Reading the Instructions
I find myself a first-time author at the age of fifty-one. I’m not from a writing background; my day job is medical (previously a GP, now a surgical assistant). I have no formal qualifications in writing, no degree or MFA. I often feel I have no idea what I’m doing—I simply write and re-write until a story sounds better. But though my first attempt at fiction (since high school) was only eleven years ago, I’ve always been a reader. And surely reading is one of the greatest lessons in writing.
The first book I read on my own was Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. To me it was suspenseful, uplifting, funny and sad. I was devastated when I finished, not just by how it ended but also because it was over. Re-reading sections now, I still think it is a brilliant book. The prose is clean, the characterisation is rich and the story still brings me to tears.
My instruction in writing via reading continued through primary school. I consumed books like my life depended on it, churning through a library book each day. I read under my desk, often getting in trouble with my teachers. But in my teens, with school demands, the reading slowed. We were given set books—ones I loved like The Harp in the South (Ruth Park) and To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee), and others I liked less and have forgotten.
In my twenties, life got busy with university, then work. Non-medical books seemed unimportant when I was trying not to kill patients at the hospital, or later, when practising as a GP. With so much work-related reading, I didn’t read much else. When I found time, I mostly read gripping or distracting books, thrillers by Patricia Cornwall or Kathy Reichs.
My daughter was born when I was thirty, and my son arrived less than two years later. As any parent knows, kids are exhausting, and my reading remained curtailed. But something inside me began to crack open—perhaps motherhood returning me to emotional books. I read Andrew McGahan’s scorching novel The White Earth. I churned through any Joyce Carol Oates I could find. The wordplay and immersive setting of The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy) delighted me. A friend sent me Helen Garner’s Joe Cinque’s Consolation, and I purchased The Spare Room, which remains one of my all-time favourite novels. I began to read more and more short fiction—perfect for a worn-out mother at the end of a day—and discovered Cate Kennedy’s rich and clever stories in her collection, Dark Roots.
As I hit my forties, I began to attempt my own stories. These scribblings were resoundingly terrible, and it was hard not to be discouraged. I turned to books for guidance.
I was wowed by Nam Le’s The Boat, with its unique voice and spell-binding prose. The graphic novel, Fun Home, by Alison Bechdel taught me fresh ways of telling a story. Benjamin Law’s book The Family Law was sharp, hilarious and touching, and I realised how much humour can add to the pathos of a book. Richard Flanagan’s The Narrow Road to the Deep North drew me in slowly, with more exposition than I usually like, but before I realised it had wrapped itself around my heart.
In the last few years, as I’ve discovered my own voice through short form, I’ve read a lot of Australian short fiction. Julie Koh’s clever, experimental Portable Curiosities opened my mind to new possibilities in both form and content. Lynette Washington’s Plane Tree Drive was a quietly beautiful collection. Murmurations by Carol Lefevre was a thoughtful yet intriguing set of linked stories. Laura Elvery’s Trick of the Light and Ordinary Matter were stunning, compelling books. And Tony Birch’s recent collection, Dark as Last Night took my breath away. ‘Bobby Moses’ is one of the most wise and compassionate stories I’ve read.
Once the final version of If You’re Happy winged off to the printer late last year, I began to read like a person possessed. No more editing, no more agonising! I’ve been greedy-gutsing books in a single weekend.
Recently I finished Lovers of Philosophy. Written by psychiatrist and philosophy aficionado Warren Ward, it examines the lives and loves of seven major European philosophers. The book is juicy with details of vanity, jealousy, and disagreements; affairs, marriages and unrequited love. The philosophical ideas of each subject are woven lightly through the narrative, so the reader is informed yet still very much entertained.
As I prepared for the launch of my short story collection last week, I re-read the work of my interviewer, Amanda O’Callaghan. Her stories are like shadows—at first seeming innocent, glimpsed from the corner of your eye, but when they fall across you, the chill is undeniable. Her collection This Taste for Silence is a dark jewel.
Poetry has become a bigger part of my reading diet the past few years. Currently I’m dipping in and out of the powerful poetry collection, Dropbear by Evelyn Araluen, as well as returning like a comfort-seeking child to the tender and lyrical A Kinder Sea by Felicity Plunkett.
The novel that’s keeping me up late right now is Mandy Beaumont’s gritty and gripping feminist roar, The Furies. It is unconventional and challenging, and I love its bleak authenticity.
Next will be a stack of debut authors’ books from my 2022 debut author ‘gang’ (who connected via social media). I’m excited to read new releases The Torrent by Dinuka McKenzie, The Keepers by Al Campbell, and Found, Wanting by Natasha Sholl, with more debut books to come.
From each book, I learn about writing. I admire the use of language, tension, and small details. I fawn over sharp dialogue, deft insertion of backstory, clever twists and structural experimentation. Mostly I love any story that kicks me in the guts. Any story that leaves me winded somehow, yet still wanting more. Charlotte’s Web included.
Fiona Robertson’s short fiction has been published in Australia and the UK, and has been shortlisted in international competitions. She was a finalist for the Richell Prize in 2018, and won the Glendower Award for an Emerging Queensland Writer at the Queensland Literary Awards in 2020. Her story collection, If You’re Happy, was released on February 1 this year (UQP). Fiona lives in Brisbane with her husband and children.
