Re:Print

The most notable thing about the Australian book industry is just how small and isolated it is.  There are only a handful of major publishers (mostly Australian operations of larger UK and US houses) and the smaller publishers are very, very small. 

With only 20 million inhabitants and a serious reading population much smaller than that, there simply isn’t the critical mass that would allow independent and new talents to find a foothold. And “making it” in Australia doesn’t equal “making it” in practical terms—things like reaching a large audience and earning a living from writing.  The number of local authors with any substantial profile can be counted on a couple of fingers.

Australia does not have as well-developed systems for nurturing young authors as North America or Europe.  Our literary journals are small and generally conservative.  Our creative writing schools do not have high profiles, nor are their links with the global publishing industry very strong.

Even to achieve success and recognition from local critics, writers are often expected to gain overseas validation.  Our biggest cultural and literary icons are usually those who have found success in the wider world.  To be simply a local taste is to be perceived as a B-lister: maybe good for a trashy read, but not enough for real critical acclaim.  It’s probably unfair, but it’s hard not to see it as the difference between an Olympian and the winner of the Upper Bradfield Little Athletics U14 long-jump.

An interesting case study is young Australian writer Max Barry.  American readers are actually more likely to have heard of Barry or read one of his books than his fellow Australians.  Even though Barry is Australian born-and-bred and even lives in Melbourne, he is only belatedly receiving some attention in his homeland.

I came across Barry with his 2006 novel Company, an offbeat corporate satire inspired by Barry’s time with Hewlett Packard.  It was a funny, if imperfect, novel and it pointed to an exciting new talent.

Except that it wasn’t so new—because Barry had already published two novels in the US, Syrup and Jennifer Government, both mostly unnoticed in Australia.  In fact, Scribe Publications has just re-issued Syrup for the Australian market, a mere 9 years after its first publication, in response to the success of Company.

Barry didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.  As an aspiring writer with a populist bent, why would you bother “paying your dues” in Australia, where the most you could expect would be a short run with a niche publisher with your book stocked in three shops?

Yet he had an option that many local writers do not have—the advantage of writing American-themed books, rather than idiosyncratically Australian work.  Sadly, a lot of writers telling Australian stories are going to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Australia is not exotic enough for publishers to see escapist potential, but is too foreign to be an easy sell.

In that sense the Australian industry serves its purpose by keeping alive our national tales and experiences.  But there will always be the suspicion that those who don’t sell well offshore don’t quite have what it takes.

The migrant experience has been the topic of libraries full of books: some good, some poor; some true, some fictionalised.  The archetypal story sees a family or an individual leaving behind a country troubled by famine or war or oppression to seek a better life.  On arrival in their new homeland, they work hard to establish themselves but encounter linguistic and cultural difficulties, if not open racism.  Eventually they triumph through a mixture of assimilation, ethnic pride and hard work.

For nations built predominantly by migration, such as Australia, Canada or the United States, these stories are part of the founding myths: the tales of Pilgrim Fathers, Huguenots, Irish potato-farmers and Eastern European peasants.  Yet the stories have become possibly more dramatic as the twentieth century brought with it unprecedented levels of dislocation.  The refugees since World War II have been almost of a different kind: more different to the people they are joining than previous groups and scarred by atrocities that their new neighbours cannot even conceive.

Australia, a nation that a mere forty years ago was excluding migrants on the basis of skin colour, has had a troubled relationship with these newer arrivals.  The influx of Vietnamese and Cambodians in the 1970s and 1980s was met with caution and even hostility.  Yet those who fled Ho Chi Minh and Pol Pot have been in Australia for a generation and have adult children born and raised in Sydney or Brisbane or Melbourne.

Alice Pung’s Unpolished Gem tells the story of one such second-generation Australian.  This slight remove from the typical migrant experience is apparent from the first sentence: “This story does not begin on a boat.” As a twenty-something, born after her parents’ arrival in Australia, Pung’s experience has been one of tension between family and environment.  This memoir tells the story of growing up in a Cambodian Chinese household in western Melbourne and straining under the expectations and rules of a family partially disconnected from the surrounding culture.  Unpolished Gem tells the story of a girl finding an identity as someone both Asian and Australian.  As the old cliché goes, she had to learn to live between two worlds.

Pung’s book is remarkable for its flair and its eye for the little quirks of migrant life: the grandmother and her disbelieving gratitude for government pensions; and the family’s progression from hostels and charity clothing to suburban one-upmanship.  Her depictions of family members are affectionate but cutting.  The fact that she has written this memoir while both parents are still living is courageous, to say the least.

Similar in many ways is Nam Le’s story “Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice”, published in Zoetrope: All Story in 2006 and collected in The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2007.  The title of the anthology suggests something interesting: Nam Le is a Vietnamese-born Australian, now living in the USA.

“Love and Honour” tells of a young Vietnamese Australian writer studying at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (as the author did) and receiving a visit from his elderly father.  The narrator is reluctant to write stories about migrant life or Vietnam, preferring zombie fiction.  Even as he tries to capture his father’s stories of war-time Vietnam as a response to writers’ block, he is conflicted.

This is a dilemma common to many second-generation migrant writers.  They have spent much of their lives fighting against stereotypes and seeking to define a new identity as something more (but not less) than the children of foreigners.  The last thing that a talented young writer wants is to be pigeonholed as an “ethnic” voice, with all the restrictions that would entail.  Yet at the same time, these stories are part of their make-up, defining who these writers are.  The best path seems to be to write about it once and then move on.

I can only suppose that Alice Pung’s next book will be about zombies.

Australians are quick to claim celebrities as our own, even when the connection is tenuous. Russell Crowe is ours (born in New Zealand); Naomi Watts (United Kingdom) likewise. Mel Gibson (United States) was, but that’s been kept quiet since his drunk-and-racist driving incident.

So it’s no surprise to see that J.M. Coetzee, newly naturalized as an Australian citizen, is already thoroughly “one of ours”. The South African-born novelist and Nobel laureate has spent most of his professional career in his homeland, but now resides in Adelaide. His recent works have even taken on Australian characters and locations.

The latest sign of his adoption as an Australian was his invitation to attend the Australia 2020 Summit this weekend. Australia 2020, a talk fest convened by new Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, has some vague nation-building aspirations and Coetzee’s role is to join with 99 others to plan pathways “towards a creative Australia”.

The “creative Australia” stream is heavy with celebrities and big names, so it’s no surprise that our only living Nobel Prize for Literature winner would be invited. Many commentators are asking whether celebrities are the best people to determine national direction—as is how 100 people with individual ideas and agendas can agree on concrete plans for national creativity in two short days. Perhaps Hugh Jackman will go head to head with Baz Luhrmann’s wife Catherine Martin in a battle over theatre funding, while screenwriter Geoffrey Atherden will try to pitch his latest TV show to Joel Edgerton.

The choice of Coetzee, for all his newness as an Aussie, is one of the better selections. Unlike many of the established voices invited to attend, Coetzee is not part of any local mafia or interest group. He can bring a freshness of approach that the patronage-hungry locals may lack. In all likelihood, though, the notoriously taciturn Coetzee will probably just smile benignly throughout the weekend and write a book about it later.

A problem for the Summit is the vague nature of “creativity”. Australia’s working-class roots still impart to residents a distrust of “high” art from an early age. Television and movies are generally popular, although Australian movies are currently out of favour. Books by footballers and cricketers and J.K. Rowling are popular, but Coetzee sells far fewer copies than fellow South African expat Bryce Courtenay. Opera, ballet, and theatre that isn’t Mamma Mia! are niche tastes.

Yet the 2020 attendees span all these aspects of art and culture—so discussions of funding and priority may be particularly heated. Just exactly who “needs” funding and what Australia as a nation gets out of the arts—these are questions that will hopefully be asked. The contrast between a writer such as Anna Funder, whose excellent Stasiland was assisted by local arts funding, and Coetzee, who comes from a completely different system, will be interesting.

Maybe even a celebrity-heavy discussion forum can give some guidance on the future of Australian art. At least Germaine Greer’s invitation was lost in the post.