About Emma Young

Western Australian journalist with Fairfax Media's WAtoday, and entertainment blogger with a love for all things couch-related. Tea/wine/martinis mandatory. Aspect ratio important. Paper and electronic mediums accepted. Highbrow optional.

Review: Driving into the Sun, Marcella Polain

How can she go forward, go anywhere but back, when the past is all we see? Future a creature always approaching, striking us always from behind?

 

I like a balanced book diet. Classics to further my education and knowledge. Non-fiction to give insight and navigation skills for the modern world. Random recommendations, to ensure ‘wild cards’ and connect with my loved ones who are also readers. Literary fiction to challenge myself intellectually and inspire me and savour words. Easy children’s, crime and horror novels to relax and escape.

All give equal joy, in different flavours, and keep my brain healthy and happy.

Like all diets it could be improved. I could seek out more international authors, for example. More books from minority voices. But already there is so much and sometimes such a program gives rise to an uneasy consciousness that there isn’t enough time.

It was this mindset in which I picked up Driving into the Sun, the first literary fiction work I’d read for a while, and felt myself trying to storm through it like it was the new Dervla MacTiernan crime thriller.

Well, it does open with a death: the cruelly sudden taking of a man, a husband and father.

For Orla, a child living in suburban Perth in 1968, her Daddy was everything.

After his death she, her mother and little sister are ripped from their comforting nuclear bubble into a fractured family with a single working mother, in financial and personal limbo.

Orla’s mum is not particularly maternal and her little sister Deebee is not particularly sweet. They all cope in their own private ways, leaving scant room for comforting each other.

Orla, already a quiet child, folds into herself as she grapples silently with a new situation she can’t accept in a world she already scarcely comprehended.

She lacks the bearings we get as adults: the means to tell ourselves stories about what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen.

This book strips away that comforting narrative, catapulting you back to a time in which you had no power and no meaning, except that you could make from your senses, and later, scraps of sentences caught from adults who tossed them carelessly away within earshot.

Orla had overheard her mother telling Kit that he was living with a woman up north. At school, Orla has looked in the atlas. There was a lot of world up north. Maybe Cora missed him like Orla missed her father. If she did, she never let on. And they were adults, Cora, Henry, Kit. She was a kid. And they must know what’s best: not talk about things pretend everything’s normal, and that way it would be.

Privy to Orla’s sight, touch and hearing, and with the benefit of experience, the reader is in the unusual position of knowing what is happening to a character better than the character herself.

This is the second novel of Western Australian author Marcella Polain, whose first novel, The Edge of the World, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize.

She has also published three books of poetry – and who but a poet can better speak the sense-language of a child, inhabit those levels below conscious meaning?

There was a sound like the flap of a bird’s wing that made her press her eye to one of those gaps. She had seen the old lady before, folding clothes at the washing line next door and she was there again, her back turned, this time pegging up a shirt. She bent slowly, took another from the basket, held it along its bottom edge and flicked it, one, two, three times, that wing-billow sound, then pegged it up beside the other. Shirts hung upside down like kids on monkey bars.

Yet like when reading poetry (or growing through childhood for that matter) a different pace applies. When I tried to read it fast, to find out ‘what happens’, impatient with Orla’s fumbling through life, it began to slip through my fingers.

I was recently at a writing workshop with the author Brenda Walker who spoke about books such as Elizabeth Jolley’s, or Joan London’s – books that “take the reader on a kind of dance”.

“You don’t read them to be taken on a charge through the plot,” she said. “You read them for the atmosphere.

“You have to throw yourself into the sea … it’s quite frightening, but it bears you up.”

She noted that forces such as Netflix and the TV revolution have fundamentally changed storytelling, made it almost entirely about plot and character.

That readers seldom now want to truck “with the oblique and the poetic” – that they respond instead to “limpidity and simplicity”.

I don’t want to be like that, I thought suddenly, 80 pages in. I just bought a novel that took 10 years to write. Why this need to get it done in a weekend?

I slowed down, and began to concentrate. And then I fell in love with this book, which is one of the most pure and true descriptions of grief I have ever read.

It teases you with hope and the possibility of simple redemption and healing, only to trick you back to square one again and again – just as grief itself does. On page 237, completely absorbed, I began to cry.

Polain captures utterly what she has herself phrased as “the complex interior life of children”: that time in which you were so aware of the way everything looked and felt and sounded and tasted, somehow bigger and more intense than now; that time in which your parents were your entire universe, frightening and mystifying and utterly necessary.

So don’t buy this book if you want a whodunit. Buy it if you love words, and want your heart, like Orla’s, to lurch “with loss and wishing”. If you want to explore the deepest experiences of human existence: grief and love and guilt and coming of age.

Buy it if you want to throw yourself into the sea, and have it bear you up.

 

 

From pitiful draft to a publishing contract: meet my mentor in shining armour

My proud mum and me after hearing about the contract.

I’m not reviewing a book today. I’m reviewing a writer and a mentor whose support was paramount in my manuscript, The Last Bookstore, being one of three shortlisted for Australia’s newest and richest literary prize – and now, being offered a publishing contract with Fremantle Press!

I have just heard that Laurie Steed has added one-on-one formal mentorship to his existing suite of literary teaching services.

It’s the perfect opportunity to say out loud: the quality of The Last Bookstore and my ability to steer it this far through the industry has been thanks in large part to his guidance.

The Last Bookstore has been (so far) three years in the making. A full one year on the merry-go-round of taking it to agents and implementing their feedback.

One asked for new beginnings which I tried to provide but missed the mark. Another told me not all the characters were working. One said the writing didn’t work but the story was good. Another said the story worked but the writing didn’t. One said it lacked “sparkle”; another said it was too “quiet”. Suffice to say my manuscript wasn’t wowing anyone.

I had been smashing out work on my own for years. I’d gained foggy hard-won insights from being alone with my own work. Gleaned tips from books on writing. Agents who took time to provide feedback gave me valuable course corrections.

But it was all so difficult, so demoralising. And something still wasn’t working.

Like a couple whose relationship was on the rocks, The Last Bookstore and I were “on a break” when I drafted my second manuscript.

An excerpt from that won me a place in the 1st Edition Retreat at Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre – three days of intensive mentoring workshops with Laurie Steed.

you-belong-hereLaurie assessed countless manuscripts as a former editor at Margaret River Press, and I had read and loved his own first novel, You Belong Here.

In his workshops, lightbulbs began flashing.

Laurie taught me about beginnings and endings. Why they matter. What they do. How to analyse them in other texts and see what mine were missing.

About scenes and chapters, what the hell they are for and how to look at my own manuscript and identify the narrative arc and what was lacking.

About including sensory detail, how to truly “show” not “tell” and how to interrograte a paragraph.

Crucially, he also reassured me that I could, in fact, write.

And suddenly things began to happen.

First, they became fun. The second draft of my second manuscript was so much better, easier and more enjoyable to write (stay tuned for some good news on that book, hopefully soon!)

And I picked up The Last Bookstore again with a vow to do another structural edit, feeling the bravery and commitment necessary to tackle it, to a depth both totally agonizing and absolutely necessary.

Another new first chapter. Every scene analysed for its function, then rewritten. Bits chopped off. New bits written and sewn in. Characters cut. Others given room to breathe and open their mouths. And a new ending. Finally coming to grips with my story. And then, an oral edit, reading 84,000 words aloud and stopping to rewrite every paragraph.

Mel Emily Laurie Emma

Laurie with me and my fellow 1st Edition-ers Mel Hall (recently longlisted for the Fogarty Award) and Emily Sun (recently shortlisted for the Deborah Cass Prize).

Yes, I put in the hours, but without Laurie I would not have known what to do in them,  these past six months. I had been at the end of my tether. It was those final two rewrites using what he taught me that got it over the line.

He also dusted me off after rejections and gave advice on handling agents, building a coherent career, using social media without selling out. Even his emails are so beautifully written, so uplifting, I sometimes can’t quite believe he’s real.

I’ve never bit the bullet on a professional manuscript assessment. I looked at the price tags and went, “nah,”; struggled on. Imagine if I actually hired Laurie to go through this manuscript, two years ago. I might have got this contract sooner, and had more joy along the way.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you are working, you must exit your hobbit hole and get professional advice.

If you have a manuscript in the bottom drawer that needs something – but you’re not sure what – I urge you to get in touch with him here.

To Laurie and KSP – thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Review: Australia Reimagined, Hugh Mackay

Being a journalist up close to the political and media spin cycle, seeing oppositions become governments that fail to live up to our hopes as miserably as the predecessors who get voted out, while social and environmental problems only deepen, is endlessly disillusioning. I spend many days battling cynicism and weariness.

In particular, reporting on and reading about climate change, seeing David Attenborough’s Our Planet burst onto screens in all its beauty and urgency, knowing potentially irreversible destruction is happening right now without action to avert it fills me with a creeping despair that is increasingly clouding life. I am far from alone in this.

As the screws have been tightening, a review copy of Australia Reimagined by Hugh Mackay, Australia’s best known social researcher, has landed quietly on my desk.

It sat there months, among other things that needed dealing with (e.g. climate change!)

One day I picked it up. I needed something to amuse me during a lunch break that wasn’t a screen. I had no preconceptions. I enjoyed a previous book of his, The Good Life, but I expected this to be a bit boring, to be perfectly frank. A book about Australian society? Yawn!

I was entirely unprepared to be swept swiftly away, by a surging river of ideas.

I began to read the book every lunchtime. At the end of every lunchtime I put it down with increasing reluctance. And at the end of the week I put the book on the back of the bike, brought it home, and spent the weekend devouring the rest, with the kind of fervour that’s usually more to be expected from new-release crime fiction.

Anyone – and I’d hazard a guess that it’s many of us – anyone who feels even vaguely, even a niggle, that there might be something somehow wrong or contradictory about the way we live in this country today – despite all our luck and progress and privilege – should read this.

In a marching argument loaded with insights on the Australian-specific version of Western culture, Mackay examines our trends in privacy, technology use, religion, marriage, loneliness, anxiety, multiculturalism and gender and demonstrates how these trends are feeding into each other, affecting our social cohesion, dragging us down as a people.

It’s a story about ourselves we need to hear. But it’s not a lecture and while it’s at times shocking, it’s never depressing. Quite the opposite: it’s illuminating, empowering, hopeful.

Mackay offers new ways to think about reviving and transforming our broken and disenchanting political system, our crippled public education system, our toxic gender stalemate – and more.

For someone feeling so broken-down by the situation described in my opening paragraphs that sometimes, in my darker moments, I struggle to see the point of even continuing to work, it’s like a breath of fresh air.

His ideas made me want to spring up from my chair after every chapter and take some kind of practical, actionable step. I think anyone who read this would feel the same, but depending on their own problem or passion, the action they would take might look quite different from mine.

Therefore, at various times while reading I wanted to thrust this book under the noses of my brother, sister, mother, husband, boss, colleague and friend, and there’s no better recommendation for a book than that. It would make a great gift (I’ve already lent mine out!)

If I had known how much I would love it, I would not have let it languish in a ‘to read’ pile; I would have placed it on top and read it before anything else.

As should you.

 

Review: The Dry, Jane Harper

My colleague Heather handed me a book. Just read the first page, she said.

It wasn’t as though the farm hadn’t seen death before, and the blowflies didn’t discriminate. To them there was little difference between a carcass and a corpse.

 

The drought had left the blowflies spoiled for choice that summer. They sought out unblinking eyes and sticky wounds as the farmers of Kiewarra levelled their rifles at skinny lifestock. No rain meant no feed. And no feed made for difficult decisions, as the tiny town shimmered under day after day of burning blue sky.

 

‘It’ll break,’ the farmers said as the months ticked over into a second year. They repeated the words out loud to each other like a mantra, and under their breath to themselves like a prayer …

 

The body in the clearing was the freshest. It took the flies slightly longer to discover the two in the farmhouse, despite the front door swinging open like an invitation…

 

Of course, I instantly borrowed the book, a debut novel from Australian journalist Jane Harper that has bagged so many awards that the stickers jostle for space on the cover.

I had to find out what happens next, as enigmatic federal agent Aaron Falk goes home for the funeral of Luke Hadler, the best friend of his childhood and teens – who has, it appears, taken his own life.

It’s no ordinary funeral, though: before his final decision, Luke also shot his wife and little son, sparing only his baby daughter.

The town largely accepts that the searing drought, the heat, and perhaps the prospect of his farm going under all combined to send Luke over the edge.

But Luke’s parents are desperate for some alternative answer. And so Falk, a financial crimes specialist, makes a reluctant promise to them that he will have a poke through Luke’s affairs.

In part because of old loyalties, in part to protecting a secret of his own from that long-ago past he and Luke shared.

Falk finds that the local police sergeant has his own doubts and suspicions about what happened on that farm and together they begin an off-the-books investigation.

But things get increasingly nasty in the town as the heat builds, and you begin to wonder if Falk can solve this increasingly sinister riddle before violence breaks out once more.

Harper’s parched and lonely setting forms a backdrop to a plot that’s like kindling, artfully laid to build to a fast and furious burn.

And her crackling creation of Kiewarra proves itself as much a character as Luke, or Falk, in the heart-stopping role it plays in a nailbiting climax.

I never expected this debut novel to be quite so complex and layered – I guessed again and again, but the truth shocked me when it came, like a cold plunge into a deep river on a sweltering day.

A riveting blend of literary and crime fiction, it is full of disquieting truths about about rural life and community.

I had to work to make myself keep it going for three days; luckily, I’m late to the Jane Harper party, so I can immediately go on to the sequel, Force of Nature, also published by Pan MacMillan.

There’s also the film version coming, optioned by Reese Witherspoon’s production company, starring Eric Bana as Falk.

Read and liked The Dry? Then you might enjoy this recent interview with Jane Harper on literary podcast The Garret in which she discusses the book and her path to publication.

Review: River of Salt, Dave Warner

‘I’ve made some enquiries on your behalf. Shaloub’s bodyguard is a giant, name of Granite. Granite’s no professor but he remembers absolutely every piece of tail set foot in the Cross.’
You might already know Dave Warner’s name. He’s an Australian musician who’s authored three previous crime novels, one of which won the Ned Kelly Award.
He was recently in Perth to promote his latest book, River of Salt, and I picked up a copy to see what all the fuss was about – I hadn’t actually heard of Dave Warner myself, but I do love Australian fiction and crime fiction, and I was intrigued by the jacket quote from prolific thriller writer Michael Robotham: ‘Part Goodfellas and part love letter to Australian coastal towns, this wonderfully imagined crime novel is like riding the perfect wave.’
It’s 1961 and Blake Saunders, a former Mob hitman from Philadelphia, has escaped that life to start again in a sleepy town on Australia’s east coast. He owns his own bar, the Surf Shack, plays in a band and surfs compulsively, slowly washing clean the sins of his past. But he can never quite lose the feeling there’s a target on his back.
So when a prostitute is brutally murdered in a nearby motel and a piece of evidence at the scene points towards the Surf Shack, Blake feels compelled to act, to clear the wolf from his door once and for all by solving the murder the police seem eager just to tick a box on.
I’m attracted to the writing early – it’s strong and clean and loaded with evocative similes. Like,
skies grey as an elephant’s belly.
And,
The wind probed their clothes like the fingers of a dead man.
And,
His belly pressed flat into the board, which gently rose and fell like a crumb on the chest of a snoozing giant.
And,
He moved quietly as cancer.
If similes don’t excite you as much as they do me you’re a fool, but I’ll tell you more anyway.
Warner spends the early part not launching straight into the mystery, but sketching out a compelling cast of characters who hook you just as well as a bloodied corpse opener would:
Blake, a brooding heartthrob with a dark past and a killer’s instincts, full of guilt and regret. His yardboy Andy, a simple sap who loves the fish in The Surf Shack’s giant tank, and knows them all by name. Bar manager Doreen, beautiful and capable, but nursing a deep loneliness. Crane the beach bum, an alcoholic and a poet. Kitty the innocent, but smart and gutsy teen who wants so much more than what her hometown can offer.
The scene shift from Philly to Australia makes for an attention-grabbing contrast, and the menace and darkness of the Mob bleeds into the new setting quite perfectly. I had wondered how convincing it was going to be, the American fish out of water, but the details laced through are perfect, consistent and never overdone.
And 100 pages in, this simmering mystery comes to a rolling boil, with twist after twist keeping me wildly speculating, heightened in drama by Blake’s personal drive for a solution – and for absolution.
Blake is bound to appeal to readers: the man with dark stains on his conscience, but a moral imperative to act, and a strong sense of justice. Like Jack Reacher, but with a humanising longing for love and redemption.
Perhaps he should have let it go, left it to Harvey to get it right. But he couldn’t … He did not deserve any of this: playing his guitar in his own bar with a beautiful woman like Doreen working alongside him, surfing in the crystal ocean, watching the sun rise like a gold coin over a sheet of pure silver. He’d suspected all along it hadn’t just been gifted to him, that there must be more to it, some fine print like on a winning lottery ticket. This was the fine print. You have to help those who can’t help themselves, you have to protect and serve those who serve you.
Warner has strongly evoked a time and a place; but he has also riffed on honesty, human connection, guilt and love – and how the past will never, really, quite let you go.

Eight years to write a plan, as battles build to war for Perth bush

Hundreds, if not thousands, of emails have poured into my inbox over recent years from distressed residents begging me to help them save this or that bit of bushland. Not a week goes by without another one.

Battles have raged in Shenton Park, Midvale, Bayswater, Trigg, Cockburn, Kenwick and Ascot, to mention just a handful, and together these battles represent a war.

Just a few of the protests in Perth over the past couple of years.
Just a few of the protests in Perth over the past couple of years.

People are worried and depressed about the state of the biodiversity that has always been Perth’s genuine claim to fame.

And anyone who’s ever tried to deal with the Perth’s environmental approvals and planning system, whether trying to clear bushland or protect it, finds an intimidating maze that makes little sense even to the agencies that are part of it.

No one really knows how important each patch of bush is in a city-wide sense. Developers can proceed with the assumption that if they cut this bit down, someone else will save another patch, somewhere… just not in their backyard.

Yet after eight years of work on it, the McGowan government has suspended work on one of the state’s biggest planning documents, the one that might have fixed this mess once and for all.

Read the rest of this story here on WAtoday

Review: The Scholar, Dervla McTiernan

The ScholarDervla McTiernan’s debut The Ruin, introducing Irish detective Cormac Reilly, was a hit. It’s already been optioned for film by Australia’s Hopscotch Features.
So it’s safe to say this follow-up has been highly anticipated. 
Reilly is first on the scene when his partner, Dr Emma Sweeney, finds a hit and run victim outside Galway University. 
Her instinctive call to him means Reilly lands a case he never otherwise would have been called on to investigate; and it’s a big case.
A security card in the dead woman’s pocket soon identifies her as Carline Darcy, a gifted student and heir to Irish pharmaceutical giant Darcy Therapeutics. 
The profile is high and the pressure even higher as Cormac investigates and evidence mounts that the death is linked to a Darcy laboratory and, increasingly, to Emma herself.
Eventually, he is forced to question his own objectivity. 
The plot’s intricate and satisfying and it’s definitely a page-turner – I made a few half-hearted attempts to put it down, but I kept picking it up again. I was supposed to go to a party that Saturday night. Needless to say I didn’t make it to the party.
Charismatic Reilly and his beautiful, brilliant yet troubled girlfriend Emma Sweeney are intriguing. Not irritatingly virtuous, but likeable and nuanced. I’m already looking forward to seeing how they develop in the next book.
All the characters, in fact, particularly the police – such as lazy and resentful Moira Handley (who sounds creepily close to Myra Hindley), harassed and overstretched Carrie O’Halloran, smart and loyal Pete Fisher – feel authentic, all drawing the reader to invest more deeply in the story. I’m already hoping to meet them again in the next book.
McTiernan is a former lawyer from Ireland who has moved to Western Australia and the book’s glimpses into the Irish police force feel exotic to a Perth reader, and totally convincing in their procedural and legal detail.
Ireland’s an ideal setting for crime novels, with its atmospheric landscapes and complex social history, and I’m not the only one who loves it; before, I only really knew of Ian Rankin, but it turns out Irish crime is booming, leading to nicknames such as Celtic Crime, Hibernian Homicide and Emerald Noir (the latter  coined by beloved Scottish crime author Val McDermid).
I’m so happy to add Dervla McTiernan to my must-read list. Since she now lives in Perth, I get the Irish settings I love with the chance to support a local author. Win-win!
This was a solid read, and I can’t wait to see this writer develop into a stalwart of the genre. I have a feeling Detective Cormac Reilly will be around for a while yet.