Monday, March 21, 2011

Guwanyi (to tell) - 3rd National Aboriginal Writers’ Festival at NSW Writers' Centre

Often it's the headline "names" that lure you in to a writers' festival, but it's the discovery of the "names" you've never heard of that deliver another level of satisfaction in the experience. Cathy Craigie, Festival Curator, delivered on all counts at Guwanyi.


On Saturday 19th March the NSW Writers' Centre was the venue for Guwanyi (to tell) the 3rd National Aboriginal Writers’ Festival there were well-known names in Aboriginal writing, such as Anita Heiss and Kim Scott, along with brand new names, such as Ricky Macourt, and (to this reader) a previously unheard voice such as poet Ali Cobby Eckermann.

The day opened with Anita Heiss and Peter Minter talking about the process of editing the Macquarie Pen Anthology of Aboriginal Literature. They began with Peter Minter reading the first text in the anthology, Bennelong's letter to Governor Phillip, the first recorded written text by an Aboriginal author.

The letter, much like the man who dictated it, prompted discussion and divergent responses. Minter saw the letter as exemplifying the twin themes of the anthology - the way in which Aboriginal people used the language of the colonisers strategically in order to negotiate survival and also as a way of preserving culture.

Minter read the letter as an example of a man attempting to strategically negotiate with authority in a new language, whilst also trying to establish a sense of reciprocity, of exchange, in an attempt to preserve culture. For others the letter prompted tears of sadness, whilst some felt strongly that Bennelong was a collaborator.

The discussion about Bennelong, known to white Australia through school texts and place names, proved that he is still a contested figure. So, it did seem like the universe was stirring the possum when, the following day, the Sunday papers led with headlines that after 198 years the site of Bennelong's grave had been located in the front yard of a house in suburban Putney.

Anita Heiss talked about the editorial process of choosing what went into the anthology, narrowing down from 3,000+ pieces to 81. Their approach was that Aboriginal literature is about self- representation, so they pushed the boundaries of what was regarded as "literature" by including letters, petitions, manifestos, song lyrics, plays, autobiographical and biographical materials as these were where the voices were located.

The second session chaired by Melissa Lucashenko was about how to use genres and included Goie Wymarra, a young woman with a lot of stories and different ways to tell them. Goie Wymarra has used comedy, film, children's books, and is now working on animated films at Batchelor Institute as part of a creative writing degree. Wayne Blair had exciting news about transferring the stage play The Sapphires into a screenplay for the big screen.  


Marcus Waters spoke about writing screenplays for mainstream TV and his eventual disillusionment when he was unable to write stories that included Aboriginal faces or experiences. He described getting the courage to walk away and tell his own stories. He now concentrates on writing stories from the community and for the community, for his kids. In a moving reading he shared one of these stories with the audience, "Fade to Black."


The third session discussed the ways to get Aboriginal writers out into the world, and heard from AIATSIS (The Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies) and their publishing arm the Aboriginal Studies Press. Ricky Macourt spoke about writing his life as a boy from Nambucca Heads who winds up as a boarder at a Sydney private school into Jali Boy, part of the Yarning Strong series by Laguna Bay Publishing. He is now studying law at Bond University, and his ambitions to be Australia's first Aboriginal Prime Minister (or President) do not seem unreasonable. 


The third panel member, Ali Cobby Eckermann, spoke about the battle to find her family in her thirties, an event she believes saved her life. Growing up with a family that loved her but denied her their knowledge of her birth family triggered her writing. She talked about her "need to tell" as greif and anger were blocking her ability to live her life. She then read some of her poetry, which contained the heartbreak and the humour of an extraordinary woman and gifted writer. 


Lunch was accompanied by some open mike poetry readings on the verandah from the stars of the next festival, then it was time to return for the afternoon sessions.


A session asking Is there a future for Indigenous Literature? - was sure to provoke lively discussion, and it did. Melissa Lucashenko argued that literature should not be narrowly conceived, that is should be an account of "What it is to be alive in this place where so many have lived before." In thinking about what story is for, she believes it is for building a society that works. 

Philip Mclaren talked about subject matter determining readership, using the example of Martin Cruz Smith, a Native American writer who sells millions of his straight thriller novels (Arkady Renko) and considerably less of his Indigenous themed work. Same writer, same talent, same skill. Mclaren suggested Indigenous Australian writing should consider writing their own "Gorky Parks" which got the debate off to a flying start.

Bruce Pascoe said he felt confident and hopeful about the future. He pointed out that ten years ago this festival wouldn't have happened, so it was a concrete sign that Aboriginal Literature was strong and getting stronger. He believes that the country, the landscape itself, was changing White Australia.



Cathy Craigie chaired Kim Scott, fresh from his success as the winner of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize for the best book in south-east Asia and the Pacific, and Leanne Tobin, whose research into her family history uncovered a wealth of documents charting negotiations over land in "Blacks Town" Western Sydney conducted by a strong Aboriginal woman Maria Locke.


Kim Scott talked about how his novel That Deadman Dance grew out of a decade of reading the historical archives, his project on "cultural maintenance," such as his book with Noongar elder Aunty Hazel Brown. It became clear to him as he read that the protagonists in these archives were not victims, and that, for a short time, the oldest civilisation in the world and the newcomers had conducted relations across a friendly frontier. 


He realised this might be a bit of a controversial take, as "the dominant yarn is the story of defeat", but from his point of view, "the story is not over" it's a "long yarn." The resistance warrior stories have appeal but Scott fears that these stories are not perhaps the most nurturing for angry, damaged people to tap into, and are in many ways similar to the Gallipoli stories white Australia tells itself.


The overwhelming sense of confidence that he drew from the archives, stories about strong people, people who were so confident, people of their place, were the source of his approach to the book. The colonisers were outnumbered and scared and, as Scott put it, "When we had power - how classy we were." 


Cathy Craigie compared the Noongar encounters with the story that emerges from Cpt. Dawes' diaries and his encounter with Patyegarang. The themes of exchange and reciprocity, adaptability and ambassadorial roles felt like we had returned full circle to the first story of the day in Bennelong's letter.


Kim Scott spoke about creating a new narrative, the Recovery Narrative, and his desire to story it in a way that empowers the whole community.


There was more, a lot more, but perhaps it's best to seek out some of the works mentioned and read them, and check out your local festivals for these, and other names, and listen to them. 


Ali Cobby Eckermann signed my copy of her book of poetry, and I'll quote her inscription to finish off: 


Palya - travel true.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Why The Wire sets the bar for crime fiction writers

It started on twitter.

An observation from Jon Page, of Pages and Pages Bookstore, who was re-watching Season 4 of The Wire. He was moved to tweet that it was "the best written piece of drama (novel, TV, movie) ever" - which kick started a conversation conducted in 140 character bursts. The Wire lovers tumbled out of cyber space to wax lyrical about the show and debate Jon's suggestion that a TV drama could go close to having the depth, complexity, and weight of a novel. It later moved on to Facebook, where there was a bit more room to talk about the ideas.

Not being one to waste words, I've taken my contribution to the conversation and tidied it up a little bit for the blog.

I was thinking about what it was about The Wire, that for me, made it perhaps the most powerful piece of dramatic fiction (written or visual) that I'd ever come in contact with. It certainly stands as a powerful piece of crime fiction, and towers over every other crime genre TV drama yet made but I think it was doing more than that.

When looking at it in the terms of a novel, I feel that the sheer scope of The Wire does what few other single novels do. Whilst the old-school of, for example, Dickens and Tolstoy certainly didn't shy away from vast sagas, big casts, long sweeps of time and history, there is a tendency in contemporary fiction to choose to go small, even if the "issue" is big. 
The focus is usually on an individual or small handful of individuals, even if large sweeps of history are taking place outside. The increasing popularity of the 1st person narrator also tends to preclude a vast narrative sweep in which a range of characters present their stories.

The Wire is structured in five seasons, with each season being similar to a novel, each episode a detailed chapter. As the seasons went on, The Wire just built and built and built. It kept filling out a rich and detailed cast of characters, who were all interrelated, all connected organically by the city of Baltimore. 



As the seasons passed characters died, minor players grew into major ones, the focus shifted from the streets, to the schools, to the media, without ever forgetting any of these places on the way, and all the while five years of life in a decaying American city unfolded.

Seriality is not new in crime fiction. It's one of the characteristics of the genre, and that feature is often raised as a reason that it fails the serious literature test. In all honesty, the serial nature of crime fiction and its investigators is not often used as effectively as it could be, becoming a dilution of story rather than a strength. 



This is why, for me, The Wire raised the bar on crime fiction writing. After seeing how long form serialised drama was used on The Wire, seriality should no longer be seen only as a lazy shortcut to writing the same book, over and over again. Instead it should be the key to developing complex, nuanced characters and places of rich texture, that grow and change and have decided effects one upon the other.


In trying to think of "crime" that has had such a broad scope, Ian Rankin was one of the first crime writers to actually place his detective in "real" time, have him age and change, and interact with the real world. James Ellroy's LA Quartet set in the post-war Los Angeles had a recurring cast of characters who moved through the world of the novels. I have The Red Riding Trilogy DVD set on my shelf to watch soon, based on David Peace's Red Riding Quartet of novels which cover a decade in time.

I'm hoping that The Wire will have an impact on crime writing, not just on TV drama production. It's no coincidence that crime writers worked on The Wire. Pelecanos, Lehane & Price formed a real synergy with Simon and Burns to produce something that took storytelling to a new place. They managed to marry the pace and narrative of the written form to the visual form and the result was extraordinary.

However, there are somethings The Wire does which a book cannot. Visual storytelling can do things that, when done in a novel, are not as obvious or as effective.

The Wire featured a cast that was predominantly black. Something that is not often seen on American TV, and not seen at all on Australian TV. In a novel this just does not have the same impact. You can describe the characters and name them, the reader can register their ethnicity, their colour, their appearance, and then the reader gets stuck straight back into the story.

But remember watching the first few episodes of The Wire? 



They were confusing, hard to follow.

Why?

Well, because for most of us viewers we were not that used to seeing so many African American faces all at once in the one show. Most mainstream movies and TV shows usually feature "the" black character, (the Asian character, the Hispanic character, etc) and perhaps his/her family. Generally there is not an entire community of non-white faces who appear all on the screen at once, all in the same scenes at once.

I'll freely confess that it took me time to figure out who was who. It took me time to be able to tell Stringer Bell and Avon Barksdale apart. That was confronting. That told me, the viewer, a few things about myself that I wasn't all that proud to discover.

Not only that, but the language these characters were using was a barrier. That could be solved by (belatedly) turning on the sub-titles, suddenly the "ya feel me" code was cracked, and I could identify the characters by name (Poot? Wee-Bey?) but the makers of this show (as Simon has said in many interviews) deliberately set out to make the viewer work, and to discover something about themselves as they did.

The Wire, in this way, kicks arse, both visually and literally, and does things that a novel can't do. But 
I know I'm looking to it for inspiration in my writing because it has set the bar, for brave, honest, storytelling, for characterisation and scope, for showing how to turn a political thesis into gripping human drama, in whatever format you are working in.


PS. Draft of Book 2, finally finished. A few little seams to sew up, buttonholes to add and remove. And it's off.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Writers on rafts, upcoming events and a rather lovely surprise

The floods that have hammered Queensland over the last few weeks have drawn support from Brisbane's Mop Army to sports folk donating amazing packages.


The Queensland Writers Centre have come up with a fund raising project that offers something for everyone. Ever wanted your name in print? Well, how about your name turning up in John Birmingham's latest volume of all-explodey goodness? What about a book package signed and sealed by Emily Maguire? Or a visit from Linda Jaivin? I don't get out much, so I volunteered myself for a few things.


Five bucks will buy you a ticket in Writers on Rafts that's right $5! Prizes will be drawn on February 25. More information here.




I have a few events to update on the events page - until I do that, this is what the year holds so far:


List of upcoming events: 


Sunday, 6 February, 3pm, 
I'll be having a yak with Partners in Crime  at the St Helens Community Centre, 184 Glebe Point Road, Glebe. We're going to have a chat about The Place of Place in Crime Fiction. 
Cost is $10/ $5 (members). Contact: meetings@partnersincrimesydney.com


May 6 and 7
I'll be at the Literati Festival, Gold Coast QLD. No website as yet, but I've seen the guest list and it's going to be a great weekend. 


Saturday 4 June, 10am - 4pm
I'll be at the NSW Writers Centre, for a 1 day Workshop Perfect Crime


Then in September back up to Queensland


17 and 18th September I'll be doing two workshops with the Queensland Writers Centre


17th September, Cairns 
Workshop From Cleanskin to Crimewriter


18th September, Townsville 
Workshop From Cleanskin to Crimewriter




#WIP is the twitter hashtag lonely writers wave from their desks to signal their engagement on the work in progress. 


As to my, #WIP, it progresses. 


The scary bits I've been putting off have started to appear and the first set of eyes have started reading. Doing it like Dickens - I'm sending out instalments. Keeps the pressure up on me not to succumb to the vortex of endless rewriting - so far so good.


About to clean off the big white board (as the breakdown of final scenes there no longer resembles the breakdown of final scenes in scrivener and in my head) and look at landing the plane in detail. While it's good to forward plan - it's also good to stay flexible. (Usually results in a bit of back-stitching - but it won't be the first, or the last, time things get unpicked, re-arranged and re-stitched.)


In a delightful bit of news this week The Old School has been shortlisted in the Debut Fiction Category of the 2011 Indie Awards alongside some very fine books indeed: Rocks in the Belly by Jon Bauer, Book of Lost Threads by Tess Evans, The Legacy by Kirsten Tranter.

As an unknown novelist you step into a very very very crowded agora with your first book. The difference between debut, and dead in the water, comes down to the enthusiasm of the Indie Booksellers, readers themselves who are prepared to pick you up off the shelf and put you in the hands of other readers. It's every wallflower's dream come true.

Thank you Indies!







Tuesday, January 11, 2011

B2 D1.5

Realising that I've been a tad slack about updating the blog - the new year is here and already into double figures!

So Happy New Year to all. May it bring stories to tell for one and all.

Busy being busy here, still working away on B2 D1.5 (that's Book 2 Draft 1.5). The 1.5 is because the majority of it is first draft plus a read through and re-draft whilst a small but significant section is fresh - very fresh - smoking, steaming fresh - some of it, in fact, is still "cookie dough" to borrow an analogy. Which is to say, I'm still at the stomach knotting, knuckle gnawing stage where I wonder if the story I have to tell and the way I want to tell it is going to work. No way to know for sure until it's finished and being read, so press on.

I've started to send out bits to be read by a trusted set of eyes. We're "doing it like Dickens" - starting at the beginning and moving on. It's good because it gives me the sense that the story is in motion, so to speak. But I'm still to get my head around releasing it into the editing/drafting process in a much rawer state than The Old School. That's when I get the stomach churning, knuckle gnawing, yips again.

I did get to take my mind off my own long-dark-tea-time-of-the-soul for the traditional five day pilgrimage to the SCG for the New Years Test. Nothing like seeing a team of cricketers being comprehensively humbled, before a huge crowd to put things in perspective. The fact it was an Ashes Test just made it hurt more.

The Barmy Army were in full voice (have to admit, it is good to see them finally get the team they deserve). Twenty thousand voices singing "The mighty - mighty - English" (and other much ruder things to Mitchell Johnson) was rather traumatising by Day 4. That's how I felt and I was only in the stands - I imagine Mitch Johnson might need therapy.

I confess to returning home and watching the South Africa V India game on the telly at night, to remind myself of what a real contests looked like. Steyn and Tendulkar both at the top of their games. Magic.

And ..... oh yes.

Indulged in a little extra-curricular fun involving a short story and a cylon.

Enjoy.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Has Stendhal's Mirror had its day?


Over on the marvellous blog of Sci-Fi writer Paul Macauley, Earth and Other Unlikely Worlds a conversation began about whether neo-realistic literature has had its day. Two authors, Peter Handke and  Haruki Murakami have written articles suggesting that this indeed is so. I would recommend a visit to Unlikely Worlds to enter into the wider discussion of this issue, whilst here at The Concrete Midden, I'm reposting a slightly longer version of my response, as it is somewhat tangential to the main topic under discussion at Unlikely Worlds.

First up, cards on the table. I'm a realist writer.  Dunno if I'm a neo-realist, but I'm a new writer and I write crime fiction which is firmly based in reality and incorporates real events. It involves the creation of a fictional world which contains the realistic political and social atmosphere of the 1990s. I’m also a big admirer of science fiction (as can be seen in my other blog world). 

What took me off on a tangent from the discussion of realism/neo-realism versus magic realism at Unlikely Worlds, was the observation, made by Murakami, that realism was no longer relevant because two events, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the attack on the twin towers in September 200,1 had " greatly transformed our mentality . . ."

This “the world changed on 9/11” thesis frankly irritates me beyond belief. And when writers start to embrace this thesis and use it as a reason to argue why certain things cannot – or should not - be written, or to suggest the way things should or shouldn't be written, then I start to vent a bit of steam.

In days following 9/11 “the world has changed” was the most common reaction. It was understable. The events were shocking. They were awful in the true sense of that word - they filled one with awe. And they were captured on film, replayed again and again, and we watched, each time hoping somehow for a different outcome. 

But that "world changed" response was also dangerous as it permeated our psyche and permeated our politics. Its legacy has included such things as waterboarding and rendition, shock and awe.

It also permeated a lot of the literary responses.

High profile critic James Wood used it as a reason to bury the social novel, writing in the Guardian in October 2001 Wood claimed that the "Stendhalian mirror would explode with reflections were it now being walked around Manhattan. For who would dare to be knowledgeable about politics and society now?" 

Martin Amis took to writing essays about terrorism and making up words like horrorism, as if what was available to describe criminal acts of terror were insufficient. Ian McEwan reckoned that, 

“… even the best minds, the best or darkest dreamers of disaster on a gigantic scale, from Tolstoy and Wells to Don DeLillo, could not have delivered us into the nightmare available on television news channels yesterday afternoon.” 

OK, so I wouldn’t expect McEwan to be familiar with the oeuvre of Tom Clancy and his 1994 novel Debt of Honour, in which a 747 is flown into the US Capitol during the State of Union address, wiping out the President and a fair chunk of Congress (hell, I only know about it because of a ten month stay in a Buddhist monastery in South India where reading material was …. limited) but in both Wood's and McEwan’s reactions I found the retreat from the possibility of creativity and imagination to absorb and reflect what had happened on 9/11 to be overly nihilistic.

Writing in The New Statesman at the end of 2001, literary critic Jason Cowley described the reaction of the literary world to the terrorist attacks as having a: 

“catastrophist - eschatological anxiety and an unconvincing sudden seriousness, as if human nature itself changed the day the towers collapsed. Or perhaps it was merely that we in the relatively benign, affluent west had forgotten that the world has always been a spectacular carnival of suffering.”

It was that “spectacular carnival of suffering” that bothered me about the “world has changed” reaction as well. It contained in it a denial of other places and peoples whose “worlds had changed” but because they hadn’t changed in the heart of a western power and were not captured on TV, well, somehow they didn’t count.

My inchoate misgivings were captured by the phrase – the “parochialism of the present" - and by a rather unlikely source, the foreign policy analyst and editor of The National Interest, Owen Harries. He defined it as:

“[A] condition resulting from a combination of ignorance of history and an egotistical insistence on exaggerating the importance of events that more or less directly involve oneself. Horrifying and atrocious as the acts of terror were, it should be remembered that they have happened at a time when people who experienced the Somme and Verdun, the Holocaust and Hiroshima, are still alive.” 

Well, yes.

Imagine the stories that would never have been written had Erich Maria Remarque decided that the trenches had shattered his Stendhalian mirror, or Primo Levi been silenced by the horror he witnessed, or Bao Ninh or Kurt Vonnegut had allowed their own war experiences to so overwhelm them that they dared not be knowledgeable about politics or society.

Writing about the world we live in can take many forms, magical realism, realism, crime noir, science fiction - in fact some of the strongest writing to take on the post 9/11 world came, I think, from the world of crime writing. Sara Paretsky's Blacklist conveyed not only the fear of being the victims of terror that every American felt after the attacks but the fear of the state as it reacted to that terror with legislation that threatened the Bill of Rights. Ian Rankin, in The Naming of The Dead brought Rebus, George Bush, the G8 and the London Tube bombings into a book that was as much about the fragility of the rule of law as it was about a murder.

So, in summary, I don't believe that realism, the social novel, the social crime novel, are dead and past their use by date. I do believe in science fiction and the exciting imaginative leaps and bounds of alternate worlds and realities that end up telling me something about my own reality.

And, no the world didn't change on 9/11, anymore than it did on April 6, 1994, or August 9, 1945, or July 1, 1916 or 24 August 79AD,  it just added to the layers of pain that make up what it is to be human. And that's what writers, realist, neo-realist, magical, fantastical, speculative, graphic do best, make up stories that help us work out what it means to be human.*  







Saturday, November 13, 2010

A Cave of One's Own

Virginia longed for a room. 

Some writers can afford something a tad grander ....



... and then there are the rest of us.

But the desire to have some place to go and make stuff up is pretty universal.

Stephen King in On Writing agrees with Virginia that "We do best in a place of our own." 

And - he's right.

There are quite a few things that lend themselves to being done with a background hum, that don't really suffer from random interruptions, phones, doors, distractions, twittering. In fact, sometimes it's nice to have human company when the word track blues strike. 

And then there's the other stuff.

The getting-it-out stuff. The first draft stuff, in fact the bits and pieces that come before the first draft. That stuff is better done alone. We all know what happened to the creative flow thanks to the visitor from Porlock. To quote Stephen King again, "Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open" - and I'd add, ignore the visitors.

Ignoring family members who drop by, or those who live in, is somewhat easier said than done, and can have certain ramifications. This is one reason why I like to write by hand, in notebooks, out and about, in parks, by the pool, on the train. That's where a lot of the fresh stuff gets its first airing. Away from the screen, from the delete and back buttons. I'm not in a room alone, but I'm still alone. No distractions. 

But it's finding a space for the next stage that has been trickier this time round. The Old School made its transition from pen to pixel in a study space provided by my university, UTS, where I was enrolled in a research degree. Hours would fly past. No phone. No doors. Lots of wall space to blu-tack up images. The day would turn into night and I wouldn't even notice. 

I'm discovering, with Book 2, what writers always say, that every book is different. This time around I'm working from home. Not an office but a corner of a room. And sometimes I have to share it.



This time around is different. I find I'm wanting wall space to write on. I'm close to the end of the first draft and I have a burning need to have a space to "see" it laid out - plots and people - but even more importantly emotional touchstones. 

This book has required me to step a bit out of my comfort zone. To explore, in some detail,  psychological spaces I haven't (thankfully) been. I've felt the need to create a space where I can have certain truths about the wounds my characters carry, and the way those wounds effect them, "in my face" as I write and as I edit the first draft.

I need to be able to look up and weigh the truth of what I've written against the truth of what I have discovered. Such things don't really belong on the walls of rooms that non-writers, visitors and family members share.

So, I've found a cave.  


All it needed was to have some storage things crammed into other storage places and then I could cram in me.

It's a small rom. With a small window. And lots and lots of wall space.


This was taken a few weeks ago. The walls have more posters blu tacked up now. Notes to self scrawled. The white board has been wiped and new notes added, subtracted, altered.


There's even a bit of a view out the door for when I want to keep it open.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

What we talk about when we talk about crime - with the Sisters in Crime

While it was an eventful journey just getting to the event, once we all landed safely we had a great night with the Sisters down in Melbourne last Friday.

The panel was chaired by Robin Bowles, who'd done her homework on Sulari Gentill and Angela Savage just as effectively as she had on me. For two completely different takes on the same night, check out Sulari's blog and Angela's blog. And just to prove the old adage that three eye-witnesses will provide three entirely different descriptions, I'll now add another.

Place is my "thing". It's what gets me excited about reading crime and it's what excites me about writing crime. With a great deal of help from a marvellous editor, Dr Malcah Effron, I have recently finished a chapter for an upcoming academic monograph on what I've dubbed "The Politics of Place" specifically how place is developed in Ian Rankin's The Naming of the Dead and Sara Paretsky's Blacklist as they chart the disintegration of western legal values and traditions in the wake of 9/11.

In both Sulari and Angela's novels, place is given a high degree of attention but in very different and interesting ways.

Sulari commented that she had had letters from elderly people whose memories of the New Guard in those days of madness in Sydney during the 1930s had been reawakened in the pages of her novel, A Few Right Thinking Men. I feel that this kind of response is a real tribute to the sense of political and cultural place Sulari created and proof, yet again, that a real sense of place involves a whole lot more than just getting the names of the streets and the numbers of the buses right. It involves creating a real sense of the place, of the culture, of the conflicts, of the news and the gossip and the violence and the struggles, just as it was in that time for those people.

Like her first novel, Angela's second, The Half-Child, is set in Thailand. When Angela began talking about writing Thailand, a place she loves and wants to share with her readers, she described her unease when she acknowledged that writing crime set there would mean dredging up all the negative stereotypes people harbour about that country; crime, corruption, drugs, vice, sex, exploitation. For her this meant she had to think carefully about how she handled the material, about making sure her characters and issues were real and complex.

This area of discussion came up towards the end of our allotted time, unfortunately, as it is something that is also of concern to me in my work. How to write about issues such as police corruption with nuance and depth, avoiding the cliches, making it real without making it repellent, keeping it authentic which means, to some degree showing how and why it occurs with subtlety, even empathy.

I related very strongly to Angela's concerns in depicting an Asian setting with both honesty and affection, as I have set the events of Book 2 in Cabramatta in early 1993. A quick glance at the headlines of that time ticks all the boxes of a great crime novel; young, violent gangs fighting and killing over a share of the drug market, home invasions and extortion, gambling and prostitution, drug sellers taking over the streets, crime out of control, police overwhelmed - every headline a story. And every headline fodder for those who did not want to see the development of an Australia where a good percentage of its population would not come from Anglo-Celtic-European backgrounds but from Vietnam, Cambodia or Laos.

No doubt about it, Cabramatta in 1993 was quite a place. A complex, rich and troubled place, where some kids went "out to play", ra choi, and ended up dead, others went to school while their parents tried to learn English, worked two jobs. Some kids went to jail and some kids went to university, carrying all the weight of expectation on their shoulders that they could claw back something of what their parents had given up to come to Australia.

It this nuanced Cabramatta I want the next book to explore. A place where kids dealt drugs and carried knives and lived in groups like little families taking care of each other, while behind closed doors, other families, damaged beyond all repair by war, just tried to hold on.

One of these days Angela and Sulari and I will have to have a good long talk about writing honestly but with nuance about places and people that are all too often seen in black and white*.

*Which is to say we're available for weddings, parties anything ....