TSB Space at Tūranga was filled to capacity on Saturday afternoon as Morrin Rout opened In Praise of Gentle Fiction at WORD Christchurch, with a heartfelt mihi to tangata whenua, Ngāi Tūāhuriri.
Laurence Fearnley and Damien Wilkins are here to talk about their new books, At The Great Grand Glacier Hotel and Delirious, and why they have been labelled 'gentle fiction.'
Morrin Rout discovered that these 'revered and respected authors' had a lot in common: they've both written a prolific amount of books and have won many awards. Laurence has been to Antarctica "twice!" says Rout, while Damien has been to Menton. Both are graduates from the School of Modern Letters, are essayists, and have been Arts Laureates. Laurence Fearnley wrote a book about mountaineers (To the Mountains) and Damien Wilkin's dad was in it!
Damien Wilkins' new book, Delirious, won the Jann Medlicott Prize for Fiction at the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards this year. "Sixty grand!" says Laurence, who was shortlisted. They're here to talk about these books, and why they have been labelled 'gentle fiction.'
Morrin set about to tackle the topic: can larger truths be drawn from the little things in life?
Laurence Fearnley says that because she reads a lot of nature writing, she appreciates details of the miniscule, 'the wonder of little things'. Her first priority when writing is to establish tone and atmosphere, not wanting a cinematic or dialogue-based text, but also not wishy-washy or passive. She prefers her work to be considered tender, rather than gentle.
She's written a series based on the five senses: Grand Glacier is about sound - of birds, of water - Libby's husband is dispatched back to town early in the book, so that he could be a voice on the phone, allowing Libby to recover her independence away from the prodding of treatment and recovery, and from the burden of being unwell.
Wilkins says he read At the Grand Glacier Hotel while in a panel for the Ockhams. He's irritated by the 'gentle', passive tag, pointing at a scene where Libby, recovering from an operation on her leg for carcinoma, tries to have a bath and can't get out: it's full of heart and feeling, but also comedy. There's so much emotional power in Fearnley's book that it blows 'gentle' out of the conversation.
Wilkins' book, Delirious, addresses ageing in the context of a married couple going through the dreaded clearout in preparation for moving to a retirement home. The body is beginning to fail, personal agency is eroded and the challenge of getting in and out of cars - these are not small things, says Wilkins, they're the great dramas of life. Wilkins amplifies these in Delirious.
Fearnley interprets the notion of gentle, quiet fiction as profound: stories that convey the profundities of life.
'You can't go into it thinking I'm getting into the profundities of life', says Wilkins, - you get there by reflecting: it's how a stranger connects with the work.
'A delicate operation', muses Fearnley; achieved by connecting with these worlds. Understanding them loses your identity as a writer, a person. Don't flatten the story with detail, she says, 'let it breathe'. The gentle parts are the absences written into a book. It's hard to cut and slice back text and not leave it tattered. (I love her medical metaphors). This leaves space for the writer to see themselves in the writing, says Rout. The reader too, I think.
This kind of writing is hard work and moves slowly - you hope readers come to know you, says Fearnley. There's still a plot: real life moves slowly and can be internalised. Although in the quiet space of both the setting of Grand Glacier and in her mind, character Libby experiences a lot in the five days she's marooned there.
In Delirious, there's a lot of going back to the past for characters Mary and Pete, while they figure out the 'What do we do now?' of the present. The plot device is the phone call, says Wilkins: The man who was responsible for their son Will's fatal accident wants to make contact before he dies.
Wikins has written for TV, where writing is a push to advance the storyline - here he conjures up an image of galley slaves, relentlessly rowing to a destination. Fiction, by contrast, is full of surprises: the man at the back of the boat is snoozing or catching crabs. Fearnley says it's a bit like walking a dog off the lead - you're never sure where it will go - a scent, a fight, a sudden halt, behind you, sniffing the street when you're going to the beach: going somewhere but never in a linear fashion.
Both authors mined their personal experience in these novels. Laurence, like Libby, in Grand Glacier, had an operation to remove a carcinoma from her leg. Fearnley wrote Winter Time while going through treatment. In Grand Glacier she shares the feeling of building up strength, walking from letterbox to letterbox, then panicking that she might not make it back: 'a boulder lost in a fast-moving river'. Libby is overtaken by the Esperanto group, who surge past her on the path. She toys with yelling, 'what's Esperanto for asshole?' but she doesn't want to be that person.
Fearnley spent a lot of time looking at her feet while finding them and now has a fascination for lichen. Libby wishes she'd brought her walking stick - a symbol that makes others acknowledge her disability. I can relate to that, I use a stick sometimes after bunging my knee: it's amazing how people refrain from walking in front of you (which makes you lose momentum) and you always get a seat on the bus.
Damien Wilkins' mother developed delirium, the basis for his book. Writing about it was overwhelming - do it, or don't - so he threw the kitchen sink at it. 'You go into the pit of yourself, but characters act on your behalf, making the story of interest to others.' Mary and Pete, in the story, put Will's death in a drawer and neither of them want to open it.
Having cancer was so gruesome, says Fearnley, that she made it art. And it's not all deadly serious. Humour is a coping mechanism. Wilkins uses this power in Delirious, which is funny and sad in equal measure. When you have very little, you always have wit, but terrifying people in power don't have a sense of humour, says Wilkins, not referring to anyone...
Wilkins reads a hilarious Delirious passage of Mary and Peter in the retirement village: 'The weeks of misery continued on...' They're beset by invitations but don't want to join, then hear what the others think of non-joiners ('grief could become your identity, we're all grieving' 'I'm happy!' pipes the Captain). There are various disabilities: no-one can open the bottle of bubbly - their wrists are too weak, Mary's hearing aid won't work in noisy crowds. Residents can bring an existing dog but aren't allowed a new one. Freddy the poodle is like a king.
How do you write humour?
Fearnley: 'You hear it coming and it builds a scene.' Wilkins: 'It's choreography - everyone is working together.' 'Timing,' says Morrin Rout. 'You've got to have the legs,' quips Fearnley.
And grief? Wilkins says grief is like living in bass chords, but there are lighter chords too. There are surprising, unpredicted funny bits when the characters in Delirious are caught unawares. Fearnley aligns if with operating: you dig into the bones of your pain, writing material around it that reflects into it - like the weather, and Libby's difficult gait, moving backwards and forwards through the timescale, much like Wilkins' idea of choreography.
Morrin asks about the Franz Josef Hotel, the barely disguised model for the Grand Glacier Hotel. Laurence Fearnley has written more than one book about mountains; The Hutt Builder, for example. Degrees of Separation uses her experiences in Anarctica. Fearnley also contributed to Going Up is Easy, a biography about women mountaineers.
We share her grief at the disappearing glacier that may never come back, that has become a 'last chance' tour.
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