Punch / Splat / Bark; an update

Recent writing

As I mentioned last month, I quit writing my Dom Post column to "free up four 5am-7am slots a fortnight for fiction. For writing books. Because that’s what I really want to be doing."

I then proceeded to spend three weeks writing an essay about writing a column in the age of the internet for The Pantograph Punch.

And a week judging a couple of categories for the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge (with more to come).

And sleeping through my 5am alarm because my daughter doesn't like sleeping between 1am and 4am.

And now, finally, I'm working on a short story. Well, actually, I've got the scalpel out and I'm attacking one of the stories I wrote in Iowa last year. But it's all good. I don't regret a thing.

Recent writing music

Is it just me or has 2014 been a really good year for music? 

I guess any year you have Electric Light Orchestra, Bailter Space and Wild Beasts at your fingertips is a good year. 

So there it is: great music forever and ever, amen. Except on my phone (for some reason Spotify's broken on that).

Recent reading...

The Bright Side of my Condition by Charlotte Randall (novel, NZ)


This was the book my friend chose for the inaugural meeting of our book club.

I was like, 'You're aware you picked an historical novel by a New Zealander that prominently features castaways on a subantarctic island that, unlike my historical novel that prominently features a castaway on a subantarctic island, was nominated for the 2014 NZ Post Book Awards, right?'

She was all, 'Yeah, I didn't twig when I picked the book, but as soon as I started reading I saw what I'd done.'

It wouldn't be right of me to speak on behalf of the rest of the book club here (despite only a moderate amount of wine being drunk... a clear area for improvement next month).

Let's just say they had issues with the book, especially the end (those that made it that far - the problem with having couples in a book club is they have to share a copy).

I admired parts of the novel. I got into all the observations about the life of a penguin colony on the Snares, and treating seal skin to make leather boots, because that's like catnip for me (see my castaway novel for an indication).

But that bit on the first page that tells you the novel is based on the true story of escaped convicts from Norfolk Island who were set down on the Snares and weren't picked up for almost a decade... Why do we need to know how long they stayed in real life? It totally sucks any mystery out of the novel (at least until we get to know the characters, an effort hampered by this same 'Reading the Titanic' feeling).

[A moment of reflection: one reason The Mannequin Makers jarred some readers is because it wasn't based on a true story. It used elements of history (Sandow's visit to New Zealand, department stores in the early 20th Century, clipper ships in the late 19th, etc), but the bits that stretched belief? I made those up. That was what I wanted to do. To take books set in the past somewhere different. But as a marketing exercise, or a mass reader satisfaction exercise, it left something to be desired.]

And the ending. No one in our club of early thirty professional types liked the ending. I'm not going to come its defense. I'm not sure how one would start such a thing...

The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness (novel, audiobook)

A bold conceit: settlers on a new planet are able to hear the thoughts of other creatures. And it was well executed. Todd's dog, Manchee, is one of the greatest comedic wingmen in literature.

The plot drives forward, at first outward, away from Prenticetown, and then onward, inexorably, towards Haven.  But I felt the pattern of impossible situation > violence > sudden reversal of fortune was overused. It started to feel a little 'shouty' in plot terms.

And I didn't like the ending, which was basically: 'Buy Book 2 in the Chaos Walking series to find out what Todd and Viola do next!'

But Knife is packed with more ideas than almost any novel I've read this year. It has better characterisation, is funnier and braver and is the sort of book I'd give a Milton Bradley 'Ages 12 and up' label to (coz everyone should read it) rather than 'YA'.

Bark by Lorrie Moore (short stories, audiobook)

Lorrie Moore actually narrated her own audiobook here. Which was interesting. She didn't put on different voices for different characters, so it felt very much like a 6 hour reading at Prairie Lights, with a few toilet breaks and without the inane Q&A afterwards.

I don't know how much of my reaction to the stories was down to how I received them, but I felt the collection was uneven. The stories themselves shifted between classic Moore sardonics and a kind of creative writing student's knock-off version of Moore sardonics.

Moore takes a few steps into new territory. There's a ghost story. And the title story is a kind of extended romantic comedy (or tragi-comedy) from a male perspective. But there's also oncologists, death, dinner parties, (too many) bumper stickers, witty zingers and espirit d'escalier.

It felt like the last three Tragically Hip albums. It's close enough to being what you remember and loved, but infuriating for falling short.

Where the Rekohu Bone Sings by Tina Makereti (novel, NZ)

I didn't write about this novel when I first read it earlier this year because a) I forgot and b) I probably wanted to be coy because I was appearing in a session at Te Papa with Tina in August. To prep for this session I re-read WtRBS, so it's probably time I captured a couple of thoughts, eh?

Like many novels, it features intertwined historical and contemporary narratives, though it mixes things up by having a third, supernatural strand (the singing bone of the title) that observes the other two narratives and also gets us back to the slaughter of the Moriori.

I found parts of the purely historical narrative intriguing (the young Maori lovers running away to Victorian Wellington and trying to make do) but the novel seems weighted in subtle ways (page-count, structure) in favour of the contemporary story of 'identity'. Like Randall's historical note at the start of Bright Side, Makereti uses prolepsis to answer questions about the historical strand before they're posed (like when we learn about Mere's second husband while we're still invested in the story of her escape to Wellington with her first love).

The extended sequence on the Chatham Islands/Rekohu in the present felt the most alive to me, and I couldn't help wondering if the historical strand was even necessary?

In one sense: of course it is. It would be an entirely different book, would require an entirely different kind of narrator, and a different plot, to achieve anything like the scope and depth the actual novel does. But its lopsidedness, and the occasional thematic cliche, should also be acknowledged.

Where the Rekohu Bone Sings is the work of a brave and intelligent writer, grappling with fearsome and complex subject matter. May her future work be as bold.

Walking away from a hill of beans

My daughter’s favourite movie is Shrek 2.

She’s seen the first and third movies, and Shrek the Halls, but for her there’s only one Shrek.

(Parental disclaimer: She doesn’t watch TV normally, but she’s been sick a lot this winter year [day care], and sometimes you’re all just better off with a DVD on in the background.)

Lia is as likely to ask to watch ‘Ona’ (as in Princess Fiona) as she is ‘Shrek’ and when Fiona’s not on screen she’ll say/moan/shout ‘Ona, Ona, Ona’ until she appears.

When watching the first Shrek, she’s moaning half the movie before her kickass princess arrives.

(Thought experiment: What if the sequel to Shrek was called Fiona?)

Her absolute favourite moment in cinematic history is the half-minute snippet of Butterfly Boucher’s cover of “Changes” (with a cameo from Mr Bowie) during Shrek 2. It’s an insipid version. I tried playing her the original the other day but it left her cold. For her, Boucher’s the original and Bowie’s the pretender (kinda how I feel about Bowie’s version of Iggy Pop’s ‘China Girl’).

My daughter will sing “Ch-ch-ch-changes” at odd moments during the day.

I’m spreading Marmite on her toast: “Ch-ch-ch-changes”.

We’re walking down to the garage: “Ch-ch-ch-changes”.

We’re waiting for the bath to fill: “Ch-ch-ch-changes”.

And things are changing.

I’ve quit writing my column in the Dominion Post’s Your Weekend lift out. Tomorrow’s my last dispatch, four years since my first. 104 columns later, I feel like I never got better, never got being a columnist. The restrictions of the form (500 words a fortnight, submission 2 weeks before publication) were still restrictive. The challenge of juggling my other writing, my day job, my family — both in terms of finding time to do everything, but how and when to mine these other lives for the column — was still challenging.

I’m writing a longer thing about the frustrations and frustrations (no typo) of being a print-first columnist that should appear online in the next wee while… but big picture: I hope to free up four 5am-7am slots a fortnight for fiction. For writing books. Because that’s what I really want to be doing.

It’s been nice to be paid, regularly, for words, but I’m steadily moving up the ladder at work (the word ‘Manager’ features in my job title — “Ch-ch-ch-changes”) so the money isn’t as important.

Although... there’s another baby on the way — “Ch-ch-ch-changes” ­— and Marisa wants a bigger house — “Ch-ch-ch-changes” — and I’m not sure I can write another novel while working full time…

*

Two years ago I wrote about my time as I columnist to that point. Turns out that was the exact midpoint of my “career”.

That post included a list of what my 52 columns had covered. Well, here’s the second half:

53.   The bump list, fatherhood, Aliens

54.   Road rules, advertising, cultural amnesia

55.   Getting glasses, Cats Protection League, superpowers

56.   Sign language, grocery shopping, silence

57.   Palmerston North, guitar solos, the poet James Brown

58.   Antenatal classes, THE VIDEO, gingernuts

59.   Apocalypse, The Netherlands, televangelists

60.   Due dates, Tom Petty, house alarms

61.   A baby!, quinoa, yellow pohutukawa

62.   Chivalry, Louis L’Amour, Whangamomona

63.   Valentine’s day, Dwight Schrute, Walter Benjamin

64.   Supermarkets, flatting, the great wildebeest migration

65.   Landfills, Second Treasures, Richard Dean Anderson

66.   Flying, the parents room, dodged bullets

67.   Cycling, Wellington, cholesterol

68.   Obstacle courses, Lisa Carrington, Kronum

69.   Internet piracy, Pablo Honey, Spotify

70.   Haircuts, GrabOne, ‘Sexyback’

71.   Winter, fantasy football, sperm

72.   Golf, great uncles, hipflasks

73.   Smartphones, shouty TV shows, the capital of Myanmar

74.   Parenthood, sea fog, editing a novel

75.   Dentists, Norm Peterson, “sticktoitiveness”

76.   Whinging, Whittaker’s L&P Slab, couriers

77.   Father’s day, itineraries, Bulgarians

78.   Fashion, Iowa City, tie-dye

79.   Rodeo, praying cowboys, deep-fried oreos

80.   The Midwest, bathroom graffiti, extirpation

81.   New Orleans, Local Natives, Louis Armstrong

82.   Working parents, the Father of Rocket Science, Eugenics

83.   Halloween, pumpkin season, Matariki

84.   Washington DC, Independence Day, Toad the Wet Sprocket

85.   Professional wrestling, Shane Howarth, collecting quarters

86.   Compact living, the Keret House, tiny house porn

87.   Aging, the periodic table, Tim Duncan

88.   The man card, Russell Packer, kitset furniture

89.   Dieting parents, Tyler the Creator, toddlers

90.   Reality TV, Undercover Boss Uncovered, frankenbiting

91.   Subtlemobs, Kenny Loggins, community

92.   Hospitals, parenthood, Stoicitis

93.   Americans, black sheep, Antarctica

94.   Office moves, standing desks, A Dictionary of Lift Users

95.   Professional wrestling, community halls, The Ultimate Warrior

96.   Direct democracy, Aaron Gilmore, Switzerland

97.   My (early) thirties, baking, wives

98.   Football world cup, GDP per capita, Martin Devlin’s hair

99.   Day care, germ sponges, the social lives of toddlers

100.  Time travel, Back to the Future II, true believers

101.  Rodney Hide, afternoon tea, shoelaces

102.  Crap teachers, quitting, interpretive dance

103.  Weeds, holly leaved senecio, apocalypse

*spoiler alert*

104.  Macauley’s New Zealander, apocalypse, Clifton Carpark

 *

There's a bunch of things that I could have, and should have, written about over the last four years that I didn't because of the column. Maybe this blog will burst back into life. Maybe I'll just post Spotify playlists once a month and add a few hasty thoughts about books I've read. 

We shall see.

Until then, here's a playlist:

Craiggate / Mulling the cloud seeder / zipped lips

Craiggate, or It's no longer paranoia when your fears are realised

The few months before a book launch can be nervy. Chances are publication day is swiftly followed by reviews that miss the point, interviews that misquote you and photo shoots in bright sun (squinty eyes!) or weird locales (hey, how about you pose by this construction site!).

The last few months I've had a very specific anxiety: that people will mix me up with Colin Craig,  leader of the NZ Conservative Party. He's been in the news a bit lately, whether it's promising a day of reckoning after Parliament sanctioned gay marriage, or threatening a satirical news website with legal action for defamation.

At the risk of getting my own letter from Chapman Tripp, Mr Craig is a bit of a plonker.

Unfortunately, his name bears a number of similarities to mine.

CRAIG CLIFF

COLIN CRAIG

(To confuse things further, I have a great uncle called Colin Cliff.)

It's one thing to be little known in a small country. It's quite another to be little known and confused with a plonker.

I told myself it was just me being over sensitive. People weren't that stupid. No one would ever read 'Craig Cliff' and think, "That homophobic, litigious git who shelled out $1.3 million of his own cash for the last election but never got near a seat in parliament?"

I told myself I was being paranoid.

But then it happened. Perhaps the first of many befuddlements.

My latest light-entertainment column in the Dominion Post appeared on Fairfax's news website stuff this morning with the byline "Colin Craig".

Luckily it was still filed under "Craig Cliff" and the sidebar showed other columns by me. Two astute commenters picked up the anomaly and the Stuff editors fixed it.

In all, the faux pas was online for six hours and I only knew about it for two of those. It was small biscuits. A bit of a laugh really.

But I can't shake the thought that this is not the last time something like this happens this year...


Mulling the cloud seeder

Current word count of my latest short story: three.

Number of short stories other than the cloud seeder I've worked on: one. Oops. And it wasn't even one of the ten options I put on my poll.

Bad blogger!


My lips are zipped

Back in October 2011, my to do list included the item: "Say no to something."

I can now cross this item off. I initially said yes, but then I said yes to something else, something bigger, which meant I had to say no to this other, smaller but still exciting and worthwhile thing. Does that count?

Two years as columnist: still not worth a hill of beans

At a dinner for the writers who'd appeared at Wellington's Writers and Readers' Week in March this year, a visitor from the UK mentioned that he'd read my column in that morning's newspaper. That particular column had been about my time at the Perth Writers Festival the fortnight previous ("if you're lucky a well-respected novelist will skull the last of their wine and admit they think their most recent book is by far their worst"). 

I made the sort of pat, 'Watch out, I might write about you!' joke that I don't find funny but persist in making. Ha ha ha.

Wine glasses were emptied and refilled. Emptied and refilled.

At some point in the evening we got in a heated discussion about Woody Allen.

For badmouthing the execrable Midnight in Paris I got a hand shoved over my bad mouth.

'Say what you will about his recent films,' said my interlocutor, his sweaty palm still pressed against my lips, 'but you mustn't say a bad word against him. The man is a genius.'

My eyes, cartoon-wide, stayed that way even when he withdrew his hand.

He then said something embarrassing about me being a good writer (based on a snippet of a short story he'd heard me read a few days ago that the wine had ratcheted up to something approaching significance) and that my column wasn't worth a hill of beans. In the great wash-up, it was only proper literature (and, I suppose, films) that mattered.

I nodded. I agreed. At least that my column wasn't worth much. I mean how could it compare to a hill of beans?

The image in my head is a Mayan pyramid of baked bean tins, but perhaps he was thinking of a large mound of dried kidney beans or a verdant pile of freshly picked runners? All three crop up on a Google Image Search for "hill of beans" and all three would surely trump a fortnightly 500-word braindump. I mean, a hill of beans would feed a lot of people. Okay, a hill of beans might need a bit of security or someone to patrol for vermin, but it wouldn't come with the same sense of constant failure (failure to be interesting, failure to be funny, failure to be topical, failure to avoid the humblebrag) and the dread that any day you'll get the email that tells you you've been shitcanned. Format changes. New directions. Thanks and best wishes in future endeavours.

But so far, this email hasn't come.

It's been two whole years, which means 52 columns (as of Saturday). Marcus Lush (I think) recently said on Twitter that most columnists only have three good columns in them. Hopefully I write those three before I get that metaphorical sweaty palm across my lips and am told there's no slot for me next Saturday.

En masse, these 52 columns might not be worth a literal or a proverbial hill of beans, but if you stand back far enough, it's neat (yes, I just said 'nea't) that I've been paid to write about:

1. Writers with day jobs, coming out (as a writer)
2. Engagements, diamonds, crazy fiancés
3. Paper books, vandalism, my father
4. Music, getting old
5. Short story competitions, mingling, Lloyd Jones
6. Koru lounges, first times
7. Paint colours, advertising
8. Getting up early, writers with day jobs
9. Weight gain, Don DeLillo
10. Blood donation, squeamishness, cancer
11. Agapanthus, pure hatred
12. Week in the life, writers with day jobs
13. Buttermoons, wedding prep, Vietnam
14. New music, getting old
15. Old teachers, receiving praise, gesundheit
16. Airport terminals, Singapore
17. De facto wedding anniversaries, gifts
18. The internet, research, Moby Dick
19. Writers festivals, Auckland, Sydney
20. Travel envy, brothers, Alexander the Great
21. Landlords, Edinburgh, mullets
22. Writers with part-time jobs
23. Kiwis, research, Zealandia
24. Wedding prep, music, Stevie Wonder
25. Poetry, furniture polish, Ian Wedde
26. Libraries, writing, plumbers
27. Writers festivals, Melbourne, Titirangi
28. Skin cancer, sunscreen, Vikings
29. Bad reviews, McDonalds
30. The internet, privacy, shame
31. Friends, double-booking, weddings
32. Stag parties, cross-dressing, heights
33. Weddings, the big day
34. Honeymoons, Germans, mistakes
35. Honeymoons, B&Bs, mistakes
36. Deadlines, writing, blowouts
37. Architecture, substations, Wellington
38. Albatross, Otago Peninsula, awe
39. Writers festivals, Perth, hotel bars
40. Writers festivals, Wellington, ambushes
41. House hunting, open homes
42. House hunting, first home buyers, tenders
43. Translations, short stories, shame
44. Architecture, council housing, Wellington
45. The Queen (smiling), gin and Dubonnet
46. Short story competitions, judging, Grizz Wyllie
47. Doctors, men, Monty Python
48. Track pants, mistakes, pyromania
49. DIY, homeownership, Donald Rumsfeld
50. Job interviews, Australians
51. Impending fatherhood, names, advertorials
52. The past, First Crossings, Bear Grylls

Of course, the hope is that during this time I've been doing something that might amount to more than a hill of beans. Perhaps it's THE NOVEL. Perhaps it's the bump I wrote about in column #51 (a well I will no doubt return to, craven and unapologetic, a few more times before December). Who knows? Who cares? Sometimes it's just nice to have a deadline and the chance to talk about track pants. 

It sure beats a sweaty hand across your mouth.

My Writers and Readers Week 2012

The NZ Festival’s Writers and Readers Week isn’t done yet. There’re still some session on tomorrow (Wednesday) and I’m heading off to the “Writer’s Dinner” (whatever that may be) tonight.

In the time I have spare between now and the dinner I thought I’d record some of my memories and impressions from my first festival as a performer in front of a home audience.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I was moving house over the weekend, which meant I was frequently exhausted. I plan to mine the house-hunting/moving thing for a Dom Post column (or four) in the future, so I won’t say much more about that. Suffice to say it’s been a busy few days.

My first act was as an audience member (albeit on a comped ticket), listening to Tim Flannery’s bitsy opening address at the Town Hall. Flannery is clearly a smart guy and I’m glad he’s out there fighting the good fight against climate change and all that, but I felt uncomfortable several times during his address. I think it has something to do with the cavalier way he discussed New Zealand history, particularly the arrival of Polynesians and the extinction of the moa. New Zealanders would have spent three times as long to say what he said, pussyfooting around the cultural and historical uncertainties, but as an Australian he just ploughed through. Not that I advocate pussyfooting, but sensitivity can be a virtue, as can acknowledging when something is beyond your ken.

Afterwards, I headed up to the council chambers for the opening party. The usual speeches from politicos and festivalites punctuated the relaxed and cheerful night of mingling. I caught up with Kim Scott, who I hadn’t been able to chat with in Perth, and we relived memories of Sydney and the Commonwealth Writers Prize junket.
I also got to chat with some of NZ’s crime writing fraternity, including Vanda Symon, Paul Cleave and Craig Sisterson. You can read Craig’s festival account on his blog. When I heard that these guys had been playing Frisbee in the sun and had missed the opening address I was jealous. In the hopes of one day being invited to play Frisbee I told them of my secret desire to write a crime novel and was roundly encouraged (damn them… why can’t they be more snooty and exclusive like the writers of “literary fiction”).

My session at the Embassy in Wellington was on Saturday afternoon: ‘Emerging Writers’ with Eleanor Catton and Hamish Clayton, chaired by Harry Ricketts. I’d appeared in a session with Hamish in Auckland in May last year (my first ever festival sesh; it seems so long ago) and with Ellie in Melbourne in September, so there was an element of familiarity. (I also had Harry Ricketts as a lecturer for a few English papers at university, but I don’t remember ever talking to him back then, just him talking to me and the 250 other students in the lecture).


Our Embassy Session on Saturday
Photo courtesy of NZ Festival's facebook page (C) Robert Catto

I thought the session went well. There was a bit of a microphone malfunction for Hamish initially, and Harry referred to my book as A Melting Man more than once (I thought the first time might have been an aberration and let the chance to correct him sail by). I read part five of ‘Orbital Resonance’, which is all about house-hunting, as it felt rather appropriate given events in my real life. I got a few chuckles as I read, which is always encouraging.

You can read an… interesting account of the session on the Scoop book’s website. There has been a bit of talk on Twitter about this piece today (most of it negative) and it’s interesting to note that Scoop also has a sanitised version online.

Some gems from the unsanitised version:

When talking about contemporary New Zealand writers ‘emerging’ tends to mean “emerging from the vagina of Bill Manhire’s creative writing course soft, wet, and perfectly formed, but still umbilically attached via VUP”...

I didn’t hear what the conversation was about, as Catton had a beautiful, gentle timbre that I was instantly lost in and it left me forgetting to actually listen to her…

She was also incredibly well-kept – all three writers were, as a matter of fact. They looked like they’d stepped out of a photo shoot backstage. Their hair was tidy, their complexions flawless, their clothes fit them well. They epitomised beautiful youth…

Cliff had a dry humour that the audience warmed to instantly. Casually referring to masturbation in your opening statement is a great way to break the ice with an audience of 200 odd strangers, it seems.

After the session, the three of us were all visited by several audience members at the signing table and signed a number of books. Those that I spoke to seemed to have enjoyed the session. Some had even read my book, but I was most chuffed when two separate people said they enjoy my columns in the paper (I’m constantly wracked with fear that my columns suck / I’m about to be sacked and guilt that I’m squandering a golden opportunity to talk about important things etc etc, but that’s a self-indulgence for another blog post).

To the kind person who said, ‘I even read your blog!’, all I can say is you must be crazier than I am.


The signing table
Photo courtesy of NZ Festival's facebook page (C) Robert Catto

On Saturday night I went along to the VUP party, which doubled as the launch of Harry Ricketts’ poetry collection ‘Then Just’ (strike that, reverse it). Good food and nibbles, good poetry, good company, good times.

Sunday I managed to get along to Alan Hollinghurst’s session with Finlay MacDonald, who surely must be one of the best chairs/interviewers for these sorts of events in the country: personable, funny, well-prepared, unafraid to probe. Part of me hopes to one day sit down one-on-one with him in front of an audience, but part of me dreads the things he’ll trawl up from the internet (!) and the admissions he’ll coax out of me.

Then it was on to the “Industry Drinks” put on by Creative NZ, which were held at the Library Bar (the venue for my book launch back in July 2010). I got to speak to several international authors, but the highlight (if that’s the word) was talking to some of the Creative NZ people. I worked two days a week in the CNZ accounting office for almost two years while I was a student at Vic. This was eight or nine years ago now, but a surprising number of CNZ staff from that time are still around and were there on Sunday. None remembered me.
 
‘But I used to come around every month and drop off the photocopy of your phone bill so you could identify your personal calls and refund the money?’ I said, plaintively.
 
Nada.

(I wanted to be a writer back then. I even did the short fiction workshop up at Vic while working there. And the thing about playing with a datestamp to make impossible dates that features in my story ‘Oh! So Careless’ comes from working at CNZ.)

So was finally being published, appearing at the festival and getting invited to a CNZ boozer as rewarding as I thought it might be back in 2003?

Not really. Nine years is a long time and they seem like nice people.

I did manage to corral a newer CNZ staff member who coordinates a lot of the writer’s residency applications and deploy (in the most cynical, self-serving fashion) a few juicy sound-bites about the need for more literary connections with Australia and the South Pacific…


The sell-out crowd for Jo Nesbo's session
Photo courtesy of NZ Festival's facebook page (C) Robert Catto

On Monday, Hamish, Ellie and I were driven to Masterton for a repeat of our ‘Emerging Writers’ session, though this time we were chaired by David Hedley (owner of the best independent book store in town and a man with more rock’n’roll connections than a mere mortal can fathom – “Every time I run into Eric Clapton these days I just think, ‘You are so straight! What happened to you, man!” etc etc).

Again, the session went well (aside from a few audience members complaining about the sound system – it didn’t help only having two mics for four people, and a few coughing fits from the audience). I read the second half of ‘Manawatu’, which seemed to play alright (I suspect it would have done better if it was called ‘Wairarapa’, but thems the breaks).

Click here for an account of our Masterton session on the Booksellers NZ blog.

[Edit: You can also read my Dominion Post column from 24 March, which is mostly about the festival, here.]
I saw a couple of sessions when I got back to Wellington and then today (Tuesday) I had to go back to work at the Ministry. Bugger eh?

Oh well, I’m off to eat and drink on someone else’s dime again tonight. If only it was Writers and Readers Week every week!

Perth Writers Festival – part two

(You can read part one here.)

Ah, yes, the Feast of Words. An open air dinner for hundreds of Perthians (is that what they’re called? I spent six days there and it never came up) with four writers giving food-related readings for 8-10 minutes between the courses. But before Barbara Trapido could start, it started to drizzle. Everyone stuck it out for a minute or two, but the precipitation did not appear to be easing so people made for the eaves of Winthrop Hall.

After about five minutes the drizzle relented, waiters mopped down seats and drained the water from dinner plates and everyone returned to their seats. Danielle Benda, the Writer’s Festivals’ programme director and MC for the night, introduced Barbara Trapido, who read from Temples of Delight. The rain started up just as she was finishing and became actual rain a few moments later causing everyone to make for the eaves once more.

Winthrop Hall, during the day... when it's not raining

But this shower past in another five minutes and the caterers were finally able to bring out the breads and dips.

Next up to the podium was Johan Harstad, who has written for TV and theatre as well as several books, but only his novel, Buzz Aldrin, what happened to you in all the confusion has been released in English at this moment (other translations are in the works). Without a lot of food in Buzz Aldrin, Harstad decided to write something specifically for the night while sitting beside the Swan River. The result, a meditation on the torture of Tuesday leftovers and how it fostered his escapism as a child, was riotously funny and put everyone back in a good mood after the two weather blips.

The main course was then served, with large dishes of chicken, potatoes, beans, cauliflower, pumpkin and salad being handed down the table from the far end. When a dish reached the writer’s end of the table (also featuring the directors of the writers fest and the overall arts festival) we were lucky if there was a crouton in the salad bowl. With the rain delays, everyone was quite hungry by this time and we writers were forced to look down the table at those fortunate souls who were tucking in to the meal.

It was a bit of a dilemma for the organisers, as on the one hand here were four international writers, the stars of the show, (and one publicist and one publisher and two festival directors) getting to short shrift. On the other hand, we hadn’t paid $120 for a ticket, so maybe we did deserve to be served last.  Eventually some more plates of food were delivered to our end of the table and their contents quickly consumed.

Then it was time for Dennis O’Driscoull to read. He read three poems but other Irish poets and finished with one of his own. Judging by the audience reaction he came a close second to Johan in the ‘delightful’ stakes.

Then dessert. No hitches there. Then it was my turn to read.

I’d been watching my wine intake all night, knowing my turn on the lectern would come, but I didn’t factor in the somatostatins my meal would release. I read the passage from ‘Facing Galapagos’ where the narrator is robbed by a man wielding an iguana, then befriends the man and eats a lot of tropical fruit (the foodie-connection; apt for the final stages of a meal, but honestly I didn’t have many other foodie sections that worked for an 8 minute reading) and read okay, but I lacked a bit of zing and wasn’t able to overcome the general post-meal malaise of the audience. It was also pretty fricken cold for your average Perthian, and the event had run long due to the rain.

I stepped down from the stage knowing I could have done better, could have found or manufactured a better passage to read, could have read what I did better, but thems the breaks. It was still a huge honour to have appeared at such an event -- rain drops and food delays just made it all the more memorable.

Sunday was the last day of the festival. It was also Family Day, so the UWA campus was crawling with families and face-painters. It’s always good to see young people having fun with a bookish slant.

  

My final session was ‘Finding the extraordinary in the ordinary’ with Barbara Trapido and Arnold Zable. It was another great session. Not quite as fun as the short story one (there was a bit where we all were asked about how we note down and organise our ideas; I don’t find talking about notebooks vs post-its vs Evernote very thrilling, but maybe that’s just me) – but it might be in my top three. For the record, I read 'Evolution Eh?' - the whole (2 page) shebang.

Again, the time flew by and I sold and signed a few more books afterwards.

Then it was back to the hotel bar to unwind and chat with the other writers. I spoke to Barabara Trapido and Kathy, her minder from Bloomsbury, about talking parrots, Ryan Gosling and mondegreens. I discussed Isaac Babel, Herman Melville and school design with Dominic Hohn (author of Moby-Duck). I flitted between other conversations as well, and when I had enough material (and the bar closed) I went upstairs and wrote my Dominion Post column. (I submitted it at 2am, meaning I just managed to get it to my editor before they started work on Monday morning.)

And that, my friends, is a brief précis of my Perth Writers Festival.  There’re a lot of great writers that I met and enjoyed hanging out with that I haven’t mentioned here. I always worry that my efforts to be informative sound too much like name-dropping. I don’t want to sound like a douche, because I honestly don’t approach the social side of festivals in a douchy ‘what’s in it for me?’ way. 

Before I was published I would practice being interviewed while in the shower, steeled myself for receiving reviews (and boldly hoped that one or two might include praise), knew sales figures and financial rewards would be modest, but I never really considered what it would be like to hang out with other writers, or expected to enjoy meeting them and having a chat, that it would be so rewarding and re-invigorating on a personal/creative level.

This does not conclude my Perthly posts, however, as I had a day to my own devises before I flew back to New Zealand. Come back tomorrow to hear about cockatoos, kangaroos and rental car confusion. Oh, and which movies I watched on the plane!

Special Features: Old Sydney Street Substation

The old Sydney Street substation, photographed by Rachel Connolly. Copyright NZ Historic Places Trust .

There may be some people out there who’ve read my column about the old Sydney Street substation in today’s Your Weekend magazine and were left wanting more.

Sometimes it’s impossible to do a subject justice in 500 words. (If you can do it justice in 500 words, it’s not worth writing about). In this instance, I really wanted to include some web addresses to help direct further enquiries, but alas.

I’m sure those sufficiently piqued could find everything via Google, but I’m going to give them (and Google) a helping hand by collecting the links together here.


The Building Itself

The Historic Places Trust’s register has a very thorough report, prepared by Adrian Humphris and Inka Gliesche, on the old Sydney Street substation on. It’s available online here ().

There was also an article on the old girl by Tommy Honey in Architecture NZ (Nov/Dec 2005). Not available online but I have a scan if your local library doesn't have the issue.

In my column, I mention the proposed Kate Sheppard Exchange development which could incorporate the substation. The development was in the news last year when people objected to the proposed size of the building. I emailed the developers, Redwood Group, seeking an update on the project but I didn’t receive a response before my deadline (and haven’t since, but can’t be bothered pestering them).


On Wellington’s Substations

The Architecture Electric, a photographic survey of Wellington’s substations, is available as a free e-book here.

I asked the architecture types I interviewed if they had favourite substations in town and received two responses.If, like me, you’ve developed a sudden interest in substations, you might want to check out some of these:

Tyson Schmidt (co-author of ‘The Architecture Electric)

1. Have a picnic and watch the planes at the concrete panel marvel that is the Moa Point Road substation (page 14 of our book)

2. Venture above Boyd Wilson Field to Victoria University's Te Puni Village to look at the wind sculpture atop the University Zone substation (page 109)

3. Be impressed by the massive steel doors on the Moore Street Zone substation behind ECC lighting (page 106)

4. Walk the tracks of Mt Victoria until you find the Hataitai Zone substation with its wall of mesh encasing the large transformers (page 105)

5. Enjoy the graffiti used to disguise substations such as 69 Miramar Road (p.73) and down Lukes Lane (p.72, great Keith Haring-inspired figures on that one)

6. Jog past the substation with clean classical stylings on the corner of one of Wellington's most expensive streets (The Crescent in Roseneath) (p.54)

Adam Alexander (architectural designer; wrote his thesis on Wellington's substations [available in hardcopy from Victoria University's libary])

1. St John St Substation (adjacent to Aro Valley Park)

2. Lower Tory St (between Courtenay Place and Cable St)

3. 10 Haining St (off upper Tory St)

4. Hankey St Substation (intersection of Taranaki, Hankey and Wallace St)

5.Salamanca Rd (Near top of cable car)

Barnes v Trapido / Conductor / Offshore whore / Lockout poetry

Recent reading

I recently finished listening to Barbara Trapido’s novel Sex and Stravinsky on my iPod and quickly followed this up with Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending, which won the Booker Prize this year.

Trapido’s novel clocked in at a normal 11 hours and change, while Barnes’ was over half the time. It was a nice feeling to finish two books in quick succession after two and a bit months of listening to Nicholas Nickleby (however much I enjoyed that book).

The Sense of an Ending worked magnificently as an audiobook. There’s a single narrator, Tony Webster, who recalls specific moments in his life relating to a particular strand of memory: those relating to his friend, Adrian, who committed suicide in his early twenties. Tony weaves in and out of memory, digressing often on just what memory is and how it changes with time, but also finds the time to muse about the modern world, retirement, divorce and self-delusion. This is the kind of novel some agents might describe as quiet or slow, if you were to query them as a no-name writer, but I found it a thrilling and engaging story – thrilling, I guess, because it felt so intimate and real.

Sex and Stravinsky on the other hand, was not as well suited to the audiobook format. Trapido’s third person narrator inhabits at least eight different character’s perspective during the novel, and while the third person is kept up throughout, the voice of the narrator often transmutes into the perspective character’s voice (especially when we’re following the two adolescent girl characters). I found this mix of third and first person techniques confusing in an audiobook, as the narrator adopted the voice of the difficult teenage girl while still referring to the girl as Kat/her/she. Also, the reader, Jan Francis, had the difficult task of managing English, Australian, South African (three sorts: English settler, Afrikaner and Zulu), French and Italian accents.

The most engaging part of the novel for me were the parts about Caroline’s mother, who ranks up there with Mrs Nickleby in the pantheon of aggravating mothers in fiction. Unfortunately, after Caroline’s mother dies (to the delight of the reader), Francis's voice for Caroline alters and becomes a bit too similar to her shrewish mother. This is no fault of Trapido, of course, but it is difficult to think about the text objectively without thinking about the slips and tangles in the audiobook version.

Having said this, I’m still a big advocate of audiobooks. In my experience there are far more successes (like Barnes’ and Dickens’ novels) that problem children.


Still a paperboy

The paper book I’m reading at the moment is The Conductor by Sarah Quigley. I’m about halfway and have to say I haven’t really been sucked in just yet. Perhaps it’s the musical chairs the narrative plays with it’s three perspective characters (of which only Shostakovich was known to be beforehand). Perhaps it’s the fact I’m saving the CD recording of The Leningrad Symphony until the point it appears in the story. Perhaps it’s that I’m not really in the reading headspace all that often at the moment with all the wedding guff that crowds out my leisure time?


For completists

Last month I blogged about the bad review I received (belatedly). I also wrote a column about it for the Dom Post but it wasn’t posted online (there’s no real logic I can see to what is and what isn’t posted on www.stuff.co.nz). I include a scan of it here for posterity's sake.

Common ground

You’ve got just over a week left to submit your short story for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition, for which I am one of the judges.

For those who’ve submitted or are still thinking about it, I wrote something about my experience with prizes for the Commonwealth Writers website: basically, don’t just enter competitions, revise your stories, submit to journals, get better, get published. Simple, eh?

I also wrote about my favourite bricks and mortar bookshop, Unity Books on Willis Street, for which I expect at least a high five next time I come a'browsing!


Offshore whore

I spoke to Julie Green of the Griffith REVIEW about my story, ‘Offshore service’, and my time spent in Queensland. You can read the interview here.


Side-effects of the NBA lockout

It looks like the chances of an NBA season this year are slim to none. This is terrible news for arena staff in the states and some lower level employees of the teams who rely on basketball games for a paycheck. Spare a thought also for the basketball journalists, who have had to stake out bargaining sessions between the players and the owners which have stretched into the wee small hours (and inevitablty end with both sides unwilling to make detailed comments at the ensuing press conference as negotiation is still ongoing).

Some writers are turning their attentions to other basketball leagues around the world (where a small number of NBA players are also looking to supplement their incomes). They appear heavily reliant on Google Translate to file their updates – today Yahoo Sports’ Adrian Wojnarowski tweeted that the Houston Rocket’s Marcin Gortat had signed with a Turkish team, then hastily tweeted a retraction that the two parties were in fact still negotiating and the confusion stemmed from Google Translate.

Much more exciting to me was the news from SB Nation blogger Tom Ziller (@teamziller) that when you throw a Chinese box score into Google Translate it tells you there is a statistical category “was invaded” ('turnovers' to you and me). Ziller also points to a headline which translates as "Yi Jianlian floating in the sky watching JR violence of his four years of a button changes."

I’m feeling a James Brown- (NZ poet not US soul singer) style poem coming on.


Novel update

I heard back from my editor last week after she read the first c.50,000 words of THE NOVEL. She referred to it as the embryo of my novel, which might be another way of putting it. Anyway, she liked it (it would be unfair to quote embryonic praise as there’s a lot that can go wrong between now and the final manuscript) and I am to push on and finish the beasty but it looks like it won’t come out till February 2013. This means I’ll only get to publish one book in my twenties. Oh well. It does give me a few extra months next year to really make it the best book I can. And to write some short stories and find them homes before the birth of THE NOVEL. And find a friggin' title.

Going West / Reading / Killing Moon / Columnist Godfather

Going West

The view from my bed & breakfast in Titirangi

I was in Titirangi, West Auckland, on Saturday and Sunday for Going West Books and Writers Festival. It was a real contrast to Melbourne the previous weekend, with a lot of aspects being in Going West’s favour (see the view above).

I didn’t connect with any Canadian musicians this time, but I did meet a student who has recently moved to NZ from Nigeria who told me he’d heard of me before he came here (the Commonwealth Prize is a big deal over there, with Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche being a more recent overall winner) and even read a review of A Man Melting in a Nigerian newspaper. I’m not sure if this will ever be verified (the internet is silent in this instance), and it’s not likely anyone in Nigeria would by a copy… My Nigerian friend in Titirangi told me that he waited until he moved here, then borrowed a copy from his local library. Oh well.

My session, ‘Early Days Yet’, with Tanya Moir, author of the historical novel La Rochelle’s Road, went well. It was ably chaired by novelist Tina Shaw, who had clearly read and engaged with both books. Interestingly for me, Tina’s questions focussed on some stories I haven’t been asked to discuss often (if at all): ‘Oh! So Careless’, ‘Parisian Blue’ and ‘Fat Camp’. I had intended to read a section from ‘Oh! So Careless’ (which is one of the few stories I’ve yet to read from in public) but we kinda covered that passage in conversation, so I hastily chose a section toward the end of ‘Facing Galapagos’, which got a few laughs (hoorah!)



Recent Reading

I’m struggling to find the time to note down my reactions to the books I’ve been reading. I’m also conscious that a hastily dashed off and poorly thought through ‘response’ can and will be misinterpreted as a review by many. But here goes, hyper-speed styles:


Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart – Similarities with Visit From the Goon Squad’s futuristic sections and Shteyngart’s previous novel, Absurdistan, which I really liked, but SSTLS isn’t as good as either of these. It never feels like much is at stake (despite the fact the US economy is imploding and martial law is breaking out). And I’ve never read a book where characters sweat so much (expect, perhaps, Absurdistan). Verdict: interesting but not engaging.

Classic Crimes of Passion (audiobook) – a short story anthology featuring Guy de Maupassant, Wilkie Collins, Louisa May Alcott and others. A strange wee collection. The approach to short fiction seems quite dated in these stories. One might call it pre-Chekovian. I think that was part of the charm… though I was glad to move on to something else when it finished.

Traitor by Stephen Daisley – A difficult novel to pin down because it floats through time in the fashion of memory. Another taciturn Kiwi male looking back, in the mould of The Hut Builder, but more poignant. Strangely felt more compelling during the NZ sections than those set in Turkey, despite my almost-meltdown when I visited the peninsula a couple of years ago.

New Yorker Fiction Podcasts – 52 stories in all (I think). Will be the subject of a separate post/arbitrary top 10 list.

Lots of books about NZ’s subantarctic islands (research for THE NOVEL). Seemed fitting to read during our cold snap. Might have to fill bathtub with ice during the summer months to finish the subantarctic section of my book.

Erewhon by Samuel Butler – I’ve tried starting this twice, but still haven’t made it past page 50. Back on the book shelf now.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London – I’m reading this on my iPad. First time reading an eBook in this way. Didn’t buy an iPad to be an e-reader and glad I didn’t coz the backlit screen can get a bit taxing. But it’s useful to have on hand for small bursts of reading. As for the book: the word ‘silly’ springs to mind. I prefer London’s The Sea Wolf, which I read earlier this year. Same themes, but with a human main character instead of a dog.

I’ve just started listening to Nicholas Nickleby on my iPod. The only other book by Dickens I have read is Great Expectations, which sort of put me off reading any more. But I’m loving Nickleby. Although I do tend to love the first 60 pages of older books – the hasty biographical sketches of the main character’s forebears, the dextrous narrator who can address the reader directly… but often find my enthusiasm wanes as the book proceeds, e.g. The Brothers Karamazov. Hopefully Dickens can keep it up for the next 28 hours of book-time.


Earworm of the month, or Getting ahead of myself

I’ve been listening to Pavement’s cover of Echo and the Bunnymen’s ‘Killing Moon’ (a.k.a. that song from Donnie Darko) a lot these past few weeks. What a fantastic five minutes and change.

I have been wilfully mis-singing the line, “So take him to the end of his temper” (around 3:40) as “So take him to the end of this tableau” because it fits better with THE NOVEL, which has a way of bringing things into its orbit and bending them to its will.

Mark this down as a song for the book’s playlist once it’s finished and ready to enter the world.


Invitation to a beheading

If my brief Going West summary above isn’t enough, you’ll be pleased to know I compare and contrast Melbourne and Going West festivals in whatever detail 500 words can afford in next fortnight’s column in the Dominion Post.

Which reminds me: one of the best sessions I attended at Going West featured columnists Deborah Cone-Hill and Jane Bowron, chaired by fellow columnist Steve Braunias. It was fascinating to watch three seasoned practitioners of THE COLUMN (the regular deadline means it can be just as imposing and obstreperous as THE NOVEL and even more interminable) discuss the craft.

At the cocktail party that evening, held to celebrate the announcement of a new writers residency in Maurice Shadboldt’s old house Titirangi, I had a delicious Turkish Delight cocktail and a brief chat with Mr Braunias (who was stubbornly drinking beer). He clearly didn’t recall our one minute conversation at the Auckland Writers Festival, but seemed interested in the fact I also wrote a column. In fact, the next day he told me via Twitter he’d been reading this very blog (he liked the stuff about birds, so that makes two of us!) and asked for a link to my columns.

One hesitates at such moments. Steve Braunias is New Zealand’s most famous columnist but he’s also famously acerbic. Giving him a link to my columns could end in so many terrible ways: sudden silence and a claim to not remember me the next time our paths cross; featuring in one of his own columns as a no-talent upstart (‘The Secret Diary of Cliff Craig’… oh, how it stings); or a joke at my expense he shares with his literary chums that somehow finds its way back to my ears…

But I sent the link (luckily only a handful of my columns appear on Stuff.co.nz, and not all of them are filed in the same place).

It’s not like the guy can’t Google.

Worksheet #45 or 'You know you've made it when...'

You know you've made it when... No. 8
You know you've made it when you appear in a webcomic. [Courtesy of the fabulous Sarah Laing]

*

It's that time of year again. Creative writing students are having bonfires and pashing each other and generally acting like fictional characters now that they've handed in their year's work. Meanwhile, ex-creative writing students spend their nearly-Summer evenings reading manuscripts and making notes in the margin like:

Is this necessary?

Funny

Love this

Not sure about this


*


You know you've made it when... No. 14
You know you've made it when you're browsing in a book store and a clerk asks you if you're you. When you answer in the affirmative, they ask you to sign some books. [In related news, there's probably still some signed copies of A Man Melting at Unity Books in Wellington].

*

This scene is a lost opportunity.

*

I have two manuscripts to assess this fortnight, both Whitireia students, one collection of short stories and one novel.

*

Awkwardly worded

*

One for the Trainspotters....
My most recent column in the Dominion Post (Sat 6 Nov) has been posted online. Not sure if this is going to be a regular occurrence, or if this is a one off webular excursion.

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You know you've made it when... No. 16

You know you've made it when you make man-dates with visiting French writers for Thursday evenings (and your fiancée says, 'A weeknight?' and you say, 'Yes,' resolutely, 'a weeknight.')

*

Needs more conflict.

It doesn't feel like you've earnt this ending.

Struggling writer blues, or Worksheet #39

I’m back from Christchurch. I’d post my photos of the carnage but you’ve already seen the buildings online, in print or on tele.

Seriously, I was surprised how few and far between the total write-offs were. Far less than the coverage might lead a North Islander to believe.

There’s a reason Simon Dallow was standing in front of the same demolition site each night.

*

I’m not loving my new keyboard.

It has little plastic nodules on the F and J keys, presumably to help me orientate my fingers without having to look down. But I can touch type just fine without these nodules. And what’s wrong with a wee peek every now and then?

But now the tip of my left index finger is especially sore (no surprise that I hit the F key more than the J).
It seems nine months of guitar lessons fifteen years ago weren’t enough to harden up my fingers.
If I’m not careful I might develop an averse to F words...

Time to use the only tool I have sharpened in the intervening years to fashion a solution.

*

My first column appeared in the Your Weekend magazine in Saturday’s Dominion Post.

It was difficult to find a copy in Chch on Saturday for all the stacks of special Earthquake editions of the weekend The Press (to go with the collector’s edition on Mon, Tues, Weds, Thurs and Fri, not to mention the $5 charity issue of the Star).

But I got one in the end.

And joy of joys when I turned to the back page (the section titled, ahem, “Craig Cliff”) the photo they choose is not half bad. Phew.

They did change “Ministry of Education” to “Education Ministry” in my first sentence, which annoys me immensely for some reason. Probably the fact it’s called the Ministry of Education. No one says Education Ministry. It sounds like some high and mighty evangelical church.

At least I’m paid by the column and not by the word, otherwise I’d me doubly miffed by the missing “of”.

*

Plan A: swap F and J keys with those on my brother’s computer.

*

Most of the liquefaction in Chch has been cleaned up, the serious urban road disturbances paved over, and the teetering chimneys gently dismantled. The structural damage to houses and the lasting psychological effects are much harder to discern from the roadside.

*

I finished David Vann’s Legend of a Suicide today. Twas fantastic. Hard to classify, but its essentially three short stories, followed by a novella in two parts, and two more short stories to close out the book. Wasn’t so taken with the final two stories, but was gripped by the rest.

Similarities to my short story, ‘Copies’. Not just the stories, but the relationship between author, autobiography and fiction.

Vann’s back in NZ later in the year to teach a short fiction course at the IIML. Would be great if our paths crossed and we got to have a chat...

*

Plan B: melt the nodules.

*

One more piece of miffage regarding my first column. The by-line, which I didn’t write:

“By day he’s a civil servant, by night a struggling author. Craig Cliff introduces the two sides of his double life”
Struggling author? I prefer the term ‘talented new author’ (TVNZ.co.nz) or ‘aspiring young New Zealand writer’ (Nelson Mail). Heck, even Owen Marshall’s somewhat confusing ‘absurdly youthful’.

It’s true, I may have a ways to go before I dine with the Prime Minister, but I thought I was doing okay to this point.

*

“Memories are infinitely richer than their origins.”
-David Vann

*

I only felt three aftershocks in my first 18 hours in Chch, and nothing in the next 48.

Despite this, I had Carole King’s ‘I feel the earth move’ stuck in my head for six hours. AC/DC’s ‘You shook me all night long’ for two hours, and Elvis’s ‘All Shook Up’ for about 20 minutes.

#inappropriate earworms.

*

Plan C: Admit defeat and buy a new keyboard.

Transmission restored

It's been a bit quiet here lately. Sorry. Hasn't been the best of times. M's brother passed away last Friday, so we swiftly caught a plane south to Christchurch. I had to come back for work on Thursday and M got back to Wellington yesterday, but talk about draining.

I had another day off work today to perform promotional duties. First up it was my session wit Tina Makereti and David Geary as part of the IIML's Writers on Mondays at Te Papa. I read from the end of 'The Sceptics Kid', and Tina read from 'Mokomoko' and 'In The End'. Topics discussed included: Twitter, Maui, moa, Palmerston North, editors, book covers, inspiration versus ideas,  and short stories versus novels.

Afterwards I headed home (I had the day off work) to meet a camera crew from TVNZ7's The Good Word. I was interviewed about my writing process and specifically how my writing space factors into things. I really am spoiled now that I have my own office (though it doubles as our guest room), especially considering some of my previous writing spaces (here's two from 2008: one, two).  And for those who can't wait for the new season of The Good Word to start in November, I took some snaps of my office this time last year when we first moved in.

Oh, and I'm sure you're all hanging out to hear what the writing opportunity was that I alluded to a couple of posts back. Well, I received the contract today, so I can probably spill the beans... I've been asked to write a bi-weekly column for the Dominion Post. Apparently they're launching a new (or relaunching an old, I'm a bit sketchy on the details) supplement in the weekend edition, and I'll appear in that.  My brief is:

A fortnightly column of light-hearted reflections on the literary world, arts scene and life in the Government sector in Wellington, as the writer works to make it as a published author and civil servant.

Five hundred words a fortnight shouldn't impinge too much upon my fiction output (though blogging may take a backseat if there's a squeeze). I still need to run this past work, but I won't discuss anything Ministry related.  What I'm doing is diversifying my writing portfolio. Getting my name out there. Getting paid to write. It all sounds like upside at the moment. I'm even looking forward to the challenge of experimenting with and perfecting a form with which I have little experience (the five hundred word light-hearted reflection).

But it does mean I need to get an accountant, pronto!

So, yeah. Ups and downs. The world keeps turning and life goes on for the living. But, I can't help asking, what more does 2010 have in store?