Ask the Author: Tess Evans
Answered Questions (12)
Tess Evans
From the depths of the swamp, from the deepest darkest past, rose the shape of man who whined, ranted, roared and finally tweeted his diseased thoughts to a waiting world. 'Be very, very afraid', tweeted the new President of the United States
Tess Evans
I guess I have to answer with my winter reading list. I aim to read at least five of the short-listed Booker Prize books. I'm not sure which ones yet. I also want to read another Tess, Tess Woods whose new novel will be released in July.
Tess Evans
How is this for a mystery? I was born a princess who because of an evil witch, was raised by humble but kindly folk in Clifton Hill. The mystery - Who were my parents? Even when my sister was born and there was a family resemblance, I refused to abandon belief in my royal origins. Now that’s the stuff stories are made of.
But I guess the question refers to a real mystery. OED definition: mystery: something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain. Logic –If I explain, it won't be a mystery any more.
The truth is that many of my life experiences appear in my books, transformed into something new. The alchemy of that is a mystery to me.
But I guess the question refers to a real mystery. OED definition: mystery: something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain. Logic –If I explain, it won't be a mystery any more.
The truth is that many of my life experiences appear in my books, transformed into something new. The alchemy of that is a mystery to me.
Tess Evans
This is not an easy question. On the whole I tend not to have favourite anythings. It that makes me look weak and indecisive, so be it. I'll discount Elizabeth and Darcy and Romeo and Juliet as too obvious and tell you about a fictional couple that intrigued and interested me. I am referring to Kent Haruf's Addie Moore and Louis Waters in his last novel 'Our Souls at Night'. These lovers are in their seventies and their story is tender, moving and achingly real. If their story lacks the bright turmoil of passion, it offers its own truth about the joy and pain of love.
May your Valentine's Day be filled with roses or at teh very least, someone to help with the dishes.
May your Valentine's Day be filled with roses or at teh very least, someone to help with the dishes.
Tess Evans
Hi Letitia
Thank you for your comments. I’m glad you enjoyed ‘Mercy Street.’ I guess if you live in Research you use the famous Eltham bookshop. We are so lucky to have such a great bookshop and library in our area.
In answer to your question, I do much of my research by interview but didn’t interview a childless couple for Mercy Street. You may have read the genesis of the book which involved a conversation between two women on the train, who were complaining loudly about their children. The old man who said ‘They don’t know how lucky they are’ became, in my imagination, the character George. The rest was to imagine why he said this and I decided that he was a childless man who had wanted children.
How I get into the head of my characters is a difficult question. I’m not entirely sure myself. The best I can say is I seem to live with them and they become more and more complex as I write their stories, all the while asking myself questions about them. How would they feel if…? How would they react to…? What, in their past, informs their future? To answer questions like these I suppose I utilise what I have learned about human nature over the years.
I hope this answers your question. If you need further clarification, please let me know.
Kind regards
Tess
Thank you for your comments. I’m glad you enjoyed ‘Mercy Street.’ I guess if you live in Research you use the famous Eltham bookshop. We are so lucky to have such a great bookshop and library in our area.
In answer to your question, I do much of my research by interview but didn’t interview a childless couple for Mercy Street. You may have read the genesis of the book which involved a conversation between two women on the train, who were complaining loudly about their children. The old man who said ‘They don’t know how lucky they are’ became, in my imagination, the character George. The rest was to imagine why he said this and I decided that he was a childless man who had wanted children.
How I get into the head of my characters is a difficult question. I’m not entirely sure myself. The best I can say is I seem to live with them and they become more and more complex as I write their stories, all the while asking myself questions about them. How would they feel if…? How would they react to…? What, in their past, informs their future? To answer questions like these I suppose I utilise what I have learned about human nature over the years.
I hope this answers your question. If you need further clarification, please let me know.
Kind regards
Tess
Tess Evans
Hello Elaine
Thank you for your question. it brought it all back. I only wrote one piece about the Inca Trail It seemed to include all that I needed to say. Here it is.
I spent fewer than eight hours in Henry’s company, but his story, offered with so much generosity, will continue influence my travels for many years to come.
Henry had the broad, smiling face typical of his country-men, and addressed us, quite naturally, as ‘my friends.’ He was polite and softly spoken, proud of his country and ever mindful of the power of its landscape. We gathered around him, shuffling impatiently in expensive walking shoes; digital cameras ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Ignoring our impatience, he settled down on a nearby rock to tell his tale.
‘My friends,’ he said. ‘I wish now to tell you a story. I am telling you this story so that you do not merely walk upon these mountains; that you do not merely look at them; I wish you to experience them in all their sacred mystery.
‘You are all on vacation and you are anxious to begin your walk and photograph our beautiful Andes. But please take time to listen to me. My story is simple, my friends, and will not take long.
When I was a young boy, I would often visit my grandfather, who had a small farm that he worked every day, starting as the stars were extinguished one by one, and finishing when the last rays of the sun faded in the sky. Sometimes I would stay at his house and assist him in his labours. He was probably only about fifty years of age, but the years of toil had bent his back and lined his face so he looked many years older.
He was not a man for idle conversation, so it was some years before I had the courage to ask him the question that had been puzzling me. You see, my friends, I had noticed that every single day, he would stop work as the sun rose, and sit, like this, on the same rock, for five, ten minutes. He did not move or speak; he just sat, with his hands between his knees, looking at the mountains.
‘Grandfather,’ I asked one day, as we worked side by side with our hoes. ‘Why do you sit so still on that rock every morning?’
“I will tell you,” he said. “Because it is a lesson I learnt from my father and he from his father. Your father now lives in the town and works in the store, so he cannot do what I do. So I will share my story with you, because you are my grandson. When I sit on that rock, Henry, I am on vacation. It is my holiday; my holy day. I sit on my rock and look at the mountains and feel the touch of the Pacha Mama renew my spirit. I have worked every day of my life; I have never left this valley – but every day, I have a little space for a vacation.”
We were all silent as Henry looked up at us and beyond us to the mountains. ‘I tell you this story, my friends, to equip you for your journey. Photographs will remind you of what you see with your eyes, but only mindfulness will enable you to absorb its essence. Do not make your journey a race. The winner of the race will see nothing but the ground in front of him.’
The next day, the group started the trek at the 82 Km mark and two very fit young men were soon out of sight. For the first couple of hours, the slopes are quite gentle, and the path underfoot relatively smooth. This gave us the opportunity to look and marvel and feel a bit smug about the speed with which we were moving. As time passed, however, the track became steeper and more hazardous and we found ourselves looking only at our feet, as is so often the case when walking in rugged terrain.
It was then that a small group of us decided that we would stop periodically, not just to rest, but to experience an ‘Henry moment’ So after sipping some water and finding a rock to rest on, we would sit and silently honour the landscape. We looked at the farthest peaks and the smallest wildflowers. We looked with awe and some trepidation at the distant Dead Woman’s Pass which we had to cross on the second day. We looked at the trail we had already covered, snaking far below us; and we looked at the ruins of fortresses built by the once proud Incas. On the first magical morning, we stepped out of our tents to breathe the thin, frosty air and saw that we were in a charmed circle of towering, snow-capped peaks. Close to the tent, quietly nibbling the grass, were several llamas with gentle, patient eyes and proud, graceful necks. On the third day, we walked on Inca stones through the astounding beauty of the Cloud Forest and stopped to marvel at each new wildflower on the way.
The final morning we ascended the steep path to the Sun Gate and looked into the valley where Machu Picchu lay hidden in impenetrable mist. The sun rose, and suddenly, the mist was gone. It was as though the hand of God had reached down and lifted a veil, revealing Machu Picchu, still a couple of hours walk away, but real and solid in the morning sun.
I didn’t win the race to the Sun Gate. Each day, our little group would be last to enter the camp, but that was not only because we found the going hard. (although it was very, very hard). It was also because, as Henry advised, we took the time not just to look, but to see.
Yes, I have some beautiful photographs, but not so many. When I look at them, they serve to kindle a far richer store of memory and experience that was Henry’s gift to us. Thanks to him, I have learnt to travel mindfully, and will continue to share his gift with any traveller who takes the time to listen.
Thank you for your question. it brought it all back. I only wrote one piece about the Inca Trail It seemed to include all that I needed to say. Here it is.
I spent fewer than eight hours in Henry’s company, but his story, offered with so much generosity, will continue influence my travels for many years to come.
Henry had the broad, smiling face typical of his country-men, and addressed us, quite naturally, as ‘my friends.’ He was polite and softly spoken, proud of his country and ever mindful of the power of its landscape. We gathered around him, shuffling impatiently in expensive walking shoes; digital cameras ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Ignoring our impatience, he settled down on a nearby rock to tell his tale.
‘My friends,’ he said. ‘I wish now to tell you a story. I am telling you this story so that you do not merely walk upon these mountains; that you do not merely look at them; I wish you to experience them in all their sacred mystery.
‘You are all on vacation and you are anxious to begin your walk and photograph our beautiful Andes. But please take time to listen to me. My story is simple, my friends, and will not take long.
When I was a young boy, I would often visit my grandfather, who had a small farm that he worked every day, starting as the stars were extinguished one by one, and finishing when the last rays of the sun faded in the sky. Sometimes I would stay at his house and assist him in his labours. He was probably only about fifty years of age, but the years of toil had bent his back and lined his face so he looked many years older.
He was not a man for idle conversation, so it was some years before I had the courage to ask him the question that had been puzzling me. You see, my friends, I had noticed that every single day, he would stop work as the sun rose, and sit, like this, on the same rock, for five, ten minutes. He did not move or speak; he just sat, with his hands between his knees, looking at the mountains.
‘Grandfather,’ I asked one day, as we worked side by side with our hoes. ‘Why do you sit so still on that rock every morning?’
“I will tell you,” he said. “Because it is a lesson I learnt from my father and he from his father. Your father now lives in the town and works in the store, so he cannot do what I do. So I will share my story with you, because you are my grandson. When I sit on that rock, Henry, I am on vacation. It is my holiday; my holy day. I sit on my rock and look at the mountains and feel the touch of the Pacha Mama renew my spirit. I have worked every day of my life; I have never left this valley – but every day, I have a little space for a vacation.”
We were all silent as Henry looked up at us and beyond us to the mountains. ‘I tell you this story, my friends, to equip you for your journey. Photographs will remind you of what you see with your eyes, but only mindfulness will enable you to absorb its essence. Do not make your journey a race. The winner of the race will see nothing but the ground in front of him.’
The next day, the group started the trek at the 82 Km mark and two very fit young men were soon out of sight. For the first couple of hours, the slopes are quite gentle, and the path underfoot relatively smooth. This gave us the opportunity to look and marvel and feel a bit smug about the speed with which we were moving. As time passed, however, the track became steeper and more hazardous and we found ourselves looking only at our feet, as is so often the case when walking in rugged terrain.
It was then that a small group of us decided that we would stop periodically, not just to rest, but to experience an ‘Henry moment’ So after sipping some water and finding a rock to rest on, we would sit and silently honour the landscape. We looked at the farthest peaks and the smallest wildflowers. We looked with awe and some trepidation at the distant Dead Woman’s Pass which we had to cross on the second day. We looked at the trail we had already covered, snaking far below us; and we looked at the ruins of fortresses built by the once proud Incas. On the first magical morning, we stepped out of our tents to breathe the thin, frosty air and saw that we were in a charmed circle of towering, snow-capped peaks. Close to the tent, quietly nibbling the grass, were several llamas with gentle, patient eyes and proud, graceful necks. On the third day, we walked on Inca stones through the astounding beauty of the Cloud Forest and stopped to marvel at each new wildflower on the way.
The final morning we ascended the steep path to the Sun Gate and looked into the valley where Machu Picchu lay hidden in impenetrable mist. The sun rose, and suddenly, the mist was gone. It was as though the hand of God had reached down and lifted a veil, revealing Machu Picchu, still a couple of hours walk away, but real and solid in the morning sun.
I didn’t win the race to the Sun Gate. Each day, our little group would be last to enter the camp, but that was not only because we found the going hard. (although it was very, very hard). It was also because, as Henry advised, we took the time not just to look, but to see.
Yes, I have some beautiful photographs, but not so many. When I look at them, they serve to kindle a far richer store of memory and experience that was Henry’s gift to us. Thanks to him, I have learnt to travel mindfully, and will continue to share his gift with any traveller who takes the time to listen.
Tess Evans
I wrote a lot as part of my job, but this included tenders, reports etc and was strictly non-creative. I have always been an avid reader (thanks to my father). I was in awe of so many authors that I wanted to be one, but had no confidence. There were fragments and ideas in my head, but I never put them on paper--with work and family, there was always something to use as a distraction. Our dreams can remain intact if we don't try to fulfil them. It's a risky business, attempting to realise a dream. You might lose it altogether.
Then my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer and after a long day's work I'd visit him at home or in hospital, come home and eat and then found I couldn't settle to anything.
One night, instead of pacing an tidying and trying to read, I started to write a short story and soon I couldn't stop. I won an encouragement award for the first story I submitted and this was a much-needed affirmation. I also joined a writer's group and they were the most generous and supportive group of people I could have met.
I guess my reading 'inspired' me to want to be a writer, but it was thanks to other people that I dared to try. Sadly, my father didn't live to see my first book published. I dedicated it to him.
Then my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer and after a long day's work I'd visit him at home or in hospital, come home and eat and then found I couldn't settle to anything.
One night, instead of pacing an tidying and trying to read, I started to write a short story and soon I couldn't stop. I won an encouragement award for the first story I submitted and this was a much-needed affirmation. I also joined a writer's group and they were the most generous and supportive group of people I could have met.
I guess my reading 'inspired' me to want to be a writer, but it was thanks to other people that I dared to try. Sadly, my father didn't live to see my first book published. I dedicated it to him.
Tess Evans
I'll come back to this when the time is right.
Tess Evans
I'll come back to this when the tiem is right.
Tess Evans
In some ways it's like scratching an itch that must be dealt with and sometimes that's annoying. Mostly though, there is the joy of creating people and places and watching events unfold. I particularly love writing the first draft for this element of surprise. There is a challenge of expressing what you want to say in prose that is vivid and controlled. Sometimes, you get it just right and that's a great feeling. This makes up for times of doubt.
Other than the writing itself, it's wonderful to hear from readers who have enjoyed reading your work and who sometimes share insights that a new. Once a book leaves the writers' hands, it becomes a shared experience, where each of us as readers bring our own experiences to bear on our reading. This is not to say that a novel's quality is relative (although that theory has some currency.) For instance, I have heard from many women who had an experience similar to Mrs Pargetter and they bring a special insight to their understanding of her character. Similarly, those who have been touched in some way by mental illness, look at Hal from their own, unique perspective.
So it is this enrichment of the novel by its readers that is a source of joy to the writer.
Sorry, you asked for the best thing. I can't say, but these re some of the best things.
Other than the writing itself, it's wonderful to hear from readers who have enjoyed reading your work and who sometimes share insights that a new. Once a book leaves the writers' hands, it becomes a shared experience, where each of us as readers bring our own experiences to bear on our reading. This is not to say that a novel's quality is relative (although that theory has some currency.) For instance, I have heard from many women who had an experience similar to Mrs Pargetter and they bring a special insight to their understanding of her character. Similarly, those who have been touched in some way by mental illness, look at Hal from their own, unique perspective.
So it is this enrichment of the novel by its readers that is a source of joy to the writer.
Sorry, you asked for the best thing. I can't say, but these re some of the best things.
Tess Evans
Read a lot. Write a lot. Share your work with someone whose opinion you value and who is likely to be honest. I've found first readers find it easier if you ask a specific question. 'Is this any good'? puts them in an awkward position. it's like asking 'Do you like my child?' Much better to say 'Are there points in the story that are confusing? Or 'Are there bits where the narrative is too slow/fast?' You'll know what you want to know.
A final piece of advice. Read a lot. Write a lot.
A final piece of advice. Read a lot. Write a lot.
Tess Evans
A cruel question to ask right now.
Writers' block? I become difficult to live with (or so I've been told). I read a lot. I fret. I walk and run. I garden. I try to write something--anything. For example: I ask someone to give me a common random word and try to use it in a piece with a specific word count. Sometimes the result is useful later, but it is a discipline and is to writing what exercise is to physical fitness. Also, I try to do something unexpected with the word.
Fortunately the condition hasn't yet been terminal, and for the sake of family harmony, I hope to return to productive work soon.
Writers' block? I become difficult to live with (or so I've been told). I read a lot. I fret. I walk and run. I garden. I try to write something--anything. For example: I ask someone to give me a common random word and try to use it in a piece with a specific word count. Sometimes the result is useful later, but it is a discipline and is to writing what exercise is to physical fitness. Also, I try to do something unexpected with the word.
Fortunately the condition hasn't yet been terminal, and for the sake of family harmony, I hope to return to productive work soon.
About Goodreads Q&A
Ask and answer questions about books!
You can pose questions to the Goodreads community with Reader Q&A, or ask your favorite author a question with Ask the Author.
See Featured Authors Answering Questions
Learn more