The second, written when I was fifteen, reminds me of how easy it was to buy booze when underage in 1984. Among other things.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Early writing
Yesterday I was cleaning out my shed and found these:
The first example, written when I was ten, reminds me that a) I've never been able to draw and b) despite my sometimes difficult relationship with my grandfather, my fondest memories of him revolve around food (eating his raw garlic, fresh peas, and carrots, chiefly) and meals (family lunches and Christmases), which began with Grace (us kids peeping at each other and the solemn faces of the adults) and ended with the grownups passed out in the lounge room chairs, recovering.
The second, written when I was fifteen, reminds me of how easy it was to buy booze when underage in 1984. Among other things.
The second, written when I was fifteen, reminds me of how easy it was to buy booze when underage in 1984. Among other things.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
All good things must end
When I was a child, I had my own planet, named Jobnye. In several brown-paper-covered notebooks, I chronicled the features of Jobnye: its monetary system (complete with samples of its coins, tin foil wrapped over cardboard circles), its political system (complete with samples of Vote 1 posters), and photographs of its princes (my two cats, Socksey and Stripey. Guess what they looked like?!), as well regularly mentioning its sister planet, Nobnye, belonging to my best friend Nobblinees. There were lyrics to its top ten (parodies of our choir songs, largely) and a few abortive novel beginnnings, starring Noblinees, myself and my cats. The notebooks featured the very latest stationery accoutrements (glitter glue) and copyright notices. I even created a version of the queenly domain in my Jobnye palace in my room at Dad's place (except I didn't tell him what it was, and he dismantled it on one of the weekends I wasn't there). I seem to remember it featured hanging skulls covered in vaseline (why? I can't remember), amongst other treasures.
I've been on holidays for the past month. I intended to write for most of it, but mostly I've been thinking about writing more than sitting at the computer. Normally I would decry such a state of affairs, but it's been necessary. I've been in the midst of all sorts of flux for the past year or so, and my thinking has been less than clear and/or satisfying about a number of areas. (And watching the floods drench the east coast of Australia has been a salutary reminder of how quickly any of our lives can be up-ended when you least expect it). I've come to the conclusion, with writing at least, that I need to occupy my own planet again. Less Twitter-lurking and Facebooking and more time staring out the window at my humble dominions. More connection to the pleasures of forging my own coin. And mostly, just making it up as I go along.
At ease.
I've been on holidays for the past month. I intended to write for most of it, but mostly I've been thinking about writing more than sitting at the computer. Normally I would decry such a state of affairs, but it's been necessary. I've been in the midst of all sorts of flux for the past year or so, and my thinking has been less than clear and/or satisfying about a number of areas. (And watching the floods drench the east coast of Australia has been a salutary reminder of how quickly any of our lives can be up-ended when you least expect it). I've come to the conclusion, with writing at least, that I need to occupy my own planet again. Less Twitter-lurking and Facebooking and more time staring out the window at my humble dominions. More connection to the pleasures of forging my own coin. And mostly, just making it up as I go along.
At ease.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Year 12 English Literature books
Prompted by a Facebook status by the wonderful writer Cassandra Golds (who also does a mean line in reposting my favourite 70s songs), I found that I was able to instantly recall my year 12 Lit reading list (not sure what the equivalent of Lit is in other states):
A Burnt-Out Case, Graham Greene
Wuthering Heights, Emile Bronte
John Donne
e e cummings
Antony and Cleopatra
Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, Ray Lawler
Because I was two years older than my contemporaries, by the time I got to year 12 I had done a lot of reading, but Literature taught me the rudiments of analysis and gave me a taste of what deep and studious reading of a text could reveal. I loved e e cummings' layered criticisms of The World and the joyousness of his word-plays; I loathed Summer of the Seventeeth Doll because I couldn't relate to its middle-aged disillusionment and I found the obviousness of the language - after cummings and Shakespeare - tedious. A shame, given it was the only Australian title on the list (and I had no problem with the disillusionment in A Burnt-Out Case). Donne's witty conceits amused me; the excessive, Gothic passions of Bronte were both thrilling and alien (though I was glad to finally understand what Kate Bush was singing about!)
The things I remember most from year 12 Literature were the conversations we had in class: I had never before experienced the pleasure of communal reading and discussion (I did year 11 by correspondence), and I loved the way the interrogation of characters, themes, story, and language let us all examine, dismantle and reassemble our assumptions, beliefs and reactions. It was a taste of what was to come at university, and I was hooked.
It was also the first time that I tackled Shakespeare - in my early teens I was addicted to the Sonnets, but studying Antony and Cleopatra made me realise that Shakespeare repaid close attention: even if I didn't understand every word, I could hear the music and get the gist. (I mention this because there was some comment about the value of kids doing 'difficult' texts).
Incidentally, I read a lot from what was then on the year 11 and 12 course lists before I was in year 11 and 12, probably because they were the novels in second-hand shops: The Bell Jar, Brave New World, The Collector. But I also developed aversions that kept me from some great work until much later: The Great Gatsby (I didn't like the title), anything by Ernest Hemingway (overexposure), Jane Austen (I didn't learn to love her until my 30s), Steinbeck (apart from Mice and Men), Gwen Harwood (because her name was Gwen).
What did you have to read at school - did it set off any lifelong passions (or aversions?)
Should we give kids the hard stuff, or should they be left to discover it on their own?
A Burnt-Out Case, Graham Greene
Wuthering Heights, Emile Bronte
John Donne
e e cummings
Antony and Cleopatra
Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, Ray Lawler
Because I was two years older than my contemporaries, by the time I got to year 12 I had done a lot of reading, but Literature taught me the rudiments of analysis and gave me a taste of what deep and studious reading of a text could reveal. I loved e e cummings' layered criticisms of The World and the joyousness of his word-plays; I loathed Summer of the Seventeeth Doll because I couldn't relate to its middle-aged disillusionment and I found the obviousness of the language - after cummings and Shakespeare - tedious. A shame, given it was the only Australian title on the list (and I had no problem with the disillusionment in A Burnt-Out Case). Donne's witty conceits amused me; the excessive, Gothic passions of Bronte were both thrilling and alien (though I was glad to finally understand what Kate Bush was singing about!)
The things I remember most from year 12 Literature were the conversations we had in class: I had never before experienced the pleasure of communal reading and discussion (I did year 11 by correspondence), and I loved the way the interrogation of characters, themes, story, and language let us all examine, dismantle and reassemble our assumptions, beliefs and reactions. It was a taste of what was to come at university, and I was hooked.
It was also the first time that I tackled Shakespeare - in my early teens I was addicted to the Sonnets, but studying Antony and Cleopatra made me realise that Shakespeare repaid close attention: even if I didn't understand every word, I could hear the music and get the gist. (I mention this because there was some comment about the value of kids doing 'difficult' texts).
Incidentally, I read a lot from what was then on the year 11 and 12 course lists before I was in year 11 and 12, probably because they were the novels in second-hand shops: The Bell Jar, Brave New World, The Collector. But I also developed aversions that kept me from some great work until much later: The Great Gatsby (I didn't like the title), anything by Ernest Hemingway (overexposure), Jane Austen (I didn't learn to love her until my 30s), Steinbeck (apart from Mice and Men), Gwen Harwood (because her name was Gwen).
What did you have to read at school - did it set off any lifelong passions (or aversions?)
Should we give kids the hard stuff, or should they be left to discover it on their own?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wishes for you, and me, in 2011
That you might be surrounded by friends who remind you of who you are, and have room for the yous you are;
That you might find joy in noticing daily details, like dancing cobwebs, whooshing winds, the character of the birds who live in your tree;
That sadness might sweep you clean, rather than clean you out;
That you feel those you have lost walking beside you, or that dreams of them may soothe you;
That you discover new books, new colours, new sounds that delight you;
That you find comforting perspectives on whatever haunts you at 3am;
That you might find a way to exercise kindness to all people, or at least find ways to tolerate those you despise or fear;
That kindness in general comes from you, and to you;
That you might keep increasing in curiosity;
That these things are only the beginning.
That you might find joy in noticing daily details, like dancing cobwebs, whooshing winds, the character of the birds who live in your tree;
That sadness might sweep you clean, rather than clean you out;
That you feel those you have lost walking beside you, or that dreams of them may soothe you;
That you discover new books, new colours, new sounds that delight you;
That you find comforting perspectives on whatever haunts you at 3am;
That you might find a way to exercise kindness to all people, or at least find ways to tolerate those you despise or fear;
That kindness in general comes from you, and to you;
That you might keep increasing in curiosity;
That these things are only the beginning.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
An homage to Mike and Lili
The Centre for Youth Literature has got more teenagers into reading, connected more young adults with more books and authors, provided more thought-provoking professional development for teachers, librarians and writers, than any other program in the country. It's been constantly innovative and constantly evolving. (It's also delivered the most fun touring program a writer could ever hope to be a part of, but that's another story). It's been able to achieve all of this because of the enthusiasm, intelligence, passion, love and sheer hard work of the people that have created and sustained it - the redoubtable Agnes Nieuwenhuizen, Mike Shuttleworth, Lili Wilkinson, and now Paula Kelly and Susan McLaine.
Artswork might be rewarding, but it's hard yakka. It's hard to see chunks of money always going to sports programs, when a sliver of the same would run a reading/writing program for years. It's hard having to fight for and justify each crumb of funding you get, having to spend as much time applying for and acquitting grants as doing the work you're funded for. It's hard to raise the profile of an activity so pivotally important to our sense of culture, place and self as writing in the face of newspaper cutbacks and general editorial disinterest. And then there are the actual writers. Writers are a notoriously whinging, tempestuous and temperamental lot: it can be hard listening to folk complaining about who got what and how someone else deserved it more, being depressed about their lack of sales or prizes, and pining for writerly utopia, comprised of time, money, a garret and/or red wine (okay, so maybe that was just me. But you get my point).
So people who can always find the joy in what they're doing - who manage to sustain their love for their work - are rare and should be prized. And people who wave the flag for the importance of YA and all who sail in her are equally rare, and are our true national treasures.
Hence my unutterable sadness that CYL is losing Mike and Lili.
Aside from her organisational feats, Lili has created and maintained insideadog, which is the best website for teenagers who love books anywhere, ever, IMHO, and is as funky and interesting as Lili herself. Through her own blog and her thoughtful engagement with others', she makes sure we keep interrogating the way we think about YA writing, writers and everything else in between. She's leaving to be that most elusive and lucky of creatures, a Full Time Writer. I eagerly await the brain babies she creates.
And then there's Mike, the man who had to leave Western Australia because he hadn't read (or was that didn't like? I forget) Cloudstreet. Mike has been a champion of my work, and for this I have always been grateful. He has also been a sanity saver more than once, and one of the delights of my Melbourne sojourns is coffee at Mr Tulk's with Mike. It's a shame CYL can't bottle his fine and nuanced knowledge of contemporary YA literature before he goes.
I know people have to move on, and, after eight years, Mike and Lili have done more than their fair share for YA literature in Australia. They have encouraged us writers to push the boundaries, write to our limits - to take pride in what we do, and make sure that we get to meet our audiences once in a while. I know that CYL is still in good hands, and it will still run great programs.
But still. I'm sad.
And on behalf of those of us who've had the privilege to work with you, I want to say thanks. As if it is enough.
Artswork might be rewarding, but it's hard yakka. It's hard to see chunks of money always going to sports programs, when a sliver of the same would run a reading/writing program for years. It's hard having to fight for and justify each crumb of funding you get, having to spend as much time applying for and acquitting grants as doing the work you're funded for. It's hard to raise the profile of an activity so pivotally important to our sense of culture, place and self as writing in the face of newspaper cutbacks and general editorial disinterest. And then there are the actual writers. Writers are a notoriously whinging, tempestuous and temperamental lot: it can be hard listening to folk complaining about who got what and how someone else deserved it more, being depressed about their lack of sales or prizes, and pining for writerly utopia, comprised of time, money, a garret and/or red wine (okay, so maybe that was just me. But you get my point).
So people who can always find the joy in what they're doing - who manage to sustain their love for their work - are rare and should be prized. And people who wave the flag for the importance of YA and all who sail in her are equally rare, and are our true national treasures.
Hence my unutterable sadness that CYL is losing Mike and Lili.
Aside from her organisational feats, Lili has created and maintained insideadog, which is the best website for teenagers who love books anywhere, ever, IMHO, and is as funky and interesting as Lili herself. Through her own blog and her thoughtful engagement with others', she makes sure we keep interrogating the way we think about YA writing, writers and everything else in between. She's leaving to be that most elusive and lucky of creatures, a Full Time Writer. I eagerly await the brain babies she creates.
And then there's Mike, the man who had to leave Western Australia because he hadn't read (or was that didn't like? I forget) Cloudstreet. Mike has been a champion of my work, and for this I have always been grateful. He has also been a sanity saver more than once, and one of the delights of my Melbourne sojourns is coffee at Mr Tulk's with Mike. It's a shame CYL can't bottle his fine and nuanced knowledge of contemporary YA literature before he goes.
I know people have to move on, and, after eight years, Mike and Lili have done more than their fair share for YA literature in Australia. They have encouraged us writers to push the boundaries, write to our limits - to take pride in what we do, and make sure that we get to meet our audiences once in a while. I know that CYL is still in good hands, and it will still run great programs.
But still. I'm sad.
And on behalf of those of us who've had the privilege to work with you, I want to say thanks. As if it is enough.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
What I'm reading/have read/am about to read
Note to self: don't take photos in front of curtainless windows.
The books:
Line of Sight, David Whish-Wilson
Broken Glass, Adrian Stirling
Wintergirls, Laurie Halse Anderson
Girl Saves Boy, Steph Bowe
The Three Loves of Persimmon, Cassandra Golds
Equator, Wayne Ashton
And on the train this week, people read: Zambezi/Kathryn Fox/Jodi Picoult/Blood Born/Star Seeker/Persuasion/The West/Time.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Moments of grace
* This week I struggled with the beginning of the junior novel. On the train I wrote opening lines, scenes, dialogue. They clunked, or were brittle. The words didn't go together. Nothing worked.
Eventually, demoralised by my scrappy notes, I stopped struggling. And then, as you might guess, it came. A beginning. Maybe not the beginning, but a beginning I can work with. For me, having a workable beginning is like a composer deciding on a key signature. If you pick the wrong one, it's never going to sound right. Like using a minor scale to write a happy song.
* I did two whole-day workshops this week with the Youth Literature Days run by the fabulous Fremantle Children's Literature Centre. I love doing these workshops, although somehow discussion of the battles of writing doesn't come about - maybe because for most of these kids, they're so full of words, images and snap, crackle and pop that struggle is a way off. But the students did great work, concentrated work. I so wish they'd had programs like this when I was 14, 15. 16 - the luxury of guided writing, the value of hearing what your peers have done, knowing there are others like you out there.
* At the end of the last Youth Literature Day, a girl came up to me. She told me about her friend, who had had a terrible home life, had really struggled with some serious, serious problems. 'Your book Skating the Edge was the only thing that stopped her from killing herself,' she said. 'My friend just wanted you to know.'
* My old touring buddy Bill Condon was one of the winners of the Premier's Literary Awards (on which subject, you really must read this). Really and honestly, it couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke. Bill is one of those people who has just been getting on with writing gritty, real, funny books for teenagers without fanfare. Excellent stuff all round.
Eventually, demoralised by my scrappy notes, I stopped struggling. And then, as you might guess, it came. A beginning. Maybe not the beginning, but a beginning I can work with. For me, having a workable beginning is like a composer deciding on a key signature. If you pick the wrong one, it's never going to sound right. Like using a minor scale to write a happy song.
* I did two whole-day workshops this week with the Youth Literature Days run by the fabulous Fremantle Children's Literature Centre. I love doing these workshops, although somehow discussion of the battles of writing doesn't come about - maybe because for most of these kids, they're so full of words, images and snap, crackle and pop that struggle is a way off. But the students did great work, concentrated work. I so wish they'd had programs like this when I was 14, 15. 16 - the luxury of guided writing, the value of hearing what your peers have done, knowing there are others like you out there.
* At the end of the last Youth Literature Day, a girl came up to me. She told me about her friend, who had had a terrible home life, had really struggled with some serious, serious problems. 'Your book Skating the Edge was the only thing that stopped her from killing herself,' she said. 'My friend just wanted you to know.'
* My old touring buddy Bill Condon was one of the winners of the Premier's Literary Awards (on which subject, you really must read this). Really and honestly, it couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke. Bill is one of those people who has just been getting on with writing gritty, real, funny books for teenagers without fanfare. Excellent stuff all round.
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