As Jeff and Nam have written, and every other writer knows, procrastination is something those of us without a ‘day job’ have to face. With procrastination comes anxiety, guilt and evasive behaviour. 

I have just come back to this warm climate after freezing to death in Europe for almost six weeks. It was wonderful in Paris, but wonderful also to throw off the layers of jumpers and skivvies and singlets, hats and gloves and scarves when we stepped off the plane in Melbourne. While I was away, I took a break from my writing. I shut away the manuscript I am working on and left my SLV instructions for Summer Read blogging on top of my closed and turned-off computer. It was not easy leaving that computer behind, but I did. All the while we were away, I kept telling myself that when I got back home, I would hit the ground running, finish the last chapter of Eileen’s story, get all my blogs done at once, and prepare for the impending Summer Read gigs. 

Did I do that? 

No.

I did turn on my computer the minute I got home but only because I had felt like  part of my body had been left behind when I left it on my desk six weeks earlier and I needed to re-attach myself. I turned it on, but instead of working I read the New York Times. Then I mucked around with e-mails until my jetlagged brain couldn’t take anymore. I glanced at the blogging instructions, turned away with a moan and collapsed on the couch. I’ll get to it when I know what day it is, I thought. But… the next day was no good. We had to watch the inauguration, an important historical occasion we rationalised. We couldn’t allow ourselves to miss the moment when the helicopter flew the former president away from the seat of power so we could believe that, at last, the world was in safe hands. Then came the tennis. Down to Melbourne to sit with our friends in Hisense (I wonder how long that name will last) Arena in the blistering sun and watch Serena defeat that tiny girl with more power in her racket than seemed possible. We stayed until Tsonga won his match. Too long. Back home we caught up with country friends at the Japanese place in Inverloch and then it was imperative that we participate in urgent anti-desalination plant activities, rallying as many people as we could through the phone tree to attend yet another protest at Williamson Beach.

Now, at last I am once again before my computer. I am actually writing my first blog. I am procrastinating no more. As Jeff said, a writer has to set aside a certain time each day to work or it doesn’t work. We have to put fences around ourselves with set times and set routines because writing is difficult and it is so easy to put it off. I don’t find writing hard and agonising as Jeff says he does, but I find the intensity, the deep focus, the zone you have to get to in order to write exactly what you want to write difficult to find some days. When I get there my body tenses up, I lose track of real time and place and enter another world. In my journal, which I keep erratically, I wrote down a comment by Peter Carey way back in 1997. He said, “A certain nagging ache lies behind all but the most exhilarating moments of writing. Invention remains the difficult part. Most writers I know can’t invent for very long. They can write for a long time, but they can’t invent. After three or four hours, people have done most of the inventing they can do. Then you sit down and do the craft things. But mostly you are exhausted.”

I find quite a few exhilarating moments in writing, possibly because of the kind of work I do, unravelling other people’s lives, finding a narrative strand and shaping it to bring out meaning. There are often moments of epiphany followed by great excitement and urgent writing. In my book, Cups with No Handles, when Bette momentarily questioned her dedication to the Communist Party, wondering at her father’s grave if she had done the things she had just so he would love her best, it was an intense moment. For Bette’s daughter, Gina, that admission changed the whole story.  I was in a zone when I wrote that up and it was exhilarating. When I finished that story, I looked up, time had passed and I was exhausted. 

Mostly, writing takes tenacity, perseverance and patience. All those things are hard; they are why we procrastinate. But, you know, all the while we are procrastinating, we are thinking. I heard John Clark say at a party here on Phillip Island that he is always working, “twenty-four seven.” Me too. Once you start on a project you never stop until you write the last word. 

And, how do you get to the last word? You keep going forward day after day until you have finished.

Then you re-write.

Carolyn Landon is next Summer Read author blogging from 31 January to 4 February.

Carolyn Landon was born in the US and came to Australia in 1968. She taught in the Victorian State School System, and has recently completed an MA in Biography and Life. Carolyn is currently working on the life of Aboriginal artist Eileen Harrison.

Her book Cups with no Handles is one of the books on the Summer Read shortlist.

Cups with no Handles tells the true story of Bette Boyanton; a woman who struggled to overcome the disadvantages of poverty, lack of education, inequality and poor health, to become an inspiring feminist and environmental activist. This memoir gives us an understanding of social and feminist history in the twentieth century, and what gives a life value.

As part of the free Summer Read events across Victoria, Carolyn will be appearing at:

Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne, Cnr Ballarto Rd and Botanic Drive Cranbourne on Wednesday 4 February 2009, 10.30 – 11.30 am.
Author event to be followed by wander around the Australian Garden (limit 50 people)
For more information phone Cranbourne Library 5990 0150 or book online at http://summerread9.eventbrite.com

Grampians Road Halls Gap (behind Brambuk Cultural Centre) on Saturday 14 February, 2009 from 1.00 pm BYO picnic and chair (Author appearing at 2.30pm). Children’s activities provided and light refreshments provided at the event conclusion.
For more information and phone Horsham Library 5382 5707 or book online at http://summerread38.eventbrite.com

What Carolyn says about summer reading

“The words ‘summer reading’ immediately send my mind to the beach at Torquay from Jan Juk to Zeally Bay where we lie on the warm sand every January year in and year out and read books. We only put our books down when we get too hot and have to run into the surf or swim around the buoys at Cosy Corner to cool off. One summer I had both Charles Waterstreets’ memoirs – Precious Bodily Fluids and Repeating Leaving – with me, and a woman reading near me noticed. She told me she knew Waterstreet and what a wonderful man he was and how glad she was people were reading his clever books. “That’s the great thing about Australia,” I said. “Someone always knows someone and you never feel like a stranger. I love these books and will cherish them.”  They now stand together on my bookshelf with sand in their pages and they smell like summer reading.”

Thanks Arnold for your thoughts on the challenges writers face when chosing to write as a vocation.

As part of the free Summer Read events across Victoria, Arnold will be appearing at:

Brunswick Library, Cnr Sydney Road and Dawson Street Brunswick on Wednesday 18 February, 6.30 – 8.00 pm
Author talk and readings recount a wonderful story full of myth and mystery, accompanied by acclaimed singer Anthea Sidiropoulos.

For more information phone Brunswick Library 9389 8600 or book online at http://summerread16.eventbrite.com

Warragul Library, 75 Victoria Street Warragul on Thursday 19 February 2009, 6.30 – 8.00 pm
Author talk and readings recount a wonderful story full of myth and mystery, accompanied by acclaimed singer Anthea Sidiropoulos

For more information phone Warragul Library 5622 2848 or 5622 2849 book online http://summerread34.eventbrite.com

Vote for Sea of Many Returns or SMS SEA to 13 46 88

For the record, it is hot. In the past few three days, neatly coinciding with my blogging stint, the city has been engulfed by a heat wave. Today the city temperature is set to hit 43 degrees. It takes just that much longer to get from point A to point B. Last night I went, for the third night running, with my 15-year-old son to the bay, about a 30-minute drive from where I live. I realised anew, what I love most about this city, that it is built on the edge of water, both river and sea. Even during a heatwave, there is relief within sight, but a gauntlet of heat to run before getting to it. There were thousands there late last night, strolling, wading, swimming, sitting on benches, chatting, gazing at the water.  Writing is a difficult vocation. Every writer I know has had their periods of self-doubt, their periods of writers’ block, and times when a manuscript stalls, like a boat stranded in the doldrums. I thought about this as we walked on the path that runs parallel to the edge of the beach. What is the other side of the equation? If I were asked what is best about being writer what would I say?  For me it is just this:Life comes first, writing, second. Walking on the path beside the sea comes first. Absorbing the sounds, sights and smells of the city. Being an observer. Being alert to the lights that appear on much of the length of the bay. Being curious about those countless conversations that rise like a collective whisper from the edge of the city; curious about the loners, the couples, the groups that gather like flocks of birds on beachside reserves, stretches of sand. In the late 1990s, for instance, as I was doing research for my novel ‘Café Scheherazade’, I came to know that there were flocks of Russian immigrants, recent arrivals, who loved to gather on the foreshore in St Kilda. For some it evoked nostalgia for their native Odessa, and other towns and cities on the Black Sea. This information made its way into the novel. My partner Dora’s restless father, who migrated from the island of Ithaca, lived in a series of houses close to the bay,  and he was only at ease when he would sail, one of his home-built boats, on the bay at night. It reminded him of nights on the Ionian when he ferried freight and passengers on boats that he built with his brother. These tales found their way into ‘Sea of Many Returns’ where he is transformed into the fictional character Manoli. As I was writing these novels, I had my inevitable periods of doubt. When they arose I sometimes come to the bay for long walks, to try to imagine what it was like to be in the shoes of my characters. Or I would just let go and allow myself to experience the city anew. In this space new ideas are given a chance to grow. I call this state ‘going on alert’, just getting back to the art of observation, to the stream of life and humanity, in other words, to the source. And it is a great way to deal with the relentless heat.

I have discussed, in a previous blog, the mystery of how ideas are sparked, how a story or novel may be conceived. I would love to hear from you, how you have been inspired, how a story was triggered, how a great project came your way. The inspiration however is one thing, but how do we sustain it? There is persistence. A writer has to be tenacious, especially when it comes to inevitable brick walls on the way. There are other challenges. In particular, there is the issue of how the story is to be told. There are so many ways to write a story. Is it to be fiction or non-fiction, memoir or autobiography, short story or novel? This is an issue that I may discuss in my next blog. Here I wish to touch on structure. In each of my books, I have been faced with the question, what is the best way for the story to be told. In ‘Jewels and Ashes’ a non-fiction account of a journey to Russia and Poland to trace my ancestry, the structure seemed obvious from an early stage. The book is based on the journey. The tension is sustained by the fact that the author is on a quest. It begins and ends in Melbourne. The journey takes place in 1986. But each structure creates its own demands. To do it well I had to learn how to move fluidly from the present to the past, from Poland back to my childhood in Melbourne. Whenever I am in this situation, I go to other writers to see how they deal with these challenges. The master writer of our times when it comes to moving freely in time and space, is Gabriel Garcia Marquez – especially his classic ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ In every project of mine, other writers have helped me out. With ‘Café Scheherazade’ the entire novel is built around a real life café in  St Kilda where refugees meet and tell stories. It was a wonderful way to tell a story, but once again it produced challenges. I had to work on being able to move from the café to the past, from the streets of St Kilda to old world Russia and Poland, war-torn Shanghai, the forests of Vilna, a night club in Paris, and so on. Once again other writers helped. With the novel ‘Scraps of Heaven’ it took longer to find a way to write a book based on my childhood in post-war immigrant Carlton. I finally decided to write it in third person, to encompass many points of view, and many characters. And I set it all in one year, 1958, in four parts, each one representing each season. I did this, among other reasons, because I wanted to take the reader through the seasons in an inner city suburb. In my most recent novel ‘Sea of Many Returns’ I faced a more demanding challenge. How could I write a novel that encompassed so many stories I had heard on Ithaca and Melbourne, that covered over a century of contemporary Ithacan migrations, against a vast historical backdrop of war, poverty, coups, and so on? After playing with a few ideas, and a hitting a few dead ends, I decided to tell the entire story in the first person, through the eyes of two characters. There is Xanthe who comes to the island in 2002 with the aim of writing the family story. She decides that her first task is to translate in English her maternal grandfather, Mentor’s manuscript, and in-between, tell her own tale of journeys to the island. In this way I am able to encompass four generations, and over a century in time. Once again, other writers came to my aid. I have briefly. There is much more that can be said, so many ways in which to structure and tell a story. But the most important thing is this: It takes time. Once the idea comes, it can take a while to work out the best way. This can only be done by entering into the story, without hesitation. Only in doing it, only by writing, can we find our way. Only by writing that first sentence, the first paragraph, does the journey begin. And read other writers, and come to see that there are so many ways to tell a story.

In response to my first blog, Kim mentions Australia Day. I am interested to know where readers stand in the debate about the date. Some passionately believe that it should be celebrated on another day, one that recognizes the indigenous people as the prior custodians of the land. What does Australia Day mean to you? Is it a celebration, or is it, as others call it, Invasion day? What would be an alternative date, or should it remain as is? Whatever date chosen, I think that we are, as a nation, the sum total of our narratives and stories. It is through stories that we express our uniqueness. By sharing them, we discover both that which is unique and different, and what we have in common. As Carl Jung said, ‘We all have a story to tell, and the denial of that story can lead to despair.’ With the emergence of great indigenous novelists, such as Alexis Wright and Kim Scott, and writers from many cultural backgrounds, we are finally beginning to hear many stories and points of view that had previously not made it to the mainstream. I call these our hidden narratives. One of the stories I recount in ‘Sea of Many Returns’ for instance, is of the anti Greek riots that took place in Kalgoorlie on the night of December 16, 1916. A mob of up to 2000 trashed the Greek managed cafes and oyster bars, fruit shops, tobacconists, and other small businesses. I first heard of the incident from descendants of Ithacans who worked in those businesses who left town because of the riots. Except for several recent specialist histories, the incident is rarely mentioned in accounts of Australian history. In order to recreate the riots in the novel, I read the Kalgoorlie newspapers of the time, and there it was, a blow-by-blow description published on the following day.  I was also keen to weave in the broader historical context so that we can try to understand, rather than merely pass judgment on the incident. I wonder what other hidden stories remain to be brought to light, both of darker episodes in our history, as well as the many positive tales. Like all nations we are composed of many shades, an interweaving of the lighter and darker tales. We need both to comprehend who we are as individuals and as a nation. This also raises the question of the relationship between history and fiction. In recreating the riots for example, I was anxious to be true to the events of that fiery night. This included a lot of research on the broader history, so that when I came to insert the fictional characters, I would have some idea what they would be feeling and thinking during, before and after the riots. The broad research enabled me to better put myself in their shoes, and hopefully do more justice to both the factors that triggered and fuelled the riots, and the reactions of those who were caught up in it.

In thinking of how to use my stint as a blogger, I have decided to focus on some of the major challenges I have faced as a writer, and how some of my books have been conceived and taken shape. I invite you to join in and share your own ideas about creativity, whether as a practicing writer, or as a reader responding to the work.
First, there is the issue of how the idea for a story or novel is sparked. I have been asked on a number of occasions how is it, that although I am not of a Greek background, the leading characters of my most recent novel, ‘Sea of Many Returns’ are Greek, and its stories and themes encompass many of the key moments in modern Greek history and migration. In a way the answer is simple. Hemingway has famously said, write about what you know, what you love or hate – or words to that effect. I have been visiting the island of Ithaca since 1987. Situated in the Ionian Sea, between Italy and Greece, it is the island where my partner, Dora’s, father and four grandparents’ were born. We have stayed on the island at various times, usually in the ‘patriko’ the patriarchal house, in the northern village of Ageos Saranda, sleeping in the same room where Dora’s father was born. Over the years, both on the island and in the company of Ithacan friends and relatives in Melbourne, we have heard countless stories of Ithacan journeys. Who could not be inspired by the name of the island itself – Ithaca, home of the archetypal voyager, Odysseus, who made his way to the Trojan wars, and did not return for twenty years? So many of the stories of contemporary Ithaca replicate Homer’s epic – tales of individuals who set out for journeys to the ends of the Earth, expecting to return in the not too distant future, but who, like Odysseus returned decades later, or never returned at all. On Ithaca, the stories can come at any time, in chance encounters while walking the roads and paths, on the inter-island ferries, and above all, in the old Kafeneoin in the largest northern village of Stavros, where the retired fishermen  and seamen play cards. The stories come ones way, just sitting there, over a coffee, on the patio, overlooking Polis Bay. Someone joins you at the table, and soon a new story is born. The island is full of tales. To be a storyteller, it seems, one must first be an attentive listener. But there is something else, when it comes to creating a short story or a novel, and that is acting on that distinct feeling that a great story has come your way. I had that distinct feeling from the moment I first set foot on Ithaca, that I would one day write a book, whether fiction or non-fiction, about the tales I immediately began hearing. I wonder how many of you have experienced this sense of inevitability, or that moment when you know that a great story has come your way, a story that is crying out to be told?  Each of my books has been initially sparked by such a moment, when it became obvious, this is a story meant to be told. Stories may be inspired in many other ways of course. The very landscape of Ithaca, its winding roads, mountains and cliffs falling away to the Ionian Sea, suggest epic stories.  An earlier novel of mine. ‘Scraps of Heaven’, was triggered by a conversation I had with a friend who like me, grew up in Carlton. I recognised instantly, that by drawing on my childhood I had a great story to tell. Another novel, ‘Cafe Scheherazade’ was inspired on a winter’s night in the 1990s, when I sat down in the real life cafe called Scheherazade, and began listening to the tales told by the owners as to how the cafe got its name. By the time I left that night, I knew that this was potentially a novel. How to then shape it into a story that works is another matter, and that includes doing the research  that fills in the gaps, that provides the historical backdrop, and provides the details that give texture and authenticity to the telling, and so much more. Above all it requires persistence, endurance, and infinite patience. More on that in later blogs.

Arnold Zable is next Summer Read author blogging from 27 - 30 January.

Arnold Zable is a highly acclaimed novelist, storyteller, and educator, whose books include Jewels and Ashes, The FigTree, Café Scheherazade and Scraps of Heaven. He was born in Wellington, New Zealand, and lives in Melbourne.

His book Sea of Many Returns is one of the books on the Summer Read shortlist.

Sea of Many Returns tells the story Xanthe who is translating her grandfather’s memoir; his story of leaving Ithaca as a young man and migrating to Australia, encountering race riots in Karlgoorlie and travelling to Melbourne. Absorbed, she slowly begins to understand her Ithacan father’s dark moods; the ache for the sea and the hum of the Ionian winds.

As part of the free Summer Read events across Victoria, Arnold will be appearing at:

• Brunswick Library, Cnr Sydney Road and Dawson Street Brunswick on Wednesday 18 February, 6.30 – 8.00 pm
• Author talk and readings recount a wonderful story full of myth and mystery, accompanied by acclaimed singer Anthea Sidiropoulos.
• For more information phone Brunswick Library 9389 8600 or book online at http://summerread16.eventbrite.com

• Warragul Library, 75 Victoria Street Warragul on Thursday 19 February 2009, 6.30 – 8.00 pm
  Author talk and readings recount a wonderful story full of myth and mystery, accompanied by acclaimed singer Anthea Sidiropoulos
• For more information phone Warragul Library 5622 2848 or 5622 2849 book online http://summerread34.eventbrite.com

What Arnold says about summer reading

“For years, summer was travel time. I usually had with me a book set in the country I was travelling in. I read at railways stations, on roadsides, on ferries and trains, in tents and hotel rooms, in workers’ quarters and backpackers’ hostels. There were times when passages mirrored the passing landscape. I approached Venice by sea with Thomas Mann’s ‘Death in Venice’, depicting the same approach via the Adriatic. In China, I travelled with the Tang dynasty poets whose poems reflected upon the joys and travails of journeying. While hitch hiking in the USA, Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ was the ideal companion.  The works of Lawrence Durrell and Greek poets George Seferis and Odysseus Elytis, were memorable company when travelling on the Ionian and Aegean. From these authors, among many others, I learnt much about the craft of writing about place and journeys.”

Thanks Jeff for your thoughts on research, writing and the Iceberg Theory. Hope your computer is working soon Jill.

As part of the free Summer Read events across Victoria, Jeff and Jill will be appearing at:

Walking Tour departing from City Library, 253 Flinders Lane Melbourne and finishing at The State Library of Victoria, 328 Swanston Street Melbourne on Wednesday 28 January 2009, 6.00 – 7.30 pm
For more information phone 9658 9500 – EVENT BOOKED OUT

Vote for Radical Melbourne or SMS RADICAL to 13 46 88

To finish the train of thought of those last posts, the most important thing I ever learned about research is the need to stop doing it.

Partly, that’s just the Iceberg Theory – the notion that the vast bulk of any book should be under the water, out of the sight of the reader. Researching the Baracchi biography, I became obsessed with every aspect of Guido’s life. I had a list of all the books in his private library. I had copies his school reports. I had letters where he corresponded with friends and lovers about the minutiae of daily existence. To me, in the midst of the project, all these things seemed utterly fascinating. But, of course, they weren’t – and the big breakthrough came when I realised that snippets of information I’d laboured for months to acquire could be removed from the manuscript – and it would be entirely approved by their excision.

It was the same with Radical Melbourne. Because it took us such a long time to become familiar with the political landscape of early Melbourne, we thought that every piece of information needed to be on display. If we’d spent weeks and weeks tracing the twists and turns of the split in the Industrial Workers of the World between the groups orienting towards Detroit and Chicago, well, surely the readers would want to know all about it. Actually, not so much …

The second reason to stop researching is more important, and relevant, I would imagine, even to those working on fiction. It’s simply this: writing is unpleasant – and most of us will seek any excuse not to do it. An addiction to research provides a very convenient excuse to avoid actually getting words on the page.

Well, that’s my experience, anyway. I’ve never been a naturally fluent writer; I’ve always found the business of sitting in front of a blank screen and filling it with words, and then sentences and then paragraphs to be excruciatingly difficult. When there’s hours allocated to writing, it’s remarkable how attractive other activities suddenly become: cleaning your room, washing the dishes, surfing the Internet and so on.

For that reason, I’ve always had to make myself write a certain amount each day, without allowing myself to give into the usual excuses. You’re tired or you’re hung over or you’re really busy in your nine-to-five job? Too bad! Some progress, no matter how little, is better than no progress at all. Writing a book’s a little like pushing a broken-down car: it’s much, much easier to keep it moving if you’ve got some momentum than it is to get the thing rolling again once it comes to a dead stop.

That’s why the research excuse is so deadly. If you’re working on history, you do need to spend time trawling through archives – and, because of that, you can kid yourself that it’s a substitute to getting lines on the page, when of course it’s no such thing.

Research is easy; writing is hard. But every book’s made up of nothing but words, and there’s no getting around the laborious process of laying them down, one after another.