Great stories

Some news from me...

2011-08-23T22:55:00.000-07:00

After many years of writing, I have finally secured a publishing deal… and to say I’m ecstatic would be an understatement

I’ve signed with Text Publishing in Melbourne for the YA paranormal thriller series I’m working on. The working title for the series is The Rephaim, and the first book (tentatively titled Shadows) is due out in June 2012.

So now, between my writing commitments and my day job, I’m finding it tricky to keep regular posts going on my two book review blogs (this one and Other Worlds).

I’m still reading as much as ever (I can’t help it – I love it!), so, if anyone’s interested in what books I’m enjoying, the best place to find my (mostly shorter) reviews is over at Goodreads.

I’ve also set up a new blog, where I’ll periodically post on things I discover/experience along the way, on this new journey of mine.

You can check it out here: www.paula-weston.com. No doubt I’ll have more to say as the launch date gets closer, but I’m sure I’ll find something to talk about in the meantime…

Caleb's Crossing - Geraldine Brooks

2011-06-25T22:37:00.000-07:00

There’s a lot to like about Geraldine Brooks’ new novel Caleb’s Crossing.

Like The People of the Book, it explores the issues associated with culture clash– on this occasion between the Native Americans and the Puritan settlers on the island now known as Martha’s Vineyard.

It’s a fictionalised account of the life of Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk, the first Native American to graduate from Harvard College, told through the eyes of Bethia, the daughter of the island’s Calvinist Minister.

Bethia first meets Caleb as a 12-year-old, when they become friends in secret – influencing each other in ways that inadvertently shape their futures. It’s only when Caleb comes into her home to study alongside Bethia’s priggish brother Makepeace that their lives become more entwined and complex.

Bethia’s father is committed to converting the Caleb’s Wampanoeg tribe to his strict faith, and while he has some success, he continually faces the wrath of the Wampanoeg’s own spiritual leaders.

Meanwhile, Bethia’s own encounters with the island’s original inhabitants leave her longing for a spirituality as visceral and raw as theirs, so far removed from her own austere experience of religion.

The theme of westerners learning to connect to nature through contact with less “civilised” peoples is not original, but Bethia’s awakening is still effective.

I found the early ideological conflict between the two cultures particularly interesting, with the nature of the story prompting the age-old questions about free will versus predetermination.

While the characterisation of Caleb is fictional, Brooks has still been able to use her meticulous research skills to paint a picture of what life was like for those early Puritan settlers – particularly women.

She also keeps Bethia’s narrative voice true to the time, with archaic speech patterns and terms that add authenticity to the story.

I’d probably say I appreciated this story more than I enjoyed it. Because while I have no doubt the tragedies and suffering Bethia and Caleb experience in the novel reflect the harsh realities of the times (physical, spiritual and emotional), I found it all a little too bleak in parts.

Still, readers who love well-researched, fact-based, historical fiction won’t be disappointed.

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

2011-06-14T03:49:00.000-07:00

The Handmaid’s Tale is unsettling, disturbing and riveting – and even though it’s 25 years old, it remains a powerful morality tale that’s as relevant now as when it was written.

It’s set in an alternative future where fertility rates are down due to the effects radiation, and a Puritanical new society known as the Republic of Gilead has found a repellent way to deal with the situation.

In Gilead, if you are a woman, you are either a Wife or a Martha (domestic help), or banished to the colonies (destined to die from radiation) – or, if you’re unmarried and proven to be fertile, you become a Handmaid.

It’s a role that strips a woman of everything that makes her who she is – her name, her history, her personality and her appearance, hiding her face and body from the world via an oppressive dress code.

The Handmaid’s Tale is told through the eyes of Offred, a young woman who knows that if she rebels from this role of “breeder”, she will die brutally and be hung on the Wall. She’s part of the first generation of Handmaids, who remember life before the war and the oppressive Gilead society.

As a narrative character, Offred is complex and mesmerising. Her observations and daydreams show how conflicted and confused she is – torn between the institutionalised life of fear she’s come to know, and the memories of a past life, before the war, when she took her freedom for granted.

She is haunted in turn by paranoia, yearning and grief, all the while knowing she has no power, and her life – such as it is – could be crushed in an instant if she makes a wrong step.

And yet, she still feels desire, still longs to be recognised as an individual, to be touched and loved again. Which is why, when two of the men in her life start to covertly treat her differently, she’s willing to risk her life just to feel “real” again.

Atwood explores the extreme outcome of what might happen if a form of religious fundamentalism (deeply rooted in Old Testament teaching) had opportunity to create its own society, unfettered.

Part of the experience of the story is learning, morsel by morsel, how Offred became a Handmaid. As in any great story, the answers are not simple, and Offred is pragmatic about the hand life has dealt her.

She doesn’t share her story in chronological order, which helps build the tension, and it’s not until page 183 that we really begin to understand how the Republic of Gilead came to be – and get a hint of why.

The true horror of Gilead is effectively understated, even in its most brutal and disturbing moments. In fact, when I finally understood the reality of Offred’s role – and how she performs it – it was the civility of the institutional abuse that was most abhorrent.

There are also no winners in the Gilead society. Men may have the power, but the very nature of their community means there is no place for peace and security – only duty and fear. And it’s worse for those who understand what it is they have given up in creating their brave new world.

When this novel appeared 25 years ago, the fight for the rights of women was still fresh in the collective memory of the Western world, which no doubt gave it added impact. Particularly as the Gilead society created by Atwood is founded on many of the key principles espoused by those who opposed feminism: anti-abortion, anti-assisted fertility, anti-homosexuality, and the fervent belief that women belong only in the home.

I imagine it captured the fears of the feminists of the day about where anti-feminism could lead. It also seems to capture the fears of US society in general about the nuclear threat, and it’s impact on civilisation.

Today, it is no less a warning about religious fundamentalism of any kind, particularly doctrines that strip women of their identity.

The novel finishes with a clever postscript about the Republic of Gilead, presented as a conference session several centuries later, which puts the rest of the novel into a fresh context. (Interestingly, just as we do today when looking back at past eras in history, these academics are able to excuse the behaviour because of the “necessities” of the time.)

The Handmaid’s Tale is certainly disturbing at times, but it’s also an incredibly powerful novel that reminds women of our value. There’s enough grist in this novel to keep book clubs and literary students discussing, debating and analysing it for weeks.

Oh, and while the journey is often distressing, the novel ends on a note of hope.

The Passage - Justin Cronin

2011-04-15T19:24:00.000-07:00

Note to self: not a good idea to read an apocalyptic novel while watching horrifying real-life footage of earthquakes, tsunamis and potential nuclear disaster.

Anxiety over the future of humanity aside, The Passage by Justin Cronin is an engaging and compelling read. It’s kind of Stephen King’s The Stand meets Cormac McCarthy’s The Road – a horror/literary hybrid, delivering the best of both labels.

At 784 pages, it’s definitely an epic, starting slowly and then steadily escalating the tension through the story’s two main time periods (before and after the destruction of civilisation).

The story is set in an alternate (though not entirely unrealistic) not-too-distant future. In early chapters, we get snippets of what the world has become: war is still raging (and America is up to it’s neck in it), the continental US is in lock down, with checkpoints throughout the country, and another hurricane has completely destroyed New Orleans.

The US Army, desperate to find an edge in a seemingly endless war, is playing around with a virus found deep in a South American jungle that promises to create the perfect soldier (when will they learn?).

It’s no surprise that it all goes bad (the virus turns its victims into virtually indestructible blood suckers, and we’re not talking the sexy vampire variety here – think more I Am Legend).

What is a surprise is how Cronin lets this story unfold, with multiple points of view – all of value and all providing rich layers to a meticulously constructed story, and fully fleshed characters.

The first part of The Passage brings together some of the test subjects, mostly death row inmates. But then the mad scientists inexplicably decide to bring in a 10-year-old girl, Amy.

The first line of the novel, gives away that Amy is going to be with us through the journey: "Before she became The Girl From Nowhere – The One Who Walked In, The First and Last and Only, who lived a thousand years – she was just a little girl in Iowa, named Amy."

We know early on that Amy is special, and that she’s reacted differently to the virus to the other test subjects, but it takes another chunk of the book before we start find out what it all means.

Fast-forward a century after the test subjects escape and destroy civilisation as we know it, and the setting is the Colony, an outpost of humans who have learned to live in a world overrun with “virals”.

This group thinks it’s the only society left in the US – possibly the world. Harnessing what electricity they can from existing infrastructure, they manage to keep the lights on every night, the only thing keeping them safe from the soulless killers that infest the landscape outside.

With the Colony, Cronin creates a realistic society, complete with its own customs and its own version of human history of the “Time Before”. They don’t fully understand how the virals came to be, and don’t even really care. All that matters is keeping the lights on.

Initially, the jump forward in time left me missing Amy –such a prominent character earlier on – and her relationship to key characters.

But Cronin provides new characters to care about – whose paths will soon cross with Amy (and some other familiar characters) – setting them on a journey that will not only change their lives, but possibly the world.

Cronin makes very effective use of non-linear story-telling, using different narrators and different narration styles (including journal entries being read a millennia later).

He also knows how to build tension. As a myriad of plot threads start to come together in the last third of the book, the action heats up and the tension really kicks in.

There are a few diversions and frustrating plot turns, but they all play a role in building this world and, assumedly, set the scene for future books.

Because, after nearly 800 pages – and a story arc that seemed to be coming to a natural conclusion – The Passage ends without resolving some key plot points.

After staring at the last page, swearing and feeling robbed, I did a quick Google search and was relieved to discover this is only the first of a planned trilogy. A handy thing to know up front, because – in the context of it being a first instalment – The Passage provides enough closure to warrant tackling this book before the next novel is available.

The Passage is a well-written, character-driven novel that works as a post-apocalyptic horror story (there are some pretty gruesome moments, so don’t think Cronin has gone soft on the horror element) and as a study of humanity.

Room - Emma Donoghue

2010-10-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

Great stories tend to involve either nail biting tension, beautiful language or a plot so profound it moves the reader to tears.

Rarely do you find a novel that delivers all three, but Emma Donoghue’s Room manages to do so – and with surprising originality.

The story is told through the eyes of five-year-old Jack, who lives with Ma in a place with a locked door and a skylight, which he knows only as Room. For Jack, Room (and everything in it) is his entire universe. He has no understanding there is a reality outside of what he has experienced – or of a world outside Room.

Room is similar to John Boyne’s The Boy In The Striped Pajamas in that readers understand far more about what’s going on than the narrative character.

We know very early on that Ma has been held prisoner by a man we know only as Old Nick, and Jack is the product of her imprisonment. And she has protected her son by reinventing their existence so it seems perfectly safe and normal to Jack.

But when circumstances force Ma to reveal the truth, she can’t help but turn that world upside down if they are to have any chance of a different future.

It’s not giving too much away to say that Ma and Jack must come up with a plan to escape. And the planning and execution of their plot make for the most intense and stressful 100 pages of a novel I’ve ever read.

Seriously. I was reading this section of the book during my lunch break on a particularly stressful day at work and went back to the office more wound up than before I left! It’s unbearably tense, mostly because of Jack’s innocence and courage, and what’s at stake for both he and Ma.

It’s the deep love between Jack and Ma that drives this story (much the same way Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is driven by the relationship between the Man and the Boy).

The idea of a woman and child being kept prisoner in a suburban fortress is not original – an alarming number of these sorts of unspeakable stories seem to feature in the news each year. Yet Donoghue has found an original perspective from which to tell it: that of a five-year-old.

Through Jack’s eyes, Room is not a place of horror. It’s his world and he’s comfortable in it. He is a true innocent. So when Ma must finally risk telling him about the real world, she has to do so using the language and world view Jack is familiar with.

Jack is a sweet and intelligent boy. He’s also completely – and unknowingly – institutionalised. So when change comes he faces his own existential crises. As does Ma, who learns freedom is never simple.

Although Room is somewhat of a tense journey, it is a surprisingly gentle story with a truly beautiful message. It asks questions about truth and reality, and the nature of sacrificial love, and does so without sentimentality.

My tears at the end of this book were not because it broke my heart, but because it moved me as only great stories can. Room is a profound novel, and I know it’s another of those stories that’s going to stay with me for a very long time.

(As an aside: Ma and Jack live in a truly sustainable way inside Room. They only receive deliveries from Old Nick once a week, so must re-use and recycle virtually every single item that comes into Room. It’s quite fascinating to see how much can be done with so little when there's no other choice…)

Ransom - David Malouf

2010-09-23T01:30:00.000-07:00

You don’t have to have read Homer’s Iliad to appreciate David Malouf’s short novel Ransom.

While it provides a companion piece to Homer’s epic tale, it works just as well as a stand- alone novel, thanks to Malouf’s well drawn characters and poetic prose.

Ransom provides a back story to an event that features only briefly in Homer’s poem: that of Priam, King of Troy, asking for the body of his slain son from the Greek warrior Achilles.

In Malouf’s imaginings, Priam is inspired by the gods to do something unprecedented: he decides to strip himself of all royal trappings and military protection, and go to Achilles – man to man, father to father – and ask for the return of Hector’s body.

Against all the pleas of his family and advisers, Priam sets out with a great treasure (the ransom for his son’s corpse), accompanied only by a carter and his two mules.

Through the journey to Achilles’ camp and his meeting with his son’s killer, Priam begins to see his world anew. Even the great Achilles, still grieving the death of his friend Patroclus, is affected by Priam’s actions. And both realise they have much in common as leaders, soldiers, men and fathers.

Although Ransom is rich with mythology and meticulously researched (but unobtrusive) historical detail, it is grounded firmly in the strengths and weaknesses of the human spirit.

Both Priam and Achilles are driven by guilt and grief. Achilles expresses his with violence and rage while Priam finds the strength to humble himself before his enemy. In doing so, Priam discovers the joys found in the world by lowly men like his attendant – simple pleasures he can never experience as King.

Ransom is a gentle story, but Malouf slowly and expertly builds tension, to the point this literary gem is also a page turner.

This is a book where every line and passage can be savoured – not just for the beauty of the language, but the context in which it is written.

At only 219 pages, Ransom is well worth a read for anyone who appreciates great story telling and the poetry of language. (And I love the cover!)

Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel

2010-05-20T01:33:00.000-07:00

You know when you read a novel by Yann Martel you’re going to experience the story in a variety of ways.

There’s the story on the page, the story off the page, and your own intellectual and emotional responses to the experience.

As it was with Life of Pi, so it is with Beatrice and Virgil, a complex, fascinating and at times disturbing novel. Like its Booker-winning predecessor, Martel’s latest novel explores the nature and power of narrative.

Beatrice and Virgil is the story of a famous, award-winning writer, whose attempts to write an allegory about the Holocaust – accompanied by a non-fiction essay on the same topic – are rejected by his publisher. Angry and frustrated, he turns his back on writing, until a mysterious package leads him to a taxidermist.

The taxidermist is struggling to finish a play he’s been writing, featuring a donkey and a howler monkey called Beatrice and Virgil (named after characters in Dante’s Divine Comedy).

Henry is initially fascinated more by the gruff old man and his collection of meticulously mounted animals than he his with the play. But he’s slowly drawn into the strange piece of drama, especially when he suspects the play has the same intention as his failed novel.

Martel has said in recent interviews that he spent years writing Beatrice and Virgil, starting out wanting to write a play, a novel, and a flip book (with the “flip” side being a non-fiction essay). As it turns out, he’s managed to combine all three.

While not a flip book, there are elements of essay in the story, as Henry grapples with his own failings to combine fiction and non-fiction in a single tome, and muses on the dearth of fiction on the Holocaust (quietly establishing the basis for Martel’s own novel).

There are also numerous scenes from the taxidermist's play (provided out of chronological order) that become increasingly disturbing. The play itself initially feels like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, until the reality of Beatrice and Virgil’s situation is fully revealed.

Henry’s reaction to their suffering is compounded by the fact he sees the “real” Beatrice and Virgil among the mounted animals in the taxidermist’s workshop.

There are layers of ideas here. Martel explores the concept of “real” and “true”, the nature of life and death, and offers a parallel between the taxidermist and a novelist: both require respect for the subjects, both make choices that impact perception, and both must have an eye to detail to remain faithful to “truth”.

Martel challenges readers in ways we don’t always recognise until later. In Life of Pi, the scene with the flesh-eating island challenged our ability to suspend disbelief. Here he challenges our perception of the Holocaust – on an emotional level.

Through a series of surprising and shocking scenes (in the taxidermist’s play and Henry’s own life), it feels like Martel is asking: Do you understand? Do you really understand?

Like Life of Pi, Beatrice and Virgil is a story that stayed with me long after I finished it. Not just because of the unique combination of narrative techniques, or the intriguing plot, or even the suspense that slowly builds … but because of how I felt when I read those final chapters.

Life of Pi explained

Come and hear Nick Earls at Fitzy's Tavern

2010-05-07T20:34:00.000-07:00

As part of Australian Library Week, Logan Libraries is hosting best-selling and much-loved prolific Australian author, Nick Earls, at Fitzy's Tavern, Loganholme on 21 May (6.30pm).

Nick's a great speaker, so whether you've read his books or not, he's always entertaining (check out my review of last year's The True Story of Butterfish).

The author of the popular Zigzag Street, Bachelor Kisses and Perfect Skin writes humourous popular fiction about everyday life. The majority of Earls' novels are set in Brisbane. At this Behind the Books event, Nick will tell his best stories of the things that have happened along the way with writing, touring etc.

This is a coup for Logan Libraries, so if you're within driving distance - come along! The ticket price of $17.50 includes nibbles. And of course, Fitzy's has some lovely wines for sale at the bar. :)

Tickets available through the Logan Entertainment Centre on 3412 5626 or online.

(Just helping out my good buddy and fellow book-lover Janet Poole, who's organised this event.)

The Road - Cormac McCarthy

2010-04-15T03:05:00.000-07:00

How to describe The Road? It’s as brilliant as it is harrowing; as tender as it is brutal…

The overwhelming sentiment of McCarthy’s award-winning masterpiece is best summed up in one of the book’s many insightful lines: “The frailty of everything revealed at last.”

But, despite its bleak premise, The Road is ultimately a story of hope.

It’s the story of a father and son (known only as “the man” and “the boy”) trekking across a post-apocalyptic America in a desperate struggle for survival.

Every waking moment in their scavenger existence is consumed by the need to find food, clean water and dry shelter.

Whatever event is responsible for the destruction of civilization – evidently man-made – was so devastating the ash is still falling years later, contaminating water, blocking out direct sunlight and creating a perpetual winter.

Early on, we know there are threats from unseen strangers in this bleak landscape, and when the reality of that threat is revealed, it is shockingly clear just how barbaric the world has become.

Disaster has brought out the worst of human nature among survivors. But it has also brought out the best.

In the midst of this horrific, nihilistic existence, the father and son share an unshakable bond. The man’s love for the boy is so tender, it’s palpable. As is his desperation to protect him. And the boy returns that love unconditionally, despite his almost constant state of fear.

As the full extent of their plight becomes obvious, you can’t help but question why - in the face of such a seemingly senseless struggle – do they keep fighting to survive? Why care for each other? Why keep living?

If the question is how to be human in an inhumane world, McCarthy answers it through this relationship. The pair share a tenderness that’s illogical and impractical in their brutal world, and yet neither questions it. It is what helps them “carry the fire”.

Even as they scavenge, the man and boy retain a sense of dignity and morality. Or at least, the boy clings to his father’s moral code tightly enough that it reminds the man how he should be.

Like All the Pretty Horses, The Road looks at the duality of human existence.

McCarthy’s vision of a post-apocalyptic world – where cities lie in ruins, medical care is non existent, starvation is a very real threat and the rules of civilization have collapsed – is frighteningly believable. Like, just how dark the night would be with the sky hidden behind ever-present clouds, and the fear of the most simple of illnesses.

Most frightening is the fact this vision of the future is perhaps not so far-fetched…

McCarthy’s sparse prose sets the perfect tone for this story and, as always, he offers up evocative imagery:

“By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.”

I finished The Road a week ago and I still can’t get it out of my head. Not because of its bleak brutality – although some of that imagery will linger for a while too – but because of its beauty.

The Road is heartbreaking and heart-pounding. The tension is at times unbearable. And yet, ultimately this is a powerful story about love and humanity that moved me to tears. I couldn’t put it down, and I can’t recommend it enough.

(So yes, Ink-stained Toe-poker, I get why you love this book so much. I wish I’d read it years ago.)

One last thought: the film version of The Road is due out on DVD in coming weeks, and I can’t wait to see Viggo Mortensen in the lead role. I suspect he will be perfectly dignified and heartbreaking as the man.

Peter Temple's Truth - expletive inspiring...

2010-02-10T03:20:00.000-08:00

There’s a very good reason critics have been falling over themselves to praise Peter Temple’s new novel, Truth: it’s sublime.

It’s not often I read the last page of a book, close the cover and use an expletive to express how good it was. (The colourful language was partially a flow on of the abundance of profanity in the book, and mostly the fact it really was the best way to describe how impressed I was).

Temple is a master at fusing literary and genre writing. Truth is a gritty page-turning crime novel. It’s also a surprisingly moving study of the frailty of machismo. The Australian Review’s Peter Craven said last year that The Broken Shore “is a crime novel the way Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses is a western”.

Truth has been described as sequel of sorts to Temple’s award-winning 2005 novel, The Broken Shore. But while it features some of the same characters (and even gives a nod to his earlier fictional creation, Jack Irish), it can be read as a stand alone story.

The central character is Stephen Villani, a peripheral character in The Broken Shore, who is now the head of Homicide for the much maligned Victorian Police. Over a few scorching summer days, Villani must face personal and professional crises as he simultaneously deals with a series of brutal murders, corruption in his own ranks, and the disintegration of his family, all while bushfires bear down on Melbourne.

It all starts with the murder of a young woman in the city’s newest luxury high-rise, followed by horrific torture killings of three hard-core drug-dealing criminals. As Villani and his fractured team investigate, he finds himself heading into murky political waters.

Villani’s world is populated by politicians on the knife edge, charismatic entrepreneurs, well-connected journalists and seedy underbelly criminals.

For those unfamiliar with Temple’s sparse prose, it can take time to settle into his rhythm and storytelling style.

As a reader, you just have to dive in and hang on, even if you have no idea who’s in a particular scene or even why. He’s a realist in the true sense. In reality, we don’t have internal monologue to provide exposition, and so it is with his characters. But patience is rewarded – often spectacularly.

Although there are crimes to be solved – and Temple gets to them – he’s primarily concerned with Villani’s personal challenges. Truth is about fathers and sons, and damaged relationships. It’s about hard men and the frailty inherent in them. It’s about authority and power, and the way men measure each other and demand respect.

When it comes to dialogue, Temple is a master. So much is conveyed with so few words. Villani, in particular gets some wonderfully wry lines.

When he asks his offsider, Bickerts about wellness spas, the detective replies:
“Respect your body. Think positive thoughts. Live in the moment.”
Villani: “What if the moment is absolutely shit?”

Or when the forensics guy gives his report about a crime scene: “Man near entrance is shot in the head at close range from behind. The other two, multiple stab wounds, genitals severed, other injuries. Also head and pubic hair ignited, shot, muzzle in mouth. Three bullets recovered, 45 calibre.”
Villani: “So you can’t rule out an accident?”

There are definitely a lot of characters – too many, to be honest – but every one and every piece of information provided is important. Nothing here is superfluous to the story. All the dots connect in the end. And brilliantly so.

Melbourne’s politicians, media and police hardly come up shining (and recent headlines make the bleak picture painted in Truth all the more disturbing), and yet Temple offers redemption for drug-crippled city in the form of honest, if not heavily flawed, men and women.

Truth had me marveling at its cleverness and honesty, and left me with a great sense of satisfaction at how it all came together. (As mentioned earlier, it also left me foul mouthed for a day or two – Villani and his mates certainly don’t talk sweetly to each other…).

I loved the Jack Irish series (particularly Temple's debut Bad Debts), and enjoyed The Broken Shore, but Truth is now without question my favourite novel, from one of my favourite authors.

Three novels explore music, fame and intimacy

2010-01-25T17:56:00.000-08:00

It’s never fair to compare novels, but it’s hard not to when three books come out around the same time and each – on face value at least – cover similar territory.

In this case, it’s formerly famous musicians dealing with the legacy of fame, each working towards some sort of emotional redemption and relationship maturity.

I’m talking about The True Story of Butterfish by Nick Earls, Juliet Naked by Nick Hornby and 88 lines about 44 women by Steven Lang.

All three central characters were part of the creative force of their respective bands, and all three have sought out some form of seclusion and anonymity to “recover” from their experiences with fame.

In The True Story of Butterfish, Curtis is a keyboard player returning to Brisbane to escape the glare of publicity following the split of his mega-selling band Butterfish. In a quiet suburban street, Curtis tries to concentrate on his new role as a producer, slowly reconnecting with the real world around him.

But things get a little messy when he gets to know his neighbours: an attractive single mum recovering from a bitter divorce, her gothic teenage son, and her 16-year-old daughter, who thinks the only way to connect with Curtis is through sex.

Curtis’ attempts at a “normal life” are further complicated when Butterfish’s hard rocking lead singer turns up on his doorstep unannounced.

With any Earls story, Brisbane itself becomes a character, but this can actually be distracting as a reader when it’s your own home town.

Earls is a very likable writer – he’s always a favourite at festivals and after seeing him at last year’s Brisbane Writers Festival I know why – and of the three muso-focused novels, this is certainly the gentlest and safest.

On the surface, Julie Naked is another of Nick Hornby’s trademark lad lit offerings about a man whose relationships take a backseat to a more pressing obsession.

The man is Duncan and his obsession is Tucker Crowe, an American singer-songwriter from the 80s. Tucker has lived as a recluse for 20 years, but thanks to the power of the internet, his fans have been able to keep his music alive. They call themselves Crowologists, and Duncan is their king.

His long-term girlfriend Annie has ignored the cracks in their relationship for too long, so when a stripped-back version of Tucker’s best known album is released, Duncan’s slavering reaction to it finally pushes her over the edge.

She writes a scathing review on Duncan’s blog, much to his horror. But on the other side of the Atlantic, Tucker himself reads the review, respects it, and makes contact with her…

Ultimately this is Annie’s story, although we do get chapters alternating between her perspective and that of the two men.

Through Juliet Naked, Hornby explores the nature of creativity and fan obsession, but it’s also about loneliness and the struggle for intimacy. It features Hornby’s trademark wit and insights. And – like High Fidelity – made me want to trawl through my music collection and reacquaint myself with my favourite albums (in a non-obsessive way, of course…).

The capacity for emotional intimacy and honesty is the driving force of Steven Lang’s excellent 88 lines about 44 women.

Like Earls’ Curtis, the central character is a keyboard player-songwriter who has returned to a place of his youth solace and escape – in this case the bleak Scottish Highlands.

Lawrence Martin was once part of one of the biggest bands in the world, but it all fell apart after the death of his model-actress wife in calm waters not far from Sydney.

This intelligent and well crafted novel is less concerned about the music and Lawrence’s drug-fuelled career than it is with issues of male sexuality and how men find – and lose – intimacy with lovers, family and friends.

88 lines about 44 women (named after a song by The Nails) asks the questions: “Are all men emotionally disconnected? Does true intimacy bring redemption or is it the other way round?”

Despite the title, the novel is really about two women: the beautiful but damaged wife who compounded his emotional frailty, and his intelligent and well-grounded new neighbour, who may his hope for the future.

When a call from his former best friend and songwriting partner reveals a past Lawrence’s has omitted to share with the locals, he finally attempts to deconstruct his past experiences and how they’ve influenced his ability to be intimate.

As a narrative character, Lawrence is articulate, insightful, painfully honest and frequently vulnerable. Even in his self awareness, his blindspots are obvious, and as a reader, you hope he works them out.

For me, 88 lines about 44 women was the pick of the above novels, purely for its rare insight into the male psyche and the skill with which Lang uses words.

Literary tattoos

2010-01-13T23:48:00.000-08:00

Do you love a book or character enough to immortalise them on your skin in ink?

Writer Marieke Hardy (who also appears on ABC's First Tuesday Book Club) raised the topic of literary tattoos today in the Sydney Morning Herald, with her comment piece Mark my words.

While Marieke is clearly a fan of literary tattoos in the true sense (tatts inspired by popular fiction just don't cut it for her), she makes some interesting points about the whole literary tatt trend.

Of course, the topic is not new in blogland. Bibliobibuli had the discussion back in 2008, and you only after to do a Google Images search for "literary tattoo" and you'll find an amazing range of book lovers' tattoos, like this one below, from http://community.livejournal.com/literarytattoos/434923.html. Contrariwise is also a great site for literary tattoos.

I like the idea. I just need to decide what I want and why. Given it's a piece of art that's going to stay on my skin for the rest of my life, I want to choose wisely.

Writer Lee McGowan (aka the inkstained toe-poker) had some thoughts on tattoos this week, so maybe Marieke's article will give him some food for thought in his own decision.

So, of course, it raises the question of whether you would get a literary tatt and if so, what you would get? Or do you already have one, and if so, what is it?

2010-01-04T23:48:00.001-08:00

I promise I will write a new post for this blog soon ... but I've had a flurry of activity over at otherworlds as I've read a lot of urban fantasy in the last two weeks (yes, had some holidays and finally found time to relax!).

If you're interested, you can check reviews for:
Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick

Fallen by Lauren Kate

The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Cather ine Jinks

Lili St Crow - Strange Angels

2009-12-26T17:42:00.000-08:00

I've just posted a new review on my other blog, Other worlds, where the emphasis is on fantasy stories.

It's about Lili St Crow's Strange Angels urban fantasy series, and you can check it out here if you're interested.

Tackling Israeli-Palestinian issues through fiction

2009-12-20T03:22:00.000-08:00

One of the hardest things to do in fiction is tackle a complex issue and still deliver an engaging story.

Randa Abdel-Fattah, a Muslim of Palestinian and Egyptian heritage who grew up in Melbourne, has a strong literary track record of tackling the challenging topic of being a teenage girl of Middle Eastern descent in urban Australia.

Her breakthrough first novel, Does my head look big in this?, was a witty and enjoyable story about an Australian-Palestinian Muslim who decides to wear the hijab, and the courage it takes to display her faith.

Her follow up, Ten things I hate about me, was more about cultural identity (rather than religious), in which a Lebanese teenager in Sydney goes to great lengths to hide her ethnicity from her friends.

Now, Abdel-Fattah has gone a step further, using her gifts as a storyteller to present a Palestinian perspective on the Israeli occupation of the West Bank.

Where the streets had a name features the likable narrative voice of Hayaat, a teenage girl whose face is scarred from an event we don’t fully understand until almost the end of the novel.

Hayaat is like most teenagers. She wants to be loved and accepted. She wants her family to be safe. She’s learned to live with the restrictions and curfews of the occupation and the bitterness of those around her who have lost homes and land to the Israelis.

Hayaat has no desire to cause trouble, but when her beloved grandmother, Sitti Zeynab, falls ill, Hayaat is convinced the only thing to lift her spirits will be to touch the soil of her village again. So she and her best friend Samy decide to go themselves, to bring back a jar of the precious dirt.

The trouble is, Sitti Zeynab’s village is on the other side of the giant concrete wall built by the Israelis to keep them separate from the West Bank Palestinians. What should only be a trip of a few miles will take Hayaat and Sami a full day, as they negotiate check points, roadblocks, unreliable public transport and Israeli soldiers.

Given the polemic nature of the Israeli-Palestinian situation itself, it’s a near impossible task to write a story about it with polarising people. But while the Abdel-Fattah’s sympathies lie with the non-violent men, women and children suffering under the occupation, she avoids the trap of painting a simple picture of villains and heroes.

This is a human story. It’s an attempt to show the human face of the occupation – on both sides of the wall. Both sides fear and mistrust the other, but – as this novel quietly suggests – there is hope on both sides too.

Hayaat is a Muslim, yet her best friend Samy is Christian and the difference in their faith appears to have very little significance to them or their community: they are all Palestinian and all living under occupation. And, interestingly, the men and women who help Hayaat and Samy the most during their journey (probably because they have the freedom to so) are Israelis, who – openly or otherwise – oppose the occupation.

Abdel-Fattah’s connection to the people and the place in this story allows her to capture the humour, spirit and humanity of a people whose plight is frequently over-shadowed by the violence perpetrated by a few, but ascribed to all.

Sitti, who has suffered the most in Hayaat’s family, also has the greatest capacity to laugh at the situation of her people.

To Hayaat’s sister, who is dieting in the lead-up to her wedding: “A little meat on a woman is nice. Do you want people to look at your on your wedding day and think you had a holiday in Gaza?”

But Sitti also carries the grief of a nation without a status. To the Israeli family who claimed her home as her own: “I’m sorry for what happened to your family and your people, but why must we be punished?”

And finally, it is Sitti who offers her granddaughter a glimmer of hope that one day the Israelis and Palestinians may find a way to live together: “Justice will come when those who hope outweigh those who despair. Hope is a force that cannot be reckoned with, ya Hayaat.”

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

2009-11-27T17:06:00.000-08:00

The idea is promising: weave a zombie plot through a Jane Austen classic.

In Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Seth Grahame-Smith inserts zombie references and action throughout one of the most loved and recognisable stories in the English language.

The altered classic opening line certainly captures the mash-up idea: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains”.

In Grahame-Smith’s version, Elizabeth Bennett and her sisters are renowned Shaolin-trained warriors, roaming the countryside to cut down zombies – much to the disdain of higher bred women such as Mr Bingley’s sisters. Mr Darcy is also a zombie slayer of great repute and his clashes with Elizabeth are no longer just verbal…

The set up for the zombie plot is actually all there in the original: the constant presence of militia, the threat of disease and the horror associated with breaches of social etiquette.

I laughed out loud the first time I heard about this book (and then again when I found it shelved in the classics section at my local book shop).

It promises to put familiar characters in unfamiliar territory (fighting the trashiest of all pop culture supernatural baddies), and comes complete with a tongue-in-cheek study guide at the end. It should be clever. It should be fun.

And it is, for about 50 pages. Then the zombie references and B-grade-worthy fight scenes become a distraction from the real story: the tension between Elizabeth and Darcy.

Around 80 per cent of the original text remains intact, and that’s the problem. Austen’s writing and original plot are so strong, it makes the new scenes completely superfluous. It would have worked so much better if Grahame-Smith had actually re-imagined the story, rather than just inserting a few lines here and there in the original text.

Actually, the best bits for me are the sketches scattered through the pages, perhaps a sign the mash-up idea would have worked better as graphic novel.

The book’s success (which has led to other hybrids, including Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters) proves there are enough people with eclectic reading tastes to create a market for this type of literary bastardisation.

And I have no issue with the concept, I just wish this one had offered something more because, by the end, I just wished I’d read the original.

(According to Wikipedia, due to the success of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Grahame-Smith has been contracted to write two follow-up books, one of which is reported to be titled Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.)

Coming of age with Jasper Jones

2009-11-16T00:40:00.000-08:00

Anyone who thinks “coming of age” stories are just for the young adult market should take a read of Craig Silvey’s excellent Jasper Jones.

It’s a gripping, well-written story about small-mindedness in a country town, that’s at turns sad, disturbing, funny and inspiring.

Set in Western Australia in 1965, it’s told through the eyes of teenager Charlie Bucktin. One stifling summer night, the town outcast – Jasper Jones – comes to his window and asks for his help. Charlie follows him into the bush, and what he sees there changes him – and ultimately the town – irrevocably.

In that one night – and then the days that follow – Charlie is forced to step away from childhood innocence and see the world around him for what it is.

Charlie struggles with the burden of what he has seen, and his uncertainty is further compounded by how quickly the town becomes mired in suspicion and hatred.

My good friend Place (a regular poster on this blog) and I heard Craig Silvey speak on the theme of “coming of age” at the Brisbane Writers’ Festival in September. He defined coming of age as being more than just a loss of innocence, that moment when the bubble bursts.

“It’s gaining and adult point of view of self assurance. It’s when you start to look beyond yourself and learn tenets of empathy. You appreciate another perspective and arrive at some sort of objective truth. It’s all about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.”

Silvey says it takes courage to challenge myths and traditions, which is what Charlie does when he realises the world is no longer the simple place he once thought it was. And he can’t “unknow” that truth.

Over the space of a fortnight, Charlie sees and hears horrible things. He sees the world for what it is. He responds by trying to understand the nature of cruelty, and how people can go about their lives as if evil doesn’t exist (this theme was also tackled in Sang Pak’s American gothic novel Wait Until Twilight, reviewed here).

In contrast to this soul searching is the comfortable familiarity of Charlie’s friendship with his cricket-obsessed best mate Jeffrey. Their adolescent banter provides welcome relief, as well as some of the most entertaining dialogue I’ve read in a while. (According to the Silvey, Charlie and Jeffrey’s conversations on puerile topics not dissimilar to the debates he has with his mates today. “It was a little too easy to write that dialogue.”)

For the creator of Jasper Jones, the idea of coming of age is not limited to youth: “We all become adults, but not all of us come of age.” And its this understanding that makes this novel such a riveting and enjoyable read.

Hearing the likable Silvey discuss Jasper Jones was one of the highlights of this year's Brisbane Writer's Festival Place and I. He was intelligent, articulate and self-effacing … and yes, we came away with a little bit of a literary crush…

Final verdict (for now) on parallel importation of books

2009-11-11T13:36:00.001-08:00

The final verdict is in: the copyright restrictions on parallel importation of books into Australia are staying (which is good news for Australian writers).

Kate Eltham from the Queensland Writers' Centre sums up the outcome (and links to more information) here.

For background on the issue, you can check out my post on the subject back in July.

(And yes, I will write about an actual book again very soon! - Nearly caught up on everything again...)

The household guide to dying

2009-10-20T02:01:00.000-07:00

I’m back from my big adventure and a tad behind on a large number of projects. So … I thought I’d post a review I wrote for a competition recently (which did not bear fruit), until I can offer up posts on my holiday reading material.

Dying is an ambitious topic to tackle in fiction. While death is used as a plot device or metaphor in countless novels, it’s not usually the driving force of the narrative.

Debra Adelaide makes death and dying the central theme in her 2008 novel The Household Guide to Dying. But while the impending demise of the narrative character propels the story, it’s also a mechanism for a broader story arc that prevents the novel from being a one-trick pony.

The novel revolves around Delia, a “domestic advice” columnist, whose often acerbic advice masks a woman whose life has not always been as well ordered as her pantry. Exhausted and ravaged from chemotherapy, Delia is preparing herself for the natural conclusion to a long battle against breast cancer.

In between making plans for her young daughters’ future weddings, and stocking the fridge with frozen home-cooked meals, she decides her final book of household advice should be about dying – a subject she’s now qualified to write about with absolute authority.

Delia’s impending death – which she faces with an often jarring sense of practicality –provides the motivation to not only prepare her family for a future without her, but to also finally tend to old wounds inflicted in a small country town many years earlier.

The Household Guide to Dying at first feels like another of those stories intent on celebrating the simple pleasures in life, usually best perceived in moments of human frailty. Certainly Adelaide has a wonderful eye for detail and an evocative turn of phrase, but she’s also intent on telling a story. So, as Delia starts to unpick the seams that have held her life together, it’s apparent there’s much more to this fastidious woman than immaculately laundered clothing and perfect cups of tea. Adelaide paints her stroke by stroke and, ironically, the closer she comes to death, the more human she becomes on the page.

The household, and the role of a woman in it, is a powerful motif throughout the story. So much so, the novel could easily be mistaken as a treatise on the pre-feminist importance of women in society. But a closer examination suggests Delia’s commitment to a perfectly ordered household is a response to the unpredictability of life in the world outside – a world that has left her with deep, well hidden, scars.

Over the years, she’s taken control of her household with almost militant precision, and she approaches death in much the same fashion. Almost every decision she makes is about controlling as much as she can in the lives of those she loves from beyond the grave.

The Household Guide to Dying is meticulously constructed, with the mood continually shifting from humorous to macabre, witty to poignant. Delia’s catalogue of household knowledge and responses to hapless advice seekers are woven between accounts of her final days, and flashbacks to the moments that have shaped her life. Events are told outside of chronological order, ensuring the gentle pace of the story never stalls and saving it from being too flippant, morbid or melodramatic.

There can be no accusations of sentimentality here. Delia doesn’t pass through the seven stages of grief – at least not on the page – and perhaps the story would have been even richer if she had. But what grief she doesn’t express for herself, she does for the past, and when her moment of redemption finally comes, it’s surprisingly effective.

Threaded through all of this is Delia’s research into her own “household guide to dying” – learning about caskets, funeral services and autopsies. The latter is meant to emphasise the banality of death in the face of unbearable grief, but – aside from feeding morbid curiosity – is distracting by its detail.

Helen Garner also tackled the subject of dying in 2008, with her much lauded novel The Spare Room. It’s told from the perspective of a woman forced to watch a dying friend struggle against the inevitable. Narrator Helen agrees to support a friend battling the final stages of a terminal cancer while she undergoes bizarre experimental treatment. Over the course of three emotionally-charged weeks, Helen becomes nurse, guardian angel and unflinching judge of the choices made by her dying friend.

Ironically, Delia is more emotionally muted in her response to death than Garner’s Helen, but then Delia’s story is influenced by a different tension. In The Household Guide to Dying, the tension is not just about Delia facing her own mortality; it’s about what she needs to do before she can face it with a sense of completeness. To her, the task is everything.

Although The Household Guide to Dying is not focused solely on Delia’s inexorable steps towards death, it still manages to be confronting, simply because it deals with issues of mortality and how that theme translates off the page.

A brief break in transmission

2009-09-29T23:01:00.000-07:00

Hello ... just a quick post to say I'm eating and drinking my way across Italy at the moment, so the next post is still a few weeks' away.

(I've just finished reading Craig Silvey's excellent Jasper Jones, so that's next on the list...)

Jeff Lindsay and Darkly Dreaming Dexter

2009-09-14T03:37:00.000-07:00

One of the highlights of this year’s Brisbane Writers’ Festival on the weekend was a packed session featuring Jeff Lindsay, author of the books that have spawned the Dexter TV series.

The crowd was a mix of fans of his four books and fans of the TV series, and – obviously – those of us who appreciate both.

The man who has created one of the most morally ambiguous characters of recent times spoke about Dexter’s genesis and how important it is for readers (and viewers) to still question the nature of good and bad.

Lindsay claims the idea for Dexter came during a business group gathering of estate agents, lawyers and brokers many years ago. Sitting around listening to them network and promote themselves, he decided “serial murder is not always a bad thing” (and was possibly only half joking).

It gave him the idea of a serial killer who was sympathetic, not because of what he does, but because of who he is and the fact he acts from a position of amorality. Of course, it helps that Dexter only kills those who kill others (thanks to the foresight of his foster father Harry, a cop who saw the darkness in Dexter as a child and devised a way to channel it).

But Lindsay is very quick to point out Dexter is not a vigilante.

“A vigilante is someone who kills because someone has fallen through the cracks of the justice system and they are outraged personally and justice must be served. Dexter just likes to kill. He just happens to kill bad people because that’s the way his foster father set it up, and it works.”

Ironically, while the need for guilt is only a technicality for Dexter, it is imperative for Lindsay. “That line is important to me,” he told the weekend audience.

Lindsay has a very strong sense of justice. When talking about a young girl in his street who was raped and murdered, he momentarily dropped the wisecracks and was visibly emotional. He admitted he supported the death penalty, but only if there was no doubt of guilt - something he knew was next to impossible ... except for the fictitious Dexter.

As a reader or viewer, you can’t help but be a little unsettled at finding a serial killer likable, and Lindsay delights in shocking us with the reality of what Dexter does when he has his prey alone. While the series hints that Dexter may be more human than he believes, the books emphasise that Dexter’s humanity is a well constructed facade.

Lindsay thinks one of the reasons Dexter is so appealing is the fact he doesn’t see himself as human – only a monster good at pretending to be one. He is the voice of an outsider, allowing readers to see themselves in a different way, logically, without emotion.

The author says Dexter takes to the extreme something what we all do: fake in a relationship.

During his session on Saturday, Lindsay asked members of the audience to raise their hands if they were 100 per cent authentic with 100 per cent of the people they interacted with, 100 per cent of the time. Of course, no-one raised their hand.

“Dexter fakes all the time – but he knows he’s faking. He is very well aware of the fact he’s not a human.”

Interestingly, Lindsay hated title of the first Dexter novel, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, devised by his publisher’s marketing team. His original title was The Left of God, which was ruled out for fear it would create confusion for fans of the Humphrey Bogart film of the same name.

Lindsay’s young daughter – who hadn’t read the book but had heard enough conversations to get the gist – suggested “Pinocchio bleeds”. But while remarkably apt, it didn’t lend itself to serialisation...

While the TV series still takes its inspiration and some plot lines from the books, the two offer quite different stories and can stand alone without the other.

I’ve been a fan of the series since it started, and – now I’m reading the books – I’m enjoying the deeper (and often darker) perspective of the novels, along with Lindsay’s trademark wit and unique narrative voice.

If you enjoy the series but haven’t read the novels, give them a try.

Q&A with Sang Pak - Wait Until Twilight

2009-09-07T00:56:00.000-07:00

This week's post marks the first author Q&A for Great Stories. Our guest is Sang Pak, whose excellent debut novel Wait Until Twilight was the focus of last week's post.

Here, he sheds some light on the inspiration for the story and its dark themes.

Was the idea for the book something that grew over time, or did you have a clear story outline from the start?
The idea was born from a set of dreams I had over a 2 week period a few summers back. I took the dreams, fleshed them out and added parts until I formed a story arc I could work with. Then revisions galore.

How much have your studies in psychology influenced this story?
You know, I think most of my psychological insights come from personal experience. Observing not only how I react to situations but other people as well. I've learned more from watching my thoughts and classmates during class than from the textbooks or lectures themselves. The only thing I gained from my studies were scientific terms to go along with those observations.

How did you decide on the idea of deformed babies to be the “freaks” that drive the change in Samuel? (And why three of them?)
Actually I dreamt of the three deformed babies. After I put it down on paper and was working on the revisions I started understanding what they meant. I'm not sure about the signifigance of three but I see it as a magical number not unlike the holy trinity: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost, which does play a role in the book. The deformed babies are a metaphor for a wounded twisted aspect of Samuel that seeks nurturance and protection from an absent mother.

Did you have resistance from publishers on the theme?
My publishers loved the theme. They supported me from the get to. Very few revisions were asked for and they consisted mainly of a little more description in certain parts of the book.

What would like readers to take away from this story?
On a deeper level, it would be great if they recognized on some level, the struggle between chaos/nihilism/darkness versus order/belief/light. And how one can choose between the two...and how that choice can effect the rest of one's life.

Who/what do you like to read?
Hermnn Hesse, Raymond Carver, Flannery O'connor, Tolstoy, Yukio Mishima, Kurt Vonnegut

What’s next for you as a writer?
I'm working on another project but I don't talk about works in progress. It's bad luck!

(Thanks Sang for your time. Much appreciated.)

Sang Pak explores the darkness within

2009-08-29T19:23:00.000-07:00

It’s easy to ignore evil when your life hasn’t been touched by it, but what do you do when it has? Do you just walk away or will it haunt you until you face it? And what if the darkness is in you?

American writer Sang Pak’s debut novel Wait until twilight explores the influence of dark impulses on sixteen-year-old Samuel, an intelligent and intuitive teenager whose world is shaken when he encounters a set of deformed triplets hidden behind closed doors in his sleepy southern town.

Samuel is repulsed by the “freaks” and his reaction – and the dark thoughts he has towards the babies – haunt him for days afterward.

But when he attempts to atone for these thoughts – to prove to himself he’s a not monster – he’s confronted by true evil in the form of the twins’ adult brother Daryl. Daryl is menacing, brutal and obsessed with using Samuel’s inner turmoil for his own ends.

Samuel’s usual defence is to find a single focus and wipe everything else out of his head. He feels most normal when he feels nothing. But while that seems to have helped him suppress his grief for his mother, he can’t suppress the reality of the deformed triplets.

He tries to turn his back on the disturbed household, but he’s haunted by the triplets and the threat Daryl poses to them, and ultimately decides the only way to confront his own darkness is to save the defenceless babies.

His response to them is all the more amplified by the fact his friend David seems unperturbed by them: the triplets and their unbalanced mother are just another of life’s oddities – nothing to disturb his thoughts beyond the moment.

Wait until twilight has elements of J.D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, as Samuel starts to react to the world around him in increasingly confusing ways – his own world of ordered focus starts to crumble, and we wonder if he might actually be descending into madness.

But, just as the violent encounters with Daryl disturb and conflict him, relationships in his “normal” world provide balance and help Samuel transform into the man he wants – and needs – to be.

Pak creates a dark undercurrent throughout the story that ensures a sense of menace pervades every page, even when Samuel is relaxed. The idea that seediness and darkness lurk just out of sight is not new - particularly in American fiction - but Pak's approach is powerful in its understatement.

In Samuel’s home town, the seedier side of human nature is indulged in back woods cabins only a stone’s throw from suburbia. That reality leads Samuel to assume the only way the rest of his community can be “normal” is to pretend there’s nothing terrible in the world - a luxury he no longer has.

Wait until twilight features a strong and confident narrative voice. Samuel is a likable and sympathetic character; he's masculine without being overtly fuelled by testosterone, and his inner struggles are compelling and believable.

Pak has created a novel that's at times deeply disturbing, but ultimately redemptive, and I suspect its characters will continue to stay with me for many weeks to come.

Next post: a Q&A with Sang Pak.

White Tiger - a complicated India

2009-08-11T02:56:00.000-07:00

“Things are complicated in India.”

That about sums up the picture created by Aravind Adiga in his Man Booker Prize winning novel White Tiger, which I finally read recently.

This cleverly written novel is not the India of Bollywood films, nor does it offer the ultimate optimism of Slumdog Millionaire.

Instead, it puts the reader in the hands of Balram, a “social entrepreneur”, who tells us from the start he’s killed his master and set himself free from the “Rooster Coop” of the caste system.

Balram is amoral and selfish, but his circumstance in life – and his ability to respond to it with ingenuity, wit and self belief – ultimately makes us able to sympathise with him on some level.

Balram is the son of a poor rickshaw puller. Deprived of a formal education, he begs his way to becoming a chauffeur, and it’s while driving the corrupt rich men of the city that he begins to see where his opportunities for a better life may lie.

White Tiger depicts an India where the caste system continues to exploit and abuse its rural poor, and the rich – in the mad dash for capitalism and power – have become increasingly corrupt.

Balram talks about the India of Light (the shining new “economic miracle” of the call centres) and the India of Darkness (the poverty-stricken rural heart, where life is dominated by oppressive servitude).

The gap between the have and have-nots is never more obvious than in their attitude towards animals: in the city, the rich have servants wash their pampered pets; in the villages, the family buffalo has far greater value than a child.

Balram tells his story through a series of chatty letters to Wen Jiabao, the premier of China, who is soon to visit India. Balram very helpfully attempts to explain that India will succeed over China as a capitalist society in the long term because of the emergence of entrepreneurs – and goes on to use his own life as an example.

Ultimately, Adiga uses the corruption of Balram’s master to mirror the corruption of India itself and Balram does the only thing he thinks an entrepreneur should do in such a situation: take advantage of it.

Balram has no issue with corruption and exploitative behaviour in the India of Darkness:
“You can’t expect a man living in a dung heap to smell sweet”. He’s less forgiving of the rich in the India of Light: watching his good natured master allow himself to become corrupted leaves Balram with no remorse when the time comes to kill him.

And there is no companionship or honour among the suffering poor: just as their masters are cruel to them, they are cruel to each other.

As well as the plaudits, Adiga has attracted criticism for being a wealthy Indian man writing about the servant-class. But does that really matter? His story is engaging, eye-opening and – at times – uncomfortable for a reader sitting in First World comfort.

No single novel can completely capture a nation in all its essence. Adiga says his aim in writing White Tiger was to prick the conscience of his country and prompt some element of self examination - which is hardly an exploitative motivation.

I'm keen to hear how other readers responded to this novel.

Urban fantasy - a new form of spirituality?

2009-07-24T03:22:00.000-07:00

So, what is it about paranormal and urban fantasy that appeals so strongly to teenagers?

Bookstore shelves are groaning under the weight of these series – mostly involving vampires.

Of course, the better ones can be equally enjoyed by adults, but there’s no denying most of the bestsellers target the YA market.

Yes, there are the usual YA elements: the coming-of-age angst of finding acceptance, falling in love and finding meaning in life … but why are these aspects so much more appealing to teens when woven into a story about vampires and werewolves?
Is it a natural progression from classic horror stories (I certainly spent plenty of hours reading Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Peter Straub as a teenager), even if most of the new breed of stories aren’t actually about horror?

Or is it a symptom of something else? A need to live – albeit fleetingly – in a world where there is more to reality than we can see? A place where greater forces are at work and ordinary teenagers can discover they have epic destinies?

Which leads to me to wonder if these stories are, in some bizarre way, replacing religion (there’s no denying the religious-like zeal associated with the Twilight series). I’m not talking about urban fantasy themes as a doctrine, but as an experience.
In these alternate worlds, there’s meaning in life, death and suffering, even if it all takes place as part of a narrative far removed from reality. For a while, teens can exist in a world where there are clearly defined rules (even if the characters break them).

Otherworld fantasy also offers this level of escape, but seems to be the domain of older readers, with teens more interested in stories taking place in worlds that resemble their own (happy to be corrected on this one).

Personally, I enjoy both forms of storytelling, but I’m curious to know if readers of these types of stories prefer one type over the other – and if so, why?

And do you have any theories on why teens (and adults) are drawn to this new genre?

The verdict: parallel importation of books

2009-07-15T23:26:00.000-07:00

The verdict is in on the Australian Productivity Commission’s study into copyright restrictions on the parallel importation of books – and plenty of Australia authors are furious.

Blogs and Tweets are appearing on the topic at a rapid rate, with writers and literary organisations expressing their anger and frustration at the Commission’s recommendation to scrap import laws and allow international version of Australian books to be sold locally.

I attempted to summarise both sides of the argument back in January. In a nutshell: those in favour of the change (booksellers and many book buyers) believe it will mean cheaper books; those against say it will be the death of the Australian publishing industry, minimising local content in Australian novels and reducing incomes for local authors.

The Commission released its final report on 15 July, proposing the abolition of import restrictions after three years. You can read the key points of the findings here.

Here are some useful links for those wanting to better understand the issue:

- Kim Wilkins' colourfully-worded and wonderfully articulated writer’s perspective

- A different perspective from literary/cultural mag Overland

- Today’s article in The Australian (plus links to related articles)

- The Commission research report in its entirety

These changes are still only recommendations. The report still needs to be considered by Federal Parliament. If you want to support the fight against changes to import restrictions, Ozlit offers some options. some options.

Claudia Gray - the new Stephenie Meyer?

2009-07-04T17:58:00.000-07:00

Given the phenomenal global success of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, there’s a mad rush from publishers and publicists to find “the next Stephenie Meyer”.

Which is ironic, because it was only a year ago Meyer was being touted as “the next JK Rowling”.

I’m pretty sure authors themselves cringe at such comparisons, but in the current glut of urban fantasy, paranormal adventure and YA escapism hitting our shelves, they’re unavoidable.

Once author being compared to Meyer is Claudia Gray (the pseudonym of New York-based writer Amy Vincent). She’s currently two books into a planned four-book series about a gothic boarding school and the strange goings on there.

The Evernight series is told in the first person through the eyes of Bianca, a shy newcomer to the school who falls for fellow outsider Lucas.

For the first hundred or so pages, Evernight seemed to be heading into familiar Twilight territory. But then there was a very neat twist I hadn’t seen coming (having not gone out of my way to read too much about the series beforehand), which took the story in a new and interesting direction.

Without giving too much away, the series features vampires, vampire hunters and (in the second book, Stargazer), ghosts. It’s a kind of Twilight, Supernatural and Buffy hybrid, with a bit of Hogwarts thrown in for good measure.

Evernight introduces the main characters, establishes the mythology and sets the lines between the warring vampires and vampire hunters – which Gray then nicely blurs, ensuring the reader is never quite sure who's "good" and who's not.

Stargazer then ups the ante with more tension and twists as Bianca and Lucas try to make their relationship work, and new elements are added to increase the sense of mystery and menace. It’s these twists and turns, and the relative complexities of the relationships between a number of characters, that makes this series more than just another teen vampire love story. That, and the fact Gray is a good storyteller.

So … is she the next Meyer?

We’ve talked before on this blog about why Meyer’s novels have struck such a chord with readers. The appeal is undeniably the intense relationship between Bella and Edward, particularly the idea of a powerful, sexy vampire denying his very nature to love and protect the human he craves.

While the Bianca-Lucas romance drives the Evernight story, it’s as much a suspenseful gothic mystery as it is a love story. The relationships aren’t always healthy, and truth is never black or white, which makes the story all the more interesting.

Gray’s author bio refers to her lifelong interest in old houses, classic movies, vintage style and history, and she nicely weaves these elements into her narrative.

It’s not fair to compare Gray to Meyer. Gray is an unashamed fan of vampire stories – particularly those not mired in horror – and Everynight and Stargazer pay homage to that.

These YA books are fast-paced and suspenseful, and while there’s not the underlying sexiness of the Bella-Edward dynamic, there are plenty of hot and heavy moments with Bianca and Lucas (with their own complications, of course).

I have one last observation on the YA/vampire/paranormal trend, which I’ll save for another post – and then, I promise, I’ll write about something other than vampires for a while!

Buffy meets Edward

2009-06-25T00:40:00.000-07:00

In the interim before my next proper blog, check out this very clever video mash up of what might happen if Buffy met Twilight's Edward (thanks to Kirsten Tranter for the link).

Reviewers versus critics

2009-06-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking this week about the difference between reviewers and critics.

I suspect the same definitions or delineations can be made across a range of arts media, but for our purposes I’m going to talk about fiction.

For me, the difference seems to be in the context in which comment is provided on a novel.

A reviewer generally looks at the merit of a book in isolation, considering things like plot, style, characters, readability, and general appeal in a particular genre or market.

A critic, on the other hand, tends to look at a novel in a broader context, be it social, cultural or literary tradition – not only considering it on its own merit, but also how it fits in the wider canon of literature.
My pondering was prompted by an excellent article by Rosemary Sorensen in the most recent Weekend Australian Review, in which she critiques a new academic book analysing Australian fiction from 1989 to 2007 (After the Celebration by Ken Gelder and Paul Salzman).

In considering the authors’ predominantly negative opinions on the topic, Sorensen also considers the value of critical theory. She comments critical theory works best when the critic respects the writing they’re analysing, and actually derives pleasure from reading.

Sorensen says traditional lit-crit has tended to imply that “reading a certain kind of fiction was the domain of the cultured person”.

There’s no doubt literary snobbery is alive and well in many quarters, possibly bolstered by the sheer numbers of online reviewers (such as myself!), and the need to ensure there are still academic and purely intellectual approaches to fiction analysis.

In her criticism of a book about criticism, Sorensen says the Gelder and Salzman often critique the book they believe writers ought to have written, rather than the books they have written. They consider each novel as an ideological document, rather than a piece of fiction in its own right.

She says the two authors also regard readers generally as lazy, who “consume books without thought, and the best novelists are those who force or trick them into confronting their own unpleasant selves”.

This type of attitude assumes people are either consumers of mass marketed paperbacks or refined readers of quality literature.

I read both. And, in 18 months of blogging, I’ve discovered there are plenty of other book lovers who do the same.

Sorensen hits the nail on the head beautifully when she says readers often “enjoy novels because of the energy in the writing, the stylistic flair and the powerful attractions of the plot, as well as the way it opens us up to the thinking about the world and our place in it”.

Good books should do that regardless of where they are found in the book store. And surely the role of both reviewers and critics is to help us find those books?

My questions this week: Do you read reviewers, critics or both? What do you think the differences are, and which is most likely to influence your reading choices?

(And yes, I know the pic is not really relevant, but it makes me smile.)

Eat, pray, love...

2009-06-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

It’s fair to say women in the Western world are increasingly confused, frustrated and unhappy, when a book about throwing aside convention and heading off on a journey of self discovery has more than five million copies in print.

Eat, pray, love: one woman’s search for everything, by Elizabeth Gilbert, was first published in 2006 and has since gone to be one of the most talked (and blogged) about books of recent years.

After a bitter divorce, volatile love affair and a general realisation at how miserable, stressed and unhappy she’d become, thirty-something Liz Gilbert sets out on a journey for the three things missing in her life: pleasure, devotion and balance.

A seasoned traveler, the New Yorker decides the answers to each lie, respectively, in Italy, India and Indonesia.

Her journey, told in a journal format (although structured as 109 “beads” to reflect the Indian string of prayer beads known as japa malas), is a deeply personal account of self discovery.

But – aside from some metaphysical moments in India – it’s not overly self indulgent, nor is it instructive. Gilbert writes with a raw honesty and self deprecating humour that makes her writing engaging, intelligent and funny.

She has a wonderful turn of phrase, and is unashamed to talk about her failings and her deepening hunger for spirituality.

Gilbert does find her pleasure, devotion and balance, but it took a year out of her life and break from a “normal” routine”. Fortunately, it seems, her circumstances enabled her to continue a life less ordinary beyond the pages of the book. Not all of us have the means, or courage, to do so.

I suspect it’s easier to find stillness away from the pressures of every day life, so it seems the key to finding and maintaining “balance”, you need to change your life – and sustain that change.

I don’t care how serene and balanced you are, if you go back into an office environment with a hundred emails a day, endless phone calls, staff to supervise, issues to manage, tight deadlines and personality pressures, you’re going to slip back into old habits.

Surely even Ghandi wouldn’t cope in the modern office environment?

(Just before uploading this post, I found Elizabeth Gilbert’s website, on which she quotes a friend as saying: “To change your life, the important thing is not necessarily to travel; the important thing is to SHIFT” (as in shifting your perspective) – which makes sense.)

But back to the book … the Italy and Bali experiences have a heavier focus on Gilbert’s relationship with others (in the context of her self-discovery), while India is much more focused on her relationship with herself and dealing with her past.

The Italy section resonated most with me (looking for stillness and balance while indulging in fabulous food and wine, surrounded by history and passionate people with a more relaxed outlook on life), which probably says much about where I am in my journey!

The great thing about reading a book like Eat, pray love, is that it makes you question your own faith. It prompts you think a little deeper about who you are, how you relate to the world and what's really important in life. It certainly left me craving stillness, and wanting to grab my husband and run away for a year to get away from all the pressure (which, yes, I generally bring upon myself).

For readers not inclined to self analysis, Eat, pray love probably seems like a self-indulgent, post modernistic self-love fest, but anyone who’s even remotely stopped and thought about who they are and what they believe, will probably find something to think about.

I’m guessing quite a few people reading this post have read this book. What was your take on it? What sorts of things did it make you think about?

Young adult fiction - how do you define it?

2009-05-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

How do you define young adult fiction (generally referred to simply as YA)?

It’s a question I’ve been mulling over in recent weeks as I’ve alternated between YA and general novels.

The formal definition (i.e. from Wikipedia) is that YA is "written for, published for, or marketed to adolescents, roughly between the ages of 12 and 18". The subject matter and story lines are typically consistent with the age and experience of the main character. Stories generally tackle themes relevant for a young adult audience (usually with a “coming of age” theme), told by a narrator in the same age group.

But YA is not, of itself, a neatly packaged genre. Books that sit on YA shelves can be fantasy, horror, science fiction, literature, romance, thriller, mystery ... or any other style. These days, YA books are also increasingly edgy.

They can be highly sophisticated in their storytelling (like Meg Rossof’s novels), so it’s not fair to say YA is generally less complex in nature. In fact, you’re likely to find some pretty heavy, and often controversial, subject matter (suicide, incest, isolation, cultural clash etc.).

And then there are those so-called YA books that transcend age–specific markets, like Stephenie Meyer and JK Rowling (Rowling, in fact, is still often called a children's author, despite the fact children probably make up less than half her global market).

I recently read the first of a paranormal series by Kelley Armstrong (The Summoning). It was an easy read, plot-driven and concerned with issues relevant to teenagers. Every character of significance is a teenager. It's YA, and makes no pretence at being anything else.

Randa Abdel-Fattah's brilliant debut novel Does my head look big in this? is undeniably YA, and yet I know I’m not the only woman over the target age group who enjoyed this story.

Markus Zusak wrote four novels that comfortably fit on the YA shelf: Underdog, Fighting Ruben Wolf, When Dogs Cry, and The Messenger. His fourth – and most renowned – The Book Thief, has also been categorised as YA, because it features a young protagonist (even though the narrator is actually Death). And yet, the latter is no more a YA novel than Aryn Kyle’s The God of Animals or David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which each have young narrators but deal with concepts far beyond the life experience of those characters.(The same can be said about some so-called children’s novels, such as John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.)

So, I wonder how publishers and book stores (and, for that matter, writers) determine what is YA and what is general fiction, when the lines are so blurred in the marketplace.

I’ve read quite a bit of YA in the last couple of years, sometimes intentionally, other times because I simply didn’t realise the book I’d picked up had been categorised as such. (Some of the most innovative and exciting storytelling is happening in this “genre”.)

But does the classification of YA put readers off picking up books that sit in a different part of the book store than their usual choices?

So, this week’s question: do you read YA? If not, is this a conscious decision? If yes, what have been your favourite reads?

Cause and effect - The Time Traveler's Wife

2009-05-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

I’m often drawn to stories dealing with the concept of cause and effect, and few have been as mind-bending as The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, which I finally read last week.

It’s hard to explain this book if you haven’t read it …

Clare first meets Henry when she’s six and he’s thirty-six (and married to her in his present). However, Henry first meets Clare when she is twenty-two and he is thirty (they meet in his present, at which time she has known an older version of him for most of her life, from his time travelling visits).

For the first 50 pages, I just about did my head in trying to unravel the cause and effect factors: Does Clare love Henry because she meets him as a child and grows up knowing they will marry? Does Henry love Clare because she comes to him as an adult and tells him she’s been in love with an older version of him, and knows their future is together?

As Henry himself later says: “Things get kind of circular when you’re me. Cause and effect get muddled”.

For the rest of the book I (mostly) stopped worrying about the physics and allowed myself to be caught up in the dynamics of Clare and Henry’s unorthodox relationship. It’s one that crosses space and time, and it’s only at the very end that they both share the same memories (albeit experienced in different chronology).

Unlike in other time travelling stories, history can’t be changed by Henry’s movements through time. He must watch the same events over and over again, and participate in them exactly the same as other versions of himself already have (even if he has no memories of them).

If The Story of Edgar Sawtelle whispers about the philosophy of inevitability, The Time Traveler’s Wife shouts it. There’s a thread of fatalism in this story that is both comforting and deflating.

As a reader, you get to view Clare and Henry’s experiences from both sides and – like the couple themselves – only get half the story at any one time.

Almost ironically, their most precious (and often heart-breaking) moments occur not in the relationship in the present, but at moments when Henry visits Clare at different stages in her life – all of which take on greater meaning as the story unfolds.

This is certainly an original story and a unique romance. It’s poetic, erudite and very clever. It’s the sort of story that can be read several times over, if – for no other reason – than to appreciate the telling in full knowledge of the ending.

No doubt there are flaws in the time travel physics – I for one, am still trying to understand how the circular nature of their relationship started (surely it unfolded in real time at some point to be able to become circular?)

OK, my head is starting to hurt again.

I’d love to hear from people who have read this book and have an opinion, or have thoughts on the whole concept of time travel and how any story revolving around it can make sense.

Edgar Sawtelle and inevitability

2009-04-24T16:58:00.000-07:00

After encountering rapturous blog reviews about David Wroblewski’s debut novel, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, I was looking forward to experiencing the story for myself.

But, despite the fact I knew there were parallels with Shakespeare’s Hamlet, it didn’t dawn on me this would be a tragedy until I was about 30 pages from the end.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle is set in rural Wisconsin in the first half of the 20th century, on a farm where the Sawtelle family raise a fictional breed of dog, bred for its qualities as a companion, rather than physical traits.

Edgar is a normal boy except for the inexplicable fact he’s never been able to make a sound. His idyllic life is shattered when his father, Gar, mysteriously dies, and then appears to him as a ghost one rainy night - not long after Edgar's uncle moves into the farm to take Gar's place in more ways than one.

The ghostly visit sets in motion a chain of events that leads to Edgar running away with three of the dogs he's been raising and training – and leaving behind faithful Almondine, the aging dog who knows and loves him best.

So, as I was caught up in the sadness of Edgar's separation from Almondine and mesmerised by his growing understanding of the world and his place in it, I wasn’t paying attention to the bigger picture.

Yes, I could feel the tension building. Yes, I knew violence was coming. And still it took me by surprise. But in hindsight, when I looked back at the story in its entirety, it’s obvious the ending (so poignant and perfect in its context) was inevitable.

And somehow, that makes it easier to bear. Once certain events were set in motion, there was nothing Edgar could have done to change the outcome (unless, of course, Wroblewski wanted to write a very different novel).

Is that what it’s like in life? If we know we could have changed something, and didn’t, outcomes are harder to bear. But if there's no chance of influencing an outcome –averting tragedy – can we somehow come to terms with it a little easier? Or is that too fatalistic a view on life?

But, I digress.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle is a beautifully written novel, at times tender, funny, suspenseful and heartbreaking.

Most of the narrative is told from Edgar’s viewpoint. Some of it from characters we barely know. Occasionally we even hear Almondine’s voice.

The plot is intricate, and builds in pace towards the end, but Wroblewski is just as interested in the characters and their relationships and observations, and some of his prose is pure poetry.

Despite being a tragedy in the literary sense, this is not a depressing book – even if the hope offered at the end comes from an unexpected source.

The ebook debate: part 2

2009-04-14T01:11:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, we chatted about the appeal (or not) of ebooks, and how they compared to traditional books.

Everyone who commented talked about the tactile nature of books, and how – even though an ebook might be more convenient – it lacked the emotional experience of holding a treasured story in your hands, and then having it remain a part of your life by being visible on a book shelf.

The looming ebook era in Australia was the subject of a well-researched article by the Australian Review’s Rosemary Sorensen this past weekend.

Ebooks have not yet taken off in Australia, but Sorenson notes that if our country’s take up of the mobile phone is anything to go by, ebook take up will be swift.

However, no-one can yet agree on what that will mean, or how it will affect the emotional and nostalgic impact books have in our lives.

Sorenson quotes author Sven Birkerts (The Gutenberg Elegies: the Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age) as saying that if we replace print with screen-based text, “we will not simply have replaced one delivery system with another. We will have modified our imagination of history, our understanding of the causal and associated relationships of ideas and their creators”.

By that, I assume he means the production, look and feel of original books and their covers, which says much about the technology, artistry and social attitudes of the time in which it was published.

If the day comes when there exist nothing but ebooks, there will never again be “first editions” or “special editions” … just old electronic files.

For some, the end of the printed book is inevitable. In Sorenson’s article, New York-based Bob Stein compares the book as a form with architecture that’s no longer possible to build: “I love gothic churches and I’m sorry we don’t build them anymore, but we don’t. They’ve served their function and so has the 800 page novel. It was really cool, the novel, and I’ve spent a lot of time curled up with good ones, but new technologies give rise to new forms. Humans were not born with a gene that made us gravitate to print.”

And yet, for others, ebooks may create more demand for the paper version. Random House marketing director Brett Osmond suggests readers might use more than one format to get through a single story. “In the future, you may simply buy the book and are able to read it in a range of formats. You might begin with a paper version, then take a chapter on your on your e-reader while you’re walking the dog or pick it up on your computer.”

In this scenario, you buy the story, and it’s up to you how you actually consume it – a fascinating and revolutionary idea, and one that would require revolutionising the publishing industry to accommodate it.

What do you think of that idea? Would you be more inclined to use an e-reader if it was only one format available to you as you read a book, rather than the only format? Is it more acceptable to traditional book lovers to have the choice of both experiences – tactile and convenient?

I will always want physical books – no question. But there is some appeal to having the convenience of being able to read a couple of chapters on a compact e-reader in situations when it’s not practical to carry around a large book.

What does everyone think?

Adaptations - are they necessary?

2009-04-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

This blog, among countless others, has previously considered the debate on whether film adaptations improve or detract from the stories told by much-loved books.

Another take on the debate, provided by Salman Rushdie in the past week, is not just whether or not a film is better than its original source material, but whether or not that source material should have been adapted in the first place.

It’s a topic recently tackled by the Booking Through Thursday meme, which asked bloggers to name the books they’d most like to see adapted to film, as well as those they never wanted to see on the big (or small) screen.

It was interesting to see the same books featuring on both sides of the argument. Some readers wanted to see an adaptation of Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife (which is handy, given there’s apparently one in the works starring Eric Bana and Rachel McAdams) and Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger, while others were equally adamant neither should be touched by film-makers.

Many readers see a film or television adaptation as a chance to spend more time with characters they love. While this may not please those more interested in the literary and artistic value of adaptations, it’s nevertheless a valid response from the point of view of escapism, and personal attachment to particular stories and characters.

Those bloggers who expressed horror at the idea of their favourite read being turned into a film were generally convinced the essence of the story – the poetry of the language, the inner journey of a narrative character – couldn’t be given justice by sound and movement alone, no matter how good the adaptation.

Rushdie, in the Weekend Australian Review on March 28-29, doesn’t confine his comments to just books adapted into movies, but any piece of work adapted by another artist, whether in the same medium (iconic songs “re-imagined by others) or different (plays and books into films and vice versa).

He says the insatiable process to create the current flood of adaptations can sometimes seem “world-swallowing, as if we now live in a culture that endlessly cannibalises itself, so that, eventually, it will have eaten itself up completely”.

Rushdie doesn’t underplay the difficulties facing those intent on adapting a story into a new creative form. They are forced with tough choices: what to keep, what to toss out, what to change and where to draw the line.

“The question of essences remains at the heart of the adaptive act; how to make a second version of a first thing, of a book or film or poem or of yourself, that is successfully its own, new thing and yet carries with it the essence, the spirit, the soul of the first thing, the thing that you yourself, or your book or poem or film originally were.”

For me, I think any adaptation needs to have its own creative merit, while remaining as faithful as possible to the original source material – and yes, I realise this is a tough ask.

Stephen King once said something along the lines of “a crap film doesn’t make a good book bad”, which, of course is true. It’s just that a crap film tends to annoy the hell out of those who loved the book.

What do you think? Does an adaptation influence how you feel about the original work? Are there books you never want to see made into films?

A detour into the world of science fiction

2009-03-21T21:11:00.000-07:00

I took an unexpected detour into the world of science fiction this week.

I hadn't intended to make this a month of Stephenie Meyer-themed posts, but when The Host finally became available at my library last week, it seemed as good a time as any to have a read and see how she tackled a different genre.

While there are some recurring themes from her other books (more on that below), there's also an exploration of some interesting themes relating to what it means to be human.

Do we, as humans, appreciate the value of what it means to experience life on this planet? In The Host, Meyer explores the idea of what it would be like to lose that right to a species with a greater curiosity.

In her story, Earth has been invaded by a species able to take over the minds of its human hosts while their bodies remain intact.

Wanderer, an invading “soul”, has been given the body of one of the few surviving human rebels, Melanie. But Wanderer finds her body’s former tenant has not gone as quietly as she should have.

Melanie fills Wanderer’s mind with visions of the man she loves, who still lives in hiding. Unable to separate herself from Melanie’s memories and the desires of the body now they share, Wanderer sets off in search of him. What follows forces Wanderer and Melanie to learn more about each other (and each other’s species) than they ever intended, forever changing their views of themselves and their existence.

In most sci-fi stories, alien colonisation generally revolves around securing a natural resource critical for survival, even if it’s simply finding room for population expansion.

But the peace-loving "souls" who colonise Earth simply set up camp in human bodies and go about living the lives as their human hosts once did. The majority do not multiply (it seems only a select number have the capacity to do so). They change nothing on the planet (except human behaviour, by making everyone pacifists) and take nothing from it.

It took me a while to work out what these invaders wanted on each planet. And then the penny dropped: the resource they're mining is the human experience. Meyer’s alien species colonises other planets to experience life as the inhabitants do and the souls come to Earth to experience the unparalleled range of human emotions.

Wanderer abhors violence, and she and her species justify their invasion as being the only way to bring peace to Earth – rescuing it from human nature.

But while on the run with Melanie, she experiences the full gamut of human emotion – often at the receiving end – and ultimately finds a context for human violence. She comes to believe it is the ability to experience the extreme negative emotions of hatred and anger that allows humans to also experience the extremities of love and compassion.

The Host has many of Meyer's themes from the Twilight novels: obsession, self-sacrifice, bigotry, love, and yes, even more than a hint of female masochism. Again we have a female narrative character willing to sacrifice herself (and in this case even be repeatedly physically punished) to save those she loves. Sound familiar?

The Host is definitely a unique take on the body snatchers plot, and the love triangle (cleverly touted as the first one involving only two bodies) is not quite as frustrating as I expected it to be. Actually, it becomes a love quadrangle, just to further complicate the emotional ties...

It does tend to get bogged down a bit through the middle third of the book, and there are some character frustrations, but ultimately the book delivers a very readable and often tense story that's part sci fi thriller and part love story.

If you haven't read Meyer yet, this could be a place start (you don't have to be a sci fan to enjoy it). If you're already a fan, chances are you'll like this (slightly) more adult fare than her other work. If you're not, it's unlikely The Host will change your mind.

Do girls still secretly want to be rescued?

2009-03-06T23:19:00.000-08:00

Does the success of Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight series mean women have reverted to enjoying the notion of having a powerful man to protect them?

And if so, why?

Kirsten Tranter, in the latest Weekend Australian Review, suggests it may be the case, in a column that also explores how the romance between fragile Bella and vampire Edward rekindles the narrative of female masochism (where sexual gratification depends on suffering).

(I know I keep referencing the Twilight series, but honestly, when it keeps getting ink in literary publications like the Weekend Australian Review, you know it’s truly become a cultural phenomenon. If you're still oblivious to what it's all about, you can read my past posts here and here.)

Tranter, a fellow Joss Whedon/Buffy fan like myself, points out that while Whedon’s vampiric tales turned the tables on the stereotypical “girl fleeing from monster” (the girl turns out to have the strength and will to kill the monster instead), Meyer’s Twilight books mark a return to patriarchal values where the girl still needs saving.

Tranter says the success of the four novels proves authors are “still happy to create stories that end with cowering girls being saved by powerful guys, and girls are more than happy to embrace them”.

Does the overwhelming popularityof the Meyer series indicate attitudes may be changing among women (young and old) in the face of a threatening and uncertain world?

Is there a shift in the female psyche, possibly strongest among younger women, for a yearning of a time when they didn’t have to save the world but could rely on men to do it for them?

True, by the end of the fourth book, Bella has gained her own power and sense of purpose, but let’s not forget, the series was a hit long before that plot development was revealed. For most of the other books, she relies on strong males to protect her, whether it’s Edward or smitten werewolf Jacob.

I’ve always been a huge fan of quality fantasy, and, thanks to my obsession with Whedon and my general enjoyment of Meyer's series, I’ve started seeking out quality paranormal fiction (and TV shows: I’ve become a fan of Supernatural and the new kid on the block True Blood, which is darker and more unsettling than your standard paranormal TV fare).

Part of this is the timeless search for great stories. But part of it is about escapism – and there is no greater escapism than a world where the normal rules of reality don’t apply.

But that doesn’t mean I want to a fictional world where only the guys get to finish off the Big Bad (as Whedon would call them).

So why then, have female readers become so hooked on the story between Bella and Edward? Why then are teenage fans so totally in love with the overprotective Edward? Is Meyer undermining the feminist movement, or tapping into a latent female need for protection?

Thoughts anyone?

Narrative characters you want to slap

2009-02-27T20:08:00.001-08:00

We all know how important narrative voice is, but is important enough to be the difference between pushing on with a book or throwing it aside when you don't like it?

After the dark violence of The Pilo Family Circus, I was ready for something life affirming and whimsical, so last week I picked up Chocolat by Joanne Harris.

In fairness, I appreciated the themes of this novel, which so frequently seems to turn up on people's "most loved books" list. For those who haven't read it, it's the story of a nomadic mother and daughter, who arrive in a small French village and set up a chocolate shop at the beginning of Lent. Their presence - and leanings towards paganism - raise the ire of the local priest, who wants his flock to focus on self-denial, not the sinful indulgence of the perfect eclair.

But, every time the novel switched narrators from the free spirited Vianne to the repressed Father Reynaud, I lost interest.

Not just becaue Reynaud was unpleasant - every good story needs a good antagonist - but because I wasn't that interested in knowning what was going on his head. Or at least, not so often.

Reynaud's reasonably fleshed out flaws are ideal for the story; experiencing events from his perspective gives the tale more depth; and his demise - as inevitable as it is ironic - is satsifying.

But, as necessary as his narrative voice was, it removed me from the story rather than drawing me closer.

I finished the book, but had Reynaud had more page time, I may not have.

So, it got me wondering how often people leave a book unfinished because of the narrative character. I don't mean not finishing a book because we don't like the story, or the style of writing, or the type size.

I'm talking about being aware you don't like the narrative character and choosing to put the book aside because of it (as I did a year ago with John Kennedy O'Toole's The Confederecy of Dunces). Or maybe even continuing to read but loathing the narrator to the final page (as, apparently, did many detractors of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series).

Has anyone else experienced the annoying narrator phenomenon?

(And yes, Belinda, your topic about narrators of audio books is the next logical post!)

Not for the faint- hearted

2009-02-14T22:46:00.001-08:00

On more than one occasion, we’ve talked on this blog about how powerful stories have the ability permeate our moods and thoughts. It’s for this reason many readers choose their books carefully, aware of how they react to certain themes, imagery and genres.

Is that a form of self censorship, or simply self preservation?

A combination of reading material this week has led to this question. The first is The Pilo Family Circus by Will Elliott, and the second, author Frank Moorhouse’s essay in this month’s Australian Literary Review (more on the latter in a moment).

It’s been a very long time since I picked up a horror novel, but I’ve been meaning to check out Elliott’s debut novel, The Pilo Family Circus, since it won the inaugural ABC Fiction Award back in 2006.

I’m glad I did, as it’s an original piece of fiction by a gifted storyteller, but there were certainly disturbing elements I probably could have lived without (but of course, without which the story would lose much of its impact and sense of menace and absurdity).

The Pilo Family Circus is a darkly humorous and unsettling horror tale about Jamie, an ordinary guy eking out a simple existence in inner-city Brisbane. But after an encounter with a pair of bizarre clowns (and I mean face paint-wearing, giant-panted clowns, not the other kind that often grace city streets after dark), Jamie is plunged into the horrific alternate reality that is the centuries-old Pilo Family Circus.

He’s forced into service as clown, and discovers that as soon as he dons the white greasepaint, a new character – JJ – emerges, who is weak, sadistic and conniving.

Elliott has said in interviews the book is not meant to be an allegory about the battle against the dark side of human nature. But it’s easy to understand how readers might glean that theme when Jamie at first willingly surrenders to the face paint to cope with his new nightmarish reality, before embarking on a battle for survival against the evil JJ.

Elliott takes to extreme the idea that the circus caters to every human weakness: sideshow alley taps into greed, the acrobats elicit vanity and envy, magicians prompt a craving for power, clowns live out the fantasy of mocking and usurping authority, and the freaks weaken the resolve to resist all of the above.

As Jamie discovers, the Pilo Family Circus is a borderline world between hell and earth from which humankind's greatest tragedies have been perpetrated. Unsuspecting humans are lured into the circus ground, where they are then fleeced of their most precious possession, their souls, and sent back into the world, oblivious of violent events many of them have been programmed to commit. When that’s not enough, performers themselves are sent “up” to incite the carnage.

Among the characters in the circus, none is more absurd than Goshy, a mentally disturbed and simpleton clown whose erratic behaviour is more frightening than the brutal menace of head clown Gonko. And despite the violence and grotesqueness of life and suffering in the circus, the most disturbing moment of the story involves Goshy and the love of his life, a potted fern.

While reading this scene – which, admittedly, was inevitable and certainly captures the escalating depravity and absurdity of Jamie’s environment – I couldn’t help but think of Frank Moorhouse’s essay.

As I was reading the book, I kept wondering about how I would describe it on this blog. I knew it wouldn’t be a story for a lot of people because of its darkness, violence and disturbing imagery - and yes, Bec of The Small Stuff, you were at the front of my mind :).

And yet, award-winning Australian author Moorhouse berates us for wanting to shy away from disturbing material, and is particularly disdainful of those who would attempt to warn audiences about stories that might shock them or make them feel uncomfortable.

Much of his criticism is aimed at television and film censors, but he also points the finger at anyone who uses phrases such as “not for the faint-hearted”.

He says: “There is nothing wrong with being horrified or sickened and nothing terribly bad happens to us when we are. I think it is more likely that something good will happen: we might be moved.”

Is he right? Do we create the world we want to live in by the stories we choose to inhabit – at the expense of seeing the world as it is?

For me, I like to think my choices are a balance between challenging and comforting stories. Because let’s face it: the world offers both experiences, often simultaneously.

What do you think?

Ebooks: do you read them?

2009-01-31T18:17:00.000-08:00

Booking Through Thursday (BTT) hosted an excellent discussion last week about electronic versus paper books.

The post directed meme participants to an interesting Time magazine article Books gone wild: the digital age reshapes literature by Lev Grossman, and then asked for thoughts and comments.

In the article, Grossman discusses the changes facing the traditional publishing industry in the wake of online books, e-readers, and self-published books marketed by bloggers.

He sees the move towards electronic books as a natural progression in the world of literature. Just as the emergence of books in the early 18th century was shaped by the forces of money and technology as much as by creative genius, so too, he says, is the move from the paper-based novel to the ebook.

Grossman says publishers need to be looking beyond existing means of selling books, given the increasing uptake of e-readers like Kindle and the Sony Reader (for those unfamiliar with these gadgets, they’re electronic devices the size of a small novel, on which you read downloaded ebooks in a format that looks like the page of a novel).

The ebooks available for these e-readers are not just those provided by publishers, but anyone who wants to make their writing available in cyberspace via services like Kindle.

In discussing this recently with two librarians, it seems the issue is not just about a shift in attitudes towards books without tangible pages, but also about the availability of a single platform in which to read ebooks.

From what I understand, existing e-readers only access some books, not all. Which means that if you want to read novels from various sources, you need more than one type of reader - otherwise, you're limited to the titles available to your particular reader. The librarians I spoke to don’t expect to see a huge uptake in the general population until that situation changes.

Interestingly, many of the comments left in response to the Time article on BTT were along the same lines: people like the idea of having an ebook reader – offering hundreds of titles at their fingertips, often with dictionaries, glossaries and note-taking options. But they still love the feel of an old fashioned book in their hands and can’t see a day when they would turn away from the paper option completely.

There’s also a trend for people to read initial chapters of a book offered online and then go out and buy the “real” version to finish reading it.

Personally, I’ve not bought an e-reader, or read a fiction ebook. I can see the benefits of the technology, and would certainly be willing to give it a try, but I too still love the feel of a book in my hand and the sight of books on my shelves.

The paper versus electronic debate has been raging for years and will continue to rage as the industry and the fiction-loving public grapple with these issues.

The traditional system of agents, publishers and editors exists to provide a level of quality control and discernment, preventing readers from having to wade through thousands of un-edited and potentially badly written books before they find the good stuff.

But Grossman says even this open-slather approach will find its own level. “The wide bottom of the (literary) pyramid will consist of a vast loamy layer of free, unedited, web-only fiction, rated and ranked YouTube-style by the anonymous reading masses”.

What do you think about the issue?

Do you read ebooks? If not, would you?

If yes, do you choose work from writers unpublished in the traditional sense or only those already available in book shops? Do you read ebooks to find new work, or because they are a more convenient and cost-effective way to buy popular titles?

A world without America...

2009-01-23T00:34:00.000-08:00

It’s a provocative idea to tackle in a novel, and definitely one guaranteed to attract attention.

Australian writer John Birmingham, when he’s not writing more literary fare like He died with a felafal in his hand, pens fast-paced alternative history thrillers. His latest is Without Warning, in which the vast majority of the continental United States is inexplicable covered in a giant wave of energy from space.

The result is the instant disappearance of more than 350 million people.

Not only has the Wave (as it becomes known) devastated the bulk of the US population, it shows no signs of leaving. And while machines and electronic devices are unaffected by the Wave, all humans who come into contact with it instantly disintegrate, meaning the bulk of the continent is a no-go zone.

What starts as an inexplicable mass tragedy – disturbingly celebrated in certain parts of the world – quickly turns into a chaos that threatens the downfall of the industrial age.

The novel is less concerned with the cause of the phenomenon (as one character puts it, “we’re like ants whose nest got hit by a kid with a magnifying glass on a sunny day … we’re probably a thousand years from understanding…”) and more interested with the social, political and economic impact it would have on the globe if the US was to suddenly “disappear”.

Without Warning is told from multiple perspectives (almost too many, as it’s hard to keep track of everyone). The most interesting are a former US Ranger-turned war correspondent, embedded in Iraq with troops suddenly without a Commander in Chief; and a female American assassin in Paris, cut off from her controllers and hunted by terrorists.

In Birmingham’s scenario, with the might of the US gone – and its remaining military forces scattered across the globe – the world begins to unravel.

Jaded assassin Caitlin, frustrated by the attitude of an extreme left-wing Frenchwoman explains the inevitable impact America’s disappearance will have on the global economy and availability of oil:

“Think about where it (oil) comes from… Think about what’s going to happen there now the evil global overlord is no longer around to oppress everyone into behaving themselves. Think about what’s going to happen to the evil world financial system now that the planet’s greatest debtor nation has winked out of existence and won’t be meeting its mortgage payments to anyone.”

The alternative history offered here is frightening because, in many ways, the novel's twists and turns are realistic consequences of the current geo-politics and cultural clashes dominating our headlines in this reality.

In Without Warning, things go wrong in so many ways: Paris erupts into civil war when its cultural divide meets head on in the streets; fires break out behind the Wave, where nuclear power plants and unmanned vehicles and appliances – left running when their human operators disappeared – are igniting and burning freely, creating a toxic fall-out that starts to move across other continents.

There are startling images of American citizens in the untouched outposts (Seattle, Alaska and Hawaii) lining up for food stamps, and the remaining millions of US citizens scattered across the planet suddenly seeking asylum as refugees.

Birmingham gives us some great moments (Seattle’s City Councillors are put under house arrest by the military when they decide to vote on whether or not they should still get biscuits during meetings when the rest of the city is on food rations).

He also gives some us blood chilling ones: Israel using its nuclear arsenal to remove the Arab threat closing in, wiping out another 300 million people.

Without Warning is a cautionary tale about globalisation (actually, it makes the current global financial crisis look pretty tame) and picks at the fragile nature of our industrialised society.

It’s hard to know how this book will do in the US. On the one hand, it reinforces the (increasingly unpopular) dogma that “the world as we know it would fall apart without America”. On the other, it shows America at is most vulnerable, and how quickly the rest of the world might turn on it in that state.

Politics aside, Without Warning is a cracking read. Birmingham’s characters have depth, the dialogue is excellent, and the story a page-turner. It’s a tad long, but the journey is worth it.

Does the price of a book influence your choices?

2009-01-08T03:16:00.000-08:00

A debate is raging in Australia at the moment about how much we pay for books and how much we could be paying if booksellers were allowed to import cheaper versions.

The argument surrounds what’s known as parallel importation. That means importing international versions of books that are also printed in Australia by local publishers.

The Australian Productivity Commission is considering this issue in a study into Copyright Restrictions on the Parallel Importation of Books, and it’s sparked one of the most heated industry debates in recent years.

In one camp, you’ve got the “cheaper books mean more books being bought and read” proponents (predominantly booksellers); in the other, their “but at what price to the Australian publishing industry” opponents (publishers and writers).

In a nutshell, if booksellers can import the cheaper versions of books, they can naturally sell them for a much cheaper price than the locally printed editions. (This goes for books by best-selling international and local authors, who have editions published in more than one country – that’s why a web search on certain novels might deliver three or four different editions with different covers, and even different titles).

Former NSW Premier, Dymocks Books board member and avid reader Bob Carr argues that parallel importation of cheaper books will mean there will be more books on Australian shelves, which he says is good for everyone.

In a column in The Weekend Australian Review, he says best-selling books are unnecessarily expensive in Australia because bookshops can’t buy from overseas if an Australian publisher expresses an interest in publishing it here. He says the argument that the existing legislation protects local publishers is moot, because more and more Australians are buying books online through outlets such as Amazon. (You can read the full article here.)

One of the most pressing points of contention from opponents of cheap imports is that Australian publishers won’t be able to compete on price with international publishers, which in turn will impact their viability to publish local works.

Brett Haydon of UNSW Press, on his blog Hedged Down, argues that price is not the only consideration when a reader decides to buy a book. He says people don’t choose who they read based on price, any more than they buy books by the kilo.

On this point I agree: if I want a book, I’ll pay the cover price. If it is a new release blockbuster (like, say, a Harry Potter novel), I might shop around to get the best price. But I wouldn’t pass over the book I wanted for a cheaper book I wasn’t as interested in.

However, if there is a choice between a more expensive local edition and a cheaper import – which has exactly the same content – there’s a fair chance buyers are going to reach for the cheaper one.

But here’s the rub: there’s no guarantee the content will be the same when it comes to international versions of Australian books.

In US version of Australian novels, for example, the cultural references, slang and idiosyncrasies that make the story Australian, are often edited out or replaced with something more familiar to American readers.

So it’s entirely possible a young reader might pick up the cheaper imported version of a Tim Winton, Markus Zusak or John Marsden novel to find it full of American references, not the original Australian content.

As Bookseller and Publisher says in its response to Bob Carr, there will be fewer books in Australian homes if “Australian children can’t find themselves in them”.

And so, the debate rages on.

What do you think? Are these issues important?

Do you buy a book based on price? Would you buy a cheaper import? Does it matter if the content is different?

(The Commission has released an issues paper, outlining some key matters to be addressed in the study and calling for public submissions. It’s due to present its findings to the Australian Government in May 2009. You can find out more here.)

The duality of human existence

2008-12-12T13:10:00.000-08:00

Can there be life without bloodshed? Can sense be found in a world where violence and serenity co-exist?

Cormac McCarthy explores these questions in his classic coming-of-age novel All the Pretty Horses and his answers seem to be no and yes, respsectively.

It tells the story of sixteen-year-old John Grady Cole, who rides across the Texan border into Mexico with two companions, searching for purpose.

John Grady encounters a world that is at once beautiful and desolate, promising and threatening, serene and violent, and by the time he returns – less than a year later – he's irrevocably changed.

Although his new life in Mexico seems to offer an idyllic existence, there’s a pervading sense of underlying danger. But, like John Grady, I hoped the threat wasn’t real, and – like John Grady – when it the violence arrived, I realised had always been inevitable.

Perhaps one of the interesting insights into this novel is the idea that John Grady is ultimately heroic not because he stands by idealistic beliefs, but because he learns to put them aside when necessary to survive or seek justice.

He learns to accept life is both serene and violent – with little warning of which he will face each day – and while he loses his innocence, he does so without becoming disillusioned.

Through his experiences, he doesn’t simply grow up; he begins to understand the world in all its pain and glory and feels no less connection to it. John Grady gains a self possession that many philosophers and social commentators believe can only be grasped after great sacrifice.

Critics have debated whether this is a story without hope, but I tend to agree with those who feel McCarthy is more ambiguous than nihilistic. How can there be no hope when John Grady himself has learned who he is, is wiser for it, and still retains a gentleness in his soul?

All the Pretty Horses was my first foray into the world of the reclusive McCarthy, and I was immediately drawn into the story by his rhythmic prose and evocative sense of place.

The frequent conversations in Spanish were appropriate in the narrative, but a tad frustrating for a reader who doesn’t speak the language. Although, I could generally guess at the meaning through context, and when I couldn’t, the language barrier served as a reminder of how far John Grady and his buddies were from home.

All the Pretty Horses was an excellent read on a number of levels, not least of which was the question about the nature of the duality of human existence – serenity and violence – and whether you have to be able to accept that both exist before you can attempt to understand and accept the world.

A year of blogging

2008-11-28T21:57:00.001-08:00

Around a year ago, I wrote a post about my favourite reads of 2007 and then – holding my breath and peering out one eye – bravely hit the upload button.

It was the first instalment of a blog I’d optimistically titled Great stories, having no idea if anyone other my friends would read it or be interested in what I’d have to say on the subject of books, narrative and storytelling.

I decided to start this blog as a way to talk about books (and, at times, films and television) with anyone who might share a similar – or contrary – view on what worked and what didn’t when it came to telling great stories.

I found I was having discussions with a number of my book-loving friends on similar topics, and thought a blog would be the perfect way to have those discussions at the same time.

But what’s grown from that has been even better than I’d hoped. Who knew the blogsphere was such an interesting and generous place?

I still remember the excitement the first time I found a comment from someone I didn’t personally know (thank you Salty Letters!).

To be honest, I still get a buzz whenever anyone leaves a comment on my blog, even more so if they’re a new contributor (and aren’t you always curious how someone comes across your blog?).

Over the past year there have been some witty, insightful, clever and - yes, Ink-stained Toe-poker - cheeky comments left on my posts. All have been appreciated.

Some posts generate lots of comments, some only a few, and I still haven’t pinned down the differences between the two.

And then there was my brief addiction to meme, when I was first introduced to Booking Through Thursday (BTT).

When I found myself racing home from work to knock up a response to that week’s questions so I could make it in the first dozen comments, I realised I’d moved away from my aim of writing posts that were thoughtful and well considered. The only answer was to go cold turkey… If I was posting daily, or even a couple of times a week, the occasional BTT response would’ve been fine. But when I only post around once a week, those abrupt posts seemed out of place in the context of the rest of the blog.

Still, Booking Through Thursday remains a fantastic source of topics and bloggers, and I will be forever grateful to that meme for helping me find a whole new world of literary bloggers to exchange ideas with – on their blogs and mine.

Great stories has given me a chance to express some of the thoughts, ideas and questions bouncing around in my head, and I'm so so appreciative of those people who return to the site on a regular basis to join discussions.

I’ve met some wonderfully intelligent and thoughtful bloggers in cyberland, and blogging has added a new dimension to friendships with people who also inhabit my life away from the computer.

So, for fear of this sounding like some sort of Oscar speech, I’d just like to thank all of you who post regularly, and those who just visit.

I’ve got quite a few extra projects going on my life at the moment (in addition to my full time job), but I love writing this blog and reading other people's blogs, so I’m going to attempt to keep this going.

My posts my not be exactly weekly, but they will be regular.

And, hopefully, they’ll be worth waiting for!

A skewed view of the world

2008-11-22T22:19:00.000-08:00

Last week I mentioned there was a particularly great line in High Fidelity I wanted to explore.

Bec, in her comment on that post, was on the same wave length, beating me to my follow-up post! (Just trying to squeeze two blogs out of one book :) )

The line involves Rob’s musings about how people whose lives are closely bound by music (or other forms of emotive storytelling) can end up with a skewed view of the world, particularly when it comes to relationships:

Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.

Is that true?

Do great stories skew the way you see the world and live your life?

Whether it’s because you’ve read too many romances and no partner can ever measure up, or one too many crime novels, and you live in a constant state of fear, or one too many downbeat literary novels, and you feel there’s no hope to ever find happiness because the world is so flawed?

I know the books I read can colour my mood for hours, even days, afterwards (rarely more than that, unless I’ve deeply connected with the story), but I think my reading material is so eclectic that I’m generally not overwhelmed by one particular emotional theme.

I have a tendency to over-analyse most things, and I tend to experience emotions in their extremes, but I don’t think that’s because of my reading material, but more something in my own personality (or was it created from absorbing so much emotional material vicariously, in addition to my own emotional reality?)

OK, I’m going to stop now, before I hurt myself with over-analysis…

Anyone else given much thought to this topic?

Relating to High Fidelity

2008-11-15T20:28:00.000-08:00

Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity is a much-loved classic, not least because it was the Brit lad lit equivalent to Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones Diary chick lit in the '90s.

It’s a great mix of wry humor, unpretentious intellect and blokey sentiment (a Hornby trademark that’s since inspired countless writers).

It’s also a call to nostalgia for anyone who’s ever turned to a favourite song/album to deal with a particular occasion or emotion.

High Fidelity, as well as offering an insight into one particular male mind, asks a few of life’s big questions:

- Is it possible to share your life with someone whose record collection is incompatible with your own?

- Can people have terrible taste and still be worth knowing?

- Do songs about broken hearts and misery and loneliness mess up your life if consumed in excess?

For Rob Fleming, a 35-year-old pop addict and owner of a failing record shop, these are the sort of questions that need an answer.

His girlfriend has just left him, prompting the dilemma of whether he can go on living in a poky flat surrounded by vinyl and CDs or should he get a real home, a real family and a real job? Perhaps most difficult of all, will he ever be able to stop thinking about life in terms of the All Time Top Five bands, books, films, songs. Even now that he's been dumped again, his first reaction is to create an All Time Top Five Break-ups list.

I had a couple of reactions to this book, but perhaps the strongest was that it took me back to my late teens, when my entire life revolved around music ... When the choice of cassette in my HK Premier was more important than my choice of outfit.

Regular poster, Bec C, one of my oldest, dearest and coolest friends, will remember this era vividly.

How many hours did we spend discussing whether ZZ Top was better in the '70s (Tres Hombres era) or the '80s (Eliminator era)? Or working out the lyrics to Black Sabbath’s Paranoid? Or compiling the ultimate '70s and '80s heavy metal cassette, on which Rainbow, Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin could co-exist with Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and Whitesnake?

Our debates about top five lists were along the lines of best rock drummers of all time, coolest Angus Young guitar solos, best Aussie pub bands... We definitely made judgements about people based on their music tastes (and, as is apparent from last week’s blogs, I still do this to a degree with people’s reading tastes. Bec, of The Small Stuff, was also bang on a few weeks ago when she suggested I would “get” the appeal of the lists in Hornby's book).

For High Fidelity’s Rob, the ability to compile those lists and solve musical dilemmas of his own devising is central to his identity.

It’s one of his excuses for not growing up, as the “adults” in his life keep urging him to do (and by adults, I clearly don’t mean his offsiders in the record shop).

He equates growing up with having to give it all up – believing that maturity leaves no time to focus all one's energy on a single passion.

My experience with blogging this past year has revealed there are countless people who live and breathe stories (for Rob it's stories in songs – for us literary bloggers, it’s stories in books).

Book-loving bloggers are more adept than most at creating a list at the drop of a hat because the subject matter is always at the front of their minds.

But are they as obsessed as Rob is about music? Has their depth of trivial knowledge and passion shaped their lives at the expense of other things?

Are they still functional adults?

Well, are you?

(I’d like to think I am, but others may disagree…)

There’s a particularly great line in High Fidelity I also want to explore, but I’ll leave that till next time.

Judging people by book covers - do you do it?

2008-11-07T18:46:00.000-08:00

When packing for a recent trip to Melbourne, I found myself spending as much time choosing my reading material for the flight as I did on the rest of the packing.

I could tell you it was all about finding the right book in my to-read pile best suited to a plane trip, but that’s not telling the whole story. Because, in truth, I was also making my choice based on what it would to say about me as a reader.

This is based on the irrational – and somewhat self-indulgent – assumption that complete strangers are as interested in my reading choices as I am in theirs.

I realised, on reflection, that I was putting more thought into the choice than I might if I was just going to carrying the book into the next room. So my selection wasn't just about what I felt like reading (and what would be a good distraction on a two-and-a-half hour flight), but what judgements other people might make on seeing the book in my hands.

I probably should clarify (as I suspect this may be one of those “honest reflection” posts I come to regret!) … I don’t spend every waking moment worrying about what other people think – I’ve happily outgrown that level of self-consciousness – but there’s definitely still a small, quiet voice in the background that speaks up when I pick a book off the shelf.

Most people make almost sub-conscious judgements on people based on clothes or appearance (remember Josh Weinstein’s documentary?). Some of us also do it with reading material (for others, it’s the DVD a person is holding in the shop, or the CD playing in their car).

It’s a single choice in a moment of time, which shouldn’t define us – but often does.

Regular readers of this blog will – I hope – know that I’m not a literary snob. I have wide and varied tastes in fiction. But, I must confess, if someone is going to make a snap judgement about my reading habits, I’d rather it be while I’m clutching a book closer to the well-written end of the literary scale, rather than something I’m reading out of curiosity or experimentation.

Is that wrong?

I wouldn’t read a book just for the sake of being seen with it, but I found it interesting how much of my view of myself these days is linked to my literary life – and how I want that literary life to be perceived by others.

In case you’re wondering, I resisted the urge to attempt to finish Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment (which has set half-read on my bedside table for about a year now), and chose Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity – the repackaged Penguin edition (post to come on my thoughts) for the flight down.

For the trip back, it was Mark Abernethy’s Second Strike (sequel to The Golden Serpent, which I’m still reading due to its size and my available reading time.) Both kept me entertained and kept my self consciousness to a minimum, even though the latter has a very blokey cover...

So, the questions then, for those who wish to join me in this little exercise:
- Do you judge people by the books they read?
- Are you self conscious about what you read in public?

Do you read more than one book at once?

2008-10-27T00:42:00.000-07:00

This was a question posed to me by my blogging friend Gustav a few week’s back.

In thinking about it, it’s raised some interesting questions about the way in which we absorb narrative in its different forms.

I always have more than one book on the go at any time – but never more than one piece of fiction.

I’ll often have three of four books on the bedside table that may be about history, religion, or other non-fiction (and not all as high brow as that statement may make it sound!).

But I rarely attempt to read two novels at once. (Occasionally, a high-demand novel may become available on short loan from the library, and I’ll set aside whatever novel I’m reading at that moment so I can return the library book on time. But I always set it aside - I don’t try and read both at once.)

For me, it’s always been an issue of not having my head in two narrative spaces at once.

Which got me thinking: isn’t that what I do when I watch more than one television series in the same season? Or following stories in more than comic series?

Films are slightly different because we watch them in a single sitting, (unless you’re a pay TV “flicker”, of course, then you might watch it in three instalments, and not necessarily chronological!), experiencing the entire narrative before moving on to the next story.

I seem to manage quite well keeping track of story arcs and characters across these more visual mediums.

Is it because an episode of a television series or an edition of a comic has its own smaller story arc, with a natural place for a break at the end? Even a cliff hanger ending makes a clean break from one episode to another.

For me, the same rules just don’t seem to apply to novels. Is it because with a novel, the story takes up so much more of my imagination, and when I fill up that space with too many stories requiring my emotional and imaginative capacity, it becomes too messy?

Does the visual nature of television and comics make it easier for me to keep the stories separate?

So, my question this week is: do you read more than one novel at a time? And if so, do you find it easy to keep the stories straight?

The power of a strong narrative voice

2008-10-19T22:53:00.000-07:00

Regular readers of this blog know I hit a wall a week or so ago in my reading schedule. Strangely enough, it was the most unlikely of novels that got me moving again: a violent, bleak urban tale in which nobody finds an even remotely hopeful ending.

Bulletproof Suzy, by British writer Ian Brotherhood, was not uplifting stuff, but it definitely got me thinking about a few things.

First and foremost, this novel has one of the most distinctive narrative voices I’ve read for a while.

The narrative character (actually called Francine, but referred to by all and sundry – including herself – by her street moniker, Suzy) is a tough young woman in a not-too-distant future Britain, living in a cold, poverty-stricken concrete jungle dominated by thugs and violence.

She and her team of “little ladies” are what are known as “Liaison Officers for the Commissioner’s Office”, government-sanctioned stand-over merchants who collect rates on behalf of the local council.

In this future, rates go so high there’s little chance anyone will willingly pay them. “Operation Community Responsibility” is launched – a system where one household is responsible for collecting the rates of another. It invariably fails, and non-government “teams” are recruited to do the dirty work. (Given my current line of professional communication work, I found the concept deeply ironic.)

Suzy’s world is brutal, but she’s adapted to it and is relatively comfortable with her place in it. Unfortunately, things take a turn for the worse when her less violent and best friend Joanne is cruelly murdered and Suzy finds herself the prime suspect.

The majority of the story is set over about 48 hours, during which Suzy and her crew try to get to the bottom of Joanne’s murder and then exact revenge.

The story, even with its bleakness, drew me in thanks to Suzy’s take on the world and her observations of those in it. She’s uncompromising, rarely sentimental, and relentlessly tough in the face of danger. A dark sense of humour helps.

Brotherhood writes like Suzi thinks, making the novel essentially a long monologue, but once you get her rhythm, it’s easy to follow. Her observations are full of profanity and slang (cops are the roz, rozzlings, rozzloiders; a gang from an apartment block called the Cherry basket are Cherroids; certain sensitive body parts are “jarlers”).

Here’s a taste:
The door starts going at all hours – this one from the first floor, all sweaty and crimson what with just having rubbed up against Shuggs and his merry cherries, or else one of the other CO teams now operating, that one struck dumb with fear, bearing the tell-tale odour of involuntarily released bodily fluids. Sometimes, if the client has actually suffered physical damage, we’ll be straight out there and then to find those responsible, Shuggs more often than not, and he’s usually to be found with his raggle-taggle collection of buff-fluffed Cherroids in the favoured Maxwell’s Lounge by the river, and it’ll be a few shouts at the door and they’ll be out, swinging whatever is at hand and making light of our being the opposite sex or whatever.

Hardly traditional punctuation, but it works perfectly in this type of story.

Plot-wise, there are muddy politics belying the situation Suzy finds herself neck-deep in, but these are far less interesting than the way she interacts with those around her, and her observations of the deteriorating situation.

This engaging narrative voice is almost enough to get me past my disappointment with book’s ending.

It’s not that I was expecting a happy ending (there’s no hope in sight for these poverty-stricken characters locked into lives of violence), and the story’s bleak resolution certainly fits the tone of the rest of the book.

I think it’s the fact the story suddenly fast-forwards a few years and all those characters who were such a strong part of the rest of the book have all but faded into the background. But then, I guess, that too fits with the transitory nature of Suzy’s world…

Maybe I liked Suzy so much I wanted her to have some level of victory. But maybe her lack of self pity is a victory in itself?

Definitely not a book for Bec…

Sequels from different authors

2008-10-10T22:10:00.000-07:00

How do you feel about book sequels written by someone other than the original author, usually many years later?

I’ve been chewing on that question this week, after reading an article by Rosalie Higson in The Weekend Australian Review about Australian author Colleen McCullough’s new offering, The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet, a sequel of sorts to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

McCullough (best known for the Thorn Birds and her Masters of Rome series) has re-imagined the Bennet sisters 20 years on, with the tuneless, personality-challenged Mary being the focus of the story.

In this story, Mary breaks free after her mother’s passing and, with a crusading fire in her belly, sets off to write a book about the treatment of the poor in industrial northern England. She encounters dangers and romance, before emerging as a “most exotic orchid”.

This concept of re-imagining literary characters is nothing new. A number of writers have created sequels to classics whose original authors are no longer with us. And literary critics have long turned their nose up at the practice, demeaning it as cheap way to cash in on fans’ hunger to know more about characters they hold close to their hearts.
McCullough herself admits she loves to annoy the literati, which was one of the aspects that appealed to her with this project (along with wanting to understand “why Jane Austen didn’t like Mary, to whom she devoted a whole eight sentences,” and explore “whatever happened to Mary?”).

For me, the question is not why a writer would want to write about another author’s characters. The answer is obvious: they either love or are fascinated by a character or characters, and believe they can deliver the next chapter in their lives. In popular fiction this is called “fan fic”, and is most commonly found in the world of sci and fantasy, where novels are regularly churned out featuring characters from television shows (e.g. Buffy, Angel and Star Trek) by writers who have no connection to the original creations.

The question for me, is how would the original author feel about it?

The Guardian’s Books Blog tackled the subject when a second sequel to Gone with the Wind was released. The blog author is perplexed by the way in which these types of sequels are so reviled.

The blog points out that sequel writing exists unmaligned in other formats such as film and television, where fans and critics don’t seem overly perturbed by the fact that numerous writers are involved.

The blog puts it down to literary snobbery, and asks why sequels, prequels and companion books can’t have literary merit in their own right.

But unlike the “fan fic” – whose original characters and stories were developed by a team of writers – novels are traditionally written by individuals. Characters are created in their minds and further developed on the page.

To have another writer interpret your characters and take them in directions you might never have foreseen for them could be either flattering or insulting.

It’s not about the new writer’s background, talent, or even intention. It’s a question of whether anyone other than a character’s creator can truly tell you what might happen next.

It also treads sacred ground with fans as well, who have their own ideas on what may or may not have happened after the last page of the original book. How will fans of Pride and Prejudice (who may or may not have picked up one of the 20 plus other “sequels”) feel about D’Arcy having ambitions to become Prime Minster and Elizabeth being unhappy, as is the case in The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet.

McCullough’s novel intrigues me, purely because Mary is such an under-drawn character in Austen’s classic. But I’m not sure I want my experience of the rest of characters in the original novel influenced or challenged by anyone other than Austen. And that’s obviously never going to happen.

I’d be really interested to hear people’s thoughts on the subject.

Have you read a sequel to classic by another writer? Did you love it, hate it or were indifferent? Do you not care: a good story is a good story?

The brick wall

2008-10-02T00:47:00.000-07:00

I’ve reached a strange point in my reading journey … and it looks a bit like a brick wall.

I’m sure it will pass as quickly as it has arrived, but in the meantime, I thought I’d blog about it, as I like to put something new on this site around once a week. And, by the nature of my reading situation, I don’t seem to have anything else to write about this week!

Here it is: I’ve suddenly become indecisive about my reading choices. I have an interesting list of titles waiting on my book shelf, but I can’t seem to get excited about any of them.

I’m worried that if I start one and cast it aside, I won’t go back to it (I’m not big on revisiting books that don’t grab me – remember my ill-fated relationship with The Confederacy of Dunces?), and so forever ruin a book I may otherwise enjoy.

My current shortlist is as follows (in no particular order):
- High Fidelity by Nick Hornby (loved by my good friend the Ink-stained Toe-poker)
- The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson (loved or hated, depending on whose review you read)
- A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (I really enjoyed The Kite Runner, but not sure if I’m in the mood for the emotional commitment I suspect this book will require)
- Second Strike by Mark Abernethy (Aussie spy adventure sequel to The Golden Serpent, which I enjoyed last year)
- A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon (who wrote The Curious Incident With The Dog in the Night-time) (Side-note: I grabbed this book off the shelf last night and knocked a glass of wine over my laptop - which didn’t help its cause.)

Does anyone else hit these sorts of reading walls? If so, how do you break through of them?

This is quite new for me, and is probably more a reflection of where I’m at in my brain at the moment, than anything else. I have no doubt it will pass….

So, apologies for the lack of intellectual stimulation in this post. Hopefully I’ll have something more interesting for you next week!

Life of Pi explained

2008-09-23T04:15:00.000-07:00

Life of Pi by Yann Martel is one of the most analysed, discussed and debated books of recent years, not just because of its plot, but because it makes the reader question what they have read and what they believe.

The Booker Prize winner author was one of the major draw cards at last weekend’s Brisbane Writer’s Festival, and he didn’t disappoint. He spoke about his motivation for writing Life of Pi, and how researching the story changed his life along the way.

In this post, I’m going to share a few of the things he spoke about. Those who haven’t read Life of Pi – and intend to – may want to look away now. Don’t spoil the experience of discovering the book’s talking points for yourself.

Life of Pi provides the kind of literary experience fans tend hold close to their hearts. Yann understands that, and opened his talk by promising to try and do “the least damage” to individual interpretation of the story. Because the interpretation of this story is everything.

The tale begins with Pi, the son of a zookeeper in India, who becomes curious about religion and simultaneously practices Hinduism, Islam and Christianity, much to the consternation of his respective religious teachers.

Pi’s religious instruction is interrupted when his family decides to relocate – along with a large menagerie of animals – to Canada. Tragically, the ship sinks during a storm.

What follows is a fascinating, perplexing and occasionally disturbing story of survival.

When Pi finally washes up on the shores of Mexico 227 days later, he recounts two versions of his story. The same facts are offered, with a different interpretation.

In the first, Pi is the sole human survivor on a life boat with a zebra, hyena, orangutan and a huge Bengal tiger called Mr Parker. The second has no animals and is far more brutal. One requires suspension of disbelief, the other is “reasonable”.

Yann said the very structure of the story itself is designed to force the reader to subconsciously choose whether they are prepared to walk away from the “reasonable” to accept the better story. In other words to have faith, when to do so makes no sense.

The background to how the novel came about is interesting in itself, but this post is more concerned with the story what makes it such an original piece of narrative fiction.

The key for Yann was the question posed by Pi at the end of the book to the Japanese shipwreck investigators: which is the better story? For the author, this is the question at the heart of choosing a life of faith.

While researching Life of Pi, Yann – who describes himself as being “secular” before writing the book – read a lot of scripture and books about scriptures. In doing so, he started to ask himself “what would it be like to have faith?”

To find the answer, he put aside the aspects of religion that repel him and went to India’s diverse holy places “pretending” to have faith. He candidly admits that once inside that space, he didn’t want to leave.

Up to that point, Yann says he’d always considered himself a “reasonable” person. “When you’re reasonable, you have to make sense of everything.”

But he said being reasonable didn’t leave a lot of room for religion. “And when religion is ignored, art suffers. Society doesn’t dream when it is being uber reasonable.”

Life of Pi was his personal protest to stop making sense. To believe in a reality beyond the chemical.
One of the great moments of the session on the weekend was Yann’s explanation of the purpose of “the island”, one of the more obtuse plot developments in modern literature.

He said it served the sole purpose of making the “animal” version of the story harder and harder to believe. Even more so than the chance of a blind boy and blind tiger, coming across another blind shipwreck survivor, it’s at the point of the island that disbelief breaks down and the reader wants rationality kicks in.

“Many readers assume it is something deeply symbolic they just don’t get, or it’s an hallucination –they need a reason to prop up the fiction.”

But in his own words “religion goes beyond the confines of the reasonable”.

The second story – the one without animals and strange flesh-eating islands – involves no faith. “It’s all about man’s inhumanity to man. That’s not the reality I want. I want to go back to the first story and choose to believe.”

For him, life is a matter of subjective interpretation of objective reality. Ultimately, Yann presents a very post modernistic perspective (all stories have equal validity – there is no ultimate truth, only what you believe).

Having said that, the author admits that after looking at all major religions, he’s become “pretty comfortable with Jesus”, although it’s safe to say he is not a member of any organised religion.

Regardless of whether you share his views on religion or philosophy, there’s no denying Life of Pi is an amazing use of narrative structure to encourage readers to think beyond the story – to even question what they believe and why.

Yann Martel's Beatrice and Virgil: my review

Twilight series - the verdict

2008-09-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

Given that the web is awash with reviews and comments about Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, it seems almost superfluous for me to weigh in to the discussion.

However, I’ve spent more than 2,300 pages and the past three weeks working my way through the four books, so to not discuss them would seem a waste!

Now, I know people either love or hate this series, so I’ll say upfront I generally enjoyed the overall experience (and yes, I hear the ink-stained toe-poker howl in pain).

For me the first book, Twilight, remains the best from a tight storytelling perspective (perhaps not surprisingly, it is also the shortest). New Moon and Eclipse develop the mythology and progress the story arcs that all come together Breaking Dawn, the fourth book.

At the core of the series is the romance between teenage Bella and her impossibly attractive classmate Edward, who also happens to be a vampire. Edward and his “family” have chosen to abstain from biting and killing humans, but Bella’s blood is so appealing to Edward, that even though he loves her, he’s terrified he’ll kill her if he loses control.

Their relationship is one of restraint and longing, filling the pages with sexual tension. As the story progresses, particularly in the third book, the focus becomes on Bella’s growing desire to become a vampire, which Edward opposes.

For those who haven’t read the books, I won’t spoil the twists that arrive in the final 754 page instalment. Some readers have complained the first three books are a little too much the same, but – regardless of any other criticism - there can be no such complaints with the fourth book.

It takes the story in a different direction and has more sex and violence than the other three books combined – but still falls a long way short of being a “horror” story. It also sets the scene for further stories (although Meyer has said she won’t write any more from Bella’s perspective).

I’ve read Meyer talk in interviews about how much she loves her characters and loves spending time with them, and my greatest criticism with these books is that she indulges that love more than she should – or needs to - from a narrative perspective.

Plot points are demonstrated more than once, because the author clearly loves how the characters interact on the page. I grew continually frustrated – particularly in the middle two books – when it was obvious a scene or chapter was simply reiterating something that was already well established (for example, that the werewolf Jacob was in love with Bella … and don’t get me started on that relationship. Never been a fan of romantic triangles, and this one really annoyed me – but it does resolve itself with a nice sense of ironically in the end).

At nearly 800 pages, Breaking Dawn is longer than it needs to be, but, in fairness, an enormous amount happens plot-wise.

I wrote a few weeks ago about how Bella and Edward’s relationship was a metaphor for sexual restraint, and while that symbolism continues through the bulk of the story, it takes a back seat to the growing mythology. (Although, maybe her desire to be a vampire is symbolic of the transformation after marriage...)

When Meyer set out to write these stories – inspired by a vivid dream – I doubt she imagined she’d sell the number of books she has, or spark the kind of rabid fans and critics who now populate blogland.

I think she’s a writer who loves her characters and loves writing them. Enough people are devouring the series to send a message she’s not alone in her affection.

I may not be willing to don a “I love Edward Cullen” badge, but I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy large slabs of this story.

So bring on the jibes…

Expectations met - Markus Zusak

2008-09-10T00:34:00.000-07:00

We’ve talked on this blog about whether or not as readers we’re influenced by the way an author presents themselves in person.

The general consensus is that it shouldn’t matter: stories should be judged on their merits alone. However, it’s fair to say that when it comes to our favourite authors, we often harbour a secret hope their personalities somehow do their stories justice.

Regular readers of this blog know Markus Zusak is among my favourite writers (not just for The Book Thief – which still tops my list – but for his other four books as well). Last weekend, I was fortunate enough to spend time with him at a literary breakfast, and then writers’ workshop (hosted by the very author-friendly Logan Libraries in Queensland). And the news is all good.

One of the things I love most about Markus’ books is the honesty, warmth and poetic use of language that infuse his narrative. It turns out those qualities don’t just exist on the page.

It's not often fans get to know an author beyond their publicity blurb, but those who gathered for the sessions on the weekend – fans and writers alike – were given that rare opportunity.

Here’s a writer who openly talks about his self doubt, how he doesn’t have all the answers about writing and style, and that the secret to success is to have a deep passion for telling stories and a willingness to put in the time necessary to craft something above the ordinary.

In a truly remarkable moment, Markus read the opening chapter to his new novel. The reading was remarkable because the story is still a work in progress, and the final version may have little resemblance with what he shared (particularly given his penchant for continuous editing).

The reading didn’t disappoint. Fans lapped it up, hopefully realising how rare it is for a writer to share something not yet completely polished - particularly from a writer of Markus’ international reputation.

Gutsy move. (Hey, even the Ink-stained Toepoker was impressed...)

Of course Markus also spoke about The Book Thief, and the endless drafts he worked through (re-writing the first 90 pages between 150 and 200 times) before he finally found the narrative voice that would elevate the novel to realm of a classic: by having Death as the narrator.

People either love or hate that book. Here’s what I wrote when I finished reading it back in 2006:

It is one of the most beautifully and uniquely written stories I’ve read. So many writers have crafted stories in an attempt to capture the power of words, but this story did that better (and more profoundly) for me, than anything else I've read. It also clarified for me the unique role literature has in storytelling, and how it differs (or at least should differ) from other forms, like film and theatre. I laughed, I cried, and thought about life, suffering, and hope.

Ultimately, Markus Zusak is a great storyteller who loves the power of words. He's prepared to spend as much time as it takes to craft his story, making sure every sentence, every word -every piece of the puzzle - does what he needs it to.

I certainly walked away inspired, and motivated to be a better writer. I'm also now a little more patient in my wait for his next work ... I'm willing to bide my time until Markus Zusak to be happy enough with his new project to hand it to his publisher and share the story with the rest of us.

(And yes, I’m actually including a proper photo of myself for the first time on this blog. That’s me on the right with Markus and my favourite librarian – and breakfast/workshop organiser – Janet Poole.)

Something to sink your teeth into

2008-09-04T03:13:00.000-07:00

You don’t have to be a fan of horror to know that stories about vampires are ripe with metaphors.

Lately, and quite inadvertently, I’ve spent a bit of time thinking about vampires – and what they represent metaphorically - thanks to my reading material.

First, I finally bit the bullet (or the jugular, as it may be) and started reading Stephenie Meyer’s mega-selling vampire series, starting with Twilight. I’d been putting this off for a while (as a Josh Whedon fan, I was concerned about stereotyping myself as a fan of all things vampiric).

After I’d read the first two Meyer books, a novel I’d on order from the library became available, The Opposite of Life by Australian author Narelle M. Harris. It was about – you guessed it – vampires.

It was an interesting exercise reading two different stories about vampires back to back, and analysing how the authors tackled the mythology and metaphorical aspects of their tales.

While Joss Whedon used vampires, demons and other “big bads” in his Buffy stories as metaphors for real-life monsters and personal battles, Meyer and Harris take different tacks – along the way also providing refreshingly different takes on vampire mythology.

What prompted me to finally pick up Twilight was an article that revealed Meyer was a practicing Mormon and that – the first book at least – contained no sex and barely any violence. But what really piqued my curiosity was the description of the story as a metaphor for sexual restraint.

At the core of the four-book series is a romance between teenage Bella and her impossibly attractive classmate Edward, who also happens to be a vampire. Edward and his “family” have chosen to abstain from biting and killing humans, but Bella’s blood is so appealing to Edward, that even though he loves her, he’s terrified he’ll her if he loses control in her proximity.

And so, their relationship is one of restraint and longing, filling the pages with sexual tension. The first book captures this tension and conflict remarkably well - to the point of becoming addictive. The second and third books (I’m halfway through the latter) focus more on the mythology Meyer is building, along with Bella’s growing desire to become a vampire so they can be together forever. (I’ll save my critique on the series until I’ve finished the fourth book.)

Harris, on the other hand, takes a more poignant approach in a tale that’s also fresh, witty and – most importantly – original.

Her vampires – who stalk the streets of Melbourne – don’t need human blood to feed their thirst; they need it to “feel” anything.

In this story, wanting to become a vampire is about avoidance. Not avoiding death, but avoiding life and all its pain, which is a palatable option for narrative character Lissa. Too many people in Lissa’s life have died – including some unfortunate souls in Melbourne’s coolest gothic hang-outs – so when she befriends a remarkable unsexy vampire, she seriously considers becoming one herself to avoid any more pain.

Despite the bleak undertones, The Opposite of Life is an easy read and one I really enjoyed. It’s apparently the first of a series featuring Lissa and her forays into the world of vampires (Melbourne’s real underworld), and I’m looking forward to seeing where the story goes next. Harris' style is somewhere between chicklit and goth horror. And it works.

In both stories, the narrative characters have a choice to make about eternity. One is driven by love and desire, the other (at least in Harris' first offering) is driven by sadness and grief – ultimately tempered by revelation.

I, for one, am enjoying seeing a classic mythology being given new treatment in hybrid genres. But I think once I’ve finished Meyer’s Breaking Dawn, I’ll take a break from the creatures of the night for a bit.

I've been known to peek...

2008-08-27T02:21:00.001-07:00

I have a teeny confession (come on, it’s been months since my last one) … I sometimes peek at pages towards the end of a book.

Yes, I know, very juvenile and somewhat pathetic, but sometimes I just can’t help it.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t read the end of the story (I actually want the plot resolution to still be a surprise), I simply skim the pages to see if names of characters I care about are still there.

I try hard to not let my attention grab on to full sentences. I just want to see enough to know the character/s I care about are still in the picture.

Even if I discover the worst, I’ll still keeping reading – but at least I’m prepared for a particular ending … and often I’m even impressed with how the narrative arc made me OK with that ending by the time I reached it.

I don’t do this with all novels, and if I’m being honest, it tends to involve stories that are relationship based. I did it with The Remains of the Day (would Mr Stevens make his meeting with Miss Kenton?) and I did it this week – despite giving myself a good talking to that it was not the behaviour of a mature reader!!

I was reading the second instalment of Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight series (full posting to come on this once I’ve made it through all four novels), and found I needed to know if Bella and Edward were going to be reunited. (Of course, I know there are two more, so they would be together again at some point, but I needed to know if it was going to happen in this book.)

I guess it’s a sign of well created tension that I feel the need to do this with certain stories. It could also be a sign I don’t yet trust the author - there's a fear they may make me care about a character, only to rip my heart out. (With more books, and more understanding of an author’s style, this becomes less of an issue).

Perhaps this is one of the reasons I enjoy writing so much: I’m in control of my characters’ destinies. No surprises!

Is anyone else brave enough to admit to this embarrassing compulsion (or give me the lecture I deserve!), and if so, what books prompted it?

We are now beginning our descent

2008-08-22T02:05:00.001-07:00

With some books, it’s easy to recognise a theme, comment or purpose to a story. With others, the themes are more subtle and require a greater level of analysis or perception.

We are now beginning our descent by James Meek sits somewhere in between.

There are so many ideas, metaphors, observations and analogies in this novel, it’s hard to extract a single dominant theme. So it’s no surprise readers are taking away a myriad of different messages.

The story is told through the eyes of Adam Kellas, a British war correspondent who’d rather be a novelist, but whose literary efforts are not bringing in the kind of money and lifestyle he thinks he wants.

After September 11, he’s sent to Afghanistan to cover the Northern Alliance forces fighting the Taliban. There, he falls for Astrid, a moody and unpredictable American magazine writer. After sleeping together an Alliance outpost, they unwittingly play a part of an impromptu artillery attack which leaves them both traumatised.

Kellas returns to London, where he writes a “sell-out” novel about Europe going to war against the Americans. But he struggles to live at ease with his friends, insulated as they are from the realities of the world.

He’s also haunted by thoughts of Astrid, so when he receives a strange but short email demanding to see him, he jumps on a plane and heads straight to her – after a night in which he does irrevocable damage to some long standing friendships.

The story is told along three timelines, which the author seamlessly moves between (usually without warning): Kellas’ experiences in Afghanistan, his present journey from London to the east coast of the US, and the events of that fateful dinner party before his flight.

This is one of those occasions when the detail of story – particularly Kellas’ experiences and observations in Afghanistan – carry more weight when you know the author has first experience with what he’s writing about. Meek is a journalist, whose reports from Iraq about Guantanamo Bay won a number of British and international awards. In 2001 he reported for the Guardian from Afghanistan on the ware against the Taliban and the liberation of Kabul.

In this latest novel, he questions the US and its role in the Middle East, but tempers his criticism by recognising that “…America is no exception to the iron rule that every country, seen for the outside, seems to know itself, and that no country, seen from inside, ever does.”

But back to the themes readers and critics are finding in this well-written and highly readable novel. According to a few of the comments I’ve come across, We are now beginning our descent is:
- a criticism of war correspondents’ complicity in the conflicts they cover
- a post traumatic syndrome love story
- about the futile search for love and meaning in a world of pain and chaos
- a criticism of novelists who “sell-out” from writing important literary works to make big bucks
- a comment on the way the world's comfortable societies insulate themselves - politically, mentally and emotionally - from the world of the deprived
- exposes the lofty presumption of the West as it loses altitude and comes ignominiously to ground among the long-ignored and newly unstoppable hungers and angers of the Third World.

For me, it was the theme of connection – or lack of – between people, and people and places, that resonated the most.

But it was interesting to note the reactions of others, which probably says as much about each reader’s politics, state of mind and viewof the world, as it does about the author’s intentions with this story.

Bitter chocolate

2008-08-12T04:24:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, a story comes along that makes you change your habits – or at least your mindset – as a consumer.

Before I saw Blood Diamond last year, I had no idea just how brutal the diamond trade in Africa could be. I don’t buy a lot of diamonds, but it made me look at my modest engagement ring and wonder whether or not its purchase had come from a country where men, women and children were brutally exploited in its mining.

Should I buy another diamond at some point, it’s a question I’ll certainly be asking.

Not long after, I read about a potential shortage of chocolate in some parts of the world due to unrest on the Ivory Coast. The story made me curious (and, I confess, a tad panicked), so I started researching the cocoa bean industry to understand how trouble in Africa could affect the products on my supermarket shelves in Australia.

The result was the appalling discovery of the conditions under which a sizeable percentage of the world’s cocoa beans are farmed.

How had I never heard about this before?

Stories of kidnapping, slavery and torture left me horrified, and prompted several hours of further research – and a few emails – to ascertain which chocolate brands I could eat without feeling guilty.

Chocolate may come from France, Italy, Switzerland and Belgium (and, of course, Tasmania), but the cocoa it is made from is grown and farmed far away from those glamorous locations – in far harsher conditions.

Former war correspondent Carol Off has attempted to expose the horrors of the cocoa bean industry in a new book, Bitter Chocolate: Investigating the Dark Side of The World’s Most Seductive Sweet.

She writes about the seedier side to our favourite decadent indulgence, from corporate espionage to the rise of child slavery in cocoa production

She travelled to the Ivory Coast and interviewed children who had no idea what the cocoa crop was used for – let alone tasted chocolate – risking her own safety to fully understand the violence and brutality of the industry in that part of the world.

Hers is an important book, but very few people will read it.

If its contents were the subject of a fictional film – a la Blood Diamond – it might actually have wider impact. As we’ve talked about many times on this blog, narrative has a way of getting under the skin, making people see a situation through different eyes, that straight reporting can rarely achieve.

Chocolat, Like Water For Chocolate … these are stories that make us salivate. But what about a story that made us think twice about what chocolate we buy? What if there was a story that made us think about kidnapping and child slavery every time we ate it?

I wonder if such a film could ever be made. And if it was, would we watch it?

Which leads me to a question: have you seen a film or read a novel that changed you as a consumer?

(For those interested, Kerrie Murphy of The Australian has an interesting article about Carol Off and Bitter Chocolate: Investigating the Dark Side of the World’s Most Seductive Sweet. You can read it here.)

Artistic freedom - not as simple as it sounds

2008-07-31T01:28:00.000-07:00

Here in the West, we take our artistic freedom for granted, forgetting that throughout history - and in other parts of our world right now - men and women have died in the attempt to express themselves honestly through their art.

But, interestingly, there are also artists in our “free” society who censor themselves for fear of the reactions their works may elicit. Our artists may not be physically imprisoned, tortured or executed, but they can be attacked by critics and opponents in ways that deter others from telling the stories they want to.

This week, I read an amazing young adult novel by Sally Rippin, called Chenxi and the Foreigner, chosen for me by the Ink-stained Toe-poker (thanks pal: great pick!). The novel’s theme of artistic freedom is particularly meaningful, because this edition is not the first version to make it into print.

Chenxi and the Foreigner is the story of 19-year-old Australian, Anna, who travels to Shanghai in 1989 to visit her father and study traditional Chinese painting. Struggling to cope with her status as a foreigner, she becomes obsessed with fellow art student Chenxi, who ultimately teaches her life-changing lessons about the nature of freedom, and what it means to be an artist in a culture that forbids non-sanctioned artist expression.

It was one of the earliest young adult novels written by the prolific Rippin, who now has more than 20 books for children of all ages in print. It was inspired by her own experiences as an art student in China, and the people she met there. But nearly 20 years later, she realised she’d sold herself and her readers short.

In the after word in this new 2008 version, Rippin explains she had compromised her original story through her own self-editing, “which is ironic given that this is a novel about artistic freedom”.

She says she was afraid of the parents, teachers and librarians who were the literary gatekeepers of her target market. In that original version, she cut out profanity, sex scenes and “unfamiliar Chinese politics”, for fear her book would be blocked and never reach its intended young adult audience.

She was also not sure she was ready for the potential backlash to her political themes. “I was worried at that time that, if my novel was too obviously political, I might stir up a discussion I wasn’t brave enough to enter into at that age.”

In the new edition, the main character’s name has changed, as has – apparently – the ending. I say apparently because I’ve only read this latest, grittier, version, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s the political context, honesty and realism that make this story so compelling, without being so confronting as to scar its young readers.

The timing of the novel’s re-release this year, when the world’s eyes are on China, might be a coincidence, or a brilliant marketing ploy. Either way, Chenxi and the Foreigner is an excellent novel on several levels: the characters are fascinating, raw and real, and the narrative brings China – and its politics – into sharp focus in a way a detached news report rarely can.

Yes it is challenging, and yes it covers aspects of Chinese politics many young adult readers may be unfamiliar with – and are now likely to explore to better understand Chenxi and his struggles.
And isn’t that what great stories should do?

Australian stories - I'm addicted

2008-07-24T01:47:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve become addicted to quality Australian writing.

Quite by accident, I’ve read more Australian writers than any other this year (just check this blog), and after a brief break last week with Mma Ramotswe, I found I was hungry to return to Australian stories.

I had planned to read a classic piece of American literature next, but I was side-tracked by a $3.50 find in a book café. It was Melina Marchetta’s 1992 hit Looking for Alibrandi, a coming-of-age story set in Sydney, spanning a year in the life of 17-year-old Josephine Alibrandi.

The plan was to add this title to the reading pile for a later date, but the lure of a critically acclaimed contemporary Australian story was too strong. So I read it, in three sittings ... and loved it.

I saw the film adaptation back in 2000, which I enjoyed, but – no surprises – the novel is so much richer in its characterisation, conflicts, pathos and humour.

Josie is a second generation Italian-Australian. She's a bright girl, raised by her single mother, and has a scholarship to one of Sydney’s most prestigious schools. Her class and cultural background put her at odds with the world of privilege around her, and the freedom her friends enjoy is in stark contrast to the traditional values imposed on her by her Sicilian grandmother.

Looking for Alibrandi is a story about discovering identity, appreciating cultural heritage and family ties, learning tough lessons about love, and recognising the realities and fallacies of class distinction.

It’s about romance, life, death, estrangement and self-discovery, and explores the consequences of choices – even those made with the best of intentions.

Classed as young adult fiction, it's yet another story that transcends its label. It captures an era of Australia (both good and bad) that we, as a nation, haven't quite outgrown.

Major book chains these days are packed to the ceiling with blockbuster international titles, with only the most prominent of Australian writers able to score reasonable shelf space and time. What a shame.

I love great stories, regardless of who writes them and where they are set. But I must admit it has surprised me to discover this deep passion for Australian stories, and I’m not sure whether it's my stage of life, or simply the fact I’m bothering to read more of them.

So, my questions this week:

For readers of this blog in Australia: do you read Australian authors? If so, who, and why?

I pose the same questions to those who are outside Australia. And for those who answer yes, I wonder: do those stories with a strong focus on Australian people, culture and issues resonate with you? Do they, in fact, shape the way you see our country?

Returning to the simple life in Botswana

2008-07-16T03:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when life gets a tad overwhelming, even reading material can add to the pressure.

It may be because the story is intense, distressing or tension-filled - or I'm simply racing to finish a library book due back in a few days.

But shouldn’t our reading be our “quiet time”? A time to reflect?

I tend to try and cram “doing” into every waking moment. Some days the closest I come to reflecting on life is while reading –and that only happens if what I’m reading is conducive to quiet reflection.

So, every now and then, I consciously choose to read a story I know will slow me down – in a good way!

This week, it’s been a return to The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith.

It’s a wonderful series set in Botswana, about Mma Ramotswe, a woman who “finds things out for people” as the owner of The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

In between solving the small mysteries troubling her fellow townsfolk, she muses about the important things in life: the people she cares about, the landscape she loves, the country of which she is so proud. And spending time with her is soothing for a busy mind.

In Smith’s latest release, The Miracle at Speedy Motors, Mma Ramotswe finds her usually calm life stirred up by personal challenges. So what does she do? She squeezes her “traditional” build into her tiny old white van and takes herself back to the land.

She returns to a hill overlooking the village of her birth. There, looking out over the plains she loves so much, listening to the sound of cattle bells drifting up from below under a big Africa sky, she finds peace.

She sat, doing nothing, staring out over the plain below. If, when viewed from above like this, our human striving could seem so small, then why did it not appear like that when viewed from ground level?

In this place of contemplation, she finds perspective on the issues troubling her: an employee who may be the author of threatening letters; a husband willing to believe in a miracle cure for their wheelchair bound foster daughter; a puzzling search for a client’s birth mother.

Some series, with sweeping narrative and character arcs, beg for their books to be read back to back (JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series is a classic example).

Others, like The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency, work best in isolation, because the growth of characters is so subtle and the pace so gentle. These are books to be savoured, not devoured one after the other.

They are my literary refuge when I need a reminder of the simple pleasures in life and the value of gentle stories.

Does anyone else have a book, or series, they turn to for a peaceful narrative experience?

Do you believe it?

2008-07-09T00:50:00.000-07:00

One last post about the idea of “truth in fiction” and then I’ll move on.

When I was writing last week’s post, I remembered something I’d read in The Playwright’s Guidebook by Stuart Spence about the idea of “believing” a story.

Spence says the phrase “I don’t believe it” is the enemy of art. He says that when you set out to have an artistic experience, you need to decide that, no matter what, you’re going to believe it: “We suspend our disbelief, and we do it willingly – because if we don’t we’ve locked ourselves outside the room where the art is happening.”

By using the phrase “I don’t believe”, he’s referring to a reaction in which we don’t believe in the truth of a character’s actions or a story’s twists, turns and resolutions. “I just don’t believe anyone would do that … I didn’t buy it when he decided to… that’s just ridiculous - Lassie couldn’t possibly give precise directions to Timmy’s well…” etc.

Spence says that when people say they don’t believe a certain plot twist or character action, what they actually mean is they can’t accept it, or it’s offensive, off-putting, difficult or even dull.

It’s not even about whether or not you like the story. It’s about accepting the story is true and then reacting subjectively to those “facts”. How could you enjoy Lewis Carroll if you didn’t believe Alice really fell down a rabbit hole?

Spence’s point is that if a writer tells you a character is thinking this, doing that, planning such and such, it’s true. After all, the writer should know: it’s their story. As a reader, our job is to believe it, and then decide from there how we respond to it, whether it be annoyance, joy, relief, disdain, repulsion, etc.

“Any of these feelings are perfectly valid responses to art. But they are purely subjective.”

I must admit there were moments towards the end of Tim Winton’s Breath I wasn’t particularly comfortable with, but I certainly believed them.

Spence summarises his lesson about believing thus: if a story is interesting enough, most people won’t give any thought to whether they believe it or not.

Do you agree with this idea?

Have you ever read a story or plot twist you didn’t “believe” - regardless of what Spence says?

Truth in fiction

2008-07-01T00:56:00.000-07:00

Last week we talked about the authenticity of novelists. This week, I’d like to go one step further and talk about the notion of truth in fiction.

I’m not talking about truth as it relates to history or events in a fictional narrative; rather, I’m talking about whether or not the character’s reactions, revelations and resolutions are “true”, or based on reality.

James Bradley, in the June Australian Literary Review, points out the general notion that most narratives have therapeutic value, with arcs that feature “an uplifting journey from squalor to redemption, purpose-built to elicit the bursts of spontaneous applause that pepper American talk shows like the ‘hallelujahs’ they have taken the place of”.

Bradley argues that narratives which set out to inspire people and change lives are fantasies and fairytales, which “not only do not enrich our moral imagination but denude it. It isn’t true stories we hunger for at all, but manufactured stories that resemble true stories in every way but the ones that count”.

He says these types of “fantasy” narratives (assumedly ones involving happy endings) are “symptomatic of our culture’s growing resistance to the messiness and moral ambiguity of real life ... Our impatience with complexity, our desire for resolution, our need for clear moral messages … are the driving the erosion of the cultural authority of fiction”.

Is this true?

I guess it depends on what you want from a story (and for me this changes as often as my reading material) and how well it is delivered.

In my teens and early 20s, I think I always wanted clear resolution and happy endings. Now, in the latter half of my 30s – after experience more of life and its complexities – I’m satisified to read a story without a clear resolution, providing there’s been some sort of meaningful emotional journey by a major character, and they (and I) are left with a sense of hope about the future.

I’ve just finished reading two excellent Australian novels that manage to be firmly grounded in the “real” and yet still deliver emotional resolutions.

The first is Helen Garner’s first novel in 15 years, The Spare Room. The other is Tim Winton’s first offering in seven years, Breath.

The Spare Room is told through the eyes of Helen, a woman who agrees to support her friend Nicola - in the final stages of a terminal cancer - while the latter undergoes bizarre “experimental” treatment. Over the course of three emotionally-charged weeks, Helen becomes Nicola’s nurse, guardian angel and unflinching judge.

The novel appears to contain even more “truth” than usual: the narrator shares the author’s name, and her experience of living next door to her daughter and having recently helped a friend through the latter stages of cancer.

But instead of penning this story as memoir, Garner’s written it as fiction, which no doubt gave her greater scope in the storytelling. An interesting question for the author then, would be which parts reflect her actual experience, and which parts are fictionalised for the sake of the story.

Of course the answer is actually irrelevant, because this story rings with truth as Helen struggles with rage, grief, compassion and affection towards her friend.

Meanwhile Breath is a rites-of-passage story of Pikelet and Loonie, two risk-taking, competitive mates who team up with a gun surfer, Sando, and his fractious wife, Eva. The boys become obsessed with risk and danger. It begins simply enough, with staying under the river water for as long as possible, but moves on to the more intense physical and emotional risks posed by huge surf and confronting sexual experiences.

Like The Spare Room, Breath is expertly written. Winton captures a wonderful sense of place and uses fiction to ask questions about addiction and its costs, about risk-taking and about their long-term consequences.

In both stories, the endings are not what many might call “happy”, but the tension is resolved, and all experiences have meaning. If they were to follow the rule of being “true”, I suspect the endings for both could have been very different; which might have made them more realistic, but less satisfying.

Many literary experts would tell us that fiction (like other art forms) should reflect society and reality, but can’t we have more than one type of “legitimate” narrative?

Is it wrong to crave a happy ending, in a world where so few rarely exist?

Author-thenticity

2008-06-24T00:48:00.000-07:00

There’s been plenty of ink given lately to the debate about an author’s “authenticity” in the context of the narrative they provide.

Prompting the most recent spate of discussion has been the second book by James Frey, the American author who caused all sorts of strife for writing a best-selling memoir (Million Little Pieces) that turned out to be mostly fiction.

It raised the question that if a memoir writer is found to have fudged a few things here and there, does it mean the work is totally without merit?

This time around, he’s calling his new work (Bright Shiny Morning) a work of fiction, which begs the question why he didn’t reach for the fiction label the first time around.

When it comes to memoirs, I’m definitely in the camp of readers who required – and expect – the story to be based on the author’s actual experience. Former ABC journalist Sally Cooper has recently released A Burqa and a Hard Place, her memoir about years spent in Afghanistan training Afghans to become radio journalists. The story’s real power comes from the fact that the author is writing from first-hand experience.

Surely the better option for a writer like Frey is to pen fiction that is “semi-autobiographical” (such as Helen Garner’s moving new novel The Spare Room – more on that in future a post) rather than marketing a story as memoir, only to find out there have been certainly liberties with the truth. The former at least piques the reader’s curiosity as to which bits are “real”.

But can the same measuring stick of authenticity be used for fiction?

A classic example is The Hand that Signed The Paper, a remarkable debut novel by Australian writer Helen Demidenko, which took out the Miles Franklin Literary Award and Australian Vogel Literary Award in 1995.

At first, the controversy surrounding the novel was based on the story itself: how Ukranian peasants became merciless tools of the Nazis during World War II and turned on those who previously persecuted them. It was deemed particularly powerful because the author claimed to be of Ukranian descent.

When it turned out Demidenko (whose real name was Darville) had completely fabricated her cultural background and connection to people involved in the war, the literary world turned on her with incredible savagery.

Thirteen years after the controversy, I picked the book up and read it for the first time last week. I found it to be a confronting view of genocide from the perspective of the perpetrators, but far from making excuses for them, it presented a powerful morale about how hate breeds hate - regardless of cultural background or religious creed.

Demidenko/Darville’s narrative voice is impressively strong for a debut novelist, across a range of characters, and while the brutality is wearing by the novel’s end, the story is told unflinchingly and – it seems – with intentional coldness.

From the first page, the author makes it clear The Hand That Signed the Paper is a work of fiction. Why then was the literary world so enraged that she invented an identity for herself that helped market the book? Was the book only deemed to have award-winning merit because of her supposed ethnicity?

Critics (including those speaking out before her “unmasking”) point out apparent historical and factual errors in the work, and this, at least, is a warranted criticism if the author was selling the novel as “faction”.

But what does this mean for the power of the story itself and the questions it asks about hatred, violence and war?

I’d like to pose the question: is the merit of a fictional story contingent on the author’s life experience and “authenticity” or can you judge a story on its own merits? Or is this too simplistic a view of the role of fiction?

(And I apologise for the title to this post … I couldn’t help myself).

Does the photo of an author influence how you experience their story?

2008-06-18T01:41:00.000-07:00

Gustav, a regular visitor and contributor to this blog, posed an interesting question to me this week: do you prefer to see a picture of the author inside the cover of a book that you’ve just read and that you really loved?

Having given this some thought, I think I’d say my preference is not to see an image of the author, mainly because – consciously or not – it will influence how I experience and judge the story (either before, during or after I read it).

By seeing an image of a writer, there’s a chance I’ll form/change my opinion of their work, having been influenced by their age, gender or ethnicity; I may judge the quality of their story against who I think they are, particularly if any of those physical traits seem contradictory to the story I’ve just read.

As humans, we tend to create stories for other people based on how we perceive them – which of course will always say more about us than it does about them. Josh Weinstein captured this concept brilliantly in his short doco Cross Examination (which I blogged on earlier this year in April).

This certainly doesn’t mean I’m not interested in an author’s background, personality, motivation etc. In fact, often when I read a book I love, the first thing I do is search online to find interviews with them. But at least using that method, I fill out my ideas about the writer based on their words, not what they look like (although, granted, that will still play a part if I see them on television or at writers' festivals).

So Gustav, I agree that seeing a photo of an author can be distracting.

Of course, none of these things should matter. A good story is a good story, regardless of who the writer is and what their life experience is. Which is an excellent lead in to my next blog, when I want to talk about The Hand That Signed The Paper and its infamous author Helen Demidenko/Darville.

In the meantime, I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts on the topic: do you care whether or not you see a photo of an author you enjoy?

A story without words

2008-06-11T01:08:00.000-07:00

Do you need words to tell a story?

Visual artists have proven for centuries how images alone can convey as much feeling and meaning as the written word, but in the world of books, it’s usually a given that language will be used in some capacity.
Enter Shaun Tan and his stunning picture book The Arrival.

It’s a title that’s been on my list for a while now (and one which the Ink-stained Toe Poker mentioned on last week’s post). I finally bought a copy on the weekend, and then sat down for a wonderfully unique and moving narrative experience.

For those who don’t know, Shaun Tan is an acclaimed Australian illustrator of picture books for older readers. Although his work often finds itself in the children’s section, it certainly isn’t created for youngsters. As the artist himself says, his stories “deal with relatively complex visual styles and themes, including colonial imperialism, social apathy, the nature of memory and depression”.

Until recently, his works were more along the lines of graphic novels, but Tan took the narrative form a step further with The Arrival, by producing a story without a single written word in a comprehensible language. (And then confounding the literary establishment by winning the New South Wales Premier's Literary Award.)

The story is about a man who leaves his wife and child in an impoverished town, seeking better prospects in an unknown country on the other side of a vast ocean. He eventually finds himself in a bewildering city of foreign customs, peculiar animals, curious floating objects and indecipherable languages.

With nothing more than a suitcase and a handful of currency, the immigrant must find a place to live, food to eat and some kind of gainful employment. He is helped along the way by sympathetic strangers, each carrying their own unspoken history: stories of struggle and survival in a world of incomprehensible violence, upheaval and hope.

The Arrival is a tribute to anyone (like Tan’s own family) who has left their home behind in search of a better life in a foreign land. While the traveller in this story ventures to a fantastical world of weird creatures, food and social customs, his experience is no doubt no less startling that those of immigrants in our “real” world.

Tan’s narrative magic is woven two-fold: through his imaginative, evocative and detailed drawings, and the story (and stories within stories) of a man finding his place in a new world.

And it’s the nature of this man's struggle - to understand his environment without sharing the language of its inhabitants - which makes the absence of words all the more powerful and appropriate.

There are moments of humor, fear and pathos, as the immigrant makes a new life in the hope of bringing his family to join him. It’s a gentle story, full of meaning and emotion, and one which moved me to tears.

Perhaps even more so than a book with words, this is one story I will revisit again and again, with the promise of new detail to be discovered in the images with each viewing, along with the emotional pay-off of an uplifting story.

The Arrival is a perfect addition to any bookcase. It's a collection of art and a beautiful story. I can’t recommend it enough.

(As a side note, the book as a physical object plays a part in the experience as well. The cover is wonderfully tactile, and I found myself repeatedly running my fingers over it, and the pages inside.)

You can find out more about Shaun Tan and his work at http://www.shauntan.net/.

I’m now keeping an eye out for his next work, Tales from Outer Suburbia.

Discovering literary nonsense down the rabbit hole

2008-06-04T01:53:00.000-07:00

It’s been almost two decades since I first followed Alice down the rabbit hole.

I recently picked up a cheap copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, repackaged together by Vintage Books, and was curious (and curiouser) how I would find Lewis Carroll’s stories now.

As a child, I remember being fascinated by pipe-smoking caterpillars and rabbits in dinner jackets, and frustrated that nobody seemed to understand each other (yes, even as an eight year old I was apparently preoccupied with clear communication).

Reading the stories as an adult, I was surprised by the violence and dark undertones of the story, but, more than that, I was fascinated by the endless word plays and bizarre conversations based on nuances of conversation and logic.

The two “Alice” works are classified as literary nonsense, a genre I must confess I didn’t even realise existed until I started researching the Alice phenomenon.

Wikipedia defines literary nonsense as “a genre of literature, whether poetry or prose, that plays with conventions of language and logic through a careful balance of sense and non-sense elements. Its strict adherence to structure is balanced by semantic chaos and play with logic. Usually formal diction and tone are balanced with an inherent topsy-turvyness and absurdity. The effect of nonsense is often caused by an excess of meaning, rather than a lack of it”.

Probably the closest relative to literary nonsense is absurdist theatre, best experienced in Samuel Beckett’s classic play Waiting for Godot.

Like Alice, Godot can be frustrating for a reader looking for plot, character develompent resolution. You’ll find neither in either story.

But – particularly in the case of Alice - once I let go of that need for things to make sense, and just enjoyed the language and sheer cleverness of how Carroll (real name Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) uses it, the experience became sublime.

Given the emphasis on altered states (often brought about by magic mushrooms or cookies), it’s easy to understand why readers over the years have assumed Carroll was either a nutter or a heavy drug user.

But there is a pattern and rhythm to his nonsense that I think speaks instead of a writer who has used his grasp of language and logic to create a timeless tale that still resonates with children because of its fantastical nature, and adults for its cleverness and wit (who knew that most flowers don't speak because their beds are too soft and it puts them to sleep?).

Clearly Carroll, who wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland back in 1865, has been an enormous influence on countless stories across many genres, and I’m pretty confident JK Rowling took some inspiration from Alice’s adventures in developing her magical world.

I’m interested to hear anyone else’s thoughts on the topic.

(The Vintage Books version I read included wonderul illustrations by John Tenniel, and the image above is the cover of the 1898 edition.)

Tagged: author meme

2008-06-04T01:37:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged by Charley over at Bending Bookshelf for this author meme.

I'm a relative novice with the tagging as well (and had mixed success with my last attempt), so I appreciate Charley including me! (And hope I'll be forgiven for not tagging others this time around.)

Regular readers of this blog will find no surprises here, but for those who haven't heard my favourites before, here we go:

1. Who's your all-time favorite author and why?
Based on sheer numbers of books by a single author in my collection, it would be JK Rowling, and - as storytellers go - she definitely rates up there. However, on literary quality, I'm still sticking with Markus Zusak. I just love everything he's written, across young adult and adult fiction.

2. Who was your first favorite author, and why?
Sadly, it was probably Carolyn Keen, the psuedonym used by the collective authors who penned the Nancy Drew series. I also loved Elyne Mitchell's Silver Brumby series (so much so, that I - and I'm ashamed to say this - failed to return one of those books to the library when I changed schools. I still have it, and still feel guilty .... but clearly not enough to send it back after all these years!)

3. Who’s the most recent addition to your list of favorite authors, and why?
A dead heat between Meg Rosoff and Peter Temple, for different reasons: Rosoff because of her haunting narrative style, and Temple for his excellent characterisations, witty turn of phrase and excellent dialogue. I'm also keen to read Mark Abernethy's next offering (yes, I still have a penchant for blokey fiction.)

4. If someone asked you who your favorite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth? Are there any you’d add on a moment of further reflection?
Immediately: Peter Temple, Meg Rossoff
On reflection: will get back to after I've reflected!

Novels and films ... can you compare them?

2008-05-29T01:15:00.000-07:00

Can a great novel be translated effectively to the screen?

It’s a common question among book fans, and one that regularly creates debate whenever a much-loved novel appears on screen.
The biggest challenge for us when we a book and then watch the film, is to view the film on its own merit.

Because we know the story before it unfolds on screen, it’s hard to judge how well tension is built, or characterisation developed, because we’ve already determined who the characters are in our minds. We’re not discovering anything new with the film from a narrative perspective (unless, of course, the film-makers have taken liberties with the story).

I’ve recently read two novels and then watched the screen adaptations, and found the answer to the question above to be yes and no.

First up was The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro , directed on screen by James Ivory (screenplay by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala). I loved this book (see previous post), and remember being impressed with the film when I first saw it at the cinema backin 1993.

For me, while the film is exceptional on its own merits (Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are almost flawless and Ivory's direction is wonderfully understated), it cannot deliver the depths of emotional impact – or reader satisfaction of discovering the profundity of Mr Stevens’ denial - without the repressed butler’s narrative.

On the other hand, I enjoyed Atonement by Ian McEwan more on screen than the page.

While I appreciate the elaborate way in which the author tells his tale, I found his use of multiple perspectives in the novel distracting and frustrating, especially as the moment of betrayal approaches.

On the screen, director Joe Wright (working with a screenplay by Christopher Hampdon) uses these perspective cleverly to build the tension and drama at the centre of the story, without telegraphing the injustice to come or slipping into melodrama.

The cast is superb, the visual style at turns beautiful and bleak, and the ending more palatable, simply because of the visual elements. (Without giving away the ending for those who haven’t read the book or seen the film, it belongs to the Yann Martel post-modernistic approach to narrative: if you believe it, it is the truth.)

In both of these film adaptations, different mechanisms are used to progress the narrative, and they work well. (It’s something film-makers should remember when translating stage plays to film, as they often look exactly like the play – but with more elaborate locations.)

So, for me – to state the obvious - books are books and films are films. Each needs to be judged on its own merits, and one does not influence the impact or quality of the other (a bad film doesn’t somehow make a great book any less so).

This is a post I’ve been planning for a few weeks (just hadn’t got around to watching Atonement until last night) and Booking Through Thursday beat me to the punch with the question by a week.

I’d really love to hear your thoughts on the topic. What are the best and worst examples of novels-to-screen, and why?

Everyone loves a book list - don't they?

2008-05-22T01:31:00.000-07:00

In my short career to date as a blogger, I’ve noticed there are a lot of book-related lists that regularly pop up on posts.

The titles differ, but generally they relate to people providing some form of recommended reading list.

Given that reading tastes and responses to stories are so subjective, I’m wondering how much stock book lovers put into lists created by others.

Bob Carr (former New South Wales Premier), has written a book called My Reading Life, in which he discusses his list of recommended books, and how he came to compile it.

In an article in (yes, you guessed it) The Australian Literary Review, he talks about how his reading choices have changed over the years. In particular, how he found himself more interested in classics at the height of his political career.

“In my 20s and 30s, I was restless about my reading choices – too heavy on current affairs, political biography and contemporary fiction. I needed lists, recommendations, guidance. The barrier to reading the classics, certainly for me, was a fear of being bored.”

He talks about changing literary tastes as we age. “…as infants, we read to identify with characters, as adolescents we read to learn about life. But as adults we read books for the sake of their form, their visions, their art”.

Carr says a list of books – assumedly created by another – disciplines our choices and provokes us.

Personally, I’ve never actually taken a list and systematically read everything on it (except the seven required plays in Stuart Spencer’s The Playwright’s Guidebook - a worthwhile exercise).

Probably the only time I would do so, is if the experience promised to deliver a result greater than the sum of its parts; if by reading a certain list I would gain a better understanding of a theme, a writing technique, a particular topic, etc.

So I’m wondering what everyone thinks of book lists. Do you use them? Have you ever read every book a list created by someone else?

Have novels replaced religion?

2008-05-16T00:09:00.000-07:00

In the most recent Australian Literary Review, Delia Falconer suggests the decline of God as a source of meaning in the West has occurred side by side with the rise of the novel.

She makes the observation as the opening statement in her review of literary critic James Wood’s book “How Fiction Works”.

It’s an especially relevant comment, given Wood believes fiction has taken over as the measure of authenticity and power of the sacred. He says although fiction requires a different kind of belief to religion, it creates a parallel sense of “the real”.

It’s true that society today looks to narrative to understand and find meaning in the world. We turn to television, film, poetry and theatre to explore and analyse issues and ideas. In this context, the novel is as powerful as ever.

And this raises interesting questions about the place of narrative in religion, and why religion longer has the power it once had in the West.

Falconer says that for Wood, the best novels seem to create an approximate reality so intense and morally driven, that they may temporarily mend the world as a godless "broken estate". (And obviously, Wood is picking his reading material from the literary section, although I have no doubt there are religious experiences to be had in chick lit…)

Franciscan priest and author Richard Rohr (who I’ve mentioned before on this blog), believes the decline of popularity of Christianity in particular has been the result of perverting the religion’s original narrative.

He notes that while Eastern nations are – generally – deeply proud and protective of their religious heritage (be it Islamic, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist), Christian nations in the West tend not to be.

Rohr believes the reason is that the narrative at the heart of Christianity has been turned into a bad novel: the good guys win, the bad guys lose. When instead, he says the narrative of the New Testament is about sacrifice, suffering, transformation, and redemption. It’s not about “us” and “them”. It’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s not even about getting it right. Quite the opposite.

I agree with Wood that effective narrative has the power to move people in ways that are essentially spiritual.

It’s a shame so many of our spiritual leaders have forgotten that lesson, and turned Christianity into a narrative devoid of its original revelation and power.

(Image: Daniel Marsula/Post-Gazette)

Another thought on "literature"

2008-05-11T02:08:00.000-07:00

There’s been much blogging in recent weeks about the definition of “literary”, so here’s another idea to throw into the mix.

My good friend the Ink-stained Toe-poker recently recommended (nay, insisted) I read The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, as a great example of what he deems literature to represent.

For him, literary fiction involves the most important parts of the story occurring between the lines. Having now read The Remains of the Day, I fully understand what he means – and agree that the “between the lines” concept is a good way to define quality literature.

For those who haven’t read this Booker Prize-winning novel, the story is told in the first person by Mr Stevens, an esteemed butler of a once renowned house, now in the latter stages of his career.

In this sad and moving story about repression and self sacrifice, it is what’s not said in the narrative voice that has the most power.

During a rare cross-country journey, Mr Stevens begins to recall important moments in his life, which more and more centre around his relationship with Darlington Hall’s house keeper, Miss Kenton – the very person he is on his way to visit.

The more he reminisces about the past, the more painfully obvious it becomes that Mr Stevens has lived a life denial. He spends an inordinate amount of energy justifying his choices in life as being the epitome of dignity and service, as befitting his station his life. But in fact, he has robbed himself of a chance to experience life, not just view it from the periphery.

At face value, Mr Stevens is proud man who has faithfully served his lord and household with a level of dignity to be admired by all who aspire to "domestic service".

In between the lines, lie the regrets and longings of a man whose true feelings are hidden even from himself, under layer upon layer of discipline, reasoning and “dignity”.

And it’s discovering those poignant truths – which even the narrator seems oblivious to - that make The Remains of the Day such a remarkable and memorable novel.

Of course, not every novel offering itself as “literature” provides the same experience, but The Remains of the Day has given me a new way to approach books in that often ambiguous category.

BTT: Manual labor

2008-05-08T00:49:00.000-07:00

It's Booking Through Thursday time again.

This week's question:

Writing guides, grammar books, punctuation how-tos . . . do you read them? Not read them? How many writing books, grammar books, dictionaries–if any–do you have in your library?

I am a big fan of these types of books, and use them a lot professionally for my day job. My favourites are:
- Macquarie Dictionary
- Fowler's Use of Modern English
- Thesaurus (Rogets is still the best)
- Australian Government Style Guide (which has excellent simple explanations of grammatical rules, along with all the official style guff).

As for writing guides, a US editor many years ago recommended to me Self-editing for fiction writers by Renni Browne and Dave King (available on Amazon), and it taught me an enormous amount about the mechanics of storytelling.

It's not a "how to write" book, but rather an editing checklist, covering topics including point of view, proportion, characterisation and exposition etc. It's a fantastic tool for anyone writing fiction (and is pretty much the sort of thing manuscript assessors and editors focus on).

BTT: Mayday!

2008-05-02T22:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a couple of days late, but thought I'd play along with the latest Booking Through Thursday challenge:

Quick! It’s an emergency! You just got an urgent call about a family emergency and had to rush to the airport with barely time to grab your wallet and your passport. But now, you’re stuck at the airport with nothing to read. What do you do??
And, no, you did NOT have time to grab your bookbag, or the book next to your bed. You were grocery shopping when you got the call and have nothing with you but your wallet and your passport (which you fortuitously brought with you in case they asked for ID in the ethnic food aisle). This is hypothetical, remember….

(Having read other BTT posts, I realise I may have somewhat missed the point of the question, but I've written this now, so ... I'll leave the response as it stands).

This is actually a no-brainer for me. I would head to the airport bookstore and go for any Peter Temple novel I haven't read. In the last few months I've read a couple of his excellent literary crime novels on flights and found them a perfect way to pass the time.

They are well written, entertaining, and - with multiple plot strands unfolding - actually benefit from being read in a single sitting if possible.

If there were no Temples available, my next choice might be Book 6 in John Marsden's Tomorrow series (because they are very quick and easy to read, and that's the one I'm up to!) or I might even grab a Jodi Piccoult.

I definitely wouldn't start experimenting with authors I was unfamiliar with for fear of a bad decision and a long, bookless flight! Nothing worse from a reader's perspective than a trip with a book you don't want to read.

A fable from Aesop

2008-04-29T03:51:00.000-07:00

I'm having a bit of a crazy week, preparing to change jobs, trying to sell a car and getting ready for a houseguest and big social weekend, so this is not the post I had intended. Instead, that one will hopefully come next week.

In the meantime, I thought I would share one of my favourite books: the magnificently illustrated Unwitting wisdom: an anthology of Aesop's animal fables. These 12 classics are retold and illustrated by Helen Ward in what is one of the most beautiful books in my collection, given to me by a very special friend.

Incredibly, these simple stories are more than 2,500 years old, and the wry humour and often probing insights into the human condition have entertained countless generations (at least until the advent of Nintendo, X-box, and Wii....)

Helen Ward herself opens the book with the following insight:

To Aesop and all tellers of moral tales who, despite a monumental ineffective history, still gently try to point the human race in a better direction.

Anyway, today I thought I would share one of them and have chosen this one more based on its length than the moral of the story ... although it has a biting moral lesson nonetheless.

Sour grapes

- in which a fox tries to hide his disappointment with insults

There once was a bunch of particularly fine grapes hanging temptingly from a vine that had wound its way up a tree. And as is usual with such unguarded temptations, there was soon also a fox.

The tantalising fruits hung just a little higher than the fox could reach but he would not be thwarted.

He leapt as high as he could, twising in the morning light, his jaws clapping shut on air and flies and dust until his teeth hurt. He tried to climb the tree but the trunk was too straight, the bark too smooth, the first branch too high. Everything about the tree was unhelpful. It refused to so much as twitch a twig when he tried to shake it.

The fox found a long cane and tried to prod the grapes from their vine, but the cane snapped. He threw and kicked sticks and stones at the vine, but the grapes were determined to stay put. Their sweet smell drifted amoung the branches, wasps and butterflies few by with casual ease, while on the ground below, the fox lay panting and exhausted.

Not even a few moments' patience solved the fox's problem. By the evening, the dark fruits hung as resolutely from the vine as they had that morning.

The shadows had lengthened by the time the fox finally turned his back on the grapes, muttering to himself that they were undoubtedly

the nastiest

most horrid

disgusting, revolting

inedible, indigestible

and very probably the sourest grapes he had ever had the pleasure of NOT eating!

Moral: It is easy to despise what you cannot obtain.

Meme: what's on page 123?

2008-04-26T02:35:00.001-07:00

I've been tagged in a meme by one of my favourite literary bloggers, Books Please.

It's pretty straight forward. All you have to do is:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

I'm currently reading The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro (and will blog on this when finished), which I am enjoying like a well aged pinot noir.

The sentences required as per the meme are:

"It's very beautiful. But it is probably a kind of mock period piece done only a few years ago. Isn't that right?"

Is this meme simply a great way to find and explore new blogs, or a way to see if three sentences can convey a writer's style, or the feel of a novel. In my example, I'd say not (because the sentences are short and in dialogue), but I've read other meme posts that may come closer to that purpose.

For me, I tag (if they'd like to play):

Bec
Lee
Linda
Maree
Gautami

Personally, I don't mind whether the book is fiction or not (it actually could be quite interesting if they're not!)

And please, anyone else can feel free to play along!

BTT: Springing

2008-04-24T05:13:00.000-07:00

This week's Booking Through Thursday question is quite Northern Hempisphere-centric, but nonetheless poses an interesting question about whether or not reading tastes are affected by seaons:

Do your reading habits change in the Spring? Do you read gardening books? Even if you don’t have a garden? More light fiction than during the Winter? Less? Travel books? Light paperbacks you can stick in a knapsack?

Or do you pretty much read the same kinds of things in the Spring as you do the rest of the year?

I've never thought about reading in terms of literal seasons, but I think it's fair to say my reading is more seasonal on an emotional level: sometimes I'm interested in light and unchallenging fare, while other times I want something meaty, meaningful and thought-provoking. But the seasons are more based on life experience and emotions that the weather. (But then again, I live in tropical Queensland, Australia, where the seasonal changes are not so severe, so maybe my response can be somewhat limited on that basis!)

Author talks – for writers, readers, or both?

2008-04-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

It always fascinates me to see who attends author talks.

Whether it's guest spots in libraries or book stores, or writers’ festivals … who are the people who make up the audience? Are they fans of the author, fans of a particular title, genre fans, or other writers (published and unpublished alike)?

Has everybody who listens to an author talk read that writer’s latest release (or any of their works?)

This week, I heard new Australian author Toni Jordan talk about her debut novel Addition. I went along because, generally, I enjoy listening to writers talk about their creative journey, and the session took place a few floors below my office (and was thus very handy).

Addition is described as an offbeat romance, told through the eyes of a woman who is a compulsive “counter” (of everything from bristles on toothbrushes to tiles on the floor).

During her chat, Toni talked about her fascination with the way the human brain works – something she explores in the novel – and how we all have patterns of thinking, which - for most of us - are unconscious. Certainly an intriguing subject.

I had considered trying to read the novel before her visit, but I had a couple of library books due back in a short time and decided to give them priority.

Now that I’ve heard Toni speak (she was a warm and engaging speaker, clearly interested in her readers, and definitely someone enjoying discovering their creative voice), I’m even more interested in seeing how that translates on the page.

No doubt, had I read the book, some of the character-based discussions would have been more meaningful, but I nevertheless still enjoyed her session, particularly when the topic shifted to her novel's themes.

Toni had a great turn-up, and the crowd seemed to be a combination of avid readers and fledgling writers, and they kept the questions flowing for a good half hour.

Here are some of the author’s I’ve heard talk in the last 12 months, and why:
- Markus Zusak: huge fan of all his work (shy but interesting speaker, especially on the subject of good storytelling)
- Rebecca Sparrow: as a Gen-Xer, I'm fan of her work generally (vibrant and engaging speaker)
- Suzanne Leal: discovered at Brisbane Writers’ Festival (gentle soul – lovely speaker); read book after hearing her speak
- Mark Abernethy: also discovered at Brisbane Writers’ Festival (came across as a pretty cool guy with interesting insights into the character development process); read book after hearing him speak – now a big fan
- Louise Cusack: fan of her work, and a professional acquaintance (always fun and engaging – loves an audience)

I'm curious to see if anyone wanted to talk about authors they had heard speak – and why they chose to listen to them.

Vocabulary (BTT)

2008-04-17T00:28:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest Booking Through Thursday question:

I’ve always wondered what other people do when they come across a word/phrase that they’ve never heard before. I mean, do they jot it down on paper so they can look it up later, or do they stop reading to look it up on the dictionary/google it or do they just continue reading and forget about the word?

My response:

It depends: if it's obvious by the context what the word or phrase means, I'll probably jot it down and keep reading (then look up later).

If it creates a stumbling block, I'll put my book down, grab a dictionary (or go to www.dictionary.com if I'm online) and look it up on the spot. If it's a phrase I'm unfamiliar with, I'll google it, or ask someone else nearby if they've heard of it.

I must confess I'm frustrated when I come across I word I don't know, so I'll always look it up at some point!

Lists that make you go hmmmm.....

2008-04-12T21:58:00.000-07:00

There are lots of interesting memes floating around the web about books. The list below is not strictly a meme, as I have pinched some questions from elsewhere and made up my own.

Anyway, the idea of creating such a list piqued my curiosity, so I thought I would give it a go.

Please feel free to treat this as a meme if you like (answer the questions on your own blog and leave a link here as a post), or just post your answers here. I'd just be really interested in other people's answers.

Obviously, this is a subjective list for here and now. All of us will no doubt answer differently in 12 months' time, or 10 years, as our stack of "read" books gets bigger.

So here we go.

Most recent book to make you cry
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne

A book that scared you
The Throat by Peter Straub (although it was about a decade ago - don't read a lot of horror these days)

A book that made you laugh out loud
Joel and Cat set the story straight by Rebecca Sparrow

A book you loved as a child
The Man From Snowy River by Elyne Mitchell

A book you loved as a teenager
There were five actually, in the initial Belgariad series by David Eddings

A book you hated in high school
Tender is the night by F Scott Fitzgerald

Favourite crime novel
Bad Debts by Peter Temple

Favourite literary novel
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

A series you love
Harry Potter by JK Rowling (why pretend otherwise?).

Favourite fantasy book
The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien

Most over-rated book you've read
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown

A book that took time to realise you actually liked it
Life of Pi by Yann Martel

The most recent book you put aside without finishing
The Confederacy of Dunces (I've previously blogged on my guilt about this)

A book you put aside half-way through but intend to finish one day
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dosdoyevsky

Sexiest literary hero
Of course there's Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice and Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings, but for a contemporary sexy protagonist, I'd have to say Mac from Mark Abernethy's spy thriller The Golden Serpent.

Your turn.

Booking Through Thursday: a writing challenge

2008-04-10T01:24:00.000-07:00

It's time for Booking Through Thursday...

The challenge:
Pick up the nearest book. (I’m sure you must have one nearby.)
Turn to page 123.
What is the first sentence on the page?
The last sentence on the page?
Now . . . connect them together….(And no, you may not transcribe the entire page of the book–that’s cheating!)

My response: (from Paula by Isabel Allende)

Don Manuel died today

I hope my mother can last until then, I think she is about at breaking point.

In the words in between these two sentences, Allende poignantly describes the pain of watching a loved one die and having to console a widow exhausted by grief.

The page is particularly moving, given Allende is viewing of Don Manuel's death, and the grief of his family, in the context of watching her own daughter struggle with a life-robbing illness. From the last line, it would appear Allende's mother is also buckling under the weight of their battle.

So much pain and meaning in one page, and so beautifully written from a position of helpless love.

I've only just started this book, and this teaser is a reminder it's going to be an emotional journey.

Speaking of literary...

2008-04-06T19:33:00.000-07:00

I've just finished reading Peter Carey's new novel, His illegal self.

Carey is one of Australia's best known literary novelists, and I really wanted to like this book, which has been described as possibly the best fictional work to explore the militant radical underground of the late 1960s and early 70s.

It wasn't the era or political content that attracted me, but the story at the novel's centre: of a seven-year-old boy on a journey of discovery about his identity and his need to be loved.

Che is a seven-year-old boy raised in isolated privilege by his New York grandmother, who also happens to the son of radical student activists. Yearning for his famous outlaw parents, and denied all access to television and news, he thinks his dreams have come true when a woman whose smell he recognises appears at his New York apartment.

What's meant to be a brief visit turns into something else entirely, as Che and the woman he calls Dial end up on the run. After passing through several cities, their life on the run takes them across the world to tropical Queensland, Australia, where they take refuge in a hippy commune.

Carey's narrative style has its own unique rhythm, and he plays with chronology to keep the reading guessing. The other effective tactic he employs is to switch viewpoints between Che and Dial, so the reader gets to the glimpse events through both sets of eyes.

And yet … I felt no connection to these characters. I wanted to empathise with them, but so often found myself struggling to understand them. Often, I felt like I was groping in the dark to follow what was going on, but then, so were the characters, so perhaps this was the author's intention.

The whisper of menace throughout the story left me uneasy for most of the journey, which is not necessarily a bad thing, and again, perhaps was intended to give the reader a greater sense of what the characters were feeling.

The jacket blurb said the book may make me "cry more than once". It didn't - I didn't even come close, which is unusual for me.

So now I'm wondering why I didn't connect enough to be moved to tears. Is it a generational thing? The attitudes of militant radical underground and its commune-dwelling hippy cousins are the driving force in the plot. As a Gen-Xer, I have only read about that time in history - I have no emotional connection to it. I imagine readers who remember - or participated in - that era may respond quite differently.

I thought the human element of the story would be enough to engage me, but on this occasion it wasn't. Having said that, I devoured the book in three days, so it certainly wasn't a difficult read.

Perhaps the story, on this occasion, is as much about making the reader feel, rather than understand. And in that case, maybe I experienced exactly what the author intended...

Booking Through Thursday - Lit-Ra-Chur

2008-04-03T01:03:00.000-07:00

I've discovered a fantastic blog called Booking Through Thursday, and am participating in the "meme"* for the first time. Here's the question:

· When somebody mentions “literature,” what’s the first thing you think of? (Dickens? Tolstoy? Shakespeare?)
· Do you read “literature” (however you define it) for pleasure? Or is it something that you read only when you must?

And my response:

When I hear the term "literature" I immediately interpret that to mean a book in which the way language is used has more importance than the story itself.

Although I enjoy a beautifully constructed sentence and the poetry of language, I've found I can't always sustain interest for an entire novel unless the story is compelling.

Thankfully, I've realised there are plenty of absolute gems that meet both criteria, like The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel, The Patron Saint of Eels by Gregory Day etc.

For me, "literature" also represents the classics. My criteria for reading and enjoying the classics is the same as with contemporary literature or pop fiction: if it's a good story and well written, I'll enjoy it.

In the last few years, I've re-read some of those classics that were compulsory reading in school - e.g. To Kill A Mocking Bird and Animal Farm - as well reading works by Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Maya Angelou etc for the first time. Not surprisingly, I got more out of them as an adult.

So yes, I read literature for pleasure, but I'm pretty picky about what I tackle (and tend to rely on reviews or recommendations to guide my choices).

*For those like me unfamiliar with the concept of meme, here's a definition (thanks to Booking Through Thursday):

Memememe n (mëm): A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. From the Greek mimëma, something imitated, from mimeisthai, to imitate

The stories we create in our heads

2008-04-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

If you asked the average person whether they were good at creating stories, the majority would probably answer along the lines of: "no, I don't have a creative bone in my body".

But the truth is, we're all creating stories in our heads, all the time.

I'm not talking about epic works of literature, but simply stories that help us make sense of the world.

The classic example is when we meet someone for the first time. Immediately - generally involuntarily - we begin to make judgements about who they are, what they do, what they're thinking.

We create our own story for them, to help us understand how we should relate to them. We attempt to read their tone, body language and appearance to guess their mood, intention, attitude etc. We then adapt our own response to suit that story (often creating a new problem if we've misinterpreted the original behaviour!).

An innovative American film-maker recently explored the nature of first impressions in fascination fashion.

In his short documentary Cross Examination Josh Weinstein hit the streets of New York with a film camera, and asked complete strangers questions about himself.

The questions ranged from "what's my story?" and "what's my message?", to "what's my family like?", "am I in love?", and "how old was I when I lost my virginity?", with the interviewees' answers based solely on their first impressions.

Weinstein changed clothing and accessories throughout the process, which naturally influenced the answers. But, of course, it's not that simple. Yes we make judgements (create stories) based on people's appearance, voice, language, and facial expressions, but more often than not, the judgements we make make say more about us than them.

It's certainly made me more of aware of how I perceive others - and how much of that opinion making has gone on even before I've become aware of it.

You can check out Cross Examination on you Tube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE2yyvRDohw (it's only a few minutes long and well worth watching).