Reading Anaïs Nin’s journals last month reminded me of this collection of extracts from the diary of Virginia Woolf, written between 1918 and 1941. I dug my battered copy – not looked at since uni days – out of the bottom of the bookshelf and have been dipping into it as a way of procrastinating/keeping myself motivated. This post is a quick list of some of the thoughts that I’ve found the most interesting …

-Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.

-The habit of writing thus for my own eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.

-The main requisite … is not to play the part of the censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever.

-I want to write nothing in this book that I don’t enjoy writing. Yet writing is always difficult.

-I write … every morning now, feeling each day’s work like a fence which I have to ride at, my heart in my mouth till it’s over, and I’ve cleared, or knocked the bar out.

-Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.

-The truth is … that writing, even here, needs screwing of the brain.

-You must put it all in before you can leave out.

-I am writing down the fidgets, so no matter if I write nonsense.

-The creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned. Determination not to give in, and the sense of an impending shape keep one at it more than anything.

… and back to work.



A couple of weeks ago I wrote about finding theme in novels, using Hannah Kent’s20170528_104135 Burial Rites – a Year 12 text – as an example. Over the past few months I’ve also been working through Tim Winton’s 2004 book The Turning with a student in Year 11. I write ‘book’ rather than ‘short story anthology’ or ‘novel’ because The Turning sits somewhere between the two, presenting seventeen separate stories that – when seen as a whole – also support a wider narrative. It makes sense, however, to look at each story individually before considering the links between them (links that, on the third read, I’m still discovering). It struck me – as I started thinking more deeply about The Turning – that searching for theme in a short story is quite a different exercise to finding theme in a novel. For years now I have returned to the following quote from Anne Enright to frame my understanding of the short story form:

“A story is something told, something that really needs to be said. The most we can say perhaps is that a short story is about a moment in life; and that, after this moment, we realise something has changed.”

In a novel we observe how the protagonist (as well as other characters) changes over time, across many – connected – ‘moments.’ A short story, however, doesn’t have the space for such a journey. The beauty of this form, for me, is its intense focus on one moment; its ability to show how transformative a single detail can be to a person’s life. As a reader, I turn to short stories when I feel the need to slow down, to concentrate, to notice the specific rather than the general. Sometimes I like to think about writing as if it were the zoom function on a camera. Imagine looking through a camera at a field. A novel is the whole image – the sky, the grass, the roots beneath the soil; a novella zooms in a little closer, perhaps just the grass; and a short story is a single blade of grass. (To take this analogy even further you might think of poetry as being a drop of dew on that blade of grass!)

In thinking about the seventeen stories that make up The Turning, my student and I have attempted – in each story – to identify two things:

  1. What is the “moment in life” for this story? In other words, what is the most important moment, the moment that stands out?

  2. After this moment, what has changed?

That change gives us a clue to the story’s theme (just as looking at what changes for a protagonist across a larger narrative can indicate the theme of a novel).

Some examples from The Turning:


  1. There are a couple of stand-out moments in this story. First, Vic Lang is kissed – in a particularly memorable way – by an older girl with a missing finger. Later in the story he is painfully injured in a fishing accident.

  2. Both of these moments cause Vic to realise the link between pain and memory. This is – in essence – a coming of age tale. Vic learns that adult life is both beautiful and painful, that pain is necessary. As Melanie says – “all the big things hurt, the things you remember. If it doesn’t hurt it’s not important” (p.26).


  1. It’s hard to look past a shark attack as a key moment in a story. Frank (Leaper) is surfing with his brother Max. Max is attacked by a whale shark, and Frank swims him to shore.

  2. After this moment Frank realises that, in spite of the way Max treats him, he cannot help but care about his brother. And it is this love that stops Frank from succeeding – “Just the thought of you was a weight in my legs, and the more I cared the worse it was” (p.187).


‘Long, Clear View’

  1. Vic Lang is barely a teenager when his Dad leaves. Suddenly, Vic is responsible for his mother and baby sister. He takes his father’s rifle from the wardrobe and stands with it at the window, watching the town.

  2. After this Vic is constantly on guard. He is unable to relax for years, well into his adult life. “You can hold out for as long as it takes,” the young Vic thinks, “to have everyone home safe, returned to themselves and how things used to be” (p.204).

Three stories with three quite different themes – the necessity of pain (‘Abbreviation’), the burden of love (‘Family’), and the burden of responsibility (‘Long, Clear View’). There are, however, thematic links that run between these stories, and through the other fourteen. The ideas of memory, the power of the past over our present selves, and the often difficult but inescapable fact of family recur throughout the collection.

What makes The Turning a little more novel-like in its structure, however, is its links between characters and narrative events. The town of Angelus serves as a backdrop for many of the stories, and Vic Lang and his family (his mother, his father, and his wife) are prominent recurring characters. Details in a number of stories hint at something sinister going on in the background; there is another, larger, story that runs through the book about the underbelly of Angelus, about drugs and violence and police corruption. When we zoom out on The Turning we see a picture of a place and a group of people that stretches across decades. This is what, for me, makes The Turning so unique. It is a book that simultaneously satisfies my interest in story, and my desire for moments of change.

Tim Winton lives in Western Australia. His other novels include The Riders, Dirt Music and Cloudstreet. In 2013 The Turning was adapted into a film, with seventeen different directors interpreting the stories. Unlike the book, the film lacks the overarching character and narrative connections.

I made a resolution at the beginning of this year to write a new blog post once a month. Then we adopted a puppy, and already this first post of 2017 is overdue. Puppy demands walks and cuddles and food. Puppy distracts me with her floppy ears and gangly legs. 20170118_191302Puppy chewed my computer cord and left me – until yesterday – disconnected.

I had planned to write about Haruki Murakami’s memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, a book I’d wanted to read for years. I found a copy recently at a twilight market stall, and bought it just before the rain started and the remaining books were hastily covered up.

I had wanted to talk about Murakami. But then we adopted a puppy, and everything shifted slightly sideways. Even now I’m writing this at 10pm, with puppy – finally – asleep beside me on the couch. Even now I’m snatching time between walks and food puzzles and games of fetch to Get Things Done.

(Note: I am aware that adopting a puppy is not the same as having a baby, and that there may be an amount of hyperbole present in this post.)

I had wanted to talk about Murakami. About how this was the first of his non-fiction I had read. About how it wasn’t as inspiring or thought-provoking as I expected it to be – I was waiting for more connections between writing and running, waiting for it to come together somehow. But it felt very stream-of-consciousness, like a journal without much editing. Some of the phrasing felt cliched, even a little cheesy. These could all be problems with translation; apparently Murakami’s work is often translated very literally, without much poetic license taken. It could also be that I am not a runner. Not really. I dabble in a few laps around the park here and there, but I don’t do marathons.

Or it could be that we got a puppy, and my attention was elsewhere. When I talk about adopting a puppy I talk about training. I talk about toys and vet visits and food. I talk about the joy and the stress relief. I talk about the way a puppy at once takes over life and somehow also fits into it, the way writing does. And, I suppose, running does, too.

One of the most useful things Murakami focuses on in his memoir is the importance of using writing as a way of clarifying personal goals and clearing thoughts. Playing with a puppy, I think, can help us do the same things. Being on the floor with a piece of rope, playing tug-of-war, relaxes my brain and frees it up from thoughts of school and grocery lists and uni assignments to wonder about other things. Like a piece of music on the radio, or a new novel, or a friend I haven’t spoken to for months. This funny, floppy, furry little girl is taking me on more walks, but she is also slowing me down. She is setting a new pace for our lives. And we are – so far – happily keeping up.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running was first published in 2008, and was translated by Philip Gabriel. Other works of non-fiction by Murakami include Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche.