Show Your Working is a regular column exploring how some of our favourite writers get things done. In this instalment, we take a peek into the writing routine of author JR Burgmann, whose debut novel Children of Tomorrow is out this week from Upswell Publishing.
James’ workspace. Image: Supplied
What does your workspace look like?
My partner and I have moved a lot over the years, so for a long time my workspace was an ever-changing set up. Children of Tomorrow was written in a range of spaces: The State Library, my mother-in-law’s laundry, my cramped PhD cubicle at Monash or improvised workspaces at home, and so on. In early 2022, we—along with our two little children—moved further out, lucking upon a place in the Dandenongs. As you can imagine, I was eager to set up a writing space that finally felt permanent. On the bottom floor there is a spacious, light-filled, concrete-floored basement walled floor-to-ceiling in painted white brick. There is a fireplace and idyllic views out across the Yarra Ranges. I’ve been working on my second novel Abominable here—as well as at my Wheeler Centre hot desk last year—and I often find myself in disbelief I get to write in such a space. We were back in the UK and Europe for the past few months and one of the things I was most looking forward to upon returning home was this very space.
For a long time, I thought that I didn’t need a stable workspace; in hindsight, that view seems more a product of circumstance than anything. However, I can hardly claim the space is a sanctuary of order. My kids, who are six and four, invariably find ways to make the space their own. But I personally embrace the chaos—there’s a happy place between order and disorder in which I work best creatively.
There’s a happy place between order and disorder in which I work best creatively.
Are you an analog or digital writer?
I tend to work digitally. Certainly, when I write it’s almost always digitally; my notetaking has moved more and more from analog to digital over recent years too. I don’t think I would have been able to keep my system of notes for a research-intensive project like Children of Tomorrow if I was working with physical materials. One of the most annoying parts of my writing brain is that often whole passages of prose come to me when I’m not actually trying to write. It might happen when I’m walking or running, or even on long country drives. Obviously I can’t pull over all the time to type passages into my phone’s notes app. So I have to let those moments of inspiration slide (no doubt these would have been my finest pieces of work!). But when I’m walking or running, I often stop to type fragments of ideas or prose into my phone that I’ll later transpose and refine in Word—I’d estimate I wrote 10 to 20 per cent of Children of Tomorrow in this rather inconvenient way! Because of this I’m heavily reliant on the cloud and always keep my laptop, iPad, phone, notes and iCalendar synced and backed up.
The view from James’ workspace. Image: Supplied
What sort of software and hardware do you use to get your work done?
It’s conventional, but when I’m writing it’s entirely with Word. I use the notes app across my devices, as mentioned. As I did with my PhD, I use a range of softwares for current academic research and work. There is something refreshingly simple and stripped down, then, about working just in Word for my creative work.
My desk itself is minimal—a sit-to-stand hand crank Ikea model, on which I use my MacBook along with an external display/second monitor, wireless keyboard and mouse. I find shifting between sitting and standing across a writing session useful to kickstart different modes of writing or work.
One of the most annoying parts of my writing brain is that often whole passages of prose come to me when I’m not actually trying to write.
Describe your writing practice?
At the moment, I’m finding it very difficult to carve out time to write. Between working across two uni roles and parenting, there is very little time for writing at the moment. When I do find a slice of time, I try to write while the kids are at school and kinder. For me the evenings are for unwinding, so I only write or work late if necessary. I won’t lie, there were late nights while writing Children of Tomorrow. For my second novel Abominable, I’m trying to maintain a more regimented approach, writing only when there is ample time to do so. I didn’t necessarily do this with Children of Tomorrow, which was more fragmentary and made up of various types of writing modes. But the narrative structure of these two novels differs greatly, encouraging different approaches to writing.
I’m a big believer in segregating writing from editing. For me they are different modes of composition. The writing part is fluid and flawed. Sure, you write as cleanly as possible, but refinements and the actual creation of publishable prose happens at the editing phase for me. Generally, I make multiple passes of drafted material, reading the text out loud, making refinements along the way. In terms of narrative design and planning, I tend to let the story dictate my method. With the novel I’m currently working on, I’m taking a looser approach, seeing where the writing goes. For Children of Tomorrow, which is an episodic saga that depicts shifts in the planet’s climate across this century, I had to plan in great detail how narrative events would transpire, which was a major creative challenge in many ways.
How do you navigate your various kinds of work?
I’d say this is probably my biggest challenge as a writer. In an ideal world, writers could afford to commit as much time as they wish to their craft. Like many millennials, I find myself moving constantly between multiple, precarious roles—PhD student, university teaching and research, freelance writing (such as the piece I wrote previously in this publication on the environmental impacts of the publishing industry). While I’ve enjoyed much of the work I’ve done over the past few years, these casualised or freelance roles have not necessarily been amenable to creative work, not to mention writing an entire novel. Having said that, I particularly value the teaching and research work I do at the Monash Climate Change Communication Research Hub, which is where I was also based during my PhD. Being surrounded by so many experts and great minds has obviously informed Children of Tomorrow.
If I’ve spent a writing day only producing a fraction of what I used to a few years ago, then that’s fine—productivism is anathema to creative processes, in my experience.
Of course, the added joy of having children, whose care my partner and I endeavour to share equally, only adds to the complexity of this picture. I’m yet to find a practical solution to this puzzle that doesn’t require a drastic overhaul of how the arts are funded in this country! But I have settled on a philosophy of patience with these circumstances as well as the process of writing.
Has your writing practice changed over the years? If so, how?
I haven’t been writing long enough to get a clear sense of how my practice has changed. I think an obvious change over the last few years is how I go about setting aims. With the increasingly competing, energy-sapping demands of work and parenting, I’ve found it important to set the bar low, so to speak. If I’ve spent a writing day only producing a fraction of what I used to a few years ago, then that’s fine. Part of being patient with my process is also rejecting modern ideas around productivity—productivism is anathema to creative processes, in my experience. I’m not sure I used to believe this; I can recall starting writing days a few years ago (probably before having kids) with the idea I’m going to do as much as possible today.
How do you encourage inspiration to strike?
I’m not sure I’ve experienced proper writer’s block before. I’ve certainly experienced the persistent glare of the blank page. Logically, I imagine if I fought this, then it could easily morph into some form of writer’s block. But generally, when this happens, I find myself drifting towards other activities—some other work, going for a kick, playing music, building Lego with the kids, gaming, reading, watching shows or movies. It’s helpful sometimes to consider other parts of life as part of the process—in fact, major details of the final few chapters of Children of Tomorrow came to me while playing the game Horizon Zero Dawn.
Those more difficult moments, when you sense that you do have some writing in you, but it just isn’t happening, are trickier to navigate obviously. You’re itching to write, but it just isn’t flowing at all. In those thornier moments I often shift gears and return to creative research, narrative planning/design, character profiles/arcs, and so on. That way, you’re still satisfying the urge to write to some degree. This is happening a lot with Abominable, which is an historical novel—there’s always more research to do!
What’s next for you?
It’s a really exciting few months ahead for me. The Australian edition of Children of Tomorrow hits bookstores this month, along with the global release of the audiobook, which is narrated by Ric Herbert. A North American edition is also being released in September by Great Plains Publications. On 20 March, I’ll be taking part in the Wheeler Centre’s ‘The Next Big Thing’ at The Moat, reading (from Children of Tomorrow) alongside some other great writers on the theme of the passage of time. And on 23 March I’ll be launching Children of Tomorrow at St Kilda Readings.
But mainly, I’m focusing on writing my next novel. I have no deadline set for it, which is a freedom I haven’t had before—it’s both liberating and challenging.
Children of Tomorrow is available now from your local independent bookseller.
