“It was a wet day in Sydney. As I rushed back to the office my trench coat was wringing. So was the phone.” Ah yes, writing. Taking a line for a walk. Or non-fiction. “I was that soldier.” Keep calm and read my book. Or read my words and be understood.
It’s a world I only have time to fully dip in and out of at best. How has reading changed in our online, daily barrage? I probably read half a book of text daily anyway. Is it the consumers’ equivalent of losing the skill of handwriting? Can we text better than we talk? Can we surf better than read a book?
But I see the attraction. To curl up with a book. A page turner. Couldn’t put it down. How does this work? How do books have the power take over our minds and take us for a ride? And who are these writer types? Who do hell they think they are!?
Well, to answer some of the questions, I got stuck into the pages and shows of the 2016 Sydney Writers' Festival, which took place in the gorgeous Wharf district on the harbour.
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Over the week festival goers were treated to something for everyone. For me, the first blip on my radar were the names Peggy Frew (author, mother and bassist with Art Of Fighting, for who I organised a show for in my home town of Limerick back in 2002; heavenly stuff) and her husband Mick Turner (painter and guitarist with The Dirty Three). In their talk entitled 'Living, Dreaming, Making' the Melbourne couple described life atop and about Maslow’s pyramid.
While pursuing their respective arts, there is also the not-so-small matter of raising kids. And making space for all of these. It’s a fascinating journey. Sometimes you fall in love with the person and their mojo. But when little mouths to feed come along, does that ‘thicken the plot’?
Molly Drake, Nick’s mum, and a fine musician in her own right and mother to one of the greatest, has a song called 'Poor Mum'. In other times, women had to kiss goodbye to artistic dreams to raise families. “Poor mum, Poor mum, where did you take a wrong turning? Poor mum, poor mum, pack up that last little yearning. Pack it away with the books and the toys. Silent and dumb.”
Thankfully not so in this tale. You now can (and should!) find a way to pursue your mojo, not just a crust. Twigs for nests turn to crusts if you ain’t got your mojo.
While making new music, Mick spoke of knowing when the right time was to share things. To come home from the studio excitedly to share a new tune mid nappy change. Similarly, while Mick is mid painting, Peggy sharing the latest draft of her book needed to know what was reasonable to expect of Mick. It reminded me of John B Keane’s wife who daren’t disturb him when he was in deep thought, locked away finding the perfect moment or line to end of some act or other.
Sometimes just knowing the other was there to listen was enough, whether the conversation happened or not. They finished their set with some songs. One of Peggy’s, a cover, and one of Mick’s. They still got it. Bless their journey and nest.
Also on the list, with thanks to Katie Mayor for the recommendations, was 'The Empty Pram' stories of the Stolen Generation. Poems and testimonies from three Aboriginal women: Alexis West, Celestine Rowe and Ali Cobby Eckermann. Aboriginal babies continue to be removed from their mothers citing welfare grounds. A system with so little regard for their traditions and communities does not see the full picture. The politics and society of today still sees fit to remove Aboriginal babies from their mothers on welfare grounds.
The audience lit up at the sight of happy babies and children wandering on stage to their mums during the talk. The natural beauty of family. Happy mother and child. Yet so many empty prams over the years and still today. The harm done. So many Aboriginal communities still face socio-economic disadvantage and indeed closure. Such hardship and the problems it creates are the same the world over. And in the world’s richest economy. Hard to fathom. Why this treatment for Australia’s original peoples?
They celebrated their good news stories too and the wonderful things their children are accomplishing, which mainstream press doesn’t report. Pick up the Koori Mail. The cause for equality eloquently shared by these warm hearts.
Next was 'The Big Read'; authors from five countries reading their own text. The peerless William Boyd, Man Booker-winner Marlon James, Irish writer Paul Murray, award-winning Zimbabwean author Petina Gappah and Canadian-Chilean memoirist and actor Carmen Aguirre.
Too much to go into, but everything from a Jamaican ghetto bitch fight on the phone, to pretending to be gay at a dinner party to get a publishing deal, to re-telling of rape trauma, to Australia in the Vietnam War to tales from Africa. To hear the writer deliver the lines is always fun. Were they ever intended to be read aloud? Or do I smell a play adaptation, the dialog is that good?
As the sun set on the wharf one of the best hours at the festival drew to a close. And to finish, the closing address by Hawaiian-American Hanya Yanagihara, author of one of the most talked-about and most confronting books of the year, 'A Little Life', was proper headliner stuff.
She spoke of reading as being yet the most participatory art form and still the last to be uncensored. Others like film, TV and music bend to commercial concerns. But writing, or hers at least, did not. The relationship between reader and writer, needing each other, a bond of faith, a journey of the mind, but most profoundly, an unlocking of the reader’s self, both bright and dark, realising parts of yourself which you weren’t aware of previously, that is the magic of books.
She also spoke of the use of violence or violent imagery in writing. How her publisher had discussed removing some from her book. She removed none. She said observing violence perpetrated on another person is possibly the most human of acts. A pretty huge statement which sends a volley of thoughts through my mind.
Hearing
Hearing a talk from author/ abducted Belfast school teacher Brian Keenan. In captivity (mostly in darkness) with Englishman John McCarthy, he spoke of the horror of hearing another human being tortured. Indeed, he called it worse than his own physical pain he endured at the hands of his captors.Seeing
Those beheading videos. And why I’ve never watched one. I can’t unsee that shit. I know why they exist. To hit back. To violate the viewer. In war, voices of peace are rare. I wish always to be that voice. I cannot look.Reading
But the chill I felt to read “you are the dead” in Orwell’s 1984. That moment. I had to put the book down. That I could observe. Go on Winston’s journey of horror. The pen/ written word is mightier than the seen sword, the watched video, the heard podcast.Writers are the keepers of a flame. Of humanity. Of telling stories. However violent. However sweet. Readers feel its warmth and its flames.
In all, Hanya’s keynote closing address was perfect. A master of her art. So ends my toe dip in the water, my arc defying narrative on Sydney Writers' Week. Too much to fit in. Can’t recommend highly enough.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I better take this call. I hope this rain stops.
