On writing and drumming

I was recently interviewed about the process of writing my second memoir ‘Childless: a story of freedom and longing’:

Q. Your memoir ‘Childless’ has some qualities that set it apart from more standard narratives. The chapters are short, and, like the way a great drummer leaves space in a piece of music, it feels as if as much is left out as is written. The space speaks along with the written words. It has a poetic quality; it’s almost like a prose poem. It is easy to read, although full of profound reflection and interesting storytelling. Did you set out to write it this way? What was your reasoning behind writing it like this?  

A. There were several reasons why the form emerged in the way it did. Firstly, I have been writing short personal columns for newspapers off and on for many years, most recently as 400 word pieces for ‘The Sunday Age’. Many of the chapters in ‘Childless’ were first written as columns, then adapted to fit into the book. I learnt a lot from having to write so concisely. How to capture the essence of an idea or an emotion with very few words. How to distil those ideas and emotions into very few scenes. How to make every word count.

Secondly, the material I wrote about in ‘Childless’ was often intensely painful. I was writing about some of the hardest times of my life, and I didn’t want to dwell too long with those memories. Get in, get out, get on with it. I assumed the reader wouldn’t want to dwell too long with my pain either. And I tried to trust my imagined reader, that they WOULD be able to fill in the gaps with their own empathy and imagination.

Thirdly, I wanted to try to mimic the way memory works - in flashes, fragments - disjointed, dismembered, like a dismantled jigsaw puzzle. And to mimic the way insight-from-hindsight works – we remember something from long ago and it dawns on us that what was ‘really’ happening was very different to what we thought was happening at the time. Also, writing ‘Childless’ was a way of processing grief – or a number of different griefs. That process is rarely linear, in my experience.

And finally, I was finding strictly chronological narratives a bit tedious. I wanted to challenge myself to try something more complex, but to find ways to ensure the reader stayed with me as I jumped around in time.

Q.  You have quoted poetry in the book. I have had writing teachers tell me not to include poetry in prose pieces; that readers tend to glaze over when they encounter poetry. Was this a concern for you? What are your thoughts on books that include a mix of poetry and prose?

A. Yes, it is a concern for me. Maybe I assume that when people want to read poetry they buy books of poetry, and when they want to read prose they buy books of prose. Mixing it up risks alienating them by suddenly changing the ‘product’. And perhaps I worry that poetry is less concerned with narrative drive than memoir, so to interrupt a narrative flow with something less story-oriented might interrupt the immersive experience of memoirs. But I have also read memoirs written entirely in poetic form and enjoyed those. I have only quoted a couple of very short pieces of poetry in ‘Childless’, in the context of describing how someone else’s words caused me to question myself in useful ways.

Q. Do you often play with form in your writing, and if so, in what ways? What effects can be created and how successful are they? Do you have any favourite examples of other authors doing this in memoir? I’m interested in the inclusion of photos. Have you ever done this or read memoirs that do it successfully, not necessarily as illustrations but more as photographic essays, or part of a story?

A. I wish I was more courageous in playing with form, actually. As a journalist I am always concerned about whether the reader ‘stays with me’ as I tell a story, and that has probably made me more conservative than I could have been when it comes to playing with form. For example, I’d love to do more writing involving complex braided narratives. I think Jo Ann Beard does this brilliantly. In her essays she jumps around between different temporal vantage points, different scenes, different themes, and somehow as a reader I am happy to follow her wherever she goes, confident that it will all coalesce by the end and make sense.

I haven’t ever considered including photos in my writing. I love using words to create pictures. I worry that using photos might be a way of ‘telling’ the reader what I’m trying to ‘show’ them with my words. But again, I haven’t really experimented with this so maybe I’m missing out!

Q.  What changes have you seen in the last five years in the publishing industry with regard to memoir writing, and how do you think it might change in the near future? Are there any gaps in approaches to memoir writing that you think have potential to bring something new?

A. The big change going on at the moment is that we’re seeing a much more diverse range of writers getting published. Hallelulah! Writers of colour, First Nations writers, Asian-Australian writers, queer writers, trans writers – the pendulum has finally swung. I hope this is a permanent change, not a ‘fad’. So many people have been shut out for so long.

As for gaps, I’d love to read some memoirs written as conversations – for example, between siblings, or partners. To see on the page the ways ‘reality’ is perceived so differently depending on your subjectivity. I sometimes think about writing in this way with my sister, who is a beautiful writer. Contestations over history can be so illuminating.