“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.

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.