Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert

First published by The Big Issue in September 2015

Readers can be snobs when it comes to the work of enormously successful writers. We accuse them of selling out, of joining the mainstream, of abandoning the struggle to make honest work against all odds. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love, knows this better than anyone and guess what? She doesn’t give a rat’s.

Her latest offering, Big Magic is a self-helper for creatives and its message, while not entirely original, is helpful and honest. Anyone with a creative bent will benefit from being reminded that martyrdom is destructive, that pragmatism is essential and that your ideas are not your own – much less sacred.

Gilbert’s prose is not inspired but it is inherently readable. She imparts palatable pop wisdom through personal anecdotes and turns to Seamus Heaney, Einstein, scenes from 30 Rock, even fridge magnet clichés to back up her arguments.

Perhaps the most resonant lesson Gilbert offers, is the relationship of creators to their ideas as a collaboration between independent equals; great ideas as sentient beings seeking a human. Less spiritual readers may find some sections a little lofty and far-fetched.

These Are the Names

First published by The Big Issue in April 2015

First published in 2012 as Dit zijn de namen, award-winning Dutch novelist Tommy Wieringa’s These Are the Names poses some fantastic and timely questions. Is there any point at all in knowing where you came from? Is it futile to hope your past will shape your future? How does if feel to be ‘chosen’? 

In the fictional Soviet town of Michailopol, Police Commissioner Pontus Beg befriends the local Rabbi, in hopes of getting to the bottom of his own suspected Jewish lineage. Plagued by tinnitus and one perpetually cold foot, Beg may not always be likeable but he is unfailingly real.

Meanwhile, in a seemingly endless landscape, a group of malnourished refugees searching for civilisation do what they must to survive. In this tiny, troubled motley crew, desperation, suspicion and violence are rife and with each small victory and devastating hurdle, we see Wieringa’s knack for the interplay of tension and release.

Wieringa is skilled in the art of world building and, while some readers may find the action a little sparse, the eventual collision between the two quests is a satisfying one. 

Not Forgetting the Whale by John Ironmonger

First published by The Sydney Morning Herald on 13 March 2014

It might be the responsibility of the modern writer to magnify, examine, or, at the very least, remark on the vast array of "things that trouble humans in the modern age". In this regard, there are very few specimens English author John Ironmonger's third novel Not Forgetting the Whale neglects to observe: peak oil, the sharemarket, interconnectedness, the paralysing effects of indecision, the relevance and comfort of faith and, above all, the uneasy but abiding concern that humans are selfish creatures primarily driven by the promise of short-term gain.

In the seaside Cornish village of Saint Piran (population 307), a mighty fin whale is spotted for the first time. In the very same moment, a stranger, naked and unconscious, washes up on the shore.

The stranger is Joe Haak, an investment banker fleeing an error in judgment and fears he has cost his employers hundreds of millions of dollars. His appearance in the village is the first of three moments that will bring the whole community together, with the great leviathan as their centrepiece. It's easy to see how Joe quickly finds refuge in St Piran, an unusually secluded setting whose residents comprise a charming ensemble of locals and long-term blow-ins with a believable bevy of quirks – although the women of St Piran are often lacking their third dimension.

The village serves as a rich and compelling contrast to the life Joe is fleeing. The flashbacks to that world – a fast-paced London investment bank – are confidently and humorously drawn, doubling as a very palatable "stock exchange for dummies" education. Ironmonger is unafraid of marrying contemporary urban existence with sleepy seaside life and his prose is seamless in its zig-zag from St Piran to London and back again.

Perhaps the most charming snippets of Joe's London life are the daunting exchanges with his ageing superior, Lew Kauffman. Kauffman's emotional connection to the sharemarket is at once frightening, confusing and beautiful, and his worldly, quick-fire rants and stern affection for Joe make for some cracking scenes. Just try reading them without picturing this book as a film.

As Joe settles into St Piran (quickly developing an infatuation with the vicar's wife), he is unable to leave behind his professional obsession with economic forecasting, and embarks on a mission to save the residents he now loves from an apocalypse he deems inevitable.

But the sociological mechanisms at play in St Piran don't add up for Joe. His faith in numbers is tested by that one unpredictable X factor, human nature. A community rises up, like the great flank of a mighty sea creature, to achieve what logic might never have predicted. Is forecasting the future based on the past really a mistake? Could poetry truly be closer to the truth than history?

Ironmonger is kind to his characters and it is clear he enjoys their company; he proffers an honest assessment of their flaws and the victory of their better nature. This well-plotted line between sentimental and cynical is a refreshing thing to observe. 

This is an ambitious work. And there are many points at which it could have fallen flat in the hands of a less accomplished writer. Firstly, a narrative that hinges on far-fetched events can be a bitter pill to swallow; it risks isolating its readers by inviting a leap of faith that doesn't pay off.  Secondly, blending a colourful array of controversial queries into a work of fiction is supremely difficult to do without reeking of a deliberate desire to be topical.  

Here is a work of fiction that avoids these pitfalls. The more far-fetched moments manage to be charming, rather than jarring (although the final chapters might verge on corny for some). And it is, quite simply, good writing. It is as adept at character development, plot structure, warmth and humour as it is at putting its finger on the pulse, so that its insightful commentary on "things that trouble humans in the modern age" can be deftly woven, rather than worn on the sleeve. 

At times, you might want to shake Joe. You might question his sanity and his moral compass, but mostly in the way a parent criticises her favourite son – because you have faith in his goodness and want him to be better than everybody else.

The Port Fairy Murders by Robert Gott

First published by The Big Issue in March 2015

In the sequel to his 2013 thriller The Holiday Murders, Robert Gott takes us right back where he left us – into the complex and troubled world of Detective Joe Sable.

It’s 1944 and Sable is back at his desk too soon, following his recent attempted murder by violent anti-Semite George Starling.  Starling, aligned with Nationalist Socialists more due to a penchant for mindless violent extremism than any kind of informed political leaning, is at large and means to finish the job.

Among the team determined to find Starling before he gets to Sable, are fast-talking Constable Helen Lord and new kid on the block, Sergeant David Reilly – prone to sexism, motion sickness and professional insecurity. 

First and foremost, The Port Fairy Murders is a well-paced thriller, although to label it straight-up crime or police procedural is to sell it short.

The narrative zig-zags deftly between huge numbers of characters.

Characters are well drawn, always believably, often humorously and at times with chilling evil (most notably, the brutal misogyny and xenophobia of Stanley Halloran and the downright malevolent creepiness of Matthew Todd).

Fans of crime – or simply fans of a solid plot – will likely devour this novel in an afternoon. 

Rachael's Gift by Alexandra Cameron

First published by The Sydney Morning Herald on 3 October 2014

Lying is an art form; there's no doubt about it. But is it a gift some are born with, or a skill they mimic and eventually perfect? Knotty concepts such as this one are offered for unravelling in Alexandra Cameron's central character Rachael, a slightly eerie adolescent.

As far as creepy teens in literature go (Lionel Shriver's Kevin being on the extreme end of the spectrum), Rachael is more confused narcissist than genuine sociopath. Although she is more talented and beautiful than other girls her age, she is dangerously egocentric. 

The narration is split fairly evenly between each of Rachael's parents Camille and Wolfe (this leaves the inner workings of Rachael herself appropriately out of reach for the reader). As Rachael becomes the subject of a sexual misconduct scandal, her parents must choose between consoling their daughter and suspecting her of malicious lies. This precarious balancing act puts them both on edge and their marriage under strain.

Camille's reaction is the more nuanced of the two: in Rachael, she sees her own deceptive tendencies in full and frightening bloom. Heavy-handed Aussie surfing vernacular aside, Wolfe is a likeable, protective dad. He is baffled by his daughter's predicament and is left to deal with the aftermath of her actions when she and Camille flee to France, in hopes that Rachael will be admitted to a prestigious Parisian art school, and where secrets from Camille's own childhood reveal uncomfortable similarities, rivalries even, between mother and daughter. 

In earlier chapters, the prose is let down by some clunky metaphors, unconvincing dialogue and imagery that doesn't quite work. Camille works as an art historian and, while this forms the basis of a useful sub plot, the research is a little overexposed and self-conscious.

The writing improves in later chapters, for example when it confidently tackles the complexities of Rachael's cold manipulation and Camille's violent fantasies. There is some lovely scene building here and the writing shows more confidence, especially in the Camille sections.

What Cameron also manages decidedly well, is the ambiguity of Rachael; the reader's own verdict is at the mercy of Camille's adoration, Wolfe's confusion, the misguided wrath of local parents and, for a satisfying chunk of the story, we cannot be certain of her guilt, her innocence, or the extent of betrayal. However, for a story as potentially unsettling as this one, the tension is more or less absent. The more we come to know about Rachael, the more apparent it becomes that she will remain protected from the consequences of her actions. In fact, the character most affected by the scandal is the accused high school teacher, and we are not given much of an opportunity to develop empathy for him. So aside from the possible breakdown of a marriage it is difficult to root for, the stakes are just not very high. 

In addition to the central narrative, the book tackles some other quandaries with a lighter touch that the sex scandal may have benefited from. For example: what is genius? Where does it come from? Is it dangerous if untamed? Why do we lie? How is it that we come to disappoint our families and why do we continue to seek their approval after they have all but turned their backs?

Ultimately this novel leaves the impression of a missed opportunity. The writer can write, the concepts are intriguing (if well-trodden) but it's a couple of edits away from being gripping.

The Stone Mattress by Margaret Atwood

First published by The Big Issue in September 2014

This year a prolific giant of literary fiction delivers a collection of nine short tales and – judging by the acknowledgments – Atwood prefers this term to ‘stories’, at least in this instance. Unsurprisingly, the tales range from elegant and morbid, to fanciful and oh-so-playful.

Each of the first three tales captures a colourful cross-section of a cast of ageing characters, recalling their artistic and sexual glory days. Among the most notable of these characters are elderly twins Tin and Jorrie. As the twins prepare to attend the funeral of celebrated poet Gavin Putnam, their affectionate co-dependence is full of pep and spark.

The last six tales are also linked, although their connection is more conceptual. Atwood is famous for her dark imagination and she doesn’t disappoint: an antiques collector is sexually excited by the thought of disappearing; a creature who starts life as a human becomes a fang-bearing forest dweller; and a horrifying group of young activists take to burning down aged care facilities.

The Stone Mattress offers biting and tender observations of ageing, fading and other processes beyond our control.

The President's Lunch by Jenny Bond (Sydney Morning Herald August 2014)

First published by The Sydney Morning Herald on 15 August 2014

In the thick of the Great Depression, unemployed school teacher Iris McIntosh, penniless and starving, encounters Eleanor Roosevelt at a gas station. Touched by Iris’s story, the US first lady welcomes Iris into the White House to live and work as her assistant.

Yes, the premise of Jenny Bond’s second novel seems a stretch. And it is. That said, there are some satisfying moments of bustling action and dialogue, which serve as believable portrayals of life in the Oval Office.

The Roosevelts quite literally shelter Iris from the Depression. The degree to which this explains her fervent, almost unquestioning devotion to Franklin D. Roosevelt’s policies is one of the more interesting ideas in the book. Her affection for the president and first lady is compelling.

Bond has done well to capture the notorious community-mindedness of the Roosevelt administration and some ostensibly solid research has afforded the confident inclusion of a few real-life characters from the Roosevelt’s inner circle, such as journalist Lorena Hickok and adviser Harry Hopkins. Research aside, this historically flavoured love story is heavily peppered with implausible moments.

In fairness, the author’s intention is not to give a watertight account of the FDR years, but to blend fact with fiction. It is, after all, Iris’s story. What is frustrating is that, in a time when the White House was home to provocative feminist thinkers (which the story clearly acknowledges), Iris has all the makings of a fascinating and complicated protagonist, but spends much of her time focusing on her repetitive, if titillating, love life. 

Two of Washington’s most accomplished men (Monty Chapel, one of FDR’s advisers and Sam Jacobson, a political journalist favoured by the president – both fictional) each fall unconditionally in love with Iris, more or less immediately.

A great deal of the narration delves into Iris attempting to decide to which of the two men her heart belongs. Despite many betrayals and periods of separation, both relationships are repeatedly and easily resumed and, as a result, these romances lack any real depth or tension.

Throughout her career, Iris is appointed co-ordinator of the civilian conservation corps for women, and adviser to Franklin Roosevelt on matters of constitutional law. However, not a single scene of the story unfolds in either the women’s camps, or at law school. Mention is made of the struggles Iris faces as a woman in a man’s world, but rather than explore this, the narrative opts to dwell on her flip-flopping heart. 

In a moment of self-reflection, Iris admits she has lost herself in Monty and Sam. She sees that she has allowed her identity to be defined by her relationships with these men and resolves to focus on her career. In the very next chapter, however, she is preoccupied with the subject of her latest heart-flip, and the dinner she must prepare for him in order to profess her love. This lack of personal growth seems unlikely in someone who has risen up through the ranks of the White House with such impressive speed and nous.

There are some lovely moments when the story gets away from the Monty versus Sam debacle: Iris’s relationship with Eleanor (devoted protege) and Franklin (unlikely confidante) are tender and complex, and offer glimpses of genuine connection.

Woven into the story are chapters told from the point of view of White House cook Henrietta Nesbitt, who is often on the receiving end of FDR’s wrath for her refusal to stray from modest, Depression-appropriate cuisine. It would seem these cute asides are historically accurate, but ultimately they fail to establish a connection with the primary narrative.

This book is confusing. It has targeted and researched one of the most progressive and intriguing marriages in the history of US politics, and made it little more than the backdrop for a garden-variety love triangle.

Fans of popular romance, however, might well find this a satisfying read.

The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton

First published by The Sydney Morning Herald on 25 July 2014

London writer Jessie Burton’s debut novel plays at magic realism with a wavering touch and readers of literary fiction may find that their imaginations are required to work a little harder than is the norm.

It’s 1686. Nella Oortman arrives in Amsterdam at the house of Johannes Brandt, a stranger she has been made to marry. With romance on her mind, Nella instead finds herself thrown into the deep end of a dark new world brimming with secrets. 

Serving the claustrophobic narrative beautifully is the length of time the reader must spend in the Brandt household; at least 90 per cent of the story unfolds there. It is a quiet, watchful, breathing, creaking place where the shuffle of a curtain, a cold draught or the hairs on the back of her neck are the only signs that Nella’s every move is being monitored from within the shadows.

Burton also messes skilfully with proportion: Nella reaches her hand out in the dark and is surprised to find a door handle so near. The house evades her.

With the house comes Marin, Nella’s cold sister-in-law. Nella’s loneliness and frustration peak as she discovers that her husband is largely absent and entirely unromantic and that the head of the household is in fact his implacable and enigmatic sister. But every character in this world, Nella included, has several metamorphoses and each time they re-emerge, we must give our vision a moment to adjust as our understanding of their reality shifts again and again (Marin is not as cold as she first appeared, Nella not as powerless, Cornelia the maid not as scornful and so on). Johannes himself is full of surprising indiscretions and fighting against his unthinkable fate is what eventually unites Nella with this odd semblance of a family.

This feeling of recurring realisation is echoed by the structure of the plot itself. Burton seems to have avoided an instantly apparent narrative arc: instead she drip feeds small questions, almost resolves them, then asks another, all the while giving the reader their fill of each new mystery while reserving enough answers to sustain their thirst. If there is a predominant story question it is concerned with the peculiar and subjective nature of freedom, and whether there is any hope of these oppressed creatures finding it.

The book’s title refers to a gift Nella is given by her new husband. It is a miniature of their house. Its detail is painstaking, its accuracy startling and its presence unsettling. Nella begins to correspond with the miniaturist responsible for the replica, requesting tiny objects to fill the house. It starts innocently enough: Nella distracts herself by filling it with the things her disappointing marriage has failed to provide (a decorative betrothal cup, a baby’s cradle). 

But the miniaturist – who Nella soon discovers is a strange woman with a penetrating stare – begins taking matters into her own hands. Unprompted, she sends Nella miniatures of each member of the household, of private objects, of clues to how their stories will unfold. She is all-seeing.

Nella is both threatened and comforted by the miniature puppets. Burton has created a slippery, shifting world where nothing is as it seems, where entrapment is indistinguishable from escape and the hunters, from the hunted. Eventually Nella becomes just as watchful as the shadows around her and so begins the transition from powerless to sly, from puppet to master.

There are moments of crossroad at which the more cynical reader must make a choice: do we suspend disbelief? Do we go along with the notion that this local kook is capable not only of fashioning tiny lifelike dolls, but also that she is prophet-like in her craft? Can we buy that someone is accurately predicting the twists and turns of their lives (a tiny bump on the belly of one doll confirms a pregnancy, a red dot appears on another at the exact site of a stab wound).

Far-fetched it may be, but do yourself a favour and give in. If you let it, this richly layered world will grip you, make you want to come up for air and have you thirsty for the next twist (even the predictable ones are satisfyingly executed). Surrendering to this story is a powerful experience.

The Claimant by Janette Turner Hospital

First published by The Sydney Morning Herald on 26 May 2014

Janette Turner Hospital is well known for beginning a book with the offer of a complex riddle. In a dark and delicious tale where characters have multiple names and identities, The Claimant follows suit as a literal and puzzling game of who’s who.

What role does class play in identity? What role does identity play in happiness, and what bearing do the identities of others have on the way we define ourselves? Why and where must we be guided by a moral compass?

After a string of untimely deaths, the fortune of the obscenely wealthy Vanderbilt family is up for grabs and keenly monitored by aristocrats and gossip columnists alike.

This well- researched tale takes us to richly drawn settings. It is a pleasure to spend time in each: a tense war between dignity and secrecy in the French countryside, aristocrats and con artists play hide-and-seek in Manhattan, and a mysterious farmer tries to forget it all in the remote Australian outback. 

The most enchanting moments occur in the inseparable childhoods of central characters Capucine and Ti-Loup. Capucine – the daughter of French Resistance devotees – is the picture of tenacity and a hero for the ages. Class divides, despite being an overt presence in her life, are both irrelevant and ludicrous to Capucine. Her disregard for social hierarchy is the envy of Ti-Loup, son of a reclusive French countess and future heir to the Vanderbilt fortune.

When an adolescent Ti-Loup becomes entangled in a scandal, he is sent to live with his estranged father in a Manhattan penthouse. Joining the lofty ranks of an elite private school (Turner Hospital gives readers full voyeuristic privilege here), he becomes disarmingly aware of the absurd power inherent in his bloodline. But it is the scholarship boys he admires. Haunted by the horrors of his childhood, Ti-Loup – a talented mimic – disappears into a life among the working class and begins a long and torturous road to absolving the sins of his childhood.

In distinct contrast, Capucine finds herself crossing over from a childhood on the farm to Manhattan’s upper crust. Adored by the countess and legally adopted into a family of art collectors, she is a reluctant untouchable. Interestingly, her journey has nothing to do with ladder climbing and everything to do with a genuine love of art and devotion to the ones she loves.

Capucine and Ti-Loup are wrenched apart and drawn together again and again despite being observed, detained and blackmailed by elusive con artists and malicious gold diggers.

Despite the initially cryptic nature of the narrative, the reader is kept safely in the loop. Just when a twist in the road threatens to topple our grasp on the story, Turner Hospital steadies the wheel with a  well-timed hand. She does this often – and with impressive confidence – repeating a hint at just the right moment.

Characterisation is occasionally heavy handed: when Marlowe assumes Capucine will have a white wine she unnerves him by ordering a Scotch ‘straight up… no ice’ (the book is otherwise subtle and entirely successful in its attempt to upend and disobey gender norms) and the reaches of Ti-Loup’s mimicry feel far-fetched at times. Minor glitches such as these are continually saved by careful craft and heady symbolism. Of particular note: a vivid scene in the cutting room of a butcher shop is so captivating it must be read more than once. 

The riddle novel is a risky premise: always in danger of being too cryptic or easy to solve. Towards the end of this story Turner Hospital sidesteps this pitfall by disowning the intellectual puzzle and embracing the moral one: mysteries dissolve, answers come easily to light and the real question emerges - how do we begin to forgive, release, love or relate to these chameleons?

Here is a book that reminds us what it is to be under the spell of a master of her craft.

What Was Promised by Tobias Hill

First published by The Big Issue in April 2014

In his fifth novel, the celebrated Tobias Hill delivers a heartbreaking glimpse of 1940s London. Signs of the war are inescapable: buildings are in abandoned ruin, food is rationed and keep is very hard-earned. Three families find themselves in community housing, struggling to make ends meet at the Bethnal Green market – an evocative character in itself. An all seeing narrator sheds light on the stories of each character, and impressively avoids confusion between points of view.

The text is occasionally weakened by meandering detail, but often saved by exquisite prose (a feuding father and daughter ‘nurse their drinks like wrongs’).

One family is headed by Michael Lockhart. Aloof with ambition, he will stop at nothing to rise above the working class and his ruthless actions see all three families torn apart by grief. Once united only by circumstance, it is obsession, tragedy, deceit and regret that will keep them entwined over three generations.

Cruelly, or perhaps cleverly, the characters you fall for are likely to disappear before you get the chance to know them.

This is a carefully constructed tale of the devastating effects of conflict, poverty and – ultimately – of powerlessness.