Tim Winton Award Judges in Cloudstreet territory

Cloudstreet, by Tim Winton, is set in the western suburbs of Perth some 50 years ago. And yet there is still so much we recognise. Last night we went with some friends to the 5 hour (+dinner) play at HIs Majesties Theatre, based on the book.

I had expected to be critical of the length of the play, thinking that surely the essence of the story could have been diluted into a more manageable time frame, given the nature of adaptations. Now I can only say that not only was I not flagging at all by the end, but I would happily have stayed on for one more act – had there been one! Loud explosions and sudden black-outs, strategically placed though out the performance, did serve to startle any dozers immediately back to life, which was a clever strategy. But for me the sheer diversity and inherent humanity of the twelve characters was enough to hold me spellbound throughout the entire performance.

The action takes place in and around the big but rundown old house at no 1 Cloud Street, a fictional street in a non-fashionable suburb not far from the banks of the Swan River. With the use of a deceptively simple set and effective lighting the river, which features prominently in the story, becomes a character in its own right and is central to the plot. Sam Pickles, who has inherited the house from an elderly aunt, finds that it has a caveat attached. His inheritance depends on him not selling it for twenty years. He deals with this difficulty by moving his large family in to one half of the house and renting out the other half to the equally large and impoverished Lamb family. Some of them are not enthusiastic about this arrangement. ‘We’ll become known as Lamb and Pickles,’ Oriel Lamb complains, not wanting to acknowledge that they really have nowhere else to go. But in time the house works its spell on them and after many events, some humorous and some tragic, the two families begin the blend into one large, funny, chaotic and long-suffering group.

Don’t miss Cloudstreet! Like me you will still be thinking and talking about it long after you have staggered home to bed.

Goldfields Girl had her first official outing last weekend at the Fremantle Press Writer’s Breakfast. She was in good company with about twenty other books either just released or about to be, by Fremantle Press. Apart from the chance to network with other authors and illustrators it was a great opportunity to talk to teachers and librarians, and other interested people, about what we, as book creators, can do for them.

Now, less than a week after all the excitement of the Writer’s Festival, we have been plunged into outer darkness! The first of the storms to hit Perth took out both our internet and landline connections. Then we discovered that recent ‘tidying-up’ of cords and things at the back of our TV has left us reliant on WiFi for that as well! Just a reminder of how people lived back in Clara’s day, I suppose. At least we have a trip switch in our meter box that saved our lights and power.

Who was it who invented the Smart Phone? Without our personal hotspots we would be cut off from the rest of the world, pretty much. So hats off to all those incredible pioneers of the goldfields.

At the Fremantle Press Breakfast during the Writer’s Festival

Goldfields Girl by Elaine Forrestal

So many meetings! But all in a good cause. My new book, Goldfields Girl, is due to be released by Fremantle Press in May and the lead-up to that event  can be crucial to the overall sales of the book. For both publisher and writer selling books pays the bills and puts food on the table, so we all pedal really fast to make the most of the relatively small window of opportunity a new book provides. However, meeting and talking with people takes not only time and energy but imagination and skill as well. The conflict between my next book which is waiting in the wings, demanding attention, and the publicity for this one, is sometimes difficult to resolve. On the one hand I have new ideas whizzing around in my head begging to be explored and moulded into shape. On the other my characters from the previous book, who have become dear friends, and the events that have shaped them, deserve every ounce of energy I can spare.

Eventually all this sets up a sort of vicious circle. The trick is to somehow avoid frustration and cajole these two warring factions, writing and publicity, into supporting and feeding off each other. Convincing them to complement, not compete, and avoid a burn-out situation in which nobody wins.

It’s a challenge. But then I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.

A very trusting mother and baby

Over the weekend I was staying with a lovely bunch of WA writers in some bush cottages out of Margaret River. We were all a bit surprised that a mother kangaroo with her joey, who looked as if he was not long out of the pouch, had chosen to hang out on our side of the fence, rather than with the rest of the mob who were taking advantage of some shady trees at least 500 metres away on the other side of Carter’s Road. Throughout the weekend my fellow writers and I marvelled at how trusting the mother was. While keeping her joey close, she would sit perfectly still in plain sight while various members of our group of twenty people walked around and past her, between the cottages. She was not phased by us chatting to each other or even when we periodically gathered in one big noisey crowd to eat, drink and enjoy each other’s company. She was not even bothered by us taking photos of her and allowed us to come surprisingly close.

Learning to trust is like falling in love. At first you feel it somewhere in your gut. Then you have to communicate and get to know each other. You might have a mutual friend who can give advice, but at the end of the day it’s about taking a risk. If you never take any risks nothing will change for you. Trust breeds trust just as confidence breeds confidence. And when it comes to getting our writing published we have to be open to trusting people – publishers, editors, designers, the whole scary lot. Taking that first step is never easy. But once you have opened yourself up to the world and put your heart and soul out there in full view, each step after that will be easier. That doesn’t mean there won’t be set-backs along the way. It just means you have grown a little stronger and more experienced at dealing with them.

Like that mother kangaroo you will know how close you can let people come. And like  her joey you will never grow and learn new skills if you don’t take the risk of leaving the the pouch.

Elaine Forrestal and Jan Nicholls at the 21st Birthday Celebration for Someone Like Me

I am a great believer in the open ending, but it must have an ending shape to it and provide enough food for thought to make the story a satisfying read, or experience. The new French film, Les Miserable, (Victor Hugo’s classic story transplanted into a crowded modern suburb of Paris) is a fine example.

The film is cleverly and perceptively made in spite of the multiple scenes of extremely graphic violence. A teenage boy steals a lion cub from a visiting circus in an attempt to extort money from the circus owner. This sort of blackmail is a way of life in the boy’s environment where people survive by their wits or not at all. In spite of all its fast paced action the film is made with subtlety and deep emotion. To set the scene we are shown a boy attending a soccer match. As he pushes through the noisy colourful crowd of people wearing or carrying various versions of the French flag we catch a glimpse of the back of a single person wearing a plain black shirt with the word ‘france’, in white letters. There is no need for dialogue. This scene, with the mostly obscured Eiffel Tower in the background, has confirmed our impression that the match is being held in Paris. The subtlety of that one unspoken word has signalled that there will be more to this film than what appears on the surface.

A scene where the boy and the cub are arrested and brought into the circus ring where the roaring mother lion can see and smell her missing cub is loaded with symbolism about power and disadvantage. A later scene shows four of the local cops outnumbered and attacked by gangs of kids. Their car is wrecked and the boy is shot. This is milked for all its drama, then turned on its head when one of the cops ignores the threat to his own life and carries the injured boy to safety. A drone flies overhead, recording the whole mess, and adding another potential means of extortion. Will that be used and if so, by whom? Then there is the eye-for-an-eye scene. And finally the riot in one of the seedy apartment blocks echos of the familiar barricade scene in the original Victor Hugo novel. The four cops are cornered by the mob and the boy stands alone, holding a naked flame, ready to set the whole lot on fire. The boy now holds all the power. The ending, which I won’t reveal because you should see this movie for yourself, is so thought-provoking that there was not a sound from the audience and no one moved from their seat for several minutes. We all just sat there processing what we had seen.

The more I have thought about it the more convinced I am that this movie could not have ended any other way.

The holidays are over. I know for most people there is still at least one more week to go, but I am back at work planning, writing, re-writing and responding to requests on my email. 2020 will be a good year. I can feel it in my bones, if not yet in my bank account, and I’m pleased to be back.

I have two major ideas to focus on. Typically for me they are at opposite ends of my range. One is a picture book which tells the quirky, but heart-warming story of Professor Louis LaBrat. The other is a Boys Own Adventure-type historical fiction that I think will sit well on the shelf alongside Goldfields Girl (to be released in May). At the moment these two projects are competing with each other for my brain space. Ideas keep popping out of my head and I have to be quick to catch them and wrestle them onto a page before they fly away and the details are lost.

Stay tuned and I will keep you up to date with their progress. All the best for the coming year and I look forward to seeing or hearing from you in 2020.

Jackie French is one of our most eloquent, articulate and passionate writers and has given us, along with all her books, articles, speeches and her dedicated work saving wildlife, the most moving piece of writing about the bushfires I have seen. Among the hysteria, the arson, the political point scoring and the virtue signalling she has given us hope, courage, compassion and common sense. Precious gifts in this time of despair.

The very topical Black Earth, an Eden Glassie Mystery by Elaine Forrestal

Jackie has been evacuated from her home, not far from Bateman’s Bay, twice in the last six weeks. She has been living out of a suitcase while she tries to maintain the food and water stations she has set up for her local wildlife who are at present streaming in, injured, bewildered and terrified, trying to escape the fires raging around them. Instead of wailing about what the government is not doing Jackie is getting in there, doing what she always does; showing what Australians are made of.

‘Focus on what you can do. Don’t cry for what you can’t’. Jackie French, 2020, theage.com.au

Elaine Forrestal disappearing into to a good book

For as long as I can remember Christmas has been a highlight of my year. For the whole of my childhood, Christmas Eves were spent driving four-plus hours cramped up in the back of our family car – a little Ford Anglia – with my two brothers. We would all be slumping onto each other’s shoulders as we fell asleep, in spite of the excitement of Christmas and the anticipation of holidays. We would wake, off and on, to check where we were, but we dare not ask ‘Are we there yet?’ Not out loud at least. Not if we wanted to avoid the effort of having to play ‘I Spy’, or even worse ‘Numberplates’, which was a maths game devised by Dad. It involved adding together, quickly and accurately, the last three numbers on the registration plate of any vehicles that we saw on the road. This game was either so difficult, or so boring, that I invariably fell asleep again within the next fifty miles – which is probably why Dad devised the game in the first place. When we finally reached our destination – our grandparents’ house – the excitement of city lights, a Christmas Tree and the scramble to find our Christmas Stockings from last year, revived us. We ran around the house, shouting, exclaiming over the latest Christmas decorations and searching under our pillows to see if, by any chance, someone had left sweets for us there. We hung the stockings at the foot of our bed. The same beds we had slept in every Christmas Eve and would continue to sleep in right up until both of our grandparents had died and the house had been sold.

This year one of my friends commented, ‘I’m too old for Christmas. I’m over it!’ I was genuinely shocked. How could anyone be too old for Christmas? I understand the whole last minute shopping panic, but when I thought about it, I have managed to eliminate that, over the years, by giving everyone a book for Christmas. Even the youngest members of the family expect it of me. And everyone gives me a book in return, or something they have made, rather than bought. Throughout the year I read the reviews, then the books themselves, before I wrap them up and put them under the Tree, or in the appropriate stocking. It gives me an excuse for reading a wide range of genres and thinking about which of my friends and family would most enjoy a particular title. By the end of the year my Christmas shopping is done and I have really enjoyed the process. I can then relax, more or less, and soak up the good company, food and wine; while looking forward to reading the books I have received in return.

Hope yours was a good one.

A very dear friend of ours visited this week bearing precious gifts. A home made, beautifully moist, dark Christmas Cake with almonds on top. In his former life our friend was a baker with a formidable reputation. In his traditional-style bakery only the best quality ingredients were used and only the best produce was allowed to cross his shop counter.

I don’t remember precisely which year was the first but at some point, at least ten years ago, we decided that we would exchange holiday reading for festive food – books for Christmas Cake and special date slice made the their secret recipe. Consequently, throughout the year, I set aside three or four of the most recent books I have read – enough for him and his family to amuse themselves over the holiday season. I know their different tastes in literature and work on my selection, sometimes swapping one title when something better comes along and sometimes dropping in a

A bag of books to swap for Christmas Cake

wild card, just to keep things interesting. And they begin months in advance, soaking fruit, adding spices, peeling and roasting almonds for the top – no over-sweet icing or dominant almond paste, just wonderfully combined natural ingredients and complimentary flavours. Absolutely delicious!

And now that I’ve made your mouth water, I wish you a stingy pudding and a Happy New Year!

Emma Donoghue’s cross-over novel, Akin, is very believable

With the year winding to a close there are lots of get-togethers among friends and colleagues. At times like this there are questions I am frequently asking, and being asked.  Like ‘What have you been reading?’, ‘Which books have you really liked this year?’ and so on. With the Christmas break looming and in theory more time for reading, here are some brief answers.

The Hole Story, by Kelly Canby, captivated me with its leap of imagination portrayed in a simple, humorous and compelling format. In contrast, Cicada, by Shaun Tan, is an intriguingly complex, multi-layered story of the life cycle of an insect.

Hive, by A.J.Betts, is an engaging look into a dystopian underwater world, followed by its sequel, Rogue, in which that world is torn apart.

Akin, by Emma Donoghue, is the cross-over book that has stayed with me most clearly this year for its use of the contrasting voices of a man approaching his 80th birthday and an 11 year old boy, thrown together by a thoroughly believable coincidence and having to share a room in a foreign hotel. Emma Donoghue makes this story work against the odds. And although I read the non-fiction Black Saturday: Not the End of the Story, by Peg Fraser, six months ago, before this latest inferno engulfed part of New South Wales, I found it refreshingly different and so well written that I still have some of the phrases from it in my head.

Happy reading over Christmas and lots of good cheer to all.