This article is from the source 'guardian' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.

You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/australia-culture-blog/2013/jun/04/burial-rites-writer-hannah-kent

The article has changed 2 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 0 Version 1
Burial Rites and the loneliness of the long-distance writer Burial Rites and the loneliness of the long-distance writer
(4 months later)
Just over two years ago, I was – to put it plainly – shitting myself. It was January 2011, and the novel I needed to write, the historical novel that was to be the creative component of my PhD, could no longer be avoided. The problem was, I had no idea how to write a book.Just over two years ago, I was – to put it plainly – shitting myself. It was January 2011, and the novel I needed to write, the historical novel that was to be the creative component of my PhD, could no longer be avoided. The problem was, I had no idea how to write a book.
I first heard the story of Agnes Magnúsdóttir when I was an exchange student in the north of Iceland. It was 2002, I was 17 years old, and I had left Adelaide for Sauðárkrókur an isolated fishing village, where I would live for 12 months. This small town lies snug in the side of a fjord: a clutch of little buildings facing an iron-grey sea, the mountains looming behind.I first heard the story of Agnes Magnúsdóttir when I was an exchange student in the north of Iceland. It was 2002, I was 17 years old, and I had left Adelaide for Sauðárkrókur an isolated fishing village, where I would live for 12 months. This small town lies snug in the side of a fjord: a clutch of little buildings facing an iron-grey sea, the mountains looming behind.
When I arrived it was January, and the days were gripped by darkness, 20 hours at a time. There were no trees. The town’s houses were hostage to snow, and in the distance the north Atlantic Ocean met the north sky in a suggestion of oblivion. It felt like the edge of the world.When I arrived it was January, and the days were gripped by darkness, 20 hours at a time. There were no trees. The town’s houses were hostage to snow, and in the distance the north Atlantic Ocean met the north sky in a suggestion of oblivion. It felt like the edge of the world.
I was intensely lonely. The community was tightly knit, and I was an outsider. For the first time in my life I felt socially isolated, and my feelings of alienation were compounded by the claustrophobic winter darkness, and the constant confinement indoors. I turned to writing for company, to fill the black hours. I sought shelter in libraries, consolation in books.I was intensely lonely. The community was tightly knit, and I was an outsider. For the first time in my life I felt socially isolated, and my feelings of alienation were compounded by the claustrophobic winter darkness, and the constant confinement indoors. I turned to writing for company, to fill the black hours. I sought shelter in libraries, consolation in books.
It was during the first difficult months of my exchange that I travelled through a place called Vatnsdalshólar. It’s an unusual tract of landscape: a valley mouth pimpled with hillocks of earth. When I asked my host parents if the area was significant, they pointed to three small hills, nestled closely together. Over 100 years ago, they said, a woman called Agnes had been beheaded there. She was the last person to be executed in Iceland.It was during the first difficult months of my exchange that I travelled through a place called Vatnsdalshólar. It’s an unusual tract of landscape: a valley mouth pimpled with hillocks of earth. When I asked my host parents if the area was significant, they pointed to three small hills, nestled closely together. Over 100 years ago, they said, a woman called Agnes had been beheaded there. She was the last person to be executed in Iceland.
I was immediately intrigued. What had she done? What had happened? Over time I discovered that Agnes was a 34-year-old servant woman who had been beheaded on 12 January 1830 for her role in the 1828 murders of two men. It seemed a tragic tale; Agnes had been unequivocally condemned. Retrospectively, I can only speculate that the strange, isolated place of Agnes’s death made me think of my own feelings of loneliness; that I thought of Agnes as a fellow outsider in a remote Icelandic community, and I identified with her in some small way.I was immediately intrigued. What had she done? What had happened? Over time I discovered that Agnes was a 34-year-old servant woman who had been beheaded on 12 January 1830 for her role in the 1828 murders of two men. It seemed a tragic tale; Agnes had been unequivocally condemned. Retrospectively, I can only speculate that the strange, isolated place of Agnes’s death made me think of my own feelings of loneliness; that I thought of Agnes as a fellow outsider in a remote Icelandic community, and I identified with her in some small way.
When I returned to Australia, as thoughts of Agnes continued to seep through the layers of my consciousness years later, it seemed logical that I make Agnes’s story the subject of my PhD.When I returned to Australia, as thoughts of Agnes continued to seep through the layers of my consciousness years later, it seemed logical that I make Agnes’s story the subject of my PhD.
It was, looking back, probably one of the most uninformed and ridiculous decisions I’ve ever made. Unpracticed and unskilled in any form of novel-writing or biographical research, I publicly committed myself to writing a full-length manuscript about a historical figure I knew nothing about, set in a country not my own, in a time I was utterly unfamiliar with. Twenty-four months into my PhD I realised – with no small amount of nervous gulping – that I knew only four facts about this elusive woman: her name, the date of her death, that she was a servant, and – from Icelandic naming traditions – that her father was a man called Magnús. It hardly felt like enough to write a book about.It was, looking back, probably one of the most uninformed and ridiculous decisions I’ve ever made. Unpracticed and unskilled in any form of novel-writing or biographical research, I publicly committed myself to writing a full-length manuscript about a historical figure I knew nothing about, set in a country not my own, in a time I was utterly unfamiliar with. Twenty-four months into my PhD I realised – with no small amount of nervous gulping – that I knew only four facts about this elusive woman: her name, the date of her death, that she was a servant, and – from Icelandic naming traditions – that her father was a man called Magnús. It hardly felt like enough to write a book about.
I applied for funding to embark on an overseas field trip in Iceland, and spent six weeks there happily holed up in the national archives, museums and libraries, sifting through ministerial and parish records, censuses, maps, microfilm, logs, and local histories. I visited the sites of the murder and execution and met several Icelanders who generously told me what they knew. Agnes and her life’s sorry trajectory finally emerged from the shadows, and I returned to Australia in late 2010 with the kind of hysterical happiness bestowed only on the severely jetlagged research student who has been allowed to touch very old paper without gloves.I applied for funding to embark on an overseas field trip in Iceland, and spent six weeks there happily holed up in the national archives, museums and libraries, sifting through ministerial and parish records, censuses, maps, microfilm, logs, and local histories. I visited the sites of the murder and execution and met several Icelanders who generously told me what they knew. Agnes and her life’s sorry trajectory finally emerged from the shadows, and I returned to Australia in late 2010 with the kind of hysterical happiness bestowed only on the severely jetlagged research student who has been allowed to touch very old paper without gloves.
As with any high, however, there comes, inevitably, the crash. Finally in possession of the facts I had yearned after for two years, I no longer had any excuse not to write my book. Even as I write this article, my hands grow sweaty in remembrance of the trepidation and terror I felt. People speak of the fear of the blank canvas as though it is a temporary hesitation, a trembling moment of self-doubt. For me it was more like being abducted from my bed by a clown, thrust into a circus arena with a wicker chair, and told to tame a pissed-off lion in front of an expectant crowd. Sure, I had written short stories before. But that, to me, was no consolation. Just because I was a cat person did not mean I knew how to conquer a beast.As with any high, however, there comes, inevitably, the crash. Finally in possession of the facts I had yearned after for two years, I no longer had any excuse not to write my book. Even as I write this article, my hands grow sweaty in remembrance of the trepidation and terror I felt. People speak of the fear of the blank canvas as though it is a temporary hesitation, a trembling moment of self-doubt. For me it was more like being abducted from my bed by a clown, thrust into a circus arena with a wicker chair, and told to tame a pissed-off lion in front of an expectant crowd. Sure, I had written short stories before. But that, to me, was no consolation. Just because I was a cat person did not mean I knew how to conquer a beast.
I started writing the manuscript that would be Burial Rites on 24 January, and finished the first draft on 9 May. I worked most weekdays, sitting at my desk at around eight o’clock (a time, I soon discovered, when I was at my brightest and most positive), and remaining there until I had completed 1,000 words of new writing. Some days I accomplished this by 11 o’clock, and was then free to do other work, go for a walk, or to read; other days I was still sitting at the computer when night fell, my nerves shattered, and my confidence at a dangerous low.I started writing the manuscript that would be Burial Rites on 24 January, and finished the first draft on 9 May. I worked most weekdays, sitting at my desk at around eight o’clock (a time, I soon discovered, when I was at my brightest and most positive), and remaining there until I had completed 1,000 words of new writing. Some days I accomplished this by 11 o’clock, and was then free to do other work, go for a walk, or to read; other days I was still sitting at the computer when night fell, my nerves shattered, and my confidence at a dangerous low.
Over time, my days fell into a welcome routine, and I discovered that, through experimentation, I could answer my own questions about how to write a book. But the fear of not knowing where I was headed and the best way to get there never abated. I had expected that at some point during the first draft a light would go on, and I would understand, finally, how to write a book. This never happened. The process was akin to blindly walking in the dark, feeling my way only by touch, and only recognising dead ends when I smacked into them.Over time, my days fell into a welcome routine, and I discovered that, through experimentation, I could answer my own questions about how to write a book. But the fear of not knowing where I was headed and the best way to get there never abated. I had expected that at some point during the first draft a light would go on, and I would understand, finally, how to write a book. This never happened. The process was akin to blindly walking in the dark, feeling my way only by touch, and only recognising dead ends when I smacked into them.
Finishing the manuscript came as a surprise to me. I had spent most of the morning finishing the last scene, and then I realised I no longer knew what to write. There was nothing more to write. I pushed my keyboard away from me, read the last line over and over, and then – unexpectedly – burst into tears. They weren’t tears of elation, or disbelief. I was suddenly, profoundly sad. Grief-stricken, in fact. I put my head down on my desk and sobbed. The first draft was finished, and yet it felt like nothing I had expected. There was no champagne-soaked celebration or private self-congratulation. It felt like breaking up with someone I still had feelings for; I was so forlorn I could barely stand to see the document on my desktop, let alone start editing it. I cried my heart out for the rest of the day, and then put the printed manuscript under my desk. It stayed there, gathering dust, for another five months.Finishing the manuscript came as a surprise to me. I had spent most of the morning finishing the last scene, and then I realised I no longer knew what to write. There was nothing more to write. I pushed my keyboard away from me, read the last line over and over, and then – unexpectedly – burst into tears. They weren’t tears of elation, or disbelief. I was suddenly, profoundly sad. Grief-stricken, in fact. I put my head down on my desk and sobbed. The first draft was finished, and yet it felt like nothing I had expected. There was no champagne-soaked celebration or private self-congratulation. It felt like breaking up with someone I still had feelings for; I was so forlorn I could barely stand to see the document on my desktop, let alone start editing it. I cried my heart out for the rest of the day, and then put the printed manuscript under my desk. It stayed there, gathering dust, for another five months.
Occasionally I’d wonder whether the manuscript would one day be published, but it seemed a far-off possibility. Then, in early October 2011, I had coffee with a friend. I’d spent an hour moaning over my latte about my state of pennilessness when my friend interrupted to ask whether I planned on entering my book in the new Writing Australia Unpublished Manuscript award. For the next few days I worked with a delicious ruthlessness, slashing and burning all superfluous material from my manuscript. It was a week of dishevelment, of long hours and poor personal hygiene. Fifteen minutes before the competition closed, I entered the novel and its synopsis.Occasionally I’d wonder whether the manuscript would one day be published, but it seemed a far-off possibility. Then, in early October 2011, I had coffee with a friend. I’d spent an hour moaning over my latte about my state of pennilessness when my friend interrupted to ask whether I planned on entering my book in the new Writing Australia Unpublished Manuscript award. For the next few days I worked with a delicious ruthlessness, slashing and burning all superfluous material from my manuscript. It was a week of dishevelment, of long hours and poor personal hygiene. Fifteen minutes before the competition closed, I entered the novel and its synopsis.
Winning the WAUMA award was my foot in the door; it got the novel noticed and led to further opportunities. Pippa Masson, of the literary agency Curtis Brown, took me on as a client. Geraldine Brooks agreed to mentor me, and thanks to her sound and generous advice I was able to continue drafting, modifying, cutting, adding and polishing through a few more drafts until I was ready for others to read it. Pippa pitched and sent the book to Australian publishers, and from there it leaked internationally, escalating into three separate bidding wars for ANZ, UK and US rights.Winning the WAUMA award was my foot in the door; it got the novel noticed and led to further opportunities. Pippa Masson, of the literary agency Curtis Brown, took me on as a client. Geraldine Brooks agreed to mentor me, and thanks to her sound and generous advice I was able to continue drafting, modifying, cutting, adding and polishing through a few more drafts until I was ready for others to read it. Pippa pitched and sent the book to Australian publishers, and from there it leaked internationally, escalating into three separate bidding wars for ANZ, UK and US rights.
I’ve been asked why I’ve had such a dream run as a debut author – particularly in times such as these – and I understand why people want to know. However, the truth is that it is a question that troubles me, because I have no answer. Was it hard work? Well yes, that was partly it, but to say that hard work won me a publishing deal is to also suggest that unpublished writers don’t work hard enough, which is untrue and unfair. What was it then? Luck? The skilful navigation of an agent familiar with the weird and troubled waters of publishing? Yes, all of these things, perhaps. I’m not sure. I don’t even know if my publishers know. These things do, occasionally, happen. All I know is that I am very grateful that it happened to me.I’ve been asked why I’ve had such a dream run as a debut author – particularly in times such as these – and I understand why people want to know. However, the truth is that it is a question that troubles me, because I have no answer. Was it hard work? Well yes, that was partly it, but to say that hard work won me a publishing deal is to also suggest that unpublished writers don’t work hard enough, which is untrue and unfair. What was it then? Luck? The skilful navigation of an agent familiar with the weird and troubled waters of publishing? Yes, all of these things, perhaps. I’m not sure. I don’t even know if my publishers know. These things do, occasionally, happen. All I know is that I am very grateful that it happened to me.
• You can read a longer version of this article in volume 13 of Kill Your Darlings, the journal of which Hannah Kent is co-founder and deputy editor. Burial Rites was released last month in Australia, and will be published in the UK and US in September. Translation rights have been sold to 15 countries.• You can read a longer version of this article in volume 13 of Kill Your Darlings, the journal of which Hannah Kent is co-founder and deputy editor. Burial Rites was released last month in Australia, and will be published in the UK and US in September. Translation rights have been sold to 15 countries.
Our editors' picks for the day's top news and commentary delivered to your inbox each morning.