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I’m not a mother. I haven’t experienced what it is to create a human being inside you and release it into the wild world. I haven’t watched a first step, or heard a first word. I haven’t waved a child goodbye on their first day of school. I haven’t had all the joys and heartaches that come with making and fostering a life.
Before you start wondering, no, this isn’t a blog post on the latest Mark Latham pearl of wisdom (although I did find it a bit funny having my empathy called into question by the man who once called for the reintroduction of corporal punishment in schools).
This is a blog post about my book launch.
My launch was held in the closest city to the town I grew up in. My very best friends and adored family were there. And, with them around me, I watched my book, Thyla, take its first steps into the big wide world.
I’m not for one second saying that writing a book is the same as having a baby. I know that, for many people, nothing compares with the intense emotional experience of parenthood. For many people, it is their life’s purpose. But I have spent so much time with the characters of Thyla it does sort of feel like they’re my children. They have been living inside me for about two years now. I helped them grow from the tiny seeds of ideas to what I can only hope are fully fleshed out human beings (well, some more human than others). Thyla is a part of me, and on the night of my launch, I let it go.
I let other people hold it. I let them leave my sight with it. And all I could do, as I watched, was just hope they looked after it, said some kind words about it. Maybe even loved it.
I was having a bit of a Cat Stevens moment. It was all I could do to not start singing Wide World. My only comfort? That the next day I’d be able to get up, open my laptop, and visit the characters all over again as I work on the next book. And so it starts all over again!
When my first book, Three Things About Daisy Blue came out, I worked in a book shop. A fairly high profile book shop in a fairly small city. In the book world in Hobart people knew who I was. We’re a pretty small community. I’d say “hello” to fellow booksellers in the street. They’d say “hello” to me. Many of them were actually good mates. There’s no anonymity in a small booktown.
So, when Daisy Blue came out, much as I really, really wanted to, I just didn’t feel like I could go into a book shop, stride over to the YA section and fearlessly peruse the G section to see if my book was there (and, if so, how many copies and were they face-out???).
I had to send my husband instead.
And he did a great job. He went into every book shop in Hobart, counted copies and reported back. He also learned what “face-out” meant and incorporated that into his reconnaissance routine. I was so chuffed I had him there to be my eyes in the field.
But I still felt a bit like I was missing out.
Now, as Thyla hits shelves, I don’t work in a book shop any more and I live in a different city. One where not many people know me.
I have become shameless.
I have hit every book shop and large-department-store-chain-that-also-sells-books. I have counted. I have photographed. I have hunted, located and documented every Thyla in the wild in Launceston. And it was thrilling. A guilty pleasure. An adrenaline rush. And now it’s over. I have my photos. I have my proof of life. That’s it. Done and dusted. Back to normal life.
Right?
Well, that is, unless I decide, against better judgement and risking all contentment and sense of achievement, to revisit those shops …
And see if any copies have sold.
For now, I have resisted temptation. Being a natural born pessimist helps in this. But you never know. One moment of weakness and I will be in there, counting finger at the ready, checking if any of my babies has found a home.
Or I might wimp out and ask my husband to do it.
When a very dear writer friend of mine asked me to go with her to the Romance Writers of Australia 2011 conference, my first thought was, naturally, “But, honey, I’m not a romance writer …”. After all, I don’t write bodice-rippers. I write gothic novels about shapeshifters, and books about friendship, set in Bali. There are no heaving bosoms or chiselled biceps in my books. There are no men named Rudolpho or women named Cassandra.
Sure, there might be the occasional teenage crush …
And, yeah, there are a few kisses …
And, okay, there are a couple of covert love affairs between shapeshifters of different species …
But … but …
Oh.
It might sound stupid, but before my friend asked me to come to the conference, I had no idea I was a romance writer. I thought every one of my books examined an unique and different topic. After all, my first novel was a travel story set in Bali … that just happened to have a couple of cute boys in it.
My second novel was about shapeshifters in the Tasmanian bush. It also, um, just happened to have a very cute and dangerous boy in it. Who also happened to be slightly more of the animal persuasion than the boys in Daisy Blue but, hey, every girl has their “type”, don’t they? The rest of the Thyla cycle also features spunky romantic leads – one of them is even human!
Another book I’m working on might be set on the North West coast of Tassie, and might focus on issues of body image, depression and steampunk societies but, again, there is a boy. He might be a bit geekier than the boys in the other books but he has his own charm. And yes, this charm is used to attract a girl. In a romantic way.
And so on, and so forth and it turns out that every single one of my novels features some sort of romance!
And when I think about it, it’s easy to see why. And no, it’s not because I think the girls reading my books are obsessed with romance. I think it’s more to do with the fact that I am. Seriously, I am the girl who, when asked by her husband why I loathed the film Master and Commander, replied, “Because there were no girls in it. No kissing. No love!”. I am the girl who finds it impossible to write for younger readers because, well, the girls in those books still think boys are “icky”. All my favourite songs are about love. I adore Valentine’s Day – even when I was single, I did! I went to see Love Actually on Valentine’s Day when I was single and I had the best time!
I’m a hopeless, hopeless romantic and, if I had the money to spare, I think I would be going to that conference. Sadly, as an impoverished writer, I am just going to have to stay at home with my Hugh Grant movies (Colin Firth having moved on to less fluffy fare), re-read my Jane Austen books and admit, finally, to myself that I am, indeed, a romance writer.
I have always had absolute confidence in the future of our planet in the hands of the next generation. I used to work in a high school and my last job was as the YA manager of a book shop. The teenagers I’ve had the privilege to meet in both these jobss have never failed to astonish me with their passion, wit and engagement with the world around them.
Which is why I have always been a bit perplexed by all the reports in the media about the “disaffected, superficial, impatient, entitled, shallow and ignorant” generation set to inherit the world.
They don’t read! They can’t cook! They have no attention span! They want it all RIGHT NOW! They like Justin Bieber!
Well, yes, some teenagers might like Justin Bieber (and why shouldn’t they? After all, we liked Hanson and there were three of them) but apart from that, I really can’t see any connection between what the media reports and, you know, actual real life. Gee, what a surprise. The media love to sensationalise. They love to tell us all about how awful and messed up and doomed the planet is.
Whereas, the Gen Ys? They want to fix it. And I believe if any generation can, it will be this one.
Recently I had honour of going back to talk to kids at my old high school, Burnie High. Burnie High isn’t a private school. It’s in a regional area. The kids at that school come from all backgrounds. And the ones I spoke to were, without exception, amazing.
During my session with them, they were attentive, passionate, funny, asked insightful – sometimes curly – questions, broadened my own mind and reminded me of so many of the reasons I am passionate about YA literature. They were immensely knowledgeable about not only popular culture, but history, literature, the education system and the perception of their generation in the media. They take it with a grain of salt. As should everyone else.
Generation Y might confound the baby boomers because their brains actually do operate differently from those of the old guys. They are technology-literate. They are avid multi-taskers. They’re knowledgeable about a huge array of subjects, probably thanks to the vast glut of information they have been exposed to, in multiple formats, since they were in nappies. But they are also savvy about what information to believe and what to discard. They are confident, well-spoken and certain of their place and purpose in the world. Sure, they might have problems with issues body image, bullying and depression, but, heck, so did we.
We just didn’t have the internet back then, so we didn’t read about it on every second news website and blog. Now, we are acutely aware of the issues facing adolescents. We can help to remedy them. And that’s what we should be doing, instead of constantly bemoaning a generation many of us don’t understand. Which is our fault, not theirs.
I think you can tell a lot about a person by the fictional character they most identify with. A girl who feels a deep connection with Elizabeth Bennett might be an independent woman who’s hiding a secret hopeless romantic inside. A boy who read Harry Potter and couldn’t believe how much Ron Weasley was like him is likely to be a slightly geeky slacker with a phobia of spiders and a crush on his best mate. Someone who identifies with Tess of the D’Urbervilles might feel like their life is spiralling slowly into a kind of Greek tragedy.
All of this leads to the question: which fictional character do I most identify with? I can tell you, there are a lot of characters I WISH I identified with. Lizzie Bennett would be one, of course. I’d kill for her wit. I’d also love to be as brave and feisty as Tamora Pierce’s Alannah. Rosie, from Brigid Lowry’s Guitar Highway Rose was my teenage hero. In recent times, I’ve wished like heck I could be like the brilliantly bolshy Alexia Tarabotti from Gail Carriger’s glorious Parasol Protectorate novels.
In reality? I’m Mildred Hubble.
Mildred Hubble is the main character in Jill Murphy’s “Worst Witch” series. She’s tall and skinny, like me, with dark, messy hair. She’s also a total klutz who seems to race from one disaster to another the way my cat Mephy does when he’s just smelled catnip. She’s desperate to be successful and loved, but she feels like she only does good things (like flying over the school gates without crashing), when nobody is looking. She is oversensitive, disorganised and has a tendency towards self-indulgent wallowing. Mildred does have her good points, though. She’s determined. She doesn’t let her plethora of failures get her down. She just keeps on keeping on. She also has friends who love her despite her shortcomings. She loves her cat even though it’s kind of weird. And, when people really annoy her, she turns them into snails.
That last part, I only wish I could do. The rest? If you took out the “Mildreds” and replaced them with “Kates”, my nearest and dearest would not know the difference.
Maybe, as I get older and wiser, I’ll start identifying with a character more people would aspire to. Maybe, one day, I’ll see myself in Anna Karenina or Francois from Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu. Or maybe they’re characters I wouldn’t actually wish to be like. I can’t really say that with any certainty, given I only got a quarter of the way through the former without deciding life is too short and … well, geez, the Proust one is a novel in seven volumes. And the main character doesn’t even have a name.
For now, I’m kind of proud to be Mildred. She’s flawed but she’s real.
Plus, she has magic powers. What more could you want ? Can Lizzie Bennett turn people into snails ? I think not !
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