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 Laura Elizabeth Woollett. Her latest novel, West Girls, a story about beauty, race and class divisions, is out this month.
Images: Supplied.
What does your workspace look like?
I’ve recently settled into a new home office after moving a few months ago. My husband and I both wanted the option to work from home so finding a place with enough space for us (plus baby on the way) was a priority—and a challenge in the current rental market. We’re now based in Melbourne’s south-eastern suburbs. My office is the biggest room and looks onto the street, with lots of foliage in the window.
Because it’s spacious, the room has a few other purposes besides office—library, dressing room, nursery-to-be. I have a colour-coded bookshelf that faces the wardrobe and TBR stacks by my desk. It’s a small desk (especially if my cat, Iris, is lying on it) so, while I’m inclined to chaos, I can’t let it get too out of control. Other than my laptop, there’s a pile of books relating to my work-in-progress, a picture of Iris and my Norfolk Island beeswax lantern, which is full of coral and stuff like lip balm, hand cream and headphones. Iris likes to divide her time between my husband and me, though I usually win if I have the space heater on.
Over my desk is a black-and-white photo of some beatniks, which Dad bought Mum when they were dating. Though they broke up almost thirty years ago, Mum always kept it, until developing a mania for collecting and framing band posters. When she ran out of wall space, she offered me the beatniks and I was like, ‘Well, if you’re not sentimental…hell yeah.’ It’s nice owning a piece of art that reminds me of my parents and being an arts-wanker at the same time. I wish I knew who the photographer was, so if anyone has intel, please share!
I’m storing copies of my latest book in the bassinet, for now, to discourage Iris from jumping in it. Eventually, the baby will need more than a corner, but it’s a nice temporary set-up, and I like the idea of having him near while I work.
Are you an analog or digital writer?
Digital all the way. My only real analog habit is keeping a wall calendar for deadlines and appointments. It has pictures of ragdoll cats so is cuter and harder to ignore than digital notifications.
I’m storing copies of my latest book in the bassinet, for now.
What sort of software and hardware do you use to get your work done?
I use Dropbox for file storage, and have separate folders for different projects, with sub-folders for research and notes. Typically I work on things chapter by chapter and add finished chapters to an overarching Word document, with a bookmark-hyperlinked contents page so I can switch between sections easily. I also use Voice Memos to record myself reading sections, so I can listen for what isn’t working and make edits on the go, as well as writing ideas and snippets in my Notes app.
I’m currently working on my first non-fiction project, which has involved a fair bit of interviewing, usually over Zoom, and transcribing recorded interviews. I’ve also subscribed to JSTOR and a couple of other places for research, so have had more documents to store, read and note-take on than ever. Sometimes I’ll see things on social media that are relevant to my interests too, so I’ve been making bookmarks and emailing screenshots to myself for later investigation.
Describe your writing practice?
I’m not a sit-at-the-desk-at-X-o’clock-for-X-amount-of-time-every-day writer, nor do I set myself word-count goals. If I want to be writing, I will be, as much as possible. If I don’t…I’ll read or apply for opportunities, or walk and listen to things. Eventually, I’ll reach a saturation point and want to be writing again. I know some people work best with structure and expectations, but the idea of setting myself specific hours or word limits seems illogical when I’m not being paid per hour or word.
The idea of setting myself specific hours or word limits seems illogical when I’m not being paid per hour or word.
The hours I keep very much depend on how much I’m feeling it, how urgent my deadlines (if any) are, and what else I have going on. There’ve been periods when I’ve carved out time around nine to five work, periods when I haven’t felt like writing for months and periods (like now) where I’ve had funding so suddenly have a lot more hours to work with and an obligation to use them wisely. I also have a contract. I’ve been trying to establish more of a routine because of this, but it’s a work in progress, and I cut myself a lot of slack. In the past, failing to do so has made me sick, so I’m cautious of overdoing things.
Unless I’m just note-taking, I’m very deliberate with what I put on the page. If the words aren’t right, or nearly right, it taints the whole document. This means I’m constantly tinkering. I usually start a writing sesh with a re-read, to get into the flow and tidy up any sketchy sentences. Since I only really write when I’m ready to, and edit as I go, my first drafts tend to be quite clean, which saves time in the end.
Images: Supplied.
How do you navigate your various kinds of work?
At thirty-three, I’ve never had a full-time job, yet have often worked more than full-time hours, if you count writing as work. Casual work means flexibility, which in some ways suits my temperament and creative pursuits—but it also means no sick leave, no safety nets, hours drying up with little notice. Turning down a thirty-hour retail work week when I know a six-hour week could be lurking around the corner is hard to justify, even if I have writing commitments. People who say ‘stop whingeing, just get a steady, well-paying job and write after hours’ don’t really understand that there aren’t many steady, well-paying jobs out there that are just jobs. In the current market, you’re expected to either ‘go the extra mile’ (often this means unpaid overtime) for a full-time career, or to ride the waves of casualisation. If you want to simply clock in, work, clock out and be paid, there’s a sense of being totally replaceable. A part-time job I applied for earlier this year had over seven hundred applicants. It was paying like thirty-five dollars an hour.
I spent a good part of 2022 writing full-time due to a combination of arts funding and a long service leave payout from my old call centre job. It was refreshing but not sustainable or even ideal. I do think having other work complements my writing, in that it keeps me active, engaged with people and exposed to unexpected influences. Ideally, I’d like to do maybe sixteen hours of non-writing work per week, earn a universal basic income and spend the rest of my time on whatever. Ideally, I’d like for everyone to have access to free time and a UBI, and nobody to be earning millions per year.
Since late 2022, I’ve had four different casual jobs. A recent funding win has taken the pressure off. I’m both indebted to and leery of arts funding, knowing how scarce and competitive it is. I seem to have more success applying for funding than steady, well-paying jobs—yet there’s a moral ambivalence to these applications. Having some wins makes it easier to get more wins, while complicating the question of ‘deservingness’. Navigating what I ‘deserve’ as an individual artist, alongside wider economic insecurity, is a constant dilemma.
Has your writing practice changed over the years? If so, how?
My practice has changed a lot due to different employment and living circumstances, as well as growing older. Before the pandemic, I lived in a shitty unit in the inner north and worked in the CBD, so was much more itinerant—writing on the tram, in cafes, parks, etc. In 2020, I got a year-long residency in Southbank, which was excellent, as long as I could access my studio, but with lockdowns I couldn’t always. That same year my job became remote and we moved to the suburbs. These changes coincided with the onset of my thirties and the very thirty-something urge for security.
Starting my writing career young, I took some risks that I probably wouldn’t take now. For instance, when I won four thousand dollars in a short story contest, I impulsively used the money to book a trip to the US to research my first novel. I didn’t know about grants or even tax-deductible expenses back then. I had a maybe-exaggerated belief in my own talent and a definitely naive belief that talent pays. I was way more willing to lose sleep and to write for little or no money, believing it’d all work out. In 2019, I had a major health scare, which punctured my sense of invincibility and made me more aware of what I am/am not willing to sacrifice for art. Pregnancy has further reinforced all this. I want my practice to be sustainable, which has meant slowing down and being a bit more strategic about stuff.
I do think having other work complements my writing, in that it keeps me active, engaged with people and exposed to unexpected influences.
How do you encourage inspiration to strike?
Writing isn’t just about producing words, in the same way sex isn’t just about coming. I think creativity is cyclical and lulls are a normal, necessary part of creation. I also think it’s probably necessary for uninspired writers to question why they want to write. I have a lot of existential crises, especially between projects. I’m fearful of making art in bad faith: writing just because I’m a Writer and Writers Write. I often wonder if there’s something cowardly and unimaginative about moving from project to project, digging myself deeper into the hole I’m in rather than climbing out and doing something else. I want writing to be a side effect of being a person with curiosity about the world, not my identity.
On a practical level, reading (and consuming art, more generally) tends to offer a way forward. Sometimes I’ll read something amazing and it’ll trigger that ‘How did they do that?’ excitement. Alternately, reading something really average can trigger my ‘Ugh, what was that? I can do better!’ response (bitchy, but effective). And while I don’t enjoy applying for grants, I do find that trying to convince a forbidding, anonymous panel that my art has value can help me convince myself, temporarily—though rejections, when they come, can be twice as deflating.
What’s next for you?
The Melbourne launch of my novel-in-stories, West Girls, at Crystal Palace on 10 August, followed by events at Avid Reader in Brisbane on 14 August, Kingston Library in Canberra on 16 August, and Better Read Than Dead in Sydney on 17 August. Also, motherhood and figuring out how to write a whole-ass non-fiction book while caring for a newborn.
