Antarctica

My latest mistake and what I learned from it

Dianeby Diane
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Earlier this year, I decided to hire a writing coach.

My decision came after a year of working on my book alone. A year of filling notebooks with scenes and anecdotes. Of making no real progress. I was tired of trying to figure it all out on my own, so I went looking for someone who could help me get a manuscript written.

After some Googling and asking around, I found a coach who seemed like the right fit. She was friendly, engaging and professional – a twenty-year veteran of the publishing industry with a string of published clients who say she’s amazing. After an initial consultation, I got a good feeling. I signed up to work with her for two months.

Things started well.

First, she told me to draw up a book structure. I did, and it got a big thumbs up. Then I wrote my first two chapters and sent them to her for review. I anxiously waited for her feedback, not sure if what I’d written was any good. I needn’t have been worried.

‘Your story is compelling and well told,’ she replied. I relaxed, overcome with relief. I got straight back to writing, producing a mind-boggling two chapters, or 10,000 words, per week. Her positive reviews kept coming, peppered with some minor queries and suggestions.

‘This is a solid draft,’ my coach told me about a third of the way in. She assured me that my manuscript would require only one round of minor revisions before it was ready for publication.

I was thrilled. After a year of doodling in notebooks I was finally making progress. When we hit the halfway mark, and my coach asked if I wanted to keep going, I gave her a big thumbs up. I could see the finish line now and I didn’t want to stop.

Which may explain why I ignored a few red flags.

The main one concerned my story, which was turning out to be more of a travelogue than a memoir – a chronological account of what I did and saw with no real storyline. I began to wonder if perhaps I hadn’t thought this book structure through enough. When I raised my concerns with my writing coach, she told me not to worry.

‘Your book can be both a travelogue and a memoir’, she told me. According to her, all I had to do was insert a few pages here and there telling the reader how I was feeling, and I’d have myself a memoir.

I wasn’t entirely convinced. But after a year of working on my own and getting nowhere, I figured I should keep an open mind. Did I also mention how thrilled I was to see the finish line?

The closer I got to the end, the more wildly those red flags began flapping in my face. My story had no narrative arc. No character development. No tension to resolve. No ah-ha moment to get my readers fist-pumping into the air. I started wondering what I’d paid my writing coach thousands of dollars for.

When I finished the draft, I sent it to a friend to read, just to be sure I wasn’t being too self-critical. When her feedback arrived, my heart sank. ‘Sorry to sound harsh,’ she wrote. ‘I’m only reading this because you’re a dear friend.’

Things didn’t end well with my writing coach.

She was fine when I told her I was cutting our time short because I needed to go find someone else to help me get a handle on my book. She wasn’t so fine when I asked for a partial refund. All of a sudden her tone changed from ‘I just want you to be satisfied’ to ‘I fulfilled the terms of the contract.’

For a while I felt terrible – mad at myself for wasting money, upset at how our relationship had ended, and disheartened by the thought of starting my book again from scratch. I took some time off to lick my wounds and come up with a new plan.

I also reflected on what had happened and what I’d learned from the experience. Some of the lessons were so obvious I kicked myself for not realising them sooner.

For a start, I should have chosen a writing coach who specialises in memoir.

When I’d asked my writing coach about her experience with memoir, she told me she’d worked on several ‘memoir-like’ books. I realise now that that wasn’t good enough. I should have chosen someone who knows the genre inside out.

Before I agreed to work with her, I should have read her clients’ books. Instead of just taking her word for it (and theirs too) I should have checked out their final products and judged for myself.

And I should have chosen a coach who publishes with major publishing companies and whose clients do too. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve read some good self-published books. But most self-published books out there wouldn’t make it past a publishing company’s slush pile. Which possibly explains why my coach, whose clients mostly self-publish, let me get away with mediocre.

A few months after the bust up, I enrolled in a writing class – an introduction to memoir with a teacher who satisfied all of my new criteria. It was time to go back to basics, I decided. To stop trying to rush to the finish line. To slow down and learn my craft.

This time, I wasn’t disappointed. I found a teacher who challenges her students to see past the particularities of their lives; to tell a universal story that others will want to read. I’ll write more about that in a future post.

By no means was my first coaching experience a complete waste of time and money. Like most relationships that go sour, there were good bits too.

I’d wanted someone to help me get a manuscript written and that’s precisely what I got. I have a first draft, which is a start. Finally, a score on the board.

Even though I won’t use much of it, my first draft is far from useless. Sometimes you have to try the things that don’t work to find the things that do. I gained a whole lot of clarity and it will show in the second draft.

I came out of this experience with a strong sense of certainty too. After I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I asked myself a question.

Do I want to keep doing this? Do I want to keep writing a book that has already taken longer than I expected it to and may take years more?

The answer came easily.

Yes.

Why I’m Writing a Memoir

Dianeby Diane
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I didn’t plan to write a memoir.

When I first decided to write a book – to submit to the yearning of my whimsical inner voice – I never dreamed I’d write a personal story. If I was going to do something as indulgent as writing a book, it would have to be scholarly and informative. So, I hatched a brilliant to plan to write a PhD thesis about Antarctica and turn that into a book. I almost pulled it off.

In March 2013, I enrolled in a PhD program at the Australian National University with three fantastic scholars as my mentors. After a few months of reading and pondering, I chose my topic: the history of Antarctic tourism.

Off I went, to research and write my heart out. I collected archival documents, read personal accounts, and interviewed pioneer tour operators. A story began to form. One by one, chapters were written. Four and a bit years later, in May 2017, I submitted my PhD thesis, a 75,000-word manuscript with over 500 footnotes.

Violà! I have the first draft of my book.

Within a month of submission, I’d attracted the interest of a university publisher in the US. All I had to do was turn my thesis into a book and I’d be a published author. I could tick ‘write a book’ off my to-do list.

But something held me back.

While much of my PhD thesis reads like a book, I knew that transforming it from an almost-book to an actual book required more than a minor edit. Sections would need to be removed and new ones added, which would require more work and more academic writing. I wasn’t sure I had it in me. I remember confessing to a friend that I’d be happy if I never wrote another academic word in my life.

Meanwhile, my whimsical inner voice had more to say on the matter. Over the course of four years of documenting and writing other people’s stories, I felt a growing desire to write about my own experiences. I was also encouraged by the interest of others. Whenever I gave a talk on my research, questions would inevitably turn from the academic to the personal.

‘What was it like?’ everyone from university professors to retired farmers would ask me about my travels in Antarctica.

By the time I’d finished my PhD, my plan to turn my thesis into a book was under threat by my longing to write something far more personal – a story straight from the heart about what I’d learned on my voyages to the ends of the earth. But whenever I flirted with the idea of writing a memoir, a flood of resistance followed.

‘Why did I spend all those years doing a PhD?’ I’d ask myself. ‘Am I really going to let all that work go to waste?’

In an attempt to be resourceful, I came up with a new plan. I’d do both. I’d weave my personal experiences into the broader history of Antarctic tourism. It would be a story within a story, each one enriching the other. I’d be granting my inner voice its wish without wasting my thesis. Problem solved!

For months, I sketched up different versions of this two-storied book. First, I tried telling the two stories simultaneously, with alternating chapters. Then I tried a three-part approach, whereby the first part was for history, the second part for my story, and the third part for bringing the two together. No matter what I tried, the stories were weakened rather than strengthening by each other. Finally, I conceded that it wasn’t working. Finally, I let my thesis go.

The resistance didn’t stop there. When I began putting my experiences down on paper, I realised how exposed I felt, writing a full-blown memoir. I hadn’t just been holding onto my thesis for the sake of resourcefulness. I’d been hiding behind it; hunkering in its leeside out of harm’s way.

What was I afraid of?

Making a complete fool of myself for a start. Being called narcissistic, self-indulgent, self-absorbed, lacking self-awareness, annoying. Writing all about myself instead of something more important, like conservation, climate change or gender. Needlessly adding myself to an already saturated market of privileged white woman who travel to exotic places to find themselves. The list of fears goes on.

I’m told all writers struggle with fear. It’s one of the reasons so many people talk about writing a book instead of doing it. It also explains the hordes of writing gurus and their inspirational slogans: Someone needs your story! Action cures fear! Write it anyway! That list goes on too.

The fear never goes away, but nor does the desire to write my story and share it with the world. More specifically, I look forward to these three things:

I savour the thought of holding my book in my hands; tracing my thumb down its spine and flicking playfully through its pages. I’m endlessly curious to find out what my story looks like – how I’ll articulate what I learned and which scenes from my life I’ll choose to show it. And I’m excited for the experiences this book will make possible. The people and opportunities it will bring my way. The new adventures it will spark.

Forging on and finishing this book is also, in a way, the final chapter of my story. If I learned anything on my travels to the ends of the earth, it’s that sometimes you have to let go of your brilliant plan in order to make space for something even better. I planned to write a scholarly book but that whimsical inner voice knew best. And I now know better than to ignore it.

So, I keep going. I write it anyway.

P.S. My PhD thesis is available here.

A Love Letter to the Antarctic Treaty

Dianeby Diane
• • 4 Comments

This week, I would have been in Helsinki attending the 43rd Antarctic Treaty Consultative Meeting. Here’s a taste of what I’m missing.

I attended my first Antarctic Treaty Consultative Meeting (ATCM) ten years ago in Uruguay. It was early May and Punta del Este’s white, sandy beaches were all but empty, the resort town drifting from a swarming summer to a sleepy winter.

In the days leading up the meeting, a large, empty ballroom in the town’s hotel-casino was transformed into a stage for international diplomacy. Dozens of country flags were draped from the ceiling. Tables, chairs and interpreters’ booths were installed. Also, a podium, from which Uruguay’s President, José Mujica, would make his opening speech.

On the first day of the meeting, I watched as diplomats, scientists, international lawyers and government officials filled the meeting room. After many handshakes, they took their place at a large U-shaped table, sitting directly behind the name and flag of the country they represented. Then, as a voice from somewhere in the room called for their attention, they quickly put on headsets and fiddled with dials, tuning in to the language of their choice.

Practically invisible in the corner of the room, I sat tall at my station, my hands floating just above my keyboard in readiness. I didn’t have a country name or flag on the table in front of me. Just a nameplate with the word ‘Rapporteurs’ written across it.

A rapporteur is a person appointed to report on the proceedings of a meeting. It’s a French word so it sounds kind of fancy. As you might be able to tell, it feels kind of fancy too.

For the duration of the two-week ATCM, rapporteurs sit quietly in our corner of the meeting room, recording debates and decisions about Antarctica and its future. We work in pairs, recording 90 minutes of discussion before disappearing out back to summarise our notes while another pair takes our place in the meeting room. We do this day after day, switching between shifts of notetaking and summarising, for as long as the delegates keep talking.

On the last day of the meeting, our report is projected onto big screens around the meeting room. The delegates carefully read through each of our paragraphs – over 300 of them – and no one goes home until they all agree on every word. Report Adoption is the rapporteur’s moment of truth. How well did we do? It’s never easy to tell but the hour at which the meeting ends gives some indication.

I’ve been to every annual ATCM since my first in Uruguay ten years ago. While the drama of tight deadlines and watching 300 people collectively scrutinise my work is thrilling, it’s not the only thing that brings me back.

Like most of those 300 or so people in the meeting room, I believe in the Antarctic Treaty and what it stands for. Peace, science, cooperation. Stewardship over ownership. Collaboration over competition. The Antarctic Treaty is a big, idealistic vision of the world as it ought to be.

Then there’s the travel. ATCMs move around every year, their hosts rotating in alphabetical order by country name. Since Uruguay, there’s been Argentina, Australia, Belgium, Brazil, Bulgaria, Chile, China, Argentina again, and the Czech Republic last year. This year was Finland’s turn but a pandemic had something else to say about that.

Finally, there is the rapporteur team, a group of talented thinkers, doers and writers, and the few people in the world who get my Antarctic Treaty jokes. Team members have changed over the years, but each meeting brings together a harmonious mix of seasoned veterans, capable sophomores and bright-eyed beginners.

Together, we spend long days and nights dissecting discussions and agonising over whether ‘Many Parties’ or only ‘Some Parties’ agreed to a particular proposal. Together, we occupy a world of diplomatic language, which is formal and reserved, and is always – no matter what anyone might think sounds better – written in past tense. Together, we double- and triple-check the spelling of Colombia, because we all remember that year we misspelled Colombia.

Rapporteurs eat together, exercise together, and make weekend plans that sound either fun or scary, depending on your point of view. I still feel slightly irresponsible for organising a self-guided walk along an unrestored section of the Great Wall of China. Even the taxi driver seemed nervous for us. But the 45-minute up-hill scramble wasn’t so bad, and after an hour on the wall, I was certain we were going the right way. It’s little wonder they promoted me to chief rapporteur (I know, the words just get fancier).

Who knows what the 43rd ATCM in Helsinki might have brought. Which topics might have sparked lengthy debate, and which might have sailed straight to agreement. How many paragraphs we’d get right and how many would get smothered in red marker on adoption day. What Finnish-flavoured adventures we’d have thrown ourselves into.

I’m disappointed that this year’s ATCM was cancelled and that I’m sitting here right now blogging in my bedroom rather than traipsing around Helsinki. Still, it’s nice to pause and reflect on ATCMs gone by – to be grateful that they exist and that I get to be part of them. It’s also helpful to look ahead, both to the future and to the next host country.

Cycling the Loire Valley. Now that sounds like fun.