reading

Non-Required Reading: Redux

/ Siobhan O'Dwyer

A few years ago I wrote a post about the importance of reading for pleasure in academia and suggested a non-required reading list for PhD students. The basic premise was that although great writing comes from great reading, great reads are rarely found in academic journals. Instead, if students want to write well, they need to immerse themselves in quality fiction, narrative non-fiction, essays, feature writing, memoir, and poetry. In short, phrasebanks are not the answer to poor academic prose, Shakespeare is!

There’s been a lot of interest in my Non-Required Reading List recently, so I thought I would revisit it. But rather than making the list prescriptive, as I did last time, I thought I would offer a simple framework and a list of resources. This would give students and supervisors more flexibility in how they approach the list and allow the resources to grow over time as I discover and remember other great reads (or you suggest them!).

Framework
Every month you should aim to read four long-form articles of your choice from Long Reads, The Atlantic, or Mosaic, and one quality work of fiction, non-fiction, or poetry.

Resources
Fiction:

Non-Fiction:

Poetry:

 

Can you recommend other great reads that should be added to the Resources? Or have you got feedback on how you or your students have used the Non-Required Reading List? Leave me a comment!

 

Care: A Reading List

/ Siobhan O'Dwyer

There’s a piece of street art in my home town that says “The more I think about it, the bigger it gets”. I was reminded of it during a recent visit to Keele University when a conversation with colleagues turned to recreational reading. I always have a book on the go and I’ve written before about the importance of good reading for good academic writing, but the conversation at Keele made me realise how much my recreational reading overlaps with my professional interests, particularly my interest in care. And it’s not deliberate, it’s just that once you start thinking about care, you see it everywhere. The more you think about it, the bigger it gets.

Not everything I’ve read, however, has been good. I’ve read many books that, while undoubtedly cathartic for the author to write, should never have been published for general consumption. So I wanted to celebrate the good books. The books that are both beautifully written and true to the experiences of carers (both family & professional). The books that expand your mind and tear at your heart. The books that I regularly recommend to friends, strangers, students, and colleagues.

I hope to continue to add to this list over time, as I read new books and remember old ones, but I’d also welcome your suggestions. What’s the best thing you’ve read that explores the concept of care?

—

Five Days at Memorial by Sheri Fink

Home is Burning by Dan Marshall

Shtum by Jem Lester

The Girls from Corona del Mar by Rufi Thorpe

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Bettyville by George Hodgman

The Spare Room by Helen Garner

The Unspeakable by Meghan Daum

—

 

Non-Required Reading

/ Siobhan O'Dwyer

When I was traveling in the US last year I picked up The Best American Non-Required Reading 2014. I love compilation books, but it was the phrase ‘non-required’ in the title of this one that really piqued my interest.

I’ve long believed that (a) great writers are great readers and (b) great reads are rarely found in academic journals. And, with this in mind, I’ve often fantasised about creating a reading list for PhD students that would improve their academic writing by introducing them to a range of quality fiction, narrative non-fiction, essays, feature writing, and poetry.

Of course some academics would argue that if a PhD student has time to read for pleasure, they’re not working hard enough. But I think this is a dangerous attitude. Most PhD students struggle with writing and the majority of supervisors have neither the time nor the skills to offer meaningful guidance. Encouraging students to read widely and read well is a fast and effective way to improve their writing. It’s also a powerful way to promote the sort of work-life balance practices that are essential to surviving life as an academic! (And if that weren’t convincing enough, there’s also the fact that intellectual cross-pollination of exactly this sort has been responsible for some serious scientific breakthroughs!)

The only real problem I can see is how to narrow down the list. There are so many fantastic things to read and most PhDs only take three years. But I had a bit of time this week and I thought I’d at least have a go. So here, for your consideration, is my draft Non-Required Reading List for PhD Students.

Year One
Every Month: 4 articles of your choosing from LongReads, The Atlantic, or Mosaic
January: To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
February: Franklin and Eleanor: An Extraordinary Marriage by Hazel Rowley
March: Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill
April: Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O’Neill
May: The Best Australian Essays (your choice of year)
June: People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
July: The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart by Ruth Behar
August: Cloud Street by Tim Winton
September: Shakespeare on Love edited by Michael Kerrigan
October: Little Black Book of Stories by A.S. Byatt
November: Joe Cinque’s Consolation by Helen Garner
December: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque

Year Two
Every Month: 4 articles of your choosing from Long Reads, The Atlantic, or Mosaic
January: The Small Backs of Children by Lidia Yuknavitch
February: Tall Man: A Death in Aboriginal Australia by Chloe Hooper
March: Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese
April: An Opening: Twelve Love Stories About Art  by Stephanie Radok
May: My Age of Anxiety by Scott Stossel
June: A David Sedaris book of your choice
July: Electricity for Beginners by Michelle Dicinoski
August: On Beauty by Zadie Smith
September: The Best Australian Essays (your choice of year)
October: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
November: The Collected Stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle
December: All The Birds, Singing by Evie Wyld

Year Three
Every Month: 4 articles of your choice from LongReads, The Atlantic, or Mosaic
January: The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion by Meghan Daum
February: Eucalyptus by Murray Bail
March: The Beginner’s Guide to Winning the Nobel Prize by Peter Doherty
April: The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
May: Out to Lunch by Andy Kissane
June: We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
July: The Best Australian Essays (your choice of year)
August: The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl by Roald Dahl
September: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
October: The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker
November: Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea by Barbara Demick
December: Dear Committee Members by Julie Schumacher

Got other suggestions? Leave me a comment.

On Voyeurism and Tragedy

/ Siobhan O'Dwyer / 2 Comments

On a cool Friday night in downtown Brisbane, people gathered to hear a famous author speak. Predominantly middle-aged and middle class, the stylishly attired crowd talked amongst themselves about their favourite books and rushed forward when the doors opened, eager to sit near the front. They listened closely as the author spoke – laughing, sighing, gasping in shock. And when she finished, they queued and asked her to sign the inside cover of her latest work.

This was my first time at a Writers Festival and the whole thing made me deeply uncomfortable. Why? Because the author was Helen Garner and the book was This House of Grief, the true story of a man convicted of killing his three children by driving his car into a dam.

To be clear, I admire Garner. As a writer she has an amazing ability to capture the complexities and discomfort of life’s darkest moments.  But there was something voyeuristic about the crowd that came to hear her speak. This was their Friday night entertainment. They had dinner reservations afterwards. They wanted an autographed copy of the book!

As I caught the train home, I wondered what it was about homicides, suicides, and other tragic events that brought out the voyeur in people. What makes people trawl newspapers and websites looking for the ‘exclusive interview’ with the grieving widow? What makes them watch the ‘dramatic reenactment’ on prime time television? How are they able to set aside the fact that these are real people and put a bookmark in when it’s time to pick the kids up?

But perhaps I judge too harshly. Perhaps it isn’t voyeurism, but simply a desire to understand the darker parts of human nature. Perhaps, because we are often shielded from the darkness, people struggle to know how to express their interest or concern appropriately. Perhaps a Writers Festival is a safe space to discuss the issues with like-minded people. And yet, the autographs…

For my part, I was interested in Garner’s experience as a researcher and writer, and was hoping to find a connection with someone who’d been where I was. I had recently finished analysing data for a study of homicidal ideation, a follow-up to earlier research on suicide risk in family carers. When I’d listened to the recordings of the research interviews, I’d had to wash dishes, knit, or draw. The repetitive, physical tasks kept my body occupied while my mind swam in the tragedy. Without them, the flight-or-fight response would have kicked in and I’d have turned off the tapes. Unlike the voyeurs at the Writers Festival, I would have given anything to look away from the car crash.

When I bought my copy of This House of Grief, the bookseller made a point of telling me how traumatising I would find it; as if being traumatised was a badge of honour. When I told her I did trauma for a living, she clicked her tongue and moved on to the next customer. It was as if she’d invited me to an S&M club and when I told her I was the warden of a detention centre, I was the one who’d crossed the line.  I wondered if what the voyeurs want is just enough tragedy to be titillated. Just enough to get a whiff of the humanity, but not so much that they have to get their hands dirty. They want grief and trauma, but only if it doesn’t pull them too far out of their comfort zone. And perhaps this is why Garner’s books sell – because she’s already done the hard work.

But here’s the thing – I didn’t find This House of Grief traumatic. I just found it depressingly familiar. For those of us who work in this space – researchers, doctors, lawyers, journalists, social workers – the darkest moments are all too common. We see them daily. They aren’t titillating anecdotes to tell at the next dinner party, they are big issues that we will spend our careers trying to address. And when the voyeurs have moved on to the next book, the next Writers Festival, the next ‘award-winning two part series’, we will still be here. Not watching from a safe distance, with cocktail in hand, or reading on the couch with a cup of tea and a Kit Kat, but working in the trenches to support people and shine a light on the darkness.