Interview #118—Nathania Gilson
by Cher Tan
Nathania Gilson is a writer, editor, and multimedia producer. Her work has appeared in the Guardian, ABC, SBS, Kill Your Darlings, The Lifted Brow, Meanjin, and more.
Nathania speaks to Cher Tan about the responsibilities of editors and writers, the privilege in being able to create, and finding meaning in the work both within and outside of capitalism.
What does your reading journey look like?
I was lucky to be part of a family that always encouraged reading, and gaining access to knowledge—even when we were living in parts of the world where censorship and government regulation of the media was the norm.
We went on trips to local bookstores often. I spent many weekends searching for and reading articles in [the encyclopedia software] Encarta ‘95. I scoured the musty bookshelves of lending libraries and second-hand bookshops, and haunted the local newsagents.
I devoured the Goosebumps series (including those holographic-covered choose-your-own-adventure editions); the Harry Potter books; expedited issues of Smash Hits and Top of the Pops; the super pulpy World’s Greatest series; V.C. Andrews sagas; Archie comics, the Weetzie Bat novels… I wasn’t thinking about what was “good” or “bad” at the time, or assigning a higher value to one thing over another: I wanted to read it all. I didn’t want to limit what shaped the way I saw the world.
When I lived overseas, I was also lucky to have had teachers who always pushed us to have higher expectations of ourselves—to not think of English as our second language, but as our first: one that we could gain control over and speak fluently without sacrificing our native languages. The aim was to read and think critically about things that someone might assume were “beyond” our level of comprehension.
These days, I’m reading as much as I can: on my phone, on an e-reader, audiobooks, print books. Probably the biggest difference between the reading habits of my childhood self and my older self now are how much I read for work, as opposed to purely for pleasure. I’m reading to figure out the best questions to ask an author; to pinpoint how a short story or debut novel says something about the world we live in that often goes unacknowledged; to make a case for why someone’s work should be read by a wider audience.
Of course, I still read for the joy of it—to be dumbstruck by sentences, or floored by how a feeling I’ve struggled to put into words has appeared on a page in front of me, dreamt up by someone else whom I’ve never met before.
The writer Zan Romanoff once said, “Writers like to talk a big game about how we're very shy, how we just want to be left alone, but writing-—writing something you ask anyone else to read—is, unavoidably, a physically violent act. Like, other kinds of artists want you to see things, to hear them, but writers want to be the voice in your head; we want the deepest intimacy and the closest control.”
That thing of wanting to be the voice in someone's head, to seep into someone's subconscious so specifically—it’s a funny thing to spend your life chasing. It reminds of the Joan Didion quote, “The writer is always tricking the reader into listening to the dream”.
I dream of being able to go on long holidays where I just read all day: without looming deadlines, missed phone calls, or unread emails waiting to be replied to. It feels selfish yet necessary.
You’re also a multimedia artist and filmmaker. I’m just thinking of what the legendary writer-filmmaker Jonas Mekas once said: When you write, you could write about what you thought 30 years ago, where you went yesterday, or what you want for the future. Not so with the film. Film is now. What are your thoughts with regards to this sense of time within these two storytelling mediums? How do they inform each other for you?
Reading and filmmaking are both like time travel for me. So I disagree with Mekas in that sense: film doesn’t have to be now, either. It can be another decade past—or a vision for a future we haven’t reached yet.
As a film editor, I love being able to manipulate time. To decide what warrants the beginning, middle, or end of something. Whether a memory could be retold in jump cuts; if the uncomfortable-ness of the present warrants a long, unwavering single take.
I guess that’s what writing and filmmaking have in common. The ability to gain—and hold—someone’s attention. I’m thinking of that interview with Carin Bessar, who co-writes lyrics and co-produces documentaries with her partner from the band The National. She said, “When I read poems or listen to a song I love, I get very hung up on certain lines, especially lines I both don’t and do understand. I love that. But it’s not that impressive. It’s like being attracted to sequins.” It’s the same with me: I’m constantly looking for the sequins, be it tucked inside a film, a book, a song, whatever.
I was lucky to be part of a family that always encouraged reading, and gaining access to knowledge…
A full-time freelance writer and editor, you’ve spoken about money in the Emerging Writers’ Festival and elsewhere. Do you think that prioritising financial security is always in conflict with doing creative work? Are there advantages to it?
To me, there are two kinds of creativity: the kind where someone hires you to be yourself, and the kind where you’re hired to use your skills to solve a business problem. If you’re lucky, you might find somewhere that hires you to do both at the same time.
But more often than not, you might find yourself in the position of doing one thing over another. I remember telling a friend earlier this year about how I’d started doing more commercial work in the pursuit of financial security. And she replied, “Ah, you’re following the money!”
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing: following the money can also mean going somewhere where your skills are valued. Knowing you can make a living, even if your most idealistic creative ambitions aren’t being nourished or fulfilled.
So I keep my definition of “creative work” flexible. Am I learning something new? Am I progressing in my career? Am I working on projects that improve people’s lives, and help make information more accessible? Am I working with people in other disciplines who challenge my thinking, and encourage me to try new things? Am I able to have savings and think about taking days off, or delegating work, or using my free time to upskill or enjoy things completely unrelated to my industry or job? If I can answer yes to most of these questions, then it shouldn’t matter as much whether I’m working for a large corporation or a small arts organisation.
I think the most important thing is not to fall into the trap of having to monetise all your interests. Not every idea has to impress someone, build an audience, or become profitable. You can do things just for you, or make things without the aim of wanting to change the world, or shift the paradigm.
Choosing the creative path means often going down an unproven or unknown path. But sometimes, when there are no blueprints or instructions to follow, that’s an opportunity for you to do things on your own terms. So, whether you’re working a 9-to-5 and fitting in your dream projects on the weekends, or taking a risk and pursuing your passion full-time and trying to figure out what staying afloat looks like, the most important thing is not to burn out, or to be persuaded by someone else’s idea of success.
Choosing the creative path means often going down an unproven or unknown path.
But sometimes, when there are no blueprints or instructions to follow, that’s an opportunity for you to do things on your own terms.
As someone who’s both an editor and a writer, what does the ideal editor-writer relationship look like for you?
It’s funny because people often ask me which I prefer, or like best. It’s hard for me to separate the two! My brain doesn’t work that way. My standards or expectations for myself as a writer are higher now that I’ve trained as an editor. I’m also learning what it means to be efficient without sacrificing compassion as a writer who is rarely working alone, and who is often afforded opportunities to write because something I wanted to have exist in the world resonated with another person.
Also, I never want to forget how vulnerable, scary and exciting it is to be a writer who has a new idea to share, hoping it finds the right person at the right time in the right place. I never want to forget how much power and responsibility comes with being an editor who gets to make the final call on something.
As a writer, I’m looking for editors who are brave, generous, kind, risk-takers, collaborative, not one to fall back on assumptions or accepted narratives, encouraging, and who want to make your work the best it can possibly be (even despite looming deadlines, a growing workload, bigger life pressures, etc). Editors who encourage autonomy but are there to answer questions.
As an editor, I’m looking for writers who are curious, open to feedback, who have a story to tell or an opinion they need to share, ask questions, understand the necessity of deadlines, who take ownership of their work but realise that queries or edits are the start of a conversation, and not a monologue about whose work it actually is.
My biggest fear as both a writer and an editor are that good ideas die when there’s no one to see value in their earliest articulations, or defend them.
Find people who believe in you, even when you struggle to see the end point for yourself—as either a writer or an editor, you have to have a vision, and you have to have the skills to make that vision not just a reality, but one that you can share with other people.
Do you have any advice for emerging content producers?
My friend Jessica Stanley gave me this advice a few years ago, and I’ll pass it on to anyone who needs it: “Don't talk yourself down about your work. You don't have to preface anything you do with nervousness especially if it might seem “young”. You are young! But you feel, think and create beauty. So... you are legit. Don't apologise.”
People will often project insecurities, a lack of imagination, or something that just isn’t true onto you. It’s not your responsibility to fix them, or fall into a game of one-upping each other. Know yourself and keep moving forward.
If you like someone’s work, tell them. Some of my most formative relationships, professionally and personally, have come from not being afraid of telling someone I’m a fan of their work and/or what I admire about them.
Be interested. Especially in things—and people—that exist outside of the safe, familiar bubble we’ve all created for ourselves. It’s one thing to be technically proficient, another to be talented. And yet another to be good at understanding the unspoken rules of how the industry works and who’s who. But nothing can substitute being empathetic, curious, and having the courage to back yourself (and balancing that out with the drive to elevate and celebrate the hard work of others).
Also, everyone wants to give you advice (even when you haven’t asked for it). Only take guidance from people who’ve realised their own dreams, and are where you’d like to be someday. They know what it takes to get there.
My biggest fear as both a writer and an editor are that good ideas die when there’s no one to see value in their earliest articulations, or defend them.
Who are you inspired by?
So many writers, filmmakers, editors, producers, artists, poets, etc. who came before me. They made it possible for me to do the work I’m able to do.
The writer Jenny Zhang, who—when we spoke about the long history of writers, editors, poets in our families that came before us—said, “I’m often pained to think: why do I get to do this and not them? It feels so arbitrary that out of this long lineage of poets and artists who were never given a chance, I should be the one who was given hundreds of chances.”
What are you currently listening to?
It’s always in flux, and I’m discovering new things I become addicted to all the time. Lately, it’s been Carly Rae Jepsen, Lizzo, Charli XCX, Kim Petras, The 1975, Awkwafina, Sampa the Great.
What are you currently reading?
Supper Club by Lara Williams; Three Women by Lisa Taddeo; Salt by Bruce Pascoe. Fitzcarraldo Editions had a sale recently, so I nabbed copies of This Little Art by Kate Briggs; Vivian by Christina Hesselholdt; The Years by Annie Ernaux. I never have enough time to read all the things I want to read.
How do you practice self-care?
Small weekend rituals: waking up early, getting a treat from the vegan bakery in my neighbourhood, reading the paper, sitting in the sun. Dog spotting; dog patting. Indulging in skincare. A single scoop of freshly-made ice cream consumed on the walk to the train station after a long day at work.
Checking in with friends. Turning off my email and social media notifications. Saying no to things. Taking days off. Sleeping in. Doing all the things I normally do: making breakfast, Netflix, putting on an episode of a podcast or an audiobook, going for a walk, making a cup of tea, working at my desk—but not going on autopilot and trying to be present. Visiting a bookstore. Getting a haircut. Not worrying so much.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
Being Asian in Australia means never taking for granted the privileges and opportunities that are afforded to you as a citizen. It means understanding that you can be one thing “on paper” and another complex, nuanced, contradictory, whole person “in person”. It means knowing that your culture, your history and your lineage cannot simply be expressed in one word or even a neatly hyphenated identity. It means editors will sometimes ask you to write “about representation” because they think that’s a story you know how to tell, and it’s up to you to use that space to constantly challenge the monolithic narratives and stereotypes that push against you for oxygen, attention and time. It means not being ignorant to the history of First Nations people, and waking yourself up to their history. It means being tired, often, yet knowing the work is never really finished.
Being Asian in Australia means never taking for granted the privileges and opportunities that are afforded to you as a citizen.
It means understanding that you can be one thing “on paper” and another complex, nuanced, contradictory, whole person “in person”.
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Interview by Cher Tan
Photographs by Hashem McAdam