“Ha! I just got this card with a nice old building on it. I opened it up and inside it says the picture should bring back some memories. Now I recognise it — it’s my old school.”
“Which one? XXX Grammar or XXX High?”
“Um, I think it’s…Grammar…it’s got those bits…”

My internet is so fucked. In case it gets even more fucked, in this brief moment of being able to access my own site, just want to say I’ll be away in Kathmandu from 6th-14th Feb and probably not checking email.

Stu sent me this post about women’s evident tendency to be not so great at self-promotion. The poster says: “They aren’t just bad at behaving like arrogant self-aggrandizing jerks. They are bad at behaving like self-promoting narcissists, anti-social obsessives, or pompous blowhards, even a little bit, even temporarily, even when it would be in their best interests to do so.”

I was talking with Gillian about this a while back, and promised I was going to write something, and never did, because I didn’t have a lot of evidence to bring up, just general impressions and personal experience. But now someone else has written about it, so I can nod and say, “Yeah, I’ve noticed that about women, too.” Not all women, but plenty enough. And obviously not all guys are topped up with self-confidence, either. But when I think about myself and confidence, my first thought is that I had it when I was a kid, and somehow lost it. I don’t know whether that’s a common thing for women, but I wouldn’t mind comparing experiences, if anyone wants to.

I remember being a sassy little thing with a pretty good opinion of myself. And my mother (sorry, Mum, for dragging you into this, but you went through this bullshit too, and worse than me) often told me that I was arrogant, and that I shouldn’t blow my own trumpet. So I learned to be coy. And we got that message at school (an all-girl school), too. Or rather, mixed messages. We were told not to hide our lights under a bushel (bushels, trumpets, wild ran the commonplace metaphors), but we were also told not to boast about ourselves, which somehow warped into not saying anything positive about ourselves. Which perhaps warped further into not thinking positively about ourselves. Say “I’m dumb, I’m not that good, I’m ugly” enough times, even out of false modesty, and you might start believing it. You certainly don’t get in the habit of putting yourself forward with confidence that someone might actually be interested in you for reasons beyond sex.

I think we were taught to be modest, also, for reasons to do with sex. “Bold girls” who “put themselves forward” were somehow “not nice” and were not “ladies”. Yes, I was brought up to be a fucken lady, mate. Not that many of us at school were particularly ladylike, but unfortunately the one ladyish lesson that we did seem to take to heart — as I see it, anyway, looking back — was the one about not drawing attention to your own accomplishments. You were supposed to be pleasing — your thoughts focused on the pleasure of others, not on your own advancement. Which is all very well in purely social situations, but not so helpful in the world of work. But while our educators and parents (it was the 70s and 80s) were all for us having careers, and did what they could to ensure we were prepared academically, perhaps they didn’t give so much thought to preparation for the non-academic side of work — the side that’s less about ability than chutzpah, and which includes the art of mining social occasions for career opportunities (which may start with something a simple as telling someone you’re a writer, rather than just mentioning your day job). I don’t know if the early education of girls, at home and at school, has changed much. I don’t get the sense that it has, really, but I’d be very interested to hear other people’s views — and I assume there must be differences between countries and cultures.

But while I learned early on to project a coy manner, my actual inner confidence didn’t sink until puberty, which is so normal as to be hardly worth mentioning (though it shouldn’t be normal) — but I’ll stick this idea out: becoming a woman just isn’t as cool or empowering as becoming a man, because of the way we’ve constructed ‘man’ and ‘woman’.  And in the first years of womanhood, just as you’re maturing, you’re also at your most desirable (at least in the current culture), and therefore your most vulnerable. When you should be becoming a person, you’re sweet sixteen and all too easily become principally a sex object, or a rejected sex object; either way, your subjectivity takes a hit. There’s so much media emphasis on women’s appearance, and so little on women’s accomplishments, that if that stuff gets in your head, your accomplishments can start to seem unimportant, even worthless. In my case, at least, that attitude took hold and stuck. I saw myself as an object for a very long time. (I know this happens to guys too, but my impression is that women are in more danger of losing their sense of personhood in the teen years.) Once you see yourself as an object, it’s as if you don’t exist. It’s pretty hard to find the will, courage, or even desire to promote yourself if you’re not real — if you’re abject, if you’re the very opposite of important — in your own mind.

I’ve been incredibly lucky in that I haven’t had to promote myself much. Because when I started writing I couldn’t have done it. I was taught to wait for others to notice you, and that was exactly what happened. Next time I have to do it, I’ll be able to — but that’s partly because I’ve now got some sort of profile and won’t be working from square zero. But my story is pretty unusual. I happened to have a weird book ready to publish when weird books were enjoying a surge of popularity. When I first tried to get a publisher for TEC, back in 2000 or 2001, my early efforts failed, and I didn’t know what to do next. I thought I had a pretty cool book, but when the couple of publishers who seemed the best bets (and who took unsolicited manuscripts) and one agent I’d met turned it down, I got stuck. I knew I ought to get an agent, but I didn’t know how to begin finding one. I knew there were lists, but how to choose names from the lists? And, good God, so many of them were in New York. Why would an agent in New York be interested in a random Australian with a strange book? (So a bit of cultural cringe there, as well.) The thought of contacting a writer and asking “Who’s your agent?” would never have occurred to me. The notion of bothering someone else like that, intruding on their time, would have been D: D: D:. In fact, even the thought of contacting an agent was pretty scary — not so much because of fear of rejection, but more a general sense of unworthiness, as if I didn’t even have the right to try to get someone’s attention and have my voice heard, especially by a citizen of New York. (And there’s another thing: seen and not heard. Is it still the case that women are to be seen, and men heard?) In short, I wasn’t confident enough to do the self-advertising and persevering that it often takes to get a first book published.

Anyway, I got noticed — eventually by Jeff VanderMeer, who is not only great at promoting his own work, but is a generous promoter of other writers. But there was a whole lotta luck involved. Without that luck, without the attention and effort of people — starting with Geoff Maloney, and most of my helping hands have been male — who steered me first to Prime Books and then to major publishers, I’d probably still be sitting here with an unpublished book — unless I’d grown some confidence somewhere along the line, and I doubt I would have. I started to grow confidence when I got published, not before. And it grew slowly, and I think it’s still a work in progress. And I remember that when I was first given real, practical help, I was astonished. I could hardly get my head around the fact that someone thought my work was worth their time. And that attitude didn’t come from put-downs in the past, since I’d had a lot of praise for my work at school (art and writing); but while praise is nice, it isn’t half as good as help. Tuition, mentoring, initiation into professional networks, all the stuff that can actually bring results: that kind of real, practical assistance is the petrol to which praise is the car wax (lovely and validating though praise is). And I wonder — do girls get as much practical help, from birth to adulthood, as boys do? Does our society truly have as much goodwill towards girls’ ambitions as boys’ ? Do we want girls to succeed in the public sphere as much as boys, and show it with our time and our wallets, not just our words?

So I guess I’m just wondering about women and the confidence to self-promote. If you’ve got it, how did you get it? Could you imagine a scenario where being a pain in the arse might have a positive outcome? Would you mind being a pain in the arse to get what you want, or would your self-image revolt? Could you lie to get a job or a place on a course if you were pretty sure you could live up to your own boasts, and could you live with being caught out in the lie? Have men supported your ambitions? Have women? Am I asking the wrong questions? And guys, what do you think?

Woo hoo! Just heard one of the big shopping malls near us is building an ice rink. There’s a rink at a mall further away, but it’s a tiny wee thing. The promoters of the new one are calling it, in advance, “the world’s most exciting ice rink”, which could mean all sorts of things — tunnels, ramps, stairs — trapdoors that open randomly in the ice and drop you into boiling oil and acid — roving zambonis armed with razor-sharp rotating blades, chainsaws, flame throwers, tactical nukes, etc. — but what I hope it means is that whatever else it may be, it’ll be a full size rink. I used to be a pretty keen skater when I was a teen, and it would be great to have a local place to skate properly. Of course, a rink the size of a bedsitter with a couple of hundred people on it could be exciting in its own way…

It’s supposed to open in September.

I have a fear of bios. I hate writing them. I don’t like interviews, either. I’m afraid of saying something thoughtless, tactless, dumb, ditzy, etc.; as for bios, the fear is harder to pin down. It’s some kind of shyness, an irrational fear of exposing basic facts about myself to strangers with whom I can’t have a conversation. I have a thick skin for criticism, but I’m hopelessly delicate about misrepresentation, and I suppose I’m afraid of misrepresenting myself. Or maybe I’m afraid of accurately representing myself, as I often feel I’m a bit silly. I try to compensate for the silliness, and end up sounding pretentious.

Anyway, the bio for Baggage is an extended thing in which we had to write about our stories. I have to proof it and I’ve been putting off doing so out of reluctance to read my own words about myself and my thought processes. I’ve got as far as opening the file, but I feel dizzy and sick with anxiety about what I might find in there. My vision is actually blurring, and and I have a lump in my throat as if I were going to cry.

This is terribly weird. I wasn’t always this self-conscious; the longer I stick with writing, the worse it seems to get. Obviously I’m not shy in the blogosphere. But here there are two differences, a delete button and the fact that it isn’t a one-way communication.

It seems strange to get shyer as you get older, but I beat my first shyness by learning to fake it — doing the fake personality thing. And I still do a lot of that. I’m not used to being sincerely myself, except with friends (and I guess I think of this blog as principally a communication with friends, too). So talking openly and honestly, without the barrier of fiction, to readers, is uncomfortable. I need to get it into my head that it really doesn’t matter much what random people think of you.

Ok, I got through reading it (it’s only a page…). And there are only 2 or 3 small changes I want to make. I still don’t like it. I don’t like giving my opinions, which often seem either untutored or over-tutored when I think about them — as if I don’t know shit and am trying to pretend that I do, because a writer is expected to know shit and have opinions and understand her own work. But I’m always terribly uncertain about everything, so that it’s hard for me to make any sort of clear statement.

Nature is awesome…

Transparent sea cucumber Enypniastes, via oceanleadership.org

Eny swimming

And while I’m doing pretties, a dreamlike flower with hummingbirds by Martin Johnson Heade.

And for the cute, a sea pig…

And for the weird… as Stu said, these people obviously aren’t marine biologists.

A nice beginning to the year: The Complex Chinese edition of The Etched City (蝕刻之城 — “shi ke zhi cheng”, I think — hope I’ll be able to find out how to say it properly), is out from Fullon Books in Taiwan, with a way cool cover — and a promo video. (Technically it’s out on 7th January, but it’s available for order now). Complex Chinese covers Taiwan, Hong Kong and Macao, though not mainland China. Translations are exciting and wonderful things, and I feel enormously lucky to have had my work published in other languages. And it’s really a thrill to be published in Chinese — a thrill from the bottom of my DNA, because I feel like a butterfly has taken my pollen to a distant garden. Where it might get blown away by the wind, or washed away by the rain, but hey, I’d rather just think about the butterfly. So a toast for the New Year to Zhou Pei Yu, who translated the book, and to translators everywhere. And a second drink to Gray Tan, my agent in Taiwan, and Danny Lin, who recommended the book to Gray, and to Fullon Books and the cover artist, whose name I hope to find out — I really dig that picture.

* * *

New Year plans and resolutions:

Last night was fun. Watching fireworks go off behind tall buildings is strange — at first you can’t see much, then as smoke fills the air the coloured flashes light up the smoke. Had a conversation with a guy who taught motorcycle riding, with the consequence that my major New Year’s resolution is to take the motorbike taxis less often and limit my use of them to short rides down quiet streets or very congested sections of main road (which used to be my rule, but I got a bit blase last year). What he had to say about falls and injuries was a timely reminder that Motorbikes Are Dangerous. Terribly convenient in this city, but this year I’m going to try to allow enough time for cabs and Shanks’s pony instead.

My other resolution is to read a book a week. Last year I probably only read one a month. I’ve gotten started on this — read Patrick White’s The Solid Mandala last week, now reading Radical Alterity by Jean Baudrillard and Marc Guillaume.

Travel plans: Australia in March and maybe again in October or November. Hopefully Kathmandu and surrounds for a week in February.

Writing: Still working on new material for the collection. It’s getting there. I’d really, really like to have this thing sewn up by midyear. The Floating World is the other major project. I won’t be taking on anything else — unless for one reason or another it’s irresistible.

As a rule I don’t do Engrish posts (glass houses, stones!) but I couldn’t leave this at home in a drawer — and what is it about police phones/booths and time travel?

Think of the porn, censor the children. Oh, wait, that should go the other way around. And the bestiality. Gotta get the bloody bestiality back where the kids can’t see it — out in the back paddock where it’s a private matter between a  man and his livestock. The current (KRudd) Australian Labor government just doesn’t want to give this one up.

So that communications minister Stephen Conroy announces legislation to Censor The Internet And Keep Australia Pure will be introduced….just before next year’s election. Bearing in mind that opposition leader Tony Abbott is an outspoken wowser with a support base of religious nutjobs, it isn’t a huge stretch to see the strategy behind the move.

Putting aside the possibility of the legislation getting through both houses of parliament and actually going into effect, which is scary enough, what worries me more than the possibility of a national-level internet (really World Wide Web) filter  is the opportunity the Rudd government has just handed “Mad Monk” Tony Abbott.

They must be assuming that Abbott and the Liberal Party will support the legislation. Which they might. But if they do, will the antediluvians and troglodytes have any reason to change their vote to Labor, who after all still support the right to abortion, birth control, schooling for girls, etc?

And they also might not support it. Abbott’s response to minister Conroy’s announcement was notably guarded. There are certainly Liberal MPs who don’t want it. And Abbott, well, what he wants is to be Prime Minister. Very, very much. If he can learn to subdue his personal agendas to the demands of his ambition, learn patience and mature in guile, he could recast himself. Be seen to put his own extreme views aside in the name of supporting the views of the majority. Be a bloke of the folk, just like John Howard. And get elected, just like John Howard. And then gradually, when the door of opportunity opens, shove his own agenda through it onto the country, just like John Howard.

If Abbott plays his cards right, he could conceivably pick up a fair few swinging or simply furious voters.  If those voters are in marginal seats, there’s your election. The Exclusive Brethren will be happy, and the rest of Australia will be wondering what they’ve gone and done.

Or am I wrong? I’ve been away from home for four years now, and haven’t spent long enough on visits to pick up the pulse of the zeitgeist. Has the place really changed that much? Has a tide of wowserism swept in, and a tide of stupidity too? Because censorship will not make the internet a nice place for children to play, and filtering the web will not stop the electronic circulation of child pornography and other criminal material. Errors are inevitable (a leaked list of “planned” sites to ban included a dentist’s web page) and the scope for abuse enormous. It really isn’t too hard to understand this. And it’s easy to be either appalled that our federal government doesn’t understand, or offended that they think we don’t, however you interpret their actions.

I hope that at next year’s election KRudd & co do get back in, because the alternative is dismal.  But I hope their majority is so thin that their arrogance won’t be able to squeeze through it.

When I looked at this c.1916 picture of Elasmotherium, my first thought was, “Fuck, it’s a really-truly unicorn!” (More recent pictures look more like woolly rhinos.)

The artist, Heinrich Harder, made a lot of pictures of prehistoric animals. Arsinoitherium had a particularly badass head, but as a mostly aquatic swamp dweller it can’t be a candidate, rather to my regret.

Elasmotherium may have survived into historic times. 10th century traveller and writer Ibn Fadlan describes an animal that matches Elasmotherium’s description, and gives this colourful account of its behaviour: “Whenever it sees a rider, it approaches and if the rider has a fast horse, the horse tries to escape by running fast, and if the beast overtakes them, it picks the rider out of the saddle with its horn, and tosses him in the air, and meets him with the point of the horn, and continues doing so until the rider dies. But it will not harm or hurt the horse in any way or manner.”

Glyptodon and Doedicurus match up with Kirby’s suggestion of an armadillo. Glyptodon looks rather round and slippery for riding on, but Doedicurus had a dip behind a hump in the shell where a saddle might go — and the hump was possibly a fat store like a camel’s. It also had a wickedly spiked tail. I can imagine it surviving a bumpy fall, which would be a bonus.

Waiving the issue of domesticability (I think that already got waived with the centipede), it comes down to a bit of a dance between ambience and narrative ideas. While I want to avoid a big-lipped alligator moment, I’d also really like to have a beast that can do more than break its legs/neck when it falls.

No, I don’t know why I’m getting so obsessed with this. Wait, yes I do. I’m not sure how to write the scene after the one I’ve nearly finished, and research is the noblest form of procrastination. Gulp.