Roanna Gonsalves is an award-winning writer and educator with an interdisciplinary practice. She is the author of the critically acclaimed collection of short fiction, The Permanent Resident. Her series of radio documentaries about contemporary India, On the tip of a billion tongues, and her social-satire radio essay, Doosra: the life and times of an Indian student in Australia, were commissioned and broadcast by ABC RN. She works as a Lecturer in Creative Writing at UNSW Sydney
Last year, I had the fortune to have her as my lecturer and tutor for The Art of Nonfiction. Before the festival, I had the opportunity to talk to Roanna about her favourite type of writing, the Australian literary landscape post-The Permanent Resident, and her creative practice as a writer.
Date: May 17, 2024
Given your extraordinary range in writing practice that spans academia, short stories, regular appearances in print media, and even a radio documentary, what kind of writing do you enjoy doing the most these days?
Oh, that’s such a great question. These days I’ve been writing a lot of student comments [laughs]. I’ve been marking the Form of Writing. But in terms of my own writing practice, I have always loved writing prose fiction and so that has been what really is my practice. Writing prose fiction is what I love and feel most comfortable in.
That’s lovely to hear! Following on from that, what is your experience as a lecturer seeing your student’s work evolve in response to your comments? How does it feel to be on the other side with your wealth of experience, very well established in your writing career as you are? What’s that like seeing writers at the very start?
What a great question. It’s an honour and a privilege and a great joy, I have to say. It’s just a real thrill to read students’ work over a period of time and to see the evolution of their own writing journeys. It’s just an immense privilege and it’s also quite invigorating for my own work and my own thinking as a teacher and a writer. For me, I love teaching, I love students, and I love reading student work and watching students evolve as writers and become more and more confident in their own writing voices. So it’s a huge privilege for me, and a joy I would say.
That’s really nice to hear [laugh] as a previous student of yours. In our readership we have a number of creative writers. Can you give us an insight into your daily writing routine and how it has evolved over time with changes in life? Especially with the number of many creative projects you take on.
How do I manage time with all the different projects?
The time management and your own creative writing routine.
So, basically I have been a single parent for a very, very long time, and the sole breadwinner — the income earner in the family. And as a first generation immigrant I have not had those established intergenerational wealth to rely on. Like many others, I’ve had to work multiple jobs as an international student and then as a resident here in Australia, first generation immigrant, multiple jobs in order to earn a living and raise my children, etcetera.
So writing — I’ve always thought myself as a writer and I’ve always written in one way or another over the course of my entire life, I would say. But often it has been deadlines that help me a lot, so when I know I have to submit something for either a commissioned work or there’s a course for submissions that I want to submit work for, or a journal submission, I find that the deadline really helps concentrate my energy and my focus, and helps me when there’s an external deadline.
But having said that, I have always had my own projects that I’ve been working on, and those are passion projects that I dip in and out of whenever I can.
With managing time overall I’ve had to kind of live two lives like most writers. One is the money making life which enables me to put food on the table, pay the bills, raise my kids, and the other is the creative life. So it’s always been a balance between the two, and I’ve written about this in a blog post for Southerly from years ago, the double lives of writers. And so, that’s based on the work of this French sociologist Bernard Lahire but, like many people in my situation, I’ve had to work multiple jobs and then fit writing time around those jobs because, as we all know, it’s very, very difficult to earn a living purely from one’s writing practice.
With the writing practice itself, I try and write every day, that’s not always possible especially when working full time with really demanding jobs like teaching in academia or the other jobs I’ve had in the past. But if I have a deadline, then I’m just constantly working, there are no boundaries, constantly working to meet that deadline. I don’t know if that helps, if that answers the question.
No, no, it’s great. You touched on the external deadlines and the sort of pressure there, and how you have your own projects and the kind of viewing it not as time management but attending to different aspects of your double lives. Thank you.
The other thing is, I always have multiple projects on the go and that’s linked, I suppose, to that idea of accepting that rejection is a part of the artistic life, of artistic practice. And so, as part of my writing practice I have multiple pieces of writing on the go that I’m constantly working on. Except, of course, when there’s an impending deadline, then I’m kind of focused on the one thing and trying to get it done. But otherwise, in general, I have multiple writing projects that I’m working on.
Would you say that it’s something that you’ve built up over time, in terms of your capacity to write? Or did you always start off like that, that you always had a number of projects ongoing all at once?
Yeah, great question. I think a little bit of both. As I’ve gotten more experienced as a writer and more confident in my own writing practice, I have been able to be more confident with writing multiple things, having multiple projects on the go at once.
But also it’s a personality thing, I have a terrible fear of missing out, I’m always saying yes to things. So it’s a little bit of the inability to say no, the desire to want to be part of everything that’s happening and be in the thick of life itself really, as in the cultural life around me I suppose.
My personality is such, I suppose, that I like doing multiple things that feed into each other. Some people — and I admire that some people are very focused on one thing, they do one thing and see it to completion and only after that is done to their satisfaction do they move onto another thing. I really admire that and I’ve tried to do that but I’m unable to. I am naturally predisposed to want to be doing multiple things on the go, having multiple projects on the go, but I’ve become more confident that I can do that as my practices developed.
I love that. I love all of it. And I really do relate to the sense of “Oh, I don’t want to say no,” and having multiple things going all at once. [laugh]
But I have to say that it does come at a cost. I’m increasingly realising that yes, it was fine up to this point but now I’m finding it quite unsustainable because I have just been saying yes to everything, but now I feel like I’m spreading myself too thin and I’m just getting really exhausted.
And so, in order to keep up a sustainable practice, I feel that it is important to develop that ability to say no to the things that are not directly related to the things that you want to do. Of course, it is very important to be connected to community and be a supportive literary citizen. And a good literary citizen is someone who is contributing to the work that other people do and recognizing the work that other people do and supporting them. So I do a lot of that anyway, as you do too, Lychee, I know it.
But now I feel like it’s important to honour your own gifts and to do the thing that you want to do most, which is your own writing. So I’m increasingly finding that I’m just too exhausted to be doing anything else at the moment. I don't know if that makes sense.
No, no, it makes perfect sense. You have been such a champion of student development, giving students opportunities, really encouraging people, gently pushing them towards realising their potential in writing, and I really do appreciate it. And I really hope that you don’t feel like you’re doing less by focusing on your own project because it sounds like you have a real sense of, “oh, I’ve been doing all of these things but doing all of those things has made me realise what it is I truly want to do,” and the shape of that. And I don't think anyone would think you lesser for it. I think they would be like, “yes, of course Roanna is focusing all her everything into doing this because she’s going to make something wonderful!”
Oh, that’s so lovely of you to say that. I will hold those words very close. Thank you.
You’re welcome. [laugh] I don’t really know how to segue from this.
In a 2016 interview, you discussed 'The Permanent Resident’s' 18-year journey and how it connected with more readers than you expected given the niche of ethnicity and place. Eight years on, how has the Australian literary space changed?
What a great question. And you’ve done a lot of homework and I’m very honoured that you’ve taken the trouble to read those past interviews.
No, no, they were interesting!
There’s definitely been a lot of change. There are many more writers from minorities, particularly underrepresented minorities being published. There is a lot more work being published, and a lot more short story collections by writers who are from underrepresented minorities in terms of race or ethnicity or class, ability, gender, sexual orientation.
So definitely there have been big changes but of course there’s always room for more. Australia is, and continues to be, a very, very white nation. And so the work that we do is very much still under the margins but it is important to keep writing and to chronicle the diversity and complexity and the richness of Australian life, I feel. So yeah, there has been some change. But it has been gradual and it is ongoing, hopefully.
I’m glad to hear that.
It is because publishers and funding organisations have realised that the readership is much greater. There’s a lot more interest in reading fresh Australian stories that chronicle contemporary Australian culture in all its diversities, it’s not just one way of being Australian but multiple ways of being Australian.
I think there’s an openness in terms of what is being published, what books are being legitimised to awards and reviews etcetera. So that’s a good thing. But it hasn't come easy, there’s been a lot of activism that has been done, I’ve been part of a small part of all of that work, but so many people and organisations have demanded, written letters, talked people, programmed events, published work, legitimised work at great cost.
It has come from the people and from the writing community. This change has been driven very much by writers and readers. It hasn't happened just suddenly and just by chance, it’s very much been deliberate effort on the part of many, many writers and activists over the years to demand a change in the way Australia sees itself. So that has led to this openness and interest and excitement about publishing a diversity of Australian stories.
That’s really heartening to hear.
And I have to say that all of this has been led by First Nations writers.
As you would have seen there’s a beautiful flowering of First Nations writing over the last few years, and that has been led by First Nations writers who have been doing the work. First of all, putting in that immense labour, intellectual and imaginative labour, into doing the writing, then trying to get the writing published, celebrating each other’s work, opening up the conversation about what it means to be a person living on this land.
And that, I feel, has opened the door to people like us who are not Indigenous but who are also not white. And so, I think this change, this efflorescence of First Nations writing has been at the forefront of the efflorescence of other kinds of exciting writing coming out of Australia.
That’s great. I hadn’t realised that on my end but I’m really glad that’s happening.
Yeah, it really is.
In the past you have spoken about the distinction between emerging and young writers and the loss that comes about as a result of that careless conflation. I found your insight about an endless prime, once you have sort of hit your stride, really interesting. What would you say to writers who feel like they have fallen out of that prime?
What a great question. Michelle de Kretser talks about, not exactly this but something similar and she says that it’s important to “hold your nerve”. Michelle de Kretser is one of Australia’s and the world’s greatest living novelists. She’s a superb prose stylist and just such a sharp thinker on the page, and in real life, of course. But as a writer on the page she’s just superb, exceptional. And her work has been awarded every prize in Australia and also, recently last year the international Folio prize for Fiction.
She talks about holding your nerve, and I guess what I think that to mean is that you almost have to trick yourself into believing that you can do it. So yes, of course, I understand that sometimes we feel like, at least me, I feel like I’m in an imposter quite often. But I also feel like “[sigh] I’ve reached the end of my capabilities, I don't know what to do next.”
You know what I find helps?
Reading poetry.
I read poetry, any poetry, but I have specific poets that I go back to again and again. Gwen Harwood is one of them, Eunice de Souza who was my teacher in India; sadly she’s passed on, Ada Limón, Sharon Olds, so many great poets and also so many poets in Australia and in India.
Reading poetry always invigorates me. If I’ve been writing for a few hours and I've reached the end of my imaginative capacity for that stint of writing, I don’t know what to do next, the prose seems flat on the page, I’m just coming up with the most boring clichéd writing, I don’t know how to make it fresh again, I go and read poetry and then come back and then always I’m able to think of the work with fresh eyes. That’s one way I feel like when I hit those moment of feeling like I’ve dropped out of this endless prime [laughs].
I have many dropouts I have to say. The way I come back into that flow is by reading poetry and, again, showing up on the page, always. I’m never stuck after I read poetry, I have to say.
Oh, that’s interesting.
Yeah so that’s how I merge back into that flow when I drop out of it. As we all do. We can’t be in this hyper creative mode 24/7. You have to stop and rest. It’s what Julia Cameron in that book, The Artist’s Way, she talks about “filling your well.” The way I fill my well when I’m feeling really empty and I’ve reached the end of my imaginative capacities or I’m just exhausted, the way I fill my well is reading poetry and seeing artistic exhibitions, particularly when there’s sculpture involved. And then, of course, just showing up on the page and doing the work, doing the writing.
That’s wonderful. That’s really interesting that you reference The Artist’s Way, my friend’s currently going through that book right now and I’ve been hearing about her going through it and it’s just interesting.
Yeah, it’s quite useful to me. She has some really interesting suggestions, particularly the “filling your well” ideas that she has.
In a previous interview, you mentioned that your writing journey started young and that you were, “lucky to have a family who encouraged this, who praised me even when I wrote the most clichéd poetry.” Many of our readers are students interested in writing but aren’t super certain of their way. What advice would you give writers early on in their creative practice whose family may not have been as receptive and encouraging as yours?
Yeah, that’s such a great question. It is difficult when you don’t grow up with that validation and I know that a lot of people don’t. Many writers actually come to writing later on in life because it just hasn’t occurred to them that they could consider writing a short story or developing a writing practice.
I feel like you need to find family in other communities. By family, I mean a supportive community and you find community by helping out other writing communities, being a part of writing communities, show up to other writers’ events and supporting them. And contributing to the culture and taking every opportunity to give feedback. Research shows that giving feedback is really much more useful than receiving feedback in terms of developing your craft as a writer.
Yes, of course, receiving feedback is great. It helps you see your own work in new ways. But giving feedback helps you look at other people’s works analytically and look at the different elements of the work, why they’re working together, not working together, etcetera. So I think giving feedback, being part of a literary community, if you don’t have access to a literary community — there’s so many ways that you can be part of a community online as well.
But here at UNSW, there’s Blitz, there’s Tharunka, there’s also the UNSW English & Creative Writing Society, which Lychee you are very much involved with. And really, you have to take that first step of putting yourself out there and saying, “Hey I want to help out” or “hey, I’m interested in writing, how can I help with UNSW Writing [Society], or Blitz, Tharunka,” whatever it might be. As you have done, you have to put yourself out there and that can be quite hard.
The other thing is that you to almost trick yourself into believing that you can do it. We all feel like we can’t but if you tell yourself you can then you will.
It might take time and a lot of practice — it will take a lot of practice — but eventually you will write and you may get published, but it’s in the writing I think that that’s where the greatest pleasure lies, I feel. For me, at least.
I feel that same way. It’s not even necessarily about it being published but reading back on some old stuff that I’ve written and feeling like, “Oh I wrote that? That’s wild [laugh]. This is actually kind of good. Who wrote that? Couldn't be me.”
Thank you for this interview, this has been really good. And I’m glad that the questions were good because I was a bit nervous about that.
Great questions. You’ve done a lot of work preparing for this, reading all those interviews. I feel very honoured.
You're welcome. And thank you again. See you around campus!
Speaking to Roanna as an interviewer was lovely. It was like being back in class without looming deadlines sending a frisson down my spine. She was a special kind of goodness, the kind of person to uplift others without looking for the next steady step, and generous with her support of writers early in their craft. Her nuanced thoughts on the drivers of change in the Australian literary landscape left me with a sense of hope about the future.
