What inspired the rejackets and how do the new jackets reshape your books?
TW: Well, the previous look has been out there since the 90s, so we figured it was well-past time to give them a new treatment, and this year marks 40 years since I first published a book, so the anniversary seemed like a good moment to bring on a change. I really admire Trent Parke’s photography. The strange, moody mystery of his compositions. He has a distinctive look that you recognise instantly – it’s unmistakeable. Matched to my own work, it bounces back at odd angles, seems to resonate somehow. So I was thrilled when he agreed. We’ve used Trent’s work before (the hardcover of The Shepherd’s Hut) and of course we’ve used his partner Narelle Autio’s work a lot (Breath, Land’s Edge etc) and matched to the design by Josh Durham, I think it works pretty well. I like the collision of the black-and-white images with bold colour and a kind of pared back design.
With Cloudstreet still being front of mind for Australians, having previously been voted twice in polls as Australia’s favourite book, why do you think that novel in particular has had such an enduring legacy?
TW: No idea, to be honest. But I do get a lot of migrants and visitors telling me the book somehow helped unlock the strangeness of Australia for them. I meet people who’ve read it many more times than I have. I probably still get more mail about Blueback than any other book, but Cloudstreet still seems to interest people. It’s odd – in a nice way – to know a book has had generations of readers. It’s very hard, as a literary writer, to make an impression on mainstream culture, but when it happens it’s an interesting experience. To have all my books in print after 40 years is a bit unusual. I’m grateful for it, but I’m not sure I can explain it.
A lot of your novels are set around young people growing up in WA and surfing. What about that do you relate to?
TW: Most of my work is set around salt water. I guess that’s been my patch, more or less. I’m pretty loyal to specific places and communities in terms of what I write about. Somehow, that relentlessly local focus has served me pretty well. I grew up surfing and fishing. Coastal culture was my first culture. So, from An Open Swimmer through to Breath there’s a pretty straight through-line. It’s what I know. There’s terror and beauty in the surf, and terror and beauty in the desert interior beyond it. So, there’s plenty to write about.
Photography: Denise Winton
What then inspired you to write The Riders, which is set in Ireland?
TW: I lived in Europe for a couple of years. Never really intended to write about it. I enjoyed my time in Ireland and Paris and Greece, but I knew it wasn’t my place. I’d been told all my life that I was a European, but from the first day I set foot there I knew that this was foreign territory to me, that I belonged to and had been formed by a very different continent and culture. A few years after I came home, I had strange dreams about Europe. Some of them kicked off The Riders. I guess it’s about being out of your place, bereft of foundations, stripped of every solid thing you thought you knew about yourself and your family.
Is there a particular author who has inspired you, and why?
TW: I guess Flannery O’Connor was my big hero as a younger writer. I loved how stubborn she was in writing about a very specific region and people with very particular language and diction. I’ve always admired writers unafraid to use the vernacular of their own time and place. Twain, Cormac McCarthy, James Kelman, Kevin Barry.
What is the first thing you work out when you sit down to write a novel?
TW: Hell, I don’t work anything out. Writing the book is working it out. In every other aspect of my life, I’m a planner, but when I’m writing, not so much. I just find my way. For better or worse.
What is the best piece of writing advice you’ve received?
TW: “It’s only a book, Timmy.” I’m not curing cancer. I’m a storyteller, a witness. I’m just faffing with language, not saving people’s lives. I take the work seriously. It has real implications. But the world doesn’t need another self-important novelist who thinks he’s indispensable.