Please join Alan Brough at a celebration at the State Library on Friday 20 March, 4 - 5pm when he announces the the top five books, as voted by Victorian readers in the State Library of Victoria’s Summer Read program 2008-9, and voter’s prizes.

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State Library of Victoria
328 Swanston Street, Melbourne

RSVP by Wednesday 17 March 2009

Telephone                   8664 7555
email                          learning@slv.vic.gov.au
book online                summerreadawards.eventbrite.com

Arnold Zable has been reading my mind. In his post, ‘Getting back to the source’, he writes about being by the foreshore on a summer’s evening, alert to the lights on the bay and ‘the countless conversations that rise like a collective whisper from the edge of the city.’ (Beautifully put, Arnold.) He is curious about people; what they say and why they are alone. During the writing of Dissection I spent a fair bit of time down at the St Kilda/Elwood foreshore. I didn’t listen to people’s conversation so much as watch people as they walked by, especially those who walked alone. I was looking for a sense of unhappiness and isolation (those of you who have read Dissection will know why) and while the foreshore is often a festive place, it can also be dreary and windswept and abandoned, especially in winter. I found that the beach and the bay started to creep into my writing and, eventually, to become integral to the novel. The appearance of the water – whether glassy and sparkling or grey and wild – affected my mood, and I took note of the feeling I had when I looked to the horizon; a feeling of expansion and possibility, as if you could simply climb aboard one of those hulking cargo ships and sail off to a new life. (Not that my current life is in any way unsatisfactory, but you know what I mean: sometimes you get that hankering to leave all responsibility behind.) I found that the foreshore began to represent something important to my main character in Dissection – a sense of reprieve, a temporary escape from her self-criticism and guilt. When at the foreshore, instead of looking inwards and despairing, Anna McBride looks out to sea and feels the faintest stirrings of hope. I set the ending of Dissection at Elwood beach, where Anna goes one summer evening with her two sons. It seemed right to end the novel at the place from which she had derived some comfort during the most difficult time of her life.

I also discovered while I was writing Dissection that water is an important and widely-used symbol in literature. (As a reader, I was already vaguely aware of this, but it’s different when you have to think about the symbolism, intentional or otherwise, of your own work.) I can’t give you an exhaustive list of what water symbolises but I think it mainly involves life and rebirth. (If any of you plunged into a pool or the ocean on one of those 44 degree days recently, you will understand the idea of water as rebirth!) Carl Jung saw water as part of the female archetype and also representative of the unconscious. (See his book, Memories, Dreams and Reflections.) Certainly there’s a lot of literary criticism around that takes the view that the Modernist writers (like James Joyce and Virginia Woolf) used descriptions of water in their work to suggest the feminine. Once I read a little of this I was pleased I had started to write about the foreshore, as it seemed I had accidentally hit on something that was very relevant to my character’s psychology. Above all, I wanted Dissection to be a novel about a woman’s inner life, so the idea of water representing something intrinsically female was important to me.

If you like books that deal with the imagery of water then I can suggest two magnificent novels: The Sea by John Banville and Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. Both of these superbly written works use the imagery of water to tell of loss, death and abandonment.

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.”