Interview #153—Claire Cao
by Debbie Zhou
Claire Cao is a writer from Western Sydney. Her work has appeared in The Big Issue, The Lifted Brow, Running Dog, Voiceworks and Cordite Poetry Review. She is currently working on the screen project Here Out West.
Claire is the runner-up of the inaugural 2019 Liminal Fiction Prize for her short story, ‘See You Tomorrow’. Read ‘See You Tomorrow’ over at Kill Your Darlings.
Claire spoke to Debbie about finding her voice through fandom, writing about Western Sydney and the power of writer-mentorship communities.
Where did your writing journey begin?
I’ve been a big reader since I was a kid. The best feeling in the world for me is staring at a page/screen and finding that I’m smiling involuntarily, or feeling my heart drop at a twist, or romantic misunderstanding. My life story is that part in Normal People where Connell gets so agitated and overwhelmed over Emma and Knightley’s relationship and he doesn’t understand why he can’t chill out. My journey is just a desire to master that feeling and provoke it in others.
Writing for me is also a way of understanding. Puzzling out the aspects of other people’s art that challenges me or leaves me feeling uncomfortable and dissatisfied. Sometimes I don’t even get how I feel about something until I give shape to it through writing.
I know that your ultimate goal as a writer is to become a fantasy novelist. What about that genre captivates you as a reader and a writer?
I grew up obsessed with fantasy B-movies and books by Neil Gaiman, Phillip Pullman, Louis Sachar, K.A Applegate and Diana Wynne Jones. I preferred fantasy that was cosy, tragi-comic and close to reality – stories where the protagonists have to go to school, mop their house then save the world – over high fantasy epics (my taste for that came later).
I’m attracted to stories where the familiar is infused with wonder, where the mundanities of the real world are transformed into pockets of magic and possibility. So much of fantasy and horror is also about the ugliness of life too, and finding ways to resist and transcend that – books like the Harry Potter books, Stephen King’s It and Wynne Jones’ Fire & Hemlock, are all about abused kids confronting their trauma. N.K. Jemisin (in one of my favourite interviews) says: ‘on some level, that is where fantasy writers, and to some degree, science-fiction writers, tend to be trying to create the fairy tales that we need to survive.’
As for why I want to write fantasy – it’s because nobody has really written my dream series yet.
As a millennial writer who grew up with the internet, I think it’s really interesting to hear whether it’s been formative to your craft. Has that sphere influenced you at all, and if so – in what way?
I feel like everyone born at the tail-end of 90s experienced such rapid evolutions in tech and online spaces. The Internet used to be predominately blog-based, which definitely influenced my creativity. I spent computer lab sessions in primary school reading IMDb discussion forums (RIP) and lurking on the blogs of so many cool burgeoning creatives. One of the first thing I remember being crazy inspired by was a comic on Livejournal called 25 lives by tongari (which, shockingly, so many of my friends have brought up unprompted!)
And of course Tumblr, along with the range of fanfiction sites I frequented in high school, were the ultimate formative spaces. It’s kind of embarrassing how I can’t stop bringing up Tumblr but it’s where I met some of my best friends who I still talk to everyday. One of the most earth-shattering revelations I’ve ever had was that some phrases (which were so familiar to me) do not actually exist outside of fanfiction – which I think shows how you can’t really emerge from those sites without being marked in some way.
Tumblr as a website, despite all its problems, was also just a supportive community – people enjoyed making content, mixes and art for each other, for no reason other than a shared passion. All these inspirational prompts and encouraging friendships were a huge part of why I love writing so much; I wasn’t doing my best work back then but it was a time where I wrote freely, with absolutely no burdens. It was sloppy and careless and pure fun.
Can you talk more about the nature of fanfiction – work largely designed for fan enjoyment – and in what ways it developed your writing voice as a teen?
Obviously, a lot of the stuff on those sites wasn’t the best. But my friends and I were so passionate about these movies, TV shows and books that we constantly wanted more content, more character exploration. We willingly spent large chunks of time trying to read and write stuff that would fill that gap and, in a way, had to become curators in order to sift through the glut of fan content we considered ‘crappy’. That really influenced my writing because when discussing these stories, I would learn to identify what I hated and what I liked in prose, characterisation, storytelling. Like: I don’t like the relationship development in this one. Or: I don’t like style because it’s so melodramatic and out of character.
I would have to ask myself: what about the characterisation makes me think it’s out of character? Why do I find this other style beautiful and effective? Fanfiction is so unique because it’s specifically designed to satisfy or get an intense emotional reaction out of an audience that already loves those characters. It’s designed for catharsis, more than any other form of writing.
What are the differences between your writing practice then, where you felt unburdened on this anonymous, limitless internet space, to your practice now?
I never seriously pursued writing as a profession until maybe around last two years – I always wanted to pursue it as a career but it the path felt nebulous, as someone from a working class background with no connections to the literary scene. My mind set started changing when I joined the writing collective Sweatshop and the Co-Curious program Behind Closed Doors. Both organisations were Western Sydney-based, and aimed to empower writers to tell universally compelling stories about their own communities, and mitigate harmful narratives in the mainstream.
Before experiencing these groups, I never wrote Asian characters and never wrote about Sydney, but always had a nascent desire to. All the stories I used to write were about working class, teenage white boys in America. At that point, I’d never set foot in America. All those stories were drawn from my feelings growing up in Canley Vale and Cabramatta, with my specific group of friends. I projected all that onto these alien bodies and settings because I was like: “This is cool! People will actually want to read this!” There was a second-hand (if artificial) sense of freedom inhabiting dominant bodies that moved through the world with greater ease than I did.
When I started to write about my hometown, I spent a lot of time thinking about whether the stories I was telling were valuable and whether I was depicting communities in stereotypical or derogatory ways. I was hyper-aware of playing into tropes: if I was writing about a lad being drunk on the South Line, I had to take a moment to reflect on every joke I’d heard from wealthy peers at uni about Western Sydney being full of junkies and alcoholics. So many people fetishise and sensationalise the area, which makes me even more vigilant about what kinds of audiences I’m playing into. That’s a burden, for sure, but one that I find worthwhile. It makes me a more switched-on writer who is aware of how writing contributes to power.
Sometimes I don’t even get how I feel about something until I give shape to it through writing.
There seems to be a parallel between online creative spaces like Tumblr and groups like Sweatshop and Behind Closed Doors, where community can really make a difference to the way one writes and thinks about writing. How important are those group environments to your process?
I’ve never thought about it before but my writing development these past few years has been super communal.
I first felt it with Behind Closed Doors, because we had to work extremely collaboratively to create a feature screenplay using eight stories from eight writers. It was a rich experience because we all had this shared love for our home and were constantly finding connections, even though we came from different backgrounds. Another writer, Arka, had fond memories of the same Burmese restaurant I frequented as a child (Bagan, now sadly shut down). The rest of us bonded over spots where people went to make out, or the experience of having protective immigrant parents who you had to tip-toe around to do rebellious teen things. All of these conversations enriched my writing because I saw beauty and complexity and emotional richness in a place that I had always took for granted.
Sweatshop’s communal nature has had a huge impact on me too – I’ve never been in a space carved out specifically for women of colour, where the workshopping style is so brutally honest but also constructive and aimed at helping women become working writers. The treatment of writing as a craft that you work hard at, along with our empathetic discussions about our cultural differences, was so essential: I needed to hear that every second word I was using was a cliché to level up.
You started as a fiction writer but over the last year, you’ve also had your hand at screenwriting and criticism. What’s drawn you to branching out your writing in different creative forms?
My newer roles as a screenwriter and as a critic also stem from my childhood passions and a desire to engage in, or unpack those forms.
It’s been an organic transition because a lot of my fiction writing has been informed by film. When I watch a movie, there’s always an image or a score that sticks in my head; I feel emotions very strongly, so the experience of watching a film will be so potent that I can easily funnel that into storytelling. Cinema from China and Hong Kong has always been a gateway to a closer relationship with my father and to my culture, and that has translated into my fiction. I’ve also had a lifelong obsession with cheesy 2000s blockbusters like Charlie’s Angels, Constantine, The Mummy and Van Helsing – which influenced the kind of genre books I sought out. Film and prose fiction have always been entwined for me and I know both mediums intimately.
Criticism, meanwhile, is a natural fit because I’ve always loved sharing and talking about art with others. It’s a way of connecting with the artists before me, my friends and the world.
You’d imagine that writing in these different mediums would change the way you’d think and approach your craft. Has that been the case at all?
I’ve always read screenplays for fun in order to ferret out lines of dialogue that I was obsessed with. Even then, screenwriting was a huge learning curve for me, which is why a program like Behind Closed Doors was so helpful. The process of being in a writer’s room and working collaboratively was new, and our mentor, Blake Ayshford, was so generous with giving us detailed notes on a craft level. I felt really boxed in by my literary background because I didn’t have the ear for rhythm and tension in scenes. He told me to write my concept in prose form first, so I could see the differences and nuances in how it transitioned into a script. As hard as it was, the new form was also so freeing as someone who loves dialogue. A note I always get in short stories is ‘they’re talking too much’, so it was fun getting to go ham.
Meanwhile, being a critic is the newest and hardest thing for me. I was a part of last year’s Melbourne International Film Festival’s Critics Campus, which was one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had and taught me an insane amount in a single week. I’ve always enjoyed academic writing but criticism was a different ballpark – you needed to know the history, be original with your analysis, and write to an audience who is relying on you to illuminate a piece of art. Balancing these elements was surprisingly difficult: I would over-describe and not know how to make assertions and be confident in my opinions. What do I know, you know? But being so vigorously mentored and having discussions with wonderful new friends who were equally passionate about film, helped me solidify that confidence.
You’ve been a part of multiple programs and groups where mentorship is a key part. To what extent has that structured guidance helped you become the writer you are today?
Writing wouldn’t even be a serious path to me right now if it weren’t for these initiatives. A reason why I never wrote professionally as a teen or at the beginning of university because there was no real guidance when it came to honing your storytelling abilities or getting published.
All these programs I’ve applied for and been a part of were extremely dedicated to, not only helping you learn the craft, but also connecting you with working professionals and avenues where your pieces can be published. They weren’t just nabbing me for the veneer of diversity, giving a single lesson, then dumping me. They were offering long-term support. Even before establishing a mentorship relationship, that was so important to me – that these people who were established and writing plays, movies and criticism, were taking time out of their day to support emerging writers. I think mentorship is so important. It’s impossible to succeed without being humble and learning from those wiser and more experienced than you.
I’ve always read screenplays for fun in order to ferret out lines of dialogue that I was obsessed with.
Most of your writing is centered around Western Sydney, and it feels very lived-in and beautifully intricate. But on the flip side, there’s also a tendency for readers/audiences to box in PoC writers as only being able to write about their personal experiences and it leads to a certain type of pigeonholing. I’m curious about your thoughts on this, and whether you’ve ever felt limited by this assumption.
What I love most about fiction is that you’re not showing all your cards – things may be drawn from real life, or maybe not. You have the space to invent, subvert and screw with reality (I read Ben Lerner’s 10:04 for the first time this year, which is such a magical illustration of this). It rankles me that if your writing resembles your actual background in some way, some people will say you’re devoid of skill and imagination. It’s a condescending assumption applied a lot to minority writers – that your work is only valuable because you’re mining your marginality. For me, even if I continue exclusively writing about Burmese-Chinese women living in Canley Vale, I don’t think it limits the scope of my imagination at all and the malleability of those stories – there’s still endless potential that I could explore for a lifetime.
I do feel limited sometimes in terms of genre and form. From what I’ve seen, the industry does love a writer with a brand. But I also feel that’s changing – when I talk to other writers now, so many of them seem multi-hyphenated. They’re not only writers but editor-actor-producer-filmmakers, or they write everything thing from magical realism to investigative journalism. Our generation especially, growing up with the Internet and all these different confluences, have become influenced by multimedia and are fluid in their interests. We’re all constantly growing and hybridising and that’s what I align myself with.
Do you have any advice for emerging writers?
Consume everything and be curious about the world – not only works from your discipline or comfort zone but everything that might interest you or expand your worldview. My voice grew from reading feature articles, show-dog magazines, sci-fi short stories, Livejournal threads of published writers getting into fights with harsh reviewers. Watch tonnes of foreign films at your own pace. Surround yourself with writers who aren’t precious about your feelings (i.e. they’ll tell the truth if something isn’t working). I also recommend googling any writing collectives and initiatives in your area – keep an eye on Facebook groups like Young Australia Writers and Binders full of POC Australian Writers.
Who are you inspired by?
My friends (there’s a reason why the found family trope is my favourite thing in the world). I enjoy writing dialogue so much because every single conversation I have with them is so zany, energising and funny. How much I love all my friends does make me believe in fate a little.
What are you listening to?
My favourite songs by The National because they just announced they cancelled their Australian tour (unsurprising but sad!). Currently looping Empire Line.
What are you reading?
Luster by Raven Leilani. My spring-summer goal is to finally tackle Stephen King’s The Stand.
How do you practice self-care?
Self-care has been hard this year, as I’m sure it has been for everyone. This is going to sound so Capricorn of me but I’m practising self-care by working and producing things a lot because if I don’t I start to go stir-crazy. I also feel less anxious after making increasingly unhinged tweets about my hyper-fixations and sinking hours into the game Hades (which I treat like a dating sim even though I’m ostensibly meant to be slaying monsters.)
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
The phrase is odd for me because I’ve always lived in Asian-majority suburbs and attended Asian-majority schools, so the identifiers “Asian” and “Australian” didn’t crop up often. Hailing from the continent of Asia seemed quite neutral. More often than not, people I knew identified with their parents’ nationality, and I think that made me hyper-aware of intra-community issues and hierarchies. I don’t even fully identify with a lot of other Chinese-Australians because my parents grew up in Myanmar.
Recently, I re-watched The Farewell (and bawled my eyes out again). I mulled more seriously over the movie’s assertion that collectivist values are an inherently Asian thing. I think it is true in a sense, the way we culturally uphold all these filial duties over our duties to ourselves, but sometimes I wish that collectivism would translate in a broader sense. I hope that we can look inward, and reflect on the ways we can collectively support our most vulnerable members, and tackle the harms that our communities have been perpetuating like anti-blackness and colourism. In the context of Australia, it also means reflecting on our status as settlers and the benefits we gain from that.
Interview by Debbie Zhou
Photographs by Nicole Wong