Although I’ve been pursuing the writing life for a number of years, I worry about calling myself a writer in the absence of much in the way of published works. The term “emerging writer” is sometimes used for those in my situation, although I hate that description, implying as it does a chrysalis to butterfly or egg to chicken metamorphosis, a neither in nor out state. Over the long term this smacks of suspended animation to the point of distinct discomfort. So perhaps I’ll go back in to re-emerge another time. 

All that aside, I’ve naturally been fascinated to read about other writers’ experiences, ideas and reflections on writing over the years. Not to seek inspiration so much as a kind of comfort. Writers, no matter their age, skill level or experience, have much in common and discovering how others struggle with the same fears, doubts and creative impasses as I do, is reassuring.

These days, with the encyclopedic resources of the internet, it’s possible to find out all kinds of things about writers, famous and otherwise, from their favourite toast topping to the names and idiosyncrasies of their dogs, cats, children or spouses. Interviewers are especially curious about their daily routines**, how much they write a day, at what time and in what place (photographs of the author reclining at their desk amid books, papers, framed awards, covetable collectibles, dogs etc. tend to accompany such articles). As a bit of a voyeur when it comes to other people’s rooms, especially those where great things have been created, I love these photos. In special tribute to writers’ dogs who sit at the feet of genius, there’s a gallery of some at the end, taken from LitHub’s gorgeous article “12 Famous Authors at Work With Their Dogs“.

The feature image of this post comes from the website ati.com (All That’s Interesting) and shows the writing room of Vita Sackville-West famous for many things besides writing, including being the lover of Virginia Woolf, the inspiration for Woolf’s book “Orlando“, and the creator of the exquisite garden at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent, where I spent a wondrous afternoon some years ago on a visit to the UK. Sackville-West’s writing room was located at the top of the Elizabethan Tower in the grounds. Despite my loathing of climbing stairs, up the narrow spiral staircase I trudged, to find it immaculately preserved and redolent still with the sense of her presence.

(I’ve scattered a few more author’s den photos through this post in the hope readers find them as fascinating as I do.)

What started me thinking again recently about other writers’ experiences was the book “How to Get There” written by Maggie Mackellar. the second of her trilogy of memoirs, following “When It Rains“. The third,”Graft“, is due for release on 25 April. 

Image from penguin.com.au

Image from penguin.com.au

Image from penguin.com.au

Maggie is one of those gifted writers whose prose seamlessly runs the gamut from grappling with sheep to the quiet contemplation of a small precious moment to the anguish and joy of the human heart, and if you haven’t read her books, I think you should.

Following the loss of both her husband and mother in close succession, Mackellar, after struggling to re-establish a precarious hold on normal existence, took a courageous gamble and moved with her two young children to Tasmania to begin a new relationship. That this involved reinventing herself as a sheep farmer was just another small mountain she set herself to scale. Against this background of monumental life changes (just a couple of which would rate as dangerously stressful on the Social Readjustment Rating Scale) she set out to turn an embryo draft into a novel. A work of historical fiction inspired by Miles Franklin, for which she’d already received a publisher’s advance, it had at that stage been several years in the making.

And it was what she shared about this endeavour that spoke eloquently to my own struggles with a recalcitrant novel. (She’s also described it in a 2017 essay published in Sydney Review of Books called “Going to the Silences“.) She’s kindly allowed me to quote her in the section below.

Reading of her experiences reminded me of the tough grind that novel writing can be. It’s made up of multiple challenges on two different levels – the micro and the macro. The micro is the moment-to-moment face off with the blinking cursor, the white space, the blank page, the nothingness that waits for you to fill it. Whereas the macro is partly hidden. It’s the feral leviathan lurking beyond the immediacy of the page, behind the screen, outside the window or at the other end of an email or phone call, the big picture concept that lured you into this foolishness in the first place. Best kept well in the background for as long as possible. But every now and then it squirms out, baring its yellow teeth in maniacal laughter that you could have been so deluded as to think you’d bring it to ground. (If the leviathan happens to be called “historical fiction” as Mackellar’s is and mine was, the hazards expand exponentially.)