MWF 2010 Itineraries

Last month, I put up a MWF personality quiz, which you can do here if you haven’t already. I thought I’d follow up with some MWF 2010 itineraries for each of the personalities:

For more helpful MWF itineraries (and laffs), check out Sam Cooney’s ‘Hay everyone gess what?’.

*Already sold out.

**Magazine is a refurbished shipping container showcasing both new and established literary journals such as Overland, Going Down Swinging, The Lifted Brow, and Kill Your Darlings.


Review: Voiceworks Issue 79 – ‘Classic’

The last time I subscribed Voiceworks, I was twenty-four and spending most of my salary on clothes from high-end-fashion chain stores. When my subscription and my submission eligibility ran out, I bagged all of my old issues and donated them to a local high school. What was inspiring for other subscribers was depressing for twenty-five-year-old me: these ‘youngsters’ were creating work that I had no hope of emulating.

Two years on, and I’m ready to grapple this journal bitch. Lured to the Wheeler Centre by speak of a guest appearance from Nam Le, I went to the Voiceworks ‘Classic’ launch and picked up my copy of Issue 79.

In her editorial, Bel Monypenny writes about Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson and her failed attempts to mimic their bush poetry style. Issue 79 isn’t about reworking what has come before in style and genre, but more ‘classic moments made new and intriguing by fresh eyes, distinctive voices and unique perceptive detail’: ‘familiar moments—drunken teenage rebellion, questioning the life you’re born into, your first big night out, the death of a loved one.’ However, as I read through ‘Classic’, this theme did not seem present in any of the pieces, which suggests that Issue 79’s writers have managed to avoid what is easy and cliché.

There’s some striking fiction in this issue: Luke Rule’s ‘Pulling Down the Sun’ stands out as an example of literary speculative fiction; dealing with the supposedly banal themes of death, sex, and violence, Claire Marshall’s dark piece, ‘The Edwardians’, also grabbed my attention; and prize winner, Amelia Schmidt has created beautifully fluid, dreamlike work in ‘House-sitting for My Mother’—‘my mother and father disappear in an aeroplane and I pack myself into a suitcase’.

The non-fiction is also particularly strong: Michelle Walter’s ‘Getting Off the Staircase’ is evocative enough to work as either fiction or non-fiction/memoir; Sam Cooney’s column on writer workspace meanders from Roald Dahl to Jonathan Safran Foer, whilst Kate Leaver’s column tackles incest and society’s fascination with sexual violence.

What I enjoyed most, however, were the interviews. I’m not sure if this a recurring section, but Voiceworks talks to a few of its contributors in Issue 79. There’s also a conversation with emerging writer Jessica Au who discusses working on her novel, interning at Sleepers, and her writing process.

And so, despite its youthfulness, and my twenty-seven-year-old bitterness, I took a liking to Voiceworks or at least its current manifestation. ‘Classic’ is available at the usual independent bookstores or you can subscribe to Voiceworks at their website here.

Review: Lost and Found: Visible Ink 21

Alrighty. I said that I’d review a journal per week and already I’ve started outsourcing on the second week (thank you Sam Cooney for your thoughtful words on Cutwater). It’d be poor form to outsource again on the third week, so I’m going to review Visible Ink’s latest publication, Lost and Found.

I met half of the 2009 Vis Ink crew, Allison Browning and Anthony Noack, at this year’s NYWF. When Allison and Anthony spoke of their desire to start up their own literary journal once they had finished Visible Ink, I professed some scepticism. Did Melbourne need another literary journal? Seriously. It was getting crowded down here.

It has been tradition for some time for creatives to flock to Melbourne, to take advantage of the scene. The problem we now face is there’s too many of us here and not enough people amongst the public interested in what we’re all doing. We are our own audience, and since we’re all broke, we can’t sustain each other. (Chris Flynn, 14/10/09)

But after attending a couple of Read You Bastards fundraiser nights, which have become established events in their own right, and the Lost and Found launch, I wouldn’t mind if these guys go all Harvest. Unlike 1908, Lost and Found is one good-looking journal with colour art and photography gracing its covers and pages. Paper is of the recycled kind, and the the text is easy on the eye. Looks like Lost and Found knows that it’s a literary journal; it’s ‘noice’ without being overly designed.

There seems to be a couple of odd editorial decisions. Moreno Giovannoni and Simon McInerney are published twice. One might indulge in a couple of poems from the same poet, but two short stories from the same contributor seems a little excessive, especially in a journal that spans a little more than a hundred pages. I found out at the launch, however, that pieces were selected blind; it is credit to Moreno Giovannoni’s versatility that both ‘The Percheron’ and ‘Sally’ made the final cut. Simply and carefully told, ‘The Percheron’ unfolds without embellishment or trickery:

The man knows that the only way to work with a horse is to use a psychological approach, because his strength cannot match that of the horse. He normally tries to anticipate the horse’s likely behaviour and gently encourages responses consistent with the needs of the work. So what happens that day is a shock to both the man and the horse.

‘Sally’, on the other hand, is colourful in its colloquialism:

On the oval he’d go nuts in the middle of a pack. Didn’t care who he hit or which part of him got whacked. He knew that he’d get the ball if the others sensed his blind desperation. Crazy-brave. The opposition could tell he was going nuts so they’d let him have the ball. You would’ve thought he was prepared to die in there and that was scary.

Other pieces that particularly stuck out for me were Susan Fox’s ‘Waiting Room’, Bernadette Zen’s ‘Tramjam’ with its sweet, youthful earnestness, and Emma Starr’s photo ‘Solitude’, but almost every contributor had something to offer, and because of this I’m peeved at the 2009 Vis Ink crew for their wasteful use of four pages on editorial. But still, great job guys. Hope to see you manning another literary ship some time soon.

To order Lost and Found, check out Visible Ink’s post here.

Lost and Found: Visible Ink 21. Courtesy of

Next week, I’ll be reviewing another journal (not sure which one yet) unless I find someone else to review for me of course. Do you want to review something? It’s fun. I know you want to.

Until then, New Zealand-styled beached whale and sea gull on YouTube:

Guest review: Sam Cooney on Cutwater Literary Anthology Issue 1

Them at Cutwater do things different.

Cutwater Literary Journal was published and launched earlier this year, some time around July. Since then it has garnered glowing praise:

It was interesting to note this sense of internationalism in the new journal Cutwater, which made its debut this year; while its stories tended more toward the realist, they also seemed to carry a looser, more playful energy with them that one tends to associate with some of the younger generation of US writers, like Dave Eggers. (Delia Falconer in her introduction to Best Australian Stories 2009)

as well as coming under fire from certain parties (such as during one National Young Writers’ Festival panel). And still it hangs around, in the wider literary consciousness, in spite of everything. Perhaps it is this mixture of positive and negative opinions—so often books that are either overly extolled or emphatically panned quickly disappear. A friend of mine bemoans the fact that most novels have a shorter shelf life than yoghurt (he may or may not be the same person who revealed to me the authors’ trick of visiting bookstores that carry his novels and secretly signing every copy, so that the said bookstores cannot send back unsold copies to the publisher. He said he’d rather have his novels sell for two dollars in a bargain bin than be returned, pages unopened). So why has Cutwater refused to go away?

The first and most obvious answer is that Cutwater is remarkably and wonderfully different. Not so atypical as to be unrecognisable as a lit journal, but enough to be a refreshing slap to the face. I have to reiterate this: Cutwater is good.

I picked up my copy from Collected Works Bookshop in Melbourne. I asked owner/operator/proprietor/poet/& lit legend Kris Hemensley while purchasing Cutwater if he had read one of the few randomly shelved copies of the new journal. He hadn’t, but remarked that everyone who had eventually came back with some sort of compliment. He then went on to say that this was something unusual, considering that Cutwater is from not-Melbourne. I have to agree. Hailing from the coast somewhere above Sydney (some say Newcastle, others Toukley), Cutwater is wholly Australian in its scope. As the editors mention in their foreword, writers from every state and territory except Tasmania are included.

But this is not simply an equal opportunity publication with a focus on geographical spread. No, no. Within the 190-odd pages are some of today’s, and I mean right-now’s best writers. Like who? Names like Swinn, Lemon, Krien, Wright (Tim & Fiona), Caward, Curnow and Sometimes—names that any journal in Australia would and do publish. I imagine the editors of these more established journals would cut off their left hands to have all of these writers in just the one issue.

Like I’ve said already, you would be hard pressed to find any holes in the quality of this issue. So I won’t, either. Instead, a couple of highlights. The decision to print two Clinton Caward stories back-to-back? Brilliant. This guy, who I’d never heard of (my fault entirely, because he has been published elsewhere), this guy can write. I’m talking gritty, gravelly, spit-in-your face fiction. And it works. Caward’s stories are contemporary in both setting and focus (suicide bombings, the freshest and newest racisms) and are obviously the work of an industrious and naturally talented writer. But not only does he have these two first-rate stories that I would call Australian dirty realism, but we are also treated to a four-page interview with Caward. This is where the writer outlines his reasons for and his process of writing, and his answers are simple, rewarding reading:

Once you have a destination you’re writing towards, and you know where you’re going, well, I think in one sense the writing is over from the minute you know. After that it’s just the smoke and mirrors to make the journey or progression appear plausible and seamless. Quite often I don’t know what I want to write about until I’ve written it down. Then, I have this strange experience of recognition where I realise I’ve been thinking about what I’ve written for quite some time without really being aware I’ve been thinking about it, as if I’ve suddenly remembered a recurring dream.

Rebecca Giggs was the other highlight for mine. Her creative non-fiction ramble Actual Air and Fictitious Water: On some continuities of keepsakes, dead fish and the poetry of David Berman, replete with footnotes and wide-ranging references, is the last piece in Cutwater. It is both touching and distant; Giggs’ descriptions of the lake in her favoured park are inspired (often by the resident koi named Einstein), and her ruminations on Berman, lovers, thesis writing and localised nature are witty and winsome, without ever encroaching on pomposity or chutzpah. Because I have no word or space limit, here is an excerpt from Giggs’ piece that may not show her at her most affecting or at her cleverest, but I still found my pen circling it once, twice, and again:

I took my laptop over to the park during the day to work on my thesis. Landscape. That compulsion of all Australian writers, tongued raw like a scald on the roof of my mouth. White’s Voss. Chatwin’s The Songlines. Stowe’s Tourmaline. The poems of Les Murray. Here in Perth we have the International Centre for Landscape and Language, as if words only actually exist on the ground, the possessions of topography.

My hands hovered motionless over the keyboard, the alphabet a hotplate set to burn off my fingerprints. All inspiration melted in the smithy of landscape; another writer lost in the work of the desert and defined by geography. Winton and Drewe held the beaches. When (or if) I became an adult author I anxiously reasoned, this was the work that the critics would dig up to define my “early career-stage preoccupations”. I thought of David Foster Wallace’s daunting thesis Fatalism and the Semantics of Physical Modality. I thought of the first novels of Jonathan Safran Foer and Aleksandar Hemon. And I stared uselessly into the lake.

Now, there is no doubt that Cutwater isn’t perfect, although what is between the pages is damn near close. From reports, the editors in Dan Collins and Sam Tywford-Moore could be taught some lessons in both communication and forward planning. And many people will despise the David Foster Wallace-style introduction—I laboured through it the first time, especially the short story part of it, but enjoyed it more every time I went back. It also must be acknowledged that Cutwater was financed by a Write In Your Face grant from the Australian Council, and was originally supposed to be a Black Inc-style ‘Best Australian Young Writers’ publication. Maybe not trickery, but not the typical methodology, either.

But again, I’m going to grate some people’s nerves by claiming that it is these different approaches, this refusal (conscious or not) to tow the lit journal line that makes Cutwater so much more interesting and layered. Argue with me, please, because I have thought about this a lot and believe it. Cutwater is willing to be the black sheep, and at least for this first issue, it has worked. They don’t treat writers like they are gods on earth, they don’t write the standard polite foreword drivel, they don’t publish on name but on merit. Some of these are shared by other newish journals who some say herald a new internationalism and approach—publications like Torpedo and The Lifted Brow, who are winning plaudits for their different tacks.

Ultimately, Cutwater is simply a superb read. Sam Twyford-Moore and Dan Collins must be congratulated. The two of them have brainstormed, worked their arses off, infuriated and upset some people, but as they say in their introduction, ‘all decisions were our own’. We can only hope they choose to put as much effort into their next project, whether it be issue two or something else. Whatever it is, hopefully it will be cutwater-like (the forward part of a ship, dividing anything that gets in its path) and Cutwater-like (challenging, memorable Australian writing). 


Sam Cooney is a writer living in Melbourne. He recently completed a BA (Professional & Creative Writing) with a second major in Literature. He writes fiction, non-fiction, articles and reviews, and is the Books & Literature columnist at Voiceworks magazine. You can find him in all the usual places on the internet, or in Berlin next year.

To find out more about Cutwater, visit their website here.