s been expelled from her high school in a country town. The year is 1970, down to a T, with the boys in their Monaros and Chargers, wearing Levi cords and Dr Scholls. Johnny Farnham is out and David Bowie is in. Jackie accepts a ride in Boner’s car, and from then on their fates unravel.
Jackie has a reputation as Boner McPharlin’s moll, but the reader knows more than her schoolmates about what is really going on. This is a story about innocence and betrayal, about truth and deception. It is moving, harrowing even, and reveals how our actions, however innocent, have consequences. It moves forward on recurring motifs - Boner’s Johnny Reb boots, and his earrings - and springs to life in offhand, deadbeat dialogue. In the last page or two, the mystery lifts and we glimpse the truth. It’s like a punch in the guts for Jackie, and left me reeling.
Unlike most stories, this one is unforgettable. Read it!

My inner roadie

2011-02-03T15:35:00.000-08:00

Still milking my 15 minutes of fame after winning second prize in The Age short story competition. My story 'The Devil's Music' about an ex-roadie living in a rooming house in St Kilda is still up on the Age website if you want to have a look:
http://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/books/the-devils-music-20110125-1a3vg.html
The best thing about this win was getting published in The Age A2 (on Saturday 15 January) and receiving emails from my readers. Instead of the usual remarks by fellow writers about the niceties of style, I had some enthusiastic responses from men who have been roadies, musicians or work with the homeless in St Kilda. It was great to hear that in channeling my inner roadie, Billy, I'd hit a nerve with these readers. Makes it all worthwhile. Thanks, guys.

Judi Dench's memoir

2010-11-21T18:32:00.000-08:00

'So you got your memoir published?' said one of my writing students when she saw Judi Dench's memoir 'And Furthermore' on the desk. The book was upside down and my student could have been forgiven for mistaking me for the woman with short bleached hair, pale complexion and Botox-free wrinkles on the cover. But I am twice Judi's height, twelve years younger and am not a star. I had to laugh. It was ironic that even someone else saw a connection between us.
Because there are some. That was why I had to read her memoir. The main connection is that I saw her first major performance at the Old Vic, London in 1957, as Ophelia, with John Neville as Hamlet. And again in 1960 as Juliet with John Stride as Romeo. It's fabulous to read her account of the performances and the inside dope on her fellow actors, to read about her passion for the stage which echoes my passion as a stage-struck youngster. I never went on to become a professional actor, but those early experiences of Shakespeare and the theatre have been major influences in my life.
One of her anecdotes echoes my own experience. She was playing Lady Bracknell in 'The Importance of Being Earnest' at the National Theatre, London, when she suddenly skipped half a page - a vital one with the first reference to the infamous handbag - and suffered a miserable Christmas because of it. A few years ago I did the same thing in an amateur production of Wilde's play at Como House in Melbourne where, as Lady B, I asked Miss Prism 'Where is that baby? and then forgot to elaborate the story about the perambulator and the three-volume manuscript, and left poor Miss Prism in the lurch, before I realised I was the one who had forgotten my lines. I haven't done any acting since.
Unlike the formidable Miss Dench. She got over her mistake, has a gruelling work schedule and plans to stay on the stage until she drops dead, like her hero John Gielgud. As I procrastinate and doubt myself as a writer, I can still look to Judi to inspire me to keep on keeping on.

Back home in Oz

2010-10-12T21:11:00.000-07:00

OK, so I made it home and now have three piles of books on my bedroom floor waiting for a space on the shelves. One of my favourites is a first edition of Frieda Lawrence's Not I, But the Wind, the story of her life with DH Lawrence, which I picked up in Hay-on-Wye. I didn't explore DH Lawrence country in the end, but did find myself walking in Jane Austen's footsteps on several occasions in Dorset and Hampshire. I visited her house in Chawton and stood in awe at her writing desk, a tiny three-legged round table, where she sat after breakfast by the window. It put me to shame. It was here she wrote her best work.
On the Dorset coast, I walked along Cheshil Beach and relived the memorable story by Ian McEwan. It was only three months since I had lain in bed listening to the audiobook that McEwan recorded of On Cheshil Beach and here I was! Such an unexpected pleasure, and such a clear example of how landscapes can be immortalised in fiction or poetry. And them, in the same day, I am in Lyme Regis, the seaside resort of kings, where Jane Austen set Persuasion and where The French Lieutenant’s Woman was filmed. The author John Fowles was curator of the local museum, now flourishing and full of fossils from the local Jurassic coast, as well a displays about local writers. Among the fossil display I found a 'Cabinet of Curiosities', an absurd fantastical contraption made by my old friends Forkbeard Fantasy, a Brit theatre group I haven't seen for 25 years. So hello, guys, from me in Oz!
Yes I am back here and feeling guilty about contemplating a bigger desk to accommodate my writing needs. Think miniature, think Jane Austen.

On the road

2010-08-28T01:48:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time between posts and now I'm snatching a few moments of Wifi access in an English B&B to pin down a fragment of life on the road, coming across writers and books in France, Scotland and England. In Paris I bought two books at the Village Voice bookshop by Mavis Gallant, who has lived in France most of her long life. I discovered her short stories recently in Australia and find her a great inspiration.
In Scotland, I caught the edge of the Edinburgh bookfest and saw Margaret Drabble talk at St Andrews, Scotland, about her new book A Writer's Britain and was caught up in her involvement with the relationship of writers to their landscape. She described coming up to St Andrews by train and the writers' locales that she travelled through. I am driving the other way, south, passing through writers' haunts and picking up books as I go. The Minster Gate bookshop in York yielded four bargains - and I never got further than the bookshelf on the stairs up to the literary section! There is still Hay-on-Wye with its thirty-plus bookshops to visit.
Now I'm in Nottinghamshire, home of DH Lawrence, where the young men speak like Paul Morel. Another shrine to worship at, as well as the great cathedral at Lincoln.

possums in the library

2010-05-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

I have a contender for my library of books. Yes, I know I have too many to read in my lifetime, but that's no excuse for possums trying to take over the bookshelves. Three times in the past week I have woken to the scrabbling of little paws and twice to the crashing of glass - first a lamp, and then a vase. When confronted by a woman in pyjamas, the creature has calmly looked up from the bookshelf into my face and turned tail. Each time I have managed to coax her out the way she came in, through the window. Is she looking for a place to nest? Or are possums taking over the world? It seems possible in our corner of Melbourne. In that case, is she selecting suitably civilising authors: Proust, Austen or Orwell? She is still scratching at the window now it is closed.
Does any one else have possums in their library?

Performance stories

2010-02-14T17:40:00.000-08:00

Storytelling is an author's backbone, and keeping the backbone strong is healthy for all of us writers. Twelve Australian authors were put to the challenge of telling their family stories at this weekend's launch of The Wheeler Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas in A Gala Night of Storytelling at Melbourne Town Hall. They came on to the stage, one at a time, to address the huge audience, with varying degrees of success. Some read their stories, some told them off the cuff, others performed them as comedy or song. Some struggled with the mike in this echoey auditorium. Not all writers are great readers or speakers, as we know from writers' festivals, but here was a chance to make their stories shine.

All but two of the authors stayed behind the lectern. The two who didn't were performers before they became authors. Comedian Judith Lucy used a hand-held mike for her performance. Singer Paul Kelly brought the evening to a spine-tingling close with a story sung a capella. Several others were memorable. John Safran entertained us with a Jewish story that blended humour and pathos. Shane Maloney gave us a change of mood with his dry humour and fine sense of timing. Alex Miller kept his contribution short: a powerful vignette, a lively depiction of his father, complete with Scottish brogue. Cate Kennedy, our consummate short story writer, was intimate and spontaneous, if a little rambling, as she told a story that had a perfect narrative arc and a tight ending.

The remaining writers were David Malouf, Alexis Wright, John Marsden, Chole Hooper, Christos Tsiolkas and Tara June Winch. An author who was notable for his absence was Arnold Zable, one of Melbourne's fine storytellers.

What lessons can be learned from this night of storytelling? What do we need to remember when we tell our stories aloud? What do our listeners want? As a listener, this is what I want from a storyteller: honesty, humour, a satisfying story told with rhythm, pace and variety and a voice that is a pleasure to listen to. Just as a writer redrafts and edits and makes sure the written word is ready for the world, so a storyteller can craft and practise a piece, or improve the art of impromptu storytelling aloud before stepping in front of an audience. Get familiar with the mike, get to know your voice and how best you can use it, and try stepping out from behind the lectern to connect with your audience.

I for one, relish this return to hearing our stories told aloud, and hope this night of storytelling will be the first of many such nights where authors can gain confidence in the spoken word. Poetry has its own performance scene. Prose can follow suit.

What do you think?

Pride, Prejudice and Philippe Petit

2009-12-15T22:26:00.000-08:00

It is Jane Austen's birthday today! Happy 234th birthday! In celebration, I watched (yet again) the final part of Lost in Austen, the delicious retelling of Pride and Prejudice through the eyes of a modern Janeite living in Hammersmith. Altogether more affecting and better acted than even the best British TV series of P&P. Yes, Austen is a profound influence on my writing, along with Annie Proulx and Cate Kennedy. What a disparate bunch, all jostling for pole position in my head. My current inspiration is Colum McCann's latest novel Let the Great World Spin, a brilliantly constructed story hingeing on Philippe Petit's 1974 tight-rope walk between the twin towers. Not surprising that a great writer should take that story and run with it. I saw Petit last year in a Q&A session after the Melbourne screening of Man on Wire, the film about his highwire walk. He could not sit still in the 'comfortable' chair, but sprang up to answer questions. His comfort zone is high in the sky, joyriding on a wire, finding ecstasy through the fine-tuning of his nerves. He keeps alive the spirit of the absurd and theatrical sixties and the romantic and serious seventies. He embodies curiosity, passion and creativity. What better inspiration for a writer!

The season of the launch

2009-09-17T16:44:00.000-07:00

The writing studio is frighteningly quiet. But I am getting used to it, alone with the freedom to think something through without distraction. Yesterday I went round in circles, changing point of view of a short story: from third person, to second person, to first person and back again to third! Changed a few words, ended up with same word count at the end of the day. Should I have taken the day off instead? But it was an interesting exercise, teaching me to analyse some of the inner points of language that we take for granted. Could use it in my teaching next week.

Went to launch of Cate Kennedy's first novel The World Beneath on Tuesday at the Trades Hall bar - grunge city. Buy one copy, and you got a chocolate brownie made by Cate herself, buy three copies and you got a bottle of wine. It was a fun affair, with Shane Howard singing, and friends, family and fans out in force. Cate's speech was full of humourous anecdotes, relating her writer's tales of procrastination and her friendly competition with Dan Brown. She'll be good entertainment value at writers' festivals. Go Cate!

A few friends are launching books now: Joel Magarey and Andee Jones are next off the blocks. I am aiming for mine next year!

room with a view

2009-08-15T21:52:00.000-07:00

Still on the subject of space, have just returned from a trip across the Nullarbor Plain on the Indian Pacific train. Two nights on the top bunk, my daughter on the bottom bunk, wondering if I would fall out. I had to keep telling myself I had slept for years on the edge like this in my trucking days, so fear not. All was fine and we slept better than in our own beds at home.

When we first got into the carriage, my daughter had suffered a slight attack of claustrophobia. It was after dark, with no view outside, and we sat on the bench seat facing the blank doors of the bathroom and wardrobe. The next morning, the 'room' was transformed by the vista of sandhills at dawn and all anxiety fled as we stared out the window. A room with a view beats a windowless cell, any day. I know some writers insist on facing a blank wall, but a connection with the weather and nature keeps me sane.

I will have my room with a view of the gardens of a National Trust property tomorrow when I move into my new writing studio. Can't wait.

time and space

2009-07-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

The writing is slow this year. I feel confined, need to spread out, am applying for studio space. Yet small isn't usually a problem for me. Watched Grand Designs on tv - English couple building huge house on their Wiltshire farm in England. I can see the advantage of space and certainly love the eco and aesthetic aspects of the design, but would I want to live in such a huge barn of a place? I once helped my partner renovate a barn, creating a large sunny room as a place to spread out while we lived in a truck, but we rarely used it, preferring to live like chickens in the converted lorry. That lorry plays a major role in my memoir. Now I live in what I think of as a normal house with plenty of space but recently found out the neighbours refer to it as The Doll's House!

In David Malouf's memoir 12 Edmondstone Street, he writes about how our first houses set down the way we relate to the world. My first house was a small bungalow and my bedroom a mere sliver of space between the bathroom and my mother's bedroom. One small high window was my outlook on the world.

reading and writing

2009-02-25T22:40:00.000-08:00

More than 2 months down the track and I have not returned to the State Library. At least I can count on returning when the Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas opens there later this year. My memoir is still unpublished, but the pall that settled on me after finishing it is finally lifting and today has been a frenzy of reading and writing (mostly reading). My head is spinning with reading Francine Prose, Diana Athill, Anne Lamott and Katherine Mansfield. Don't ask me why. Such is life in the age of the Internet. I was finally waylaid by Freda Balaam, my ex-headmistress. Got lost somewhere on the www trying to find another teacher's name for my memoir. I wrote two more pars, but stalled on that name. She may have to go nameless. The interminable and unproductive days of a twenty-first century writer.

In the State Library

2008-12-16T16:47:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my new blog. I am setting it up in the State Library of Victoria, in that marvellous stately building that I hardly ever visit. I vow to return soon. Last night I watched a TV program on the British Museum, where cleaners stood on top of the roof of the domed reading room, washing thousands of glass panels with their squeegy mops. We have our own domed reading room at the SLV. It is a week for libraries and stately buildings. I am joining the Athaneum library in Collins Street, where I met up with three other writers this week. We are starting a novel writing group, the perfect forum to begin my novel next February. This year has been the year of the memoir, now with a publisher, awaiting her verdict. Next year the novel. Maybe soon one of my books will be on these shelves.