Having completed my third novel Stolen about a forbidden friendship between a Quaker girl and a Peramangk girl, I was almost ready to move on to another book with an entirely different focus. But
I’ve recently realised that writing Stolen is just the beginning of my journey towards truth telling. Stolen is written from a standpoint of curiosity. How did settler colonisers in South Australia allow and account for the near total destruction of Australia's First Nations people? Writing it has been a sharp reminder that my very existence and the privilege I have - resources, education, free time, health, social contacts - are built upon the destruction and devastation of the first people of this country. I wrote it knowing that my ancestors could not have been entirely oblivious about what was happening around them. There are no family stories of any of them speaking up so at best they may have passive bystanders, unprepared or maybe in some cases, unable, to speak against what they saw. I chose Echunga as the primary setting for Stolen for two reasons. My mother’s ancestors, through her father, settled and colonised there in 1838, two years into South Australia’s European history. I was also drawn to the fact that many of the early colonisers there were Quakers (my ancestors were not as far as I have been able to determine), a group who had been very active in the abolition of slavery in other parts of the colonised world. I was also drawn to the fact that there had been a mini gold rush in Echunga in the 1850’s, the very time I wanted to set my novel in. I began writing with the idea that I would avoid any risk of cultural offence by backgrounding the Aboriginal presence. By not focusing on the fact that Aboriginal people were there, I could, I thought, avoid causing offence. This stage lasted barely a couple of weeks before I realised I could not, would not, intentionally add to the plethora of literature that whitewashes First Nation people from our known history. I would instead, I decided, simply be vigilant to make sure the novel was written entirely from a sympathetic European point of view and voice; the voice of a child with speech disability, a disability that allowed her to see the world differently from her family and peers. This would surely avoid the risk of causing offence, I thought. But from the moment I included a significant plot role in Stolen, for an Aboriginal character, Kiani, a strong and resilient young Peramangk woman, I knew I had to do everything I could to engage with a cultural consultant. I contacted the reconciliation group located on Peramangk country and was referred to a Peramangk man who was immediately responsive to my request and expressed support for what I was doing. After several in-depth emails he offered to read an early draft and also, to my delight shared with me his recently completed Master’s dissertation about his own life as a stolen child and the complexities of Aboriginal identity. I was one of the first readers outside of his academic support group, a privilege that I continue to cherish. I learned so much from it about the ongoing impact of the laws set up during early colonial times. Career changes impacted on his ability to read all of the novel but he was very positive about what he was able to complete. He was keen that I contact his sister who he said was better equipped to give me feedback as she herself was a creative writer. She in turn was very generous and encouraging but was managing a raft of projects. She referred me to her daughter, a student of Law and also of Creative Writing. She was very excited to hear what I was writing about and expressed her support for my efforts to have a Peramangk person read the novel. After a several emails and a covid epidemic I contracted her to read the novel and she provided me with assurance that there was nothing offensive in what I had written. Cultural consultation completed. I sent the manuscripts to publishers to await their response. So why was I left with the irksome feeling that I still had work to do; That my accountability to the first people of the country I was writing on was unfinished business? Weeks after submitting I attended the Historical Novel Society Conference and I began to understand even more deeply the complexities and problems for a non-Indigenous person such as myself, a second nation person, when writing Indigenous characters into creative fiction. I listened to an East coast salt-water First Nation woman (a multi-disciplinary lawyer, filmmaker, artist and scholar) asking ‘can we actually find a decolonised space with a nonindigenous ally?’. Then a writer and author living on Kaurna Yarta, winner of the 2020 Dorothy Hewett Award and the CBCA Honour Book, challenged me to think about the whiteness in publishing and reading world. She pointed out that non-indigenous people must trust indigenous people to do their own work. An award-winning novelist and playwright of Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Te Arawa, Ngāti Whakaue, Tuhourangi, Ngāti Tumatawera, Tainui and Pākehā descent asked ‘what are you bringing to this (cultural consultation) relationship?’. She reminded me to not expect all the work to be done by First Nation people. So, where was I in this debate? Unlike some of my fellow conference delegates, I was not upset that we were not given definitive answers by these First Nation women. I understood that they were not there to make us feel comfortable. But I too was left feeling directionless. My unfinished business remained. By pure chance I met, at the airport, a First Nations woman I’d come to know through my local Reconciliation Group. After yarning over a coffee about a whole range of things I put my dilemma to her. Her response initially puzzled me. “Where are you in the story?” I tried to explain that, as a writer of fiction, I was outside the story but that my beliefs and values were imbedded in the narrative. I explained how I’d exposed the role of the church and the government through the thoughts and judgement of my main character a white girl who herself was an outsider. I told her of how I’d used direct quotes from the Anglican bishop exposing his racism and critiqued the way the main character’s family had gone against their own pacifist teaching when it came to the First Nation Australian people’s whose land they were living on and took as their own. But still her question remained. ‘Where are you in the story? What was your family’s role? For example did they use the free labour of Aboriginal women as domestics?’ I found myself grappling for facts about my family: ‘they were mostly poor’, ‘one family owned a shop and they did have helper, but she was Irish I think.’ As I spoke, I remembered seeing a photo (see below) taken in 1925 of an Aboriginal family – probably Narungga – sitting by a salt lake at the edge of the town where I grew up and where my great grandparents had owned the general store from 1911 until 1933, the only source of non-native food and clothing for the region. And given that by 1925 most of the countryside had been cleared of trees to make way for broad acre cropping and sheep, it was very unlikely that the Narungga people had access to their food, clothing, shelter and cultural resources. How did they survive? It occurred to me that it was strange that in all the many verbal and written stories (including diaries, letters, autobiographies), passed down by that side of my family, not one mention Aboriginal people living nearby. ‘I assume they (the Narungga family) relied on my g-grandparents shop for food,” I said to my patient airport listener. She smiled and replied. ‘But they probably would not have been allowed into the shop Jen.’ A gaping hole of accountability opened up before me. I’ve known for many years that my privilege comes from being a descendant of white colonisers. But now I was being challenged to do the hard work of truth telling from within my own family a much more confronting task than being an objective story teller. So what will I change in Stolen? I will amplify my main character’s dissonance and have her giving into to the temptation to take the easy road by ignoring her Aboriginal friend. I will also change the ending slightly to, hopefully, more clearly engage my reader to consider the psychological cost of not engaging in personal truth telling and the even greater psychological cost of whitewashing our entire history. And for me personally? Well my business surely remains, unfinished. The attached image shows Aboriginal people who may have died, which may cause sadness and distress to their relatives. Care and discretion should be used when viewing the image. If you believe this image should be restricted from general viewing for cultural reasons please contact the Library's enquiry service 08 8207 7250 or info@slsa.sa.gov.au. The attached image shows Aboriginal people who may have died, which may cause sadness and distress to their relatives. Care and discretion should be used when viewing the image. If you believe this image should be restricted from general viewing for cultural reasons please contact the Library's enquiry service 08 8207 7250 or info@slsa.sa.gov.au.
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It is no coincidence that all my novels have a strong and (I hope!) interesting female antagonist. Women’s lives have inspired me, stirred my imagination and driven me to write the stories that history has left untold.
For those of you who have already read Vivaldi’s Lost Concerto you will know that the protagonist, Fiona Sinclair is a young woman whose life has been run off track by her mother’s drinking and erratic life style. When her mother dies an early death, Fiona finds herself homeless, drug addicted and slipping into a life of crime. It is Fiona’s memories of her grandmother, a woman of great strength and compassion, that provides her with the will to change and when given a lifeline by Teresa, a music therapist, soon to be friend, Fiona grabs it with both hands. Th other powerful woman in VLC is Paolina Giro, an aging spinster devoted to her sister who’s career as an opera singer is tied to the the fame of her mentor Antonio Vivaldi. Paolina and Vivaldi find love in their later years, a love that must be kept secret to preserve Vivaldi’s reputation. When an old enemy re-enters Paolina’s life she is forced to make a decision that will change their lives forever. There are four female antagonists in Missing Pieces (due to be published mid-20210. Magrit the Adroit, an 11thC Icelandic carver credited by some for carving the famous Lewis Chessmen, reportedly one of the most popular exhibits in the British Museum. Crippled from birth Magrit survives the taunts of childhood by developing her carving skills which she uses to amuse her peers and parody the rich and powerful. Morven lives in the harsh but beautiful western islands of Scotland. Gifted with a second sight, her Calling, Morven rescues a mysterious seal-like man from the kelp strewn beach and takes control of his treasured box of carvings. But he leaves her with much than artefacts. Seven hundred years later Mhairi and her kind but timid husband find the chess pieces buried in the sandhills of the Isle of Lewis. Desperate to save her family from the barbaric Scottish Clearances, Mhairi draws on her skills and strength to safeguard their future. Marianne, an archaeologist working for the British Museum, uses clues passed down to her from her great-great -grandmother to search for the missing pieces of the famous Lewis Chessmen. Spurred on by her anger towards her bullying and corrupt boss, Marianne faces up to her fears and finds the courage to expose her boss’s actions to win the acclaim and love she deserves. My work in progress, Without Trial, is about a young Quaker girl who grows up watching the decimation of the Peramangk people and the lengths her childhood friend Kiani must go to to simple survive. Who is your favourite fictional female character? Many of my readers have commented about the confronting world in Vivaldi’s Lost Concerto of my contemporary protagonist, Fiona, a recovering drug addict, thief and ex-prisoner. They have been shocked or at least surprised at the content and ask how I know so much about that side of life. Where did I learn about drug use and life on the streets? How did I find out about jails and courts? Some have also admitted that they know very little about homelessness, criminal behaviour, and the justice system so I thought I’d put some time aside to explain my motivation for using such a startling setting in a novel about, of all things, a Vivaldi Concerto. In my eighteen years as a Social Worker in Correctional Services I was faced on a daily basis with the harsh realities of many people’s lives. If there is one catch all that summarises what I learned it is that most criminals/ offenders/ perpetrators – however you want to think of them – have themselves been victims, more often that not from the day they were born. Of course there are victims who do not become offenders and there are offenders who have not been victims but they are by far and away the exception. But victims of what? Child abuse, neglectful and emotionally absent parents, drug and alcohol abuse, an inflexible education systems (despite the best efforts of most teachers), illiteracy, experiencing and witnessing domestic violence, underfunded mental health resources, shortages of secure housing, an exhausted and overflowing child protection system, poverty, corruption within those holding positions of power. I could go on as indeed the cycle of deprivation gets passed down through the generations. Does that make me a bleeding heart? I like to think not. I spent much of my time in Corrections working with perpetrators of DV (95% male) holding them accountable for their action in the belief that until they faced up to the realities of their actions and the harm they were doing they would not chose another course. This involved unpacking the beliefs they had about what it was to be a man and their attitudes and beliefs about women. So how did this fit with Vivaldi for goodness sake? When I learned that Vivaldi wrote almost all of music for the abandoned girls of Venice and that he devoted his whole life to making glorious music with and for those who, in our society, are more often than not the very people who I worked with in Corrections, I could not help but be compelled to write about the “what if?” What if we treated all our children as worthy of care, safety and respect? What if we, through our government, took responsibility for ensuring all citizens had equal access to safety and resources. What if we recognised the power of music and the arts to give value and meaning to life? What would the outcome be? I am not naive enough to suggest that there is an easy solution nor do I think 18th Century Venice was an idyllic society. But I do hope that as well as enjoying VLC as good read it has provoked some of my readers to consider the bigger questions that we face when we look below the surface of our complex world and what our role is to make a difference. As I dip my toe into researching my next novel I couldn't go past Kate Grenville's latest novel A Room of Leaves. Although set in NSW (not SA as mine will be) it is has helped me reconnect with the mindset of the free settlers in colonial Australia. I went looking to learn how she managed the frontier wars while avoiding the temptation to write through 21st century eyes. To find out how she stepped around her white privilege while clearly and unavoidable using it. I am in awe of how she managed this and would love to hear how it sits for an Aboriginal person. Below is my review of it in Goodreads.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3500127986 Kate Grenville has once again taken me into the world of colonial NSW through the totally believable voice of Elizabeth Macarthur. Like Elizabeth, Kate Grenville weaves the unspoken truth into the narration of a story that to date has been left untold. She paints the obnoxious John Macarthur as a conniving self-interested bully and the reader is on Elisabeth's side as she works out not only how to survive in the harshness of rum riddled Sydney but to find her own way to happiness. Kate's astute use of historical archives are well known but it is her knowledge of human nature and her ability to step into her character's point of view that make this another unforgettable novel. Her honest but historically appropriate expose if the Parramatta Massacre was both haunting and gut-wrenchingly simple. How easy it was for even the sympathetic Mrs Macarthur to question then blink and turn away back to her own relatively comfortable life. The words "Do not believe too quickly' should follow us all into a BLM era where so many of us must now question our privilege. I have been reading Kate Grenville since her "Joan Makes History" demonstrated to me the power of fiction to hold a mirror up to society and reflect the truth behind the long accepted myopic historical records. I have been trying to emulate her since! How very strange my world is a just now. I spend hours immersed in my writing world, living vicariously through my characters. I travel with them back into medieval Iceland and Scotland, survive the brutal 1830’s Clearances of the Scottish Islands and emerge into the ongoing power inequalities in a pre MeToo world.
My characters are like family. I belong to them as much as they to me. I feel their pain, their joy. I know their demons and their triumphs. I escape through them. And when the writing is finished, I raise my head satisfied with my work and grateful to be back in my own life. But now in this new strange world I am startled anew each time to find that I am returning to a world that has changed, a world in which I am stranger. I look around and see that I am amongst others, familiar but changed. My old world, the one that I had controlled, has gone. It is missing. How odd then that my novel is titled Missing Pieces It is about the exquisite 11th Century ivory antiquities – the Lewis Chessmen – that went missing, found buried in a Scottish sand hill after 700 years. But there are 50 pieces missing. Where are they? Why have they not been found? The main characters, five strong women who overcome harsh times, all have pieces missing in their lives. What do they need to do to take back control? How will they find fulfillment? So many pieces are missing in this strange world of ours where we have all lost so much control. What do I miss the most? The answer is easy. Touch. It was not until it was taken from me that I realised how much I rely on it: to show sympathy, to express surprise, to calm anxieties. To demonstrate love. Now I gently, reluctantly, guide my grandchildren back to a distance safe for them and me, I smile at my adult children rather than greeting them with a hug, I video call my friends and then wave goodbye not knowing when I will see them face to face again. So tell me - what do you miss the most in this time of Covid19? "Lewis Chessman found in drawer expected to raise £1m at Sotheby’s auction" www.scotsman.com/news/lewis-chessman-found-in-drawer-expected-to-raise-1m-at-sotheby-s-auction-1-4957347 Imagine my dismay when these headlines broke. What are the odds! Just as I was wrapping up the first draft of “Missing Pieces”, my second novel about the 50 (now 49!!) missing Lewis Chessmen, this cheeky little character turned up in a drawer in Edinburgh. It is the only piece to be found since the original 1831 discovery in the sandhills of the beautiful and magical Isle of Lewis, Scotland. The exquisitely craved ivory chess piece actually fetched £1.6 million for the fortunate owner. So how much was paid in 1831 to Sprot Macleod the crofter who found the original hoard? Very likely nothing, for just a few years later he and his family were homeless as a result t of the barbaric Scottish Clearances. Intrigued? Well here’s an excerpt that will give you a taste of how I have interlaced fact with fiction to bring to life the untold story behind the history of the Missing Pieces of the Lewis Chessmen. Told in the voice of Sprot's courageous wife Mhairi, it pick up the story as she is facing the Church Elders. Putting my hands behind my back I crossed my fingers, for my next sentence would be a another lie. A lie not even Calum knew of. ‘Four score and some more there were in all including one buckle.’ As the words tumbled from my mouth, I forced myself not to think about the small bag of treasures I had set aside, in it some forty or so of the smaller pieces. I tried hard not to hear my mother’s words to me as a child. “You’re a sly one Catherine Mhairi.” Sly or not I had no intention of giving over all the treasure. Not yet. The men at the table watched me, waiting on me, like greedy children hankering for a piece of fudge. I uncrossed my fingers. The lie had passed. I continued. ‘They’s all made from the tusk of the walrus I believe. This here is just one of them.’ I dug into my pocket and retrieved the piece I’d chosen as a display; a queen, Reverend Munro had told me. I felt the mood shift as they passed it around. Exchanging a knowing look with Munro, I watched with pride as their staunch, cynical faces changed to astonishment and wonder. One by one they turned the queen over in their hands. I watched as they examined the delicacy of her fingers as she, this noble queen, held her face in what? Fear? Awe? I had not been able to decide. I saw too how they noted the skillfully carved robes that enfolded her and then gasp as they turned the regal piece over to see the unquestionable craftsmanship of her ancient throne. I heard them mutter to each other. ‘Four score, she says’ and ‘Yes, walrus ivory, I am sure.’ When all had seen the piece, I held my hand out and took it back, slipping it into my pocket. Reverend Munro nodded for me to proceed. We’d rehearsed this next bit many times. I folded my hands before me and pulled myself to my full height. In the voice I used to instruct my children to leave their play and get ready for dinner, I laid out my demand. Let me know if you would like to be kept informed about the novel's upcoming journey into the world. When Fiona Mcintosh https://www.fionamcintosh.com/books/encouraged me three years ago to come to her Masterclass the tipping point for me was that she would provide aftercare. In fact she she wrote “I have your back and will keep opening doors”. Never were truer words said! The Masterclass in itself was worth me stretching my (figuratively) short Scottish arms into my deep pockets but in terms of opening doors never could I have imagined the opportunities last weekend’s Masterclass National Conference would offer me. Held at the spectacular O’leary Walker winery https://www.clarevalley.com.au/directory/oleary-walker-wines-restaurant-clare-valley 130 of us spent three days talking, sharing, laughing and pitching to 5 reps from the top publishing houses, two major book sellers, an expert in self-publishing and a social media guru. Then when my dinner companions included acclaimed international best seller Michael Rowbotham http://www.michaelrobotham.com/index.asp?pagename=Books&site=1&siteid=9494 and our own local superstars Tricia Stringer https://www.triciastringer.com.au/books/and Meredith Appleyard https://meredithappleyard.com.au/ I thought I would lose my mind! So what did I get out of it? Lets start with Fiona’s reminder: “No One Cares.” Brutal but true. As a writer we have to do much more that just write to be successful. Writers need to write with such dedication and brilliance that we make publishers and then readers care about our characters and their plight. We need to get readers to be curious enough about us and our books, through every means at hand, to get them away from Netflix and social media to go to their bookstore or on-line book seller to find my books. We need to be generous with our support of other writers, especially other debut writers, so that they care about our careers too. We need to care enough about ourselves to protect our writing time, even from those we love, and nurture our creative souls reading the wonderful words of those who have gone before us down the road of establishing themselves as an author. What’s next ? Polish, polish, polish my “Missing Pieces” (formerly Missing: A Hebridean Mystery) manuscript to take advantage of the amazing offer from two publishers to jump out of the massive whole of house slush pile into their (very busy) emails. Get on the road with “Vivaldi’s Lost Concerto”. I have two library visits -with 4 other amazing writers - locked in already. (I’ll send details to you closer to the time.) And I’m planning a 2020 Scottish launch and road show.) Take up an opportunity to podcast with the delightful Claudine Tinellis at Talking Aussie Books https://www.claudinetinellis.com/podcast-1. Work out how to better use my social media with a coffee catch up with the Lisa from award winning PR company Commshake. Plus plus plus. Anybody with any ideas about where and how I can connect with you and your community and tribes please let me know via comments the section or at j.mackenziedunbar@gmail.com I could not have been more pleased with how the launch of Vivaldi’s Lost Concerto went. Nearly 60 people turned up and the atmosphere turned quickly from reserved curiosity to enthusiastic interest as the wonderful musicians, Kellie and Cahn, played the second movement of Il Gran Mogul, the music that features as almost another character in the novel. Responding to my good friend Lynnie’s well thought out questions was easy and fun as we discussed what the novel was about and my writing journey. As people queued to buy a copy, I got the chance to catch up with most of the attendees. There were friends from singing, yoga, book club, writing group, girls weekends, work, neighbours and of course family. So enthusiastic were they that I sold out of books! A video slideshow of many of the resources that I used to create characters and settings played on loop while Team Launch got on with selling books, pouring champagne, laying out the food, taking photos and looking after the IT. I could not have done it without them! I hope the book lives up to expectation. I have certainly had some good feedback already and look forward to reading reviews which I encourage everyone to do because it is the activity of reviews that helps books come to the attention of other potential readers worldwide. Its in stock at Shakespeare’s Books Blackwood. http://www.shakespearesbooks.com.au Or online. Try these links or go to your favourite online book supplier. Amazon https://www.amazon.com/Vivaldis-Concerto-Jennifer-MacKenzie-Dunbar/dp/064850431X/ref=sr_1_2?crid=2EZ56OELSLES0&keywords=vivaldi%27s+lost+concerto&qid=1563521106&s=books&sprefix=Vivaldis+lo%2Caps%2C386&sr=1-2 Barnes and Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/vivaldis-lost-concerto-jennifer-mackenzie-dunbar/1131654469?ean=9780648504313 Thanks again for everyone’s support! Launch day looms. The invites are out, the registrations are in and the champagne is on ice and I begin to allow myself to really think about just what I have done.
I haven’t written the next Orange Prize novel nor am I likely to bump anyone off Amazon’s best seller list. But I have finished what I set out to do seven years ago. (I always remember the date because the idea for it began forming at about the same time as I found out I was to be a grandmother for the first time.) I have developed my skills, committed my time, buried myself in research and, finally, I have produced something. Something that will be sitting on a dusty on shelf (or on-line catalogue- much less intriguing) long after I am gone. Something that some great grandchild might pick up with curiosity as she or he wonders who this Jennifer woman was, just as I did with my great-great-grandfather’s book. But it is not posterity that has motivated me but the need to create. An urge to build worlds and form characters; to get lost in the “other”. That is where the joy lies. It is not however the creative process I want to write about today but one of the unexpected consequences of my endeavours - the community of writers I have met and joined along the way. We come in many forms – from the serious young women and men who have forgone, or at least de-prioiritised another career to devote themselves to their writing, to the (almost) retired, like myself, who have been lucky enough to have paid off the mortgage and saved just enough to keep paying the bills. We may live in the same neighbourhood or on the opposite side of the world. I have a new writer friend in Edinburgh who writes about remote (and haunted) places I have lived near and just this week had contact from an American author- an expert on all things Icelandic - whose book , Ivory Kings, inspired my second novel. Take a peak here: https://www.nasw.org/users/nmb/books.html I have had email encouragement from the young man, now living in Portugal, who in 2010, discovered Vivaldi's lost concerto in the archives of Newbattle Abbey, and met a young woman recently arrived in the city from country SA (just as I did all those years ago) forging her way in her new environment. You see the writer community is not just a collection of people but a true community working towards shared goals. We celebrate each other’s wins and are around to soften the blow when times are tough. We help each other sort out the good writing from the not so good and are always ready to give each other the time to discuss a messy plot point or a character inconsistency. We understand the need to cut off from the world occasionally and even provide each other with the physical space to do that. We are there with encouraging words when the reject letters come in and genuinely rejoice when a publication offer is made or the self-published book arrives in the post. I teach my Social Work students that communities came in many different forms. Some are geographical but in these days of the global village many are not. So tell me, what and where is your community? |
AuthorJennifer is a writer of short stories, novels and a family history. Archives
November 2023
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