Regular readers know of my lit-crush on Geoff Dyer (see here and here). In this interview with ASH Smyth over at Guernica on the occasion of his new book Zona,  he has many interesting things to say, but here I’ll focus on what he says about nonfiction book proposals and the differences between writing fiction and nonfiction.

As with all of Dyer’s books, Zona: A Book about a Film about a Journey to a Room takes a subject as its starting point – in this case Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Stalker – then proceeds to pull it apart, turn it inside out, and offer its fragments to the reader as a kaleidoscope through which to see the world through Dyer’s eyes. I have just re-read Out of Sheer Rage, his book about trying to write a book about DH Lawrence that Steve Martin described as the funniest book he’d ever read – as inspiration for my own work in progress.

I admire Dyer for several reasons. One is that he’s funny in a witty and self-deprecating way while always being provocative and full of insight into the ways we live. His books are utterly unlike each other in subject matter and form, but they are all identifiably his. That’s because his voice – that word that agents and editors bang on about endlessly – is unique. He doesn’t sound like anybody else, and couldn’t if he tried. And while the Guernica interview shows that Dyer talking is very similar to Dyer writing,  the “I” on the page is always constructed and manipulated – maybe exaggerated, pushed or pulled in certain directions – for calculated effect. At a New Yorker Festival event last year, for example, he confirmed that he was “not nearly as crazy” as the narrator of Out of Sheer Rage, but that the narrator was an “exaggeration” of him.

This may sound odd coming from someone who writes as well as agents books, but I respect Dyer’s healthy disregard for some of the conventions of book publishing:

I’m most interested in the book which is completely un-sellable on the basis of a proposal or contract. One of the reasons so many nonfiction books are so boring is because what they’ve done, very diligently, is fulfill the terms of their proposals.

Obviously when you’ve written 12 works of fiction and nonfiction you can be assured of your 13th manuscript receiving the attention of editors. It’s more difficult (and not encouraged) to be blase about proposals when you’re yet to be published. But he’s right about the enervating quality of some nonfiction books that begin life as a great proposal. It’s like all those dates that should have worked – he or she looks good on paper, you’ve got so much in common, friend of a friend etc – yet for one reason or another it’s a fizzer. As a reader I love to be intrigued, enchanted, surprised.

Most intriguing are Dyer’s thoughts on a key difference between fiction and nonfiction:

Fiction is not really about anything: it is what it is. But nonfiction … we define in relation to what it’s about. So, Stalingrad by Antony Beevor. It’s “about” Stalingrad. Or, here’s a book by Claire Tomalin: it’s “about” Charles Dickens. And what I’m really interested in, as a reader and as a writer, is this idea of the nonfiction book that is not defined by its content, by its “about”-ness. Where you read it irrespective of whether you’re interested in the subject.

All of which explains the intellectual thrill and sheer fun for me in reading Dyer’s fiction and nonfiction, and why Reality Hunger author David Shields says, “There is no contemporary writer I admire more than Dyer.”

The “content” of my own nonfiction work in progress relates to the ways in which studying a musical instrument throughout childhood and adolescence shaped my identity. But in the writing process I’m finding that other strands keep recurring – to do with the Internet, with body hair, and clothes, and surprising connections between Beethoven and Leo Tolstoy. My job is to wrestle my material into a structure that provides a clear through-line. I want it to draw the reader onward using tone and humour and insight, relying less on pure chronology to do the work for me. In short, I aspire to write the sort of book Dyer describes above. They are less about plot and more about voice, but they are always about telling stories.

And good epigraphs:

Whatever people may say about my books—and it always amazes me when people don’t like them, but sometimes they don’t—the epigraphs have always been top-drawer.

Can bridge-building be taught?

I’ve already made it clear I’m a fan of Griffith Review, though for this reason and that reason I could be considered one-eyed. I wanted to alert you to their Humanities in the Community masterclasses in Brisbane and Melbourne, which is a partnership between Griffith Review and the Writing Centre for Scholars and Researchers (WCSR) at the University of Melbourne. Applications close February 29.

The motivation behind the partnership is clear: to bridge the gap between the university and the world beyond it.

The ability to write for an intelligent, general audience is not sufficiently valued in universities where career advancement depends primarily on publication in specialist peer reviewed journals. As a result many academics have never learned how to communicate with an interested public beyond the bounds of their specialisation. Nonetheless much academic research is of wide public interest and social import and deserves wider exposure. Achieving this requires that research outcomes be written in a way that is accessible and engaging.

This is perfect for academics seeking to communicate with an audience broader than the faculties in which they research and teach. There’s a whole world of sophisticated and engaged readers who are eager for new and compelling ideas, and thanks to technology a proliferation of channels through which to publish them.

During the two-day workshops, successful applicants will study exemplary writing in the genre; explore style, form and content through practical writing exercises; and be subjected to an analysis of the writers’ own areas of interest, writing strengths and potential audiences. Griffith Review editor Julianne Schultz and WCSR director Simon Clews will lead the workshops.

As a reader, and as an agent looking for new writers with something interesting to say to a large audience, I wish this initiative well. Kudos to the Sidney Myer Fund for supporting it.

Read these guidelines. Applications are due February 29.

My own academic life was brief but mostly enjoyable. Halfway through my English Literature PhD I realised I did not wish to become an academic. Even if I had wanted to, it was the mid-1990s and there were no jobs. Me being me, I finished the PhD. The dissertation  - on American poet Hart Crane and his obsession with the Brooklyn Bridge – gathers dust in the bowels of Sydney University’s Fisher Library, but I did write this riff on it for Bookslut.

If you’re an Australian nonprofit supporting creative artists, your project may be eligible for a grant from CAL’s Cultural Fund. Read on to find out. If so, you’ve got less than ten days to get your application in.

What is Copyright Agency?
Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) provides simple ways for people to reproduce, store and share words, images and other creative content, in return for fair payment. In doing so, it connects the creators, owners and users of copyright material.

CAL allocates 1.5% of its revenue to cultural development, which is The Cultural Fund.

When considering applications to the Copyright Agency Cultural Fund, the Cultural Fund Committee gives priority to those that support innovation in the Australian creative industries to develop local and foreign markets for Australian works.

Here is a list of recently supported projects. Keep in mind that CAL will not fund admin costs, book launches, publishers’ costs in publishing or marketing books or back issues; the creation or maintenance of a website for a publishing house, author or artist; or the development of apps for iPhones.

Please read the Guidelines before applying.

What about grants for individuals?
The good news: CAL has up to $150,000 per year to grant to individual creators for professional development: this means things like attending writers’ festivals, conferences, international competitions, and specific technical training.

The bad news: Applications for the Creative Industries Career Fund aren’t due until April.

Here’s a feel-good video about what CAL does if you have five minutes. Yes, it really is five minutes long.

Fiona Higgins' first novel released in March 2012

I am delighted that my client Fiona Higgins’ debut novel, The Mothers’ Group, will be released in just a few weeks. Allen & Unwin are publishing the book in Australia, where it’s already getting a lot of buzz from booksellers. There’s a lot more going on behind the scenes with this wonderful book that I can’t reveal quite yet, but I will happily blow Fiona’s trumpet when all becomes official.

On Fiona’s website you can read in more detail about the six intriguing new mothers whose lives she explores with humour, insight and drama in the novel. Allen & Unwin’s author page for Fiona summarizes the story like this:

An unthinkably shocking event sends shockwaves through a tight-knit mother’s group, testing their bonds and revealing closely-held secrets that threaten to shatter their lives in an explosive, enthralling debut novel about motherhood, friendship and love.

This book is going to get a lot of media attention because it confronts a lot of things about new-motherhood that Fiona believes are kept secret or even taboo. Even better, it’s a great story, well told – which is every reader’s (and agent’s) dream.

The Mothers’ Group is the second book I’ve worked on with Fiona. Her first was the memoir, Love in the Age of Drought, which was published in 2009.

You can follow Fiona on Facebook.

Goggles with attitude

In her “three-part rant” on the PEN Center USA blog, Shanna Mahin makes a series of sharp and timely points about the art and craft of writing memoir. Like many readers, myself included, Shanna is tired of memoir being considered the “red-headed stepchild of the literary world”. She writes:

Good memoir adheres to the same guidelines as good fiction. It needs plot, story, well-developed characters, a solid through-line, all of it. And a memoirist has to do it with one hand tied behind her back. She can’t conflate a time period (although, allegedly, Vivian Gornick might argue that point) or create a dramatic scenario to illustrate the angst of the human condition (ditto, James Frey, et. al.) She has to do it with the raw materials at hand. It’s all in the art. You get no credit for living. I didn’t say that, V.S. Pritchett said it. And he was oh-so-right. Obviously, I’m not talking about Tori Spelling’s newest contribution, I’m talking about all the amazing books that have earned their place on the shelves of literature, work by writers like Nick Flynn, Tobias Wolff, Mark Doty, Lauren Slater, Abigail Thomas, Dani Shapiro, Mary Gordon, Patricia Hampl, Kathryn Harrison, Stephen Elliott … . I defy you to read any of their books and then tell me that fiction is somehow more relevant as art, or that any of these writers should learn the lost art of shutting up.

Get out of your protagonist’s way
Mahin makes a point about memoir that is often overlooked: that there is a difference between you and your narrator in a work of memoir, even though you are most likely writing in the first-person about an aspect of your life experience. Mahin puts it this way:

You owe it to yourself to get out of your own way about your protagonist. I realize it’s touchy. Technically, your protagonist is, well, you. But it isn’t. It’s a construct of you, rendered specifically for the page. If your peers are telling you that your protagonist is pretentious and bitchy, well, ouch. But the truth is that it’s your craft (ew, I said craft) that’s painting the picture. You get to figure out the story you want to tell and—and this is where the real work comes in—how to tell it on the page. That’s the journey.

I think this advice holds for all the characters who populate a memoir. Whether you’re in a classroom receiving feedback on your work, or relying on the opinion of a trusted reader, you must be able to look with steely eyes at the characters you are creating on the page. You are choosing what to include and what to leave out. You are deciding which words describe them.

Recently I had a client who, draft after draft, refused to give the character of his mother any redeeming qualities. She was no angel, but neither is a monster ever 100% monstrous. As a result, I felt at a distance, because the writer is drawing a caricature rather than a character. The writer will not get far with the manuscript because he insists on writing the story solely from his point of view, emphasising his victimhood. Good writing reflects empathy and understanding for all your characters, no matter what genre you write.

Oh, and the eyewear pictured above? These are “f*ck you goggles”, which Mahin suggests are essential for anyone writing memoir, in order to stare down the nay-sayers of the genre.