Masculinity at the fore in Michael Winkler’s new book
Declan Fry
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Michael Winkler smiles and greets me from the door of his home in Brunswick wearing a T-shirt so bright I feel relieved I’m wearing Ray-Bans. The flamboyant design, reminiscent of Winkler’s writings (six tinned tomato cans, like Warhol’s inspiration for the Brunswick Mediterranean Wholesalers), belies its aesthetic seriousness.
He guides me toward a red velvet sofa, the kind that might have once graced the set. Twin PeaksWinkler says unmercifulHis first novel, Australia’s first self-published novel to be nominated for Miles Franklin, was a “mutation”. The road to his first work, which brought together decades of work, including “six or eight pages” from a project 20 years ago, was paved with unpublished manuscripts.
Michael Winkler, whose new novel explores masculinity.Simon Schluter
“They won’t be published. I was devastated at the time that they weren’t picked up,” he says, “but there’s no jewel sitting at the bottom of the drawer.”
griefdogg‘s origin story is a little less stubborn. Winkler, who started the draft in 2019, is headed to Mildura to complete it in 2024. “I told everyone I was going to Mildura to write a book – and everything came crashing down. I couldn’t find the voice. I remember the tears flowing. I assumed it would be a failure. Another humiliating torment.”
At this point Winkler realized what he was missing: A. sound but sounds. In a few months, griefdogg was born. Among those voices is Jeffrey Watson-Johnson, a globally disgruntled Mildura hydrologist. Jeffrey, in his forties, is a vegan straight arrow and (in his own estimation) a sex god. Whenever he feels jealousy or anger, he consoles himself that the object of his contempt is likely to be a “debacle in bed.” Is he a godforsaken parody of insecure masculine men? A brave new species that thins voluntarily (a volincel)? Or the most miserable Australian water scientist imaginable? We can call this a hat-trick.
“He’s a good person,” Winkler says, confirming that Jeffrey “is not stupid.” “He’s stuck with the idea of striving and being the best at everything. There’s no room for flow.”
To say Jeffrey lacks flow is an understatement. His relationship with his wife, Martine, is drier than in Sahara (“they are more like friendly joint tenants than lovers”). Jeffrey is confident that the research he is conducting will be “absolutely ignored” by the government and demonized by big corporations. A middle-aged man is heading towards the shit creek with a shovel, but he has no purpose.
Still, why have middle age if you can’t find time to enjoy some crises? In short order, Jeffrey is sleeping with his cousin, hooking up with a stranger at a water infrastructure conference, and worrying about the state of his sagging balls with a mixture of steely stoicism and cautious concern.
For one or three people doomed to the “desperate loneliness of carrying a shabby secret,” the unexpected happens: Jeffrey’s aunt dies and he inherits a large inheritance. Given “it’s a life-changing balance to consider,” you’d be forgiven for thinking it could change his life. Instead it doubles.
He tells his family that he wants to live at home like a pet, with “the same rights and obligations.” His wife is worried he wants to be furry. He explains that he doesn’t want to explore quirks or become a dog. He no longer wants a life of decisions. Adopting a new alias (“Hubert”), he decides to make no commitments and becomes the kind of stay-at-home dad a family is dying to leave home for.
