Jane Williams
is an Australian poet, currently living in Hobart, Tasmania. Five Islands Press has
published two collections of her poetry, and a third is due out from Ginninderra. Awards
for her poetry include the Fellowship of Australian Writers’ Anne Elder Award, the
Bruce Dawe Poetry Prize and the D.J. O’Hearn Memorial Fellowship.
The world of
the poet seems very natural; to the poet at least. But in the eyes of the general public,
the poet's often considered something of a mysterious entity. I asked Jane when it was
that she first began to consciously consider herself as a poet.
"I've used
poetry and story telling as a vehicle for creative expression, for responding to anything
that moves me, most of my life, but in terms of seeing it as any sort of direction for a
'career' if that's what you mean, well I'm still not sure about that terminology. I
suppose the term 'vocation' risks religious connotations which isn’t what I mean
either but seems closer to mark in the sense that I feel compelled to do it.
"I
remember a positive critique from Graeme Kinross-Smith when I was in my mid twenties was a
bit of a turning point for me. I think that kind of recognition and support is invaluable
when you're starting out, when you can fill a king size doona cover with rejection slips!
I think this 'mysterious entity' business is unfortunate for poets. It puts us in the
ether, in the world but not of it. I think we all feel that way at times and that it's
more part of the human condition than something poets have a monopoly on. The idea of a
poet (or any artist) being seen as somehow 'other' is a romantic notion that might stroke
the artistic ego for a nanosecond but one that I feel is basically unhelpful and
potentially quite alienating."
Writers’
techniques for avoiding hard graft – actually sitting down and writing – are
legendary. New Zealand novelist Deborah Challiner made the point in a recent press
interview that she was privy to every writing avoidance technique under the sun including
"I've washed washing that's already been washed". I wondered whether Jane held
any such tricks up her sleeve?
"I
don’t know why it’s so difficult sometimes to take that first step but yes it is
and yes there are times when I’d do just about anything to avoid writing. No one
likes being told what to do and I guess the Muse is the writers’ boss as much as her
inspiration so naturally it’s something to rebel against from time to time.
That’s part of it. Another part could be fear of failure or even of success …
"But for
me, once I’ve arrived, once I’ve given in to the process of writing I have that
sense of being where I belong and I guess that’s what keeps me coming back. Usually
when I’m not writing I’m aware it’s a choice I’m making rather than
something out of my control … I can analyse it and come up with all sorts of reasons
why I’m avoiding it which I suppose is a little avoidance technique all of its own
but in my mind and heart, in my dreaming life - I’m always developing some piece of
writing … how much makes it onto the page ... how much of it is worth the paper
… well …
"For me
honouring writing and the compulsion to do it means believing in writing as valuable and
valued work - to believe what I do is of use ... And often this is a tall order. Writing,
we know, is a solitary process, there are often conflicting loyalties at play and 'art as
work' isn’t a comfortable concept in a producer/consumer driven society. It’s
not as easy to acknowledge the process of writing as work the way it is say the process of
building of a house. You can watch somebody at work building their house day in day out
and appreciate the process on the same level you might appreciate the finished house.
Watching somebody writing or rather in the process of writing would inevitably entail
periods of witnessing the writer ‘away with the faeries’ staring at the blank
sheet/screen/wall or apparently nothing at all!
"I’m
definitely happiest when I have a balance of different kinds of work in my life. When I
was younger I used to think it would be heaven to be a full time writer to the exclusion
of other work but my experience has shown me quite the opposite. While it’s crucial
that I have blocks of time here and there to devote solely to writing, the idea of
attempting to write from 9 to 5 each weekday from now until I 'retire' appals me in a way.
For a start, writing is one of the arts from which you need not necessarily ever 'retire'
but if you are writing all the time what feeds the writing ?' I get cabin fever and itchy
feet regularly. I need to be up and about, observing and taking part in the world in order
to write about it authentically. The balance between private and public time, between
solitude and the company of others can be tricky, too much of either ‘stops
play’ for me.
"I
don’t know that I believe writing always has to be hard work either in the sense that
the artist must suffer for art for it to be worthy, I just think as with other forms of
work it can be at times harder or easier, more or less joyful. While writing is sometimes
the bane it also contributes immeasurably to my quality of life. I can avoid it but I
can’t not do it again.
Australian poet
and publisher Coral Hull edits the long-standing and successful literary website Thylazine. Hull is of the view that given the
exposure it offers, publication on the net and in electronic journals is just as valuable
- perhaps more so - than print publication.
But for others,
print publication remains the focus of their attention. I asked Jane how important print
publication is to her.
"There’s
no question the net offers instant and wide exposure to writers at all levels and I have a
lot of respect for the kind of forum Coral Hull provides through Thylazine,
especially its humanitarian aspect.
"I
wouldn’t say I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the world wide web but I
did resist for some time, maybe for the same sorts of reasons I always felt more connected
and in control driving a car with gears rather than an automatic. Not that many years ago
I used a 1930’s Remington typewriter - for the romance of course! - I still have it
and it still has its appeal but now a days I publish some work on line, study partly
on-line and use a web site to promote my writing. I think being a bit of a Science Fiction
buff over the years has made my gradual appreciation of the net a lot easier. There’s
no doubt part of me is seduced by this technology but I’ve got a foot in both camps
and if the wind blew I reckon I’d find myself on the side of the scribes. One of my
favourite Sc Fi novels is Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, using book burning and
the banning of books as the well recognised symbol for suppression of critical thought.
Characters in Bradbury’s world had a kind of interactive TV and radio earpiece to
keep them ‘informed’ and entertained and in their place. Ideas seem to me
somehow more alive, more deeply cultural in books. I’m aware this way of thinking is
potentially merely nostalgic. Though I hope not. When my computer crashes it’s
frustrating and I may regret the loss of text I forgot to save but unless I’m on a
space odyssey and the computer’s name is Hal, I can’t see myself getting too
choked up. A book on the other hand as an object of affection creates an intimate reading
environment which is as much a tactile and emotionally engaging experience as it is a
cerebral one. I think I'll always have a preference for the book over the screen. I can
dip in and out of reading and writing on the net but not for long stretches and time spent
curled up with that un-put-downable book … how is that replicated? I know some
writers make notes, draft and work their way through to the finished piece all at the
computer but I’m more of a scribbler. It's an important part of the writing process
for me. I take notes and first drafts on paper. I can edit from the screen to a degree but
I need the hard copy to really work through the idea of the poem or any piece of
writing."
Speaking on the death of French
mime Marcel Marceau last September, a French broadcaster - Jacques Chancel – remarked
that "He spoke in silence. And what is amazing is that, while so many people speak
and manage to say nothing, for him it was the silence that brought a whole melody of
language."
Perhaps there
are many writers of whom it's unkindly said they write too much ... how does Jane feel
about her own output? "Do you write less than you'd like to? Do you suffer from fear
that much of what you struggle to say mightn't reach the page?"
"I
think in part that writing helps me to sift through all the internal and external dialogue
and arrive at something closer to meaning. So I do it a lot but there's only a small
percentage of this 'lot' that I'd like to see published at any given time and of that an
even smaller percentage that gets published. There are certainly times when I write less
than I'd like to. As for the prospect of never getting onto the page all I'd like to say
... on a bad day it can be a frightening thought if I dwell on it but on a good day it can
be exhilarating forcing me to sort out the rubble from the gems. It's also something I
take for granted. I don't take it for granted in a defeatist sense but in the sense that I
don't think it's possible (or desirable perhaps) to enact all we imagine in a life time.
Wouldn't the one cancel the other out?"
In a laudable piece of
journalism focussing on the crackdown on pro-democracy protesters in Burma last year, Evan
Williams in the Weekend Australian [Sept 29-30] wrote of U Sein Win, a
seventy-year-old man who'd spent thirteen years in prison for his political activities and
who explained his willingness for further risks by agreeing to be interviewed. "It's
nothing for me to be sacrificed another time for the good of the country, for the good of
the young people," Win said. The journalist added that Win "wanted to give young
people an example that they could speak out against illegitimate military rule, that
sacrifices needed to be made for the good of future generations". The corollary here
between writing and action is extremely strong, attesting to the capacity of political
writing for making powerful, persuasive statements. I asked Jane whether she felt drawn to
express yourself in this way.
"I do
sometimes wonder if I found myself living in a country where writers are persecuted for
speaking out against the powers that be ... would I have the courage to continue ? What
kinds of sacrifices would I be willing to make by way of example? I don't know. I suspect
my pen is more of a crutch at these times, scribbling away about issues I may have more of
a chance influencing positively at a grass roots level. I often feel drawn to write about
social injustices and while I don't support Bernard Shaw's 'Those who can, do; those who
can not, teach', I'm well aware I write in lieu of the kinds of sacrifices made by some
one like Sein Win. I cannot (choose not to) act in a more direct way. In a scene from one
of my favourite movies ‘It’s a Wonderful life’ there’s a little
cross-stitched plaque on a wall that reads ‘You can only take with you that which
you’ve given away’ Is the giving away (passing on) of ideas in the form of words
enough? I don't believe so ... am I capable of more? Probably.
The
question of 'place' is one that’s continually debated in Tasmania, often in the
context of the State losing its ‘wild places’, and reminiscent of the concerns
of US environmental writer Barry Lopez, a visitor to Tasmania some years ago. In a
poignant essay published in these pages some years ago [‘Natural Grief’, Famous
Reporter 13, June 1996], Lopez wrote of his concern with man’s encroachment on
nature, a concern triggered by the visit of both a mountain lion and a black bear near his
home in the Cascade Mountains in the western United States.
"It is grief that
makes me silent.
"Over the years -- I know
because I’ve counted -- fewer salmon have been coming back here to spawn. Fewer birds
now migrate in the summer. I’ve walked thousands of hectares of nearby old-growth
clearcuts, morose with disaffection, as tight in the chest as a distraught relative. It is
not nostalgia I feel, any more than I would feel nostalgia over the loss of my fingers to
a power tool. It is grief. Sensing the mountain lion and the bear are now cornered has
compounded the grief.
"When
people do visit here, there is little of the cause of this sadness I can point to. What
most see is beautiful and overwhelming. I cannot show them a kind of history, the long
process I know of life in a forest by a river. It is this deep, sprawling, diverse natural
history, not objects (a bear, a fish, a bird, a tree) that is disappearing. And because my
history is entwined in this history I can’t purge the grief I feel unless I
obliterate the affection in those memories. It is not a grief another geography, a change
of scene, can cure."