BR: Wake in Fright (Kenneth Cook)

Amazon Link: Wake in Fright

The back cover reads:

“In one magnificent rough-and-tumble of a first novel, the gargantuan flavour of the Australian outback, its sick heat and its people. Like quicksand their animal customs, their animal women, their perverts and their stupendous, overpowering hospitality drag innocent, city-bred John Grant down to his ruin – and beyond.”

John is a school teacher in a remote outback town. The story starts on the last day before summer break, as the students file out of the dusty classroom, John considers the summer ahead of him – a long idyllic break in Sydney, his hometown and a place he pines to return to full-time. To get there he must catch a train to the nearest town then catch a bus across the desert to Sydney. He has enough money for both journeys, and a pay cheque he can cash once he reaches Sydney.

When he reaches the next town he is parched and frustrated. The bus doesn’t leave until the next morning. With a night to kill, he books into a hotel and goes to the bar for a drink. He’s not interested in socializing, just quenching his thirst and passing time before he can escape the barrenness. After one drink he is offered more, encouraged to share a beer with the locals. It would not be good manners to decline, in fact, it would be downright offensive. John doesn’t want trouble, and he is thirsty, so he agrees.

Soon, he’s had too many, he’s hungry and isn’t thinking straight. The local policeman offers to take him to a place that serves great steak – a dusty back-end of a hotel where a game of Two-up is in progress. The steak is bad, the policeman abandons him and John is drawn, moth-like, into the game. It’s a serious affair, almost ethereal in its intensity. He drinks more, bets and wins. He now has enough money to live it up in Sydney. He bets again, and again, drunk on money and out of his head on alcohol. Soon enough, he loses and staggers from the venue. Back at his hotel he considers what just happened. He takes out his pay cheque, thinks about it, goes back to the venue and cashes it in.

The story, written in sombre tones, an almost hallucinogenic quality to John’s experiences, goes into dark territory from here on out. John loses all his money, and with no way to leave the town he’s trapped in a hell-hole of his own creation. A local man takes pity on him, takes him in, gives him a bed and more alcohol. John readily imbibes, fragmenting his already hazy intuition and leaving himself even more vulnerable.

He is pushed into joining a hunting party, a group of older men who take him out, shove a rifle in his hands and teach him to shoot kangaroos. It’s not hunting though, it is carnal slaughter – horrific, bloody, a deranged, alcohol driven orgy of unimaginable violence. John is both sickened and thrilled. Despite dreadful unease about the acts and his companions, he participates then relies on alcohol to numb the horror of what he’s done.

Eventually, after a black-out whereupon he wakes with a hollow sense of something being amiss, he abandons the house and attempts to hitch a ride to Sydney. It does not go to plan. Before the book ends John will hit the depths of despair. It will take more than the kindness of strangers to save him.

This book shows a darker side to the outback, beyond the glossy postcard pictures and cutesy tales of small town hospitality. Country living sets aside the gentility of suburbia, favouring a rawer, animalistic nature to its inhabitants. The book is well written, a fast read but well worth it. The writing is powerful and polished, and no other book has managed to turn my stomach with scenes of graphic horror than the frenzied killing sprees that John is drawn into.

There’s a nice blend of introspection and a well formed logic that sees this story through. John spends most of the book in a drunken daze, yet instinctually he recognises he’s in trouble. The reader, from the very first page, is drawn forward by that same recognition, and left with a sense that something more disturbing may have occurred, something that eroded the very fabric of who John was.

BR: Whitecap (James Woodford)

Link: Whitecap

I sought out this book, lured by the premise of an albatross researcher: an isolated scientist devoted to enhancing seabird knowledge. I hoped to be bewitched by imagery, offered insight into an ornithologist’s life, the inherent isolation and conflict with those who oppose protective measures. I expected heart-felt dedication, conflict, tragedy, redemption. I expected a character I could feel empathy for, could cheer for, could cry for, and who exhibited a ferocious love of albatrosses, an arguably blinker-visioned determination to protect them at all costs. Or, something like that.

Digby (Dig) lives in a fishing town, a narrow economically biased society where his work would surely set him off-side with at least some of the locals. Yet, somehow, he manages to remain below the radar, in fact, if not for one scene where he goes out to tag and release birds, the reader may be forgiven for forgetting why he even lives there. This scene gave me a taste of what might have been:

One of the most captivating features of the wanderer is its eyes – so brown they are almost black, the colour of tannin-stained water. Only after staring into many birds’ eyes was Dig able to detect their almost-invisible pupils. Seeing himself in her eyes now was like looking through a fish-eye lens, with everything reflected in a brown mirror. The bill was an impressive pink, with a tube-shaped nostril on either side, like submarine torpedo launchers. The bill’s edges were knife-sharp and, as a scavenger, engineered to sever both bone and flesh in a single slash.

For Dig, holding a wandering albatross was a moment when the world seemed to stop. A spell had been cast, and every sense narrowed to what was in his arms. Even Whiting’s chatter as swhe went about measuring and recording, seemed kilometres away. He could see tiny feather lice moving in the albatross’s down and could feel that, beneath the mass of feathers, this was a slight and elongated animal. He buried his fingers two knuckles deep into the down and felt its neck, which had the fragility and beauty of a child’s.

Instead of just focussing on Dig and the birds, the offers up a mystery (an unusual leg tag on an old bird suggests foul play years earlier). The many characters serve as suspects (and inherited victims) in the sinister wrongdoing of the past.

Subplots effectively highlight the daily woes of fishermen (and women), their dysfunctional relationships, the underbelly of crime that seeps like cancer into the town. There is also a hinted lesbian affair between a female sea-changer and one of the local women (I’m not sure which one, it got confusing by the end), and the haphazard romance between Dig and the fisheries officer, or was it the fishing trawler operator? Hmm…

One aspect makes this story painfully memorable: Billy, the ten year old grandson of an aged fisherman, and his preventable fate. Billy is misunderstood, sensitive, abused. From the moment he is introduced to the reader, there is a sense of impending tragedy. Though the boy’s fate is predictable, the reality of it comes as a sensory shock.

James Woodford succeeded in his portrayal of a child in peril – the consequences of a community turning a blind eye to wanton abuse – yet I’m left wondering what purpose it served. It was horrifically dramatic, yet the only plot effect seemed to be to be Dig’s bedding of the fisheries/fishing trawler chick. Until that point their relationship had been tentative, at times outright hostile. I guess there is nothing like a sobbing, distraught man to soften a woman’s heart!?

The story is weakened by short scenes, alternating points of view, too many characters (which are poorly defined) and an overall lack of depth. It reads as an overly long synopsis, but is lacking the heart that could have made it shine.

Overall, an enticing premise but a disappointing execution.

** (out of *****)

BR: Everyman's Rules for Scientific Living (Carrie Tiffany)

Amazon Link: Everyman's Rules for Scientific Living

The novel starts in 1934 in the Victorian Mallee, a thin-skinned dry land not so far from where I grew up. Robert, a man with scientific ideals and a knack of knowing a soil’s origin from the taste of it, and Jean, a woman with determination and skill with a sewing needle, meet aboard the Better Farming Train (a moving display, of sorts, that chugs through the Victorian farming country bringing new science to remote families). There’s a Japanese chicken-sexer on board, several men of various skill, a carriage of swaying wheat growing healthy and strong through the addition of super phosphate to the soil, and three women who coach the fairer sex on matters of domestic duty. I never knew such a thing existed, but now I do, thanks to Carrie Tiffany.

Robert and Jean’s first meeting is passionate, but near silent. Somehow, with few words, they recognise a shared dream – a future where he will grow wheat and she will bake test loaves from the flour to demonstrate his theories. Robert buys a property in the Mallee, near Wycheproof, and they start growing wheat in accordance with Robert’s rules for scientific living.

It’s a period in between wars, when the addition of chemicals to the soil is new, drought is rampant and babies die from nutritional deficiencies. These are hard times, the extent of suffering and stoicism is foreign to me and I am granted a new appreciation for these tough men and women who shaped this country – even if we can now recognise how wrong the farming practices were:

“… You can’t farm properly with paddocks full of dead wood. Your first duty as farmers is to completely clear the land. Once you’ve got nothing between yourself and the soil – that’s the time for agriculture.”

We now know better… or we think we do.

Jean and Robert do it tough in a land that betrays their dreams. Robert is a quiet, honorable man with high ideals and emotion that runs deep, but he lacks in the romantic area and fails to connect in meaningful ways. Jean loves him regardless and is dedicated to making their partnership work even if he offers her little support.

This is not a romance, nor is it a story that ends happily. It's not what I'd consider a tragedy, rather, it is a reflection of real life, of farming life in a time of minimal prosperity. There are many references to towns that I know, and I appreciate the research that had to have gone into crafting this novel. Even the dust storm that swept through the mallee reminds me of images from old newspapers, and brings the taste of dust to my lips from dust storms that swept through my home town in years past.

On the downside, I would have preferred to spend more time with these people -- more time in experiencing their lives, the events that shaped them, that drew them to the eventual conclusion. The logic, progression, characterisation is strong, but at times I hoped for a little more introspection. Overall, it's an enjoyable, enlightening read with unique, well formed characters.

Rating: *** (out of *****)

BR: A Separate Peace (John Knowles)

Amazon Link: A Separate Peace

Gene is an insecure teenager, unable to accept the friendship of a talented, athletic, confident boy, Phineas, as being without dubious intent. The year is 1942 and both boys are students at an elite private boys’ school in New England. They are one year away from being of age to enlist for war. While the seventeen year old seniors engage in physical conditioning in preparation for battle, Gene and his friends enjoy comparative freedom, and they, under Finny’s inventive guidance, take full advantage of it.

These are smart, well behaved boys, respectful and capable. Finny is a star athlete, handsome, optimistic, cautiously reckless but never hurtful or cruel; Gene’s academic success and natural intelligence has him on track to be star of the school. They are equals, admired, respected and full of potential, yet Gene fails to recognise his worth and, in a moment of unthinking selfishness, he sets the stage for tragedy.

This isn’t a novel about regret, or guilt, or tragedy (though it is all those), it’s about growth, how people shape the lives of others, of how a boy becomes a man in the shadow of war, of how friends shape friends, and how people mature through the influence of others.

Philosophy, psychology and history combine to form the layers of this book, and it would take multiple readings to uncover them all, to reflect, mirror-like, the lessons within the words.

Until now, in spite of everything, I had welcomed each new day as though it were a new life, where all past failures and problems were erased, and all future possibilities and joys open and available, to be achieved probably before night fell. Now, in this winter of snow…, I began to know that each morning reasserted the problems of the night before, that sleep suspended all but changed nothing, that you couldn’t make yourself over between dawn and dusk. Phineas however did not believe this.

There are very few books I would consider re-reading, that I can say without doubt are capable of changing my view of the world, of my place in it, of life -- that are so powerful, yet subtle, that one reading of them fails to capture all but the most obvious of their nature. This is one.

Rating: ******* (out of *****).

BR: Maralinga, My Love (Dorothy Johnson)

Book Link: Maralinga, my love

During the 1950s and 60s the British tested nuclear weapons at several remote sites in South Australia. Much secrecy surrounded the tests, the extent of contamination and the effectiveness of the British clean-ups. This novel, a fictional account, explores one man’s experiences at Maralinga and his resultant passion to see the truth revealed and remedial work carried out.

The protagonist in this novel, Graham Falconer, a twenty-one year old Australian, works with for the British at Maralinga to set up the test sites. He and his mates are told little about the tests and reassured that the work they do is safe as long as they follow the rules and take precautions. Their behaviour is monitored, regulated and any breach (including helping dispossessed Aborigines) is punishable. Displays of friendship (mateship) is discouraged and division is marked between the ranked British officers and the Australians. It's not what the Aussies are used to, and many take out their frustrations in violent brawls that end before they've even begun. It's a forced environment, and many can't wait to get out.

Graham keeps his head down, thinks of his soon to be wife in Melbourne, and does his job. He befriends an Australian physicist, Charlie Hamilton, and is assigned to work with him. They witness the first detonation together and Graham is awestruck by the power, the sheer destructiveness of it. As the months go by, more tests are carried out and Graham moves between ranges, recording radiation in the fallout zones.

In 1963, the British go home, leaving the Australians to clean up. Graham is part of the clean-up crew, and when he finds unusually high radiation readings in areas considered to be safe and cobalt pellets in the fallout zone, his indifference turns to concern.

The novel follows Graham over fifteen or so years, through his marital life, his return to school to study for a physics degree, his graduation and employment in England and Australia. Maralinga drives his career and leads him into government where he hopes to uncover the truth.

This is a fictional account based on the author’s research of atomic testing at Maralinga and sites nearby. While an entertaining (and disturbingly informative) read, the novel lacked clear time transitions, relying on events rather than reminding the reader of dates or the ages of the main characters. Some minor technical issues also bothered me, including the overuse of exclamation points in dialogue, and the skimpiness of dialogue. Whenever the characters sat down to talk, the narrator stepped in and summarized the dialogue, thus denying the reader the experience for themselves. I enjoy good dialogue, and I missed it in this novel.

Worse though, it seemed that Dorothy opted to sit on the fence about this matter. Despite Graham's persistence in putting himself through school so he could exert influence, his efforts lacked conviction, the story lacked real meat. Overall, I had hoped for more.

Rating ** (out of *****)

BR: Of a Boy (Sonya Hartnett)

Book Links: Of a Boy (US title: What the birds see)

Nine year old Adrian, abandoned by his father, his mother incapable of caring for him, lives with his grandmother (Beattie), a hard – but not unloving – woman who struggles to connect with, and nurture the quiet, sensitive boy. He calls her grandmonster, but not to her face.

Rory, Beattie’s twenty-five year old son and one of her three dysfunctional children, lives with them. He exists as a broken shell after driving his sports car into a telephone pole, a reckless move that cost him his best friend. The other boy did not die, but death, Rory thinks, would have been the better alternative than the living, breathing vegetable he became.

Every character in this book is broken, dysfunctional, wounded in some significant way. As most of the characters are children, it makes for a hard read, but a necessary one.

The story opens with the disappearance of three children, the Metfords, who headed out to get icecream and never came back. Adrian fears that he could disappear, just like those children did, and he wonders why anyone would want to steal a child. He thinks he has nothing to offer, he thinks he’s invisible… often-times he wishes he was.

This is a sad story of a lonely boy cast off onto a caregiver who loves him, but doesn’t want him. He is well cared for, loved, tended to, like a garden, but he is a boy who needs more… much more.

The winner of several Australian literary awards, shortlisted for another, this is a novel that sliced into my chest, carved it up and left me bleeding for days after reading it. Its subtle power is inspiring, and devastating.

The writing... well, it speaks for itself:

Adrian shrugs, hopelessly confused. Joely is touching her nose with her tongue, chin tilted to the clouds. Giles gazes at nothing with the absent expression of the bored toddler; he balls a hand into his sister’s palm and hangs his weight off it, sleepily closing his eyes. The ironwork contorts round the faces of the children, frames them with wrestling coils. The evening has come down heavily, a haze of pearly-grey. Few cars travel this nowhere road, and the cold birds are all silent. Adrian comes cautiously forward, touching his wrists to iron. His lips and eyelids feel like icy wounds, his breath lingers under his nose. He hears himself asking, ‘Where did you come from?’

I have no more words… this book hurts, but damn, it's good!

Rating: ***** (out of *****)

BR: Eucalyptus (Murray Bail)

Amazon Link: Eucalyptus

A man, who has a daughter (Ellen) and an obsession with collecting and growing eucalypts on his New South Wales property, announces that a suitor who can identify every one of the near 500 species, will win the hand of his daughter. The girl, an unusual creature, skin speckled with brown and a habit of walking around her father’s vast property stark-naked, is disinterested in her father’s challenge.

Men come from miles; she dismisses them all, unaffected by their failure, unimpressed by their various shapes and sizes. It seems no man, aside from her father, could achieve such a feat, until Mr Cave, a eucalyptus expert from Adelaide, sets up residence in the farmhouse and proceeds to work his way through the paddocks of trees. He shows real potential, and Ellen is worried.

Another man, a mysterious drifter, appears on the property and bewitches her with stories. As Mr Cave toils through day after day of naming species, this nameless stranger occupies Ellen’s thoughts and entertains her with quiet tales of lost love, missed opportunities, failed romances; people from cities she has never seen. She is intrigued, and she is falling in love.

I won’t ruin the ending for anyone who cares to read, but this is a modern fairytale with improbable events and odd characters. The writing is lyrical, the story interspersed with stories inspired by eucalyptus species, the narrative etched with wistfulness.

I started off with great interest, impressed by Mr Bail’s writing style and delighted by the Australian setting and focus on eucalypts. As an aside, for a while I thought I might be an ecologist/botanist, and so I have a greater interest than the norm in native plant and animal species. Now that I’m a writer, I appreciate writers who capture our native landscape and highlight it.

My favourite scene in this book is one where the writer focuses attention on the River Red Gum, a tree I would happily be buried under (or have my ashes scattered under… whichever).

The most common eucalypt in the world is the Red Gum. Hundreds on Holland’s property alone followed the river. And yet – small example of the unexpected – for all its widespread distribution, it has not been found in Tasmania.

Over time the River Red Gum (E. camaldulensis) has become barnacled with legends. This is only to be expected. By sheer numbers there’s always a bulky Red Gum here or somewhere else in the wide world, muscling into our eye, as it were; and by following the course of rivers in our particular continent they don’t merely imprint their fuzzy shape but actually worm their way greenly into the mind, giving some hope against the collective crow-croaking dryness. And if that’s not enough the massive individual squatness of these trees, ancient, stained and warty, has a grandfatherly aspect; that is, a long life of incidents, seasons, stories.

Stories are the glue that binds this book together. Without the stories -- related only by their having been inspired by a particular eucalyptus species -- there would be no story.

This book won literary awards. Despite the quality writing, I can't quite see why. I appreciate its uniqueness, the depth of research, the well crafted writing, but I had hoped for more.

Rating ** (out of *****)

BR: Romulus, My Father (Raimond Gaita)

Amazon Link: Romulus, My Father

Written as a recollection, not as a present experience, this story spans 50 years in just over 200 pages. There is no room for detail, for sharing the journey, rather the reader bears witness and connects through empathy. It’s like sitting in an older person’s living room and listening to their life story – something I very much enjoy doing if the experiences are vastly different from my own, and these are. Through Raimond’s words, he offered me an opportunity to witness his childhood, the observations and interactions he had with his parents, family friends, and the wider relevance of immigrants assimilating into the Australian culture – something my own mother and grandparents did around the same time as Raimond’s.

Romulus Gaita (Raimond's father), an immigrant to Australia from Yugoslavia, lived an unthinkably difficult life. Raised with violence, Romulus knew pain, hardship, living without. He strived to shield his son from the same and this book proves his success. Through Raimond’s memories, I developed a deep respect for Romulus, his family, the people he interacted with and for the toll mental illness takes.

Romulus chose a passionate woman in Christiana (Raimond’s mother), but she came with huge problems. Romulus’ pride, his high morals, his honour, prevented him from blaming her for her failures (and there were many), and it also had him supporting her when she betrayed him to another man (many other men, it seems). A lesser man would have cast her aside: Romulus did not because he said there is no worse fate than mental illness, and Christiana was deeply unwell. The pride and compassion of this man was inspirational, it highlights the difference between cultures and the generosity of spirit that allowed him to co-exist with Australians who did not immediately appreciate and share those virtues.

Raimond writes with pride, with strength, and I can’t help but share the admiration he holds for his father and for the people he writes about. As a child, Raimond experienced grief, loss, abandonment, confusion that no child should ever experience, yet he never doubted his father’s love for him, and he was never without support.

This story is amazing, made all the moreso because it’s true.

Rating ***1/2 (out of *****)

BR: The Speed of Dark (Elizabeth Moon)

Amazon Link: Speed of Dark

In the future, science has progressed to enable people to live longer, to pay to have their brain chemistry altered so that they may enjoy greater longevity and functionality. People who commit acts of savagery are not locked in prison cells with violent recidivists, they are re-programmed, their antisocial urges removed so that they may be returned to society. In many other ways this future is no different from our present… except if you happen to have been born with autism. In this new reality, the youngest autistics are in their late twenties because autism is a treatable condition.

Lou Arrendale is 35, too old to have been given the treatment that autistic toddlers receive, but too young to be gravely dysfunctional. He works with a small group of other autistics on pattern recognition, doing work that normal people cannot do. His employer provides appropriate office accommodation, a gym with special equipment, piped music, individual offices with cheap gadgetry which allows Lou and his colleagues to manage their overstimulation. When Mr Crenshaw, a new executive with an eye for the bottom line, sets about cost-cutting, he targets the autistics. New research offers a cure, a way for them to become normal, able to function in society, to read non-verbal cues and to work without the special devices and concessions that they are currently provided. Crenshaw threatens Lou and his colleagues with termination unless they agree to the program. It’s unethical and unlawful, and it threatens Lou’s entire way of life, but Crenshaw is not the only individual gunning for Lou, targeting him because he is different. But Lou is not a victim, and he is not the moron that some people expect him to be.

Life is confusing for those of us who can process external stimuli in a way that is considered normal. We respond to facial expression and body language on an instinctual level. Lou can’t – every interaction is a struggle, facial expressions all look alike, abstract verbal constructs are confused by false meaning and illogical phrasings, and the randomness of human behaviour offers him little option for pattern recognition and forward projection. But he manages, and he manages well. Ultimately, the decision of whether to be ‘cured’ of his autism is his to make, and he makes the right decision for him. I can’t help but sense the underlying longing that the author must have for her own child (who is autistic), a wish for a cure maybe.

A cure does not change who Lou is, it changes only his ability to perceive the nuances of human interaction and thereby gives freedom from pretense. Until society embraces difference, in all its forms, people such as Lou will long for a cure, a reprieve from trying to be what they are not – an opportunity to be who they were meant to be. It’s unfair, but I applaud Elizabeth Moon for telling it like it is. There is much to be learned from this book, the least of which is an acceptance of diversity – an acceptance of ourselves.

Rating: ***1/2 (out of *****)

BR: Born Twice (Guiseppe Pontiggia)

Amazon Link: Born Twice

When Professor Frigerio’s second-born child, a boy, is born developmentally challenged, Frigerio questions the role he played in his son’s fate. He cheated on Franca, the boy’s mother and his wife, while she was pregnant. Maternal stress can contribute to a foetus’ development. He knows that, and suffers for it.

The story spans thirty years, taking erratic jumps back and forward as Frigerio seeks to understand his son’s limitations, and to accept them. I’m unsure he ever truly succeeds -- I'm unsure anyone can.

I found this book challenging, distressing, it hit home in a way that I had not imagined it could. At times I longed to reach in and throttle Frigerio for his emotional ineptitude, his damned selfishness! But, in hindsight,I understand him, I sympathise with him, even if I (at times) hated him.

Arguably, he mistreated his son, Paolo, left the boy stranded in a body that betrayed him and offered little parental support. When Paolo was young Frigerio wanted a photograph of him sitting on a beach. Paolo’s body refused to accommodate the father’s desire, but instead of accepting that and opting for a different pose, Frigerio persisted, ignored his son’s distress and propped him up like a doll. The boy was afraid, unable to control his muscles, he continually fell each time his parents removed their physical support. They kept trying, despite their son’s distress, consumed by their desire for a photograph they could be proud to display to their friends. I’m afraid that admission set my nerves on edge and darkened my perception of the events in the novel.

Paolo seemingly thrived despite his parents’ issues, but imagine how he might have blossomed if his father had dragged his head out of his own ass long enough to see beyond his son’s shell to the spirit within. At times he did, there are moments in this novel where Frigerio got it right, even though he wished for his child to be ‘normal’, he accommodated his son’s differences and supported him.

In reading, I wished for Frigerio to move to a point where he would love his child unconditionally, where he would be thankful for Paolo just as he was. Frigerio never reached that point, and in hindsight, I was delusional to believe he could – to believe anyone could. It’s not human nature to embrace difference, most people aspire to the norm. Seeing that in Frigerio raised some tender issues for me, but it’s nothing that I don’t feel for myself. If I were in Frigerio’s position, I’d feel the same way, and that was the hardest thing for me to accept.

Aside from the heated emotional reaction that I experienced (which is a testament to the writing style, I must admit), the book is well written. The choppiness of the telling was a little off-putting, but the word choices, the similes, metaphors, the author’s vocabulary is delightful.

I want to say I hated this book, because I did. It opened old sores, made them weep, made me ache with a sense of helpless injustice. With the benefit of reflection, and some emotional distance, I see it’s not all that bad, and Frigerio isn’t an evil, sadistic bastard who had no sense of empathy for his son. He’s a human, and the story is truthful… and the truth hurts. But, I’d prefer literary honesty than a feel good ‘happily ever after’ with no basis in reality… even if it makes me feel like a rotten piece of crap for a while.

I’m going to give this a high rating (despite my initial desire to set fire to it), because it’s well written, it’s real (Frigerio is flawed, despite his intellect), and the territory it covers is a bitter reality. I may disagree with Frigerio, but I can’t fault his truth. For that, I give this four stars. Who knows, maybe I’ll read it again and unwedge my own head from my ass, just like I wanted Frigerio to, maybe that way I'd be less like him and more evolved. It's food for thought.

Rating: **** (out of *****)

BR: The Broken Shore (Peter Temple)

Amazon Link: The Broken Shore

Peter Temple writes with a succinct eloquence: simple beautiful words that craft a tapestry of emotion, imagery and sensation. Though this is a crime novel (a genre that I tend to avoid) it’s the beauty of the writing and the Australian setting that makes this an incredible read.

Joe Cashin is a senior detective with the Victorian Police, a smart man with a nose for the darker side of life. He can tell when a person is lying, and is ceaseless in his persistence for the truth. This dogged intensity earned him a high profile in the force, the respect and disdain of his colleagues, near cost him his life and (arguably) resulted in the death of a young officer who walked too closely in his shadow. Wracked with pain and guilt, his confidence abraded, Joe keeps the peace in Port Monro, a small coastal town where nothing much happens. In his spare time he restores his late father’s house and tries not to think too much. He’s in stasis, but life won’t leave him alone.

The murder of an elderly millionaire pushes Joe back into the job and shines a media spotlight on Port Monro. When three local Aboriginal youths are connected to a watch thought to be stolen from the dead man, Melbourne put Joe in charge to bring the boys in. With aboriginal deaths in custody a hot political topic, and one of the youths the cousin of an up and coming politician, it is imperative that the intercept is done right. It isn’t. It goes awry – a brilliant, bloody disaster. Two of the boys are killed; the third left injured and traumatised. Police harassment drives the boy to suicide. The police are cleared, claiming they acted in self defence in difficult circumstances and the locals (racist and intolerant) consider that justice has been served. Joe doesn’t think so, and works to uncover the truth.

In many ways this is a crime novel, and if it weren’t for the simplistic beauty of the writing, I would not have been so engaged. I focussed on the writing, on Joe, the characters with whom he directly interacted. Early on in the book he takes in a swaggie, a drifter with no fixed address: Dave Rebb. Softened by the trauma he endured, Joe offers Rebb a job instead of locking him in the cells and running background checks. In Rebb, Joe finds a friend. It’s tentative, masculine, painfully hesitant, but Joe connects and accepts. The subtly with which Peter draws the relationship between these two men is inspiring.

There is a love interest, the legal counsel who acts for the Aboriginal boy and an old school friend of Joe’s. This aspect felt just a little convenient, as though Peter offered her up to remind readers of Joe’s heterosexuality. To me, that was never in doubt.

The non-speaking stars of the novel are the protagonist’s two dogs: poodles. They feature in many scenes, yet never own any of them.

The dogs were tiring now but still hunting the ground, noses down, taking more time to sniff, less hopeful. Then one picked up a scent and, new life in their legs, they loped in file for the trees, vanished. When he was near the house, the dogs, black as liquorice, came out of the trees, stopped, heads up, looked around as if seeing the land for the first time. Explorers. They turned their gaze on him for a while, started down the slope.

The harsh coastal landscape brings an extra dimension, conveying a maudlin tone, oppressive weight, darkness.

Cashin drove to Port Monro down roads smeared with roadkill – birds, foxes, rabbits, cats, rats, a young kangaroo with small arms outstretched – passed through pocked junctions where one or two tilted houses stood against the wind and signs pointed to other desperate crossroads.

An early reference to the abduction and rape of a male police officer by three men, and the officer’s later suicide, warn that this is a tale of moral indecency where humanity’s most basic decencies are cast aside. It follows through. The truth behind the elderly man’s death is unimaginable… but possible. The horror leaves no character unaffected, or uninvolved.

Every Australian who enjoys reading quality fiction should read this book. Sue Turnbull tells you why. If you're not Australian, read it anyway.

Rating: ****1/2 (out of a possible *****)

BR: Falling Boy (Alison McGhee)

Amazon Link: Falling Boy

Joseph, is a sixteen year old boy who, as a result of an accident, is now in a wheelchair. He carries a burden of guilt, of responsibility toward his mother who, as the book progresses, we learn has a mental illness. Joseph was her carer (of sorts) until the accident, now he lives with his emotionally distant father in the US Midwest, a long way from his home state of New York where his mother has been hospitalised.

He has two close friends at a café where he works: Zap a 17 year old boy and the café owner’s son. Zap is tall, lean, strong, all the things Joseph used to be before the accident. Zap watches out for Joseph and tries to act as a buffer between the world and Joseph’s inner turmoil. Enzo, a nine year old girl who asks too many questions, burns with an inner rage and confusion that initially makes her a character to dislike, and then a character to feel empathy for.

Much of the story occurs in the café. A few regulars, oddities in themselves, pass by and interact with the three main characters, but though this is Joseph’s story, it’s the others whom are just as wounded as he. Enzo needs Joseph to be something more than he is, and her continual prodding at him spurs his own emotional journey. Zap carries his own secret burden which becomes clear toward the end, just as the truth about Joseph’s accident is also revealed.

This is a satisfying novel about teenagers (and a child) dealing with adult issues of abandonment, responsibility and guilt. It’s impossible not to feel for these kids, and the conclusion brings explanation and a realistic way forward.

Well written and nicely paced.

Rating: *** stars (out of a possible *****)

BR: The Road (Cormac McCarthy)

Amazon Link: The Road

The Road is a literary masterpiece, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2007. The back cover (inside and out) is littered with praise from reviewers the world over. More adulation is printed on the inside face, and on the first three leaves of the novel.

But... evidently, I am an uncouth illiterate who just doesn’t appreciate quality literature.

It’s a good read, but I don’t agree with all the hype. The writing is masterful, yes. The imagery challenging and hurtful, yes; and the story maudlin – but it didn’t eat at my heart; it didn’t corrode my senses; it didn’t make me weep as I thought it would.

Technically, the author’s exclusion of quotation marks for dialogue took some getting used to. In several places I had to re-read to judge who was speaking, boy or man. That annoyed me. I don’t like being annoyed when I read. I expect grammatical conformation, so that I may lose myself within the words, not be forced to fuss about the edges trying to figure out what the author meant.

The story seems… starved, somehow, bereft of meaning, of progression. From the first page to the last, the characters stayed the same: the man dying, the boy grieving. Then, at the end, when the father dies, another man comes along to miraculously save the child. Through the novel, every person they had met had meant, or caused them harm, yet here appears a saviour on the horizon before the father is even truly cold. Maybe I’m thick and this had some spiritual significance, but to me it seemed contrived.

I can appreciate that the author broke away from convention to craft this novel, and he is to be applauded for that, but as a moving piece of literature, a testament to the peril of our times, a measure of humanity… it didn’t work for me.

Rating: *** (out of *****)

BR: Smoking Poppy (Graeme Joyce)

Amazon Link: Smoking Poppy

Dan Innes is a father, his two children, Phil and Charlie are young adults, independent, wilful, detached. Somewhere along the way he lost the connection with his kids, more recently he lost a connection with their mother. Now, with books as his only friend, he plays weekly trivia with a group of people he doesn’t like, and pool with a man he hardly knows. That’s just how he likes it.

When he receives word that his daughter, Charlie, is in Chang Mai prison, Thailand, for opium smuggling, he sets about going to save her. He intends to go alone, but Mick, his trivia and pool partner (and self-proclaimed best friend) buys himself an air ticket and a seat next to Dan. Phil, a fundamentalist Christian, once told of his sister’s situation wrings his hands and prays to God. He declines the invitation to join his father, claiming responsibilities to his ministry, his congregation, his faith. Dan is unimpressed and tells him so.

Several days later, all three men board the plane, Mick and Dan seated together, Phil at the back with his bible and devil talk. Phil gives no indication of what changed his mind, in fact, he says very little. Mick, on the other hand, is loud and obnoxious, making fart jokes and flirting with the air-hostesses. Dan seeks distance from both men with a selection of library books by authors with opium addictions. He tries to understand his daughter’s descent, how she turned from a sweet child into a nose-pierced, Oxford-educated, societal vagrant… and now a drug mule. He finds no answers in the books, and soon enough he and his maligned companions are in Chang Mai, a seething bustle of glitter and debauchery, sex-workers so desperate that they cling like the sweat on Dan’s skin. Phil, convinced he has entered Hell on earth, near comes undone, Mick revels and Dan struggles with nausea and fear.

The prison visit with his daughter is a welcome relief to the agony of waiting, but it brings an unpredicted twist that throws Dan off-balance. Mick takes charge, revealing the depth of his friendship, while Phil teeters on the brink of spiritual meltdown.

This marks the beginning of Dan’s journey to reconnect with his children. In the jungles of Thailand, amongst poppy fields, ancient tribes corrupted by western ways, a culture he can barely understand, and companions who love him more than he knows, Dan learns about family, about love, friendship, sacrifice and fatherhood. There are glimpses of the supernatural, a study into the relationship between adult men, humour so dry that I laughed out loud, and uncertainty so real that my nerves scraped against the brittleness of it.

Graeme Joyce writes beautiful prose that brings the senses alive. Reading this novel in late-winter, Australia, I felt the suffocating closeness of high humidity, the jangled fear and perilous danger these men are put in. The novel is unpredictable, the pace not too fast to lose the depth of the story, but fast enough to keep the reader buoyant and turning pages.

Dan is such a rich character that it’s impossible not to empathise with him. He’s flawed, harsh and misguided, intelligent in mind, rich in soul, stunted in heart. Mick and Phil are frustratingly lovable, so flamboyantly unique that their hearts beat upon the page. Charlie is misguided but inspirational. Saving her life is the focus of this book, but it’s not the journey -- it's far richer than that.

Rating: ****1/2 (out of *****)

BR: Nobody True (James Herbert)

Amazon Link: Nobody True

Written in first person, the narrator, James True, is dead. During life he was capable of undertaking out of body experiences, all beyond his control. It first happened when he was seriously injured in an accident, then it happened when he slept, then it was if he day-dreamed. At age thirty-two, he left his body one night after a particularly stressful work-day and when he returned he had no body to go back to. It had been mutilated beyond recognition. So why wasn’t he dead?

Turns out poor James not only has to deal with his untimely demise, but the apprehension of a serial killer and the protection of his family (wife and daughter) from similar fate. It's a good premise, but it falls short.

I was introduced to James Herbert (JH) through ’48, a fast-paced novel that I particularly enjoyed because it didn’t claim to take itself seriously. I suspended belief and was hooked into the imagery and the fast pace. The story was predictable, but I didn’t manage to lose interest between figuring it out and having it spelt out. I can’t say the same about this book. But, when trapped on a plane on a flight across the Pacific Ocean, it’s funny just how interesting a book can be… even a book such as this.

I do enjoy JH’s writing style, though it's less polished than I remembered it being. At times he resorts to blatant word recycling which made me cringe. I chose to believe that it was deliberate and that later in the book the repetition would have significance, but that wasn’t the case.

Repetition also arose in the form of the (now dead and in spirit form) protagonist’s experiences of moving through time and space. He lost time, had black-outs, experienced a kind of particle dematerialisation when he passed through solid objects, and gained an unsettling empathy when he passed through living beings. Throughout the novel the reader is repeatedly reminded of this. Very little distinction is given to each experience, and the protagonist doesn’t learn anything new each time, he just re-hashes what he (and we) already know. By 2/3rd’s of the way through the novel, I was skimming.

The conclusion was predictable, the action readable but not exciting. I found it difficult to form empathy for James, a spirit who could experience emotional pain but otherwise could not be harmed. And his family, who I should have cared about, were not particularly likeable.

In all, this was a passive read, but it wiled away time.

I have JH book on my bookshelf, Once, but I shall let some time pass before giving it a try.

Rating: ** (out of *****) stars.

BR: Reservation Road (John Burnham Schwartz)

Amazon Link: Reservation Road

Three characters, their lives intertwined by tragedy, seek to heal. All three are parents, two of a boy who is killed in a hit and run, the third of a boy of the same age as the victim but whose life has been filled with violence and despair. There are no heroes in this book, and the tone is dark and melancholy. I dare anyone to read without shedding a tear, or at the very least feeling a constriction in their chest as the pain these people go through.

The novel is told through three differing viewpoints, with a chapter devoted to each point of view. I found this approach to be confusing at the start, but only for the first chapter or two. The reference to another death of a family member that preceded the hit and run served to muddle the initial scenes, but all soon became clear and I settled into the (at times) morose story that was to unfold.

This is a realistic and heart-breaking narrative of grief, of the ramifications of tragedy on a family unit. It is also a journey of growth for the character that is responsible for taking the boy’s life. The only perspective on all of this that we don’t personally gain is that of the eight year old daughter, the sibling of the boy who died. Her parents never stop loving her however their ability to give her the emotional support she needs is challenged by their own grief.

I finished this story with a lump in my throat. It is raw, it is painful, it is challenging to experience the depth of suffering that these characters endure. And it’s all set around a small community where lives are intertwined, secrets are kept and putting on a brave face is exceptionally difficult.

I highly recommend this book. The writing is stunning: beautifully chosen words that cut straight to the heart. It’s not flowery, or wordy, or trying to be anything other than honest – painfully honest. And it’s breathtaking to read.

The only complaint I had was about the ending. The book finishes abruptly. It seems incomplete, as though there should be another couple of pages. I’m not saying that it isn’t complete as a story, it is… in fact I learned all I needed to know about what happens to the characters. What happens next is up to me to decide as a reader, and I really like that. But, the writing up until that point had suggested that there might be a little more of a conclusion.

Having said that, the story still rates very highly for its ordinariness, its tragedy, its emotion. It’s a gut-wrenching read, and as I said before, there are no heroes, just ordinary people in exceptionally difficult circumstances. It’s a reflection on humanity, and for that it’s a powerful novel. And the writing style itself is outstanding!

It's cold and wet and I'm unmotivated.

All my plans to get up at 5am every morning, to write for two solid hours a day, to get to at least 25,000 words by the time I fly out… well, it’s not happening. Between the 13^th July and the 16^th July, I wrote nothing. I thought about writing, if that counts, and I researched (and that does count), but I didn’t write a thing. For the week or two before that, I got very little done as well. In my defense, I had a busy weekend with family… however, if I were a dedicated writer, I’d have fitted in some time somewhere. The fact that I didn’t is what bothers me.

I had a burst of activity on the 17^th, on a sick day from work and the worst weather day this city has seen for decades. I stayed bundled up at home, half asleep, and eventually dragged the story out and started working on it at about 4pm. I managed around 1,400 words in a few hours of erratic bursts… but it got me started into the second chapter, and it’s boosted me up a lot.

Oddly enough (or maybe not odd at all), this chapter is taking a different direction from that which I intended. My protag is making his issues clearer, and what I thought would bother him actually isn’t it at all. I guess when I’m not writing my brain is still chugging over, thinking about things and processing alternatives. Still, I’m dissatisfied with my progress. It feels like I could do a whole lot better than I am doing.

I want to be a writer that writes every day. One who has a consistent pattern: who forces her butt into the chair no matter how tired she feels, or how unmotivated. Problem is, I *want*, but I don’t do. I engage in a cycle of creative bursts interspersed with long breaks where I have little energy (physical or creative). For the past week, even when I’m awake, I’ve felt tired. Exhausted actually, like my muscles are lead and my head is filled with cotton wool. It’s not so bad now as it has been, and my excitement for going to see Emily and staying with her for a month is helping a lot.

You know, I blame the weather. I struggle to maintain motivation during winter. I always have. My energy levels are, in a large way, determined by sunlight. If it’s a dark cloudy day, I sit around and watch tv or I sleep. If it’s a bright sunny day, I get up and do things. If the weather changes during the day, goes from bright sunny to dark and cloudy, my enthusiasm switches off.

In reflection, over the past two weeks I’ve felt mildly depressed. Having experienced depression in the past (and serious bouts of it), I can safely say that I’m not clinically depressed, but my energy and motivation is way down. And, that affects what I achieve and consequently my self-perception.

Maybe I have a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder… there I go with my self-diagnosis. But it’s a possibility, I guess. The past two weeks have thrown us into real winter. Bitter cold, darker days… until just now, I hadn’t put it all together, but it does make sense. Even as I sit here typing this it’s 8am on Thursday morning and there’s no sun, just a pale grey cloud blanket. I feel drugged. I could quite happily retreat to the bed and sleep all day.

But, whatever is going on with my moods, in three days time it won’t matter because I’m going to America for a month and it’s summer over there!

See, I’m feeling much better already!

BR: Prey (Michael Crichton)

Amazon Link: Prey

At times this book read more like ‘New Scientist’ than a novel, yet never once did it lose my attention. In fact, it kept me riveted! I don’t, however, profess to actually understanding it all… though I appreciated the general concepts. Seems that partially completed science degree came in handy for something.

Crichton injects a satisfying balance of humanity, frailty and courage to his protag. We meet Jack as an unappreciated house husband. An intelligent man, an expert in computer engineering using biological principles, he was unfairly dismissed from a high-tech silicon-valley company after becoming aware of a colleague’s impropriety. Before he could take action, he was fired and his reputation tarnished. Getting another job proves difficult, and now his life revolves around caring for his three children and deciding on what colour table napkins he should buy. It’s hardly satisfying, yet he takes to it with gusto and parents his children with a firm, fair hand.

His wife, an executive of Xymos, a nanotechnology company also based in Silicon Valley, begins to display unusual, erratic behaviour. Working long hours, belittling Jack, over-disciplining the children: Jack suspects her of having an affair, but he is unwilling to face her, or investigate counselling or legal options. His sister accuses him of being too passive. Yes, this might be true. Jack takes his wife’s abuse, apologises for things that are not his fault, and observes her unsettling behaviour with little attempt to counter it. He experiences self doubt, and uncertainty about his future, but no-one can blame him of this.

He is not a wimp, but somewhere along the way he lost control of his own direction, and he seems unsure of exactly how to get it back. The decision is made for him when Ricky, a senior subordinate in his old company, phones him for help. They are working on a project for Xymos, using code Jack created, and a small team that Jack used to lead. It’s an uncomfortable situation, but soon that’s the least of Jack’s concern. What begins is a roller-coaster ride for Jack, where he shows true courage and intelligence in a situation that is so horrific because it’s a scenario that is possible.

For action and high thrills, this novel delivers. For characterisation and seeing Jack overcome his inertia, it excels. Most of all, this novel is disarming. As a work of fiction based on scientific fact, the possibility of a scenario such as this actually occurring is not beyond the imagination. Therein lies the true merit of Crichton’s talent.

I walk away from this novel caring about Jack, horrified by what he experienced, encouraged by his strength of spirit and will. He is a smart man who shows true courage and the ability to think fast when faced with the unthinkable. Yet, he is not infallible, he's a 40 year old flabby gutted computer nerd with a family and a wife he barely recognises. He is an ordinary guy, and that’s what makes this work.

My only complaint, on reflection, is that the novel felt a little rushed. I believed how Jack worked things out, however when the action first started I momentarily felt as though I’d missed something. It's a minor gripe, but I wouldn’t have complained if the novel had been padded out with an extra 50 or so pages, in the centre somewhere, just to slow things down a little and allow me to better absorb the interrelationships and the science. But, this is a minor complaint. Overall, the novel is outstanding and I shall be looking for more stories from Michael Crichton… though maybe not those ones which I’ve already seen the movie for.

BR: Naomi's Story (Jon Casimir)

Book Link: Naomi's Story

This is a delightful, heart-warming read, something a little different from my usual choice of horror, psychological thriller and action. It’s nice to mix it up a bit. Throw in something different to the compost heap that is my writing mind.

Jon Casimir decides, even before his daughter is conceived, to keep a diary that he can pass on to her to show how loved she is. He never expected his wife, Helen, to experience such a traumatic pregnancy, and he never imagined that his baby would be born with serious health issues. Jon handles it well, but not without heart, tears and humour, and it’s his sensitivity and ability to keep his head up even when he and his wife are emotionally shredded, that makes this book a quality read. And, at times, he portrays himself in a less than bright light, and he is to be admired for his honesty.

From the outset, I fell in love with Jon’s writing style. His words flow easily; honestly, so raw that it’s hurts to witness his heartache, his helplessness to protect his baby from suffering. He carries this as a crushing weight at times, feeling that his role of protector and father is denied because of something he has done – some failure, weakness, inherent flaw that left his daughter vulnerable. It’s misplaced, of course, but guilt manifests in unfortunate ways, and when he asks a doctor which of the parents find it hardest to cope with child illnesses, it’s unsurprising to learn it’s the fathers.

In no way is this book maudlin. Jon’s humorous, dry sarcasm and self-depreciation lightens what could be a torturous read. He recognises how things could be so much worse, and aches for those who aren’t as fortunate as he and Helen… and Naomi.

The funniest part: as an Australian about to go to America for a month, I laughed out loud at Aussie-Jon visiting a Los Angeles supermarket just to ogle at the huge variety of cereals. I’m going to check this out myself. See if it really is true that the US excel at variety… I mean, how many types of cereal can there be? In a week and a half, I will find out for myself. I can’t wait!

Top-down writing

My enthusiastic idea of getting up at 5am every morning and writing for at least two hours every day hasn't worked out yet. I got sick. I feared it might be another form of procrastination, because my brain can be sneaky that way, but my brother is also ill with similar symptoms so I figure maybe it's a viral thing. It's still annoying though. All I want to do is sleep... and that won't pay the bills or get my novel written.

So, since my last blog posting, I've managed only a few hours scattered here and there. I have, however, managed to finish the first chapter. At just over 12,000 words it feels more like it should be split into two, but there isn't any logical place to split it. Em has read it and given me feedback and I can hardly stop smiling. She's always honest with me, and I trust her inherently... and, she represents my final reading audience. If it works for her, I know it works. And that is a great feeling! Finally, I feel as though I know Codee. Really know him, and it seems that is now evident in what I write. I can't even begin to explain how great that is!

I have also settled into a writing approach to each new chapter (each new scene). I'm using a top-down approach (to borrow a software development term). That is, when I start writing I know the starting point, the end point and an overview of what needs to happen in between. I put that all on the page, and often it's about 500 words or so. I then nibble into that depending on what takes my fancy. Over the following weeks (I'm hoping to get this down to one or two weeks rather than four or five), I flesh this out by building up each scene segment, layering, expanding and moving things around. I view the entire scene as individual blocks. I work on each block, commit myself fully to that single block, until I've got it as good as it can be. Then I move on to another block. I connect them as I go, or sometimes, if I'm struggling with a connection, I highlight the text in yellow and leave it, knowing I'll have to go back at the end.

It's an approach that I'm sure other writers use. It's not the 'keep writing and don't look back' approach that is often recommended. I've tried that approach, and it's just not me. Living each scene for several weeks is the only way I can really engage. It feels good to have reached this point, to finally know my writing style and be able to honour it. To know it works and the end product is something I am proud of.

Now, I just need to routinely get up at 5am and work for two solid hours every morning. Using this top-down approach every day will make my writing even stronger. I know it will. I just need the energy to be able to do it.

And now I'm reading...

I have started reading ‘Naomi’s Story’ by Jon Casimir. It’s loosely termed a pathography (true stories told by sufferers of illnesses or by those affected by the illness/death of a loved one). This book is Jon’s diary of anticipation leading up to, and experiences and emotions following, the birth of his first child. A little girl born with Oesophageal Atresia .

The book opens with: January 10. 9:46pm. Just impregnated your mother. Feeling good. Off to the pub to brag about it to my friends… Okay, none of this is strictly true (I have no friends), but it seems a good way to start.

And instantly I’m hooked. Jon’s natural, easy-going voice is immediately endearing. He’s a sweetie. I fear this guy is going to break my heart once the bad things start to happen, and this is a story where bad things do happen. I do not know the outcome, whether Naomi lives or dies. I hope (beyond all hope) that she lives, but I refuse to find that out until I have read this story. Reading Bryce Courtney’s ‘April Fool’s Day’ about his son’s heroic experiences with haemophilia was draining… but uplifting, I expect this to be the same. I just hope I don’t cry on the train. That could be embarrassing.

BR: Bag of Bones (Stephen King)

Slow moving, but generally worth the read. I quit halfway through, switched to an action novel which cleared my head and allowed me to continue the slow trudge.

The best thing about this novel, aside from reaching the end (660 pages… it could have been pared back to 450 and I would have been happy), was its intricacy. Almost everything tied in to the end. Of course, for a novelist like Stephen King, I would expect nothing less. However, I found the protag’s involvement left me feeling uneasy. Could Mike have figured everything out sooner and prevented much of the bloodshed? I found Mike to be too blasé about some of the things that happened to him, around him. Yes, they all turned out to have significance, but for a long while he ignored things that he really should have worked much harder to understand. Clues that he tried to find answers to, but then gave up.

In fact, he accepts (with little regret) that the answers were so close at hand but he was distracted from searching for them. Admittedly, the distractions were significant, but there were still large gaps where Mike could have picked up the puzzle pieces and figured things out. Another factor that detracted from my enjoyment was the (almost) apology that SK makes (through Mike) in the epilogue. I won’t ruin it for anyone who wishes to read, but Mike (who was a novelist) mused on the convenience of another character’s death. It neatened things up, removed him from a moral dilemma, and it did feel staged, as though SK couldn’t bring himself to allow this scenario to continue. It is said that a story tells something of the author, I wonder if this tells something of SK?

Mike was an enjoyable guy to get to know. He was real, human, and his reactions were, on the most part, believable. His pace and speed of reaction was slow, however it could be argued that the supernatural influences that bore down on him were smothering his natural inquisitiveness, his natural instincts.

I did enjoy the book, and I did care for Mike, but nowhere near as much as I care for most of DK’s characters. Mike was put upon, troubled by his wife’s death – maligned by it actually, however aside from this single event he had no other emotional depth. Mike’s only psychological hitch was his inability to ask for help, or to express his emotions to others. This was never explored, never explained – even to those whom were in grave danger and *should* have been informed of the potential threat. I expected Mike to journey through this, to be forced to ask for help at the end… but no, he continued to keep much of what was happening to himself and consequently tragedy befell those around him because of this selfishness. Was this a flaw on SK’s part? Did he put that in as a way to illustrate the type of man Mike was? I thought this would be Mike’s journey (growing up and learning to ask for help -- to let other people in to the struggles he endured), but no. Not at all. In fact Mike had no personal journey, he didn’t grow, he didn’t change, he just was.

Or, again, was this a tactic to show how the evil spirit controlled Mike, dominated and directed him? I’m not so sure… if it was a matter of control, then Mike could have been overpowered long before the climax.

DK’s characters grow and change. They learn. I think this is the basis of my dissatisfaction with SK. His characters don’t grow, they just are. The books I enjoy the most are those in which characters evolve. It's often subtle, but there is some kind of shift. Even ordinary guy turned into hero to save a loved one, or a hero revealed to have a deeper psychological impetus for his courageous drive, or a weak character who has to find strength to save themselves. No, not Mike. He just trundled along, self-absorbed, focussed on his own loss, his own desires.

Or is *that* the point? Does SK write characters who aren't entirely likeable? Though, I had the feeling we were meant to like Mike.

Even in ’48, with Hoke who killed without a backward glance, he had a journey. He stayed in that city for a reason, he endured the awful uncertainty and the constant threat of death for a personal reason, he wasn't just an adrenalin jock. We learn this at the end. That made me care for him, remember him… Mike Noonan, not so much.

I’m glad I finished the book. But I will focus on other writers for a while rather than attempting to return to another SK novel.

600 words

My 'write-all-day-Sunday' sort of flushed itself down the toilet. But my car is fixed, at least we hope it is. There were two things it could be, the coil or the distributor. Chris and Steve changed the coil, so now it's wait and see if that fixes it. The car starts, drives, runs fine... but it did this morning as well after it had been left to cool down overnight. So, we'll see.

Yes, writing... well, I got some done. 600 words to be exact, well, give or take. Not quite what I had hoped for, but it has been another busy day with the car, Chris, getting things ready to go overseas. It's surprising all the little things that have to be done... little things I didn't even think of. Like asking the neighbours to keep an eye on the house. Ross dropped by while Chris and Steve were fixing the car, so I nailed him! He'll keep an eye out for any big furniture trucks trying to take things away. It's a good street though, so I figure it'll all be okay.

The car breakdown brought a resolution to the 'what do to with Paddy' dilemma that has been causing some angst between my mother and I over the past few months. I now don't trust the car, and am unwilling to give it to her because I can't promise it won't break down. I told her, and she near danced (maybe she even did, she did sound awfully pleased!), she admitted she had been dreading having it, and so it's with much relief that I have a resolution to that. It means more travelling, and the car will stay down here while I'm away and I'll travel up to her before and after my trip, but that's okay. It's a final decision, and that's the main thing. Plus, it's mum's birthday the weekend before I fly out, so I'll go up and visit with her for the weekend, leave Paddy there and then have a whole week to mourn his absence before I fly out. I swear, I'll be phoning her every night for updates! He better behave!

Hopefully something can be worked out so he can be back here for when I return, otherwise it'll be six weeks where I won't have him with me, rather than just four. That'll be hard. Real hard. I'm missing him already and he's asleep under my feet right now, my foot rubbing his belly.

Realistically, I don't expect to get much writing done between now and flying out. But I'll try to squeeze some in, here and there. No reason for me not getting lots of reading done though... especially on the plane. I just have to choose what book will be best... or books. Hmm... I'm sure I could get a lot of reading done in 24 hours. Who needs sleep? Eyeballs? Movement? Air!? Ack! I hate flying!! No, I lie. I like taking off and landing, but the bits in between are hard.

I'm not writing... why!?

It's Sunday morning and I have a whole (well, mostly) day to write. Yet, here I am updating my blog with titles from my bookshelf (yes, it's procrastination, but it's something I have wanted to do since I set up my blog... see, I can even justify this to myself!), wondering when my brother will come around to fix my car (so I can chatter with him and his mate), eyeing the kitchen and wondering if I should do some cooking/cleaning/eating, looking at Paddy and his sorrowful (take me walkies) face, figuring that the heating is on far too high cos I'm overly warm and really need to get out of my pyjamas and into something half decent... but most of all I NEED TO WRITE!

So, why aren't I?

I haven't written in almost a week. Or does it just feel that long? No, I think it is actually that long. And writing is like diving into a cold swimming pool when you haven't been swimming for quite some time. It takes some courage, and the initial immersion is a shock. There is truth in the advice of writing everyday, except I suck at that.

Okay, now it's almost 11am. Enough procrastination. I'm going to get dressed and get serious. I'll check in later with my revised word count... or tales of how I procrastinated the WHOLE day away!

BR: '48 (James Herbert)

Amazon Link: '48

This book opens with a bang, an exhilarating near-capture of the protagonist, Hoke, an American pilot living in war-ruined London amongst hundreds of thousands of time-charred corpses. In this novel, in 1945 Hitler unleashed a virus that decimated all blood groups except for AB type. Hoke has AB type blood, and he’s been on the run for three years from a slow-dying group of crazies known as Blackshirts… they want his blood for their leader (a blood transfusion which they believe will save his life and their own. It's false science, but logic and reason don’t mean much to these people. They will do anything to get that blood – to get Hoke.

The novel is fast paced and exhilarating. The scenes of death and suffering are shocking, but the descriptions never become stale. Herbert has a gift of making every scene vibrant, and the horrific, crumbling corpses that pervade almost every moment of these character’s lives, are newly disturbing every time I was faced with one (or dozens, as the case may be).

Hoke is a hardened man, he keeps his grief (and feelings) at a distance, but he is not inhuman, and as the novel progresses and the hunt becomes increasingly dire and complicated, Hoke is run ragged – physically and emotionally. It is late in the novel that we learn the truth of what he has endured, and it’s not pretty.

If I ever live to write action sequences even half as good as these, I’ll be a happy woman. But, until then, I’m going to search out more of James Herbert’s novels. His is a writing style that I could quickly learn to love.

On the negative, the novel is short, it is what I consider to be a thrill-and-spill, that is, it gets the blood pumping but doesn't leave a lasting impression. There is no deeper message here, at least I didn't gain one, and there's little emphasis on characterisation. This purely is action-adventure, and it works. It really does work. If I read too many of these kinds of novels though, I think I'd have a coronary. Maybe SK's slow pace isn't so bad afterall... sometimes.

Reading and writing (or not)

I've bundled up the Bag of Bones and set it to one side. At the station last night I had the choice to perservere with the (steady as she goes) book, or to pluck out one of my new shiny novels that I'd bought and start on it. Easy choice really, so now I'm reading '48. Wow! What a change of pace!! So much action that I may need a coronary bypass just to cope with it all. But it's good. Real good!

I updated my novel word count this morning, however I haven't written anything for a couple of days now. Work is crazy and my OLP has flared up which tends to wipe me out. My specialist thinks that another auto-immune condition is working behind the OLP to weaken my system which, in turn, causes the OLP to flare, but it's all rather vague. Like my brain at the moment. So, this weekend will be a break weekend. At least Saturday anyway. I'll aim to get back into the novel on Sunday.

Emily read the first part of my revised chapter one and her feedback gives me great confidence that I'm making the novel better, not worse. So that's hugely encouraging! It's hard work though. Such hard work. It was such a relief to learn that it's paying off. Even if I think I have driven myself into the ground.

So tomorrow, no writing at all. I plan to go shopping for a few things that I need for the States, plus I have to take my crazy pooch to the park, make sure not to slip and fall on my ass after all this rain (great for our catchments by the way, not so good for sure walking), and maybe I'll read, read, read, bum around, catch up with Em on chat (hopefully she'll be around), that kind of thing. But no writing. Just for one day. Sunday, however... I'll crack the whip on myself again.

At least that's the plan.

I've been book shopping!

I’m still reading Bag of Bones… it feels like I’ve been reading this book since the dawn of time! Which, I guess, clearly sums up my opinion of it. So, why am I still reading it? Because, as slow as it is going, and as much as my eyes glaze over while reading, the story is still progressing and it's interesting to gain insight into a writer's experiences. A published writer, that is. The protagonist is a novelist, well-published, and he's not unlikeable, it's just heavy on exposition. I trust that it will all have relevance later, but for now, it's tedious. I average 50 pages on the train (each way), so that’s 100 pages during my commute, and I figure if I can get another 100 pages done of an evening, then I’ll have its throat cut. Or I’ll be cutting my own throat, one or the other!

Had a seminar down the other end of the city this morning and it finished right on midday. Had to catch a tram back to work – a tram that (coincidentally) went past one of the city’s large bookstores. Irresistible attraction… so in I went. They were having a book-sale. I almost slipped in my own drool!

I bought (at bargain box prices) the following:

Gabriel’s Gift (Hanif Kureishi)
Golden Eyes (John Gideon)
Best Ghost Stories of Algernon Blackwood (Algernon Blackwood)
’48 (James Herbert)
The naked face (Sidney Sheldon)
Sarah’s Window (Janice Graham)
Carrie (Stephen King)

Yes, I know, I’m determined to read Stephen King. He’s a master, afterall, and Carrie is super thin compared to Bag of Bones. I figure I can manage it. And, I’ve seen the film, but years ago.

I also bought The Road (Cormac McCarthy) for a book reading group that I’ve joined (LitNerds). I paid full price for this book (gasp), but I joined the bookclub just as a reason to read this book. It looks amazing, dark and depressing and utterly hopeless. Just my cup of tea!

So, c'mon you ole Bag of Bones, hurry up and get finished!