Photo credit: Leah Jing McIntosh
Interview by Alexa Margorian
Grief is a well-trodden topic in literature; it is not often that a writer is able to breathe new life into such a universal theme. However, in her debut novel New Animal, Ella Baxter does just that with her raw and funny prose. Baxter depicts a young woman in crisis with a unique, deft touch, and demonstrates a kind of empathy for her characters that cannot help but move us. Not only a novelist, Baxter is also an accomplished visual artist working primarily in sculpture and textiles. It was my great pleasure to speak with Ella Baxter about New Animal.
Alexa Margorian: In an interview with BOMB Magazine, you mentioned that you first got the idea for New Animal when you accidentally attended a kink party at eighteen—but you didn’t start writing it until you were in your twenties. How did this spark of inspiration take shape into a novel?
Ella Baxter: I don’t rightly know. It’s only recently that I have begun to acknowledge that a large part of my process is a complete mystery to me. I think many experiences and memories lurk around waiting to slot themselves into creative work, but I don’t know why or how. I know the party made a huge impact on me and perhaps, I suppose, writing is always a means of processing things. I really wish I knew more. Maybe once I’ve written a few more books I will understand it all.
AM: This book took you six years to write—what were those six years like for you? How did the novel change over that span of time?
EB: It took so long because I wasn’t trying to write a book; I was replacing heart-break with writing. I wrote every night for two hours and then on the weekends for as long as I could, particularly if the weather was bad. I was just writing for something to fill my time and to distract me from my emotions. Slowly, slowly, it tipped into becoming what it was, which was a dark, comedic novel. I experimented a lot with it—with different tones and voices—but when I landed on its current incarnation, it felt right.
AM: In your BOMB interview, you also said, “I do remember feeling very bored and panicked that my life had turned out to be so incredibly mundane. I felt sick at the thought that all my creative work would live and die on my computer.” Can you elaborate on that experience?
EB: Being creative can feel like a curse at times. I was always rushing through experiences so that I could get back to my art or writing. I never felt truly present. Since having a baby, I have tried to change this. I try to be present for him and not yearn for my work. Life is mundane, and working a nine-to-five job for me was tedious on good days. I hated meetings and emails and wearing smart casual clothing. I felt constantly stifled and I was worried that all the secret work I had put into my creativity would go nowhere. I was honestly terrified that I would never feel success in my creative work and that I would be ironing shirts for the rest of my life, while my actual work—my sculptures and my writing—sat in my apartment doing nothing, going nowhere, collecting dust.
AM: Speaking of your sculptures—in addition to being a novelist, you’re also an artist, with work featured in various exhibitions in Australia. What skills do you find overlap between visual artwork and writing?
EB: The willingness to follow a thread of inspiration. The divine place of worship that creativity brings you to. That you have to both trust the process and take risks and spend time and money and hundreds of hours. Also there are practical things, like stamina to finish projects, and determination when you’re rejected. A while ago I realized that the only thing I truly need for my work is the patience to do it well. Not rushing is a life lesson for me. I have to work on it everyday; even as I drink my coffee now. Even as I respond to these questions, I am trying to slow down.
AM: Death is a theme you return to often in your work, most notably in the death shrouds that you handcraft. What draws you specifically to this theme, and how have your perspectives about death changed while working in different mediums?
EB: I used to be afraid of death and grief, and so I wrote about it and made art about it constantly; and then I gave birth and it went away. I think less about death now that I have a baby. My baby has made me exist alongside the living more. When he delights in his environment, I need to as well. I don’t want to be dramatic, but I think I was resurrected by my son. I think I became myself through meeting him. When he came home from the hospital, I packed away all the bones and skulls and put my death shrouds in just one room. Now our home is an altar to flowers and bowls of fruit and plants. I want my baby to see the beauty of life, and so I have to celebrate living things. Death dominated my twenties, but my thirties are for the living.
AM: The tone of the novel is playful, but deals with serious topics. Even within single scenes, the reader moves from sexy situations through Aurelia’s more vulnerable reflections. How did you hone the tone of the book to find a balance between sensuality and tenderness?
EB: I have never sought to write anything evenhandedly. I want to write with obsession and rigour and focus. It’s kind of you to say the book found balance, but I’m not sure it did. I like an all-in pile-on. I want to be drowning in a story. The tone of the book was driven by my need to be completely buried beneath it.
AM: In your essay in the Sydney Morning Herald, you write about reading all the reviews for New Animal. People often talk about how they shield themselves from reviews of their own work; why is this something you go out of your way to read? Is this something you still do?
EB: I don’t read any reviews right now because I am writing and sculpting again and I can’t have judgement leak in during this soft time. When I make things I am at my most porous—too open and vulnerable. I am turned inside out by the process, so now is not the time to let the opinions of others in; but when the work is out I will check the reviews again. Partly because I’m masochistic, and partly because I don’t mind knowing what I could have done better. The ego part of myself, the part that is offended or outraged by people not liking my work, is the part I am trying to kill everyday—so if a review does that, I can be grateful. Over the last few years I have begun to see myself less as an artist or a writer and more as a vessel for ideas to come down through. I want to know if my attempt at translating the idea into a product is understood by people. I want to know where I can improve. It’s a free, if brutal, education.
AM: Tell us a bit about Woo Woo, your forthcoming second novel. You’ve mentioned that you wrote the book as a way to emotionally engage with the trauma of being stalked. What kind of catharsis did you get from writing the book? Do you find that writing is a form of therapy?
EB: I needed to write about the experience of being stalked because I was so furious that it had happened that I became scared my body would get sick from all the anger. It is such an unwelcome and inconvenient thing to be threatened by another. When I wrote Woo Woo I plumbed the darkest parts of myself. Writing is not a form of therapy for me, it just lets a little of the pressure out. I love therapy. Therapy is therapy; when I couldn’t afford it, the next best thing was doing morning pages and exercising until I sweat. But I kind of enjoyed the creative energy I got from the anger. For most of a year I was a five-foot-nine bonfire of a woman, just burning burning burning.
Ella Baxter is a writer and artist living on unceded land of the Wurundjeri people. In her spare time, she runs a small business making bespoke death shrouds. Her debut novel, New Animal, was released in Australia through Allen & Unwin (2021), in the UK through Picador, and in the US through Two Dollar Radio. She is currently writing her second novel, Woo Woo.
Alexa Margorian (she/her) is a freelance writer. She has neither partner, progeny, nor pets, but she does have a loving family and good friends. She is currently working on her debut novel.