Interview #218 — Mirandi Riwoe
by Sonia Nair
Mirandi Riwoe is the author of Stone Sky Gold Mountain, which won the 2020 Queensland Literary Award – Fiction Book Award and the inaugural ARA Historical Novel Prize, and was shortlisted for the 2021 Stella Prize and longlisted for the 2021 Miles Franklin Literary Award.
Her short story collection, The Burnished Sun, includes the novella, The Fish Girl, which won Seizure Viva la Novella and was shortlisted for the Stella Prize. Her work has appeared in Best Australian Stories, Meanjin, Review of Australian Fiction, Griffith Review and Best Summer Stories.
Mirandi has a PhD in Creative Writing and Literary Studies and lives in Brisbane.
Mirandi spoke to Sonia about writing historical fiction from traditionally underrepresented perspectives, being biracial, and the importance of entering writing competitions.
Some of your most famous work is in the realm of historical fiction and within this, you journey from Indonesia to Australia to France, among other places, all the while elevating under-represented voices—domestic workers, freedom fighters, trafficked women, sex workers, queer people. What initially drew you to historical fiction, and what keeps you going back?
I sort of stumbled into writing historical fiction. Initially, I wanted to be a crime writer and, as part of my PhD, I investigated the idea of post-feminism and sexuality and the female detective, which somehow led me to studying the phenomenon of the courtesan, particularly the Victorian-era courtesan. I decided to make the character in the novel I was writing for my PhD Eurasian, like I am, but being of that time, she had to hide her Asian background—although, as a courtesan, she could be quite open about her sexuality and become wildly successful in ways that other poor or working-class women had no hope of. As part of my research, I explored the Asian population of Victorian-era London, which eventually led me to consider the earlier Chinese settlers in Australia. So, I guess that first foray into Asian Victorian London was a stepping stone to further historical writing.
I love how writing about ‘historical’ events or people forces us to reflect upon not only how much has changed, but also how much has not changed. Women are still being trafficked or murdered, and racism is still a concern. A lot gets forgotten or whitewashed over the years. For example, I don’t think people realise how very Chinese the Cooktown area was during the gold rush period before the White Australia Policy, which I tried to depict in Stone Sky Gold Mountain. I think in this type of looking back, it forces a reconsideration of what we think we ‘know’ and encourages what Tony Birch refers to as an ‘ethical imagination’ when we write or read about the past.
Your books are grounded in such lush, meticulously observed details of what life would’ve been like decades and centuries ago in cities we know by different names now, landscapes that look vastly different. What is your research process like?
I used to find writing setting the hardest part of the process, so I place a lot of effort on trying to get it right, and I wonder if that is why my depiction of landscape and locale is well-developed now. Obviously, when depicting the details of life so long ago, I want to be as accurate as I can, and I find reading memoir, fiction and non-fiction from the period extremely helpful. Visiting museums is always a part of my research process and art galleries are great too for creative inspiration, but also to see aspects such as fashions, furniture and food of the time. In the case of my novels set in Indonesia, I drill my father and his older sister for information too.
One of my favourite things about being a writer is that it forces you to really notice things—stories, landscape, the sky, what people say and do, smells and so forth. You need to note down and remember what you observe and be present. Like most writers, I scribble notes or type ideas into my phone for future use.
I also find travelling to the place in which my novel is set paramount to my writing. For Stone Sky Gold Mountain, I spent time near Palmer River and Maytown, so I could note the trees, the insects, the sounds, the birds, the earth; but also, I try to witness these places as my character might experience them. For instance, I stood by the water in Cooktown wondering what it might have been like for arriving Chinese diggers, which inspired a part in the novel that is from Ying’s point of view: when she is recalling standing on the banks, pocketing local almonds (from a tree that my botanist husband pointed out to me). For my latest novel Sunbirds, I revisited Java (my father’s family is from there), but this time I searched out colonial buildings and evidence of Dutch imperialism, such as hotels they visited in the mountains, gardens and tea plantations.
You excel at exploring the racial tensions between colonisers and the colonised, but you often play with and complicate these boundaries by introducing class, sexuality and gender norms. I’m thinking of your latest book Sunbirds where you initially pair Anna, a woman of both Indonesian and Dutch descent, with the Dutch fighter pilot Mattijs, or Stone Sky Gold Mountain, where Chinese settler Ying, assuming the identity of a man, falls in love with Meriem, a white woman shunned by her own community. What draws you to depicting these interracial relationships?
I guess the answer to that always comes back to ‘me’. Being a feminist Eurasian writer, I tend to gravitate to stories that explore these cross-cultural relationships or subjectivities. I might find something in the research, fiction, or real life that intrigues or annoys me—something that I want to explore further, for myself, but also for the story. A lot of the time, my fiction is probably a mix of myself and the ‘what if’ of what I have come across or wondered about.
I’ve always been fascinated by the Eurasian families that originated in 19th century Australia when, typically, Chinese men married Irish/English/Scottish women. I wonder if it took courage on the woman’s part (given the racial climate) or if perhaps the marriages were a result of self-preservation or shrewdness. Did these families face a lot of racism? How did their children feel about it? Can love overcome prejudice or discrimination? These are the sorts of questions that drive how I develop my next manuscript.
I’ve been struck by how you don’t shy away from portraying the complicity of Asian-Australian settlers in the erasure, dispossession and genocide of First Nations people, particularly in Stone Sky Gold Mountain. How did you grapple with including this as part of Lai Yue’s storyline and why was it important for you to incorporate this into your story?
When I first started to develop Stone Sky, it was going to be a simple cross-cultural love story. But when I became immersed in the research about northern Queensland during the gold rush, it became clear that no story could be told about that period and place without the real focus being on how the Kuku Yalanji people were treated. I felt that I couldn’t write about the love between a white person and a Chinese person and the difficulties they faced, without contextualising the story within the land and events of the time, where the worst and most unfairly treated were the local Aboriginal people. Perhaps because the Chinese were also discriminated against, their complicity was overlooked. But the presence of the Chinese did add to the hardship experienced by the Kuku Yalanji people, and I felt I had to depict that in some way in my novel.
I wanted Lai Yue’s actions and what he witnessed to reflect or symbolise the ways in which Chinese diggers were complicit, along with white Australians, in the displacement and erasure of many Kuku Yalanji people. I think in some fiction set in early settler Australia, there’s been an inclination for authors to depict their characters as the ‘good guys’ who do the saving or defending. And I did consider portraying the violence while having my character either sit it out or do some saving too (similar to many other authors who want their characters to be ‘likeable’ or at least sympathetic), but I realised I was pandering to my own sensitivities and perhaps the settler reader’s.
‘Made up of water and oil, irreconcilable yet still conjoined in a murky mess. Nothing more than a greasy shimmer on the surface of a society.’ Anna speaks this way about being biracial in Sunbirds. Being Eurasian yourself, did you look to your own experience while crafting this character, and have you seen the biracial experience in the way you understand it reflected in other pieces of literature?
For some of Anna’s experiences and interiority, I definitely looked to myself, but I also gained insight from reading a couple of memoirs by ‘Indo’ (of mixed Indonesian and Dutch heritage) women who lived during the period the book is set—around World War Two—in the Dutch East Indies and Europe. I totally recognised their depictions of the little slights they were subject to—the slights that keep you tethered to the knowledge that you are not quite white or wholly acceptable—but I was also familiar with their joy at living such a rich cultural life. I think perhaps Anna might seem a little greedy for life, and perhaps that is a by-product of being Eurasian, in that there is so much distraction, so much to embrace, especially when trying to work out where you belong.
For my character Heloise in my historical crime series, I wasn’t inspired so much by a piece of literature but by what I gleaned from biographies of an actress named Merle Oberon. She was very big in Hollywood in the 1930s and 1940s, but she also had to hide the fact that she was of mixed heritage. When I was young, living in a pretty white 1970s Brisbane, fretting about my brown skin (and very into old movies), my mum told me about Oberon. So Heloise is partly based on her. Famous, infamous, but still having had to hide her Eurasianness to simply survive society.
Lately, I read Passing by Nella Larsen, which I found fascinating and sad in its depiction of the complexities, unfairness and trauma that come with having to ‘pass’ as white. And there’s a section in Maxine Beneba Clarke’s memoir, The Hate Race, that really struck a chord with me. She describes how she yearned for a Cabbage Patch doll but didn’t want the brown one her mother finally bought for her. I remember how I always wanted the pink, blue-eyed, blonde blonde blonde dolls, because, of course, that was the beauty standard everyone was held up to; that was the ‘normal’.
It was only in the last few years that I really comprehended, or put into words, that when I was growing up, I identified with, or aspired to be like, characters such as Nancy Drew, Amy from Little Women, Barbie and Sandy Olsson. But of course I was never going to be like them. For a kid, that sort of subconscious realisation can certainly create a feeling of lack and abjection. But luckily, in society, in books, in film, these things are changing and young people are much more able to see themselves represented today.
You also write crime novels set in the 1800s under the moniker MJ Tjia. Can you tell us about why you initially adopted a pseudonym and the liberties it affords you?
In the beginning, there wasn’t actually any strategic reason behind the use of both the names Tjia and Riwoe in my writing. My father is Chinese-Indonesian, and his Chinese name is Tjia (spelt with ‘tj’, which is the Dutch way of spelling the sound ‘ch’, because the Dutch had colonised Indonesia). In the 1960s, Chinese people in Indonesia were required to choose Indonesian names, and my father chose the name Riwoe, after an Indonesian fellow he admired. By the time I was born, my father had settled here and I was christened with the surname Riwoe. Since then, two of my siblings have changed their surnames back to Tjia, while two of us have stayed Riwoe.
So when my first novel, a crime fiction book, was published in the UK, we consulted on which of my surnames would be best for the books and decided MJ Tjia had a ‘crimey’ ring to it. Meanwhile, I was completing my PhD and entering literary short story competitions here under the name Riwoe. So, it all sort of happened organically—my crime fiction is under Tjia and my literary or historical fiction is under Riwoe. I think it’s turned out for the best, because I know that sometimes it’s annoying for a reader expecting a certain genre from a writer to find the new book they’ve bought is in a totally different genre.
You write across many different genres and lengths. Do you have a favourite?
If I had to choose, I would probably say that I enjoy working within the parameters of a novella the most. I really enjoy honing in on a particular character, on their preoccupations and actions and developing a tight narrative arc. Language, ideas and character development need to be as distilled and polished as in a short story, but while a short story is restrained by word count, the novella can breathe a little more freely.
I think the length of each of my works depends on the story I want to depict: the narrative arc, the number of characters or points of view, the themes, and so forth. Perhaps knowing if the idea has the capacity to develop into a novella, a short story or a novel comes with experience.
I know your breakout hits were your first published novel that came out of your PhD, She Be Damned, and your novella Fish Girl, which was shortlisted for the 2018 Stella Prize. What was your pathway to publication for both these very different works, and when did being an author start to present itself to you as a viable career?
I have always wanted to be a writer. I was an avid reader as a child, so I guess I always admired writers and wanted to become one myself. But also, I talked about it for many years, without acting upon it. Luckily my mum (also an avid reader, who probably wished she’d been an author herself) urged me to stop talking about writing a book one day and to just get started, which was the best advice because it’s a long road.
I did some post-graduate writing subjects and then a Master of Research, which involved me researching Indonesian crime fiction and writing a crime novel set in contemporary Indonesia. At the time, I entered a competition that was run by a publisher in the UK in which the winner would be published. The Indonesian crime fiction novel I wrote was shortlisted but didn’t win. However, I pitched my next crime novel written as part of my PhD—this was She Be Damned—to the commissioning editor at the same UK publisher. To my delirious delight, they gave me a two-book deal. This is why I always urge emerging writers to enter as many competitions as they can. I think competitions are a great entryway into the industry.
While I was conducting research for She Be Damned, I really wanted to see how European writers of the time wrote about Southeast Asia, which is how I came to read Somerset Maugham’s work. He was well-known for travelling around the area and writing fiction based on what he witnessed, and one of his stories was ‘The Four Dutchmen’. Of course, a lot of fiction from those times was racist and sexist, but because the woman in the story was Javanese, I felt like I could relate to her, like I could be outraged on her behalf. I remember saying to my mum, ‘There’d be a reason she was in that situation.’ So I decided to rewrite the story from her point of view and that’s how The Fish Girl came about. Out of all my work, I am most relieved and thankful that this was the work that came to be published. I still remember how overwhelmed I felt when I received the email from Alice Grundy at Seizure Viva la Novella telling me that my novella had won (again, enter competitions!) and would be published.
Since then, I’ve been really lucky to have my novels published and championed by Aviva Tuffield and UQP. I feel comfortable knowing my books have a home, and I do consider being a writer as my career now. I think for many writers, it’s a difficult industry in which to build a viable career if we are talking about receiving a liveable, regular wage, and I am fortunate in that I have a partner with a reliable income, and personally receive some extra income from grants, teaching and judging.
I’m interested in the idea of success and what it means to you—your books have been longlisted, shortlisted and have won many awards, including the Queensland Literary Award and the ARA Historical Novel Prize. What is your relationship to these accolades, and do they influence your writing process at all?
I find that the idea of success always changes for me. I am constantly moving the goalposts for myself. Right now, I’d probably like a few more readers. But at the very beginning, I just wanted to be shortlisted in a short story competition, perhaps be published in a journal or anthology. Then, after that, I wanted a publisher to take on my novel, to have a cover for my book, to be in a bookshop, maybe get a nice review. And then there are the prizes and lists! I’ve been very lucky and it is incredibly encouraging and joyful to be listed but, also, I am well aware of the privilege of being noticed in such an incredibly competitive industry, let alone listed. So, I’m not sure it’s wise to have the possibility of awards influence my writing process—I can only write what I can, as well as I can. Deep down, I mostly want readers to like or be moved by what I write.
Do you have any advice for emerging writers of historical fiction?
My biggest advice would be to do a lot of research and know the period or event or character you’re writing inside out, BUT do not use it all. You need to know it, but only use what serves the story. Read around what you want to write, attend workshops and listen to writers you admire on their own process, if you can.
Also just generally, as a writer, you really need to persevere. It’s a glacially slow industry in many ways and I know it can be very disheartening. We have all received (and continue to receive) the email that says, ‘Thank you for your submission, but unfortunately…’, but you need to keep writing.
When you send something off to a competition or publisher, start working on something new while you’re waiting for a reply. I always think of [fellow author] Nigel Featherstone’s wise words on his website under ‘kindling’: ‘When something good happens with your writing practice, you have 24 hours to celebrate: drink champagne, eat French Camembert, dance naked to terrible pop music in the lounge-room—but then you have to keep going. When something bad happens with your writing practice, you have 24 hours to commiserate: drink whiskey, kick furniture, cry—but then you have to keep going.’
Who are you inspired by?
When I was doing my PhD, I was sharing an office with Laura Elvery, who is a master of short fiction, and she inspired me to try write shorter fiction. It was around then that I also came across Maxine Beneba Clarke’s collection of short fiction, Foreign Soil, which really left an impression on me, and made me think deeper about what I wanted to write about and how I could write about those things.
On a looser, bigger scale, earlier writers such as Amy Tan and Maxine Hong Kingston were inspirational in that they represented Asian writers who were successful in a period when their type of fiction or work was much rarer. They showed that you could write about the Asian experience and that the work would be embraced on a large scale. Now, I am inspired by really beautiful writing. I won’t name names, but I read at a more sentence-level now than I have ever before.
On a day-to-day basis (which is actually the most important, when you have to fulfil your bloody word count every tedious day), it’s my very supportive, brilliant writer friends who inspire me to try write the best I can. I love them.
What are you listening to?
I enjoy listening to podcasts on writing. Recently I listened to a New Yorker conversation with George Saunders about Claire Keegan’s short story ‘So Late in the Day’. I love podcasts like The First Time, The Bookshelf and The Garret.
Listening to book or writing podcasts is always a bit like when I attend a workshop or listen to an author panel—I always walk away with a new little spark of inspiration for my own work. Also, dare I say it, I’ve been listening to a lot of Taylor Swift in preparation for attending her concert next year with my daughters.
What are you reading?
Recently, I read Deborah Levy’s August Blue, which I loved, so now I’ve moved onto her non-fiction Things I Don’t Want to Know. Later in the year I will be giving a workshop on novella writing, so I am reading Ottessa Moshfegh’s novella, McGlue. I’ve also been judging pieces and manuscripts for a couple of emerging writers’ competitions and, honestly, there are so many beautiful stories and such great talent out there.
How do you practise self-care? You often immerse yourself in time periods that were traditionally unkind to people of colour, and this must exact a toll in some way.
The very best self-care practice I know of is spending time with my beloved family or friends. I find it very special and restorative to be surrounded by those who you can immediately connect with about life, ideas or books, and who you can laugh with over a yummy meal.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
I feel privileged to be descended from such a diverse family of immigrants, from Ireland and England to Indonesian and China (and probably, hopefully, other places too). I love having lots of little puzzle pieces to my life and outlook that I am still unravelling and appreciating. The food! The variety of delicious food I get to enjoy! And, mostly, I feel especially grateful for the life and work I get to carry out on beautiful Jagera and Turrbal country.
Find out more
Interview by Sonia Nair
Photographs by Tammy Law