BR: Hatchet (Gary Paulsen)

Amazon Link: Hatchet

Brian, a thirteen year old boy en-route to his father’s home in Canada, survives a plane crash that kills the pilot. Injured, alone, relying on his wits, memories of wilderness survival programs he has seen and hints he has been taught, and with only a hatchet given to his by his mother, he must find food, shelter, inner courage to prevail. He does and his story, though rushed and simply told, is effective.

Brian learns about his environment through observation and error. He notes the day he transitions from the old Brian – a city boy, ill-bred for the hostile wilderness and destined to succumb to his surroundings – to an intuitive, attuned being whom is at-one with nature, able to hunt, interpret, evade.

At the conclusion of the story Brian retrieves the survival pack from the plane, a feat made possible by a violent storm. The pack provides a bounty of equipment, dehydrated food, provisions that would see him survive much longer, if not for the onset of winter, and a fortuitous rescue.

At the beginning of the story the reader is informed that Brian’s parents are divorcing. He focuses on this, replaying the preceding events over in his mind, trying to attribute blame, and to understand it. This aspect of the story seems forced, inserted to strengthen Brian’s character maybe, except to me it felt awkward. The story would have been stronger without it.

In all a quick, entertaining read. ** out of ***** stars.

My novel has a title!

This weekend Em and I work-shopped and I now have a title for my novel. I’m ecstatic! Twenty-Six Days had worked as an interim title however it didn’t encapsulate the tone and theme. The new title does. We were so delighted with what we both achieved (me with a title and she with a clearer structure) that we rewarded ourselves with a night off, and then a day off to go book-shopping. The day off was somewhat unplanned and no fault of Em’s, I was too lazy to get working so we went out instead. Also, I blame the sunshine. Melbourne doled out the most perfect blue sky today. It would have been sinful to have wasted it. So, we trawled several discount second-hand stores for books, even stooping so low as to drop in at the local rubbish tip recycling centre. Our efforts paid off. For under $100 we netted over 40 books. And I even managed to tick one off my wish-list.

On the novel progress front, things are going well. See, how generic a statement is that!? But it is true. I’m feeling comfortable and confident about where my boy is at – although he most definitely is neither comfortable nor confident with his predicament, poor boy. I’m finalizing chapter seven and have a rough sketch of some of the dialogue for chapter eight. I envisage the word-count to run to about 120,000 words which I then will pare back. My estimation skills are sorely lacking though, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it makes 150,000 before I consider it to be ‘done’.

Honestly, I can’t imagine it being finished, though I know that it will be. I can’t imagine not having this character in my head, nor can I imagine how the story will be resolved. I have an outline, a structure, an impression of how the novel will conclude, but not the detail. I can envisage the climax – I can see the two main players, I can even feel the atmosphere but what they will say, how it will play out, what will ultimately happen is unchartered territory. I joke to Em that I’m not even sure that the protag will survive, but I hope he will. I imagine I will write several alternate endings until I hit upon the one that resonates. I’m excited about that, yet in no great hurry to get there. I must cover a lot of ground before I’m ready to tackle the ending.

I feel sure that one day this novel, or a novel that I write, will be published. It no longer feels like a dream, but rather an eventual reality. I have Em to thank for that – for believing in me, for encouraging me, for enabling me to see that my writing has merit. Will I ever make enough money from writing to quit work and write full-time? I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d ever want to. As much as I resent work, it offers a valuable mind-switch away from my characters. There’s only so much of my boy I can take at any one time. I love him dearly, but he does my head in.

On our trip to Tasmania this past weekend, we stopped in at a town called Penguin.

I fell in love with the place. It was the first town we stopped in and we watched the sun rise across Bass Strait. I imagined retiring there – having a little house, a dog, some chickens, vegetables, a little writing/reading group and a regular ferry-crossing to the mainland to keep in touch with family and friends. It’s a dream. An expensive, out of reach dream at the moment, but a dream nonetheless. I even bought a small stuffed penguin that is a fabric symbol of this dream. If I ever do this, then I won’t be the first writer to have kicked off from the mainland to take up residence on the Apple Isle. It’s the type of place that invites creativity: quiet, friendly, wild – my kind of paradise.