head vs desk

A lovely poem I wish I'd written.

2011-05-20T13:25:00.002+10:00

No Time

BY BILLY COLLINS

In a rush this weekday morning,

I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery

where my parents are buried

side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite.

Then, all day, I think of him rising up

to give me that look

of knowing disapproval

while my mother calmly tells him to lie back down.

Source: Poetry (December 2000).

Edsel Grizzler Book Gig

2011-05-20T13:13:00.003+10:00

Great news! As part of this year's Brisbane Writers Festival WordPlay schools program, students from the Queensland University of Technology, under the direction of Carolyn Heim, will be doing two Book Gig performances of Edsel Grizzler. The dates for the performances are Wednesday 7 September (12.30pm), and Friday 9 September (12.30pm). I'll be there to answer questions and enjoy the show, so get along if you can! I'm also doing a whole bunch of other sessions with the festival. It's always a great program up there: all your details can be found here.

NSW Premier's Literary Awards 2011

2011-05-17T15:01:00.005+10:00

The venue was the forecourt of the Sydney Opera House. The date was the 16th May, 2011. And the event was the announcement of the NSW Premier's Literary Awards.

This was the first year that the winners haven't known prior, making it more like the Oscars, except that the presenter read something about the winner in each category before reading the name, thereby giving a ten second heads-up to anyone paying attention.

It's good to see this morning that the mainstream media has broken with tradition and published the names of the winners in all categories, rather than just the 'big' ones. And those big ones were Alex Miller for Lovesong, and Malcolm Fraser and Margaret Simons for Fraser's biography. But of most interest to many of us were the winners of the Ethel Turner and Patricia Wrightson prizes, won by Cath Crowley (Graffiti Moon) and Sophie Masson (The Hunt for Ned Kelly) respectively. Both shortlists were stacked with potential winners, but unfortunately there could only be one in each list. I have to say that those who missed out took it in very good grace. I admire their nerve - I don't know if I could have been quite so calm during the tense wait.

But the biggest cheer (and a standing ovation) was for Libby Gleeson who, in a huge surprise to her, won the $20,000 Special Award for her past and ongoing contribution not only to young people's literature, but the literary community at large, especially her efforts in establishing the Lending Rights scheme that we all look forward to each year.

It was also a great night for the Western Sydney Young People's Literature Project, soon to be renamed Westwords. This project, overseen by Judith Ridge, kept getting mentions all night, including from Libby in her acceptance speech. From memory, Libby (who chairs the project's board) said something like, 'Watch out for us - we're going to be big.'

A weekend in Gloucester

2011-05-02T22:07:00.010+10:00

Seems a lot of new writers festivals are popping up all around the place. More and more schools are putting them on, mostly modelled on the marvellous Somerset Celebration of Literature on the Gold Coast. Then there are the community festivals, such as the new Bellingen Writers Festival.

And there's this one - the Gloucester Writers Festival, held for the first time during the weekend just past. It wasn't a bad lineup of presenters, either - Pamela Freeman, Pam Rusby, Anthony Lawrence, Les Murray and Barry Maitland, to name but a few.

We all had a great time, with a number of events on offer, including a poetry sprint, a young writers' short story competition, and a number of workshops in addition to the panel sessions. I met a number of new people, like the lovely Julie Ditrich, who presented on the topic of graphic novels, and Jesse Blackadder, as well as the organiser, Lindy Dupree.

Then there were the CWA ladies and their pumpkin scones.

And the place! Oh, the place! Anyone who's never been to Gloucester should do i

t, and do it soon. On the drive up there on Friday, I found myself driving past the first day of the Stroud show. Now, I just want to say this: I very rarely go to the Royal Easter Show. I pretty much hate it. Too many people spending money they don't have on things they don't need and food they don't really like while they look at things they don't really understand. But proper country shows are great. I spent a lovely hour wandering around, looking at the campdrafting and the cattle dog trials and the produce displays. They even had a competition for "Best afternoon tea tray with food for one".

And pumpkin scones.

Writing quote XII

2011-04-19T13:32:00.007+10:00

The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.

(Raymond Chandler)

To some extent, this is why I write the way I do; unplanned, at least at the very early stages. To plan and follow the blueprint is, for me, rather unadventurous. Ergo, it's also pretty boring. I'd never heard it put the way Chandler put it here, but I think I get it. Pushing words means that you're forcing something to happen. You're being the primary agent for change, or for creativity. And of course, the urge to scratch that itch to create something is why we do what we do. But I think there has to more than that. There has to be the feeling of being taken on the ride with the characters. Because if we can't inspire ourselves to invest in our characters and their journey, what hope do our readers have?

Reflections on the CBCA shortlist.

2011-04-12T23:48:00.008+10:00

I do this every year. I do. I forget that the Children's Book Council Book of the Year Awards shortlist is due. Then I remember at the last moment, or someone mentions it in an email or on Facebook. Then I'm onto the website, and clicking Refresh every thirty seconds for the five minutes leading up to midday. Because as much as I claim that I don't care, I do. I really do. And let me heartily congratulate every one of the writers and illustrators and publishers and editors represented on those lists.

A couple of years ago I got in some trouble from Mo Johnson, when I suggested that it's of more value to a newish writer to be on the shortlist or notable list than someone who is properly established. And as much as that sounded like sour grapes for Hunting Elephants failing to get a notable listing, I certainly didn't mean it that way. I stand by what I said - that to someone with a gazillion books and half a gazillion shortlistings, one more gong isn't going to do much to advance their career. But when you're just getting established (as I was when Captain Mack was shortlisted for the CBCA in 2000) it does put you on the map.

Which brings me to one of the great disappointments out of today's shortlist announcement, quite apart from the fact that Anonymity Jones wasn't on it. And that is that a number of very fine books weren't even on the Notables list, not least of all the wonderful Saltwater Vampires, by Kirsty Eager, and the incredible Big River, Little Fish, by Belinda Jeffrey. The latter was particularly disappointing, since I predicted that Belinda's first book, Brown Skin Blue was going to win Book of the Year in 2010. Boy, was I wrong!

Those guys, and many others, are feeling pretty glum tonight. Others are feeling rather buoyant. And that's how it goes. Some feel cheated, some feel lucky, others feel like they got precisely what they deserved or even expected. But at the end of the day, it's down to judges. Human judges who are just trying to pick the best books they can. They don't have an agenda - they just want to reward the best books. The books that they deem to be the best books.

Earlier this year I was one of the judges for the Patricia Wrightson Prize in the NSW Premier's Awards. A number of the books shortlisted today were well down our list, and the list of the Ethel Turner Prize. And several of the books we chose didn't appear in any of today's announcements. So it's hard, and your choices as a judge will always be criticised. But to those who missed out today, I'd say this: none of us are entitled. None of us have a birthright to this wonderful thing we get to do for a living, not even those on the lists. So chin up, onward and upward, all that cliché and guff. We don't write for awards; we write because we have to, because we love to, because we love to tell stories, and we love it when kids' eyes light up with the glow of the stories we tell.

A night at Penguin Plays Rough

2011-04-10T12:31:00.011+10:00

In a one-way lane in St Peters, a stone’s throw from the Saturday night Newtown crowds, is a reclaimed warehouse. This is where they gather, stinging for some old-school fringe art goodness. At the door - a slightly creaky metal security gate - a cheerful girl takes your five dollars and offers you a raffle ticket. ‘We might have something to raffle, we might not. But there is cake.’

And there is cake. Or peppermint slice, in fact, of the most Technicolor and mouth-smash variety. And wine, beer and cider, by way of set donation. (A hint for the newcomer - take your own wine glass if you’re not a fan of plastic cups.)

In the space itself, partitioned off from the various recording and rehearsal spaces by heavy, quilted, cushioned curtains, are several couches and armchairs, a piano, a small PA system with turntable (Miles Davis, in case you’re wondering) and in the far corner, the main stage.

Is it a stage? Kind of. It’s actually a large coffee table, onto which has been lifted a red velour armchair, a pedestal lamp, and a smaller coffee table, complete with spittoon/ashtray. I’m sure that to the more nervous of the open-mic readers it looks more like a scaffold. Does that chair - I call it the Chair of Truth - rest atop some kind of trapdoor?

The room gradually fills. Many of the sixty or so finding a seat on the floor or a spot against the back wall seem to know one another. Others introduce themselves. It’s been some time since I was in a room like this, and there seems to be a lot less of the… well, wankers than there populated these things in the mid-nineties, when the leather-clad neophytes sculled chardy at book launches in Darlinghurst galleries and pretended to know Justine Ettler.

The co-founder of Penguin Plays Rough, Pip Smith, introduces the first reader, who is one of the five ‘headliners’ for the night. He reads a travel piece about Burma. It’s not bad, a little one-paced, and his revelation of his interaction with a prostitute is… well, let’s just say that it possibly says more about him than about the prostitute. If the story is true. Which it might be.

But therein lies the beauty of an event like Penguin Plays Rough. Over the next two hours or so (with two short breaks to recharge glasses) we hear outstanding poetry from accomplished professionals like Miles Merrill, we see some performance art that borrows from Thelma and Louise, we hear some short poems of uneven quality, we hear a foreword from an upcoming short story collection, a ‘prepared statement’ by a stand-up comedian, and the faux-biblical text of an ‘illuminated novel’, complete with accompanying slides. And underpinning all of this, like any good fiction, is the feeling that even the fictional bits contain a kernel of autobiography.

It ends too soon. Leave them wanting more, I guess. And I do want more. It’s been a long time since I first met a newcomer called Melina Marchetta at the Harold Park Hotel, where they ran the wonderful and greatly missed Writers in the Park. I liked the intimate feel of the fringe-lit thing. Perhaps it’s a manifestation of my great regret at never going to uni to do subjects I was interested in. But I like it, and I want more.

Next time I’m going to read. I wasn’t sure this time if I wanted to, and by the time I decided that I was brave enough, the open spots were all taken. In fact, the blackboard (or marker-pen on cardboard, in fact) was full before the second bottle of cab-sav had been popped. So the lesson in that - if you’re feeling brave, make sure you defeat your second-thought nerves before you open the security grille and pocket your raffle ticket. You might reveal something intimate about yourself to a roomful of strangers, but what’s so wrong with that?

(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

Deutscher Jugendliterapreis...

2011-04-04T09:45:00.010+10:00

...which means, German Youth Literature Prize. And I'm on it! With the help of the wonderful Stefanie Schaeffler in bending my words into their German equivalent, Town: Irgendwo in Australien, (Gerstenberg Verlag) has attracted the attention of the selection jury! Let happy dancing abound!

So, having calmed down, let's examine what this news means.

I'm so glad you asked. First, the book may win some prize money, so there's that. Second, the prize has its own stall at the Bologna Book fair, which is the premier children's/YA event in the world for publishers looking to buy/sell their products internationally. So that's pretty good, too. Third, this will hopefully boost sales in what is a pretty major kidlit/YA market. And fourth, it may well help to crack open the door to the European International Schools. I've already worked in such schools in Singapore, Japan and China, but to use such a high profile shortlisting to do some work in Europe would be amazing. Could a publicity/schools trip to Frankfurt in October be on the cards? Watch this space...

Casey vs Richard

2011-03-16T11:28:00.005+11:00

This morning I feel compelled to say a thing or two about the video that recently went public, in which Casey, a Year 10 kid at Chifley College in Mt Druitt, apparently after prolonged and repeated bullying, finally struck back, and struck back hard. Hard enough in fact, to break the ankle of his tormenter.

Now, I'm not into violence. I don't think it achieves much. I've always tried to teach my own kids that there is almost always a better way to solve their problems than beating seven bells out of someone. But it seems to me that Casey finally reached snapping point. We all reach that point sometimes, and from the evidence in the video, of a kid being hit, pushed, verbally taunted and antagonised, while others egged on his nemesis, it was all too much. I get it. I really do.

I've been to Chifley College. It's a tough place, no question, with committed and passionate teachers and staff who work under some difficult conditions. There's been a lot of criticism of the school for the lack of teachers seen in the video, for the way this conflict escalated to the point it reached over time, and most stridently, that both boys were suspended. All I can assume is that the school has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to schoolyard violence. And I also suspect that in time, once everything has been examined, the younger of the boys might find himself in a little more trouble than Casey. Which, to me, on the limited evidence we have, would only seem fair.

______________

(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

Meet the Blue-Footed Booby

2011-03-03T21:10:00.004+11:00

I've never met a blue-footed booby. And juvenile jokes aside, I have to admit that I've never met a booby of any colour. Therefore I am, in most respects, utterly ignorant on all things blue-footed booby-esque. Everything I know comes from two sources - Wikipedia, and James Tate.

Let's start with Wikpedia. This critical mass of collective online wisdom tells us that the blue-footed booby (or BFB, as I now intend to call it) is a bird from the sulidae family, which comprises long-winged seabirds. It's a decent size - about 6kg, on average – and the lady-boobies are slightly bigger than the boy-boobies.

Also, this happy little guy was called a booby after the Spanish word for "stupid person", on account of its clumsiness. Nice.

So far, so good. We've got a clumsy seabird with an unkind nickname, and we have to assume it's got blue feet.

Wikipedia also tells us that the BFB tends to hang out around the islands of the South American Pacific coast, including (but not exclusive to) the Galapagos Islands. Which is cool. I've never been to the Galapagos Islands, but apparently they're quite an experience, what with the turtles and all. So our BFB is quite exotic, it would seem, and better-travelled than most.

Then the Wiki article heads into all sorts of semi-rude stuff, like mating dances and egg-laying. Plus there's a bit of parenting thrown in there, such as the need for the incubating pair (Mum and Dad both have a turn, so they're obviously quite modern parents) to actually use their famous feet to keep the chicks warm. Their famous blue feet, as it happens. Their famous blue feet that the show-off boy-BFB flaps around in an effort to get the girl-BFB to sleep with him.

Personally, I don't know what all the BBF fuss is about. Photos of this specimen portray it as a seagull with plastic Mr Potatohead webbed feet, which is cute and faintly ridiculous, and as such entirely supports the Spanglish nickname, in my view.

Then Wikipedia talks about the diet of the BFB, which is ... anyone? Anyone? Yes! Fish! Who'd have thought! Apparently it hunts for fish on its own, or in pairs, or in large groups. In other words, if it sees a fish, it doesn't stop to consider its current social situation - it just goes and gets it. So to largish, clumsy, exotic, faintly ridiculous, and fair-minded in matters of gender roles, we can add pragmatic. Nice.

The Wikipedia BFB entry has a sub-section entitled “Pop Culture”, within which there are only two references listed. One is in the wonderful book “Galapagos”, by the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. The other is in the poem by James Tate, entitled “The Blu Booby”. It is to this poem that I now wish to draw your attention.

I won’t quote the entire poem – it is a very simple matter indeed to google “James Tate” and “Blue Booby”, and you’ll find that someone else will have cut and pasted it already. Besides, I only want to highlight part of the last stanza. This bit, in fact, which refers to the female blue-footed booby:

she sees he has found her
a new shred of blue foil:
for this she rewards him
with her dark body,
the stars turn slowly
in the blue foil beside them
like the eyes of a mild savior.

It’s a beautiful description of a mysterious and little-known bird. And really, when you think about it, it’s pretty much all we need to know.

(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

Kate P and the Facebook Wake

2010-10-30T16:27:00.003+11:00

Yesterday I turned on my phone after my flight landed, went to the Facebook app, and saw a message that made my blood run cold. It was a message from one of my FB friends (who is also a real, proper, 'I've stayed in her house' kind of friend), to another FB friend - Kate - whom I have never actually met. And Kate will always remain a friend I never met, because the message was one of condolence. Kate has died, taken away in the prime of her youth. The last FB status she ever wrote referred to how ill and pathetic she was feeling, and how she only had the strength to lick the flavour off Pringles. It's still there, that status, and to read it is horrifying and tragic and so terribly, terribly sad.

Some might argue that to me, she wasn't really a friend, and how could I feel any kind of grief for someone I never actually met, or spoke to, or so much as shared a coffee with? Kate became my FB acquaintance through a writing network, and as someone who had a mutual interest in writing, I agreed to add her to my list of friends. And I'm glad I did - I loved reading her quirky, cheeky, optimistic and occasionally tortured way of looking at the life of an artist.

Friend. It's a funny use of that word, when it's in the context of Facebook. Recently on the Sydney Morning Herald website, someone wrote about this, and the majority of comments were howls of derision. 'If you wouldn't lend them money, they're not really a friend.' 'How can you be friends with someone you've never met?' And this: 'People who make friends on Facebook are either desperate social wannabes, or career mercenaries.' I think this is missing the point that in the FB context, 'friend' is simply another name for someone who forms part of your network. Yes, I have real friends to whom I would lend money. But I also have the FB 'friends', like Kate. And when one of those 'friends' is suddenly no longer there, and you go back through their page and read their past statuses, and begin to see hints between the lines that make you wonder if you could have seen this coming, it becomes very real. And let's be under no illusion that it's grieving, not in the same crippling way that we grieve when a 'real' friend or a family member dies, but grief nonetheless.

In one of the several FB threads that have come out of Kate's sudden, untimely and - some might argue - merciful passing, in amongst all the 'I'll miss her cupcake kebabs' and 'I loved her rainbow toe-socks', someone asked 'What are we doing here? Is this a Facebook wake?' And I suppose it is.

There's one more thing that I think about when I ponder on all of this: who deletes that Facebook profile? A family member, or a lover? Is it like cleaning out the wardrobe and the chests of drawers and putting it all in cardboard boxes ready to take to St Vinnie's? Or is it rather more practical - clicking on a 'Delete Profile' button? I hope I never have to click on that button.(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

What if I DON'T like it?

2010-10-23T11:28:00.005+11:00

I'll say it - I like Facebook. I use it as a professional networking tool as much as a social networking tool. I keep in contact with friends and colleagues, learn of links and connections and industry goss, watch the occasional funny video.

But there is one thing about FB that I find rather irritating. It's the groups with views that might be seen by some as worthy of challenge or further discussion; some examples might be fundamentalist religious groups and prosperity Christians, or conspiracy theorists, or anti-immunisation groups, such as VINE. I find that these groups won't allow you to comment unless you "Like It!". And often we don't like it. But we can't respond. We can't discuss, engage in dialogue, perhaps even learn, unless we agree that we "Like It!", ergo, join the group. And we don't want to do that. Which means that these corners of Facebook remain the sole domain of people who all believe the same thing, and foment those beliefs.

I use the example of VINE, or the Vaccination Information Network. I was in a discussion with a friend about the pros and cons of childhood vaccination, and found my way to VINE, which vehemently opposes vaccination. (Incidentally, this site also likes to provide "evidence" for all manner of conspiracies - the government is gathering data on you so you'll be first against the wall when the revolution comes, the 9/11 attacks were an inside job, drop-bears aren't real, etc etc.)

But the bit that made me sit up straight was VINE's claim that whooping cough is neither "dangerous nor life-threatening". I beg to differ. Almost 300,000 people died globally from pertussis last year, and furthermore, I've personally nursed babies in PICUs who are on life support due to whooping cough. So naturally, I wanted to comment. But I couldn't, unless I joined. I wanted to send a direct message to the person who runs the group. That link was disabled. Meanwhile the regulars on the site are agreeing, agreeing, agreeing, all the while remaining blissfully unaware - or deliberately ignorant - that there is another side to this story.

I'm not saying that FB should shut the site down - I welcome discourse on pretty much anything. But let's at least have the conversation.

Be generous, dammit!

2010-10-11T16:22:00.004+11:00

As some of my friends know, in a previous life I was a registered nurse, working on Wade Ward, the adolescent unit at the Children's Hospital, Westmead. I met a lot of wonderful people there, but the ones who really stuck in my memory were the young people with cystic fibrosis. CF is an absolute arse of a disease. There is no cure... yet. Research continues, but it's expensive. The only relief available to a person with CF is a transplant, sometimes lungs, sometimes heart and lungs. My friend Kylie Polglase had one of these. It almost killed her. But now she's taking part in the 7km CF Walkathon, on October 24, in memory of her dear friend Lisa Buckley, who passed away from CF not that long ago. So far her team has raised over $3,000, but they could always do with more. It's very easy to donate - just go to the link, and select Kylie's name from the team list, and do it. Donate! Go on! You'll feel good! Kylie's walking 7km, damn it, and last time I saw her she needed a mobility scooter to get the length of the corridor! Seriously! So get in there, folks!

Here's the link again, just in case you missed it last time.

Random ruminations on being an unknown

2010-10-08T13:49:00.008+11:00

I was recently asked by Lateral Learning Speakers Agency to present a masterclass for the Sydney Morning Herald Young Writer of the Year Award finalists, and as part of that experience was invited, with the finalists, to tour the archives of the Mitchell Library with the Exhibition Curator, Paul Brunton. The special highights Paul selected included a lock of James Cook's hair in a casket that Cook's crew hand-carved from the timber of Resolution; the hand-written manuscripts for Thomas Keneally's Schindler's Ark and Kate Grenville's The Secret River, and, most significantly for me, the hat, pen and death mask of one of my literary heroes, Henry Lawson. They also had the copy edit of his short story collection While the Billy Boils, complete with his red editing marks.

But that's not really what I sat down to write about here. No, my major rumination has to do with a thought I had the following day, when I sat down for the lunch in the Dixson Room of the State Library of NSW. The man sitting beside me, who works for Fairfax, introduced himself, and I told him my name. 'What do you do?' he asked, and I told him that I'm a writer. 'I'm very sorry, but I'm not familiar with your work,' he replied.

We writers get that a lot. We don't feel hurt - it's just how it is. But at the same time, it's easy to wonder how far one is from being a 'known', rather than an 'unknown'. And to feel a bit despondent.

But then I spun it. I thought, if I'd been seated next to someone I knew, and who knew me, that would offer me very little in terms of improving profile, forming connections, networking, whatever you want to call it. And to be completely mercenary, that's why we go to these things, right? But here I was next to someone who didn't know me or my work (I wasn't familiar with his either, by the way) and I was suddenly in a position to create a new and possibly very useful connection. And from a networking point of view, isn't it more useful to shake hands with a stranger, have a long conversation and exchange cards at the end than yack about the same old stuff with someone we've known for years?

(Photo by Sara Fishwick)

Tim Burton

2010-09-03T15:31:00.004+10:00

If you happen to find yourself in Melbourne before the 10th October this year, you must, must, must go and see the Tim Burton exhibition at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, at Federation Square, Melbourne. Even if Burton's particular brand of kook and creep isn't your thing, it's worth it to see someone's creative journey so clearly plotted out, especially from his very earliest motivation - escaping the boredom and banality of Burbank, California in the 1960s and '70s. Personally, I think that idea is best summed up in the scene where the cars all reverse out of the driveways at the same time, drive off, then return the same way at the end of the day. And of course there is this vision of suburban malaise...

But what struck me most strongly - and I tell my creative writing students this all the time now - was how normal his writing was when he was in middle school. The exhibition contains a number of his creative writing pieces, and while they're not bad, they're no better or worse than the average piece of creative writing I see from regular, everyday middle-school kids. I see this as encouraging evidence that while success as an artist must owe something to natural ability, it probably owes just as much to identifying an area of interest and persisting at it. Clearly Tim Burton has talent in bucketloads, but I'd also argue that a clear vision and a strong drive for success played a pretty major part as well.

Bogan hospitality

2010-08-07T13:14:00.007+10:00

This is where I come on all small-l bleeding-heart liberal lefty, but I can't help it - I have to say something. Last week on The Chaser's "Yes we Canberra", the boys came out to the federal seat of Lindsay, which is next door to the one I live in, and vox-popped some of the Penrith locals, asking whether something should be done to "stop the boats", a phrase which fills me with embarrassment and shame every time Tony Abbott or one of his colleagues uses it. Or the PM, for that matter. And predictably enough, for no other reason than what took place in the editing suite, every single punter they spoke to (each of which was more boganny than the bogannest bogan you've ever encountered) responded exactly as you'd expect: "Yep, we should stop the boats, we don't need any more boat-people, I'll vote for anyone who can stop the effin' boats."

OK, so these punters might have been edited into prominence, but it's also true that they're out there, in most corners of Australian society. Which is why it struck me like a ton of felafel when I was sitting in the Penrith Westfield food court today, and this is what I saw, left to right: Thai, Italian, Japanese, American, Anglo, Mexican, Chinese, Vietnamese, more American, traditional Aussie roast, Lebanese and Turkish, Indian. And a bit more American. And if I was in any of a number of other suburban food courts, I might have even found some African. (What I haven't yet seen in any food court is bush tucker, but maybe one day soon that will come.)

But here's my point: is that what the average Australian wants, for all prospective immigrants of all flavours to come here, leave their family recipe books, then bugger off back "home"? "I don't want any of that foreign muck - I'll just grab a pizza or a doner kebab on the way home from the pub?" Really? If so, say goodbye to me right now, because I'm off to live in Nauru...

The most boring "debate" EVAH!

2010-07-30T12:41:00.005+10:00

Gawd, I've worn pants with more personality than these two.

Of course, I'm talking about last Sunday night's Leaders' Debate. Or should I say, the "Leaders" "Debate".

This was nothing more than a glorified press conference. Pre-boxing bout weigh-ins have more of a free exchange of ideas.

Solution, maybe for next time: Tony Jones on the Q&A set with Leader A and Leader B at the desk, and 150 interested and articulate audience members who are able to actually ask questions. You know, tough, non-flagged questions. Questions that make the leaders think, and present answers that can be cross-examined. That I would watch. But what we actually got the other night was absurd, and utterly, utterly pointless. Vote 1 for the Worm!

Ostrich "scientists"

2010-07-30T12:28:00.003+10:00

Ruben Meerman, a.k.a. The Surfing Scientist, and I were discussing climate change and global warming in the green room at a recent festival. This topic of conversation was kicked off in reference to a fellow presenter, who likes to get up in front of school kids and suggest to them that climate change is a big fat conspiracy.

Ruben put it in these terms: Imagine you go to see a renal surgeon, who examines you, and your scans, and your blood tests, and says, "You have a large renal tumour. It needs to come out as soon as possible." You go for a second opinion from another renal surgeon. He says the same thing - "You have a tumour, and it MUST come out." You see a third, fourth, fifth, twentieth renal surgeon - in fact you go and see 10,000 renal surgeons, and they all tell you the same thing. But then you go and see an ear, nose tha throat surgeon, and he says, "It's all a renal conspiracy - there's actually nothing wrong with your kidney."

Who are you going to believe?

The Proust Questionnaire

2010-07-09T12:57:00.004+10:00

What is your most marked characteristic?
Thoughtful. Not in the "thinking of others" way, although I think I often am that, but in the "thinks about stuff a lot" way.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Trustworthy.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Confidence.
What do you most value in your friends?
Generosity.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Envy and resentment. OK, that's two, but the're linked.

What is your favorite occupation?
Being with friends.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Sunday morning + window seat + sunshine + guitar.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Not being able to help your child feel better.

In which country would you like to live?
France looks nice, and I'd like to spend at least a year in New York. But if you can't find somewhere in Australia that suits you, you're pretty hard to please.

Who are your favorite writers?
Roald Dahl, Philip Pullman, Kurt Vonnegut, Annabel Crabb.

Who are your favorite poets?
Hmm. Not really a poetry guy, but I do like the elegance of a well-crafted haiku.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Yossarian from Catch-22.

Who is your favorite heroine of fiction?
Lucy from the Narnia books. I also used to have a bit of a lit-crush on Nancy Blackett from Swallows and Amazons.

Who are your favorite composers?
Joseph Haydn, Ludwig van Beethoven

Who are your favorite painters?
Jeffrey Smart, and the Heidelbergers.

What are your favorite names?
Anything spelt conventionally.

What is it that you most dislike?
Injustice and deceit that leads to injustice. I'm looking at you, footballers of the world.

Which talent would you most like to have?
To be able to draw like Shaun Tan.

How would you like to die?
Peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather, not screaming in terror like his passengers.

What is your current state of mind?
Excited about the opportunities before me, slightly stressed at how little time there is to achieve them all.

What is your motto?
"A drop of ink may make a million think." (Byron)

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Top 10 girls

2010-07-08T21:20:00.005+10:00

CMIS Fiction Focus recently compiled a list of the top ten female protagonists in recent Australian YA fiction. And guess what? Anonymity from Anonymity Jones is there! You go, girl!

At risk of stumbling blind into a debate for which I am completely unprepared, is it telling that only two of the ten in the initial list are written by blokes? And for the record, I'm not making a statement either way, I'm just pointing it out...(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

Why does it have to be so hard? (A bit of a rant.)

2010-07-08T21:04:00.005+10:00

Be warned, this is where I turn into a bit of a bleeding-heart small-L liberal, but can we please, please, please stop using vulnerable people as political footballs. I'm talking to you, Ms Gillard and Mr Abbott, and retrospectively to you, Mr Rudd, and before that, Messrs Howard and Beazley. I'm talking to all of you, and I refer to the current debate surrounding asylum seekers.

I feel that Heather Ridout said it best when she was on Richard Glover's radio show earlier this week. She suggested that we should put the issue aside until after the upcoming election, so that it's not used as a leverage for political gain. Then, after that, the Prime Minister and the Opposition Leader - whomever they might be - can sit down together and come up with a humane and considered solution. A bilateral solution. Gasp!

Agreed, we need to eliminate people smugglers, who are, by any measure, bad people. Yes,we need to protect our borders. But no, despite the best efforts of some to convince us otherwise, we're not being swamped by refugees. And no, we certainly don't want to return to the Howard years. But please, powerful people in Canberra, let's keep some sense of compassion for people who ill, for whatever reason, climb (with their families) aboard rusty, overloaded fishing boats and set out for Port Hedland.

Thank you, Mr Speaker.(For Facebook Notes readers: this post is redirected from my 'head vs desk' blog at headvsdesk.blogspot.com)

The Far East and feeling guilty

2010-05-02T15:24:00.005+10:00

Four weeks away from home is a long time. It's even a long time when your family comes and stays with you for ten of those twenty-eight days.

Now, I want to be very clear - I'm not complaining. Traveling is fun, doubly so when someone else is paying for you to do it. Traveling to places you'd never really planned to go to and finding them surprising and enchanting and wonderful and terrifying and challenging is what

the whole "be a traveler, not a tourist" meme is all about.

That was China. I spent less than a day in Shanghai, ten days in and around Beijing, and everything else was in places that many travelers - no, tourists - would never see. Hard, bustling, non-nonsense, sensory-overload places like Shekou, Shenzhen, Zhuhai and Dongguan; ordered, mostly-organised, planned cities like Chengdu; ancient, twisted Chongqing; gorgeous Suzhou (often called the Venice of the East on account of all the canals and arched bridges. And it was surprising, and revealing, and made me a little more aware of my place in the world.

Then Japan. Wow. Japan. What a place. And again, surprising. For me, the highlight of Japan was visiting Hiroshima, with its "stuff you, we're back" attitude and palpable optimism underpinned by a grim determination to ensure that their past is never visited on anyone else.

At some time I'll put together a more thought-out recollection of all of this, but for now, I want to reflect on something else: how does a family man reconcile traveling for work? And I don't really mean the kind of traveling I've just done, but the bread-and-butter fortnight in Brisbane/Melbourne/Adelaide/Albury/Dubbo/Collinsville kind of work.

It's easy to justify on one level. I have to provide for my family, my royalties aren't adequate, and there simply isn't enough work in my home town. And to not work in schools would be to go back to a job that I hated, and thereby make my family miserable.

Similarly, I can remind myself that the best writers are those who see more of the world than their own study. Of course. It's a no-brainer.

And yet coming home to feel like you're a stranger in your own home can be weird, and source of friction. Billy Connolly says that when he's been on tour, his wife sometimes has to remind him not to get into the back seat of the car. I sort of know what that's like. While I'm feeling sorry for myself as I slowly digest an RSL roast in a motel room in the middle of nowhere, my wife is helping with homework, making dinner, putting on the washing, making lunches...

Recently I had lunch with the wife of a writer friend, and I was saying how fortunate I feel, living the writer dream that I've always had. She began to cry, and asked me how lucky my family felt about my realised dreams. She talked about her husband going away for weeks, and coming home, and getting back into work, and meanwhile she' was left feeling somewhat forgotten.

So I want to say, to my family and to the significant others in the lives of my friends who travel for work, that with the exception of trips to places like China and Japan, it's not glamorous traveling for work. But we also know that it's even less glamorous for you, as you prop up your end while we ring for new towels.

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The first chapter of Anonymity Jones

2010-02-11T16:16:00.009+11:00

This is the first chapter of my new book, Anonymity Jones, available from Monday 1st March (Woolshed Press). If you like it, please go and buy the whole thing. Even if you don't like it, one of your close friends or relatives might. And failing that, buy a copy for you Welsh cousin whom you never, ever see, but still buy birthday presents for.

ONCE, IN A STREET not very far from yours, there lived a girl called Anonymity Jones. She lived with her mother – who had over the years changed her name from Corinne Randall to Corinne Jones, then back to Corinne Randall – and with a man called John, who behaved as if he was Anonymity’s stepfather but wasn’t in fact her stepfather at all, since he wasn’t really married to her mother.

Anonymity’s older sister went by the name Raven even though she’d been called Megan when she was first born, and some of the way into high school. Raven loved dark, brooding, frightening things, and didn’t live with her family any more. She’d finished school and was hoping to become a writer but hadn’t yet worked out what she was going to write about. So instead she’d gone travelling to see the world, even though Europe is only a small part of the world, and she was seeing only small parts of Europe.

Anonymity’s father, Richard, had once been very much in love with Corinne. They’d met at the accounting firm where she was a receptionist and he was her boss.

At that time he’d had a wife, Virginia, with whom he was no longer in love. Virginia knew about the receptionist from Richard’s work, and would pretend not to notice when, in conversations about things that happened at the office, he would mention Corinne’s name, before hesitating.

Virginia had also pretended to be surprised when she learnt by accident that the five-day conference Richard and Corinne had flown to lasted only two days and that the rest of the time they weren’t listening to long presentations about tax law, and how to run a private accounting firm, but were in fact ordering meals up to their eighteenth-storey hotel room, which had a balcony overlooking other hotels built beside a beach.

Anonymity didn’t know that this was how her parents had met until Corinne used it against her father. This wasn’t because her mother was an especially unkind person, but because she was doing what cats do when they are cornered, which is to spit and hiss and scratch until whatever has cornered them either runs away or has been stripped to ribbons. And since Corinne was a Leo, this might have made sense to anyone who believes in such things.

Anonymity heard Corinne use this information against her father when he accidentally let slip that the conference in Hong Kong wasn’t in fact a conference at all but a two-week holiday with a sales rep who had visited him in his office and left behind several notepads, two pens, a lava-lamp paperweight with the name of a software company on it, and a piece of her underwear.

It was this very lava-lamp paperweight which Corinne Randall, who was still Corinne Jones at the time, had thrown at Anonymity’s father. The sound of the paperweight crashing into something on the other side of her bedroom wall had made Anonymity jump in her bed. She’d been almost asleep, but after the terrible thump and the sound of raised voices in the next room she grew concerned. Her parents had been known to fight from time to time, just as all parents do. But, until now, nothing had been thrown, ever.

‘You must really think I’m some kind of bloody idiot,’ shouted Corinne, who very rarely swore. ‘And maybe I am. Maybe I should have seen this coming.’

‘Why would you say such a thing?’ Richard shouted back.

‘Because you cheated on your first wife, with me! Do you remember?’

‘Look, Corinne ––’

‘Why would you do this to me? Are you trying to punish me for something?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Are you looking for a way out? Because if it’s too hard, with what we’ve got to deal with around here, I’d understand. I would. But can’t we talk about that without introducing a third party? Christ! Again, Richard?’

The argument didn’t last very much longer. For a while, all Anonymity could hear from her room was the sound of their voices, but indistinctly. Then, just when she was beginning to think that perhaps the argument had been nothing more than a rehearsal for another, larger argument to be staged at some point in the future, she heard her mother screaming, downstairs.

‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ Over and over she screamed it. ‘Get out! Get out! Get! Out!’

By the time Anonymity had come downstairs, her father had gone. Surprisingly, he hadn’t slammed the front door, and Anonymity stood at the bottom of the stairs and frowned at the back of the door.

Corinne was in the kitchen, leaning against the bench with her head pressed against the overhead crockery cupboard.

‘Mum?’ Anonymity said.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Raven, who was still living there at that time because she was two weeks from sitting her final school exams.

‘Hey, sis, leave it and come back up to bed,’ Raven said. ‘Just leave it.’

‘But Dad’s gone,’ Anonymity replied, and as she said it she heard the sound of his car roaring away.

‘I know. But there’s nothing you can do now. Come back to bed. Where’s Sam? Has he headed for the hills?’

‘Yeah, he ran out the back, I think. He couldn’t stand the shouting.’

‘Poor thing. He probably won’t come back in for ages now. I’ll go and get him in a minute. But go back up to bed, sis. There’s nothing we can do about Dad right now.’

As she went past her parents’ room, Anonymity looked in there and saw the lava-lamp paperweight lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t broken, because the paperweights that sales reps leave in offices are not usually made of glass, but of a heavy, unbreakable plastic that can easily smash a hole in the door of a walk-in wardrobe.

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Oh, to be the son of an oceanographer...

2010-02-07T12:37:00.007+11:00

I'm currently trying to sell a car. It's a Holden Commodore wagon, 8 seats, towbar, aircon, all that jazz. It's been well-loved, done quite a few miles, but at $5000 negotiable, it will suit a growing family very nicely.

So. I put it in the classifieds of the local paper. Got a nibble, which might yet turn into a sale. If so, it'll be $18 well spent for the classified ad.

I also put it on an internet car sales site, run by a large Australian newspaper company. In the last nine days since the ad went live, I've had nine enquiries. And they all go something like this:

I am an oceanographer/petroleum engineer/geologist/naval officer, and I'm currently at sea/in Cape Town/out of the country. I would like to offer you $5,300 for your car, which will be a gift for my son/father-in-law/brother/cousin. Unfortunately, I can only pay with Paypal, so if you give me your Paypal email, I'll deposit the money, and then, when you have the money, my agent will come and pick up the car.

How can that possibly be a scam? They put the money in, you take it out, they sign the paperwork and take the car, and it's all sorted, leaving me with something like $500 more than I expected to get for it. So it's their fault if they want to buy a car sight unseen, and in a couple of cases, even arrange to ship it to the UK. Isn't it? How can I get hurt?

Here's how it works. They put the money into your Paypal account using a credit card. Then, when they've picked up the car and driven away, they go to their credit card company and dispute the sale. The credit card company then comes after the seller for the money. (I'm not sure how this bit works, but I'm assured that it does.) So the seller has to return the $5,300, but the car is gone, probably to a chop shop, or has been cannibalised for parts worth more than the car in its whole form, and is henceforth untraceable.

Two things perplex me about this. First, how barefaced these scammers are. One of the nine who contacted me made the original offer without telling me what his 'occupation' was. Wanting to have a bit of fun, I replied by saying that I wouldn't take Paypal, unless it was from someone reputable 'like a geologist, or and oceanographer who is out of town.' He came back ten minutes later with, 'Well yes, as it happens, I am an oceanographer, currently at sea.'

The second perplexing thing is this: if little old me, who is attempting his first ever car sale on the internet, is getting an average of an enquiry a day, there must be others getting the same kind of scammer interest. So if it's so rife, why hasn't the constabulary set up a sting, to nab the 'agent' when he comes to pick up the car? It wouldn't be hard to organise, would it? I'd offer to help in that regard, except I've little interest in pissing off an organised crime outfit.

So be wary. Be warned. Cash or bank cheque only. Or alternatively, leave the car in Evelyn Lane, Kings Cross with the keys in the ignition next Wednesday night. Damn, did I say that out loud?

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I guess not...

2010-01-29T12:50:00.005+11:00

Spotted in the foyer of a hospital. I guess they think everything is just fine the way it is.

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Written by a Year 6 creative writing student:

2010-01-07T11:49:00.003+11:00

My grandma makes the best homemade Bacon and Egg McMuffins...

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The Inkys

2009-11-29T14:29:00.011+11:00

So the Inkys are over for another year, after setting a new record for the most votes. And after a very close race, the Golden Inky was awarded to Where the Streets Had a Name, by Randa Abdel-Fattah, while the Silver Inky went to The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, which beat out some stiff competition, not least of all Exposure by Mal Peet, Paper Towns by John Green, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian by Sherman Alexie.

My book Town won the Golden Inky last year, and the most gratifying thing about winning this prize was that it is voted for by teenage readers. And while good reviews are great, being affirmed by the audience for which one writes is even better. At risk of sounding corny, it's what makes us keep doing it.

It's also wonderful to see an organisation like the Centre for Youth Literature generating such interest amongst teen readers. I remember fondly one of my fellow judges, Steph Bowe (who was fifteen at the time) taking issue with someone in the audience at the NSW Writers Centre Writing for Children Conference, when this person attested that 'young people aren't reading anymore'. Steph turned around and publicly put her straight. And the ongoing success of the Inkys supports the view that young people are reading, and doing so in a discerning way.

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Tolkien the fan-fiction writer

2009-11-19T14:14:00.003+11:00

A question, from WikiAnswers: "Where did Tolkien get the story of The Hobbit from?"

Perhaps the person who asked this question had heard that Elvish was in many respects derived from Finnish, and assumed that folklore lent itself to Tolkien's book. And in fact Beowulf is considered to have been something of an influence. There is no such thing as a new idea, really. Heck, Romeo and Juliet is just an earlier rip-off of Titanic.

But to the cynic in me, it seems to me that implicit in the above question is the idea that Tolkien lifted the idea from someone else, in much the same way various writers are now releasing books about vampires and swooning girls, or about wizard academies. (And we shouldn't forget that Stephenie Meyer owes a huge debt to Bram Stoker, and Rowling a similarly large debt to Ursula le Guin.)

Has fan-fiction and wholesale idea-poaching now become such a part of our literary landscape that we assume a great, ground-breaking and iconic work of fiction to have been pinched?

Or am I reading too much into this? I have been known to do this from time to time...

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'Brown Skin Blue' by Belinda Jeffrey

2009-11-16T22:34:00.009+11:00

Wow.

This isn't Belinda Jeffrey's first book, but it is her first published novel. And it's wonderful. It's assured, it's gripping, and in Barry Mundy it's got a character I ached for.

A lot of characters in young adult fiction are misfits. It's a common place to start for the YA writer, and for very good reason. Adolescence is tough. Teenagers seem to enjoy feeling bereft and angsty. So that's what we do to them in our novels. It makes the characters relatable.

But so often protagonists in YA novels aren't satisfied with internalised angst. Oh no, they whine. They whine and they whinge. They complain about their parents, their siblings, their schools, their teachers, their towns, their lack of prospects, their goddamn friends. And it gets so freaking boring. How do I know this? I could hold up several of my own books as Evidence for the Crown.

Barry doesn't do this. His life isn't perfect – his childhood hasn't been by a very long shot – but I don't think I felt a single shudder of self pity in his story. He's got a lot of serious shit to get through, but he doesn't wallow. He gets angry, sure, and he feels confused and lost for words, but at no point does he ask the reader to feel sorry for him. It's very refreshing.

But more than that is the language in this book, both in terms of the dialogue – the Top End Strine is pitch-perfect – but also the narrative voice. One review of this book described this book as having a 'sureness of touch'. I think that's something of an understatement.

The other thing I really admired about this book is the way the author managed to resist the urge to make it another 'issues' book. There are so many issues she could have latched onto: race, environment, a myriad of other matters of social conscience. But she allows these to colour the story (sorry, no pun on the title intended) rather than dominate it. It's a very impressive bit of writing.

(Brown Skin Blue is published by UQP.)

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A week in the bush

2009-11-13T11:24:00.007+11:00

As I write this, I'm sitting in McDonald's, Parkes, enjoying their free Wi-Fi, which gives me an opportunity to reflect on the last week or so.

I've just spent the lat three days at Lake Cargelligo Central School. 'Lake', as it's known locally, is a town of 1,300 (give or take) a couple of hours west of Parkes.

Lake is tired. Everywhere around Lake is tired. The lake that the town is named for has shrunken, the foreshore now a hundred metres or so away from where the boatramp ends. The streets are dusty, the silos empty, and the people seemingly resigned. They're harvesting at the moment. Or to be more accurate, those who have crops to harvest are harvesting. Some aren't even bothering. They're talking in very small numbers – one to two bags per acre. I'm not sure how big a bag actually is, but Matthew from Year 7 told me that his dad is currently driving grain trucks at Coonamble, a few hours up the road, where they're getting twelve to fourteen bags per acre. Last night on Prime, the news talked about the record harvest in Coonamble. They had shots of locals drinking up in the pub, smiling, grinning, celebrating. They got rain just at the right time.

I ate at one of the two Lake pubs most evenings. No one was celebrating in those pubs. One evening it rained, and the small number of locals who bothered to go outside to have a look didn't seem all that surprised to see that the shower lasted for a full fifteen minutes, then slunk away.

The kids at Lake Cargelligo Central School are like country kids everywhere. They're easy to engage, but difficult to get a response from. And you only have to strike up a conversation with their elders to know why this is. They don't need to impress anyone. And as a result, they aren't easily impressed. They just are.

The other things these kids are is older and wiser than their city cousins. I had to remind myself several times that I was speaking to Year 7s and 8s, not 9s and 10s. The teachers tell me of how overwhelmed these kids are when they go to the city for excursions. But I can't imagine there's much else that overwhelms them. Not when boys and girls in Year 6 and 7 tell me very matter-of-factly about going piggin' with their pig-dogs, or fishing for 60cm carp with a compound bow.

I love getting out on the road, and opening up the throttle a bit, both literally and metaphorically. I do love the bush. I was born in Trundle, which is about 45 minutes west of where I now sit.

I dropped in at Trundle other day. It felt familiar, but not like home. And when I introduced myself to the kids from Lake, I was very clear: I was born around here, but I'm not from around here. To make that claim would be to devalue the uniqueness of their growing-up experience. And that's the last thing I want to do.

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"This is why you're fat."

2009-11-09T09:36:00.003+11:00

I keep getting spam (at least I hope they're spam) emails, with this as their subject line.

I don't need to be told. I know the reasons: they're twofold, and they're very clear.

1. I like food.

2. I dislike exercise.

As they say in the classics, "You do the math."

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The AJ cover flat

2009-11-05T14:26:00.006+11:00

(click on it for a better look)

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The first Anonymity Jones review

2009-11-05T14:12:00.004+11:00

By Denise Muir, Head of English Domain, Upper Yarra Secondary College.

Anonymity’s life is unravelling, like the seam of “...the cricket ball she once found under the azalea bush...and she’d found the end, picked at it, and began to unwind it.”

Her life seems to be going nowhere, her home life, her friends and the relationship she once valued with her art teacher. Her life seems to be in a continuous loop, but unlike the neighbour’s dog her yelps and wails are ignored. The novel explores her strength in dealing with the hardships in her life. It explores her insight into what is right and wrong and the courage to make her own mark in life. Anonymity stays true to herself and takes control rather than becoming an anonymous bystander as her name suggests. Beautifully written with a mix of wit and humour it is honest and gritty, whilst at the same time sensitive and insightful. It is refreshing to read a book with such a strong female protagonist and that deals with confronting issues openly and realistically. This is definitely a book that older teenagers will relate to and will want to read in one sitting, as I did. I would recommend this novel for mature teenage readers (Year 10) as it requires a maturity to understand the complexities of the issues being explored and their consequences.

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Names changed to protect the bloody rude.

2009-11-02T22:07:00.007+11:00

Today Vicki and I went into Sydney for a meeting. And around lunchtime, we went for a walk. And we went to a book store.

It's a crowded little independent store, full of all the usual kinds of books – literary, trash, non-fiction, travel, cookery, all the usual. And a children's section, which featured a fair range of kids books. In a number of cases, they had four or five copies of books that you might not ordinarily expect to find in multiple numbers.

I've had a lot more joy lately finding my books in stores (even the chains), so I thought it might be safe to look for my titles. I didn't expect to find the entire backlist , just a couple, perhaps. I'm not greedy, but I do think that selling books is somewhat reliant on bookstores stocking them.

There weren't any. Not one. Since this is nothing particularly new, I thought I'd go and talk to the lady who owned the place, and introduce myself. Most booksellers really like it when authors do this. It creates an oft-missing connection between the author and the person who sells the book to the person for whom the book is written. It's not an exercise in ego – it's an exercise in mutual benefit.

'Hi,' I said. 'I'm wondering if you have any copies of Edsel Grizzler, by James Roy?'
'No,' she said, without even looking it up on her computer. 'We don't have it.'
'I see. Have you ever had it...? You sold out, perhaps? Because I wrote it, you see, and I like to check the shelves of local---'
'No, we've never had it. Who published it?'
'UQP.'
'Right. No, I don't have it.'
'Well, it was featured in a double-page spread the Sun Herald a few weeks ago, so it's quite possible that someone who read that piece might come in looking for that specific book.'
'Look,' she said, 'I've only got thirty-eight square metres of space in this store, and I have a lot of books to shelve, but I can't be expected to stock everything that's published.'

At this point, she turned away to cut some ribbon for the books she was gift-wrapping for a rather embarrassed-looking customer. Conversation over.

I couldn't resist a parting shot. 'Well, you seem to have multiple copies of a lot of books by other children's writers, so I'm sure you could find space for one of mine. Thank you.'

The fact is, I always expect to find none of my books in bookshops. It's safer that way – it can avoid real disappointment. And I also assume that the owner has never heard of me, or any of my books. And I'm sad to say, this woman confirmed my assumption. But I have to wonder, would she have been as dismissive – no, let's say it the way it was – rude to a buying customer? I very much doubt it.

An author/illustrator friend had a similar experience himself recently, when he went into another independent store not that far from where we were today, and asked for his book by name (without mentioning that he was the author). While the young shop assistant was looking up the title, her boss asked my friend, 'Are you going to order it in if we don't have it?'

'Probably not today,' my friend said.

At this, the boss turned to his employee and said, 'Stop. Stop looking. If they're not going to order the book, don't search past the title.'

Good to see that customer service is alive and well. I've had better service in the big, impersonal chains, and that's really saying something.

Oh, and by the way, Lady from ******* Bookshop, if you find a pile of books in the entirely wrong section of your store, they're the $200 worth of books we were planning to buy, but ended up putting down. Sorry, couldn't do it.

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How bizarre

2009-10-29T12:20:00.003+11:00

I ring a friend, whose name is John, and whose wife's name is Jackie.

"Hi, Jackie, this is James," I say.
"Who?"
"James Roy."
"Right."
"Is John there?"
"I think you've got the wrong Jackie."
"Oh. Oh!"

After I hang up, I check the number I dialed. The fifth digit was wrong - an 8 instead of a 6. What are the chances, that I would get one of eight digits wrong, and get someone whose name is the same as the person I'm trying to call?

PS: I know someone will give me some guff about it being not as statistically improbable as it seems (SKR, I'm looking at you) but I was still surprised.

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Anonymity Jones bound proof

2009-10-26T16:07:00.004+11:00

It's been a while coming, but here it is – the uncorrected bound proof of Anonymity Jones, from Woolshed Press (Feb 2010). Woo!ˆ–
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Oh dear...

2009-10-26T11:16:00.006+11:00

Imagine this. You're a Baptist pastor, and you're about to give a sermon. You peek out from backstage. You see a lot of youth in the congregation. Except to you, it's not a congregation – it's an audience. Because you're more than just a pastor - you're a comedian. You're funny. Young people love your sermons, especially when they're "bits". Mostly you kill, you very rarely die.

So you think, What could be funnier than saying that I'm a normal kinda guy who finds normal kinda things funny, like ... say, midgets. Little people. The 'vertically challenged'. And even though I know it's not OK to publicly humiliate them, I might say it anyway, and add that even though I know it's not OK, it's just beyond hilarious. I mean, what are the chances there'll be one of these hysterically amusing so-called 'people' in the audience anyway?

Mmm. Guess what?

Pastor X, your slice of humble pie is ready to be picked up from the servery.

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Something for stressed-out HSC students to remember

2009-10-22T15:11:00.006+11:00

I recently received an email from a lady whom I shall call Jill... mainly because her name is Jill. Her son was in the same guitar-making course as my dad, and she contacted me to let me know that her mother had said to say hi to me.

Let's go back a bit. When I was a wee lad of four or five, we were living in Papua New Guinea, on a mission college campus. I loved books. We had a lot of books in our house. I loved stories. My parents read me a lot of stories. And Mrs Palmer, who lived close by, had a lot of books, and story records. You know, dramatised stories, mostly riffing on Christian themes (being nice to people, being honest, sharing your toys, honouring your parents, washing your hands before dinner, all that kind of good gear). And I used to sneak away without asking permission and tell Mrs Palmer that my mummy had said it was OK for me to come and listen to her records. (Spot the irony?)

I recall Mum would occasionally get frustrated that she'd have to come and get me (she always knew where I was, at least), and no doubt she felt obliged to apologise to Mrs Palmer for having to accomodate her wandering lad, but I don't remember her ever getting angry about it. Maybe she knew that I was happily up to my eyeballs in that wonderful story-world, and it wouldn't have made much difference if she had kicked my tail about it anyway.

In her email, Jill calls me a 'dreamy little kid'. In my Grade 1 school report it says a similar thing: 'James would do better in school if he could stop daydreaming'. Maybe. But school ain't everything.

Good luck to all those kids doing their HSC exams this fortnight, but try not to let the stress get on top of you.
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Things that make me want to give it away

2009-10-21T14:32:00.008+11:00

I read this last night (in the bath, as it happens), and it struck me as a stroke of pure storytelling genius.

The slippers are made to last one day – this day. They're folded out of varnished paper, with a twinkle in it. We had to go all the way to the markets at the Crossways to find a paperbinder who did shoes the old way with no glue, just sheer skill of folding and knowledge of a girl's own foot and a girl's own walk holding the creation together.
(From Black Juice, by Margo Lanagan, Allen and Unwin, 2004)

Without wanting to sound fawning, Margo is one of those writers, like Sonya Hartnett, who makes the rest of us consider turning off the computer, or hanging up the quill.

But isn't that gorgeous? Only a true master of their craft could, in one paragraph – a mere 68 words – create such a perfect snapshot of a fantasy world. And by world, of course I include the cultural aspects of that place. These paper bridal slippers fuse something that we recognise and something other-worldly at once.

If you – and Margo – will indulge me one more quote, this is from another part of the same book, and is speaking about death:

Tonight it's come for my nan, and it gathers her up out of the thing that was her self, up out of her own bones into its dark, dirty, soft, soft breast, unfisting her hands from the front of her nightshirt, laying down her remains, moving her on from us like a storm cloud dragging its rain.

It's the 'unfisting her hands from the front of her nightshirt' that really wins me. That's so much more powerful than the oft-trotted-out idea that death is just a falling asleep, rather than something we resist at the core of our being. It's good – no, it's great – stuff.

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The self-righteous git...

2009-10-19T09:32:00.005+11:00

...is me, because I'm about to copy and paste something I saw on the Book of Faces...

The Cold Side of the Pillow is colder than normal do to being in the freezer all day.

What the heckfire is a 'colder than normal do'? A winter hairstyle sans beanie?

That is all.
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Sound like a John Green novel?

2009-10-11T20:59:00.001+11:00

Maxine
by Donald Fagen
(from The Nightfly)

Some say that we're reckless
They say we're much too young
Tell us to stop before we've begun
We've got to hold out till graduation
Try to hang on Maxine

While the world is sleeping
We meet at Lincoln Mall
Talk about life the meaning of it all
Try to make sense of the suburban sprawl
Try to hang on Maxine

Mexico City is like another world
Nice this year they say
You'll be my senorita
In jeans and pearls
But first let's get off this highway

We'll move up to Manhattan
And fill the place with friends
Drive to the coast and drive right back again
One day we'll wake up, make love but 'til then
Try to hang on Maxine..

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I think I know how this happened.

2009-10-09T11:07:00.005+11:00

Someone legal at Cityrail sent a memo to the Client Safety Office, stating that warning signs should be painted on platforms across the entire Sydney rail network. Perhaps the memo read something like this:

These warning signs should be clear, concise, and leave no margin for ambiguity. We suggest they read "SURFACE MAY BE SLIPPERY WHEN WET".

This memo was cut and pasted into a contract requisition to Signs-R-Us, who sent an order to their stencil-makers, who made dozens of stencils. These were then sent out to station-masters across the network, who dutifully flopped the stencils on the ground, got out their supplied cans of yellow paint, and sprayed the signs, complete with the unnecessary quotation marks. Thus:
I catch a lot of trains. This is going to be a disproportionately huge annoyance for me. Srsly.

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The Inkys shortlist - go vote!

2009-10-09T10:55:00.004+11:00

Online judging for the Inkys awards is now open. And the shortlists are...

Golden Inky (Australian books)
Broken Glass – Adrian Stirling
Where the Streets Had a Name – Rand Abdel-Fattah
Jarvis 24 – David Metzenthen
Worldshaker – Richard Harland
Everything Beautiful – Simmone Howell

Silver Inky (International books)
Exposure – Mal Peet
Skim – Mariko and Jillian Tamaki
Paper Towns – John Green
Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian – Sherman Alexie
The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins

I have my two preferred winners, but as a shortlist judge, I'm somewhat hamstrung in my ability to name them publicly. But you can! Go here to vote: www.insideadog.com.au

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My new baby...

2009-10-09T00:30:00.004+11:00

...which I'm yet to pick up.

That's my dad, making me a guitar. Sitka spruce top, myrtle back and sides, mahogany neck. It's all strung up and ready to play, but I haven't got it yet. Soon, very soon...

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Writing Quote XI

2009-09-22T22:22:00.003+10:00

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.
(Cyril Connolly)

Of course, what most of us aspire to be is the writer Cyril Connolly doesn't mention – the one who can write for themselves and for the public. But take a stroll around most bookshops, and it becomes pretty obvious that quality and popular are often poles apart.

In my school author talk, I always grab any opportunity to have a bit of a fun dig at the Twilight phenomenon. Yes, yes, I know that many young people who might never have picked up a book are reading Stephenie Meyer. We heard the same thing with Harry Potter. And this dig of which I speak (good-natured though it be) is often thrown back at me – usually by incensed teenaged girls – as professional envy. And sometimes the lines between that accusation and the truth can become blurry.

It would be very easy to be glib about this. 'I know money and success won't make me happy, but I wouldn't mind a chance to prove that theory for myself.' But the truth is, the uber-success of the Meyers and the Rowlings is what it is. As writers in a competetive marketplace, we choose to handle it the best way we can, which in my case is to remind myself that I am living my dream.

Recently a good friend (also a writer) had to remind me that negativity is infectious, and poisonous. And he's right. It's been the biggest single challenge of my writing career. And saying that I have no public is stretching things a little. I don't sell in vast quantities, but I sell. My books are in stores. I have some public. But I also know that I write for myself, and that's as important as anything else.

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Nursing Registration

2009-09-18T14:01:00.003+10:00

In exactly six weeks, my registration with the Nurses and Midwives Board of NSW expires. It's been almost a year since I did my last shift, and I am no longer in the employ of any of the fine health-provision facilities whose halls I once strode. I've handed in my ID tags, my sensible shoes and all the pairs of surgical scissors I borrowed from the treatment room over the years. I've forgotten how to read an ECG, I couldn't cannulate a garden hose with a power drill, and I giggle when I hear someone use the word "infarct". So I'm not a registered nurse any more. Except that I am. While ever I am still RN11***09, I can hypothetically bail this writing caper and seek re-employment in the children's ward or emergency department of my choice.

My wife has made it very clear that even if I did need to seek other employment, she would fight tooth and nail to prevent me going back to the life of an under-paid, over-worked, under-valued shift-working registered nurse. Because it made me a far less pleasant person to be married, she tells me. To which I nod, and say, "Never mind being married to it – living it was bad enough."

I became a full-time writer quite some time ago. That is to say, I stopped being a registered nurse who liked to write, and who had a couple of published books to his name, and became a writer who occasionally worked a casual shift in an emergency department. Something changed in the way I approached my writing. I guess the short version is, I became more professional about it. It felt good.

So now I sit here, with my Renewal of Registration form on my desk before me, and I'm not going to renew it. I'm not. And it's not just the $95. In fact, that's not it at all. This is a symbolic thing. Once I drop that form into the recycling, I'm on my own. I'm a writer, and only a writer. And it feels great.

An Eve Pownall shortlister for 2010?

2009-09-13T11:56:00.004+10:00

Spotted in a surgery waiting room.

Brisbane Writers Festival

2009-09-13T11:11:00.006+10:00

Ah, Brisbane. Las Vegas of the North. Home of the Broncos, Lions and Raw (?). Life-support system to the stupidest roundabout in the developed world.* Ah Brisbane, gateway to Burpengary.

To be serious for a moment, I actually do like Brisbane a great deal. In the twelve years or so that I've been going up there for work I've watched it transform from the big country town it was once known to be into a sprawling, pulsing city. With traffic. A lot of traffic. But a great many lovely people as well.

Brisbane is also home to one of the best-run writers festivals around. I spent three days up there last week, and was thoroughly impressed by the new venues (at the State Library) and the people who manage said venues. So many volunteers!

So here are some of my highlights:

The venues.
The attendees. Nice kids.
Catching up with some of the other writers, such as Scott Monk, James Moloney, Tristan Bancks, Sherryl Clark and Belinda Jeffreys, and the people from UQP and Random House.
Breakfast at the Gun Shot Cafe. Mmm, Canadian brekky.
Noel Pearson's slightly confusing address at the opening of the festival. There were protesters!

Lowlights:

You know who you are...
Getting gridlocked in a stinky cab on the stupidest roundabout in the developed world.**

So a big thank you to Molly and her festival people for a great time – see you again some time, I hope.

*It has traffic lights on the roundabout itself.
**Seriously.

No such thing as a new idea?

2009-08-29T11:55:00.002+10:00

Not sure where this came from originally, but it requires no further words from me.

(Thanks KS for the link.)

Bookweek in Griffith

2009-08-29T10:08:00.005+10:00

Some statistics on the terrific week I just had in Griffith/Leeton/Colleambally:

Number of schools visited: 10
Workshop sessions: 7
Author talks: 8
Total students (approx): 1000
Bottles of wine received as gifts: 4
Fantastic meals consumed: 10
Number of those fantastic meals that were consumed at the iconic La Scala restaurant: 1
Total weight gain (approx): 2kg

In my experience, it's really unusual to do a full week of touring without having at least one session that leaves you feeling a bit disillusioned. But this really was a hugely fun and rewarding week, with every session full of keen, motivated and responsive kids. So thank you to all the organisers for their kindness, encouragement and hospitality, and to the students of the Riverina for being such a fun bunch of young readers and writers. See you again soon, I hope!

Typical teenagers

2009-08-21T15:50:00.004+10:00

Before I get shot down for the title of this post, I want to emphasise that I don't think all teenagers are "typical". Or to be more accurate, I don't think any teenagers are "typical". So to anyone who hopes to take offense at the title of this post, I urge you to look up the meaning of the word "irony".

Having said that, this video is very funny.

One more sleep...

2009-08-13T16:02:00.003+10:00

...until I go home. I love being a writer, and a part of that is speaking in schools. And a part of speaking in schools is traveling. And when that travel is to Melbourne, my favourite Australian city, that softens the blow.

Except this time it's been almost two weeks. Last week I was at several schools in and around Melbourne, and I stayed with my friends Paul Collins and Meredith Costain, in their attic. And on Saturday night they had a bit of a gathering of Melbourne friends, complete with a chocolate birthday cake to celebrate my 41st. They're very kind, and I'm extremely grateful for their hospitality, and to all and sundry who came along.

I spent the weekend catching up with friends, and attending a couple of AFL games at the mighty 'G. And this week it's been the Literature Festival at Scotch College. I love festivals because you get to meet new people and catch up with old friends, such as Tristan Bancks, James Knight, Fiona McIntosh, and many more beside. The highlight? The mushroom and truffle oil risotto at The European on Spring Street. I love my risotto, and this, I must confess, was The. Best. Risotto. Ever. Hands down. No contest.

But risotto, friends, footy and chocolate cake aside, I am most cheered by the knowledge that I am here for one more night, then I'm heading home. Yep, one more sleep...

Alice in Wonderland trailer

2009-07-30T10:48:00.004+10:00

Yay! I'm excited! Burton + Depp + Bonham-Carter + crazy-arsed Lewis Carroll = can't wait.

Edsel Grizzler launch

2009-07-29T11:46:00.004+10:00

If you're free on the afternoon of Tuesday the 18th August, and you're in any kind of proximity to Beecroft, in Sydney's north-west, you should definitely consider dropping in at the Children's Bookshop, where the wonderful Deborah Abela will be launching my new book, Edsel Grizzler - Voyage to Verdada. I'm told that there'll be pizza!

We'll also be celebrating the launch of the all new, shiny, VIP Book Club, a book club for kids. So that's two reasons for celebration, plus the pizza!

Here's the proper, official invitation. If you do want to come, please RSVP, and we really hope to see you there.

So little time...

2009-07-29T10:43:00.002+10:00

Sometimes I feel like this guy, especially when it comes to punctuation. Just call me Captain Grammatical...

(Thanks to my excellent cousin Clansi, for sending my this via xkcd.com.)

The dreaded BAS

2009-07-27T11:47:00.004+10:00

When I was a young chap, I was crap at maths. Now that I'm an older chap, I'm a little less crap at maths. But I'm still pretty crap. There's something about the inflexibility of numbers that irks me, that makes me feel ... well, angry, to be completely honest.

A few years ago, John Howard went back on something he'd said years before: "We will never have a GST under a Coalition government. Never, ever." Liar! A few years later, what did we get? A GST. Which is an initialism for something that makes keeping books rather more difficult than it needs to be. Perhaps not for someone who is "good with figures", but difficult nonetheless.

The first time I had to do a Business Activity Statement, or BAS, I went out and bought MYOB. Big mistake. I should have caught on, when the sales guy dropped a flyer into the bag with the software - a flyer for a twelve week TAFE course on How to use MYOB.

That first night, I installed the wretched thing on my computer, then spent five or six hours screaming at it. "I don't want to reconcile my check! I don't even have a check to reconcile! I don't know what reconciling a check even means! And it's spelt C-H-E-Q-U-E!"

Then, after several hours of screaming, I felt like crying. Seriously. I got that old familiar feeling from high school, with the maths teacher standing by my right shoulder, pointing at my maths book, jabbing with that long finger, demanding that I know what something-or-other's value was. "No, what's x? It's very simple. Work it out! What's x? X!"

"I don't know! Leave me alone!"

Except it wasn't my old maths teacher standing by my desk, but John Howard, pointing and demanding. "What's your input tax credit? No, not your PAYG witholding tax, your input tax credit. What is it?"

"I don't know! Leave me alone! I'm a writer! I've only ever wanted to be a writer! If I'd wanted to be an accountant, I'd have done accounting! And I'd have paid better attention in Year 10 maths!"

I've got a spreadsheet now, which my accountant (that's someone who is good with numbers, who people like me pay to be good with our numbers) gave me. And my BAS still takes the better part of a day, every three months, but I don't need a twelve week TAFE course just to know how to use it.

The Inkys longlist (which I can't reveal)

2009-07-26T21:17:00.005+10:00

Along with the other Inkys judges, I received an email from Lili Wilkinson at the Centre for Youth Literature a week or so back, wherein we were given the names of the twenty YA books on the 2009 Inkys longlist. I'm not at liberty to mention which books are on said list, except to say that there are ten Australian titles (which will be dukeing it out for the Golden Inky) and ten international titles, which will compete for the Silver Inky. And that I've got a truckload of reading to do between now and the beginning of October. Not to complain - free books!

The launch of this year's Inkys will be an online event on the 20th of August - more details here. Check it out, take part. The final vote is a readers' vote.

Now THAT's weird...

2009-07-16T15:44:00.003+10:00

I'm currently working on a graphic novel text for which I was commissioned. It's a futuristic thing about global warming, called A New Kind of Alchemy, in which the new 'alchemists' seek to create water from non-watery elements.

Anyway, the point is that I was trying to come up with a character name for the teenager who is working within New Science. For some reason I thought of Gregor. I'm not sure why, but it felt good as a name - it's got elements of older language, but sort of works five hundred years in the future as well.

Then I went to a website that gives the meanings of various names, and I typed 'scientist' into the meaning box. And in amongst the Alans and Benjamins and Plinys and Leonardos was... Gregor, derived from Gregory or Gregorius, which means 'watchful and alert'. Like a good scientist.

Now, isn't that weird?

Anonymity Jones, laryngitis and kickarse reviews

2009-07-08T22:33:00.003+10:00

1.00 am: I finish and email the final draft of Anonymity Jones. At least, I finish and email what I hope is the final draft of Anonymity Jones, which is now scheduled for release by Woolshed Press in February 2010. I feel good to have finished the draft, but am also quietly concerned, since I have a gig later in the morning, and have been able to say little all day due to laryngitis. But it's improving, so with sleep I feel sure it'll be OK.
*Voice quality: 4/10

7.00 am: I get out of bed and prepare to drive to Cherrybrook Technology High School for a day of author talks. I drink a glass of pineapple juice, which is supposed to be good for laryngitis.ª
*Voice quality: 5

8.00 am: I hit the M7, repeating everything the radio newsreader says, just to check my voice.
*Voice quality: 5-6

9.00 am: I reach CTHS, and find the library. I assure the organisers that my voice is improving by the minute. More pineapple juice, which is supposed to be a trick singers use.ª
*Voice quality: 7

9.30am: I start my 50 minute author talk to 75 Year Sevens, who are good enough to remain very quiet for the duration. I even manage to do my wrestler voice. Falsetto toddler voice not so good. Kid asks if I always talk like Darth Vader. I tell him I think it's more like Chewbacca.
*Voice quality: 8

10.45 am: Whilst trying to have a conversation with JC Burke and Steven Herrick, my voice fails almost completely. This bodes very poorly for my 11.30 (Year 10!) session.
*Voice quality: 2-3

11.30 am: _________________
*Voice quality: 0

11.35 am: Seventy-five Year 10s are relocated across the school to invade Steven's session. They have a great time. He's a trooper.
*Voice quality: 0

1.30 pm: My last session is canned, with a promise to come back later in the year to give my remaining author talk then. Much of this discussion is conducted via sign language, whispering, and even a bit of whiteboard action.
*Voice quality: 1

4.00 pm: I arrive home to this review for Max Quigley. I whoop, but silently.

ª(Pig's arse.)

I dare anyone to watch this and not smile.

2009-07-07T10:54:00.000+10:00

The Narnia poll - the results

2009-07-03T09:15:00.005+10:00

Which was your favourite Narnia book? The results might surprise you...

By a narrow margin, two books came out on top. That's right, it was a dead heat, but which were the joint winners?

One of the two shouldn't be a huge surprise - The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. High adventure, a seafaring tale, plus the little guys with only one foot. And Reepicheep, of course, who made all singin', all dancin', all fencin' mice cool long before Brian Jacques started writing the same book over and over. (Oops - did I say that out loud?)

Incidentally, I'm excited to note that Dawn Treader is the next of the Chronicles to be adapted into a movie, with Eddie Izzard voicing Reepicheep. After the disappointment of the Prince Caspian movie (I always felt it was the weakest book anyway) I'm looking forward to the next movie very much.

Back to the poll: the other winner was The Magician's Nephew. I know - I was slightly surprised as well. But I can see why it polled well. In a genre where the quest for a convincing inter-world portal never ends (and where Lewis had to come up with several) I always thought the rings and the Wood Between The Worlds was genius. The moment where Digory realises with horror that he almost forgot to mark their pond... **sharp intake of breath**

For the record, my vote was for The Silver Chair, with Dawn Treader and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in a close race for second.

It's happening already.

2009-07-03T08:49:00.005+10:00

Part of the argument against parallel importation of books, at least by some parts of the industry, is the 'cultural dilution' of our language. That is to say, some fear that our kids will read Australian books that have been changed to suit American readers, and thereby become American.

Well, folks, it's here. It's happening. I have clear evidence. This morning one of my daughters congratulated me on a quick bit of mental calculation by saying, 'That's some quick math, Dad.'

'Some quick what?'

'Math.'

'Maths! It's maths! With an S at the end!'

(Daughter rolls eyes.) 'Whatever.'

That is all. No, seriously, it's over. I hope someone from the Productivity Commission is reading this.

I learnt something very cool yesterday...

2009-06-30T09:52:00.006+10:00

My brother Rob and his son Lachlan are currently on a motorcycle tour of Central Europe.

(That's not the very cool something I learnt yesterday - I already knew that.)

A few days back, they went to a city in Germany called Hildesheim. This is the place where my great-grandfather Gustav Bachaus (later Gus Backhouse) was born. I was reminded of this when Rob put a bit of info about the place in his travel blog, and mentioned how special it was for him to be in the birthplace of a forebear.

(This is where the cool bit starts.)

I looked at the name of the city, and that, in conjunction with Rob's description of how much of Hildesheim was bombed flat during the war, reminded me of something. The familiarity of the name, and the rebuilding following the war, the state in which the town resides...

Then I remembered. (And this is the cool bit.) The German edition of my book Town is being published by Gerstenberg, a publishing house based in (guess where!) Hildesheim! Where my great-grandfather was born! How incredibly cool and circular and appropriate is that?

One more cool (but mostly unrelated) thing: on the front of the Gerstenberg website is a link to the German edition of Eric Carle's 'pop up buch', Die Kleine Raupe Nimmersatt, which translates literally to 'The Little Caterpillar Glutton.' I thought that was kind of cute.

Writing quote X

2009-06-29T14:27:00.005+10:00

He that uses many words for the explaining of any subject doth, like the cuttlefish, hide himself for the most part in his own ink.
(John Ray)

The end.

Poll results - CBCA Younger Readers

2009-06-23T13:09:00.002+10:00

Twenty-one votes this time, which isn't a huge number, but 50% better than last time, for those of a statistical bent.

And here are the results:

Catherine Bateson: 6
Sandy Fussell: 6
Morris Gleitzman: 5
Glenda Millard/Steven Michael King: 3
Emily Rodda: 1
Christine Harris/Ann James: 0

So, there we have it - a completely unreliable guide to who will win this year's CBCA Younger Readers category. My vote, for what it's worth, was for Then, by Morris Gleitzman. Read my review here.

Twitlit (Parte the seconde)

2009-06-21T13:13:00.002+10:00

Anthony Eaton is a very funny chap. After several days of no Twitlit (classics retold in 140 characters or less) he came up with four in as many minutes.

Moby Dick: Call me Ishmael. It might be just me, but I think the Captain's kinda mad. I don't see how this voyage can end well...
The Caine Mutiny: Call me Keith. It might be just me, but I think the Captain's kinda mad. I don't see how this voyage can end well...
Heart of Darkness: Call me Marlow. It might be just me, but I think Kurtz is kinda mad. I don't see how this voyage can end well...
Into White Silence: Call me Downes. It might be just me, but I think the Captain is kinda mad. I don't see how this voyage can end well...

Writing quote VIII (and IX)

2009-06-18T12:51:00.007+10:00

Two quotes today, both from the inimitable Mark Twain, and both more or less about the same thing. Here's the first:

As to the adjective, when in doubt, strike it out.

And the second:

Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very;" your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.

That's damn good advice, don't you think?

TwitLit

2009-06-16T10:29:00.004+10:00

The term 'Twitlit' has been coined before, but only for original work, as far as I can tell. By that I mean that contests have been set up whereby people wrote short stories in 140 characters or less, a la Twitter. (Although I think you'd be hard pressed to top Hemingway's classic uber-tweet short story: For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.)

But the way Anthony Eaton has used the term, it refers to tweeting a very brief synopsis of a novel that already exists.

Some of Tony's examples:

T.G.Gatsby: In my younger days, I met Gatsby. He and my cousin killed a mechanic's wife. Then Gatsby got killed himself. Sad.
A Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Then worse again still. Then slightly better. Then awful. The end
Crime and Punishment: I'm Raskolnikov. Killed a pawnbroker and family. Didn't feel too bad about it. Now I do. Off to Siberia...

I particularly like that last one. I've attempted a couple, but I don't think they're as good as Tony's.

LordOfTheFlies: Mayday. Unplanned trip to an island. If Piggy still had his glasses he'd be OK. Would you rather be Ralph, Piggy or Simon?
Hamlet: Dead dad, whorish mum, sleazy uncle, crazy girlfriend. Best friend is pretty cool, though. Sounds like classic YA to me...

Poll results - CBCA Older Readers

2009-06-16T10:16:00.008+10:00

Last week I set up a blog poll asking who would win this year's Older Readers category of the CBCA Book of the Year awards. The participation numbers weren't huge (fourteen, to be precise) but a clear winner emerged. Here they are, in actual vote numbers.

Anthony Eaton: 7
Shaun Tan: 3
Melina Marchetta: 2
DM Cornish: 1
Jackie French: 1
James Moloney: 0

As I say, it's not a huge sample group, but the result is clear enough for Tony Eaton to almost certainly claim 'kissee-of-death' status. In fact, he already has.

The new poll is now up - it's the turn of the Younger Readers category.

Kinross Wolaroi School Winter LitFest

2009-06-12T12:09:00.007+10:00

Yep, that's where I've been, in the 'City of Colour', Orange.

It's cold in Orange at the moment. I used to think Wagga Wagga, Glen Innes and Armidale had the cold inland cities market cornered, but cripes, I think we have a new contender. On the first morning, as I was reversing my car out of the hotel car space, I felt a bump and heard a squeak. I got out of my car, and this is what I found under my back wheel...

Dead polar critters aside, I had a great time at KWS, as part of their inaugural Winter LitFest, working alongside David Legge, Frances Watts and Charlotte Calder. Lovely kids, generous teachers, friendly and warm library staff. So big congratulations to Amanda Foster, to Nicole and all the other library staff for putting on a great event, and I hope you keep the momentum going. I know it's hard work, but it's so worth it, and the students truly appreciate it.

Writing quote VII

2009-06-09T09:03:00.012+10:00

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
(Anton Chekhov)

Chekhov, regarded by many as one of the great writers of the short story, could be talking about a couple of things here. In fact, I'm almost certain he is. First, he's putting another angle on that age-old writing maxim, 'Show, don't tell'. This is a quote I often pull out in my workshops, because it's a perfect way to describe this important idea.

But I suspect he's also saying something about the use of sadness and personal imperfection in our writing. When he was thirty, Chekhov found a new passion and purpose in life: prison reform. His letters and observations from Sakhalin Island penal settlement in far east Russia are graphic depictions of human degradation, and amongst his most moving writing.

There's another Chekhov quote which I really like, but it's got more to do with the way we construct our stories. If the earlier quote is about showing rather than telling, this one is about foreshadowing:

If in Act I you have a pistol hanging on the wall, then it must fire in the last act.

Wha...?

2009-06-06T20:27:00.005+10:00

Yes, you saw correctly.

Haiku kin'youbi

2009-06-05T13:25:00.002+10:00

(...which translates crudely to "Haiku Friday".)

in the produce hall
pumpkins huge as kettle drums
that's a lot of soup

Footy

2009-06-04T08:48:00.002+10:00

Without wanting to dwell too much on a pretty wild ride with the State of Origin boys last night, I'd like to say how sick and tired I am of constantly hearing about Queensland passion, like anyone north of the border has a mortgage on fighting spirit. Our hugely inexperienced lads managed to push what amounted to the Australian backline to within an inch of an embarrassing defeat. Before the game one of the Queenslanders was saying how much they enjoy holding 'underdog status'. Please -- they haven't had underdog status for three years now, yet they keep claiming it, which allows them to persist with this 'extra Queensland passion' nonsense.

That is all.

I think I'm getting an irony migraine

2009-06-01T11:37:00.003+10:00

Reading Matters

2009-06-01T10:53:00.006+10:00

I'd been looking forward to the Reading Matters conference in Melbourne for months. I love presenting at festivals and conferences anyway, but this one was especially exciting: not only does RM have a great reputation for quality and inspiration and meticulous planning, but it featured a wealth of presenters I was keen to meet, and to hear speak. And best of all, (like always) it was in Melbourne, my favourite Australian city.

I really want to thank Paula, Mike and Lili and all their many helpers (especially Erin, who MCed the student day) for inviting me to the conference, and for providing such an incredible and thought-provoking experience for everyone who attended. I can't imagine anyone went home even slightly disapointed.

I could go on and on for several pages, but I won't. Instead, for your edification, I'll simply list my highlights and lowlights of Reading Matters '09.

Highlights...

John Green's wonderful opening address.
The enthusiasm of the audiences, both adult and student.
MT Anderson explaining (with help from a live concert violinist) how he uses the cadence of 18th Century music to influence the pattern of his narrative.
Hanging out with Isobelle Carmody, who, despite accidentally applying a drop of superglue directly into her eye, managed to be a great deal of fun and encouragement.
Tony Eaton's blue hair, which somehow didn't distract from his excellent presentations.
The privilege of introducing overseas guests to the spectacle of 40,000 screaming Victorians watching AFL in an indoor stadium.
Tristan Bancks' polished delivery.
Shooting the breeze until well after midnight with the charming Mo Johnson, who somehow convinced the concierge to reopen the bar, just for us.
Spending time with the warm, generous Mal Peet and his equally warm and generous wife Elspeth.
The Hypotheticals session on Thursday night.
Riffing on-stage with John green in the closing session.
The calm professionalism of the Reading Matters staff, and their attention to detail. (They even stapled tram tickets to our program to help us get around town.)
Each of the sessions.
Everything else.

Lowlights...

I lost a sock.

Writing quote VI

2009-05-25T21:31:00.004+10:00

Today's quote is from the German writer, Thomas Mann, as related by Clive James:

A writer is someone for whom writing is harder than it is for other people.

Clive James then goes on to say: "That line is perfect in every way. Not only is it perfectly written, but it's absolutely true. The only thing I've got better at as the years have gone by is I've grown more resigned to the fact that it comes hard. You realise that hesitation and frustration and waiting are part of the process, and you don't panic. I get a lot better at not panicking. I get up every morning early if it's a writing day and I will do nothing else but write that day. But the secret is not to panic if it doesn't come."

You can read the rest of Decca Aitkenhead's Guardian interview with Clive James here. And thanks to Shannon for the heads-up on this one.

Sydney Writers' Festival

2009-05-20T22:53:00.010+10:00

What fun! Yesterday, five hundred kids high school kids (some of whom were either actually in primary school, or pupils from Our Lady of the Sacred Oompa-Loompa) streamed into the amazing Sydney Theatre to hear Randa Abdel-Fatah, Garth Nix, Mal Peet, Isobelle Carmody and me talk about our books.

And today, slightly fewer (but still several hundred) kids flocked to the gorgeous Riverside Theatre at Parramatta for the same program.

My talk was titled Of Truths, Towns and Elephants (or why I'd have made a crap engineer) and it seemed to go over OK. I even sold a few books afterward.

But I have to say, that Garth Nix is a bit of a rock star. Yesterday, Garth wasn't even on stage yet, and the MC said, 'Our next speaker is Garth Nix." And the place went crazy. Seriously 'Oh-my-God-I-think-I'm-going-to-faint-someone-fan-me-before-I-completely-pass-out-OH-MY-GOD-IT'S-GARTH-NIX!' crazy. Unbelievable.

I got my own cheer, but it wasn't pre-emptive like Garth's - it was only by slagging off Twilight. A girl in the audience asked me what I thought of Twilight, and I said, 'I think Stephenie Meyer has singlehandedly set the liberation of women back by forty years.' The questioner asked me why, and I said, 'Because she tells us that someone like Edward Cullen can be as much of a prick as he likes to a girl like Bella, and she should just take it, simply because he's all shiny.'

I was slightly surprised when the place went crazy with applause, and to be honest, I felt just a tiny bit of my faith in the discerning nature of teens beginning to return.

(Photos: Jamie Simpson)

The shame of rugby league.

2009-05-16T10:58:00.004+10:00

I would love to weigh in on the Matthew Johns furore, but since this blog is linked to my website and therefore occasionally visited by young students, I can't be as direct as I'd like to be. So I'll simply say this...

The trio of Matthew Johns, the second Sharks player, and the young woman involved entered into an arrangement that was consensual, at least at the beginning. That decision was, with the benefit of hindsight (and some might have seen it in foresight as well) clearly a foolish one. They didn't start out doing anything 'wrong' (I've avoided using the word 'immoral', because that's another issue altogether) but a whole world of wrong turned up later in the night.

What alarms me most is the vitriol being spewed in the direction of the girl. Apparently, according to many, many tiny-minded people, and at least one journalist, she got exactly what she was asking for. I don't agree. I suspect it was probably a booze-fueled experiment that became much more than she intended. Questions of morality aside, I don't think that girl signed up for what took place later on in the evening.

Is seven years too long to wait to report something traumatic? Probably. Except she didn't -- she reported it at the time. No charges were laid. No, of course not, because no laws were broken. But that doesn't mean that an abuse of power didn't occur. As twitterer babycakesjase said, 'how much agency does a single19 year old girl have surrounded by a bunch of footy players?'

Should one man take the fall for everyone else involved? Probably not. But I have a message for Matthew Johns: mate, your claim that you 'walked away' when things started going too far does not make you a hero. It does not give you the moral high ground. Quite the contrary. You helped create a situation, but didn't have the guts to speak up when it escalated to a level with which you were uncomfortable. You were a senior team member, and supposed to be a leader.

Some leader.

Writers Talk 2009

2009-05-14T14:02:00.004+10:00

The clever people from the Centre for Learning Innovation at the NSW Department of Education and Training have just started releasing the 2009 edition of the Writers Talk series of video interviews and resources, where authors talk about their process, their inspiration and pretty much anything else you can imagine asking a writer. The '09 videos available thus far are from Tohby Riddle, Randa Abdel-Fattah, Mark McLeod and me, while some of the names still to come this year include Mal Peet, Garth Nix and Morris Gleitzman.

Click on the image above to go to the 2009 videos. This link also provides access to the interviews from 2008 and 2007.

Writing quote V

2009-05-13T09:31:00.008+10:00

Today's quote is from John Grisham. Now, courtroom books aren't everyone's cup of tea, and I haven't read every book Grisham ever published, although those I have read, I've quite enjoyed, with his first, A Time to Kill being my favourite.

But I especially love Grisham's personal story, sitting in his car during his lunch break, writing his fiction longhand on yellow legal pads.

But my bestest most favouritist thing concerning John Grisham is this quote, which more or less describes why certain themes (such as bullying) seem to keep popping up in my own work.

The good thing about writing fiction is that you can get back at people. I've gotten back at lawyers, prosecutors, judges, law professors and politicians. I just line 'em up and shoot 'em.
(John Grisham)

"Target is on the move", or Adventures of an Espionagey Nature

2009-05-11T10:35:00.004+10:00

You know that feeling you sometimes get, where you sense that you're being watched? And then you realise that you actually are being watched?

There we were at the Art Gallery of NSW, having paid our family entry fee for the Archibald exhibition. My daughter April had her camera around her neck, but had noticed that no one else seemed to have cameras out, so we assumed that we must have missed a sign somewhere near the entrance that stipulated no cameras. Therefore she made a decision that she wouldn't take any photos.

Then my wife saw a female security guard who seemed very familiar. Why so familiar? Because she looked exactly like the female security guard in the previous room. And the one before that. And the one before that. At risk of sounding paranoid, it seemed we were being followed. And watched. In a crush of people, we, the Roy family, were being tailed.

Or were we? We decided to conduct an experiment, and vary our journey through the exhibition. Take a slightly unexpected direction. And there she was again, watching us. Actually watching us. I'd look at her, and she'd look away, then glance back. Then follow us into the next room. God knows how many Archibald portraits were being touched by inquisitive fingers while we held the attention of the security guard.

We tried something different - we doubled back to one of the earlier rooms. She came with us.

Then we entered the turf of another security guard, and we saw them have a brief conference, in which we were pointed at. Actually pointed at, as in, "Watch them, they're trouble." Then this new guard followed us for the next twenty minutes. At one stage I pointed at a sculpture, with my finger a full thirty centimetres from the piece, and he craned his neck to make sure I wasn't defacing the priceless relic.*

So, my question is this: if you are a gallery security guard and you see someone with a camera around their neck, and there are signs saying that patrons shouldn't have cameras (signs which we didn't in fact see) why wouldn't you go up to that patron and simply say, "I'm just letting you know that you can't take photos of the exhibition." In which case we'd have said, "Oh, we're sorry. Thanks for letting us know." We might have even said, "One of us will take the camera out to the baggage check desk and come back in." Either of those options would have been preferable to putting two security guards on spy detail, tracking the shifty movements of a family of four having a nice Mothers' Day outing in the city.

Just saying.

(* An abstract thingamy made of pencils glued together with Araldite.)

Pointless

2009-05-08T11:25:00.004+10:00

Remind me, how long does it take to start a broom?

Anonymity Jones, and Writing Quote IV

2009-05-07T08:32:00.008+10:00

It's finished, and is currently sitting in Leonie's inbox. Ah, wondrous day!

It was so tempting to stay in bed this morning, and sometimes I wonder if I'm burning out. I know that sounds dramatic, but having worked in a high stress healthcare career for almost twenty years, I think I'm qualified to identify the signs of burnout. The fact is, I've been pretty prolific over the couple of years. Not Jackie French prolific, just 250,000 words prolific. Hunting Elephants, The Gimlet Eye, the first in the Edsel Grizzler trilogy, and now Anonymity Jones, plus all the incidental stuff, articles etc. I've got several (10-ish) more projects lined up, but I also feel like I need a break.

The problem is, though, that if I'm not writing, everyone else is. And I'm aware of the collective weight of Other Stuff being written, and published, and bought. So this is why, after finishing a YA novel at 11pm last night, I'm now cracking my knuckles in preparation for something new.

The other day someone called me a 'word machine'. To which I replied, 'Yes, I churn out the words, but then a bunch of women in hair nets have to pick out the bent ones.'*

I learnt a long time ago that if I set myself a minimum amount of writing time per day, I can waste that so easily. There are so many distractions right here, contained within the 6 square metres of space that is my study, and at the end of an eight hour day, I'll have achieved very little in terms of actually writing anything. So my solution - which works very well for me, I might add - has been to set a word quota. 2,000 words a day. Minimum. Every day. And most days I achieve that, although lately I've been limiting myself to 1,000 words on weekends.

But how many bent words am I producing? I think that's an important consideration.

So, to the writing quote, this time from the British author and historian Gerald Brenan. And here's what he had to say about this:

It is by sitting down to write every morning that one becomes a writer. Those who do not do this remain amateurs.

* (No disrespect meant to any of the lovely publishers and editors with whom I work. As far as I'm aware, none of them wears a hair net.)

A writing quote III

2009-05-05T09:35:00.006+10:00

I like pushing the form, over-reaching, going a little too far, just on the edge, sometimes getting your fingers burned. It's good to do that.

(Gay Talese)

A writing quote II

2009-05-03T14:41:00.003+10:00

A writer uses a journal to try out the new step in front of the mirror.

(Mary Gordon)

A writing quote

2009-05-01T07:49:00.004+10:00

A writer's knowledge of himself, realistic and unromantic, is like a store of energy on which he must draw for a lifetime; one volt of it properly directed will bring a character alive.

(Grahame Greene)

Edsel Grizzler Book 1 - the cover and blurb!

2009-04-27T16:53:00.006+10:00

NO HOUSE RULES.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST.
NO BEDTIME.
SKATEBOARDING ALLOWED ENCOURAGED
AND … NO PARENTS!

Welcome to Verdada.

When Edsel takes an unexpected voyage to a parallel dimension, his life is transformed overnight. Suddenly, his over-protective parents are nowhere to be seen and rules are a thing of the past.

Or so he thinks.

Everything seems perfect.

Everything is not what it seems.

Edsel needs to decide between the world he knows or being Forever Young in a place of Forever Fun. But time is running out.

Will Edsel be stuck in Verdada forever?

(Also, be sure to check out the YouTube trailer.)

Wha...?

2009-04-25T19:13:00.003+10:00

I'm not a perfect parent. I'm nothing like a perfect parent, and I've never claimed to be. But I like to think that I would never allow my child to own a toy M16 semi-automatic rifle. And if, by some freak event, I did allow my child to have such a toy, I feel completely certain that I would never allow that child to take it along to an ANZAC Day parade.

Perhaps these people thought that their young sons were entering into the spirit of the day, what with marching people in uniform, and ex-Army Jeeps, and a Catapult Party with rifles. But then to allow them to run around pretending to fire volleys of bullets into one another was insensitive at best, offensive at worst.

Russell Brand - not as funny as he thinks

2009-04-22T23:23:00.003+10:00

If a lanky ex-junkie/recovering sex-addict with bad hair, tight jeans and a self-conscious giggle is your bag, Ponderland might be just your thing.

If you like your jokes delivered from an auto-cue with a healthy sprinkling - nay, a frikkin shovelful - of the Bleeding Obvious, Ponderland might float your boat.

If hearing a lanky ex-junkie/recovering sex-addict with bad hair explain the irony behind what would, under any other circumstances, be bewilderingly amusing clips from old British TV documentaries, give Ponderland a go.

Anyone else should avoid it like a rampant dose of the clap. Seriously.

(Is there an emoticon for "shudder"?)

YA Blogosphere

2009-04-17T13:20:00.004+10:00

It's like your one-stop YA blog shop. Check it out. Click on the pic. Say hi to Steph. Then come back here.

Wikifish by Babelpedia

2009-04-12T07:58:00.002+10:00

You know how sometimes when you're really tired, you'll be reading something on Wikipedia and you have to look twice, and you think, Wait, that's so badly worded that it must be my tired eyes paying tricks? But then you look again and it's not that - it really is that badly worded. Then you realise that it's because this is part of an article about a place mainly populated by people who don't speak English at all, but do speak Spanish very well, so they've written the article in Spanish, then used some kind of online translator to turn it into ... something. Thus:

Park of May In May

of 1910 when commemorating itself the centenary of the rebolución of May, is inagurado is green space, from comes its name there. Be lung of the city is in the intersection of the streets Reconciled Liberating General San Martín and the Heras, has infantile games, an artificial lake with an island, fish and aquatic birds, a velodrome, kartódromo and sentenares of statues between the outstanding are the one of General San Martín, the one of Federico Cantoni (governor of the province) and the one of the monument to the sport..

This is from the Wikipedia article for San Juan, Argentina, and the whole piece isn't like this - it's just parts of the Urban Aspect section.

I'm quite fascinated by the infantile games in particular. Poking fun at one another, kicking sand in faces, smacking and pinching, showing off, that sort of thing. Usually when I'm Wiki'ing I'll fix little errors that I find, which is, of course, what we're all supposed to do. But in this case I seriously don't know where to start.

(Oh, and please, before anyone gets all snooty, I'm not being Anglocentric and making fun of Spanish-speaking people, OK? I do respect their language, cultures, dialects, customs and regional idiosyncrasies in all their rich diversity. This just stuck me as a little amusing. Sheesh!)

Parallel Importation

2009-04-09T15:31:00.002+10:00

This from the news section of the Australian Society of Authors website, regarding parallel importation, and how the 'Coalition for Cheaper Books', led by Dymocks, seems determined to undermine the livelihood of Australian authors, along with our unique literary culture:

Parallel Importation
The draft report from the Productivity Commission on the parallel importation of books has been released. Authors have until April 17 to make submissions in response.The ASA’s view is that the report does not show books are more expensive in Australia, yet supports the fact that Australia’s literary culture benefits from territorial copyright. Therefore, we reject any suggestion for changes to the current restrictions on the parallel importation of books. We call on members to make submissions supporting this view not only to the Commission, but also to the Prime Minister and Cabinet. These submissions are best done as hard copy documents — faxes or traditional mail — rather than email, since politicians give more weight to this form of document.Click here to read the report.

Go here for the latest ASA news and press on the subject, or here for the newly created AusBooks website.

Brisbane: Children's authors protest against Parallel Importation. Join the protest on 16 April at 10.30am, outside the Queen Street entrance of Dymocks.

The group has chosen Dymocks because they are the most pro-active members of the “Coalition for Cheaper Books”, and the distributor of a petition they claim will “help reduce the price of books". The ASA refutes this, and urges all members who are also members of Dymocks Booklovers to consider removing themselves from the mailing list, and registering their protest at Dymocks’ actions with Managing Director Don Grover (c/- Dymocks, 424 George Street, Sydney NSW 2000).

Personal Inventory for April 7, 2009

2009-04-07T07:16:00.002+10:00

State of desk: full but reasonably ordered
State of mind: positive
Number of writing projects currently under way: 2
Writing mindframe: fusty
Hours of sleep last night: 4.5
Number of Facebook friends: 328
Number of spam emails waiting to be junked: 368
Number of gigs this week: 1
Faith in human nature: fairly solid
Number of words written so far today (not counting blog): 0

'Gimlet Eye' review

2009-04-05T14:53:00.005+10:00

From Sue Bursztynski's The Great Raven book review blog, this:

In this third instalment of the spin-off of the popular Quentaris shared-world series, a character from the original series is actually killed off, something that doesn’t usually happen in shared universes. As it happens in the prologue, it’s no secret...

(sundry stuff about what happens etc in here: JR)

In my opinion, this one is the best so far in the new series. We learn more about the characters and their feelings. The adventure is fast, but straightforward enough for the young readers for whom this is an introduction to fantasy. At the same time, there’s a murder in the first chapter; there’s no tiptoeing around the issue. What happens to the adult magicians is also scary.

But there’s still plenty of humour, maybe more than there's been since the end of the original series – and in the end, Fontagu is shown in a more positive light than before.

The only thing is, while you can probably get something out of this book without having read the others, you really do need to have read them to understand properly what’s going on. The series is no longer a lot of related but individual titles. There is still, however, a policy of using some of Australia’s top children’s writers to keep the quality up.

Recommended for children from mid-primary to early secondary school.

Yay! Thanks, Great Raven!

A two-part joke about Buddhism

2009-04-04T01:08:00.004+11:00

Part 1.
The Dalai Lama goes to a street vendor to buy a hot-dog. When the vendor asks what he'd like, the Dalai Lama replies, 'Make me one with everything.'

Part 2.
The Dalai Lama receives his hot-dog, and the vendor tells him that it costs five dollars. When the Dalai Lama hands over a twenty dollar note, the vendor pockets it. The Dalai Lama stands there with his hand out, looking confused.
'What?' the vendor asks.
'Where's my change?' the Dalai Lama enquires.
'I thought you'd know - all change must come from within.'

Thank you very much - I'm here 'til Thursday. Tip generously - Nancy's a real trooper, and her sister's quite ill.

Onward and upward

2009-04-03T19:00:00.003+11:00

Someone once said to Yehudi Menuhin, the great violin virtuoso, after a performance: 'Mr Menuhin, I would give up everything to be able to play like you.'

Menuhin replied: 'I did.'

More from Max

2009-04-02T16:32:00.005+11:00

This is the Max Quigley product review currently doing the rounds on some of the online bookstores. I'm not sure who wrote it - probably someone from Houghton Mifflin - but I like, especially the first line...

For readers just past Captain Underpants, for those who relish the sort of humor of Louis Sachar and Jack Gantos, here is a hilarious novel by an author who truly gets boys. His main character Max Quigley is no angel; in fact one might call him a bully. But even as he taunts "wimpy Nerdstrom," he also begins to understand him. A most unlikely friendship grows. In the end, Max wins readers over, keeps them laughing, shows he is capable of change, and ultimately, brings us to a better understanding of boy dynamics.

Disappointed (some elaboration)

2009-03-31T20:52:00.005+11:00

Here's the thing. A year ago, Town was on several CBCA Clayton's shortlists, and named as top pick in at least one case. I was also told by one of the judges how much she adored that book. So on the big day of the 2008 announcement, I felt quietly confident. It was, as far as I was concerned, the best thing I'd ever written, hands down.

At 11am on that fateful day, just before I went into a creative writing workshop with thirty excitable Year 6 kids, I logged on and saw the list of Notable Books. There was Town. First hurdle cleared. The big one would be announced in an hour.

At 12 noon, I gave the kids a quick writing exercise and logged in again. After a few false starts, the shortlist finally showed up. Meme McDonald, Sonya Hartnett, John Heffernan, and so on, name after name that wasn't mine. I sighed, accepted it and turned off the computer and went back to work. Yes, I was gutted, but to be fair, that was mostly of my own doing. I'd let myself believe what I wanted to believe - that Town was destined to be on that shortlist. Arrogant? Cocky? Overconfident? Perhaps all of the above, even based on the evidence I felt I'd gathered. So this year I didn't even note the announcement date on my calendar. If Hunting Elephants was going to get onto the YA shortlist, it was going to be a surprise. A lovely, lovely surprise. (And it would have been too, since I honestly don't think it's my very best book ever.)

So, what was my error this year? Simply that I set myself a bare minimum achievement for Hunting Elephants -- inclusion on the 20-ish strong list of Notable Books. That much I thought would be good, anything more would be gravy.

I don't go much for karma, dogma or any such supernatural entities. But I think that maybe Karma did have something to teach me today: that hiding under the feeble modesty of not 'expecting' to be shortlisted is not enough - you genuinely shouldn't expect anything. At all. Then you can't be disappointed.

So mark these words: next year, when Anonymity Jones is eligible for these awards in which we place so much stock, I'm going to expect nothing. Nothing. Then anything I might (but probably won't) get will be a true delight.

Sincerest congratulations to all those whose books did appear on the lists, and my heartfelt commiserations to anyone who harboured hopes that their book might, but didn't, particularly Bill Condon, Julia Lawrinson and Libby Gleeson, who can each feel slightly out of sorts that their very fine books were overlooked.

Disappointed!

2009-03-31T13:12:00.001+11:00

That is all.