‘Never again’: What Melissa Lucashenko says after writing each book

Each week, Benjamin Law asks public figures to discuss the subjects we’re told to keep private by getting them to roll a die. The numbers they land on are the topics they’re given. This week, he talks to Melissa Lucashenko. The Walkley- and Miles Franklin Award-winning writer, 58, is the author of novels including Mullumbimby and Too Much Lip. Her latest novel, Edenglassie, a work of historical fiction, has won seven major literary awards.

Melissa Lucashenko: “Everything’s political. You’re either for the status quo or against it, and both are political positions.”Credit: Paul Harris

DEATH

When was the last time you felt mortal? About two hours ago walking around in the heat of the small NSW Northern Rivers town where I live. It’s, like, 99  per cent humidity. I get heatstroke with complete regularity every summer.

Do you really? [Laughs, nodding] It’s shocking. My mum’s Aboriginal; my dad’s from the snowy wastes of Siberia. I’ve got the Siberian internal thermostat.

When was the last time you felt immortal? I think everyone’s immortal in a general sense. I’m basically Buddhist and think that while the individual dies, we’re all part of the whole and, therefore, none of us ever completely dies, which ties in with Aboriginal beliefs, too.

Your body of work will outlive you. How do you feel about that? I reckon all writers are trying to cheat death. There’s a very close and clear connection between a fear of death, a fear of not being heard and a fear of being silenced – not just in your lifetime, but forever.

Given your recent stretch of prizes and accolades, can you die happy? I’ve written the books that I want to write, that were important for me to write. But I’m also one of hundreds of thousands of people who are trying to nudge the world in a different direction. I was at Rising Tide [Newcastle’s anti-fossil fuel protests]; there’s massive, unfinished business in terms of climate change. There’s also two centuries’ worth of unfinished business that Australia needs to come to terms with. Are we going to be a community of thieves or something better?

When you die, what’s going on the tombstone? ”Out of print.”

BODIES

What do you dislike about your body at the moment? I’m not impressed that I can’t walk far: I’m too heavy. I can’t walk more than a “k” or two without pain, and that’s been the case for a while. I’ve also been diagnosed with a thing called bipolar II, a milder version of the classic bipolar. By any standard measure, I’m disabled, but that’s a label I’m still trying to wrap my head around.

What do you like about your body? I try to focus on what I can do. I’m in a choir. I can stand. I go to the gym, which is really important.

How is writing good for your health? It’s bad for my mental health: it’s such a solitary occupation. You’re in a room on your own with your imagination and your laptop. Every time I finish a book, I say, “That’s it! Never again. I’m going to go and work at Kmart or something.”

How is writing good for your health? Well, it pays the bills – mine and other people’s.

What’s a skill you’re grateful to have? Whenever I watch TV and people are trapped in a car or house, I think: “If that was me, I’d be able to punch or kick my way through the window, wall or door.”

That’s amazing. You’re like She-Hulk! [Laughs] I don’t feel like I’d be easily trapped because of my karate skills [Lucashenko has a black belt]. Whenever I imagine being in a flooded car, I think, “Yes, I could smash my way out.”

When was the last time you were naked that didn’t involve showering or sex? The last time I jumped in our creek, desperately trying to avoid being bitten by horseflies.

POLITICS

“All writing is political.” Discuss. Everything’s political. You’re either for the status quo or against it, and both are political positions.

Is writing especially political by default when you’re a First Nations woman? I’d push back against the idea that only radical change is political. Conservatism is political. Being reactionary is political. Wanting some people to remain oppressed is as political as wanting a treaty or a socialist economy. It’s the three-card trick: “Look at all those people being political over there, while I sit here and enjoy my wealth, power and privilege. But let’s not call that political.” It’s the biggest con job ever pulled.

Tell me about the political seeds of Edenglassie. Well, I fondly imagined that the bicentenary of white Brisbane would be a thing, in the same way that the national bicentenary was in 1988. But it appears that it’s either going to be ignored or celebrated by the [state] government by locking up even more Aboriginal children.

This will be published on the January 26 long weekend. What would you like readers to reflect on? All my books are about trying to undo the stereotypes of British imperialism. It’s laughable the way that Australians cling to the ideas of the 19th century – or they’d be laughable if they weren’t so dangerous. In a way, my books are a mirror. It’s very convenient to believe the bullshit of white history, and there’s a very seductive narrative around victim-blaming in Australia.

What’s your take on the Voice referendum’s “No” vote? Two things. It’s important to remember that 40 per cent of people voted “Yes”. Almost half the country are people of goodwill who want a better Australia. The other thing is, no one thought that the republic had to be shelved forever because that referendum failed in 1999. In terms of the 60 per cent who voted “No”, I’m sure that a vast number of those people were simply scared or ignorant rather than viciously racist. Australians don’t know what’s happened here; they don’t know their own history. And when they do know, they very often change their minds.

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