My Te Papa Tupu Posse, Me, Jade Kake and
the magnificent Ashlee Sturme

Kia ora folks

No one was as shocked as me when the amazing Robyn Bargh invited me to present at the 'Kupu Writers Festival'.  And I mean SHOCKED especially when I learned who else was on the playbill the day I was presenting.  Holy smokes!!!! 

I'll start with...

Linda Tuhiwai Smith CNZM

This amazing person's writing literarily changed my freekin life and helped me get a Degree. 
Then there is Doctor Atakohu Middleton, Kirsty Babbington and the absolutely amazing Professor Noe Noe K Silva from Hawaii, (who I actually fan-girled over and probably completely embarrassed myself). 
Not to mention Patricia Grace DCNZM QSO, who was sitting in the front row, right in front of me, I mean come on, I tell you, if ever imposter syndrome hit me like a brick in the face it was seeing her, right there, when I walked on the stage.   Inside my head was 'Omg omg omg beam me up scotty.' 

I really have no clue how I managed to say anything coherent. 
I hope I was eloquent, and more than that, I hope to hell I didn't bore the tarau off anybody and I hope the answers I gave actually help someone out there along their writing journey. 
Because, being a writer is hard. 

And don't let anyone tell you 'everyone has a book in them' because that's not true.  Everyone has stories, we are all really created out of story, but putting a story down in written form so that anyone can pick up the book and read it, easily, and understand what you are trying to convey takes- in the words of the fabulous Rue Paul, YOU GOTTA WORK!
Which was basically what I was there to talk about.  'Crafting Māori Fiction'  

Patricia Grace said, 'Other people called us Māori Writers,  as far as we were concerned we are Writers.' 

My view is that a Māori writer is just that a Māori who is a writer.  I don't draw lines in any direction because the argument has been going on in the New Zealand Art Scene forever and if I fall into that deep dark pit of despair I may never come out again.  

I came up with the name 'Crafting' because of the two parts of writing, the creation of the story, that's the first part the second is the rewrites and that is the craft of it because that is the part where you need tools and these are the tools are
      • Grammar and format
      • Punctuation
      • Spelling
      • Deleting superfluous words, sentences, paragraphs and sometimes even chapters to make maintain the flow of the narrative.
      • Giving shape and structure to the story so the narrative flows.
      • Polishing the story until it is the most concise, form it can be
By the way, there are amazing editors out there (like my husband) who can take your story and do all this stuff for you, and work along side you, honestly, but they cost money.  (Unless you marry one, which is what I did, to get his services for free.)

There are more tools and guess what, a lot of them become so ingrained in you that you can look at a story and know when something ain't right.   
These tools come from various places but most come from reading books.  If you want to be a writer, you HAVE TO be a reader.  If you read a lot, and I do, I devour about six books a week, probably 50/50 written and audio. (A good audio book can get me through all the housework and garden for the day.)  The structure, grammar, and format of those books seeps into your brain by osmosis.
But there are other places you can get these tools.  (Although I have to say here that a writers ability to create a story can't be taught, that comes from their imagination, or the ether, or, the wairua,  or the cosmos, who knows, and it can't be taught).  But the tools for rewriting can be. 

And you can get them from...
  •  Books - read, read, read
  • School.  (I have been writing since I could write.  I mean, as far as I am concerned my first published piece was a poem about a Morepork that was cello-taped to the window of my class for people outside to read, when I was 6, 56 years ago.)
  •   Writing programmes such as "TE PAPA TUPU" which, and I am not being biased here, is the best, and if you can get on to this course, you are so fecking lucky, it is amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   
  • Here is the link for Māori Literature Trust. https://mlt.org.nz/  On te Papa Tupu programme you get your own mentor as well at Wananga with the amazing people from the Maori Literature Trust, Huia, and Creative New Zealand, and amazing writers.  Also you get a stipend to help you be able to focus on your writing and the chance to be published at the end of the process.   It turned my writing world around.  I will be forever grateful.
Up on the stage



We had an hour on stage, and we were right before lunch, and to make things a little bit more stressful the previous stage inhabitants, the amazing journalists,  ran over time a wee bit and I was having a heart attack watching the minutes tick by and shortening everything I was going to say in my head. 
Nothing worse than performing to a Hangry crowd (Jokes, they were WONDERFUL)

We had a discussion the night before, Jacqui Macrae who was our coordinator, me and Jade Kake.  We definitely did have a plan but, I have to be truly  honest here, the moment I sat down on the stage every single thing I had prepared flew right out of my head, and I had to just be 'me' out there and be okay with being  'me'. An ordinary woman of a certain age surrounded by amazingness.
I did not give my pepeha as my esteemed colleague, Jade Kake, who was on stage with me gave hers and, it was so beautiful and eloquent, I thought, nuh, I'm not stumbling through mine after that.   Also, I have so many Iwi, I would be there for ever.  I literally can count the iwi I don't descend from on one finger. 
Also, for many reasons, Speaking te Reo is traumatic for me.  I can understand it and read it, and write it, but oh my God, speaking it is a nightmare and something I jave and will struggle with forever.
I think I did ok, and yes my Scotty too Hotty has told me over and over again that I was fantastic but you know how it is.  Creatives are sensitive little beings aren't me (that was a bit Freudian) I mean we.
I wanted to keep my answers brief, and I wasn't there to talk about myself, but there were so many things I wanted to say that I didn't so I am going to write it here, so it at least be out there in the world in some form.
  • I have a connection with Whakarewarewa, that was where I had one of my first real jobs, as a kitchen hand at the International Hotel, working my way up to chef.  The people at Whakarewarewa were amazing to me, so kind and loving and took care of me.  Walking over that bridge, toward the Wharenui, I wanted to cry.
  • My Dad went to Te Aute College with Sir Howard Morrison, they were in the same classes.  My dad, who was a bit of a genius and got the highest mark in School Cert geography in New Zealand, the year he sat it, BUT because it was a Māori School they published the second best score which came from 'Auckland Grammer".  My dad said of Sir Howard Morrison, 'He was really good looking, charming and talented, and made everyone laugh.  But he wasn't as brainy as me.'  Well dad, that didn't hold him back, did it.
  • I use my full name 'Olivia Aroha Giles' when I write because my Dad said, Olivia Giles is a white name and they won't know you're Māori, mind you, not that Olivia McGregor is any browner.
  • I am so grateful to The Māori Literature Trust, Creative New Zealand, and Huia for all the opportunities they have given me.  And thank you Tania Roxborogh for being my mentor. 
Also, I gave a reading from my new book and because we were pressed for time I kept it really short so I am going to put three excerpts in here....and my book 'The eldest girl' is coming out in December and I would be so grateful if you would buy the book, for yourself or as a Christmas gift, or go to your library and ask them to get the book in. 

So, here are three excerpts from my book...

1.     Prologue 1965

The sky was turquoise, and the Pacific Ocean bright green.
Tom leaned on the railing of the ship. He was sick of looking
at water; sick of the heat and sick of the decks rolling beneath
his feet. He closed his eyes and let the salty breeze slap his
cheeks and forehead. All he wanted was firm earth beneath
his feet, a bed he could lie straight on and a meal in his stomach
that didn’t fight to come back up again.
Tomorrow he’d be disembarking in Wellington,
New Zealand, his new home.
His bag was packed and waiting on his bed in the miniscule
cabin he shared with three other northern lads. He hadn’t stayed
in it much and neither had the others; they’d even slept on
the deck. Tom was toasted mahogany brown where he’d been
exposed to the sun. It was a colour he’d never been in his life.

He shaded his eyes and squinted into the distance.
In the far distance he saw the edge of the long white cloud.
  


2.  Chapter one  2010


Kiri’s piece-of-shit car was off the road – again.
 At 4.30am, she’d trudged to work through the dark frosty
 streets of Porirua, shivering in her school coat, scarf and beanie.
She’d left school more than a year ago and couldn’t afford anything new.
It was Monday, so she started at the café at 5am to bake
for the week and worked a double shift – sixteen hours.
By 6.37am, the cooling trays in the café’s kitchen were groaning
with the results of an hour and a half’s hot, hard work. Kiri slid
a tray of cheese scones into the oven, above the spinach quiche
and peach flan she’d put in to bake ten minutes earlier.
Stifling a yawn, she jabbed the top of a mound of pungently
yeasty bread dough, resting in an oiled bowl.
It sprang back, so she tipped it onto the floured bench and beat it.
 Her shoulders ached. She was too short and the benches too high;
 it made everything difficult.
By the time her colleagues arrived at 7am, the air was a fug of sweet
and savoury aromas. Bread rolls, cheese scones
and peach tart were cooling on the bench; sticky toffee pudding
and chocolate cake were in the cabinet; pizza
and bacon and egg pie were in the warmer.
Vincenzo, the barista, sauntered in with the usual supercilious
expression on his flat face. His long thin arms and legs made him look
very insect-like. Acting in his usual ‘I’m the barista, so I’m in charge’ manner,
he cast an eye over the food, critically. ‘No muffins?’
‘In the oven.’ Dickhead, she added silently.

3.  Chapter two 2010

Bent over in the streaming shower, Miriama rustled through the half a dozen
plastic shampoo bottles in the tiled tray. They were all empty except the purple T-rex bottle, containing baby shampoo that smelled of strawberry bubble gum.
Five minutes later, her arms were aching from the effort of massaging the gloop through the extraordinary length of her hair. As she rinsed, the last bit of suds got in her eye. Contrary to all the advertising, it stung. ‘Ow! Geez, fricken Jesus!’
Timothy rushed into the bathroom, naked except for a cowboy hat, and held out her
phone. ‘Daddy.’
Miriama opened the shower door, snatched the phone and leaned out of the cubicle, holding it away from her wet ear. ‘Karl?’
His voice shook. ‘I know I’m supposed to see the kids …’
‘You can’t cancel again. You promised.’
‘I’m swamped.’
‘You haven’t seen them for months,’ she squealed, squeezing her smarting eye closed.
‘You can’t cancel!’
He hung up.
‘Bastard,’ she roared into dead air.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ Timothy mimicked, racing around the bathroom.
‘Mummy shouldn’t have said that.’ She slumped against the shower wall.
‘It’s not a very nice word.’



So please please please, if you could, send the link for this blog out to your mates...like I said in my previous blog, this girl gotta earn her advance, or it is going to be instant noodles and saveloys for the foreseeable future.


Big Loves
Oliviaxxxxx