Scorched Earth - Fortnight #4 of the Burns

Waves, The Catlins

One: Status report (textual/confessional)

How do I feel about my novel after four weeks of solid work (and a good 18 months of sitting on the first 7,000 words and all the research that went into getting that far)?

Well, I'm not glad you asked, but I'll try and answer anyway. I feel pleased to be where I am (actually working on it! Go the Burns!), but the novel itself, the 30-odd pages it comprises right now, it feels flabby. That's okay, I guess. I can put it on the treadmill once the first draft is done and I know what's really important. But I have to get to the end (the first end of many).

One problem is I think this flabbiness might be part of what I'm going for, in this first section at least. The risk of doing a book about people who make art (in this case: film) that you expect the reader to take seriously, and also bringing in historical and religious aspects, is that it gets very po-faced, very quickly. So my protagonist is actually a bit of a fuck-up, and we meet him in the midst of this moment in his life that feels more like a Judd Apatow movie than something slicker and smarter. And Apatow's stuff is all pretty flabby. It must be part of the formula. The way recipes require a certain amount of fat for flavour. But I'm still figuring out how this works on the page within my particular concoction.

Forest walk back from Curio Bay

The other problem is I feel as if everything I read or watch is somehow talking to me, talking to the novel, and needs, needs, to find its way onto the page. (Look out for my March Consumption Diary toward the end of the week if you want to read between the lines a little further).

It’s not a new experience. Call it extreme narcissim or first draft solipsism. It's happened before and it'll happen again. I know it passes. I

The task is to:
a) resist the urges in the first instance
b) expunge the extraneous material that makes it through the first line of defense in my daily read-throughs
c) expunge the persistent extraneous elements in intensive edit of 1^st draft 
d) repeat c) for 2^nd draft, rinse and repeat until deadline has passed and you throw up your hands and say, I’m done.

Knowing this, I’m able to keep perspective. 

I’m able to be genuinely happy with making my manuscript grow by 1,000 words a day for a string of days, even if I know the net remnants of that week may be far far smaller when the book is finished. 

Or, shock horror, that this thing about a bit of Apatovian flab being necessary is a massive error of judgement and the first 30 pages wind up on the cutting room floor.

Oh well. It’s part of the process.

Truth is, I love editing the most. It’s easy to see the book getting better, hour by hour. But you gotta have something to edit. And gosh, weeks like the one before the Catlins will get you there (see part 3 below).

And the Catlins trip was work related, too...

Two: Catlins teaser

Hector's dolphin inside a wave at Porpoise Bay

Three: Status Report (numerical)

Total words: 8,702 (novel 7,450; blog 1,092; poetry 141)

* Week 1: 6992 (with an average of 1,180 on the novel Monday to Friday)
* Week 2: 1,710 total.

Why the massive drop-off?

On Saturday of Week 1 we headed down to a house in Waikawa in the Catlins, and got back in Dunedin late on Tuesday, by which time me and my son were starting to feel sick. Wednesday we both were write-offs. I improved, but stayed home Thursday and Friday as Caio was still not up to going back to daycare (double ear infection, fever, general clinginess, a touch of conjuctivitis... y'know how it is).

Four: But the Catlins!

The view of Porpoise Bay from the Curio Bay campground

Looking at Curio Bay and it's petrified forest (partially submerged) from the campground

My son learnt to photo-bomb at Cathedral Caves, bless him

Five: Birds and Boatmen

Apart from seeing the Hector's dolphins cosying up to swimmers at Porpoise Bay, the other notable wildlife sighting was my first Tomtit (actually, multiple) on the 30 minute walk (perfect for with the kids at Waipohatu. I didn't take photos as I had Caio on my shoulders and my camera was in my backpack both times, but I'm sure there'll be other encounters with the South Island's version of the robin over the next 10 months, so you'll live.

Also of note, the Waikawa Museum, with it's trove of family photos and trinkets. All its signs and captions are handwritten - which is both charming and somehow depressing, as if this history is less permanent, less valued, will have a shorter shelf life. I dunno. There was a sign saying don't take photos (not sure I understand the motivation), but I had to take a snap of this father and son (Captain Wybrow and his son David) and the wooden grave marker for Wybrow's wife Temuka (Temuc according to the engraving).

There's lots I could write about these things, and one day I might.

Six: Interlude

Sitting and writing means I eat a lot. I must have some kind of oral fixation. Maybe it’s like ACHOO syndrome, where sudden increase in brightness makes me sneeze. Maybe making shit up makes me hungry?

Maybe I should try gum.

Seven: But was it research for the current novel?

Yes! My trip to the Catlins was fruitful. I'd been casting around, trying to come up with an idea for a low budget NZ film my main character could have made that kinda kickstarted his career, got him on the festival circuit, before it all goes pear-shaped.

I'd had this image of a Western set in the Kaimanawa Ranges, a kind of adaptation of Nigel Cox's Cowboy Dog, but there was a film that was actually made like this (Good for Nothing, filmed in NZ though purporting to be the US) a couple of years ago, so I felt I needed to come up with something else.

So I did. Hoorah.

What's the idea? I can't tell you. But the (imaginary) film is called Curio Bay, at least for now.

Eight: Dunedin institutions

I went to Forsyth Barr stadium for the first time Friday before last. It was for a Warriors game, rather than the Highlanders, because I'm dumb enough to actually support the Warriors. What a bunch of schmucks. But an interesting stadium and an interesting crowd.

This Friday, I'm off to see Nadia Reid at the Port Chalmers Town Hall, which should be cool on many levels.

Archival Footage

It's less than a week till I fly to Auckland for their Writers and Readers Festival and break my seal, so to speak, as a festival participant. Then on Sunday I fly straight to Sydney for a week of being on stage or in front of workshops or school groups. The ABC has already sought permission to film one of my sessions (the bromance one, of course), and there'll be a c.10 minutes video interview with me posted on the SWF website at some stage during the festival.

My cover will well and truly be blown.

Until now, I've managed to escape the world of video. Well, not completely. There'll be a two minute perve insight into my writing space on the final episode of season three of The Good Word (screening 7 June on TVNZ, and online thereafter).

And I (or eagle-eyed friends) have caught glimpses of me in two YouTube clips.

One: Gordon Downie, lead singer of the Tragically Hip, touches my head at 2:36. My head explodes at 2:37.



NB: That's not my singing you can hear on the video, I assure you.

Two: Best sporting event, ever. Brief glimpse of me in the crowd at the All Whites vs Bahrain at 5:10.



I told you it was brief. Still can't find me? Yeah, well.

I'm pretty much the Sasquatch in terms of verified video sightings.  The only other hits you'll find on YouTube are for dudes named Craig, cliff diving... poorly.

Maybe I should change my name to Acapulco...

A week and a bit of being out there

During one of my lunch hours this week I had occasion to go to the city end of Lambton Quay (M. needed her ring resized; turns out the ring finger on her right hand is a few sizes bigger than the one on her left), and went on to Unity Books on Willis Street where I saw a pile of my books in the window.  Sweet!  There were also a stack on the NZ New Release table (general props to Unity for reserving the most prominent retail spot for NZ writing) and another eight or so copies on the alphabetical NZ Fiction shelves round the corner.  Apparently, there's plenty of copies at Unity in Auckland, too.  And a workmate tells me Parsons on Lambton Quay are already on their second order.  Go the independents, I say.

*

They've announced the short-list of the 2010 Frank O'Connor Short Story Award.  A Man Melting was on the 58-strong long list, but it was always a long shot that I'd make the top six and earn a trip to Ireland (now that would have been sweet).

Congratulations to the six short-listed authors:

If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This (Picador UK, 2010) by Robin Black
Mattaponi Queen (Graywolf Press, 2010) by Belle Boggs
Wild Child (Bloomsbury, 2010) by TC Boyle
The Shieling (Comma Press, 2009) by David Constantine
Burning Bright (HarperCollins, 2010) by Ron Rash
What the World Will Look Like When All the Water Leaves Us (Dzanc Books, 2009) by Laura van den Berg

*

I spoke to two classes-worth of creative writing students from Whitireia this afternoon.  It was special because it was the first time I've spoken to a group since my book came out, and I got to do a reading from the actual book (I read from 'Manawatu').

It was doubly special as one of the class was a subscriber to The Listener, so had already received this coming week's issue, which includes a review of A Man Melting.  She'd kindly bought the review along, so I got to have a quick read (they were kinda waiting on me for the Q&A) of my first ever review.  The review was by Siobhan Harvey, which is a lovely coincidence as she was the guest editor of JAAM 25 back in 2007, the very issue that featured my first ever published story ('Cristo Redentor', not in A Man Melting).  I can't recall many specifics of the review, but it was pretty darn positive and included the phrase 'astounding feat' or 'astonishing feat'.  Can't wait to grab my own copy of The Listener: that review's going straight to the pool room.

*

I was kind of expecting an article about me to appear in today's Dom Post, but didn't see one. Maybe next Saturday.  Can't say I'm not relieved: I'm convinced I'll look like a wally the photo they took (me in my work clothes, standing by a construction hoarding trying not to look too serious, amid the taxis and pedestrians on Pipitea Street).

It also appears I've been bumped from tomorrow's Arts on Sunday programme on National Radio. (I recorded my interview the afternoon of my book launch, 1 July). Guess there's always next Sunday. The good news is fellow short-fictioneer Tina Makereti will appear on tomorrow's show.  Represent!

*

Still haven't decided whether I'm rooting for the Dutch or the Spanish in the football on Monday morning.  Before the World Cup began, Spain was my bet to win it all, but I feel like the Netherlands deserve to win, if only because they've come second twice before...

At least I know who to root for tonight in the rugby. Hopefully the All Blacks show some of the All White's grit mixed with some Spanish flair... We shall see.

The Shadows of Past World Cups

The FIFA World Cup is officially underway and here in little old New Zealand it's the only conversation to be had around the watercooler. It's great to have football (or soccer as we are wont to call it at any other time) supplant rugby from its roost every now and then.

Things like the World Cup and the Olympics always get me thinking about what I was doing at this time, 4, 8, 12 years ago.

Four years ago I was in Brisbane. 2006 was the year I did my MA in Creative Writing in Wellington, but the World Cup coincided with the break between the first and second semesters. Since we had no exams on the MA, I had about six weeks to go back and be with M. in Brisbane.

It was, of course, the first time Australia had made it to the World Cup finals for several years (similar to the All Whites this year, though with more close calls), and the Socceroos were all over the media. The TV coverage was great, with every game (if memory serves) free to air on SBS, and plenty of highlights and analysis in between. We were living with, amongst others, a guy from Auckland who was doing his best to be a full-time gambler. He and his father had owned horses back in New Zealand, so the races were his main focus in terms of making money, but he followed the form guide for most sports. It was great to have someone to talk to about teams other than Australia. But as Guus Hiddink guided the green and golds through to the knock-out stages, it was impossible to resist the lure of rooting for Oceania's best (at that time), to the point where I was severely gutted when Australia was eliminated by Italy in the 93rd minute (courtesy of a dodgy refereeing decision).

While all of this was going on, I was working on my MA manuscript, a novel I talk about too much for something which never made it into print. But I remember those ‘mid-winter’ Brisbane days, strolling around Robertson and MacGregor (suburbs you only go to if you live there) in t-shirt and jandels, thinking about football and having conversations with characters in my head. Wonderful days, those. At the time I thought this would be what it is like to be a fulltime writer. In the intervening four years I haven't been as close as that to being a full-time writer, and I suspect nothing will quite compare to that first time I was allowed to take the game of being a writer seriously while the world elevated the game of football to life and death.

Four years before this, my memories of the tournament as a whole are less vivid. Back in 2002, I was studying again, but subjects less sexy than Creative Writing (try 200 level accounting papers and Advanced Statistics for Business). The final must have fallen during the varsity holidays once again, because I remember watching the contest between Brazil and Germany in Palmerston North, in a mini-grandstand they had erected in Icons Bar on the Square. This was back before cheap flatscreen TVs, so the bar had a big pulldown screen and a projector. Everyone seemed to be supporting Brazil (South American flair over German efficiency - not a hard choice for the impartial observer), but my friends and I decided to root for the unterhunds (I mean unterlegenes). This was a few years before I made my first German friends, and a full five years before setting foot in the country, so the only Deutsche we could spreichen between the five of us was a sentence one of my friends recalled from third from German: Wie komme ich am besten zum bahnhof? (Can you tell me the best way to the train station?) Turns out this is a thoroughly chantable sentence — we even got some of the other neutrals to join in.

Germany didn't win, but I've never forgotten how to ask for directions to the train station since.

One other memory from the 2002 final — and again, it's nothing to do with the game itself, is it ever when you watch sports in drinking establishments? — is when a large woman walked in front of the projector and cast an even larger shadow across the screen. When she returned, her shadow blocked out the screen once more, just as Brazil moved into a scoring position, bringing groans from the rest of us on the mini-grandstand. Later on, this same girl and her equally large friend walked past, presumably for another bathroom visit, and one of us, it may even have been me, shouted, "Shadows." It was simply an attempt to alert these girls to the results of their movement — the negative impact they were having on our night — but it quickly evolved into its own pejorative term — an in-joke to be muttered when our coterie of twenty-nothings passed a group of larger people. "Shadows" stuck in our vernacular for at least another year, subtle enough in its cruelty as to delight us (we were, after all, former students of an all boys high school, so had the combined emotional age of a spoiled toddler), so malleable in its uses as to remain funny.

Nowadays, when I see this group of friends, I feel the temptation to pull out the old in-jokes, to revive the language we developed to fill the walks from tee box to fairway, fairway to green, without actually saying anything. When I see these friends — some of them earn twice my salary, others have fallen off the hamster wheel — they too sink back into familiar roles: the relentless mocking, the utter fear of emotion or femininity. They will mock my blog which no one reads, the piddling amount my book will sell, the fact I have (no doubt about it) gotten dumber since high school, and I will mock them for the workplace trysts they thought no one knew about, their beancounter jobs or the fact they still dress like their clothes were meant for their larger brother. It is just like it was four, eight, twelve years ago.

When I look back on the 2010 FIFA World Cup, I will not only be looking back upon the time the All Whites took to the world stage, but upon the lead up to the launch of my first short story collection.  Add to this a period spent looking in the Property Press and thinking about next steps, in day jobs and in life: of trying to piece everything together (but isn’t that every period of life?).

Looking back — seeing what can and cannot pass in four years, what can change and what can remain — I cannot predict what things will be like by the time the world cup hits Brazil. Will New Zealand qualify once again (will Oceania even exist as a federation)? Will I still have a day job unrelated to writing, a mortgage, a kid or two, or will I have written something worthy of changing all that? Does writing have any bearing on the mortgage and kids? Will everything come up Millhouse? I doubt it. If you asked me in 2006 what would happen with the novel I was writing, I would have told you it would get published. I believed it — one must to get that far — but it didn’t transpire. If you’d told me I’d have to wait another four years and write more than a million more words before having my first book published, would I have chosen to spend the next four years differently? I hope not. In a way I’m glad things did not all fall into my lap. I’m glad Australia got knocked out by Italy and I could go back to being a proper Kiwi. I’m glad I’ve had some downs in my writing career well out of the public eye. I’m prepared to have a few more downs (pretty soon if anyone deigns to print a review of A Man Melting) more in the public arena (but pretty obscure).

Whatever will happen, will happen, and I will stop at certain intervals, prompted by sporting events, elections or the purchase of a pair of jeans, and think back to the last time, hopefully with a smile on my face.