View metadata, citation and similar papers at core.ac.uk brought to you by CORE provided by RMIT Research Repository A Wonderland of Possible Worlds Craig Garrett Master of Arts (Creative Writing) January, 2008 RMIT A Wonderland of Possible Worlds A novel extract and an exegesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts (Creative Writing) Craig Garrett B. Communication (University of Canberra) Grad Dip Professional Writing (University of Canberra) Diploma Professional Writing and Editing (RMIT TAFE) © Craig Garrett 2008 School of Creative Media Creative Writing RMIT University Jan 2008 Declaration I certify that except where due acknowledgement has been made, the work is that of the author alone; the work has not been submitted previously, in whole or in part, to qualify for any other academic award; the content of the exegesis is the result of work which has been carried out since the official commencement date of the approved research program; and, any editorial work, paid or unpaid, carried out by a third party is acknowledged. (sign here) Craig Garrett (name here) 29 Jan, 2008 (date here) Acknowledgements I wish to thank the following people: Andrew Morgan, Antoni Jach, Anna Poletti, Alice Ulgezer, Kalinda Ashton, Michal Kulbicki, Shona Hawkes, all my peers in the MA (Creative Writing) and PhD (Creative Media, Creative Writing) courses at RMIT, and all my peers in the RMIT TAFE Professional Writing and Editing course. Without your advice and support, given generously whenever I called, this project would never have been completed. I am thankful to my senior supervisor Antoni Jach for all his work over the five years I have had the privilege to know and work with him. Without his energy, passion, editing skills and insight I would not have driven myself to my limits in order to come back a better writer. I am also thankful to my second supervisor Andrew Morgan for all his editing work over the past three years. His insight, understanding, judgement and questioning contributed greatly to this project. Thank you to Aaron Pollock for the print he gave me for inclusion in this project. Aaron is a wonderful artist and has been a good friend to me for a long long time. Thank you to everyone not listed above who also supported me over the years. You know who you are, and importantly I know who you are and how you have helped me. Craig. Sections Section One: Novel Extract Part One of Dreamriders (first 45,000 words) Section Two: Exegesis A Wonderland of Possible Worlds: How Writers Create Possible Worlds, or Where is Alice, Anyway? If it happened at all, it happened like this Section One: Novel Extract Part one of Dreamriders (first 45,000 words) Dreamriders 1. Turtle stands, too fast, and has to lean against the door to steady himself. This is all wrong; he’s in a rotten- smelling alley, a doorway… somewhere: a main road at one end and a dead end at the other, graffiti- covered walls, syringes and beer cans lie scattered; his head is pounding; and he feels ill. He shivers, even though he knows it’s not cold, brushes himself off, he’s alright, but his legs and arms are stiff, and heads — his steps hesitant — for the road. Three taxis pass him by before one finally stops, and he hits his head as he climbs into the front seat. A deodoriser hangs from the rear vision mirror, but it can’t hide the musty odour trapped in the seats. The radio is tuned to a talkback show. ‘Where to?’ the driver asks. His voice is dry and harsh and he smells sour. ‘FiveWilsonStreetinPort.’ He’s slurring again. Turtle hugs himself to keep warm. The driver studies him closely. ‘Which end, King Street, or High?’ Turtle pauses. ‘High.’ ‘You sure?’ ‘Ofcourse…High.’ ‘You’re not sick?’ ‘No.’ ‘Tell me if you are. I don’t want to have to clean the car, you know.’ The driver puts the indicator on and looks behind for traffic. ‘I’ll go down Mahone Street.’ Mahone? He’s on the other side of the city. The driver pulls out into the traffic, and despite concentrating on driving, Turtle can see he’s still not too sure about this. ‘Big night?’ the driver asks. ‘Musthave,’ Turtle answers. ‘I could tell, you know. Almost didn’t pick you up. This part of town, you know…’ The driver’s words fall away. Turtle’s head nods, but he catches himself before falling asleep. The driver continues talking. ‘… have a lot of people in my taxi, you know, all sorts. You work?’ He continues before Turtle can answer. ‘I’m doing a double today. Good money…’ – 1 – Dreamriders The driver’s voice recedes. Turtle closes his eyes and dreams: the night is overcast and cold. He is running and can see his breath — white mist — when he breathes out. Rain lands, swirls and splashes, and as the droplets connect they form streams on the streets, in the alleys, on the paths and in the gutters. He falls and water splashes his face. Getting up he runs on… ‘Hey.’ The driver is poking Turtle in the shoulder. Turtle jolts his head up. ‘We’re here,’ the driver says. ‘WhereamI?’ he slurs, wiping a dribble of saliva from his chin. ‘Your house, you know.’ ‘Howmuch?’ He opens the door and bumps his head again as he clambers out of the taxi. ‘Forty-seven. Hey, where are you going?’ ‘Ok.Nowhere…’ Turtle throws fifty dollars at the driver and shuts the door, then trips backwards up the gutter. The driver swears at him from inside the car and drives off. The early morning glare hurts Turtle’s eyes. He almost doesn’t recognise his house. The front door looks familiar, but still isn’t quite right; then again, nor is he: his hands feel like they’re bloated and don’t belong to him. When he finally gets his keys from his pocket he drops them. Picking them up, he fumbles them into the lock. Wrong key. He tries again. The door opens. Lisa is in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. ‘You should have knocked.’ He wants to hug her, but she doesn’t wait. He follows her inside, shuts the door, then bumps his way up the hall; knocking the phone table with his knee. Coffee and toast smells greet him; normally the smell of home, but today they make his nausea worse. Lisa waits in the kitchen — at the end of the hall — arms folded and a deep frown on her face. ‘That’s the third time this month.’ Silence. ‘It’s Monday.’ He looks at her; her long, red hair is washed and pulled back and he can smell her shampoo, she is already dressed for work. She looks tired, though. Turtle sways as he tries to kiss her, but before he can she pushes the cup into his stomach so he has to take it, and moves away. Even though she is his height, her fiery hair makes her seem taller, or more imposing. It was her hair he was first drawn to. ‘This can’t go on.’ – 2 – Dreamriders He takes a sip, ‘Iknow,’ then sits at the kitchen table and almost tips the chair over. The phone handset is lying among toast crusts, used tea bags, dirty knives, the coffee plunger, and honey and jam jars. Lisa hates crusts. Out of habit he picks one up and nibbles it. ‘You’re slurring again. We need help.’ ‘I’mnotgoingbackthere,’ he says, ‘I’mgettingmoreherbsfro…’ ‘You were gone three nights. I haven’t slept since Friday.’ He hadn’t thought about that. ‘I called all the hospitals.’ She’s crying. She sighs. ‘Look. I’m late.’ She walks towards the door. He stands — he wants to hold her — but his legs crumple and he falls into the chair. ‘But…’ ‘I can’t keep doing this.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘I’llsortitout.’ She walks back towards him, but keeps her distance. ‘How?’ ‘Idon’t…somehow…’ ‘Tonight. We’ll talk.’ She rushes down the hall, grabs her bag and hurries out. In a way he’s glad she’s gone; he hates arguing. He’d like to sit here all day, but has to go to work too. He dumps his clothes on the bathroom floor and examines himself in the mirror. The bruises are worse: one spreads from his left shoulder to his chest; another runs above his right hip; and a black bruise, purple and yellow at the edges, covers both shoulder blades. The one on his hip has a hard lump in the middle. All his muscles and joints are stiff, both knees are grazed and his face doesn’t look like his anymore: dark rings under the bloodshot eyes, cracked lips, stubble. He smiles and is shocked that the response is immediate, that it is still his face. The smile looks fractured and superficial, though, and the stubble is itchy. Before anything else he shaves. The pipes groan, like always, when he turns the taps on. Leaning on the wall he lets the hot water — it leaves red trails on his skin — massage his shoulders and back. Putting his head under, he rinses the shave cream off, then washes his hair. The water is so soothing, and he is so tired, that he decides to blame being late on the trains and stands there until the water runs cold. – 3 – Dreamriders After dressing, he heads towards the station — the sun is heating the day now — where he has to run to catch the train; his aching body resists the exertion.