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The Lost Blackbird by Liza Perrat

I’ll willingly admit to an interest here: Liza Perrat is an Australian writer married to a Frenchman and living in France, and I’m a fan. What you get with Liza is an Australian straightforwardness that draws you into her books and says: ‘This is real life as lived by real people.’ And it is. Real people aren’t always nice people, and Liza does not shy away from that. She shows you what people do and why they do it and she leaves the judging to you.

The Lost Blackbird is the story of two young English sisters, Lucy and Charlotte known as Charly, who lose their home and their mother after their father’s death. You see him die and you think you know the whole story. You may be in for a surprise, but there are no spoilers in my reviews. They are taken into a Catholic orphanage in London and from there they sail to Australia to start a new life. The new life is not what they were led to believe it would be.

It would be easy at this distance to see The Lost Blackbird as an indictment of the Australian authorities – but that would be only part of the story. What it really is is an indictment of relationships between adults and children. At the time the story is set ( the early 1960s, so we’re not talking about the distant past) children still had the same rights in practice as children in the days of Charles Dickens. No-one listens to Lucy and Charly – the people who should be making sure their lives are okay are too busy taking note of the views of adults who, if we’re frank, don’t give a toss about the girls; they are happy to pay lip service to any set of decent values you might choose, but lip service is all it is. Have things improved today? I’m really not sure that we can claim that.

In the hands of a less than stellar writer, this book could be very heavy going. The fact that it isn’t is the product of Liza Perrat’s great skill as a writer. It will make you angry that adults could treat the vulnerable as they do here, but you won’t want to stop reading. Recommended without reservation.

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The Second Time Around by Gloria Antypowich

I know there are people in the UK who look down on the Romance genre. There are also people who look down on the horror, sci-fi, fantasy and religious/inspirational genres. I think this has to do with the snobbery that has been part of publishing in this country since the nineteenth century. Part of that snobbery says, “If it sells, then lots of people like it and, if a lot of people like it, it can’t be any good.” That would apply to all of the genres I just mentioned, because they are among the five largest money spinning genres – and Romance is right at the top. Romance pulls in more money than any other genre. And good writing is good writing, whatever the genre. So, instead of belittling it, let’s take a moment to think about what makes a good romance. And if we want to do that, Gloria Antypowich is a very good place to start. Because The Second Time Around is an object lesson in how to construct a romance. It’s also an illustration that not everything you hear about Romance genre tropes is correct.

Gloria wastes no time in introducing the two central characters (a man and a woman – there’s a market, too, for every other romantic combination you can think of and a number you probably can’t, but Gloria is mainstream. Or straight. Or whatever you want to call it). Not every romance features a pair whose hearts have been broken, but that probably describes the majority and it’s certainly what we have here – and Gloria wastes no time, either, in apprising us of what caused the breakage. Then she moves them into a position where they cannot fail to meet and, as we will have expected the moment we turned the first page, creates a situation in which they absolutely detest each other.

So far, so formulaic; where Antypowich scores so heavily is in the skill with which she pencils in the characters and the background (which is Western Canada, ranching, farming and the rodeo – not surprisingly, because that is also the author’s background. She knows the people and the place she’s writing about). I mentioned tropes; one very well-established romance trope is: Everyone else may be having it away but for the principal characters there can be no sex until they have it with each other. Antypowich sticks to that for her female lead, but the guy gets up to all sorts of stuff your Aunt Mabel would not have approved of. He does, though, in the end realise that the woman he’s been fighting against is the only one for him and we get our Happy Ever After. The trend in romance today is towards Happy For Now, but this author is more traditional than that. But none of that happens until a series of new obstacles has been placed in the way, each of which is obviously the final nail in this romance’s coffin and each of which is somehow overcome.

It’s Romance writing at its very best – and if you don’t like it because you never read it, you’re missing something. Remember how, when you were young, you didn’t eat something because you didn’t like it, and you didn’t like it because you’d never eaten it? You’re doing it again.

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The Silent Kookaburra by Liza Perrat

The Silent Kookaburra is not an easy read. Extremely well written, it demands to be read with the same concentration as went into writing it. And it repays the effort. What this book does is to trace the evolution of Australia from place of safety to one that knows that the safety was always an illusion. It presents the story first from the point of view of eleven-year-old Tanya; the tragedy is already there, implicit in the knowledge that the adult reader can see what the child cannot and the adult reader knows what is going to happen to the girl. At the end, Tanya is herself an adult who not only understands now what she did not understand as a child but also presents us with a shocking ending that we feared but hoped would not happen. Perrat does not shrink from showing us the worst of human nature, though she leavens the mix with humour, and leaves us always uncertain whether we are seeing simple vileness or the results of mental illness. It is, as I say, not an easy read – but a very worthwhile one.

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Old Filth by Jane Gardam

Old Filth by Jane Gardam

5 Stars. Stunning. Brilliant. A tour de force by a brilliant writer

Just occasionally, you read a book that has attained absolute perfection. It doesn’t happen often – once a year if you’re lucky (and I average more than 100 novels in a year). This is one such. The author leads us (and misleads us) through a whole life in which she forces us to care desperately about the man leading it and all around him, and presents us at the end with something utterly unexpected that, nevertheless, could not have been otherwise. Stunning. Magnificent.

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Towards the Vanishing Point by Jan Turk Petrie

Before reading this I read all three of the author’s Eldísvík novels and before that I read Too Many Heroes, so I guess you could call me a Jan Turk Petrie fan. What I like most is the way she creates real, believable characters and then carries them forward in a plot that makes sense and doesn’t get lost on the way. In Towards the Vanishing Point, she’s done it again. The author’s photograph suggests she isn’t old enough to remember the 1950s in England, but I do. It was a dishonest decade, ten years that we’re lucky to be rid of, and Petrie captures it as though she lived through the whole thing. I look forward to her sixth book.

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(NOT) WRITING ABOUT SEX

Writing about sex
Reading about sex should make you smile – not gag

5-star writer Jill Marsh recently drew attention on Facebook to a Guardian link to the Literary Review’s annual awards for the worst writing about sex (Bad Sex Awards). I wouldn’t have seen this because the level of dishonesty in this country since the referendum has reached a level that means I no longer read newspapers, but I was grateful to be pointed at this article.

There is a description of the sex act as a vaginal ratchet swallowing a boa constrictor. Frankly, I hope I never meet a woman with a vaginal ratchet. Just imagine the damage something like that could do. And the thing about a boa constrictor is that it bends and wraps itself in loops, which at the moment this writer is describing is the last thing either party wants to happen. James Frey thinks the bathroom sink is a good place to have sex (I refuse to use the expression ‘making love,’ because that’s not what they’re doing). For Julian Gough, finding a female nipple in his mouth as an adult recalls being breast-fed as an infant. (Giving away more about yourself than you intended there, Julian). Haruki Murakami describes an ejaculation so powerful the sheets are sticky. (You have to spend the night in those sheets, Haruki. Unless, of course, you’re planning to clear off as soon as you’re done – which would not be nice behaviour, Haruki). Luke Tredget imagines being ‘slurped’ like a stick of rock. And so on…and on.

 In my house, ‘What dis shit, ma’an?’ has become the standard response to something not understood

But why? It’s many years since I lived in the West Indies, but I still cherish the memory of a question asked by a surprised Trinidadian: What dis shit, ma’an? In my house, that has become a standard response to something someone does not understand. And I don’t understand what these writers think they are doing – or why they are doing it.

Are you a novelist? Or a sex therapist?

If you have either been commissioned or have decided to write a sex manual, then explaining the mechanics of the act is likely to be necessary– though I suggest you don’t refer to vaginal ratchets because that would call your knowledge into question. If you are writing a novel, then sex is quite likely to come into it – but that doesn’t mean your reader is looking for a detailed description. As well as making love, your characters will eat, shower and urinate. And you can make it clear that all of those things happen without the need to explain how they do it.

As it happens, writing about sex is something we discussed at the November ALLi meeting in Cheltenham. My offering was from my book The Making of Billy McErlane. There are two things you need to know as background:

  1. Billy and Poppy were boyfriend and girlfriend at school, and the relationship was chaste. They were separated by events but have now met again after several years, they are in love, and they know that they would like to consummate their relationship
  2. Way back then, Poppy asked Billy, ‘How much do you love me?’ and Billy didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t think of any way to measure love, so he asked, ‘How much do you love me?’ and Poppy answered, ‘Up to the sky and down again a million times.’

So here they are, and they know that they want to get it on, and so does the reader. This is how it happens (the book is written in the first person):

She walked round the flat looking at things while I made coffee. After she’d taken her first sip she said, ‘It’s decision time, Billy.’
‘That makes me very nervous.’
‘Oh, I’ve made mine. It’s you, Billy—you’re the one who has to decide. Is this for ever? Or just a nice interlude?’
My heart beat fast. ‘It’s for ever, Popps.’
She nodded. ‘When you got out of prison, did they give you your condoms back?’
‘Eh? Oh, I…’
‘I’m asking if you’ll keep me safe, Billy. I still don’t want a baby.’ Her eyes came up to hold mine. ‘Not till I’m married.’
‘I’ll take care of you.’
‘You’ll be gentle, won’t you?’
I wrapped my arms round her. I kissed her: on the forehead; on the cheek; on the throat; on the lips. She kissed me back. She eased herself out of my grasp, took my hand and led me towards the bedroom. Just before she gave herself to me she said, ‘How much do you love me?’
‘Up to the sky and down again, a million times.’
‘You’d better, Billy Mac. You’d better.’

“Just before she gave herself to me.” That’s the sex scene. That’s it. That’s all the reader gets. It’s all the reader needs. My job as a writer is to get inside the characters’ heads and show what they are thinking and feeling in a way that the reader will understand. My job is not to describe the nuts and bolts of the sex act. I assume that the reader knows what people do when they go to bed together with love in their hearts but, if the reader doesn’t know, it isn’t my job to explain it.

And it certainly is no part of a writer’s job to talk about vaginal ratchets and boa constrictors. To the question, Why do people write that stuff? I would add, Why do people read it? I don’t know how many copies that book sold and I don’t know who bought it – but I’m fairly clear that I don’t want those readers.

John & Elvis by Matthew Langford

John and Elvis

I’ve been an Elvis fan since Heartbreak Hotel and a Beatles fan since Love Me Do. The number of books and articles I’ve read about both of them should probably embarrass me. You might think that I wouldn’t need to read any more, but John and Elvis by Matthew Langford takes a different approach and I recommend it to anyone interested in those times and those guys. What Langford has done that is different is to get inside the heads of both John Lennon and Elvis Presley in a way that makes you feel you understand why they did what they did in a way you hadn’t understood it before. I guess the best way of describing the book is that it’s a cross between a documentary and a novel – though a very fact-based novel.

It would be difficult to read this book without coming to the conclusion that Presley was as mad as a hatter and Lennon (to put it mildly) differently sane – but that’s probably inevitable when you reach that level of fame. Lennon pooh-poohs the very idea of religion but thinks it entirely rational to plan major life events on the basis of a study of numbers. Presley meets Ronald Reagan and finds himself wondering whether Soviet brainwashers have got at the President. (That’s right – Ronald Reagan. It would be difficult for most of us to imagine a less likely candidate).

When you get to the end of this book, you feel you’ve learned something about both Lennon and Presley that you didn’t know before. (You’ve also learned a few things about Paul McCartney, and a few others from that time). That doesn’t happen very often nowadays when you’re reading about people who have already been so thoroughly explored in print.

Strongly recommended.

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Where Are They? And why haven’t we found them yet? by Steven Lazaroff and Mark Rodger


This could be the best non-fiction book I’ve ever read.

I bought this book because I had previously bought and enjoyed History’s Greatest Deceptions and Confidence Scams. That book wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough that I wanted to see what they’d written next. And I am so glad I did. Where Are They? shows what happens when writers gain confidence in what they are doing. This book soars to the heights – both in its subject matter and literally, as a masterpiece in conveying information.
The title comes from physicist Enrico Fermi who said, about theories that Earth should already have received extraterrestrial visitors and yet no convincing evidence of a visit existed, “Where is everybody?” The universe should be teeming with civilisations at one level of development or another – so where are they?
The book examines all the current theories that have been developed to answer this question. It takes no sides. It simply sets out the present state of knowledge. But it does so in the most brilliant, beautiful prose. So brilliant that I would recommend this book even to readers with no interest in the search for alien intelligence, simply because they will enjoy the limpid prose and the humour with which the arguments are presented.
Here is an example:

‘Imagine that you are in the same position as one of those alien astronauts being tapped up for a journey to Earth from the galaxy MACS0647-JD. It’s 13.3 billion light years away, so – if your civilisation has developed a form of transportation that will travel at the speed of light – the time spent on the journey is unimaginable. Would you want to do it? Leave the kids, your husband and your book club knowing that at the end of your journey you would encounter a civilisation a few hundred millennia less developed than yours? And that you couldn’t get home for nearly 27 billion years at the earliest, by which time your planet would in all possibility have come to the end of its life? And that, when you arrived on Earth, your body would have been renewed some eighty times, so you wouldn’t really still be you at all?’

Not a single prominent theory about the evolution of life forms has been left out. It’s also clear that the authors take a dim (they would probably say “realistic”) view of humanity’s fitness to receive visitors from another civilisation.
I’ll say it again: this could be the best non-fiction book I’ve ever read. Do yourself the most amazing favour and READ IT.

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An Open Letter To The 20-Year-Old Faceless Girl On My Book Cover

As ever, Tara Sparling talks a lot of sense. The answer to the problem: take control of your own covers. Which you can only do by taking control of your own publishing. When I wrote Sharon Wright: Butterfly, I fell in love with Sharon. As I’ve said elsewhere, that would be a stupid thing to do, because Sharon woos the way a female mantis might — knowing that, when she’s done with him, the male may have to die. Scratting through pics of all sorts of women, I came on one that precisely embodied all the cunning, deceiving amorality I had put into this character — and that’s the pic that appears on the front of the book. God knows what a regular publisher’s marketing people would have done with the book — but I’m quite sure they wouldn’t have captured the true essence of Sharon.

Tara Sparling writes

Open Letter To The 20-Year-Old Faceless Girl On My Book Cover

I know it isn’t technically your fault. You didn’t ask to be there.

One day you’re just a working model standing on a beach, a clifftop, a bridge, or under a lamppost; the next, you’re blazing across bookshelves and bookshop windows, the cover girl of a bestseller.

I know you were just thinking to earn a few quid, getting your photograph taken whilst preserving your anonymity (because your job is to never face the camera, and girl, are you GOOD at that). You didn’t ask to be the Faceless Representative Of All Femininity. And yet, here you are.

Or rather there you are, your twenty-year-old legs firmly planted on the soil of whichever dreamy landscape was photoshopped around you. There you are, your twenty-year-old arms lithe and long, clutching that old-fashioned handbag, quaintly addressed letter, or hand of a small child. There you are, facing away from me, your slim and trim twenty-year-old body…

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