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Higher Degree Researchers (HDRs) in Australia tertiary education programs must achieve mastery of complex skills, theories, and concepts. Non-traditional HDRs, especially those enrolled part time and remotely, face barriers to achieving these outcomes. This concise paper uses the case study of a regional university in Australia to investigate the theoretical underpinnings of technology use to promote HDR communities of learning, especially for part time and remote researchers.

In the discipline of creative writing in Australia, questions of disciplinary identity have previously focused on distinguishing creative writing from literary studies. Fewer have questioned exactly what academics mean when they talk about ‘writing’ as a discipline. When the term ‘writing’ is used synecdochally to mean ‘creative writing’ or ‘writing in a general sense’, other kinds of writing risk becoming invisible or undervalued. This often results in writing programs targeted at fiction and creative nonfiction writers aspiring to publication. While there is nothing inherently wrong with this, our collaboration, which we label ‘horizontal mentoring’, across sub-disciplines in writing – creative writing and technical communication – has resulted in fruitful investigations into disciplinary identity. We draw on a reflective practice methodology to answer the questions: how has our collaboration helped us develop a more nuanced understanding of writing? How might this collaboration help advocate for writing in the Australian context? How can our collaboration help develop diverse students as writers? We conclude with a vision for an inclusive and welcoming disciplinary identity and pedagogical practices that engage diverse student cohorts.

Historical fiction writers can be drawn to the true stories of women who have committed violent or criminal acts, as are readers. Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace and Hannah Kent's Burial Rites are po...

Wandering is an embodied movement through a landscape, cityscape, or soundscape; it is a venture that one may undertake voluntarily or reluctantly. It is similar to wayfaring and roaming, and different to walking. As a metaphor and as a figuration of subjectivity, wandering allows for a number of non-linear engagements: loitering, overhearing, wildflowering, meandering, even time travel. When coupled with an act of memory or imagination, wandering can instigate wondering, and vice versa. It can refer to the physical movement of the body through space or the abstract wandering of the mind through time; more often than not, it is both.The contributions to this special issue on ‘Wandering’ take up the theme in ways that demonstrate how straying from prescribed pathways and patterns of movement can be a transformative experience: one that renders new ways of thinking, reading, gaming, communicating, and being. For the authors featured here, wandering is deeply affectual, at times intimate and empowering, at other times disorientating, melancholy, and compulsive. Wandering provokes an awareness of the ambiances of everyday life, a response to the repression of desire, trauma, and historical violence. Wandering, of course, is traditionally associated with the city, and many of the articles here extend this scholarship, while others move the discussion of wandering to the natural environment. Historically, wandering has been connected to patriarchal, colonial modes of exploring and mapping, of claiming and naming places. Yet these articles suggest that wandering, as a mode of resistance—as a mobility that is ideologically charged—can provide new ways of being beyond heteronormativity and outside the hold of linear boundaries. In wandering rather than waiting, the wanderer inscribes opposing devices into her narrative: her movement is infused with gendered meaning and is well-equipped to reveal the relational, discursive operations of identity.Indeed, in the feature article, Ingrid Horrocks challenges neo-liberal versions of travel through an account of her ongoing research into female wandering and travel writing; her most recent book Women Wanderers and the Writing of Mobility, 1784-1814 presents an extensive consideration of the many complexities she outlines here, including the need to disentangle mobility from its frequent ideological equation with liberty. Horrocks explains, for example, how reluctant wandering in eighteenth and nineteenth century British literature requires a more flexible and nuanced understanding of wandering as a form of displacement. For Horrocks, the interdisciplinary field of mobilities studies is particularly illuminating. This framework allows for a tracing of the significance of both the symbolic representations of wandering in narrative and the historical conditions and lived experiences of the writers that produced wandering texts. Horrocks’s work reveals that deeper investigation into the histories of different mobilities is significant for modern conceptualisations of travel that equate movement with freedom of choice; such neo-liberal ideologies of mobility elide the structural forces and inequalities that might compel one to move—to leave home in search of work, companionship, or food. Kristina Deffenbacher also challenges conventional travel narratives—in this case, the road narrative—in her article, “Mapping Trans-Domesticity in Jordan’s Breakfast on Pluto.” Deffenbacher develops the term “trans-domesticity” to explain how the film challenges not only notions of home but also understandings of domestic spaces and practices. Specifically, Deffenbacher reads Breakfast on Pluto as a queer diaspora narrative that destabilises normative bonds and structures, and in doing so, transforms the traditional road story where the protagonist leaves home in search of autonomy and independence. Reading against earlier interpretations of the protagonist’s behaviour as apolitical, Deffenbacher suggests that homemaking in public, transient spaces is a queer reclamation of domestic space through the act of wandering, which enables connection rather than dislocation.The protagonist in Breakfast in Pluto creates a home in London, and global neo-liberal London is the site of investigation in “Wandering and Placemaking in London: Iain Sinclair’s Literary Methodology.” Here, Kirsten Seale and Emily Potter examine how psychogeographer Iain Sinclair’s wandering moves beyond the chronicling of place to engage in placemaking that is materially entangled with the transformative conditions of place. Sinclair’s wandering, as Seale and Potter demonstrate, acts upon the city as much as it is an act within the city. Sinclair’s writing about London’s decrepitude contributes to a contemporary aesthetic of urban decay that is cultivated and commodified in high-end locales—an extra-textual consequence that points to the position of Sinclair’s wanderings as “more-than-literary.” In other words, Sinclair’s texts materialise versions of place that operate outside the assemblage of literary production, thereby constituting spatial events.Devin Proctor wanders in another quintessential city in “Wandering in the City: Time, Memory, and Experience in Digital Game Space.” Proctor traverses the physical, the virtual, and the temporal in his exploration of downtown New York, as constructed in the videogame Assassin’s Creed: Rogue. Accompanying Proctor on his wanderings is the memory—or the future projection—of Michel de Certeau, whose musings from the top of the World Trade Center—not-yet-built in the time of the game, not-yet-destroyed in the time of de Certeau, existing only in memory in Proctor’s own time—inform the exploration of space. Proctor wonders whether it is possible to truly wander in a controlled space, where even apparent acts of spatial disobedience—scaling buildings, running along walls—are within the “rules” of the game. For Proctor, disavowing the designed narrative of the game—ignoring quests, not seeking to progress or level up but instead simply wandering—allows the digital space to take on different meanings, and to become, in fact, another space: one that is a colourful vista of memory, fiction, and experience.In “Adapting to Loiterly Reading: Agatha Christie’s Original Adaptation of 'The Witness for the Prosecution'", Alistair Rolls takes up the theme of wandering by applying the notion to re-reading Christie’s short story “The Witness for the Prosecution” in a way that is prompted by Sarah Phelps’s screen adaptation for BBC One. Rolls applies Armelle Blin-Rolland’s notion of “vortical” reading: a model of adaptation in which no version of a text is privileged as the correct one but instead part of a textual multiplicity. Through this lens, Rolls argues that Christie’s short story can be appreciated by a wandering reader who undertakes loiterly reading, thereby moving against the grain of crime fiction: a genre, which, through its focus on the revelatory end, usually speeds a reader to a resolution. A wandering reader might see, for instance, the fetishistic narrative and partially-repressed pre-textual truths. Therefore, Phelps’s adaptation, which uses a framing device by adding a new beginning and end to the narrative, complements, rather than undercuts, Christie’s original. In this article, Rolls enacts his own form of loiterly reading. Melanie Pryor examines the work of another well-known wanderer in “Dark Peripatetic Walking as Radical Wandering in Cheryl Strayed’s Memoir Wild.” Pryor adopts John Brabour’s notion of the dark peripatetic, a kind of itinerant wandering often associated with isolation from society. Pryor transforms the notion’s negative connotations, arguing instead that, in women’s memoir, wandering in the wilderness is an act of “radical self-containment”. Pryor draws attention to the way that Strayed’s memoir offers a counterpoint to traditional patriarchal narratives of domination and colonisation of the natural world. Instead, Strayed’s writing positions her as a witness to the natural world and her own physical and internal transformation. Pryor draws our attention to the way that even Strayed’s name, changed after her divorce, suggests an empowered wandering from the traditional confines of domestic life. Like Pryor, Susan Davis in “Wandering and Wildflowering: Walking with Women into Intimacy and Ecological Action” locates wandering, not as it traditionally has occurred in the city, but in a natural ecosystem: in this case, the wallum bushland behind the beaches of South East Queensland, Australia. This complex ecosystem, Davis explains, is at once resilient, thriving in soil corrosive as battery acid, but also fragile, unable to re-grow once destroyed; yet few pay attention to this landscape. Davis presents an historical account of Australian poet Judith Wright’s and artist and writer Kathleen McArthur’s relationship with each other and this coastal heathland, arguing that both wandering and “wildflowering” provoked in the women a new artistic and ecological vision. Attuning to the more-than-human world allowed these artists to value what still is, Davis argues, a largely invisible landscape; this new vision prompted ecological activism and conservation.In “Wandering in and out of Place: Modes of Searching for the Past in Paris, Moscow, and St Petersburg”, Katherine Brabon suggests that wandering in a place can also be a mode of wandering in the past. In her analysis of W.G. Sebald’s, Patrick Modiano’s, and her own work, Brabon points to the way that the narrator’s embodied movement through place is haunted by traces of historical trauma and violence. Landscape, infused with memory and emotion, provokes a compulsive wandering; the narrators in the works Brabon describes appear almost doomed to wander in search of a past available only in fragments. These are themes Brabon also explores in her novel, The Memory Artist, which won the Vogel Literary Award in 2016, and which complements the exegetical discussion presented here. In “Wandering a Metro: Actor-Network Theory Research and Rapid Rail Infrastructure Communication”, Nicholas Richardson wanders Montreal’s underground Métro, asking of the fifty-year-old train system the Latourian question, “What do you do for a city and its people?” By wandering the Métro and interviewing its other wanderers, commuters, and workers, Richardson is able to observe the actor-network within which the train operates. Through this process, he comes to understand what a train system like Montreal’s might bring to a city such as Sydney. Richardson’s wandering is as much methodological and metaphorical as it is physical, and he does not seek to end either aspect of his foray at a finish line. Instead of drawing us towards the finality of conclusions, Richardson’s wandering opens up multiple avenues. The actor-network of the Métro is comprised not just of the train itself and its immediate users but also the artworks and architecture that give character to its spaces. Ultimately, the influence of the Métro and its actor-network spread beyond the boundaries of the train system itself; the Métro functions—as one of Richardson’s respondents puts it—as the “connective tissue” of the city. Whereas Richardson awaits an answer to his question, “What do you do for a city and its people?”, Rowan Wilken, in “Walkie-Talkies, Wandering, and Sonic Intimacy”, is concerned with the act of listening itself when urban wanderers come into contact with the sonic environments in which they live. Wilken extends the notion of wandering to the ambient soundscape by analysing two artworks, Saturday by Sabrina Raff and Walk That Sound by Lukatoyboy. Wilken positions these artworks in an avant-garde artistic tradition, the Situationist International, which emerged in the 1960s, and which proposed the use of walkie-talkies to enable urban wandering, an act of engaging with place designed to create more authentic “situations” to counteract social alienation brought about by Capitalism. The more contemporary artworks at the heart of Wilken’s analysis extend this tradition by inviting the reader to attune to overheard conversations, and form what Wilken, in an application of Dominic Pettman’s notion, calls sonic intimacy. Wilken suggests that in these works the act of overhearing invites an aural connection with strangers. Yet, such acts also evoke a disturbing undercurrent of surveillance and the Panopticon. AcknowledgementsThe editors would like to acknowledge the time, care, and insight of the reviewers who provided feedback on this issue. This often unrewarded labour deserves recognition and thanks.

Ecotourism ventures in developing countries are often among the few alternatives for enhancing sustainable livelihoods without altering traditional ways of life. The best way forward is to continually develop and implement best practice guidelines and, in particular, to flexibly develop them to suit individual cases. We conduct a multidisciplinary assessment of best practice guidelines required to develop and sustain sportfishing tourism in developing countries, while enhancing local livelihoods and promoting environmental stewardship. In general, best practice guidelines should be developed around a sustainable livelihood framework that includes short-term coping mechanisms and longer-term capacity building. Sportfishing development that conforms to ecological and socially orientated criteria, founded on site-specific research that captures local environmental and social complexities, has the potential to provide mutual benefits to tourists and local people, fuelling community development and enhancing the cultural experience of tourists. Best practice guidelines for sportfishing that do not address these dimensions are unlikely to result in a viable industry. Given the current interest and growth of sportfishing in developing countries, the proposed guidelines can help a range of end users manage, conserve and maximize livelihood benefits from their fishery.

This chapter examines the role of the researcher in actively working to develop reading and writing communities through digital tools, specifically locative literature. Locative literature uses new technology that allows narratives to be tied to specific locations. For example, quick response codes can be situated in a given location and then scanned with a smart phone so that the user can access data instantly in that location. Increasingly, artists and writers are using these technologies to engage with the symbolic meaning of specific sites. This chapter looks at narrative representations of sites in particular, focusing on the way community groups use locative literature to tell place stories, with reference to a case study of a regional writing community in North Queensland, Australia. Because of locative literature's capacity to allow users to engage with narratives in the location in which they are set, locative media can bring to light hidden and multiple layers of human experience tied to a specific location. These tools can thus serve as a means to share community perceptions of place through narrative. The symbolic representation of place aids in the construction of a sense of a community both real and virtual. Locative media thus offer a one useful tool for both sharing community narratives and for researchers to be involved in the development of community cohesion and inclusiveness.

In this chapter, we offer an overview of the diverse ways in which poetry is being used in qualitative inquiry. We seek to illuminate for readers how and why poetic inquiry has value for such researchers. Illustrative projects and poems are placed throughout the chapter to help contextualise the literature reviewed. For example, in the poem above, the first author uses the poetic form to reflect on and express her motivations for engaging in qualitative research. This poem provides an embodied demonstration of one of the ways poetry can be a useful tool for researchers; allowing researchers to express the emotional research journey through metaphors and images not available to them in traditional academic language. In this example, poetry functions as a creative form of selfreflexivity, of understanding the self and how this self shapes the interpretation and construction of knowledge produced in research. However, poetry is used in diverse ways by qualitative researchers. In poetic inquiry, poems can be a source of data, a form of data, a way of representing complex or even unspeakable social dilemmas, or a methodology or means through which to link research processes to research outcomes for transparent, powerful effect. Poetics can be viewed as a discourse articulating ‘the relationship between the creative work and its critical inputs and outcomes’ (Lyall, 2014, p. 134, citing the work of Lasky, 2013). The use of poetry in qualitative inquiry is not new (Butler-Kisber & Stewart, 2009). Since the early 1990s, qualitative researchers increasingly have used poetry as a means of exploring complex social issues and presenting lived experiences, particularly when working with minority or vulnerable populations (Prendergast, Leggo & Sameshima, 2009; Sjollema, Hordyk, Walsh, Hanley & Ives, 2012). The practice of poetic inquiry or poetry-as-research is one approach in a diverse range of arts-based practices that emerged in the 1990s in response to what Denzin and Lincoln (2005) described as the ‘triple crisis in qualitative research: that of representation, legitimatisation and praxis’ (p. 19). Denzin and Lincoln (2005) stated that researchers were acknowledging their own role in shaping research data, and the difficulties of representing lived experience, in turn rendering the traditional evaluation criteria of validity, generalisability and reliability increasingly problematic. Poetic inquiry, with its emphasis on disrupting hierarchies, promoting reflexivity and introducing a pause or ‘a stammer’ (Shidmehr, 2009, p. 101), is one means by which qualitative researchers can respond to these tensions in research practice. According to Wulf-Andersen (2012), poetic representation ‘shows rather than academically explains’ and can constitute a ‘process of creating knowledge’ (p. 573). Qualitative researchers have utilised the distinctive qualities of poetry in diverse ways, including participant-voiced poems (Connelly, 2010), or ‘vox participare’ (Prendergast, 2009, p. xxii), where the researcher uses only the words of the participants gathered during research and ‘re-presents’ them (Glesne, 1997; Richardson, 2003). This practice is similar to ‘found poetry’ (Sjollema et al., 2012, p. 205), where a poem is created solely from primary sources, such as prose, conversations, interview transcripts and other research data, and the poet/ researcher shapes this original material. Such poems also have been called data poems (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para. 15). A review of the literature suggests this is the most common form of poetic inquiry. Other approaches include autobiographical poems that explore the lived experiences of the author-researcher in order to gain insight into a particular research process (Furman, Langer, Davis et. al, 2007). These poems are sometimes referred to as ‘auto-ethnographic poems’ (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para. 16) and ‘vox autobiographia’ (Prendergast, 2009, p. xxii). Such poetry is used as a method of inquiry to think through data (Richardson, 2003) or to explore the researcher’s journey (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para 16). Bishop and Willis (2014, para 16) suggested that ‘research poems’ are akin to autobiographical poems. However, we suggest that research poems are a distinct practice (Butler-Kisber, 2002). Research poems often are based on theoretical frameworks or fieldwork and diaries, rather than personal memories and experiences. Prendergast (2009) described these poems as ‘vox theoria’, literature-voiced poems written in response to literature or theory in a field (p. xxii). In this way, although the poems are personal, they normally are not a direct expression of the researcher’s personal experiences. As demonstrated in the opening poem by one of the authors, the writer/researcher may use metaphor and imagery in a conceptual and abstract way, as critical researcher reflection on the research process. In addition, some researchers have selected and analysed existing poetry in order to understand a particular social phenomenon (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para. 17). Finally, some qualitative researchers have invited participants to produce poems, which the researcher then uses as a form of data (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para. 18). Bishop and Willis (2014) suggested that invited poetry is an under-utilised approach, in part because participants’ poems might be critiqued as questionable data, possibly inferring that poetic inquiry privileges poetry written by trained researchers or poets. However, Bishop and Willis (2014) argued that poetry ideally would not be the exclusive domain of a trained writer. Rather, poetry that is ‘earthy’ and rooted in ‘everyday experience’ is of value to researchers (Bishop & Willis, 2014, para. 22). As Bishop and Willis (2014) stated, poetry offered their participants an opportunity to express their subjectivities using tools only available in this form, thereby cultivating a unique form of qualitative data. Poetic inquiry appears to be driven by a variety of motivations, including the aims of the research project, a researcher’s epistemological standpoint, a quest to echo or amplify the voice or perspectives of vulnerable groups, and an aspiration to present diverse lived experiences, including the researchers’ experiences, in order to build relationships between the reader and the research inquiry. Used as an analytical, reflective and interpretive approach, as well as a representational strategy in qualitative inquiry, the value of research poems lie in their capacity to engage the reader, and to express and/or evoke unique ways of seeing, knowing and storying experience and narrative knowledge through writing. That is, poems are valued within qualitative inquiry for their potential to represent, or write into visibility, novel ways of seeing. They also make visible the subjective, experiential and affective elements of research (Furman, 2006; Glesne, 1997; Prendergast, Leggo & Sameshima, 2009; Richardson, 2000; van Manen, 1997) and the way those elements are conveyed (or not) through writing. Poetic writing in inquiry is more than ‘another way of telling . . . it is another way of interpreting and therefore of knowing’ (Brady, 2004, p. 633; see also Shidmehr, 2014).

[Extract] Undertaking qualitative research is about making a choice to uphold narratives over numbers. It is about hearing, showing and amplifying narratives because this approach best suits the specific issue researchers want to illuminate. Boundaries concerning what constitutes qualitative research are expanding rapidly, in part due to an embrace of collaborative and arts-based methods. Similarly, doing research with communities has been understood as engaging with participants in their home locality; however, in the age of burgeoning digital networks, 'community' can have infinite configurations and meanings. We understand community to be any collective with similar experiences that together can be considered to make up a community under study. The core essence of arts-based participatory, qualitative research is research with and for such communities, rather than research about them.

As a result of the rapid online expansion of digital learnscapes, resulting in university students regularly engaging in online learning communities, cyberbullying has increasing potential to become a serious issue for higher education institutions. The effectiveness of educating students and staff in higher education on the elements and impacts of cyberbullying has driven this innovative study, which involves the development of an action research-led and student-directed interactive educational website to inform higher education students and staff about the consequences of cyberbullying. In describing the ongoing development and generalisation of the site, this chapter highlights the third cycle of an action research inquiry, and more generally the need for such resources to support higher education so that users understand what constitutes cybersafety and cyberbullying. As such, the research is directed toward understanding, sharing, participation, reflection, and change. Findings are discussed in relation to the information on the site for users in higher education.

This paper, written at the culmination of a practice-led PhD project in creative writing, describes how the author’s engagement with oral history theory and practice enriched the design of the novel emerging from the thesis. The novel, based on oral history interviews and archival materials, blurs the boundaries between historically verifiable information and fiction. Many fiction writers draw on interviews and archival material, but not all of them feel so tied to this material that they disclose its influence on their work. However, authors such as Dave Eggers, Anna Funder, Terry Whitebeach and Padma Viswanathan explicitly identify their novels as based on extended oral histories. While these authors describe their process to some extent, there is a lack of deep theoretical discussion around the task of transforming oral histories into fiction. This paper extends this discussion by providing a practitioner’s account of how two key concerns of the oral history project in Australia – a concern with subjectivity and making oral history interviews accessible to a wide audience – underpin the design of the novel. The author concludes that the unique qualities of fiction can explore subjective experience, but the authenticity demanded of novels based on verifiable data can be constraining, and should not be elevated above a concern for the satisfactions of the reader.

The first thing you do when you begin your PhD is label your Endnote library “the woods.” Your supervisor has warned you: you must not get lost. I know you, your supervisor says, you’ll wander around forever, out there amongst the research. You’re too scared to tell them that you’ve already wandered off the beaten track, skirted around the signs that say "beware of the neurosis," and become entangled. According to the dictionary, neurosis is characterised by “obsessive thoughts and compulsive acts.” Perhaps you fell into this state way back at the beginning when things started getting rocky. The woods are dense now. You have a vague sense that there’s something out there, a many-headed creature with teeth—and possibly a red pen—waiting to pounce, to tear off your academic garb and reveal the fraud beneath. But the journey’s been worth it; up ahead you see a gap in the trees. You catch a glimpse of sky, and the possibilities beyond. There’s no point complaining about all of this. You’ve no one to blame but yourself; the minute you began, you were asking for trouble. This special issue of M/C Journal emerges from the Ignite10! Postgraduate Student Conference held at the Queensland University of Technology (QUT) in September 2010. The conference was titled Looking for Trouble. Postgraduate research students at QUT felt that conflict, or “trouble,” was an appropriate theme to encapsulate their endeavours in the critical and creative spheres of arts, media and social sciences at the bi-annual multidisciplinary conference. The conference was designed to spark postgraduate research culture within the Creative Industries (CI) Faculty. Ignite10! aimed to showcase the diversity of postgraduate research within the CI Faculty and provide postgraduate researchers with the opportunity to present research papers and creative works in a critical and supportive environment. As beginning research students, we are told that we need to find a research “problem” or “question.” Trouble is a synonym for “problem” and perhaps it is fitting that the research problem that we are encouraged and required to answer as students can also be substituted with the word “trouble,” as that is undoubtedly what it causes. A researcher’s contribution to knowledge relies on the ability to identify gaps in the knowledge and to be dissatisfied with what is the current status quo. A researcher seeks out trouble—not without trepidation—because they know trouble can be the site for new innovation, new approaches and new discoveries. The metaphor of a journey is an apt one, for research narratives, like fictional ones, move from a stable beginning, through complications and rising action to another point of equilibrium at the end (Brady 16). As Barbara Hardy states, narrative “should not be regarded as an aesthetic intervention used by artists, but as a primary act of mind transferred from art to life” (5). While the conference focused on the troubles encountered in the postgraduate research journey in particular, this special issue of M/C Journal has a wider focus, although these troublesome research narratives operate implicitly beneath the words. As a result, the papers in this special issue speak to the theme of trouble on two levels. Firstly, researchers identify trouble explicitly when establishing a gap in the knowledge or challenging an existing convention or practice. These papers also represent the finalisation of the implicit or personal journey through the research. They are the culmination of trouble. Each paper demonstrates one in a multiplicity of approaches to dealing with “trouble” in research across a variety of disciplines. The first paper in this edition, Ladies on the Loose: Contemporary Female Travel as a "Promiscuous" Excursion, examines the troubling nature of female travel writing and, in particular, the tendency of women travel writers to preface their work with an apology. Kate Cantrell explores the expectations and limitations placed on female travellers whose journeys outside the sphere of the home are traditionally viewed as hazardous. The problematic feeling of guilt associated with leaving the home raises questions of female travellers actively going out and looking for trouble. Cantrell analyses key travel texts including Robyn Davidson’s Tracks, Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love and several iterations of the fairytale, Little Red Riding Hood. This paper illuminates the troubling divide that still exists within the gendered practice of travel. While Kate Cantrell traversed the world of travel in her paper, Timothy Strom’s Space, Cyberspace and Interface: The Trouble with Google Maps traverses the digital world of Geographic Information Systems—in particular, Google Maps. Strom is certainly “asking for trouble” by challenging the routine behaviour of contemporary consumers. As a result of the enormous surge in smart phones, the Google Maps application is used by a staggering amount of people. According to current research in the United Kingdom, Google Maps is the leading application with 6.4 million users or 73.3% of all UK application users (ComScore). Strom’s paper raises some interesting similarities between the empires of colonial eras in the past and the current “Google Empire” of today. Advertising buys businesses substantial representation on Google Maps, yet the process lacks transparency; the scaling of business symbols, for instance, appears radically different for no apparent reason. It is indeed troubling to think of society’s tools, which most consumers use without thought, can be politically and commercially aligned. Yet Strom encounters what all of this issue’s researchers did; by challenging and exploring the cartographic elements of Google Maps and striving to make visible what is otherwise an invisible process, he has stumbled upon more questions rather than answers. Mashups are one possibility of “resistance,” Strom suggests, but ultimately it would require eliminating the product-driven ideology that underpins the corporation. This is potentially too idealistic for our increasingly globalised and consumerist society. Maree Kimberley also identifies the possibility of resistance in her paper, Neuroscience and Young Adult Fiction: A Recipe for Trouble? Kimberley identifies a troubling trend in young adult dystopian fiction that relies on neuroscientific concepts. Recent developments in neuroscience have revealed that the structure of the human brain has the ability to change in profound and long-lasting ways, a characteristic know as neuroplasticity. The adolescent brain displays this plastic quality; during adolescence skills such as impulse control and decision-making are still in a process of development. Kimberley cites examples from Scott Westerfield’s Uglies series; Brian Klass’s Dark Angel and Brian Faulkner’s Brain Jack to demonstrate that although this new discovery has the potential to empower adolescents in fictive works, affirming the notion that they have the ability to shape their own minds and behaviours, many writers of young adult dystopian fiction represent their teenager characters as having no control over the shaping of their own brains. In identifying this lack, Kimberley opens up the opportunity for a new kind of young adult writing that situates the power of neuroscience firmly in the hands of adolescents. But, she warns, teenagers challenging the authority of adults may be a recipe for trouble. Richard Carroll has already discovered trouble in his paper The Trouble with History and Fiction, which documents the on-going conflict between historians and writers of fictive history as they grapple with ways of representing the past. Carroll observes that historians and writers of historical fiction are both constructing the past through narrative forms. However, while the historian is bound by the need to verify their claims from a variety of valid sources, the writer of fiction is free to imagine and invent. In a post-modern era, historians face what Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln (19) describe “as a crisis of representation.” Some historians’ self-exclusion from the imaginary have left them on shaky ground, and opened up a space for historical fiction writers like Kate Grenville to produce texts that are at once imaginative and based on historial reality. As Carroll notes, however, Grenville’s act of fictionalising history has not escaped criticism. In this paper, Carroll reminds us that an act that attempts to move between discourses, such as the fictive and the factual, is bound to cause trouble. Ariella Van Luyn’s creative work, Crocodile Hunt, occupies the borders of factual and fictive discourse that Carroll explores. Set in Brisbane, the work intertwines the personal trouble encountered by the main character, Murray, after the breakdown of his relationship, with the wider political turmoil that culminates with the bombing of the Communist Party headquarters in Brisbane in 1972. Unlike traditional historical accounts, this fictionalised history focuses on the personal and emotional response of characters. This story demonstrates the ways in which imagination can serve as a tool to negotiate the troubling gap in an historical narrative. The final inclusion in the edition is a creative work by Jarryd Luke. Although not as localised as Van Luyn’s narrative, Halfway House creatively explores troubles in its two young protagonists. Luke’s haunting short story speaks of two twins that escape an uncomfortable home life on the back of truck—in half a house being transported across the country. The narrative is troubling for many reasons. It illustrates the struggles the boys have with each other, with society, and the expectations placed upon them. The symbol of a broken house, literally cut through the middle, is a powerful one; Luke’s descriptive prose creates a troubled image of a house in crisis—hallways that lead to nowhere, rooms without doors. As Kimberley explores the more troubling side of dystopic youth fiction, Luke’s story is a disturbing image of male youth that blindly takes opportunities with no thought to where it might lead them. Ryan and Josh are certainly troubled characters, and like intrepid researchers, have no concept of what awaits them. Interestingly, they are never free of trouble, despite escaping the clutches of their violent father (for now), they encounter trouble at every turn. Trouble continues to find them, whether they are searching for it or not. What these papers share is the mapping of uncharted territories: whether it is the spaces between young adult fiction and neuroscience, or the spaces between history and fiction. Often, in attempting to chart new territories, researchers discover the extent of what remains unknown. Many of these papers, while reaching valid conclusions, also highlight the need for further research. The qualitative research journey is often characterised by “cycles of planning, acting, observing and reflecting” (Hearn et. al. 5). Troublesome research journeys are cyclic rather than linear. When researchers actively leave the path, and enter the woods, they realise that, while they are progressing forward, it is not always in a straight line. These papers have reached an end of one journey, yet signal multiple pathways for the next troubling encounter. Perhaps asking for trouble just leads to more questions. References Brady, Catherine. Logic and the Craft of Fiction. UK: Palgrave Macmillian, 2010. Comscore. GSMA Mobile Media Metrics Report Issued on UK Mobile Applications Usage. 2011. 22 Jun. 2011 ‹http://www.comscore.com/Press_Events/Press_Releases/2011/6/GSMA_Mobile_Media_Metrics_Report_Issued_on_UK_Mobile_Applications_Usage›. Denzin, Norman K., and Yvonna Lincoln. “The Discipline and Practice of Qualitative Research.” The SAGE Handbook of Qualitative Inquiry. Eds. Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln. London: Sage, 2005. 1-32. Hardy, Barbara. “Towards a Poetics of Fiction.” Novel: A Forum on Fiction 2.1 (1986). 25 Jun. 2011 ‹http://www.jstor.org/stable/1344792›. Hearn, Greg, Jo Tacchi, Marcus Foth, and June Lennie. Action Research and New Media. Cresskill: Hampton Press, 2009. “Neuroses.” Dictionary.com. 2011. 25 Jun. 2011 ‹http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/neuroses›.

Saturday, 24 July 1971, Tower Mill Hotel The man jiggles the brick, gauges its weight. His stout hand, a flash of his watch dial, the sleeve rolled back, muscles on the upper arm bundled tight. His face half-erased by the dark. There’s something going on beneath the surface that Murray can’t grasp. He thinks of the three witches in Polanski’s Macbeth, huddled together on the beach, digging a circle in the sand with bare hands, unwrapping their filthy bundle. A ritual. The brick’s in the air and it’s funny but Murray expected it to spin but it doesn’t, it holds its position, arcs forward, as though someone’s taken the sky and pulled it sideways to give the impression of movement, like those chase scenes in the Punch and Judy shows you don’t see anymore. The brick hits the cement and fractures. Red dust on cops’ shined shoes. Murray feels the same sense of shock he’d felt, sitting in the sagging canvas seat at one of his film nights, recognising the witches’ bundle, a severed human arm, hacked off just before the elbow; both times looking so intently, he had no distance or defence when the realisation came. ‘What is it?’ says Lan. Murray points to the man who threw the brick but she is looking the other way, at a cop in a white riot helmet, head like a globe, swollen up as though bitten. Lan stands on Murray’s feet to see. The pig yells through a megaphone: ‘You’re occupying too much of the road. It’s illegal. Step back. Step back.’ Lan’s back is pressed against Murray’s stomach; her bum fits snugly to his groin. He resists the urge to plant his cold hands on her warm stomach, to watch her squirm. She turns her head so her mouth is next to his ear, says, ‘Don’t move.’ She sounds winded, her voice without force. He’s pinned to the ground by her feet. Again, ‘Step back. Step back.’ Next to him, Roger begins a chant. ‘Springboks,’ he yells, the rest of the crowd picking up the chant, ‘out now!’ ‘Springboks!’ ‘Out now!’ Murray looks up, sees a hand pressed against the glass in one of the hotel’s windows, quickly withdrawn. The hand belongs to a white man, for sure. It must be one of the footballers, although the gesture is out of keeping with his image of them. Too timid. He feels tired all of a sudden. But Jacobus Johannes Fouché’s voice is in his head, these men—the Springboks—represent the South African way of life, and the thought of the bastard Bjelke inviting them here. He, Roger and Lan were there the day before when the footballers pulled up outside the Tower Mill Hotel in a black and white bus. ‘Can you believe the cheek of those bastards?’ said Roger when they saw them bounding off the bus, legs the span of Murray’s two hands. A group of five Nazis had been lined up in front of the glass doors reflecting the city, all in uniform: five sets of white shirts and thin black ties, five sets of khaki pants and storm-trooper boots, each with a red sash printed with a black and white swastika tied around their left arms, just above the elbow. The Springboks strode inside, ignoring the Nazi’s salute. The protestors were shouting. An apple splattered wetly on the sidewalk. Friday, 7 April 1972, St Lucia Lan left in broad daylight. Murray didn’t know why this upset him, except that he had a vague sense that she should’ve gone in the night time, under the cover of dark. The guilty should sneak away, with bowed heads and faces averted, not boldly, as though going for an afternoon walk. Lan had pulled down half his jumpers getting the suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She left his clothes scattered across the bedroom, victims of an explosion, an excess of emotion. In the two days after Lan left, Murray scours the house looking for some clue to where she was, maybe a note to him, blown off the table in the wind, or put down and forgotten in the rush. Perhaps there was a letter from her parents, bankrupt, demanding she return to Vietnam. Or a relative had died. A cousin in the Viet Cong napalmed. He finds a packet of her tampons in the bathroom cupboard, tries to flush them down the toilet, but they keep floating back up. They bloat; the knotted strings make them look like some strange water-dwelling creature, paddling in the bowl. He pees in the shower for a while, but in the end he scoops the tampons back out again with the holder for the toilet brush. The house doesn’t yield anything, so he takes to the garden, circles the place, investigates its underbelly. The previous tenant had laid squares of green carpet underneath, off-cuts that met in jagged lines, patches of dirt visible. Murray had set up two sofas, mouldy with age, on the carpeted part, would invite his friends to sit with him there, booze, discuss the state of the world and the problem with America. Roger rings in the afternoon, says, ‘What gives? We were supposed to have lunch.’ Murray says, ‘Lan’s left me.’ He knows he will cry soon. ‘Oh Christ. I’m so sorry,’ says Roger. Murray inhales, snuffs up snot. Roger coughs into the receiver. ‘It was just out of the blue,’ says Murray. ‘Where’s she gone?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘She didn’t say anything?’ ‘No,’ says Murray. ‘She could be anywhere. Maybe you should call the police, put in a missing report,’ says Roger. ‘I’m not too friendly with the cops,’ says Murray, and coughs. ‘You sound a bit crook. I’ll come over,’ says Roger. ‘That’d be good,’ says Murray. Roger turns up at the house an hour later, wearing wide pants and a tight collared shirt with thick white and red stripes. He’s growing a moustache, only cuts his hair when he visits his parents. Murray says, ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’ Roger nods, sits down at the vinyl table with his hands resting on his knees. He says, ‘Are you coming to 291 on Sunday?’ 291 St Paul’s Terrace is the Brisbane Communist Party’s headquarters. Murray says, ‘What’s on?’ ‘Billy needs someone to look after the bookshop.’ Murray gives Roger a mug of tea, sits down with his own mug between his elbows, and cradles his head in his hands so his hair falls over his wrists. After a minute, Roger says, ‘Does her family know?’ Murray makes a strange noise through his hands. ‘I don’t even know how to contact them,’ he says. ‘She wrote them letters—couldn’t afford to phone—but she’s taken everything with her. The address book. Everything.’ Murray knows nothing of the specifics of Lan’s life before she met him. She was the first Asian he’d ever spoken to. She wore wrap-around skirts that changed colour in the sun; grew her hair below the waist; sat in the front row in class and never spoke. He liked the shape of her calf as it emerged from her skirt. He saw her on the great lawn filming her reflection in a window with a Sony Portapak and knew that he wanted her more than anything. Murray seduced her by saying almost nothing and touching her as often as he could. He was worried about offending her. What reading he had done made him aware of his own ignorance, and his friend in Psych told him that when you touch a girl enough — especially around the aureole — a hormone is released that bonds them to you, makes them sad when you leave them or they leave you. In conversation, Murray would put his hand on Lan’s elbow, once on the top of her head. Lan was ready to be seduced. Murray invited her to a winter party in his backyard. They kissed next to the fire and he didn’t notice until the next morning that the rubber on the bottom of his shoe melted in the flames. She moved into his house quickly, her clothes bundled in three plastic bags. He wanted her to stay in bed with him all day, imagined he was John Lennon and she Yoko Ono. Their mattress became a soup of discarded clothes, bread crumbs, wine stains, come stains, ash and flakes of pot. He resented her when she told him that she was bored, and left him, sheets pulled aside to reveal his erection, to go to class. Lan tutored high-schoolers for a while, but they complained to their mothers that they couldn’t understand her accent. She told him her parents wanted her to come home. The next night he tidied the house, and cooked her dinner. Over the green peas and potato—Lan grated ginger over hers, mixed it with chili and soy sauce, which she travelled all the way to Chinatown on a bus to buy—Murray proposed. They were married in the botanic gardens, surrounded by Murray’s friends. The night before his father called him up and said, ‘It’s not too late to get out of it. You won’t be betraying the cause.’ Murray said, ‘You have no idea what this means to me,’ and hung up on him. Sunday, 9 April 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray perches on the backless stool behind the counter in The People’s Bookshop. He has the sense he is on the brink of something. His body is ready for movement. When a man walks into the shop, Murray panics because Billy hadn’t shown him how to use the cash register. He says, ‘Can I help?’ anyway. ‘No,’ says the man. The man walks the length of the shelves too fast to read the titles. He stops at a display of Australiana on a tiered shelf, slides his hand down the covers on display. He pauses at Crocodile Hunt. The cover shows a drawing of a bulky crocodile, scaled body bent in an S, its jaws under the man’s thumb. He picks it up, examines it. Murray thinks it odd that he doesn’t flip it over to read the blurb. He walks around the whole room once, scanning the shelves, reaches Murray at the counter and puts the book down between them. Murray picks it up, turns it over, looking for a price. It’s stuck on the back in faded ink. He opens his mouth to tell the man how much, and finds him staring intently at the ceiling. Murray looks up too. A hairline crack runs along the surface and there are bulges in the plaster where the wooden framework’s swollen. It’s lower than Murray remembers. He thinks that if he stood on his toes he could reach it with the tips of his fingers. Murray looks down again to find the man staring at him. Caught out, Murray mutters the price, says, ‘You don’t have it in exact change, do you?’ The man nods, fumbles around in his pocket for a bit and brings out a note, which he lays at an angle along the bench top. He counts the coins in the palm of his hand. He makes a fist around the coins, brings his hand over the note and lets go. The coins fall, clinking, over the bench. One spins wildly, rolls past Murray’s arm and across the bench. Murray lets it fall. He recognises the man now; it is the act of release that triggers the memory, the fingers spread wide, the wrist bent, the black watch band. This is the man who threw the brick in the Springbok protest. Dead set. He looks up again, expecting to see the same sense of recognition in the man, but he is walking out of the shop. Murray follows him outside, leaving the door open and the money still on the counter. The man is walking right along St Paul’s Terrace. He tucks the book under his arm to cross Barry Parade, as though he might need both hands free to wave off the oncoming traffic. Murray stands on the other side of the road, unsure of what to do. When Murray came outside, he’d planned to hail the man, tell him he recognised him from the strike and was a fellow comrade. They give discounts to Communist Party members. Outside the shop, it strikes him that perhaps the man is not one of them at all. Just because he was at the march doesn’t make him a communist. Despite the unpopularity of the cause —‘It’s just fucking football,’ one of Murray’s friends had said. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’— there had been many types there, a mixture of labour party members; unionists; people in the Radical Club and the Eureka Youth League; those not particularly attached to anyone. He remembers again the brick shattered on the ground. It hadn’t hit anyone, but was an incitement to violence. This man is dangerous. Murray is filled again with nervous energy, which leaves him both dull-witted and super-charged, as though he is a wind-up toy twisted tight and then released, unable to do anything but move in the direction he’s facing. He crosses the road about five metres behind the man, sticks to the outer edge of the pavement, head down. If he moves his eyes upwards, while still keeping his neck lowered, he can see the shoes of the man, his white socks flashing with each step. The man turns the corner into Brunswick Street. He stops at a car parked in front of the old Masonic Temple. Murray walks past fast, unsure of what to do next. The Temple’s entry is set back in the building, four steps leading up to a red door. Murray ducks inside the alcove, looks up to see the man sitting in the driver’s seat pulling out the pages of Crocodile Hunt and feeding them through the half wound-down window where they land, fanned out, on the road. When he’s finished dismembering the book, the man spreads the page-less cover across the back of the car. The crocodile, snout on the side, one eye turned outwards, stares out into the street. The man flicks the ignition and drives, the pages flying out and onto the road in his wake. Murray sits down on the steps of the guild and smokes. He isn’t exactly sure what just happened. The man must have bought the book just because he liked the picture on the front of the cover. But it’s odd though that he had bothered to spend so much just for one picture. Murray remembers how he had paced the shop and studiously examined the ceiling. He’d given the impression of someone picking out furniture for the room, working out the dimensions so some chair or table would fit. A cough. Murray looks up. The man’s standing above him, his forearm resting on the wall, elbow bent. His other arm hangs at his side, hand bunched up around a bundle of keys. ‘I wouldn’t of bothered following me, if I was you,’ the man says. ‘The police are on my side. Special branch are on my side.’ He pushes himself off the wall, stands up straight, and says, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Tuesday April 19, 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray brings his curled fist down on the door. It opens with the force of his knock and he feels like an idiot for even bothering. The hallway’s dark. Murray runs into a filing cabinet, swears, and stands in the centre of the corridor, with his hand still on the cabinet, calling, ‘Roger! Roger!’ Murray told Roger he’d come here when he called him. Murray was walking back from uni, and on the other side of the road to his house, ready to cross, he saw there was someone standing underneath the house, looking out into the street. Murray didn’t stop. He didn’t need to. He knew it was the man from the bookshop, the Nazi. Murray kept walking until he reached the end of the street, turned the corner and then ran. Back on campus, he shut himself in a phone box and dialed Roger’s number. ‘I can’t get to my house,’ Murray said when Roger picked up. ‘Lock yourself out, did you?’ said Roger. ‘You know that Nazi? He’s back again.’ ‘I don’t get it,’ said Roger. ‘It doesn’t matter. I need to stay with you,’ said Murray. ‘You can’t. I’m going to a party meeting.’ ‘I’ll meet you there.’ ‘Ok. If you want.’ Roger hung up. Now, Roger stands framed in the doorway of the meeting room. ‘Hey Murray, shut up. I can hear you. Get in here.’ Roger switches on the hallway light and Murray walks into the meeting room. There are about seven people, sitting on hard metal chairs around a long table. Murray sits next to Roger, nods to Patsy, who has nice breasts but is married. Vince says, ‘Hi, Murray, we’re talking about the moratorium on Friday.’ ‘You should bring your pretty little Vietnamese girl,’ says Billy. ‘She’s not around anymore,’ says Roger. ‘That’s a shame,’ says Patsy. ‘Yeah,’ says Murray. ‘Helen Dashwood told me her school has banned them from wearing moratorium badges,’ says Billy. ‘Far out,’ says Patsy. ‘We should get her to speak at the rally,’ says Stella, taking notes, and then, looking up, says, ‘Can anyone smell burning?’ Murray sniffs, says ‘I’ll go look.’ They all follow him down the hall. Patsy says, behind him, ‘Is it coming from the kitchen?’ Roger says, ‘No,’ and then the windows around them shatter. Next to Murray, a filing cabinet buckles and twists like wet cardboard in the rain. A door is blown off its hinges. Murray feels a moment of great confusion, a sense that things are sliding away from him spectacularly. He’s felt this once before. He wanted Lan to sit down with him, but she said she didn’t want to be touched. He’d pulled her to him, playfully, a joke, but he was too hard and she went limp in his hands. Like she’d been expecting it. Her head hit the table in front of him with a sharp, quick crack. He didn’t understand what happened; he had never experienced violence this close. He imagined her brain as a line drawing with the different sections coloured in, like his Psych friend had once showed him, except squashed in at the bottom. She had recovered, of course, opened her eyes a second later to him gasping. He remembered saying, ‘I just want to hold you. Why do you always do this to me?’ and even to him it hadn’t made sense because he was the one doing it to her. Afterwards, Murray had felt hungry, but couldn’t think of anything that he’d wanted to eat. He sliced an apple in half, traced the star of seeds with his finger, then decided he didn’t want it. He left it, already turning brown, on the kitchen bench. Author’s Note No one was killed in the April 19 explosion, nor did the roof fall in. The bookstore, kitchen and press on the first floor of 291 took the force of the blast (Evans and Ferrier). The same night, a man called The Courier Mail (1) saying he was a member of a right wing group and had just bombed the Brisbane Communist Party Headquarters. He threatened to bomb more on Friday if members attended the anti-Vietnam war moratorium that day. He ended his conversation with ‘Heil Hitler.’ Gary Mangan, a known Nazi party member, later confessed to the bombing. He was taken to court, but the Judge ruled that the body of evidence was inadmissible, citing a legal technicality. Mangan was not charged.Ian Curr, in his article, Radical Books in Brisbane, publishes an image of the Communist party quarters in Brisbane. The image, entitled ‘After the Bomb, April 19 1972,’ shows detectives interviewing those who were in the building at the time. One man, with his back to the camera, is unidentified. I imagined this unknown man, in thongs with the long hair, to be Murray. It is in these gaps in historical knowledge that the writer of fiction is free to imagine. References “Bomb in the Valley, Then City Shots.” The Courier Mail 20 Apr. 1972: 1. Curr, Ian. Radical Books in Brisbane. 2008. 24 Jun. 2011 < http://workersbushtelegraph.com.au/2008/07/18/radical-books-in-brisbane/ >. Evans, Raymond, and Carole Ferrier. Radical Brisbane: An Unruly History. Brisbane: Vulgar Press, 2004.

In changing research climates in Australia, as elsewhere, non-traditional research outputs are increasingly incorporated into the scope of recognised intellectual activities beyond the PhD. While practice-led research has a relatively recent history in Australian universities, increasing numbers of academics hold doctoral level degrees with a creative practice component. In addition, a new focus in ERA on impact, and connections with communities outside academia, represents both challenges and potential for creative writing research. In these changing tertiary landscapes, early career artist-academics navigate complex institutional hierarchies and imperatives. Following Josie Arnold (2012, 2015), this paper takes an autoethnographic, ‘mystory’ approach to addressing these possible tensions and practical imperatives in a changing academic climate, proposing an initial framework for nurturing practice-led research in Australian universities.