I do not ever particularly think of myself as male or female, and therefore had never considered my writing in this light. It was surprising then, that one of the most powerful and persistent thoughts I had during my writing retreat at Varuna, was: ‘Oh. So this is how it must feel to be a male writer.’ Someone cooked for me daily, I had a dedicated room of my own to write in, there was unanimous support and interest in my writing from those around me, and I had all the hours of the day to totally immerse myself in my writing.
The world is littered with writers, male or female, who know all too intimately the unique soul-eating frustration of trying to find a corner of the day in which to write without interruptions – and not just without a river of interruptions, but to write for long enough and regularly enough so that the flow is not disturbed, or completely cut off, as it so often is with me.
Before Varuna, the best way to describe how I felt about my manuscript was detached, disconnected. I’d written it two years ago, and after the first flurry and interest from others, I’d dropped the ball – a high workload, family responsibilities and postgraduate study always took priority. I’d worked for years as a professional editor and writer, and instinctively knew exactly what to do with others’ work, yet was at a loss with what to do with my own…
But 2014 was the year I decided to do something with my manuscript, or put it in the proverbial drawer.
I had vaguely imagined that one day I may end up at Varuna, but it seemed only for serious writers, those who were dedicated professionals, who gave over their days to their craft. Something I most certainly did not do (or, more pointedly, could not imagine doing). But I had this book burning my hands… a crime novel with a plot and central character that simply would not leave me alone. Despite my frustrations, there has always been some part of me that believed in it.
Varuna was an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity on my part, and arrived at from a painful tipping point: ‘Work begins when the fear of doing nothing at all finally trumps the terror of doing it badly.’ (With thanks to Alain de Botton.)
I got the invite from Varuna the same week that at agent and publisher expressed interest in the novel. So, the universe was telling me no more excuses.
During my week at Varuna – which was a bit like living on a different planet, or going down the rabbit hole – a fox crossed my path (being Tasmanian, I’d never seen a live one before); a hot mist fell over Katoomba so heavily that I couldn’t see more than a metre in front of me; I gratefully read The Haunting of Hill House, by the author of my all-time favourite short story; I slept in the Sewing Room and wrote in the Green Room; and I worked (wrestled with daily word targets/drank coffee) very much alone, yet alongside four other remarkable writers, age 29 to 52. I was the only Varuna first-timer.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
In a practical sense, Varuna meant a consultation with an editor, Jo Chipperfield. Of all the breakthroughs I had at Varuna, and there were many, this would be the standout; if you do stay at Varuna, I highly recommend a writer’s consultation. Having an editor critique your work is invaluable; up to this point, no-one else had seen my manuscript, and I was at that excruciating point of wondering whether I was even a good writer – let alone whether the story arced well, the characters were believable, the dialogue moved the story along… Put simply, Jo put me back on a path, with crime-writing wisdom such as: never take the reader where they want to go.
Other memories: discovering Eleanor Dark, finally (I will never forget some passages in Prelude to Christopher); the underlying damp sense of sadness that the house held (for all its charm and 1930s beauty); a fatalistic love-letter from 8 July 1971 that I found trapped inside a book (Dearest Jan … from Funny Face); and heated discussions with fellow inmate, Dr Sally Breen, on the merits or not of hipsters… naturally.
Months on from Varuna, I cannot quite recall that I was ever there, yet I also am incapable of shaking it.
Before Varuna, I wasn’t sure I had what it takes to be a writer of novels. And I still don’t know, if I’m honest. This is why I would say: stay there; stay at Varuna. If for no other reason than, for one week, you will know what it takes and means to be a writer.