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Free the arts!

The present Australian Arts Minister and A-G George Brandis wants to take a big chunk of $ from the peer-reviewed, democratically accountable national body the Australia Council and use it for his own personal “excellence” [read:slush] fund. This is the same guy who gave $275000 cash to Melba Records last year without any competitive peer review process and without bothering to tell the taxpayers (whose money it was).

So Overland literary journal and the MEAA and a bunch of writers and artists are putting our signatures to this letter. I’d encourage people to share it widely and sign it too:

Australians for Artistic Freedom

Democratically accountable public institutions are as vital for a healthy society as diverse arts and culture, and this move by the Liberal government is an attack on both. On the upside, we can take this move as an acknowledgement of the importance of free artistic expression to Australian culture right now – if it didn’t matter so much, the bullies in power wouldn’t bother to smash it to pieces in front of us.

Small organisations and individual arts grants will suffer most from this, as we are worst positioned to attract other funding sources such as corporate philanthropy. Without small orgs and individual artists, the sector as a whole is impoverished – and so is Australian culture in all its diversity.

It’s well and truly time to mount a broad campaign to shake these treehouse thugs out of office, and I hope this statement will contribute something to that effort. It’s an effort that is going to have to come from the grassroots, the very people they are counting on silencing here. So not shutting up about it is a good first step.



at beijing bookworm before the festival

This is me before Australian Writers Week in China. The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind (or should I say a whirly-whirly). I spoke at four different universities, two of which were in Inner Mongolia; I met translators, publishers, and writers from China and the world; I learned ten thousand things about China and the world; I hung out with ambassadors and academics and was fed splendid banquets; I stumbled my way through bilingual conversations with new friends; and finally, I read a story and spoke on a panel at the Beijing Bookworm Literary Festival.

There is no ‘after’ picture because sleeping, but here are a few highlights.

With Zohab Z Khan and Maxine Beneba Clarke at Foreign Studies U. Pic by Aus embassy

With Maxine and a poster. Pic by Aus embassy

With Maxine Beneba Clarke, Prof Wang Jinghui and students at Tsinghua U. Pic by Aus embassy


Many thanks to the Australian Embassy and the Beijing Bookworm for making all that possible, especially the part where I went to Hohhot for work because I really enjoyed that. I once set a story in Inner Mongolia (Architecture) and it was good to actually go there. I want to go back and look around the ghost cities and visit the lovely people I met and continue having interesting conversations about the parallels between Inner Mongolia and Central Australia.

In the middle of that hectic fortnight I found out that I have a residency at Yaddo in August this year, yeah that’s Sylvia Plath! James Baldwin! Laurie Anderson! Yaddo, so I will be heading back to the US for a month after the summer break to write like the wind.

I like you, 2015.



大家好 and happy new year! First, an announcement: if you’re going to be in Beijing in March, you can catch me at the Bookworm’s international literary festival – a staggeringly awesome lineup of guests from around the world, including a small cohort of Australians. I can’t wait to be a part of it. It’s particularly exciting for me to be returning to the Bookworm, since they were my hosts when I first came to China on an Asialink residency in 2010, and have made me feel right at home again this time around. Keep an eye on their website for festival details over the next few weeks, and until then, here’s a taste.

Studying has kept me busy, writing and the Ministry of Public Security have kept me away from the internet, and Beijing winter has kept me indoors quite a bit what with the short days, the icy temperatures and the smog. It’s a very clear day today – I can see all the way to the mountains again – but last week when the AQI soared almost to 600 (a personal record) I couldn’t see the end of my street. When it’s not polluted the winter days are glorious. The canals freeze, the light is very pretty, and people go skating/sledding/ice biking on Shichahai (it turns out I can still ice skate like it’s 1991, so thanks, Macquarie shopping centre, for the life skill). This morning I noticed that the Eurasian magpies (Pica pica) who have been gathering twigs over the last couple of weeks are beginning to settle into knotted nests in the bare trees over the bike lanes, so somebody knows the ice will not last forever.

It’s nice to live somewhere with a proper winter for a change, even if I did cheat by spending a couple of weeks back in the land of cricket-beach-lazy-summer-xmas-then-fires-and-floods that I call home. Here, it even snowed. At first I thought the smog had solidified and was dropping from the sky in little flakes, like toxic dandruff.

Studying is going very well. I can now hold my own in a simple conversation like any self-respecting small child with limited vocabulary, assuming my interlocutor is extremely patient and kind. I’ve been taking some notes about the process of learning as I go, because there’s a lot about it that’s interesting – it might end up in an essay or a blog post someday. We are getting into a lot of grammar at the moment, which I enjoy. It’s still difficult, but having a base level of understanding in the classroom now means it’s less exhausting and more fun. It amazes me that small children who can’t even blow their own noses are capable of picking this shit up. Lends a little credence to team Chomsky, maybe. I didn’t know I would enjoy learning the language so much, but on reflection this should have been obvious, since Mandarin is a heaven for nerds. I am, like many writers, a great judge of all characters but my own.

As to the writing itself – it goes along. There have been some positive developments regarding Dyschronia, the novel I’ve been hinting about for way too long, and this will hopefully congeal into an actual official news formation within a matter of months so I can stop dropping irritating pseudonouncements. For now, the Book About Time requires yet another draft, so I’m still hacking away at it trying to find its final shape. Whatever it turns out to be, it will be supremely resilient! At the same time, I’ve started to feel my way around the edges of a new one, partly set here in Beijing. The early stages of a new project where I’m just feeling my way into it are a wonderfully pleasant counterpoint to the hard slog of the last. I’m trying not to rush either. This week’s stupid epiphany was that my default setting tends to be driven and obsessive – so I’m trying to enjoy a brief interlude of relative aimlessness. Of course, the short stories continue to crawl out of my head like crabs from a beached castaway’s ear. I am collecting those in a jar. It’s getting nice and full.

Oh, and I’ve also been making a ton of woodcuts. Have a look.



Hello, unfairly neglected blog readers. I went to America. I came back to China. I turned 37, which isn’t one of those milestone ages, but for some reason has made me feel transformed. With my partner I visited the seaside town where the Communist Party has its summer policy meetings, and worked on a five-year plan. We looked at birds. I wrote some fiction and some non-fiction and studied some language. The latter is much more satisfying than the former, at the moment, because it’s so immediately useful (and fun). I thought about the future a lot. I took more nourishment from Ursula Le Guin than is probably fair when I read her recent speech:

“I think hard times are coming when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now and can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine some real grounds for hope. We will need writers who can remember freedom.”

Like many writers, I owe that woman a great deal.

Speaking of women to whom I owe a great deal, let me share a couple of new publications with you. One is a short essay on re-reading Virginia Woolf in the internet age, which is in the new Island – which is a very fine magazine from Tasmania.

The second is a long short story in the upstart journal Stilts, put together in Melbourne by some fantastic humans and being launched there and in Brisbane over the next couple weeks (details are on their website). The story’s called Flock, and it deals with the future and nature and the ways that we have of imposing our belief systems on animals. And how to get our heads around unexplained mass death events.

I’ve been reading This Changes Everything and thinking about what has to change, and how this is going to affect what I do for a living (if you can call it that). Often as artists or writers we see ourselves as doing something decorative, a little fey. Certainly the market has not been kind to creative people lately and the dominant ideology puts us a fair way down its list of valuable things. But there’s work, and then there’s Work. Books are more than a job to me. They are the business of life and death. Books are just what make hard times survivable. It’s worth noticing that the old structures of genre and form are collapsing just as the old economic structures are going to have to be taken down or break under their own impossible weight. It’s not easy to sustain a career right now, but it’s a hell of a privilege to be around to watch this, let alone take notes.