The Peripheral, by William Gibson

Travelling the Culture of Gibson’s The Peripheral: There is no future that will save us from the present

This is not a review – just a few thoughts about The Peripheral that might interest others who have read it or Gibson’s other work.

I picked up a copy of The Peripheral at Little Bird Bookshop recently, apparently having forgotten that I couldn’t make much sense of Neuromancer. I wanted an entertaining and somewhat-illuminating sci-fi novel, which I didn’t get, perhaps because I haven’t been in the right mood for reading Gibson. It’s been hard work, getting into and enjoying The Peripheral.

I don’t mind hard work when it comes to literature, and even with literary-genre writing, but the sort of work that Gibson seems to expect of his readers is beyond my ken unless I’m really on my game. I can’t work out whether he’s difficult to read because he’s not a very good writer or because he’s just not the writer for me. I looked up some reviews of Neuromancer while I was reading this one, and they said essentially the same thing: he’s a difficult writer, but some readers might enjoy that. I imagine he would be a nuisance to edit, and there’s a funny imagined dialogue between publicist, publisher and editor that suggests the book was published not on the basis of its merits but because it was written by Gibson: “It will sell, because it’s Gibson.”

Maybe I thought there would have been some improvement between 1984 (Neuromancer) and 2014 (The Peripheral), like maybe he had become more articulate in the thirty years and ten or so books between his first and more-recent novel. But Neuromancer sold some six and a half million copies, so when you’re onto a winner, why change? I’m prepared to accept that Gibson is doing something that is simply beyond my ken, because this is both exciting and frustrating: he has all these books I could try to read, and maybe eventually I’ll crack the code, as after I’ve read a few Shakespeare plays in a row.

That’s actually not a bad analogy, because both Gibson and Shakespeare are writing about worlds that either no longer exist or don’t yet exist, and I’m willing to concede that the thing I’m (not quite) missing about the Gibsons I’ve read is that they are using world-specific language that is inherently difficult to follow because we are not (and cannot be) part of those worlds, anymore that we can visit Shakespearean London, except in the imagination. What I mean is that it may be a strength of Gibson’s that he uses such world-specific language without enough context for the reader to easily understand what is going on. It might be a strength because it lends itself to a kind of world-specific authenticity or verisimilitude that would be lost if he were more explicit about what he’s talking about. So in a way I’m wondering whether what Gibson is doing actually puts a lot of other scif-fi writers to shame.

Other sci-fi writers give explanations, of sorts, about what is going on. They use language that means something to us, to kind of bridge our understanding of world-specific stuff across to our world. The only word I can think of is they “port” the confusing world-specific phenomena across to our world using exposition specific to our world, so we can understand. Gibson doesn’t do that – he doesn’t use a lot of exposition. He just has his characters do stuff that would make sense to them, and he has characters discuss or reflect on these events using terminology that would make sense to them – and to us, if we were living in that world. But we are not. So we just get a report from that world, and we can either marvel about its necessary obscurity or we can be disgruntled that we didn’t have some kind of cultural ambassador along with us, or maybe the babel fish of Adams’ hitch-hiker universe.

If we had such an ambassador or interpreter, though, I think we would feel more disgruntled in a less overt way – we would feel that our experience of witnessing an alternate world had been somehow cheapened, by having someone along to explain everything. We would become tourists in a literary adventure where everyone prefers to be a traveller, able to navigate and interpret their experience of a foreign culture on their own.

I won’t try to summarise the plot because this is not a review. It’s enough to say here that the novel is set in two futures: pre-apocalypse America, and post-apocalypse London. Some of this comes from the blurb, though it does leak through in the text. Flynne gets recruited by her brother Burton to do some security-guard work in what they think is a virtual-reality game. While on duty, Flynne witnesses what seems to be a murder, and she soon learns the murder wasn’t just a game, but happened IRL in some version or iteration of the future. How Burton has been accessing this future/game was never made clear, so right from the premise the whole novel was just not plausible for me, but see above about why maybe this doesn’t matter for Gibson and some of his readers. There was some talk in the London future about how agents there had been the ones who accessed Burton’s reality (London’s sort-of past, but our future), but this was so vague, delivered in the characters’ arcane vernacular, that I never grasped the plausibility of this either. The London characters don’t even know how Burton’s “stub” was accessed, and the motivations for these characters piggy-backing this illicit “blackbox” access was also super vague. Something about Lev’s family (members of the old undefined “klept” or kleptocracy) having economic/investment interests. Mostly I’m thinking this is a plot-driven narrative, rather than a character-driven one: things happened because Gibson wanted them to happen, not because the characters would necessarily do these things. If they did have reasons for getting involved in this narrative, I either couldn’t figure out what they were, or wasn’t invested enough to care because their motivations were not clearly articulated. The storytelling was just not that great. Maybe Gibson is in company with the likes of H G Wells in that he is neither a great stylist nor a great storyteller, but he’s got some good ideas that warrant exploration. The trouble is, for me: what’s the point of exploring ideas through fiction if your readers can’t easily follow along? Maybe other readers can, and Gibson is just not my kind of writer.

Burton’s employers get wind of what was witnessed during Flynne’s shift and he has to admit to them that he wasn’t working at the time, so he arranges for Flynne to meet them. Someone tries to kill Flynne (because of what she witnessed), but Conner mysteriously intervenes, and the f(l)ight is on. The employers have Macon fab some headsets and Flynne starts visiting the future she will never know.

Hereafter there are too many (vague) plot points to consider, and I don’t remember some of them because they were not explicit enough for me to understand enough to remember (or care). All I know is that the employers (along with Lowbeer) start helping Flynne for reasons that are not clear, and Flynne’s cohort play along for equally unclear reasons: Lev and co.’s motivation seems to be no more than curiosity (again, there are some fleeting mentions of him scouting investment opportunities, but that’s it); and Flynne’s cohort seem to play along because they are bored and have little else to do (they are paid some money through ambiguous means, and it becomes vague that they need protection from the London characters, but this emerges only later, by which time I had lost any real interest and was only reading because I wanted to finish the book). I don’t really feel like untangling the plot points or the characters’ motivations, because if Gibson didn’t bother making it clear, then why should I decipher it? Maybe his books are worth deciphering, but I’ve just not been in the mood for that lately and I’m not sure I want to invest the time. There’s a review here that suggests it wasn’t just me:

[The plot] becomes progressively more of a slog to get through as the novel goes on. The writing is often clumsy, ponderous and uncomfortable where Gibson is usually nimble, which is partially due to the complexity of the timelines. […] As the plot becomes even messier and more convoluted, it starts to break down, like massive siege weapon that starts to shake apart when battle-tested.

There were some cool over-arching ideas that do warrant mentioning, such as the “jackpot” and Gibson’s take on “evil” being just an extension of ordinary human baseness, not some pathology that only a few people suffer from but a natural consequence of greed, which any human is susceptible to.

The jackpot is mentioned a few times and it becomes clear enough that this is the cataclysmic event that separates pre-apocalypse America from post-apocalypse London, but Netherton eventually spills to Flynne (for no good plausibile reason) that the jackpot was not some single event that caused the apocalypse, but the cumulative effect of numerous idiot-human mistakes over a period of many generations. This is when Gibson makes room to come in and allude to the idea that eras rarely seem like eras at the time, and are only categorised as such through the lense of history and its retrospective narratives – hindsight being 20-20. A Goodreadser who seems to have been taken by the book has extracted the following quote about this, which I admit was a good one:

“Eras are conveniences, particularly for those who never experienced them. We carve history from totalities beyond our grasp. Bolt labels on the result. Handles. Then speak of the handles as though they were things in themselves.”

Netherton explains that the jackpot was “caused” by an economic climate that lead to environmental climate change that eventually become unstoppable (cf. Tim Flannery’s The Weather Makers). This is where Gibson drops in a few more ideas that might justify the blurb’s emphasis on a “story which gets right to the heart of the way we live now”, though the rest of the novel doesn’t really do this on a day-to-day basis (unless it does and I just wasn’t paying attention for the right signs), and dropping this ideas-nugget in as an implausible plot-point just doesn’t fly for me as a reader. There’s something important about making sure the story resonates, as well as the themes/ideas. Telling a second-class story and name-dropping some world-class ideas just doesn’t do the ideas justice, I reckon.

The way he depathologises “evil” is a great idea, though it also is just dropped in through Lowbeer at the end. She disabuses us of the notion that people who do evil are some other subhuman species, which shines a spotlight (however indirectly) on the idea that if evil is not a pathology, a deformation, or some kind of aberation, then every human (among even all our goodness) is somehow capable of the sort of “evil”/behaviour that would lead to something like the jackpot. In the context of Netherton helping Flynne understand that her world is in the depths of the beginning of the jackpot, which implies that our world as we know it is approaching something similar, this depathologising of evil makes us all complicit in the potential future that is half-depicted in the London world. (It is half-depicted, but depicted enough that we understand we don’t want to end up realising the kleptocracy that Netherton so despises.) So on this level I really appreciate what Gibson is doing, and for this reason I have more time for his books than I thought I would throughout the opening, middle and even the approach to the end of this one.

One of my favourite books of all time didn’t make any sense to me until right at the end, so perhaps I should be more forgiving of Gibson than I had been before I started writing this, which is prexactly why I write these long-winded and rambly posts. That said, from what I recall of The Obscene Bird of Night, the prevailing ambiguity/confusion of the novel (made clear at the end) was an intentional and artful stroke, whereas Gibson’s ambiguity was the result of not deigning to let the reader into the secrets of his imagination.

The only other thing I want to note is that I don’t like the idea of depicting our present being saved from itself by some implausible series of events from a future we can never access. I don’t like saved-by-the-future narratives, though I guess that’s what Terminator is. These stories tell a narrative that there is nothing we can do in the present to save us from ourselves. But the future is not going to rescue us.

I’ll be trying Gibson again one day if I find myself in a situation where I especially crave the challenge of sci-fi that might be as illuminating as it is hard to access, but I’ll need to be in the right mood to accept that it may not be worth the effort.

“Goldilocks’ Grieving” published [short fiction]

I am pleased to announce that I have had a new short story published, called “Goldilocks’ Grieving”, the first in quite some time. You can read it here. Based on a true story, it’s about a guy’s reaction to witnessing another guy idling his car in the carpark.

I’m really proud of this story. It emerged almost fully formed in a single sitting, immediately after the events that inspired it. I used the draft for a uni assignment and then submitted it to a competition run by QUT, who published it in the inaugural issue of a new student-run mag called Scratch That.

Let me know what you think!

oneiric aetiology [microfiction]

He should probably have known better than to watch a movie that was triggering like that before bed, but he’s done it now and here he is on the verge of elsewhere. He’s woken up suddenly and looked over to see the bedside clock flick over to 11:09 before his eyes. Maybe not a portent exactly, but a number with meaning for him below reason in the realm of oneiric logic.

Nothing like this has happened for months. The meds had been doing their job of keeping it under the carpet. Their efficacy was bound to wane eventually, along with the validity of their prescription. The associations would return and they would double-back with intensity for having been repressed, and he would have some unknown reason to get out of bed again. Better than sleeping fourteen hours a day.

He now steps out of bed with diligence he can only remember from before the meds. He moves to the open window and yes, a course of tingles cascades down from his crown because yes, of course the traffic lights are green outside the window. It’s a main road out there and it’s the middle of the night, but such profane logic is not what registers when he looks back at the clock to see the numbers tick over to 11:12. It hasn’t felt like three minutes, but who is he to argue.

Others believe 11:11 is the master number, but his purpose is different. This isn’t some “secret mission”. It is below secret, arising from the primordial within.

Dr Schneider has other ideas, of course. And lots of elaborate linguistic chicanery for defending a model of aetiology as profane now as it was once arcane. This is not just apophenia. It is apophenia, yes, but it is not just some elaborate abstraction from reality to help the man cope with the abnegation of his responsibility. It is the perception of patterns that others cannot perceive, which does not mean the patterns are not there. As though to confirm this, a butterfly makes it path across the backyard in the direction of the green traffic lights.

He doesn’t know whether butterflies emerge at night, this man, but he knows that doesn’t matter. He knows what butterflies mean – that to not climb out the window would be a true abnegation of his arcane duty. He has waited months for this, sleeping fourteen hours a day in what he now understands was a narcotic cocoon.

He doesn’t expect to fly or anything crazy like that. But he knows when he jumps that he will land elsewhere, having committed himself to a leap into dimensions with their own notions of causality. And when he lands, the butterfly returns, doubling back in loops on the wings of infinity to bless his crown with a kiss of welcome. He climbs the fence with his crown tingling and crosses the road against the red light of the standing man.


This draft was produced for the EWF20 Swinburne Microfiction Challenge

biogas disaster [microfiction]

My wife and I were doing it when we heard a backfire outside and it triggered something in Nikki. She looks damn-near traumatised, eyebrows up in her forehead and a vortex of sadness spiralling downward in her eyes.

It just reminded her, she says, of this parent at school who’s a bit damaged now after what he saw.

We lay beside each other and the sadness emanating from Nikki reminds me of the old couple from The Titanic. She tells me she met this guy at a school thing one time. Middle of the day, kids all around and the air-conditioner rattling, talking like normal at first.

It’s worth mentioning our son is something of an amateur engineer slash chemist, an idealistic young kind who likes to put things together until they make new things. Sometimes the inventions don’t have much point, but the point is he tries to make new systems because the ones we have now aren’t doing anyone much good.

Apparently this parent’s neighbour was quite like our son, and that’s what got him on to the subject in the classroom that day.

Remember, we’re talking about this in bed after we were doing it and it all feels very much like we’re the old couple from The Titanic, drowning in each other’s arms.

Nikki was telling him about our older son and the guy, this parent, was all of a sudden about to cry in the middle of all these boisterous kids with the air-conditioner clanking away. Tears all up in his eyes and he said, “I’m sorry, can we sit?”, so Nikki manoeuvred him to the corner of the classroom that passes for a school library these days. That’s where he told her.

This neighbour of his was quite like our son apparently, but he’s no longer here because he got fed up with burning a shitty electric stove all the time. So he built some thing called a biogas digester and blew up his shed. The guy ran over there but it was too late, way too late, and all this was pouring out of this poor guy in the corner of what passes for a school library. Nikki was able to contain the outpouring somewhat but still, people talk about this parent at school who’s a bit damaged now.

No one talks about how damaged we must be that an idealistic young engineer slash chemist would risk his life in such a way. About how all the real polluters are too damn gluttonous to do anything real about the ancient phytoplanktons we dig out of the ground every day. The despair we share because anyone with half a brain knows we’re running this planet into the ground. But we talk about this in bed because we don’t feel like doing it now after a noise like that. These triggered memories arise like nightmare flashbacks, reminding us of just how deep we are in the problem of fueling our needless desires.


This draft was produced for the EWF20 Swinburne Microfiction Challenge

takes guts [microfiction]

“great now he’s off walking to school”

The sms comes as a surprise because you just sent a link to your friend and you’re expecting it to be from him but no, it’s your wife, from the driveway.

You step back from the phone thinking Why the dramatics?, but the phone comes with you because it’s in your hands and at the same time you remember all the times you did this as a kid. A glance out the window to see your wife has stopped the car and the passenger door is dangling open. You don’t remember remember – it’s more like a flood of melancholy that feels achingly familiar but somehow distant, connecting you at a spooky distance with your son, who could be anywhere by now, you catastrophise.

But wasn’t it only minutes ago that he answered you?, in the surly manner he takes to your gruff admonishments. He doesn’t walk to school because … thinking, frowning … wondering why you were even asking … realising, perhaps, that actually he’s never even considered this, just assuming that you or Mum would always take him … and finally, saying, “I don’t know the way?”

And that unsure inflection, stabbing you because the boy is eleven and doesn’t understand that rhetorical questions are even a thing.

“Exactly!” was the last thing you said to him and now you’re looking at your phone again because maybe you misread the message but no, your son has decided to exercise a mixture of spite and confused remorse by threatening to walk himself to school.

He knows the way, but doesn’t know that. All he knows is that Dad is annoyed with him again because he said something stupid and spiteful. He doesn’t know the word for spite, and he only knows that what he said was stupid because Dad got annoyed and raised his voice out the loungeroom window.

That was you who raised your voice and whose stomach is falling out from under you onto the porch in your dressing gown because what if he runs off or something stupid but no, he’s getting back in the car. He hasn’t bolted off into traffic.

You pick your guts up off the porch and walk back inside without a second wave, surly and frowning and annoyed by all the catastrophising and dramatics. Your stomach flutters as you remember again all the times you ran off as a kid, determined to hide out down the creek and hold your breath until no one cared anymore.

It’s a good thing you picked your guts up off the porch, because you’re going to need them later when you apologise and explain to him: your cheap shot about walking himself to school … that was meant to inspire gratitude for all the lifts, not fear and loathing and spiteful remorse … about all the times anyone said something stupid, or used a rhetorical question with a kid.


This draft was produced for the EWF20 Swinburne Microfiction Challenge.

genre, literature, literary genre, and genre trash

It’s been a while, but as I said when I first wrote in the Books category here, I’ve been trying to write a few notes at least when I finish reading a book, so that I’m not just reading book after book after book without really integrating what I’ve read.

I fell off the wagon.

The last book I wrote about was Going Bovine by Libba Bray, and since then I’ve read:

  • The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub (which I read in my late teens and found recently at a community book exchange);
  • We So Seldom Look on Love, stories by Barbara Gowdy (I tend to have a short-story collection on the go at all times, and will read one or two from the collection in-between novels or non-fiction books);
  • The Etched City by K J Bishop (an Australian New Weird novel published by Tor Books in 2005);
  • Lock In by John Scalzi (which was a bit pukey).

It was cool to read The Talisman again, because it was one of my favourite books in my late teens ~ by that I mean I remember vastly enjoying it, but I never remembered much more than that about it, except a vague image of a young boy on the road, travelling through dangerous ‘territory’. Reading it again this time I was mildly surprised that not one of the words brought back any real memory of the actual story. So mostly it was like reading a novel for the first time. The story was kind of bloated and over-written ~ it takes a long time for the good stuff to happen, and many of the narrative tangents don’t really contribute much to the theme or plot (though they do a good job of developing a rich character in Jack). But I enjoyed it ~ especially the whole notion of how myriad parallel dimensions revolve around the Talisman, which is a theme that must have sunk in deep when I was a kid, because the novel I’m working on goes near similar territory, and apparently King goes deeper down this path in the Dark Tower series, which I’m keen to look at soon.

The stories in We So Seldom Look on Love, by Barbara Gowdy, are brilliant ~ dark, semi-erotic, bordering on perverse, but deeply human and affecting, plus her style and voice are assured and consistent. My wife put me on to it ~ it’s a collection she has had on her shelf for a long time, and which she revisits now and then (such is the quality of the stories). There’s a story about a troubled child who drills a hole in her head, a story about a guy who ‘saves’ a Siamese twin (though not before having sex with them), and a story about a relationship of sorts between a married woman and the voyeur next door. Oh, and the title story about the relationships of a necrophiliac. (I was pleased to learn just now that a synonym for ‘necrophilia’ is ‘thanatophilia’: I wrote an assignment for my lit studies subject last year about what I decided to call ‘thanotic sublimation’, which, I decided, is similar to erotic sublimation except it takes the form of yonic symbolism instead of phallic.) I very much value the ability to embrace the shadowside of ourselves, especially (or perhaps only) since reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being in my early twenties. So I love it when an author is able to lovingly depict characters who would otherwise be considered perverse or even perverted ~ apart from stylistic concerns like fluidity and the suspension of disbelief, I reckon such a function is an essential factor in determining what makes good writing great literature.

The Etched City by K J Bishop was aesthetically beautiful and deeply engaging at a sentence level, but the story and plot left a lot to be desired, in my opinion ~ an assassin escapes a Dystopian Wasteland for a Victorian-esque Wretched Hive city, has a hallucinatory relationship with another assassin he used to know, and then … I actually don’t remember how it ends, because I had lost interest in the story by that point. I think he goes back to the wasteland, and she evaporates into the whisps of hallucination. I read this because: 1), it’s an explicitly New Weird novel, and 2), it’s Australian. And I enjoyed it, but I’m such a sucker for good strong narrative that I sometimes felt it missed an opportunity to be a great story. No regrets. And I admire the courage to write something that doesn’t depend entirely on plot or story to get people turning the pages.

The virtual-reality sci-fi balls-up of John Scalzi’s Lock In is mass-market genre trash that holds value as market research, but that’s about it. The characters are implausible cardboard cutouts, the virtual-reality depictions are lame, and the myriad plot holes are back-filled with dialogue that would never happen among halfway-intelligent adults. I don’t think I can even be bothered finding a cover to upload. If you find yourself deserted on a temperate island in mid-winter with only this book for company, use it to start a fire and keep warm.

performing “Prank Me” at QUT Literary Salon

I am very pleased to announce that I will be performing a short story called “Prank Me” at next week’s QUT Literary Salon at The Bearded Lady. This story was shortlisted for the Allen & Unwin Undergraduate Writers Prize, and it’s a fun story to read, so I’m really looking forward to it.

If you’re in Brisbane and you’re interested in local spoken word, you can find out more about the event here.

recent and not-so-recent publications and not-so-publications

I’ve just added a Study page to this portfolio site, where I’ve uploaded an exegetical essay I wrote for a uni subject called Swords & Spaceships: Writing Genre. I also included the chapter I wrote for that exegesis. I like saying the word ‘exegesis’.

I’ve also added a page to the Other section of the Writing page, where I’ve published a rumination called “How To Eat Cereal“, which was published in Glass, the QUT student magazine, earlier the year.

And I’ve added a review of Dave Eggers’ What is the What, which was broadcast on ABC Radio National’s The Book Show, yonks ago.

the finish line

I finished my final end-of-year assessments a few weeks ago, and the results are in ~ I did pretty well! It feels great to have made it through a year of university study again ~ next year is an open book at this stage, but if I don’t defer to focus on freelancing I hope to make it through more than three weeks of the second year.

In 2002 I started a bachelor of English and philosophy at Adelaide Uni, straight outta high school, and I left three weeks in to the second year because … for a number of reasons. I ended up working in publishing for nearly ten years after that, and had my first full-time in-house job by the time I would have graduated, so it was no great loss, but this time going to uni has a different … vibe about it: I’m really keen to not let my literary skills be spent entirely on editorial and advocacy work, as had happened by the end of my ‘first’ career in publishing.

I say ‘first’ because it feels like the first iteration ~ this time I hope to maintain stronger focus on having my own work published, instead of focusing on the facilitation of others’ ideas, which was and is a joy, but I like to write more than I like to edit, so here’s to hoping for the next iteration.

I’ve got some nag champa burning and some Carbon Based Lifeforms playing, which is nothing unusual for a morning of study, but it feels more ceremonial this morning ~ and instead of working on assignments I’ve been using my morning writing time to work on chapters for a novel I’m writing. For the next three months or so I will be waking up at 6 am to pour myself into crafting words on a page that won’t be assessed according to a university rubric, which feels liberating and exciting.

I like the rubrics ~ they help direct the energies I give to writing, and I think they are set up to reflect a nuanced (albeit arbitrated) judgement of what constitutes good writing, which is mostly considered a subjective question. Learning some objective notions of what constitutes good writing has been interesting and helpful, but sometimes such objectivity gets in the way of just letting loose on the page to see what happens.

The other benefit of a university writing course is that you’ve got deadlines imposed on you that force you to produce material. Of course I’m excited about maintaining a writing practice over the summer, but there’s something daunting about maintaining a writing schedule without the deadlines enforced by a faculty.

I was pleasantly surprised when I received an envelope from the uni recently, and inside was a certificate notifying me that I had been admitted to the Creative Industries Faculty Dean’s List, ‘in recognition of [my] exceptional academic performance in Semester 1, 2019’. I achieved a GPA of 6.75, which kind of surprised me ~ I understand that I’m a halfway-decent writer, but one of the reasons I left uni in the early noughties is that I struggled to get my head around the academic expectations of the assessors, so even after all my experience in publishing I was still a bit daunted by meeting these expectations in 2019.

But I did it, and it feels really empowering.

I was talking to my neighbour recently about the freelancing work I do, and how it’s pretty easy money once I do the leg work of soliciting clients. He reminded me of the Dunning-Kruger Effect, which, according to Very Well Mind, is ‘a type of cognitive bias in which people believe they are smarter and more capable than they really are’. It works in the other direction too: people who are good at what they do often diminutise the skills and experience required to do it.

Editing has always come naturally to me ~ I was annotating the books I was reading in late high school. And writing is something I’ve also always had a natural affinity for … with? 🙂

I was thinking about it this morning, and about how I would be likely to say to someone if they asked: ‘Oh, it’s just a creative-writing degree ~ it’s not rocket science or anything.’ But the things I’ve learned this year about the craft of writing have reminded me (thankfully) that, in fact, there is a kind of science to writing ~ you have to experiment with methods, and if they don’t work you need to amend the material you’ve crafted until it does work. It requires a great degree of lateral thinking, and also the ability to observe things as they are and wonder about what will happen if you put them together.

That’s a definition of creativity I encountered in a Netflix documentary: creativity is the ability to take two or more existing things and put them together until you’ve created something new. A nice and simple definition.

Doing this with, say, two different chemicals in a lab to make polystyrene (to use an example from the doco) is one thing, but doing this with concepts requires a whole other level of creative ingenuity. And the results I’ve been getting at uni this year seem to suggest that I possess this ingenuity, which is definitely affirming. After struggling to overcome intellectual insecurities in my late teens and early adulthood, I slowly began to realise that yes, I was in the possession of intelligence and creativity, but it’s still been something I’ve struggled to accept as valuable in a culture dominated by ideologies that seem to prioritise material creativity and productivity ~ in the form of, say, medical or engineering innovation.

But this year I’ve formulated the beginning of a thesis for a New Weird novel that I genuinely hope will ‘create room in our collective psyche for new and innovative institutional ideals’ (to quote from the exegesis), and I live now with the confidence that such work is both imminently and immanently necessary.

I’ve learned (or, rather, been officially reminded) this year that there is great power in the written word to change the way we think and act in the world. I’ve never been one for direct action in the form of, say, protest activism, but I certainly share the sensibilities and values that inform such dissidence. But I think I’ve always suspected that something needs to change at a level deeper than just the streets. I have deep admiration for the people who protest at the coal-face of our culture’s iniquities, but I’m also convinced now more than ever that the real protest has to happen in the structures of our minds, which are informed (maybe even just straight-up formed) by the language and neurological structures we use to tell ourselves stories about the world and our experience in it.

I never really expected a first-year BFA in creative writing to have this kind of deep ideological impact on me ~ I really only expected to learn some neat skills about how to improve the craft of writing. So I guess I need to send props to the profs at QUT for the way they’ve handled the material this year. It’s been really inspiring, and I’m super proud of myself for being able to respond to that material in a way that I hope has done it justice.

It’s been a hell of a year ~ super busy because I’ve also been adjusting to living in a full-time relationship with someone I adore, plus I’m a sudden-dad of an eleven year old now, who has a huge heart even though he’s troublesome now and then (but what kid isn’t ~ and we want him to be troublesome, because we need young people to speak and act out against injustice, so we try to encourage that when he does it at home 🙂

I’ve got a few short pieces of writing that I have started shopping around, so hopefully over the next few months I’ll have a few announcements to make about those. And I’m thinking about throwing up my exegesis here, because I’m proud of it and it constitutes the begin of the first major work I’ll try to produce. (Well, second — but the first one kind of flopped, though I’ve noticed that many of the ideas are beginning to leech into this one.)

Meanwhile, I’ve got a novel manuscript to edit for Paul Mitchell, a guy I worked with at Wakefield Press yonks ago. And compost to turn! And bikes to ride. And books to read slowly …

“Prank Me” shortlisted for the Allen & Unwin Undergraduate Writers Prize

I am very pleased to announce that my short story, “Prank Me”, was shortlisted for the Allen & Unwin Undergraduate Writers Prize. It’s a story about a couple of friends who almost bump into each other after one of them has been overseas for a long time. I wrote it many moons ago, and back then it was broadcast on Cath Kenneally’s breakfast radio show in Adelaide. The shortlisting has inspired me to get onto the task of shopping it around to magazines, because it still hasn’t been published in print yet. Here’s a sample from the opening:

Here they are on the streets of old suburbia on the wrong side of town, alone. The streetlights are weak, as though the council doesn’t expect people out this way this late. These are capillaries clogged with darkness and stillness, thick with silence except for the sound of the nearby main road, a constant whoosh, but no discernible engine sound, just displaced air and rolling rubber.

She’s a silhouette he can identify by the way her ponytail still seems ready to spring a leak. She stands in front of her mother’s house, anxiety patterning her hunched back, her fingers fiddling with an envelope.

Beyond her, the procession on the main road is an awkward dance, choreographed by people used to fumbling with the sun in their eyes between work and home, whose children, due to there not being much to look at, develop wonky imaginations about wonders like the old one-block factory, out of action since these two can remember sneaking out of church, the other main attraction.