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This short note on practice reflects on how “research narrative” is a much-used, but misunderstood term. Compelling stories about our research are important: for public-facing communications and for academic tenure confirmation and promotion. They are also important for researchers to gain a clearer sense of their own vision and values in the research process: they are not just a communication skill, they’re a career skill. But often researchers in STEM disciplines do not have the practical skills to write stories. We draw on our own practice as creative writers to share some simple and effective methods to bring arts expertise into STEM research narratives.

While the term 'bestseller' explicitly relates books to sales, commercially successful books are also products of individual creative work. This Element presents a new perspective on the relationship between art and the market, with particular reference to bestselling writers and books. We examine some existing perspectives on art's relationship to the marketplace to trouble persistent binaries that see the two in opposition; we break down the monolith of the marketplace by thinking of it as made up of a range of invested, non-hostile participants such as publishing personnel and readers; we articulate the material dimensions of creative writing in the industry through the words of bestselling writers themselves; and we examine how the existence of bestselling books and writers in the world of letters bears enormous influence on the industry, and on the practice of other writers.

From 2008 to 2018, Hachette Australia (one of Australia’s largest fiction publishers) partnered with community to offer an opportunity for unpublished writers to work with industry professionals developing their manuscripts. Many participants have gone on to be published and contribute to Australian literary culture, and the Hachette Manuscript Development Program became a coveted pathway to publication for Australian writers. As the Hachette Program showed, publishers have much to offer creative writers, both in terms of sharpening their craft through highly experienced editorial direction, and in terms of providing industry context that can help writers understand who their audience is, and develop the best skills for connecting to that audience. This chapter explores the positives and negatives of the Program, as communicated to us by the participants. Underpinning both positives and negatives was the inherent power imbalance between emerging writers and established publishers: while the might and money of a ‘big five’ publisher was one of the chief contributors to benefit, it also undermined some interactions and outcomes.

In this essay, we explore how and why rune tattoos – that is, tattoos created out of single runes or longer runic inscriptions – become implicated in modern reimaginings of Viking identity. What is critically interesting here is not whether Vikings actually wore rune tattoos. Rather, we are interested in analysing the cultural processes by which certain contemporary subjects come to adapt and inscribe Viking runes as living artwork on their own bodies and to display images of these personal markings on Instagram. That is, we are not arguing from the perspective of trying to find a simple equivalence between the medieval and the modern. Instead, we are trying to understand what kind of cultural work the medieval (in the form of Viking runes) performs in shaping 21st-century identities in a cultural moment when self-perception and social relations have become increasingly embedded in social media.

The Nonesuch is the name of one of Georgette Heyer’s most famous novels. It means a person or thing without equal, and Georgette Heyer is certainly that. Her historical works inspire a fiercely loyal, international readership and are championed by literary figures such as A. S. Byatt and Stephen Fry. Georgette Heyer, History, and Historical Fiction brings together an eclectic range of chapters from scholars all over the world to explore the contexts of Heyer’s career. Divided into four parts – gender; genre; sources; and circulation and reception – the volume draws on scholarship on Heyer and her contemporaries to show how her work sits in a chain of influence, and why it remains pertinent to current conversations on books and publishing in the twenty-first century. Heyer’s impact on science fiction is accounted for, as are the milieu she was writing in, the many subsequent works that owe Heyer’s writing a debt, and new methods for analysing these enduring books. From the gothic to data science, there is something for everyone in this volume; a celebration of Heyer’s ‘nonesuch’ status amongst historical novelists, proving that she and her contemporary women writers deserve to be read (and studied) as more than just guilty pleasures.

It is frequently asserted in both film scholarship and criticism that Noah Baumbach is a literary filmmaker. While Baumbach’s oeuvre certainly showcases his interest in literature through a range of stylistic techniques, this article presents the case that Baumbach projects his literary filmmaking as an authorial trademark in line with Timothy Corrigan’s conceptualisation of contemporary auteurism. By critically positioning himself as an auteur, Baumbach seemingly defies insurgent pushes toward broad discourses of neoliberal creativity and attendant preoccupations with entrepreneurialism, adaptability, and flexibility. This strategy resonates with the narratives presented in Baumbach’s films, which overwhelmingly centre on the plights of medium-specific artists in crisis. As such, at first glance, Baumbach’s auteurist positioning and his narrative and thematic preoccupation with artists unfulfilled by the promises of the creative class could be read as resistance to neoliberal creativity per se. Yet, as an auteur within the highly marketable American indie tradition, Baumbach’s literary filmmaking ultimately facilitates his participation in the neoliberal creative practices that his discursive auteurist positioning and film narratives appear to resist.

Popular romance fiction is the most prolific and profitable popular genre globally, a robust counter to narratives in the media and academia about the death of the book. Like all genres of fiction, romance has multiple dimensions. Popular romance is a sector of the publishing industry, a social formation, and a body of texts. To date, research has focused overwhelmingly on the third dimension, largely because of the dominance of the conceptual frameworks and analytical techniques of literary critics. To account for the genre’s size and growth, its dynamism and diversity, popular romance studies must not privilege a single academic discipline. Instead, the study of romance—and of popular fiction more broadly — should straddle literary and cultural studies (Butter 201), as well as publishing studies and book history. This article proposes a new theoretical framework for the study of popular fiction. It introduces the central concept of a "genre world," an adaptation of sociologist Howard S. Becker's definition of an "art world," and models the use of this concept through three interview‐based case studies that reveal key characteristics of popular romance in twenty‐first century Australia. First, the genre world is both national and international. It is attuned to these different contexts, particularly the permeable boundary between small and large publishing centers. Second, the genre world is highly professionalized, oriented toward the accumulation of what we call "genre competence." Popular fiction is a sector of the broader literary field that operates explicitly as a training ground for developing the knowledge and skills required by its members. Third, the romance genre world is built on a dynamic real‐and‐imagined sociality; therefore, people from its past and from its imagined storyworlds are routinely included in accounts of the romance community. The concept of the "genre world" and the methods it invites—reading the texts alongside interviews with authors and intermediaries and with the support of publishing data—thus yield new insights and a fuller, richer understanding of how genre fiction operates.

The cultural and commercial operations of the publishing industry have been dramatically reshaped by digital technologies, yet little is known about how these effects are differentiated across sectors of the industry. This article analyses data about the production of Australian-authored fantasy, romance and crime fiction titles to explore the specific publishing ecosystems of different genres and the roles played by multinational, small press and self-publishing in each. First, we show that there has been across-the-board growth in each genre and for each type of publisher. Second, we argue that multinational publishing activity in these genres has been characterized by broad stability, punctuated by experimentation with genre-specific imprints for romance and fantasy titles. Third, we find that small presses make diverse contributions to genre ecosystems, able to both activate prestige and experiment with formats. Finally, we note the immense growth in self-publishing, particularly in romance, and argue that self-publishing now operates in tandem with traditional publishing to create hybridized publishing ecosystems - with greater potential to transform the traditional publishing model than e-books.

This article presents a study of a model of textual production that situates genre fiction, specifically fantasy fiction, within its community and industry contexts. I argue that Australian fantasy ‘fandom’ operates in some ways like a research and development space for the literature it consumes, through allowing, enabling and enthusiastically supporting – both ethically and materially – a thriving small press culture. Fandom is known for its passionate investments in texts, and those investments are rarely passive. The fantasy genre community is already oriented towards prosumption, and small presses afford specific opportunities for writers to work in specific ways, enriching and developing their individual craft and the genre as a whole.

Wilkins and Moss-Wellington describe Spike Jonze’s emergence as a unique voice in American filmmaking at the turn of the millennium, analysing the way his work crosses boundaries between philosophy and genre entertainment, commercial and subversive imperatives, independent and Hollywood modes of production, short work and features. After broadly surveying Jonze’s career and articulating its importance within film studies, the ensuing chapters are introduced.

Young adult fantasy (YA fantasy) brings together two established genres - young adult fiction and fantasy fiction - and in so doing amplifies, energises, and leverages the textual, social, and industrial practices of the two genres: combining the fantastic with adolescent concerns; engaging passionate online fandoms; proliferating quickly into series and related works. By considering the texts alongside the way they are circulated and marketed, this Element aims to show that the YA fantasy genre is a dynamic formation that takes shape and reshapes itself responsively in a continuing process over time.

Westworld’s puzzle-plot narrative, high degree of intertextuality, subversions of genre convention and posthumanist themes, combined with the presence of acclaimed actors and the authorial imprint of Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy, mark the show as clearly within the bounds of prestige television. Westworld’s narrative tactics and thematic concerns emphasise a shift away from the perceived passivity of mass-appeal television towards a mode of viewership that requires an elevated level of cultural capital and intellectual engagement. By focusing on Westworld’s intertextual play and analysing its narrative structure in relation to what Warren Buckland refers to as the puzzle plot—where narrative events are “not simply interwoven, but entangled” (Puzzle Films: Complex Storytelling in Contemporary Cinema. Wiley-Blackwell, West Sussex, p. 3, 2009)—this chapter interrogates the intersections between the strategies of “prestige” employed in Westworld and its thematic and ideological underpinnings. This chapter asks, how do Westworld’s formal and aesthetic tactics function in relation to the questions that the show raises about human nature—particularly issues of masculinity, trauma, and violence?

Australian popular fiction is the most significant growth area in Australian trade publishing since the turn of the twenty-first century, yet it has received little sustained scholarly attention (Fletcher et al. 5). Over the last two decades, the rhetoric of the decline of literary fiction has become a recurring theme in cultural journalism (see, for example, Knox; Mordue; Neill; Sullivan; Williamson). But while the fate of literature prompts elegiac reflection, Australian popular fiction is a success story hidden in plain view. Nationally and internationally, critically and commercially, Australian popular fiction titles have performed strongly over the twenty-first century. For example, in 2010 Peter Temple’s Truth won Australia’s most prestigious literary award, the Miles Franklin, following German, Swedish, US, and UK prizes for this and his earlier novels; in 2015 Australian fantasy writer Angela Slatter won a World Fantasy Award for her short story collection, The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings ; and in 2017 romance novelist Stephanie Laurens appeared on the New York Times Best Seller List for the 38th time with Lord of the Privateers . As we have shown elsewhere, the three major genres of crime, fantasy and romance are not just growing by output, but driving change in the post-digital publishing economy (Driscoll et al., ‘Publishing Ecosystems’). This special issue is part of our larger research agenda to address the gaps in knowledge about this thriving sector of literary culture, both in Australia and internationally.

The Romantic ideal of creativity elaborated by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in his introduction to ‘Kubla Khan’ (1816), in which he extols such experiences as solitude, inspiration, and an almost transcendental dissociation from the mundanity of everyday life, remains present in the contemporary consciousness as part of a shared mythology of creative practice. Rather than focussing on the psychological frameworks by which creativity is believed to be constituted, this essay centralises the material relations of creative practice, with particular attention paid to the experiences of creative writing time revealed in interviews with contemporary Australian novelists Isobelle Carmody, Kate Forsyth, and Lee Battersby. Drawing upon recent theories about the sociomateriality and cooperative frameworks of creativity, and Rita Felski’s elaboration of heterogeneous temporalities, this essay explores the possibility of understanding creativity in the field of writing not in terms of existence within or without the experiential boundaries of the Romantic ideal, but rather in terms of its operation within matrices of temporal relations that encompass the sublime and mundane, individual and collective, asynchronous and synchronous, creative and commercial.

I'm Not There presents a radical departure from the traditional biopic. Rather than focusing on individual agency as a conduit of history, I'm Not There uses the figure of Bob Dylan as a conduit for identity per se. I'm Not There explores the irreducibility of identity by highlighting biopic representation as a textual construct through intertextual allusion, quotation, and pastiche.

The Internet provides social conditions that allow medievalist ideas to continue to evolve in the twenty-first century. It is fertile ground for medievalist humor, and a significant proportion of that humor comes in the form of memes. Memes were first described in 1976 by Richard Dawkins as 'units of cultural transmission.' They are analogous to genes, replicating and mutating in response to the culture that hosts them, and passed on socially, rather than biologically. The Internet provides a ready social network and an accessible set of technological tools for memes to flourish. This essay explores the ways in which Internet memes foreground the social relations that structure medievalist humor.

In publishing marketplaces all over the world, we are seeing a radical shift in how books are acquired, sold, circulated, discussed, and read. This shift responds to the possibilities and potential of digital distribution and promotion of books. A considerable amount of energy has been devoted to educating writers how to take advantage of new possibilities. What is talked about far less, however, is how writers write within this shifting model. A significant threat to productive writing habits is the publishing industry's increasing insistence that writers develop an ‘author platform’, that is, a digital authorial identity that can be leveraged to build markets and increase sales. In the 21st century, book sales are increasingly dependent upon a reciprocal flow of communication between writers and readers. While an author platform based on social media has benefits, a range of negatives are emerging as the practice is normalised. At particular risk is writing resilience: the ability to keep writing in the...

Within the stylistic trend in contemporary cinema toward creating exaggeratedly articulate characters, a mode of contemporary filmmaking, that I call American Eccentricity, exhibits a form of dialogue that simultaneously performs a dramatic function – hyper-dialogue. Hyper-dialogue is the intensified, unevenly fluctuating, and often ironically inflected use of dialogue in the place of action that stems from the presence of a deep, unspoken anxiety. American Eccentricity can be read through the ideological and cultural imprint of the New Hollywood due to their shared underlying thematic concerns of alienation and dislocation. These thematic concerns have undergone a transformation in the American Eccentric mode, in which films depict the anomie of modernism through postmodern cinematic language. Hyper-dialogue is a key stylistic and dramatic technique employed in the American Eccentric mode that depicts the transition from the identifiable anxiety present in the New Hollywood through the dramatic use of si...

This chapter opens with a brief account of the author’s visit to Wayland’s Smithy in Oxfordshire, England, one of many ancient sites in England that have become important to contemporary pagans. This introduction is the launch pad for consideration of the pleasures available in the repeated trope of pagan settings, especially as they are represented in fantasy fiction set in Britain of the late twentieth century. Through a close reading of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood (1984), Wilkins argues that the pleasures of pagan settings in fantasy fiction mirror and reinforce the pleasures that real-world pagan places afford.

This chapter argues that setting is a privileged aspect of the popular fantasy genre, and it analyses setting in terms of both how texts are created and how they are circulated and enjoyed. ‘Plot driven’ and ‘character driven’ are commonplace descriptions of modern fiction, and often mark a distinction between genres of differing value. While these phrases are most usually deployed in non-academic writing such as reviews and other opinion-based works, they have appeared in recent research around reading and empathy. According to Frank Lachmann, readers of so-called literary works scored higher in empathy tests than readers of popular fiction; he suggests that this is because empathy is more readily aroused by ‘character-driven’ fiction where ‘the emotional repertoire of the reader is enlarged’ than by ‘plot-driven’ fiction (2015, p. 144). I note that Lachmann makes no attempt to elaborate on what these phrases might specifically mean, nor is there any consideration of the ‘emotional repertoire’ of, say, romance fiction, which fits his definition of character driven and yet remains the most reviled of the popular genres. While, to my mind, good fiction needs to attend to both plot and character equally well, neither of these necessary aspects of storytelling comes readily to mind as a ‘driver’ when thinking about fantasy fiction. In fact, the big engine of the genre appears to be the exposition and elaboration of the setting, from which characterisation and plots specific to the setting are then generated. Fantasy novels are, in many ways, setting driven, a feature that marks them out as unique among popular genres. Other genres where setting is an acknowledged pleasure are historical fiction (for example the work of Philippa Gregory or Diana Gabaldon) and the exotic travel memoir (for example texts set in aspirational destinations such as Provence and Tuscany); but these at least rely on settings that are real. Fantasy fiction, on the other hand, invites readers to immerse themselves in and admire an incredibly detailed world that is an invention of the author’s imagination.

Australian fantasy fiction is a highly successful field of Australian writing both nationally and internationally, and yet it occupies uncertain territory in the Australian literary community. In many ways, it is the opposite of that community's default notion of Australian writing: it is popular, not literary; international, not local; fantastic, not realism. These incongruities make it an excellent case study for examining how the Australian literary community interacts with popular fiction.

Ned Plimpton (Owen Wilson) hangs from the side of Steve Zissou’s (Bill Murray) boat, the Belafonte, by one arm. The flickering of a projector is heard beneath Mark Mothersbaugh’s score. The use of Ektachrome film stock creates bright and overblown colors, forming saturated, flat blocks of ocean and sky, as though filmed on 16 mm. Steve Zissou narrates: “Kingsley Ned Zissou. 29. Junior grade diving tech, executive producer. Energetic, spirited, youthful.” The projector stops as the camera cuts from the film within a film to the film we are watching, Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004). As they sit in the editing room, Steve suggests to “probably [his] son,” Ned, “This is what I’m talking about. A relationship subplot. There’s chemistry between us, you know?” The chemistry Steve refers to is not the relationship between a prospective father and son, but an affinity that will appear appealing onscreen. In this sequence, Anderson notes the necessity of character alignment in both documentary and narrative film. He reminds the audience of the constructed nature of character identification in cinema as a medium.1

This chapter is all about writing genre fiction. In that statement lies our first problem: genres are often defined by what is common, reused or similar; creative writing is often defined as the pursuit of originality, especially when being conceived, theorised and taught in tertiary institutions. Generic expectations are often viewed as 'a constraint on textual energy'I and this perspective can act as a disincentive to write in genres. I argue here for a recognition of the pleasures and possibilities of genre and offer you some ways to approach the creation and composition of texts within one of the most widely read genres: speculative fiction. [extract]