Completion

I have a confession to make – I don’t always finish the books that I start.

And it’s not necessarily because they’re not engaging or interesting, it’s not boredom, definitively, that’ll make me put something down. As a writer, I read for education as much as for entertainment, and I often find myself so inspired or my imagination so triggered by the way the book is written or a certain idea within the text, that I drift into my own work and move back to writing.

I imagine a lot of writers have the same, though definitely when I tell some people that I don’t finish every book I read, they can’t understand it. For some, starting a book or a movie also requires completion – you have to know how the story ends, it’s like a need, a compulsion. But the ending, for me, is hardly a consideration. If I’m inspired by a certain aspect, or taken by some element, then I try to run with that and use it as fuel for my own work.

That’s also not to say I don’t complete anything – I read plenty of books to completion. But it’s almost become a guilty admission, a shameful secret. I don’t always get all the way through to the last page of every story. Yet, I probably still get as much value from the process as somebody who has done so.

It also feels kind of hypocritical – I don’t finish every book I read, yet I pain over every single page of my work in the hopes that it’s engaging enough to keep people interested. That, of course, relies on people reading to completion, so I write for people who do read. But then again, I guess if there’s some aspect of my work that people find inspiring, that’s fine too – I’d be glad I was able to provide some level of value.

It is interesting though when people ask ‘What are you reading?’ or ‘What have you read this year?’ I’ve read lots and lots of things, and I always have several books on the go. But could I give you a full rundown of the plot of each one – no. But I can show what things I’m working on.

It’s not the same, but that’s kind of how I look at it.

My Top Films of 2018

At the end of every year, I like to take some time to contemplate my favourite cinematic experiences of the past 12 months, and put together a list of the top films I saw during that period. But this year I had a problem – I couldn’t come up with five films I really loved.

Now, part of that is my own limitations in getting to the cinema – I have two young kids, which means that I’ve seen every kids film, but fewer outside of that. I still generally catch most of the buzzed about films when they get a DVD or digital release, but I do likely also miss out on some that I should have got to. Yet even then, I have seen most of the Golden Globe nominees, all the big ones. And not many really grabbed me.

But I do think 2018 marked a significant shift in the cinema landscape. This year, I really only loved two films, and both of them originated from Netflix, which, increasingly, is looking to experiment and distribute more interesting projects. They don’t always get this right, but they are getting better, and I feel like Netflix could become the new wave, the new platform of choice for ‘left of centre’ film making, a new home for more experimental, artistic film projects.

It’s been heading this way for a while, but it feels like Netflix gained more legitimacy in this regard in 2018, with some very big names partnering with the streaming giant on new projects.

So what were my top films?

Annihilation by Alex Garland

annihilation

Alex Garland is one of my favourite writer/directors to follow – he wrote one of my favourite books of all-time, ‘The Coma’, which was far less commercially successful than his major breakthrough ‘The Beach’, but was far more aligned with his film work. Following The Coma, which was Garland’s third novel, he moved onto screenplays, working on an ill-fated adaptation of the video game ‘Halo’, then ‘28 Days Later’, and the remake of Judge Dredd. Garland then shifted to directing, with his breakthrough film ‘Ex Machina’, providing him with the perfect platform to showcase his eye for detail and cinematic ability.

Annihilation is not as good as Ex Machina, but it’s close, and it definitely deserves more attention than it seems to have been given. Some of that is due to a distribution deal which saw the film skip a cinematic release in most regions, going straight to Netflix instead. But on Netflix, it has gained an audience and momentum, making it something of a cult winner.

Annihilation features excellent effects, a great cast (hard to go wrong with Natalie Portman and Oscar Isaac) and in intriguing story. Studio executives were reportedly concerned that the plot was ‘too cerebral’, and certainly there’s a lot to take in. But there’s a lot to get out of it too – a really interesting film that uses its science fiction setting to tell a human story, which is what the best of the genre does.

Also worthy of note, Annihilation is based on the novel of the same name by Jeff VanderMeer.

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs by Joel and Ethan Coen

buster

I’ve been a big of the Coens for a long time – they were among the film-makers in the mid-nineties who really introduced me to a new way of appreciating cinema and what the medium could offer. From ‘Raising Arizona’ to ‘True Grit’, the Coens have an amazing handle on the form, and how to use it to maximum effect, which is showcased in varying capacity in their western short-film collection ‘The Ballad of Buster Scruggs’.

The film is a great representation of their style, with excellent dialogue, a great sense of timing and pace and visually interesting stories. There’s a heap going on in each of these little tales, and while I don’t think each one hits the mark exactly, the ones that do more than make up for any minor shortfalls.

As noted, both of the abov films represent an interesting shift for Netflix, which is gradually starting to refine its process in regards to its original production efforts. They still produced some films that missed the mark in 2018 – ‘Bright’ had an interesting premise, but failed to capitalize on it, ‘Extinction’ felt generic, as did ‘How it Ends’, while Duncan Jones’ ‘Mute’ felt only partially realized and never seemed to elevate. But then again, others like ‘Set it Up’ and ‘Next Gen’ were nuanced and clever, and showed what Netflix produced films can be, and can do for the broader film scene.

Then later in the year, Netflix also released the excellent ‘Outlaw King’ with Chris Pine, and the much-hyped ‘Bird Box’ with Sandra Bullock. And while Bird Box sometimes felt constrained by cliché, Outlaw King was another high point for the streaming giant, and an indicator of the potential of its projects to come.

There were other films I liked in 2018 – ‘Solo’ was, I thought, a good step back in the right direction for the Disney-owned Star Wars generation (once it found it’s footing about 40 minutes in), while the comedy ‘Blockers’ was far better than I expected, with the marketing angle for the film seeming way off. But I didn’t see anything that really blew me away, that really stuck with me after, as the above two films did.

What that means, to me, is that Netflix may be moving to take up the mantle left by the decline of Miramax and arthouse cinema in general as studios have looked to bigger productions (and lots of remakes/sequels). Netflix invested around $13 billion into original projects in 2018, and plans to up that further in 2019, as it continues to increase its subscriber base and build out its business.

That’s a very positive sign for those working in literary circles, as it means more opportunity for film projects – both in terms of original screenplays and adaptations. Indeed, in 2018, Netflix also invested in its first Australian original feature film, while it’s been working with the ABC on several TV productions. While it remains to be seen exactly how the next phase of video on demand – or ‘Television 3.0’ – plays out, it is good to see new opportunities arising from the expansion of the field.

Sambar

I was amazed when I saw it, startled for a moment. It was right up near the roadside, behind the high fence of the reserve. A deer, a huge male. Antlers reaching up like dried lightning, poking from the side of its great head.

The fence surrounded the lake, a water source for the region, and the wire mesh was around eight feet high with twists of barbed wire crowned along the top. It traced the distance of the lake and its surrounds, kept it all in, a haven for animals like this.

The deer didn’t know about the fence, that it kept people out, and the big one – there were two others a distance behind. The large male stood looking out at the road, monitoring the cars flashing by. The others went about business, nudging at the leaves across the ground.

And the cars were rushing by. It’s an 80 kilometre zone, so normally you’d just zoom on through, but today, I saw the deer.

A sambar deer is what it was. Good eating, my uncle told me later.

I turned the car around and drove back along the road slow, scanning the forest, then I pulled over so I could see, so I could watch the animals as they moved between the trees. Till they faded away, merged into the thin trunks and dried leaves. Till they were gone.

I sat there, watching on, watching the other cars go by. And I felt like stopping them, like standing out in the roadway and pointing at the sambar deer, saying ‘Have you ever seen this?’ ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

literature and politics

A trend that’s developed in literary circles over time is the politicization of literary works, particularly through festivals, events, etc.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing – all art, by some measure, is political in nature. But much of that is driven by surrounding circumstance, and comes through in capturing the authenticity of the world in which the work is set, as opposed to the author setting out to make a statement on the same.

Most authors – and I’m speaking in generalization here – start with the story first, the idea that sparks something in them, that compels them to explore further. That story will likely have political and societal elements, but the impetus for writing, in most cases, is not those factors. It’s the story first, the exploration of an idea, then the craft of writing to capture it in the right way. Definitely, if there’s a timely angle or element, and you can accentuate that within the context of the broader narrative, you should, but the driving force is the human heart, the experience at the core, the story that captures best what intrigues you, as the writer, about this tale.

I guess, my concern with the overt politicization of literature is that we risk amplifying elitism – already, literary fiction is seen as the domain of the well educated, the higher end of society. But literature is for everyone, it’s about sharing the world from a different perspective, and as such, we should be looking to share the idea of writing and literary creation to people at all levels of society, in order to encourage them to capture their own experiences in a way that best suits their message.

You don’t have to be an academic professor well versed in mythical theory to write a great novel, you can be anyone, anyone at all who has a passion for writing. That’s what we should seek to encourage. Given this, my view is that literary events, in the majority, should be more focused on the process of creation, the sparking of ideas, the method through which you learn the craft itself. The passion for the process is more important than the political drive behind the narrative.

That won’t universally be the case, I know, and there are many literary events that do focus on such. But the discussion around literature, at times, has been hijacked by the political movement/s of the times. There are positives and negatives to this, but really, focusing on the elements of the craft themselves is most crucially important.

 

The rules for writing

Author Jonathan Franzen appears to have stirred up controversy with his ’10 Rules for Novelists’ piece recently published on LitHub.

frantzen's rules

And you can see why – people are upset because it challenges how they do things, it implies their approach will be less successful, and the listing takes a very elitist view, particularly through the use of the term ‘rules’.

But really, who cares?

If you don’t agree with Franzen’s ‘rules’, don’t apply them to your process.

It’d be hard to argue that there’s zero value to them – Franzen has published many critically acclaimed novels, he clearly knows a thing or two about the endeavour, likely more than most. But as with all things related to writing, you need to find what works for you, then work with that. Once you’ve established why you’re writing, what you’re trying to achieve, what you want to get out of the process, then you can adopt (or indeed ignore) outside recommendations and ideas in a more creatively beneficial way.

The truth is, there are no prescriptive ‘rules’ to writing. If there were a set of clear guidelines you could follow, then every aspiring novelist would do so, and we’d all be published and successful, etc. But that’s not how it works.

If someone says ‘you can’t do this’, someone else will be able to show you an example which defies it – some would say, for example, that you can’t have pictures in a literary novel. But ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time’ does just that, and it works perfectly to illustrate the relevant points. Every ‘rule’ can be broken if it fits into what you’re trying to achieve.

The truth of great writing is just that – that you need to find the truth of the story you want to tell, then expose that within the narrative.

Every story you write, or want to write, will have a personal connection to you, a reason that you connect with it, and if you can find that and link it back to your own psychology, then definitely, your work will be better for it (this is what Franzen’s referring to in his second rule above). Writing is a way of better understanding the world and your place within it, better understanding the human experience more broadly, and connecting with others. It’s the ‘why’, it’s viewing things from another perspective and not merely reading or writing the words, but feeling them too.

You need to find the voice of the characters, you have to understand them, you need to feel what they feel. Then you need to re-create that emotion within the body of your readers.

That’s no easy feat, but there are no prescriptive ‘rules’ on how to achieve this.

The more tangible you can make the world of your novel, the more effective it will be – and you do that through honesty, through knowing the story, the scenes, the characters. If you really, truly know these elements, and can translate them into the right words, through your learned experience and understanding of effective language, then your story will work.

Definitely, it’s worth noting how other authors go about doing this, but there are no ‘set in stone’ regulations on literary communication.

Making a writing living (and other challenges)

Often when I tell people that I’m a writer, the perception they have is that I head down the local cafe at my leisure, then scribble a few notes, taking in the day with the ease as I ‘bang out a few words’.

That, of course, is not true – as any writer knows, actually making money doing what you do is not easy, it takes a heap of effort, and massive leaps of faith, labouring over tasks that may never ‘pay off’.

But that’s not why you do it – if making money was your aim, there are much easier ways to go about it. I write because it’s what I am, it’s what I’ve always been, I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do. Definitely, I wish it were all cafes and long lunches and staring at sunsets. But it’s not. Building a sustainable writing career is basically a series of trade-offs, taking the best bets in line with your passions to come up with a system that works for you.

For me, I wake up everyday at around 4am. Why? Because for my ‘day job’ (i.e. not writing fiction), I write for a website, covering digital marketing news and updates. That website is based in the US, so I need to wake up early to be up on the latest news coverage, while it also gives me some silence to concentrate before the kids wake up.

I research the majority my my work before the kids are up at 6am, then write and manage the website/social media stuff till normally around 12pm each day. The advantage of this is that this leaves me with three hours, every day, between 12pm and when the kids finish school at 3pm, to concentrate on my fiction work – I always have at least one novel or longer work in progress, and I spend a good 15 hours per week on that element.

This is a good set up for me, it enables me to maximize my productivity – but as noted, it comes with various trade-offs.

For one, you have to get up at 4am, a non-negotiable for most. But if I don’t, I don’t get my time later in the day, so that helps me will myself out of bad in the darkness.

Another trade-off is that I don’t make as much money as I probably could in a regular, every day job. I worked in corporate roles for years and have a fair measure of what I could potentially be earning. That impact is lessened, of course, by the additional earnings potential of my fiction work, but that, in itself, is another consideration.

As noted, fiction writing is a bit of a leap of faith. Most Australian authors don’t make a heap of money out of their work, but you do it because you love it, because you’re passionate about the process, and because, hopefully, you might connect with an audience.

But you don’t know if it’s going to work out. Part of the difficulty in investing so much time and effort into fiction work is it may all be for nought – I spend 15 hours a week, at least, on fiction writing, which is a total gamble. I have the backing of previous success to support my belief that it’s not time wasted, but still, it’s a big commitment for an uncertain return.

There are other trade offs too – staying home to write when the family goes away, isolating yourself and limiting social interactions. If you want to succeed, maybe you also need to take on projects you’re less passionate about in order to pay the bills. Anyone pursuing their passion in any field knows the same challenges, it’s not isolated to writing. But it’s a lot of uncertainty, there aren’t many sure bets.

You do it because you love it, because you want to make it work, but there are few writers living the high life, the cafe lifestyle, sitting at the beach all day just waiting for inspiration.

That’s not to denigrate the process – it is what it is, and you deal with the various obstacles as best you can. But writing, as with any art, is not an easy path, it takes dedication and commitment to make it happen.

And you’re never quite sure that things are going to go as you hope.

the little things

In a recent episode of The Garrett podcast, author Jessica Townsend – who’s book ‘Nevermoor’ is one of the biggest selling debut Australian children’s books on record – provided a great note of advice for aspiring writers, but it wasn’t a big focus.

Here’s what Jessica said:

nevermoorThis is so important – most people get so caught up with the story they want to get out and onto the page, that they neglect the more intricate details which enable users to connect with your characters and scenes.

This, I’d argue, is also one of the key strengths of George R.R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Ice and Fire‘ series – while the setting is clearly fantasy, and there are events and elements which cannot exist in real life, the truly engaging aspects that really draw you in as a reader are based on how people would actually live in that reality.

For example, in most medieval fantasy stories, the princess gets rescued, the nobleman wins out, the kingdom is saved. But if you really consider the reality of such a world, it would truly be brutal. Justice is often based on strength, power can be wrested by combat. If this is how things really were, it wouldn’t be the good guys who would win, it would be the ones who had the fewest morals, who were willing to do whatever it took to exert dominance and control – which is exactly what happens.

That subverts the stereotypical fantasy format (at least in a mainstream sense), but it feels much more real, the responses and reactions that each character has feel more genuine, with each having his or her own motivations and ideas.

That level of detail is what makes a story come alive – the idea of fiction is to re-create the emotion of the scene, the world you’re creating, within the mind and body of the reader. The smells are important, the little elements that stand out, that trigger a response.

A description like:

“It was so dark he couldn’t see a thing.”

Is nowhere near as viscerally effective as:

“The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.”

Okay, that’s probably cheating – few can do so as well as Cormac McCarthy. But you get the point – you don’t have to go overboard and include every detail, but you do need to understand what’s actually happening, why every character is there. What people would notice if they were within the scene.

You might not think such details are hugely relevant, but if they stood out to you, they’ll likely help set the scene for your reader. Jessica hasn’t highlighted it a major point, but it is crucial, and it will make your writing ‘come alive’, to use an artsy cliche.

31 Days In

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to be part of an art project with Tim and Zoe from ‘31 Days In‘. The duo are travelling to different parts of the world as part of an effort to capture the essence of each location with their art – and they’ve done some great stuff, worth checking out the link.

As part of the project, they created this great image of my and my dog Chester at home.

31 days

“Poetry is the biggest help in writing stories that I know. You learn so much about rhythm and acoustics and compression and selectivity. No wasted words, no “furniture moving.”


Her Body Like a Lantern Next to Me

            There’s this movie I am watching:
my love’s belly almost five months 
            pregnant with cancer, 

            more like a little rock wall 
piled and fitted inside her 
            than some prenatal rounding.

            Over there’s her face 
near the frying pan she’s bent over,
            but there’s no water in the pan, 

            and so, no reflection.  No pool 
where I might gather such a thing as a face, 
            or sew it there on a tablet made of water.  

            To have and to haul it away, 
sometimes dipping into her 
            in the next room that waits for me.

                        •

            I am old at this.  I am stretching
the wick again into my throat 
            when the flame burns down.

            She’s splashing in the tub 
and singing, I love him very much, 
            though I’m old and tired
 
            and cancerous.  It’s spring 
and now she’s stopping traffic, 
            lifting one of her painted turtles 

            across the road.  Someone’s honking, 
pumping one arm out the window, 
            cheering her on.

            She falls then like there’s a house 
on her back, hides her head in the bank grass
            and vomits into the ditch.
	
                        •

            She keeps her radioactive linen, 
Bowl, and spoon separate. For seven days
            we sleep in different rooms.

            Over there’s the toilet she’s been
heaving her roots into. One time I heard her
            through the door make a toast to it, 

            Here’s to you, toilet bowl.  
There’s nothing poetic about this.
            I have one oar that hangs 

            from our bedroom window, 
and I am rowing our hut 
            in the same desperate circle.  

                        •

            I warm her tea then spread 
cream cheese over her bagel, 
            and we lie together like two guitars, 
	
            A rose like a screw 
in each of our mouths.  
            There’s that liquid river of story 

            that sometimes sweeps us away 
from all this, into the ha ha 
            and the tender. At night the streetlights 

            buzz on again with the stars, 
and the horses in the field  swat their tails 
            like we will go on forever.

                        •

            I’m at my desk herding some 
lost language when I notice how quiet 
            she has been. Twice I call her name  

            and wait after my voice has lost its legs 
and she does not ring back.  
            Dude, I’m still here, she says at last

            then the sound of her 
stretching her branches, and from them 
            the rain falling thick through our house.  

            I’m racing to place pots and pans 
everywhere.  Bottle her in super canning jars.  
            For seventeen years, I’ve lined  

            the shelves of our root cellar with them.  
One drop for each jar.  
            I’ll need them for later.

 

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