Tag: creative writing

What we learn in sorrow

What we learn in sorrow

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In Australia at the moment many are grieving. Bushfires have swept our country, taking out huge tracts of land, homes, and many, many lives, both human and wildlife. I have stopped looking at the news because the images are too distressing. My heart grieves at so much loss. And now I have learned that a friend passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly. This year weighs on us all, bringing deep sorrow. It’s hard to see a way forward.

The sorrow of losing a friend

A dear friend, Wendy Dunn, introduced me to Elizabeth Jane Corbett, in 2016. We had both recently signed with the same publisher and Wendy thought it would be good if we could get to know each other and support each other through the journey to becoming published authors. My first impression of Elizabeth was that she was incredibly striking – very tall, with strong, beautiful features. Red was her signature colour. She had a direct way of speaking – you always knew where you stood with her. Over the next three years we spent time together at various writerly events. We shared market stalls at the Mythic Market and Supanova. We shared a room at Conflux in 2017, both newbie authors feeling imposter syndrome big time. Our late night chats were deep and insightful. And we reconnected at the Historical Novel Society conferences.

Elizabeth was an extraordinary writer. Her debut novel, The Tides Between, was shortlisted by the CBCA. It is a migration story, and a coming of age story, but to categorise it as that would be to fall far short. Woven through its tapestry of beautiful, beautiful writing are also Welsh myths and tales, which help young Bridie come to understand the world. At times devastating, Elizabeth’s book is one of those rare ones that I will take with me, in my heart and on my bookshelf, wherever I go. I interviewed Elizabeth on this blog in 2017 – you can read the interview here: An Interview with Elizabeth Corbett.

Living with passion

As I sit in sorrow, the thing I remember most about Elizabeth is her passion. It was a passion that seemed to have crept up on her unexpectedly. Elizabeth started learning Welsh as research for The Tides Between.  But when the book was finished, her learning didn’t, and it reached the point where she was actually teaching Welsh herself, and travelling to Wales regularly. Incredibly, she was interviewed about her book in Welsh on BBC Wales! That’s dedication to research. Next she started researching her second book, the story of Margret Glyn Dŵr, wife of the last Welsh Prince of Wales. And it turned into an obsession that led her to a Masters degree. It was on the verge of leading into a PhD. You can read all about it in her own words here.

I was in awe of Elizabeth’s passion. She found what she loved and she was completely true to it, pursuing it as far as she possibly could. When I look back now, and contemplate the loss of someone like Elizabeth, my sorrow arises as much from the loss of her friendship as from what she would have contributed in the future as a writer, historian and passionate Welshophile. I hope that her pursuit of her passion can inspire me to embrace my own, because in the end, a passionate life is one that is true to yourself. And that is one way to honour the life and legacy of someone like Elizabeth.

Sometimes an ending comes as a surprise

Sometimes an ending comes as a surprise

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Sometimes writers play games with their own minds. They set up little rules. They have superstitions. As I came close to writing the ending of Pierrot’s Song I made a decision. I would write everything but the epilogue. Then I would go back and read all three books again. Only then would I think about writing the epilogue. I wanted to do it justice, and to make sure I wrapped up everything properly.

Photo by ATUL MAURYA from Pexels

Clearly my mind had other ideas. I woke up this morning, far too early, and I could hear the voice of one of my characters in my head. The three books of the Tales of Tarya series are written in the third person. Only the prologue to each book is in the first person. Normally when my characters speak, it is in scenes and dialogue. But this was different. This character had something to say, and I had to get out of bed and write it down immediately.

Avoiding the ending

I’ve been reluctant to write the end of this series. Writing three books is a long journey to undertake. You immerse yourself in a world of your own creation for a long time. It starts to feel as familiar as the real world. My characters are as alive to me as my friends. I know them in that intuitive way where I understand how they will act, without having to think too hard about it.

So I didn’t want to leave them. Saying goodbye is one of the hardest things to do in this life. Especially when you know it is permanent. I remember the agony of farewelling a friend I had met while travelling, not knowing if I would ever see her again since we lived on opposite sides of the world. Of leaving my father’s hospital room for the last time to fly home and go back to work, knowing there wouldn’t be time to come back before he passed away.

I could see the end of my series, drawing closer and closer. And I didn’t want it to arrive.

The unexpected magic of writing

I’m definitely a plotter, not a pantser. Mina’s story is one where secrets are uncovered. There is a puzzle at the heart of Mina’s quest, and only when she solves that can she do what she must. To create a puzzle, you need to plan in advance, planting seeds throughout the books. To uncover secrets you need to hide them, sometimes in plain sight. So I have always known where my final book would end. But writing is not entirely a logical process. Sometimes, perhaps the best of times, the intuitive brain kicks in. You may know what needs to happen, but not the fine detail of how it will happen. I love it when this occurs. But not at 6am!

But there is a story within a story in my trilogy. This is the tale of muses – the inspiration for all creative types. So when the muse tapped me on the shoulder and told me to wake up, I couldn’t really say no.

Finding flow and finding the ending

Photo by Monica Silvestre from Pexels.

So I sat down with a notebook and pen. I didn’t even grab a coffee, because I wanted to capture the words before they dissolved in the morning light. And I wrote. The words ran across the page, paragraph after paragraph. It felt like magic. I knew what I needed to say. I didn’t have to give it any thought. And the ending of my series wrote itself. The voice in my head kept speaking until I had everything I needed written down. And then I was able to get up and start my day.

By doing this I broke my own rule. I still have two scenes left to write in the lead up to the epilogue. But maybe it’s better this way. Because if I had written these words after everything else was complete, I think I’d be feeling terribly bereft now. This is the end of the story after all. The curtain is about to close on the travelling players. But when your central character is a storyteller, I guess you learn some things about storytelling. And one of those things is that a story is a living thing. Sometimes it chooses how it should be told.

 

 

Why art matters

Why art matters

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Last week I sat reading the back of a bathroom door, as you do. Someone who know doubt thought they were extraordinarily clever had scrawled next to the toilet roll holder, ‘arts degrees, please take one’. Now, if I have the chance to overthink, I will. So I sat there, pondering how creative artists are underpaid, undervalued and under-represented in the structures of power. Western culture values those who have money and make money. It gives them power and recognition. For me this is entirely backwards. Here are some of the reasons why I think art matters more than money:

Reading improves your brain power:

According to research by Emory University, reading a narrative increases the connections in your brain. Not only that, but the effects continue for several days after you put the book down. Reading has also been found to improve memory and even to rewire your brain, forming new connections and brain matter.  In fact, the cognitive gains are so important that they can even improve longevity, according to a study done by Yale University.

The arts can reduce stress and improve health:

Research at the University of Sussex found that reading for only six minutes reduced stress levels by 68%, while listening to music was a close second, reducing stress levels by 61%. One of the researchers noted that “losing yourself in a thoroughly engrossing book” takes you into the author’s imagination and away from the stress of the real world. A review of numerous research projects concluded “there are clear indications that artistic engagement has significantly positive effects on health”. This research looked at studies focused on expressive movement, creative writing, visual arts and music. The value of the arts for health improvements is beginning to become accepted in the mainstream. A recent article noted that social prescribing will become part of doctors’ practice in Britain from 2023. Patients may be offered dancing lessons, social activities and visits to concerts to combat both physical and mental health issues.

Stories can shift attitudes towards climate change:

In my own PhD I argue that stories can help shift broad cultural stories that define our relationship with the earth. One such story is that the health of the economy is more important than anything else. We need an alternative story that teaches us the environment is vastly more important. Such a story needs to spread widely so it needs to find a place in all kinds of arts. The arts show us alternative visions. If those visions teach us about connecting and caring for the earth and each other, rather than exploiting them to be successful capitalists, then we can begin to see a new way forward. In the transition movement, whose focus is the shift towards a sustainable future, stories are a key tool for envisioning and inspiring change.

Art matters because it shows us alternatives

I’ve only touched on some of what art can do here. There’s lots more. What all of these things have in common is that they help us see the world differently. We tap into someone else’s imagination or vision, and we leave our own headspace for a while. This is the gift of the artist: to create a vision of the world and to share it. It is not just a gift in terms of talent, but a gift that is sent out into the world. It can make us feel better about ourselves, it can allow us to escape the darkness and it can inspire us to make change. That’s why art matters.
Why write?

Why write?

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Recently I have had very little time to write. To earn income I work as an academic editor. I’ve just edited several PhDs and an academic book in quick succession. Since finishing the first draft of Pierrot’s Song I haven’t done a single paragraph of creative writing. I haven’t had time in the midst of earning an income. It’s made me question why I am even writing, when I have to spend a large part of my time not writing in order to eat.

I’m 100% sure I’m not the only writer with this dilemma.  No doubt it occurred in all eras of history. Back in the old days I bet poor old Ugggh wanted to compose a tone poem, but the wooly mammoth were in season.  Dreamy young Riccardo wanted to carve marble like his hero, Leonardo, but there were shoes to stitch or he wouldn’t eat.

Writers don’t make money

Artists rarely make a living wage from their art. If you look at the figures, it’s a fairly depressing picture. The average Australian yearly wage 2 years ago was $84,032. The average yearly earnings for an Australian author from their books is $12,900.  And given that’s the average, it includes all the top-selling authors, whose books are the default purchases for many readers. That means there are many, many authors earning far less than that figure. So why write?

Excuse the economics for a minute…

In the last two to three decades we have been moving more and more to a neoliberal world-view. There are a couple of ideas that are central to this:

  1. The importance of product is valued over the importance of process. So, for example, in our neoliberal society taking the time to explore ideas and learn how to think is no longer the focus of education. Instead, for students what matters is the certificate that will open doors to employment, and for universities it is being seen to produce graduates who will become good employees. Rather than preparing young people to be good citizens, it is preparing them to be part of the labour market.
  2. Things only have value if they can be quantified and sold. That is, everything is a product. And the more income they can make, the higher their value. So people who work with money, and make ever more money, are valued highly and given a high income. People who work with intangibles, such as those in the caring profession and in the arts, are not valued. (And yes, I know there are other dimensions to this, such as gender and historical context, but this is a blog post, not an essay, okay? I don’t have the space to go into all the other issues.)

Authors and other artists rank pretty low on both these factors. They have a very specific skill set, which includes being thoughtful observers and even critics of society. Not great for employability. And they don’t earn a lot of money. So unless they receive the golden tick of approval from those with money who decide what art is worthy of reward, and what art is not, they don’t hold much value in a neoliberal world.

So why write?

When your why becomes your survival strategy

I mean, it actually doesn’t make sense to be an author in a neoliberal society. You’re unlikely to make a living wage, and you’re not highly valued.  I’ve been asking myself this question a lot in the last year to be honest. Writing is hard work. It takes many, many hours to craft a book. It takes a lot of rejection and heartache to find a home for your novel. There are negative reviews, months when you look at your sales figures and want to weep, and the sense that you are a tiny voice amongst a swell of loud voices, failing magnificently at being noticed.

Yet every time I ask myself whether I should keep writing, a tiny voice inside me still answers ‘yes’. Some of the reason for that I’ve written about before. Making art is food for the creative soul. Sharing art is sending a message in a bottle to the world*. You may never know who will find it, or how it will change their life. Or you might. If you’re lucky.

But writing is also a subversive act. By spending all those hours on something creative, something that may never earn you more than one or two cents per hour (or less) you are standing against the voice of neoliberalism. You are saying you have worth regardless of income. (Personally, I think artists and carers give a lot more to society than bankers do.)

And by writing for the joy of crafting a book, rather than in hopes of being the next JK Rowling and being able to buy a palace somewhere, you are placing value on process, rather than on product. You are saying being creative matters, no matter what the outcome might be.

But most importantly, if, like me, you hate the philosophy behind neoliberalism, because you don’t want to be simply a product or a cog in the economy machine, the act of writing can be a survival strategy. Taking time to be an artisan, without thought for the outcome, immerses you in a different world, for a time. It can be a healing antidote to the harsh realities of the world. And that can give you the strength to keep going. The creative process has a magic all of its own.

That’s why.

* Recently I read Neil Gaiman’s new book, ‘Art matters’. He uses the same metaphor in that. Just to be clear – I wrote my post BEFORE I read the book.

The Magic of Creativity: Why the Tarya books are about all artists

The Magic of Creativity: Why the Tarya books are about all artists

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Photo by Ivandrei Pretorius, from Pexels

Tarya, the mystical otherworld of the Tales of Tarya series, is a place of magic and creativity. It is a place reached in those moments when we become absorbed in what we are creating, whether that is a novel, a painting or a song. When author Laura Goodin recently launched Columbine’s Tale, she talked about why creatives know Tarya and its magic so well. I was so thrilled with the way she had captured the central premise of the book that I asked if I could include her speech on my blog. Read on to understand what lies at the heart of the books Harlequin’s Riddle and Columbine’s Tale.

When creatives get together…

One night a few years ago, our apartment was filled with actors, musicians, and techies. They had just closed a successful run of The Merry Wives of Windsor (in which my husband had had a role).  As is the way of theatre people after closing night, they were boisterous, roisterous, and rowdy.  The windows were rattling; the light fixtures were swinging; people were bouncing off the walls.

Our daughter, also a theatre person, was in high school at the time.  She’d brought a friend over for the evening:  a quiet and pensive young woman who was by nature a scientist.  Our daughter, of course, was completely at her ease, but her friend sat stiffly, hands clenched together in her lap, shoulders drawn in, looking uneasily around the room.  My husband, himself an exuberant bear of a man, bounded over to the sofa where the two sat, flung out his arm in an expansive gesture to indicate the chaos around us, and cried jubilantly, “This is what we have instead of money!”

Tarya is magic

What was the “this” he was talking about? What had we chosen above security, above money, above society’s approval? It was Tarya:  the wonderful realm of magic and mastery and exhilaration that we artists enter when we create – if we’re lucky.  It’s not a sure thing.  But once you manage to find it, you spend the rest of your life trying to get back there.  When you’re in Tarya, you are aligned with something huge, irresistible, and utterly glorious, like a needle aligned with the massive magnetic forces of the earth.  You are doing what you were born to do, buzzing and ringing with the elemental power of the universe.  Who wouldn’t give anything for that?

Tarya can be dangerous

The characters in Columbine’s Tale have been to Tarya, and, yes, they’ll do anything – absolutely anything – to protect their access to it.  At the same time, Mina, herself no stranger to Tarya, knows what this access costs, and she’ll do absolutely anything to stop the other characters from wreaking yet more damage, ruining yet more lives.  And here is the kernel of this fabulous story:  the irresistible force meets the immovable object.  She must stop them, but she can’t stop them.  She must stop them.  Yet she can’t stop them.  These characters want what they want with a mighty wanting, which makes them vibrant, complex, and entirely alive.  They face terrible consequences whichever way the plot resolves, and they act within a complex and richly described world that imposes genuine constraints on their choices and actions, which makes the story both riveting and deeply emotional.

Tarya is a compulsion

This book is written not just with craft, but with heart.  The idea of Tarya is not just a clever plot device or facile metaphor for artistic creativity.  Instead, it’s a focus for yearning, for the compulsion to create, for the demands that art places on the artist – demands that we leap to fulfill, for we can do nothing else.  We have been there.  The question Columbine’s Tale asks is an uncomfortable one:  will we, too, do anything to get back?  Anything? Are we greater or lesser artists if we, like Mina, hesitate?
Flow as a Doorway to Magic

Flow as a Doorway to Magic

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Harlequin’s Riddle is not your typical fantasy. There’s actually not a droplet of magic in it. Mina, the central character, doesn’t learn magic. There is no speaking of spells, hand waving or use of wands anywhere in any of the books.  There are some fantastic books out there that use this sort of overt magic. But I went in a different direction. What interests me is thinking about what magic already exists in the world. We forget how incredible life is, taking for granted all the wondrous things that happen every day. This is especially true for people. Their minds are complex, their lives are fascinating and their achievements can be staggering.

I’m particularly interested in creativity, and how that shapes people. Or, as becomes evident in my book, how people use their creative abilities to shape the world. Art, in whatever form, can change the way we think about things. It can take us out of the moment, transporting us so completely that we forget who we are. It can help us to empathise and connect with others, or heal long-held hurts.

About Flow

In my explorations in creativity over the years I’ve noticed a recurring theme, which is that when people do their creative practice, whatever that might be, they go into a different state, or mindset. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, a psychology professor, calls this state ‘flow’. In this state creators become completely absorbed in whatever they are doing. The requirements of the real world (food, ego etc.) fall away in place of a sense of fulfilment. This state can be very productive. Csiszentmihalyi also says the “whole being is involved”.

Flow and Writing

Many writers have had the experience of working on a piece, and having some sort of inexplicable or unusual experience, such as a character ‘coming to life’ and taking control of the story. Or writing about a place they’ve never been to, only to discover when they get there or see photos of it that they’ve described things with an uncanny accuracy. This is what fascinates me about flow – what if it is an opportunity to tap into a different mental state that links you in some way to something bigger than yourself? This was an idea I wanted to play with in my book.

Flow in Tarya

In Harlequin’s Riddle I take this idea of flow as a starting point to the fantastical elements of the story. Rather than a doorway to a different mental state, creativity becomes a literal doorway – to a place called Tarya. It is a place that sits beside the real world. There are spiritual aspects to Tarya, but it is not just a separate realm, like heaven. Events that happen in Tarya can have an effect on the real world. Mina, the central character of the book, discovers she is able to reach Tarya when she tells stories. But more importantly, she is able to bring aspects of her stories into being for her audience.

Writers are endlessly fascinated by the writing process. Sometimes it can definitely feel like it is magic. Having a heroine who can do interesting things with her stories is so much fun as a writer. I’d like to think there’s a little bit of me in Mina – or a little bit of Mina in me. But she may have other ideas…

If you’d like to learn more about Mina’s abilities, sign up to my email list (see the bottom of the page) and I’ll send you a free short story that tells you Mina’s back story.

 

 
Stories can be the key to recovery from writer’s block

Stories can be the key to recovery from writer’s block

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I wrote a while back about having writer’s block and not realising I did. It’s often hard to see what’s going on when you’re in the middle of it. Things are definitely better now. My first book is coming out in four weeks. A children’s story is going to be in an anthology by Christmas Press. I have appearances lined up at Continuum, the Historical Novel Society of Australasia Conference and the Bendigo Writers Festival. Best of all, I have many ideas for stories.

A year ago I wasn’t feeling so optimistic. I used the word ‘burnout’ a lot. Someone else looking at it might have called it writer’s block. I didn’t feel like writing. The ideas weren’t there. Partly this was probably an inevitable result of completing a PhD – 4 years of stress and pressure leave you feeling pretty drained.  Most of my fellow students had some kind of emotional, physical or mental crash at the end of the process.

The other issue, though, was that I felt my stories didn’t matter. In my thesis I had argued for the importance of stories in changing how we see and respond to the world, and particularly climate change. One of my examiners completely ridiculed my ideas. I had also written a young adult novel as part of the PhD. This examiner’s entire response to the novel was ‘this novel is of PhD standard’. That was it. Seventy thousand words, years of my life, went into that manuscript, and all he wrote was one sentence, whilst simultaneously spending page after page ripping apart the arguments in the academic component. I was shattered.

It took me a long time to hit upon the solution. I nearly gave up writing altogether. But in the Princess Bride, when things look darkest, the Spaniard, Inigo Montoya, goes back to the beginning. So I did too. I asked myself why I started writing in the first place. The answer lay in the wonderful books that I’d read in primary school, and the incredible authors who had transported me to other worlds. No matter what some jaded academic said, I knew stories matter. They made a difference to me as a child. So I used the healing power of stories to restore my wonder and to reawaken my creative imagination. I visited old friends, like Susan Cooper‘s Dark is Rising series and everything by Diana Wynne Jones. I made new friends, like Derek Landy’s brilliant Skulduggery Pleasant series.

When you spend a lot of time studying writing and talking with writers, stories can lose their magic. And they shouldn’t. Stories can transform. By approaching stories with the openness and wonder of a new reader, I found a way to heal and restore myself. And stories re-entered my life.

 
Doing a Creative PhD – Things to Think About

Doing a Creative PhD – Things to Think About

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In 2013 I completed my PhD by artefact and exegesis, submitting a young adult novel and a thesis. During and after that time I have had extensive contact with other students of creative PhDs. I’m on a facebook group where people sometimes ask about signing up to do one of these. The response is always overwhelmingly positive – people encourage others to go ahead and apply.  From my perspective, I am really pleased I obtained my PhD, but I believe anyone starting the ‘journey’ should have their eyes wide open. So this post discusses some things to be aware of.

The University Context

Probably the biggest factor at the moment for creative PhDs is that the university sector is being squeezed financially. And of course, like the broader social arena, the arts is always one of the first areas to lose funding. Potentially this might mean less funds available for going to conferences, less time allocation for supervisors to provide support during candidacy (so less face to face meetings) and less availability of other support (scholarships, research skills training etc.).

I had a conversation with a Visual Arts student recently on the day she discovered her supervisor had been made redundant. She was told there was no other potential supervisor on the horizon in the immediate future and was rightly devastated. Doing a PhD requires a lot of support. It’s hard to see how far these cuts are going to go, but one of the safeguards that can be put in place is to establish really good support networks with other students. Then if cuts do impact, you’ll at least have others to turn to who understand.

Your Goals

Be really clear about why you want to do the PhD. If it is to find a job in academia, see point 1! The traditional pathway of PhD to tutoring to lecturing to academic security is not a given any more. If this is your aim, it would be wise during your candidature to publish as much as possible, to develop excellent links to established academics who might be willing to mentor you, and to volunteer to help out with journals, conferences etc.  Show that you have a lot to offer. If you are doing the PhD because a scholarship is more income than a writer normally receives in a year and you don’t intend to become an academic, that’s fine – but see point 3! The point is, be clear about your expectations before you go in.

The Supervision Process versus Your Writing Process

Creative writing (and other creative arts) for a PhD is different to writing outside the university sector because you are subject to ‘The Gaze’. Whatever you write will be scrutinised closely to ensure it reaches PhD standard*. The ethics process can also impact. This means your project may be more collaborative than you are used to. For me aspects of the ethics process meant I had to entirely re-shape my novel.

For others, a supervisors’ input meant they took their writing in directions they were not initially keen on. Whilst this is akin to working with an editor, it can happen much earlier in the process than usual. Prior to my PhD I never showed my writing to others until I’d reached at least draft 3. However, during the PhD a supervisor wants to see that you are producing work, and may well want to see a first draft. Finding a supervisor you can communicate with is really important to find your way through all of this.

Creative Writing Versus Academic Writing

Your preferred emphasis and the university’s might not be the same. On paper a creative PhD is (depending on the uni) 70% creative project and 30% academic text. In practice, this is often reversed. Creative artists coming in are highly skilled and experienced at their arts practice, but usually less so on academic writing. It can be a shock to realise there is a huge expectation that you will spend the majority of your time on the academic work. Supervisors need to be sure you will tick all the boxes in terms of getting research and thesis chapters written. Friends of mine have (to their horror!) been told to put their novel aside for months whilst they focus on the academic text.

Do Your Research….

The best way to go into the PhD with your eyes wide open is to have some really good conversations with others who have gone through it, and with your potential supervisor to really sort out expectations. Good luck!

*PhD standard may be very different to publication standard!

Bio

Rachel Nightingale is a writer, playwright, educator and actor. With a passion for story telling and the theatre, it was only natural that her first fantasy series would centre on both. She lives in regional Australia with her family, a very bossy cat and the cutest dog in the world. She is represented by Creative Net speakers.

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