Every now and then I encounter people who can’t suspend disbelief. They ask how I can write about ‘such terrible things’
Feeling unappreciated is your lot as a writer. Few readers; no readers. Scathing reviews; no reviews. Publishers saying, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” or not taking a punt on your second book because the first sold poorly. The fat American and English imports on display at the front of many bookshops, a tiny Australian section in the back corner. Beverley Farmer finding her short-story collection Milk shelved with books on nursing mothers; me finding my novel The Stencil Man shelved in Art and Craft.
Most of these indignities occur while you’re still at your desk. They multiply once you appear in public. Elizabeth Jolley, signing books at a department store in Perth, was scrutinised by a beady-eyed woman who eventually approached and asked, “How much is the table?” A bookseller stuck the first page of a US thriller under my nose and said, “Once you can learn to write as good as this …”
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If I say, 'Worse things happen in real life than I invent, just read a newspaper,' I learn they don’t read newspapers
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