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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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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.

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Author QandA Bug Week - Airini Beautrais Uncategorized

QandA with Airini Beautrais

READ CLOSE: Bug Week is a collection of thirteen pieces of short fiction, meandering through time and the globe. Tell us about the intended links – and some of the unintended, surprising ones – that you think give these stories their shape as a collection.

AIRINI BEAUTRAIS: When I first envisioned writing a collection of short fiction, I wanted it to be thirteen unlucky tales of broken hearts and doomed love. I was about twenty-two when I had that idea, to give it some context! Some people say life gets more settled and less drama-filled when you get to your thirties, but mine didn’t. I think I had a bunch of things I wanted to write about, but when I did most of the work on consolidating the stories into a collection, a strong feminist theme emerged. I ended up with a range of female characters of varying ages from childhood to middle age. Other links might be nature and animals, poetry, museums, history, and small towns. These are all motifs I seem to keep coming back to in my writing. I’m really interested in how the past can shed light on contemporary life.

You’re an award-winning poet and essayist – could you tell us about how you find writing across disciplines, and how each style informs the others?

I think genre is probably overstated because it’s convenient for shelving books in a library, and making categories for awards. There are a lot of good books out there that hybridise or sidestep genres. I did my PhD thesis on narrative in contemporary long poems, and read a lot of verse narratives and verse novels. So I think it’s just ‘wherever the wind may take us’ when I sit down to write. Sometimes something feels like a poem, sometimes it feels like an essay and sometimes it feels like a fictional prose story. Sometimes it could be an essay poem or a story poem. Fiction gives you a kind of freedom to tell the truth. Poetry is helpful for concision and lyricality.

The stories often involve human interaction with animals – a clash between artifice and nature, in a sense. Are you interested in the place of human within the animal kingdom?

I’ve always been interested in the relationships between people and the natural environment, and that includes animals. I did an undergraduate degree in ecology and biodiversity so I’m a bit of a nature nerd. When started trying to write about nature I realized it was quite boring to me on its own and it is people in nature that are interesting to me. I went through a phase when I was about twelve of being a primitivist and thinking we should abandon technology and go and live in the forest. Now I have a 10 year old son who has come to a pretty similar conclusion. Climate change really frightens me. I get upset when I look at things like the fires in Australia and the US. I wonder what kind of world my children will be living in after I’m gone. We’re in the middle of an anthropogenic mass extinction event and I think that is one of the greatest tragedies of humankind. So yes, I am interested in our place in that. But I also think nature is a great healer, and animals can heal people. I’m holding one of my cats, Panther, in my author photo, because he symbolises me living my best life. I live with two cats and two children, I’m ridiculously happy and I feel like I can be who I am without self-censorship. Having non-human animals in the house is calming and reassuring.

There are some incredible short fiction writers working right now around the world. Who do you read for inspiration and influence when you are writing short stories?

Some of my influences, both living and dead, have been: Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood, Annie Proulx, Jeanette Winterson. Closer to home, Patricia Grace, Emily Perkins, Pip Adam and Tina Makereti are writers I really admire. I’ve also been influenced by poets who have worked with narrative, like Dorothy Porter and Anne Carson. I always feel badly read and like I need to branch out, read more diverse work and keep up with new writers.

Is there a story in Bug Week you might consider your favourite? Why/why not?

I don’t know about favourite but a story I feel I really inhabit is ‘The Teashop.’ It’s about a brothel madam who used to be a science teacher. I got really jaded with school teaching. I hated being called ‘Ms Beautrais’, I hated telling people to remove their nailpolish. I hated the intergenerational distrust between teenage girls and female staff. We should have been supporting and mentoring them, not bullying them into line. We should have been people they could look up to. So I had this dark fantasy about quitting and becoming a dominatrix. I didn’t do that, I just got pregnant and then I got pregnant again. But there’s still time! Esme, the main character in ‘The Teashop’ is really constrained by the fact that it’s the 1960s. She wanted to be a botanist but it was difficult for women to get into the sciences in the early 20th century. So now she’s a middle aged madam and she’s getting to the point where she wants to quit. The only way out she can see is getting married and she doesn’t want to do that either. It’s kind of a story about women and patriarchy and it’s kind of a story about ageing and anxiety. It brings in a lot of threads that are important to me.

In a wider sense, are there other writers or artists that you think have been a major touchstone for your writing career?

Apart from the writers I mentioned above, there are some dead poets I come back to over and over. When I was doing my PhD I read a book based on Dante’s Divina Commedia and I got really obsessed with Dante. I read a whole lot of translations. Although in many ways it’s politically and theologically limited to its time, in other ways, it’s this universal story of having messed up your life, found yourself lying in the middle of nowhere, and needing some help to get where you want to go. Dante is thirty-five at the start of the Inferno. Coming to in a dark wood was something I really related to in my mid thirties as well.

Another poem I keep coming back to is The Waste Land. I don’t agree with Eliot politically or personally but I really love that poem. I did a painting using the lines ‘A woman drew her long black hair out tight / And fiddled whisper music on those strings / And bats with baby faces in the violet light / Whistled, and beat their wings / And crawled head downward down a blackened wall.’ It’s meant to be this dark horror imagery but for me there’s a lot of female power lurking in those lines. Also I love bats.

I listen to a lot of music and play music, and I love visual art. I don’t know about direct influence on my writing. There were a couple of albums I was listening to a lot while I was writing many of these stories. One was Dive Deep by Morcheeba. My heart was broken and the song ‘Enjoy the ride’ made me feel better. (Stop chasing shadows, just enjoy the ride). The other was quite an obscure album, Scatterlings by Johnny Clegg and Savuka. Johnny was part of the soundtrack of my childhood. My parents basically listened to classical music and ‘world’ music. He did a lot of anti-racist work in his life and music. Scatterlings was released in 1982, the year I was born. The song I liked best was ‘Digging for some words’, which is appropriate when you are writing. I think it’s about nuclear war but the lyrics are quite enigmatic.

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

I am a bad reader at the moment because I work too much. I’ve found 2020 a hard year to read in. I can’t seem to sit down for five minutes at a stretch. I am part way through Book 2 of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle series. I like his writing but sometimes the masculinity gets too much for me. Stuff like where he gets angry at his wife for watching TV instead of cleaning up the house. Come on, Karl. I’m also part way through Fifteen Million Years in Antarctica by Rebecca Priestley. It’s a really absorbing read, I just need some quiet time to contemplate it. My to-read list is global and massive. Here are some local authors that are on it (NZers need to read more NZ writing!). I recently bought False River by Paula Morris. I love her essays and short stories; she really interrogates her subjects. And I am really excited about some new poetry collections, The Goddess Muscle by Karlo Mila and The Savage Coloniser Book by Tusiata Avia. VUP has published a lot of good books lately and on the top of my to-buy fiction list are The Swimmers by Chloe Lane and What Sort of Man by Breton Dukes. And I am really excited to get a hold of Laura Borrowdale’s Sex, With Animals. I love how brave she is and how committed she is to her projects, including running the journal Aotearotica. We are so lucky to be surrounded by so many talented people, and the best thing is, we can all meet each other in real life and talk about books over a wine.

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Author QandA The Swimmers - Chloe Lane Uncategorized

QandA with Chloe Lane

READ CLOSE: The main character, Erin, and both her mother and her aunt, were competitive swimmers. Tell us about why you chose this sport?

CHLOE LANE: I wrote The Swimmers when I was living in Florida. I was a competitive swimmer when I was a teenager, but I hadn’t swum for years. Florida helped me find my way back to it. The pools there are many and stunning, and it’s easy to swim outdoors for nine or ten months of the year, twelve months if you’re a little braver and willing to face the freezing temperatures of the short winter. My life in Florida was simple: I wrote, taught and took classes, and I swam. When I started thinking more deeply about who Erin, Aunty Wynn, and Erin’s mother were, the things they did and loved that helped to make them who they were, swimming was at the forefront of my own heart and mind. In addition to being members of the same family, I wanted there to be something at the beginning of the novel that bound these women together, even if it was only this sport.

I personally love how solitary swimming is. Even when I belonged to a club and trained for hours every day with other athletes, all of us moving up and down the lane with only an arm’s length between us, it was never a team pursuit. Come competition day you’re even more alone. It’s only you up there on the starting blocks. It takes a certain kind of person to be fulfilled by this kind of activity, I think. A self-centered, very focused and determined, maybe even obsessive personality. On the surface the three central women in The Swimmers seem very different, but they all share some of these personality traits: Erin’s mother has lived her life by her own rules, and for the most part done all of it alone, even admirably so; Erin wants to be part of something bigger, but in her heart she’s still too selfish and ambitious to make room for other people; and some of the things the reader learns about Aunty Wynn in the novel reveals how self-centered she can be too. What these women experience over the five days of The Swimmers shakes some of this up, but this is where we first find them, where we begin.

You could never have known how timely the topic of euthanasia would be, with the referendum timed for not long after publication. Are you interested in bio-ethical issues, or was this story driven by character?

I wanted to find out what it would look like for a regular Kiwi family to help take the life of one of their own. I wanted to see the logistics of that play out. But more importantly, I wanted to see what kind of emotional toll it would take on the people involved. The first version of this story was a short I brought to Jill Ciment’s workshop at the University of Florida (UF). It was a grainy piece about a fractured family coming together to scatter the ashes of a recently deceased member. Jill was the one to point out I was trying to cram too much into this short piece and that it wasn’t working. She showed me all the places I could begin to “crack it open” and suggested that I should try a longer form, take my time with it, go deeper. So while this is a story about assisted suicide––that’s what gives the novel its forward momentum––I think of it more as a story about family and some of the ways we get each other and miss each other, some ways we can hurt and save. On the journey to helping Erin’s mother receive a peaceful death on her own terms, Erin and Aunty Wynn do some morally questionable things. Though if I’ve done my job correctly, hopefully it’s what they reveal of themselves along the way, the small ways they change and leave themselves vulnerable, which gives the story its emotional payoff.

The Swimmers looks at beauty and ugliness, at success and failure. It’s a fiction that talks about physical prowess, artistic talent, and judgment: tell us about the process of writing a novel to create a world that investigates these ideas with women as the driving force of the novel.

I went to a girls’ high school in Auckland where it was drummed into us every day and then shouted to us from the stage every school assembly that we were exceptional young women and we could do anything we wanted with our lives. Some of the girls I went to school with were exceptional and now they’re out there in the world doing what they do and ruling at it. For the rest of us, this insane positivity was more of a double-edged sword. Yes, we all deserve to feel good about ourselves, to feel supported, to want and to not be ashamed of that want. But it’s also a bit of a shock to step out into the world and realise you’re only mediocre and that maybe your idea of yourself is not quite right.

For Erin, being able to make art and swim, to be able to do these things at the highest level so that others may experience some level of curiosity or amazement, be moved in some way––that was her dream. Through her failure to achieve this she understands that hard work and sacrifice are important, but that they’re not everything, that if you’re without that thing we call talent or natural ability, then it doesn’t matter how many kilometres you swim in the pool every day. At this stage in her life this is something she is struggling with, being what she thinks of as talentless. This is why she can only see herself in respect to someone else’s achievements. For example, her swimming career vs. Aunty Wynn’s, or how little she has to offer at twenty-six vs. everything Karl’s (her ex-lover’s) forty-year-old wife has to offer.

Some early readers of the manuscript thought it was strange to place art and sport side by side in the book, and for Erin to be as moved by witnessing an athlete in the pool as she was by a painting. I don’t believe these things are actually very far apart. I think about what happens when I walk into a museum or someone’s home and there is a painting hanging on the wall that stirs something inside of me. Maybe I just like the colours, the movement of the brushstrokes, maybe it reminds me of something, a room from my childhood, a place I visited once, or maybe it pushes at a feeling inside of me that I can’t quite describe. But why do I watch sport? Because I like the feeling of my pulse quickening when the person or the team I’m rooting for is doing well or not. And how satisfying is it to witness the human body at its best? I also like to remember what it was like to be fit, strong and quick, though I probably enjoy the sadness of losing that too, of the ways my body has since failed or disappointed me. At the end of it, the best experiences of these things make me feel something, good or bad, fun or dark, and maybe help me know myself a little better. Erin gets that too.

What books, film, art or music have influenced your writing?

Probably the biggest breakthrough I had with my writing, and this was something that happened while I was studying at UF, was letting go of the kind of writer I wanted to be for the kind of writer I could be. Jill Ciment helped me a lot with this. So did Padgett Powell. Padgett’s mentor was Donald Barthelme, and his reading lists included Samuel Beckett, Thomas Bernhard, Flann O’Brien, and Barthelme. But the one author we read every week, his Collected Stories becoming a sort of bible for Padgett’s class, was the Irish author William Trevor. Some of Trevor’s stories are the singularly most devastating things I’ve ever read, likely ever will read. While I’m writing this I’m thinking about a scene from a Trevor story that I haven’t read in years, but that still pulls at me, tears me up. They’re traditional stories, no games. Reading Trevor made me see that style is style, that it’s in you or it isn’t, and even then if those fun and tricks on the page are not in service of a truckload of humanity, then they’re just that––fun and tricks. Fun and tricks can be great, but Padgett used to quote Barthelme here: “What must wacky modes do? Break their hearts.” I’d been so focused on trying to write with style I’d forgotten what writing can do, the best thing about it. So I stopped trying to write in wacky mode and instead I focused on putting the sentences down on the page in the clearest way possible. It started to work then.

I guess if I could only read one author for the rest of my life William Trevor would be a top contender. Up there with him would be Joy Williams, Alice Munro, Anne Enright and, though she has been less of an influence and more of goddess to worship at the feet of, Flannery O’Connor.

I always look at books as part of a wider conversation. Tell me two or three books you would like to see The Swimmers sit alongside in conversation, books that would inform and augment a reader’s experience of your novel.

A couple of books came out while I was working on The Swimmers that I really enjoyed, and that to a lesser or greater extent are narrated by young women at crossroads, while also exploring narratives around difficult families. These are Hot Milk by Deborah Levy and Goodbye, Vitamin by Rachel Khong. One of my absolute favourite authors is Anne Enright. Her novel The Gathering is one I come back to again and again. She writes about family unhappiness with such unflinching clarity, intelligence, heartbreaking honesty, but also with a humour that is so slight and dark it works like another punch to the guts.

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

I’m just about finished reading Pip Adam’s Nothing to See, which is so tough and funny and unbelievably moving. I was recently trying to describe Pip’s writing to someone, the often breathless quality of it, and the best I could come up with was that it felt a bit like rolling down a hill where you feel like you’ve lost control, you’re at the mercy of gravity. But before you crash or careen off the edge of the cliff, Pip catches you, and you realise that you weren’t falling, that she was pulling you along and always in control, taking you exactly the direction she wanted to take you. It’s a wild and rewarding ride. Next on my “for fun” list are A Girl’s Story by Annie Ernaux and Miss Jane by Brad Watson. I’ve also got a few things I’m re-reading in connection to the new novel I’m working on: A Separation by Katie Kitamura, Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill and Joy Williams’ incredible travel guide on the Florida Keys.