An Inconvenient Child by Sharyn Killens

The worst autobiography I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading was Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis, lead singer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Not only was it self-indulgent, boring and full of stories about shagging anything that moved, the ghost writing was so bad that I’m pretty sure a dyslexic ten-year-old could have done a better job. The Inconvenient Child is not as dire as that particular effort, but it didn’t really grip me either. I think it’s a great example of what happens when an ordinary person tells an extraordinary story – the book turns out……a bit ordinary.

So the true story is amazing – white Aussie chick gets banged up by hot American Navy Man in the late 1940’s. Navy Man sails home, leaves woman to have illegitimate coloured child alone during the rollickin’ good times of the White Australia policy. Woman refuses to acknowledge child as daughter, puts her in several horrific girls’ homes throughout the years, gives her presents on intermittent visiting Sundays, won’t tell her what her father’s name is until after he dies and screws her up royally for life.

Author Sharyn Killens is now in her early 60’s, and has come to terms with her past and found a sense of belonging meeting her half siblings in America. There’s a refreshing lack of self-editing of events from her past (which sometimes you feel the subjects of autobiographies must be tempted to do, wiping out mentions of incidents that may depict them in not so flattering light, which is probably what I would do) - it’s all laid out bare here which I thought was pretty brave. There’s not much imagination in the writing itself, but I guess when the truth is so entertaining, she didn’t feel the need to embellish any further. I’m sure writing a book about your shitty childhood works out to be far cheaper than going to see a shrink.

The Spare Room by Helen Garner

Let's just get this out of the way - I loved this book. Loved like it will sit in my middle book shelf, be re-read every couple of years and lent out to friends with a stern look and strict instructions on its safe return.

It’s the kind of book you devour in one sitting, which is pretty easy to do as it’s about 200 pages of size 14 font, almost like the big sister of a short story (by this logic, why aren’t novels just called ‘tall stories?’). If it’s a novel at all is put in question not only by its length and Garner’s more recent forays into non-fiction (which she is also damn good at) but it’s confusing to me that the main character is a 50-something writer called Helen who lives in Melbourne. For Chrissakes, call the woman Kate, Penny – but not after yourself! It’s a mere quibble since the book is a gem.

After the hard slog of my last reading adventure, I really enjoyed not being able to put it down and save some more for later. I was going to give myself book heartburn – quite literally. The Spare Room did what a good book should, which is leave a little imprint on you that makes you smile on the tram a few days later, or has a character that reminds you of someone you love, and it brings that person back to life for you, for a wonderful fleeting moment.

It was my Gran who revisited me as I travelled through main character Nicola’s struggle with terminal cancer, the ever familiar doctor’s appointments, her annoying but understandable grim optimism that her quack Vitamin C treatments are working her avoidance of death. It makes you wonder how you would cope if you were the one diagnosed.

Despite knowing the likely outcome of the book from the off-set, Garner creates this hyper real suburban world, where Nicola’s best friend Helen can only cook and change sweat drenched sheets to help her, helplessly watching as Nicola weakens with the passing weeks. Garner is a brutally honest writer, and some of the emotions are so raw and disarming – Helen’s anger at Nicola for not facing up to the likelihood of death, admitting she’s unable to cope with looking after her as she declines, and Nicola’s admission that no-one has ever asked her how she feels, so she just pretends. The part where Helen squeezes a glass of fresh OJ for Nicola, who drains it and says “That was the best orange juice I think I’ve ever tasted” was so fucking tender it made me want to cry. It summed up what your best friend will do for you when in need, and how sometimes the small things are like gold.

A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon

I don't have a load to say about this, except that I devoured it like a suburban housewife with a fresh Woman's Day. It's not particularly engaging or well written, I wasn't smitten with the characters, but somehow, it had me.

Much like his earlier book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, A Spot of Bother is another 'let's talk about mental illness in a light comic fiction setting' exercise. How The Curious Incident won the Whitbread Book of the Year Award I will never know, but I'm pleased to report that I don't think the bothersome spot has won any such accolades.

The verdict: It's pretty meh. There are better, more engaging and more interesting ways you could spend your time, and there are far more insightful ways you could learn more about or engage further with mental illness. That said, if you were stuck down a well and someone dropped A Spot of Bother down to entertain you while they ran to get a ladder, you'd read it before you wiped your butt with it. Much like a Woman's Day.

Say When by Catherine Deveny

So, first book of the year. A birthday present from you, Nik, which I have been patiently waiting to read. I think that golden time of post-Christmas indulgence come-down is best sated with a good book, and, having devoured two Agatha Christies between Christmas and New Year, I was on a roll.

Having not lived in Melbourne for some years, my relationship with Catherine Deveny’s column has been mostly through you, Nik, sending me links. It’s not like I’m leafing through the Age on a daily basis, after all. And, I guess, for some things, not being in Melbourne means I have no idea what she’s talking about (football or Mayoral related things, for example).

That said, I mostly enjoy her column when I do read it, and I felt much the same about this collection: most of the time I enjoyed it. Highlights were: ‘Jamie Oliver’ - about Jamie selfishly saving us from eating shit food; ‘Weasel Words’ – a topic Don Watson did much better and more fully but which it never hurts to be reminded of and this is a great example of such; ‘Dog Whistling’ – which is a phenomenon I’d never heard called that before but which is hilarious and poignant; and ‘Nigella Lawson’ – on how every girl’s got one: a woman they would lick like a cake bowl.

It so happens that Catherine and I see eye-to-eye on many, many topics, and I often, while reading this found myself wanting to shout things like ‘Yes! I know!’, as though we were actually sat across a table talking to one another. And yet sometimes, I felt like I wanted to kick her in the shins. Sometimes I just think I’m mad at her because she gets paid to think these things and I don’t, but other times I feel like she’s harming the cause. Honestly, going after Sam Newman for being a misogynist cunt, while true, is a cheap shot. There are other, more productive ways to highlight the social crisis of patriarchy surely, than sticking Sam Newman in a mulcher (though that would also be quite rewarding, I don’t disagree).

Her diatribe on about how debutante balls are an outmoded crack fest for boring middle-class idiots, while also possibly true, is completely superficial and fails to seriously ask what it is about these rituals that has ‘sixteen-year-old girls volunteering to be reduced to nothing more than gender stereotypes and sex objects judged on their looks, not their brains, creativity or ability’. Even though I could, in all honesty, write these exact words myself:

‘And no. I didn’t do my deb. At the time I proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was nothing more than a meat market. Truth be told I didn’t think any bloke would partner me. Thank God for my teenage angst and poor self-confidence.’

I don’t think my mates who did it are dickheads. What is it about these things that young women, and young men, enjoy? That would be a more interesting discussion. This just-add-water feminist angst is a cheap shot. Which I wish I had been clever enough to figure out how to get paid for.

Much like I love Judith Lucy, I love Deveny’s alcoholic, acid tongue approach, and more than once reading this book I laughed out loud. The lady has the skillz. And, it’s nice to be preached to by someone singing from the same song sheet as you, but it’s not challenging or even very useful. And I think Catherine could do more.

Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey

I bet you’re thinking I picked this book as my first blog post to show how fancy my reading tastes are, my bookshelves positively teaming with Booker Prize winning reads. Not true. I recently went to a wedding at Gleniffer Reserve on the NSW North Coast, an absolutely magical spot with a super cute church, and was told by one of the guests that the place takes centre stage in Carey’s 1988 book. Not long after, I spotted it in a second hand bookshop and snapped it up, and settled down pre-Christmas to have a crack.

Fast forward to about a week ago, when I finally finished it. Yes, the church at Gleniffer was the scene for the opening chapters, and I had that warm sense of ‘I’ve been there!’ that always adds an extra dimension to a book (Melbournians will know this feeling from reading ‘The Slap’) but that wore off pretty quickly and I realized I had a sleeping pill in book form. I’ve never been the hugest fan of period literature, so mix that with Carey’s penchant for extreme detail – I don’t really care if the buttons on his cuff are bronze but thanks for sharing – and the religious theme, it was a triple whammy. It was the short chapters that kept me going, holding out hope for something, anything, interesting to happen; next thing you know I’m at the 180 page mark (which is the psychological goalpost where you feel you’ve already invested so much time that you Must.Finish.This.God.Damned.Book). This is where the tried and trusted ‘skimming’ approach I taught myself in uni came in handy. Gambler, glass blowing, goat sacrifice……oops, that last one I might have snuck in there to liven things up.

I should have liked it more, considering that Lucinda is a pretty kick arse female character, but Oscar and his God bothering impotence were so frustrating that she faded into the background for me. The story is epic, and the colonial setting is the scene for one of the book’s truly shocking moments depicting the treatment of the indigenous by Australia’s settlers, but as a whole, it failed to grab my imagination.