Kristina Olsson

(well, most of us) nor touched by
angels. That what most of us do is
as workmanlike and productive and
exhilarating as many other trades.
Like plumbing
Kristina Olsson
Here’s the writer in her garret,
quill in hand, parchment at the
ready, starving. She lives on bread
and gruel and inspiration. The
latter arrives punctually every day,
courtesy of her muse, who alights
on her shoulder and whispers in
her ear. She, dutiful amanuensis,
scribbles away, oblivious to her
drear surroundings and unkempt
hair, the fact that she has run
out of bread, wine, chocolate and
cosmetics. The essentials of a
former life.
Don’t laugh. This image of writers
(replace quill and parchment with
laptop) is still abroad, and it is about
as real as the other stereotypes
about the job: the writer as part of
the leisured class, reclining on a
velvet chaise in the style of Barbara
Cartland; the writer as part of
the under-class, forever bludging
on the public purse; the writer
as mysterious and noble being
suffering for her art; the writer as
drunken genius.
It comes as a surprise to many
that we don’t live in garrets but in
ordinary flats and houses with often
very ordinary plumbing; that we
have children and mortgages and
penchants for nice shoes; that we
are neither whingeing egomaniacs
With a crucial difference: in our
trade, regardless of our seniority,
we work for an apprentice’s wage.
Most of us – and the exceptions
prove the rule – earn just enough
from our writing to keep us beneath
the poverty line. We eat and we
(occasionally) drink. We pay the
rent. But if we want nice shoes, we
have to get them some other way.
Then why do we do it? Because
each book or poem or play is
a sharp-edged learning curve,
and the lessons enlarge and
enrich our minds and souls, in an
extraordinary and non-fiscal kind of
way. As Peter Carey once famously
said, ‘When you’re writing at your
best, what you write is better than
you are.’ That’s what we write for,
and I think that’s what we read for.
To feel bigger than we are, one
step further down the long road of
understanding ourselves.
It should be enough. But it isn’t. In
the same way that bad shoes aren’t
enough. Writers, like feet, need
support.
It’s not a new idea. For centuries
many countries have acknowledged
the importance of the arts and
artists not just at the level of the
individual and the community, but
in nation-building. Iconic literature,
paintings, architecture, music,
theatre: they all reflect a culture
back to itself and to the world.
Sydney Opera House, the work of
Patrick White and Eleanor Dark and
Kim Scott, of Sydney Nolan, of Paul
Kelly and Yothu Yindi, of Ray Lawler:
they have informed not just our
notions of ourselves, but the views
of the rest of the planet.
In some places, like the
Scandinavian countries, this close
link between the promotion of the
arts and the making of national
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WQ