After the grind

My reflection on the ending of the PhD journey

http://www.kevinprice.com.au/after-the-grind-a-reflection-of-the-phd-journey/

Author and publisher Kevin Price in the News

Originally published at kevinprice.com.au

The launch of Ordinary Euphoria

Ordinary Euphoria, poems by David Moody was presented at a recent launch at Murdoch University's Nexus Theatre by Assoc. Prof. Jenny De Reuk. The book is a delightful collection of poems by David and artworks by Judith Price. It is available for purchase online direct from publisher Crotchet Quaver and also Amazon and Book Depository, Blackwells, as well as good bookstores. The following is taken from Jenny's presentation.

When David asked me to launch this collection of his I was deeply touched. We’ve shared a great deal in our years at Murdoch in the Literature and Theatre Programs—highs as well as lows—but I was genuinely surprised to discover that this book of his was a collection of poems and not a novel or a play.

I knew him as a gifted dramatist and a writer (not to mention those other attributes for which he has become famous: actor, director, adaptor; lecturer, critic and stand-up comedian among others) but that he had embraced that most arcane and difficult of contemporary literary forms and done so with such lyricism and emotional integrity has been a revelation.

Read the full presentation

The Magical Realism of KUMAKANA: Part One

In a previous blog post, I articulated the notion that KUMAKANA is a Young Adult fiction, not simply because its protagonist is a thirteen-year-old girl, but because it satisfies a range of other criteria commonly associated with what young readers are drawn to. The question that then follows on from this is, ‘What type of story is it?’ This is at once a more difficult question to answer because KUMAKANA breaks rules, crosses boundaries and invites criticism from political spaces; that it treads on sacred ground.

Let me say at the outset that it doesn’t, and I will address issues of perceived cultural appropriation in a forthcoming post. All the same, I think it proper to acknowledge the difficulty of this point, and the introduction to the book does address my engagement with south west Indigenous cultural artefacts such as language and very general spiritual concepts that are well within the public discourse and require no special knowledge. The fact that I have invented a spiritual basis for what I call the Natural Order is so that I can write of the possibilities of myths and legends that predate European colonisation of the land. The introduction to the book is prefaced by the following:

This story was produced on Aboriginal land. I acknowledge and recognise the strength, resilience and capacity of Australia’s Indigenous people whose persons and spirits remain part of this country and without whom this work would be impossible.

Why is this important?

Apart from simply paying respects to a culture and its custodians, it’s also important because the style of storytelling that KUMAKANA is—its genre if you like—is magical realism and adventure.

Primarily because of particular limitations in Western thought around the way the fantastic is considered, magical realism is most usually associated with writing drawn from Indigenous sources. Don Latham writes that it was ‘once associated almost exclusively with Latin American literature [and] can now be found in literary works from around the world.’ It’s possible we have Gabriel Garcia Marquez to thank for this, but in a more contemporary and postmodern society, magical realism has much to offer the desires of the young adult reader.

The adventure of KUMAKANA lies in how Lavender Jensen enters the Kumakana forest where it becomes increasingly obvious that she is out of her familiar everyday world and entrenched in a world of the disconcertingly abnormal. As the shadow of danger intrudes, she becomes increasingly threatened. Her presence ignites tensions between two clans of cunning, voracious predators and the enigmatic guardians of the Natural Order, the Gronups. The life and death struggle that ensues leads her to discover ancient lore, inner strength and hidden talents, which, in her hands, become the key to the future of the mysterious world within the forest and, perhaps, her world outside.

In most respects, this follows tropes made familiar in stories such as Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan and the Wizard of Oz, but unlike those, the world of KUMAKANA remains a real world. The forest retains its real character, the proportions between the characters and the landscape remain as they would under any normal circumstances.

What changes, and what invokes the trope of magical realism, is the dissolution of the boundary between human and animal, the disruption of the narrative by a form of magic that is not ‘wish’ or ‘spell’ based.

The magic of KUMAKANA is far more pragmatic and has the effect of subverting the common notion of magic more usually found  in YA fantasy such as that of Harry Potter or Merlin, where a wizard holds gifted powers executed by incantations or wand waving. The following two passages from the manuscript illustrate the inversion:

‘What, like magic?’
‘Magic?’ he challenged. The whites of his eyes shone in the dark. ‘Like your ball’s magic?’
‘No, more like, you know, “abracadabra” and poof! … we’re out of here.’ And to demonstrate, she waved the bone she held in her hand the way she’d seen Harry Potter do in the movies.
‘That’s just made up stuff,’ Jerramunga said. ‘Real magic doesn’t work like that. I know about magic—’ 

(KUMAKANA p. 57)

…

‘My grandad said. I told you … We’ve lived here since the beginning of time. He knew all the stories of this place from way back in the Dreaming. He was Ngungakatta. It means man of great wisdom. He knew everything about everything … Gronups and all the spirit creatures. We don’t want them to see us or they might use their magic on us.’
‘Thought you said magic was just made up stuff.’
‘What you were talkin’ about is just made up stuff. Gronups have bush magic, the most powerful of all magic. They control everything—the wind, the sounds, the water …’

(KUMAKANA p. 58)

The extraordinary side-by-side with the mundane

This red tingle stands at about 250 feet tall

KUMAKANA invites the reader to enjoy the majesty of a forest in which some of the world’s largest and most mysterious trees can be found while, at the same time, being challenged by beliefs that set aside all rational thought. The animals live by a code that guarantees their survival, but the effects of European colonisation on life in the forest has increased pressures on that sustainability.

The spiritual custodians, the Gronups, are not spirits themselves, but agents of the spirits. They carry out pragmatic functions that enable the animals to recognise their positions and roles within the Natural Order. But increased pressure from animals who have immigrated from foreign lands, who do not have Gronups assigned to them for grooming, who are not members of the Natural Order (at least in a local sense), has impacted the sustainability of life in the KUMAKANA. There are also refugees: birds and animals whose lands have been taken, their forests and bush destroyed for agricultural purposes, increasing the pressures on forest life.

In many senses, KUMAKANA represents an in-betweenness that is reflected in teenage life. Teenagers sit on the edges of childhood and adulthood, and the thresholds between them are frequently indistinct. This same sensation is true of KUMAKANA, where Lavender Jensen sits in a liminal space that transcends the reality of being trapped in a scary place and the magical realm of being at one with the animal world. While she has a foot in both, she is never really in one or the other, and this sensation is what gives rise to the book’s magical realism.

The cultural work of KUMAKANA is achieved through its expression and shaping of the long term effects of colonisation on the south-west Australian landscape, but to do so it needs to draw on life as it might have been prior to the upheaval of invasion. The central theme of the work might be a message to the reader to ‘let go your beliefs’ because failure to do so will place the meaning of the work out of reach.

KUMAKANA means to question the established social order on multiple levels. At one level it presents the idea that destruction of a social order comes at a great cost, a cost which is borne by many; at another it shows how life needs belief systems in order for social orders to function. But, perhaps most importantly, KUMAKANA questions how established social orders aim to control the actions of others, especially such actions as those that give rise to thinking and writing in a space that may represent a culturally different one from the one given by that same social order.

KUMAKANA — a gronups tale will be published by Crotchet Quaver in February 2017

Genre: The question without a question mark

Long ago, I asked myself, ‘Who should be the reader of KUMAKANA?’ The question has proved vexatious because, in the writing, I have not focused on who is the reader. Instead, I wrote a book that I have come to enjoy as a reader myself, yet my reading shelf has books by writers who write nothing like KUMAKANA. My reading mostly comprises thrillers and crime fiction. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy reading writers in other genres, but I remember reading KUMAKANA after a long time away from it and actually enjoying it. I mean, really enjoying it.

So a question arises, ‘How can I tap into what I enjoyed, and raise that to the consciousness of others who might also enjoy it?’ And who are these ‘others’ anyway?

Genre is this pigeon-holing system that allows readers to find what suits their sensibilities. In order to tap into market choices, writers set out to satisfy those specific sensibilities. Over the years, genres have fractured into sub-genres; and sub-genres into even more sub-genres.

In today’s economy, the bonds between writers and readers transcend story itself, seeking to become culturally dominant forms of what might be called a ‘friendship economy’, where the reader ‘follows’ the author and the author feeds that ‘friending frenzy’ by claiming and feeding the system itself rather than the cultural pursuits from which it is built. The friendship economy assumes that the ‘friends’ will benefit from the kudos of the ‘friended’ as the ‘friended’ climbs the ladders of cultural popularity built from ‘friends’. That resulting friendship becomes a commodified economic good to be traded for a further economic benefit, leaving those unable to join that ladder to wallow by the wayside.

Dominating a genre space is the goal of the modern day publisher, therefore, it makes sense to narrow genre spaces and encourage readers to identify themselves through the visual and cultural similarities that mimic real friendships. Genre is the space in which we readers find ourselves and there is no escape.

Is it Young Adult?

KUMAKANA’S protagonist is thirteen years old: does that mean it’s a young adult (YA) novel?

I firmly believe that there is an underlying reader prejudice that, once a central character is identified as being of a certain ‘type’ — be that through age, gender, sexual preference, or any other means of stereotype — readers use the genre spaces they understand to categorise the work, bringing with them the training they have gained from either reading in that space or rejecting it.

This includes readers of the most sophisticated kind, such as editors in publishing houses and critics, through to those who, maybe, are less sophisticated but no less discriminatory. So powerful has the genre space become that it informs readers of the ‘type’ long before the reading is begun, let alone complete.

When one sophisticated reader recently got to the point in KUMAKANA where he learned the story has talking animals among its circuitry of characters, he closed the manuscript (or at least closed his mind to it) because he doesn’t believe in books with talking animals, even though he admitted to being well invested in the central character. This then colours any reading he might make, and the deeper themes such as issues of sustainability and the influences of colonisation on an indigenous landscape — both physical and spiritual — will slip by without critical consideration because a particular (if not stereotypical) genre expectation wasn’t met.

But the fact remains that, just because the protagonist is a young adult, that doesn't make her story one. Young Adult is a genre space in which it is seriously difficult to quantify which books and which people should fit. A problem Nadia Wheatley says, 'will never be solved.'

The idea of Young Adult fiction emerged in USA libraries in the late 1950s when the American Library Association developed a set of standards for services to young adults premised on the recognition that adolescents were no longer interested in children’s books and, in lieu of relatively limited life experience, they were looked upon as a ‘step on the way to real books’.

The dominant culture of American YA literature into the 1960s was that they were ‘real stories about real people’. It was in the 1970s where the YA novel began to explore alienation as an important theme, holding up a mirror to society and its problems with social reformation, politics, drugs, sex, and rock and roll. The ‘problem novel’ that became the genre lodestone of the time tended to focus on a ‘particular problem of teenage life’ showing the reader that they were not isolated in their predicament.

It wasn’t until the 1980s that the YA novel became a genre for Australian writers and the emergence of romance as the central theme and, despite their formulaic stereotypes, they were argued to better depict the reality of the lives of teenage girls of the time than did the problem novel. In the late 1980s, YA books began to take on similar aesthetic values as adult literature and delve into the multicultural space, attempting to break down the barriers of language and culture.

In many ways, it is in this space that KUMAKANA  was conceived. The initial story conceit occurred in the early 1990s, and when writing began later that decade, I became deeply interested in how I might write an Australian myth and legend that eschewed the colonial notions of that particular genre space permeating Australian writing for young adults at the time. Works that explored this area by Australian writers were not Australian stories and this concerned me enormously. Issues of authenticity and largely academic arguments of cultural appropriation were levelled at my work (and by extension at me) when I sought support funding or publishing interest. Australian authors were at some kind of strange crossroads, where they were criticised for not writing encounters with Indigenous culture into their work, and equally chastised were they to do so.

By the turn of the century, YA fiction had become more pervasive in both its reach and levels of controversy in its content, described as ‘gritty realism, integrity and hope’. During this period, possibly beginning with the advent of the Harry Potter novels, a phenomenon known as ‘crossover’ began to emerge in which novels written for young adult readers were being consumed as much by adult readers as young readers.

Bridging, crossing over, interloping genres

In some respects, it has always been my hope that KUMAKANA will sit comfortably in this crossover space, not essentially because, as is argued by some, it broadens the sales opportunities, but because its themes and ideas should have a universal appeal, and offer sufficient controversy to cause readers at all ages to raise questions about my motives, the motives of society at large, and their own.

Apart from simply spinning a good adventure yarn, I have always seen this novel as a socialising force — a work that is centrally focused on transmitting cultural values. It’s a journey that moves its protagonist, Lavender Jensen, from a sense of innocence to one of experience in a realisation-rite-of-passage adventure.

At the beginning of the novel, Lavender is isolated from her usual life, sent to holiday with her father in a remote place. But there is also a sense of psychological isolation which brings her powers of imagination into question. The isolation deepens when the Kumakana Forest consumes her, even though she has teamed up with Jerramunga, a laconic Aboriginal youth, who acts both as a herald and mentor — although his mentorship is usually presented through his dead grandfather’s presence. It is Jerramunga’s actions that draw Lavender into a series of encounters that test her beliefs and bring the magical powers of her imagination to the fore. Her return comes at a deep personal cost but leaves her enriched with a cultural understanding and an alternate view of how the world works. We are left with a feeling of hope that a bright future lies in wait.

KUMAKANA meets the expectations of a YA novel in these ways, and others. It focuses on the search for identity, particularly where life is caught in the crosshairs between childhood and the adult world. The central character is exposed to the stark, brutal, violent and unfortunate realities of life — fostering her opportunity to mature, acquire new values, and a deeper understanding of herself because of the difficulties of the adventure she endures.

So yes, I conclude that KUMAKANA is, in fact, a Young Adult Novel, albeit perhaps one of a different shape and culture than those many have read. It's not fantasy and it's not science fiction, but it does involve magic and talking animals.

It might appeal to the reader of Watership Down, or of Lord of The Rings. It might just as much appeal to the reader of Secret River or people who enjoy watching Disney movies. Indeed, though, talking animals didn’t put people off reading Animal Farm. And, because I cannot speak for Indigenous culture in Australia, I made my own and gave it to the animals.

But most importantly, Lavender Jensen's situation is unique. Her situation is specific to her circumstances, not circumstances that are generalisations drawn from the life of a thirteen-year-old. Although she is —  like most teenagers of her generation —  a curious youth, 'seeking, applying, remixing and tinkering with learning' —  self-expressing and negotiating value systems that help her define her identity. She is on a quest, right from the start of the novel, for empowerment. As such, she is receptive and vulnerable as much as she is creative and firm. She is the kind of character I'm sure every writer wants to spend quality time with. Perhaps readers too.

KUMAKANA is both an adventure and a story of magical realism, a subject  that will be explored in YA literature in a forthcoming post.

More information can be found at kevinprice.com.au

KUMAKANA — a gronups tale will be published by Crotchet Quaver in June 2016

Is crowdfunding a viable answer

I thought I'd dip my toe in the crowdfunding water and see if we could find some buoyancy for our flailing publishing venture. By flailing, I really mean fledgling, but didn't seem to have the right water borne metaphor on hand.

Flailing because I am enthusiastic about Koo Kaa & Burra: The Rescue, by Judith Price, and the very encouraging feedback we've had from classroom teachers and school librarians and would like to put some punch behind the book's marketing and opportunity. Flailing because in many ways this is new space for me, and the publishing waterways are very deep, and far, far across the main from here: the spit of land officially considered the most isolated capital city on earth. Western Australia might be well known for its mining, but truth be known, it's a cultural desert in respect of sound infrastructure for success in artistic pursuit. It's small, lonely and a long way from big markets.

So I scouted about for what seemed like a good platform and decided on pubslush because it touts itself as being there for all things literary. Of course it doesn't deal in Australian dollars, but why should that matter? Australians seem pretty happy to shell out US dollars or GB pounds for books on amazon and booklocker, why would the lack of an Aussie dollar be a put-off? Moreover, there's a lot more Americans and Brits than Australians, and surely they'd love to support a project about Australian birds and animals.

I drafted up a pitch. I thought it covered the subject pretty well: we want to raise money to fund mass production and distribution and marketing for a noteworthy publication. Something kids everywhere would love. After all, it's adventure and Australian and very beautifully imagined. I'm told kids like the story, and teachers like some of the themes they find in the work. That's pretty encouraging.

Next, I sent out an email to everyone I've ever had email contact with in my life. It was a bit of a weeding exercise, but well worth it to find out whose email address is no longer valid and to give those people who never want to hear from me again in their lives an opt out option. Someone told me at a conference on the day after I sent the email that she thought I'd presented a good argument.

A few did opt out, but a lot opened their email and a decent proportion clicked through to the various destinations I offered, quite a few to the campaign page. But guess what? Not one person has offered as little as five dollars in support. Not even an 'I like' comment left on the page.

Does it surprise me? No. Disappointed? Yes, a little. Even a single $5.00 pledge in the first few days would have mattered.

I think asking Australians to crowdfund something from someone with whom they have no fan relationship, who lives in Western Australia, is a very, very big ask. Art is not really created in Western Australia. Asking a person who lives elsewhere in Australian to fund an artistic pursuit in Western Australia is like asking them to step off a cliff. Moreover, asking non Australians to support something out of Western Australia is an even bigger ask, I think.

Perhaps it's as Spike Milligan once said, 'You have to be where the cheques are written.' Well, quite clearly I'm not.

Anyway, if you'd like to check out our crowdfunding campaign, if only to laugh at my folly, you'll find it here >> http://pubslush.com/books/id/3275

The ‘First-Person’ narrator tells how it is

Essay: The Person of Art Lazaar

In this essay, Art Lazaar discusses what it means to be a character written in the first person, as he is in my current work in progress, The Balsamic Jihad.

Art examines what he believes may be some of the motivations behind my decision and how it affects him in the story, and how it positions his character vis-a-vis the other central characters and the reader. His discussion on perspective and balance opens up an interesting discussion in respect of the ethical position of both the author and the reader when deciding exactly how and through whose eyes at which time a story should be told.

Open for comments and discussion.