Friday, July 20, 2012

Why Peter Rose is the emerging writer's new best friend - QWC and ABR.

It was Thursday night and I passed up the highly-publicised Trent Jamieson event at Avid to attend a small talk at the Queensland Writers Centre headquarters in the State Library. It was an intimate talk with the editor of the Australian Book Review, Peter Rose, and something told me it was going to be a gold mine of juicy advice and information. That hunch proved correct, and the words that follow are an attempt to reproduce some of the brilliance that eloquently spilled out of Mr Rose that evening. The event was also Kate Eltham’s last as Chief Executive Officer of QWC, and she was wished a warm farewell.

Mr Rose is a poet, and has also written a memoir and two novels. He’s been the editor of the ABR since 2001 and was at Oxford University Press Australia before that. He’s written a total of 5 poetry collections, the most recent of which is ‘Crimson Crop’ released earlier this year. You can listen to him talking on 4ZzzFM here.

ABR turned 50 last year, and Mr Rose began the evening with a brief introduction to the magazine and its content. He said its core mission is still the same as it has been for decades - “to cover Australian literary culture”. Reviews featured in the magazine are approximately 1200 words (which really is quite large) and, rather impressively, only about 20% of the content isn’t either Australian-written or Australian-published.  There have been some priority shifts in the recent years, however, and Mr Rose highlighted the development of their competitions and prizes focus. The ninth annual Peter Porter Poetry Prize, for example, is currently open for entry and has a first prize of $4000. There were 1300 short stories submitted for the 2012 Elizabeth Jolley short story prize which carries a total prize pool of $8000. There’s also the Calibre prize for an outstanding essay with a totally prize pool of $10’000. It’s an intense and exciting list, and spectacularly funded, too.
 
 
Mr Rose himself.
 
A query by Ms Eltham into the financial situation of the magazine gave Mr Rose an opportunity to express something he seemed to be itching to say, which is that “actually, the magazine is in robust health.” I want to end this sentence with an exclamation mark to indicate his satisfaction and my surprise simultaneously, but for some reason I feel like he wouldn’t appreciate that. Later on, though, he did mention that “it’s not Shangri-La,” and that “there are realities here.” There was a nod and assenting murmur from our Brisbane audience, all too aware of the abysmal cut of funding to the Premier’s Literary Awards.
So how is ABR funded? “Through philanthropy we’ve been able to fund a lot.” Mr Rose explained that “anyone who works in literature is aware of the purpose of private patronage.” Later on he came back to the topic of financial support, and expressed a kind of mild exasperation that “our literature is amazingly sophisticated for a country of 20 [or so] million people,” and yet “literature cops it in the neck regularly,” as compared to, for example, the film industry. Apparently the film industry in Australia receives considerable government funding, and yet something like 1% of films consumed in Australia are actually Australian films. There appears to be a stupid disparity between what the respective industries bring in and what they create, and how much funding they receive.
 
Moving on from the accounting talk, though, and Mr Rose began singing into the ears of the nervous children (read: emerging writers) surrounding him. In other words, we moved on to the part of the talk where he got super encouraging and cuddly. Well, as cuddly as a tweed-wearing literary critic can be. “It’s been a particular pre-occupation of mine… to help improve and cultivate the next generation of critics.” Well thank you, Mr Rose, thank you very much. He even acknowledged the stigma surrounding literary criticism, but insists that ABR “is not a cliquey organisation... we are not terrifying.” It seems a humble thing for such an established publisher of such a prestigious publication to be saying, but he made it abundantly clear that ”ABR can be a very useful launching pad for reviewers and also poets and short story writers.”

I also found out that this QWC event was just one part of Mr Rose’s sweep of Brisbane. He spoke earlier at UQ that day and had a talk at QUT scheduled for Friday. He even mentioned that at UQ he met with 4 to 5 writers whom he will “certainly commission in the coming months.” I mean, come on, how goddamn encouraging can one dude be! For the trip, he even prepared a lovely checklist for those newbies considering writing for ABR and other publications in general, which is now available here. Many things on the list just gave me déjà vu from the So You Want to be a Writer session I went to a few weeks back. The first thing he emphasised was that “If you want to write for ABR, or indeed any magazine, get to know it.” Specifically, he encouraged people to just send him a succinct email (with emphasis on the word ‘succinct’ definitely clear). “By and large, if the person can spell, use correct grammar, and they don’t address the email with ‘Hi Pete’, then usually I’ll email back.” 

Some considerable discussion also covered the editing process. When a review or piece of writing is submitted for ABR it is, of course, edited – “no hissy fits” Peter adds. The group chuckles. Here’s the great thing about ABR too, they show the writer all the proofing and editing as it goes along. As an emerging writer this process has a very particular and intense appeal. It allows me to glimpse the editor’s thought process, it allows me to learn from my mistakes with a precision that equates to real growth. It’s awesome. “If you want to be a reviewer, you have to be prepared to be edited. It’s an artistic process.” Yessir. Oh – and don’t be afraid to call a spade. Mr Rose said “I don’t think we see enough decidedly stinging reviews…” and he blames this on Australia’s literary culture being so very “polite”. I always imagined that a scathing review from a newbie writer was just too presumptuous and borderline arrogant, but it seems that sinking your teeth in, no matter how sharp, is fine. So long as it is justified, spelled correctly, and contains no grammatical errors.
 
 
Something else mentioned on the evening which I haven't covered properly in this post, is the paid internship position that ABR offers to a young graduate each year. This is Milly Main, the Ian Potter Foundation intern for 2012. Read more about how awesome this programs is here. This position is the perfect example of Mr Rose putting his money where his mouth is in terms of supporting emerging writers and publishers.
 
Another topic of conversation was the virtual side of things. Mr Rose got a little bit negative here. He doesn’t seem impressed with the whole online/blogosphere phenomenon, which initially made my fur prickle, but he went on to explain his opinion that online content is responsible for the suffering of artists, and I ended up agreeing with a lot of what he had to say. He expressed genuine concern that the lack of money involved in online content usually means that “someone is getting screwed.” I can relate to this on so many levels. I blog, and I blog a lot about books and writing, and I don’t make a cent from it. I do it because I love it and I do it because each post makes me better at what I do here, and one day I’m going to get paid for working in the industry. In the meantime though, I have a job with absolutely no correlation to what I want to do with my life, and the hours I spend on poiseonarrows are always rushed because of pressing university deadlines. I’m certainly not unique in this lifestyle either. Blogging is a tough mistress, and it can feel unthanking when you can’t see the faces of the people you’re writing to. I keep doing it though, because I’m writing for myself more than anything, and I think I would have gone insane if I didn’t have this platform for unloading my thoughts all through 2011. Anyways, enough about me. I think Mr Rose is sweet in his concern for people whose content is online when he asks “you do wonder sometimes, how is the writer going to survive?” but it’s also a little dismissive. The literary world is moving to the virtual plane in swift paces, and whilst I admire people like Mr Rose sticking to their guns and continuing to publish their magazines in print and support printed works, I would have really liked him to be a bit more positive on this front. I don’t think constructive adaptation to support emerging artists online as well as in hard copy is too much to ask from our industry.
 
One of the last things Mr Rose spoke about was the freedom of ABR to follow its own vision because it wasn’t tied to profit-making requirements. In fact, he seemed to trash talk the idea of similar organisations which work for profit, saying they suffer from a “relentless compromising of [their] standards”. Conversely, he says that “working for a not-for-profit organisation is so liberating.” I mean, his argument makes complete sense, but for some reason I still found it a little too high-brown and impractical. I’m no expert on the industrial side of things, but I cannot imagine it would be practical for all literary criticism magazines in Australia to offer tens of thousands of dollars in prizes, and not have to make some kind of gross income at the end of each July. I’m not saying I like it this way, but I think ABR is in a very unique and privileged position, and it’s not really fair to judge other magazines too harshly for their basic profit-based decisions. Perhaps this is a cynical Brisbane opinion, but in our current socio-political climate, I think all literary magazines that still function and support the industry in any way should be encouraged.

I think that’s about it! Mr Rose said he went on this Queensland trip to “encourage people to cut their teeth” with ABR, and repeatedly assured us that “there is a lot of work around for reviewers,” so I think most of us left the night on a truly positive note. With his focus on young and emerging writers, I think Mr Rose has made a bold and excellent decision to really dig ABR’s roots into the future of Australia’s literary industry. His passion as a poet and writer as well as a critic has clearly established the organisation as a supportive and encouraging yet prestigious and impressive publication. It’s a balance he himself seems to strike as well – walking the fantastic line between warm and professional. I came away from the evening with an excellent impression of Mr Rose (if you have the time, I highly suggest reading his regularly updated blog on the ABR website), and an itch to write for ABR which I might just slave and sweat to scratch. 
   

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

nightmares about ovens blowing up and suffocating at airports

I usually hate it when strangers yabber on about their dreams. I mean, it’s a notorious thing – when people begin a long story about a dream they had and to them it’s totally fantasmagorical and amazing, but to everyone else it’s just hell boring. For some reason we all believe our own sleepy adventures are so meaning-laden that they simply must hold some kind of key to unlock things previously unknown about our innermost psyche. Whatever man, whatever.

Ironically, on that note, I want to super swiftly describe a dream I had – but I implore you to bear with me through it because the explanation is (I believe) interesting. I dreamt that I was just getting out of the airport and arriving at a university. The university was in Germany. Ergo, I was in Germany. The dream went for about ten dream-minutes (of course I have absolutely no concept of how many real-life minutes that is) in which time I met some nice new students, spoke a little bit of basic German with them, and began to unload my luggage. 

And then I woke up. Fairly simple, relatively straight forward, I know. So what makes this dream at all significant? For one, I can’t speak any German at all, so lord knows what the hell I was saying. But more importantly: I had a dream about travel that wasn’t a nightmare. This is really big for me.
 
 
I went bungee jumping here (this is Uganda 2010, when I was 18) but oh no, I never have nightmares about it. Instead, I nightmare that I'm melting into the floor at the airport and I can't breathe... normal kid.
  
 
I have nightmares almost every night. They vary greatly in context and content, and I almost always remember them for at least a full day afterwards. The only think that makes sleep bearable is that I also have some of the most wondrous and crazy dreams. I’m not sure what difference there is between me and most people I talk to, but my subconscious imagination manifests itself quite vividly and memorably. Here’s another thing you need to know: a frequently recurring nightmare theme I’ve been experiencing in the last six-months-or-so is travel going wrong. Horrible things happen to me in unrecognisable international airports, everything that could possibly go wrong with my luggage goes wrong in new unforeseeable ways. I always end up with no money and no one around, I never have my passport or important documents with me, I often end up being violently mugged or locked in an interrogation room by intensely scary customs officers that yell at me in languages I can’t understand, and sometimes if I realise I’m in a dream (it’s called ‘lucid dreaming’) and I try to deny the reality of the situation, I begin to melt into the floor and can’t breathe. 
 
 
 
 
Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo you can imagine my incredulation when I woke this morning, ate my fruit, started thinking about my dream, and realised its potentially pleasant significance.

Since I came back to Australia, I’ve lost count of the number of people (both close to me and relative strangers) who have asked me “where next?” To most of them I replied with an almost worrying certainty, that absolutely nowhere was next, and that I wholeheartedly intended to stay in my lovely hometown of Brisbane for a very very very long time. That was genuinely how I felt. I didn’t want to go anywhere. A little part of me didn’t even want to leave the house, and I had strange and constant worries about mundane things – constantly stressed that I was going to burn the house down when I was using the stove again, constantly stressed that I hadn’t locked the car door properly and it would get stolen, constantly stressed that I hadn’t closed the front gate properly and my dog would run out and get hit by a car. I suppose this all makes me sound like a morbid freak, but coming home is turbulent. I was away for 13 months, which is really a long time for a 20 year old. Anyways, enough rambling. I just want to illustrate that the nightmares of travelling were just one manifestation of the strange nature of stress I felt.
  
 
Somewhere in Kenya.
 
 
Lately my friends have been talking about their travel plans to New York and Latin America and two of my best friends are together in Scandinavia right now. And finally it’s actually exciting to listen to them talk about it, and I can finally tell them my crazy travel stories without going all foetal-position on them. Lol. It only took 6 months for the deep cogs of re-adjustment to get oiled back into gear. That doesn’t mean I’m heading off to the travel agent to book my next trip, it just means I’m finally actually chilling out. I’m properly settled back into daily life and things are going wonderfully.

One of the friends I made in China during my second semester has just returned to Australia, and I’m happy I can give him some of the advice I wish someone had told me about coming home.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Goodbye Darrell Lea?

I've just returned from spending four days in the Australian countryside where my dad tought me how to use a chainsaw, how to net your fruit trees, how to properly split wood, and how to talk to wallabies so that they don't get scared. I read a lot and I made cannelloni with my mum, and my brother showed me a little of how to ride his manual motorbike. I have a lot to write about in regard to this time, but on the drive home this evening, listening to Radio National, I heard some entirely shocking news that deserves a swift response. Darrell Lea is closing down.


First Rave, and now this? Why is everything good around me coming to an end!?!???!?

  


I consume so much Darrell Lea chocolate that it's not really alright. I'm a fiendish sweet-tooth, and my favourite sweet of all sweets, the king of sugary treats, is Darrell Lea's coconut rough. It only comes out in the colder winter months, and my personal record was 15 packets in just one season. I count down the days and I'm first in store for the special stock arriving, and as the days slowly grow warmer I begin the hoarder's delight of stockpiling packets in my secret top-shelf space. The way the coconut is toasted and the creaminess of the chocolate combine to make the most satisfying yet moorish coconut rough I have ever tasted in my life. I'm serious. I'm really keen on anything coconut and also anything chocolate, and no other brand (either independent or supermarket available) has ever been able to compete with Darrell Lea's secret recipe. 


The facts of the current situation are as follows: that the company has been running for 85 years, it's still 100% owned by the Lea family, and that the jobs of more than 700 people are at risk if no big players step up to buy them out. The administrators have reported some offers already though, so at least we have reason to be hopeful. The company started out as one of those nan-and-pop outfits, where every inch of the layout was oldschool, and they garnered respect and loyalty from their employees - it's one of those places where some of them have been working in the same chocolate factory for decades. Apparently it went through some tough family feud stuff through the years, but nothing like that could possibly tarnish Australia's love for the brand. Even Julia Gillard had something to say about their rocky road. (They mastered the pun of calling it RockLea Road. Go nan and pop.) 


I myself am going into the city tomorrow and, if there's any left, I intend on spending a LOT of money on coconut rough. Until further notice, let's keep Darrell Lea in our hearts and prayers and treat cupboards. 

Monday, July 2, 2012

The end of Rave magazine - a eulogy of sorts.


The end of Rave is, above all else, sad. I have not yet seen or heard of anyone crying out and falling to their knees beating their fists on tarmac until bloody, so we cannot say it is harrowing. Nor is it terrifying, because we know of the motivations and the justifications for the actions and they were economically logical. Distressing might be a reasonable description of the human emotive response to the news, but it does not indicate an adequate emotional investment and subsequent loss. Equally, we may be disappointed, annoyed, furious, or even angry. If you experienced any or all of these responses to the news then I think you’re on the right track and somewhere along the requisite stages of grief and loss, but for me, it was sadness.

The adjective cannot be undervalued. Sorrow is a profound thing. The gentle sadness that comes with some disappointment and a small measure of guilt. I learnt of the news a few days ago in an email from Chris Harms (the editor), and have been sad since. There are larger questions to deal with of course. Questions about the future of print media, Queensland’s cultural identity, and the waning strength of local unity. As usual though, the mind brings the concern back to oneself, and I wondered about my own relation to the publication.

I would read RAVE whenever I stumbled across the latest edition either on the university stands or somewhere in West End each week. Back in the days when I couldn’t even get into 18+ events, and I had to save months of wages just to afford the taxi fares to the all-ages gigs. (Subway paid $6.74 to fresh 14 year old recruits.) I was never quite tough enough to know all the bands either, so Rave took on that status reserved for older brothers, people who work at Rocking Horse, and that cool chick you really wish you were friends with – somewhere between awesome, unattainable, sexy, and frightening. Reading it was like dating someone totally out of your league because you were so damn excited waiting for them to call you out on all the things you don’t know. They (Rave) were also far betting looking than I was.

Fast-forward a few years, and I still approached those pages with ever-so-slight trepidation. I’d sit beside my computer as I read it, poised to YouTube or Google, or (in recent years) follow through to their website for the full story. I’d cut the pages out for makeshift posters on my ceilings and think about how amazing it was that this publication was free. That no matter how many shifts I worked, or how many times I forgot to (read: couldn’t afford to) renew my Rolling Stone subscription, RAVE was always there for me. Loyal from the start.

And now we come to now, and I’ve decided I want to be a writer, and so I email Chris and he says my stuff isn’t too bad, and maybe I could write for Rave. So I pitch a bunch of events coming up in Brisbane for when I finish exam block, and then I’m on the mailing list for contributors and the world of Brisbane explodes into my face and I’m so goshdarn excited and stoked and I can’t wait to start…

And then email comes in, that Rave is no more.

Like a melancholy spanner into the cogs/works of my holiday plans. Now I’m typing up a eulogy instead of reviewing awesome stuff. Now I’m stressing about the future of my city when I would have been in the middle of its making. It sucks. It sucks real bad.

Not only have my rocking June/July arrangements been ruined, but the golden glow I’ve felt towards Brisbane since returning home in February is beginning to wane. The only thing to quell the concerns this new challenge raises, is the crowd-funding project for the Queensland Literary Awards over at Pozible. In the first 24 hours $5000 was raised, and as of this evening, $12'000 has been raised. It’s been on the news and the radio, and its been in my mind as a reminder that Brisbane can do this. I suppose I just have to have faith in my city. That, and make new holiday plans. 


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