Thanks to Jane Bloomfield and Kyle Mewburn for providing this edited transcript of their conversation from the 2024 Queenstown Writers Festival.
1. Kyle, in your memoir Faking It you write about becoming vegetarian as a teenager and supplementing that dietary change with your first vegetable plot in the backyard of the family home in Banyo, Brisbane – your sole gardening advice from seed packets …
I had terrible acne as a teenager, which was a special torment for me as a closeted trans girl, as it seemed to be taking me further away from any possibility of ever being my true self. When my doctor, who operated a holistic medical centre which combined traditional western medicine with acupuncture and Chinese herbal medicine, recommended I become a vegan, I was desperate enough to try anything.
So I became a vegan overnight — which proved quite a challenge for my meat-and-three-veg father to comprehend. I never expected my father to cook for me, but I was still living at home, and had no income, so relied on him to provide the ingredients. But precisely what a vegan diet required was way beyond his comprehension, really. He was always very excited when he brought home a broccoli!
So I bought some vegie seeds, dug up some soil, and planted my first garden. I was lucky to be living in Brisbane, so most things grew pretty well. Unfortunately the only part of the yard I was allowed to turn over was an already-barren patch beneath a huge rubber tree. The soil was mostly clay, but I dug trenches and managed to get enough soil together for some raised beds. When the first rain came, the trenches promptly filled to overflowing with water. It looked like a vegetable Venice. So I spent a lot of my summer bailing out my garden.
2. At the same time you discovered and found solace in John Seymour’s The Complete Book of Self-sufficiency – why was the idea of a self-sufficient life such a revelation and something you needed to pursue?
The whole idea of self-sufficiency really appealed because I assumed I’d always be alone. So having an oasis which devoured most of my time and energy, seemed like something positive to aspire to.
3. In Sewing Moonlight the anagrammatic village of Falters Mill is your hometown of Millers Flat in the Teviot valley. And the setting of your handsome protagonist Wilhelm Erdinger’s small acreage is the now verdant utopia you bought as a bare block for seven thousand dollars back in 1990 – a piece of land with its own fascinating history?
Our block is one of half a dozen so-called repatriation blocks established after WW1. There’s a string of 5-acre sections along the Clutha that were offered at cheaper prices to help returned soldiers re-integrate into the community. Most other sections in the area were 30 acres or more. At the time we arrived, land was selling for an average of $1000 per acre. So we couldn’t have afforded a larger section.
Though there was evidence of a former dwelling, nobody really knew much about it, apart from a rumour the house had burned down. Locals referred to it as Cassidy’s section, so we assumed it was the owner during the 60s that had lived there. When we bought it, there wasn’t a tree on the place, apart from two walnut trees in the bottom section. So we’ve spent the last almost forty years planting it out.
4. True to your convictions you live off the land – along with twenty-two laying hens you grow an exotic array of fruit and vegetables, despite the often contrary Central Otago climate – avocados, finger limes, blood oranges, tamarillos, tomatillos, nuts even a variety of gourmet mushrooms to name a few … what’s your secret?
I guess I don’t mind failure. So I’m always experimenting, trying out new varieties, new kinds of things to grow. Often things which don’t normally grow in our area. But with the impacts of climate change becoming increasingly evident, I feel it’s worth a shot to try new things. I’ve also experimented a lot over the years with different style of gardening. In a way it’s more of a hobby than a necessity, so it’s more important to me to be inspired by the process than achieving any particular end product. Though I’m starting to wind things back a bit and hopefully I can settle on a slightly less strenuous approach as I get older.
5. Not many people would know that you’re also a handy builder – initially building your grass-roofed house. This can’t have happened over night. Like our early settlers did you endure some freezing winters behind thin tin walls?
The first year was pretty hard, I must admit. We lived in the tin shed and slept in our old van. The shed’s concrete foundation was wider than the shed, so every time it rained, water would wash through our makeshift living room. So we’d have to quickly lift all our carpets etc to higher ground.
Winters were way harsher back then than they are now. The ground would freeze solid to a depth of 15 to 20 centimetres for most of July and August. So it was pretty tough building in those conditions. Especially when I got to putting the roof on and the whole back of the house was perpetually frosted. It was good motivation, though. I really worked my arse off trying to get the house finished so I could move in as soon as possible. It took about six months to get it water-tight. So we really only spent one winter in the shed.
6. Over the years you’ve tended and expanded your edible oasis – have you experienced major setbacks from drought or floods? Rabbits? Escaping goats? Too many roosters?
In the early days our fences weren’t great. So we were always having neighbours’ stock wandering in. I lost an entire row of acacias when a herd of cows came across the creek. And one morning I got such a shock when I looked out of the kitchen window and saw hundreds of sheep lined across my garden chomping their way through everything.
A couple of years ago we finally got goats, and I spent most of the next year trying to keep them contained. Our trees took quite a hammering until I finally sorted our fences. Nowadays everything is fenced or caged. We’re such an oasis in a wilderness of open fields, that our bird and, lately, rabbit, populations are booming.
7. Moving onto your writing life – as a brainy child growing up in 70s Brisbane you hid your love for reading and writing. You cunningly had four library cards so you could bike around to each one and get the allowed three books. I love that! Did your parents notice?
No, they didn’t. They didn’t really pay much attention to what I was doing. I’m not sure what they thought I was doing in my room all the time. We were all basically left to our own devices. Our only duty was to ensure we didn’t do anything wrong.
8. On your last day of primary school Your Teacher, Mr Staib gave you his own copy of The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, which showed you the possibility of imagination and word play – became your talisman. Do you have a favourite quote? Or pun from the book?
I’m forever grateful to Mister Staib. It’s amazing the impact a teacher can have on a person’s life. He was the first person to recognise my love of words, and his decision to gift me his personal copy of The Phantom Tollbooth was ultimately life-changing, insofar as it planted the seed for me to imagine I might be a writer one day. I love the entire book, really. It’s such a celebration of wordplay. If I had to choose a favourite bit, I’d possibly go for either the 0.34 boy — the average family has 1.34 children, so naturally there needs to be a 0.34 kid somewhere; or the island of expectations, which looks very idyllic but turns out to be anything but once Milo jumps there unexpectedly.
9. After High School you decided on a practical approach towards your plan to be a career writer with a business degree in journalism and advertising – gaining your first job as a sports reporter in rural Queensland. How was that?
Boring. In a word. Being shy and not having a licence, moving to a small, rural town in Queensland wasn’t ideal. I ended up feeling quite isolated. And as much as I enjoyed watching sport, the local 5-team rugby league competition wasn’t quite up to the level I would have liked. But I had a job to do, and a back page to fill, so I let my creative juices flow. Nowadays I think of it as my first paid fiction work. My descriptions of the games were only vaguely tethered to the reality.
10. Years later, after circumnavigating Europe on bicycles with your wife Marion you ended up in the South Island. But it wasn’t until your self-sufficient lifestyle was set-up and Marion was established as a potter by 1997 that you took up fiction writing seriously. You’re most well known as a children’s author but your first foray into writing fiction was actually adult fiction … the first thing you penned was a futurist gender satire, which almost got picked up?
I originally imagined myself becoming New Zealand’s answer to Graham Greene. But my first foray into adult fiction was, as you say, a gender satire. In a way, it was a way for me to secretly explore my own confusion around gender and identity etc. It’s amazing what subjects you can research, or what books you can get away with reading, if you say it’s research for a novel. So I spent six months reading every book I could find about feminism and gender. It was all very illuminating.
When I submitted the novel, I got a lovely response from a publisher saying: “I was just bemoaning the lack of originality in the stories I’m sent, when yours landed on my desk.” Which got me very excited. But ultimately the story “wasn’t for kiwi sensibilities”. It was very disappointing, yet I was also encouraged by the fact a publisher had taken the time to write a few encouraging words.
11. Why the swerve into writing picture books ?
By the time I turned to writing picture books, I was starting to get desperate. I’d written three adult novels and two creative non-fiction things without any success. I was starting to wonder about the whole writing career idea.
We don’t have children, and I’d only ever read two picture books in my life, so it had never occurred to me to give it a crack. But when a friend did a picture book writing workshop and offered to share the course material, I decided to give it a go. I wrote The Hoppleplop in two hours, and it was immediately snapped up by Scholastic. Suddenly I was a picture book author! Of course, it took another two years before I got a second story accepted. In the meantime, I’d decided to actually read some picture books and figure out how they operated.
12. Your picture book Melu – an anagram of mule – is a metaphorical life story about going against the grain and not fitting in – which is the underlying theme in Sewing Moonlight. Do you think your theme has changed now that you write as your authentic self?
It’s been said that all writers have a bone that they gnaw on, then bury, then dig up again to gnaw on further, throughout their writing lives. And I think the theme of being different, being an outsider, and finding a place in the world, is kind of my bone. Even now, when I am living my authentic life, I’m still gnawing away on the theme because I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like I fit in anywhere. Not at any deeper level.
13. Writers can get their ideas in strange places – for you – the inspiration to write Sewing Moonlight occurred on a Dunedin street at 3am – can you enlighten us?
When I first decided to give writing full-time a try, I thought I’d start by writing some freelance articles. It was something I’d done before, so I imagined it might be a productive way to kick off my career. I was a big fan of the Regent 24-hour book sale at the time, so decided to spend 24 hours there, chatting to the organisers, volunteers and punters, and see what came out of it.
So that’s how I ended up standing at a table of books around 3am when a volunteer started refilling the table. We got chatting and after no time we discovered her grandparents had been one of the first owners of our property. When we bought the place, it was just 5 acres of grassland. We’d heard rumours there had been a house on the property at some point, but could never find out anything more.
Kathryn, the volunteer, filled in a lot of gaps. Apparently her father was a huge gardener, so the entire property was surrounded by a macrocarpa hedge, with an orchard, large vegie garden and perennial borders — the whole shebang. When the house burned down in 1947, the property was sold. Over the years every tree had been cut down, and every trace of its previous inhabitants had been destroyed.
One of the stories that stuck with me was that her grandmother had come from a well-to-do family, and they weren’t at all pleased with her marrying beneath her station. When she insisted on going ahead with it, the family presented her with a brand new sewing machine, then never spoke to her again.
The notion that we were, 50 years later, repeating a cycle started by Kathryn’s grandparents — insofar as planting a macrocarpa hedge, orchards and gardens — immediately connected with the moon cycles, which then connected with bio-dynamics etc etc. And Sewing Moonlight was born.
14. Sewing Moonlight published by Batemans, released in April, 6 weeks on the bestseller list, now in audio book, was 24 years, 4 editors and 2 agents in the making from its first draft. What made you pick up your 500-page manuscript and give it a final crack?
Desperation? When my story was first taken on by my London agent, they had a very good editor working there who guided me on a couple of rewrites over two years. The story then went to the London Book Fair in 2004. There were lots of positive responses — the head of the agency actually called me at midnight one evening to let me know loads of scouts from international publishers had been very excited about my story. But ultimately nobody was willing to invest in it. The general feeling at the time was that New Zealand in the ’30s was just a little too far removed for US or UK readers.
So I had a lot of confidence in the story. I believed it was a good story. Over the years I occasionally took it out and had another look, wondering what I might do to get it over the line. Eventually, when I got a new agent, I decided to show it to her. She loved it and immediately passed it onto Louise Russell at Bateman, who also loved it. And Louise was able to see exactly what I needed to do to make the story really work. Of course, in the meantime, New Zealand is a lot more in the world’s psyche, so it probably had a lot to do with timing, as well. Sometimes a story just lands on the right desk, at the right time.
15. The tall, handsome, tortured Wilhelm makes quite an entrance in Falters Mill – escaping the guilt/grief of his past he sails from Germany to the bottom of the east coast of the South Island, in a sloop, then inland up the Clutha ‘a pulsing turquoise vein’ until he becomes, almost catastrophically marooned, up a bank. Is this dam shutting based on a real event?
Ha. No. The Roxburgh dam was still almost 50 years away. But I wanted to give Wilhelm both a dramatic entrance and, more importantly, one which matched his mood. He’d placed his future in the hands of Fate, so it would require a dramatic event to convince him that Fate had, indeed, decided this is where he should stay. Otherwise he’d never have made the decision himself.
16. Wilhelm’s story begins in 1928 New Zealand and ends 1947 – You really set him up for a lot of hate and prejudice being German post World War 1 then during WWII there must have been many authorial reasons, one being the Rudolf Steiner connection?
It felt entirely natural, almost necessary, that my hero was German. Once the story began to grow around the moon and biodynamics, he almost had to be German. Steiner had only presented his theory of celestial influences on horticulture at a seminar in 1925. So the only way my hero could have known about them was if he’d attended the seminar. Considering it was all in German, it made sense that he came from Germany.
Having a German arrive in New Zealand between the wars certainly provided fertile ground for lots of drama based on prejudice, even hatred. The German population weren’t treated well at all at that time. Many Germans even changed their names to disguise their origins, and to avoid their businesses being randomly vandalised.
While researching my book, two stories really stuck with me. One was a photo from 1920 or so, showing a bunch of blokes in Motueka wielding sticks, standing around a bell with their sleeves rolled up. A rumour had circulated the bells of the Lutheran church had been made from iron salvaged from German canons. So a group of men took it upon themselves to break into the church, tear down the bell, then give it a good thrashing. The stupidity of it all — and the blind hatred ignorance could inspire — sort of simmered beneath my story the whole time.
The second story involved German refugees in Wellington. Most of them were Jewish, and very cultured people, who had a lot of influence on establishing a local arts scene here. But many locals weren’t happy having them here. One story that stuck with me was about a German guy who got a job in town, and would walk to work each day. As he reached the end of the street, he’d turn to wave to his wife. Apparently he was repeatedly reported to the police for giving a Nazi salute.
17. The story for me could have the by-line – Love in a harsh climate – yet there’s a lot of tragedy and human cruelty – was it hard to write, bring you to tears?
It was certainly a tough time — at least for those who weren’t rich. But people were much more stoic, as well, I suspect. Tragedy was an everyday event, so you just pulled up your socks and carried on . . . whether you wanted to, or not. Apart from your family and friends, there wasn’t really any support for those in need, so there was no alternative, really. Especially for women.
Gladys was one of my favourite characters to write, because she was a woman ahead of her time. She was determined to take control of her life, and willing to do whatever was needed to achieve it.
Writing tragic scenes is always hard. There are so many ways to approach every scene, so it’s often a complicated process finding a way into, and through, the scene without becoming cliché, or worse, being overdramatic. I always know when the scene is working because I do get a bit teary.
18. Amongst Wilhelm’s paltry possessions he has a copy of Bio Dynamischer Anbau Steiner’s handbook, which he sticks to religiously although one rather gruesome method involving a fresh stag’s bladder had him in turmoil. Have you tried any of the more curious methods eg chamomile flowers in a cow’s intestine buried for six months?
No, I haven’t. It feels way too contrived for me. I’m not what you’d call a spiritual person, so most of the philosophy behind bio-dynamics are way too esoteric for me. And Steiner wasn’t noted for having practical experience in such things as gardening, though he was very quick to formulate philosophies and theories. Much of his thinking was influenced by Eastern philosophy and such belief in such things as ‘signatures’ — that if something looked like something else, there is a kind of cosmic connection. Like walnuts look like brains, so they must be good for your brain. But the idea that stag antlers were some kind of lightning rod for celestial forces is way beyond my pay grade.
Personally I think the success of bio-dynamics is that it requires a great deal of time and attention. Any gardener spending that much time in their garden and paying that much attention, will end up with a very productive and healthy garden.
19. Do you sow seeds and plant out by moon cycles?
I dabbled in planting by the moon for a while. It was quite popular in the mid-90s — almost everyone I knew in the green movement had a moon calendar hanging on the fridge at the time. Usually along with a companion planting guide.
I kind of get the theory behind it all, but I’m way too pragmatic to take it seriously. And when I came across several scientific studies conducted by reputable universities proving there was no significant difference between planting by the moon and planting whenever you got around to it. So naturally I stuck with the latter approach.
20. Wilhelm also brings across the world his precious seed collection – including seed potatoes – Ladies Finger. The metaphorical Love Potato appears regularly throughout the book. Why a potato? “Love is not like a flower … love is like a potato.”
When I first met Marion, I did the ‘traditional’ thing of buying her flowers. I had no experience of being in a relationship, so I thought that’s just what one did. It was a while before Marion confessed cut flowers always made her feel sad more than anything else. And she totally hated carnations.
So when I was finding a way for Wilhelm to express how he sees loves, I knew it wouldn’t be with flowers. And when I gave it some thought, the potato seemed perfect. A potato never dies if you tend to it, unlike flowers which wilt and lose their glamour in no time. I got my first Ladies Finger potatoes from an old guy in Havelock North way back in 1994. He had an ad selling heirloom potatoes in one of the growing magazines. From the original five potatoes, I’ve managed to grow a new crop every year since.
Isn’t that how love should be?
21. There’s a community of complex characters living in Falters Mill, who share Wilhelm’s journey. One of my favourites is the flamboyant retired opera singer and driver of an Overland Whippet – Mrs Euphemia Sparrow? Is she based on a Miller’s Flat local?
Yes she is. For a while we had Patricia Payne, a notable kiwi opera singer, living in the area. It always seemed a slightly odd match — though Patricia was really quite obsessed with fishing — so she immediately came to mind when I was bringing my cast of misfits to life.
22. Euphemia is made even more of a wild card being, 40, estranged from her husband with an (also married) German lover – Ernst an ornithologist who travelled to NZ in search of the allusive takahe. What had happened to NZ’s takahe population by 1929 to engage a museum in Germany to send an ornithologist here?
The takahe was officially extinct by the start of the 20th century. One of the last ones ever spotted had been caught and eaten by a group of sealers in Fiordland. It was, according to reports, very tasty. It wasn’t until 1948 that they were spotted again.
Originally Ernst was on a quest for moa, but that ultimately made him seem rather mad, when I really only wanted him to be eccentric. He needed to be on a quest which would have seemed Quixotic at the time, but one which would ultimately turn out to be true. When I stumbled on the fact that one of the few existing takahe skeletons had been sold to a museum in Dresden in the mid-19th century, it fit my story perfectly.
23. Another favourite is sweet Effie Ballantyne, despite her abusive mother and disabled by polio she has a contagious spirit and loves Wilhelm. The scene during the Depression of the mid-winter Knitting Bee, the local women’s division in the hall Wilhelm turning up to knit socks for the men in the work camps. The camps sounded brutal?
The camps were utterly inhuman, really. Especially given most of the ‘work’ done was either pointless — like having one gang of men digging a long trench, only for a second gang to come through and fill it in again — or was simply making matters worse, insofar as farms and other employers often sacked all their workers then had them re-employed as free labour under the work schemes. Many of the farms and employers could have kept their men on, but the lure of free labour was too appealing.
The whole scheme was really punitive, as well. The government had initially committed to supporting the unemployed workers. But the Prime Minister at the time was a staunch Christian, and decided idle hands were the devil’s workshop, so insisted the men had to work for their keep. No matter how pointless or unnecessary the work. It was very demoralising. Especially for the returned servicemen who’d been promised they’d be looked after when they signed up to fight in the Great War.
24. Talking of knitted – you’ve effortlessly woven years of historical facts into the story. Did you set out to correct any previous misinformation – to write revisionist history?
Not exactly. I did, however, want to shine a light on a largely unknown aspect of New Zealand history — specifically the treatment of the German population between the wars. Of course, there’s so much history happening at the time, so I couldn’t help but pick out those tidbits which showed events in a certain colour.
When I first wrote it, it was more or less ‘just’ a historic novel. In the ensuing years we’ve had pandemics, global economic collapse and looming war. So during my most recent rewrite, there was a new sense of urgency, because so much of the story resonated with our current socio-economic and political context. And I wanted, in a small way, to sound the alarm bells about history repeating itself. So it wasn’t so much ‘revisionist’, as viewing history from a specific angle to emphasise this point.
25. Having forsaken religion after his brother’s death, Wilhelm reads Goethe’s when searching for answers. Stephanie Johnson’s review in the Listener said “Kyle … has a palpable respect and understanding of Goethe’s works …” Had you studied Goethe before researching the book? Read Faust’s 500 pages? “Kindness is the golden chain that binds society together.”
Being married to a German, I’d definitely had some contact with Goethe. Marion is a great fan of Die Zauberling, which is called The Wizard’s apprentice in English. Disney made a cartoon out of back in the 50s, with Mickey Mouse as the apprentice. Goethe’s known as the German Da Vinci because he was a polymath who was proficient in everything from poetry and prose to engineering and administration.
But I’ve never actually read any of his works. I’ve read loads of synopses and extended plot outlines though. The internet has a wealth of great, succinct information and quotes. Everything I read certainly increased my respect for him. He was a humanist and a thinker way ahead of his time.
26. You dedicated Sewing Moonlight to the Millers Flat community – are the locals begging for a Falters Mill sequel?
Not exactly begging, but there have been a few queries. I’m still occasionally stopped in the street by a local who wants to tell me how much they enjoyed my book. Which is very heart-warming. If Sewing Moonlight became a huge success, or they made a movie, then I’d certainly think about writing a sequel. But it’s a lot of work and a huge time commitment to write historical fiction, so as a full-time writer trying to make a living, I can’t really justify the investment given the small returns.
If I did write a follow up novel, I’m not sure if it would be a sequel — following Wilhelm’s life post-Falters Mill — or a prequel, maybe delving further into George Finegan’s life. Alternatively I might write about the Lonely Graves. Who knows?
