Emerging is Hard Work

“Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up

and go to work.”―Stephen King On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Beetles, bees, butterflies and fleas share something with writers – they all have to emerge if they are to be successful.

Sarah Vincent, membership officer at Writers Victoria, suggests that making this leap from emerging to published writer requires hard work and a preparedness to engage with the writing community. Mary Cunnane echoes this sentiment, believing it requires both talent and commitment.

This engagement can take many forms. According to Vincent, a committed emerging writer will go to literary events, volunteer to help at writing festivals or to support their local writing organisations. Many undertake short courses or study writing at a tertiary level. Belonging to a writing group is another way to seek constructive critiques of your work while making connections.

The important thing though, argues Cunnane, is to just keep writing and submitting. It takes effort to do this, needing both time for the creative process and attention to the various submission guidelines. When asked for advice at a writing workshop, Kate Llewellyn once replied: ‘Put things in envelopes!’ Although many submissions are now accepted online, the message is still the same – no-one will be able to read your work unless you submit it.

Even if you live in a regional area, or have other family or personal circumstances that make it difficult to attend literary festivals and workshops, you can submit online. Many writers centres and blogs provide lists of competitions as well as journals calling for submissions. If you are in any doubt about whether publishers read Australian literary journals, they do. Vincent recommends Kill Your Darlings, The Lifted Brow, Overland, and Meanjin as places to aim for.

Of course, not everyone can be published in these major literary journals, so building a credible writing biography can be a challenge. It comes back to commitment and professionalism. For Vincent it is about creating signposts that can indicate your literary journey. Being a member of your local Writers Centre is easy, essential and should form part of any writing biography. You could also consider applying for manuscript development programs such as at Varuna, or professional development programs like HARDCOPY, run by the ACT Writers Centre.

Seeking out a mentor is another option as an emerging writer. Cunnane acknowledges that mentoring can be valuable in any field, although she suggests that finding the right ‘fit’ and ‘chemistry’ is important. Vincent agrees, noting that having an independent person to provide honest, informed advice is a wonderful aid to an emerging writer. A mentor can help you hone your potential as you prepare your project for presentation to agents and publishers.

Friends and relatives generally do not make good mentors. Better options are a writing tutor or workshop leader. Alternately, an established writer may be willing to take you under their wing. Writers, at all stages, are very generous towards other writers, according to Vincent, but if you have not come across a ‘natural’ mentor, consider hiring one through your local Writers Centre.

Vincent once heard a commissioning publisher say, ‘If you work hard, have a great voice and an interesting story to tell, you will get published. No doubt.’ Cunnane points to her favourite motto: persistence pays. The common denominator here is that you have to work hard and be prepared to be in it for the long haul.

Remember, it’s not the pupa you leave behind that matters, it’s what you become.

This piece first appeared on Capital Letters, the blog of the ACT Writers Centre, as part of my Blogger in Residence.
Thank you to Mary Cunnane and Sarah Vincent who generously answered my questions.

Wattle I Do Today?

'...as if angels had flown right down out of the softest gold regions of heaven...' - D.H. Lawrence, Kangaroo

Out walking with my dog in the reserve this afternoon I was thinking about the Australian landscape and its relationship to artistic endeavours like painting and writing.

During the latter part of the eighteenth century and the early nineteenth century there was an expectation that the picturesque painter (and the picturesque itself) would faithfully render a location.


Picturesque paintings assumed a similar importance to current day holiday snapshots because they sought to capture a moment for later reminiscence, or to display an image of the landscape to those who had stayed at home.

This was because contemplation of landscape in the eighteenth century was not a passive exercise, but rather one which required reconstructing the landscape in the imagination.

In the twenty-first century, writing remains an active enterprise. As a writer, my imagination will transform the hills and valleys, the granite outcrops, the magpies celebrating the first hint of spring, into a story or two.

Sitting down to explore the landscape of my writing journey this afternoon, I recall that everywhere I looked the wattle was in bloom.

Goodwill Everywhere

A few days out from my first blogging deadline. My usual study is taken over by spare beds for visitors, so I am back on the kitchen table. At least it's warm here in the sun.

I've been working on a piece about becoming a successful writer. The key message appears to be that it's hard work. Certainly it takes perseverance.

Navigating distractions is the first step. Yesterday these included the TV (football was on, of course), making a cup of tea (Canberra's cold weather is designed for it), and the dog (surely he doesn't need to go out again). This morning it's the prospect of a school shuttle since the resident teenager has missed the bus. Perhaps I should go to the gym on the way back......

Despite these distractions, my first post is progressing well, thanks to the generosity of the people who have agreed to be interviewed at short notice. I'm also amazed by the level of support and goodwill from the ACT Writers Centre whose warm office last Friday was a welcome respite from winter.

More on the blog journey soon!

Blogger in Residence

Exciting news this week that I will be the next Blogger in Residence for the ACT Writers Centre.

If you haven't already followed Capital Letters, it's a great way to keep in contact with the writing scene in the ACT and surrounding regions.

A recent post featured the  e-journal, Softcopy, which I launched with Lesley Boland and George Dunford in May 2015.

As I continue my writing journey over the coming weeks, keep an eye out for new posts featuring writer profiles, what it takes to be a successful writer, and the highs and lows of blogging.

Where's Wal?

‘Had to put them both in the back of the milk truck,’ Nicole said to Donny as she opened the doors to her refrigerated van. It was parked in the drive-through at the Funeral Directors where Jack and Donny lived behind their family business.

When the sun beamed into the van’s interior, Jack blinked. The last thing he remembered was the sharp bend before the river crossing on the back road from Tumut. ‘Seems I’ve had a bit of a misadventure,’ he said, fingering the gash on his forehead.

‘More than that,’ Nicole said. She helped him upright and steadied him as he alighted from the back of the van. ‘You were out cold when I found you.’

Jack nodded. He was surprised to be alive. ‘Thought I was inside a coffin,’ he replied, and laughed a single, barking note into the morning air.

‘There’s more,’ Nicole said, as she reached into the van and hauled out a body. ‘Found Wal fifty metres down the road from the car.’

Wal had been Jack’s closest friend. They had gone everywhere together – to the newsagent to buy the daily paper, to the Council meetings where Jack took the minutes, to the pub for a drink on Friday after work, and to the Tumut River to fish for brown trout. That’s where they’d been this morning. Only now, Wal, who didn’t wear a seatbelt, had flown through the windscreen. And here he was, dead.

Jack stood leaning on the side of the van, still befuddled. Then he sobbed.

Donny, however, had a grin bigger than a sheepdog with a paddock full of wethers.

***

The videos on YouTube made it look simple. Donny had started off experimenting with roadkill – a fox, a feral cat, eventually a kangaroo. He had the knack. After six months, when his ornaments no longer fitted in the house, and threatened to overflow into the funeral parlour’s viewing room, he set up a taxidermy website and began selling his handiwork to discerning buyers.

He was approached about a business venture by the local veterinarian. It seemed that quite a few people couldn’t part with their pets and were willing to remunerate Donny to provide the solace they were looking for in their time of grief. They were willing to pay extra for a display plinth. And for a decorative bow.

***

Donny pulled off Wal’s skin. It was like removing a rubber glove.  He scraped the sinews away. He washed the skin in soapy water and shaped it around the mould he had made of Wal’s body. Once he replaced the eyes, he was satisfied with the lifelike result. It was as if Wal watched him as he moved about the room.

***

‘Woof! Woof!’  Wal’s mechanical bark sounded as the sensor for the Funeral Parlour door was triggered.

Jack laughed and patted Wal on the head.  Like his namesake out on the highway near Gundagai, Wal sat on a box, was loyal and never left his post. 

Surviving

Squinting against the sun, the boy lifted his sand encrusted face.

So thirsty

Slowly, struggling in the heat, he sat up. The ocean that had wrested his fishing boat from him in a gale was now supine, resting itself on the white sand where it had tossed him in its earlier fury. Fragments of his vessel were strewn along the high tide mark; the splintered deck, some coiled rope, a flask.

Seeing the flask, the boy scrabbled across the sand on all fours.

Must drink

Water spilled over his face in his eagerness. It dripped into his tangled hair and onto his chest where it stung scratches he had sustained in the storm. After gulping half the water, he looked around him, taking stock. The beach was small, no more than a dimple in the coastline, and indistinguishable from a dozen others. He felt a momentary panic as he tried to find his bearings.

Lost?

Cliffs, red and ragged, but perhaps offering a foothold, bounded the beach. This meant he had drifted south, well beyond the usual fishing grounds. If he could climb the cliff, he knew it would take him days to walk home.

His belly rumbled and he realised he had not eaten, having fought the storm overnight and then been unconscious all day.

Need food

Rocks on one end of the beach offered the best prospect for foraging, so the boy walked towards the outcrop, collecting any flotsam that he thought useful. When he arrived at the serrated-edged rock-pools he held the rope, his jacket which had been lying under a pile of kelp, some splintered planks that he intended to use for kindling if his tinderbox dried out, and a piece of frayed netting that might be repaired.

Peering into the pools, the boy found them inhabited by crabs, small fish and molluscs.

A feast

The tide was turning, and when the cliff’s shadow fell across his shoulders, the boy began looking for a sheltered place to spend the night. Scrub and heath covered the clifftop, but he thought he saw an indentation, perhaps a cave, partway up. Using the rope, the boy tied together the wood and netting, into which he had placed two small crabs.

Seeking a foothold, his limbs ached as he hung against the cliff face. The pads of his fingers bled where the rocks had cut them and he regretted carrying the net which caught on the spiky shrubs that somehow eked an existence in the cliff’s fissures. Somewhere above him was the cave, although he could no longer see it and doubted he would be able to reach it before dark.

Keep going up

He forced himself to climb further and as he did, he thought about his family. Perhaps they were looking for him. Or they may think him dead.

But I’m not

At last his fingers found a ledge, and hauling himself over it he lay there panting, watching the last of the light fade.

I’ll survive

Excuse #23 - Bowling a Maiden Over

When players from Afghanistan and Bangladesh run up and down the pitch at Manuka Oval as part of the Cricket World Cup, I might try to write a pitch for my latest story.

It would not be the first time I’ve whiled away my time at a cricket match. All those Saturday mornings keeping score at junior cricket or the time I got sunburnt at the Prime Minister’s XI come to mind. And filling in a blank scoresheet is a whole lot easier than writing words on a blank page.

Given that junior cricket is a few weeks away, the answer for writer’s block could be a trip to Bowral. Pottering through the Bradman Museum and International Cricket Hall of Fame or having a picnic at the picturesque Bradman Oval is bound to be inspirational. I’ve just got time to dust off the folding chair and fill the esky before the game between Cootamundra and Bowral on 15 February.

Cricket Captains Walk Cootamundra

As for Cootamundra, serious procrastinators would enjoy the Cricket Captains Walk where it’s possible to admire Australia’s cricketing greats, soak up the ambiance and think about statistical probabilities. I have calculated the likelihood of producing a quick 500 words after this kind of nostalgic reflection to be 500 to 1 against, with the usual standard deviation – much like a cricket ball off a crack in the wicket.

Statistically speaking, I might be better Setting Up My Starting XI for success. This is where I channel the Australian selectors online and pick a World Cup Team full of players like World Cup debutants Glenn Maxwell (122 off 57 balls in the warm-up match) and David Warner (127 off 115 balls against England at the SCG). It’s like writing that virtual best-seller where I can be Margaret Atwood and Ursula Le Guin all at once.

To even up the odds, when the Australian Cricket Team plays England at the Melbourne Cricket Ground on Valentine’s Day, and my loved one steps up to the remote control, I’ll pick up my pen, and like any good opener, settle in. I should be able to show some resilience, develop a relaxed style, get some runs on the board, and hit a six or two in my allotted overs. If I get drinks as well, I’ll know someone’s bowled a maiden over.