Usually they do a double-take, but continue on their way without any fuss. Sometimes they reappear from behind the bookshelf, to confirm they have seen what indeed they have seen, as unusual as it is. Then decide its not worth querying and, like their compatriots, continue on their way. Occasionally they stand and discuss their theories as to whom this person could be, what is their purpose, and why here of all places? Until finally, they too wander off.
But yesterday, hoo-boy, yesterday was the first time a complete stranger decided to smile with every ounce of their being and wave as if to a long-lost friend.
That really caught my attention. Of course I waved back. Somehow his smile grew bigger at my response, but his hi-jinx complete, this bearded stranger strode off towards the exit, leaving me to resume my attempts to focus on my screen while immersed in a distraction-full zone.
Please forgive me, I should provide some context.
My name is Stephen Scott, and I am currently in the fourth week of my Fishbowl Writing Residency at the Queensland Writers Centre.
When accepted for this residency I was filled with excitement and trepidation: here was the chance to focus on completing my first novel, supported by industry professionals, and provided with a quiet space where I could fully focus and dedicate myself to this daunting task.
Trepidation because I was unaware how I would cope hidden away in a quiet, dimly-lit cubicle, ensconced anonymously in a far-flung corner of this State’s pinnacle support organisation for writers. I think I believed I would reside somewhere deep within, much like the archived Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders.
I was right to be excited, but wrong to be fearful. I should have been terrified.
I was not to be hidden away. Far from it.
I don’t think you need to imagine my surprise when I arrived on the first day to discover that the Queensland Writers Centre’s Fishbowl Residency is a literal fishbowl: a glass-encased biosphere smack-bang in the middle of the State Library of Queensland’s Reference Library.
Surrounded by knowledge, those seeking knowledge, and those grateful for a quiet place to kip back and grab 40 winks on comfortable chairs in quality airconditioning, I have sat for the past three weeks and will sit for a further seven more, diligently pumping out words for my first novel.
To my right: a metre of ceiling-to-wall glass. Directly in front of me: two metres of ceiling-to-wall glass. To my left and behind me: a golden velour curtain.
Essentially I am encased in an inverted trophy cabinet for a gold logie. (Note to self: bring in my Hard Quiz Big Brass Mug™. If they want to stare, give them something decent to gawk at.) (Note to self from the past - I’ve brought in the BBM - as predicted it is drawing attention away from me. Initially. Big shiny thing grabs attention. Then you can see the thought process begin: ‘what kind of ridiculous person would bring in their Big Brass Mug?’ or ‘did he win it or did he steal it / buy it on eBay’ or ‘what’s a Hard Quiz?’ or {preferably} ‘what did he win for?**).
To have the pleasure of gawking at my good self behind these glass walls, these lucky people have already possibly passed by the Gallery of Modern Art in the north-west, or the Queensland Museum or Art Gallery in the south-east. Or perhaps they have meandered along the river walk, gazing at the skyscrapers in the CBD on the north side of the muddy Brisbane River.
Yet with all those incredible sights to see, they still register surprise on seeing a solitary human, typing away on his iPad at a desk protruding into the Asia Pacific Design Library on the second floor of the State’s ultimate knowledge repository within the South Brisbane Cultural Precinct.
But less about them, and more about me.
After my initial shock of being on display like some kind of zoo animal, I attempted to knuckle down and get this beast written. And then a group of school kids walked by. Then a librarian. Then an older gentleman with his carer. Then a university couple in the early days of a love affair. You could tell their romance was budding as they were holding hands - not only as they skipped on their way in, but when they reappeared later, still jovially trotting along hand-in-hand as they made their way to the exit. The swinging of their arms whilst maintaining hand contact was the clincher: that’s the power of love in its blossoming phase. The books in their backpacks couldn’t weigh these lovebirds down - or maybe they were the only thing keeping them on the ground? Their love sustained them, brought them happiness in this cold world, and lifted them above their worries about getting good grades and landing a decent job once they’d graduated; let alone finding affordable housing in this current economic climate. No. Love carried them and fueled their transcendence.
Do you see how easy it is to be distracted when facing outward into a library through immaculately clean glass walls?
Gazing straight ahead from my desk, framed by tall bookshelves housing Magazines 709.9405 - 789.913, this aspect of the north-eastern portion of the library is my port of call when I need to look away from my screen.
When I stretch my legs during my regular breaks, I will walk through these magazine racks, spotting magazine or book covers with eye-catching titles. “I must remember that,” I think before forgetting the name that someone had spent blood, sweat and tears labouring over.
There is rarely anyone perusing these magazines, so I am able to walk freely. Then on my return I can sit at my desk, and look to where the magazine racks draw my attention to: the far wall and the mystery person ensconced on the couch. It’s always someone different, but without fail, once the doors open there is always someone seated in that low-lying comfy couch overlooking the Riverside Expressway.
Is that couch-sitting person watching the cars that incessantly traverse the city bypass, or is their head bowed down so they can absorb some fascinating reading material? The glare from outside makes it difficult to tell, but I imagine a location like that would be wasted on a book.
Cars take off-ramps to go into the city, trucks slow down as traffic banks up as they head towards Wooloongabba, cars overtake each other to gain that essential quarter of a second advantage when they hit the lights up near Milton Road. Vehicles going left. Vehicles going right. Yeah, that couch would be wasted on a book.
From their perspective they have a good view of the river, and the comings and goings of CityCat ferries and personal water craft. It’s December, so the party boats are operating during the day for office parties that want to do something different. Nothing could be worse. Stuck on a boat with your work colleagues. All aboard! No getting off for a few hours! It’s 30°C in the shade and they’re handing out free booze. If the obnoxious bastards you can’t stand aren’t already loud enough, just give them half an hour. If you don’t make small-talk, you’ll be branded an arsehole, making the next year of your life unbearable. Uh, and there’s that freak from accounts. FML. I’m sure if I swam fast enough I could get to the bank before a bull shark knows I’m in here. But that water’s so brown. Looks like I’m stuck here. Dammit. Who is playing who in the cricket right now? Better look it up now so you’ve got something to mindlessly discuss. Anything but talking about the latest Marvel series on Disney Plus. No-one watches them but you, Gary. Shut-up about it.
I will occasionally look to my left when my neck is stiff. There’s a cute A4 information sheet about the Fishbowl Writing Residency that’s been laminated and stuck to the glass with invisible tape. It’s got a goldfish on it and makes me wonder what fish I would be.
Have other writers who’ve done the Fishbowl given themselves a fish alter-ego?
I’d be a Purrgil, a hyperspace travelling creature the size of a large spaceship. They were in the Star Wars Rebels animated series, and then returned in Ahsoka. So they’re canon. They’re also very me. They’re quiet unless they want to be loud. They’re solitary and like to disappear at random, turning up on the other side of the galaxy just to confuse you. And they are sentient. I write, therefore I too am sentient.
Turns out one of my predecessors was A Octopus. Not an octopus. That would be too normal. No, they developed a persona where the octopus has a first name that begins with the letter ‘a’. What that name is doesn’t matter.
If I can be a Purrgil I’m not questioning A Octopus.
The sign is informative and encourages those with ‘a daunting project but no support’ to apply. It’s also in an extremely odd position, around the corner from where 99.9% of people stand, and therefore of no help to anyone actually wondering why there’s some clown sitting in a glass case of emotion in the middle of the library when they have to share a bench with the rest of the hoi polloi. Who does he think he is? Stretching his neck this way and that, pretending to ignore us as we walk past.
Speaking of, when I need to stretch my neck and shoulders, I stare up at the glowing ceiling. The roof is painted white, and has what appear to be large, exposed airconditioning pipes sandwiched between oversized ‘warped’ beams that probably have more to do with the buildings structural integrity than its aesthetic design. Nonetheless, the military precision of the spacing of these fluctuating beams and pipes makes the environment more artistic than sterile, mainly due to the lights mounted atop the cylindrical piping.
As the lights are mounted on top of the pipes, they themselves are invisible, and by casting their light upward, allow the building to be brightly lit without appearing to have any light fixtures whatsoever. Indeed, each recess emanates a soft glow thanks to these invisible fittings bouncing their output softly off the white ceiling.
This industrial minimalism draws your eye towards the horizons vanishing point when looking at it head on. But turn your head to the right and the grooved slots of rectangular voids surrounding glowing tubing creates a striped pattern of bright lines on the roof: an oversized zebra crossing on the ceiling patiently awaiting a visitor with anti-gravity boots.
Set within this collection of immaculate straight lines between the floor and ceiling are evenly spaced concrete pillars, whose presence reinforce your confidence in the permanence of the structure, while also lending their omnipresent feeling of long life to the bookshelves that are cleverly built around them.
The building nurses the shelving that hold the tomes of books that are repositories of facts and stories from today and long ago. Knowledge that is solid and steadfast, like the building it is housed within.
I mentioned the walks I take amongst these books. It’s important to move occasionally when you sit at a desk all day. Walking in airconditioning is a godsend in a subtropical climate, especially in the humid summers that Brisbane is famous for.
Should these books be exposed to that humidity, they would not be long for this world. Not “Tree houses”, nor “The Pineapple”, not even “Bricks: Now & Then”. And heaven help “Arguing with Zombies” and “Cinderella Ate My Daughter”.
And as I pass these books, these thousands upon thousands of books, it dawns on me that someone wrote them. Sometimes in collaboration, but more often than not by themselves. Either way, these words were lovingly curated by a human being with hopes and dreams, and most importantly, a story to tell. A story that NEEDED to be told and shared.
Hundreds of thousands of authors. Individuals who had the dedication to push themselves for hours every day to get their stories from their imagination onto a printed page. (Of course the process of writing for non-fiction authors is just as difficult, there’s just less leeway for imagination.)
These books are all someone’s baby. A baby that was written, redrafted, copyedited, subedited, beta-read, re-edited, formatted, submitted / rejected (repeat this step until you have successfully flipped ‘heads’ 100 times in a row), submitted / accepted, typeset, printed, distributed, promoted, reviewed, catalogued, indexed, sorted, and archived.
Days, weeks, months, years of effort. For each book.
Each book started by one person, but eventually steered towards realisation by many others. Every person who laid their eyes on the words of that book were part of its journey.
And here am I, casually walking amongst them, sniggering at the euphemistic titles, if I bother to look. Oblivious to the effort put into their creation. Walking to stretch my legs so I can resume sitting at my desk in this fishbowl.
So I can continue writing words without distraction. So I can focus on creating my own book.
And this book that I’m writing? My first novel? It’s what I’m calling my ‘burner novel’. Because when it’s finished, I’m going to burn it.
No-one will ever read this novel. It’s my practice run. To prove to myself that I can write a novel.
I will write it (as I have been doing - over 50,000 words written as of yesterday), edit it, and go through the entire process … up until releasing it.
And then it will be sacrificially burnt. Or put in a bottom draw, to only be retrieved by me in a decade or two so I can laugh at how awful the writing of my first novel was.
That’s the plan, anyway.
Without this plan I would be at the same stage as all my previous novels.
“What novels?” I hear you ask.
Exactly.
How can you begin writing something so enormous as a novel when you know it will be judged? How can you commit yourself to writing hundreds of thousands of words - not all of which will ever see the light of day thanks to the editor’s red pen - when you know people might not like it enough to buy it? And even those who do read it might hate it anyway?
Worse - what if it’s ignored? That no-one even pays it a second thought? That they just casually stroll past it, just enjoying the air-conditioning?
The answer is to start writing knowing it will never be read by anyone.
This is a practice novel. To see how it is done. To prove to myself I can do it.
There will be no judgement. Nothing to prove to anyone but myself.
Then, once I’ve written it, I can decide if I want to take one of the ideas I really like and dedicate my efforts in the same manner as I’ve committed myself to “How to Boil an Egg”.
And that, my friend, is the view from my fish bowl. It’s an experience fully physical, evidently literal, somewhat metaphorical and positively scatological.
I heartily recommend it.
Postscript: there’s a very good chance I’ll end up self-publishing “How to Boil an Egg” as an eBook. But without prepping myself to believe no-one would ever see it but me, I would never have begun this journey. Truth be told, I’m thoroughly enjoying the writing process, and have grown fond of the characters (even the unlikable ones) (especially the unlikable ones). I’ll be sad to see it go when it is finished. But that will no doubt fade when I get to turn my attention to the ghosts, serial killers, and orphans currently lurking in my databanks, whose desire to exist were the reason I dived into this fishbowl.
**Topic: Prince (the legendary musician). Season 5 Episode 29. Available every now and then on ABC iView