Writer and Communications Specialist, Bethany Rogers introduces herself and experiences of being a local artist.
Please introduce yourself and tell us a bit of your story.
Kia ora! I’m Bethany G. Rogers. I’m a writer originally from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne (UK). I came to Queenstown in 2012 and I live here with my partner and a ginormous house rabbit called Oscar Wilde. There’s two parts to my work: my commercial copy/content writing and strategy, and my dark and twisted short stories and poems. In my spare time, I love going on adventures (trail running, open water swimming, hiking, and a bit of boxing). I’m also a Trustee of the Queenstown Writers Festival and run the Queenstown Creative Writing Group.
Explain what you do in the simplest form.
Dream. Plan. Write. Edit. Edit again (and again).
What inspired you to pursue your writing?
It’s really a hopeless addiction and something I simply had to pursue. I love how words can entertain, inform and truly transform someone’s world. Literature has always had this effect on me, so I feel the need to give back by contributing my own writing to the world in some way.
What is the most challenging part of freelance work?
The business side – negotiating and making sure I get paid. I love what I do and have a tendency to get excited and want to jump right into a new project, but that’s no good if I’ll be living in a cardboard box, eating worms by the end of the week.
I think a lot of people undervalue the amount of work and study that goes into writing. It’s tough explaining over and over that there’s a lot more to it than spelling checks and endless cups of tea.
What is your dream project?
My first short story collection, Kaleidoscopes in the Dark. It’s been in the works for far too long, but I was lucky enough to be awarded an NZSA mentorship this year. I’m working with my mentor, author Majella Cullinane, to get it finished. It’s been the big kick up the bum I needed to get on with it!
Short stories are my favourite form to read and write, so it’s long been a dream to put together a collection.
What sets you apart from other authors?
Ach, that’s a tough question. My creative work is quite dystopian, but I think it has a touch of Geordie (from Newcastle) humour to it. My favourite pieces of feedback have been that my writing has hints of Angela Carter and Margaret Atwood, but with pastoral themes (I suppose that’s where the outdoor adventures come in!).
Name a local author that inspires you.
Can I name two? I’m a big fan of Sara Lichfield and Helen Scheuerer. They’re both fantastic writers and storytellers, and talented business people who take stories seriously.
What is an artistic outlook on life?
An artistic outlook on life is a particularly human thing. It’s about recognising the little things and not letting reality hold you back.
Where can we find you/r work?
- https://www.bgrogers.com
- @bgrogers (I’m most active on Instagram)
- Failing that, I’ll be in the lake or on a mountain…
“Can I see?”
The bedroom is semi-dark, a curtain hangs loosely over the window and clouds brew trouble in the skies. It feels like evening, but it’s not. Just a trick of winter.
She holds tightly onto the lid of the shoebox. A box for hiking boots, men’s, size 12. But I know that’s not what is inside.
She shakes her head.
The shoebox is quiet, I’m worried. She’s done this before. It started when they sent her to boarding school, after Mum died. The boarding school sent her back. They were worried.
She scratches the side of the shoebox, an awful grating sound that’s magnified in the silence. I don’t know what to do. Her hair is unwashed and she’s wearing the black hoodie, like always. It smells of sweat ingrained, but the colour doesn’t show the stains. I think she’s killing them, but I can’t be sure. I can’t see blood stains on black fabric.
She buries them. In the shoeboxes. The others say she finds them that way, that she’s just burying them, the way we buried Mum. In a plain, brown box with blue nigella damascene stolen from a neighbour’s garden.
There’s a quiver from the box. It’s alive.
“Can I see?”
She lifts her hand from the lid and the hare springs out. A jack-in-the-box. Its eyes are so big. Big and wide and yellow with a dark brown dash in the middle. One of its black-tipped ears is split, an old war-wound. Its glossy, wet fur flashes in the dull light as it dashes around the room in panic. All we do is watch. Like we did once before. We watch while it thrashes and thuds against the walls until it drops.
“We can bury it now, together,” she says.
written by Bethany Rogers