Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
Did I tell you they are doing another print run today?
It's not so bad, that next book. The same night I posted a piece of what I now call confected angst, I read over my thesis-come-novel and thought, 'well, it's not really that bad.' There are just different forces at play in writing the story of the sealers and Pallawah women, to writing Salt Story. (Sorry Tom but I'm gonna write about writing here.)
Salt Story started from coming home after a night's fishing and feeding my experiences straight onto my blog for people to read. It was a chatty affair, full of ripping yarns, bravado, pathos and smelly seaweed. Salt Story was a shitload of fun to write and I think that is reflected in the writing itself.
Exiles and Island Wives was born in the archives and my obsession with a man born nearly two hundred years ago.
The novel deals with themes of pedophilia, infanticide, abduction and rape. And that's before you get to abuses of colonial power, contact experiences
and the near extinction of fur seal in the early 1800's. It all sounds
very grim and I feel that it probably was a grim life for the men, women
and children involved, especially before I remove my comfortable contemporary
lens to look upon that history. Despite the brutality though, finding beauty
in landscape, language and people of the story is not difficult. It's just that sometimes, while writing it, I fall into a big black fucking hole. Reminder to self: invoke your inner Cormac McCarthy, Sarah.
It does bother me that people who have read Salt Story will read Exiles one day and say, "But I thought she wrote funny stories about fishing! This shit is really dark."
It is a re-creation of events gleaned from explorers' journals and Colonial Secretary reports. I've written it to please academic thesis examiners this time around and it will take some tweaking to make it palatable to the public. Apart from short snippets that I've posted on A WineDark Sea, the manuscript is unread by anyone except for my supervisor. It has become an endless feedback loop inside my head at times. So when I say it stinks ... well maybe it does but I'm dealing with my harshest critic here - myself.
There's something else that I would like to mull over regarding sequence and that is the blog-to-book scenario, as opposed to writing an historical novel with only a cat and my handler for feedback. (My handler says nice things. Bobcat also says nice things about my book - when she wants to be fed. She's gaining weight rapidly.) When I first started editing Salt Story with the idea of morphing my bloggy fishing yarns into a book, I simply cut and pasted the whole lot into a word document, printed it out, made a pot of tea and started reading.
It looked absolutely shocking.
Elizabeth Bryer, who posted a great review of Salt Story on Kill Your Darlings' blog Killings (here) beautifully sums up the difficulty of mashing genre and mediums:
It hardly bears stating that blogs and books are very different beasts. Part of the joy of a blog is its immediacy: the way an experience can be rapidly turned into a published piece that is, from that moment, accessible to the reader. As a WineDark Sea reader, I could be sitting at work, bored, and so decide to click through to the blog and dip into what Sarah had done that very morning: interview a fisherwoman, say, or spot the calling card of a shark in the Sound.
There is such a thrill in knowing that the experience-turned-tale I’m reading right now has played out a long way from me spatially but very close to me in terms of time. Another difference in form is the need, in a blog (something I struggle with!), for pithy posts that begin in medias res and capture a moment, which doesn’t necessarily translate to a book-length work given the aim, there, of immersion. How then would the tales-as-book, in sacrificing the illusion of time shared by author and reader, and in being translated to long form, fare?
The time thing that Elizabeth mentions was the main reason why my lovely new word doc looked such a shambles. Although "Last night we fished the harbour ..." has an immediacy that is beguiling and entirely appropriate to the ever-shifting sands of the internet, it just does not work with the solidity and permanency of paper. So it took a good eighteen months for the editor of Fremantle Press and myself to wrestle the chronology of the chaotic, vodka-swilling, teenage street party that was Salt Story into some kind of order.
In the end, Salt Story was constructed in sixty two short pieces. (I use this tradie metaphor often because books are a construction plus I love my work being edited. Being edited is like a master builder coming into your shack, pointing, and saying "If you just put a brace there, that girder will stay put for another forty years and save you three thousand bucks.")
There is another thing about these sixty two pieces. I'm no great believer in the Death Of The Novel. Apparently the novel was borne of the Industrial Revolution and capitalism; when moneyed wives of the owners of the means of production had the leisure to lie about for days and read 'voraciously', supplanting the aristocracy in their access to education and therefore power blah blah blah.
Despite the moanings about the demise of print media during this more current and v. interesting knowledge revolution, I still believe in the novel. But maybe its form has to change as our brains are changing; filtering and adapting to snippets of information rather than long form narratives. Maybe Salt Story's sixty two short pieces, those gleaming moments that make up something greater than the mere sum of its parts, could be the way of narratives in the future. I dunno. David Ireland did it in the 1970s with The Glass Canoe and I believe that some bloke called Dickens did it a long time before Ireland.
Anyhoo ... if you are still with me, here is a link to a new, very lovely review by Lisa Hill: ANZ Lit Lovers.
And my Happy Moment for the week? Fremantle Press clicked 'yes please' on another print run today. Yes. That's right. Salt Story has nearly sold out, six weeks after publication.
Whoo!
Salt Story started from coming home after a night's fishing and feeding my experiences straight onto my blog for people to read. It was a chatty affair, full of ripping yarns, bravado, pathos and smelly seaweed. Salt Story was a shitload of fun to write and I think that is reflected in the writing itself.
Exiles and Island Wives was born in the archives and my obsession with a man born nearly two hundred years ago.
It does bother me that people who have read Salt Story will read Exiles one day and say, "But I thought she wrote funny stories about fishing! This shit is really dark."
It is a re-creation of events gleaned from explorers' journals and Colonial Secretary reports. I've written it to please academic thesis examiners this time around and it will take some tweaking to make it palatable to the public. Apart from short snippets that I've posted on A WineDark Sea, the manuscript is unread by anyone except for my supervisor. It has become an endless feedback loop inside my head at times. So when I say it stinks ... well maybe it does but I'm dealing with my harshest critic here - myself.
There's something else that I would like to mull over regarding sequence and that is the blog-to-book scenario, as opposed to writing an historical novel with only a cat and my handler for feedback. (My handler says nice things. Bobcat also says nice things about my book - when she wants to be fed. She's gaining weight rapidly.) When I first started editing Salt Story with the idea of morphing my bloggy fishing yarns into a book, I simply cut and pasted the whole lot into a word document, printed it out, made a pot of tea and started reading.
It looked absolutely shocking.
Elizabeth Bryer, who posted a great review of Salt Story on Kill Your Darlings' blog Killings (here) beautifully sums up the difficulty of mashing genre and mediums:
It hardly bears stating that blogs and books are very different beasts. Part of the joy of a blog is its immediacy: the way an experience can be rapidly turned into a published piece that is, from that moment, accessible to the reader. As a WineDark Sea reader, I could be sitting at work, bored, and so decide to click through to the blog and dip into what Sarah had done that very morning: interview a fisherwoman, say, or spot the calling card of a shark in the Sound.
There is such a thrill in knowing that the experience-turned-tale I’m reading right now has played out a long way from me spatially but very close to me in terms of time. Another difference in form is the need, in a blog (something I struggle with!), for pithy posts that begin in medias res and capture a moment, which doesn’t necessarily translate to a book-length work given the aim, there, of immersion. How then would the tales-as-book, in sacrificing the illusion of time shared by author and reader, and in being translated to long form, fare?
It
hardly bears stating that blogs and books are very different beasts.
Part of the joy of a blog is its immediacy: the way an experience can be
rapidly turned into a published piece that is, from that moment,
accessible to the reader. As a WineDark Sea reader, I could be sitting
at work, bored, and so decide to click through to the blog and dip into
what Sarah had done that very morning: interview a fisherwoman, say, or spot the calling card of a shark in the Sound.
There is such a thrill in knowing that the experience-turned-tale I’m
reading right now has played out a long way from me spatially but very
close to me in terms of time. Another difference in form is the need,
in a blog (something I struggle with!), for pithy posts that begin in medias res
and capture a moment, which doesn’t necessarily translate to a
book-length work given the aim, there, of immersion. How then would the
tales-as-book, in sacrificing the illusion of time shared by author and
reader, and in being translated to long form, fare? - See more at:
http://www.killyourdarlingsjournal.com/2013/12/of-seadogs-and-fisherwomen-sarah-drummonds-salt-story/#sthash.T3FCecvH.dpuf
The time thing that Elizabeth mentions was the main reason why my lovely new word doc looked such a shambles. Although "Last night we fished the harbour ..." has an immediacy that is beguiling and entirely appropriate to the ever-shifting sands of the internet, it just does not work with the solidity and permanency of paper. So it took a good eighteen months for the editor of Fremantle Press and myself to wrestle the chronology of the chaotic, vodka-swilling, teenage street party that was Salt Story into some kind of order.
In the end, Salt Story was constructed in sixty two short pieces. (I use this tradie metaphor often because books are a construction plus I love my work being edited. Being edited is like a master builder coming into your shack, pointing, and saying "If you just put a brace there, that girder will stay put for another forty years and save you three thousand bucks.")
There is another thing about these sixty two pieces. I'm no great believer in the Death Of The Novel. Apparently the novel was borne of the Industrial Revolution and capitalism; when moneyed wives of the owners of the means of production had the leisure to lie about for days and read 'voraciously', supplanting the aristocracy in their access to education and therefore power blah blah blah.
Despite the moanings about the demise of print media during this more current and v. interesting knowledge revolution, I still believe in the novel. But maybe its form has to change as our brains are changing; filtering and adapting to snippets of information rather than long form narratives. Maybe Salt Story's sixty two short pieces, those gleaming moments that make up something greater than the mere sum of its parts, could be the way of narratives in the future. I dunno. David Ireland did it in the 1970s with The Glass Canoe and I believe that some bloke called Dickens did it a long time before Ireland.
Anyhoo ... if you are still with me, here is a link to a new, very lovely review by Lisa Hill: ANZ Lit Lovers.
And my Happy Moment for the week? Fremantle Press clicked 'yes please' on another print run today. Yes. That's right. Salt Story has nearly sold out, six weeks after publication.
Whoo!
It
hardly bears stating that blogs and books are very different beasts.
Part of the joy of a blog is its immediacy: the way an experience can be
rapidly turned into a published piece that is, from that moment,
accessible to the reader. As a WineDark Sea reader, I could be sitting
at work, bored, and so decide to click through to the blog and dip into
what Sarah had done that very morning: interview a fisherwoman, say, or spot the calling card of a shark in the Sound.
There is such a thrill in knowing that the experience-turned-tale I’m
reading right now has played out a long way from me spatially but very
close to me in terms of time. Another difference in form is the need,
in a blog (something I struggle with!), for pithy posts that begin in medias res
and capture a moment, which doesn’t necessarily translate to a
book-length work given the aim, there, of immersion. How then would the
tales-as-book, in sacrificing the illusion of time shared by author and
reader, and in being translated to long form, fare? - See more at:
http://www.killyourdarlingsjournal.com/2013/12/of-seadogs-and-fisherwomen-sarah-drummonds-salt-story/#sthash.T3FCecvH.dpuf
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Hivemind
Cate Blanchett on winning an Oscar: " Maybe it's just the pessimist in me when I say I feel like I've peaked."
I can understand how the brain works in these situations. Salt Story has been quite successful for a first book but coming down from the launch and the subsequent media has been pretty interesting. I still haven't finished my next book, and looking over it; it's shit. I don't like the writing. As a writer, I can see it reads like a workhouse tome, the plot is crap and it is laboured with the academic examiner looking over my shoulder. I thought I avoided that clique'd difficult second book scenario by writing them both at the same time but I sure punked myself on that one. Maybe, maybe this is it? Maybe, after all those years I have pulled off one good book and this is it.
I've been working for a landscaper friend lately. Authors, artists and actors may be famous in the media gaze but in reality, while they are busy creating content for the masses, most of them are sustaining themselves working their usual gardening round or teaching kids how to add, subtract and spell. My boss is an actor and a musician, which is cool because he will periodically ask me to pay attention when he puts down the hedge trimmer to sing a song or recite some Shakespeare. It's always a good lurk on a hot day to rest up on a shovel and listen to him. He's starred in soapies, pub bands, plays and advertisements since the 1980s but the whole time he has stayed grounded: whipper snippering down the the vincas, kikuyu, geraniums and other entwining rods that more comfortably waged folk have built for their own backs.
I can understand how the brain works in these situations. Salt Story has been quite successful for a first book but coming down from the launch and the subsequent media has been pretty interesting. I still haven't finished my next book, and looking over it; it's shit. I don't like the writing. As a writer, I can see it reads like a workhouse tome, the plot is crap and it is laboured with the academic examiner looking over my shoulder. I thought I avoided that clique'd difficult second book scenario by writing them both at the same time but I sure punked myself on that one. Maybe, maybe this is it? Maybe, after all those years I have pulled off one good book and this is it.
I've been working for a landscaper friend lately. Authors, artists and actors may be famous in the media gaze but in reality, while they are busy creating content for the masses, most of them are sustaining themselves working their usual gardening round or teaching kids how to add, subtract and spell. My boss is an actor and a musician, which is cool because he will periodically ask me to pay attention when he puts down the hedge trimmer to sing a song or recite some Shakespeare. It's always a good lurk on a hot day to rest up on a shovel and listen to him. He's starred in soapies, pub bands, plays and advertisements since the 1980s but the whole time he has stayed grounded: whipper snippering down the the vincas, kikuyu, geraniums and other entwining rods that more comfortably waged folk have built for their own backs.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
'To Marguerite'
YES: in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown.
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollow lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour;
O then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent!
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent.
Now round us spreads the watery plain–
O might our marges meet again!
Who order’d that their longing’s fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool’d?
Who renders vain their deep desire?–
A God, a God their severence ruled;
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea.
Matthew Arnold
1822-1888
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Cambodian street shooting rig
After the launch of Salt Story (normal service will be resumed soon, I promise, I've just got to bang on about this book a bit longer) I took off to the bush to finish off another writing project; using a solar powered laptop, my lovely shack, red wine and roasted almonds to sustain me.
While I was out there, mobile range was pretty dodgey. I could get text messages but had to drive into town every day or so to check my emails. Here is a really good one from Shark, aka Mark Roy:
"Sarah
Congrats on a fabulous opening night. I picked up a copy of your book at the bookshop and its just excellent. The writing is earthy and evocative but still that eensy bit elusive. Little eddies of mystery ... Anyways here are some photos. (They) are pretty gritty as I only had my Cambodian street shooting rig. So they're rough, wide and grainy. I was pushing shit uphill with the proverbial twig to register any light at all with only an f4 lens in that room."
Aren't they beautiful?
But more beautiful and fitting is that Shark flew in from Cambodia, caught a bus to Albany, arrived totally, randomly at my book launch; and his shambolic appearance that I love so well reminded me of how Salt Story began. It began on his blog Electric Nerve. I guested on an Electric Nerve in 2008 with a piece that became the first chapter of what is now Salt Story. Here it is, right here. Click. Go on.. Very soon after that post, A WineDark Sea was spawned, because I was hooked. Shark had showed me how to get my writing 'out there' in a daily practice kinda way, putting it out to the blogging community to read, rather than stashing it in a drawer or sending it to a slush pile somewhere. His input helped me form the idea for A WineDark Sea and out of that emerged Salt Story.
All photographs, except the top one of course, by Mark Roy.
While I was out there, mobile range was pretty dodgey. I could get text messages but had to drive into town every day or so to check my emails. Here is a really good one from Shark, aka Mark Roy:
"Sarah
Congrats on a fabulous opening night. I picked up a copy of your book at the bookshop and its just excellent. The writing is earthy and evocative but still that eensy bit elusive. Little eddies of mystery ... Anyways here are some photos. (They) are pretty gritty as I only had my Cambodian street shooting rig. So they're rough, wide and grainy. I was pushing shit uphill with the proverbial twig to register any light at all with only an f4 lens in that room."
That's me; always a crooked pirate lass.
While everyone else gathered inside to listen to speeches, one soul had more sense. This picture reminds me of Jonathon Seagull, for some reason.
Vern, who did the Welcome to Country. Doust, who spoke impromptu and beautifully too. Harley who launched Salt Story and Soraya from the Albany Library. There may be a bookseller lurking in the background.
My true salt sister Aussie, and me.
D'you like the waves? They were made of rock salt, courtesy of Jo.
But more beautiful and fitting is that Shark flew in from Cambodia, caught a bus to Albany, arrived totally, randomly at my book launch; and his shambolic appearance that I love so well reminded me of how Salt Story began. It began on his blog Electric Nerve. I guested on an Electric Nerve in 2008 with a piece that became the first chapter of what is now Salt Story. Here it is, right here. Click. Go on.. Very soon after that post, A WineDark Sea was spawned, because I was hooked. Shark had showed me how to get my writing 'out there' in a daily practice kinda way, putting it out to the blogging community to read, rather than stashing it in a drawer or sending it to a slush pile somewhere. His input helped me form the idea for A WineDark Sea and out of that emerged Salt Story.
All photographs, except the top one of course, by Mark Roy.
Monday, November 18, 2013
A day of random
A few days before what has been described by friends as my wedding day sans man, I received a parcel in the mail. The stamps and post mark said Germany but when I opened it the first thing I found was a post card from the Louvre.
On the back was written:
Best wishes on your "Book" release.
The only way is Up!!
Thought of you when I saw this original at the Louvre.
Kindest regards to you and your family.
There was no return address and I couldn't decipher the single letter signature. It's been driving me nuts. They also sent me a photograph of a highland cow whose horns look like they've been twisted as a sideshow lark. Then there was the tea towel, bought from the Scotland Tourism Centre.
.jpg)
I don't know who sent me this beautiful package of goodies from Europe. Someone who has moved between Scotland and Germany, who was in Skye in mid September, who still prints photographs and writes words with quotation marks around them ... that is all I have.
The same day I received an email from Elizabeth Drummond. Apparently she is my 42nd cousin (Or maybe 52nd.) She detailed the history of my forefathers (foremothers being absent, as is the way unless they are birthing someone important) as being salmon fishers, mariners and light house keepers off the Scottish coast of Appin. She'd happened to run into 007 with whom I play scrabble every week. 007 has been in New Zealand to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the NZ Herald and being an ex journo from that rag, felt he simply must attend that raucous party and forgo his best mate's book launch. Elizabeth Drummond heard him talking about my book and her ears pricked up. He gave her a copy. And so she sent me an email.
Then Jan from Centrelink rang me. "We are doing random reviews and you've been chosen to participate! All you need to do is be present when I come down from the city to interview you."
"Oh joy! But I won't be here unfortunately. I'll be in the city."
(This whole conversation is too convoluted to detail here. Suffice it to say that I went into the office and spent 90 minutes on the phone to Jan, the day before my book launch, answering her questions, waiting for her to send faxes through to Albany folk who were too busy schmoozing or dealing with client's crying babies to print them off, and long periods of playing Word With Friends on my mobile phone, while I deeply suspect she went out to lunch.)
And then ... I drove home and had a shower. Washed the day from me. Stepped out into the hallway, towards the front door. On the thresh hold sat a stunned and dehydrated mutton bird chick, its feathers all sooty and fluffy.
I picked it up and felt its bleating heart against my palms. It didn't bite me. A sea bird it was and its webbed feet paddled against my forearms.
A moonbird on my doorstep, it's internal barometer thrown, miles from home, blown over from Sandpatch in a year when the Easterlies have roared in early. Starving for whitebait and water. I'm just glad I found it before the dog did.
On the back was written:
Best wishes on your "Book" release.
The only way is Up!!
Thought of you when I saw this original at the Louvre.
Kindest regards to you and your family.
There was no return address and I couldn't decipher the single letter signature. It's been driving me nuts. They also sent me a photograph of a highland cow whose horns look like they've been twisted as a sideshow lark. Then there was the tea towel, bought from the Scotland Tourism Centre.
.jpg)
I don't know who sent me this beautiful package of goodies from Europe. Someone who has moved between Scotland and Germany, who was in Skye in mid September, who still prints photographs and writes words with quotation marks around them ... that is all I have.
The same day I received an email from Elizabeth Drummond. Apparently she is my 42nd cousin (Or maybe 52nd.) She detailed the history of my forefathers (foremothers being absent, as is the way unless they are birthing someone important) as being salmon fishers, mariners and light house keepers off the Scottish coast of Appin. She'd happened to run into 007 with whom I play scrabble every week. 007 has been in New Zealand to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the NZ Herald and being an ex journo from that rag, felt he simply must attend that raucous party and forgo his best mate's book launch. Elizabeth Drummond heard him talking about my book and her ears pricked up. He gave her a copy. And so she sent me an email.
Then Jan from Centrelink rang me. "We are doing random reviews and you've been chosen to participate! All you need to do is be present when I come down from the city to interview you."
"Oh joy! But I won't be here unfortunately. I'll be in the city."
(This whole conversation is too convoluted to detail here. Suffice it to say that I went into the office and spent 90 minutes on the phone to Jan, the day before my book launch, answering her questions, waiting for her to send faxes through to Albany folk who were too busy schmoozing or dealing with client's crying babies to print them off, and long periods of playing Word With Friends on my mobile phone, while I deeply suspect she went out to lunch.)
And then ... I drove home and had a shower. Washed the day from me. Stepped out into the hallway, towards the front door. On the thresh hold sat a stunned and dehydrated mutton bird chick, its feathers all sooty and fluffy.
I picked it up and felt its bleating heart against my palms. It didn't bite me. A sea bird it was and its webbed feet paddled against my forearms.
A moonbird on my doorstep, it's internal barometer thrown, miles from home, blown over from Sandpatch in a year when the Easterlies have roared in early. Starving for whitebait and water. I'm just glad I found it before the dog did.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Dirty Knees
The night after my book launch, my friends presented me with Dirty Knees by Suzie Kettle. The story of a fisherwoman, it is now hanging in my room alongside Weed Child and The Gap, by Cathy Gordon and Michelle Frantom.
Snippets from Thursday
Me: "It's only five oclock. They're already coming in the door. Shit! I'm not changed yet! Quick, come with me to the toilets. I'll get changed and we can run over our speeches."
Me: "How does this look?"
Menang Elder: "Don't do the red dress with black stockings, darling. But I do like those shoes."
Stormboy: "What else do you want me to do, Mum?"
Aussie: "What are you thinking?" as we sat together by the stage, listening to a board member from Fremantle Press read a speech from my editor.
"I'm thinking that the editor has just said that she reads my blog. Agghh!" I whisper back.
Me: "Here's my phone. Can you take some photos for me?"
Me: "Where are the rest of you fisheries blokes? I thought you were all coming."
Fisheries Officer: "(The impossibly handsome) Brad sends his apologies. He's out tagging Great White sharks at the moment."
"Phwoar. Great Whites. Really? Well, that's a halfway decent excuse. So, there's only you here tonight?"
"Yeah, sorry. I'm not in Compliance. I just count herring gonads."
"Oh, well."
Librarian: "We are running out of white wine, Sarah."
Irish: "Did you buy those red shoes especially? Don't think I've ever seen you in heels before."
Bookseller: "They've drunk all the beer. D'you reckon you find me a beer?"
Ba' Hi Elder: "Can you sign my book?"
"Ahh. You are the beekeeper. I've heard about your bees."
Menang Elder: "I welcome you. Kaya. Kaya. Hello, yes, and welcome to this country."
Librarian: "Do you want us to tick off names or just count heads from now on? Two hundred so far."
Dad: "Do you want me to get some more boxes of wine?"
"Dad. You are a legend."
The book-launcher's ex wife: "That was me who stole his copy of Salt Story. I saw it on his kitchen bench when I was picking up our boy a month ago. I saw your name and it reminded me of when you and me were neighbours all those years back ... so I took it. Hope you don't mind."
Me: "Wow. What are you doing here!"
Donna: "I flew in from Melbourne to come to your book launch Sarah!"
Me: "Wow. What are you doing here!"
Shark: "I flew in from Phnom Penh and caught a bus down to Albany to come to your book launch Sarah!"
Random womanchild: "I've read your book. I love it. I want to write. I'd like to write a book."
Bookseller: "Sold a heap of books tonight. Well done."
Librarian: "On closing, Sarah has suggested the front bar of the Royal George Hotel as the next venue for tonight."
Publican: "Sarah, how many people are you expecting to come to the pub tonight? Reason is, I need to know whether to put another barmaid on. Also, I hope your folk won't feel too intimated by the bikies. About forty Coffin Cheaters have just rocked up."
Me: "Guys! Please don't stack the chairs. I'll do it in the morning. We're going to the pub."
Coffin Cheater: "Hey, Woolly!"
Another Coffin Cheater: "Hello Woolly Girl! What's yer book about?"
Me: "I need food."
Barmaid: "Here's something, love." (Breaks a pack of crisps into a basket and pushes it over the bar.)
"Who's on the pool table?"
"Where can we get some food?"
"Hey! Woolly!"
Me: "How does this look?"
Menang Elder: "Don't do the red dress with black stockings, darling. But I do like those shoes."
Stormboy: "What else do you want me to do, Mum?"
Aussie: "What are you thinking?" as we sat together by the stage, listening to a board member from Fremantle Press read a speech from my editor.
"I'm thinking that the editor has just said that she reads my blog. Agghh!" I whisper back.
Me: "Here's my phone. Can you take some photos for me?"
Me: "Where are the rest of you fisheries blokes? I thought you were all coming."
Fisheries Officer: "(The impossibly handsome) Brad sends his apologies. He's out tagging Great White sharks at the moment."
"Phwoar. Great Whites. Really? Well, that's a halfway decent excuse. So, there's only you here tonight?"
"Yeah, sorry. I'm not in Compliance. I just count herring gonads."
"Oh, well."
Librarian: "We are running out of white wine, Sarah."
Irish: "Did you buy those red shoes especially? Don't think I've ever seen you in heels before."
Bookseller: "They've drunk all the beer. D'you reckon you find me a beer?"
Ba' Hi Elder: "Can you sign my book?"
"Ahh. You are the beekeeper. I've heard about your bees."
Menang Elder: "I welcome you. Kaya. Kaya. Hello, yes, and welcome to this country."
Librarian: "Do you want us to tick off names or just count heads from now on? Two hundred so far."
Dad: "Do you want me to get some more boxes of wine?"
"Dad. You are a legend."
The book-launcher's ex wife: "That was me who stole his copy of Salt Story. I saw it on his kitchen bench when I was picking up our boy a month ago. I saw your name and it reminded me of when you and me were neighbours all those years back ... so I took it. Hope you don't mind."
Me: "Wow. What are you doing here!"
Donna: "I flew in from Melbourne to come to your book launch Sarah!"
Me: "Wow. What are you doing here!"
Shark: "I flew in from Phnom Penh and caught a bus down to Albany to come to your book launch Sarah!"
Random womanchild: "I've read your book. I love it. I want to write. I'd like to write a book."
Bookseller: "Sold a heap of books tonight. Well done."
Librarian: "On closing, Sarah has suggested the front bar of the Royal George Hotel as the next venue for tonight."
Publican: "Sarah, how many people are you expecting to come to the pub tonight? Reason is, I need to know whether to put another barmaid on. Also, I hope your folk won't feel too intimated by the bikies. About forty Coffin Cheaters have just rocked up."
Me: "Guys! Please don't stack the chairs. I'll do it in the morning. We're going to the pub."
Coffin Cheater: "Hey, Woolly!"
Another Coffin Cheater: "Hello Woolly Girl! What's yer book about?"
Me: "I need food."
Barmaid: "Here's something, love." (Breaks a pack of crisps into a basket and pushes it over the bar.)
"Who's on the pool table?"
"Where can we get some food?"
"Hey! Woolly!"
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Salt Story launch, Albany Boatshed
Last night's launch of Salt Story was a beautiful affair. I came home buzzing and didn't sleep very well, still seeing all of those faces of people from out of the woodwork, from my past lives and future friendships, folk and family whom I love dearly, all looking back at me, with me, in the moment of cracking a bottle of bubbly against the bow of a book.
Tomorrow when I am less tired and more lucid, I shall recount some stories from the night ... the toothless bikie, the book thief, the queen of my heart and the quickening crowd ... for now, here are some photos.
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Tomorrow when I am less tired and more lucid, I shall recount some stories from the night ... the toothless bikie, the book thief, the queen of my heart and the quickening crowd ... for now, here are some photos.
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Right before we began. Oh my.
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The boys strummed Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald on uke and mandolin while we read short pieces from Salt Story.
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Preparing ... freaking ... actually kind of okay ...
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Publisher and poet
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Badass booksellers
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Me, some boats, Old Salt and Our Nicole
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Welcome to Country
Sunday, November 10, 2013
The spine of a whale and my favourite bookshop
Here is today's window at Paperbark Merchants, York Street Albany.
Friday, November 8, 2013
No better bilge pump than a frightened deckie
Chris Pash, writing for Business Insider, has interpreted some of Salt's wily business advice in a brilliant article. Who woulda thought a review of my book would make it into an online business mag? Because apparently Salt is a consummate businessman as well as a grumpy old fisherman and his wisdom should be heeded!
Here are some quotes and images from The Wisdom of Salt: Grumpy Fisherman's 10 Secrets of Motivation and Leadership.
"It is on the official record that, according to Salt, I was carrying out my duty as a lightning rod." Salt Story, p. 161.
"SECRET 8: Care for your staff. They have many uses. Being the highest point in a metal boat during an electrical storm is one of them."
Here's another one: "There's no better bilge pump than a frightened deckie." (Salt Story. p.28)
"SECRET 1: Productivity is simple. The art of managing people is knowing when to do push and when to do nothing. If you are in an open boat in a storm, nothing you say or do will make your deckhand bail out the water any faster. Best to sit back, hand on the tiller and enjoy watching the deckhand’s frantic efforts. Very entertaining. The fear of death creates a sharp rise in productivity."
Here are some quotes and images from The Wisdom of Salt: Grumpy Fisherman's 10 Secrets of Motivation and Leadership.
"It is on the official record that, according to Salt, I was carrying out my duty as a lightning rod." Salt Story, p. 161.
"SECRET 8: Care for your staff. They have many uses. Being the highest point in a metal boat during an electrical storm is one of them."
Moby Dick. Warner Bros.
Here's another one: "There's no better bilge pump than a frightened deckie." (Salt Story. p.28)
"SECRET 1: Productivity is simple. The art of managing people is knowing when to do push and when to do nothing. If you are in an open boat in a storm, nothing you say or do will make your deckhand bail out the water any faster. Best to sit back, hand on the tiller and enjoy watching the deckhand’s frantic efforts. Very entertaining. The fear of death creates a sharp rise in productivity."
Kon-Tiki, The Weinstein Company
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Unruly and Sandy
That's the measuring stick
That's the black bream with their eyes turned down
when we are packing them
into icy boxes for the city markets.
That's Unruly.
That's Sandy on his nets.
That's Sandy after the last buoy's gone into the water. He's smiling. He's set a good net and he's about to go home.
Monday, November 4, 2013
blood-shod
1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen (18/3/1893 – 4/11/1918)
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen (18/3/1893 – 4/11/1918)
Media Tarts
Photograph by Tracey Armstrong ABC South Coast
(See? Look at us. Ain't he just the same tribe as me.)
(See? Look at us. Ain't he just the same tribe as me.)
If you follow this link to the South Coast ABC website, you can listen to me talking to John Cecil about my book Salt Story, of sea-dogs and fisherwomen. Part of the way through the interview comes the really interesting bit - where the star of the book 'Salt' is outed. Actually I think I may have just done that via this image. Oh anyway, look, have a listen. It's a nice interview.
http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2013/10/29/3879617.htm
Almost as good as chatting to Salt and Mr Cecil was getting a review in the Qantas inflight magazine for November. What a coup. That's because the Fremantle Press publicist is a bit genius.
"Catch of the Day," said Paul Robinson. (Whoo!)
Bloody brilliant, and I'm in good company too.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Empire remnants and the trumpet
Nigeria's NNS Thunder left Albany today. As the wind turned and they chugged through the gloom of a rainy Sound, I heard the strains of a brass band playing on deck.
Beautiful.
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Thursday, October 24, 2013
A WineDark Sea and Salt Story
Okay, so I was shocked into a kind of euphoric, ditzy stupor yesterday when I discovered my book on the shelves a week before I expected them. Goodness! That was a moment. But I should probably now compose something more thoughtful, respectable and writerly than Wilbur Fucking Smith.
The last few weeks have been mad and there must be something in the water because everyone else around me seems to be infected too. It's got something to do with schedules, deadlines and all the planets converging on a meteoric November. Me? Oh, the thesis is due in by the end of the month and there is this small matter of a book launch:
For anyone who would like to make it to the deep south Salt Story book launch and hasn't received an email or proper hard copy invite from me, here are the details. It will be held at the Boat Shed on Princess Royal Drive at 5.30 pm on the 14th of November. As it is beginning to look like a rather big party, you must RSVP to the Albany Library on 98 419390. There be lots of wine and food. There may be dancing girls. If not, then Fisheries officers - in uniform.
The library staff have been awesome. The manager Paul will be MCing and Julia will read some pieces from Salt Story with me. In fact heaps of people and organisations have really stepped up for this book. Paperbark Books have worked hard and happily to create a weather system around Salt Story. They stacked my books beside Wilbur Smith in the window of their shop, among other touches of creative genius. The Albany Maritime Foundation have given me the Boat Shed on the sea shore for the launch. One of my mates is playing guitar, another is performing the Welcome to Country.
Anyway, back to the madness, I had a coffee with my friend J yesterday, after he'd walked down the street to deliver the master copy of his double CD to get pressed. The process of recording and producing his CD has been exciting, convoluted and slightly eccentric in its execution, true to the character of its creator. He is having his launch party the day after mine.
"I can't possibly go back to the office and answer emails yet," he said on the phone. "Come and have a coffee with me." So we jumped in his car. He put his brand new CD in the player, cranked it up and drove around the mountain on the marine drive where freighter ships loitered in the Sound and the wind blew white stripes across the water.
"People keep saying 'you must be so excited'," he shouted over some most excellent riffs by our mutual friend Irish. "But I'm not. I don't know what I feel. Kind of horrified? A bit manic? What have I forgotten? I know I've missed something. It's going to be huge. I don't know if it's any good ..."
On and on he went, his thoughts mirroring my own feelings over the last two weeks. "You must be so excited." I'm too spun out to be excited. I don't know what I feel. I do know that seeing that stack of books yesterday was one of the coolest things to happen for me, probably since my grand daughter was born.
I've been thinking about A WineDark Sea and internet publicity a bit lately. I set up the website of fishing images that you can see on my sidebar. I've managed to stay away from facebook but joined Goodreads and started a twitter account - something Tom Stephenson predicted I'd do when I became a published author. Tom you also predicted that I would reduce my blogging to 140 characters at about this point and turn into a publicity idiot if I remember rightly :~), but you know, twitter doesn't really work for me. I still don't understand its usefulness. Well I do, but it just does not interest me. I want to stay here, here on A WineDark Sea. I know it is a go-to destination and not exactly clickbait heaven but it's my place and I like it here.
And now for a completely gratuitous image ofWilbur Fucking Smith my beautiful, beautiful stack.
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And another ... of my dog, who is immortalised in the book but alas no longer on this mortal coil.
The last few weeks have been mad and there must be something in the water because everyone else around me seems to be infected too. It's got something to do with schedules, deadlines and all the planets converging on a meteoric November. Me? Oh, the thesis is due in by the end of the month and there is this small matter of a book launch:
Whoo! (sorry, slipped out).
The library staff have been awesome. The manager Paul will be MCing and Julia will read some pieces from Salt Story with me. In fact heaps of people and organisations have really stepped up for this book. Paperbark Books have worked hard and happily to create a weather system around Salt Story. They stacked my books beside Wilbur Smith in the window of their shop, among other touches of creative genius. The Albany Maritime Foundation have given me the Boat Shed on the sea shore for the launch. One of my mates is playing guitar, another is performing the Welcome to Country.
Anyway, back to the madness, I had a coffee with my friend J yesterday, after he'd walked down the street to deliver the master copy of his double CD to get pressed. The process of recording and producing his CD has been exciting, convoluted and slightly eccentric in its execution, true to the character of its creator. He is having his launch party the day after mine.
"I can't possibly go back to the office and answer emails yet," he said on the phone. "Come and have a coffee with me." So we jumped in his car. He put his brand new CD in the player, cranked it up and drove around the mountain on the marine drive where freighter ships loitered in the Sound and the wind blew white stripes across the water.
"People keep saying 'you must be so excited'," he shouted over some most excellent riffs by our mutual friend Irish. "But I'm not. I don't know what I feel. Kind of horrified? A bit manic? What have I forgotten? I know I've missed something. It's going to be huge. I don't know if it's any good ..."
On and on he went, his thoughts mirroring my own feelings over the last two weeks. "You must be so excited." I'm too spun out to be excited. I don't know what I feel. I do know that seeing that stack of books yesterday was one of the coolest things to happen for me, probably since my grand daughter was born.
I've been thinking about A WineDark Sea and internet publicity a bit lately. I set up the website of fishing images that you can see on my sidebar. I've managed to stay away from facebook but joined Goodreads and started a twitter account - something Tom Stephenson predicted I'd do when I became a published author. Tom you also predicted that I would reduce my blogging to 140 characters at about this point and turn into a publicity idiot if I remember rightly :~), but you know, twitter doesn't really work for me. I still don't understand its usefulness. Well I do, but it just does not interest me. I want to stay here, here on A WineDark Sea. I know it is a go-to destination and not exactly clickbait heaven but it's my place and I like it here.
And now for a completely gratuitous image of
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And another ... of my dog, who is immortalised in the book but alas no longer on this mortal coil.
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