Death Bites

Interview with Deborah Biancotti

Deborah Biancotti has had a reasonably meteoric rise to fame. Her first story won an Aurealis Award and she was the first person to win a Ditmar for Best New Talent when the category was introduced in 2000. While her output averages 1-2 stories per year, these rarely fail to attract attention. Deborah is also a web designer and an excellent conversationalist, making this, her first interview, an exceptionally pleasant event. Russell B. Farr took opportunity to catch up with Deborah for an interview of one of Australia’s most successful and exciting new talents.

What is your background and what has inspired your interest in science fiction?

I guess I was one of those kids who grew up with SF and just never really stopped reading it. I studied English Lit at uni, but SF was the reading I did for pleasure and I found a lot of the mainstream stuff I was reading at the time unsatisfying. Beautiful prose, but not much underneath. Kind of 'full of sound & fury, signifying nothing' to quote that crazy surrealist bard. SF was usually more thrilling and more challenging — more exciting overall. I'd have to rack my brain to remember what I studied in class the year I discovered Tanith Lee's The Birthgrave , but I can tell you exactly the moment I found that book on a shelf in Sydney Uni's Fisher Library.
     So I consumed a bunch of Tanith Lee books and then came across Ursula Le Guin and a friend introduced me to Gene Wolfe. I consider them my triumvirate of early influences, as a writer at least.
     I was a fairly ordinary kid, I think. I was reasonably shy, and I loved stories and make-believe more than most other things in life. I was accused of being a daydreamer. Then we moved around a few times and I became quite the insular teenager. I hated high school pretty fiercely, even though (or maybe because) I was one of the 'bright' kids. By the time I started re-connecting with people when I was at uni, it came as a surprise to find that SF was considered uncool, and of course by then I wasn't too concerned with trying to earn cool points. Guess I was already used to going my own way.

Your first published story, "The First and Final Game" won the Aurealis Award and the following year you won the Ditmar for "Best New Talent". What did you make of this early attention, and have you found it affecting your work?

Um, I both loved and hated it. My first story was published online by Altair, & editor Robert Stephenson was hugely generous in promoting it and supporting me. But I found it got so much attention (according to my fevered little mind at the time) that I began to seize up on the writing. I became too self-conscious & too panicked to get anything onto paper. I spent the best part of a year freaking out. See, I had this image of myself as writing all alone in a darkened room (which was, you know, sorta true), and when my first story was published it was like this spotlight went on and there's me, blinking into the light and realising for the first time that there's a crowd people in the room, staring at me with fixed and brutal expressions.
     Plus I think I had it in my mind that when I finally became a 'Published Writer', everything would be better and my life would make more sense and I'd suddenly have clarity and assurance. Yeah, how hilarious of me.
     When the Aurealis nomination arrived, it was — more than anything — reassuring. It was validating in a way that publication probably should have been, but (for some stupid reason of my own) wasn't. I was delighted and grateful, and I set back to work, never for one second believing I'd actually win the darn thing. In fact, the night of the awards, I was at home reading Orson Scott Card's Characters and Viewpoint , trying to understand 'point of view'. Next day I went out with a few friends and came home to a message on my answering machine from Cat Sparks saying, 'this is for the Aurealis Award winning writer Deborah Biancotti' and I think I said 'what the hell' and 'oh my god' in that order — to the confusion my gathered friends, who congratulated me and gave me lollies. I probably called my mother, who was probably equally confused and congratulatory.
     Am I rambling?
     Anyway, the following year I was the only nominee for Best New Talent, an award which was kinda contentious at the time and I found it pretty embarrassing. Some people were really unhappy with the idea of a votable Best New Talent award, and part of me actually did worry they'd all tick the 'no award' box on the ballot. I spent some time waiting for the spotlight to go away — which apparently is not considered to be a great career move — so I could just go back to my darkened room and write again.
     But after those weird couple of years I settled back in. Nowadays I find that early support (if I can call it support rather than attention, because attention is daunting) reassuring. It gives me confidence whenever I start to feel like I'm losing my way, and it means I've been able to throw off a few shackles (ie. the whole 'you should' and 'you must' advice people like to give) and start moving towards my own personal vision of what I want to do.
     And, you know, it lets me joke that my best work is behind me. Which really takes the pressure off.

You are admittedly unprolific in your output, yet produce exceptional stories almost every time. What makes you aim for quality over quantity?

Ouch. I mean, thanks.
     Not everyone would be agreeing with your 'exceptional' label there. Apparently some people really dislike my stuff, but I kinda enjoy that reaction, too. At least I've not been called boring so far, & I guess I'm not fussed about doing stuff that's considered unexceptionally palatable.
     There's probably a bunch of reasons I could give for my approach, but I suppose most importantly I don't believe in creating stories I'm not willing to stand behind. There's every chance that the only thing I'll ever get out of this writing caper is my reputation as a writer, so I figure having stuff I'm proud of is the main goal I have any hope of controlling. Money, fame, recognition — they can't be relied on either to appear or to be a reflection of the quality of the work. I think I have a strong internal gauge, now, of whether I feel I'm going OK or not.
     You know, I don't see the point in building a body of work that isn't personally meaningful to its creator. Even my smallest stories mean something to me.
     Plus, I'm a slow writer. There are these long gaps in my publications list, and because of that I figure in my case it's probably even more true that I'm only as good as my last story, so I try to make each one worthwhile.
     And also, my mediocre stories have been rejected, so *phew*, it must make people think I work this way because of some kind of intelligent plan. ;) Oops, did I say that out loud?

You have definite views and a curiosity about death. Do you see this being explored in your work?

Yup, though I'm not sure it would be clear to anyone else. I have definite views about death, anyway. I think it bites.
     Probably if I were to strip away every other theme in my life until I got down to the one, central theme that motivates me, it would be death. Not just death but the human way of living and coping with death. I retain a childlike astonishment that we are able to survive individually and as a species with this huge spectre hanging over each and every one of us. It fascinates me, and I think there are really only two ways to deal with it: through courage or ignorance. Which kinda sums up everything I think about the human race, too. We are equal parts courage and ignorance. Go, us!
     Death is interesting that way, eh? Death and life, since they seem to mean the same thing, and our approach to one is, by default, our approach to the other.

Do you see other themes in your work?

Sure, I'm a big theme junkie, I have to admit. Though other themes are probably more flexible, depending where my thoughts are at the time. I was discussing theme with Ben Payne a while back and we agreed that what we're doing when we write is exploring what it means to be human. (I hope I haven't misrepresented Ben there.) That's where theme lives, in the exploration of our own humanity.
     When I think back over my writing, I would say that isolation seems to be a recurring theme. And maybe I'd say loss, too, though I'm beginning to sound depressing, so I'll add that I'm also keen to explore the reverse of those things. I guess I see humans as duality machines. There's cause and then there's effect. So, when we feel isolated do we accept or fight that, for example. I can see isolation at work in stories like "Silicon Cast" or "The Razor Salesman" or "The Distance Keeper" or "Number 3 Raw Place" or … I should probably stop there, it's getting a little worrying.
     Lately I'm becoming really interested in light and dark, and what symbolism they have for us as a species. Ben Peek gave me Alan Moore's Voice of the Fire last year, and that fed into my own fascinations with illumination and darkness and 'civilisation'.

When it comes down to it, do you think it is more important in your work to explore a theme or to tell a good story?

Hey, wouldn't it be cool to do both! That's my goal, anyhow. Possibly I haven't always successfully balanced that so far, but I'm not done yet, so there's still time to learn.
     I attended a Robert McKee lecture last year on horror, and I took away this idea that story is a way to pave a path to the sub-conscious, to almost lull the senses so we can get deeply into a person's inner workings and — in the case of horror — mess them up a little. I like the idea of being able to write stuff that resonates with readers on that level. So I'd say story and theme work best when they're hand in hand.

How would you respond to the suggestion that your highly lauded story "King of All And the Metal Sentinel" lacked feeling and power as it did not involve any human element?

Ohmygod, I'msototallyoffended.
     Nah, just kidding. Actually, you're the only person to say that to my face, Russ. Most people liked that story from what I can gather.
     King and the metal Sentinel are robots, yes, but what I love about robots is the way they signify pieces of what it is to be human. You can rip out a lot of the mess of an ordinary human and get down to bare bones. What I was exploring with that story was loyalty and focus, and the desire to be live up to a role that you feel pretty sure you were never meant to fill. Trying, in fact, to be big enough to occupy the space fate or destiny seems to have made for you. Trying to grow up, yet never quite being able to let go of what you started with. Now, what better way to demonstrate that then with a pair of little robots?
     Another thing I find interesting about robots is that what we remove from them first of all is emotion, and yet in its place I think it's impossible, as human readers, to not _attribute_ emotion.
     I adore all my characters (even the dead ones), but those guys have a special place in my heart. Particularly since they irk you , Russ.

You also have a keen interest in poetry, I believe. Would you say that certain poets have influenced your writing?

I would, in that I take prose pretty seriously and I'm committed to cadence and rhythm and euphony. I love Robert Browning's monologues — he's been a big influence. I would love to do something like he's done, where he can illuminate character through monologue alone. Not even dialogue! Just one person, speaking into the dark. 'My Last Duchess' is such a deliciously creepy poem, and his fabulous corrupt priest characters are pure, delightful evil.
     Also, I'm a huge fan of Sylvia Plath's imagery. I have the desire to write stories that will — in her words — "seize my senses, haul / My eyelids up" (Black Rook in Rainy Weather). And I'm a Yeats fan and Dorothy Parker fan. Sometimes when I'm trying to get at a certain mood in a story I'll read poetry for a while to try and nut out the rhythms I need. For "Cinnamon Gate", I remember reading a lot of T.S. Eliot to invoke a sense of fatigue and life long past its used by date, and also to get into Eliot's tone of old fashioned formality.

Do you aspire to tell your stories in a lyrical voice?

Hmm, well sure. I'm probably more inclined to the lyrical than I am to the Hemingway-esque School of Spartan Prose, so, yeah. There's plenty of things I aspire to, really. I like to experiment pretty widely.

With the proliferation of genre magazines in Australia at the moment, how do you see the health of the genre?

Oh, it's always either in a golden age or dying, if my readings of commentaries are any guide. Personally I'd like to see genre eat up mainstream fiction and spit out the bad bits, before picking its teeth with the bones of literary snobs everywhere. Is that so wrong?
     In other, less inflammatory, words, I like the idea of breaking down genre lines. The divisions are pretty arbitrary, to my mind. I remember a critic recently commenting that Margaret Atwood had single-handedly re-defined genre — in order to make sure it didn't include her. I'd like to see speculative fiction more widely embraced. Shakespeare had witches and ghosts and all sorts of madness in his stuff. Nobody says he should've been more mainstream. Why can't we all just play nice?

Do you or are you aspiring towards overseas publication, and how important do you see this in judging the success of a writer?

Yes, I do have those aspirations. I'm hitting the overseas markets in my own slowly-slowly-catchee-monkey way. It takes time to get your stuff finished and out there and finding homes.
     But as to whether that's a measure of success, I'm not sure when you say someone is successful. My idea of success has to do with tenacity and continuance. It has to do with always working at it and finding avenues to support what it is you want to do. Each writer has to find her/his own way to do that.
     I'd be more interested in gauging success by asking each writer whether they're doing what it is they want to do with their writing. It's possible to never 'make it' overseas and to feel like you're failing, but then it's possible to produce saleable work and feel like all you're doing is selling out.
     Gotta work out what your goals are and whether you're meeting them, I guess.

What can we expect to see from you in the near future?

Well, more stuff, I'm hoping. I'm working on a couple of things that I'm finding really exciting, but I hate to talk about what I'm doing while I'm doing it. I've got a bunch of things that I'm itching to explore when I have some time. I've got so much going on in my head I'm finding it hard to sort through it enough to get it on paper. And of course there's all this stuff about light and dark...
     I'll be around, never fear.

Thanks for the interview.

Thanks for asking, Russ. :)

Deborah Biancotti is a Sydney-based writer. Her first published story won the Aurealis Award for Best Horror Short Story in 2000, and she won the Ditmar Award for Best New Talent the following year. The year after that she won the Ditmar Award for Best Short Story with "King of All and the Metal Sentinel". Her writing has appeared in Borderlands , Orb , Redsine and Altair , as well as anthologies such as Ideomancer Unbound , Southern Blood and various Agog! volumes, to name a few. She holds two Honourable Mentions in Datlow and Windling's Years Best Fantasy and Horror , and still regularly appears on awards lists. You can find her online at deborahbiancotti.net and www.livejournal.com/users/deborahb. .

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