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Author QandA Isobar Precinct - Angelique Kasmara

Q&A with Angelique Kasmara

READ CLOSE: Isobar Precinct is set in a very gritty, dark but sexy Auckland. How does the city inform the story you’re telling, and were you ever tempted to set the book in another place?

KASMARA: Ha! Lestari and her friends are people who work too hard, for whom a ‘night out’ is grabbing a samosa while waiting for their bus or stumbling to the nearest food court, and the city they see reflects this utility of movement, so I’m not sure what I did to make it appear “gritty, dark but sexy”, but I’ll take it. Nice!

I never once considered setting the book in a different place: story and location were a package deal from the start. With all the speculative elements going on, I needed to feel grounded inside a city I knew, and particularly, within Karangahape Road. In my twenties, I lived on and off in streets just off K Road and for a while I worked as a barista in a place called The Live Poet’s Cafe which was attached to the Dead Poet’s Bookshop, though they were run by different people. The owner of the cafe, my boss, used to do things like decide that everyone who came in would have macchiatos, no matter what they actually ordered. A friend of mine once asked for a sticky date pudding and was given baklava instead because he thought the baklava looked particularly fancy-pants that day. And he would fawn over some people and be incredibly rude to others, for no reason other than that he was a terrible snob. He used to ignore my then-boyfriend because ‘he looks like a nerd’. I always thought that the boss would make a good character in a novel, and he was in Isobar Precinct fleetingly, but nup, he was an early casualty of a vigorous cull. However the cafe does make a brief appearance – renamed Miss Marigold, at the bottom of the stairs of the Golden Ratio Tattoo Shop. Its barista, Travis, is definitely not based on me.

Lestari’s story isn’t straightforward – the novel twists and turns, delving into time travel and medical trials. Were you drawn to the story by the character of Lestari – a dry, tough yet fragile on the inside tattoo artist – or was it the story idea of the “Q-Tips” that first came to you?

The story came first, however Lestari’s particular arc created what would be the eventual plotline. Initially, two lawyers were the main characters, with Lestari called in as a witness to a trial. 20,000 words later and I could see it going down the route of courtroom drama with the speculative elements and alt-characters dismissed as delusional, but also, I knew I needed someone who was at the centre of things, not on the outside as a jaded observer. So I fired my lawyers. When Lestari became the main character, I could finally see a way forward. I’ve mentioned the lawyers a few times to people who’ve asked me what the book is about, because I think the meta aspect of their disappearing timeline is the funniest thing in it (or rather, not in it). Unfortunately I’m the only one who finds this hilarious.

Tattoos play an important role in your novel, both from a plot point of view and one heavily laden with symbolism. Tell us about your research into tattooing and the role you hoped it would play in your book?

I read a lot on the subject, watched a pile of videos and then when I was close to my final draft, I approached Pip Hartley at Karanga Ink, and Mokonuiarangi Smith at Uhi Tapu to check for inaccuracies. I didn’t want to overload them as they’re both really busy people, so I picked out key sections which needed a close eye – if I skipped anything important, I’d like it to be known that they’re not responsible. I really admire how tattoo artists juggle so many different hats – artistic, design, technical, health, practical, business and people skills, and hopefully this comes through.

Lestari isn’t much of a talker and she gets easily annoyed with the inside of her own head, and so the symbolism came through in a very organic way, via my attempts to sit with her and see things from her point of view. She’s all about getting on with the job, and so the way tattoos reflect what’s going on with the physical, emotional and psychic world, ended up lighting up the page in a way that my often brusque protagonist wasn’t about to.

Lestari’s own tattoos also symbolise how she’s only loosely connected to her mother’s cultural heritage, especially how her antaboga plays only a bit part, while her ouroboros is far more of a ‘character’. One of the culled lawyers was Chinese Indonesian (I’m also Chinese Indonesian), who had stronger ties to the Indonesian community. Lestari is Balinese-Javanese Indonesian on her mum’s side, Pakeha on her dad’s. It was important to me to create characters who reflect the diverse communities we have in Tamaki Makaurau.

What is the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

Finding a writing routine which works for me has helped the most but I’m not sure if this came from someone’s advice or from trial and error. I like to write surrounded by noise – I used to love writing in Brazil Cafe in Karangahape Road and was so sad when they shut. When plotting, I write in short but frequent bursts, one paragraph at a time, because I have a terrible attention span. I rewrite obsessively however and this is when my focus does kick in. For a long time I thought I would never be a ‘real’ writer because I had the notion that you had to like writing in quiet, artfully arranged rooms with a view, have the ability to remain laser focused for hours and cough up wondrous sentences which only need the lightest of polishes. Aside all that, I love this by George Saunders: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/04/what-writers-really-do-when-they-write

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Isobar Precinct to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation of your novel?

Okay but I feel kind of rude at the thought of my book elbowing in alongside the brilliant writers I’m about to mention. Kindred by the late African-American writer Octavia Butler was an early inspiration. The book is so clever but also really readable. It explores the dynamics and impacts of antebellum slavery through the eyes of a late 20th century African American woman who unwillingly time travels back to a pre-Civil War Maryland plantation. Ted Chiang’s Story of Your Life (which became the film Arrival). Chiang’s writing has the effect of making me feel smarter for having read it but simultaneously making me feel more profoundly stupid. If I ever came face to face with him, I’d probably just go hide in the nearest bush because I’d be so intimidated. Neil Gaiman! Many of his books, but especially his Sandman series. Also a shout out to Captain Underpants, which my then five-year-old was reading at the time. There’s one in the series – I forget which – where the time travel entanglements get increasingly ridiculous in the funniest ways. It helped me lighten up.

What are you reading now? What is on your TBR pile? I’m reading Crazy Love by Rosetta Allan. It’s so intimate in a peeking into someone’s diary sort of way. I have a ridiculously big TBR pile; being a slow reader doesn’t help. Top of the list is Pip McKay’s The Telling Time. The Republic of False Truths by Alaa al-Aswany. Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro. Hibiscus Coast by Paula Morris. As soon as I heard we’re going to Level 3, I jumped online and ordered books by Jack Remiel Cottrell, Tayi Tibble and Chris Tse. Oh and The Leaning Man by Anne Harre. I’m also looking forward to the upcoming YA novel Spark Hunter by Sonya Wilson. A friend of mine just sent me a photo of Entangled Life by mycologist Merlin Sheldrake. He’s raving about it so it’s also going on the pile.

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Author QandA I Laugh Me Broken - Bridget van der Zijpp

Q&A with Bridget van der Zijpp

READ CLOSE: I Laugh me Broken is set in Berlin. Tell us about why you chose this city, and what modern Berlin offers to your story.

VAN DER ZIJPP: I had an idea for a novel about somebody who, as an adult, finds out they are at risk of a devastating genetic disease which completely upends their life. To write it, I decided to upend my own life and go off somewhere in the world. Berlin was calling as a destination so I contacted the Goethe Institut to explore possible artist residencies and they generously offered me a language scholarship.

While I didn’t manage to achieve fluency in those introductory language classes, I came to love the way Germans make up a long compound word to exactly describe something (my favourite – Backpfeifengesicht – a face that is asking to be slapped!). German verb and sentence construction is quite different to English and there is a word for mangled, too-literal translations between German (Deutsch) and English – ‘Denglish’. I played with that quite a lot in the novel, and the title itself, I Laugh Me Broken, is a Denglish translation of a common phrase.

When I first arrived in Berlin I think I felt overwhelmed by the potency of the history there, and as a writer you have to take some time to work out where you sit with it all. After the first few months I decided to stay on, as I hadn’t yet got to grips with the story I wanted to write. Joining some writer’s groups I realised that this disorientation about where to start was a common thing. We frequently talked about it – this period of malaise for the newly arrived, because there is so much to try and understand.

One thing I thought about quite a lot was how, as New Zealanders, we have a sense that whenever we have sent our troops off to wars it was always to help defend the side we consider to be in the moral right. In Germany there were obviously very complex concepts for their population to grapple with after Hitler’s regime, about complacency, guilt, punishment, culpability and atonement. For a long time after the second world war nobody would talk about it, but in later generations there has been a lot of self-reflection. And Berlin is also a city that suffered deeply when, almost overnight during the Cold War, a wall was put up between people on one side of the street and the other. Even now, 30 years after reunification, they are still grappling with issues of resentment and inequity between the two former economies. I think that makes for a really interesting society, and a stimulating place for a character in a book to wander around considering big, life-threatening dilemmas.

Your previous novels explore NZ’s fame and obsession, and in your new novel you’re exploring NZ’s youth and naivete on a global scale. Tell us about how the nature of New Zealanders informs your work.

I remember standing in a historical museum in Berlin watching a moving animation of all the border changes Germany has had over the centuries, and it brought home to me how European nations have been showing their strong faces (and sometimes their fists) at their borders for a long, long time. Any two countries that butt right up against each other, Germany and France say, are separated by cultural identities as different as Bratwurst and Saucisse de Montbéliard (and well, yes, the River Rhine). They know who they are and how they are different, and they don’t want to be encroached upon, thanks.

It struck me then how much we are formed by being an island nation. Remoteness is more our challenge, being a peaceful, long way away from anybody else. We tend to look inward, more than we measure ourselves against other countries. And we have this sense, that becomes palpable when you go to continental countries, that we have been allowed to make up our own rules (Covid response being the most recent example).

I think the general lack of threat means that we have a cultural tendency to be trusting. I sometimes got myself into weird situations in Europe by being a bit innocent and over-friendly, but I would always be thinking in my head, ‘At least this is good material.’

Ginny, your main character, is uncertain whether to take a test to determine her genetic inheritance. The bioethical implications of testing can have both positive and negative outcomes – what would you do?

This is exactly the space I imagined myself into for the novel, so having considered it deeply I know that, like Ginny, I wouldn’t be able to decide easily. When I’ve asked others they often say they’d want to know because they could plan their future. But I’ve also sought out the stories of people facing this particular genetic neurodegenerative disease, and the desire for certainty weighs heavily against how you might feel if you didn’t get the result you wanted (and couldn’t then go back to not having taken the test). Knowing that a horribly challenging physical and cognitive decline isdefinitely in your future is, for most, not better than living with uncertainty. What I do know for sure, though, is that if an effective treatment could be found to delay or lessen it, that would change everything.

What’s the best writing advice you have ever achieved?

When I first published my debut novel a person once said to me that you shouldn’t expect your first book will be the best you can achieve, you should aim for a future book to be your masterpiece. I liked that because it illuminated a writing career as a continuum, and that with each new book you are advancing in skill, refining your craft, working towards some kind of ultimate, elusive gold.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like I Laugh Me Broken to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation of your novel?

Because the narrator in my novel is herself a writer (which some schools of thought say you should never try), I am going to gather in four (is that cheating?) novels that I admire, all written with female writers/artists as the main protagonists. Each of them uses a different stylistic framework to interrogate contemporary questions of identity.

Rachel Cusk’s Outline was the first of her trilogy to take the form of a series of digressive conversations, through which she seems to be exploring her own feelings about relationships and children, and also what story is. In Dept. of Speculation, Jenny Offill writes with very spare, pared back prose that has rage exploding up through the words, as she ruminates on the friction of marriage and stalled artistic ambitions. Olivia Laing employs an act of impersonation in Crudo, as her character inhabits the deceased Kathy Acker while also traversing over feelings about an impending marriage, and “growing up”. And Chris Kraus’s series of bonkers letters, in I Love Dick, gives us an eyeful of irrepressible obsession.

What I like about all of those novels is that they all feel so honest and intelligently probing that you are constantly wondering which parts must be true. And I like that those authors are all so clever that within their stylistic framework they don’t reveal exactly where the line is drawn between what we know of their actual lived experience and their acts of imagination (well, actually Chris Kraus gave some clues).

I’d love to get all of those writers in a room, and completely resist asking them where they get their inspiration from!

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

Since coming back I’ve been enjoying the surge in local literature. I’ve just been laughing my way through Megan Dunn’s brilliant Things I Learned at Art School. (As I write that it occurs to me that Megan, along with Olivia Laing and Chris Kraus, all have an obsession with Kathy Acker at the centre of their books, so it reminds me that I should really get around to reading her original work.) Meanwhile, next on the pile, and I’m looking forward to it, is my friend Sue Orr’s Loop Tracks.

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Book Reviews I Laugh Me Broken - Bridget van der Zijpp

Book Review: I Laugh Me Broken by Bridget van der Zijpp

Victoria University Press, NZ RRP $30.00

Learning how to live in the discomfort of the unknown fuels the plot of Bridget van der Zijpp’s third novel, I Laugh Me Broken, a book that explores the burden of genetics in our past and our future, and whether there’s a moral duty to know our fate.

Ginny’s recently engaged to a caring yet vanilla young man named Jay. Intrigued by a story about prisoner of war Count von Luckner escaping Motuihe Island in 1917, Ginny moves to Berlin to research a book about his life. This plan’s derailed by the news she receives from her cousin Zelda: news about her mother, who committed suicide when Ginny was younger, leaving her with a grief-stricken father, who, despite remarrying, buried his pain in the bottle. This information forces her to re-evaluate what she knew of her past and her parents, because no matter what Ginny’s step-sister Mel might wish to believe, Ginny’s mother didn’t kill herself to get away from her husband: she’d inherited Huntington’s disease.

A progressive brain disorder, Huntington’s affects movement, mood, and cognition. It’s progressive, and symptoms usually begin in your thirties or forties. Ginny might have inherited the gene for this disease from her mother – or not. The implications of this pulsate through her life, causing her to reconsider the choices she’s made and the ones she is yet to make. Should she take the test or not? Does she marry Jay or not? If she has only a short time left until she begins to show symptoms of this incurable disease, does she want to spend it living with one man, or should she be experiencing more of what the world can offer?

She thinks she needs time and space to think, so she leaves Jay behind and travels to Berlin alone. Her step-sister Mel lives there, though she’s away working most of the time. Ginny sublets a room in an apartment with Frankie and Florian and meets a colourful cast of new people in rapid succession: Bozorgmehr, an Iranian philosopher; Cristoph, the sexy upstairs neighbour; Pascual, a friendly Spaniard; Yvette, her flatmate Frankie’s Australian friend; and Lena, her cousin Philippe’s daughter.

This long train of new people are central to the novel, offering Ginny insight into other ways of living: not only is Ginny deliberating whether to be tested for Huntington’s, she wondering whether marriage and settling down is the right path to take. Should she choose hedonism or restraint? Does sexual freedom offer her freedom for the rest of her life? These questions are universal, but the looming threat of Huntington’s lends Ginny’s concerns more urgency. Although these strangers and new friends help Ginny discover truths about herself and the world, there’s a sense as a reader that I could see the behind-the-scenes work that is usually invisible. Conversations and interactions such as these are vital for a first-person narrative, so it’s a shame that they didn’t all feel more natural.

Van der Zijpp utilises the German language to expand on Ginny’s feelings and experiences with a sense of fun and thoughtfulness. German has incredible words for feelings and sensations that we don’t have in English, making it a true delight for writers. One of the words, Vergangenheitsbewältigung – the process of coming to terms with the past – is a central theme for the novel, clearly played out with Ginny coming to terms with the truth of her parent’s relationship and her possible genetic inheritance, and Germany’s refusal to forget, as seen in the memorials and museums in Berlin. This interplay between personal and universal is mostly successful, and there are touching scenes as Ginny learns more about her mother and her parent’s relationship. In another sense, it’s clear that Ginny only scratches the surface of the historical legacy of Germans and Germany, leaving her ‘the clueless one stumbling over the historical traps.’

Of course, the real engine of the book is powered by Schrödinger’s Cat: as long as Ginny doesn’t have the test, she both does and does not have the gene for Huntington’s. For most of the novel, I was just like everyone else Ginny meets. I was adamant she must get tested, that I would definitely get tested. Until I considered the reality of knowing, truly knowing. We all live in a constant state of limbo, unsure how many minutes, days or years we might have left. Would I take a test now to find out how and when I might die, even without the threat of an inherited disease? Would you? When the creeping threat of a ‘new flu thing in China’ begins to cast a thin shadow over the plot, you understand that it isn’t only Ginny living with the threat of imminent death. It’s in this messy unknown in which we all live: our tomorrows may never come, and we should be sure to hold close those we love.

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Author QandA Crazy Love - Rosetta Allan

Q&A with Rosetta Allan

READ CLOSE: Crazy Love is your third novel – tell us about how you and your writing have changed or stayed the same in that time, and if/how this novel differs from your first.

ROSETTA ALLAN: My first novel, Purgatory, was published seven years ago. The second, The Unreliable People, was two years ago. Both were stories drawn from historical events and characters, and required vast amounts of research, which I love, and can easily get lost in. Crazy Love, by contrast, is the first time I have drawn from my own experience to create a story. For me, that’s a significant change. I think I have become a braver writer because of it. I remember Witi Ihimaera in a ’97 documentary talking about the Katherine Mansfield ‘Risk! Risk anything!’ quote as an inspiration to write his book Nights in the Garden of Spain — his first book with a gay theme. At the time, he said he wondered what he had done, but looking back two years later, he was proud of it. That’s the power of personal truth finding its way onto
the page.

The blurb mentions this is based on your own experiences. Is this auto-fiction, or simply memories reworked into fiction?

I enjoy good autofiction. I Love Dick, and The Bell Jar, are favourites. I admire the way these authors investigate themselves through their work. Crazy Love does not sit inside this category because I am analysing more than one character in the story. Yes, it is based on my own life, but I’m also exploring things external to myself in it, such as the endurance of love, the anguish of living with a partner with a mental disorder, the nature of New Zealand over the past 40 years, and the concept of home and belonging. Memories in this novel are not so much reworked, as written in a fictional style. Crazy Love was written as fiction, which was how I managed to expose so much personal detail. It’s like puppetry — the real ‘us’ safely tucked away inside the characters of Vicki and Billy. They enabled me to distance myself enough to write honestly and objectively.

At its heart, Crazy Love is romance, a great love story, that features letters to Muldoon. How do you see the political informing the personal in your work and in society?

Political decisions always have consequences that affect personal lives. That’s just the way it is. So many dramatic changes occurred locally and globally during the 40 years of the novel that directly affected our lives. Some, more indirectly, but experienced, nonetheless, such as the Dawn Raids. In ’84, this racism was a real threat to people we knew who lived in the shadows trying not to be subjected to the early morning police raids, to not be one of the families dragged out of their homes and deported. Then, in 2010, we cleared out the little house before renovating it to move in and found partitioning walls and fake floors under the house and in the ceiling. In neither place could you stand up. There was no power, no insulation against the cold, or heat in summer that beat down from the corrugated roof. Yet there was this labyrinth of tiny rooms, still scattered with personal items that had been left that way since a sudden decamp. Clearly, our earlier occupants were subject to these raids, and I felt so bad for them. So it was heartening to see in this week’s news that a governmental apology was offered in a historic Auckland Town Hall event for the racist Crown policies of the ‘70s and ‘80s. And that the apology was accepted.

What’s the best writing advice you have ever received?

Ricks Terstappen, a Hawkes Bay artist and dear friend, told me once just to keep doing it. ‘If you keep doing it long enough, things will happen.’ I have often thought about his advice over the years and realised it’s a form of putting one foot in front of another and not being anxious about the speed of progress. As long as you’re still doing the work, you are heading in the right direction.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Crazy Love to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

I adored Craig Silvey’s Honeybee. Even though the story is entirely different to Crazy Love, the book starts with a bridge and thoughts of suicide. I was delighted to see this similarity to the start of my novel when I came across the book recently. But more importantly, the two main characters save each other through the years. And that’s what loves does, no matter the form it takes. Billy and Vicki do that for each other and continue to do so. Tom Sainsbury’s New Zealanders is a compilation of favourite kiwi characters that make you laugh with recognition. I can’t help likening it to the hyphenated names I give my characters that describe them in a few words, at least how I perceive them, like dork-the-landlord’s ditched wife, or sick-but-sweet dollybird, or sledgehammer hoon. There is a definite thread of humour that runs through the novel. David Vann’s Halibut on the Moon is an exploration of a man held captive by mental illness. The torture of the mind is beautifully expressed, the searching, the desperation. Crazy Love offers more hope in the end, I think, but the journey of self-evaluation while trying to rationalise a situation that is not rational in any way — feels the same. There is a progression of ways that couples manage mental illness, from Bronte’s Jane Eyre to Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea (her answer to Bronte) to Crazy Love. In other words, there’s a long tradition of mental illness in fiction, but social attitudes have changed so that it works very differently as a theme. None of these earlier books are particularly similar to Crazy Love, so it is a conversation of very disparate approaches to a theme.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I just finished Sarah Winman’s Still Life. It’s a book Carole from The Women’s Bookshop hugged as she recommended it to me, and I’m glad I took her advice because it now sits on my favourite’s shelf. Airini Beautrais Bug Week and Tayi Tibble’s Rangikura were both recent reads that inspired me. Incredible writers they both are. Finally, on the top of my TBR pile is Sue Orr’s Loop Tracks. I’ve been waiting for this, and I can’t wait to open the cover.

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Author QandA Loop Tracks - Sue Orr Uncategorized

Q&A with Sue Orr

READ CLOSE: Loop Tracks is set over different time periods – and the closest to present day takes place in 2020, during the level 4 and level 3 lockdowns. There’s been a lot of writers discussing how to manage the pandemic in their fiction, can you tell us about your decision to include this in your novel and why?

SUE ORR: I really felt as though I had no choice about including the lockdowns in Loop Tracks. I was already committed to a real-time narrative for the final half of the book – I’d already decided to continue telling Charlie and Tommy’s stories against the real backdrop of last year’s abortion law reform and the General Election. That was alway the plan – to graft their stories, their journeys, on to whatever played out in New Zealand politically over that period. Of course, Covid and lockdowns weren’t on the horizon when I made those decisions. But when they came along, I simply stuck with my original plan of grafting fiction on to real life. As it turns out, Covid and the extreme lockdown landscape were a gift to me – it was exciting and energising to let real events inform and influence the course of the story. Bubbles were especially useful – who would my characters choose to be with? Who would break the rules? I loved being surprised by their behaviour during lockdown and – as for many real people – there were some seismic shifts in their personalities and their fates over that stressful period. I do understand that there may be some pushback from readers about Covid fiction. But I’ve thought a lot about the fact that when we entered lockdown last year, we all had our own personal, ongoing dramas happening. And they didn’t simply evaporate on day one of lockdown – we had to keep dealing with whatever was going on in our lives. That transition really interested me in terms of my characters’ stories. I hope the treatment of the novel’s ongoing fictional dramas assuages any reader reluctance about reading the Covid parts of Loop Tracks.

Charlie spends a lot of time reflecting on her past in Loop Tracks. Combined with the title, the book made me think about how the past, the present and the future are all interconnected, and if you change one, you change them all, and that all decisions predicate the next outcome. Do you believe in fate, or are our lives predetermined?

I think I believe in a kind of a fate/free will hybrid. What would that be called… willfate? I believe very strongly in being brave, taking opportunities when they come along. The downside of not doing so might be that a door closes on you forever. You’ll always wonder ‘what if.’ I give my kids this advice constantly and often it terrifies them, but so far it’s worked out okay. Of course, you think things through before you make these brave moves and this includes calculating the worse possible outcomes, as well as the best – not only for yourself, but for others affected by your brave decisions. That’s something Charlie didn’t do when she made her decision on the plane at Auckland Airport. She was too young to be capable of the required calculations. I think fate is somehow connected to bravery. Ultimately, Charlie is called upon to be brave – it takes her forty years to find that bravery. Brave people who make good decisions are rewarded with new opportunities. At least, that’s my impression. For Charlie, it’s the opportunity to bump the looping nature of her life off course and find personal happiness.

What is the best piece of writing advice you have ever received?

I’ve received lots! The first piece of advice I ever received was from William Brandt, my first creative writing teacher. ‘Chase your character up a tree, then throw stones at him. Or her.’ (William says he got that from someone else, but I’m happy to credit him with it.) I’ve done so much of this stone-throwing over the years, I could get a bit part in The Lottery. It has served me well. The advice that felt most relevant in completing Loop Tracks came from my writing group and it was pretty straightforward. Don’t give up. Keep pushing forwards. And that’s the advice I give my own writing students. Just. Keep. Writing. Oh – and also – never totally delete anything. I mean, you might take sections out of a work-in-progress, but keep them in a Spare Parts folder. Because when you’re embedded in a writing project, in a narrative, everything you write, you write for a reason. The reason might not be evident or clear in the moment, but 150 pages on, you will suddenly realise why that scene demanded to be written, and where it now fits. I love that about writing – the subconscious construction of pixels that finally unpixelate.

Tell us about the influences on your writing career and this book?

My writing career has largely been influenced by the years I’ve spent involved with the International Institute of Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington. I tried writing fiction for the first time in 2005, when I did the undergraduate short fiction course with William (Brandt). I knew I’d found my passion, even though I wasn’t good at it. I was very unsubtle. I blush even thinking about it. The Masters in Creative Writing followed in 2006 – that was the year I started to understand the power of fiction in its many forms, thanks to the brilliant Bill Manhire. And then, a decade later in 2016, I completed the institute’s PhD in creative writing. That’s when I really learned how little I knew about writing… and that awareness keeps growing. That’s why we write, I think – we keep finding out how little we know. It’s good to know there’s no horizon for learning. As for influences on Loop Tracks – I tend to try and not let myself be influenced by similar works, because I fear accidentally pinching someone else’s tricks and claiming them as my own. So I never read similar texts to the one I’m trying to write – not at the time of actual writing. However, sometimes I will try and capture a certain voice – an attitude, perhaps, for a character. For example, when I was trying to capture some of the older Charlie’s most irrational and unreasonable moments, I’d read Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. Just to get me in the right cantankerous mood.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Loop Tracks to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

Hmm that’s a tricky one! I’d like it to be read alongside any book that looks over its shoulder to an event in the past, but the characters have agency in the present. It’s that willfate thing. I shouldn’t mention this, because it’s just going to highlight how perfect her writing is compared to mine, but I love Marilynn Robinson’s connected novels – Gilead, Home, Lila and Jack. I love how the individual stories circle round each other, building a world bigger than the sum of its parts. And I love how fate and freewill constantly rage at each other in those novels.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m reading in preparation for the Word festival in Christchurch at the end of August – I’m in a session with Clare Moleta and Brannavan Gnanalingam, chaired by the lovely Tracy Farr. I’ve just finished Clare’s Unsheltered and my heart will take some time to recover from that profound experience. I’m half way through Brannavan’s Sprigs, and I can tell already that I’m going to feel the same way about that book. It’s all about the characters, I reckon. Like William said. Grow strong characters, deliver adversity, then chuck some more shit their way. That’s where great books begin. The Japanese have a word for the pile of books on your bedside table that will never be read – tsundoku. My tsundoku is teetering, but I keep stress-testing the physics. Most recently Patricia Lockwood’s No One Is Talking About This and the new Edward St Aubyn, Double Blind.

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Author QandA Greta & Valdin - Rebecca K Reilly

Q&A with Rebecca K Reilly

  • READ CLOSE: Greta & Valdin is your debut novel about family, love and friendship. We’d love to hear more from about how this novel came into being – the characters, the story, the writing process.

REBECCA K REILLY: I always have to start by thinking up a character as thoroughly and completely as I can before I can start writing. It takes me so long to do this because I really want to know everything that the character thinks and feels about things and how they move and what sort of food they like, whether they could answer a Myers-Brigg test accurately or whether they’re full of lies and self-delusion. I have to do that before I feel ready to drop a character into some kind of unprecedented situation, gently, because I care about them all a lot. I feel incredibly guilty if I make something bad happen to a character, even if they have it coming a bit. I have never been the type of person to find enjoyment in removing a Sims pool ladder.

I enjoyed making up characters and then writing them into little non-sequential, incomplete scenarios for many years. I first thought of the father character in this novel, Linsh, when I was about seventeen. He was a university student who was good at fixing computers and bad at admitting his feelings. Xabi was his flatmate and they didn’t know their two brothers were seeing each other. Then there were more and more characters, some I knew very well and some I didn’t, and some who knew each other and some who didn’t. And they would get together in raw text files and the Notes app, before I went to sleep, outside in the rain on my ten minute breaks from the call centre where I sold international train tickets, or when I would go and stand around in a toilet block no-one used at the University of Auckland instead of writing my dissertation.

Then after a series of unexpected events and personal crises, I decided to take my sort of Guatemalan worry doll bag of characters and try and make them into a proper story. And since I had no idea how to do that, and because I found myself with no commitments to anything else all of a sudden, I thought I had better apply to an MA programme. At that point I had to take out all my characters and decide which ones I could make a whole novel out of, so I chose V because he was one of my favourites, and then decided to play him against his younger sister, Greta, who I didn’t know much about at the time, but I thought I could figure it out. In Wellington, a city where I had lived for one year when I was 19, where our landlord removed all our doors and took us to the tenancy tribunal and I had never been back since.

  • Your novel is genuinely hilarious. How important is humour for you, and how do you think it should function in literary fiction?

Humour is very important to me. I just want to live my life and have a good time. Which I do as much as I can, despite the limits imposed on me by the housing crisis and the amount of money writers are making. As for how I think humour should function in literary fiction, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since I first read the question, in discussion with everyone I’ve met outside their work and at New Flavour, and in a shouty voice message sent when I was exasperatedly trawling the streets looking for the pink supermoon.

I think there is a belief that for a creative work to be ‘good’, it needs to be challenging or difficult in either form or content. I mean, I know this to be true, I’ve read the blurbs of award-winning books, I’ve been to a poetry slam, I distinctly recall everyone in Year 11 English making up dead grandparents for an ‘easy excellence’. And I understand the appeal of working out difficult feelings in text, through writing or reading. But god, isn’t it nice to sometimes feel happy? I suppose this is all to do with Capitalist guilt, where eating things you like and sleeping in and watching really crack up Vine compilations are all bad things to be spending time on. I still sometimes have a thought that I should write a really awful book about a sad man who cries all the time and faces many tough and politically relevant decisions, that this will get me funding and I can pay someone else to dye my hair for me. I shouldn’t do this, it might turn out bad anyway. The book and the hair.

In saying this, I don’t believe myself to be a comedy writer. I have no idea how to write a joke, I don’t think I could write a tight five or a YouTube sketch. I just think people are funny and situations are funny, and funny things happen all the time, so if you write characters that are enough like real people humour is bound to appear somewhere. Also I don’t know what people are going to find funny, in my writing or in my real life. Recently I was crying on the street because I went to see a house and the people were great but the house had a horrendous odour, and let me tell you, my friends thought this was very funny.

  • The cutting observations and interests of your characters were wonderfully creative – they comment on people and cities and the world in quirky and deep remarks. Do you keep notes or a journal in your life to record interesting thoughts about the world to work into your fiction or do they come organically during the writing process?

No! No, I never take any notes. I didn’t even take notes when I was an undergrad. I would spend a long time choosing my new notebooks for the semester and then I would get to the exam and realise I had only written one note, which would always be something like how to pronounce Thomas Aquinas? or PKW = Personenkraftwagen. When I sit down to write a scene I basically know what should have happened by the end of it and then how I get there is a total surprise to me. A lot of what I’ve been thinking about or what the writing brings up for me comes through onto the page and then I go back and delete it if it ends up being a whole page about the discographies of Nelly and 50 Cent, etc. I have a mind full of endless observations and anecdotes. Immediately prior to writing this book I went to the Balkans by myself for three months and pretty much didn’t have anyone to talk to the whole time so all I could do was observe and take photos of signs I thought were funny and save them for later. Maybe my greatest interest is to observe things happening and then remember them later.

  • What writers, films, music, art and other culture would you say has been influential on your art and writing?

I didn’t read books for a really long time, I read endlessly as a child, then found I didn’t like the YA available in 2004 which was all about being a vampire or having a sexy eating disorder or both. I didn’t really know how to find books I would like, not knowing anyone who had an interest in books and not having the internet, so I stopped reading. Then after about twelve years I was reading all these German books for university, and thought this would be a lot easier if the books were in English. So I returned to the book life. Because of this, my writing tends to be informed by books I absorbed into my being when I was twelve and the observations and feelings I went on to experience in my life as an adult. These books include Sideways Stories from Wayside School by Louis Sachar, the Anastasia series by Lois Lowry and Emily’s Runaway Imagination by Beverly Cleary. Every time I look at these books, I think oh goddamn, this is why I’m like this.

  • I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Greta & Valdin to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

I’m not sure. I wrote this book because I didn’t think there were enough books about Māori characters that didn’t have anything to do with gangs or violence, and I didn’t think there were enough books where fashionable things happened in Auckland. People have told me G&V is reminiscent of The Idiot, but I can’t say for sure because I started reading it, left it at my friend’s house, and then she told me I shouldn’t read the rest because it was too much like my own life and I’d be upset.

  • Is there a playlist of music that goes alongside the novel?

This is a playlist of G&V vibes, not of the actual songs mentioned in the novel because I don’t think people generally want to listen to a playlist that contains Boney M, John Rowles, and Herbs, unless they’re at a rural sports bar in the late 1980s.

  • What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

Oh it’s horrible, it’s never ending. I’m reading six different books right now and I don’t want to talk about it. I request endless library books and eventually they show up and I have to read them so the next person can also get the email that their turn is here and they too can think, Oh god, that book I requested after I had that really strong cocktail in Queenstown, after I looked at the CookieTime mascot and thought is this what representation for people with gap teeth looks like, then decided it was time to request the latest trending books in literary fiction, all those books are now here and I must get to the library lickety-split before I’ve wasted everyone’s time. Some of the books I’ve requested at the moment are Victory Park, Detransition Baby, Fake Accounts, and Crying in H Mart.

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Author QandA The Disinvent Movement - Susanna Gendall

Q&A with Susanna Gendall

READ CLOSE: The narrator in The Disinvent Movement is interested in disinventing the world, one thing at a time. This is a wonderful idea – was this the starting point for the novel or did it come to as you explored your character?

SUSANNA GENDALL: The sections on the ‘Disinvent Movement’ were the first scenes that I wrote, so yes, I definitely started out with this idea in mind. The rest of the novel sort of grew out from there. But I guess the protagonist took this idea somewhere I hadn’t initially anticipated. I’d imagined it as an environmental and anti-capitalist movement, but as I got deeper into the book, it also became about who the character is and her whole conundrum, about her as an ecosystem under threat.

In the notes at the end of the book, you mention that one section started life on The Friday Poem at The Spinoff. Did you always plan the structure of the novel to be fragments, written as lyrical poetry and stories in miniature, or did the novel shift and change as you wrote?

I really liked the idea of fragments – this was a form I’d always been drawn to, and it felt like the right format for the narrator and her story, but I wasn’t entirely sure how they’d all fit together. I decided to just do the writing, and then piece them together. I didn’t start out thinking that I was writing ‘a novel’, though. I thought I’d just see what it turned out to be once I’d finished. This was quite freeing, I think. It wasn’t until near the end that I began to realise it was turning into a novel… This felt like a little joke from the universe, as I’d basically given up on writing one. I’d made several attempts, but they’d all fizzled out. I think I had certain preconceptions about what a novel was, and needed to blank these out in order to write one. The idea of genre has always seemed kind of constricting – I think it would be nice if we didn’t have to call a book a ‘novel’ or ‘a short story collection’ or a ‘memoir’ or whatever. I have fantasies about a bookshop with no sections, just ‘books’. This probably sounds like total hell to the people that sell them, though!

Tell us about your relationship with Paris and why you wanted to include the City of Love in your novel.

I have a bit of an ambivalent relationship with Paris – love-hate, possibly? It’s where I live about half the time, and I’ve always felt slightly removed from it – part of the deal when it’s not your home town. This was an aspect that I wanted to bring into the novel – which, in a way, reflected the narrator’s relationship with herself. It’s also a city where anonymity seems part its heartbeat. You can go for weeks without running into anyone you know. I guess I felt that this was the right backdrop for my anonymous narrator.

We would love to know which artists, writers, films, musicians and books have had an impact on your career and writing.

Wow, so many! In a way, everything you read and see and interact with is quietly having an impact on what and how you write . . . but I love Ali Smith and her playful yet political angle. Rachel Cusk’s work also resonates deeply with me, particularly the Outline trilogy. The French director Michel Gondry has been a big influence as well. When I first saw his films, I remember thinking that this was someone who was really pushing cinema somewhere exciting, going beyond plot. The Science of Sleep is a film that I can watch over and over. And, actually, dance has been very inspiring. There’s some really exciting choreographers around at the moment. A few years back I saw four short ballets by Tino Sehgal, Crystal Pite, Justin Peck and William Forsythe, which really shifted my approach to narrative, I think.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like The Disinvent Movement to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

I read The Years, by Annie Ernaux after I’d written The Disinvent Movement, and it immediately struck me as a book that resonated with it – something about the way it blurs the personal and political, and also perhaps the distance she manages to achieve on her own life, as if she is looking down upon it. And perhaps The Notebook by Hungarian writer Ágota Kristóf, a dark, unsettling story, which I also read as a meditation on fiction.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m reading two books at once at the moment, which is unusual for me, but I thought I’d try a new bedtime routine. Moby Dick, which I’ve been trying to get to for years, and which is absolutely blowing me away. The language is so rich and gorgeous . . . And Ducks, Newburyport, by Lucy Ellmann – a 1000-page book written in about three sentences. It’s got a bit of a Ulysses vibe but from the angle of a middle-age woman contemplating just about everything in the universe. I’m enjoying the challenge of reading two big, fat, wonderful books at once. I’m really looking forward to catching up with some of the exciting books to come out of Aotearoa over the past year as well – Bug Week, by Airini Beautrais, The Swimmers, by Chloe Lane. I’ve also been wanting to read Weather by Jenny Offill. There’s so much that I want to read at the moment.

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Author QandA Sorrow and Bliss - Meg Mason Uncategorized

Q&A with Meg Mason

READ CLOSE: Sorrow and Bliss is Martha’s story. Tell us how you came to write the book – how you settled on the narrative voice; the structure and the importance of leaving gaps in her experience for the reader; the decisions you made and how the book changed during the writing.

MEG MASON: Sorrow and Bliss was never meant to be anything other than a Word document, or seen by anyone except me. Because I started it a month or so after quitting fiction forever, at the end of 2018, having spent all year labouring over a book that was horrible to begin with and even worse by the time I’d finished with it. So much time and emotional energy had been wasted producing 85,000 unusable words, I couldn’t imagine ever trying again.

But then. Authors are sometimes asked what ‘makes’ someone a writer, whether its innate ability or something that can be taught or the product of practise and discipline. I just think a writer is someone who can’t help themselves. No matter how hard the work is, the permanent, overhanging threat of it not turning out or ever being published or finding readers if it is, you just have to. You can’t not if you want to feel like yourself and know what you think.

So even though I truly thought my writing career was over, I was compelled back to my desk one day, wanting to put down not even a scene really, just an image that had dropped into my head, of a couple at a wedding going over to chat to a woman who was by herself and having a terrible time with a canape.

For some reason the 600 words or so that I wrote that day, which became the first scene of the book, were a bit flood-gates-y and the rest it just came roaring out. I just had to sit there and type.

The only contributing thing I can identify is my deciding that Martha was just going to say what happened. I wasn’t going to try and make every single sentence clever and novelly, and rammed with verbs and description as I had – so effortfully and disastrously – in the earlier book.

If a character sits down, Martha says ‘he sat down.’ Not ‘he collapsed onto the well-worn, velvet sofa, riven with anxiety, as a sharp wind forced its way through the peeling window frames like ice cold fingers’. If there’s anxiety and a breeze, she’d just say that too or – as to the gaps in the narrative – we just have to figure it out from other things says or doesn’t. That’s why the tone turned out the way it did, sort of flat and prosaic but more the way we really talk, and I think what makes the book a little bit different, and definitely different to anything I’ve ever written before.

Your second novel is concerned with motherhood, and whether Martha could be a good mother, ideas which have also driven your memoir Say It Again In A Nice Voice and your first novel, You Be Mother. Could you let us know a little of your thoughts concerning writing about motherhood and children and why it’s important to you?

I would say, rather than being something I set out to do, my concentration on motherhood was a product of my age and the stage of life I was in when I started writing – 32, with two little children. It’s remained one because all of life is in it – mother and child relationships and particularly, for me, mother and daughter ones. Every emotion and complication and experience is there, so I’m sure there will be a mother and daughter, of some age, in every book I ever write.

If Sorrow and Bliss were to be a film, who would you like to cast to play Martha, Patrick, Jonathan, Ingrid, et al?

Possibly you’d assume the opposite of a writer but I have no visual imagination when it comes to characters and what they look like. I can do you a lovely, detailed living room or a rainy street but the reason there’s barely any physical description in Sorrow and Bliss is because I have no idea how any of them look. Which makes it hard for me to cast them. But if the author is allowed to hover on the corner of a set, I would rewrite the entire thing just so there were parts for Sharon Horgan, Benedict Cumberbatch and Colin Firth.

Your writing has been compared to Phoebe Bridge-Waller’s Fleabag and Sally Rooney. What writers, films, artists or musicians do you think have had an impact on your writing?

I’ve been amazed by comparisons to both of those writers, and so grateful. But they’re both such millennial voices and I’m squarely Gen X so its writers of my generation, or earlier ones, who have taught me what to do and how, and impacted me most as a reader. Like Rachel Cusk, who writes in such a straight, sparing way that you’re always caught out by the depth and darkness of the material. Hilary Mantel, for the way she combines such detail with such economy. Janet Frame, for beauty and experiment. But most of all, Nancy Mitford for that incredible blending of humour and pathos and – I think – her inventing a kind of fiction that is literary but funny and accessible at the same time.

I Iike to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Sorrow and Bliss to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

Gosh, I love that idea. I remember when I read Jenny Offill’s Dept. Of Speculation when it first came out, thinking afterwards – or possibly within the first few pages – oh, here it is, the perfect novel! Desperately funny and sad and beautiful, such amazing observation and – incredibly – the whole story of a marriage told in one hundred and something pages. That and Grief is the Thing With Feathers, a sort of boy version of the same, are the two novels I would choose as companions for Sorrow and Bliss if I could.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m not sure why, since I generally tend towards fiction, but I’ve been on a history bender since the beginning of summer and chain-read all of Simon Jenkins’ Short Histories, and Antonia Fraser’s Mary Queen of Scots, Marie Antoinette and The Six Wives of Henry Eighth. They’re such amazing works for scholarship but they read like novels so there’s no effort involved. But definitely inspiration, for me, in the fact that Fraser had her fifth child in the middle of writing Mary Queen of Scots, 640 pages long, and she didn’t give up or drop dead of exhaustion.

Next, and the second they’re released, in February and May this year, I will be reading Max Porter’s The Death of Francis Bacon and Rachel Cusk’s Second Place.

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Addressed to Greta - Fiona Sussman Author QandA Uncategorized

Q&A with Fiona Sussman

READ CLOSE: Addressed to Greta is your third novel. How do you see your craft and your focus shifting over your career, and how has it remained the same?

FIONA SUSSMAN: At first glance, no one of my novels resembles the others – frustrating for anyone bent on slotting my work into a single genre. I think this has less to do with shifting focus over my writing career, as more just deciding to write the stories that demand to be told. As I begin on a new work, it is the emotional impetus for the story, and not the prospective audience, that inevitably determines how it will out.

The commonality underpinning my writing is the subject matter. I remain fascinated by those who are forced to navigate the periphery of society because of prejudice, be that towards race, sexual orientation, mental health, physique . . . I have always been drawn to tell the underdog’s tale and remain driven to shine a light on the challenges experienced by those who don’t fall within the narrow margins of ‘the norm’ peddled by Western society.

My third novel, Addressed to Greta, has a strong thread of humour through it. This was definitely a first for me as a writer. However, stacked beneath the humour are more weighty issues. Had I consciously thought about writing a funny novel though, I suspect the humour would have felt forced and contrived. Rather, it arose organically from the protagonist, whose social gaucheness makes her unwittingly funny.

Family dynamics are always at the forefront of your work – even when family members are no longer present, they haunt the protagonists. Greta is desperate to move out from under the shadow of her mother, five years after she’s passed. What is it about families and their relationships that draw you to write about them?

The role of family in the genesis of wider social issues has always interested me and makes for a fascinating lens through which to examine personal and societal problems and successes.

The family unit is really a nursery ground for the next generation, ideally affording a safe, non-judgemental space for personal growth and development. At its best, it offers a solid base from which an individual can venture out into the world to test their evolving persona, and a safe place to which they can always return.

In a dysfunctional family, the unit becomes a place of negative energy, criticism, excessive control . . . and serves to undermine the growth and self-determination of those within it, most especially children.

In Addressed to Greta, Greta’s mother, Nora, imparts her own jaded and cynical views to her daughter – attitudes and beliefs springing from her life of disappointment. No expectation, no disappointment is just one of Nora’s many mantras. Greta learns to live by it too, her mother’s fears shaping her outlook and stifling her development. Even after Nora dies, her cautions continue to wield power over Greta.

It takes Walter, a close friend of Greta’s, to realise that for Greta to live a bigger life, she must escape the long shadow cast by her mother. Walter’s insight and empathy comes from his own experiences, having grown up in a family where he was forced to live a lie.

Greta lives in a very recognisable Auckland, driving from Devonport to her job, and over the bridge to Ponsonby. Do you think writing about the places we live is important, and why?

Often we shy away from setting stories in our own back yard. The ‘other’, the ‘foreign’, the ‘faraway’ or ‘unknown’ always seems more exciting, more exotic, more profound. But there can be real power in the familiar backdrop, lending a story greater relatability and relevance, and giving what sometimes feels like our small local life, value and import.

While fiction generally affords the comfort of a few degrees of separation from our lives, its power can be in the recognisable. In seeing aspects of our life reflected in a story. The sense that a character’s thoughts or experiences or challenges or habitat in some way reflect our own. And in this way the familiar can work to enhance the resonance of a story.

Greta’s travels are incredible – have you travelled widely?

My parents were great believers in education outside the classroom, in particular through travel and books, something they felt to be particularly pressing when we were growing up under the appalling apartheid regime. To never travel (be that physically or through reading) is to believe that the pocket of world you inhabit is the only reality. They were determined to challenge that notion. My husband and I have tried to continue this tradition with our children.

I grew up Johannesburg, South Africa, in 1989 following my-husband-to-be to New Zealand. In some ways, our emigration because of the repercussions of fascist politics, mirrored my maternal grandparents’ emigration from Italy to South Africa to escape Mussolini’s tyranny, and my husband’s parents’ escape from Nazi Germany . . .

After my husband and I completed our medical training in New Zealand, we headed to the UK for work experience, ‘en route’ backpacking around the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico.

England proved a great launching pad for exploring the rest of Europe, and we made the most of this during our three years away, returning home to New Zealand in 1997. New Zealand has been a wonderful home to us in so many ways, and we continue to explore its beauty as keen trampers.

Some years ago, my brother treated me to a week in New York – a place I’d never been before and where he had spent a lot of time.

Then, after my mum passed, we used some of her generous legacy, to take our family to Rwanda, trekking into the Ngungwe Forest National Park and the Volcanoes National Park to see the endangered gorillas and chimpanzees. It was a once-in-a lifetime experience.

I wish I had more space to expand on these standout adventures. I still get excited just thinking about them.

What writers, films, artists or musicians do you think have had an impact on your writing?

Growing up, I was hugely influenced by those brave, socially-conscious authors such as Nadine Gordimer, Alan Paton, Athol Fugard, JM Coetzee , and André Brink, who, despite the heavy censorship operating during the apartheid era, used their pens and position of privilege to document the atrocities of the regime and provoke change. Their works gave me an appreciation for the power of the written word as a tool for change, as did the lyrics of socially conscious Mexican-American singer songwriter Sixton Rodriguez.

Other authors that have impacted my writing (so hard to narrow down) include Ian Cross, Toni Morrison, Kate Grenville, Helen Garner, Alan Duff, Jesmyn Ward, and George Saunders.

If Addressed to Greta were to be made into a film, who would you cast?

Ha! I like to see new faces on the screen, as I think they give characters their own authenticity. But hey, I reckon Miranda Hart would do a great job of being Greta, and Eric Bana would make a fine Walter.

What are you reading now? What is on your To Be Read pile?

I have just finished I Wish I Wish by Zirk van den Berg. A tiny gem of book with such emotional depth. The Afrikaans version recently won the Hofmeyr Prize in South Africa.

On my bedside table is Remote Sympathy by Catherine Chidgey, Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell, Fake Baby by Amy McDaid, and Shepherds and Butchers by Chris Marnewick.

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Author QandA Victory Park - Rachel Kerr

QandA with Rachel Kerr

READ CLOSE: Your debut novel, Victory Park, began as your MA thesis at the IIML at Victoria University. Tell us about how that year impacted your writing and this novel in particular?

RACHEL KERR: Well I was incredibly lucky to have Emily Perkins as my supervisor. From the start, she emphasized the importance of depth and imagination over surface things like everything flowing nicely, which can be fixed later. There were practical suggestions such as that it’s a good idea to keep writing forwards in a first draft rather than to be tempted to keep going back and fixing things – which meant I actually got somewhere. We did a lot of work at sentence level, looking at ways of organising words and phrases. The class extensively discussed different approaches taken by authors we loved, both at a philosophical level, and at a practical craft level. It was also very useful if quite painful at times to have my work read and discussed by the group as it helped me get a clear picture of my strengths and weaknesses. One of the challenges I had was that in writing about children, it’s easy for the prose to pick up a whiff of childishness, and I had to work hard against that.

Kara, a bereaved mother of two, forges an unlikely friendship with Bridget, her new neighbour and wife of a disgraced fund investor – and it’s this relationship, and not a love story, that drives the novel. Are you interested in the potential for more novels to interrogate female friendship like you have done here?

I’m certainly interested in novels by other women which do this – I’m not sure my own next book will though. Sarah Moss’ Ghost Wall springs to mind as a stunning recentish example. Pip Adam’s Nothing to See. Some of the stories in the epic Sport 47. Female friendships form such a bulwark for women in tough times but can go horribly wrong.

We’d love to hear about the research you did for this novel – meeting people, walking around Wellington, understanding the dynamics of life for many different people. Please tell us about it.

Sure. At the start I read a lot about Ponzi schemes, including about Bernie Madoff, but also various court cases. Almost none of that ended up in the book, and I’d be more focussed about it next time, or maybe hold off on doing so much research until I had a clearer idea how I was going to approach the book. The most useful research I did was spending quite a lot of time in the suburb where the book is set, getting a close up idea of the look and feel. Very broadly, I think much of the ‘research’ for a book is the way you live your life, which can’t help but filter into the work.

Do you have writers, books, art, music or film that you consider influential or inspirational for your writing? 

A couple of writers who I find directly inspirational are Penelope Fitzgerald and Doris Lessing. Not exactly obscure choices but it’s hard to go past them! Both of them have a surface simplicity and accessibility, while doing some fine moral calibration underneath. Both balance the full range of experience in terms of highs and lows, with authenticity and some joy and humour.

In terms of films, I particularly enjoy a well-made documentary. My favourite last year was The Silence of Others by Almudena Carrucedo and Robert Bahar.

I Iike to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Victory Park to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

Emily Perkins recently compared my work to that of Barbara Trapido, so I’ll run with that! In terms of local writers, I felt a real connection with Kirsten McDougall’s first book, The Invisible Rider, in its gentle depiction of characters struggling with the normal difficulties of being decent.

If Victory Park were to be made in a film, or TV show, who would like to be cast?

I’d love to see Rachael Brown, the woman on the cover of the book, given a screen test. Siobhan Marshall (Pascalle from Outrageous Fortune) for Bridget.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m reading Moetū, by Witi Ihimaera, at one page a day. It has each page in te reo, then English, so I’m trying to understand the reo first.

Half read or TBR includes:

-Clarice Lispector, Collected Stories

-David Coventry, The Invisible Mile

-Sarah Moss, Summerwater

-Kate Camp, How to be Happy though Human

-Chloe Lane, The Swimmers

-Xanthe White, The Good Dirt.