Photo by Leah Jing McIntosh
Shu-Ling Chua is a Melbourne-based essayist, critic and poet, whose work has appeared in Peril Magazine, Lindsay, Meanjin, Sine Theta, and Asian American Writers’ Workshop, among others. She tweets at @hellopollyanna.
Her debut essay collection, Echoes, gathers small joys, from a figure-hugging ‘disco dress’ to learning to sing Koo Mei’s ‘Bu Liao Qing’ to the swish of washing machines, and asks: what does one unknowingly inherit? It was published by Somekind Press in 2020 and is available in New Zealand at Food Court Books.
How did you first start writing – and do you remember your first published piece?
I started writing memoir in my early twenties for a few reasons. Firstly, my day job was unfulfilling. I needed a creative outlet and new goals. Secondly, it was a way to work through personal questions. I remember reading personal essays that changed my life; I wanted to change lives too.
I made my blog public and submitted to local publications. At that time, I lived in Canberra, Australia’s capital and a relatively small city. My first published piece of memoir was about my first relationship. It was also the first in a series of essays I’d come to write about sex, culture and gender.
There is an openness to your writing that seems fearless: you write what others would be afraid to approach, often around themes of sex, race and gender. Have you ever felt hesitant to ‘go there’? And if so, how do you get past this?
I needed to write those pieces about sex, race and gender. They were personally urgent. Few Asian-Australians write about sex so I wrote into this gap, hoping to make someone feel less alone. I don’t regret writing my ‘sex essays’ but after a while, I was ready for new stories and challenges.
In a draft of ‘Through the Looking Glass’, I wrote my first orgasm as a short scene. Later, I just made fleeting reference to it because the details weren’t critical to the reader. What was critical was the fact that it took place between the first and second time I saw M. I like this advice from Larissa Pham:
‘I try to write from a place of considering my role in a relationship—what I did, what I felt, how I was reacting to things. I don’t like to make characters of my lovers—I deliberately try not to flesh them out. I don’t want people to know what they look like or what they do. Because the work isn’t about them as people—it’s about more abstract things, like desire, and communication (or the impossibility of communication) and obsession and things like that.’
You often write in a memoir-style, about people you know, which famously can be fraught. What have your experiences been with writing about real people in your life – have they always been happy with the results? Have any of these experiences changed your approach?
In the past, I wrote about men who I never saw again, like exes or one-night stands. Mum didn’t like me writing about sex. She read my early work, but I’ve kept recent pieces from her.
When it comes to writing memoir, you need to be able set aside what people might think or how they might feel. You don’t need to share every detail, but you do need to be honest about why you’re writing a piece and portray others and yourself accordingly. Draft freely, then decide whether you’ll publish it and if so, what to edit, add or take out. It’s okay to write something for just yourself.
In an interview with Liminal, you described your essay collection Echoes as ‘a collection of small joys’. What other writing on joyful things (big or small) has been important to you?
I love the way Durga Chew-Bose writes about her favourite films and art. There is such joy and wonder in her essay collection, Too Much and Not the Mood, as well as melancholy. I remember pausing every few pages for her words to sink in. Writers from marginalised backgrounds are often expected to write about trauma, pain, tragedy and sadness. It is important to acknowledge joy too.
Lyric essays can be hard to pin down. Often there are multiple or fragmented strands at play that as a writer you need to keep track of and juggle. How do you approach the structure of a creative essay? Do you have any tips for young writers?
I don’t tend to think about structure until I’m well into a draft. That is, I need the puzzle pieces before I can put them together. This means jotting down notes, sifting through for the most urgent ideas, and repeating this process until I have enough material. It can take years to find my way into an essay. I started taking notes on the Crazy Rich Asians soundtrack in late 2018 but didn’t write the essay until 2020, when I discovered old Chinese pop songs on YouTube and showed them to Mum.
Lyric essays should still flow and possess some sort of ‘logic’. It’s helpful to print tricky essays, cut them up and shuffle sections around. If I’m uncertain about deleting a section, I save it in a separate document. Trust your instincts and don’t be afraid to experiment! A draft is a living, breathing thing.
You were previously a non-fiction editor for Voiceworks, which is the Australian journal that Starling was essentially modelled on: publishing work by young writers. What did you learn from that editorial experience and how has it helped your own writing?
I edited Voiceworks in 2016, which feels like a lifetime ago! It’s a privilege to be the first person to read a writer’s draft. The role of an editor is not to impose one’s style or voice but to work with a writer to tease out their intent, thus deepening and expanding a piece to its full potential. As a baby editor, it can be scary to suggest significant edits. Don’t be timid but do be kind.
The best editing experiences I’ve had, as a writer and editor, have felt like a dialogue, a partnership. Editing taught me the difference between an okay pitch and an outstanding pitch. When pitching, you need to explain why you, why this publication and why now. What unique angle do you bring? For more tips, Voiceworks has put together excellent guides to being edited, submitting and pitching.
You are a huge champion of New Zealand writing. In your review of Sharon Lam’s Lonely Asian Woman, you introduce your connections to New Zealand writing, and particularly the Chinese-New Zealand writing community. What differences do you see between the Australian and New Zealand writing industries? What future connections or interactions between the two would you like to see develop?
My sense is our writing industries are more alike than different. I visited Auckland and Wellington very briefly for writers festivals and I was struck by how most people, even Pākehā, could speak a few lines of Māori. There seemed to be a willingness to engage with New Zealand’s colonial history, compared to the reluctance of white Australians. Both countries continue to grapple with racism, inequalities and injustices.
While we’re seeing shifts towards more diverse, inclusive literary communities, progress is slow. Online literary journals, blogs, zines and new publishing models are shifting power away from institutions. That said, we need to beware of recreating the status quo. I think back to Franny Choi envisioning literary citizenship as ‘a kind of belonging to the literary world that’s in a dynamic tension bent toward justice–that pushes and pulls and is pushed toward making something better’.
I do feel kinship with the Chinese-New Zealand writing community and really admire Chris Tse, Nina Mingya Powles, Rose Lu, Sharon Lam, Rosabel Tan and Vanessa Mei Crofskey. In recent years, Emerging Writers’ Festival and National Young Writers’ Festival have featured New Zealand writers. I think there are opportunities for more joint events, online and in person (when we’re allowed to travel again) and joint publications. I’d also love to see local bookshops stock more books and literary journals from New Zealand.
Which New Zealand authors have caught your attention recently? And which Australian authors do you think New Zealand readers should be looking out for?
Starling and The Pantograph Punch are fabulous introductions to New Zealand writing. I really like Food Court Books and Sport. Sport 47, edited by Tayi Tibble, is sooo good!! I love Magnolia 木蘭 by Nina Mingya Powles and am super-excited for her essay collection, Small Bodies of Water.
Closer to home, I’m looking forward to Dropbear by Evelyn Araluen and The Shape of Sound by Fiona Murphy. For poetry, I love blur by the by Cham Zhi Yi and When I die slingshot my ashes onto the surface of the moon by Jennifer Nguyen. For essays and short stories, I recommend Blueberries by Ellena Savage, Smart Ovens for Lonely People by Elizabeth Tan and Portable Curiosities by Julie Koh. For comics, I love Rachel Ang and Kim Lam. Finally, Unpolished Gem by Alice Pung, which I first read over a decade ago, inspired me to become a writer.
What has your experience of the Covid-19 pandemic been like in Melbourne? Has it changed what or how you write?
I’m very lucky to be living with my parents and brother and have been working from home since March. For a while, I checked the news constantly. I donated to mutual aid funds but still felt guilty about not doing enough. Eventually, I learnt to take each day at a time. Not being able to travel beyond a 5km radius felt like living in the times of our great-great-grandparents. Even in December, when restrictions were eased, I felt hesitant about catching up in person. In January, I went to a friend’s 42nd birthday. It made me realise how much my world had shrunk, in some ways willingly.
I don’t think the pandemic changed what or how I write but it did shape Echoes, the essay collection I wrote and published last year. I wrote about seeking balm in small rituals, like drinking hot water. Drinking hot water is such an Asian aunty thing. Before last winter, I didn’t understand the appeal.
What have been your favourite writing festivals and why? In a pandemic or post-pandemic world, what sort of writing events or connections would you like to see?
Every year, I discover new writers to fangirl over at the Emerging Writers’ Festival and National Young Writers’ Festival. Other favourites include Noted Writers’ Festival, Red Dirt Poetry Festival, Hong Kong International Literary Festival, and of course, Verb Wellington! My favourite festivals are warm, nourishing, encouraging, experimental, interactive and fun. Artists, audience and festival organisers are equals and there is a feeling of kinship, generosity and exchange.
I’d love to see more events or collaborative projects with interstate and overseas writers, particularly New Zealand, Oceanian, Pasifika and Asian writers. I’ve been attending overseas events online and hope this continues in a post-pandemic world. It’s exciting to see projects like the Writers Immersion and Cultural Exchange Program (WrICE), In This Desert, There Were Seeds, a recent anthology of Western Australian and Singaporean writing, and Portside Review, a new journal from and for the Indian Ocean. I’d love to see more multilingual events and events on literary translation.
We’re in awe of your writing productivity, especially given that you hold a demanding job in policy. How do you balance your writing life with paid work?
When I first started writing, I worked full-time. A few years ago, I changed to four days a week. The financial stability means I’m able to pick my projects and work on longer pieces at my own pace. I write late at night, on my day off and on weekends. I try to plan my writing around busy periods at work. Say no to projects if you’re not interested or have too much on. Agree on a reasonable deadline with your editor and let them know as soon as possible if you need more time. Writing residencies can be a good way to carve out dedicated writing time. Importantly, you’re writing even if you’re not physically writing. Live your life, observe, and take notes!
What will you be working on this year?
I’m hoping to make zines and continue to work slowly towards a full-length essay collection. I want to write essays on windows, Tove Jansson (one of my favourite writers), Ruan Lingyu (a brilliant Chinese silent film actress), bathtubs, yearning, seduction, citrus fruit, white dresses, music and films.