Taxidermy and Fairy Tales
‘Fed to Red Birds,’ my debut novel, is finally out in the world!
It was published on March 8 by Simon & Schuster…and what a wild and wonderful ride it’s been. I’ve been taking notes for this blog but the whirlwind of the launch, promotion and festivals has taken over. And I’m not complaining, at all.
‘A striking novel about a bewitched young mind’ – Good Reading magazine
‘Fed to Red Birds’ was launched on International Women’s Day. I’d spent the prior evening at a Bikini Kill gig, one of my favourite feminist punk bands of my youth, which seemed the perfect way to welcome my book into the world. I woke to a stunning bouquet of flowers from my fabulous team at Simon and Schuster, and a few days later hosted a sold-out launch at Littlefoot, a lovely local bar here in Footscray, Melbourne.
I wore a black velvet dress and a necklace of seven gold snakes, drank dirty martinis and revelled in the support and love of my friends and family. I’ve visited bookstores all over Melbourne to sign copies and a few days ago headed to Sydney to do the same.
‘[L]ost in this book, I have only put it down for long enough to write this column, and am already missing Iceland and Elva terribly … I feel I am typing this with frost-bitten fingers while being watched by trolls.’- The Canberra Times
True to form, I’ve already outed myself at festivals as a weirdo with a house full of snake skins and bat bones. At Sorrento Writers Festival, host Irma Gold was asking about writing routines and described Agatha Christie eating apples in the bath while inspecting crime scene photos. I said ‘Oh, my writing routine is much more boring.’ Then I proceeded to describe how I worked on ‘Fed to Red Birds’ with bare feet, legs crossed, and my baby snake in my bra, soothed by my heartbeat. It was only when audience members flinched that I realised, ah, perhaps not mundane after all. Good to know.
‘Intensely evocative…beautiful descriptions of Iceland, the country, and the also the quirks and curiosities of cultural life in Reykjavik – Hannah Kent, author of Burial Rights
Words used so far to describe my book: macabre, spellbinding, moody, magical, beguiling, creepy, enchanting and, a favourite, ‘a little bit dark, and a big bit beautiful.’
In June, I’ll be on several panels at the wonderful Williamstown Literary Festival here in Melbourne: ‘Taxidermy and Fairy Tales’ and ‘Witchcraft in the 21st Century.’ Lastly is a performance with Stereo Stories, about an Icelandic goth band, Kaelan Mikla, who were the soundtrack to writing ‘Fed to Red Birds’, so much that I thanked them in the acknowledgements.
‘Collins is a writer of great humility and intelligence. FTRB reads like a story she has been longing to tell, the culmination of long-lasting, deep-rooted interests. But it is the ease of her storytelling that is truly marvellous – fiercely honed by years as a practitioner of short stories.’ – Kill Your Darlings literary journal
I plan to update this blog more often with festival appearances, reviews and news, now that publication day has finally passed. In the meantime, ‘Fed to Red Birds’ is available at major bookstores across Australia, and/or can be ordered in through your local library.
Treat her kindly…she’s just a baby, after all.
The Book Flood
It’s New Year’s Eve, and something weird is happening.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch in a long violet dress, sipping soju. My hair is still damp from my solo swim earlier. Three young goth girls are singing to me in Icelandic from my Spotify playlist. The sun is setting, flooding our seventh-floor apartment with light, and my three-legged rescue cat is giving me languorous slow blinks.
And in his corner chair, specs on, head down, my husband is reading my debut novel for the first time.
In 2014 I spent a month in far-northern Iceland on a writing residency. If you’ve followed my blog before, you’ll know that I’m a winter wench at heart: thigh-high snow, the northern lights over my rooftop, breath clouding in front of my face. From that and other visits to Iceland, my book formed.
In 2019 I signed a publication contract with Simon and Schuster. I’m skipping the redrafting, the pitching and praying, the oceans of uncertainty. You don’t need to read that. I signed a contract, one of the most joyous events of my life, and within weeks, Covid hit.
Think I’ll just skip over that too, if you don’t mind.
So here we are in December 2022, and my husband is holding in his hands the ARC of my debut novel, the advance reader copy. Things have suddenly kicked into Very High Gear. This version has been sent to reviewers, bloggers and booksellers, and I’m trying to find space in my head and heart for the knowledge it’s out in the world.
And it’s in my husband’s hands. Deep breath, stop watching his face for each muscle movement, don’t ask at each chuckle ‘What part are you up to?’ A novelist himself, I want so much for him to nod, and say, ‘Good work, baby.’
Here is what I do know. My book, ‘Fed to Red Birds,’ will be officially published on March 8 (International Women’s Day, a coincidence I’m over the moon about) and the cover will be revealed in the next two weeks. Simon and Schuster have been utterly amazing, from my editors and publicists to audio publishers and Icelandic specialists. They’ve sent out exquisite ARC packages with little wooden ornaments and a postcard with a QR code that leads straight to our ‘Fed to Red Birds’ playlist of Icelandic artists. These were sent in time for the Icelandic tradition of the Christmas Book Flood, celebrating books and reading. I’m excited and delighted and so very grateful that after the distress and delay that was Covid, my book is finally coming.
But for now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take my soju and sit out on the balcony. I’m going to wait for fireworks and pretend not to watch my husband’s every facial movement.
Wish me luck.
Oh, and happy New Year’s Eve. I wish you nothing but blessings for the coming cycle.
‘Voice’ launch
In the heart of Brussels in the Canal of Wolves
Wolvengracht
Rue du Fossé aux Loups
The box landed on my doorstep in time for Imbolc, the Witchcraft festival marking the end of winter and the approach of spring. I knew what it was straight away. I set the box on my altar, not knowing what to do with it, and the flurry of emotion that had landed with it.
It didn’t last long.
There are few finer experiences than opening a box of your own books for the first time.
‘Writer Rijn Collins’ VOICE is a moving, honest and, at times, darkly humorous three-part memoir. She knocks on the doors to belonging, identity and love through the power of language and her innate desire to understand both herself and others. Drawing on Rijn’s linguistic background in Flemish, Irish and Icelandic, VOICE is both a curious tour of foreign places and words as well as a triumphant journey to the heart and light.’
Travel seems long ago and far away thanks to Covid, which is why I absolutely loved writing about my time with these lands and their languages. But what I loved most – what I’ll always love – is writing about Brussels.
I lived there for a year in my teens, and for nine months in my thirties. Deciding what to include in the Flemish chapter of my memoir was so much more challenging than the Irish and Icelandic sections, though I love both those languages too. Memories of Brussels keep floating up, and I hope they never stop.
The Witchcraft store where I’d buy amber and myrrh incense wrapped in wax paper, and tiny bells to plait into my long black hair.
The bar on Schildknaapsstraat, Street of the Squires, where at seventeen I met a Swedish backpacker whose recent inheritance was allowing him to travel far and wide across Europe. When he invited me to join him, fully funded, it was a temptation beyond belief. When I eventually and regretfully declined, he tied a bracelet around my wrist to remember him by. Decades later, I still know which box in the garage it’s in, nestled next to a deer skull and antlers, snake skins and velvet dresses.
The library where I found a huge volume of Sylvia Plath’s journals, and painstakingly handwrote whole chapters into a teal notebook, week after week.
The hairdresser where a devastating breakup led me to cut off my waist-length hair, like a myriad of heartbroken women before me. When the owner asked if I’d like to keep the hair, I told him about the relationship. He murmured sympathy and asked ‘Would you like me to stomp on it instead?’ Mais oui, monsieur, oui. He gathered all his staff and to my delight, led them in a wild dance across the studio, grinding my hair into the floorboards.
I could go on (and I probably will, somewhere).
Or you could come along to my launch this Sunday in Melbourne and pick up a copy yourself.
When: Sunday 8th August, 3pm-6pm
Where: Sloth bar, 202 Barkly Street, Footscray
If you have an interest in Icelandic spells or feminist punk, linguistics or Goth girls, or just supporting local authors…would love to see you there.
VOICE
Something wonderful has happened.
My name is on a book cover.
My debut collection of short memoir, VOICE, is now available for pre-order. Somekind Press is a crowdfunded publishing house, and their ROAR series is ‘dedicated to some of Australia’s newest and most exciting writing talent.’ Such amazing company to be in!
From Somekind’s website:
‘An adventure, a home, a new skin to slide into and claim as my own…” In writer Rijn Collins’ VOICE, a moving, honest and, at times, darkly humorous three-part memoir, we meet a young Rijn on a personal journey of discovery; a poignant search to find and accept herself. Rijn’s hunt takes her to faraway lands – from Melbourne to Belgium and Iceland (and back again), from drinking cherry beers on medieval cobblestone streets to gazing at the Northern Lights knee-deep in snow in places where “roads are rerouted to avoid underground elf homes.” Punk to paganism, snow and solitude to cheery Irish pubs, Rijn knocks on the doors to belonging, identity and love through the power of language and words and her innate desire to understand both herself and others. Drawing on Rijn’s linguistic background in Flemish, Irish and Icelandic, VOICE is both a curious tour of foreign places and words as well as a triumphant journey to the heart and light.
If you’ve been following my blog, you know I love the niche, and there is plenty of that here. Tiny bird bones and feminist punk, pagan altars and snakes curled asleep in my bra, snowy sagas and Goth cafes, the languages I adore and a winter solstice wedding, a taxidermy snow goose and a potential Riverdance audition.
If that sounds up your alley – you beautiful weirdo – please click through on the photos and place your pre-order. You have ten days to do so to help it reach publication, so I would love your support, as well as the opportunity to support a fabulous new micro-publisher on the Australian, Japanese and American literary scene. Here we go 
Maelstrom
Her name meant ‘nocturnal journey.’ I chose her for that reason from the clinic’s website. For my first appointment, I was concerned about running late so pulled on the first thing my fingers found. I got to the front gate. A tight and lime green ‘Getting Lucky in Kentucky’ t-shirt might not be the best first impression. I changed it. These things count, you know.
‘Those places are full of secret codes of behaviour, believe me. They won’t tell you what they are, but they’ll sure as hell notice when you break them.’
She had pale, fine hair and smiled often. I sat cross-legged on her couch and didn’t smile at all. My hand rested on my breastbone as though trying to push down the pressure that had been building in my ribcage.
In our third session, she leaned forward.
‘Did you know – ‘ I leaned forward too – ‘that uncertainty doesn’t seem to sit well with you?’
I did know. I sighed as I walked out of there. Who did it sit well with? I didn’t make another appointment.
A month later, Covid hit.
If there were ever a year to explore uncertainty, it’s 2020.
Like most of us, I’ve been limping towards December 31st. It’s been so grim for so long, and I am bone fucking tired. It was a year that started well, too, with publication contracts for both myself and my husband for our debut novels. But then 2020 tilted, everything skewed, and the unexpected came shooting straight at us.
I’m deeply grateful to have my health, my home and my husband. At this age, I’m surprised when I can still surprise myself, but I learned some things in 2020, and I’m grateful for them too. This little technophobe had a crash course in zoom and transferred 100% of her teaching online, to the amazement of everyone. I had it written into my wedding vows that I would not ask for husband for tech help, and lord, did I break that this year (thanks, baby). A global pandemic is a brutal background for the first year of marriage, but we turned to each other instead of against, and are closer than ever.
In a year that seemed never-ending, the importance of the Solstices and Equinoxes in marking time, and therefore opportunities for regeneration and renewal, were inestimable. My altar is the first place I go every morning, and the last at night. Through Nina Hagen I also found Kirtan, traditional Hindu devotional songs, which I’ve been singing all through lockdown (sorry, baby).
A huge hit of unexpected joy came in the form of another publication contract, though I’m not giving details until it’s all settled and signed. A teaser is that it allows me to write about my favourite place in the world, Brussels, as well as the setting of my novel, Iceland,, and my love of languages that has led me through a degree in Linguistics and fourteen years of language teaching. So excited to get to work!
One deeply painful lesson was that when my beloved Marley took unexpectedly sick and died in my hands five weeks ago, my own heart was able to still keep beating, though it broke into so many pieces. A life lived without a creature is not a life for me. Today we welcomed a three-legged rescue cat called Martha into our family, and her purring behind me right now is pure joy, though we all need time to adjust.
Lastly, trapped in Melbourne’s industrial west for eight months of lockdown, among petrochemical vats and noxious factories, I learned that I crave the forest. Green, green, so much hunger for green. I’ve been a city girl my whole life, but that may just be coming to a close. If 2020 has taught me anything, it’s that the unexpected is not necessarily the enemy.
And I’ve read. Damn, have I read. Thanks to everyone whose books, stories, articles and recommendations have been shared and supported by the astounding literary community, and so made their way into my life. If you have any recommendations (including your own books) please let me know.
Here’s to 2021….time to close our eyes, and leap.
Scalpel and sinew under the northern lights
My head is very much down, hands on keyboard, blues on the stereo. This month has seen meetings with my lovely publisher and agent, work on my manuscript, collating of ideas for the book cover, publicity photos, a writing retreat, and so much joy (which never really comes without stress, does it?). I took time out to read a Lit Hub article detailing a set of questions the author always asks writers with a new book out. The questions were intriguing, the answers illuminating. Of course I picked up a pen, and answered some myself.
Without summarizing it in any way, what would you say your book is about?
Identity through isolation. Bird bones and snow. Regeneration through fragility. Icelandic sagas and Australian rainforest. Home and heart. Scalpel and sinew under the northern lights.
Far northen Iceland
Bird bones: anatomy of a thrush
Without explaining why and without naming other authors or books, can you discuss the various influences on your book?
Big Mama Thornton’s voice. Feminist punk lyrics. My familiars of cat and snake. A one-month writing residency in far northern Iceland. My taxidermy teacher. Victorian memento mori. An Icelandic-English dictionary. Trumpet lilies in my garden. Snake skins. My agent’s wisdom. My husband’s chest. My history of agoraphobia. The photography of Petrina Hicks. My constant search for solitude in snow. Red birds.
My trumpet lily tattoo
Petrina Hicks
Taxidermy workshop
Without using complete sentences, can you describe what was going on in your life as you wrote this book?
Studied Icelandic and taxidermy techniques. Fell in love. Pagan handfasting on the Winter Solstice. Honeymoon in Brussels with Bosch and Bruegel paintings. Leaned into step-motherhood. Got an agent and a bass guitar. Pulled my hair out with rewrites. Learned I was part-Norwegian. Husband signed a book deal. Loved my coven of scribe sisters.
Bronco bass and Marlow muse
Handfasting
If you could choose a career besides writing (irrespective of schooling requirements and/or talent) what would it be?
Translator of Germanic languages. In my degree I did a double major in Linguistics and Germanic Languages, which is where I first studied and fell in love with Icelandic. It’s a notoriously difficult language and my love for it far exceeds my skill. Setting my novel in Reykjavik with a protagonist who takes Icelandic classes meant being able to shine a light not just on the beauty of the language, but my reverence for it. I’ve lived in Brussels several times and travel as often as possible to Berlin: I would absolutely adore dipping into English, Dutch and German as a translator. In a perfect world, Icelandic would follow (and then Russian, and Finnish, and Gaelic, and…and…).
Windowsill eavesdropping, Brussels
Have I procrastinated enough?
Head down, stereo on, and back to the keyboard.
Count to ninety, and leap
Ninety seconds is not a lot of time.
In ninety seconds I could read some flash fiction, mix a martini or translate one of my Icelandic fortune cards. But is it enough time to sit in front of a waiting publisher or literary agent to pitch my novel?
I’m possibly making it more dramatic than it was (which is my job, after all). To be specific we had three minutes in front of each person, half of which was recommended to talk about our publishing achievements and pitch our project, with the other ninety seconds left free for any questions they had. With a roomful of other writers waiting in queues behind me, and a loud timer ringing constantly, there was no room for timidity. I had a straight spine, a handful of business cards, a blood red dress that stood out in a sea of Melbourne black, and a sold out performance at the Williamstown Literary Festival to head straight to afterwards.
My business card
Rehearsals for the Williamstown Literary Festival – photo by Eric Algra
A big day, then.
And a rather spectacular one. I apparently managed to make a novel about a taxidermist with an obsessive compulsive disorder in the snow and solitude of Iceland sound ‘odd and beautiful’, and walked out of there with three invitations to send in my manuscript when it’s finished. The advice I received was invaluable, as was the professionalism and expertise of those who donated their time; if you ever get the chance to attend a ‘literary speed dating’ event, jump at it. I am even more enthused to KEEP WRITING, stick to my schedule, and focus on the story that has had me enthralled for some time now.
My participation in the Hard Copy manuscript development program from the ACT Writers Centre has also been astonishingly inspiring. Designed to nurture ‘the next wave of exciting Australian novelists’, the first round involved three 9am-5pm sessions of lectures and workshops from the National Library in Canberra. As a member of their inaugural digital program, I accessed these from my writing studio via live streaming, with a constant supply of coffee, a loving partner bringing me snacks, a curious cat intruding into microphone range, and some very stiff neck muscles.
Point of view, present or past tense, interior struggle versus exterior atmosphere, titles and word count, with chats in the side bar and moving camera angles. My pen flew, and my fingers on the keyboard also. So many of us put value on talismans that helped our ink flow; my ring holding a chunk of Icelandic lava, my fortune telling cards bought from the Kolaportið flea market in Reykjavik, and my framed chart of the skeletal system of a small finch above my antique writing desk, to guide my protagonist’s hands through the taxidermy that opens my first chapter. Knowing this is a peculiarity of many writers felt like a blessing.
‘Let Go Of It’
Bird bones in my writing studio
Sharing the digital program with five other inspired and inspiring women from all around Australia was a dream come true, and we’re already talking about flying in to meet each other for a group whiskey weekend.
My writing studio
As the Luddite of the group, I fared remarkably well. Given that the following is the opening paragraph of my recent article in the Victorian Writer magazine, I think everyone breathed a sigh of relief that my participation in the Hard Copy Digital stream was so seamless.
The first time I used the Internet, I was reluctant. So I could just type in any subject, and articles or photos would magically appear? A technophobe at heart, I hid my intimidation behind scorn. ‘Who would want that?’ I remember asking. ‘It won’t last.’
Round Two of Hard Copy begins in September, a week before I’m booked to appear at the Write Around the Murray literary festival in Albury, NSW. Last night I performed with Stereo Stories at the Glen Eira Story Telling festival, and two weeks before that there was the sold out show at the Williamstown Literary Festival. In between I recorded my love story to the West Gate Bridge at RRR studios for All The Best Radio, a piece that was first published in the Readings Victoria project to commemorate the tenth anniversary of Melbourne’s designation as a UNESCO City of Literature. Also due soon is my contribution, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel’ to the wonderful Memoria podcast, airing on July 16.
At the RRR studios for All The Best Radio
Stereo Stories at the Willi Lit Festival – photo by Eric Algra
Just a woman and her giraffe dress – Williamstown Literary Festival
As if I needed more reason to spill ink, last week saw my birthday and the winter solstice, and a lovely, loving group of friends in a haunted house with open fire, Nancy Sinatra singalong and full heart.
Walhalla, Victoria
Walhalla Cemetery, Victora
Walhalla, Victoria
Let’s see what inky wonders July brings, hey?
Medusa knows best
My friends are particularly adept at selecting stellar gifts for me. These range from a taxidermy workshop to Culture Club concert tickets, a bat skeleton to a tattoo design. An artist friend drew me an astounding Medusa for my thirtieth birthday; she decorates my left arm with her mesmerising stare and defiant pose, reminding me whenever I need it most how to straighten my own spine.
Icelandic fortune cards found at a Reykjavik flea market: ‘Let go of it.’
This present, however, was not on my birthday but as a random I-love-you-and-I-thought-this-would-make-you-happy gift.
The Wolf bought me a DNA test.
I’ve always known my heritage to be Celtic. My grandfather was from Belfast, and passed on to me both an adoration of books, and an Irish passport, in addition to my Australian one. I overdosed on the Pogues and Van Morrison by working in an Irish pub for almost a decade, and studied Gaelic for years (although it’s so challenging that all I can do now is order a Guinness, and tell someone to fuck off – a heady combination).
But while I’m deeply grateful to be able to travel so easily through Europe, it’s not Ireland or the UK that I’m drawn to.
I head for the fjords, every time.
Ólafsfjörður, northern Iceland
Siglufjörður, northern Iceland
Akureyri, northern Iceland
I’m so smitten by the snowy lands; always have been. Last month I returned from my beloved Iceland, with my Wolf and best friend Lisa in tow. We drove from one side of the country to the other on ice slicked roads in gale force winds, Lisa and I sharing capfuls of duty free vodka to stem the nerves. I showed them the tiny fishing village up near the Arctic Circle where I did my first writing residency, and where my novel ends (or will, when I finish it, all muses considered). I walked around Siglufjörður and Ólafsfjörður in my army boots and red riding hood, tracing where my protagonist eats, drinks and dreams, and then headed to Reykjavik to consider her stomping ground down south.
The street in Reykjavik where Elva lives, the protagonist in my novel
It was my fifth time in Reykjavik. The city – and country – spellbinds me. The bright primary colours of the buildings, the veneration of literature and language, the crunch of boots on snow, the glorious northern light, the stench of sulphur water when you turn on the shower….wait, that last one was kind of hard to cope with, actually. But the magic worked again, as I suspect it always will in that otherworldly land. I’ve returned to Melbourne even more full of a desire to head there again and again, and importantly, to pour out more of my novel as often as I can.
Downtown Reykjavik
Blues gig poster, Reykjavik
My muse works well in sub-zero temperatures, as writing residencies in Iceland and Finland have shown me. She’s standing over me with a bowl full of Skyr and a snow boot tapping impatiently, reminding me to WRITE WRITE WRITE.
My DNA test results came back. When I saw the circles drawn on a map of Europe, showing me my ancestry origins, the 36% Irish surprised no-one. There were tiny traces of the Iberian Peninsula, Central Asia and Jewish heritage, which fascinated me. But damn, the intake of breath when I saw the second biggest area of ancestry, a circle drawn around the northern countries I adore.
Nordic: 35%.
The Wolf was right: happiness guaranteed.
Siglufjörður snow in day
inkymouth 