Attrib. and other stories – Eley Williams

I should start with a confession: I love Eley Williams’ work. I’ve loved it since ‘Smote (or When I Find I Cannot Kiss You In Front Of A Print By Bridget Riley)’ was shortlisted for The White Review Prize in 2015. It’s a story I read repeatedly when I was trying to work out whether my own writing was experimental or not and it’s heart-stoppingly beautiful. It’s not even the best piece in Williams’ debut collection.

Williams’ stories are primarily concerned with three things: language, love (in many forms) and animals. These three things are woven together in almost every story.

The collection begins with ‘The Alphabet (or Love Letters or Writing Love Letters, Before I Forget How To Use Them or These Miserable Loops Look So Much Better On Paper Than In Practice)’. The plot of this is not and will not be obvious begins the narrator. It’s such a bold statement I wonder whether it’s an intention for the collection. With regards to the story, it’s because the narrator has aphasia.

I completely lost it (the plot, not the glasses – they’re only mislaid) about two weeks ago around the same time that I mislaid you. If you were here you would make a filthy joke about my use of that word, about you being miss laid. Scratch that, then. Screw it or unscrew that work out of place. Two weeks ago is when I lost it – the plot – round about the same time that you were not mislaid by me but were misplaced. When you misplaced me. Two weeks ago is when we ceased to converge by the bedside table, beneath the sofa, by the fridge.

There’s a point towards the end of this piece where I’ve noted ‘There’s a real emotional oomf in this’, the loss of not just words but a lover, the two tied together as though they would be the worst two things to happen at the same time, which, for a lover of words, they just might be.

Williams uses a lot of humour in her work. The set up for ‘Alight at the Next’ is funny in itself: the narrator wants to ask their date to come home with them. They’re just working up to the speech they’ve composed to deliver in time with the slowing motion of the train

when the doors are opening and you are standing closer to me than you ever have, and I have been counting, and measuring, and the doors have opened and

 / / a man / / pushes on / / to get inside / / the carriage / / before I’ve had time / / to step down

so without thinking and certainly without hinges I am holding out my hand and placing a finger in the middle of his forehead.

The rest of the story takes place while the narrator holds the man by his forehead, preventing him from embarking.

As for the animals, well, look away if you’re an animal lover…

In many ways my workplace is the loveliest in the whole country. They are still songbirds, after all, even when they are screaming in the pot.

so begins ‘Fears and Confessions of an Ortolan Chef’. In ‘Bulk’ a whale’s body is washed up on the beach; in ‘Mischief’ we encounter a rat trained to detect landmines, and in the final story of the collection, ‘Spins’ (shortlisted for The White Review Prize 2014), a spider weaves its web in the corner of the room an hour after the narrator’s lover has left them. A tip for beginners: spiders are not great conversationalists.

Williams’ work is clever, funny and thoughtful without being pretentious but what makes Attrib. and other stories one of the best books I’ve read so far this year is the huge beating heart at the centre of it all. There were points in some of the stories where I was so willing the narrator on in their quest to connect with someone that I found I couldn’t breathe. It’s a sign of a great writer when they can make you care so deeply about an unnamed fictional creation. Williams is a great writer and I have no doubt there’s even better to come from her.

I interviewed Eley about the collection, the state of the short story and completing creative work as part of a PhD thesis.

Did Eley insert a made up word in her collection?

You can buy Attrib. and other stories from Amazon and Waterstones or support your local independent book shop. If, like me, you don’t have one, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Eley for the interview and to Influx Press for the review copy.

All the Good Things – Clare Fisher

I was trying to figure out how to tell him that earning £7 an hour was the opposite of fun. That having to smile all day at people, some of whom were rude, others of whom were nice, most of whom just looked through you as though you were a human shaped machine, emptied the ‘you’ out of you. That having £2 left over when you’ve paid your bills and bought your food and the odd drink in Wetherspoon’s doesn’t bring much relief, because what about next month? What if you get less shifts next month? What if you lose your Oyster Card? What if someone jacks your purse with your last £20? What if one of the soles you’ve been walking around for months with holes in finally falls off? What then?

21-year-old Beth is in prison. We meet her after her counsellor, Erica, has asked her to write a list of good things about herself. Beth’s response to this is to call it ‘retarded’; Fisher uses this as a way to quickly reveal both Beth and Erica’s personalities. Erica asks her to explain the use of the word, while Beth protests that she’s ‘not a retard’ becoming defensive. Once Erica begins to explain the word to her, there’s a glimpse of how scared and vulnerable Beth is.

Each chapter is titled with the good thing Beth is writing about, for example, chapter two is ‘Running until your body is a good place to be’ in which Beth reveals herself to a talented runner. Besides metaphorically, this can never come to anything because of course Beth’s mum and subsequent foster carers can’t afford to buy her good equipment, take her to meets and so on. But it is Beth’s behaviour which sees her thrown out of the school club. She relates times when she mimicked the coach in the changing room:

Behind me I heard a sad screech, like the ones cats make when you step on their tails. It was the coach she’d seen me […] I wanted to run out to the coach and tell her I was sorry and that my favourite way of falling asleep was to replay all the good things she’d said to me, but I’d never said anything like that to anyone, and I didn’t know how to start.

Each of Beth’s journal entries are written to her child who she no longer sees. On family days, she is the only inmate of the group she hangs around with who doesn’t have any visitors.

Fisher shows how the system fails vulnerable people. While teachers and social workers and foster carers do their best, there are cracks large enough for someone to fall through: what if someone decides fostering isn’t for them? What if a foster carer becomes ill? What if a social worker leaves and isn’t replaced immediately? What if a teacher tries to report something within their own school and is told it’s been resolved? By writing the novel in Beth’s voice, Fisher explores all of these things without it becoming a polemic. The reader sees and understands the things happening to Beth, even if Beth doesn’t fully understand the mechanisms herself.

Beth’s voice is convincing and also prevents Fisher from making the novel sentimental. The closest it comes is when Beth reads Of Mice and Men to one of the other inmates so she can talk to her teenage son about it, who’s studying it at school. It’s a beautiful and heart-breaking section of the book.

Some of Beth’s behaviour is bad and shocking but even at its worst, we can see what’s led to it. There’s a perfect metaphor for this towards the end of the book. Beth has attempted to run away from her life but, not knowing what else to do, she finds herself back on a train to London without a ticket.

‘No,’ I said. The part of me I lied with had run out. ‘No, I don’t have a ticket. I’ve never had one.’
‘But you have to,’ he said. ‘You have to get one before you board.’
‘I tried,’ I said. ‘I’ve been asking for one. My whole fucking life I’ve been asking. But they wouldn’t give one to me.’
The inspector raised his eyebrows and I wondered, was I meant to know him? Was he some uncle I didn’t remember?
That,’ he said, ‘I find very hard to believe. Leicester is well served for ticket offices.’
‘You don’t get it,’ I said, and at this point, I felt other people looking at me. I peered around the old man and yep, sure enough, the strangers in the next scene were looking up from their phones and their Kindles. ‘None of you do. You never will.’

All the Good Things is perfectly timed considering the state of the society we’re living in.

All the Good Things is out now and available from Amazon, Waterstones or your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t an independent near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Viking for the review copy.

The Writes of Woman Interviews Salena Godden

If you’re active on social media or a regular at live spoken word events, it’s unlikely you won’t have heard of Salena Godden. It seems as though she’s been everywhere – geographically and media wise – for the last few years and with good reason. A regular (and when I say regular I mean practically every night) on the spoken word scene, 2016 also saw her included in the bestselling, award winning essay collection The Good Immigrant while the beginning of 2017 brought a shortlisting for the Ted Hughes Award for the album LIVEwire.

LIVEwire is a mixture of poems and extracts of prose (from Godden’s memoir Springfield Road). It’s a mixture of live performances and studio recordings. It’s a mixture of unaccompanied and accompanied (Godden sings during some pieces) verse.

It begins with ‘Swan’, a tale of a relationship between two people grown old together, ‘We never agree about the temperature, maps and train timetables’. It prepares the listener for the thread about relationships which runs through the collection, not just romance as in ‘You Like that One’ about the dating scene and ‘Snooker’ where Godden uses snooker as a metaphor for being hit on in a bar but also friendship. In ‘Under the Pier’ teenage girls hang out drinking and talking. This is the softer side of Godden’s work and makes an interesting contrast to the more political pieces (small and capital ‘p’).

Politics emerges as both public and personal in the collection. There are direct responses to the Paris attacks in ‘November, Paris Blue’, ‘It stinks the way they continue to lie and conspire, to make money, to trade arms, enslave and murder people’ and ‘Titanic’, which initially appears to be about the Kate Winslet/Leonardo DiCaprio starring film but takes a swift turn part-way through, ‘I used to love that film Titanic…but now it looks like the Channel 4 news’. Winslet is mentioned again in ‘Public Service Announcement’:

Kate Winslet has had three children from three different fathers
Three children from three different fathers
She has clearly been doing what the fuck she likes with her own vagina.
We have contacted her
We have scrutinised her choices
And we’ve gone through her bins

There is a feminist streak which runs through Godden’s work, although she’s not uncritical of the movement itself; ‘My Tits Are More Feminist than Your Tits’ parodies the in-fighting which take place on social media and in the press as to who’s doing feminism right.

Godden’s delivery varies from solemn to shouty, the contrast striking a good balance for the listener. The moments where she shouts lines, often repeatedly, carry a real punch and appear to be Godden at both her most passionate and her funniest. In ‘I Want Love’, written 20 years ago when she was 20, Godden descends into laughter as she sends up her younger self. She demonstrates an understanding of humanity – the good, the bad and the ugly – and also a self-awareness which means the human behind the words is often present, providing a connection to the points Godden’s making, however shocking.

LIVEwire has something for everyone. Whether you’re a seasoned reader of poetry/a regular on the poetry scene or someone new to the form looking for a way in. It’s a joy to listen to the capture of Godden’s live performances, the passion with which she delivers her thoughts. I can’t recommend her work highly enough.

I interviewed Salena Godden in Manchester last month. The photographs were taken by Matt Abbott.

You can find Salena on her blog, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

You can buy LiveWIRE from Amazon
Springfield Road from Amazon or Waterstones
The Good Immigrant from Amazon, Waterstones or support your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t one near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Salena Godden and Matt Abbott for the interview and to Nymphs and Thugs for the review copy.

“It’s important that writers remain dangerous.’ Arundhati Roy at Manchester Literature Festival

It’s a sunny evening in Manchester as I arrive at the Royal Northern College of Music for ‘An Evening with Arundhati Roy’. It’s one of a number of events which Manchester Literature Festival run throughout the year and it’s clear from many audience members that we’re excited to see a big star of world literature brought to the city.

The evening begins with a six minute video, an introduction to Roy’s second novel The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, created by her friends. It introduces us to lines from the book and the sights and sounds of its setting.

Roy comes on stage to huge applause. When it begins to die down, she says, ‘Thank you so much and congratulations on the [M]omentum’, fist raised. Once the second round of applause dies down, she reads from the book.

The interview’s conducted by journalist Rachel Cooke who begins by asking if The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is the result of everything that’s happened since the first novel – twenty years of political activism – and how the two books connect?

‘In the case of books, the newer one is the older sister,’ says Roy. However she does go on to say that Anjum would be the child of Estha and Rahel if they’d had a child. Writers get fascinated by certain things, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is the result of twenty years of travelling into and looking at stories deliberately kept out of narratives.

Cooke comments that Roy’s been writing polemics, essays with specific targets, since The God of Small Things; how did she find the quiet space to write a novel?

Roy begins by saying that a few months after The God of Small Things won the Booker Prize, the government in India changed and moved sharply to Hindu nationalists. Public discoursed changed in light of this and the previously unacceptable became acceptable. Writing essays deepened her way of seeing. Solidarity is important, she says. What she does best is telling the story of struggles and blowing open closed down spaces.

‘Fiction is not an argument, fiction is a universe.’ The characters began to populate her house and she wrote in chaos. ‘Nothing terrifies me more than when people offer me retreats.’

How does the book emerge?

Roy says, ‘The world is like a city’. There are new parts, old parts, blind allies and winding roads. She thinks there are ways of trying to domesticate a novel in publishing but each of the things that form fundamental parts in the novel don’t have power. She says there’s an urge in work to specialise and compares it to an NGO funding proposal. ‘A novel can break that and put it all on the table.’

Cooke comments that this demands patience. How much control does Roy have? Is she the ringmaster?

Roy had conversations with the characters but wasn’t the ringmaster. ‘Why you fly a kite, you have to let it go and then rein it back in.’ She says that the city is a character in its own right, a walled city which turns into a big modern metropolis. She wanted the background to become the foreground sometimes. This isn’t a television series, there is a combination of controlling and letting go.

Anjum was ‘born a hermaphrodite’ says Cooke. Are the hijra a metaphor for India and turmoil?

[I have an issue with the use of the term ‘hermaphrodite’ as it’s a pejorative and outdated term. It also isn’t a direct translation of hijra, which is India’s third gender and more akin to an intersex person or a transgender person, depending on their gender identity. I’ll comment further when I review the book.]

Roy sidesteps the question somewhat by stating that Anjum moves in with people of diverse genders and religions. All the characters have ‘incendiary bodies’ running through them. One character, for example, converts to Islam and calls himself Saddam Hussein. Characters are on the border of caste and religious conversion. There’s a fine mesh of divisions designed to preclude any type of solidarity.

Cooke says that Roy has an ‘almost dreamlike’ way of describing violence and that the book cuts dramatically to the war in Kashmir. She asks about writing these sections.

Anjum has had terrible things happen to her because she’s a Muslim. Roy describes the violence in Kashmir as ‘egregious’. ‘You can’t actually tell the truth about Kashmir except in fiction.’ She says there are the Indians who allow it and celebrate it and the Kashmiris who live with it. It’s the most densely populated militarised zone in the world. What does it do to the air? What does it do to the mind? What does it do to survival? What does it do to the living who become the dead? ‘It’s turned a fighting force into a bloated administration.’ What does the moral corruption do eventually?

What kind of time is it to be a writer in India? How does she think the novel will be received there?

There isn’t one single reaction, she says. There is ‘so much unrest in the universities’, the opposition has crumbled. ‘We’re set to go through a pretty dark time.’ In literature and art anything can happen. ‘One has to do what one has to do.’ A novel is never about an immediate utilitarian political goal, she didn’t write it thinking about those people, she says.

Cooke’s final question is whether it’s going to be another twenty years before the next novel?

‘Who knows. I never felt to was my duty to keep writing books. I don’t know what’s going to happen.’ Roy says she’s laid back about writing and that she allows things to take their time.

The discussion opens to audience questions, of which I’ll cover a selection.

Why’s the book dedicated to John Berger?

Berger was a friend of Roy’s, he understood the connection between her fiction and her non-fiction work, describing them as ‘the two legs you walk on’. He was the only person who knew the title of her second novel years ago and called her ‘Utmost’. He referred to himself as ‘Jumbo’ after a day he told Roy to imagine him standing behind her, as an elephant, flapping his ears to keep her cool. She says that The Ministry of Utmost Happiness was the last book Berger read before he died.

What’s the role of journalists in current society?

Roy refers to a modified version of the Finley Peter Dunne quotation, ‘it is the duty of a newspaper to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable’ and says that the structure of ownership of mainstream media means that it ‘afflicts the powerless and comforts the powerful’. When a president wants to lock up journalists, that’s a good sign. ‘It’s extremely important that whatever can be recorded is recorded.’

Why do you write in English?

‘If you write in English they take more notice of you.’ In India, language is complicated because there are so many languages and dialects that aren’t languages which have swallowed languages. She tries to capture the cadences of the language, which was easier in The God of Small Things, but The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is set in the North where Hindi, Kashmiri and Urdu are spoken, amongst others. How do you absorb those cadences without turning it into a gimmicky translation? Her work has been translated into many Indian languages but each translation isolates while English widens, she says.

‘It’s important that writers remain dangerous but not a martyr.’ She ends by saying ‘It’s the right time to publish this book in India, I don’t know if it’s the right time to be the author of it’.

The event ends with a second reading from the book which includes a glorious bit of swearing, leaving me keen to get on with reading the rest.

The Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction Winner 2017

And the winner is… The Power by Naomi Alderman. Good choice and very fitting for this prize, I think. I loved Alderman’s comment that the women’s movement meant more to her than electricity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you haven’t read the book yet, I highly recommend it – I bought several copies as Christmas presents, which isn’t something I do often. If you want to know more, I interviewed Alderman in October.

The Gender Games – Juno Dawson

Juno Dawson had me at:

Gender is not sex.
Gender is something else.
If that’s all you take away from this book, I’ve won.
Gender, as convincing as he is, is full of shit.
If you take that away from this book, even better.

Gender, despite anything he might tell us to the contrary, is nothing but characteristics we have assigned to the sexes. Like a group of horny teenagers with a Ouija board, Gender was summoned into being by us.

Yes, yes, YES. Not only do I agree with this, I love that Dawson gives gender a male pronoun and the connotations which come with this.

The Gender Games then is part-memoir, part-gender theory, part-cultural critique. Dawson interweaves all three of these aspects to discuss her transition from cis male to trans woman, considering the effect her transition has had (and is still having) on herself and her family.

The book begins with a reimagining of the day Dawson’s mother went into labour.

‘Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Dawson. You have a healthy baby boy.’
And that was where it all went wrong.

Once upon a time there was a little girl.
No.
Once upon a time there was a little boy.

Also no. Any creative writing teacher worth their salt will tell you that a great story never starts at the beginning, it starts when something changes. On 6 August 2015, I told my mother that I was a woman.

Her reply was, ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.’

Dawson alternates between snapshots of her life – from growing up in Bingley, West Yorkshire, to being ‘a right pair of little cunts’ with a friend at school, to coming out as a gay man, to being a primary school teacher, to deciding to transition and the process of that so far – and discussions around gender theory. As someone who’s studying the latter as part of their PhD work, I found Dawson’s relaying of the key ideas of performative gender theory (the idea that gender isn’t fixed) to be clear, succinct and well-researched (there are footnotes) while maintaining the conversational tone in which she has chosen to write. As an introduction to gender theory alone, The Gender Games is worth reading.

There are many other things I loved about this book too: Dawson’s honesty is striking; she’s no holds barred in terms of discussing the shape her life has taken, including her sex life (a section which comes with four pages of warning for her parents encouraging them to skip this bit). She talks about being a teacher and the limits of the education system – just how bloody difficult it is to work in a system that values results over the well-being of students, teachers and parents. And she discusses the impact of culture on the way we view ourselves:

Culture and society are a two-way mirror. Ropey and clichéd, but life does imitate art as much as art imitates life. ‘The media is the message and the messenger,’ said Pat Mitchell, former CEO of PBS, in the fantastic 2011 documentary Miss Representation.

She looks at TV, film and music. She discusses wanting to be a Spice Girl, the impact Madonna has had on our view of women, and the idea of ‘strong female characters’ – a term Dawson seems to dislike as much as I do while acknowledging that these representations are beginning to shift our society’s view of women.

Dawson is very clear that she isn’t representing the trans community, this is her transition and her story. What I do think she does very well which she does – and should – own as representative, is discuss feminism and what it can do for women and men from her position as a modern-day Tiresias:

My credentials to speak on such issues have been challenged, but I think trans voices are uniquely positioned to discuss inequality. For thirty years, I was given access to the ultimate prize: white male privilege. As you’ll learn, I never ‘passed’ as a straight man, so it’s hard to say what power I ever really had at my disposal, but I have lived as both a man and a woman while at the same time never being accepted wholly as either. Like some mad soothsayer in mythology, I’ve lived slightly outside of my gender my whole life – and I’ve seen both sides.

The Gender Games isn’t just a cracking good read, for the times we live in and the fight we still need to win over the destruction gender wreaks on us and our society, it’s an essential one.

The Gender Games is out now and available from Amazon, Waterstones or your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t an independent near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Two Roads for the review copy.

The Writes of Woman Interviews Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, there’s every possibility you’ve also come across another brilliant blog about women writers: Something Rhymed. Something Rhymed is the work of writers Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney. It looks at friendships between women writers. A Secret Sisterhood is the book that grew out of that blog.

A Secret Sisterhood looks at the friendships of a number of well-known writers. In some of the pairings, both writers are famous, as in George Eliot and Harriet Beacher-Stowe as well as Virginia Woolf and Katherine Mansfield, while for Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë they’re the well-known halves of their pairings.

The book is structured in chronological order beginning with Jane Austen. Austen’s featured friendship was with a governess in her brother’s house, a woman called Anne Sharp who wrote plays. Midorikawa and Sweeney reconstruct how the friendship might have played out from unpublished letters and notebooks, ‘largely unmined by literary critics’ written by Fanny, Austen’s niece and Sharp’s charge. This friendship is particularly fascinating as it crosses the class divide and no doubt made Austen’s brother uncomfortable. I can’t discuss this section of the book without mentioning one sentence in particular; it refers to Anne Sharp whose mother died in 1803, the year before she began her employment for the Austen’s. I’ll just leave it here for your delight:

In the early nineteenth century, a single woman in her position, without affluent male relatives to support her, would have faced the unenviable task of securing a respectable way to earn her keep.

Charlotte Brontë’s friendship was with Mary Taylor, author of the feminist novel Miss Miles, although they were schoolchildren when they first met. They did not hit it off immediately:

The girl looked miserable and antiquated to Mary – a sharp contrast with the fashionable young ladies of the school. Like the newcomer, Mary and her boisterous sister Martha were far from stylish. The blue cloth coats they wore outdoors were too short for them, their black beaver bonnets only plainly trimmed. They even had to take the extra precaution of stitching over new pairs of gloves to try to make them last. But, rather than empathising with Charlotte, Mary scorned the girl’s outdated dress and cowed demeanour. Why, she noted to herself, she looks like ‘a little old woman’.

They bonded instead over intelligence and common interests – politics and literature – the best type of female friendships, I find.

George Eliot and Harriet Beacher Stowe’s friendship is particularly interesting as they never actually met. It seems some literary scholars have underestimated the strength of their friendship on the basis that they were pen pals. Despite this, the two confided in each other about their families and their work.

Despite marked differences in their temperaments – Harriet being the livelier and more impulsive of the two – their shared experiences as the most celebrated living female authors either side of the Atlantic immediately drew them close. That the pair shared this extraordinary status makes it all the more surprising that their friendship has not gone down in history.

Finally, the friendship between Virginia Woolf and Katherine Mansfield is revealed to be a friendship, rather than the mere rivalry it’s been painted to be.

At their best, both women recognised that when ‘afflicted with jealousy’, as Virginia would put it, ‘the only thing is to confess’. This lesson allowed these two ambitious women to benefit from their creative competition – a process that proved as valuable to their shared art as that experienced by better-mythologised male writing duos.

The book is well-written and curated, turning historical documents into something between recreation and critique. My only criticism is that I would’ve liked more – more pairings, specifically including a wider demographic of women, the choices are very white, anglo-centric. However, I do recognise what a difficult sell this book would have been and am glad it exists.

A Secret Sisterhood is an engaging look at the little written about female friendships of significant women writers. It’s a delight to see women as the focus of this type of work; here’s hoping there’s a sequel!

You can buy A Secret Sisterhood from Amazon, Waterstones or support your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t one near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Emily Midorikawa, Emma Claire Sweeney and Jessie Sullivan for the interview and the proof of the book.

The Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction Shadow Panel Winner 2017

On Sunday morning, our Baileys Prize Shadow Panel met in central London to decide our winner. As Antonia tweeted on Sunday morning, meeting regardless of Saturday night’s attack to discuss books was our rebellion. And a cracking discussion it was too.

Before I reveal our winner, I want to give an honourable mention to a book which didn’t make our shortlist. When you shadow a prize such as the Baileys, which has a particularly long longlist, you read and judge the books in a short period of time. The process doesn’t allow for books to settle and, as you’ll know, some books lose their impact over time, others grow. We felt we’d done one particularly book a disservice by leaving it off the shortlist as, during the intervening weeks, it has grown in stature for us due to it’s ambition. That book is Barkskins by Annie Proulx. We recommend it heartily to you now and hope it will find a larger readership.

L-R: Antonia Honeywell, Eric Karl Anderson, Meera Betab, Naomi Frisby, Eleanor Franzen

Our winner then… a completely unanimous decision for it’s style, beautiful writing, engrossing storyline, political history and the way it deals with such complex issues in a thoughtful way without sacrificing story…

Click on the cover to read my review.

A huge thank you to Antonia, Eric, Meera and Eleanor, it’s been a pleasure to read and discuss the books with them.

The winner of the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction 2017 is announced on the evening of Wednesday 7th June.

 

Exquisite – Sarah Stovell

Successful writer Bo Luxton has moved her family – older husband, Gus, and two young children, Maggie and Lola – to the Lake District. There she’s researching the women who surrounded the Romantic poets, writing novelised versions of their lives. To supplement her income, she teaches a week on a writers’ retreat, a course for those who want to take their writing more seriously. The course provides some financial assistance for students the tutor believes is worthy of it. After reading through the work sent to her, Bo selects Alice Dark for a free place.

Oh, the words were brutal, the language sharply controlled, but I caught the vulnerability beneath: the longing, that endless, endless longing for the elusive love of the mother.

Alice, twenty-five, is living in Brighton with her artist boyfriend, Jake, and some of his friends. None of them have a job, despite Alice having a first-class English Literature degree from The University of York.

I knew where I was headed if I kept this up. It was a one-way street to blankness – the endless treadmill of boredom that sucked everything out of you until your eyes clouded over and the spark of intelligence left your face, and you spent your days longing for five o’clock and your evenings watching people behave badly on television because they were desperate, so desperate not to live tiny, insignificant lives like yours that they would actually do this: They would actually suck someone’s cock in front of the nation because they had to be remembered for something, and it was better to be remembered for sucking someone’s cock on Channel 4 than nothing at all…And I knew, as clearly as I knew night from day, that this life would destroy me, and I couldn’t live it.

The two women meet on the course. Alice is in awe of Bo, Bo is drawn to Alice: she reminds her of herself when she was younger. Bo takes Alice under her wing and strikes up a mentoring/nurturing relationship with her. But then the relationship takes on further significance, is it a mutual love affair or is Alice deeply deluded?

Stovell uses a few tricks to keep the reader guessing. Three embedded in the themes and ideas of the novel: Bo has previously had a stalker, a young man, as a result of which Gus opens her post and reads her emails; is she just a victim of people with an obsessive nature because she has a certain level of fame? Both women had a troubled childhood in some way, has this affected their ability to form successful, mutual relationships? And both women are writers, are they just making things up or embellishing facts because they write fiction?

The other is in the structure: Stovell begins the novel with a piece narrated from inside Her Majesty’s Prison for Women, Yorkshire, several more of which come before each section of the book. The reader doesn’t know who the narrator is; I changed my mind several times before the reveal. The narration of the main body of the book also moves between the two women. Initially they take a section each. What’s most interesting about this is the point where the alleged affair begins and we get both takes on it; who’s leaving details out? Who’s exaggerating? As the pace ramps up, Stovell alternates between Bo and Alice as we discover who’s lying and who’s the smarter of the two.

Exquisite is a cracking debut. An interesting premise, well-structured with some sharp writing and a gripping plot. There are a couple of missteps – a well-timed inheritance, Alice having a friend who’s a policewoman, and the odd bit of clunky dialogue – but these are minor quibbles in a book I devoured.

You can buy Exquisite from Amazon or support your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t one near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

This post is part of a blog tour, if you’re interested in what other bloggers think of the book, you can find out on the sites below:

 

Thanks to Orenda Books for the review copy.

The Writes of Woman Interviews Olivia Sudjic, author of Sympathy

“Origin stories make us feel secure; untangling them can undo us.”

Twenty-three-year-old Alice Hare doesn’t know who she is; adopted, mixed-race, born in New York but having lived in London and Tokyo, with an absent father and a mother she doesn’t get on with, she sets out for birthplace and her adopted paternal grandmother, Silvia.

In the end I guess it was that which hooked me – the idea of another beginning, begun right. Although Sylvia had offered to help me understand at least part of my origins (not my birth parents, written out entirely except for lost adoption forms), I wanted to build – half reconstruction, half my own design – a version that belonged entirely to me.

We know from the very beginning of the novel that Alice has become obsessed with Mizuko Himura, a Japanese writer living in New York. As we meet Alice she’s waiting to see whether Mizuko accepts her ‘Follow’ request on an unidentified social media site (it could be one of many). As Alice relates the events in hindsight, we know that Mizuko was ill, infested with a parasite, at the time of Alice’s excruciating wait; we also know that there is a remaining distance in their relationship, although it will be the end of the novel before the reasons for this are revealed. What comes between these two points is the tale of a young woman who, via a number of coincidences, finds herself obsessed with an older women. Whether she wants to be Mizuko or be with Mizuko isn’t clear to Alice herself. The key to this unknowing seems to lie in the fact that the version of Mizuko Alice knows is the one she’s created via her internet stalking, she actually spends very little time with the woman herself.

When we met, we were both online constantly. In fact, I would say I was online constantly because she was, and I was monitoring her usage. For her, the Internet was primarily a tool of self-promotion and reinforcement for her multiple selves while for me it became a tool designed for the sole purpose of observing her. It was the only way I could have been brave enough to approach her in real life, having dissected the pictorial equivalent of her DNA in advance.

What Sudjic has created is a multi-layered commentary on the impact of the internet on our lives, particularly those considered ‘Digital Natives’ (born after 1980 and having never known life without internet access). Rather than bringing us relevant information faster than ever, in Sudjic’s world the internet brings information overload and few answers. She combines Alice’s quest with comments on the Hadron Collider (Alice’s adopted father worked on an early version) and the missing Malaysian Airlines Flight 370.

Alice is in an interesting character; while she’s largely passive, she’s also not particularly likeable and that strikes me as a brave decision in this climate where readers (and some publishers) rail against unlikeable women in novels (by unlikeable I mean like real human women). Sudjic allows her to be complex and unsure of herself. She’s trying to work out who she might be and she does so by appropriating someone else’s story, or at least a version of it.

Sympathy is an impressive debut: complex, bold, intelligent, unafraid to tackle big ideas. If Sudjic doesn’t always quite pull it off, it’s forgivable for the sheer scope of her undertaking; she means business and it’s impossible not to applaud her ambition. Sympathy’s well worth your time and I’m delighted to see a young female novelist begin her career with such aplomb.

In the first of my new series, The Writes of Woman Interviews… I was thrilled to be able to speak to Olivia Sudjic about the book and hear her read from the novel.

(Apologies for the quality of the picture; I am learning on the job and messed up a setting. If it’s too excruciating to watch, there is an audio only version below.)

You can buy Sympathy from Amazon or support your local independent bookshop. If, like me, there isn’t one near you, I recommend Big Green Bookshop.

Thanks to Pushkin Press for the review copy of Sympathy and Tabitha Pelly and Olivia Sudjic for the interview.