Loved this, thanks Charlotte. I was attracted to the title of this post -- my most recent novel, narrated by a family therapist, is called Resistance. It's a term thrown about by therapists, most often to describe what happens when the therapeutic process is 'blocked' in some way. Resistance can sometimes be laid at the client's feet but a more helpful way to overcoming resistance might be to look at the therapist-client interaction as a whole.
Does this pertain to writing at all? I'm not sure, except to say that there's the resistance of the writer and the resistance of the material, and it might only when these two forces can find a way of sitting alongside each other more comfortably that the work can progress.
Thank you Charlotte. My resistance takes many forms. Some take decades to work through: political activism, teaching (always over-functioning) and the fantasy of getting everything sorted out in a mind and household of pure chaos. It was only life-threatening illness back in 2014 that shocked me into producing The Lucky Galah. Diagnosed with advanced cancer, I realised I was most sad about not having taken Lucky the Galah, who had haunted me for years, out into the world. Yes, it's a cliche. As someone who prides herself on originality, I have to admit that I needed that wake-up call. I would not recommend this as a way of kick-starting a late career as a novelist. Cancer may have motivated me, but it's a disgusting and terrifying experience.
The other thing that strikes me about this piece is the physicality, the materiality, of the visual and physical arts. I've always been into craft. I do it like a 10 year old. The stakes are low, low, low. If I start getting "serious" about my crochet or papier mache, I pull back. I make a lot of crap stuff. I enter the daggy old local community Waste To Art exhibition every year, just for the joy of participating, the joy of glue on my fingers, the joy of seeing my bits of crap among other people's efforts, from pieces made in kindergarten to metal sculptures made by blokes in their back yards. Craft projects are a little bit like Vicki H's fallow periods. All sorts of ideas come to me, unbidden, and some of these end up in my novels.
Ah Tracy, thank you so much. I love all of this. It is interesting - I don't think a cliche at all - how those times of deep crisis can show us what we really want. I started writing seriously in my late 20s after my second parent died. The crisis revealed what was important and what was not, to me. I'm so sorry your crisis was so bloody terrifying and I think you are magnificent for everything you've achieved since. And - I absolutely adore your craft materials-immersion and how it gives rise to writing. Beautiful comparison to Vicki's 'fallow' experience - letting the mind be at ease, instead of under pressure.
Loved this, thanks Charlotte. I was attracted to the title of this post -- my most recent novel, narrated by a family therapist, is called Resistance. It's a term thrown about by therapists, most often to describe what happens when the therapeutic process is 'blocked' in some way. Resistance can sometimes be laid at the client's feet but a more helpful way to overcoming resistance might be to look at the therapist-client interaction as a whole.
Does this pertain to writing at all? I'm not sure, except to say that there's the resistance of the writer and the resistance of the material, and it might only when these two forces can find a way of sitting alongside each other more comfortably that the work can progress.
Thank you Charlotte. My resistance takes many forms. Some take decades to work through: political activism, teaching (always over-functioning) and the fantasy of getting everything sorted out in a mind and household of pure chaos. It was only life-threatening illness back in 2014 that shocked me into producing The Lucky Galah. Diagnosed with advanced cancer, I realised I was most sad about not having taken Lucky the Galah, who had haunted me for years, out into the world. Yes, it's a cliche. As someone who prides herself on originality, I have to admit that I needed that wake-up call. I would not recommend this as a way of kick-starting a late career as a novelist. Cancer may have motivated me, but it's a disgusting and terrifying experience.
The other thing that strikes me about this piece is the physicality, the materiality, of the visual and physical arts. I've always been into craft. I do it like a 10 year old. The stakes are low, low, low. If I start getting "serious" about my crochet or papier mache, I pull back. I make a lot of crap stuff. I enter the daggy old local community Waste To Art exhibition every year, just for the joy of participating, the joy of glue on my fingers, the joy of seeing my bits of crap among other people's efforts, from pieces made in kindergarten to metal sculptures made by blokes in their back yards. Craft projects are a little bit like Vicki H's fallow periods. All sorts of ideas come to me, unbidden, and some of these end up in my novels.
Ah Tracy, thank you so much. I love all of this. It is interesting - I don't think a cliche at all - how those times of deep crisis can show us what we really want. I started writing seriously in my late 20s after my second parent died. The crisis revealed what was important and what was not, to me. I'm so sorry your crisis was so bloody terrifying and I think you are magnificent for everything you've achieved since. And - I absolutely adore your craft materials-immersion and how it gives rise to writing. Beautiful comparison to Vicki's 'fallow' experience - letting the mind be at ease, instead of under pressure.
Ah, so much to think about in this essay.
The Hazzard and Harrower letters! There are obviously enough for a volume...what period/s did the correspondence
span?
It's a great collection - the letters span many decades! You must read it when it's out (May).
Great heads up! Lucky mio