ICY HOPE 28/11/08
28/11/08
Icy Hope
In the midst of all the media bleakness that keeps bombarding us lately one piece of news really excited me. This was the discovery of large amounts of ice under the surface of Mars. Frankly it strikes me as one of the most optimistic things to hit the airwaves for months. This was partly as I knew a little about terraforming (the science of creating life supporting atmospheres on other planets) as my heroine in my first novel Madonna Mars was herself a terraformer and I had interviewed (by phone) the eminent Chris McKay at the AIMS institute, NASA on the subject. This was back in 1996 when the possibility of ice (which means it will be easier to terraform and colonise) seemed absurd to the rest of us apart from a handful of international scientists who would met four times a year from all kinds of disciplines to cover the many angles to terraforming – from developing plants that could exist in extreme temperatures and extreme hostile atmospheres and would, in time, release more oxygen back into the atmosphere, to methods of melting the polar caps of Mrs itself (including theories like floating a huge sheet of tin foil in Space to reflect the sun back onto the polar cap of the planet itself.) Chris McKay himself was excited about all the up-coming expeditions to Mars (the results of which we are hearing daily now in 2008) but then ice on Mars was merely a hypothesis – but it meant a far more stronger possibility of life (even if it is on a micro level) and certainly a far greater chance of an eventual human colony. If you’ve ever read the accounts of the early colonists in Australia and of the horrors of the ocean journeys then you have an understanding of the extraordinary hardships Man will endure in pursuit of new frontiers and exploration. In the face of such dedication it actually seems inevitable.
The story line of Madonna Mars was basically inspired by James Lovelock, environmental visionary and himself an ex NASA scientist. Remembered this was twelve years ago, a cautionary tale, I had wanted to explore the notion that Gaia (name Lovelock had given to coined the notion that Earth was an living, self-regulating organism - inspired by the Greek Earth goddess who interestingly enough fathered by Chaos) was not benevolent (or merely indifference to the presence of Man) as Lovelock might depict her, but was in fact malevolent and had started to create strange weather to shake off (or destroy) the very species responsible for her slow destruction – Mankind. Each chapter starts with an account of this strange weather – which is rather disturbing as, since the book was published in 1998, some of this ‘weather’ (aka climate change) has begun to occur.
Meanwhile, in the tradition of all good conspiracy sc-fi thrillers, our heroine has stumbled upon the fact that the secret service has already started to colonise Mars and plans an evacuation of all the top scientists and professionals before Gaia makes earth entirely uninhabitable. Prophetic indeed.
This first novel is the least successful of my books as, at the time, I was naive and there was very strong pressure of my then publisher to really produce Quiver Two (which had been a massive hit) and so make it an ‘erotic’ thriller. It remains an awkward hybrid with a few cult fans.
As the daughter of a mathematician and granddaughter of a doctor of Chemistry, my early years were influenced by the sci-fi on my father’s shelves, Asimov, HG Wells, Arthur A Clarke etc. But both of them were strongly atheist and emerged from the socialist traditions of the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s and consequently had a stronger investment in the illumination of science as the great future hope. I would describe them as Newtonians, and neither of them lived long enough to see the more wondrous and less easily explained aspects of quantum psychic, time/space contenum (is the very plausible theory that the future leaks back and effects present day events). Meanwhile I’m lining up for a passage on the first space ship out.
Under the Covers
Under the Covers.
This week I got the latest incarnation of the potential book cover for the Australian edition of my new novel Sphinx (publication May 09). It’s a powerful image of a naked woman underwater (no rude bits showing) with hieroglyphs running over the top. The message it sends – sexy, haunting dangerous story possibly set in Egypt with a thrillish overtone is perfect. I’m extremely lucky my publishers consult with me at all on the cover as most writers have all sorts of extraordinary (and often
visually irrevelent covers as usually you’re lucky if the design department reads the first ten pages of the book at all) And they respect the contribution my arts background (I have a degree in sculpture) gives to the concepts. but I was heavily involved in the covers of (the Australian) Quiver, the Witch of Cologne and Tremble. The actual figures in both Quiver and the Witch Of Cologne came from drawing of mine, with Quiver I wanted to have the image of a Amazonian woman with bow and arrow extending the metaphor of ‘quiver of arrows, a quiver full of stories. It’s really the triumphant sexual woman standing over her conquered male lover. But you have to look closely to see where the male figure is.
Look toward the bottom of the image – and you’ll see the poor bastard’s face gazing upwards between the women’s legs. This wasn’t exactly where I imagined he’d be, the photographer’s perspective in the photo makes it look like this. This cover was shot in 1994 (first published ’95) and I strongly doubt whether we’d get that passed the current stipulations required – no nipple or any other body part that cannot be on display on the shelves of K Mart or whatever chain is also selling your book. Twelve years ago the world was a more liberal place and this also applied to publishing. For me one of the sources of inspiration behind this image was the iconography of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch, surely one of most successful and memorable covers of all time. It is virtually impossible to think of the book without that female torso hanging over the coat hanger coming to mind.
I drew the idea out for The Witch Of Cologne. The publisher had a limited budget and I was determined that I wouldn’t end up with them doing the usual Vermeer painting stock ‘historical fiction’ cover that looked like a million other historical fiction covers in the store. As the book is deliberately written in the present tense (to place the reader in the actual moment – actually travelling through those rooms, those streets of 17th century Cologne) I wanted the cover to be photographic but historical. I did reference Vermeer (think of the painting Woman reading a letter) but most of Vermeer’s subjects are looking away from the viewer. I wanted direct gaze, for the character Ruth to be directly gazing into the eyes of the reader thus emphasizing her fearlessness, I also wanted her to be holding a birthing hook ( gynaecological apparatus in one hand – although ironically the oldest piece of gynaecological apparatus I could borrow in Australia was 18th century) and something mystical in the other. I joined forced with the fantastic photographer who has now shoot three of my covers Moshe Rosenveig. And capitalising on my theatre contacts the set (resembling a 17th century Dutch interior) was built in his studio. And together we cast the model – a professional – who was also lovely to work with and very efficient with her time (hiring her for two hours almost broke our budget) and stylist Belinda Balding (who also styled Tremble). It was Moshe’s idea to use Ruth’s back I knew I wanted to use a tattoo but wasn’t sure where) on the back cover thus literally framing the book with her front and back. The translation of the Hebrew tattooed on her back is Lillith (Queen of the demons) Ruth’s nemesis in the actual narrative. In this way the book functions as a coda, just as the mystical Kabbalistic puzzle she holds in her hand means something to whose interested in the Kabbala. Ironically a reader’s review of the book was recently posted on Amazon which liked the book but hated the cover (thanks for posting anyhow, really appreciate that). It opened with the line ‘ Don’t judge it by the cover…’ There is an argument out there that I undershot with such a populist cover and committed a disservice to the quality of the content between the covers. At the time I was keen to reach as broader audience as possible with challenging and politically subversive material and it needed to be visually attractive as well as compelling. Perhaps I was naive - it was my first historical novel.
Naturally covers change with markets and countries. The Germans used a far more traditional cover – image of 17th Cologne with a young woman in the foreground who looks far more ethnically right than my model (Ruth, being part Sephardic, would likely be olive skinned).
And the Dutch edition actually changed the name of the book to The Witch, put Amsterdam on the cover and the subtitle of Life of a spiritualist in 17th century Amsterdam – I guess to emphasise the Dutch content and underplay the German!
Spot the nipple in this cover! (slipped that one passed the censors.) 
The Unchartered continent of the imagination. 14/11/08
I have been inspired (or at least intrigued)by a wonderful article In the New Scientist(8 nov.) entitled Private life of the Brain by Douglas Fox, which is an investigation of the findings by neuroscientists that the brain appears to be more active and burn more calories doing absolutely nothing (ie daydreaming, staring vacantly out of the window onto the window box or nature etc) as opposed to solving mathematical problems –or working on complex plots for novels perhaps. Some called it the neural dynamo of daydreaming (don’t you just love that – sounds like a 90’s hypno band) while others suggest it might be a mechanism to select memories and weave them up into personal narratives. Certainly the latter resonated for me. I’ve often been aware in my writing process that the period between drafts is often more important than the actual writing of the work. There’s a kind of fermentation that takes place when the work, now sounded out in actual hard copy, lingers on in the mind when you’ve stopped labouring each line, metaphor etc. And one finds oneself waking up at three am with a plot solution dangling tantalisingly in mid-air.
Dreaming has the same effect and I’ve been known to ask a question to myself before sleeping hoping the problem will effortlessly be turned over, sculpted and formed into a comprehensible solution by the magic of dreaming. Perhaps there is a great unchartered continent within our brains full of tiny scribes pulling out the various experiences of the day, some unexpressed desire that has been transferred on an innocent friend from the past, that strange cake you ate at four, the cat you nearly ran over a week ago – seemingly arbitrary meaningless encounters and events – all mixed up then refiled and rewritten into a magical text through which we re-live our lives with a different meaning – sometimes less frightening, sometimes far more colourful and passionate than our waking lives. And I wonder whether dreaming is also part of this massive (recorded and real) activity in the resting mind.
Interestingly they have also recorded same levels of activity in heavily anaesthetised monkeys, which makes me suspect that the divide between conscious and unconscious is a gross simplification. As a writer I have also become aware of the notion of the imagination as a muscle and that in individuals such as writers (particularly fiction writers who use their imagination a great deal) this muscle is often over exercised. Certainly when I don’t exercise this muscle, my imagination tends to spill over into my real life, which is probably why I’m happiest when writing; it keeps me sane.
I escaped grey London and went to Paris for two days. It was a public holiday (a celebration of the end of the First World war) and the Luxemburg gardens were full of Parisian families celebrating through simple things- sailing wooden toy yachts on the pond (some with tiny flags flapping in the breeze) three young people playing volley ball with no ball (couldn’t work out whether they were mime artists or serious athletes such was the concentration).
I’m waiting on the galleys of my new novel Sphinx which has been over two years solid work. A thriller set in Alexandria, Egypt in 1977, it is located in the European Diaspora that existed before Nasser and still had the remnants of the community in those years. French was the Linga franca and the astrolabe that my protagonist discovers is linked to Napoleon via Sonnini De Manoncour, an naturalist who travelled with the Emperor’s troops during the Egyptian campaign (there is a letter he has left at a Coptic monastery describing the mechanism – a fictional predecessor of the Antikythera mechanism – www.nature.com/nature/videoarchive/antikythera a cheeky literary device of my own) So, despite this time being one of the rare breaks between full-time writing – enforced by other people’s timetables (thank God, otherwise I’d be a workaholic) I still felt linked to the book but hopefully this time of reflection will get those tiny scribes frenetically seeding unconscious landscape of my imagination before I’m back at the desk next week.
Western Australia and other adventures
It’s been a crazy six weeks, for the world, for myself and the twisting fortunes of global capitalism. On black Tuesday I found myself marooned in Perth, the capital of Western Australia – geographically the most isolated city in the world, watching my (meagre but only) US stock portfolio go down the toilet. This was a surreal experience, but one no doubt many of my US (and actually Australian, German and English readers have now experienced). It felt like I was watching Wall street burn from a iceberg floating in the harbour, absolutely helpless. I was in Western Australia having been invited to two writers festivals in small rural towns – the first Big Sky was in Geraldton – (north of Perth) and is a small coastal town with a curious frontier-like atmosphere – the victim of rapid and architecturally indiscriminate development in the ‘60’s and 70’s the locals are a curious mix of the mining rich, the rural poor and local indigenous community. Big Sky, although a small festival had a broad and wonderful eclectic cast of guest writers – from childrens authors, to performance poets, to well-known social Australian commentators like Hugh Mackay to erotic/historical fiction writers like myself. I think the high point for me was the key address by a wonderful Aboriginal/Irish writer/activist Stephen Kinnane who gave a potted history of his own family, which run as a metaphor for the ‘stolen’ generations of black Australian and mixed race marriages.
Mr Kinanne’s lecture was a lot more than that although, touching on broader themes of dislocation, the definition of culture and the challenges (and importance) of belonging to ‘place’. As a person of mixed background (Jewish/Protestant) practising agnostic with Russian/Polish and English grandparents and having grew up in two countries, living in three, I totally related. It is a fine balance one has to strike to survive both spiritually and emotionally when there had been such geographical displacement. The classic migrant story and themes I touch on in both Soul and The Witch Of Cologne.
I also worked with Neil Melville (well-known and excellent Australian TV actor) who read from my next novel Sphinx (a scene in a Egyptian bar in Alexandrian in 1977). It’s always illuminating to hear the work out loud, and invariably one ends up marking it up and editing for both rhythm and precision.
The second festival I was invited too attended was in Sprung festival, Albany (about four hours south of Perth) this was a much more picturesque town, the simuctra of an English whaling seaside village really. A larger festival, it was a collision of cultures with a Singapore poet (and about thirty teenage Singaporean boys – his pupils), Australian poets, children’s writers, non-fiction (One book was launched about the fight Green peace put up over the killing of the last whale off Albany which was a whaling town back in the 1970’s. Again, I ran an erotic writing workshop – really about structuring conventional narrative, but going into the emotional, psychological, poetic and onomatopoeia of erotic writing. This whole whirlwind tour in Western Australia took place over ten days, against the ever-deepening economic crisis that had now started to affect other countries outside of the USA like dominos. Ironically by the time I got back to Sydney (before flying back to the UK) China had started cancelling mining contracts with Australia – and I was swept back to Geraldton, the last stop for miners flying further North to the very same Iron Ore mines supplying the great industrial dragon China. 